It being now the Lord’s day, Messer Francesco thought it meet that he should rise early in the morning and bestir himself, to hear mass in the parish church at Certaldo. Whereupon he went on tiptoe, if so weighty a man could indeed go in such a fashion, and lifted softly the latch of Ser Giovanni’s chamber door, that he might salute him ere he departed, and occasion no wonder at the step he was about to take. He found Ser Giovanni fast asleep, with the missal wide open across his nose, and a pleasant smile on his genial, joyous mouth. Ser Francesco leaned over the couch, closed his hands together, and looking with even more than his usual benignity, said in a low voice:
‘God bless thee, gentle soul! the mother of purity and innocence protect thee!’
He then went into the kitchen, where he found the girl Assunta, and mentioned his resolution. She informed him that the horse had eaten his two beans,15 and was as strong as a lion and as ready as a lover. Ser Francesco patted her on the cheek, and called her semplicetta! She was overjoyed at this honour from so great a man, the bosom friend of her good master, whom she had always thought the greatest man in the world, not excepting Monsignore, until he told her he was only a dog confronted with Ser Francesco. She tripped alertly across the paved court into the stable, and took down the saddle and bridle from the farther end of the rack. But Ser Francesco, with his natural politeness, would not allow her to equip his palfrey.
‘This is not the work for maidens,’ said he; ‘return to the house, good girl!’
She lingered a moment, then went away; but, mistrusting the dexterity of Ser Francesco, she stopped and turned back again, and peeped through the half-closed door, and heard sundry sobs and wheezes round about the girth. Ser Francesco’s wind ill seconded his intention; and, although he had thrown the saddle valiantly and stoutly in its station, yet the girths brought him into extremity. She entered again, and dissembling the reason, asked him whether he would not take a small beaker of the sweet white wine before he set out, and offered to girdle the horse while his Reverence bitted and bridled him. Before any answer could be returned, she had begun. And having now satisfactorily executed her undertaking, she felt irrepressible delight and glee at being able to do what Ser Francesco had failed in. He was scarcely more successful with his allotment of the labour; found unlooked-for intricacies and complications in the machinery, wondered that human wit could not simplify it, and declared that the animal had never exhibited such restiveness before. In fact, he never had experienced the same grooming. At this conjuncture, a green cap made its appearance, bound with straw-coloured ribbon, and surmounted with two bushy sprigs of hawthorn, of which the globular buds were swelling, and some bursting, but fewer yet open. It was young Simplizio Nardi, who sometimes came on the Sunday morning to sweep the courtyard for Assunta.
‘Oh! this time you are come just when you were wanted,’ said the girl.
‘Bridle, directly, Ser Francesco’s horse, and then go away about your business.’
The youth blushed, and kissed Ser Francesco’s hand, begging his permission. It was soon done. He then held the stirrup; and Ser Francesco, with scarcely three efforts, was seated and erect on the saddle. The horse, however, had somewhat more inclination for the stable than for the expedition; and, as Assunta was handing to the rider his long ebony staff, bearing an ivory caduceus, the quadruped turned suddenly round. Simplizio called him bestiaccia! and then, softening it, poco garbato! and proposed to Ser Francesco that he should leave the bastone behind, and take the crab-switch he presented to him, giving at the same time a sample of its efficacy, which covered the long grizzle hair of the worthy quadruped with a profusion of pink blossoms, like embroidery. The offer was declined; but Assunta told Simplizio to carry it himself, and to walk by the side of Ser Canonico quite up to the church porch, having seen what a sad, dangerous beast his reverence had under him.
With perfect good will, partly in the pride of obedience to Assunta, and partly to enjoy the renown of accompanying a canon of Holy Church, Simplizio did as she enjoined.
And now the sound of village bells, in many hamlets and convents and churches out of sight, was indistinctly heard, and lost again; and at last the five of Certaldo seemed to crow over the faintness of them all. The freshness of the morning was enough of itself to excite the spirits of youth; a portion of which never fails to descend on years that are far removed from it, if the mind has partaken in innocent mirth while it was its season and its duty to enjoy it. Parties of young and old passed the canonico and his attendant with mute respect, bowing and bare-headed; for that ebony staff threw its spell over the tongue, which the frank and hearty salutation of the bearer was inadequate to break. Simplizio, once or twice, attempted to call back an intimate of the same age with himself; but the utmost he could obtain was a riveritissimo! and a genuflexion to the rider. It is reported that a heart-burning rose up from it in the breast of a cousin, some days after, too distinctly apparent in the long-drawn appellation of Gnor16 Simplizio.
Ser Francesco moved gradually forward, his steed picking his way along the lane, and looking fixedly on the stones with all the sobriety of a mineralogist. He himself was well satisfied with the pace, and told Simplizio to be sparing of the switch, unless in case of a hornet or a gadfly. Simplizio smiled, toward the hedge, and wondered at the condescension of so great a theologian and astrologer, in joking with him about the gadflies and hornets in the beginning of April. ‘Ah! there are men in the world who can make wit out of anything!’ said he to himself.
As they approached the walls of the town, the whole country was pervaded by a stirring and diversified air of gladness. Laughter and songs and flutes and viols, inviting voices and complying responses, mingled with merry bells and with processional hymns, along the woodland paths and along the yellow meadows. It was really the Lord’s Day, for He made His creatures happy in it, and their hearts were thankful. Even the cruel had ceased from cruelty; and the rich man alone exacted from the animal his daily labour. Ser Francesco made this remark, and told his youthful guide that he had never been before where he could not walk to church on a Sunday; and that nothing should persuade him to urge the speed of his beast, on the seventh day, beyond his natural and willing foot’s-pace. He reached the gates of Certaldo more than half an hour before the time of service, and he found laurels suspended over them, and being suspended; and many pleasant and beautiful faces were protruded between the ranks of gentry and clergy who awaited him. Little did he expect such an attendance; but Fra Biagio of San Vivaldo, who himself had offered no obsequiousness or respect, had scattered the secret of his visit throughout the whole country. A young poet, the most celebrated in the town, approached the canonico with a long scroll of verses, which fell below the knee, beginning:
How shall we welcome our illustrious guest?
To which Ser Francesco immediately replied: ‘Take your favourite maiden, lead the dance with her, and bid all your friends follow; you have a good half-hour for it.’
Universal applauses succeeded, the music struck up, couples were instantly formed. The gentry on this occasion led out the cittadinanza, as they usually do in the villeggiatura, rarely in the carnival, and never at other times. The elder of the priests stood round in their sacred vestments, and looked with cordiality and approbation on the youths, whose hands and arms could indeed do much, and did it, but whose active eyes could rarely move upward the modester of their partners.
While the elder of the clergy were thus gathering the fruits of their liberal cares and paternal exhortations, some of the younger looked on with a tenderer sentiment, not unmingled with regret. Suddenly the bells ceased; the figure of the dance was broken; all hastened into the church; and many hands that joined on the green, met together at the font, and touched the brow reciprocally with its lustral waters, in soul-devotion.
After the service, and after a sermon a good church-hour in length to gratify him, enriched with compliments from all authors, Christian and Pagan, informing him at the conclusion that, although he had been crowned in the Capitol, he must die, being born mortal, Ser Francesco rode homeward. The sermon seemed to have sunk deeply into him, and even into the horse under him, for both of them nodded, both snorted, and one stumbled. Simplizio was twice fain to cry:
‘Ser Canonico! Riverenza! in this country if we sleep before dinner it does us harm. There are stones in the road, Ser Canonico, loose as eggs in a nest, and pretty nigh as thick together, huge as mountains.’
‘Good lad!’ said Ser Francesco, rubbing his eyes, ‘toss the biggest of them out of the way, and never mind the rest.’
The horse, although he walked, shuffled almost into an amble as he approached the stable, and his master looked up at it with nearly the same contentment. Assunta had been ordered to wait for his return, and cried:
‘O Ser Francesco! you are looking at our long apricot, that runs the whole length of the stable and barn, covered with blossoms as the old white hen is with feathers. You must come in the summer, and eat this fine fruit with Signor Padrone. You cannot think how ruddy and golden and sweet and mellow it is. There are peaches in all the fields, and plums, and pears, and apples, but there is not another apricot for miles and miles. Ser Giovanni brought the stone from Naples before I was born: a lady gave it to him when she had eaten only half the fruit off it: but perhaps you may have seen her, for you have ridden as far as Rome, or beyond. Padrone looks often at the fruit, and eats it willingly; and I have seen him turn over the stones in his plate, and choose one out from the rest, and put it into his pocket, but never plant it.’
‘Where is the youth?’ inquired Ser Francesco.
‘Gone away,’ answered the maiden.
‘I wanted to thank him,’ said the Canonico.
‘May I tell him so?’ asked she.
‘And give him . . . ’ continued he, holding a piece of silver.
‘I will give him something of my own, if he goes on and behaves well,’ said she; ‘but Signor Padrone would drive him away for ever, I am sure, if he were tempted in an evil hour to accept a quattrino for any service he could render the friends of the house.’
Ser Francesco was delighted with the graceful animation of this ingenuous girl, and asked her, with a little curiosity, how she could afford to make him a present.
‘I do not intend to make him a present,’ she replied: ‘but it is better he should be rewarded by me,’ she blushed and hesitated, ‘or by Signor Padrone,’ she added, ‘than by your reverence. He has not done half his duty yet; not half. I will teach him: he is quite a child; four months younger than me.’
Ser Francesco went into the house, saying to himself at the doorway:
‘Truth, innocence, and gentle manners have not yet left the earth. There are sermons that never make the ears weary. I have heard but few of them, and come from church for this.’
Whether Simplizio had obeyed some private signal from Assunta, or whether his own delicacy had prompted him to disappear, he was now again in the stable, and the manger was replenished with hay. A bucket was soon after heard ascending from the well; and then two words: ‘Thanks, Simplizio.’
When Petrarca entered the chamber, he found Boccaccio with his breviary in his hand, not looking into it indeed, but repeating a thanksgiving in an audible and impassioned tone of voice. Seeing Ser Francesco, he laid the book down beside him, and welcomed him.
‘I hope you have an appetite after your ride,’ said he, ‘for you have sent home a good dinner before you.’
Ser Francesco did not comprehend him, and expressed it not in words but in looks.
‘I am afraid you will dine sadly late today: noon has struck this half-hour, and you must wait another, I doubt. However, by good luck, I had a couple of citrons in the house, intended to assuage my thirst if the fever had continued. This being over, by God’s mercy, I will try (please God!) whether we two greyhounds cannot be a match for a leveret.’
‘How is this?’ said Ser Francesco.
‘Young Marc–Antonio Grilli, the cleverest lad in the parish at noosing any wild animal, is our patron of the feast. He has wanted for many a day to say something in the ear of Matilda Vercelli. Bringing up the leveret to my bedside, and opening the lips, and cracking the knuckles, and turning the foot round to show the quality and quantity of the hair upon it, and to prove that it really and truly was a leveret, and might be eaten without offence to my teeth, he informed me that he had left his mother in the yard, ready to dress it for me; she having been cook to the prior. He protested he owed the crowned martyr a forest of leverets, boars, deers, and everything else within them, for having commanded the most backward girls to dance directly. Whereupon he darted forth at Matilda, saying, “The crowned martyr orders it,” seizing both her hands, and swinging her round before she knew what she was about. He soon had an opportunity of applying a word, no doubt as dexterously as hand or foot; and she said submissively, but seriously, and almost sadly, “Marc–Antonio, now all the people have seen it, they will think it.”
‘And after a pause:
‘“I am quite ashamed: and so should you be: are not you now?”
‘The others had run into the church. Matilda, who scarcely had noticed it, cried suddenly:
‘“O Santissima! we are quite alone.”
‘“Will you be mine?” cried he, enthusiastically.
‘“Oh! they will hear you in the church,” replied she.
‘“They shall, they shall,” cried he again, as loudly.
‘“If you will only go away.”
‘“Yes, yes, indeed.”
‘“The Virgin hears you: fifty saints are witnesses.”
‘“Ah! they know you made me: they will look kindly on us.”
‘He released her hand: she ran into the church, doubling her veil (I will answer for her) at the door, and kneeling as near it as she could find a place.
‘“By St. Peter,” said Marc–Antonio, “if there is a leveret in the wood, the crowned martyr shall dine upon it this blessed day.” And he bounded off, and set about his occupation. I inquired what induced him to designate you by such a title. He answered, that everybody knew you had received the crown of martyrdom at Rome, between the pope and antipope, and had performed many miracles, for which they had canonized you, and that you wanted only to die to become a saint.’
The leveret was now served up, cut into small pieces, and covered with a rich tenacious sauce, composed of sugar, citron, and various spices. The appetite of Ser Francesco was contagious. Never was dinner more enjoyed by two companions, and never so much by a greater number. One glass of a fragrant wine, the colour of honey, and unmixed with water, crowned the repast. Ser Francesco then went into his own chamber, and found, on his ample mattress, a cool, refreshing sleep, quite sufficient to remove all the fatigues of the morning; and Ser Giovanni lowered the pillow against which he had seated himself, and fell into his usual repose. Their separation was not of long continuance: and, the religious duties of the Sabbath having been performed, a few reflections on literature were no longer interdicted.
Petrarca. The land, O Giovanni, of your early youth, the land of my only love, fascinates us no longer. Italy is our country; and not ours only, but every man’s, wherever may have been his wanderings, wherever may have been his birth, who watches with anxiety the recovery of the Arts, and acknowledges the supremacy of Genius. Besides, it is in Italy at last that all our few friends are resident. Yours were left behind you at Paris in your adolescence, if indeed any friendship can exist between a Florentine and a Frenchman: mine at Avignon were Italians, and older for the most part than myself. Here we know that we are beloved by some, and esteemed by many. It indeed gave me pleasure the first morning as I lay in bed, to overhear the fondness and earnestness which a worthy priest was expressing in your behalf.
Boccaccio. In mine?
Petrarca. Yes indeed: what wonder?
Boccaccio. A worthy priest?
Petrarca. None else, certainly.
Boccaccio. Heard in bed! dreaming, dreaming; ay?
Petrarca. No indeed: my eyes and ears were wide open.
Boccaccio. The little parlour opens into your room. But what priest could that be? Canonico Casini? He only comes when we have a roast of thrushes, or some such small matter, at table: and this is not the season; they are pairing. Plover eggs might tempt him hitherward. If he heard a plover he would not be easy, and would fain make her drop her oblation before she had settled her nest.
Petrarca. It is right and proper that you should be informed who the clergyman was, to whom you are under an obligation.
Boccaccio. Tell me something about it, for truly I am at a loss to conjecture.
Petrarca. He must unquestionably have been expressing a kind and ardent solicitude for your eternal welfare. The first words I heard on awakening were these:
‘Ser Giovanni, although the best of masters . . . ’
Boccaccio. Those were Assuntina’s.
Petrarca. ‘ . . . may hardly be quite so holy (not being priest or friar) as your Reverence.’
She was interrupted by the question: ‘What conversation holdeth he?’
‘He never talks of loving our neighbour with all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength, although he often gives away the last loaf in the pantry.’
Boccaccio. It was she! Why did she say that? the slut!
Petrarca. ‘He doth well,’ replied the confessor. ‘Of the Church, of the brotherhood, that is, of me, what discourses holdeth he?’
I thought the question an indiscreet one; but confessors vary in their advances to the seat of truth.
She proceeded to answer:
‘He never said anything about the power of the Church to absolve us, if we should happen to go astray a little in good company, like your Reverence.’
Here, it is easy to perceive, is some slight ambiguity. Evidently she meant to say, by the seduction of ‘bad’ company, and to express that his Reverence had asserted his power of absolution; which is undeniable.
Boccaccio. I have my version.
Petrarca. What may yours be?
Boccaccio. Frate Biagio; broad as daylight; the whole frock round!
I would wager a flask of oil against a turnip, that he laid another trap for a penance. Let us see how he went on. I warrant, as he warmed, he left off limping in his paces, and bore hard upon the bridle.
Petrarca. ‘Much do I fear,’ continued the expositor, ‘he never spoke to thee, child, about another world.’
There was a silence of some continuance.
‘Speak!’ said the confessor.
‘No indeed he never did, poor Padrone!’ was the slow and evidently reluctant avowal of the maiden; for, in the midst of the acknowledgment her sighs came through the crevices of the door: then, without any farther interrogation, and with little delay, she added:
‘But he often makes this look like it.’
Boccaccio. And now, if he had carried a holy scourge, it would not have been on his shoulders that he would have laid it.
Petrarca. Zeal carries men often too far afloat; and confessors in general wish to have the sole steerage of the conscience. When she told him that your benignity made this world another heaven, he warmly and sharply answered:
‘It is only we who ought to do that.’
‘Hush,’ said the maiden; and I verily believe she at that moment set her back against the door, to prevent the sounds from coming through the crevices, for the rest of them seemed to be just over my night-cap. ‘Hush,’ said she, in the whole length of that softest of all articulations. ‘There is Ser Francesco in the next room: he sleeps long into the morning, but he is so clever a clerk, he may understand you just the same. I doubt whether he thinks Ser Giovanni in the wrong for making so many people quite happy; and if he should, it would grieve me very much to think he blamed Ser Giovanni.’
‘Who is Ser Francesco?’ he asked, in a low voice.
‘Ser Canonico,’ she answered.
‘Of what Duomo?’ continued he.
‘Who knows?’ was the reply; ‘but he is Padrone’s heart’s friend, for certain.’
‘Cospetto di Bacco! It can then be no other than Petrarca. He makes rhymes and love like the devil. Don’t listen to him, or you are undone. Does he love you too, as well as Padrone?’ he asked, still lowering his voice.
‘I cannot tell that matter,’ she answered, somewhat impatiently; ‘but I love him.’
‘To my face!’ cried he, smartly.
‘To the Santissima!’ replied she, instantaneously; ‘for have not I told your Reverence he is Padrone’s true heart’s friend! And are not you my confessor, when you come on purpose?’
‘True, true!’ answered he; ‘but there are occasions when we are shocked by the confession, and wish it made less daringly.’
‘I was bold; but who can help loving him who loves my good Padrone?’ said she, much more submissively.
Boccaccio. Brave girl, for that!
Dog of a Frate! They are all of a kidney; all of a kennel. I would dilute their meal well and keep them low. They should not waddle and wallop in every hollow lane, nor loll out their watery tongues at every wash-pool in the parish. We shall hear, I trust, no more about Fra Biagio in the house while you are with us. Ah! were it then for life.
Petrarca. The man’s prudence may be reasonably doubted, but it were uncharitable to question his sincerity. Could a neighbour, a religious one in particular, be indifferent to the welfare of Boccaccio, or any belonging to him?
Boccaccio. I do not complain of his indifference. Indifferent! no, not he. He might as well be, though. My villetta here is my castle: it was my father’s; it was his father’s. Cowls did not hang to dry upon the same cord with caps in their podere; they shall not in mine. The girl is an honest girl, Francesco, though I say it. Neither she nor any other shall be befooled and bamboozled under my roof. Methinks Holy Church might contrive some improvement upon confession.
Petrarca. Hush! Giovanni! But, it being a matter of discipline, who knows but she might.
Boccaccio. Discipline! ay, ay, ay! faith and troth there are some who want it.
Petrarca. You really terrify me. These are sad surmises.
Boccaccio. Sad enough: but I am keeper of my handmaiden’s probity.
Petrarca. It could not be kept safer.
Boccaccio. I wonder what the Frate would be putting into her head?
Petrarca. Nothing, nothing: be assured.
Boccaccio. Why did he ask her all those questions?
Petrarca. Confessors do occasionally take circuitous ways to arrive at the secrets of the human heart.
Boccaccio. And sometimes they drive at it, me thinks, a whit too directly. He had no business to make remarks about me.
Boccaccio. ‘Fore God, Francesco, he shall have more of that; for I will shut him out the moment I am again up and stirring, though he stand but a nose’s length off. I have no fear about the girl; no suspicion of her. He might whistle to the moon on a frosty night, and expect as reasonably her descending. Never was a man so entirely at his ease as I am about that; never, never. She is adamant; a bright sword now first unscabbarded; no breath can hang about it. A seal of beryl, of chrysolite, of ruby; to make impressions (all in good time and proper place though) and receive none: incapable, just as they are, of splitting, or cracking, or flawing, or harbouring dirt. Let him mind that. Such, I assure you, is that poor little wench, Assuntina.
Petrarca. I am convinced that so well-behaved a young creature as Assunta ——
Boccaccio. Right! Assunta is her name by baptism; we usually call her Assuntina, because she is slender, and scarcely yet full-grown, perhaps: but who can tell?
As for those friars, I never was a friend to impudence: I hate loose suggestions. In girls’ minds you will find little dust but what is carried there by gusts from without. They seldom want sweeping; when they do, the broom should be taken from behind the house door, and the master should be the sacristan.
. . . Scarcely were these words uttered when Assunta was heard running up the stairs; and the next moment she rapped. Being ordered to come in, she entered with a willow twig in her hand, from the middle of which willow twig (for she held the two ends together) hung a fish, shining with green and gold.
‘What hast there, young maiden?’ said Ser Francesco.
‘A fish, Riverenza!’ answered she. ‘In Tuscany we call it tinca.’
Petrarca. I too am a little of a Tuscan.
Assunta. Indeed! well, you really speak very like one, but only more sweetly and slowly. I wonder how you can keep up with Signor Padrone — he talks fast when he is in health; and you have made him so. Why did not you come before? Your Reverence has surely been at Certaldo in time past.
Petrarca. Yes, before thou wert born.
Assunta. Ah, sir! it must have been long ago then.
Petrarca. Thou hast just entered upon life.
Assunta. I am no child.
Petrarca. What then art thou?
Assunta. I know not: I have lost both father and mother; there is a name for such as I am.
Petrarca. And a place in heaven.
Boccaccio. Who brought us that fish, Assunta? hast paid for it? there must be seven pounds: I never saw the like.
Assunta. I could hardly lift up my apron to my eyes with it in my hand. Luca, who brought it all the way from the Padule, could scarcely be entreated to eat a morsel of bread or sit down.
Boccaccio. Give him a flask or two of our wine; he will like it better than the sour puddle of the plain.
Assunta. He is gone back.
Boccaccio. Gone! who is he, pray?
Assunta. Luca, to be sure.
Boccaccio. What Luca?
Assunta. Dominedio! O Riverenza! how sadly must Ser Giovanni, my poor Padrone, have lost his memory in this cruel long illness! he cannot recollect young Luca of the Bientola, who married Maria.
Boccaccio. I never heard of either, to the best of my knowledge.
Assunta. Be pleased to mention this in your prayers to-night, Ser Canonico! May Our Lady soon give him back his memory! and everything else she has been pleased (only in play, I hope) to take away from him! Ser Francesco, you must have heard all over the world how Maria Gargarelli, who lived in the service of our paroco, somehow was outwitted by Satanasso. Monsignore thought the paroco had not done all he might have done against his wiles and craftiness, and sent his Reverence over to the monastery in the mountains, Laverna yonder, to make him look sharp; and there he is yet.
And now does Signor Padrone recollect?
Boccaccio. Rather more distinctly.
Assunta. Ah me! Rather more distinctly! have patience, Signor Padrone! I am too venturous, God help me! But, Riverenza, when Maria was the scorn or the abhorrence of everybody else, excepting poor Luca Sabbatini, who had always cherished her, and excepting Signor Padrone, who had never seen her in his lifetime . . . for paroco Snello said he desired no visits from any who took liberties with Holy Church . . . as if Padrone did! Luca one day came to me out of breath, with money in his hand for our duck. Now it so happened that the duck, stuffed with noble chestnuts, was going to table at that instant. I told Signor Padrone. . . .
Boccaccio. Assunta, I never heard thee repeat so long and tiresome a story before, nor put thyself out of breath so. Come, we have had enough of it.
Petrarca. She is mortified: pray let her proceed.
Boccaccio. As you will.
Assunta. I told Signor Padrone how Luca was lamenting that Maria was seized with an imagination.
Petrarca. No wonder then she fell into misfortune, and her neighbours and friends avoided her.
Assunta. Riverenza! how can you smile? Signor Padrone! and you too? You shook your head and sighed at it when it happened. The Demonio, who had caused all the first mischief, was not contented until he had given her the imagination.
Petrarca. He could not have finished his work more effectually.
Assunta. He was balked, however. Luca said:
‘She shall not die under her wrongs, please God!’
I repeated the words to Signor Padrone. . . . He seems to listen, Riverenza! and will remember presently . . . and Signor Padrone cut away one leg for himself, clean forgetting all the chestnuts inside, and said sharply, ‘Give the bird to Luca; and, hark ye, bring back the minestra.’
Maria loved Luca with all her heart, and Luca loved Maria with all his: but they both hated paroco Snello for such neglect about the evil one. And even Monsignore, who sent for Luca on purpose, had some difficulty in persuading him to forbear from choler and discourse. For Luca, who never swears, swore bitterly that the devil should play no such tricks again, nor alight on girls napping in the parsonage. Monsignore thought he intended to take violent possession, and to keep watch there himself without consent of the incumbent. ‘I will have no scandal,’ said Monsignore; so there was none. Maria, though she did indeed, as I told your Reverence, love her Luca dearly, yet she long refused to marry him, and cried very much at last on the wedding day, and said, as she entered the porch:
‘Luca! it is not yet too late to leave me.’
He would have kissed her, but her face was upon his shoulder.
Pievano Locatelli married them, and gave them his blessing: and going down from the altar, he said before the people, as he stood on the last step: ‘Be comforted, child! be comforted! God above knows that thy husband is honest, and that thou art innocent.’ Pievano’s voice trembled, for he was an aged and holy man, and had walked two miles on the occasion. Pulcheria, his governante, eighty years old, carried an apronful of lilies to bestrew the altar; and partly from the lilies, and partly from the blessed angels who (although invisible) were present, the church was filled with fragrance. Many who heretofore had been frightened at hearing the mention of Maria’s name, ventured now to walk up toward her; and some gave her needles, and some offered skeins of thread, and some ran home again for pots of honey.
Boccaccio. And why didst not thou take her some trifle?
Assunta. I had none.
Boccaccio. Surely there are always such about the premises.
Assunta. Not mine to give away.
Boccaccio. So then at thy hands, Assunta, she went off not overladen. Ne’er a bone-bodkin out of thy bravery, ay?
Assunta. I ran out knitting, with the woodbine and syringa in the basket for the parlour. I made the basket . . . I and . . . but myself chiefly, for boys are loiterers.
Boccaccio. Well, well: why not bestow the basket, together with its rich contents?
Assunta. I am ashamed to say it . . . I covered my half-stocking with them as quickly as I could, and ran after her, and presented it. Not knowing what was under the flowers, and never minding the liberty I had taken, being a stranger to her, she accepted it as graciously as possible, and bade me be happy.
Petrarca. I hope you have always kept her command.
Assunta. Nobody is ever unhappy here, except Fra Biagio, who frets sometimes: but that may be the walk; or he may fancy Ser Giovanni to be worse than he really is.
. . . Having now performed her mission and concluded her narrative, she bowed, and said:
‘Excuse me, Riverenza! excuse me, Signor Padrone! my arm aches with this great fish.’
Then, bowing again, and moving her eyes modestly toward each, she added, ‘with permission!’ and left the chamber.
‘About the sposina,’ after a pause began Ser Francesco: ‘about the sposina, I do not see the matter clearly.’
‘You have studied too much for seeing all things clearly,’ answered Ser Giovanni; ‘you see only the greatest. In fine, the devil, on this count, is acquitted by acclamation; and the paroco Snello eats lettuce and chicory up yonder at Laverna. He has mendicant friars for his society every day; and snails, as pure as water can wash and boil them, for his repast on festivals. Under this discipline, if they keep it up, surely one devil out of legion will depart from him.’
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57