Admiration

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• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  fact, the accident of the troubles which followed the collapse of Justinian’s restored empire in Italy, and the Lombard invasions, which gave Gregory a monastic policy. Benedict of Nursia, according to Gregory’s later account, was born about 480, of wealthy parents, and educated at Rome. First at Subiaco, later at Monte Cassino, he alienated some of the family property to establish a monastery following a rule he devised himself. He died in 547; about thirty years later, when the Lombards swept through Italy, some of the Monte Cassino monks escaped to Rome with the autograph copy of their rule in Benedict’s hand. They handed it to Gregory, who was enormously impressed. He not only wrote Benedict’s biography, which became famous, but did everything in his very considerable power to push the Benedictine rule as the norm for monasticism in the West. The great merit of Benedict’s system is common sense. It steered a skilful middle way between severity and decency. Monks were to have separate beds, except the younger ones, who were to be ‘dispersed among the seniors’. They were to be properly and warmly clad, with two tunics and cowls each; and they were issued with a mattress, a woollen blanket, under-blanket and pillow, shoes, stockings, girdle, knife, pen and writing tablets, needle and handkerchiefs. Otherwise no property was to be held individually, ‘neither a book, nor tablets, nor a pen . . . nothing at all’; and beds were to be searched frequently for private possessions. Monks were to be adequately but simply fed: two cooked dishes a day, a pound of bread, a pint of wine, and fruit and vegetables in season, but no meat, at any rate of four-footed beasts. On the other hand monks who were ill were to have a special diet; they must be kept healthy. ‘Before all things, and above all things, care must be taken of the sick’. ‘All guests are to be received as Christ himself, for which a special separate kitchen (also used by the abbot) was to be provided. The monks were to spend their time in manual labour and sacred reading, when not attending divine services. They were to ‘practise silence at all times, especially during the night’. Grumbling was the ‘greatest sin’, and ‘idleness is the enemy of the soul’. Infractions of the rules were to be met by withdrawal of communion; the abbot and the older and wiser brothers were to try to reconcile the excommunicated; but ‘the punishment of the lash’ was to be used if necessary, and ‘the surgeon’s knife’ (expulsion) in the last resort; boys were to be ‘punished with extra fasts or coerced with severe blows’. We possess the Benedictine rule in virtually its original state. In the time of Charlemagne, the then Abbot of Monte Cassino, Theodemar, had a copy made

• From The Decameron (1353)

  His nine companions having each told a story, Dioneo knew without waiting for any formal command that it was now his own turn to speak. He therefore silenced those of his companions who were praising Guido’s clever retort, and began: Charming ladies, although I have the privilege of speaking on any subject I may choose, I do not propose to depart from the topic on which all of you have spoken so appositely today. On the contrary, following in your footsteps, I intend to show you how one of the friars of Saint Anthony,1 by a quick piece of thinking, neatly side-stepped a trap which had been laid for him by two young men. And if I speak at some length, so as to tell the whole story as it should be told, this ought not to disturb you unduly, for you will find, if you look up at the sun, that it is still in mid heaven. Certaldo,2 as you may possibly have heard, is a fortified town situated in the Val d’Elsa, in Florentine territory, and although it is small, the people living there were at one time prosperous and well-to-do. Since it was a place where rich pickings were to be had, one of the friars of Saint Anthony used to visit the town once every year to collect the alms which people were foolish enough to donate to his Order. He was called Friar Cipolla,3 and he always received a warm welcome there, though this was doubtless due as much to his name as to the piety of the inhabitants, for the soil in those parts produces onions that are famous throughout the whole of Tuscany. This Friar Cipolla was a little man, with red hair and a merry face, and he was the most sociable fellow in the world. He was quite illiterate, but he was such a lively and excellent speaker, that anyone hearing him for the first time would have concluded, not only that he was some great master of rhetoric, but that he was Cicero in person, or perhaps Quintilian.4 And there was scarcely a single man or woman in the whole of the district who did not regard him as a friend, familiar or well-wisher. During one of his regular annual visits to Certaldo, on a Sunday morning in the month of August, when all the good folk from the neighbouring hamlets were gathered in the parish church for mass, Friar Cipolla, choosing a suitable moment, came forward and said:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Besides, it was not through hearsay that Guiscardo’s merit and virtues came to my notice, but through your good opinion of him, together with the evidence of my own eyes. For was it not you yourself who sang his praises more loudly than any, claiming for him all the qualities by which one measures a man’s excellence? Nor were you mistaken by any means, for unless my eyes have played me false, I have seen him practise the very virtues for which you commended him, in a manner more wonderful than your words could express. So that if I was deceived in my estimate of Guiscardo, it was you alone who deceived me. ‘If, then, you maintain that I gave myself to a man of base condition, you are wrong. If, on the other hand, you were to describe him as poor, then perhaps you would be right, and you should hang your head in shame for the paltry rewards you bestowed on so excellent a servant. But in any case, a man’s nobility is not affected by poverty, as it is by riches. Many kings, many great princes, were once poor; many a ploughman or shepherd, not only in the past but in the present, was once exceedingly wealthy. ‘As for the last of your dilemmas, concerning how you are to deal with me, you can dismiss it from your thoughts entirely. If you are intent, in your extreme old age, upon behaving as you never behaved in your youth, and resorting to cruelty, then let your cruelty be aimed at me, for it was I who caused this so-called sin to be committed. I am resolved not to plead for clemency, and I swear that unless you do the same to me as you have already done, or intend to do, to Guiscardo, these hands of mine will do it for you. ‘Now get you hence to shed your tears among the women, and if you think we have earned your cruelty, see that you slaughter us both at one and the same time.’ Although Tancredi knew that his daughter had a will of iron, he doubted her resolve to translate her words into action. So he went away and decided that whilst he would dismiss all thought of venting his rage on Ghismonda, he would cool her ardent passion by taking revenge on her lover. He therefore ordered the two men who were guarding Guiscardo to strangle him noiselessly that same night, after which they were to take out his heart and bring it to him; and they carried out his orders to the letter.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  Thus if, in a general sense, we find the Christian bishops bridging the gap between the Roman world and the emerging world of the Dark Ages, there was a particular role for the Bishop of Rome. It was, for instance, Leo I who negotiated with Attila in 452, and arranged his retreat into central Europe. From generation to generation, the Bishops of Rome steadily established their dominance in the city itself and its neighbourhood, and so in turn their influence throughout Italy. They had certain practical advantages: large estates, which were carefully administered, and which allowed them to carry on, as and when politic and necessary, the free distribution of food which had been a prime function of the late empire. They had had, since the fourth century, an administrative machine, consisting of a chancery modelled on Roman imperial lines, a library and a depository of records. The Bishop of Rome, in fact, had the elements of a comparatively sophisticated government. Administrative personnel were also available. Leading Roman families, such as the Anicii and Symmachi, had survived; this social stratum, with its traditions of authority and decision-making, provided bishops not only for Rome itself but for many other Italian sees, which were thus confirmed as appendages of the city. Just as the Roman upper class had once been associated with state paganism, so now it was tied to Christianity. Leading families claimed proprietory rights over early saints: thus the Anicii adopted the early fifth-century St Malania, and the Turcii adopted St Marius, though on the grounds that one of their ancestors had sentenced him to death. In many cases rich families invested their future in the Church by transferring their lands to Church foundations, which were then run by their descendants – the family estates would be more secure in consequence, and escape taxation. Such families, of course, attempted to control the papacy; as did the East, stretching out long tentacles from Constantinople. The papacy, for its part, fought hard both to preserve its independence in a hard world, and to extend its doctrinal and canonical authority over a scattered Church. We get occasional glimpses of these Dark Age Bishops of Rome. Gelasius I who was in office 492–6, reflects the importance of administration and sheer bureaucratic persistence in the pursuit of power. He had been secretary to his two predecessors; was very much a machine-man, springing from the chancery; and even as Pope ‘he would pen documents in his own hand’. This last remark we owe to Dionysius Exiguus, whom Gelasius promoted to a key position in the papal see, charged with creating order out of chaos. It was Dionysius who invented the method of dating we

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Far from wanting to shorten its years, I would gladly augment them with some of my own, if such a thing were possible.’ ‘Supposing it were,’ Nathan promptly replied, ‘would you really oblige me to accept them, and thus serve you as I have never served another living soul, by taking something of yours, when I have never before taken anything from anyone?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mithridanes, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Then do as I suggest,’ said Nathan. ‘You remain here in my house, young as you are, and assume the name of Nathan, whilst I go to live in yours, and henceforth call myself Mithridanes.’ To which Mithridanes replied: ‘If I were able to comport myself so impeccably as you do now, and as you have always done in the past, I should accept your offer without a second thought; but because I feel quite certain that my deeds would only diminish the fame of Nathan, and because I have no intention of impairing another’s name for that to which I cannot myself aspire, I am obliged to refuse it.’ After conversing agreeably together on these and many other matters, they returned as Nathan wished to the palace, where for several days on end he entertained Mithridanes in sumptuous style, giving him every encouragement to persevere in his great and noble resolve. And when Mithridanes wanted to return home with his companions, Nathan let him go, having made it abundantly clear that his liberality could never be surpassed.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Then Ghino took the Abbot to the room in which his goods and the whole of his retinue were gathered, and, guiding him to a window whence he could see all his horses, he said: ‘My lord Abbot, you must realize that gentle birth, exile, poverty, and the desire to defend his life and his nobility against numerous powerful enemies, rather than any instinctive love of evil, have driven Ghino di Tacco, whom you see before you, to become a highway robber and an enemy of the court of Rome. But because you seem a worthy gentleman, and because I have cured you of the malady affecting your stomach, I do not intend to treat you as I would treat any other person who fell into my hands, of whose possessions I would take as large a portion as I pleased. On the contrary, I propose that you yourself, having given due regard to my needs, should decide how much or how little of your property you would care to leave with me. All your goods are set out here before you, and from this window you can see your horses tethered in the courtyard. I therefore bid you take as much or as little as you please, and you are henceforth free to leave whenever you wish.’ The Abbot was astonished and delighted to hear such generous sentiments from the lips of a highway robber, and promptly shed his anger and disdain, being filled instead with a feeling of goodwill towards Ghino, whom he was now disposed to look upon as a bosom friend. And he rushed to embrace him, saying: ‘I swear to God that in order to win the friendship of such a man as I now judge you to be, I should willingly endure far greater wrongs than any you appear to have done me hitherto. A curse upon Fortune, that has compelled you to pursue so infamous a calling!’ Then the Abbot singled out an essential minimum of his numerous belongings and his horses, and leaving all the rest to Ghino, he returned to Rome. The Pope had heard all about the seizure of the Abbot, and took a very serious view of the matter; but the first question he asked on seeing him again was whether the baths had done him any good. To which the Abbot replied, with a smile: ‘Holy Father, without going as far as the baths I came across an excellent physician, who cured me completely.’ He then described the manner of his cure, much to the pontiff’s amusement; and he went on to ask the Pope, under the promptings of his generous instincts, to grant him a certain favour.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIRST STORY A worthy knight enters the service of the King of Spain, by whom he feels that he is ill-requited; so the King gives him irrefutable proof that the fault lies, not with himself, but with the knight’s own cruel fortune, in the end rewarding him most handsomely . I account it an especial favour, honourable ladies, that our king should have singled me out to speak first on so weighty a theme as that of munificence, which, even as the sun embellishes and graces the whole of the heavens, is the light and splendour of every other virtue. So I shall tell you a little story, which to my way of thinking is most delightful, and which surely cannot be other than profitable to recall. You are to know, then, that of the many gallant knights who have graced our city for longer than I can remember, there was one in particular, Messer Ruggieri de’ Figiovanni, 1 who was possibly the finest of them all. Being both wealthy and stout of heart, and seeing that, because of the general tenor of Tuscan manners, there would be little or no opportunity for him to prove his worth by remaining in these parts, he made up his mind to spend some time with King Alphonso of Spain, 2 who was better renowned for his prowess than any other ruler of his day. And so he set out with a most impressive array of armour and horses and a large retinue, and made his way to Alphonso’s court in Spain, where the King accorded him a gracious welcome. There accordingly he settled, and because of his princely style of living and the prodigious feats he accomplished in the field, he quickly made his mark as a man of valour. But the longer he remained at Alphonso’s court, the more it seemed to him, through closely observing the ways of the King, that he was granting castles, towns and baronies to one man after another with very little discretion, giving them to people who had done nothing to deserve them. Now, Messer Ruggieri was conscious of his own merits, and since nothing was given to him, he considered that his own standing was thereby greatly diminished. He therefore decided to leave, and went to the King to ask his permission to do so. The King granted his request, and presented him with a most handsome-looking mule, the finest that any man had ever ridden, for which Messer Ruggieri was grateful in view of the long journey ahead of him. The King then instructed one of his confidential servants to arrange as best he could to accompany Messer Ruggieri throughout the first day of his journey without allowing him to suspect that he had been sent by the King, and to make a mental note of everything Ruggieri said about him, so that he could report it later word for word.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  NINTH STORY With a barbed saying, Guido Cavalcanti politely delivers an insult to certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise. The queen, perceiving that Emilia had dashed off her story and that she herself was the sole remaining speaker apart from the person who was privileged to speak last of all, began to address the company as follows: Sweet ladies, although you have deprived me of at least two of the stories that I had thought of telling you today, I still have another in reserve, towards the end of which there occurs a bon mot that is more subtle, perhaps, than any of the ones we have heard so far. I must first of all remind you that in days gone by, our city was noted for certain excellent and commendable customs, all of which have now disappeared, thanks to the avarice which, increasing as it does with the growing prosperity of the city, has driven them all away. One of these customs was that in various parts of Florence a limited number of the gentlemen in each quarter of the city would meet regularly together in one another’s houses for their common amusement. Only those people who could afford to entertain on a suitably lavish scale were admitted to these coteries, and they took it in turn to play the host to their companions, each of them being allotted his own special day for the purpose. Distinguished visitors to Florence were frequently invited to these gatherings, and so too were a number of the citizens. At least once every year they all wore the same kind of dress, whilst on all the more important anniversaries they rode together through the city, and sometimes they tilted together, especially on the principal feasts or when the news of some happy event had reached the city, such as a victory in the field. Among these various companies, there was one that was led by Messer Betto Brunelleschi, 1 into whose ranks Messer Betto and his associates had striven might and main to attract Messer Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti’s son, Guido. 2 And not without reason, for apart from the fact that he was one of the finest logicians in the world and an expert natural philosopher (to none of which Betto and his friends attributed very much importance), Guido was an exceedingly charming and sophisticated man, with a marked gift for conversation, and he outshone all of his contemporaries in every activity pertaining to a gentleman that he chose to undertake. But above and beyond all this he was extremely rich, and could entertain most sumptuously those people whom he happened to consider worthy of his hospitality. However, Messer Betto had never succeeded in winning him over, and he and his companions thought this was because of his passion for speculative reasoning, which occasionally made him appear some-what remote from his fellow beings.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And having returned Messer Torello’s greeting, he said: ‘Sir, if it were possible to complain of courteous men, we should have good cause for complaint against you, for to say nothing of taking us slightly out of our way, you have more or less constrained us to accept this handsome gesture of yours, when all we did to merit your civility was to exchange a single greeting with you.’ To which the knight, who was no less wise than he was eloquent, replied: ‘If I may judge from your appearance, gentlemen, my civility is bound to be a poor thing by comparison with your deserts. But to tell the truth you could not have found a decent place to lodge outside Pavia. Do not be aggrieved, then, to have added a few more miles to your journey for the sake of a little less discomfort.’ As he was speaking, his servants gathered round the visitors, and as soon as they had dismounted, their horses were led away to the stables. Meanwhile Messer Torello conducted the three gentlemen to the rooms that had been prepared for them, where they were helped off with their riding-boots, after which Torello offered them refreshment in the form of deliciously cool wines, and detained them with agreeable talk until it was time to go to supper. Saladin and his companions and attendants were all conversant with the Italian tongue, so that they had no difficulty in following Messer Torello or in making themselves understood, and they were all of the opinion that this knight was the most agreeable, civilized, and affable gentleman they had so far had occasion to meet. For his own part, Messer Torello concluded that they were gentlemen of quality, much more distinguished than he had previously thought, and reproached himself for his inability to entertain them in company that evening, with a banquet of greater splendour. He therefore resolved that he would make amends next morning, and having explained to one of his servants what he had in mind, he sent him to Pavia, which never closed its gates 4 and was very close at hand, with a message for his wife, a lady of great intelligence and exceptional spirit. This done, he led his visitors into the garden, and politely asked them who they were, whence they came, and where they were going, to which Saladin replied: ‘We are Cypriot merchants, we come from Cyprus, and we are on our way to Paris to conduct certain business of ours.’ ‘Would to God,’ said Messer Torello, ‘that this country of ours produced gentlemen of a kind to compare with what I see of the merchants of Cyprus.’ On these and other matters they conversed for a while, until supper was served and Messer Torello invited them to take their places at table; and albeit the meal was impromptu, it was splendidly arranged and they dined exceedingly well.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So that if, to enhance your personal fame, it was only me that you wanted to kill, there was nothing marvellous or novel about what you were doing, which on the contrary was very commonplace.’ Without wishing to excuse himself, Mithridanes praised Nathan for presenting his wicked design in so seemly a light, and concluded by expressing his utter astonishment that Nathan had been prepared to supply him not only with the means but also with advice for achieving his object. Whereupon Nathan replied: ‘Mithridanes, neither my compliance nor my advice should astonish you, for ever since I became my own master, and began to pursue those same ideals by which you too are now inspired, I have always sought, so far as it lay within my power, to grant the desires of anyone crossing my threshold. You came here with the desire of taking my life, and when I heard what it was that you wanted, so that you would not be the only person ever to leave my house empty-handed, I forthwith resolved to present it to you: and with this purpose in mind, I gave you the advice I considered most apt for taking my life without losing your own. Therefore I repeat: if this is what you want, I implore you to take my life and do whatever you please with it, for I can think of no better way of bestowing it. I have had the use of it now these eighty years, during which it has brought me all the pleasures and joys I could desire; and I realize that, like all other men and nearly everything under the sun, I am subject to the laws of Nature, and have very little of it left. Hence I consider it far preferable to give it away now, just as I have always given away and spent my treasures, than to cling to it until such time as Nature deprives me of it against my will. ‘Even if one were to give away a hundred years, it would not amount to much of a gift; and surely it is a much more trivial matter to give away the six or eight years of my life that still remain to me. Take it then, if you want it, I do implore you; for during all the years I have lived here, I have never yet found anyone who wanted it, and if you do not take it, now that you have asked for it, I doubt whether I shall ever find anyone else. But even if I should happen to do so, I realize that the longer I keep it, the less valuable it becomes. Take it therefore, I beg you, before it loses its worth entirely.’ ‘God forbid,’ said Mithridanes, feeling deeply ashamed, ‘that I should even contemplate taking so precious a thing as your life, as until just now I was thinking of doing, let alone that I should actually deprive you of it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  EIGHTH STORY Sophronia, thinking she has married Gisippus, has really married Titus Quintus Fulvius, with whom she goes off to Rome, where Gisippus turns up in abject poverty. Believing that Titus has snubbed him, he confesses to a murder so that he will be put to death. But Titus recognizes him, and claims that he himself has done the murder, in order to secure Gisippus’ release. On perceiving this, the real murderer gives himself up, whereupon all three are released by Octavianus. Titus then bestows his sister upon Gisippus in marriage, and shares with him all he possesses. Pampinea having finished her tale, King Peter was extolled by all the ladies, but more especially by the one who was a Ghibelline; then Filomena began, at the king’s command, as follows: Magnificent ladies, which of us is not aware that kings, if they be so inclined, can do all sorts of wondrous things, and that they above all others are called upon to display munificence? Those people do well, then, who possess ample means and do all that is expected of them; but we ought neither to marvel thereat, nor laud them to the skies, as we should the person who is equally munificent but of whom, his means being slender, less is expected. So that if you are impressed by the actions of kings, and expend so many words in extolling them, I have no doubt whatsoever that when similar actions to these, or nobler ones, are performed by people like ourselves, your delight will be all the greater, your praises all the more fulsome. And hence I am minded to tell you a story about two private citizens, who were friends, and about the laudable generosity that each of them displayed towards the other. Now, at the time when Octavianus Caesar, 1 before he was called Augustus, was ruling the Roman Empire in the office known as the triumvirate, there lived in Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintus Fulvius, 2 who had a son called Titus Quintus Fulvius. This latter was exceptionally clever, and his father sent him to study philosophy in Athens, 3 doing all in his power to commend him to a nobleman of that city called Chremes, 4 who was a very old friend of his. Chremes lodged him under his own roof with a son of his called Gisippus, and Titus and Gisippus were both sent by Chremes to study under the guidance of a philosopher named Aristippus. 5 Being regularly in one another’s company, the two young men discovered that they shared many interests in common, and this gave rise to a powerful sense of mutual friendship and brotherliness, which lasted for the rest of their lives. Indeed, it was only when they were together that either Titus or Gisippus could feel happy and relaxed.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  high proportion of the nobility and gentry, something which had not happened anywhere else in the East. The existence of a single language, he thought, made all the difference in staging a national mission. And then, he added, the Japanese appeared to be the only eastern people who accepted Christianity from disinterested motives, moved by faith and reason alone. ‘We have no jurisdiction whatsoever in Japan. We cannot compel them to do anything they do not wish to do. We have to use pure persuasion and force of argument They will not suffer being slapped or beaten, or imprisonment, or any of the methods commonly used with other Asian Christians. They are so touchy they will not brook even a single harsh or impolite word.’ He liked their spirit. He admired their courage – ‘the most warlike and bellicose race yet discovered on the earth’. He thought Japanese Christians would willingly die for their faith, and, in sum, he concluded that Japan was the only mission which held any prospect of soon becoming a healthy and self-supporting Christian kingdom with a trustworthy native hierarchy and clergy of its own. Other Jesuits shared his view; among them, Japan was by far the most popular posting. Unfortunately, neither Rome nor Portugal was willing to take the risk of a native clergy. Neither was ready to treat Japan as a special case, and accord its inhabitants chances and privileges denied elsewhere. Nor did they accept Valignano’s estimate of Japan’s desire and capacity to preserve its political, economic and cultural independence. The Pope saw no reason to make concessions; and from 1580 the Portuguese were ruled by Philip II of Spain, and their policy thus submerged beneath an expanding imperialist system. What followed could be called one of the great tragedies of history. Of course, within the Church, the Jesuits were suspect: to outsiders it looked as though they were asking to be granted a monopoly of Japan’s spiritual and economic welfare. In his report of 1580 Valignano emphasized that the Japanese derived enormous benefit from the Portuguese ‘great ship’ which called annually at Nagasaki. The Portuguese then had a virtual stranglehold over the trade in valuable goods between the Persian Gulf and the Yellow Sea, and as there was a ban on direct trade between China and Japan, the Jesuits acted as intermediaries, especially as bullion-brokers, from Nagasaki, which they made their headquarters. Trade and religion were inextricably mixed, not to say confused. It is not clear whether the Japanese authorities permitted Jesuit evangelism to continue because they feared that, if the Jesuits left, the great ship would no longer call. But they were certainly highly suspicious of western motives, as Valignano realized and warned. On

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  For there is no ethical force strong enough to place inner checks upon the use of power if its quantity is inordinate. “The truth is,” declared James Madison, “that all men having power ought to be distrusted.” {121} The history of nations bears testimony to the truth of that observation, as we have seen; and it is the perennial error of moralists that they do not recognise its validity. Thus they dream of justice, but have no political programme which would establish justice by eliminating the cause of injustice. Only the Marxian proletarian has seen this problem with perfect clarity. If he makes mistakes in choosing the means of accomplishing his ends, he has made no mistake either in stating the rational goal toward which society must move, the goal of equal justice, or in understanding the economic foundations of justice. If his cynicism in the choice of means is at times the basis of his undoing, his realism in implementing ethical ideals with political and economic methods is the reason for his social significance. He is right not only in the projection of his social goal but in his insistence upon the urgency of its attainment. Comfortable classes may continue to dream of an automatic progress in society. They do not suffer enough from social injustice to recognise its peril to the life of society. Only the proletarian sees how the centralisation of power and privilege in modern society proceeds so rapidly that it not only outrages the conscience but destroys the very foundations of society. He sees how inequality within each nation forces the nation to be as unmutual as possible in its relation to other nations, demanding markets without giving them, that it may make profits on producing goods which it will not allow its masses the capacity to consume. {122} He sees how this unmutuality of international conduct not only makes wars inevitable but finally fails to serve even its immediate purposes. It results in international depressions in which all nations find themselves glutted with goods, which inequality of distribution prevents their masses from consuming. He sees this more clearly than other classes because he stands in the ranks of the unemployed. And if he is employed, he knows how a surplus of labor makes his labor cheap and imperils his living standards more than ever. Others may see these facts, but no one sees them so clearly as those who experience their consequences in their own lives. Thus it is the proletarian who predicts disaster for modern society (and may actually become the instruments of catastrophe), who is potentially the strongest force of redemption in society. Whether he still hopes to save society from disaster, or whether he has become completely catastrophic and expects redemption only after disaster, will depend in a large measure upon the degree of his suffering. We need not therefore regard either his historical prophecies or his political strategies as authoritative.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SECOND STORY Ghino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a stomach ailment, and then releases him. The Abbot returns to the court of Rome, where he reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface and creates him a Knight Hospitaller . After they had finished praising King Alphonso for the munificence he displayed towards the Florentine knight, the king, who had been mightily pleased by Neifile’s account, called upon Elissa to tell the next story; and she promptly began, as follows: Tender ladies, there is no denying that for a king to have acted munificently, and bestowed his munificence upon one who had served him well, is all very fine and commendable. But what are we to think when we are told about a member of the clergy whose munificence was all the more remarkable in that he bestowed it on a person whom no one would have blamed him for treating as his enemy? Surely we can only conclude that whereas the munificence of the King was a virtue, that of the priest was a miracle; for these latter are so incredibly mean that women are positively generous by comparison, and they fight tooth and nail against every charitable instinct. Moreover, whereas all men naturally crave to be avenged for wrongs they have received, we know from experience that the members of the clergy, though they preach submissiveness and warmly commend the pardoning of wrongs, surpass all other men in the zeal with which they conduct their vendettas. But in the story you are about to hear, you will plainly discover how one of their number revealed his munificence. Ghino di Tacco, 1 whose feats of daring and brigandage brought him great notoriety after being banished from Siena and incurring the enmity of the Counts of Santa Fiora, staged a rebellion in Radicofani against the Church of Rome; and having established himself in the town, he made sure that anyone passing through the surrounding territory was set upon and robbed by his marauders. Now, the ruling Pope in Rome was Boniface VIII, 2 and to his court there came the Abbot of Cluny, 3 who was reputed to be one of the richest prelates in the world. In the course of his stay there, however, he ruined his stomach, and was advised by the physicians to go to the baths of Siena, 4 where he was certain to recover. And so, having obtained permission from the Pope, he set out for Siena, heedless of the reputation of Ghino, accompanied by a huge and splendid train of goods, baggage, horses and servants. On learning of his approach, Ghino di Tacco spread out his nets, and without allowing so much as a single page-boy to escape, he cut off the Abbot with the whole of his retinue and belongings in a narrow gorge.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You are to know, then, that during the reign of the Emperor Frederick I,2 the Christians launched a great Crusade to recover the Holy Land, and that according to certain reports, Saladin, an outstandingly able ruler who was Sultan of Babylon at that period, having heard about this Crusade some time in advance, resolved to see for himself what preparations the Christian princes were making, the better to defend himself against them. So he settled all his outstanding affairs in Egypt, and, giving the impression he was going on a pilgrimage, set forth in the guise of a merchant, with an escort consisting solely of two very senior and judicious counsellors and three attendants. Their tour of inspection took them through many Christian countries, and one day, in the late afternoon, they were riding through Lombardy before crossing the Alps, when, on the road from Milan to Pavia, they happened to meet a nobleman called Messer Torello, of Strà in the province of Pavia,3 who, along with his attendants, his dogs, and his falcons, was going to stay at a beautiful estate of his on the banks of the Ticino. As soon as Messer Torello caught sight of these men, he observed that they were foreigners of gentle birth, and desired to do them honour. So that when Saladin inquired of one of Torello’s attendants how far it was to Pavia, and whether they could reach it by nightfall, Torello himself replied, before the servant had time to open his mouth: ‘By the time you reach Pavia, gentlemen, it will be too late for you to enter the city.’ ‘Then perhaps you will be good enough,’ said Saladin, ‘since we are strangers in these parts, to tell us where we may find the best night’s lodging.’ ‘With pleasure,’ said Messer Torello. ‘I was just about to send one of these attendants of mine on an errand to a spot not far from Pavia. I shall get him to accompany you, and he will take you to a place where you will lodge in great comfort.’ He then went up to the shrewdest of his attendants, told him what he had to do, and sent him off with Saladin’s party. Meanwhile he himself rode rapidly on to his country house, where he arranged for the finest possible supper to be prepared and for tables to be set in the garden, after which he went and waited at the main gate for his guests to arrive. The attendant, conversing on many different subjects with his gently bred companions, led them by a circular route along various byways and eventually brought them, without their knowing it, to his master’s estate. As soon as Messer Torello saw them coming, he advanced on foot to meet them, and laughing heartily he said: ‘Gentlemen, I bid you the warmest of welcomes.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  What are we to conclude then, gentle ladies? Are we to regard a king who gave away his crown and sceptre, an abbot who reconciled an outlaw to the Pope at no cost to himself, or an old man who exposed his throat to the dagger of his adversary, as being in any way comparable to one who performed so noble a deed as Messer Gentile? For here we have the case of a man in the ardent flush of youth, who, believing himself to be legally entitled to that which the negligence of others had discarded and which he had the good fortune to retrieve, not only kept his ardour under decent restraint, but on obtaining the very object which he had coveted with his whole being for so long, generously surrendered it. In all conscience, none of the instances previously cited seems to me comparable to this. FIFTH STORYMadonna Dianora asks Messer Ansaldo for a beautiful May garden in the month of January, and Messer Ansaldo fulfils her request after hiring the services of a magician. Her husband then gives her permission to submit to Messer Ansaldo’s pleasure, but on hearing of the husband’s liberality Messer Ansaldo releases her from her promise, whilst the magician excuses Messer Ansaldo from the payment of any fee. Every member of the joyful company praised Messer Gentile to the very skies, after which the king called upon Emilia to follow: and with a confident air, as though she were longing to speak, she thus began: Dainty ladies, no one can seriously deny that Messer Gentile acted munificently, but if anyone should claim that to do more would be impossible, it will not be too difficult to prove that they are wrong, as I propose to show you in this little story of mine. In the province of Friuli,1 which is cold but richly endowed with beautiful mountains, numerous rivers, and limpid streams, there is a town called Udine, where once there lived a beautiful noblewoman called Madonna Dianora, who was married to a most agreeable and good-natured man, exceedingly wealthy, whose name was Gilberto. Because of her outstanding worth, this lady attracted the undying love of a great and noble lord called Messer Ansaldo Gradense, a man of high repute, famous throughout the land for his feats of arms and deeds of courtesy. But although he loved her fervently and did everything he possibly could to persuade her to requite his love, sending her numerous messages to this end, all his efforts were unavailing. Eventually the lady grew tired of the knight’s entreaties, and seeing that however firmly she rejected his approaches he still persisted in loving and importuning her, she decided to rid herself of him once and for all by requesting him to do something for her that was both bizarre and, as she thought, impossible. So one day, she said to the woman who regularly came to see her on Messer Ansaldo’s behalf:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SECOND STORY Ghino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a stomach ailment, and then releases him. The Abbot returns to the court of Rome, where he reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface and creates him a Knight Hospitaller. After they had finished praising King Alphonso for the munificence he displayed towards the Florentine knight, the king, who had been mightily pleased by Neifile’s account, called upon Elissa to tell the next story; and she promptly began, as follows: Tender ladies, there is no denying that for a king to have acted munificently, and bestowed his munificence upon one who had served him well, is all very fine and commendable. But what are we to think when we are told about a member of the clergy whose munificence was all the more remarkable in that he bestowed it on a person whom no one would have blamed him for treating as his enemy? Surely we can only conclude that whereas the munificence of the King was a virtue, that of the priest was a miracle; for these latter are so incredibly mean that women are positively generous by comparison, and they fight tooth and nail against every charitable instinct. Moreover, whereas all men naturally crave to be avenged for wrongs they have received, we know from experience that the members of the clergy, though they preach submissiveness and warmly commend the pardoning of wrongs, surpass all other men in the zeal with which they conduct their vendettas. But in the story you are about to hear, you will plainly discover how one of their number revealed his munificence. Ghino di Tacco, 1 whose feats of daring and brigandage brought him great notoriety after being banished from Siena and incurring the enmity of the Counts of Santa Fiora, staged a rebellion in Radicofani against the Church of Rome; and having established himself in the town, he made sure that anyone passing through the surrounding territory was set upon and robbed by his marauders. Now, the ruling Pope in Rome was Boniface VIII, 2 and to his court there came the Abbot of Cluny, 3 who was reputed to be one of the richest prelates in the world. In the course of his stay there, however, he ruined his stomach, and was advised by the physicians to go to the baths of Siena, 4 where he was certain to recover. And so, having obtained permission from the Pope, he set out for Siena, heedless of the reputation of Ghino, accompanied by a huge and splendid train of goods, baggage, horses and servants. On learning of his approach, Ghino di Tacco spread out his nets, and without allowing so much as a single page-boy to escape, he cut off the Abbot with the whole of his retinue and belongings in a narrow gorge.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But finding that the rings were so alike that it was impossible to tell them apart, the question of which of the sons was the true and rightful heir remained in abeyance, and has never been settled. ‘And I say to you, my lord, that the same applies to the three laws which God the Father granted to His three peoples, and which formed the subject of your inquiry. Each of them considers itself the legitimate heir to His estate, each believes it possesses His one true law and observes His commandments. But as with the rings, the question as to which of them is right remains in abeyance.’ Saladin perceived that the fellow had ingeniously side-stepped the trap he had set before him, and he therefore decided to make a clean breast of his needs, and see if the Jew would come to his assistance. This he did, freely admitting what he had intended to do, but for the fact that the Jew had answered him so discreetly. Melchizedek gladly provided the Sultan with the money he required. The Sultan later paid him back in full, in addition to which he showered magnificent gifts upon him, made him his lifelong friend, and maintained him at his court in a state of importance and honour.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She took both my hands. “Dear Tristine, we are meant to be friends. Both wounded by the father. We have the same Achilles heel.” I did not yet understand the importance of what she said but I didn’t think she seemed wounded at all. She shone, and in her bright reflection, I hoped to find myself. “Oh my goodness!” she cried. “I’m going to be late for my lunch with Gore!” She dashed to her floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, and I watched her select slim volumes from swaths of the same color on two shelves. I felt the tug of something like envy—but not envy, admiration—and a longing to be, as she, a woman who could write shelves of books. “A Child Born Out of the Fog, Winter of Artifice, House of Incest.” Anaïs caressed each syllable of her titles. “This Hunger, A Spy in the House of Love, Under a Glass Bell.” She placed the books on the Moroccan table. “For Tristine!” Seeing her lift a fountain pen from a holder in the shape of a kneeling Bacchus, I reminded her, “Actually the books are for Lenore.” She smiled. “To be dedicated to Lenore Tawney, but for Tristine to read.” She scribbled, For Tawney, an imaginative and poetic artist, and handed the book to me. On another volume she dashed off, It’s not weaving, it’s magic, and placed that book on top of the first one, and so on, until they were stacked in a pile balanced against my chest. “Phone me so we can plan your next visit.” She wrote her number on a square of violet notepaper and placed it on the top book. This would have been the perfect opportunity for me to give her the phone number at Lenore’s loft in case Jean-Jacques asked for it. I had it ready in my pocket, but with my arms around the books, I didn’t have a free hand. Anaïs guided me through the hallway and out the front door to the elevator. I walked stooped, with my chin pressing down on the top book to secure her note. Anaïs touched the elevator button. “Please tell Lenore her weaving is hanging in my bedroom. With its gay little feathers entwined in the threads, I have to keep an eye on it, or it will fly out the window!” Her delight over the rambunctious weaving was so infectious that I found myself grinning. “You look like a gargoyle.” She giggled. She must have seen my horror, for she added quickly, “Not you—you are lovely! The position I’ve put you in with your head jutting …” She stifled her laugh and ran back inside the apartment, calling behind her, “I’ll get you a bag for those.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “It must have been difficult being a single mother,” I said, thinking of my mother. “No, I prefer to be my own boss.” “I mean money-wise.” “People always think that. But that’s because they aren’t artists. The secret to being an artist is to know how to live well without money.” “How?” This was something I really wanted to know. “With creativity! Plus, I don’t covet all those bourgeois possessions people hold so dear.” “I know! My mother can’t let go of any possessions, and as a result, I don’t seem to want anything. Material, I mean.” Renate’s smile was warm even though she didn’t show her teeth. “I knew you were copacetic.” One of her paintings on the wall caught my attention. A naked woman, whose long black hair fell to her lovely bare behind, faced a smaller mirror image of herself walking out of a shadowy mountain pass. A raven perched at the naked woman’s foot. “That’s my friend Raven,” Renate said. “She loved Edgar Allen Poe, so she purchased a pet raven in his honor.” “So that’s her raven?” “Oh, yes. The two of them bonded so deeply that she had her name legally changed to Raven. When her lovers would visit, the bird would screech and peck at them in a jealous rage.” “Did she get rid of the bird?” “No, she stopped having her lovers over.” Renate had the timing of a vaudeville comedian. I laughed, recognizing that I needed to respond to her humor to keep her approval. “My friend,” she continued, “then slept over at her lovers’ houses, but the bird fell sick with depression and wouldn’t eat. So now she doesn’t go anywhere, just stays buried at home with the raven.” “It really is an Edgar Allen Poe story!” “Yes, that’s what Anaïs said. Raven is part of our circle.” The circle I wanted to be part of. “Are all the women in these paintings in your circle?” I looked around at the paintings of women in various degrees of undress, each posed with her animal spirit. “My circle with Anaïs? No. Most of them haven’t even met Anaïs.” Renate watched my reaction to her work. “Take your time.” I took more time than I really needed to look at the highly saturated, acrylic paintings that recalled Salvador Dali’s trompe-l’oeil dreamscapes. “It’s the kind of painting nobody does anymore,” Renate said, sighing. It was true; her surrealist style was dated and out of sync with the pop and op art of the day. Her paintings, like Anaïs’s novels, embodied a European prewar fascination with the subconscious, while Warhol’s soup cans and Vasarely's optics were reflecting our surface, modern realities. I looked at Renate’s skillfully executed but somehow naive paintings: a slender woman lying alongside a panther, a woman with blue skin floating on a swan’s spread wing, a woman with the same eyes as her Siamese cat, a naked woman sitting lotus in a field, feeding grapes to a little goat.