Chapter 30

The leveret was now served up, cut into small pieces, and covered with a rich tenacious sauce, composed of sugar, citron, and various spices. The appetite of Ser Francesco was contagious. Never was dinner more enjoyed by two companions, and never so much by a greater number. One glass of a fragrant wine, the colour of honey, and unmixed with water, crowned the repast. Ser Francesco then went into his own chamber, and found, on his ample mattress, a cool, refreshing sleep, quite sufficient to remove all the fatigues of the morning; and Ser Giovanni lowered the pillow against which he had seated himself, and fell into his usual repose. Their separation was not of long continuance: and, the religious duties of the Sabbath having been performed, a few reflections on literature were no longer interdicted.

* * * * *

_Petrarca._ The land, O Giovanni, of your early youth, the land of my only love, fascinates us no longer. Italy is our country; and not ours only, but every man's, wherever may have been his wanderings, wherever may have been his birth, who watches with anxiety the recovery of the Arts, and acknowledges the supremacy of Genius. Besides, it is in Italy at last that all our few friends are resident. Yours were left behind you at Paris in your adolescence, if indeed any friendship can exist between a Florentine and a Frenchman: mine at Avignon were Italians, and older for the most part than myself. Here we know that we are beloved by some, and esteemed by many. It indeed gave me pleasure the first morning as I lay in bed, to overhear the fondness and earnestness which a worthy priest was expressing in your behalf.

_Boccaccio._ In mine?

_Petrarca._ Yes indeed: what wonder?

_Boccaccio._ A worthy priest?

_Petrarca._ None else, certainly.

_Boccaccio._ Heard in bed! dreaming, dreaming; ay?

_Petrarca._ No indeed: my eyes and ears were wide open.

_Boccaccio._ The little parlour opens into your room. But what priest could that be? Canonico Casini? He only comes when we have a roast of thrushes, or some such small matter, at table: and this is not the season; they are pairing. Plover eggs might tempt him hitherward. If he heard a plover he would not be easy, and would fain make her drop her oblation before she had settled her nest.

_Petrarca._ It is right and proper that you should be informed who the clergyman was, to whom you are under an obligation.

_Boccaccio._ Tell me something about it, for truly I am at a loss to conjecture.

_Petrarca._ He must unquestionably have been expressing a kind and ardent solicitude for your eternal welfare. The first words I heard on awakening were these:

'Ser Giovanni, although the best of masters ...'

_Boccaccio._ Those were Assuntina's.

_Petrarca._ '... may hardly be quite so holy (not being priest or friar) as your Reverence.'

She was interrupted by the question: 'What conversation holdeth he?'

She answered:

'He never talks of loving our neighbour with all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength, although he often gives away the last loaf in the pantry.'

_Boccaccio._ It was she! Why did she say that? the slut!

_Petrarca._ 'He doth well,' replied the confessor. 'Of the Church, of the brotherhood, that is, of me, what discourses holdeth he?'

I thought the question an indiscreet one; but confessors vary in their advances to the seat of truth.

She proceeded to answer:

'He never said anything about the power of the Church to absolve us, if we should happen to go astray a little in good company, like your Reverence.'

Here, it is easy to perceive, is some slight ambiguity. Evidently she meant to say, by the seduction of 'bad' company, and to express that his Reverence had asserted his power of absolution; which is undeniable.

_Boccaccio._ I have my version.

_Petrarca._ What may yours be?

_Boccaccio._ Frate Biagio; broad as daylight; the whole frock round!

I would wager a flask of oil against a turnip, that he laid another trap for a penance. Let us see how he went on. I warrant, as he warmed, he left off limping in his paces, and bore hard upon the bridle.

_Petrarca._ 'Much do I fear,' continued the expositor, 'he never spoke to thee, child, about another world.'

There was a silence of some continuance.

'Speak!' said the confessor.

'No indeed he never did, poor Padrone!' was the slow and evidently reluctant avowal of the maiden; for, in the midst of the acknowledgment her sighs came through the crevices of the door: then, without any farther interrogation, and with little delay, she added:

'But he often makes this look like it.'

_Boccaccio._ And now, if he had carried a holy scourge, it would not have been on his shoulders that he would have laid it.

_Petrarca._ Zeal carries men often too far afloat; and confessors in general wish to have the sole steerage of the conscience. When she told him that your benignity made this world another heaven, he warmly and sharply answered:

'It is only we who ought to do that.'

'Hush,' said the maiden; and I verily believe she at that moment set her back against the door, to prevent the sounds from coming through the crevices, for the rest of them seemed to be just over my night-cap. 'Hush,' said she, in the whole length of that softest of all articulations. 'There is Ser Francesco in the next room: he sleeps long into the morning, but he is so clever a clerk, he may understand you just the same. I doubt whether he thinks Ser Giovanni in the wrong for making so many people quite happy; and if he should, it would grieve me very much to think he blamed Ser Giovanni.'

'Who is Ser Francesco?' he asked, in a low voice.

'Ser Canonico,' she answered.

'Of what Duomo?' continued he.

'Who knows?' was the reply; 'but he is Padrone's heart's friend, for certain.'

'Cospetto di Bacco! It can then be no other than Petrarca. He makes rhymes and love like the devil. Don't listen to him, or you are undone. Does he love you too, as well as Padrone?' he asked, still lowering his voice.

'I cannot tell that matter,' she answered, somewhat impatiently; 'but I love him.'

'To my face!' cried he, smartly.

'To the Santissima!' replied she, instantaneously; 'for have not I told your Reverence he is Padrone's true heart's friend! And are not you my confessor, when you come on purpose?'

'True, true!' answered he; 'but there are occasions when we are shocked by the confession, and wish it made less daringly.'

'I was bold; but who can help loving him who loves my good Padrone?' said she, much more submissively.

_Boccaccio._ Brave girl, for that!

Dog of a Frate! They are all of a kidney; all of a kennel. I would dilute their meal well and keep them low. They should not waddle and wallop in every hollow lane, nor loll out their watery tongues at every wash-pool in the parish. We shall hear, I trust, no more about Fra Biagio in the house while you are with us. Ah! were it then for life.

_Petrarca._ The man's prudence may be reasonably doubted, but it were uncharitable to question his sincerity. Could a neighbour, a religious one in particular, be indifferent to the welfare of Boccaccio, or any belonging to him?

_Boccaccio._ I do not complain of his indifference. Indifferent! no, not he. He might as well be, though. My villetta here is my castle: it was my father's; it was his father's. Cowls did not hang to dry upon the same cord with caps in their podere; they shall not in mine. The girl is an honest girl, Francesco, though I say it. Neither she nor any other shall be befooled and bamboozled under my roof. Methinks Holy Church might contrive some improvement upon confession.

_Petrarca._ Hush! Giovanni! But, it being a matter of discipline, who knows but she might.

_Boccaccio._ Discipline! ay, ay, ay! faith and troth there are some who want it.

_Petrarca._ You really terrify me. These are sad surmises.

_Boccaccio._ Sad enough: but I am keeper of my handmaiden's probity.

_Petrarca._ It could not be kept safer.

_Boccaccio._ I wonder what the Frate would be putting into her head?

_Petrarca._ Nothing, nothing: be assured.

_Boccaccio._ Why did he ask her all those questions?

_Petrarca._ Confessors do occasionally take circuitous ways to arrive at the secrets of the human heart.

_Boccaccio._ And sometimes they drive at it, me thinks, a whit too directly. He had no business to make remarks about me.

_Petrarca._ Anxiety.

_Boccaccio._ 'Fore God, Francesco, he shall have more of that; for I will shut him out the moment I am again up and stirring, though he stand but a nose's length off. I have no fear about the girl; no suspicion of her. He might whistle to the moon on a frosty night, and expect as reasonably her descending. Never was a man so entirely at his ease as I am about that; never, never. She is adamant; a bright sword now first unscabbarded; no breath can hang about it. A seal of beryl, of chrysolite, of ruby; to make impressions (all in good time and proper place though) and receive none: incapable, just as they are, of splitting, or cracking, or flawing, or harbouring dirt. Let him mind that. Such, I assure you, is that poor little wench, Assuntina.

_Petrarca._ I am convinced that so well-behaved a young creature as Assunta----

_Boccaccio._ Right! Assunta is her name by baptism; we usually call her Assuntina, because she is slender, and scarcely yet full-grown, perhaps: but who can tell?

As for those friars, I never was a friend to impudence: I hate loose suggestions. In girls' minds you will find little dust but what is carried there by gusts from without. They seldom want sweeping; when they do, the broom should be taken from behind the house door, and the master should be the sacristan.

... Scarcely were these words uttered when Assunta was heard running up the stairs; and the next moment she rapped. Being ordered to come in, she entered with a willow twig in her hand, from the middle of which willow twig (for she held the two ends together) hung a fish, shining with green and gold.

'What hast there, young maiden?' said Ser Francesco.

'A fish, Riverenza!' answered she. 'In Tuscany we call it _tinca_.'

_Petrarca._ I too am a little of a Tuscan.

_Assunta._ Indeed! well, you really speak very like one, but only more sweetly and slowly. I wonder how you can keep up with Signor Padrone--he talks fast when he is in health; and you have made him so. Why did not you come before? Your Reverence has surely been at Certaldo in time past.

_Petrarca._ Yes, before thou wert born.

_Assunta._ Ah, sir! it must have been long ago then.

_Petrarca._ Thou hast just entered upon life.

_Assunta._ I am no child.

_Petrarca._ What then art thou?

_Assunta._ I know not: I have lost both father and mother; there is a name for such as I am.

_Petrarca._ And a place in heaven.

_Boccaccio._ Who brought us that fish, Assunta? hast paid for it? there must be seven pounds: I never saw the like.

_Assunta._ I could hardly lift up my apron to my eyes with it in my hand. Luca, who brought it all the way from the Padule, could scarcely be entreated to eat a morsel of bread or sit down.

_Boccaccio._ Give him a flask or two of our wine; he will like it better than the sour puddle of the plain.

_Assunta._ He is gone back.

_Boccaccio._ Gone! who is he, pray?

_Assunta._ Luca, to be sure.

_Boccaccio._ What Luca?

_Assunta._ Dominedio! O Riverenza! how sadly must Ser Giovanni, my poor Padrone, have lost his memory in this cruel long illness! he cannot recollect young Luca of the Bientola, who married Maria.

_Boccaccio._ I never heard of either, to the best of my knowledge.

_Assunta._ Be pleased to mention this in your prayers to-night, Ser Canonico! May Our Lady soon give him back his memory! and everything else she has been pleased (only in play, I hope) to take away from him! Ser Francesco, you must have heard all over the world how Maria Gargarelli, who lived in the service of our paroco, somehow was outwitted by Satanasso. Monsignore thought the paroco had not done all he might have done against his wiles and craftiness, and sent his Reverence over to the monastery in the mountains, Laverna yonder, to make him look sharp; and there he is yet.

And now does Signor Padrone recollect?

_Boccaccio._ Rather more distinctly.

_Assunta._ Ah me! Rather more distinctly! have patience, Signor Padrone! I am too venturous, God help me! But, Riverenza, when Maria was the scorn or the abhorrence of everybody else, excepting poor Luca Sabbatini, who had always cherished her, and excepting Signor Padrone, who had never seen her in his lifetime ... for paroco Snello said he desired no visits from any who took liberties with Holy Church ... as if Padrone did! Luca one day came to me out of breath, with money in his hand for our duck. Now it so happened that the duck, stuffed with noble chestnuts, was going to table at that instant. I told Signor Padrone....

_Boccaccio._ Assunta, I never heard thee repeat so long and tiresome a story before, nor put thyself out of breath so. Come, we have had enough of it.

_Petrarca._ She is mortified: pray let her proceed.

_Boccaccio._ As you will.

_Assunta._ I told Signor Padrone how Luca was lamenting that Maria was seized with an _imagination_.

_Petrarca._ No wonder then she fell into misfortune, and her neighbours and friends avoided her.

_Assunta._ Riverenza! how can you smile? Signor Padrone! and you too? You shook your head and sighed at it when it happened. The Demonio, who had caused all the first mischief, was not contented until he had given her the _imagination_.

_Petrarca._ He could not have finished his work more effectually.

_Assunta._ He was balked, however. Luca said:

'She shall not die under her wrongs, please God!'

I repeated the words to Signor Padrone.... He seems to listen, Riverenza! and will remember presently ... and Signor Padrone cut away one leg for himself, clean forgetting all the chestnuts inside, and said sharply, 'Give the bird to Luca; and, hark ye, bring back the minestra.'

Maria loved Luca with all her heart, and Luca loved Maria with all his: but they both hated paroco Snello for such neglect about the evil one. And even Monsignore, who sent for Luca on purpose, had some difficulty in persuading him to forbear from choler and discourse. For Luca, who never swears, swore bitterly that the devil should play no such tricks again, nor alight on girls napping in the parsonage. Monsignore thought he intended to take violent possession, and to keep watch there himself without consent of the incumbent. 'I will have no scandal,' said Monsignore; so there was none. Maria, though she did indeed, as I told your Reverence, love her Luca dearly, yet she long refused to marry him, and cried very much at last on the wedding day, and said, as she entered the porch:

'Luca! it is not yet too late to leave me.'

He would have kissed her, but her face was upon his shoulder.

Pievano Locatelli married them, and gave them his blessing: and going down from the altar, he said before the people, as he stood on the last step: 'Be comforted, child! be comforted! God above knows that thy husband is honest, and that thou art innocent.' Pievano's voice trembled, for he was an aged and holy man, and had walked two miles on the occasion. Pulcheria, his governante, eighty years old, carried an apronful of lilies to bestrew the altar; and partly from the lilies, and partly from the blessed angels who (although invisible) were present, the church was filled with fragrance. Many who heretofore had been frightened at hearing the mention of Maria's name, ventured now to walk up toward her; and some gave her needles, and some offered skeins of thread, and some ran home again for pots of honey.

_Boccaccio._ And why didst not thou take her some trifle?

_Assunta._ I had none.

_Boccaccio._ Surely there are always such about the premises.

_Assunta._ Not mine to give away.

_Boccaccio._ So then at thy hands, Assunta, she went off not overladen. Ne'er a bone-bodkin out of thy bravery, ay?

_Assunta._ I ran out knitting, with the woodbine and syringa in the basket for the parlour. I made the basket ... I and ... but myself chiefly, for boys are loiterers.

_Boccaccio._ Well, well: why not bestow the basket, together with its rich contents?

_Assunta._ I am ashamed to say it ... I covered my half-stocking with them as quickly as I could, and ran after her, and presented it. Not knowing what was under the flowers, and never minding the liberty I had taken, being a stranger to her, she accepted it as graciously as possible, and bade me be happy.

_Petrarca._ I hope you have always kept her command.

_Assunta._ Nobody is ever unhappy here, except Fra Biagio, who frets sometimes: but that may be the walk; or he may fancy Ser Giovanni to be worse than he really is.

... Having now performed her mission and concluded her narrative, she bowed, and said:

'Excuse me, Riverenza! excuse me, Signor Padrone! my arm aches with this great fish.'

Then, bowing again, and moving her eyes modestly toward each, she added, 'with permission!' and left the chamber.

'About the sposina,' after a pause began Ser Francesco: 'about the sposina, I do not see the matter clearly.'

'You have studied too much for seeing all things clearly,' answered Ser Giovanni; 'you see only the greatest. In fine, the devil, on this count, is acquitted by acclamation; and the paroco Snello eats lettuce and chicory up yonder at Laverna. He has mendicant friars for his society every day; and snails, as pure as water can wash and boil them, for his repast on festivals. Under this discipline, if they keep it up, surely one devil out of legion will depart from him.'

FOOTNOTES:

[15] Literally, _due fave_, the expression on such occasions to signify a small quantity.

[16] Contraction of _signor_, customary in Tuscany.

FOURTH DAY'S INTERVIEW

_Petrarca._ Giovanni, you are unsuspicious, and would scarcely see a monster in a minotaur. It is well, however, to draw good out of evil, and it is the peculiar gift of an elevated mind. Nevertheless, you must have observed, although with greater curiosity than concern, the slipperiness and tortuousness of your detractors.

_Boccaccio._ Whatever they detract from me, they leave more than they can carry away. Beside, they always are detected.

_Petrarca._ When they are detected, they raise themselves up fiercely, as if their nature were erect and they could reach your height.

_Boccaccio._ Envy would conceal herself under the shadow and shelter of contemptuousness, but she swells too huge for the den she creeps into. Let her lie there and crack, and think no more about her. The people you have been talking of can find no greater and no other faults in my writings than I myself am willing to show them, and still more willing to correct. There are many things, as you have just now told me, very unworthy of their company.

_Petrarca._ He who has much gold is none the poorer for having much silver too. When a king of old displayed his wealth and magnificence before a philosopher, the philosopher's exclamation was:

'How many things are here which I do not want!'

Does not the same reflection come upon us, when we have laid aside our compositions for a time, and look into them again more leisurely? Do we not wonder at our own profusion, and say like the philosopher:

'How many things are here which I do not want!'

It may happen that we pull up flowers with weeds; but better this than rankness. We must bear to see our first-born dispatched before our eyes, and give them up quietly.

_Boccaccio._ The younger will be the most reluctant. There are poets among us who mistake in themselves the freckles of the hay-fever for beauty-spots. In another half-century their volumes will be inquired after; but only for the sake of cutting out an illuminated letter from the title-page, or of transplanting the willow at the end, that hangs so prettily over the tomb of Amaryllis. If they wish to be healthy and vigorous, let them open their bosoms to the breezes of Sunium; for the air of Latium is heavy and overcharged. Above all, they must remember two admonitions; first, that sweet things hurt digestion; secondly, that great sails are ill adapted to small vessels. What is there lovely in poetry unless there be moderation and composure? Are they not better than the hot, uncontrollable harlotry of a flaunting, dishevelled enthusiasm? Whoever has the power of creating, has likewise the inferior power of keeping his creation in order. The best poets are the most impressive, because their steps are regular; for without regularity there is neither strength nor state. Look at Sophocles, look at Aeschylus, look at Homer.

_Petrarca._ I agree with you entirely to the whole extent of your observations; and, if you will continue, I am ready to lay aside my Dante for the present.

_Boccaccio._ No, no; we must have him again between us: there is no danger that he will sour our tempers.

_Petrarca._ In comparing his and yours, since you forbid me to declare all I think of your genius, you will at least allow me to congratulate you as being the happier of the two.

_Boccaccio._ Frequently, where there is great power in poetry, the imagination makes encroachments on the heart, and uses it as her own. I have shed tears on writings which never cost the writer a sigh, but which occasioned him to rub the palms of his hands together, until they were ready to strike fire, with satisfaction at having overcome the difficulty of being tender.

_Petrarca._ Giovanni! are you not grown satirical?

_Boccaccio._ Not in this. It is a truth as broad and glaring as the eye of the Cyclops. To make you amends for your shuddering, I will express my doubt, on the other hand, whether Dante felt all the indignation he threw into his poetry. We are immoderately fond of warming ourselves; and we do not think, or care, what the fire is composed of. Be sure it is not always of cedar, like Circe's. Our Alighieri had slipped into the habit of vituperation; and he thought it fitted him; so he never left it off.

_Petrarca._ Serener colours are pleasanter to our eyes and more becoming to our character. The chief desire in every man of genius is to be thought one; and no fear or apprehension lessens it. Alighieri, who had certainly studied the gospel, must have been conscious that he not only was inhumane, but that he betrayed a more vindictive spirit than any pope or prelate who is enshrined within the fretwork of his golden grating.

_Boccaccio._ Unhappily, his strong talon had grown into him, and it would have pained him to suffer amputation. This eagle, unlike Jupiter's, never loosened the thunderbolt from it under the influence of harmony.

_Petrarca._ The only good thing we can expect in such minds and tempers is good poetry: let us at least get that; and, having it, let us keep and value it. If you had never written some wanton stories, you would never have been able to show the world how much wiser and better you grew afterward.

_Boccaccio._ Alas! if I live, I hope to show it. You have raised my spirits: and now, dear Francesco! do say a couple of prayers for me, while I lay together the materials of a tale; a right merry one, I promise you. Faith! it shall amuse you, and pay decently for the prayers; a good honest litany-worth. I hardly know whether I ought to have a nun in it: do you think I may?

_Petrarca._ Cannot you do without one?

_Boccaccio._ No; a nun I must have: say nothing against her; I can more easily let the abbess alone. Yet Frate Biagio ... that Frate Biagio, who never came to visit me but when he thought I was at extremities or asleep.... Assuntina! are you there?

_Petrarca._ No; do you want her?