The story of doctor Manente by Lasca:

Foreword:

It is rather by accident than design that the Story of Doctor Manente should be the first book to appear in this Lungarno Series. Yet the accident is also fortunate, since it would be difficult to find a work more typical of the times. It is true, Lasca was not a sensitive genius like Boccaccio: but then the Renaissance was by no means a sensitive period. Boccaccio was far lovelier than the ordinary, or even the most extraordinary men of his day. Whereas Lasca is of the day and of the city, and as such, as a local and temporal writer, he is a typical Florentine.

Again, this famous story is a magnificent account of what is perhaps the best Florentine beffa, or burla (practical Joke) on record. The work is a novella, a short novel, composed of various parts which fit together with the greatest skill. In this respect the story is far superior to most of Boccaccio’s long novelle, which are full of unnecessary stuff, often tedious. Here we are kept sharp to essentials, and yet we are given a complete and living atmosphere. Anyone who knows Florence today can picture the whole thing perfectly, the big complicated palazzi with far-off attics and hidden chambers, the inns of the country where men sit on benches outside, and drink and talk on into the night, the houses with little courtyards at the back, where everybody looks out of the window and knows all about everybody’s affairs. The presentation of the story is masterly, and could hardly be bettered, setting a pattern for later works. In character, each man is himself. One can see the sly, frail Lorenzo playing this rather monstrous joke. One can see Doctor Manente through and through. The Grand Vicar, so authoritative and easily cowed, what a fine picture of an Italian inquisitor, how different from the Spanish type! The people are people, they are Italians and Florentines, absolutely. There they are, in their own ordinary daylight, not lifted into the special gleam of poetry, as Boccaccio’s people so often are. And we have to admit, if Boccaccio is more universal, Lasca is more Tuscan. The Italians are, when you come down to it, peculiarly terre à terre, right down on the earth. It is part of their wholesome charm. But the rather fantastic side of their nature sometimes makes them want to be angels or winged lions or soaring eagles, and then they are often ridiculous, though occasionally sublime. But the people itself is of the earth, wholesomely and soundly so, and unless perverted, will remain so. The great artists were wild coruscations which shone and expired. The people remains the people, and wine and spaghetti are their forms of poetry: good forms too. The peasants who bargain every Friday, year in, year out, in the Piazza della Signoria, where the great white statue of Michelangelo’s David stands livid, have never even heard of the name  David. If you say to them: My name is David - they say: What? - To them it is no name, Their outward-roaming consciousness has never even roamed so far as to read the name of the statue they almost touch each Friday. Enquiry is not their affair. They are centripetal.

And that is Italian. This soaring people sticks absolutely to the earth, and keeps the strength of the earth. The cities may go mad: they do. But the real Italian people is on the earth, and the cities will never lift them up. The bulk of the Italian people will never be “interested”. They are centripetal, and only the little currents near to them matter.

So Doctor Manente! His courage and his force of life under all his trial are wonderful. Think of the howls, laments, prayers, sighs and recriminations the northerner would have raised, under the circumstances. Not so the Doctor! He refuses to take an objective view of his mishaps, he refuses to think, but eats and drinks handsomely, sleeps, builds castles in the air, and sings songs, even improvising. We feel, when he comes back into the world, he is still good and fat. Mental torture has not undermined him. He has refused to think, and so saved himself the worst suffering. And how we can fail to admire the superb earthly life-courage which this reveals! It is the strength and courage of trees, deep rooted in substance, in substantial earth, and centripetal. So the Italian is, really, rooted in substance, not in dreams, ideas, or ideals, but physically self-centred, like a tree.

But the Italian also gets stuck sometimes, in this self-centred physicality of his nature, and occasionally has wild revolts from it. Then you get the sombre curses of Dante, the torments of Michelangelo and Leonardo, the sexless flights of Fra Angelico and Botticelli, the anguish of the idealists. The Italian at his best doesn’t quarrel with substance on behalf of his soul or his spirit. When he does, you see strange results.

Among which are the famous burle, or beffe of the Renaissance period: the famous and infamous practical jokes. Apparently the Florentines actually did play these cruel jokes on one another, all the time: it was a common sport. It is so even in Boccaccio, though we feel that he was too true a poet really to appreciate the game. Lasca, who was a real Florentine of the town and taverns, was in heaven when there was a good, cruel joke being perpetrated. Lorenzo de’ Medici, who writes so touchingly of the violet, did actually play these pranks on his acquaintances - and if this is not a true story, historically it might just as well be so. The portrait of Lorenzo given here is true to life: that even the most gentle modern Italian critics admit. But they deny the story any historical truth; on very insufficient grounds, really. The modern mind, however, dislikes the beffa, and would like to think it never really existed. “Of course Lorenzo never really played this trick”. – But the chances are that he did. And denying the historical truth of every recorded beffa does not wipe the beffa out of existence. On the contrary, it only leaves us blind to the real Renaissance spirit in Italy.

If every exalted soul who stares at Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi, Botticelli and Michelangelo and Piero della Francesca, were compelled at the same time to study the practical-joke stories which play around the figures of these men and which fill the background of the great artists, then we should have a considerable change in feeling when we visited the Uffizi Gallery. We might be a little less exalted: we should certainly be more amused and more on the spot, instead of floating in the vapour of ecstasied admiration.

The beffa is real, the beffa is earnest, and what in heaven was its goal? We can only understand it, I think, if we remember the true substantial, à terre à terre nature of the Italian. This self-centred physical nature can become crude, gross, even bestial and monstrous. We see it in D’Annunzio’s peasant stories. We see it in the act of that Gonzaga of Mantua (if I remember right) who met his only son walking near the palace, and because the child did not salute with sufficient obsequiousness, kicked the boy ferociously in the groin, so that he died. The two centuries preceding the Renaissance had been full of such ferocity, beastliness. The spirit of Tuscany recoiled against it, and used every weapon of wit and intelligence against the egoistic brute of the preceding ages. And Italy is always having these periods of self-shame and recoil, not always into wit and fine intelligence, often into squeamish silliness. Indeed the Renaissance itself fizzled out into silly squeamishness, even in Lasca’s day.

There seems to be a cycle: a period of brutishness, a conquering of the brutish energy by intelligence, a flowering of the intelligence, then a fizzling down into nervous fuss. The beffa belongs to the period where the brute force is conquered by wit and intelligence, but is not extinguished. It is a form of revenge taken by wit on the self-centred physical fellow. The beffe are sometimes simply repulsive. But on the whole it is a sport for spurring up the sluggish intelligence, or taming the forward brute. If a man was a bit fat and simple, but especially if he overflowed in physical self-assertion, was importunate, pedantic, hypocritical, ignorant, all infallible signs of self-centred physical egoism, then the wits marked him down as a prey. He was made the victim of some beffa. This put the fear of God into him and into his like. He and his lot did not dare to assert themselves, their pedantry or self-importance or ignorance or brutality or hypocrisy, so flagrantly. Chastened, they learned better manners. And so civilisation moves on, wit and intelligence taking their revenge on insolent animal spirits, till the animal spirits are cowed, and wit and intelligence become themselves insolent, then feeble, then silly, then null, as we see during the latter half of the sixteenth century, and the first half of the seventeenth, even in Florence and Rome.

Like all other human corrective measures, the beffa was often cruelly unjust and degenerated into a mere lust for sporting with a victim. Nimble wits, which had been in suppression during the preceding centuries, now rose up to take a cruel revenge on the somewhat fat and slower-witted citizen.

It is said that the Brunelleschi who built the Cathedral dome in Florence played the cruel and unjustified beffa on the Fat Carpenter, in the well-known story of that name. Here, the Magnificent Lorenzo plays a joke almost as unjustifiable and cruel, on Doctor Manente. All Florence rings with joy over the success of these terrific pieces of horse-play. The gentle Boccaccio tries to record such jokes with gusto. Nobody seems to have pitied with gusto. Nobody seems to have pitied the victim. Doctor Manente certainly never pitied himself; there is that to his credit, vastly: when we think how a modern would howl to the world at large. No, they weren’t sorry for themselves – they were tough without being hard-boiled. The courage of life is splendid in them. We badly need some of it today, in this self-pitying age when we are so sorry by art as by candy. Renaissance art has some of its roots in the cruel beffa – you can see it even in Botticelli’s Spring: it is glaring in Michelangelo. Michelangelo stuck his languishing Adam high on the Sistina ceiling for safety, for in Florence they’d have played a rare beffa on that chap.

So we have the story of Doctor Manente, history alive and kicking, instead of dead and mummified. It should be given to every student of that great period, the Italian Renaissance – and who is not a student of the period.

Whether the joke was ever played by the Magnificent, we may ask. Thin-skinned moderns will certainly shudder and say: No! The real historian will say: It is possible, but hardly probable! The artist will say: It sounds so true, it must be true! Meanwhile someone ought to annotate Lasca, and verify his allusions where possible.

Lasca means Roach, or some little fish like that. It was the nickname of Anton Francesco Grazzini, who was born in Florence in March, 1504 , just twelve years after the death of Lorenzo the Magnificent, which took place in 1492. Lasca arranged his stories, after the manner of Boccaccio, in three Suppers, and the Story of Doctor Manente is the only one we have complete from the third and Last Supper. The stories of the Second Supper and those of the First supper, will occupy two volumes following this one, and in the final volume will be included a study of Lasca, his life and his work.

D.H. Lawrence

Florence, 1929.

The Third Supper

        The old Lorenzo de’ Medici causes Doctor Manente, one evening after supper when he is quite drunk, to be carried by two distinguished men secretly to the Medici Palace, in which place, and elsewhere, the Doctor is kept for a long time in a dark room, his food being brought to him by two masked men. Then, by means of a buffooning Monk, people are given to believe that he has died of plague, a dead man being carried out of his house and buried as if it were he. The Magnificent then sends away Manente in an extraordinary fashion, so that, when everybody at last really believes he is dead, he arrives back in Florence where his wife, thinking it is his spirit, drives him away as if he were a ghost, and having fled from the crowd, he finds only Burchiello who recognises him. Having summoned his wife before the Bishop’s Court, then before the Eight, his case is brought to Lorenzo, who fetches Nepo da Galatrona to demonstrate to the people that all that has befallen the Doctor is the work of witchcraft. So that having got his wife back, Doctor Manente takes Saint Cyprian for his advocate.

Tenth Story

And Last

        Ghiacinto having come to the end of his story, which had amused the company, and made them laugh not a little, Amaranta, on whom the burden of invention now alone rested, began with graceful language: I, O you charming Maids, and you delightful Lads, intend in my tale to tell you about a joke which, though it was neither invented by Scheggia nor by Zoroaster, nor by any one of the Company, will, I do believe, seem not a whit less handsome and clever to you than all the rest that have been told to us this evening, or on any other evening. It is a joke played by Old Lorenzo de’  on a Doctor, one of the most brazen men in the world, as you will soon see; and such novel things happened, and such complications ensued, such strange events took place in the course of this jest, that if ever you were staggered and amused, this time you’re going to be. And she went on:

        The Elder Lorenzo de’ Medici was, as I’ve no need to tell you, for of course you know already, among all the excellent men who have ever existed gloriously on earth, and been not only clever, but real amateurs, past-masters in cleverness, he was a master if ever there was one, and perhaps the very finest. Well in his days there lived in Florence a Doctor called Doctor Manente of Pieve a S. Stefano, and he was a physician and a surgeon, though he was more of a practical man than learned, but a very pleasant man, jolly, only so insolent and forward you could do nothing with him. Among other things he was awfully fond of wine, made quite a profession of knowing all about it, and drinking it. Well very often he would go to dine or to take supper with the Magnificent, without ever being inhibited, and he became such a nuisance, such a bugbear with his importunity and his insolence, that Lorenzo couldn’t stand the sight of him. So he decided to play a joke on him, such a joke, he’d be rid of him for a while, if not for ever. So one evening among others, hearing that the said Doctor Manente had drunk so much in Bertucce’s  that he really was dead drunk and couldn’t stand on his feet, and the host, wanting to shut up, had had him carried out by the bar-men like a log, all his boon-companions having abandoned him, and he was laid there on one of those benches outside the shops at San Martino, fast asleep, so that a bombardment wouldn’t have wakened him, snoring like a street-organ; it seemed the proper moment had come. So Lorenzo, pretending he hadn’t heard what they were talking about, seemed to be preoccupied with something else; and saying he wanted to go to bed, for it was getting late, and he was a poor sleeper by nature, it was always midnight and more before he could really drop off, he sent privately for two of his most faithful footmen, and told them what they had to do. So the footmen left the Palace with hoods and cloak over their faces, unrecognised, and went to do Lorenzo’s business at San Martino. Where they found Doctor Manente asleep as I’ve told you. So they lifted him up, being a couple of hearty lads, and hefty, and they set him on his feet, and tied a handkerchief tight over his mouth, and took him off, almost carrying him. The Doctor, about as much drunk with sleep as with wine, felt himself being led off, but thought it was the servingmen from the public-house, or his boon-companions or his friends taking him home, so, sleepy and drunk as ever a man can be, he let them steer him wherever they liked. Well they made their way through Florence till they came to the Medici , taking care not to be seen, and they went into the courtyard by the back door. There they found the Magnificent all alone, waiting for them, pleased beyond words. They went up the first stairs together, then up to an attic in the middle of the house, and from there got into a secret bedroom, where they laid Doctor Manente on a shake-down bed, by Lorenzo’s orders, and shut up there, they stripped him to his shirt, though he scarcely felt it; it was almost like stripping a dead man. So when they had taken all his clothes away, they left him fastened there, safe and tight. The Magnificent again commanded them to keep quiet about it, and when they had brought the Doctor’s clothes he sent them immediately to the house of the buffooning , who was cleverer than any man on earth at imitating other people talking. When the monk appeared Lorenzo took him up to the bedroom, and sending the footmen away, telling them to go and sleep, he revealed to the Monk what he wanted him to do, and so he went gleefully to bed. The Monk took all the Doctor’s clothes, and then went softly home and took off all his own things, dressed himself in the other things from head to foot, and so leaving the house without saying a word to anybody, as the bells were already ringing for daybreak, he went to Doctor Manente’s house, which was then in the Via de’ Fossi. As it was September, all the Doctor’s household were away in the  at Mugello, that is to say his wife, a little son, and the servant, and the Doctor was alone in Florence, only coming home to sleep, taking his meals either at the inn, with his boon-companions, or in the homes of his friends. So that the Monk, having the Doctor’s pouch, and inside it the key, opened readily, and having fastened the street door well behind him, he went to bed, chuckling in his obedience to the orders of the Magnificent and rejoicing in playing a trick on the Doctor. Meanwhile it became day, and the Monk, having slept till nine o-clock, got up and dressed himself in the Doctor’s clothes, put on an old dressing-gown over his coat, and an old hat on his head, and imitating the Doctor’s voice, he called from the back window to his neighbour across the yard, saying he didn’t feel very well, that he had a pain in his throat, which he’d wrapped in lint and greasy wool on purpose. There was some suspicion of plague in Florence at the time, several cases had occurred during the last few days, so the neighbour was anxious; she asked him what he wanted. The monk asked her for a couple of fresh eggs and a few embers for a fire, said he would trust to her kindness, and making out, both in his speech and his movements, that he could hardly stand, he withdrew from the window. The good-natured woman, having got the eggs and the fire, called to him several times and at last made him understand that she was putting the things on the street doorstep, and he could go and fetch them; and she did as she said. He, as if he was Doctor Manente, went chuckling to himself down to the door, with that old gown hugged round him, and that old hat over his eyes, and took in the eggs and the embers, behaving as if he could hardly hold up, and his throat muffled round to such an extent that all the neighbours sadly thought he must have the . Immediately the report went through the city; whereupon Doctor Manente’s wife’s brother, who was a goldsmith, called Niccolaio, came flying to see how things were, and knocked and knocked at the door, but got no reply, for the Monk was lying still as an ant sucking a rotten pear; but the neighbours told him there was no doubt the Doctor had got the plague. But just then, as if it was by mere chance, Lorenzo came riding by with a number of gentlemen, and seeing the crowd, he stopped to ask what it was all about. The goldsmith replied that they feared very much that Doctor Manente was dying of the plague, and at Lorenzo’s command told all that had happened so far. The Magnificent said it would be well to get someone to look after him, so he told Niccolaio to go to Santa Maria  and in his name order a proper capable attendant for the Doctor. Whereupon the goldsmith set off and told the master of the hospital what was wanted, and started back with a man whom Lorenzo had appointed, and who knew just what he had to do. Right at the corner of the Borgo Ognissanti they met the Magnificent Lorenzo, who had ridden round and was expecting them. He wheeled about, pretending to make terms with the attendant, warmly recommending Doctor Manente to him; and indeed he made him go into the house, the door having been opened by a locksmith. After the man had been inside a while, he came to the window and said how the Doctor had a tumour in his throat like a peach, and he couldn’t stir, lay half dead on the bed, but he should lack for nothing. Whereupon Lorenzo, having bade the goldsmith provide food for the attendant and the sick man, and having had the band of  put on the door, continued his way, showing by word and deed how much he grieved. The attendant went back to the monk, who was almost dying with laughter. They received food in abundance from the goldsmith, and found bacon in the house, they tapped a barrel of good wine, and made a papal evening of it. In the meantime Doctor Manente had slept through a night and day, and woke up to find himself in bed in the dark, not knowing where he was, whether at home or somewhere else. Thinking things over, he remembered how he had been drinking at Bertucce’s with , with Succia and with the agent Biondo, and how he’d gone to sleep after, so it seemed as if he’d been brought home. But when he jumped out of bed and went feeling for the place where he thought was the window, he didn’t find it, so he went groping round till he came across the door of the necessary place. He went in and made water, as he wanted to badly, and having eased himself, he groped round the again and at last came back to bed rather frightened, full of uneasy wonder, not knowing himself in which world he was. He went over again in his mind all that had happened to him, but then he began to feel hungry, and was very much tempted to shout for something, only fear restrained him, so he waited for what should happen next. In the meantime Lorenzo had arranged what to do, and secretly the two footmen were disguised as two of those  friars, in robes right down to their feet, and each of them a false head on, the sort you get in the Via de’ Servi, that seem to be grinning, and come right down to the shoulders, which were fetched from the cupboard where they got the friars’ robes, where there were all sorts of others, including carnival masks; and one of them had a naked sword in his right hand, and in his left a great white burning torch: and the other, having fetched two flasks of good wine, and two twin loaves wrapped in a cloth, and two fat, cold capons, and a piece of roast veal, and fruits such as were in season, Lorenzo sent them secretly to the room where the Doctor was shut up. The said room being fastened on the outside, the varlets furiously rattled the latch and appeared suddenly in the doorway, then entering, immediately shut the door again, and the one with sword and torch stood with his back to the door, so that the Doctor couldn’t rush and get out. When Doctor Manente heard them knocking at the door and rattling the bar he started violently and sat up in bed; but when he saw them in the room in such strange disguise, the sword glittering in the hand of one, he was so astonished and overcome with fear he wanted to cry out, but the words died in his mouth, and overwhelmed, helplessly fearing for his life, he lay and waited for what would come next; and then he saw the one who had brought the food spreading that cloth on a table facing the bed, and putting out the bread, meat, wine, that is the flasks, and the rest of the things to put between your teeth, and signing to him to come and eat. Whereupon the Doctor simply saw hunger in the air, and got straight up, just as he was, in his shirt and bare-legged, and came towards the food. But the figure pointed to a sleeved gown and a pair of slippers that lay on a little settee, and made signs till Doctor Manente put them on, and began to eat with the best will in the world. Then the varlets, opening the door in a flash, went out and bolted the door on him, leaving him without a light, and they went to undress and to regale the Magnificent with the account. Doctor Manente managed to find his mouth in the dark, and what with those fat fowls, and that veal, and drinking from the flask, he extended his girth miraculously, saying to himself: Anyhow the harm won’t all be mine: now, whatever happens, if I’ve got to die, to-day anyhow I shall die with a full belly. – So having put together as best he could the remains of the feast, he wrapped them in the tablecloth and went back to bed, thinking how strange it was to be alone in the dark, not knowing where nor by whom he had been brought there, nor when would get out. Then recalling those grinning carnival heads, he began to laugh to himself, the good provisions having pleased him immensely, praising the wine especially, of which he’d drunk little less than a five-pint flagon. And firmly believing that it was his friends who had done all this to him, he held it for certain he would soon get out and return to the world: with which pleasant thought he went to sleep.

        Next morning early the hospital attendant appeared at the window and called to the neighbours and to the goldsmith to tell them that the Doctor had slept fairly well, and the tumour was coming to a head, and that he was poulticing it, and hoped for the best. In the evening the Magnificent, wanting to carry forward the joke and having found the most excellent and opportune means, informed the monk and the hospital-servant of what was to be done: which was that that morning, at about the third hour, a horse-breaker called Franciosino, leaping on his horse at a gallop in the Piazza S. Maria Novella, had fallen along with his steed, and as it happened, broke his neck, whereas the horse wasn’t hurt at all. So when the people ran to pick him up they found him unconscious, so they lifted him and carried him to the hospital of , where he was undressed in order to bring him round, but they found him dead with his neck broken. For which reason, when his friends had raised a little money on the few clothes he wore, since he was a stranger, they had him buried after Vespers by the Friars of S. Maria Novella, who went and put him in one of those  on the outside, at the top of the steps facing the principal door of the church. The Monk and his companion having learned Lorenzo’s wishes, that evening towards Ave Maria the hospital-servant appeared at the window crying that the Doctor was suddenly very bad, he was afraid for him, and that that tumour had closed up his throat so he could hardly breathe, much less speak, whereupon the brother-in-law arrived and wanted to have him make his will, but the manservant said it wasn’t any use just then, and they agreed, that if he felt equal to it, next morning they would have him make his will and confess and take the communion. So night came, and when midnight passed, by Lorenzo’s orders the two footmen went secretly to the churchyard of S. Maria Novella, and from the vault where he had been buried during the day they took the corpse of Franciosino, put it on their backs, and carried it to the Via de’ Fossi to the house of Doctor Manente: and the Monk and the hospital-servant, who were waiting at the door, took it in quietly, and the footmen departed, not having seen by anybody. The Monk and the hospital-servant made a great fire and drank deeply, then they made a gown for the dead man out of a fine new sheet. And bound up his throat with greasy wadding, and they beat his face till it was swollen and livid, and laid him on a board in the middle of the floor: Then having put on his head a big cap that Doctor Manente used to wear at Easter, and having covered him all over with orange-leaves, they went to bed. But no sooner had day come than the hospital-servant appeared weeping at the window, telling the neighbours and the passer-by how Doctor Manente had departed this life at dawn; and in a moment the news spread through Florence, whereupon the goldsmith, having heard it, came running immediately, and got full particulars, from the hospital-servants; and since there was now no help for it, they discussed burying him that evening. So the goldsmith informed the Health Officials, and they arranged for the hour before sunset, and he told the Friars of S. Maria Novella, and the Priests of S. Pagolo, so that at the hour fixed, everybody was ready, and when the Friars and the Priests of the Parish had passed on, the plague-buriers followed a good way behind, removing the body of Franciosino the horse-dealer from house and earth, in place of Doctor Manente the Physician, believing absolutely it was he, as did everybody who saw him, though he seemed to them all much changed; bu this, they thought, was owing to his malady, saying to one another: Look how blotched he is; I tell you, it was a nasty job. And so, without taking him into the church, where the Friars and Priests were still singing and performing the usual ceremonies, they threw him headlong into the first pit which they found open at the top of the steps, and having shut the grave again, they went about their business, a thousand people standing in the distance to watch the funeral of Doctor Manente, holding their noses and smelling vinegar or flowers or herbs, and firmly believing it was he. And it was easy for them to be taken in, because at that time all men were , and then seeing him carried out of his own house, with that big cap covering half his face, nobody could suspect anything. When the dead man was removed and buried, the goldsmith left the house and its contents in charge of the hospital-servant, and went off to send him his supper, and a good wine, so that he could fulfil his charge with more diligence and love. At the same time he sent post-haste to his sister, telling her not to come now to Florence, because her husband was already dead and buried, and she should leave to him the charge and care of her house and goods, and that she should be patient, till she could live cheerfully, bringing up her little son with true affection. Night came, and the Monk, having supped excellently well, and taking care not to be seen, left the hospital=servant alone and went softly to his own house. The following day he met Lorenzo, and they laughed together over the joke which had succeeded miraculously, and made arrangements for everything necessary to bring it to its end. So three or four days passed by, during which without fail the Doctor received fat meals, morning and evening, brought to him by the two dressed-up men with false heads that grinned the same as ever. One morning, four hours before day, the two false-headed footmen opened the bedroom door, by the Magnificent's orders, and making the Doctor get up, told him by signs to dress himself in a short vest of common red cloth, and a pair of sailor’s long trousers of the same stuff, and having put a little Greek hat on his head, they handcuffed him, and throwing that gown over his head, they muffled him up in such a manner that he couldn’t see daylight, and so they led him from that room. They led him down to the courtyard, and he was so distressed and fearful, he trembled that much, as if he’d caught the trembling fever. So they pisces him up and put him in a litter borne by two frisky mules, and there they shut him up safe, so that he couldn’t open from inside, and they led him away to the city gate called Porta alla Croce, the two footmen in ordinary livery conducting the litter. Arrived at the gate, it was opened for them at once, and they gaily went on their way. Doctor Manente felt himself being carried along, and not knowing by whom or whither, he remained fearful and wondering. But as day came, and he heard the voices of peasants and the trampling of the mules, he began to believe it was no dream; however he contrived to take heart, and to take comfort himself. The footmen, never saying a word that he might hear, trudged along, and having brought food with them, when it seemed to them time they ate their morning meal as they went, on foot and travelling, so that towards midnight they arrived at the Hermitage of . There they were well received by Father Superior, who was at the gate, and the litter was brought in and the mules untackled. Then the Frate led them through his own room into the ante-chamber, and from there through a writing-cabinet into a little sitting room, where the Superior had had the window walled up, and had installed a camp bed and a small table with a bench; there was a fireplace also, and the necessary place. This little room rose above a steep cliff, lonely, where came neither man nor beast, in the most remote part of the convent, so that no sound was heard there, unless it were the winds or thunder, or some little bell ringing for Ave Maria or for Mass, or calling the monks to dinner or to supper. The footmen having approved it a most suitable place, they at once went back to the guest-house where they had left the litter, and drew forth the Doctor half dead with hunger and thirst and lack of means to relieve himself, and with fear, so that barely could he stand on his feet. Having muffled up his head again, they half carried him to that sitting-room, and having put him on the bed, they left him with the handcuffs still on, and went to the Father Superior’s room. There, two lay brothers were at once brought so that they might see and learn what they had to do about minding and feeding Doctor Manente, although they had received strict orders from the Magnificent. Meanwhile the footmen had put on the disguise they had brought with them, with the two grinning heads and sword and the torch, so at last, just as in Florence, they brought the Doctor a substantial supper which the frate had had  prepared. As soon as Doctor Manente saw those two heads appear as usual, he cheered up considerably; and the man with the victuals, having spread the food on the table, went to him and took off the handcuffs, signing to him to proceed. Doctor Manente was like a gannet diving in, eating and drinking to his utmost. Then the other two opened the door and disappeared, leaving him in the dark. The two lay brothers had gone up to the attic to see everything that happened, and had stealthily removed one of the tiles of the floor, and through the crack had observed minutely all that took place. Then they joined the two footmen who were disrobing, and who handed over to them the robes and all the other bag of tricks, after which they all ate and refreshed themselves, and being weary and sleepy they went to bed. In the morning, not too early, the footmen rose and broke their fast, and having impressed on the Father Superior and the two frati to observe the same methods morning and evening, in bringing him his meals, they took leave and returned to Florence with the litter, and regaled the Magnificent with all the story, which amused him greatly, and gave him great satisfaction. Meanwhile the time came when the hospital-servant had finished his custody, and been paid by the goldsmith, and having handed over the house and its contents, he returned to S. Maria Nuova. The wife of Doctor Manente also returned to Florence, dressed as a widow, and with her her little son, and the servant-maid, so having finished her weeping for her dead husband, she lived in decent comfort. The lay brothers, as they had observed, took the Doctor his food every morning and evening at a regular hour, and he, having nothing else to do, lived solely to fill his belly and to sleep, never seeing a light; save when they brought him his victuals. He could not imagine where he was nor who those were who waited on him, he feared he was in some enchanted palace, but he did his best to eat copiously and to sleep long, and when he was awake he built castles in the air.

        At this point it happened that affairs of the greatest importance concerning the state and the government of the city took Lorenzo away from Florence and detained him several months, when, occupied with weighty business, for a space he clean forgot Doctor Manente, and would have continued to forget him had he not one day seen by chance one of the monks from Camaldoli going on horseback about the concerns of the monastery. This brought the Doctor back to his mind, so he sent for the monk, and learning that he was departing next morning for the Hermitage, the Magnificent gave him a letter and ordered him to deliver it to the Father Superior. The monk took the letter reverently, and said with great pleasure he would do as was required, and so in time and in place he did. In the meanwhile several things had happened; in the first place, at the end of six months Manente’s wife had got married again to a certain Michelangelo, a goldsmith and a partner of Niccolaio her brother, who had strongly counselled her to it, and urged her, he having renewed his partnership for another ten years through this new relationship. So Michelangelo had come to live with her, having arranged with the guardians to keep the child, and the inventory of the furniture having been taken, he lived happily with his Bridget, for that was the woman’s name, and had already got her with child. The Father Superior, hearing that the Magnificent had gone off without leaving any orders, continued in the same way, but growing very sorry for Doctor Manente, as the cold weather came he provided him with fuel, having several sackfuls brought and emptied in a corner of his room, by those two mask-heads who served him, and had a fire lit in the fireplace, and had slippers brought for him, and clothes to dress himself, and covers for the bed. And having the roof pierced from the attic overhead, he had him a little lamp fixed that burned night and day, keeping the room more or less lit up. So that the Doctor saw what he was eating, and what he was doing, and so, partly in thanks to those who had done him this service, although he didn’t know who it was, he would often sing little songs, such as he used to sing at the rough tavern table among his boon companions, and sometimes he would improvise verses. And seeing he had a good voice and a clear pronunciation, he often recited some of Lorenzo’s stanzas, which had lately appeared, called Selve d’Amore, Wildwoods of Love, to which the lay brothers and the Father Superior would listen, deriving therefrom the greatest pleasure and satisfaction. And so he lived, making the best of things though he had almost lost hope of ever seeing the sun again. However, there arrived the man bearing the letter from the Magnificent to the Father Superior, in which the latter learned the wishes and orders of Lorenzo, which that same day he communicated to the lay brothers: namely, that that very night two or three hours before dawn, they should take the Doctor away, and he told them where, and how, and in what manner they should leave him. These then, at the appointed hour, dressed in their usual guise, went in to the Doctor and roused him from his bed, informing him by signs that he should dress himself in that sailor’s rig-out; then they handcuffed him and put on him a cloak with a hood down to his very chin, and so they led him off. This time Doctor Manente thought his end had really come, he would no more eat bread, and sad beyond description he let himself be led along, not to make matters worse. For two hours or more his two guards walked quickly, all the time through woods, and by unused tracks, until they came near to La , and there they tied up the Doctor with bryony vines to the foot of a huge pine-tree, after which they took off that hood, and pulled his little hat down over his eyes, then removed the handcuffs, and in this manner they left him tied to the tree, while they sped away like the wind, taking the same tracks by which they had come, although they had extinguished the torch, and so they returned to Camaldoli unseen of any living soul. Doctor Manente, left alone and lightly bound, still full of fear, listened attentively for some time, and hearing neither sound nor movement, he began to free his hands and easily broke those withes. Then he pushed away the hat from over his eyes, and looking upwards, saw between tree and tree a piece of the starry sky. Thereupon he rejoiced, wondering and knew for sure he was at large, and in the open, so looking keenly around, as already it was beginning to become day, he saw the pine-trees standing and the grass beneath his feet, by which he knew for certain he was in a wood. However, dreading some new and unknown trouble, he kept still motionless, hardly breathing for fear of being heard, and always imagining those two grinning heads there again, ready to handcuff him and lead him off. However, as it grew full day, and clear, the sun already beginning to light up all round with his sparkling rays, seeing neither man nor beast about, he took a narrow track and set off up the slope, to get out of that valley, knowing now that he had really come back to life. He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the top of the mountain and found himself in a much-frequented road, and saw coming towards him a carter with three mules laden with green fodder. So he went towards him and asked him about the country, and the name of the place where he was, whereon the other answered readily, it was called La Vernia: and he added, what the devil, are you blind? Don’t you see S. Francesco up there? – and he pointed to the church on the top of the hill, not more than two bow-shots away. Doctor Manente thanked him, recognising the country at once, having been there with his friends occasionally on an outing; so he gave thanks to God, lifting his hands to heaven, feeling himself born again. He took the right-hand road up to the convent, dressed in those red clothes and looking like a seaman: and arrived there, it being still early, he found a Milanese Gentleman come out from Florence for a trip, with a friend, also Milanese, and horses and servants, come to visit those holy places where the devout S. Francis did penitence. ANd having the evening before slipped and twisted his foot, and then taken cold, in the night it had begun to swell and to hurt so much that by morning he couldn’t stir, and daren’t touch it, it was so painful so he had to stay in bed. He was going to send to Bibbiena for a doctor, to reassure the friars, when Doctor Manente presented himself, having heard the cause of the Gentleman’s distress, and told them they needn’t send for any physicians, but if they would trust to him, he would remove the pain in an eighth of an hour, and moreover, the next day he would guarantee a complete cure. Now although he was dressed so strangely, Doctor Manente had a fine presence and pleasant speech, so that the Milanese believed him. Thereupon he made the Friars bring rosal oil and myrtle powder, and having first made him the medicine for the dislocation, and put the bone in place, he greased it well, and powdered the foot, and bound it up tight, whereupon the pain went down at once, so that that night the gentleman slept soundly, not having slept a wind the previous night. Next morning the gentleman got up and found himself able not only to put his foot down, but to walk with ease. So he had the horses saddled, drank a cup with the friars, gave two ducats to the doctor and set off towards Florence.

        Doctor Manente rejoiced; he also ate and drank with the friars, took leave of them, and set off for Mugello, to go to his villa. Walking briskly, he arrived there that evening just at sundown. He loudly called the man who worked the place for him, calling him by name, and soon he was answered by a young peasant, that the man had left and been working on a neighbouring farm for some time. This seemed very strange to the Doctor, he couldn’t allow that his wife should have send the man away without his consent, and put a new one on the place. However, he told the lad to call his father, to whom he said that he was a very close friend of his master, and would he therefore find him a lodging for the night. The peasant, seeing him dressed in that fashion, was a bit suspicious, and didn’t know what to say. But Doctor Manente cleverly coaxed him and persuaded him, till he was satisfied, and agreed to take him in, reassured by seeing no weapons on him, and deciding nevertheless to put him in the barn. So they brought him into the house, and the table being set, they ate a lean supper. Doctor Manente decided to not reveal himself, so he asked no questions about the farm, nor about his wife, but seeing an inkstand and paper on a small table, the peasant fulfilling the functions of  of the people, he asked for writing materials, which being brought to him, he wrote a short letter to his wife. Then turning to the peasant lad, he said: I will give you a , and I want you to start for Florence early in the morning and take this letter to your mistress, then do as she tells you. – The lad, with his father’s consent, was quite willing, and taking the Doctor to the barn, they shut him up to sleep on the straw. Enduring all with patience, Doctor Manente said to himself: To-morrow you’ll take your cap off to me, and you’ll be glad to serve me. – So he nestled among that straw as best he might, and prepared to sleep. In the morning, as soon as the air began to whiten, the lad who had got the carlin and the letter the previous evening, set off for Florence, and at about dinner-hour arrived at his padrona’s house, where he presented the letter to Dame Bridget. She opened it at once, seeming to recognise the handwriting of her first husband. But when she read it, she was filled with such distress and overwhelming consternation, she almost swooned and lost her senses. She asked the lad what age the man was who had sent him, and how tall he was and what he looked like, and his answers left her only the more dismayed, and her grief increased, so that she sent the maid-servant post-haste to the workshop for Michelangelo. He being arrived, he read the letter, and was of the same opinion, that it was exactly like the writing of Doctor Manente, indeed the very image, but since they knew for certain he was dead, they also knew for certain it was the writing of another person. So immediately he guessed it must be some cheat, who was trying to get at her by some strange means, for the contents of the letter were as follows: that to his dear helpmeet he wrote to say how, after many strange adventures, having been imprisoned and in fear of his life for more than a year, he had finally escaped from peril, by a miracle of God, and he would tell her everything in detail when he saw her, but for the present it was enough that she should know that he was alive and well at the Villa, and he sent to beg her to let the news be known immediately in Florence, and to send him the mule, and his doublet, and his weatherproof coat, his heavy boots and his hat, and that she should inform the new peasant in charge that he was the master, being Doctor Manente her husband, and therefore the Villa should be opened to him, that he might sleep the night there if he wished, and next morning early he would come to Florence to console her. – Then Michelangelo was angry, and full of vexation he wrote back in his wife’s name, a letter to make the fellow sit up, threatening him, if he did not clear out, that he would come up there with a stick and give him something to carry away with him, and threatening him with the city prison, the Bargello. Further, he told the lad to tell his father to drive the fellow away with a curse on him! The youth set off at once, and Michelangelo returned to the workshop, leaving Mrs Bridget distressed and overcome. That morning Doctor Manente had taken a walk as far as the , which was three long miles from his Villa, and he dined there cheerfully, laughing with the host of the inn, who was his friend; but he did not make himself known, saying instead that he was an Albanian. Then in the evening he returned home in the greatest good-humour, confident that he would now be recognised as master, and deciding to tell the peasant to wring the necks of two young fowls which he had seen pecking round the farmyard that morning. But no sooner was he home than the lad, who was already back, came out to him and without salute, in the most disrespectful manner handed him the letter, which had neither address nor seal; whereat Doctor Manente was at once uneasy and unhappy, feeling it was the beginning of a sad business. But when he had read the letter to the end, he was so taken aback, and so overcome with chagrin, so dismayed, that he seemed neither dead nor alive. Then the old peasant came up, the lad having given him the master’s message, and he told the Doctor stiffly, he’d better find somewhere else to sleep that night, because his master had sent orders to turn him away at once. Doctor Manente was deeply distressed, hearing himself sent away by that peasant, whom he had expected to recognise him as master on the arrival of the letter, but he replied mildly that he would go. And beginning to doubt whether he hadn’t turned into somebody else and that there was no such person as Doctor Manente any more, he asked the peasant to tell him the name of his master: whereupon the man replied, that his name was Michelangelo the Goldsmith, and his wife was dame Bridget. Then the doctor asked if that dame Bridget had been married before, and if she had any children. Yes, replied the peasant, she had a doctor for her first husband, and from what I’ve heard he was called Doctor Manente; he died of plague, they say, and left her a little son, name of Sandrino. – Oh alas! Cried the doctor. – What are you telling me! – And he began to ask for further details. But the peasant replied, he could tell him no more, he came from the Casentino and had only begun work at the Villa last August. Doctor Manente decided not to reveal who he was, and since there were still more than two hours of daylight, he set off on foot towards Florence, pondering to himself that his wife and relatives, believing for some unknown reason that he was dead, had come to act as they had done; for he knew his brother-in-law’s partner, Michelangelo the Goldsmith, perfectly well. A thousand thoughts occupied him as he pressed on, till he arrived late at night at the inn of Pietra al Migliaio, a mile outside the city. He took lodging for the night there, eating only a couple of boiled eggs, and went to bed, where he tossed to and fro without ever closing his eyes. In the morning he rose early, paid the host, and set off slowly for Florence. He entered the town dressed as we have described, so that no one recognised him, though he met many acquaintances and friends in the street. Having wandered over half of Florence he came at length to the Via de’ Fossi, and saw at that very moment his wife and child going into the house, coming home from Mass. He felt certain that she had seen him, but she had shown no sign of recognising him, so he changed his mind, and whereas he had come to speak to her, he now went instead to S. Croce to find a certain Maestro Sebastiano, his confessor, thinking he would be a good means of bringing his wife to recognise him, and having in mind to confess everything that had happened, and to take counsel of him. But when he asked for him at the convent, they replied that he had gone to live at Bologna. Then he was almost in despair, not knowing what to do. So, straying through the Piazza, then through the Mercato Nuovo and through the Mercato Vecchio, having met among other friends and acquaintances Biondo, the country-produce agent, Feo the drummer, Master Zanobi della Barba, and Leonardo the saddler, and having been recognised by none of them, he was half dazed. However, as it was dinner-time, he went to Bertucce’s where he found Amadore giving out the wine, previously a bosom friend of his, so he asked him would he take dinner with him that morning. Amadore did so, and towards the end of the meal he said he seemed to have seen his companion before somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where. To which Doctor Manente replied, it was very likely, seeing he had been in Florence some time, and with Master Agostino at the hot baths of Piazza Padella, having come there from Leghorn, and as he didn’t like the sea, he wished to stay there now. So talking of one thing and another they came to an end of the meal and, not having revealed himself, when he had paid the bill Doctor Manente departed, very low in spirits, almost overcome, because his friend had not recognised him. Now he determined in any case to speak to his wife that evening. So he wandered around till it seemed to him time, and then he went to his own house, about half an hour before . He knocked twice loudly at the door, so that the dame came to see who it was. – It is I, Bridget, my dear, – he called up to her. Open to me! – And who are you? Cried she. Doctor Manente did not want to shout so that all the neighbourhood could hear, so he said: Come down and you will see. – Mistress Bridget, hearing his voice and also feeling herself recognise the face of Doctor Manente, remembered the letter, and by no means wanted to go down, fearing something unusual, so he said to him: Tell me up here who you are and what you want. – Can’t you see? Replied the Doctor. I am Doctor Manente, your true and legitimate husband, and I want you, because you are my wife. – No, you are not Doctor Manente, my husband, because he is dead and buried, said the dame. – How do you mean, Bridget? Dead! I’ve never died, replied the Doctor: and he added: Open the door to me, won’t you? Don’t you know me, my own sweet heart? Am I really so changed? O come, open the door for me, and you’ll see that I’m alive! – Ah! Cried Bridget, you must be that wretch who wrote me a letter yesterday morning. Get you gone, bad luck to you, for if my husband finds you here it’ll be woe betide you. –Already a heap of people had gathered in the street to hear the tale, all the neighbours were at the windows, everyone saying his say. Then Dame Dorothy, she who dressed like a nun and lived opposite across the way, and who had heard everything from the start, said to Bridget: Look you, my child, this will be the spirit of your Doctor Manente which is wandering here from the beyond, doing penance; although it looks exactly like him, and sounds exactly like him. Call to it, and ask it and conjure it, to tell you what it wants of you. – So Bridget, half believing and half not, began to say in a pious sort of voice: O blessed spirit, hast thou nothing on thy conscience? Dost thou want the Office of the Dead? Must thou satisfy some vow thou hast made? Only say what thou dost desire, blessed spirit, and depart in peace! – When Doctor Manente heard this new rigmarole he wanted to burst out laughing, but he only said he was alive, and she should open to him, he wanted to prove it to her. She, however, only continued to ask the spirit if it wanted Masses of S. , and she kept crossing herself, and then Mistress Dorothy put in: Spirit belonging to God, if thou art in Purgatory, say so, and thy good wife will perform the  for thee, to fetch thee out; – and signing the biggest crosses in the world on the air, she kept saying requiescat in pace; so that all the people round about began to cross themselves, and to stand away from him, looking uglily at him, for already a whole crowd had gathered. Thereupon the Doctor seeing that Bridget was not going to receive him, since she was crossing herself along with that sanctified dame over the road, and twittering pieties to make you wonder, decided to take his departure, for the people were coming more and more, and he was afraid he might be the victim of some nasty joke. So saying no more, he took the way towards S. Maria Novella, walking smartly, whereon all the people gathered there crossed themselves as hard as they could, and started shouting and fleeing away, exactly as if they had really seen a dead man risen up. Whereupon Doctor Manente turned where the  now live and fled down the Via del Moro; dodging half-way into those little alleys down there, almost running, till in the twilight he arrived safely at Santa Trinita, and from there he went through the Porta Rossa to Bertucce’s, looking behind him all the time to see if the people were following him, Resentful, and having no other remedy, he decided to go and apply to the Vicar General in the morning. But he still wanted to try if his friend Burchiello and his friend Biondo would recognise him, so putting a little money in Amadores hand he said he would like to have Burchiello to supper with him that evening, and Biondo the country-agent. – Yes, all right! Replied the host. Leave it to me. – And having given orders in the kitchen, he took his cloak and went to S. Giovanni, where he found Biondo and brought him along, saying he was invited that evening to supper with a stranger and with Burchiello, whom they found at home in his shop in the Garbo. Few words were sufficient to fetch him, for when he heard he was going to get a supper for nothing, he was more eager than they: therefore at the fixed time they all met in Bertucce’s, it being then October, towards All Saint’s Day. At the first sight Burchiello felt he recognised Doctor Manente, and more so when he heard him speak, for the Doctor welcomed Burchiello most warmly, saying that he was already in love with him by repute, and to meet him he had been forced to ask the landlord to invite him to supper and to bring Biondo, who was so well known as his boon companion and his good friend. Burchiello thanked him properly, and so they sat down in a private room that had been ordered for them, and while they were waiting for certain fat pigeons and thrushes, that were being done to a turn, they began to talk of various things, and Doctor Manente composed a fable telling the events of his own life, that had brought him there. Burchiello had already said to Biondo he had never seen two men so much alike as this man and Doctor Manente, and he added: If I didn’t know for certain he was dead, I should say this was he, without shadow of doubt – and Biondo said the same. Meanwhile, the meal being ready, the landlord brought the salad and bread, with two flasks of twinkling wine. So they stopped talking and began to eat, Burchiello and Amadore sitting on the inside of the table, and Doctor Manente Biondo on the outside; and as they ate, Burchiello kept his eye all the time on the Doctor. When they began to drink, he noticed he did just what Doctor Manente used to do, for the Doctor always tossed off two glasses of straight wine before the salad, and always drank water after: which astonished him greatly. But then when the pigeons and the thrushes came on the table, and the man straight away cut off and ate the heads, which was the part that pleased him most in all animals, Burchiello was altogether tempted to challenge him; yet he restrained himself, to make more sure. At last came the dessert, which was , and sancolombane grapes, and beautiful sweet-curd cheese, and then he was quite sure.  For the doctor, having eaten pears and grapes only, had finished his supper, without touching the sweet-curds, although the others praised it to him warmly; just like the real Manente, who despised fresh curds so much, and disliked it so, he would as lieve have eaten his own hand; all of which Burchiello knew very well. So that now he was sure: and half laughing, he took his left hand and pushing back the vest sleeve, revealed just above the wrist a birthmark like a wild boar. – You are Doctor Manente! He said in a loud voice. And you can’t hide yourself any longer! – Whereupon he threw his arms round his neck and embraced him and kissed him. Biondo and the landlord, scared, drew back and waited to see what he would say. He said: Only you, Burchiello, among all my friends and relations, have recognised me. I am as you say, Doctor Manente, and I never died, as my wife believes, and all Florence with her. – The other two were white as ashes, Amadore crossing himself, and Biondo crying out and preparing to flee; they feared him as they feared a ghost and the dead risen from the grave. But Burchiello said: You needn’t be frightened, feel him, touch him, ghosts and the dead don’t have flesh and bones, as he’s got; besides, he’s eaten and drunk in our presence. – Then Doctor Manente said: I am alive, don’t doubt it; don’t you be afraid, brothers, I have never been through death. And I want you to hear me, for I’ll tell you some of the strangest things that ever were heard since the sun made day. – So that gradually he and Burchiello somewhat reassured the landlord and Biondo. When they had called the waiters and had the table cleared of all but the wine and the fresh , the lads were told to go and eat their supper and not come at all unless Burchiello sent for them, and then the door was carefully fastened and the others waited in great eagerness to hear the news. Doctor Manente began from the beginning, how he had been left asleep on that bench, and from then on he told in proper order everything that happened to him, so that often the others were wonder-struck, or they burst out all into laughter. But when he had finished his tale, Burchiello, who was a keen man, said: This is one of the Magnificent Lorenzo’s plots. – The others were all against him, saying it was the work of witches, and sorcery, and enchantment. But Burchiello stood by his statement, saying: Not everybody understands the brain. Don’t you know, he never takes up a thing without carrying it through, he never made a sketch without filling in the colour? He never wants to do a thing, without doing it? It’s the devil, having to deal with a man who can, and will, and knows how to carry out what he wants. – Then he added, turning to Master Manente: I always felt he was going to play some trick on you, since that day you were improvising with him at , and you gave him that nasty twit. Doctor Manente, Princes and Princes, and they often do such things to the likes of us, when we want to put ourselves on too equal a footing with them. – The Doctor excused himself by saying the Muses have a free field and that he had a thousand reasons for things over inside himself, he began to feel the force of Burchiello’s words, and to believe him somewhat. But after they had talked for a long while over Doctor Manente’s case, he made them tell him all that had happened concerning the plague, and about the man who in his stead had carried out of his house dead, with the plague-tumour in his throat. And this they could not get to the bottom of, they cudgelled their brains, but not even Burchiello could find anything to lay hold of. But at last, as it was getting late, Doctor Manente asked for their advice and judgment, to know in what way he should conduct himself in this strange complication; for it seemed to him too far-fetched, that he should have to lose his own flesh and blood, and all his possessions. But scheme and try as they might, they always came back to the conclusion that the Doctor should apply to the Bishop’s Court. Finally they took leave of one another, and Doctor Manente went to stay with Burchiello, for the other two were still not quite clear about him, they were still a bit scared. During this time, Michelangelo had come home and Bridget had poured out to him all that had happened, declaring that really she had seemed to hear Doctor Manente talking, and to see his very face, and agreeing with the opinion of Mistress Dorothy, that it was his soul, and that it had need of some assistance, to get out of purgatory. – What are you talking about, souls and purgatory! cried Michelangelo, quite taken aback. It’s some scoundrel, some cheat, and you were wise not to open to him. – Still he was greatly puzzled, he couldn’t imagine what the fellow was after, what he could really want. For he was ready to believe anything rather than that Doctor Manente could have come to life again, and now he felt convinced that, not having succeeded in his first designs, the fellow would show up no more. In the morning early Burchiello roused Doctor Manente, and first he made him wash his head and shave in the manner of that day, and then he dressed him from head to foot in his own clothes, which fitted him as if cut to his measures, and so they went out, that he should show himself and be recognised. They went to Santa Maria del Fiore, to the Nunziata, to the old market and the new, and into the great square; he was seen by the people, and by many recognised, and many spoke to him, the news already having spread by Biondo and Amadore, how he was alive, and wanted his wife and possessions back. Niccolaio and Michelangelo saw him, and it looked just like him, but they knew he was dead, so they consoled themselves that it could not be he. Hearing, however, that he was going before the Bishop’s Court, they prepared themselves for the defence, and went to the Plague Authorities, and to the book in the Sacristy of Santa Maria Novella, to the Apothecary where they had got the wace, to the corpse-bearers and to the neighbours, and they gathered proof, that Doctor Manente had died in his own house of the infection, and was buried. All Florence was talking about the affairs, and many, who had seen him go to the grave, were dismayed, fearing something unnatural. As soon as Doctor Manente had got back home and dined, he went with Burchiello to the Bishop’s Palace, and told the whole quarrel to the Vicar General, in the end claiming back his wife. To the Vicar it seemed a very curious affair, so to get at the truth he cited the other party, and having heard Niccolaio and Michelangelo, and seeing so many testimonies, and so many honest men, he remained at last completely perplexed, and confused. And since a corpse had been brought into the case, and he could not make out either from one party or the other, whose corpse it was, nor how it had got into the Doctor’s house, he felt certain that between them they had killed someone, so he reported it secretly to the Council of . The Council speedily ordered the sergeant to inquire into it, and when he found that they still contended, he took them all, from Burchiello upwards, and sent them to prison in the . In the morning the Court was assembled, and first they had Doctor Manente brought before them, and began by threatening him sharply with torture, if he did not tell them the truth. Whereupon Doctor Manente started from the beginning, and told them clearly all that had happened to him to the very end, so that before he’d done he’d set them laughing six or seven times. He was then sent back to prison, and they fetched Niccolaio, who told the whole truth as he knew it, then they heard the same from Michelangelo, and the two brought forward all the proofs of their statements, thinking for certain that the dead man had been Doctor Manente. When however the Eight heard of the hospital-attendant who had looked after the sick man, and had afterwards disinfected the house, they thought that here was the end-thread of this entangled skein, so at once they sent one of their runners post haste to Santa Maria Nuova to get him. But when the runner came back and reported that the said hospital-attendant, having quarrelled with another man and wounded him in the face with a pair of scissors, had disappeared no-one knew where, out of fear of justice; they were left in greater confusion than ever. So you see how luckily everything works together for the success of a practical joke.

        Well now the Eight put them all back in prison, and commissioned their ministers diligently to examine the testimonies, and as far as possible to determine again if Doctor Manente had told the truth. In the course of two or three days they reported that all had spoken the truth. Whereupon the Magistracy was altogether put out, and more puzzled than ever. At this stage Burchiello, in order to help Doctor Manente, had gone to the house of one of the chief magistrates of the Eight, who was his close friend and the Doctor’s too, and finding him at home, had told him how this was one of the Magnificent Lorenzo’s plots, and how the latter had done everything to play this grand trick on the Doctor, and why, and gave him all the reasons, till at last he convinced him, the Magistrate concluding within himself that such a thing could not possibly happened in Florence except through Lorenzo. So discussing the matter in the Court one day with his colleagues, he said he thought it would be well to write to the Magnificent, who was out at the Poggio Villa, and refer the case to him, for it was so intricate, and so difficult to give any satisfactory verdict about. They were all delighted at the idea, saying that moreover he would enjoy the case immensely, and that he would be just the right judge for such a suit. So with one accord they commissioned the Chancellor to report to him in detail all that had happened so far in the case, and that the suit was now referred to his Magnificence; and all was arranged, so that the same day the letter was sent. Then, summoning the prisoners, they informed them that no one of them should venture within a hundred yards of the Via de’ Fossi, nor speak to Mistress Bridget, under pain of the gallows, not until the suit should be settled. They added that the case had been referred to the Magnificent, who would shortly return to the city: and so they dismissed them. When the prisoners had paid the costs, they went their various ways, each one hoping that the sentence would fall in his favour. The news being spread through Florence, everyone talked of nothing else, and Dame Bridget was thoroughly downcast and uneasy, it seemed to her there would never be an end to the affair. Doctor Manente went home with Burchiello and began practising medicine again, and the Goldsmiths likewise returned to their craft. When the Magnificent read the letter from the Eight, he laughed and laughed, till it was a wonder to see him, the joke seemed to him to have succeeded a thousand times more splendidly and funnily than ever he could have imagined, and he was transported with joy. When in the course of eight or ten days he returned to Florence, Doctor Manente came the same day to visit him, and could not get an audience; and the same thing happened to the Goldsmiths. However, the second day Doctor Manente came again, and found him at table, for he had just finished dinner. When he was ushered in, the Magnificent, inwardly delighted, pretended to be astonished, struck with amazement, and he said loudly: Doctor Manente, I never thought to see you again, for I heard for certain you were dead; and I am not sure even now whether it is really you, or somebody else, or whether you appear in some unnatural body. – The Doctor, saying he had never died and was just the same as he had ever been, wanted to come and kneel and kiss his hand. But the Magnificent said: Stay where you are. Let it suffice you, that if you are really Doctor Manente, alive and in the flesh, you are very welcome, otherwise the reverse. – The Doctor wanted to begin telling him the story, but Lorenzo said that was not the right time, adding: This evening after sundown I shall expect you in Chamber to hear your account, – and furthermore gave him to understand that his adversaries would also be present. Doctor Manente thanked him, and reverentially took  his leave, going home and relating everything to Burchiello. The latter laughed to himself, saying: I knew the ball had fallen into the right hole this time. You’ll see, the Magnificent will be in his element. – However, he still was puzzled as to how the affair would work out. Evening came, and the Goldsmiths, having been summoned, were walking up and down the outside passage waiting to be called, when Doctor Manente arrived. Hearing this, Lorenzo proceeded into the principal Chamber in company with a number of citizens, the first in Florence, all friends or acquaintances of the Doctor. The opposing parties were summoned, and first Niccolaio was brought in, then Michelangelo, and then the two were confronted with one another, and their plea being heard, their proofs examined, the audience showed the greatest astonishment. When the two were at last dismissed, Doctor Manente came in, and starting at the beginning, he told them precisely the truth of what had happened to him, without adding anything or taking away. When those present with the Magnificent had marvelled and laughed, and marvelled and laughed consumedly, and still could not stop marvelling and exploding with laughter, Lorenzo, after making Doctor Manente tell the thing over two or three times, sent for the Goldsmiths. These two entered, and then for a while he had the best, most beautiful time he had ever had in his life, rousing them up and setting them on fire against one another till they insulted one another like dogs. At this juncture arrived the Vicar, the Magnificent having sent for him, whereon they all made their reverence to him, and Lorenzo seated him beside himself, and began to speak as follows: Reverend Vicar, I know you are aware of the difference these good men have among themselves, and so I will relate no more than that I have been elected by the most respectable gentlemen, the Eight, to be judge of the case. Now nothing remains to me, before I give the verdict, but to satisfy myself that Doctor Manente never died, and that the man whom we have before us is not some unnatural, bewitched body, or is not some diabolic spirit. And this is your business to see to and to understand. – Oh, but how? replied the Vicar. – I will tell you, replied Lorenzo. And he said: by having him exorcised by experienced Friars, who are able to drive out spirits, touching them with certain relics proper to the bewitched. – You have spoken well, replied the Reverend Vicar; give me six or eight days to make ready, and then if he stands the test, you may say with certainty that he is alive, and that he is your man. – Doctor Manente wanted to say something, but the Magnificent, having approved the Vicar’s plan, and saying that when the trial had been made he would give the verdict, rose and dismissed the company, and departed with the Gentlemen who had supped with him, laughing and jesting without end over this extravagant affair. Next day the Vicar, a good and devout Christian, and most sweetly religious, announced to all the clergy of the diocese, and to the priests and friars, that whosoever had any relics good for driving out devils or exorcising evil spirits should within six days bring the said relics to S. Maria Maggiore, in Florence, under pain of his severe displeasure. In all the country the talk was nothing but this event, and the goldsmiths and Doctor Manente alike felt they would never see the end of it. In the meantime Lorenzo had fetched to Florence the old  of Galatrona, the most famous wizard and sorcerer of those days, and instructing him what he had to do, he kept him in the Palace, to make use of him when required. Already from city and province so many relics had arrived in S. Maria Maggiore, that it was a wonder to see. On the appointed day, Doctor Manente appeared, and they waited only for the Vicar, who came after Vespers, accompanied by perhaps thirty clergy of the most reputed in Florence. Taking his place in the middle of the church, on a chair prepared for him, he summoned Doctor Manente, and bade him kneel. And while two friars of S. Marco sang hymns, psalms, chants and prayers over him, sprinkled him with holy water and incensed him, one by one other friars and priests came and touched him with their relics, but all in vain. The Doctor did not undergo any change. So he made his reverence to one and all, with thanks to God, and appealed to the Vicar to set him free at last. The church was full, crowded with people to the door, all expecting wonders. Suddenly a big rascally Frate, young and sturdy, who had come from Vallombrosa and was first-rate at driving out spits, pushed forward and said: Just you leave it to me, and I will soon tell you whether he is possessed or not. – So tying his hands together, he made him wear the cape of S. Filippo and began to question and conjure him, and the Doctor always replied to the point. But in the exorcising, the Frate kept saying things to make the stones laugh, and to his sorrow Doctor Manente could not suppress a giggle. Whereupon the Frate immediately shouted: I have him! – and giving him two masterly clouts: Come out! He cried, thou enemy of God; out with thee! – Doctor Manente found it no joke, and he yelled: Conjure as much as you like. – But that rascally Frate kept pummelling him on the chest and back, saying: Aha, evil spirit, thou shalt come out in spite of thee! – The Doctor, unable to help himself with anything but his tongue, shouted: Hi you scoundrel of a Friar, is this the way to treat an honest man! Be ashamed of yourself, you drunken coward, beating a man of my condition like this. By the Lord’s body, I’ll revenge on you. – The Frate, hearing him swear, pounced on him and threw him down, standing on his body, and taking him by the throat, he would have choked him, if Doctor Manente had not begun to beseech him for the love of God. Where him, thinking the devil was going to come out, and he began to say: What sign wilt thou give me? – By the Magnificent’s orders the buffoning monk was in the church, along with Nepo, mixed among the crowd, and now he said, the moment had come. Immediately Nepo began to shout in a loud voice: Stand aside, stand aside, worthy men, make way, for I have come to speak with the Vicar, and reveal the truth. – Hearing such a voice and such words, and seeing the man, who was big and well-made, so swarthy he was almost black, with a bald head and a lean, long face, and a dark beard down on his chest, dressed in coarse and extravagant clothes, the people were astonished, and in fear they quickly made way for him. Coming before the Vicar, he sent the Frate away from Doctor Manente, who seemed to come to life again, and then he spoke in this manner, saying: That the truth, as it pleased God, may be made manifest to all, know ye that Doctor Manente never died and that all that has happened to him has happened by magic arts and diabolic powers, and by my instrumency, for I am Nepo of Galatrona, who can work whatever demon craft I will. And so it was I who had him, as he slept at San Martino, carried off by devils into an enchanted palace, and just as you have heard him tell, I kept him there till one morning towards daybreak, I had him put down and left in the woods of Vernia. At the same time I made a disembodied spirit take on an aerial body similar to his, and pretend to be Doctor Manente sick of plague, and finally die, so that it was buried in his stead. From these causes, arose all the accidents of which you have heard. And all of these things I have brought to pass to accomplish this trick and this indignity upon Doctor Manente, in vendetta for an insult which I received formerly in Pieve a S. Stefano, from his father, on whom I could never avenge myself because of a charm, which he always wore, sewn up in silk on his breast, on which was written the Oration of S. Cipriano. And that you may know my words are pure truth, go now and open the tomb where the so-called Doctor was buried, and if you do not see manifest signs of the truth of what I have told you, then hold me a liar and cheat, and have my head cut off. – The Vicar and all the people had listened most attentively to his speech, and Doctor Manente watched him askance, angry, and full of fear, and as if in a dream. And in the same way all the people kept their eyes fixed on him. Whereupon the Vicar, who wished to clear up the affair and see the end of such a mix-up ordered two Friars of S. Marco and two of S. Croce to go quickly and open that blessed tomb. They set off at once, accompanied by many other friars and priests and a great crowd of ordinary people. Nepo remained in the church beside the Vicar and Doctor Manente, who were rather scared, and daren’t look the wizard full in the face, fearing, along with most of the men present, that he might be another Simon , or a new . Meanwhile the Friars and the other people had reached the churchyard of S. Maria Novella and calling the sexton, they had the tomb pointed out, in which they thought the body of the Doctor was buried. That same morning an hour before dawn, the buffoning monk had put into the tomb a black pigeon, black as pitch, which he had fetched from the Medici Villa of Careggi, and which was the finest bird and the best flyer ever seen. It was so good at finding its way home, it had flown back from Arezzo and from Pisa. So, taking care that no-one should see him, he had put the bird in the tomb, which was well known to him, and had then closed the sepulchre up again so that it looked as if it hadn’t been opened for ten years. All this he did by the Magnificent's orders. So that when the above mentioned sexton put in the book and pulled back the stone lid, and in view of a thousand people uncovered the tomb, that pigeon, which was named Charcoal having been in the dark for several hours with nothing to eat, as soon as it saw the light it swept in flight out of the sepulchre, and mounting up in the sky in full view, it rose so high, that it discovered the Careggi Villa, and dropping then its droppings it sped away home, where it arrived in less than an eighth of an hour.

        The people standing round were so astounded, and so terrified, that they all took to their heels, yelling: Jesus have mercy! – and running they knew not where. The sexton fell backwards in terror, bringing the tombstone down on top of him, and fracturing his thigh, which kept him laid up for many days and weeks. The Friars and a large part of the crowd ran towards S. Maria Maggiore shouting: Miracle! Miracle! – Some said a spirit had come out in the shape of a squirrel, but having wings, another said a serpent spitting fire; others insisted it was a demon turned into a bat; but the majority declared it was a little devil; and some there were who asserted they had seen his little horns and his goose feet. In S. Maria Maggiore, where the Vicar and Doctor Manente and a great multitude were waiting, a crowd of friars and priests and people poured in almost running, crying with one voice: Miracle! Miracle! – So that the press around them was terrific, everyone pushing forward to hear the truth of the case. While this was happening Nepo made his way to the side door, slipping away from the attendants and the Monk, and pushing his way through the crowd, till he got out of the church without anybody noticing him. He mounted on a good nag, which stood waiting him, and galloped away home as he had been commanded. When the Vicar had heard precisely what the Friars had to recount, he looked round dismayed and bewildered for Nepo, and not seeing him anywhere, he began to shout that he was to be found and brought, for he would have him burnt as a real wizard and sorcerer and spell-worker. Nepo, however, was nowhere to be found, so everyone believed he had disappeared by magic. Thereupon the Vicar dismissed all the Priests and Friars, telling them to take away their relics, and he himself departed with Doctor Manente to the Palace, to see the Magnificent. Burchiello with some of his friends had stood apart and observed everything, and they laughed till their jaws ached, above all when Master Friar belaboured Doctor Manente. The two goldsmiths had been there all the time, amazed and in great ill-humour, and seeing the Vicar set off for the Palace, they started after him, to see if they couldn’t get out of that labyrinth. The Magnificent had had news brought every little while of what was happening, and he and certain gentlemen and some of his dearest friends were still helplessly laughing, when they heard that the Vicar had come to see him. As soon as the Reverend Gentleman saw Lorenzo, he began to shout that he wanted the police-runners of the Bargello to go and seize Nepo of Galatrona. Lorenzo pretended not to know anything, and had the story repeated to him, whereupon he said: Reverend Vicar, please let us go slowly as regards Nepo. But tell me what you think about Doctor Manente? – What I say, replied the Vicar, is that there’s no doubt whatever that is actually he, and he never died. – Well now then, said the Magnificent. I am going to give the sentence, so that these poor men can be delivered this very day from such a toil. – And seeing outside Niccolaio and Michelangelo, he summoned them into the presence of the Vicar and of many honourable and virtuous men, and made them embrace and kiss Doctor Manente, and make a grand peace with one another, each one begging the other’s pardon, and pouring all the blame on Nepo. Then the Magnificent pronounced the following sentence: Next day Michelangelo should take away all his goods from Doctor Manente’s house, while Mistress Bridget, taking with her only four shifts, and her gown and over-robe, should go and stay with his brother until she gave birth to her child. When the baby was born, Michelangelo was free to take it or leave it. If he didn’t want it, the Doctor might take it. Otherwise they should send it to the Foundling’s Home, the Innocenti. The costs of the lying-in, of whatever nature, should fall to Michelangelo. The Doctor should go home to his own house and enjoy the company of his son; while Mistress Bridget, as soon as she was recovered and had been churched, should come back to Doctor Manente, and Doctor Manente should receive her with kindness and with love. – This sentence was found pleasing to everybody, and the Magnificent was much praised by all who heard it. Then the goldsmiths and the Doctor thanked him exceedingly, and departed full of joy, and that evening they all supped together harmoniously with Mistress Bridget in the house of Doctor Manente, along with Burchiello, with whom, however, the Doctor went home to sleep. The Reverend Vicar had stayed behind with the Magnificent, pressing him to send after Nepo, to take him and burn him, but Lorenzo said it would be better to keep quiet, for even if they tried they would never catch him, as the wizard had a thousand ways and means of escape, and of eluding pursuit: such as becoming invisible, turning himself into a bird, or a snake, and endless other such ways of leaving them fooled. Let them do what they might, God had given such powers to that family of Galatrona for some good purpose of other, not yet revealed to men, and they ran the greatest risk, if Nepo saw and knew their intentions against him, of being struck dumb, or having their eyes fixed or their mouths twisted, or being paralysed, or some other mishap. – Hearing this the Vicar, who as you know was good-natured and timid in his feelings, agreed at once with Lorenzo, excusing himself by saying he did not know enough about it, and finally it was a thing they should say no more about. With this resolution he took leave of the Magnificent, not without drea of some strange malady, and so he went home, and never again in his life was he heard to speak of Nepo, neither for good or ill. Next day Michelangelo took all his things from Doctor Manente’s house, and Mistress Bridget went to her brother’s, so that Doctor Manente was free to take up all his substance again. The same day therefore he went to live in his house with his little boy, whom he seemed to have found anew. Well the people of Florence did nothing but talk of this case, and Nepo above all acquired great honour and inestimable renown, among the lower orders especially he was held a great necromancer. Doctor Manente really believed that all had happened as Nepo said, and he often repeated in the course of the story: The father eats the pear and the son’s teeth are set on edge; which became a proverb, and is so to this day. And never could he be brought to believe otherwise, although not only Burchiello, but in the course of time also the Magnificent and the buffooning Monk, and the footmen, all told how the joke had happened. But the Doctor had been frightened, and had brought many Orations of S. , and he always wore them under his shirt, and made Bridget wear them too. For when her time was up Bridget had borne a male child, which Michelangelo took and brought up until it was ten years old, when, the father dying, the boy was made a novice in S. Maria Novella, and in time became skilled in letters, and was a solemn preacher, and because of his sharp sayings and his pleasant fancy he got the name of Fra Succhiello, or the Gimlet. Doctor Manente with his Bridget increased in prosperity and in children, and every year of his life he celebrated the feast of S. Cipriano, and was devotee of that saint. –

        The young men and women had followed Amaranta’s long  with the closest attention, and no small satisfaction, and by no means they regretted its length, for it had pleased them all curiously, so they said, pace Pilucca and  and the rest of the company, that this carried off the palm of all jokes. But the lovely Amaranta, seeing that the hour had come to make an end of the sitting, said as follow: Since the Suppers are over, and the stories are finished, and with the help of the most high King of the Stars we have brought our plans to the desired end, I decree that it would be an excellent deed, if we all went off to sleep, since a good part, even the main part of the night is past. – Which being highly approved by all, she rose and called her serving-men and her maid-servants, and having told them what was to be done, smiling she turned to the company and added: Most dear young men, and you darling maids, before we go to bed, although it is so late, it seems to me that to follow the use of such a night, we ought first to serve refreshment to those that would take it. For if we consider, it is so long since we supped, we might as well now sup again. – Which the young men approved with much pleasure. Meanwhile borne in by the serving-men there appeared three great dishes of metal, and on these three chafing-dishes, full of fresh and well-prepared truffles. Whereupon the young men, who expected to get either white puddings or sweet-herb patties, or perhaps cake or bun, or similar confections, all rather rustic things, which kill the flavour of wine, now rejoiced exceedingly, and leaving the fire at once, they began to eat those truffles, and to drink to some purpose. But not one of the ladies would try the dish, although the young men pressed them, there was not one who would taste, either because they didn’t want it, or because they were afraid of the truffles, or out of shyness. Only two of them drank half a glass of wine and water. After which, along with Amaranta, they all gave a graceful farewell to the men, and left them at table, whilst they themselves went up to their rooms to repose. After the young men had had a good feed of truffles and drink to their content, those that wished stayed the night with Fileno, and the others returned with good company to their homes

The End.

Notes

Line 15 Lorenzo de’ Medici, called the Magnificent Lorenzo, directed the government of Florence from 1478 to 1492, the year of his death. (1)

        50 Bertucce’s tavern stood at the corner of the Corso and Via Calzaiouli. Lorenzo de’ Medici mentions it in his Beoni. (2)

        88 The Medici Palace, now called the Riccardi, stands in Via Cavour, and is visited today chiefly for the sake of the delightful Benozzo Gozzoli frescoes in the small chapel. The Palace was built by Cosimo the elder, designed by Michelozzo, in 1430. (3)

        107  The Buffooning Monk is one of Lasca’s characters, more or less in imitation of Boccacccio’s Bruno and Buffalmacco, great inventors of practical jokes. But probably the Monk was drawn from life, for Lasca is not good at inventing either people or events. He was a middle-man belonging to the Silk Guild, one who would go into the country to buy the raw silk from the peasants, which he then sold to the weavers in town; but he dabbled in various trades. He was given to cheerful living, a dancer and an excellent player on the harp, a rare man, I can tell you, for the river and the woods, and a bosom friend of Scheggia and Pillucca. (4)

        124  The Villa in the Mugello hills would be fifteen miles from Florence. All the hills around the city, for quite a long distance, are sprinkled with these old villas, most of which have some ten or twenty acres of land belonging to them, kept under intensive cultivation for olives, wine, wheat and fruits. So that near each villa is usually a peasant’s cottage or perhaps two, with barns and threshing-floor and mill for grinding the olives, and one or two families of peasants who live in almost feudal relationship to the padroni of the villa, almost as serfs, working the land on the half-shares system. It is the same to-day as in Doctor Manente’s time, and the families of Florentines still go into the country, for August and September are in villeggiatura. (5)

        170  The plague-swelling (gavocciolo) was the sign of the bubonic plague. Boccaccio writes of the same plague: “and at the beginning of the sickness there appeared certain swellings, some of which grew like a common apple, and others like an egg; and these swellings were called by the common people gavocciolo. (6)

        189 Santa Maria Nuova is the famous hospital founded in Florence by Folco Portinari. (7)

        212 It is still the custom to put a hand of black cloth on the door of a house where there is infectious sickness and death. After the late war, many houses had the black strip tacked on the door or window, because of the deadly influenza epidemic. (8)

        227 Burchiello was the name of a poet who died the same year that Lorenzo was born. The fact that Lasca uses the name does not imply that we are to accept the Burchiello of this story as the original poet: any more than we are to take Michelangelo the goldsmith for the great Michelangelo. Lasca probably had some living poet in mind, so dubbed him with the safe name of a dead one. (9)

        249 The Friars of Camaldoli wore the white habit. Lorenzo was a great lover of masked carnival games, and must have had many cupboards-full of costumes, false heads, masks etc. in his palace. (10)

        346 The Hospital of San Pangolo stood facing Santa Maria Novella, where the Logge of San Paolo now are. (11)

        353 There are still many vaults or marble sepulchres in the wall around a little cemetery surrounding Santa Maria Novella. (12)

        433 In Lasca’s day already ninety per cent of the men wore beards, whereas fifty years before, in Lorenzo’s day, all men were clean shaven and a beard was considered gross and common. (13)

        502 The celebrated Hermitage of Camaldoli stands in the Casentino hills, some thirty miles from Florence. It is built like a castle with four towers girdled by a wall, and contains thirty cells for monks. The word Camaldoli is derived from Campo di Maldolo, the name of the owner of the place, who gave it so long ago to San Romualdo. (14)

        596 The absence of Lorenzo from Florence refers perhaps to Lorenzo’s trip to Naples in 1480, to persuade King Ferdinand to make peace with Florence. (15)

        687  The Sanctuary of la Vernia stands on a steep hill of the Appenines. The Convent was founded by Saint Francis of Assisi in 1214, the Church in 1260. (16)

        821 The peasant was rector of the people, which is, more or less, parish clerk. (17)

        825 A Carlin was a Neapolitan coin issued by Charles of Anjou and would be something like: a silver sixpence. To the peasants, who shared half the produce of the land with the master, and who received no money, cash was a great treasure. (18)

        899 The Uccellatoio is a prominence on the ancient high-way from Florence to Bologna, between Castiglione di Cercina and Pratolino. From the top of the hill the whole of Florence could be seen, as Dante observes (Parad. XV). (19)

        1024 Half an hour before Ave Maria would be half an hour before sunset. Sunset counted as twelve-o’clock, or twenty-four-o’clock, in the old reckoning, and an hour after sunset was called one-o’clock. The peasants still count this way sometimes, and say they go to bed at three-o’clock, which in September or March would be nine o’clock in the evening. (20)

        1081 The Masses of San Ghirigoro are the thirty masses which, by a tradition which goes back to Saint Gregory the Great, are said for the liberation of a soul from the pains of purgatory. (21)

        1085 To perform the jubilee means to perform the practices and pay the price ordained by the Pope as necessary for the granting of certain special indulgences. (22)

        1059 People who wore the religious habit while still living in the world were looked on usually as hypocrites and would-be holy persons, so that the word pinzochera, or pizzochero, which indicates such a person, has a contemptuous ring. (23)

        1107 The Sommai, or Della Sommaia were a well-known family often mentioned by Florentine historians. (24)

        1182 Seed pears are those that ripens at the time of the sowing of the wheat, which is after the autumn rains. (25)

        1228 Fennel is cultivated in Italy like celery, which it resembles and is eaten as dessert. (26)

        1257 Careggi was the famous Medici Villa where Lorenzo held his poetic feasts. (27)

        1362 The Eight, or Eight Gentlemen, was a Florentine magistracy of eight prominent citizens who judged crime and administered justice. (28)

        1367 The Bargello, once the Palace of the Podesta, became the residence of the chief of Police and of the Eight. Now it is a famous museum. (29)

        1586 Nepo da Galatrona was a famous wizard and quack from the upper Arno Valley, who performed cures by reciting exorcisms and conjuration over bits of cloth dipped in the blood of the sick man, or over an apple which he had touched. (30)

        1720 Simon Magus, the great wizard of the First Century A. D., is referred to in Acts of the Apostles, Ch. VIII. v.  9. (31)

        1721 Malagigi is a famous wizard of the Charlemagne romance-cycle. (32)

        1922 Saint Cyprian of Antioch, in the third century A.D. was called the Magician, because he had studied magic all his youth. He was, however, converted by St. Justin, and suffered martyrdom under Diocletian in 304. He became the protector against all charms, spells, and wizardry, and there is attributed to him, an Oration, of which there exist several compilations. These orations were written out on small pieces of paper, and worn on the breast rolled up in tiny silk bags. (33)

        1938 The stories are now all told, the three suppers are over, so to wind up we have the little scene of truffles and farewell, just as at the very beginning, before the first story is told, on the first evening, we have the delightful scene of the young women snowballing the young men there in the Courtyard of Amaranta’s Villa. (33)

        1943 Pilucca and Scheggia are two of Lasca’s characters who play practical jokes. He says of them elsewhere: “They were close companions, sharp-witted and fond of jokes and of good living: at the same time they were masters of their own craft, one being a goldsmith and the other a sculptor: and though they were poor rather than rich they were cordial enemies of hard work, having the best time in the world together, not caring about anything, and living gaily.” (34)