Waltey

Prevod

_Talia, struck dead by a splinter of flax, is left in a palace, where a king happens upon her and fathers two children by her. His jealous wife gets her into her power and orders the children to be cooked and served to their father, and Talia to be burned. The cook saves the children, and Talia is rescued by the king, who has his wife thrown into the very fire prepared for Talia._ _Though the fate of the ogres might have stirred some scrap of pity, it instead gave pleasure, for everyone rejoiced that Parmetella’s affairs had turned out so much better than expected. After this tale it fell to Popa to speak, and she, already with her feet in the stirrups, began as follows._ Experience teaches us that cruelty most often serves as executioner to the very person who practices it; nor has anyone ever spat at heaven without having it fall back into his face. On the other side of this coin, innocence is a shield of figwood upon which every sword of malice either breaks or leaves its point embedded. Thus, just when a poor soul believes himself dead and buried, he finds himself raised again in flesh and blood, as you shall hear in the tale I am about to draw from the cask of memory with the tap of this tongue.

There was once a great lord who, upon the birth of a daughter named Talia, summoned the wise men and soothsayers of his kingdom to foretell her future. After much deliberation, they concluded that she would be exposed to great danger from a splinter of flax. To prevent this misfortune, he therefore forbade flax, hemp, or anything of the kind from being brought into his house. But when Talia had grown into a young woman, she was standing at the window one day when she saw an old woman passing by, spinning. Never having seen either a distaff or a spindle, and being greatly delighted by its twirling, she grew so curious that she had the woman come upstairs, took the distaff in her hand, and began to draw out the thread. Unhappily, a splinter of flax slipped beneath her fingernail, and she fell dead to the ground. At the sight of this, the old woman went bounding down the stairs. When the wretched father learned of the disaster, he paid for this bucket of sour wine with barrels of tears, then placed his daughter in that same palace, which stood in the country, seated in a velvet chair beneath a canopy of brocade. He shut the doors and abandoned forever the palace that had caused him such sorrow, hoping to blot out every memory of his misfortune. Some time later, however, a king was out hunting when a falcon escaped him and flew through a window of that house. When it would not return to his call, he had someone knock at the door, supposing that people lived there. But after they had knocked for a good while, the king sent for a grape-gatherer’s ladder, determined to climb into the house himself and see what was inside. Having climbed up and searched everywhere, he stood like a mummy, finding not a living soul. At last he reached the chamber where Talia lay as though enchanted. Seeing her, and believing her asleep, the king called to her:

but when she did not come to herself, however much he tried and shouted, he grew inflamed by her beauty, carried her in his arms to a bed, and gathered the fruits of love. Leaving her lying there, he returned to his kingdom, where for some time he gave no further thought to what had happened. Nine months later, she was delivered of a pair of children, a boy and a girl, who looked like two handfuls of jewels. Two fairies appeared in the palace, tended them, and laid them at their mother’s breasts. Once, when the children wished to suck and could not find her nipples, they caught hold of her finger and sucked so hard that they drew out the splinter. At this she seemed to wake from a deep sleep. Finding those little jewels beside her, she gave them her breast and cherished them as dearly as her own life. Yet she could not understand what had happened to her, finding herself all alone in that palace with two children at her side, and seeing refreshments brought to her without ever seeing who brought them. Meanwhile the king remembered Talia and, taking the opportunity of going hunting, came to see her. Finding her awake and with two little marvels of beauty beside her, he was beside himself with delight. He told Talia who he was and how it had all happened, and they formed a close friendship and a firm bond. He stayed with her for several days, then took his leave, promising to return and bring her away with him. Back in his kingdom, he was forever speaking of Talia and the children: when he ate, Talia was on his lips, along with Sun and Moon—for those were the names he had given the children—and when he went to bed, he called for one or another of them.

The king’s wife, who had already begun to suspect something because her husband had stayed away so long on his hunt, grew hotter than the sun itself at all this calling for Talia, Moon, and Sun. Summoning the secretary, she said to him, “Listen here, my good fellow: you are caught between Scylla and Charybdis, between the doorpost and the door, between the battering ram and the gate. If you tell me whom my husband is in love with, I shall make you rich; if you hide the truth from me, I shall see that you are never found, dead or alive.” The fellow, shaken by fear on the one hand and overcome on the other by self-interest—which is a blindfold over the eyes of honor, a fog upon justice, and a shoe-puller that unshoes fidelity—called bread bread and wine wine, and told her everything plainly. The queen then sent this same secretary to Talia in the king’s name, saying that he wished to see the children. Talia sent them with great joy, but that heart of Medea ordered the cook to cut their throats and make them into various little soups and savory dishes to feed to her unhappy husband. The cook, who was tenderhearted, took pity on those two beautiful golden apples and gave them to his wife to hide. In their place he prepared two young goats in a hundred different ways. When the king arrived, the queen had the dishes brought in with great pleasure, and while he ate with a hearty appetite, saying:

“Oh, how good this is, by the life of Lanfusa! And how excellent that other dish is, by my grandfather’s soul!” she kept saying, “Eat, for you are eating what is your own.” Two or three times the king paid no heed to her refrain, but at last, hearing the same tune go on and on, he answered, “I know I am eating what is mine, for you brought nothing into this house!” Rising in a fury, he went off to a country house a short distance away to vent his anger. Meanwhile the queen, not satisfied with what she had done, summoned the secretary again and sent him to fetch Talia, on the pretext that the king was waiting for her. Talia came at once, longing to find the light of her life, not knowing that a fire awaited her. But when she appeared before the queen, that woman, with the face of a Nero and all the fury of a viper, said to her:

“Welcome, Madam Strumpet! So you are the fine piece of goods, the poisonous weed, who takes her pleasure with my husband! You are the mangy bitch who has set my head spinning so! Well, you have come to purgatory, where I shall make you pay for the harm you have done me.” Hearing this, Talia began to plead that it was no fault of hers, and that the queen’s husband had taken possession of her territory while she lay unconscious. But the queen would hear no excuses. She had a great fire kindled in the palace courtyard and ordered Talia to be thrown into it. Seeing how badly matters stood, Talia fell on her knees before her and begged that she might at least be given time to take off the clothes she was wearing. The queen, less out of pity for the poor young woman than from a desire to save those garments embroidered with gold and pearls, said, “Undress, then; I consent.” Talia began to undress, giving a shriek with every garment she took off. She had removed her robe, her skirt, and her bodice, and as she came to take off her petticoat, she uttered one last scream. They were already dragging her away to make ashes for the warming pan of Charon’s breeches when the king came running up. Finding this spectacle before him, he demanded to know the whole story. When he asked after the children, his wife herself, reproaching him for his betrayal, told him how she had made him devour them. At this the wretched king gave himself over to despair and cried, “Then I myself have been the werewolf that devoured my own little lambs! Alas, why did my very flesh not recognize the fountain of its own blood? Ah, you faithless Turk, what bestial cruelty is this? Away with you—you shall pay for it! I shall not merely send that tyrant’s face of yours to the Colosseum to do penance!”

So saying, he ordered her thrown into the very fire kindled for Talia, and with her the secretary, who had been the instrument of this bitter business and the weaver of this wicked plot. He meant to do the same to the cook, whom he believed had butchered his children, but the man threw himself at the king’s feet and said, “Truly, my lord, for the service I have done you I ought to have no other pension than a furnace full of coals, no other allowance than a stake at my back, no other entertainment than to stretch and shrivel in the fire, no other distinction than to have a cook’s ashes mingled with a queen’s! Yet this is hardly the great reward I hoped for after saving your children in spite of that bitch’s gall, who wished to kill them and return to your body what had been part of that same body.” At these words the king was beside himself. He thought he must be dreaming and could scarcely believe his ears. Turning to the cook, he said, “If it is true that you have saved my children, rest assured that I shall take you away from turning spits and set you in the kitchen of this breast, to turn my desires whichever way you please. I shall reward you so well that you will call yourself the happiest man in the world.” While the king was speaking, the cook’s wife, seeing her husband’s danger, brought Moon and Sun before their father. Then the king, playing a three-handed game with his wife and children, made a whirligig of kisses, now upon one, now upon another. He gave the cook a handsome gratuity and made him a gentleman of his bedchamber, then took Talia for his wife. She enjoyed a long life with her husband and children, learning at every turn that _For those whom fortune favors,_ _Good things rain down even while they sleep._

Izvirnik

_Talia morta pe n’Aresta de lino, è llassata a no palazzo, dove capitato no Rrè nce fa duje figlie, la mogliere gelosa l’ave ’n mano, e commanna, che li figlie siano date a mmangiare cuotte a lo patre, e Ttalia sia abbrusciata; lo cuoco sarva li figlie, e Ttalia è lliberata da lo Rre, facenno jettare la mogliere a lo stisso fuoco apparecchiato pe Ttalia._ _Dove lo caso dell’Orche poteva portare quarche frecola de compassione, addusse causa de gusto, rallegrannose ogn’uno, che le ccose de Parmetella fossero resciute assaje meglio de chello, che se penzava, dopo lo quale Cunto toccanno a Popa de ragionare, essa che stava co li piede a le staffa, accossì decette._ È cosa sprementata, ca pe lo cchiù la crodeletate serve pe Boja a

chillo stisso, che l’aserzeta; ne s’è bisto maje, che chi sputa ’n cielo no le torna ’n facce. E lo revierzo po de sta medaglia, la ’nnocenzia è no brocchiero de fico, dove se spezza, o nce resta la ponta d’ogne spata de malegnetate de muodo, e de manera, che quanno no poverommo se crede muorto, e ssepelluto, tanno se vede resorzetato ’n carne, e ’nn ossa, comme sentarrite ne lo Cunto, che da la votta de la mammoria co la vergara de sta lengua songo pe be spinolare.

Era na vota no gran Signore, ch’essennole nata na figlia chiammata Talia, fece venire li sacciente, e nnevine de lo Regno sujo a direle la ventura, li quale dapò varie conziglie concrusero, ca passava gran pericolo pe n’Aresta de lino, pe la quale cosa fece na proibizione, che drinto la casa soja non ce trasesse nè lino, nè ccannavo, o autra cosa simile, pe sfoire sto male scuntro. Ma essenno Talia grannecella, e stanno a la fenestra, vedde passare na vecchia, che ffelava, e perchè n’avea visto maie conocchia, nè ffuso, e piacennole assaje chello rrociolare che faceva, le venne tanta curiosetate, che la fece saglire ncoppa, e pigliato la Rocca ’n mano commenzaje a stennere lo filo. Ma pe desgrazia trasutole n’aresta de lino drinto ll’ogna, cadette morta

’n terra. La quale cosa visto la vecchia, ancora zompa pe le grade a bascio, e lo nigro patre ntiso la desgrazia soccessa, dapò avere pagate co barrile de lagreme sto cato d’asprinio, la pose drinto a lo medesemo palazzo, che steva ’n campagna, seduta a na seggia de velluto sotta a no bardacchino de mbroccato, e chiuse le pporte, abbannonaje pe sempre chillo palazzo, causa de tanto danno sujo, pe scordarese ’n tutto, e pe tutto la mammoria de sta desgrazia. Ma jenno fra certo tiempo no Rrè a ccaccia, e scappatole no Farcone, volaje drinto na fenestra de chella casa, nè tornanno a rechiammo, fece tozzolare la porta, credenno, che nce abetasse gente; ma dapò tozzolato no buono piezzo, lo Rrè fatto venire na scala de vennegnatore, voze de perzona

scaliare sta Casa, e bedere che cosa nce fosse drinto, e ssagliuto ncoppa, e trasuto pe tutto, restaje na mummia, non trovannoce perzona vevente. All’utemo arrevaje a la cammara dove steva Talia comme ncantata, che bista da lo Rrè, credennose che dormesse, la chiammaje: ma non revenenno pe quanto facesse, e gridasse, e pigliato de caudo de chelle bellezze, portatola de pesole a no lietto, nne couze li frutte d’ammore, e lassatola corcata, se nne tornaje a lo Regno sujo, dove non se allecordaje pe no piezzo de chesto, che l’era socciesso, la quale dapò nove mise scarrecaje na cocchia de Criature, uno mascolo, e l’autra femmena, che bedive duje vranchiglie de gioje, li quale covernate da doje Fate, che comparzero a chillo Palazzo, le pposero a

le zizze de la Mamma; li quale na vota, volenno zucare, nè ttrovanno li capitielle, l’afferraro lo dito, e tanto zuccaro, che nne tiraro l’aresta: pe la quale cosa parze che se scetasse da no gran suonno, e bistose chelle gioje accanto, le dette zizza, e le tenne care quanto la vita, e mmentre non sapeva che l’era socciesso, trovannose sola sola drinto a chillo Palazzo, e co duje figlie allato, e bedennose portare quarche refrisco de magnare senza vedere la perzona. Lo Rrè allecordato de Talia, pigliato accasione de ire a ccaccia, venne a bederela, e trovato scetata, e co duje Cuccupinte de bellezza, appe no gusto da stordire, e ditto a Talia chi era, e comm’era passato lo fatto, fecero n’amecizia, e na lega granne, e se stette na mano de

juorne cod’essa; e lecenziatose co promessa de tornare, e portarenella, jette a lo Regno sujo, nommenanno a tutt’ore Talia, e li figlie; tale che se manciava, aveva Talia ’n vocca, e Sole, e Lluna (che accossì dette nomme a li figlie), si se corcava chiammava l’uno, e l’autre. La Mogliere de lo Rrè, che de la tardanza a la caccia de lo Marito aveva pigliato quarche sospetto, co sso chiammare de Talia, Luna, e Sole, l’era pigliato autro caudo che de Sole, e perzò chiammatose lo Secretario, le decette: Siente ccà, figlio mio, tu staje fra Sciglia, e Scaniglia, tra lo stantaro, e la porta, tra la mazza agghionta, e la grata. Si tu mme dice de chi sta nnammorato Maritemo, io te faccio ricco; e si tu me nascunne sto fatto, io non te faccio trovare nè

mmuorto, nè bivo. Lo Compare da na parte scommuoppeto de la paura, da ll’autra scannato da lo nteresse, ch’è na pezza all’uocchie de l’onore, l’appannatora de la jostizia, na sferra cavallo de la fede, le disse de lo ppane pane, e dde lo vino vino. Pe la quale cosa la Regina mannaje lo stisso Secretario a nnomme de lo Rrè a Ttalia, ca voleva vedere li figlie, la quale co n’allegrezza granne mannatole, chillo core de Medea commannaje a lo cuoco, che l’avesse scannate, e fattone deverze menestrelle, e ssaporielle pe ffarele magnare a lo nigro marito. Lo cuoco, ch’era tenneriello de permone, visto sti duje belle pumme d’oro, n’avette compassione, e datole a la mogliere soja, che li nasconnesse, apparecchiaje duje Capriette ’n ciento

foggie, e benuto lo Rrè, la Regina co no gusto granne fece venire le vevanne, e mmentre lo Rrè mangiava co no gusto granne, decenno; o comme è buono chesto previta de Lanfusa, o comm’è bravo chest’auto pe ll’arma de vavamo; essa sempre deceva magna, ca de lo ttujo magne: lo Rrè doje, o tre vote non mese arecchie a sto taluorno; all’utemo sentuto ca continuava la museca, respose: Saccio ca magno lo mmio, perchè non ce aje portato niente a sta casa; ed auzatose co ffuria, se nne jette a na villa poco lontano a sfocare la collera. Ma fra sto miezo, non sazia la Regina de quante aveva fatto, chiammato de nuovo lo Secretario, mannaje a chiammare Ttalia, co scusa ca lo Rrè l’aspettava, la quale a la stessa pedata se nne venne desederosa de

trovare la luce soja, non sapenno ca l’aspettava lo ffuoco. Ma arrivata nnanze la Regina, essa co na facce de Nerone tutta nviperata, le disse: Singhe la ben-venuta, maddamma Troccola, tu si chella fina pezza, chella mal’erva, che te gaude maritemo; tu si chella cana perra, che mme faje stare co ttanta sbotamiente de chiocca? Va ca si benuta a lo purgaturo, dove te scontarraggio lo danno, che m’aje fatto. Talia sentenno chesto, commenzaje a scusarese, ca non era corpa soia, e ca lo marito aveva pigliato possessione de lo terretorio sujo, quanno essa era addobbiata: ma la Regina non volenno ntennere scuse, fece allommare drinto lo stisso cortiglio de lo Palazzo no gran focarone, e commannaje, che nce l’avessero schiaffata ’n miezo. Talia, che bedde

le cose male arrevate, ’ngenocchiatose nnante ad essa, la pregaje, ch’a lo mmanco le desse tanto tiempo, che se spogliasse li vestite ch’aveva ’n cuollo. La Regina non tanto pe mmeserecordia de la negra giovane, quanto pe avanzare chille abete racamate d’oro, e de perne, disse spogliate, ca mme contento, e Ttalia commenzata a spogliarese, ogne piezzo de vestito, che se levava, jettava no strillo, tanto che avennose levato la rrobba, la gonnella, e lo jeppone, comme fu a lo llevarese de lo sottaniello, jettato l’utemo strillo, tanno la strascinavano a fare cennerale pe lo scaudatiello de le brache de Caronte, quanno corze lo Rrè, e ttrovato lo spettacolo, voze sapere tutto lo fatto, e addemmannato de li figlie, sentette ca la stessa

mogliere, che le renfacciava lo trademiento recevuto, comme nce l’aveva fatto cannariare; la quale cosa sentuto lo nigro Rrè, datose ’n preda de la desperazione, commenzaje a ddicere. Addonca so stato lo medesemo lupo menaro de le ppecorelle meje; oimè, e pecchè le bene meje non conoscettero le ffontane de lo stisso sango; ah Torca renegata, e che canetudene cosa è stata la toja? và ca tu ne jarraje pe le ttorza, e non mannarraggio ssa facce de tiranno a lo Culiseo pe penetenzia; e accossì decenno, ordenaje, che fosse jettata a lo stisso fuoco allommato pe Ttalia, e nsiemme cod essa lo Secretario, che fu maniglia de sto amaro juoco, e ttessetore de sta marvasa tramma, e bolenno fare lo medesemo de lo Cuoco, che se pensava ch’avesse adacciato li figlie,

isso jettatose a li piede de lo Rrè, le disse: Veramente, Signore, non ce vorria autra chiazza morta pe lo servizio, che t’aggio fatto, che na carcara de vrase, non ce vorria autro ajuto de costa, che no palo dereto, no nce vorria autro trattenemiento, che stennerire, ed arronchiare drinto a lo ffuoco, no nce vorria autro avantaggio, ch’essere mmescate le cennere de no Cuoco co chelle de na Regina: ma non è chesta na gran mercè, che aspetto d’averete sarvato li figlie a despietto de chillo fele de cane, che le boleva accidere, pe ttornare a lo cuorpo tujo chello, ch’era parte de lo stisso cuorpo. Lo Rrè, che sentette ste parole, restaje fora de se stisso, e pareva de nzonnarese, nè poteva credere chello, che sentevano l’arecchie soje; pure votatose

a lo Cuoco, le disse: Si è lo vero, che m’aje sarvate le figlie, singhe puro securo ca te levarraggio da votare li spite, e te metterraggio a la cocina de sto pietto a botare comme te piace le boglie meje; dannote premmio tale, che te chiammarraje felice a lo munno. Fra tanto che lo Rrè deceva ste pparole, la mogliere de lo Cuoco, che bedde lo besuogno de lo marito, portaje la Luna, e lo Sole nnanze lo patre; lo quale jocanno a lo tre co la mogliere, e li figlie, faceva moliniello de vase, mò coll’uno, e mò coll’autro, e dato no gruosso veveraggio a lo Cuoco, e fattolo gentelommo de la cammara soja, se pigliaje Talia pe mmogliere; la quale gaudette longa vita co lo marito, e co li figlie, canoscenno a tutte botte, ca _A chi ventura tene,_

_Quanno dorme, perzì chiove lo bene._

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