Prevod

_Jennariello undertakes a long journey to please his brother Milluccio, King of Fratta-ombrosa. Having brought him what he desired and saved him from death, he is himself condemned to die; but in proving his innocence he becomes a marble statue, until a strange turn of events restores him to his former state, and he lives happily._ _Had I a hundred fathoms of windpipe, a breast of bronze, and a thousand tongues of steel, I could not describe how well Paola’s tale pleased the company, who heard how not one of the good deeds in it went unrewarded. Indeed, they had to redouble their entreaties to Ciommetella to tell her own story, for she had lost heart at the thought of drawing the chariot of the Prince’s command,

as had several of the others. Yet, unable to refuse without spoiling the game, she spoke as follows._ A very fine proverb, truly, is this: _We see crooked and judge straight._ But it is so hard to put into practice that few human judgments hit the nail on the head. Indeed, in the sea of human affairs, most people are freshwater fishermen who catch nothing but crabs, and those who think they take the truest measure of whatever occupies their minds are the first to get it wrong. Hence everyone runs with the herd, everyone labors blindly, everyone thinks askew, everyone acts haphazardly, everyone judges at random; and more often than not, with one wretched tumble into a foolish decision, they purchase a very sound repentance. So it happened to the King of Fratta-ombrosa, whose adventures you shall hear if, at the wicket of modesty, you ring the bell of courtesy and grant me a little audience.

Now, they say that once upon a time there was a king of Fratta-ombrosa named Milluccio, who was so mad about hunting that he neglected the most pressing affairs of his kingdom and household to follow the tracks of a hare or the flight of a thrush. He pursued this course until one day Fortune led him into a forest where earth and trees had formed such close ranks that even the horses of the Sun could not break through. There, on a beautiful slab of marble, he found a raven that had just been killed. Seeing the vivid red blood spattered over the dazzling white stone, the King heaved a great sigh and said, “O heavens, could I not have a wife as white and red as this stone, with hair and eyebrows as black as this raven’s feathers?” He sank so deeply into this thought that for a while he and the stone were a matching pair: he looked like a marble statue making love to another piece of marble. Once he had driven this black fancy into his skull, continually tickling it with the feather of desire, in next to no time he changed from a little stick into a beanpole, from a round apple into an Indian gourd, from a barber’s brazier into a glassmaker’s furnace, and from a dwarf into a giant. He could think of nothing but the image of that creature, which had become embedded in his heart like stone set in stone. Wherever he turned his eyes, he found before him the very form he carried in his breast. Forgetting every other concern, he had nothing but that marble in his head, and wore himself so thin over the stone that his life hung by a hair. It was a millstone grinding away his life; a slab of porphyry on which the colors of his days were ground;

a flint setting fire to the sulfur match of his soul; a lodestone drawing him on; and, in short, a stone that gave him no rest. At last his brother Jennariello, seeing him so deathly pale and withered, said, “My brother, what has come over you, that grief has taken lodgings in your eyes and despair has settled beneath the faded signboard of your face? What has happened? Speak; unburden yourself to your brother.

“Charcoal fumes shut up in a room poison the people inside; gunpowder pent within a mountain blows its splinters into the air; an itch shut up in the veins corrupts the blood; wind held in the body breeds bloating and colic. So open your mouth and tell me what ails you. At least you may be certain that, wherever I can help, I shall stake a hundred thousand lives to serve you.” Milluccio, chewing his words and sighs together, thanked him for his affection, saying that he had never doubted his love, but that his illness had no remedy, since it sprang from a stone in which he had sown his desires without hope of fruit; a stone from which he could not expect so much as a mushroom of contentment; a stone of Sisyphus, which he carried up the mountain of his designs, only for it to roll straight down again the moment it reached the top.

At last, after a thousand entreaties, he told him the whole story of his love. When Jennariello heard it, he comforted him as best he could and told him to take heart and not let melancholy love drag him away, for he was resolved, in order to give him some satisfaction, to travel the world until he found a woman who was the living original of that stone. He immediately had a great ship fitted out and filled with merchandise, dressed himself as a merchant, and set out for Venice, the mirror of Italy, the refuge of the gifted, the great ledger of the wonders of art and nature. There he obtained a safe-conduct for the journey east, then set sail for Cairo. On entering the city, he saw a man carrying a magnificent falcon and at once bought it as a gift for his brother, who was a hunter. A little farther on he met another man with a marvelous horse, and bought that too. Then he went into an inn to recover from the hardships of the sea. The next morning, when the army of the stars, charged by the General of Light, strikes its tents in the lists of heaven and abandons its post, Jennariello began to walk about the city. Casting his lynx eyes everywhere, he examined this woman and that, hoping by chance to find in a face of flesh the likeness of a stone. As he wandered hither and thither, forever turning about like a thief afraid of the constables, he met a beggar who carried a whole hospital of plasters and a wilderness of rags. “My good gentleman,” the fellow said, “what troubles you, that you look so bewildered?” “Am I to tell you my affairs?” Jennariello answered. “A fine thing that would be, to plead my case before the bailiffs!” “Gently, my fine young man,” replied the beggar, “human flesh is not sold by weight. If Darius had not told his troubles to a stableboy, he would never have become master of Persia. So it would be no great matter to tell a poor beggar your business, for there is no twig so slender that it cannot serve to pick a tooth.” Hearing the poor man speak so sensibly and to the point, Jennariello told him what had brought him to that country. The beggar, having heard him out, replied, “Now you see, my son, why one must take account of everyone. Though I may be rubbish, I may still serve to manure the garden of your hopes. Listen: under the pretext of begging alms, I shall knock at the door of a beautiful young woman, the daughter of a necromancer. Open your eyes wide; look at her, study her, survey her, consider her, measure her, and you will find the very image of the woman your brother desires.” With that he knocked at the door of a house nearby, and Liviella appeared and tossed him a crust of bread. The moment Jennariello saw her, he thought her built exactly to the pattern Milluccio had given him. He gave the beggar a generous alms and sent him away; then he went back to the inn and disguised himself as a peddler of ribbons and pins, packing two little chests with every delight in the world. He passed so often before Liviella’s house, crying his wares, that she called him in. She admired the lovely hairnets, caps, ribbons, thread, laces and trimmings, little cloths, bodkins, pins, pots of rouge, and royal finery he carried; and when she had looked through all his merchandise again and again, she finally asked him to show her something else that was beautiful. “My lady,” he answered, “these little chests hold only common, inexpensive things. But if you would condescend to visit my ship, I would show you wonders from another world, for I have a treasure of beautiful things worthy of great ladies.” Liviella, who had no lack of curiosity and did not wish to disgrace the nature of women, said, “Indeed, if my father were not away, I should like to go and have a look.” “All the better reason to come,” Jennariello replied, “for perhaps he would not allow you this pleasure. I promise to show you finery enough to drive you wild. What necklaces and earrings! What clasps and ornaments! What embroidered work! In short, I shall leave you speechless.” Hearing of this great array of treasures, Liviella called a woman friend to accompany her and set off for the ship. Once she was aboard, while Jennariello kept her enchanted with the beautiful things he had brought, he cleverly had the anchor raised and the sails spread. Before Liviella lifted her eyes from the merchandise and noticed that they were drawing away from land, they had covered several miles. Discovering the trick too late, she began to play Olympia in reverse: for whereas Olympia had lamented being left upon the rocks, Liviella lamented leaving them behind.

But Jennariello told her who he was, where he was taking her, and the good fortune awaiting her. Besides this, he painted such a picture of Milluccio’s beauty, courage, and virtue, and above all of the love with which he would receive her, that he did and said enough to quiet her. Indeed, she began to beg the wind to carry her swiftly onward, so that she might see in living color the portrait Jennariello had sketched. As they sailed merrily along, they suddenly heard the waves murmuring beneath the ship. Though they spoke under their breath, the ship’s master, who knew their language, cried, “All hands stand ready! A storm is coming, and God send us safely through it!” A whistle of wind bore witness to his words, and in an instant the sky was wrapped in clouds and the sea was full of white horses. The waves, curious to learn other people’s business, came aboard without waiting to be invited to the wedding. One man bailed them into a tub with a scoop, another evicted them with a pump; and while every sailor, having his own life at stake, attended to the helm, the sail, or the sheet, Jennariello climbed to the crow’s nest to look through a telescope for land where they might anchor. While he was measuring a hundred miles of distance through two spans of tube, he saw a cock pigeon and a hen pigeon fly past and settle on the yardarm. The cock said, “_Coo-roo, coo-roo!_” and the hen answered, “What is it, husband, that you are lamenting?” The cock said, “This unfortunate prince has bought a falcon which, as soon as it is placed on his brother’s hand, will tear out his eyes. But whoever fails to bring it to him, or warns him, will turn to marble.” Having said this, he began again, “_Coo-roo, coo-roo!_” The hen asked, “Still lamenting? Is there something more?” “There is another sore,” said the cock. “He has bought a horse as well, and the first time his brother mounts it, he will break his neck. But whoever fails to bring it to him, or warns him, will turn to marble. _Coo-roo, coo-roo!_

“Alas, so much coo-rooing!” the hen went on. “What else is on the platter?” The cock answered, “He is bringing his brother a beautiful wife, but on the first night he lies beside her, both of them will be eaten by a dreadful dragon. Yet whoever fails to bring her to him, or warns him, will turn to marble.” With these words the storm ceased, the sea’s fury subsided, and the wind’s rage passed away.

But a far greater tempest arose in Jennariello’s breast at what he had heard. More than four times he was on the point of throwing everything into the sea rather than bring his brother the means of his destruction. On the other hand, he thought of himself, and charity began at home: fearing that he would turn to marble if he failed to bring his brother these things, or warned him, he resolved to look to his own case before considering an appeal, for his shirt lay closer to him than his doublet. When he reached the harbor of Fratta-ombrosa, he found his brother on the shore, awaiting him in great delight after seeing the ship return. When Milluccio saw that he had brought the woman whose image he carried in his heart, and compared the one face with the other and found not a hair’s difference between them, his joy was so great that he nearly burst beneath the excessive burden of his happiness. Embracing his brother with great affection, he said, “What falcon is that you carry on your fist?” “I bought it for you,” Jennariello answered. “It is plain enough that you love me,” Milluccio replied, “since you take such pains to please me. Truly, had you brought me a treasure, you could not have given me greater pleasure than with this falcon.” But as he reached out to take it, Jennariello swiftly drew a large knife from his side and struck off its head. The King was dumbfounded at this act and thought his brother mad to have done so outrageous a thing; but, unwilling to cloud the joy of his return, he said nothing. Then he noticed the horse and asked whose it was. On learning that it was his own, he wished to ride it; but as someone held his stirrup, Jennariello suddenly drew a sword and cut the animal’s legs from under it. This stuck in the King’s throat: he thought his brother had done it to spite him, and his guts began to churn. Still, he did not think it the moment to show his anger, lest he sour the bride’s first impressions, for he could not tire of gazing at her and clasping her hand. When they reached the royal palace, he invited all the ladies of the city to a splendid feast. The hall looked like a riding school, with a troop of fillies in women’s shapes performing curvets and serpentine turns. When the dancing was over and they had put away a magnificent banquet, they went to bed. Jennariello, who had no thought in his head but to save his brother’s life, hid behind the bridal bed and waited in readiness for the dragon. At midnight a hideous dragon entered the room, flames shooting from its eyes and smoke pouring from its mouth. Such was the terror of its appearance that it would have made an excellent broker for the apothecaries, helping them sell every purgative seed in their shops. The moment Jennariello saw it, he began laying about him right and left with a Damascus blade he had brought beneath his clothes. Among his other blows he struck one so mighty that it sliced through a post of the King’s bed. At the noise his brother woke, and the dragon vanished. But when Milluccio saw the sword in Jennariello’s hand and the bedpost cut in two, he began to shout, “Ho, my men! Guards! Help, help! This traitor of a brother has come to murder me!” At his cries a number of attendants who slept in the antechamber came running. The King had Jennariello bound and sent to prison that very hour. As soon as morning came and the Sun opened his bank to pay out the deposit of light to the creditors of day, he summoned his council and related what had happened. Since it agreed with the malice Jennariello had shown in killing the falcon and horse to spite him, they sentenced him to death. Nor could Liviella’s entreaties soften the King’s heart. “You do not love me, my wife,” he said, “if you value your brother-in-law above my life. With your own eyes you saw that murderous dog come to chop me to pieces with a sword sharp enough to split a hair in the air. Had that bedpost not shielded me—a very pillar of my life—you would be a shorn widow by now.” With this he ordered the sentence carried out. When Jennariello heard the decree and saw himself brought to such misery for having done good, he did not know what course to take. If he kept silent, it was bad; if he spoke, worse: the itch was bad, the scald worse still. Whatever he did, he would fall from the tree into the wolf’s jaws. If he held his tongue, he would lose his neck beneath the blade; if he spoke, he would end his days inside a stone. At last, after many changes of counsel, he resolved to reveal the matter to his brother. Since he must die in any case, he thought it better to convince his brother of the truth and end his days with the name of an innocent man than to keep the truth within him and be driven from the world as a traitor. He therefore sent word to the King that he wished to speak of something important to the kingdom, and was brought into his presence. There he began with a long account of the love he had always borne him, then passed on to the trick he had played on Liviella to fulfill his desire, and to what he had heard the pigeons say about the falcon: how he had brought it to him to avoid turning to marble, then killed it without revealing the secret so that he would not see his brother robbed of his eyes. As he spoke, he felt his legs stiffen and turn to marble. Continuing with the story of the horse, he visibly became stone up to the waist, growing miserably hard—a thing for which at another time he would have paid ready money, but which now made his heart weep. Finally, when he came to the matter of the dragon, he turned entirely to stone and stood like a statue in the middle of the hall. Seeing this, the King blamed his own error and the rash judgment he had passed upon so good and loving a brother. He mourned him for more than a year, and whenever he thought of him, he shed a river of tears. Meanwhile, Liviella gave birth to two sons, the loveliest little creatures in the world. A few months later, when the Queen had gone for an outing in the country, their father was standing with the children in the middle of the hall, gazing with streaming eyes at the statue, that reminder of his folly which had robbed him of the flower of men. Suddenly a venerable old man entered, his long hair covering his shoulders and his beard spreading over his breast. He bowed to the King and said, “What would Your Majesty pay to have this fine brother restored to what he was?” “I would pay my kingdom,” the King replied. “This is not a matter to be rewarded with riches,” answered the old man. “Since life is at stake, life must be paid for with life.” The King, partly from his love for Jennariello and partly because he knew himself to blame for his misfortune, replied:

“Believe me, sir, I would give my life for his, and if only he could come out of this stone, I should gladly be shut up in a stone myself.” On hearing this, the old man said, “There is no need to put your life to such a trial, for it takes so much trouble to raise a man. The blood of these little children of yours, rubbed upon the marble, would be enough to restore him at once.” To these words the King answered, “Children can be made again. So long as the mold for these little creatures remains, others can be made; but I have a brother whose like I can never hope to have again.” So saying, before that idol of stone he made a pitiful sacrifice of two innocent little kids, and smeared the statue with their blood. It immediately came to life, and the King embraced his brother with a joy beyond telling. He had the poor children laid in a chest, intending afterward to give them burial with the honors due to them. At that very moment the Queen returned from her outing. The King had his brother hide, then said to his wife, “What would you pay, my heart, to have my brother alive again?” “I would pay this entire kingdom,” Liviella answered. “Would you give the blood of your children?” the King asked. “That I would not,” replied the Queen, “for I could never be so cruel as to pluck out the pupils of my eyes with my own hands.” “Alas,” the King said, “to see a brother alive again, I have cut my children’s throats. There lies the price of Jennariello’s life.” With these words he showed her the children in the chest. At the sight of this bitter spectacle, she cried out like a madwoman: “O my children! O props of my life, pupils of my heart, fountains of my blood! Who has drawn these red lines across the windows of the Sun? Who, without a physician’s leave, has bled the chief vein of my life? Alas, my children, my children! My blighted hope, my darkened light, my poisoned sweetness, my lost support! You are pierced by steel, and I am pierced by sorrow.

“You are drowned in blood, and I am drowned in tears. Alas, to give life to an uncle, you have killed your mother, for I can no longer weave the cloth of my days without you, fair counterweights of the loom of this wretched life. The organ of my voice must fall silent, now that its bellows have been taken away. O children, my children! Why do you not answer your poor mother, who once gave you blood within her body and now gives it to you from her eyes? Since my fate makes me behold the fountain of my joys run dry, why should I live on as a useless burden to this world? I am coming now, step by step, to find you.” With that she ran to a window to throw herself down. But at that very instant her father entered through the same window in a cloud and said, “Stop, Liviella! In one journey I have now accomplished three errands. I have avenged myself on Jennariello, who came to my house and stole away my daughter, by making him spend so many months as a marble statue, shut within a stone. I have repaid your misconduct in letting yourself be lured aboard a ship without regard for me, by making you behold two children—two jewels, rather—slaughtered by their own father. And I have humbled the King for taking a fancy fit for a pregnant woman, by making him first his brother’s criminal judge and then his children’s executioner. But since I wished to shave you, not flay you, I now intend that all your poison should turn to royal sweetmeats. Go and take your children, who are my grandchildren: they are more beautiful than ever. And you, Milluccio, embrace me, for I accept you as my son-in-law and my son. I pardon Jennariello’s offenses, since all he did was done in the service of so deserving a brother.” At these words the children came forward, and their grandfather could not have enough of embracing and kissing them. Jennariello joined in their rejoicing, and after having been drawn through the wire, he now found himself swimming in macaroni broth. Yet, for all the pleasures he enjoyed throughout his life, he never forgot the dangers he had passed through, remembering his brother’s error and how careful a man must be not to fall into a pit, since _Every human judgment is false and crooked._