=Salardo, son of Rainaldo Scaglia, quits Genoa and goes to Montferrat,
where he disobeys certain injunctions laid upon him by his
father’s testament, and is condemned to death therefor; but, being
delivered, he returns to his own country.=
In every work, let it be good or bad, which we undertake, or propose to
undertake, we ought first to consider the issue thereof. Wherefore, as
we are now about to make beginning of our sportive and pleasant
entertainment, I will protest that it would have been vastly more
agreeable to me, had the lot willed it that some other lady should begin
the story-telling; because I do not feel myself in any wise competent
for the undertaking; because I am wanting in that fluency of speech
which is so highly necessary in discourse of this kind, seeing that I
have had scanter usage in the art of elocution than the charming ladies
I see around me. But, since it pleases you, and has been decided by lot
that I should be the first, I will begin—so as not to cause any
inconvenience to this worshipful assemblage—my task of story-telling
with the best of the faculties granted to me by divine providence. I
will moreover leave open for those of my companions who shall come after
me a wide and spacious field so that they may be able to relate their
fables in an easier and more graceful style than I have at command.
Blessed, nay most blessed that son must be held to be who obeys his
father with all due reverence, forasmuch as he thereby carries out the
commands of the Eternal God, and lives long in the land, and prospers in
all his works. And on the other hand he who is disobedient may be
reckoned unhappy, nay most unhappy, seeing that all his undertakings
come to a wretched and ill-starred end, as you will easily understand
from the fable I am about to relate to you.
You must know then, gentle ladies, that at Genoa (a very ancient city,
and as pleasant a one as there is in the world) there lived, not long
ago, a gentleman named Rainaldo Scaglia, a man of great wealth, and
endowed no less generously with wit and knowledge. He had a son called
Salardo, whom he loved beyond all his other possessions, and this youth
he had caused to be educated in every worthy and liberal art, letting
him want nothing which might serve for his training and advancement. It
happened that in his old age a heavy sickness came upon Rainaldo, who,
seeing that his end was near, called for a notary, and made his will,
which gave to Salardo all his goods. Beyond this he begged his son to
honour his memory by keeping certain precepts ever in his mind, and
never to act counter thereto. The first precept was that, no matter how
great might be the love he had for his wife, he should never trust her
with any important secret. The second was that he should never adopt
another man’s child as his own, supposing his marriage to be a fruitless
one. The third was that he should never abide in a state, of which the
chief magistrate wielded powers of life and death unchecked. Having
given to his son these precepts, Rainaldo turned his face to the wall,
and breathed his last.
After his father’s death, Salardo, a young, rich, well-born gallant,
grieved but moderately; and, in lieu of troubling about the
administration of his estates or taking to heart his father’s precepts,
was in hot haste to find a wife, and began to search for one of
sufficiently good descent, and with a person to his taste. Before his
father had been a year dead, he married Theodora, the daughter of Messer
Odescalco Doria, a Genoese noble of the first rank. She was very
beautiful and of virtuous mind, though somewhat haughty, and Salardo was
so deeply enamoured of her that he could not bear, night or day, to let
her go out of his sight. For several years they lived together without a
child being born to them; and then Salardo, yearning for an heir and
disregarding the counsel of his father, determined to adopt a child and
to bring him up as his heir. Having gained his wife’s consent, he lost
no time in carrying out his purpose, and adopted the son of a poor
widow, calling the boy by the name of Postumius, and educating him with
the utmost care.
In the course of time it happened that Salardo grew weary of Genoa, and
determined to seek a home elsewhere, not because he did not find the
city all that was fair and pleasant, but simply because he was infected
with that desire for change which, not seldom, seizes upon those who
live for pleasure alone. Therefore, with great store of money and
jewels, and with sumptuous equipage, he left Genoa with Theodora his
beloved wife, and his adopted son Postumius, and having traversed
Piamonte, made a halt at Montferrat. Here he soon began to make the
acquaintance of divers of the citizens, through going with them to the
chase, and in other social gatherings in which he took great delight;
and, in consequence of his wealth and generosity, he soon achieved a
position of honour and repute.
The rumour of Salardo’s splendid hospitality came before long to the
ears of the ruling prince, the Marquis of Montferrat, who, when he saw
that the newcomer was a handsome young man, well born, rich, of courtly
manners, and ready for any gallant enterprise, took him into high favour
and would seldom let a day pass without seeing him. At last, so great
was the influence of Salardo over the marquis, it fell out that anyone
who wanted a favour done to him by the latter would always manage to let
his petition pass through Salardo’s hands. Wherefore Salardo, mindful of
the favour he enjoyed, was ever eager to devise some new pleasure for
his patron, who, as became a young man, was much given to field sports,
and kept a great number of falcons and hounds for the chase, and all
appurtenances of venery, worthy of his high estate. But he would never
go hunting or hawking save in the company of Salardo.
One day Salardo, being alone, began to consider the great fortune which
had befallen him through the favour of the prince, and by-and-by his
thoughts turned to his son Postumius, how discreet, and dutiful, and
upright, and graceful he was. ‘Ah!’ he said to himself, ‘my poor old
father was indeed sorely in error about these precepts of his. He must,
like many old men, have become imbecile with age; either this cause, or
some frenzy, must have urged him to command me so particularly not to
adopt a strange child as my own, or to become the subject of an absolute
prince. I now see the folly of his precepts, for what son born to a
father could be more sober, courteous, gentle, and obedient, than
Postumius, whom I have adopted, and where should I find greater
affection and more honourable treatment than is given to me by the
marquis, an absolute prince and one knowing no superior? And, exalted as
he is, he pays me so much worship and love that it seems sometimes as if
I stood in the highest place, and he in one beneath me. Of a truth I
know not what to think of it; of a truth it is a common trick of old
people to forget the tastes and inclinations of their youth, and to lay
down for their children rules and regulations, imposing thereby burdens
which they themselves would not touch with the tips of their fingers.
And this they do, moved not by love, but by the craving to keep their
offspring longer in subjection. Now, because I have disburdened myself
of two of the pledges imposed upon me by my father without any evil
consequence, I will quickly get rid of the third; for I am assured that
when I shall be free from it my dear wife will only love me the more.
And she herself, whom I love more than the light of my eyes, will give
ample proof of the imbecility, or even madness, of wretched old age,
which finds its chief joy in imposing, with its dead hand, intolerable
restrictions on the living. Truly my father must have been insane when
he made his will, for to whom is my trust due if not to her who has left
her home and kinsfolk and become of one heart and soul with me. Surely I
may confide to her any secret, however important it may be; so I will
put her fidelity to the test, not on my own account, for I doubt it not,
but to prove her strength, and to give an example to those foolish ones
who rate disobedience to the wishes of dead and gone dotards as an
unpardonable sin.’
In these terms Salardo girded at his father’s wise injunctions, and
deliberated how he might best rid himself of them entirely. After a
little he left his house and went over to the mews at the palace, where
the falcons of the marquis were kept, and of these he took one which was
a great favourite of its owner, and secretly conveyed it to the house of
a friend of his whose name was Francesco. He handed over the bird to his
friend, and begged him, for the sake of the love there was between them,
to hold it for him till the time should come when he might disclose the
object of his request. Then, when he had returned to his home, he took a
falcon of his own, and, having privily killed it, he bore it to his
wife, saying: ‘Theodora, my beloved wife, I, as you well know, find it
hard to get a moment’s rest on account of the many hours I am compelled
to spend in attendance on the marquis, hunting, or fowling, or jousting,
or in some other sport; and sometimes I hardly know whether I am dead or
alive. Wherefore, to keep him from spending all his time over the chase,
I have played him a trick he will relish but little. However, it may
perhaps keep him at home, and give us and others some repose.’ To this
his wife said: ‘And what have you done?’ ‘I have killed his best
falcon,’ Salardo replied, ‘the favourite of all; and when he looks for
it in vain I believe he will die of rage.’ And here he lifted his cloak
and took out the falcon which he had killed, and, having handed it over
to his wife, directed her to have it cooked for supper. When Theodora
heard this speech, and saw the dead falcon, she was deeply moved to
grief, and, turning to Salardo, reproached him severely for his foolish
jest. ‘For what reason have you committed such a grave offence,’ she
said, ‘and put such an insult on the marquis, who holds you so dear, and
heaps such high favour upon you, and sets you above all others? Alas!
Salardo, I fear our ruin is near. If, peradventure, the marquis should
come to know what you have done, you would assuredly be in great danger
of death.’ Salardo answered: ‘But how can he ever know this? The secret
is yours and mine alone, and, by the love you have borne and still bear
me, I pray you be careful not to reveal it, for if he should learn it
our ruin would be complete.’ ‘Have no fear of this,’ said Theodora, ‘I
would rather die than disclose it.’
The falcon was cooked and served at supper, and Salardo and his wife
took their seats, but the lady refused to eat of the bird, though
Salardo, with gentle words, enticed her thereto. At last, as she
remained obstinate, he gave her such a buffet on the face that her cheek
became scarlet from the blow. Wherefore she began to weep and lament
bitterly that he should thus misuse her, and at last rose from the
table, muttering beneath her breath that she would bear in mind that
blow as long as she might live, and that in due time she would repay
him. When morning was come, she stole early from her bed, and hastened
to tell the marquis of the falcon’s death, which news so fired him with
rage that he ordered Salardo to be seized forthwith, and to be hanged
without trial, and all his goods to be divided into three parts, of
which one should be given to his wife as accuser, another to his son,
and the remaining one to the man who should act as hangman.
Now Postumius, who was now a lusty well-grown youth, when he heard his
father’s doom and the disposition of his goods ordered by the marquis,
ran quickly to Theodora and said to her: ‘Mother, would it not be wiser
for me to hang my father myself, thus gaining the third of his goods
which would otherwise pass to a stranger.’ And to this Theodora replied:
‘Truly, my son, you speak well, for if you do this, your father’s riches
will remain with us intact.’ So Postumius went straightway to the
marquis to ask leave to hang his father, and thus earn the hangman’s
share, which boon the marquis graciously allowed.
Now Salardo had confided the whole of his secret to his faithful friend
Francesco, and at the same time had begged him, when the hangman should
be ready to do his work, to go to the marquis and beg him to let Salardo
be brought before him, and graciously to listen to what he might have to
say in his defence, and Francesco was loyal in carrying out this
request. Meantime, the wretched Salardo, loaded with fetters, was
awaiting in prison the hour which should see him led to a disgraceful
death on the scaffold. ‘Now I know,’ he cried, with bitter weeping,
‘that my good old father in his wisdom gave me those precepts for my
profit. He gave me sage counsel, and I, senseless ribald as I am, cast
it aside. He, mindful of my safety, warned me against my domestic
enemies, and I have delivered myself into their hands, and handed over
to them my riches to enjoy. He, well skilled in the disposition of
despots, who in the space of an hour will love and hate, exalt and
abase, counselled me to shun them; but I, as if eager to sacrifice at
once my substance, my honour, and my life, thrust my head into the jaws
of this marquis, and put my faithless wife to the proof. Ah, Salardo,
better had it been for you to follow in your father’s footsteps, and let
others seek the company of princes! Now I see into what strait my
foolish confidence in myself, in my wife, in my wicked son, and, above
all, in this ungrateful marquis, has led me. Now I see the value of the
love of this prince for me. How could he deal more cruelly with me than
by robbing me of my goods, my life, and my honour in one blow, showing
thus how his love has turned to hate? I recognize now the truth of the
proverb which says that a prince is like wine in a flagon, sweet in the
morning and sour at eve. Where is now my nobility and my kinsmen? Is
this the end of my loyalty, uprightness, and courtesy? O my father, I
believe that, dead though you be, when you gaze into the mirror of
eternal goodness, and see me about to be hanged, because, forsooth, I
disbelieved and disregarded your wise and loving counsel, you will pray
to God to have compassion on my youthful errors, and I, your disobedient
and ungrateful son, pray to you also for pardon.’
While the unhappy Salardo was thus communing with himself, Postumius,
with the air of a practised hangman, went with a body of police to the
prison, and, arrogantly presenting himself to Salardo, spake thus: ‘My
father, forasmuch as you are bound to be hanged by the order of the
marquis, and as the third part of your goods is to go to him who ties
the noose, I am sure, for the love you bear me, you will not be wroth at
the part I have chosen to play, seeing that thereby your goods, in lieu
of passing to strangers, will remain with your own family.’
Salardo, after listening attentively to this speech, replied: ‘God bless
you, my son; the course you have chosen pleases me much, and if at first
the thought of death terrified me, I am now content to die after
listening to your words. Do your office, therefore, quickly.’ Postumius
first implored his father’s pardon, and then, having kissed him, put the
halter about his neck, and exhorted him to meet death with patience.
Salardo, when he saw the turn things were taking, stood astonished, and,
after a little, was led out of prison with his arms bound and a halter
round his neck, and, accompanied by the hangman and the officers, was
hurried towards the place of execution. Arrived there, he turned his
back towards the ladder which stood against the gibbet, and in this
attitude he mounted step by step. When he had reached the top he looked
down courageously upon the assembly, and told them at full length the
cause which had brought him there, and with gentle words he implored
pardon for any affront he might have given, and exhorted all young
people to be obedient to their fathers. When the people heard for what
cause Salardo was condemned, there was not one who did not lament his
unhappy fate and pray he might yet be pardoned.
While the events above named were taking place, Francesco betook himself
to the palace, and, having been introduced, thus addressed the marquis:
‘Most worshipful sir, if ever you have been prompted to show pity
towards anyone, you are now doubly bound to deal mercifully with the
case of this friend of yours who is now, for no fault of his, led out to
suffer a shameful death. Consider, my lord, for what reason you
condemned Salardo, who loved you so dearly, and never by thought or deed
wrought an offence against you. Most gracious prince, only suffer your
faithful friend to be brought into your presence, and I will clearly
demonstrate to you his innocence.’ The marquis, with his eyes aflame
with rage at Francesco’s petition, made an effort to thrust him out of
his presence, but the suppliant threw himself down at the feet of the
marquis, and, embracing his knees, cried out with tears: ‘As you are a
just prince, have pity, O noble marquis! and let not the guiltless
Salardo die because of your anger. Calm yourself, and I will prove his
innocence; stay your hand but one hour, for the sake of that justice
which you and your fathers have always reverenced, lest it be said of
you that you put your friend to death without cause.’
The marquis, violently angered against Francesco, now broke silence: ‘I
see you wish to go the way of Salardo. If you go on enraging me thus I
will assuredly have you set by his side.’ ‘My lord,’ Francesco replied,
‘I ask for no greater boon than to be hanged alongside Salardo, if,
after having made inquiry, you do not find him innocent.’ This last
speech moved the marquis somewhat, for he reasoned that Francesco would
never have spoken thus without being assured of Salardo’s innocence,
seeing that he thereby ran the risk of the halter himself. Wherefore he
accorded the hour’s delay, and, having warned Francesco that he must
look to be hanged if he should fail to prove his friend’s innocence, he
sent a messenger straightway to the place of justice with an order to
delay the execution, and to bring Salardo, bound as he was and with the
rope about his neck, and the hangman and officers as well, into his
presence without delay.
Salardo, on being brought before the marquis, noted that his face was
still clouded with anger, and outspake at once with clear voice and
undaunted carriage: ‘My lord, the service I freely gave you, and the
love I bore you, scarcely deserved such a reward as the shame and
indignity you have put upon me in thus condemning me to a disgraceful
death. I admit that my folly, so to call it, deserved your anger; but I
was guilty of no crime heinous enough to warrant you in condemning me
thus hastily and unheard. The falcon, on account of which your anger was
kindled, lives safe and sound. It was never in my mind to kill it or to
insult you. I wanted to use it as a means of trying an experiment, the
nature of which I will now disclose to you.’ Having thus spoken, Salardo
bade Francesco go fetch the falcon and return it to its master; and then
he told the marquis the whole story of the precepts he had received from
his father, and how he had disregarded every one. The marquis, when he
listened to this frank and candid speech, and saw his falcon, handsome
and well nourished as ever, was, for the moment, struck dumb; but when
he had fully realized his error of having condemned a guiltless man to
death unheard, he raised his eyes, which were full of tears, and turned
them on Salardo, saying: ‘Salardo, if you could clearly realize all I
feel at this moment, you would know that the pain you have suffered from
the halter round your neck and the bonds about your arms is as nought
compared with the anguish which now torments me. I can hardly hope ever
to be happy again after having done so grievous an injury to you, who
loved and served me so faithfully. If it were possible that all should
be undone, how gladly would I undo it; but, since this is out of the
question, I will do my utmost to wipe out my offence, and to give you
all the reparation I can.’
Having thus spoken, the marquis with his own hands unfastened the halter
from Salardo’s neck, and loosened his bonds, embracing him the while
with the greatest tenderness; and, having taken him by the right hand
and led him to a seat by his own, he ordered the halter to be put round
the neck of Postumius, and the youth to be led away to execution,
because of his wicked conduct; but this Salardo would not permit.
‘Postumius,’ he said to the wretched youth, ‘what shall I now do with
you, whom, for the love of God, I have nurtured from childhood, only to
be so cruelly deceived? On one side is my past love for you; on the
other, the contempt I feel for the wicked deed you planned to do. One
calls upon my fatherly kindness to forgive you, the other bids me harden
my heart against you. What then shall I do? If I pardon you, men will
jeer at my weakness; if I punish you as you deserve, I shall go counter
to the divine exhortation to forgiveness. But that men may not tax me
either with too great leniency, or too great severity, I will neither
make you suffer in your person, nor will I myself endure the sight of
you any more; and in place of my wealth, which you so greedily desired,
you shall have the halter which you knotted round my neck, and keep it
always as a remembrance of your wicked deed. Now begone, and let me
never see you or hear of you again.’
With these words he drove out the wretched Postumius, of whom nothing
more was ever heard. Theodora, as soon as she was told of Salardo’s
liberation, fled to a certain convent, where she soon ended her days
miserably, and Salardo, when he heard the news of her death, took leave
of the marquis and returned to Genoa, where, after having given away all
the wealth he did not want for his own use, he lived long and happily.
During the telling of Lauretta’s story divers of the hearers were moved
to tears, but when they heard that Salardo had been delivered from the
gibbet, and Postumius ignominiously expelled, and of Theodora’s flight
and ill-starred end, they were heartily glad. The Signora gave the word
to Lauretta to propound her enigma, so that the order of entertainment
agreed upon the previous evening might be observed, and the damsel with
a smiling face gave it in these words:
In a prison pent forlorn,
A tiny son to me was born.
Ah, cruel fate! The savage elf,
Scarce bigger than a mite himself,
Devoured me in his ravenous lust,
And changed me into sordid dust.
A mother fond I was of late,
Now worse e’en than a slave’s my fate.
The fair Lauretta, when she saw that no one was likely to solve her
riddle, said, “This enigma of mine concerns the dry bean which is
imprisoned between two husks; where, later on, she engenders a worm no
bigger than a mite. This worm feeds upon her, and finally consumes her,
so that not only is she destroyed as a mother, but not even the
condition of a servant is possible for her.” All were pleased at
Lauretta’s explanation, and Alteria, who sat next to her, having been
selected as the next speaker, began at once her story without awaiting
the Signora’s command.