Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  But overcome at the last with eager desire to know the occasion of his complaint, because he should turn him towards me, as those who, in their deepest sleep, terrified by dreaming of some great fall, wild beast, or of some ghastly thing, give a sudden start, and in most fearful wise rouse up themselves, affrighted out of their sleep and wits at once, even so with a sudden and timorous voice I shrieked, and lifting up myself, I violently cast one of my arms over his shoulders. And truly my deceit deceived me not, because (closely wiping away his tears) with infinite (though counterfeit) joy he quickly turned towards me again, and with a pitiful voice said:

  “My fairest and sweetest soul, of what wert thou afraid?” Whom without delay I answered thus: “My Love, I thought I had lost thee.” My words (alas) I know not by what spirit uttered forth, were most true presagers and foretellers of my future loss, as now too true I find it.

  But he replied:— “O dearest dear, not hateful death, nor any adverse chance of unstable Fortune whatsoever, can work such operations in my firm breast, that thou (my only joy) shalt leese me for ever.” And incontinently a great and profound sigh followed these pitiful words, the cause of which not so soon demanded of me (who was also most desirous to know the offspring of his first lamentations) but suddenly two streams of tears from both his eyes (as from two fountains) began to gush out amain, and in great abundance to drench his sorrowful breast, not yet thoroughly dried up by his former weeping. And holding me, poor soul (plunged in a gulf of griefs, and overcome with floods of brinish tears), a long time in a doleful and doubtful suspense, before (even so did the violence of his sobs and sighs stop the passage of his words) he could answer anything to my demands again.

  But after that he felt the tempest of his outrageous passion somewhat calmed, with a sorrowful voice, yet still interrupted with many heavy sighs, he said thus again: “O dearest Lady and sole Mistress of my afflicted heart, and only beloved of me above all other women in the world, as these extraordinary effects are true records of the same: if my plaints deserve any credit at all, thou mayst then believe, that my eyes not without a grievous occasion shed erst such plenty of bitter tears, whensoever that is objected to my memory, which (remaining now with thee in great joy) doth cruelly torment my heart to think of, that is when I remember with myself that thou mayest not (alas, fain would I that thou couldest) make two Panphilowes of me, because remaining here, and being also there, whither urgent and necessary affairs do perforce compel me (most unwillingly) to retire, I might at one time fulfil the laws of love, and my pitiful, natural and dutiful devoyre: O my aged and loving father. Being therefore not able to suffer any more, my pensive heart, with remembrance of it, is continually with great affliction galled more and more, as one whom, pity drawing on the one side, is taken out of thy arms, and on the other side with great force of love is still retained in them.”

  These words pierced my miserable heart with such extreme bitterness as I never felt before. And although my dusked wits did not well understand them, notwithstanding (as much as my ears and senses attentive to their harms did receive and conceive of them) by so much more, the very same, converted into tears, issued out of my eyes, leaving behind them their cruel and malicious effects in my heart. This was therefore (good Ladies) the first hour in the which I felt such grudging griefs envious of my pleasures: this was the hour which made me pour forth innumerable tears, the like never spent of me before, whose course and main streams not any of his comforts and consolatory words could stop and stanch one whit. But after I had a long time together remained in woeful wailings, enfolding him lovingly between my arms, I prayed him (as much as I could) to tell me more clearly what pity, and what due piety that was, that did draw him out of my arms, and threaten me his absence; whereupon, not ceasing to lament, he said thus unto me:

  “Inevitable death, the final end of all things, of many other sons hath left me sole to survive with my aged and reverend father, who burdened with many years, and living without the sweet company of his deceased wife, and loving brothers, who might in his old years carefully comfort him, and remaining now without any hope of any more issue, being determined not to marry, doth recall me home to see him, as the chiefest part of his consolation, whom he hath not seen these many years past. For shifting of which journey (because I would not, sweet Fiammetta, leave thee) there are not a few months past, when first by divers means I began to frame some just and reasonable excuse. But he in fine, not accepting of any, did not cease to conjure me, by the essence which I had by him, and by my impotent childhood tenderly brought up, and nurtured in his lap, by that love, which continually he had borne me, and by the duty and that love, which I should bear him again, and by that requisite obedience which every child should bear unto his father, and by all other things that he thought most effectual and persuasive, did like a familiar friend (whose part is rather to command) pray me, that, to commiserate his aged and declining years, and to tender his welfare, I would with speed return to visit him. And besides this, with solemn oaths, and serious observations, he caused all his friends, and agents in these parts, and with most earnest entreaties provoked them incessantly, to prick me on in this behalf, saying, that if he did not see me shortly with him, his miserable soul would utterly forsake his old and comfortless body. But (alas) how strong and forcible are the laws of nature! I could not presently assent, nor yet can scarce resolve with myself, that, by reason of the great love I bear thee, these piteous exorations should take place in me. Whereupon having with thy good leave determined to go see him, and for his great comfort to remain some short space of time with him, and not knowing also, how I could live without thee, all these (I say), occurring and accumulated in my sorrowful memory, do make me every hour (sweet Lady) most justly and sorrowfully complain.” And thus he held his peace.

  If there was ever any of you (fair Ladies) that in her most fervent and jealous love had ever had so hard and bitter a Pill as this, even she I think doth know with what incomparable grief my mind (nourished long since with food of his love, and set on fire with unspeakable flames of my own) was then afflicted: but others, free from such amorous passions, could not conceive, because as allegations of extravagant examples, so all my speeches besides would not be sufficient to induce them to believe the same. In brief therefore I say, that hearing these words, my soul did seek to leap out of my body, and it had (I think) flown away, if between his arms whom most of all I loved, it had not been straitly embraced, and forcibly retained.

  But all the parts of my body remaining nevertheless full of shaking fear, and my heart puffed with swelling grief, and weltering in the passions of these agonies, they bereaved me a pretty while of my speech. But afterwards, by quantity of time made more pliable to sustain these never-felt sorrows and unwonted pains, a certain feeble and fearful force was restored to my daunted spirits. And my eyes, whose conduits, stopped by the violence of this unexpected accident, did now burst out into great plenty of tears, and the strings of my tongue, contracted together with sharp sorrow, were now dissolved to utter and breathe out the confused anguish and conceived sorrows in my mind. Wherefore turning me to the Guardian and Lord of my life, embracing him, I said thus:

  “O final hope, and sovereign comfort of my afflicted soul: let these my pitiful words take place with force in thy fleeting mind, divert thee from thy new purpose, because if thou dost so dearly love me as thou showest, thy life and mine, before their natural and prefixed period cometh, may not jointly be deprived of this joyful and sweet light. Haled on by dutiful pity, and drawn back again by zealous love, thou puttest all thy future fortunes in doubtful hazard. But certes, if all thy words are true with which thou hast not once but many times heretofore affirmed that thou didst love me, no other pity therefore than this should be more mighty, and of greater force to resist, nor (while I live) to withdraw thee to any other place. And hearken why. It is not unknown to thee, if thou followest that course which thou seemest to do, in what a doubtful and miserable estate thou leavest my poo
r life, which heretofore hath hardly passed one day not without great sorrow when I could not see thee. Then mayest thou by this be more ascertained, that when thou dost omit to visit me so long together, all my joys will utterly forsake me, and this (alas) would be too much. But who doth not doubt that all kinds of woes, sorrow and anxieties will assail me, and succeed in their place, which (without any resistance that I can possibly make) will perhaps dissolve my vital powers into nothing. Thou shouldest have already known how weak and impotent young women are to reback such cruel and adverse occurrences, and what feeble force they have, with a strong and resolute mind to endure them. If peradventure thou wilt object and say, that in the first beginning of my loves, I have both wisely and stoutly suffered greater adversities than these, I will truly agree with thee herein, but the occasions of them and of these are divers. My hope placed in my own valour made that seem light unto me which, now being put in another his will, will be too heavy for me to support. Who did ever deny me, when burning desire had beyond all measure kindled my breast, and surcharged it with furious passions, that being enamoured of thee, as thou wert also of me, I might not enjoy thee? Truly nobody. Which comfort (when thou art so far sequestered from me) will not so easily fall to my lot. Besides this, I enjoyed no more then, but the sight of thy sweet face and goodly personage, and knew thee no more but by the outward figure, lineaments and proportion of thy body, although in my heart I made great account and prize of thee, but now have by good proof perceived, and felt indeed, that as thou art now to be esteemed a great deal dearer of me than the reach of my imagination could then extend unto, even so art thou become mine own with that assured sureness, and those indissoluble bonds, with which true lovers may possibly be held and united to those that love them again. And who doth not doubt, moreover, that it is a greater grief to lose that, which one hath to hold, than that, which he hopeth to have, although his hope therein be not afterwards frustrate. Wherefore considering this matter well, I plainly see my death will soon approach. Shall therefore the love of thy old father be preferred before that great affection which thou oughtest to have of me, and be the ominous occasion of my untimely death?

  “And if thou dost so, thou art certes no lover, but an open enemy. Ah, wilt thou make more account of those few years reserved for the miseries of thy old father, than of these many, which by great reason and likelihood I have (living joyfully with thee) to spend. Alas, what indiscreet folly were this! Dost thou believe that anyone conjoined to thee in parentage, nearest in blood, or most firm in mutual friendship, doth love thee so much as I do? If this be thy belief (believe me, Panphilus) it is erroneous. For truly none can love thee better, and hold thee (sweet Panphilus) dearer than I do. If therefore I love thee more than others, I deserve then to be requited with greater love and pity than others. Prefer me therefore worthily before the rest, and being pitiful towards me, forget all other pity, that might offend and prejudicate this, and let thy old father, as he hath lived a long time without thee, enjoy (a God’s name) his wonted rest without thy company. And let him from henceforth (if so he please) live amongst the rest of his other friends and allies: and if not, let him die. If it be true (as I have heard) he hath a good while since escaped the deadly stroke of death, and hath lived longer here than was convenient for his necessary health, and if he live in pain and with much trouble (as commonly old men do) thou shalt in thy absence show thyself more pitiful towards him, to let him die, than with thy presence to prolong his troubled and tired life. But thou oughtest rather to succour me, poor soul, whose life hath not been, a good while since, but by thy sweet company preserved, nor cannot tell how, without the same, to enjoy this mundane light, and who, being yet in the prime of my tender age, doth hope to live and lead with thee many joyful months and years together. If thy journey were to such purpose, and could work such supernatural effects in thy old father his body as the charms of Medea and her medicinal spells did upon old Æson, then would I say, that by just piety thou wert instiged, and would highly commend this requisite pity, and although it would seem repugnant to my will, yet would I wish and allow of this devotion in thee, and exhort thee to the performance of it.

  “But such a miracle, passing the laws and bounds of nature, can never come to pass, according to thy natural reason, as thou knowest well enough. Behold then if perhaps thou showest thyself more cruel and rigorous to me (than I believe or imagine thou wilt) or dost so little care for me, whom on thy own mere choice, and not by compulsion, thou hast loved, and yet dost, that above my love, thou wilt for all this advance the lost and helpless charity of the old man, take some pity at the least of thy own estate, and caring little for him, and bemoaning me less, rue thy own condition, whom (if first thy countenance and afterwards thy words have not deceived me) I have seen to be more dead than alive, as even now thou wert (without perceiving me, that did mark thee) by some uncouth accident, is a most extreme and sorrowful passion, and deprived once of my sight, and debarred of my company, dost thou believe to live so long time, as this pitiless pity doth require. Alas, for the love thou bearest to the Gods, look better to thyself, and see what likelihood of death (if by long and lingering grief men die, as I see it daily by others) this journey (ah, this inopinate and unlucky journey) will yield thee: which, how hard moreover and unpleasant it is to thee, thy sorrowful sobs and tears, and the unwonted mourning of thy heart, which panting and beating up and down in thy breast I feel, do plainly show. And if not apparent death (which is most like), a worser and more cruel condition of life than any death (be assured) will accompany thee. Alas that my enamoured heart, urged with great pity that it hath of my own distress, and constrained by that tender compassion which I feel for thee, must now play the humble suppliant, to pray and entreat thee, and to advise thee also, that thou wouldest not be so fond (what kind of pity soever moving thee thereunto) as with evident and imminent danger to hazard thy safe person.

  “Why, think that those who do not love themselves possess nothing in the wide world. Thy father, of whom (forsooth) thou art so pitiful, did not give thee to the world because thou shouldest be thy own minister and occasion of taking thyself away out of it again. And who doth not believe but that if our estate were as manifest, or could be lawfully told unto him, that he (being wise and of mature judgment and experience) would rather say: ‘Stay there still.’ And if discretion and reason would not, pity at the least would induce him to it, and this (I am assured) thou knowest well enough. It is therefore great reason, that what judgment in his own tried cause he hath given, he should (and is most likely) that he would in our cause (if he knew it) give also the very same. Wherefore omit this troublesome journey, unprofitable to thee, unpleasant to me, and prejudicial to us both. As these (my dearest Lord) are reasons forcible enough (if followed) to keep thee from going hence, so are there many more not a little effectual (if put in practice) to dehort thee from going hence, as first for example, considering the place whither thou goest. For put case thou dost bend thy journey thither where thou wert born, thy native soil and natural country, and a place beloved more of thee than any other (as I have heard thee say), in certain things annoyous, and for certain causes hated of thee. Because thy City (as thou thyself hast told) is full of haughty and boasting words, but more replenished with pusillanimous and unperformed deeds. And that they are not only slaves to a thousand confused laws but to as many different opinions as there are men. All which (as well foreigners as Citizens), naturally contentious and full of garboyles, do daily rage in civil broils, and intestine wars. And as it is full of proud, covetous and malicious people, so is it not unfurnished of innumerable and intricate cares, the least of which is (I know) most contrary to the good disposition of thy quiet mind.

  “But this noble City which thou dost intend to forsake (I am sure) thou art not ignorant, with what joyful peace it doth continually flourish, how famous it is for plenty of all commodities, how opulent, shining in glory and magnificence, and how heroically administered, under the sole regiment of a
mighty and invincible king. All which things, I know (if ever thy appetite I have known) are most pleasant to thy dainty taste. And besides all these rehearsed pleasures, here am I (here am I, Panphilus), whom thou shalt neither find there nor mayst live with in any other place. Leave off therefore thy sorrowful determination, and, changing thy unadvised counsel into better consideration, have regard (I pray thee, by tarrying here still) to the comfort and weal of both our lives.”

  My words increased his tears in great abundance, of the which, with intermingled and sweet kisses, I drunk up some. But after many a heavy sigh, that he fetched, he answered me thus again:

  “O chiefest and singular felicity of my soul, I (doubtless) know thy words to be most true, as by every manifest danger included in them, thou hast plainly set down before my eyes.

  “But because (since present and urgent necessity doth require, which I would it did not) I may briefly answer thee, I tell thee, that to pay and acquit with a short grief, a long and great debt, I think (my Fiammetta) thou wilt easily grant that I may and must justly do. Thou must therefore think, and rest assured, that (although I am sufficiently by the pity of my sick and aged Father duly obliged) yet am I no less (nay rather more straitly) bound by the same, which I ought to have of us both, which, if it were lawful to discover, it would of itself seem excusable enough, presupposing that what thou hast said should be judged of my Father, or of any other else for him, I would then leave and let my old Father die, without seeing him at all. But since it behoveth that this pity must be covert and kept close, and accomplished, also, without manifesting the cause of it, I see not how, without great infamy and reprehension, I might anyway desist to perform the same.