The following story was translated from the Italian in 1607 by the English Poet William Grebe. Grebe claimed the original version was Boccaccio's, but Historians generally agree that it is much more likely that he just downloaded it from some web site or other.
The full title given by Grebe goes on for eight pages, but in later editions it was abbreviated to "Woman's Vanitie, or Howe the Widowe Leonora D'Amalfina did Comissione an Artist to Render Her Likenesse, and was Fuled by A Wily Man of Naples, Who Rogered Bothe Herre and Herre Daughter, and Took The Latter for His Wiffe."
Ye widowe Leonora D'Amalfina, the wealthieft ladie in all Naples, being proude and vayne,
Oh fuck it, I can't keep this writing style up, and besides, my spell-check is overloading...
The widow Leonora D'Amalfina, the wealthiest lady in all Naples, being proud and vain, made it known in the land that she wished for an artist to make her portrait. She cared not a whit whether he be Sculptor, Painter, Poet or Bard, so long as her true likeness was captured.
"I'm so fed up with all these so-called artists," she shouted one day to her beautiful daughter Mia, who was both chaste and exactly eighteen.
Leonora pointed up at a Mona Lisa that was being used to cover a damp patch on the wall: "I mean look at this shit. It's a fucking joke. It looks nothing like George Washington."
"I think it's pretty, Mama." Mia didn't look up from her sewing, even though she wasn't using needle or thread, but just miming.
Leonora glared at her daughter. "Pretty? Pretty?? I talk of Truth. I talk of Beauty, you half-wit. Yes: I daresay much Art is 'Pretty'. Like you are pretty. With your oh-so-spherical boobs and your wasp's waist, yellow and black striped. Yes, your legs may be moist, your lips blood-red, and your piss may taste like a fine Venetian
Prosecco
, but you will never have inner Beauty."
Mia sighed. "No, Mama. I will never have the famed Beauty of La Donna Leonora D'Amalfina."
Leonora stood at the window, glaring at the busy street below. "Damn straight." She attempted to punctuate this last statement by hocking a loogie on the head of a passing beggar, but the window was closed. Wiping the spit off with a sleeve, she starting shouting like an Italian:
"Oh! Why do they not see me as I truly am, these men; not as a wealthy widow with three villas in Tuscany, not as sole heiress to the D'Amalfina estate, but as myself? Why do they not see me as -- a
woman
?"
She looked into camera, which means the question was rhetorical.
Now it happened then that a great sculptor was in town. He was as handsome as he was brave, and he was a terrible coward. He was driven insane, some said, when his cart overturned on the way from Carrara, and he lost all his marble. Others just said "Who?" when you mentioned his name, which to add an air of realism, I'll call Signor ----.
News of Leonora's request quickly travelled to Signor ----, mainly by word of mouth, but also by not washing hands after going peepee.
He twirled his moustache, until it hurt.
"Aha!" He thought. Now, I don't know about you, but I have never once thought "Aha" in my life. But this was Naples, this was the Renaissance. "Aha," he repeated. "This Signora D'Amalfina would make a great
patrone
(patron) for
me
(me)."
So he grabbed a block of marble and set off through the twisting, dark, urine-smelling, dangerous (but charming) back streets of Naples in search of Leonora's house.
He rapped smartly at the door of her house. This was his first mistake; she hated rap, and to get him to stop she emptied seven days' contents of her privy on his head from the upstairs window.
She leaned out and shouted down at him, "Who are you?"
"My lady, I am Signor ----."
"Who? Did you say Signor -----?"
"No, not -----, ----. I am Signor ----, and I have come to sculpt your likeness in marble."
"And will it be a true likeness?"
"It will be the apotheosis of verisimilitude, cunt."
Leonora turned from the window. Nervously, her eyes darted about the room, rolled across the floor, and popped back into her sockets. "He has the tongue of a scoundrel and the nose of a braggart. He'd make a fine husband for my daughter, who must be wed in three days, ere her nineteenth birthday, to an artist, as stipulated in my late husband's will, else all my fortune reverts to her," she said to herself, by way of subtle plot exposition.
She called down to him, "Come right up, Signor ----, and prepare to chip my bust!"
On hearing this, ---- twirled not only his moustache, but also the moustache of three passers by. For he was not just a scoundrel, but had recently passed his ne'er-do-well exams too.
When ---- entered, Leonora was seated upon the window seat, demurely holding an electric fan before her face.
She fluttered her nostrils coyly at him and bade him sit beside her.
"Come sir, and show me your portfolio."
---- laughed, showing a row of pearly white tonsils. "Signora, the whole world is my portfolio. What exactly is a 'portfolio'?"
He squeezed her hand tightly, which was unfortunate, because she was still holding her Profita roll.
"Oh, Signor ----, you're both a shit and a gentleman. Let us get down to it quick, before I lose my erection."
She began to strip off, slowly at first, then building to a mad frenzy by the end, like a Tarantella, throwing her clothes all over the place.
She stood naked before him. "Not bad, if you're into women," he thought, as he sharpened his tool vigorously on a whetstone and whipped the tarpaulin off his slab.
"How do you want me to pose, Signor? Like this?" She twisted her head round under her armpit and raised one leg, in the fashion of the naughty postcards of the day.
"No, no,
no!
A woman like you demands gravitas. You need a prop. Perhaps if you licked a dildo. No, better yet, let us be bold and gay and do it Greek style. Have you a discus?"
"I have a pizza. But it's anchovy."
