Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  “You,” said the queen, “reason well, and very well you defend your judgement. But yet we will show you with apparent reason how you likewise ought to hold the same opinion that we do hold of this contention, if with a straight eye you look unto the nature of love.

  “Thus in the maid as in the widow, and so in the widow as in the maid, we do see him to be firm, strong and constant. And that this is true Dido and Ariadne with their doings have left us an example. And whereas this love is neither in the one nor in the other, none of the aforesaid operations will thereof follow. Then is it convenient that each one of them do love, if we will have that to follow whereof both you and I have already talked. And therefor in loving either maid or widow without going about to seek which of them is most discreetly enamoured (as we are certain of the widow) we shall show you how the widow is more diligent to the pleasure of the lover than is the maid.

  “For doubtless among those things that a woman esteems dear above the rest, is her virginity, and this is the reason: because therein consists all the honour of her following life. And without doubt she shall never be so much urged forwards to love as she shall not willingly be courteous thereof but yet to him only to whom she believes to be coupled as wife through the matrimonial law. And therefor we go not about seeking for this; for there is no doubt but that who will love to marry ought rather to love the maid than the widow because she shall be slow and negligent in giving herself to him that loves her not (if she know it) to that effect.

  “Further, maids are generally fearful, neither are they subtle enough to find the ways and means whereby they may take the stolen delights. But the widow of these things makes no doubt at all because that she already has honourably given that which the other tarries to give, and being without the same doubts not in giving herself to another that token which may accuse. Whereby afterwards she becomes more adventurous because (as it is said) the chiefest occasion that brings doubt is not in her. Besides, she knows better the secret ways and so puts them in effect.

  “In that which you say, that the maid as desirous of a thing which she never proved may be made more diligent to this than the widow, that knows what manner of thing it is, thereof the contrary. Maids do not at the first time for their delight run to such effect (although the thing that delights the oftener it is seen, heard or felt the more it pleases, and the more careful is everyone to follow the same) because it is then more noisome than pleasant to them. This thing whereof we reason does not follow the order of many other things, that once or twice being seen, are afterward no more desired, but rather the oftener it is put in effect with so much the more affection it covets to return and more desires he the thing whom it pleases than does he whom it ought to please and has not as yet tasted thereof.

  “Wherefor the widow forasmuch as she gives least, and is best able to give, she shall be the most liberal and the more sooner than the maid, that must give the dearest thing she has. Also the widow shall be sooner drawn (as we have shewed) than the maid to such effects. For which occasion let the widow be rather loved than the maid.”

  CHAPTER 11. THE TENTH QUESTION, PROPOSED BY ASCALEON

  IT WAS CONVENIENT that Ascaleon, who in circle sat next to the duke Feramont, should now propound. And therefor thus he said:

  Most excellent queen, I remember that there was heretofor in this our city, a fair and noble gentlewoman left a widow of a worthy husband, the which for that her marvelous beauty was of many and noble young gentlemen beloved. And of those many there were two gentle and courageous knights, each one in what he could did endeavour himself to attain her love. And while this continued, by chance it happened that unjust accusation was brought against her by certain of her kinsfolks, before the magistrate, and after by false evidence proved, through which untrue process she was condemned to the fire. But because the conscience of the judge was perplexed, for that it seemed him as it were to know the unjust proof, he was willing to commit her life unto the gods and to fortune’s chance, and so tied such a condition to his given sentence: As after the gentlewoman should be led unto the pyre, if any knight could be found the which would combat in the defence of her honour against him that would maintain the contrary, and should happen to overcome, she should then be free; and if the contrary, to be burned according to the deemed sentence.

  As the condition was understood of her two lovers, and by chance sooner known to the one than to the other, he which knew the same soonest forewith took him to his armour, mounted on horseback and came into the field, gainsaying him that would come and maintain the death of the gentlewoman.

  The other, that somewhat later than the first understood of this sentence, and hearing how that the knight was already in field in her defence, neither that there was then place for any other to go thither in that enterprise. And therefor not knowing herein what to do, became very sorrowful, imagining that through his slackness he had lost the love of the loved gentlewoman and that the other had justly deserved the same.

  And while he thus sorrowed his mishap he bethought him that if he before any other should go armed into the field, saying that the gentlewoman ought to die, and to suffer himself to be overcome, he might thereby cause her to escape, and so according to his device he put the same in effect.

  The gentlewoman hereby escaped and was delivered from peril. So that then after certain days, the first knight went unto her and recommended himself to her, putting her in remembrance how that he, to preserve her from death, had a few days past offered himself to the peril of death, and thanks be to the gods and to his force, he had delivered both her and himself from so hard a happening. Whereupon it would please her according to his desert to give her love, the which above all things he had always desired.

  Afterward with the like prayers came the second knight, saying: “For your sake I have hazarded my life and because you should not die suffered myself to be overcome, whereupon I have purchased to myself eternal infamy. Whereas I contrary-wise with encountering your surety and willing to use my force, might have been able to have gotten the honour of the victory.”

  The gentlewoman thanked each of them very benignedly, promising them both due recompense for the received service. And now they being departed, she abode in great doubt to which of them she should the rather give her love, to the first or to the second; and therefor prays counsel of you on which of them you would say that she ought soonest to bestow the same.

  “We deem,” said the queen, “that the first is to be loved and the last to be left. Because the first used force and showed his assured love in diligent sort, giving himself to every peril that might happen through the future battle even unto the death; whereby it might very well have followed, forasmuch as if such a battle to be done against him had been as lawful to any of the enemies of the gentlewoman as it was to the lover, he had been in peril of death for his defence. Neither was it manifest to him that one should come against him that would suffer himself to be overcome, as it happened. The last truly went well-advised not to die, neither to suffer the gentlewoman to die. Then, forasmuch as he put least in adventure he merits to gain the less. Let the first then have the love of the fair gentlewoman, as the just deserver thereof.”

  Ascaleon said: “O most prudent queen, what is that you say? Does not one time suffice to be rewarded for well-doing without craving further desert? Truly yes. The first is well requited with being of everyone honoured for the received victory. And what greater reward needs he than honour, the reward of virtue? The received honour did suffice for a greater matter than he did. And he that with all his wit came well-advised, ought he to be unrecompensed?

  “And further, he to be of everyone evil-spoken of, having nothing less than the first helped the gentlewoman to escape? Is not the wit to forsee every bodily force? How so? If this man with all his wit came for the safety of the gentlewoman, ought he for his desert to be rejected? God forbid it should be so. If he knew not the same so soon as the other, this was not through negligence, for if perhaps he had kno
wn it before the other he would have run to that which he took discreetly for the last remedy. Whereof reward justly ought to follow, the which reward ought to be the love of the gentlewoman if rightly she see unto him. And yet you say the contrary.”

  “God defend from your mind,” answered the queen, “that vice come to a good end merit the same reward that virtue done to the like end, merits. But rather inasmuch as vice deserves correction, so no worldly desert can justly satisfy virtue. Who shall deny us to believe (although we cannot manifest the same with apparent reason) but the last knight as envious of the good turn he saw prepared for another, was moved to such an enterprise, to the end to disturb the same and not for the love he bare the gentlewoman; and yet his device failed him. He is a fool that under the colour of an enemy does endeavour himself to the end to receive recompense to help another.

  “Infinite are the ways whereby it is possible enough for us to shew at the first with open friendship the love that one of us bears toward the other, without shewing ourselves as enemies and after with coloured words to make shew to have profited. The which we have said may now suffice you for answer, whom old age more than anything else ought to make discreet. And we believe that when your mind shall have duely disgested these things you shall not find our judgement guileful, but true, and to be followed.” And so she held her peace.

  CHAPTER 12. THE ELEVENTH QUESTION, PROPOSED BY A GENTLEWOMAN NAMED GRACE

  THERE FOLLOWED AFTER him a gentlewoman of cheer very mild, that was named Grace (and assuredly the name was consonant to her nature) who with an humble and modest voice began these words: “It is come unto my turn, O most virtuous queen, to propound this, my question, the which to the end the time (that now approaches unto our last feasting may be sweetened with the new beginning thereof) be only spent in talk, I shall briefly propound that which willingly (and if it were lawful for me) I would pass over, yet not to infringe upon the limits of your obedience neither the order of the rest, I shall propound this: Whether is it great delight to the lover to see his love present, or not seeing her to think amorously on her?”

  “My gracious Grace,” said the queen, “we believe that much more delight is taken in thinking than in beholding, because in thinking on the thing loved all the sensitive spirits do then graciously feel a marvelous joy and as it were do content their inflamed desires with the delight only of the thought. But this happens not in the beholding because that only the visible spirit feels joy and the others are kindled with such a desire that they are not able to endure, and so remain vanquished. And that visible spirit sometimes takes so great pleasure that of force he is constrained to withdraw himself back, remaining vile and altogether vanquished. Then do we gather hereof that greater delight is to think than to behold.”

  “That thing which is loved,” answered the gentlewoman, “how much the more it is seen so much the more it delights. And therefor I believe that greater delight brings the beholding than does the thinking, because every beauty at the first pleases through the sight thereof. And so after through the continual sight such pleasure is confirmed in the mind as thereof is engendered love, and those pleasures that spring from him. No beauty is so much loved, neither for any other occasion, than to please the eyes and to content the same. Then in seeing they are contented and in thinking to see the desire increases. So that more delight feels he that is contented, than does he that desires to content himself.

  “We may see and know by Laodamia how much more the present sight than the absent thought does delight, because we are to think that her Protesilaus never departed from her thought, neither yet was she ever seen disposed to other than to melancholy, refusing to deck and apparel herself with her costly garments. The which thing in seeing him never happened. For what time she abode in his presence she was merry, gracious and always joyful and trimly attired. What more manifest testimony will we have than this, that the gladness is greater of the sight than of the thought? Because that through the exterior doings that may be comprehended, which in the heart is hidden.”

  The queen then thus made answer: “Those things both delightful and noisome that approach most near unto mind, bring more annoy and more joy than do those far off from the same. And who doubts but that the thought abides in the mind and that the mind is not from the eye? Although through the particular virtue of the mind they have their sight, and that it is convenient for them by sundry means to render their proportions to the animate understanding.

  “Having then in the mind a sweet thought of the loved, in that act which the thought brings, in that together with the thing loved, it seems the lover to be. Then he sees the same with those eyes to whom nothing, no not of a long distance, may be hidden. Then he speaks with her whom he loves and peradventure with piteous style tells the annoys sustained for her sake. Then is it lawful for him without fear to embrace her. Then does he according to his desire marvelous pleasure himself with her. Then does he hold her wholly at his pleasure, the which in beholding happens not, because that sight only at first takes pleasure without passing further.

  “And as we say love is timorous and fearful, and in beholding does make the heart tremble in such sort as it leaves neither thought nor spirit in his place. For many with the long beholding of their ladies lose those their natural forces and remain vanquished. And many, not being able to move, stand like posts; othersome in tangling and traversing their legs fall to the ground. Others thereby lose their speech. And by sight we know many other like things to have happened, the which all should have been very acceptable to them, to whom (as we have said) they have happened, if they had not happened at all. How then brings that same delight that shall willingly be fled? We confess that were it possible to behold without fear, it should be a great delight. But yet little or nothing without the thought, the which without the bodily sight pleases very much.

  “And that whereof we may have spoken come to pass through the thought, it is manifest; yea, that and much more. For we do find that men with thought have passed the heavens and tasted of the eternal peace. Then more delights the thought than the sight. And if you say that Laodamia was melancholy with thinking, we do not deny it, but yet it was rather a dolorous than an amorous thought that did trouble her. She (as it were) a diviner to her own harm, always doubted the death of Protesilaus, and still was thinking thereon, contrary to those thoughts whereof we reason, which through that doubt could not enter into her, but rather sorrowing through this occasion as reason was, she shewed a troublesome and heavy look.”

  CHAPTER 13. THE TWELFTH QUESTION, PROPOSED BY LONGANO

  NEXT TO PHILOCOPO was placed a courteous young man and gracious to behold, whose name was Longano, who thus began:

  Most excellent queen, so trim has been the previous question that in my conceit mine shall bring no delight at all. Yet to the end not to be severed from so noble a company, forth it shall; and thus he followed saying:

  It is not many days past that I, abiding all solitary in my chamber, wrapt in a heap of troublesome thoughts sprung from an amorous desire, the which with a fierce battle had assaulted my heart, by chance heard a piteous plaint whereunto (because I judged it by estimation near unto me) intentively I laid my ear, and thereby knew that they were women. By occasion whereof I suddenly rose to see who and where they were; and looking forth at my chamber window, I heard over against the same in one other chamber, two young women, the same being sisters, adorned with an inestimable beauty, there abiding without any other company. Whom as I saw making this sorrowful plaint I withdrew myself into a secret place without being of them espied, and so beheld them a long while. Neither was I able for all that to understand all the words that they through grief uttered in tears, but that the effect of such plaint (according to that I could comprehend) seemed to me to be for love. Wherefor I through pity and to sweet an occasion offered (being thus close as I was) began to shed my trickling tears.

  And after that I had in their grief persevered in the same a good space (forsomuch as I was their
very familiar and also their kinsman) I purposed to understand more certain the occasion of their sorrow, and so went to them; who had no sooner espied me but all bashful they withheld them from tears, endeavouring themselves to do me reverence.

  To whom I said: “Gentlewomen, trouble not yourselves, neither let this my coming move you to restrain your inward grief, for your tears have been now a good space apparent unto me. It shall be therefor needless to hide you, either yet through bashfulness to hide from me the cause of this your plaint. For I am come hither to understand the same. And be you assured that you shall not receive by me, either in word or deed, any evil requittal, but rather help and comfort in what I may.”

  The women greatly excused themselves, saying that they sorrowed for nothing. But yet after I had conjured them and they seeing me desirous to understand the same, the elder thus began to say: