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._
Izvirnik
_Jennariello pe ddare gusto a Milluccio Rrè de Fratta ombrosa, fratiello sujo, fa luongo viaggio, e portatole chello che desederava pe lliberarelo da la morte, è connannato a la morte; ma pe mmostrare la ’nnocenzia soja, deventanno statua de preta marmora pe strano socciesso, torna a lo stato de primmo, e gaude contente._ _S’io avesse ciento canne de canna, no pietto d’abbrunzo, e mille lengue d’acciaro, non porria spalifecare quanto piacquette lo cunto de Paola, sentenno comme non restaje nesciuna dell’opere bone ch’aveva fatto senza remonerazzione, tanto, che besognaje carrecare la dosa de li prieghe a Ciommetella, che decesse lo sujo, essennose sconfedata de tirare lo carro de lo commannamiento de lo Prencepe: paricchie dell’autre, puro non potenno fare de manco de n’obedire
pe non guastare lo juoco, accossì decette._ È no gran proverbio veramente chillo: _vedimmo stuorto, e ghiodequammo deritto_; ma è accossì defficele serviresenne, che poche jodizie dell’uommene danno a lo chiuovo, anze drinto a lo maro de le ccose umane la magiore parte sò pescature d’acqua doce, che pigliano grance, e chi se crede pigliare chiù ghiusta la mesura de chello, che le vace ’n pensiero, cchiù ppriesto la sgarra; da la quale cosa nne nasce, che tutte correno a la mmorrune, tutte faticano a la cecata, tutte penzano a la storza, tutte operano a la babalà, tutte jodecano a spaccastrommola, e lo cchiù de le bote co na trista vrocciolata de na resoluzione a lo sproposeto, se accattano no pentemiento a buono sinno, comme fece lo Rrè de Fratta ombrosa, de lo quale sentarrite
lo socciesso, se drinto la rota de la modestia mme chiammarrite co lo campaniello de la cortesia, a dareme no poco d’audienzia. Ora dice, ch’era na vota Milluccio lo Rrè de Fratta-ombrosa, lo quale era accossì perduto pe la caccia, che mmetteva a mmonte le ccose cchiù necessarie de lo stato, e de la casa soja pe ghire dereto a le ppedate de no leparo, o appriesso lo vuolo de no marvizzo; e tanto secotaje sta strata, che no juorno lo portaje la Fortuna a no vosco, che aveva fatto squatrone de terreno, e d’arvole serrato serrato, pe non essere rutto da li Cavalle de lo Sole; dove ’ncoppa na bellissema preta marmora trovaje no Cuorvo, che frisco frisco era stato acciso; lo Rrè vedenno chillo sango vivo vivo sghizziato sopra chella preta janca
janca, jettanno no gran sospiro, disse: O cielo, e non porria avere na mogliere accossì ghianca, e rrossa, comme a chella preta, e che avesse li capille, e le cciglia accossì negre, comme so le penne de chisto Cuorvo? e sopra sto penziero se sprofonnaje de manera, che pe no piezzo fece li duje simmele co chella preta; tanto, che pareva na statola de marmora, che facesse l’ammore coss’autra marmora: e chiavatose sto nigro capriccio drinto a le cchiocche, e ccercannolo tutta via co la pappola de lo desederio, se fece ’n quatto pizzeche de palicco perteca, da milo sciuoccolo cocozza d’Innia, da focone de varviero, fornace de vritaro, e da naimuozzo, gegante, de manera, che non penzava ad autre, che a la ’mmagene de chella cosa ncrastata drinto a lo core sujo,
comme preta a preta: dovonca votava l’uocchie sempre se trovava chella stessa forma dereto, che portava drinto a lo pietto, e scordatose d’ogne autra facenna, autro non avea, che chella marmora ’n capo, tanto che s’era assottegliato de manera sopra sta preta, che se nne jeva de pilo ’n pilo: essennole sta preta de molino, che le mmacenava la vita, porfeto, dove se stemperavano li colure de li juorne suoje; focile, che le metteva fuoco a lo zorfariello de ll’arma, calamita, che lo terava, e finalmente preta, che non poteva arrequiare; tanto che Jennariello lo frate vedennolo accossì mortacino, ed appagliaruto, le disse: Frate mio, che cosa t’è pigliato, che puorte lo dolore alloggiato nell’uocchie, e la desperazione assentata sotto la ’nsegna
spalleta de ssa facce? che t’è socciesso? parla, spapura co ffrateto; lo fieto de li craùne nchiuso a na cammara mpesta le pperzune, la porvere stretta drinto na montagna, nne fa ire l’asche pe l’ajero; la rogna serrata drinto le bene ’nfraceta lo sango: la ventosetà retenuta drinto a lo cuorpo genera flate, e ccolacapasse: perzò apre ssa vocca, e dimme chello che te siente: all’utemo puoje assecurarete, ca dove pozzo, mettarraggio millanta vite pe soggiovarete. Milluccio mazzecanno parole, e ssospire, lo rengraziaje de lo buono ammore decenno, che non era ’n dubbio de l’affrezzione soja, ma che lo mmale sujo non aveva remmedio, pocca nasceva da na preta, dove aveva semmenato li desiderie senza speranza de frutto: da na preta, da la quale no sperava manco
no funcio de contentezza; da na preta de Sisefo, che portava a lo monte de li designe, e com’era ncoppa, se vrociolava tuppete a bascio: all’utemo dopò mille pregarie, le disse tutto chello, che passava de l’ammore sujo. Jennariello, sentuto sta cosa, conzolannolo comme meglio potte, le disse, che stesse de buon armo, e non se lassasse strascenare da l’amore malanconeco, ca isso pe ddarele quarche sfazione, era deliberato de cammenare tanto lo munno, nfi che trovasse na femmena, che fosse l’originale de chella preta; e fatto subeto armare na grossa nave chiena de mercanzie, e bestutose da mercante, tiraje a la vota de Venezia, schiecco de la Talia, recietto de vertoluse, livro maggiore de le mmaraviglie dell’arte, e de la natura: dove fattose dare sarvo
connutto pe passare a llevante, fece vela a la vota pe lo Cairo, e ttrasuto a la Cetate, vedenno uno, che portava no bellissimo farcone, subeto se lo compraje pe portarelo a lo frate, ch’era cacciatore; e n’autro poco nnante, scontrato n’autro co no cavallo de spanto pure se l’accattaje; e trasuto a na taverna se voze restorare de li travaglie passate pe lo maro; ma la matina seguente, quanno l’asserzeto de le stelle pe la carreca de Generale de la luce, leva le ttenne da lo steccato de lo cielo, ed abbannona lo puosto, Jennariello commenzaje a cammenare pe la Cetà, mettenno pe tutto comm’a lupo cerviero l’uocchie, vedenno chesta femmena, e chella, si pe sciorte trovasse a na facce de carne la semmeletudene de na preta; mentre jeva sbalestrato pa
ccà e da llà votannose sempre ’ntuorno, comm’a mariuolo, che ha paura de li tammare, scontrato no pezzente, lo quale portava no spetale de ’nchiastre e na jodeca de pezze, che le decette: Galant’ommo mio, che d’aje, che te veo accossì sbagottuto? Aggio da dicere a te li fatte meje, respose Jennariello: mo si ch’aggio fatto lo ppane a contare la ragione mia a li sbirre. Chiano, bello giovane mio, leprecaje lo pezzente, ca la carne d’ommo non se venne a piso; si Dario non contava li guaje a no muzzo de stalla, non sarria deventato patrone de la Perzia; perrò non sarrà gran cosa, che decisse a no povero pezzente li fatte tuoje, ca non c’è spruoccolo accossì sottile, che non pozza servire pe annetta diente. Jennariello, che intese sto poveriello
parlare assestato, e co sinno, le disse la causa, che l’aveva portato a chille paise; la quale cosa sentuta lo pezzente, le respose: Ora vide, figlio mio, comme besogna fare cunto d’ogn’uno; ca si be so mmonnezza, puro sarraggio buono a ’ngrassare l’uorto de le speranze toje. Ora siente, io co scusa de cercare lemmosena tozzoliarraggio na porta de na bella giovane figlia de no nigromante, aprece buono l’uocchie, videla, contemprala, squatrala, considerala, mesurala, ca trovarraje la ’mmagene de chella, che desidera frateto. E cossì decenno, tozzolaje la porta de na casa poco lontana, dove affacciatase Liviella, e ttiratole no tuozzo de pane, Jennariello subeto che la vedde, le parze fraveca secunno lo modiello datole da Milluccio; e dato na bona lemmosena a
lo pezzente, nne lo mannaje; e ghiuto a la taverna se stravestette de lazze, e spingole, portanno drinto a doje cascette tutto lo bene de lo munno: e tanto passaje gridanno de nante la casa de Liviella, che lo chiammaje, e pigliatose na vista de le belle rizzole, coperchiere, zagarelle, filonnente, pontille, e pezzille, pannecielle, vroghere, spingole, scotelle de russo, e tocche de regina, che portava, e bisto, e revisto tutta la mercanzia, all’utemo le disse, che le mostrasse quarc’auta cosa bella, e isso respose: Segnora mia, drinto a ste ccascette io porto cose zaffie, e de poca spesa: ma si ve degnassevo de venire a la nave mia, ve farria vedere cose dell’autro munno; pocca aggio tresoro de cose belle, e degne de gran Signore. Liviella, che
n’era scarza de curiositate, pe non pregiudicare a la natura de le ffemmene, le disse: affè, ca si patremo non fosse fore, nce vorria dare na passata. Tanto meglio, leprecaje Jennariello, ce porrisse venire, ca fuorze isso non te concedarria sto gusto, e io te ’mprometto de farete vedere sfuorgie da pazziare, che cannacchie, e scioccaglie? che prattiglie, e apprettatore? che lavure de cartiglia? nsomma voglio farete strasecolare. Liviella, che sentette sto granne apparato de cose, chiammatose na commare soja, che l’accompagnasse, s’abbiaje a la nave, dove sagliuta ’ncoppa, mentre Jennariello la teneva ncantata a ffarele vedere tante belle cose, ch’aveva portate, fece destramente auzare lo fierro, e stennere vela, che ’nnante, che Liviella auzasse
l’uocchie da le mercanzie, e se vedesse allargata da terra, aveva fatto na mano de miglia; la quale addonatase tardo de lo corrivo, commenzaje a fare l’Alimpia a la reverza, perchè se chella se lamentaje lassata ’ncoppa a no scuoglio, chesta se lamentaje, che lassava li scuoglie. Ma Jennariello decennole chi era, dove la portava, e la fortuna, che l’aspettava, e otra a chesto, depegnennole la bellezza de Milluccio, lo valore, la vertute, e finalmente l’ammore, co la quale l’averria recevuta, tanto fece, e tanto disse, che s’acquetaje, anze pregava lo viento, che l’avesse portata subeto a bedere lo colorito de lo designo, che l’aveva fatto Jennariello. E cossì navecanno allegramente, ecco sentettero sotto la nave vervesiare l’onna, che si bè parlava
sotta lengua, lo patrone de la nave, che era comprennuoteco, gridaje ogne ommo allerta, ca mò se ne vene no temporale, che Ddio nce la manne bona. A le quale parole se nce agghionze lo testemmonio de na fiscata de viento; ed eccote commogliato lo cielo de nuvole, e lo maro chino de porcelluzze. E perchè l’onne curiose de sapere li fatte d’autre, senz’essere ’nvetate a nnozze, saglievano ncoppa a la nave, chi l’aggottava co na navetta drinto na tinella, chi le deva lo sfratto co na tromma; e mmentre ogne mmarenaro, perchè se trattava de causa propria, attenneva chi a lo temmone, chi a la vela, chi a la scotta; Jennariello sagliette sopra la gaggia per bedere co n’acchiale de vista longa, si poteva scoprire pajese, dove potessero
dare funno, ed ecco mentre mesurava ciento miglia de destanzia co duje parme de cannuolo, vedde passare no palummo, e na palomma, che fermatose ’ncoppa la ’ntenna, deceva lo mascolo: _rucche rucche_: e la femmena le respose: che d’aje marito mio, che te lamiente? e lo palummo deceva: sto nigro Prencepe ave accattato no Farcone, lo quale subeto che jarrà ’nmano a lo frate, le cacciarrà l’uocchie; e chi non nce lo portarrà, o chi l’avisarrà, preta marmora tornarrà. E ditto chello, tornaje a gridare, _rucche rucche_; e la palomma de nuovo le decette, e puro te lamiente? ence autro de nuovo: e lo palummo; nc’è n’autro chiajeto, ca ave accattato perzì no cavallo, e lo frate la primma vota che lo cavarcarrà, lo cuollo se romparrà, e chi non ce lo
portarrà, o nce l’avisarrà, preta marmora tornarrà: e _rucche rucche_: oimè tante rucche rucche, secotaje a dicere la palomma, che autra cosa và pe lo tagliero? e lo palummo decette, chisso porta na bella mogliere a lo frate, ma la primma notte, che se nce corca, sarranno manciate, l’uno, e l’autra da no brutto Dragone; ma chi non nce la portarrà, o l’avisarrà, preta marmora tornarrà; e ditto chesto cessaje la borrasca, e passaje la zirria a lo maro, e l’arraggia a lo viento; ma se moppe assaje chiù granne tempesta a lo pietto de Jennariello pe chello, che aveva sentuto, e chiù de quatto vote voze jettare tutte ste cose a mmaro, pe non portare la causa de la roina de lo frate. Ma dall’autra banna penzava a se stisso, e la primma causa commenzava
da se medesimo dubetanno, si non portava ste ccose a lo Frate, o si l’avesse avisato, de deventare marmora, se resorvette de mirare chiù priesto a lo pproprio, ca a l’appellazione, perchè le stregneva chiù la cammisa, che lo jeppone; e arrivato a lo puorto de Fratta-ombrosa, trovaje lo frate a la marina, che avenno visto retornare la nave, l’aspettava co no gusto granne. E bisto, che portava chella, che teneva drinto a lo core, confrontata una facce co l’autra, e bisto ca non c’era no pilo de defferenzia, appe tanta allegrezza, che la troppo careca de lo contiento l’appe a schiattare sotta la sarma; ed abbraccianno lo frate co gran piacere le disse: Che Farcone è chisto, che puorte ’n pugno? e Jennariello le disse, l’aggio comprato pe
daretillo. E Milluccio respose, ben se pare ca mme vuoje bene, pocca vaje cercanno de dareme a l’ommore; e cierto, ca si mme portave no tresoro non mme potive dare chiù gusto, che sto Farcone; e bolenno pigliarelo ’n mano, Jennariello lesto co no cortiello gruosso che portava a lato, le fece sautare lo cuollo. A la quale azzione restaje stopafatto lo Rrè, e tenne pe pazzo lo frate, ch’avesse fatto sto sproposeto; ma pe non ’ntrovolare l’allegrezza de la venuta, non ne fece parola. Ma vedenno lo cavallo, e demannatole de chi era, ’ntese ch’era lo sujo: pe la quale cosa le venne desederio de cravaccarelo, e mentre se faceva tenere la staffa, Jennariello subeto co na cortella le tagliaje le gamme: la quale cosa dette a lo naso de lo Rrè, e
le parze, che lo ffacesse pe despietto sujo, e se le commenzaro a rrevotare li stentine: ma non le parze tiempo de farene resentemiento, pe no ’ntossecare a primma vista la zita, la quale non se saziava de merare, e stregnere pe la mano; e arrivate a lo palazzo Riale commetaje tutte le Signore de la Cetate a na bella festa, dove se vedde a la Sala na scola spiccecata de cravaccature a fare corvette, e bisce, co na mano de polletre ’nforma de femmene, ma fornuto lo ballo, e dato ’mmasto a no gruosso banchetto, se jezero a corcare. Jennariello, che n’aveva autro penziero ’n chiocca, che de sarvare la vita a lo frate, se nascose dereto lo lietto de li zite, e stanno lesto a bedere quanno venesse lo Drago, eccote a mmeza notte no bruttissemo Dragone trasire
drinto a chella cammara, che ghiettava sciamma dall’uocchie, e fummo da la vocca, lo quale sarria stato buono pe ssanzaro a fare vennere tutta la semmentella de li speziale pe lo terrore, che portava a la vista: la quale cosa visto Jennariello, co na cortella damaschina, che s’aveva puosto sotta, commenzaje a tterare lo sbaraglio a deritto, ed a rrevierso, e tra l’autre cuorpe nne tiraje uno accossì spotestato, che tagliaje pe mmiezo na colonna de lo lietto de lo Rrè, a lo quale remmore se scetaje lo frate, e lo Dragone squagliaje. Ma visto Milluccio la cortella ’n mano a Jennariello, e la colonna tagliata pe miezo, commenzaje a gridare, o quattro de’ miei, o gente, olà ajuto ajuto, ca sto tradetore de fratemo è benuto pe m’accidere. A le quale
vuce corzero na mano d’ajutante, che dormevano all’antecammera, e fattolo legare, lo Rrè lo mannaje a la stessa ora presone, e ssubeto, che la matina aperze banco lo Sole pe liberare lo deposeto de la luce a li credeture de lo juorno, chiammaje lo conziglio, e contato lo fatto, lo quale s’accordava lo mal’anemo mostrato ad accidere a despietto sujo lo Farcone, e lo Cavallo, sentenziaro, che dovesse morire; e non foro possienti li prieghe de Liviella a nnammollare lo core de lo Rrè, lo quale deceva: tu non me vuoje bene, mogliere mia, mentre stimme chiù lo cainato, che la vita mia; tu l’aje visto coll’uocchie proprie sto cane assassino co na cortella, che tagliava no pilo n’ajero venuto a tritolareme, che si non me reparava chella colonna de lietto (colonna
de la vita mia) a st’ora de mò sarrisse carosa. Cossì decenno, dette ordene, che s’esequesse la jostizia. Jennariello, che se ’ntese ntimare sto decreto, e pe ffare bene, se vedde redutto a tanto male, non sapeva, che se penzare de lo fatto sujo, perchè si non parlava, male, si parlava, peo; tristo rogna, e peo tegna, e zò che avesse fatto era no cadere da l’arvolo ’n canna a lo Lupo; si steva zitto perdeva lo cuollo sotto a no fierro, se isso parlava, forneva li juorne drinto na preta, all’utemo dopò varie tropeje de consiglie, fece pensiero de scoprire lo negozio a lo frate, e mmentre ad ogne cunto doveva morire, stemava meglio risoluzione, sacredere lo frate de lo vero, e scompire li juorne co titolo de ’nnozente, che tenerse ncuorpo la
veretà, ed essere cacciato da lo munno, comm’a ttradetore: e perzò fatto ’ntennere a lo Rrè, ca voleva parlare de cosa mportante a lo stato, fu fatto venire a la presenzia soja, dove le facette no granne preammolo de l’ammore, che l’aveva sempre portato, po trasette a lo ’nganno fatto a Liviella, pe darele sfazione; a chello, che sentette da li palumme ntuorno a lo Farcone, e perzò pe non tornare preta marmora nce lo portaje, e senza revelare lo secreto l’accise, pe non lo vedere senz’uocchie: cossì dicenno se sentette ’ndorare le gamme, e farese de marmora, e secotanno la cosa de lo cavallo de la stessa manera, se fece vedentemente de preta fi a la centura ntostanno miseramente, cosa che ad autro tiempo averria pagato a denare contante, e mo le chiagneva
lo core. All’utemo venenno a lo fatto de lo Dragone, restaje tutto de preta comme na statola ’nmiezo a chella sala, la quale cosa visto lo Rrè, ’ncorpanno l’arrore sujo, e lo jodizio temmerario, ch’aveva fatto de no frate accossì buono, e cossì ammoruso, nne tenne viseto chiù de n’anno, e sempre che ’nce pensava, faceva no sciummo de lagreme. Fra chisto tiempo, figliata Liviella, fece duje figlie mascole, ch’erano doje bellezzetuddene cose de lo munno, e dapò cierte poche mise, essenno juta la Regina a spasso ’n campagna, stanno lo patre co li piccerille ’n miezo la sala meranno co l’uocchie a pisciarielle chella statola, memoria de la sciocchezza soja, che l’aveva levato lo sciore de l’uommene; eccote trasire llà drinto no gran vecchione, che co la
zazzara copreva le spalle, e co la varva commogliava lo pietto, lo quale fatto lleverenzia a lo Rrè, le disse: Quanto pagarria la Corona vostra, e sto bello fratiello tornasse comm’era? e lo Rrè respose: io pagarria lo Regno mio. Non è cosa chesta, leprecaje lo viecchio, che nce voglia premmio de recchezza; ma trattannose de vita co autrottanto de vita se deve pagare: lo Rrè, parte pe l’ammore, che portava a Jennariello, parte perchè se vedeva corpato a lo danno sujo, respose: Crideme, messere mio, ca io mettarria la vita mia pe la vita soja, e puro che chisto scesse da drinto sta preta, mme contentarria essere schiaffato drinto na preta. Sentuto chesto disse lo viecchio: senza mettere la vita vostra a sti cemiente, pocca se stenta tanto a crescere
n’ommo, vastarria lo sango de sti peccerille vuoste, ontato a sta marmora, che lo farriano subeto sorzetare. Lo Rrè a ste parole respose, de li figlie se ne fanno, siace la stampa de ste ccretelle, ca se ne ponno fare dell’autre, e aggio no frate, che no spero maje d’averne n’autro. Accossì decenno, fece nnanze a n’Idolo de preta, meserabele sacrificio de duje crapettielle ’nnoziente, e ontato de lo sango loro la statola, deventaje subeto viva; che abbracciata da lo Rrè, fecero na prejezza, che non se po dire; e fatto mettere chelle povere criature drinto na cascia, pe darele po sepotura co lo nore, che se deveva, nne lo stisso punto tornaje la Regina da fore, e lo Rrè fatto annasconnere lo frate, disse a la mogliere, che ppagarrisse, core mio, e fratemo
tornasse vivo? Io pagarria, respose Liviella, tutto sto Regno: e lo Rrè leprecaje, darrisse lo sango de li figlie tuoje? chesso nò, respose la Regina, che non sarria così crodele a cacciareme co le mmano stesse le bisole dell’uocchie mieje: oimè, tornaje a dicere lo Rrè, ca pe bedere vivo no frate, aggio scannarozzolato li figlie, ed ecco appunto lo priezzo de la vita de Jennariello. Accossì decenno, le mostraje li figliule drinto la cascia, la quale vedenno sto ammaro spettacolo, gridanno comm’a pazza, decette: O figlie mieje, o pontelle de sta vita, o popelle de sto core, o fontane de lo sango mio, chi ha fatto sta magriata a le ffenestre de lo Sole? chi ha nsagnato senza licienzia de miedeco la vena prencepale de la vita mia? oimè, figlie mieje, figlie
speranza seseta mia, luce ’ntrovolata, docezza ntossecata, stanfella perduta. Vuje site spertosate da lo fierro, io smafarata da lo dolore? vuje affocate drinto lo sango, io annegata drinto a le lagreme; oimè, che pe dare vita a no zio, avite acciso la mamma, ch’io non pozzo tessere cchiù la tela de li juorne mieje senza vuje contrapise belle de lo telaro de sta negra vita: besogna che sfiate l’organo de le buce meje, mo che ne so levate li mantece. O figlie, o figlie. Comme non responnite a la mammarella vostra, che già ve dette lo sango drinto lo cuorpo? mo ve lo dà fore dall’uocchie? ma pocca la sciorte mia mme fa vedere seccata la fontana de li spassatiempe mieje, non boglio chiù ccampare pe sfunnolo a sto munno? mo mme ne vengo pedata pedata
a rretrovareve. Accossì decenno, corze a na fenestra pe derroparese, ma a lo stisso tiempo pe la stessa fenestra trasette lo patre sujo drinto na nugola, lo quale le disse, fermate Liviella, ca io dapò avere fatto no viaggio e ttre servizie, me so bennecato de Jennariello, che benette a la casa mia a foiremenne la figlia, co farela stare tanta mise comm’a statola de marmora dinto na preta, mme so pagato de lo mmale termene tujo a farete sbiare senza respetto mio ’ncoppa na nave, co farete vedere duje figlie, anze doje gioje scannate da lo patre stesso, ed aggio mortefecato lo Rrè de lo crapriccio de femmena prena, che s’aveva fatto venire, co ffarelo ’n primma Jodece crimmenale de lo frate, po Boja de li figlie. Ma perchè v’aggio voluto radere, e no
scortecare, voglio, che tutto lo tuosseco ve torna pasta riale, e perrò va te piglia li figliule tuoje, e nnepute mieje, ca so chiù belle che maje; e tu Milluccio, abbracciame, ca t’azzetto pe ghiennero, e pe ffiglio, e perdono a Jennariello l’affese, avenno fatto quanto ha fatto pe servizio de no fratiello tanto meretevole. Cossì ditto, vennero li figliule, che lo Vavo non fu maje sazio d’abbracciare, e basare, a le quale allegrezze trasette pe tierzo Jennariello, ch’essenno passato pe la trafila, mo se ne jeva ’mbruodo de maccarune, si bè ca co ttutte li guste, che sentette a la vita soja, no le scettero maje da mente li pericole passate, pensanno a l’arrore de lo frate, e quanto deve essere accuorto l’ommo pe non cadere ’n fuosso, essenno che
_Ogne ghiodizio omano è fauzo, e stuorto._
