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 History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  especially for the believers, on the ground of the sacrifice of Christ on the cross for the salvation of the world. The length and order of the prayers, however, were not uniform; nor the position of the Lord’s Prayer, which sometimes took the place of the prayer of consecration, being reserved for the prominent part of the service. Pope Gregory I. says that it "was the custom of the Apostles to consecrate the oblation only by the Lord’s Prayer." The congregation responded from time to time, according to the ancient Jewish and the apostolic usage, with an audible "Amen, "or "Kyrie eleison." The "Sursum corda," also, as an incitement to devotion, with the response, "Habemus ad Dominum," appears at least as early as Cyprian’s time, who expressly alludes to it, and in all the ancient liturgies. The prayers were spoken, not read from a book. But extemporaneous prayer naturally assumes a fixed form by constant repetition. The elements were common or leavened bread407 (except among the Ebionites, who, like the later Roman church from the seventh century, used unleavened bread), and wine mingled with water. This mixing was a general custom in antiquity, but came now to have various mystical meanings attached to it. The elements were placed in the hands (not in the mouth) of each communicant by the clergy who were present, or, according to Justin, by the deacons alone, amid singing of psalms by the congregation (Psalm 34), with the words: "The body of Christ;" "The blood of Christ, the cup of life;" to each of which the recipient responded "Amen."408 The whole congregation thus received the elements, standing in the act.409 Thanksgiving and benediction concluded the celebration. After the public service the deacons carried the consecrated elements to the sick and to the confessors in prison. Many took portions of the bread home with them, to use in the family at morning prayer. This domestic communion was practised particularly in North Africa, and furnishes the first example of a communio sub una specie. In the same country, in Cyprian’s time, we find the custom of infant communion (administered with wine alone), which was justified from John 6:53, and has continued in the Greek (and Russian) church to this day, though irreconcilable with the apostle’s requisition of a preparatory examination (1 Cor. 11:28). At first the communion was joined with a love feast, and was then celebrated in the evening, in memory of the last supper of Jesus with his disciples.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  To the utter astonishment of the Count and all the others present, the Countess then related the whole of her story from beginning to end. Well knowing that she was telling the truth, and seeing what a handsome pair of children her remarkable persistence and intelligence had produced, the Count could no longer feel hostile towards her, and he not only honoured his promise but endeared himself to his lords and ladies (who were all entreating him to accept and welcome her as his lawful spouse) by helping the Countess to her feet, smothering her with kisses and embraces, and recognizing her as his lawful wife, at the same time acknowledging the children to be his. And having caused her to change into robes befitting her rank, he gave up the rest of the day to feasting and merrymaking, to the no small pleasure of those present and all of his vassals who came to hear of it. The festivities continued for several days, and from that time forth, never failing to honour the Countess as his lawful wedded wife, he loved her and held her in the greatest esteem. TENTH STORYAlibech becomes a recluse, and after being taught by the monk, Rustico, to put the devil back in Hell, she is eventually taken away to become the wife of Neerbal. Dioneo had been following the queen’s story closely, and on perceiving that it was finished, knowing that he was the only speaker left, he smiled and began without waiting to be bidden: Gracious ladies, you have possibly never heard how the devil is put back into Hell, and hence, without unduly straying from the theme of your discussions for today, I should like to tell you about it. By learning how it is done, there may yet be time perhaps for you to save our souls from perdition, and you will also discover that, even though Love is more inclined to take up his abode in a gay palace and a dainty bedchamber than in a wretched hovel, there is no denying that he sometimes makes his powers felt among pathless woods, on rugged mountains, and in desert caves; nor is this surprising, since all living things are subject to his sway. *

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Sir, you cannot be very fond of this daughter of yours. What difference does it make to you whether she sleeps on the balcony or not? She didn’t get a moment’s rest all night because of the heat. Besides, what do you find so surprising about a young girl taking pleasure in the song of the nightingale? Young people are naturally drawn towards those things that reflect their own natures.’ ‘Oh, very well,’ said Messer Lizio. ‘Take whichever bed you please, and set it up for her on the balcony with some curtains round it. Then let her sleep there and hear the nightingale singing to her heart’s content.’ On hearing that her father had given his permission, the girl promptly had a bed made up for herself on the balcony; and since it was her intention to sleep there that same night, she waited for Ricciardo to come to the house, and gave him a signal, already agreed between them, by which he understood what was expected of him. As soon as he had heard his daughter getting into bed, Messer Lizio locked the door leading from his own room to the balcony, and then he too retired for the night. When there was no longer any sound to be heard, Ricciardo climbed over a wall with the aid of a ladder, then climbed up the side of the house by clinging with great difficulty to a series of stones projecting from the wall. At every moment of the ascent, he was in serious danger of falling, but in the end he reached the balcony unscathed, where he was silently received by the girl with very great rejoicing. After exchanging many kisses, they lay down together and for virtually the entire night they had delight and joy of one another, causing the nightingale to sing at frequent intervals. Their pleasure was long, the night was brief, and though they were unaware of the fact, it was almost dawn when they eventually fell asleep without a stitch to cover them, exhausted as much by their merry sport as by the nocturnal heat. Caterina had tucked her right arm beneath Ricciardo’s neck, whilst with her left hand she was holding that part of his person which in mixed company you ladies are too embarrassed to mention. Dawn came, but failed to wake them, and they were still asleep in the same posture when Messer Lizio got up out of bed. Remembering that his daughter was sleeping on the balcony, he quietly opened the door, saying: ‘I’ll just go and see whether Caterina has slept any better with the help of the nightingale.’ Stepping out on to the terrace, he gently raised the curtain surrounding the bed and saw Ricciardo and Caterina, naked and uncovered, lying there asleep in one another’s arms, in the posture just described. Having clearly recognized Ricciardo, he left them there and made his way to his wife’s room, where he called to her and said:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  He, therefore, is the man I have taken; it is him alone that I want, and no matter what my father or anyone else may have to say on the subject, I will never accept any other. The ostensible aim of my journey has thus been removed. But I desired to complete it, for two reasons: firstly, to meet Your Holiness and visit the venerable and sacred places in which this city abounds; and secondly, so that through your good offices I could make public, before you and the whole world, the marriage that Alessandro and I have contracted with God as our only witness. What is pleasing to God and to me should not be disagreeable to you, and I therefore beg you in all humility to give us your blessing, armed with which, since you are God’s vicar, we should be more certain of His entire approval. And thus we may live our lives together, till death us do part, to the greater glory not only of God but also of yourself.’ On hearing that his wife was the daughter of the King of England, Alessandro could scarcely contain his astonishment and happiness. But the two knights were even more astonished, and they were so furious that they would have done Alessandro an injury, and possibly the lady as well, if they had been anywhere else but in the Pope’s presence. The Pope, for his part, was greatly astonished both by the lady’s attire and by her choice of a husband. But he realized there was no turning back, and decided to grant her request. He could see, however, that the knights were seething with rage, and so first of all he pacified them and reconciled them with Alessandro and the lady, then he gave orders for what was to be done. For the appointed day, the Pope arranged a magnificent ceremony to which he had invited all the cardinals and a large number of other great nobles, and he summoned the couple into their presence. The lady, dressed in regal robes and looking very gracious and beautiful, was greeted with unanimous and well-deserved praise, as also was Alessandro, who carried his fine clothes with such a natural and dignified air that, honourably attended by the two knights, he looked more like a royal prince than a young man who had once been engaged in money-lending. Without further ado, the Pope had them taken solemnly through the marriage ceremony from the beginning, then a sumptuous wedding-feast was held, after which he dismissed them with his blessing. On leaving Rome, it was the wish of both Alessandro and his bride that they should make for Florence, where their story had already been noised abroad. There the townspeople received them with all possible honour, and the three brothers were released from prison on the petition of the lady, who had seen that all their creditors were paid.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But she was weeping bitterly, and so he poured out a stream of endearments in an attempt to console her, and when night descended, having come to the conclusion that he had been wasting his time all day with words, he turned to comforting her with deeds, for he was not the sort of man to pay any heed to calendars, and he had long since forgotten about feasts and holy days. So effective were the consolations he provided, that before they had reached Monaco, 6 the judge and his laws had faded from the lady’s memory, and life with Paganino was a positive joy. And after he had brought her to Monaco, in addition to consoling her continuously night and day, Paganino treated her with all the respect due to a wife. When, some time afterwards, information reached Messer Ricciardo of his lady’s whereabouts, he was passionately resolved to go and fetch her in person, being convinced that he alone could handle the affair with the necessary tact. He was quite prepared to pay whatever ransom was demanded, and took ship for Monaco, where he caught sight of her soon after his arrival. But she had seen him, too, and that same evening she warned Paganino and informed him of her husband’s intentions. Next morning, Messer Ricciardo saw Paganino and engaged him in conversation, losing no time in getting on friendly and familiar terms with him, while Paganino, pretending not to know who he was, waited to see what he was proposing to do. At the earliest opportunity, Messer Ricciardo disclosed the purpose of his visit as concisely and politely as he could, then asked Paganino to hand the lady over, naming whatever sum he required by way of ransom. ‘Welcome to Monaco, sir,’ replied Paganino, smiling broadly. ‘And as to your request, I will answer you briefly, as follows. It is true that I have a young lady in my house, but I couldn’t say whether she is your wife or some other man’s wife, for I do not know you, and all I know about the lady is that she has been living with me for some time. I have taken a liking to you, however, and since you appear to be honest, I will take you to see her, and if you are indeed her husband, as you claim to be, she will no doubt recognize you. If she confirms your story and wants to go with you, you are such an amiable sort of fellow that I am content to leave the amount of the ransom to your own good judgement. But if your story isn’t true, it would be dishonest of you to try and deprive me of her, for I am a young man and no less entitled than anyone else to keep a woman, especially this one, for she is the nicest I ever saw.’ ‘Of course she is my wife,’ said Messer Ricciardo.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But in the end, after a thorough shaking, he pretended to wake up; and calling to Adriano, he said: ‘Why have you woken me up? Is it morning already?’ ‘Yes,’ said Adriano. ‘Come back here.’ Pinuccio kept up the pretence, showing every sign of being extremely drowsy, but in the end he left his host’s side and staggered back to bed with Adriano. When they got up next morning, their host began to laugh and make fun of Pinuccio and his dreams. And so, amid a constant stream of merry banter, the two young men saddled and loaded their horses, and after drinking the health of their host, they remounted and rode back to Florence, feeling no less delighted with the manner than with the outcome of the night’s activities. From then on, Pinuccio discovered other ways of consorting with Niccolosa, who meanwhile assured her mother that he had certainly been dreaming. And thus the woman, who retained a vivid memory of Adriano’s embraces, was left with the firm conviction that she alone had been awake on the night in question.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  To this assertion nobody offered any reply, but they all waited to discover what he was going to say next. Niccoluccio, along with one or two others and the lady herself, dissolved into tears; but Messer Gentile rose to his feet, took the tiny infant in his arms, and, leading the lady by the hand, walked up to Niccoluccio, saying: ‘Stand up now, my friend: I shall not restore your wife to you, for she was cast out by your kinsfolk and her own; but I wish to present you with this lady, together with her little child, of whom you are assuredly the father, though I am his godfather, and when I held him at his christening I named him Gentile. Nor should you cherish her any the less for having spent the best part of three months under my roof; for I swear to you in the name of God (who possibly willed that I should fall in love with her so that my love would be the instrument of her deliverance) that she never led a more upright existence with her parents or with you yourself than the life she has lived here in this house under my mother’s care.’ He then turned to the lady and said: ‘I now release you, my lady, from every promise you gave me, and hereby deliver you to Niccoluccio.’ And having left the lady and the child with Niccoluccio, he returned to his place. Niccoluccio received his wife and son eagerly in his arms, his joy being all the greater for being so totally unexpected, and thanked Messer Gentile to the best of his power and ability. This touching scene moved all the other guests to tears, and they were full of praise for Messer Gentile, as indeed were all those who came to hear of his story. The lady was welcomed home amid scenes of great rejoicing, and for a long time afterwards the people of Bologna regarded her with awe as someone who had returned from the dead. And as for Messer Gentile, for the rest of his life he remained a close friend of Niccoluccio as well as of the families of both Niccoluccio and his wife.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When he had eaten and warmed himself at the fire, having given them an account of his misfortunes and explained how it was that he came to be wandering alone through the forest, he asked them whether there was any village or township thereabouts to which he might go. The shepherds replied that some three miles away there was a castle belonging to Liello di Campo di Fiore, and that Liello’s wife was at present living there. Overjoyed, Pietro asked whether any of the shepherds would guide him as far as the castle, and two of them volunteered to do so. On reaching the castle, Pietro met various people he knew, and whilst he was trying to arrange for them to go out and search for the girl in the forest, he was told that Liello’s wife wanted to see him. He promptly answered her summons, and on finding that she had Agnolella with her, he was the happiest man that was ever born. He was positively longing to take her in his arms, but was too embarrassed to do so in the presence of the lady. And if his own joy knew no bounds, the girl was no less delighted on seeing him. The noble lady took him in and made him very welcome, and having heard the tale of his adventures from his own lips, she spoke to him severely for attempting to defy the wishes of his kinsfolk. But on seeing that he was quite unrepentant, and that the girl was eager to marry him, she said to herself: ‘Why should I go to all this trouble? They are in love, they understand one another, both are friends of my husband, and their intentions are honourable. Besides, it seems to me that they have God’s blessing, for one of them has been saved from being hanged, the other from being killed by a lance, and both of them from being devoured by wild beasts. So let them do as they wish.’ She therefore turned to them, and said: ‘If you have really set your hearts on becoming husband and wife, so be it; you shall have my blessing, the wedding can be celebrated here at Liello’s expense, and after you are married you can safely leave it to me to make peace between you and your kinsfolk.’ So there they were married, and Pietro’s enormous joy was only surpassed by that of Agnolella. The noble lady gave them as splendid a wedding as could possibly be arranged in her mountain retreat, and it was there that they tasted the first exquisite fruits of their love. Some days later, guarded by a powerful escort, they returned with the lady on horseback to Rome, where, on finding that Pietro’s kinsfolk were greatly angered by what he had done, she succeeded in restoring him to their good graces. And afterwards, he and Agnolella lived to a ripe old age in great peace and happiness.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. When the hour for the banquet arrived, Messer Torello went with the Abbot, in the clothes in which he was standing, to the bridegroom’s house, being stared at in amazement by everyone who saw him, but recognized by none. The Abbot told everyone that Torello was a Saracen whom the Sultan had dispatched to the King of France as his envoy. Messer Torello was accordingly placed at a table directly facing his lady, whom he gazed upon in rapturous delight, at the same time thinking that she wore a troubled look on account of these nuptials. Every so often, she returned his gaze, not because she had the slightest idea who he was (for his long beard, his strange attire, and her conviction that he was dead made this impossible), but by virtue of the extraordinary clothes he was wearing. But when he felt that the time had come to put her memory of him to the test, Messer Torello took hold of the ring which the lady had given him on the day of his departure, and, sending for a young man who was waiting upon her, he said to him: ‘Tell the bride, with my compliments, that in our country, whenever any stranger such as myself attends a bridal feast such as hers, it is the custom for her to send him the cup from which she is drinking, filled with wine, to signify her pleasure at his coming. When the stranger has consumed his fill, he

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIFTH STORY Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter, returning from Mugello, poke fun at one another’s disreputable appearance. The ladies were highly amused by Chichibio’s reply, and in deference to the queen’s wishes, as soon as Neifile had stopped, Panfilo began: Dearest ladies, whilst it is true that Fortune occasionally conceals abundant treasures of native wit in those who practise a humble trade, as was demonstrated just now by Pampinea, it is equally true that Nature has frequently planted astonishing genius in men of monstrously ugly appearance. This was plainly to be observed in two citizens of ours, about whom I now propose to say a few words. The first, who was called Messer Forese da Rabatta, 1 being deformed and dwarf-like in appearance, with a plain snub-nosed face that would have seemed loathsome alongside the ugliest Baronci 2 who ever lived, was a jurist of such great distinction that many scholars regarded him as a walking encyclopaedia of civil law. The second, whose name was Giotto, 3 was a man of such outstanding genius that there was nothing in the whole of creation that he could not depict with his stylus, pen, or brush. And so faithful did he remain to Nature (who is the mother and the motive force of all created things, via the constant rotation of the heavens), that whatever he depicted had the appearance, not of a reproduction, but of the thing itself, so that one very often finds, with the works of Giotto, that people’s eyes are deceived and they mistake the picture for the real thing. Hence, by virtue of the fact that he brought back to light an art which had been buried for centuries beneath the blunders of those who, in their paintings, aimed to bring visual delight to the ignorant rather than intellectual satisfaction to the wise, his work may justly be regarded as a shining monument to the glory of Florence. And all the more so, inasmuch as he set an example to others by wearing his celebrity with the utmost modesty, and always refused to be called a master, even though such a title befitted him all the more resplendently in proportion to the eagerness with which it was sought and usurped by those who knew less than himself or by his own pupils. But for all the greatness of his art, neither physically nor facially was he any more handsome than Messer Forese. Turning now to our story, I should first point out that both Messer Forese and Giotto owned properties in the region of Mug-ello. 4 And one summer, when the law courts were closed for the vacation, Messer Forese had gone to visit this property of his, and was returning to Florence astride an emaciated old hack, when whom should he meet up with along the road but the aforementioned Giotto, who was likewise returning from a visit to his property.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Without saying anything by way of reply, he began to look upon his wife as a model of intelligence and virtue. And just as he had worn the mantle of the jealous husband when it was unnecessary, he cast it off completely now that his need for it was paramount. So his clever little wife, having, as it were, acquired a licence to enjoy herself, no longer admitted her lover by way of the roof as though he were some kind of cat, but showed him in at the front door. And from that day forth, by proceeding with caution, she spent many an entertaining and delightful hour in his arms.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When they saw the Count at his meal, they all gathered round and made a fuss of him, as though impelled by some mysterious instinct which told them that this was their grandfather. Knowing them to be his grandchildren, the old man began to show them his affection and fondle them, with the result that the children were unwilling to come away, however much their tutor cajoled and threatened them. Hearing the commotion, Jeannette left the room she was in, came to where the Count was sitting, and spoke sharply to the children, threatening to chastise them if they did not obey their tutor’s instructions. The children began to cry, protesting that they wanted to stay with this worthy fellow who loved them more than their tutor, whereupon the lady and the Count smiled broadly at one another. The Count had risen to his feet, not in the manner of a father greeting his daughter but rather in the role of a pauper paying his respects to a fine lady, and as soon as he set eyes upon her, his heart was filled with a marvellous joy. But she never suspected for a moment who he was, either then or later, for he was thin and elderly-looking, and what with his beard, his greying hair and his dark complexion, he no longer seemed the same person. But on seeing how reluctant the children were to be parted from the old man, and how dismally they wailed whenever any attempt was made to dislodge them, the lady told

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘By the grace of God, my lady, and thanks to your assistance, I now have what I wanted, and hence it is time for me to do whatever you want me to do, so that I may take my leave.’ The gentlewoman insisted that so long as the Countess was contented with what she had achieved, then she too was satisfied, and that she had not assisted her in the hope of obtaining any reward, but merely because she had felt it her duty to support so worthy a cause. ‘I fully understand,’ said the Countess. ‘And for my own part, I have no intention of granting you any reward. I shall give you whatever you ask of me because the cause is worthy and I feel obliged to support it.’ The gentlewoman was sorely embarrassed, but her needs were great, and she asked for a hundred pounds so that she could marry her daughter. On hearing her ask for so modest a sum, the Countess, sensing her embarrassment, gave her five hundred pounds, together with a quantity of fine and precious jewels that probably amounted in value to the same sum again. The gentlewoman, quite overcome, thanked the Countess as warmly as she could, after which the Countess took her leave of her and returned to the inn. So that Bertrand should have no further reason for sending messages or paying visits to her house, the gentlewoman took her daughter away with her to live with relatives in the country. And shortly afterwards, Bertrand was recalled by his nobles and returned home, having been assured that the Countess had gone away. On hearing that he had left Florence and returned to his estates, the Countess was overjoyed. She herself remained in Florence until the time came for her confinement, when she gave birth to twin sons who were the image of their father. She took special care to have them properly nursed, and when she considered the time to be ripe, she set out with the children and succeeded in reaching Montpelier 4 without being recognized. There she rested for a few days, making inquiries concerning the Count and his whereabouts, and on learning that he would be holding a magnificent feast for his lords and ladies on All Saints’ Day in Roussillon, she too made her way there, still attired in the pilgrim’s garb to which she had by now become accustomed. Arriving at the Count’s palace, she heard all the lords and ladies talking together prior to sitting at table, and so she made her way up to the hall, still wearing the same clothes and carrying the two infants in her arms, and threaded her way through the guests until, catching sight of the Count, she flung herself at his feet and burst into tears, saying: ‘My lord, behold your unfortunate bride, who has suffered the pangs of a long and bitter exile so that you could return and settle in your ancestral home. I now beseech you, in God’s name, to observe the conditions you imposed upon me through the agency of those two knights I sent to you. Here in my arms I carry, not merely one of your children, but two; and here is your ring. So the time has come for you to honour your promise and accept me as your wife.’ The Count could scarcely believe his ears, yet had to admit that the ring was his and that the children, since they resembled him so exactly, must also be his. All he could find to say was: ‘How can this have happened?’ To the utter astonishment of the Count and all the others present, the Countess then related the whole of her story from beginning to end. Well knowing that she was telling the truth, and seeing what a handsome pair of children her remarkable persistence and intelligence had produced, the Count could no longer feel hostile towards her, and he not only honoured his promise but endeared himself to his lords and ladies (who were all entreating him to accept and welcome her as his lawful spouse) by helping the Countess to her feet, smothering her with kisses and embraces, and recognizing her as his lawful wife, at the same time acknowledging the children to be his. And having caused her to change into robes befitting her rank, he gave up the rest of the day to feasting and merrymaking, to the no small pleasure of those present and all of his vassals who came to hear of it. The festivities continued for several days, and from that time forth, never failing to honour the Countess as his lawful wedded wife, he loved her and held her in the greatest esteem.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Nor should you cherish her any the less for having spent the best part of three months under my roof; for I swear to you in the name of God (who possibly willed that I should fall in love with her so that my love would be the instrument of her deliverance) that she never led a more upright existence with her parents or with you yourself than the life she has lived here in this house under my mother’s care.’ He then turned to the lady and said: ‘I now release you, my lady, from every promise you gave me, and hereby deliver you to Niccoluccio.’ And having left the lady and the child with Niccoluccio, he returned to his place. Niccoluccio received his wife and son eagerly in his arms, his joy being all the greater for being so totally unexpected, and thanked Messer Gentile to the best of his power and ability. This touching scene moved all the other guests to tears, and they were full of praise for Messer Gentile, as indeed were all those who came to hear of his story. The lady was welcomed home amid scenes of great rejoicing, and for a long time afterwards the people of Bologna regarded her with awe as someone who had returned from the dead. And as for Messer Gentile, for the rest of his life he remained a close friend of Niccoluccio as well as of the families of both Niccoluccio and his wife. What are we to conclude then, gentle ladies? Are we to regard a king who gave away his crown and sceptre, an abbot who reconciled an outlaw to the Pope at no cost to himself, or an old man who exposed his throat to the dagger of his adversary, as being in any way comparable to one who performed so noble a deed as Messer Gentile? For here we have the case of a man in the ardent flush of youth, who, believing himself to be legally entitled to that which the negligence of others had discarded and which he had the good fortune to retrieve, not only kept his ardour under decent restraint, but on obtaining the very object which he had coveted with his whole being for so long, generously surrendered it. In all conscience, none of the instances previously cited seems to me comparable to this.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But the arrows fired by your archers will be useless to the enemy because their bow-strings will be too thick to fit into the small notches, whereas your own men will have no difficulty at all in using the enemy’s arrows because a fine string goes perfectly well into a wide notch. Thus your own men will have an abundant supply of arrows, and the others will have none at all.’ Being a man of some intelligence, the King approved of Martuc-cio’s plan and carried it out to the letter, thereby winning the war. Martuccio was therefore raised to a high position in the King’s favour, and consequently grew rich and powerful. Tidings of these events spread throughout the country, and when it was reported to Gostanza that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was in fact alive, her love for him, which by now was beginning to fade from her heart, was suddenly rekindled, blazing more fiercely than ever, and all her lost hopes were revived. She therefore recounted all her vicissitudes to the good lady with whom she was living, and told her that she desired to go to Tunis, so that she might feast her eyes upon that which her ears had made them eager to behold. Her request was warmly approved by the lady, who, treating her as a daughter, took her by sea to Tunis, where she and Gostanza were honourably received in the house of one of the lady’s kinswomen. They had brought Carapresa with them, and the lady sent her to find out all she could about Martuccio. When she returned with the news that Martuccio was alive and of high estate, the lady resolved to go in person to Martuccio and inform him of the arrival of his beloved Gostanza. And so one day, she called upon Martuccio, and said to him: ‘Martuccio, a servant of yours from Lipari has turned up at my house, and desires to talk to you there in private. Since he did not wish me to entrust his mission to others, I have come to inform you in person.’ Martuccio thanked the lady, and followed her back to her house. The girl was so delighted to see him that she nearly died. Carried away by her feelings, she ran up to him and flung her arms round his neck; then she burst into tears, unable to speak because of her joy and the bitter memory of her past misfortunes. When he saw who it was, Martuccio was at first struck dumb with astonishment, but then he began to sigh, and said: ‘Oh, Gostanza, can it really be you? I was told, long ago, that you had vanished from Lipari, never to be heard of again.’ And this was all he could say before he, too, burst into tears, took her tenderly in his arms, and kissed her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The Sultan next commanded that Ambrogiuolo should instantly be taken to some upper part of the city, tied to a pole in the sun, smeared with honey, and left there until he fell of his own accord; and this was done. He then decreed that all of Ambrogiuolo’s possessions, which amounted in value to more than ten thousand doubloons, should be handed over to the lady. And for his own part, he put on a splendid feast, at which Bernabò, being Lady Zinevra’s husband, and the most excellent Lady Zinevra herself were the guests of honour. And in addition he presented her with jewels, gold and silver plate, and money, all of which came to a further ten thousand doubloons in value. He meanwhile commissioned a ship to be specially fitted out for their use, and once the feast held in their honour was concluded, he gave them leave to return to Genoa whenever it suited their purpose. And when they sailed into Genoa, weak with joy and laden with riches, a magnificent welcome awaited them, especially Lady Zinevra, whom everyone had thought to be dead. And thereafter, for as long as she lived, she was held in high esteem and regarded as a paragon of virtue. As for Ambrogiuolo, on the very day that he was tied to the pole and smeared with honey, he was subjected to excruciating torments by the mosquitoes, wasps and horseflies which abound in that country, and not only was he slain, but every morsel of his flesh was devoured. Hanging by their sinews, his whitened bones remained there for ages without being moved, an eloquent testimony of his wickedness to all who beheld them. And thus it was that the dupe outwitted his deceiver.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  She had already heard about the rebellion in Sicily, and on learning that Arrighetto was alive, she abandoned her former fear and told him the whole story, explaining her reasons for the action she had taken. On finding that the nurse’s account corresponded exactly with that of Currado’s emissary, Messer Guasparrino began to take her story seriously. Being a very astute man, he took various steps to have it thoroughly checked, becoming more and more convinced of its veracity with every scrap of new evidence he discovered. Ashamed at having treated the boy so contemptuously, he made amends by bestowing a wife on him in the person of his pretty little eleven-year-old daughter, together with a huge dowry, for he was well aware of Arrighetto’s past and present fame. After celebrating the event in great style, he embarked, along with the youth, his daughter, Currado’s emissary, and the nurse, on a well-armed galliot, and sailed for Lerici, 10 where he was met by Currado. Then, with the whole of his company, he proceeded to one of Currado’s castles, not very far from there, where the great wedding-feast was about to be held. The general rejoicing, whether that of the mother on seeing her son again, or that of the two brothers, or that with which all three greeted the faithful nurse, or that displayed by everyone towards Messer Guasparrino and his daughter and vice versa, or that of the whole company in the presence of Currado, his lady, his children and his friends, would be impossible to describe in words. And thus I leave it, ladies, to your imagination. But to crown it all, the Lord God, whose generosity knows no bounds once it is set in motion, arranged things so that news should arrive that Arrighetto was alive and in good health. For amid the great rejoicing, when the guests, men and women, were still seated round the tables, having proceeded no further than the first course, Currado’s other emissary returned from Sicily. Amongst other things, he narrated how Arrighetto had been held prisoner in Catania on the orders of King Charles, and how, after the country’s insurrection against the King, the people had stormed the prison, killing his gaolers and setting him free. Since he was King Charles’s bitterest opponent, they had then elected him their leader and joined him in pursuing and killing the French. For this reason, he had achieved a high reputation in the eyes of King Peter, who had reinstated him in all his possessions and titles. And so he now enjoyed a position of great honour and authority. The messenger added that Arrighetto had welcomed him very warmly, being overjoyed beyond description to hear about his wife and son, of whom he had received no news since the time of his capture. He was in fact sending a brigantine with some gentlemen aboard, to come and fetch them, and they were due to arrive at any moment.

• 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.