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Title: The nights of Straparola, volume 1 [of 2]

Author: Giovanni Francesco Straparola

Illustrator: Edward Robert Hughes

Translator: W. G. Waters

Release date: January 31, 2025 [eBook #75257]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Lawrence and Bullen, 1894

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHTS
OF STRAPAROLA, VOLUME 1 [OF 2] ***

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granted to the public domain.

STRAPAROLA.

Volume I.

Two hundred and ten copies printed on Japanese Vellum.

No. 95

THE NIGHTS

OF

STRAPAROLA

NOW FIRST TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY

W. G. WATERS
ILLUSTRATED BY E. R. HUGHES, A.R.W.S.

VOLUME I

LONDON: LAWRENCE AND BULLEN

16, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden

MDCCCXCIV

Contents.

PAGE
List of Illustrations ix
Introduction xi
Proem 1

NIGHT THE FIRST 9
The First Fable. Salardo, son of Rainaldo Scaglia, quits Genoa and goes to
Montferrat, where he disobeys certain injunctions laid upon him by his father’s
testament, and is condemned to death therefor; but, being delivered, he returns
to his own country 11
The Second Fable. Cassandrino, a noted robber, and a friend of the prætor of
Perugia, steals the prætor’s bed and his horse Liardo, but afterwards becomes a
man of probity and good repute 20
The Third Fable. Pre Scarpafico, having been once duped by three robbers, dupes
them thrice in return, and lives happily the rest of his days 28
The Fourth Fable. Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, wishes to have his only daughter
Doralice to wife, but she, through her father’s persecution, flees to England,
where she marries Genese the king, and has by him two children. These, having
been slain by Tebaldo, are avenged by their father King Genese 35
The Fifth Fable. Dimitrio the chapman, having disguised himself as a certain
Gramottiveggio, surprises his wife Polissena with a priest, and sends her back to
her brothers, who put her to death, and Dimitrio afterwards marries his serving-
woman 44

NIGHT THE SECOND 55
The First Fable. Galeotto, King of Anglia, has a son who is born in the shape of a
pig. This son marries three wives, and in the end, having thrown off his
semblance, becomes a handsome youth 58
The Second Fable. Filenio Sisterno, a student of Bologna, having been tricked by
certain ladies, takes his revenge upon them at a feast to which he has bidden
them 66
The Third Fable. Carlo da Rimini vainly pursues Theodosia with his love, she
having resolved to live a virgin. In striving to embrace her he meets with divers
misadventures, and is well beaten by his own servants to boot 77
The Fourth Fable. The devil, having heard divers husbands railing over the
humours of their wives, makes trial of matrimony by espousing Silvia Balastro,
and, not being able to endure his wife for long, enters into the body of the Duke
of Malphi 83
The Fifth Fable. Messer Simplicio di Rossi is enamoured of Giliola, the wife of
Ghirotto Scanferla, a peasant, and having been caught in her company is ill-
handled by her husband therefor 91

NIGHT THE THIRD 99

The First Fable. A simple fellow, named Peter, gets back his wits by the help of a
tunny fish which he spared after having taken it in his net, and likewise wins for
his wife a king’s daughter 102
The Second Fable. Dalfreno, King of Tunis, had two sons, one called Listico and
the other Livoretto. The latter afterwards was known as Porcarollo, and in the
end won for his wife Bellisandra, the daughter of Attarante, King of Damascus 110
The Third Fable. Biancabella, the daughter of Lamberico, Marquis of Monferrato,
is sent away by the stepmother of Ferrandino, King of Naples, in order that she
may be put to death; but the assassins only cut off her hands and put out her
eyes. Afterwards, her hurts having been healed by a snake, she returns happily to
Ferrandino 125
The Fourth Fable. Fortunio, on account of an injury done to him by his supposed
father and mother, leaves them, and after much wandering, comes to a wood,
where he finds three animals, who do him good service. Afterwards he goes to
Polonia, where he gets to wife Doralice, the king’s daughter, as a reward for his
prowess 140
The Fifth Fable. Isotta, the wife of Lucaferro Albani of Bergamo, devises how
she may trick Travaglino the cowherd of her brother Emilliano and thereby
show him to be a liar, but she loses her husband’s farm and returns home
worsted in her attempt, and bringing with her a bull’s head with gilded horns 152

NIGHT THE FOURTH 163
The First Fable. Ricardo, King of Thebes, had four daughters, one of whom,
having become a wanderer and altered her name of Costanza to Costanzo,
arrived at the court of Cacco, King of Bettinia, who took her to wife on account
of the many worthy deeds wrought by her 167
The Second Fable. Erminione Glaucio, an Athenian, takes to wife Filenia
Centurione, and, having become jealous of her, accuses her before the tribunal,
but by the help of Hippolito, her lover, she is acquitted and Erminione punished 179
The Third Fable. Ancilotto, King of Provino, takes to wife the daughter of a
baker, and has by her three children. These, after much persecution at the hands
of the king’s mother, are made known to their father through the strange
working of certain water, and of an apple, and of a bird 186
The Fourth Fable. Nerino, the son of Gallese, King of Portugal, becoming
enamoured of Genobbia, wife of Messer Raimondo Brunello, a physician, has
his will of her and carries her with him to Portugal, while Messer Raimondo
dies of grief 199
The Fifth Fable. Flamminio Veraldo sets out from Ostia in search of Death, and,
not finding it, meets Life instead; this latter lets him see Fear and make trial of
Death 208

NIGHT THE FIFTH 217
The First Fable. Guerrino, only son of Filippomaria, King of Sicily, sets free from
his father’s prison a certain savage man. His mother, through fear of the king,
drives her son into exile, and him the savage man, now humanized, delivers
from many and measureless ills 221

The Second Fable. Adamantina, the daughter of Bagolana Savonese, by the
working of a certain doll becomes the wife of Drusiano, King of Bohemia 236
The Third Fable. Bertholdo of Valsabbia has three sons, all of them hunchbacks
and much alike in seeming. One of them, called Zambo, goes out into the world
to seek his fortune, and arrives at Rome, where he is killed and thrown into the
Tiber, together with his two brothers 245
The Fourth Fable. Marsilio Vercelese, being enamoured of Thia, the wife of
Cechato Rabboso, is taken by her into her house during her husband’s absence.
He having come back unexpected, is cozened by Thia, who feigns to work a
spell, during which Marsilio silently takes to flight 259
The Fifth Fable. Madonna Modesta, wife of Messer Tristano Zanchetto, in her
young days gathers together a great number of shoes, offerings made by her
various lovers. Having grown old, she disposes of the same to divers servants,
varlets, and other folk of mean estate 269

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I.

To face page
Frontispiece. (Third Night, Fourth Fable. The Siren.)
Proem. The Palace at Murano 1
First Night, Fourth Fable. Doralice in the King’s Chamber 39
Second Night, First Fable. The Pig Prince 63
Second Night, Second Fable. The Scholar’s Vengeance 72
Third Night, Third Fable. Biancabella and the Serpent 128
Third Night, Fifth Fable. Isotta and Travaglino 156
Fourth Night, Second Fable. The Trial of the Serpent 184
Fifth Night, First Fable. Golden Hair 234
Fifth Night, Fourth Fable. The Conjuration of the Kite 266

Introduction.

The name of Giovanni Francesco Straparola has been handed down to later
ages as the author of the “Piacevoli Notti,” and on no other account, for the
reason that he is one of those fortunate men of letters concerning whom
next to nothing is known. He writes himself down as “da Caravaggio;” so it
may be reasonably assumed that he first saw the light in that town, but no
investigator has yet succeeded in indicating the year of his birth, or in
bringing to light any circumstances of his life, other than certain facts
connected with the authorship and publication of his works. The ground has
been closely searched more than once, and in every case the seekers have
come back compelled to admit that they have no story to tell or new fact to
add to the scanty stock which has been already garnered. Straparola as a
personage still remains the shadow he was when La Monnoie summed up
the little that was known about him in the preface to the edition, published
in 1725, of the French translation of the “Notti.”
He was doubtless baptized by the Christian names given above, but it
is scarcely probable that Straparola can ever have been the surname or style
of any family in Caravaggio or elsewhere. More likely than not it is an
instance of the Italian predilection for nicknaming—a coined word designed
to exhibit and perhaps to hold up to ridicule his undue loquacity; just as the
familiar names of Masaccio, and Ghirlandaio, and Guercino, were tacked
on to their illustrious wearers on account of some personal peculiarity or
former calling. Caravaggio is a small town lying near to Crema, and about
half way between Cremona and Bergamo. It enjoyed in the Middle Ages
some fame as a place of pilgrimage on account of a spring of healing water
which gushed forth on a certain occasion when the Virgin Mary manifested
herself. Polidoro Caldara and Michael Angelo Caravaggio were amongst its
famous men, and of these it keeps the memory, but Straparola is entirely

forgotten. Fontanini, in the “Biblioteca dell’ eloquenza Italiana,” does not
name him at all. Quadrio, “Storia e ragione d’ogni poesia,” mentions him as
the author of the “Piacevoli Notti,” and remarks on his borrowings from
Morlini. Tiraboschi, in the index to the “Storia della letteratura Italiana,”
does not even give his name, and Crescimbeni[1] concerns himself only with
the enigmas which are to be found at the end of the fables. It is indeed a
strange freak of chance that such complete oblivion should have fallen over
the individuality of a writer so widely read and appreciated.
The first edition of the first part of the “Piacevoli Notti” was published
at Venice in 1550, and of the second part in 1553. It would appear that the
author must have been alive in 1557, because, at the end of the second part
of the edition of that year,[2] there is a paragraph setting forth the fact that
the work was printed and issued “ad instanza dell’ autore.” Some time
before 1553 he seems to have been stung sharply on account of some
charges of plagiarism which were brought against him by certain detractors,
for in all the unmutilated editions of the “Notti” published after that date
there is to be found a short introduction to the second part, in which he
somewhat acrimoniously throws back these accusations, and calls upon all
“gratiose et amorevole donne” to accept his explanations thereof, admitting
at the same time that these stories are not his own, but a faithful transcript
of what he heard told by the ten damsels in their pleasant assembly. La
Monnoie, in his preface to the French translation (ed. 1726), maintains that
this juggling with words can only be held to be an excuse on his part for
having borrowed the subject-matter for his fables and worked it into shape
after his own taste. “Il declare qu’il ne se les est jamais attribuées, et se
contente du mérite de les avoir fidèlement rapportées d’après les dix
damoiselles. Cela, comme tout bon entendeur le comprend, ne signifie autre
chose sinon qu’il avoit tiré d’ailleurs la matière de ces Fables, mais qu’il
leur avoit donné la forme.”
This contention of La Monnoie seems reasonable enough, but Grimm,
in the notes to “Kinder und Hausmärchen,” has fallen into the strange error
of treating Straparola’s apology as something grave and seriously meant,
and in the same sentence improves on his mistake by asserting that
Straparola took all the fairy tales from the mouths of the ten ladies. “Von
jenem Schmutz sind die Märchen[3] ziemlich frei, wie sie ohnehin den
besten Theil des ganzen Werkes ausmachen. Straparola hat sie, wie es in der
Vorrede zum zweiten Bande (vor der sechsten Nacht) heisst, aus dem

Munde zehn junger Fräulein aufgenommen und ausdrücklich erklärt, dass
sie nicht sein Eigenthum seien.”
The most reasonable explanation of this mistake lies in the assumption
that Grimm never saw the introduction to the second part at all. Indeed, the
fact that he often uses French spelling of the proper names suggests that he
may have worked from the French translation. Straparola makes no
distinction between fairy tales and others. His words are, “che le piacevoli
favole da me scritte, et in questo, et nell’ altro volumetto raccolte non siano
mie, ma da questo, et quello ladronescamente rubbate. Io a dir il vero, il
confesso, che non sono mie, e se altrimente dicessi, me ne mentirei, ma ben
holle fedelmente scritte secondo il modo che furono da dieci damigelle nel
concistorio raccontate.”
Besides the “Notti” only one other work of Straparola’s is known to
exist—a collection of sonnets and other poems published at Venice in 1508,
and (according to a citation of Zanetti in the “Novelliero Italiano,” t. iii., p.
xv, Ven. 1754, Bindoni) in 1515 as well.[4] A comparison of these dates will
serve to show that, as he had already brought out a volume in the first
decade of the century, the “Piacevoli Notti” must have been the work of his
maturity or even of his old age. With this fact the brief catalogue of the
known circumstances of his life comes to an end.
Judging from the rapidity with which the successive editions of the
“Notti” were brought forth from the press after the first issue—sixteen
appeared in the twenty years between 1550 and 1570—we may with reason
assume that it soon took hold of the public favour.[5] Its fame spread early
into France, where in 1560 an edition of the first part, translated into French
by Jean Louveau, appeared at Lyons, to be followed some thirteen years
later by a translation of the second part by Pierre de la Rivey, who thus
completed the book. He likewise revised and re-wrote certain portions of
Louveau’s translation, and in 1725 an edition was produced at Amsterdam,
enriched by a preface by La Monnoie, and notes by Lainez. There are
evidences that a German translation of the “Notti” was in existence at the
beginning of the seventeenth century, for in the introduction to Fischart’s
“Gargantua” (1608) there is an allusion to the tales of Straparola, brought in
by way of an apology for the appearance of the work, the writer
maintaining that, if the ears of the ladies are not offended by Boccaccio,
Straparola, and other writers of a similar character, there is no reason why

they should be offended by Rabelais. The author of the introduction to a
fresh edition of the same work (1775) remarks that he knows the tales of
Straparola from a later edition published in 1699. Of this translation no
copy is known to exist.
In the “Palace of Pleasure” Painter has given only one of the fables,
the second Fable[6] of the second Night; and in Roscoe’s “Italian Novelists”
another one appears, the fourth Fable of the tenth Night. At the end of the
last century the first Fable of the first Night was printed separately in
London under the title, “Novella cioe copia d’un Caso notabile intervenuto
a un gran gentiluomo Genovese.”[7] A translation of twenty-four of the
fables, prefaced by a lengthy and verbose disquisition on the author, reputed
to be from the pen of Mazzuchelli, appeared at Vienna in 1791;[8] but
Brackelmann, in his “Inaugural Dissertation” (Gottingen, 1867), has an
examination of the introduction above named, which goes far to prove that
Mazzuchelli had little or nothing to do with it. In 1817 Dr. F. W. V. Schmidt
published at Berlin a translation into German of eighteen fables selected
from the “Notti,” to which he gave the title “Die Märchen des Straparola.”
To his work Dr. Schmidt affixed copious notes, compiled with the greatest
care and learning, thus opening to his successors a rich and valuable
storehouse both of suggestion and of accumulated facts. It is almost certain
that he must have worked from one of the many mutilated or expurgated
editions of the book, for in the complete work there are several stories
unnoticed by him which he would assuredly have included in his volume
had he been aware of their existence.
One of the chief claims of the “Notti” on the consideration of later
times lies in the fact that Straparola was the first writer who gathered
together into one collection the stray fairy tales, for the most part brought
from the East, which had been made known in the Italian cities—and in
Venice more especially—by the mouth of the itinerant story-teller. These
tales, incorporated in the “Notti” with others of a widely different character,
were without doubt the principal source of the numerous French “Contes
des Fées” published in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Perrault,
Madame D’Aulnoy, and Gueulette took from them many of their best
fables; and these, having spread in various forms through Northern and
Western Europe, helped to tinge with a hue of Orientalism the popular tales
of all countries—tales which had hitherto been largely the evolution of local
myths and traditions.

Four of Straparola’s fables are slightly altered versions of four of the
stories in the “Thousand and One Nights,”[9] which, as it will scarcely be
necessary to remark, were not translated into any European language till
Galland brought out his work at the beginning of the eighteenth century.
One of these, the third Fable of the fourth Night, is substantially the same as
the story of the Princess Parizade and her envious sisters, given in Galland’s
translation. To account for this close resemblance we may either assume
that Galland may have looked at Straparola’s fable, or that Straparola may
have listened to it from the mouth of some wandering oriental or of some
Venetian traveller recently come back from the East—the tale, as he heard
it, having been faithfully taken from the same written page which Galland
afterwards translated. Another one, the story of the Three Hunchbacks—the
third Fable of the fifth Night—has less likeness to the original, and has been
imitated by Gueulette in his “Contes Tartares.” The treatment of the story of
the Princess Parizade by Straparola furnishes an illustration to prove that,
bad as his style was, he was by no means deficient in literary skill and taste.
He brings into due prominence the wicked midwife, who is particeps
criminis with the queen-mother and the sisters in the attempted murder of
the children, and who has on this account full and valid motive for acting as
she did, seeing that interest and self-preservation as well would have
prompted her to compass their destruction. On the other hand, in the
Arabian tale it is hard to understand why the female fakir should have been
led to persuade the princess to send her brothers off on their quest. Again, in
the fable of Prince Guerrino[10] Straparola has displayed great ingenuity in
weaving together a good story out of some half dozen of the widely-known
fairy motives, any one of which might well have been fashioned into a story
by itself.
After reading the “Notti” through one can hardly fail to be struck by
the amazing variety of the themes therein handled. Besides the fairy tales—
many of them classic—to which allusion has already been made, there is
the world-famous story of Puss in Boots, an original product of Straparola’s
brain. There are others which may rather be classed as romances of
chivalry, in the elaboration of which a generous amount of magic and
mystery is employed. The residue is made up of stories of intrigue and
buffo tales of popular Italian life, some of which—not a large number, when
one takes into consideration the contemporary standard of decency in such
matters—are certainly unpleasant in subject and coarse in treatment, but

with regard to the majority of these one is disposed to be lenient, inasmuch
as the fun, though somewhat indelicate, is real fun. When the duped
husband, a figure almost as inevitable in the Italian Novella as in the
modern French novel, is brought forward, he is not always exhibited as the
contemptible creature who seems to have sat for the part in the stories of the
better known writers. Indeed, it sometimes happens that he turns the tables
on his betrayers; and, although Straparola is laudably free from the vice of
preaching, he now and then indulges in a brief homily by way of pointing
out the fact that violators of the Decalogue generally come to a bad end, and
that his own sympathies are all on the side of good manners. It is true that
one misses in the “Notti” those delicious invocations of Boccaccio,
commonly to be found at the end of the more piquant stories, in which he
piously calls on Heaven to grant to himself and to all Christian men bonnes
fortunes equal to those which he has just chronicled.
The scheme of the “Notti” resembles in character that of the
Decameron, of Le Cene, and of other collections of a similar kind. In the
Proem to the work it is set forth how Ottaviano Maria Sforza, the bishop-
elect of Lodi—the same probably who died in 1540, after a life full of
vicissitude—together with his daughter Lucretia, is compelled by the stress
of political events to quit Milan. The Signora Lucretia is described as the
wife of Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, cousin of Federico, Marquis of
Mantua, but as no mention of this prince is made it may be assumed that
she was already a widow. Seeing that her husband died in 1523, an
approximate date may be fixed for the “Piacevoli Notti,” but historical
accuracy in cases of this sort is not to be expected or desired. After divers
wanderings the bishop-elect and his daughter find a pleasant refuge on the
island of Murano, where they gather around them a company of congenial
spirits, consisting of a group of lovely and accomplished damsels, and
divers cavaliers of note. Chief amongst the latter is the learned Pietro
Bembo, the renowned humanist and the most distinguished man of letters
Venice ever produced. With him came his friend Gregorio Casali, who is
described as “Casal Bolognese, a bishop, and likewise ambassador of the
King of England.” Both Gregorio Casali and his brother Battista were
entrusted by Henry VIII. with the conduct of affairs of state pending
between him and the Pope, and the former certainly visited England more
than once. The king showed him many signs of favour during his stay, and
when in 1527 Casali found himself shut up in Rome by the beleaguering

army of the Constable of Bourbon, he was allowed free exit on the ground
of his ambassadorial rank. Bernardo Cappello, another friend of Bembo, is
also of the company, and a certain Antonio Molino, a poet of repute, who
subsequently tells a fable in the dialect of Bergamo—a feat which leads to a
similar display of local knowledge on the part of Signor Benedetto
Trivigiano, who discourses in Trevisan. It may be remarked, however, that
by far the greater number of the fables are told by the ladies.
But the joyous company assembled in the palace at Murano find divers
other forms of recreation beside story-telling. They dance and they sing
ballads, which are for the most part in praise of the gracious Signora
Lucretia, but the chief byplay of the entertainment consists in the setting
and solving of riddles. As soon as a fable is brought to an end the narrator is
always called upon by the Signora to complete the task by propounding an
enigma. This is then duly set forth in puzzling verses, put together as a rule
in terms obscure enough to baffle solution, often entirely senseless, and
now and again of a character indecent enough to call down upon the
propounder the Signora’s rebuke on account of the seeming impropriety of
the subject. In fact, a certain number of these enigmas are broad examples
of the double entendre. The first reading of them makes one wonder how
such matter could ever have been put in print, and agree fully with the anger
of the Signora, but when the graceful and modest damsel, who may have
been the author, proceeds to give the true explanation of her riddle she
never fails to demonstrate clearly to the gentle company that her enigma,
from beginning to end, is entirely free from all that is unseemly. In “French
and English” Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton tells a story illustrating the late
survival of this sort of witticism in France. In the early days of Louis
Philippe, on one occasion when the court was at Eu, the mayor of the town
and certain other local notables were bidden to déjeuner at the chateau, and
after the banquet the mayor, in accordance with an old French fashion,
asked leave to sing a song of his own making. This composition had two
meanings, one lying on the surface and perfectly innocent, and the other,
slightly veiled, which, though not immoral, was prodigiously indecent.
When the true nature of the song was realized, there was for a second or
two silence and confusion amongst the company, but at last, by good luck,
someone laughed. The dangerous point was safely rounded, and the mayor
brought his song to an end amidst loud applause.

When he published his translation into French of the second part of the
“Notti,” Pierre de la Rivey made alterations in almost all the enigmas
therein contained, and re-wrote many of those which had already been
translated by Louveau, but in neither case did his work tend to make them
more decent. In reading over the enigmas as Straparola left them one often
feels that the line of reticence, recognized by contemporary decorum, has
been crossed, otherwise there would be no need for the ladies to hide their
faces, or for the Signora to visit the culprit for the time being with her well-
deserved rebuke. But Straparola’s untouched work is almost decent
compared with De la Rivey’s emendations.
In spite of the blots above designated, there will be found in the
“Notti” a smaller proportion of stories calculated to outrage modern canons
of taste than in any of the better known collections of Italian novelle. The
judgments which have been dealt out to Straparola on the score of
indecency by Landau (“Beiträge,” p. 130), by the writer of the article in the
“Biographie Universelle,” and by Grimm in his notes to “Kinder und
Hausmärchen,” seem to be unduly severe. In certain places he is no doubt
brutally coarse, but the number of fables defaced in this manner is not large.
If one were to take the trouble to compare the rendering given by Basile in
the “Pentamerone,” of stories told also by Straparola, with the rendering of
the same in the “Notti,” the award for propriety of language would
assuredly not always be given to the Neapolitan, who, it should be
remembered, was writing a book for young children. In few of the
collections of a similar character is there to be found so genuine a vein of
comedy, and for the sake of this one may perhaps be permitted to beg
indulgence for occasional lapses—lapses which are assuredly fewer in
number and probably not more heinous in character than those of novelists
of greater fame. Straparola turns naturally towards the cheerful side of
things, the lives of the men and women he deals with seem to be less
oppressed with the tædium vitæ than are the creatures of the Florentine and
Sienese and Neapolitan novel-writers, and the reason of this is not far to
seek. Life in Venice, when once the political constitution was firmly and
finally fixed on an oligarchic basis, was more stable, more secure, more
luxurious than in any of the other ruling cities of Italy. Social and political
convulsion of the sort which vexed the neighbouring states was almost
unknown, and, though the forces of the Republic might occasionally suffer
defeat and disaster in distant seas and in the Levant, life went on peacefully

and pleasantly within the shelter of the Lagunes. The religious conscience
of the people was easy-going, orthodox, and laudably inclined to listen to
the voice of authority; neither disposed to nourish within the hidden canker
of heresy, nor to let itself be worked up into ecstatic fever by any sudden
conviction of ungodliness such as led to the lighting of the Bonfire of
Vanities in Florence. In a society thus constituted it was inevitable that life
should be easier, more gladsome, and more secure than in Milan, with the
constant struggle of Pope against Emperor, and later on under the turbulent
despotism of the Viscontis and Sforzas; or than in Florence, with its
constant civil broils and licentious public life, which not even the craft and
power of the leaders of the Medici could discipline into public order; or
than in Naples, dominated by the Aragonese kings and harried by the
greedy mercenaries in the royal employ; or than in Rome itself, vexed
continually by intrigue, political and religious, and by the tumults generated
by the violence and ambition of the ruling families.
A reflection of the gracious and placid life the Venetians led will be
apparent to all who may observe and compare the art of Venice with the art
of Milan, or Florence, or Naples. What a contrast is there between that
charming idyll which Titian has made of the marriage of St. Catherine,[11] a
group full of joy, and beauty, and sunlight, and set in the midst of one of
those delightful sub-alpine landscapes which he painted with such rare skill
and insight, and the many other renderings of the same subject by Lombard
or Tuscan masters, who, almost invariably, put on the canvas some
foreshadowing of the coming tragedy in the shape of the boding horror of
the toothed wheel! The Madonnas of Carpaccio and Bellini are stately
ladies, well nourished, and having about them that unmistakable air of
distinction which grows up with the daily use and neighbourhood of
splendid and luxurious modes of life. There is no doubt a look of gravity
and holiness upon their handsome faces, but there is no sign, either in the
pose or in the glance of them, that they are conscious of any
embarrassment, and it would take a very keen eye to discern a trace of
quasi-divinity, or of any trouble aroused by the caress of the mysterious
child, or of the burden of that “intolerable honour” which has been thrust
upon them unsought—a mood which latter-day preachers have detected in
renderings of the same theme conceived and executed in the more
emotional atmosphere of the Val d’Arno. Take these Venetian Madonnas out
of their pictured environment, and put on them a gala dress and sumptuous

jewels, and one will find a bevy of comely dames who might well have kept
company with the Signora Lucretia of the “Notti” in the fair garden at
Murano, and listened to some sprightly story from Messer Pietro Bembo or
from Messer Antonio Molino; or they might have gone out with the youths
and damsels of whom Browning sings,
“Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to midday,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?”

In the pictures he draws Straparola illustrates a life like this, with now and
then a touch of pathos, perhaps undesigned, as in the prologue to the second
Night, where he tells of the laughter of the blithe company, ringing so loud
and so hearty that it seemed to him as if the sound of their merriment yet
lingered in his ears.[12] There was, therefore, good reason why Straparola’s
imaginary exiles from the turbulent court of Milan should have sought at
Murano, under the sheltering wings of St. Mark’s lion, that ease and gaiety
which they would have looked for in vain at home; there were also reasons
equally valid why he should make the genius of the place inspire with its
jocund spirit the stories with which the gentle company gathered around the
Signora Lucretia wiled away the nights of carnival. In the whole of the
seventy-four fables there are hardly half-a-dozen which can be classed as
tragic in tone, but of these one—the story of Malgherita Spolatina[13]—is the
finest of the whole collection. It is rarely one meets with anything told with
such force and sincerity; yet, in placing before his readers this vivid picture
of volcanic passion and studied ruthless revenge, Straparola uses the
simplest treatment and succeeds à merveille. The fact that this fable and
certain others of more than average merit belong to the category of stories
to which no source or origin in other writings has been assigned, raises a
regret that Straparola did not trust more to his own inventive powers and
draw less freely upon Ser Giovanni and Morlini. Of these creations of his
own the story of Flamminio Veraldo[14] is admirably told and strikingly
original and dramatic in subject; so is that of Maestro Lattantio,[15] and, for a
display of savage cynicism and withering rage, it would be hard to find
anything more powerfully portrayed than the death of Andrigetto.[16]
In the fables of adventure, and in every other case where such
treatment is possible, Straparola deals largely with the supernatural. All the
western versions, except Straparola’s, of the story best known to us as

“Giletta of Narbonne” and as “All’s Well that Ends Well,” are worked out
without calling in auxiliaries of an unearthly character. Boccaccio and
Shakespeare bring together the husband and the forsaken wife by methods
which, if somewhat strained, are quite natural; but Straparola at once calls
for the witch and the magic horse, and whisks Isabella off to Flanders
forthwith.[17] The interest of the reader is kept alive by accounts of the trials
and dangers—a trifle bizarre now and again—which heroes and heroines
are called to undergo, the taste of the age preferring apparently this
stimulant to the intense dramatic power exhibited in the story of Malgherita,
and demanding that the ending should be a happy one, for the pair of lovers
nearly always marry in the end, and live long and blissful years. In the tales
of country life and character the fun is boisterous and even broad, but it is
always real fun, and the laugh rings true. Straparola is often as coarse as
Bandello, but, unlike Bandello, he never smirches his pages merely for the
sake of setting forth some story of simple brutality, or of leading up to a
climax which is at the same time painfully shocking and purposeless. Il
Lasca in “Le Cene” makes as free use of the beffe and the burle as
Straparola, but the last-named showed in the “Notti” that he was
incomparably the better hand in dealing with his material. Il Lasca as a rule
sets out his subject on the lines of the broadest farce, but he cannot keep to
genuine farce, his natural bent of mind leading him always to elaborate his
theme in some unseemly and offensive fashion. Very often he is obscene
and savage at the same time, and the abominable practical jokes he makes
his characters play the one on the other must surely have outraged even the
coarse feeding taste of the age in which he wrote. He delights in working up
long stories of lust, and of infidelity, and of vengeance worked on account
of these, in a spirit of heartless cruelty which, more often than not, is
horrible without being in the least impressive, for the reason that, fine
stylist as he was, he lacked the touch of the artist. Masuccio, though his
savage indignation against the vices of the priests and monks occasionally
became mere brutality, sounded now and then the note of real tragedy, and,
inferior as he was to Il Lasca in style, was by far the better story-teller of
the two. Both of these would be commonly set down as abler writers than
Straparola, yet, by some means or other, the latter could put a touch upon
his work which was beyond the power of the others—something which
enables one to read the “Notti” without being conscious of that unpleasant

aftertaste which one almost always feels on laying down either “Le Cene”
or “Il Novellino.”
No other of the Italian novelists used a style as bad as Straparola’s.
Errors in grammar abound, and his bald meagre periods often fail to express
adequately the sense of the idea he manifestly wishes to portray. His faulty
prose did not escape the censure of his contemporaries, for Messer Orfeo
dalla Carta, in his introduction to the first part of the “Notti” (edition 1554),
makes allusion to it, begging the reader at the same time not to be repelled
by what he calls “il basso et rimesso stilo dello autore;” and La Monnoie, in
the preface to the French translation (edition 1726) writes in a similar strain.
Dalla Carta, probably by way of banter, advances an apology for
Straparola’s slovenly work in terms taken from that introduction to the
second part which has already been cited, explaining that the author did not
write his fables as he would have done, but as they had been told to him by
the ten damsels who were the narrators.
Straparola’s Italian is much more like the Italian of the present day
than the English of Sidney or the German of Hans Sachs is like modern
English or German, but this is not remarkable, considering how much
earlier prose writing as an art came to perfection in Italy than in the rest of
Europe. The impression gained by reading his prose is that he cared vastly
more for subject than for treatment. He laid hold of whatever themes
promised to suit his purpose best as a story-teller, careless as to whether
other craftsmen had used them before or not, and these he set forth in the
simplest manner possible, taking little heed of his style or even of his
grammar. He hardly ever indulges in a metaphor. One never feels that he
has gone searching about fastidiously for some particular turn of phrase or
neatly-fitting adjective; on the other hand, one is often obliged to pause in
the middle of some long sentence and search for his meaning in the strange
mixture of phrases strung together. Perhaps this spontaneity, this absence of
studied design, may have helped to win for him the wide popularity he
enjoyed. His aim was to lead his readers into some enchanted garden of
fairyland; to thrill them with the woes and perils of his heroes and heroines;
to shake their sides with laughter over the misadventures of some too
amorous monk or lovesick cavalier, rather than to send them into ecstasy
over the measured elegance of his phrases. In many of the later editions of
the “Notti,” the meaning has been further obscured, and the style rendered
more rugged than ever, owing to the frequent and clumsy excisions made by

the censors of morals. The early exclusion of the fourth Fable of the ninth
Night shows that the eye of authority was soon attracted towards the
popular novelist of the age. The motive for this activity was nominally the
care of public morals, and one of the few extant references to Straparola is
with regard to the expurgation of his works. In “Cremona Illustrata,” by
Franciscus Arisius (Cremona, 1741), we read concerning Caravaggio: “In
hoc enim oppido inclytæ stirpis Sfortiadum antiquo feudo ortum habuit Io.
Franciscus Straparola cujus liber sæpe editus circumfertur italice hoc
programmate: ‘Le tredici piacevolissime notti overo favole ed enimmi.’
Liber vetitus a sacra indicis congregatione et jure quidem merito cum
obscenitates sordidas contineat moribus plerumque obnoxias et pluribi
vulgatas. Optime quippe animadvertit Possevinus S. J. de cultura
ingeniorum cap. 52, quod expediens esset homines potius nasci mutos et
rationis expertes, quam in propriam et aliorum perniciam divinæ
providentiæ dona convertere, imo ante eum ejusdem sententiæ fuisse M. F.
Quintilianum licet gentilem, ipse Possevinus confirmat.”
On reading even the most severely castrated edition of the “Notti,” one
may be at first a little surprised to find that some of the most indecent
stories (in spite of the care of public morals) have been left almost
untouched, and it is not until one realizes the fact that expurgation has been
held to mean the cutting out of every word concerning religion and its
professors, that one fully understands the principle upon which “Possevinus
S. J.” and his colleagues worked. The presence of matter injurious to public
morals had evidently less to do with the action of these reformers than
certain anecdotes describing the presence of priests and nuns in certain
places where, by every rule of good manners, they ought not to have been
found. In plain words, the book was prohibited and castrated on account of
the ugly picture of clerical morals which was exhibited in its pages.[18] A
glance at any of the editions issued “con licenza de’ superiori” will show
that the revisers went to their work with set purpose, caring nought as to the
mangled mass of letterpress they might leave behind them. In some fables
bits are cut out so clumsily that the point of the story is entirely lost; in
others the feelings of orthodoxy are spared by changing the hero of
amorous intrigue from a Prete to a Giovene. In one a pope is reduced to a
mere initial (of course standing for a layman), and the famous story of
Belphegor is left out altogether. It was surely little short of impertinent to
ask for a condemnation of the “Notti” on the ground of offence to public

decency from a generation which read such books as “Les facétieuses
journées” of Chapuys and “Les contes aux heures perdues;” which
witnessed the issue of Morlini’s novels and of Cinthio degli Fabritii’s book,
“Dell’ origine delli volgari proverbii,” printed “cum privilegio summi
pontificis et sacræ Cæsareæ majestatis;” a generation for which Poggio’s
obscene fables were favourite reading, and which remembered that Pietro
Bembo had been a cardinal and Giovanni di Medici a pope.
It is impossible to indicate precisely the sources of the fables seriatim,
seeing that in many cases there was available for Straparola a choice of
origins. An approximate reckoning would give fifteen fables to the novelists
who preceded him, twenty-two to Morlini, four to mediæval and seven to
oriental legends, thus leaving twenty-eight to be classed as original.
Towards the close of his work it would appear that his imagination must
have been stricken with sterility, or that he became indolent, for of the
concluding twenty fables nineteen are mere translations from Morlini. It is
not improbable that such wholesale borrowing as this may have been the
cause of the charges of plagiary to which allusion has already been made.
From beginning to end he certainly made free use of all the storehouses of
materials which were available, selecting therefrom whatever subjects
pleased him, and working them up to the best of his skill. It was
unreasonable to censure him on this score, seeing that in what he did he
merely followed the fashion of the age. If he borrowed from Ser Giovanni,
had not Ser Giovanni borrowed also from the “Directorium” and the “Gesta
Romanorum”? Folk-lorists have discovered for us the fact that all the
stories the world ever listened to may, by proper classification, be shown to
be derived from some half-dozen sources. As the sorting and searching goes
on, new facts constantly come to light, the drift of which tends to prove that
the charge of plagiarism is now almost meaningless. It is hard to say what
new and strange fruits may not be gathered from the wide field now
covered by the folk-lorist. Formerly he hunted only in the East; now we
find him amongst the Lapps and the Zulus—in Labrador, and in the South
Pacific as well. A still more extended search will very likely find a fresh
source for those of the fables in the “Notti” which have heretofore been
classed as the original work of Straparola, and will discover for us a new
and genuine author of “Puss in Boots.”

Orfeo dalla Carta to all delightful and lovesome
ladies, greeting.

Considering in my mind, kindly ladies, how many in number and how high
in excellence are those heaven-born and lofty spirits who, in ancient and in
modern times as well, have written down those various fables which, when
you read them, give you no small pleasure, I understand—and you in like
manner will understand—that they were moved thus to write for no other
reason than to give you solace and entertainment. Since I opine, or rather
since I am certain that this is the case, you, delightful and lovesome ladies
as you are, will not be wroth if I, your good servant, shall publish in your
name the Fables and the Enigmas of the ingenious Messer Gioanfrancesco
Straparola da Caravaggio, set forth by him with no less elegance than
learning. And even if the substance of these should not furnish for your
hearing the same pleasure and delight as you are accustomed to find in
certain other writers, do not on this account contemn him by thrusting him
aside and rejecting him altogether, but rather with joyful faces take him to
you as you are accustomed to take the others; because if you, as you read
his pages, will bear in mind the diversity of events and the subtle wit
contained therein, you will at least derive from them no small instruction.
Besides this, you must not remark too narrowly the poor and negligent
style of the author, for the reason that he wrote his fables, not as he wished
to write them, but as he heard them from the ladies who related them,[19]
adding nought thereunto and taking nought therefrom. And if you shall find
him in any respect wanting, blame not him, who did his work to the best of
his power and knowledge, but blame me who have published it against his
wish. Accept, therefore, with gladsome looks this little gift from me your
servant; who, if it be shown to him (as he hopes it may) that his offering is
pleasing to you, will in the future do his best to lay before you other things

which may prove to be still more to your pleasure and contentment. Be
happy and remember me!

From Venice on the XI. day of January, MDLIIII.

Proem.

The Fables and Enigmas of Messer
Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.

Book the First.

PROEM.

In Milan, the capital of Lombardy, an ancient city abounding in graceful
ladies, adorned with sumptuous palaces, and rich in all those things which
are fitted to so magnificent a town, there resided Ottaviano Maria Sforza,
Bishop-elect of Lodi, to whom by claim of heredity (Francesco Sforza,
Duke of Milan, being dead) the sovereignty of the state rightfully belonged.
But through the falling in of evil times, through bitter hatreds, through
bloody battles, and through the never-ending vicissitudes of state affairs, he
departed thence and betook himself secretly to Lodi with his daughter
Lucretia, the wife of Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, cousin of Federico,
Marquis of Mantua, and there they abode some months. Long time had not
passed before his kinsmen discovered his whereabouts, and began forthwith
to annoy him; so the unhappy prince, finding himself still the object of their
ill will, took with him what jewels and money he had about him, and
withdrew with his daughter, who was already a widow, to Venice, where
they found friendly reception from Ferier Beltramo, a noble gentleman of
most benevolent nature, amiable and graceful, who with great courtesy gave
them pressing invitation to take up their abode in his own house. But to
share the home of another generally begets restraint, so the duke, after
mature deliberation, resolved to depart and to find elsewhere a dwelling of
his own. Wherefore, embarking one day with his daughter in a small vessel,
he went to Morano, and having come there his eyes fell upon a
marvellously beautiful palace which at that time stood empty. He entered it,
and having taken note of its lovely position, its lofty halls, its superb
loggias, its pleasant gardens filled with smiling flowers and rich in all sorts
of fruit and blooming herbs, he found them all highly to his taste. Then he
mounted the marble staircase and surveyed the magnificent hall, the
exquisite chambers, and the balcony built over the water, which
commanded a view of the whole place. The princess, captivated by the
charm of the pleasant spot, besought her father so strongly with soft and
tender speeches, that he to please her fancy hired the palace for their home.
Over this she rejoiced greatly, for morning and evening she would go upon
the balcony to watch the scaly fish which swam about in numerous shoals
through the clear salt water, and in seeing them dart about now here now

there she took the greatest delight. And because she was now forsaken by
the ladies who had formerly been about her court, she chose in their places
ten others as beautiful as they were good; indeed, time would fail wherein
to describe their virtues and their graces. Of these the first was Lodovica,
who had lovely eyes sparkling like the brightest stars, and everyone who
looked upon her could not but admire her greatly. The next was Vicenza, of
excellent carriage, of fine figure, and of polished manners, whose lovely
and delicate face shone with refreshing beauty upon all who beheld it. The
third was Lionora, who, although by the natural fashion of her beauty she
seemed somewhat haughty, was withal as kindly and courteous as any lady
to be found in all the world. The fourth was Alteria, with lovely fair hair,
who held her womanly devotion ever at the service of the Signora. The fifth
was Lauretta, lovely in person, but somewhat disdainful, whose clear and
languishing glances surely enslaved any lover who ventured to court them.
The sixth was Eritrea, who, though she was small of stature, yielded to none
of the others in beauty and grace, seeing that she had two brilliant eyes,
sparkling even brighter than the sun’s rays, a small mouth, and a rounded
bosom, nor was there to be found in her anything at all which was not
worthy of the highest praise. The seventh was Cateruzza, surnamed
Brunetta, who, all graceful and amorous as she was, with her sweet and
loving words entangled not only men in her snares, but could even have
made descend from heaven the mighty Jove himself. The eighth was
Arianna, who, though young in years, was grave and sedate in her seeming,
gifted with a fluent tongue, and encompassed with divine virtues, worthy of
the highest praise, which shone like the stars scattered about the heavens.
The ninth was Isabella, a highly-gifted damsel, and one who, on account of
her wit and skilful fence of tongue, commanded the admiration of the whole
company. The last was Fiordiana, a prudent damsel, with a mind stored with
worthy thoughts, and a hand ever prompt to virtuous deeds beyond any
other lady in all the world. These ten charming damsels gave service to their
Lady Lucretia both in a bevy and singly. The Signora, in addition to these,
chose two matrons reverend of aspect, of noble blood, of mature age, and of
sterling worth, to assist her with their wise counsels, the one to stand at her
right hand and the other at her left. Of these one was the Signora Chiara,
wife of Girolamo Guidiccione, a gentleman of Ferrara; and the other the
Signora Veronica, the widow of Santo Orbat, of one of the oldest houses of
Crema. To join this gentle and honourable company there came many

nobles and men of learning, amongst whom were Casal Bolognese, a
bishop, and likewise ambassador of the King of England, and the learned
Pietro Bembo, knight of Rhodes and preacher to the citizens of Milan, a
man of distinguished parts and standing highest in the Signora’s favour.
After these came Bernardo Capello, counted one of the chief poets of the
time, the amiable Antonio Bembo, Benedetto Trivigiano, a man of jovial
easy manners, and Antonio Molino, surnamed Burchiella, with his pretty
wit, Ferier Beltramo, a courteous gentleman, and many others whom it
would be tedious to name in turn. It was the custom of these, or at any rate
of the greater part of them, to assemble every evening at the palace of the
Signora Lucretia, and to entertain her with graceful dances, and playful
discourse, and music and song, thus graciously beguiling the fleeting hours.
Sometimes, too, certain problems would be propounded, to which the
Signora alone could find solution; but as the days of Carnival drew nigh,
days always vowed to playfulness and riot, the Signora bade them, under
pain of her displeasure, to assemble next evening on purpose to arrange
what manner of feast they themselves should keep. At the dusk of the next
evening they all duly appeared in obedience to her behest, and, having
seated themselves according to their rank, the Signora thus addressed them:
“Honourable gentlemen and you gracious ladies, now that we are come
together according to our wont, it seems well to me that we should order
these pleasant and gentle diversions of ours so as to furnish us with some
jovial pastime for the days of Carnival which are yet to run. Each one of
you therefore will propose what may seem most acceptable, and the form of
diversion which proves to be to the taste of the greatest number shall—if it
be seemly and decorous—be adopted.”
The ladies, and the gentlemen as well, declared with one voice that
everything should be left to the Signora’s decision; and she, when she
perceived their will, turned towards the noble company and said: “Since it
pleases you that I should settle the order of our entertainment, I, for my
part, would counsel that every evening, as long as Carnival lasts, we should
begin with a dance; then that five ladies should sing some song of their own
choosing, and this finished, that these five ladies, in order to be determined
by lot, should tell some story, ending with an enigma which we will solve,
if our wit be sufficient therefor. At the end of the story-telling we will
disperse to our homes for the night. But if these propositions of mine be not

acceptable to you, I will readily bow to any other which may please you,
and now I invite you to make your wishes known.”
The project set forth by the Signora won the favour of all; wherefore
she commanded a golden vase to be brought forthwith, and into this were
cast papers bearing the names of five of the damsels present. The first to be
drawn forth was that of the fair Lauretta, who, bashful as she was, blushed
softly as the early hues of dawn. Next came the name of Alteria, then
Cateruzza, then Eritrea, and then Arianna. The drawing over, the Signora
caused to be brought in the musical instruments, and set on the head of
Lauretta a wreath of laurel in token that she should make beginning of their
entertainment on the evening following.
It now pleased the Signora that the company should fall to dancing,
and almost before she had signified this wish to Signor Antonio Bembo,
that gallant gentleman took by the hand Fiordiana, with whom he was
somewhat enamoured, and the others of the company followed this example
straightway, and kept up the measure merrily. Loath to forego such
pleasure, they gave over reluctantly, and bandying many soft speeches, the
young men and the damsels withdrew to another apartment, in which were
laid out tables with sweetmeats and rare wines, and there they spent a
pleasant time in jesting one with another. When their merriment was over,
they took leave of the Signora, who gracefully dismissed them all.
As soon as the company had come together the next evening in the
beautiful palace of the Signora, she signed to the fair Lauretta to begin her
singing, and Lauretta without waiting for farther command stood up, and,
after respectfully saluting the Signora, went up on a raised platform, upon
which was placed a beautiful chair covered with draperies of rich silk. Then
having called her four chosen companions, they sang in tender angelic
cadence the following song in praise of the Signora:
SONG.
Lady, by your kindly hand,
Which ever waits on love’s behest;
By your voice of sweet command,
That bids us in your presence rest;
You hold in fee your servants’ love,
And rank with spirits blest above.

You quit the city’s din and heat,
And let us in your smile rejoice;
You call us willing to your feet,

To listen to our lady’s voice;
Then let us loudly celebrate
Your dignity and queenly state.

And though upon our charmed sight
Earth’s fairest visions soft may fall;
Your grace, your wit, your beauty bright,
Will blur them and outshine them all.
To laud another should we seek,
Our tongues your praise alone would speak.
When the five damsels gave over singing, in token that their song had
come to an end, the instruments began to sound, and the graceful Lauretta,
upon whom the lot had fallen to tell the first story of the evening, gave the
following fable without waiting for further sign from the Signora.

Night the First.

Night the First.

THE FIRST FABLE.

Salardo, son of Rainaldo Scaglia, quits Genoa and goes to
Montferrat, where he disobeys certain injunctions laid upon him
by his father’s testament, and is condemned to death therefor;
but, being delivered, he returns to his own country.
In every work, let it be good or bad, which we undertake, or propose to
undertake, we ought first to consider the issue thereof. Wherefore, as we are
now about to make beginning of our sportive and pleasant entertainment, I
will protest that it would have been vastly more agreeable to me, had the lot
willed it that some other lady should begin the story-telling; because I do
not feel myself in any wise competent for the undertaking; because I am
wanting in that fluency of speech which is so highly necessary in discourse
of this kind, seeing that I have had scanter usage in the art of elocution than
the charming ladies I see around me. But, since it pleases you, and has been
decided by lot that I should be the first, I will begin—so as not to cause any
inconvenience to this worshipful assemblage—my task of story-telling with
the best of the faculties granted to me by divine providence. I will moreover
leave open for those of my companions who shall come after me a wide and
spacious field so that they may be able to relate their fables in an easier and
more graceful style than I have at command.
Blessed, nay most blessed that son must be held to be who obeys his
father with all due reverence, forasmuch as he thereby carries out the
commands of the Eternal God, and lives long in the land, and prospers in all
his works. And on the other hand he who is disobedient may be reckoned
unhappy, nay most unhappy, seeing that all his undertakings come to a
wretched and ill-starred end, as you will easily understand from the fable I
am about to relate to you.
You must know then, gentle ladies, that at Genoa (a very ancient city,
and as pleasant a one as there is in the world) there lived, not long ago, a
gentleman named Rainaldo Scaglia, a man of great wealth, and endowed no
less generously with wit and knowledge. He had a son called Salardo,
whom he loved beyond all his other possessions, and this youth he had
caused to be educated in every worthy and liberal art, letting him want

nothing which might serve for his training and advancement. It happened
that in his old age a heavy sickness came upon Rainaldo, who, seeing that
his end was near, called for a notary, and made his will, which gave to
Salardo all his goods. Beyond this he begged his son to honour his memory
by keeping certain precepts ever in his mind, and never to act counter
thereto. The first precept was that, no matter how great might be the love he
had for his wife, he should never trust her with any important secret. The
second was that he should never adopt another man’s child as his own,
supposing his marriage to be a fruitless one. The third was that he should
never abide in a state, of which the chief magistrate wielded powers of life
and death unchecked. Having given to his son these precepts, Rainaldo
turned his face to the wall, and breathed his last.
After his father’s death, Salardo, a young, rich, well-born gallant,
grieved but moderately; and, in lieu of troubling about the administration of
his estates or taking to heart his father’s precepts, was in hot haste to find a
wife, and began to search for one of sufficiently good descent, and with a
person to his taste. Before his father had been a year dead, he married
Theodora, the daughter of Messer Odescalco Doria, a Genoese noble of the
first rank. She was very beautiful and of virtuous mind, though somewhat
haughty, and Salardo was so deeply enamoured of her that he could not
bear, night or day, to let her go out of his sight. For several years they lived
together without a child being born to them; and then Salardo, yearning for
an heir and disregarding the counsel of his father, determined to adopt a
child and to bring him up as his heir. Having gained his wife’s consent, he
lost no time in carrying out his purpose, and adopted the son of a poor
widow, calling the boy by the name of Postumius, and educating him with
the utmost care.
In the course of time it happened that Salardo grew weary of Genoa,
and determined to seek a home elsewhere, not because he did not find the
city all that was fair and pleasant, but simply because he was infected with
that desire for change which, not seldom, seizes upon those who live for
pleasure alone. Therefore, with great store of money and jewels, and with
sumptuous equipage, he left Genoa with Theodora his beloved wife, and his
adopted son Postumius, and having traversed Piamonte, made a halt at
Montferrat. Here he soon began to make the acquaintance of divers of the
citizens, through going with them to the chase, and in other social

gatherings in which he took great delight; and, in consequence of his wealth
and generosity, he soon achieved a position of honour and repute.
The rumour of Salardo’s splendid hospitality came before long to the
ears of the ruling prince, the Marquis of Montferrat, who, when he saw that
the newcomer was a handsome young man, well born, rich, of courtly
manners, and ready for any gallant enterprise, took him into high favour
and would seldom let a day pass without seeing him. At last, so great was
the influence of Salardo over the marquis, it fell out that anyone who
wanted a favour done to him by the latter would always manage to let his
petition pass through Salardo’s hands. Wherefore Salardo, mindful of the
favour he enjoyed, was ever eager to devise some new pleasure for his
patron, who, as became a young man, was much given to field sports, and
kept a great number of falcons and hounds for the chase, and all
appurtenances of venery, worthy of his high estate. But he would never go
hunting or hawking save in the company of Salardo.
One day Salardo, being alone, began to consider the great fortune
which had befallen him through the favour of the prince, and by-and-by his
thoughts turned to his son Postumius, how discreet, and dutiful, and upright,
and graceful he was. ‘Ah!’ he said to himself, ‘my poor old father was
indeed sorely in error about these precepts of his. He must, like many old
men, have become imbecile with age; either this cause, or some frenzy,
must have urged him to command me so particularly not to adopt a strange
child as my own, or to become the subject of an absolute prince. I now see
the folly of his precepts, for what son born to a father could be more sober,
courteous, gentle, and obedient, than Postumius, whom I have adopted, and
where should I find greater affection and more honourable treatment than is
given to me by the marquis, an absolute prince and one knowing no
superior? And, exalted as he is, he pays me so much worship and love that it
seems sometimes as if I stood in the highest place, and he in one beneath
me. Of a truth I know not what to think of it; of a truth it is a common trick
of old people to forget the tastes and inclinations of their youth, and to lay
down for their children rules and regulations, imposing thereby burdens
which they themselves would not touch with the tips of their fingers. And
this they do, moved not by love, but by the craving to keep their offspring
longer in subjection. Now, because I have disburdened myself of two of the
pledges imposed upon me by my father without any evil consequence, I will
quickly get rid of the third; for I am assured that when I shall be free from it

my dear wife will only love me the more. And she herself, whom I love
more than the light of my eyes, will give ample proof of the imbecility, or
even madness, of wretched old age, which finds its chief joy in imposing,
with its dead hand, intolerable restrictions on the living. Truly my father
must have been insane when he made his will, for to whom is my trust due
if not to her who has left her home and kinsfolk and become of one heart
and soul with me. Surely I may confide to her any secret, however
important it may be; so I will put her fidelity to the test, not on my own
account, for I doubt it not, but to prove her strength, and to give an example
to those foolish ones who rate disobedience to the wishes of dead and gone
dotards as an unpardonable sin.’
In these terms Salardo girded at his father’s wise injunctions, and
deliberated how he might best rid himself of them entirely. After a little he
left his house and went over to the mews at the palace, where the falcons of
the marquis were kept, and of these he took one which was a great favourite
of its owner, and secretly conveyed it to the house of a friend of his whose
name was Francesco. He handed over the bird to his friend, and begged
him, for the sake of the love there was between them, to hold it for him till
the time should come when he might disclose the object of his request.
Then, when he had returned to his home, he took a falcon of his own, and,
having privily killed it, he bore it to his wife, saying: ‘Theodora, my
beloved wife, I, as you well know, find it hard to get a moment’s rest on
account of the many hours I am compelled to spend in attendance on the
marquis, hunting, or fowling, or jousting, or in some other sport; and
sometimes I hardly know whether I am dead or alive. Wherefore, to keep
him from spending all his time over the chase, I have played him a trick he
will relish but little. However, it may perhaps keep him at home, and give
us and others some repose.’ To this his wife said: ‘And what have you
done?’ ‘I have killed his best falcon,’ Salardo replied, ‘the favourite of all;
and when he looks for it in vain I believe he will die of rage.’ And here he
lifted his cloak and took out the falcon which he had killed, and, having
handed it over to his wife, directed her to have it cooked for supper. When
Theodora heard this speech, and saw the dead falcon, she was deeply
moved to grief, and, turning to Salardo, reproached him severely for his
foolish jest. ‘For what reason have you committed such a grave offence,’
she said, ‘and put such an insult on the marquis, who holds you so dear, and
heaps such high favour upon you, and sets you above all others? Alas!

Salardo, I fear our ruin is near. If, peradventure, the marquis should come to
know what you have done, you would assuredly be in great danger of
death.’ Salardo answered: ‘But how can he ever know this? The secret is
yours and mine alone, and, by the love you have borne and still bear me, I
pray you be careful not to reveal it, for if he should learn it our ruin would
be complete.’ ‘Have no fear of this,’ said Theodora, ‘I would rather die than
disclose it.’
The falcon was cooked and served at supper, and Salardo and his wife
took their seats, but the lady refused to eat of the bird, though Salardo, with
gentle words, enticed her thereto. At last, as she remained obstinate, he gave
her such a buffet on the face that her cheek became scarlet from the blow.
Wherefore she began to weep and lament bitterly that he should thus misuse
her, and at last rose from the table, muttering beneath her breath that she
would bear in mind that blow as long as she might live, and that in due time
she would repay him. When morning was come, she stole early from her
bed, and hastened to tell the marquis of the falcon’s death, which news so
fired him with rage that he ordered Salardo to be seized forthwith, and to be
hanged without trial, and all his goods to be divided into three parts, of
which one should be given to his wife as accuser, another to his son, and the
remaining one to the man who should act as hangman.
Now Postumius, who was now a lusty well-grown youth, when he
heard his father’s doom and the disposition of his goods ordered by the
marquis, ran quickly to Theodora and said to her: ‘Mother, would it not be
wiser for me to hang my father myself, thus gaining the third of his goods
which would otherwise pass to a stranger.’ And to this Theodora replied:
‘Truly, my son, you speak well, for if you do this, your father’s riches will
remain with us intact.’ So Postumius went straightway to the marquis to ask
leave to hang his father, and thus earn the hangman’s share, which boon the
marquis graciously allowed.
Now Salardo had confided the whole of his secret to his faithful friend
Francesco, and at the same time had begged him, when the hangman should
be ready to do his work, to go to the marquis and beg him to let Salardo be
brought before him, and graciously to listen to what he might have to say in
his defence, and Francesco was loyal in carrying out this request.
Meantime, the wretched Salardo, loaded with fetters, was awaiting in prison
the hour which should see him led to a disgraceful death on the scaffold.

‘Now I know,’ he cried, with bitter weeping, ‘that my good old father in his
wisdom gave me those precepts for my profit. He gave me sage counsel,
and I, senseless ribald as I am, cast it aside. He, mindful of my safety,
warned me against my domestic enemies, and I have delivered myself into
their hands, and handed over to them my riches to enjoy. He, well skilled in
the disposition of despots, who in the space of an hour will love and hate,
exalt and abase, counselled me to shun them; but I, as if eager to sacrifice at
once my substance, my honour, and my life, thrust my head into the jaws of
this marquis, and put my faithless wife to the proof. Ah, Salardo, better had
it been for you to follow in your father’s footsteps, and let others seek the
company of princes! Now I see into what strait my foolish confidence in
myself, in my wife, in my wicked son, and, above all, in this ungrateful
marquis, has led me. Now I see the value of the love of this prince for me.
How could he deal more cruelly with me than by robbing me of my goods,
my life, and my honour in one blow, showing thus how his love has turned
to hate? I recognize now the truth of the proverb which says that a prince is
like wine in a flagon, sweet in the morning and sour at eve. Where is now
my nobility and my kinsmen? Is this the end of my loyalty, uprightness, and
courtesy? O my father, I believe that, dead though you be, when you gaze
into the mirror of eternal goodness, and see me about to be hanged,
because, forsooth, I disbelieved and disregarded your wise and loving
counsel, you will pray to God to have compassion on my youthful errors,
and I, your disobedient and ungrateful son, pray to you also for pardon.’
While the unhappy Salardo was thus communing with himself,
Postumius, with the air of a practised hangman, went with a body of police
to the prison, and, arrogantly presenting himself to Salardo, spake thus: ‘My
father, forasmuch as you are bound to be hanged by the order of the
marquis, and as the third part of your goods is to go to him who ties the
noose, I am sure, for the love you bear me, you will not be wroth at the part
I have chosen to play, seeing that thereby your goods, in lieu of passing to
strangers, will remain with your own family.’
Salardo, after listening attentively to this speech, replied: ‘God bless
you, my son; the course you have chosen pleases me much, and if at first
the thought of death terrified me, I am now content to die after listening to
your words. Do your office, therefore, quickly.’ Postumius first implored his
father’s pardon, and then, having kissed him, put the halter about his neck,
and exhorted him to meet death with patience. Salardo, when he saw the

turn things were taking, stood astonished, and, after a little, was led out of
prison with his arms bound and a halter round his neck, and, accompanied
by the hangman and the officers, was hurried towards the place of
execution. Arrived there, he turned his back towards the ladder which stood
against the gibbet, and in this attitude he mounted step by step. When he
had reached the top he looked down courageously upon the assembly, and
told them at full length the cause which had brought him there, and with
gentle words he implored pardon for any affront he might have given, and
exhorted all young people to be obedient to their fathers. When the people
heard for what cause Salardo was condemned, there was not one who did
not lament his unhappy fate and pray he might yet be pardoned.
While the events above named were taking place, Francesco betook
himself to the palace, and, having been introduced, thus addressed the
marquis: ‘Most worshipful sir, if ever you have been prompted to show pity
towards anyone, you are now doubly bound to deal mercifully with the case
of this friend of yours who is now, for no fault of his, led out to suffer a
shameful death. Consider, my lord, for what reason you condemned
Salardo, who loved you so dearly, and never by thought or deed wrought an
offence against you. Most gracious prince, only suffer your faithful friend
to be brought into your presence, and I will clearly demonstrate to you his
innocence.’ The marquis, with his eyes aflame with rage at Francesco’s
petition, made an effort to thrust him out of his presence, but the suppliant
threw himself down at the feet of the marquis, and, embracing his knees,
cried out with tears: ‘As you are a just prince, have pity, O noble marquis!
and let not the guiltless Salardo die because of your anger. Calm yourself,
and I will prove his innocence; stay your hand but one hour, for the sake of
that justice which you and your fathers have always reverenced, lest it be
said of you that you put your friend to death without cause.’
The marquis, violently angered against Francesco, now broke silence:
‘I see you wish to go the way of Salardo. If you go on enraging me thus I
will assuredly have you set by his side.’ ‘My lord,’ Francesco replied, ‘I ask
for no greater boon than to be hanged alongside Salardo, if, after having
made inquiry, you do not find him innocent.’ This last speech moved the
marquis somewhat, for he reasoned that Francesco would never have
spoken thus without being assured of Salardo’s innocence, seeing that he
thereby ran the risk of the halter himself. Wherefore he accorded the hour’s
delay, and, having warned Francesco that he must look to be hanged if he

should fail to prove his friend’s innocence, he sent a messenger straightway
to the place of justice with an order to delay the execution, and to bring
Salardo, bound as he was and with the rope about his neck, and the
hangman and officers as well, into his presence without delay.
Salardo, on being brought before the marquis, noted that his face was
still clouded with anger, and outspake at once with clear voice and
undaunted carriage: ‘My lord, the service I freely gave you, and the love I
bore you, scarcely deserved such a reward as the shame and indignity you
have put upon me in thus condemning me to a disgraceful death. I admit
that my folly, so to call it, deserved your anger; but I was guilty of no crime
heinous enough to warrant you in condemning me thus hastily and unheard.
The falcon, on account of which your anger was kindled, lives safe and
sound. It was never in my mind to kill it or to insult you. I wanted to use it
as a means of trying an experiment, the nature of which I will now disclose
to you.’ Having thus spoken, Salardo bade Francesco go fetch the falcon
and return it to its master; and then he told the marquis the whole story of
the precepts he had received from his father, and how he had disregarded
every one. The marquis, when he listened to this frank and candid speech,
and saw his falcon, handsome and well nourished as ever, was, for the
moment, struck dumb; but when he had fully realized his error of having
condemned a guiltless man to death unheard, he raised his eyes, which were
full of tears, and turned them on Salardo, saying: ‘Salardo, if you could
clearly realize all I feel at this moment, you would know that the pain you
have suffered from the halter round your neck and the bonds about your
arms is as nought compared with the anguish which now torments me. I can
hardly hope ever to be happy again after having done so grievous an injury
to you, who loved and served me so faithfully. If it were possible that all
should be undone, how gladly would I undo it; but, since this is out of the
question, I will do my utmost to wipe out my offence, and to give you all
the reparation I can.’
Having thus spoken, the marquis with his own hands unfastened the
halter from Salardo’s neck, and loosened his bonds, embracing him the
while with the greatest tenderness; and, having taken him by the right hand
and led him to a seat by his own, he ordered the halter to be put round the
neck of Postumius, and the youth to be led away to execution, because of
his wicked conduct; but this Salardo would not permit. ‘Postumius,’ he said
to the wretched youth, ‘what shall I now do with you, whom, for the love of

God, I have nurtured from childhood, only to be so cruelly deceived? On
one side is my past love for you; on the other, the contempt I feel for the
wicked deed you planned to do. One calls upon my fatherly kindness to
forgive you, the other bids me harden my heart against you. What then shall
I do? If I pardon you, men will jeer at my weakness; if I punish you as you
deserve, I shall go counter to the divine exhortation to forgiveness. But that
men may not tax me either with too great leniency, or too great severity, I
will neither make you suffer in your person, nor will I myself endure the
sight of you any more; and in place of my wealth, which you so greedily
desired, you shall have the halter which you knotted round my neck, and
keep it always as a remembrance of your wicked deed. Now begone, and let
me never see you or hear of you again.’
With these words he drove out the wretched Postumius, of whom
nothing more was ever heard. Theodora, as soon as she was told of
Salardo’s liberation, fled to a certain convent, where she soon ended her
days miserably, and Salardo, when he heard the news of her death, took
leave of the marquis and returned to Genoa, where, after having given away
all the wealth he did not want for his own use, he lived long and happily.
During the telling of Lauretta’s story divers of the hearers were moved
to tears, but when they heard that Salardo had been delivered from the
gibbet, and Postumius ignominiously expelled, and of Theodora’s flight and
ill-starred end, they were heartily glad. The Signora gave the word to
Lauretta to propound her enigma, so that the order of entertainment agreed
upon the previous evening might be observed, and the damsel with a
smiling face gave it in these words:
In a prison pent forlorn,
A tiny son to me was born.
Ah, cruel fate! The savage elf,
Scarce bigger than a mite himself,
Devoured me in his ravenous lust,
And changed me into sordid dust.
A mother fond I was of late,
Now worse e’en than a slave’s my fate.

The fair Lauretta, when she saw that no one was likely to solve her
riddle, said, “This enigma of mine concerns the dry bean which is
imprisoned between two husks; where, later on, she engenders a worm no
bigger than a mite. This worm feeds upon her, and finally consumes her, so

that not only is she destroyed as a mother, but not even the condition of a
servant is possible for her.” All were pleased at Lauretta’s explanation, and
Alteria, who sat next to her, having been selected as the next speaker, began
at once her story without awaiting the Signora’s command.

THE SECOND FABLE.

Cassandrino, a noted robber, and a friend of the prætor of Perugia,
steals the prætor’s bed and his horse Liardo, but afterwards
becomes a man of probity and good repute.

The wit of man, dear ladies, is so keen and subtle, that one would be hard
set to find a task arduous enough to baffle it. There is, indeed, a familiar
saying of the common people, that a man does what he wishes to do; and
this same proverb it is which has suggested to me the tale I am about to tell
you. Although it is somewhat ridiculous, it may yield you some pleasure, or
even instruction, by demonstrating to you the cunning of those who are
thieves by profession.
In Perugia, an ancient and noble city of Romagna, renowned for its
learning and for sumptuous living, there abode, not very long ago, a
handsome young scapegrace named Cassandrino. So ill was his reputation
with the citizens, on account of his many robberies, that frequent and
lengthy complaints thereanent were made to the prætor by men of all
stations in the city; but this latter, though he rated Cassandrino soundly for
his misdeeds, seemed loath to punish him. Now, though Cassandrino was,
past gainsaying, a thievish knave, he had one virtue which at least got him
credit with the prætor, that is, he did not rob for the mere love of pelf so
much as to be able, now and then, to spend magnificently and to offer
handsome gifts to those who favoured him. Wherefore, and because he was
affable, courteous, and witty, the prætor looked upon him so kindly that he
would rarely let pass a day without seeing him.
But since Cassandrino persisted in these more or less reprehensible
courses, the prætor was forced to give ear to the complaints which, with full
justice, were laid against him. Being still reluctant to bring the culprit to
justice, on account of the kindly feeling in his heart, he summoned
Cassandrino one day into an inner chamber, and began to admonish him
with friendly words, and to exhort him to have done with his evil ways,

warning him of the perils he was risking thereby. Cassandrino listened
attentively to the prætor’s words, and spake thus in reply: ‘Sir, I hear and
clearly understand the good counsel which you, of your great courtesy, have
given to me, and I know full well that it springs from the generous affection
in which you hold me, and for which I am most grateful. I am indeed
grieved that we should be plagued with certain foolish people jealous of
others’ well-being, and ever ready to blast their honour with spiteful words.
These busybodies, who bear such tales about me, would do better to keep
their venomous tongues between their teeth than to let them run on to my
hurt.’ The prætor, swayed by his affection for the speaker, needed very little
persuasion to believe Cassandrino’s story and to turn a deaf ear to the
plaints of his ravages made by the citizens. It chanced soon after that
Cassandrino, being a guest at the prætor’s table, told him of a youth who
was so marvellously light-fingered that he could steal anything he had a
mind to, however carefully guarded and protected it might be. The prætor,
when he heard this, laughed and said: ‘Cassandrino, this youth can be no
other than you yourself, for there cannot be another such a crafty trickster;
but, to put you to the test, I will promise you a hundred golden florins if you
succeed to-night in stealing the bed out of the chamber in which I sleep.’
Cassandrino seemed somewhat disturbed at these words, and then
answered: ‘Sir, you evidently take me for a thief; but let me tell you I am
not one, nor the son of one. I live by the sweat of my brow, and by my own
industry, such as it is, and do for myself the best I can. But if it be your will
to bring me to the gallows on this score, I will go there gladly for the sake
of the regard I have ever had, and still have, for you.’ After this speech
Cassandrino withdrew, for he was very anxious to humour the prætor’s
whim, and he went about all day cudgelling his brains to devise how he
might steal the prætor’s bed from under him without betraying himself. At
last he hit on the following scheme. A certain doctor of the city had lately
died, and on that very day had been buried in his family vault. After
midnight Cassandrino stole to the burying-place, and, having opened the
vault, drew therefrom the dead body of the doctor by the feet, and, after he
had stripped it, dressed it again in his own clothes, which fitted so well that
anyone would have taken it for Cassandrino and not for the doctor. He
hoisted the corpse upon his shoulders as well as he could, and, having made
his way safely to the palace, he scaled the roof, with the doctor’s body on
his back, by a ladder which he had provided, and began noiselessly to

remove the tiles with an iron crowbar, finally making a large hole in the
ceiling of the room in which the prætor was sleeping.
The prætor, who was wide awake, heard distinctly all that was going
on, and laughed to himself, though his roof was being pulled to pieces, for
he expected every moment to see Cassandrino enter the room and attempt
to carry off the bed. ‘Ah! Messer Cassandrino,’ he said to himself, ‘you will
not steal my bed to-night.’ But while he was thus chuckling and expecting
the attempt, Cassandrino let fall the dead body of the doctor through the
breach in the ceiling into the prætor’s room. The noise it made caused him
to jump out of bed and light a candle, and then he saw what he took to be
the body of Cassandrino (because it was dressed in that worthy’s clothes)
lying mangled and huddled together on the floor. When he recognized the
garments, he was profoundly grieved, and cried out, ‘Ah, what a wretched
sight is here! To gratify my silly caprice I have killed this man. What will
men say if it be noised abroad that he met his end in my house? Of a truth
one needs to be careful.’ The prætor, lamenting thus, went to rouse a faithful
servant of his, and having awakened him, told him of the unhappy
mischance, and begged him go dig a hole in the garden and bury therein the
dead body, so as to prevent scandal. Whilst the prætor and his servant were
burying the dead body in the garden, Cassandrino, who had silently
watched the prætor’s movements, as soon as the coast was clear let himself
down by a rope, and having made a parcel of the bed, carried it away with
all possible haste. After he had buried the body, the prætor returned to his
room; but when he prepared to get into bed, no bed was there. He slept little
that night, wherefore he had plenty of time to ponder over the cunning and
dexterity of his friend Cassandrino.
The next day Cassandrino, according to his wont, went to the palace
and presented himself to the prætor, who, as soon as he had set eyes on him,
said: ‘In truth, Cassandrino, you are the very prince of thieves! who else
would have contrived so cunningly to steal my bed?’ Cassandrino was
silent, feigning the utmost astonishment, as if he had had no part in the
affair. ‘You have played an excellent trick upon me,’ the prætor went on to
say, ‘but I must get you to play me yet another, in order that I may judge
how far your ingenuity can carry you. If you can manage to-night to steal
my horse Liardo—the best I ever had—I will give you another hundred
florins, in addition to the hundred I have already promised you.’
Cassandrino, when he heard of this fresh task which was put upon him,

feigned to be much troubled, and loudly lamented that the prætor should
hold him in such ill repute, begging him at the same time not to be his ruin.
The prætor, deeming that Cassandrino refused assent to his request, grew
angry, and said, ‘Well, if you will not do as I bid you, look for no other fate
than to hang by a halter from the city wall.’ Cassandrino, who now saw that
his case was dangerous, and in no small measure,[20] replied: ‘I will do all I
can to gratify you in what you ask, but believe me the task you propose is
one beyond my power;’ and with these words he departed.
As soon as he was gone, the prætor, who was resolved this time to put
Cassandrino’s ingenuity to no light trial, called one of his servants and thus
addressed him: ‘Go to the stable, and saddle and bridle my horse Liardo;
then mount him, and keep all night on his back, taking good heed the while
that he be not stolen.’ And he gave orders to another to see that all the doors
of the palace were well secured with bolts. That night Cassandrino took all
his implements, and repaired to the principal gate of the palace, where he
found the porter quietly dozing; but, because he knew well all the secret
issues of the place, he let the porter sleep on, and, making use of another
passage, he gained the courtyard, and thence passed on to the stables, which
he found fast locked. With very little trouble he unfastened the door, and
having opened this, he perceived, to his amazement, that a man was sitting
on the prætor’s favourite horse, with the reins in his hand, but when he
approached he saw the fellow was sound asleep. The crafty rascal, noting
that the sleeping varlet was senseless as a statue, at once hit upon a plan,
clever beyond belief. He carefully measured the height of the horse, and
then stole away into the garden, from whence he brought back four stout
poles, such as are used in supporting vines on a trellis; and having
sharpened them at the ends, he cunningly cut the reins, which the sleeping
servant held in his hand, and the breast-strap, and the girths, and the
crupper, and every other bond which stood in his way. Then, having fixed
one of the poles in the ground, with the upper end dexterously inserted
under one corner of the saddle, he did exactly the same on the other side,
and repeated the operation at the other two remaining corners. Next he
raised the saddle off the horse’s back (the servant being sound asleep all the
while), and let it rest entirely on the four poles which were firmly fixed in
the ground. Then, there being no obstacle in his way, he haltered the horse
and led it off.

The prætor was astir early the next morning, and repaired forthwith to
the stable, where he expected to find his horse all safe; but the sight which
met his eyes was his servant, still sitting fast asleep on the saddle propped
up by four poles. The prætor, having awakened him, loaded him with abuse,
and, half dazed with what he had seen, quitted the stable and returned to the
palace. At the usual hour in the morning Cassandrino betook himself to the
palace, and gave the prætor a merry salute when he appeared.
‘Cassandrino,’ said the latter, ‘assuredly you carry off the palm amongst
thieves. I may indeed dub you with the title of “King of the thieves,” but
still should like to ascertain whether you are a man of wit and cleverness.
You know, I think, Messer Severino, the priest of Sangallo, a village hard
by. Well, if you bring him here to me tied up in a sack, I promise to give
you as much money again as you have already earned; but if you fail in this,
be sure that I will hang you up by the neck.’ This Messer Severino was a
man of holy life, and of the best repute, but in no wise experienced in
worldly affairs, seeing that he cared for nought else but the service of his
church. Cassandrino, perceiving that the prætor had set his mind on
working him an injury, said to himself: ‘This man, I plainly see, is bent on
doing me to death; but in this he will find himself mistaken, for I will
execute this task if it is to be done.’ Cassandrino, being thus anxious to do
the prætor’s bidding, cast about how he might play a trick upon the priest
which would serve the purpose he had in view, and ultimately fixed on the
following stratagem. He borrowed from a friend of his a priest’s alb, long
enough to come down to his heels, and a well-broidered stole, and these he
took home to his lodging. Then he got ready a pair of beautiful wings,
painted in divers colours, which he had fashioned out of pasteboards, and
also a diadem of tinsel, which shone radiantly. At nightfall he stole out of
the town with his gewgaws, and went towards the village where Messer
Severino abode, and there he hid himself in a thicket of sharp thorns, and
lay close till the day began to dawn. Then Cassandrino put on the alb, and
the stole round about his neck, and set the diadem on his head, and fixed the
wings on his shoulders. Having done this, he hid himself again, and stirred
not till the time had come when the priest should go forth to ring the bell for
the Ave Maria. Scarcely had Cassandrino vested himself, when Messer
Severino, with his acolyte, arrived at the church door, which he left open,
and went in to do his morning office. Cassandrino, who was on the watch,
saw that the door of the church was standing open while the good priest was

ringing the bell, crept out of his hiding-place, stole softly into the church,
and, when he had entered, went up to the altar and stood upright, holding
open a large sack in his hands. Next he cried out in a low chanting voice:
‘Whoever wishes to enter into the joys of paradise, let him get into this
sack;’ and these words he repeated over and over again. While he was
performing this mummery, the acolyte came out of the sacristy, and, when
he saw the snow-white alb, and the diadem shining brilliant as the sun, and
the wings as gorgeous as a peacock’s—to say nothing of the words he heard
—he was altogether amazed; but when he had somewhat recovered, he
went off to find the priest, and said to him: ‘Sir, sir, I have just seen in the
church an angel of heaven, holding a sack in his hands, who said: “Whoever
wishes to enter into the joys of paradise, let him get into this sack;” and I,
for my part, have made up my mind to do as he bids me.’
The priest, who was not over well furnished in the upper storey, gave
full credence to the acolyte’s tale, and, as soon as he had issued from the
sacristy, saw the angel standing there, clad in celestial garb, as the acolyte
had said. Now Messer Severino was powerfully moved by the angel’s
words, and being mightily anxious to get safe to paradise, and at the same
time somewhat in fear lest the clerk should forestall him by getting first into
the sack, made believe to have left his breviary behind him at his lodging,
and said to the acolyte: ‘Go quickly home and search my chamber
diligently, and bring back my breviary which I have left somewhere.’
And while the acolyte was gone to search for the breviary the priest
approached the angel, making the while a deep reverence, and crept into the
sack. Cassandrino, who was full of sharp cunning and mischief, seeing that
the game was going as he wished, closed the sack’s mouth at once and tied
it firmly. Then he took off the alb, the diadem, and the wings, and having
made a bundle of these and hoisted it, together with the sack, on his
shoulders, he set out for Perugia, where he arrived as soon as it was clear
daylight, and at the accustomed hour presented himself before the prætor
with the sack on his back. Having untied the mouth, he lugged out Messer
Severino, who, finding himself in the presence of the prætor, and more dead
than alive—conscious likewise that a fool’s trick had been played with him
—made a weighty charge against Cassandrino, crying out at the top of his
voice that he had been robbed and inveigled by craft into the sack, to his
great loss and humiliation, and begging the prætor to make an example of
him, nor to let so great a crime go without severe punishment, so as to give

a clear warning to all other malefactors. The prætor, who had already
fathomed the business from beginning to end, could not contain his
laughter, and turning to Messer Severino thus addressed him: ‘My good
father and my friend, say not another word and do not distress yourself, for
you shall never want any favour, nor fail to have justice done to you;
although, as I see quite clearly, you have just been made the victim of a
joke.’ The prætor had to say and do his best to pacify the good priest, and,
having taken a little packet wherein were several pieces of gold, he gave it
to him and directed that he should be escorted out of the town. Then,
turning to Cassandrino, he said to him: ‘Cassandrino, Cassandrino, of a
truth your knavish deeds outdo your knavish reputation which is spread
abroad. Wherefore, take these four hundred golden florins which I promised
you, because you have fairly gained them, but take care that you bear
yourself more decently in the future than you have borne yourself in the
past, for if I hear any more complaints of your knavish pranks, you shall
certainly be hanged.’
Cassandrino hereupon took the four hundred golden florins, and
having duly thanked the prætor for them, went his way, and with this money
he traded skilfully and successfully, and in time became a man of business
highly respected by all.
The ladies and gentlemen were much pleased with Alteria’s story, and
she being called upon by the Signora gave her enigma in the following
terms:
While I my nightly vigil kept,
A man I spied, who softly crept
Adown the hall, whereon I said,
“To bed, Sir Bernard, get to bed.
Two shall undress you, four with care
Shut fast the doors, and eight up there
Shall watch, and bid the rest beware.”
While these deceiving words I said,
The thievish wight in terror fled.

Alteria, seeing that the hour was late and that no one was likely to
solve her riddle, gave this explanation: “A gentleman had gone into the
country with all his household, and had left in his palace an old woman,
who prudently made a practice of going about the house at nightfall to see if
she might espy any thieves, and one evening it chanced that she saw a
robber on a balcony, who watched her through a hole. The good old woman

refrained from crying out, and wisely made believe that her master was in
the house, and a throng of servants as well. So she said: ‘Go to bed, Messer
Bernardo, and let two servants undress you, and four shut the doors, while
eight go upstairs and guard the house.’ And while the old woman was
giving these orders, the thief, fearing to be discovered, stole away.” When
Alteria’s clever riddle had been solved, Cateruzza, who was seated next to
her, remembered that the third story of this first night was to be told by her,
so with a smiling face she began.

THE THIRD FABLE.

Pre Scarpafico, having been once duped by three robbers, dupes
them thrice in return, and lives happily the rest of his days.
The end of Signora Alteria’s story, which she has set forth with so great
skill, supplies me with a theme for my own, which peradventure may please
you no less than hers, though on one point it will show a variance,
inasmuch as she pictured to us Pre Severino neatly entrapped by
Cassandrino; while in the story I am about to tell you, Pre Scarpafico threw
the net no less adroitly over divers knaves who were trying to get the better
of him.
Near to Imola, a city always plagued by factious quarrels and
ultimately destroyed thereby, there lived once upon a time a priest named
Scarpafico, who served the village church of Postema. He was well to do,
but miserly and avaricious beyond measure, and he had for housekeeper a
shrewd and clever woman named Nina, who was so alert and pushing that
she would never scruple to tell any man whatever might come into her
mind. And because she was faithful and prudent in administering his affairs
he held her in high esteem.
Now when good Pre Scarpafico was young he was as jolly a priest as
there was to be met in all the country round; but at this time age had made
walking on foot irksome to him, so the good Nina was always persuading
him to buy a horse, in order that his days might not be shortened through
too great fatigue. At last Scarpafico, overborne by the persuasions of his
servant, went one day to the market, and having seen there a mule which
appeared exactly to suit his need, bought it for seven golden florins.
It happened that there were three merry fellows at the market that day,
of the sort which liefer lives on the goods of others than on its own earnings
—as sometimes happens even in our own time—and, as soon as they saw
the bargain struck, one said to the others, ‘Comrades, I have a mind that the
mule yonder should belong to us.’ ‘But how can that be managed?’ said the

others. Then the first speaker replied, ‘We must post ourselves along the
road he will take on his journey home, about a quarter of a mile apart one
from another, and as he passes each one must affirm positively that the
mule he has bought is not a mule at all, but an ass, and if we are brazen
enough in our declaration the mule will be ours.’
Accordingly they started from the market and stationed themselves
separately on the road, as they had appointed, and when Pre Scarpafico
approached the first of the thieves, the fellow, feigning to be on the road to
the market, said, ‘God be with you, sir!’ to which Scarpafico replied, ‘And
welcome to you, my brother.’ ‘Whence come you, sir?’ said the thief. ‘From
the market,’ Scarpafico answered. ‘And what good bargains have you
picked up there?’ asked the thief. ‘This mule,’ said Scarpafico. ‘Which
mule?’ exclaimed the robber. ‘Why, the mule I am riding,’ returned
Scarpafico. ‘Are you speaking in sober truth, or do you mock me?’ asked
the thief; ‘because it seems to me to be an ass, and not a mule.’ ‘Indeed,’
Scarpafico answered, and without another word he went his way. Before he
had ridden far he met the next robber, who greeted him, ‘Good morrow, sir,
and where may you come from?’ ‘From the market,’ answered Scarpafico.
‘And was there aught worth buying?’ said the robber. ‘Yes,’ answered
Scarpafico, ‘I bought this mule which you see.’ ‘How, sir,’ said the robber,
‘do you mean to say you bought that for a mule, and not for an ass? What
rascals must be about, seeing you have been thus cheated!’ ‘An ass, indeed,’
replied Scarpafico; ‘if anyone else should tell me this same tale, I will make
him a present of the beast straightway.’ Then going his way, he soon met the
third thief, who said to him, ‘Good morrow, sir. You come mayhap from the
market?’ ‘I do,’ replied Scarpafico. ‘And what may you have bought there?’
asked the robber. ‘I bought this mule which I am riding,’ said Scarpafico.
‘Mule,’ said the fellow; ‘do you really mean what you say? Surely you must
be joking when you call that beast a mule, while it is really an ass.’
Scarpafico, when he heard this tale, said to the fellow, ‘Two other men I
have met told me the same story, and I did not believe them, but now it
appears certain that the beast is an ass,’ and having dismounted from the
mule, he handed it over to the thief, who, having thanked the priest for it,
went off to join his companions, leaving good Pre Scarpafico to make his
way home on foot.
As soon as he came to his house he told Nina how he had bought a nag
at the market, thinking it to be a mule, but that it had proved to be an ass;

and how, having been told that he had mistaken one beast for the other by
several people he had met on the road home, he had given the beast to the
last of them. ‘Ah, you poor simpleton!’ cried Nina. ‘Cannot you see they
have played you a trick? I thought you were cleverer than this. In truth, they
would not have fooled me thus.’ ‘Well, it is no use to grieve over it,’ said
Scarpafico. ‘They may have played me a trick, but see if I do not play them
two in return. Be sure that these fellows, after having once fooled me, will
not rest content with that, but will soon be weaving some new plot whereby
they may plunder me afresh.’
Not far from Pre Scarpafico’s house there lived a peasant, who had
amongst his goats two which were so much alike that it was impossible to
tell one from the other. These two goats the priest bought, and the next day
ordered Nina to prepare a good dinner for himself and some friends he
proposed to invite—some boiled veal, and roast fowls and meat, and to
make savoury sauces thereto, and a tart of the sort she was accustomed to
serve him with. Then he took one of the goats and tied it to a hedge in the
garden, and having given it some fodder, he put a halter round the neck of
the other and led it off to the market, where he was at once accosted by the
three worthies of the late escapade. ‘Welcome, good sir, and what may be
your business here to-day? You are come, no doubt, to make another good
purchase?’ To which Scarpafico replied, ‘I have come to buy divers
provisions, for some friends are coming to dine with me; and if you will
consent to join our feast it will please me greatly.’ The cunning rascals
willingly accepted Scarpafico’s invitation, and he, when he had bought
everything he required, bestowed all his purchases on the back of the goat,
and said to the beast, ‘Now go home and tell Nina to boil this veal, and to
roast the fowls and the meat, and tell her, moreover, to make savoury sauce
with these spices, and a fair tart. Do you understand? Now go in peace.’
And with these words he drove off the laden goat, which, being left to go
where it would, wandered away, and what befell it no one knows.
Scarpafico and his companions and some other friends of his strolled about
the market-place till the hour of dinner, and then they all repaired to the
priest’s house, where the first thing they saw on entering the garden was the
goat which Scarpafico had tied to the hedge, calmly ruminating after its
meal of herbage. The three adventurers at once set it down as the goat
which Pre Scarpafico had despatched home with his purchases, being
beyond measure amazed thereat; and when they were all come in, the priest

said to Nina, ‘Have you prepared everything as the goat told you?’ and she,
understanding his meaning, replied, ‘Yes, sir, in a few minutes the roast loin
and the fowls and the boiled veal will be ready, and the sauce made with
spices, and the tart likewise; all as the goat told me.’
The three robbers, when they saw set forth the roast and boiled and the
tart, and heard what Nina said, were more astonished than ever, and at once
began to cast about how they might get possession of the goat by theft; but
when the dinner had come to an end, and they found themselves as far as
ever from compassing their felonious purpose, they said to Scarpafico, ‘Sir,
will you do us the favour to sell us that goat of yours?’ But Scarpafico
replied that he had no wish to part with it, for it was worth more money
than the world held; but, after a little, he consented to oblige them, and to
take in exchange for it fifty golden florins. ‘But,’ he added, ‘take warning,
and blame me not afterwards if the goat does not obey you as it obeys me,
for it knows you not or your ways.’
But the three adventurers heeded not this speech of Scarpafico, and,
without further parley, carried off the goat, rejoicing in their bargain. When
they came to their homes, they said to their wives, ‘See that you prepare no
food to-morrow save that which we shall send home by the goat.’ On the
morrow they went to the piazza, where they purchased fowls and divers
other viands, and these they packed on the goat’s back, and directed it to go
home, and to tell to their wives all they ordered. The goat, thus laden, when
it was set at liberty, ran away into the country and was never seen again.
When dinner-hour was come the three confederates straightway went
home and demanded of their wives whether the goat had come back safely
with the provisions, and whether they had duly cooked these according to
the directions given. The women, amazed at what they heard, cried out,
‘What fools and numskulls you must be to suppose that a beast like that
would do your bidding! You surely have been prettily duped. With your
cheating other people every day, it was quite certain you would be caught
yourselves at last.”
As soon as the three robbers saw that Scarpafico had verily made fools
of them, besides having eased their pockets of fifty golden florins, they
were hotly incensed against him, and, having caught up their arms, they set
forth to find him, swearing they would have his life. But the cunning priest,
who fully expected that the robbers would seek vengeance upon him when

they should discover how he had tricked them, had taken counsel with Nina
thereanent. ‘Nina,’ he said, ‘take this bladder, which you see is full, and
wear it under your dress; then, when these robbers come, I will put all the
blame on you, and in my rage will make believe to stab you; but I will
thrust the knife in this bladder, and you must fall down as if you were dead.
The rest you will leave to me.’
Scarcely had Scarpafico finished speaking when the confederates
arrived, and at once made for Scarpafico as if to kill him. ‘Hold, brothers,’
he cried, ‘what you would bring against me is none of my doing, but the
work of this servant of mine, most likely on account of some affront of
which I know nothing.’ And, turning towards Nina, he struck his knife into
the bladder, which he had previously filled with blood, and she forthwith
feigned to be dead and fell down, while the blood gushed in streams about
where she lay. Then the priest, looking upon his work, made great show of
repentance, and bawled out lustily, ‘Oh, wretched man that I am! what have
I done in thus foolishly slaying this woman who was the prop of my old
age? How shall I manage to live without her?’ But after a little he fetched a
bagpipe, made according to a fancy of his own, and blew a tune upon it,
until at last Nina jumped up safe and sound, as if recalled to life.
When the robbers saw what happened they forgot their anger in their
astonishment, and, after a little chaffering, they purchased the bagpipe for
two hundred florins, and went highly delighted to their homes. A day or two
after it chanced that one of them fell out with his wife, and, becoming
enraged, stabbed her in the breast with his knife and killed her. The husband
at once took the bagpipe which had been bought of Scarpafico, and blew
into them as Scarpafico had done in hopes of reviving her; but he spent his
wind to no purpose, for the poor woman had verily passed from this life to
the next. When the second thief saw what his comrade had done, he cried
out, ‘What a fool you are! you have bungled the affair. Wait and see how I
do it.’ And with these words he seized his own wife by the hair, and cut her
throat with a razor. Then, taking the bagpipe, he blew with all his might, but
with no better result than the first. The third fellow, who was standing by,
nothing daunted by the failure of the others, served his own wife in the
same way to no better purpose; so the three were all alike wifeless. With
hotter anger against Scarpafico than ever, they hurried to his house,
resolved that this time they would pay no heed to his plausible tales, and
seized him and thrust him into a sack, purposing to drown him in a

neighbouring river. But as they bore him along something gave them an
alarm, and they ran to hide themselves for a while, leaving Pre Scarpafico
in his sack by the wayside.
They had not been gone many minutes before a shepherd, driving his
flock to pasture, went by; and, as he drew nigh, he heard a plaintive voice
saying, ‘They want me to take her, but I will have none of her; for I am a
priest, and have no concern with such matters.’ The shepherd stopped short,
somewhat frightened, because he could not discover whence came the
voice, which kept repeating the same words over and over again; but,
having looked now here, now there, his eye at last fell on the sack in which
Scarpafico was tied up. The shepherd opened the sack and let the priest
come forth, demanding why he had been thus tied up, and what he meant by
the words he kept uttering. Whereupon Scarpafico declared that the
seigneur of the town insisted on marrying him to one of his daughters, but
that he himself had no stomach for the match, because, besides being a
priest, he was too old to wive. The shepherd, who, like a simpleton,
believed every word the cunning priest told him, at once cried out, ‘Good
father, do you think the seigneur would bestow her upon me?’ ‘I believe he
would,’ said Scarpafico, ‘provided you get into this sack and let me tie you
up.’ The silly shepherd at once crept in, and Scarpafico, having fastened the
sack, got away from the place as quickly as he could, driving the poor
shepherd’s flock before him.
When an hour or so had passed the three thieves returned, and, without
examining the sack, they bore it to the river and threw it in, thus sending the
wretched shepherd to the fate they had destined for Pre Scarpafico.
They then took their way homewards, and, as they were conversing,
they perceived a flock of sheep grazing hard by, and at once began to
scheme how they might easiest carry off a couple of lambs. But when they
drew anigh, judge their amazement at seeing Pre Scarpafico, whom they
believed to be lying at the bottom of the river, tending the flock as a
shepherd. As soon as they had recovered from their amazement, they
demanded of him how he had managed to get out of the river, and he
straightway answered: ‘Away with you! you have no more sense than so
many jackasses. If you had thrown me a little farther into the stream, I
should have come back with ten times as many sheep as you see here.’
When the robbers heard this they cried out, ‘Ah! Pre Scarpafico, will you at

last do us a good turn? Will you put us into sacks and throw us into the
river? Then, you see, we shall no longer have need to be footpads and
rascals, and will live as honest shepherds.’ ‘Well,’ answered Scarpafico, ‘I
will do so much for you; indeed, there is no favour in the world I would not
grant you, on account of the love I bear you;’ and, having got three good
sacks of strong canvas, he tied the three thieves therein so firmly that there
was no chance of their getting out, and threw them into the river. Thus they
went to the place which was their due, and Scarpafico went back to Nina
with good store of gold and cattle, and lived many years in happiness and
prosperity.
Cateruzza’s tale gave great pleasure to all the company, and won high
praise, especially the part of it which dealt with Pre Scarpafico’s cunning
scheme whereby, in exchange for the mule he gave away, he gained much
money and a fine flock of sheep. Cateruzza then set forth her enigma:
A sturdy blacksmith and his wife,
Who lived a simple honest life,
Sat down to dine; and for their fare
A loaf and a half of bread was there.
But ere they finished came the priest,
And with his sister joined the feast.
The loaf in twain the blacksmith cleft,
So three half loaves for the four were left.
Each ate a half, each was content.
Now say what paradox is meant.

The solution of Cateruzza’s enigma was, that the blacksmith’s wife
was the priest’s sister. When the husband and wife had sat down to their
meal, the priest came in and joined them, and then, apparently, there were
four of them, to wit, the blacksmith and his wife, and the priest and his
sister; but in reality there were but three. As each one had a third of the
bread they were all contented. After Cateruzza had explained her very
ingenious enigma, the Signora gave the signal to Eritrea to give them her
story, and she forthwith began.

THE FOURTH FABLE.
Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, wishes to have his only daughter Doralice
to wife, but she, through her father’s persecution, flees to
England, where she marries Genese the king, and has by him two
children. These, having been slain by Tebaldo, are avenged by
their father King Genese.

I cannot think there is one amongst us who has not realized by his own
experience how great is the power of love, and how sharp are the arrows he
is wont to shoot into our corruptible flesh. He, like a mighty king, directs
and governs his empire without a sword, simply by his individual will, as
you will be able to understand from the tenour of the story which I am
about to tell to you.
You must know, dear ladies, that Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, according
to the story I have heard repeated many times by my elders, had to wife a
modest and prudent lady of good lineage, and by her he had a daughter who
in beauty and grace outshone all the other ladies of Salerno; but it would
have been well for Tebaldo if she had never seen the light, for in that case
the grave misadventure which befell him would never have happened. His
wife, young in years but of mature wisdom, when she lay a-dying besought
her husband, whom she loved very dearly, never to take for his wife any
woman whose finger would not exactly fit the ring which she herself wore;
and the prince, who loved his wife no less than she loved him, swore by his
head that he would observe her wish.
After the good princess had breathed her last and had been honourably
buried, Tebaldo indulged in the thought of wedding again, but he bore well
in mind the promise he had made to his wife, and was firmly resolved to
keep her saying. However, the report that Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, was
seeking another mate soon got noised abroad, and came to the ears of many
maidens who, in worth and in estate, were no whit his inferiors; but
Tebaldo, whose first care was to fulfil the wishes of his wife who was dead,

made it a condition that any damsel who might be offered to him in
marriage should first try on her finger his wife’s ring, to see whether it
fitted, and not having found one who fulfilled this condition—the ring
being always found too big for this and too small for that—he was forced to
dismiss them all without further parley.
Now it happened one day that the daughter of Tebaldo, whose name
was Doralice, sat at table with her father; and she, having espied her
mother’s ring lying on the board, slipped it on her finger and cried out,
‘See, my father, how well my mother’s ring fits me!’ and the prince, when
he saw what she had done, assented.
But not long after this the soul of Tebaldo was assailed by a strange
and diabolical temptation to take to wife his daughter Doralice, and for
many days he lived tossed about between yea and nay. At last, overcome by
the strength of this devilish intent, and fired by the beauty of the maiden, he
one day called her to him and said, ‘Doralice, my daughter, while your
mother was yet alive, but fast nearing the end of her days, she besought me
never to take to wife any woman whose finger would not fit the ring she
herself always wore in her lifetime, and I swore by my head that I would
observe this last request of hers. Wherefore, when I felt the time was come
for me to wed anew, I made trial of many maidens, but not one could I find
who could wear your mother’s ring, except yourself. Therefore I have
decided to take you for my wife, for thus I shall satisfy my own desire
without violating the promise I made to your mother.’ Doralice, who was as
pure as she was beautiful, when she listened to the evil designs of her
wicked father, was deeply troubled in her heart; but, taking heed of his vile
and abominable lust, and fearing the effects of his rage, she made no answer
and went out of his presence with an untroubled face. As there was no one
whom she could trust so well as her old nurse, she repaired to her at once as
the surest bulwark of her safety, to take counsel as to what she should do.
The nurse, when she had heard the story of the execrable lust of this wicked
father, spake words of comfort to Doralice, for she knew well the constancy
and steadfast nature of the girl, and that she would be ready to endure any
torment rather than accede to her father’s desire, and promised to aid her in
keeping her virginity unsullied by such terrible disgrace.
After this the nurse thought of nothing else than how she might best
find a way for Doralice out of this strait, planning now this and now that,

but finding no method which gained her entire approval. She would fain
have had Doralice take to flight and put long distance betwixt her and her
father, but she feared the craft of Tebaldo, and lest the girl should fall into
his hands after her flight, feeling certain that in such event he would put her
to death.
So while the faithful nurse was thus taking counsel with herself, she
suddenly hit upon a fresh scheme, which was what I will now tell you. In
the chamber of the dead lady there was a fair cassone, or clothes-chest,
magnificently carved, in which Doralice kept her richest dresses and her
most precious jewels, and this wardrobe the nurse alone could open. So she
removed from it by stealth all the robes and the ornaments that were
therein, and bestowed them elsewhere, placing in it a good store of a certain
liquor which had such great virtue, that whosoever took a spoonful of it, or
even less, could live for a long time without further nourishment. Then,
having called Doralice, she shut her therein, and bade her remain in hiding
until such time as God should send her better fortune, and her father be
delivered from the bestial mood which had come upon him. The maiden,
obedient to the good old woman’s command, did all that was told her; and
the father, still set upon his accursed design, and making no effort to
restrain his unnatural lust, demanded every day what had become of his
daughter; and, neither finding any trace of her, or knowing aught where she
could be, his rage became so terrible that he threatened to have her killed as
soon as he should find her.
Early one morning it chanced that Tebaldo went into the room where
the chest was, and as soon as his eye fell upon it, he felt, from the
associations connected with it, that he could not any longer endure the sight
of it, so he gave orders that it should straightway be taken out and placed
elsewhere and sold, so that its presence might not be an offence to him. The
servants were prompt to obey their master’s command, and, having taken
the thing on their shoulders, they bore it away to the market-place. It
chanced that there was at that time in the city a rich dealer from Genoa,
who, as soon as he caught sight of the sumptuously carved cassone,
admired it greatly, and settled with himself that he would not let it go from
him, however much he might have to pay for it. So, having accosted the
servant who was charged with the sale of it, and learnt the price demanded,
he bought it forthwith, and gave orders to a porter to carry it away and place
it on board his ship. The nurse, who was watching the trafficking from a

distance, was well pleased with the issue thereof, though she grieved sore at
losing the maiden. Wherefore she consoled herself by reflecting that when it
comes to the choice of evils it is ever wiser to avoid the greater.
The merchant, having set sail from Salerno with his carven chest and
other valuable wares, voyaged to the island of Britain, known to us to-day
as England, and landed at a port near which the country was spread out in a
vast plain. Before he had been there long, Genese, who had lately been
crowned king of the island, happened to be riding along the seashore,
chasing a fine stag, which, in the end, ran down to the beach and took to the
water. The king, feeling weary and worn with the long pursuit, was fain to
rest awhile, and, having caught sight of the ship, he sent to ask the master of
it to give him something to drink; and the latter, feigning to be ignorant he
was talking to the king, greeted Genese familiarly, and gave him a hearty
welcome, finally prevailing upon him to go on board his vessel. The king,
when he saw the beautiful clothes-chest so finely carved, was taken with a
great longing to possess it, and grew so impatient to call it his own that
every hour seemed like a thousand till he should be able to claim it. He then
asked the merchant the price he asked for it, and was answered that the
price was a very heavy one. The king, being now more taken than ever with
the beautiful handicraft, would not leave the ship till he had arranged a
price with the merchant, and, having sent for money enough to pay the price
demanded, he took his leave, and straightway ordered the cassone to be
borne to the palace and placed in his chamber.
Genese, being yet over-young to wive, found his chief pleasure in
going every day to the chase. Now that the cassone was transported into his
bedroom, with the maiden Doralice hidden inside, she heard, as was only
natural, all that went on in the king’s chamber, and, in pondering over her
past misfortunes, hoped that a happier future was in store for her. And as
soon as the king had departed for the chase in the morning, and had left the
room clear, Doralice would issue from the clothes-chest, and would deftly
put the chamber in order, and sweep it, and make the bed. Then she would
adjust the bed-curtains, and put on the coverlet cunningly embroidered with
fine pearls, and two beautifully ornamented pillows thereto. After this, the
fair maiden strewed the bed with roses, violets, and other sweet-smelling
flowers, mingled with Cyprian spices which exhaled a subtle odour and
soothed the brain to slumber. Day after day Doralice continued to compose
the king’s chamber in this pleasant fashion, without being seen of anyone,

and thereby gave Genese much gratification; for every day when he came
back from the chase it seemed to him as if he was greeted by all the
perfumes of the East. One day he questioned the queen his mother, and the
ladies who were about her, as to which of them had so kindly and
graciously adorned his room, and decked the bed with roses and violets and
sweet scents. They answered, one and all, that they had no part in all this,
for every morning, when they went to put the chamber in order, they found
the bed strewn with flowers and perfumes.

Genese, when he heard this, determined to clear up the mystery, and
the next morning gave out that he was going to hunt at a village ten leagues
distant; but, in lieu of going forth, he quietly hid himself in the room,
keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the door, and waiting to see what might
occur. He had not been long on the watch before Doralice, looking more
beautiful than the sun, came out of the cassone and began to sweep the
room, and to straighten the carpets, and to deck the bed, and diligently to set
everything in order, as was her wont. The beautiful maiden had no sooner

done her kindly and considerate office, than she made as if she would go
back to her hiding-place; but the king, who had keenly taken note of
everything, suddenly caught her by the hand, and, seeing that she was very
fair, and fresh as a lily, asked her who she was; whereupon the trembling
girl confessed that she was the daughter of a prince. She declared, however,
that she had forgotten what was his name, on account of her long
imprisonment in the cassone, and she would say nothing as to the reason
why she had been shut therein. The king, after he had heard her story, fell
violently in love with her, and, with the full consent of his mother, made her
his queen, and had by her two fair children.
In the meantime Tebaldo was still mastered by his wicked and
treacherous passion, and, as he could find no trace of Doralice, search as he
would, he began to believe that she must have been hidden in the coffer
which he had caused to be sold, and that, having escaped his power, she
might be wandering about from place to place. Therefore, with his rage still
burning against her, he set himself to try whether perchance he might not
discover her whereabouts. He attired himself as a merchant, and, having
gathered together a great store of precious stones and jewels, marvellously
wrought in gold, quitted Salerno unknown to anyone, and scoured all the
nations and countries round about, finally meeting by hazard the trader who
had originally purchased the clothes-chest. Of him he demanded whether he
had been satisfied with his bargain, and into whose hands the chest had
fallen, and the trader replied that he had sold the cassone to the King of
England for double the price he had given for it. Tebaldo, rejoicing at this
news, made his way to England, and when he had landed there and
journeyed to the capital, he made a show of his jewels and golden
ornaments, amongst which were some spindles and distaffs cunningly
wrought, crying out the while, ‘Spindles and distaffs for sale, ladies.’ It
chanced that one of the dames of the court, who was looking out of a
window, heard this, and saw the merchant and his goods; whereupon she
ran to the queen and told her there was below a merchant who had for sale
the most beautiful golden spindles and distaffs that ever were seen. The
queen commanded him to be brought into the palace, and he came up the
stairs into her presence, but she did not recognize him in his merchant’s
guise; moreover, she was not thinking ever to behold her father again; but
Tebaldo recognized his daughter at once.

The queen, when she saw how fair was the work of the spindles and
distaffs, asked of the merchant what price he put upon them. ‘The price is
great,’ he answered, ‘but to you I will give one of them for nothing,
provided you suffer me to gratify a caprice of mine. This is that I may be
permitted to sleep one night in the same room as your children.’ The good
Doralice, in her pure and simple nature, never suspected the accursed
design of the feigned merchant, and, yielding to the persuasion of her
attendants, granted his request.
But before the merchant was led to the sleeping chamber, certain ladies
of the court deemed it wise to offer him a cup of wine well drugged to make
him sleep sound, and when night had come and the merchant seemed
overcome with fatigue, one of the ladies conducted him into the chamber of
the king’s children, where there was prepared for him a sumptuous couch.
Before she left him the lady said, ‘Good man, are you not thirsty?’ ‘Indeed I
am,’ he replied; whereupon she handed him the drugged wine in a silver
cup; but the crafty Tebaldo, while feigning to drink the wine, spilled it over
his garments, and then lay down to rest.
Now there was in the children’s room a side door through which it was
possible to pass into the queen’s apartment. At midnight, when all was still,
Tebaldo stole through this, and, going up to the bed beside which the queen
had left her clothes, he took away a small dagger, which he had marked the
day before hanging from her girdle. Then he returned to the children’s room
and killed them both with the dagger, which he immediately put back into
its scabbard, all bloody as it was, and having opened a window he let
himself down by a cord. As soon as the shopmen of the city were astir, he
went to a barber’s and had his long beard taken off, for fear he might be
recognized, and having put on different clothes he walked about the city
without apprehension.
In the palace the nurses went, as soon as they awakened, to suckle the
children; but when they came to the cradles, they found them both lying
dead. Whereupon they began to scream and to weep bitterly, and to rend
their hair and their garments, thus laying bare their breasts. The dreadful
tidings came quickly to the ears of the king and queen, and they ran
barefooted and in their night-clothes to the spot, and when they saw the
dead bodies of the babes they wept bitterly. Soon the report of the murder of
the two children was spread throughout the city, and, almost at the same

time, it was rumoured that there had just arrived a famous astrologer, who,
by studying the courses of the various stars, could lay bare the hidden
mysteries of the past. When this came to the ears of the king, he caused the
astrologer to be summoned forthwith, and, when he was come into the royal
presence, demanded whether or not he could tell the name of the murderer
of the children. The astrologer replied that he could, and whispering
secretly in the king’s ear he said, ‘Sire, let all the men and women of your
court who are wont to wear a dagger at their side be summoned before you,
and if amongst these you shall find one whose dagger is befouled with
blood in its scabbard, that same will be the murderer of your children.’
Wherefore the king at once gave command that all his courtiers should
present themselves, and, when they were assembled, he diligently searched
with his own hands to see if any one of them might have a bloody dagger at
his side, but he could find none. Then he returned to the astrologer—who
was no other than Tebaldo himself—and told him how his quest had been
vain, and that all in the palace, save his mother and the queen, had been
searched. To which the astrologer replied, ‘Sire, search everywhere and
respect no one, and then you will surely find the murderer.’ So the king
searched first his mother, and then the queen, and when he took the dagger
which Doralice wore and drew it from the scabbard, he found it covered
with blood. Then the king, convinced by this proof, turned to the queen and
said to her, ‘O, wicked and inhuman woman, enemy of your own flesh and
blood, traitress to your own children! what desperate madness has led you
to dye your hands in the blood of these babes? I swear that you shall suffer
the full penalty fixed for such a crime.’ But though the king in his rage
would fain have sent her straightway to a shameful death, his desire for
vengeance prompted him to dispose of her so that she might suffer longer
and more cruel torment. Wherefore he commanded that she should be
stripped and thus naked buried up to her chin in the earth, and that she
should be well fed in order that she might linger long and the worms devour
her flesh while she still lived. The queen, seasoned to misfortune in the past,
and conscious of her innocence, contemplated her terrible doom with
calmness and dignity.
Tebaldo, when he learned that the queen had been adjudged guilty and
condemned to a cruel death, rejoiced greatly, and, as soon as he had taken
leave of the king, left England, quite satisfied with his work, and returned
secretly to Salerno. Arrived there he told to the old nurse the whole story of

his adventures, and how Doralice had been sentenced to death by her
husband. As she listened the nurse feigned to be as pleased as Tebaldo
himself, but in her heart she grieved sorely, overcome by the love which she
had always borne towards the princess, and the next morning she took horse
early and rode on day and night until she came to England. Immediately she
repaired to the palace and went before the king, who was giving public
audience in the great hall, and, having thrown herself at his feet, she
demanded an interview on a matter which concerned the honour of his
crown. The king granted her request, and took her by the hand and bade her
rise; then, when the rest of the company had gone and left them alone, the
nurse thus addressed the king: ‘Sire, know that Doralice, your wife, is my
child. She is not, indeed, the fruit of my womb, but I nourished her at these
breasts. She is innocent of the deed which is laid to her charge, and for
which she is sentenced to a lingering and cruel death. And you, when you
shall have learnt everything, and laid your hands upon the impious
murderer, and understood the reason which moved him to slay your
children, you will assuredly show her mercy and deliver her from these
bitter and cruel torments. And if you find that I speak falsely in this, I offer
myself to suffer the same punishment which the wretched Doralice is now
enduring.’
Then the nurse set forth fully from beginning to end the whole history
of Doralice’s past life; and the king when he heard it doubted not the truth
of it, but forthwith gave orders that the queen, who was now more dead
than alive, should be taken out of the earth; which was done at once, and
Doralice, after careful nursing and ministration by physicians, was restored
to health.
Next King Genese stirred up through all his kingdom mighty
preparations for war, and gathered together a great army, which he
despatched to Salerno. After a short campaign the city was captured, and
Tebaldo, bound hand and foot, taken back to England, where King Genese,
wishing to know the whole sum of his guilt, had him put upon the rack,
whereupon the wretched man made full confession. The next day he was
conducted through the city in a cart drawn by four horses, and then tortured
with red-hot pincers like Gano di Magazza, and after his body had been
quartered his flesh was thrown to be eaten of ravenous dogs.

And this was the end of the impious wretch Tebaldo; and King Genese
and Doralice his queen lived many years happily together, leaving at their
death divers children in their place.
All the listeners were both amazed and moved to pity by this pathetic
story, and when it was finished Eritrea, without waiting for the Signora’s
word, gave her enigma:
I tell you of a heart so vile,
So cruel, and so full of guile,
That with its helpless progeny
It deals as with an enemy.
And when it sees them plump and sleek,
It stabs them with its cruel beak.
For, lean itself, with malice fell,
It fain would make them lean as well.
So they grow thin with wasting pain,
Till nought but plumes and bones remain.

The ladies and gentlemen gave various solutions to this enigma, one
guessing this and another that, but they found it hard to believe there could
be an animal so vile and cruel as thus barbarously to maltreat its own
progeny, but at last the fair Eritrea said with a smile, “What cause is there
for your wonder? Assuredly there are parents who hate their children as
virulently as the rapacious kite hates its young. This bird, being by nature
thin and meagre, when it sees its progeny fat and seemly—as young birds
mostly are—stabs their tender flesh with its hard beak, until they too
become lean like itself.”
This solution of Eritrea’s pointed enigma pleased everybody, and it
won the applause of all. Eritrea, having made due salutation to the Signora,
resumed her seat. Then the latter made a sign to Arianna to follow in her
turn, and she rising from her chair began her fable as follows.

THE FIFTH FABLE.

Dimitrio the chapman, having disguised himself as a certain
Gramottiveggio, surprises his wife Polissena with a priest, and
sends her back to her brothers, who put her to death, and
Dimitrio afterwards marries his serving-woman.

We often see, dear ladies, great inequality in the degree of mutual love.
How often will the husband love the wife entirely, and she care little for
him; and, on the other hand, the wife will love the husband to find nothing
but hatred in return. In conditions like these is born the passion of sudden
jealousy, the destroyer of all happiness, rendering a decent life impossible;
likewise dishonourings and unseemly deaths, which often shed deep
disgrace over all our sex. I will say nothing of the headlong perils, of the
numberless ills, into which both men and women rush on account of this
accursed jealousy. It would weary rather than divert you were I to recount
them all to you one by one; but, as it is my task to bring to an end this
evening of pleasant discourse, I will tell you a story of Gramottiveggio,
now told for the first time, and I believe you will gather therefrom no less
pleasure than edification.
The noble city of Venice, famed for the integrity of its magistrates, for
the justice of its laws, and as being the resort of men from every nation of
the world, is seated on the bosom of the Adriatic sea, and is named the
queen of cities, the refuge of the unhappy, the asylum of the oppressed. Her
walls are the sea and her roof the sky; and, though the earth produces
nought, there is no scarcity of anything that life in a great city demands.
In this rich and magnificent city there lived in former days a merchant
whose name was Dimitrio, a good and trustworthy man of upright life,
though of low degree. He was possessed with a great desire of offspring,
wherefore he took to wife a fair and graceful girl named Polissena, whom
he loved as dearly as ever man loved woman, letting her clothe herself so
sumptuously that there was no dame in all the city—save amongst the

nobles—who could outvie her in raiment, or in rings, or in pearls of price.
And besides he took care to let her have abundance of delicate victuals,
which, not being suitable to one of her humble degree, gave her the look of
being more pampered and dainty than she should have been.
It chanced one day that Dimitrio, who on account of his business was
often constrained to travel by sea, determined to take ship with a cargo of
goods for Cyprus, and, when he had got ready his apparel and stocked the
house with provisions and everything that was needful, he left his dear wife
Polissena with a fair and buxom serving-maid to bear her company, and set
sail on his voyage.
After his departure Polissena went on living luxuriously and indulged
herself with every delicacy, and before very long found she was unable to
endure further the pricks of amorous appetite, so she cast her eyes upon the
parish priest and became hotly enamoured of him. The priest on his part,
being young, lively, and well-favoured, came at last to divine the meaning
of the glances Polissena cast towards him out of the corner of her eye, and,
seeing that she was gifted with a lovely face and a graceful shape, and
further endowed with all the charms men desire in a woman, he soon began
to return her amorous looks. Thus love grew up between them, and many
days had not passed before Polissena brought the young man privily into
the house to take her pleasure with him. And thus, for the course of many
months, they secretly enjoyed the delights of love in close embraces and
sweet kisses, letting the poor husband fare the best he might in the perils of
sea and land.
Now when Dimitrio had been some time in Cyprus, and had made
there a reasonable profit on his goods, he sailed back to Venice, and, having
disembarked, he went to his home and to his dear Polissena, who, as soon
as she saw him, burst into tears, and when Dimitrio asked her the reason of
her weeping, she replied, ‘I weep because of some bad news which came to
me of late, and also for the great joy I feel in seeing you again; for I heard
tell by many that all the ships which had sailed for Cyprus were wrecked,
and I feared sorely lest some terrible misadventure should have overtaken
you. But now, seeing you have by God’s mercy returned safe and sound, I
cannot keep back my tears for the joy I feel.’ The simple Dimitrio, who had
returned to Venice to make up—as he thought—to his wife for the solitary
time she had passed during his long absence, deemed that the tears and

sighs of Polissena sprang from her warm and constant love for him; but the
poor dupe never suspected that all the while she was saying in her heart,
‘Would to Heaven that he had been drowned at sea! for then I might the
more safely and readily take my pleasure with my lover who loves me so
well.’
Before a month had passed Dimitrio was forced to set out on his
travels once more, whereat Polissena was filled with joy greater than can be
imagined, and forthwith sent word to her lover, who showed himself to be
no less on the alert; and, when the settled hour for their foregathering had
come, he went secretly to her. But the comings and goings of the priest
could not be kept secret enough to escape for long the eye of a certain
Manusso, a friend of Dimitrio, who lived just opposite. Wherefore
Manusso, who held Dimitrio in high esteem for that he was a pleasant
companion and one ever ready to do a friendly service, grew mightily
suspicious of his young neighbour, and kept a sharp watch over her. When
he had satisfied himself that, with a given sign at a certain hour, the door
would always be opened to the priest, and that after this the lovers would
disport themselves with less circumspection than prudence demanded, he
determined that the business, which was as yet a secret, should not be
brought to light so as to stir up a scandal, but to let his project have time to
ripen by awaiting the return of Dimitrio.
When Dimitrio found himself at liberty to return home, he took ship,
and with a favourable breeze sailed back to Venice; and, having
disembarked, went straight to his own house and knocked at the door, thus
arousing the servant, who, when she had looked out of the window and
recognized her master, ran quickly to let him in, weeping with joy the
while. Polissena, when she heard her husband had returned, came
downstairs forthwith, taking him in her arms and embracing and kissing
him as if she had been the most loving wife in the world. And because he
was weary and altogether worn out by the sea voyage, he went to bed
without taking any food, and slept so soundly that the morning came before
he had taken any amorous pleasure with his wife. When the night had
passed and full daylight had come, Dimitrio awoke, and, having left the bed
without bestowing so much as a single kiss upon his wife, took a little box,
out of which he drew a few ornamental trinkets of no small value, which,
on returning to bed, he gave to his wife, who set little store by them, seeing
that her thoughts were running upon another matter. Shortly after this it

happened that Dimitrio had occasion to go into Apulia to purchase oil and
other merchandise, and, having announced this to his wife, he began to
make ready for his journey. She, cunning and full of mischief, and feigning
to be heartbroken at his departure, kissed him lovingly and besought him to
tarry yet a few days longer with her; but in her heart of hearts she reckoned
one day of his presence like a thousand, since it prevented her from taking
her pleasure in the arms of her lover.
Now Manusso, who had often espied the priest courting Polissena and
doing divers other things which it is not seemly to mention, felt that he
would be working his friend a wrong if he should not now let him know all
that he had seen. Therefore he determined, come what might, to tell him all.
So, having invited him one day to dinner, he said to him as they sat at table,
‘Dimitrio, my friend, you know, if I am not mistaken, that I have always
held, and shall ever hold you in great affection, so long as there is breath in
my body; nor could you name any task, however difficult, which I would
not undertake for the love I bear you; and, if you would not take it ill, I
could tell you of certain matters which might annoy you rather than please
you, but I fear to speak lest thereby I should disturb your peace of mind.
Nevertheless, if you will take it—as I hope you will—circumspectly and
prudently, you will not let your anger get the mastery over you, and thus
blind your eyes to the truth.’ ‘Know you not,’ answered Dimitrio, ‘that you
may say to me anything you please? If you have, by any mischance, killed a
man, tell me, and do not doubt my fidelity.’ Manusso answered, ‘I have
killed nobody, but I have seen another man slay your honour and your good
name.’ ‘Speak your meaning clearly,’ said Dimitrio, ‘and do not beat about
the bush with ambiguous words.’ ‘Do you wish me to tell it you briefly?’
asked Manusso; ‘then listen and hear patiently what I have to say. Polissena
your wife, whom you hold so dear, all the time you are away sleeps every
night with a priest and takes her pleasure with him.’ ‘How can this be
possible,’ said Dimitrio, ‘seeing that she loves me so tenderly, never failing
when I leave her to shed floods of tears on my bosom and to fill the air with
her sighs? If I were to behold this thing with my own eyes I would not
believe it.’ ‘If you are wise, as I believe you to be,’ said Manusso, ‘if there
is any reason in you, you will not shut your eyes, as is the way with so
many simpletons and fools. I will let you see with your eyes and touch with
your hands all that I have told you; then you may be convinced.’ ‘Then,’
said Dimitrio, ‘I shall be content to do whatever you may direct me in order

to let you show me all you have promised.’ Then Manusso replied, ‘But you
must take care to keep your secret and put a good face on the matter,
otherwise you will wreck the whole plot.[21] When next you have to go
abroad, make believe to set sail, but in lieu of quitting Venice come to my
lodgings as secretly as you can, and I will clear up the mystery for you.’
When the day came for Dimitrio to start on his journey he embraced
his wife tenderly, while he bade her take good care of the house, and having
taken leave of her feigned to go on board his ship, but turned and withdrew
secretly to the lodging of Manusso. By chance it happened that, before two
o’clock had struck, a terrible storm came on, with rain so heavy that it
seemed as if the heavens themselves were broken up, and the rain ceased
not all through the night. The priest, who had already been advertised of the
departure of Dimitrio, and cared neither for wind nor rain, was waiting for
the hour of assignation. When he gave the sign the door was opened to him,
and, as soon as he was inside, Polissena greeted him with sweet and
passionate kisses; while the husband, who was concealed in a passage over
the way, saw all that went on, and, being no longer able to contradict his
friend’s assertion, was altogether overwhelmed, and burst into tears on
account of the righteous grief which possessed him. Then said his friend to
him, ‘Now what do you think? Have you not seen something you would
never have believed? But say not a word and keep yourself cool, for if you
listen to what I have to say, and do exactly what I shall direct you, you shall
see something more. Take off the clothes you are now wearing, and put on
some beggar’s rags, and smear your face and your hands with dirt; then go
over to your own house as a beggar, and in a counterfeited voice ask for a
night’s lodging. Most likely the servant, seeing how bad a night it is, will
take pity on you and take you in; and if you do this, you will probably see
something else you would rather not see.’
Dimitrio, having listened to his friend’s counsel, took off his clothes
and put on instead the rags of a poor man who had come to the house and
asked for lodging in God’s name, and, although it still rained smartly, he
went over to the door of his own house, at which he knocked thrice,
weeping and groaning bitterly the while. The serving-maid having opened
the window, cried out who was there, and Dimitrio, in a broken and feigned
voice, replied that it was a poor old man, almost drowned by the rain, who
begged a night’s lodging. Whereupon the kindly girl, who was just as
tender-hearted towards the poor and wretched as was her mistress towards

the priest, ran to Polissena and begged her to grant the petition of this poor
man who was soaked with rain, and to give him shelter till he should be
warm and dry. ‘He can draw us some water,’ she went on, ‘and make up the
fire, so that the fowls may be the sooner roasted. Then I can prepare the
soup, and get ready the spoons, and do other chores about the kitchen.’ To
this the mistress agreed, and the girl, having opened the door, let him in and
bade him sit by the fire and turn the spit. It happened that the priest and
Polissena, who had in the meantime been in the chamber, came down into
the kitchen holding one another by the hand, and at once began to make
mock of the poor wight with his dirty face. Going up to him Polissena asked
what was his name. ‘I am called Gramottiveggio, signora,’ he replied; and
Polissena when she heard this began to laugh heartily, showing all her teeth
so plainly that a leech might have drawn any one of them. Then she threw
her arms round the priest, crying out, ‘Come, dear heart, and let me kiss
you.’ And poor Dimitrio had to look on while they thus kissed and
embraced each other. I leave you to fancy what he felt at seeing his wife
kissed and fondled by a priest in his very presence.
When the time had come for supper, the servant, when the lovers had
sat down, returned to the kitchen and said to the poor man: ‘Well now,
father, I must just tell you that my mistress has for a husband as good a man
as you would find in all Venice, one who lets her want for nothing, and God
only knows where the poor man is in this dreadful weather, while she, an
ungrateful hussy, caring nothing for his person and less for his honour, has
let herself be blinded by this lecherous passion—always fondling this lover,
and shutting the door to everybody but him alone. But, I pray you, let us go
softly to the door of the chamber; then you will see what they are doing,
and how they bear themselves at table.’ And when they came to the door
they espied the two lovers within, making good play with the viands, and
carrying on all sort of amorous dalliance the while.
When the hour of bedtime came, the two lovers retired to rest, and,
after a little playful pastime, began to sport in good earnest,[22] and made so
much ado that the poor Dimitrio, who was abed in a chamber adjoining, did
not close his eyes all night, and understood completely what was going on.
As soon as morning came he repaired to the lodgings of Manusso, who, as
soon as he saw him, said, laughing, ‘Well, friend, how is the business going
on? Is all you have seen to your taste?’ ‘No, indeed,’ answered Dimitrio; ‘I
would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes; but,

patience! since my ill luck will have it so.’ Then Manusso, who was a crafty
fellow, said, ‘My friend, I would have you do what I shall tell you. Wash
yourself well and put on your own clothes, and go straightway to your
house, and make believe that by great good luck you had not embarked
before the storm broke. Take good care that the priest steal not away; for, as
soon as you enter, he will assuredly hide himself somewhere, and will lie
there till he can make his retreat safely. Meantime, summon all your wife’s
relations to a banquet at your house, and then, when you have dragged the
priest from his hiding-place in their presence, you can do anything else
which may seem good to you.’
Dimitrio was highly pleased at his friend’s advice, and as soon as he
had stripped himself of his ragged clothes went over to his house and
knocked at the door. The servant, when she saw it was her master, ran
forthwith to Polissena, who was yet in bed with the priest, and said to her,
‘Signora, my master is come back.’ Her mistress, when she heard these
words, was beside herself with fright, and, getting up with what despatch
she could, she hid the priest, who was in his shirt, in the coffer where she
kept all her choicest raiment, and then ran in her fur-lined cloak, all
shoeless as she was, to open the door to Dimitrio. ‘My dear husband,’ she
cried, ‘you are indeed welcome. I have not closed my eyes for love of you,
wondering always how fortune might be using you, but God be praised for
that you have come back safe and sound.’ Dimitrio, as soon as he entered
the chamber, said, ‘Polissena, my love, I scarcely slept a wink last night on
account of the bad weather, so that now I would fain rest a little; and in the
meanwhile let the servant go to your brothers’ house and bid them dine with
us to-day.’ To this Polissena replied, ‘Would it not be better to wait till
another day, seeing that it rains so heavily, and the girl is busy calendering
our body linen and sheets and other napery?’ ‘To-morrow the weather will
mend, and I shall have to set forth,’ said Dimitrio. Polissena then said, ‘But
you might go yourself; or, if you are too weary, go ask your friend Manusso
to do you this service.’ ‘That is a good suggestion,’ said Dimitrio, and,
having sent for his friend, he carried the affair out exactly as it had been
settled.
The brothers of Polissena came, and they dined jovially together.
When the table was cleared, Dimitrio cried: ‘Good brothers-in-law of mine,
I have never properly let you see my house, nor the fine apparel which I
have given to Polissena, my wife and your sister, so that you might judge

therefrom how I treat her. Now go, Polissena, my good wife, get up and
show your brothers over the house.’ Dimitrio then rose and showed them
his storehouses full of wheat and timber and oil and other merchandise, then
casks of malvoisie and Greek wine and other delicacies. Next he said to his
wife: ‘Bring out the rings and the pearls which I have bought for you. Just
look at these fine emeralds in this little casket; the diamonds, the rubies, and
other rings of price. Does it seem to you, my brothers, that your sister is
well treated by me?’ ‘We knew all this well, brother,’ they replied, ‘and if
we had not been satisfied with your worth, we would not have given you
our sister to wife.’
But Dimitrio had not yet finished, for he next directed his wife to open
all her coffers, and to bring out her fair raiment; but Polissena, her heart
sinking with dread, replied, ‘What need can there be to open the coffers and
show my clothes? Do not my brothers know well enough that you always
let me be attired full honourably—more sumptuously indeed than our
station calls for?’ But Dimitrio cried out, ‘Open this coffer, and that, at
once,’ and when they were opened he went on showing all her wardrobe to
her brothers.
Now when they came to the last coffer the key of this was nowhere to
be found, for the good reason that the priest was hidden therein. Dimitrio,
when he saw the key was not forthcoming, took up a hammer and beat the
lock so lustily that it gave way, and then he opened the coffer.
The priest, shaking with fear, could in no way hide himself, or escape
being recognized by all the bystanders. The brothers of Polissena, when
they saw how the matter stood, were so strongly moved by anger that they
were within a little of slaying her and her lover as well on the spot with the
daggers they wore, but the husband was averse to this course, deeming it
shameful to kill a man in his shirt, however stout a fellow he might be. He
spake to the brothers thus: ‘What think ye now of this trull of a wife of
mine?’ Then, turning to Polissena, he said: ‘Have I deserved such a return
as this from you? Wretched woman! who has any right to keep me back
from cutting your throat?’ The poor wretch, who could in no wise excuse
herself, was silent, because her husband told her to her face all he had seen
of her doings the night before so clearly that she could not find a word to
say in her defence. Then, turning to the priest, who stood with his head bent
down, he said: ‘Take your clothes and go quickly from this place, and bad

luck go with you. Let me never see your face again, for I have no wish to
soil my hands in your accursed blood for the sake of a guilty woman. Now
begone; why do you tarry?’ The priest, without opening his mouth, stole
away, fancying as he went that Dimitrio and his brothers-in-law were close
behind him with their knives. Then Dimitrio, turning to his brothers-in-law,
said: ‘Take your sister where you will, for I will not have her before my
eyes any longer.’ And the brothers, inflamed with rage, took her out of the
house and slew her forthwith. When news of this was brought to Dimitrio,
he cast his eyes on the serving-maid, who was indeed a very comely lass,
and he bore in mind, moreover, the kind turn she had done him. So he made
her his wife. He gave her, likewise, all the jewels and raiment of his first
wife, and lived many years with her in joy and peace.
As soon as Arianna had brought her story to an end, the company with
one voice cried out that the worth and the constancy of the unlucky
Dimitrio was most noteworthy, even when he saw before his very eyes the
priest who had wrought him this dishonour, and quite as noteworthy was
the terror of the culprit, who, clad only in his shirt, and seeing the husband
and brothers of his mistress close upon him, trembled like a leaf shaken by
the wind. And then the Signora, perceiving that discussion on the matter
promised to be overmuch, called for silence, and directed Arianna to give
her enigma, whereupon she, with her gracious manner and pleasant smile,
set it forth in these words:
Three jolly friends sat down to eat,
A merrier crew you could not meet.
They tried and emptied every dish,
For better fare they could not wish.
The varlet next before them placed
A dish with three fat pigeons graced.
Each ate his pigeon, bones and all,
But pigeons twain were left withal.

This enigma seemed to the company to be one very difficult to solve,
and finally it was judged to be impossible, for no one saw how, after each
had eaten his pigeon, two out of the three could remain on the board, but
they did not look for the snake which was hidden in the grass. When,
therefore, Arianna saw that the secret of her enigma had not been grasped,
and that the solution was impossible, she turned her fair and delicate face
towards the Signora and said: “It seems, dear lady, that my enigma is not to
be solved, and yet it is not so difficult but that it may be easily disentangled.

The answer is this: Out of the three jolly friends one bore the name of Each.
As they sat together at the same table they ate as if they had been famished
wolves, and when, at the end of the feast, the varlet brought them three
roast pigeons, two out of the three revellers were so full that they could eat
no more, but the one whose name was Each finished his neatly, so there
were two pigeons left when they rose from the table.”
The solution of this obscure riddle was greeted with great laughter and
applause, for not one of the company could have solved it. Thus, the last
story of this present night having been told, the Signora directed everyone
to go home to rest. And by the flare of torches, which shed over all the
place a white light, the ladies and gentlemen were escorted to the landing-
place.

The End of the First Night.

Night the Second.

The Fables and Enigmas of Messer
Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.

Night the Second.

Phœbus had already plunged his golden wheels into the salt waves of the
Indian ocean, his rays no longer gave light to the world, his horned sister
now ruled the universe with her mild beams, and the sparkling stars had
spread their fires thickly over the sky, when the courtly and honourable
company met once more at the accustomed spot. And when they had seated
themselves according to their rank, the Signora Lucretia gave the word that
they should observe, this night, the same order in their entertainment as
hitherto. And, seeing that five of the damsels had not told their stories, the
Signora bade the Trevisan to write the names of these on paper, then to
place the billets in a golden vase, and to draw them out one after another, as
they had done last night. The Trevisan hastened to obey her command, and
the first paper which was taken out of the vase bore the name of Isabella,
the second that of Fiordiana, the third that of Lionora, the fourth that of
Lodovica, and the fifth that of Vicenza. Then the flutes struck up a tune, and
they all began to sing and dance in a circle, Antonio Molino and Lionora
leading the revel; and they all laughed so loud and heartily, that meseems
the sound of their merriment is still to be heard. And when the measure had
come to an end they all sat down, and the damsels sang a fair carol in praise
of the Signora.
SONG.
What once we sang we sing to-day,
And ever will we tune our lay,
To praise thee, lady, as the queen
Of beauty, and of all our bene;
The loftiest theme the poet sings,
The sweetest chord that shakes the strings,
The fairest shape the painter gives,
The peer of all in thee survives.

He who never owns the spell
Which moves us now thy praise to tell,
Wins no kindly word from me.

He the bliss shall never see
That flows on earth from faithful love,
And waits on spirits blest above.
At the close of this pleasant song Isabella, who had been chosen to
begin the entertainment of the second night, began to tell the story which
follows.

THE FIRST FABLE.

Galeotto, King of Anglia, has a son who is born in the shape of a pig.
This son marries three wives, and in the end, having thrown off
his semblance, becomes a handsome youth.

Fair ladies, if man were to spend a thousand years in rendering thanks to his
Creator for having made him in the form of a human and not of a brute
beast, he could not speak gratitude enough. This reflection calls to mind the
story of one who was born as a pig, but afterwards became a comely youth.
Nevertheless, to his dying day he was known to the people over whom he
ruled as King Pig.
You must know, dear ladies, that Galeotto, King of Anglia, was a man
highly blest in worldly riches, and in his wife Ersilia, the daughter of
Matthias, King of Hungary, a princess who, in virtue and beauty, outshone
all the other ladies of the time. And Galeotto was a wise king, ruling his
land so that no man could hear complaint against him. Though they had
been several years married they had no child, wherefore they both of them
were much aggrieved. While Ersilia was walking one day in her garden she
felt suddenly weary, and remarking hard by a spot covered with fresh green
turf, she went up to it and sat down thereon, and, overcome with weariness
and soothed by the sweet singing of the birds in the green foliage, she fell
asleep.
And it chanced that while she slept there passed by three fairies who
held mankind somewhat in scorn, and these, when they beheld the sleeping
queen, halted, and gazing upon her beauty, took counsel together how they
might protect her and throw a spell upon her. When they were agreed the
first cried out, ‘I will that no man shall be able to harm her, and that, the
next time she lie with her husband, she may be with child and bear a son
who shall not have his equal in all the world for beauty.’ Then said the
second, ‘I will that no one shall ever have power to offend her, and that the
prince who shall be born of her shall be gifted with every virtue under the

sun.’ And the third said, ‘And I will that she shall be the wisest among
women, but that the son whom she shall conceive shall be born in the skin
of a pig, with a pig’s ways and manners, and in this state he shall be
constrained to abide till he shall have three times taken a woman to wife.’
As soon as the three fairies had flown away Ersilia awoke, and
straightway arose and went back to the palace, taking with her the flowers
she had plucked. Not many days had passed before she knew herself to be
with child, and when the time of her delivery was come, she gave birth to a
son with members like those of a pig and not of a human being. When
tidings of this prodigy came to the ears of the king and queen they lamented
sore thereanent, and the king, bearing in mind how good and wise his queen
was, often felt moved to put this offspring of hers to death and cast it into
the sea, in order that she might be spared the shame of having given birth to
him. But when he debated in his mind and considered that this son, let him
be what he might, was of his own begetting, he put aside the cruel purpose
which he had been harbouring, and, seized with pity and grief, he made up
his mind that the son should be brought up and nurtured like a rational
being and not as a brute beast. The child, therefore, being nursed with the
greatest care, would often be brought to the queen and put his little snout
and his little paws in his mother’s lap, and she, moved by natural affection,
would caress him by stroking his bristly back with her hand, and embracing
and kissing him as if he had been of human form. Then he would wag his
tail and give other signs to show that he was conscious of his mother’s
affection.
The pigling, when he grew older, began to talk like a human being, and
to wander abroad in the city, but whenever he came near to any mud or dirt
he would always wallow therein, after the manner of pigs, and return all
covered with filth. Then, when he approached the king and queen, he would
rub his sides against their fair garments, defiling them with all manner of
dirt, but because he was indeed their own son they bore it all.
One day he came home covered with mud and filth, as was his wont,
and lay down on his mother’s rich robe, and said in a grunting tone,
‘Mother, I wish to get married.’ When the queen heard this, she replied, ‘Do
not talk so foolishly. What maid would ever take you for a husband, and
think you that any noble or knight would give his daughter to one so dirty
and ill-savoured as you?’ But he kept on grunting that he must have a wife

of one sort or another. The queen, not knowing how to manage him in this
matter, asked the king what they should do in their trouble: ‘Our son wishes
to marry, but where shall we find anyone who will take him as a husband?’
Every day the pig would come back to his mother with the same demand: ‘I
must have a wife, and I will never leave you in peace until you procure for
me a certain maiden I have seen to-day, who pleases me greatly.’
It happened that this maiden was a daughter of a poor woman who had
three daughters, each one of them being very lovely. When the queen heard
this, she had brought before her the poor woman and her eldest daughter,
and said, ‘Good mother, you are poor and burdened with children. If you
will agree to what I shall say to you, you will be rich. I have this son who is,
as you see, in form a pig, and I would fain marry him to your eldest
daughter. Do not consider him, but think of the king and of me, and
remember that your daughter will inherit this whole kingdom when the king
and I shall be dead.’
When the young girl listened to the words of the queen she was greatly
disturbed in her mind and blushed red for shame, and then said that on no
account would she listen to the queen’s proposition; but the poor mother
besought her so pressingly that at last she yielded. When the pig came home
one day, all covered with dirt as usual, his mother said to him, ‘My son, we
have found for you the wife you desire.’ And then she caused to be brought
in the bride, who by this time had been robed in sumptuous regal attire, and
presented her to the pig prince. When he saw how lovely and desirable she
was he was filled with joy, and, all foul and dirty as he was, jumped round
about her, endeavouring by his pawing and nuzzling to show some sign of
his affection. But she, when she found he was soiling her beautiful dress,
thrust him aside; whereupon the pig said to her, ‘Why do you push me thus?
Have I not had these garments made for you myself?’ Then she answered
disdainfully, ‘No, neither you nor any other of the whole kingdom of hogs
has done this thing.’ And when the time for going to bed was come the
young girl said to herself, ‘What am I to do with this foul beast? This very
night, while he lies in his first sleep, I will kill him.’ The pig prince, who
was not far off, heard these words, but said nothing, and when the two
retired to their chamber he got into the bed, stinking and dirty as he was,
and defiled the sumptuous bed with his filthy paws and snout. He lay down
by his spouse, who was not long in falling to sleep, and then he struck her
with his sharp hoofs and drove them into her breast so that he killed her.

The next morning the queen went to visit her daughter-in-law, and to
her great grief found that the pig had killed her; and when he came back
from wandering about the city he said, in reply to the queen’s bitter
reproaches, that he had only wrought with his wife as she was minded to
deal with him, and then withdrew in an ill humour. Not many days had
passed before the pig prince again began to beseech the queen to allow him
to marry one of the other sisters, and because the queen at first would not
listen to his petition he persisted in his purpose, and threatened to ruin
everything in the place if he could not have her to wife. The queen, when
she heard this, went to the king and told him everything, and he made
answer that perhaps it would be wiser to kill their ill-fated offspring before
he might work some fatal mischief in the city. But the queen felt all the
tenderness of a mother towards him, and loved him very dearly in spite of
his brutal person, and could not endure the thought of being parted from
him; so she summoned once more to the palace the poor woman, together
with her second daughter, and held a long discourse with her, begging her
the while to give her daughter in marriage. At last the girl assented to take
the pig prince for a husband; but her fate was no happier than her sister’s,
for the bridegroom killed her, as he had killed his other bride, and then fled
headlong from the palace.
When he came back, dirty as usual and smelling so foully that no one
could approach him, the king and queen censured him gravely for the
outrage he had wrought; but again he cried out boldly that if he had not
killed her she would have killed him. As it had happened before, the pig in a
very short time began to importune his mother again to let him have to wife
the youngest sister, who was much more beautiful than either of the others;
and when this request of his was refused steadily, he became more insistent
than ever, and in the end began to threaten the queen’s life in violent and
bloodthirsty words, unless he should have given to him the young girl for
his wife. The queen, when she heard this shameful and unnatural speech,
was wellnigh broken-hearted and like to go out of her mind; but, putting all
other considerations aside, she called for the poor woman and her third
daughter, who was named Meldina, and thus addressed her: ‘Meldina, my
child, I should be greatly pleased if you would take the pig prince for a
husband; pay no regard to him, but to his father and to me; then, if you will
be prudent and bear patiently with him, you may be the happiest woman in
the world.’ To this speech Meldina answered, with a grateful smile upon her

face, that she was quite content to do as the queen bade her, and thanked her
humbly for deigning to choose her as a daughter-in-law; for, seeing that she
herself had nothing in the world, it was indeed great good fortune that she, a
poor girl, should become the daughter-in-law of a potent sovereign. The
queen, when she heard this modest and amiable reply, could not keep back
her tears for the happiness she felt; but she feared all the time that the same
fate might be in store for Meldina as her sisters.
When the new bride had been clothed in rich attire and decked with
jewels, and was awaiting the bridegroom, the pig prince came in, filthier
and more muddy than ever; but she spread out her rich gown and besought
him to lie down by her side. Whereupon the queen bade her to thrust him
away, but to this she would not consent, and spoke thus to the queen: ‘There
are three wise sayings, gracious lady, which I remember to have heard. The
first is that it is folly to waste time in searching for that which cannot be
found. The second is that we should believe nothing we may hear, except
those things which bear the marks of sense and reason. The third is that,
when once you have got possession of some rare and precious treasure,
prize it well and keep a firm hold upon it.’

When the maiden had finished speaking, the pig prince, who had been
wide awake and had heard all that she had said, got up, kissed her on the
face and neck and bosom and shoulders with his tongue, and she was not
backward in returning his caresses; so that he was fired with a warm love
for her. As soon as the time for retiring for the night had come, the bride
went to bed and awaited her unseemly spouse, and, as soon as he came, she
raised the coverlet and bade him lie near to her and put his head upon the
pillow, covering him carefully with the bed-clothes and drawing the
curtains so that he might feel no cold. When morning had come the pig got
up and ranged abroad to pasture, as was his wont, and very soon after the
queen went to the bride’s chamber, expecting to find that she had met with
the same fate as her sisters; but when she saw her lying in the bed, all
defiled with mud as it was, and looking pleased and contented, she thanked
God for this favour, that her son had at last found a spouse according to his
liking.
One day, soon after this, when the pig prince was conversing
pleasantly with his wife, he said to her: ‘Meldina, my beloved wife, if I
could be fully sure that you could keep a secret, I would now tell you one of
mine; something I have kept hidden for many years. I know you to be very
prudent and wise, and that you love me truly; so I wish to make you the
sharer of my secret.’ ‘You may safely tell it to me, if you will,’ said
Meldina, ‘for I promise never to reveal it to anyone without your consent.’
Whereupon, being now sure of his wife’s discretion and fidelity, he
straightway shook off from his body the foul and dirty skin of the pig, and
stood revealed as a handsome and well-shaped young man, and all that
night rested closely folded in the arms of his beloved wife. But he charged
her solemnly to keep silence about this wonder she had seen, for the time
had not yet come for his complete delivery from this misery. So when he
left the bed he donned the dirty pig’s hide once more. I leave you to
imagine for yourselves how great was the joy of Meldina when she
discovered that, instead of a pig, she had gained a handsome and gallant
young prince for a husband. Not long after this she proved to be with child,
and when the time of her delivery came she gave birth to a fair and shapely
boy. The joy of the king and queen was unbounded, especially when they
found that the new-born child had the form of a human being and not that of
a beast.

But the burden of the strange and weighty secret which her husband
had confided to her pressed heavily upon Meldina, and one day she went to
her mother-in-law and said: ‘Gracious queen, when first I married your son
I believed I was married to a beast, but now I find that you have given me
the comeliest, the worthiest, and the most gallant young man ever born into
the world to be my husband. For know that when he comes into my
chamber to lie by my side, he casts off his dirty hide and leaves it on the
ground, and is changed into a graceful handsome youth. No one could
believe this marvel save they saw it with their own eyes.’ When the queen
heard these words she deemed that her daughter-in-law must be jesting with
her, but Meldina still persisted that what she said was true. And when the
queen demanded to know how she might witness with her own eyes the
truth of this thing, Meldina replied: ‘Come to my chamber to-night, when
we shall be in our first sleep; the door will be open, and you will find that
what I tell you is the truth.’
That same night, when the looked-for time had come, and all were
gone to rest, the queen let some torches be kindled and went, accompanied
by the king, to the chamber of her son, and when she had entered she saw
the pig’s skin lying on the floor in the corner of the room, and having gone
to the bedside, found therein a handsome young man in whose arms
Meldina was lying. And when they saw this, the delight of the king and
queen was very great, and the king gave order that before anyone should
leave the chamber the pig’s hide should be torn to shreds. So great was their
joy over the recovery of their son that they wellnigh died thereof.
And King Galeotto, when he saw that he had so fine a son, and a
grandchild likewise, laid aside his diadem and his royal robes, and
advanced to his place his son, whom he let be crowned with the greatest
pomp, and who was ever afterwards known as King Pig. Thus, to the great
contentment of all the people, the young king began his reign, and he lived
long and happily with Meldina his beloved wife.
When Isabella’s story was finished, the whole company broke into
laughter at the notion of the pig prince, all dirty and muddy as he was,
kissing his beloved spouse and lying by her side. “But let us give over
laughter,” cried Signora Lucretia, “in order that Isabella’s enigma may be
given in due course.” And forthwith Isabella, with a smile, propounded her
riddle.

I prithee, sir, to give to me,
What never did belong to thee,
Or ever will, what though thy span
Of life exceed the wont of man.
Dream not this treasure to attain;
Thy longing will be all in vain;
But if you deem me such a prize,
And pine for me with loving eyes,
Give me this boon, my wish fulfil,
For you can grant it if you will.

When Isabella had set forth her cunningly devised enigma, the
listeners were all in a state of bewilderment, for no one could understand
how a man could give what he did not possess or ever could possess. But
Isabella, when she saw that they were troubled overmuch, said, with much
good taste and judgment: “There is no reason for wonder, my good friends,
for a man certainly can give to a woman that which he has not or ever will
have; that is to say, a man has no husband nor ever will have one, but it is
an easy matter for him to give one to a lady.” The whole company received
this solution with much applause, and when silence had once more been
imposed on the assembly, Fiordiana, who sat next to Isabella, arose from
her seat and, smiling merrily, said: “Signora, and you gentle folks all, does
it not seem meet to you that Signor Molino, our good friend, should enliven
this honourable company with one of his merry conceits; and I say this, not
because I want to escape the task of telling my own story (for I have ready
more than one), but because I feel that a tale, told with all his accustomed
pleasant grace and style, would, just now, give the company the greater
delight. He, as you well know, is ingenious and full of wit, and gifted with
all those good parts which pertain to a man of breeding. And as for
ourselves, dear ladies, it is better that we should ply our needles than be
always telling stories.”
All agreed with these prudent and well-timed words of Fiordiana, and
warmly applauded them, and the Signora, casting her eyes towards Molino,
said: “Come, Signor Antonio, it is now your turn to enliven us with an
example of your graceful wit.” And she signed to him to begin. Molino,
who had not reckoned on being named as a story-teller for this evening,
first gave his thanks to Fiordiana for the flattering words she had spoken of
him, and then in obedience to the Signora’s direction began his fable.

THE SECOND FABLE.

Filenio Sisterno, a student of Bologna, having been tricked by certain
ladies, takes his revenge upon them at a feast to which he has
bidden them.

I should never have believed or imagined that the Signora would have laid
upon me the task of telling a story, seeing that in the due order of things we
should call upon Signora Fiordiana to give us one. But since it is the
pleasure of the company, I will take upon myself to tell you something
which may peradventure fit in with your humour. But if by chance my
narrative (which God forbid) should prove tiresome to you, or should
overstep the bounds of civility, I must crave your indulgence therefor, and
that the blame may be laid on Signora Fiordiana, to whom it is in fact due.
In Bologna, the chief city of Lombardy, the parent of learning, and a
place furnished with everything needful for its high and flourishing estate,
there lived a young scholar of graceful and amiable parts named Filenio
Sisterno, born in the island of Crete. It chanced one day that a magnificent
feast was given, to which were invited the most beautiful and distinguished
ladies of Bologna, and many gentlemen, and certain of the scholars,
amongst whom was Filenio. After the manner of gallants, he went dallying
now with this and now with that fair dame, and finding no difficulty in
suiting his taste, resolved to lead out one of them for a dance. His choice
fell upon the Signora Emerentiana, the wife of a certain Messer Lamberto
Bentivogli, and she, who was very gracious, and no less sprightly than
beautiful, did not say him nay. During the dance, which Filenio took care
should be very gentle and slow, he wrung her hand softly, and thus
addressed her in a whisper: ‘Ah! Signora, how great is your beauty; surely
it transcends any that has yet met my eye; surely the lady does not live who
could ensnare my heart as you have ensnared it. If only I might hope you
would give me back the like, I should be the happiest man in the world; but
if you should prove cruel, you will soon see me lying dead at your feet, and

know yourself as the cause of my bane. Seeing that I love you so entirely—
and indeed I could do no other thing—you ought to take me for your
servant, disposing both of my person and of the little I can call mine as if
they were your own. Higher favour from heaven I could not obtain than to
find myself subject to such a mistress, who has taken me in the snare of
love as if I had been a bird.’ Emerentiana, while she listened earnestly to
these sweet and gracious speeches, like a modest gentlewoman made as
though she had no ears, and held her peace. When the measure had come to
an end, Emerentiana sat down, and straightway Filenio led out another lady
as his partner, but the dance had scarcely begun before he began to address
her in like fashion: ‘Of a truth, most gracious Signora, there is no need for
me to waste words in setting forth how deep and ardent is the love I have
for you, and ever shall have, so long as this soul of mine inhabits and rules
my unworthy frame. And I would hold myself blest indeed if I could
possess you as the lady of my heart and my peculiar mistress. Therefore,
loving you as I do, and being wholly yours, as you may easily understand, I
beg you will deign to take me for your most humble servant, seeing that my
life and everything I have to live for depends on you and on no other.’ The
young lady, whose name was Panthemia, although she understood all this,
made no reply, but modestly went on with the dance, and, when it had come
to an end, she sat down with the other ladies, smiling a little the while.
But short time had passed before the gallant scholar took a third
partner by the hand; this time the most seemly, the most gracious, and the
fairest lady in Bologna, and began to tread a measure with her, making all
those who pressed round to admire her, give way; and before the dance was
ended he thus addressed her: ‘Most estimable lady, perhaps I shall seem to
you out of measure presumptuous to reveal the secret love which I have
borne, and still bear towards you, but for this offence blame not me, but
your own beauty, which raises you high above all others, and makes me
your slave. I speak not now of your delightful manners, nor of your
surpassing virtues, which are great enough and many enough to bring all the
world to your feet. If then your loveliness, the work of nature, and owing
nought to art, fascinates everyone, there is no wonder that it should
constrain me to love you and to guard your image in my inmost heart. I
beseech you then, sweet lady, the one comfort of my life, to spare some
tenderness for one who dies for you a thousand times a day. If you grant me

this grace I shall know I owe my life to you; so to your kindness I now
recommend myself.’
The fair lady, who was called Sinforosia, when she heard the sweet
and loving words which came from Filenio’s ardent bosom, could not
forbear sighing, but taking heed of her honour as a married woman she
answered him nought, and when the dance was come to an end returned to
her seat.
It happened that all these three ladies found themselves sitting in a ring
close to one another, and disposed for sprightly talk, when Emerentiana, the
spouse of Messer Lamberto, moved by jocund humour and not by spite,
said to her two companions, ‘Dear friends, I have to tell you of a diverting
adventure which has this evening befallen me.’ ‘And what is it?’ they
inquired. Said Emerentiana, ‘This evening, in the course of the dancing, I
have gotten for myself a cavalier, the handsomest, the trimmest, the most
gracious you could find anywhere, who protests himself to be so hotly
inflamed with my beauty that he can find no rest day or night.’ And word by
word she related all that the scholar had said to her. As soon as Panthemia
and Sinforosia heard her story, they told her that the same had happened to
them, and before they left the feast they had satisfied themselves that it was
the same gallant who had made love to all three of them. Wherefore they
clearly comprehended that the words of this gallant sprang not from loyal
feeling, but from deceit and feigning of love, and they gave to them no
more credence than one is wont to give to the babblings of a sick man or to
the romancer’s fables, and they did not go from thence before they had
agreed, each one of them, to put a trick upon him such as he would not
readily forget; for ladies, too, may play jokes. Filenio meantime was bent
on amorous design, and went on making love now to one lady now to
another. Judging from their carriage that they looked not unkindly upon
him, he set himself the task, if it were possible, of moving each one of them
to grant him the supremest favour of love, but the issue of the affair was not
according to his desire, for all his schemes went astray.
Emerentiana, who could no longer bear with the mock love-making of
the silly scholar, called to a pretty buxom handmaid of hers, and charged
her to find some excuse for speaking with Filenio, in order to disclose to
him the love which her mistress had conceived for him, and to let him know
that he might whenever he would spend a night with her in her own house.

When Filenio heard this he was much elated, and said to the maid, ‘Hasten
home forthwith and commend me to your mistress, and tell her in my behalf
that she may expect me this evening at her house, provided that her husband
be not at home.’ When this word had been brought to Emerentiana, she
straightway caused to be collected a great store of prickly thorns, and
having strewn these under the bed where she lay at night, she awaited the
coming of her gallant. When it had become dusk the scholar took his sword
and stole towards the house of his fancied mistress, and the door, when he
had given the password, was immediately opened. Then, when the two had
held some little converse and supped daintily, they withdrew into the
bedchamber for the night.
Scarcely had Filenio taken off his clothes to go to bed when Messer
Lamberto was heard without, and hereupon the lady, feigning to be at her
wits’ end where she should hide her lover, bade him get under the bed.
Filenio, seeing how great the danger was, both to the lady and to himself,
made haste to betake himself thither, without putting on any more clothes
than the shirt he wore, and was in consequence so grievously pricked by the
thorns prepared for him that there was no part of his body, from the crown
of his head to the sole of his foot, which was not running with blood. And
the more he essayed in this dark hole to defend himself from the pricks, the
more grievously was he wounded, and he dared not make a sound lest
Messer Lamberto should hear him and slay him. I leave you to figure in
what plight the poor wretch found himself that night, seeing that he dared
not call out, though he was like to lose a good part of his breech through the
torment he was suffering. When the morning was come, and the husband
had left the house, the wretched scholar clothed himself as best he could,
and made his way back to his lodging, bleeding and in great fear lest he
should die. But being well treated by his physician, he got well and
recovered his former health.
Many days had not passed before Filenio essayed another bout of love-
making, casting amorous eyes on the other two ladies, Panthemia and
Sinforosia, and went so far as to find one evening an occasion to address
Panthemia, to whom he rehearsed his continued woes and torments, and
besought her that she would have pity upon him. Panthemia, who was full
of tricks and mischief, while feigning to compassionate him, made excuse
that it was not in her power to do his will; but at last, as if vanquished by his
tender prayers and ardent sighs, she brought him into her house. And when

he was undressed, and ready to go to bed with her, she bade him go into a
cabinet adjacent, where she kept her orange water and perfumes, to the
intent that he might well perfume his person, and then get to bed. The
scholar, never suspecting the cunning of this mischief-working dame,
entered the cabinet, and, having set his foot upon a board unnailed from the
joist which held it up, he and the board as well fell down into a warehouse
below, in which certain merchants kept their store of cotton and wool, and
although he fell so far he suffered no ill. The scholar, finding himself in this
dark place, began to search for some ladder or door to serve his exit, but
coming upon none he cursed the hour and the place where he had first set
eyes on Panthemia. The morning dawned at last, and then the unhappy
wight began to realize by degrees the full treachery of Panthemia. He espied
on one side of the storehouse certain outlets in the wall, through which
streamed in a dim light, and, finding the masonry to be old and moss-
grown, he set to work with all his strength to pull out the stones in the spot
which had fallen most to decay, and soon made a gap big enough to let him
out. And, finding himself in an alley, clad only in his shirt, and stockingless,
he stole back to his lodging without being seen of any.
And next it happened that Sinforosia, having heard of the tricks which
the two others had played the scholar, resolved to treat him with a third, no
less noteworthy; so, the next time she saw him, she began to ogle him with
the tail of her eye, by way of telling him that a passion for him was burning
her up. Filenio, forgetting straightway his former mishaps, began to walk up
and down past her house, and play the lover. Sinforosia, when she saw from
this that he was deeply smitten with love for her, sent him a letter by an old
woman to let him know that he had so completely captured her fancy by his
fine person and gracious manners that she could find rest neither night nor
day, and to beg him that, whenever it might please him, he would come and
hold converse with her, and give her a pleasure greater than any other.
Filenio took the letter, and having mastered the contents, was at once filled
with more glee and happiness than he had ever known before, clean
forgetting all the tricks and injuries he had suffered hitherto. He took pen
and ink, and wrote a reply, that, though she might be enamoured of him, he,
on his part, was just as much in love with her, or even more, and that at any
time she might appoint he would hold himself at her service and commands.
When she had read this reply, Sinforosia made it her business to find full
soon an opportunity for the scholar to be brought to her house, and then,

after many feigned sighs, she said: ‘O my Filenio, of a truth I know of no
other gallant who could have brought me into such plight, but you alone;
since your comeliness, your grace, and your discourse have kindled such
fire in my heart that I burn like dry wood.’ The scholar, while he listened,
took it for certain that she was melting with love for him, and, poor
simpleton as he was, kept on some time bandying sweet and loving words
with her, till it seemed to him that the time had come to go to bed and to lie
down beside her. Then Sinforosia said: ‘Before we go to bed it seems meet
that we should regale ourselves somewhat.’ And having taken him by the
hand, she led him into an adjoining cabinet, where there was a table spread
with sumptuous cakes and wines of the finest, in which the mischievous
dame had caused to be mingled a certain drug, potent to send her gallant to
sleep for a certain time. Filenio took a cup and filled it with wine, and
suspecting no fraud he emptied it straightway. Enlivened by the banquet,
and having washed himself in orange water and dainty perfumes, he got
into bed, and then immediately the drug began to work, and he slept so
sound that even the uproar of great artillery would scarce have awakened
him. Then, when Sinforosia perceived that he was in a heavy slumber and
that the drug was doing its work well, she called one of her maids, a strong
wench whom she had made privy to the jest, and the two of them took
Filenio by the legs and arms, and, having opened the door softly, they
placed him in the street, about a stone’s cast from the house, and there left
him.
It was about an hour before dawn when, the drug having spent its
force, the poor wretch came to himself, and, believing that he had been in
bed with the lady, found himself instead stockingless, and clad only in his
shirt, and half dead with cold through lying on the bare ground. Almost
helpless in his arms and legs, he found it a hard matter to get on his feet,
and, when he had done so much, it was with difficulty that he kept from
falling again; but he managed, as best he could, to regain his lodging and to
care for his health. Had it not been for his lusty youth, he would surely have
been maimed for life; but he regained his former health, and when he went
abroad again he showed no signs of remembering the injuries and vexations
which had been put upon him; but, on the other hand, he bore himself
towards the three ladies as if he loved them as well as ever, and feigned,
now to be enamoured of one, and now of another. The ladies, never
suspecting malice on his part, put a good face on the matter, and treated him

graciously as if they were dealing with a real lover. Filenio was many times
tempted to give his hand free play, and to mark their faces for them, but he
prudently took thought of the condition of the ladies, and of the shame that
would be cast on him should he offer violence to them, and restrained his
wrath. Day and night he considered how he might best wreak his vengeance
on them, and when he could hit on no plan he was in great perplexity. But
in the course of time he devised a scheme by which he might readily work
his purpose, and fortune aided him to prosecute it as he had designed. He
hired for himself in the city a very fine house, containing a magnificent hall
and many dainty chambers, and in this he purposed to give a great and
sumptuous feast, and to invite thereto a company of gentlefolk,
Emerentiana, and Panthemia, and Sinforosia amongst the rest. They
accepted the scholar’s invitation without demur, suspecting nothing sinister
in the same, and when they were come to the feast the wily scholar led them
with many courteous speeches into a room and begged them to take some
refreshment. As soon as the three ladies—foolish and imprudent indeed—
had entered the room, Filenio locked the door, and, advancing towards
them, said: ‘Now, my pretty ladies, the time is come for me to take my
revenge upon you, and to give you some repayment for all the ills you put
upon me, just because I loved you so well.’ When they heard these words,
they seemed more dead than alive, and began to repent heartily that they
had ever abused him, and at the same time to curse their own folly in
having trusted the word of one they ought to have treated as a foe. Then the
scholar with fierce and threatening looks commanded them that they
should, if they set any store on their lives, strip themselves naked, and the
ladies, when they heard this speech, exchanged glances one with the other
and began to weep, begging him the while, not only for the sake of love, but
also for the sake of his natural gentleness, that their honour might be left to
them. Filenio, exulting in his deed, was exceedingly polite to them, but at
the same time informed them that he could not suffer them to remain
clothed in his presence. Hereupon the ladies cast themselves down at
Filenio’s feet, and with piteous weeping humbly besought him not to be the
cause of so great shame to them. But he, whose heart was now grown as
hard as a stone, cried out that what he would do to them was in no sense
blameworthy: it was nothing but just revenge; so the ladies were forced to
take off their clothes and to stand as naked as when they were born, in
which condition they appeared fully as fair as when apparelled. When this

had come to pass even Filenio began to feel some pity for them; but,
remembering his recent wrongs, and the mortal perils he had undergone, he
chased away his pitying humour and once more hardened his heart. He then
craftily conveyed all the clothes and linen they had lately worn into a
neighbouring cabinet, and bade them with threatenings all to get into one
bed. The ladies, altogether astounded and shaking with terror, cried out,
‘Wretched fools that we are! What will our husbands and our friends say
when it shall be told to them that we have been found here slain in this
shameful case?’ The scholar, seeing them lying one by the other like
married folk, took a large sheet of linen, very white, but not fine enough to
suffer their bodies to be seen and recognized, and covered them therewith
from head to foot; then he left the chamber, locking the door behind him, to
go and find the three husbands, who were dancing in the hall. Their dance
being finished, Filenio led them with him into the chamber where the ladies
were lying in the bed, and said to them: ‘Gentlemen, I have brought you
hither for your diversion, and to show you the prettiest sight you have ever
seen;’ and, having led them up to the bed with a torch in his hand, he began
softly to lift up the covering at their feet, and to turn it back so as to disclose
the fair limbs beneath it as far as the knees, thus giving the three husbands
something wondrous fair to look upon. Next he uncovered them as far as
their stomachs, which he then disclosed entirely by lifting the sheet in the
same way. I leave you to imagine how great was the diversion the three
gentlemen got from this jest of Filenio’s, also in what distressful plight
these poor wretched ladies found themselves when they heard their
husbands join in mocking them. They lay quite still, not daring even to
cough, lest they should be discovered, while their husbands kept urging the
scholar to uncover their faces; but he, wiser in other men’s wrongs than in
his own, would not oblige them so far. Not content with this, he brought
forth their garments, which he showed to their husbands, who, when they
looked thereon, were astonished and somewhat perturbed at heart, and, after
examining them closely, said one to another: ‘Is not this the gown which I
once had made for my wife?’ ‘Is not this the coif which I bought for her?’
‘Is not this the pendant that she hangs round her neck? Are not these the
rings she wears on her fingers?’

At last Filenio brought the three gentlemen out of the chamber, and
bade them, so as not to break up the company, to remain to supper. The
scholar, learning that the supper was ready and everything set in order by
the majordomo, gave the word for everyone to take his place. And while the
guests were setting their teeth to work, Filenio returned to the chamber
where the three ladies were, and as he uncovered them said: ‘Good evening,
fair ladies; did you hear what your husbands were saying? They are now
without, waiting impatiently to see you. Get up; surely you have slept
enough; give over yawning and rubbing your eyes. Take your clothes and
don them without delay, and go into the hall where the other guests await
you.’ With such words as these he mocked them; while they, disconsolate
and despairing, feared lest this adventure might come to some fatal issue,
and wept bitterly. At last, full of anguish and terror and looking for nothing
less than death at his hands, they arose and turning to the scholar said to
him: ‘Filenio, you have taken more than vengeance upon us. Now nothing
remains but for you to draw your sword and make an end of our lives, for
we desire death beyond any other thing. And if you will not grant us this
boon, at least suffer us to return unobserved to our homes, so that our
honour may be saved.’

Filenio, seeing that he had carried the affair far enough, gave them
back their garments, and directed them to clothe themselves quickly, and
when this was done he sent them out of the house by a secret door, and they
went back to their homes. At once they laid aside their fine clothes, which
they had lately worn, and put them away in their presses, and with great
prudence sat down to work instead of going to bed. When the feast had
come to an end, the three husbands thanked the scholar for the fine
entertainment he had given them, and in particular for the sight of the
beauties laid out for their benefit in the chamber, beauties surpassing the
sun himself, and, having taken leave of him, they returned to their homes,
where they found their wives sewing beside the hearth. Now the sight of the
clothes, and the rings, and the jewels, which the scholar had exhibited to
them, had made them somewhat suspicious; so each one now demanded of
his wife where she had spent that evening, and where her best garments
were. To this questioning each lady replied boldly that she had not left the
house that evening, and, taking the keys of the coffers wherein was
disposed her apparel, she showed this to her husband, with the rings and
other jewels which he had given her. When the husbands saw these they
were silent, and knew not what to say, but after a little they told their wives
word by word what they had seen that evening. The ladies made as if they
knew nothing of it, and, after jesting a little over the matter, they undressed
and went to bed. And in after times Filenio often met the three ladies in the
streets, and would always inquire of them: ‘Which of you was in the
greatest fear? and did I suffer most from your jests, or you from mine?’ But
they always held their eyes down on the ground, and said nothing. And in
this fashion the scholar avenged himself as well as he could of the tricks he
had suffered, without violence or outrage.
When they had listened to the story of Molino, the Signora and all the
other ladies declared that the revenge, worked upon the three gentlewomen
by the scholar for the tricks they had played him, was no less revolting than
cowardly; but when they came to consider the severe punishment which the
poor fellow had suffered in couching upon the thorns, and the danger of
breaking his bones he had incurred in falling down into the warehouse, and
the biting cold he had been exposed to when laid out in the open street to
sleep upon the bare earth clad only in his shirt, they admitted that his
vengeance was no heavier than was due. The Signora, though she had
excused Fiordiana from telling her story in due order, now demanded of her

that she should at least give her enigma, which ought to have some
reference to the story of the scholar; and she, in obedience to this word,
said: “Signora, it happens that the enigma which I have to submit to the
company has nothing in keeping with deeds of grave and terrible vengeance
such as the ingenious Signor Antonio has set forth in his fable, but at the
same time it will be one which may be of interest to every studious youth.”
And without further delay she propounded her enigma:
From two dead blocks a living man
Gave life to one whose spirit ran
To vivify another wight,
Who thus from darkness rose to light.
Two living ones together bide,
The creature by the maker’s side,
And by the creature’s radiance led,
The master communes with the dead.

This subtle riddle of the Signora Fiordiana was interpreted in various
wise, but not one of the company hit upon its exact meaning. And seeing
that Fiordiana kept on shaking her head at the essays made by the company,
Bembo remarked with a quiet smile, “Signora Fiordiana, it seems to me to
be foolishness to waste our time in this fashion. Tell us what you will, and
we shall be contented.” “Since this noble company decrees,” replied
Fiordiana, “that I should be my own interpreter, I will gladly do this; not
because I deem myself in any way competent for this task, but because I
wish to oblige all you here, to whom I am bound by so many kindnesses.
My enigma shows simply a student who rises from bed early in the
morning, and he, a living thing, by the working of two dead things, the flint
and the steel, gives life to the dead tinder, and this in its turn enlivens the
dead candle. Thus the first living one, the student, by the help of these other
two living ones who lately were dead, sits down to converse with the dead,
that is, with the books writ by learned men of times long past.” The
explication of this most ingenious riddle by Fiordiana pleased the company
greatly, and the Signora directed Lionora to begin her story at once.

THE THIRD FABLE.
Carlo da Rimini vainly pursues Theodosia with his love, she having
resolved to live a virgin. In striving to embrace her he meets with
divers misadventures, and is well beaten by his own servants to
boot.

Dear ladies, the clever story just told to us by Molino has made me give up
all thought of relating to you the one I had in my mind, and to offer in its
place another which, if I am not mistaken, will be equally pleasing to you
ladies as Molino’s was to the gentlemen. Mine will certainly be shorter than
his, and, I think I may say, more decent in the subject it treats.
I must tell you then that Carlo da Rimini—as I think many of you
know—was a man whose trade was fighting, a despiser of God, a
blasphemer of the saints, brutal and a cutthroat, and at the same time given
over to all kinds of effeminate luxury. So great indeed was his malignity
and the corruption of his nature, that his equal could not be found. Now in
the days when he was a handsome, seemly young man, it chanced that he
became hotly enamoured of a certain maiden, the daughter of a poor widow,
who, though she was very poor and only contrived to find a living for
herself and her child with much difficulty, would rather have died with
hunger than have consented to live on the wages of her daughter’s sin.
The maiden, whose name was Theodosia, was very fair and graceful in
her person, and no less honest and discreet in her conduct; moreover, she
was of a prudent, sober temper, and had already determined to devote
herself to the religious life and to prayer, holding all worldly things to be of
small account. Carlo, therefore, burning with lascivious passion, was in the
habit of molesting her with his attentions every day, and on any day when
he might not chance to see her he was like to die of vexation.
With flatteries and gifts and solicitations he made frequent trial to win
the maiden’s consent to his wishes, but all his importunities were in vain;
for, like a wise and good girl, she would have none of his presents, and

every day she prayed to God to turn away from his heart these dishonest
wishes. At last there came a time when he could no longer hold within
bounds his ardent lust and bestial desire, and, feeling gravely affronted at
these continual rebuffs by one whom he loved more dearly than his own
life, he made up his mind to ravish her and satisfy his lecherous appetite, let
the consequence be what it might. But he feared to stir up a commotion
through any public scandal, lest the people, who held him in great hatred,
should rise and slay him.
But at last, being overcome by his unbridled desire, with his mind
distempered with rage as if he had been a mad dog, he made a plan with
two of his underlings—desperate ruffians both of them—to carry her off
and then to ravish her. Therefore one day, when the evening dusk had fallen,
he armed himself and went with the two desperadoes to the young girl’s
dwelling-place, the door of which he found open; but before entering he
charged his men to keep on the alert, and to take care, as they valued their
own lives, that no other person should enter the house or come out
therefrom until he himself should rejoin them. The two ruffians, who were
full willing to obey their leader’s behests, gave answer that whatever he
might command should be carried out.
But Theodosia (by some means unknown to me) had got tidings of
Carlo’s intent, and had shut herself up in a small kitchen, and Carlo, when
he had mounted the staircase of the poor little house, found there the old
mother, who, suspecting nothing of any such surprise, had taken to her
spinning. He demanded forthwith where was her daughter, for whom he had
such great love and desire, and the poor old woman, as soon as she
perceived that the young lecher was fully armed and manifestly more
inclined to evil than to good, was greatly confounded in her mind, and her
face became as white as the face of a corpse, and she was on the point of
screaming aloud; but, perceiving that her outcries would be of no use, she
determined to hold her peace, and put her honour in the keeping of God,
whom she altogether trusted. So, plucking up her courage, she turned to
Carlo and said: ‘Carlo, I know not what humour or what insolent spirit may
have brought you here to defile the soul of this girl, who desires to live
honestly. If by chance you should be come with righteous intent, then may
God grant you fulfilment of every just and honourable wish; but if it should
be otherwise, which God forbid, you are guilty of a great wickedness in
trying to attain by outrage that which can never be yours. Therefore, cast

away and have done with this unbridled lust, and no longer strive to ravish
from my daughter that which you can never give back to her, to wit, the
chastity of her body. And the more you lust after her, the more she will hate
you, seeing that her mind is firm set to dedicate herself to virginity.’
Carlo, when he heard these moving words spoken by the poor old
mother, instead of being awakened to pity or turned away from his evil
intent, raged like a madman, and began to search for Theodosia in every
corner of the house, without finding any trace of her, until he came to the
little kitchen, where, seeing that the door was fast close, he thought (and
thought rightly) that she must be concealed. Then, spying through a crack in
the door, he perceived Theodosia, who was at her prayers, and with
honeyed words he began to beseech her that she would open to him the
door, addressing her in these terms: ‘Theodosia, life of my life, be sure that
I am not come here to sully your honour, which is more dear to me than my
own self and my own good name, but to take you as my wife, provided that
my offer be acceptable to you and to your good mother. And, beyond this, I
swear I will have the life of anyone who may in any way affront your
honour.’
Theodosia, who listened attentively to Carlo’s speech, answered him
straightway in these terms: ‘Carlo, I beseech you to give over this obstinate
prosecution of your desire. I can never marry you, seeing that I have offered
my virginal service to Him who sees and governs us all. And if cruel
fortune should suffer you to defile violently this body of mine, at least you
will have no power to blacken the purity of my soul, which from the hour of
my birth I have dedicated to my Creator. God has given you freedom of will
so that you may know the evil from the good, and may do that which seems
best to you. Follow, therefore, after the good, and you will be of good
report, and turn aside from evil.’ Carlo, when he found that his flattery
availed him nothing, and that the maiden refused to have aught to say to
him, could no longer keep under the fire which was burning in his heart,
and, more maddened than ever, trusted no longer to words, but resorted to
violence, bursting open by force the door, which, being none of the
strongest, soon gave way as he willed.
When Carlo entered the little kitchen and cast his eyes upon the
maiden, so full of grace and fair beyond belief, his passion grew hotter than
ever, and, thinking only of satisfying to the full his inordinate lust, he threw

himself upon her from behind, just as if he had been an eager famishing
greyhound, and she a timid hare. And the ill-fated Theodosia, with her
golden hair loose over her shoulders, and grasped tightly round the neck by
Carlo, grew pale, and felt so deadly a languor coming over her that she
could scarcely move. Then she commended her soul to heaven and
demanded help of God above, and scarcely had she finished her mental
prayer, when, in miraculous wise, her body seemed to melt away out of
Carlo’s grip; and at the same time God dazzled so completely his eyesight
and understanding that he no longer knew rightly what were the things
around him, and while he deemed he was holding the maid in his embrace
and covering her with kisses and endearments, he was, in sooth, embracing
nothing better than the pots and pans, spits and cauldrons, and other kitchen
gear lying about the place. Though his lust was in some measure satisfied,
he soon felt his wounded heart stirring again, and again he flew to embrace
a huge kettle, fancying all the while that he held in his arms the fair form of
Theodosia. In thus handling the kettles and cauldrons his hands and face
were so besmirched with soot that he looked less like Carlo da Rimini than
the devil. In the end, feeling that his desire was for the nonce satisfied, and
conscious that it was time to retreat, he made his way out by the staircase
all blackened as he was, but the two ruffians, who were keeping guard near
the door lest anyone should enter or leave the house, when they saw him
thus transformed, with his face all disfigured, and looking more like a beast
than a human being, imagined that he must be some ghost or evil spirit, and
were fain to take to their heels and save themselves from this monster. But
having taken heart to stand up to him, and to look closely into his face,
which seemed to them mightily disfigured and ugly, they began to drub him
with cudgels and with their fists, which were as hard as iron, so that they
mangled cruelly his face and his shoulders with hearty goodwill, and left
not a hair on his head. Not content with this, they threw him down on the
ground, stripping off the clothes from his back, and dealing him as many
kicks and cuffs as he could endure, and the blows fell so thick and fast that
Carlo had no time allowed him to open his mouth and ask the reason of his
cruel chastisement. Nevertheless, he made shift at last to break away from
their hold, when he ran as for his life, always suspecting, however, that the
ruffians were close behind him.
Thus Carlo, having been soundly beaten[23] by his servants, his eyes
being so discoloured and swollen from their lusty pummelling that he could

scarcely see, ran towards the piazza, clamouring and complaining loudly of
the ill-handling he had got from his own men. The town-guard, when he
heard these shouts and lamentations, went towards him, and, marking his
disfigured state and his face all bedaubed with dirt, took him for a madman.
And since no one recognized him, the whole crowd began to mock at him,
and to cry: ‘Give it to him, give it to him, for he is a lunatic.’ Then some
hustled him, others spat in his face, and others took dust and cast it in his
eyes; and they kept on maltreating him thus for a good space of time, until
the uproar came to the ears of the prætor, who, having risen from his bed
and gone to the window which overlooked the piazza, demanded what had
happened to cause so great a tumult. One of the guards thereupon answered
that there was a madman who was turning the piazza topsy-turvy, and the
prætor gave order that he should be securely bound and brought before him,
which command was forthwith carried out.
Now Carlo, who up to this time had been the terror of all, finding
himself thus bound and ill-treated and insulted, without a notion as to the
cause of it, was utterly confounded in his mind, and broke out into so
violent a rage that he wellnigh burst the bonds that held him. But as soon as
he was brought before the prætor, the latter recognized him straightway as
Carlo da Rimini, and at once set down the filthy condition of his prisoner as
the work of Theodosia, for he was privy to the fact that Carlo was inflamed
with passion for the girl. Therefore he at once began to use soft speech and
to soothe Carlo, promising to make smart sharply those who had brought
upon him such a shameful mischance. Carlo, who suspected not that his
face was like that of a blackamoor, could not at first gather the purport of
these words, but in the end, when it had been made known to him how
filthy his condition was, how that he resembled a brute beast rather than a
man, he, like the prætor, attributed his discomfiture to Theodosia, and,
letting his rage have free course, he swore an oath that unless the prætor
would punish her he would take revenge by his own hand. When the
morning was come, the prætor sent for Theodosia, deeming that she had
wrought this deed by magic arts. But she gave good heed to the plight in
which she stood, and completely realized the great danger thereof; so she
betook herself to a convent of nuns of holy life, where she abode secretly,
serving God for the rest of her days with a cheerful heart.
It happened after this that Carlo was sent to lay siege to a strong place,
and, when in the assault he pressed on to a more desperate essay than he

had power to accomplish, he found himself caught like a rat in a trap; for, as
he mounted the walls of the citadel to plant thereon the banner of the Pope,
he was smitten by a great stone, which crushed him and dashed him to
pieces in such manner that no time was allowed to him to make his peace
with heaven. Thus the wicked Carlo made a wretched end of his days,
according to his deserts, without having plucked that fruit of love he desired
so ardently.
Before Lionora had come to the end of her concisely-told fable, all her
good companions began to laugh over the stupidity of Carlo in kissing and
embracing the pots and kettles, thinking all the while that he was enjoying
his beloved Theodosia; nor did they make less merry in the case of the cuffs
and blows he got from the hands of his own men in the rough handling they
gave him. And after a good spell of laughter Lionora, without waiting for
further word from the Signora, set forth her enigma:
I am fine and pure and bright,
At my best am snowy white.
Maid and matron scourge and flout me,
Yet they cannot do without me,
For I serve both young and old,
Shield their bodies from the cold.
A parent mighty mothered me,
Mother of all mothers she.
And, my time of service past,
I’m torn and beaten at the last.

This cleverly-worded enigma won the praise of all the company, but
since it seemed to be beyond the power of anyone to solve it, Lionora was
requested to divulge its meaning; whereupon she said with a smile: “It is
scarcely becoming that one of parts so slender as mine should presume to
teach you, ladies and gentlemen, who are so much better versed in
knowledge. But since this is your will, and since your will to me is law, I
will tell you forthwith what I mean by my enigma. It means nothing else
than linen cloth, fine and white, which is by ladies pierced by scissors and
needles, and beaten. And it serves as a covering to us all, and comes from
the mother of us all, the earth; moreover, when it grows old we no longer
send it to the fuller, but let it be torn up small and made into paper.”
Everyone was pleased with the interpretation of this clever enigma and
commended it highly. The Signora having already remarked that Lodovica,
who was chosen to tell the next story, was troubled with a bad headache,

turned to the Trevisan and said, “Signor Benedetto, it is indeed the duty of
us ladies to provide the stories to-night; but seeing that Lodovica is gravely
troubled in her head, we beg you to take her place this evening, and grant
you free field to tell whatever may please you best.” To which speech the
Trevisan thus replied: “It happens, Signora, that I am little skilled in these
matters; nevertheless (since your will commands my entire obedience) I
will use my best effort to satisfy you all, begging you at the same time to
hold me excused if I fail therein.” And having made due salutation, he rose
from his seat and began his story in the following words:

THE FOURTH FABLE.

The devil, having heard divers husbands railing over the humours of
their wives, makes trial of matrimony by espousing Silvia
Balastro, and, not being able to endure his wife for long, enters
into the body of the Duke of Malphi.

The frivolity and want of judgment which nowadays is to be found amongst
most women (I speak of those who, without heed, give full licence to their
eyes and fancy in straining to compass their unbridled lust), offers me
occasion to tell to this noble concourse a story which may not be familiar.
And, although you may find it somewhat short, and ill put together, it may,
nevertheless, serve as a wholesome lesson to you wives to be less irksome
and exacting to your husbands than you have been heretofore. And if I seem
to lay on the lash too heavily, blame not me, who am but the humble servant
of all you others, but make your complaint to the Signora, who, as you have
heard, has given me leave to set before you whatever story might commend
itself to my taste.
I will first tell you, gracious ladies, that many years ago the devil,
becoming weary of the unceasing and clamorous accusations made by
husbands against their wives, determined to test the truth of these by
making trial of marriage himself, and, that he might the better compass this
design, he took the shape of a goodly young man of courtly manners, and
well furnished with lands and gold, Pancrazio Stornello by name. As soon
as the bruit of his intention got abroad in the city, divers matchmakers
waited upon him with plentiful choice of comely women, well dowered, for
his wife, and from amongst these he settled upon Silvia Balastro, a noble
maiden. Never before had the city witnessed such magnificent nuptials and
rejoicings. The kinsfolk of the bride came from far and near, and for the
best man the bridegroom chose one Gasparino Boncio, a townsman of
repute. A few days after the marriage the devil addressed Sylvia, saying,
‘My dear wife, I need scarcely tell you that I love you better than I love

myself, seeing that I have already given you many tokens of my affection;
therefore, for the sake of this love of mine, I am about to beg of you a
favour which will be easy for you to grant, and most acceptable to me. This
favour is nought else than that you should demand of me all that you want
now, and all that you will ever be likely to want, of raiment, jewellery,
pearls, and other things of the same sort which ladies love; for I have
determined, on account of the great love I have for you, to give you all you
may demand, though it may cost a kingdom. I make but one condition,
which is, that you shall never trouble me about such matters again; so be
careful that you get all you can possibly require for the rest of our married
life, and be careful likewise never to demand aught of me more, for you
will ask in vain.’ Silvia begged for time to consider this proposition, and,
having betaken herself to Signora Anastasia, her mother, a worldly-wise old
lady, she laid bare the offer of her husband, and asked for advice thereanent.
Anastasia, who knew well enough how to play a game of this sort, took pen
and paper and wrote out a list of articles, such as would need two days to
describe by word of mouth, and said to Silvia, ‘Take this paper, and ask
your husband to give you everything that is here written down. If he agrees,
you may be well content with him.’ Hereupon Silvia departed, and, having
found her husband, she asked him to give her all that was written on the list,
and he, when he had carefully read it over, said, ‘Are you quite sure, dearest
Sylvia, that you have put down here all you want—that there is nothing
missing for which at some future time you may have to ask me? for I warn
you that, if this should be so, neither your prayers nor your sighs nor your
tears will avail to get it for you.’
Silvia could think of nothing else to ask for, and agreed to the
conditions of her husband, who at once commanded to be made vast store
of rich vestments studded with big pearls, and rings and all sorts of jewels
the most sumptuous that were ever seen. And over and above these he gave
her coifs and girdles embroidered with pearls, and all manner of other
dainty baubles which can be better imagined than described. When Silvia
was arrayed in these, and conscious of being the best dressed woman in the
city, she became somewhat saucy. There was nothing else she could ask her
husband for, so well had he cared for her needs.
It chanced, soon after this, that the city was all agog concerning a great
feast to which were bidden all the nobles of the place, and amongst these
was naturally included Silvia, who was amongst the most beautiful and

distinguished ladies in the city. And the more to honour this festival, the
other ladies met and devised all sorts of new fashions of dress, altering
them so much that anyone accoutred in those in vogue heretofore would
hardly have been recognized. There was no mother’s daughter in the town
—just as if it had happened to-day—who was not bent on mounting the
newest fashion to do honour to the festival, and each one vied to outdo the
other in pomp and magnificence.
When there came to Silvia’s ears the news that the fashion of dress was
to be changed, she was at once beset with fear that the store of raiment she
had lately received from her husband would be found of unfashionable
shape and unfit to be worn at the feast, and, in consequence, fell into a
melancholy humour, neither eating nor sleeping, and making the house
resound with her sighs and groans. The devil, who fathomed the trouble in
his wife’s heart, feigned to know nothing of it, and one day addressed her:
‘What is troubling you, Silvia, that you look so unhappy? Have you no
heart for the coming festival?’ Silvia, seeing her opportunity, plucked up
courage and said: ‘What is the festival to me? How can I go there in these
old-fashioned clothes of mine? I am sure you will not force me thither to be
mocked at by the others.’ Then said Pancrazio to her: ‘Did I not give you
everything you would want for the rest of your days? How comes it that
you now ask me for more after agreeing to the conditions I then made?’
These words only made Silvia weep the more, and, bewailing her unhappy
fate, cry out that she could not go to the feast because she had no clothes fit
to wear. Then said the devil, ‘I gave you at first all that was necessary for
the rest of your days, but I will once more gratify your wishes. You may ask
of me for anything you want, and your request shall be granted; but never
again. If, after this, you make a like petition, the issue will be something
you will never forget.’
Silvia straightway put off her peevish humour, and wrote out another
list of braveries as long as the last, which Signor Pancrazio procured for her
without delay. In the course of time the ladies of the city once more set to
work to make another change in the fashion of dress, and once more Silvia
found herself clad in dresses of outworn cut. No other lady could boast of
jewels so costly, or of robes of such rich and sumptuous web; but this was
no solace to her, and she went mourning all day long, without daring to
make another appeal to her husband, who, marking her tristful face, and
knowing well enough what was vexing her, said, ‘Silvia, my love, why are

you so sad?’ Then she took courage and said, ‘Is there not cause enough for
me to be sad, seeing that I have no raiment in the new fashion, and that I
cannot show my face amongst the other ladies of the city without their
making a mock of me, and bringing reproach upon you as well as upon
myself? and the respect and fidelity I have towards you do not merit such a
return of shame and humiliation.’ At these words the devil was terribly
wroth and said: ‘What cause have you for complaint? Have I not twice over
given you all you have asked for? Your desires are insatiable, and beyond
my power to satisfy. I will once more give you everything you may
demand, but I will straightway go away and you will never see my face
again.’ The devil was as good as his word, and, after he had given Silvia a
goodly store of new garments, all after the latest fashion, he left her without
taking leave of her, and went to Malphi, where, for a diversion, he entered
into the body of the duke and tormented him grievously.
Now it chanced that, soon after this, Gasparino Boncio, the gallant
who had acted at Pancrazio’s nuptials as best man, was forced to fly from
his city on account of some offence against good manners. Wherefore he
betook himself to Malphi, where he managed to live by gambling and by a
lot of cunning tricks of which he was master, and rumour would have it that
he was a man of parts, though he was indeed nought but a sorry knave. One
day, when at the cards with some gentlemen of the place, he went a step too
far, and roused their wrath so hotly that, but for fear of the law, they would
certainly have made an end of him. One of these, smarting under some
special wrong, vowed that he would bring Master Gasparino into such a
plight as he would never forget. And forthwith he betook himself to the
duke, and, having made a profound obeisance, he said: ‘Your excellency,
there is in this town a man named Gasparino, who makes boast that he can
cast out evil spirits—whether of this world or of the nether one—which
may have entered the bodies of men; therefore, methinks, you would do
wisely to bid him try his skill to deliver you from your torment.’ On hearing
these words the duke sent forthwith for Gasparino, who, being summoned,
went into the duke’s presence at once.
‘Signor Gasparino,’ said the duke, ‘they tell me you profess to be an
exorcist of evil spirits. I, as no doubt you have heard, am sorely tormented
by one of these, and I pledge my faith to you that, if you will work your
spells upon him and drive him out, I will deal with you so that you may live
for the rest of your days free from care.’ Gasparino was utterly confounded

by this speech, and, as soon as the duke was silent, he began to stammer
and to protest loudly that he knew nought of such matters, and had never
boasted of any such power; but the gentleman, who was standing by, came
forward and said: ‘Do you not remember, Signor Gasparino, that, on a
certain day, you told me this and that?’ Gasparino persisted in denying any
such speech, and, while they were wrangling together, the duke broke in
and said: ‘Come, come, hold your peace, both of you! As for you, Master
Gasparino, I give you three days to work up your charms, and, if you can
deliver me from this misery, I promise you the most beautiful castle in my
dominions, and you may ask of me whatever you will. But, if you fail in
this, before eight days have passed I will have you strangled between two of
these columns.’
Gasparino, when he listened to the duke’s command, was utterly
confounded and filled with grief, and, having withdrawn from the duke’s
presence, began to ruminate day and night as to how he might accomplish
the task laid upon him. On the day fixed for the incantation he went to the
palace, and, having ordered to be spread on the floor a large carpet, began
to conjure the evil spirit to come out, and to cease his torment. The devil,
who was quite at his ease in the duke’s body, did not reply, but breathed so
strong a blast of wind through the duke’s throat that he was like to choke
him. When Gasparino renewed his conjurations the devil cried out: ‘My
friend, you can enjoy your life; why can’t you leave me at peace here,
where I am very comfortable? Your mummery is all in vain.’ And here the
devil began to deride him. But Gasparino was not to be daunted by this, and
for the third time he called upon the devil to come out, asking him so many
questions that at last he got to know the evil spirit to be no other than his
whilom friend, Pancrazio Stornello. ‘And I know you, too,’ the devil went
on; ‘you are Gasparino Boncio, my very dear friend. Don’t you remember
those merry nights we spent together?’ ‘Alas! my friend,’ said Gasparino,
‘why have you come here to torment this poor man?’ ‘That is my secret,’
answered the devil; ‘why do you refuse to go away and leave me here,
where I am more at my ease than ever I was before?’ But Gasparino went
on with his questioning so long and so adroitly that he induced the devil at
last to tell him the story of his wife’s insatiable greed, of the violent
aversion he had conceived for her thereanent, and how he had fled from her
and taken up his abode in the body of the duke, and that no consideration
would induce him to return to her. Having learnt so much, Gasparino said:

‘And now, my dear friend, I want you to do me a favour.’ ‘What may it be?’
the devil inquired. ‘Nothing more than to get you gone from the body of
this poor man.’ ‘Friend Gasparino,’ quoth the devil, ‘I never set you down
as a wise man, but this request of yours tells me you are a downright fool.’
‘But I beg you, I implore you for the sake of the merry bouts we have
enjoyed together, to do as I ask,’ said Gasparino. ‘The duke has heard that I
have power to cast out spirits, and has imposed this task upon me. Unless I
fulfil it I shall be hanged, and you will be chargeable with my death.’
‘Pooh!’ said the devil, ‘our camaraderie lays no such duties upon me. You
may go to the lowest depths of hell for all I care. Why didn’t you keep your
tongue between your teeth, instead of going about boasting of powers you
do not possess?’ And with this he roared most horribly, and threw the poor
duke into a fit which nearly made an end of him.
But after a little the duke came to himself again, and Gasparino thus
addressed him: ‘My lord, take courage; for I see a way of ridding you of
this evil spirit. I must ask you to command all the players of music in the
city to assemble at the palace to-morrow morning, and at a set moment to
strike their instruments, while the bells all ring loudly, and the gunners let
off their cannon as a sign of rejoicing for victory. The more noise they make
the better for my purpose. The rest you may leave to me.’
The next morning Gasparino went to the palace, and duly began his
incantations, and, as it had been settled, the trumpets and cymbals and
tambours gave out their music, and the bells and artillery clanged and
roared so loud and long that it seemed as if the uproar would never cease.
At last the devil asked Gasparino, ‘Isn’t there a hideous medley of sound
about the place? What is the meaning of it? Ah, I begin to hear it plain
now!’ ‘Begin to hear it!’ said Gasparino. ‘Surely there has been clamour
enough for the last half-hour to have deafened even you.’ ‘I dare say,’ the
devil replied; ‘but you must know that the bodies of you mortals are gross
and dull enough to shut out the sound from the hearing of one in my place;
but, tell me, what is the reason of this noise?’ ‘I’ll tell you in a very few
words,’ said Gasparino, ‘if in the meantime you let the duke have a little
ease.’ ‘It shall be as you wish,’ said the devil. And then Gasparino brought
out his story.
‘You must know, my dear friend and former comrade,’ he began, ‘that
it has come to the duke’s ears how you were forced to run away from your

wife on account of the woes you suffered through her greed for attire, and
he has in consequence invited her to Malphi. The noise you hear is part of
the rejoicing of the city over her arrival.’ ‘I see your hand in this, honest
Signor Gasparino,’ said the devil. ‘Well, you have outdone me in cunning.
Was there ever a loyal friend? Was I not right in belittling the claims of
comradeship? However, you have won the game. The distaste and horror in
which I hold my wife are so great that I will do your bidding and betake
myself elsewhere; indeed, rather than set eyes on her again, I prefer to
depart for the nethermost hell. Farewell, Gasparino, you will never see me
or hear of me again.’
Immediately after these words the poor duke began to throttle and
choke, and his eyes rolled about in ghastly wise; but these frightful tokens
only gave warning that the evil spirit had at last taken flight. Nothing
remained to tell of his presence save an appalling smell of sulphur.
Gradually the duke came to himself, and, when he had regained his former
health, he sent for Gasparino, and, to prove his gratitude, gave him a stately
castle, and a great sum of money, and a crowd of retainers to do him
service. Though assailed by the envy of certain of the courtiers, Gasparino
lived happily for many years; but Silvia, when she saw all the treasures her
husband had given her turn to smoke and ashes, lost her wits, and died
miserably.
The Trevisan told his story with great wit, and the men greeted it with
hearty applause and laughter; but the ladies demurred somewhat thereat, so
that the Signora, hearing them murmuring amongst themselves while the
men kept on their merriment, commanded silence and directed the Trevisan
to give his enigma, and he, without excusing himself to the ladies for the
sharp pricks against their sex dealt out in his story, thus began:
In our midst a being proud
Lives, with every sense endowed.
Keen his wit, though brainless he,
Reasoning with deep subtlety.
Headless, handless, tongueless too,
He kens our nature through and through.
Born but once and born for ever,
Death shall touch or mar him never.

The abstruse riddle of the Trevisan was no light task for the wit of the
company, and it was in vain that each one essayed its unravelling. At last

the Trevisan, seeing that their guesses were all wide of the mark, said: “It
does not seem meet for me to perplex any longer the ingenuity of this
honourable company. By your leave I will now unfold its meaning, unless
you had rather wait for some cunning wit to fathom it.” With one voice they
prayed him to unveil its purport, and this he did in these terms: “My enigma
signifies nothing else than the immortal soul of man, which, being spiritual,
has neither head nor hands nor tongue, yet it makes its working known to
all, and, whether it be judged in heaven or in hell, lives eternally.” This
learned unfolding of the Trevisan’s obscure riddle pleased the company
vastly.
Inasmuch as the night was now far spent, and the clamour of the cocks
foretelling the dawn was heard, the Signora made sign to Vicenza, who was
bespoken to tell the finishing story of the second night, to begin her task.
But Vicenza, red in the face through choler at the Trevisan’s story, and not
from bashfulness, cried out: “Signor Benedetto, I looked for a better turn
from you than this, that you would aim at something higher than the
character of a mere railer against women; but since you take so bitter a tone,
meseems you must have been vexed by some lady who has asked more of
you than you could give. Surely you lack justice if you judge us all alike;
your eyes will tell you that some of us, albeit all of the same flesh and
blood, are gentler and more worshipful than others. If you rate us in such
wise, wonder not if some day you find your beauty marred by some
damsel’s finger-nails. Then you will sing your songs in vain.”
To her the Trevisan replied: “I did not tell my story to hurt the feelings
of anyone, nor for spite of my own; but to give counsel and warning to
those ladies who may be going to marry, to be modest and reasonable in the
calls they make on their husbands.” “I care nought what may have been
your object,” said Vicenza, “nor do these ladies either; but I will not sit
silent and let it be thought I allow these charges of yours against women to
have any worth. I will tell you a story which you may find to be one for
your own edification,” and having made obeisance she began.

THE FIFTH FABLE.

Messer Simplicio di Rossi is enamoured of Giliola, the wife of
Ghirotto Scanferla, a peasant, and having been caught in her
company is ill-handled by her husband therefor.

One cannot deny, dear ladies, the gentle nature of love, but love rarely
accords a happy issue to the enterprises it inflames us to undertake. And
thus it fell out in the case of the lovesick Messer Simplicio di Rossi, who,
when he flattered himself that he was about to enjoy the person of the
woman he desired so ardently, had to fly from her laden with as many
buffets as he well could carry. All this history I will duly set forth, if, as is
your gracious custom, you will lend your ears to the fable I purpose to
relate to you.
In the village of Santa Eufemia, situated just below the plain of San
Pietro, in the territory of the famous and illustrious city of Padua, there
lived, some years ago, one Ghirotto Scanferla, a man rich and influential
enough for a man in his station, but at the same time a factious, wrangling
fellow, and he had for a wife a young woman named Giliola, who, albeit
that she was peasant born, was very fair and graceful. With her Simplicio di
Rossi, a citizen of Padua, fell violently in love. Now it happened that he had
a house which stood not far removed from that of Ghirotto, and he was
accustomed frequently to roam about the neighbouring fields with his wife,
a very beautiful lady, whom however he held in but little esteem, although
she had many good qualities which ought to have bound him to her. So
great was his passion for Giliola that he got no rest day or night, but he let
this passion lie closely hidden in his heart, partly because he feared lest he
might in any way arouse the husband’s wrath, partly on account of Giliola’s
good name, and partly for fear of giving offence to his own wife. Now close
to Messer Simplicio’s house there was a fountain from which gushed forth a
stream of water, much sought by all the people round, and so clear and
delicious that even a dead man might have been tempted to drink thereof;

and hither every morning and evening Giliola would repair, with a copper
pail, to fetch water for her household needs. Love, who of a truth spares
nobody, spurred on Messer Simplicio in his passion; but he, knowing what
her life was and the good name she bore, did not venture to manifest his
love by any sign, and simply sustained himself and comforted his heart by
gazing now and then upon her beauty. For her part she knew nothing of all
this, nor was she cognizant at all of his admiration; for, as became a woman
of honest life, she gave heed to nothing else but to her husband and her
household affairs.
Now one day it happened that Giliola, when she went according to her
custom to fetch water, met Messer Simplicio, to whom she said, in her
simple, courteous way, as any woman might, ‘Good morrow, Signor,’ and to
this he replied by uttering the word ‘Ticco.’ His thought was to divert her
somewhat by a jest of this sort, and to make her familiar with his humour.
She, however, took no heed thereof, nor said another word, but went
straightway about her business. And as time went on the same thing
happened over and over again, Simplicio always giving back the same word
to Giliola’s greeting. She had no suspicion of Simplicio’s craftiness, and
always went back to her home with her eyes cast down upon the ground;
but after a time she determined that she would tell her husband what had
befallen her. So one day, when they were conversing pleasantly together,
she said to him, ‘Oh! my husband, there is something I should like to tell
you, something that perhaps will make you laugh.’ ‘And what may this
thing be?’ inquired Ghirotto. ‘Every time I go to the well to draw water,’
said Giliola, ‘I meet Messer Simplicio, and when I give him the good
morning he answers to me “Ticco.” Over and over again I have pondered
over this word, but I cannot get at the meaning thereof.’ ‘And what answer
did you give him?’ said Ghirotto, and Giliola replied that she had answered
him nothing ‘Well,’ said Ghirotto, ‘take care that when he next says “Ticco”
to you you answer him “Tacco.” See that you give good heed to this thing I
tell you, and be sure not to say another word to him, but come home
according to your wont.’ Giliola went at the usual time to the well to fetch
the water, and met Messer Simplicio and gave him good day, and he, as
hitherto, answered her ‘Ticco.’ Then Giliola, according to her husband’s
directions, replied ‘Tacco,’ whereupon Messer Simplicio, suddenly
inflamed, and deeming that he had at last made his passion known to her,
and that he might now have his will of her, took further courage and said,

‘And when shall I come?’ But Giliola, as her husband had instructed her,
answered nothing, but made her way home forthwith, and being questioned
by him how the affair had gone, she told him how she had carried out
everything he had directed her to do; how Messer Simplicio had asked her
when he might come, and how she had given him no reply.
Now Ghirotto, though he was only a peasant, was shrewd enough, and
at once grasped the meaning of Messer Simplicio’s watchword, which
perturbed him mightily; for it struck him that this word meant more than
mere trifling.[24] So he said to his wife, ‘If the next time you go to the well
he should ask of you, “When shall I come?” you must answer him, “This
evening.” The rest you can leave to me.’
The next day, when Giliola went according to her wont to draw water
at the well, she found there Messer Simplicio, who was waiting for her with
ardent longing, and greeted him with her accustomed ‘Good morning,
Signor.’ To this the gallant answered ‘Ticco,’ and she followed suit with
‘Tacco.’ Then he added, ‘When shall I come?’ to which she replied, ‘This
evening.’ ‘Let it be so then,’ he said. And when Giliola returned to her
house she said to her husband, ‘I have done everything as you directed.’
‘What did he answer?’ said Ghirotto. ‘He said he would come this evening,’
his wife replied.
Now Ghirotto, who by this time had got a bellyful of something else
besides vermicelli and maccaroni, spake thus to his wife: ‘Giliola, let us go
now and measure a dozen sacks of oats, for I will make believe that I am
going to the mill, and when Messer Simplicio shall come, you must make
him welcome and give him honourable reception. But before this, have
ready an empty sack beside those which will be full of oats, and as soon as
you hear me come into the house make him hide himself in the sack thus
prepared, and leave the rest to me.’ ‘But,’ said Giliola, ‘we have not in the
house enough sacks to carry out the plan you propose.’ ‘Then send our
neighbour Cia,’ said the husband, ‘to Messer Simplicio to beg him to lend
us two, and she can also let it be known that I have business at the mill this
evening.’ And all these directions were diligently carried out. Messer
Simplicio, who had given good heed to Giliola’s words, and had marked,
moreover, that she had sent to borrow two of his sacks, believed of a truth
that the husband would be going to the mill in the evening, and found
himself at the highest pitch of felicity and the happiest man in the world,

fancying the while that Giliola was as hotly inflamed with love for him as
he was for her; but the poor wight had no inkling of the conspiracy which
was being hatched for his undoing, otherwise he would assuredly have gone
to work with greater caution than he used.
Messer Simplicio had in his poultry yard good store of capons, and he
took two of the best of these and sent them by his body-servant to Giliola,
enjoining her to let them be ready cooked by the time when he should be
with her according to their agreement. And when night had come he stole
secretly out and betook himself to Ghirotto’s house, where Giliola gave him
a most gracious reception. But when he saw the oat-sacks standing there he
was somewhat surprised, for he expected that the husband would have
taken them to the mill; so he said to Giliola, ‘Where is Ghirotto? I thought
he had gone to the mill, but I see the sacks are still here; so I hardly know
what to think.’ Then Giliola replied, ‘Do not murmur, Messer Simplicio, or
have any fear. Everything will go well. You must know that, just at vesper-
time, my husband’s brother-in-law came to the house and brought word that
his sister was lying gravely ill of a persistent fever, and was not like to see
another day. Wherefore he mounted his horse and rode away to see her
before she dies.’ Messer Simplicio, who was indeed as simple as his name
imports, took all this for the truth and said no more.
Whilst Giliola was busy cooking the capons and getting ready the
table, lo and behold! Ghirotto her husband appeared in the courtyard, and
Giliola, as soon as she saw him, feigned to be grief-stricken and terrified,
and cried out, ‘Woe to us, wretches that we are! We are as good as dead,
both of us;’ and without a moment’s hesitation she ordered Messer
Simplicio to get into the empty sack which was lying there; and when he
had got in—and he was mightily unwilling to enter it—she set the sack with
Messer Simplicio inside it behind the others which were full of oats, and
waited till her husband should come in. And when Ghirotto entered and saw
the table duly set and the capons cooking in the pot, he said to his wife:
‘What is the meaning of this sumptuous supper which you have prepared
for me?’ and Giliola made answer: ‘I thought that you must needs come
back weary and worn out at midnight, and, in order that you might fortify
and refresh yourself somewhat after the fatigues you so constantly have to
undergo, I wished to let you have something succulent for your meal.’ ‘By
my faith,’ said Ghirotto, ‘you have done well, for I am somewhat sick and
can hardly wait to take my supper before I go to bed,’ and moreover I want

to be astir in good time to-morrow morning to go to the mill. But before we
sit down to supper I want to see whether the sacks we got ready for the mill
are all in order and of just weight.’ And with these words he went up to the
sacks and began to count them, and, finding there were thirteen, he feigned
to have made a miscount of them, and began to count them over again, and
still he found there were thirteen of them; so he said to his wife: ‘Giliola,
what is the meaning of this? How is it that I find here thirteen sacks while
we only got ready twelve? Where does the odd one come from?’ And
Giliola answered: ‘Yes, of a certainty, when we put the oats into the sacks
there were only twelve, and how this one comes to be here I cannot tell.’
Inside the sack, meantime, Messer Simplicio, who knew well enough
that there were thirteen sacks on account of his being there, kept silent as a
mouse and went on muttering paternosters beneath his breath, at the same
time cursing Giliola, and his passion for her, and his own folly in having put
faith in her. If he could have cleared himself from his present trouble by
flight, he would have readily taken to his heels, for he feared the shame that
might arise thereanent, rather than the loss. But Ghirotto, who knew well
enough what was inside the sack, took hold of it and dragged it outside the
door, which he had by design left open, in order that the poor wretch inside
the sack, after he should have been well drubbed, might get out of the sack
and have free field to go whithersoever he listed. Then Ghirotto, having
caught up a knotty stick which he had duly prepared for the purpose, began
to belabour him so soundly that there was not a square inch of his carcass
which was not thrashed and beaten; indeed, a little more would have made
an end of Messer Simplicio. And if it had not happened that the wife,
moved by pity or by fear lest her husband should have the sin of murder on
his soul, wrenched the cudgel out of Ghirotto’s hand, homicide might well
have been the issue.
At last, when Ghirotto had given over his work and had gone away,
Messer Simplicio slunk out of his sack, and, aching from head to foot, made
his way home, half dreading the while that Ghirotto with his stick was close
behind him; and in the meantime Ghirotto and his wife, after eating a good
supper at Messer Simplicio’s cost, went to bed. And after a few days had
passed, Giliola, when she went to the well, saw Simplicio, who was
walking up and down the terrace in his garden, and with a merry glance
greeted him, saying, ‘Ticco, Messer Simplicio;’ but he, who still felt the
pain of the bruises he had gotten on account of this word, only replied:

Neither for your good morning, nor for your tic nor your tac,
Will you catch me again, my lady, inside your sack.

When Giliola heard this she was struck silent, and went back to her
house with her face red for shame, and Messer Simplicio, after the sorry
usage he had received, changed his humour and gave the fullest and most
loving service to his own wife, whom he had hitherto disliked, keeping his
eyes and his hands off other men’s goods, so that he might not again be
treated to a like experience.
When Vicenza had made an end of her story, all the ladies cried out
with one voice: “If the Trevisan treated badly the women he dealt with in
his fable, Vicenza has in hers given the men yet worse measure in letting
Messer Simplicio be thus beaten and mauled in the mishandling he got.”
And while they were all laughing, one at this thing and another at that, the
Signora made a sign for silence in order that Vicenza might duly propound
her enigma; and the latter, feeling that she had more than avenged the insult
put upon her sex by the Trevisan, gave her enigma in these terms:
I blush to tell my name aright,
Rough to touch, and rude to sight.
Wide and toothless is my mouth,
Red of hue my lips uncouth;
Black all round, and from below
Ardour oft will make me glow;
Rouse my passion closely pent,
Make me foam till I am spent.
A scullion base may e’en abuse me,
And all men at their pleasure use me.

The men were hard pressed to keep from laughing when they saw the
ladies cast down their eyes into their laps, smiling somewhat the while. But
the Signora, to whom modest speech was more pleasing than aught that
savoured of ribaldry, bent a stern and troubled glance upon Vicenza and
thus addressed her: “If I had not too much respect for these gentlemen, I
would tell you to your face what really is the meaning of this lewd and
immodest riddle of yours; but I will forgive you this once, only take good
heed that you offend not again in such fashion; for, if you should, I will let
you feel and know what my power over you really is.” Then Vicenza,
blushing like a morning rosebud at hearing herself thus shamefully
reproved, plucked up her courage and gave answer in these terms: “Signora,
if I have uttered a single word which has offended your ears, or the ears of

any of the modest gentlewomen I see around me, I should assuredly deserve
not only your reproof, but severe chastisement to boot. But, seeing that my
words were in themselves simple and blameless, they scarcely merited so
bitter a censure; for the interpretation of my riddle, which has been
apprehended by you in a mistaken sense, will show my words to be true and
prove my innocence at the same time. The thing which my enigma
describes is a stockpot, which is black all round, and when fiercely heated
by the fire boils over and scatters foam on all sides. It has a wide mouth and
no teeth, and takes everything that may be thrown into it, and any scullion
may take out what he will when the dinner is being prepared for his
master.”
When they heard from Vicenza this modest solution of her riddle, all
the listeners, men as well as women, gave her hearty praise, deeming the
while that she had been wrongfully reproved by the Signora. And now,
because the hour was late, and the rosy tints of morning already visible in
the sky, the Signora, without excusing herself in any way for the scolding
she had given Vicenza, dismissed the company, bidding them all under pain
of her displeasure to assemble in good time the following evening.

The End of the Second Night.

Night the Third.

The Fables and Enigmas of Messer
Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.

Night the Third.

Already the sister of the sun had begun her reign in the sky over the forests
and the gloomy gorges of the hills, and showed her golden circle over the
half of heaven; already the car of Phœbus had sunk beneath the western
wave, the moving stars had lighted their lamps, and the pretty birds, ceasing
their pleasant songs and bickerings, sought repose in their nests set amongst
the green boughs, when the ladies and the gallant youths as well met on the
third evening in the accustomed spot to renew their story-telling. And as
soon as they were all seated according to their rank, the Signora Lucretia
commanded that the vase should be brought forth as before, and in it she
caused to be placed the names of five damsels, who, according to the order
determined by lot, should that evening tell in turn their stories. The first
name which was drawn from the vase was that of Cateruzza, the second that
of Arianna, the third that of Lauretta, the fourth that of Alteria, and the fifth
that of Eritrea. Then the Signora gave the word for the Trevisan to take his
lute, and Molino his viol, and for all the rest to tread a measure to Bembo’s
leading. And when the dance had come to an end, and the sweet lyre and the
divine strings of the hollow lute were silent, the Signora directed Lauretta to
begin her song, and she, anxious to obey the Signora in everything, took
hands with her companions, and having made respectful salutation, sang in
clear and mellow tone the following song:
SONG.
Lady, while thy face I scan,
Where love smiling holds his court,
Lo! from out your beauteous eyes
Light so radiant doth arise,
That it shows us Paradise.

All my sighs and all my tears,
Which I foolish shed in vain;
All the anguish of my heart,
All my hidden woe and smart,

With my faint desire have part.

Then to love’s last mood I fly,
Recking nought that earth and sky
Stand beneath me and above;
So my soul is drawn by love
To the heights of passion free,
And I learn that fate’s decree
Binds me, whatsoe’er betide,
Dead or living, to thy side.
After Lauretta and her companions had given sign by their silence that
their song had come to an end, the Signora, bending her gaze upon the fair
and open countenance of Cateruzza, said that the task of making a
beginning of the story-telling of that third evening fell upon her, and
Cateruzza, with a becoming blush upon her cheek and laughing lightly,
began in these terms.

THE FIRST FABLE.

A simple fellow, named Peter, gets back his wits by the help of a
tunny fish which he spared after having taken it in his net, and
likewise wins for his wife a king’s daughter.

There is proof enough, dear ladies, both in the chronicles of the past and in
the doings of our own day, that a fool, whether by lucky accident or by
sheer force of blundering, may sometimes score a success where a wise
man might fail. Therefore it has come into my mind to tell you the story of
one of these fools, who, through the issue of a very foolish deed, got for his
wife the daughter of a king and became a wise man himself into the
bargain.
In the Ligurian Sea there is an island called Capraia, which, at the time
I am describing, was ruled by King Luciano. Amongst his subjects was a
poor widow named Isotta, who lived with her only son Peter, a fisher-lad,
but from Peter’s fishing she would scarce have kept body and soul together,
for he was a poor silly creature known to all the neighbours as Peter the
Fool. Though he went fishing every day he never caught anything, but in
spite of his ill-success he would always come up from his boat shouting and
bellowing so that all the town might hear him: ‘Mother, mother, bring out
your tubs and your buckets and your pails; bring them out all, great and
small, for Peter has caught a boatful of fish.’ The poor woman soon got to
know the value of Peter’s bragging, but in spite of this she always prepared
the vessels, only to find herself jeered at by the silly youth, who, as soon as
he came near, would thrust out his long tongue in ridicule, and otherwise
mock at her.
Now it chanced that the widow’s cottage stood just opposite to the
palace of King Luciano, who had only one child, a pretty graceful girl about
ten years old, Luciana by name. She, it happened, was looking out of the
window of the palace one day when Peter came back from fishing, crying
out to his mother to bring out her tubs and her buckets and her pails to hold

the fish with which he was laden, and so much was she diverted at the silly
antics of the fool, that it seemed likely she would die with laughing. Peter,
when he saw that he was made sport of, grew very angry, and threw some
ugly words at her, but the more he raged the more she—after the manner of
wilful children—laughed and made mock at him. Peter, however, went on
with his fishing day after day, and played the same trick on his mother
every evening on his return; but at last fortune favoured him, and he caught
a fine tunny, very big and fat. Overjoyed at his good luck, he began to shout
and cry out over and over again, ‘Mother and I will have a good supper to-
night,’ when, to his amazement, he heard the tunny which he had just
caught begin to speak: ‘Ah! my dear brother, I pray you of your courtesy to
give me my life. When once you have eaten me, what farther benefit do you
think you will get from me? but if you will let me live there is no telling
what service I may not render you.’ But Peter, whose thoughts just then
were set only on his supper, hoisted the fish on his shoulders and set off
homewards; but the tunny still kept on beseeching his captor to spare his
life, promising him first as many fish as he could want, and finally to do
him any favour he might demand. Peter was not hardhearted, and, though a
fool, fancied he might profit by sparing the fish, so he listened to the
tunny’s petition and threw him back into the sea. The fish, sensible of
Peter’s kindness, and not wishing to seem ungrateful, told Peter to get into
his boat again and tilt it over so that the water could run in. This advice
Peter at once followed, and, having leant over on one side, he let the boat be
half filled with water, which brought in with it such a huge quantity of fish
that the boat was in danger of sinking. Peter was wellnigh beside himself
with joy when he saw what had happened, and, when he had taken as many
fish as he could carry, he betook himself homewards, crying out, as was his
wont, when he drew near to the cottage: ‘Mother, mother, bring out your
tubs and your buckets and your pails; bring out them all, great and small,
for Peter has caught a boatful of fish.’ At first poor Isotta, thinking that he
was only playing his old fool’s game, took no heed; but at last, hearing him
cry out louder than ever, and fearing that he might commit some greater
folly if he should not find the vessels prepared as usual, got them all ready.
What was her surprise to see her simpleton of a son at last coming back
with a brave spoil! The Princess Luciana was at the palace window, and
hearing Peter bellowing louder than ever, she laughed louder than ever, so
that Peter was almost mad with rage, and having left his fish, he rushed

back to the seashore, and called aloud on the tunny to come and help him.
The fish, hearing Peter’s voice, came to the marge of the shore, and putting
his nose up out of the waves, asked what service was required of him.
‘What service!’ cried Peter. ‘Why I would that Luciana, that saucy minx,
the daughter of our king, should find herself with child at once.’
What followed was a proof that the tunny had not made an empty
promise to Peter, for before many days had passed the figure of the young
girl, who was not twelve years old, began to show signs of maternity. Her
mother, when she marked this, fell into great trouble, but she could not
believe that a child of eleven could be pregnant, and rather set down the
swelling to the working of an incurable disease; so she brought Luciana to
be examined by some women expert in such cases, and these, as soon as
they saw the girl, declared that she was certainly with child. The queen,
overwhelmed by this terrible news, told it also to the king, and he, when he
heard it, cried aloud for death rather than such ignominy. Strict inquisition
was made to discover who could have violated the child, but nothing was
found out; so Luciano, to hide her dire disgrace, determined to have his
daughter secretly killed.
The queen, on hearing this, begged her husband to spare the
unfortunate Luciana till the child should be born, and then do with her what
he would. The king, moved with compassion for his only daughter, gave
way so far; and in due time Luciana was delivered of a boy so fine and
beautiful that the king could no longer harbour the thought of putting them
away, but, on the other hand, gave order to the queen that the boy should be
well tended till he was a year old. When this time was completed the child
had become beautiful beyond compare, and then it came into the king’s
mind that he would again make a trial to find out who the father might be.
He issued a proclamation that every man in the city who had passed
fourteen years should, under pain of losing his head, present himself at the
palace bearing in his hand some fruit or flower which might attract the
child’s attention. On the appointed day, in obedience to the proclamation,
all those summoned came to the palace, bearing, this man one thing and that
man another, and, having passed before the king, sat down according to
their rank.
Now it happened that a certain young man as he was betaking himself
to the palace met Peter, and said to him, ‘Peter, why are you not going to

the palace like all the others to obey the order of the king?’ ‘What should I
do in such a crowd as that?’ said Peter. ‘Cannot you see I am a poor naked
fellow, and have hardly a rag to my back, and yet you ask me to push
myself in amongst all those gentlemen and courtiers? No.’ Then the young
man, laughing at him, said, ‘Come with me, and I will give you a coat. Who
knows whether the child may not turn out to be yours?’ In the end Peter let
himself be persuaded to go to the young man’s house, and having put on a
decent coat, they went together to the palace; but when they arrived there
Peter’s heart again failed him, and he hid himself behind a door. By this
time all the men had presented themselves to the king, and were seated in
the hall. Then Luciano commanded the nurse to bring in the child, thinking
that if the father should be there the sense of paternity would make him give
some sign. As the nurse carried the child down the hall everyone, as he
passed, began to caress him and to give him, this one a fruit and that one a
flower; but the infant, with a wave of his hand, refused them all. When the
nurse passed by the entrance door the child began to laugh and crow, and
threw himself forward so lustily that he almost jumped out of the woman’s
arms, but she, not knowing that anyone was there, walked on down the hall.
When she came back to the same place, the child was more delighted than
ever, laughing and pointing with his finger to the door; so that the king, who
had already noticed the child’s actions, called to the nurse, and asked her
who was behind the door. The nurse, being somewhat confused, said that
surely some beggar must be hidden there. By the king’s command Peter was
at once haled forth, and everybody recognized the town fool; but the child,
who was close to him, stretched out his arms and clasped Peter round the
neck, and kissed him lovingly. The king, recognizing the sign, was stricken
to the heart with grief, and having discharged the assembly, commanded
that Peter and Luciana and the child should be put to death forthwith.
The queen, though assenting to this doom, was fearful lest the public
execution of the victims might draw down upon the king the anger of the
people; so she persuaded him to have made a huge cask into which the three
might be put and cast into the sea to drift at random; then, at least, no one
might witness their dying agony. This the king agreed to; and when the cask
was made, the condemned ones were put therein, with a basket of bread and
a flask of wine, and a drum of figs for the child, and thrust out into the
rough sea, with the expectation that the waves would soon dash it to pieces
against the rocks; but this was not to be their fate.

Peter’s poor old mother, when she heard of her son’s misfortune, died
of grief in a few days; and the unhappy Luciana, tossed about by the cruel
waves, and seeing neither sun nor moon, would have welcomed a similar
fate. The child, since she had no milk to give it, had to be soothed to sleep
with now and then a fig; but Peter seemed to care for nothing, and ate the
bread and drank the wine steadily, laughing the while. ‘Alas! alas!’ cried
Luciana in despair, ‘you care nothing for this evil which you have brought
upon me, a poor innocent girl. You eat and drink and laugh without a
thought of the danger around us.’ ‘Why,’ replied Peter, ‘this misfortune is
more your own fault than mine. If you had not mocked me so, it would
never have happened; but do not lose heart, our troubles will soon be over,’
‘I believe that,’ cried Luciana, ‘for the cask will soon be split on a rock, and
then we must all be drowned.’ ‘No, no,’ said Peter, ‘calm yourself. I have a
secret, and were you to know what it is, you would be vastly surprised and
vastly delighted too, I believe.’ ‘What secret can you know,’ said Luciana,
‘which will avail us in such danger as this?’ ‘I will soon tell you,’ Peter
replied. ‘I have a faithful servant, a great fish, who will do me any service I
ask of him, and there is nothing he cannot do. I may as well tell you it was
through his working that you became with child.’ ‘That I cannot believe,’
said Luciana; ‘and what may this fish of yours be called?’ ‘His name is
Signor Tunny,’ replied Peter. ‘Then,’ said Luciana, ‘to put your fish to the
test, I will ask you to transfer to me the power you exercise over him, and to
command him to do my bidding instead of yours.’ ‘Be it as you will,’ said
Peter; and without more ado he called the tunny, who at once rose up near
the cask, whereupon Peter commanded him to do everything that Luciana
might require of him. She at once exercised her power over the fish by
ordering him to make the waves cast the cask ashore in a fair safe cleft in
the rocks on an island, a short sail from her father’s kingdom. As soon as
the fish had worked her will so far, she laid other and much harder tasks
upon him: one was to change Peter from the ugly fool he was into a clever,
handsome gallant; another was, to have built for her forthwith a rich and
sumptuous palace, with lofty halls and chambers, and girt with carven
terraces. Within the court there was to be laid out a beautiful garden, full of
trees which should bear, instead of fruit, pearls and precious stones, and in
the midst of it two fountains, one of the freshest water and the other of the
finest wine. All these wonders were wrought by the fish almost as soon as
Luciana had spoken.

Now all this time the king and the queen were in deep misery in
thinking of the cruel death they had contrived for Luciana and her child,
how they had given their own flesh and blood to be eaten by the fishes;
therefore, to find some solace in their woe, they determined to go to
Jerusalem and to visit the Holy Land. So they ordered a ship to be put in
order for them, and furnished with all things suited to their state. They set
sail with a favouring wind, and before they had gone a hundred miles they
came in sight of an island upon which they could see a stately palace, built
a little above the level of the sea. Seeing that this palace was so fair and
sumptuous, and standing, moreover, within Luciano’s kingdom, they were
seized with a longing to view it more closely; so, having put into a haven,
they landed on the island. Before they had come to the palace Luciana and
Peter saw and recognized them, and, having gone forth to meet them,
greeted them with a cordial welcome, but the king and queen did not know
their hosts for the great change which had come over them. The guests were
taken first into the palace, which they examined in every part, praising
loudly its great beauty, and then they were led by a secret staircase into the
garden, the splendour of which pleased them so amazingly that they swore
they had never at any time before looked upon a place so delightful. In the
centre of this garden there stood a noble tree, which bore on one of its
branches three golden apples. These the keeper of the garden was charged
to guard jealously against robbers, and now, by some secret working which
I cannot unravel, the finest of these apples was transported into the folds of
the king’s robe about his bosom, and there hidden. Luciano and the queen
were about to take their leave when the keeper approached and said to
Luciana, ‘Madam, the most beautiful of the three golden apples is missing,
and I can find no trace of the thief.’
Luciana forthwith gave orders that the whole household should be
searched, one by one, for such a loss as this was no light matter. The keeper,
after he had searched thoroughly everyone, came back and told Luciana that
the apple was nowhere to be found. At these words Luciana fell into great
confusion, and, turning to the king, said: ‘Your majesty must not be wroth
with me if I ask that even you allow yourself to be searched, for I prize the
golden apple that is lost almost as highly as my life.’ The king, unsuspicious
of any trick, and sure of his innocence, straightway loosened his robe, and
lo! the golden apple fell from it to the ground.

The king stood as one dazed, ignorant as to how the golden apple
could have come into his robe, and Luciana spoke: ‘Sire, we have
welcomed you to our house with all the worship fitting to your rank, and
now, as a recompense, you would privily rob our garden of its finest fruit.
Meseems you have proved yourself very ungrateful.’ The king, in his
innocence, attempted to prove to her that he could not have taken the apple,
and Luciana, seeing his confusion, knew that the time had come for her to
speak, and reveal herself to her father. ‘My lord,’ she said, with the tears in
her eyes, ‘I am Luciana, your hapless daughter, whom you sentenced to a
cruel death along with my child and Peter the fisher-boy. Though I bore a
child, I was never unchaste. Here is the boy, and here is he whom men were
wont to call Peter the Fool. You wonder at this change. It has all been
brought about by the power of a marvellous fish whose life Peter spared
when he had caught it in his net. By this power Peter has been turned into
the wisest of men, and the palace you see has been built. In the same way I
became pregnant without knowledge of a man, and the golden apple was
conveyed into the folds of your robe. I am as innocent of unchastity as you
are of theft.’
When the king heard these words his eyes were opened, and he knew
his child. Then, weeping with joy, they embraced each other, and all were
glad and happy. After spending a few days on the island, they all embarked
and returned together to Capraia, where with sumptuous feastings and
rejoicings Peter was duly married to Luciana, and lived with her in great
honour and contentment, until Luciano died, and then he became king in his
stead.
The story of Cateruzza had at one time moved the ladies to tears; but,
when its happy issue was made known to them, they rejoiced and thanked
God therefor. Then the Signora, when Cateruzza had ended, commanded
her to continue in the order they had followed hitherto, and she, not willing
to hold in suspense the attention of her hearers, smilingly proposed to them
the following enigma:
Sir Redman stands behind a tree,
Now hidden, now in sight is he.
To him four runners speed along,
Bearing a warrior huge and strong.
Two darts into the trunk he wings,
And Redman from his lair upsprings,
And smites him from behind with skill;

Thus ten little men one giant kill.
Now he who shall this speech unfold,
Shall be a witty rogue and bold.
Cateruzza’s graceful and ingenious enigma was received by the whole
company with applause. Many interpretations were put forth; but none
came so near the mark as Lauretta: “Our sister’s enigma can have but one
meaning—the wild bull of the forest,’ she said. ‘He has four runners to
carry his huge bulk. The sight of a red rag maddens him, and thinking to
rend it, he strikes his horns into the tree. Straightway the huntsman, who
was hidden behind the trunk, comes forth and kills him with a dart sped by
ten little men, that is, the ten fingers of his two hands.”
This speedy solution of her riddle raised an angry humour in
Cateruzza’s heart, for she had hoped it might prove beyond the wit of any;
but she had not reckoned for Lauretta’s quickness. The Signora, who
perceived that the two were fain to wrangle, called for silence, and gave the
word to Arianna to begin a story which should please them all, and the
damsel, somewhat bashful, began as follows.

THE SECOND FABLE.

Dalfreno, King of Tunis had two sons, one called Listico and the
other Livoretto. The latter afterwards was known as Porcarollo,
and in the end won for his wife Bellisandra, the daughter of
Attarante, King of Damacus.

It is no light matter for the steersman, let him be ever so watchful, to bring
his tempest-strained bark safely into a sheltered port when he may be vexed
by envious and contrary fortune, and tossed about amongst the hard and
ragged rocks. And so it happened to Livoretto, son of the great King of
Tunis, who, after many dangers hardly to be believed, heavy afflictions, and
lengthened fatigues, succeeded at last, through the valour of his spirit, in
trampling under foot his wretched fortune, and in the end reigned
peacefully over his kingdom in Cairo. All this I shall make abundantly clear
in the fable I am about to relate to you.
In Tunis, a stately city on the coast of Africa, there reigned, not long
ago, a famous and powerful king named Dalfreno. He had to wife a
beautiful and wise lady, and by her begot two sons, modest, well-doing and
obedient in everything to their father, the elder being called Listico, and the
younger Livoretto. Now it happened that by royal decree, as well as by the
approved usage of the state, these youths were barred in the succession to
their father’s throne, which ran entirely in the female line. Wherefore the
king, when he saw that he was by evil fortune deprived of female issue, and
was assured by knowledge of himself that he was come to an age when he
could hardly expect any further progeny, was sorely troubled, and felt his
heart wrung thereanent with unbounded grief. And his sorrow was all the
heavier because he was haunted by the dread that after his death his sons
might be looked at askance, and evilly treated, and driven with ignominy
from his kingdom.
The unhappy king, infected by these dolorous humours, and knowing
not where might lie any remedy therefor, turned to the queen, whom he

loved very dearly, and thus addressed her: ‘Madam, what shall we do with
these sons of ours, seeing that we are bereft of all power to leave them heirs
to our kingdom both by the law and by the ancient custom of the land?’ The
sagacious queen at once made answer to him in these words: ‘Sire, it seems
to me that, as you have a greater store of riches than any other king in the
world, you should send them away into some foreign country where no man
would know them, giving them first a great quantity of money and jewels.
In such case they may well find favour in the sight of some well-disposed
sovereign, who will see that no ill befall them. And if (which may God
forbid) they should happen to come to want, no one will know whose sons
they are. They are young, fair to look upon, of good address, high-spirited,
and on the alert for every honourable and knightly enterprise, and let them
go where they will they will scarcely find any king or prince or great lord
who will not love them and set great store upon them for the sake of the
rich gifts which nature has lavished upon them.’ This answer of the prudent
queen accorded fully with the humour of King Dalfreno, and having
summoned into his presence his sons Listico and Livoretto, he said to them:
‘My well-beloved sons, you must by this time know that, after I am dead,
you will have no chance of succeeding to the sovereignty of this my
kingdom; not, indeed, on account of your vices or from your ill manner of
living, but because it has been thus determined by law and by the ancient
custom of the country. You being men, created by mother nature and
ourselves, and not women, are barred from all claim. Wherefore your
mother and I, for the benefit and advantage of you both, have determined to
let you voyage into some strange land, taking with you jewels and gems and
money in plenty; so that whenever you may light upon some honourable
position you may gain your living in honourable wise, and do credit to us at
the same time. And for this reason I look that you shall show yourselves
obedient to our wishes.’
Listico and Livoretto were as much pleased at this proposition as the
king and the queen themselves had been, because both one and other of the
young men desired ardently to see new lands and to taste the pleasures of
the world. It happened that the queen (as is not seldom the way with
mothers) loved the younger son more tenderly than she loved the elder, and
before they took their departure she called him aside and gave him a
prancing high-mettled horse, flecked with spots, with a small shapely head,
and high courage shining in its eye. Moreover, in addition to all these good

qualities with which it was endowed, it was gifted with magic powers, but
this last fact the queen told only to Livoretto, her younger son.
As soon, then, as the two sons had received their parents’ benediction,
and secured the treasure prepared for them, they departed secretly together;
and after they had ridden for many days without lighting upon any spot
which pleased them, they began to be sorely troubled at their fate. Then
Livoretto spoke and addressed his brother: ‘We have all this time ridden in
one another’s company, and narrowly searched the country without having
wrought any deed which could add aught to our repute. Wherefore it seems
to me wiser (supposing what I propose contents you also) that we should
separate one from the other, and that each one should go in search of
adventures for himself.’
Listico, having taken thought of his brother’s proposition, agreed
thereto, and then, after they had warmly embraced and kissed each other,
they bade farewell and went their several ways. Listico, of whom nothing
more was ever heard, took his way towards the West, while Livoretto
journeyed into the East. And it happened that, after he had consumed a great
space of time in going from one place to another, and seen almost every
country under the sun, and spent all the jewels and the money and the other
treasures his good father had given him, save and except the magic horse,
Livoretto found himself at last in Cairo, the royal city of Egypt, which was
at that time under the rule of a sultan whose name was Danebruno, a man
wise in all the secrets of statecraft, and powerful through his riches and his
high estate, but now heavily stricken in years. But, notwithstanding his
advanced age, he was inflamed with the most ardent love for Bellisandra,
the youthful daughter of Attarante, the King of Damascus, against which
city he had at this time sent a powerful army with orders to camp round
about it, and to lay siege to it, and to take it by storm, in order that, either by
love or by force, he might win for himself the princess to wife. But
Bellisandra, who had already a certain foreknowledge that the Sultan of
Cairo was both old and ugly, had made up her mind once for all that, rather
than be forced to become the wife of such a man, she would die by her own
hand.
As soon as Livoretto had arrived at Cairo, and had gone into the city,
and wandered into every part thereof, and marvelled at all he saw, he felt
this was a place to his taste, and seeing that he had by this time lavished all

his substance in paying for his maintenance, he determined that he would
not depart thence until he should have taken service with some master or
other. And one day, when he found himself by the palace of the sultan, he
espied in the court thereof a great number of guards and mamelukes and
slaves, and he questioned some of these as to whether there was in the court
of the sultan lack of servants of any sort, and they answered him there was
none. But, after a little, one of these, calling to mind that there was room in
the household for a man to tend the pigs, shouted after him, and questioned
him whether he would be willing to be a swineherd, and Livoretto answered
‘Yes.’ Then the man bade him get off his horse, and took him to the pigsties,
asking at the same time what was his name. Livoretto told him, but
hereafter men always called him Porcarollo, the name they gave him.
And thus it happened that Livoretto, now known by the name of
Porcarollo, settled himself in the court of the sultan, and had no other
employ than to let fatten the pigs, and in this duty he showed such great
care and diligence that he brought to an end easily in two months tasks
which would have taken any other man six months to accomplish. When,
therefore, the guards and the mamelukes and the slaves perceived what a
serviceable fellow he was, they persuaded the sultan that it would be well to
provide some other employment for him, because his diligence and
cleverness deserved some better office than the low one he now held.
Wherefore, by the decree of the sultan, he was put in charge of all the
horses in the royal stables, with a large augmentation of his salary, a
promotion which pleased him mightily, because he deemed that, when he
should be the master of all the other horses, he would be the better able to
see well to his own. And when he got to work in his new office he cleaned
and trimmed the horses so thoroughly, and made such good use of the
currycomb, that their skins shone like satin.
Now, amongst the other horses there was an exceedingly beautiful
high-spirited young palfrey, to which, on account of its good looks, he paid
special attention in order to train it perfectly, and he trained it so well that
the palfrey, besides going anywhere he might be told to go, would curve his
neck, and dance, and stand at his whole height on his hind legs and paw the
air so rapidly that every motion seemed like the flight of a bolt from a
crossbow. The mamelukes and slaves, when they saw what Livoretto had
taught the palfrey to do by his training, were thunderstruck with
amazement, for it seemed to them that such things could hardly ensue in the

course of nature. Wherefore they determined to tell the whole matter to the
sultan, in order that he might take pleasure in witnessing the marvellous
skill of Porcarollo.
The sultan, who always wore an appearance of great melancholy,
whether from the torture of his amorous passion or by reason of his great
age, cared little or nothing for recreation of any sort; but, weighed down by
his troublesome humours, would pass the time in thinking of nothing else
besides his beloved mistress. However, the mamelukes and the slaves made
so much ado about the matter, that before long the sultan was moved to take
his stand at the window one morning, and there to witness all the various
wonderful and dexterous feats of horsemanship which Porcarollo performed
with his trained palfrey, and, seeing what a good-looking youth he was, and
how well formed in his person, and finding, moreover, that what he had
seen was even more attractive than he had been led to expect, he came to
the conclusion that it was mighty ill management (which now he began
greatly to regret) to have sent so accomplished a youth to no better office
than the feeding and tending of beasts. Wherefore, having turned the matter
over in his mind, and considered it in every light, he realized to the full the
eminent qualities, hitherto concealed, of the graceful young man, and found
there was nothing lacking in him. So he resolved at once to remove him
from the office he now filled, and to place him in one of higher
consideration; so, having caused Porcarollo to be summoned into his
presence, he thus addressed him: ‘Porcarollo, it is my will that you do
service no longer in the stables, as heretofore, but that you attend me at my
own table and do the office of cupbearer, and taste everything that may be
put before me, as a guarantee that I may eat thereof without hurt.’
The young man, after he had duly entered upon the office of cupbearer
to the sultan, discharged his duties with so great art and skilfulness that he
won the approbation, not only of the sultan, but of all those about the court.
But amongst the mamelukes and slaves there arose against him such a bitter
hatred and envy on account of the great favour done to him by the sultan
that they could scarce bear the sight of him, and, had they not been kept
back by the fear of their master, they would assuredly have taken his life.
Therefore, in order to deprive the unfortunate youth of the favour of the
sultan, and to let him either be slain or driven into perpetual exile, they
devised a most cunning and ingenious plot for the furtherance of their
design. They made beginning in this wise. One morning a slave named

Chebur, who had been sent in his turn to do service to the sultan, said, ‘My
lord, I have some good news to give you.’ ‘And what may this be?’ inquired
the sultan. ‘It is,’ replied the slave, ‘that Porcarollo, who bears by right the
name of Livoretto, has been boasting that he would be able to accomplish
for you even so heavy a task as to give into your keeping the daughter of
Attarante, King of Damascus.’ ‘And how can such a thing as this be
possible?’ asked the sultan. To whom Chebur replied, ‘It is indeed possible,
O my lord! but if you will not put faith in my words, inquire of the
mamelukes and of the other slaves, in whose presence he has boasted more
than once of his power to do this thing, and then you will easily know
whether the tale I am telling you be false or true.’ After the sultan had duly
assured himself that what the slave had told to him was just, he summoned
Livoretto into his presence, and demanded of him whether this saying
concerning him which was openly bruited about the court, was true. Then
the young man, who knew nothing of what had gone before, gave a stout
denial, and spake so bluntly that the sultan, with his rage and animosity
fully aroused, thus addressed him: ‘Get you hence straightway, and if within
the space of thirty days you have not brought into my power the Princess
Bellisandra, the daughter of Attarante, King of Damascus, I will have your
head taken off your shoulders.’ The young man, when he heard this cruel
speech of the sultan, withdrew from the presence overwhelmed with grief
and confusion, and betook himself to the stables.
As soon as he had entered, the fairy horse, who remarked at once the
sad looks of his master and the scalding tears which fell so plentifully from
his eyes, turned to him and said: ‘Alas! my master, why do I see you so
deeply agitated and so full of grief?’ The young man, weeping and sighing
deeply the while, told him from beginning to end all that the sultan had
required him to perform. Whereupon the horse, tossing his head and making
signs as if he were laughing, managed to comfort him somewhat, and went
on to bid him be of good heart and fear not, for all his affairs would come to
a prosperous issue in the end. Then he said to his master: ‘Go back to the
sultan and beg him to give you a letter patent addressed to the captain-
general of his army who is now laying siege to Damascus, in which letter he
shall write to the general an express command that, as soon as he shall have
seen and read the letter patent sealed with the sultan’s great seal, he shall
forthwith raise the siege of the city, and give to you money and fine
clothing and arms in order that you may be able to prosecute with vigour

and spirit the great enterprise which lies before you. And if peradventure it
should happen, during your voyage thitherward, that any person or any
animal of whatever sort or condition should entreat you to do them service
of any kind, take heed that you perform the favour which may be required
of you, nor, as you hold your life dear to you, refuse to do the service asked
for. And if you should meet with any man who is anxious to purchase me of
you, tell him that you are willing to sell me, but at the same time demand
for me a price so extravagant that he shall give up all thought of the bargain.
But if at any time a woman should wish to buy me, bear yourself gently
towards her, and do her every possible courtesy, giving her full liberty to
stroke my head, my forehead, my eyes and ears, and my loins, and to do
anything else she may have a mind to, for I will let them handle me as they
will without doing them the least mischief or hurt of any kind.’
When he heard these words the young man, full of hope and spirit,
went back to the sultan and made a request to him for the letter patent and
for everything else that the fairy horse had named to him. And when he had
procured all these from the sultan, he straightway mounted the horse and
took the road which led to Damascus, giving by his departure great delight
to all the mamelukes and slaves, who, on account of the burning envy and
unspeakable hate they harboured against him, held it for certain that he
would never again come back alive to Cairo. Now it happened that, when
Livoretto had been a long time on his journey, he came one day to a pool,
and he marked, as he passed by the end thereof, that the shore gave forth a
very offensive smell, the cause of which I cannot tell, so that one could
hardly go near to the place, and there upon the shore he saw lying a fish half
dead. The fish, when it saw Livoretto approaching, cried out: ‘Alas! kind
gentleman, I beseech you of your courtesy to set me free from this foul-
smelling mud, for I am, as you may see, wellnigh dead on account of it. The
young man, taking good heed of all that the fairy horse had told him,
forthwith got down from his saddle and drew the fish out of the ill-smelling
water, and washed it clean with his own hands. Then the fish, after it had
returned due thanks to Livoretto for the kindness he had done for it, said to
him: ‘Take from my back the three biggest scales you can find, and keep
them carefully by you; and if at any time it shall happen that you are in
need of succour, put down the scales by the bank of the river, and I will
come to you straightway and will give you instant help.’

Livoretto accordingly took the three scales, and, having thrown the
fish, which was now quite clean and shining, into the clear water,
remounted his horse and rode on until he came to a certain place where he
found a peregrine falcon which had been frozen into a sheet of ice as far as
the middle of its body, and could not get free. The falcon, when it saw the
young man, cried out: ‘Alas! fair youth, take pity on me, and release me
from this ice in which, as you see, I am imprisoned, and I promise, if you
will deliver me from this great misfortune, I will lend you my aid if at any
time you should chance to stand in need thereof.’ The young man,
overcome by compassion and pity, went kindly to the succour of the bird,
and having drawn a knife which he carried attached to the scabbard of his
sword, he beat and pierced with the point thereof the hard ice round about
the bird so that he brake it, and then he took out the falcon and cherished it
in his bosom in order to bring back, somewhat of warmth to its body. The
falcon, when it had recovered its strength and was itself again, thanked the
young man profusely for his kindness, and as a recompense for the great
service he had wrought, it gave him two feathers which he would find
growing under its left wing, begging him at the same time to guard and
preserve them most carefully for the sake of the love it bore him; for if in
the future he should chance to stand in need of any succour, he might take
the two feathers to the river and stick them in the bank there, and then
immediately it would come to his assistance. And having thus spoken the
bird flew away.
After Livoretto had continued his journey for some days he came to
the sultan’s army encamped before the city, and there he found the captain-
general, who was vexing the place with fierce assaults. Having been
brought into the general’s presence, he drew forth the sultan’s letter patent,
and the general, as soon as he had mastered the contents thereof,
immediately gave orders that the siege should be raised, and this having
been done he marched back to Cairo with his whole army. Livoretto, after
watching the departure of the captain-general, made his way the next
morning into the city of Damascus by himself, and having taken up his
quarters at an inn, he attired himself in a very fair and rich garment, all
covered with most rare and precious gems, which shone bright enough to
make the sun envious, and mounted his fairy horse, and rode into the piazza
in front of the royal palace, where he made the horse go through all the
exercises he had taught it with so great readiness and dexterity, that

everyone who beheld him stood still in amazement and could look at
nought beside.
Now it happened that the noise made by the tumultuous crowd in the
piazza below roused from sleep the Princess Bellisandra, and she forthwith
arose from her bed. Having gone out upon a balcony, which commanded a
view of all the square beneath, she saw there a very handsome youth; but
what she marked especially was the beauty and vivacity of the gallant and
high-mettled horse on which he sat. In short, she was seized with a desire to
get this horse for her own, just as keen as the passion of an amorous youth
for the fair maiden on whom he has set his heart. So she went at once to her
father and besought him most urgently to buy the horse for her, because
ever since she had looked upon his beauty and grace she had come to feel
that she could not live without him. Then the king, for the gratification of
the fancy of his daughter, whom he loved very tenderly, sent out one of his
chief nobles to ask Livoretto whether he would be willing to sell his horse
for any reasonable price, because the only daughter of the king was taken
with the keenest desire to possess it. On hearing this Livoretto answered
that there was nothing on earth precious and excellent enough to be
accounted as a price for the horse, and demanded therefor a greater sum of
money than there was in all the dominions which the king had inherited
from his fathers. When the king heard the enormous price asked by
Livoretto, he called his daughter and said to her: ‘My daughter, I cannot
bring myself to lavish the value of my whole kingdom in purchasing for
you this horse and in satisfying your desire. Wherefore have a little
patience, and live happy and contented, for I will make search and buy you
another horse even better and more beautiful than this.’
But the effect of these words of the king was to inflame Bellisandra
with yet more ardent longing to possess the horse, and she besought her
father more insistently than ever to buy it for her, no matter how great might
be the price he had to pay for it. Then the maiden, after much praying and
intercession, found that her entreaties had no avail with her father, so she
left him, and betook herself to her mother, and feigning to be half dead and
prostrate with despair, fell into her arms. The mother, filled with pity, and
seeing her child so deeply grief-stricken and pale, gave her what gentle
consolation she could, and begged her to moderate her grief, and suggested
that, as soon as the king should be out of the way, they two should seek out
the young man and should bargain with him for the purchase of the horse,

and then perhaps (because they were women) he would let them have it at a
more reasonable price. The maiden, when she heard these kindly words of
her beloved mother, was somewhat comforted, and as soon as the king was
gone elsewhere the queen straightway despatched a messenger to Livoretto,
bidding him to come at once to the palace and to bring his horse with him;
and he, when he heard the message thus delivered to him, rejoiced greatly,
and at once betook himself to the court. When he was come into the queen’s
presence, she forthwith asked him what price he demanded for the horse
which her daughter so much desired to possess, and he answered her in
these words: ‘Madam, if you were to offer to give me all you possess in the
world for my horse it could never become your daughter’s as a purchase,
but if it should please her to accept it as a gift, she can have it for nothing.
Before she takes it as a present, however, I had rather that she should make
trial of it, for it is so gentle and well-trained that it will allow anybody to
mount it without difficulty.’ With these words he got down from the saddle
and helped the princess to mount therein; whereupon she, holding the reins
in her hand, made it go here and there and managed it perfectly. But after a
little, when the princess had gone on the horse about a stone’s throw distant
from her mother, Livoretto sprang suddenly upon the crupper of the horse,
and struck his spurs deep into the flanks of the beast, and pricked it so
sharply that it went as quickly as if it had been a bird flying through the air.
The maiden, bewildered at this strange conduit, began to cry out: ‘You
wicked and disloyal traitor! Whither are you carrying me, you dog, and son
of a dog?’ However, all her cries and reproaches were to no purpose, for
there was no one near to give her aid or even to comfort her with a word.
It happened as they rode along that they came to the bank of a river,
and in passing this the maiden drew off from her finger a very beautiful ring
which she wore thereon, and cast it secretly into the water. And after they
had been for many days on their journey, they arrived at last at Cairo, and as
soon as Livoretto had come to the palace he immediately took the princess
and presented her to the sultan, who, when he saw how lovely and graceful
and pure she was, rejoiced greatly, and bade her welcome with all sorts of
kindly speeches. And after a while, when the hour for retiring to rest had
come, and the sultan had retired with the princess to a chamber as richly
adorned as it was beautiful in itself, the princess spake thus to the sultan:
‘Sire, do not dream that I will ever yield to your amorous wishes unless you
first command that wicked and rascally servant of yours to find my ring

which fell into the river as we journeyed hither. When he shall have
recovered it and brought it back to me you will see that I shall be ready to
comply with your desire.’ The sultan, who was by this time all on fire with
love for the deeply injured princess, could deny her nothing which might
please her; so he turned to Livoretto and bade him straightway set forth in
quest of the ring, threatening him that if he should fail in his task he should
be immediately put to death.
Livoretto, as soon as he heard the words of the sultan, perceived that
these were orders which must be carried out at once, and that he would put
himself in great danger by running counter to his master’s wishes; so he
went out of his presence deeply troubled, and betook himself to the stables,
where he wept long and bitterly, for he was altogether without hope that he
would ever be able to recover the princess’s ring. The fairy horse, when he
saw his master thus heavily stricken with grief and weeping so piteously,
asked him what evil could have come to him to make him shed such bitter
tears; and after Livoretto had told him the cause thereof, the horse thus
addressed his master: ‘Ah, my poor master! cease, I pray you, to talk in this
strain. Remember the words that the fish spake to you, and open your ears
to hear what I shall say, and take good heed to carry out everything as I
shall direct you. Go back to the sultan and ask him for all you may need for
your enterprise, and then set about it with a confident spirit, and have no
doubts.’ Livoretto therefore did exactly what the horse commanded him to
do, no more and no less; and, after having travelled for some time, came at
last to that particular spot where he had crossed the river with the princess,
and there he laid the three scales of the fish on the green turf of the bank.
Whereupon the fish, gliding through the bright and limpid stream, leaping
now to this side and now to that, swam up to where Livoretto stood with
every manifestation of joy and gladness, and, having brought out of his
mouth the rare and precious ring, he delivered it into Livoretto’s hand, and
when he had taken back his three scales he plunged beneath the water and
disappeared.
As soon as Livoretto had got the ring safely back, all his sorrow at
once gave place to gladness, and without any delay he took his way home to
Cairo, and when he had come into the sultan’s presence and had made
formal obeisance to him, he presented the ring to the princess. The sultan,
as soon as he saw that her wishes had been fulfilled by the restoration of the
precious ring she had desired so ardently, began to court her with the most

tender and amorous caresses and flattering speeches, hoping thereby to
induce her to lie with him that night; but all his supplications and wooings
were in vain, for the princess said to him: ‘Sir, do not think to deceive me
with your fine words and false speeches. I swear to you that you shall never
take your pleasure of me until that ruffian, that false rascal who entrapped
me with his horse and conveyed me hither, shall have brought me some of
the water of life.’ The sultan, who was anxious not to cross or contradict in
any way this lady of whom he was so much enamoured, but did all in his
power to please her, straightway summoned Livoretto, and bade him in a
severe tone to go forth and to bring back with him some of the water of life,
or to lose his head.
Livoretto, when he heard the impossible demand that was made upon
him, was terribly overcome with grief; moreover, the wrath which was
kindled in his heart burst out into a flame, and he complained bitterly that
the sultan should offer him so wretched a return as this for all the faithful
service he had given, and for all the heavy and prolonged fatigue he had
undergone, putting his own life the while in the most imminent danger. But
the sultan, burning with love, was in no mind to set aside the purpose he
had formed for satisfying the wishes of the lady he loved so much, and let it
be known that he would have the water of life found for her at any cost. So
when Livoretto went out of his master’s presence he betook himself, as was
his wont, to the stables, cursing his evil fortune and weeping bitterly all the
while. The horse, when he saw the heavy grief in which his master was, and
listened to his bitter lamentations, spake to him thus: ‘O my master! why do
you torment yourself in this fashion? Tell me if any fresh ill has happened
to you. Calm yourself as well as you can, and remember that a remedy is to
be found for every evil under the sun, except for death.’ And when the horse
had heard the reason of Livoretto’s bitter weeping, it comforted him with
gentle words, bidding him recall to memory what had been spoken to him
by the falcon which he had delivered from its frozen bonds of ice, and the
valuable gift of the two feathers. Whereupon the unhappy Livoretto, having
taken heed of all the horse said to him, mounted it and rode away. He
carried with him a small phial of glass, well sealed at the mouth, and this he
made fast to his girdle. Then he rode onward and onward till he came to the
spot where he had set the falcon at liberty, and there he planted the two
feathers in the bank of the river according to the direction he had received,
and suddenly the falcon appeared in the air and asked him what his need

might be. To this Livoretto answered that he wanted some of the water of
life; and the falcon, when he heard these words, cried out, ‘Alas, alas,
gentle knight! the thing you seek is impossible. You will never get it by
your own power, because the fountain from which it springs is always
guarded and narrowly watched by two savage lions and by two dragons,
who roar horribly day and night without ceasing, and mangle miserably and
devour all those who would approach the fountain to take of the water. But
now, as a recompense for the great service you once rendered me, take the
phial which hangs at your side, and fasten it under my right wing, and see
that you depart not from this place until I shall have returned.’
When Livoretto had done all this as the falcon had ordered, the bird
rose up from the earth with the phial attached to its wing, and flew away to
the region where was the fountain of the water of life, and, having secretly
filled the phial with the water, returned to the place where Livoretto was,
and gave to him the phial. Then he took up his two feathers and flew away
out of sight.
Livoretto, in great joy that he had indeed procured some of the
precious water, without making any more delay returned to Cairo in haste,
and, having arrived there, he presented himself to the sultan, who was
passing the time in pleasant converse with Bellisandra, his beloved lady.
The sultan took the water of life, and in high glee gave it to the princess,
and, as soon as she could call this precious fluid her own, he recommenced
his entreaties that she would, according to her promise, yield herself to his
pleasure. But she, firm as a strong tower beaten about by the raging winds,
declared that she would never consent to gratify his desire unless he should
first cut off with his own hands the head of that Livoretto who had been to
her the cause of so great shame and disaster. When the sultan heard this
savage demand of the cruel princess, he was in no degree moved to comply
with it, because it seemed to him a most shameful thing that, as a
recompense for all the great labours he had accomplished, Livoretto should
be thus cruelly bereft of life. But the treacherous and wicked princess,
resolutely determined to work her nefarious purpose, snatched up a naked
dagger, and with all the daring and violence of a man struck the youth in the
throat while the sultan was standing by, and, because there was no one
present with courage enough to give succour to the unhappy Livoretto, he
fell dead.

And not content with this cruel outrage, the bloody-minded girl hewed
off his head from his shoulders, and, having chopped his flesh into small
pieces, and torn up his nerves, and broken his hard bones and ground them
to a fine powder, she took a large bowl of copper, and little by little she
threw therein the pounded and cut-up flesh, compounding it with the bones
and the nerves as women of a household are wont to do when they make a
great pasty with a leavened crust thereto. And after all was well kneaded,
and the cut-up flesh thoroughly blended with the powdered bones and the
nerves, the princess fashioned out of the mixed-up mass the fine and
shapely image of a man, and this she sprinkled with the water of life out of
the phial, and straightway the young man was restored to life from death
more handsome and more graceful than he had ever been before.
The sultan, who felt the weight of his years heavy upon him, no sooner
saw this amazing feat and the great miracle which was wrought, than he
was struck with astonishment and stood as one confounded. Then he felt a
great longing to be made again a youth, so he begged Bellisandra to treat
him in the same way as she had treated Livoretto. Then the princess, who
tarried not a moment to obey this command of the sultan, took up the sharp
knife which was still wet with Livoretto’s blood, and, having seized him by
the throat with her left hand, held him fast while she dealt him a mortal
blow in the breast. Then she commanded the slaves to throw the body of the
sultan out of the window into the deep ditch which ran round the walls of
the palace, and thus, instead of being restored to youth as was Livoretto, he
became food for dogs after the miserable end he made.
After she had wrought this terrible deed the Princess Bellisandra was
greatly feared and reverenced by all in the city on account of the strange
and marvellous power that was in her, and when the news was brought to
her that the young man was a son of Dalfreno, King of Tunis, and that his
rightful name was Livoretto, she wrote a letter to the old father, giving him
therein a full account of all the amazing accidents which had befallen his
son, and begging him most urgently to come at once to Cairo in order that
he might be present at the nuptials of herself and Livoretto. And King
Dalfreno, when he heard this good news about his son—of whom no word
had been brought since he left Tunis with his brother—rejoiced greatly, and,
having put all his affairs in good order, betook himself to Cairo and was
welcomed by the whole city with the most distinguished marks of honour.
After the space of a few days Bellisandra and Livoretto were married

amidst the rejoicings of the whole people, and thus with the princess as his
lawful spouse, with sumptuous triumphs and feastings, and with the
happiest omens, Livoretto was made the Sultan of Cairo, where for many
years he governed his realm in peace and lived a life of pleasure and
tranquillity. Dalfreno tarried in Cairo a few days after the nuptials, and then
took leave of his son and daughter-in-law and returned to Tunis safe and
sound.
As soon as Arianna had come to the end of her interesting story, she
propounded her enigma forthwith, in order that the rule which governed the
entertainment might be strictly kept:
Small what though my compass be,
A mighty furnace gendered me.
The covering which round me clings,
Is what from marshy plain upsprings.
My soul, which should be free as air,
Is doomed a prisoner close to fare.
It is a liquor bland and sweet.
No jest is this which I repeat:
All silken are my festal clothes,
And man will put me to his nose,
To make me all my charms disclose.

All those assembled listened with the keenest attention to the
ingenious enigma set forth by Arianna, and they made her repeat it over and
over again, but not one of the whole company proved to have wit sharp
enough for the disentangling thereof. At last the fair Arianna gave the
solution in these words: “Ladies and gentlemen, my enigma is supposed to
describe a little flask of rose water, which has a body of glass born in a fiery
furnace. Its covering comes from the marshes, for it is made of straw, and
the soul which is contained within is the rose water. The gown or robe with
which it is surrounded is the vessel, and whosoever sees it puts it under his
nose to enjoy the odour thereof.”
As soon as Arianna had given the solution of her enigma, Lauretta,
who was seated next to her, remembered that it was her turn to speak.
Wherefore without waiting for any further command from the Signora she
thus began.

THE THIRD FABLE.

Biancabella, the daughter of Lamberico, Marquis of Monferrato, is
sent away by the stepmother of Ferrandino, King of Naples, in
order that she may be put to death; but the assassins only cut off
her hands and put out her eyes. Afterwards she, her hurts having
been healed by a snake, returns happily to Ferrandino.

It is praiseworthy, or even absolutely necessary, that a woman, of whatever
state or condition she may be, should bear herself with prudence in each
and every undertaking she may essay, for without prudence nothing will
bring itself to a commendable issue. And if a certain stepmother, of whom I
am about to tell you, had used it with due moderation when she plotted
wickedly to take another’s life, she would not herself have been cut off by
divine judgment in such fashion as I will now relate to you.
Once upon a time, now many years ago, there reigned in Monferrato a
marquis called Lamberico, very puissant, both on account of his lordships
and his great wealth, but wanting in children to carry on his name. He was,
forsooth, mighty anxious for progeny, but this bounty of heaven was denied
to him. Now one day it chanced that the marchioness his wife was walking
for her pleasure in the palace garden, and, being suddenly overcome by
sleep, she sat down at the foot of a tree and slumber fell upon her. While she
slept gently there crept up to her side a very small snake, which, having
passed stealthily under her clothes without arousing her by its presence,
made its way into her body, and by subtle windings penetrated even into her
womb, and there lay quiet. Before long time had elapsed the marchioness,
with no small pleasure to herself, and with the highest delight of all the
state, proved to be with child, and, when the season of her lying-in came,
she was delivered of a female child, round the neck of which there was
coiled three times something in the similitude of a serpent. When the
midwives, who were in attendance upon the marchioness, saw this, they
were much affrighted; but the snake, without causing any hurt whatsoever,

untwined itself from the infant’s neck, and, winding itself along the floor
and stretching itself out, made its way into the garden.
Now when the child had been duly cared for and clothed, the nurses
having washed it clean in a bath of clear water and swathed it in snow-
white linen, they began to see, little by little, that round about its neck was a
collar of gold, fashioned with the most subtle handiwork. So fine was it,
and so lovely, that it seemed to shed its lustre from between the skin and the
flesh, just as the most precious jewels are wont to shine out from a closure
of transparent crystal, and, moreover, it encircled the neck of the infant just
as many times as the little serpent had cast its folds thereabout. The little
girl, to whom, on account of her exceeding loveliness, the name of
Biancabella was given, grew up in such goodliness and beauty that it
seemed as if she must be sprung from divine and not from human stock.
When she had come to the age of ten years it chanced that one day she went
with her nurse upon a terrace, from whence she observed a fair garden full
of roses and all manner of other lovely flowers. Then, turning towards the
nurse who had her in charge, she demanded of her what garden that was
which she had never seen before. To this the nurse replied that it was a
place which her mother called her own garden, and one, moreover, in which
she was wont often to take her recreation. Then said the child to her: ‘I have
never seen anything so fair before, and I had fain go into it and walk there.’
Then the nurse, taking Biancabella by the hand, led her into the garden, and,
having suffered the child to go a little distance apart from her, she sat down
under the shade of a leafy beech-tree and settled herself to sleep, letting the
little girl take her pleasure the while in roaming about the garden.
Biancabella, who was altogether charmed with the loveliness of the place,
ran about, now here and now there, gathering flowers, and, at last, when she
felt somewhat tired, she sat down under the shadow of a tree. Now scarcely
had the child seated herself upon the ground when there appeared a little
snake, which crept up close to her side. Biancabella, as soon as she saw the
beast, was mightily alarmed, and was about to cry out, when the snake thus
addressed her: ‘Cry not, I beg you, neither disturb yourself, nor have any
fear, for know that I am your sister, born on the same day as yourself and at
the same birth, and that Samaritana is my name. And I now tell you that, if
you will be obedient to what I shall command you, I will make you happy
in your life; but if, on the other hand, you disobey me, you will come to be
the most luckless, the most wretched woman the world has ever yet seen.

Wherefore, go your way now, without fear of any sort, and to-morrow cause
to be brought into this garden two vessels, of which let one be filled with
pure milk, and the other with the finest water of roses. Then you must come
to me by yourself without companions.’
When the serpent was gone the little girl rose up from her seat and
went back to seek her nurse, whom she found still sleeping, and, having
aroused her, she returned with her to the palace without saying aught of
what had befallen her. And when the morrow had come Biancabella
chanced to be with her mother alone in the chamber, and the mother
remarked that the child bore upon her face a melancholy look. Whereupon
she said: ‘Biancabella, what ails you that you put on so discontented a face?
You are wont to be lively and merry enough, but now you seem all sad and
woebegone.’ To this Biancabella replied: ‘There is nothing amiss with me;
it is only that I want to have taken into the garden two vessels, of which one
shall be filled with pure milk and the other of the finest water of roses.’ The
mother answered: ‘And why do you let yourself be troubled by so small a
matter as this, my child? Do you not know that everything here belongs to
you?’ Then the marchioness caused to be brought to her two vessels, large
and beautiful, filled, the one with milk and the other with rose water, and
had them carried into the garden.
When the hour appointed by the serpent had come, Biancabella,
without taking any other damsel to bear her company, repaired to the
garden, and, having opened the door thereof, she went in and made fast the
entrance, and then seated herself upon the ground at the spot where the two
vessels had been placed. Almost as soon as she had sat down the serpent
appeared and came near her, and straightway commanded her to strip off all
her clothes, and then, naked as she was, to step into the vessel which was
filled with milk. When she had done this, the serpent twined itself about
her, thus bathing her body in every part with the white milk and licking her
all over with its tongue, rendering her pure and perfect in every part where,
peradventure, aught that was faulty might have been found. Next, having
bid her come out of the vessel of milk, the serpent made her enter the one
which was filled with rose water, whereupon all her limbs were scented
with odours so sweet and restorative that she felt as if she were filled with
fresh life. Then the serpent bade her put on her clothes once more, giving
her at the same time express command that she should hold her peace as to
what had befallen her, and to speak no word thereanent even to her father

and mother. For the serpent willed that no other woman in all the world
should be found to equal Biancabella in beauty or in grace. And finally,
after she had bestowed upon her every good quality, the serpent crept away
to its hiding-place.

When this was done Biancabella left the garden and returned to the
palace. Her mother, when she perceived how her daughter had become
more lovely and gracious than ever, and fairer than any other damsel in the
world, was astonished beyond measure and knew not what to say.
Wherefore she questioned the young girl as to what she had done to indue
herself with such surpassing loveliness; but Biancabella had no answer to
give her. Hereupon the marchioness took a comb and began to comb and
dress her daughter’s fair locks, and forthwith from the girl’s hair there fell
down pearls and all manner of precious stones, and when Biancabella went
to wash her hands roses and violets and lovely flowers of all sorts sprang up
around them, and the odours which arose from these were so sweet that it
seemed as if the place had indeed become an earthly paradise. Her mother,

when she saw this marvel, ran to find Lamberico her husband, and, full of
maternal pride, thus addressed him: ‘My lord, heaven has bestowed upon us
a daughter who is the sweetest, the loveliest, and the most exquisite work
nature ever produced. For besides the divine beauty and grace in her, which
is manifest to all eyes, pearls and gems and all other kinds of precious
stones fall from her hair, and—to name something yet more marvellous—
round about her white hands spring up roses and violets and all manner of
flowers which give out the sweetest odours to all those who may come near
her to wonder at the sight. All this I tell to you I assuredly would never have
believed had I not looked thereon with my own eyes.’
Her husband, who was of an unbelieving nature, was at first
disinclined to put faith in his wife’s words, and treated her speech as a
subject for laughter and ridicule, but she went on plying him without
ceasing with accounts of what she had witnessed, so that he determined to
see for himself how the matter really stood. Then, having made them bring
his daughter into his presence, he found about her even more marvellous
things than his wife had described, and on account of what he saw he
rejoiced exceedingly, and in his pride swore a great oath that there was in
the whole world no man worthy to be united to her in wedlock.
Very soon the fame and glory of the supreme and immortal beauty of
Biancabella began to spread itself through the whole world, and many kings
and princes and nobles came together from all parts in order to win her love
and favour and have her to wife, but not one of all these suitors was counted
worthy to enjoy her, inasmuch as each one of them proved to be lacking in
respect of one thing or another. But at last one day there came a-wooing
Ferrandino, King of Naples, who by his prowess and by his illustrious name
blazed out resplendent like the sun in the midst of the smaller luminaries,
and, having presented himself to the marquis, demanded of him the hand of
his daughter in marriage. The marquis, seeing that the suitor was seemly of
countenance, and well knit in person, and full of grace, besides being a
prince of great power and possessions and wealth, gave his consent to the
nuptials at once, and, having summoned his daughter, without further
parleying the two were betrothed by joining of hands and by kissing one
another.
Scarcely were the rites of betrothal completed, when Biancabella
called back to mind the words which her sister Samaritana had so lovingly

spoken to her, wherefore she withdrew herself from the presence of her
spouse under the pretext that she had certain business of her own to see to,
and, having gone to her own chamber, made fast the door thereof from
within, and then passed by a secret thoroughfare into the garden. When she
had come into the garden, she began to call upon Samaritana in a low voice.
But the serpent no more manifested herself as heretofore, and Biancabella,
when she perceived this, was mightily astonished, and, after she had
searched through every part of the garden without finding a trace of
Samaritana, a deep grief fell upon her, for she knew that this thing had
happened to her because she had not given due attention and obedience to
the commands which her sister had laid upon her. Wherefore, grieving and
bewailing heavily on account of the mischance that had befallen her, she
returned into her chamber, and having opened the door, she went to rejoin
her spouse, who had been waiting a long time for her, and sat down beside
him. When the marriage ceremonies were completed, Ferrandino led his
bride away with him to Naples, where, with sumptuous state and
magnificent festivities and the sound of trumpets, they were welcomed by
the whole city with the highest honour.
It happened that there was living at Naples Ferrandino’s stepmother,
who had two daughters of her own, both of them deformed and ugly; but,
notwithstanding this, she had set her heart on marrying one of them to the
king. But now, when all hope was taken from her of ever accomplishing this
design of hers, her rage and anger against Biancabella became so savage
that she could scarcely endure to look upon her. But she was careful to
conceal her animosity, feigning the while to hold Biancabella in all love and
affection. Now by a certain freak of fortune the King of Tunis at this time
began to set in array a mighty force of armed men for service by land and
likewise on sea, in order that he might incite Ferrandino to make war
(whether he did this because Ferrandino had won Biancabella to wife, or for
some other reason I know not), and at the head of a very powerful army he
had already passed the bounds of the kingdom of Naples. On this account it
was necessary that Ferrandino should straightway take up arms for the
defence of his realm, and hurry to the field to confront his foe. Therefore,
having settled his affairs, and made provision of all things necessary for
Biancabella (she being now with child), he gave her over to the care of his
stepmother and set forth with his army.

Ferrandino had not long departed when this malevolent and froward-
minded woman made a wicked design on Biancabella’s life, and, having
summoned into her presence certain retainers who were entirely devoted to
her, she charged them to conduct Biancabella with them to some place or
other—feigning that what they were doing was done for her recreation—
and that they should not leave her until they had taken her life. Moreover, in
order that she might be fully assured that they had discharged their duty,
they were to bring back to her some sign of Biancabella’s death. These
ruffians, prompt for any sort of ill-doing, at once prepared to carry out the
commands of their mistress, and making pretence of conducting
Biancabella to some place where she might recreate herself, they carried her
away into a wood, and forthwith began to make preparation to kill her. But
when they perceived how lovely she was, and gracious, they were moved to
pity and had not the heart to take her life. So they cut off both her hands and
tore her eyes out of her head, and these they carried back to the stepmother
as certain proofs that Biancabella had been killed by them. When this
impious and cruel woman saw what they brought in their hands, her joy and
satisfaction were unbounded, and, scheming still in her wicked heart to
carry out her nefarious designs, she spread through all the kingdom a report
that both her own daughters were dead, the one of a continued fever, and
the other of an imposthume of the heart, which had caused her death by
suffocation. Moreover, she went on to declare that Biancabella, disordered
by grief at the king’s departure, had miscarried of a child, and had likewise
been seized with a tertian fever which had wasted her so cruelly that there
was more cause to fear her death than to hope for her recovery. But the
scheme of this wicked cunning woman was to keep one of her own
daughters in the king’s bed, maintaining the while that she was Biancabella,
shrunken and distempered by the fever.
Ferrandino, after he had attacked and put to rout the army of his foe,
marched homeward in all the triumph of victory, hoping to find his beloved
Biancabella full of joy and happiness, but in lieu of this he found her (as he
believed) lying in bed shrivelled, pale, and disfigured. Then he went up to
the bed and gazed closely at her face, and was overcome with astonishment
when he looked upon the wreck she had become, and could hardly persuade
himself that the woman he saw there could really be Biancabella.
Afterwards he bade her attendants comb her hair, and, in place of the gems
and the precious jewels which were wont to fall from the fair locks of his

wife, there came forth great worms which had been feeding on the wretched
woman’s flesh, and from the hands there came forth, not the roses and the
sweet-smelling flowers which ever sprang up around Biancabella’s, but a
foulness and filth which caused a nauseous sickness to all who came near
her. But the wicked old stepmother kept on speaking words of consolation
to him, declaring that all this distemper sprang from nothing else than the
lengthened course of the ailment which possessed her.
In the meantime the ill-fated Biancabella, bereft of her hands and blind
in both her eyes, was left alone in that solitary place, and, finding herself in
such cruel affliction, she called over and over again upon her sister
Samaritana, beseeching her to come to her rescue; but no answer came to
her except from the resounding voice of Echo, who cried aloud through all
the place. And while the unhappy Biancabella was left in the agony of
despair, conscious that she was cut off from all human aid, there came into
the wood a venerable old man, kindly of aspect and no less kindly in his
heart. And he, when he listened to the sad and mournful voice which smote
upon his hearing, made his way step by step towards the place whence it
came, and stopped when he found there a blind lady with her hands cut off
who was bitterly mourning the sad fate which had overtaken her. When the
good old man looked upon her, and saw how sad was her condition, he
could not bear to leave her thus in this wilderness of broken trees and thorns
and brambles, but, overcome by the fatherly pity within him, he led her
home with him to his house, and gave her into the charge of his wife,
commanding her very strictly to take good care of the sufferer. Then he
turned towards his three daughters, who verily were as beautiful as three of
the brightest stars of heaven, and exhorted them earnestly to keep her
company, and to render to her continually any loving service she might
require, and to take care that she wanted for nothing. But the wife, who had
a hard heart, and none of the old man’s pity, was violently moved to anger
by these words of her husband, and, turning towards him, cried out:
‘Husband, what is this you would have us do with this woman, all blind and
maimed as she is? Doubtless she has been thus treated as a punishment for
her sins, and for no good behaviour.’ In reply to this speech the old man
spake in an angry tone: ‘You will carry out all the commands I give you. If
you should do aught else, you need not look to see me here again.’
It happened that while the unhappy Biancabella was left in charge of
the wife and the three daughters, conversing with them of various things,

and meditating over her own great misfortunes, she besought one of the
maidens to do her a favour and comb her hair a little. But when the mother
heard this she was much angered, forasmuch as she would not allow either
of her children to minister in any way to the unfortunate sufferer. But the
daughter’s heart was more given to pity than was her mother’s, and
moreover she called to mind what her father’s commands had been, and
was conscious of some subtle air of dignity and high breeding which
seemed to emanate from Biancabella as a token of her lofty estate. So she
straightway unfastened the apron from her waist, and, having spread it on
the floor beside Biancabella, began to comb her hair softly and carefully.
Scarcely had she passed the comb thrice through the blond tresses before
there fell out of them pearls and rubies and diamonds and all sorts of
precious stones. Now the mother, when she saw what had happened, was
seized with dread, and stood as one struck with amazement; moreover, the
great dislike which at first she had harboured towards Biancabella, now
gave way to a feeling of kindly affection. And when the old man had come
back to the house they all ran to embrace him, rejoicing with him greatly
over the stroke of good fortune which had come to deliver them from the
bitter poverty which had hitherto oppressed them. Then Biancabella asked
them to bring her a bucket of clear water, and bade them wash therewith her
face and her maimed arms, and from these, while all were standing by,
roses and violets and other flowers in great plenty fell down; whereupon
they all deemed she must be some divine personage, and no mortal woman.
Now after a season it came to pass that Biancabella felt a desire to
return to the spot where first the old man had found her. But he and his wife
and his daughters, seeing how great were the benefits they gathered from
her presence, loaded her with endearments, and besought her very earnestly
that she would on no account depart from them, bringing forward many
reasons why she should not carry out her wish. But she, having resolutely
made up her mind on this point, determined at all hazards to go away,
promising at the same time to return to them hereafter. The old man, when
he saw how firmly she was set on her departure, took her with him without
any further delay back to the place where he had come upon her. And when
they had reached this spot she gave directions to the old man that he should
depart and leave her, bidding him also to come back there when evening
should have fallen, in order that she might return with him to his house.

As soon as the old man had gone his way the ill-fated Biancabella
began to wander up and down the gloomy wood, calling loudly upon
Samaritana, so that her cries and lamentations rose up even to the high
heavens. But Samaritana, though she was all the while nigh to her sister,
and had never for one moment abandoned her, refused as yet to answer to
her call. Whereupon the wretched Biancabella, deeming that she was
scattering her words upon the heedless winds, cried out, ‘Alas! what further
concern have I in this world, seeing that I have been bereft of my eyes and
of my hands, and now at last all human help is denied to me.’ And as she
thus spoke there came upon her a sort of frenzy, which took away from her
all hope of deliverance from her present evil case, and urged her, in despair,
to lay hands upon her own life. But because there was at hand no means by
which she could put an end to her miserable being, she found her way to a
pool of water, which lay not far distant, in the mind there to drown herself.
But when she had come to the shore of the pool, and stood thereon ready to
cast herself down into the water, there sounded in her ears a voice like
thunder, saying: ‘Alas, alas, wretched one! keep back from self-murder, nor
desire to take your own life, which you ought to preserve for some better
end.’ Whereupon Biancabella, alarmed by this mighty voice, felt as it were
every one of her hairs standing erect on her head, but after a moment it
seemed to her that she knew the voice; so, having plucked up a little
courage, she said: ‘Who are you who wander about these woods,
proclaiming your presence to me by your kindly and pitiful words?’ Then
the same voice replied: ‘I am Samaritana, your sister, for whom you have
been calling so long and painfully.’ And Biancabella, when she listened to
these words, answered in a voice all broken by agonized sobs, and said:
‘Alas, my sister! come to my aid, I beseech you; and if at any past time I
have shown myself disregardful of your counsel, I pray you to pardon me.
Indeed I have erred, and I confess my fault, but my misdeed was the fruit of
my ignorance, and not of my wickedness; for be sure, if it had come from
wickedness, divine justice would not have suffered me, as the author of it,
so long to cumber the earth.’ Samaritana, when she heard her sister’s woes
set forth in this pitiful story, and witnessed the cruel wrongs that had been
done her, spake some comforting words, and then, having gathered divers
medicinal herbs of wonderful power and virtue, she spread these over the
places where Biancabella’s eyes had been. Then she brought to her sister
two hands, and having joined these on to the wounded wrists, at once made

them whole and sound again. And when she had wrought this marvellous
feat Samaritana threw off from herself the scaly skin of the serpent, and
stood revealed as a maiden of lovely aspect.
The sun had already begun to veil its glittering rays, and the evening
shadows were creeping around, when the old man with anxious hasty steps
returned to the wood, where he found Biancabella sitting beside a maiden
wellnigh as lovely as herself. And he gazed steadily into her beauteous face,
standing the while like to a man struck with wonder, and could scarcely
believe it was Biancabella he looked upon. But when he was sure it was
really she, he cried: ‘My daughter, were you not this morning blind and
bereft of your hands? How comes it that you have been thus speedily made
whole again?’ Biancabella answered him: ‘My cure has been worked, not
by anything I myself have done, but by the virtue and the kind ministering
of this my dear sister who sits here beside me.’ Whereupon both the sisters
arose from the place where they were seated, and rejoicing greatly they
went together with the old man to his house, where the wife and the three
daughters gave them a most loving and hospitable welcome.
It came to pass after the lapse of many days that Samaritana and
Biancabella, and the old man with his wife and his three daughters, left their
cottage and betook themselves to the city of Naples, purposing to dwell
there, and, when they had entered the city, they chanced to come upon a
vacant space hard by the palace of the king, where they determined to make
their resting-place. And when the dark night had fallen around them,
Samaritana took in her hand a twig of laurel and thrice struck the earth
therewith, uttering certain mystic words the while, and almost before the
sound of these words had ceased there sprang up forthwith before them a
palace, the most beautiful and sumptuous that ever was seen. The next
morning Ferrandino the king went early to look out of the window, and
when he beheld the rich and marvellous palace standing where there had
been nothing the night before, he was altogether overcome with
amazement, and called his wife and his stepmother to come and see it; but
these were greatly disturbed in mind at the sight thereof, for a boding came
upon them that some ill was about to befall them.
While Ferrandino was standing, scanning closely the palace before
him, and examining it in all parts, he lifted his eyes to a certain window,
and there, in the chamber inside, he beheld two ladies of a beauty more rich

and dazzling than the sun. And no sooner had his eyes fallen upon them
than he felt a tempest of passion rising in his heart, for he assuredly
recognized in one of them some similitude of that loveliness which had
once been Biancabella’s. And when he asked who they were, and from what
land they had come, the answer which was given him was that they were
two ladies who had been exiled from their home, and that they had
journeyed from Persia, with all their possessions, to take up their abode in
the noble city of Naples. When he heard this, Ferrandino sent a messenger
to inquire whether he would be doing them any pleasure in waiting upon
them, accompanied by the ladies of his court, to pay them a visit of
welcome, and to this gracious message they sent an answer, saying that it
would indeed be a very precious honour to be thus visited by him, but that it
would be more decorous and respectful if they, as subjects, should pay this
duty to him, than that he, as lord and king, should visit them.
Hereupon Ferrandino bade them summon the queen and the other
ladies of the court, and with these (although at first they refused to go,
being so greatly in fear of their impending ruin) he betook himself to the
palace of the two ladies, who, with all friendly signs of welcome and with
modest bearing, gave him the reception due to a highly honoured guest,
showing him the wide loggias, and the roomy halls, and the richly
ornamented chambers, the walls of which were lined with alabaster and fine
porphyry, while about them were to be seen on all sides carven figures
which looked like life. And when they had exhibited to the king all parts of
the sumptuous palace, the two fair young women approached Ferrandino
and besought him most gracefully that he would deign to come one day
with his queen and dine at their table. The king, whose heart was not hard
enough to remain unaffected by all he had seen, and who was gifted
moreover with a magnanimous and liberal spirit, graciously accepted the
invitation. And when he had tendered his thanks to the two ladies for the
noble welcome they had given him, he and the queen departed together and
returned to their own palace. When the day fixed for the banquet had come,
the king and the queen and the stepmother, clad in their royal robes and
accompanied by some of the ladies of the court, went to do honour to the
magnificent feast set out in the most sumptuous fashion. And after he had
given them water to wash their hands, the seneschal bade them conduct the
king and the queen to a table apart, set somewhat higher, but at the same
time near to the others, and having done this, he caused all the rest of the

guests to seat themselves according to their rank, and in this fashion they all
feasted merrily and joyfully together.
When the stately feast had come to an end and the tables had been
cleared, Samaritana rose from her seat, and turning towards the king and the
queen, spake thus: ‘Your majesties, in order that the time may not be
irksome to us, as it may if we sit here idle, let one or other of us propose
something in the way of diversion which will let us pass the day pleasantly.’
And when the guests heard what Samaritana said, they all agreed that she
had spoken well, but yet there was found no one bold enough to make such
a proposition as she had called for. Whereupon Samaritana, when she
perceived they were all silent, went on: ‘Since it appears that no one of this
company is prepared to put forward anything, I, with your majesty’s leave,
will bid come hither one of our own maidens, whose singing perchance will
give you no little pleasure.’ And having summoned the damsel, whose name
was Silveria, into the banqueting-room, Samaritana commanded her to take
a lyre in her hand and to sing thereto something in honour of the king which
should be worthy of their praise. And the damsel, obedient to her lady’s
command, took her lyre, and, having placed herself before the king, sang in
a soft and pleasant voice while she touched the resounding strings with the
plectrum, telling in her chant the story of Biancabella from beginning to
end, but not mentioning her by name. When the whole of the story had been
set forth, Samaritana again rose to her feet, and demanded of the king what
would be the fitting punishment, what torture would be cruel enough for
those who had put their hands to such an execrable crime. Then the
stepmother, who deemed that she might perchance get a release for her
misdeeds by a prompt and ready reply, did not wait for the king to give his
answer, but cried out in a bold and confident tone, ‘Surely to be cast into a
furnace heated red hot would be but a light punishment for the offences of
such a one.’ Then Samaritana, with her countenance all afire with
vengeance and anger, made answer to her: ‘Thou thyself art the very same
guilty and barbarous woman, through whose nefarious working all these
cruel wrongs have been done; and thou, wicked and accursed one, hast
condemned thyself to a righteous penalty out of thine own mouth.’ Then
Samaritana, turning towards the king with a look of joy upon her face, said
to him, ‘Behold! this is your Biancabella, this is the wife you loved so
dearly, this is she without whom you could not live.’ Then, to prove the
truth of her words, Samaritana gave the word to the three daughters of the

old man that they should forthwith, in the presence of the king, begin to
comb Biancabella’s fair and wavy hair, and scarcely had they begun when
(as has been told before) there fell out of her tresses many very precious
and exquisite jewels, and from her hands came forth roses exhaling the
sweet scents of morning, and all manner of odoriferous flowers. And for yet
greater certainty she pointed out to the king how the snow-white neck of
Biancabella was encircled by a fine chain of the most delicately wrought
gold, which grew naturally between the skin and the flesh, and shone out as
through the clearest crystal.
When the king perceived by these manifest and convincing signs that
she was indeed his own Biancabella, he began to weep for the joy he felt,
and to embrace her tenderly. But before he left that place he caused to be
heated hot a furnace, and into this he bade them cast the stepmother and her
two daughters. Thus their repentance for their crimes came too late, and
they made a miserable end to their lives. And after this the three daughters
of the old man were given honourably in marriage, and the King Ferrandino
with Biancabella and Samaritana lived long and happily, and when
Ferrandino died his son succeeded to his kingdom.
During the telling of Lauretta’s story divers of the listeners were
several times moved to tears, and, when she had brought it to an end, the
Signora bade her follow the example of those who had gone before her, and
set forth her enigma. Therefore she, not waiting for any further command,
gave it in the following words:
A proud and cruel maid I spied,
As through the flowery meads she hied.
Behind her trailed a lengthy train,
Upreared her head in high disdain.
And swiftly on her way she took,
And sharp her touch, and eke her look.
What though her tongue moves all around,
She utters neither voice nor sound.
She is long, and thin, and wise,
He can tell her name who tries.

All the company listened attentively to the enigma which Lauretta
gave to them in her sportive way, and she, when she saw there was little
likelihood that anyone would find the solution thereof, spake thus: “Dear
ladies, so as not to keep you any longer in suspense, or to weary yet more
your minds, which must needs be somewhat harassed on account of the

pathetic story I have just told you, I will tell you the answer straightway, if
such be your pleasure. The damsel I described therein is nothing else than
the serpent which, when it goes through the flowery meadows, keeps its
head erect and its tail trailing on the ground behind it, and frightens with its
sharp eye everyone who may happen to behold it.”
As soon as Lauretta had finished her speech everyone was much
astonished that the solution of the riddle had not been guessed by some one
or other. And when she had resumed her seat the Signora made a sign to
Alteria that she should tell them her fable, and she, having risen and made
obeisance to the Signora, began it forthwith.

THE FOURTH FABLE.
Fortunio, on account of an injury done to him by his supposed father
and mother, leaves them, and after much wandering, comes to a
wood, where he finds three animals, who do him good service.
Afterwards he goes to Polonia, where he gets to wife Doralice, the
king’s daughter, as a reward for his prowess.

There is a saying, very frequent in the mouths of common people, that it is
not seemly to jest at affliction nor to make a mock at the truth; forasmuch as
he who keeps his eyes and ears open, and holds his tongue, is not likely to
injure his fellows, and may hope himself to live in peace.
Once upon a time there lived in one of the remoter districts of
Lombardy a man called Bernio, who, although he was not over well
endowed with the gifts of fortune, was held to be in no way wanting with
respect to good qualities of head and heart. This man took to wife a worthy
and amiable woman named Alchia, who, though she chanced to be of low
origin, was nevertheless of good parts and exemplary conduct, and loved
her husband as dearly as any woman could. This married pair greatly
desired to have children, but such a gift of God was not granted to them,
peradventure for the reason that man often, in his ignorance, asks for those
things which would not be to his advantage. Now, forasmuch as this desire
for offspring still continued to possess them, and as fortune obstinately
refused to grant their prayer, they determined at last to adopt a child whom
they would nurture and treat in every way as if he were their own legitimate
son. So one morning early they betook themselves to a certain spot where
young children who had been cast off by their parents were often left, and,
having seen there one who appeared to them more seemly and attractive
than the rest, they took him home with them, and brought him up with the
utmost care and good governance. Now after a time it came to pass
(according to the good pleasure of Him who rules the universe and tempers
and modifies everything according to His will) that Alchia became with

child, and when her time of delivery was come, was brought to bed with a
boy who resembled his father exactly. On this account both father and
mother rejoiced exceedingly, and called their son by the name of Valentino.
The infant was well nurtured, and grew up strong and healthy and
well-mannered; moreover, he loved so dearly his brother—to whom the
name of Fortunio had been given—that he was inclined almost to fret
himself to death whenever they chanced to be separated the one from the
other. But the genius of discord, the foe of everything that is good,
becoming aware of their warm and loving friendship, and being able no
longer to suffer their good understanding to continue, one day interposed
between them, and worked her evil will so effectively that before long the
two friends began to taste her bitter fruits. Wherefore as they were sporting
together one day (after the manner of boys) they grew somewhat excited
over their game, and Valentino, who could not bear that Fortunio should get
any advantage over him in their play, became inflamed with violent anger,
and more than once called his companion a bastard and the son of a vile
woman. Fortunio, when he heard these words, was much astonished, and
perturbed as well, and turning to Valentino, he said to him, ‘And why am I a
bastard?’ In reply, Valentino, muttering angrily between his teeth, repeated
what he had already said, and even more. Whereupon Fortunio, greatly
grieved and disturbed in mind, gave over playing and went forthwith to his
so-called mother, and asked her whether he was in sooth the son of Bernio
and herself. Alchia answered that he was, and, having learned that Fortunio
had been insulted by Valentino, she rated the latter soundly, and declared
that she would give him heavy chastisement if he should repeat his offence.
But the words which Alchia had spoken roused fresh suspicion in Fortunio,
and made him wellnigh certain that he was not her legitimate son; indeed,
there often came upon him the desire to put her to the test, to see whether
she really was his mother or not, and thus discover the truth. In the end he
questioned and importuned her so closely that she acknowledged he was not
born of her, but that he had been adopted and brought up in their house for
the love of God and for the alleviation of the misfortune which had been
sent upon herself and her husband. These words were as so many dagger-
thrusts in the young man’s heart, piling up one sorrow upon another, and at
last his grief grew beyond endurance; but, seeing that he could not bring
himself to seek refuge from his trouble by a violent death, he determined to

depart from Bernio’s roof, and, in wandering up and down the world, to
seek a better fortune.
Alchia, when she perceived that Fortunio’s desire to quit the house
grew stronger every day, was greatly incensed against him, and, as she
found herself powerless to dissuade him from his purpose, she heaped all
sorts of curses upon him, praying that if ever he should venture upon the sea
he might be engulfed in the waves and swallowed up by the sirens, as ships
are often swallowed up by storms. Fortunio, driven on by a headlong access
of rage, took no heed of Alchia’s malediction, and, without saying any
further words of farewell, either to her or to Bernio, departed, and took his
way towards the east. He journeyed on, passing by marshes, by valleys, by
rocks, and all kinds of wild and desert spots, and at last, one day between
sext and none, he came upon a thick and densely-tangled forest, in the midst
of which, by strange chance, he found a wolf and an eagle and an ant, who
were engaged in a long and sharp contention over the body of a stag which
they had lately captured, without being able to agree as to how the venison
should be divided amongst themselves. When Fortunio came upon the three
animals they were in the midst of their stubborn dispute, and not one was
disposed in any way to yield to the others; but after a while they agreed that
this young man, who had thus unexpectedly come amongst them, should
adjudicate the matter in question, and assign to each one of them such part
of the spoil as he might deem most fitting. Then, when they had assented to
these preliminaries, and had promised that they would be satisfied with and
observe the terms of any award he might make, even though it might seem
to be unjust, Fortunio readily undertook the task, and after he had carefully
considered the case, he divided the prey amongst them in the following
manner. To the wolf, as to a voracious animal and one very handy with his
sharp teeth, he gave, as the guerdon of his toil in the chase, all the bones of
the deer and all the lean flesh. To the eagle, a rapacious fowl, but furnished
with no teeth, he gave the entrails, and all the fat lying round the lean parts
and the bones. To the provident and industrious ant, which had none of that
strength which nature had bestowed upon the wolf and the eagle, he gave
the soft brains as her share of reward for the labour she had undergone.
When the three animals understood the terms of this just and carefully-
considered decision, they were fully satisfied, and thanked Fortunio as well
as they could for the courtesy he had shown them.

Now these three animals held—and with justice—that, of all the vices,
ingratitude was the most reprehensible; so with one accord they insisted that
the young man should not depart until they should have fully rewarded him
for the great service he had done them. Wherefore the wolf, speaking first,
said: ‘My brother, I give you the power, if at any time the desire should
come upon you to be a wolf instead of a man, to become one forthwith,
merely by saying the words, “Would that I were a wolf!” At the same time
you will be able to return to your former shape whenever you may desire.’
And in like manner both the eagle and the ant endowed him with power to
take upon him their form and similitude.
Then Fortunio, rejoicing greatly at the potent virtues thus given to him,
and rendering to all three of the animals the warmest gratitude for their
boon, took his leave and wandered far abroad, until at last he came to
Polonia, a populous city of great renown, which was at that time under the
rule of Odescalco, a powerful and valorous sovereign, who had but one
child, a daughter called Doralice. Now the king was ambitious to find a
noble mate for this princess, and it chanced that, at the time when Fortunio
arrived in Polonia, he had proclaimed throughout his kingdom that a grand
tournament should be held in the city, and that the Princess Doralice should
be given in marriage to the man who should be the victor in the jousts. And
already many dukes and marquises and other powerful nobles had come
together from all parts to contend for this noble prize, and on the first day of
the tournament, which had already passed, the honours of the tilting were
borne off by a foul Saracen of hideous aspect and ungainly form, and with a
face as black as pitch. The king’s daughter, when she viewed the deformed
and unseemly figure of the conqueror of the day, was overwhelmed with
grief that fate should have awarded to such a one the victory in the joust,
and, burying her face, which was crimson with shame, in her tender delicate
hands, she wept and lamented sore, execrating her cruel and malignant
destiny, and begging that death might take her rather than that she should
become the wife of this misshapen barbarian. Fortunio, when he entered the
city gate, noted the festal array on all sides and the great concourse of
people about the streets, and when he learned the cause of all this
magnificent display he was straightway possessed with an ardent desire to
prove his valour by contending in the tournament, but when he came to
consider that he was lacking in all the apparel needful in such honourable
contests, his heart fell and heavy sorrow came over him. While he was in

this doleful mood it chanced that his steps led him past the palace of the
king, and raising his eyes from the ground he espied Doralice, the daughter
of the king, who was leaning out of one of the windows of her apartment.
She was surrounded by a group of lovely and highborn dames and maidens,
but she shone out amongst them all on account of her beauty, as the radiant
glorious sun shines out amidst the lesser lights of heaven.
By-and-by, when the dark night had fallen, and all the ladies of the
court had retired to their apartments, Doralice, restless and sad at heart,
betook herself alone to a small and exquisitely ornamented chamber and
gazed once more out into the night, and there below, as luck would have it,
was Fortunio. When the youth saw her standing solitary at the open
window, he was so overcome by the charms of her beauty that he forthwith
whispered to himself in an amorous sigh: ‘Ah! wherefore am I not an
eagle?’ Scarcely had these words issued from his lips when he found
himself transformed into an eagle, whereupon he flew at once into the
window of the chamber, and, having willed to become a man again, was
restored to his own shape. He went forward with a light and joyful air to
greet the princess, but she, as soon as she saw him, was filled with terror
and began to cry out in a loud voice, just as if she were being attacked and
torn by savage dogs. The king, who happened to be in an apartment not far
distant from his daughter’s, heard her cries of alarm and ran immediately to
seek the cause thereof, and, having heard from her that there was a young
man in the room, he at once ordered it to be searched in every part. But
nothing of the sort was found, because Fortunio had once more changed
himself into an eagle and had flown out of the window. Hardly, however,
had the father gone back to his chamber when the maiden began to cry
aloud just the same as before, because, forsooth, Fortunio had once more
come into her presence.
But Fortunio, when he again heard the terrified cries of the maiden,
began to fear for his life, and straightway changed himself into an ant, and
crept into hiding beneath the blond tresses of the lovely damsel’s hair.
Odescalco, hearing the loud outcries of his daughter, ran to her succour, but
when he found nothing more this second time than he had found before, he
was greatly incensed against her, and threatened her harshly that if she
should cry out again and disturb him he would play her some trick which
would not please her, and thus he left her with angry words, suspecting that
what had caused her trouble was some vision of one or other of the youths

who for love of her had met their deaths in the tournament. Fortunio
listened attentively to what the king said to his daughter, and, as soon as he
had left the apartment, once more put off the shape of an ant and stood
revealed in his own form. Doralice, who in the meanwhile had gone to bed,
was so terror-stricken when she saw him that she tried to spring from her
couch and to give the alarm, but she was not able to do this, because
Fortunio placed one of his hands on her lips, and thus spake: ‘Signora, fear
not that I have come here to despoil you of your honour, or to steal aught
that belongs to you. I am come rather to succour you to the best of my
power, and to proclaim myself your most humble servant. If you cry out,
one or other of two misfortunes will befall us, either your honour and fair
name will be tarnished, or you will be the cause of your death and of my
own. Therefore, dear lady of my heart, take care lest at the same time you
cast a stain upon your reputation and imperil the lives of us both.’
While Fortunio was thus speaking, Doralice was weeping bitterly, her
presence of mind being completely overthrown by this unexpected
declaration on his part, and the young man, when he perceived how
powerfully agitated she was, went on addressing her in words gentle and
persuasive enough to have melted the heart of a stone. At last, conquered by
his words and tender manner, she softened towards him, and consented to
let him make his peace with her. And after a little, when she saw how
handsome the youth was in face, and how strong and well knit in body and
limb, she fell a-thinking about the ugliness and deformity of the Saracen,
who, as the conqueror in the jousts, must before long be the master of her
person. While these thoughts were passing through her mind the young man
said to her: ‘Dear lady, if I had the fitting equipment, how willingly would I
enter the jousts to tilt on your behalf, and my heart tells me that, were I to
contend, I should surely conquer.’ Whereupon the damsel in reply said: ‘If
this, indeed, were to come to pass, if you should prove victorious in the
lists, I would give myself to you alone.’ And when she saw what a well-
disposed youth he was, and how ardent in her cause, she brought forth a
great quantity of gems and a heavy purse of gold, and bade him take them.
Fortunio accepted them with his heart full of joy, and inquired of her what
garb she wished him to wear in the lists to-morrow. And she bade him array
himself in white satin, and in this matter he did as she commanded him.
On the following day Fortunio, encased in polished armour, over
which he wore a surcoat of white satin richly embroidered with the finest

gold, and studded with jewels most delicately carven, rode into the piazza
unknown to anybody there present. He was mounted on a powerful and
fiery charger, which was caparisoned and decked in the same colours as its
rider. The crowd, which had already come together to witness the grand
spectacle of the tournament, no sooner caught sight of the gallant unknown
champion, with lance in hand all ready for the fray, than every person was
lost in wonderment at so brave a sight, and each one, gazing fixedly at
Fortunio, and astonished at his grace, began to inquire of his neighbour:
‘Ah! who can this knight be who rides so gallantly and splendidly arrayed
into the lists? Know you not what is his name?’ In the meantime Fortunio,
having entered the lists, called upon some rival to advance, and for the first
course the Saracen presented himself, whereupon the two champions,
keeping low the points of their trusty lances, rushed one upon the other like
two lions loosened from their bonds, and so shrewd was the stroke dealt by
Fortunio upon the head of the Saracen, that the latter was driven right over
the crupper of his horse, and fell dead upon the bare earth, mangled and
broken up as a fragile glass is broken when it is thrown against a wall. And
Fortunio ran his course just as victoriously in encountering every other
champion who ventured to oppose him in the lists. The damsel, when she
saw how the fortune of the day was going, was greatly rejoiced, and kept
her eyes steadily fixed on Fortunio in deepest admiration, and, thanking
God in her heart for having thus graciously delivered her from the bondage
of the Saracen, prayed to Him that this brave youth might be the final
victor.
When the night had come they bade Doralice come to supper with the
rest of the court; but to this bidding she made demur, and commanded them
bring her certain rich viands and delicate wines to her chamber, feigning
that she had not yet any desire for food, but would eat, perchance, later on if
any appetite should come upon her. Then, having locked herself in her
chamber and opened the window thereof, she watched with ardent desire
for the coming of her lover, and when he had gained admittance to the
chamber by the same means as he had used the previous day, they supped
joyfully together. Then Fortunio demanded of her in what fashion she
would that he should array himself for the morrow, and she made answer
that he must bear a badge of green satin all embroidered with the finest
thread of silver and gold, and that his horse should be caparisoned in like
manner. On the following morning Fortunio appeared, attired as Doralice

had directed, and, having duly presented himself in the piazza at the
appointed time, he entered the lists and proved himself again as valiant a
champion as he had proved to be on the day before. So great was the
admiration of the people of his prowess, that the shout went up with one
voice that he had worthily won the gracious princess for his bride.
On the evening of that day the princess, full of merriment and
happiness and joyous expectations, made the same pretext for absenting
herself from supper as she had made the day before, and, having locked the
door of her chamber, awaited there the coming of her lover, and supped
pleasantly with him. And when he asked her once more with what
vestments he should clothe himself on the following day, she answered that
she wished him to wear a surcoat of crimson satin, all worked and
embroidered with gold and pearls, and to see that the trappings of his horse
were made in the same fashion; adding that she herself would, on the
morrow, be clad in similar wise. ‘Lady,’ replied Fortunio, ‘if by any chance
I should tarry somewhat in making my entry into the lists, be not
astonished, for I shall not be late without good cause.’
When the morning of the third day had come, the spectators awaited
the issue of the momentous strife with the most earnest expectation, but, on
account of the inexhaustible valour of the gallant unknown champion, there
was no opponent found who dared to enter the lists against him, and he
himself for some hidden reason did not appear. After a time the spectators
began to grow impatient at his non-appearance, and injurious words were
dropped. Even Doralice herself was assailed by suspicions as to his worth,
although she had been warned by Fortunio himself that probably his coming
would be delayed; so, overcome by this hidden trouble of hers—concerning
which no one else knew anything—she wellnigh swooned with grief. At
last, when it was told to her that the unknown knight was advancing into the
piazza, her failing senses began to revive. Fortunio was clad in a rich and
sumptuous dress, and the trappings of his horse were of the finest cloth of
gold, all embroidered with shining rubies and emeralds and sapphires and
great pearls. When the people saw these they affirmed that the price of them
would be equal to a great kingdom, and when Fortunio came into the
piazza, every one cried out in a loud voice: ‘Long live the unknown
knight!’ and after this they all applauded vigorously and clapped their
hands. Then the jousting began, and Fortunio once more carried himself so
valiantly that he bore to earth all those who dared to oppose him, and in the

end was hailed as the victor in the tournament. And when he had
dismounted from his noble horse, the chief magnates and the wealthy
citizens of the town bore him aloft on their shoulders, and to the sound of
trumpets and all other kinds of musical instruments, and with loud shouts
which went up to the heavens, they carried him into the presence of the
king. When they had taken off his helmet and his shining armour the king
perceived what a seemly graceful youth he was, and, having called his
daughter into his presence, he betrothed them forthwith, and celebrated the
nuptials with the greatest pomp, keeping open table at the court for the
space of a month.
After Fortunio had lived for a certain space of time in loving dalliance
with his fair wife, he was seized one day with the thought that he was
playing the part of an unworthy sluggard in thus passing the days in
indolence, merely counting the hours as they sped by, after the manner of
foolish folk, and of those who consider not the duties of a man. Wherefore
he made up his mind to go afield into certain regions, where there might be
found due scope and recognition for his valour and enterprise; so, having
got ready a galley and taken a large treasure which his father-in-law had
given him, he embarked after taking leave of his wife and of King
Odescalco. He sailed away, wafted on by gentle and favourable breezes,
until he came into the Atlantic Ocean, but before he had gone more than ten
miles thereon, there arose from the waves the most beautiful Siren that ever
was seen, and singing softly, she began to swim towards the ship. Fortunio,
who was reclining by the side of the galley, bent his head low down over
the water to listen to her song, and straightway fell asleep, and, while he
thus slept, the Siren drew him gently from where he lay, and, bearing him in
her arms, sank with him headlong into the depths of the sea. The mariners,
after having vainly essayed to save him, broke out into loud lamentations
over his sad fate, and, weeping and mourning, they decked the galley with
black ensigns of grief, and returned to the unfortunate Odescalco to tell him
of the terrible mischance which had befallen them during their voyage. The
king and Doralice, when the sad news was brought to them, were
overwhelmed with the deepest grief—as indeed was everyone else in the
city—and all put on garments of mourning black.
Now at the time of Fortunio’s departure Doralice was with child, and
when the season of her delivery had come she gave birth to a beautiful boy,
who was delicately and carefully nurtured until he came to be two years of

age. At this time the sad and despairing Doralice, who had always brooded
over her unhappy fate in losing the company of her beloved husband, began
to abandon all hope of ever seeing him again; so she, like a brave and great-
souled woman, resolved to put her fortune to the test and go to seek for him
upon the deep, even though the king her father should not consent to let her
depart. So she caused to be set in order for her voyage an armed galley, well
fitted for such a purpose, and she took with her three apples, each one a
masterpiece of handicraft, of which one was fashioned out of golden
bronze, another of silver, and the last of the finest gold. Then, having taken
leave of her father the king, she embarked with her child on board the
galley, and sailed away before a prosperous wind into the open sea.
After the sad and woe-stricken lady had sailed a certain time over the
calm sea, she bade the sailors steer the ship forthwith towards the spot
where her husband had been carried off by the Siren, and this command
they immediately obeyed. And when the vessel had been brought to the
aforesaid spot, the child began to cry fretfully, and would in no wise be
pacified by his mother’s endearments; so she gave him the apple which was
made of golden bronze to appease him. While the child was thus sporting
with the apple, he was espied by the Siren, who, having come near to the
galley and lifted her head a little space out of the foaming waves, thus spake
to Doralice: ‘Lady, give me that apple, for I desire greatly to have it.’ But
the princess answered her that this thing could not be done, inasmuch as the
apple was her child’s plaything. ‘If you will consent to give it to me,’ the
Siren went on, ‘I will show you the husband you have lost as far as his
breast.’ Doralice, when she heard these words, at once took the apple from
the child and handed it courteously to the Siren, for she longed above all
things else to get sight of her beloved husband. The Siren was faithful to her
promise, and after a little time brought Fortunio to the surface of the sea and
showed him as far as the breast to Doralice, as a reward for the gift of the
apple, and then plunged with him once more into the depths of the ocean,
and disappeared from sight.
Doralice, who had naturally feasted her eyes upon the form of her
husband what time he was above the water, only felt the desire to see him
once more grow stronger after he was gone under again, and, not knowing
what to do or to say, she sought comfort in the caresses of her child, and
when the little one began to cry once more, the mother gave to it the silver
apple to soothe its fancy. Again the Siren was on the watch and espied the

silver apple in the child’s hand, and having raised her head above the
waves, begged Doralice to give her the apple, but the latter, shrugging her
shoulders, said that the apple served to divert the child, and could not be
spared. Whereupon the Siren said: ‘If only you will give me this apple,
which is far more beautiful than the other, I promise I will show you your
husband as far as his knees.’ Poor Doralice, who was now consumed with
desire to see her beloved husband again, put aside the satisfaction of the
child’s fancy, and, having taken away from him the silver apple, handed it
eagerly to the Siren, who, after she had once more brought Fortunio to the
surface and exhibited him to Doralice as far as his knees (according to her
promise), plunged again beneath the waves.
For a while the princess sat brooding in silent grief and suspense,
trying in vain to hit upon some plan by which she might rescue her husband
from his piteous fate, and at last she caught up her child in her arms and
tried to comfort herself with him and to still his weeping. The child,
mindful of the fair apple he had been playing with, continued to cry; so the
mother, to appease him, gave him at last the apple of fine gold. When the
covetous Siren, who was still watching the galley, saw this apple, and
perceived that it was much fairer than either of the others, she at once
demanded it as a gift from Doralice, and she begged so long and
persistently, and at last made a promise to the princess that, in return for the
gift of this apple, she would bring Fortunio once more into the light, and
show him from head to foot; so Doralice took the apple from the boy, in
spite of his chiding, and gave it to the Siren. Whereupon the latter, in order
to carry out her promise, came quite close to the galley, bearing Fortunio
upon her back, and having raised herself somewhat above the surface of the
water, showed the person of Fortunio from head to foot. Now, as soon as
Fortunio felt that he was quite clear of the water, and resting free upon the
back of the Siren, he was filled with great joy in his heart, and, without
hesitating for a moment, he cried out, ‘Ah! would that I were an eagle,’ and
scarcely had he ceased speaking when he was forthwith transformed into an
eagle, and, having poised himself for flight, he flew high above the sail
yards of the galley, from whence—all the shipmen looking on the while in
wonder—he descended into the ship and returned to his proper shape, and
kissed and embraced his wife and his child and all the sailors on the galley.
Then, all of them rejoicing at the rescue of Fortunio, they sailed back
to King Odescalco’s kingdom, and as soon as they entered the port they

began to play upon the trumpets and tabors and drums and all the other
musical instruments they had with them, so that the king, when he heard the
sound of these, was much astonished, and in the greatest suspense waited to
learn what might be the meaning thereof. And before very long time had
elapsed the herald came before him, and announced to the king how his
dear daughter, having rescued her husband from the Siren, had come back.
When they were disembarked from the galley, they all repaired to the royal
palace, where their return was celebrated by sumptuous banquets and
rejoicings. But after some days had passed, Fortunio betook himself for a
while to his old home, and there, after having transformed himself into a
wolf, he devoured Alchia, his adoptive mother, and Valentino her son, in
revenge for the injuries they had worked him. Then, after he had returned to
his rightful shape, he mounted his horse and rode back to his father-in-law’s
kingdom, where, with Doralice his dear wife, he lived in peace for many
years to the great delight of both of them.
As soon as Alteria had brought to an end her long and interesting story
the Signora bade her at once to set forth her enigma, and she, smiling
pleasantly, obeyed the command.
Far from this our land doth dwell
One who by turns is fair or fell;
Springing from a twofold root,
One part woman, one part brute.
Now like beauty’s fairest jewel,
Now a monster fierce and cruel.
Sweetest song on vocal breath,
To lead men down to shameful death.

Alteria’s most fitting and noteworthy enigma was answered in divers
fashion by the listeners, some giving one interpretation of it and some
another, but not one of them came upon its exact meaning. Therefore, when
the fair Alteria saw there was little chance of anyone finding the true
answer, she said: “Ladies and gentlemen, the real subject of my enigma is
the fascinating Siren who is fabled to dwell in the deep sea. She is very fair
to look upon, for her head and breast and body and arms are those of a
beautiful damsel, but all the rest of her form is scaly like a fish, and in her
nature she is cunning and cruel. She sings so sweetly that the mariners,
when they hear her song, are soothed to slumber, and while they sleep she
drowns them in the sea.” When the listeners heard this clever and subtle
solution given by Alteria, they praised it warmly with one accord, declaring

the while that it was most ingenious. And she, smiling with pleasure and
gratitude, rose from her chair and thanked them for their kindness in thus
lending their attention to her story. As soon as she had taken her seat, the
Signora made a sign to Eritrea to follow in the due order with her story, and
she, blushing like a morning rose, began it in these words.

THE FIFTH FABLE.

Isotta, the wife of Lucaferro Albani of Bergamo, devises how she may
trick Travaglino the cowherd of her brother Emilliano and thereby
show him to be a liar, but she loses her husband’s farm and returns
home worsted in her attempt, and bringing with her a bull’s head with
gilded horns.

So great is the strength of truth, our infallible guide, that, according to the
testimony of Holy Writ, it would be easier for heaven and earth to pass
away than for truth to fail. And so far-reaching a charter has truth, as is
written by all the wise men of the world, that she is ever the victor of time,
and time never victor over her. Like as oil, if it be poured in a vessel
together with water, will always rise to the top, so will truth always assert
herself over falsehood. Wherefore on this account let no one be amazed
over this prologue of mine, seeing that I have set it down, moved thereto by
the malignity of a wicked woman, who, deeming that she might, by the
means of her false allurements, lead on a young fellow to tell a lie, only
induced him to speak the plain truth to her own confusion, the which,
wicked woman as she was, she well merited. All this I propose to set before
you in this story of mine, which I hope, both as to time and place, will
prove more profitable than hurtful to all of you.
I will first tell my worthy hearers that in Bergamo, an ancient city of
Lombardy, there lived not a great time ago a man of wealth and standing
whose name was Pietromaria di Albani. To this man were born two sons, of
whom one was called Emilliano, and the other Lucaferro. He possessed also
two farms in a township not far removed, one of them known by the name
of Ghorem, and the other by that of Pedrench. The two brothers, that is to
say, Emilliano and Lucaferro, divided the farms between them by lot after
the death of Pietromaria their father, and Pedrench fell to the share of
Emilliano, and Ghorem to Lucaferro. Now Emilliano owned a very fine
flock of sheep, and a herd of lusty young bullocks, and likewise a second

herd of productive cows, and over the whole of these cattle one Travaglino
had charge as herdsman, a man of the most approved truth and loyalty, who,
however dear he held his life, would not have told a lie to save it, and who,
moreover, as a herdsman had not his equal in all the world. With his herd of
cows Travaglino kept several very fine bulls, amongst which there was one
especially beautiful in appearance, and so great a favourite was this bull
with Emilliano that he caused its horns to be gilded over with the finest
gold. And as often as Travaglino might go to Bergamo after his affairs,
Emilliano would never fail to question him as to the welfare of his favourite
bull with the gilded horns.
It happened one day that while Emilliano was entertaining and holding
converse with his brother Lucaferro and with divers other of his friends,
Travaglino came anigh the company and made a sign to Emilliano his
master that he wanted to speak with him. Whereupon the latter forthwith
withdrew from the presence of his brother and his friends, and, having gone
apart with Travaglino, held him there some long time in conversation. And
after this it would happen full often that Emilliano would do the like, and
leave his friends and family who might be about him, and betake himself
aside to confer with his herdsman; so that at last Lucaferro, his brother, lost
patience at such doings, and could endure them no longer. On one occasion,
therefore, hot with wrath and indignation, he spake to Emilliano in these
words: ‘Emilliano, I am astonished beyond measure at your behaviour, that
you make more account of this rascally cowherd of yours than you make of
your own brother and of your many trusted friends; because, forsooth, not
once, but a thousand times, if I may so express myself, you have gone away
from us when we were together in the piazza, or over our games, as if we
had been so many beasts only fit to be driven to the shambles, to go and
foregather with this lubberly ruffian of a Travaglino, your hireling, and to
have long converse with him, making believe that the affairs you had to
discuss with him were of the highest importance, while in fact nothing you
talked about mattered a single straw.’ To this Emilliano made answer:
‘Lucaferro, my good brother, there is surely no need for you to fly into so
hot a passion with me, while you heap all these injurious words upon poor
Travaglino, who, after all, is a very worthy young fellow, and one on whom
I set great store, both on account of his efficiency in his calling and for his
staunch loyalty towards myself; moreover, he has yet another and special
good quality, inasmuch as he would not, to gain all the wealth there is in the

world, speak a word which was not the truth. And furthermore he has many
other excellent traits on account of which I hold him in high esteem;
therefore there is no reason why you should be astonished at my fondness
for him, or that I should treat him kindly.’
This answer given by Emilliano only served to stir yet deeper his
brother’s bile, and they straightway began to bandy angry words from one
to the other, so that they narrowly escaped coming to blows. In the end
Lucaferro, on account of the high commendation pronounced by Emilliano
over Travaglino’s good qualities—the which is written above—thus spake:
‘You speak loud enough to-day of the efficiency, and the good faith, and the
truthfulness of this cowherd of yours, but I tell you that he is the most
bungling, the most disloyal loon in the world, as well as the biggest liar that
nature ever made. And moreover I will pledge myself to bring all this to
your notice, and to let you hear him tell a falsehood before your very face.’
After they had spent much time in wrangling, they ended by wagering their
respective farms over the question, settling the affair in this fashion,
namely, that if Travaglino should be proved to be a liar, the farm of
Emilliano should pass to Lucaferro; but if, on the other hand, he should be
found truthful, Emilliano should become the owner of Lucaferro’s. And
over this matter, having called in a notary, they caused to be drawn up a
legal instrument ratified by all the forms which are required in such cases.
After the brothers had parted one from the other, and after their wrath
and indignation had gone down somewhat, Lucaferro began to be sore
repentant of the wager he had made, and of the legal instrument he had
requested to be enacted under the seal of the notary. Wherefore he found
himself mightily troubled over the affair, and haunted by the fear lest at the
end of it he might find himself deprived of his farm, out of which alone he
had to find sustenance for himself and for his family. One day, when he was
in his house, his wife, whose name was Isotta, remarked that he was in a
very melancholy mood, and, not knowing the reason thereof, she said to
him: ‘Heigho, my good husband! what can be the matter with you that you
are so dismal and woebegone?’ And Lucaferro made answer to her: ‘Wife,
hold your tongue, for goodness sake, and do not heap any fresh trouble
upon me in addition to what I am plagued with already.’ Whereupon Isotta
began to be very curious to know what this trouble might be, and she plied
her husband so skilfully with questions that in the end he told her
everything. Then she said to him, with her face all radiant with joy and

satisfaction: ‘And is it really on account of this apprehension that you have
got into such a taking of fear and agitation? Keep up a good heart, for you
will see that I have wit enough in me to make this lout Travaglino tell to his
master’s face, not one lie, but a thousand.’ And Lucaferro, when he heard
these words, was much comforted.
Isotta, knowing perfectly well that the beautiful bull with the gilded
horns was an especial favourite of Emilliano, her brother-in-law,
determined, first of all, to lay out her lures in that direction. So, having
dressed herself after a fashion calculated to kindle a man’s desire, and
daintily painted her face, she took her way by herself out of Bergamo and
went to Pedrench, where was situated the farm of Emilliano, and, having
gone into the farmhouse, she found therein Travaglino, who was busy
making cheese and curds of butter-milk, and greeted him, saying:
‘Travaglino, my good fellow, you see I am come to pay you a visit, to take a
draught of milk and to eat some of your fine curds.’ ‘Indeed, I am very glad
to see you, my mistress,’ Travaglino replied, and, having made her sit down,
he began to get ready the table, and to place thereon his cheese of ewe’s
milk and divers other good cheer, to do the lady honour. And after a while
the youth, seeing her there all alone and very fair to look upon, was
somewhat taken aback, forasmuch as it was in no way her wont thus to visit
him, and could hardly persuade himself that she could be in truth Isotta, the
wife of his master’s brother. However, because he had often before seen her,
he did his best to please her and to pay her such honour as would have been
due to any lady, let her be whosoever she might.
After the meal was despatched and the table cleared, Isotta, observing
that Travaglino was about to go to his cheese-making and to strain his
whey, said to him: ‘Travaglino, my good fellow, I would fain lend you a
hand in making your cheese.’ And he answered her: ‘Yes, if it would please
you, signora.’ Then, without saying another word, she tucked up her sleeves
as far as her elbows, thus laying bare her fair, wanton, well-rounded arms,
which shone out as white as snow, and set to work with a will to help
Travaglino to make his cheese, letting him now and again get a peep at her
swelling bosom, where he might also see her breasts, which seemed as
round and firm as two fair globes. And, besides this, she artfully brought
her own rosy cheek mighty close to Travaglino’s face, so that occasionally
one touched the other. Now Travaglino, notwithstanding that he was only a
simple countryman and a cowherd, was by no means wanting in wit, and,

although he understood well enough from the looks and the demeanour of
the lady that she was fired by lecherous passion, he did nothing more in the
way of a return than beguile her by ordinary speech and glances, making
believe the while to wot nothing of making love. But Isotta, who began to
persuade herself that the young man was all on fire with love for her, felt
herself straightway so mightily inflamed with amorous desire towards him
that she could with difficulty hold herself within bounds. Although
Travaglino perceived well enough what was the drift of the lady’s
lascivious wishes, he did not dare to say a word to her thereanent, fearing
lest he might unduly trouble her and perhaps give offence. Wherefore the
lovesick dame, by way of making an end of Travaglino’s bashful dallying,
said to him: ‘Travaglino, what is the reason that you stand there so mum
and thoughtful, and do not venture to say a word to me? Peradventure there
has come into your head the wish to ask some favour of me. Take good care
and do not keep your desire a secret, whatever it may be, since by so doing
you will work an injury to yourself, and not me, seeing that I am completely
at your pleasure and wish.’ Travaglino, when he heard these words, put on a
more sprightly manner and made a pretence of being greatly wishful to
enjoy her. The besotted dame, when she saw that the young man at last gave
signs of being moved to amorous intent, determined that the time had come
to set about the business on which she was bent, so she spake to him thus:
‘Travaglino, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour, and, if you
should be churlish enough to refuse to grant it, I tell you plainly that it will
look as if you held very light the love I bear you; moreover, your refusal
will perchance be the cause of my ruin, or even of my death.’

To this speech Travaglino answered: ‘Signora, for the love I have for
you I am ready to devote my life and all I possess in the world to your
service, and if it should chance that you demand of me to carry out some
enterprise of great difficulty, nevertheless, on account of my own love and
of the love which you have shown for me, I will easily accomplish it.’ Then
Isotta, taking courage from these words of Travaglino, said: ‘If indeed you
are my friend, as I well believe you to be, I shall know full soon.’ ‘Lay what
command on me you will, signora,’ replied Travaglino, ‘and you will see
clearly enough whether I am your friend or not.’ ‘All that I want of you,’
said Isotta, ‘is the head of that bull of yours which has his horns gilded.
Give me this, and you may do with me what you please.’ Travaglino, when
he heard this request, was wellnigh overcome with amazement; but,
inflamed by the pricks of fleshly desire, and by the allurements of the
lustful woman before him, he made answer to her: ‘Signora, can it be that
this is all you want of me? You shall have, not only the head of the bull, but
the body as well; nay, I will hand over my own self into your keeping.’ And
after he had thus spoken, Travaglino plucked up heart and folded the lady in

his arms, and they together took part in the sweetest delights of love. When
this was done, Travaglino cut off the bull’s head, and, having put it in a
sack, handed it over to Isotta, who, well satisfied that she had accomplished
her purpose and got much pleasure and delight besides, made her way back
to her house, bearing with her more horns than farms in her sack.
Now Travaglino, as soon as the lady had taken her departure, began to
feel somewhat troubled in mind and to cast about for some excuse which he
might bring forward to his master when he should be called upon to account
for the death of the bull with the gilded horns, which was so greatly beloved
by Emilliano. While the wretched Travaglino was held by these torments of
his mind, knowing neither what to say or to do, it came into his head at last
to take a branch of one of the pruned trees which grew about, and to dress
this up with some of his own poor garments, and to make believe that it was
Emilliano. Then, standing before this scarecrow, he proposed to make trial
of what he should do and say when he should be brought face to face with
his master. Wherefore, after he had set up the tree branch thus bedizened in
a chamber of the house with his own cap on its head and with certain of his
garments upon its back, Travaglino went out from the chamber for a short
space of time, and then came back and entered, saluting the branch as he
went in, and saying, ‘Good day, my master!’ and then, making answer out
of his own mouth, he replied, ‘I am glad to see you, Travaglino. How do
you find yourself, and how are things going on at the farm? It is a long time
since I have seen anything of you.’ ‘I am very well,’ replied Travaglino, ‘but
I have been so busy of late that I have not been able to find time to come
and see you.’ ‘How did you leave the bull with the gilded horns?’ asked
Emilliano, and then Travaglino made as if he would answer: ‘Master, I have
to tell you that your favourite bull has been eaten of wolves while he was
straying in the woods.’ ‘Then where are his skin and his gilded horns?’
Emilliano inquired. And when he had come to this point poor Travaglino
could not hit upon any answer he could possibly give; so, wellnigh
overcome with grief, he left the chamber. After a little he came in again and
recommenced his discourse by saying, ‘God keep us all, good master!’
‘And you also, Travaglino,’ said Emilliano, ‘and how prosper things at the
farm? how is the bull with the gilded horns?’ ‘I am very well,’ said
Travaglino, ‘but one day lately the bull broke out of the yard, and having
fallen a-fighting with some of the other bulls, was so heavily mauled by
them that he died of his injuries straightway.’ ‘Then where are his skin and

his gilded horns?’ asked Emilliano. Whereupon Travaglino knew no better
what answer he should give to this question than before. Finally, having
gone through the same discourse several times, he had to give up the matter
in despair, through not being able to devise any reply which sounded at all
reasonable.
Now Isotta, as soon as she had returned to her house, said to her
husband: ‘What will that poor lout Travaglino do when he shall set about
excusing himself to Emilliano with regard to the death of that bull with the
gilded horns which was such a pet with his master? How will he clear
himself of such a trouble as this without telling a lie or two? See, here is the
head of the bull, which I have brought back with me to use as a testimony
against him when he shall begin with his false tales.’ But the dame said not
a word to her husband as to how she had made for his own benefit two fine
horns, bigger than those of a hart royal. Lucaferro, when he saw the bull’s
head, was overjoyed and could hardly contain himself for glee, making sure
that he would now win his wager, but the issue of the affair fell out in
mighty different fashion, as you will learn later on.
Travaglino, after he had essayed divers bouts of questions and answers
with his scarecrow man, discoursing just as if he were in conversation with
the master himself, and finding in the end that they none of them would
serve the end he had in view, made up his mind without further ado to go
and seek his master forthwith, no matter what might happen. Wherefore,
having set forth towards Bergamo, he presented himself before his master,
to whom he gave a hearty salute. Emilliano, after he had greeted his
herdsman in return, said to him, ‘And what business has been taking up all
your time and thoughts of late, Travaglino, that you have let so many days
pass without coming here or without letting us have any news of you?’
Travaglino replied, ‘Master, the many jobs I have had in hand have kept me
fully occupied.’ Then said Emilliano, ‘And how goes on my bull with the
gilded horns?’
When he heard these words, poor Travaglino was overcome with the
direst confusion, and his face flushed with shame as red as a burning
furnace, and he was fain to find some excuse for his fault and to hide the
truth. But in the end the fear of saying aught which might sully his honour
stood him in good stead, and made him take heart of grace and tell his
master the whole story from beginning to end: how Isotta had beguiled him,

and how his dealings with her had ensued in the death of the bull. Emilliano
was amazed beyond measure as he listened to this story, which, however
great his fault might have been, at least proved Travaglino to be a truthful
fellow and one of good character. So in the end Emilliano won the wager
with regard to the farm, and Lucaferro gained nothing but a pair of horns
for his own head, while his good-for-nothing wife Isotta, in trying to dupe
another, was finely duped herself, and got nothing but shame for her
trouble.
When this instructive fable was finished, every one of the worthy
company of listeners was loud in blame of the dissolute Isotta, and equally
loud in commendation of Travaglino, holding up to ridicule the silly loose-
minded woman, who had in such vile manner given herself away to a
herdsman, of which ill-doing the real cause was her innate and pestilential
avarice. And seeing that Eritrea had not as yet propounded her enigma, the
Signora, glancing at her, made a sign that she must not interrupt the
procedure they had followed so far. Whereupon Eritrea, without any farther
delay, gave her enigma:

I saw one day in fine spring weather,
A head and a breech full close together.
Another breech I likewise found
Squatting at ease upon the ground.
And one, as strong as any mule,
Stood quiet, subject to the rule
Of two, who in the head shone bright,
And looked with pleasure on the sight.
Meantime the head pressed closer still,
And ten there were who worked with will,
With dexterous grasp, now up, now down.
No prettier sight in all the town.

Though the ladies made merry enough over the fable, they held the
enigma to be no less of a jest. And, because there was not one of them who
seemed likely to be able to solve it, Eritrea spake as follows: “My enigma,
ladies and gentlemen, is intended to describe one who sits down under a
cow and sets to work to milk her. And for the same reason he who milks the
cow must keep his head close to the cow’s breech, and the milker, for his
good convenience, sits with his breech on the ground. She is very patient,
and is kept in restraint by one, namely, he who milks her, and is watched by
two eyes, and is stroked by two hands and the ten fingers, which draw from
her the milk.” This very clever enigma pleased them all mightily, as well as
the interpretation thereof; but, seeing that every star had now disappeared
from the heaven, save only a certain one which still shone in the whitening
dawn, the Signora gave order that every one of the company should depart
whithersoever he would, and take rest until the coming evening,
commanding at the same time that each one should duly appear again at the
appointed place under pain of her displeasure.

The End of the Third Night

Night the Fourth.

The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni
Francesco Straparola da Caravaggio.

Night the Fourth.

Already the golden-haired Apollo in his radiant chariot had sped away from
this hemisphere of ours, and, having sunk beyond the distant line of sea,
had betaken himself to the antipodes, and all those who had been labouring
in the fields, now weary with their hard toil, felt no desire for aught save to
repose quietly in their beds, when the worshipful and highborn company
assembled themselves joyfully once more in the accustomed spot. And after
the ladies and gentlemen had spent a short time in mirthful converse, the
Signora Lucretia, when silence had been restored, bade them bring forth the
golden vase. Then, having written with her own hand the names of five of
the ladies and cast them into the vase, she called to the Signor Vangelista
and directed him to draw out of the vase the names one by one, in order that
they might clearly know to which of their companions the duty of story-
telling on that same night would be assigned. Then Signor Vangelista, rising
from his seat and breaking off the pleasant discourse he was holding with
Lodovica, went obediently towards the Signora, and, having sunk down
upon his knees reverently at her feet, he put his hand in the vase and drew
out first the name of Fiordiana, then that of Vicenza, then that of Lodovica,
next that of Isabella, and last the name of Lionora. But before they made a
beginning of their story-telling the Signora gave the word to Molino and to
the Trevisan that they should take their lutes and sing a ballad. The two
gentlemen did not wait for any further command, but forthwith tuned their
instruments and sang to a joyous strain the following verse:
SONG.
There is a face which is my sun of love,
In whose kind warmth I breathe and move,
Or faint beneath its scorching ray;
And when it shines amongst the fairest fair,
My lady reigns beyond compare,
And all around her bend beneath her sway.

Happy, thrice happy, is that favoured one,

Who sees no face but hers alone,
And passion’s nectar eager sips,
Who listens to the music of her tongue,
More sweet than lay by seraphs sung,
In words that fall like jewels from her lips.

But happier still were I if she benign
Would place her lily hand in mine,
And mark me worthy such a prize to claim.
Dull clod of earth although I be,
Then should I full fruition see
Of every hope, and end of every aim.
The song was attentively listened to and warmly commended by every
one of the company. And when the Signora saw that it had come to an end
she directed Fiordiana, to whom had been assigned the first turn of story-
telling on this the fourth night, that she should begin hers straightway, and
follow the order which had been observed since the beginning of their
entertainment; and the damsel, who was no less eager to speak than the rest
of the company were to listen, thus began her fable.

THE FIRST FABLE.
Ricardo, King of Thebes, had four daughters, one of whom, having
become a wanderer and altered her name of Costanza to
Costanzo, arrived at the court of Cacco, King of Bettinia, who
took her to wife on account of the many worthy deeds wrought by
her.

I must first tell you, fair and gracious ladies, that the fable which Eritrea
told to us on the evening last past has brought me into so bashful a mood
that I feel but little in the humour to act the story-teller to-night.
Nevertheless, the sense of obedience I have for every command of the
Signora, and the respect I feel for the whole of this honourable and gracious
company, compels and encourages me to make trial with a certain story
which, though it assuredly will not be found as pleasing as the one recently
related by Eritrea, I will give you for what it is worth. You shall hear how a
certain damsel, endowed with a noble soul and high courage, one who in
the course of her noteworthy adventures was far better served by fortune
than by reason, held it preferable to become a servant than to fall into a base
manner of life; how, after enduring servitude for some time, she became the
wife of King Cacco, and lived content with her reward. All this will be set
forth to you in the story I am about to tell you.
In Egypt is situated the great and splendid city of Thebes, a place
richly ornamented with noble buildings, public as well as private, situated
in a country rich in cornfields growing white for the sickle, and favoured
with fresh water in abundance; abounding, moreover, in all those things
which go to make up a glorious city. In times long past this city was under
the rule of a king called by name Ricardo, a man profoundly wise, of great
knowledge, and of the highest valour. Now this monarch, desiring greatly to
have an heir to his kingdom, took to wife Valeriana, the daughter of
Marliano, King of Scotland, a lady who was, in truth, perfection itself, very
fair to look upon, and exceedingly gracious. Of her he begot three

daughters, who were gentle in their manners, full of grace, and fair as
rosebuds in the morning. Of these one was called Valentia, another
Dorothea, and the third Spinella. In the course of time it became manifest to
Ricardo that Valeriana his wife had come to that season of life when women
commonly cease from child-bearing, and that his three daughters were all of
them ripe for marriage, wherefore he determined forthwith to dispose of the
three princesses in honourable wedlock, and at the same time to divide his
kingdom into three parts, whereof he proposed to give one to each of his
daughters, only keeping for himself so much as he judged would suffice for
the entertainment of himself, and of his family, and of his court. And all
these plans he carried out as he had deliberated with himself, so that the
result of his project proved to be exactly what he had wished it to be.
In due time the three maidens were given in marriage to three powerful
kings, one to the King of Scardona, another to the King of the Goths, and
the third to the King of Scythia; and to each one of them was assigned, by
way of dowry, a third part of their father’s kingdom, Ricardo himself
keeping back only a very small portion thereof to serve to satisfy his vital
needs. And thus the good king, with Valeriana, his well-beloved wife, lived
righteously in peace and comfort. But it happened, after a few years had
passed, that the queen, of whom the king expected no further offspring,
proved to be with child, and at the end of her time was brought to bed with
a very beautiful little girl, whom the king welcomed with affection and
caresses as warm as he had given to the other three children. But the queen
was not so well pleased with this last infant, not, however, on account of
any dislike for the child herself, but because, seeing that the kingdom was
now divided into three parts and given away, she feared that there would be
no chance of furnishing this daughter with a dowry sufficient to win her a
marriage worthy of their state. She desired at the same time that the child
should receive the share due to a daughter of hers. But, having handed over
the child to the care of a very competent nurse, she gave strict command to
her to use the greatest care in her charge, to give the child good instruction,
and to train her in the gentle and praiseworthy manners and carriage which
become a fair and graceful maiden. The child, to whom the name of
Costanza was given, grew day by day more lovely and her manners more
engaging, nor could any subject from the most learned masters be brought
forward which she would not at once apprehend most readily. By the time
Costanza was twelve years of age she had already learned to embroider, to

sing, to dance, to play the lute, and to do every one of those feats which are
rightly held to mark a princess of rank. But, not content with these graces,
she gave herself also to the study of polite letters, which proved to be to her
so great a source of pleasure and delight that she would spend over them
not merely the day, but the night as well, striving always to find out the
exquisite beauties of the books she studied. And over and above all these
excellencies she mastered completely the art of war in learning how to
gentle horses, and to handle arms, and to run in the lists as if she had been a
strong and well-trained man-at-arms and not a damsel. In jousting, indeed,
she was so skilled that she ofttimes came out of the contest victorious, just
as if she had been one of those valorous knights who are held worthy of the
highest honour. Wherefore, on account of all these virtues, and on her own
account as well, Costanza was greatly loved by the king and the queen and
by all those around them, so that there seemed to be no limit to their
affection.
When Costanza had come to a marriageable age, the king her father,
finding that he had now neither the state nor the gold required to secure for
her a match with some potent sovereign equal to her merits, was greatly
troubled thereanent, and often took counsel with the queen concerning the
matter; but the prudent Valeriana, in whose sight the good qualities of their
child appeared to be so many and so great that no other lady in the land
could in any way be put on a level with her, was not disquieted at all, and
consoled the king with gentle and loving words, bidding him keep a light
heart, and not to doubt at all but that in the end some powerful sovereign,
fired with love by the many virtues of their daughter, would not disdain to
take her to wife, even though they might not be able to give her a dowry.
Before many months had passed the damsel was sought in marriage by
divers gallant gentlemen, amongst whom was Brunello, the son of the
Marquis of Vivien, whereupon the king and the queen called their daughter
to them into their chamber, and when they were all seated, the king spake
thus: ‘Costanza, my well-beloved child, the time is now come when it is
meet that you should be married, and we have found for you as a husband a
youth who ought to please your taste. He is no other than the son of the
Marquis of Vivien, our good friend and neighbour; his name is Brunello,
and he is a graceful seemly youth, the report of his valorous deeds having
spread already throughout the world. And moreover he asks of us nought
besides our own goodwill and your fair sweet self, upon which I put a value

exceeding that of all the pomp and treasure of the world. You must know
that, though you are the daughter of a king, yet I cannot, on account of my
poverty, find for you a more exalted alliance. Wherefore you must be
content with this establishment and conform to our wishes.’ The damsel,
who was very prudent and conscious that she was sprung from high lineage,
listened attentively to her father’s words, and, without wasting any time
over the matter, answered him as follows: ‘Sacred majesty, there is no need
that I should spend many words in replying to your honourable proposal,
but simply that I should speak as the question between us demands. And
first I desire to testify to you my gratitude, the warmest I can express, for all
the affection and benevolence you exhibit towards me in seeking to provide
me with a husband without any request from me. Next—speaking with all
submission and reverence—I do not purpose to let myself fall below the
race of my ancestors, who from all time have been famous and illustrious,
nor do I wish to debase the crown you wear by taking for a husband one
who is our inferior. You, my beloved father, have begotten four daughters,
of whom you have married three in the most honourable fashion to three
mighty kings, giving with them great store of gold and wide domains, but
you wish to dispose of me, who have ever been obedient to you and
observant of your precepts, in an ignoble alliance. Wherefore I tell you, to
end my speech, that I will never take a husband unless I can be mated, like
my three sisters, to a king of a rank that is my due.’ Shortly after this,
Costanza, shedding many tears the while, took leave of the king and queen,
and, having mounted a gallant horse, set forth from Thebes alone, and
determined to follow whatever road fortune might lay open to her feet.
While she was thus journeying at hazard she deemed it wise to change
her name, so in lieu of Costanza she called herself Costanzo, and donned a
man’s attire. She passed over many mountain ranges, and lakes, and
marshes, and saw many lands, and heard the tongues and took heed of the
ways and manners of certain races who live their lives after the fashion of
brutes rather than of men. At last, one day at the set of sun, she arrived at a
famed and celebrated city called Costanza, the capital of all the country
round, and at that time under the rule of Cacco, King of Bettinia. And,
having entered therein, she forthwith began to admire the superb palaces,
the straight roomy streets, the running water, the broad rivers, and the clear,
soft, trickling fountains. Then, when she had come near to the piazza, she
saw the spacious and lofty palace of the king, adorned with columns of the

finest marble and porphyry, and, having raised her eyes somewhat, she saw
the king, who was standing upon a gallery which commanded a view of the
whole piazza, and taking off her cap from her head she made him a
profound reverence. The king, when he perceived the fair and graceful
youth down below, had him called and brought into his presence, and as
soon as Costanzo stood before him he demanded from what country he had
come, and by what name he was called. The youth, with a smiling face,
gave answer that he had journeyed from Thebes, driven thence by envious
and deceitful fortune, and that Costanzo was his name. He declared,
moreover, that he desired greatly to attach himself to the service of some
gentleman of worth, pledging himself to serve any such lord with all the
faith and affection that good service merited. The king, who meantime was
mightily pleased with the appearance of the youth, said to him: ‘Seeing that
you bear the name of this my city, it is my pleasure that you tarry here in
my court with no other duty laid upon you than to attend to my person.’ The
youth, who desired no better office than this, first rendered to the king his
gratitude, and then joyfully accepted service under him as lord, offering at
the same time to hold himself ready to discharge any duty which might be
assigned to him.
So Costanza, in the guise of a man, entered into the service of the king,
and served him so well and gracefully that every one who came near him
was astonished beyond measure at his talents. And it chanced that the
queen, when she had well observed and considered the graceful bearing, the
pleasant manners, and the discreet behaviour of Costanzo, began to cast her
eyes more diligently upon him, until at last, so hotly did she grow inflamed
with love of him, neither by day nor by night did she turn her thoughts upon
any other. And so soft and so loving were the glances that she would
continually dart towards him, that not only a youth, but even the hardest
rock, or the unyielding diamond even, might well have been softened.
Wherefore the queen, being thus consumed with passion for Costanzo,
yearned for nothing else than that she might some day find occasion to
foregather with him alone. And before long it came to pass that chance gave
her the opportunity of conversing with him, so she straightway inquired of
him whether it would be agreeable to him to enter into her service, making
it known to him likewise that by serving her he would gain, over and above
the guerdon which she would give him, the approbation or even the
reverence and respect of all the court.

Costanzo perceived clearly enough that these words which came out of
the queen’s mouth sprang from no goodwill of hers for his advancement,
but from amorous passion. Knowing moreover that, being a woman like
herself, he could in no way satisfy the hot unbridled lust which prompted
them, with unclouded face he humbly made answer to her in these words:
‘Signora, so strong is the obligation of service which binds me to my lord
your husband, that it seems to me I should be working him a base injury
were I to withdraw myself from my obedience to his will. Therefore I pray
you to hold me excused, and to pardon me that I am not ready and willing at
once to take service with you, and to accept, as the reason of this my refusal
of your gracious offer, my resolve to serve my lord even unto death,
provided that it pleases him to retain me as his man.’ And, having taken
leave of the queen, he withdrew from her presence. The queen, who was
well aware that men do not fell to earth a hard oak-tree with a single stroke,
many and many a time after this made trial, with the deepest cunning and
art, to entice the youth to take service under her, but he, as constant and as
strong as a lofty tower beaten by the winds, was not to be moved. As soon
as the queen became conscious of this, the ardent burning love in her was
turned to mortal bitter hatred, so that she could no longer bear the sight of
him. And, having now grown anxious to work his destruction, she pondered
day and night how she might best set to work to clear him out of her path,
but she was in great dread of the king, for that he continued to hold the
youth in high favour.
In a certain district of the province of Bettinia there was to be found a
strange race of beings, in whom one half of the body, that is to say, the
upper part, was made after the fashion of a man, though they had ears like
those of animals, and horns as well. But in their lower parts they had
members resembling those of a rough shaggy goat, with a little tail, twisted
and curling, of the sort one sees upon a pig. These creatures were called
satyrs, and by their depredations they caused great loss and damage to the
villages and the farms and the people living in the country thereabout.
Wherefore the king desired greatly to have one of these satyrs taken alive
and delivered over into his keeping, but there was found no one about the
court with heart stout enough to undertake this adventure and capture a
satyr for the king. By sending him on an errand of this sort the queen hoped
to work Costanzo’s destruction, but the issue of the matter was not at all
what she desired, for in this case, as in many others, the would-be deceiver,

by the workings of divine providence and supreme justice, was cast under
the feet of the one she purposed to beguile.
The treacherous queen, being well aware of the king’s longing,
happened to be one day in converse with him concerning divers matters,
and, while they were thus debating, she said to him: ‘My lord, have you
never considered that Costanzo, your faithful and devoted servant, is strong
and vigorous enough in body, and daring and courageous enough in soul, to
go and capture for you one of these satyrs, and to bring him back to you
alive, without calling on anyone else to aid him. If the matter should fall out
in this wise, as I believe it would, you might easily make trial of it, and in
the course of an hour attain the wish of your heart, and Costanzo, as a brave
and valiant knight, would enjoy the honour of the deed, which would be
accounted to him for glory for ever.’ This speech of the cunning queen
pleased the king greatly, and he straightway bade them summon Costanzo
into his presence. When the youth appeared the king thus addressed him:
‘Costanzo, if indeed you love me, as you make show of doing, and as all
people believe, you will now carry out fully the wish I have in my heart,
and you yourself shall possess the glory of the fulfilling thereof. You are
surely aware that what I desire more than aught else in the world is to have
a satyr alive in my own keeping. Wherefore, seeing how strong and active
you are, I reckon there is no other man in all my kingdom so well fitted to
work my will in this affair as you; so, loving me as you do, you will not
refuse to carry out my will.’ The youth, who suspected not that this demand
sprang from aught else than the king’s desire, was anxious to give no cause
of vexation to the king, and with a cheerful and amiable face thus made
answer: ‘My lord, in this and in everything else you may command me.
However weak and imperfect my faculties may be, I will on no account
draw back from striving to fulfil your wishes, even though in the task I
should meet with my death. But, before I commit myself to this perilous
adventure, I beg you, my lord, that you will cause to be taken into the wood
where the satyrs abide a large vessel with a wide mouth of the same size as
those which the servants use in dressing smooth the shifts and other kinds
of body linen. And besides this I would have taken thither a large cask of
good white wine, the best that can be had and the strongest, together with
two bags full of the finest white bread.’ The king forthwith bade them get in
readiness everything which Costanzo had described, and Costanzo then
journeyed towards the wood in question. Having arrived there he took a

copper bucket and began to fill it with white wine drawn from the cask, and
this he poured into the other vessel which stood near by. Next he took some
of the bread, and, having broken it in pieces, he put these into the vessel full
of wine. This being done he climbed up into a thick-leaved tree which stood
hard by, and waited to see what might happen next.
Costanzo had not been long up in the tree before the satyrs, who had
smelt the odour of the fragrant wine, began to draw near to the vessel, and
having come close to it, each one swilled therefrom a good bellyful of wine,
greedy as the hungry wolves when they fall upon a fold of young lambs.
And after they had filled their stomachs and had taken enough, they lay
down to sleep, and so sound and deep was their slumber that all the noise in
the world would not have roused them. Then Costanzo, seeing that the time
for action had come, descended from the tree and went softly up to one of
the satyrs, whose hands and feet he bound fast with a cord he had brought
with him. Next, without making any noise, he laid him upon his horse and
carried him off. And while Costanzo was on his way back, with the satyr
tightly bound behind him, they came at the vesper hour to a village not far
from the city, and the creature, who by this time had recovered from the
effects of the wine, woke up and began to yawn as if he were rising from
his bed. Looking around him he perceived the father of a family, who with a
crowd around him was going to bury a dead child, weeping bitterly the
while, and the priest, who conduced the service, was singing. When he
looked upon this spectacle the satyr began to laugh mightily. Afterwards,
when they had entered the city and were come to the piazza, the satyr
beheld a great crowd of people who were staring open-mouthed at a poor
lad who had just mounted the gallows to be hanged by the executioner, and
the satyr laughed thereat even louder than he had laughed before. And
afterwards, when they were come to the palace, a great joy seized upon the
people standing by, and they all cried out ‘Costanzo! Costanzo!’ And the
satyr, when he heard this shouting, laughed louder than ever.
When Costanzo was conduced into the presence of the king and of the
queen and her ladies, he presented to the king the satyr, who thereupon
laughed again, and so loud and long was his laughter that all those that were
there present were not a little astonished. After this the king, seeing with
what diligence Costanzo had fulfilled his dearest wish, held him in as high
affection and esteem as ever lord extended to servant, but this humour of his
only added fresh griefs to the load which already lay upon the queen’s

heart; for that, having schemed to ruin Costanzo, she had done nothing but
exalt him to yet greater honour. Wherefore the wicked queen, not being able
to endure the sight of such great prosperity as had come to Costanzo,
devised yet another snare for him, which was this. She knew that the king
was wont to go every morning to the cell where the satyr was kept in hold,
and for his diversion would essay to make the creature talk, but as yet he
had in no wise succeeded in his efforts. Wherefore, having sought out the
king, she said to him: ‘Sire, you have betaken yourself over and over again
to the satyr’s cell, and you have wearied yourself in your endeavours to
induce him to talk with you in order that you might take diversion
therefrom, but the creature still shows no sign of speaking a word. Why,
therefore, should you further worry your brains over this affair, for you may
take it for certain that, if Costanzo were only willing, he could easily make
the satyr converse and answer questions.’
The king, when he listened to these words, straightway bade them
summon Costanzo into his presence, and when he came the king thus
addressed him: ‘Costanzo, I am well assured that you know how great is the
pleasure I get from the satyr you captured for me; nevertheless it irks me
greatly to find that he is dumb, and will never make any answer to the
words I say to him and the questions I put. If you would only do all that you
might, I am sure that you would be able to make him speak.’ ‘Sire,’
Costanzo replied, ‘that the satyr is dumb is no fault of mine; it is not the
office of a mortal, like me, to make him speak, but of a god. But if the
reason of his muteness comes not from any natural or accidental defect, but
from stubborn resolve to keep silence, I will do all that lies in my power to
make him open his mouth in speech.’ Then, having gone together to the
satyr’s prison, they gave him some dainty food, and some wine still better,
and called out to him, ‘Eat, Chiappino’ (for this was the name they had
given to the satyr). But the creature only stared at them without uttering a
word. Then they went on: ‘Come, Chiappino, tell us whether that capon and
that wine are to your taste;’ but still he was silent. Costanzo, perceiving how
obstinate the humour of the creature was, said, ‘So you will not answer me,
Chiappino. Let me tell you you are doing a very foolish thing, seeing that I
can if I will let you die of hunger here in prison.’ And at these words the
satyr shot a side-glance at Costanzo. After a little Costanzo went on:
‘Answer me, Chiappino; for if you speak to me (as I hope you will) I will
liberate you from this place.’ Then Chiappino, who had listened with

eagerness to all that had been said, answered, as soon as he heard speak of
liberation, ‘What will you of me?’ Costanzo then said, ‘Tell me, have you
eaten and drunk well?’ ‘Yes,’ said Chiappino. ‘Now I want you, of your
courtesy, to tell me,’ said Costanzo, ‘what thing it was that moved you to
laughter in the village street when we met with the body of the child on its
way to be buried?’ To this Chiappino answered, ‘I laughed, indeed, not at
the dead child, but at the so-called father, to whom the child in the coffin
was in fact no kin at all, and I laughed at the priest singing the office, who
was the real father,’ by which speech the satyr would have them understand
that the mother of the child had carried on an intrigue with the priest. Then
said Costanzo, ‘And now I want to know, my Chiappino, what it was that
made you laugh yet louder when we were come into the piazza?’ ‘I laughed
then,’ replied Chiappino, ‘to see a thousand or more thieves, who had
robbed the public purse of crowns by the million, who deserved a thousand
gibbets, standing in the piazza to feast their eyes on the sight of a poor
wretch led to the gallows, who, perchance, had merely pilfered ten florins
wherewith to buy bread for himself and his poor children. That was why I
laughed.’ Then said Costanzo, ‘And besides this, I beg you to tell me how it
was that, when we were come into the palace, you laughed longer and
louder than ever?’ ‘Ah, I beg you will not trouble me more at present,’ said
Chiappino, ‘but go your way and come back to-morrow, and then I will
answer you and tell you certain things of which perchance you have no
inkling.’ When Costanzo heard this, he said to the king, ‘Let us depart and
come back to-morrow, and hear what this thing may be.’ Whereupon the
king and Costanzo took their leave, and gave orders that Chiappino should
be given to eat and drink of the best, and that he should be allowed to
chatter as he would.
When the next day had come they both went to see Chiappino, and
they found him puffing and blowing like a great pig, and, having gone close
to him, cried out to him several times in a loud voice. But Chiappino, who
had well filled his belly, answered nought. Then Costanzo gave him a sharp
prick with a dart which he had with him, whereupon the satyr awoke and
stood up and demanded who was there. ‘Now get up, Chiappino,’ said
Costanzo, ‘and tell us that thing which yesterday you promised we should
hear, and say why you laughed so loud when we came to the palace?’ To
which question Chiappino made this reply: ‘For a reason which you ought
to understand better than I. It was, forsooth, at hearing them all shouting

“Costanzo! Costanzo!” while all the time you are Costanza.’ The king when
he heard this could in no wise comprehend what this saying of Chiappino’s
might mean; but Costanzo, who immediately recognized its import, in order
to keep him from speaking more, at once stopped the way for him[25] by
saying: ‘And when you had been brought into the very presence of the king
and queen, what made you laugh then as if nothing could stop you?’ To this
Chiappino made answer: ‘I laughed then so outrageously because the king,
and you as well, believed that the maidens who were in service on the
queen were really maidens, whereas the greater part of them were young
men.’ And then he was silent.
When the king heard these words he knew not what to think, but he
said nothing; and, having left the wild satyr, he went out with Costanzo,
wishing to learn clearly what might be the meaning of what he had heard.
And after he had made due inquiry he found that Costanzo was in truth a
woman, and not a youth, and that the supposed damsels about the queen
were sprightly young men, as Chiappino had said. And straightway the king
bade them light a great fire in the middle of the piazza, and into it, in the
presence of all the people, he caused to be cast the queen and all her
paramours. And, bearing in mind the praiseworthy loyalty and the open
faithfulness of Costanza, and marking moreover her exceeding beauty, the
king made her his wife in the presence of all his barons and knights. When
he knew who her parents were, he greatly rejoiced, and forthwith
despatched ambassadors to King Ricardo and to Valeriana his wife, and to
the three sisters of Costanza, to tell them how she was now the wife of a
king; whereupon they all felt the joy due to such good news. Thus the noble
Costanza, in recompense for the faithful service she rendered, became a
queen and lived long with Cacco her husband.
When Fiordiana had brought her fable to an end, the Signora made a
sign to her to give her enigma. The damsel, who was somewhat haughty,
rather by chance than by nature, set it forth in the following words:
Over savage lions twain
A spirit soft and mild doth reign.
By her side four damsels move,
Prudence, Valour, Faith, and Love.
She bears a sword in her right hand;
Before it calm the righteous stand,
But wicked men and souls unjust
It smites and lays them in the dust.

Discord nor wrong with her may rest,
And he who loves her wins the best.
This clever enigma set forth by Fiordiana, who indeed was a damsel of
subtle mind, won the praise of all, and some found its meaning to be one
thing, and some another. But there was no one of all the company who
rightly divined it, seeing that all their solutions were far wide of the true
one. When Fiordiana saw this she said in a lively tone, “Ladies and
gentlemen, I see you are troubling yourselves in vain, seeing that my
enigma means nothing else than that infinite and equal justice which like a
gentle spirit rules and restrains both the hungry, savage lions, and likewise
the proud, unconquerable spirit of man. More than that, justice makes
steadfast her faith, holding in her right hand a sharp sword, and
accompanied always by four virgins, Prudence, Charity, Fortitude, and
Faith. She is gentle and kind to the good, and severe and bitter to the
perverse and bad.” When Fiordiana ceased speaking, the listeners were
greatly pleased with the interpretation of her enigma. Then the Signora bade
the gracious Vicenza to follow in her turn with a fable, and she, eager to
obey this command, spake as follows.

THE SECOND FABLE.
Erminione Glaucio, an Athenian, takes to wife Filenia Centurione,
and, having become jealous of her, accuses her before the
tribunal, but by the help of Hippolito, her lover, she is acquitted
and Erminione punished.

Of a truth, gracious ladies, there would be in all the world no condition
more sweet, more delightful, or more happy than the service of love, were it
not for that bitter fruit which springs from sudden jealousy, the foe which
drives away gentle Cupid, the betrayer of kindly ladies, the foe who day and
night tries to compass their death. Wherefore there comes into my
recollection a fable which ought to be received by you with some
satisfaction, seeing that from it you will be able readily to understand the
hard and piteous fate which befell a gentleman of Athens, who, because of
his impotent jealousy, sought the taking off of his wife by the sword of
justice, but was instead condemned himself, and met his death thereby.
Which judgment ought to please you, because, if I am not greatly in error,
you are yourselves all of you more or less in love.
In Athens, the most ancient city of Greece, and one which was in times
past the veritable home and resort of all learning, though now, through her
flighty vanity, entirely ruined and overthrown, there resided once upon a
time a gentleman named Messer Erminione Glaucio, a man of much
consideration and repute in the city, rich in purse, but at the same time of
mean intelligence. Now it chanced that when he was an old man, finding
himself without progeny, he made up his mind to marry, and took to wife a
damsel named Filenia, daughter of Messer Cesarino Centurione, of noble
descent and gifted with marvellous beauty and with good qualities out of
number. In short, there was in all the city no other maiden who was her
equal. And, forasmuch as he was greatly in fear lest his wife, on account of
her marvellous beauty, should be courted by divers of the gallants of the
city, and perhaps give occasion for some disgraceful scandal, through which

the finger of scorn might be pointed at him, he resolved to restrain her in a
certain lofty tower of his palace, out of sight of all passers-by. And before
long it happened that the wretched old dotard, without knowing why, let his
jealousy rise to such a pitch that he mistrusted even himself.
There was residing in the city at this time a certain scholar of Crete,
young in years, but very discreet, and greatly loved and esteemed by all
who knew him on account of his amiability and grace. The name of this
youth was Hippolito, and before Filenia was married he had paid suit to her,
and, besides this, he was on intimate terms with Messer Erminione, who
held him as dear as if he had been his own son. At a certain time during his
scholar’s course he found himself somewhat disinclined for study; so,
desiring to recruit his spirits, he took his departure from Athens, and having
gone into Crete, he sojourned there for a time, to discover on his return that
Filenia was married. On this account he fell into an access of melancholy,
and he grieved the more because he was now deprived of all hope of seeing
her at his pleasure, nor could he endure to remember that a maiden so
lovely and graceful should be bound in marriage to a toothless, slobbering
old man.
Wherefore the love-stricken Hippolito, finding himself no longer able
to endure the burning pricks and the sharp arrows of love, set himself to
find out some method, some hidden way by which he might enjoy the
fulfilment of his desires. And after he had well considered the many
schemes which presented themselves to him, he fixed at last upon a certain
one which appeared to him the most fitting. To put this in execution he first
betook himself to the shop of a carpenter, his neighbour, where he ordered
to be made two chests of the same length and breadth and width, and of the
same measure and quality, so that no one would be able to distinguish the
one from the other. This done, he repaired to Messer Erminione’s house,
and, making pretence of wanting something of him, spake in cunning wise
the following words: ‘Messer Erminione, you know well enough that I love
and reverence you as if you were my own father, and for my part if I were
not well convinced of your affection for myself, I would never dare, with
such assurance as I now use, to beg any favour of you; but, seeing that I
have ever found you well disposed to me, I am wellnigh certain that I shall
now get from you that service which my heart so greatly desires. It happens
that I am constrained to leave Athens and to go to the city of Frenna to
expedite some very important matters of business, and I must remain there

until such time as these shall be completed. And because I have no one
about me whom I can fully trust, seeing that I am served only by menials
and hirelings, of whom I am in no way well assured, I would fain that you
hold in charge for me—provided that it be your pleasure so to do—a certain
chest of mine full of articles of value which I happen to possess.’ Messer
Erminione, suspecting nought of the craft of the young scholar, made
answer to him that he was well content to grant this favour, and that for
greater security the chest should be deposited and kept in the same chamber
in which he slept. On hearing this reply the scholar returned to Messer
Erminione his thanks, the warmest he knew how to render, promising the
while to keep in mind the memory of this great favour done to him as long
as he should live. Then he begged the old man to do him the honour to go
with him as far as his own dwelling, in order that he might exhibit to him
the various articles which he had stored in the chest. Wherefore the two,
having gone together to the house of Hippolito, the latter pointed out a chest
filled with rich garments and jewels and necklaces of no small value, and
then, having summoned a certain one of his servants and presented him to
Messer Erminione, he said: ‘If at any time, Messer Erminione, this my
servant should be seeing after the removal of my chest, you can trust him to
the full as if he were my own self.’ And when Messer Erminione had taken
his departure Hippolito hid himself in the other chest, which was exactly
like the one filled with garments and jewels, and having fastened it from the
inside, he bade his servant carry it to a certain place he knew of. The
servant, who was privy to the affair, obedient to his master’s order called a
porter, and having lifted the burden on the man’s back, ordered him to bear
it to the tower in which was situated the chamber where Messer Erminione
slept every night with his young wife.
Messer Erminione, being one of the chiefs of the city and a man of
wealth and influence, it fell to his lot, on account of the worshipful state he
filled, to go for a certain space of time to a place called Porto Pireo, distant
about twenty stadi from the city of Athens, and there to compose certain
suits and strifes which had arisen between the townsmen and the peasants
round about—albeit he found this errand but little to his taste. Wherefore,
when Messer Erminione had gone his way, tormented as ever by the
jealousy which day and night weighed upon him, the youth, shut up in the
chest which now stood in Madonna Filenia’s bedroom, was waiting for the
favourable moment. More than once had he heard the fair dame weeping

and sighing as she bemoaned her hard lot, and the place and the hour which
had seen her given in marriage to a miserable old man who had proved to
be the ruin of her life. And when it seemed to him that she was in her first
sleep, he got out of the chest, and, having gone to the bedside, said in a soft
voice: ‘Awake, my soul! for I, your Hippolito, am here.’ And when she was
fully aroused, and saw him and knew who he was (for there was a candle
burning in the chamber), she was inclined to cry out; but the young man,
putting his hand upon her lips, would not allow this, and thus addressed her
in a voice full of agitation: ‘Be silent, heart of mine! do you not see that I
am Hippolito, your faithful lover? Of a truth I cannot live apart from you.’
The fair young woman was somewhat comforted by these words, and by the
time she had found the opportunity for comparing the worth of her old
husband with the youthful Hippolito, she was by no means ill-satisfied with
the turn things had taken, and lay all night with her lover, spending the time
in loving conversation and railing at the impotent ways of her doltish
husband. Before they parted they agreed together to meet again in like
manner, and when the morning began to dawn the youth got back into his
chest, and every evening would issue therefrom and spend the night with
the lady.
Now, after a good many days had elapsed, Messer Erminione, giving
the business good speed both on account of the discomfort he himself
suffered and of the rabid jealousy which never ceased to torment him, put
an end to all the disputes he had been called upon to settle, and went back to
his home. The servant of Hippolito, as soon as he heard the news of Messer
Erminione’s return, went without losing time to his house, and, according to
the agreement which had been settled, demanded of him in the name of his
master Hippolito the return of the chest, and this Messer Erminione gave up
to him without a word of demur. Wherefore, having summoned a porter, the
servant caused the chest to be conveyed home. Then Hippolito, having
come out of his hiding-place, went forthwith to the piazza, where he met
with Messer Erminione, and after he had embraced him, he thanked him
most courteously in the warmest terms he could find for the great kindness
he had received, and at the same time declared that he himself and all that
he possessed should ever be ready at Messer Erminione’s service.
It chanced that on a certain morning Messer Erminione remained in
bed with his wife somewhat later than was his wont, and, lifting up his eyes,
he remarked upon the wall and high above his head certain stains which

looked as if they had been caused by someone spitting thereon. Wherefore
his inveterate jealousy began once more to trouble him, and he was mightily
amazed at what he saw, and began to turn it over in his mind in such wise
that, after he had well considered the matter, he could not bring himself to
believe that the marks on the wall in question were any work of his. Then,
with strong apprehension as to their meaning, he turned to his wife and with
an angry troubled face demanded of her: ‘What have you to say about those
spit marks high up on the wall there? I am well assured they were never
made by me, for I never spat up there in my life. I strongly suspect that you
have betrayed my honour.’ Filenia, laughing the while at this speech, thus
answered him: ‘Is there no other charge you would like to bring against
me?’ Messer Erminione, when he saw her begin to laugh, grew more
infuriated than ever, and said: ‘Ah, you laugh, do you, wicked woman that
you are? Now, tell me quickly what it is that makes you laugh.’ ‘I am
laughing,’ answered Filenia, ‘at your own foolishness.’ At these words
Messer Erminione began to chafe with rage,[26] and, being anxious to make
trial of his own powers and to see whether he could spit so high, with much
coughing and gasping he strained with all his might to reach the mark on
the wall by his spitting, but he wearied himself in vain, for the spittle
always fell down again and lighted upon his visage, plastering him thickly
with filth. And after the wretched old man had made this trial many times,
he found that he only got in worse case every turn. So, by the light of this
experience, he persuaded himself that his wife had assuredly played him
false, and, turning to her, he began to assail her with the most rascally
words that could be applied to a guilty woman, and, if he had not been in
fear of the law and of his own neck, he would surely have slain her then and
there with his own hands, but he managed to restrain himself, deeming it
better to deal with her by legal process than to stain his hands in her blood.
Not satisfied with the rating he had already given her, he betook himself,
full of wrath and anger, to the tribunal, where he preferred before the judge
a charge of adultery against his wife. But, seeing that it lay not within the
power of the judge to pronounce condemnation upon her unless the legal
statutes should have been duly observed, he ordered Filenia to be brought
before him in order that he might narrowly examine her.
Now, there was in Athens a law, which was held in the highest
reverence, providing that any woman who might be charged by her husband
with adultery should be placed at the foot of a certain red column, round

which was entwined a serpent, and there make oath whether or not the
accusation of adultery brought against her were true. And after she had
taken the oath she was required forthwith to put her hand in the serpent’s
mouth, and then, if she should have sworn falsely, the serpent would at once
bite off her hand; otherwise, she received no injury. Hippolito, who had
already heard rumours of this charge before the tribunal, and that the judge
had sent to fetch Filenia to put her on her defence, being a youth of resource
at once took action to see that she should not run into the snares of
ignominious death. By way of rescuing her from condemnation he first of
all stripped off all his clothes and donned in their stead some rags befitting a
madman, and then, without being seen by anyone, he left his own lodging
and ran straight to the tribunal as if he had been someone out of his mind,
acting well the part of a crazy man as he went along the streets.
Now it chanced that while the officers of the court were haling along
the poor lady towards the tribunal, all the people of the city gathered
themselves together to take note as to how the cause would end, and in the
midst of the crowd the pretended madman, forcing his way now here, now
there, worked himself so well to the front that he found opportunity to cast
his arms round the neck of the woeful lady, and to press a kiss upon her
lips, which caress she, seeing that her arms were bound behind her back,
could in no wise escape. When the young woman had been brought into the
presence of the tribunal the judge addressed her in these words: ‘As you
may see, Filenia, your husband Messer Erminione is here to lay complaint
against you that you have committed adultery, and furthermore prays that I
should deal out to you the due penalty according to the statute; wherefore
you must now make oath and say whether or not the charge which your
husband brings against you is true.’ Then the young woman, who was very
wary and keen of intellect, swore with confidence that no man had ever
touched her save her husband and the madman who was now present before
them all. Then, after she had sworn, the underlings of the court led her to
the place where was the serpent, which, after Filenia’s hand had been
placed in its mouth, did her no harm whatever, inasmuch as what she had
sworn was really the truth, namely, that no man had ever given her caress of
any sort except her husband and the so-called madman.

When they perceived this, the crowd, and all her kinsfolk, who had
come thither to see the solemn and terrible sight, at once set her down as
innocent and wrongfully accused, and cried out that Messer Erminione
deserved the same death which was the penalty of the crime imputed to his
wife. But, for the reason that he was a noble, a man of high lineage, and one
of the chiefs of the city, the president would not permit him to be publicly
burned (for so much power the law gave him), but, in order that he might
duly discharge his office, he sentenced Erminione to be thrown into prison,
where, after a short space of time, he expired. This is the wretched end
which Messer Erminione put to his senseless jealousy, and by these means
the young wife was delivered from an ignominious death. Before great
length of time had passed Hippolito made her his lawful wife, and they
lived many years happily together.
When the story told by the discreet and modest Vicenza had come to
an end—a story which pleased all the ladies mightily—the Signora bade her
to propound her enigma in due course, and she, raising her pretty smiling
face, instead of one of her songs gave the following riddle:

When hope and love and strong desire
Are born to set the world on fire,
That self-same hour a beast is born,
All savage, meagre, and forlorn.
Sometimes, with seeming soft and kind,
Like ivy round an elm-tree twined,
It clips us close with bine and leaf,
But feeds on heartache, woe, and grief.
Ever in mourning garb it goes,
In anguish lives, in sorrow grows.
And worse than worst the fate of him
Who falls beneath its talons grim.

Here Vicenza brought her enigma to an end. The interpretations of its
meaning were diverse, and no one of the company was found clever enough
to fathom its true import. When Vicenza saw this, she sighed a little
impatiently, and then, with a smiling face, spake as follows: “The enigma I
have set you to guess means nothing else than chilling jealousy, which, all
lean and faded, is born at the same birth with love itself, and winds itself
round men and women as well, just as the gently-creeping ivy embraces the
trunk so dear to it. This jealousy feeds on heartache, seeing that a jealous
one always lives in anguish and moves about in sombre garb on account of
the continual melancholy that torments him.” This explication of the
enigma gave great pleasure to all, and especially to Signora Chiara, whose
husband had a temper somewhat jealous. But, to let no one say to himself
that Vicenza’s enigma had been framed to fit his case, the Signora bade
them at once put a stop to their laughter, and signed to Lodovica, whose
turn it was to tell the next story, that she should forthwith begin, and the
damsel opened her fable in the following words.

THE THIRD FABLE.

Ancilotto, King of Provino, takes to wife the daughter of a baker, and
has by her three children. These, after much persecution at the
hands of the king’s mother, are made known to their father
through the strange working of certain water, and of an apple,
and of a bird.

I have always understood, lovesome and gracious ladies, that man is the
noblest and most capable of the living creatures fashioned by nature, seeing
that God made him in His own image and similitude, and willed that he
should rule and not be ruled. And on this account it is said that man is the
perfect animal, and of greater excellence than any of the others, because all
these, not even excepting woman, are subject to him. Therefore, those who
by deceit and cunning compass the death of so noble a creature commit a
foul crime. And there is no wonder if sometimes those who work for the
bane of others run heedlessly into destruction themselves, as did four
women I have to tell of, who, in trying to destroy others, were themselves
cut off and made a wretched end. All this you will readily understand from
the fable I purpose to tell you.
In Provino, a very famous and royal city, there lived in ancient times
three sisters, fair of person, gracious in manners, and courteous in bearing,
but of base lineage, being the daughters of a certain Messer Rigo, a baker
who baked bread for other folk in his oven. Of these one was named
Brunora, another Lionella, and another Chiaretta. It happened one day when
the three sisters were in their garden, and there taking much delight, that
Ancilotto the king, who was going to enjoy the diversion of hunting with a
great company, passed that way. Brunora, the eldest sister, when she looked
upon the fair and noble assemblage, said to her sisters Lionella and
Chiaretta, ‘If I had for my husband the king’s majordomo, I flatter myself
that I would quench the thirst of all the court with one glass of wine.’ ‘And
I,’ said Lionella, ‘flatter myself that, if the king’s private chamberlain were

my husband, I would pledge myself to make enough linen from a spindle of
my yarn to provide shifts of the strongest and finest make for all the court.’
Then said Chiaretta, ‘And I, if I had the king himself for my husband, I
flatter myself that I would give him three children at one birth, two sons and
a daughter. And each of these should have long hair braided below the
shoulders, and intermingled with threads of the finest gold, and a golden
necklace round the throat, and a star on the forehead of each.’
Now it chanced that these sayings were overheard by one of the
courtiers, who hastened to the king and told him of the young girls’
discourse, and the king, when he heard the tenour thereof, at once
commanded that they should be brought before him, and this done, he
examined them one by one as to what they had said in the garden.
Whereupon each one, with the most respectful words, told the king what
she had spoken, and he was much pleased thereat. So then and there he
wedded Brunora to the majordomo and Lionella to the chamberlain, while
he himself took Chiaretta to wife. There was no hunting that day, for the
whole company returned to the city, where the marriages were celebrated
with the greatest pomp. But the mother of Ancilotto was greatly wroth at his
marriage, for however fair Chiaretta might be in face and figure, and
graceful in her person, and sweet and modest in her conversation, the
queen-mother held it to be a slight to the royal dignity that her daughter-in-
law should be of vile and common descent, nor could she endure it that the
majordomo and the chamberlain should be brothers-in-law of the king her
son. These things kindled so hotly the rage of the queen-mother against
Chiaretta that she could scarce endure her presence; nevertheless she hid
her wrath so as not to offend her son. In due time (by the good pleasure of
Him who rules over all), Chiaretta became with child, to the great joy of the
king, whose fancy at once busied itself with the prospect of the lovely
progeny he had been promised.
Just at the time when Chiaretta was expecting to be brought to bed,
Ancilotto was forced to make a journey to a distant country and to abide
there some days, and he directed that, during his absence, his mother should
see to the welfare of the queen and of the children who, he hoped, would
soon be born. The queen-mother, though she hated her daughter-in-law, let
not the king see this, and assured him that she would take the greatest care
of them all, while he might be away, and before the king had been gone
many days (as Chiaretta when she was a virgin had pledged) three lovely

children, two boys and a girl, were born. Likewise their hair was braided
below their shoulders, and they bore golden chains on their necks and
golden stars on their foreheads. The queen-mother, whose hatred against
Chiaretta burned as malignantly as ever, no sooner cast her eyes upon the
innocent children than she determined to have them put away privily, so
that no one might know they had even been, and that Chiaretta might be
disgraced in the sight of the king. And besides this, Brunora and Lionella
had grown to regard their sister with violent hate and jealousy since she had
become their sovereign, and lost no chance to aggravate, by all sorts of
cunning wiles, the spite of the queen-mother against Chiaretta.
On the very same day that the queen was delivered, it chanced that
there were born in the stable-yard three black mongrel pups, two dogs and a
bitch, which, by some strange freak, had white stars on their foreheads and
bore round their necks traces of a gorget. This coming to the knowledge of
the two sisters, they took the pups away from the dam and brought them to
the queen-mother, and with humble salutations said to her: ‘We know,
madam, that your highness has little love for our sister, and quite justly; for
she is of humble stock, and it is not seemly that your son and our king
should have mated with such an one. Hence, knowing the mind you have
towards her, we have brought you here three mongrel pups, which, as you
will see, were born with a star on their foreheads, and you can deal with
them as you list.’ At these words the queen-mother was much pleased,
divining well their evil intent, and she contrived to bring to her daughter-in-
law, who as yet had not seen the children she had borne, the three whelps,
telling her at the same time they were her own offspring. And for the better
hiding of this trick the wicked old woman bade the midwife to tell the same
story to the queen. So when she herself and the two sisters and the midwife
returned to the chamber, they presented to the queen the three mongrel
whelps, saying, ‘See, O queen, the fruit of your womb! Cherish it well, so
that the king, when he comes back, may rejoice in the fair gift you have
made him.’ And with these words the midwife put the mongrels by her side,
consoling her and telling her that such mischances as hers happened now
and then to persons of high estate.
These wicked women having carried out this barbarous work, it only
remained for them to contrive a cruel death for the three lovely children of
the queen. But God mercifully held them back from soiling their hands with
the blood of their kin. They made a box, which they waxed within, and,

having put the children therein, they closed it and cast it into the river to be
borne away by the stream. But God in His justice would not allow these
innocents to suffer. As the box floated along it was espied by a certain
miller named Marmiato, who haled it out and opened it, and found within
three smiling children. Seeing how fair and graceful they were, he deemed
them to be the children of some noble lady who, to hide her shame, had
committed this crime. Having taken home the box he said to his wife, who
was called Gordiana, ‘See here, wife, what I have found in the river; it is a
present for you.’ Gordiana received the children joyfully, and brought them
up as if they had been her own, giving to one the name of Acquirino, to
another Fluvio—as they had been found in the river—and to the girl that of
Serena.
Ancilotto, when he came back from his journey, was in high spirits, for
he fully expected to find on his return that Chiaretta had fulfilled her pledge
and given him the three fair children as she had promised; but the issue was
not what he hoped, for the cunning queen-mother, when she saw her son
drawing near, went to meet him, and told him that the wife he prized so
highly had given him, instead of three children, three mongrel dogs. And
having brought him into the chamber of the unfortunate Chiaretta, she
showed him the pups which were lying beside her. The queen began to
weep bitterly and to deny that the dogs were her offspring, but her wicked
sisters came and declared that everything the old mother had said was the
truth. The king when he heard this was greatly disturbed, and fell to the
ground grief-stricken. After he had come to himself he could scarce believe
such thing could be; but at last he gave ear to his mother’s false tale. But
Chiaretta’s dignity and sweetness, and the patience with which she bore the
insults of the courtiers, won him over to spare her life, and to sentence her
to be kept in a cell under the place where the cooking pots and pans were
washed, and to be fed on the garbage which was swept off the dirty sink.
While the unhappy queen passed her life in this filthy wise, feeding
upon carrion, Gordiana, the wife of the miller Marmiato, gave birth to a son
who was christened Borghino and brought up with the three foundlings.
When Gordiana went to cut the hair of these there often fell out of it many
precious stones and great white pearls; so with these riches Marmiato was
able to give over the humble calling of a miller, and to live with his wife
and the four children a life of ease and delicacy. But when the three
foundlings had come to years of discretion they learned by chance that they

were not the children of Marmiato and Gordiana, but had been found
floating in a box on the river. As soon as they knew this they became very
unhappy, and resolved to go their way and try their fortune elsewhere, much
to the chagrin of their foster-parents, who saw they would no longer enjoy
the rich harvest of jewels which was wont to fall from the children’s locks
and starry foreheads. The brothers and their sister having left Marmiato the
miller and Gordiana, they all wandered about for some days, and at last
came by chance to Provino, the city of Ancilotto their father, where they
hired a house and lived together, maintaining themselves by selling the
jewels which still fell out of their hair. One day the king, who was riding
into the country with some of his courtiers, chanced to pass the house where
the three were living, and they, as soon as they heard the king was coming,
ran down the steps and stood bareheaded to give him a respectful salutation.
They had never seen Ancilotto, so his face was unknown to them. The king,
whose eyes were as keen as a hawk’s, looked at them steadily, and
remarked that on their foreheads there was something like a golden star, and
immediately his heart was filled with strong passion, and he felt that they
might prove to be his children. He stopped and said to them: ‘Who are you,
and from whence do you come?’ And they answered humbly, ‘We are poor
strangers who have come to dwell in this your city.’ Then said Ancilotto, ‘I
am greatly pleased; and what are you called?’ Whereupon they replied that
one was named Acquirino, and the other Fluvio, and the sister, Serena. The
king then bade them to dinner with him next day; and the young people,
though they were almost overcome by his gracious invitation, did not
venture to decline it. When Ancilotto returned to the palace he said to his
mother: ‘Madam, when I was abroad to-day I came by chance upon two
handsome youths and a lovely maiden, who, as they had golden stars on
their foreheads, must be I think the children promised to me by Queen
Chiaretta.’
The wicked old woman smiled at the king’s words, making believe
they were but fancy, but within she felt as if a dagger had smitten her heart.
Then she bade them summon the midwife who had been present at the
birth, and said to her in private, ‘Good gossip, do you not know that the
king’s children, so far from being dead as we hoped, are alive, and are
grown up as beautiful as the day?’ ‘How can this be?’ replied the woman;
‘were they not drowned in the river? Who has told you this?’ The queen-
mother answered: ‘From what I gather from the words of the king I am

almost sure they are alive. We must be up and doing at once, for we are in
great danger.’ ‘Do not be alarmed, madam,’ said the midwife, ‘I have in
mind a plan by which we can now assuredly compass the destruction of all
the three.’
The midwife went out, and immediately found her way to the house of
the king’s children, and, finding Serena alone, she saluted her and talked of
many things. After she had held a long discourse with her, she said, ‘My
daughter, I am curious to know if you have in your house any water which
can dance.’ Serena, somewhat surprised at this question, answered that she
had not any. ‘Ah, my daughter,’ said the gossip, ‘what delights you would
enjoy if you had some of it! and if you could bathe your face in it you
would become more beautiful even than you are now.’ Said the girl, with
her curiosity aroused, ‘And how can I get it?’ ‘Have you not brothers?’ the
gossip asked. ‘Send them to fetch it; they will easily find it, for it is to be
had not far from these parts.’ And with these words she departed. After a
little Acquirino and Fluvio came back, and at once Serena began to beseech
them that they would do their best, for the love they bore her, to get for her
some of the wonderful dancing water; but they laughed at her request as a
silly fancy, and refused to go on a fool’s errand, seeing that no one could
say where it was to be found. However, persuaded at last by the petition of
their sister, whom they loved very dearly, they departed together to do her
bidding, taking with them a phial to hold the precious water. When they had
gone several miles they came to a fountain out of which a snow-white dove
was drinking, and they were amazed when the bird spoke to them these
words: ‘What seek ye, young men?’ To this Fluvio answered, ‘We seek the
precious dancing water.’ ‘Wretched youths,’ said the dove, ‘who sends you
on such a quest as this?’ ‘We want it for our sister,’ said Fluvio. ‘Then you
will surely meet your deaths,’ said the dove, ‘for the water you are in search
of is guarded by many fierce beasts and poisonous dragons, who will
certainly devour you; but if you must needs have some of it, leave the task
to me, for I will surely bring it back to you;’ and having taken the phial the
dove flew away out of sight.
Acquirino and Fluvio awaited her return with the greatest anxiety, and
at last she came in sight, bearing the phial filled with the magic water. They
took it from her, and, having thanked her for the great service she had
rendered them, returned to their sister and gave her the water, exhorting her
never to impose such another task upon them, because they had nearly met

their deaths in attempting it. A short time after this the king again met the
two brothers and said to them: ‘Why did you not come to dine with me after
accepting my invitation?’ ‘Gracious majesty,’ they answered with profound
respect, ‘a pressing errand called us away from home.’ Then said the king,
‘To-morrow I shall expect to see you without fail.’ The youths having made
their apology, the king returned to the palace, where he met his mother and
told her he had once more seen the youths with the stars on their foreheads.
Again the queen-mother was greatly perplexed, and again she bade them
summon the midwife, to whom she secretly told all she had heard, and at
the same time begged her to find a way out of the danger. The gossip bade
her take courage, for she would so plan this time that they would be seen no
more. The midwife went again to seek Serena, whom she found alone, and
asked her whether she had got any of the dancing water. ‘I have it,’ the girl
replied, ‘but the winning of it nearly caused the death of my brothers.’ ‘The
water is fair enough,’ said the woman, ‘but you ought to have likewise the
singing apple. You never saw fruit so fair to look upon, or listened to music
so sweet as that which it discourses.’ ‘But how shall I get it?’ said Serena;
‘for my brothers will never go in search of it, seeing that in their last
venture they were more in peril of death than in hope of life.’ ‘But they won
the dancing water for you,’ said the woman, ‘and they are still alive; they
will get for you the singing apple just as harmlessly;’ and, having spoken,
she went her way.
Scarcely had the midwife gone when Acquirino and Fluvio came in,
and again Serena cried out to them: ‘Oh, my brothers! I hear now of another
wonder, more beautiful far than the dancing water. It is the singing apple,
and if I cannot have it I shall die of vexation.’ When Acquirino and Fluvio
heard these words they chid her sharply, affirming that for her sake they
were reluctant to brave again the risk of death. But she did not cease her
prayers, and she wept and sobbed so sorely that the brothers, seeing that this
new desire of hers came from her inmost soul, again gave way and agreed
to satisfy it at whatever risk. They mounted and rode on till they came to an
inn, and demanded of the host whether he could let them know where was
to be found the apple which sang so sweetly. He told them he knew thereof,
and warned them of the perils which lay in the path of anyone bold enough
to seek to pluck it. ‘It grows,’ he said, ‘in the midst of a fair garden, and is
watched day and night by a poisonous beast which kills without fail all
those who come nigh to the tree.’ ‘What then would you counsel us to do?’

said the youths; ‘for we are set upon plucking the apple at all cost.’ ‘If you
will carry out my behests,’ said the host, ‘you may pluck the apple without
fear of the poisonous beast or of death. You must take this robe, which, as
you see, is all covered with mirrors, and one of you must put it on, and thus
attired enter the garden, the door of which will be found unfastened; but the
other must bide without and be careful not to let himself be seen. And the
beast forthwith will make for the one who enters, and, seeing an exact
similitude of himself reflected by the mirrors, will fall down to the ground,
and then the adventurer may go quickly up to the tree and pluck tenderly
the singing apple and without once looking behind him quit the garden.’
The young men thanked their host courteously, and observed all his
directions so faithfully that they won the apple without mischance, and
carried it back to Serena, and again besought her no more to compel them to
run into such danger. Thus for a second time they failed to keep their
engagement with the king, who, meeting them again a few days afterwards,
said: ‘For what reason have you once more disobeyed my commands and
failed to come and dine with me?’ Fluvio answered as before that some
weighty matters of business had intervened and kept them from doing
themselves the great honour the king had proposed for them. Then said the
king, ‘You must come to-morrow, and see that you fail not.’ Acquirino
promised obedience, and the king returned to his palace, where he met his
mother and told her he had again seen the two youths, that he was more
firmly persuaded than ever that they must be the children promised him by
Chiaretta, and that he would feel no rest till they should have eaten at his
table. The queen-mother when she heard that they yet lived was in sore
terror, doubting not that her fraud had been discovered, and thus, struck
with grief and terror, she sent for the midwife and said to her: ‘I surely
thought the children were dead by this time, and that we should hear no
more of them; but they are alive, and we stand in peril of death. Look
therefore to our affair; otherwise we shall be lost.’ ‘Noble lady,’ said the
midwife, ‘take heart. This time I will work their bane without fail, and you
will bless me therefor, seeing that they will trouble you no longer;’ and the
woman, full of rage at her failure, again repaired to the house of Serena,
where she found the girl alone. With crafty speech she inquired of Serena
whether she had indeed got the singing apple, and the girl made answer that
she had. Then said the cunning woman: ‘Ah, my daughter, you must think
that you have nothing at all if you do not get one thing more, the most

beautiful, the most graceful thing in the world.’ ‘Good mother, what may
this fair thing be?’ said the girl. The old woman replied: ‘It is the beautiful
green bird, my child, which talks night and day, and speaks words of
marvellous wisdom. If you had it in your keeping you might indeed call
yourself happy;’ and, having thus spoken, she went her way.
Acquirino and Fluvio came in almost directly after she was gone, and
Serena forthwith began to beg them to do her one last favour, whereupon
they asked her what might be this boon which she desired. She answered
that she wanted the beautiful green bird. Fluvio, who had plucked the apple
guarded by the venomous beast, was still haunted by the peril of his
adventure, and refused to go in quest of the bird. Acquirino, though for a
long time he too turned a deaf ear, was finally moved by the brotherly love
he felt and by the hot tears of grief which Serena shed, and determined to
satisfy her wish. Fluvio also agreed to accompany him, and, having
mounted their horses, they rode for several days, until at last they came into
a flowery green meadow, in the midst of which stood a lofty tree
surrounded with marble statues which mocked life by their marvellous
workmanship. Through the meadow there ran a little stream, and up in the
tall tree lived the beautiful green bird, which hopped about from bough to
bough in lively fashion, uttering the while words which seemed rather
divine than human. The young men dismounted from their palfreys, which
they left to graze at will, and went close to the marble statues to examine
them; but, as soon as they touched these, they themselves were turned into
marble as they stood.
Now Serena, when for several months she had anxiously looked for
the return of her dear brothers Acquirino and Fluvio, began to despair and
to fear she would never see them more, and, overcome with grief at their
unhappy fate, she resolved to try her own fortune. So she mounted a
mettlesome horse, and rode on and on till she came to the fair meadow
where the green bird was hopping about on the tall tree and softly talking.
There the first things she saw were her brothers’ horses, which were grazing
on the turf, and, casting her eyes upon the statues, she saw that two of them
must be Acquirino and Fluvio, for the unhappy youths, though turned into
marble, retained their features exactly as in life. Serena dismounted, and
going softly up to the tree she laid hands on the green bird from behind, and
he, finding himself a prisoner, besought her to let him go, and promised that
at the right time and place he would remember her. But Serena answered

that first of all he must restore her brothers to their former state, upon which
the bird replied: ‘Look then under my left wing, and there you will find a
feather much greener than any of the others and marked with yellow. Pluck
it out and touch with it the eyes of the statues, and then your brothers will
return to flesh and blood.’ Serena raised the wing and found the feather, and
did as the bird had directed, and the statues of Acquirino and Fluvio at once
became living men and embraced their sister joyfully.
This wonder being accomplished, the bird again besought Serena to
give him his liberty, promising that if she would grant his prayer he would
come to her aid whenever she might call upon him; but Serena was not to
be thus cajoled, and declared that before she would let him go free he must
help them to find their father and mother, and that until he had
accomplished this task he must be her prisoner.
There had already arisen some dispute amongst the three as to who
should have the bird in keeping, but in the end they settled that it should be
left in charge of Serena, who tended it with great care and watched over it.
The affair having come to this happy issue, they mounted their horses and
rode home. Meantime Ancilotto had often passed by their house, and
finding it empty was much astonished, and inquired of the neighbours what
had become of them; but all he could learn was that nothing had been seen
of them for many days. They had not been back long before the king again
rode by, and, catching sight of them, asked how it was that nothing had
been seen of them for so long, and why they had disregarded his commands
so often. Acquirino answered with deep respect that some amazing troubles
and adventures had befallen them, and that if they had not presented
themselves at the palace before his majesty as he had desired it was through
no want of reverence. They were all anxious to amend their conduct in the
future.
The king, when he heard they had been in tribulation, was moved to
pity, and bade them all accompany him back to the palace to dinner; but
before they set forth Acquirino filled secretly a phial with the dancing
water, Fluvio took the singing apple, and Serena the talking bird, and they
rode back with the king and joyously entered the palace with him and sat
down at the royal table. It chanced that the queen-mother and also the two
sisters of Chiaretta marked them as they passed, and observing the beauty
of the maiden and the handsome bright-eyed youths, they were filled with

dread and suspicion as to who they might be. When the royal banquet had
come to an end, Acquirino said to the king: ‘May it please your majesty
that, before we take our leave, we should show your majesty some marvels
which may delight you;’ and with these words he poured into a silver tazza
some of the dancing water, while Fluvio put his hand into his bosom and
drew therefrom the singing apple, which he placed beside the water. Serena
also brought out the talking bird, and set it on the table. Immediately the
apple began to sing most sweetly, and the wonderful water to dance, so that
the king and all the courtiers were delighted and laughed aloud with
pleasure; but the queen-mother and the wicked sisters were smitten with
dire dismay, for they felt that their doom was near.
At last, when the apple and the water had ceased to sing and dance, the
bird opened its mouth and said: ‘O sacred majesty! what doom should be
dealt to those who once plotted death against two brothers and a sister?’
Then the cunning queen-mother, scheming to excuse herself, cried out: ‘No
lighter doom than death by burning;’ and in this condemnation all those
who were present agreed. To answer her the singing apple and the dancing
water said straightway: ‘Ah, false and cruel woman! your own tongue has
doomed yourself, and those wicked and envious sisters of the queen, and
the vile midwife, to this horrible death.’
When the king heard these words his heart grew cold with terror; but
before he could speak the talking bird began and said: ‘O sacred majesty!
these are the three children you longed for, your children who bear the star
on their foreheads; and their innocent mother, is she not to this day kept a
prisoner under the filthy scullery?’ Then the king saw clearly how he had
been tricked, and gave order that the unhappy Chiaretta should be taken out
of her noisome prison and robed once more in her royal garments, and, as
soon as this had been done, she was brought into the presence of the king
and of his court. And though she had for so long time suffered such cruel
usage, she retained all her former loveliness. Then the talking bird related
the strange history from beginning to end, and the king, when he knew it
all, embraced tenderly Chiaretta and their three children; but the dancing
water and the singing apple and the talking bird, having been set at liberty,
disappeared straightway.
The next day the king commanded to be lighted in the centre of the
market a huge fire, into which he caused to be thrown, without pity, his

mother and the two sisters of Chiaretta and the midwife, so that in the
presence of everybody they might be burnt to death. And Ancilotto lived
happily many years with his beloved wife and his beautiful children, and,
having chosen for Serena an honourable husband, he left his two sons the
heirs of his kingdom.
Lodovica’s story gave great delight to all the ladies, and the Signora,
having commanded her to supplement it in due order, she propounded the
following enigma:
When Sol pours down his fiercest heat,
High on Gheraldo’s lofty seat,
A wight I marked, with roguish eye,
Shut fast within a closure high.
All through the day he prates and talks,
And clad in robes of emerald walks.
I’ve told you all except his name,
And that from your own wit I claim.

Many were the interpretations put upon this enigma, but no one came
near to the mark save the charming Isabella, who, greatly pleased with
herself, said in a merry tone: “There is no other possible signification of
Lodovica’s enigma except to name the parroquet, which lives within a cage,
the closure, and has plumage green as emerald, and talks all day long.” The
clever solution of the riddle pleased everybody except Lodovica, who had
flattered herself that no one would be clever enough to solve it, and who
now became almost dumb with vexation. A little later, when the flush of
anger had faded somewhat from her cheek, she turned to Isabella, whose
turn it was to tell the fourth story, and said: “I am vexed, Isabella, not from
envy of you, as the teller of the next story, but because I feel myself inferior
to those other companions of yours who have had to give the solution of
their riddles, the company not being able to solve them; whereas mine was
guessed at once. Be assured, however, that if I can give you a Roland for
your Oliver, I will not be caught napping.”[27] Isabella answered quickly,
“You will do well, Signora Lodovica, but—” Here the Signora, who saw
that the contention was like to grow warm between the two, commanded
Isabella to go on at once with her story, which, with a smile, she began to
tell as follows.

THE FOURTH FABLE.
Nerino, the son of Gallese, King of Portugal, becoming enamoured of
Genobbia, wife of Messer Raimondo Brunello, a physician, has
his will of her and carries her with him to Portugal, while Messer
Raimondo dies of grief.

I must tell you, charming ladies, that there are very many men who, because
they have consumed a great part of their time over the study of letters, are
persuaded that they are mighty wise, whereas in truth they know little or
nothing. And while men of this sort think they are marking their foreheads
with lines of wisdom, they too often only scoop out their own eyes,[28]
which thing happened to a certain physician, greatly skilled in his calling,
for he, while he deemed he was about to put a cheat upon another, was
himself most ignominiously duped, to his own great injury, all of which you
will learn from the fable which I will presently tell you.
Gallese, King of Portugal, had a son whose name was Nerino, and in
the bringing up of this boy he followed such a course that up to the time
when he reached his eighteenth year Nerino had never once cast eyes upon
a woman except his mother and the nurse who had the care of him.
Wherefore when he had come to full age the king determined to send him to
pursue his studies in the university of Padua, so that he might get a
knowledge of Latin letters and of the tongue and manners of the Italians as
well. And the plan which he had devised he duly carried out. When the
young Nerino had come to Padua, he soon acquired the friendship of many
of the scholars, and every day these would come to pay their respects to
him, one of the above named being a certain Messer Raimondo Brunello, a
physician. It chanced one day, as Nerino and this friend of his were
conversing now about this thing and now about that, they engaged (as is the
manner of sprightly youths) in a discourse anent the beauty of women, and
on this subject the former took one view and the latter another. But Nerino,
though he had never in times past cast eyes upon any woman save his

mother and his nurse, declared with some heat that in his reckoning there
could not be found in all the world any lady who should be more beautiful,
more graceful, and more exquisite than was his own mother. And when, by
way of putting this speech of his to the test, they brought divers ladies to his
notice, he still declared that in comparison to his mother they were little
better than carrion.
Now Messer Raimondo had to wife a lady who was one of the fairest
nature ever created, and when he listened to this chattering he settled his
gorget and said: ‘Signor Nerino, I happen to have seen a certain lady who is
of such great loveliness that when you shall have beheld her I think it
probable you will judge her to be not less but more beautiful than your
mother.’ To this speech Nerino made answer that he could not believe there
could be any woman more lovely than his mother, but at the same time it
would give him great pleasure to look upon this one. Whereupon Messer
Raimondo said: ‘Whenever it shall please you to behold her I will gladly
point her out to you.’ Nerino replied: ‘I am much pleased at what you
propose, and I shall ever be obliged to you.’ Then Messer Raimondo said at
once: ‘Since it will give you pleasure to see her, take care to be present in
the Church of the Duomo to-morrow morning, for there I promise you that
you shall have sight of her.’
When he had returned to his house, Messer Raimondo said to his wife:
‘To-morrow morning see that you rise betimes, and deck carefully your
head, and make yourself seem as fair as you can, and put on the most
sumptuous raiment you possess, for I have a mind that you should go to the
Duomo at the hour of high mass to hear the office.’ Genobbia (for this was
the name of Messer Raimondo’s wife), not being in the habit of going now
hither now thither, but rather to pass all her time at home over her sewing
and broidery work, was much astonished at these words; but, seeing that her
husband’s command fell in well with her own desire, she did all she was
directed to do, and set herself so well in order and decked herself so featly
that she looked more like a goddess than like a mortal woman. And when
Genobbia, following the command which her husband had laid upon her,
had entered into the holy fane, there came thither likewise Nerino, the son
of the king, and when he had looked upon her he found that she was
exceedingly fair. When the lady had gone her way, Messer Raimondo came
upon the scene, and having gone up to Nerino spake thus: ‘Now how does
that lady who is just gone out of the church please you? Does she seem to

you to be one who ought to be compared with any other? Say, is she not
more beautiful than your mother?’ ‘Of a truth,’ replied Nerino, ‘she is fair,
and nature could not possibly make aught that is fairer; but tell me of your
courtesy of whom is she the wife, and where does she dwell?’ But to this
query Messer Raimondo did not answer so as to humour Nerino’s wish,
forasmuch as he had no mind to give him the clue he sought. Then said
Nerino, ‘My good Messer Raimondo, though you may not be willing to tell
me who she is and where she dwells, at least you might do me such good
office as to let me see her once more.’ ‘This I will do willingly,’ answered
Messer Raimondo. ‘To-morrow come here again into the church, and I will
so bring it to pass that you shall see her as you have seen her to-day.’
When Messer Raimondo had gone back to his house, he said to his
wife, ‘Genobbia, see that you attire yourself to-morrow; for I wish that you
should go to the mass in the Duomo, and if hitherto you have ever made
yourself look beautiful or have arrayed yourself sumptuously, see that you
do the same to-morrow.’ When she heard this, Genobbia (as on the former
occasion) was greatly astonished, but since the command of her husband
pointed to this matter, she did everything even as he had ordered. When the
morrow came, Genobbia, sumptuously clothed and adorned more richly
than was her wont, betook herself to the church, and in a very short time
Nerino came likewise. He, when he saw how very fair she was, was
inflamed by love of her more ardently than ever man had burned for woman
before, and, when Messer Raimondo arrived, begged him to tell straightway
what might be the name of this lady who seemed in his eyes to be so
marvellously beautiful. But Messer Raimondo, making excuse that he was
greatly pressed for time to give to his own affairs, was in no humour to thus
inform Nerino on the spot, and was rather disposed to leave the galliard to
stew for a time in his own fat; so he went his way in high spirits.
Whereupon Nerino, with his temper somewhat ruffled by the mean account
in which Messer Raimondo seemed to hold him, spake thus to himself:
‘Aha! you are not willing that I should have an inkling as to who she is and
where she lives, but I will know what I want to know in spite of you.’
After he had left the church, Nerino waited outside until such time as
the fair dame should likewise issue forth, and then, having given her a
modest obeisance with a smiling countenance, he went with her as far as
her home. Now, as soon as Nerino had got to know clearly the house where
she dwelt, he began to cast amorous eyes upon her, and never a day passed

on which he would not pass up and down ten times in front of her window.
Wherefore, having a great desire to hold converse with her, he set about
considering what course he should follow in order to keep unsullied the
honour of the lady, and at the same time to attain his own end. But, having
pondered over the affair, and looked at it on every side without lighting
upon any course which seemed to promise security, he at last, after a mighty
amount of imagining, determined to make the acquaintance of an old
woman who lived in a house opposite to that occupied by Genobbia. After
having sent to her certain presents, and settled and confirmed the compact
between them, he went secretly into the old woman’s lodging, in which
there was a certain window overlooking the hall of Genobbia’s house,
where he might stand and gaze at his good convenience at the lady as she
went up and down about the house; at the same time, he had no wish to
divulge himself, and thereby give her any pretext for withdrawing herself
from his sight. Nerino, having spent one day after another in these amorous
glances, at last found himself no longer able to resist the burning desire
within him which consumed his very heart; so he made up his mind to write
a letter and to throw it down into her lodging at a certain time when he
should judge her husband to be away from home. And several times he
wrote letters as he had planned and threw them down to her.
But Genobbia, without reading the billet she picked up, cast it into the
fire, and it was burnt. After she had done this several times, on a certain day
it came into her mind to break open one of the notes and see what might be
written therein. When she had broken the seal and marked that the writer
was no other than Nerino, the son of the King of Portugal, who declared
thereby his fervent love of her, she was at first wellnigh confounded, but
after a little, when she had called to mind the poor cheer she enjoyed in her
husband’s house, she plucked up heart and began to look kindly upon
Nerino. At last, having come to an agreement with him, she found means to
bring him into the house, when the youth laid before her the story of the
ardent love he bore her, and of the torments he endured every day on her
account, and in like manner the way by which his passion for her had been
kindled. Wherefore the lady, who was alike lovely and kindly-hearted and
complaisant, felt herself in no humour to reject his suit. And while the two
thus foregathered, happy in the consciousness of mutual love and indulging
in amorous discourse, lo and behold! Messer Raimondo knocked suddenly
at the door. When Genobbia heard this she bade Nerino go straightway and

lie down on the bed, and to let down the curtains, and to remain there until
such time as her husband should be once more gone out. The husband came
in, and having taken divers trifles of which he had need, went away without
giving heed to aught besides, and a little later Nerino followed him.
On the following day, when it happened that Nerino was walking up
and down the piazza, Messer Raimondo by chance went that way, to whom
Nerino make known by sign that he wanted to have a word with him.
Wherefore, having approached him, he spake thus: ‘Signor, have I not a
good bit of news to tell you?’ ‘And what may it be?’ replied Messer
Raimondo. ‘Do I not know,’ said Nerino, ‘the house where dwells that
beautiful lady? and have I not had some delightful intercourse with her? But
because her husband came home unexpectedly she hid me in the bed, and
drew the curtains for fear that he should see me; however, he soon went out
again.’ ‘Is it possible?’ said Messer Raimondo. ‘Possible!’ answered Nerino,
‘it is more than possible—it is a fact. Never in all my life have I seen so
delightful, so sweet a lady as she. If by any chance, signor, you should meet
her, I beg you to speak a good word on my behalf, and to entreat her to keep
me in her good graces.’ Messer Raimondo, having promised to do what the
youth asked him, went his way with ill will in his heart. But before he left
Nerino he said, ‘And do you propose to go in search of your good fortune
again?’ To this Nerino replied, ‘Return! what should one do in such case?’
Then Messer Raimondo went back to his house, and was careful to let drop
no word in his wife’s presence, but to wait for the time when she and
Nerino should again come together.
When the next day had come Nerino once more stole to a meeting with
Genobbia, and while they were in the midst of their amorous delights and
pleasant converse the husband came back to the house, but the lady quickly
hid Nerino in a chest in front of which she heaped a lot of clothes from
which she had been ripping the wadding to keep them from destruction by
insects. The husband, making believe to search for certain things, turned the
house upside down, and pried even into the bed, but, finding nothing of the
sort he looked for, went about his business with his mind more at ease.
Very soon Nerino also departed, and afterwards, chancing to meet
Messer Raimondo, he thus addressed him: ‘Signor doctor, what would you
say if you heard I had paid another visit to my charming lady, and that
envious fortune broke in upon our pleasure, seeing that the husband again

arrived and spoilt all our sport?’ ‘And what did you then?’ said Messer
Raimondo. ‘She straightway opened a chest,’ said Nerino, ‘and put me
therein, and in front of the chest she piled up a heap of clothes which she
was working at in order to preserve them from moth, and after he had
turned the bed upside down more than once without finding aught, he went
away.’ What tortures Messer Raimondo must have suffered when he
listened to these words I leave to the judgment of any who may know the
humours of love.
Now Nerino had given to Genobbia a very fine and precious diamond,
within the golden setting of which was engraved his name and his likeness.
The very next day, when Messer Raimondo had gone to see to his affairs,
the lady once more let Nerino into the house, and while they were taking
their pleasure and talking pleasantly together, behold! the husband again
came back to the house. But the crafty Genobbia, as soon as she remarked
his coming, immediately opened a large wardrobe which stood in her
chamber, and hid Nerino therein. Almost immediately Messer Raimondo
entered the chamber, pretending as before that he was in search of certain
things he wanted, and in quest thereof he turned the room upside down.
But, finding nothing either in the bed or in the chest, like a man out of his
wits he took fire and strewed it in the four corners of the chamber, with the
intention of burning the place and all that it contained.
Now the party walls and the wooden framing of the apartment soon
caught fire, whereupon Genobbia, turning to her husband, said: ‘What is
this you are doing, husband? Surely you must be gone mad. Still, if you
wish to burn up the room, burn it as you will, but by my faith I will not
have you burn this wardrobe, wherein are all the papers relating to my
dowry.’ So, having summoned four strong porters, she bade them carry the
wardrobe out of the house and bear it into the neighbouring house which
belonged to the old woman. Then she opened the wardrobe secretly when
no one was by and returned to her own house. Messer Raimondo, now like
one out of his mind, still kept a sharp watch to see whether anybody who
ought not to have been there might be driven out of hiding by the
conflagration, but he met with nothing save the smoke, which was
becoming insufferable, and the fierce flames which were consuming the
house. And by this time all the neighbours had gathered together to put out
the fire, and so well and heartily did they work that in time it was
extinguished.

On the following day, as Nerino was sallying forth towards the fields
in the valley, he met Messer Raimondo, and after giving him a salute, said
to him: ‘Aha, my gentleman! I have got a piece of news to tell you which
ought to please you mightily.’ ‘And what may this news be?’ said Messer
Raimondo. ‘I have just made my escape,’ said Nerino, ‘from the most
frightful peril that ever man came out of without loss of his life. I had gone
to the house of my lovely mistress, and while I was spending the time with
her in all manner of delightful dallying her husband once more broke in
upon our content, and after he had turned the house upside down, lighted
some fire, and this he scattered about in the four corners of the room and
burnt up all the chattels there were about.’ ‘And you,’ said Messer
Raimondo, ‘where were you the while?’ Then answered Nerino, ‘I was
hidden in a wardrobe which she caused to be taken out of the house.’ And
when Messer Raimondo heard this, and clearly understood all which Nerino
told him to be the truth, he was like to die of grief and passion.
Nevertheless, he did not dare to let his secret be known, because he was
determined still to catch him in the act. Wherefore he said to him, ‘And are
you bent upon going thither again, Signor Nerino?’ to which Nerino made
answer, ‘Seeing that I have come safely out of the fire, what else is there for
me to fear?’ And, letting pass any further remarks of this sort, Messer
Raimondo begged Nerino that he would do him the honour of dining with
him on the morrow; which civility the young man willingly accepted.
When the next day had come, Messer Raimondo bade assemble at his
house all his own relations and his wife’s as well, and prepared for their
entertainment a rich and magnificent repast—not in the house which had
been half consumed by fire, but in another. He gave directions to his wife,
moreover, that she also should be present, not to sit at table as a guest, but
to keep herself out of sight, and see to the ordering of aught which might be
required for the banquet. As soon as all the kinsfolk had assembled, and the
young Nerino as well, they were bidden take their places at the board, and
as the feast went on Messer Raimondo tried his best with his charlatan
science to make Nerino drunk, in order to be able to work his will upon
him. Having several times handed to the youth a glass of malvoisie wine,
which he never failed to empty, Messer Raimondo said to him: ‘Now,
Signor Nerino, cannot you tell to these kinsfolk of mine some little jest
which may make them laugh?’ The luckless Nerino, who had no inkling

that Genobbia was Messer Raimondo’s wife, began to tell the story of his
adventures, keeping back, however, the names of all concerned.
It chanced at this moment that one of the servants went into the room
apart where Genobbia was, and said to her: ‘Madonna, if only you were
now hidden in some corner of the feasting-room, you would hear told the
finest story you ever heard in your life. I pray you go in quick.’ And, having
stolen into a corner, she knew that the voice of the story-teller belonged to
Nerino her lover, and that the tale he was giving to the company concerned
himself and her as well. Whereupon this prudent and sharp-witted dame
took the diamond which Nerino had given her, and, having placed it in a
cup filled with a very dainty drink, she said to a servant, ‘Take this cup and
give it to Signor Nerino, and tell him to drink it off forthwith, that he may
tell his story the better.’ The servant took the cup and placed it on the table,
whereupon Nerino gave sign that he wished to drink therefrom; so the
servant said to him, ‘Take this cup, signor, so that you may tell your story
the better.’
Nerino took the cup and forthwith drank all the wine therein, when,
seeing and recognizing the diamond which lay at the bottom, he let it pass
into his mouth. Then making pretence of rinsing his teeth, he drew forth the
ring and put it on his finger. As soon as he was well assured that the fair
lady about whom he was telling his story was the wife of Messer
Raimondo, he had no mind to say more, and when Messer Raimondo and
his kinsfolk began to urge him to bring the tale which he had begun to an
end, he replied, ‘And then and there the cock crowed and the day broke, so
I awoke from my sleep and heard nothing more.’ Messer Raimondo’s
kinsmen, having listened to Nerino’s story, and up to this time believed all
he had said about the lady to be the truth, now imagined that both their host
and the young man were drunk.
After several days had passed it happened that Nerino met Messer
Raimondo, and feigning not to know that he was the husband of Genobbia,
told him that within the space of two days he would take his departure,
because his father had written to him to bid him without fail to return to his
own country. Whereupon Messer Raimondo wished him good speed for his
journey. Nerino, having come to a private understanding with Genobbia,
carried her off with him and fled to Portugal, where they long lived a gay
life together; but Messer Raimondo, when he went back to his house and

found that his wife was gone, was stricken with despair, and died in the
course of a few days.
Isabella’s fable pleased the ladies and gentlemen equally well, and they
rejoiced especially that Messer Raimondo himself proved to be the cause of
his own misfortune, and that the thing which he had courted had really
fallen upon him. And when the Signora marked that this discourse was
come to an end, she gave the sign to Isabella to finish her task in due order,
and she, in no wise neglectful of the Signora’s command, gave the enigma
which follows:
In the middle of the night,
Rises one with beard bedight.
Though no astrologer he be,
He marks the hours which pass and flee.
He wears a crown, although no king;
No priest, yet he the hour doth sing.
Though spurred at heel he is no knight;
No wife he calls his own by right,
Yet children many round him dwell.
Sharp wits you need this thing to tell.

Here the cleverly-devised enigma of Isabella came to an end, and
although the various listeners went casting about in various directions, no
one hit upon the exact truth except the somewhat haughty Lodovica, who,
mindful of the slight which had of late been put upon her, rose to her feet
and spake thus: “The enigma which our sister has set us to guess means
nothing else than the cock, which is on the alert to crow while it is yet
night; which wears a beard and has knowledge of the passage of time,
although he is no astrologer. He bears a crest instead of a crown, and is no
king; he sings the hours, yet is no priest. Besides this, he wears spurs on his
heels; he has no wife, and brings up the children of others, that is to say, the
young chickens.”
All the listeners commended this solution of Isabella’s skilful enigma,
especially Capello, who said: “Signora Isabella, Lodovica has given you
back bread for your bannock,[29] seeing that a short time ago you very
cleverly declared the meaning of her enigma and now she has mastered
yours; but for this reason you must not harbour malice one against another.”
Then Lodovica answered promptly, “Signor Bernardo, when the night time
is come, I will pay you back yea for yea.”[30]

But in order to keep the discourse within limits, the Signora imposed
silence upon all, and, turning her face towards Lionora, whose turn it was to
tell the last story of the night, directed her to begin, with due courtesy, her
fable, and the damsel, with the best grace in the world, thus began.

THE FIFTH FABLE.

Flamminio Veraldo sets out from Ostia in search of Death, and, not
finding it, meets Life instead; this latter lets him see Fear and
make trial of Death.

Many are the men who with all care and diligence go searching narrowly
for certain things, which, when they have gained them, they find of no
value, and would gladly forego, fleeing therefrom with all speed, just as the
devil flies from holy water. This was the case of Flamminio, who, when he
went seeking Death, found Life, who made him see Fear and make trial of
Death. All of which you will find clearly set forth in this fable.
In Ostia, an ancient city situated no great distance from Rome, there
lived in former days, according to the common report, a young man of a
nature rather weak and errant than stable and prudent, whose name was
Flamminio Veraldo. He had heard it said over and over again that there was
in all the world nothing more terrible and frightful than Death, the dark and
inevitable one, seeing that he shows pity to none, having respect to no man,
however poor or rich he may be. Wherefore, being filled with wonder at
what he had heard, he determined by himself to find and to see with his
own eyes what manner of thing this might be which men called Death. And
having attired himself in coarse garments, and taken in hand a staff of
strong cornel-wood well shod with iron, he set forth from Ostia. Flamminio,
when he had travelled over many miles of road, came one day into a certain
street, in the midst of which he espied, sitting in his stall, a cobbler making
shoes and gaiters, and this cobbler, although there was lying about a great
quantity of his finished work, kept on steadily at his task of making yet
more.
Flamminio, going up to the cobbler, said to him, ‘God be with you,
good master!’ and to this the cobbler replied, ‘You are right welcome here,
my son.’ Then said Flamminio, ‘What is this task you labour at?’ ‘I labour
indeed,’ replied the cobbler, ‘and toil hard that I may not languish in want.

[31]
Nevertheless, I am in want, and I weary myself over making shoes.’
‘Why do you thus,’ said Flamminio, ‘seeing that you have so many pairs
made already? What is the good of making more?’ ‘I make them,’ said the
cobbler, ‘to wear myself, to sell for my own sustenance and for the
sustenance of my little household, and in order that when I become an old
man I may be able to live on the money I have made by my handicraft.’
‘And what will you do next?’ asked Flamminio. ‘After this,’ said the
cobbler, ‘I shall die.’ ‘You will die!’ cried Flamminio in reply. ‘Yes,’ said
the cobbler. Then cried Flamminio, ‘Oh, my good master! can you of your
own knowledge tell me what may be this thing they call Death?’ The
cobbler answered, ‘Of a truth I cannot.’ ‘What, have you never seen him?’
said Flamminio. To this master cobbler made answer, ‘I have never seen
him, nor have I any wish to see him now, or to taste his quality. Moreover,
all men say that he is the strangest and most terrible monster the world
holds.’ Then Flamminio said, ‘At least you will be able of your knowledge
to teach me and tell me where he abides, because day and night I wander
over mountains and through valleys and swamps seeking him without ever
hearing tidings as to where he may be found?’ The cobbler answered, ‘I
know nothing as to where Death may dwell, nor where he is to be found,
nor what he is made of; but if you go on with your journey somewhat
farther, peradventure you will find him.’
Whereupon Flamminio, having taken his leave, parted from the
cobbler, and betook himself onwards to a spot where he came upon a dense
and shadowy forest, and entered therein. In a certain place he saw a peasant,
who, though he had already cut a vast pile of wood for burning, went on
cutting more with all his might. And when they had exchanged greetings
one with another, Flamminio said to him, ‘My brother, what are you going
to do with so vast a heap of wood as this?’ And to this the peasant made
answer, ‘I am preparing it to kindle fire therewith in the winter that is
coming, when we shall have snow and ice and villainous mist, so that I may
be able to keep warm myself and my children, and to sell whatsoever may
be to spare, and to buy with the profit thereof bread and wine and clothing,
and all other things which may be necessary for our daily sustenance, and
thus to pass our lives until Death comes to fetch us.’ ‘Now, by your
courtesy,’ said Flamminio, ‘could you tell me where this same Death is to
be found?’ ‘Of a surety I cannot,’ the peasant replied, ‘seeing that I have
never once seen him, nor do I know where he abides. I am here in this wood