Here begins the Tale of the Two Lovers

THE city of Siena, your native town and mine, did great honour to the Emperor Sigismund on his arrival, as is now well known; and a palace was made ready for him by the church of Saint Martha, on the road that leads to the narrow gate of sandstone. As Sigismund came hither, after the ceremonies, he met four married ladies, for birth and beauty, age and ornament, almost equal. All thought them goddesses rather than mortal women, and had they been only three, they might have seemed those whom Paris, we are told, saw in a dream. Now Sigismund, though advanced in years, was quick to passion; he took great pleasure in the company of women, and loved feminine caresses. Indeed he liked nothing better than the presence of great ladies. So when he saw these, he leaped from his horse, and they received him with outstretched hands. Then, turning to his companions, he said: ‘Have you ever seen women like these: For my part, I cannot say whether their faces are human or angelic. Surely they are from heaven.’

They cast down their eyes, and their modesty made them lovelier. For, as the blushes spread over their cheeks, their faces took the colour of Indian ivory stained with scarlet, or white lilies mixed with crimson roses. And chief among them all, shone the beauty of Lucretia. A young girl, barely twenty years of age, she came of the house of the Camilli, and was wife to Menelaus, a wealthy man, but quite unworthy that such a treasure should look after his home; deserving rather that his wife should deceive him or, as we say, give him horns.

This lady was taller than the others. Her hair was long, the colour of beaten gold, and she wore it not hanging down her back, as maidens do, but bound up with gold and precious stones. Her lofty forehead, of good proportions, was without a wrinkle, and her arched eyebrows were dark and slender, with a due space between. Such was the splendour of her eyes that, like the sun, they dazzled all who looked on them; with such eyes she could kill whom she chose and, when she would, restore the dead to life. Her nose was straight in contour, evenly dividing her rosy cheeks, while nothing could be sweeter, nothing more pleasant to see than those cheeks which, when she laughed, broke in a little dimple on either side. And all who saw those dimples longed to kiss them. A small and well-shaped mouth, coral lips made to be bitten, straight little teeth, that shone like crystal, and between them, running to and fro, a tremulous tongue that uttered not speech, but sweetest harmonies. And how can I describe the beauty of her mind, the whiteness of her breast?

Nothing in that body but was praiseworthy, for her exterior witnessed to her inner beauty. Everyone that saw her envied her husband. Besides her mouth was full of wit; she talked as we are told Cornelia did, the mother of the Gracchi, or Hortensius’ daughter, and nothing could be pleasanter or purer than her discourse. She did not, like so many, display her virtue in a sour face, but, with joyful countenance, her honesty. Neither fearful nor bold, she bore within her woman’s heart, tempered by modesty, the spirit of a man.

Her dress was elaborate: necklaces and brooches, girdles and bracelets, all were there, and marvellous fillets about her head, while on her fingers and in her hair were many pearls and diamonds. I think Helen was not more fair on that day when Menelaus received Paris at his feast, nor Andromache more richly adorned, when joined in holy wedlock with Hector.

Now among them (I mean, the four ladies) was also Catherine Petrusia, who died a few days later; and the Emperor was present at her funeral, and knighted her son before her tomb, though he was still a child. She too was eminent for her great beauty, and yet she did not surpass Lucretia. Everyone was talking of Lucretia: the Emperor, and all the others, stared at her and commended her. Wherever she turned, all eyes followed her, and just as Orpheus is said to have drawn forests and rocks after him, to the sound of his lute, so she, with her glance, drew men whither she would.

But one among them all was especially drawn to her, Euryalus the Frank, who in beauty as in wealth was well fitted for love. He was thirty-two years old, not tall but of gay and graceful carriage, with bright eyes, cheeks of a pleasant ruddiness and, for his other limbs, enjoying a certain majesty in proportion to his stature. While the rest of the courtiers were all penniless from the long campaign, he, whose home was rich, and who, as the Emperor’s friend, received valuable gifts, became in the world’s eyes every day more magnificent. A long train of servants followed him, and his clothes were now stamped with gold, now dyed with the Tyrian murex, now woven of the thread that is spun in farthest China. And his horses were like those that Memnon, in the story, brought from Troy.

He had everything needed to arouse that sweet warmth of the spirit and great vigour of the mind by men called love, excepting leisure. But youth and splendour conquered, two pleasant gifts of fortune on which love thrives. Euryalus was no longer master of himself, when he had seen Lucretia; he began to burn for her and, gazing at her face, felt he would never have seen enough. Nor did he love alone. How strange love is! Many handsome youths were there, and even more women with beautiful bodies; yet Lucretia wanted only Euryalus, and he only Lucretia. But she did not know, that day, of Euryalus’ love, nor he of hers: they both imagined that they loved in vain. So, when the services for the Emperor’s sacred person were over, there was an end, and she went home to dream only of Euryalus, he of Lucretia.

And who will now admire the story of Thisbe and Pyramus, between whom proximity founded acquaintance and the first steps towards more, and (as their homes adjoined) in time created love? But these had never seen each other before, nor known each other by repute. He a Frank, she of Tuscany, they had no words together, but their eyes did everything; for each pleased the other.

And so Lucretia, wounded by this grave sorrow, burnt by a secret flame, completely forgets that she is a wife. She hates her husband, and cherishes love’s wound, keeping Euryalus’ face stamped on her heart, nor gives her body any rest. She says to herself:

‘I do not know what is the matter, that I can no longer love my husband. His caresses do not please me, his kisses give me no delight, and his words weary me. Always before my eyes is the image of that stranger who, to-day, was nearest to the Emperor. Cast out these flames from your chaste breast, if you can, poor wretch. But if I could, I’d not be sick, and sick I am. Some power that is new to me drives me on against my will; my wishes urge me one way, my thoughts another, and knowing what is best, I pursue the worst. Oh, great and noble daughter of this city, what have you to do with a foreigner? Why burn for a stranger, and contemplate marriage into an alien world? Though you are tired of your husband, surely this land can produce one you could love. But, woe is me, what a face he has! Who would not be moved by his beauty, his youth, his rank, and nobleness: Truly, he moved my heart, and unless he helps me, I shall die. God grant a kinder fate!

‘But shame! shall I betray my wedded purity, give myself to a chance-comer—I know not whom—who, when he’s abused me, will go away, marry someone else, and leave me to my sorrow? But his face is not like that; his spirit seemed too noble, his beauty too charming for me to fear betrayal or short memory of our love; and if first he’ll pledge himself to me, I am safe and need not fear. So I’ll make ready, and hesitate no longer. For I am fair enough for him to want me just as much as I do him. He’ll be for ever mine, when once he has received my kisses. Many are the suitors that surround me wherever I go, many the rivals that throng my doors. I’ll make work for love; and either he’ll stay here or take me with him, when he goes.

‘Shall I then forsake my mother, my husband, and my native land? But my mother is hard with me, always against my pleasures. For my husband, I’d rather his room than his company, and one’s country is there where one’s life is happy. But my good name? What is the talk of men to me, when I’ll not hear it? She dares nothing, who thinks too much of reputation, and many have done this before me. Helen wanted to be raped; not against her will did Paris carry her off. And then there’s Ariadne, and Medea. None can prove her wrong, who errs with so many.’

Thus Lucretia pondered; and Euryalus cherished no less passion in his breast.