=The devil, having heard divers husbands railing over the humours of
their wives, makes trial of matrimony by espousing Silvia
Balastro, and, not being able to endure his wife for long, enters
into the body of the Duke of Malphi.=
The frivolity and want of judgment which nowadays is to be found amongst
most women (I speak of those who, without heed, give full licence to
their eyes and fancy in straining to compass their unbridled lust),
offers me occasion to tell to this noble concourse a story which may not
be familiar. And, although you may find it somewhat short, and ill put
together, it may, nevertheless, serve as a wholesome lesson to you wives
to be less irksome and exacting to your husbands than you have been
heretofore. And if I seem to lay on the lash too heavily, blame not me,
who am but the humble servant of all you others, but make your complaint
to the Signora, who, as you have heard, has given me leave to set before
you whatever story might commend itself to my taste.
I will first tell you, gracious ladies, that many years ago the devil,
becoming weary of the unceasing and clamorous accusations made by
husbands against their wives, determined to test the truth of these by
making trial of marriage himself, and, that he might the better compass
this design, he took the shape of a goodly young man of courtly manners,
and well furnished with lands and gold, Pancrazio Stornello by name. As
soon as the bruit of his intention got abroad in the city, divers
matchmakers waited upon him with plentiful choice of comely women, well
dowered, for his wife, and from amongst these he settled upon Silvia
Balastro, a noble maiden. Never before had the city witnessed such
magnificent nuptials and rejoicings. The kinsfolk of the bride came from
far and near, and for the best man the bridegroom chose one Gasparino
Boncio, a townsman of repute. A few days after the marriage the devil
addressed Sylvia, saying, ‘My dear wife, I need scarcely tell you that I
love you better than I love myself, seeing that I have already given you
many tokens of my affection; therefore, for the sake of this love of
mine, I am about to beg of you a favour which will be easy for you to
grant, and most acceptable to me. This favour is nought else than that
you should demand of me all that you want now, and all that you will
ever be likely to want, of raiment, jewellery, pearls, and other things
of the same sort which ladies love; for I have determined, on account of
the great love I have for you, to give you all you may demand, though it
may cost a kingdom. I make but one condition, which is, that you shall
never trouble me about such matters again; so be careful that you get
all you can possibly require for the rest of our married life, and be
careful likewise never to demand aught of me more, for you will ask in
vain.’ Silvia begged for time to consider this proposition, and, having
betaken herself to Signora Anastasia, her mother, a worldly-wise old
lady, she laid bare the offer of her husband, and asked for advice
thereanent. Anastasia, who knew well enough how to play a game of this
sort, took pen and paper and wrote out a list of articles, such as would
need two days to describe by word of mouth, and said to Silvia, ‘Take
this paper, and ask your husband to give you everything that is here
written down. If he agrees, you may be well content with him.’ Hereupon
Silvia departed, and, having found her husband, she asked him to give
her all that was written on the list, and he, when he had carefully read
it over, said, ‘Are you quite sure, dearest Sylvia, that you have put
down here all you want—that there is nothing missing for which at some
future time you may have to ask me? for I warn you that, if this should
be so, neither your prayers nor your sighs nor your tears will avail to
get it for you.’
Silvia could think of nothing else to ask for, and agreed to the
conditions of her husband, who at once commanded to be made vast store
of rich vestments studded with big pearls, and rings and all sorts of
jewels the most sumptuous that were ever seen. And over and above these
he gave her coifs and girdles embroidered with pearls, and all manner of
other dainty baubles which can be better imagined than described. When
Silvia was arrayed in these, and conscious of being the best dressed
woman in the city, she became somewhat saucy. There was nothing else she
could ask her husband for, so well had he cared for her needs.
It chanced, soon after this, that the city was all agog concerning a
great feast to which were bidden all the nobles of the place, and
amongst these was naturally included Silvia, who was amongst the most
beautiful and distinguished ladies in the city. And the more to honour
this festival, the other ladies met and devised all sorts of new
fashions of dress, altering them so much that anyone accoutred in those
in vogue heretofore would hardly have been recognized. There was no
mother’s daughter in the town—just as if it had happened to-day—who was
not bent on mounting the newest fashion to do honour to the festival,
and each one vied to outdo the other in pomp and magnificence.
When there came to Silvia’s ears the news that the fashion of dress was
to be changed, she was at once beset with fear that the store of raiment
she had lately received from her husband would be found of unfashionable
shape and unfit to be worn at the feast, and, in consequence, fell into
a melancholy humour, neither eating nor sleeping, and making the house
resound with her sighs and groans. The devil, who fathomed the trouble
in his wife’s heart, feigned to know nothing of it, and one day
addressed her: ‘What is troubling you, Silvia, that you look so unhappy?
Have you no heart for the coming festival?’ Silvia, seeing her
opportunity, plucked up courage and said: ‘What is the festival to me?
How can I go there in these old-fashioned clothes of mine? I am sure you
will not force me thither to be mocked at by the others.’ Then said
Pancrazio to her: ‘Did I not give you everything you would want for the
rest of your days? How comes it that you now ask me for more after
agreeing to the conditions I then made?’ These words only made Silvia
weep the more, and, bewailing her unhappy fate, cry out that she could
not go to the feast because she had no clothes fit to wear. Then said
the devil, ‘I gave you at first all that was necessary for the rest of
your days, but I will once more gratify your wishes. You may ask of me
for anything you want, and your request shall be granted; but never
again. If, after this, you make a like petition, the issue will be
something you will never forget.’
Silvia straightway put off her peevish humour, and wrote out another
list of braveries as long as the last, which Signor Pancrazio procured
for her without delay. In the course of time the ladies of the city once
more set to work to make another change in the fashion of dress, and
once more Silvia found herself clad in dresses of outworn cut. No other
lady could boast of jewels so costly, or of robes of such rich and
sumptuous web; but this was no solace to her, and she went mourning all
day long, without daring to make another appeal to her husband, who,
marking her tristful face, and knowing well enough what was vexing her,
said, ‘Silvia, my love, why are you so sad?’ Then she took courage and
said, ‘Is there not cause enough for me to be sad, seeing that I have no
raiment in the new fashion, and that I cannot show my face amongst the
other ladies of the city without their making a mock of me, and bringing
reproach upon you as well as upon myself? and the respect and fidelity I
have towards you do not merit such a return of shame and humiliation.’
At these words the devil was terribly wroth and said: ‘What cause have
you for complaint? Have I not twice over given you all you have asked
for? Your desires are insatiable, and beyond my power to satisfy. I will
once more give you everything you may demand, but I will straightway go
away and you will never see my face again.’ The devil was as good as his
word, and, after he had given Silvia a goodly store of new garments, all
after the latest fashion, he left her without taking leave of her, and
went to Malphi, where, for a diversion, he entered into the body of the
duke and tormented him grievously.
Now it chanced that, soon after this, Gasparino Boncio, the gallant who
had acted at Pancrazio’s nuptials as best man, was forced to fly from
his city on account of some offence against good manners. Wherefore he
betook himself to Malphi, where he managed to live by gambling and by a
lot of cunning tricks of which he was master, and rumour would have it
that he was a man of parts, though he was indeed nought but a sorry
knave. One day, when at the cards with some gentlemen of the place, he
went a step too far, and roused their wrath so hotly that, but for fear
of the law, they would certainly have made an end of him. One of these,
smarting under some special wrong, vowed that he would bring Master
Gasparino into such a plight as he would never forget. And forthwith he
betook himself to the duke, and, having made a profound obeisance, he
said: ‘Your excellency, there is in this town a man named Gasparino, who
makes boast that he can cast out evil spirits—whether of this world or
of the nether one—which may have entered the bodies of men; therefore,
methinks, you would do wisely to bid him try his skill to deliver you
from your torment.’ On hearing these words the duke sent forthwith for
Gasparino, who, being summoned, went into the duke’s presence at once.
‘Signor Gasparino,’ said the duke, ‘they tell me you profess to be an
exorcist of evil spirits. I, as no doubt you have heard, am sorely
tormented by one of these, and I pledge my faith to you that, if you
will work your spells upon him and drive him out, I will deal with you
so that you may live for the rest of your days free from care.’
Gasparino was utterly confounded by this speech, and, as soon as the
duke was silent, he began to stammer and to protest loudly that he knew
nought of such matters, and had never boasted of any such power; but the
gentleman, who was standing by, came forward and said: ‘Do you not
remember, Signor Gasparino, that, on a certain day, you told me this and
that?’ Gasparino persisted in denying any such speech, and, while they
were wrangling together, the duke broke in and said: ‘Come, come, hold
your peace, both of you! As for you, Master Gasparino, I give you three
days to work up your charms, and, if you can deliver me from this
misery, I promise you the most beautiful castle in my dominions, and you
may ask of me whatever you will. But, if you fail in this, before eight
days have passed I will have you strangled between two of these
columns.’
Gasparino, when he listened to the duke’s command, was utterly
confounded and filled with grief, and, having withdrawn from the duke’s
presence, began to ruminate day and night as to how he might accomplish
the task laid upon him. On the day fixed for the incantation he went to
the palace, and, having ordered to be spread on the floor a large
carpet, began to conjure the evil spirit to come out, and to cease his
torment. The devil, who was quite at his ease in the duke’s body, did
not reply, but breathed so strong a blast of wind through the duke’s
throat that he was like to choke him. When Gasparino renewed his
conjurations the devil cried out: ‘My friend, you can enjoy your life;
why can’t you leave me at peace here, where I am very comfortable? Your
mummery is all in vain.’ And here the devil began to deride him. But
Gasparino was not to be daunted by this, and for the third time he
called upon the devil to come out, asking him so many questions that at
last he got to know the evil spirit to be no other than his whilom
friend, Pancrazio Stornello. ‘And I know you, too,’ the devil went on;
‘you are Gasparino Boncio, my very dear friend. Don’t you remember those
merry nights we spent together?’ ‘Alas! my friend,’ said Gasparino, ‘why
have you come here to torment this poor man?’ ‘That is my secret,’
answered the devil; ‘why do you refuse to go away and leave me here,
where I am more at my ease than ever I was before?’ But Gasparino went
on with his questioning so long and so adroitly that he induced the
devil at last to tell him the story of his wife’s insatiable greed, of
the violent aversion he had conceived for her thereanent, and how he had
fled from her and taken up his abode in the body of the duke, and that
no consideration would induce him to return to her. Having learnt so
much, Gasparino said: ‘And now, my dear friend, I want you to do me a
favour.’ ‘What may it be?’ the devil inquired. ‘Nothing more than to get
you gone from the body of this poor man.’ ‘Friend Gasparino,’ quoth the
devil, ‘I never set you down as a wise man, but this request of yours
tells me you are a downright fool.’ ‘But I beg you, I implore you for
the sake of the merry bouts we have enjoyed together, to do as I ask,’
said Gasparino. ‘The duke has heard that I have power to cast out
spirits, and has imposed this task upon me. Unless I fulfil it I shall
be hanged, and you will be chargeable with my death.’ ‘Pooh!’ said the
devil, ‘our camaraderie lays no such duties upon me. You may go to the
lowest depths of hell for all I care. Why didn’t you keep your tongue
between your teeth, instead of going about boasting of powers you do not
possess?’ And with this he roared most horribly, and threw the poor duke
into a fit which nearly made an end of him.
But after a little the duke came to himself again, and Gasparino thus
addressed him: ‘My lord, take courage; for I see a way of ridding you of
this evil spirit. I must ask you to command all the players of music in
the city to assemble at the palace to-morrow morning, and at a set
moment to strike their instruments, while the bells all ring loudly, and
the gunners let off their cannon as a sign of rejoicing for victory. The
more noise they make the better for my purpose. The rest you may leave
to me.’
The next morning Gasparino went to the palace, and duly began his
incantations, and, as it had been settled, the trumpets and cymbals and
tambours gave out their music, and the bells and artillery clanged and
roared so loud and long that it seemed as if the uproar would never
cease. At last the devil asked Gasparino, ‘Isn’t there a hideous medley
of sound about the place? What is the meaning of it? Ah, I begin to hear
it plain now!’ ‘Begin to hear it!’ said Gasparino. ‘Surely there has
been clamour enough for the last half-hour to have deafened even you.’
‘I dare say,’ the devil replied; ‘but you must know that the bodies of
you mortals are gross and dull enough to shut out the sound from the
hearing of one in my place; but, tell me, what is the reason of this
noise?’ ‘I’ll tell you in a very few words,’ said Gasparino, ‘if in the
meantime you let the duke have a little ease.’ ‘It shall be as you
wish,’ said the devil. And then Gasparino brought out his story.
‘You must know, my dear friend and former comrade,’ he began, ‘that it
has come to the duke’s ears how you were forced to run away from your
wife on account of the woes you suffered through her greed for attire,
and he has in consequence invited her to Malphi. The noise you hear is
part of the rejoicing of the city over her arrival.’ ‘I see your hand in
this, honest Signor Gasparino,’ said the devil. ‘Well, you have outdone
me in cunning. Was there ever a loyal friend? Was I not right in
belittling the claims of comradeship? However, you have won the game.
The distaste and horror in which I hold my wife are so great that I will
do your bidding and betake myself elsewhere; indeed, rather than set
eyes on her again, I prefer to depart for the nethermost hell. Farewell,
Gasparino, you will never see me or hear of me again.’
Immediately after these words the poor duke began to throttle and choke,
and his eyes rolled about in ghastly wise; but these frightful tokens
only gave warning that the evil spirit had at last taken flight. Nothing
remained to tell of his presence save an appalling smell of sulphur.
Gradually the duke came to himself, and, when he had regained his former
health, he sent for Gasparino, and, to prove his gratitude, gave him a
stately castle, and a great sum of money, and a crowd of retainers to do
him service. Though assailed by the envy of certain of the courtiers,
Gasparino lived happily for many years; but Silvia, when she saw all the
treasures her husband had given her turn to smoke and ashes, lost her
wits, and died miserably.
The Trevisan told his story with great wit, and the men greeted it with
hearty applause and laughter; but the ladies demurred somewhat thereat,
so that the Signora, hearing them murmuring amongst themselves while the
men kept on their merriment, commanded silence and directed the Trevisan
to give his enigma, and he, without excusing himself to the ladies for
the sharp pricks against their sex dealt out in his story, thus began:
In our midst a being proud
Lives, with every sense endowed.
Keen his wit, though brainless he,
Reasoning with deep subtlety.
Headless, handless, tongueless too,
He kens our nature through and through.
Born but once and born for ever,
Death shall touch or mar him never.
The abstruse riddle of the Trevisan was no light task for the wit of the
company, and it was in vain that each one essayed its unravelling. At
last the Trevisan, seeing that their guesses were all wide of the mark,
said: “It does not seem meet for me to perplex any longer the ingenuity
of this honourable company. By your leave I will now unfold its meaning,
unless you had rather wait for some cunning wit to fathom it.” With one
voice they prayed him to unveil its purport, and this he did in these
terms: “My enigma signifies nothing else than the immortal soul of man,
which, being spiritual, has neither head nor hands nor tongue, yet it
makes its working known to all, and, whether it be judged in heaven or
in hell, lives eternally.” This learned unfolding of the Trevisan’s
obscure riddle pleased the company vastly.
Inasmuch as the night was now far spent, and the clamour of the cocks
foretelling the dawn was heard, the Signora made sign to Vicenza, who
was bespoken to tell the finishing story of the second night, to begin
her task. But Vicenza, red in the face through choler at the Trevisan’s
story, and not from bashfulness, cried out: “Signor Benedetto, I looked
for a better turn from you than this, that you would aim at something
higher than the character of a mere railer against women; but since you
take so bitter a tone, meseems you must have been vexed by some lady who
has asked more of you than you could give. Surely you lack justice if
you judge us all alike; your eyes will tell you that some of us, albeit
all of the same flesh and blood, are gentler and more worshipful than
others. If you rate us in such wise, wonder not if some day you find
your beauty marred by some damsel’s finger-nails. Then you will sing
your songs in vain.”
To her the Trevisan replied: “I did not tell my story to hurt the
feelings of anyone, nor for spite of my own; but to give counsel and
warning to those ladies who may be going to marry, to be modest and
reasonable in the calls they make on their husbands.” “I care nought
what may have been your object,” said Vicenza, “nor do these ladies
either; but I will not sit silent and let it be thought I allow these
charges of yours against women to have any worth. I will tell you a
story which you may find to be one for your own edification,” and having
made obeisance she began.