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The Decameron (Day 1 to Day 5)
Desires obtained, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more frequent accesse, then wisdome thinkes expedient, or can continue without discoverie. Our two Joviall Nunnes, not a little proud of their private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close Arbour; till an other Sister, who had often observed their haunt thither, by meanes of a little hole in her window; that shee began to suspect them with Massetto, and imparted the same to two other Sisters, all three concluding, to accuse them before the Lady Abbesse. But upon a further conference had with the offenders, they changed opinion, tooke the same oath as the forewoman had done, and because they would be free from any taxation at all: they revealed their adventures to the other three ignorants, and so fell all eight into one formall confederacie, but by good and warie observation, least the Abbesse her selfe should descry them; finding poore Massetto such plenty of Garden-worke, as made him very doubtfull in pleasing them all.
It came to passe in the end, that the Lady Abbesse, who all this while imagined no such matter, walking all alone in the Garden on a day, found Massetto sleeping under an Almond tree, having then very little businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night before. Shee observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty, well limbde, and proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his dumbnesse and deafenesse, being perswaded also in like manner, that if he were an Eunuch too, he deserved a thousand times the more to be pittied. The season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so carelesly to sleepe, that something was noted, wherein shee intended to be better resolved, almost falling sicke of the other Nunnes disease. Having awaked him, she commanded him (by signes) that he should follow her to her chamber, where he was kept close so long, that the Nunnes grew offended, because the Gardener came not to his dayly labour.
Well may you imagine that Massetto was no misse-proud man now, to be thus advanced from the Garden to the Chamber, and by no worse woman, then the Lady Abbesse her selfe, what signes, shewes, or what language he speaks there, I am not able to expresse; onely it appeard that his behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his daily repairing thither; and acquainted her with such familiar conversation, as shee would have condemned in the Nuns her daughters, but that they were wise enough to keepe it from her. Now began Massetto to consider with himselfe, that he had undertaken a taske belonging to great Hercules, in giving contentment to so many, and by continuing dumbe in this manner, it would redound to his no meane detriment. Whereupon, as hee was one night sitting by the Abbesse, the string that restrained his tongue from speech, brake on a sodaine, and thus he spake.
Madam, I have often heard it said, that one Cocke may doe service to ten severall Hennes, but ten men can (very hardly) even with all their best endeavour, give full satisfaction every way to one woman; and yet I am tied to content nine, which is farre beyond the compasse of my power to doe. Already have I performed so much Garden and Chamber-worke, that I confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile no further; and therefore let me entreate you to lysence my departure hence, or finde some meanes for my better ease. The Abbesse hearing him speake, who had so long served there dumbe; being stricken into admiration, and accounting it almost a miracle, saide. How commeth this to passe? I verily beleeved thee to be dumbe. Madam (quoth Massetto) so I was indeed, but not by Nature; onely I had a long lingering sicknesse, which bereft me of speech, and which I have not onely recovered againe this night, but shall ever remaine thankfull to you for it.
The Abbesse verily credited his answer, demanding what he meant, in saying, that he did service to nine? Madam, quoth he, this were a dangerous question, and not easily answered before all the eight Sisters. Upon this reply, the Abbesse plainly perceived, that not onely shee had fallen into folly, but all the Nunnes likewise cried guilty too: wherefore being a woman of sound discretion, she would not grant that Massetto should depart, but to keepe him still about the Nunnes businesse, because the Monastery should not be scandalized by him. And the Fac-totum being dead a little before, his strange recovery of speech revealed, and some things else more neerely concerning them: by generall consent, & with the good liking of Massetto, he was created the Fac-totum of the Monasterie.
All the neighbouring people dwelling thereabout, who knew Massetto to be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the Forrest, and divers employments in other places; were made to beleeve that by the Nunnes devoute prayers and discipline, as also the merits of the Saint, in whose honour the Monastery was built and erected, Massetto had his long restrained speech restored, and was now become their sole Fac-totum, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease himselfe of all such labours. And albeit he make the Nunnes to be fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger Sisters; yet all matters were so close & cleanly carried, as it was never talkt of, till after the death of the Ladie Abbesse, when Massetto beganne to grow in good yeares, and desired, to returne home to his Native abiding, which (within a while after) was granted him.
Thus Massetto, being rich and old, returned home like a wealthy Father, taking no care for the nursing of his children, but bequeathed them to the place where they were bred and born, having (by his wit and ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull years, that now he merrily tooke ease in his age.
A Querry of the Stable, belonging to Agilulffo; King of the Lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the Queenes bed, without any knowledge or consent in her. This being secretly discovered by the King, and the party knowne, he gave him a marke, by shearing the haire of his head. Whereupon, he that was so shorne, sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging, and so escaped the punishment intended towards him
The second Novell
Wherein is signified, the providence of a wise man, when he shall have reason to use revenge. And the cunning craft of another, when hee compasseth meanes to defend himselfe from perill
When the Novell of Philostratus was concluded, which made some of the Ladies blush, and the rest to smile: it pleased the Queene, that Madam Pampinea should follow next, to second the other gone before; when she, smiling on the whole assembly, began thus. There are some men so shallow of capacity, that they will (neverthelesse) make shew of knowing and understanding such things, as neither they are able to doe, nor appertaine to them: whereby they will sometimes reprehend other mens errors, and such faults as they have unwillingly committed, thinking thereby to hide their owne shame, when they make it much more apparant and manifest. For proofe whereof, faire company, in a contrary kinde I will shew you the subtill cunning of one, who (perhaps) might be reputed of lesse reckoning then Massetto; and yet hee went beyond a King, that thought himselfe to be a much wiser man.
Agilulffo, King of Lombardie, according as his Predecessours had done before him, made the principall seate of his Kingdome, in the Citie of Pavia, having embraced in mariage, Tendelinga, the late left widdow of Vetario, who likewise had beene King of the Lombards; a most beautifull, wise and vertuous Lady, but made unfortunate by a mischance. The occurrences and estate of the whole Realme, being in an honourable, quiet and well setled condition, by the discreete care and providence of the King; a Querrie appertaining to the Queenes Stable of Horse, being a man but of meane and lowe quality, though comely of person, and of equall stature to the King; became immeasurably amorous of the Queene. And because his base and servile condition, had endued him with so much understanding, as to know infallibly, that his affection was mounted, beyond the compasse of conveniencie; wisely hee concealed it to himselfe, not acquainting any one therewith, or daring so much, as to discover it either by lookes, or any other affectionate behaviour.
And although hee lived utterly hopelesse, of ever attaining to his hearts desires; yet notwithstanding, hee proudly gloried, that his love had soared so high a pitch, as to be enamoured of a Queene. And dayly, as the fury of his flame encreased; so his carriage was farre above his fellowes and companions, in the performing of all such serviceable duties, as any way he imagined might content the Queene. Whereon ensued, that whensoever shee roade abroad to take the ayre, shee used oftner to mount on the Horse, which this Querrie brought when shee made her choise, then any of the other that were led by his fellowes. And this did he esteeme as no meane happinesse to him, to order the stirrope for her mounting, and therefore gave dayly his due attendance: so that, to touch the Stirrope, but (much more) to put her foote into it, or touch any part of her garments, he thought it the onely heaven on earth.
But, as we see it oftentimes come to passe, that by how much the lower hope declineth, so much the higher love ascendeth; even so fell it out with this poore Querry; for, most irkesome was it to him, to endure the heavy waight of his continuall oppressions, not having any hope at all of the very least mitigation. And being utterly unable to relinquish his love divers times he resolved on some desperate conclusion, which might yet give the world an evident testimony, that he dyed for the love he bare to the Queene. And upon this determination, hee grounded the successe of his future fortune, to dye in compassing some part of his desire, without either speaking to the Queene, or sending any missive of his love; for to speake or write, were meerely in vaine, and drew on a worser consequence then death, which he could bestow on himselfe more easily, and when he listed.
No other course now beleagers his braines, but onely for secret accesse to the Queenes bed, and how he might get entrance into her Chamber, under colour of the King, who (as he knew very well) slept manie nights together from the Queene. Wherefore, to see in what manner, & what the usuall habit was of the King, when he came to keepe companie with his Queene: he hid himselfe divers nights in a Gallery, which was betweene both their lodging Chambers. At length, he saw the King come forth of his Chamber, himselfe all alone, with a faire night-mantle wrapt about him, carrying a lighted Taper in the one hand, and a small white Wand in the other, so went he on to the Queenes lodging; and knocking at the doore once or twice with the wand, and not using any word, the doore opened, the light was left without, and he entered the Chamber, where he stayed not long, before his returning backe againe, which likewise very diligently he observed.
So familiar was he in the Wardrobe, by often fetching and returning the King and Queenes furnitures; that the fellowe to the same Mantle, which the King wore when he went to the Queene, very secretly he conveighed away thence with him, being provided of a Light, and the verie like Wand. Now bestowes he costly bathings on his body, that the least sent of the Stable might not be felt about him; and finding a time sutable to his desire, when he knew the King to be at rest in his owne Lodging, and all else sleeping in their beds; closely he steals into the Gallery, where alighting his Taper, with Tinder purposely brought thither, the Mantle folded about him, and the Wand in his hand, valiantly he adventures upon his lives perill. Twice hee knockt softly at the doore, which a wayting woman immediately opened, and receyving the Light, went forth into the Gallery, while the supposed King, was conversing with the Queene.
Alas good Queene, heere is sinne committed, without any guiltie thought in thee, as (within a while after) it plainely appeared. For, the Querry having compassed what he most coveted, and fearing to forfeite his life by delay, when his amorous desire was indifferently satisfied: returned backe as he came, the sleepy waiting woman not so much as looking on him, but rather glad, that she might get her to rest againe. Scarcely was the Querrie stept into his bed, unheard or discerned by any of his fellowes, divers of them lodging both in that and the next Chamber: but it pleased the King to visite the Queene, according to his wonted manner, to the no little mervaile of the drowsie wayting woman, who was never twice troubled in a night before. The King being in bed, whereas alwayes till then, his resort to the Queene, was altogether in sadnesse and melancholly, both comming and departing without speaking one word: now his Majestie was become more pleasantly disposed, whereat the Queene began not a little to mervaile. Now trust mee Sir, quoth shee, this hath been a long wished, and now most welcome alteration, vouchsafing twice in a night to visite me, and both within the compasse of one houre; for it cannot be much more, since your being here, and now comming againe.
The King hearing these words, sodainly presumed, that by some counterfeit person or other, the Queene had been this night beguiled: wherefore (very advisedly) hee considered, that in regard the party was unknowne to her, and all the women about her; to make no outward appearance of knowing it, but rather concealed it to himselfe. Farre from the indiscretion of some hare-braind men, who presently would have answered and sworne; I came not hither this night, till now. Whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice of the Queene; beside, hir error being discovered to hir, might afterward be an occasion, to urge a wandring in her appetite, and to covet after change againe. But by this silence, no shame redounded to him or her, whereas prating, must needes be the publisher of open infamie: yet was hee much vexed in his minde, which neither by lookes or words hee would discover, but pleasantly said to the Queene. Why Madame, although I was once heere before to night, I hope you mislike not my second seeing you, nor if I should please to come againe. No truely Sir, quoth she, I only desire you to have care of your health. Well, said the King, I will follow your counsaile, and now returne to mine owne lodging againe, committing my Queene to her good rest.
His blood boyling with rage and distemper, by such a monstrous injurie offered him; he wrapt his night-mantle about him, and leaving his Chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needes he must be one of his owne house: he tooke a light in his hand, and convayed it into a little Lanthorne, purposing to be resolved in his suspition. No guests or strangers were now in his Court, but onely such as belonged to his houshold, who lodged altogether about the Escurie and Stables, being there appointed to divers beds. Now, this was his conceite, that whosoever had beene so lately familiar with the Queene, his heart and pulse could (as yet) be hardly at rest, but rather would be troubled with apparant agitation, as discovering the guilt of so great an offender. Many Chambers had hee passed thorow, where all were soundly sleeping, and yet he felt both their brests and pulses.
At last he came to the lodging of the man indeede, that had so impudently usurped his place, who could not as yet sleepe, for joy of his atchieved adventure. When he espied the King come in, knowing well the occasion of his search, he began to waxe very doubtfull, so that his heart and pulse beating extremely, he felt a further addition of feare, as being confidently perswaded, that there was now no other way but death, especially if the King discovered his agony. And although many considerations were in his braine, yet because he saw that the King was unarmed, his best refuge was, to make shew of sleepe, in expectation what the King intended to doe. Among them all he had sought, yet could not find any likelihood, whereby to gather a grounded probability; untill he came to this Querry, whose heart and pulses laboured so sternely, that he said to himselfe; yea mary, this is the man that did the deede.
Neverthelesse, purposing to make no apparance of his further intention, he did nothing else to him, but drawing foorth a paire of sheares, which purposely he brought thither with him, he clipped away a part of his lockes, which (in those times) they used to weare very long, to the end that he might the better know him the next morning, and so returned backe to his lodging againe. The Querry, who partly saw, but felt what was done to him; perceived plainely (being a subtill ingenious fellow) for what intent he was thus marked. Wherefore, without any longer dallying, up he rose, and taking a paire of sheares, wherewith they used to trim their Horses; softly he went from bed to bed, where they all lay yet soundly sleeping, and clipt away each mans locke from his right eare, in the selfe same manner as the King had done his, and being not perceived by any one of them, quietly he laide him downe againe.
In the morning, when the King was risen, he gave command that before the Pallace gates were opened, all his whole Family should come before him, as instantly his will was fulfilled. Standing all uncovered in his presence, he began to consider with himselfe, which of them was the man that he had marked. And seeing the most part of them to have their lockes cut, all after one and the selfe same manner; marvailing greatly, he saide to himselfe. The man whom I seeke for, though he be but of meane and base condition, yet it plainely appeareth, that he is of no deject or common understanding. And seeing, that without further clamour and noyse, he could not find out the party he looked for; he concluded, not to win eternall shame, by compassing a poore revenge: but rather (by way of admonition) to let the offender know in a word, that he was both noted and observed. So turning to them all, he saide; He that hath done it, let him be silent, and doe so no more, and now depart about your businesse.
Some other turbulent spirited man, no imprisonments, tortures, examinations, and interrogatories, could have served his turne; by which course of proceeding, he makes the shame to be publikely knowne, which reason requireth to keepe concealed. But admit that condigne vengeance were taken, it diminisheth not one title of the shame, neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash out as liberally in scandall, and upon the very least babling rumor. Such therefore as heard the Kings words, few though they were, yet truly wise; marvelled much at them, and by long examinations among themselves, questioned, but came far short of his meaning; the man onely excepted, whom indeede they concerned, and by whom they were never discovered, so long as the King lived, neither did he dare at any time after, to hazard his life in the like action, under the frownes or favour of Fortune.
Under colour of Confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire young Gentlewoman, being amourously affected to an honest man; induced a devoute and solemne religious Friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect
The third Novell
Declaring, that the leude and naughty qualities of some persons, doe oftentimes misguide good people, into very great and greevous errors
When Madam Pampinea sate silent, and the Querries boldnesse equalled with his crafty cunning, and great wisedome in the King had passed among them with generall applause; the Queene, turning her selfe to Madam Philomena, appointed her to follow next in order, and to hold rancke with her discourse, as the rest had done before her: whereupon Philomena graciously began in this manner.
It is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockery, which was performed (not in jest, but earnest) by a faire Gentlewoman, to a grave and devoute religious Friar, which will yeelde so much the more pleasure and recreation, to every secular understander, if but diligently he or shee doe observe; how commonly those religious persons (at least the most part of them) like notorious fooles, are the inventers of new courses and customes, as thinking themselves more wise and skilful in all things then any other; yet prove to be of no worth or validity, addicting the very best of all their devises, to expresse their owne vilenesse of minde, and fatten themselves in their sties, like to pampered Swine. And assure your selves worthy Ladies, that I doe not tell this Tale onely to follow the order enjoyned me; but also to informe you that such Saint-like holy Sirs, of whom we are too opinative and credulous, may be, yea, and are (divers times) cunningly met withall, in their craftinesse, not onely by men, but likewise some of our owne sexe, as I shall make it apparant to you.
In our owne City (more full of craft and deceit, then love or faithfull dealing) there lived not many yeeres since a Gentlewoman, of good spirit, highly minded, endued with beauty and all commendable qualities, as any other woman (by nature) could be. Her name, or any others, concerned in this Novell, I meane not to make manifest, albeit I know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be scandalized; and therefore it shall suffice to passe them over with a smile. This Gentlewoman, seeing her selfe to be descended of very great parentage, and (by chance) married to an Artezen, a Clothier or Drapier, that lived by the making and selling of Cloth: shee could not (because he was a Trades-man) take downe the height of her minde; conceiving, that no man of meane condition (how rich soever) was worthy to enjoy a Gentlewoman in marriage. Observing moreover, that with all his wealth and treasure, he understood nothing better, then to open skeines of yarne, fill shuttles, lay webbes in Loomes, or dispute with his Spinsters, about their businesse.
Being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, shee would no longer be embraced, or regarded by him in any manner, saving onely because she could not refuse him; but would find some other for her better satisfaction, who might seeme more worthy of her respect, then the Drapier her Husband did. Hereupon shee fell so deepe in love, with a very honest man of our City also, and of indifferent yeeres; as what day shee saw him not, shee could take no rest the night ensuing. The man himselfe knew nothing hereof, and therefore was the more neglect and carelesse, and she being curious, nice, yet wisely considerate; durst not let him understand it, neither by any womans close conveyed message, nor yet by Letters, as fearing the perils which happen in such cases. But her eye observing his daily walkes and resorts, gave her notice of his often conversing with a religious Friar, who albeit he was a fat and corpulent man, yet notwithstanding, because he seemed to leade a sanctimonious life, and was reported to be a most honest man; she perswaded her selfe, that he might be the best meanes, betweene her and her friend.
Having considered with her selfe, what course was best to be observed in this case; upon a day, apt and convenient, shee went to the Convent, where he kept, and having caused him to be called, shee told him, that if his leysure so served, very gladly shee would be confessed, and onely had made her choyce of him. The holy man seeing her, and reputing her to be a Gentlewoman, as indeede shee was no lesse; willingly heard her, and when shee had confessed what shee could, shee had yet another matter to acquaint him withall, and thereupon thus she began.
Holy Father, it is no more then convenient, that I should have recourse to you, to be assisted by your help and councell, in a matter which I will impart unto you. I know, that you are not ignorant of my parents and husband, of whom I am affected as dearely as his life, for proofe whereof, there is not any thing that I can desire, but immediatly I have it of him, he being a most rich man, and may very sufficiently affoord it. In regard whereof, I love him equally as my selfe, and, setting aside my best endeavours for him; I must tell you one thing, if I should do anything contrary to his liking and honour, no woman can more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. Understand then, good Father, that there is a man, whose name I know not, but hee seemeth to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if I am not deceived) hee resorteth oftentimes to you, being faire and comely of person, going alwayes in blacke garments of good price and value. This man, imagining (perhaps) no such minde in me, as truely there is; hath often attempted mee, and never can I be at my doore, or window, but hee is alwayes present in my sight, which is not a little displeasing to me; he watcheth my walkes, and much I mervaile, that he is not now here.
Let me tell you holy Sir, that such behaviours, doe many times lay bad imputations upon very honest women, yet without any offence in them. It hath often run in my minde, to let him have knowledge thereof by my brethren: but afterward I considered, that men (many times) deliver messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle answeres, whereon grow words, and words beget actions. In which respect, because no harme or scandall should ensue, I thought it best to be silent; determining, to acquaint you rather therewith, then any other, as well because you seeme to be his friend, as also in regard of your office, which priviledgeth you, to correct such abuses, not onely in friends, but also in strangers. Enowe other women there are, (more is the pitty) who (perhaps) are better disposed to such suites, then I am, and can both like and allowe of such courting, otherwise then I can doe; as being willing to embrace such offers, and (happily) loath to yeeld deniall. Wherefore, most humbly I entreat you, good Father (even for our blessed Ladies sake) that you would give him a friendly reprehension, and advise him, to use such unmanly meanes no more hereafter. With which words, shee hung downe her head in her bosome, cunningly dissembling, as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with her Handkerchife, when not a teare fell from them, but indeed were dry enough.
The holy Religious man, so soone as he heard her description of the man, presently knew whom shee meant, and highly commending the Gentlewoman, for her good and vertuous seeming disposition, beleeved faithfully all that shee had said: promising her, to order the matter so well and discreetly, as shee should not be any more offended. And knowing her to be a woman of great wealth (after all their usuall manner, when they cast forth their fishing nets for gaine:) liberally he commended Almes-deedes, and dayly workes of charity, recounting to her (beside) his owne perticular necessities. Then, giving him two pieces of gold, she said. I pray you (good Father) to be mindfull of me, and if he chance to make any deniall: tell him boldly, that I spake it my selfe to you, and by the way of a sad complaint her confession being ended, and penance easie enough enjoyned her, shee promised to make her parents bountifull benefactours to the Convent, and put more money into his hand, desiring him in his Masses, to remember the soules of her deceased friends, and so returned home to her house.
Within a short while after her departure, the Gentleman, of whom she had made this counterfeit complaint, came thither, as was his usuall manner, and having done his duty to the holy Father; they sate downe together privately, falling out of one discourse into another. At the length, the Frier (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly reproved him, for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which (as he thought) hee dayly used to the Gentlewoman, according to her owne speeches. The Gentleman mervailed greatly thereat, as one that had never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where she dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the Confessour interrupting him, said. Never make such admiration at the matter, neither waste more words in these stout denials, because they cannot serve thy turne: I tell thee plainely, I heard it not from any neighbours, but even of her owne selfe, in a very sorrowfull and sad complaint. And though (perhaps) hereafter, thou canst very hardly refraine such follies; yet let mee tell thee so much of her (and under the seale of absolute assurance) that she is the onely woman of the world, who (in my true judgement) doth hate and abhorre all such base behaviour. Wherefore, in regard of thine owne honour, as also not to vexe & prejudice so vertuous a Gentlewoman: I pray thee refrain such idlenes henceforward, & suffer hir to live in peace.
The Gentleman, being a little wiser then his ghostly Father, perceived immediatly (without any further meditating on the matter) the notable pollicie of the woman: whereupon, making somewhat bashfull appearance of any error already committed; hee said, hee would afterward be better advised. So, departing from the Frier, he went on directly, to passe by the house where the Gentlewoman dwelt, and she stood alwayes ready on her watch, at a little window, to observe, when hee should walke that way: And seeing him comming, she shewed her selfe so joyfull, and gracious to him, as he easily understood, whereto the substance of the holy Fathers chiding tended. And, from that time forward, hee used dayly, though in covert manner (to the no little liking of the Gentlewoman and himselfe) to make his passage through that streete, under colour of some important occasions there, concerning him.
Soone after, it being plainely discerned on either side, that the one was as well contented with these walkes, as the other could be: shee desired to enflame him a little further, by a more liberall illustration of her affection towards him, when time and place affoorded convenient opportunity. To the holy Father againe shee went, (for shee had been too long from shrift) and kneeling downe at his feete, intended to begin her confession in teares; which the Friar perceiving, sorrowfully demanded of her, what new accident had happened? Holy Father (quoth shee) no novell accident, but onely your wicked and ungracious friend, by whom (since I was here with you, yea, no longer agoe then yesterday) I have beene so wronged, as I verily beleeve that hee was borne to be my mortall enemie, and to make me doe something to my utter disgrace for ever; and whereby I shall not dare to be seene any more of you, my deare Father. How is this? answered the Friar, hath he not refrained from afflicting you so abusively?
