Why this book

This is the book that taught Europe how to tell a story in prose. Chaucer borrowed from it; Shakespeare mined it; every frame tale since owes it a debt. Yet it began as comfort written in a time of dying.

The Story

In the year 1348, a pestilence reached Florence. It killed so swiftly that the healthy dined with friends at noon and supped with their ancestors that night. Therefore the old bonds broke: neighbors fled neighbors, and parents abandoned their own children.

With law and shame dissolved, some drowned their fear in wild feasting, but others locked their doors and waited to die. Corpses filled the churches faster than graves could be dug. The city that had been proud and busy fell terribly silent.

One Tuesday morning, seven young noblewomen met by chance in the emptied church of Santa Maria Novella. The eldest, Pampinea, wise beyond her years, looked at their grief and refused it. Therefore she proposed they leave the dying city behind.

To keep the journey honorable, three young men soon joined them, and together the ten rode out to a hilltop villa. There gardens ran with clear fountains and the air was sweet. But a paradise alone was not enough to fill the hours.

Therefore Pampinea set a gentle rule. Each day they would crown one of their number king or queen, and each would tell a single tale. Ten voices, ten days, one hundred stories—laughter and wit raised like a wall against the plague outside.

The very first tale sets the book's daring tone. Panfilo tells of Ser Ciappelletto, the wickedest man alive—a forger, a liar, a cheat who delighted in every sin. Yet far from home, on business, this monster suddenly fell mortally ill.

His hosts feared scandal: if he confessed his true crimes, no priest would bury him, but if he died unshriven, the town would cast his body to the dogs. Ciappelletto overheard their worry. Therefore, smiling, he promised to fix everything himself.

A holy friar was summoned, and Ciappelletto confessed—but every word was a lie. He wept over tiny faults, swore he had never sinned, painted himself a spotless saint. Therefore the friar, dazzled, believed he sat beside a living angel.

So the greatest sinner died honored as a holy man. The people flocked to his tomb, called him Saint Ciappelletto, and swore miracles at his grave. Boccaccio smiles and asks: if God still hears such prayers, His mercy is greater than any lie.

Another tale breaks the heart. Lisabetta, a merchant's sister, secretly loved Lorenzo, a young clerk in her brothers' service. When the brothers discovered the affair, they judged him beneath her. Therefore they lured Lorenzo into the countryside and secretly murdered him, telling no one.

Grieving without knowing why, Lisabetta saw Lorenzo in a dream, who revealed his shallow grave. Therefore she crept out, found his body, and cut away his head to keep. She hid it in a pot of basil and watered it with her tears. But her brothers stole the pot, and, bereft, she wept herself to death.

Between the tales, the days themselves were gentle. The company strolled shaded gardens, sang and danced beneath the stars, and dined on simple fruit and wine. Therefore each grim story was cushioned by beauty, and the horror beyond the hills felt, for a while, unreal.

Days later the tone turns tender. This tale tells of Federigo, a young nobleman who spent his whole fortune courting a proud lady, Monna Giovanna. She never returned his love. Therefore, ruined, he retired to a small farm with one last treasure—a peerless hunting falcon.

Years passed, but Monna Giovanna's husband died, and her young son fell gravely ill. The boy, who admired Federigo's famous falcon, begged his mother to bring it to him. Therefore she swallowed her pride and walked to the poor man's farm.

Federigo was overjoyed to host his beloved at last, but he had no food worthy of her. He owned nothing of value now—nothing except the falcon. Therefore, to honor her visit, he quietly killed the bird and served it roasted for their meal.

Only after dining did she ask for the falcon—for her dying son. Federigo wept, for they had just eaten it. She returned home grieving, and soon her son died. But moved by his boundless generosity, she later chose Federigo, now poor, as her husband.

Not all tales end in tears; many sparkle with mischief. One follows Friar Onion, a smooth-tongued monk who toured the villages selling glimpses of holy relics. One feast day he promised the crowd a marvel: a feather from the angel Gabriel's own wing.

But two local pranksters slipped into his room and stole the feather—really just a parrot's plume—replacing it with lumps of coal. Therefore, when Friar Onion opened his box before the eager crowd, he found no feather at all, only black cinders.

A lesser man would have panicked, but the friar never blinked. He declared these were the very coals that had roasted Saint Lawrence, sent by Heaven itself. Therefore the awed crowd paid double, and the tricksters laughed to see cunning beaten by sheer nerve.

The hundredth and final tale is the most troubling of all. It tells of Gualtieri, a marquis who married a poor peasant girl named Griselda for her gentle heart. She loved him wholly. But cruel doubt drove him to test that love without mercy.

First Gualtieri took away their infant daughter, pretending to have her killed. Griselda bowed without complaint. Years later he seized their young son as well. Still she uttered no protest. Therefore he grew crueler, mistaking her patience for a challenge to break.

At last Gualtieri announced he would cast Griselda out and take a younger bride. He stripped her to a single shift and sent her back to her father's hovel. But even then she blessed him, and asked only to serve his new wife.

He summoned her back to prepare the wedding feast, and humbly she scrubbed and swept the halls. Then the young bride arrived. But Gualtieri revealed the truth: the girl was their own lost daughter, and the boy beside her their son—both secretly raised, alive.

Gualtieri declared her patience proven and restored Griselda as his cherished wife. She wept and embraced her children at last. Therefore the marquis, ashamed of his cruelty, honored her forever after. Yet Boccaccio wonders aloud whether such obedience deserves praise—or pity.

When the ten days were spent, the pestilence had begun to loosen its grip. Therefore the ten companions, refreshed in spirit, rose from their garden and rode back down to Florence. They returned to a wounded world—but they returned whole, and human, and unafraid.

What it means

That is Boccaccio's quiet argument. When death empties the streets, stories are how we stay alive inside. His hundred tales refuse to preach a single lesson—instead they hold up the whole human comedy, saint and sinner alike, and insist that our wit and love outlast our fear.

🎧 Read-along audio is being prepared — text-only for now.