“All which perils (though they are indeed possible) yet are they impossible to be kept close, being most like that the untimely and violent death of so noble and famous a young Gentleman as he is cannot long be hidden, and concealed, especially from me, of whose estate and welfare I do carefully cause, and with secret and subtle investigations do continually procure, diligent inquiry to be made.
“And who doth doubt moreover if that any of these supposed perils were true, but that flying Fame, the swift reporter of ill news, would have long since brought the manner of his death hither? By means of which fortune (but my least friend in this) would have given me an open way to have made me the most sad and most sorrowful woman that might me.
“Wherefore I rather believe, that he remaincth in as great grief as I am in, if that his most willing return is forbidden only by the heavy commandments of his father, and therefore he will come quickly or else, excusing his staying so long, will for my great comfort write to me the occasion thereof.”
Truly (the foresaid thoughts) although they did fiercely assault me, yet were they easily enough overcome, and the hope, which by the term determined was enforced to fly from me, with all my power I did retain, laying down before it the long and fervent love which he bare unto me, and I to him, his pawned faith, the adjured and sacred Gods, and his infinite tears, in which things I did affirm and think it impossible that any deceit or guile might be hidden. But yet I could not so rule my sorrowful mind, but that this hope, thus forcibly kept, must needs give place to many vagrant and vain thoughts, that were yet left behind, which, driving hereby little and little out of my woeful breast, did work amain to return to their former places, reducing eftsoons to my mind divers prodigious signs and tokens, and many other unfortunate accidents. And I did scarcely perceive, the peaceable hope being almost quite expelled out of my heart, but I did immediately feel their mighty and new forces planted in her place. But amongst all other murdering thoughts that did most of all massacre my grievous soul (hearing nothing at all in process of many days of my Panphilus his return) was sharp and stinging jealousy. Ah, this spitefully galled and wounded my breast more than I was able to endure. This did disannul all excuses (which I had made for him), as knowing and consenting to the occasion of his absent deeds. This did oftentimes induce me to those speeches condemned of me before, saying:
“Alas, how art thou so foolish to believe that either the love of his father, urgent affairs or delightful pleasures may now keep Panphilus from coming hither, if he did love thee so as once he said he did? Dost not thou know that Love doth overcome all things, for he hath (fervently (perhaps) enamoured of some other Gentlewoman) quite forgotten thee, whose pleasures, being as forcible as new, do hide and hold him there, as sometimes thine did keep him here.
“Those foresaid Ladies, passing gracious in everything they do, and (as thou saidst) in every point most apt to love, and with brave allurements endeavouring to be beloved again (he himself being likewise, by the delicate pureness of his clear complexion, naturally inclined to feel such passions, and for many rare and commendable qualities in him most worthy to be beloved), applying their whole studies to his service, their pains to his pleasures, and he his desires to their devotions, have made him become a new Innamorato. Art thou so assotted with the fame and glory of thine own beauty that thou dost not believe that other Women have shining eyes in their heads, fairness in their faces, and that they are not as full of courtly behaviour and good graces, and all things else, that may command young men’s minds, as well as thou art? And dost thou think that they are not so skilful (who are (alas) a great deal more than ever thou wert) in these amorous attempts as thou art? Why, thou art deceived. And if this be thy belief it is false. And dost not likewise believe that he on the other side can please more than one Woman? But yet I think that if he could but see thee, it would be a hard thing for him to love any other. But since he cannot see thee, nor hath not seen thee these many months, how canst thou deem otherwise than so? Thou must needs know that no worldly accident is permanent and eternal, for as he was enamoured of thee, and as thou didst please him, so is it possible that another may like him, and he (abandoning thy love) may affectionate some other. For new things are ever wont to please a great deal more than those which are daily seen. And everyone doth with greater affection desire that which he hath not than that which he hath already in his own possession.
“Again, there is nothing, be it never so delightful, which by long time enjoying and using the same doth not wear irksome at last, and of less (if of none) account at all. Who will not moreover sooner and more willingly love a fair and new Lady at his own house, than one whom he hath long since served in a foreign Country and unknown place. He did not also love thee (perhaps) with so fervent and zealous affection as he made thee believe. And neither his tears nor any of his passions were to be held so dear, and so sure a pledge of such great love, as he did still affirm, and as thou didst think that he did bear thee. Many men also, departing from their beloved, are tormented with anguish, and grief of mind, with bitter wailings, taking their woeful congies, swearing deeply, and promising many things profoundly, which with a good and firm intent (perhaps) they mean to perform, but some sudden and new chance controlling the same, is an occasion to make them forget all their former oaths and protestations.
“The tears, oaths and promises of young Men are not now, and of late, become arres and pledges of ensuing deceits for simple and credulous Women. They are generally more skilful and more apt to know all these things, than in knowing how to love, such is their vagabond wills, leading them to these inconveniences. And there is not any of them who would not sooner change ten Women every month than to adhere and keep himself ten months only to one. These continually believe to find out some new customs, forms and devices, and do greatly glory to have had the love (ah, the spoil) of many Women. What dost thou therefore hope for? Wherefore dost thou suffer thyself to be abused with vain and false belief? And yet (Fiammetta), though thou knowest not the means, and art not able to withdraw him from this, yet continue thou still in loving him: and show, that with that art, that he hath betrayed thee, thou hast not deceived him.”
And many other words followed these, which did kindle me with fierce and burning anger, and which did with a most timorous heat so inflame my mind, that it brought me almost to unbeseeming, furious and frantic actions. Nor the confected rage did first pass away, before the infinite tears (bursting it asunder) did most abundantly issue out of my watery eyes, which were accompanied also (the same nevertheless remaining sometimes with me a good while) with great and grievous sighs, that came smoking out of my smothered heart (which to comfort and cheer up myself again), condemning that which my presaging mind did foretell me of, by main force as it were, the well-nigh lost and fugitive hope, with most vain reasons, did return again. And in this sort recovering almost again all the joy that whilome had left me, I lived many days between hope and despair, being always careful and beyond all measure desirous to know exactly what was become of him that came not.
THE FOURTH BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
MY TEARS (PITIFUL Ladies) have been but light hitherto, and my sighs pleasant, in respect of those which my sorrowful tongue (not so pressed to write them, as my heart so prone to feel them) doth now prepare to set down before you. And truly, if the pains which I have passed hitherto are well considered, they may be rather termed dalliances of a young and wanton gentlewoman than woes of a tormented Lover. Arm your minds therefore with firmness and patience, and let not my promises so make you afraid, that (the things which are past, seeming grievous unto you) you would not be desirous to hear the sequels, which are full of more sorrow, and greater grief. And I care not (gentle Ladies) to comfort you any whit in these sad reports, because you might take the more pity of me, and the more, by how much knowing his malice the greater, by whose impiety all these sorrows did fall upon me, you might be more wary, and less wilful in committing your fond dispositions to young Men’s f
leeting discretions, and in putting your trusty hope into their trothless hands. And so in talking with you, I shall (perhaps) oblige myself unto you, and in counselling you make myself unbound, or else, admonishing you by these perplexed accidents (allotted and befallen to me) I shall help, if not heal, your amorous maladies. I say therefore (good Ladies) that with such divers imaginations (which you have a little before comprised by my discourse) I was continually molested, when, after more than a month past of his promised return, I heard certain news on a day of my beloved young Gentleman. And thus it was. That going with a devout mind on a day to visit the sacred and religious places, and to offer up to the Gods some orisons for the release of my hard mishaps, that, restoring Panphilus to me again, or else driving him utterly out of my mind, I might recover my banished comfort, it came to pass, that being in company with many wise and discreet Ladies (some nearly allied to me by blood and affinity, and others conjoined to me by ancient familiarity) set upon pleasant discourses, and in merry veins, there arrived by chance a Merchant, who, no otherwise than Ulysses and Diomedes did to Deidameia, began to show forth his gems and precious Jewels, and such especially as he thought most fine, and fitting best the dainty minds of such young and curious Gentlewomen.
Who also (as I gathered by his speech, and he being also demanded of one of the company) saith that he was an inhabiter of that City where my Panphilus was born, and dwelled. But after having shown many of his knacks, and some of them bought of the Gentlewomen, others priced and given him again, they entered into pleasant and merry talk amongst themselves, and whilst he did look for his money, one of them, who was of a young and flourishing age, of a most beautiful countenance, and of noble blood, commended of many for her rare qualities, and of most for her courtly and nice behaviour, and the very selfsame Gentlewoman who had asked him before what he was, and from whence he came, demanded of him again, if he had ever known one Signor Panphilo his countryman. Oh, how much with these and many other demands did she please my humours, and fulfil my like desires. I was in sooth greatly glad that they fell into such talk, and did most willingly lift up my ears to hear the arguing of them both, but especially to know the effect of his answers, who without delay said:
“And who is he that doth know him better than I do?” To whom she said again, striving (as it were) and importunately forcing herself to know what was become of him: “And where is he now?”
“Oh” (said the Merchant), “it is a while since his Father (having no more Children but him) called him home unto him”: whom the young Gentlewoman yet asking again: “How long is it since thou knewest any certain news of him?”
“Truly” (said he), “never since
I came from thence, which is not yet (I think) full fifteen days.” She continued still inquiring and said: “And how doth he now?”
“Very well,” said he, “(it seems) for the very same day that I came from thence, I saw a most fair young Gentlewoman, with great solemnity, feast and joy, enter into his house, which (as I partly understood) was newly married unto him.”
Whilst the Merchant was speaking these nipping words, although I gave a doleful ear unto them, yet I stared the inquisitive young Gentlewoman steadfastly in the face, marvelling with myself, and imagining greatly in my mind, what the occasion might be, that should move her to examine such strait particulars and interrogatories of his estate whom I would before this time have believed that no other woman but myself had scarce known. For I perceived, as soon as the sorrowful words (that Panphilus was married) came to her ears, that casting her eyes down, there appeared in her cheeks a red and hot colour, and that her prompt and ready words died presently in her mouth, and by as much as I could perceive, with the greatest pain in the world she stayed her tears (ascended already up into her eyes) from trickling down her cheeks. But I (especially desiring the same), oppressed with sursaults of unspeakable grief, and suddenly after assailed with another as forcible and as great (jealousy, I mean), I scarcely stayed myself with most vile and scolding terms, from reprehending her altered countenance, and disturbed senses, as one grieved at the very heart, that she should show towards Panphilus such manifest tokens of Love, greatly fearing thereby that she had (perhaps) (as well as I) some just occasion to be discontented with the report of these bitter news. But yet I moderated myself, and with great pain and fretting anguish of mind (the like I think was never heard of), I bridled and kept still my troubled and ireful heart, under a modest and unchanged countenance, though more desirous to complain and bewail than to hearken any further after such heavy news, or to see such apparent and wounding signs of corrivality.
But the young Gentlewoman, perhaps with that same forced courage and strength, forcibly retaining her grief within her like myself, and passed it away, as though it had not been she who was before so much troubled in mind and in face, and showing a semblance that she believed his words, the more she asked, the more she found his answers contrary to her desires, and alas most repugnant to mine. Whereupon, leaving the Merchant, of whom so instantly she had demanded news, and disguising her sadness with a visard of feigned mirth, we stayed longer together (than I would), talking diversely of this and that. But after our talk began to grow to an end, everyone went away, and I myself, with a soul fraught full of anger and anguish, fretting within myself, no otherwise than the enraged Lion of Libia after he hath discovered the Hunter and his toils, my face burning sometimes by the way as red as fire, and sometimes waxing suddenly pale again, sometimes with a slow pace, and sometimes again with a hasty gait, and broad steps, more than womanly modesty did require, sorrowfully returned to my sorrowful lodging. Where, after that it was lawful for me being all alone, to do what I would, and entered now into my Chamber, I began most bitterly to lament. And when a good while together my infinite tears had washed away a good part of my grief, my speech being come to me more frankly than before, with a faint and feeble voice I began to lament, saying:
“Now dost thou know the occasion, so greatly desired of thee, of his unjust stay? Now dost thou know (miserable Fiammetta) why thy Panphilus doth not return to thee again? Now hast thou found out that, which so seriously thou didst search out? What dost thou then desire to seek more, miserable wretch as thou art? What dost thou demand more? Let this suffice thee. Panphilus is no more thine. Cast away now thy flattering hope for ever seeing him again, and thy desires to have him ever any more. Abandon thy bootless tears, lay down thy fervent love, and leave off all foolish and vain thoughts. Believe from henceforth divine presages, and credit hereafter thine own divining mind. And now begin to know (though too late) the perjuries and deceits of young men.
“Thou art come just to that miserable point whereto other silly women (trusting too much like thyself) have already arrived.” And with these words I rekindled my incensed rage, and reinforced my grievous lamentations. And afterwards with most fierce words I began to speak thus:
“O ye Gods, where are you now? Where do your just eyes now behold? Where is now your due anger? Wherefore doth it not fall upon the contemner and scorner of your might? O mighty Jupiter, whose divine Godhead can brook no wicked perjuries, and yet is by an execrable imp forsworn, what do thy thunderbolts, and where dost thou now bestow them? Who hath most justly now deserved them? Wherefore are they not cast upon that most irreligious and perfidious man, to terrify others, by his perpetual fall, not to forswear thy holy name? O illuminate Phoebus, where are now thy Darts, with mortal steels, of which fierce Python (in respect of him who so falsely called thee to witness of his detested treachery and deep deceits) did so ill deserve to be pricked? Deprive him of the comfortable light of thy shining beams, and become his pursuing enemy, no otherwise than thou showedst thyself to miserable Œdipus. O ye other Gods and Goddesses whatsoever: and thou mighty Love, whose celestial power this false lover hath mocked, why do you not show your force, and pour thy condign wrath upon his guilty head? Why do ye not turn heaven and earth, and all the cruel fates and the infernal sisters, against this new bridegroom, t
hat in the world for a notable example of a detestable deceiver, and for a wicked violater of your righteous laws, a despiser of your might, he may not survive any longer to laugh and flout you to scorn?
“Many less faults than this have procured your heavy indignation not to so just a revenge as this. Wherefore then do you delay it? You are not scarce able to be so cruel towards him that he might for his heinous offence be duly punished. Alas, poor wretch, wherefore is it not possible, that yourselves, injured also, should not feel the effects of his fraudulent dealings as well as I, so that the ireful heat of his deserved punition should be as well kindled in your revenging breasts as in my injured heart. O Gods, throw all those dangers down, or else turn some of those least plagues upon his hateful head, of the which I did of late doubt. Kill him with any cruel kind of death that pleaseth you best, because I might in one hour feel my total and final grief, that I should ever after have sustained for him, and so revenge yourselves and me at once.
“Do not partially consent, that I alone should bewail the grief of his vile offences, and that he, having mocked both you and me, should merely rejoice and disport himself with his new spouse.”
But incensed afterwards with less anger, and yet provoked with more fierce and sharp complaints, coming to Panphilus, I remember that I began thus to say:
“O Panphilus, now I know the cause of thy staying there. Now are thy deceits most manifest unto me. Now do I see what kind of love doth hold thee back, and what pity doth keep thee there. Thou dost now celebrate the unhallowed Hymens and espousal rites (nay, wrongs), and I (poor soul, enchanted with the pitiful charms of thy fair tongue, and with thy Crocodile tears deceived) do now consume and waste myself away with mourning and lamenting, making with my floods of tears an open way to my speedy death, which with ignominious titles of thy cruelty and homicide shall quickly ensue.
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 369
