from The Decameron

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

The intelligence of Plato, the humanity of Dante, the imagination of Shakespeare, the virtuosity of Donne, and the wit of Boccaccio: a decent set of wishes for an aspiring writer lucky enough to stumble on a pair of genie lamps. But to pick only one—and any one is certainly enough—that’s a tough call. Unless, of course, it’s not fame but fun that you’re after, in which case Boccaccio is the only way to go. Boccaccio was the most spirited writer of the Middle Ages—and among the most spirited of any age—and he’s still the unrivaled master of saucy plots and mischievous characters, guaranteed to please.

Boccaccio’s most famous work, the Decameron, is a fourteenth-century collection of one hundred short tales, told by a group of nobles taking refuge in a villa. The stories are a panorama of medieval culture and wit, and they are, in turn, raucous, sinister, clever, and often, as in the excerpt that follows, quite racy (the Middle Ages were more fun than you’d think!). The Decameron is one of the great works of Italian literature and one of the first to tell stories about real people in real situations (often having real sex). But what ties the tales together is not so much this realism as Boccaccio’s fabulous sense of the world: in virtually every story some clever trickster takes advantage of his thick or naïve dupes. Boccaccio’s world is a meritocracy of ingenuity where the creative win at everyone else’s expense. This is why I’d rather live in Boccaccio’s world than any other, for intelligence works in the service of play, and morality means that the quick thinking get their just desserts. Take the following tale, for example, and see what a little imagination can do with an otherwise unpromising situation.

Dear Ladies, the deceits used by men towards your sex, but especially husbands, have been so great and many as when it hath sometime happened, or yet may, that husbands are repaid in the self-same manner, you need not find fault . . . but rather you should refer it to general publication so that immodest men may know . . . that women are in no way inferior to them. . . . Mine intent therefore is to tell you, what a woman (though but of mean quality) did to her husband all of a sudden, and in a moment for her own safety.

Not long ago, there lived in Naples an honest mean man, who did take to wife a fair and lusty young woman, being named Peronella. It came to pass that a certain young man, well observing the beauty and good parts of Peronella, became much addicted in affection towards her: and by his often and secret solicitations, which he found not to be unkindly entertained, his success proved answerable to his hope. . . .

Now, for their securer meeting, to stand clear from all matter of scandal or detection, they concluded in this order between themselves. Lazaro, for so was Peronella’s husband named, was an early riser every morning. Poor Lazaro was no sooner gone, but [Peronella’s lover] presently enters the house, which stood in a very solitary street. Many mornings had they thus met together, to their no small delight and contention, till one particular morning among the rest, when Lazaro was gone forth to work, and Striguario (so was the amorous young man named) visiting Peronella in the house. Upon a very urgent errand, Lazaro returned back again, quite contrary to his former wont, keeping forth all day, and never coming home till night.

Finding his door to be fast locked, and he having knocked softly once or twice, he spoke in this manner to himself: “Fortune I thank thee, for albeit thou hast made me poor, yet thou hast bestowed a better blessing on me, in matching me with so good, honest, and loving a wife. Behold, though I went early out of my house, her self hath risen in the cold to shut the door, to prevent the entrance of thieves, or any other that might offend us.” Peronella having heard what her husband said, and knowing the manner of his knock, said fearfully to Striguario: “Alas, dear friend, what shall we do? I am a dead woman. For Lazaro my husband is come back again, and I know not what to do or say. He never returned in this manner before now, doubtless he saw when you entered the door. For the safety of your honor and mine, creep under this brewing pot, till I have opened the door and know the reason of his so soon returning.”

Striguario made no delaying of the matter, but got himself closely under the pot, and Peronella opening the door for her husband’s entrance, with a frowning countenance, spoke thus unto him: “What meaneth this so early returning home again this morning? It seemeth thou intends to do nothing today, having brought back thy tools in thy hands? If such be thine intent, how shall we live? Where shall we have bread to fill our bellies? Dost thou think that I will allow thee to pawn my gown and other poor garments, as heretofore thou hast done? I that card and spin both night and day till I have worn the flesh from my fingers will hardly find oil to maintain our lamp. Husband, husband, there is not one neighbor dwelling by us but makes a mockery of me, and tells me plainly, that I may be ashamed to drudge and toil as I do, wondering not a little how I am able to endure it; and thou returnest home with thy hands in thy hose, as if thou hadst no work at all to do this day.”

Having thus spoken, she fell to weeping, and then thus began again: “Poor wretched woman as I am, in an unfortunate hour was I born, and in a much worse when I was made thy wife. I could have had a proper, handsome young man—one that would have maintained me brave and gallantly, but, beast as I was, to forgo my good and cast myself away on such a beggar as thou art, and whom none would have had, but such an ass as I. Other women live at heart’s ease and in jollity, have their amorous friends and loving paramours, yea, one, two, three at once, making their husbands look like a moon crescent whereon they shine sun-like with amiable looks because they know not how to help it, when I, poor fool, live here at home a miserable life, not daring once to dream of such follies, an innocent soul, heartless and harmless.”

“Many times, sitting and sighing to my self, ‘Lord,’ think I, ‘of what metal am I made? Why should not I have a friend in a corner, as well as others have? I am flesh and blood as they are, not made of brass or iron, and therefore subject to women’s frailty.’ Would thou should know it husband, and I tell it thee in good earnest, that if I would do ill, I could quickly find a friend at a need. Gallants there are in good store, who, of my knowledge, love me dearly, and have made me very large and liberal promises, of gold, silver, jewels, and gay garments, if I would extend them the least favor. But my heart will not suffer me, I never was the daughter of such a mother, as had so much as a thought of such matters. No, I thank our blessed Lady, and Saint Friswid for it. And yet thou returnest home again, when thou shouldst be at work.”

Lazaro, who stood all this while like a well-believing logger-head, demurely thus answered: “Alas good wife! I pray you be not so angry, I never had so much as an ill thought of you, but know well enough what you are, and have made good proof thereof this morning. Understand therefore patiently, sweet wife, that I went forth to my work as daily I use to do, little dreaming (as I think you do not) that it had been a holiday. Wife, this is the feast day of Saint Gale-one whereon we may in no ways work, and this is the reason of my so soon returning. Nevertheless, dear wife, I was not careless of our household provision, for, though we work not, yet we must have food, which I have provided for more than a month. Wife, I remembered the brewing pot, whereof we have little or no use at all, but rather it is a trouble to the house. I met with an honest friend, who is standing outside the door; to him I have sold the pot for five gigliatoes, and he is waiting to take it away with him.

“Husband, what do you mean?” replied Peronella, “Why now I am worse offended then before. Thou that art a man, walkest every where, and shouldst be experienced in worldly affairs: wouldst thou be so simple, as to sell such a brewing pot for five gigliatoes? Why, I that am a poor ignorant woman, a house dove, seldom going out of my door have sold it already for seven gigliatoes to a very honest man, who, even a little before thy coming home, came to me. We agreed on the bargain, and he is now underneath the pot, to see whether it be sound or no.”

When credulous Lazaro heard this, he was better contented then ever, and went to him that tarried at the door, saying, “Good man, you may go your way, for, whereas you offered me but five gigliatoes for the pot, my loving wife hath sold it for seven, and I must maintain what she hath done.” So the man departed, and the conflict ended.

Peronella then said to her husband, “Seeing thou art come home so luckily, help me to lift up the Pot, that the man may come forth, and then you two end the bargain together.” Striguario, who though he was mewed up under the tub, had his ears open enough, and hearing the witty excuse of Peronella, [came out] from under the Pot, pretending as if he had heard nothing nor saw Lazaro, looking round about him, said, “Where is this good woman?” Lazaro stepping forth boldly like a man, replied, “Here am I, what would you have Sir?” “Thou?” quoth Striguario, “what art thou? I ask for the good wife, with whom I made my match for the pot.” “Honest gentleman,” answered Lazaro, “I am that honest woman’s husband, for lack of a better, and I will maintain whatsoever my wife hath done.”

“I ask your mercy Sir,” replied Striguario, “I bargained with your wife for this brewing pot, which I find to be whole and sound: only it is unclean within, hard crusted with some dry soil upon it, which I know not well how to get off. If you will do the work of making it clean, I have the money here ready for it.” “For that, sir,” quoth Peronella, “do not worry. Though we had not agreed on it, what else is my husband good for, but to make it clean?” “Yes, forsooth Sir,” answered silly Lazaro, “you shall have it neat and clean before you pay the money. “So, stripping himself into his shirt, lighting a candle and taking tools fit for the purpose, the pot was placed over him, and he being within it, worked until he sweated with scraping and scrubbing. This way the lovers could finish that which earlier had been interrupted. And Peronella, looking in at the vent-hole where the liquor runneth forth for the meshing, seemed to instruct her husband in the business, as espying those parts where the pot was foulest, saying, “There, there Lazaro; tickle it there. The Gentleman pays well for it, and is worthy to have it. But see thou do thyself no harm good husband.” “I warrant thee wife,” answered Lazaro, “hurt not yourself with leaning your stomach on the pot, and leave the cleansing of it to me.” To be brief, the brewing pot was neatly cleansed, Peronella and Striguario both well pleased, the money paid, and honest meaning Lazaro not discontented.

—translated by John Florio,
adapted and modernized by Jack Murnighan