Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 62

_Frate._ Not I indeed.

_a.s.sunta._ Allow me then?

_Frate._ No, nor you.

_a.s.sunta._ Then let me stand upon yours, to push down the points.

... Frate Biagio now began to relent a little, when a.s.sunta, who had made one step toward the project, bethought herself suddenly, and said:

'No; I might miss my footing. But, mercy upon us! what made you cramp your Reverence with those ox-yoke shoes? and strangle your Reverence with that hangdog collar?'

'If you must know,' answered the Frate, reddening, 'it was because I am making a visit to the Canonico of Parma. I should like to know something about him: perhaps you could tell me?'

_a.s.sunta._ Ever so much.

_Frate._ I thought no less: indeed I knew it. Which goes to bed first?

_a.s.sunta._ Both together.

_Frate._ Demonio! what dost mean?

_a.s.sunta._ He tells me never to sit up waiting, but to say my prayers and dream of the Virgin.

_Frate._ As if it was any business of his! Does he put out his lamp himself?

_a.s.sunta._ To be sure he does: why should not he? what should he be afraid of? It is not winter: and beside, there is a mat upon the floor, all round the bed, excepting the top and bottom.

_Frate._ I am quite convinced he never said anything to make you blush. Why are you silent?

_a.s.sunta._ I have a right.

_Frate._ He did then? ay? Do not nod your head: that will never do.

Discreet girls speak plainly.

_a.s.sunta._ What would you have?

_Frate._ The truth; the truth; again, I say, the truth.

_a.s.sunta._ He _did_ then.

_Frate._ I knew it! The most dangerous man living!

_a.s.sunta._ Ah! indeed he is! Signor Padrone said so.

_Frate._ He knows him of old: he warned you, it seems.

_a.s.sunta._ Me! He never said it was I who was in danger.

_Frate._ He might: it was his duty.

_a.s.sunta._ Am I so fat? Lord! you may feel every rib. Girls who run about as I do, slip away from apoplexy.

_Frate._ Ho! ho! that is all, is it?

_a.s.sunta._ And bad enough too! that such good-natured men should ever grow so bulky; and stand in danger, as Padrone said they both do, of such a seizure?

_Frate._ What? and art ready to cry about it? Old folks cannot die easier: and there are always plenty of younger to run quick enough for a confessor. But I must not trifle in this manner. It is my duty to set your feet in the right way: it is my bounden duty to report to Ser Giovanni all irregularities I know of, committed in his domicile. I could indeed, and would, remit a trifle, on hearing the worst. Tell me now, a.s.sunta! tell me, you little angel! did you ... we all may, the very best of us may, and do ... sin, my sweet?

_a.s.sunta._ You may be sure I did not: for whenever I sin I run into church directly, although it snows or thunders: else I never could see again Padrone's face, or any one's.

_Frate._ You do not come to me.

_a.s.sunta._ You live at San Vivaldo.

_Frate._ But when there is sin so pressing I am always ready to be found. You perplex, you puzzle me. Tell me at once how he made you blush.

_a.s.sunta._ Well then!

_Frate._ Well then! you did not hang back so before him. I lose all patience.

_a.s.sunta._ So famous a man!...

_Frate._ No excuse in that.

_a.s.sunta._ So dear to Padrone....

_Frate._ The more shame for him!

_a.s.sunta._ Called me....

_Frate._ And _called_ you, did he! the traitorous swine!

_a.s.sunta._ Called me ... _good girl_.

_Frate._ Psha! the wenches, I think, are all mad: but few of them in this manner.

... Without saying another word, Fra Biagio went forward and opened the bedchamber door, saying briskly:

'Servant! Ser Giovanni! Ser Canonico! most devoted! most obsequious! I venture to incommode you. Thanks to G.o.d, Ser Canonico, you are looking well for your years. They tell me you were formerly (who would believe it?) the handsomest man in Christendom, and worked your way glibly, yonder at Avignon.

'Capperi! Ser Giovanni! I never observed that you were sitting bolt-upright in that long-backed armchair, instead of lying abed.

Quite in the right. I am rejoiced at such a change for the better. Who advised it?'

_Boccaccio._ So many thanks to Fra Biagio! I not only am sitting up, but have taken a draught of fresh air at the window, and every leaf had a little present of sunshine for me.

There is one pleasure, Fra Biagio, which I fancy you never have experienced, and I hardly know whether I ought to wish it you; the first sensation of health after a long confinement.