Sapia Liccarda

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_While her father is away, Sapia preserves her honour by her wits, despite her sisters’ bad example. She outwits her suitor and, foreseeing the danger that threatens her, finds a way to avert it; in the end, the King’s son takes her for his wife._ _The pleasure of the earlier tales was quite clouded by the wretched fate of those poor lovers, and for a good while everyone sat as gloomy as though a daughter had been born into the family. Seeing this, the King told Tolla to relate something cheerful, to soften their sorrow over the deaths of Renza and Cecio. Having received his command, she launched into the following tale._ A man’s good judgment is a splendid lantern in the dark night of this world’s troubles: by its light he leaps over ditches without danger and makes his way through treacherous places without fear. It is therefore far better to have sense than money, for money comes and goes, while sense is there whenever you need it. You will see fine proof of this in Sapia Liccarda, who, guided by the sure north star of her judgment, escaped from a mighty whirlpool and reached a safe harbour.

Once upon a time there was a rich merchant named Marcone, who had three beautiful daughters, Bella, Cenzolla, and Sapia Liccarda. Having to travel abroad on business, and knowing that his elder daughters were great ladies of the window, he nailed all the windows shut. Then, leaving each girl a ring set with stones that would become all spotted if its wearer did anything shameful, he departed. But scarcely had he left Villa-aperta, as the town was called, when they began to prise the windows open and peep out through the little shutters, though Sapia Liccarda, the youngest, raised heaven and earth against it, crying that their house was neither Ceuze nor Duchesca, neither the Cetrangolo lodging house nor the Pisciaturo, where they could play hide-and-seek and exchange cuckoo calls with the neighbours. Opposite their house stood the King’s palace. He had three sons, Ceccariello, Grazullo, and Tore, who, catching sight of these good-looking young women, began exchanging glances with them. From glances they came to blown kisses, from blown kisses to words, from words to promises, and from promises to deeds. At last, one evening, when the Sun, unwilling to contend with Night, withdraws with all his revenues, the three brothers climbed up into the sisters’ house. The two elder brothers found their matches in the two elder sisters, but when Tore tried to lay hands on Sapia Liccarda, she slipped away like an eel into a room and barricaded herself so firmly that there was no getting her to open the door. Thus the poor youngest brother could only count the mouthfuls his brothers enjoyed: while the other two loaded their sacks at the mill, he held the mule. But when morning came, and the birds, Dawn’s trumpeters, sounded the call to horse so that the hours of the day might mount into the saddle, the two went away delighted with the satisfaction they had received, while the third departed disconsolate after his miserable night. The two sisters soon found themselves with child, but theirs was an unhappy pregnancy, so much did Sapia Liccarda have to say to them. Their bellies did not swell from day to day more steadily than she burst out at them from hour to hour, always concluding that those drum-shaped bellies would bring war and ruin upon them, and that when their father returned from abroad, there would be a pretty dance to watch. Meanwhile Tore’s desire kept growing, partly because of Sapia Liccarda’s beauty and partly because he felt himself slighted and made a fool of. So he plotted with the elder sisters to catch her in a trap when she least expected it: they would contrive to send her to visit him in his own house.

One day, then, they called Sapia and said to her, “Dear sister, what is done is done. If advice had to be paid for, it would either cost more or be more highly prized. If we had properly heeded you, we would not have brought dishonour upon this house or swollen our bellies, as you see. But what remedy is there? The knife has gone in up to the handle; things have gone too far; the goose has grown its beak. Yet we cannot believe your anger is so boundless that you would wish us out of this world. If not for our sakes, at least for the sake of the little creatures we carry in our wombs, take pity on our plight.” “Heaven knows,” replied Sapia Liccarda, “how my heart weeps over the wrong you have done, when I think of your present shame and the trouble awaiting you when our father comes home and finds such misconduct in his house. I would give a finger from my hand for this never to have happened. But since the Devil has blinded you, tell me what I can do, provided my honour is safe. Blood cannot be turned to buttermilk, and when all is said and done, the ties of flesh draw me to you, and pity for your plight moves me so deeply that I would risk my very life to put things right.” When Sapia had finished speaking, her sisters replied, “We ask no other proof of your affection than that you get us a little of the bread the King eats. We have taken such a craving for it that unless we satisfy our longing, the babies may be born with little loaves on the tips of their noses. So, if you have a Christian heart, do us this favour tomorrow morning before daybreak. We will lower you from the window through which the King’s sons climbed up, and dress you as a beggar woman, so that no one will know you.” Sapia Liccarda, moved by pity for the poor little creatures, put on a tattered dress and slung a flax comb over her shoulder. Then, as the Sun raised trophies of light for his victory over Night, she went to the King’s palace to beg a little bread. She had received her alms and was about to leave when Tore, who was lying in wait according to their wicked arrangement, recognised her at once. But as he tried to seize her, she turned her back so swiftly that his hand landed on the flax comb, which gave him such a thorough raking that he was left crippled for several days.

The sisters had got their bread, but poor Tore’s hunger had only grown. They put their heads together once more, and two days later the pregnant women began pestering Sapia again, saying that they had a craving for a couple of pears from the King’s garden. The poor sister put on a different disguise and went to the royal garden, where she found the King. He at once caught sight of the beggar woman, and, hearing that she wanted pears, insisted on climbing a tree himself. He tossed a handful of pears into Sapia’s lap, but when he made to come down and lay hands on her, she took away the ladder and left him perched aloft, shouting to the jackdaws. Had a gardener not happened along to gather a couple of lettuces that had gone to seed, and helped him down, he would have stayed there all night. At this he nearly bit his hands with rage and threatened to take a terrible revenge;

Now, as Heaven willed it, the sisters gave birth to two fine, plump babies, and said to Sapia, “We are utterly ruined, my dear girl, unless you make up your mind to help us. Our father may return at any moment, and if he finds this sorry business in his house, our ears will be the largest pieces left of us. So go down below, and we will lower these little ones to you in a basket. Take them to their fathers and let them see to them.” Sapia Liccarda, who was all affection, found it hard to bear this trouble on account of her sisters’ foolishness; nevertheless, she allowed herself to be persuaded. She went down, had the children lowered to her, and carried them to their fathers’ rooms. Finding the men absent, she put one baby in each bed, having cleverly found out which belonged to whom. Then she went into Tore’s room, put a large stone in his bed, and returned home. When the princes came to their rooms and found those lovely babies, with their fathers’ names written on little scraps of paper sewn to their chests, they were overjoyed. Tore, meanwhile, went to bed choked with vexation, since he alone had not been thought worthy of having offspring. As he flung himself down, he struck his head against the stone so hard that he raised a great lump. In the meantime the merchant returned from abroad. He examined his daughters’ rings, and, finding those of the two eldest all spotted, flew into a dreadful rage. He was already about to reach for weapons, torture them, and beat them all to discover what had happened, when the King’s sons asked for his daughters’ hands in marriage. He could not imagine what had come over them and thought they were making fun of him. At last, having heard what had passed between them and about the children they had had, he counted himself fortunate in his good luck, and it was agreed that the weddings should take place that evening. Sapia, however, searched her conscience and remembered the torments she had inflicted on Tore. Though she heard how urgently he asked for her, she reflected that not every herb was mint, and that there must be a snag somewhere. So she promptly made a beautiful figure out of sugar paste, laid it in a large hamper, and covered it with some clothes. That evening, after the dancing and festivities, she made the excuse that she had been seized with a sudden fluttering of the heart and went to bed before the others. She had the hamper brought up, saying that she wished to change her clothes, laid the figure between the sheets, and hid behind the bed curtains to await the outcome. When the time came for the newlyweds to retire, Tore went to his bed and, believing Sapia lay there, said to her, “Now you shall pay, you filthy bitch, for all the vexation you have caused me;

now you shall learn what it means for a cricket to contend with an elephant! Now you shall pay for everything at one stroke, and I shall remind you of the flax comb, the ladder taken from the tree, and all the other spiteful tricks you have played on me.” With these words he drew a dagger and thrust it through the figure from side to side. Not content with that, he added, “And now I mean to suck your blood as well!” He drew the dagger from the figure’s breast and licked it, tasting its sweetness and the overpowering fragrance of musk. Then, regretting that he had butchered so sweet and fragrant a young woman, he began to bewail his fury in words that would have softened stones. He called his heart gall and his blade poison for having dared to harm anything so sweet and lovely. After long lamentations, he raised the same dagger to stab himself. But Sapia darted out from her hiding place, caught his hand, and said, “Stop, Tore! Lower your hand! Here is a piece of the woman you are mourning. Here I am, safe and sound, to see you alive and well. Do not think me a stubborn brute or a thickheaded sheep if I have tormented you and caused you some displeasure: it was only to test and measure your constancy and faith.” This last deception, she told him, she had devised to ward off the fury of an angry heart, and she begged his forgiveness for all that had passed. The bridegroom embraced her with great affection and had her lie down beside him, making peace with her. After so many troubles, his pleasure tasted all the sweeter, and he valued his wife’s little reserve far more than his sisters-in-law’s great readiness, for, as the poet said, _Neither naked Cytherea,_ _Nor Cynthia wrapped in veils:_ _The middle way has always won most praise._

Izvirnik

_Sapia co lo ’ngiegno sujo, essenno lontano lo Patre, se mantene ’nnorata co ttutto lo male asempio de le ssore. Burla lo ’nnammorato, e previsto lo pericolo, che passava, repara a lo danno; ed all’utemo lo figlio de lo Rrè se la piglia pe mmogliere._ _Se ’ntrovolaje tutto lo gusto de li cunte passate a lo caso miserabele de sti povere ’nnammorate, e se stette pe no buono piezzo, comme nce fosse nata la figlia femmena; la quale cosa vedenno lo Rrè, disse a Tolla, ch’avesse contato quarcosa de gusto, pe ttemperare l’affrezzione de la morte de Renza, e de Cecio, la quale recevuto lo commannamiento se lassaje correre de la manera, che ssecota._ Lo buono jodizio de ll’ommo è na brava lanterna pe la notte de li

travaglie de lo munno, co la quale se sautano fuosse senza pericolo, e se scorreno male passe senza paura, perzò è mmeglio assaje avere sinno, che ttornise, ca chiste vanno, e beneno, e chillo te lo truove a tutte besuogne, de la quale cosa vedarrite na granne sperienza nne la perzona de Sapia Liccarda, che co la trammontana secura de lo jodizio, scenno da no guorfo granne, se reduce a ssecuro puorto.

Era na vota no Mercante ricco, chiamato Marcone, che aveva tre belle figlie, Bella, Cenzolla, e Sapia Liccarda; lo quale avenno da ire fora pe ccerte mmercanzie, e ccanoscenno le ffiglie cchiù granne pe Ccavallesse fenestrere, le nchiovaje tutte le ffenestre, e llassannole n’aniello ped’uno co ccerte pprete, che deventavano tutte macchie, chi si le portava ’n dito, faceva triste vregogne, se partette. Ma non accossì ppriesto fu allontanato da Villa-aperta, (che cossì se chiammava chella Terra) che accommenzaro a scaliare le ffenestre, e ad affacciarese pe li portielle, co tutto che Sapia Liccarda, ch’era la cchiù picciola, facesse cose dell’autro munno, e gridasse, ca n’era la Casa lloro nè Cceuze, nè Duchesca, nè funneco

de lo Cetrangolo, nè Pisciaturo da fare ste guattarelle, e coccovaje co li vecine. Era faccefronte la casa loro lo Palazzo de lo Rrè, lo quale aveva tre ffiglie mascole Ceccariello, Grazullo, e Ttore, lo quale allommato sta giovenella, ch’era de bona vista, commenzaro ad azzennarese coll’uocchie; da li zinne vennero a li vasamane, da li vasamane a le pparole, da le pparole a le prommesse, da le prommesse a li fatte, tanto che na sera, quanno lo Sole pe non competere co la notte, se retira co le ’ntrate soje; scalaro tutte tre la casa de ste Ssore, e rremmediatese li duje Fratielle granne co le Ssore cchiù granne, volenno Ttore dare de mano a Sapia Liccarda, essa sfojette comm’anguilla a na Cammara, pontellannose de manera, che non fu

possibele a ffarele aprire, tanto che lo scuro peccerillo contaje li muorze a li Frate: e mmentre li duje carrecavano li sacche de lo molino, isso tenette la mula. Ma venenno la matina, quanno l’Aucielle, trommettiere dell’Arba sonano tutte a Ccavallo, perchè se mettano ’n sella l’ore de lo juorno, se nne jettero chille tutte alliegre de la sfazione recevuta, e chisto autro sconzolato pe la mala notte passata; e le ddoje sore scettero subeto prene, ma fu mmala prenezza pe lloro, tante nce ne disse la Sapia Liccarda, che non tanto che le abbottavano de juorno ’n juorno, quanno essa sbottava d’ora n’ora, concrodenno sempre, ca chella panza de tammuro aveva da portare a lloro guerra, e rroina; e che comme tornava da fora lo Patre, se sarriano

viste belle pecore abballare: ma crescenno tuttavia lo desedderio de Tore, parte pe la bellezza de Sapia Liccarda, parte perchè le pareva de restare affrontato, e ccorrivo, se conzertaje co le Ssore granne de farela cadere a lo mastrillo quanno manco s’avesse penzato, che l’averriano arredotta a ghirelo a trovare fi drinto la casa soja. Accossì no juorno chiammata Sapia, le dissero: Sore mia, lo fatto, fatto è: si li conziglie se pagassero, o costarriano cchiù ccare, o sarriano cchiù stimate; si nuje te ’ntennevamo sanamente, non averriamo ammosciato lo nnore de sta casa, nè ’ngrossato lo ventre, come tu vide; ma che remmedio nc’è, lo cortiello è arrivato pe fi a la maneca, le ccose so passate troppo ’nnanze, è fatto lo becco a l’oca; però

non ce potimmo ’mmagenare, che la colera toja faccia scassone, e ’nce voglia vedere fora de sto munno; e si non pe nnuje, a lo manco pe ste ccrejature, che avimmo a lo ventre, te moverraje a ccompassione de lo stato nuostro. Sa lo Cielo, respose Sapia Liccarda, quanto mme chiagne lo core de st’arrore, ch’avite fatto, penzanno a la vregogna presente, ed a lo danno, che n’aspettate, quanno tornanno Patremo, trovarrà sto mancamiento a la casa soja; e pagarriano dito de la mano, e non fosse socciesso sto negozio; ma pocca lo Diascace v’ha cecato, vedite, che pozzo fare; pure che nce sia l’onore mio: ca lo sango non se pò fare latte natte, e all’utemo dell’utemo mme tira la carne, e la pietate de lo caso vuostro me tillecca, che metterria la vita

stessa pe rremmediare a sto fatto. Parlato ch’appe Sapia, resposero le Ssore: non desiderammo autro segnale de l’affezzione toja, si no che nc’abusche no poco de pane de chello che mmagna lo Rrè; perchè nce n’è benuto no tale sfiolo, che si non ce cacciammo sto desiderio, è ppericolo de nascere quarche ppanella ’mponta lo naso de li Nennille, perzò se si cristejana, craje mmatino de notte fance sto piacere, che te calarimmo pe chella fenestra da dove sagliettero li figlie de lo Rrè, che te vestarrimmo da pezzente, e non sarraje conosciuta. Sapia Liccarda compassionevole pe cchelle ppovere criature, puostose no vestito tutto cencioluso, e no pettene de lino armacuollo, quanno lo Sole auza trofeje de luce pe la vittoria guadagnata contra la notte,

jeze a lo Palazzo de lo Rrè cercanno no pocorillo de pane, e mmentre avuta la lemmosena voleva sciresenne, Tore, che steva co la malizia pe l’appontamiento, subbeto la canoscette, ma volennole dare de mano, essa tutta a no tiempo votatose de schena le fece dare de mano ncoppa a lo pettene, che se rascagnaje de bona manera, tanto che nne stette na mano de juorne stroppiato.

Avuto lo ppane le Ssore, ma cresciuta la famme a lo povero Tore, se tornattero a cconfarfare, e fra duje autre juorne tornaro le pprene a ffare lo stimmolo a Sapia, ca l’era venuto golio de doje pera de lo giardino de lo Rrè, e la scura Sore puostose n’autro vestito defferente, jette a lo giardino Riale, dove trovaje lo Rrè, lo quale subeto allomaje la pezzente, e ’ntiso ca cercava le pera, voze de perzona saglire ncoppa a n’arvolo, e tirato na mano de pera nzino a Sapia, quanno isso voze scennere pe ddarele de mano, essa levaje la scala lassannolo mpiergolo a gridare a le Cciaole, che si n’arrivava scasualmente no Giardeniero a ccogliere doje lattuche nconocchiate, che l’ajutaje a scennere, isso nce steva tutta la notte, pe la quale cosa

magnatose le mano a ddiente, minacciaje de farene resentemiento granne; Ora, comme voze lo Cielo, partoruto le Ssore duje belle paciune, dissero a Sapia: Nuje simmo roinate affatto, bella fegliola mia, si tu non te resuorve d’ajutarence; perchè poco pò stare a ttornare messere nuestro, e ttrovanno sto male servizio a la casa, lo manco piezzo sarrà l’orecchia; perzò scinne a bascio, ca te projarrimmo drinto a no cuefano sti peccerille, e tu le pporta a li patre lloro, che n’aggiano penziero. Sapia Liccarda, ch’era tutte ammore, si bè le parze a fforte de portare sto travaglio pe l’asenetate de le Ssore, tuttavota se lassaje arreducere de scennere a bascio, e fattose calare li figliule, le pportaje a le Ccammere de li Patre, dove non trovannole, le mmese

uno pe llietto secunno s’era destramente ’nformata, e trasuta a le Ccammere de Tore, mese na grossa preta a la Travacca soja, e se nne tornaje a la casa. Ma venute li Princepe a le Ccammere loro, e trovato sti belle fegliule co li nomme de li Patre scritte a na cartoscella, e ccosute ’n pietto, appero n’allegrezza granne, e Ttore tutto annozzato, essenno juto a ccorcarese, mentre isso porzì n’era stato digno de avè na razza, a lo ghiettare che se fece ’ncoppa a lo lietto, deze de catarozzola a la preta de tale manera, che se fece no gruosso vruognolo. Fra sto tiempo tornaje lo Mercante da fore, lo quale visto l’anella de le ffiglie; e ttrovanno chille de le ddoje cchiù granne tutte macchiate, fece cose ’mmardette, e già voleva mettere mano a

ffierre, e ttormentare, e mmazziare tutte pe scoprire lo fatto, quanno li Figlie de lo Rrè le cercaro le Figlie pe mmogliere, lo quale non seppe, che l’era socciesso, e se teneva dellegiato. All’utemo ntiso lo negozio passato fra lloro, e de li Figlie avute, se tenne felice de la bona sciorte, e s’appontaje la sera de fare le nnozze. Sapia, che se menava la mano pe lo stommaco, e ssapeva li strazie fatte a Ttore, si bè se ’ntese cercare co ttanta stanzia, tuttavota se ’mmagenaje, ca ogn’erva non è amenta, e ca non era senza pile lo manto, pe la quale cosa fece subeto na bella statola de pasta de zuccaro, e postola drinto no granne sportone, la coperze co ccierte vestite, e fattose la sera balle, e ffeste, essa trovatase certa scusa, ca l’era pigliato no

soprassauto de core, se nne jeze ’n primma de tutte a lo lietto, dove fattose portare la sporta co scusa de mmutarese, e ccorcata la statola drinto le llenzola, essa se mese dereto lo sprovieto aspettanno l’eseto de lo negozio; ma venuta l’ora, che li Zite se vozero corcare, Tore arrivato a lo lietto sujo, e credennose, che nce fosse Sapia corcata, le decette: Mo mme pagarraje, cana perra, li disguste, che mm’aje dato; mo vederraje quanto ’mporta no Grillo a competere co n’Alifante: mo scontarrà una tutte, e te voglio allecordare lo pettene de lo llino, la scala levata dall’arvolo, e tutte l’autre despiette, che mm’aje fatto; e cossì decenno, caccianno mano a no pognale, la sperciaje da banna a banna, e non contento de chesto, disse ancora; mo mme ne voglio

zocare porzì lo sango; levato lo pognale de pietto a la statola, e lleccatolo, sentette lo ddoce e l’addore de lo mmusco, che t’ammorbava, pe la quale cosa pentuto d’avere sficcagliato na Giovene, accossì ’nzoccarata, e addorosa, commenzaje a gualiarese de la furia soja, decenno parole de stennerire le pprete; chiammanno de fele lo core, de tuosseco lo fierro, ch’avevano potuto affennere na cosa accossì ddoce, e ssoave, e dapò luonghe lammiente, auzaje la mano co lo stisso pugnale pe sbennegnarese; ma Sapia fu lesta a ffoire da dove steva, tenennole la mano, e decennole; ferma Tore, vascia ste mmano, ecco no piezzo de chella, che chiagne, eccome sana, e biva pe bederete vivo, e berde, nè mme tenere pe zerrone, e ccuojeto de montone, si t’aggio

straziato, e ffatto quarche despiacere, ch’è stato solamente pe ffare sperienza, e scannaglio de la costanza, e de la fede toja, st’utemo ’nganno l’aveva puosto nn’opera pe arremmediare a le ffurie de no core sdegnuso, e perzò le cercava perdonanza de quanto era passato. Lo Zito abbracciannola co granne ammore, se la fece corcare a canto, facenno pace, e sapennole dapò tante travaglie cchiù ddoce lo gusto, stimmaje assai cchiù lo poco retiramiento de la mogliere, che la tanta prontezza de le Ccainate, perchè secunno disse chillo Poeta, _Nè Nnuda Citarea,_ _Nè Ccinzia arravogliata,_ _La via de miezo sempre fu pprezzata._

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