church directly, although it snows or thunders: else I never could see
again Padrone's face, or any one's.
_Frate._ You do not come to me.
_Assunta._ You live at San Vivaldo.
_Frate._ But when there is sin so pressing I am always ready to be
found. You perplex, you puzzle me. Tell me at once how he made you
blush.
_Assunta._ Well then!
_Frate._ Well then! you did not hang back so before him. I lose all
patience.
_Assunta._ So famous a man!...
_Frate._ No excuse in that.
_Assunta._ So dear to Padrone....
_Frate._ The more shame for him!
_Assunta._ Called me....
_Frate._ And _called_ you, did he! the traitorous swine!
_Assunta._ Called me ... _good girl_.
_Frate._ Psha! the wenches, I think, are all mad: but few of them in
this manner.
* * * * *
... Without saying another word, Fra Biagio went forward and opened
the bedchamber door, saying briskly:
'Servant! Ser Giovanni! Ser Canonico! most devoted! most obsequious! I
venture to incommode you. Thanks to God, Ser Canonico, you are looking
well for your years. They tell me you were formerly (who would believe
it?) the handsomest man in Christendom, and worked your way glibly,
yonder at Avignon.
'Capperi! Ser Giovanni! I never observed that you were sitting
bolt-upright in that long-backed armchair, instead of lying abed.
Quite in the right. I am rejoiced at such a change for the better. Who
advised it?'
_Boccaccio._ So many thanks to Fra Biagio! I not only am sitting up,
but have taken a draught of fresh air at the window, and every leaf
had a little present of sunshine for me.
There is one pleasure, Fra Biagio, which I fancy you never have
experienced, and I hardly know whether I ought to wish it you; the
first sensation of health after a long confinement.
_Frate._ Thanks! infinite! I would take any man's word for that,
without a wish to try it. Everybody tells me I am exactly what I was a
dozen years ago; while, for my part, I see everybody changed: those
who ought to be much about my age, even those.... Per Bacco! I told
them my thoughts when they had told me theirs; and they were not so
agreeable as they used to be in former days.
_Boccaccio._ How people hate sincerity!
Cospetto! why, Frate! what hast got upon thy toes? Hast killed some
Tartar and tucked his bow into one, and torn the crescent from the
vizier's tent to make the other match it? Hadst thou fallen in thy
mettlesome expedition (and it is a mercy and a miracle thou didst
not) those sacrilegious shoes would have impaled thee.
_Frate._ It was a mistake in the shoemaker. But no pain or incommodity
whatsoever could detain me from paying my duty to Ser Canonico, the
first moment I heard of his auspicious arrival, or from offering my
congratulations to Ser Giovanni, on the annunciation that he was
recovered and looking out of the window. All Tuscany was standing on
the watch for it, and the news flew like lightning. By this time it is
upon the Danube.
And pray, Ser Canonico, how does Madonna Laura do?
_Petrarca._ Peace to her gentle spirit! she is departed.
_Frate._ Ay, true. I had quite forgotten: that is to say, I recollect
it. You told us as much, I think, in a poem on her death. Well, and do
you know! our friend Giovanni here is a bit of an author in his way.
_Boccaccio._ Frate! you confuse my modesty.
_Frate._ Murder will out. It is a fact, on my conscience. Have you
never heard anything about it, Canonico! Ha! we poets are sly fellows:
we can keep a secret.
_Boccaccio._ Are you quite sure you can?
_Frate._ Try, and trust me with any. I am a confessional on legs:
there is no more a whisper in me than in a woolsack.
I am in feather again, as you see; and in tune, as you shall hear.
April is not the month for moping. Sing it lustily.
_Boccaccio._ Let it be your business to sing it, being a Frate; I can
only recite it.
_Frate._ Pray do, then.
_Boccaccio._
Frate Biagio! sempre quando
Quà tu vieni cavalcando,
Pensi che le buone strade
Per il mondo sien ben rade;
E, di quante sono brutte,
La più brutta è tua di tutte.
Badi, non cascare sulle
Graziosissime fanciulle,
Che con capo dritto, alzato,
Uova portano al mercato.
Pessima mi pare l'opra
Rovesciarle sottosopra.
Deh! scansando le erte e sassi,
Sempre con premura passi.
Caro amico! Frate Biagio!
Passi pur, ma passi adagio.
_Frate._ Well now really, Canonico, for one not exactly one of us,
that canzone of Ser Giovanni has merit; has not it? I did not ride,
however, to-day; as you may see by the lining of my frock. But _plus
non vitiat_; ay, Canonico! About the roads he is right enough; they
are the devil's own roads; that must be said for them.
Ser Giovanni! with permission; your mention of eggs in the canzone has
induced me to fancy I could eat a pair of them. The hens lay well now:
that white one of yours is worth more than the goose that laid the
golden: and you have a store of others, her equals or betters: we have
none like them at poor St. Vivaldo. _A riverderci, Ser Giovanni!
Schiavo! Ser Canonico! mi commandino._
* * * * *
... Fra Biagio went back into the kitchen, helped himself to a quarter
of a loaf, ordered a flask of wine, and, trying several eggs against
his lips, selected seven, which he himself fried in oil, although the
maid offered her services. He never had been so little disposed to
enter into conversation with her; and on her asking him how he found
her master, he replied, that in bodily health Ser Giovanni, by his
prayers and ptisans, had much improved, but that his faculties were
wearing out apace. 'He may now run in the same couples with the
Canonico: they cannot catch the mange one of the other: the one could
say nothing to the purpose, and the other nothing at all. The whole
conversation was entirely at my charge,' added he. 'And now, Assunta,
since you press it, I will accept the service of your master's shoes.
How I shall ever get home I don't know.' He took the shoes off the
handles of the bellows, where Assunta had placed them out of her way,
and tucking one of his own under each arm, limped toward St. Vivaldo.
The unwonted attention to smartness of apparel, in the only article
wherein it could be displayed, was suggested to Frate Biagio by
hearing that Ser Francesco, accustomed to courtly habits and elegant
society, and having not only small hands, but small feet, usually wore
red slippers in the morning. Fra Biagio had scarcely left the outer
door, than he cordially cursed Ser Francesco for making such a fool of
him, and wearing slippers of black list. 'These canonicoes,' said he,
'not only lie themselves, but teach everybody else to do the same. He
has lamed me for life: I burn as if I had been shod at the
blacksmith's forge.'
The two friends said nothing about him, but continued the discourse
which his visit had interrupted.
_Petrarca._ Turn again, I entreat you, to the serious; and do not
imagine that because by nature you are inclined to playfulness, you
must therefore write ludicrous things better. Many of your stories
would make the gravest men laugh, and yet there is little wit in them.
_Boccaccio._ I think so myself; though authors, little disposed as
they are to doubt their possession of any quality they would bring
into play, are least of all suspicious on the side of wit. You have
convinced me. I am glad to have been tender, and to have written
tenderly: for I am certain it is this alone that has made you love me
with such affection.
_Petrarca._ Not this alone, Giovanni! but this principally. I have
always found you kind and compassionate, liberal and sincere, and when
Fortune does not stand very close to such a man, she leaves only the
more room for Friendship.
_Boccaccio._ Let her stand off then, now and for ever! To my heart, to
my heart, Francesco! preserver of my health, my peace of mind, and
(since you tell me I may claim it) my glory.
_Petrarca._ Recovering your strength you must pursue your studies to
complete it. What can you have been doing with your books? I have
searched in vain this morning for the treasury. Where are they kept?
Formerly they were always open. I found only a short manuscript, which
I suspect is poetry, but I ventured not on looking into it, until I
had brought it with me and laid it before you.
_Boccaccio._ Well guessed! They are verses written by a gentleman who
resided long in this country, and who much regretted the necessity of
leaving it. He took great delight in composing both Latin and Italian,
but never kept a copy of them latterly, so that these are the only
ones I could obtain from him. Read: for your voice will improve them:
TO MY CHILD CARLINO
Carlino! what art thou about, my boy?
Often I ask that question, though in vain,
For we are far apart: ah! therefore 'tis
I often ask it; not in such a tone
As wiser fathers do, who know too well.
Were we not children, you and I together?
Stole we not glances from each other's eyes?
Swore we not secrecy in such misdeeds?
Well could we trust each other. Tell me then
What thou art doing. Carving out thy name,
Or haply mine, upon my favourite seat,
With the new knife I sent thee over sea?
Or hast thou broken it, and hid the hilt
Among the myrtles, starr'd with flowers, behind?
Or under that high throne whence fifty lilies
(With sworded tuberoses dense around)
Lift up their heads at once, not without fear
That they were looking at thee all the while.
Does Cincirillo follow thee about?
Inverting one swart foot suspensively,
And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp
Of bird above him on the olive-branch?
Frighten him then away! 'twas he who slew
Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed,
That fear'd not you and me ... alas, nor him!
I flattened his striped sides along my knee,
And reasoned with him on his bloody mind,
Till he looked blandly, and half-closed his eyes
To ponder on my lecture in the shade.
I doubt his memory much, his heart a little,
And in some minor matters (may I say it?)
Could wish him rather sager. But from thee
God hold back wisdom yet for many years!
Whether in early season or in late
It always comes high-priced. For thy pure breast
I have no lesson; it for me has many.
Come throw it open then! What sports, what cares
(Since there are none too young for these) engage
Thy busy thoughts? Are you again at work,
Walter and you, with those sly labourers,
Geppo, Giovanni, Cecco, and Poeta,
To build more solidly your broken dam
Among the poplars, whence the nightingale
Inquisitively watch'd you all day long?
I was not of your council in the scheme,
Or might have saved you silver without end,
And sighs too without number. Art thou gone
Below the mulberry, where that cold pool
Urged to devise a warmer, and more fit
For mighty swimmers, swimming three abreast?
Or art thou panting in this summer noon
Upon the lowest step before the hall,
Drawing a slice of water-melon, long
As Cupid's bow, athwart thy wetted lips
(Like one who plays Pan's pipe) and letting drop
The sable seeds from all their separate cells,
And leaving bays profound and rocks abrupt,
Redder than coral round Calypso's cave?
_Petrarca._ There have been those anciently who would have been
pleased with such poetry, and perhaps there may be again. I am not
sorry to see the Muses by the side of childhood, and forming a part of
the family. But now tell me about the books.
_Boccaccio._ Resolving to lay aside the more valuable of those I had
collected or transcribed, and to place them under the guardianship of
richer men, I locked them up together in the higher story of my tower
at Certaldo. You remember the old tower?
_Petrarca._ Well do I remember the hearty laugh we had together (which
stopped us upon the staircase) at the calculation we made, how much
longer you and I, if we continued to thrive as we had thriven
latterly, should be able to pass within its narrow circle. Although I
like this little villa much better, I would gladly see the place
again, and enjoy with you, as we did before, the vast expanse of
woodlands and mountains and maremma; frowning fortresses inexpugnable;
and others more prodigious for their ruins; then below them, lordly
abbeys, overcanopied with stately trees and girded with rich
luxuriance; and towns that seem approaching them to do them honour,
and villages nestling close at their sides for sustenance and
protection.
_Boccaccio._ My disorder, if it should keep its promise of leaving me
at last, will have been preparing me for the accomplishment of such a
project. Should I get thinner and thinner at this rate, I shall soon
be able to mount not only a turret or a belfry, but a tube of
macarone, while a Neapolitan is suspending it for deglutition.
What I am about to mention will show you how little you can rely on
me! I have preserved the books, as you desired, but quite contrary to
my resolution: and, no less contrary to it, by your desire I shall now
preserve the _Decameron_. In vain had I determined not only to mend in
future, but to correct the past; in vain had I prayed most fervently
for grace to accomplish it, with a final aspiration to Fiametta that
she would unite with your beloved Laura, and that, gentle and
beatified spirits as they are, they would breathe together their purer
prayers on mine. See what follows.
_Petrarca._ Sigh not at it. Before we can see all that follows from
their intercession, we must join them again. But let me hear anything
in which they are concerned.
_Boccaccio._ I prayed; and my breast, after some few tears, grew
calmer. Yet sleep did not ensue until the break of morning, when the
dropping of soft rain on the leaves of the fig-tree at the window, and
the chirping of a little bird, to tell another there was shelter under
them, brought me repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed my eyes, if
indeed time can be reckoned any more in sleep than in heaven, when my
Fiametta seemed to have led me into the meadow. You will see it below
you: turn away that branch: gently! gently! do not break it; for the
little bird sat there.
_Petrarca._ I think, Giovanni, I can divine the place. Although this
fig-tree, growing out of the wall between the cellar and us, is
fantastic enough in its branches, yet that other which I see yonder,
bent down and forced to crawl along the grass by the prepotency of the
young shapely walnut-tree, is much more so. It forms a seat, about a
cubit above the ground, level and long enough for several.
_Boccaccio._ Ha! you fancy it must be a favourite spot with me,
because of the two strong forked stakes wherewith it is propped and
supported!
_Petrarca._ Poets know the haunts of poets at first sight; and he who
loved Laura.... O Laura! did I say he who _loved_ thee? ... hath
whisperings where those feet would wander which have been restless
after Fiametta.
_Boccaccio._ It is true, my imagination has often conducted her
thither; but there in this chamber she appeared to me more visibly in
a dream.
'Thy prayers have been heard, O Giovanni,' said she.
I sprang to embrace her.
'Do not spill the water! Ah! you have spilt a part of it.'
I then observed in her hand a crystal vase. A few drops were sparkling
on the sides and running down the rim: a few were trickling from the
base and from the hand that held it.
'I must go down to the brook,' said she, 'and fill it again as it was
filled before.'
What a moment of agony was this to me! Could I be certain how long
might be her absence? She went: I was following: she made a sign for
me to turn back: I disobeyed her only an instant: yet my sense of
disobedience, increasing my feebleness and confusion, made me lose
sight of her. In the next moment she was again at my side, with the
cup quite full. I stood motionless: I feared my breath might shake the
water over. I looked her in the face for her commands ... and to see
it ... to see it so calm, so beneficent, so beautiful. I was
forgetting what I had prayed for, when she lowered her head, tasted of
the cup, and gave it me. I drank; and suddenly sprang forth before me
many groves and palaces and gardens, and their statues and their
avenues, and their labyrinths of alaternus and bay, and alcoves of
citron, and watchful loopholes in the retirements of impenetrable
pomegranate. Farther off, just below where the fountain slipped away
from its marble hall and guardian gods, arose, from their beds of moss
and drosera and darkest grass, the sisterhood of oleanders, fond of
tantalizing with their bosomed flowers and their moist and pouting
blossoms the little shy rivulet, and of covering its face with all the
colours of the dawn. My dream expanded and moved forward. I trod again
the dust of Posilipo, soft as the feathers in the wings of Sleep. I
emerged on Baia; I crossed her innumerable arches; I loitered in the
breezy sunshine of her mole; I trusted the faithful seclusion of her
caverns, the keepers of so many secrets; and I reposed on the buoyancy
of her tepid sea. Then Naples, and her theatres and her churches, and
grottoes and dells and forts and promontories, rushed forward in
confusion, now among soft whispers, now among sweetest sounds, and
subsided, and sank, and disappeared. Yet a memory seemed to come fresh
from every one: each had time enough for its tale, for its pleasure,
for its reflection, for its pang. As I mounted with silent steps the
narrow staircase of the old palace, how distinctly did I feel against
the palm of my hand the coldness of that smooth stone-work, and the
greater of the cramps of iron in it!
'Ah me! is this forgetting?' cried I anxiously to Fiametta.
'We must recall these scenes before us,' she replied: 'such is the
punishment of them. Let us hope and believe that the apparition, and
the compunction which must follow it, will be accepted as the full
penalty, and that both will pass away almost together.'
I feared to lose anything attendant on her presence: I feared to
approach her forehead with my lips: I feared to touch the lily on its
long wavy leaf in her hair, which filled my whole heart with
fragrance. Venerating, adoring, I bowed my head at last to kiss her
snow-white robe, and trembled at my presumption. And yet the
effulgence of her countenance vivified while it chastened me. I loved
her ... I must not say _more_ than ever ... _better_ than ever; it was
Fiametta who had inhabited the skies. As my hand opened toward her:
'Beware!' said she, faintly smiling; 'beware, Giovanni! Take only the
crystal; take it, and drink again.'
'Must all be then forgotten?' said I sorrowfully.
'Remember your prayer and mine, Giovanni. Shall both have been
granted ... oh, how much worse than in vain?'
I drank instantly; I drank largely. How cool my bosom grew; how could
it grow so cool before her! But it was not to remain in its
quiescency; its trials were not yet over. I will not, Francesco! no, I
may not commemorate the incidents she related to me, nor which of us
said, 'I blush for having loved _first_;' nor which of us replied,
'Say _least_, say _least_, and blush again.'
The charm of the words (for I felt not the encumbrance of the body nor
the acuteness of the spirit) seemed to possess me wholly. Although the
water gave me strength and comfort, and somewhat of celestial
pleasure, many tears fell around the border of the vase as she held it
up before me, exhorting me to take courage, and inviting me with more
than exhortation to accomplish my deliverance. She came nearer, more
tenderly, more earnestly; she held the dewy globe with both hands,
leaning forward, and sighed and shook her head, drooping at my
pusillanimity. It was only when a ringlet had touched the rim, and
perhaps the water (for a sunbeam on the surface could never have given
it such a golden hue), that I took courage, clasped it, and exhausted
it. Sweet as was the water, sweet as was the serenity it gave me ...
alas! that also which it moved away from me was sweet!
'This time you can trust me alone,' said she, and parted my hair, and
kissed my brow. Again she went toward the brook: again my agitation,
my weakness, my doubt, came over me: nor could I see her while she
raised the water, nor knew I whence she drew it. When she returned,
she was close to me at once: she smiled: her smile pierced me to the
bones: it seemed an angel's. She sprinkled the pure water on me; she
looked most fondly; she took my hand; she suffered me to press hers to
my bosom; but, whether by design I cannot tell, she let fall a few
drops of the chilly element between.
'And now, O my beloved!' said she, 'we have consigned to the bosom of
God our earthly joys and sorrows. The joys cannot return, let not the
sorrows. These alone would trouble my repose among the blessed.'
'Trouble thy repose! Fiametta! Give me the chalice!' cried I ... 'not
a drop will I leave in it, not a drop.'
'Take it!' said that soft voice. 'O now most dear Giovanni! I know
thou hast strength enough; and there is but little ... at the bottom
lies our first kiss.'
'Mine! didst thou say, beloved one? and is that left thee still?'
'_Mine_,' said she, pensively; and as she abased her head, the broad
leaf of the lily hid her brow and her eyes; the light of heaven shone
through the flower.
'O Fiametta! Fiametta!' cried I in agony, 'God is the God of mercy,
God is the God of love ... can I, can I ever?' I struck the chalice
against my head, unmindful that I held it; the water covered my face
and my feet. I started up, not yet awake, and I heard the name of
Fiametta in the curtains.
_Petrarca._ Love, O Giovanni, and life itself, are but dreams at best.
I do think
Never so gloriously was Sleep attended
As with the pageant of that heavenly maid.
But to dwell on such subjects is sinful. The recollection of them,
with all their vanities, brings tears into my eyes.
_Boccaccio._ And into mine too ... they were so very charming.
_Petrarca._ Alas, alas! the time always comes when we must regret the
enjoyments of our youth.
_Boccaccio._ If we have let them pass us.
_Petrarca._ I mean our indulgence in them.
_Boccaccio._ Francesco! I think you must remember Raffaellino degli
Alfani.
_Petrarca._ Was it Raffaellino who lived near San Michele in Orto?
_Boccaccio._ The same. He was an innocent soul, and fond of fish. But
whenever his friend Sabbatelli sent him a trout from Pratolino, he
always kept it until next day or the day after, just long enough to
render it unpalatable. He then turned it over in the platter, smelt at
it closer, although the news of its condition came undeniably from a
distance, touched it with his forefinger, solicited a testimony from
the gills which the eyes had contradicted, sighed over it, and sent it
for a present to somebody else. Were I a lover of trout as Raffaellino
was, I think I should have taken an opportunity of enjoying it while
the pink and crimson were glittering on it.
_Petrarca._ Trout, yes.
_Boccaccio._ And all other fish I could encompass.
_Petrarca._ O thou grave mocker! I did not suspect such slyness in
thee: proof enough I had almost forgotten thee.
_Boccaccio._ Listen! listen! I fancied I caught a footstep in the
passage. Come nearer; bend your head lower, that I may whisper a word
in your ear. Never let Assunta hear you sigh. She is mischievous: she
may have been standing at the door: not that I believe she would be
guilty of any such impropriety: but who knows what girls are capable
of! She has no malice, only in laughing; and a sigh sets her windmill
at work, van over van, incessantly.
_Petrarca._ I should soon check her. I have no notion....
_Boccaccio._ After all, she is a good girl ... a trifle of the wilful.
She must have it that many things are hurtful to me ... reading in
particular ... it makes people so odd. Tina is a small matter of the
madcap ... in her own particular way ... but exceedingly discreet, I
do assure you, if they will only leave her alone.
I find I was mistaken, there was nobody.
_Petrarca._ A cat, perhaps.
_Boccaccio._ No such thing. I order him over to Certaldo while the
birds are laying and sitting: and he knows by experience, favourite as
he is, that it is of no use to come back before he is sent for. Since
the first impetuosities of youth, he has rarely been refractory or
disobliging. We have lived together now these five years, unless I
miscalculate; and he seems to have learnt something of my manners,
wherein violence and enterprise by no means predominate. I have
watched him looking at a large green lizard; and, their eyes being
opposite and near, he has doubted whether it might be pleasing to me
if he began the attack; and their tails on a sudden have touched one
another at the decision.