TALES OF HUMOUR, GALLANTRY & ROMANCE,
Selected And Translated From The Italian.
With Sixteen Illustrative Drawings by George Cruikshank.
The Teacher Taught.........1
The Unexpected Reply........17
‘Who am I?’............27
The Dead Rider ..........51
The Skilful Physician.........65
The Pomegranate Seed........77
The Fatal Mistake....... . . .113
The Dead Alive ..........121
The False Champion.........131
The Merchant of Venice........141
A Skeleton in every House.......171
The Elopement...........177
The Friar Entrapped.........191
Antonia and Veronica.........203
Belphagor, or Domestic Happiness.....213
The Sleeping Draught........229
The Counterparts..........239
ADVERTISEMENT.
These tales are translated from a variety of authors. The translator has
been chiefly led to the task by the hope of composing an entertaining
volume out of materials not generally accessible. The works in which
many of them are found, are by no means common, and the indelicacy with
which almost all collections of Italian tales are polluted, deservedly
excludes them from general perusal. Such care has, however, been
employed in the following selection, and such liberties taken with the
originals, when they appeared objectionable on this account, that it
is hoped this little book will escape the censure too justly cast upon
Italian works of humour, in general--a censure which falls heavily upon
many of the otherwise admirable tales of Boccaccio. While, however, such
trifling alterations have been made as appeared necessary, these
tales may still justly be considered as fair specimens of the Italian
_Novella_, and like the celebrated collection already alluded to,
furnish us with a very lively idea of the early manners of the Italians.
Those tales, from which our great dramatist borrowed parts of his plots,
and some of his incidents, have a double interest, both from their own
nature, and as they illustrate the process by which his genius, “by
happy alchemy of mind,” turned all the materials which fell in his way
to gold. Two or three of this kind have been purposely selected.
ITALIAN TALES.
THE TEACHER TAUGHT.
There dwelt in Rome two very intimate friends and relations of the
family of Savelli, the one named Bacciuolo, and the other Pietro Paolo,
both nobly bom and possessed of sufficient wealth. These young men
determined to go and complete their studies at Bologna; one wished to
study the common law, and the other the canon law. They accordingly took
leave of their friends, and came to Bologna, and assiduously applied
themselves to their respective pursuits, which they continued for some
time. Now, as you no doubt know, the former improved himself much
sooner than Pietro Paolo, for which reason, being now a licentiate, he
determined to return to Rome, and said to Pietro Paolo--“Brother, since
I am now a licentiate, I have resolved to return home.” Peter Paul
answered, “I prithee do not leave me here--oblige me by remaining the
winter--then in the spring we will go together--thou in the mean time
mayest learn some other science, by which means thou wilt not waste thy
time.” Bacciuolo willingly agreed to the proposal, promised to wait for
him, and in order not to lose his time, went to the professor, and said,
“Sir, having made up my mind to remain with my friend and relation, I
would be glad if it pleased you to teach me some noble science during
my stay.” The professor answered, that he would most willingly do it.
“Chuse which science you prefer, and I will teach it you with pleasure.”
Bacciuolo then replied, “Worthy Sir, I would learn how to make love,
and to set about it.” The professor, smiling, answered, “this is a good
joke, thou couldst not have hit on a science in which I am a greater
adept. Now then go thy ways on Sunday morning to the church of the minor
friars--there thou wilt see numbers of fine women assembled, and wilt
be able to pitch upon some one that may take thy fancy. When thou hast
selected the one, follow her until you find out where she lives--then
return to me. This is the first part of my instructions.” Bacciuolo
departed, and on the following Sunday, going to the church as he had
been desired, and eyeing all the pretty women, for there were many, he
saw one among them that pleased him much--she being very handsome and
graceful. When she left the church, Bacciuolo took care to follow her
close, and saw, and marked the house where she dwelt, not however,
without the lady perceiving that the young student had taken a fancy to
her. Bacciuolo returned to the professor, and said, “I have done as you
desired me, and I have seen one whom I like very much.” Upon which the
professor said he was highly pleased, and smiled at Bacciuolo, seeing
what species of science he was anxious to learn, and he said to him, “be
sure you make a point of passing by her house, as it were carelessly,
two or three times every day, and have your eyes about you, and take
care that no one observes you looking at her, but enjoy as much as thou
mayest the sight of her, and let her perceive that thou art in love with
her; then return to me. This is the second part of my instructions.”
Bacciuolo left the professor, and cautiously began to walk to and
fro before the lady’s house; so that the lady perceived that he must
certainly walk to and fro before the house, for the purpose of seeing
her--she, therefore, began to eye him; insomuch that Bacciuolo began to
bow most respectfully to her, and she returned the salutation several
times, the which persuaded Bacciuolo that the lady did not dislike him.
He, of course, reported the whole to the professor; who answered, “well,
I am pleased with this, and you have ruled yourself well hitherto.
Now you must endeavour to find one of those female pedlers, that sell
trinkets, purses, and such like in the streets of Bologna, and set her
to make the lady acquainted with your passion, how much you are devoted
to her, and that there is none you could prefer to her, and how happy
you would be if she would lay upon you any commands, by which you could
prove your devotion to her: thou wilt hear what she says to this,
and thou wilt report it to me, and I will direct thy future conduct.”
Bacciuolo immediately went out and found a pedler perfectly well
acquainted with her trade, and addressed her thus:--“I wish you to do me
a great kindness, and I will reward you handsomely.” The woman answered,
“I will obey your orders, for I have nothing to look to but to get
money.” Bacciuolo gave her a crown-piece, and said, “I wish you to
go today to a house in a street called the Maccarella; there lives a
damsel, called the Lady Giovanna, whom I love more than any other living
creature; and I wish you to get me into her good graces, and tell her I
would gladly do any thing that might give her pleasure; and say all the
pretty coaxing things, which I am sure you can say on such occasions;
therefore I entreat you to exert your skill.” The little old woman
answered, “rest assured, kind Signor, I will do my best, and find a
favourable opportunity for the purpose.”
“Go, my good woman,” said Bacciuolo, “and I will wait for you here.” She
immediately set forth with her little basket of trinkets, and went up
to the lady, whom she found sitting at her door to breathe the cool air.
Courtesying to her, she said, “Lady, are there any of these trinkets
that you would like to have? Take whatever you please, lady,” said
she, and seated herself by the lady, shewing her some purses,
looking-glasses, laces, and other little things; after looking at all
the wares, she noticed a purse, and said, “if I had money about me,
I should willingly purchase that purse.” The little woman cried, “La!
Ma’am, don’t think about that, take it if it pleases you, for every
thing in this basket is paid for.” The lady was surprized to hear this,
and said, “Good woman, what do you mean, what are you saying?” The
little old woman, with tears in her eyes, said, “Why, Madam, I will tell
you. The truth is, a young gentleman, whose name is Bacciuolo, and who
is desperately in love with you, has sent me. He says, you are the only
creature on earth he loves, and that he would willingly do any thing to
merit your regard, and that to obey any commands of yours will be the
greatest happiness to him. Indeed, I fear he cannot live unless you
allow him to speak to you. As for my part, I never saw so genteel a
youth in my life.” The lady on hearing these things blushed, and turning
to the woman, said, “were it not for my honour’s sake, old woman, I
would expose you to the world, and that would make you repent. Art thou
not ashamed, thou good-for-nothing old hag, to come on such an errand
to a modest woman, a plague upon thee!”--and so saying, the lady seized
hold of a stick which lay behind the door to give her a beating, adding,
“if ever thou comest here again, I will beat thee black and blue.” Upon
which the old woman quickly packed up her wares, and made off as fast
as she could waddle, in a great fright, nor did she stop on the way till
she got to Signor Bacciuolo.
[Illustration: 026]
When Bacciuolo saw her, he eagerly asked how matters had gone with
her--“Bad enough,” said she, “I never was in such a fright. However, the
case is, she will neither see nor hear you; and had I not been pretty
quick in making off, I should have had a sound beating. For my part, I
will not go near her again, and I advise you to have nothing more to do
with her.”
Bacciuolo was quite broken-hearted at this intelligence, and went to
report it to the professor, and related the whole transaction. “Be not
alarmed, Bacciuolo, because the oak does not fall at the first stroke
of the axe. There--go past the house this evening, and observe with what
sort of an eye she views thee; find out, by the kind of glance she casts
upon thee, whether she be angry or no; then come and tell me.” Bacciuolo
went forth towards the lady’s house. When she saw him, she instantly
called her maid, and said to her, “Go after that young man, and tell him
to come to speak to me this evening, and not to fail.” So the maid went
to him, and told him that the Lady Giovanna desired he would come
that evening to her, as she wished to speak to him. Bacciuolo was in a
strange surprize, but answered that he would most willingly do so; and
then immediately returned to the professor, and informed him of what had
happened. The professor was a little staggered, for somehow or other a
suspicion struck him that it might be his own wife, and he thought to
himself, if it should!--> And so it was in fact. “Well,” said he, “wilt
thou go?”--“Certainly,” said Bacciuolo. “Well,” said the professor,
“when you do go, go straight from here.”
“Very well, so I will,” said Bacciuolo.
This lady was the wife of the professor, but Bacciuolo did not know
that. The professor, however, began to feel uneasy; for, in the winter,
he used to sleep at the college to lecture the students late in an
evening, and his wife lived alone with her maid. “I would not,” said
the professor, “that this fellow should learn to make love at my
expense--but I will know further.”
Evening coming on, Bacciuolo came to him, saying, “Good Sir, I am
going.”--“Well,” said the professor, “speed be with you, but be wise.”
Bacciuolo said, “leave me alone for that, you have not taught me for
nothing,” and went away. He had put on a good cuirass, and provided
himself with a stout rapier, and a stiletto in his girdle. When
Bacciuolo was gone, the professor followed close at his heels, Bacciuolo
little thinking whom he had got behind him. When arrived at the door,
he tapped gently, and the lady herself instantly let him in, and the
professor saw, to his astonishment, that it really was his wife. “Oh!
oh! I see,” said he, “the fellow has made his progress at my cost and
he began to think of killing him.” He went back to the college, bought a
sword and a stiletto, returned furiously to the house, fully determined
to make Signor Bacciuolo pay for his instructions, and reaching the
door, he began to knock loudly. The lady was seated by the fire with
Bacciuolo, and hearing the knocking, she immediately apprehended it
might be her husband, and therefore concealed her lover under a heap
of damp unironed linen which had been bundled up in a comer near the
window. She then ran to the door, and demanded who was there. “Open the
door, thou wicked woman,” cried the professor from without, “and thou
wilt soon know it.” The lady opened the door, and, seeing him with a
sword in his hand, exclaimed, “good heavens! what means this, my dear
Sir?”--“Thou well knowest whom thou hast in the house,” he said. “Good
heavens,” cried the lady, “what is it you mean, are you mad? Look over
the house,” she said, “and if you find any one, I give you leave to
execute your threats. How should I think of conducting myself otherwise
than I always have done; beware, Sir, lest the evil spirit take
possession of you, and lead you to destruction.”
The husband, having got a candle, went looking about all over the house;
in the cellar, behind and under all the casks, butts, and indeed in
every corner: then ran up stairs like a madman; searched every part ‘of
the room, but the right one; under the bed; thrust his sword into every
square inch of the bedding, yet could he not find any thing. The lady,
who stuck close to him with a light in her hand, often repeated to him,
“good master! cross yourself, for assuredly the evil spirit is in you,
and has tempted you to seek after what does not exist, for if I had the
most distant thought of such wickedness, I would be the death of myself.
Therefore, I do entreat you not to suffer yourself to be seduced by such
wicked thoughts.” Upon which the professor, unable to find the object
of his search, and hearing what the lady had said, began to think he was
mistaken in his suspicions, and so put out the light, and returned to
the college.
The lady immediately brought out Bacciuolo from under the clothes, and
lighted a large fire; put on it a famous fine capon to boil, and they
pledged each other merrily, the lady often saying, “You see, my good
little man has not found us out;” and so they cheerfully spent some
hours together. In the morning Bacciuolo went to the professor, and
said, “Oh, my good sir! I will make you laugh.”
“How is that?” said the professor. “Last night, after I had been a short
time at the lady’s house, in came the husband, and though he hunted
every where in search of me, he could not find me, for she had hidden
me under a heap of damp linen, that were going to be dried; and the lady
talked the poor fellow over so, that he soon went away; when we had a
large capon for supper, drank some excellent wine, and had the best fun
you can imagine, and I have promised to return again to night.”
“Be sure,” said the professor, “when you go this evening, to let me
know.” Bacciuolo answered he would, and left the professor.
The professor meanwhile was in the utmost rage, and actually beside
himself--so much so that he was not able to attend at the classes, he
was so broken hearted. However, he consoled himself with the idea that
he should catch him at night. So he purchased a breast plate, a light
armour, and with his cuirass, rapier, and stiletto, cut quite a martial
figure. When the time came, Bacciuolo innocently went to the professor,
and said, “I am going.”
“Well,” said the professor, “go, and return to-morrow, and relate to me
what may have happened.”
“I will,” said Bacciuolo, and marched off to the lady’s house. The
professor put on his armour, and followed Bacciuolo close at his heels,
and thought of overtaking him at the door. The lady, who was upon the
watch, opened the door quickly, let in her lover, and shut it again like
lightning. When the professor reached the house he began to knock with
all his might, making a tremendous noise. The lady in an instant put
out the light, and made Bacciuolo slide behind her, opened the door, and
clasping her arms on the neck of her husband, whirled him round and
gave Bacciuolo an opportunity of slipping out; at the same time crying,
“help! help! the man is mad, the man is mad;” still holding the poor
gentleman tight round the waist.
[Illustration: 034]
The neighbours, upon hearing this noise, ran out, and seeing the
professor thus armed at all points, with his huge breast-plate, cuirass,
helmet, long rapier, and stiletto, and the lady crying out, “Hold him,
hold him, he is mad; he has cracked his brain with study;” thought it
was really true, and that he had lost his wits. They began to say to
him, “what means all this, good Signor? go to bed and rest--do not
torment yourself in this way.”
“How can I rest,” he shouted, “when this wicked woman is harbouring a
man in the house? I saw him go in with my own eyes.”
“Oh wretched woman that I am,” cried the lady, “ask these neighbours,
all, whether they have ever witnessed improper conduct in me.” They all
with one voice answered, both men and women--“Do not think, Signor, so
base a thing, for never was a better woman born than this lady--more
virtuous or more decorous.”
“How!” said the professor, “why I saw the man enter the house, and I
am sure he is in it now.” In the mean time two of the lady’s brothers
arrived, and when she saw them, she burst into tears, and said, “my dear
brothers! this husband of mine is raving mad, and will have it that I
have a man in the house, and wants to be the death of me, and you well
know whether I am a woman likely to fall into such abominations.” The
brothers said to the armed philosopher, who foamed at the mouth with
rage, “we marvel much, Sir, that you should dare suspect a sister of
ours of such an act, and wonder what can make you dream of such a thing,
having lived with her so long.”
“I tell you,” said the professor, “that there _is_ a man in the house,
and I have seen him.”
“Well!” said the brothers, “let us hunt him out, and if he is found
here, we will give her such a lesson as shall make you full amends.”
One of the brothers drew the lady aside, and said, “Hast thou in truth
really got any one in the house?”
“Alas!” said the lady, “heaven forbid! may I die before I harbour such
a thought as no woman of our family was ever guilty of. Art thou not
ashamed to put such a question?” Upon which the brother felt quite
happy, and the three went up to search. The professor directly made for
the damp linen, pulled them about, and stabbed them through and through
in every direction, hardly leaving an inch through which he did not
stick his sword, and the while taunting and insulting Bacciuolo as if he
had actually been under them.
[Illustration: 039]
“Well,” said the lady, “did I not tell you he was mad? see how he spoils
the linen: thou hast not been at the trouble of getting them up--that
is very clear.” The brothers then began to think he was truly mad, and
after seeking every where, and not finding any one, one brother said,
“This fellow is certainly mad.” The other then said, “Signor, in truth
you do an infamous injustice to this sister of ours, in giving her so
vile a character.” But the professor, who well knew how matters stood,
being in a rage, began to quarrel violently with them, and kept his
naked sword in his hand. So each of them took a good stick, and being
determined to administer a little wholesome correction, they laid them
about the poor professor most unmercifully, and when they had nearly
broken the sticks on his back, they bound him for a madman, telling
every body that he had cracked his brain by intense study, and so they
tied him up all night. In the morning they sent for the doctor, who
ordered him to be put to bed by a fire, and desired that he should
not speak to any one, or any one to him, and that particular attention
should be paid to his diet, till he recovered his senses.
The news that the Signor had gone mad soon spread all over Bologna;
every body was much concerned. Some said, “I suspected it would be so,
for he could not attend the lectures the other day.” Others said, “I
thought it would be so, I observed him so materially altered of late.”
The report was universally credited, and many went to see him. Bacciuolo
unacquainted with what had taken place, went in the morning to the
college, with the intention of telling the professor of his adventure;
but on reaching the place, he was told how the Signor had become mad.
Bacciuolo wondered at this, and was very sorry for it, and went to see
him with the rest, and being arrived at the house, Bacciuolo began to be
staggered, and almost fainted, seeing how things stood; but in order to
prevent any one noticing how affected he was, he went in with them,
and on reaching the apartment, he saw the Signor all over bruises, and
chained to the bed. All the students began to condole with him, and
express their sorrow at seeing him in such a state. Bacciuolo’s turn
coming, he said, “good Signor, I am as much grieved at your situation,
as though you were my father; and if I can do any thing to relieve you,
I pray you deal with me as if I were your son.” Upon which the professor
answered, “Bacciuolo, Bacciuolo, I pray thee go in peace, for thou
hast learned much at my cost.” The lady prevented farther discourse, by
saying, “do not mind him, for he has lost his wits, and does not know
what he says.” Bacciuolo then departed, and came to Paolo, and said,
“Brother, Heaven guard thee, for I have learned so much, that nothing
remains for me to learn; therefore will I return back to my home as fast
as my legs can carry me.”
THE UNEXPECTED REPLY.
‘Tis now a few years since there were two eminent and worthy lawyers,
the one was named Alano, and the other Piero; in fact, there were not
in Christendom two greater men than these two, who were invariably in
opposition to one another. Alano, however, always came off conqueror,
being by much the greatest rhetorician then known, and one whose
principles were of a sounder kind than those of Piero, who was something
of a heretic, and would often have inflicted a severe blow on religion,
had it not ever been defended by Alano, who knocked down all his
arguments. Alano determined to go to Rome to visit the holy relics, the
pope, and his court: in consequence, taking several servants with him,
clothes, and other baggage, he departed for Rome and visited the pope
and his court; observed its elegance and grandeur, and wondered much,
considering that it ought to be the foundation of Christianity and holy
faith, at seeing it so corrupted and full of simony. He was so ashamed
of this, he determined to forsake the world and give himself up entirely
to the service of his Maker. He therefore departed from Rome with all
his servants, and when he came near Saint Chirico of Rosana, he told
them to go forward towards the inn, and leave him to himself. When Alano
saw them gone forward, he turned towards the mountain and galloped off,
and arrived in the evening at a shepherd’s cottage. Alano dismounted,
and stopped that night with him; the next morning he said to the
shepherd, “I will leave thee my clothes and my horse, and do thou give
me thine.” The shepherd thought he was in jest, and said, “Sir, I have
entertained you in the best manner I am able; I pray you do not mock
me.” Messer Alano stripped off his clothes, and made the shepherd do the
same, which he put on; left him his horse and his clothes; put on the
shepherd’s shoes; took his cash and stick, and set forward at a venture.
His servants perceiving he did not come, after looking out for him,
began to think that as it was rather an unsafe road, that he might have
been, robbed and murdered; and, after remaining a day or two, returned
to Paris.
Alano, when he had left the shepherd, travelling on, arrived at an abbey
at Maremma, and, begging some bread, the abbot asked him if he would
stay and live with them. Alano answered, that he would willingly do so.
“What can you do?” said the abbot. “Sir,” replied Alano, “I shall do
whatever you bid me.” The abbot thought that he seemed a good fellow,
and took him into the house, and began by sending him to fetch wood. He
behaved so well, that all who were in the abbey were delighted with him,
for he would willingly do any thing they asked him; neither did he seem
ashamed nor reluctant. In consequence of this good behaviour, the abbot
gave him a place in the monastery, and called him Don Beneditto; the
life he used to lead was to fast four days in the week; never undress,
and spend great part of the night in prayer; and whatever might be said
or done to him, he never complained, but praised the Lord. Thus had
he determined to live and serve his Maker, so that the abbot loved him
extremely.
His servants, on their return to Paris, having given it out that he was
dead, every body lamented the loss of so great a man, and so able a
lawyer. Now, Messer Giulio Piero hearing that Messer Alano was dead,
rejoiced much at it. “Now,” said he, “I shall be able to compass that
which I have long meditated.” So he prepared himself and went to Rome,
and there proposed, in open consistory, a question which was greatly
injurious to our faith, and, by his craft, endeavoured to introduce
heresy in our church. Upon which the pope called the college of
cardinals together, where it was determined to send for all the greatest
men in Italy to attend a consistory, for the purpose of answering the
questions which Messer Giulio Piero had proposed against our faith. Of
course, all the bishops, abbots, and other great prelates who were
canonists, were summoned to the court. Among others, this very abbot
with whom Alano was living was called upon, and he prepared himself for
his departure. Alano, being informed of the business he was going upon,
entreated the abbot to let him go with him. “What would you do there?”
said the abbot; “you, who do not even know how to read, what would you
do there among all the greatest men of the church? They will speak
nothing but Latin, so that thou wilt not understand one word.”
“I shall at least see the pope,” answered Alano, “whom I never yet
beheld, nor do I know what sort of a thing he be.” The abbot, perceiving
how earnestly he wished it, said, “Well, I will allow thee to come with
me, but wilt thou know how to ride?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Alano. At the proper time the abbot departed, and
Alano with him. Being arrived at Rome, and the day being fixed when the
consistory was to meet, upon hearing that any one might go and hear what
was discussed, Messer Alano begged the abbot most earnestly to allow him
to go to the said consistory. “Art thou beside thyself?” said the abbot;
“how dost thou think I could take thee there, where the pope, cardinals,
and all the greatest lords are?”
“I will get under your cloak,” said Alano; “then I shall not be seen,
for I am very short, as well as very thin.”
“Take care,” said the abbot, “the porter and servants do not give thee a
good beating.”
“Let me alone for that,” said Alano; “I warrant I’ll take care of
myself.” When the abbot went in, there being a great crowd, Alano popped
under the abbot’s cloak, and went in with the rest. The abbot took his
proper seat with the other abbots. Alano stood between his legs
under the abbot’s cloak, and peeped through the arm-hole of his robe,
attentively listening to hear the question proposed. A short time after,
Piero entered, mounted the tribune in presence of the pope, cardinals,
and all the others, and proposed his question, which he argued with his
usual artfulness. Alano immediately recognised him, and seeing that no
one answered him, or argued with him, he popped his head through the
arm-hole of the abbot’s cloak, and cried out “_Giube_.” The abbot raised
his hand, and gave him a good box on the ear, saying, “hold your tongue,
and the devil take you! wilt thou shame me?” Of course, all those near
looked at one another with wonder, saying, “Whence came that voice?” A
few minutes afterwards, Alano put out his head again, and said, “_hear
me, holy father!_” which made the abbot much ashamed and confused; for
every one stared at him, and cried out, “Who is that you have got under
your cloak?” The abbot said it was one of his lay brothers, who was
insane. Upon which they abused him, and said, “What! do you bring a
madman into the consistory?” and the guards came forth to beat and drive
him away. Alano, fearing he should get some hard blows, made off from
under the abbot’s cloak; and rushing in among the bishops and cardinals,
made his way till he got at the feet of the pope, which caused a burst
of laughter among them all, throughout the consistory. The abbot was on
the point of being turned out, for having brought the fellow there, but
Alano being at the pope’s feet, he entreated he might be allowed to give
his opinion on the case, and the pope granted his petition. Alano then
mounted the tribune with alacrity, and all were gaping to hear what the
madman would say. Alano opened his mouth, and began by recapitulating
all his opponent had advanced, and separately answered the different
parts of the question with a mild and natural, but vigorous eloquence.
The whole college were in the utmost astonishment at hearing the elegant
Latin he spoke, and the fine arguments which he produced against his
adversary. Every one cried out, “why truly, this is the Lamb of God that
appears to us.” The pope hearing his eloquence, thanked heaven at every
instant. Alano having thus confuted Piero in every argument, the latter
was sorely vexed and humbled, and said, “truly thou art the spirit of
Messer Alano, or that of the devil himself.” Alano answered, “I am the
very Alano who many times have put to flight your conceit; but thou!
thou art the true malignant spirit who wishest to fill our church with
heresy.” Piero replied, “indeed, if I had known thou hadst been alive,
I should never have ventured here.” The pope became anxious to know who
this Alano was, and called the abbot to know how he came by this man.
“Most holy father!” said the abbot, “I have had him with me a long time,
and I really thought he could not even read, nor have I ever found any
man possessed of so much humility as he is. He is always employed in
cutting and bringing home fire-wood; sweeping the rooms; making beds;
attending the sick, and taking care of the horses. He always appeared to
me a very simple fellow.”
The pope hearing what a holy and virtuous life he led, and what he had
formerly been, wished to create him cardinal, and paid him every mark of
honour, saying to him, “Had it not been for thee, our church must have
suffered serious injury, therefore I wish thee to remain at our court.”
Alano replied, “Most holy father, I wish to live and die in this
solitary life, and never more go back to the world. Nay, I mean to
return with my good abbot to his abbey, and follow up the life I have
entered upon, and thus serve God.” The abbot fell on his knees, praying
him to pardon him, for he had not known him, and particularly for the
box on the ear which he had given him. Messer Alano said, “there is no
occasion for such a thing; the father has an undoubted right to
chastise his child.” They afterwards took leave of his holiness and the
cardinals, and returned to the abbey. The abbot ever after paid him the
greatest respect, and he lived with him a holy life. He compiled and
wrote several works on religion, and whilst he lived here, conducted
himself in so virtuous a manner as to ensure to himself an eternal life
hereafter.
WHO AM I?
A party of young men were at supper, one Sunday, in the city of
Florence, at a gentleman’s house whose name was Tommaso de Pecori,
a respectable, honourable, and good-humoured man, who delighted in
pleasant society. This party being retired after supper by a cheerful
fire, were talking merrily together, as people who meet on such
occasions are apt to do:--“How happens it,” said one of them, “that
Manetto Ammannotini would not join us to night; yet we all asked him,
and still he obstinately refused to come?” This Manetto was by trade a
carver in ebony, and kept a shop in St. John’s Place--a clever fellow in
his trade; he had an agreeable person, was of a merry turn of mind, and
about thirty-five years of age. Being tall and rather corpulent, he was
called Grasso, and was always accustomed to be of the party of jovial
good fellows above-mentioned, who made themselves merry and comfortable;
but in the present instance, whether from whim or caprice, the said
Manetto would not meet them. The party, however, talking the matter
over, could not guess at the reason, and concluding it to be a whim,
were a little piqued at it. He who had spoken first, said, “why should
we not play him a trick, to cure him of these fancies for the future?”
Another said, “but what trick could we put upon him, except make him
stand a treat, or some such thing?”
In the party was one whose name was Philip of Brunelesco; this person,
who was well acquainted with Grasso, and knew his situation, began to
think with himself how they could play him a trick, and ruminating for
some time, he at last said, for he was a clever fellow, “Gentlemen, if
you like, and I can find in my heart to do it, we will play off a hoax
on this Grasso, which will greatly divert us: what I think we must do,
is to persuade him that he is transformed, and not the same Grasso,
but some other person.” The others answered, “but that is certainly not
possible.” Upon which, Philip explained the plan he meant to pursue; as
he was a shrewd fellow, he persuaded them it was very possible; so they
all agreed on the means and plan to be pursued by each of them, in order
to prove to Grasso that he was no other than one Matteo, one of the
party. They proceeded, next night, in the following manner: it was
agreed that Philip, who was more intimate with Grasso than either of the
others, should go, about the time that shopkeepers generally shut up, to
Grasso’s shop. When he had been talking to Grasso some time, there came
in, as it had been previously settled, a boy in great haste, who asked
if Mr. Philip of Brunelesco was there. Philip coming forward, said he
was, and that he himself was the man, and asked him what he wanted. To
which the boy answered, “you must come home immediately, Sir, for, about
two hours ago, your mother met with an accident, and is almost dead;
therefore, hasten away with me.” Philip, pretending to be very much
alarmed and grieved, cried out, “good heaven defend me!” and took leave
of Grasso. Grasso, being his friend, said, “I will go with you, if I can
be of any service to you; these are cases in which friends should not
hold back.” Philip thanked him, and said, “I do not wish that you should
come now, but should any thing be wanting I will send you word to come.”
Philip set off as if going homewards, but, turning round a corner of the
street, he went into Grasso’s house facing the church of Santa Reparata,
and opening the door with a picklock, went in and fastened the door, so
that no one might enter. Grasso’s mother had gone, a few days before, to
a little cottage she possessed at Polirrosa, in order to wash the linen,
and was expected home hourly. Grasso, after having shut up the shop,
went walking up and down the Piazza of San Giovanni as he was accustomed
to do, still thinking of his friend’s misfortune. It being then night,
he thought to himself that Philip would not be in need of any assistance
as he had not sent for him, so he determined to go home, and, arriving
at the door, he ascended the two steps before it, tried to open the door
as usual, and being unable to do so, he perceived it was locked in
the inside; therefore, knocking, he cried out aloud, “open the door!”
thinking his mother had returned home, and had fastened the door for
some reason or other, or had done it inadvertently. Philip, who was
within, imitating Grasso’s voice, said, “_who is there?_” Grasso said,
“open the door!” Philip pretended as if he thought he who knocked was
the identical Matteo, whom they wanted Grasso to believe himself to be;
and still assuming the character of Grasso, said, “pry’thee, Matteo, go
thy ways, for I am in much anxiety, for as I was in the shop talking to
Philip, a boy came running to him, and told him his mother was nearly
dead, therefore you see I am sadly distressed then;” turning round he
said, “good mother Giovanni, (for thus Grasso’s mother was called) do
let me have some supper, for it is a shame; you were to have been home
two days ago, instead of which you arrive just at this time of the night
thus he went on chiding, and imitating Grasso’s voice.” Grasso hearing
this scolding, and it seeming to him to be his own voice, said to
himself, “what the devil is all this, and who is he that is up there, is
it I?--He says Philip was at his shop when he was told that his mother
was ill, and moreover he is scolding Mother Giovanni--certainly I have
lost my recollection”--thus saying, as he went down the steps to holla up
at the windows, there came by, as had been previously settled, one
whose name was Donatello, a stone-mason, a great friend of Grasso, who
approaching him in the dark, said “good night, Matteo, are you going to
see Grasso--he is just gone home,” and so saying, he left him. Grasso,
if he was surprised at first when Donatello called him Matteo, was now
thunderstruck, and withdrew in the Piazza of San Giovanni, saying to
himself, “I will walk about here till some one shall pass, and, knowing
me, will tell me who I really am.” Thus sauntering, in the greatest
agitation of mind, he was met according to agreement, by four officers
of the police, a messenger, and with them a man to whom that Matteo,
whom Grasso began to think himself, owed money. This man accosting
Grasso, turned to the officers and said, “take him, this is Matteo, this
is my debtor. You see I have followed thee up close. I have caught
thee at last.” The officers then began to seize him, and lead him away.
Grasso, turning to the man who had just arrested him, said, “what have I
to do with thee? you have mistaken your man; I am not he you take me to
be; I am Grasso, the carver in ebony; I am not Matteo, nor do I know who
your Matteo is.” He was on the point of following up his words, with a
few hard blows, but they seized him by the arms, and held him tight.
The creditor coming forward, and looking at him from head to foot, said,
“what! you not Matteo! do I not know Matteo? Matteo, my debtor! don’t I
know who Grasso the carver is? I have thy name in my books, and have had
a writ against thee this twelvemonth; so like a rogue, thou now deniest
being Matteo, but an _alias_ will not pay me my debt; take him away,
take him away, we shall soon see if thou art Matteo.” Thus abusing him,
they led him to prison, and as it was supper-time, they met no one on
their way. Being arrived, the gaol-keeper took down the captive under
the name of Matteo, and confined him among the other prisoners, who
having heard his name mentioned, though without knowing him, called out,
“good night, Matteo.” Grasso, hearing himself so named by every one of
them, exclaimed, “what can this mean?” and really began to think that he
certainly must be Matteo. The prisoners said, “thou seest we are going
to supper, take a little with us, and put off care till to-morrow.”
Grasso supped with them, and when supper was over, one of them gave him
part of his birth, saying, “Matteo, for this night make what shift you
can here, then, to-morrow morning, if you can pay your debt, well and
good; if not, thou must send home for a few bed-clothes.” Grasso thanked
him and laid himself down to rest, and began to think what he should
do if from Grasso he were really turned to Matteo; “which,” said he to
himself, “I really think must be the case, from the different proofs I
have had. If I send home to my mother, and Grasso should be in my house,
they will laugh at me, and say I am mad, and yet methinks I am really
Grasso.” And thus he remained all night in suspense, not knowing whether
he was Grasso or Matteo, and scarcely could he get a wink of sleep. In
the morning he rose and placed himself at a small grated window of the
prison, in hopes that some one would pass that knew him; remaining thus,
there passed by a young man called Giovanni Francesco Rucellai, who was
one of the party at supper when the conspiracy was formed, and who was
well acquainted with Grasso: for this man Grasso was about making a
dressing-table intended for a lady, a friend of Giovanni’s, who, the
very day before, had been in Grasso’s shop to press him to finish the
work, which the carver had promised should be finished, at farthest, in
four days. This person having entered a shop next the prison, popped his
head out at the door that faced the grated window of the prison, which
in those times was on the ground floor, and at which window Grasso
stood, who having seen Giovanni, began to grin and nod at him. Giovanni
stared at him, as if he had never seen him before, and said, “what art
thou grinning at, friend?” It appearing to Grasso, that the man did not
know him, he said, “Oh! at nothing particular, but pray do you know one
Grasso, that lives at the Piazza san Giovanni, just behind yonder
place, who makes inlaid works?”
“Do I know him,” said Giovanni, “don’t I? why he is one of my best
friends, and I am just going to him about a little job he is about for
me.”
“Well,” said Grasso, “since you are going there about your own affair,
do me the favour to tell him, a friend of his is taken into custody,
and beg of him, as an act of friendship, to come and speak to him.”
Giovanni, looking at him, and scarcely able to keep his countenance,
said, “I will do it with pleasure;” and went away about his business.
Grasso still remaining at the little window, said to himself, “now I
may be quite sure that I am no longer Grasso, but that I am changed to
Matteo; what cursed ill fate is mine! If I speak of this matter, I shall
be looked upon as a madman, and all the boys will run after me, and if
I do not clear it up, a hundred blunders, such as happened to me last
night, will occur again; so that either way I am in a terrible hobble:
but let us see whether Grasso will come, for if he comes, I shall tell
him all about it.” Long did he wait in expectation; but as Grasso
never came, he withdrew from the window, to make room for one of the
prisoners; his eyes at first cast down to the ground, and then looking
up to heaven, with his hands clasped together. At that time, there was
in prison a judge, whose name, through respect, we shall not mention,
who was there for debt. This judge, although he did not know Grasso,
seeing him so very disconsolate, tried every means to comfort him, and
said, “Matteo, you are as down-hearted as if you were going to be hanged
to-morrow morning; yet according to what I hear, yours is but a small
debt; you should not give yourself up thus to grief. Why don’t you send
to some friend or relation, and try to pay the money, or settle the
business, in some way or other, so that you may get out of prison, and
not vex yourself in this manner?” Grasso, finding that he so
kindly endeavoured to comfort him, determined to tell him the whole
circumstance, and having drawn him into a corner of the prison, said,
“Sir, although you may not know me, I know you well, and know that you
are a very worthy man, therefore have I made up my mind to tell you the
cause of my unhappiness, lest you should think that such a trifling debt
would make me uneasy. No! I have much greater reason for sorrow,” and then
he began to tell him the whole story, from beginning to end, weeping
almost all the while, and requested two things of him, the one that he
would not mention the matter to any living soul; and next that he would
give him some advice, or point out some way to extricate him from so
perplexing a situation; adding, “I know, Sir, you have read a great
deal, and many authors who have written most extraordinary things, but
have you ever heard of such a case as this?”
The worthy man having heard him, and considering the affair, it struck
him it must be one of these two things, either that the poor fellow had
lost his senses, or that this was a hoax, as it certainly was: and
he immediately answered, he had read many similar things, and that
to become another person was no uncommon occurrence, and by no means
wonderful. “Now, then,” said Grasso, “pray tell me if I am become
Matteo?”
“Of course,” said the judge, “he must have become Grasso.”
“Well,” said Grasso, “if it be so, I should like to see him to quiet
my mind.” Whilst they were thus conversing, it being nearly the hour of
vespers, two brothers of this Matteo came to the prison and asked for
the turnkey, and inquired whether a brother of theirs, by name Matteo,
was in the prison, and for what sum he had been arrested, because, being
his brothers, they had come to pay the debt for him, and to take him
away. The turnkey, who was well acquainted with the plot, being a friend
of Tommaso Pecori, answered, “There was such a person,” and, pretending to
turn over the leaves of the book, said, “the debt is so much, due to so
and so.”
“Well,” said they, “we wish to speak to him, then we will settle
every thing for him,” and going to the prison, they desired one of the
prisoners, who stood at the grating, to tell Matteo that two of his
brothers were here, who were come to take him out of prison. The fellow
having delivered his message, Grasso came to the little window, and
bowed to them. The eldest of the brothers thus addressed him, “thou
knowest, Matteo, how often we have admonished thee in respect to thy bad
goings on: thou art every day getting in debt with some person or other,
and never do you pay any one, because of the money you are spending in
gambling, and what not, by which means thou art always left without a
penny; and now that thou art in gaol, thou thinkest we have means to pay
for thee, who hast consumed, within a short space, a treasure of money
in all kinds of follies. Therefore, now we do say, that were it not for
our honour’s sake, and on account of thy mother, we would leave thee
here long enough, that thou mightest learn better ways; but, for this
once, we have determined to pay thy debt and get thee out of this
dungeon, but if ever you get into such a scrape again you shall get out
of it as you may. In order that we may not be seen coming from hence in
the day-time, we will call this evening for thee, when there are fewer
people about, in order to prevent folks from knowing our affairs, and
being made to blush at this misconduct.” Grasso turned to him that
spoke, and with great humility and apparent contrition assured him,
that, for the future, he should conduct himself more prudently, and
would avoid the follies he had hitherto been guilty of, and never more
disgrace them; and prayed them, for heaven’s sake, when the hour should
come, that they would call and fetch him away. They promised to do so,
and left him. He retired from the window, and said to the judge, “this
is droll enough; here have been two brothers of Matteo, of that Matteo
which I am changed to, and they have spoken to me as if to Matteo; they
have chid me much, and say they will come for me in the evening, and
take me from hence; now, if they take me from this place, where in the
world shall I go? Home I must not go, for if Grasso should be there,
what shall I say? I shall be taken for a maniac; and methinks he must be
there, otherwise my mother would have inquired after me; whereas having
him with her she does not perceive the mistake.” The judge had much ado
to refrain from laughter, and enjoyed the joke; and said to him, “don’t
go home, but go with those who call themselves your brothers; see where
they take you, and what they do with you.” While they were thus talking,
evening drew on, and the brothers came, pretending as if they had
settled the debt and costs. The gaol-keeper arose with the keys of the
prison in his hand, and said, “which of you is Matteo?” Grasso, stepping
forward, said, “‘tis I.” The keeper looked at him, and said, “these, thy
brothers, have paid your debt for you; therefore, you are now free;”
and having opened the prison door, said, “go thy ways.” Grasso came out,
and it being nearly dark, went with the two brothers, who lived at Santa
Félicita, at the rising of the hill San Giorgio.