Joy

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 The Decameron (1353)

  I love her so much that I’ll give her a great big kiss the moment I find her.’ The Abbot pretended to marvel greatly over what had happened, and as soon as he was alone with his monks, he had them all devoutly chanting the Miserere. When Ferondo returned to his village, everyone he met ran away from him in horror, and his wife was no less frightened of him than the rest, but he called them all back, assuring them that he had been restored to life. And once they recovered from the initial shock and saw that he really was alive, they bombarded him with questions, to all of which he replied as though he had been transformed into some kind of soothsayer, providing them with information about the souls of their kinsfolk and inventing all manner of marvellous tales about what went on in Purgatory. Moreover, he supplied the assembled populace with an account of the revelation he had received, before his return, from the Arse-angel Bagriel’s own lips. 6 Having returned home with his wife and retaken possession of his property, he got her with child, or so he thought at any rate. He had been recalled not a moment too soon, for after a pregnancy that happened to be long enough to confirm the vulgar error which supposes that women carry their babies for exactly nine months, his wife gave birth to a son, which was christened Benedetto Ferondi. Since nearly everyone was convinced that he really had been brought back from the dead, Ferondo’s return and his tall stories immeasurably enhanced the Abbot’s reputation for saintliness. And for his own part, because of the countless hidings he had received on account of his jealousy, Ferondo stopped being jealous and became a reformed character, so that the expectations held out to the lady by the Abbot were fulfilled to the letter. Of this she was very glad, and thereafter she lived no less chastely with her husband than she had in the past, except that, whenever the occasion arose, she gladly renewed her intimacy with the Abbot, who had ministered to her greatest needs with such unfailing skill and diligence.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So he wrapped them up as carefully as he could in some old rags, told the woman that if she liked, she could keep the chest, since he no longer had any use for it, and asked her to let him have a sack in exchange. The good woman gladly complied with his request, and after he had thanked her profusely for the assistance she had rendered, he slung his sack over his shoulder and went on his way, first taking a boat to Brindisi and then making his way gradually up the coast as far as Trani, where he met some cloth-merchants who hailed from his native town. Without mentioning the chest, he gave them an account of all his adventures, and they felt so sorry for him that they fitted him out with new clothes, lent him a horse, and sent him back with company to Ravello, whither he was intent on returning at all costs. Secure at last in Ravello, he gave thanks to God for leading him safely home, untied his little sack, and made what was virtually his first real inspection of its contents. The stones he possessed were, he discovered, so valuable and numerous, that even if he sold them at less than their market value, he would be twice as rich as when he had set out. So that, having taken steps to dispose of his gems, he sent, by way of payment for services received, a tidy sum of money to the good woman of Corfu who had fished him out of the sea. And likewise, he sent a further sum to the people at Trani who had given him the new clothes. He was no longer interested in commerce, so he kept the remainder of the money and lived in splendour for the rest of his days.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I have been teased so many times, and by so many of you, for obliging you to tell cruel stories and making you weep, that I feel obliged to make some slight amends for the sorrow I caused, and tell you something that will make you laugh a little. Hence I propose to tell you a very brief tale about a love which, apart from one or two sighs and a moment of fear not unmixed with embarrassment, ran a smooth course to its happy conclusion. Not long ago then, excellent ladies, there lived in Romagna a most reputable and virtuous gentleman called Messer Lizio da Valbona,1 who, on the threshold of old age, had the good fortune to be presented by his wife, Madonna Giacomina, with a baby daughter. When she grew up, she outshone all the other girls in those parts for her charm and beauty, and since she was the only daughter left to her father and mother, they loved and cherished her with all their heart, and guarded her with extraordinary care, for they had high hopes of bestowing her in marriage on the son of some great nobleman. Now, to the house of Messer Lizio there regularly came a handsome and sprightly youth called Ricciardo de’ Manardi da Brettinoro, with whom Messer Lizio spent a good deal of his time; and he and his wife would no more have thought of keeping him under surveillance than if he were their own son. Whenever he set eyes on the girl, Ricciardo was struck by her great beauty, her graceful bearing, her charming ways and impeccable manners, and, seeing that she was of marriageable age, he fell passionately in love with her. He took great pains to conceal his feelings, but the girl divined that he was in love with her, and far from being offended, to Ricciardo’s great delight she began to love him with equal fervour. Though frequently seized with the longing to speak to her, he was always too timid to do so until one day, having chosen a suitable moment, he plucked up courage and said to her: ‘Caterina, I implore you not to let me die of love for you.’ ‘Heaven grant,’ she promptly replied, ‘that you do not allow me to die first for love of you.’ Ricciardo was overjoyed by the girl’s answer, and, feeling greatly encouraged, he said to her: ‘Demand of me anything you please, and I shall do it. But you alone can devise the means of saving us both.’ Whereupon the girl said: ‘Ricciardo, as you see, I am watched very closely, and for this reason I cannot think how you are to come to me. But if you are able to suggest anything I might do without bringing shame upon myself, tell me what it is, and I shall do it.’ Ricciardo turned over various schemes in his mind, then suddenly he said:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When, therefore, he had recited a hundred of his paternosters, he came to a stop, and without leaving his post, he called out to his wife and demanded to know what she was doing. His wife, who had a talent for repartee, and who at that moment was possibly riding bareback astride the nag of Saint Benedict or Saint John Gualbert, 4 replied: ‘Heaven help me, dear husband, I am shaking like mad.’ ‘Shaking?’ said Friar Puccio. ‘What is the meaning of all this shaking?’ His wife shrieked with laughter, for she was a lively, energetic sort of woman, and besides, she was probably laughing for a good reason. ‘What?’ she replied. ‘You don’t know its meaning? Haven’t I heard you saying, hundreds of times: “He that supper doth not take, in his bed all night will shake”?’ Since she had already given him the impression that she was fasting, Friar Puccio readily assumed this to be the cause of her sleeplessness, which in turn accounted for the way she was tossing and turning in bed. ‘Wife,’ he replied, in all innocence, ‘I told you not to fast, but you would insist. Try not to think about it. Try and go to sleep. You’re tossing about so violently in the bed that you’re shaking the whole building.’ ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said his wife. ‘I know what I’m doing. Just you keep up the good work, and I’ll try and do the same.’ So Friar Puccio said no more, but turned his attention once again to his paternosters. From that night onward, Master Monk and the lady made up a bed in another part of the house, in which they cavorted to their hearts’ content until the time came for the monk to leave, when the lady would return to her usual bed, being joined there shortly afterwards by Friar Puccio as he staggered in from his penance. Thus, while the Friar carried on with his penance, his wife carried on with the monk, pausing now and then to deliver the same merry quip: ‘You make Friar Puccio do penance, but we are the ones who go to Paradise.’ The lady was of the opinion that she had never felt better in her life, and having been compelled to diet by her husband for so long, she acquired such a taste for the monk’s victuals that when Friar Puccio reached the end of his long penance, she found a way of banqueting with the monk elsewhere. And for a long time thereafter, she continued discreetly to enjoy such repasts. To return to my opening remarks then, this was how it came about that Friar Puccio did penance with the intention of reaching Paradise, to which on the contrary he sent both the monk, who had shown him how to get there quickly, and his wife, who shared his house but lived in dire need of something which Master Monk, being a charitable soul, supplied her with in great abundance.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I suggest that you commission a wax figure, the same size as the child, and have it placed to the glory of God in front of the statue of Saint Ambrose, through whose merits God has granted you this favour.’ On catching sight of its father, the boy ran up and made a great fuss of him, as small children do, whereupon the father took him in his arms, and, with tears flowing down his cheeks as though he were snatching him up from the grave, he began to rain kisses on the child and thank his neighbour for saving his life. Friar Rinaldo’s companion had meanwhile taught the pretty little maidservant not merely one Lord’s Prayer but possibly as many as four, and had presented her with a white linen purse that had been given to him by a nun, thus making her his devotee. When he heard the simpleton calling to his wife at the door of her bedroom, he quietly went and stood in a place from which he could see and hear all that was going on; and on finding that everything was proceeding so smoothly, he came downstairs, entered the bedroom, and said: ‘I’ve recited all four of those prayers that you asked me to say, Friar Rinaldo.’ ‘Brother,’ said Friar Rinaldo, ‘you’ve done an excellent job and I admire your stamina. I personally managed to recite only two before my neighbour turned up. But through our combined efforts the Lord God has granted our request, and the child is cured.’ Then the simpleton called for choice wines and sweetmeats, and regaled his neighbour and the other friar with exactly the sort of pick-me-up they needed, after which he accompanied them to the door and bade them a grateful farewell. And without any delay he had the waxen image made, and sent it to be hung with the others in front of the statue of Saint Ambrose, but not the one from Milan. 2

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But surely the dead don’t ever return, do they?’ ‘Some do, if God so wills it.’ ‘Well, I’m blessed!’ said Ferondo. ‘If I ever go back, I shall be the best husband in the world. I’ll never beat her, nor scold her either, except about the wine she sent this morning. Which reminds me: she didn’t send a single candle, and I was forced to eat in the dark.’ ‘She did send some,’ said the monk, ‘but they were used up during the masses.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ said Ferondo, ‘that’ll be what has happened. Anyway, if I go back, I shall definitely allow her to do as she pleases. But tell me, why should you be doing this to me? Who are you?’ ‘I also am dead,’ replied the monk. ‘I lived in Sardinia, and because I lauded my master to the skies for his jealousy, God has decreed that I should be punished by supplying you with food and drink and these thrashing until He decides what to do with us next.’ ‘Is there anybody else here, apart from ourselves?’ asked Ferondo. ‘Yes, thousands,’ said the monk. ‘But you cannot see or hear them, any more than they can see or hear you.’ ‘And how far are we away from home?’ ‘Oho! Far more miles than one of our turds would travel.’ ‘Crikey! that’s a fair distance. I should think we must have left the earth behind entirely.’ This kind of gibberish, 4 together with his food rations and his regular beatings, kept Ferondo going for ten whole months during which the Abbot was highly assiduous and enterprising in his visits to the fair lady, with whom he had the jolliest time imaginable. But accidents will happen, and the lady eventually became pregnant, promptly told the Abbot about it, and they both agreed that Ferondo must be recalled at once from Purgatory and reunited with his wife, who undertook to convince him that it was he who had got her with child. So the following night, the Abbot went to Ferondo’s cell, and disguising his voice, he called to him and said: ‘Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God has decreed that you should go back to earth, where, after your return, your wife will present you with a son. 5 See that the child is christened Benedict, for it is in answer to the prayers of your reverend Abbot and your wife, and because of His love for Saint Benedict, that God has done you this favour.’ This announcement was received by Ferondo with great glee. ‘I am very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘God bless Mister Almighty and the Abbot and Saint Benedict and my cheesy-weesy, honey-bunny, sweetie-weetie wife.’ Having put sufficient powder in Ferondo’s wine to send him to sleep for about four hours, the Abbot dressed him in his proper clothes again and quietly restored him, with the aid of his monk, to the tomb in which he had originally been laid to rest.

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

  She must have noticed my blush for she gave me another gummy smile as she picked up the artistically filled bowl and instructed me to follow her into the living room. She carried the bowl high over her head like a temple priestess. “I want you all to meet my new friend, Tristine Rainer.” Anaïs set the bowl of leaves on a table inlaid with Moroccan tiles. “She has brought us poetry from the street!” The four people in the living room exclaimed and clapped. I felt as exalted as when I’d been applauded as the lead in my high school plays. A jowled, sixtyish woman with lacquered bouffant hair intoned in a deep voice, “Street poetry is my kind of poetry.” “This is Caresse Crosby.” Anaïs smiled at me. “She is the founder of Black Sun Press. Caresse, and her deceased husband Harry, published D. H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Hemingway, and Henry Miller before anyone else would take a chance on them.” I had to keep myself from curtsying. “I’m so honored to meet you!” I followed Anaïs as she glided over to the older and taller of the two men in the room. “And this handsome man is my husband, Hugo Guiler.” She put her arm around his trim waist as he gave her shoulders a squeeze. I said, “But your last name is Nin.” Her laughter tinkled. “Nin is my professional name. My nom de plume.” “Of course.” I flushed over my naiveté. With the soulful mien and aristocratic bearing of a greyhound, Hugo lowered his narrow, angular head and asked if I’d like a martini, even though I was a teenager and looked like one. Then, with a kiss to Anaïs’s forehead, he strode into the kitchen. Anaïs took me by the hand and introduced me to Jean-Jacques, a short, wiry man in his thirties, expensively dressed. Though I later noticed that his French accent was heavier than hers, he used slang Americanisms with no accent at all. “How ya doin?” He reached for my hand as if to shake it but instead kissed the top, lingering so that I felt the air from his Gallic nose tickle my skin. He and Anaïs joked in French while he held onto my hand, and I cursed myself for having elected Spanish in high school. Hugo returned with Millie, who had put on a white, scalloped pinafore over her colorful dress. She carried a tray balancing a martini glass filled to the brim. Everyone watched as I lifted the glass it by its narrow stem, trying not to spill it. Successfully! Almost. Hugo rescued me from my embarrassment. “Caresse was telling us about her efforts to start a women’s world peace organization.” “Her greatest invention since the bra!” Anaïs exclaimed. “And both inventions are custom-fitted for women.” I didn’t know what she was talking about then but later learned that Caresse Crosby, as a socialite in her early twenties, had invented and patented the first brassiere.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Let’s go down to the door leading into the courtyard. You keep quiet while I talk to him, and we’ll hear what he has to say. Perhaps it will be just as funny as it is to stand here and watch him.’ And so, having tiptoed out of the bedroom, they crept downstairs to the countryard-door, and without opening it by so much as a fraction of an inch, the lady called out to the scholar in a low voice, through a tiny crack in die door. On hearing her summons, the scholar gave thanks to God, wrongly concluding that she was about to let him in. And walking across to the door, he said: ‘Here I am, my lady. Open up for the love of God, for I’m freezing to death.’ ‘Ah yes, you must be very cold,’ said the lady. ‘But can it really be so chilly as all that out there, simply because it’s been snowing a little? It snows a great deal harder in Paris, or so I’ve been told. I can’t let you in at present, because this accursed brother of mine, who came to supper with me yesterday evening, still hasn’t gone. However, he’ll be going soon, and when he does, I’ll come and let you in right away. I had an awful job to tear myself away from him just now, so that I could come and encourage you not to take offence over having to wait.’ ‘But, madam,’ said the scholar, ‘I implore you for the love of God to let me in, so that I can take shelter, for there was never such a heavy fall of of snow as this, and it’s still coming down. Once you’ve let me in, I’ll wait as long as you please.’ ‘Alas, my dearest, I can’t do that,’ said the lady. ‘This door makes such a din when it’s opened that my brother would be sure to hear it. But I’ll see if I can persuade him to go away now, and then I’ll come back to let you in.’ ‘Go quickly then,’ said the scholar. ‘And I beg you to make sure there’s a nice big fire, so that I can warm myself up when I come in. I’m so cold that I scarcely have any feeling left in my body.’ ‘I don’t see how that can be possible,’ said die lady. ‘You always claim in your letters that you are burning all over because of your love for me. But it’s clear to me now that you must have been joking. However, I must go now. Wait here, and keep your fingers crossed.’ The lady’s lover, having heard every syllable, was mightily pleased, and returned with his mistress to bed, where they slept very little, but spent virtually the entire night disporting themselves and making fun of the unfortunate scholar.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having opened his eyes and looked about him, Messer Torello discovered to his great joy that he was in the very place where he had asked to be left. And whereas he had known of the munificence of Saladin in the past, when he sat up now and surveyed, one by one, the objects with which he was surrounded, he was all the more conscious of it and deemed it greater than ever. But meanwhile he could hear the monks running away, and guessing the reason, he began, without stirring any further, to call to the Abbot by name, begging him not to be frightened as it was only Torello, his nephew. On hearing this, the Abbot’s fears increased, since for many months past he had assumed Torello to be dead. But after a while, drawing strength from the power of reason, and continuing to hear his name being called, he crossed himself devoutly and went cautiously up to Torello, who said to him: ‘Oh, my father, of what are you afraid? By the grace of God, I am alive, and I have come back here from across the sea.’ Albeit Torello was thickly bearded and dressed in Arabian clothes, the Abbot soon recognized him; and being wholly reassured, he took him by the hand, saying: ‘My son, I bid you a hearty welcome.’ Then he continued: ‘Our alarm ought not to surprise you, for there isn’t a man in the whole of Pavia who is not convinced that you are dead. Indeed I may tell you that your wife, Madonna Adalieta,9 overcome by the threats and entreaties of her kinsfolk, has been forced to remarry. This very morning she is to go to her new husband, and all is made ready for the nuptials and the banquet.’ Messer Torello stepped forth from his sumptuous bed, and after cordially embracing the Abbot and the monks, he begged them one and all to say nothing to anyone of his return until he had attended to a certain affair. He then saw to it that the precious jewels were left in a safe place, after which he gave an account to the Abbot of all that had so far happened to him. The Abbot, delighted with Messer Torello’s good fortune, joined with him in giving thanks to God, after which Messer Torello asked the Abbot the name of his wife’s second husband; and the Abbot told him. Then Messer Torello said: ‘Before my return is made public, I mean to find out how my wife comports herself at these nuptials; so although it is not the custom for the religious to attend such a banquet as this, I want you to arrange, for my sake, that we should be present.’ The Abbot readily agreed; and soon after daybreak he sent a message to the bridegroom, saying that he wished to bring a friend to the nuptials, to which the gentleman replied that he would be very glad to see them.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God has decreed that you should go back to earth, where, after your return, your wife will present you with a son. 5 See that the child is christened Benedict, for it is in answer to the prayers of your reverend Abbot and your wife, and because of His love for Saint Benedict, that God has done you this favour.’ This announcement was received by Ferondo with great glee. ‘I am very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘God bless Mister Almighty and the Abbot and Saint Benedict and my cheesy-weesy, honey-bunny, sweetie-weetie wife.’ Having put sufficient powder in Ferondo’s wine to send him to sleep for about four hours, the Abbot dressed him in his proper clothes again and quietly restored him, with the aid of his monk, to the tomb in which he had originally been laid to rest. A little after dawn next morning, Ferondo came to his senses and noticed a chink of light coming through a crack in the side of the tomb. Not having seen any light for ten whole months, he concluded that he must be alive, and started to shout: ‘Open up! Open up!’ At the same time, he began to press his head firmly against the lid of the tomb, and not being very secure, it yielded and he started to push it aside. Meanwhile the monks, who had just finished reciting their matins, hurried to the scene, and when they recognized Ferondo’s voice and saw him emerging from the tomb, they were all terrified by the novelty of the occurrence and ran off to inform the Abbot. The Abbot pretended to be rising from prayer. ‘My sons,’ he said, ‘be not afraid. Take up the cross and-the holy water and follow me. Let us go and see what God’s omnipotence has in store for us.’ And away he strode. Ferondo, who was as white as a sheet on account of his prolonged incarceration in total darkness, had meanwhile emerged from the tomb, and on seeing the Abbot approaching, he hurled himself at his feet, saying: ‘Father, I have been rescued from the torments of Purgatory and restored to life, and it was revealed to me that my release was brought about by your prayers, together with those of my wife and Saint Benedict. God bless you, therefore, and make you prosper, now and forever more!’ ‘God be praised for His omnipotence!’ exclaimed the Abbot. ‘Now that He has sent you back again, just you run along, my son, and comfort your good lady, for she has done nothing but weep since the day you departed this life. And take good care, from now on, to serve God and hold on to His friendship.’ ‘That’s good advice, sir, and no mistake,’ said Ferondo. ‘Leave things to me.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  waiting for the ailing servant to breathe his last, has him thrown on to the street and takes no further interest in him; then a stranger comes along who, taking pity on the invalid, conveys him to his house, where, with much loving care and at much expense, he restores him to his former state of health. Now what I should like to know is whether, if the second gentleman keeps him and uses his services, the first has any reasonable ground for complaint or regret when he demands to have him back and is refused.’ Messer Gentile’s noble guests, having discussed the various pros and cons amongst themselves, all reached the same conclusion; and since Niccoluccio Caccianimico was a gifted and eloquent speaker, they left it to him to deliver their reply. Niccoluccio began by extolling the Persian custom, then said that he and his fellow guests were of the unanimous opinion that the first gentleman had no legal claim to the servant, because in the instance cited he had not only abandoned him but cast him away; and that on account of the good offices rendered by the second gentleman, it appeared he was entitled to regard the servant as his own, because in refusing to give him up, he was neither causing any trouble, nor offering any insult, nor doing any injury, to the first. All the others sitting round the tables (and there was many a worthy gentleman among them) chorused their approval of the answer Niccoluccio had given; and Messer Gentile, delighted with this reply and with the fact that it had come from Niccoluccio himself, affirmed that he too shared their opinion. Then he said: ‘The time has come for me to do you honour as I promised.’ And summoning two of his servants, he sent them to the lady, whom he had caused to be regally attired and adorned, requesting that she be pleased to come and gladden the gentlemen with her presence. Taking her bonny infant in her arms, she descended, accompanied by the two servants, to the hall, where at Messer Gentile’s bidding she sat down next to one of the gentlemen; and then he said: ‘Gentlemen, this is the jewel that I cherish above all others, and intend to treasure always. See for yourselves whether you think I have good cause.’ The gentlemen paid her eloquent homage and warmly commended her, and having assured their host that he ought indeed to cherish her, they all began to gaze in her direction. Many of those present would have sworn she was the person she actually was, but for the fact that they understood her to be dead. But the one who gazed most intently of all upon her was Niccoluccio, who was dying to know who she was; and no sooner did his host move aside from the lady than his curiosity got the better of him and he asked her whether she was a Bolognese or a foreigner.

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

  “No,” I said weakly. He stopped and, sitting on the edge of the cot, leaned down to kiss me. I responded, lost in his musk of exertion, Gitanes, and French cologne. His fingers traced my arms and his lips softly brushed mine. I’d expected, because he was French, that he would put his tongue in my mouth, which I didn’t like when the boys my age tried it. But Jean-Jacques just kept touching his lips to mine tenderly, and I responded with the same light touch. When, after a long, dreamy time his tongue entered my mouth, it wasn’t slobbery or pushy at all. Unwrapping himself from me gently, he stood up, looked at me, bent to place a finger to my lips, then quickly removed his slacks. He was wearing gray satin shorts, sort of like a prizefighter’s, but smaller, and in the dim light I saw a horizontal tent protruding in the front of them. Only then did I realize his intentions. “I’m a virgin,” I said, my voice so faint I wondered if he’d heard. He must have, for after a moment’s pause, he said, “I respect that. Don’t worry.” He carefully folded his slacks and laid them on one of Lenore’s worktables. He unbuttoned his shirt so it fell open but he did not remove it. He stood over me, shorts still on, and lowered himself so he was sitting next to me on the rollaway bed. He attempted to raise my slip again, and this time I helped him by lifting my weightless arms, inhaling my own bouquet of sweat and deodorant. He deftly unfastened and removed my bra, watching me in the light of the streetlamp shining through the high loft windows. He touched my breasts with a kind of reverence, then kissed them. I was floating, enjoying, without the fear I’d always felt when boys I made out with wanted to go farther. The nuns had indoctrinated me so well that I was terrified of sex, yet that night I could not find my fear and didn’t want to.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SEVENTH DAY Here begins the Seventh Day, wherein, under the rule of Dioneo, are discussed the tricks which, either in the cause of love or for motives of self-preservation, women have played upon their husbands, irrespective of whether or not they were found out . Every star had vanished from the eastern heavens, excepting that alone which we call Lucifer, 1 which was still glowing in the whitening dawn, when the steward arose and made his way with a large baggage-train to the Valley of the Ladies, there to arrange everything in accordance with his master’s orders and instructions. And after his departure it was not long before the king also arose, having been awakened by the noise of the servants loading the animals, and caused all the ladies and the other young men to be roused. Nor were the sun’s rays shining as yet in all their glory, when the whole company set forth; and it seemed to them that they had never heard the nightingales and other birds sing so gaily as they appeared to sing that morning. Their songs accompanied them all the way to the Valley of the Ladies, where they were greeted by a good many more, so that all the birds seemed to be rejoicing at their coming. On roaming through the valley and surveying it for a second time, they thought it even more beautiful than on the day before, inasmuch as the hour showed off its loveliness to better advantage. And when they had broken their fast with good wine and delicate sweetmeats, so as not to be outdone by the birds they too burst into song, whereupon the valley joined forces with them, repeating every note that was uttered; and to these songs of theirs, sweet new notes were added by all the birds, as though they were determined not to be out-matched. When it was time to eat, they took their places at the tables, which in deference to the king’s wishes had been set beneath the leafy bay-trees and the other fine trees fringing the delectable pool, and as they ate they could see the fishes swimming about the lake in enormous shoals, which attracted not only their attention but also an occasional comment. At the end of the meal, the tables were cleared and taken away, and they began to sing even more merrily than before, then played upon their instruments and danced one or two caroles . Their discreet steward had meanwhile made up several beds in different parts of the little valley, surrounding them with drapes of French cretonne and bedecking them with canopies, and the king gave leave to those who so desired to retire for their siesta; and those who had no desire to sleep were free to amuse themselves to their hearts’ content in the various ways to which they were accustomed. In due course, when the time came for them to address themselves once more to their story telling, they all got up and proceeded to seat themselves on rugs which, in accordance with the king’s instructions, had been laid upon the grass beside the lake, in a spot not far away from where they had breakfasted. Then the king ordered Emilia to open the proceedings, and with a broad smile, she gaily began to speak, as follows:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Gostanza described to him all that had happened to her, and told him of the honour paid to her by the noble lady with whom she had been staying. Martuccio spent some time conversing with her, after which he left her and went to the King, his master, to whom he gave a full account, not only of his own vicissitudes but also those of the girl, adding that he intended, by the King’s leave, to marry her according to the Christian rite. The King, who was filled with amazement, summoned the girl to his presence; and having heard her confirm Martuccio’s story with her own lips, he said: ‘Then you have certainly earned the right to marry him.’ He then called for sumptuous and splendid gifts to be brought, and divided them between Gostanza and Martuccio, granting them leave to arrange matters between themselves in whatever way they pleased. The gentlewoman with whom Gostanza had been staying was nobly entertained by Martuccio, who thanked her for all she had done to assist Gostanza, gave her such presents as were suitable to a person of her rank, and commended her to God, after which she and Gostanza took their leave of one another, shedding many tears. By the King’s leave, they then embarked on a small sailing-ship, taking Carapresa with them, and with the aid of a prosperous wind they came once more to Lipari, where there was such great rejoicing that no words could ever describe it. There, Martuccio and Gostanza were married, celebrating their nuptials in great pomp and splendour; and they spent the rest of their lives in the tranquil and restful enjoyment of the love they bore one another.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The doctor then went away, and concocted a harmless medicinal draught, which he duly sent round to Calandrino. As for Bruno, having purchased the capons and various other essential delicacies, he made a hearty meal of them in company with the doctor and his two companions. Calandrino took the medicine for three mornings running, then the doctor called to see him along with his three friends, and having taken Calandrino’s pulse, he said: ‘You’re cured, Calandrino, without a shadow of a doubt; so there’s no need for you to stay at home any longer. It’s quite safe now for you to get up and do whatever you have to.’ So Calandrino got up and went happily about his business, and whenever he fell into conversation with anyone he bestowed high praise on Master Simone for his miraculous cure, which in only three days had effected a painless miscarriage. Bruno, Buffalmacco, and Nello were delighted with themselves for getting round Calandrino’s avarice so cleverly, but they had not deceived Monna Tessa, who muttered and moaned to her husband about it for a long time afterwards. FOURTH STORYCecco Fortarrigo gambles away everything he possesses at Buonconvento, together with the money of Cecco Angiulieri. He then pursues Ceceo Angiulieri in his shirt claiming that he has been robbed, causes him to be seized by peasants, dons his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and rides away leaving Angiulieri standing there in his shirt. All the members of the company roared with laughter on hearing what Calandrino had said about his wife; but when Filostrato had finished speaking, Neifile began, at the queen’s behest, as follows: Worthy ladies, but for the fact that it is more difficult for people to display their wisdom and their virtues than it is to show their folly and their vices, it would be so much wasted effort for them to reflect carefully before opening their mouths to speak; all of which has been amply demonstrated by the stupidity of Calandrino, who was under no obligation whatever, in order to recover from the malady from which in his simplicity he believed himself to be suffering, to hold forth about the secret pleasures of his wife in public. But the story of Calandrino brings to mind a tale of a totally different sort, wherein one man’s cunning defeats the wisdom of another, to the latter’s extreme distress and embarrassment; and I should now like to tell you about it. In Siena, not many years ago, there lived two young men, who had both come of age and were both called Cecco, the one being the son of Messer Angiulieri1 and the other of Messer Fortarrigo.2 And whilst they failed to see eye-to-eye with each other on several matters, there was one respect at least – namely, their hatred of their respective fathers3 – in which they were in such total agreement that they became good friends and were often to be found in one another’s company.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SIXTH STORY Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci are the most noble family in the whole wide world, and wins a supper . The ladies were still laughing over Giotto’s swift and splendid retort when the queen called for the next story from Fiammetta, who began as follows: Young ladies, Panfilo’s mention of the Baronci, with whom, possibly, you are less well acquainted than he is, has reminded me of a story demonstrating their great nobility, and since it falls within the scope of our agreed topic, I should like to relate it to you. In our city, not so very long ago, there was a young man called Michele Scalza, who was the most entertaining and agreeable fellow you could ever wish to meet, and he was always coming out with some new-fangled notion or other, so that the young men of Florence loved to have him with them when they were out on the spree together. Now, one day, he was with some friends of his at Montughi, 1 and they happened to start an argument over which was the most ancient and noble family in Florence. Some maintained it was the Uberti, some the Lamberti, 2 and various other names were tossed into the discussion, more or less at random. Scalza listened to them for a while, then he started grinning, and said: ‘Get along with you, you ignorant fools, you don’t know what you’re talking about. The most ancient and noble family, not only in Florence but in the whole wide world, is the Baronci. 3 All the philosophers are agreed on this point, and anyone who knows the Baronci as well as I do will say the same thing. But in case you think I’m talking about some other family of that name, I mean the Baronci who live in our own parish of Santa Maria Maggiore.’ His companions, who had been expecting him to say something quite different, poured scorn on this idea, and said: ‘You must be joking. We know the Baronci just as well as you do.’ ‘I’m not joking,’ said Scalza. ‘On the contrary I’m telling you the gospel truth. And if there’s anyone present who would care to wager a supper to be given to the winner and six of his chosen companions, I’ll gladly take him up on it. And just to make it easier for you, I’ll abide by the decision of any judge you choose to nominate.’ Whereupon one of the young men, who was called Neri Mannini, said: ‘I am ready to win this supper.’ And having mutually agreed to appoint Piero di Fiorentino, in whose house they were spending the day, as the judge, they went off to find him, being followed by all the others, who were eager to see Scalza lose the wager so that they could pull his leg about it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having chosen Crete as the place to which they should go, they sold certain properties of theirs under the pretext of using the proceeds for a trading expedition, converted everything else they possessed into hard cash, purchased a brigantine, which they provisioned in secret on a lavish scale, and waited for the appointed day to come. For her part, Ninetta, who had a very clear notion of the wishes of her two sisters, described the scheme to them in such glowing colours and fired them with so much enthusiasm that they thought they would never live long enough to see it carried out. When the night finally arrived for them to go aboard the brigantine, the three sisters opened up a huge chest belonging to their father and took a large amount of money and jewellery from it, which they carried quietly away from the house according to plan. Their three lovers were waiting for them, and all six hurried aboard the brigantine, which immediately weighed anchor and put out to sea. After an unbroken voyage, they arrived next evening in Genoa, where the new lovers enjoyed the first delectable fruits of their love. Having taken on all the fresh provisions they needed, they put to sea again, making their way unimpeded from one port to the next until, a week later, they arrived in Crete. There, not far from Candia, 1 they purchased vast and magnificent estates, upon which they built houses of great beauty and splendour. And what with their large retinue of servants, their dogs, their birds, and their horses, they began to live like lords, banqueting and merrymaking and rejoicing in the company of their ladies, the most contented men on God’s earth. This, then, was their way of life. But as we all know from experience, a surfeit of good things often leads to sorrow, and now that Restagnone, who had once been very much in love with Ninetta, was able to possess her whenever he liked without fear of discovery, he began to have second thoughts about her, with the result that his love began to wane. Furthermore, he was powerfully attracted to a beautiful and gently bred young woman of the neighbourhood whom he had glimpsed at a banquet, and he began to court her with the maximum of zeal, paying her extravagant compliments and putting on entertainments for her benefit. When Ninetta perceived what was happening, she was so distraught with jealousy that he was unable to make a move without her getting wind of it and pelting him with so much abuse and hostility that she made Restagnone’s life a misery as well as her own. In the same way, however, that a surfeit of good things generates distaste, so the withholding of a desired object sharpens the appetite, and Ninetta’s resentment merely served to fan the flames of Restagnone’s new-born love. Whether or not he eventually succeeded in possessing his beloved, we shall never know.

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

  To Rupert Pole, she wrote in her slanted handwriting. Looking forward to getting to know you better at Coral Sands. That was as much of an invitation as she was going to offer him. If he wanted to see her, he would figure it out. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] When Rupert left the Coral Sands Motel at 3 a.m., she was completely satiated. Don’t forget again, she told herself. Men want you most when you are most elusive. She would take one more night of pleasure with Rupert and then she would be gone—the bird who swoops and flies away. But where could she fly? She had no more book signings and she was not ready to be cooped up again with Hugo. Something new had emerged in her over the three weeks of her book tour: the satisfaction of true independence. She still had some of the advance money for her next novel in her purse, and she needed an adventure. She watched the white window curtain flutter as she lay in her motel room and imagined what her life could be like if Children of the Albatross somehow sold enough copies that Dutton would publish another of her novels. She would get another advance, and another, so that she would be financially independent. Then she really could be like the bird she imagined, circling her lover and flying off to freedom, a bird that did not have to migrate dutifully home to Hugo’s nest. CHAPTER 9 Acapulco, Mexico, 1947-1948 ANAÏS ANAÏS BOUGHT HERSELF A FLIGHT to Acapulco and, with the pleasure of Rupert’s embraces still on her skin, flew there alone. When she checked herself into the El Mirador Hotel, the setting sun tinted everything gold: the beach, the patio of her cabana, the skin of her bare arms and legs. At night she lay in a hammock, a warm breeze caressing her. Above, instead of pinpricks of stars, she saw huge, glowing orbs. Nature was so present that it annihilated her anxiety. It embraced her so powerfully that the sensuality of her surroundings was the only lover she needed. She was a woman drugged by beauty, and as the days and nights passed, she felt she never wanted to leave. She was at last free from guilt, from worry, from ambition, from memory, from Sabina’s hunger, from Lillian’s anxiety, from Stella’s fear. She was Djuna, her essential self, for once a woman alone experiencing joy.

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

  Renate nodded in approval. “Ordinarily, as Anaïs’s best friend, I would not give such an important responsibility to anyone else. I would continue to do it myself. But there are complications since I married Ronnie and my son moved home.” Renate eyed my plate. “You’ve hardly eaten anything. Don’t you like it?” “It’s good.” I fibbed to be polite. “I ate too big a breakfast.” Renate gave me a stern, all-knowing look, but also a nod to credit my manners. With her aristocratic bearing, she carried her empty plate and my full one into the kitchen. “There’s a photo of my husband Ronnie on the shelf behind you,” she called out. I located the framed black and white picture of a kneeling football player holding his helmet and smiling at the camera. Renate and Anaïs were marvels, I thought, both of them married to gorgeous, younger men. “Where is Ronnie? Will I meet him?” “No, he’s at the apartment he still keeps in Santa Monica so his father won’t suspect he’s living with me.” She returned with mints from the restaurant for us. “Ronnie goes there to try to write. He wants to be an author, too, but he keeps rewriting the same page over and over. His perfectionism is driving him crazy.” “I do that,” I admitted. Renate put out a palm for the cellophane from my mint just as a car screeched to a halt outside. Through the living room window overlooking the carport, I watched Anaïs emerge from a powder blue Thunderbird. She removed the kerchief tied under her chin and tousled her permed bob. “You invited Anaïs!” I cried, delighted as a six-year-old at seeing Snow White coming up the steps. “Your enthusiasm is charming.” Renate smiled. Anaïs swept through the door, her black cape flapping behind her like the wings of a great crow. I recalled her statement about always dressing the part for an occasion and wondered if she’d conceived this as some sort of clandestine, cloak-and-dagger meeting. “I had the most terrible drive here,” she announced. “I got so entranced by the sight of the ocean that I went through a red light. The other cars honked and an awful man in a pickup truck followed me to the turn-off, yelling at me.” “Here’s pure water to relax you.” Renate poured a glass from the tap and handed it to Anaïs. “Sip it slowly.” Anaïs perched herself on a stack of large pillows. She released the clasp on her cape and it fell in graceful folds so she appeared to be sitting on a draped pedestal. As Anaïs dutifully followed Renate’s instructions to take five little sips of water, Renate said, “Tristine told me that she would be thrilled to help you with some phone and mail issues. My intuition tells me she’s trustworthy, but you need to talk with her yourself to see how you feel.” I grinned at Renate. She was trying to help me get the apprentice position.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Nor was she content solely with telling the Archbishop, but she gave a true account of the whole affair in the presence of many other gentlemen, requesting them to use their good offices with the King in order to secure the rehabilitation of the Count if he was still alive, or if he was dead, of his children. Not long afterwards she died, and was buried with full regal honours. When the King was told about her confession, he heaved many an anguished sigh over the wrongs to which this excellent man had been so unjustly subjected. He then issued an edict, which was published far and wide, both throughout the army and elsewhere, to the effect that he would pay substantial rewards to anyone bringing him information concerning the whereabouts of the Count of Antwerp or any of his children. Because of the Queen’s confession – so the edict continued – the King held him to be innocent of the charges which had led to his exile, and it was his intention, not only to restore him to his former position, but to grant him still higher honours. Rumours of the announcement reached the ears of the Count, who was still working as a groom, and when he had confirmed them he went at once to Jacques and asked him to arrange a meeting with Perrot so that he could show them what the King was looking for. When all three of them had come together, the Count said to Perrot, who was already thinking of announcing his identity: ‘Perrot, Jacques here is married to your sister, and never received any dowry from her. In order, therefore, that your sister should not remain without a dowry, I propose that he alone should claim these huge rewards that the King is offering. This he will do by declaring you to be the Count of Antwerp’s son, his wife to be your sister Violante, and myself to be your father, the Count of Antwerp.’ On hearing this, Perrot looked intently at the old man, and it dawned upon him that this was indeed his father. Dissolving into tears, he threw himself at the Count’s feet and embraced him, saying: ‘Father, what a joy it is to see you!’ Jacques, having listened to the Count’s words and witnessed Perrot’s response, was so delighted and astonished that he hardly knew where to put himself. But being convinced that it was all true, and bitterly ashamed for occasionally having spoken harshly to the groom or Count, he too burst into tears and sank to his knees at the old man’s feet, humbly begging his pardon for all the wrongs he had done him. Whereupon the Count, having first of all persuaded him to stand up again, assured him very graciously that he was forgiven.