Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  “The new Woman, who hath taken thy beloved in her nets, or else whom he hath with his cunning guiles overcome, and whom with so many revenging words thou dost menace, with her own fault (perhaps) hath not made him hers, but he, with his important suits (it may be), and with his flattering and pitiful words, great gifts, and serviceable deeds, hath won her to be his. And as thou wert wont (not able to resist his enchanting prayers, and to behold his woeful tears), so she, perhaps, as flexible by prayers, promises and protestations as thyself, could not endure them without some great pity of his distressed and sorrowful cause. If he could so well, by amorous complaints, express his hot desires, and could so cunningly (as thou hast told), like a Crocodile, whensoever it pleased him, bewail and lament, then must thou clearly know that tears, joined with beauty, are of great force to obtain their request. And besides this. Say that the Gentlewoman, with her sugared speeches and gracious behaviour, hath overcome him; why, is it not a thing commonly used nowadays in the world, that everyone doth seek his own advantage, not having any regard or care to another his prejudice, but where and when he findeth, even there and then he taketh as he best may. The good Woman, as expert as thyself in these affairs, knowing (perhaps) him to be a cunning Knight in Venus’ Courtly battles, allured him therefore the more unto her. And who withholdeth thee, or what impediment hast thou to hinder thee, that thou mayest not do the like to some other? Which thing, albeit, I neither counsel nor command. But if there can be no more done than may be, and that of necessity thou art constrained to follow Love, whensoever thou wilt pull thy neck out of his servile yoke thou mayest quickly find a great number of young and lusty Gentlemen in this City, more valiant, noble, proper, more worthy and more loving, and a great deal more constant than he is. Who (as I certainly believe), to obtain but the smallest favour at thy hands that he hath had, would gladly kiss the very ground that thou treadest on. Whose sundry kinds of delightful services, and sweet pleasures, shall so by little and little drive him out of thy remembrance, as he hath for love of his new Gentlewoman banished thee (perhaps) out of his memory.

  “Jupiter laugheth at these promised faiths and solemn oaths when they are broken. And whosoever doth use one but according as he is used himself what can the world speak or think of any more than the deserts of such an one did require? To keep faith with one that hath broken his is reputed nowadays but mere mockery, and to requite deceits with deceits is esteemed no small point of wisdom.

  “Medea, forsaken of Jason, entertained Egeus. And Ariadne, forsaken of Theseus, got Bacchus for her Husband, and so were their mournings turned into mirth. Temperate therefore thy griefs, and suffer thy pains patiently, because thou hast not any occasion to be sorrowful more for another than to be pitiful towards thyself. And whensoever thou wilt thou shalt find opportunity enough to make them cease, considering that the same and greater griefs than thine were sometimes sustained and passed away by others, greater and more noble personages than thyself. For Deianira was forgot of Hercules for Iole, and Phillis of Demophoon, and Penelope of Ulysses for Circe. And all their torments and passions were greater than thine, by how much the heat of their love was greater and more fervent than thine. And so much the more if their divine essence, immortal powers, and the haughty condition of those notable men and Women are well considered, and yet they suffered them. In these disgraces, therefore, thou art not alone, nor the first. And those adversities in the which patients have company are not so grievous and painful to them, as thou thyself dost say. Wherefore be merry again, and expel these vain cares, admonishing thee to have before thine eyes a continual doubt and fear of thy dear Husband, and of his just anger, and yet unconceived jealousy, to whose ears, if perhaps these follies (as needs they must at last) should come, admit (as thou sayest), that he could give thee no other, nor no less punishment than death, the very same (forasmuch as one can die but once) ought everyone (when his hour is come, and when he can) to take it in the best sort and order he may. And think, that if that kind of death, which in thy rage and angry mood thou dost so quickly and so wickedly desire, should follow and happen unto thee, with what great infamy and everlasting shame should thy living memory, thy dear honour, thy good name, and thine honesty, survive and remain for ever after blotted and ignominiously obscured.

  “Worldly things should be used, not as troublesome substances, but as transitory shadows. Wherefore, from henceforth, let neither thyself, nor any other, put any affiance in them, whether they have a prosperous or preposterous issue, nor yet, thrown down in adversity, let not any of the other side despair of the best. Clotho mingleth these and those things together, and forbiddeth that Fortune be stable and constant, and changeth every fate. None had ever the Gods so favourable to their wills that they might presently bind them unto them, or could at any time have them tied to their affections. For they, provoked by the guilt of our sins, turn our affairs topsy-turvy, and Fortune again helpeth those that be valiant, courageous and stout-minded, rejecting those that are pusillanimous, fearful and doubtful in their enterprises. And now it is time to prove if virtue have any place in thee. Admitted that at all times it may never be removed, though oppressed with dark clouds of adversities and darkened with black tempests of misfortune it is oftentimes choked and lieth secret and hidden. Hope also hath this property annexed to it, that it is not a guide to afflictions, nor showeth any way to grief or sorrow. Wherefore, he that may hope in anything, let him despair of nothing. We are tossed with the fluctuant waves of our destinies, and those things (believe me) that they prepare for us cannot with so light care, with so small regard, or with so soon labour be changed. The greater part almost of that which we (mortal generation) either do, or suffer, cometh from the heavens above.

  “Lachesis doth keep a decreed Law to her Distaff, and doth draw forth everything by a limited way. The first day she giveth thee is the last: neither is it lawful to wrest determined things, and wrought above with the influences of the Planets, to another course. It hath hurt many to be afraid of an immovable order, and many also in not fearing the same. Because while these are afearing their own destinies, the very same are already befallen to them unawares. Leave therefore thy griefs and sorrows, which voluntarily thou hast procured, and live joyfully, putting thy hope in the Gods, and endeavour to do well: because it hath oftentimes come to pass that when one doth think himself furthest from felicity, then with an inopinate step he is suddenly entered into it. Many Ships, securely sailing through the deep and wide Seas, have been oftentimes cast away in the mouth of the wished Haven. And some again, despairing altogether of succour, have in the selfsame day, and danger, yea suddenly, arrived to the desired end of their long voyage. And I have seen many trees smit with Jupiter’s scorching lightnings, and in few days after again covered over with green leaves, and loaden with goodly fruit. And some, again, cherished with great care, by some secret and sudden accident withered quite away. Fickle Fortune doth yield sundry effects: for as she hath been the instrument of thy long grief, so (if by hope thou dost nourish thy life) she will likewise minister to thee many occasions and wholesome means of double joy again.”

  And now she held her peace.

  But as many times as she perceived me distracted into these unwonted and extremest passions, so did the sage Nurse use these speeches towards me, thinking with herself to drive these irremovable griefs and obstinate anguish out of my mind, reserved only for the full consummation of my death. But none, or few, of her grave counsels did touch my troubled mind with effect, and the greatest part of them, spent in vain, vanished away in the air. And my sorrowful soul did every day more sensibly feel more green and grievous wounds. Wherefore, lying many times upright upon my rich bed, with my face covered between mine arms, I imagined divers great matters and strange things in my troubled mind. And now I will begin (pitiful Ladies) to tell of most cruel things, and not credible almost to be hatched in the breast of a simple Woman, if the sequel of these, or greater than these, were not seen afterwards to come to pass. My heart b
eing therefore cleaved almost asunder with unspeakable grief, and perceiving my Lover to be far from me; like a desperate and frantic Woman I began thus to say to myself: “Behold the very self and same occasion which Sidonian Eliza had to abandon this hateful world cruel Panphilus hath given me. And (alas) a great deal worse. It pleaseth him that, forsaking these, I seek out other regions. And since I am become his subject I will fulfil his hard behest and pitiless pleasure: and in one hour I will requite my hapless love, my committed wickedness, and my injured and dear husband with a tragical and unnatural death. And if oppressed souls, delivered out of this corporal prison, have any liberty in the new world, I will without delay conjoin mine with his. And where my body cannot be, my soul shall supply the place of it. Behold, therefore, I will die, and so rid me of all these pains. I think it most convenient, that with these hands I execute this last stratagem upon myself. Because there can be no other hand so cruel that can perfectly perform that which justly I have deserved. I will, therefore, without delay willingly take my death, the remembrance of which, although it be terrible to my weak fear, and to my womanly thoughts, yet shall it be as welcome unto me as this painful life is irksome unto my soul.” And after that I had resolved upon this last pretence, I began to devise with myself which was, of a thousand ways, the best to take my life from me. And first of all, cold and sharp irons came to my mind, the mortal means of many one his untimely death, considering that the said Eliza by their cruelty did forsake this common air: and then, after these, the deaths of Biblis and Amata were presented before mine eyes, the manner of which was offered to me to end my weary life. But more careful of my honour and good name than chary of myself, and fearing more the manner of dying than death itself — the one seeming unto me very infamous, and the other too extreme cruel in the mouths and minds of everyone — were occasions to make me refuse the one, and not to like of the other. Afterwards I imagined to do as the Sagontines, and as those of Abydos did, the first fearing Hannibal, of Carthage, and the other Philip of Macedon, committing themselves and all their goods to the fury of consuming flames. But knowing that this could be no small detriment to my dear Husband, unculpable and guiltless of my evils, I refused also this kind of death, as I did the rest before. After these I called to mind the venomous juices — which heretofore assigned to Socrates, to Sophonisba, to Hannibal, and to many other Princes more, their last days. And many of these, indeed, as they pleased my changeable fancy, so did I think them fit for the purpose. But, perceiving that in going about to seek them no little time was requisite, and doubting lest by inquiry of them my drifts should be called in question, and sifted out, and that my determined purpose also, in the meanwhile, might perhaps have been altered, I imagined to seek out some other kinds of death. Wherefore I bethought me (as many times I had done before) to yield up my feeble spirits between my knees, but doubting lest it should be known, and suspecting some other impediment incident to it, I passed to other headlong thoughts. And the very same occasion (and lest I should be also seen) made me forsake the burning, and swallowed coals of Portia. But the death of Ino and of Melicerta, and likewise the hunger-starved end of Erisichthone, occurring to my memory, the long time that I should have in executing the one and in staying for the other made me also to reject them, thinking that the pain of the last did a great while nourish the languishing body. But, besides all these ways, the precipitate death of Perdix, falling from the highest Tower of Crete, came also to my mind, which speedy kind of death only pleased me infallibly to follow, as one devoid of all ensuing infamy, saying to myself: “Casting myself down from the highest Turrets of my Palace, I shall crush my bones in a hundred pieces, and dash out my brains, and by all those several pieces will yield up my hapless soul, contaminated with prepared gore, and ready broken up to be offered up as a Sacrifice to the Gods. And few, or none, there are that will imagine and say that by mine own cruelty, fury or proper will this death befell unto me, but imputing it rather to some unlucky chance, with pouring out pitiful tears for me, will bewail my untimely death, and curse my fro ward Fortune.”

  This deliberation, therefore, took place in my mind, and it liked me especially to put the same in practice, thinking to have used great pity towards me, if I had perhaps become pitiless and cruel against mine own self. This determination, therefore, had now taken sure root in my heart, and I did not attend for anything else but fit time, when a chilly cold, suddenly entering into all my bones, made me tremble for very fear, which brought these words with it, saying: “O miserable Woman, what dost thou intend to do? Wilt thou (overcome with mad anger) in a senseless rage and fury cast thyself away? If thou wert now constrained to die of some grievous infirmity wouldest not thou (alas) endeavour and seek to live, because at the length thou mightest see thy Panphilus once more before thy death? Dost not thou think that when thou art dead thou shall never see him again, and that no kind of pity that he may use in thy behalf may help thee anything at all? For what did the slack return of Demophoon profit unpatient and strangled Phillis? She, flourishing, without any delight felt his coming, which if she could have stayed for he might have found her still a Woman as he left her, and not a Tree. Live, therefore, Fiammetta, for he will yet for all this (returning as a friend or as an enemy at length) come to thee again. And with what disposed mind soever he return, thou canst not choose but love him still. And perhaps thou shalt see him, talk with him, and move his unconstant and hard heart to compassion of thy woeful plights. He is not made of sturdy Oak, nor of Flinty stone, nor born, bred, nor nourished in a hollow Cave amongst wild Beasts, and did never suck the milk of Tigers, nor drink any other savage and cruel beast’s blood, neither is his heart made of Diamond, or of steel, and is not of so brutish and rustical inclination but that he will lend his ears and bend his heart to my pitiful plaints, passions and persuasions, and take some remorse of co-equal commiseration of my sustained sorrows. But if he will not be overcome with pity, then, wearied of thy loathsome life, it shall be more lawful for thee (driven on by manifest despair) to kill thyself. Thou hast passed away more than one whole year (without him) a pensive and painful life, and well mayest thou yet (though with redoubted grief) rub out another.

  Death doth not fail at any time, whensoever one doth either desire or procure it, which will be then as prest, and more ready to come, than now he is. And thou mayest then depart with hope, be he never so malicious and cruel, that being at thy present and hapless death he will shed some tears. Recall therefore again thy overrash and cruel advice. Because whosoever hasteneth too much to wicked counsel studieth afterwards to repent himself by leisure. And this last part of thy tragical life, which thou dost mean to play, is not a thing that may afterwards be amended with vain repentance: which if it did follow could not, with all the force it had, recall it back again.” My mind being thus mollified with these arguments, with a sudden altered purpose, and inopinate advice, I kept a long time in an equal poise of moderate reason. But, dreadful Megera, lancing it with sharp and mortal wounds of grief, disturbed my settled senses, and disturbed my willing mind from following this good motion, and egged me on to prosecute and to practise my first unnatural and cruel resolution, which now I thought privily and earnestly to bring to effect. Wherefore (to cloak it) I always showed mine old Nurse a merry countenance, and did finely counterfeit my sad cheer with some pleasant kind of comfortable speeches, to whom, because I would have had her gone out of the Chamber, I said: “Behold (good Mother) how I have planted thy most true reasons and grave counsels with great profit in my breast, but, because this blind fury may depart out of my foolish mind, withdraw thyself from hence awhile, and leave me to my rest, that am now very desirous to sleep.” But she, being as full of subtlety as myself, and as one that did divine of my secret intent, commended much the mind I had to sleep, and, as she was commanded, went a little way from me, into a dark corner hard by, but would by no means go out of the Chamber.

  But, because I would not give her any occasion to suspect that which I went about
, clean contrary to my mind and desire I seemed to like well of her staying still, thinking that after she had seen me sleep she would have gone away. With quiet rest, therefore, I feigned this imagined deceit, in the which, although nothing appeared outwardly, yet thinking of that hour which should have been my last in this pleasing world, full of bitter anguish, and environed round about with legions of stinging griefs, I muttered forth these words to myself, saying: