Giovanni Boccaccio, the father of Italian prose literature,
was born in 1313, probably at Certaldo, a small town about
twenty miles from Florence, where he was brought up. In 1341
he fell in love with the daughter of King Robert of Naples,
and the lady, whom he made famous under the name of Fiammetta,
seems to have loved him in return. It was for her amusement,
and for the amusement of the Queen of Naples, that he composed
many of the stories in "The Decameron." He returned to
Florence in 1350, after the great plague, which he has
described in so vivid a manner in the opening chapter of his
great work, had abated; and three years afterwards he
published "The Decameron," the title being derived from the
Greek words signifying "ten days." This collection of a
hundred stories is certainly one of the world's great books.
Many English writers of the first order have gone to it for
inspiration. Boccaccio's friend, Petrarch, was so delighted
with the tale of Griselda, with which the work concludes, that
he learnt it off by heart. Chaucer developed it into the
finest of all his stories. Dryden, Keats, and Tennyson have
also been inspired by Boccaccio; while Lessing has made the
Italian story-teller's allegory of "The Three Rings" the
jeweled point on which turns his masterly play. "Nathan the
Wise" (see Vol. XVII). Boccaccio, after filling many high
posts at Florence, retired to Certaldo, where he died on
December 21, 1375.
_The Seven Beautiful Maidens_
In the year of our Lord 1348 a terrible plague broke out in Florence,
which, from being the finest city in Italy, became the most desolate. It
was a strange malady that no drugs could cure; and it was communicated,
not merely by conversing with those strickened by the pestilence, but
even by touching their clothes, or anything they had worn. As soon as
the purple spots, which were the sign of the disease, appeared on the
body, death was certain to ensue within three days.
So great were the terror and disorder and distress, that all laws, human
and divine, were disregarded. Everybody in Florence did just as he
pleased. The wilder sort broke into the houses of rich persons, and gave
themselves over to riotous living, exclaiming that, since it was
impossible to avoid dying from the plague, they would at least die
merrily. Others shut themselves up from the rest of the world, and lived
on spare diet, and many thousands fled from their houses into the open
country, leaving behind them all their goods and wealth, and all their
relatives and friends. Brother fled from brother, wife from husband,
and, what was more cruel, even parents forsook their own children. It
was perilous to walk the streets, for they were strewn with the bodies
of plague-strickened wretches, and I have seen with my own eyes the very
dogs perish that touched their rags.
Between March and July a hundred thousand persons died in Florence,
though, before the calamity, the city was not supposed to have contained
so many inhabitants. But I am weary of recounting out late miseries,
and, passing by everything that I can well omit, I shall only observe
that, when the city was almost depopulated, seven beautiful young
ladies, in deep mourning, met one Tuesday evening in Saint Mary's
Church, where indeed they composed the whole of the congregation. They
were all related to each other, either by the ties of birth, or by the
more generous bonds of friendship. Pampinea, the eldest, was
twenty-eight years of age; Fiammetta was a little younger; Filomena,
Emilia, Lauretta, and Neifile were still more youthful; and Elisa was
only eighteen years old.
After the service was over, they got into a corner of the church, and
began to devise what they should do, for they were now alone in the
world.
"I would advise," said Pampinea, "that we should leave Florence, for the
city is now dangerous to live in, not merely by reason of the plague,
but because of the lawless men that prowl about the streets and break
into our houses. Let us retire together into the country, where the air
is pleasanter, and the green hills and the waving corn-fields afford a
much more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls."
"I doubt," said Filomena, "if we could do this unless we got some man to
help us."
"But how can we?" exclaimed Elisa. "Nearly all the men of our circle are
dead, and the rest have gone away."
While they were talking, three handsome young cavaliers--Pamfilo,
Filostrato, and Dioneo--came into the church, looking for their
sweethearts, who by chance were Neifile, Pampinea, and Filomena.
"See," said Pampinea with a smile, "fortune is on our side. She has
thrown in our way three worthy gentlemen, who, I am sure, will come with
us if we care to invite them."
She then acquainted the cavaliers with her design, and begged them to
help her to carry it out. At first they took it all for a jest; but when
they found that the ladies were in earnest, they made arrangements to
accompany them. So the next morning, at the break of day, the ladies and
their maids, and the cavaliers and their men-servants, set out from
Florence, and after travelling for two miles they came to the appointed
place. It was a little wooded hill, remote from the highway, on the top
of which was a stately palace with a beautiful court, and fine
galleries, and splendid rooms adorned with excellent paintings. And
around it were fair green meadows, a delightful garden, fountains of
water, and pleasant trees.
Finding that everything in the palace had been set in order for their
reception, the ladies and their cavaliers took a walk in the garden, and
diverted themselves by singing love-songs, and weaving garlands of
flowers. At three o'clock, dinner was laid in the banqueting hall, and
when this was over, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol, and played
a merry air, while the rest of the company danced to the music. When the
dance was ended, they began to sing, and so continued dancing and
singing until nightfall. The cavaliers then retired to their chambers,
and the ladies to theirs, after arranging that Pampinea should be the
queen of their company for the following day, and direct all their
feasts and amusements.
The next morning Queen Pampinea called them all up at nine o'clock,
saying it was unwholesome to sleep in the daytime, and led them into a
meadow of deep grass shadowed by tall trees.
"As the sun is high and hot," she continued, "and nothing is to be heard
but the chirping of grasshoppers among the olives, it would be folly to
think of walking. So let us sit down in a circle and tell stories. By
the time the tales have gone round, the heat of the sun will have
abated, and we can then divert ourselves as best we like. Now, Pamfilo,"
she said, turning to the cavalier on her right hand, "pray begin."
_Cymon and Iphigenia: A Tale of Love_
Of all the stories that have come into my mind, said Pamfilo, there is
one which I am sure you will all like, for it shows how strange and
wonderful is the power of love. Some time ago, there lived in the island
of Cyprus a man of great rank and wealth, called Aristippus, who was
very unhappy because his son Cymon, though very tall and handsome, was
feeble in intellect. Finding that the most skilful teacher could not
beat the least spark of knowledge into the head of his son, Aristippus
made Cymon live out of his sight, among the slaves in his country-house.
There Cymon used to drudge like one of the slaves, whom, indeed, he
resembled in the harshness of his voice and the uncouthness of his
manners. But one day as he was tramping round the farm, with his staff
upon his shoulder, he came upon a beautiful maiden sleeping in the deep
grass of a meadow, with two women and a manservant slumbering at her
feet. Cymon had never seen the face of a woman before, and, leaning upon
his staff, he gazed in blank wonder at the lovely girl, and strange
thoughts and feelings began to work within him. After watching her for a
long time, he saw her eyes slowly open, and there was a sweetness about
them that filled him with joy.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said. "Please go away. You
frighten me!"
"I will not go away," he answered; "I cannot!"
And though she was afraid of him, he would not leave her until he had
led her to her own house. He then went to his father and said he wanted
to live like a gentleman, and not like a slave. His father was surprised
to find that his voice had grown soft and musical, and his manners
winning and courteous. So he dressed him in clothes suitable to his high
station, and let him go to school. Four years after he had fallen in
love, Cymon became the most accomplished young gentleman in Cyprus. He
then went to the father of Iphigenia, for such was her name, and asked
for her in marriage. But her father replied that she was already
promised to Pasimondas, a young nobleman of Rhodes, and that their
nuptials were about to be celebrated.
"O Iphigenia," said Cymon to himself, on hearing the unhappy news, "it
is now time for me to show you how I love you! Love for you has made a
man of me, and marriage with you would make me as happy and as glorious
as a god! Have you I will, or else I will die!"
He at once prevailed upon some young noblemen, who were his friends, to
help him in fitting out a ship of war. With this he waylaid the vessel
in which Iphigenia embarked for Rhodes. Throwing a grappling iron upon
this ship, Cymon drew it close to his own. Then, without waiting for
anyone to second him, he jumped among his enemies, and drove them like
sheep before him, till they threw down their arms.
"I have not come to plunder you," said Cymon, "but to win the noble
maiden, Iphigenia, whom I love more than aught else in the world. Resign
her to me, and I will do you no harm!"
Iphigenia came to him all in tears.
"Do not weep, my sweet lady," he said to her tenderly. "I am your Cymon,
and my long and constant love is worth more than all Pasimondas's
promises."
She smiled at him through her tears, and he led her on board his ship,
and sailed away to Crete, where he and his friends had relations and
acquaintances. But in the night a violent tempest arose, and blotted out
all the stars of heaven, and whirled the ship about, and drove it into a
little bay upon the island of Rhodes, a bow-shot from the place where
the Rhodian ship had just arrived.
Before they could put out to sea again, Pasimondas came with an armed
host and took Cymon a prisoner, and led him to the chief magistrate of
the Rhodians for that year, Lysimachus, who sentenced him and his
friends to perpetual imprisonment, on the charge of piracy and
abduction.
While Cymon was languishing in prison, with no hope of ever obtaining
his liberty, Pasimondas prepared for his nuptials with Iphigenia. Now
Pasimondas had a younger brother called Hormisdas, who wanted to marry a
beautiful lady, Cassandra, with whom the chief magistrate Lysimachus was
also in love. Pasimondas thought it would save a good deal of trouble
and expense if he and his brother were to marry at the same time. So he
arranged that this should be done. Thereupon Lysimachus was greatly
angered. After a long debate with himself, honour gave way to love, and
he resolved at all hazards to carry off Cassandra.
But whom should he get as companions in this wild enterprise? He at once
thought of Cymon and his friends, and he fetched them out of prison and
armed them, and concealed them in his house. On the wedding-day he
divided them into three parties. One went down to the shore and secured
a ship; one watched at the gate of Pasimondas's house; and the third
party, headed by Cymon and Lysimachus, rushed with drawn swords into the
bridal chamber and killed the two bridegrooms, and bore the tearful but
by no means unwilling brides to the ship, and sailed joyfully away for
Crete.
There they espoused their ladies, amidst the congratulations of their
relatives and friends; and though, by reason of their actions, a great
quarrel ensued between the two islands of Cyprus and Rhodes, everything
was at last amicably adjusted. Cymon then returned with Iphigenia to
Cyprus, and Lysimachus carried Cassandra back to Rhodes, and all of them
lived very happily to the end of their days.
_Gisippus and Titus: A Tale of Friendship_
As Pamfilo has told us so excellent a tale about the force of love, said
Filomena, I will now relate a story showing the great power of
friendship.
At the time when Octavius Cæsar, who afterwards became the Emperor
Augustus, was governing Rome as a triumvir, a young Roman gentleman,
Titus Quintius Fulvus, went to Athens to study philosophy. There he
became acquainted with a noble young Athenian named Gisippus, and a
brotherly affection sprang up between them, and for three years they
studied together and lived under the same roof.
In the meantime, Gisippus fell in love with a young and beautiful
Athenian maiden named Sophronia, and a marriage was arranged between
them. Some days before the marriage, Gisippus took his friend with him
on a visit to his lady. It was the first time that Titus had seen
Sophronia, and as he looked upon her beauty he grew as much enamoured as
ever a man in the world was with a woman. So great was his passion that
he could neither eat nor sleep, and he grew so sick that at last he was
unable to rise from his bed. Gisippus was extremely grieved at his
illness, and knowing that it must have been caused by some secret malady
of the mind, he pressed him to reveal the cause of his grief. At length
Titus, unable to restrain himself any longer, said, with his face
streaming with tears:
"O Gisippus, I am unworthy of the name of friend! I have fallen in love
with Sophronia, and it is killing me. How base I am! But pardon me, my
dear friend, for I feel that I shall soon be punished for my disloyalty
by death!"
Gisippus stood for some time in suspense by the bed side of Titus,
divided between the claims of love and the claims of friendship. But at
last he resolved to save his friend's life at the cost of his own
happiness. Some days afterwards, Sophronia was brought to his house for
the bridal ceremony to be consummated. Going softly into the bridal
chamber where the bride was lying, he put out the candles, and then went
silently to Titus, and told him that he might be the bridegroom. Titus
was so overcome with shame that he refused to go; but Gisippus so
passionately entreated him, that at last he consented. Going into the
dark bridal chamber, he softly asked Sophronia if she would be his wife.
She, thinking it was Gisippus, replied, "Yes." Then, taking a ring of
value, and putting it upon her finger, Titus said: "And I will be your
husband."
In the morning, Sophronia discovered the trick that had been put upon
her. Stealing out of the house, she went to her father and mother, and
told them that Gisippus had deceived her, and married her to Titus.
Great was the resentment against Gisippus throughout Athens, for
Sophronia came of a very ancient and noble family.
But seeing that what had been done could not be undone, the parents of
the bride at last allowed Titus to lead her to Rome, where the scandal
would not be known. But when Titus was gone, they resolved to take
vengeance upon Gisippus. A powerful party was formed against him, who
succeeded in getting him stripped of all his possessions, driven from
Athens, and condemned to perpetual exile.
Friendless and beggared, Gisippus slowly travelled on foot to Rome,
intending to ask Titus to help him. He found that his friend was now a
rich and powerful man, enjoying the favour of the young Prince Octavius,
and living in a splendid palace. Gisippus did not dare to enter it, as
his clothes were now worn to rags, so he stood humbly by the gate like a
beggar, hoping that his friend would recognise him and speak to him. But
Titus came out in a hurry, and never even stopped to look at him; and
Gisippus, thinking that he was now despised, went away confounded with
grief and despair.
Wandering at random about the streets, he came at nightfall to a cavern
where thieves were wont to gather, and laid down on the hard ground and
wept himself to sleep. While he was sleeping, two thieves entered with
their booty and began to quarrel about it, whereupon one killed the
other and fled. In the morning some watchmen found Gisippus sleeping
beside the dead body, and arrested him.
"Yes, I killed him," said Gisippus, who was now resolved to die, and
thought that this would be a better way than taking his own life.
Thereupon, the judge sentenced him to be crucified, which was the usual
manner of death in these cases. By a strange chance, however, Titus came
into the hall to defend a poor client. He instantly recognised Gisippus,
and, wondering greatly at the sad change of his fortune, he determined
at all costs to save him. But the case had gone so far that there was
only one way of doing this. And Titus took it. Stepping resolutely up to
the judge, he greatly astonished everyone by exclaiming:
"Recall thy sentence. This person is innocent; I killed the man!"
Gisippus turned round in astonishment, and seeing Titus, he concluded
that he was trying to save him for friendship's sake. But he was
determined that he would not accept the sacrifice.
"Do not believe him, sir. I was the murderer. Let the punishment fall on
me," he said to the judge.
The judge was amazed to see two men contending for the torture of
crucifixion with as much eagerness as if it had been the highest honour
in the world; and suddenly a notorious thief, who had been standing in
the court, came forward and made this surprising declaration:
"This strange debate has so moved me that I will confess everything," he
said. "You cannot believe, sir, that either of these men committed the
murder. What should a man of the rank and wealth of Titus have to do in
a thieves' cavern? He was never there. But this poor, ragged stranger
was sleeping in a corner when I and my fellow entered. Thieves, you
know, sometimes fall out, especially over their booty. This was what
happened last night; and, to put an end to the quarrel, I used a knife."
The appearance of a third self-accuser so perplexed the judge that he
put the case before Octavius Cæsar, and Cæsar called the three men up
before him. Thereupon Titus and Gisippus related to him at length the
strange story of their friendship, and he set the two friends at
liberty, and even pardoned the thief for their sakes.
Titus then took Gisippus to his house and forced him to accept a half of
his great wealth, and married him to his sister Fulvia, a very charming
and lovely young noblewoman.
For the rest of their lives Titus and Sophronia, and Gisippus and
Fulvia, lived very happily together in the same palace in Rome, and
every day added something to their contentment and felicity.
_The Three Rings: A Tale of Ingenuity_
It was now Neifile's turn to tell a story, and she said that as there
had been much controversy at Florence during the plague concerning
religion, this had put her in mind of the tale of Melchizedeck.
This man was a very rich Jew, who lived at Alexandria in the reign of
great Sultan Saladin. Saladin, being much impoverished by his wars, had
a mind to rob Melchizedeck. In order to get a pretext for plundering the
Jew, he sent for him.
"I hear that thou art very wise in religious matters," said Saladin,
"and I wish to know which religion thou judgest to be the true one--the
Jewish, the Mohammedan, or the Christian?"
The Jew saw that Saladin wanted to trap him. If he said that the Jewish
or the Christian faith was the true one, he would be condemned as an
infidel. If, on the other hand, he agreed that the Mohammedan religion
was preferable to the others, the sultan would say that a wealthy
believer ought to contribute largely to the expenses of the state. After
considering how best to avoid the snare, the wise Jew replied:
"Some time ago, your majesty, there was a man who had a ring of great
beauty and value. And he declared in his will that the son to whom this
ring was bequeathed should be the head of the family, and that his
descendants should rule over the descendants of the other sons. For many
generations his wishes were carried out; but at last the ring came into
the possession of a man who had three sons, all virtuous and dutiful to
their father, and equally beloved by him.
"Being at a loss which son to prefer above the others, the good man got
a skilful craftsman to make two rings, which were so like the first that
he himself scarcely knew the true one. On his deathbed he gave one of
these rings privately to each of his sons. Each of them afterwards laid
claim to the government of the family, and produced the ring which his
father had given him. But the rings were so much alike that it was
impossible to tell which was the true one, and even to this day no one
has been able to decide upon the matter. Thus has it happened, sire, in
regard to the three laws of faith derived from God--Jew, Mohammedan, and
Christian. Each believes that he is the true heir of the Almighty; but
it is just as uncertain which has received the true law as it is which
has received the true ring."
Saladin was mightily pleased at the ingenious way in which Melchizedeck
escaped from the snare that had been spread for him. Instead of taking
by force the money that he wanted from the Jew, he desired him to
advance it on loan. This Melchizedeck did, and Saladin soon afterwards
repaid the money and gave him presents, besides maintaining him nobly at
court and making him his life-long friend.
For some days the ladies and cavaliers entertained one another with
dancing and singing and story-telling. And then, as the plague had
abated in Florence, they returned to the city. But before they went
Dioneo told them a very strange and moving tale.
_Griselda: A Tale of Wifely Patience_
Men, said Dioneo, are wont to charge women with fickleness and
inconstancy; but there comes into my mind a story of a woman's constancy
and a man's cruelty which, I think you will agree, is worth the telling.
Gualtieri, the young Marquis of Saluzzo, was a man who did not believe
that any woman could be true and constant all her life. And for this
reason he would not marry, but spent his whole time in hawking and
hunting. His subjects, however, did not want him to die without an heir,
and leave them without a lord, and they were always pressing him to
marry. They went so far at last as to offer to provide a lady for him.
This made him very angry.
"If I want a wife, my friends," he said, "I will choose one myself. And,
look you, whatever her birth and upbringing are, pay her the respect due
to her as my lady, or you shall know to your cost how grievous it is to
me to have taken a wife when I did not want one."
A few days afterwards he was riding through a village, not far from his
palace, when he saw a comely shepherd girl carrying water from a well to
her father's house.
"What is your name?" said the young marquis.
"Griselda," said the shepherd girl.
"Well, Griselda," said the Marquis of Saluzzo, "I am looking for a wife.
If I marry you, will you study to please me and carry out all my
demands, whatever they are, without a murmur or a sullen look?"
"Yes, my lord," said Griselda.
Thereupon, the marquis sent his servants to fetch some rich and costly
robes, and, leading Griselda out by the hand, he clothed her in gorgeous
apparel, and set a coronet upon her head, and putting her on a palfrey,
he led her to his palace. And there he celebrated his nuptials with as
much pomp and grandeur as if he had been marrying the daughter of the
King of France.
Griselda proved to be a good wife. She was so sweet-natured, and so
gentle and kind in her manners, that her husband thought himself the
happiest man in the world; and her subjects honoured her and loved her
very dearly. In a very short time, her winning behaviour and her good
works were the common subject of talk throughout the country, and great
were the rejoicings when a daughter was born to her.
Unfortunately, her husband got a strange fancy into his head. He
imagined she was good and gentle merely because everything went well
with her; and, with great harshness, he resolved to try her patience by
suffering. So he told her that the people were greatly displeased with
her by reason of her mean parentage, and murmured because she had given
birth to a daughter.
"My lord," said Griselda, "I know I am meaner than the meanest of my
subjects, and that I am unworthy of the dignity to which you have
advanced me. Deal with me, I pray, as you think best for your honour and
happiness, and waste no thought upon me."
Soon afterwards one of his servants came to Griselda, and said: "Madam,
I must either lose my own life, or obey my lord's commands. He has
ordered me to take your daughter, and--"
He would not say anything more, and Griselda thought that he had orders
to kill the child. Taking it out of the cradle, she kissed it, and
tenderly laid it in the servant's arms. The marquis sent the little girl
to one of his relatives at Bologna, to be brought up and educated. Some
years afterwards Griselda gave birth to a boy. The marquis, naturally
enough, was mightily pleased to have an heir; but he took also this
child away from his wife.
"I am not able to live any longer with my people," he said. "They say
they will not have a grandson of a poor shepherd as their future lord. I
must dispose of this child as I did the other."
"My lord," replied Griselda, "study your own ease and happiness without
the least care for me. Nothing is pleasing to me that is not pleasing to
you."
The next day the marquis sent for his son in the same way as he had sent
for his daughter, and had him brought up with her at Bologna. His people
thought that the children had been put to death, and blamed him for his
cruelty, and showed great pity for his wife. But Griselda would not
allow them to attack her husband, but found excuses for him.
In spite of this, the marquis did not yet believe in the constancy and
fidelity of his wife, and about sixteen years after their marriage he
resolved to put her to a test.
"Woman," he said, "I am going to take another wife. I shall send you
back to your father's cottage in the same state as I brought you from
it, and choose a young lady of my own rank in life."
With the utmost difficulty Griselda kept back her tears, and humbly
consented to be divorced. The marquis stripped her of her fine raiment,
and sent her back to her father's hut dressed in a smock. Her husband
then gave it out that he was about to espouse the daughter of the Count
of Panago; and, sending for Griselda, he said:
"I am about to bring home my new bride, but I have no woman with me to
set out the rooms and order the ceremony. As you are well acquainted
with the government of my palace, I wish you to act as mistress for a
day or two. Get everything in order, and invite what ladies you will to
the festival. When the marriage is over, you must return to your
father's hut."
These words pierced like daggers to the heart of Griselda. She was
unable to part with her love for her husband as easily as she had parted
with her high rank and great fortune.
"My lord," said Griselda, "I swore that I would be obedient to you, and
I am ready to fulfil all your commands."
She went into the palace in her coarse attire and worked with the
servants, sweeping the rooms and cleaning the furniture. After this was
done, she invited all the ladies in the country to come to the festival.
And on the day appointed for the marriage she received them, still clad
in her coarse attire, but with smiling and gentle looks. At dinner-time
the marquis arrived with his new lady--who was indeed a very beautiful
girl. After presenting her to all the guests, many of whom congratulated
him on making so good an exchange, he said, with a smile, to Griselda:
"What do you think of my bride?"
"My lord," she replied, "I like her extremely well. If she is as wise as
she is fair, you may be the happiest man in the world with her. But I
very humbly beg that you will not take with this lady the same heart-
breaking measures you took with your last wife, because she is young and
tenderly educated, while the other was from a child used to hardship.
"Pardon me! Pardon me! Pardon me!" said the marquis. "I know I have
tried you harshly, Griselda. But I did not believe in the goodness and
constancy of woman, and I would not believe in them until you proved me
in the wrong. Let me restore, in one sweet minute, all the happiness
that I have spent years in taking away from you. This young lady, my
dear Griselda, is your daughter and mine! And look! Here is our son
waiting behind her."
He led Griselda, weeping for joy, to her children. Then all the ladies
in the hall rose up from the tables, and taking Griselda into a chamber,
they clothed her in fine and noble raiment, and stayed with her many
days, feasting and rejoicing. And the marquis sent for Griselda's
father, the poor shepherd, and gave him a suite of rooms in the palace,
where he lived in great happiness with his daughter and his
grandchildren and his noble son-in-law.