Jane Porter - "Thaddeus of Warsaw"

Adam Smith - "An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations"

Gertrude Atherton - "Senator North"

George Borrow - "The Bible in Spain"

The Decameron, Volume I

G >> Giovanni Boccaccio >> The Decameron, Volume I




Now Catella, still giving more credence to Ricciardo's story than it
merited, had gone home in the evening in a most resentful mood, and
Filippello, returning home the same evening with a mind greatly preoccupied,
was scarce as familiar with her as he was wont to be. Which she marking,
grew yet more suspicious than before, and said to herself:--"Doubtless he is
thinking of the lady of whom he expects to take his pleasure to-morrow, as
most assuredly he shall not;" and so, musing and meditating what she should
say to him after their rencounter at the bagnio, she spent the best part of
the night. But--to shorten my story--upon the stroke of none Catella, taking
with her a single attendant, but otherwise adhering to her original
intention, hied her to the bagnio which Ricciardo had indicated; and finding
the good woman there, asked her whether Filippello had been there that day.
Primed by Ricciardo, the good woman asked her, whether she were the lady
that was to come to speak with him; to which she answered in the
affirmative. "Go to him, then," said the good woman. And so Catella, in
quest of that which she would gladly not have found, was shewn to the
chamber where Ricciardo was, and having entered without uncovering her head,
closed the door behind her. Overjoyed to see her, Ricciardo sprang out of
bed, took her in his arms, and said caressingly:--"Welcome, my soul."
Catella, dissembling, for she was minded at first to counterfeit another
woman, returned his embrace, kissed him, and lavished endearments upon him;
saying, the while, not a word, lest her speech should betray her. The
darkness of the room, which was profound, was equally welcome to both; nor
were they there long enough for their eyes to recover power. Ricciardo
helped Catella on to the bed, where, with no word said on either side in a
voice that might be recognized, they lay a long while, much more to the
solace and satisfaction of the one than of the other party. Then, Catella,
deeming it high time to vent her harboured resentment, burst forth in a
blaze of wrath on this wise:--"Alas! how wretched is the lot of women, how
misplaced of not a few the love they bear their husbands! Ah, woe is me! for
eight years have I loved thee more dearly than my life; and now I find that
thou, base miscreant that thou art, dost nought but burn and languish for
love of another woman! Here thou hast been--with whom, thinkest thou? Even
with her whom thou hast too long deluded with thy false blandishments,
making pretence to love her while thou art enamoured of another. 'Tis I,
Catella, not the wife of Ricciardo, false traitor that thou art; list if
thou knowest my voice; 'tis I indeed! Ah! would we were but in the light!--
it seems to me a thousand years till then--that I might shame thee as thou
deservest, vile, pestilent dog that thou art! Alas! woe is me! such love as
I have borne so many years--to whom? To this faithless dog, that, thinking
to have a strange woman in his embrace, has in the brief while that I have
been with him here lavished upon me more caresses and endearments than
during all the forepast time that I have been his! A lively spark indeed art
thou to-day, renegade dog, that shewest thyself so limp and enervate and
impotent at home! But, God be praised, thou hast tilled thine own plot, and
not another's, as thou didst believe. No wonder that last night thou heldest
aloof from me; thou wast thinking of scattering thy seed elsewhere, and wast
minded to shew thyself a lusty knight when thou shouldst join battle. But
praise be to God and my sagacity, the water has nevertheless taken its
proper course. Where is thy answer, culprit? Hast thou nought to say? Have
my words struck thee dumb? God's faith I know not why I forbear to pluck
thine eyes out with my fingers. Thou thoughtest to perpetrate this treason
with no small secrecy; but, by God, one is as knowing as another; thy plot
has failed; I had better hounds on thy trail than thou didst think for."
Ricciardo, inly delighted by her words, made no answer, but embraced and
kissed her more than ever, and overwhelmed her with his endearments. So she
continued her reproaches, saying:--"Ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy
feigned caresses, wearisome dog that thou art, and so to pacify and mollify
me; but thou art mistaken. I shall never be mollified, until I have covered
thee with infamy in the presence of all our kinsfolk and friends and
neighbours. Am I not, miscreant, as fair as the wife of Ricciardo Minutolo?
Am I not as good a lady as she? Why dost not answer, vile dog? Wherein has
she the advantage of me? Away with thee! touch me not; thou hast done feats
of arms more than enough for to-day. Well I know that, now that thou knowest
who I am, thou wilt wreak thy will on me by force: but by God's grace I will
yet disappoint thee. I know not why I forbear to send for Ricciardo, who
loved me more than himself and yet was never able to boast that he had a
single glance from me; nor know I why 'twere wrong to do so. Thou thoughtest
to have his wife here, and 'tis no fault of thine that thou hadst her not:
so, if I had him, thou couldst not justly blame me."

Enough had now been said: the lady's mortification was extreme; and, as she
ended, Ricciardo bethought him that, if he suffered her, thus deluded, to
depart, much evil might ensue. He therefore resolved to make himself known,
and disabuse her of her error. So, taking her in his arms, and clipping her
so close that she could not get loose, he said:--"Sweet my soul, be not
wroth: that which, while artlessly I loved, I might not have, Love has
taught me to compass by guile: know that I am thy Ricciardo."

At these words and the voice, which she recognized, Catella started, and
would have sprung out of the bed; which being impossible, she essayed a cry;
but Ricciardo laid a hand upon her mouth, and closed it, saying:--"Madam,
that which is done can never be undone, though you should cry out for the
rest of your days, and should you in such or any other wise publish this
matter to any, two consequences will ensue. In the first place (and this is
a point which touches you very nearly) your honour and fair fame will be
blasted; for, however you may say that I lured you hither by guile, I shall
deny it, and affirm, on the contrary, that I induced you to come hither by
promises of money and gifts, and that 'tis but because you are vexed that
what I gave you did not altogether come up to your expectations, that you
make such a cry and clamour; and you know that folk are more prone to
believe evil than good, and therefore I am no less likely to be believed
than you. The further consequence will be mortal enmity between your husband
and me, and the event were as like to be that I killed him as that he killed
me: which if I did, you would never more know joy or peace. Wherefore, heart
of my body, do not at one and the same time bring dishonour upon yourself
and set your husband and me at strife and in jeopardy of our lives. You are
not the first, nor will you be the last to be beguiled; nor have I beguiled
you to rob you of aught, but for excess of love that I bear, and shall ever
bear, you, being your most lowly vassal. And though it is now a great while
that I, and what I have and can and am worth, are yours, yet I am minded
that so it shall be henceforth more than ever before. Your discretion in
other matters is not unknown to me, and I doubt not 'twill be equally
manifest in this."

Ricciardo's admonitions were received by Catella with many a bitter tear;
but though she was very wroth and very sad at heart, yet Ricciardo's true
words so far commanded the assent of her reason, that she acknowledged that
'twas possible they might be verified by the event. Wherefore she made
answer:Ÿ-"Ricciardo, I know not how God will grant me patience to bear the
villainy and knavery which thou hast practised upon me; and though in this
place, to which simplicity and excess of jealousy guided my steps, I raise
no cry, rest assured that I shall never be happy, until in one way or
another I know myself avenged of that which thou hast done to me. Wherefore
unhand me, let me go: thou hast had thy desire of me, and hast tormented me
to thy heart's content: 'tis time to release me; let me go, I pray thee."
But Ricciardo, seeing that she was still much ruffled in spirit, was
resolved not to let her go, until he had made his peace with her. So he
addressed himself to soothe her; and by dint of most dulcet phrases and
entreaties and adjurations he did at last prevail with her to give him her
pardon; nay, by joint consent, they tarried there a great while to the
exceeding great delight of both. Indeed the lady, finding her lover's kisses
smack much better than those of her husband, converted her asperity into
sweetness, and from that day forth cherished a most tender love for
Ricciardo; whereof, using all circumspection, they many a time had solace.
God grant us solace of ours.


NOVEL VII.

--
Tedaldo, being in disfavour with his lady, departs from Florence. He returns
thither after a while in the guise of a pilgrim, has speech of his lady, and
makes her sensible of her fault. Her husband, convicted of slaying him, he
delivers from peril of death, reconciles him with his brothers, and
thereafter discreetly enjoys his lady.
--

So ceased Fiammetta; and, when all had bestowed on her their meed of praise,
the queen--to lose no time--forthwith bade Emilia resume the narration. So
thus Emilia began:--

I am minded to return to our city, whence my two last predecessors saw fit
to depart, and to shew you how one of our citizens recovered the lady he had
lost. Know then that there was in Florence a young noble, his name Tedaldo
Elisei, who being beyond measure enamoured of a lady hight Monna Ermellina,
wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini, and by reason of his admirable qualities
richly deserving to have his desire, found Fortune nevertheless adverse, as
she is wont to be to the prosperous. Inasmuch as, for some reason or
another, the lady, having shewn herself gracious towards Tedaldo for a
while, completely altered her mien, and not only shewed him no further
favour, but would not so much as receive a message from him or suffer him to
see her face; whereby he fell a prey to a grievous and distressful
melancholy; but so well had he concealed his love that the cause of his
melancholy was surmised by none. He tried hard in divers ways to recover the
love which he deemed himself to have lost for no fault of his, and finding
all his efforts unavailing, he resolved to bid the world adieu, that he
might not afford her who was the cause of his distress the satisfaction of
seeing him languish. So he got together as much money as he might, and
secretly, no word said to friend or kinsman except only a familiar gossip,
who knew all, he took his departure for Ancona. Arrived there, he assumed
the name of Filippo Santodeccio, and having forgathered with a rich
merchant, entered his service. The merchant took him with him to Cyprus
aboard one of his ships, and was so well pleased with his bearing and
behaviour that he not only gave him a handsome salary but made him in a sort
his companion, and entrusted him with the management of no small part of his
affairs: wherein he proved himself so apt and assiduous, that in the course
of a few years he was himself established in credit and wealth and great
repute as a merchant. Seven years thus passed, during which, albeit his
thoughts frequently reverted to his cruel mistress, and sorely love smote
him, and much he yearned to see her again, yet such was his firmness that he
came off conqueror, until one day in Cyprus it so befell that there was sung
in his hearing a song that he had himself composed, and of which the theme
was the mutual love that was between his lady and him, and the delight that
he had of her; which as he heard, he found it incredible that she should
have forgotten him, and burned with such a desire to see her once more,
that, being able to hold out no longer, he made up his mind to return to
Florence. So, having set all his affairs in order, he betook him, attended
only by a single servant, to Ancona; whence he sent all his effects, as they
arrived, forward to Florence, consigning them to a friend of his Ancontan
partner, and followed with his servant in the disguise of a pilgrim returned
from the Holy Sepulchre. Arrived at Florence, he put up at a little hostelry
kept by two brothers hard by his lady's house, whither he forthwith hied
him, hoping that, perchance, he might have sight of her from the street;
but, finding all barred and bolted, doors, windows and all else, he doubted
much, she must be dead, or have removed thence. So, with a very heavy heart,
he returned to the house of the two brothers, and to his great surprise
found his own four brothers standing in front of it, all in black. He knew
that he was so changed from his former semblance, both in dress and in
person, that he might not readily be recognized, and he had therefore no
hesitation in going up to a shoemaker and asking him why these men were all
dressed in black. The shoemaker answered:--"'Tis because 'tis not fifteen
days since a brother of theirs, Tedaldo by name, that had been long abroad,
was slain; and I understand that they have proved in court that one
Aldobrandino Palermini, who is under arrest, did the deed, because Tedaldo,
who loved his wife, was come back to Florence incognito to forgather with
her." Tedaldo found it passing strange that there should be any one so like
him as to be mistaken for him, and deplored Aldobrandino's evil plight. He
had learned, however, that the lady was alive and well. So, as 'twas now
night, he hied him, much perplexed in mind, into the inn, and supped with
his servant. The bedroom assigned him was almost at the top of the house,
and the bed was none of the best. Thoughts many and disquieting haunted his
mind, and his supper had been but light. Whereby it befell that midnight
came and went, and Tedaldo was still awake. As thus he watched, he heard
shortly after midnight, a noise as of persons descending from the roof into
the house, and then through the chinks of the door of his room he caught the
flicker of an ascending light. Wherefore he stole softly to the door, and
peeping through a chink to make out what was afoot, he saw a very fine young
woman bearing a light, and three men making towards her, being evidently
those that had descended from the roof. The men exchanged friendly greetings
with the young woman, and then one said to her:--"Now, God be praised, we
may make our minds easy, for we are well assured that judgment for the death
of Tedaldo Elisei is gotten by his brothers against Aldobrandino Palermini,
and he has confessed, and the sentence is already drawn up; but still it
behoves us to hold our peace; for, should it ever get abroad that we were
guilty, we shall stand in the like jeopardy as Aldobrandino." So saying,
they took leave of the woman, who seemed much cheered, and went to bed. What
he had heard set Tedaldo musing on the number and variety of the errors to
which men are liable: as, first, how his brothers had mourned and interred a
stranger in his stead, and then charged an innocent man upon false
suspicion, and by false witness brought him into imminent peril of death:
from which he passed to ponder the blind severity of laws and magistrates,
who from misguided zeal to elicit the truth not unfrequently become
ruthless, and, adjudging that which is false, forfeit the title which they
claim of ministers of God and justice, and do but execute the mandates of
iniquity and the Evil One. And so he came at last to consider the
possibility of saving Aldobrandino, and formed a plan for the purpose.
Accordingly, on the morrow, when he was risen, he left his servant at the
inn, and hied him alone, at what he deemed a convenient time, to his lady's
house, where, finding, by chance, the door open, he entered, and saw his
lady sitting, all tears and lamentations, in a little parlour on the
ground-floor. Whereat he all but wept for sympathy; and drawing near her, he
said:--"Madam, be not troubled in spirit: your peace is nigh you." Whereupon
the lady raised her head, and said between her sobs:--"Good man, what dost
thou, a pilgrim, if I mistake not, from distant parts, know either of my
peace or of my affliction?" "Madam," returned the pilgrim, "I am of
Constantinople, and am but now come hither, at God's behest, that I may give
you laughter for tears, and deliver your husband from death." "But," said
the lady, "if thou art of Constantinople, and but now arrived, how is't that
thou knowest either who my husband is, or who I am?" Whereupon the pilgrim
gave her the whole narrative, from the very beginning, of Aldobrandino's
sufferings; he also told her, who she was, how long she had been married,
and much besides that was known to him of her affairs: whereat the lady was
lost in wonder, and, taking him to be a prophet, threw herself on her knees
at his feet, and besought him for God's sake, if he were come to save
Aldobrandino, to lose no time, for the matter brooked no delay. Thus
adjured, the pilgrim assumed an air of great sanctity, as he said:--"Arise,
Madam, weep not, but hearken diligently to what I shall say to you, and look
to it that you impart it to none. I have it by revelation of God that the
tribulation wherein you stand is come upon you in requital of a sin which
you did once commit, of which God is minded that this suffering be a partial
purgation, and that you make reparation in full, if you would not find
yourself in a far more grievous plight." "Sir," replied the lady, "many sins
have I committed, nor know I how among them all to single out that whereof,
more than another, God requires reparation at my hands--wherefore, if you
know it, tell it me, and what by way of reparation I may do, that will I
do." "Madam," returned the pilgrim, "well wot I what it is, nor shall I
question you thereof for my better instruction, but that the rehearsal may
give you increase of remorse therefor. But pass we now to fact. Tell me,
mind you ever to have had a lover?" Whereat the lady heaved a deep sigh;
then, marvelling not a little, for she had thought 'twas known to none,
albeit on the day when the man was slain, who was afterwards buried as
Tedaldo, there had been some buzz about it, occasioned by some indiscreet
words dropped by Tedaldo's gossip and confidant, she made answer:--"I see
that there is nought that men keep secret but God reveals it to you;
wherefore I shall not endeavour to hide my secrets from you. True it is that
in my youth I was beyond measure enamoured of the unfortunate young man
whose death is imputed to my husband; whom I mourned with grief unfeigned,
for, albeit I shewed myself harsh and cruel towards him before his
departure, yet neither thereby, nor by his long absence, nor yet by his
calamitous death was my heart estranged from him." Then said the
pilgrim:--"'Twas not the unfortunate young man now dead that you did love,
but Tedaldo Elisei. But let that pass; now tell me: wherefore lost he your
good graces? Did he ever offend you?" "Nay verily," answered the lady, "he
never offended me at all. My harshness was prompted by an accursed friar, to
whom I once confessed, and who, when I told him of the love I bore Tedaldo,
and my intimacy with him, made my ears so tingle and sing that I still
shudder to think of it, warning me that, if I gave it not up, I should fall
into the jaws of the Devil in the abyss of hell, and be cast into the
avenging fire. Whereby I was so terrified that I quite made my mind up to
discontinue my intimacy with him, and, to trench the matter, I would
thenceforth have none of his letters or messages; and so, I suppose, he went
away in despair, though I doubt not, had he persevered a while longer, I
should not have seen him wasting away like snow in sunshine without
relenting of my harsh resolve; for in sooth there was nothing in the world I
would so gladly have done." Then said the pilgrim:--"Madam, 'tis this sin,
and this only, that has brought upon you your present tribulation. I know
positively that Tedaldo did never put force upon you: 'twas of your own free
will, and for that he pleased you, that you became enamoured of him, your
constant visitor, your intimate friend he became, because you yourself would
have it so; and in the course of your intimacy you shewed him such favour by
word and deed that, if he loved you first, you multiplied his love full a
thousandfold. And if so it was, and well I know it was so, what
justification had you for thus harshly severing yourself from him? You
should have considered the whole matter before the die was cast, and not
have entered upon it, if you deemed you might have cause to repent you of it
as a sin. As soon as he became yours, you became his. Had he not been yours,
you might have acted as you had thought fit, at your own unfettered
discretion, but, as you were his, 'twas robbery, 'twas conduct most
disgraceful, to sever yourself from him against his will. Now you must know
that I am a friar; and therefore all the ways of friars are familiar to me;
nor does it misbecome me, as it might another, to speak for your behoof
somewhat freely of them; as I am minded to do that you may have better
understanding of them in the future than you would seem to have had in the
past. Time was when the friars were most holy and worthy men, but those who
to-day take the name and claim the reputation of friars have nought of the
friar save only the habit: nay, they have not even that: for, whereas their
founders ordained that their habits should be strait, of a sorry sort, and
of coarse stuff, apt symbols of a soul that in arraying the body in so mean
a garb did despite to all things temporal, our modern friars will have them
full, and double, and resplendent, and of the finest stuff, and of a fashion
goodly and pontifical, wherein without shame they flaunt it like peacocks in
the church, in the piazza, even as do the laity in their robes. And as the
fisherman casts his net into the stream with intent to take many fish at one
throw: so 'tis the main solicitude and study, art and craft of these friars
to embrace and entangle within the ample folds of their vast swelling skirts
beguines, widows and other foolish women, ay, and men likewise in great
number. Wherefore, to speak with more exactitude, the friars of to-day have
nought of the habit of the friar save only the colour thereof. And, whereas
the friars of old time sought to win men to their salvation, those of to-day
seek to win their women and their wealth; wherefore they have made it and
make it their sole concern by declamation and imagery to strike terror into
the souls of fools, and to make believe that sins are purged by alms and
masses; to the end that they, base wretches that have fled to friarage not
to ensue holiness but to escape hardship, may receive from this man bread,
from that man wine, and from the other man a donation for masses for the
souls of his dead. True indeed it is that sins are purged by almsgiving and
prayer; but, did they who give the alms know, did they but understand to
whom they give them, they would be more apt to keep them to themselves, or
throw them to so many pigs. And, knowing that the fewer be they that share
great riches, the greater their ease, 'tis the study of each how best by
declamation and intimidation to oust others from that whereof he would fain
be the sole owner. They censure lust in men, that, they turning therefrom,
the sole use of their women may remain to the censors: they condemn usury
and unlawful gains, that, being entrusted with the restitution thereof, they
may be able to enlarge their habits, and to purchase bishoprics and other
great preferments with the very money which they have made believe must
bring its possessor to perdition. And when they are taxed with these and
many other discreditable practices, they deem that there is no censure,
however grave, of which they may not be quit by their glib formula:--'Follow
our precepts, not our practice:' as if 'twere possible that the sheep should
be of a more austere and rigid virtue than the shepherds. And how many of
these, whom they put off with this formula, understand it not in the way in
which they enunciate it, not a few of them know. The friars of to-day would
have you follow their precepts, that is to say, they would have you fill
their purses with coin, confide to them your secrets, practise continence,
be longsuffering, forgive those that trespass against you, keep yourselves
from evil speaking; all which things are good, seemly, holy. But to what
end? To the end that they may be able to do that which, if the laity do it,
they will not be able to do. Who knows not that idleness cannot subsist
without money? Spend thy money on thy pleasures, and the friar will not be
able to live in sloth in his order. Go after women, and there will be no
place for the friar. Be not longsuffering, pardon not the wrong-doer, and
the friar will not dare to cross thy threshold to corrupt thy family. But
wherefore pursue I the topic through every detail? They accuse themselves as
often as they so excuse themselves in the hearing of all that have
understanding. Why seclude they not themselves, if they misdoubt their power
to lead continent and holy lives? Or if they must needs not live as
recluses, why follow they not that other holy text of the Gospel:--Christ
began to do and to teach?(1) Let them practise first, and school us with
their precepts afterwards. A thousand such have I seen in my day, admirers,
lovers, philanderers, not of ladies of the world alone, but of nuns; ay, and
they too such as made the most noise in the pulpits. Is it such as they that
we are to follow? He that does so, pleases himself; but God knows if he do
wisely. But assume that herein we must allow that your censor, the friar,
spoke truth, to wit, that none may break the marriage-vow without very grave
sin. What then? to rob a man, to slay him, to make of him an exile and a
wanderer on the face of the earth, are not these yet greater sins? None will
deny that so they are. A woman that indulges herself in the intimate use
with a man commits but a sin of nature; but if she rob him, or slay him, or
drive him out into exile, her sin proceeds from depravity of spirit. That
you did rob Tedaldo, I have already shewn you, in that, having of your own
free will become his, you reft you from him. I now go further and say that,
so far as in you lay, you slew him, seeing that, shewing yourself ever more
and more cruel, you did your utmost to drive him to take his own life; and
in the law's intent he that is the cause that wrong is done is as culpable
as he that does it. Nor is it deniable that you were the cause that for
seven years he has been an exile and a wanderer upon the face of the earth.
Wherefore upon each of the said three articles you are found guilty of a
greater crime than you committed by your intimacy with him. But consider we
the matter more closely: perchance Tedaldo merited such treatment: nay, but
assuredly 'twas not so. You have yourself so confessed: besides which I know
that he loves you more dearly than himself. He would laud, he would extol,
he would magnify you above all other ladies so as never was heard the like,
wheresoever 'twas seemly for him to speak of you, and it might be done
without exciting suspicion. All his bliss, all his honour, all his liberty
he avowed was entirely in your disposal. Was he not of noble birth? And for
beauty might he not compare with the rest of his townsfolk? Did he not excel
in all the exercises and accomplishments proper to youth? Was he not
beloved, held dear, well seen of all men? You will not deny it. How then
could you at the behest of a paltry friar, silly, brutish and envious, bring
yourself to deal with him in any harsh sort? I cannot estimate the error of
those ladies who look askance on men and hold them cheap; whereas,
bethinking them of what they are themselves, and what and how great is the
nobility with which God has endowed man above all the other animals, they
ought rather to glory in the love which men give them, and hold them most
dear, and with all zeal study to please them, that so their love may never
fail. In what sort you did so, instigated by the chatter of a friar, some
broth-guzzling, pastry-gorging knave without a doubt, you know; and
peradventure his purpose was but to instal himself in the place whence he
sought to oust another. This then is the sin which the Divine justice,
which, ever operative, suffers no perturbation of its even balance, or
arrest of judgment, has decreed not to leave unpunished: wherefore, as
without due cause you devised how you might despoil Tedaldo of yourself, so
without due cause your husband has been placed and is in jeopardy of his
life on Tedaldo's account, and to your sore affliction. Wherefrom if you
would be delivered, there is that which you must promise, ay, and (much
more) which you must perform: to wit, that, should it ever betide that
Tedaldo return hither from his long exile, you will restore to him your
favour, your love, your tender regard, your intimacy, and reinstate him in
the position which he held before you foolishly hearkened to the halfwitted
friar."

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.