THE WIDOW.
(FROM A VERY OLD TRANSLATION OF BOCCACCIO’S FALCON.)
Among the multiplicity of his queint discourses I remember he told us, that sometime there lived in Florence a young gentleman named Frederigo, sonne to Signior Phillippo Alberigo, who was held and reputed both for armes and all other actions beseeming a gentleman, hardly to have his equal through all Tuscany.
This Frederigo (as it is no rare matter in yong gentlemen) became enamored of a gentlewoman, named Madam Giana, who was esteemed (in her time) to be the fairest and most gracious lady in all Florence. In which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many sumptuous feasts and banquets, joustes, tilties, tournaments, and all other noble actions of armes, beside sending her infinite rich and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lauish expence. Notwithstanding, she being no lesse honest then faire, made no reckoning of whatsoeuer he did for her sake, or the least respect of his owne person. So that Frederigo spending thus daily more then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies anyway redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in such sort, that he became so poore, as he had nothing left him, but a small poore farme to liue vpon, the silly reuenewes wherof were so meane as scarcely allowed him meat and drink, yet he had a faire hawke or faulcon hardly anywhere to be fellowed, so expeditious and sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty no way quailing his loue to the lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon: he saw the city life could no longer containe him, where he most coueted to abide, and therefore betook himselfe to his poore countrey farme to let his faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his penurious estate without suite or meanes making to one for helpe or relief in any such necessity.
While thus he continued in this extremity it came to passe, that the husband of Madam Giana fell sicke, and his debility of body being such, as little or no hope of life remained, he made his last will and testament, ordaining thereby that his sonne (already grown to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his lands and riches wherein he abounded very greatly. Next vnto him, if he chanced to die without a lawful heire, he substituted his wife whom most dearely he affected; and so departed out of this life. Madam Giana being thus left a widow, as commonly it is the custome of our city dames, during the summer season, she went to a house of her owne in the countrey which was somewhat neare to poore Frederigo’s farme, and where he liued in such an honest kind of contented pouerty.
Hereupon the young gentleman, her sonne, taking great delight in hounds and hawkes, grew into familiarity with poor Frederigo, and hauing seene many faire flights of his faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne: yet durst not moue the motion for her, because he saw how choycely Frederigo esteemed her. Within a short while after, the young gentleman became very sicke, whereat his mother greued exceedingly (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely) neuer parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly as she could, and demanding if he had a desire to anything, willing him to reueale it and assuring him withall that (if it were within compasse of possibility) he should haue it. The youth hearing how many times she had made him these offers, and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake:—
“Mother (quoth he) if you can do so much for me, as that I may haue Frederigo’s faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse will soone cease.” The lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to herselfe, and began to consider what she might best doe to compasse her sonne’s desire, for well she knew how long a time Frederigo had most louingly kept it, not suffering it euer to be out of his sight. Moreouer, shee remembered how earnest in affection he had bene to her, neuer thinking himselfe happy but onely when he was in her company, wherefore shee entred into this private consultation with her owne thoughts: “Shall I send, or goe myself in person, to request the faulcon of him, it being the best that euer flew? It is his onely jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to liue in this world. How farre then voyde of vnderstanding shall I shew myselfe, to rob a gentleman of his sole felicity hauing no other joy or comfort left him?” These and the like considerations wheeled about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and loue for her sonne, perswading herselfe assuredly that the faulcon were her owne, if she would but request it, yet, not knowing whereon it were best to resolue, shee returned no answer to her sonne, but sat still in her silent meditations. At the length, loue to the youth, so prevailed with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could) shee would not send for it; but go herselfe in person to request it, and then returne home againe with it: whereupon thus she spake,—“Sonne, comfort thyselfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee, for here I promise thee that the first thing I doe to-morrow morning, shall bee my iourney for the faulcon, and assure thyselfe that I will bring it with me.” Whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined his sicknesse began instantly a little to leaue him and promised himself speedy recouery.
Somewhat early the next morning, the lady, in care of her sicke son’s health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another gentlewoman with her, onely as a morning recreation, shee walked to Frederigo’s poore country farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her. At the time of her arriuall there, he was (by chance) in a silly garden, on the backe of the house, because (as yet) it was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard Madam Giana was come thither and desired to haue some conference with him; as one almost confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her with most humble reuerence. She in all modest and gracious manner requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him: “Signior Frederigo, your own best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither to recompence some part of your passed trauailes, which heretofore you pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more, then did well become you to offer, or myselfe to accept. And such is the nature of my recompence, that I make myselfe your guest, and mean this day to dine with you, as also this gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome.” Whereto with lowly reverence, thus he replyed: “Madam, I doe not remembre that euer I sustained any losse or hindrance by you, but rather much good, as if I was worth any thing it proceeded from your great deseruings, and by the service in which I did stand engaged to you. But my present happinesse can no way be equalled,—deriued from your super-abounding gracious fauour, and more than common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing of your owne liberall nature,—to come and visit so poore a servant. Oh, that I had as much to spend againe, as heretofore riotously I have runne thorow: what a welcome would your poore host bestow vpon you, for gracing this homely house with your divine presence!” With these words he conducted her into his house, and then into his simple garden, where, hauing no convenient company for her, he said,—“Madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it affordeth none fit for your conversation; this poore woman, wife to an honest husbandman, will attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall make ready dinner.”
Poore Frederigo, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe great,—remembering his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof would now hauve stood him in some stead; yet he had a heart as free and forward as euer, not a iotte dejected in his minde, though vtterly overthrowne by fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he had nothing wherewith to honour his lady! Up and downe he runnes, one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous fate, like a man enraged or bereft of his senses; for he had not one penny of mony, neither pawne or pledge wherewith to procure any. The time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his honourable respect of the lady. To begge of any his nature denied it; and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie as himselfe.
At last, looking round about, and seeing his faulcone on her perch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat; Being voyde of all other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a fowle meete for so noble a lady to feede on, without any further demurring or delay he pluckt off her neck, and caused the poor woman presently to pull her feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in a short time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe couered the table, set bread and salt on,—and laid the napkins, whereof he had but a few left him. Going then with chearfull lookes into the garden, telling the lady that dinner was ready, and nothing was wanted but her presence; shee, and the gentlewoman went in, and being seted at the table, not knowing what they fed on, the faulcon was all their foode: and Frederigo not a little ioyfull that his credit was so well saued. When they were risen from the table and had spent some small time in familiar conference, the lady thought it fit to acquaint him with the reason of her comming thither; and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began:
“Frederigo, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me (as also my many modest and chaste denials) which (perhaps) you thought to sauour of a harsh, cruell, and vn-womanly nature, I make no doubt but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you vnderstand the occasion which expressely mooued me to come hither. But if you were possessed of children, or euer had any, whereby you might comprehend what love in nature is due vnto them: then I durst assure my selfe that you would partly hold me excused.
“Now in regard, that you neuer had any, and myselfe (for my part) haue but onely one, I stand not exempt from those lawes which are common to other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those lawes, contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to maintaine, I am to request a gift of you, which I am certaine that you doe make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can doe no lesse. For fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or delight, but only that poore one, which is your faire faulcone. Of which bird, my sonne is become so strangely desirous, as if I doe not bring it to him at my comming home, I feare so much the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon but the losse of life. Wherefore, I beseech you, not in regard to the love you have borne me, for therby you stande no way obliged, but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath always declared itselfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally than any other gentleman that I know), you will be pleased to giue her me, or at least, let me buy her of you. Which if you doe, I shall freely confesse that onely by your means my sonne’s life is saued, and we both shall for ever remaine engaged to you.”
When Frederigo had heard the ladies request, which was now quite out of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner, he stood like a man dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amain downe his cheekes, and he not able to vtter one word. Which she perceiving began to conjecture immediately, that these tears and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with his faulcone then any other kinde of manner, which made her ready to say that she would not haue it. Neuerthelesss she did not speake but rather tarried to attend his answer; which, after some small respite and pause, he returned in this manner:
“Madam, since the houre when first my affection became soly deuoted to your seruice, fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to me in many occasions, as iustly, and in good reason I may complaine of her: yet all seemed light and easie to be indured in comparison of her present malicious contradiction, to my vtter ouerthrow, and perpetual mollestation. Considering that you are come hither to my poore house, which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to looke on; and now you haue requested a small matter of me wherein she hath also crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled me in bestowing so mean a gift, as your selfe will confesse when it shall be related to you in a few words.
“So soone as I heard that it was your pleasure to dine with me, hauing regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due vnto you, I thought it a part of my bounden duty to entertaine you with such exquisite viands as my poore power could any way compasse, and farre beyond respect or welcome to other common and ordinary persons. Whereupon remembering my faulcone, which now you aske for, and her goodnesse excelling all other of her kinde, I supposed that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet; and, hauing drest her so well as I could deuise to do, you haue fed heartily on her, and I am proud that I haue so well bestowne her. But perceiuing now that you would haue her for your sicke sonne, it is no mean affliction to me that I am disabled of yeelding you contentment which all my lifetime I haue desired to doe.”
To approve his words, the feathers, feete and beake were brought in; and when she saw this, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a faulcone, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoeuer. Yet she commended his height of spirit which poverty had no power to abase. Lastly, her hopes being frustrate, for enjoying the faulcone, and fearing besides the health of her sonne, she thanked Frederigo for his honorable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. Shortly after, her sonne, either greeuing that he could not hauve the faulcone, or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to die, leauing his mother a most woeful lady.
After so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with sorrow and mourning, her brethren made many motions to her to joyne herself in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich and as yet but yong in years. Now, although she was well contented neuer to be married any more, yet, being continually importuned by them, and remembring the honourable honesty of Frederigo,—his last poore, yet magnificent dinner, in killing his faulcone for her sake,—she saide to her brethren: “This kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as willingly I would neuer leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will neuer accept of any other husband but onely Frederigo di Alberino.”