Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  FIAMMETTA SPEAKETH TO HER BOOK

  AND THOU, MY little Book, drawn out (as it were) from the sepulture of thy Lady, art now (as it hath pleased me) come to an end, with a most careful, troublesome and tired foot, even such as thou art now, written by mine own hands, and with my falling tears in most places defaced, before the enamoured Ladies and wanton Gentlewomen, present and offer thyself. And if (pity being thy guide, as I do most assuredly hope it will be) they shall willingly look on thee; and if Love hath not changed his Laws since I became a miserable Lover, let it be no shame for thee in so vile a habit (as I send thee) to go to every Lady, and Gentlewoman, of what honour and degree soever she be, so that they deign to give thee friendly entertainment. Thou needest not any other habit, since I thought this most fitting thy effects: considering that thou must be content to figurate my life, myself and my times (which being most unfortunate) make thee apparelled with misery as me appalled with mishap. Wherefore take thou no care for that which other books (whose subjects are contrary to thine) are wont to have, which are, sumptuous coverings garnished with curious and costly works, depainted and beautified with sundry fair colours, polished with fine shavings, laid on with embroidered knots of Gold and silver, or else bearing high styles and glorious titles. These (I say) are not beseeming the sad and heavy plaints which thou dost carry in thy forehead. Leave these aside (my woeful Book), and the great margins also, and ruled spaces, the brave kinds of coloured inks, and the great characters, placed in the beginning of happy Books, which only sing of mirth, glory, joy and bliss. It doth become thee best, with torn and ruffled leaves, and tached full of blots and blurs, to go thither; and to those to whom I send thee, with ringing my distressed mishaps into the ears of them that shall read thee, to awake and stir up their hearts to holy pity and due compassion of them. Of which piety, if (by thy suggestions) they express and show forth any outward signs in their fair and beautiful visages, then be not thou slack to render them (as well as thou canst) immediate and immortal thanks for their pitiful duties towards thee. Why, thou and I are not reduced to such a miserable condition, nor are not so heavily disgraced of cruel Fortune, that these requitals should seem so great but that we may, and can, well afford them. Nor can she take this privilege from any wretched Woman — that is, to set herself forth as a president of mishap, and to give approved examples of misery to those which live in happiness, because they may, in their golden felicities and in their prosperities, use a moderate mean, and so temperate their pleasures that they fall not into that confused labyrinth of love and into that miserable estate of life, as I have done. Which kind of life, both led and loathed of me, so plainly (as I know thou canst well do) and so particularly lay open before them that (if in their wily loves they are but anything wary and but meanly wise), by fear of our sustained harms, they may be well advised, and forewarned in obviating the secret and subtle deceits of young Men. Go, therefore. But whether a hasty or slow pace is fittest for thee I know not, nor what piece of thee shall be first sought out, nor how nor of whom thou shalt be received. But as Fortune doth guide thee, so go thou on. Thy course cannot be much inordinate. Thy cloudy times do hide thy shining star, which, if it did yet appear, furious Fortune hath so eclipsed that she hath left no hope of thy better hap, nor argument of thy health. And therefore thrown abroad here and there (as a Ship without helm and sails tossed up and down the surging waves), carelessly abandon thyself, and as the places require, use likewise divers and congruent counsels. And if perhaps thou dost come to the hands of some one woman who doth with so great content and happiness enjoy her loves, as we are most unfortunately molested with ours, that will laugh and flout at mine, and reprehend them (perhaps) and condemn them for foolish and yeld toys, with an humble and patient mind bear thou nevertheless their scorns, and digest their taunts which are but the least part of our great griefs, and which seem nothing at all to those that we have already passed. And put her in mind that Fortune is evermore unconstant and wavering; by which Caveat she may know that by the ordinary course of her mutability she may make us glad again, and may bring her to that kind of painful life as she hath now driven us unto, and that then, with like mocks and flouts, we will requite and pay hers home again. But if thou shalt find anyone that in reading of thee cannot keep the tears from her eyes, but that (condolent and pitiful of our cares and pains) doth with the same multiply thy blots, receive and gather them, as most precious and holy drops in thy bosom, and mingle them with mine; and then showing thyself more pitiful and afflicted, request her humbly that she would pray for me to him who doth with golden feathers in a moment visit all the world, so that, entreated by a more religious mouth, and by more meritorious prayers than mine, and therefore more pliable to the petitions of others than to my plaints, he may lighten my heavy sorrows, and take away my oppressing anguish of mind. And whosoever she be, even with the form of words which to miserable wretches is granted most exaudible, I pray, and do with those prayers most heartily obtest, which are in the ears of the hearers of them most effectual, that she may never taste of such bitter miseries, and that the placable Gods may be ever favourable unto her, and that she may happily and perpetually enjoy her love according to her own desires. But if among the amorous company of wanton young Gentlewomen posting thee from one hand to another thou dost (by chance) come to the fingering of mine enemy, and to the wrongful usurpress of my felicity, fly incontinently from thence as from an infectious and naughty place, and discover not one of thy leaves, lines or letters to her robbing and bewitching eyes, lest that, understanding the second time of our woes and pains, she might have more occasion to boast and brag again that she hath wounded and confounded me. But yet if it chance that by force she keep thee, and (maugre thy teeth) will see and read thee, then offer thyself in such sort to her that she may not laugh, but lament in reading of my hard mishaps, and, pricked with the sting of her guilty conscience, she may be in mind persuaded to restore to me again my unjustly detained Lover. Oh, what happy pity and holy piety should this be, and then how would the sour fruit of this harsh pain seem sweet to my distempered taste. Shun the eyes of men, of whom, if thou canst not choose but be seen, speak unto them, saying: “O ungrateful generation, deriders and deceivers of simple women, it is not meet for you (considering your demerits) to look into holy things, and fraught full of such pity as this is, and (knowing your remorse of pity to be so small, as your impiety and cruelty is great) unfit to meddle with distressed and pitiful things.” But if to him who is the origin of all our harms thou dost chance to come, with this exclamation afar off greet him from me, saying:

  “O thou which art more rigorous and harder than any Oak, fly from hence, and do not violate me with thy unworthy and polluted hands. Thy corrupted faith is an occasion of all this which I bring with me. But yet if with a courteous, gentle and indifferent mind thou wilt read me, recognizing thy former faults and present injuries unjustly done against her whose messenger of sorrow I am, and that returning to her again thou desiredst to be pardoned of her, then boldly see, touch and spare not to read me. But if thou wilt not perform this last requisite duty, it is not then so decent and honest a thing for thee to see the pitiful tears which thou hast unpitifully caused; and then would it be again but small for thy credit to increase them more and more if (in reading me) thou dost (as I think thou canst not) persist in thy first and froward will.”

  And if perhaps any curious and dainty Gentlewoman doth dislike of thy words so rudely composed and so disorderly couched together, tell her that that which is unpolished and unpleasant for her fine conceit she may (if she please) overslip and let pass, because brave and filed speeches require clear minds and free from all hurtful passions, and are best beseeming merry and calm times. And therefore thou shalt say unto her, that she may a great deal sooner fall in admiration, how my troubled wit, my tired pen, and pains did last out but for that little which thou dost tell out of order, considering that fervent love on the one side, and burning jealousy on the other, with divers con
flicts, held my sorrowful soul in continual battles, thy obscure and cloudy times feeding the one, and contrary Fortune favouring the other. Thou mayest go safely away (as I believe) and securely escape from all awaits laid to entrap thee, and needest not care for the cavils of captious heads, because thou mayest be assured that Envy, with her venomous teeth or infectious tongue, shall neither bite nor sting thee.

  But if perchance thou shalt find any (which I think thou never canst) that, being more miserable than thyself, might emulate thee (as one more happy and not so wretched as herself), then patiently suffer thyself to be bitten. But I do not well know what part of thee shall receive any new offence, since that with the cruel blows of angry Fortune I see thee torn and broken in every place. Thou canst not be injured now any more by her than already thou art, nor from any high and happy seat is she able to make thee fall down to a more vile and base place, for so low as none may be lower is that where now thou dost remain. And admit that she hath not thought it meet to conjoin us with the superficial part of the earth, and doth still seek and suppeditate stranger occasions to inter us under it, we are so beaten, and so inured to adversities, that with those shoulders with which we have sustained and do yet bear the greatest and most heavy burdens of woes and sorrow, we shall with less pain and not with so great grief bear lighter and endure lesser than those. And therefore let her assail us when and where she will. Live, therefore. For nothing may deprive thee of this. And remain an eternal example and perpetual president of bitter anguish and grief of thy woeful Mistress to those who live in happy mirth and heavy misery.

  The Verse

  University of Naples — Boccaccio persuaded his father to let him attend the Studium in Naples (the present-day University of Naples), where he studied canon law for six years. He also pursued his interest in scientific and literary studies.

  ‘The Knight’s Tale’ and ‘The Two Noble Kinsmen’ (Teseida)

  Teseida, also known as The Theseid, Concerning the Nuptials of Emily, is an epic poem composed by Boccaccio in c. 1340. Containing almost 10,000 lines divided into twelve books, it concerns the career and rule of the ancient Greek hero Theseus, although the majority of the poem tells the story of the rivalry of Palemone and Arcita for the love of Emilia. The epic provided the main source for Chaucer’s The Knight’s Tale (the opening narrative of The Canterbury Tales), as well as the foundation for William Shakespeare and John Fletcher’s 1614 drama The Two Noble Kinsmen. The exact sources of Boccaccio’s knowledge about the ancient Greek world are unknown, but it is likely that he gained the knowledge through his close friendship with Paolo de Perugia, a medieval collector of ancient myths and tales.

  As there are no available translations of Boccaccio’s epic, the text for Chaucer’s The Knight’s Tale and Shakespeare and Fletcher’s play The Two Noble Kinsmen are provided instead.

  The front of a cassone with three scenes from Boccaccio’s ‘Teseida’, 1440

  CONTENTS

  THE KNIGHT’S TALE by Geoffrey Chaucer

  THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher

  THE KNIGHT’S TALE by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Modernised text version

  WHILOM1, as olde stories tellen us, 1formerly

  There was a duke that highte1 Theseus. 1was called

  Of Athens he was lord and governor,

  And in his time such a conqueror

  That greater was there none under the sun.

  Full many a riche country had he won.

  What with his wisdom and his chivalry,

  He conquer’d all the regne of Feminie,

  That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;

  And weddede the Queen Hippolyta

  And brought her home with him to his country

  With muchel1 glory and great solemnity, 1great

  And eke her younge sister Emily,

  And thus with vict’ry and with melody

  Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,

  And all his host, in armes him beside.

  And certes, if it n’ere1 too long to hear, 1were not

  I would have told you fully the mannere,

  How wonnen1 was the regne of Feminie, 1won

  By Theseus, and by his chivalry;

  And of the greate battle for the nonce

  Betwixt Athenes and the Amazons;

  And how assieged was Hippolyta,

  The faire hardy queen of Scythia;

  And of the feast that was at her wedding

  And of the tempest at her homecoming.

  But all these things I must as now forbear.

  I have, God wot, a large field to ear1 1plough;

  And weake be the oxen in my plough;

  The remnant of my tale is long enow.

  I will not 1letten eke none of this rout1. 1hinder any of

  Let every fellow tell his tale about, this company1

  And let see now who shall the supper win.

  There 1as I left1, I will again begin. 1where I left off1

  This Duke, of whom I make mentioun,

  When he was come almost unto the town,

  In all his weal, and in his moste pride,

  He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,

  Where that there kneeled in the highe way

  A company of ladies, tway and tway,

  Each after other, clad in clothes black:

  But such a cry and such a woe they make,

  That in this world n’is creature living,

  That hearde such another waimenting1 1lamenting

  And of this crying would they never stenten1, 1desist

  Till they the reines of his bridle henten1. 1seize

  “What folk be ye that at mine homecoming

  Perturben so my feaste with crying?”

  Quoth Theseus; “Have ye so great envy

  Of mine honour, that thus complain and cry?

  Or who hath you misboden1, or offended? 1wronged

  Do telle me, if it may be amended;

  And why that ye be clad thus all in black?”

  The oldest lady of them all then spake,

  When she had swooned, with a deadly cheer1, 1countenance

  That it was ruthe1 for to see or hear. 1pity

  She saide; “Lord, to whom fortune hath given

  Vict’ry, and as a conqueror to liven,

  Nought grieveth us your glory and your honour;

  But we beseechen mercy and succour.

  Have mercy on our woe and our distress;

  Some drop of pity, through thy gentleness,

  Upon us wretched women let now fall.

  For certes, lord, there is none of us all

  That hath not been a duchess or a queen;

  Now be we caitives1, as it is well seen: 1captives

  Thanked be Fortune, and her false wheel,

  That 1none estate ensureth to be wele1. 1assures no continuance of

  And certes, lord, t’abiden your presence prosperous estate1

  Here in this temple of the goddess Clemence

  We have been waiting all this fortenight:

  Now help us, lord, since it lies in thy might.

  “I, wretched wight, that weep and waile thus,

  Was whilom wife to king Capaneus,

  That starf1 at Thebes, cursed be that day: 1died

  And alle we that be in this array,

  And maken all this lamentatioun,

  We losten all our husbands at that town,

  While that the siege thereabouten lay.

  And yet the olde Creon, wellaway!

  That lord is now of Thebes the city,

  Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,

  He for despite, and for his tyranny,

  To do the deade bodies villainy1, 1insult

  Of all our lorde’s, which that been y-slaw, 1slain

  Hath all the bodies on an heap y-draw,

  And will not suffer them by none assent

  Neither to be y-buried, nor y-brent1, 1burnt

  But maketh houndes eat th
em in despite.”

  And with that word, withoute more respite

  They fallen groff,1 and cryden piteously; 1grovelling

  “Have on us wretched women some mercy,

  And let our sorrow sinken in thine heart.”

  This gentle Duke down from his courser start

  With hearte piteous, when he heard them speak.

  Him thoughte that his heart would all to-break,