DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16632#0232
The Middle Ages in the West
203
stands a pillar like diamonds to look at, with a golden capital. On this there are three female
forms, their shoulders touching, each of a different-coloured marble. One of them is
black, and the water flows like tears from her eyes; the second one is red as fire, and the
water flows from her breasts; the third is almost white, and she flings the stream over her
head. It then passes through shells and various heads of lion, bull, and man, and finally
proceeds to water the garden.
The delight in these fantastic water arrangements has a further effect, for Rabelais
m the court of his Abbey of Thelemites has a very similar fountain, which he describes
in a humorous way. Almost all Boccaccio's accounts of gardens are in the conventional
manner, and since he adopted the list of trees in his Theseid, the ancient tradition (as we
said before) remained alive right on into Renaissance days.
But Boccaccio knows also how to keep his eyes open to actual fact, as no man before
him had done. This is plain to see when he gives us a bit of the history of his own times,
in his inimitable style, in the tales of the Decameron. As Villani in his history gives a
general picture of the beauty in the surroundings of Florence, as Petrus Crescentius as a
teacher exhibits a specimen of a lordly estate, so does Boccaccio's picture of the loveliest
of villas produce a clear, intelligible view of some nobleman's seat of that day, standing
on the heights of Fiesole over the city. Undoubtedly these villas did exist in truth and still
exist in fiction, exceedingly like to one another: here the gentlemen and ladies of the
Decameron spent their days. The round of ideas for the garden is still small, and it
reverts to type, but what the poet sees and makes us see is what was really there: the
house was on a hill, surrounded by meadows, and a smooth, pretty and almost untrodden
path led up to it. A fine inner court was roofed with a flower-bedecked loggia, where the
guests were received. The garden, where they went afterwards, was at the side and had
good walls. Round by the walls and in the middle there were straight paths as broad as
a street, with many arbours clad in vines, which in that year gave fairest promise of a rich
harvest, and already from their blossoms wafted a delicious scent abroad. The sides of the
paths were enclosed with red and white rose hedges, so that one could walk in the shade
not only in the morning but also at any other time of the day.
How the other plants were arranged, the poet unfortunately had not time to tell.
But in the middle there was a closely mown lawn, of such a dark green that it almost looked
black, and it appeared to be painted with a thousand different flowers. Round about it
was a border of green oranges and citrons, their flowers and fruit growing together. In
the middle of the lawn is the white marble well, with beautiful sculptures on its border.
A figure with a column or pipe inside throws a water-jet—whether this is from an
artificial or natural spring the poet does not say—so strong that one could have driven a
mill with it. The stream is conducted under the meadow and into canals for the watering
of the garden. Naturally in this lovely spot men's hearts are rejoiced by the songs of
birds, and they allow themselves to be pleasantly teased by the animals, deer and
rabbits. On the lawn tables and chairs are put out, where people who are tired of
singing and dancing can get rest and refreshment. What pleasure and what joie de vivre
is shown in this account of life at the villa! We detect a new vigour in their gardening,
and the whole scene becomes more living to us because we here have actual biographical
details.
Petrarch seems to have wanted, wherever he went, to have a garden that he could
203
stands a pillar like diamonds to look at, with a golden capital. On this there are three female
forms, their shoulders touching, each of a different-coloured marble. One of them is
black, and the water flows like tears from her eyes; the second one is red as fire, and the
water flows from her breasts; the third is almost white, and she flings the stream over her
head. It then passes through shells and various heads of lion, bull, and man, and finally
proceeds to water the garden.
The delight in these fantastic water arrangements has a further effect, for Rabelais
m the court of his Abbey of Thelemites has a very similar fountain, which he describes
in a humorous way. Almost all Boccaccio's accounts of gardens are in the conventional
manner, and since he adopted the list of trees in his Theseid, the ancient tradition (as we
said before) remained alive right on into Renaissance days.
But Boccaccio knows also how to keep his eyes open to actual fact, as no man before
him had done. This is plain to see when he gives us a bit of the history of his own times,
in his inimitable style, in the tales of the Decameron. As Villani in his history gives a
general picture of the beauty in the surroundings of Florence, as Petrus Crescentius as a
teacher exhibits a specimen of a lordly estate, so does Boccaccio's picture of the loveliest
of villas produce a clear, intelligible view of some nobleman's seat of that day, standing
on the heights of Fiesole over the city. Undoubtedly these villas did exist in truth and still
exist in fiction, exceedingly like to one another: here the gentlemen and ladies of the
Decameron spent their days. The round of ideas for the garden is still small, and it
reverts to type, but what the poet sees and makes us see is what was really there: the
house was on a hill, surrounded by meadows, and a smooth, pretty and almost untrodden
path led up to it. A fine inner court was roofed with a flower-bedecked loggia, where the
guests were received. The garden, where they went afterwards, was at the side and had
good walls. Round by the walls and in the middle there were straight paths as broad as
a street, with many arbours clad in vines, which in that year gave fairest promise of a rich
harvest, and already from their blossoms wafted a delicious scent abroad. The sides of the
paths were enclosed with red and white rose hedges, so that one could walk in the shade
not only in the morning but also at any other time of the day.
How the other plants were arranged, the poet unfortunately had not time to tell.
But in the middle there was a closely mown lawn, of such a dark green that it almost looked
black, and it appeared to be painted with a thousand different flowers. Round about it
was a border of green oranges and citrons, their flowers and fruit growing together. In
the middle of the lawn is the white marble well, with beautiful sculptures on its border.
A figure with a column or pipe inside throws a water-jet—whether this is from an
artificial or natural spring the poet does not say—so strong that one could have driven a
mill with it. The stream is conducted under the meadow and into canals for the watering
of the garden. Naturally in this lovely spot men's hearts are rejoiced by the songs of
birds, and they allow themselves to be pleasantly teased by the animals, deer and
rabbits. On the lawn tables and chairs are put out, where people who are tired of
singing and dancing can get rest and refreshment. What pleasure and what joie de vivre
is shown in this account of life at the villa! We detect a new vigour in their gardening,
and the whole scene becomes more living to us because we here have actual biographical
details.
Petrarch seems to have wanted, wherever he went, to have a garden that he could