--
Lisabetta's brothers slay her lover: he appears to her in a dream, and shews
her where he is buried: she privily disinters the head, and sets it in a pot
of basil, whereon she daily weeps a great while. The pot being taken from
her by her brothers, she dies, not long after.
--
Elisa's story ended, the king bestowed a few words of praise upon it, and
then laid the burden of discourse upon Filomena, who, full of compassion for
the woes of Gerbino and his lady, heaved a piteous sigh, and thus began:--My
story, gracious ladies, will not be of folk of so high a rank as those of
whom Elisa has told us, but perchance 'twill not be less touching. 'Tis
brought to my mind by the recent mention of Messina, where the matter
befell.
Know then that there were at Messina three young men, that were brothers and
merchants, who were left very rich on the death of their father, who was of
San Gimignano; and they had a sister, Lisabetta by name, a girl fair enough,
and no less debonair, but whom, for some reason or another, they had not as
yet bestowed in marriage. The three brothers had also in their shop a young
Pisan, Lorenzo by name, who managed all their affairs, and who was so goodly
of person and gallant, that Lisabetta bestowed many a glance upon him, and
began to regard him with extraordinary favour; which Lorenzo marking from
time to time, gave up all his other amours, and in like manner began to
affect her, and so, their loves being equal, 'twas not long before they took
heart of grace, and did that which each most desired. Wherein continuing to
their no small mutual solace and delight, they neglected to order it with
due secrecy, whereby one night as Lisabetta was going to Lorenzo's room,
she, all unwitting, was observed by the eldest of the brothers, who, albeit
much distressed by what he had learnt, yet, being a young man of discretion,
was swayed by considerations more seemly, and, allowing no word to escape
him, spent the night in turning the affair over in his mind in divers ways.
On the morrow he told his brothers that which, touching Lisabetta and
Lorenzo, he had observed in the night, which, that no shame might thence
ensue either to them or to their sister, they after long consultation
determined to pass over in silence, making as if they had seen or heard
nought thereof, until such time as they in a safe and convenient manner
might banish this disgrace from their sight before it could go further.
Adhering to which purpose, they jested and laughed with Lorenzo as they had
been wont; and after a while pretending that they were all three going forth
of the city on pleasure, they took Lorenzo with them; and being come to a
remote and very lonely spot, seeing that 'twas apt for their design, they
took Lorenzo, who was completely off his guard, and slew him, and buried him
on such wise that none was ware of it. On their return to Messina they gave
out that they had sent him away on business; which was readily believed,
because 'twas what they had been frequently used to do. But as Lorenzo did
not return, and Lisabetta questioned the brothers about him with great
frequency and urgency, being sorely grieved by his long absence, it so
befell that one day, when she was very pressing in her enquiries, one of the
brothers said:--"What means this? What hast thou to do with Lorenzo, that
thou shouldst ask about him so often? Ask us no more, or we will give thee
such answer as thou deservest." So the girl, sick at heart and sorrowful,
fearing she knew not what, asked no questions; but many a time at night she
called piteously to him, and besought him to come to her, and bewailed his
long tarrying with many a tear, and ever yearning for his return, languished
in total dejection.
But so it was that one night, when, after long weeping that her Lorenzo came
not back, she had at last fallen asleep, Lorenzo appeared to her in a dream,
wan and in utter disarray, his clothes torn to shreds and sodden; and thus,
as she thought, he spoke:--"Lisabetta, thou dost nought but call me, and vex
thyself for my long tarrying, and bitterly upbraid me with thy tears;
wherefore be it known to thee that return to thee I may not, because the
last day that thou didst see me thy brothers slew me." After which, he
described the place where they had buried him, told her to call and expect
him no more, and vanished. The girl then awoke, and doubting not that the
vision was true, wept bitterly. And when morning came, and she was risen,
not daring to say aught to her brothers, she resolved to go to the place
indicated in the vision, and see if what she had dreamed were even as it had
appeared to her. So, having leave to go a little way out of the city for
recreation in company with a maid that had at one time lived with them and
knew all that she did, she hied her thither with all speed; and having
removed the dry leaves that were strewn about the place, she began to dig
where the earth seemed least hard. Nor had she dug long, before she found
the body of her hapless lover, whereon as yet there was no trace of
corruption or decay; and thus she saw without any manner of doubt that her
vision was true. And so, saddest of women, knowing that she might not bewail
him there, she would gladly, if she could, have carried away the body and
given it more honourable sepulture elsewhere; but as she might not so do,
she took a knife, and, as best she could, severed the head from the trunk,
and wrapped it in a napkin and laid it in the lap of her maid; and having
covered the rest of the corpse with earth, she left the spot, having been
seen by none, and went home. There she shut herself up in her room with the
head, and kissed it a thousand times in every part, and wept long and
bitterly over it, till she had bathed it in her tears. She then wrapped it
in a piece of fine cloth, and set it in a large and beautiful pot of the
sort in which marjoram or basil is planted, and covered it with earth, and
therein planted some roots of the goodliest basil of Salerno, and drenched
them only with her tears, or water perfumed with roses or orange-blossoms.
And 'twas her wont ever to sit beside this pot, and, all her soul one
yearning, to pore upon it, as that which enshrined her Lorenzo, and when
long time she had so done, she would bend over it, and weep a great while,
until the basil was quite bathed in her tears.
Fostered with such constant, unremitting care, and nourished by the richness
given to the soil by the decaying head that lay therein, the basil burgeoned
out in exceeding great beauty and fragrance. And, the girl persevering ever
in this way of life, the neighbours from time to time took note of it, and
when her brothers marvelled to see her beauty ruined, and her eyes as it
were evanished from her head, they told them of it, saying:--"We have
observed that such is her daily wont." Whereupon the brothers, marking her
behaviour, chid her therefore once or twice, and as she heeded them not,
caused the pot to be taken privily from her. Which, so soon as she missed
it, she demanded with the utmost instance and insistence, and, as they gave
it not back to her, ceased not to wail and weep, insomuch that she fell
sick; nor in her sickness craved she aught but the pot of basil. Whereat the
young men, marvelling mightily, resolved to see what the pot might contain;
and having removed the earth they espied the cloth, and therein the head,
which was not yet so decayed, but that by the curled locks they knew it for
Lorenzo's head. Passing strange they found it, and fearing lest it should be
bruited abroad, they buried the head, and, with as little said as might be,
took order for their privy departure from Messina, and hied them thence to
Naples. The girl ceased not to weep and crave her pot, and, so weeping,
died. Such was the end of her disastrous love; but not a few in course of
time coming to know the truth of the affair, there was one that made the
song that is still sung: to wit:--
A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair, etc.(1)
(1) This Sicilian folk-song, of which Boccaccio quotes only the first two
lines, is given in extenso from MS. Laurent. 38, plut. 42, by Fanfani in his
edition of the Decameron (Florence, 1857). The following is a free
rendering°
A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair,
That flourished mightily.
Planted by mine own hands with loving care
What time they revelled free:
To spoil another's goods is churlish spite.
To spoil another's goods is churlish spite,
Ay, and most heinous sin.
A basil had I (alas! luckless wight!),
The fairest plant: within
Its shade I slept: 'twas grown to such a height.
But some folk for chagrin
'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.
'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.
Ah! dolorous day and drear!
Ah! woe is me! Would God I were no more!
My purchase was so dear!
Ah! why that day did I to watch give o'er?
For him my cherished fere
With marjoram I bordered it about.
With marjoram I bordered it about
In May-time fresh and fair,
And watered it thrice ere each week was out,
And marked it grow full yare:
But now 'tis stolen. Ah! too well 'tis known!(1)
But now 'tis stolen. Ah! too well 'tis known!
That no more may I hide:
But had to me a while before been shewn
What then should me betide,
At night before my door I had laid me down
To watch my plant beside.
Yet God Almighty sure me succour might.
Ay, God Almighty sure me succour might,
So were it but His will,
'Gainst him that me hath done so foul despite,
That in dire torment still
I languish, since the thief reft from my sight
My plant that did me thrill,
And to my inmost Soul such comfort lent!
And to my inmost soul such comfort lent!
So fresh its fragrance blew,
That when, what time the sun uprose, I went
My watering to do,
I'd hear the people all in wonderment
Say, whence this perfume new?
And I for love of it of grief shall die.
And I for love of it of grief shall die,
Of my fair plant for dole.
Would one but shew me how I might it buy!
Ah! how 'twould me console!
Ounces(2) an hundred of fine gold have I:
Him would I give the whole,
Ay, and a kiss to boot, so he were fain.
(1) This stanza is defective in the original.
(2) The "oncia" was a Sicilian gold coin worth rather more than a zecchino.