The King neither noticed nor cared about any of this, which made her affliction all the more difficult to bear. As her love continued to increase, so also did her melancholy, till eventually, being unable to endure it any longer, the beautiful Lisa fell ill and began to waste visibly away from one day to the next, like snow in the rays of the sun.
Her father and mother, who were heartbroken by the turn that events had taken, assisted her in every way they could, nursing her day and night, calling in various physicians, and plying her with medicines. But it was all to no avail, for the girl, having despaired of her love, had chosen not to go on living. Since, however, her father had offered to supply her every need, she suddenly got it into her head that before she died, if suitable means could be found, she would inform the King of her love and of her resolve to perish. So one day she asked her father to summon Minuccio d’Arezzo4 to her bedside.
This Minuccio was held to be one of the finest singers and musicians of his day, being always welcome at King Peter’s court, and Bernardo, thinking that Lisa wished to hear him sing and play to her, sent him a message to that effect. Being an obliging sort of fellow, he promptly came to see her, and after cheering her up a little with words of tender affection, he played her one or two melodious airs on his viol, then sang her some songs; all of which added fuel to the flames of the young lady’s passion, whereas he had meant to comfort her.
The young lady then told Minuccio that she would like a few words with him in private, and when everyone else had withdrawn, she said to him:
‘Minuccio, I have chosen you to be the loyal custodian of a secret of mine, trusting in the first place that you will never disclose it to anyone except the person whose name I shall give you; and secondly, that you will do all in your power to render me your assistance. This I beg of you.
‘You are to know then, my dear Minuccio, that on the day that our lord King Peter held the great feast celebrating his accession to the throne, fate decreed that I should set my eyes upon him as he was jousting, and such was the fiery passion that he kindled in my soul that I have been brought to the sorry plight in which you see me. Since I know how ill it befits a king to return my love, which I can neither expel from my heart nor even suppress, and which is altogether too much for me to bear, I have chosen to die as the lesser evil, and die I shall.
‘But the truth is that nothing would distress me more than to depart this life without first bringing my love to his notice, and since I know of no one better placed than yourself to inform him of my intentions, I wish to charge you with this mission, which I implore you to accept. And when you have carried it out you must let me know, so that I may be freed from these torments and die in peace.’
She then fell silent, having wept continuously as she said all this, and Minuccio, amazed no less by the nobility of her sentiments than by the cruelty of her resolve, which sorely troubled him, immediately thought of an apt way of furnishing her request.
‘Lisa,’ he said, ‘I pledge you my word, by which you may rest assured that you will never be deceived. Moreover I shall offer you my assistance, in token of my admiration for this lofty enterprise wherein you have set your heart upon so mighty a king. And if you will be of good cheer, I hope to take such steps as I think will enable me, before three days have passed, to bring you tidings that will make you exceedingly happy. But so as not to waste any time, I shall go and make a start right away.’
Lisa promised to take a rosier view of the matter, and after repeating her entreaties all over again, she bade him farewell.
Minuccio then went away, and, having called on Mico da Siena,5 who was a very able versifier of those times, he talked him into composing the following little song:
Bestir thyself, O Love, go to my lord,
Recount to him the torments I endure;
Tell him that death will soon be my reward,
For I must hide my yearning out of awe.
Visit the place where my lord dwells,
With clasp’d hands, Love, I thee entreat;
Tell him that evermore for him
My heart yearns with a passion sweet.
Because this fire inflames me so
I fear that it will stop my breath;
I know not when my sufferings
Will bring me through desire to death
Out of my fear and shame; ah me!
Go, tell him of my malady.
Love, ever since I fell in love
With him, you always granted me
More fear than courage; wherefore I
Could never show it openly
To him who takes away my breath,
And death is hard as I lie dying.
Perhaps he would not be displeased
If he were conscious of my sighing
And I could find the power to show
To him the measure of my woe.
Since it was not thy pleasure, Love,
That I should ever make so bold
As to lay bare my heart through words
Or looks, or to my lord unfold
My love; I beg you, master sweet,
Go and remind him of that day
I saw him with his shield and lance
With other knights upon the way,
When I first languished for his sake
And when my heart began to break.
For these words Minuccio promptly devised a melody, which had a sweet and sorrowful lilt as befitted the text, and on the third day he turned up at court, where King Peter, who was still at breakfast, asked him to sing a song to the strains of his viol. He thereupon began to sing and play this melody in tones of such sweet harmony that all those present in the regal hall appeared to be spellbound, so silently and raptly did they listen, the King himself being more engrossed, perhaps, than any other.
When Minuccio’s song was finished, the King asked him whence it had come, as he could not recall ever having heard it.
‘My lord,’ replied Minuccio, ‘the words were written less than three days ago, and so too was the melody.’ And when the King asked him for whom the song had been composed, he replied: ‘This I dare not reveal to anyone other than yourself.’
The King was eager to be told, and once the tables were cleared he took Minuccio with him to his chamber, where Minuccio supplied him with a detailed account of all that he had heard. The King was overjoyed, sang the girl’s praises, and declared that her fortitude was such as to demand his compassion. Minuccio was therefore to go to her on his behalf, comfort her, and tell her he would visit her that evening without fail, a little before vespers.
Delighted to be the bearer of such pleasant tidings, Minuccio went straightway to the girl with his viol, and as soon as they were alone together, related all that had happened. Then he sang her the song, accompanying himself on his viol.
The girl was so happy and contented by all this that she at once began to show marked signs of improvement, without anyone in the house knowing or suspecting the reason. And she began to count the hours until vespers, when she was to see her lord and master.
Being of a kindly and generous disposition, the King, having reflected at length upon what he had heard from Minuccio, and recalling the girl and her beauty very clearly, was stirred to even greater pity than before. Towards the hour of vespers he mounted his horse, giving the impression he was going on a jaunt, and rode to the place where the house of the apothecary stood. This latter had a very fine garden, and the King, having sent one of his attendants to ask for the gates to be opened, rode into the garden and dismounted. And after conversing with Bernardo for a while, he inquired about his daughter, asking him whether he had yet bestowed her in marriage, to which Bernardo replied:
‘My lord, she is not yet married. As a matter of fact she has been very ill, and she still is, though she has taken a miraculous turn for the better this very afternoon.’
The King was quick to realize what this improvement signified, and said:
‘In good truth, the world wou
ld be the poorer for the untimely loss of so lovely an object. Let us go and call upon her.’
A little while later, attended by Bernardo and only two companions, he made his way to the girl’s room, which he no sooner entered than he walked straight up to the bed. The girl was sitting up a little in eager anticipation of his coming, and he took her by the hand, saying:
‘What is the meaning of this, my lady? You are young, you should be bringing solace to others, instead of which you take to your sick-bed. We would ask you to be good enough to cheer up, for our sake, so that you may quickly recover.’
On feeling herself being touched by the hands of the person she loved above all else, the girl, albeit a little embarrassed, was filled with so much pleasure that she might have been in Paradise itself; and haltingly she replied:
‘My lord, it was only because I was trying to support a burden that was far too heavy for my feeble powers that I succumbed to this malady. But with your kind assistance, you shall soon see me rid of it.’
Only the King was able to grasp the covert meaning of Lisa’s words. She rose still higher in his esteem, and several times over he inwardly swore at Fortune for making her the daughter of such a man as Bernardo. But after he had spent some time in her company, and consoled her even further, he took his leave.
The King’s considerate gesture was widely commended, being looked upon as a signal honour for the apothecary and his daughter. Nor was any woman ever more contented with her lover than was Lisa with the visit of the King; and within a few days, aided by the renewal of her hopes, she recovered her health and seemed more lovely than ever.
But now that she was well again, the King, having consulted with the Queen6 as to how he should reward so great a love, took horse one morning with a number of his lords, and rode to the house of the apothecary. Entering the garden, he sent for Bernardo and his daughter, and meanwhile the Queen also arrived there with many fine ladies, who received the girl in their midst with great rejoicing, marvellous to behold.
At length the King, with the Queen at his side, summoned the girl and said to her:
‘Worthy young lady, through your great love for us you have won for yourself a great honour, which for our sake we trust you will accept. The honour is this, that since you are as yet unmarried, we desire you to take as your husband the person we shall nominate, it being none the less our intention always to style ourselves your loyal knight, and of all your love we require no more than a single kiss.’
The girl was so embarrassed that the whole of her face turned crimson, and in a low voice, making the King’s pleasure her own, she replied:
‘My lord, I am quite sure that if it were known that I was in love with you, most people would consider me to be mad, for they would think I had taken leave of my senses and was unaware of the distinction between your rank and mine. But God alone can see inside the hearts of mortals, and He knows that ever since I first became attracted to you, I have known full well that you are a king, that I am the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary, and that it ill becomes me to direct the ardour of my affections towards so lofty a goal. But as you know far better than I, when people fall in love they are guided, not by reason, but by their natural inclinations and desires. These I repeatedly opposed with all my strength until, no longer able to resist, I loved you then as I love you now and as I shall love you forever. And because I was always prepared, from the moment I fell in love with you, to make my wishes accord with your own, not only shall I be willing to accept and treasure the husband you choose to bestow upon me, who will bring me dignity and honour, but if you were to order me to walk through fire, and I thought it would please you, I should do it gladly. As for my having a king as my loyal knight, you know how well it would suit a person of my condition, and hence I will say no more on the subject; nor will I concede the single kiss that you require of my love, without the permission of my lady the Queen. For the great kindness, however, which you and the Queen have displayed towards me, may God give you thanks and reward you on my behalf, since I myself could never repay you.’
She said no more, but the answer she had given was greatly pleasing to the Queen, who was now persuaded that the girl was as wise as the King had affirmed. The King then summoned Lisa’s parents, and on learning that they approved of what he was proposing, he sent for a certain young man called Perdicone,7 who was gently bred but poor, and placing some rings in his hand, induced him to marry the girl without any show of reluctance.
Nor was this all, for apart from the many precious jewels that he and the Queen presented to Lisa, the King forthwith appointed him lord of Cefalu and Caltabellotta,8 two excellent and very lucrative estates, saying:
‘These we grant you by way of dowry for your wife; and as for our intentions with regard to yourself, of these you will learn in due course.’
Then, turning to the girl, he said:
‘Now we desire to take the fruit of your love which is our due.’ And holding her head between his hands, he kissed her on the brow.
Perdicone, along with Lisa’s father and mother, and Lisa herself, well content with what had happened, celebrated the wedding in truly magnificent style, and their marriage was a happy one.
As a good many people affirm, the King was most scrupulous to observe his compact with the girl, for he always styled himself her loyal knight for as long as he lived, and never entered the lists without displaying the favour she had sent him.
By deeds such as these, then, does a sovereign conquer the hearts of his subjects, furnish occasions to others for similar deeds, and acquire eternal renown. But among the rulers of today, there are few if any who train the bowstrings of their minds upon any such objective, most of them having been changed into pitiless tyrants.
EIGHTH STORY
Sophronia, thinking she has married Gisippus, has really married Titus Quintus Fulvius, with whom she goes off to Rome, where Gisippus turns up in abject poverty. Believing that Titus has snubbed him, he confesses to a murder so that he will be put to death. But Titus recognizes him, and claims that he himself has done the murder, in order to secure Gisippus’ release. On perceiving this, the real murderer gives himself up, whereupon all three are released by Octavianus. Titus then bestows his sister upon Gisippus in marriage, and shares with him all he possesses.
Pampinea having finished her tale, King Peter was extolled by all the ladies, but more especially by the one who was a Ghibelline; then Filomena began, at the king’s command, as follows:
Magnificent ladies, which of us is not aware that kings, if they be so inclined, can do all sorts of wondrous things, and that they above all others are called upon to display munificence? Those people do well, then, who possess ample means and do all that is expected of them; but we ought neither to marvel thereat, nor laud them to the skies, as we should the person who is equally munificent but of whom, his means being slender, less is expected. So that if you are impressed by the actions of kings, and expend so many words in extolling them, I have no doubt whatsoever that when similar actions to these, or nobler ones, are performed by people like ourselves, your delight will be all the greater, your praises all the more fulsome. And hence I am minded to tell you a story about two private citizens, who were friends, and about the laudable generosity that each of them displayed towards the other.
Now, at the time when Octavianus Caesar,1 before he was called Augustus, was ruling the Roman Empire in the office known as the triumvirate, there lived in Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintus Fulvius,2 who had a son called Titus Quintus Fulvius. This latter was exceptionally clever, and his father sent him to study philosophy in Athens,3 doing all in his power to commend him to a nobleman of that city called Chremes,4 who was a very old friend of his. Chremes lodged him under his own roof with a son of his called Gisippus, and Titus and Gisippus were both sent by Chremes to study under the guidance of a philosopher named Aristippus.5
Being regularly in one another’s company, the two young men discovered that they s
hared many interests in common, and this gave rise to a powerful sense of mutual friendship and brotherliness, which lasted for the rest of their lives. Indeed, it was only when they were together that either Titus or Gisippus could feel happy and relaxed. Having once embarked upon their studies, since both were endowed with equally high intelligence, they scaled the glorious heights of philosophy side by side, amid a hail of marvellous tributes. And in this way of life, to the enormous delight of Chremes, who treated both alike as his sons, they continued for three whole years, at the end of which it came about that Chremes, already an old man, passed from this world as all things eventually must. Nor were the friends and kinsfolk of Chremes able to decide which of the two deserved greater compassion in this sudden loss, for he had been a father to them both, and both were equally broken-hearted.
A few months later, Gisippus was confronted by a deputation of his friends and relatives, who along with Titus persuaded him to take a wife, and they found him an incredibly lovely Athenian girl of impeccably noble breeding, some fifteen years of age, whose name was Sophronia.
One day, a little before the date appointed for the nuptials, Gisippus asked Titus, since he had not yet set eyes upon the girl, to come with him to see her. So they went to her house, and with the girl sitting between the two of them, Titus began to scrutinize her very closely, as though to form an estimate of the beauty of his friend’s future wife. But such was the boundless pleasure he experienced in surveying each part of her body that he was lost in silent admiration, and, though he showed no sign of what he was feeling, he burned with a passion more ardent than any ever kindled by a woman in her lover’s breast. However, after spending some little time with her, they took their leave and returned home.