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T H E N E W M I D D L E A G E S

BOCCACCIO
the PHILOSOPHER

An EPISTEMOLOGY of
the DECAMERON

Filippo Andrei
 The New Middle Ages

Series Editor
Bonnie Wheeler
English & Medieval Studies
Southern Methodist University
Dallas, TX, USA
The New Middle Ages is a series dedicated to pluridisciplinary studies
of medieval cultures, with particular emphasis on recuperating women’s
history and on feminist and gender analyses. This peer-reviewed series
includes both scholarly monographs and essay collections.

More information about this series at

http://www.springer.com/series/14239
 Filippo Andrei

Boccaccio the
Philosopher
An Epistemology of the Decameron
Filippo Andrei
International Program in Florence
California State University
Florence, Italy

The New Middle Ages

ISBN 978-3-319-65114-9 ISBN 978-3-319-65115-6 (eBook)
DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-65115-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951538

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2017

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights
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 To my parents,
for their love and support
 Acknowledgements

I wish to thank the following people for their help, encouragement,

instruction, and advice: my parents, to whom this work is dedicated
and without whom much in my life would not have been possible; and
my wife, my best reader and critic, who read the entire manuscript and
offered considered advice. I would also like to make a special acknowl-
edgment to several people whose thoughts contributed to the develop-
ment of this work. I am particularly indebted to Albert R. Ascoli, Steven
Botterill, Ignacio E. Navarrete, Joseph Duggan, and Frank Bezner who
have allowed me to seek their advice and criticism. I also received most
valuable help from various scholars and friends, to all of whom I wish
to express my deep appreciation: Michael Papio, Paul Colilli, Giuseppe
Mazzotta, Brenda Deen Schildgen, Karen Williams, Jennifer Mackenzie,
Avy Valladares, and Stephanie Tarnowski, who read and commented on
my drafts from different perspectives.
I am grateful to the University of California, Berkeley, which,
besides being a rich environment for scholarship over these years, sup-
ported my research with the Dean’s Normative Time Fellowship and
the Chancellor’s Dissertation Year Fellowship, and to the Romance
Languages and Literatures Group, which supported the preparation of
this work with a number of grants for travel and research, grants that
helped me spend some time in Italy to consult the archives. Sections of
this work have been presented in earlier versions at several conferences in
the United States, from which I had relevant feedback. Research related
to Chap. 4 was presented at the First Triennial International Boccaccio

vii
viii Acknowledgements

Conference, University of Massachusetts, Amherst, in 2010, and has

been published with title “The Variants of the Honestum: Practical
Philosophy in the Decameron,” in Elsa Filosa and Michael Papio,
eds., Boccaccio in America: 2010 International Boccaccio Conference.
University of Massachusetts Amherst. American Boccaccio Association,
UMass Amherst, April 30—May 1 (Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2012).
An article based on Chap. 3 appeared in Heliotropia 10.1–2 (2013):
1–29 as well as in Michael Papio, ed., Heliotropia 700/10: A Boccaccio
Anniversary Volume (Milano: LED, 2013), with the title “The Motto
and the Enigma: Rhetoric and Knowledge in the Sixth Day of the
Decameron.”
Of the libraries I consulted, I am especially grateful to the Doe
Library, where much of this work was written, and to the Interlibrary
Loan Service, which did an amazing job in providing me with books and
manuscripts otherwise unavailable in Berkeley. I also feel indebted to the
staff of the Biblioteca Nazionale of Florence for most valuable assistance.
Finally, I would like to thank the Free Speech Movement Café, which
allowed me to work at my own pace with many relaxing, yet fruitful,
pauses. As a famous saying recites, attributed to Bertrand Russell among
others: “the time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
 Contents

1 The Language of Knowledge in the Decameron 1

Boccaccio as Philosopher 4
Knowledge and Interpretation in the Decameron 8
Some Aspects of the Epistemological Inquiry 14

2 Deified Men and Humanized Gods: The Epistemic

Character of the Fabula 37
Poetry, Secrecy and the Psychology of Language 47
The Humanized Gods: The “Womb of God”
and the Tree of Wisdom 53
Deified Men: The Power of the Mind
and the Function of the Poet 62

3 Boccaccio’s Mountain and the Voyage of the Soul 93

“Con gli occhi riguardando e con la mente” 104
Decameron Second Day 108
The Voyage and Dante’s Mountain 133

4 The Motto and the Enigma: Rhetoric

and Knowledge in the Sixth Day 147
Rhetoric and Dialectics of Oppositions 148
The Motto and the Enigma 150

ix
x Contents

5 Practical Philosophy and Theory of Action

in the Decameron 183
The “Honestum” as a Category of Behavior
in the First Day 184
Practical Reason and Natural Law:
Ethics as Practical Philosophy 194

Conclusion 217

Works Cited 221

Index 251
 Abbreviations

CCSL Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina

DELI  Dizionario etimologico della lingua italiana, ed. M. Cortelazzo and
P. Zolli
ED Enciclopedia Dantesca, ed. U. Bosco
fol. fols folio, folios
GSLI Giornale Storico della Letteratura Italiana
MLN Modern Language Notes
ms., mss. manuscript, manuscripts
OVI Opera del Vocabolario Italiano, online resource
PL Patrologiae cursus completus, ed. J. P. Migne
PMLA Publications of the Modern Language Association
ST Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae

xi
 CHAPTER 1

The Language of Knowledge

in the Decameron

In the Decameron, as in other minor works of Boccaccio, the protago-

nists of the stories undergo epistemological experiences that may reflect
those of their author. In the Filocolo, for instance, Idalogo narrates that
he followed the teaching of his master Calmeta with the intent to build
his astronomical knowledge and eventually became an expert in his field.
Calmeta’s teaching, however, did not exhaust his pupil’s scientific thirst,
as Idalogo says after his master has concluded a lesson:

Queste cose ascoltai io con somma diligenza, e tanto dilettarono la rozza

mente, ch’io mi diedi a voler conoscere quelle, e non come arabo, ma seg-
uendo con istudio il dimostrante: per la qual cosa di divenire esperto
meritai. E già abandonata la pastorale via, del tutto a seguitar Pallade mi
disposi, le cui sottili vie ad imaginare, questo bosco mi prestò agevoli
introducimenti, per la sua solitudine. (Filocolo, 5.8.27)

(I heard diligently such things, and they so delighted my rough mind that
I dedicated myself to knowing them not like an Arab, but following care-
fully the teacher so well that I became, deservedly, an expert. Thus, aban-
doned the pastoral way, I started to follow Pallas, whose subtle teachings
were presented to my imagination by the solitudes of these woods.)

As the historical figure of Andalò del Negro can be hidden, through

an enigmatic language, in the character of Calmeta, the author himself,
Boccaccio, who was really Andalò’s pupil in Naples and benefitted from

© The Author(s) 2017 1

F. Andrei, Boccaccio the Philosopher, The New Middle Ages,
DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-65115-6_1
2 F. Andrei

his teaching, can be seen in Idalogo. According to Idalogo’s words,

astronomical knowledge can be transmitted via the reading of eru-
dite treatises or through devote listening to a master’s teaching, while
the process of learning, which is also a path toward change, from igno-
rance to knowledge, from pastoral life to the cultivation of knowledge
and wisdom (“a seguitar Pallade mi disposi”), is made of individual
determination, exercise of the mind, and pursuit of personal fulfilment.
In Boccaccio’s fervid literary imagination, his own epistemological long-
ings can intermingle with those of his characters and create fascinating
figures such as the story-within-a-story of Idalogo. As with Idalogo, the
lover-protagonist of the larger romance, Florio, goes through a pro-
cess of educational initiation moving from his fallacious “imagining” to
the acquisition of “real knowledge” after several obstacles and a long
journey.1
By exploring the potential of such allusive language in what is
unanimously considered the masterpiece of Italian literary prose, this
book aims, broadly, to evaluate the philosophical implications of the
Decameron in connection with Boccaccio’s minor works and the prior
literary tradition. Although Boccaccio is generally considered neither
a philosopher nor a poet with manifest epistemological concerns, this
book also aims to ascertain his attitude towards philosophy. Specifically,
instead, the philosophical aspects that concern knowledge will be
adopted as the privileged lens of interpretation and as a helpful means
to explore these aspects. Being a branch of philosophy, epistemology is
notoriously the theory of knowledge and will thus constitute the peculiar
theoretical framework for this book.2 Knowledge can be intended both
as a philosophical experience (the capacity to understand, the goal of
human comprehension, the basis for defining justification and belief) and
as a poetical structure (the language of literature). Furthermore, it can
be considered the product of an “activity”: the activity of the mind as is
reflected in the act of reading the text. Accordingly, I intend to analyze
how knowledge is produced, how it is concealed through peculiar figu-
rative mechanisms of the language, and what the means of this produc-
tion (and concealment of meaning) consist of. Therefore, attention will
be given to those works which deal mostly with allegorical aspects of life
and poetry (Comedia delle ninfe fiorentine, Amorosa visione, Genealogie
deorum gentilium) in order both to understand the philosophical ideas
that eventually emerge in the Decameron and to evaluate how a theoreti-
cal reflection on the nature of rhetoric and poetic imagination can ulti-
mately elicit a theory of knowledge.3
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 3

Boccaccio is not a philosopher; or, at least, is not a philosopher at

first glance. One hardly finds his name in manuals of philosophy, and
both American and Italian scholarship, starting with De Sanctis, have
always been skeptical in identifying Boccaccio as a philosopher—at
least, as much as Dante and Petrarch.4 Ultimately, I will not attempt
to demonstrate that Boccaccio is a philosopher in the traditional sense.
Rather, what I will do is evaluate the status of philosophy in Boccaccio’s
Decameron as well as its capacity to raise epistemological questions
through the imaginative power of its language. Without seeking to pro-
vide an exhaustive analysis, this book will try to explain the undercur-
rent philosophical discourse that emerges from the tales and that can also
be compared to Boccaccio’s speculation on the art of making literature
(prose and poetry). This is certainly a hard task; especially when a reader
(specialized or not) expects to interpret Boccaccio from the perspective
of the traditional representation of a philosopher. However, an attempt
to better understand the mechanisms of Boccaccio’s language in all its
manifold connotations, allusiveness, metaphors and word puns, is a task
whose undertaking is worthwhile, not only with the aim of providing a
further and possible reading of the Decameron, but also with the hope
of reconsidering Boccaccio’s masterpiece within the context of Italian lit-
erature, a context that embraces, not incidentally, the philosophical and
epistemological traditions.
Philosophy is undoubtedly a vast subject matter, and so is epistemol-
ogy. What I mean with philosophy, and how I intend to use it in inter-
preting the Decameron is not far from how it is understood nowadays.
With “philosophy,” I principally consider its product, namely, the knowl-
edge and wisdom that come out of any sort of speculation. Accordingly,
in the case of Boccaccio, I intend to study the knowledge that comes
out of the language of the Decameron through an almost unknown
and undefined mechanism of the mind; essentially, the author’s mind.
Modern epistemology is certainly helpful in studying the language of lit-
erature, in identifying some of the subjects of the literary analysis, and in
defining its key concepts.5 Yet modern epistemology is not enough, and
sometimes can be deceiving, to explain the manifold implications, ter-
minologies, and historical developments that a work like the Decameron
can convey in its own historical and literary context. Boccaccio showed
no clear intention of emphasizing that what he was doing was philoso-
phy in the sense we now understand it. Indeed, his primary intent, as
a writer and poet, was to compete with philosophers and theologians,
as is shown, to mention just one case, by his defence of poetry in the
4 F. Andrei

Genealogies. In a certain sense, Boccaccio’s whole career appears to be

concerned with providing knowledge, with learning and, specifically,
with providing assistance in reading. Examples of this attitude can be the
learned fiction of the Filocolo, the self-commentary of the Teseida, the
didactic De casibus, De mulieribus claris, De montibus, Genealogie, the
exposition of Dante’s Commedia, not to mention his translation works.6
Thus, even without calling himself philosopher, Boccaccio was certainly
aware that his literary creations produced knowledge—in the same way
philosophy does without using the powerful means of language and rhet-
oric. Likewise, Dante and Petrarch never called themselves philosophers
but only poets, yet they dealt with philosophical problems in their works,
as critics have often emphasized in tracing the lines of their thought and
poetical production. Since this book deals mostly with both the philo-
sophical aspects of the Decameron and its philosophical sources, and
copes with the theoretical awareness that separating literature from phi-
losophy is not always possible, or, at least, it was not within Boccaccio’s
intentions, I opted for “Boccaccio the Philosopher” as the first part of
the title. This may simply have the advantage of both emphasizing the
philosophical content of the Decameron and, at the same time, adding
more information about one of the most important authors of the Italian
literary tradition as an eclectic figure. In other words, Boccaccio could
best be seen, not just as a moralist, mythologist, or poet, but also as a
philosopher.7 The first part of this Introduction will therefore consider
Boccaccio’s formation as philosopher and describe his attitude towards
philosophy by emphasizing peculiar moments of his literary career and
biography. By framing Boccaccio’s work within the exemplum tradition
and wisdom literature, the second and third parts will then describe
Boccaccio’s language of knowledge and particularly illustrate the ele-
ments of novelty as well as the lines of an epistemological interpretation
of the Decameron.

Boccaccio as Philosopher
In drawing Boccaccio’s profile as a philosopher, it is necessary to deal
with his biography. His philosophical formation was shaped by a vari-
ety of life experiences and travels.8 However, it is not simply the phil-
osophical readings, or the famous learned people he was acquainted
with, that influenced him and contributed to giving a unique value to
his literary profile, but it is paradoxically the way he was able to make
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 5

himself independent from those experiences that created an original phil-

osophical attitude which inevitably emerges in his works. Several events
in Boccaccio’s life and the influence of different literary figures, such
as Petrarch and Dante, marked his progressive career as a philosopher.
The study of Dante’s work certainly introduced him to many aspects of
the philosophical scope, from metaphysics to ethics. Boccaccio himself
wrote to Petrarch that Dante was his “primus studiorum dux et prima
fax” in his first literary steps in Florence.9 Yet, the most fruitful period
of Boccaccio’s philosophical training, and the time of his first episte-
mological “discoveries,” was probably during his stay in Naples where
he moved with his family around 1327 and where he composed the
Elegia di Costanza, the Allegoria mitologica, the Caccia di Diana, the
Teseida, the Filostrato and, probably the most autobiographical of all,
the Filocolo.10 In Naples, besides working as an apprentice in his fam-
ily trading business, Boccaccio started to attend the noble circles of the
Angevin court and befriended very important figures of the Regno. In
this milieu, Boccaccio developed both his profound cultural engagement,
as shown in the many autobiographical sections of the Genealogies, and
his passion for poetry as an epistemological means; later, he conceived of
poetry even as a “sacred philosophy” (sacra filosofia), as it is subsequently
praised in the Corbaccio.11
When Boccaccio temporarily moved to Paris, in 1332, he intensi-
fied his humanistic studies, presumably by first getting in touch with
the cultural and academic scene of the University of Paris.12 Back in
Naples, Boccaccio attended Cino da Pistoia’s lessons. Cino influenced
Boccaccio remarkably, as is shown by his rime, and possibly introduced
him to a deeper knowledge of Dante, Cavalcanti, and Guittone.13 Most
importantly, Boccaccio frequented the Studium of the Biblioteca Reale,
the very source of his encyclopaedic culture, where he met Paolo da
Perugia, librarian and erudite scholar, and the monk Barlaam, who prob-
ably introduced him to Greek texts and Byzantine literature for the first
time. At the Studium, Boccaccio also became familiar with scientific,
astrological, medical, and physical studies which extended his philo-
sophical knowledge.14 Among the most famous scholars that frequented
the Biblioteca, it is worth mentioning Paolo dell’Abaco, Andalò del
Negro, Graziolo de’ Bambaglioli (Dante’s commentator), and Paolino
Minorita.15 Last but not least, the Augustinian monk Dionigi da Borgo
San Sepolcro, who taught theology in Paris and was an expert in clas-
sics, rhetoric, and philosophy, introduced Boccaccio to an extensive
6 F. Andrei

study of Seneca, Augustine, and Petrarch.16 Indeed, the acquaintance

with Dionigi was paramount in Boccaccio’s literary career in so far as it
marked an evolution toward the representation, in literature, of the pow-
erful link between poetry and philosophy.17 According to Michelangelo
Picone, who commented Boccaccio’s letter Mavortis milex extrenue
(1339), the encounter with Dionigi marked the passage from the emula-
tion of Dante to a reconsideration of poetry and philosophy as embod-
ied in the figure of Petrarch and reflected in allegorical poetry.18 Finally,
when Boccaccio later moved to Florence, although he was always nos-
talgic about his beautiful and carefree time in Naples, he quickly became
acquainted with the cultural context of the city, and deepened his knowl-
edge of Dante’s works, and possibly of the didactical and allegorical lit-
erature that was current in Florence at the time as witnessed by the texts
transcribed in his Zibaldone Laurenziano.19
To properly reassess Boccaccio’s biography sub specie philosophiae,
it is paramount to consider the manuscript tradition of his works
and readings, namely the material objects that convey the author’s
thought. According to what we know about manuscripts and books
that Boccaccio read and/or possessed, the number of his philosophical
readings is impressive.20 Furthermore, the study of Boccaccio’s auto-
graphs and library catalogues turns out to be illuminating in assessing
the author’s medieval and early modern readings as well as in shap-
ing the profile of his exceptional philosophical mind-set. First of all,
three manuscripts written by the author and held in the Florentine
Laurenziana Library attest to the author’s interests in philosophy and his
study of medieval poetical-philosophical texts. The so-called Zibaldone
Laurenziano (ms. XXIX 8, famous for the documents collected by
Boccaccio on Dante’s biography) contains materials on Petrarch and the
Liber de dictis philosophorum antiquorum.21 The Biblioteca Laurenziana,
ms. XXXIII 31, contains, among other works, the De mundi universi-
tate (Microcosmus et Megacosmus) by Bernard Silvestris.22 We should
also mention a manuscript held in Florence in the Biblioteca Nazionale,
the so-called Zibaldone Magliabechiano (Biblioteca Nazionale B.R. 50),
a folio-sized manuscript written by Boccaccio, where he also copied a
speech on poetry delivered by Zanobi da Strada in 1355, and reported a
collection of quotations from Seneca as well as ethical-philosophical sen-
tences on poverty and love.23
Judging from the books that belonged to Boccaccio’s library and
from those that we know he read and transcribed, Boccaccio had an
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 7

extraordinary philosophical culture in addition to literary interests.

According to the information contained in the inventory commented by
Antonia Mazza, Boccaccio owned numerous works of philosophical and,
particularly, ethical interest, including authors such as Aristotle (Politics,
De animalibus in the translation by Michael Scot), Algazel (Metaphysics),
Plato (Timaeus in the translation by Calcidius), Seneca (Epistulae morales
ad Lucilium, Naturales quaestiones), Horace (Ars poetica), Cicero
(De officiis, De senectute, De finibus and De inventione), Macrobius
(Commentariorum in Somnium Scipionis), Augustine (De civitate Dei,
Enarrationes in Psalmos), Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite (De eccle-
siastica hierarchia in the translation by Johannes Scotus Eriugena),
Boethius (De consolatione philosophiae), the Liber de causis (in the transla-
tion by Gerardo da Cremona), the Liber de dictis philosophorum, Alain de
Lille (De planctu naturae and Anticlaudianus), Iohannes Folsham (De
naturis rerum), Hermes Trismegistus (Corpus Hermeticum), and William
of Auxerre (Summa Theologica).24 In particular, Boccaccio read Aristotle
and, during the years of the composition of the Decameron, even copied
the commentary to the Nicomachean Ethics written by Thomas Aquinas.
The manuscript of the Nicomachean Ethics studied by Boccaccio is now
held in the Biblioteca Ambrosiana in Milan.25
Overall, we can certainly reconstruct Boccaccio’s historical and phil-
ological relationship with philosophy by studying his readings and
looking at his biographical data; yet the image of Boccaccio as phi-
losopher that comes out of this operation does not entirely coincide
with any of the traditional doctrines that Boccaccio could have pos-
sibly assimilated, and does not provide us with an unified vision of his
thought. Apparently, Boccaccio’s intent was not that of creating a new
and completely different philosophical system, and this could explain
why elements of Aristotelianism and Thomism are combined with
Neo-Platonism, Averroism, and Epicureanism all over his production
and among the eclectic interests of his readings.26 The meaning of the
Decameron should then be found independently from a supposed uni-
fying idea of Boccaccio’s philosophical discourse. While modern philos-
ophy always looks like one effort after another to be on the one hand
original or different, and on the other, to provide the reader with a uni-
fied system—and so did, and probably should actually do, literary crit-
ics in finding common patterns and coherent ideas that can explain an
author’s mind—in my opinion Boccaccio’s thought cannot be entirely
circumscribed within the canons of a well-defined doctrine. If I were
8 F. Andrei

to find a unifying philosophical vision of the Decameron, I would then

emphasize the creation of knowledge in all its possible manifestations as
an open process; namely, a creative process, as we shall see, that involves
its audience and becomes explicit both from studying Boccaccio’s poetics
and from the language of the tales. As the multiplicity of the storytellers’
reactions to the tales shows, the reading of the tales, indeed, is intended
by the author as a way to exercise the capacity of interpreting the text
in order to provide a philosophical or moral knowledge. Although the
effort to define a unifying epistemology has its own risks—especially
because Boccaccio never explicitly elaborated a theory of knowledge—
I intend to search for a coherent philosophical vision reflected in the
Decameron and at the same time to analyze Boccaccio’s discourse. I
believe that it is precisely Boccaccio’s language that is able to both create
knowledge and facilitate the interpretation of the text.

Knowledge and Interpretation in the Decameron

Knowledge and wisdom are the typical subjects of wisdom litera-
ture and the medieval exemplum tradition, so that it is striking that
the Decameron, as a collection of short narratives and, consequently, a
natural evolution and ennobled product of these traditions, has never
been studied in connection with these texts. Just to mention some of
the most famous instances of this firm relationship between wisdom and
medieval short narratives, we have to recall Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina
clericalis, a collection of thirty-three tales which alternate with state-
ments of wisdom whose purpose is to provide the learned man with
knowledge of the world and practical advice.27 As God offered knowl-
edge to Petrus, now Petrus with his work provides his readers with
wisdom (“Quia igitur me licet peccatorem Deus multimoda vestire
dignatus est sapientia, ne lucerna mihi credita sub modio tecta lateat,
eodem spiritu instigante ad multorum utilitatem hunc librum compo-
nere admonitussum” [Disciplina 1] [And, because God has deigned to
endow me, although a sinner, with wide learning, and so that the light
entrusted to me may not remain hidden under a bushel, inspired by the
same spirit, I have been impelled to compose this book for the benefit of
many] [Trans. J.R. Jones and J.E. Keller]). He also urges the reader to
practice the sacred philosophy in order to live a better life (“humanum
quidem ingenium inveni ex praecepto conditoris ad hoc esse deputatum,
ut quamdiu est insaeculo in sanctae studeat exercitatione philosophiae,
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 9

qua de creatore suo meliorem et maiorem habeat notitiam” [Disciplina

3] [I discovered that the human wit was intended, by order of its crea-
tor, to occupy itself, while it is in the world, in the study of holy phi-
losophy, by means of which it acquires better and greater knowledge of
its creator]). Another famous instance, taken from the vulgar tradition
and closer to the Decameron, is the anonymous Novellino whose pro-
logue once again emphasizes the importance of wisdom for the reader,
eager to learn about the world through the narration of the deeds of
noble and learned men: “E chi avrà cuore nobile e intelligenzia sottile
si li potrà simigliare per lo tempo che verrà per innanzi, e argomentare e
dire e raccontare in quelle parti dove avranno luogo, a prode e a piacere
di coloro che non sanno e disiderano di sapere” (And may he who has
a noble heart and subtle intellect attempt to imitate these in times to
come, and to discuss, tell and relate these stories wherever he may find
himself, for the profit and pleasure of those who do not know but desire
such knowledge [Novellino I.5; trans. J.P. Consoli]). Paraphrasing a
well-known Aristotelian sentence, “All men by nature desire to know”
(Metaphysics I.1), later elaborated in Dante’s Convivio, according to the
Novellino, wisdom is acquired as well as transmitted through the ver-
bal media, in particular through both the usage of excellent oratory
(“bel parlare”) and the usage of dialectics (“argomentare”). The word
“parola” and its derivatives are not by accident the most used words in
the Novellino’s prologue.28
Like in the exemplum tradition, by and large, the narration of a tale
in the Decameron has the function of stimulating the understanding of
a certain truth through a good usage of the word. All this is realized by
enhancing the epistemological functions of the traditional short stories
into the new novella. Through the interpretation of a short tale narrated
by a character, another character of the story understands the entire
thing at stake, be it the outcome of a trick, a moral teaching, or a certain
philosophical idea. Therefore, narration (and the good usage of rheto-
ric, even through the mechanism of the mise en abîme) shows a specific
cognitive function that provides wisdom. This function is emphasized
many times by Boccaccio through the very attitude of the characters to
come to a full comprehension even after a significant story or a witty
answer. Examples might be many; but consider, for instance, the story
of Melchisedech, a Jew who escapes from a trap set for him by Saladin
by narrating the tale of the three rings (I, 3); or, in the First Day, the
story about Primasso and the Abbot of Cluny addressed to Can Grande
10 F. Andrei

in which Bergamino rebukes an unusual fit of avarice (I, 7). Narration,

in general, has also a salvific function as is shown in the various stories of
recognition in which a character is saved through the aid of a good story
or a convincing speech.
It is precisely in the exemplum tradition that Boccaccio finds this pecu-
liar power of storytelling to stimulate cognitive capacities in the reader,
even though he eventually reinterprets it with original, sophisticated
traits in his novelle. As the exemplum was typically considered both a pas-
sive means to convey popular or pedagogical wisdom, and an active liter-
ary tool to instruct and communicate philosophical knowledge through
easy, mediated understanding, and through the power of entertainment,
the totally renewed concept of the novella in the Decameron is able to
bring this natural process of expansion to a nobler and more meditated
literary form.29 By exploring the possibilities offered by the tradition
of short narratives and reflecting on the many aspects of the epistemo-
logical power inherent to the exemplum, Boccaccio reshapes the novella
through an extraordinary knowledge of the philosophical tradition. From
a tool of persuasion—such was the exemplum—in the hands of rhetori-
cians and preachers,30 the Decameron’s novella becomes a laboratory
of auto-disciplined and original understanding of the world; but more
specifically, a tool in the hands of the readers to develop their own cog-
nitive experiences. Ultimately, Boccaccio creates a complex organism of
tales regulated by a significant exterior, macrotextual structure—the cor-
nice—which defines the overall interpretation of the Decameron as well
as regulates the understanding of the internal, microtextual, and peculiar
relations among the tales.
Besides the broad epistemological implications of the genre of the
novella, the idea of considering Boccaccio’s theory of knowledge was
originally sparked by the challenge of providing my own interpretation
of the Sixth Day of the Decameron, a Day in which a particular emphasis
on knowledge and intelligence seems to be encapsulated in the various
motti, the witty answers that dimly recall the statements of wisdom lit-
erature. As it will be clear from Chap. 4, in the Sixth Day, the general
interest for the philosophical aspects of the Decameron are coupled with
the fascinating mechanism of the language that emerges when attempt-
ing to explain the mysterious and peculiar features of the motto. The lit-
eral interpretation of some of the witty remarks, the motti, with which
the characters escape from difficult situations does not appear satisfac-
tory enough to explain their rhetorical usage and to understand the
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 11

tales in which they were used. When Madonna Oretta is offered a ride
by a knight who also attempts to tell a story yet tells it poorly, Oretta’s
remark begging the knight to put her down (“Messere, questo vostro
cavallo ha troppo duro trotto; per che io vi priego che vi piaccia di pormi
a piè” [VI.1.11] [Sir, this horse of yours has too rough a trot, so I beg
you, please, to set me down]) evokes meanings that go beyond the literal
sense of the story to involve meta-literary reflections on the art of nar-
ration but also the philosophical tradition.31 Furthermore, when Guido
Cavalcanti rebukes with a witty remark a Florentine brigata who comes
upon him by surprise (“Signori, voi mi potete dire a casa vostra ciò che vi
piace” [Gentlemen, in your own house you may say to me whatever you
wish]), the presence of the characters among the tombs in front of the
Florentine Baptistery, and the fact that Cavalcanti is also a philosopher,
implicitly invite to ponder over the significance of the story beyond the
pure entertainment of the anecdote. The enigmatic aspect of these motti,
along with the peculiar and powerful usage of the language involved,
tells us that something else is at stake and stimulates us to explore both
their nature as signs (bearers of hidden meanings) and their philosophi-
cal implications. To this purpose, moreover, the intellectual features of
the motto should be analyzed in connection with one of the main pow-
ers operating in the Decameron: ingegno, ingenuity, the human power
that illustrates the activity of the mind. Ingegno is one of the most rel-
evant and recognizable of these powers.32 Indirectly represented by the
people who are affected by its sway, it organizes and operates in the
Decameron.33 Without denying the importance of the potent forces of
Love and Fortune, this book also aims to explore an aspect specifically
connected to the so-called Ingegno; more precisely, one of its products:
human knowledge.
Besides being inspired by the language of poetry and its strict con-
nection with philosophy typical in the Italian tradition, Boccaccio’s
speculation on poetics contained in his Genealogie deorum gentilium is
paramount for the understanding of how knowledge is produced by the
text. A symbolic representation of the birth of knowledge is given by the
myth of Minerva, the goddess generated from the head of Jove,34 as it is
wonderfully narrated in the Genealogies. This myth clearly epitomizes the
author’s thought and can be used, especially, to explain the inventions
and manifold literary representations of the Decameron. Boccaccio’s text
has always the power to generate from itself “something” else, like in the
myth of Minerva; the narratives of the Decameron alike are able to create
12 F. Andrei

further meanings in addition to the literal by simply stimulating the

reader’s imagination. In this respect, and to further illustrate this aspect,
it is interesting to see how Boccaccio interprets Minerva’s myth in the
Genealogies. Minerva represents wisdom, as she is born from Jove’s head
(Genealogies II.3.5); she is also represented as a virgin, because wisdom/
knowledge is never contaminated by earthly things, but is always pure,
bright, and perfect (Genealogies II.3.6). Most importantly, Minerva is
covered with three veils, meaning that the words of wise men—especially
the poets—who transmit Minerva’s knowledge, can convey several dif-
ferent meanings through poetry (II.3.7). Thus, the nature of the myth
itself is polysemous (Genealogies I.3), as Boccaccio emphasizes it with
regard to the meanings which he explains throughout the Genealogies.35
Knowledge is not only linked to the cognitive mechanisms of the wise
men/poets, but it is also something that must be interpreted as well as
something that can have various interpretations.
In addition to the representations of knowledge mediated by the
theory of poetry in the Genealogies, the philosophical aspects of the
Decameron are evident from its very beginning, the Proemio, where the
author, posing as an alter Boethius, illustrates the consolatory nature of
his work and explains how narrative can be considered a philosophical
means that provides relief.36 But the knowledge produced by the reading
of the tales transpires primarily in Boccaccio’s very intention to commu-
nicate his vision of the world, and what he has learnt (his knowledge), to
everybody:

… le già dette donne, che queste leggeranno, parimente diletto delle sol-
lazzevoli cose in quelle mostrate e utile consiglio potranno pigliare, in
quanto potranno cognoscere quello che sia da fuggire e che sia similmente
da seguitare: le quali cose senza passamento di noia non credo che possano
intervenire. (Proemio.14)

(… the said ladies, who shall read them [i.e., the stories], may derive both
pleasure from the entertaining matters set forth therein, and also good
counsel, in that they may learn what to shun, and likewise what to pursue.
Which cannot, I believe, come to pass, unless the dumps be banished by
diversion of mind.)

First of all, as Kurt Flasch noted, “cognoscere quello che sia da fuggire
e che sia similmente da seguitare” is clearly a formulaic statement that
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 13

alludes to the medieval moral tradition.37 More generally, as Boccaccio

had recently undergone a painful and difficult experience due to love,
but he had fortunately recovered from it, he now appears ready to share
his wisdom (“utile consiglio”; “potranno cognoscere”) with other lov-
ers in need of help. Particularly, the message that the Decameron tries to
convey is meant to edify female readers (the lettrici) and to have them
acquire a better worldview, to have them understand the dangers of life
in order to overcome that “vizio di fortuna” that makes them unable
to enjoy existence as much as men do. Certainly having in mind a wide
audience, including both female and male subjects, the peculiar relation-
ship established by the author with the readers at the very beginning
of the Decameron (“in cambio di ciò che io ricevetti”) is indicative of a
“cognitive” attitude on the part of the author to expand the possibilities
of production of meaning.38 It is the reader himself that must be able to
produce more knowledge, a knowledge which is different than that con-
tained in the literal understanding of the text, knowledge which can have
practical implications (“parimenti diletto … e utile consiglio potranno
pigliare”).
It was common knowledge in the Middle Ages that texts could con-
tain various degrees of truth, namely, that an apparently simple narra-
tive could convey symbolic, metaphorical, or even ethical contents at
the same time. Besides imposing limits to the inter-subjectivity of inter-
pretation at the level of the encyclopedic tradition and the practice of
allegory, medieval thinking recognized a criterion of multi-interpreta-
bility whereby a text could be interpreted in different ways yet accord-
ing to well-defined rules, and not indefinitely. The process of building
on the tales, as Texts, or “open” texts, is enacted by the storytellers of
the Decameron who tell each other stories and, then, manifest and share
their different reactions and interpretations on various subjects: consider,
for instance, what the narrator says: “Qui fece fine la Lauretta alla sua
canzone, la quale notata da tutti, diversamente da diversi fu intesa” (III.
Concl.18) (So ended Lauretta her song, to which all hearkened atten-
tively, though not all interpreted it alike).39 This dialogic representation
of the process of narrating does not, however, prevent the reader from
extracting a unifying interpretation of the tales, of a single Day, or of a
specific subject. Interpretation, therefore, depends on the dialogic nature
of the Decameron in which different perspectives and interpretations are
intertwined.40 The mechanism of having the stories told by one story-
teller after another and the consequent phenomenon of the storytellers’
14 F. Andrei

reactions to the narration enact a cognitive process in which the informa-

tion provided by the narrator is submitted to the attention of the listen-
ers, and ends up feeding into the production of knowledge through the
dialogic confrontation. The Decameron’s epistemology is thus achieved
precisely in this process of sharing and interpreting the information.41
Besides the Decameron, this is also implicitly shown in the Genealogies
(XIV.ix.3–4) in which poetry is defined as the composition of tales, or
“fabulae,” a term coming from the Latin verb for, faris and meaning
“conversation.”

Some Aspects of the Epistemological Inquiry

According to modern epistemology, the object of cognition, which by
definition is an act, is knowledge. Knowledge can be also defined as the
abstract and exterior representation of the content of cognition, a con-
tent that could also be unnecessary. But there can also be another object
produced by cognition, which is not simply an exterior description of
the content still remaining in general terms and whose character is nec-
essary. That object is the truth. Knowledge, as unnecessary, and truth,
as necessary objects of cognition, can be easily taken as critical grids
to interpret the Decameron. If knowledge and truth are provided as a
result of reading the Decameron, rhetoric is the means through which
this knowledge and truth are transmitted. As a consequence, it is para-
mount to analyze the rhetorical devices of the Decameron and the many
ways in which Boccaccio establishes a meaningful connection between
rhetoric and knowledge.42 Rhetoric can be epistemic, and in this regard,
the characteristics and formal features of the motto in the Sixth Day of
the Decameron show how this metaphorical tool can be considered not
only as a structuring device of Boccaccio’s discourse, but also a “veil,” a
poetical strategy which is able to both conceal and reveal philosophical
knowledge. Boccaccio meditated at length on the relationship between
philosophical and literary discourse, and not only in the Genealogies. His
oeuvre engages with several aspects of this relationship as they come to
him from contemporary debates about literature. Particularly, the pos-
sibilities offered by epistemology in medieval thought, and the role of
allegory and mythology as poetical devices of a latent philosophical dis-
course, are critical means to understanding Boccaccio’s innovative theory
of the nexus between rhetoric and knowledge.
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 15

The act of knowing, or cognition, illustrates how human knowledge

can be achieved. Boccaccio uses a peculiar rhetorical device, a metaphor,
to describe the act of cognition in the Decameron and in his minor lit-
erary production: the “eye of the mind.” Many of the protagonists of
the Decameron understand the world around them, not simply by practi-
cal experience, but more specifically through imagination, through the
eye of the mind, that is through their intellects or intellectual vision.
The origins of this trope stem from the Neoplatonic intellection43 and
the Augustinian theory of the “illumination” of the mind44 which had
a great philosophical currency throughout the centuries, and especially
in the fourteenth century.45 Some of the tales of the Second, Sixth,
and Tenth Days in the Decameron are significantly representative of the
characters’ attitude to literalize the act of apprehension by means of the
metaphor of the “eye of the mind.” Besides the numerous opportuni-
ties Boccaccio had to experiment with this metaphor in his minor works
(Amorosa visione, Commedia delle ninfe fiorentine), the following exam-
ples from the Decameron can clearly illustrate this point:

[Cisti.] Il che quanto in poca cosa Cisti fornaio il dichiarasse, gli occhi
dello ’ntelletto rimettendo a messer Geri Spina … Il che rapportando il
famigliare a messer Geri, subito gli occhi gli s’apersero dello ’ntelletto.
(VI.2.7 and 26)

(Whereof how in a trifling matter Cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring
the eyes of the mind to Messer Geri Spina … Which being reported by the
servant to Messer Geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway opened.)

[Mitridanes.] Idio, più al mio dover sollicito che io stesso, a quel punto
che maggior bisogno è stato gli occhi m’ha aperto dello ’ntelletto, li quali
misera invidia m’avea serrati. (X.3.28)46

(But God, more regardful of my duty than I myself, has now, in this
moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes of my mind, that wretched
envy had fast sealed.)

By using the metaphor of the eye of the mind, what Boccaccio prob-
ably meant to emphasize is, first, the fact that truth, as the necessary
product of cognition, is not what it appears; second, it is not what
the actual and physical eyes can see. Truth hides behind reality, mate-
rial existence, and is produced by the mind through the mechanisms of
16 F. Andrei

language. Obviously, truth cannot do without sensitive cognition, but

eventually has to be produced by the mind according to the power of
intelligence. In fact, it is not difficult to find a relevant number of stories
in the collection in which the characters have to cope with other char-
acters’ deceitful intentions. In many instances, the reader wonders what
the truth is; then, he easily realizes that the truth that comes out of the
tale—any kind of truth, actually, be it practical, related to a challenge,
or one that deals with the fulfilment of a secret love—is always coun-
terfeited by someone who wants to trick, or by someone who wants to
deceive. Truth and deception are often the two sides of the same coin.
Yet, while the latter—deception—is often a negative one, the former—
truth—always produces a positive outcome in the story.
The Neoplatonic metaphor of intellection (the “eye of the mind”)
used by Boccaccio may also have been mediated by its recent reinter-
pretation in the doctrine of the direct intellectual cognition of material
singulars, which was officially adopted by Franciscan theologian-philos-
ophers starting from the 1280s.47 Strictly related, and of some import
for the Decameron, is the relationship between cognition of particu-
lars/individuals and the concept of science—i.e., demonstrative sci-
ence, which is capable of producing necessary knowledge. If the content
of science is only universal and necessary, the knowledge produced by
human beings in their acts of cognition of particulars is not. Under this
perspective, the Decameron could be reflective of the interests of medi-
eval philosophers in how we are able to define scientific premises but
also to acquire the knowledge of contingent facts about individuals and
their existence. The fourteenth century was particularly rich in contro-
versies about knowledge; but the problem of knowledge of particulars
(concrete entities), and hence of existents, in fact, emerged as one of the
main concerns of the major theories of intuition.48 Specifically, as for the
fundamental distinction between intuitive and abstract cognition, which
is the difference between knowing what is actual and knowing what is
merely possible or necessary, Boccaccio’s poetics seems to be more
interested in placing the emphasis on the experience of the real—as the
world of the Decameron clearly illustrates. If, though, an abstractive
cognition is possible, there exists an independent intuitive cognition as
well.49 The metaphor of the “eye of the mind” can certainly be related
to intuitive cognition. Abstract cognition involves no claims about exist-
ence: what is possible can be non-actual, and what is actual cannot be
impossible. Whereas intuitive cognition involves a judgment of existence
 1 THE LANGUAGE OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DECAMERON 17

with an admixture of what is possible. The Decameron’s fictional world

does not care for the actual; what it really concerns itself with, instead, is
the possible. The Decameron’s fictional world, in other terms, is a world
of possibilities.
Another important issue at stake in medieval and early modern episte-
mological debates as well as in the Decameron is the difference and strict
relation between the concepts of visio and imaginatio. The perception of
real things is differentiated from a form, or representation of them, that
can take place in their absence: the memory of experience.50 The literary
representation of the difference between vision and imagination is exem-
plarily illustrated in Boccaccio’s works. For a complete phenomenology
of vision, we should consider Boccaccio’s allegorical works, the Amorosa
visione and the Commedia delle ninfe fiorentine. As for the imagina-
tion, one should simply read that masterpiece of psychological discourse
which is the Elegia di madonna Fiammetta. In the Decameron, the pos-
sible different cases representing the dichotomy of vision and imagina-
tion multiply as well. Fiammetta’s psychological training in imagination
is exemplary reinterpreted in the speeches of various characters of the
Decameron, from Ghismonda’s monologues to the laments of Beritola
abandoned on an island. Even the representation of vision encompasses
an entire gamut of literary tones: from the serious infernal hallucinations
of the otherworld, such as those of Nastagio degli Onesti (V.8), to some
parodic visions in Ferondo’s tale where the Abbot makes him believe
that he is in Purgatory (III.8), or the tale of Talano d’Imola who dreams
that a wolf rips apart his wife’s throat and face (IX.7). Boccaccio offers
different stories in which individuals struggle to acquire a certain knowl-
edge and experience very different ways of reaching an understanding of
the world.51
The vision intended as the observation of the cosmos is at the very
origin of philosophy. According to Plato’s Timaeus (47a–b), sight
is the first and fundamental moment of observation of the cosmos. In
Aristotle’s Metaphysics (I, 1, 980a), sight is the most refined sense and
the best means to acquire knowledge. Intellectual knowledge is always
bound to the semantics of the vision. One of the most influential treatise
on optics in the fourteenth century, Witelo’s Perspectiva, which is, not
surprisingly, among a number of Boccaccio’s readings (Mazza, 1966: 24,
n. II, 13), tends to link the new optical discoveries with a philosoph-
ical reflection on the nature of vision. The active role of the senses in
producing knowledge is unavoidable, as much as the role of sight in the
18 F. Andrei

cognitive process. Through the “visual” features of apprehension we can

assign a degree of certitude superior to that of discursive, logical-deduc-
tive knowledge.52 As Giacinta Spinosa puts it, “Intorno alla nozione di
conoscenza intuitiva, immediata ed evidente, sia sensibile che intellettu-
ale, e attraverso la distinzione rispetto alla conoscenza discorsiva e astrat-
tiva si sarebbe attuata la svolta del pensiero medievale fra fine Duecento
e XIV secolo,”53 namely with Ockham’s and Nicola d’Autrecourt’s
thought which prefigures Hume’s empiricism.54 Furthermore, the con-
cept of vision sets itself as the organizational center of the aesthetical
speculation on art, in particular within the Franciscan Order. The image
becomes the technical foundation of verisimilitude, as the “reality” of
art.55 This has certainly influenced the composition of a few tales fea-
turing famous, or less-famous, painters. The tale of Giotto and Forese
plays on the meaning of exterior appearances and on how a person can
be deceived by false impressions.56 Interestingly, even Calandrino’s tales
are concerned with vision; in fact, the first tale of this cycle begins with
a scene in which the protagonist, absorbed in his own thoughts, is por-
trayed while contemplating a sacred image in Florence’s Baptistery, and,
in the same famous tale, one possible interpretation of the heliotrope
concerns invisibility and deception.57
If sight and imagination play an important role in establishing the
basis of certain types of knowledge discovered in the Decameron, the
interactions between characters in the various stories are created for the
most part on the concept of belief. Narration, suspense, and entertain-
ment are very often produced through the various dynamics of believing,
believing that they know, and making someone believe; all dynamics that
generate a variety of plots and stimulate reading. In the stories of the
Decameron, in addition to providing moral teachings through the dif-
ferent voices of the storytellers, an explanation about how one comes to
know is also provided, namely, through a process of knowledge acquisi-
tion by means of belief. Sometimes, what we believe is verisimilar, and
thus may coincide with the truth; yet, very often, what we believe is just
deception, and the boundaries of true and false are blurred in reality as
well as in fiction. What Boccaccio wants to communicate with his lan-
guage is always the cognitive process that passes through a belief and
then, eventually, comes to the truth, in the same way as he also empha-
sizes the cognitive point of view of both the author and his characters.
Rather than providing a complete illustration of concepts from mod-
ern epistemology that are involved in the Decameron, I would like to
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 CHAPTER V.
EXPELLED.

The next morning, leaving Madeline at the station to follow by a

later train, Mr. Wynne called at Harperton, in order to have a little
explanation. The maid’s face (she was an old maid) looked
portentously solemn as she opened the door; and—oh! ominous
objects!—two good-sized basket trunks, and a bonnet-box, stood
waiting in the hall. As he glanced at them in passing, some one
came out through a door just behind him, and said, in a biting tone—
“Dear me! I am surprised to see Mr. Wynne under the
circumstances; but, as he is here, perhaps he can give an address
for Miss West’s boxes?”
“May I ask what you mean, Miss Selina?” he said, turning to
confront her the instant the drawing-room door was closed.
“I mean,” she replied, flushing to a dull brick colour, “that after her
escapade of last evening, Miss West never enters this house again
—a young lady who stayed out all night!” she concluded with a wild,
dramatic gesture.
“But, you know, that was not her fault, Miss Selina. We waited
exactly where you told us—at the bottom of the steps—and so
missed the train. I could not get a cab, though I did my utmost, the
snow was too deep. I left Miss West at the Railway Hotel and
brought her from there this morning. She——”
“Oh,” interrupted his listener, throwing up both hands, “pray spare
me the details! It is nothing to me whom she was with, or where she
went. We have quite done with her. It was a planned thing between
you, no doubt.”
“Miss Selina,” cried Mr. Wynne, “your sex protects you! A man
dared not say what you have permitted yourself to utter, and do not
in your own heart believe. Am I to understand that because, through
waiting for you, by your own express direction, Miss West lost her
only train home last night, and was obliged to remain in Riverside,
you would blast her reputation, and thrust her out of doors?”
“You are!” she returned, defiantly, looking him full in the face with
her cold, cruel, little eyes.
“And may I ask what is to become of the young lady?” he inquired,
with a forced calmness that was ominous enough.
“Nay,” shrugging her shoulders, “that is a matter between her and
you.” Then she added, with an evil smile, “She need not refer to us
for a character.”
“Perhaps your mother will be more lenient,” he said, making a
great effort to restrain his temper. “Remember that Miss West has no
home and no friends. Can I see Mrs. Harper?”
“I am speaking for my mother,” she answered sharply. “She
refuses to see the girl, or allow her inside our door. There is no use
in your persisting—it is waste of time. We are not rich, but, at any
rate,” choking with excitement, “we have always been respectable!”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he replied, making a low, ironical bow;
“and as there is nothing further to be said, I will wish you good
morning.”
“Good morning!” replied Miss Selina, ringing the bell, and
curtseying simultaneously. “You will be pleased to remove Miss
West’s boxes at once, and inform her that letters from her will be
returned unopened”—thereby securing the last shot, and the last
word. And Mr. Wynne walked out of the house in a bewildered and
confused state of mind, outwardly cool, but in reality at boiling point.
He had not proceeded far when he met Madeline coming towards
him, with a terrified and expectant face. Now was the moment for
action. His senses were stung to alertness, his mind cleared of
misgivings; he made a desperate resolve. She was thrust out
homeless and alone in the wide, wide world! She should share his
home, such as it was; it was better than none. She should, an she
would, be his wife—and rich in love if in nothing else. Prudence had
hitherto sealed his lips—for her sake chiefly. Now that she had no
resources, no place open to receive her, he could and would speak.
The first thing he did was to hail a cab, and despatch the man
straight back to Harperton for Miss West’s luggage, desiring him to
bring it to the station.
“Why, what does it mean? Are they so very angry?” she asked
with blanched cheeks. “Oh, you don’t mean that they are sending me
away?” For she noticed that Mr. Wynne looked unusually pale and
grave.
“Come down here with me,” leading her into some public gardens
that they were passing, “and I will tell you all about it.”
The gardens were miserably wintry. Snow lay on the ground, a
couple of boys were snowballing, some starving red-wings fluttered
across the path, a granite-grey sky lowered overhead. Surely it was
the last place on God’s earth in which to relate a love tale; and the
girl herself, what a picture of misery! Oh! thought the young man, if
Mrs. Wolferton had but been at home—but, alas! she was abroad—
she would have been a true friend to this poor forlorn child. Madeline
was, of course, wearing her evening dress, such as it was—at any
rate, it was thin. A shabby little plush opera cloak barely covered her
perishing neck and arms. Over this was drawn a meagre black cape.
On her head she wore a sunburnt sailor hat; in her frozen, mittened
hand she held a fan; her face was pinched with cold, and white with
anxiety. No lovely lady-fair was here to woo this bleak January
forenoon. And what of ambition—the stern, jealous mistress to whom
he was pledged?
“They are very angry, senselessly angry,” began the young man.
“They won’t take you back again, and have actually packed your
boxes ready for removal. However, when one door shuts, another
opens. There is a home ready for you, Madeline. Can you guess
where it is?”
She gazed at Mr. Wynne, and stood perfectly still and very white,
with her thin, sensitive lips tightly pressed together, and made no
reply.
 “You know that it is my home,” he continued eagerly. “I need not
tell you that I love you, and so well do I love you, that until now I
have never dared even to whisper my love. I am poor, I have my way
to make as yet, it may be a life of struggling poverty. Can you share
it—will you venture, Madeline?”
The girl stepped back a pace, and suddenly sat down upon an iron
garden bench, still silent, and covered her face with her mittened
hands.
“Will you not answer me!” he pleaded. He dared not remove her
hands, or offer her a caress. The snowballing had ceased; the
present scene in real life attracted the two boys, who had drawn
near. The lady was sick, or looked like it.
“You do not mean it,” she faltered. “I know you are very, very kind,
but I cannot accept your pity, for that is what it comes to.”
“I solemnly declare to you that it is not,” he rejoined with emphasis;
“but even if it were, have you not heard that pity is akin to love?”
“It is utterly impossible,” she said slowly. “You are speaking out of
the goodness of your heart, on the impulse of the moment. This time
yesterday, tell me honestly,” raising her lovely eyes to his, “had you
any intention of—of—of this?”
“To be truthful, then, I had not.”
“There, you see, that is enough. There is your answer,” with a
quick little gesture.
“No, no, hear me out. It was on your account that I held my
tongue. If I had had a decent income I would have spoken to you
long ago; but I felt that I had no right to remove you from Mrs.
Harper’s care without having a comfortable home to offer you. I
meant to work very hard and to return next year. Now all has been
changed. Circumstances alter cases. I ask you now, Madeline, will
you be afraid to begin with me at the bottom of the ladder—
something tells me that I shall reach the top?”
“I shall only be a dead weight and a burden,” she replied in a
broken voice. She was relenting. Her own heart was an eloquent
advocate for Mr. Wynne.
“What will your relations say when they hear that you wish to
marry a portionless girl, a—beggar?” she murmured tremulously.
“They will say nothing that can affect us. I am independent. I have
no claims on them, and they have no right to dictate to me. By the
time they hear the news, we shall, I hope, be married. We have
nothing to wait for, and the sooner you have a home of your own the
better. I wish I had a sister or some near relative that I could take you
to, but I am almost as much alone in the world as you are.”
In the end Mr. Wynne prevailed—was not talking his trade?—and
Madeline West walked out of that wintry white garden his affianced
wife.
Rash young man! Rash young woman! One would have thought
that they had the wealth of Crœsus, the full consent and warmest
wishes of tribes of wealthy relations, to look at their faces as they
passed through the gates side by side.
Miss West did not feel the snow soaking through her thin walking
shoes. No, she was treading on air—had thrown all doubts and
misgivings to the winds, and was prepared to make the most of this
heaven-sent period. She was about to enter on a new and happy life,
believing that, although a poor man’s wife, her path would be strewn
with roses.
She had about as much practical experience of household cares—
the value of pounds, shillings, and pence—as one of the children in
the third class at Harperton. As for Laurence Wynne, Madeline was
his, Madeline was an angel, young, unspoiled, and unsophisticated,
with modest wishes, and a firm faith in him. Their future was before
them! It was!
 CHAPTER VI.
“POVERTY COMES IN AT THE DOOR.”

In a very short time Madeline West was Madeline Wynne. She

was married at a little old church in the City, with no other witnesses
than the verger and the clerk; and Mr. and Mrs. Wynne spent a week
in Paris ere they set up housekeeping, in modest lodgings not far
from the Temple, and from which, by leaning well out of the drawing-
room window, and nearly dislocating your neck, you could obtain a
glimpse of the Thames Embankment.
The good old days, when Traddles and Sophy lived in chambers,
and entertained half a dozen of “the dear girls,” were no more. Mr.
Wynne was obliged to set up his little tent outside the venerable
precincts, in the second floor front of Solferino Place. To Madeline it
was a palace, because it was her very own. Here she might poke the
fire, alter the arrangement of the furniture, pile on coals, order tea at
any time, and go out and come in as she pleased. She could
scarcely realize such liberty! Neither could she realize her wedding-
ring, and she frequently stared for a moment in doubt when she
heard herself called “Mrs. Wynne.”
Laurence was not so poor as she imagined, for he hired a piano,
bought her songs, flowers, and—oh! joy—three such pretty new
dresses; he took her to the theatres, for walks in the parks (when he
had time), he showed her most of the sights of London—St. Paul’s,
Westminster Abbey, the National Gallery, and the Tower.
He was even extravagant in one line. He laid out for her a reckless
amount of shillings and half-crowns on literary papers, magazines,
and books. Laurence was fond of reading; she was not, and she little
knew how she startled him when she exclaimed, “Besides all the
other hateful things you have delivered me from, Laurence, you have
delivered me from books! I never wish to open one again!”
 Now Laurence had been looking forward to introducing his pretty
Madeline to all the great masters in English literature, to hearing her
fresh comments, to sharing her raptures, to comparing first
impressions, favourite pieces, favourite characters; in short, to
opening for this girl of eighteen the portals of a new world. Alas! it
soon became evident that Madeline had an absolute lack of literary
taste. She had a taste for music, for flowers; a marvellous taste in
colours, and in dress; but for reading, as he understood it, not an
atom. (At first he had had visions of reading her some sketches and
articles of his own, but soon changed his mind, and kept his MS. in
his writing-desk.) He read aloud well, and selected, as he believed,
gems; but, unfortunately, Mrs. Wynne preferred paste!
Lamb’s essays were “quite too awfully dry.” Wordsworth was ten
times worse—she could hardly stifle her yawns. And even when he
was reading “Silas Marner,” and, as he considered, George Eliot’s
masterpiece, he noticed that Madeline was shyly perusing the
advertisements in a ladies’ newspaper. She looked so nonplussed
and unhappy if he paused and suddenly asked her, “If that was not
fine? and how such and such a passage struck her?”
At length he relinquished his efforts. It was time, when Madeline,
with a pretty pout, said, “My dear Laurence, I might as well be at
school; you are just talking like Mr. Falk, our professor of English
literature. Such an ugly little mummy.”
“And to whom you never listened?”
“Not I; and I never could remember names, periods, or dates. You
must make the best of me. In some ways you will find that I am
hopelessly stupid.”
In spite of these tiresome readings, Madeline was thoroughly
happy; there was not one single drawback, not one little cloud on her
sky, if we except an occasionally heavy magazine article to which
she was obliged to lend her ears. And Laurence was happy too. It
was delightful to come home those dark, wet nights, and find a kiss,
a blazing fire, and his pretty Madeline awaiting him. She was always
smiling, always so ready to see the comic side of everything, a
veritable sunbeam in that drawing-room.
 “Who would be a bachelor?” he asked himself contemptuously, as
he watched her flitting to and fro after dinner, pulling up his armchair
and filling his pipe. If he had one little arrière pensée, it was this, that
she would not always give him mutton chops, and a wish that her
ideas of a menu were a little more expansive.
Nevertheless he was perfectly content. He had an incentive to
work hard now, and he did work. He was getting known in a small
way. He had the gift of oratory, of what is known as legal tact, a
handsome presence, and the power—given to so few—of swaying
men’s minds with his eloquence, as the flame of a candle in the
wind. But, then, he was only twenty-eight—a mere boy in the eyes of
the ancient profession, where a man begins to make a start about
fifty. Still Laurence Wynne had his foot on the lower rung of the
ladder. More than one shrewd solicitor had noted him. His luck had
turned; his marriage had brought him good fortune, though it had
scared away all his relations, and he had completely dropped out of
society.
But this fool’s Paradise was not to last—it never does. The angel
that opened the gate, and drove the foolish pair out into the
everyday, hard, stony world was typhoid fever.
The hot summer succeeding their marriage was a trying one, and
in the sultry September days typhoid fever laid hold on many victims,
among others on the hard-working young barrister—seized him with
a death-like grip, flung him on a sick bed, and kept him there for
months.
The fever was so difficult to shake off, and it had brought so many
other ills in its train. Finances were low—as they are sure to be when
the bread-winner is idle. Doctors’ bills and chemists’ bills were
mounting up, as well as the butcher’s and baker’s, not to speak of
the landlady’s little account.
All the burden now lay upon one pair of young shoulders—
Madeline’s; and, to quote a homely but expressive phrase, she
absolutely did not know where to turn. She had neither money nor
friends. Her husband had no capital; his slender fortune had been
invested in his education and profession. And as to his friends and
his distant connections, they had disowned him. When they had
heard of what they were good enough to call “his low marriage with a
teacher in a school,” they had washed their hands of him with
wonderful unanimity. Society had lost sight of him for months; Mr.
and Mrs. Wynne had no acquaintances. Poor Madeline was in
terrible straits, but her courage rose with the occasion; she was
brave and energetic, and did not sit down with her hands before her
and cry.
A schoolfellow of her husband’s (another young barrister) came to
see her and him, and gave help in the shape of advice, which for
once was valuable. They moved to the top story—the attics. (That
was a step of which their landlady highly approved.) And he
procured some law copying for Madeline—who wrote a clear, neat
hand—which brought in a few shillings, and kept the actual wolf from
the door. He sent fish, grapes, and other little delicacies to the
invalid, and was in truth that rara avis—a friend in need.
He considered that Wynne had behaved like a madman in
marrying on nothing; but certainly the girl was an immense
temptation—so young, so pretty—such eyes he had never seen—so
unsophisticated and fresh, and yet possessing excellent sense and
an elastic and dauntless spirit. Here for once was an instance in
which poverty had not thrust love out of the window. Strange, but
true, their reverses had only served to draw the Wynnes more
closely together. They afforded a refreshing study to Mr. Jessop, who
was a cynic and a philosopher in a small way, and who sneered and
snarled and marvelled. Things had not even come to the worst with
these unfortunate people, not until a third was added to the
establishment in the shape of a Master Wynne, who puckered up his
wrinkled red face, thrust his creasy fists into his eyes, and made
hideous grimaces at the world in which he found himself—and in
which, to tell the truth, he was not particularly wanted, except by his
mother, to whom he was not only welcome, but, in her partial eyes, a
little household god!
His father, who was slowly recovering—an emaciated spectre of
what he had been—was dubious with regard to the striking
resemblance to himself, and frequently wondered in his inmost soul,
as to what was to be the future of his son and heir? How was he to
be fed, clothed, and educated? Dismal echoes answered, “How?” for
the Wynnes were now desperately poor.
I mean by this, that Mr. Wynne’s watch had long been ticketed in a
pawnbroker’s window, that Madeline’s one little brooch had gone the
same way; also—oh, breathe it not!—her best gown and hat; also
Mr. Wynne’s top coat and evening dress clothes; that the invalid
alone tasted meat—and in scanty portions—Madeline telling many
clever fibs with regard to her own dinner. Her inexhaustible spirits
and vivacity seemed to sustain her—that, and a little bread and tea.
The one person who was well-to-do was the baby. He was clothed
in a beautiful cloak and hood—Mr. Jessop’s gifts—purchased, with
many blushes, by that keen-eyed, close-shaven gentleman, and
presented with pride to his godson and namesake. More than once
Madeline’s mental eye had seen these sumptuous garments
smuggled away to the pawnbroker’s round the corner, but she fought
hard with the idea, and had sternly kept it at bay—as yet. Their
circumstances were, indeed, all but desperate, when one evening
Mr. Jessop came thundering up the stairs, newspaper in hand, and
panted out, as he threw himself into the nearest chair and took off
his hat—
“I say, Mrs. Wynne, what was your name before you were
married?”
“My name,” she echoed, looking blankly at him, for she was trying
to keep the baby quiet and to do some copying simultaneously—vain
and exasperating task—“was West—Madeline West.”
“Ah! I thought so!” he cried triumphantly, clearing his throat and
unfolding his paper with a flourish.
“Then just listen to this:—‘Madeline West.—If this should meet
the eye of Madeline Sidney West, she is earnestly implored to
communicate with Mrs. H. of H. House, at once, when she will hear
of something greatly to her advantage.’ Now what do you think of
that?” he demanded of his friend, who, drawn up near a handful of
cinders, had been poring over a law book. “Looks like a legacy,
doesn’t it?”
“Too good to be true, I’m afraid. Eh, Madeline?”
Madeline turned her face alternately on the two men. A faint colour
had invaded her thin, white cheeks, and her eyes brightened as she
said—
“There is no harm in answering the notice; it may mean
something.”
“Why, of course it does,” cried Mr. Jessop, emphatically. “Get a
pen, give me the infant, and write a line now, and I’ll post it.”
And Madeline accordingly sat down and wrote to Mrs. Harper on
the spot, whilst her companions watched her in silence.
“Dear Mrs. Harper,
“I have seen your notice in the Times of to-day. My address
is—2, Solferino Place, Westminster.
“Yours truly,
“M. W.”
She was so accustomed to sign merely her initials, and was so
flurried between anticipation, anxiety, excitement, and the screams
of the baby, that she never had the presence of mind to write her full
name, and on this slight omission, this one little cog, turned a most
important factor in her future career.
 CHAPTER VII.
A TELEGRAM FOR MISS WEST.

The very morning after Madeline had despatched her letter, a

telegram was handed in for Miss West, 2, Solferino Place. The
landlady herself mounted, breathless, to the attics, with the tan-
coloured envelope in her hand.
“I was just for sending it away, Mrs. Wynne,” she gasped,
surveying her with an inquiring eye; “but it came into my mind as I’d
show it to you on the chance.”
“Thank you; it is for me,” rejoined her lodger, hastily tearing it open
and running her eyes over it. As she read, she became crimson with
amazement and agitation. “Come at once—to-day if possible. News
of your father.—From Mrs. Harper, Streambridge,” was the message.
“But it’s for Miss West, and you’ve gone and opened it!” exclaimed
the landlady, suspiciously. “How is that, eh? I never would have
supposed—no, never,” folding her arms belligerently, “as you wasn’t
on the square; and as I’ve allus kep’ a respectable ’ouse, I couldn’t
think——”
“You need not think, Mrs. Kane; you need not alarm yourself about
the matter, it is all quite right. I am Mrs. Wynne, but I was Miss West
once upon a time. The sender of the message does not know that I
am married,” interrupted Madeline, speaking with studied composure
—though her heart was beating fearfully fast.
Insolent as Mrs. Kane was, she dared not quarrel with her. Her
roof covered them on sufferance. Were she to thrust them forth,
where were they to go? They were entirely at her mercy, for they
owed her money; and latterly she had been inclined to take out a
large amount of interest in rude insolence, biting gibes, and
unpleasant hints with regard to “paupers a coming and settling down
on poor, honest, hard-working people—paupers as could afford
dress, and theatres, and pianos once, and saved nothing for a rainy
day!”
Paupers—impecunious people like the Wynnes, especially Mrs.
Wynne, who bore the brunt of these encounters—could not afford to
stand on their dignity, and be independent and “move on.” They must
submit humbly; but it was insufferably galling—as galling to Madeline
as Miss Selina’s yoke, that had pressed upon her so sorely but one
little year ago.
Who but herself knew with what deprecating eyes and voice she
had pleaded with her impatient landlady for a little time, how humbly
she ventured to ask for coals, how stealthily she crept up and down
stairs, carrying baby, and doing her own miserable errands, making
her presence as unobtrusive as possible, for fear of offending her
hostess’s threatening eyes.
The hostess’s threatening eyes were fixed upon her now, with a
look that was an insult, as she listened to her hurried explanation
with a down-drawn lip.
“Oh, well, I suppose, as I know no better, I must believe you,” and
with a noisy sniff that intimated quite the reverse, Mrs. Kane glared
once round their squalid sitting-room, to see if anything were broken
or missing, or the valuable property damaged in any way; and, failing
to discover the smallest pretext for complaint, passed out of the
apartment with a heavy and aggressive strut, and banged the door
behind her.
Madeline lost not a second in rushing to the invalid with the great
news, and placing the slip of pink paper in his hand.
“There is something at last! I feel that a change is coming; these
terrible days cannot—cannot go on for ever. I believe my father is
alive, and coming home! What do you think, Laurence?” she asked,
and her voice trembled.
Laurence, still holding the telegram in his thin, transparent hand,
gazed at his wife for some seconds in silence. How changed she
was, he thought, with a pang of self-reproach. She was shabby—
very genteelly shabby. Her black dress was all mended and pieced,
her face was haggard, her eyes sunken, their look eager, anxious,
almost desperate.
An intelligent spectator would have declared that she was
obviously half-starved, and so she was. But how furiously she would
have disclaimed such a pronouncement. She would rather have died
than have admitted that truth. As long as Laurence had meat once a
day, as long as baby had milk, she did very well on anything, and
anything may mean almost nothing—it is an elastic word.
Meanwhile, Laurence had been telling himself that he had been a
culpable wretch to marry Madeline West. What would he say to her
father when he placed his daughter in his arms—a daughter in all but
rags, with a face pinched with famine, without a friend, without a
penny, and weighted with a dying husband and a peculiarly ill-
tempered baby?
How much better would it have been if he had curbed his foolish
fancy—nipped it in the bud, and left Madeline to her fate. Why had
he not wired to Mrs. Wolferton? What would her father say? Would
he cast her off?
Madeline had hinted that, as well as she could judge her father
from his letters, he was fond of show and style and great people. He
wished her to dance and sing and play well, and to speak French;
but he had never said a word about literature, or the English
classics, or what Laurence called “the higher education of women.”
On the other hand, he hoped that she would always make
acquaintance with girls her equals, or even superiors, and never
lower herself by school-friendships that it would be impossible for
him to recognize. Madeline had once innocently repeated this to her
husband verbatim, and it came vividly before him now. Madeline had
done more than form a friendship of which her aspiring parent would
disapprove, a friendship that could be slipped out of like an old
glove. Here she was tied for life to a poor man, whose only career
seemed likely to be that of an invalid—a stone round her neck as
long as he lived.
He had but faint hopes of his own recovery; everything was
against it. He knew that this could not be helped, and he was very
patient. If he had good wine, wholesome delicacies to tempt his
appetite, instead of gruesome scraps of stale, ill-cooked meat and
poisonous port at a shilling; if he could have a change to pure,
invigorating air, he might yet have a chance. And he knew that he
might as well long for the moon—for the entire firmament!
“What is to be done, Laurence?” asked Madeline, rather surprised
at his long silence. “What do you think of it?”
“You must go, of course,” he returned at last. “Go to-day.”
“To-day! My dear Laurence, what are you thinking of?” sitting down
on a rush chair as she spoke, and staring at him in amazement.
“Where is the money to come from? Look here,” producing a shabby
little purse, with a brass clasp, and turning out the pitiably small
contents, “all I possess is two and sevenpence.”
“Still you must go, Maddie, by hook or crook; much may depend
on it. A return third-class——”
“A return third-class would be twenty-two shillings—one pound
two,” she interrupted. “And, besides, I could not go in this,” looking
down at her gown; “now,” appealingly, “could I?”
“No, you could not,” he replied, with a little flush on his pale face.
“And you must get something out. To get something out something
else must go in. And,” speaking with an effort, “I never thought to
part with them, but they could not go in a better cause. I mean,”
wiping his damp forehead, “my mother’s miniature and my father’s
medals. The miniature is framed in seed pearls; the back is gold—it
ought to fetch a couple of pounds. It’s in my desk, Maddie, in a little
morocco case.” There were other things in his desk—neatly-copied-
out manuscripts. These, alas! were valueless—he had proved them.
“Take it, my dear, and welcome; and the medals—they will fetch a
few shillings.”
“Oh, Laurence,” suddenly kneeling down beside him, “I don’t like
to! Must I really? I know you think so much of them. They are the
only relics you possess. No, no; I really can’t!”
“Yes, you can, and you shall,” said the sick man, with sudden
decision. “Here, at last, is an opening for you, my poor Maddie.
Something tells me that your father is alive—is coming home rich.
You are his only child, his heiress. You will be looked after and
cherished when I am gone. Yes, my dear, it will be best for you in the
end. It was most wicked of me to marry you. I see it all now, only too
plainly. I had put by nothing for such a strait, and I had no wealthy
friends. But I never dreamt that it would come to this, Maddie;
believe me, I never did. Forgive me!” he urged, and tears, born of
weakness and remorse, stood in his hollow eyes.
“Laurence!” she interrupted, attempting to place her hand on his
mouth.
“I should have walked home in the snow that night; I should have
taken you to the Wolfertons’ house, and telegraphed for her; I should
have gone to the parish clergyman—done anything but what I did,
and which led to my dragging you into such a pit as this!” with an
inclusive wave of his hand and a glance round the mean little attic.
“But it won’t be for long now,” he added in a lower voice.
“Oh, Laurence,” she almost screamed as she seized his arm, “why
are you telling me such terrible things, when we have a little gleam of
hope at last? It is cruel—cruel of you. You couldn’t mean that, after
all we have gone through together—that when we are approaching
smooth water—you—you would leave me!”
And here she suddenly broke down and burst into tears, for, alas!
she had an agonizing inward conviction that there was truth in what
he said. How pale and thin and wasted he looked! No one would
recognize him who had seen him last year, with his shorn head,
gaunt cheekbones, and sunken eyes; and she had a heart-breaking
feeling that it was not mere actual illness, nor the dregs of that
terrible fever, that were to blame for this, but that cruel, pitiless,
ferocious wolf called want. He was dying of the lack of mere
necessaries, and she, miserable woman, was powerless to procure
them; and for this she laid down her head and wept as if her heart
would burst—her passionate sobbing fairly frightened Laurence.
Madeline’s tears were rarely seen; Madeline was always bright,
cheery, almost gay, at the very worst of times; and now came a
reaction, and she was weeping as he had never seen any one weep
before.
“Don’t, Maddie, don’t,” he whispered, feebly stroking her hair; “you
will be better without me, though you don’t think so now. You are
young—only nineteen—many bright days may be in store for you. I
will leave you contentedly, if your father has come home. The
greatest horror I have ever known will be lifted from my mind. You
don’t know, dearest, what torments have racked me as I lay awake
through the long, dark nights, listening to the clocks striking hour
after hour, and wondering what would become of you? Now
Providence has answered the question; your father will give you and
the child a home. There, Maddie, there, don’t; I can’t bear to see you
cry like this; and I—I may get over it, and—— And now, you see, you
have awakened the baby!” as a shrill, querulous cry from the next
room interrupted what he was about to say.
The maternal instinct thus roused, he hoped that her tears would
cease, as he was powerless to arrest them. And Madeline
completely broken down—Madeline, who was always so brave, who
had come out in a new light under the scorching flames of the
furnace of affliction—was a sight that completely unmanned him.
Madeline hastily dried her eyes, strangled her sobs, took her
shrieking offspring out of his cradle, and gave him his midday bottle
—an operation which appeased his appetite and soothed his
feelings. Then she came back to her husband with the child in her
arms, and said in a husky voice, “If you had change of air, good food,
properly cooked, fruit, wine, and the little delicacies all sick people
require, you would get well—I know you would. Promise me, promise
that you will try to get better! Promise me that you will wish to get
better, Laurence,” she continued tremulously, “for—for our sake.”
“I can promise that, at any rate, Maddie,” he answered with a dim
smile; “but you know the old proverb about wishes.”
“And you know that while there’s life there’s hope,” she answered
quickly. “I have hope; you must have hope too! And now I am going
out, you will have to mind baby,” placing the white bundle beside his
father, who eyed his charge dubiously, as it stared at him stolidly,
thumb in mouth.
Madeline hurriedly put on her hat and jacket, and, taking a key,
unlocked a brass-bound desk, and, after a little search, drew out the
morocco case. “Is this it?” she asked, holding it up. “This is what you
mean?”
A nod assured her that it was.
“You would like to look at it once more,” she said, gently laying it in
his hand. “I don’t know how to take it. You are so like her, too,”
looking down at the little oval miniature of a pretty, spirited girl with
dark eyes and dark hair, and seeing her husband’s gaze fixed
greedily on the portrait. “You were so fond of her, Laurence.”
“Not more than I am of you, Maddie,” he answered, closing the
case with a decisive snap. “And my father’s medals,” he said, as he
held them up, and looked at them wistfully. “Well, they will fetch a
few shillings, and they go in a good cause. Here, take them, my
dear, and go, and don’t be long.”
Needless to add this formula. Was she ever long? But time passed
very slowly when Madeline was absent from those two poor attics
which were called home.
 CHAPTER VIII.
NOT MARRIED AFTER ALL.

“He has not awoke since, has he?” asked the anxious mother, as,
fully an hour later, she reappeared with a bundle and a basket.
“No”—with a sigh of relief—“I see he is sound,” laying down her load
as she spoke. “And now to begin at the very beginning, and to tell
you everything, Laurence,” opening the basket and producing a
bottle. “Here is some good port wine; I’ve carried it most carefully, so
as not to shake it. You must have a glass at once—that is to be the
beginning.”
“Oh, Maddie, what extravagance! When you——”
“Hush! please to listen,” exhibiting as she spoke a hunch of
grapes, six fresh eggs, a jar of Bovril, and a packet of biscuits from
her seemingly inexhaustible store, and laying them on the table.
“Then you are not going!” exclaimed her husband, in a tone of
deep disapproval.
“Oh yes, I am,” she answered promptly, now opening the bundle,
and shaking out a dress that she had pawned, and regarding it with
an expression that showed it was an old and favourite friend. “Here
is an A B C guide. I go to-night when I have left you comfortable, and
baby asleep. Mrs. Kane’s niece has promised to look after you to-
morrow, and to-morrow night I return, all being well.”
“Then they gave you a good price for the miniature and the
medals.”
“Price!” she echoed indignantly. “They turned the miniature over
and over, and sneered at it, and said they had no sale for such like;
but they could not say that it wasn’t real gold and pearls, and they
gave me eighteen shillings, and said it was more than it was worth,
and ten shillings on the medals. Medals are a drug in the market.”
 “Then how—where did you get money for your journey?” asked
her husband, in a tone of amazement bordering on impatience.
“See here!” holding up both her bare hands. Very pretty hands
they were, but now a little coarse from hard work. “Do you miss
anything, Laurence?” colouring guiltily.
“Yes, your—wedding-ring—and keeper,” after a moment’s pause—
a pause of incredulity.
“You won’t be angry with me, dear, will you?” she said coaxingly,
coming and kneeling beside him. “It makes no real difference, does
it? Please—please don’t be vexed; but I got a sovereign on them,
and they are the first things I shall redeem. You must have
nourishing food, even if I had to steal it; and I would steal for you!”
she added, passionately. “I shall only take a single ticket—third
class. Mrs. Harper will surely lend me a few pounds, and I will be
able to leave ten shillings for you to go on with.”
“How can I be angry with you, Maddie?” he replied. “It is all my
fault—the fault of my rashness, thoughtlessness, selfishness—that
you have had to do this, my poor child! Oh, that snowy night was a
bad one for you! I ought to have left you, and walked back.”
“Such nonsense!” cried his wife, whose spirits were rising. “I won’t
hear you say such things! It’s a long lane that has no turning. I think
—oh, I believe and pray—that I do see the end of ours! And now
there is a nice roast chicken for your dinner. I left it with Mrs. Kane
downstairs. She asked me if I had come in for a fortune? A fortune,
indeed! It was only three and three-pence, but I told her that I
believed that I had. Oh dear, oh dear, I hope my words will come
true!”

Madeline’s packing was represented by changing her dress; her

preparations were confined to brushing, rubbing, and inking her hat,
mending her gloves, which, like the typical landlady, “had seen better