Showing posts with label Florence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Florence. Show all posts

Thursday 19 August 2021

6-3, Madam Nonna de' Pulci, Bishop of Florence

NOVEL III. 

Madam Nonna de' Pulci silences the Bishop of Florence, by a smart reply to an unseemly piece of raillery. 

Cisti's answer and his generosity having been highly commended, the queen gave her orders to Lauretta, who began as follows: - Most gracious ladies, Pampinea, the other day, and Filomena now, have both justly touched upon our own little merit, as well as the beauty of repartees: therefore, as it is needless to say anything farther upon that head, I shall only remind you, that your words should be such as only to nip or touch the hearer, as the sheep nibbles the grass, and not as the dog bites; for in that case it is no longer wit, but foul scurrility. This was excellently well set forth, both in what was said by Oretta, and in the reply of Cisti. It is true, however, that if a sharp thing be spoken by way of answer, and bites a little too keenly, yet if the person who answers in that manner was stung first, he is the less to blame. Therefore, you should be cautious both how, when, and with whom you jest. For want of attending sufficiently to this, a certain prelate of ours met with a sharper bite than he had given, as I shall show you in a very short novel. When Signor Antonio d'Orso, a most wise and worthy person, was bishop of Florence, a certain gentleman of Catalonia, marshal to King Robert, happened to come thither; who, having a good person, and being a great admirer of the fair sex, took a particular liking to a lady of that city, who was niece to the bishop's brother; and understanding that her husband, though of a good family, was most abominably sordid and covetous, he agreed to give him five hundred florins of gold to let him pass one night with her. Accordingly he got so many pieces of silver gilt, which he gave to him, and then obtained his desire contrary to her will and knowledge. This being discovered soon afterwards, the wretch became the common jest and scorn of mankind; but the bishop, like a wise man, affected to know nothing of the matter. 

The bishop being often in company with the marshal, it happened on St. John's day, that, as they were riding side by side through the city, viewing the ladies all the way, that the bishop cast his eye upon one, named Monna de' Pulchi, then newly married, and who is since dead of the plague, cousin also to Alesso Rinucci, whom you all knew: this lady, besides her great beauty, was endowed with a generous spirit, and spoke pertinently and well. Showing her, therefore, to the marshal, as soon as they came near her, he laid his hand upon the marshal's shoulder, and said, "Madam, what do you think of this gentleman? Could he make a conquest over you or not?" This seemed to touch her honour, or at least she thought it might give some persons present a worse opinion of her. Without ever thinking, then, how to clear herself of such a charge, but resolving to return like for like, she replied, "Perhaps he might, my lord; but then I should like to be paid with good money." This touched them both to the quick; the one as doing a very dishonourable thing to the bishop's relation; the other as receiving in his own person the shame belonging to his brother. And they rode away, without so much as looking at one another, or exchanging a word together all the day after. Very justly, therefore, did this lady bite the biter. 

3-7 Tedaldo, Florence, pilgrim

NOVEL VII. 

Tedaldo, having a misunderstanding with his mistress, leaves Florence; he returns thither afterwards in the habit of a pilgrim, and makes himself known to her; when he convinces her of her mistake, and saves her husband from being put to death for his murder, for which he had been condemned. He then reconciles him to his brethren, and lives upon good terms with her for the future. 

Tedaldo, having a misunderstanding with his mistress, leaves Florence; he returns thither afterwards in the habit of a pilgrim, and makes himself known to her; when he convinces her of her mistake, and saves her husband from being put to death for his murder, for which he had been condemned. He then reconciles him to his brethren, and lives upon good terms with her for the future.


Fiammetta, who had been commended by all, was now silent; when, to prevent loss of time, the queen gave immediate orders to Emilia, who began thus: 

- I choose to return to our own city, which the two ladies who spoke last have departed from; and to relate how one of our own citizens regained his lost mistress. 

There lived at Florence a young nobleman, called Tedaldo Ele, who was in love with a lady named Monna Ermellina, wife to one Aldobrandino Palermini, and well did his good qualities deserve success. But ill fortune was still in his way; for the lady, after shewing a liking to him, all at once refused to see him, and would receive no more messages from him, which threw him into utter despair; but, as his love was a secret, the cause of his melancholy was unknown. Divers means he used to regain the love, which had been lost without any fault of his; but, finding all in vain, he resolved to separate himself from the world, that he might deprive her, who had been the cause of his malady, of the pleasure of seeing him in that condition. Getting together, therefore, what money he could privately raise, without saying a word of his intention to more than one friend, he went away, and came to Ancona, calling himself Phillippo di Sanlodeccio, and hired himself to a merchant, with whom he went on shipboard to Cyprus, and who was so taken with his behaviour, that he not only allowed him a good salary, but took him into partnership, intrusting to him the management of the greater part of his affairs. These he ordered so discreetly, that, in a few years, he became a wealthy and famous merchant. Whilst he was in this employ, though he would sometimes call to mind his cruel mistress, and be desirous of seeing her again, yet so firm was his resolution, that for six years together he got the better of his passion in this conflict. At last it happened, one day, whilst he was at Cyprus, that he heard a song composed by himself sung there, in which was largely set forth the mutual love which they bore to each other, whence it was inferred, that it was impossible she should ever forget him. That song inspired him with such a desire to see her, that he could no longer resist it; and, settling his affairs, he departed with only one servant to Ancona, consigned all his effects to a merchant at Florence, an acquaintance of his old friend at Ancona, and went off privately with his servant in the guise of a pilgrim just returned from the holy land. On arriving at Florence, he went to an inn which was kept by two brothers, near where his mistress lived; and the first thing he did was to go to her house, and endeavour to see her; but he found the windows and doors all made fast, which made him suspect that she was either dead or else changed her dwelling. Thence he turned his steps in a sorrowful manner towards the house where his brothers lived, and there he saw four of them standing at the door, dressed in mourning. This surprised him very much; and knowing he was so much altered since he had been away that he could not be easily known again, he applied to a shoemaker, and inquired the reason of their being in black. The shoemaker replied, "About fifteen days ago a brother of theirs, called Tedaldo, who has been long absent, was murdered; and I understand they have proved in court that he was killed by one Aldobrandino Palermini, who is arrested for it, because he had taken a fancy to his wife, and returned privately to be with her." 

Tedaldo wondered much that any one should be so like himself as to be mistaken for him; and he was grieved for Aldobrandino. Finding that his mistress was alive and well, it being now night, he returned full of thought to his inn, where having supped along with his servant, he was put to bed in a garret. There, what with his trouble, the badness of the bed, and perhaps his light supper, he was kept awake till about midnight; when he thought he heard some persons come from the top of the house, and he saw a light gleaming through the chinks of the door. Going softly, therefore, to peep, he saw a pretty young woman holding a candle, whilst three men were coming towards her, down stairs; and after some laughing together, one of them said, "We are now safe, God be thanked, since Tedaldo's death is proved by his brethren upon Aldobrandino Palermini, who has also confessed, and sentence is now passed: but yet it behoves us to keep it private; for should it be known, hereafter, that we are the persons, we should be in the same danger that he is in now." Having said this to the young woman, who seemed well pleased with it, they came down stairs and went to bed. Tedaldo, upon hearing what had passed, began to reflect how great and many were the errors to which the mind of man was subject; first, thinking of his brethren who had mourned for a stranger, and buried him by mistake for himself, and had afterwards taken up an innocent person upon a bare suspicion, who was accordingly condemned through false witnesses; and next, considering the blind severity of the law, and the ministers and dispensers of it, who, whilst they are solicitous to find out the truth, do often, by their horrid tortures, confirm a falsity; and instead of serving the cause of God and justice, are rather the ministers of iniquity and the devil. After this, he thought of Aldobrandino, and what was to be done to save his life. In the morning, then, he went alone to the lady's house, and by chance finding the door open, he entered, and beheld her sitting upon the ground floor, in a little room, making a sad lamentation. "Madam," said he to her, "do not trouble yourself; your peace is at hand." She looked up, and replied with tears, "Honest man, thou seemest to be a stranger, what knowest thou either of my peace or my affliction?" "Madam," he replied, "I am a messenger sent by God from Constantinople, and am just now arrived, to turn your tears into joy, and to save your husband's life." "If you are but now arrived," she made answer, " and are come from Constantinople, what do you know either of me or my husband?" He then related to her the misfortune that had befallen her husband, how long they had been married together and many other circumstances, to which she was no stranger; whereupon she fell down upon her knees, in amazement, believing him to be a prophet, and praying him, if he was come for Aldobrandino's sake, to make all possible dispatch, for the time was short. The pilgrim, assuming the aspect of a very holy personage, said, "Rise, madam, and attend to what I am going to say. This tribulation is now come upon you, on account of a sin formerly committed; therefore you must take care how you do the like for the time to come, lest a greater calamity befall you." - "Alas, sir!" quoth she, "I have been guilty of more sins than one; then tell me particularly what sin you mean, and I will do all in my power to amend." "Madam," returned he, "I know what sin it is; I do not ask for information: but only that you may have the greater remorse by confessing. But to come to the point: - Had you ever a lover?" The lady was in great amaze at this, supposing nobody had known anything of the matter; though from the time that person was slain who had been buried for Tedaldo, something of that kind had been talked of, occasioned by words imprudently let fall by Tedaldo's friend, whom he had intrusted with the secret, "I perceive that Heaven," she said, sighing deeply, "has revealed to you all the secrets of mankind, therefore I shall make no scruple of telling you mine. I did love, I confess, that unhappy young man whose death is now laid to my husband's charge, and which has given me also infinite concern; for though I might appear a little harsh to him, yet neither his parting, his long absence, nor his miserable death, has been able to drive him from my heart." - "The poor man who is dead," said the pilgrim, "never loved you, though Tedaldo did. But tell me what was the reason of your quarrelling with him? Did he ever give you any offence?" - "Most certainly he did not," she replied, "but it was all owing to a wicked friar, who, after I had mentioned to him, at confession, my love for that person, and our familiarity together, dinned such things into my ears that I am terrified still to think of them. He told me that if I did not desist the devil would carry me in his mouth to the bottom of hell, and put me into everlasting fire. I was so frightened, that I immediately resolved to break off all intimacy with my lover, and from that time I would no longer receive either his letters or his messages: though I really think, that had he persisted a little longer (for I suppose he went away in despair) I might have relented at last, because I had a true value for him." 

"Madam," quoth the stranger, "this is the sin which now sticks close to you. It was of your own accord that you first loved Tedaldo; there was no force in the case; you were agreeable to each other, and acquaintance begot more love. Why, therefore, was he discarded in such a cruel manner? These things should always be considered beforehand; and you should never engage when you are likely to repent. Now, with regard to these friars, you must understand that, being one of them, I must be supposed to know something of their ways; and therefore, if I speak a little more freely concerning them, it will be more excusable, as it is all for your good. Formerly they were religious, good men; but they who call themselves so now-a-days, and would be thought such, resemble the others in nothing but their hoods; nor in those things entirely; for the first friars wore them coarse and scanty, to show their great contempt of all temporal things, when they wrapped their bodies in such a mean habit; but now they are made full, shining, and of the finest cloth that can be got; and, resembling in their cut the pontifical robes, they strut with them, like so many peacocks, in churches and all public places; and as a fisherman strives to take as many fish as possible with one cast of his net, so do these with their large folds envelop and captivate young maids, who have vowed chastity, widows, and other simple people: and this is their whole care and study; so that, to speak properly, they have not preserved the hoods of their predecessors, but only the colour of them. Formerly, also, they were solicitous for people's salvation, but now they desire only women, and as much money as they can get; for which purpose they terrify the ignorant with idle stories, making them believe that their sins are all to be purged away with alms-giving and saying of masses; for which purpose one sends bread, a second wine, and a third money, all for the souls of their departed friends. It is most certain that prayers, and giving charities, are both pleasing to God; but if people knew what sort of folks they were bestowed upon, they would sooner throw what they part with in that manner to the hogs. They know full well, that rich people are not so manageable as the poorer sort, for which reason they are for engrossing all wealth to themselves. They cry down luxury, whilst they wallow in all kinds of debauchery. They condemn usury and unjust gains, in order to purchase some great benefice or bishoprick, with what is given them by way of restitution; and which, being detained from them, would occasion (they say) that person's damnation. And when they are told of these, and many other of their wicked practices, all the answer they make is, "Do as we say, not as we do;" as if it were possible for the sheep to have more resolution and constancy than the shepherd. But they would have you do as they say, namely, fill their purses with money; entrust them with all your secrets; be chaste, patient, forgivers of injuries; and never speak an ill word, which are all very good things; but for what reason? why, truly, that they may then do what, if we acted otherwise, they could not do! We all know, without money, there can be no sloth or idleness. If you spent your money for your own diversion, they could not have it for their maintenance: if you make free with the women about you, they would want the opportunity of being with them themselves: unless you were patient, and a forgiver of injuries, they would not dare to come into your house to corrupt your family. But why do I go through so many particulars? Let them first set the example, and then teach others. Suppose, however, what the friar told you to be true, namely, that it is a great crime to break the matrimonial vow: - Is not murder as bad? If, then, after Tedaldo had fallen into such despair as to leave his country, he had laid violent hands upon himself, would not you have been the occasion of it Ì Now, by your own confession, he deserved no such usage at your hands. This, therefore, is the crime, which is attended with its due punishment; for, as you broke your engagement with Tedaldo without reason; in like manner, without reason, is your husband in danger of his life upon his account, and yourself in great trouble. All that you can do, then, to be free, is to promise, and to be as good as your word, that if ever Tedaldo returns from his long banishment you will reinstate him in the favour he enjoyed before you were over-persuaded by that mischievous friar." 

When the pilgrim had finished his long address, to which Ermellina listened with great attention, strongly impressed with the truth of what he said, she replied: "Holy man, I know that what you say is true, and I begin to see that the monks and friars are a set of very bad people, though hitherto I had a quite different opinion of them: I own myself also much to blame with regard to Tedaldo, and would do as you say, but how is it possible? He is dead; and what need is there then of making any promise about him?"

The stranger made answer, "Madam, I know that he is not dead, but alive and well, provided he has your good graces." "Be careful of what you say," she replied, "I saw him before our door, stabbed in several places, and I lamented much over him; which, I suppose, gave occasion to the scandalous story that was raised about us." - "Madam, say what you please, I assure you he is not dead; and if you will promise what I desire, I hope you will very soon see him." - "That," she replied, "I will do with all my heart; nothing could give me greater pleasure than to see my husband at liberty, and Tedaldo living." Thinking it now a fit time to discover himself, and to give her more assurance concerning her husband, "Madam," he said, "for your greater comfort, I have one secret to entrust you with, which you must keep as you value your husband's life." Then taking a ring out of his pocket, which she had given him the last night of their being together, he shewed it to her, saying, "Madam, do you know this?" She instantly remembered it, and replied, "Yes, sir, I gave it formerly to Tedaldo." - "And do you know me?"he said, raising from his seat, and throwing off his hood. Recognising Tedaldo, she started as if she had seen a ghost; and looking upon him not as one returned from Cyprus, but as newly risen from the dead, she would have fled from him; but he stopped her, saying, "Doubt not. Madam; I am your Tedaldo, alive and well; I never was dead, as you and my brothers believe." The lady began now to be a little better reconciled to him, and, throwing her arms about his neck, she cried, "Welcome home, my dear Tedaldo." He kissed her, and said, "Madam, we have no time now for these greetings; I must go and take care of your husband, of whom I hope that before tomorrow you will hear such news as will please you; and if I succeed according to my expectation, I will come and spend this evening with you; when I shall be able to give you a more full account than my time will permit at present." Resuming his former habit, therefore, taking his leave of her, he went to the prison to Aldobrandino, who lay expecting nothing but death; and being admitted by the favour of the keeper as a confessor, he sat down by him, and spoke in this manner: "I am a messenger from God (who has regard to your innocence) to bring you tidings of your deliverance; for his sake, then, I request one little favour which, if you grant, I make no doubt but that before tomorrow night you will hear of a pardon." Aldobrandino replied, "sir, you are a stranger to me, but I must suppose you to be a friend, since you are so solicitous about my deliverance. With regard to this deed, however, which has been sworn upon me, I am entirely innocent; I may have been bad enough in other respects, for which this may be a judgment upon me. Ask, then, what you please; be the request of ever such consequence, I promise to grant it, if I can obtain my liberty." "What I require," said the pilgrim, "is only a pardon for Tedaldo's four brothers, whenever they ask it of you, for having brought you into this trouble, under the belief that you were concerned in murdering their brother." Aldobrandino replied, "No one knows the sweets of revenge, and how eagerly it is coveted, but they who have received the injury; nevertheless, I forgive them, and if I obtain a pardon, I will do it in such a manner as shall be most agreeable to you." The pilgrim was pleased with this, and bid him have a good heart, for that before the next day at night he should be assured of his liberty. 

Leaving the prisoner, the pilgrim then went straight to the signiory, and taking one of the lords aside, said to him, "sir, it is the business of every one to endeavour to find out the truth, especially such as are in your station, in order that people may not suffer wrongfully; and that they who deserve punishment may have it; and this is what now brings me before you, with a view to your own honour and the confusion of the guilty. You know you have proceeded with severity against Aldobrandino, thinking you had proved upon him the murder of Tedaldo. This I aver to be false, as I shall prove to you before midnight, delivering the very murderers into your hands." The worthy lord, who was under great concern for Aldobrandino, gave ear to the stranger's story, and about midnight the two innkeepers and their maid were taken by his orders, by officers, let into the house by the pilgrim. Being threatened with the torture, they all confessed that it was they who had slain Tedaldo Ele without knowing him. Being asked the reason, they declared that it was because he would have forced one of their wives when they were abroad. Having obtained this information he retired, with the Signor's permission, and went privately to the lady Ermellina's house, to give her a full account of what had passed; and after giving her such joyful intelligence he spent the night with her, and happily ratified their thorough mutual reconciliation. 

In the morning, having acquainted her with what he meant to do, and enjoined secrecy, he went to attend to the affair of Aldobrandino; and the lords, after a full inquiry, released him, and sentenced the others to lose their heads on the spot where the murder was committed. Aldobrandino being discharged, and knowing that it was all owing to the stranger, he and his friends invited him to their houses, to make what stay he pleased, and shewed him all possible respect, the lady especially, who knew well to whom she was so obliging. And now, thinking it time to bring about a reconciliation between Aldobrandino and his brothers, who had incurred so much ill will since his discharge, that they were forced to go armed, the pilgrim claimed the fulfilment of the promise made him. Aldobrandino answered, that he was willing. The pilgrim therefore made him provide a great entertainment to which his relations and their wives were to be invited, and the four brothers with their wives, adding that he himself would ask the latter, as to his own feast. Accordingly he went to the four brothers, and after much entreaty prevailed upon them to ask pardon, in order to regain Aldobrandino's friendship; and when that was settled, he invited them to dine there the next day, giving them his word for their security. At dinner-time, therefore, the next day, Tedaldo's four brothers, all in mourning, with some of their friends, came first to Aldobrandino's house, who was expecting them; when, laying their arms down upon the ground, in presence of all the guests who had been invited to bear them company, and offering themselves to his mercy, they humbly asked his pardon. He received them with tears, and saluting them one after another, forgave the injury he had suffered. After this the sisters and their wives came also, and were graciously received by Ermellina and the other ladies. 

The entertainment was now served up, and everything was agreeable, excepting a confirmed silence, occasioned by the late sorrow, which was represented by the habit of Tedaldo's relations; on which account the stranger's contrivance and invitation appeared unseasonable to many people. This he soon perceived, and resolved to remove when he saw a fit time; accordingly, when the dessert was served up, he rose, and said, "Nothing seems wanting to make this a merry meeting but the presence of Tedaldo, whom, as you have had him so long with you without knowing him, I mean now to show you." - Throwing off then his monk's disguise, he appeared in a green silk doublet, and his features were recognised by all to their great surprise, though they gazed upon him for a considerable time before they could be convinced that he was the very person; which he perceiving, related many circumstances concerning both themselves and him for their farther satisfaction. Upon this his brothers and the rest of the men, all ran and embraced him, as did all the women except Ermellina; which, when Aldobrandino saw, he said, "What is the meaning of this, Ermellina? Why don't you welcome Tedaldo home, when everybody else has done it?" She replied, in the hearing of them all, that no one could rejoice more sincerely than herself, as she was obliged to him for her husband's life; but the scandalous words that had been given out concerning her, when that person was taken for Tedaldo, had made her cautious. Aldobrandino replied, "Away with these idle stories; do you think I regard them? He has sufficiently cleared himself by his regard for my life; do then as the rest have done." 

She desired nothing better, and was therefore not slow in obeying her husband's order. Aldobrandino's liberality was so agreeable to all present, both men and women, that their former misunderstanding was quite forgotten. After Tedaldo then had received every one's compliments, he tore the mourning off all his kindred, and ordered other clothes to be immediately brought; and having put them on, they concluded the feast with singing, dancing, and the like diversions Thence they went to Tedaldo's house, where they supped, and they continued feasting many days. 

Still the people for some time looked upon him with the utmost amazement, as one risen from the dead; and perhaps his very brethren might have yet entertained some doubt about him, if one thing had not happened which made it clear who the person was that was slain. It was this: - Some sorry fellows of Lunigiana were going one day past the house, and seeing Tedaldo at the door, they stopped, and said, "How do you do, Fativolo?" Tedaldo replied, before some of his brothers, "You mistake your man." They hearing him speak, were out of countenance, and asked pardon, saying, "Never two people were more alike than you and a companion of ours, named Fativolo da Pontrimoli, who came hither fifteen days ago, and we can't learn what has befallen him. We wondered, indeed, how he came by this dress, for he was a soldier, as we are." The eldest brother, hearing this, inquired more particularly as to the clothes of the murdered man, and finding all the circumstances agree, it now appeared plainly that it was Fativolo, and not Tedaldo, that was slain, and this set every one right with regard to that affair. Thus Tedaldo returned home rich, and continued his acquaintance with the lady, without any further interruption. May the like good fortune happen to us all! 

Monday 10 August 2020

INTRODUCTION. TO THE LADIES.

INTRODUCTION. 

TO THE LADIES. 

When I reflect how disposed you are by nature to compassion, I cannot help being apprehensive lest what I now offer to your acceptance should seem to have but a harsh and offensive beginning; for it presents at the very outset the mournful remembrance of that most fatal plague, so terrible yet in the memories of us all. 
But let not this dismay you from reading further, as though every page were to cost you sighs and tears. Rather let this beginning, disagreeable as it is, seem to you but as a rugged and steep mountain placed before a delightful valley, which appears more beautiful and pleasant, as the way to it was more difficult: for as joy usually ends in sorrow, so again the end of sorrow is joy. To this short fatigue (I call it short, because contained in few words) immediately succeeds the mirth and pleasure I had before promised you; and which, but for that promise, you would scarcely expect to find. And in truth could I have brought you by any other way than this, I would gladly have done it; but as the occasion of the occurrences, of which I am going to treat, could not well be made out without such a relation, I am forced to use this Introduction. 
In the year then of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence, the finest city in all Italy, a most terrible plague; which, whether owing to the influence of the planets, or that it was sent from God as a just punishment for our sins, had broken out some years before in the Levant, and after passing from place to place, and making incredible havoc all the way, had now reached the west. There, spite of all the means that art and human foresight could suggest, such as keeping the city clear from filth, the exclusion of all suspected persons, and the publication of copious instructions for the preservation of health; and notwithstanding manifold humble supplications offered to God in processions and otherwise; it began to show itself in the spring of the aforesaid year, in a sad and wonderful manner. Unlike what had been seen in the east, where bleeding from the nose is the fatal prognostic, here there appeared certain tumours in the groin or under the arm-pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an egg; and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body; in some cases large and but few in number, in others smaller and more numerous - both sorts the usual messengers of death. To the cure of this malady, neither medical knowledge nor the power of drugs was of any effect; whether because the disease was in its own nature mortal, or that the physicians (the number of whom, taking quacks and women pretenders into the account, was grown very great) could form no just idea of the cause, nor consequently devise a true method of cure; whichever was the reason, few escaped; but nearly all died the third day from the first appearance of the symptoms, some sooner, some later, without any fever or accessory symptoms. What gave the more virulence to this plague, was that, by being communicated from the sick to the hale, it spread daily, like fire when it comes in contact with large masses of combustibles. Nor was it caught only by conversing with, or coming near the sick, but even by touching their clothes, or anything that they had before touched. It is wonderful, what I am going to mention; and had I not seen it with my own eyes, and were there not many witnesses to attest it besides myself, I should never venture to relate it, however worthy it were of belief. Such, I say, was the quality of the pestilential matter, as to pass not only from man to man, but, what is more strange, it has been often known, that anything belonging to the infected, if touched by any other creature, would certainly infect, and even kill that creature in a short space of time. One instance of this kind I took particular notice of: the rags of a poor man just dead had been thrown into the street; two hogs came up, and after rooting amongst the rags, and shaking them about in their mouths, in less than an hour they both turned round and died on the spot. 
These facts, and others of the like sort, occasioned various fears and devices amongst those who survived, all tending to the same uncharitable and cruel end; which was, to avoid the sick, and every thing that had been near them, expecting by that means to save themselves. And some holding it best to live temperately, and to avoid excesses of all kinds, made parties, and shut themselves up from the rest of the world; eating and drinking moderately of the best, and diverting themselves with music, and such other entertainments as they might have within doors; never listening to anything from 
without, to make them uneasy. Others maintained free living to be a better preservative, and would baulk no passion or appetite they wished to gratify, drinking and revelling incessantly from tavern to tavern, or in private houses (which were frequently found deserted by the owners, and therefore common to every one), yet strenuously avoiding, with all this brutal indulgence, to come near the infected. And such, at that time, was the public distress, that the laws, human and divine, were no more regarded; for the officers, to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want of persons to assist them, every one did just as he pleased. A third sort of people chose a method between these two: not confining themselves to rules of diet like the former, and yet avoiding the intemperance of the latter; but eating and drinking what their appetites required, they walked everywhere with odours and nosegays to smell to; as holding it best to corroborate the brain: for the whole atmosphere seemed to them tainted with the stench of dead bodies, arising partly from the distemper itself, and partly from the fermenting of the medicines within them. Others with less humanity, but perchance, as they supposed, with more security from danger, decided that the only remedy for the pestilence was to avoid it: persuaded, therefore, of this, and taking care for themselves only, men and women in great numbers left the city, their houses, relations, and effects, and fled into the country: as if the wrath of God had been restrained to visit those only within the walls of the city; or else concluding, that none ought to stay in a place thus doomed to destruction. 
Thus divided as they were in their views, neither did all die, nor all escape; but falling sick indifferently, as well those of one as of another opinion; they who first set the example by forsaking others, now languished themselves without pity. I pass over the little regard that citizens and relations showed to each other; for their terror was such, that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her husband, and, what is more uncommon, a parent from his own child. Hence numbers that fell sick could have no help but what the charity of friends, who were very few, or the avarice of servants supplied; and even these were scarce and at extravagant wages, and so little used to the business that they were fit only to reach what was called for, and observe when their employer died; and this desire of getting money often cost them their lives. From this desertion of friends, and scarcity of servants, an unheard-of custom prevailed; no lady, however young or handsome, would scruple to be attended by a man-servant, whether young or old it mattered not, and to expose herself naked to him, the necessity of the distemper requiring it, as though it was to a woman; which might make those who recovered, less modest for the time to come. 
And many lost their lives, who might have escaped, had they been looked after at all. So that, between the scarcity of servants, and the violence of the distemper, such numbers were continually dying, as made it terrible to hear as well as to behold. Whence, from mere necessity, many customs were introduced different from what had been before known in the city. 
It had been usual, as it now is, for the women who were friends and neighbours to the deceased, to meet together at his house, and to lament with his relations; at the same time the men would get together at the door, with a number of clergy, according to the person's circumstances; and the corpse was carried by people of his own rank, with the solemnity of tapers and singing, to that church where the deceased had desired to be buried. This custom was now laid aside, and, so far from having a crowd of women to lament over them, great numbers passed out of the world without a witness. Few were they who had the tears of their friends at their departure; those friends were laughing and making themselves merry the while; for even the women had learned to postpone every other concern to that of their own lives. Nor was a corpse attended by more than ten or a dozen, nor those citizens of credit, but fellows hired for the purpose; who would put themselves under the bier, and carry it with all possible haste to the nearest church; and the corpse was interred, without any great ceremony, where they could find room. With regard to the lower sort, and many of a middling rank, the scene was still more affecting; for they staying at home either through poverty or hopes of succour in distress, fell sick daily by thousands, and, having nobody to attend them, generally died: some breathed their last in the streets, and others shut up in their own houses, where the stench that came from them made the first discovery of their deaths to the neighbourhood. And, indeed, every place was filled with the dead. Hence it became a general practice, as well out of regard to the living as pity for the dead, for the neighbours, assisted by what porters they could meet with, to clear all the houses, and lay the bodies at the doors; and every morning great numbers might be seen brought out in this manner, to be carried away on biers, or tables, two or three at a time; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and her husband, two or three brothers, and a father and son, have been laid on together. It has been observed also, whilst two or three priests have walked before a corpse with their crucifix, that two or three sets of porters have fallen in with them; and where they knew but of one dead body, they have buried six, eight, or more: nor was there any to follow, and shed a few tears over them; for things were come to that pass, that men´s lives were no more regarded than the lives of so many beasts. Thus it plainly appeared, that what the wisest in the ordinary course of things, and by a common train of calamities, could never be taught, namely, to bear them patiently, this, by the excess of calamity, was now grown a familiar lesson to the most simple and unthinking. The consecrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were continually brought thither, especially as they were desirous of laying every one in the parts allotted to their families, they were forced to dig trenches, and to put them in by hundreds, piling them up in rows, as goods are stored in a ship, and throwing in a little earth till they were filled to the top. 
Not to dwell upon every particular of our misery, I shall observe, that it fared no better with the adjacent country; for, to omit the different boroughs about us, which presented the same view in miniature with the city, you might see the poor distressed labourers, with their families, without either the aid of physicians, or help of servants, languishing on the highways, in the fields, and in their own houses, and dying rather like cattle than human creatures. The consequence was that, growing dissolute in their manners like the citizens, and careless of everything, as supposing every day to be their last, their thoughts were not so much employed how to improve, as how to use their substance for their present support. The oxen, asses, sheep, goats, swine, and the dogs themselves, ever faithful to their masters, being driven from their own homes, were left to roam at will about the fields, and among the standing corn, which no one cared to gather, or even to reap; and many times, after they had filled themselves in the day, the animals would return of their own accord like rational creatures at night. 
What can I say more, if I return to the city? unless that such was the cruelty of Heaven, and perhaps of men, thai between March and July following, according to authentic reckonings, upwards of a hundred thousand souls perished in the city only; whereas, before that calamity, it was not supposed to have contained so many inhabitants. What magnificent dwellings, what noble palaces were then depopulated to the last inhabitant! what families became extinct! what riches and vast possessions were left, and no known heir to inherit them! what numbers of both sexes, in the prime and vigour of youth, whom in the morning neither Galen, Hippocrates, nor AEsculapius himself, would have denied to be in perfect health, breakfasted in the morning with their living friends, and supped at night with their departed friends in the other world! 
But I am weary of recounting our late miseries; therefore, passing by everything that I can well omit, I proceed to say, that the city being left almost without inhabitants, it happened one Tuesday morning, as I was informed by persons of good credit, that seven ladies, all in deep mourning, as most proper for that time, had been attending Divine service in the church of Santa Maria Novella, where they formed the whole congregation. The youngest of these ladies was in age not less than eighteen, the eldest did not exceed twenty-eight; they were all relations or near friends; all discreet, nobly descended, and perfectly accomplished, both in person and behaviour. I do not mention their names, lest any of them should be put to the blush by something herein after related of them; for the limits of allowed disport are much narrower in our day than they were in those times, when, for the reasons already mentioned, they were very ample indeed, not only for persons of their age, but for those of much maturer years. Neither would I give a handle to ill-natured persons, who carp at everything that is praise-worthy, to detract in any way from the modesty of these worshipful ladies by injurious reflections. But that I may relate all that occurred without confusion, I shall affix names to every one, bearing some resemblance to the quality of the person. The eldest, then, I call Pampinea, the next to her Fiammetta, the third Filomena, the fourth Emilia, the fifth Lauretta, the sixth Neifile, and the youngest Eliza. These seven being got together, by chance rather than any appointment, into the corner of the church, and there seated in a ring, after a while left off sighing and saying their paternosters, and began to converse concerning the nature of the times. 
This continued for some time, and presently Pampinea thus began: 
"My dear girls, you have often heard, as well as I, that we do no wrong to any one, when we only make an honest use of our own reason: now reason tells us, that we are to preserve our lives by all possible means: and, in some cases, at the expense of the lives of others. If then the laws, which regard the good of the community, allow this, may not we much rather (and all that mean honestly as we do), without giving offence to any, use the means now in our power for our own preservation? Every moment, when I think of what has passed today, and every day, I perceive, as you may also, that we are all in pain for ourselves. Nor do I wonder at this; but much rather, as we are women, do I wonder that none of us should look out for a remedy, when we have so much reason to be afraid. 
We stay here for no other purpose, that I can see, but to observe what numbers come to be buried, or to listen if the monks, who are now reduced to a very few, sing their services at the proper times; or else to show by our habits the greatness of our distress. And if we go hence, it is either to see multitudes of the dead and sick carried along the streets; or persons who have been outlawed for their villanies, now facing it out publicly, in safe defiance of the laws; or the scum of the city, enriched with the public calamity, and insulting us with ribald ballads. Nor is anything now talked of, but that such a one is dead, or dying; and, were any left to mourn, we should hear nothing but lamentations. Or if we go home - I know not whether it fares with you as with myself - when I find out of a numerous family not one left, besides a maid-servant, I am frightened out of my senses; and go where I will, the ghosts of the departed seem always before me; not like the persons whilst they were living, but assuming a ghastly and dreadful aspect. Therefore the case is the same, whether we stay here, depart hence, or go home; especially as there are few left but ourselves who are able to go, and have a place to go to. Those few too, I am told, fall into all sorts of debauchery; and even cloistered ladies, supposing themselves entitled to equal liberties with others, are as bad as the worst. Now if this be so (as you see plainly it is), what do we here? What are we dreaming of? Why are we less regardful of our lives than other people of theirs? Are we of less value to ourselves, or are our souls and bodies more firmly united, and so in less danger of dissolution? It is monstrous to think in such a manner; so many of both sexes dying of this distemper in the very prime of their youth afford us an undeniable argument to the contrary. Wherefore, lest through our own wilfulness or neglect, this calamity, which might have been prevented, should befall us, I should think it best (and I hope you will join with me) for us to quit the town, and avoiding, as we would death itself, the bad example of others, to choose some place of retirement, of which every one of us has more than one, where we may make ourselves innocently merry, without offering the least violence to the dictates of reason and our own consciences. There will our ears be entertained with the warbling of the birds, and our eyes with the verdure of the hills and valleys; with the waving of cornfields like the sea itself; with trees of a thousand different kinds, and a more open and serene sky; which, however overcast, yet affords a far more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls. The air also is pleasanter, and there is greater plenty of everything, attended with few inconveniences: for, though people die there as well as here, yet we shall have fewer such objects before us, as the inhabitants are less in number; and on the other part, if I judge right, we desert nobody, but are rather ourselves forsaken. For all our friends, either by death, or endeavouring to avoid it, have left us, as if we in no way belonged to them. As no blame then can ensue from following this advice, and perhaps sickness and death from not doing so, I would have us take our maids, and everything we may be supposed to want, and enjoy all the diversions which the season will permit, to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; and so continue to do, unless death should interpose, until we see what end Providence designs for these things. And of this too let me remind you, that our characters will stand as fair by our going away reputably, as those of others will do who stay at home with discredit." 
The ladies having heard what Pampinea had to offer, not only approved of it, but had actually began to concert measures for their instant departure, when Filomena, who was a most discreet person, remarked: "Though Pampinea has spoken well, yet there is no occasion to run headlong into the affair, as you are about to do. We are but women, nor is any of us so ignorant as not to know how little able we shall be to conduct such an affair, without some man to help us. We are naturally fickle, obstinate, suspicious, and fearful; and I doubt much, unless we take somebody into our scheme to manage it for us, lest it soon be at an end; and perhaps, little to our reputation. Let us provide against this, therefore, before we begin." 
Eliza then replied: "It is true, man is our sex´s chief or head, and without his management, it seldom happens that any undertaking of ours succeeds well. But how are these men to be come at? We all know that the greater part of our male acquaintance are dead, and the rest all dispersed abroad, avoiding what we seek to avoid, and without our knowing where to find them. To take strangers with us, would not be altogether so proper: for, whilst we have regard to our health, we should so contrive matters, that, wherever we go to repose and divert ourselves, no scandal may ensue from it." 
Whilst this matter was in debate, behold, three gentlemen came into the church, the youngest not less than twenty-five years of age, and in whom neither the adversity of the times, the loss of relations and friends, nor even fear for themselves, could stifle, or indeed cool, the passion of love. One was called Pamfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo, all of them well bred, and pleasant companions; and who, to divert themselves in this time of affliction, were then in pursuit of their mistresses, who as it chanced were three of these seven ladies, the other four being all related to one or other of them. These gentlemen were no sooner within view, than the ladies had immediately their eyes upon them, and Pampinea said, with a smile, ´see, fortune is with us, and has thrown in out way three prudent and worthy gentlemen, who will conduct and wait upon us, if we think fit to accept of their service." Neifile, with a blush, because she was one that had an admirer, answered: "Take care what you say, I know them all indeed to be persons of character, and fit to be trusted, even in affairs of more consequence, and in better company; but, as some of them are enamoured of certain ladies here, I am only concerned lest we be drawn into some scrape or scandal, without either our fault or theirs." Filomena replied: "Never tell me what other people may think, so long as I know myself to be virtuous; God and the truth will be my defence; and if they be willing to go, we will say with Pampinea, that fortune is with us." 
The rest hearing her speak in this manner, gave consent that the gentlemen should be invited to partake in this expedition. And, without more words, Pampinea, who was related to one of the three, rose up, and made towards them, as they stood watching at a distance. Then, after a cheerful salutation, she acquainted them with the design in hand, and entreated that they would, out of pure friendship, oblige them with their company. The gentlemen at first took it all for a jest, but, being assured to the contrary, immediately answered that they were ready; and, to lose no time, gave the necessary orders for what they wished to have done. Everything being thus prepared, and a messenger dispatched before, whither they intended to go, the next morning, which was Wednesday, by break of day, the ladies, with some of their women, and the gentlemen, with every one his servant, set out from the city, and, after they had travelled two short miles, came to the place appointed. 
It was a little eminence, remote from any great road, covered with trees and shrubs of an agreeable verdure; and on the top was a stately palace, with a grand and beautiful court in the middle: within were galleries, and fine apartments elegantly fitted up, and adorned with most curious paintings; around it were fine meadows, and most delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best water. The vaults also were stored with the richest wines, suited rather to the taste of copious toppers, than of modest and virtuous ladies. This palace they found cleared out, and everything set in order for their reception, with the rooms all graced with the flowers of the season, to their great satisfaction. The party being seated, Dioneo, who was the pleasantest of them all, and full of words, began: "Your wisdom it is, ladies, rather than any foresight of ours, which has brought us hither. I know not how you have disposed of your cares; as for mine, I left them all behind me when I came from home. Either prepare, then, to be as merry as myself (I mean with decency), or give me leave to go back again, and resume my cares where I left them." Pampinea made answer, as if she had disposed of hers in like manner: "You say right, sir, we will be merry; we fled from our troubles for no other reason. But, as extremes are never likely to last, I, who first proposed the means by which such an agreeable company is now met together, being desirous to make our mirth of some continuance, do find there is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we shall honour and obey in all things as our head; and whose province it shall be to regulate our diversions. And that every one may make trial of the burthen which attends care, as well as the pleasure which there is in superiority, nor therefore envy what he has not yet tried, I hold it best that every one should experience both the trouble and the honour for one day. The first, I propose, shall be elected by us all, and on the approach of evening, shall name a person to succeed for the following day: and each one, during the time of his or her government, shall give orders concerning the place where, and the manner how, we are to live." 
These words were received with the highest satisfaction, and the speaker was, with one consent, appointed president for the first day: whilst Filomena, running to a laurel-tree (for she had often heard how much that tree has always been esteemed, and what honour was conferred on those who were deservedly crowned with it), made a garland, and put it upon Pampinea´s head. That garland, whilst the company continued together, was ever after to be the ensign of sovereignty. 
Pampinea, being thus elected queen, enjoined silence, and having summoned to her presence the gentlemen´s servants, and their own women, who were four in number: 
"To give you the first example," said she, "how, by proceeding from good to better, we may live orderly and pleasantly, and continue together, without the least reproach, as long as we please, in the first place I declare Parmeno, Dioneo´s servant, master of my household, and to him I commit the care of my family, and everything relating to my hall. Sirisco, Pamfilo´s servant, I appoint my treasurer, and to be under the direction of Parmeno; and Tindaro I command to wait on Filostrato and the other two gentlemen, whilst their servants are thus employed. Mysia, my woman, and Licisca, Filomena´s, I order into the kitchen, there to get ready what shall be provided by Parmeno. To Lauretta´s Chimera, and Fiammetta´s Stratilia, I give the care of the ladies" chambers, and to keep the room clean where we sit. And I will and command you all, on pain of my displeasure, that wherever you go, or whatever you hear and see, you bring no news here but what is good." 
These orders were approved by all; and the queen, rising from her seat, with a good deal of gaiety, added: "Here are gardens and meadows, where you may divert yourselves till nine o'clock, when I shall expect you back, that we may dine in the cool of the day." 
The company were now at liberty, and the gentlemen and ladies took a pleasant walk in the garden, talking over a thousand merry things by the way, and diverting themselves by singing love songs, and weaving garlands of flowers. Returning at the time appointed, they found Parmeno busy in the execution of his office: for in a saloon below was the table set forth, covered with the neatest linen, with glasses reflecting a lustre like silver: and water having been presented to them to wash their hands, by the queen's order, Parmeno desired them to sit down. The dishes were now served up in the most elegant manner, and the best wines brought in, the servants waiting all the time with the most profound silence; and being well pleased with their entertainment, they dined with all the facetiousness and mirth imaginable. When dinner was over, as they could all dance, and some both play and sing well, the queen ordered in the musical instruments. Dioneo took a lute, and Fiammetta a viol, in obedience to the royal command; a dance was struck up, and the queen, with the rest of the company, took an agreeable turn or two, whilst the servants were sent to dinner; and when the dance was ended, they began to sing, and continued till the queen thought it time to break up. Her permission being given, the gentlemen retired to their chambers, remote from the ladies´ lodging rooms, and the ladies did the same, and undressed themselves for bed. 
It was little more than three, when the queen rose, and ordered all to be called, alleging that much sleep in the daytime was unwholesome. Then they went into a meadow of deep grass, where the sun had little power; and having the benefit of a pleasant breeze, they sat down in a circle, as the queen had commanded, and she addressed them in this manner: 
- "As the sun is high, and the heat excessive, and nothing is to be heard but the chirping of the cicalas among the olives, it would be madness for us to think of moving yet: this is an airy place, and here are chess-boards and back-gammon tables to divert yourselves with; but if you will be ruled by me, you will not play at all, since it often makes the one party uneasy, without any great pleasure to the other, or to the lookers-on; but let us begin and tell stories, and in this manner one person will entertain the whole company; and by the time it has gone round, the worst part of the day will be over, and then we can divert ourselves as we like best. If this be agreeable to you, then (for I wait to know your pleasure) let us begin; if not, you are at your own disposal till the evening." This motion being approved by all, the queen continued, "Let every one for this first day take what subject he fancies most:"and turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she bade him begin. He readily obeyed, and spoke to this effect, so as to be distinctly heard by the whole company.