Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I look up and there is my friend Johanna with her warm smile beaming down at me. “What are you doing here?” she asks. “Ummmm,” is all I can get out and my face immediately reddens, so she starts laughing, knowing that I am awaiting a suitor’s arrival. I pick up my collection of outerwear so I can relocate my seat away from her, warning that despite my love for her, if she so much as even glances in my direction, she will be dead to me. “Go to the back, I promise not to peek. You look beautiful by the way,” she says and returns to her friend at the next table. I settle at a table in the back of the restaurant where we will be safely tucked away. I recognize #8 right away when he comes in – he’s got a huge smile, sparkling white teeth and is substantial, tall and broad. He spots me and heads my way, his sizable frame filling the space between tables. When he reaches me, I stand and he gives me a hug. This seems to be the standard greeting with men I’ve met online and it always reminds of the ’80s TV show The Dating Game, when a couple would finally meet face to face after talking behind a screen and instantly embrace as if to claim their prizes. I glance in Johanna’s direction and see that she is very determinedly averting her eyes, but still, I feel self-conscious. Johanna and her husband are amongst our closest friends and after all the time our families have spent together, I know it must be bizarre for her to see me with another man. “You look just like your photos, but even prettier,” he says. “Why thank you,” I respond, blushing. “Has it ever happened that you meet a woman who looks nothing like her pictures?” “Oh yeah, all the time. First of all, the majority of women lie about their age,” he says. “And I’m not talking about a couple of years, I’m talking more than a decade.” “I’d be too nervous to lie,” I say. “Actually,” he says laughing, “I have a confession to make. I’m really 53 not 48 which it says on my profile.” I purse my lips together and give him a quizzical look, so he continues, “So many women won’t like your profile if you’re over 50. The playing field gets way too small.” I ask if lowering his age has worked as he had hoped and he concedes that it indeed has and gestures to me as proof. We’ve successfully broken the ice and can now get to the basics.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Yet now she resolved that Mary should go to Passy again—but should go without her. Sitting back in the car she half closed her eyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voice should betray that flinching to Mary. CHAPTER 44 1 V alérie’s rooms were already crowded when Stephen and Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near the door—they had not been announced; one never was for some reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour’s. People looked at Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face, had immediately riveted their attention. ‘Quel type!’ murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neighbour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. ‘It’s a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth—is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth?’ Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers. His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair-haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming peculiar, mon ami—and yet you are still sufficiently virile. . . .’ He laughed. ‘Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing to give you a rival.’ Then he started to tease. ‘But what about you? I dislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even although they are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating, those mossy horns, and exceedingly painful when they start to grow—like wisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too have my recollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, as the English say—such a practical people!’ ‘You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,’ snapped the lady. And now Valérie was making her way to the door. ‘Miss Gordon! I’m most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn. Have you had any tea? No, of course not, I’m an abominable hostess! Come along to the table—where’s that useless Brockett? Oh, here he is. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn and Miss Gordon some tea.’ Brockett sighed. ‘You go first then, Stephen darling, you’re so much more efficient than I am.’ And he laid a soft, white hand on her shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When they reached the buffet, he calmly stood still. ‘Do get me an ice—vanilla?’ he murmured. Every one seemed to know every one else, the atmosphere was familiar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate friends, and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and equally charming and kind to Mary. Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactful allusions to Stephen’s talent: ‘This is Stephen Gordon-you know, the author; and Miss Llewellyn.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  So after all Mademoiselle Duphot still worked, giving lessons in French to the resident English; and sometimes she taught the American children who were visiting Paris with their parents. But then it was really far better to work; one might grow too fat if one remained idle. She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. ‘They are not as you were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever and full of intelligence, no; and at times I almost despair of their accent. However, I am not at all to be pitied, thanks to Aunt Clothilde and the good little saints who surely inspired her to leave me that money.’ When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Mademoiselle climbed to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof, and as she departed she waved her plump hand at Stephen. Stephen said: ‘She’s so changed that I didn’t know her just at first, or else perhaps I’d forgotten. I felt terribly guilty, because after you came I don’t think I ever answered her letters. It’s thirteen years since she left. . . .’ Puddle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s thirteen years since I took her place and forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!’ And she laughed. ‘All the same, I like her,’ said Puddle. 3 Mademoiselle Duphot admired the house in the Rue Jacob, and she ate very largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite regardless of her increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all those things that were fattening. ‘I cannot resist,’ she remarked with a smile, as she reached for her fifth marron glacé. They talked of Paris, of its beauty, its charm. Then Mademoiselle spoke yet again of her Maman and of Aunt Clothilde who had left them the money, and of Julie, her blind sister. But after the meal she quite suddenly blushed. ‘Oh, Stévenne, I have never inquired for your parents! What must you think of such great impoliteness? I lose my head the moment I see you and grow selfish—I want you to know about me and my Maman; I babble about my affairs. What must you think of such great impoliteness? How is that kind and handsome Sir Philip? And your mother, my dear, how is Lady Anna?’ And now it was Stephen’s turn to grow red. ‘My father died. . . .’ She hesitated, then finished abruptly, ‘I don’t live with my mother any more, I don’t live at Morton.’ Mademoiselle gasped. ‘You no longer live . . .’ she began, then something in Stephen’s face warned her kind but bewildered guest not to question. ‘I am deeply grieved to hear of your father’s death, my dear,’ she said very gently. Stephen answered: ‘Yes—I shall always miss him.’ There ensued a long, rather painful silence, during which Mademoiselle Duphot felt awkward. What had happened between the mother and daughter? It was all very strange, very disconcerting. And Stephen, why was she exiled from Morton?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The nature of the charge against the lady, coupled with the fact that she was such a well-known figure in society, had brought almost all the citizens of Prato flocking to the court, and when they heard the charming speech she made in her defence, they rocked with mirth and, as with a single voice, they all exclaimed that the lady was right and that it was well spoken. And at the podestà’s suggestion, before they left the court, they amended the harsh statute so that in future it would apply only to those wives who took payment for being unfaithful to their husbands. After making such a fool of himself, Rinaldo departed from the scene feeling quite mortified; and his wife, now a free and contented woman, having, so to speak, been resurrected from the flames, returned to her house in triumph. EIGHTH STORYFresco urges his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if, as she has claimed, she cannot bear the sight of horrid people. As they listened to Filostrato’s tale, the ladies at first felt a trifle embarrassed, and showed it by the blush of modesty that appeared on their cheeks; but then they began to exchange glances with one another, and, scarcely able to contain their laughter, they heard the rest of it with their faces wreathed in smiles. When it came to an end, the queen turned to Emilia and called upon her to speak next; and Emilia, heaving a sigh as though she had just been awakened from a pleasant dream, began as follows: Fair young ladies, having been absorbed for a while in distant reverie, I shall now bestir myself to obey the queen’s command, and recount a tale, much shorter perhaps than the one I would have told you if I had had all my wits about me, concerning the foolish error of a young woman, and how it was corrected by an amusing remark of her uncle’s, though she was far too dense to appreciate its significance. There was once a certain gentleman called Fresco da Celatico, and he had a niece whose pet-name was Cesca.1 Whilst she had a good figure and a pretty face (though it was far from being one of those angelic faces that we not infrequently come across), she had such a high opinion of herself and gave herself so many airs that she fell into the habit of criticizing everything and everyone she ever set eyes upon, never thinking for a moment of her own defects, even though she was the most disagreeable, petulant, and insipid young woman imaginable, and nothing could be done to please her. Moreover, her pride was so enormous that even in a scion of the French royal family it would have been excessive. And whenever she walked along the street, she was continually wrinkling up her nose in disgust, as though a nasty smell was assailing her nostrils every time she saw or met anyone.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  If you refuse to cooperate, I shall certainly catch him out sooner or later, and since I have no intention of allowing his offence to go unpunished, I shall deal with him in such a way as to make both of your lives a perpetual misery.’ Having listened to Zeppa’s story and questioned him closely about it, the woman was convinced that he was telling the truth, and she said: ‘My dear Zeppa, if I have to bear the brunt of your revenge, so be it; but only if you will see that your wife harbours no resentment against me over this deed we are obliged to perform, just as I myself, in spite of what she has done to me, intend to harbour none against her.’ To which Zeppa replied: ‘I shall certainly see to that; and what’s more, I shall present you with as fair and precious a jewel as any you possess.’ So saying, he took her in his arms and began to kiss her; and having laid her on the chest in which her husband was imprisoned, he sported with her upon it to his heart’s content, and she with him. Spinelloccio, who was inside the chest and had not only heard all that Zeppa had said but also his wife’s reply and the fandango that shortly thereafter took place directly above his head, was torn with anguish, and felt at any moment he would die. But for his fear of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a severe scolding, even though he was under lock and key. In the end, however, recalling that he himself was to blame in the first place, that Zeppa was justified in doing this to him and that he had chosen a civil and comradely way of taking his revenge, Spinelloccio vowed that, if Zeppa was agreeable, they would thenceforth become greater friends than ever. Having taken his fill of pleasure, Zeppa stepped down from the chest, and on being asked by the lady for the jewel he had promised, he opened the door and summoned his wife. The only words she uttered, on entering the room, were: ‘My dear, you’ve paid me back in my own coin.’ And as she said this, she laughed. Then Zeppa said to her: ‘Open up this chest.’ She duly obeyed, and turning to the lady, Zeppa pointed to the huddled figure of her husband, Spinelloccio, who was now revealed inside it. It would be hard to decide which of the two was the more embarrassed: Spinelloccio, on seeing Zeppa standing over him and knowing that he knew what he had done; or the lady, on seeing her husband and realizing that he had heard and felt what she had been doing directly above his head. However, Zeppa broke the silence, saying to the lady: ‘Here’s the jewel I promised to give you.’ Spinelloccio now emerged from the chest, and without making too much fuss, he said: ‘Now we are quits, Zeppa.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The Abbess was keeping company that night with a priest, whom she frequently smuggled into her room in a chest, and on hearing this clamour, fearing lest the nuns, in their undue haste and excess of zeal, should burst open the door of her chamber, she leapt out of bed as quick as lightning and dressed as best she could in the dark. Thinking, however, that she had taken up the folded veils which nuns wear on their heads and refer to as psalters,1 she happened to seize hold of the priest’s breeches. And she was in such a tearing hurry, that without noticing her mistake, she clapped these on to her head instead of her psalter and sallied forth, deftly locking the door behind her and exclaiming: ‘Where is this damnable sinner?’ Then in company with the others, who were so agog with excitement and so anxious to catch Isabetta in the act that they failed to notice what the Abbess had on her head, she arrived at the door of the cell, which, with a concerted heave, they knocked completely off its hinges. On bursting into the cell, they found the two lovers, who were lying in bed in one another’s arms, and who, stunned by this sudden invasion, not knowing what to do, remained perfectly still. The girl was immediately seized by the other nuns, and led away to the chapter-house by command of the Abbess. The young man meanwhile stayed where he was, and having put on his clothes, he waited to see how the affair would turn out, being resolved, if his girl should come to any harm, to do a serious mischief to as many of them as he could lay hold of, and to take her away from the convent altogether. The Abbess, having taken her seat in the chapter-house in the presence of all the nuns, who only had eyes for the delinquent, began to administer the most terrible scolding that any woman was ever given, telling her that by her foul and abominable conduct, if it ever leaked out, she had defiled the sanctity, the honour, and the good name of the convent; and by way of addition to this torrent of abuse, she threatened her with the direst of penalties. Knowing herself to be at fault, the girl was at a loss for an answer, so she simply stood there looking shy and embarrassed without saying a word, with the result that the others began to feel sorry for her. But as the strictures of the Abbess continued to flow thick and fast, she happened to raise her eyes and perceive what the Abbess had on her head, with the braces dangling down on either side. Realizing what the Abbess had been up to, she took heart and said: ‘By the grace of God, Mother Abbess, tie up your bonnet, and then you may say whatever you like to me.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Biondello. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Because I’ve heard that Messer Filippo is looking for you,’ said Ciacco. ‘I couldn’t tell you what it is he wants.’ ‘Good,’ said Biondello. ‘I’ll go over there and converse with him a little.’ Biondello then took his leave, and Ciacco followed him at a discreet distance to see what would happen. Meanwhile Messer Filippo, having failed to catch the intermediary, had been left in a towering rage and was breathing fire and fury, being unable to make any sense of the man’s words except that Biondello, at the prompting of some person or other, was making fun of him. And it was whilst he was fuming away in this manner that Biondello arrived on the scene. No sooner did Messer Filippo set eyes on Biondello than he strode up to him and gave him a tremendous punch in the face. ‘Oh alas, sir!’ cried Biondello. ‘What does this mean?’ ‘Scoundrel!’ yelled Messer Filippo, tearing Biondello’s coif to ribbons and hurling his hood to the ground, at the same time raining blows upon him. ‘You’ll see only too clearly what it means. I’ll teach you to send people to me with all this talk of rubifying flasks and wetting your whistle. Do you suppose you can make fun of me as though I were a child?’ And so saying, he pounded Biondello’s face with a pair of fists that seemed to be made of iron. Nor was this all, for he disarranged every hair on the poor fellow’s head, and having rolled him over in the mud, tore all the clothes he was wearing to shreds. So zealously did he address himself to his task that from the first moment to the last Biondello was unable to utter so much as a single syllable, or to ask him why he was attacking him. He had certainly heard Messer Filippo talk about ‘rubifying flasks’ and ‘wetting whistles’, but what these phrases might signify he had no idea. Having taken an almighty drubbing, he was eventually surrounded by a number of onlookers, who succeeded with the greatest difficulty in removing him, battered and bedraggled, from Messer Filippo’s reach. They then explained why Messer Filippo had done it and admonished him for sending such a message, telling him that in future he should remember who Messer Filippo was and that he was not a man to be trifled with. His eyes full of tears, Biondello protested his innocence, denying that he had ever sent anyone to Messer Filippo for wine. But there was little he could do about it now, and after making himself look a little more presentable he returned home, sorrowful and forlorn, rightly concluding that this was a piece of Ciacco’s handiwork. Several days later, when the bruises had faded from his face and he once again began to show himself in public, one of the first people he happened to meet was Ciacco.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Giotto was no better accoutred than himself, his mount was just as decrepit, and, since they were both getting on in years and travelling at a snail’s pace, they rode along together. However, they happened to be caught in a sudden downpour such as we often experience in summer, and they took shelter as soon as they could in the house of a peasant, who was known to both men and was in fact a friend of theirs. But after a while, since the rain showed no sign of stopping and they wanted to reach Florence by nightfall, they borrowed a pair of shabby old woollen capes from the peasant, along with a couple of hats that were falling to bits from old age, these being the best he could provide, and resumed their journey. After they had travelled some distance, by which time they were soaked to the skin and bespattered all over by the steady spray of mud that hacks kick up with their hooves (none of which is calculated to improve anyone’s appearance), the weather cleared up a little, and the two men, having ridden for a long time in silence, began to converse with one another. As Messer Forese was riding along listening to Giotto, who was a very fine talker, he turned to inspect him, shifting his gaze from Giotto’s flank to his head and then to the rest of his person, and on perceiving how thoroughly unkempt and disreputable he looked, giving no thought to his own appearance he burst out laughing, and said: ‘Giotto, supposing we were to meet some stranger who had never seen you before, do you think he would believe that you were the greatest painter in the world?’ To which Giotto swiftly replied: ‘Sir, I think he would believe it if, after taking a look at you, he gave you credit for knowing your ABC.’ On hearing this, Messer Forese recognized his error, and perceived that he was hoist with his own petard.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And since he tended to subscribe to the opinions of the Epicureans, it was said among the common herd that these speculations of his were exclusively concerned with whether it could be shown that God did not exist. Now, one day, Guido had walked from Orsammichele along the Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni, which was a favourite walk of his because it took him past those great marble tombs, now to be found in Santa Reparata, 3 and the numerous other graves that lie all around San Giovanni. As he was threading his way among the tombs, between the porphyry columns that stand in that spot and the door of San Giovanni, which was locked, Messer Betto and his friends came riding through the piazza of Santa Reparata, and on seeing Guido among all these tombs, they said: ‘Let’s go and torment him.’ And so, spurring their horses and making a mock charge, they were upon him almost before he had time to notice, and they began to taunt him, saying: ‘Guido, you spurn our company; but supposing you find that God doesn’t exist, what good will it do you?’ Finding himself surrounded, Guido promptly replied: ‘Gentlemen, in your own house you may say whatever you like to me.’ Then, placing a hand on one of the tombstones, which were very tall, 4 he vaulted over the top of it, being very light and nimble, and landed on the other side, whence, having escaped from their clutches, he proceeded on his way. Betto and his companions were left staring at one another, then they began to declare that he was out of his mind, and that his remark was meaningless, because neither they themselves nor any of the other citizens, Guido included, owned the ground on which their horses were standing. But Messer Betto turned to them, and said: ‘You’re the ones who are out of your minds, if you can’t see what he meant. In a few words he has neatly paid us the most back-handed compliment I ever heard, because when you come to consider it, these tombs are the houses of the dead, this being the place where the dead are laid to rest and where they take up their abode. By describing it as our house, he wanted to show us that, by comparison with himself and other men of learning, all men who are as uncouth and unlettered as ourselves are worse off than the dead. So that, being in a graveyard, we are in our own house.’ Now that Guido’s meaning had been pointed out to them, they all felt suitably abashed, and they never taunted him again. And from that day forth, they looked upon Messer Betto as a paragon of shrewdness and intelligence.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  Seen from a local level, the Church was an extraordinary mixture of idleness and industry. In Angers, for instance, which had a population of 34,000 in 1789, there were seventy-two canons and over forty parochial clergy, plus a huge number of clerical hangers-on (most of them priests) at the cathedral, and at the parish and collegiate churches, sixty monks, forty friars and over three hundred nuns. One in sixty of the citizens was a priest, and this did not include tonsured clerks and students at the seminary. There were an enormous number and variety of ecclesiastical institutions, most of which rang bells at all hours of the day and night; houses facing on the main square were said to be ‘almost uninhabitable’ in consequence. Some clerics, as in England, were well-educated and dabbled in local antiquarianism. Some were modern-minded. The Benedictines of St Aubin installed plaster busts of Voltaire and Rousseau; and Fr Cotelle de la Blandinière, the local orthodox theologian and writer of the Diocesian Handbook, submitted his maiden speech at the Angers Academy to Voltaire for his approval. But much of the routine and atmosphere can only be described as medieval. Relics were exposed twice a week in the cathedral; and on the second Sunday after the Epiphany wine was still dispensed from a stone jar supposedly used at the marriage-feast at Cana. There were almost daily religious processions, a hazard or a humiliation for unbelievers, particularly since relics were carried in them – a piece of the True Cross, the head of St Loup, the bones of Saints Serene and Godebert, the arm of St Julian, a scrap of the Blessed Virgin’s clothing and a lock of her hair, the blood of St Maurice and the tooth of St Decent – plus twelve portable waxworks, each with fifteen lifesize figures. When a medieval tomb was opened in the cathedral in 1757, word got around that a new saint had been discovered, and a frenzied mob tore the remains to pieces, making off with bits of bones and rags. The religious houses of Angers presented a sorry, though not exactly a scandalous, picture. There were no reports of fornicating nuns; but the Benedictine sisters (the richest) were allowed to go out, unescorted and without veils, in their carriages. Unmarried noble ladies were almost exclusively the beneficiaries of this, and other, wealthy institutions; indeed it was officially admitted they existed ‘to provide decent and honourable retreats for that numerous portion of the nation which is too well- bred to degrade itself by doing the humble tasks to which lack of income seems to condemn it’ (1770). The monks, too, usually came from privileged backgrounds. The ‘best’ monastery, St Aubin, had an income of 50,000 livres a year. Of this 11,000

• From The Decameron (1353)

  A rich and splendid nuptial feast was arranged, to which he invited many of his friends, his kinsfolk, great nobles and other people of the locality; moreover he caused a quantity of fine, rich robes to be tailored to fit a girl whose figure appeared to match that of the young woman he intended to marry; and lastly he laid in a number of rings and ornamental belts, along with a precious and beautiful crown, and everything else that a bride could possibly need. Early on the morning of the day he had fixed for the nuptials, Gualtieri, his preparations now complete, mounted his horse together with all the people who had come to do him honour, and said: ‘Gentlemen, it is time for us to go and fetch the bride.’ He then set forth with the whole of the company in train, and eventually they came to the village and made their way to the house of the girl’s father, where they met her as she was returning with water from the fountain, making great haste so that she could go with other women to see Gualtieri’s bride arriving. As soon as Gualtieri caught sight of her, he called to her by her name, which was Griselda, 3 and asked her where her father was, to which she blushingly replied: ‘My lord, he is at home.’ So Gualtieri dismounted, and having ordered everyone to wait for him outside, he went alone into the humble dwelling, where he found the girl’s father, whose name was Giannùcole, and said to him: ‘I have come to marry Griselda, but first I want to ask her certain questions in your presence.’ He then asked her whether, if he were to marry her, she would always try to please him and never be upset by anything he said or did, whether she would obey him, and many other questions of this sort, to all of which she answered that she would. Whereupon Gualtieri, having taken her by the hand, led her out of the house, and in the presence of his whole company and of all the other people there he caused her to be stripped naked. Then he called for the clothes and shoes which he had had specially made, and quickly got her to put them on, after which he caused a crown to be placed upon the dishevelled hair of her head. And just as everyone was wondering what this might signify, he said: ‘Gentlemen, this is the woman I intend to marry, provided she will have me as her husband.’ Then, turning to Griselda, who was so embarrassed that she hardly knew where to look, he said: ‘Griselda, will you have me as your wedded husband?’ To which she replied: ‘I will, my lord.’ ‘And I will have you as my wedded wife,’ said Gualtieri, and he married her then and there before all the people present.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And tomorrow you shall have the new smock.’ ‘If need be,’ said Ciutazza, ‘I would sleep with half-a-dozen men, let alone one.’ After dark that evening, the Provost came to the house as arranged, and in accordance with the lady’s plans, the two young men were in their own room, making a good deal of noise. The Provost entered the lady’s bedroom without a sound, and groped his way through the dark, as instructed, to the bed, on which Ciutazza was already lying, having been carefully briefed by her mistress about what she was to do. Master Provost, thinking it was the lady who was lying beside him, took Ciutazza in his arms and began to kiss her without saying a word, and Ciutazza returned the compliment. And so the Provost began to disport himself with her, taking possession of the prize he had so long been coveting. Having thus brought the pair together, the lady directed her brothers to put the rest of her plan into effect. They therefore stole quietly out of their room and made their way towards the piazza; and Fortune was even kinder to their scheme than they had hoped, for since it was a very hot evening, the Bishop had been looking for the two young men and was already on his way to their house for a convivial chat and some liquid refreshment. As soon as he saw them coming, he told them what he had in mind, and they all returned to the house, where, to his no small pleasure, he sat with them in a cool little courtyard in which numerous lanterns had been lit, and drank some excellent wine of theirs. When they had taken their fill, the young men said: ‘Since you have been so kind as to honour us with your company in our humble little abode, to which we were just about to invite you, we should like you to take a look at something we are anxious to show you.’ The Bishop readily agreed, and so one of the young men seized a lighted torch and led the way, being followed by the Bishop and all the rest of the company, to the room where Master Provost was lying in bed with Ciutazza. In order to make up for lost time, the Provost had been riding at a furious pace, and already, by the time all these people arrived, he had covered at least three miles, so that, in spite of the heat, feeling a little weary, he had dropped off to sleep with Ciutazza in his arms. So when the young man bearing the torch entered the room with the Bishop and all the others in their wake, the first thing they saw was the Provost lying there with Ciutazza in his arms. At that precise moment, the Provost woke up, and seeing all these people standing round him in the torchlight, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, feeling thoroughly ashamed and confused.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  No one in his right mind would ever have believed all that talk about finding such a valuable stone in the Mugnone.’ Hearing them talk in this fashion, Calandrino concluded that he must have picked up the stone without knowing it, and that because of its special powers they were unable to see him, even though he was standing just a few yards away. He therefore decided, being delighted with his good fortune, to go back home; and without saying anything to the others, he turned about and started to return by the way he had come. On seeing this, Buffalmacco turned to Bruno and said: ‘What’ll we do now? Why don’t we go home, the same as he did?’ ‘Come on then,’ Bruno replied. ‘But I swear to God that I won’t fall for any more of Calandrino’s tricks. If he were as close to me now as he’s been all morning, I’d give him such a rap on the heels with this pebble that he wouldn’t forget this little hoax of his for the best part of a month.’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he took aim and caught Calandrino squarely on the heel with the pebble, whereupon Calandrino, grimacing with pain, jerked his foot high in the air and began to puff and gasp for breath. But he none the less managed to hold his tongue, and continued on his way. Then Buffalmacco took between his fingers one of the stones he had collected earlier, and said to Bruno: ‘D’you see this nice sharp bit of flint? How I’d love to send it whizzing into Calandrino’s back!’ He then let it go, and it caught Calandrino a nasty blow in the small of the back. But to cut a long story short, they kept stoning Calandrino in this fashion, making various abusive remarks, all the way back along the Mugnone to the Porta San Gallo, where, having thrown away the rest of the stones they had collected, they paused to chat with the customs guards. These latter, having been let into the secret beforehand, had allowed Calandrino to pass unchallenged, and were splitting their sides with laughter. Calandrino walked on without stopping until he reached his house, which was situated near the Canto alla Macina, and Fortune favoured the hoax to such an extent that at no point along his route, either beside the river or in the city streets, did anyone address a single word to him, though as a matter of fact he encountered very few people because nearly everyone was at breakfast.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIFTH STORY The Marchioness of Montferrat, with the aid of a chicken banquet and a few well-chosen words, restrains the extravagant passion of the King of France . As they listened to Dioneo’s story, the ladies at first felt some embarrassment, which showed itself in the modest blushes that appeared on all their faces. Then, glancing at one another and barely managing to restrain their laughter, they giggled as they listened. When it came to an end, however, they gently rebuked him with a few well-chosen words, in order to show that stories of that kind should not be told when ladies were present. Then the queen turned to Fiammetta, who was sitting on the grass next to him, and indicated that it was her turn to continue. Whereupon, with a cheerful smile towards the queen, she gracefully began: Whereas men, if they are very wise, will always seek to love ladies of higher station than their own, women, if they are very discerning, will know how to guard against accepting the advances of a man who is of more exalted rank. For which reason, and also because of the pleasure I feel at our having, through our stories, begun to demonstrate the power of good repartee, I have been prompted to show you, fair ladies, in the story that I have to tell, how through her words and actions a gentlewoman avoided this pitfall and guided her suitor clear of its dangers. The Marquis of Montferrat 1 was a man of outstanding worth, who had sailed as Gonfalonier of the Church with a Christian host on a Crusade to the Holy Land. 2 And one day, during a conversation about his merits at the court of King Philippe Le Borgne, 3 who was also preparing to leave France to join the Crusade, a courtier observed that there was not a wedded couple under the sun to compare with the Marquis and his lady; for just as the Marquis was a paragon of all the knightly virtues, so the lady was more beautiful and worthy of esteem than any other woman in the world. These words left such a deep impression on the French king’s mind, that without having ever seen the lady, he at once became fervently enamoured of her, and decided that under no circumstances would he embark for the Crusade at any other port but Genoa, so that, by travelling overland, he would have a plausible pretext for paying the Marchioness a visit. In this way he thought he would succeed, since the Marquis would be absent, in bringing his desires to fruition. He lost no time in putting his deep-laid scheme into effect. Having sent all his men on ahead, he set out with a small retinue of nobles, and as they approached the territory of the Marquis, he sent word to the lady, a day in advance, that she was to expect him for breakfast on the following morning.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  would thenceforth become greater friends than ever. Having taken his fill of pleasure, Zeppa stepped down from the chest, and on being asked by the lady for the jewel he had promised, he opened the door and summoned his wife. The only words she uttered, on entering the room, were: ‘My dear, you’ve paid me back in my own coin.’ And as she said this, she laughed. Then Zeppa said to her: ‘Open up this chest.’ She duly obeyed, and turning to the lady, Zeppa pointed to the huddled figure of her husband, Spinelloccio, who was now revealed inside it. It would be hard to decide which of the two was the more embarrassed: Spinelloccio, on seeing Zeppa standing over him and knowing that he knew what he had done; or the lady, on seeing her husband and realizing that he had heard and felt what she had been doing directly above his head. However, Zeppa broke the silence, saying to the lady: ‘Here’s the jewel I promised to give you.’ Spinelloccio now emerged from the chest, and without making too much fuss, he said: ‘Now we are quits, Zeppa. So let us remain friends, as you were saying just now to my wife. And since we have always shared everything in common except our wives, let us share them as well.’ Zeppa having consented to this proposal, all four breakfasted together in perfect amity. And from that day forth, each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the men had two wives, nor did this arrangement ever give rise to any argument or dispute between them.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIRST STORY A knight offers to take Madonna Oretta riding through the realm of narrative, but makes such a poor job of it that she begs him to put her down . Tender ladies, as stars bedeck the heavens on cloudless nights, and in the spring the green meadows are adorned with flowers, and hillsides with saplings newly come into leaf, so likewise are graceful manners and polite discourse enriched by shafts of wit. These, being brief, are much better suited to women than to men, since it is more unseemly for a woman to make long speeches than it is for a man. But for some reason or other, whether because we are lacking in intelligence or because all the women of our generation were born under an unlucky star, few if any women now remain who can produce a witticism at the right moment, or who, on hearing a witticism uttered, can understand its meaning. Since Pampinea has already spoken at some length on this subject, 1 I do not propose to elaborate further upon it. But in order to show you how exquisite these sayings can be if proffered at the right moment, I should like to tell you about the courteous way in which a lady imposed silence upon a certain knight. * As many of you will know, either through direct personal acquaintance or through hearsay, a little while ago there lived in our city a lady of silver tongue and gentle breeding, whose excellence was such that she deserves to be mentioned by name. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day, finding herself in the countryside like ourselves, and proceeding from place to place, by way of recreation, with a party of knights and ladies whom she had entertained to a meal in her house earlier in the day, one of the knights turned to her, and, perhaps because they were having to travel a long way, on foot, to the place they all desired to reach, he said: ‘Madonna Oretta, if you like I shall take you riding along a goodly stretch of our journey by telling you one of the finest tales in the world.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I beseech you most earnestly to do so, and I shall look upon it as a great favour.’ Whereupon this worthy knight, whose swordplay was doubtless on a par with his storytelling, began to recite his tale, which in itself was indeed excellent. But by constantly repeating the same phrases, and recapitulating sections of the plot, and every so often declaring that he had ‘made a mess of that bit’, and regularly confusing the names of the characters, he ruined it completely. 2 Moreover, his mode of delivery was totally out of keeping with the characters and the incidents he was describing, so that it was painful for Madonna Oretta to listen to him. She began to perspire freely, and her heart missed several beats, as though she had fallen ill and was about to give up the ghost. And in the end, when she could endure it no longer, having perceived that the knight had tied himself inextricably in knots, she said to him, in affable tones: ‘Sir, you have taken me riding on a horse that trots very jerkily. Pray be good enough to set me down.’ The knight, who was apparently far more capable of taking a hint than of telling a tale, saw the joke and took it in the cheerfullest of spirits. Leaving aside the story he had begun and so ineptly handled, he turned his attention to telling her tales of quite another sort.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The Abbess, having taken her seat in the chapter-house in the presence of all the nuns, who only had eyes for the delinquent, began to administer the most terrible scolding that any woman was ever given, telling her that by her foul and abominable conduct, if it ever leaked out, she had defiled the sanctity, the honour, and the good name of the convent; and by way of addition to this torrent of abuse, she threatened her with the direst of penalties. Knowing herself to be at fault, the girl was at a loss for an answer, so she simply stood there looking shy and embarrassed without saying a word, with the result that the others began to feel sorry for her. But as the strictures of the Abbess continued to flow thick and fast, she happened to raise her eyes and perceive what the Abbess had on her head, with the braces dangling down on either side. Realizing what the Abbess had been up to, she took heart and said: ‘By the grace of God, Mother Abbess, tie up your bonnet, and then you may say whatever you like to me.’ The Abbess, having no idea what she meant by this, said to her: ‘What bonnet, you little whore? Are you going to have the effrontery to stand there making witty remarks? Do you think it funny to have behaved in this disgraceful manner?’ And so, for the second time, the girl said: ‘I would ask you once again, Mother Abbess, to tie up your bonnet, and then you may address me in whatever way you please.’ Accordingly, several of the nuns looked up at the Abbess, and the Abbess likewise raised her hands to die sides of her head, so that they all saw what Isabetta was driving at. Whereupon the Abbess, recognizing that she was equally culpable and that there was no way of concealing the fact from all the nuns, who were gazing at her with their eyes popping out of their heads, changed her tune and began to take a completely different line, arguing that it was impossible to defend oneself against the goadings of the flesh. And she told them that provided the thing was discreetly arranged, as it had been in the past, they were all at liberty to enjoy themselves whenever they pleased. Isabetta was then set at liberty, and she and the Abbess returned to their beds, the latter with the priest and the former with her lover. She thenceforth arranged for him to visit her at frequent intervals, undeterred by the envy of those of her fellow nuns, without lovers, who consoled themselves in secret as best they could.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIRST STORY A knight offers to take Madonna Oretta riding through the realm of narrative, but makes such a poor job of it that she begs him to put her down. Tender ladies, as stars bedeck the heavens on cloudless nights, and in the spring the green meadows are adorned with flowers, and hillsides with saplings newly come into leaf, so likewise are graceful manners and polite discourse enriched by shafts of wit. These, being brief, are much better suited to women than to men, since it is more unseemly for a woman to make long speeches than it is for a man. But for some reason or other, whether because we are lacking in intelligence or because all the women of our generation were born under an unlucky star, few if any women now remain who can produce a witticism at the right moment, or who, on hearing a witticism uttered, can understand its meaning. Since Pampinea has already spoken at some length on this subject, 1 I do not propose to elaborate further upon it. But in order to show you how exquisite these sayings can be if proffered at the right moment, I should like to tell you about the courteous way in which a lady imposed silence upon a certain knight. * As many of you will know, either through direct personal acquaintance or through hearsay, a little while ago there lived in our city a lady of silver tongue and gentle breeding, whose excellence was such that she deserves to be mentioned by name. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day, finding herself in the countryside like ourselves, and proceeding from place to place, by way of recreation, with a party of knights and ladies whom she had entertained to a meal in her house earlier in the day, one of the knights turned to her, and, perhaps because they were having to travel a long way, on foot, to the place they all desired to reach, he said: ‘Madonna Oretta, if you like I shall take you riding along a goodly stretch of our journey by telling you one of the finest tales in the world.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I beseech you most earnestly to do so, and I shall look upon it as a great favour.’ Whereupon this worthy knight, whose swordplay was doubtless on a par with his storytelling, began to recite his tale, which in itself was indeed excellent. But by constantly repeating the same phrases, and recapitulating sections of the plot, and every so often declaring that he had ‘made a mess of that bit’, and regularly confusing the names of the characters, he ruined it completely. 2 Moreover, his mode of delivery was totally out of keeping with the characters and the incidents he was describing, so that it was painful for Madonna Oretta to listen to him. She began to perspire freely, and her heart missed several beats, as though she had fallen ill and was about to give up the ghost. And in the end, when she could endure it no longer, having perceived that the knight had tied himself inextricably in knots, she said to him, in affable tones: ‘Sir, you have taken me riding on a horse that trots very jerkily. Pray be good enough to set me down.’ The knight, who was apparently far more capable of taking a hint than of telling a tale, saw the joke and took it in the cheerfullest of spirits. Leaving aside the story he had begun and so ineptly handled, he turned his attention to telling her tales of quite another sort.

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

  Maybe Jean-Jacques would ask Anaïs for it. I should have Lenore’s number written down and ready when I went to retrieve the forgotten books. That afternoon I repeated my steps from Lenore’s Bowery loft to Anaïs’s Greenwich Village apartment. She buzzed me right up but seemed flustered when she opened the door. “Did I interrupt you?” I asked. “No, but I only have ten minutes. I have to meet Gore for lunch.” I didn’t know who Gore was but thought it unusual she was leaving for lunch at three. She was wearing flared silk trousers and a chiffon blouse with one large ruffle down the front, more suitable for hostessing than going out, so I guessed Gore, whoever he was, was coming there. “Sit down for a few minutes.” Anaïs indicated the couch. In the soft light of her living room with the shades drawn against the sunlight, she looked younger and more natural, and suddenly I knew why she’d seemed familiar the first time I saw her. Though aged, she had the face of Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea on a clamshell, the same heart shape, the same arched brows, identical lips, a likeness emphasized by how she penciled the upper twin peaks. As if Anaïs knew I was thinking about her as the goddess of love, she asked gaily, “How did it go with Jean-Jacques last night?” Hearing her pronounce his name made my inner thighs, where he’d pushed against me, melt into butterscotch pudding, but I tried to keep my voice noncommittal. “Oh, he got me back to Lenore’s.” For the first time, I realized he must have told the limo driver to wait for him all the while he was upstairs with me. Had the driver told Hugo? Did Anaïs know? I was afraid she could see the flush that was now burning on my chest and cheeks. “Jean-Jacques seemed very taken with you.” She smiled. “He’s too old to be interested in me,” I protested, hoping she would contradict me. There was a twinkle in her aquamarine eyes, but perhaps to spare me further embarrassment, she changed the subject. “So, tell me, how did Lenore Tawney become your godmother?” “She and my mother were good friends when I was born. They were both Catholic—” “I was once Catholic, too,” Anaïs said, adding, “It’s a very sexually repressive religion, you know.” I nodded, feeling tongue-tied. During the night with Jean-Jacques, my Catholic repression had disappeared. I would have liked to talk with Anaïs about that, but I had no words to describe what had happened. Anaïs waited a moment patiently, then shrugged as if recognizing that I was not going to say anything, and went back to the topic of my godmother. “You said your mother and Lenore were friends in the past tense. They aren’t any more?” “Well, they lost touch after my father left.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  EIGHTH STORY Fresco urges his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if, as she has claimed, she cannot bear the sight of horrid people . As they listened to Filostrato’s tale, the ladies at first felt a trifle embarrassed, and showed it by the blush of modesty that appeared on their cheeks; but then they began to exchange glances with one another, and, scarcely able to contain their laughter, they heard the rest of it with their faces wreathed in smiles. When it came to an end, the queen turned to Emilia and called upon her to speak next; and Emilia, heaving a sigh as though she had just been awakened from a pleasant dream, began as follows: Fair young ladies, having been absorbed for a while in distant reverie, I shall now bestir myself to obey the queen’s command, and recount a tale, much shorter perhaps than the one I would have told you if I had had all my wits about me, concerning the foolish error of a young woman, and how it was corrected by an amusing remark of her uncle’s, though she was far too dense to appreciate its significance. There was once a certain gentleman called Fresco da Celatico, and he had a niece whose pet-name was Cesca. 1 Whilst she had a good figure and a pretty face (though it was far from being one of those angelic faces that we not infrequently come across), she had such a high opinion of herself and gave herself so many airs that she fell into the habit of criticizing everything and everyone she ever set eyes upon, never thinking for a moment of her own defects, even though she was the most disagreeable, petulant, and insipid young woman imaginable, and nothing could be done to please her. Moreover, her pride was so enormous that even in a scion of the French royal family it would have been excessive. And whenever she walked along the street, she was continually wrinkling up her nose in disgust, as though a nasty smell was assailing her nostrils every time she saw or met anyone. Now, leaving aside her many other tiresome and disagreeable mannerisms, and coming to the point, she happened one day to return from a walk, and, finding Fresco at home, she flounced into a chair at his side, simpering like a spoilt child, and fretting and fuming. Fresco cast her a quizzical look, and said: ‘Cesca, why do you come home so early, when today is a feast day?’ ‘The truth is,’ Cesca replied, affecting a thoroughly world-weary air, ‘that I have come home early because I doubt whether I have ever seen such a tiresome and disagreeable set of people as the ones who are walking our streets today. Every man and woman that I meet is utterly repellent to me, and I don’t believe there is a woman anywhere in the world who is so upset by the sight of horrid people as I am. So I came home early to spare myself the torment of looking at them.’ Whereupon Fresco, who found the fastidious airs of his niece highly distasteful, said to her: ‘If you can’t bear the sight of horrid people, my girl, I advise you, for your own peace of mind, never to look at yourself in the glass.’ 2 But the girl, whose head was emptier than a hollow reed even though she imagined herself to be as wise as Solomon, might have been a carcase of mutton for all she understood of Fresco’s real meaning, and she told him that she intended to look in the glass just like any other woman. So she remained as witless as before, and she is still the same to this day.