=Marsilio Vercelese, being enamoured of Thia, the wife of Cechato
Rabboso, is taken by her into her house during her husband’s
absence. He having come back unexpected, is cozened by Thia, who
feigns to work a spell, during which Marsilio silently takes to
flight.[47]=
In good sooth, what more would you have, my lady mistress and fair
damsels all? Has not Messer Antonio acquitted himself well? Has he not
told you an excellent story? But, by the blood of a dog, I will do my
best to match him, and to gather the best credit I may.
We villagers have always heard tell, that amongst gentlemen of the
world, one man will manage his affairs in this way, and another in that.
But I, who am an ignorant loon, and who know nothing of letters, tell
you what I have always heard said by our elders, namely, that he who
dances badly raises the loudest laugh;[48] so if you will have patience,
I will do my best to amuse you. But do not think that I say these words
because I wish to escape the trouble of telling you a tale, for I am not
in the least fearful on this score. And, over and beyond this, I would
have you understand that the story which Messer Antonio has told you,
with so good a grace that it would be hard to beat, has fired me with so
much courage that now, when I see I am indeed launched on my task, it
seems to me a thousand years until I shall be able to begin. Perhaps
indeed this fable of mine will be no less pleasing and laughable than
Messer Antonio’s, especially as I purpose to tell you of the ingenuity
of a peasant woman who played a trick upon her fool of a husband;
wherefore, if you will listen to me and give me your kind attention, I
will tell it to you as well as I can.
Above the domain of Piove de Sacco, which is, as I need hardly tell you,
a territory of Padua, seeing that this must be well known to all of you,
is situated a village called Salmazza, wherein there lived, a very long
time since, a peasant called Cechato Rabboso, who, although he was a
fellow with a big head and body, was nevertheless a poor fool and
over-trustful of his own powers. This Cechato Rabboso had to wife the
daughter of a farmer called Gagiardi, who lived in a village called
Campelongo, and she was a wily, crafty, and mischievous young woman,
called by the name of Thia. Besides being so shrewd, she was in her
person a stout wench and handsome of face, so that it was commonly said
there was not another peasant woman for miles round who could be
compared with her. And because she was so sprightly and nimble at
country dances, the young gallants who saw her would not seldom lose
their hearts to her straightway. Now it happened that a certain young
man, who was himself handsome and of a sturdy figure, a prosperous
citizen of Padua, by name Marsilio Vercelese, became enamoured of this
Thia, and so ardently was he consumed by the flame of his love that
whenever she went to a village dance this youth would be sure to follow
her thither, and for the greater part of the time he would dance with
her, devoting himself entirely to her and never dancing with any other
woman. But although this young gallant was so fiercely enamoured of her,
he kept his love a secret as well as he could, so as not to let it be
known to anybody, nor to become a matter of common gossip to all the
neighbours round about.
Marsilio, knowing quite well that Cechato, Thia’s husband, was a poor
man, supporting his house by the work of his hands, and from the early
morning till late at night labouring hard, now at this, now at that
work, began to prowl about Thia’s house, and, by constantly plying her
with soft glances, he soon found an opportunity of addressing her. Now,
although Marsilio had determined in his mind to disclose the love which
he bore her, still he doubted whether she might not be angered and
refuse to see him again in case he should declare his passion, for it
did not seem to him that she looked upon him so kindly as he deserved,
seeing how great was the love he had for her. And, besides this, he was
afraid of being discovered by some malicious person who would caution
Cechato her husband, who on this account might very likely do him some
evil turn; for Cechato, although he was such a numskull, was sharp
enough to be jealous.
Marsilio, therefore, spent his days in assiduously haunting the house
where Thia lived, and he would gaze at her so long and so intently that
at last she could not fail to be aware that he was enamoured of her.
But, for certain reasons best known to herself, she forbore to look
favourably upon him, or show that she was in any way inclined to return
his passion, and although she was in her secret mind quite willing to
meet his wishes, she feigned to be indifferent to him, and turned her
back upon him.
One day it chanced that Thia was sitting all alone on a wooden bench
placed near the outer door of the house, and holding under her arm the
distaff on which some flax was wound—she was, indeed, busy doing some
spinning for her landlady—when Marsilio, who had taken a little heart of
grace, came forward and said to her: ‘God be with you, my friend Thia!’
And Thia answered: ‘Welcome, young gentleman!’ ‘How is it that you do
not know,’ said Marsilio, ‘that I am consumed of love for you, and am
like to die, and you on your part make no account of it, and care not in
the least about my cruel sufferings?’ To this Thia answered: ‘How should
I know whether you love me or not?’ Said Marsilio: ‘If you never knew it
before, I will now let you know that such is my case, for I am consumed
with all the grief and passion that a man can feel.’ And Thia answered
him: ‘Well, of a surety you have let me know it now.’ Then Marsilio
said, ‘And you? Ah, tell me the truth, by the faith you have! Do you
love me too?’ Thia, with a smile, answered, ‘Perhaps I love you a
little.’ Then said Marsilio, ‘Heaven help you, tell me how much?’ ‘I
love you very much,’ answered Thia. Then Marsilio cried, ‘Alas, Thia! if
you really loved me as much as you say, you would show it to me by some
sign, but I cannot believe that you love me at all.’ Thia answered,
‘Well, and what sign would you have me give you?’ ‘Oh, Thia!’ said
Marsilio, ‘you know very well what is in my mind without my telling
you.’ ‘No, I cannot possibly know it unless you tell me,’ said Thia.
Then Marsilio replied, ‘I will tell you if you will listen to me, and
not be angered.’ Thia then answered, ‘Say on, sir, for I promise you on
my soul that, if it is a good thing and not against my honour, I will
not be angered with you.’ Then Marsilio said, ‘Then, my love, when will
you give me the chance of holding you in my arms in lover’s fashion?’ ‘I
now see clearly enough,’ said Thia, ‘that you are only deceiving me, and
making a mock of me. How can I be fitted for you, who are a gentleman
and a citizen of Padua, whilst I am a peasant of the village? You are
rich, and I am poor; you are a signor, and I am a working woman; you can
have fine ladies to your taste, and I am of low condition. You are wont
to walk gaily with your embroidered surcoat, and your bright-coloured
hose, all worked with wool and silk, and I, as you see, have nought but
a dimity petticoat, old, torn, and mended. I have nothing better when I
go to dances than this old garment and this linen head-cloth. You eat
wheaten loaves, and I rye-bread and beans and polenta, and even then I
have often not enough to satisfy my hunger. I have no pelisse for the
cold winter, poor wretch that I am! nor do I know which way to turn to
get one, for I have neither money nor goods to sell that will enable me
to buy the few necessaries that I want. We have not enough corn to eat
to keep us alive till Easter, and I know not what we shall do during the
great dearth. And besides all this, there are the forced dues that we
have to pay to Padua every day. Oh, we poor peasants! what pleasure have
we in life? We toil hard to till the earth and to sow our wheat, which
you fine folk consume, whilst we poor people have to make the best shift
we can with rye-bread. We tend the vines and make the wine, of which you
drink the best, and we have to be satisfied with wine lees or water.’
In answer to Thia’s speech Marsilio said: ‘Do not distress yourself on
account of this, for if you will grant me the favour I desire I will see
that you want for nothing that can give you delight.’ Thia replied: ‘Ah!
this is what you cavaliers always say until we have done your pleasure;
then you go away and we never see any more of you, and, fools as we are,
are left in the lurch, deceived and duped and shamed in the world’s
esteem. You, meantime, go your ways, bragging of your good fortune and
washing out your mouths, as far as concerns us and all that belongs to
us,[49] treating us as if we were carrion only fit to be cast out on the
dunghill. I know full well the tricks you worthy citizens of Padua can
play.’ Then said Marsilio: ‘Enough, now let us have done with words for
good and all. I ask you once more whether you will grant me the favour I
desire?’ ‘Go away, for the love of God, I pray you,’ cried Thia, ‘before
my husband comes back, for nightfall is drawing near and he will
certainly be here in a few minutes. Come back some time to-morrow, and
we will talk as long as you will, for in sooth I love you well.’ But
Marsilio, who was indeed passionately in love with her, was loath to
leave off this pleasant conversation, and still remained by her side; so
she said once more, ‘Go away immediately, I beg you, and do not stay
here any longer.’ When Marsilio saw that Thia was thus strongly moved,
he cried out, ‘God be with you, Thia, my sweet soul! I recommend my
heart to you, for it is surely in your keeping.’ ‘May God go with you,
dearest hope of my life!’ said Thia, ‘I commend you to His care.’ ‘By
His good help,’ said Marsilio, ‘we will meet again to-morrow.’ ‘Very
well, let it be so,’ said Thia; and with these words Marsilio took his
leave.
When the morrow had come Marsilio, to whom the time until he should once
more repair to Thia’s house seemed a thousand years, went thither
forthwith and found her busy in the garden digging and mulching round
about certain vines which grew therein, and as soon as they saw one
another they exchanged greetings and began to talk lovingly together.
And when this conversation had gone on for some time Thia said to
Marsilio: ‘Dear heart of mine, to-morrow morning early Cechato my
husband will have occasion to go to the mill, and he will not return
hither until the next day; wherefore, if it should be your pleasure, you
may come here late in the evening. I will be on the watch for you; only
be sure that you come without fail, and do not deceive me.’ When
Marsilio heard this good news, there was no man in all the world so
happy as he was; he jumped and danced about for very gladness, and took
leave of Thia, half out of his wits for joy.
As soon as Cechato had come home, the crafty Thia went up to him and
said, ‘Cechato, my good man, you must needs go to the mill straightway,
for we have nothing more in the house to eat.’ ‘Very well, very well, I
will see about it,’ answered Cechato. ‘I tell you that you must go
to-morrow, whatever happens,’ said Thia. ‘Very well, then,’ replied
Cechato, ‘to-morrow morning before I go I will borrow a cart with two
oxen from the people for whom I work, then I will come back to load it,
and go off to the mill at once.’
In the meantime Thia went to prepare the corn and to put it into sacks,
so that on the morrow Cechato should have nothing to do but to load his
cart therewith, and to go on his way singing. On the following morning
Cechato took the corn which his wife had put into sacks the night
before, and loaded it on the cart and went on his way towards the mill.
And seeing that it was now the season of short days and long nights, and
that the roads were broken up and in bad condition, and that the weather
was foul with rain and ice and intense cold, poor Cechato found himself
obliged to remain that night at the mill, and this in sooth fell in most
opportunely with the plans that Thia and Marsilio had devised for their
own satisfaction.
As soon as the dark night had fallen, Marsilio, according to the
agreement he had made with Thia, took a pair of fine well-cooked capons
and some white bread and wine unspoilt by any drop of water therein, all
of which he had carefully prepared before he left his home, and stole
secretly across the fields to Thia’s house. Then, having opened the
door, he found her sitting by the fireside winding thread. After
greeting one another they spread the table and both sat down to eat, and
after they had made an excellent meal off Marsilio’s good cheer, they
went to lie down in the bed; thus, whilst that poor fool of a Cechato
was having his corn ground at the mill, in his bed at home Marsilio was
sifting flour.
When the time of sunrise was near, and the day was beginning to break,
the two lovers awoke and rose from their bed, fearing lest Cechato might
return and find them there together; but while they were still amorously
talking, Cechato drew near to the house, whistling aloud the while, and
calling upon Thia, saying: ‘Oh, my Thia! make up a good fire, I pray
you, for I am more than half dead with cold.’ Thia, who was a clever,
artful minx, was somewhat frightened when she heard her husband’s voice,
and feared amain lest some evil should befall Marsilio, and injury and
shame be put upon herself; so she quickly opened the door, managing the
while to allow Marsilio to hide himself behind it; then with a merry
face she ran to meet her husband, and began to embrace him. And after
Cechato had come into the courtyard, he cried out once more to his wife:
‘Make a fire at once, good Thia, for I am wellnigh frozen to death. By
the blood of St. Quintin, I was almost starved to death by cold last
night up at that mill; so cold was it, indeed, that I was not able to
sleep a wink or even to close an eye.’ Whereupon Thia went without delay
to the wood-house, and having taken therefrom a good armful of billets
she lighted a fire whereat Cechato might warm himself, herself occupying
craftily that spot by the hearth from whence Marsilio might perchance be
seen by Cechato.
Then Thia, chatting with her husband of this and of that, said: ‘Ah!
Cechato, my good man, I have a fine bit of news to give you.’ ‘What has
happened?’ inquired Cechato. To this Thia replied, ‘Whilst you were away
at the mill a poor old man came to the house begging alms of me for the
love of God, and as a recompense for some bread I gave him to eat and a
small cup of wine, he taught me an incantation wherewith to throw a
spell over that greedy kite which often comes hereabouts, and never in
my life have I heard anything more beautiful than his words, which I
have learnt well by heart.’ ‘What is this thing you are telling me?’
said Cechato; ‘is it really the truth?’ Thia replied, ‘It is true, by my
faith, and I can tell you that I set great store by it.’ ‘Then tell it
to me at once,’ said Cechato, ‘and do not hold me longer in suspense.’
Whereupon Thia said to her husband, ‘You must lie down flat on the
ground stretched out your full length, just as if you were dead (which
thing may God avert!), and having done this you must turn your head and
your shoulders towards the door, and your knees and feet towards the
stove, and then I must spread a white cloth over your face, and put our
corn measure over your head.’
‘But I am quite sure,’ said Cechato, ‘that my head will never go into
our corn measure.’ ‘I am sure it will,’ replied Thia; ‘just look here!’
And with these words she took the measure, which happened to be close at
hand, and put it over his head, saying, ‘Nothing in God’s world could be
a better fit than this. And now you must keep yourself quite still,
neither moving a limb nor saying a word, otherwise we shall be able to
do nothing. Then I will take our tamis sieve in my hand, and will begin
to jump and dance around you, and whilst I am thus dancing I will speak
the incantation which the old man taught me. And in this fashion the
spell may be well and truly worked. But again I tell you that you must
on no account stir a finger until I shall have repeated the incantation
thrice, for it must be said three times over you in order that it may
have any effect. After this we shall see whether the kite gives us any
more trouble, or comes to steal our chicken.’ To this Cechato replied:
‘Would to God that what you say might be true, so that we might have a
little rest and breathing space. You know well enough how hard we find
it to bring up any chicken at all, on account of that fiend of a kite
which devours every one we hatch. Never have we been able to rear enough
chicken to sell, and with the money gained thereby to pay our landlord
and the tax-gatherer, and to buy oil and salt and any other stores we
may want for housekeeping.’
‘Let us begin quickly then,’ said Thia, ‘for in this fashion we shall be
able to do ourselves a good turn. Now, Cechato, lie down quickly.’ And
Cechato straightway laid himself down on the floor. ‘Now stretch
yourself out well to your full length,’ said Thia. And Cechato at once
did his best to stretch himself out as far as ever he could. ‘That is
right,’ said Thia, and hereupon she took a cloth of thick white linen
and shrouded his face therewith. Next she took the corn measure and
rammed it down on his head, and then caught up the tamis sieve and began
to dance and skip around him and to repeat in the following wise the
incantation which she said had been taught her by the old beggar:
Thievish bird, I charge you well,
Hearken to my mystic spell.
While I dance and wave my sieve,
All my tender chicks shall live.
Not a bird from all my hatch,
Thievish rascal, shall you snatch.
Wolf nor rat his prey shall seek,
Nor bird with sharp and crooked beak.
Thieves who stand behind the door,
Hearken, fly, and come no more.
If my speech you cannot read,
Surely you are fools indeed.
When Thia had come to the end of her mummery she still went on dancing
round Cechato, keeping her eyes fixed upon the outer door the while, and
making signs to Marsilio, who was there concealed, that he had better
run away at once. But Marsilio, who was neither nimble-minded nor quick
to catch her meaning, failed to comprehend what might be the purport of
the gestures she was making or what she meant by going through these
rites of exorcism; so he kept still in his hiding-place and did not
budge an inch. Meantime Cechato, being now half stifled and mightily
weary of lying stretched out on the floor, was anxious to get up, and
spake thus to Thia: ‘Well, is it all over now?’ But Thia, who had not
been able to induce Marsilio to move from his place behind the door,
answered Cechato in these words: ‘Stay where you are, for heaven’s sake,
and move not at your peril. Did I not tell you that I should have to
repeat the incantation three times? I hope you may not have wrecked
everything, as it is, by wanting to get up.’ ‘No, no, surely not,’ said
Cechato. And Thia made him lie down stretched out as he was before, and
began to chant her incantation anew.
[Illustration: The Conjuration of the Kite]
Now by this time Marsilio had at last come to understand how matters
really stood, and what was the meaning of Thia’s mummery, so he seized
the opportunity to slip out from his hiding-place, and to run away as
fast as his legs could carry him. Thia, when she saw Marsilio take to
his heels and run out of the courtyard, finished her form of exorcism
against the kite, and when she had brought it to an end she suffered her
cuckoldly fool of a husband to get up from the ground. Then with Thia’s
help he began forthwith to unload the flour which he had brought back
from the mill. Now Thia when she went with Cechato outside into the
courtyard to help unload the flour, saw Marsilio in the distance
hurrying away at the top of his speed, whereupon she began to shout
after him in a lusty voice: ‘Ah, ah! what a wicked bird! Ah, ah! begone,
get away! For, by my faith, I will send you packing with your tail
between your legs if ever you show yourself here again. Away then, I
tell you! Is not he a greedy wretch? Do you not see that the wicked
beast was bent on coming back? Heaven give him a bad year!’
And in this fashion it happened, that every time the kite came and flew
down into the courtyard to carry away a chick or two, he would first
have a bout with the hen herself,[50] who would afterwards set to work
with her conjuration as before. Then he would take to flight with his
tail down, but all the while the fowls belonging to Cechato and Thia
suffered no damage at all from his harrying.
This fable, given by the Trevisan, was found to be so mirthful and
amusing that the ladies, and the gentlemen as well, almost split their
sides with laughter; so well did he mock the rustic speech that there
was no one of the company who would not have judged him to be a peasant
of Treviso. And when the merriment had abated somewhat, the Signora
turned her fair face towards the Trevisan and spake to him thus: “In
truth, Signor Benedetto, you have this evening diverted us in such
featly wise that with one voice we declare your fable may deservedly be
held to be the equal of Molino’s in merit. But to fill up the measure of
my content and that of this honourable company, I entreat you—an it
displease you not—that you will set forth to us an enigma which shall be
as graceful in form as amusing in matter.” The Trevisan, when he saw how
the Signora was inclined, was unwilling to disappoint her; so, standing
up, with a clear voice and with no hesitation of any sort, he began his
riddle in the following words:
Sir Yoke goes up and down the field,
To every tug is forced to yield.
One on the left, one on the right
Plods on, and next there comes a wight,
A cunning rascal who with power
Beats one who goes on carriers four.
Now if an answer you can give,
Good friends, we will for ever live.
When the Trevisan, with the true manner and bearing of a peasant, had
finished his enigma, which was comprehended by few or none of the
company, he thus gave the interpretation thereof in peasant dialect in
order that its meaning might be made clear to them all: “I must not keep
this gentle company waiting any longer. Tell me, do you understand the
meaning of my enigma? If you do not know, I will tell you. Sir Yoke goes
to and fro, that is to say, the yoke, to which the oxen are attached,
goes up and down the fields and roads, and is dragged hither and thither
by them. Those who fare, the one on this side and the other on that side
of it, are the oxen. He who beats one who stands on four, means that the
ploughman who walks behind lashes the bull, who has four legs, with his
leathern whip. And to end my explanation, I tell you once more that the
answer to my riddle is the yoke, and I hope you will all understand it.”
Everyone was greatly interested over this riddle dealing with country
life, and, laughing heartily thereat, they praised it highly. But the
Trevisan, remembering that only one more story remained to be told this
night, to wit, that of the charming Cateruzza, turned with a smiling
face towards the Signora and spake thus: “Signora, it is not for the
reason that I wish to disturb the settled order of this our
entertainment, or to dictate to your highness, my mistress and sovereign
lady, but merely to satisfy the desire of this devoted company, that I
beg your excellency to make us the sharers of some fair fancies of your
own, by telling us, for our delight and recreation, a story with your
wonted grace. And if I peradventure have been more presumptuous (which
God forbid) in making this request than is suitable to my humble estate,
I beg you will forgive me, seeing that the love I bear towards this
gracious assembly has been the chief cause why I have been led to prefer
it.”
The Signora, when she heard the courteous petition of the Trevisan, at
first cast her eyes down upon the ground; not, however, for any fear or
shame that she felt, but because she deemed that, for divers reasons, it
was more seemly for her to listen than to discourse. But after a time,
with a gracious and smiling look, as if her humour were a merry one, she
turned her bright face towards the Trevisan and said: “Signor Benedetto,
what though your request is a pleasant and seemly one, it appears to me
that you are somewhat too insistent a beggar, forasmuch as the duty of
story-telling pertains rather to these young damsels round about than to
me; therefore you must hold me excused if I decline to give way at once
to your demand, and bid Cateruzza, who has been chosen by lot to tell
the fifth story of this evening, to favour you with her discourse.” The
merry listeners, who were mightily eager to hear the Signora tell her
story, forthwith all rose to their feet and began to support the request
of the Trevisan, begging her most earnestly that she would in this
matter favour them with her courtesy and kindness, and not stand too
severely by the exalted dignity of her position, for time and place will
allow anyone, however high in rank, to speak freely whatever thing may
be pleasing. The Signora, when she heard the gentle loving terms of this
petition, in order that she might not seem ungracious in her bearing,
smilingly replied: “Since this is the wish of all of you, and your
pleasure withal, that I should conclude this evening with some little
story of my own, I will gladly grant your wish.” And without further
demur she blithely began to tell her fable.