There were once two very intimate friends, both of the family of Saveli,
in Rome; the name of one of whom was Bucciolo, that of the other, Pietro
Paolo; both of good birth and easy circumstances. Expressing a mutual
wish to study for a while together at Bologna, they took leave of their
relatives and set out. One of them attached himself to the study of the
civil law, the other to that of the canon law, and thus they continued
to apply themselves for some length of time. But the subject of
Decretals takes a much narrower range than is embraced by the common
law, so Bucciolo, who pursued the former, made greater progress than did
Pietro Paolo, and, having taken a licentiate’s degree, he began to think
of returning to Rome. “You see, my dear fellow student,” he observed to
his friend Paolo, “I am now a licentiate, and it is time for me to think
of moving homewards.” “Nay, not so,” replied his companion; “I have to
entreat you will not think of leaving me here this winter. Stay for me
till spring, and we can return together. In the meantime you may pursue
some other study, so that you need not lose any time;” and to this
Bucciolo at length consented, promising to await his relative’s own good
time.
Having thus resolved, he had immediate recourse to his former tutor,
informing him of his determination to bear his friend company a little
longer, and entreating to be employed in some pleasant study to beguile
the period during which he had to remain. The professor begged him to
suggest something he should like, as he should be very happy to assist
him in its attainment. “My worthy tutor,” replied Bucciolo, “I think I
should like to learn the way in which one falls in love, and the best
manner to begin.” “O very good!” cried the tutor, laughing. “You could
not have hit upon anything better, for you must know that if such be
your object I am a complete adept in the art. To lose no time, in the
first place go next Sunday to the church of the Frati Minori [Friars
Minor of St. Francis], where all the ladies will be clustered together,
and pay proper attention during service in order to discover if any one
of them in particular happens to please you. When you have done this,
keep your eye upon her after service, to see the way she takes to her
residence, and then come back to me. And let this be the first
lesson—the first part—of that in which it is my intention to instruct
you.” Bucciolo went accordingly, and taking his station the next Sunday
in the church, as he had been directed, his eyes, wandering in every
direction, were fixed upon all the pretty women in the place, and upon
one in particular, who pleased him above all the rest. She was by far
the most beautiful and attractive lady he could discover, and on leaving
church he took care to obey his master and follow her until he had made
himself acquainted with her residence. Nor was it long before the young
lady began to perceive that the student was smitten with her; upon which
Bucciolo returned to his master and informed him of what he had done. “I
have,” said he, “learned as much as you ordered me, and have found
somebody I like very well.” “So far, good,” cried the professor, not a
little amused at the sort of science to which his pupil had thus
seriously devoted himself—“so far, good! And now observe what I have
next to say to you: Take care to walk two or three times a day very
respectfully before her house, casting your eyes about you in such a way
that no one may catch you staring in her face; look in a modest and
becoming manner, so that she cannot fail to notice and be struck with
it. And then return to me; and this, sir, will be the second lesson in
this gay science.”
So the scholar went and promenaded with great discretion before the
lady’s door, who observed that he appeared to be passing to and fro out
of respect to one of the inhabitants. This attracted her attention, for
which Bucciolo very discreetly expressed his gratitude by looks and
bows, which being as often returned, the scholar began to be aware that
the lady liked him. He immediately went and told the professor all that
had passed, who replied, “Come, you have done very well. I am hitherto
quite satisfied. It is now time for you to find some way of speaking to
her, which you may easily do by means of those gipsies who haunt the
streets of Bologna, crying ladies’ veils, purses, and other articles for
sale. Send word by her that you are the lady’s most faithful, devoted
servant, and that there is no one in the world you so much wish to
please. In short, let her urge your suit, and take care to bring the
answer to me as soon as you have received it. I will then tell you how
you are to proceed.”
Departing in all haste, he soon found a little old pedlar woman, quite
perfect in the trade, to whom he said he should take it as a particular
favour if she would do one thing, for which he would reward her
handsomely. Upon this she declared her readiness to serve him in
anything he pleased. “For you know,” she added, “it is my business to
get money in every way I can.” Bucciolo gave her two florins, saying, “I
wish you to go for me to-day as far as the Via Maccarella, where resides
a young lady of the name of Giovanna, for whom I have the very highest
regard. Pray tell her so, and recommend me to her most affectionately,
so as to obtain for me her good graces by every means in your power. I
entreat you to have my interest at heart, and to say such pretty things
as she cannot refuse to hear.” “O leave that to me, sir,” said the
little old woman; “I will not fail to say a good word for you at the
proper time.” “Delay not,” said Bucciolo, “but go now, and I will wait
for you here;” and she set off at once, taking her basket of trinkets
under her arm. On approaching the place, she saw the lady before the
door, enjoying the air, and curtseying to her very low, “Do I happen to
have anything here you would fancy?” she said, displaying her wares.
“Pray take something, madam—whatever pleases you best.” Veils, stays,
purses, and mirrors were now spread in the most tempting way before the
lady’s eyes. Out of all these things her attention seemed to be most
attracted by a beautiful purse, which, she observed, if she could
afford, she should like to purchase. “Nay, madam,” exclaimed the crone,
“do not think anything about the price—take anything you please, since
they are all paid for already, I assure you.” Surprised at hearing this,
and perceiving the very respectful manner of the speaker, the lady
rejoined, “Do you know what you are saying? What do you mean by that?”
The old woman, pretending now to be much affected, said, “Well, madam,
if it must be so, I shall tell you. It is very true that a young
gentleman of the name of Bucciolo sent me hither; one who loves you
better than all the world besides. There is nothing he would not do to
please you, and indeed he appears so very wretched because he cannot
speak to you, and he is so very good, that it is quite a pity. I think
it will be the death of him, and then he is such a fine—such an
elegant—young man, the more is the pity!” On hearing this, the lady,
blushing deeply, turned sharply round upon the little old woman,
exclaiming, “O you wicked creature! were it not for the sake of my own
reputation, I would give you such a lesson that you should remember it
to the latest day of your life! A pretty story to come before decent
people with! Are you not ashamed of yourself to let such words come out
of your mouth?” Then seizing an iron bar that lay across the doorway,
“Ill betide you, little wretch!” she cried, as she brandished it. “If
you ever come this way again, depend upon it, you will never go back
alive!” The trembling old trot, quickly bundling up her wares, scampered
off, in dread of feeling that cruel weapon on her shoulders, nor did she
once think of stopping till she had reached the place where Bucciolo
stood waiting her return. Eagerly inquiring the news and how she had
succeeded, “O very badly—very badly,” answered the crone. “I never was
in such a fright in all my life. Why, she will neither see nor listen to
you, and if I had not run away, I should have felt the weight of a great
iron bar upon my shoulders. For my own part, I shall go there no more;
and I advise you, signor, to look to yourself how you proceed in such
affairs in future.”
Poor Bucciolo became quite disconsolate, and returned in all haste to
acquaint the professor with this unlucky result. But the professor, not
a whit cast down, consoled him, saying, “Do not despair; a tree is not
levelled at a single stroke, you know. I think you must have a
repetition of your lesson to-night. So go and walk before her door as
usual; notice how she eyes you, and whether she appears angry or not,
and then come back again to me.” Bucciolo accordingly proceeded without
delay to the lady’s house. The moment she perceived him she called her
maid and said to her, “Quick, quick—hasten after the young man—that is
he, and tell him from me that he must come and speak with me this
evening without fail—without fail.” The girl soon came up with Bucciolo,
and thus addressed him: “My lady, signor, my lady, Giovanna, would be
glad of your company this evening, she would be very glad to speak with
you.” Greatly surprised at this, Bucciolo replied, “Tell your lady I
shall be most happy to wait upon her,” so saying, he set off once more
to the professor, and reported the progress of the affair. But this time
the master looked a little more serious; for, from some trivial
circumstances put together, he began to entertain suspicions that the
lady was (as it really turned out) no other than his own wife. So he
rather anxiously inquired of Bucciolo whether he intended to accept the
invitation. “To be sure I do,” replied his pupil. “Then,” said the
professor, “promise that you will come here before you set off.”
“Certainly I will,” answered Bucciolo readily, and took his leave.
Now Bucciolo was far from suspecting that the lady bore so near a
relationship to his respected tutor, although the latter began to be
rather uneasy as to the result, feeling some twinges of jealousy which
were by no means pleasant. For he passed most of his winter evenings at
the college where he gave lectures, and not unfrequently remained there
for the night. “I should be sorry,” said he to himself, “if this young
gentleman were learning these things at my expense, and I must therefore
know the real state of the case.” In the evening his pupil called
according to promise, saying, “Worthy master, I am now ready to go.”
“Well, go,” replied the professor; “but be wise, Signor Bucciolo—be
wise, and think more than once what you are about.” “Trust me for that,”
said the scholar, a little piqued: “I shall go well provided, and not
walk into the mouth of danger unarmed.” And away he went, furnished with
a good cuirass, a rapier, and a stiletto in his belt. He was no sooner
on his way than the professor slipped out quietly after him, dogging his
steps closely, until, trembling with rage, he saw him stop at his own
house-door, which, on a smart tap being given, was quickly opened by the
lady herself and the pupil admitted. When the professor saw that it was
indeed his own wife, he was quite overwhelmed and thought, “Alas, I fear
this young fellow has learned more than he confesses at my expense;” and
vowing to be revenged, he ran back to the college, where arming himself
with sword and dagger, he then hastened to his house in a terrible
passion. Arriving at his own door, he knocked loudly, and the lady,
sitting before the fire with Bucciolo, instantly knew it was her
husband, so taking hold of Bucciolo, she concealed him hurriedly under a
heap of damp clothes lying on a table near the window ready for ironing,
which done, she ran to the door and inquired who was there. “Open
quickly,” exclaimed the professor. “You vile woman, you shall soon know
who is here!” On opening the door, she beheld him with a drawn sword,
and cried in well-affected alarm, “O my dearest life, what means this?”
“You know very well what it means,” said he. “The villain is now in the
house.” “Good Heaven! what is that you say?” exclaimed the lady. “Are
you gone out of your wits? Come and search the house, and if you find
anybody, I will give you leave to kill me on the spot. What! do you
think I should now begin to misconduct myself as I never before did—as
none of my family ever did before? Beware lest the Evil One should be
tempting you, and, suddenly depriving you of your senses, draw you to
perdition!” But the professor, calling for candles, began to search the
house from the cellars upwards—among the tubs and casks—in every place
but the right place—running his sword through the beds and under the
beds, and into every inch of the bedding—leaving no corner or crevice of
the whole house untouched. The lady accompanied him with a candle in her
hand, frequently interrupting him with, “Say your beads—say your beads,
good signor; it is certain that the Evil One is dealing with you, for
were I half so bad as you esteem me, I would kill myself with my own
hands. But I entreat you not to give way to this evil suggestion: oppose
the adversary while you can.” Hearing these virtuous observations of his
wife, and not being able to discover any one after the strictest search,
the professor began to think that he must, after all, be possessed, and
presently extinguished the lights and returned to the college. The lady,
on shutting the door after him, called out to Bucciolo to come from his
hiding place, and then, stirring the fire, began to prepare a fine capon
for supper, with some delicious wines and fruits. And thus they regaled
themselves, highly entertained with each other, nor was it their least
satisfaction that the professor had just left them, apparently convinced
that they had learned nothing at his expense.
Proceeding to the college next morning, Bucciolo, without the least
suspicion of the truth, informed his master that he had something for
his ear which he was sure would make him laugh. “How so?” demanded the
professor. “Why,” said his pupil, “you must know that last night, just
as I had entered the lady’s house, who should come in but her husband,
and in such a rage! He searched the whole house from top to bottom,
without being able to find me. I lay under a heap of newly-washed
clothes, which were not half dry. In short, the lady played her part so
well that the poor gentleman forthwith took his leave, and we afterwards
ate a fine capon for supper and drank such wines—and with such zest! It
was really one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life. But
I think I’ll go and take a nap, for I promised to return this evening
about the same hour.” “Then be sure before you go,” said the professor,
trembling with suppressed rage, “be sure to come and tell me when you
set out.” “O certainly,” responded Bucciolo, and away he went. Such was
now the unhappy tutor’s condition as to render him incapable of
delivering a single lecture during the whole day, and such was his
extreme vexation and eagerness for evening, that he spent his time in
arming himself with sword and dagger and cuirass, meditating only upon
deeds of blood. At the appointed time came Bucciolo, with the utmost
innocence, saying, “My dear master, I am going now.” “Yes, go,” replied
the professor, “and come back to-morrow morning, if you can, and tell me
how you have fared.” “I intend doing so,” said Bucciolo, and departed at
a brisk pace for the house of the lady.
Armed _cap-à-pie_, the professor ran out after him, keeping pretty close
to his heels, with the intention of catching him just as he entered. But
the lady, being on the watch, opened the door suddenly for the pupil and
shut it in her husband’s face. The professor began to knock and to call
out with a furious noise. Extinguishing the light in a moment, the lady
placed Bucciolo behind the door, and throwing her arms round her
husband’s neck as he entered, motioned to her lover while she thus held
his enemy to make his escape, and he, upon the husband’s rushing
forward, slipped out from behind the door unperceived. She then began to
scream as loud as she could, “Help, help! the professor has gone mad!
Will nobody help me?” for he was in an ungovernable rage, and she clung
faster to him than before. The neighbours running to her assistance and
seeing the peaceable professor armed with deadly weapons, and his wife
crying out, “Help, for the love of Heaven!—too much study hath driven
him mad!” they readily believed such to be the fact. “Come, good
signor,” they said, “what is all this about? Try to compose
yourself—nay, do not struggle so hard, but let us help you to your
couch.” “How can I rest, think you,” he replied, “while this wicked
woman harbours paramours in my house? I saw him come in with my own
eyes.” “Wretch that I am!” cried his wife. “Inquire of all my friends
and neighbours whether any one of them ever saw anything the least
unbecoming in my conduct.” The whole party with one voice entreated the
professor to lay such thoughts aside, for there was not a better lady
breathing, or one who set a higher value upon her reputation. “But how
can that be,” said he, “when I saw him enter the house, and he is in it
now?” In the meanwhile the lady’s two brothers arrived, when she began
to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “O my dear brothers, my poor husband has
gone mad—quite mad, and he even says there is a man in the house. I
believe he would kill me if he could; but you know me too well to listen
for a moment to such a story,” and she continued to weep.
The brothers then accosted the professor in no gentle terms: “We are
surprised, signor—we are shocked to find that you dare bestow such
epithets on our sister. What can have led you, after living so amicably
together, to bring these charges against her now?” “I can only tell
you,” answered the professor, “that there is a man in the house. I saw
him enter.” “Then come, and let us find him. Show him to us,” retorted
the incensed brothers, “for we will sift this matter to the bottom. Show
us the man, and we will then punish her in such a way as will satisfy
you.” One of the brothers, taking his sister aside, said, “First tell
me, have you really got any one hidden in the house? Tell the truth.”
“Heavens!” cried his sister, “I tell you, I would rather suffer death.
Should I be the first to bring a scandal on our house? I wonder you are
not ashamed to mention such a thing.” Rejoiced to hear this, the
brothers, directed by the professor, at once commenced a search. Half
frantic, he led them at once to the great bundle of linen, which he
pierced through and through with his sword, firmly believing he was
killing Bucciolo, all the while taunting him at every blow. “There! I
told you,” cried his wife, “that he was mad. To think of destroying our
own property thus! It is plain he did not help to get them up,” she
continued, whimpering—“all my best clothes!”
Having now sought everywhere in vain, one of the brothers observed, “He
is indeed mad,” to which the other agreed, while he again attacked the
professor in the bitterest terms: “You have carried matters too far,
signor; your conduct to our sister is shameful, and nothing but insanity
can excuse it.” Vexed enough before, the professor upon this flew into a
violent passion, and brandished his naked sword in such a way that the
others were obliged to use their sticks, which they did so very
effectively that, after breaking them over his head, they chained him
down like a maniac upon the floor, declaring he had lost his wits by
excessive study, and taking possession of his house, they remained with
their sister all night. Next morning they sent for a physician, who
ordered a couch to be placed as near as possible to the fire, that no
one should be allowed to speak or reply to the patient, and that he
should be strictly dieted until he recovered his wits; and this regimen
was diligently enforced.[490]
A report immediately spread through Bologna that the good professor had
become insane, which caused very general regret, his friends observing
to each other, “It is indeed a bad business; but I suspected yesterday
how it was—he could scarcely get a word out as he was delivering his
lecture, did you not perceive?” “Yes,” said another, “I saw him change
colour, poor fellow.” And by everybody, everywhere, it was decided that
the professor was mad. In this situation numbers of his scholars went to
see him, and among the rest Bucciolo, knowing nothing of what had
happened, agreed to accompany them to the college, desirous of
acquainting his master with last night’s adventure. What was his
surprise to learn that he had actually taken leave of his senses, and
being directed on leaving the college to the professor’s house, he was
almost panic-struck on approaching the place, beginning to comprehend
the whole affair. Yet, in order that no one might be led to suspect the
real truth, he walked into the house along with the rest, and on
reaching a certain apartment which he knew, he beheld his poor tutor
almost beaten to a mummy, and chained down upon his bed, close to the
fire. His pupils were standing round condoling with him and lamenting
his piteous case. At length it came to Bucciolo’s turn to say something
to him, which he did as follows: “My dear master, I am as truly
concerned for you as if you were my own father, and if there is anything
in which I can be of service to you, command me as your own son.” To
this the poor professor only replied, “No, Bucciolo, depart in peace, my
pupil; depart, for you have learned much, very much, at my expense.”
Here his wife interrupted him: “You see how he wanders—heed not what he
says—pay no attention to him, signor.” Bucciolo, however, prepared to
depart, and taking a hasty leave of the professor, he proceeded to the
lodging of his friend Pietro Paolo, and said to him, “Fare you well. God
bless you, my friend. I must away; and I have lately learned so much at
other people’s expense that I am going home.” So saying, he hurried
away, and in due course arrived in safety at Rome.
* * * * *
The affliction of the professor of Giovanni’s sprightly tale will
probably be considered by most readers as well-merited punishment; the
young gallant proved an apt scholar in the art of love, and here was the
inciter to evil repaid with the same coin!
* * * * *
Straparola also tells the story, but in a different form, in his
“Pleasant Nights” (Piacevoli Notti), First Day, second novella; and his
version is taken into a small collection entitled “Tarlton’s Newes out
of Purgatorie,” first published in or before 1590—a catchpenny tract in
which, of course, Dick Tarlton had never a hand, any more than he had in
the collection of jests which goes under his name.