Part 31

In answer to Thia’s speech Marsilio said: ‘Do not distress yourself on account of this, for if you will grant me the favour I desire I will see that you want for nothing that can give you delight.’ Thia replied: ‘Ah! this is what you cavaliers always say until we have done your pleasure; then you go away and we never see any more of you, and, fools as we are, are left in the lurch, deceived and duped and shamed in the world’s esteem. You, meantime, go your ways, bragging of your good fortune and washing out your mouths, as far as concerns us and all that belongs to us,[49] treating us as if we were carrion only fit to be cast out on the dunghill. I know full well the tricks you worthy citizens of Padua can play.’ Then said Marsilio: ‘Enough, now let us have done with words for good and all. I ask you once more whether you will grant me the favour I desire?’ ‘Go away, for the love of God, I pray you,’ cried Thia, ‘before my husband comes back, for nightfall is drawing near and he will certainly be here in a few minutes. Come back some time to-morrow, and we will talk as long as you will, for in sooth I love you well.’ But Marsilio, who was indeed passionately in love with her, was loath to leave off this pleasant conversation, and still remained by her side; so she said once more, ‘Go away immediately, I beg you, and do not stay here any longer.’ When Marsilio saw that Thia was thus strongly moved, he cried out, ‘God be with you, Thia, my sweet soul! I recommend my heart to you, for it is surely in your keeping.’ ‘May God go with you, dearest hope of my life!’ said Thia, ‘I commend you to His care.’ ‘By His good help,’ said Marsilio, ‘we will meet again to-morrow.’ ‘Very well, let it be so,’ said Thia; and with these words Marsilio took his leave.

When the morrow had come Marsilio, to whom the time until he should once more repair to Thia’s house seemed a thousand years, went thither forthwith and found her busy in the garden digging and mulching round about certain vines which grew therein, and as soon as they saw one another they exchanged greetings and began to talk lovingly together. And when this conversation had gone on for some time Thia said to Marsilio: ‘Dear heart of mine, to-morrow morning early Cechato my husband will have occasion to go to the mill, and he will not return hither until the next day; wherefore, if it should be your pleasure, you may come here late in the evening. I will be on the watch for you; only be sure that you come without fail, and do not deceive me.’ When Marsilio heard this good news, there was no man in all the world so happy as he was; he jumped and danced about for very gladness, and took leave of Thia, half out of his wits for joy.

As soon as Cechato had come home, the crafty Thia went up to him and said, ‘Cechato, my good man, you must needs go to the mill straightway, for we have nothing more in the house to eat.’ ‘Very well, very well, I will see about it,’ answered Cechato. ‘I tell you that you must go to-morrow, whatever happens,’ said Thia. ‘Very well, then,’ replied Cechato, ‘to-morrow morning before I go I will borrow a cart with two oxen from the people for whom I work, then I will come back to load it, and go off to the mill at once.’

In the meantime Thia went to prepare the corn and to put it into sacks, so that on the morrow Cechato should have nothing to do but to load his cart therewith, and to go on his way singing. On the following morning Cechato took the corn which his wife had put into sacks the night before, and loaded it on the cart and went on his way towards the mill. And seeing that it was now the season of short days and long nights, and that the roads were broken up and in bad condition, and that the weather was foul with rain and ice and intense cold, poor Cechato found himself obliged to remain that night at the mill, and this in sooth fell in most opportunely with the plans that Thia and Marsilio had devised for their own satisfaction.

As soon as the dark night had fallen, Marsilio, according to the agreement he had made with Thia, took a pair of fine well-cooked capons and some white bread and wine unspoilt by any drop of water therein, all of which he had carefully prepared before he left his home, and stole secretly across the fields to Thia’s house. Then, having opened the door, he found her sitting by the fireside winding thread. After greeting one another they spread the table and both sat down to eat, and after they had made an excellent meal off Marsilio’s good cheer, they went to lie down in the bed; thus, whilst that poor fool of a Cechato was having his corn ground at the mill, in his bed at home Marsilio was sifting flour.

When the time of sunrise was near, and the day was beginning to break, the two lovers awoke and rose from their bed, fearing lest Cechato might return and find them there together; but while they were still amorously talking, Cechato drew near to the house, whistling aloud the while, and calling upon Thia, saying: ‘Oh, my Thia! make up a good fire, I pray you, for I am more than half dead with cold.’ Thia, who was a clever, artful minx, was somewhat frightened when she heard her husband’s voice, and feared amain lest some evil should befall Marsilio, and injury and shame be put upon herself; so she quickly opened the door, managing the while to allow Marsilio to hide himself behind it; then with a merry face she ran to meet her husband, and began to embrace him. And after Cechato had come into the courtyard, he cried out once more to his wife: ‘Make a fire at once, good Thia, for I am wellnigh frozen to death. By the blood of St. Quintin, I was almost starved to death by cold last night up at that mill; so cold was it, indeed, that I was not able to sleep a wink or even to close an eye.’ Whereupon Thia went without delay to the wood-house, and having taken therefrom a good armful of billets she lighted a fire whereat Cechato might warm himself, herself occupying craftily that spot by the hearth from whence Marsilio might perchance be seen by Cechato.

Then Thia, chatting with her husband of this and of that, said: ‘Ah! Cechato, my good man, I have a fine bit of news to give you.’ ‘What has happened?’ inquired Cechato. To this Thia replied, ‘Whilst you were away at the mill a poor old man came to the house begging alms of me for the love of God, and as a recompense for some bread I gave him to eat and a small cup of wine, he taught me an incantation wherewith to throw a spell over that greedy kite which often comes hereabouts, and never in my life have I heard anything more beautiful than his words, which I have learnt well by heart.’ ‘What is this thing you are telling me?’ said Cechato; ‘is it really the truth?’ Thia replied, ‘It is true, by my faith, and I can tell you that I set great store by it.’ ‘Then tell it to me at once,’ said Cechato, ‘and do not hold me longer in suspense.’ Whereupon Thia said to her husband, ‘You must lie down flat on the ground stretched out your full length, just as if you were dead (which thing may God avert!), and having done this you must turn your head and your shoulders towards the door, and your knees and feet towards the stove, and then I must spread a white cloth over your face, and put our corn measure over your head.’

‘But I am quite sure,’ said Cechato, ‘that my head will never go into our corn measure.’ ‘I am sure it will,’ replied Thia; ‘just look here!’ And with these words she took the measure, which happened to be close at hand, and put it over his head, saying, ‘Nothing in God’s world could be a better fit than this. And now you must keep yourself quite still, neither moving a limb nor saying a word, otherwise we shall be able to do nothing. Then I will take our tamis sieve in my hand, and will begin to jump and dance around you, and whilst I am thus dancing I will speak the incantation which the old man taught me. And in this fashion the spell may be well and truly worked. But again I tell you that you must on no account stir a finger until I shall have repeated the incantation thrice, for it must be said three times over you in order that it may have any effect. After this we shall see whether the kite gives us any more trouble, or comes to steal our chicken.’ To this Cechato replied: ‘Would to God that what you say might be true, so that we might have a little rest and breathing space. You know well enough how hard we find it to bring up any chicken at all, on account of that fiend of a kite which devours every one we hatch. Never have we been able to rear enough chicken to sell, and with the money gained thereby to pay our landlord and the tax-gatherer, and to buy oil and salt and any other stores we may want for housekeeping.’

‘Let us begin quickly then,’ said Thia, ‘for in this fashion we shall be able to do ourselves a good turn. Now, Cechato, lie down quickly.’ And Cechato straightway laid himself down on the floor. ‘Now stretch yourself out well to your full length,’ said Thia. And Cechato at once did his best to stretch himself out as far as ever he could. ‘That is right,’ said Thia, and hereupon she took a cloth of thick white linen and shrouded his face therewith. Next she took the corn measure and rammed it down on his head, and then caught up the tamis sieve and began to dance and skip around him and to repeat in the following wise the incantation which she said had been taught her by the old beggar:

Thievish bird, I charge you well, Hearken to my mystic spell. While I dance and wave my sieve, All my tender chicks shall live. Not a bird from all my hatch, Thievish rascal, shall you snatch. Wolf nor rat his prey shall seek, Nor bird with sharp and crooked beak. Thieves who stand behind the door, Hearken, fly, and come no more. If my speech you cannot read, Surely you are fools indeed.

When Thia had come to the end of her mummery she still went on dancing round Cechato, keeping her eyes fixed upon the outer door the while, and making signs to Marsilio, who was there concealed, that he had better run away at once. But Marsilio, who was neither nimble-minded nor quick to catch her meaning, failed to comprehend what might be the purport of the gestures she was making or what she meant by going through these rites of exorcism; so he kept still in his hiding-place and did not budge an inch. Meantime Cechato, being now half stifled and mightily weary of lying stretched out on the floor, was anxious to get up, and spake thus to Thia: ‘Well, is it all over now?’ But Thia, who had not been able to induce Marsilio to move from his place behind the door, answered Cechato in these words: ‘Stay where you are, for heaven’s sake, and move not at your peril. Did I not tell you that I should have to repeat the incantation three times? I hope you may not have wrecked everything, as it is, by wanting to get up.’ ‘No, no, surely not,’ said Cechato. And Thia made him lie down stretched out as he was before, and began to chant her incantation anew.

[Illustration: The Conjuration of the Kite]

Now by this time Marsilio had at last come to understand how matters really stood, and what was the meaning of Thia’s mummery, so he seized the opportunity to slip out from his hiding-place, and to run away as fast as his legs could carry him. Thia, when she saw Marsilio take to his heels and run out of the courtyard, finished her form of exorcism against the kite, and when she had brought it to an end she suffered her cuckoldly fool of a husband to get up from the ground. Then with Thia’s help he began forthwith to unload the flour which he had brought back from the mill. Now Thia when she went with Cechato outside into the courtyard to help unload the flour, saw Marsilio in the distance hurrying away at the top of his speed, whereupon she began to shout after him in a lusty voice: ‘Ah, ah! what a wicked bird! Ah, ah! begone, get away! For, by my faith, I will send you packing with your tail between your legs if ever you show yourself here again. Away then, I tell you! Is not he a greedy wretch? Do you not see that the wicked beast was bent on coming back? Heaven give him a bad year!’

And in this fashion it happened, that every time the kite came and flew down into the courtyard to carry away a chick or two, he would first have a bout with the hen herself,[50] who would afterwards set to work with her conjuration as before. Then he would take to flight with his tail down, but all the while the fowls belonging to Cechato and Thia suffered no damage at all from his harrying.

This fable, given by the Trevisan, was found to be so mirthful and amusing that the ladies, and the gentlemen as well, almost split their sides with laughter; so well did he mock the rustic speech that there was no one of the company who would not have judged him to be a peasant of Treviso. And when the merriment had abated somewhat, the Signora turned her fair face towards the Trevisan and spake to him thus: “In truth, Signor Benedetto, you have this evening diverted us in such featly wise that with one voice we declare your fable may deservedly be held to be the equal of Molino’s in merit. But to fill up the measure of my content and that of this honourable company, I entreat you—an it displease you not—that you will set forth to us an enigma which shall be as graceful in form as amusing in matter.” The Trevisan, when he saw how the Signora was inclined, was unwilling to disappoint her; so, standing up, with a clear voice and with no hesitation of any sort, he began his riddle in the following words:

Sir Yoke goes up and down the field, To every tug is forced to yield. One on the left, one on the right Plods on, and next there comes a wight, A cunning rascal who with power Beats one who goes on carriers four. Now if an answer you can give, Good friends, we will for ever live.

When the Trevisan, with the true manner and bearing of a peasant, had finished his enigma, which was comprehended by few or none of the company, he thus gave the interpretation thereof in peasant dialect in order that its meaning might be made clear to them all: “I must not keep this gentle company waiting any longer. Tell me, do you understand the meaning of my enigma? If you do not know, I will tell you. Sir Yoke goes to and fro, that is to say, the yoke, to which the oxen are attached, goes up and down the fields and roads, and is dragged hither and thither by them. Those who fare, the one on this side and the other on that side of it, are the oxen. He who beats one who stands on four, means that the ploughman who walks behind lashes the bull, who has four legs, with his leathern whip. And to end my explanation, I tell you once more that the answer to my riddle is the yoke, and I hope you will all understand it.”

Everyone was greatly interested over this riddle dealing with country life, and, laughing heartily thereat, they praised it highly. But the Trevisan, remembering that only one more story remained to be told this night, to wit, that of the charming Cateruzza, turned with a smiling face towards the Signora and spake thus: “Signora, it is not for the reason that I wish to disturb the settled order of this our entertainment, or to dictate to your highness, my mistress and sovereign lady, but merely to satisfy the desire of this devoted company, that I beg your excellency to make us the sharers of some fair fancies of your own, by telling us, for our delight and recreation, a story with your wonted grace. And if I peradventure have been more presumptuous (which God forbid) in making this request than is suitable to my humble estate, I beg you will forgive me, seeing that the love I bear towards this gracious assembly has been the chief cause why I have been led to prefer it.”

The Signora, when she heard the courteous petition of the Trevisan, at first cast her eyes down upon the ground; not, however, for any fear or shame that she felt, but because she deemed that, for divers reasons, it was more seemly for her to listen than to discourse. But after a time, with a gracious and smiling look, as if her humour were a merry one, she turned her bright face towards the Trevisan and said: “Signor Benedetto, what though your request is a pleasant and seemly one, it appears to me that you are somewhat too insistent a beggar, forasmuch as the duty of story-telling pertains rather to these young damsels round about than to me; therefore you must hold me excused if I decline to give way at once to your demand, and bid Cateruzza, who has been chosen by lot to tell the fifth story of this evening, to favour you with her discourse.” The merry listeners, who were mightily eager to hear the Signora tell her story, forthwith all rose to their feet and began to support the request of the Trevisan, begging her most earnestly that she would in this matter favour them with her courtesy and kindness, and not stand too severely by the exalted dignity of her position, for time and place will allow anyone, however high in rank, to speak freely whatever thing may be pleasing. The Signora, when she heard the gentle loving terms of this petition, in order that she might not seem ungracious in her bearing, smilingly replied: “Since this is the wish of all of you, and your pleasure withal, that I should conclude this evening with some little story of my own, I will gladly grant your wish.” And without further demur she blithely began to tell her fable.

THE FIFTH FABLE.

=Madonna Modesta, wife of Messer Tristano Zanchetto, in her young days gathers together a great number of shoes, offerings made by her various lovers. Having grown old, she disposes of the same to divers servants, varlets, and other folk of mean estate.=

It commonly happens that ill-gotten wealth, and indeed all riches which have been acquired by evil ways, are scattered abroad and dissipated in brief space of time, for by the divine will it has been decreed that, quickly as such riches come, quickly they shall depart. This, indeed, proved to be the case with a certain woman of Pistoia, who, had she been honest and wise in the same degree as she was dissolute and foolish, would never have given occasion for the story which I am now about to tell to you. And although perhaps this fable of mine is one hardly suitable for your ears, forasmuch as it comes to an end in a picture of shame and dishonour, which obscures and tarnishes the fame of those who live honest lives, nevertheless I will not hesitate to relate it to you, for at the right time and place it may serve (I speak here to those to whom it may apply) as a useful incentive for all to pursue the ways of uprightness and well-doing, and to eschew all wicked courses and lewd inclinations.

I must first tell this worshipful company that, not far from these our days, there lived in Pistoia, an ancient city of Tuscany, a young woman called by name Madonna Modesta, but this name, on account of her reprehensible manner of life and the shameful courses she followed, was one in no wise befitting her. In person, indeed, this woman was very lovely and graceful, though she was of mean condition.

She had a husband called Tristano Zanchetto[51] (a name as well suited to him as his wife’s was unfitting to her), a good-tempered fellow, given to merry company, and thinking of little else save of his business of buying and selling, whereby he gained a good living for himself. Madonna Modesta, who was by nature of a lecherous temper, and inclined for nought else but amorous sport, when she saw that her husband was given up heart and soul to commerce, and careful only about the matters appertaining thereto, took it into her head that she too would embark in merchandise and set up a new trade, concerning which her husband, Messer Tristano, should know nothing.