“To avoid which due slander in not discharge of my duty, frowning Fortune shall but three or four months at the most interrupt and suspend our wonted delights, which no sooner expired, but without all fail thou shalt see me joyfully return to thee again, and make both our hearts as glad at our merry meeting, as they are now dolefully daunted with their sorrowful parting. And if the place to which I go is so unpleasant as thou makest it (and as it is indeed compared with this, thy sweet self being here) then this must greatly content thee, thinking, that if there were no other occasion, that should provoke me to depart from thence, the qualities of the place, most contrary to the disposition of my mind, would be forcible motives to make me return and come hither again. Grant me therefore (sweet Mistress) this favour, that I may go thither, and as thou hast been heretofore most careful of my estate and honour, so now likewise tender the same, and arm thy mind with patience in this cross of frightful Fortune, because knowing this accident to be most grievous unto thee, I may hereafter make myself more assured, that in any chance of Fortune whatsoever, my honour is as dear to thee as myself.”
He had now said, and held his peace when I began thus to rejoin as followeth: “Now do I clearly see that which framed in thy inflexible mind thou dost bear inexorable. And I scarcely think that in the same thou dost admit any thought at all of those great and infinite cares with which thou leavest my distressed soul so heavily burdened, dividing thyself from me, which not one day, night nor hour can possibly live here without a thousand fears. And I shall remain in continual doubt of thy life, which (I pray the Gods) may be prolonged above my days, to thine own will and desire. Alas, what need I with superfluous speech prolong the time in discoursing and reciting of them by one and one, thyself knowing well enough, that the Sea hath not so many sands, nor heaven so many stars, as there be doubtful and dangerous perils that are imminent, and commonly incident, to mortal men? All the which (if thou goest from hence) as doubtless they will not a little fear me, so will they greatly offend and hurt thee. Woe is me for my sorrowful life, I am ashamed to tell thee that, which now cometh to my mind: but because by the which I have heard it seemeth a thing possible and likely, constrained therefore I will tell it thee. Now if in thy country, in the which (as the common fame is, and as myself particularly have heard) there is an infinite number of fair and dainty Ladies, who spending their young years in cunning love, and solemn sports and feasts (the first a passion especially incident to them, and the second a common thing used there), with wanton and alluring means are most expert to entice and procure love again, thy wandering eye should espy some one of these, which might perhaps please thy absent heart, and so for her love shouldest neglect and forget mine, ah, what a miserable life should I then lead!
Wherefore if thou dost bear me such fervent affection (as thou sayest and seemest to do) imagine how thou wouldest take it, if for exchange of another (which thing shall never come to pass) I should deny thee (Panphilus) my love: but before my true heart should harbour one treacherous thought thereof, these hands of mine should rent it from my breast, and be the executioners of my just death.
“But let us leave these imaginations, and that which we desire may never happen let us not with ominous augury divinate, and tempt the Gods in vain. But if thy mind be resolutely bent to depart, and forasmuch as there is nothing that can please me which may anyways displease and discontent thee, I must of necessity dispose myself to be agreeable to thy will herein. Notwithstanding, with earnest prayers I request thee, that it would please thee in one thing to follow my mind, in delaying (I mean) yet a little longer (if possibly it may be) thy sudden and sorrowful journey, during which time, imagining in the meantime thy departure, and with continual thinking thereof, presupposing thy absence, I may, with less grief of mind, learn and frame myself to live without thee: which is no strange thing for me to request, nor hard for thee to grant, since that the weather, which for this time of the year is most unreasonable, doth greatly incline to the help and favour of this my desire, and is most contrary to the drift of thy determination.
“Why, dost not thou see how the skies, full of dark and black clouds, with tempests, storms and floods of pouring rain, and Hills of thick snows choking up the ways, with raging and boisterous winds, and horrible thunders, do daily threaten the earth and earthly creatures with manifest dangers.
“And (as thou canst not otherwise know) how every little River and Brook is now by these continual showers of rain swelled into dangerous and mighty floods. What senseless man then is he (pardon me, good Panphilus) who (having so small regard of his life) would in this blustering, stormy and ill weather take any voyage or journey in hand? Do therefore my pleasure in this reasonable advice, which if thou wilt not do, then tender thy own safety, and do the duty which thou owest to thy own self herein. Let these lowering and doubtful times pass on, and stay for calmer wind and weather to travel at thine ease, and with less danger. And myself in the meanwhile (accustomed by little and little, and inured to pensive and sorrowful thoughts) will with more patience attend thy joyful return.”
To these words he deferred not his answer but said: “The tormenting pains, and variety of painful cares, in the which (O dearest Mistress), against my will, content and pleasure, I leave thee, and those which unfeignedly I carry with me in mine own breast, let the comfortable hope of my speedy return assuage and mitigate. Nor is it (pardon me, sweet Lady) a point of wisdom to busy thy thoughts about that (death, I mean) which may as well prevent me here, as surprise in another place, when my destinies must needs yield to their time, and to her stroke. Nor to conjecture and prognosticate of those accidents possible perhaps to annoy me as more likely to be prosperous unto me. Where and whensoever the wrath of the Gods or their favour doth light upon one, even there and then, without vain resistance, must he be content to suffer good or ill. Refer therefore all these things to their disposition, with never thinking or once looking after them, who knowing our necessities can provide better for us than we ourselves: desiring thee to apply thy mind rather, and employ thy whole cogitations, in humble supplications and requests to them (the gracious Gods, I mean), that they may have a prosperous and happy event. But that I ever become Lover to any woman than to thee (Fiammetta), to whose loyal and everlasting service I religiously dedicate my heart and with oath bind myself, Great Jove himself (yea, though I would myself) with all his might can never bring to pass, for with so strong and sure a chain, Love hath linked my heart to thine, sweet affection hath made my soul subject to the signory, and deep desire hath bound me for ever to thy dispositions. And assure thyself of this besides. That the earth shall first bring forth glittering Stars, and the heaven (ploughed with Oxen) shall bring forth ripe corn, before Panphilus shall or will in anything transgress the laws of thy peerless love, or entertain any other woman into the closet of his constant heart. The delay of my departure into my Country, which thou dost request of me, if I knew it could any ways avail thee, or be profitable unto me, I would more willingly perform than thou dost require. But since the daily deferring of it is an hourly augmentation of our sorrows, and in departing now, I should return again before the time of my long tariance here should be (according perhaps to thy mind) fully finished, I think it therefore a great deal better to hasten my journey. Which space of time thou dost also crave to learn (as thou sayest) supposed sorrows, wherein thou dost simply deceive thyself, considering that in this meantime thou shouldest have (myself not being here) that selfsame grief so forcible and extreme, which at my departure indeed, and in my unfeigned absence thou wouldest conceive. And as for the foulness of the weather, I will use (as other times I have been accustomed to do) a good and wholesome remedy, which I would (the Gods granted) that I had now occasion to practise returning from thence again, as in departing from hence I know to work well enough. And therefore with a cheerful and strong mind (my loving Fiammetta) dispose thyself to this, which (when thou must do) thou mayest better pass away in doing it on a sudden, than with successive fear an
d lingering sorrow expect every hour when to begin it.”
My tears (at the end of his persuasion somewhat relented) attending some other answer, and hearing this sorrowful discourse, did redouble their falling drops. Wherefore laying my heavy head upon his breast I stayed a good while without speaking any more unto him, and revolving many things in my mind, I could not assent to his consolatory persuasions nor dissent from his alleged assertions. For (alas) who would have answered otherwise to his words but thus: “Do that which pleaseth thee best, and come quickly again.” Truly I believe none. But not without great grief and effusion of many tears, after a long while I gave him that answer, telling him, moreover, that undoubtedly it should be a great wonder to find me alive at his return. After I had spoken these words, one comforting up the other, we wiped and dried up each other’s tears, and for that night did defer them till some other time.
And he (keeping his old custom) came to see me many times, which were but a few days (alas) before his departure, much changed in habit, and more (as it seemed) altered in mind, from that, since first he saw me. But that woeful night (ah, that black and thrice cruel night) being come, which was the beginning of all my annoys, and the last conclusion of all my joys, with divers and sundry discourses, but not without great anguish of mind, grievous wailings, and Seas of tears, and of sorrowful sobs and sighs on both sides, we passed soon away. Which (although for that time of the year was very long) yet to me it seemed the shortest night in all my lifetime. And now the open day (the menacing enemy, and divider of Lovers) began to overcome the light of the stars, the sign of which (coming on very fast after it) appeared to my eyes, embracing him most straitly I said thus:
“O the sweetest Lord of my life, what cruel one is he, that doth take thee from me? What angry God is that, which with so great force doth wreak his ire on me, that while I live it may be said Panphilus is not there where his Fiammetta is? Woe is me therefore, poor soul, that knowest not whither thou goest now, that live desolate, and destitute of thy company. When will that happy time come when once again I shall between my stretched arms enfold this lovely and sweet body? Alas, I fear me never. And as I know not, so am I not able to express that, which my miserable heart divining, went up and down, saying and lamenting in this sorrowful sort.” But oftentimes, recomforted of him again, I kissed him infinite times. And after many loving embracements, both of us very loath to rise, yet at the last, the encroaching light of the new day compelling us, unwillingly we did forsake the receptacle and secret testimony of our delights. And he preparing now to give me his last kisses, and farewells, with plenteous tears I first began to utter these words: “Behold, my only love, thou goest, and in short time dost promise thy return. Wherefore assure me thy faith hereof (if so it please thee), so that expecting the same (not accounting for all that thy bare words as vain) I may have of thy future firmness some lively hope and pledged comfort.” Then he intermingling his tears with mine, and hanging about my neck, wearied I think with heavy grief of mind, with a feeble voice said thus again:
“By illuminate Apollo (sweet Lady), I swear unto thee, who with most swift pace coming into our hemisphere (contrary to our desires) doth minister a sorrowful occasion of our sudden departure, and whose golden beams I do attend for my gladsome guides: and by that indissoluble love, which I bear thee, and by that due and forced piety which doth divide me from thee, that four months shall not fully pass but (if the Gods be gracious to me herein) thou shalt see me here returned to thee again.” And then, taking my right hand in his, he turned himself to that side where he saw the Images of our Gods hanging and said: “O most holy Gods, coequal and just governors of Heaven and earth, be present witnesses of this my faithful promise, and of my inviolable given faith.
And be thou also present (O mighty Love) the secret knower of all these things.
“And thou most stately Chamber, more pleasant to me than the heavens and divine habitacles to the Gods, as thou hast been a secret witness of our desires, so likewise keep these words enclosed in thy Walls, in the least of which if (by my own fault) I do fail, let the just indignation of the angry Gods be such towards me, as Ceres her ire was (in times past) towards Erisichthone, as Diana’s scorn was wreaked upon gazing Acteon, or such as jealous Juno’s envy appeared towards simple believing Semele.”
And when he had so said, with a zealous affection and earnest desire he embraced me, and with a feeble and interrupted voice he gave me his last A dio.
After he had thus taken his leave, overcome, poor wretch, with extreme anguish of mind, and woeful wailings, I could scarce answer him anything again, but yet at the last by plain and main force, I did fetch these trembling words out of my sad and heavy mind: “Thy assured faith solemnly promised to me, and sincerely given by thy right hand to mine, let Jupiter confirm in heaven with the effect, as Isis did the prayers of Teleteuse, and make it so perfect and entire in earth, as I do effectually desire, and as thou dost with sacred oath require.” And accompanying him to my Palace Gate, and opening my lips to bid him farewell, suddenly my words were taken from my tongue, and the light of heaven from mine eyes. And like a ruddy vermilion Rose cut down with scythe in open fields, feeling the parching and contracting heat of the Sunbeams, doth fall down amongst the green leaves, and losing by little and little his former colour, doth die: so half alive and dead I fell between my Maiden’s arms, and not a little while after, by her diligent care and help, who was most faithful unto me, with cold liquors (recalled back again to this sorrowful world) I did begin to feel the recovery of my former strength and forces. And hoping that he was yet at the gate, like a fierce Bull, having received a mortal wound, furiously rouseth himself, running and leaping here and there, so I amazed and lifting up my dimmed eyes, which had scarcely yet received their perfect sight, ran eagerly upon my Maid with open arms to embrace her, thinking to have clasped my Panphilus between them, and with a faint and hoarse voice, broken as it were in a thousand pieces with incessant weeping and wailing, I said: “O my soul, farewell.” The maid held her peace seeing my error. But afterwards having the full feeling of my senses, and perceiving indeed that I was deceived, I hardly kept myself from falling the second time into the like trance. It was now clear day in every place, when seeing myself in my chamber without my Panphilus, and looking round about me, and being ignorant (almost) and astonied for a great while how this might come to pass, I asked my waiting-maid what was become of him, and the poor soul with lamenting answered: “It is a good while since, Madame, that he bringing you hither in his arms, the bright day stealing on, hath by force (and not without infinite tears) separated and taken him from you.” To whom I said again: “And is therefore gone?”
“Alas, good Madame, yea,” said she. And yet consequently I asked her again: “With what kind of countenance did he depart?”
“With the most sober, saddest and most sorrowful look” (said she) “and like one who had the picture of grief, care and anguish lively depainted in his demiss visage.” Afterwards I followed and asked her what kind of gesture he did use, and what words he did speak, when he went away. And she answered: “You being, good Lady, half dead between my arms, and your soul wandering (I know not where), he got you quickly and softly into his arms, as soon as he saw you in so strange a plight, and searching up and down with his hand in every place, if your fainting soul was yet contained in your appalled body, and finding your heart panting, and beating strongly against your tender sides, bewailing and complaining, a thousand times and more, with the secret virtue (I think) of his last kisses he called you back again. But when he saw you still immovable, and as cold yet as the marble stone, he brought you hither, and doubting of some worse mishap, weeping oftentimes, he kissed your pale visage, saying: ‘O ye high Gods, if there be any harm committed and caused by my departure, let your just doom light upon me and not upon the faultless Lady: reduce her vagrant soul into her proper place again, so that of this last joy that doth remain (that is to see me at my last departure, and to give her
last ambrosial kisses, with her angelical voice once again saying farewell), we may receive a little comfort.’ But after that he perceived no feeling in you, as one devoid of counsel in this cause, and ignorant what to do, laying you softly on the bed, and like the surging waves of the Sea (tossed up and down with stormy winds) wallow and rush violently sometimes forward, and immediately with as much force totter back again, even so he suddenly, flinging from you to the chamber door, espied through the windows the threatening lightsome air (enemy to his abode) with hasty speed to come on. And coming running from thence to you suddenly again, and still calling and crying on you, rejoining as many sweet kisses, as raining bitter tears upon your fair and fainting face. But when he had done so many times together, and seeing that his stay with you could be no longer, embracing you, he said: ‘O sweetest Lady and only hope of my heavy heart, whom now (of force departing from thee) I leave in doubtful’
State of life, the pitiful Gods restore to thee again thy lost comfort, and preserve thee so long in life, that we may see ourselves once again joyful and merry together, as now (deprived of all consolation) this bitter departing doth divide us asunder.’ And all the while he spake these words, he did so extremely lament, that the vehement sobs and sighs, that seemed to cleave the heavens, and his loud plaints, did oftentimes strike a great fear into me, lest that they had been not heard of those only in our house, but of our next neighbours also.
“And not permitted now to tarry any longer, by reason of the clear brightness of the day that more and more came creeping on, with greater abundance of tears than before, he said: ‘Ah, my sweet heart, farewell.’ And drawn away as it were by force, hitting his foot a great blow against the threshold of the door, he went out of our house.
“From whence being gone (S.T.) he said, looking back, meaning that he could scarce go forwards, and still looking back at every step, thinking that when you came to yourself again, I should call him back again to you.” She now held her peace.
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 366
