Prevod

_Cienzo cracks the skull of a king’s son, flees his homeland, and saves the Princess of Pierdesinno from a dragon. After various adventures she becomes his wife; but he is bewitched by a woman and freed by his brother. Having killed his brother out of jealousy, he discovers his innocence and restores him to life with a certain herb._ _No one could imagine how deeply Zezolla’s good fortune moved everyone, or how warmly they praised Heaven’s generosity toward the girl. Just as heartily, they judged her stepsisters’ punishment too light, for there is no penalty pride does not deserve, nor any ruin ill suited to envy. But while murmurs about these events were still going round, Prince Taddeo laid the forefinger of his right hand across his mouth and signaled for silence. They all fell quiet at once, as though they had seen the wolf, or like schoolchildren who, in the thick of their whispering, suddenly catch sight of the master. Then he motioned to Ciulla to launch into her tale, and she spoke as follows._ More often than not, a man’s troubles are the picks and shovels that level his road toward a good fortune he never dreamed of. Many a man curses the rain that soaks his scalp, not knowing it brings the plenty that will drive hunger from his door;

as happened to a young man whose story I shall tell you. Once upon a time, they say, there was a very, very rich merchant named Antoniello, who had two sons, Cienzo and Meo. They were so alike that you could not tell one from the other. Now Cienzo, the elder, was throwing stones with the King of Naples’s son at the Arenaccia when he cracked the prince’s skull. Antoniello, beside himself, said to him, “Bravo! A fine job you’ve done! Write home and tell them! Boast away, you sack, before I rip your seams! Hang your fine deed on a pole! You’ve smashed something worth more than six pennies this time! You’ve broken open the king’s son’s head? Couldn’t you keep your distance, you blockhead’s whelp? What will become of you now? I wouldn’t give three farthings for your chances. You’ve cooked yourself a pretty mess, and even if you crawled back into the place you came out of, I couldn’t promise you’d escape the king’s little hands:

for you know they have long fingers and reach everywhere, and he’ll do things to you that stink to high heaven.” When his father had finished talking and talking, Cienzo answered, “My dear father, I’ve always heard it said that a court summons is better than a doctor’s visit. Would it have been better if he’d cracked my skull? I was provoked; we’re boys; it was a fight, and my first offense. The king’s a reasonable man. After all, what can he do to me a hundred years from now? If someone won’t give me the mother, let him give me the daughter; what he won’t send me cooked, let him send me raw. One place is as good as another, and anyone who’s afraid should join the watch.” “What can he do to you?” Antoniello retorted. “He can send you out of this world, send you off for a change of air.

He can make you a schoolmaster, with a twenty-four-foot leap into the sea, giving the fish a thrashing to teach them to talk. He can send you off with a three-foot collar well stiffened with soap to marry the Widow, and instead of touching the bride’s hand you’ll be touching the best man’s feet.

So don’t leave your skin on hire between the cloth and the shearer. March off this very instant, and let no news of you, old or new, be heard, or you’ll be caught by the foot. Better a bird in the woods than a bird in a cage. Here’s some money. Take one of the two enchanted horses I keep in the stable, and a little bitch, enchanted too, and don’t wait another moment. Better to show your heels than have them dancing in the air; better to sling your legs over your neck than have your neck beneath a pair of legs. Better to walk a thousand paces to the frontier than end up with three paces of rope. Unless you pack your bags, neither Baldo nor Bartolo will save you.” Cienzo asked his father’s blessing, mounted his horse, and, taking the little dog in his arms, set out from the city. But when he had passed through Porta Capuana, he turned his head and began to say, “Farewell, since I must leave you, my beautiful Naples! Who knows whether I shall ever see you again, you bricks of sugar and walls of marzipan, where the stones are filled with manna, the beams are sugarcane, and the doors and windows flaky pastries! Alas, to part from you, beautiful Pennino, feels like marching beneath a gallows beam! As I leave you, Chiazza Larga, my spirits shrink; as I draw away from you, Chiazza de l’Urmo, my soul feels torn apart. To separate from you, Lanziere, is to take a Catalan lance through the heart; to wrench myself from you, Forcella, wrenches the soul from the fork of my breast. Where shall I find another Puorto,

sweet harbor of all the good things in the world? Where another Ceuze, where the little angels of love are forever playing bellows to delight? Where another Pertuso, refuge of every man of talent? Where another Loggia, where abundance lodges and pleasure makes its home? Alas, I cannot leave you, my Lavinaro, without pouring a torrent from these eyes; I cannot abandon you, Mercato, without being marked by sorrow. I cannot break bread with you for the last time, beautiful Chiaja, without carrying a thousand wounds in my heart. Farewell, parsnips and tender greens;

farewell, zeppole and millet cakes; farewell, broccoli and tunny belly; farewell, tripe and chitterlings; farewell, hashes and gratins! Farewell, flower of cities, glory of Italy, painted darling of Europe, mirror of the world! Farewell, Naples, where virtue has planted its boundary stones and grace its farthest limits! I depart, forever widowed of your wedded soups. I am turned out of this lovely dwelling; my dear cabbage stalks, I leave you behind!” And so, making a winter of tears beneath the blazing summer sun of his sighs, he traveled on until, that first evening, he reached a wood near Cascano. There the trees made the sun wait outside their borders, holding their mule, while they took their pleasure with silence and shade. At the foot of a tower stood an old house. Cienzo knocked at the tower, but its owner, suspicious of outlaws and seeing that night had already fallen, refused to open. Poor Cienzo was therefore obliged to shelter in the ruined house. He tethered his horse in a meadow and lay down with the little dog beside him on some straw he found inside. But scarcely had he closed his eyes when the dog’s barking woke him, and he heard heavy footsteps about the room. Cienzo, who was brave and venturesome, drew his sword and began slashing fiercely in the dark; but finding that he struck no one and merely cut the air, he stretched himself out again. A little later, however, feeling someone gently tug his foot, he once more seized his blade and sprang up. “Ho there! You’re trying my patience now! These hide-and-seek games are no use. Show yourself, if you have the stomach, and let us settle this. You’ve met your match!” At these words he heard a great burst of laughter, followed by a deep voice saying, “Come down here, and I’ll tell you who I am.” Cienzo, not losing an ounce of courage, answered, “Wait, I’m coming!” He groped about until he found a ladder leading into a cellar. Once below, he discovered a little lamp burning and three figures like hobgoblins, who were raising a bitter lament: “My lovely treasure, how can I bear to lose you!” Seeing this, Cienzo joined in their mourning to keep them company. When they had wept a good while, and the moon had now split the fritter of the sky in two with the little hatchet of her rays, the three mourners said to him, “Now take this treasure, which is destined for you alone, and may you keep it well.” With these words they vanished like a bad dream. Presently Cienzo saw sunlight through a little opening and wanted to climb out, but could not find the ladder. He began shouting so loudly that the owner of the tower, who had come into the ruin to piss, heard him and asked what he was doing. On learning what had happened, the man went to fetch a ladder and climbed down, where he found a great treasure. He offered Cienzo a share, but Cienzo would take nothing. Gathering up his dog and mounting his horse, he set off again. He came to a lonely, deserted wood so dark it made your mouth twist with fear. There, beside a river that wound like a snake through the meadows and leaped over stones to please the shade with which it was in love, he found a fairy surrounded by a band of ruffians bent on robbing her of her honor. Seeing how these gallows-scavengers were treating her, Cienzo drew his sword and made a slaughterhouse of them. The fairy, seeing this feat performed on her behalf, overwhelmed him with thanks and invited him to a palace nearby, where she would reward him for the service he had done her. But Cienzo said, “It was nothing at all, and a thousand thanks. I’ll accept your kindness another time, for just now I’m in a hurry on urgent business.” He took his leave, and after traveling a good distance farther, came to a king’s palace hung all over with mourning, so that the very sight of it darkened one’s heart. Cienzo asked the reason for this grief and was told that a seven-headed dragon had appeared in that country, the most terrible creature ever seen in the world. It had a cock’s combs, a cat’s heads, fiery eyes, the jaws of a mastiff, the wings of a bat, the claws of a bear, and a serpent’s tail. “Now this monster gulps down one Christian soul a day. Things have gone on like this until today, when the winning lot in this fine lottery fell to Menechella, the king’s daughter. That is why the royal household is all wailing and wringing of hands: the loveliest creature in this land must be gobbled up and swallowed by an ugly beast.” Hearing this, Cienzo stood aside and saw Menechella approaching in trailing mourning robes, accompanied by the ladies of the court and all the women of the town. They beat their hands and tore their hair out lock by lock, lamenting the poor girl’s cruel fate and saying:

“Who could have told this unhappy child that she must surrender all the possessions of her life into the belly of this hideous beast? Who could have told this lovely goldfinch that her cage would be a dragon’s stomach? Who could have told this pretty little angel that the thread of her life would end inside this black bellows?” As they spoke, out of a cavern came the dragon. Oh, mother of mercy, what a hideous sight!

You may be sure the sun hid among the clouds in terror, the sky grew overcast, and the hearts of all those people shriveled like mummies. They shook so hard that you could not have forced a pig’s bristle up their backsides with a syringe. Seeing this, Cienzo drew his sword, and slash, bang!—sent one head tumbling to the ground. But the dragon rubbed its neck against a certain herb growing nearby and promptly fastened it back onto the head, as a lizard joins itself to its tail. At this sight Cienzo said, “Nothing comes of it unless you follow through!” He clenched his teeth and delivered so mighty a stroke that he sheared off all seven heads at once. They sprang from the neck like chickpeas from a ladle. He cut out their tongues and put them away, then hurled the heads a mile from the body so that they could not join themselves to it again. Taking a handful of the herb that had glued the dragon’s neck and head together, he sent Menechella home to her father and went to rest at an inn. When the king saw his daughter, his joy was beyond belief;

and when he heard how she had been delivered, he immediately had it proclaimed that whoever had killed the dragon should come and claim the princess for his wife. A cunning peasant heard this, gathered up the dragon’s heads, went to the king, and said, “It is thanks to this stout fellow that Menechella is safe! These little hands have freed this land from such destruction. Here are the heads to bear witness to my courage; and a promise is a debt.” Hearing this, the king took the crown from his head and set it on the peasant’s pate, where it looked like an outlaw’s head displayed on a pillar. News of the affair spread throughout the country and reached Cienzo’s ears. “I really am a fool,” he said to himself. “I had Fortune by the hair and let her slip through my fingers! One man offers me half his treasure, and I care as little for it as a German cares for cold water; a fairy offers to treat me well in her palace, and I think as much of it as an ass thinks of music. And now I am summoned to a crown, and I sit here like a drunken woman at her spindle, letting some hairy-footed lout step ahead of me, letting a cheating sharper snatch this fine winning hand from my fingers!” With these words he seized an inkwell, took up a pen, spread out a sheet of paper, and began to write: “To the most beautiful jewel among women, Menechella, Princess of Pierdesinno. Having, by the grace of the Sun in Leo, saved your life, I learn that another is dressing himself in the glory of my labors and claiming the credit for my service. Since you were present at the encounter, you can inform the king of the truth. Do not allow another to win this easy prize where I have stirred the pot. Such action will be a fitting consequence of your queenly grace and a well-earned reward for this stout hand of mine, worthy of Scannarebecco. In closing, I kiss your delicate little hands. From the Inn of the Chamber Pot, this Sunday.” Having written the letter and sealed it with chewed bread, he placed it in the little dog’s mouth. “Run as fast as you can,” he said, “and take this to the king’s daughter. Give it to no one but that silver face herself, into her own hands.”

The little dog ran almost flying to the royal palace, went up into the hall, and found the king still exchanging courtesies with the bridegroom. Seeing the dog with a letter in her mouth, he ordered it taken from her, but she would give it to no one. Instead, she jumped into Menechella’s lap and laid it in her hand. The princess rose from her chair, bowed to the king, and gave him the letter to read. Having read it, he ordered someone to follow the dog, see where she went, and bring her master before him. Two courtiers followed her to the inn, where they found Cienzo, delivered the king’s summons, and conducted him to the palace. Once he stood before the royal presence, the king asked how he could boast of having killed the dragon when its heads had been brought by the man who stood crowned beside him. Cienzo answered, “This peasant deserves a paper miter rather than a crown, since he has had the impudence to make you take bladders for lanterns. To prove that it was I who performed the deed, and not this billy-goat beard, have the dragon’s heads brought here. Not one can testify for him, for they have no tongues; and to establish the truth, I have brought those tongues into court.” With that he displayed them. The peasant stood stock-still, not knowing what had struck him, all the more so when Menechella added, “This is the man! Ah, that dog of a peasant nearly fooled me!” Hearing this, the king removed the crown from that thick-skinned lout’s head and placed it on Cienzo’s. He was about to send the peasant to the galleys, but Cienzo begged a pardon for him, to put his villainy to shame with kindness. Then they had the tables laid and enjoyed a feast fit for lords. When it was over, the couple went to a fine bed smelling sweetly of fresh washing, where Cienzo raised the trophies of his victory over the dragon and entered in triumph into Love’s Capitol. But when morning came, and the sun, brandishing the great two-handed sword of his light among the stars, cried, “Back, you rabble!” Cienzo was dressing before a window when he saw a beautiful young woman opposite. Turning to Menechella, he said, “What a lovely thing that is, across from this house!” “What do you want with that little plague?” his wife replied. “Have you set your eyes on her? Has some bad humor got into you?

Or have you grown tired of rich fare? Isn’t the flesh you have at home enough for you?” Cienzo lowered his head like a cat that has done mischief and said nothing;

but pretending he had some business to attend to, he left the palace and slipped into the young woman’s house. She truly was a royal morsel: you would have thought her tender curds, or sugar paste. Never did she turn the little buttons of her eyes without making a loving grater of them for men’s hearts; never did she open the jewel case of her lips without setting souls to simmer. She could not so much as shift a foot without giving a hearty wrench to the shoulders of those who hung on the rope of hope.

But besides all these bewitching beauties, she had a power: whenever she wished, she could enchant, bind, chain, and fetter men with her hair. So she did to Cienzo, who had scarcely set foot in her house before he stood hobbled like a colt. Meanwhile Meo, the younger brother, having never received any news of Cienzo, took it into his head to go in search of him. He asked his father’s leave, and Antoniello gave him another horse and another little dog, both enchanted too. Meo set off, and that evening reached the tower where Cienzo had stayed. Its owner, believing him to be his brother, welcomed him with the greatest warmth in the world. He then offered him money, but Meo refused it. Seeing himself treated with such ceremony, he guessed that his brother had been there, and began to hope he would find him;

and when the moon, the poets’ enemy, turned her back on the sun, he set out again. He came to the place where the fairy lived, and she, believing him to be Cienzo, showered him with welcomes, saying again and again, “Welcome, my young friend, who saved my life!” Meo thanked her for her kindness and said, “Forgive me if I do not stay, for I am in haste. We shall meet again on my return.” Delighted to keep finding traces of his brother, he continued on his way until he reached the king’s palace, on the very morning when Cienzo had been taken prisoner by the enchantress’s hair. He entered and was received with great honor by the servants and embraced with great affection by the bride. “Welcome home, my wandering wife!” she said. “Off in the morning and home at night! When every other bird goes out to feed, the owl comes home to roost. How could you stay away so long, my Cienzo? How can you bear to be apart from Menechella? You saved me from the dragon’s mouth only to thrust me down the throat of suspicion, whenever you deny me the sight of those eyes of yours.” Meo, who was a shrewd fellow, immediately guessed that this was his brother’s wife. He turned to Menechella, excused his lateness, embraced her, and went with her to eat. But when the moon, like a mother hen, called the stars to peck at the dewdrops, they went to bed, and Meo, respecting his brother’s honor, separated the sheets so that each lay in a separate one and he would have no occasion to touch his sister-in-law. Seeing this novelty, she put on a sour expression and a stepmother’s face. “My dear,” she said, “since when has this been the custom? What game are we playing? What little tricks are these? Are we a farm belonging to quarrelsome tenants, that you must set up boundary stones? Are we enemy armies, that you dig this trench between us? Are we wild horses, that you put a fence across our path?” Meo, who knew a thing or two, answered, “Do not blame me, my love, but the doctor. He means to purge me and has prescribed abstinence. Besides, I am so worn out from hunting that I have come home with my tail down.” Menechella, who could not have muddied clear water, swallowed this nonsense and went to sleep. But when night, caught in the act by the sun, was given the brief grace of twilight to gather up her bundles, Meo dressed before the same window where his brother had dressed and saw the very young woman who had ensnared Cienzo. Finding her very attractive, he said to Menechella, “Who is that fine creature standing at the window?” She flew into a fury. “So you’re still at it? If that’s how it is, now I understand! Yesterday too you plagued the life out of me with that codfish! I’m afraid the tongue keeps going where the tooth aches. You ought to show me some respect: after all, I am a king’s daughter, and every turd has its own steam. It wasn’t for nothing that last night you played the imperial eagle, back to back; it wasn’t for nothing you withdrew all your revenues. I understand you now! You fast in my bed so you can feast in someone else’s house. But if I catch you at it, I’ll run mad and make the splinters fly!” Meo, who had eaten bread from more than one oven, soothed her with kind words, saying and swearing that he would not exchange his own home for the most beautiful whore in the world, and that she was the very cherry of his heart. Entirely comforted by these words, Menechella went into a private room to have her ladies smooth her forehead with glass, braid her hair, darken her eyebrows, rouge her cheeks, and deck her out in every way, so that she might look still lovelier to the man she believed to be her husband. Meanwhile Meo, whose suspicions had been stirred by Menechella’s words, began to think Cienzo might be in that young woman’s house. He took his dog, left the palace, and went inside. Scarcely had he arrived when the woman said, “My hair, bind this man!” But Meo, quick as a flash, answered, “My little dog, eat this woman!” The dog leaped at her and swallowed her like the yolk of an egg. Going farther inside, Meo found his brother standing as though bewitched. He laid two hairs from the dog upon him, and Cienzo seemed to wake from a deep sleep. Meo told him everything that had happened on his journey, and lastly at the palace: how Menechella had mistaken him for Cienzo, and how he had slept with her. He was just about to explain the separate sheets when Cienzo, tempted by the devil, drew an old sword and sliced off his head as though it were a cucumber. At the noise, the king and his daughter looked out. Seeing Cienzo had killed another man exactly like himself, they asked the reason. Cienzo said to Menechella, “Ask yourself! You slept with my brother, thinking you had slept with me, and that is why I have served him so!” “Ah, how many people are killed unjustly!” said Menechella. “A fine deed you have done! You did not deserve so good a brother. Finding himself in the same bed with me, he modestly separated the sheets and kept both our honors safe.” Hearing this, Cienzo repented of his dreadful error, the offspring of rash judgment and the father of utter folly, and clawed half the skin from his face. Then he remembered the herb the dragon had taught him to use. He rubbed it on his brother’s neck, which immediately joined itself to the head, and Meo returned alive and well. Cienzo embraced him joyfully and begged forgiveness for having rushed, in anger and ignorance, to send him out of this world. They went together to the palace, from which they sent for Antoniello and his whole household. He became dear to the king and saw the proverb fulfilled in his son:

_A crooked boat may reach a straight harbor._