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_Parmetella, the daughter of a poor peasant, comes into good fortune, but through excessive curiosity lets it slip through her fingers. After a thousand hardships she finds her husband in the house of his mother, who is an ogress; and after passing through great dangers, they live happily together._ _More than one woman there would have paid a finger from her hand to possess the power of fashioning a husband or wife to her own liking, and the Prince most of all, for then he would have found a creature of sugar at his side instead of the lump of poison he had. But when the turn fell to Tolla, she did not wait to be pressed to pay her debt, but spoke as follows._ To be excessively curious, and to want to know far too much, is always to carry a lighted match in one’s hand, ready to set fire to the powder magazine of one’s good fortune. Very often those who pry into other people’s affairs make a mess of their own; and more often than not, those who dig too eagerly in search of treasure find some sewer into which they tumble headfirst, as happened to a gardener’s daughter in the manner you shall hear.

Once upon a time there was a gardener so very, very poor that, however much he sweated at his work, he could never get beyond living from hand to mouth. He bought three little sows for his three daughters, so that by raising them they might have something toward a modest dowry. Pascuzza and Cice, the two eldest, took theirs to graze in a fine pasture, but would not let Parmetella, the youngest, go with them, driving her away to find grazing somewhere else. Taking her little beast into a wood, where the shadows had entrenched themselves against the sun’s assaults, she came to a stretch of pasture with a spring running through its midst, which, like a tavern-keeper serving cool water, invited travelers with its silver tongue to stop for a drink. There she found a certain tree with leaves of gold. She picked one and took it to her father, who, to his great delight, sold it for more than twenty ducats, enough to stop a few holes in his affairs. When he asked where she had found it, she said, “Take it, dear Father, and ask no more, unless you want to spoil your good fortune.” The next day she did the same, and went on stripping the tree until it stood as bare as though the winds had sacked it at the end of autumn. Then, noticing that it had a great stump of gold which she could not pull out with her hands, she went home and returned with a hatchet. She began digging around the foot of the tree, and, heaving up the stump as best she could, discovered beneath it a beautiful porphyry staircase. Being curious beyond all measure, she went down, and after walking through a long, deep cavern, came to a lovely plain where stood a most beautiful palace. There was nothing underfoot but gold and silver, and nothing met the eye but pearls and precious stones. While Parmetella stood gazing in amazement at all this splendor, seeing not a single living soul stirring within so splendid a dwelling, she entered a room hung with paintings depicting many marvelous things: in particular, the ignorance of a man reputed wise, the injustice of those who held the scales of justice, and wrongs avenged by Heaven. These were sights to astonish anyone, so true and lifelike did they appear. In this room she found a beautifully laid table. Parmetella, whose guts were beginning to rumble, saw no one about, and sat down to feast like a grand count. But just as she was chewing with the greatest relish, in came a handsome black slave, who said, “Stay; do not go away, for I want you for my wife, and I shall make you the happiest woman in the world.” Though Parmetella was trembling with fear, this fine promise gave her courage. She agreed to what the slave desired, and was at once provided with a diamond carriage drawn by four golden horses with wings of emeralds and rubies, which carried her flying through the air for her amusement. For her personal attendants she was given a troop of monkeys dressed in cloth of gold, who immediately fitted her out from head to foot, making her so trim and elegant that she looked like a queen. But when night came, and the Sun, wishing to sleep on the banks of the river of India without being plagued by horseflies, put out his lamp, the slave said to her, “My love, if you wish to go to sleep, lie down in this bed. But once you have tucked yourself between the sheets, put out the candle, and be sure to do as I tell you, unless you want to tangle the whole skein.” Parmetella did as she was told and lay down to sleep. But scarcely had her eyes grown heavy when the black fellow, transformed into a most handsome young man, came and lay beside her. Waking to find herself being carded without having her wool combed, she nearly died of fright; but when she saw that it was only a civil war, she stood firm under the blows. Before Dawn came down to look for fresh eggs to strengthen her ancient lover, however, the slave sprang out of bed and resumed his former skin, leaving Parmetella consumed with curiosity to know what greedy fellow had sucked the first egg of so fine a young hen. The following night, when she had gone to bed and put out the candles as before, the handsome young man came as usual to lie beside her. When he had tired of his sport and fallen asleep, she took a flint and steel she had made ready, struck a light upon the tinder, kindled a sulfur match, and lit the candle. Then she lifted the coverlet and saw ebony turned to ivory, caviar to milk and cream, and charcoal to white lime. While she gazed open-mouthed upon these beauties, contemplating the loveliest brushstroke Nature had ever laid upon the canvas of wonder, the young man awoke and began cursing Parmetella. “Alas!” he said. “Because of you I must spend another seven years in this accursed penance, since you have been so curious as to poke your nose into my secrets! Now go, run, break your neck, get out of my sight! Turn your skirts and be off, since you did not know your own good fortune.” With these words he slipped away like quicksilver. The poor girl, cold and frozen with dismay, left the house with her head bowed to the ground. As soon as she emerged from the cavern she met a fairy, who said, “Oh, my daughter, how my heart weeps for your misfortune! You are going to the slaughterhouse, where your poor body will have to cross a bridge as narrow as a hair. So, to guard you against the danger, take these seven spindles, these seven figs, this little jar of honey, and these seven pairs of iron shoes. Walk without ever stopping until you have worn them out. Then you will see seven women on a balcony, spinning from above, with their thread wound around dead men’s bones. And what must you do? Keep well hidden, and very, very quietly, as each thread comes down, take off the bone and tie on a spindle smeared with honey, with a fig in place of its whorl. When they draw them up and taste the sweetness, they will say, ‘Whoever has sweetened my little mouth, may her little fortune be sweetened too!’ After these words, one after another they will say, ‘You who brought me these sweet things, show yourself!’ And you must answer, ‘I will not, for you will eat me.’ They will say, ‘I will not eat you, as I hope God will preserve my ladle!’ But you must plant your feet and stand firm. They will go on, ‘I will not eat you, as I hope God will preserve my spit!’ And you must stay rooted where you are. They will repeat, ‘I will not eat you, as I hope God will preserve my broom!’ But do not believe them, silly girl. And if they say, ‘I will not eat you, as I hope Heaven will preserve my chamber pot!’ close your mouth and do not utter a peep, for they would empty the life out of you. At last they will say, ‘As I hope God will preserve Truone e Llampe, I will not eat you!’ Then you may go upstairs, and tremble in safety, for they will do you no harm.” Hearing this, Parmetella began walking over valleys and mountains, until, at the end of seven years, her iron shoes were worn through. Coming to a great house with a projecting balcony, she saw the seven women spinning and did as the fairy had advised. After much hiding and crouching, when at last they had sworn by Truone e Llampe, she showed herself and went upstairs. There all seven said to her, “You treacherous bitch! You are the reason our brother has spent seven years and another seven in the cavern, far away from us, in the shape of a slave! But do not be too pleased with yourself. Though you have managed to tie our throats with that oath, at the first opportunity you shall pay for the new debt and the old. Now, do you know what you must do? Hide behind that kneading trough, and when our mother comes—for she would certainly gobble you up—slip out behind her and seize her breasts, which hang over her shoulders like a pair of saddlebags. Pull as hard as you can, and never let go until she swears by Truone e Llampe to do you no harm.” Parmetella did so, and after the ogress had sworn by the fire shovel, by the little stone, by the country, by the reel, and by the plate rack, she swore by Truone e Llampe. Then Parmetella let go of her breasts and showed herself. “You have given me a nasty kick,” the ogress said. “But plow a straight furrow, traitress, for at the first shower I shall have you swept away in the flood.” And, hunting with a fine-toothed comb for an opportunity to gobble her up, one day she took twelve sacks of mixed pulses and grain—chickpeas, chickling peas, peas, lentils, beans, broad beans, rice, and lupins—poured them together, and said, “You traitress, take these and sort them so that each kind is separate from the others. If they are not done by this evening, I shall swallow you like a three-farthing fritter.” Poor Parmetella sat down beside the sacks and said through her tears, “Oh, my dear mother, how that golden stump has stuck in my throat! This time it is all over with me. To see a black face turned white, I have had my poor heart turned to a dishcloth! Alas, I am sunk, I am done for, there is no help left! At any moment I expect to fill that stinking ogress’s gullet. There is no one to help me, no one to advise me, no one to comfort me!” As she lamented, Truone e Llampe appeared like a flash, having completed the exile imposed upon him by the curse. Though he was angry with Parmetella, blood could not turn to water, and seeing her in such a state, he said, “Traitress, what is the matter? Why are you crying?” She told him how badly his mother treated her, and how she meant to get her money’s worth out of her and then eat her. Truone e Llampe replied, “Get up and take heart; things will not be as she says.” At once he scattered all the pulses and grain over the ground and called up a deluge of ants, which immediately began piling each kind separately. Parmetella gathered them up, each sort by itself, and filled the sacks. When the ogress returned and found the work done, she was beside herself. “That dog Truone e Llampe has played me this pretty trick!” she said. “But you shall pay for the loss.

“Now take these coarse linen covers, enough for twelve mattresses, and see that they are filled with feathers by this evening, or I shall make a slaughterhouse of you.” The poor girl took the mattress covers, sat down on the ground, and began a lament such as you never heard, tormenting herself and making two fountains of her eyes. Then Truone e Llampe appeared and said, “Do not cry, traitress. Leave it to this fellow here, and I shall bring you safely into harbor. Tear your hair loose, spread the mattress covers on the ground, and begin to weep and wail, crying out that the King of the Birds is dead. Then see what happens.” Parmetella did so, and there came a cloud of birds that darkened the air. Beating their wings, they shed basketful after basketful of feathers, until in less than an hour the mattresses were filled. When the ogress came back and saw what had been done, she swelled with rage until her flanks nearly burst. “Truone e Llampe has taken to tormenting me,” she said. “But may I be dragged at a monkey’s tail if I do not catch her somewhere she cannot escape!” With that she said to Parmetella, “Run, roll along to my sister’s house, and tell her to send me the musical instruments, for I have found Truone e Llampe a wife, and we mean to hold a feast fit for a king.” Meanwhile she sent word to her sister that when the traitress came asking for the instruments, she should kill her at once and cook her, for she would come over to share the meal. Parmetella, finding herself given an easier errand, was delighted, believing the weather had begun to turn fair. Oh, how crooked human judgments are! But she met Truone e Llampe on the road, and seeing her walking briskly along, he said, “Where are you off to, poor wretch? Do you not see that you are going to the slaughterhouse, that you are building your own stocks, sharpening your own knife, mixing your own poison? You are being sent to the ogress so that she may swallow you.

“But listen, and do not be afraid. Take this little loaf, this bundle of hay, and this stone. When you reach my aunt’s house, you will find a mastiff, which will come barking to bite you. Give him the loaf to stop his throat. Once past the dog, you will find a horse running loose, which will come to kick and trample you. Give him the hay to fetter his feet. Last of all you will find a door that is always banging. Prop it open with this stone to quiet its fury.

“Then go upstairs, and you will find the ogress with a little girl in her arms. She has heated an oven to roast you in, and she will say, ‘Hold this child, and wait while I run to fetch the instruments.’ But you must know that she is going to sharpen her tusks to tear you limb from limb. Throw the little girl into the oven without pity, for she is ogre’s flesh, take the instruments from behind the door, and slip away before the ogress returns, or you are done for. But mind you, they are inside a box. Do not open it unless you want troubles and calamities.

Parmetella did everything her lover had advised, but on her way back with the instruments she opened the box. Then you should have seen a flute fly this way, a shawm that way, a bagpipe to one side and a whistle to the other, filling the air with a thousand kinds of music, while Parmetella followed, scratching her face in despair. Meanwhile the ogress came out, and, not finding Parmetella, went to a window and shouted to the door, “Crush that traitress!” The door replied, “I will not hurt the poor creature, for she propped me open.” The ogress shouted to the horse, “Trample that villain!” And the horse replied, “I will not trample her, for she gave me hay to munch.” Finally the ogress called to the dog, “Bite that wretch!” And the dog replied, “Let the poor girl go, for she gave me a loaf.” Now Parmetella, who was running along crying after the instruments, met Truone e Llampe, who gave her a thorough scolding. “Oh, traitress!” he said. “Will you never learn, even at your own expense, that it is this accursed curiosity which has brought you to your present plight?” With that he whistled the instruments back and shut them in the box again, telling her to take them to his mother. As soon as the ogress saw her, she cried aloud, “Oh, cruel fortune! Even my sister is against me, since she would not grant me this satisfaction!” Meanwhile the new bride arrived, an ugly plague of a creature, a swelling, a harpy, an evil apparition, a long-snouted rat, a little screech owl, a burst barrel, all stiff and pinched, who, with her hundred flowers and leafy ornaments, looked like a newly opened tavern. Her mother-in-law gave a grand banquet in her honor; and, being full of malice, had the table set beside a well. There she placed her seven daughters, each holding a torch, while she gave Parmetella two and made her sit on the edge of the well, intending that when she grew sleepy she should tumble in. Now, as the dishes came and went and everyone’s blood began to warm, Truone e Llampe, who sat there looking as welcome as a bride at the wrong wedding, said to Parmetella, “Traitress, do you love me?” “Up to the very roof,” she answered. “If you love me,” he replied, “give me a kiss.” “God preserve me!” she said. “Far be it from me! You have a fine piece of goods singing at your heels. May Heaven keep her for you a hundred years, with good health and sons!” The bride answered, “Anyone can see what a miserable creature you are—may you live a hundred years!—to turn up your nose at kissing so handsome a young man. Why, for two chestnuts I let a shepherd kiss me again and again.” Hearing this fine testimony, the bridegroom buttoned his lips and swelled like a toad, until the food stuck in his throat. Still, he made armor of his belly and swallowed the pill, intending to reckon up the account and settle it later. But when the tables had been cleared, he sent his mother and sisters away, and he, the bride, and Parmetella remained together to go to bed. While Parmetella was taking off his shoes, he said to the bride, “My wife, did you see how this little hussy refused me a kiss?” “She was wrong,” replied the bride, “to draw back from kissing so handsome a young man as you, when I let a sheep-tender kiss me for two chestnuts.” Truone e Llampe could contain himself no longer. With lightning flashes of indignation and thunderous deeds, the mustard rising to his nose, he drew a knife and cut the bride’s throat. Then he dug a hole in the cellar and buried her.

Embracing Parmetella, he said, “You are my jewel, the flower of women, the mirror of honorable wives. Turn those eyes toward me, give me that hand, hold out those lips, come close, my heart, for I mean to be yours as long as the world is the world.” With these words they went to bed and enjoyed themselves until the Sun brought his fiery horses out of their watery stable and drove them to pasture in the fields sown by Dawn. Then the ogress came with fresh eggs to strengthen the newlyweds, so that one might say, “Blessed is he who marries and gains a mother-in-law!” She found Parmetella embracing her son, and, hearing how matters had turned out, hurried straight to her sister’s house to devise a way of ridding herself of this thorn in her eye without her son being able to help the girl. But she found that, in grief over her daughter roasted in the oven, her sister had put herself into it as well, and the stench of burning flesh was poisoning the whole neighborhood. So great was her despair that, turning from an ogress into a battering ram, she dashed her head against the walls until her brains spattered out. Truone e Llampe made peace between Parmetella and her sisters-in-law, and they lived happy and contented, proving the truth of the saying, _Whoever perseveres shall win._