And I remember, that aggrieved at the slowness of her course, with divers sounds (following the old and ancient errors of those many years ago) I helped her forwards in her slow course, to grow to her full roundness, to the which after that it was come, contented with her perfect and full light, she cared not (as it seemed) to diminish the same again, and to return to her new horns, but to remain still in her round form, albeit with myself I held her excused for the same, esteeming her abode more favourable and gracious with her joyful Mother than desirous to return to the dark kingdoms of her infernal Husband. But I remember well, that the devout petitions and earnest prayers, which many times I offered up unto her, to accelerate her easy and slow pace, I turned now into threatening speeches, saying:
“O Phoebe, an evil rewarder of the devout service done unto thee, with pitiful prayers I labour to lessen thy travel and weary journey, but thou, not esteeming them, with long and slow tariance (injurious to thyself and to me) dost not care to increase mine. And therefore if, to the necessity of my help, thou dost not return more bicorned, thou shalt then perceive me as slow in thy honours and sacrifices, which I mean to offer up unto thee, as now I find thee careless and slack in thy duty to the world. Why, dost not thou know, that the sooner thou shalt four times horned, and as many times round, have showed thy lights to mortal creatures, by so much the sooner my Panphilus shall return to me again: who being once come back, then as slow or as swift as thou wilt thou mayest run out thy compass and circles.”
Truly that selfsame madness which did induce me to make such prayers, that very same did so bereave me of myself that it made me sometimes think that she (afraid of my threatenings) made greater haste in her course only for my pleasure: and other times, seeming not to care for me, to be more slow than she was before. This often beholding on her, made me so skilful in her nature and course that, when she was in her wane, or in any part of heaven, or conjoined with any star, I might have fully judged and known how much of the night had passed away, and how much was to come.
Both the Bears likewise (if she had not appeared) did by long experience make me very skilful and certain thereof. Alas, who would have believed that love could have taught me such Astrology, a science more fit for finest wits, and profound judgments, and not for a troubled mind occupied with his fury.
When the heavens, full of darkest clouds and overrun with boisterous and tempestuous winds, and choked with misty fogs, did from this place take my sight away, sometimes (if I had no other matters to busy myself withal) calling my waiting-maids and Gentlewomen together in my Chamber, I did myself tell and (to please my strange humour) willed them also to recount divers tales, the which the more they were elonged from the truth (as for the most part such kind of people are wont to tell) so much the more (methought) they had greater force to drive away sighs, and to make me merry, who gave diligent care unto them, so that sometimes, notwithstanding my melancholy fits, I laughed apace at them. And if perhaps such feigned jests and invented tales could not (as true matters) be justly set down in divers fabulous Books, yet in searching out of other’s mysteries by them, and applying these with mine, and perceiving myself to have company in my sorrows, I passed the time away with less grief. Neither do I know which of these was most gracious unto me, to see the nights passed away and spent, or else (my mind busied about other things) to see the days run on and spent.
But after that the foresaid operations, and many other devices, had occupied my senses for a good while, I went, enforcing myself (as it were) to sleep, although I knew it was but in vain, and therefore went rather to lie down to sleep. And being all alone in my bed, and troubled with no rumours and noise, all those thoughts almost, which in the daytime had sursaulted me, came now afresh to my mind, and in despite of myself made me, with many more arguments pro and con, to repeat them against myself.
And I would many times have entered into others, which thing (alas) was not so easily granted unto me, but yet sometimes by very force leaving them, and lying on that side where sometimes my Panphilus was wont to lie, which place reserving yet (as it were) a sweet savour and scent of his body, methought my drowsy senses therewith revived, and, my mind greatly contented, I did call him softly with myself, and (as though he had heard me indeed) I did sweetly pray him that he would return quickly again. I did after imagine that he was come again, and feigning many frivolous things with myself, by one and one methought I did tell them unto him, and he demanding many of me again, I did answer again in his place: and sometimes it happened that carried away with such foolish thoughts I fell at last asleep, which was sometimes more pleasant and more welcome to me than any watching and waking, because when I was awake I did falsely suppose these imaginations with myself.
But this, if it had endured but any small time, did make them appear no otherwise to my fancies than if they had been true indeed. Sometimes methought he was returned, and that in most fair Gardens (free from all suspicion and fear) decked with green leaves, sweet flowers, and divers kinds of pleasant fruits, I sported and played with him as other times we did accustom to do. And there, I holding him by the hand, and he me, unfolding his fortunes good and bad, and telling all his accidents unto me, methought that many times before he had perfectly told out his tale, with often kissing I did interrupt him in his delightful discourses. And as if the same had been true indeed (which but with feigned eyes I did contemplate) I said: “And is it true (sweet Panphilus) that thou art returned again? Certes it is. For here I have thee.” And then I kissed him again. Methought that other times with great solace I was walking with him up and down the sea banks. And sometimes my imagination was so strong herein that I did affirm it with myself, saying: “Well now I do not dream that I have him between my arms.” Oh, how it grieved me when it came to pass that my pleasant dreams and sweet sleep were both ended, which (going away) did continually carry that away with them which, without any trouble or grief to him, I must needs confess did oppress me. And although that I remained in great melancholy by remembering of them, living nevertheless all the next day in good hope, I was somewhat content and eased, desiring still that night would quickly draw on, because I might in my sleep enjoy that, which waking I could not attain to. And although my sleep did sometimes yield me such needy favours, notwithstanding it did not permit me to receive such dreams of pleasure mingled without much bitter and poisoned gall of sorrow, because many times (methought) I saw him apparelled with ragged and forlorn garments, besmeared all over (I know not) with what foul and black spots, and very pale and fearful, as though he had been pursued of some cruel enemy, with shrieks and outcries calling to me: “Help me, O my Fiammetta, help me!” Other times (methought) I heard divers talk and mutter of his death.
And sometimes these fantasies of horror pierced so far into my mind that (methought) I saw him lie dead before me: and in many other uncouth and pitiful forms, so that it never came to pass that my sleep was of more force or greater than my grief. Wherefore suddenly awaked, and knowing the vanity of my dream, as one contented yet but to have dreamed these terrors and terrible dangers, I thanked the Gods, remaining yet somewhat troubled in mind, and fearing that the things which I had seen, if not in all, in part at least they had been true, or else figures of true things to come. Neither I was content at any time or persuaded by the contrariety of these (although I said with myself, and heard of others, that dreams were but vain) until I did hear some news of him, of the which I began now carefully and warily to inquire after. And in such sort (as you have heard, fair Ladies) I passed away the tedious days and irksome nights, attending one still after other in their long course. But the truth is that, the time of his promised return approaching, I deemed it the best and safest counsel to live merely in the meantime: by which means my beauty (a little altered and decayed by reason of this long unacquainted grief) might return again into her proper place, because at his arrival I might not seem ill favoured and not gracious in his sight, and so might not (perhaps) please his dainty and curious eyes.
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Which was not hard for me to do, because being, since his departure, accustomed and well acquainted with sorrows, it made me endure and pass them away with very little trouble or no pain at all. And besides this, the near hope of his promised return made me every day feel a little more joy, and content of mind. Wherefore I began to frequent the feasts again, not a little while before intermitted of me, ascribing the occasion thereof to my obscured and cloudy days, perceiving now the clear and new times to be at hand.
Nor no sooner did my mind (contracted erst with most bitter and pinching griefs) begin to dilate and enlarge itself in such a pleasant and joyful life, but I became fairer than ever I was before. And I trimmed up my gorgeous and rich vestures, and made my precious ornaments fairer, no otherwise than a valiant Knight at arms doth clear and make bright his Complete Harness, challenged to some worthy and famous combat, because I might seem more stately and bravely attired with them at his return, the which (as after it fell out) in vain I did attend. As then therefore these actions were changed into another tenour, so did my thoughts also change their copy.
It came never now into my mind that I could not see him when he departed, nor the remembrance of the sorrowful sign of his smitten foot against the door, nor any thought of stinging and envious jealousy, nor his sustained troubles, nor my suffered toils, nor his dangers, nor my dolours did now molest my peace, but rather days next before the end of his promised return I said to myself: “Now it doth grieve my Panphilus to be long from me, and perceiving his time near, according to his promise, doth make short preparation and haste for his speedy return. And now perhaps, having left his old father, he is on his way.”
Oh, how pleasant were these words unto me, and how often did I most sweetly descant upon this note, thinking many times with myself, with what kind of most loving entertainment, gracious gesture, and sweet and friendly shows, I might at the first represent myself unto his person, and welcome him. Alas how many times said I to myself:
“At his return he shall be more than a thousand times embraced of me, and my zealous kisses shall be multiplied in such store that they shall not suffer one right and perfect word to come out of his mouth, and I will make restitution of them a hundred times redoubled, which at his departure (without receiving on his part any again) he gave to my pale and halfdead visage.” And in these kind of thoughts I doubted many times with myself that I could not bridle that burning and fervent desire that I should then have, at the first sight of him, to embrace him, if I did (perhaps) see him in open and public company.
But the ungentle Gods (as you shall hereafter perceive) found out a sorrowful means, which persuaded no fear, doubt or mistrust of the due performance of any such circumstances, and ceremonies, denying me the chiefest thing indeed. Remaining therefore continually in my chamber, and as often as anybody came into the same, so often did I believe that they were come to bring me tidings that he was coming, or else to tell me that he was already arrived, I never heard any talk in any public and private place, but with open and attentive ears I noted it well, thinking that either they did, or else should, speak of his return.
And sitting in my chamber I rose (I think) a thousand times out of my place to run to the window, as though I had been busied about something else, and looking from thence afar off, and beneath also at the door (driven on by the suggestion of a foolish conceit, and fond belief of his being near), I said:
“Is it possible, Fiammetta, that Panphilus being now returned doth come to see thee?” And afterwards, finding my mind illuded, confounded with myself, I went to my place again. And saying, that at his return he should bring certain things to my husband, I did oftentimes ask, and caused many to inquire, if he was arrived, or when his friends in these parts did look for him. But receiving no joyful answer of my diligent and careful inquiries, but only such an one as of him that should never come any more (as afterwards indeed he did not), caused me to live in a most sorrowful and solitary plight. Wherefore wrapped (most pitiful Ladies) in these cares, as you have heard, I came not only to the greatly desired and (with infinite pain) expected term, but I passed it, also many days after, in great and grievous woes. And uncertain with myself whether I should blame him or not, my hope began by little and little to relent.
Wherefore I partly left off my former and pleasant imaginations, into the which (giving perhaps my mind too great a scope) I had entered too far. And new thoughts now (the old being gone) began to toss and turmoil my soul afresh, and holding my mind (in divers doubts and perplexities) to know what was the occasion of his tariance longer than he promised, I began to excogitate many things carefully with myself. And before many other doubts that were objected to my mind, I found many things so ready in his excuse, and many more than he himself (if he had been here) could have perhaps alleged. Sometimes I said: “O Fiammetta, what reason doth make thee think that thy Panpliilus doth stay without returning to thee but because he cannot: divers sudden changes and unexpected affairs do many times hinder forward men in their determinations, and do quite dissolve their designments. Nor is it possible to prescribe so precise a time to future things as many unwisely believe. And who doth doubt also that present, near, ancient and dutiful piety doth not bind more than that which is absent, strange, new and but mere voluntary? I know it very certain, that he loveth me most of all, and doth now think of my sorrowful life, and hath no small compassion of my pains. And pricked on by force of love is many times in hand and most willing to set forwards, and to come unto me. But the old dotard (his injurious father) with his tears (perhaps) and prayers, hath somewhat more prolonged his appointed time, and, opposing his commandments to his forward will, hath retained him still there. Wherefore as soon as fit opportunity is answerable to his desirous mind, he will come to me again.”
But after these speeches and friendly excuses, my thronging thoughts did drive me on farther to imagine more strange, unlucky and more grievous occurrences. Sometimes I said:
“Who can tell, if he, more wilful’ (than his due love required) to see me again, and too precise to come just at the end of his appointed month, laying aside the great pity of his aged father, and neglecting all other business, hath embarked himself in some slender vessel, not attending the calms of the tempestuous waves (and crediting too much deceitful and lying Mariners, who for their gains are too adventurous and desperate of their own lives, and too prodigal of those of their passengers, and having committed himself to the rage of the merciless winds, and surging waves of the dangerous Seas) is perhaps drowned and perished in them. Unfortunate Leander by no other occasion and lamentable means than these was taken from his hapless Hero. Again who knoweth if, constrained by his froward fates, and fortune, he is thrown upon some unhabitable and desert rock, and, escaping danger and death by water, in exchange of that hath gotten a worse by famine or ravening fowls, or else left upon any rock by forgetfulness (as Achimenedes was) doth in vain attend that some should come, or by chance touch by, to fetch him from thence. For who is ignorant how full of deceits the lawless seas are?
“For it may be also that he is taken by enemies, or with gins by wicked Pirates bound fast and kept in prison. All which perils, as they are common, so do we daily see them come to pass.” But on the other side afterwards it came to my mind that his journey was more safe by land, yet I did imagine likewise of a thousand sinistrous chances that might hinder and stay him as well that way. Wherefore judging that he might (when such inopinate and unlucky hazards of fortune came suddenly and soonest objected to my mind) find the more just and better excuse (as he did allege the greater and worser dangers) sometimes I said:
“Behold the Sun, hotter than it was wont to be, doth dissolve the huge hills of Snow congealed in the middle region of the Air, whereupon with furious and flowing stream they came pouring down into the plains, of the which he hath not a few to pass over. Wherefore if now, with more audacious rashness than advised reason, he hath adventured to pass over them, and with his horse is fallen into any of them, and s
tifled there amongst them hath miserably lost his life, why, how can he then come? Floods have not learned of late, neither is it a strange thing to them, with these injuries to molest travellers, and cruelly to swallow up unawares those that pass over them. But if he hath happily escaped these unhappy dangers, he may be perchance fallen into the hands of some pitiless thieves, and (despoiled of all that he hath) is perforce kept, and without hope of redemption stayed of them.
“Or else peradventure may be overtaken by some malady in the way, where now he abideth for the recovery of his health, and after he is well again will without fail come joyfully to us.” While these careful imaginations occupied thus my perplexed mind, a little cold sweat did overrun all my body, and I was so greatly afraid of the event of these uncertain dangers, and so strongly persuaded of their truth, that I turned my break-brain thoughts into pitiful prayers to the divine powers, that they would take the same from me, apprehending them so forcibly in my mind, and no more nor less, than if before mine eyes, I had seen his imminent danger, and instant death. And sometimes I remember that with firm belief I bewailed his woeful end, as if I had seen any of these intellectual adversities indeed.
But afterwards I said to myself: “Alas, what strange causes are these which my miserable thoughts cast before my eyes. The Gods forbid that any such may befall. Let him stay still, and as long as pleaseth him, and let him rather (than to content me, or to offer himself to any dangerous jeopardy, which may chance indeed, though now they do but delude my troubled wits) not return, nor see me at all.
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 368
