Gerard brought his work, and kneeling on one knee presented it to his holiness, who had seated himself, the others standing.
His holiness inspected it with interest.
“'Tis excellently writ,” said he.
Gerard's heart beat with delight.
“Ah! this Plutarch, he had a wondrous art, Francesco. How each character standeth out alive on his page: how full of nature each, yet how unlike his fellow!”
Jacques Bonaventura. “Give me the Signor Boccaccio.”
His Holiness. “An excellent narrator, capitano, and writeth exquisite Italian. But in spirit a thought too monotonous. Monks and nuns were never all unchaste: one or two such stories were right pleasant and diverting; but five score paint his time falsely, and sadden the heart of such as love mankind. Moreover, he hath no skill at characters. Now this Greek is supreme in that great art: he carveth them with pen; and turning his page, see into how real and great a world we enter of war, and policy, and business, and love in its own place: for with him, as in the great world, men are not all running after a wench. With this great open field compare me not the narrow garden of Boccaccio, and his little mill-round of dishonest pleasures.”
“Your holiness, they say, hath not disdained to write a novel.”
“My holiness hath done more foolish things than one, whereof it repents too late. When I wrote novels I little thought to be head of the Church.”
“I search in vain for a copy of it to add to my poor library.”