When the coronavirus pandemic started to spread, I recalled the opening of the Decameron by Boccaccio, written in the 14th century in Florence. The writer survived the plague known as the black death. In his book, ten characters hide away in self-isolation from the virus, and pass the time telling stories to each other.
I have edited the introduction to the book below. It is a little dark. I will edit one of the lighter stories next week.
Remember that we survived much worse viruses than the one we are facing now. Boccaccio recommends enjoying life and stories even when times are very hard. I hope you can all do so too. Take care!
Edited extract from “The Decameron”, by Boccaccio
When I remind myself, dear ladies, of what delicate creatures you are, it worries me that this present work of mine should have such a gruesome beginning. The fact is, it is rather like a steep and rugged mountain with a beautiful plain at the top – tough to climb, but worth it when you get there.
If I could have spared you the pain, I would. But if I don’t describe the terrible events which produce them, I won’t be able to tell you how these stories came to be told at all.
In the Year of Our Lord, 1348, the city of Florence was struck by the plague from the East, known as the black death. The symptoms began to appear in the spring. Lumps and hard swellings under the arm and groin, some as big as an egg, and then the black spots on the arms and legs – a sure sign of certain death. And it spread, not only from person to person, but on clothes and belongings. With my own eyes, I saw two pigs who found a poor, destitute fellow dead on the street. They rooted among his rags as pigs do, chewing them and tossing them about with their snouts. Almost at once they grunted, twisted about, and fell dead.
Great palaces and houses, once full of their lords and servants, were left deserted. Young men and girls, glorious in their youth and beauty, took breakfast with their friends and kinsfolk in the morning, and in the same evening dined with their ancestors in the underworld.
I could tell you many more such horrors. But it would depress me, who saw them, and sicken you.
So let me report instead that, while the city was in this depopulated state, on a Tuesday morning after church service, the church was almost completely empty except for seven young women, all dressed in mourning. They all knew each other, were of good families, and educated and courteous. The eldest was not yet 28, and the youngest not younger than 18. I could tell you their names. But it would be better not to. I have no wish to give material to scandalmongers, who are always ready to slander decent people, and who would delight in slurring the honour of these noble ladies.
*
The ten young people gather together for ten days and each tell ten stories. Many of them are funny. Many criticise the church. Many laugh at women cheating on their husbands. They all seem to celebrate the idea of living life and enjoying it while you can.
I’ll include one of the stories from the second day next week.
Vocabulary:
self-isolation – keeping yourself away from other people
gruesome - horrifying
rugged – of a path or place to walk, tough and difficult to walk along
a lump – a place on the body which has swollen and become hard, due to illness or injury
destitute – very poor and completely without money
to root (about) – to search roughly, like an animal searching in the ground for food
a snout – a flat nose of an animal, such as a pig
kinsfolk – distant relatives
to dine – to eat dinner
to be depopulated – to have fewer than normal people living there
to be in mourning – to be wearing black clothes etc. to show grief for someone’s death
a scandalmonger – someone who spreads black gossip, or rumours of scandal
to slander someone – to spread false gossip about someone
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