any wild animal, is our patron of the feast. He has wanted for many a
day to say something in the ear of Matilda Vercelli. Bringing up the
leveret to my bedside, and opening the lips, and cracking the
knuckles, and turning the foot round to show the quality and quantity
of the hair upon it, and to prove that it really and truly was a
leveret, and might be eaten without offence to my teeth, he informed
me that he had left his mother in the yard, ready to dress it for me;
she having been cook to the prior. He protested he owed the _crowned
martyr_ a forest of leverets, boars, deers, and everything else within
them, for having commanded the most backward girls to dance directly.
Whereupon he darted forth at Matilda, saying, "The _crowned martyr_
orders it," seizing both her hands, and swinging her round before she
knew what she was about. He soon had an opportunity of applying a
word, no doubt as dexterously as hand or foot; and she said
submissively, but seriously, and almost sadly, "Marc-Antonio, now all
the people have seen it, they will think it."
'And after a pause:
'"I am quite ashamed: and so should you be: are not you now?"
'The others had run into the church. Matilda, who scarcely had noticed
it, cried suddenly:
'"O Santissima! we are quite alone."
'"Will you be mine?" cried he, enthusiastically.
'"Oh! they will hear you in the church," replied she.
'"They shall, they shall," cried he again, as loudly.
'"If you will only go away."
'"And then?"
'"Yes, yes, indeed."
'"The Virgin hears you: fifty saints are witnesses."
'"Ah! they know you made me: they will look kindly on us."
'He released her hand: she ran into the church, doubling her veil (I
will answer for her) at the door, and kneeling as near it as she could
find a place.
'"By St. Peter," said Marc-Antonio, "if there is a leveret in the
wood, the _crowned martyr_ shall dine upon it this blessed day." And
he bounded off, and set about his occupation. I inquired what induced
him to designate you by such a title. He answered, that everybody knew
you had received the crown of martyrdom at Rome, between the pope and
antipope, and had performed many miracles, for which they had
canonized you, and that you wanted only to die to become a saint.'
The leveret was now served up, cut into small pieces, and covered with
a rich tenacious sauce, composed of sugar, citron, and various spices.
The appetite of Ser Francesco was contagious. Never was dinner more
enjoyed by two companions, and never so much by a greater number. One
glass of a fragrant wine, the colour of honey, and unmixed with water,
crowned the repast. Ser Francesco then went into his own chamber, and
found, on his ample mattress, a cool, refreshing sleep, quite
sufficient to remove all the fatigues of the morning; and Ser Giovanni
lowered the pillow against which he had seated himself, and fell into
his usual repose. Their separation was not of long continuance: and,
the religious duties of the Sabbath having been performed, a few
reflections on literature were no longer interdicted.
* * * * *
_Petrarca._ The land, O Giovanni, of your early youth, the land of my
only love, fascinates us no longer. Italy is our country; and not ours
only, but every man's, wherever may have been his wanderings, wherever
may have been his birth, who watches with anxiety the recovery of the
Arts, and acknowledges the supremacy of Genius. Besides, it is in
Italy at last that all our few friends are resident. Yours were left
behind you at Paris in your adolescence, if indeed any friendship can
exist between a Florentine and a Frenchman: mine at Avignon were
Italians, and older for the most part than myself. Here we know that
we are beloved by some, and esteemed by many. It indeed gave me
pleasure the first morning as I lay in bed, to overhear the fondness
and earnestness which a worthy priest was expressing in your behalf.
_Boccaccio._ In mine?
_Petrarca._ Yes indeed: what wonder?
_Boccaccio._ A worthy priest?
_Petrarca._ None else, certainly.
_Boccaccio._ Heard in bed! dreaming, dreaming; ay?
_Petrarca._ No indeed: my eyes and ears were wide open.
_Boccaccio._ The little parlour opens into your room. But what priest
could that be? Canonico Casini? He only comes when we have a roast of
thrushes, or some such small matter, at table: and this is not the
season; they are pairing. Plover eggs might tempt him hitherward. If
he heard a plover he would not be easy, and would fain make her drop
her oblation before she had settled her nest.
_Petrarca._ It is right and proper that you should be informed who the
clergyman was, to whom you are under an obligation.
_Boccaccio._ Tell me something about it, for truly I am at a loss to
conjecture.
_Petrarca._ He must unquestionably have been expressing a kind and
ardent solicitude for your eternal welfare. The first words I heard on
awakening were these:
'Ser Giovanni, although the best of masters ...'
_Boccaccio._ Those were Assuntina's.
_Petrarca._ '... may hardly be quite so holy (not being priest or
friar) as your Reverence.'
She was interrupted by the question: 'What conversation holdeth he?'
She answered:
'He never talks of loving our neighbour with all our heart, all our
soul, and all our strength, although he often gives away the last loaf
in the pantry.'
_Boccaccio._ It was she! Why did she say that? the slut!
_Petrarca._ 'He doth well,' replied the confessor. 'Of the Church, of
the brotherhood, that is, of me, what discourses holdeth he?'
I thought the question an indiscreet one; but confessors vary in their
advances to the seat of truth.
She proceeded to answer:
'He never said anything about the power of the Church to absolve us,
if we should happen to go astray a little in good company, like your
Reverence.'
Here, it is easy to perceive, is some slight ambiguity. Evidently she
meant to say, by the seduction of 'bad' company, and to express that
his Reverence had asserted his power of absolution; which is
undeniable.
_Boccaccio._ I have my version.
_Petrarca._ What may yours be?
_Boccaccio._ Frate Biagio; broad as daylight; the whole frock round!
I would wager a flask of oil against a turnip, that he laid another
trap for a penance. Let us see how he went on. I warrant, as he
warmed, he left off limping in his paces, and bore hard upon the
bridle.
_Petrarca._ 'Much do I fear,' continued the expositor, 'he never spoke
to thee, child, about another world.'
There was a silence of some continuance.
'Speak!' said the confessor.
'No indeed he never did, poor Padrone!' was the slow and evidently
reluctant avowal of the maiden; for, in the midst of the
acknowledgment her sighs came through the crevices of the door: then,
without any farther interrogation, and with little delay, she added:
'But he often makes this look like it.'
_Boccaccio._ And now, if he had carried a holy scourge, it would not
have been on his shoulders that he would have laid it.
_Petrarca._ Zeal carries men often too far afloat; and confessors in
general wish to have the sole steerage of the conscience. When she
told him that your benignity made this world another heaven, he warmly
and sharply answered:
'It is only we who ought to do that.'
'Hush,' said the maiden; and I verily believe she at that moment set
her back against the door, to prevent the sounds from coming through
the crevices, for the rest of them seemed to be just over my
night-cap. 'Hush,' said she, in the whole length of that softest of
all articulations. 'There is Ser Francesco in the next room: he sleeps
long into the morning, but he is so clever a clerk, he may understand
you just the same. I doubt whether he thinks Ser Giovanni in the wrong
for making so many people quite happy; and if he should, it would
grieve me very much to think he blamed Ser Giovanni.'
'Who is Ser Francesco?' he asked, in a low voice.
'Ser Canonico,' she answered.
'Of what Duomo?' continued he.
'Who knows?' was the reply; 'but he is Padrone's heart's friend, for
certain.'
'Cospetto di Bacco! It can then be no other than Petrarca. He makes
rhymes and love like the devil. Don't listen to him, or you are
undone. Does he love you too, as well as Padrone?' he asked, still
lowering his voice.
'I cannot tell that matter,' she answered, somewhat impatiently; 'but
I love him.'
'To my face!' cried he, smartly.
'To the Santissima!' replied she, instantaneously; 'for have not I
told your Reverence he is Padrone's true heart's friend! And are not
you my confessor, when you come on purpose?'
'True, true!' answered he; 'but there are occasions when we are
shocked by the confession, and wish it made less daringly.'
'I was bold; but who can help loving him who loves my good Padrone?'
said she, much more submissively.
_Boccaccio._ Brave girl, for that!
Dog of a Frate! They are all of a kidney; all of a kennel. I would
dilute their meal well and keep them low. They should not waddle and
wallop in every hollow lane, nor loll out their watery tongues at
every wash-pool in the parish. We shall hear, I trust, no more about
Fra Biagio in the house while you are with us. Ah! were it then for
life.
_Petrarca._ The man's prudence may be reasonably doubted, but it were
uncharitable to question his sincerity. Could a neighbour, a religious
one in particular, be indifferent to the welfare of Boccaccio, or any
belonging to him?
_Boccaccio._ I do not complain of his indifference. Indifferent! no,
not he. He might as well be, though. My villetta here is my castle: it
was my father's; it was his father's. Cowls did not hang to dry upon
the same cord with caps in their podere; they shall not in mine. The
girl is an honest girl, Francesco, though I say it. Neither she nor
any other shall be befooled and bamboozled under my roof. Methinks
Holy Church might contrive some improvement upon confession.
_Petrarca._ Hush! Giovanni! But, it being a matter of discipline, who
knows but she might.
_Boccaccio._ Discipline! ay, ay, ay! faith and troth there are some
who want it.
_Petrarca._ You really terrify me. These are sad surmises.
_Boccaccio._ Sad enough: but I am keeper of my handmaiden's probity.
_Petrarca._ It could not be kept safer.
_Boccaccio._ I wonder what the Frate would be putting into her head?
_Petrarca._ Nothing, nothing: be assured.
_Boccaccio._ Why did he ask her all those questions?
_Petrarca._ Confessors do occasionally take circuitous ways to arrive
at the secrets of the human heart.
_Boccaccio._ And sometimes they drive at it, me thinks, a whit too
directly. He had no business to make remarks about me.
_Petrarca._ Anxiety.
_Boccaccio._ 'Fore God, Francesco, he shall have more of that; for I
will shut him out the moment I am again up and stirring, though he
stand but a nose's length off. I have no fear about the girl; no
suspicion of her. He might whistle to the moon on a frosty night, and
expect as reasonably her descending. Never was a man so entirely at
his ease as I am about that; never, never. She is adamant; a bright
sword now first unscabbarded; no breath can hang about it. A seal of
beryl, of chrysolite, of ruby; to make impressions (all in good time
and proper place though) and receive none: incapable, just as they
are, of splitting, or cracking, or flawing, or harbouring dirt. Let
him mind that. Such, I assure you, is that poor little wench,
Assuntina.
_Petrarca._ I am convinced that so well-behaved a young creature as
Assunta----
_Boccaccio._ Right! Assunta is her name by baptism; we usually call
her Assuntina, because she is slender, and scarcely yet full-grown,
perhaps: but who can tell?
As for those friars, I never was a friend to impudence: I hate loose
suggestions. In girls' minds you will find little dust but what is
carried there by gusts from without. They seldom want sweeping; when
they do, the broom should be taken from behind the house door, and the
master should be the sacristan.
... Scarcely were these words uttered when Assunta was heard running
up the stairs; and the next moment she rapped. Being ordered to come
in, she entered with a willow twig in her hand, from the middle of
which willow twig (for she held the two ends together) hung a fish,
shining with green and gold.
'What hast there, young maiden?' said Ser Francesco.
'A fish, Riverenza!' answered she. 'In Tuscany we call it _tinca_.'
_Petrarca._ I too am a little of a Tuscan.
_Assunta._ Indeed! well, you really speak very like one, but only more
sweetly and slowly. I wonder how you can keep up with Signor
Padrone--he talks fast when he is in health; and you have made him so.
Why did not you come before? Your Reverence has surely been at
Certaldo in time past.
_Petrarca._ Yes, before thou wert born.
_Assunta._ Ah, sir! it must have been long ago then.
_Petrarca._ Thou hast just entered upon life.
_Assunta._ I am no child.
_Petrarca._ What then art thou?
_Assunta._ I know not: I have lost both father and mother; there is a
name for such as I am.
_Petrarca._ And a place in heaven.
_Boccaccio._ Who brought us that fish, Assunta? hast paid for it?
there must be seven pounds: I never saw the like.
_Assunta._ I could hardly lift up my apron to my eyes with it in my
hand. Luca, who brought it all the way from the Padule, could scarcely
be entreated to eat a morsel of bread or sit down.
_Boccaccio._ Give him a flask or two of our wine; he will like it
better than the sour puddle of the plain.
_Assunta._ He is gone back.
_Boccaccio._ Gone! who is he, pray?
_Assunta._ Luca, to be sure.
_Boccaccio._ What Luca?
_Assunta._ Dominedio! O Riverenza! how sadly must Ser Giovanni, my
poor Padrone, have lost his memory in this cruel long illness! he
cannot recollect young Luca of the Bientola, who married Maria.
_Boccaccio._ I never heard of either, to the best of my knowledge.
_Assunta._ Be pleased to mention this in your prayers to-night, Ser
Canonico! May Our Lady soon give him back his memory! and everything
else she has been pleased (only in play, I hope) to take away from
him! Ser Francesco, you must have heard all over the world how Maria
Gargarelli, who lived in the service of our paroco, somehow was
outwitted by Satanasso. Monsignore thought the paroco had not done all
he might have done against his wiles and craftiness, and sent his
Reverence over to the monastery in the mountains, Laverna yonder, to
make him look sharp; and there he is yet.
And now does Signor Padrone recollect?
_Boccaccio._ Rather more distinctly.
_Assunta._ Ah me! Rather more distinctly! have patience, Signor
Padrone! I am too venturous, God help me! But, Riverenza, when Maria
was the scorn or the abhorrence of everybody else, excepting poor Luca
Sabbatini, who had always cherished her, and excepting Signor Padrone,
who had never seen her in his lifetime ... for paroco Snello said he
desired no visits from any who took liberties with Holy Church ... as
if Padrone did! Luca one day came to me out of breath, with money in
his hand for our duck. Now it so happened that the duck, stuffed with
noble chestnuts, was going to table at that instant. I told Signor
Padrone....
_Boccaccio._ Assunta, I never heard thee repeat so long and tiresome a
story before, nor put thyself out of breath so. Come, we have had
enough of it.
_Petrarca._ She is mortified: pray let her proceed.
_Boccaccio._ As you will.
_Assunta._ I told Signor Padrone how Luca was lamenting that Maria was
seized with an _imagination_.
_Petrarca._ No wonder then she fell into misfortune, and her
neighbours and friends avoided her.
_Assunta._ Riverenza! how can you smile? Signor Padrone! and you too?
You shook your head and sighed at it when it happened. The Demonio,
who had caused all the first mischief, was not contented until he had
given her the _imagination_.
_Petrarca._ He could not have finished his work more effectually.
_Assunta._ He was balked, however. Luca said:
'She shall not die under her wrongs, please God!'
I repeated the words to Signor Padrone.... He seems to listen,
Riverenza! and will remember presently ... and Signor Padrone cut away
one leg for himself, clean forgetting all the chestnuts inside, and
said sharply, 'Give the bird to Luca; and, hark ye, bring back the
minestra.'
Maria loved Luca with all her heart, and Luca loved Maria with all
his: but they both hated paroco Snello for such neglect about the evil
one. And even Monsignore, who sent for Luca on purpose, had some
difficulty in persuading him to forbear from choler and discourse. For
Luca, who never swears, swore bitterly that the devil should play no
such tricks again, nor alight on girls napping in the parsonage.
Monsignore thought he intended to take violent possession, and to keep
watch there himself without consent of the incumbent. 'I will have no
scandal,' said Monsignore; so there was none. Maria, though she did
indeed, as I told your Reverence, love her Luca dearly, yet she long
refused to marry him, and cried very much at last on the wedding day,
and said, as she entered the porch:
'Luca! it is not yet too late to leave me.'
He would have kissed her, but her face was upon his shoulder.
Pievano Locatelli married them, and gave them his blessing: and going
down from the altar, he said before the people, as he stood on the
last step: 'Be comforted, child! be comforted! God above knows that
thy husband is honest, and that thou art innocent.' Pievano's voice
trembled, for he was an aged and holy man, and had walked two miles on
the occasion. Pulcheria, his governante, eighty years old, carried an
apronful of lilies to bestrew the altar; and partly from the lilies,
and partly from the blessed angels who (although invisible) were
present, the church was filled with fragrance. Many who heretofore had
been frightened at hearing the mention of Maria's name, ventured now
to walk up toward her; and some gave her needles, and some offered
skeins of thread, and some ran home again for pots of honey.
_Boccaccio._ And why didst not thou take her some trifle?
_Assunta._ I had none.
_Boccaccio._ Surely there are always such about the premises.
_Assunta._ Not mine to give away.
_Boccaccio._ So then at thy hands, Assunta, she went off not
overladen. Ne'er a bone-bodkin out of thy bravery, ay?
_Assunta._ I ran out knitting, with the woodbine and syringa in the
basket for the parlour. I made the basket ... I and ... but myself
chiefly, for boys are loiterers.
_Boccaccio._ Well, well: why not bestow the basket, together with its
rich contents?
_Assunta._ I am ashamed to say it ... I covered my half-stocking with
them as quickly as I could, and ran after her, and presented it. Not
knowing what was under the flowers, and never minding the liberty I
had taken, being a stranger to her, she accepted it as graciously as
possible, and bade me be happy.
_Petrarca._ I hope you have always kept her command.
_Assunta._ Nobody is ever unhappy here, except Fra Biagio, who frets
sometimes: but that may be the walk; or he may fancy Ser Giovanni to
be worse than he really is.
... Having now performed her mission and concluded her narrative, she
bowed, and said:
'Excuse me, Riverenza! excuse me, Signor Padrone! my arm aches with
this great fish.'
Then, bowing again, and moving her eyes modestly toward each, she
added, 'with permission!' and left the chamber.
'About the sposina,' after a pause began Ser Francesco: 'about the
sposina, I do not see the matter clearly.'
'You have studied too much for seeing all things clearly,' answered
Ser Giovanni; 'you see only the greatest. In fine, the devil, on this
count, is acquitted by acclamation; and the paroco Snello eats lettuce
and chicory up yonder at Laverna. He has mendicant friars for his
society every day; and snails, as pure as water can wash and boil
them, for his repast on festivals. Under this discipline, if they keep
it up, surely one devil out of legion will depart from him.'
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Literally, _due fave_, the expression on such occasions to
signify a small quantity.
[16] Contraction of _signor_, customary in Tuscany.
FOURTH DAY'S INTERVIEW
_Petrarca._ Giovanni, you are unsuspicious, and would scarcely see a
monster in a minotaur. It is well, however, to draw good out of evil,
and it is the peculiar gift of an elevated mind. Nevertheless, you
must have observed, although with greater curiosity than concern, the
slipperiness and tortuousness of your detractors.
_Boccaccio._ Whatever they detract from me, they leave more than they
can carry away. Beside, they always are detected.
_Petrarca._ When they are detected, they raise themselves up fiercely,
as if their nature were erect and they could reach your height.
_Boccaccio._ Envy would conceal herself under the shadow and shelter
of contemptuousness, but she swells too huge for the den she creeps
into. Let her lie there and crack, and think no more about her. The
people you have been talking of can find no greater and no other
faults in my writings than I myself am willing to show them, and still
more willing to correct. There are many things, as you have just now
told me, very unworthy of their company.
_Petrarca._ He who has much gold is none the poorer for having much
silver too. When a king of old displayed his wealth and magnificence
before a philosopher, the philosopher's exclamation was:
'How many things are here which I do not want!'
Does not the same reflection come upon us, when we have laid aside our
compositions for a time, and look into them again more leisurely? Do
we not wonder at our own profusion, and say like the philosopher:
'How many things are here which I do not want!'
It may happen that we pull up flowers with weeds; but better this than
rankness. We must bear to see our first-born dispatched before our
eyes, and give them up quietly.
_Boccaccio._ The younger will be the most reluctant. There are poets
among us who mistake in themselves the freckles of the hay-fever for
beauty-spots. In another half-century their volumes will be inquired
after; but only for the sake of cutting out an illuminated letter from
the title-page, or of transplanting the willow at the end, that hangs
so prettily over the tomb of Amaryllis. If they wish to be healthy and
vigorous, let them open their bosoms to the breezes of Sunium; for the
air of Latium is heavy and overcharged. Above all, they must remember
two admonitions; first, that sweet things hurt digestion; secondly,
that great sails are ill adapted to small vessels. What is there
lovely in poetry unless there be moderation and composure? Are they
not better than the hot, uncontrollable harlotry of a flaunting,
dishevelled enthusiasm? Whoever has the power of creating, has
likewise the inferior power of keeping his creation in order. The best
poets are the most impressive, because their steps are regular; for
without regularity there is neither strength nor state. Look at
Sophocles, look at Aeschylus, look at Homer.
_Petrarca._ I agree with you entirely to the whole extent of your
observations; and, if you will continue, I am ready to lay aside my
Dante for the present.
_Boccaccio._ No, no; we must have him again between us: there is no
danger that he will sour our tempers.
_Petrarca._ In comparing his and yours, since you forbid me to declare
all I think of your genius, you will at least allow me to congratulate
you as being the happier of the two.
_Boccaccio._ Frequently, where there is great power in poetry, the
imagination makes encroachments on the heart, and uses it as her own.
I have shed tears on writings which never cost the writer a sigh, but
which occasioned him to rub the palms of his hands together, until
they were ready to strike fire, with satisfaction at having overcome
the difficulty of being tender.
_Petrarca._ Giovanni! are you not grown satirical?
_Boccaccio._ Not in this. It is a truth as broad and glaring as the
eye of the Cyclops. To make you amends for your shuddering, I will
express my doubt, on the other hand, whether Dante felt all the
indignation he threw into his poetry. We are immoderately fond of
warming ourselves; and we do not think, or care, what the fire is
composed of. Be sure it is not always of cedar, like Circe's. Our
Alighieri had slipped into the habit of vituperation; and he thought
it fitted him; so he never left it off.
_Petrarca._ Serener colours are pleasanter to our eyes and more
becoming to our character. The chief desire in every man of genius is
to be thought one; and no fear or apprehension lessens it. Alighieri,
who had certainly studied the gospel, must have been conscious that he
not only was inhumane, but that he betrayed a more vindictive spirit
than any pope or prelate who is enshrined within the fretwork of his
golden grating.
_Boccaccio._ Unhappily, his strong talon had grown into him, and it
would have pained him to suffer amputation. This eagle, unlike
Jupiter's, never loosened the thunderbolt from it under the influence
of harmony.
_Petrarca._ The only good thing we can expect in such minds and
tempers is good poetry: let us at least get that; and, having it, let
us keep and value it. If you had never written some wanton stories,
you would never have been able to show the world how much wiser and
better you grew afterward.