As mentioned in the introduction to Part Two, both the terms “the Middle Ages” and “the Renaissance” are spe- cifically European constructs. The European Renaissance was self-named, with writers in that time period identi- fying themselves as the “re-birth” (or re-naissance) of classical Greek and Roman ideals and literature. Everything between the classical world and their time period was referred to as the “middle”—or Middle Ages. The term, there- fore, should be taken with a grain of salt; obviously, to promote themselves, Renaissance writers were often harsh in their criticism of their immediate predecessors, as most new literary periods are to the previous literary period. To this day, popular culture in the West still has traces of the negative Renaissance attitude towards anything “medie- val.” European authors such as Dante would have been quite surprised (and indignant) to hear that he was part of a time period that supposedly was lesser than what followed. Since Dante’s Divine Comedy ranks among the best of world literature to this day, he would be justified in feeling that way.

In chronological terms, the Middle Ages in Europe traditionally are dated from the fall of Rome in 476 C.E. to the arrival of Columbus in North America in 1492 C.E. These dates are not exact, but they at least give us the gen- eral magnitude of the time period: roughly a thousand years. Within that stretch of time, scholars usually break the time into early, middle, and late periods of literature.

The selections in this chapter focus on the transformation of a hero and the role of courtly love in aristocrat- ic culture. There are still epic heroes, but now they are often knights (with different sets of concerns from ancient world warriors); in Dante, he takes the previous epic form even further by creating a Christian epic, with a hero who does not need to be a knight (or even all that brave, as long as he has divine help). There is a debate about whether courtly love ever existed outside of literature (or whether it actually inspired knights and ladies to act the way that they did in the stories), but the concept of courtly love drives many medieval stories. Historically, in aristocratic circles, marriage was almost exclusively a business transaction between families; your average knight might not have much chance of marrying the woman he loved, but (courtly love suggests) he might try to get her attention by performing brave deeds. In the most proper scenarios, he would serve her from afar, never expecting a reward for his attentions. It is that kind of courtly love that Cervantes would satirize during the Renaissance in Don Quix- ote. In more risqué scenarios, the knight might try to convince the (often married) lady to return his affections. Stories in the works of Chrétien de Troyes and Boccaccio play with that theme to both comic and dramatic effect. In the selections found here from Chaucer’s works, Chaucer makes it clear that he finds the whole concept of courtly love questionable (especially from the woman’s point of view) and sometimes outright objectionable. Dante distanc- es himself from his own background as a love poet, turning from earthly love to spiritual love in his writings; the lady he loves from afar (and with whom he never had a relationship) leads him to a love of God.

As you read, consider the following questions:

• How are medieval epic heroes (such as the Cid and Dante) different from and similar to the warriors of the ancient world?

• What kind of relationship do the heroes have to their societies, their leaders (rulers), their families, and their religion?

• How does the text approach courtly love, especially in terms of the behavior expected from knights and ladies? Does it support it or question it?

• What themes from the ancient world appear in the Middle Ages? In what ways are the stories a continua- tion of issues and concerns found in works from Part One?

• How has the role of religion changed in the stories, now that there are no pantheons of gods?

Written by Laura J. Getty

THE PARLIAMENT OF BIRDS

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342- 1400 C.E.)

(ca. 1381-1382 C.E.)

England

THE CANTERBURY TALES

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342-1400 C.E.)

(ca. 1387- 1400 C.E.)

England

Geoffrey Chaucer’s influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer’s version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as “cosmos”), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio. Unlike Shakespeare, Chaucer’s writing is often translated, since Middle English is substantially dif- ferent from even the Early Modern English of Shakespeare. The selections in this anthology are focused on a single theme: Chaucer’s revisionist, revolutionary approach to courtly love. Courtly love poetry often focuses on the male perspective exclusively; the female is the object to be obtained, and she usually is not given a voice (or, ultimately, a choice) in the matter. The Parliament of Birds (also called The Parliament of Fowles) gives the female a voice, if not necessarily a choice, while the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales offers, among many other things, a satirical look at how courtly love can be misused: The Prioress and the Monk are only two examples. The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Franklin’s Tale both offer fascinating alternatives to the regular courtly love scenario, while The Miller’s Tale is a mocking revision of the genre by the Miller, who is responding to the story of courtly love that had just been told by the Knight.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.3.1 Chaucer: Parliament of Fowls [The Parliament of Birds]

Geoffrey Chaucer, Translated by Gerald NeCastro

License: Copyright Gerard NeCastro

The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly—by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous opera- tion, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep. For albeit I know not love myself; nor how he pays people their wage, yet I have very often chanced to read in books of his miracles and his cruel anger there, surely, I read he will ever be lord and sovereign, and his strokes will be so heavy I dare say nothing but, “God save such a lord!” I can say no more.

Somewhat for pleasure and somewhat for learning I am in the habit of reading books, as I have told you. But why speak I of all this? Not long ago I chanced to look at a book, written in antique letters, and there I read very diligently and eagerly through the long day, to learn a certain thing. For, as men say, out of old fields comes all this new corn from year to year; and, in good faith, out of old books comes all this new knowledge that men learn. But now to my theme in this matter: it so delighted me to read on, that the whole day seemed to me rather short. This book of which I speak was entitled Tully on the Dream of Scipio. It had seven chapters, on heaven and hell and earth, and the souls that live in those places; about which I will tell you the substance of Tully’s opinion, as briefly as I can.

First the book tells how, when Scipio had come to Africa, he met Masinissa, who clasped him in his arms for joy. Then it tells their conversation and all the joy that was between them until the day began to end; and then how Scipio’s beloved ancestor Africanus appeared to him that night in his sleep. Then it tells how Africanus showed him Carthage from a starry place, and disclosed to him all his good fortune to come, and said to him that any man, learned or unlettered, who loves the common profit and is virtuous shall go to a blessed place where is joy without end. Then Scipio asked whether people that die here have life and dwelling elsewhere; and Africanus said, “Yes,

image 5.1: The Works of Geoffrey Chau- cer Frontispiece | An intricately designed black and white frontispiece featuring ivy vines featuring the text “The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer now newly imprinted”

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

without doubt,” and added that our space of life in the present world, whatever way we follow, is just a kind of death, and righteous people, after they die, shall go to heaven.

And he showed him the Milky Way, and the earth here, so little in comparison with the hugeness of the heavens; and after that he showed him the nine spheres. And then he heard the melody that proceeds from those nine spheres, which is the fount of music and melody in this world, and the cause of harmony. Then Africanus instructed him not to take delight in this world, since earth is so little and so full of torment and ill favor. Then he told him how in a certain term of years every star should come into its own place, where it first was; and all that has been done by all mankind in this world shall pass out of memory.

Then he asked Africanus to tell him fully the way to come into that heavenly happiness; and he said, “First know yourself to be immortal; and always see that you labor diligently and teach for the common profit, and you shall not fail to come speedily to that dear place that is full of joy and of bright souls. But breakers of the law, in truth, and lecherous folk, after they die, shall ever be whirled about the earth in torment, until many an age be passed; and then, all their wicked deeds forgiven, they shall come to that blessed region, to which may God send you His grace to come.”

The day began to end, and dark night, which withdraws beasts from their activity, bereft me of my book for the lack of light; and I set forth to my bed, full of brooding and anxious heaviness. For I both had that which I wished not and what I wished that I had not. But at last, wearied with all the day’s labor, my spirit took rest and heavily slept; and as I lay in my sleep, I dreamed how Africanus, in the very same guise in which Scipio saw him that time before, had come and stood at the very side of my bed. When the weary hunter sleeps, quickly his mind returns to the wood; the judge dreams how his cases fare, and the carter how his carts go; the rich dream of gold, the knight fights his foes; the sick man dreams he drinks of the wine cask, the lover that he has his lady. I cannot say whether my reading of Africanus was the cause that I dreamed that he stood there; but thus he spoke, “You have done so well to look upon my old tattered book, of which Macrobius thought not a little, that I would requite you somewhat for your labor.”

Cytherea, you sweet, blessed lady, who with your fire-brand subdues whomsoever you wish, and sends me this dream, be my helper in this, for you are best able! As surely as I saw you in the north-northwest when I began to write my dream, so surely do you give me power to rhyme it and compose it!

This aforesaid Africanus took me from there and brought me out with him to a gate of a park walled with mossy stone; and over the gate on either side, carved in large letters, were verses of very diverse senses, of which I shall tell you the full meaning:

“Through me men go into that blessed place

Where hearts find health and deadly wounds find cure,

Through me men go unto the fount of Grace,

Where green and lusty May shall ever endure.

I lead men to blithe peace and joy secure.

Reader, be glad; throw off your sorrows past.

Open am I; press in and make haste fast.”

On the other side it said:

“Through me men go where all mischance betides,

Where is the mortal striking of the spear,

To which Disdain and Coldness are the guides,

Where trees no fruit or leaf shall ever bear.

This stream shall lead you to the sorrowful weir

Where fish in baleful prison lie all dry.

To shun it is the only remedy.”

These inscriptions were written, the one in gold, the other in black, and I beheld them for a long while, for at the one my heart grew hardy, and the other ever increased my fear; the first warmed me, the other chilled me. For fear of error my wit could not make its choice, to enter or to flee, to lose myself or save myself. Just as a piece of iron set between two load-stones of equal force has no power to move one way or the other—for as much as one draws the other hinders.

So it fared with me, who knew not which would be better, to enter or not, until Africanus my guide caught and pushed me in at the wide gates, saying, “Your doubt stands written on your face, though you tell it not to me. But fear not to come in, for this writing is not meant for you or for any, unless he would be Love’s servant. For in love, I believe, you have lost your sense of taste, even as a sick man loses his taste of sweet and bitter. Nevertheless, dull though you may be, you can still look upon that which you cannot do; for many a man who cannot complete a bout is nevertheless pleased to be at a wrestling match, and judges whether one or another does better. And if you have skill to set it down, I will show you something to write about.”

image 5.2: Parliament of Fowls | A black and white illustration of a man in robes looking at the parliament of fowls as they nest in a tree.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

With that he took my hand in his, from which I took comfort and quickly went in. But Lord, how glad and at ease I was! For everywhere I cast my eyes were trees clad, each according to its kind, with everlasting leaves in fresh color and green as emerald, a joy to behold: the builder oak, eke the hardy ash, the elm the pillar and the coffin for corpses, the boxwood for horns, the holly for whip-handles, the fir to bear sails, the cypress to mourn death, the yew the bow- man, the aspen for smooth shafts, the olive of peace, the drunken vine, the victor palm, and the laurel for divination.

By a river in a green meadow, where there is at all points so much sweetness, I saw a garden, full of blos- somy boughs, with white, blue, yellow and red flow- ers; and cold fountain-streams, not at all dead, full of small shining fish with red fins and silver-bright scales. On every bough I heard the birds sing with the voice of angels in their melody. Some busied them- selves to lead forth their young. The little bunnies hastened to play. Further on I noticed all about the timid roe, the buck, harts and hinds and squirrels and small beasts of gentle nature. I heard stringed instru- ments playing harmonies of such ravishing sweetness that God, Maker and Lord of all, never heard better, I believe. At the same time a wind, scarce could it have been gentler, made in the green leaves a soft noise which accorded with the song of the birds above. The air of that place was so mild that never was there discomfort for heat or cold. Every wholesome spice and herb grew there, and no person could age or sick- en. There was a thousand times more joy than man can tell. And it would never be night there, but ever bright day in every man’s eye.

I saw Cupid our lord forging and filing his arrows under a tree beside a spring, and his bow lay ready at his feet. And meanwhile his daughter well tempered the arrow-heads in the spring, and by her cunning she piled them after as they should serve, some to slay, some to wound and pierce. Just then I was aware of Pleasure and of Fair Array and Courtesy and Joy and of Deception who has wit and power to cause a being to do folly—she was disguised, I deny it not. And under an oak, I believe, I saw Delight, standing apart with Gentle Breeding. I saw Beauty without any raiment; and Youth, full of sportiveness and jollity, Foolhardiness, Flattery, Desire, Message-sending and Bribery; and three others— their names shall not be told by me.

And upon great high pillars of jasper I saw a temple of brass strongly stand. About the temple many women were dancing ceaselessly, of whom some were beautiful themselves and some gay in dress; only in their kirtles they went, with hair unbound—that was forever their business, year by year. And on the temple I saw many hundred pairs of doves sitting, white and beautiful. Before the temple-door sat Lady Peace full gravely, holding back the curtain, and beside her Lady Patience, with pale face and wondrous discretion, sitting upon a mound of sand. Next to her were Promise and Cunning and a crowd of their followers within the temple and without.

Inside I heard a gust of sighs blowing about, hot as fire, engendered of longing, which caused every altar to blaze ever anew. And well I saw then that all the cause of sorrows that lovers endure is through the bitter goddess Jealousy. As I walked about within the temple I saw the god Priapus standing in sovereign station, his scepter in hand, and in such attire as when the ass confounded him to confusion with its outcry by night. People were busily setting upon his head garlands full of fresh, new flowers of various colors.

In a private corner I found Venus, who was noble and stately in her bearing, sporting with her porter Riches. The place was dark, but in time I saw a little light—it could scarcely have been less. Venus reposed upon a golden bed until the hot sun should seek the west. Her golden hair was bound with a golden thread, but all untressed as she lay. And one could see her naked from the breast to the head; the remnant, in truth, was well covered to my plea- sure with a filmy kerchief of Valence; there was no thicker cloth that could also be transparent. The place gave forth a thousand sweet odors. Bacchus, god of wine, sat beside her, and next was Ceres, who saves all from hunger, and, as I said, the Cyprian woman lay in the midst; on their knees two young people were crying to her to be their helper.

But thus I left her lying, and further in the temple I saw how, in scorn of Diana the chaste, there hung on the wall many a broken bow of such maidens as had first wasted their time in her service. And everywhere was painted many stories, of which I shall touch on a few, such as Callisto and Atalanta and many maidens whose name I do not know. There was also Semiramis, Candace, Hercules, Byblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristram and Isolt, Paris, Achilles, Helen, Cleopatra, Troilus, and Scylla, and the mother of Romulus as well—all were portrayed on the other wall, and their love and by what plight they died.

When I had returned to the sweet and green garden that I spoke of, I walked forth to comfort myself. Then I noticed how there sat a queen who was exceeding in fairness over every other creature, as the brilliant summer sun passes the stars in brightness. This noble goddess Nature was set upon a flowery hill in a verdant glade. All her halls and bowers were wrought of branches according to the art and measure of Nature.

And there was not any bird that is created through procreation that was not ready in her presence to hear her and receive her judgment. For this was Saint Valentine’s day, when every bird of every kind that men can imagine comes to this place to choose his mate. And they made an exceedingly great noise; and earth and sea and the trees and all the lakes were so full that there was scarcely room for me to stand, so full was the entire place. And just as Alan, in The Complaint of Nature, describes Nature in her features and attire, so might men find her in reality.

This noble empress, full of grace, bade every bird take his station, as they were accustomed to stand always on Saint Valentine’s day from year to year. That is to say, the birds of prey were set highest, and then the little birds who eat, as nature inclines them, worms or other things of which I speak not; but water-fowls sat the lowest in the dale; and birds that live on seed sat upon the grass, so many that it was a marvel to see.

There one could find the royal eagle, that pierces the sun with his sharp glance; and other eagles of lower race, of which clerks can tell. There was that tyrant with dun gray feathers, I mean the goshawk, that harasses other birds with his fierce ravening. There was the noble falcon, that with his feet grasps the king’s hand; also the bold spar- row-hawk, foe of quails; the merlin, that often greedily pursues the lark. The dove was there, with her meek eyes; the jealous swan, that sings at his death; and the owl also, that forebodes death; the giant crane, with his trumpet voice; thieving chough; the prating magpie; the scornful jay; the heron, foe to eels; the false lapwing, full of trickery; the starling, that can betray secrets; the tame redbreast; the coward kite; the cock, timekeeper of little thorps; the sparrow, son of Venus; the nightingale, which calls forth the fresh new leaves; the swallow, murderer of the little bees which make honey from the fresh-hued flowers; the wedded turtle-dove, with her faithful heart; the peacock, with his shining angel-feathers; the pheasant, that scorns the cock by night; the vigilant goose; the cuckoo, ever unnatural; the popinjay, full of wantonness; the drake, destroyer of his own kind; the stork, that avenges adultery; the greedy, gluttonous cormorant; the wise raven and the crow, with voice of ill-boding; the ancient thrush and the wintry fieldfare.

What more shall I say? One might find assembled in that place before the noble goddess Nature birds of every sort in this world that have feathers and stature. And each by her consent worked diligently to choose or take gra- ciously his lady or his mate.

But to the point: Nature held on her hand a formel eagle, the noblest in shape that she ever found among her works, the gentlest and goodliest; in her every noble trait so had its seat that Nature herself rejoiced to look upon her and to kiss her beak many times. Nature, vicar of the Almighty Lord, who has knit in harmony hot, cold, heavy, light, moist, and dry in exact proportions, began to speak in a gentle voice: “Birds, take heed of what I say; and for your welfare and to further your needs I will hasten as fast as I can speak. You well know how on Saint Valentine’s day, by my statute and through my ordinance, you come to choose your mates, as I prick you with sweet pain, and then fly on your way. But I may not, to win this entire world, depart from my just order, that he who is most worthy shall begin.

“The tercel eagle, the royal bird above you in degree, as you well know, the wise and worthy one, trusty, true as steel, which you may see I have formed in every part as pleased me best—there is no need to describe his shape to you—he shall choose first and speak as he will. And after him you shall choose in order, according to your nature, each as pleases you; and, as your chance is, you shall lose or win. But whichever of you love ensnares most, to him may God send her who sighs for him most sorely.”

And at this she called the tercel and said, “My son, the choice is fallen to you. Nevertheless under this condition must be the choice of each one here, that his chosen mate will agree to his choice, whatsoever he be who would have her. From year to year this is always our custom. And whoever at this time can win grace has come here in blissful time!”

The royal tercel, with bowed head and humble appearance, delayed not and spoke: “As my sovereign lady, not as my spouse, I choose—and choose with will and heart and mind—the formel of so noble shape upon your hand. I am hers wholly and will serve her always. Let her do as she wishes, to let me live or die; I beseech her for mercy and grace, as my sovereign lady, or else let me die here presently. For surely I cannot live long in torment, for in my heart every vein is cut. Having regard only to my faithfulness, dear heart, have some pity upon my woe. And if I am found untrue to her, disobedient or willfully negligent, a boaster, or in time love elsewhere, I pray you this will be my doom: that I will be torn to pieces by these birds, upon that day when she should ever know me untrue to her or in my guilt unkind. And since no other loves her as well as I, though she never promised me love, she ought to be mine by her mercy; for I can fasten no other bond on her. Never for any woe shall I cease to serve her, however far she may roam. Say what you will, my words are done.”

Even as the fresh red rose newly blown blushes in the summer sun, so grew the color of this woman when she heard all this; she answered no word good or bad, so sorely was she abashed; until Nature said, “Daughter, fear not, be of good courage.”

Then spoke another tercel of a lower order: “That shall not be. I love her better than you, by Saint John, or at least I love her as well, and have served her longer, according to my station. If she should love for long being to me alone should be the reward; and I also dare to say, if she should find me false, unkind, a prater, or a rebel in any way, or jealous, let me be hanged by the neck. And unless I bear myself in her service as well as my wit allows me, to protect her honor in every point, let her take my life and all the wealth I have.”

Then a third tercel eagle said, “Now, sirs, you see how little time we have here, for every bird clamors to be off with his mate or lady dear, and Nature herself as well, because of the delay, will not hear half of what I would speak. Yet unless I speak I must die of sorrow. I boast not at all of long service; but it is as likely that I shall die of woe today as he who has been languishing these twenty winters. And it may well happen that a man may serve better in half a year, even if it were no longer, than another man who has served many years. I do not say this about myself, for I can do no service to my lady’s pleasure; but I dare say that I am her truest man, I believe, and would be most glad to please her. In short, until death may seize me I will be hers, whether I wake or sleep, and true in all that heart can think.”

In all my life since the day I was born never have I heard any man so noble make a plea in love or any other thing—even if a man had time and wit to rehearse their expression and their words. And this discourse lasted from the morning until the sun drew downward so rapidly. The clamor released by the birds rung so loud— “Make an end of this and let us go!”—that I well thought the forest would be splintered. They cried, “Make haste! Alas, you will ruin us! When shall your cursed pleading come to an end? How should a judge believe either side for yea or nay, without any proof?”

The goose, cuckoo and duck so loudly cried, “Kek, kek!”, “Cuckoo!”, “Quack, quack!” that the noise reverberat- ed in my ears. The goose said, “All this is not worth a fly! But from this I can devise a remedy, and I will speak my verdict fair and soon, on behalf of the waterfowl. Let who will smile or frown.”

“And I for the worm-eating fowl,” said the foolish cuckoo; “of my own authority, for the common welfare, I will take the responsibility now, for it would be great charity to release us.” “By God, you may wait a while yet,” said the turtle-dove. “If you are he to choose who shall speak, it would be as well for him to be silent. I am among the birds that eat seed, one of the most unworthy, and of little wit—that I know well. But a creature’s tongue would be better quiet than meddling with such doings about which he knows neither rhyme nor reason. And whosoever does so, overburdens himself in foul fashion, for often one not entrusted to a duty commits offence.”

Nature, who had always an ear to the murmuring of folly at the back, said with ready tongue, “Hold your peace there! And straightway, I hope, I shall find a counsel to let you go and release you from this noise. My judgment is that you shall choose one from each bird-folk to give the verdict for you all.”

The birds all assented to this conclusion. And first the birds of prey by full election chose the tercel-falcon to define all their judgment, and decide as he wished. And they presented him to Nature and she accepted him gladly. The falcon then spoke in this fashion: “It would be hard to determine by reason which best loves this gentle woman; for each has such ready answers that none may be defeated by reasons. I cannot see of what avail are arguments; so it seems there must be battle.”

“All ready!” then cried these tercel-eagles.

“Nay, sirs,” said he, “if I dare say it, you do me wrong, my tale is not done. For, sirs, take it not amiss, I pray, it cannot go thus as you desire. Ours is the voice that has the charge over this, and you must stand by the judges’ decision. Peace, therefore! I say that it would seem in my mind that the worthiest in knighthood, who has longest followed it, the highest in degree and of gentlest blood, would be most fitting for her, if she wish it. And of these three she knows which he is, I believe, for that is easily seen.”

The waterfowl put their heads together, and after short considering, when each had spoken his tedious gabble, they said truly, by one assent, how “the goose, with her gentle eloquence, who so desires to speak for us, shall say our say,” and prayed God would help her. Then the goose began to speak for these waterfowl, and said in her cack- ling, “Peace! Now every man take heed and hearken what argument I shall put forth. My wits are sharp, I love no delay; I counsel him, I say, even if he were my brother, leave him if she will not love him.”

“Lo here,” said the sparrow-hawk, “a perfect argument for a goose—bad luck to her! Lo, thus it is to have a wag- ging tongue! Now, fool, it would be better for you to have held your peace than have shown your folly, by God! But to do thus rests not in her wit or will; for it is truly said, ‘a fool cannot be silent.’”

Laughter arose from all the birds of noble kind; and straightway the seed-eating fowl chose the faithful tur- tle-dove, and called her to them, and prayed her to speak the sober truth about this matter, and asked her counsel. And she answered that she would fully show her mind. “Nay, God forbid a lover should change!” said the turtle-dove, and grew all red with shame. “Though his lady may be cold for evermore, let him serve her ever until he die. In truth I praise not the goose’s counsel, for even if my lady died I would have no other mate, I would be hers until death take me.”

“By my hat, well jested!” said the duck. “That men should love forever, without cause! Who can find reason or wit there? Does one who is mirthless dance merrily? Who should care for him who is carefree? Yea, quack!” said the duck loud and long, “God knows there are more stars than a pair.”

“Now fie, churl!” said the noble falcon. “That thought came straight from the dunghill. You can not see when a thing is proper. You fare with love as owls with light; the day blinds them, but they see very well in darkness. Your nature is so low and wretched that you can not see or guess what love is.”

Then the cuckoo thrust himself forward in behalf of the worm-eating birds, and said quickly, “So that I may have my mate in peace, I care not how long you contend. Let each be single all his life; that is my counsel, since they cannot agree. This is my instruction, and there an end!”

“Yea,” said the merlin, “as this glutton has well filled his paunch, this should suffice for us all! You murderer of the hedge-sparrow on the branch, the one who brought you up, you ruthless glutton! May you live unmated, you mangler of worms! It matters nothing to you, though your tribe may perish. Go, be a stupid fool, as long as the world lasts!”

“Peace now, I command here,” said Nature, “For I have heard the opinions of all, and yet we are no nearer to our goal. But this is my final decision, that she herself shall have the choice of whom she wishes. Whosoever may be pleased or not, he whom she chooses shall have her straightway. For since it cannot here be debated who loves her best, as the falcon said, then will I grant her this favor, that she shall have him alone on whom her heart is set, and he her that has fixed his heart on her. This judgment I, Nature, make; and I cannot speak falsely, nor look with partial eye on any rank. But if it is reasonable to counsel you in choosing a mate, then surely I would counsel you to take the royal tercel, as the falcon said right wisely; for he is noblest and most worthy whom I created so well for my own pleasure; that ought to suffice you.”

The formel answered with timid voice, “Goddess of nature, my righteous lady, true it is that I am ever under your rod, just as every other creature is, and I must be yours as long as my life may last. Therefore, grant me my first request, and straightway I will speak to you my mind.”

“I grant it to you,” said Nature; and this female eagle spoke immediately in this way: “Almighty queen, until this year comes to an end I ask respite, to take counsel with myself; and after that to have my choice free. This is all that I would say. I can say no more, even if you were to slay me. In truth, as yet I will in no manner serve Venus or Cupid”

“Now since it can happen no other way,” Nature said then, “there is no more to be said here. Then I wish these birds to go their way each with his mate, so that they tarry here no longer.” And she spoke to them thus as you shall hear. “To you I speak, you tercels,” said Nature. “Be of good heart, and continue in service, all three; a year is not so long to wait. And let each of you strive according to his degree to do well. For, God knows, she is departed from you this year; and whatsoever may happen afterwards, this interval is appointed to you all.”

And when this work was all brought to an end, Nature gave every bird his mate by just accord, and they went their way. Ah, Lord! The bliss and joy that they made! For each of them took the other in his wings, and wound their necks about each other, ever thanking the noble goddess of nature. But first were chosen birds to sing, as was always their custom year by year to sing a roundel at their departure, to honor Nature and give her pleasure. The tune, I believe, was made in France. The words were such as you may here find in these verses, as I remember them.

Qui bien aime a tard oublie.

“Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will break,

And drive away the long nights black!

Saint Valentine, throned aloft,

Thus little birds sing for your sake:

Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will shake!

Good cause have they to glad them oft,

His own true-love each bird will take;

Blithe may they sing when they awake,

Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will break,

And drive away the long nights black!”

And with the shouting that the birds raised, as they flew away when their song was done, I awoke; and I took up other books to read, and still I read always. In truth I hope so to read that some day I shall meet with something of which I shall fare the better. And so I will not cease to read: Explicit tractatus de Con- gregacione Volucrum die sancti Valentini tentum, secundum Galfridum Chaucers. Deo gracias.

5.3.2 The Canterbury Tales

License: Copyright Gerard NeCastro

Geoffrey Chaucer, Translated by Gerald NeCastro

Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury.

The General Prologue

When the sweet showers of April have pierced to the root the dryness of March and bathed every vein in moisture by which strength are the flowers brought forth; when Zephyr also with his sweet breath has given spirit to the tender new shoots in the grove and field, and the young sun has run half his course through Aries the Ram, and little birds make melody and sleep all night with an open eye, so nature pricks them in their hearts; then people long to go on pilgrimages to renowned shrines in various distant lands, and palmers to seek foreign shores. And es- pecially from every shire’s end in England they make their way to Canterbury, to seek the holy blessed martyr who helped them when they were sick.

One day in that season, as I was waiting at the Tabard Inn at Southwark, about to make my pilgrimage with de- vout heart to Canterbury, it happened that there came at night to that inn a company of twenty-nine various people, who by chance had joined together in fellowship. All were pilgrims, riding to Canterbury. The chambers and the stables were spacious, and we were lodged well. But in brief, when the sun had gone to rest, I had spoken with every one of them and was soon a part of their company, and agreed to rise early to take our way to where I have told you.

Nevertheless, while I have time and space, before this tale goes further, I think it is reasonable to tell you all the qualities of each of them, as they appeared to me, what sort of people they were, of what station and how they were fashioned. I will begin with a knight.

There was a Knight and a worthy man, who, from the time when he first rode abroad, loved chivalry, faithful- ness and honor, liberality and courtesy. He was valiant in his lord’s war and had campaigned, no man farther, in both Christian and heathen lands, and ever was honored for his worth. He was at Alexandria when it was won; many times in Prussia he sat in the place of honor above knights from all nations; he had fought in Lithuania and in Russia, and no Christian man of his did so more often; he had been in Granada at the siege of Algeciras and in Belmaria; he was at Lyeys and in Attalia when they were won, and had landed with many noble armies in the Levant. He had been in fifteen mortal battles, and had thrice fought for our faith in the lists at Tremessen and always slain his foe; he had been also, long before, with the lord of Palathia against another heathen host in Turkey; and ever he had great renown. And though he was valorous, he was prudent, and he was as meek as a maiden in his bearing. In all his life he never yet spoke any discourtesy to any living creature, but was truly a perfect gentle knight. To tell you of his equipment, his horses were good but he was not gaily clad. He wore a jerkin of coarse cloth all stained with rust by his coat of mail, for he had just returned from his travels and went to do his pilgrimage.

His son was with him, a young Squire, a lover and a lusty young soldier. His locks were curled as if laid in a press. He may have been twenty years of age, of average height, amazingly nimble and great of strength. He had been, at one time, in a campaign in Flanders, Artois, and Picardy, and had borne himself well, in so little time, in hope to stand in his lady’s grace. His clothes were embroi- dered, red and white, like a meadow full of fresh flowers. All the day long he was singing or playing upon the flute; he was as fresh as the month of May. His coat was short, with long, wide sleeves. Well could he sit a horse and ride, make songs, joust and dance, draw and write. He loved so ardently that at night-time he slept no more than a night- ingale. He was courteous, modest and helpful, and carved before his father at table.

image 5.3: The Canterbuy Tales Title Page | The title page

for The Canterbury Tales featuring an artist rendering of Geoffrey Chaucer gazing into a well, a paper clutch in his hand.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

They had a Yeoman with them; on that journey they would have no other servants. He was clad in a coat and hood of green, and in his hand he bore a mighty bow and under his belt a neat sheaf of arrows, bright and sharp, with peacock feathers. He knew how to handle his gear like a good yeoman; his arrows did not fall short on account of any poorly adjusted feathers. His head was cropped and his face brown. He understood well all the practice of woodcraft. He wore a gay arm-guard of leath- er and at one side a sword and buckler; at the other a fine dagger, well fashioned and as sharp as a spear-point; on his breast an image of St. Christopher in bright silver, and over his shoulder a horn on a green baldric. He was a woodsman indeed, I believe.

There was also a nun, a Prioress, quiet and simple in her smiling; her greatest oath was “by Saint Loy.” She was named Madame Eglantine. Well she sang the divine service, intoned in a seemly manner in her nose, and spoke French elegantly, after the manner of Stratford-atte- Bow, for of Parisian French she knew nothing. She had been well taught the art of eating, and let no morsel fall from her lips, and wet but her finger-tips in the sauce. She knew how to lift and how to hold a bit so that not a drop fell upon her breast. Her pleasure was all in courtesy. She wiped her upper lip so well that no spot of grease was to be seen in her cup after she had drunk; and very dainty she was in reaching for her food. And surely she was of fine behavior, pleasant and amiable of bearing. She took pains to imitate court manners, to be stately in her demeanor and to be held worthy of reverence. But to tell you of her charac- ter, she was so charitable and so tender-hearted she would weep if she saw a mouse caught in a trap if it were dead or bleeding. She had certain small dogs, which she fed upon roasted meat or milk and finest wheaten bread. She would weep sorely if one of them died or was struck at sharply with a stick. She was all warm feeling and tender heart. Her wimple was pleated neatly. Her nose was slender, her eyes gray as glass, her mouth small and soft and red. Certainly she had a fine forehead, almost a span high; truly she was not undersized. Her cloak was neatly made, I could tell. About her arm was a coral rosary, the larger beads of green, upon which hung a brooch of shining gold; on it was engraved first an A with a crown, and after that Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nun, her chaplain, was with her, and three Priests.

There was a Monk, a very fine and handsome one, a great rider about the country-side and a lover of hunting, a manly man in all things, fit to be an abbot. He had many fine horses in his stable, and when he rode, men could hear his bridle jingling in a whistling wind as clear and loud as the chapel-bell where this lord was prior. Because the rule of St. Maurus or of St. Benedict was old and something austere, this same monk let such old things pass and followed the ways of the newer world. He gave not a plucked hen for the text that hunters are not holy, or that a careless monk (that is to say, one out of his cloister) is like a fish out of water; for that text he would not give a her- ring. And I said his opinion was right; why should he study and lose his wits ever poring over a book in the cloister, or toil with his hands and labor as St. Augustine bids? How shall the world be served? Let St. Augustine have his work to himself. Therefore he rode hard, followed greyhounds as swift as birds on the wing. All his pleasure was in riding and hunting the hare, and he spared no cost on those. I saw his sleeves edged at the wrist with fine dark fur, the finest in the country, and to fasten his hood under his chin he had a finely-wrought brooch of gold; in the larger end was a love-knot. His bald head shone like glass; so did his face, as if it had been anointed. He was a sleek, fat lord. His bright eyes rolled in his head, glowing like the fire under a cauldron. His boots were of rich soft leather, his horse in excellent condition. Now certainly he was a fine prelate. He was not pale, like a wasted spirit; best of any roast he loved a fat swan. His palfrey was as brown as a berry.

There was a begging Friar, lively and jolly, a very dignified fellow. In all the four orders there is not one so skilled in gay and flattering talk. He had, at his own expense, married off many young women; he was a noble pillar of his order! He was well beloved and familiar among franklins everywhere in his countryside, and also with worthy town wom- en, for he had, as he said himself, more virtue as confessor than a parson, for he held a papal license. Very sweetly he heard confession, and his absolution was pleasant; he was an easy man to give penance, when he looked to have a good dinner. Gifts to a poor order are a sign that a man has been well confessed, he maintained; if a man gave, he knew he was contrite. For many people are so stern of heart that they cannot weep, though they suffer sorely; therefore, instead of weeping and praying, men may give silver to the poor friars. The tip of his hood was stuffed full of knives and pins as presents to fine women. And certainly he had a pleasant voice in singing, and well could play the fiddle; in singing ballads he bore off the prize. His neck was as white as the fleur-de-lis, and he was as strong as a champion. He knew all the town taverns, and every inn-keeper and bar-maid, better than the lepers and beggar-women. For it accorded not with a man of his importance to have acquaintance with sick lepers; it was not seemly, it profited not, to deal with any such poor trash, but all with rich folk and sellers of victual. But everywhere that advantage might follow he was courteous, lowly and serviceable. Nowhere was any so capable; he was the best beggar in his house, and gave a certain yearly payment so that none of his brethren might trespass on his routes. Though a widow might not have an old shoe to give, so pleasant was his “In principio,” he would have his farthing before he went. He gained more from his begging than he ever needed, I believe! He would romp about like a puppy-dog. On days of reconciliation, or love-days, he was very helpful, for he was not like a cloister-monk or a poor scholar with a threadbare cope, but like a Master of Arts or a cardinal. His half-cope was of double worsted and came from the clothes-press rounding out like a bell. He pleased his whim by lisping a little, to make his English sound sweet upon his tongue, and in his harping and singing his eyes twinkled in his head like the stars on a frosty night. This worthy friar was named Hubert.

There was a Merchant with a forked beard, in parti-colored garb. High he sat upon his horse, a Flanders bea- ver-hat on his head, and boots fastened neatly with rich clasps. He uttered his opinions pompously, ever tending to the increase of his own profit; at any cost he wished the sea were safeguarded between Middleburg and Orwell. In selling crown-pieces he knew how to profit by the exchange. This worthy man employed his wit cunningly; no crea- ture knew that he was in debt, so stately he was of demeanor in bargaining and borrowing. He was a worthy man indeed, but, to tell the truth, I know not his name.

There was also a Clerk from Oxford who had long gone to lectures on logic. His horse was as lean as a rake, and he was not at all fat, I think, but looked hollow-cheeked, and grave likewise. His little outer cloak was threadbare, for he had no worldly skill to beg for his needs, and as yet had gained himself no benefice. He would rather have had at his bed’s head twenty volumes of Aristotle and his philosophy, bound in red or black, than rich robes or a fiddle or gay psaltery. Even though he was a philosopher, he had little gold in his money-box! But all that he could get from his friends he spent on books and learning, and would pray diligently for the souls of who gave it to him to stay at the schools. Of study he took most heed and care. Not a word did he speak more than was needed, and the little he spoke was formal and modest, short and quick, and full of high matter. All that he said tended toward moral virtue. Gladly would he learn and gladly teach.

There was also a Sergeant of the Law, an excellent man, wary and wise, a frequenter of the porch of Paul’s Church. He was discreet and of great distinction; or seemed such, his words were so sage. He had been judge at court, by patent and full commission; with his learning and great reputation he had earned many fees and robes. Such a man as he for acquiring goods there never was; anything that he desired could be shown to be held in unre- stricted possession, and none could find a flaw in his deeds. Nowhere was there so busy a man, and yet he seemed busier than he was. He knew in precise terms every case and judgment since King William the Conqueror, and ev- ery statute fully, word for word, and none could chide at his writing. He rode in simple style in a parti-colored coat and a belt of silk with small cross-bars. Of his appearance I will not make a longer story.

Traveling with him was a Franklin, with a beard as white as a daisy, a ruddy face and a sanguine temper. Well he loved a sop of wine of a morning. He was accustomed to live in pleasure, for he was a very son of Epicurus, who held the opinion that perfect felicity stands in pleasure alone. He ever kept an open house, like a true St. Julian in his own country-side. His bread and his wine both were always of the best; never were a man’s wine-vaults better stored. His house was never without a huge supply of fish or meat; in his house it snowed meat and drink, and every fine pleasure that a man could dream of. According to the season of the year he varied his meats and his suppers. Many fat partridges were in his cage and many bream and pike in his fishpond. Woe to his cook unless his sauces were pungent and sharp, and his gear ever in order! All the long day stood a great table in his hall fully prepared. When the justices met at sessions of court, there he lorded it full grandly, and many times he sat as knight of the shire in parliament. A dagger hung at his girdle, and a pouch of taffeta, white as morning’s milk. He had been sheriff and auditor; nowhere was so worthy a vassal.

A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Weaver, a Dyer, and an Upholsterer were with us also, all in the same dress of a great and splendid guild. All fresh and new was their gear. Their knives were not tipped with brass but all with fine-wrought silver, like their girdles and their pouches. Each of them seemed a fair burgess to sit in a guildhall on a dais. Each for his discretion was fit to be alderman of his guild, and had goods and income sufficient for that. Their wives would have consented, I should think; otherwise, they would be at fault. It is a fair thing to be called madame, and to walk ahead of other folks to vigils, and to have a mantle carried royally before them.

They had a Cook with them for that journey, to boil chickens with the marrow-bones and tart powder-mer- chant and cyprus-root. Well he knew a draught of London ale! He could roast and fry and broil and stew, make dainty pottage and bake pies well. It was a great pity, it seemed to me, that he had a great ulcer on his shin, for he made capon-in-cream with the best of them.

There was a Shipman, from far in the West; for anything I know, he was from Dartmouth. He rode a nag, as well as he knew how, in a gown of coarse wool to the knee. He had a dagger hanging on a lace around his neck and un- der his arm. The hot summer had made his hue brown. In truth he was a good fellow: many draughts of wine had he drawn at Bordeaux while the merchant slept. He paid no heed to nice conscience; on the high seas, if he fought and had the upper hand, he made his victims walk the plank. But in skill to reckon his moon, his tides, his currents and dangers at hand, his harbors and navigation, there was none like him from Hull to Carthage. In his undertak- ings he was bold and shrewd. His beard had been shaken by many tempests. He knew the harbors well from Goth- land to Cape Finisterre, and every creek in Spain and in Brittany. His ship was called the Maudelayne.

With us was a Doctor, a Physician; for skill in medicine and in surgery there was no peer in this entire world. He watched sharply for favorable hours and an auspicious ascendant for his patients’ treatment, for he was well grounded in astrology. He knew the cause of each malady, if it was hot, cold, dry or moist, from where it had sprung and of what humor. He was a thorough and a perfect practitioner. Having found the cause and source of his trouble, quickly he had ready the sick man’s cure. He had his apothecaries all prepared to send him electuaries and drugs, for each helped the other’s gain; their friendship was not formed of late! He knew well the old Aesculapius, Dioscorides and Rufus, Hippocrates, Haly and Galen, Serapion, Rhasis and Avicenna, Averroes, Damascene and Constantine, Bernard, Gatisden and Gilbertine. His own diet was moderate, with no excess, but nourishing and simple to digest. His study was only a little on Scripture. He was clad in red and blue-gray cloth, lined with taffeta and sendal silk. Yet he was but moderate in spending, and kept what he gained during the pestilence. Gold is a medicine from the heart in physicians’ terms; doubtless that was why he loved gold above all else.

There was a Good Wife from near Bath, but she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity. She was so skilled in making cloth that she surpassed those of Ypres and Ghent. In all the parish there was no wife who should march up to make an offering before her, and if any did, so angered she was that truly she was out of all charity. Her kerchiefs were very fine in texture; and I dare swear those that were on her head for Sunday weighed ten pounds. Her hose were of a fine scarlet and tightly fastened, and her shoes were soft and new. Her face was bold and fair and red. All her life she was a worthy woman; she had had five husbands at the church-door, besides other company in her youth, but of that there is no need to speak now. She had thrice been at Jerusalem; many distant streams had she crossed; she had been on pilgrimages to Boulogne and to Rome, to Santiago in Galicia and to Cologne. This wan- dering by the way had taught her various things. To tell the truth, she was gap-toothed; she sat easily on an ambling horse, wearing a fair wimple and on her head a hat as broad as a buckler or target. About her broad hips was a short riding skirt and on her feet a pair of sharp spurs. Well could she laugh and prattle in company. Love and its reme- dies she knew all about, I dare give my word, for she had been through the old dance.

There was a good man of religion, a poor Parson, but rich in holy thought and deed. He was also a learned man, a clerk, and would faithfully preach Christ’s gospel and devoutly instruct his parishioners. He was benign, wonder- fully diligent, and patient in adversity, as he was often tested. He was loath to excommunicate for unpaid tithes, but rather would give to his poor parishioners out of the church alms and also of his own substance; in little he found sufficiency. His parish was wide and the houses far apart, but not even for thunder or rain did he neglect to visit the farthest, great or small, in sickness or misfortune, going on foot, a staff in his hand. To his sheep did he give this noble example, which he first set into action and afterward taught; these words he took out of the gospel, and this similitude he added also, that if gold will rust, what shall iron do? For if a priest upon whom we trust were to be foul, it is no wonder that an ignorant layman would be corrupt; and it is a shame (if a priest will but pay attention to it) that a shepherd should be defiled and the sheep clean. A priest should give good example by his cleanness how his sheep should live. He would not farm out his benefice, nor leave his sheep stuck fast in the mire, while he ran to London to St. Paul’s, to get an easy appointment as a chantry-priest, or to be retained by some guild, but dwelled at home and guarded his fold well, so that the wolf would not make it miscarry. He was no hireling, but a shepherd. And though he was holy and virtuous, he was not pitiless to sinful men, nor cold or haughty of speech, but both discreet and benign in his teaching; to draw folk up to heaven by his fair life and good example, this was his care. But when a man was stubborn, whether of high or low estate, he would scold him sharply. There was nowhere a bet- ter priest than he. He looked for no pomp and reverence, nor yet was his conscience too particular; but the teaching of Christ and his apostles he taught, and first he followed it himself.

With him was his brother, a Ploughman, who had drawn many cartloads of dung. He was a faithful and good toiler, living in peace and perfect charity. He loved God best at all times with all his whole heart, in good and ill fortune, and then his neighbor even as himself. He would thresh and ditch and delve for every poor person without pay, but for Christ’s sake, if he were able. He paid his tithes fairly and well on both his produce and his goods. He wore a ploughman’s frock and rode upon a mare.

There was a Reeve also and a Miller, a Summoner and a Pardoner, a Manciple and myself. There were no more.

The Miller was a stout fellow, big of bones and brawn; and well he showed them, for everywhere he went to a wrestling match he would always carry off the prize ram. He was short-shouldered and broad, a thick, knotty fellow. There was no door that he could not heave off its hinges, or break with his head at a running. His beard was as red as any sow or fox, and broad like a spade as well. Upon the very tip of his nose he had a wart, and on it stood a tuft of red hair like the bristles on a sow’s ears, and his nostrils were black and wide. At his thigh hung a sword and buckler.

image 5.4: hengwrt manuscript | The top of the page containing the General Prologue for the Canterbury Tales from the Hengwrt manuscript.

Author: Unknown

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

His mouth was as great as a great furnace. He was a teller of dirty stories and a buffoon, and it was mostly of sin and obscenity. He knew well how to steal corn and take his toll of meal three times over; and yet he had a golden thumb, by God! He wore a white coat and a blue hood. He could blow and play the bagpipe well, and with its noise he led us out of town.

There was a gentle Manciple of an Inn of Court, of whom other stewards might take example for craftiness in buying victuals. Whether he paid in cash or took on credit, he was so watchful in his buying that he was always ahead and in good standing. Now is it not a full fair gift of God that the wit of such an unlettered man shall surpass the wisdom of a great body of learned men? He had more than a score of masters, expert and diligent in law, of whom in that house there were a dozen worthy to be stewards of lands and revenues of any lord in England, to let him live upon his income, honorably, free from debt, unless he were mad, or live as plainly as he would; or able to help a whole shire in any case that might occur. And yet this Manciple hoodwinked all of them.

The Reeve was a slender, bilious man. His beard was shaven as close as could be, and his hair was cut short around his ears and docked in front like a priest’s. His legs were full and lean like a stick; I could see no calf. He could well keep a bin and a gar- ner and no inspector could get the best of him. In the drought or in the wet he could foretell the yield of his grain and seed. His lord’s sheep, poultry and cattle, his dairy and swine and horses and all his stock, this Reeve had whol- ly under his governance, and submitted his accounts thereon ever since his lord was twenty years of age; and none could ever find him out in arrears. There was no bailiff nor herdsman nor other churl whose tricks and craftiness he didn’t know. They were as afraid of him as of the plague. His dwelling-place was a pleasant one on a heath, all shad- ed with green trees. Better than his lord he knew how to pick up wealth, and had a rich private hoard; he knew how to please his master cunningly by giving and lending him out of what was his master’s by right, and to win thanks for that, and a coat and hood as a reward too. In his youth he had learned a good trade and was a fine carpenter and workman. This Reeve sat upon a fine dapple gray cob named Scot. He wore a long surcoat of blue and at his side a rusty blade. He was from Norfolk, near a town they call Baldeswell. His coat was tucked up around him like a friar’s, and he always rode last of us all.

A Summoner was with us there, a fire-red cherubim-faced fellow, salt-phlegmed and pimply, with slits for eyes, scabby black eyebrows and thin ragged beard, and as hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Children were terrified at his visage. No quicksilver, white-lead, brimstone, borax nor ceruse, no cream of tartar nor any ointment that would clean and burn, could help his white blotches or the knobs on his chaps. He loved garlic, onions and leeks too well, and to drink strong wine as red as blood, and then he would talk and cry out like mad. And after drinking deep of wine he would speak no word but Latin, in which he had a few terms, two or three, learned out of some canon. No wonder was that, for he heard it all day long, and you know well how a jay can call “Walter” after hearing it a long time, as well as the pope could. But if he were tested in any other point, his learning was found to be all spent. Questio quid juris, he was always crying. He was a kind and gentle rogue; a better fellow I never knew; for a quart of wine he would allow a good fellow to have his concubine for a year and completely excuse him. Secretly he knew how to swindle anyone. And if anywhere he found a good fellow, he would teach him in such case to have no fear of the archdeacon’s excommuni- cation, unless a man’s soul is in his purse, for it was in his purse he should be punished. “The Archdeacon’s hell is your purse,” he said. (But well I know he lied in his teeth; every guilty man should fear the church’s curse, for it will slay, just as absolution saves, and also let him beware of a significavit.) Within his jurisdiction on his own terms he held all the young people of the diocese, knew their guilty secrets, and was their chief adviser. He had a garland on his head large enough for an ale-house sign, and carried a round loaf of bread as big as a buckler.

With him rode a gentle Pardoner, of Roncesvalles, his friend and companion, who had come straight from the court of Rome. He sang loudly, “Come here, love, to me,” while the Summoner joined him with a stiff bass; never was there a trumpet of half such a sound. This Pardoner had waxy-yellow hair, hanging smooth, like a hank of flax, spread over his shoulders in thin strands. For sport he wore no hood, which was trussed up in his wallet; riding with his hair disheveled, bareheaded except for his cap, he thought he was all in the latest fashion. His eyes were glaring like a hare’s. He had a veronica sewed on his cap, and his wallet, brimful of pardons hot from Rome, lay before him on his saddle. His voice was as small as a goat’s. He had no beard nor ever would have, his face was as smooth as if lately shaven; I believe he was a mare or a gelding. But as for his trade, from Berwick to Dover there was not such another pardoner. In his bag he had a pillow-case which he said was our Lady’s kerchief, and a small piece of the sail which he said St. Peter had when he walked upon the sea and Jesus Christ caught him. He had a cross of latoun, set full of false gems, and pigs’ bones in a glass. But with these relics, when he found a poor parson dwelling in the country, in one day he gained himself more money than the parson gained in two months. And thus, with flattering deceit and tricks, he made the parson and the people his dupes. But to give him his due, after all he was a noble ecclesiastic in church; he could read well a lesson or legend and best of all sing an offertory. For he knew well that when that was done he must preach and file his tongue smooth, to win silver as he well knew how. Therefore he sang merrily and loud.

Now I have told you in few words the station, the array, the number of this company and why they were assem- bled in Southwark as well, at this noble inn, the Tabard, close to the Bell tavern. But now it is time to say how we behaved that same evening, when we had arrived at that inn; and afterward I will tell you of our journey and the rest of our pilgrimage.

But first I pray that by your courtesy you ascribe it not to my ill manners if I speak plainly in this matter, telling you their words and cheer, and if I speak their very words as they were. For this you know as well as I, that who- ever tells a tale that another has told, he must repeat every word, as nearly as he can, although he may speak ever so rudely and freely. Otherwise, he must tell his tale falsely, or pretend, or find new words. He may not spare any, even if it were his own brother; he is bound to say one word as well as the next. Christ himself spoke plainly in Holy Scriptures and you know well there is no baseness in that. And Plato, whoever can read him, says that the word must be cousin to the deed.

I also pray you to forgive me though I have not set folk here in this tale according to their station, as they should be. My wit is short, you can well understand.

Our host put us all in good spirits, and soon brought us to supper and served us with the best of provisions. The wine was strong and very glad we were to drink. Our Host was a seemly man, fit to be marshal in a banquet-hall, a large man with bright eyes, bold in speech, wise and discreet, lacking nothing of manhood: there is not a fairer bur- gess in Cheapside. He was in all things a very merry fellow, and after supper, when we had paid our bills, he began to jest and speak of mirth among other things.

“Now gentle people,” he said, “truly you are heartily welcome to me, for, by my word, if I shall tell the truth, I have not seen this year so merry a company at this inn at once. I would gladly make mirth if I only knew how. And I have just now thought of a mirthful thing to give you pleasure, which shall cost nothing. You go to Canterbury, God speed you, and may the blessed martyr duly reward you! I know full well, along the way you mean to tell tales and amuse yourselves, for in truth it is no comfort or mirth to ride along dumb as a stone.

“And therefore, as I said, I will make you a game. If it please you all by common consent to stand by my words and to do as I shall tell you, now, by my father’s soul (and he is in heaven), tomorrow as you ride along, if you are not merry, I will give you my head. Hold up your hands, without more words!”

Our mind was not long to decide. We thought it not worth debating, and agreed with him without more thought, and told him to say his verdict as he wished.

“Gentle people,” said he, “please listen now, but take it not, I pray you, disdainfully. To speak briefly and plainly, this is the point, that each of you for pastime shall tell two tales in this journey to Canterbury, and two others on the way home, of things that have happened in the past. And whichever of you bears himself best, that is to say, that tells now tales most instructive and delighting, shall have a supper at the expense of us all, sitting here in this place, beside this post, when we come back from Canterbury. And to add to your sport I will gladly go with you at my own cost, and be your guide. And whoever opposes my judgment shall pay all that we spend on the way. If you agree that this will be so, tell me now, without more words, and without delay I will plan for that.”

We agreed to this thing and pledged our word with glad hearts, and prayed him to do so, and to be our ruler and to remember and judge our tales, and to appoint a supper at a certain price. We would be ruled at his will in great and small, and thus with one voice we agreed to his judgment. At this the wine was fetched, and we drank and then each went to rest without a longer stay.

In the morning, when the day began to spring, our host arose and played rooster to us all, and gathered us in a flock. Forth we rode, a little faster than a walk, to St. Thomas-a-Watering. There our Host drew up his horse and said, “Listen, gentle people, if you will. You know your agreement; I remind you of it. If what you said at the hour of evensong last night is still what you agree to this morning at the time of matins, let us see who shall tell the first tale. So may I ever drink beer or wine, whoever rebels against my judgment shall pay all that is spent on the journey. Now draw cuts, before we depart further; he who has the shortest shall begin the tales. Sir Knight, my master and my lord,” said he, “now draw your lot, for this is my will, Come nearer, my lady Prioress, and you, sir Clerk, be not shy, study not; set your hands to them, every one of you.”

Without delay every one began to draw, and in short, whether it were by chance or not, the truth is, the lot fell to the Knight, at which every one was merry and glad. He was to tell his tale, as was reasonable, according to the agreement that you have heard. What need is there for more words?

When this good man saw it was so, as one discreet and obedient to his free promise he said, “Since I begin the game, what, in God’s name, welcome be the cut! Now let us ride on, and listen to what I say.” And at that word we rode forth on our journey. And he soon began his tale with a cheerful spirit, and spoke in this way.

Here ends the Prologue of this book.

The Miller’s Tale

Here follow the words between the Host and the Miller.

The Prologue of the Miller’s Tale

When the Knight had ended his tale, in the entire crowd was there nobody, young or old, who did not say it was a noble history and worthy to be called to mind; and especially each of the gentle people. Our Host laughed and swore, “So may I thrive, this goes well! The bag is unbuckled, let see now who shall tell another tale, for truly the sport has begun well. Now you, Sir Monk, if you can, tell something to repay the Knight’s story with.”

The Miller, who had drunk himself so completely pale that he could scarcely sit on his horse, would not take off his hood or hat, or wait and mind his manners for no one, but began to cry aloud in Pilate’s voice, and swore by arms and blood and head, “I know a noble tale for the occasion, to repay the Knight’s story with.”

Our Host saw that he was all drunk with ale and said, “Wait, Robin, dear brother, some better man shall speak first; wait, and let us work thriftily.”

“By God’s soul!” he said, “I will not do that! I will speak, or else go my way!”

“Tell on, in the Devil’s name!” answered our Host. “You are a fool; your wits have been overcome.”

“Now listen, one and all! But first,” said the Miller, “I make a protestation that I am drunk; I know it by my voice.

And therefore if I speak as I should not, blame it on the ale of Southwark, I pray you; for I will tell a legend and a life of a carpenter and his wife, and how a clerk made a fool of the carpenter.”

“Shut your trap!” the Reeve answered and said, “Set aside your rude drunken ribaldry. It is a great folly and sin to injure or defame any man, and to bring woman into such bad reputation. You can say plenty about other matters.

This drunken Miller answered back immediately and said, “Oswald, dear brother, he is no cuckold who has no wife. But I do not say, therefore, that you are one. There are many good wives, and always a thousand good to one bad. That you know well yourself, if you have not gone mad. Why are you angry now with my tale? I have a wife as well as you, by God, yet for all the oxen in my plough I would not presume to be able to judge myself if I may be a cuckold; I will believe well I am not one. A husband should not be too inquisitive about God’s private matters, nor of his wife’s. He can find God’s plenty there; he need not inquire about the remainder.”

What more can I say, but this Miller would withhold his word for nobody, and told his churl’s tale in his own fashion. I think that I shall retell it here. And therefore I beg every gentle creature, for the love of God, not to judge that I tell it thus out of evil intent, but only because I must truly repeat all their tales, whether they are better or worse, or else tell some of my matter falsely. And therefore whoever wishes not to hear it, let them turn the leaf over and choose another tale; for they shall find plenty of historical matters, great and small, concerning noble deeds, and morality and holiness as well. Do not blame me if you choose incorrectly. The Miller is a churl, you know well, and so was the Reeve (and many others), and the two of them spoke of ribaldry. Think well, and do not blame me, and people should not take a game seriously as well.

Here ends the Prologue.

Here begins the Miller’s Tale.

A while ago there dwelt at Oxford a rich churl fellow, who took guests as boarders. He was a carpenter by trade. With him dwelt a poor scholar who had studied the liberal arts, but all his delight was turned to learning astrology. He knew how to work out certain problems; for instance, if men asked him at certain celestial hours when there should be drought or rain, or what should happen in any matter; I cannot count every one.

This clerk was named gentle Nicholas. He was well skilled in secret love and consolation; and he was also sly and secretive about it; and as meek as a maiden to look upon. He had a chamber to himself in that lodging-house, without any company, and handsomely decked with sweet herbs; and he himself was as sweet as the root of lico- rice or any setwall. His Almagest, and other books great and small, his astrolabe, which he used in his art, and his counting-stones for calculating, all lay neatly by themselves on shelves at the head of his bed.

His clothes-press was covered with a red woolen cloth, and above it was set a pleasant psaltery, on which he made melody at night so sweetly that the entire chamber was full of it. He would sing the hymn Angelus ad Virgi- nem, and after that the King’s Note. Often was his merry throat blessed. And so this sweet clerk passed his time by help of what income he had and his friends provided.

This carpenter had newly wedded a wife, eighteen years of age, whom he loved more than his own soul. He was jealous, and held her closely caged, for she was young, and he was much older and judged himself likely to be made a cuckold.

His wit was rude, and he didn’t know Cato’s teaching that instructed that men should wed their equal. Men should wed according to their own station in life, for youth and age are often at odds. But since he had fallen into the snare, he must endure his pain, like other people.

This young wife was fair, and her body moreover was as graceful and slim as any weasel. She wore a striped silken belt, and over her loins an apron white as morning’s milk, all flounced out. Her smock was white and embroi- dered on the collar, inside and outside, in front and in back, with coal-black silk; and of the same black silk were the strings of her white hood, and she wore a broad band of silk, wrapped high about her hair.

And surely she had a lecherous eye; her eyebrows were arched and black as a sloe berry, and partly plucked out to make them narrow. She was more delicious to look on than the young pear-tree in bloom, and softer than a lamb’s wool. From her belt hung a leather purse, tasseled with silk and with beads of brass.

In all this world there is no man so wise who could imagine such a wench, or so lively a little doll. Her hue shone more brightly than the noble newly forged in the Tower. And as for her singing, it was as loud and lively as a swallow’s sitting on a barn. And she could skip and make merry as any kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was sweet as honeyed ale or mead, or a hoard of apples laid in the hay or heather. She was skittish as a jolly colt, tall as a mast, and upright as a bolt. She wore a brooch on her low collar as broad as the embossed center of a shield, and her shoes were laced high on her legs. She was a primrose, a pig’s-eye, for a lord to lie in his bed or even a yeo- man to wed.

Now sir, and again sir, it so chanced that this gentle Nicholas fell to play and romp with this young wife, as clerks are very artful and sly, on a day when her husband was at Osney. And secretly he caught hold of her genitalia and said: “Surely, unless you will love me, sweetheart, I shall die for my secret love of you. And he held her hard by the thighs and said, “Sweetheart, love me now, or I will die, may God save me!”

She sprang back like a colt in the halter, and wriggled away with her head. “I will not kiss you, in faith,” she said. Why, let me be, let me be, Nicholas, or I will cry out, ‘Alas! Help!’ Take away your hands, by your courtesy!”

But this Nicholas began to beg for her grace, and spoke so fairly and made such offers that at last she granted him her love and swore by Saint Thomas of Kent that she would do his will when she should see her chance.

“My husband is so jealous that unless you are secretive and watch your time, I know very well I am no better than dead. You must be very sly in this thing.”

“No, have no fear about that,” said Nicholas. “A clerk has spent his time poorly if he can not beguile a carpenter!”

And thus they were agreed and pledged to watch for a time, as I have told. When Nicholas had done so, petted her well on her limbs, and kissed her sweetly, he took his psaltery and made melody and played fervently.

Then it happened on a holy day that this wife went to the parish church to work Christ’s own works. Her fore- head shone as bright as day, since she had scrubbed it when she had finished her tasks.

Now at that church there was a parish clerk named Absolom. His hair was curly and shone like gold, and spread out like a large broad fan; its neat part ran straight and even. His complexion was rosy, and his eyes as gray as goose-quills. His leather shoes were carved in such a way that they resembled a window in Paul’s Church. He went clad precisely and neatly all in red hose and a kirtle of a light watchet-blue; the laces were set in it fair and thick, and over it he had a lively surplice, as white as a blossom on a twig. God bless me, but he was a sweet lad!

He knew well how to clip and shave and let blood, and make a quittance or a charter for land. He could trip and dance in twenty ways in the manner of Oxford in that day, and cast with his legs back and forth, and play songs on a small fiddle. He could play on his cittern as well, and sometimes sang in a loud treble. In the whole town there was no brew-house or tavern where any tapster might be that he did not visit in his merrymaking. But to tell the truth he was some-what squeamish about farting and rough speech.

This Absalom, so pretty and fine, went on this holy day with a censer, diligently incensing the wives of the parish, and he cast many longing looks on them, and especially on this carpenter’s wife. To look at her seemed to him a sweet employment, as she was so sweet and proper and lusty; I dare say, if she had been a mouse and he a cat, he would have pounced on her immediately. And this sweet parish-clerk had such a love-longing in his heart that at the offertory he would take nothing from any wife; for courtesy, he said, he would take none.

When at night the moon shone very beautifully and Absalom intended to remain awake all night for love’s sake, he took his cittern and went forth, amorous and jolly, until he came to the carpenter’s house a little after the cocks had crowed, and pulled himself up by a casement-window.

Dear lady, if your will so be,

I pray you that you pity me

He sang in his sweet small voice, in nice harmony with his cittern.

This carpenter woke, heard his song and said without hesitation to his wife, “What, Alison! Don’t you hear Ab- salom chanting this way under our own bedroom-wall?”

“Yes, God knows, John,” she answered him, “I hear every bit of it.”

Thus it went on; what would you have better than well-enough? From day to day this jolly Absalom wooed her until he was all woe-begone. He remained awake all night and all day, he combed his spreading locks and preened himself, he wooed her by go-betweens and agents, and swore he would be her own page; he sang quavering like a nightingale; he sent her mead, and wines sweetened and spiced, and wafers piping hot from the coals, and because she was from the town he proffered her money. For some people will be won by rich gifts and some by blows and some by courtesy. Sometimes, to show his cheerfulness and skill, he would play Herod on a high scaffold.

But in such a case what could help him? She so loved gentle Nicholas that Absalom may as well go blow the buck’s-horn. For all his labor he had nothing but scorn, and thus she made Absalom her ape and turned all his earnest to a joke. This proverb is true—it is no lie. Men say it is just so: “The sly nearby one makes the far dear one loathed.” For though Absalom may go mad for it, because he was far from her eye, this nearby Nicholas stood in his light. Now bear yourself well, gentle Nicholas, for Absalom may wail and sing “Alack!”

And so it happened one Saturday that the carpenter had gone to Oseney, and gentle Nicholas and Alison had agreed upon this, that Nicholas would create a ruse to beguile this poor jealous husband; and if the game went as planned, she should be his, for this was his desire and hers also. And immediately, without more words, Nicholas would delay no longer, but had food and drink for a day or two carried softly into his chamber, and instructed her say to her husband, if he asked about him, that she did not know where he was; that she had not set eyes upon him all that day and she believed he was in some malady, for not by any crying out could her maid rouse him; he would not answer at all, for nothing.

Thus passed forth all that Saturday; Nicholas lay still in his chamber, and ate and slept or did what he wished, until Sunday toward sundown. This simple carpenter had great wonder about Nicholas, what could ail him. “By Saint Thomas,” he said, “I am afraid all is not well with Nicholas. God forbid that he has died suddenly! This world nowadays is so ticklish, surely; to-day I saw carried to church a corpse that I saw at work last Monday. Go up, call at his door,” he said to his boy, “or knock with a stone; see how it is, and tell me straight.”

This boy went up sturdily, stood at the chamber-door, and cried and knocked like mad: “What! How! What are you doing, master Nicholas? How can you sleep all day long?”

But all was for nothing; he heard not a word. Then he found a hole, low down in the wall, where the cat would usually creep in; and through that he looked far into it and at last caught sight of him.

Nicholas sat ever gaping upward as if he were peering at the new moon. Down went the boy, and told his mas- ter in what plight he saw this man.

The carpenter began to cross himself and said, “Help us, Saint Frideswide! People know little what shall happen to them. This man with his astronomy is fallen into some madness or some fit; I always thought how it would end this way. Men were not intended to know God’s secrets. Yes, happy is an unlearned man that never had schooling and knows nothing but his beliefs!

“So fared another clerk with his astronomy; he walked in the fields to look upon the stars, to see what was to happen, until he fell into a clay-pit that he did not see! But yet, by Saint Thomas, I am very sorry about gentle Nich- olas. By Jesus, King of Heaven, he shall be scolded for his studying if I may. Get me a staff, Robin, so that I can pry under the door while you heave it up. I believe we shall rouse him from his studying!”

And so he went to the chamber door. His boy was a strong lad, and quickly heaved the door up by the hinges, and it immediately fell flat upon the floor. Nicholas sat ever as still as a stone, ever gaping into the air. This carpenter believed he had fallen into despair, and seized him mightily by the shoulders and shook him hard and cried wildly, “What, Nicholas! What, ho! What, look down! Awake, think on Christ’s passion; I cross thee from elves and un- earthly creatures!” And at that point he said the night-spell, toward the four corners of the house and on the outside of the threshold of the door:

Jesus Christ and sweet Saint Benedict

Bless this house from every wicked sprit.

For the night-hag, the white pater noster;

Where did you go, Saint Peter’s sister?

At last this gentle Nicholas began to sigh sorely, and said, “Alack! Shall the entire world be destroyed again now?”

“What are you saying?” said the carpenter. “What now! Think on God, as we do, we men that work.”

“Fetch me a drink,” said Nicholas, “and after I will speak privately of a certain thing that concerns you and me both. I will tell it to no other man, you can be sure.”

The carpenter went down and came again bringing a large quart of mighty ale; and when each of them had drunk his share, Nicholas shut his door fast and set the carpenter down beside him.

“John, my dear host,” he said, “you shall swear to me here on your honor that you will reveal this secret to no creature; for it is Christ’s own secret that I show you, and if you tell it to any you are a lost man. For this vengeance you will receive, therefore: if you betray me, you shall run mad!”

“No, may Christ and His holy blood forbid!” said this simple man. “I am no blabber, and though I say it myself, I am not wont to prate. Say what you will, I shall never utter it to man, woman or child, by Him That harrowed hell!”

“Now, John, I will not deceive you,” said Nicholas; “I have found by my astrology, as I have been looking in the shining moon, that now a Monday next, about a quarter through the night, there shall fall a rain so wild and mad that never was Noah’s flood half so great. This world shall all be drowned in less than an hour, so hideous shall be the downpour. Thus shall all mankind perish in the flood.”

“Alas, my wife! And shall she drown?” this carpenter answered, and nearly fell over for sorrow. “Alas, my Ali- son! Is there no remedy?”

“Why yes, before God, if you will work according to wise advising,” said gentle Nicholas; “but you may not work out of your own head. For thus says Solomon, and he was right trustworthy, “Work all by counsel, and you shall never repent.” And if you will work after good advice, I undertake without mast or sail to save both her and you and me. Have you not heard how Noah was saved, when our Lord had warned him that the entire world should be destroyed with water?”

“Yes,” said the carpenter, “I heard it long, long ago.”

“Have you not heard also,” said Nicholas, “the woe that Noah and his sons had before he could get his wife aboard? He had rather than all his black rams then, I dare be bound, that she had had a ship all to herself! Do you know then what is best to do? This thing calls for haste, and on an urgent matter one may not preach or delay. Go immediately and get us directly into this house a kneading-trough or else a brewing-tub for each of us (but make sure that they are large), in which we may swim as if in a barge and have in enough provisions for a day - we will need no more. The water shall slacken and run off about nine o’clock on the next day. But Robin your boy must not know of this, and I cannot save your maid Jill either. Do not ask why, for even if you ask me I will not tell God’s se- cret. It ought to suffice you, if your wits are not turning, to have as great a grace as Noah had. I shall save your wife, I promise you. Go your way now, and make haste.

“But when you have obtained these three kneading-tubs for us three, then you shall hang them from the rafters high in the roof, so that no man notice our device. And when you have done this, and laid our provisions in them nicely, and an axe as well to strike the cord in two when the water comes, and when you have broken a hole on high in the gable toward the garden over the barn, so that we may freely go on our way when the great shower is past - then you will float as merrily, I will be bound, as the white duck after her drake. Then will I call out, ‘How, Alison! How, John! Be merry; the flood will soon pass.’ And you will answer, ‘Hail, Master Nicholas! Good morning, I see you well, it is daylight now!’ And then we shall be lords over the entire world until we die, just as Noah and his wife!

“But one thing I warn you of strictly. Be well advised on that night when we have entered aboard ship that none of us speaks a word, neither calls nor cries, but we must be in our prayers. For that is God’s own precious command. And your wife and you must hang far apart, so that there will be no folly between you, any more in looking than in action. Now that all this plan is explained to you; go, and may God help you! Tomorrow at night, when people are all in bed, we will creep into our kneading-tubs and sit there, awaiting God’s grace. Go your way now; I have no time to make a longer sermon of this. Men say thus: “Send the wise and say nothing.” You are so wise that there is no need to teach you. Go, save our lives, I entreat you.”

This simple carpenter went his way often crying “alack!” and “alas!”, and told the secret to his wife. And she was wary, and knew better than he what this quaint plan was about. But nevertheless she acted as if she would die, and said, “Alas! Go your way at once and help us to escape, or else we are all lost; I am your true, faithful wedded wife. Go, dear spouse, and help to save us!

Lo, how great a thing is feeling! Men may die of imagination, so deep may the impression be. This simple fellow began to quake; he thought he could truly hear Noah’s flood come wallowing like the sea to drown his honey sweet Alison; he wept, wailed and made sorrowful expression, and he sighed with many a sorry gust. He went and got himself a kneading-trough, and after that a tub and a cask, sent them secretly to his house and hung them in the roof. With his own hand he made three ladders, to climb by the rungs and uprights into the tubs hanging among the beams; and supplied tub and trough and cask with bread and cheese as well as good ale in a large jug, sufficient for a day. But before he had made all this gear, he sent his serving boy and girl to London about his business. And as it drew toward night on the Monday, he lit no candle, but shut the door and ordered all things as they should be; and, in brief, up they all three climbed, and sat still while a man could walk a furlong.

“Now mum, and say a pater noster!” said Nicholas; and “Mum!” said John, and “Mum!” Alison. This carpenter sat still and said his prayers, ever listening for the rain, if he could hear it.

The dead sleep, for very weariness and apprehension, fell on this carpenter even about curfew-time or a little later, as I suppose; he groaned sorely in the travail of his spirit, and eke snored, for his head lay uneasily. Down the ladder stalked Nicholas, and Alison sped down very softly; and they were in mirth and glee, until the bells began to sound for lauds, and friars in the chancel began to sing.

This parish-clerk, amorous Absalom, always so woe-begone for love, was at Oseney on that Monday to amuse himself and make merry, with a party; and by chance he secretly asked a cloister-monk after John the carpenter. The monk drew him aside out of the church. “I know not,” he said; “I have not seen him work here since Saturday. I believe he has gone where our abbot has sent him for timber, for he is accustomed to go for timber and remain at the grange a day or two. Or else he is at home, certainly. In truth I cannot say where he is.”

This Absalom grew very merry of heart, and thought, “Now is the time to wake all night, for certainly since daybreak I have not seen him stirring about his door. On my soul, at cockcrow I shall knock secretly at his window which stands low upon his chamber-wall. To Alison now will I tell the whole of my love-longing, and now I shall not fail at the least to have a kiss from her. I shall have some sort of comfort, in faith. My mouth has itched all day long; that is a sign of kissing at least.

All night eke I dreamed I was at a festival. Therefore I will go sleep an hour or two, and then I will wake all night in mirth.”

When the first cock had crowed, up rose this frisky lover, and arrayed him in his gayest with all nicety. But first he chewed cardamoms and licorice to smell sweetly, before he had combed his hair, and put a true-love charm under his tongue, for by this he hoped to find favor. He rambled to the carpenter’s house, and stood still under the casement, which was so low it reached to his breast. He gave a soft half-cough,-”What do you, sweet Alison, honeycomb? My fair bird, my darling! Awake, sweet cinnamon, and speak to me. You think right little upon my sorrow, who sweat for your love wherever I go!

No wonder though I languish and sweat! I mourn like a lamb after the dug. In faith, darling, I have such love-longing that I mourn like the true turtle-dove. I cannot eat, no more than a maiden.”

“Go from the window, Jack-fool,” she said. “On my soul, there will be no singing “Come kiss me now.” I love another better than you, by heaven, Absalom, and else I were at fault. Go your ways, or I will cast a stone at you, and let me sleep, in the Devil’s name!”

“Alas!” he said. “Alackaday that true love was ever so ill bestowed! Then kiss me, since it may be no better, for Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.”

“Will you then go your way with that?” she said.

“Yes, surely, sweetheart,” said this Absolom.

“Then make yourself ready,” she said, “I am coming now.”

And to Nicholas she said silently, “Now hush, and you shall laugh your fill.”

This Absolom set himself down on his knees and said, “I am a lord of the highest degree; for after this I hope there will come more. Sweetheart, your grace, and sweet bird, your favor!”

She unlatches the window, and does so in haste. “Take this,” she said, “come now, and move quickly, lest our neighbors see you.”

This Absolom wiped his mouth dry. Dark as pitch, or as coal, was the night, and at the window she put out her hole, and Absolom, who knew no better or worse but with his mouth he kissed her naked ass so sweetly, before he was aware of this.

He started aback, and thought something was amiss, for well he knew a woman has no beard. He felt something all rough and long-haired, and said, “Fy! alas! What have I done?”

“Tee hee!” she said, and shut the window, and Absolom went forth with troubled steps.

“A beard! A beard!” said handy Nicholas, “By God’s body, this goes fair and well.”

This foolish Absolom heard every bit, and on his lips he began to bite angrily, and said to himself, “I shall pay you back.”

Who rubs now, and who chafes now, his lips with dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips, but Absol- om, who says over and over, “Alas! I commend my soul unto Satan”? But I would rather be revenged for this insult” he said, “than own this entire town. Alas,” he said, “alas, that I did not turn aside!”

His hot love was now cold and entirely quenched; for from that moment that he had kissed her ass, he cared not a straw for things of love, for he was healed of his sickness. Often the things of love he defied, and wept as does a child that is beaten.

This Absalom walked slowly across the street to a smith called Master Gervase, who forged plough-instruments at his forge. He was busily sharpening coulter and share when Absalom knocked very gently and said, “Unlock the door, Gervase, and do it quickly.”

“What! Who are you?”

“It is me, Absalom.”

“What, Absalom! By the cross, why are you up so early? Eh, God bless! What ails you? Some pretty girl, God knows, has brought you to stir so early. By Saint Neot, you know well what I mean!”

This Absalom cared not a peascod for all his mocking, and returned not a word in kind. He had more wool on his distaff than Gervase knew, and said, “Dear friend, that hot coulter in the chimney—lend it to me. I have some- thing to do with it; and I will bring it you again right away.

“Surely,” answered Gervase, “even if it were gold or nobles in a bag all uncounted, you should have it, as I am a faithful smith! Eh, the Devil, what do you want to do with it?”

“That is as it may be,” said Absalom. I shall tell you tomorrow;” and he took up the coulter by the cool handle. Softly he went out the door and went to the wall of the carpenter’s house. He coughed first, and knocked withal upon the window, as he did before.

“Who is there that knocks so?” Alison answered. “I warrant it a thief!”

“Why nay,” he said, “God knows, my sweet, I am your Absalom, my sweetheart. I have brought you a ring of gold; my mother gave it me, on my life! It is very fine and nicely engraved. I will give you this, if you kiss me!”

This Nicholas had risen to take a piss, and he thought he would contribute to the joke; he should kiss him be- fore he ran off! And he threw up the window in haste and quietly put his ass out—past the buttocks, all the way to the thigh-bone. Thereupon spoke this clerk Absalom, Speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art. This Nicholas then let fly a fart as great as a thunder-clap, so much so that with the stroke Absalom was almost blinded; and he was ready with his hot iron and smote Nicholas on the ass.

Off went the skin, about a hands-breadth around, the hot coulter burned his rump so, and for the pain he thought he would die. “Help! Water, water! Help, help, for God’s sake!” he cried like a madman.

The carpenter started out of his slumber; he heard one cry wildly “Water!”, and thought, “Alas! Noah’s flood is coming now!” He sat up without a word, and with his axe struck the cord in two, and down went tub and all; they stopped for nothing until they came to the floor, and there he lay in a swoon.

Up started Alison and Nicholas, and cried “Help!” and “Alack!” in the street. The neighbors young and old ran to stare upon him as he lay yet in a swoon, for with the fall he had broken his arm.

But he must even digest his own trouble, for when he spoke he was talked down by Alison and gentle Nicholas. They told every man he was mad, he was aghast so of “Noah’s flood” in his fantasy, that of his folly he had bought him three kneading-tubs and had hung them above in the roof; and had prayed them for God’s sake to sit with him in the roof, to keep him company.

People laughed at his odd quirk; into the roof they peered and gawked, and turned all his trouble into mirth. For whatever the carpenter answered, it was all for naught; no man heard his speeches, he was so sworn down by the great oaths of the others that in the entire city he was held as mad. Every clerk then agreed with every other clerk: “the man is mad, my dear brother!” And every creature laughed over this contention.

Thus the carpenter lost his wife, for all his watching and jealousy; and Nicholas was sore burned. This tale is done, and God save the entire company.

Here ends the Miller’s Tale.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

The Prologue of the Wife of Bath’s Tale

“Experience, though it would be no authority in this world, would be quite sufficient for me, to speak of the woe that is in marriage; for, gentle people, since I was twelve years old—thank God, Who lives forever—I have had five husbands at the church-door (for I have been wedded so often); and all were worthy men in their ranks. But in truth I was told not long ago that since Christ went only once to a wedding, in Cana of Galilee, by that same exam- ple he taught me that I should be wedded only once. Lo! Hear what a sharp word Jesus, man and God, spoke on a certain occasion beside a well, in reproof of the Samaritan woman. He said, ‘You have had five husbands; and that man who has you now is not your husband.’ Thus he said, certainly. What he meant by it I cannot say; but I ask, why the fifth man was no husband to the Samaritan woman.

“How many could she have in marriage? At this point I have never in my life heard a designation of the num- ber. Men may divine and interpret up and down, but well I know, surely, God expressly instructed us to increase and multiply. I can well understand that noble text. Likewise, I know well he said also that my husband should leave father and mother and take me. But he did not mention any number, not bigamy or of octogamy. Why should men speak villainously of them?

“Lo, Sir Solomon the wise king! I believe he had more than one wife, and I wish to God it were lawful for me to be refreshed half so often! What a gift of God he had in all his wives! No man who lives in this world now has so many. God knows this noble king, to my thinking, had a merry life with each of them, so joyous was his lot! Blessed be God that I wedded five! And they were the best that I could pick out, both in their bodies and of their coffers. A variety of schools make perfect scholars, and much practice in a variety of employments truly makes the perfect workman. I have the schooling of five husbands. I would welcome the sixth, whenever he shall come! In truth, I will not keep myself wholly chaste; when my husband has departed from the world, then some other Christian man shall wed me. For then, the apostle says, I am free, in God’s name, to wed where I wish.

“He says that it is no sin to be wedded; it is better to be wedded than to burn. What do I care if people speak badly of cursed Lamech and his bigamy? Well I know Abraham was a holy man, and Jacob as well, as far as I know, and each of them had more than two wives. And many other holy men did as well.

“When have you seen that in any time great God forbade marriage explicitly? Tell me, I pray you. Or where did he command virginity? You know as well as I, without a doubt, that the apostle, when he speaks of maidenhood, says that he had no instructions on it. Men may counsel a woman to be single, but counseling is not commanding; he left it to our own judgment. For if God had commanded maidenhood, then with that same word had he con- demned marrying. And certainly, if no seed were sown, from where then should virgins spring? Paul dared not command a thing for which his master gave no order. The prize is set for virginity—win it who can. Let us see who runs best.

“But this command is not to be taken by every creature, but only where Almighty God wishes to give it through his might. The apostle was a virgin, I know well, but nevertheless, though he wrote that he wished every creature to be like him, all that is only advice to be a virgin; and he gave me leave and indulgence to be a wife. So likewise, if my spouse should die, there is no shame or charge of bigamy to marry me. It would be good, he said, to touch no woman, for it is a peril to bring together fire and hay. You know what this example may mean.

“This is the sum of it all: the apostle held virginity to be more perfect than marriage because of weakness. I call them weak unless man and wife would lead all their life in chastity. I grant it well, I have no malice even if maiden- hood were set above remarriage. It pleases them to be clean, body and soul; of my own estate I will make no boast. For you well know that not every vessel in a lord’s house is made of gold; some are of wood, and do their lord service. God calls people to him in various manners, and each one has his own gift from—one this, one that, as it pleases God to provide. Virginity is a great perfection, and devoted chastity as well.

image 5.6: The Wife of Bath Prologue | “The Wife of Bath” prologue, a tale from The Canterbury Tales, from the Ellesmere manuscript.

Author: User “SkedO”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

But Christ, the fountain of perfection, did not instruct every person to go sell all that he had and give to the poor, and in such a fash- ion follow him and his footsteps. “He spoke this to those people who wished to be perfect; and by your leave, gentle people, I am not one of those. I will use the flower of my life in the acts and fruits of marriage.

Tell me also, for what purpose were members of procreation made, and made in such a perfect manner? Trust well, they were not made for nothing. Whosoever wishes to interpret may do so, and interpret things up and down that and say that they were made for purging urine and that both our small things were also to know a female from a male and for no other cause—did someone say no? Those with experience know well it is not so. So that scholars will not be angry with me, I say this: that they are made for both; that is to say, for duty and for ease of procreation, providing we do not displease God. Why should men otherwise set down in their books that man shall yield to his wife her debt? Now with what should he make his payment, if he did not use his blessed instrument? They were made then upon a creature to purge urine, and for procreation as well.

But I do not say that every person who has such equipment is bound to go and use it for procreation. For that reason people should men take no heed of chastity. Christ was a virgin and created as a man, as were many saints since the beginning of the world; yet they always lived in perfect chastity. I will not envy any virginity. Let virgins be called bread of purified wheat-seed, and let us wives be called barley-bread; and yet, as Mark can tell, our Lord Jesus refreshed many people with barley-bread. I will persevere in such a state as God has called us to; I am not particular. In wifehood I will use my instrument as freely as my Maker has sent it. If I am unaccommodating to my husband, may God give me sorrow. My husband shall have it both evening and morning, whenever it pleases him to come forth and pay his debt. I will not stop. I will have a husband who will be both my debtor and servant, and have his tribulation upon his flesh, while I am his wife. As long as I live I, and not he, have the power over his body. The apostle told it to me in this very way, and instructed our husbands to love us well. This entire subject pleases me well, every bit.

Up started the Pardoner, and without delay. “Now lady,” he said, “by God and St. John, you are a noble preacher in this matter! I was about to wed a wife; alas! Why should I pay for it so dearly upon my flesh? I would rather not wed any wife this year.”

“Wait! My tale is not yet begun,” she said. “No, before I go you shall drink out of another barrel that will taste worse than ale. And when I have told my story to you about the tribulation in marriage, in which I have been expert all my life (that is to say, I myself have been the scourge), then you may choose whether you will sip of that same barrel that I shall broach. Be mindful, before you come too close; for I shall tell half a score of examples. ‘Whosoever will not be warned by other men, by him shall other men be corrected’: these same words writes Ptolemy; read his Almagest.”

“Lady,” said this Pardoner, “I would pray you, if it were your pleasure, tell your tale as you began, hold back for no man, and teach us young men from your experience.”

“Gladly,” she said, “if it may please you. But I beg all of you in this company, if I speak according to my fancy, do not take it amiss. For my intent is but to make sport. Now, sirs, I will continue.

“May I never see another drop of ale or wine, if I did not tell the truth about my husbands, as three of them were good, and two of them were bad. The three men were good, rich and old, and they hardly could keep their obligation to me, by which they were bound to me. By God, you know well what I mean by this. May God help me, I laugh when I think how pitifully I made them work at night! And, by my faith, I found it useless. I did not need to make an effort or pay them any respect to win their love. They loved me so well, by God above, that I set no value on their love. A wise woman will always attempt to win love where she has none; but since I had them wholly in my hand and had all their land, why should I bother to please them, unless it were for my profit and pleasure? I ruled them so, by my faith, that many nights they sang ‘alas!’

“Not for them, I believe, was fetched the bacon that some men win at Dunmow in Essex. I governed them so well by my rules that each of them was blissful and glad to bring me beautiful things from the fair. They were glad when I spoke friendly to them, for God knows, I chided them without mercy. Now listen, you wise wives who can understand, hear how craftily I behaved myself.

“Thus shall you speak, and thus you shall put them in the wrong, for there is no man who can swear and lie half so boldly as a woman. I say this for the benefit of wise wives when they have made a little misstep. A wise wife, if she knows what is good for her, shall make a man believe that the jackdaw is mad, and shall use her own maid as a witness to confirm it.

“But now hear how I spoke: -’Old sir fogey, is this how you would have things? Why is my neighbor’s wife so fine? She is honored everywhere she goes, while I have no decent clothes and must sit at home. Are you in love? What are you doing at my neighbor’s house? Is she so fair? What do you whisper with our maid? God bless! Leave behind your tricks, old sir lecher! And if I have a friend or a gossip, completely innocent, and I walk to his house or amuse myself there, you chide me like a fiend. You come home as drunk as a mouse and sit on your bench preach- ing, with no good reason. You say to me, it is a great evil to wed a poor woman, for the cost; and if she were rich, of noble birth, then you say that it is a torment to suffer her pride and her melancholy. And if she were fair, you say that every lecher will have her, you very knave! She who is assailed on every side cannot remain in chastity for long.

“‘You say that some folk desire us for our wealth, some for our figure, some for our beauty, some because we can sing or dance, some for our manners and mirth, and some for our hands and slim arms. Thus all goes to the Devil, by your account.

“‘You say that a castle wall can not be defended when it is assailed so long from every side. And if a woman be foul, then you say that she covets every man she sees, and will leap on him like a spaniel, until she find some man to do business with her. You say no goose in the lake that is too grey to look for a mate. And you say that it is a hard matter to control a thing that no man would be willing to keep.

“‘Thus you say, old fool, when you are going to bed; that no wise man need marry, nor any man who hopes for heaven. With a wild thunder-clap and fiery lightning-bolt may your withered neck be snapped in two! You say that leaky houses, smoke, and chiding wives, make men flee from their own homes.

“‘Ah, God bless! What ails such an old man to scold like this? You say that we wives will cover our vices until we are safely married, and then we show them. That is a villain’s proverb! You say that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds are tested for some time before men buy them, and so are basins, wash-bowl, spoons, stools, pots, clothes, attire, and all such household stuff; but people make no test of wives until they are wedded. And then, you old rascally dotard, you say, we will show our vices.

“‘You say also it displeases me unless you praise my beauty and gaze ever upon my face and call me “fair lady” everywhere; and unless you make a feast on my birthday, and dress me gay and freshly; and unless you do honor to my nurse, and to my maid in my bower, and to my father’s family—all this you say, old barrel-full of lies.

“‘And yet you have gathered a false suspicion of our apprentice Jankin, for his crisp hair shining like fine gold, and because he escorts me back and forth. I would not have him, even if you should die tomorrow! But tell me this—and bad luck to you!—why do you hide the keys of your chest from me? By God, they are my goods as well as yours! Why do you intend to make a fool of the mistress of your house? Now by the lord who is called St. James, however you may rage, you shall not be master both of my body and of my goods; you must give up one of them, in spite of your eyes.

“‘What good does it do if you inquire after me or spy upon me? You want to lock me in your chest, I believe! You should say, “Wife, go where you wish, take your pleasure, I will believe no tales; I know you for a true wife, Lady Alice.” We love no man who takes note or care where we go; we wish to have our freedom. May he be blessed of all men, that wise astrologer, Sir Ptolemy, who says this proverb in his book Almagest, “Of all men, he who never cares who has the world in hand has the greatest wisdom.” You are to understand by this proverb that you have enough: why do you need to care how well-off other people are? For in truth, old fogey, you shall have plenty of pleasing thing in the evening. He who will forbid a man to light a candle at his lantern is too great a miser; by God, he should have light, nevertheless. So you have enough; you need not complain.

“‘You say also that if we make ourselves amorous with clothing and with costly dress, it would be a peril to our chastity; and yet—may the plague take you!—you must confirm it with these words of the apostle: “Ye women shall apparel yourselves in garments made with chastity and shame,” he said, “and not with tressed hair and splendid gems and pearls, nor with gold, nor rich clothes.” I would not give a fly for your text or your rubric.

“‘You said also I was like a cat; for a cat, if someone were to singe the cat’s skin, will always dwell at home; but if she were sleek and elegant in her fur, she will not remain in the house an hour, but before any day would dawn, will go forth to show her skin and go a-caterwauling. This is to say, sir rogue, if I am finely dressed, I will run out to show my clothes.

“‘Sir old fool, what ails you to spy after me? Even if you were to ask Argus to be my sentry with his hundred eyes as best he can, in faith, he shall not keep watch over me unless it suits me. Still I could deceive him, as I hope to prosper!

“‘You say also that there are three things that trouble this entire world, and that no creature can endure the fourth. Oh, dear sir rascal, may Jesus shorten your life! Still you preach and say a hateful woman is considered one of these adversities. Are there no other things you can use for comparison without an innocent wife being one of them?

“‘You compare woman’s love to hell, or to barren land where no water can lie. You compare it also to wildfire; the more it burns, the more it desires to consume everything that can be burned. You say that just as worms destroy a tree, so too a wife destroys her husband; those who are tied to women know this.

“Gentle people, in this very way, as you can see, I would firmly swear to my old husbands, that they said this in their drunkenness; and all was false, except I got Jankin and my niece to be my witnesses. O Lord! The pain and woe I did them, though they were innocent, by God’s sweet suffering! For I could bite and whinny like a horse. I knew how to complain, even if I was guilty; or else I would have often been undone. He who first comes to the mill, grinds first; I complained first, and thus our war was ended. They were very glad to excuse themselves hurriedly of things that they never had done in all their lives. I would accuse my old husband of visiting prostitutes, even when they were so sick that they could scarcely stand.

“Yet I tickled his heart because he thought that I had such great fondness for him. I swore that all my walking about at night was to spot wenches whom he slept with. Under that pretext I had many privy jests at him; for all such wit is given to us when we are born. God has given deceit, weeping, and spinning to women by nature, so long as they live.

“And thus I boast of one thing for myself: in the end I had the better in every way, by cunning, or by force, or by some type of device, such as continual murmuring or grumbling. And most chiefly at night they had ill fortune; then I would scold and grant him no pleasure. I would not stay in bed any longer if I felt his arm over my side, until he had paid his ransom to me. And therefore I tell this to every man: let he who can, prosper, for everything has its price. Men may lure no hawks with an empty hand. For the sake of gain I would give them their way, and pretend to have an appetite; and yet I never had pleasure in bacon, from Dunmow or elsewhere. And so I would be chiding them all the time; even if the pope had sat beside them, by my word, I would not spare them at their own table. I re- paid them word for word; so may the Almighty Lord help me, if I ere to make my testament right now, I would not owe them a word that has not been repaid. By my wits I made it so that they were glad to surrender, as their best option, or we would have never been at peace. For though my husband looked like a mad lion, he was nonetheless bound to fail in his purpose.

“Then would I say, ‘Good dear, take note how meekly Wilkin our sheep looks; come near, my spouse, let me kiss your cheek. You should be all patient and mild, and have a sweet tender conscience, since you thus preach of the patience of Job. Always endure, since you can preach so well; and unless you do, we must teach you for sure that it is pleasant to have a wife in peace. Truly, one of us two must bend to the other and since a man is more reasonable than a woman, you must be patient. What ails you to grumble and groan in this way? Is it because you want to have my body all to yourself? Why, take it all! Have every bit! By Peter, I curse you, but you love it well! If I would sell my beautiful thing, I could walk as fresh as a rose, but I will keep it for your own taste. You are to blame, by God! I tell you the truth.” We had this sort of words between us; but now I will speak about my fourth husband.

“My fourth husband was a reveller, that is to say, he had a paramour—and I was young and full of frolic, stub- born and strong, and jolly as a magpie. I could dance well to a little harp, and sing like any nightingale, when I had taken a draught of sweet wine. Metellius, the filthy churl, the swine, who with a staff bereft his spouse of her life, because she drank wine, would not have frightened me from drink, if I had been his wife! And when I think of wine I must think of Venus; for just as surely as cold engenders hail, a lecherous mouth leads to a lecherous body. There is no defense in a woman who is full of wine, as lechers know by experience.

“Lord Christ! But when I think about my youth and mirth, it tickles me at the root of my heart! To this very day it does my heart good that I have had my fling in my time. But alas! Age, which envenoms all things, has bereft me of my beauty and energy. Let them go. Farewell! May the Devil go with them! The flour is gone, and there is no more to say; now I sell the bran as best as I can. But even now I will strive to be very merry.

“Now I will tell of my fourth husband. I say I had great resentment in my heart that he had pleasure in any oth- er. But by the Lord and Saint Joce, he was paid back! I made a cross from the same wood for his back; not with my body, in any foul manner, but truly I offered people such generous hospitality that for anger and absolute jealousy I made him fry in his own grease. By God, I was his purgatory on earth, wherefore I hope that his soul is in glory now.

“For God knows, he sat often and sang, when his shoe pinched him bitterly: No creature knew, except God and he, how sorely I twisted him in so many ways. He died when I returned home from Jerusalem, and lies buried under the cross-beam, albeit his tomb is not quite as elaborately crafted as the sepulcher of Darius that Apelles so skilfully made. It would have been a waste to bury him at such an expense! Farewell to him; he is now in his grave and in his coffin—God rest his soul!

“Now will I speak of my fifth husband—may God never allow his soul to enter hell! And yet he was the most villainous to me, as I can still feel on my ribs all in a row, and ever shall to my ending day. But he was so fresh and merry, and could sweet-talk so well that, even if he had beaten me on every bone, he could soon win my beautiful thing again. I believe I loved him best, because he was sparing in his love.

“We women have, to tell the truth, an odd fantasy on this matter; whatever thing we can not easily win we will cry after continually and crave. “Forbid us something, and we desire that thing. Press on us hard, and then we will flee. With much reserve we offer our merchandise; a large crowd at the market makes our wares expensive; wares offered at too low a price will be thought to have little value. Every wise woman knows this.

“My fifth husband—may God bless his soul—which I took for love and not for riches, was sometime an Oxford scholar; and he had left school, and went to board with my good friend, who dwelt in our town. May God keep her soul! Her name was Alisoun. She knew my heart and my private thoughts better than our parish priest, by my soul! To her I revealed all my secrets.

“For had my husband peed on a wall, or done something that would have cost him his life, I would have told his every bit of his secret to her, and to another worthy wife, and to my niece, whom I loved well. And I did so often, God knows, which often made his face red and hot for true shame, and he would blame himself for telling me so great a secret.

“And so it happened that once, in Lent, (as I so often did, I visited my friend, for I still always loved to be merry, and to walk from house to house in March, April, and May, to hear various tales) that Jankin the clerk, my friend dame Alice, and I walked into the fields. All that spring my husband was in London; I had a better opportunity to play, and to see and to be seen by lusty folk. What did I know about how my fortune was to be shaped or in what place? Therefore, I made my visits to holy day vigils, to processions, to sermons, to these pilgrimages, to miracle-plays, and to weddings, and wore my gay scarlet gowns. These worms and moths and mites never ate a bit of them, upon my peril! And do you know why? Because they were well used.

“Now I will tell what happed to me. I say that we walked in the fields, until in truth we had such flirtation to- gether, this clerk and I, that in my foresight I spoke to him, and told him how he should wed me, if I were widowed. For, I am not speaking in boast; I was certainly never to this point without provision for marriage—nor for other things as well. I think that a mouse’s heart is not worth a leek if the mouse has but one hole to run to; and if that one fails, then all is over.

“I persuaded him to think that he had enchanted me; my mother taught me that trick. And I said also I dreamed of him all night; he would have slain me as I lay on my back, and my whole bed was full of real blood; but yet I hoped that he should bring good fortune to me, for blood signifies gold, as I was taught. And all of it was false; I dreamed not a bit of it, but I followed my mother’s teaching all along, as well as in other things besides.

“But now, sir, let me see; what shall I say now? Aha! By God, I have it again. When my fourth husband lay on his bier, I wept ever and made a sorrowful expression, as wives must, for it is the custom; and I covered my face with my kerchief. But since I had been provided with a new mate, I wept rather little, I vow.

“In the morning my husband was borne to church by the neighbors, who mourned for him, and our scholar Jankin was one of them. So may God help me, when I saw him go after the bier, I thought he had so clean and fair a pair of legs and feet that I gave him all my heart to keep. He was twenty winters old, I believe, and if I am to tell the truth, I was forty. But I always had a colt’s tooth. I was gap-toothed; I bore the print of Saint Venus’ birthmark, and that became me well. I was a lusty one, and fair, and rich, and youthful, and merry of heart, may God help me.

“For certainly, I am dominated by the planet Venus in my senses, and my heart is dominated by the planet Mars. Venus gave me my love for pleasure and my wantonness, and Mars my sturdy hardihood. My ascendant was Mars in Taurus. Alas, alas! That ever 1ove was thought a sin! I followed ever my inclination by virtue of my constel- lation. That made it that I could not withhold my chamber from any good fellow. Yet I have the mark of Mars upon my face and in another private place as well. May God be my salvation indeed, I never loved discreetly, but always followed my appetite, whether he was short or tall, black or white it did not matter to me, as long as he pleased me, how poor he was, nor of what station.

“What should I say but at the end of a month this jolly clerk Jankin, who was so debonair, wedded me with great splendor? And I gave him all the land and wealth that I had ever been given; but afterwards I repented myself sorely, for he would allow nothing that I desired. By God, he struck me once on the ear! That was because I tore a leaf out of his book and my ear grew entirely deaf because of the blow. I was as stubborn as a lioness, and a very chatterbox with my tongue, and I would walk as I had done before from house to house, though he had sworn I should not. For this reason he would often make homilies and teach me old Roman histories how Symplicius Gal- lus left his wife and forsook her for all his days, just because he saw her one day looking out of his door with her head uncovered.

“He told me the name of another Roman who forsook his wife also because without his knowledge she was to a summer game. And then he would seek in his Bible that proverb of the Ecclesiast where he commands and firmly forbids that a man should allow his wife to go wander about. Then indeed he would say just this,

“He who builds his house out of sallows,

And spurs his blind horse over fallows,

And allows his wife to seek hallows,

Then should be hanged upon the gallows.”

But all for nothing; I did not care one acorn for his proverbs or his old saying, and I would not be scolded by him. I hate anyone who tells me my faults; and, God knows, so too do more of us than I. This made him insanely furious with me, but I would not tolerate him in any case.

“Now, by Saint Thomas, I will tell you the truly, why I tore a leaf out of his book, for which he struck me so that I became deaf. He had a book which he would be still reading, night and day, for his amusement. He called it Vale- rius and Theophrastus; he always laughed uproariously at this book. And there was also once a scholar at Rome, a cardinal, named Saint Jerome, who composed a book against Jovinian; and besides this in my husband’s book there were Tertullian, Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise, who was abbess not far from Paris, and also the Proverbs of Solo- mon, Ovid’s Art of Love and many other books; and all these were bound in one volume.

“And every night and day, when he had leisure and freedom from other outside occupation, it was his habit to read in this book about wicked women; of them he knew more lives and legends than there are of good women in the Bible. For, trust well, it is an impossibility that any scholar will speak well of women, unless it would be of the lives of holy saints; but never of any other woman. Who painted the Lion, tell me? By God, if women had written histories, as scholars have in their chapels, they would have written about men more evil than all the sons of Adam could redress.

“The children of Mercury and the children of Venus are contrary in their actions; Mercury loves wisdom and knowledge, and Venus revelry and extravagance. And, because of their contrary natures, each of these planets de- scends in sign of the zodiac in which the other is most powerful; thus Mercury is depressed in Pisces, where Venus is exalted, and Venus is depressed where Mercury is exalted. Therefore no woman is praised by any scholar. When the scholar is old and entirely unable to give Venus service that is even worth his old shoe, then he sits down and in his dotage writes that women cannot keep their marriage vow!

“But now to my tale—why I was beaten for a book, by God, as I told you. One night Jankin, our husband, sat by the fire and read in his book, first about Eve, for whose wickedness all mankind was brought to misery, for which Jesus Christ Himself was slain, Who redeemed us with His heart’s blood. Lo! Here you may read explicitly about woman, that she was the ruin of all mankind.

“Then he read to me how Samson lost his hair in his sleep; his sweetheart cut it with her shears, through which treason he lost both his eyes. Then I tell you he read me about Hercules and his Dejanira, who caused him to set fire to himself. Nor did he in any way forget the penance and woe which Socrates had with his two wives, how his wife Xantippe cast piss on his head; this blameless man sat still as a stone, wiped his head, and dared say no more than, “before thunder ceases, the rain comes.”

“Of his cursedness my husband found a relish in the tale of Pasiphae, queen of Crete. Fie! Speak no more of her horrible lust and desire—it is a grisly thing. He read with good devotion about Clytemnestra, who for her wanton- ness treacherously caused her husband’s death. He told me also for what cause Amphiaraus perished at Thebes; my husband had a legend about his wife Eriphyle, who for a brooch of gold secretly informed the Greeks where her husband had hidden himself; for this reason he met a sorry fate at Thebes. He told me of Livia and Lucilia, who both caused their husbands to die, the one for hate, the other for love. Livia, late one evening, poisoned her hus- band, because she had become his foe; the wanton Lucilia so loved her husband that she gave him a love-drink, that she might always be in his mind, but of such power that he was dead before morning.

“And thus in one way or the other husbands came to sorrow. And then he told me how one Latumius lamented to Arrius, his fellow, how there grew in his garden such a tree on which, he said, his three wives had hanged them- selves with desperate heart. ‘Oh dear brother, give me a slip from this same blessed tree,’ said this Arrius, ‘and it shall be planted in my garden!’

“He read about wives of later times, some of whom have murdered their husbands in their sleep, and had sex with their lovers while the corpse lay all night flat on the floor. And some have driven nails into their husband’s brains while they slept. And some have given them poison in their drink. He spoke more evil than a heart can devise.

“And in all this he knew more proverbs than blades of grass grow in this world. He said, ‘It is better to have your dwelling with a lion or a foul dragon, than with a woman accustomed to scorning.’ ‘It is better,’ he said, ‘to dwell high in the roof, than down in the house with an angry woman; they are so wicked and contrary that they forever hate what their husbands love.’

“He said, ‘A woman casts her shame away when she casts off her undergarments.’ And furthermore, ‘A beautiful woman, unless she is also chaste, is like a gold ring in a sow’s nose.’ Who would think or imagine the woe and pain in my heart.

“And when I saw that he would never leave reading all night in this cursed book, all of the sudden I plucked three leaves out of his book, even as he was reading, and I also struck him on the cheek with my fist so that he fell down backward into our fire. And he started up like a mad lion, and struck me on the head with his fist so that I lay as dead on the floor.

“And he was aghast when he saw how still I was, and would have fled on his way, until at last I came out of my swoon. ‘Oh, have you slain me, false thief,’ I said, ‘and have you murdered me thus for my land? Before I die, I will still kiss you.’ And he came nearer and kneeled down gently and said, ‘Dear sister Alisoun, so God help me, I shall never strike you again! You yourself are to blame for what I have done. Forgive me for it; and I beg you for that.’ - And yet again I hit him on the cheek, and said, ‘Thief, I am revenged this much. Now I will die; I can speak no more.’

“But at last with great pain and grief, we fell into agreement between ourselves. He put the full bridle into my hand, to have the governance of house and estate, and over his tongue and hands as well. And I made him burn his book then and there.

“And when I had got for myself all the sovereignty, through a master-stroke, and when he said, ‘My own faithful wife, do as you will the rest of your days; be the guard of your honor, and of my dignity also,’ we had never a dispute after that day. God help me so, I was as loving to him as any wife between Denmark and India, and as true also; and so was he to me. And I pray to God, Who sits in glory, so bless his soul for His sweet compassion! Now I will relate my story, if you will listen.”

The Friar, when he had heard all this, laughed and said, “Now, Madame, so may I have joy, this is a long pream- ble of a tale!”

When the Summoner heard the Friar make an outcry, he said, “Lo! By God’s two arms! A friar will evermore be meddling. Lo, good men! A fly and a friar will fall into every dish and every affair. Why do you speak of pream- bling? What! Amble or trot, or hold your peace and go sit down! You hinder our sport in this way.”

“Yes, is that what you want, sir Summoner? Now by my faith,” said the Friar, “I shall tell, before I go, such a tale or two of a summoner that all the people here shall laugh.”

“Now, Friar, I curse your face,” said this Summoner, “and I curse myself, unless I tell stories, two or three, of fri- ars, before I get to Sittingborne, that shall make your heart grieve, for I know well your patience has already left you.”

“Peace, and now!” cried our Host; and said, “Let the woman tell her tale. You act like people who are drunk with ale. Please, Madame, tell your tale; and that is best.”

“All ready, sir, just as you wish,” she said, “if I have the permission of this worthy Friar.”

“Yes, Madame,” he said, “tell your tale now, and I will listen.”

Here ends the Prologue of the Wife of Bath.

Here begins the Tale of the Wife of Bath.

In the old days of King Arthur, of whom Britons speak great glory, this land was entirely filled with fairy power. The elf-queen danced often with her merry company in many green meadows. This long ago was the belief, as I find in books. I speak of many hundred years ago; but in our times no man can see elves any more.

For now the great charity and the prayers of begging friars and other holy friars, who, as thick as motes in a sunbeam, reach every land and every stream, blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, towns, castles, villages, barns, stables, dairies—all this causes there to be no elves. For where a fairy was accustomed to walk, there the begging friar himself walks now, in the mornings or the afternoons, and says his matins and his holy things as he goes along in his begging. Women may go up and down safely; in every bush or under every tree, there is no incubus, except him, and he will do nothing but dishonor them.

And so it happened that this King Arthur had in his court a lusty young knight, who one day came riding from the river; and it happened that he saw walking ahead of him a maiden, whom he ravished, in spite of all her resis- tance. For this violation there was such clamor and such appeal to King Arthur, that the knight was condemned by course of law to die; and perhaps the statute in place then was so severe that he would have lost his head, if the queen and other ladies had not so long begged the king for mercy, until he granted him his life at that point, and placed him entirely at the queen’s will, to choose whether she would save him or let him die.

The queen thanked the king very heartily; and after this, upon a day when she saw the opportunity, she spoke in this way to the knight: “You stand now,” she said, “in such a plight that you have even now no assurance of your life. I grant you life, if you can tell me what thing it is that women desire most. Beware, and guard your neck-bone from iron! And if you cannot tell it right now, I will still give you leave to go for twelve months and a day, to search out and learn an answer sufficient for this point. And before you depart, I will have security that you will yield up your body in this place.”

This knight was woeful, and he sighed sorrowfully. But what! He could not do just as he pleased. And, with such a reply that God would provide for him, at last he chose to depart and come at the very end of the year; and he took his leave and went forth along his way.

He sought every house and place where he hoped to find such luck as to learn what women love most. But he could arrive at no coast where he could find two creatures agreeing together on this matter. Some said that women best love riches; some said honor; some said mirth; some, fancy clothes; some, pleasure in bed, and to be widowed often and re-wed. Some said that our hearts are most eased when we be flattered and gratified.

They came very near the truth; a man shall best win us by flattery, I will not deny it, and we are caught by atten- tiveness and diligence, both great and small. And some said how we love best to be free and to do just as we wish, and that no man should reprove us for our faults, but say that we are wise and never foolish at all. For in truth there is nobody among us who will not kick if someone would claw us on a sore place, just because he tells us the truth. Try this, and he shall find it out that it is true. For though we may be full of vice within, we wish to be considered wise and clean of sin.

And some said that we have great delight to be accounted stable and trustworthy and steadfast in one purpose, and never reveal what men tell us. But that sort of talk is not worth a rake-handle, by God! We women can conceal nothing. Take witness of Midas. Would you like to hear the tale?

Ovid, among other little things, says that Midas had two ass’s ears growing upon his head under his long hair, which deformity he hid artfully from every man’s sight, as best he could, so that nobody knew of it, except his wife. He loved her most and trusted her; and he asked her to tell of his disfigurement to no creature. She swore to him, “No,” not even to gain all the world would she do that villainy and sin, to bring her husband so foul a name; for her own honor she would not do it.

But nevertheless she felt she should die, to hide a secret so long; it swelled so sorely about her heart, it seemed to her, that some word needed to burst from her. And since she dared tell it to no human creature, she ran down to a nearby marsh; her heart was ablaze until she arrived there.

And as a bittern bumbles in the mire, she laid her mouth down unto the water: “Betray me not, you water, with your sound,’ she said; ‘I tell it to you, and to nobody else. My husband has two long ass’s ears. Now my heart is whole and well again; now it is out. In very truth I could keep it in no longer.’

By this you may see that though we wait a time, we can conceal no secret forever; it must come out. If you wish to hear the remainder of the tale, read Ovid; you can find it out there.

This knight, about whom my tale chiefly is, when he saw he could not come by it, that is to say, what women love most—the spirit in his breast was so sorrowful. But home he went, as he could not remain. The day had come when he had to turn homeward. And as he went, deep in care, it happened that he rode under the edge of a forest, where he saw twenty-four ladies and more in a dance. Eagerly he drew toward this dance, in hope of learning some piece of wisdom. But in truth, before he arrived there entirely, the dance vanished—he did not know where it went. He saw no living creature there, except a woman sitting on the grass—no one could imagine a fouler creature.

At the approach of the knight this old woman arose and said, “Sir knight, there is no path that lies this way. Tell me, by your faith, what do you seek? Peradventure it may be better for you; these old people know many things.”

“My dear mother,” said this knight, “in truth I am just a dead man, unless I can say what thing it is that women desire most. If you could instruct me, I would repay you well for your work.”

“Pledge me your word here on my hand,” she said, “that you will do the first thing that I require of you, if it should lie in your power; and before it is night I will tell it you.”

“Take my pledge here,” said the knight, “I agree.”

“Then,” she said, “I dare to boast that your life is safe; for upon my soul I will guarantee that the queen will say as I do. Show me the proudest of the whole court, who wears a kerchief or other head-dress and who dares say no to what I shall teach you. Let us go on, without further words.” Then she whispered a word in his ear, and told him to be glad and have no fear.

When they had arrived at the court, this knight said he had kept his day, as he had promised, and his answer was ready. At that time many noble wives were assembled to hear his answer, and many maidens, and many widows (because they be wise); and the queen herself sat as judge. And then this knight was summoned.

Silence was commanded to every creature, and the knight was ordered to tell in public what thing mortal wom- en most love. This knight stood not like a dumb beast, but without delay answered the question with manly voice, so that all the court heard it.

“My liege lady, over all this world” he said, “women wish to have sovereignty as well over her husband as her love, and to have mastery over him. This is your greatest desire, though you may slay me for this. Do as you wish; I am here at your will.”

In all the court there was neither wife nor maiden nor widow to contradict what he replied, but all declared he was worthy to have his freedom. And at that word, the old woman, whom the knight had seen sitting on the grass, started up.

“Mercy, my sovereign lady!” she said. “Do me justice, before your court departs. I taught the knight this answer, for which he pledged me his word that he would do the first thing I should require of him, if it lay in his power. Before the court, then, I pray you, sir knight,” she said, “that you take me as your wife; for you well know that I have saved your life. If I speak falsely, say no to me, upon your faith!”

This knight answered, “Alas and alack! I know full well that this was my promise. But for the love of God, please choose another request! Take all my goods, and let my body go.”

“No, then,’ she answered, “I curse us both. For though I may be ugly, poor, and old, I would like none of all the metal or ore that is buried under the earth or lies upon it, only that I would be your wife, and your love also.”

“My love!” he said, “No, my damnation! Alas that any of my kindred should be so foully disgraced by such a match!”

But all this was for nothing. This is the conclusion, that he was constrained, and had to wed her. And he took his old wife and went to bed.

Now perhaps some men would say that through my negligence I take no care to tell you all the joy and all the preparations that there were at the celebration that day. To this point I shall briefly answer, and say there was no joy nor celebration at all; but only heaviness and much sorrow. For he wedded her secretly the next morning. And he was so miserable that he hid himself the rest of the day like an owl, as his wife looked so ugly.

Great was his misery when he was alone with his wife; he tossed about and turned back and forth. His old wife lay always smiling, and said, “Ah, God bless, dear husband! Does every knight act this way with his wife? Is this the way of King Arthur’s household? Is every knight of his so hard to please? I am your own love and your wife also, and I have saved your life, and surely, I have never yet done you any wrong. Why do act this way on this first night? You act like a man who has lost his wit. What is my guilt? Tell me, for the love of God, and if I have the power, it shall be amended.”

“Amended!” said this knight. “Alas! No, no! It can not be amended forevermore! You are so loathly and so old, and come of so low a lineage as well, that it is small wonder that I toss and turn. I wish to God my heart would burst!’

‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the cause of your unrest?’

‘Yes, certainly, and no wonder,’ he said.

“Now, sir,” she replied, “I could amend all this before three days had passed, if I wish, so that you might bear yourself toward me well.

“But when you speak of such gentility as is descended from ancient wealth—so that you knights should there- fore would be gentlemen of breeding—such arrogance is not worth a hen. Look who is always most virtuous, openly and secretly, and most inclines to do what gentle deeds he can; take him for the gentlest man. Christ wishes that we claim our gentility from Him, not from our ancestors’ ancient wealth. For though all their heritage of our ancestors, by reason of which we claim high rank, may descend to us, yet they cannot at all bequeath to any of us their virtuous living, which made them to be called gentle men and to bid us follow to them and do in like manner.

The wise poet of Florence, who is named Dante, speaks well on this matter. Lo, this is what Dante’s says in his poetry: “Seldom does a man climb to excellence on his own slim branches, for God, from his goodness, wills that we claim or gentility from Him.” For we may claim nothing from our ancestors, except for temporal things that can be injured and impaired.

“Every creature also knows this as well as I, that if gentility were planted by nature in a certain family all down the line, openly and privately, then they would never cease to do the fair duties of gentility; they could never do any base or vicious deed. Take fire and bear it into the darkest house between here and the mount of Caucasus, and let the doors be shut and leave that place. Nevertheless the fire will burn and blaze as fairly as though twenty thousand men witnessed it; on peril of my life, it will keep to its natural duty until it dies.

“Here you may well see how nobility hangs not from ancient possessions, since people do not always perform its works, as does the fire, according to its nature. For, God knows, one may often see a lord’s son do vicious and shameful deeds; and he who wishes to be esteemed for his gentility because he was born of a noble house and had virtuous and noble ancestors, and yet himself will not perform the deeds of gentility nor follow after his gentle an- cestor who is dead, he is not gentle, even if he is a duke or an earl; for base and sinful deeds make a commoner. For gentility then would be nothing but renown of your ancestors for their high worthiness, which is something that has nothing to do with you. Your gentility comes only from God. Then our true gentility comes from divine grace, and was in no fashion bequeathed to us with our earthly station.

“Think how noble was that Tullius Hostilius, as Valerius tells, who rose out of poverty to high nobility. Read Seneca, and Boethius as well; there you shall see expressly that he who does noble deeds is noble. And therefore, dear husband, I conclude in this way: albeit my ancestors were untutored, yet may the high God—and so I hope— grant me grace to live virtuously. Then I am noble, when I begin to live virtuously and to abandon evil.

“And you reproach me for poverty; but the high God on whom we believe chose freely to live in poverty. And surely every man, maiden, or wife, may well know that Jesus, King of Heaven, would not choose a wicked manner of living. Truly cheerful poverty is an honorable thing, so will Seneca say, and other clerks. Whoever keeps himself content with his poverty, I count as rich, even if he does not have not a shirt! He who covets is a poor creature, for he wishes to have that which is not within his power. But he who has nothing, nor covets things, is rich, albeit you count him as only a serving-lad.

“True poverty sings a song of its own. Concerning poverty, Juvenal says merrily:

“The poor man, when he goes along the way, Before the thieves, he can still sing and play.”

Poverty is a hateful good, I suppose, a great remover from the busyness of the world, and a great teacher of wisdom to one who takes it in patience. All this is poverty, though it may seem wretched; and a possession that no creature will challenge. When a man is humbled, often poverty allows him to know his God and himself as well. It seems to me that poverty is a magnifying glass through which he may see who his true friends are. And therefore, sir, I pray, so that I will not grieve you, scorn me no more for my poverty.

“Now, sir, you reproach me for my old age. And surely, sir, though there may be no authority in any book to tell you so, yet you honorable gentlefolk say that men should do courtesy to an old creature, and for your gentle man- ners call him Father. And I could find authorities to show this, I believe.

“Now you say I am old and foul: then have no fear that you will be a cuckold. For ugliness and age, upon my life, are great wardens over chastity. But nevertheless, since I know your delight, I shall fulfill your appetite.

“Choose,” she said, “one of these two things: to have me foul and old until I die, and to you a true, humble wife, never in all my days displeasing you; or else to have me young and beautiful, and take your chance on how many visits there will be to your house—or perhaps to some other place—which will be for my sake. Now choose yourself which one you will have.”

This knight thought hard about it and sighed deeply; but at last he spoke in this manner: “My lady and love, and my dear wife, I put myself into your wise governance. Please choose which may be the greatest pleasure and greatest honor to you and me also; I care not which of the two, for it is sufficient to me to please you.”

“Then I have the mastery over you,” she said, “since I may choose and govern as I wish”

“Yes, surely, wife,” he said; “I believe that is for the best.”

“Kiss me,” she said, “we will be angered no longer. For by my faith I will be both unto you—that is to say, both beautiful, yes, and good. I pray to God that I may die mad, but I would be as good and faithful as ever a wife was since the world was new. And if I am not as beautiful to see in the morning as any lady, queen or empress, between the east and the west, do with my life and death as you will. Lift up the curtain, and look how it is.”

And when the knight saw truly that she was so fair and so young, he clasped her in his two arms for joy, his heart bathed in a bath of bliss. A thousand times in a row he kissed her. And she obeyed him in all that might cause him delight or pleasure.

And thus they lived in perfect joy to the end of their lives. And may Jesus Christ send us husbands meek, young, and lusty, and grace to outlive them that we wed.

And I pray Jesus also to shorten their days that will not be ruled by their wives. And old, angry misers—may God send them a true pestilence soon!

Here ends the Wife of Bath’s Tale.

The Franklin’s Tale

Here follow the Words of the Franklin to the Squire, and the Words of the Host to the Franklin.

“In faith, Squire, you have conducted yourself well and nobly. I praise your wit highly,” said the Franklin, with such delicate understanding. In my judgment there is nobody in this company who shall be your peer in eloquence as long as you live. May God give you good fortune, and send you perseverance in virtue, for I have great delight in your speaking. I have a son, and by the Trinity I had rather he would be a man of such discretion as you, than have twenty pounds worth of land, even if it were put in my hand right now.

“Fie on possessions, unless a man is virtuous as well! I have scolded my son, and shall still scold him, because he will not wish to pursue virtue; but his habit is to play at dice and to spend and to lose all that he has. And he had rather talk with a page than converse with any noble person from whom he might properly learn nobility.

“A straw for your gentle manners!” said our Host. “What, Franklin, well you know, by God, that each of you must tell at least a tale or two, or break your word.”

“That I well know, sir,” said the Franklin. “I pray you not to hold me in scorn if I speak a word or two to this man.

“Tell your tale now, without more words.

“Gladly, sir Host,” he said, “I will obey your will; now listen to what I say. I will not contradict you in any way as far, to the extent that my wits will suffice. I pray to God that it may please yow; then I will know well that it is good enough.”

The Prologue of the Franklin’s Tale

“These old gentle Bretons in their time made lays about various adventures, rhymed in their early British tongue; which lays they sang to their instruments of music, or else read them, for their pleasure. And one of them I have in mind, which I will relate with good will as best I can. But, sirs, because I am an unlearned man, at my beginning I pray you to excuse me for my homely speech. In truth, I never learned rhetoric; anything I speak must be bare and plain. I never slept on the Mount of Parnassus, nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero. I know no colors of speech, surely; only such colors as grow in the meadow, or else such as people dye or paint. Colors of rhetoric are too strange for me; my spirit has no feeling in such matters. But if you wish, you shall hear my tale.”

Here begins the Franklin’s Tale.

In Armorica, which is called Brittany, there was a knight who loved and served a lady in the best manner he could. And he underwent many labors and many great enterprises, before he gained her. For she was one of the fairest women under the sun, and had come from such a noble family that this knight scarcely dared for fear to tell her his woe and his pain and distress. But at last she took such pity upon his pains, because of his worthiness and primarily for his humble attentiveness, so that secretly she agreed to take him as husband and lord, in such lordship as men may have over their wives. And in order that they might live more in bliss, he swore to her as a knight, by his own free will, that never at any time in all his life would he take any authority upon himself against her will, nor show jealousy toward her, but obey her and follow her will in all things, as any lover shall do toward his lady; except that he wanted only the sovereignty in name, lest he should shame his rank as husband.

She thanked him, and said with great humility, “Sir, since through your noble mind you offer me so free a rein, God forbid that through my guilt there would ever be war or contention between us two. Sir, I will be your true humble wife until my heart break; take here my pledge.” Thus they were both in quiet and peace.

For one thing, sirs, I dare safely say, friends must comply with one another, if they wish to keep company long. Love will not be constrained by mastery; when mastery comes, the god of love soon beats his wings, and, farewell, he is gone! Love is as free as any spirit. Women by their nature desire liberty and not to be under constraint like a servant; and so do men, if I shall tell the truth. Look who is most patient in love, he has the advantage over all. Patience is a high virtue, certainly; for, as these scholars say, it conquers things that force could never reach.

Men should not scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure, or else, on my life, you shall learn this, whether you wish to or not. For certainly there is nobody in this world who sometimes does not act or speak amiss. Wrath, sickness, the constellation, wine, woe, changing humors, very often cause a man to act or speak amiss.

A man may not be avenged of every wrong; in every creature who knows how to rule his life, there must be moderation, according to the occasion. And therefore, so that he might live at ease, this wise worthy knight prom- ised patience toward her, and she seriously swore to him that there never should be a fault in her. Here one may see a humble and wise agreement; thus she took her servant and her lord: servant in love, and lord in marriage. Then he was in both lordship and servitude. Servitude? No, but superior in lordship, since he has both his ]ady and love; surely, his lady, and his wife as well, who accepted that law of love. And in this happy state he went home with his wife to his country, not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was, and where he lived in happiness and comfort.

image 5.5: The Franklin’s Tale | A two page featuring a black and white illustration of Dorigen looking out at the rocks on the coast of Brit- tany, which play an important role in The Franklin’s Tale.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

Who, unless he had been wedded, could tell the joy, the comfort, and wellbeing between husband and wife?

This blessed condition lasted a year and more, until the knight of whom I speak, who was called Arveragus of Kayrrud, laid his plans to go and dwell a year or two in England, which also was called Britain, to seek worship and honor in arms, for he set all his pleasure on such toils. And he dwelt there two years, as the book says.

Now I will leave Arveragus, and will speak of Dorigen his wife, who loved her husband as her heart’s blood. For in his absence she wept and sighed, as these noble wives do (when they will). She mourned, watched, wailed, fasted, lament- ed; desire for his presence so distracted her that she cared nothing for the whole wide world. Her friends, who knew her heavy thoughts, comforted her in all they could. They preached to her; day and night they told her that she was slaying herself for no good reason, alas! And they comforted her all they could, to make her leave her heaviness.

Through the process of time, as you all know, one may engrave in a stone so long that some figure will be imprinted on it. They comforted her so long that, with the aid of hope and reason, she received the imprint of their consolation. Through this her great sorrow began to assuage; she could not con- tinue forever in such frenzy.

And while she was in all this sorrow, Arveragus had sent home to her letters telling of his welfare, and that he would soon return; otherwise, this sorrow would have slain her heart. Her friends saw her sorrow began to slacken, and on their knees begged her for God’s love to come and roam about with them, to drive away her dark imaginings. And finally she agreed, for well she saw that it was best.

Now her castle stood near to the sea, and for a diversion she often walked with her friends high upon the bank, from which she saw many ships and barges sailing on their course, wherever they would go. But then that became a part of her grief. For often she said to herself, “Alas! Is there no ship of so many that I see that will bring home my lord? Then my heart would be fully cured of its bitter, bitter pains.”

Another time she would sit there and ponder, and from the shore cast her eyes down. But when she saw the grisly black rocks, her heart would so quake for true fear that she could not hold herself on her feet. Then she would sit down on the grass and piteously look into the sea, and with sorrowful, cold sighs say just so: “Eternal God, who through Your providence guides the world by sure government, You make nothing in vain, as they say. But, Lord, these grisly, fiendish, black rocks, which seem more like a foul chaos of work than any fair creation by such a per- fect, wise, and unchanging God: why have You created this irrational work? For by this work neither man nor bird nor brute is benefited, south or north, east or west.

“It does no good, in my mind, but harm. Do You not see, Lord, how it destroys mankind? Although they may not be remembered, rocks have slain a hundred thousand bodies of mankind, which is such a fair a part of Your work that You made it in Your own image. Then it should seem You had a great fondness toward men; but how then may it be that You created to destroy them in such a way that do no good, but always harm? I know well that scholars will say as they please by arguments that all is for the best, though I cannot understand their reasons. But may the same God that made the wind blow protect my lord! This is my conclusion; I leave all disputation to scholars. But I wish to God that all these black rocks were sunk into hell, for his sake! These rocks slay my heart for fear.” Thus she would speak to herself, with many piteous tears.

Her friends saw that it was no diversion for her, but only a discomfort, to walk by the sea, and devised for her amusements in other places. They led her by rivers and springs and in other delightful places; they danced and they played at chess and backgammon.

So one day in the morning, they went to amuse themselves for the entire day in a nearby garden, in which they had made their provision of food and other things. This was on the sixth morning of May, and May with his soft rains had painted this garden full of leaves and flowers. And truly the craft of man’s hand had so curiously arrayed this garden that never was a garden of such beauty, unless it would be paradise itself.

The scent and the fresh sight of flowers would have gladdened any heart that was ever born, unless too great a sickness or too great a sorrow distressed it; so full was it of delight and beauty.

After dinner they began to dance and sing, except Dorigen, who always made complaint or moan, because she saw not her husband and also her love enter into the dance. But nevertheless she must wait for a time and with good hope let her sorrow pass.

Upon this dance, among other men, there danced before Dorigen a squire who was fresher and more joyful in apparel than is the month of May, I believe. He sang and danced to surpass any man who is or was since the world was made. He was, if one would describe him, one of the most handsome men alive: young, strong, virtuous, rich, and wise; and well beloved and held in great honor. And in short, if I am to tell the truth, this servant to Venus, this lively squire, who was called Aurelius, had loved Dorigen, entirely without her knowledge, more than any creature for two years and more, as it happened, but never dared he tell her his woe. He drank all his penance without a cup.

He was in despair, he dared say nothing except that in his songs he would reveal his woe to some degree, as in a general complaining; he said he loved, and was in no way beloved. Of such matter he made many lays, songs, com- plaints, roundels, and virelays, about how he would dare not utter his sorrow, but languishes like a fury in hell; and die he must, he said, as did Echo for Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe. In other manner than this that I speak of he dared not reveal his passion to her; except that, by chance, sometimes at dances, where young people perform their customs of courtship, it may well be that he looked upon her face in such a way as a man who asks for grace; but she knew nothing of his intent.

Nevertheless it happened, before they went from that garden, that because he was her neighbor and a man of good reputation, and she had known him for a long time, they began to speak. And Aurelius drew more and more toward his matter and when he saw his time, he said thus: “Madame, by God That made this world, If I had known it would gladden your heart, I wish that the day when your Arveragus went over the sea, I, Aurelius, had gone to a place from which I never should have returned. For I well know that my service is in vain; my reward is but the breaking of my heart. Have pity upon my bitter pains, Madame, for with a word you may slay me or save me. I wish to God that I were buried here at your feet! I have now no time to say more; have mercy, sweet, or you will cause me to die!”

She looked at Aurelius: “Is this your desire?” she said. “Is this what you wish to say? Never before did I know what was in your mind. But now, Aurelius, I know it. By that God that gave me breath and soul, never in word or deed shall I be an untrue wife. As long as I have any senses, I will be his to whom I am bound. Take this for my final answer.”

But in sport after that she said, “Aurelius, by the high God in heaven, yet would I consent to be your love, since I see you so piteously lamenting. Whenever that day comes that all along the coast of Brittany you remove all the rocks, stone by stone, so that they no longer obstruct the passage of ship or boat—I say, when you have made the coast so clear of rocks that there is no stone to be seen, then I will love you best of all men. Take here my pledge, in all that I can ever do.”

“Is there no other mercy in you?” he said.

“No,” she said, “by that Lord that made me! For I well know that shall never happen. Let such follies pass out of your heart. What delight should a man ever have to go about loving the wife of another man, who has her body whenever he wishes?”

Aurelius gave many sore sighs. He was woeful when he heard this; and with a sorrowful heart he answered, “Madame, this would be impossible! Then I must die of a sudden and horrible death.” And with that word he turned back.

Then many of her other friends came roaming up and down in the paths, and knew nothing of this affair, but speedily began new revel; until the bright sun lost his hue, and the horizon had taken away from him his light (this is as much as to say, it was evening). And they went home in joy and contentment, except, alas, wretched Aurelius alone! He went to his house with sorrowful heart; he saw that he could never escape death, and felt his heart grow cold. Up to the heaven he held his hands and set himself down on his bare knees, and raving said his prayer; for true woe he was out of his wits and knew not what he spoke.

With piteous heart he began his complaint to the gods, and first to the sun: “Apollo,” he said, “lord and ruler of every plant, herb, tree, and flower, who gives to each of them his times and seasons, according to your height in the sky, as your lodging changes toward north or south; lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye upon wretched Aurelius, who is so lost. Behold, lord, my lady has decreed my guiltless death, unless your kindness should have some pity upon my dying heart. For well I know, lord Phoebus, that you may help me best of all except my lady, if you wish. Now promise to hear me tell you in what way I may be helped.

“Your blessed sister, Lucina the bright, chief goddess and queen of the sea (though Neptune has his godhead in the sea, yet is she empress over him), you well know, lord, that just as it is her desire to be kindled and lightened by your orb, for which reason she follows you eagerly, so too the sea desires by its nature to follow her, being goddess both in the sea and in rivers great and small.

“Therefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my prayer: perform this miracle or break my heart; that now at this next opposition, which shall be in the sign of the Lion, pray Lucina to bring a flood so great that it shall rise above the highest rock in Armorican Britanny by at least five fathoms, and let this flood last two years.

“Then, certainly, I may say to my lady, ‘Keep your promise, the rocks are gone.’ Lord Phoebus, do this miracle; ask her to go the same speed as you; I say, ask your sister that these two years she will go no faster in her course than you. Then shall she always be exactly at full, and the spring flood-tide will last day and night. And if she will not promise to grant me my dear sovereign lady in such a manner, pray her to sink every rock into her own dark region under the ground where Pluto dwells, or nevermore shall I gain my lady. Barefoot I will go a pilgrimage to your temple at Delphi. Lord Phoebus; see the tears on my cheeks, and have some pity on my pains.”

And with that he fell down in a swoon and for a long time lay in a trance. His brother, who knew his trouble, caught him up and brought him to his bed. In this woe and torment I let this woeful creature lie in despair. He may choose, as far as I am concerned, whether he will live or die.

Arveragus was come home, with other valiant knights, in health and great honor as the flower of chivalry. Oh, now you are happy, Dorigen, who has in your arms your lively husband, the vigorous knight, the valiant warrior, who loves you as his own heart’s life. He never thought to be suspicious whether any creature had spoken to her of love while he was gone; he had no fear of that. He gave no heed to any such matter, but danced, jousted, and showed her great enjoyment. Thus I leave them in happiness and bliss, and will tell of the sick Aurelius.

Two years and more the wretched Aurelius lay in languor and mad torment, before he could walk a step on earth; and he had no comfort in this time, except from his brother, a scholar, who knew of all this woeful matter. For in truth he dared say no word about it to any other creature. He carried it under his breast more secretly than Pamphilus carried his love for Galatea. His breast was whole, to outward view, but ever in his heart was the keen arrow. And you well know that in surgery the cure of a wound healed only on the surface is perilous, unless men could touch the arrow or get at it.

His brother wept and wailed privately, until at last it came to his mind that while he was at Orleans, in France, as young scholars who are desirous of studying curious arts seek in every nook and corner to learn this special knowledge, it came to his mind that, one day while he studied at Orleans, he saw a book of natural magic, which his friend, who was then a bachelor of law, had secretly left upon his desk, though he was there for a different field of study. This book spoke much of the celestial influences concerning the twenty-eight mansions which belong to the moon, and such folly as is not worth a fly in our day. For the faith of the Holy Church that is in our doctrine will not allow any illusion to harm us.

And as soon as he remembered this book his heart began to dance for joy, and he said quietly to himself, “My brother shall be cured speedily; for I am sure there are arts by which men create various apparitions, such as these deceiving magicians conjure up. For often at feasts, I have heard tell, within a large hall these magicians have made water and a barge come in and row up and down in the hall. Sometimes a grim lion has seemed to come, and some- times flowers spring as in a meadow, sometimes a vine, with grapes white and red, sometimes a castle of mortar and stone. And when they wished, they caused it all to disappear immediately; so it seemed to every man’s sight.

“Now then, I conclude thus, that if I could find some old comrade at Orleans who is acquainted with these mansions of the moon, or other natural magic besides, he should well cause my brother to possess his love. For by means of an illusion a clerk may make it appear to a man’s sight that every one of the black rocks of Brittany be removed, and that ships come and go along the shore, and that this continue a day or two in such form. Then my brother would be entirely cured. Then she must keep her promise, or else at least he shall shame her.”

Why should I make this a longer story? He came to his brother’s bed and gave him such encouragement to go to Orleans that he started up at once and went ahead on his way in hopes to be relieved of his care. When they had almost arrived at that city, about two or three furlongs away, they met a young clerk roaming by himself who greet- ed them politely in Latin, and then said a marvelous thing. “I know the cause of your coming,” he said. And before they went a foot further, he told them all that was in their minds. This scholar of Brittany asked him about the com- panions whom he had known in old days, and he answered him that they were dead; for which he wept many tears.

Aurelius alighted quickly from his horse and went forth home to his house with this magician, who made them well at ease; no provision that might give pleasure. Aurelius had never seen in his life a house so well appointed.

Before he went to supper, the magician showed him forests and parks full of wild beasts; there he saw harts with their lofty horns, the largest that eye ever saw. He beheld a hundred of them slain by dogs, and some bleeding from bitter arrow-wounds. When these wild deer vanished, he saw falconers upon a fair river, slaying the heron with their hawks. Then he saw knights jousting on a plain. And after this, the magician did him the pleasure to show him his lady in a dance, in which he himself was dancing, as it seemed to him. And when this master who created the magic saw that it was time, he clapped his hands, and, farewell, all our revel was gone.

And yet while they saw all this marvelous sight, they never stirred out of the house, but sat still in his study, where his books were, and no other creature but the three of them.

This master called his squire to him, and said thus: “Is our supper ready? It is almost an hour, I will swear, since I told you make our supper, when these honorable men went with me into my study, where my books are.”

“Sir,” said this squire, “when it pleases you it will be entirely ready, even if you wish to have it right now.”

“Let us go to supper, then,” he said, “that is best. These people in love must take repose sometime.”

After supper they fell into talk over the sum which should be this master’s reward for removing all the rocks of Brittany, and from the Gironde to the mouth of Seine. He raised difficulties and swore that he would not have less than a thousand pounds, and he would not be glad to do it for that sum, so God save him!

Aurelius answered directly, with a joyous heart, “Fie on a thousand pound! I would give this wide world, which men say is a ball, if I were lord of it. This bargain is done, for we are agreed. You shall be paid faithfully, by my word. But take care now that you delay us here no longer than tomorrow, for any negligence or sloth.”

“No,” this clerk said, “take here my faith in pledge to you.”

Aurelius went to bed when he wished, and rested nearly all that night. Despite all his labor and his hope of bliss, his woeful heart had relief from suffering. In the morning, when it was day, they took the shortest road to Brittany, Aurelius and this magician, and dismounted at the place where they wished to be. And, as books remind me, this was the cold, frosty season of December. Phoebus grew old and of hue like latten, who in his hot declination shone with his bright beams like burnished gold; but now he had descended into Capricorn, where he shone fully pale, I dare well say. The bitter frosts, with sleet and rain, have destroyed the green in every garden. Janus with his double beard sits by the fire and drinks the wine out of his ox-horn; before him stands brawn of the tusked boar, and every lusty man cries, “Noel!”

Aurelius offered his master all the hospitality and reverence he could, and asked him to do his duty to bring him out of his bitter pains, or with a sword he would slit his own heart. This cunning scholar so pitied this man that he made as much haste as he could, day and night, to look for the most beneficial time for his experiment; that is to say, to create an appearance, by such an illusion or crafty trick—I do not have vocabulary of astrology—that she and every person should think and say that the rocks of Brittany were gone, or else sunk under the earth.

So at last he found his time to work his tricks and stage his miserable performance of wicked superstition. He brought forth his Toledo tables, well corrected; there lacked nothing, neither his tables of collected or expanded years, nor his roots, nor his other gear, such as his centres and his arguments, and his tables of proportional parts for his equations. And for his calculations he knew full well how far Alnath in the eighth sphere was pushed from the head of that fixed Aries above, which is calculated to be in the ninth sphere; cunningly he calculated by means of all this. When he had found his first mansion, by proportion he knew the rest, and he well knew the rising of his moon, in which was the planet’s face and term, and all the rest. And he knew well the moon to be in a mansion favorable to his enterprise, and knew also the other matters to be observed for working such illusions and such misdoings as heathen people used in those days.

For this reason he no longer delayed, but through his magic it seemed for a week or two that all the rocks were gone. Aurelius, who was still despairing whether he should have his love or fare badly, waited night and day for this miracle. And when he knew that there was no hindrance, but that every rock was gone, he fell down at his master’s feet immediately and said, “I, Aurelius, woeful wretch, thank you, lord, and Venus my lady, who have helped me from my cold misery.” And he made his way forth to the temple where he knew he should see his lady. And when he saw his time, he then saluted his dear sovereign lady with a timid heart and humble face.

This woeful man said, “My own lady, whom I most fear and love as best I know how, and whom of all this world I would be most loathe to displease, if I did not suffer so much distress for the love of you that soon I must die here at your feet, I should never tell you how woebegone I am. But surely I must either die or make my complaint, as you slay me, an innocent man, with true pain. But though you have no pity for my death, consider this carefully before you break your pledge.

“For the sake of God in heaven, please repent before you murder me because I love you. For well you know what you promised, Madame; not that I claim anything of you as a right, my sovereign lady, but only ask it as a favor. Nevertheless, in a garden yonder, at such a spot, you know very well what you promised me, and you pledged your word in my hand, to love me best; God knows, you said so, though I may be unworthy of it. Madame, I say it for your honor, more than to save my heart’s life; I have done as you said, and if you wish, you may go and see. Do as you wish; remember your promise, for, alive or dead, you shall find me right in that garden. It all depends on you, to make me live or die. But well I know the rocks are gone.

He takes his leave, and she stood astonished; not a drop of blood was in all her face. She thought never to have come into such a trap. She said, “Alas that ever this should happen! For I never deemed that such a monstrosity or marvel could happen, by any possibility. It is against the course of nature. And home she went, a sorrowful creature; scarcely could she walk for utter fear, and for a whole day or two she wept and wailed and swooned, so that it was pitiful to behold. But why she was so she told no creature, for Arveragus was gone out of town.

But with a pale face and sorrowful expression she spoke to herself, and said thus in her complaint as I shall tell you. She said, “Alas! I complain about you, Fortune, who has bound me unawares in your chain, from which to escape I know no help, except only death or dishonor; one of these two it is necessary for me to choose. But nev- ertheless I had rather forfeit my life than have shame on my body, or lose my fair reputation, or know myself false. And by my death, surely, I may escape.

“Alas, have not many noble wives and many maidens slain themselves before this, rather than do wrong with her body? Yes, surely; lo! These histories testify it. When the thirty tyrants, full of cursedness, had slain Phidon at a feast in Athens, by their malice they commanded men to arrest his daughters and bring them before them entirely naked, to fulfill their foul pleasure, and they made them dance in their father’s blood upon the pavement. May God give them damnation! For this reason these woeful maidens, in fear of this, secretly leaped into a well and drowned themselves, rather than lose their maidenhood; so the books relate.

“The people of Messene had fifty Lacedaemon maidens sought out, with whom they wished to satisfy their lust; but of that entire band there was none who was not slain, and with good will chose to die rather than consent to be robbed of her maidenhood. Why should I, then, fear to die?

“Lo also, the tyrant Aristoclides. He loved a maiden named Stymphalides, who, when her father was slain one night, went directly to Diana’s temple, and laid hold of the image of Diana with her two hands, and would never let go. No creature could tear her hands from it, until she was slain in that very place. Now since maidens have had such scorn to be defiled with man’s base pleasure, it seems to me that a wife ought indeed rather to slay herself than be defiled.

“What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s wife, who slew herself at Carthage? For when she saw that the Romans had won the city, she took all her children and skipped down into the fire, and chose rather to die than that any Roman dishonored her.

“Did not Lucrece slay herself at Rome, alas, when she was violated by Tarquin, because she deemed it a shame to live when she had lost her honor?

The seven maidens of Miletus also for true fear and woe slew themselves rather than the people of Gaul should violate them.

I could tell now more than a thousand stories, I believe, concerning this matter. When Abradates was slain, his dear wife slew herself and let her blood flow into Abradates’ deep, wide wounds, saying, “My body, at least, no creature shall defile, if I can hinder it.”

“Why should I cite more examples of this, since so many have slain themselves rather than be defiled? I will end thus, for it is better for me to slay myself than so to be defiled. I will be true to Arveragus, or slay myself in some way, as did the dear daughter of Democion, because she would not be defiled. O Scedasus, it is a great pity to read how your daughters died, who slew themselves for the same cause, alas! It was as great pity, or indeed greater, for the Theban maiden that slew herself even for the same grief, to escape Nicanor. Another Theban maiden did likewise; because one of Macedonia had violated her, she redressed her maidenhood by her death. What shall I say of the wife of Niceratus, who for a like cause took her life? How true also was his love to Alcibiades, and chose rather to die than to suffer his body to be unburied! Lo, what a wife was Alcestis! What says Homer of Penelope the good? All Greece knows of her chastity. It is written thus of Laodamia, in truth, that when Protesilaus was slain at Troy, she would live no longer after his days. I may tell the same of noble Portia; she could not live without Brutus, to whom she had fully given her whole heart. The perfect wifehood of Artemisia is honored through all barbarian lands. O queen Teuta, your wifely chastity may be a mirror to all wives. The same thing I say of Bilia, of Rhodogune and of Valeria.”

Thus Dorigen made her complaint a day or two, at all times intending to die. But nevertheless Arveragus, this worthy knight, came home the third evening, and asked her why she wept so sorely. And she began to weep ever more bitterly.

“Alas that ever I was born! Thus I said,” she said, “this was my oath,” and she told him what you have already heard; there is no need to tell more.

This husband, with cheerful countenance and in friendly fashion, answered and said as I shall tell you; “Is there anything else but this, Dorigen?”

“Nay, nay,” she said, “so may God help me; God forbid there would be more; this is too much.”

“Yes, wife,” he replied; “leave sleeping that which is quiet. It may yet be well today, by chance. You shall keep your pledge, by my faith! For may God so surely have mercy on me, for the true love I have for you I had far rather be stabbed to the heart, than you should not hold your pledge. A promise is the highest thing that a man may keep.” But with that word he burst out weeping immediately, and said, “I forbid you, on pain of death, as long as your life lasts, to tell this matter to any creature. I will endure all my woe as best I can, and make no such sign of grief that people might judge or guess harm of you.”

And he called forth a squire and maid, and said, “Go forth directly with Dorigen and bring her to such a place.” They took their leave and went their way, but they knew not why she went there. He would tell his intention to no creature. Perhaps in truth many of you will think him a foolish man in this, that he would put his wife in jeopardy; listen to the tale, before you exclaim against her. She may have better fortune than you might suppose; and when you have heard the tale, you may judge.

This squire Aurelius, who was so amorous of Dorigen, happened by chance to meet her amidst the town, right in the busiest street, as she was bound straight for the garden where she had promised to go. And he also was bound for the garden; for he always noted well when she would go out of her house to any place. But thus they met, by chance or good fortune; and he saluted her with joyous mood, and asked where she was going.

And she answered, as if she were mad, “To the garden, as my husband ordered, to keep my promise, Alas! Alas!” Aurelius wondered about what had happened, and in his heart he had great compassion about her and her lament, and about Arveragus, the worthy knight who had told her to maintain everything she had promised, so loath was he that his wife should break her pledge. And Aurelius’ heart was moved to great pity, and this made him consider carefully what would be best, so that he felt he would rather refrain from his desire rather than to be guilty of such a wretched and dishonorable act against nobility and all gentility.

For this reason he said thus in few words: “Madame, say to Arveragus, your lord, that since I see his great nobil- ity to you (and I well see your distress), that it seemed better to him to suffer shame (and that would be a pity) than you should break your pledge to me, I would rather suffer perpetual woe than part the love between you. Into your hand, Madame, I release, cancelled, every assurance and every bond that you have made to me to this day from the time when you were born. I pledge my word that I shall never reproach you on the score of any promise. And here I take my leave of the best and truest wife that in all my days I have ever known. But let every woman beware what she promises; let her at least think of Dorigen.” Thus surely a squire can do a gentle deed, as well as can a knight.

She thanked him upon her bare knees, and went home to her husband and told him everything, even as you have heard me tell it. And be assured, he was so well pleased that I could not tell how much; why should I explain this matter any further? Arveragus and his wife Dorigen led forth their days in sovereign bliss.

Never again was there trouble between them. Evermore he cherished her as though she were a queen, and she was true to him. Concerning these two people you will get no more from me.

Aurelius, who had forfeited all the expense, cursed the time when he was born. “Alas! alas!” he said, “that I promised a thousand pounds’ weight of refined gold to this philosopher! What shall I do? I see nothing more but that I am undone. I must sell my heritage and be a beggar. I cannot remain here and shame all my family here, un- less I can gain his mercy. But nevertheless I will seek of him to let me pay on certain days each year, and will thank him for his great courtesy. I will keep my word, I will not be false.”

With sore heart he went to his coffer and brought to this clerk gold of the value of five hundred pounds, I believe, and asked him through his noble courtesy to grant him certain days to pay the remnant, and said, “Master, I dare well boast that I never failed of my word as yet. For truly my debt shall be paid to you, whatever may happen to me, even if I must go begging in my undergarments alone. But would you promise, upon security, to give me a respite for two or three years; then it will be well with me. For otherwise I must sell my heritage. There is no more to say.”

This philosopher answered gravely and said thus, when he heard these words, “Have I not kept my covenant with you?”

“Yes, surely, well and truly,” he said. “Have you not had your lady just as you desired?”

“No, no,” he said and sighed sorrowfully.

“What was the cause? Tell me, if you can.”

Aurelius began his tale immediately, and told him everything, as you have heard. There is no need to rehearse it again. He said, “Arveragus on account of his nobility would rather have died in sorrow and woe than that his wife would be false to her pledge.” He told him also the sorrow of Dorigen, how loath she was to be a wicked wife, and that she had rather have died that day, and that it was through innocence she had sworn her oath. “She never heard tell before of magic illusion; that made me have pity upon her. And just as he sent her freely to me, so freely I sent her back to him. This is everything; there is no more to say.”

This philosopher answered: “Dear friend, each of you did a gentle deed toward the other. You are a squire, he is a knight. But may God in his blessed power forbid, but a clerk may truly do a gentle deed as well as any of you.

Sir, I release you from your debt of a thousand pounds, as freely as if you had only now crept out of the earth and had never known me before now. For, sir, I will not take a penny from you for all my skill and all my labor. You have paid well for my subsistence. It is enough. And farewell, and have a good day.” And he took his horse and went forth on his journey.

Gentle people, I would ask you this question now: Which do you think was the most noble? Now tell me, before you go farther. I know no more; my tale is finished.

Here is ended the Franklin’s Tale.

THE DECAMERON

Giovanni Boccaccio ( 1313- 1375 C.E.)

Begun ca. 1349 and finished by 1353 C.E.

Italy

Boccaccio began writing his Decameron shortly after an outbreak of the plague in Florence, Italy, in 1348 that killed about three quarters of the population. The introduction to this frame tale depicts the horrors of the plague, with vivid descriptions of the dying and laments about the lack of a cure. In his story, seven women and three men leave Florence to take refuge in the countryside. They justify their decision in several ways: the right to self-preser- vation; the bad morals and lewd behavior of many of their neighbors (who are convinced that they are going to die anyway); and their own feelings of abandonment by their families. They decide to tell stories to pass the time: one story each for ten days (the Greek for “ten” is “deka” and for “day” is “hemera,” from which Boccaccio derives his title). Each day, one of them chooses a theme for the stories. As entertaining as the stories are, the discussions be- tween the stories are what make the collection special; the speakers carry on a battle of the sexes as they debate the meaning and relative value of each story. The same dynamic can be found in two other frame tales in this antholo- gy, one of which was influenced by the Decameron: the Thousand and One Nights (written before the Decameron) with its gripping frame story of Shahrazad; and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, with the conversations (and argu- ments) among the pilgrims who are telling the tales.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.4.1 The Decameron

License: Public Domain

Giovanni Boccaccio, Translated by John Payne

Introduction

To the Ladies

License: Public Domain

Giovanni Boccaccio, Translated by Léopold Flameng

When I reflect how disposed you are by nature to compassion, I cannot help being apprehensive lest what I now offer to your acceptance should seem to have but a harsh and offensive beginning; for it presents at the very outset the mournful remembrance of that most fatal plague, so terrible yet in the memories of us all. But let not this dismay you from reading further, as though every page were to cost you sighs and tears. Rather let this beginning, disagreeable as it is, seem to you but as a rugged and steep mountain placed before a delightful valley, which ap- pears more beautiful and pleasant, as the way to it was more difficult: for as joy usually ends in sorrow, so again the end of sorrow is joy. To this short fatigue (I call it short, because contained in few words,) immediately succeeds the mirth and pleasure I had before promised you; and which, but for that promise, you would scarcely expect to find. And in truth could I have brought you by any other way than this, I would gladly have done it: but as the occasion of the occurrences, of which I am going to treat, could not well be made out without such a relation, I am forced to use this Introduction.

In the year then of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence, the finest city in all Italy, a most terrible plague; which, whether owing to the influence of the planets, or that it was sent from God as a just punishment for our sins, had broken out some years before in the Levant, and after passing from place to place, and making incredible havoc all the way, had now reached the west. There, spite of all the means that art and human foresight could suggest, such as keeping the city clear from filth, the exclusion of all suspected persons, and the publication of copious instruc- tions for the preservation of health; and notwithstanding manifold humble supplications offered to God in pro- cessions and otherwise; it began to show itself in the spring of the aforesaid year, in a sad and wonderful manner. Unlike what had been seen in the east, where bleeding from the nose is the fatal prognostic, here there appeared certain tumours in the groin or under the arm-pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an egg; and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body; in some cases large and but few in number, in others smaller and more nu- merous—both sorts the usual messengers of death. To the cure of this malady, neither medical knowledge nor the power of drugs was of any effect; whether because the disease was in its own nature mortal, or that the physicians (the number of whom, taking quacks and women pretenders into the account, was grown very great,) could form no just idea of the cause, nor consequently devise a true method of cure; whichever was the reason, few escaped; but nearly all died the third day from the first appearance of the symptoms, some sooner, some later, without any fever or other accessory symptoms. What gave the more virulence to this plague, was that, by being communicated from the sick to the hale, it spread daily, like fire when it comes in contact with large masses of combustibles. Nor was it caught only by conversing with, or coming near the sick, but even by touching their clothes, or anything that they had before touched. It is wonderful, what I am going to mention; and had I not seen it with my own eyes, and were there not many witnesses to attest it besides myself, I should never venture to relate it, however worthy it were of belief. Such, I say, was the quality of the pestilential matter, as to pass not only from man to man, but, what is more strange, it has been often known, that anything belonging to the infected, if touched by any other creature, would certainly infect, and even kill that creature in a short space of time. One instance of this kind I took particu- lar notice of: the rags of a poor man just dead had been thrown into the street; two hogs came up, and after rooting amongst the rags, and shaking them about in their mouths, in less than an hour they both turned round, and died on the spot.

These facts, and others of the like sort, occasioned various fears and devices amongst those who survived, all tending to the same uncharitable and cruel end; which was, to avoid the sick, and everything that had been near them, expecting by that means to save themselves. And some holding it best to live temperately, and to avoid excesses of all kinds, made parties, and shut themselves up from the rest of the world; eating and drinking mod- erately of the best, and diverting themselves with music, and such other entertainments as they might have within door; never listening to anything from without, to make them uneasy. Others maintained free living to be a better preservative, and would baulk no passion or appetite they wished to gratify, drinking and reveling incessantly from tavern to tavern, or in private houses (which were frequently found deserted by the owners, and therefore common to every one), yet strenuously avoiding, with all this brutal indulgence, to come near the infected. And such, at that time, was the public distress, that the laws, human and divine, were no more regarded; for the officers, to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want of persons to assist them, every one did just as he pleased. A third sort of people chose a method between these two: not confining themselves to rules of diet like the former, and yet avoiding the intemperance of the latter ; but eating and drinking what their appetites required, they walked every- where with odours and nose gays to smell to ; as holding it best to corroborate the brain: for the whole atmosphere seemed to them tainted with the stench of dead bodies, arising partly from the distemper itself, and partly from the fermenting of the medicines within them. Others with less humanity, but perchance, as they supposed, with more security from danger, decided that the only remedy for the pestilence was to avoid it: persuaded, therefore, of this, and taking care for themselves only, men and women in great numbers left the city, their houses, relations, and ef- fects, and fled into the country: as if the wrath of God had been restrained to visit those only within the walls of the city; or else concluding, that none ought to stay in a place thus doomed to destruction.

Thus divided as they were in their views, neither did all die, nor all escape; but falling sick indifferently, as well those of one as of another opinion; they who first set the example by forsaking others, now languished themselves without pity. I pass over the little regard that citizens and relations showed to each other; for their terror was such, that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her husband, and, what is more uncommon, a parent from his own child. Hence numbers that fell sick could have no help but what the charity of friends, who were very few, or the avarice of servants supplied; and even these were scarce and at extravagant wages, and so little used to the business that they were fit only to reach what was called for, and observe when their employer died; and this desire of getting money often cost them their lives. From this desertion of friends, and scarcity of servants, an unheard-of custom prevailed; no lady, however young or handsome, would scruple to be attended by a man-servant, whether young or old it mattered not, and to expose herself naked to him, the necessity of the distemper requiring it, as though it was to a woman; which might make those who recovered, less modest for the time to come. And many lost their lives, who might have escaped, had they been looked after at all. So that, between the scarcity of servants, and the violence of the distemper, such numbers were continually dying, as made it terrible to hear as well as to behold. Whence, from mere necessity, many customs were introduced different from what had been before known in the city.

It had been usual, as it now is, for the women who were friends and neighbours to the deceased, to meet togeth- er at his house, and to lament with his relations; at the same time the men would get together at the door, with a number of clergy, according to the person’s circumstances; and the corpse was carried by people of his own rank, with the solemnity of tapers and singing, to that church where the deceased had desired to be buried. This custom was now laid aside, and, so far from having a crowd of women to lament over them, great numbers passed out of the world without a witness. Few were they who had the tears of their friends at their departure; those friends were laughing and making themselves merry the while; for even the women had learned to postpone every other concern to that of their own lives. Nor was a corpse attended by more than ten or a dozen, nor those citizens of credit, but fellows hired for the purpose; who would put themselves under the bier, and carry it with all possible haste to the nearest church; and the corpse was interred, without any great ceremony, where they could find room. With regard to the lower sort, and many of a middling rank, the scene was still more affecting; for they staying at home either through poverty or hopes of succour in distress, fell sick daily by thousands, and, having nobody to attend them, generally died: some breathed their last in the streets, and others shut up in their own houses, where the stench that came from them made the first discovery of their deaths to the neighbourhood. And, indeed, every place was filled with the dead. Hence it became a general practice, as well out of regard for the living as pity for the dead, for the neighbours, assisted by what porters they could meet with, to clear all the houses, and lay the bodies at the doors; and every morning great numbers might be seen brought out in this manner, to be carried away on biers, or tables, two or three at a time; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and her husband, two or three brothers, and a father and son, have been laid on together. It has been observed also, whilst two or three priests have walked before a corpse with their crucifix, that two or three sets of porters have fallen in with them; and where they knew but of one dead body, they have buried six, eight, or more: nor was there any to follow, and shed a few tears over them ; for things were come to that pass, that men’s lives were no more regarded than the lives of so many beasts. Thus it plainly appeared, that what the wisest in the ordinary course of things, and by a common train of calami- ties, could never be taught, namely, to bear them patiently, this, by the excess of calamity, was now grown a familiar lesson to the most simple and unthinking. The consecrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were continually brought thither, especially as they were desirous of laying every one in the parts allotted to their fami- lies, they were forced to dig trenches, and to put them in by hundreds, piling them up in rows, as goods are stowed in a ship, and throwing in a little earth till they were filled to the top.

Not to dwell upon every particular of our misery, I shall observe, that it fared no better with the adjacent country; for, to omit the different boroughs about us, which presented the same view in miniature with the city, you might see the poor distressed labourers, with their families, without either the aid of physicians, or help of servants, languishing on the highways, in the fields, and in their own houses, and dying rather like cattle than human crea- tures. The consequence was that, growing dissolute in their manners like the citizens, and careless of everything, as supposing every day to be their last, their thoughts were not so much employed how to improve, as how to use their substance for their present support. The oxen, asses, sheep, goats, swine, and the dogs themselves, ever faithful to their masters, being driven from their own homes, were left to roam at will about the fields, and among the stand- ing corn, which no one cared to gather, or even to reap ; and many times, after they had filled themselves in the day, the animals would return of their own accord like rational creatures at night.

What can I say more, if I return to the city? Unless that such was the cruelty of Heaven, and perhaps of men, that between March and July following, according to authentic reckonings, upwards of a hundred thousand souls perished in the city only; whereas, before that calamity, it was not supposed to have contained so many inhabi- tants. What magnificent dwellings, what noble palaces were then depopulated to the last inhabitant! What families became extinct! What riches and vast possessions were left, and no known heir to inherit them! What numbers of both sexes, in the prime and vigour of youth, whom in the morning neither Galen, Hippocrates, nor Æsculapius himself, would have denied to be in perfect health, breakfasted in the morning with their living friends, and supped at night with their departed friends in the other world or else to show by our habits the greatness of our distress. And if we go hence, it is either to see multitudes of the dead and sick carried along the streets; or persons who had been outlawed for their villanies, now facing it out publicly, in safe defiance of the laws; or the scum of the city, enriched with the public calamity, and insulting us with ribald ballads. Nor is anything now talked of, but that such a one is dead, or dying; and, were any left to mourn, we should hear nothing but lamentations. Or if we go home — I know not whether it fares with you as with myself—when I find out of a numerous family not one left besides a maidservant, I am frightened out of my senses; and go where I will, the ghosts of the departed seem always before me; not like the persons whilst they were living, but assuming a ghastly and dreadful aspect. Therefore the case is the same, whether we stay here, depart hence, or go home; especially as there are few left but ourselves who are able to go, and have a place to go to. Those few too, I am told, fall into all sorts of debauchery; and even cloistered ladies, supposing themselves entitled to equal liberties with others, are as bad as the worst. Now if this be so (as you see plainly it is), what do we here? What are we dreaming of? Why are we less regardful of our lives than other people of theirs? Are we of less value to ourselves, or are our souls and bodies more firmly united, and so in less danger of dissolution? It is monstrous to think in such a manner; so many of both sexes dying of this distemper in the very prime of their youth afford us an undeniable argument to the contrary. Wherefore, lest through our own willful- ness or neglect, this calamity, which might have been prevented, should befall us, I should think it best (and I hope you will join with me,) for us to quit the town, and avoiding, as we would death itself, the bad example of others, to choose some place of retirement, of which every one of us has more than one, where we may make ourselves innocently merry, without offering the least violence to the dictates of reason and our own consciences. There will our ears be entertained with the warbling of the birds, and our eyes with the verdure of the hills and valleys; with the waving of cornfields like the sea itself; with trees of a thousand different kinds, and a more open and serene sky; which, however overcast, yet affords a far more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls. The air also is pleas- anter, and there is greater plenty of everything, attended with few inconveniences: for, though people die there as well as here, yet we shall have fewer such objects before us, as the inhabitants are less in number; and on the other part, if I judge right, we desert nobody, but are rather ourselves forsaken. For all our friends, either by death, or endeavouring to avoid it, have left us, as if we in no way belonged to them. As no blame then can ensue from fol- lowing this advice, and perhaps sickness and death from not doing so, I would have us take our maids, and every- thing we may be supposed to want, and enjoy all the diversions which the season will permit, to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; and so continue to do, unless death should interpose, until we see what end Providence designs for these things. And of this too let me remind you, that our characters will stand as fair by our going away reputably, as those of others will do who stay at home with discredit.”

The ladies having heard what Pampinea had to offer, not only approved of it, but had actually began to concert measures for their instant departure, when Filomena, who was a most discreet person, remarked: “Though Pam- pinea has spoken well, yet there is no occasion to run headlong into the affair, as you are about to do. We are but women, nor is any of us so ignorant as not to know how little able we shall be to conduct such an affair, without some man to help us. We are naturally fickle, obstinate, suspicious, and fearful; and I doubt much, unless we take somebody into our scheme to manage it for us, lest it soon be at an end; and perhaps, little to our reputation. Let us provide against this, therefore, before we begin.”

Eliza then replied: “It is true, man is our sex’s chief or head, and without his management, it seldom happens that any undertaking of ours succeeds well. But how are these men to be come at? We all know that the greater part of our male acquaintance are dead, and the rest all dispersed abroad, avoiding what we seek to avoid, and without our knowing where to find them. To take strangers with us, would not be altogether so proper: for, whilst we have regard to our health, we should so contrive matters, that, wherever we go to repose and divert ourselves, no scandal may ensue from it.”

Whilst this matter was in debate, behold, three gentlemen came into the church, the youngest not less than twenty-five years of age, and in whom neither the adversity of the times, the loss of relations and friends, nor even fear for themselves, could stifle, or indeed cool, the passion of love. One was called Pamfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo, all of them well bred, and pleasant companions; and who, to divert themselves in this time of affliction, were then in pursuit of their mistresses, who as it chanced were three of these seven ladies, the other four being all related to one or other of them. These gentlemen were no sooner within view, than the ladies had immedi- ately their eyes upon them, and

Pampinea said, with a smile, “See, fortune is with us, and has thrown in our way three prudent and worthy gen- tlemen, who will conduct and wait upon us, if we think fit to accept of their service.” Neifile, with a blush, because she was one that had an admirer, answered: “Take care what you say, I know them all indeed to be persons of character, and fit to be trusted, even in affairs of more consequence, and in better company; but, as some of them are enamoured of certain ladies here, I am only concerned lest we be drawn into some scrape or scandal, without either our fault or theirs.” Filomena replied: “Never tell me what other people may think, so long as I know myself to be virtuous; God and the truth will be my defence; and if they be willing to go, we will say with Pampinea, that fortune is with us.”

The rest hearing her speak in this manner, gave consent that the gentlemen should be invited to partake in this expedition. Without more words, Pampinea, who was related to one of the three rose up, and made towards them, as they stood watching at a distance. Then, after a cheerful salutation, she acquainted them with the design in hand, and entreated that they would, out of pure friendship, oblige them with their company. The gentlemen at first took it all for a jest, but, being assured to the contrary, immediately answered that they were ready; and, to lose no time, gave the necessary orders for what they wished to have done. Every thing being thus prepared, and a messenger dis- patched before, whither they intended to go, the next morning, which was Wednesday, by break of day, the ladies, with some of their women, and the gentlemen, with every one his servant, set out from the city, and, after they had travelled two short miles, came to the place appointed.

It was a little eminence, remote from any great road, covered with trees and shrubs of an agreeable verdure; and on the top was a stately palace, with a grand and beautiful court in the middle: within were galleries, and fine apartments elegantly fitted up, and adorned with most curious paintings; around it were fine meadows, and most delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best water. The vaults also were stored with the richest wines, suited rather to the taste of copious topers, than of modest and virtuous ladies. This palace they found cleared out, and everything set in order for their reception, with the rooms all graced with the flowers of the season, to their great satisfaction. The party being seated, Dioneo, who was the pleasantest of them all, and full of words, began “Your wis- dom it is, ladies, rather than any foresight of ours, which has brought us hither. I know not how you have disposed of your cares; as for mine, I left them all behind me when I came from home. Either prepare, then, to be as merry as myself (I mean with decency), or give me leave to go back again, and resume my cares where I left them.” Pampinea made answer, as if she had disposed of hers in like manner: “You say right, sir, we will be merry; we fled from our troubles for no other reason. But, as extremes are never likely to last, I, who first proposed the means by which such an agreeable company is now met together, being desirous to make our mirth of some continuance, do find there is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we shall honour and obey in all things as our head; and whose province it shall be to regulate our diversions. And that every one may make trial of the burthen which attends care, as well as the pleasure which there is in superiority, nor therefore envy what he has not yet tried, I hold it best that every one should experience both the trouble and the honour for one day. The first, I propose, shall be elected by us all, and, on the approach of evening, hall name a person to succeed for the following day: and each one, during the time of his or her government, shall give orders concerning the place where, and the manner how, we are to live.”

These words were received with the highest satisfaction, and the speaker was, with one consent, appointed president for the first day: whilst Filomena, running to a laurel-tree, (for she had often heard how much that tree has always been esteemed, and what honour was conferred on those who were deservedly crowned with it,) made a garland, and put it upon Pampinea’s head. That garland, whilst the company continued together, was ever after to be the ensign of sovereignty.

Pampinea, being thus elected queen, enjoined silence, and having summoned to her presence the gentlemen’s servants, and their own women, who were four in number: “To give you the first example,” said she, “how, by pro- ceeding from good to better, we may live orderly and pleasantly, and continue together, without the least reproach, as long as we please, in the first place I declare Parmeno, Dioneo’s servant, master of my household, and to him I commit the care of my family, and everything relating to my hall. Sirisco, Pamfilo’s servant, I appoint my treasurer, and to be under the direction of Parmeno; and Tindaro I command to wait on Filostrato and the other two gentle- men, whilst their servants are thus employed. Mysia, my woman, and Licisca, Filomena’s, I order into the kitchen, there to get ready what shall be provided by Parmeno. To Lauretta’s Chimera, and Fiammetta’s Stratilia, I give the care of the ladies’ chambers, and to keep the room clean where we sit. And I will and command you all, on pain of my displeasure, that wherever you go, or whatever you hear and see, you bring no news here but what is good.” These orders were approved by all; and the queen, rising from her seat, with a good deal of gaiety, added: “Here are gardens and meadows, where you may divert yourselves till nine o’clock, when I shall expect you back, that we may dine in the cool of the day.”

The company were now at liberty, and the gentlemen and ladies took a pleasant walk in the garden, talking over a thousand merry things by the way, and diverting themselves by singing love songs, and weaving garlands of flowers. Returning at the time appointed, they found Parmeno busy in the execution of his office: for in a saloon below was the table set forth, covered with the neatest linen, with glasses reflecting a lustre like silver: and water having been presented to them to wash their hands, by the queen’s order, Parmeno desired them to sit down. The dishes were now served up in the most elegant manner, and the best wines brought in, the servants waiting all the time with the most profound silence; and being well pleased with their entertainment, they dined with all the facetiousness and mirth imaginable. When dinner was over, as they could all dance, and some both play and sing well, the queen ordered in the musical instruments. Dioneo took a lute, and Fiammetta a viol, in obedience to the royal command; a dance was struck up, and the queen, with the rest of the company, took an agreeable turn or two, whilst the servants were sent to dinner; and when the dance was ended, they began to sing, and continued till the queen thought it time to break up. Her permission being given, the gentlemen retired to their chambers, remote from the ladies’ lodging rooms, and the ladies did the same, and undressed themselves for bed.

It was little more than three, when the queen rose, and ordered all to be called, alleging that much sleep in the daytime was unwholesome. Then they went into a meadow of deep grass, where the sun had little power; and having the benefit of a pleasant breeze, they sat down in a circle, as the queen had commanded, and she addressed them in this manner:—“As the sun is high, and the heat excessive, and nothing is to be heard but the chirping of the cicalas among the olives, it would be madness for us to think of moving yet: this is an airy place, and here are chess-boards and backgammon tables to divert yourselves with; but if you will be ruled by me, you will not play at all, since it often makes the one party uneasy, without any great pleasure to the other, or to the lookers-on; but let us begin and tell stories, and in this manner one person will entertain the whole company ; and by the time it has gone round, the worst part of the day will be over, and then we can divert ourselves as we like best. If this be agreeable to you, then (for I wait to know your pleasure) let us begin; if not, you are at your own disposal till the evening.” This motion being approved by all, the queen continued, “Let every one for this first day take what subject he fancies most:” and turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she bade him begin. He readily obeyed, and spoke to this effect, so as to be distinctly heard by the whole company.

Day the Third

The Ninth Story

Gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he enter- taineth her for his wife.

Lauretta’s story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: “Who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as I misdoubt me will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e’en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme.

There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her.

Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legit- imate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king’s ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king’s to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris.

Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, ‘My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days’ time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.’ The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, ‘That which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?’ Accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, ‘My lord, you make light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.’

The king, hearing this, said in himself, ‘It may be this woman is sent me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?’ Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, ‘Damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?’ ‘My lord,’ answered she, ‘set a guard upon me and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I cure you, what reward shall I have?’ Quoth the king, ‘You seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.’ ‘My lord,’ replied the young lady, ‘I am well pleased that you should marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.’ He readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health.

image 5.7: Giovanni Boccaccio and Florentines Who have Fled from the Plague | In this introduction to The Decameron, the author is shown alongside his ten characters (three men and seven women) who left Florence to escape the plague.

Author: Master of 1482 and follower (illuminators)

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

The king, feeling himself healed, said, ‘Damsel, you have well earned your husband’; whereto she answered, ‘Then, my lord, I have earned Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I began to love even in the days of my childhood and have ever since loved over all.’ The king deemed it a grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and un- willing to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and bespoke him thus: ‘Bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in all that behoveth unto man’s estate]; wherefore it is our pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a damsel, whom we have given you to wife.’ ‘And who is the damsel, my lord?’ asked Bertrand; to which the king answered, ‘It is she who hath with her medicines restored to us our health.’

Bertrand, who had seen and recognized Gillette, knowing her (albeit she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sort- ed with his quality, said all disdainfully, ‘My lord, will you then marry me to a she-leach? Now God forbid I should ever take such an one to wife!’ ‘Then,’ said the king, ‘will you have us fail of our faith, the which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?’ ‘My lord,’ answered Bertrand, ‘you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever I possess or, as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this I certify you, that I will never be a consenting party unto such a marriage.’ ‘Nay,’ rejoined the king, ‘but you shall, for that the damsel is fair and wise and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of higher lineage.’ Bertrand held his peace and the king let make great preparations for the celebration of the marriage.

The appointed day being come, Bertrand, sore against his will, in the presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than herself. This done, having already determined in himself what he should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into Tuscany, where, hearing that the Florentines were at war with those of Sienna, he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and there, being well provided of them, he abode a pretty while in their service.

The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, be- took herself to Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There, finding everything waste and dis- ordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count’s vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. The lady, having thorough- ly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, ‘For that, let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.’ Now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had.

The knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to the lady and reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that she might, in consequence, have her hus- band again. Accordingly, having bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the best and chief- est men of the county and with plaintive speech very orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul’s health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return to Roussillon. Many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. Then, commending them to God, she set out upon her way, without telling any whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in pilgrims’ habits, and stayed not till she came to Florence, where, chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord.

It befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw Bertrand pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who he was. The hostess answered, ‘That is a stranger gentleman, who calleth himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant man and a courteous and much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. Sooth to say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for whom, maybe, she had already done the count’s pleasure.’ The countess took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into every particular and appre- hended all aright, determined in herself how she should do.

Accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her pilgrim’s habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case, saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would fain speak with her alone. The gentlewoman, rising, replied that she was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber of hers, where they seated them- selves and the countess began thus, ‘Madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of Fortune, even as I am; but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and me.’ The lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, ‘Needs must you pledge me your faith, whereto an I commit myself and you deceive me, you will mar your own affairs and mine.’ ‘Tell me anything you will in all assurance,’ replied the gentlewoman; ‘for never shall you find yourself deceived of me.’

Thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment, recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began to have compassion of her. The countess, having related her adventures, went on to say, ‘You have now, amongst my other troubles, heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an I would have my husband, and to which I know none who can help me, save only yourself, if that be true which I hear, to wit, that the count my husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.’ ‘Madam,’ answered the gentlewoman, ‘if the count love my daughter I know not; indeed he maketh a great show thereof. But, an it be so, what can I do in this that you desire?’ ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘I will tell you; but first I will e’en show you what I purpose shall ensue thereof to you, an you serve me. I see your daughter fair and of age for a husband and according to what I have heard, meseemeth I understand the lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at home. Now I purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.’

The mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, ‘Madam, tell me what I can do for you; if it consist with my honour, I will willingly do it, and you shall after do that which shall please you.’ Then said the countess, ‘It behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure, so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such store. An he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of your daughter. It may be God will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him begotten, I shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause thereof.’

This seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in accordance with the latter’s instructions, she both got the ring (albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. In these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady, by God’s pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in due time made manifest. Nor once only, but many times, did the gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband’s embraces, contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter, whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence.

Then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, ‘Madam, thanks to God and you, I have gotten that which I desired, wherefore it is time that I do that which shall content you and after get me gone hence.’ The gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to do it, an she would do well. ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘that which you say liketh me well and so on my part I purpose not to give you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well, for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.’ The gentlewoman, then, constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more. With this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive Bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house, removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his own house.

image 5.8: Boccaccio by morghen | Engraved portrait of Boccaccio, by the artist Raffaello Sanzio Morghen.

Author: Raffaello Sanzio Morghen

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

The countess, hearing that he had departed Florence and returned to his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at Florence till her time came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. Whenas it seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any, to Montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great entertainment of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints’ Day and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim’s habit that she was wont to wear. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count’s palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast herself at his feet and said, weeping, ‘I am thine unhappy wife, who, to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering miserably about the world. I conjure thee, in the name of God, to accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the two knights I sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. It is time, then, that I be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.’

The count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, ‘How can this have come to pass?’ The countess, then, to his exceeding wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count, feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife, put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet, embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and those for his children. Then, letting clothe her in apparel such as beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and tendered her over all.”

Day the Fourth

The Second Story

Fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison.

The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, “My life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woe- ful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall doubt- less begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire.” Pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his words, wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his command- ment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows:

“The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, as- sign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance.

There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that for- sworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our Saviour’s passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk’s monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi.

It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam Lisetta da Ca Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy fri- ar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feath- er-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. Whereto she answered, with an offended air, ‘Good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?’ Brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others.

image 5.9: A Tale from the decameron | An oil painting by John William Waterhouse, showing the characters of The Decameron sitting together as they tell their stories.

Author: Unknown

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

He let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of his, he repaired to Madam Lisetta’s house and withdrawing with her into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees before her and said, ‘Madam, I pray you for God’s sake pardon me that which I said to you last Sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty, for that the following night I was so cruelly chastised there that I have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.’ Quoth Mistress Featherbrain, ‘And who chastised you thus?’ ‘I will tell you,’ replied the monk. ‘Being that night at my orisons, as I still use to be, I saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere I could turn me to see what it might be, I beheld over against me a very fair youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every bone in my body. I asked him why he used me thus and he answered, “For that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of Madam Lisetta, whom I love over all things, save only God.” “Who, then, are you?” asked I; and he replied that he was the angel Gabriel. “O my lord,” said I, “I pray you pardon me”; and he, “So be it; I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, I will return to thee and give thee such a bout of it that I will make thee a woeful man for all the time thou shalt live here below.” That which he said to me after I dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.’

My Lady Addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, ‘I told you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so God be mine aid, it irketh me for you and I will pardon you forthright, so you may come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel said to you after.’ ‘Madam,’ replied Fra Alberto, ‘since you pardon me, I will gladly tell it you; but I must warn you of one thing, to wit, that whatever I tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel bade me tell you that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the night with you, but that he feared to affright you. Now he sendeth to tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send to tell him when you would have him come and in whose form, and he will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other lady alive.’

My Lady Conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel Gabriel loved her, seeing she loved him well nor ever failed to light a candle of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condi- tion, that he should not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whose great well-wisher it was said he was, as indeed ap- peareth, inasmuch as in every place where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. Moreover, she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased, so but she was not affrighted.

Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Madam, you speak sagely and I will without fail take order with him of that which you tell me. But you may do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will him come with this my body. And I will tell you in what you will do me a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and put it in Paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what while he abideth with you, so long will my soul

abide in Paradise.’ ‘With all my heart,’ answered Dame Littlewit. ‘I will well that you have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my account.’ Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Look that he find the door of your house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.’ The lady replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel Gabriel should come to her.

Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the cavalier, not the angel, that night pro- ceeded to fortify himself with confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his, whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having disguised himself, he betook him to the lady’s house. There he tricked himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature all in white, fell on her knees before him. The angel blessed her and raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she, studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his devotee. Now Fra Alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven. Then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he should get a fright, lying alone.

As for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to Fra Alberto and gave him news of the angel Gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I know not how you fared with him; I only know that yesternight, whenas he came to me and I did your message to him, he suddenly transported my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never was the like thereof seen here below, and I abode in one of the most delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of my body meanwhile I know not.’ ‘Do I not tell you?’ answered the lady. ‘Your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel Gabriel. If you believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas I gave the angel such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to come.’ Quoth the friar, ‘Say you so? Then will I do to-day a thing I have not done this great while; I will strip myself, to see if you tell truth.’ Then, after much prating, the lady returned home and Fra Alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any hindrance.

However, it chanced one day that Madam Lisetta, being in dispute with a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle, ‘An you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your peace of other women.’ The other, longing to hear, said, as one who knew her well, ‘Madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.’ Thereupon quoth Lisetta, who was eath enough to draw, ‘Gossip, it must go no farther; but he I mean is the angel Gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the Maremma.’ The other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself, so she might make Lisetta speak farther, and said, ‘Faith, madam, an the angel Gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be so; but methought not the angels did these things.’ ‘Gossip,’ answered the lady, ‘you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for that I seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?’

The gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of Madam Lisetta and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies, orderly recounted to them the whole story. They told it again to their husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less than two days Venice was all full of it. Among others to whose ears the thing came were Lisetta’s brothers-in-law, who, without saying aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and see if he knew how to fly, and to this end they lay several nights in wait for him. As chance would have it, some inkling of the matter came to the ears of Fra Alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to the lady’s house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of her chamber to open it.

Fra Alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the Grand Canal, and cast himself thence into the water. The canal was deep there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his life for the love of God, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to explain how he came there at that hour and naked. The good man was moved to pity and it behoving him to go do his occasions, he put him in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then, locking him in, he went about his affairs. Meanwhile, the lady’s brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel Gabriel had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off to their own house with the angel’s trappings, leaving her disconsolate.

Broad day come, the good man with whom Fra Alberto had taken refuge, being on the Rialto, heard how the angel Gabriel had gone that night to lie with Madam Lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home. Accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not have him give him up to the lady’s kinsmen. Having gotten the money and Fra Alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him, ‘There is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that I will tell you. We hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt held in St. Mark’s Place, which finished, the festival is at an end and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath brought. An you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of these fashions, I can after carry you whither you please, ere it be spied out that you are here; else I know not how you are to get away, without being recognized, for the lady’s kinsmen, concluding that you must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.’

Hard as it seemed to Fra Alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of the fear he had of the lady’s kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him. Accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched one to the Rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the angel Gabriel should repair to St. Mark’s Place; and this was Venetian loyalty! This done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no small clamour of the folk, who said all, ‘What be this? What be this?’ till he came to the place, where, what with those who had followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come thither from the Rialto, were folk without end. There he tied his wild man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for that he was besmeared with honey. But, when he saw the place well filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off Fra Alberto’s mask and said, ‘Gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and there is no hunt toward, I purpose, so you may not be come in vain, that you shall see the angel Gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to earth anights, to comfort the Venetian ladies.’

No sooner was the mask off than Fra Alberto was incontinent recognized of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him; then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched life. Thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it being believed, dare to feign himself the angel Gabriel, and after being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. God grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!”

Day the Fifth

The Ninth Story

Federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. He wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again.

Filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained to tell save only herself and Dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to speak last, said, with blithe aspect, “It pertaineth now to me to tell and I, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how much the love of you can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure.

You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neigh- bours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and cour- tesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and him- seeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.

Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam Giovanna’s husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, ‘Mother mine, an you could procure me to have Federigo’s falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.’

The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. She knew that Fed- erigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, ‘How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?’ Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, ‘My son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and fetch it to thee.’ The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day.

Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo’s little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with ‘Give you good day, Federigo!’ then went on to say, ‘I am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, I and this lady my companion.’ ‘Madam,’ answered Federigo humbly, ‘I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.’ So saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, ‘Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the table laid.’

Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk

image 5.10: decameron | An image from The Decameron, illustrated by Taddeo Crivelli, depicting the seven women and three men from Boccaccio’s manuscript.

Author: User “Cassmus”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor aught he might pawn. It was now growing late and he having a great desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little sa- loon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. Accordingly, without more ado, he wrung the hawk’s neck and hastily caused a little maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and roast it diligently. Then, the table laid and covered with very white cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was ready, such as it was in his power to provide. Accordingly, the lady and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company with Federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good falcon, unknowing what they did.

Presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that wherefor she was come, turned to Federigo and courteously bespoke him, saying, ‘Federigo, I doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue, which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart; but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou wouldst in part hold me excused. But, although thou hast none, I, who have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need must I, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask of thee a boon, which I know is supremely dear to thee (and that with good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon, whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an I carry it not to him, I fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby I shall lose him. Wherefore I conjure thee,—not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy hath approved itself greater than in any other,—that it please thee give it to me, so by the gift I may say I have kept my son alive and thus made him for ever thy debtor.’

Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: ‘Mad- am, since it pleased God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive myself therefor.’ So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon’s feathers and feet and beak.

The lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor might anywise avail to abate. Then, being put out of all hope of having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son’s recovery, she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter, who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could not have the bird or for that his disorder was e’en fated to bring him to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. After she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction, being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind Federigo’s worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, ‘I would gladly, an it liked you, abide as I am; but, since it is your pleasure that I take a [second] husband, certes I will never take any other, an I have not Federigo degli Alberighi.’ Whereupon her brothers, making mock of her, said ‘Silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? How canst thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?’ ‘Brothers mine,’ answered she, ‘I know very well that it is as you say; but I would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack of a man.’ Her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing Federigo for a man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth, to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with her in joy and solace.”

image 5.11: Portrait of Dante Alighieri | In this depiction, Dante wears a laurel wreath and a rather angry scowl.

Author: Gustave Doré

Source: WikiArt

License: Public Domain

THE DIVINE COMEDY

Dante Alighieri (1265-1321 C.E.)

Composed between 1308- 1321 C.E.

Italy

Durante degli Alighieri, known to us as Dante, called his masterpiece simply La Commedia (The Comedy), not because it is funny, but because it begins sadly and ends happily. It is a deceptively simple title for such a complex and detailed work; as an example, Dante intended the first three lines to be read with four levels of mean- ing (literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical/mystical). Boccaccio, author of The Decameron, added the word “Divine” to the title, both for the subject matter and the quality of the work. In the story, Dante appears as the main character, although this “pilgrim” should not be confused with the author himself: The character has no clue about what is happening, while the author controls all. The Divine Comedy exists because Dante made the switch from writing love lyrics (with the focus on earthly love) to writing about spiritual love after his muse, Beatrice, died during one of the plagues in Florence. Just as Beatrice inspired Dante from afar during life (the two never had a romantic relationship), she becomes after death the angelic inspiration to turn his attention to God. Dante plays with several traditions in his work: It is a Christian epic, where the epic hero does not need to be brave (in fact, he faints several times) as long as he has divine inter- vention; it is a pro-Trojan work, following Virgil’s lead in the Aeneid; and it uses classical imagery and mythology to represent ideas (literally, Cerberus is a three-headed dog from Greek mythology, but he appears on the level of the Gluttonous to represent the concept of gulping down food). Virgil’s influence manifests itself in several other ways: not only as the epic poet who was, according to Dante, his great master, but also as the poet who wrote of the foundation of the Roman Empire. Dante believed that a strong Holy Roman Empire (based in what is now Germany) would lead to the Second Coming of Christ, whose birth came during the original pax Romana (peace of Rome). It makes perfect sense, therefore, that Beatrice would task Virgil with being Dante’s guide until she assumes that duty before the ascent through Heaven. It also would explain the urgency of Dante’s prose; Dante believes that little time is left before the end of the world, so his work attempts to persuade its audience to change their ways now. In the first book, Inferno (Hell), Dante finds ways to represent how the punishment is the crime, often with astonishing creativity; in Purgatorio (Purgatory), Dante describes the way that sins are purged; and in Paradiso (Heaven), Dante displays his knowledge of the arts and sciences of his day. Geographically, Hell is described as a downward funnel, while the island of Purgatory is a funnel leading upward. Earth exists (for Dante) as a globe around which all other heavenly bodies move; Heaven exists in those circles that form around the Earth, with God in the space beyond. Heaven is therefore described both as a rose (with the petals forming the circles) and as a type of stadium, where everyone sits facing out, rather than in. Dante’s goal at the end of the epic is to be granted a vision of God as he looks out into the empyrean.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.5.1 Selections From The Divine Comedy Of Dante Alighieri

License: Public Domain

Dante Alighieri, Translated by Courtney Langdon

Inferno I

Introduction to the Divine Comedy The Wood and the Mountain

image 5.12: inferno: Canto one | Dante flees through a dark forest, pursued by three dangerous animals, a lion, a leopard, and a wolf.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

When half way through the journey of our life

I found that I was in a gloomy wood,

because the path which led aright was lost.

And ah, how hard it is to say just what

this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was,

the very thought of which renews my fear!

So bitter ’t is, that death is little worse;

but of the good to treat which there I found,

I’ll speak of what I else discovered there.

I cannot well say how I entered it,

so full of slumber was I at the moment

when I forsook the pathway of the truth;

but after I had reached a mountain’s foot,

where that vale ended which had pierced my heart

with fear, I looked on high,

and saw its shoulders

mantled already with that planet’s rays

which leadeth one aright o’er every path.

Then quieted a little was the fear,

which in the lake-depths of my heart had lasted

throughout the night I passed so piteously.

And even as he who, from the deep emerged

with sorely troubled breath upon the shore,

turns round, and gazes at the dangerous water;

even so my mind, which still was fleeing on,

turned back to look again upon the pass

which ne’er permitted any one to live.

When I had somewhat eased my weary body,

o’er the lone slope I so resumed my way,

that e’er the lower was my steady foot.

Then lo, not far from where the ascent began,

a Leopard which, exceeding light and swift,

was covered over with a spotted hide,

and from my presence did not move away;

nay, rather, she so hindered my advance,

that more than once I turned me to go back.

Some time had now from early morn elapsed,

and with those very stars the sun was rising

that in his escort were, when Love Divine

in the beginning moved those beauteous things;

I therefore had as cause for hoping well

of that wild beast with gaily mottled skin,

the hour of daytime and the year’s sweet season;

but not so, that I should not fear the sight,

which next appeared before me, of a Lion,

—against me this one seemed to be advancing

with head erect and with such raging hunger,

that even the air seemed terrified thereby—

and of a she-Wolf, which with every lust

seemed in her leanness laden, and had caused

many ere now to lead unhappy lives.

The latter so oppressed me with the fear

that issued from her aspect, that I lost

the hope I had of winning to the top.

And such as he is, who is glad to gain,

and who, when times arrive that make him lose,

weeps and is saddened in his every thought;

such did that peaceless animal make me,

which, ’gainst me coming, pushed me, step by step,

back to the place where silent is the sun.

While toward the lowland I was falling fast,

the sight of one was offered to mine eyes,

who seemed, through long continued silence, weak.

When him in that vast wilderness I saw,

“Have pity on me,” I cried out to him,

“whate’er thou be, or shade, or very man!”

“Not man,” he answered, “I was once a man;

and both my parents were of Lombardy,

and Mantuans with respect to fatherland.

’Neath Julius was I born, though somewhat late,

and under good Augustus’ rule I lived

in Rome, in days of false and lying gods.

I was a poet, and of that just man,

Anchises’ son, I sang, who came from Troy

after proud Ilion had been consumed.

But thou, to such sore trouble why return?

Why climbst thou not the Mountain of Delight,

which is of every joy the source and cause?”

“Art thou that Virgil, then, that fountain-head

which poureth forth so broad a stream of speech?”

I answered him with shame upon my brow.

“O light and glory of the other poets,

let the long study, and the ardent love

which made me con thy book, avail me now.

Thou art my teacher and authority;

thou only art the one from whom I took

the lovely manner which hath done me honor.

Behold the beast on whose account I turned;

from her protect me, O thou famous Sage,

for she makes both my veins and pulses tremble!”

“A different course from this must thou pursue,”

he answered, when he saw me shedding tears,

“if from this wilderness thou wouldst escape;

for this wild beast, on whose account thou criest,

alloweth none to pass along her way,

but hinders him so greatly, that she kills;

and is by nature so malign and guilty,

that never doth she sate her greedy lust,

but after food is hungrier than before.

Many are the animals with which she mates,

and still more will there be, until the Hound

shall come, and bring her to a painful death.

He shall not feed on either land or wealth,

but wisdom, love and power shall be his food,

and ’tween two Feltros shall his birth take place.

Of that low Italy he’ll be the savior,

for which the maid Camilla died of wounds,

with Turnus, Nisus and Eurỳalus.

And he shall drive her out of every town,

till he have put her back again in Hell,

from which the earliest envy sent her forth.

I therefore think and judge it best for thee

to follow me; and I shall be thy guide,

and lead thee hence through an eternal place,

where thou shalt hear the shrieks of hopelessness

of those tormented spirits of old times,

each one of whom bewails the second death;

then those shalt thou behold who, though in fire,

contented are, because they hope to come,

whene’er it be, unto the blessèd folk;

to whom, thereafter, if thou wouldst ascend,

there’ll be for that a worthier soul than I.

With her at my departure I shall leave thee,

because the Emperor who rules up there,

since I was not obedient to His law,

wills none shall come into His town through me.

He rules as emperor everywhere, and there

as king; there is His town and lofty throne.

O happy he whom He thereto elects!”

And I to him: “O Poet, I beseech thee,

even by the God it was not thine to know,

so may I from this ill and worse escape,

conduct me thither where thou saidst just now,

that I may see Saint Peter’s Gate, and those

whom thou describest as so whelmed with woe.”

He then moved on, and I behind him kept.

Inferno II

Introduction to the Inferno

The Mission of Virgil

Daylight was going, and the dusky air

was now releasing from their weary toil

all living things on earth; and I alone

was making ready to sustain the war

both of the road and of the sympathy,

which my unerring memory will relate.

O Muses, O high Genius, help me now!

O Memory, that wrotest what I saw,

herewith shall thy nobility appear!

I then began: “Consider, Poet, thou

that guidest me, if strong my virtue be,

or e’er thou trust me to the arduous course.

Thou sayest that the sire of Silvio entered,

when still corruptible, the immortal world,

and that while in his body he was there.

Hence, that to him the Opponent of all ill

was courteous, considering the great result

that was to come from him, both who, and what,

seems not unfitting to a thoughtful man;

for he of fostering Rome and of her sway

in the Empyrean Heaven was chosen as sire;

and both of these, if one would tell the truth,

were foreordained unto the holy place,

where greatest Peter’s follower hath his seat.

While on this quest, for which thou giv’st him praise,

he heard the things which of his victory

the causes were, and of the Papal Robe.

The Chosen Vessel went there afterward,

to bring thence confirmation in the faith,

through which one enters on salvation’s path.

But why should I go there, or who concedes it?

I’m not Aeneas, nor yet Paul am I;

me worthy of this, nor I nor others deem.

If, therefore, I consent to come, I fear

lest foolish be my coming; thou art wise,

and canst much better judge than I can talk.”

And such as he who unwills what he willed,

and changes so his purpose through new thoughts,

that what he had begun he wholly leaves;

such on that gloomy slope did I become;

for, as I thought it over, I gave up

the enterprise so hastily commenced.

“If I have rightly understood thy words,”

replied the shade of that Great-hearted man,

“thy soul is hurt by shameful cowardice,

image 5.13: inferno: Canto Two | The Ro- man poet Virgil explains that he has been sent to guide Dante through the underworld.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

which many times so sorely hinders one,

that from an honored enterprise it turns him,

as seeing falsely doth a shying beast.

In order that thou rid thee of this fear,

I’ll tell thee why I came, and what I heard

the first time I was grieved on thy account.

Among the intermediate souls I was,

when me a Lady called, so beautiful

and happy, that I begged her to command.

Her eyes were shining brighter than a star,

when sweetly and softly she began to say,

as with an angel’s voice she spoke to me:

‘O courteous Mantuan spirit, thou whose fame

is still enduring in the world above,

and will endure as long as lasts the world,

a friend of mine, but not a friend of Fortune,

is on his journey o’er the lonely slope

obstructed so, that he hath turned through fear;

and, from what I have heard of him in Heaven,

I fear lest he may now have strayed so far,

that I have risen too late to give him help.

Bestir thee, then, and with thy finished speech,

and with whatever his escape may need,

assist him so that I may be consoled.

I, who now have thee go, am Beatrice;

thence come I, whither I would fain return;

’t was love that moved me, love that makes me speak.

When in the presence of my Lord again,

often shall I commend thee unto Him.’

Thereat she ceased to speak, and I began:

‘O Lady of virtue, thou through whom alone

the human race excels all things contained

within the heaven that hath the smallest circles,

thy bidding pleases me so much, that late

I’d be, hadst thou already been obeyed;

thou needst but to disclose to me thy will.

But tell me why thou dost not mind descending

into this center from that ample place,

whither thou art so eager to return.’

‘Since thou wouldst know thereof so inwardly,

I’ll tell thee briefly,’ she replied to me,

‘why I am not afraid to enter here.

Of those things only should one be afraid,

that have the power of doing injury;

not of the rest, for they should not be feared.

I, of His mercy, am so made by God,

that me your wretchedness doth not affect,

nor any flame of yonder fire molest.

There is a Gentle Lady up in Heaven,

who grieves so at this check, whereto I send thee,

that broken is stern judgment there above.

She called Lucìa in her prayer, and said:

‘Now hath thy faithful servant need of thee,

and I, too, recommend him to thy care.’

Lucìa, hostile to all cruelty,

set forth thereat, and came unto the place,

where I with ancient Rachel had my seat.

‘Why, Beatrice,’ she said, ‘true Praise of God,

dost thou not succour him who loved thee so,

that for thy sake he left the common herd?

Dost thou not hear the anguish of his cry?

see’st not the death that fights him on the flood,

o’er which the sea availeth not to boast?

Ne’er were there any in the world so swift

to seek their profit and avoid their loss,

as I, after such words as these were uttered,

descended hither from my blessèd seat,

confiding in that noble speech of thine,

which honors thee and whosoe’er has heard it.’

Then, after she had spoken to me thus,

weeping she turned her shining eyes away;

which made me hasten all the more to come;

and, even as she wished, I came to thee,

and led thee from the presence of the beast,

which robbed thee of the fair Mount’s short approach.

What is it, then? Why, why dost thou hold back?

Why dost thou lodge such baseness in thy heart,

and wherefore free and daring art thou not,

since three so blessèd Ladies care for thee

within the court of Heaven, and my words, too,

give thee the promise of so much that’s good?”

As little flowers by the chill of night

bowed down and closed, when brightened by the sun,

stand all erect and open on their stems;

so likewise with my wearied strength did I;

and such good daring coursed into my heart,

that I began as one who had been freed:

“O piteous she who hastened to my help,

and courteous thou, that didst at once obey

the words of truth that she addressed to thee!

Thou hast with such desire disposed my heart

toward going on, by reason of thy words,

that to my first intention I’ve returned.

Go on now, since we two have but one will;

thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Teacher thou!”

I thus addressed him; then, when he had moved,

I entered on the wild and arduous course.

Inferno III

The Gate and Vestibule of Hell Cowards and Neutrals. Acheron

Through me one goes into the town of woe,

through me one goes into eternal pain,

through me among the people that are lost.

Justice inspired my high exalted Maker;

I was created by the Might divine,

the highest Wisdom and the primal Love.

Before me there was naught created, save

eternal things, and I eternal last;

all hope abandon, ye that enter here!

These words of gloomy color I beheld

inscribed upon the summit of a gate;

whence I: “Their meaning, Teacher, troubles me.”

And he to me, like one aware, replied:

“All fearfulness must here be left behind;

all forms of cowardice must here be dead.

We’ve reached the place where, as I said to thee,

thou’lt see the sad folk who have lost the Good

which is the object of the intellect.”

Then, after he had placed his hand in mine

with cheerful face, whence I was comforted,

he led me in among the hidden things.

There sighs and wails and piercing cries of woe

reverberated through the starless air;

hence I, at first, shed tears of sympathy.

Strange languages, and frightful forms of speech,

words caused by pain, accents of anger, voices

both loud and faint, and smiting hands withal,

a mighty tumult made, which sweeps around

forever in that timelessly dark air,

as sand is wont, whene’er a whirlwind blows.

And I, whose head was girt about with horror,

said: “Teacher, what is this I hear? What folk

is this, that seems so overwhelmed with woe?”

And he to me: “This wretched kind of life

the miserable spirits lead of those

who lived with neither infamy nor praise.

Commingled are they with that worthless choir

of Angels who did not rebel, nor yet

were true to God, but sided with themselves.

The heavens, in order not to be less fair,

expelled them; nor doth nether Hell receive them,

because the bad would get some glory thence.”

And I: “What is it, Teacher, grieves them so,

it causes them so loudly to lament?”

“I’ll tell thee very briefly,” he replied.

“These have no hope of death, and so low down

is this unseeing life of theirs, that envious

they are of every other destiny.

The world allows no fame of them to live;

Mercy and Justice hold them in contempt.

Let us not talk of them; but look, and pass!”

And I, who gazed intently, saw a flag,

which, whirling, moved so swiftly that to me

contemptuous it appeared of all repose;

and after it there came so long a line

of people, that I never would have thought

that death so great a number had undone.

When some I’d recognized, I saw and knew

the shade of him who through his cowardice

the great Refusal made. I understood

immediately, and was assured that this

the band of cowards was, who both to God

displeasing are, and to His enemies.

These wretched souls, who never were alive,

were naked, and were sorely spurred to action

by means of wasps and hornets that were there.

The latter streaked their faces with their blood,

which, after it had mingled with their tears,

was at their feet sucked up by loathsome worms.

When I had given myself to peering further,

people I saw upon a great stream’s bank;

I therefore said: “Now, Teacher, grant to me

that I may know who these are, and what law

makes them appear so eager to cross over,

as in this dim light I perceive they are.”

And he to me: “These things will be made clear

to thee, as soon as on the dismal strand

of Acheron we shall have stayed our steps.”

Thereat, with shame-suffused and downcast eyes,

and fearing lest my talking might annoy him,

up to the river I abstained from speech.

Behold then, coming toward us in a boat,

an agèd man, all white with ancient hair,

who shouted: “Woe to you, ye souls depraved!

Give up all hope of ever seeing Heaven!

I come to take you to the other shore,

into eternal darkness, heat and cold.

And thou that yonder art, a living soul,

withdraw thee from those fellows that are dead.”

But when he saw that I did not withdraw,

he said: “By other roads and other ferries

shalt thou attain a shore to pass across,

not here; a lighter boat must carry thee.”

To him my Leader: “Charon, be not vexed;

thus is it yonder willed, where there is power

to do whate’er is willed; so ask no more!”

Thereat were quieted the woolly cheeks

of that old boatman of the murky swamp,

who round about his eyes had wheels of flame.

Those spirits, though, who nude and weary were,

their color changed, and gnashed their teeth together,

as soon as they had heard the cruel words.

They kept blaspheming God, and their own parents,

the human species, and the place, and time,

and seed of their conception and their birth.

Then each and all of them drew on together,

weeping aloud, to that accursèd shore

which waits for every man that fears not God.

Charon, the demon, with his ember eyes

makes beckoning signs to them, collects them all,

and with his oar beats whoso takes his ease.

Even as in autumn leaves detach themselves,

now one and now another, till their branch

sees all its stripped off clothing on the ground;

so, one by one, the evil seed of Adam

cast themselves down that river-bank at signals,

as doth a bird to its recalling lure.

Thus o’er the dusky waves they wend their way;

and ere they land upon the other side,

another crowd collects again on this.

“My son,” the courteous Teacher said to me,

“all those that perish in the wrath of God

from every country come together here;

and eager are to pass across the stream,

because Justice Divine so spurs them on,

that what was fear is turned into desire.

A good soul never goes across from hence;

if Charon, therefore, findeth fault with thee,

well canst thou now know what his words imply.”

The darkling plain, when this was ended, quaked

so greatly, that the memory of my terror

bathes me even now with sweat.

The tear-stained ground

gave forth a wind, whence flashed vermilion light

which in me overcame all consciousness;

and down I fell like one whom sleep o’ertakes.

Inferno IV

The First Circle. The Borderland Unbaptized Worthies. Illustrious Pagans

A heavy thunder-clap broke the deep sleep

within my head, so that I roused myself,

as would a person who is waked by force;

and standing up erect, my rested eyes

I moved around, and with a steady gaze

I looked about to know where I might be.

Truth is I found myself upon the verge

of pain’s abysmal valley, which collects

the thunder-roll of everlasting woes.

So dark it was, so deep and full of mist,

that, howsoe’er I gazed into its depths,

nothing at all did I discern therein.

“Into this blind world let us now descend!”

the Poet, who was death-like pale, began,

“I will be first, and thou shalt second be.”

And I, who of his color was aware,

said: “How am I to come, if thou take fright,

who ’rt wont to be my comfort when afraid?”

“The anguish of the people here below,”

he said to me, “brings out upon my face

the sympathy which thou dost take for fear.

Since our long journey drives us, let us go!”

Thus he set forth, and thus he had me enter

the first of circles girding the abyss.

Therein, as far as one could judge by list’ning,

there was no lamentation, saving sighs

which caused a trembling in the eternal air;

and this came from the grief devoid of torture

felt by the throngs, which many were and great,

of infants and of women and of men.

To me then my good Teacher: “Dost not ask

what spirits these are whom thou seest here?

Now I would have thee know, ere thou go further,

that these sinned not; and though they merits have,

’t is not enough, for they did not have baptism,

the gateway of the creed believed by thee;

and if before Christianity they lived,

they did not with due worship honor God;

and one of such as these am I myself.

For such defects, and for no other guilt,

we’re lost, and only hurt to this extent,

that, in desire, we live deprived of hope.”

Great sorrow filled my heart on hearing this,

because I knew of people of great worth,

who in that Borderland suspended were.

“Tell me, my Teacher, tell me, thou my Lord,”

I then began, through wishing to be sure

about the faith which conquers every error;

“came any ever, by his own deserts,

or by another’s, hence, who then was blest?”

And he, who understood my covert speech,

replied: “To this condition I was come

but newly, when I saw a Mighty One

come here, crowned with the sign of victory.

From hence He drew the earliest parent’s shade,

and that of his son, Abel, that of Noah,

and Moses the law-giver and obedient;

Abram the patriarch, and David king,

Israel, with both his father and his sons,

and Rachel, too, for whom he did so much,

and many others; and He made them blest;

and I would have thee know that, earlier

than these, there were no human spirits saved.”

Because he talked we ceased not moving on,

but all the while were passing through the wood,

the wood, I mean, of thickly crowded shades.

Nor far this side of where I fell asleep

had we yet gone, when I beheld a fire,

which overcame a hemisphere of gloom.

Somewhat away from it we were as yet,

but not so far, but I could dimly see

that honorable people held that place.

“O thou that honorest both art and science,

who are these people that such honor have,

that it divides them from the others’ life?”

And he to me: “The honorable fame,

which speaks of them in thy live world above,

in Heaven wins grace, which thus advances them.”

And hereupon a voice was heard by me:

“Do honor to the loftiest of poets!

his shade, which had departed, now returns.”

And when the voice had ceased and was at rest,

four mighty shades I saw approaching us;

their looks were neither sorrowful nor glad.

My kindly Teacher then began to say:

“Look at the one who comes with sword in hand

before the three, as if their lord he were.

Homer he is, the sovreign poet; Horace,

the satirist, the one that cometh next;

the third is Ovid, Lucan is the last.

Since each of them in common shares with me

the title which the voice of one proclaimed,

they do me honor, and therein do well.”

Thus gathered I beheld the fair assembly

of those the masters of the loftiest song,

which soareth like an eagle o’er the rest.

Then, having talked among themselves awhile,

they turned around to me with signs of greeting;

and, when he noticed this, my Teacher smiled.

And even greater honor still they did me,

for one of their own company they made me,

so that amid such wisdom I was sixth.

Thus on we went as far as to the light,

talking of things whereof is silence here

becoming, even as speech was, where we spoke.

We reached a noble Castle’s foot, seven times

encircled by high walls, and all around

defended by a lovely little stream.

This last we crossed as if dry land it were;

through seven gates with these sages I went in,

and to a meadow of fresh grass we came.

There people were with slow and serious eyes,

and, in their looks, of great authority;

they spoke but seldom and with gentle voice.

We therefore to one side of it drew back

into an open place so luminous

and high, that each and all could be perceived.

There on the green enamel opposite

were shown to me the spirits of the great,

for seeing whom I glory in myself.

I saw Electra with companions many,

of whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas,

and Caesar armed, with shining falcon eyes.

I saw Camilla with Penthesilea

upon the other side, and King Latinus,

who with Lavinia, his own daughter, sat.

I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin out,

Lucretia, Julia, Martia and Cornelia,

and, all alone, I saw the Saladin.

Then, having raised my brows a little higher,

the Teacher I beheld of those that know,

seated amid a philosophic group.

They all look up to him, all honor him;

there Socrates and Plato I beheld,

who nearer than the rest are at his side;

Democritus, who thinks the world chance-born,

Diogenes, Anaxagoras and Thales,

Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno;

of qualities I saw the good collector,

Dioscorides I mean; Orpheus I saw,

Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca;

Euclid, the geometer, and Ptolemy,

Hippocrates, Avicenna, Galen,

Averrhoès, who made the famous comment.

I cannot speak of all of them in full,

because my long theme drives me on so fast,

that oft my words fall short of what I did.

The sixfold band now dwindles down to two;

my wise Guide leads me by a different path

out of the calm into the trembling air;

and to a place I come, where naught gives light.

Inferno V

The Second Circle. Sexual Intemperance The Lascivious and Adulterers

Thus from the first of circles I went down

into the second, which surrounds less space,

and all the greater pain, which goads to wailing.

There Minos stands in horrid guise, and snarls;

inside the entrance he examines sins,

judges, and, as he girds himself, commits.

I mean that when an ill-born soul appears

before him, it confesses itself wholly;

and thereupon that Connoisseur of sins

perceives what place in Hell belongs to it,

and girds him with his tail as many times,

as are the grades he wishes it sent down.

Before him there are always many standing;

they go to judgment, each one in his turn;

they speak and hear, and then are downward hurled.

“O thou that comest to the inn of woe,” s

aid Minos, giving up, on seeing me,

the execution of so great a charge,

“see how thou enter, and in whom thou put

thy trust; let not the gate-way’s width deceive thee!”

To him my Leader: “Why dost thou, too, cry?

Hinder thou not his fate-ordained advance;

thus is it yonder willed, where there is power

to do whate’er is willed; so ask no more!”

And now the woeful sounds of actual pain

begin to break upon mine ears; I now

am come to where much wailing smiteth me.

I reached a region silent of all light,

which bellows as the sea doth in a storm,

if lashed and beaten by opposing winds.

The infernal hurricane, which never stops,

carries the spirits onward with its sweep,

and, as it whirls and smites them, gives them pain.

Whene’er they come before the shattered rock,

there lamentations, moans and shrieks are heard;

there, cursing, they blaspheme the Power Divine.

I understood that to this kind of pain

are doomed those carnal sinners, who subject

their reason to their sensual appetite.

And as their wings bear starlings on their way,

when days are cold, in full and wide-spread flocks;

so doth that blast the evil spirits bear;

this way and that, and up and down it leads them;

nor only doth no hope of rest, but none

of lesser suffering, ever comfort them.

And even as cranes move on and sing their lays,

forming the while a long line in the air;

thus saw I coming, uttering cries of pain,

shades borne along upon the aforesaid storm;

I therefore said: “Who, Teacher, are the people

the gloomy air so cruelly chastises?”

“The first of those of whom thou wouldst have news,”

the latter thereupon said unto me,

“was empress over lands of many tongues.

To sexual vice so wholly was she given,

that lust she rendered lawful in her laws,

thus to remove the blame she had incurred.

Semiramis she is, of whom one reads

that she gave suck to Ninus, and became

his wife; she held the land the Soldan rules.

The next is she who killed herself through love,

and to Sichaeus’ ashes broke her faith;

the lustful Cleopatra follows her.

See Helen, for whose sake so long a time

of guilt rolled by, and great Achilles see,

who fought with love when at the end of life.

Paris and Tristan see;” and then he showed me,

and pointed out by name, a thousand shades

and more, whom love had from our life cut off.

When I had heard my Leader speak the names

of ladies and their knights of olden times,

pity o’ercame me, and I almost swooned.

“Poet,” I then began, “I’d gladly talk

with those two yonder who together go,

and seem to be so light upon the wind.”

“Thou’lt see thy chance when nearer us they are;”

said he, “beseech them then by that same love

which leadeth them along, and they will come.”

Soon as the wind toward us had bent their course.

I cried: “O toil-worn souls, come speak with us,

so be it that One Else forbid it not!”

As doves, when called by their desire, come flying

with raised and steady pinions through the air

to their sweet nest, borne on by their own will;

so from the band where Dido is they issued,

advancing through the noisome air toward us,

so strong with love the tone of my appeal.

“O thou benign and gracious living creature,

that goest through the gloomy purple air

to visit us, who stained the world blood-red;

if friendly were the universal King,

for thy peace would we pray to Him, since pity

thou showest for this wretched woe of ours.

Of whatsoever it may please you hear

and speak, we will both hear and speak with you,

while yet, as now it is, the wind is hushed.

The town where I was born sits on the shore,

whither the Po descends to be at peace

together with the streams that follow him.

Love, which soon seizes on a well-born heart,

seized him for that fair body’s sake, whereof

I was deprived; and still the way offends me.

Love, which absolves from loving none that’s loved,

seized me so strongly for his love of me,

that, as thou see’st, it doth not leave me yet.

Love to a death in common led us on;

Cain’s ice awaiteth him who quenched our life.”

These words were wafted down to us from them.

When I had heard those sorely troubled souls,

I bowed my head, and long I held it low,

until the Poet said: “What thinkest thou?”

When I made answer I began: “Alas!

how many tender thoughts and what desire

induced these souls to take the woeful step!”

I then turned back to them again and spoke,

and I began: “Thine agonies, Francesca,

cause me to weep with grief and sympathy.

But tell me: at the time of tender sighs,

whereby and how did Love concede to you

that ye should know each other’s veiled desires?”

And she to me: “There is no greater pain

than to remember happy days in days

of misery; and this thy Leader knows.

But if to know the first root of our love

so yearning a desire possesses thee,

I’ll do as one who weepeth while he speaks.

One day, for pastime merely, we were reading

of Launcelot, and how love o’erpowered him;

alone we were, and free from all misgiving.

Oft did that reading cause our eyes to meet,

and often take the color from our faces;

and yet one passage only overcame us.

When we had read of how the longed-for smile

was kissed by such a lover, this one here,

who nevermore shall be divided from me,

trembling all over, kissed me on my mouth.

A Gallehault the book, and he who wrote it! N

o further in it did we read that day.”

While one was saying this, the other spirit

so sorely wept, that out of sympathy

I swooned away as though about to die,

and fell as falls a body that is dead.

Inferno VI

The Third Circle. Intemperance in Food Gluttons

On my return to consciousness, which closed

before the kindred couple’s piteous case,

which utterly confounded me with grief,

new torments all around me I behold,

and new tormented ones, where’er I move,

where’er I turn, and wheresoe’er I gaze.

In the third circle am I, that of rain

eternal, cursèd, cold and burdensome;

its measure and quality are never new.

Coarse hail, and snow, and dirty-colored water

through the dark air are ever pouring down;

and foully smells the ground receiving them.

A wild beast, Cerberus, uncouth and cruel,

is barking with three throats, as would a dog,

over the people that are there submerged.

Red eyes he hath, a dark and greasy beard,

a belly big, and talons on his hands;

he claws the spirits, flays and quarters them.

The rainfall causes them to howl like dogs;

with one side they make shelter for the other;

oft do the poor profaners turn about.

When Cerberus, the mighty worm, perceived us,

his mouths he opened, showing us his fangs;

nor had he any limb that he kept still.

My Leader then stretched out his opened palms,

and took some earth, and with his fists well filled,

he threw it down into the greedy throats.

And like a dog that, barking, yearns for food,

and, when he comes to bite it, is appeased,

since only to devour it doth he strain

and fight; even such became those filthy faces

of demon Cerberus, who, thundering, stuns

the spirits so, that they would fain be deaf.

Over the shades the heavy rain beats down

we then were passing, as our feet we set

upon their unreal bodies which seem real.

They each and all were lying on the ground,

excepting one, which rose and sat upright,

when it perceived us pass in front of it.

“O thou that through this Hell art being led,”

it said to me, “recall me, if thou canst;

for thou, before I unmade was, wast made.”

And I to it: “The anguish thou art in

perchance withdraws thee from my memory so,

it doth not seem that thee I ever saw.

But tell me who thou art, that in so painful

a place art set, and to such punishment,

that none, though greater, so repulsive is.”

And he to me: “Thy town, which is so full

of envy that the bag o’erflows already,

owned me when I was in the peaceful life.

Ciacco, you townsmen used to call me then;

for my injurious fault of gluttony

I’m broken, as thou seest, by the rain;

nor yet am I, sad soul, the only one,

for all these here are subject, for like fault,

unto like pain.” Thereat he spoke no more.

“Thy trouble, Ciacco,” I replied to him,

“so burdens me that it invites my tears;

but tell me, if thou canst, to what will come

the citizens of our divided town;

if any one therein is just; and tell me

the reason why such discord hath assailed her.”

And he to me then: “After struggling long

they’ll come to bloodshed, and the boorish party

will drive the other out with much offence.

Then, afterward, the latter needs must fall

within three suns, and the other party rise,

by help of one who now is ‘on the fence.’

A long time will it hold its forehead up,

keeping the other under grievous weights,

howe’er it weep therefor, and be ashamed.

Two men are just, but are not heeded there;

the three sparks that have set men’s hearts on fire,

are overweening pride, envy and greed.”

Herewith he closed his tear-inspiring speech.

And I to him: “I’d have thee teach me still,

and grant the favor of some further talk.

Farinàta and Tegghiàio, who so worthy were,

Jàcopo Rusticùcci, Arrigo and Mosca,

and the others who were set on doing good,

tell me where these are, and let me know of them;

for great desire constraineth me to learn

if Heaven now sweeten, or Hell poison them.”

And he: “Among the blackest souls are these;

a different fault weighs toward the bottom each;

if thou descend so far, thou mayst behold them.

But when in the sweet world thou art again,

recall me, prithee, unto others’ minds;

I tell no more, nor further answer thee.”

His fixed eyes thereupon he turned askance;

a while he looked at me, then bowed his head,

and fell therewith among the other blind.

Then said my Leader: “He’ll not wake again

on this side of the angel-trumpet’s sound.

What time the hostile Podestà shall come,

each soul will find again its dismal tomb,

each will take on again its flesh and shape,

and hear what through eternity resounds.”

We thus passed through with slowly moving steps

the filthy mixture of the shades and rain,

talking a little of the future life;

because of which I said: “These torments, Teacher,

after the Final Sentence will they grow,

or less become, or burn the same as now.”

And he to me: “Return thou to thy science,

which holdeth that the more a thing is perfect,

so much the more it feels of weal or woe.

Although this cursèd folk shall nevermore

arrive at true perfection, it expects

to be more perfect after, than before.”

As in a circle, round that road we went,

speaking at greater length than I repeat,

and came unto a place where one descends;

there found we Plutus, the great enemy.

Inferno VII

The Fourth Circle. Intemperance in Wealth Misers and Prodigals. The Fifth Circle

“Papè Satàn, papè Satàn, alèppë!”

thus Plutus with his clucking voice began;

that noble Sage, then, who knew everything,

said, to encourage me: “Let not thy fear

distress thee, for, whatever power he have,

he’ll not prevent our going down this rock.”

Then to those swollen lips he turned around,

and said: “Be silent, thou accursèd wolf;

with thine own rage consume thyself within!

Not causeless is our going to the bottom;

there is it willed on high, where Michael wrought

vengeance upon the arrogant rebellion.”

As sails, when swollen by the wind, fall down

entangled, when the mast breaks; even so,

down to the ground the cruel monster fell.

Into the fourth ditch we descended thus,

advancing further o’er the woeful edge,

which bags all evil in the universe.

Justice of God, alas! who heapeth up

the many unheard of toils and pains I saw,

and wherefore doth our sin torment us so?

As yonder o’er Charybdis doth the sea,

which breaks against the one it runs to meet,

so must the people dance a ring-dance here.

I here saw folk, more numerous than elsewhere,

on one side and the other, with great howls

rolling big weights around by strength of chest;

they struck against each other; then, right there

each turned, and rolling back his weight, cried out:

“Why keepest thou?” and “Wherefore throw away?”

They circled thus around the gloomy ring

on either hand unto the point opposed,

still shouting each to each their vile refrain;

then each turned back, when through his own half-ring

he had attained the other butting place.

And I, whose heart was well nigh broken, said:

“Now, Teacher, show me who these people are,

and tell me whether all these tonsured ones

upon our left ecclesiastics were.”

And he replied to me: “They each and all

were in their first life so squint-eyed in mind,

that they with measure used no money there.

Clearly enough their voices bark it forth,

whene’er they reach the two points of the ring,

where difference in fault unmateth them.

These churchmen were, who have no hairy covering u

pon their heads, and Popes and Cardinals,

among whom avarice works its mastery.”

And I to him: “Among such men as these

I surely, Teacher, ought to recognize

a few, who by these sins polluted were.”

And he to me: “Thou shapest a vain thought;

the undiscerning life which made them foul,

now to all recognition makes them dark.

To these two shocks they’ll come eternally;

these from the sepulchre will rise again

close-fisted; these, shorn of their very hair.

Ill-giving and ill-keeping took from them

the lovely world, and set them at this fray;

to qualify it I’ll not use fair words.

Now canst thou, son, behold the short-lived cheat

of riches that are put in Fortune’s care,

and for whose sake the human race contends;

for, all the gold there is beneath the moon,

and all that was there once, could not avail

to make one of these weary spirits rest.”

“Teacher,” said I to him, “now tell me further:

what is this Fortune thou dost touch upon,

which hath the world’s good things thus in her claws?”

“O foolish creatures,” said he then to me.

“how great the ignorance which hurteth you!

I’d have thee swallow now my thought of her.

The One whose knowledge everything transcends,

so made the heavens, and so gave guides to them,

that every part on every other shines,

thus equally distributing the light;

likewise for worldly splendours He ordained

a general minister and guide, to change,

from time to time, the vain goods of the world

from race to race, from one blood to another,

past all resistance by the minds of men;

wherefore, one people governs, and the other

declines in power, according to her judgment,

which hidden is, as in the grass a snake.

Your knowledge is not able to resist her;

foreseeing, she decides, and carries on

her government, as theirs the other gods.

Her permutations have no truce at all;

necessity compels her to be swift;

hence oft it happens that a change occurs.

This is the one who is so often cursed

even by those who ought to give her praise,

yet give her blame amiss, and ill repute.

But she is blest, and gives no heed to that;

among the other primal creatures glad,

she turns her sphere, and blest enjoys herself.

But now to woe more piteous let’s descend;

now falls each star that rose when I set out,

and one is here forbidden too long a stay.”

We crossed the circle to the other bank

over a bubbling stream, that poureth down

along a ditch which from it takes its shape.

Than purple-black much darker was its water;

and we, accompanying its dusky waves,

went down and entered on an uncouth path.

A swamp it forms which hath the name of Styx,

this dismal little brook, when it hath reached

the bottom of the grey, malignant slopes.

And I, who was intensely gazing there,

saw muddy people in that slimy marsh,

all naked, and with anger in their looks.

They struck each other, not with hands alone,

but with their heads and chests, and with their feet,

and rent each other piecemeal with their teeth.

Said the good Teacher: “Son, thou seest now

the souls of those whom anger overcame;

nay, more, I’d have thee certainly believe

that ’neath the water there are folk who sigh,

and make this water bubble at its surface,

as, wheresoe’er it turn, thine eye reveals.

Stuck in the slime, they say: “Sullen we were

in the sweet air that’s gladdened by the sun,

bearing within us fumes of surliness;

we now are sullen in the swamp’s black mire.”

This hymn they gurgle down inside their throats,

because they cannot utter it with perfect speech.

And so we circled round the filthy fen

a great arc ’tween the dry bank and the marsh,

our eyes intent on those that swallow mud;

and to a tower’s foot we came at last.

Inferno VIII

The Fifth Circle. Intemperance in Indignation The Wrathful and Sullen. Styx. The City of Dis

I say, continuing, that long before

we ever reached the lofty tower’s foot,

our eyes had upward toward its summit turned,

because of two small flames we there saw placed,

and of another answering from so far,

that hardly could mine eyesight make it out.

Then to all wisdom’s Sea I turned around,

and said: “What sayeth this? and what replies

that other fire? and who are they that made it?”

And he to me: “Upon the filthy waves

thou canst already see what is expected,

unless the marsh’s fog conceal it from thee.”

Bowstring ne’er shot an arrow from itself,

that sped away so swiftly through the air,

as I beheld a slender little boat

come toward us through the water thereupon,

under the guidance of a single boatman,

who shouted: “Thou art caught now, wicked soul!”

“O Phlegyas, Phlegyas,” said my Master then,

“this time thou criest out in vain! No longer

shalt thou have us, than while we cross the swamp.”

Like one who listens to a great deceit

practiced upon him, and who then resents it,

so Phlegyas in his stifled wrath became.

My Leader then went down into the boat,

and had me enter after him; and only

when I was in it did it laden seem.

Soon as my Leader and I were in the boat,

the ancient prow goes on its way, and cuts

more water than with others is its wont.

While we were speeding through the stagnant

trench, one stood before me filled with mud, and said:

“Now who art thou, that comest ere thy time?”

And I to him: “Even though I come, I stay not;

but who art thou, that art become so foul?”

He answered: “As thou see’st, I’m one who weeps.”

Then I to him: “In sorrow and in grief

mayst thou, accursèd spirit, here remain,

for thee I know, all filthy though thou be!”

Then toward the boat he stretched out both his

hands; my wary Teacher, therefore, thrust him off,

saying: “Away there with the other dogs!”

And with his arms he then embraced my neck,

and kissed my face, and said: “Blessèd be she

who pregnant was with thee, indignant soul!

He was a haughty person in the world;

nor is there any goodness which adorns

his memory; hence his shade is furious here.

How many now up yonder think themselves

great kings, who here shall be like pigs in mire,

leaving behind them horrible contempt!”

And I said: “Teacher, I’d be greatly pleased

to see him get a ducking in this broth,

before we issue from the marshy lake.”

And he to me: “Thou shalt be satisfied

before the shore reveal itself to thee;

’t is meet that thou enjoy a wish like that.”

Soon after this I saw the muddy people

making such havoc of him, that therefor

I still give praise and render thanks to God.

They all were shouting: “At Filippo Argenti!”

the spirit of the wrathful Florentine

turning, meanwhile, his teeth against himself.

We left him there; of him I therefore tell

no more; but on mine ears there smote a wail,

hence I, intent ahead, unbar mine eyes.

The kindly Teacher said: “Now, son, at last

the town, whose name is Dis, is drawing near

with all its host of burdened citizens.”

And I said: “Teacher, clearly I behold

its mosques already in that valley there,

vermilion, as if issuing out of fire.”

And he to me: “The eternal fire within

which keeps them burning, maketh them look red,

as thou perceivest in this nether Hell.”

Thereat we came inside the trenches deep,

which fortify that region comfortless;

to me its walls appeared to be of iron.

Not without going first a long way round,

we came to where the boatman cried aloud

to us: “Get out, for here the entrance is!”

More than a thousand o’er the gates I saw

of those that from the heavens had rained, who, vexed,

were saying: “Who is he, that, without death,

is going through the kingdom of the dead?”

And my wise Teacher thereupon made signs

of wishing to have private talk with them.

Their great disdain they somewhat checked, and said:

“Come thou alone, and let him go his way,

who with such daring entered this domain.

Let him retrace alone his foolish road,

and try it, if he can; for thou shalt here

remain, that him so dark a land didst show.”

Think, Reader, whether I lost heart on hearing

those cursèd words; for I did not believe

that I should e’er return on earth again.

“O my dear Leader, who hast made me safe

more than seven times, and extricated me

from serious dangers which I had to face,

forsake me not,” said I, “when so undone!

If further progress be denied to us,

let us at once retrace our steps together.”

That Lord then, who had brought me thither, said:

“Be not afraid; for none can take from us

our passage, since by such an One ’t is given!

But thou, await me here, and with good hope

nourish and comfort thou thy weary soul,

for I’ll not leave thee in the nether world.”

Thus goes his way, and there abandons me,

my tender Father, and I in doubt remain;

for Yes and No contend within my head.

I could not hear what he proposed to them;

but with them there he did not long remain,

for each in rivalry ran back within.

They closed the gates, those enemies of ours,

right in my Master’s face, who stayed outside,

and walking with slow steps returned to me.

His eyes were downcast, and his eyebrows shorn

of all self-trust, and as he sighed he said:

“Who has forbidden me the homes of pain?”

“Though I get angry, be not thou dismayed,”

he said to me, “for I shall win the fight,

whate’er defensive stir be made within.

This insolence of theirs is nothing new,

for at a gateway less concealed than this

they used it once, which still is lockless found.

Death’s scroll thou sawest over it; and now

this side of it One such descends the slope,

crossing the rings unguided, that through him

the city will be opened unto us.”

Inferno IX

The Gate of the City of Dis The Sixth Circle. Heresy

The color cowardice brought out on me,

who saw my Leader coming back, the sooner

repressed in him his unaccustomed hue.

He stopped attentive like a man who listens;

because his eyesight could not lead him far

through the dark air, and through the heavy fog.

“Yet we must win the battle,” he began,

“unless One such did offer us herself!

Oh, how I long for some one to arrive!”

I well perceived how, when he overlaid

what he began to say by what came after,

that these were words that differed from the first.

But none the less his language gave me fear,

because I lent to his unfinished phrase

a meaning worse, perhaps, than he intended.

“Into this bottom of the dismal shell

doth any of that first grade e’er descend,

whose only penalty is hope cut off?”

I asked this question. He replied to me:

“It seldom comes to pass that one of us

performs the journey whereupon I go.

’T is true that I was conjured once before

down here by magic of that wild Erìchtho,

who used to call shades back into their bodies.

My flesh had hardly been made bare of me,

when me she forced to enter yonder wall,

and thence withdraw a soul from Judas’ ring.

That is the lowest and the darkest place,

and from the heaven that turns all things most distant;

well do I know the road; so be at rest!

This marsh, from which the mighty stench exhales,

girdles the woeful city round about,

which without wrath we cannot enter now.”

And more he said, but I recall it not,

because mine eye had made me wholly heed

the glowing summit of the lofty tower,

where three infernal Furies stained with blood

had suddenly uprisen all at once,

having the members and the mien of women,

and girt with water-snakes of brightest green;

for hair they had small serpents and horned snakes,

wherewith their frightful temples were entwined.

And he, who well the handmaids of the Queen

of everlasting lamentation knew,

said unto me: “Behold the fierce Erìnyes!

This is Megaera here upon the left;

Alecto, she who weepeth on the right;

Tisìphonë’s between.” Thereat he ceased.

Each with her nails was tearing at her breast;

they smote them with their hands, and cried so loud,

that to the Poet I drew close in dread.

“Now let Medusa come! We’ll turn him thus

to stone!” they all cried out, as down they looked;

“wrong were we not to punish Theseus’ raid.”

“Turn back, and close thine eyes, for should the Gorgon

reveal itself, and thou behold the face,

there’d be no more returning up above.”

The Teacher thus: and turning me himself,

on my hands he did not so far rely,

as not to close mine eyes with his as well.

O ye in whom intelligence is sound,

heed carefully the teaching which lies hidden

beneath the veil of my mysterious lines!

There now was coming o’er the turbid waves

the uproar of a dread-inspiring sound,

because of which both shores were all aquake,

a noise like nothing other than a wind,

impetuous through opposing heats, which smites

a forest, and without the least restraint

shatters, lays low, and carries off its boughs;

dust-laden it goes proudly on its way,

and makes wild animals and shepherds flee.

He freed mine eyes, and said: “Direct thou now

thy keenest vision o’er that ancient scum,

to where that reeking smoke is most intense.”

As frogs before the hostile water-snake

scatter in all directions through the water,

till each is squatting huddled on the shore;

more than a thousand ruined souls I saw,

who thus from one were fleeing, who on foot,

but with dry feet, was passing over Styx.

That dense air he kept moving from his face

by often passing his left hand before him,

and only with that trouble weary seemed.

I well perceived he was a Messenger

from Heaven, and to my Teacher turned; with signs

he warned me to keep still, and bow before him.

Ah, how disdainful did he seem to me!

He reached the gate, and with a little wand

he opened it, for hindrance had he none.

“O people thrust from Heaven and held in scorn,”

upon the horrid threshold he began,

“whence dwells in you this overweening pride?

Why is it that ye kick against the Will,

from which its end can never be cut off,

and which hath more than once increased your pain?

Of what avail to butt against the Fates?

Your Cerberus, if ye remember well,

still sports for this a hairless chin and neck.”

He then returned along the filthy road,

nor did he say a word to us; but looked

like one whom other cares constrain and gnaw,

than that of him who in his presence is;

then we with full assurance toward the town,

after those holy words, addressed our steps.

We entered it without the least contention;

and I, who longed to look about and see

the state of those whom such a fortress holds,

when I was in it, cast mine eyes around,

and see on every side an ample plain,

with anguish and with awful torture filled.

Even as at Arles, where marshy turns the Rhone,

or as at Pola near Quarnaro’s gulf,

which bounds Italia, and her border bathes,

the sepulchres make all the ground uneven;

so likewise did they here on every side,

save that their nature was more bitter here;

for flames were spread about within the tombs,

whereby they glowed with such intensity,

that no art needeth greater heat for iron.

The lids of all of them were raised, and wails

so woeful issued thence, that of a truth

they seemed the wails of wretched, tortured men.

“Teacher, what sort of people are those there,”

said I, “who, buried in those arc-like tombs,

make themselves heard by means of woeful sighs?”

“Arch-heretics are with their followers here”

said he, “of every sect, and far more laden

than thou believest are the sepulchers.

Here like with like is buried, and more hot

and less so are the monuments.” Thereat,

when he had turned him to the right, we passed

between the woes and lofty bastioned walls.

Inferno X

The Sixth Circle. Heresy Heretics

Now wends his way along a narrow path,

between the torments and the city’s wall,

my Teacher and, behind his shoulders, I.

“O lofty Virtue,” I began, “that leadst me

around the impious circles at thy pleasure,

converse with me and satisfy my wishes.

The people that are lying in the tombs,

could they be seen? For all the lids are raised,

it seems, and there is no one keeping guard.”

And he to me: “They all will be locked in,

when from Jehoshaphat they here return

together with the bodies they have left

above. On this side have their burial-place

with Epicurus all his followers,

who claim that with the body dies the soul.

To the request, however, which thou makest

thou’lt soon receive a due reply in here,

as also to the wish thou keepest from me.”

And I: “Good Leader, I but keep my heart

concealed from thee, in order to speak little;

nor hast thou only now thereto disposed me.”

“O Tuscan, thou that through the town of fire

dost go alive with such respectful speech,

in this place be thou pleased to stay thy steps.

Thy very language makes thee manifest

a native of that noble fatherland,

to which I was, perhaps, too great a bane.”

All of a sudden issued forth these words

from one of those ark-tombs; hence I, in fear,

a little closer to my Leader drew.

And he said: “Turn around; what doest thou?

See Farinata who has risen there;

thou’lt see him wholly from his girdle up.”

Already had I fixed mine eyes on his;

and he was standing up with chest and head

erect, as if he had great scorn for Hell.

My Leader then with bold and ready hands

pushed me between the sepulchers toward him,

saying: “Now let thy words be frank and clear.”

When I was ’neath his tomb, he looked at me

awhile, and then, as though disdainfully,

he asked of me: “Who were thine ancestors?”

And I, who was desirous to obey,

hid it not from him, but revealed it all;

whereat he slightly raised his brows, and said:

“So bitterly were they opposed to me,

and to mine ancestors, and to my party,

that I on two occasions scattered them.”

“If they were driven out,” I answered him,

“from all directions they returned both times;

your people, though, have not well learned that art.”

A shade then at the tomb’s uncovered mouth

rose at his side as far up as his chin;

I think that he had risen upon his knees.

Round me he looked, as if he wished to see

whether some other one were with me there;

but when his doubt had wholly spent itself,

weeping he said: “If thou through this blind prison

dost go by reason of highmindedness,

where is my son? and why is he not with thee?”

And I to him: “I come not by myself;

he who is waiting yonder leads me here,

one whom, perhaps, your Guido held in scorn.”

The nature of his torment and his words

had read this person’s name to me already;

on this account was my reply so full.

Then of a sudden standing up, he cried:

“What saidst thou? Held? Is he not still alive?

Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?”

When he perceived the short delay I made

before replying, down upon his back

he fell, nor outside showed himself again.

The other one, meanwhile, the great-souled man,

at whose request I stopped, changed not his looks,

nor did he move his neck or turn his side.

And “If,” continuing his previous words,

he said: “if they have badly learned that art,

far more doth that torment me than this bed.

And yet that Lady’s face who ruleth here

shall not be lighted fifty times again,

ere thou shalt know how heavy that art is.

And so mayst thou return to the sweet world,

pray tell me why so pitiless toward mine

that people is in every law of theirs?”

Whence I to him: “The havoc and great slaughter

which caused the Arbia to be colored red,

occasion such petitions in our church.”

When, sighing, he had tossed his head, he said:

“In this thing I was not alone, nor surely

had I, without due cause, moved with the rest;

but I was yonder, where assent was given

by every one to do away with Florence,

the only one to openly defend her.”

“So may your seed eventually repose,”

I begged of him, “untie for me, I pray,

the knot which has perplexed my thinking here.

It seems, if well I hear, that ye behold

beforehand that which time brings with itself,

while in the present ye do otherwise.”

“We see,” he said, “like one whose sight is poor,

things that are far from us; to that extent

the Highest Leader shines upon us still.

When they approach, or are, our intellect

is wholly vain, and we, if others bring

no news, know nothing of your human state.

Hence thou canst understand that wholly dead

will be our knowledge from that moment on,

when closed shall be the gateway of the future.”

Thereat, for I was grieved at my mistake,

I said: “You’ll therefore tell that fallen man

his son is dwelling with the living still;

and if in answering I was mute just now,

cause him to know it was because my thoughts

were struggling with the problem you have solved.”

And now my Teacher was recalling me;

with greater haste I therefore begged the spirit

that he would tell me who was with him there.

He said: “With o’er a thousand here I lie;

the second Frederick and the Cardinal

are here within; I speak not of the rest.”

He thereupon concealed himself; and I,

those words recalling which seemed hostile to me,

back toward the ancient Poet turned my steps.

The latter moved; and then, as on we went,

he said to me: “Why art thou so perplexed?”

And him in what he asked I satisfied.

“Then let thy mind preserve,” that Sage enjoined,

“what thou hast heard against thyself; pay now

attention here!” His finger then he raised.

“When in the sweet ray’s presence thou shalt be

of Her whose lovely eyes see everything, f

rom her thou’lt know the journey of thy life.”

Thereafter to the left he turned his feet;

we left the wall, and toward the middle went

along a path which to a valley leads,

which even up there unpleasant made its stench.

Inferno XI

The Sixth Circle. Heresy

The Distribution of the Damned in the Inferno

Upon the utmost verge of a high bank,

formed in a circle by great broken rocks,

we came upon a still more cruel pack;

and there, by reason of the horrible

excess of stench the deep abyss exhales,

for shelter we withdrew behind the lid

of a large tomb, whereon I saw a scroll

which said: “Pope Anastasius I contain,

whom out of the right way Photinus drew.”

“Our going down from here must be delayed,

so that our sense may first get used a little

to this foul blast; we shall not mind it then.”

The Teacher thus; and I: “Find thou therefor

some compensation, lest our time be lost.”

And he to me: “See how I think of this.”

“My son, within these rocks,” he then began,

“are three small circles which, from grade to grade,

are similar to those thou leavest now.

Full of accursèd spirits are they all;

but that hereafter sight alone suffice thee,

hear how, and wherefore they are packed together.

Of all wrong-doing which in Heaven wins hate

injustice is the end, and each such end

aggrieves by either violence or fraud.

But whereas fraud is man’s peculiar evil,

God hates it most; therefore the fraudulent

are down below, and greater pain assails them.

All the first circle holds the violent;

but since against three persons force is used,

its shape divides it into three great rings.

Both against God, one’s neighbor, and one’s self

may force be used; against themselves, I mean,

and what is theirs, as clearly shown thou’lt hear.

By force both death and painful wounds are given

one’s neighbor, and thereby his property

is ruined, burned, and by extortions robbed;

the first ring, hence, torments in separate troops

all homicides and those that smite with malice,

spoilers of property and highway robbers.

Upon oneself may one lay violent hands,

and on one’s goods; hence in the second ring

must needs repentant be without avail

whoever of your world deprives himself,

gambles away and dissipates his means,

and weepeth there where he should joyful be.

’Gainst God may force be used, by wittingly

denying that He is, by blasphemy,

and by disprizing Nature and His Goodness;

and therefore with its mark the lesser ring

sealeth both Sodom and Cahors, and him

who, speaking from his heart, despises God.

And fraud, whereby all consciences are bitten,

one may employ against a man who trusts him,

and ’gainst a man who storeth up no trust.

This latter kind of fraud would seem to kill

only the bond of love which Nature makes;

hence in the second circle make their nest

hypocrisy, and flatteries, and workers

of magic, coining, theft and simony,

panders and grafters, and such filth as these.

In the other way forgotten is the love

which Nature makes, and that which afterward

is joined thereto, whence special trust is born;

hence in the smallest ring, where the universe

its center hath, and on which Dis is seated,

whoe’er betrays is spent eternally.”

“Teacher,” said I, “thine argument proceeds

most lucidly, and full well classifies

this deep abyss and those that people it.

But tell me now: those of the muddy marsh,

those whom the wind drives, those the rain beats down,

and those that with such keen tongues meet each other,

why are n’t they punished in the red-hot town,

if God be angry with them? and, if not,

why are they tortured in those several ways?”

And he to me: “Why doth thine intellect

wander so far from that which is its wont,

or doth thy mind intently gaze elsewhere?

Hast thou no recollection of the words

with which thine Ethics treats extensively

the dispositions three which Heaven rejects,

Incontinence, and Malice, and insane

Bestiality, and how Incontinence

offends God least, and hence receives least blame?

If thou consider this opinion well,

and then remember who those are above,

that outside undergo their punishment,

well shalt thou see why from these wretches here

they’re set apart, and why less wrathfully

Vengeance Divine is hammering on them there.”

“O Sun that healest every troubled sight,

thou so contentest me when answering questions,

that doubt, no less than knowledge, pleases me.

Return a little further back,” said I,

“to where thou sayest usury offends

Goodness Divine, and loose the tangled knot.”

“Philosophy” said he to me, “points out

to him that understandeth it, and not

in one part only, that Nature takes her course

from the Intellect Divine, and from its Art;

and if thou note thy Physics carefully,

after not many pages shalt thou find

that your art follows that, as best it can,

as the disciple him who teaches; hence,

your art is grandchild, as it were, to God.

From these two things, if thou recall to mind

the first of Genesis, must people needs

obtain their livelihood, and progress make.

And as the usurer takes another course,

Nature both in herself and in her follower

he scorneth, since in something else he trusts.

But follow me now, for I please to go;

because the Fishes o’er the horizon quiver,

and wholly over Caurus lies the Wain,

and one descends the bank much further on.”

Inferno XII

The Seventh Circle. The First Ring.

Violence against one’s Fellow Man. Murderers and Spoilers. Phlegethon

The place, where to descend the bank we came,

was Alp-like, and, through what was also there,

such that all eyes would be repelled by it.

As is that downfall on the hither side

of Trent, which sidewise smote the Àdige,

through earthquake or through failure of support;

since from the mountain’s summit, whence it moved

down to the plain, the rock is shattered so,

that it would yield a path for one above;

even such was the descent of that ravine;

and on the border of the broken bank

was stretched at length the Infamy of Crete,

who in the seeming heifer was conceived;

and when he saw us there he bit himself,

like one whom inward anger overcomes.

In his direction then my Sage cried out:

“Dost thou, perhaps, think Athens’ duke is here,

who gave thee death when in the world above?

Begone, thou beast! for this man cometh not

taught by thy sister, but is going by,

in order to behold your punishments.”

As doth a bull, who from his leash breaks free

the moment he receives the mortal blow,

and cannot walk, but plunges here and there;

so doing I beheld the Minotaur;

and he, aware, cried out: “Run to the pass!

’t is well that, while he rages, thou descend.”

Thereat we made our way adown that heap

of fallen rocks, which often ’neath my feet

were moved, because of their unwonted load.

I went along in thought; and he: “Perchance

thou thinkest of this landslide, which is guarded

by that beast’s anger which I quenched just now.

Now I would have thee know that, when down here

to nether Hell I came, that other time,

this mass of rock had not yet fallen down.

But certainly, if I remember well,

not long ere He arrived, who carried off

from Dis the highest circle’s mighty prey,

on every side the deep and foul abyss

so trembled that I thought the universe

had felt the love, whereby, as some believe,

the world to Chaos hath been oft reduced;

and at that moment this old mass of rock

was thus, both here and elsewhere, overthrown.

But turn thine eyes down yonder now; for lo,

the stream of blood is drawing near to us,

wherein boils who by violence harms others.”

O blind cupidity, O foolish wrath,

that so dost in our short life goad us on,

and after, in the eternal, steep us thus!

I saw a wide moat curving in an arc,

and such that it embraces all the plain,

according as my Escort had informed me;

and in a file, between it and the bank,

Centaurs were running by, with arrows armed,

as in the world it was their wont to hunt.

On seeing us descend, they all stopped short,

and three of them detached them from the troop,

with bows and arrows they had chosen first.

And one cried from afar: “Ye that descend

the slope, to what pain are ye coming?

Tell it from there, or else I draw my bow.”

My Teacher said: “Our answer will we give

to Chiron yonder, when we reach his side;

thus ever to thy harm was thy will rash.”

He touched me then, and said: “That one is Nessus,

who died for lovely Dejanira’s sake,

and who himself wrought vengeance for himself;

the middle one, who gazes at his breast,

is that great Chiron who brought up Achilles;

the other, Pholus, who so wrathful was.

They go by thousands round about the moat,

shooting each soul that from the blood emerges

further than its own sin allotted it.”

To those swift-footed beasts we then drew near;

Chiron an arrow took, and with its notch

backward upon his jaws he pushed his beard.

When he had thus uncovered his great mouth,

he said unto his mates: “Are ye aware

that he who comes behind moves what he touches?

Yet dead men’s feet are not thus wont to do.”

And my good Leader, who now reached his breast,

where the two natures are together joined,

replied: “He lives indeed, and thus alone

must I needs show to him the dark abyss;

necessity is leading him, not pleasure.

One who withdrew from singing praise to God,

gave me this new commission; he is not

a highwayman, nor I a robber’s soul.

But by the Power, through whom I move my steps

along so wild a road, bestow on us

one of thy troop, at whose side we may be,

and who may show us where one fords, and carry

this man upon his back, for he is not

a spirit who can travel through the air.”

Upon his right breast Chiron turned, and said

to Nessus: “Turn around, and guide them thus,

and if another troop should meet you, cause it

to stand aside.” Then we with this safe escort

skirted the edge of that red, boiling stream,

wherein the boiled were crying out aloud.

I saw some people in it to their brows.

“These tyrants are,” the mighty Centaur said,

“who took to bloodshed and to plundering.

Here tears are shed because of heartless wrongs;

here Alexander is, and who for years

grieved Sicily, fierce Dionysius.

The brow which hath so black a head of hair,

is Azzolino; the other which is blond,

Obizzo of Este, who in truth was quenched

up in the world by his un-natural son.”

I turned then toward the Poet, but he said:

“Be he now first to thee, and second I.”

A little further on the Centaur stopped

over some people who, it seemed, emerged

out of that boiling river from their necks.

On one side there a lonely shade he showed us,

and said: “He yonder in God’s bosom pierced

the heart, which still is honored on the Thames.”

Then people I beheld who from the stream

held out their heads, and even all their chest;

and many did I recognize of these.

Thus shallower and shallower became

that blood, until it only cooked their feet;

here was the place for us to ford the ditch.

“Even as thou seest that the boiling stream

grows shallow more and more on this side here,”

the Centaur said, “I wish thee to believe

that on this other side its bottom sinks

increasingly, until it joins the place

where it behooveth tyranny to groan.

Justice Divine is over here tormenting

that Attila who was a scourge on earth,

Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and forever milks

the tears, which with the boiling it unlocks,

from Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,

who on the highroads waged so great a war.”

He then turned back, and crossed the ford again.

Inferno XIII

The Seventh Circle. The Second Ring. Violence against Oneself. Suicides and Squanderers

Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,

when we had set our steps within a wood,

which was not marked by any path whatever.

No green leaves there, but leaves of gloomy hue;

no smooth and straight, but gnarled and twisted, twigs;

nor was there any fruit, but poison-thorns.

No thickets rough and dense as these are owned

by those wild beasts, that hate the tilled estates

that lie between the Cécina and Corneto.

Herein those ugly Harpies make their nest,

who drove the Trojans from the Strophades,

with gloomy prophecies of future loss.

Wide wings they have, and human necks and faces;

their feet are clawed, and feathered their great bellies;

they utter wailings on the uncouth trees.

My kindly Teacher then began to say:

“Before thou enter any further, know

that in the second ring thou art, and wilt be,

until thou reach the horrid plain of sand;

hence look around thee well, and things thou’lt see,

that from my words would take away belief.”

Moans I heard uttered upon every side,

but saw no person who might make them there;

hence, utterly confused, I checked my steps.

I think he thought I thought that all those voices

were uttered from among those thorny trunks

by people hiding there on our account.

The Teacher therefore said: “If thou break off

a little twig from any of these trees,

the thoughts thou hast will all be proven false.”

I then stretched out my hand a little way,

and from a sturdy thorn-tree plucked a twig,

whereat its trunk cried out: “Why dost thou rend me?”

Then, after growing dark with blood, its cry

began again: “Why dost thou break me off?

Hast thou no spirit of compassion in thee?

Men were we once, and now are stocks become;

thy hand ought surely to have had more pity,

even if the souls of serpents we had been.”

As from a fresh, green log, that at one end

is being burned, and at the other drips

and makes a hissing with the escaping air;

so from the broken twig together issued

both words and blood; I therefore dropped the end,

and stood dumbfounded, like a man who fears.

“Had he before been able to believe,

O wounded soul,” replied my Sage to him,

“what in my verses only he has seen,

he had not set his hand on thee; whereas

the thing’s incredibility has made me

lead him to do what I myself regret.

But tell him who thou wast, that he, by way

of compensation, may refresh thy fame

up in the world, where he can still return.”

The trunk: “With sweet words thou dost so entice me,

that I can not keep still; be not annoyed,

if I am tempted to a little talk.

I am the man who once held both the keys

of Frederick’s heart, and he who turned them round

so gently, locking and unlocking it,

that most men from his secrets I withheld;

so faithful was I to my glorious charge,

that for its sake I lost both sleep and strength.

The courtesan who never turned away

her harlot eyes from Caesar’s dwelling-place,

a common form of death and vice of courts,

’gainst me inflamed the minds of every one;

and those on fire inflamed Augustus so,

that my glad honors turned to wretched grief.

My mind, to vent its feelings of disdain,

and thinking to avoid disdain by death,

made me unjust against myself, the just.

By this tree’s uncouth roots, I swear to you,

I never broke the faith I owed my lord,

who so deserving was of reverence!

And to the world should one of you return,

let him assist my memory, which still

lies crushed beneath the blow which envy gave it!”

A while he waited, then the Poet said:

“Since he is still, lose not thy chance; but speak,

and ask him other questions, if thou like.”

Whence I to him: “Ask thou again whate’er

thou thinkest satisfactory to me;

for I could not, such pity stirs my heart!”

Hence he began again: “So may this man

do freely for thee what thy words request,

imprisoned spirit, may it please thee still

to tell us how within these knotted trunks

a soul is bound; and tell us, if thou canst,

if any from such limbs is ever freed.”

Thereat the trunk blew hard, and afterward

that wind was changed into the following words:

“Briefly shall a reply be made to you.

Whenever a wild spirit leaves the body,

from which itself hath torn itself away,

Minos commits it to the seventh ravine.

Into the wood it falls, nor is a place

allotted to it; but where Fortune hurls it,

there, like a grain of spelt, it germinates.

It grows into a sapling and wild tree;

the Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,

cause pain to it, and for the pain a vent.

Like other spirits, for our spoils we’ll come,

though not that any be reclothed therewith;

for ’t is not right to have what one casts off.

We’ll drag them with us here, and then our bodies

will all around the dismal wood be hung,

each on the thorn-tree of its hostile shade.”

We still were giving heed unto the trunk,

believing that it wished to tell us more,

when we were startled by a sudden noise,

as likewise he is, who perceives a boar

and pack of hounds approach his hunting-post,

and hears the crashing of the beasts and boughs.

And lo, two on the left, who naked were

and scratched, and fled away so rapidly,

they shattered all the branches of the wood.

The one ahead: “Now hurry, hurry, death!”

and the other one, who thought himself too slow,

cried: “Lano, not so knowing were thy legs,

when running from Del Toppo’s battle-jousts!”

And then, perhaps because of failing breath,

he there made of himself and of a bush

a group. The wood behind these two was full

of swarthy bitches, ravenous and fleet

as greyhounds are, when from their chains unleashed.

Into the one who crouched they set their teeth,

and tore him into pieces bit by bit;

they then made off with those his suffering limbs.

Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,

and led me to the bush, which all in vain

out of its bleeding rents was shedding tears. “

O Giàcomo” it said, “da Sant’Andrea,

what boots it thee to make a screen of me?

and how am I to blame for thy bad life?”

When over him my Teacher stopped, he said:

“Who then wast thou, that through so many gashes

art blowing forth with blood such painful speech?”

And he to us: “O spirits that have come

in time to see the unbecoming havoc,

which from me thus hath torn away my leaves,

collect them at the foot of my sad bush!

I to that town belonged, which for the Baptist

changed its first patron; wherefore he, for this,

will always make her mournful with his art;

and were it not that on the Arno’s bridge

there lingers still some little glimpse of him,

those townsmen who rebuilt her afterward

over the ashes left by Attila,

had caused that work to be performed in vain.

I made myself a gibbet of my house.”

Inferno XIV

The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against God. Blasphemers

Since love for my own native place constrained me,

I gathered up the scattered twigs and leaves,

and gave them back to him who now was weak.

Thence to the bound we came, where from the third

the second ring is severed, and wherein

a frightful form of Justice may be seen.

To manifest aright what here was new,

I say that we had reached a barren plain,

which from its bed removeth every plant.

The woeful wood is as a garland round it,

as round the former is the dismal moat;

there on its very edge we stayed our steps.

Its soil was of a dense and arid sand,

whose nature differed in no way from that,

which once was trodden by the feet of Cato.

Vengeance of God, how much by every one

thou oughtest to be feared, who readeth here

what to these eyes of mine was manifest!

Of naked souls I many flocks beheld,

who all wept very sorely, while on each

a different law appeared to be imposed.

A few lay on the ground upon their backs;

and some were seated cuddled up together,

while others moved about continually.

Most numerous were those that moved around,

and least so those that under torment lay,

but all the freer had their tongues to wail.

Down on the whole great waste of sand there rained

with gentle fall dilated flakes of fire,

like flakes of snow that fall on windless Alps.

As were the flames which Alexander saw

in India’s torrid regions, as they fell

upon his hosts, unbroken to the ground;

—and this he met, by ordering his troops

to trample on the soil, because the flames,

when single, were more easily put out—

even such descended here the eternal heat,

whereby the sand was set on fire, as tinder

is kindled under steel, to double pain.

And ever without resting was the dance

of wretched hands, that kept, now here, now there,

slapping away each latest burning flake.

“Thou, Teacher,” I began, “that conquerest all,

except the stubborn devils who came out

against us at the entrance of the gate,

who is that great one who seems not to mind

the fire, but lies there scornful and awry,

so that the rain seems not to ripen him?”

And that same one, who had observed that I

concerning him was questioning my Leader,

cried: “As I was alive, such am I dead!

If Jove should tire that smith of his, from whom,

in wrath, he took the pointed thunderbolt,

wherewith I smitten was that final day;

or should he tire the others, each in turn,

in Mongibello’s smithy black with smoke,

by calling out: ‘Help, help, good Vulcan, help!’

even as he did on Phlegra’s battle-field;

and should he shoot at me with all his might,

no glad revenge would he obtain thereby!”

Thereat my Leader spoke with so much force,

that I had never heard him use the like:

“In that thine arrogance, O Capaneus,

is not extinguished, art thou all the more

chastised; no torment, saving thine own rage,

were for thy furious pride a fitting pain.”

Then with a gentler mien he turned to me,

and said: “One of the seven kings was he,

who Thebes besieged; he held, and seems to hold

God in disdain, and little seems to prize Him;

but, as I told him, his own spitefulness

is fit enough adornment for his breast.

Now follow me, and see that thou meanwhile

set not thy feet upon the burning sand,

but to the thicket keep them ever close.”

In silence we went on, and came to where,

out of the wood a little stream spirts forth,

whose ruddy color makes me shudder still.

As from the Bulicàmë springs a brook,

which afterward the sinful women share,

even so went that one down across the sand.

Its bottom and both sides had turned to stone,

as also had the embankments on each side;

I hence perceived the crossing-place was there.

“Of all the other things which I have shown thee

since first we entered through the outer gate,

whose threshold unto no one is denied,

nothing has ever by thine eyes been seen

as notable as is this present brook,

which deadens o’er itself all little flames.”

These were my Leader’s words; I therefore begged

that he would freely grant to me the food,

desire of which he had so freely given.

“Amid the sea there lies a wasted land,”

he told me thereupon, “whose name is Crete,

under whose king the world of old was pure.

There is a mountain there, which, happy once

with waters and green leaves, was Ida called;

’t is now abandoned like a thing outworn.

Whilom as trusty cradle for her son

Rhea selected it, and when he wept,

to hide him better, caused a shouting there.

Within that mountain stands a great Old Man,

who holds his shoulders toward Damiata turned,

and who, as at his mirror, looks at Rome.

His head is formed of finest gold, his arms

and breast are of the purest silver, then,

as far as to his loins, he’s made of brass;

all chosen iron is he down from there,

save that baked clay his right foot is, and straighter

he stands on that, than on the other foot.

Each of these parts, except the golden one,

is broken by a cleft, whence trickle tears,

which, when collected, perforate that cave.

From rock to rock they course into this vale;

then Acheron with Styx and Phlegethon

they form, and through this narrow duct descend

as far as where one goes no further down;

they form Cocytus there; and what that pool

is like, thou’lt see; hence here it is not told.

And I to him: “If thus this present stream

is from our world descended, why alone

on this ring’s edge hath it appeared to us?”

And he: “Thou knowest that the place is round,

and though a long way thou hast gone already,

e’er to the left descending toward the bottom,

through the whole circle thou hast not yet gone;

wherefore, if aught that’s new appear to us,

it should not bring amazement to thy face.”

And I again: “But where are Phlegethon

and Lethe, Teacher? For, of this one silent,

thou say’st the other of this rain is made.”

And he replied: “Thou certainly dost please me

in all thy questions, but the red stream’s boiling

ought surely to have answered one of them.

Lethe thou’lt see, but there, outside this cave,

whither souls go to wash themselves, when once

their sin, repented of, has been removed.”

And then he said: “It now is time for us

to leave the wood; see that thou follow me;

the banks, which are not burned, afford a path;

and up above them every flame is quenched.”

Inferno XV

The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against Nature. Sodomites

One of the hard embankments bears us now,

and overhead the brook’s mist shades them so,

that from the fire it saves the stream and banks.

Such bulwarks as, to keep the sea away,

the Flemings make between Witsand and Bruges,

through fearing lest the high-tide break upon them;

and as the Paduans make along the Brenta,

their villages and strongholds to defend,

ere Chiarentana feel the summer heat;

in such a way were those embankments made,

although the master did not make them there

so high or thick, whoe’er he may have been.

So far we were already from the wood,

that I could not have seen just where it was,

even had I turned around to look behind,

when we a band of spirits met, who came

along the bank, each one of whom looked hard

at us, as in the evening one is wont

to look at people, when the moon is new;

and toward us they were knitting close their brows,

as an old tailor at his needle’s eye.

When by that gathering I had thus been eyed,

one of them, who had recognized me, seizing

my garment’s hem, exclaimed: “How wonderful!”

And I, when toward me he had stretched his arm,

fastened upon his roasted face mine eyes,

so that, though blistered, it did not prevent

mine intellect from recognizing him;

and downward having bent my face toward his,

I answered him: “Are you here, Ser Brunetto?”

And that one: “O my son, be not displeased

should Brunetto Latini a little way

turn back with thee, and let the troop go on.”

“I beg you to with all my power;” said I,

“and if you’d have me sit with you, I will,

if it please that one; for with him I go.”

“O son,” he said, “whoever of this herd stands

still at all, lies prone a hundred years,

nor shields himself when smitten by the fire.

Therefore go on; I’ll follow at thy skirts,

and then I’ll join again my company,

which goes bewailing its eternal loss.”

I dared not from the path descend, to go

upon his level there; but held my head

bowed down, like one who walks in reverence.

And he began: “What fortune or what fate

before thy last day leadeth thee down here,

and who is he that showeth thee the way?”

I answered him: “When in the life serene

up yonder, in a vale I lost my way,

before my age had rounded out its noon.

Thereon I turned my back but yestermorn;

this one, as I returned to it, appeared

to me, and o’er this path now leads me home.”

And he to me: “If thine own star thou follow,

thou canst not fail to reach a glorious port,

if in the lovely life I judged aright;

and had I not so prematurely died,

I, seeing Heaven so well disposed toward thee,

had given thee comfort in thy work. But that

ungrateful, wicked people, which of old

came down from Fièsolë, and which e’en now

smacks of the mountain and of hard grey stone, f

or thy well-doing shall become thy foe;

and rightly, for among the acid sorbs

it is not fitting that sweet figs bear fruit.

An old fame in the world proclaims them blind,

a greedy, envious, overweening folk;

see to it that thou cleanse thee from their ways!

Thy fortune hath in store for thee such honor,

that either party shall be hungry for thee;

but distant from the goat shall be the grass.

Let, then, the beasts of Fièsolë make litter

with their own selves, nor let them touch the plant,

if on their dungheap any burgeon still,

in which the sacred seed may live again

of those old Romans who remained therein,

when of such wickedness the nest was made!”

“If perfectly fulfilled had been my prayer,”

I then replied to him, “you had not yet

been banished from the natural life of man;

for in my mind is fixed, and stirs e’en now

my heart, that dear and kind paternal face

you showed, when in the world from time to time

you taught me how man makes himself eternal;

and how much gratitude I feel for this,

must, while I live, be in my words perceived.

What of my course you tell, I write, and keep,

with other texts, for a Lady to explain,

who can, if ever I attain to her.

I only wish that this be clear to you,

that I, if but my conscience chide me not,

am ready for whatever Fortune wills.

Not new unto mine ears is such reward;

hence, as she lists, let Fortune turn her wheel,

and let the country clown his mattock ply!”

Thereat my Teacher over his right cheek

turned back, and looked at me; and then he said:

“He listens well, who giveth heed to this.”

Nor speaking less do I, on this account,

go on with Ser Brunetto, asking who

his fellows were, of greatest note and rank.

And he to me: ’T is well to know of some;

our silence on the rest will merit praise,

for short the time were for so long a talk.

Know then, in brief, that clerics were they all,

and mighty men of letters of great fame,

soiled by the self same sin when in the world.

And with that sad crowd yonder Priscian goes,

and Francis of Accorso, too; and him,

if thou hadst had a longing for such scurf,

thou couldst have seen there, whom the servants’ Servant

changed from the Arno to the Bacchigliònë,

where he behind him left his ill-strained nerves.

I’d speak of more; but I can come and talk

no further, for a new dust-cloud I see

rising o’er yonder from the sandy plain.

People, with whom I must not be, are coming;

let my Tesoro, in which I’m still alive,

be recommended thee; I ask no more.”

Then round he turned, and seemed to be of those

who at Verona run across the meadow

to win the green cloth; and of these he seemed

not he who loses, but the one who wins.

Inferno XVI

The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against Nature. Sodomites

I now was where the booming of the water,

which fell into the following round, was heard

like the dull, buzzing sound which bee-hives make;

when three shades separated from a group,

which ’neath the rain’s tormenting punishment

was passing by, and ran along together.

Toward us they came, and each of them cried out:

“Stop, thou, that by thy garb dost seem to us

a citizen of our corrupted town!”

Alas, what wounds I saw upon their limbs,

both old and recent, by the flames burnt in!

It pains me still but to remember them.

My Leader, giving heed to these their cries,

turned his face round toward me, and said: “Now wait!

To those men yonder courtesy is due;

and, were not for the fire, which, arrow-like,

the nature of the place shoots forth, I’d say

that haste were more becoming thee than them.”

And they, when we had stopped, began again

their old refrain; and after they had reached us,

all three of them made of themselves a wheel.

As champions oiled and nude are wont to do,

when looking for an advantageous grip,

before they come to giving blows and wounds;

thus, as he wheeled, each turned his face toward me,

so that his feet continuous journey made

in opposite direction to his neck.

And one began: “Even if the wretched nature

of this soft place, and our burned, shrivelled faces

bring us and our requests into contempt,

still let our reputation bend thy mind

to tell us who thou art, that dost so safely

rub on the soil of Hell thy living feet.

He, in whose footprints thou dost see me tread,

was, though he go both nude and hairless now,

of higher rank then thou believest him.

He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada;

his name was Guido Guerra, and when alive,

his wisdom and his sword accomplished much.

The other, who behind me treads the sand,

Tegghiàio Aldobrandi is, whose voice

should have been welcomed in the world above.

And I, who with them am tormented here,

Iàcopo Rusticucci was; and surely

my shrewish wife than aught else hurts me more.”

If I had been protected from the fire,

I would have lept into their midst below,

and I believe my Leader had allowed it.

But since I should have burned and baked myself,

fear was victorious over my good will,

which made me eager to embrace them there.

I then began: “Your state impressed within me

not scorn, but so much pain, that only late

will all of it entirely disappear,

as soon as this my Lord said words to me,

because of which I thought within myself

that there were people coming such as you.

Of your own town am I, and evermore

have I your doings and your honored names

related, and heard mentioned, with regard.

I leave the gall, and for the sweet fruit go,

which my veracious Leader promised me;

but to the center must I first descend.”

“So may thy spirit lead thy members long,”

the former thereupon replied to me,

“and, after thou art gone, thy fame be bright,

tell me if courtesy and worth abide

within our town, as they were wont to do,

or whether they have wholly gone from it;

for Guglielmo Borsierë, who but newly

has been in pain with us, and with our mates

goes yonder, grieves us greatly with his words.”

“The people newly come, and sudden gains,

have bred in thee such pride and such excess,

that, Florence, thou art even now in pain!”

Thus with uplifted face I cried; whereat

the three, who this as answer understood,

looked at each other, as one looks at truth.

“If satisfying others other times

cost thee so little, happy thou, that thus

at thy sweet will dost speak!” they all replied.

“Hence,—so mayst thou, from these dark places

saved, return to see the lovely stars again,—

when saying ‘I was there’ shall do thee good,

see that thou tell the people about us.”

They then broke up their wheel, and in their flight

it seemed as if their nimble legs were wings.

Amen could not have been as quickly said,

as they then disappeared; my Teacher, therefore,

thought it advisable for us to leave.

I followed him, and not far had we gone,

before the water’s noise was so near by,

that, had we spoken, we had not been heard.

And as the stream, which is the first that eastward

from Monte Veso takes a separate course

upon the left slope of the Apennines,

and which above is Acquacheta called,

before it flows into its lowly bed,

and at Forlì is of that name deprived,

booms loud, because of falling o’er a cliff

above San Benedetto of the Alp,

where for a thousand there should refuge be;

even thus, as o’er a precipice it fell,

we found that colored water roaring so,

that very soon it would have hurt our ears.

I had a cord around about me girt,

wherewith I once had thought that I could capture

the Leopard with the brightly colored hide.

When from me I had wholly loosened it,

even as my Leader had commanded me,

I coiled it up and held it out to him.

Thereat upon his right he turned around,

and hurled it to some distance from the edge

down into that profound and dark abyss.

“Surely some strange new thing must needs reply”

said I within myself, “to this strange signal,

which with his eye my Teacher follows thus.”

Ah, with what caution men should deal with those,

who see not only what is done by others,

but with their wisdom see into their thoughts!

He said to me: “What I am waiting for,

and what thy thought now dreams, will soon come up;

soon to thy vision will it be revealed.”

E’er to a truth that hath a falsehood’s face

ought one to close his lips as best he can,

for, though one faultless be, it brings him shame;

but I can not suppress it here; hence, Reader,

even by the verses of this Comedy,

so may they not be void of lasting favor,

I swear to thee, that through that coarse, dark air

I saw a shape, which would have chilled with wonder

however brave a heart, come swimming up,

as he returns, who, going down at times

to clear an anchor clinging to a reef,

or aught else lying hidden in the sea,

above extends, and draweth in below.

Inferno XVII

The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against Art. Usurers

“Behold the wild beast with the pointed tail,

which, crossing mountains, breaks through walls and armor;

behold who sickens all the world with stench!”

My Leader thus began to speak to me,

and signalled to it to approach the edge,

near where the marble we had traversed ended.

And that foul image of deceit came on,

and landed on the bank its head and chest;

but o’er the edge it drew not up its tail.

Its face was as the face of a just man,

so pleasing outwardly was its complexion;

the body of a serpent all the rest.

Two paws it had, all hairy to the arm-pits;

its back and breast, as well as both its sides,

were painted o’er with snares and wheel-like shields.

Ne’er with more colors in its woof and warp

did Turks or Tartars manufacture cloth,

nor by Arachnne were such webs designed.

As flat-boats sometimes lie upon the shore,

in water partly, partly on the land;

and as among the greedy Germans yonder,

the beaver seats himself to wage his war;

so lay that worst of beasts upon the edge

which closes in the sandy plain with stone.

All of its tail was quivering in the void,

and twisting upward its envenomed fork,

which like a scorpion’s weapon armed its tip.

“Our path must turn aside a little now,”

my Leader said to me, “until we reach

that wicked beast reclining over there.”

Around our right breast, therefore, we went down,

and took ten paces on the very edge,

thus surely to avoid both sand and fire;

and after we had come to it, I saw,

upon the sand a little further on,

some people sitting near the precipice.

My Teacher then: “That thou mayst take with thee

a full experience of this ring, go on,

and see the nature of the life they lead.

There be thy conversation brief; meanwhile,

till thou return, I’ll talk with this wild beast,

that its strong shoulders may be yielded us.”

Thus further on, along the outer edge

of that seventh circle, all alone I went,

to where the melancholy people sat.

Out of their eyes their woe was bursting forth;

first here, then there, they helped them with their

hands, now from the flames, now from the heated soil.

Not otherwise do dogs in summer-time,

now with their paws, and with their muzzles now,

whene’er by flees, or flies, or gadflies bitten.

When on the face of some I set mine eyes,

on whom the woeful fire is falling there,

I knew not one of them; but I perceived

that from the neck of each there hung a pouch,

which had a certain color and design,

wherewith their eyes appeared to feed themselves.

And as I, looking, came into their midst,

azure upon a yellow pouch I saw,

which had the form and semblance of a lion.

Then, as my gaze continued on its course,

another I beheld, as red as blood,

exhibiting a goose more white than butter.

And one of them, who had his small white pouch

emblazoned with an azure pregnant sow,

said to me: “What dost thou in this our ditch?

Now go thy way; and since thou livest still,

know that my fellow townsman, Vitaliano,

will sit beside me here upon my left.

I, with these Florentines, a Paduan am,

and very frequently they stun my ears

by shouting: “Let the sovereign knight arrive,

who’ll bring with him the pocket with three beaks!”’

Herewith his mouth he twisted, sticking out

his tongue, as doth an ox that licks its nose.

And I, afraid lest any longer stay

might anger him who warned me to be brief,

turned from those weary spirits back again.

I found my Leader, who had climbed already

upon the back of that fierce animal,

and said to me: “Now be thou strong and bold!

By stairs like these shall we descend hereafter;

climb thou in front, for midst I wish to be,

so that the tail may do no injury.”

Like one with quartan-fever’s chill so near,

that pale already are his finger nails,

and that, but looking at the shade, he shudders;

such at the words he uttered I became;

but that shame made its threats to me, which renders

a servant strong when in a good lord’s presence.

As on those horrid shoulders I sat down,

I wished to tell him: “See that thou embrace me!”

my voice, however, came not as I thought.

But he, who succoured me at other times

and other straights, as soon as I was up,

encircled and sustained me with his arms;

and then he said: “Now, Geryon, move thou on!

Wide be thy wheels, and gradual thy descent;

bethink thee of the unwonted load thou hast.”

As from its mooring place a little boat

backs slowly out, even so did he withdraw;

and when he wholly felt himself in play,

to where his breast had been, he turned his tail,

and moved the latter, stretched out like an eel,

while with his paws he gathered in the air.

I do not think that there was greater fear

when Phaëthon let go his horses’ reins,

whereby, as still appears, the sky was burned;

nor yet when wretched Icarus perceived

his back unfeathering through the melting wax,

while, calling him, his father cried: “Thou hold’st

an evil course!” than mine was, when I saw

that I was in the air on every side,

and gone the sight of all things save the beast.

The latter, swimming, slowly wends his way,

wheels and descends, but I perceive it not,

save by the wind below and in my face.

The waterfall I now heard on the right,

making a horrid roar beneath us; hence,

I outward thrust my head with eyes turned down.

More fearful of the abyss I then became,

for fires I now beheld, and wailings heard;

hence, trembling, I clung closer with my thighs.

And then, for I perceived it not before,

by the great torments which on divers sides

drew near, I saw our wheeling and descent.

Even as a falcon long upon the wing,

which, without seeing lure or game-bird, makes

the falconer say: “Alas, thou comest down!”

descendeth weary, through a hundred rings,

whence he had swiftly started, and alights

far from his lord in angry sullenness;

so likewise Geryon set us down below,

close to the bottom of the rough-hewn rock;

and, of our persons rid, as fast as flies

an arrow from a bowstring, sped away.

Inferno XVIII

The Eighth Circle. Fraud.

The First Trench. Pandars and Seducers.

The Second Trench. Flatterers and Prostitutes

A place there is in Hell, called Malebolgë,

wholly of stone, and of an iron hue,

as is the round wall which encircles it.

Right in the midst of its malicious field

yawneth a well exceeding wide and deep,

of whose construction, in its place, I’ll speak.

Round, therefore, is the girdle which remains

between the well and that hard, high wall’s base,

and ten great trenches subdivide its bed.

As is the appearance which, where many moats

encircle castles for the walls’ protection,

the section where they are presents;

such was the one those trenches furnished here;

and just as in such fortresses small bridges

stretch from their thresholds to the outmost bank;

so crags ran from the bottom of the cliff

across the banks and trenches to the well,

which, gathering them together, cuts them off.

In this place, then, we found ourselves, when dropped

from Geryon’s back; the Poet thereupon

held to the left, and I behind him moved.

Upon the right side I beheld new cause

for sympathy, new pains, and scourgers new,

wherewith the first trench was completely filled.

Down at its bottom naked were the sinners;

this side the middle facing us they came,

beyond it with us, but with quicker steps;

means such as those which at the Jubilee

the Romans took, because of its great throng,

to have the people pass across the bridge,

who toward the Castle all on one side face,

and toward Saint Peter’s go their way; while all

move toward the mountain on the other edge.

This side and that, upon the dark, stone floor,

horned demons with great scourges I beheld,

who from behind were fiercely whipping them.

Ah, how they caused them to lift them up their heels,

when by the first blows smitten! Certainly

none waited for the second, or the third.

While I was going on, mine eyes were met

by one of them; and instantly I said:

“I fast not from a previous sight of him.”

To make him out I therefore stayed my feet;

and, having stopped with me, my gentle Leader

assented to my going back a little.

That scourged one thought that he could hide himself

by looking down, but little it availed him;

for “Thou, that castest down thine eyes,” said I,

unless the features which thou hast are false,

Venèdico Caccianimico art;

but what brings thee into such pungent sauces?”

And he to me: “Unwillingly I tell it;

but forced I am by thy transparent speech,

which makes me recollect the olden world.

I was the one who led Ghisolabella

to do according to the Marquis’ will,

however the disgusting tale be told.

Nor am I here the only Bolognese

that weeps; nay, this place is so full of us,

that not so many tongues are taught today

between Savena and Reno to say sipa;

and if thereof thou wouldst have pledge or proof,

recall to mind our avaricious breasts.”

As thus he spoke, a demon with his lash

smote him, and said to him: “Pandar, begone!

There are no women here to sell for coin.”

I then rejoined my Escort; whereupon,

when we had taken some few steps, we came

to where a crag projected from the bank.

This we ascended with the greatest ease,

and turning to the right along its ridge,

we left those everlasting circling walls.

When we were where it hollows out below,

to let the scourged pass through, my Leader said:

“Now stay thy steps, and on thee let the sight

of all these other ill-born spirits strike,

whose faces thou hast not perceived as yet,

because they’ve gone with us in our direction.”

As from the ancient bridge we watched the troop,

which on the other side was toward us coming,

and which the scourge was likewise driving on,

without my asking, my good Teacher said:

“Look at that great man there, who, as he comes,

for all his pain, seems not to shed a tear.

How royal an appearance he still keeps!

Jason is he, who, by his doughtiness

and wit, deprived the Colchians of their ram.

He passed the isle of Lemmos on his way,

after its pitiless and daring women

had given up to death their every male.

With tokens of his love and flattering words

he there deceived the maid, Hypsìpylë,

who previously had all the rest deceived.

He left her there with child, and all alone;

him to this punishment that fault condemns;

and for Medea, too, is vengeance wrought.

With him go those that in this way deceive;

be this enough to know of this first ditch,

and of those, too, that in its fangs it holds.”

Already were we where the narrow path

forms with the second bank a cross, and makes

therewith abutments for another arch.

We thence heard people in the following trench

who whined and groaned, and with their muzzles

puffed, while smiting their own bodies with their palms.

The banks were crusted over with a mould

by vapor from below, which, sticking there,

offensive to both eyes and nose became.

So deep the bottom, that there is no means

of looking into it, unless one climb

the arch’s summit, where the crag is highest.

Thither we came, and from it in the ditch

people I saw immersed in excrement,

which seemed from human privies to have come.

While peering with mine eyes down there, I saw

a head so foul with filth, that whether clerk’s

or layman’s head it were, was not apparent.

Scolding, he said: “Why greedier art thou

to look at me, than at the other foul ones?”

And I: “Because, if I remember well,

I’ve seen thee with dry hair ere now, for thou

Alèssio Interminèi of Lucca art;

that’s why I eye thee more than all the rest.”

And he then, as he beat upon his pate:

“Those flatteries immersed me here below,

wherewith my tongue was never surfeited.”

Then, after this, my Leader said to me:

“See that thou urge thy glance a little further,

that with thine eyes thou quite attain the face

of that disgusting and dishevelled wench,

who yonder claws herself with filthy nails,

and crouches now, and now is on her feet.

That Thaïs is, the prostitute, who answered

her paramour, when he had said ‘Have I

great thanks from thee?’: ‘Nay, marvelously great!’

Herewith, then, let our sight be satisfied.”

Inferno XIX

The Eighth Circle. Fraud The Third Trench. Simoniacs

O Simon Magus, O his wretched followers,

since ye the things of God, which ought to be

the brides of righteousness, rapaciously

adulterate for silver and for gold;

it now behooves the trumpet sound for you,

for in the third great trench your station is!

We now had climbed the next tomb-spanning bridge,

and were on that part of the crag, which hangs

directly o’er the middle of the trench.

Wisdom Supreme, how great the art thou showest

in Heaven, on earth, and in the evil world!

How justly, too, thy virtue makes awards!

I saw that on its sloping sides and bottom

the livid-colored stone was full of holes,

all of one width, while each of them was round.

Nor less nor more wide did they seem to me,

than those which in my beautiful Saint John’s

are made as places for baptizing priests;

and one of which, not many years ago,

I broke, to save one who was choking in it;

be this a witness undeceiving all!

Out of the mouth of each a sinner’s feet

protruded, and, as far as to the calf,

his legs; the rest of him remained within.

The soles of all were, both of them, on fire;

because of which their joints so strongly twitched,

they would have snapped green twigs and cords of

grass. And as a flame on oily things is wont

to move along the outer surface only;

so likewise was it there from heels to toes.

“Who, Teacher, is he yonder, who is tortured

by twitching more than all the rest, his mates,”

said I, “and whom a redder flame is sucking?”

And he to me: “If thou wouldst have me bear thee

down yonder bank which lowest lies, from him

thou’lt know both of himself and of his sins.”

And I: “What pleases thee I like; my lord

thou art, and that I part not from thy will

thou knowst, as also what is left unsaid.”

We then upon the fourth embankment came,

and, turning round, descended on our left

into that narrow bottom pierced with holes;

nor yet did my good Teacher set me down

from off his back, but brought me to the hole

of him who grieved so sorely with his shank.

“Whoe’er thou art, sad soul, that holdest down

thine upper portion, planted like a stake,”

I then began, “say something, if thou canst.”

I there was like a friar that confesses

a base assassin, who, on being planted,

calls him again, that death may be delayed.

And he cried out: “Dost thou stand there already,

dost thou stand there already, Boniface?

By several years the writing lied to me.

Art thou so quickly sated with the wealth,

for which thou didst not fear to seize by fraud,

and outrage next, the Lady beautiful?”

Even such did I become, as those are, who,

not understanding what is answered them,

deem themselves mocked, and think of no reply.

Then Virgil said: “Tell him immediately:

‘I’m not the one, I’m not the one thou thinkest!’”

And I replied to him as I was bidden.

Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet;

then, sighing, and with weeping voice, he said:

“What is it, then, that thou dost ask of me?

If to know who I am concern thee so,

that for it thou hast crossed the bank; know, then,

that I was with the mighty Mantle clothed;

and verily the she-Bear’s son was I,

so eager to advance the cubs, that wealth

I pocketed up there, and here myself.

The others, who in working simony

preceded me, are gathered ’neath my head,

flattened between the fissures of the rock.

I, in like manner, shall down yonder fall,

when he arrives, whom I believed thou wast,

when I of thee the sudden question asked.

But now already longer is the time,

that I, thus up-side down, have cooked my feet,

than he will planted stay with ruddy soles;

for after him shall come from westward lands

a lawless shepherd of still uglier deed,

and fit to cover him and me. Renewed

shall Jason be, of whom in Maccabees

one reads; and as to that one his king yielded,

even so who governs France shall yield to this.”

I know not whether I was here too bold,

in that I answered him in this strain only:

“Now tell me, pray, how great the treasure was,

our Lord demanded of Saint Peter first,

before He placed the Keys in his control?

Surely he asked for naught but ‘Follow me.’

Nor yet did Peter or the rest take gold

or silver from Matthias, when by lot

he took the place the guilty soul had lost.

Therefore keep still, for thou art rightly punished;

and take good care of that ill-gotten wealth,

which caused thee to be valiant against Charles.

And were it not for this, that I am still

forbidden by reverence for the Keys supreme

thou hadst in keeping in the joyful life,

words of still greater weight would I employ;

because your greed, by trampling on the good

and raising the depraved, afflicts the world.

The Evangelist was thinking of your shepherds,

when she, who on the waters hath her seat,

was seen by him to fornicate with kings;

the one who with the seven heads was born,

and from the ten horns her support received,

while virtue still was pleasing to her spouse.

Ye’ve made yourselves a god of gold and silver;

and from idolaters how differ ye,

save that they worship one, and ye a hundred?

Ah, Constantine, of how much ill was mother,

not thy conversion, but the dower-gift

the earliest wealthy Father took from thee!”

While I was singing him such notes as these,

he, whether it were wrath or conscience bit him,

was fiercely kicking out with both his feet.

I verily believe it pleased my Leader,

he heeded with so glad a look throughout

the utterance of those true, clear words of mine.

He therefore took me up with both his arms,

and when he had me wholly on his breast,

he climbed again the path down which he came; n

or tired of holding me in his embrace,

but bore me to the summit of the arch,

which crosses from the fourth bank to the fifth.

When there, he gently set his burden down,

gently, because that crag was rough and steep,

and would be difficult for goats to cross;

from thence another trench was shown to me.

Inferno XX

The Eighth Circle. Fraud

The Fourth Trench. Diviners and Soothsayers

About strange punishments must I make verses,

and furnish matter for the twentieth song

of this first lay, which treats of those submerged.

Already had I wholly given myself

to looking down at its uncovered bottom,

which with the tears of agony was bathed;

when people in the great round trench I saw

come weeping silently, and at the pace,

at which in this world litanies advance.

Then, as my sight fell on them lower down,

wondrously twisted each of them appeared

between the chin and where the chest begins;

for toward his loins his face was turned around,

and backward it behooved him to advance,

because of foresight they had been deprived.

By palsy some, perhaps, may thus have been

entirely turned around, but I’ve not seen it,

nor do I think there ever was one such.

So may God let thee, Reader, gather fruit

from this thy reading, think now for thyself

how I could ever keep my own face dry,

when at close range I saw our human image

so twisted, that the weeping of the eyes

along the fissure bathed the back. Indeed,

as on a rock of that hard crag I leaned,

I wept so, that my Escort said to me:

“Art thou still foolish as the others are?

Here liveth piety when wholly dead

is pity. Who, then, guiltier is than he

who lets his feelings judge Divine Decrees?

Lift, lift thy head, and see the man for whom,

before the Trojans’ eyes, the earth was opened! W

hence all cried: ‘Whither art thou rushing now,

Amphiaràus? Why quittest thou the war?’

and he ceased not from plunging headlong down

to Minos, who lays hold on every one.

See how he makes a bosom of his shoulders;

because he wished to see too far ahead,

he looks behind, and backward goes his way.

Behold Tiresias there, who changed his looks,

when female he became, from being male,

his members being each and all transformed;

and afterward he needs must strike again

the two entwining serpents with his rod,

ere he the plumage of a male regained.

He who to that one’s belly turns his back,

is Aruns, who in Luni’s mountain quarries,

where toils the Carrarese who dwells below,

among white marbles had as dwelling-place

a cave, from which his view was not cut off,

when at the stars he gazed, or at the sea.

And she who, yonder, with dishevelled locks

covers the breasts which thou dost not behold,

and has on that side all her hairy skin,

was Manto, who first searched through many lands,

then settled in the place where I was born;

thereof I’d have thee hear me speak a little.

After her father had from life departed,

and Bacchus’ city had become enslaved,

she wandered long about the world. Up there

in lovely Italy, beneath the Alps

which o’er the Tyrol lock out Germany,

there lies a lake which is Benàco called.

From o’er a thousand springs, I trow, ’tween Garda

and Val Camònica, the Pennine Alp

is bathed by waters which therein find rest.

A midway place there is, where Trento’s shepherd,

and he of Brescia, and the Veronese,

might each his blessing give, if there he went.

Peschiera next, a fair and mighty fortress,

and fit to face both Bergamasks and Brescians,

sits where the shore lies lowest round about.

There all that in Benàco’s spacious lap

cannot be held, flows out of it perforce,

and down through verdant pastures forms a stream.

When once its water gathers head to run,

no more Benàco, Mincio is its name,

till at Govèrnolo it joins the Po.

Not long its course, before it finds low ground,

o’er which it spreads, and, making it a marsh,

is wont at times to be unsound in summer.

Passing that way, the cruel virgin saw a

region in the middle of the fen,

untilled and naked of inhabitants.

There, to escape all human fellowship,

and work her arts, she settled with her slaves,

and lived, and there she left her empty body.

Thereafter men, who all around were scattered,

collected in that place, which was a strong one,

because it had a fen on every side.

O’er those dead bones of hers they built a town;

then, after her, who first picked out the site,

they called it Mantua, with no other lot.

The people in it were more numerous once,

before the foolishness of Casalodi

had been deceived by Pinamonte’s guile.

I charge thee, then, if e’er thou hear it said

my town had its beginning otherwise,

permit no falsehood to defraud the truth.”

“Thy statements, Teacher, are so sure to me,”

said I, “and take such hold upon my faith,

that those of others would be burnt-out coals.

But tell me if among these passing people

thou seest any one deserving note;

for my mind now is wholly bent on that.”

He told me then: “The one who from his cheeks

extends his beard across his swarthy shoulders,

an augur was, when Greece lacked males so much,

that for her cradles only few were left;

’t was he who set, with Chalcas’ aid, at Aulis

the time to cut the fleet’s first rope. His name

Eurỳpylus, and in a certain place

he thus is called by my high Tragedy;

this thou know’st well, who knowest all of it.

That other one, so thin about his flanks,

was Michael Scot, who surely understood

the artful game of magical deceits.

Guido Bonatti see; and see Asdente,

who wishes now that he had given heed

to cord and leather, but too late repents.

See the sad women who abandoned needles,

spindles and shuttles, to become diviners;

these wrought their spells with herbs and images.

But now come on, for Cain is with his thorns

holding the bounds of both the hemispheres,

and plays upon the waves below Seville,

and round already was the moon last night;

thou surely must recall it, since at times,

it harmed thee not, when in the dark wood’s depths.”

Thus he to me, as, meanwhile, on we went.

Inferno XXI

The Eighth Circle. Fraud

The Fifth Trench. Corrupt Politicians

Speaking of other things my Comedy

cares not to sing, we thus from bridge to bridge

moved on, and, when upon the summit, stopped,

in order to behold the next ravine

of Malebòlgë, and the next vain cries;

and I beheld it wonderfully dark.

And just such sticky pitch as that which boils

in the Venetians’ Arsenal in winter,

for calking up again the unsound ships,

which cannot then be sailed;—instead of which,

as one a new one builds, one plugs the ribs

of that which many voyages has made;

one hammers at the stern, and at the prow another;

one fashions oars, another cordage twists,

while still another mends a jib or mainsail;—

such was the coarse, dense pitch, which, not by fire,

but by an art divine, boiled there below,

and limed the bank on every side. I saw

the pitch, but nothing in it, save the bubbles

the boiling raised, and that the whole of it

kept swelling up, and settling back compressed.

While I was gazing fixedly down yonder,

my Leader cried to me: “Beware, beware!”

and drew me to himself from where I was.

I then turned round, as one who longs to see

the thing which it behooves him to escape,

and who, when by a sudden fear unmanned,

although he sees, delays not his departure;

and I perceived behind us a black devil

come running up along the rocky crag.

Ah, how ferocious in his looks he was,

and in his actions how severe he seemed,

with wings outspread, and light upon his feet!

His shoulder, which was sharp and high, was loaded

with both a sinner’s haunches, whom he held

clutched tightly by the sinews of his feet.

“O Malebranche,” from our bridge he cried,

“here’s one of Santa Zita’s Ancients! Put him

beneath, for I’m for more of them returning

to that town which I have well stocked therewith;

there, save Bonturo, every one’s a grafter;

a ‘No’ for money there becomes a ‘Yes.’”

He hurled him down, and o’er the rugged crag

returned; and never was a mastif loosed

with so much hurry to pursue a thief.

The other sank, and then rose doubled up;

those fiends, though, who were sheltered by the bridge,

cried: “Here the Holy Face availeth not!

One here swims otherwise than in the Serchio!

If, therefore, thou dost not desire our hooks,

protrude not from the surface of the pitch.”

They pricked him then with o’er a hundred prongs,

and said: “Here under cover must thou dance,

that, if thou canst, thou mayst thieve secretly.”

Not otherwise do cooks have scullions plunge

the meat with hooks into the cauldron’s midst,

to hinder it from floating on its surface.

Thereat my kindly Teacher said to me:

“That here thy presence be not known, crouch down

behind a rock, which may avail to screen thee;

and be not thou afraid, for any harm

that may be done to me, who know these things,

for I in frays like this have been before.”

He then passed on beyond the bridge’s head,

and when the sixth embankment had been reached,

he had to show assurance in his face.

With just the storm and fury wherewith dogs

break out and rush upon a poor old man,

who stops and begs at once from where he is;

from ’neath the little bridge those devils issued,

and turned against him all their grappling hooks;

but he cried out: “Be none of you malicious!

Before your grappling hooks take hold of me,

let one of you advance, and hear me speak;

then take ye counsel as to grappling me.”

Then all cried out: “Let Malacoda go!”

Thereat one started, while the rest kept still,

and, as he came, said: “What does this avail him?”

“Dost thou think, Malacoda,” said my Teacher,

“that, as thou seest, I have hither come,

safe until now from all your hindrances,

unhelped by Will Divine and favoring fate?

Let us go on, for it is willed in Heaven

that I should show another this wild road.”

Thereat his pride received so great a fall,

that at his feet he dropped his grappling hook,

and to the rest said: “Let him not be wounded.”

My Leader thereupon cried out to me:

“Thou that among the bridge’s broken rocks

art crouching, safely now regain my side.”

I therefore moved, and quickly came to him;

then all the fiends advanced so far, I feared

they would not keep their word. Even thus I once

saw infantry, who, under pledge of safety,

were from Caprona coming forth, afraid,

when ’mong so many foes they saw themselves.

Then wholly to my Leader’s side I drew,

nor from their faces, which did not look good,

did I remove my eyes. For as their prongs

they lowered, one fiend to another said:

“Wouldst thou that I should touch him on his rump?”

and they replied: “Yes, see thou nick it for him!”

But that fiend, who was with my Leader talking,

turned round at once, and said to him: “Keep still,

keep still there, Scarmiglionë!” Then to us:

“Further advance along this present crag

can not be made, because the sixth arch yonder

lies wholly shattered on the ground below;

but if it please you still to go ahead,

go on along this ridge; there is near by

another crag which furnishes a path.

Than this hour five hours later yesterday,

twelve hundred, six and sixty years had passed,

since here the path was broken. I am sending

some of my company in that direction,

to see if any yonder air themselves;

go on with them, for they will not be bad.”

“Step forward, Alichino, and Calcabrina,”

he then began to say, “thou, too, Cagnazzo;

and let old Barbariccia guide the ten.

Have Libicocco go, and Draghignazzo;

tusked Ciriatto, too, and Graffiacane,

with Farfarello and crazy Rubicante.

Search round about the boiling birdlime pitch;

let these be safe as far as that next crag,

which all unbroken goes across the dens.”

“Oh, Teacher, what is this I see?” said I.

“If thou know how, pray let us go alone,

for I request no escort for myself.

If thou as wary art as thou art wont,

dost thou not notice how they gnash their teeth,

and with their eyebrows threaten us with woe?”

And he to me: “I would not have thee frightened;

let them grin on, then, as they like, for that

they’re doing at the wretches who are boiled.”

They wheeled, and moved along the left bank then;

but not till each, as signal toward their leader,

had first thrust out his tongue between his teeth,

and he had of his rump a trumpet made.

Inferno XXII

The Eighth Circle. Fraud

The Fifth Trench. Corrupt Politicians

Ere now have I seen cavalry break camp,

start to attack, or be reviewed, and even,

at times, retreat, in order to escape;

scouts have I also seen upon your lands,

O Aretines; raids, too, have I beheld,

and tournaments and tilting-matches fought;

with trumpets now, and now with bells, with drums

and beacon-signals made from fortresses,

with native and with foreign things; but never

have I seen horse, or infantry, or ship,

by sign of either land or sky, set out

with instrument of wind as odd as that.

With the ten demons we were going on;

ah, the fierce company! But in a church

with saints consort, with gluttons at an inn!

Upon the pitch alone was I intent,

that I might see all details of the trench

and of the people who were burned therein.

As dolphins do, when, arching up their backs,

they give the warning which bids mariners

take measures for the safety of their ship;

even so at times, his suffering to relieve,

one of the sinners there displayed his back,

and hid it in less time than lightning takes.

And as in ditches at the water’s edge

frogs stay with nothing but their muzzles out,

and thus conceal their feet and all the rest;

even so on all sides did those sinners stay;

and now that Barbariccia was approaching,

they likewise ’neath the boiling pitch withdrew.

I saw, and still it stirs my heart with horror,

one waiting thus, as oft, while one frog stays,

it happens that another scurries off.

And Graffiacane, who was nearest to him,

hooking his pitch-smeared tresses, pulled him up,

so that an otter he appeared to me.

I knew by now the names of each and all,

I noted them so well when they were chosen,

and, when they called each other, noticed how.

“O Rubicante, see thou set thy claws

upon him so, that thou peel off his skin!”

the accursèd all cried out together then.

And I: “My Teacher, if thou canst, contrive

to learn who that wretch is, who thus

has fallen into his adversaries’ hands.”

My Leader thereupon drew near to him,

and asked him whence he was, and he replied:

“Of Navarre’s kingdom I a native was.

My mother placed me out to serve a lord,

for she had borne me to a rascal knave,

who both himself and what he owned destroyed.

I next in good King Thibaut’s household served,

and there I set myself to practice graft,

for which I pay the reckoning in this heat.”

Here Ciriatto, from whose mouth protruded,

as from a boar’s, a tusk on either side,

caused him to feel how one of them could rip.

Among bad cats the mouse had fallen now;

for Barbariccia clasped him in his arms,

and said: “Stand off, while I am clutching him!”

Then, toward my Teacher having turned his face,

he said: “Ask him again, if more thou wish

to know of him, before the others rend him.”

My Leader then: “Now tell me: know’st thou any,

among the other sinners ’neath the pitch,

who Latin is?” And he: “Not long ago

I left a man from that vicinity;

would that like him I still were covered up,

for I should then fear neither claw nor hook!”

Here Libicocco said: “We’ve borne too much!”

and with his hook so seized him by the arm,

and tore it, that he carried off a piece.

And Draghignazzo also wished to clutch him

down at his legs; but their decurion then

turned right around at them with threatening looks.

When they were somewhat pacified again,

of him, who still was looking at his wound,

my Leader asked without delay: “Who, then,

was he, from whom thou tookst unlucky leave,

as thou hast said, to land upon the shore?”

And he made answer: “That was Fra Gomita,

Gallura’s man, a vessel of all fraud,

who, when he held in hand his master’s foes,

so dealt with them that each is glad. Their money

he took, and, as he puts it, let them all

off easy, and even in other offices

was not a petty, but a first rate grafter.

With him Don Michel Zanche of Logodoro

associates; and never do their tongues

feel tired out by talking of Sardinia.

But oh! Look at the other grinning there!

More would I say, but am afraid lest that one

be making ready now to claw my skin.”

Then the great provost turned toward Farfarello,

who rolled his eyes as if he meant to strike,

and said: “Off yonder, thou malicious bird!”

“If you desire” thereat began again

the terror-stricken man, “to see or hear

Tuscans or Lombards, I will have some come.

But let the Evil Claws here stand aside

a little, that their vengeance be not feared,

and I, while sitting in this very place,

for one that I am, shall make seven come out,

when I shall whistle, as our wont it is,

when any one of us protrudes himself.”

Cagnazzo at this speech his muzzle raised,

and shook his head, and said: “Hear the sly trick

devised by him to cast himself below!”

Then he, who frauds in great abundance had,

replied to him: “Tricky indeed am I,

when for my mates a greater pain I win!”

Here Alichìn could not control himself,

but said, in opposition to the rest:

“I shall not gallop after thee, in case

thou dive, but o’er the pitch shall beat my wings;

the ridge abandoned, be the bank a screen,

to see if thou alone art more than we!”

Now, Reader, of a new sport shalt thou hear!

Each turned his eyes the other way; and he

the first, who had thereto been most opposed.

The Navarrese chose well his time, stood firmly

upon the ground, and, jumping suddenly,

from what they purposed freed himself thereby.

For this each felt himself to blame, but most

the one who of the loss had been the cause;

hence he moved first, and shouted: “Thou art caught!”

But little did it profit him; for wings

could not outmeasure fear; as one went under,

the other, flying upward, raised his breast;

nor different is the speed with which a duck

dives under water, when a hawk draws near,

who, vexed and baffled thus, flies up again.

Then Calcabrina, angered by the flout,

flew out behind him, glad that one escaped,

because it let him scuffle with the other;

and then, the grafter having disappeared,

he turned his claws upon his own companion,

and grappled with him o’er the ditch; but he,

being, indeed, a fighting sparrow-hawk

fitted to claw him well, they both fell down

into the middle of the boiling fen.

A sudden separator was the heat;

but rising thence was quite impossible,

they had their wings so limed with sticky pitch.

Then Barbariccia, vexed as were the rest,

his mates, had four of them with all their hooks

fly to the other bank; on both sides then

they speedily descended to their posts,

and stretched their hooks out toward the pitch-

belimed, who now were cooked inside their crusted hides;

and, thus embarrassed, we abandoned them.

Inferno XXIII

The Eighth Circle. Fraud The Sixth Trench. Hypocrites

Silent, alone, and unaccompanied,

we went along, one first and one behind,

as Minor Friars go when on the road.

My thoughts, by reason of the present brawl,

were turned to Aesop’s fable, that wherein

he talks about the frog and mouse; for ‘now’

and ‘at this moment’ are no more alike,

than one is like the other, if beginning

and end be linked by an attentive mind.

And ev’n as one thought from another springs,

so, next, from that one was another born,

which doubled my first fear. Hence thus I thought:

“These devils have been scorned on our account,

and with such injury and scoff, indeed,

that I believe that they are greatly vexed.

If anger to ill-will be joined, they’ll come

more fiercely after us, than doth a dog

the rabbit which he seizes with his teeth.”

Already was I feeling all my hair

bristling with fear, when, gazing back intent,

I said: “If, Teacher, thou hide not thyself

and me with speed, I dread the Evilclaws;

we have them now behind us, and I so

imagine them, that I already feel them.”

And he: “If I were made of leaded glass,

thine outward image I would not reflect

more quickly than thine inward I receive.

Even now thy thoughts were coming among mine

with outlook and intent so similar,

that I with both a single purpose formed.

If it be true the right bank slopeth so,

that to the following trench we can descend,

we shall escape from this imagined chase.”

He had not finished telling me his plan,

when not far off I saw them coming on

with wings outspread, intent on seizing us.

My Leader then took hold of me at once,

even as a mother, by the noise aroused,

and seeing close to her the burning flames,

seizes her child and flees, and doth not stop,

since caring more for him than for herself,

even long enough to clothe her with a shift;

and downward from the ridge of that hard bank,

his back he yielded to the hanging rock,

which closes one side of the following trench.

Water ne’er moved as swiftly through a sluice,

to turn the overshot wheel of a mill,

when closest to the paddles it approaches,

as did my Teacher o’er that selvage-bank,

bearing me down with him upon his back,

as though his son I were, and not his mate.

His feet had hardly reached the trench’s bed

below, when they were on the ridge above,

just over us; but naught was now to fear;

because the Providence on high, which willed

to place them in the fifth trench as its servants,

takes from them all the power of leaving it.

A painted people found we there below,

who, moving with exceedingly slow steps,

shed tears, and in their looks appeared subdued

and weary. Cloaks they had equipped with cowls

lowered before their eyes, and cut like those

which in Cologne are fashioned for her monks.

So gilded outside are they that they dazzle;

but inside all are lead, and of such weight,

that those which Frederick clothed men with were

straw. O cloak that wearies through eternity!

We turned again, as ever, to the left,

along with them, intent on their sad plaint;

but, owing to the weight, that weary folk

came on so slowly, that new company

we had at every motion of our legs.

Hence to my Leader I: “Contrive to find

some one whom we may know by deed or name,

and, while thus going, move thine eyes around.”

And one, who heard my Tuscan speech, cried out

behind us: “Stay your feet, O ye that run

so quickly through the gloomy air! From me,

perhaps, shalt thou receive what thou dost ask.”

Thereat my Leader turned and said: “Now wait;

and then proceed according to his pace.”

I stopped, and two I saw, whose faces showed

great mental haste to be with me, and yet

their burden and the narrow path delayed them.

On coming up to us, they watched me long

with eyes askance, and uttered not a word;

then, toward each other turning, thus they spoke:

“This one seems by the action of his throat

alive; but if they’re dead, by what right, then,

go they uncovered by the heavy stole?”

And then, addressing me, they said: “O Tuscan,

who to the gathering of sad hypocrites

art come, scorn not to tell us who thou art.”

And I to them: “On Arno’s lovely stream,

and in its famous town, both born and bred,

I’m in the body I have always had.

But who are ye, adown whose cheeks there drips,

as I perceive, so great a woe, and what

the penalty which sparkles on you thus?”

“These orange cloaks,” one answered, “are of lead,

and of such thickness are they, that the weights

thus cause the scales that balance them to creak.

We Jovial Friars were, and Bolognese;

I, Catalàn, and Loderingo he,

by name, and chosen by thy town together,

as one alone is usually called,

to keep its peace; and such we were, as still

in the Gardingo’s neighborhood appears.”

“O friars,” I began, “your evil deeds ”

but said no more; because there struck mine eyes

one crucified by three stakes on the ground.

On seeing me, sighs through his beard he blew,

and writhed all over; then Fra Catalàn,

informed thereby of what had happened, said:

“The pinioned man thou gazest at, advised

the Pharisees that it expedient was

to torture one man for the people’s sake.

Stretched crosswise, as thou seest, on the road,

and naked, he is forced to be the first

to feel how much whoever passes weighs.

And in like fashion suffer in this ditch

his father-in-law, and others of the council

which proved a seed of evil for the Jews.”

I then saw Virgil marvelling at him,

who in the figure of a cross was stretched

so basely in eternal banishment.

Then to the friar he addressed these words:

“Be not displeased to tell us, an ye may,

if on the right there lie a crossing-place,

by means of which we two may issue hence,

without black Angels being forced to come

and extricate us from this trench’s bed.”

“Nearer than thou dost hope” he then replied,

“a crag there is, which at the great round wall

begins, and all the cruel trenches spans,

save that at this one it is broken down,

and spans it not; but ye can climb the ruins,

which from its base lie piled along the slope.”

My Leader kept his head bowed down awhile;

then said: “Wrongly did he report the thing,

who yonder grapples sinners with his hook!”

The friar then: “Among the many vices given

the Devil at Bologna, I once heard

that he a liar is, and sire of lies.”

Thereat my Leader with great strides departed,

somewhat disturbed by anger in his looks;

then I the burdened left, and followed on

behind the footprints of belovèd feet.

Inferno XXIV

The Eighth Circle. Fraud The Seventh Trench. Thieves

When in the youthful season of the year

the sun beneath Aquarius warms his locks,

while southward now the nights pursue their way;

and when the hoar-frost draws upon the ground

the counterfeit of her white sister’s face,

though shortly lasts the temper of her pen;

the peasant, lacking provender, gets up,

looks out, and, seeing all the country white,

slaps himself on the thigh, returns in doors,

and walking to and fro, laments, poor wretch,

not knowing what to do; then later on

returning out again, recovers hope,

on seeing that the world has shortly changed

its face; and, taking down his shepherd-staff,

out to their feeding drives his tender sheep.

Even thus my Teacher filled me with dismay,

when I beheld such trouble in his face;

thus, too, the plaster quickly reached the wound;

for when we had attained the ruined bridge,

my Leader turned to me with that sweet look,

which at the Mountain’s foot I first perceived.

First having well surveyed the ruined arch,

after some counsel taken with himself,

his arms he opened, and took hold of me.

And like a man who ponders while he acts,

and always seems to look ahead; ev’n so,

while upward to the top of one great rock

he pushed me, he sought out another crag,

and said: “Take hold of that one next, but first

see whether it be fit to bear thy weight.”

No path was this for one who wore a cloak,

since scarcely could we two, though he was light,

and I was pushed, ascend from rock to rock.

And had the slope on that bank not been shorter,

than on the other, I know not of him,

but I would surely have been overcome;

but since the whole of Malebolgë slopes

down to the opening of the lowest well,

such is the nature of each trench’s banks,

that one is high, and low the following one;

and yet we reached at length the ridge above,

from which the crag’s last rock projects.

My breath was so exhausted from my lungs,

when up at last, that I could go no further;

nay, on arriving I sat down at once.

“Thus, henceforth, must thou rid thyself of sloth,”

my Teacher said; “for one attains not fame,

sitting on cushions, or ’neath canopies;

and he that lives without attaining it,

leaveth on earth such traces of himself,

as smoke doth in the air, or foam in water.

Therefore get up! O’ercome thy troubled breath

with that soul-energy, which wins all fights,

unless it sink beneath its body’s weight!

A longer stairway must be climbed; ’t is not

enough that these stairs have been left; if, then,

thou understand me, let it profit thee.”

I thereupon arose, and showed myself

better equipped with breath than I had felt,

and said: “Go on, for I am strong and bold!”

We took the pathway up along the crag,

which rocky was, narrow and hard to climb,

and steeper far than was the one before.

Not to seem weak, I talked as on I went;

this from the next trench caused a voice to come,

which was incapable of forming words.

Though I was on the summit of the arch

which crosses here, I know not what it said;

but moved to anger seemed the one who spoke.

Downward I looked, and yet my living eyes

could not attain the bottom for the dark;

hence, “Teacher, try to reach the following ridge,”

said I, “and let us from the wall descend,

for as I hear, but do not understand,

so, looking down from hence, I make out nothing.”

“No other answer give I thee,” he said,

“save that of action; for a fair request

ought to be met by deeds without a word.”

We climbed down from the bridge’s further head,

where to the eighth embankment it is joined,

and then the trench was clearly shown to me;

and in it I beheld a frightful throng

of snakes, and of so weird a kind, that still

the memory of them freezes up my blood.

Let Libya and her sand no longer boast;

for though she breed chelỳdri, jàculi,

with cenchri, phàreae and àmphisbaenae,

ne’er with all Ethiopia did she show,

nor e’en with what above the Red Sea lies,

either so many or such evil plagues.

Among this cruel and most dismal swarm

people were running, nude and terrified,

and with no hope of hole or heliotrope.

Their hands were bound behind their back with snakes,

whose tail and head were thrust between their loins,

and tied together in a knot in front.

Then lo, a serpent hurled himself at one,

who near our bank was standing, and transfixed him

there where the neck is to the shoulders joined.

Never were o or i so quickly written,