More autobiographical still, and consequently nearer to the truth
of nature, is the romance called after Fiammetta, the precursor of
the modern psychological novel, although a germ that long remained
unproductive in unkindly soil. Written, probably, about 1346, it is
half-way in style between the _Filocopo_ and the _Decameron_, and the
plot is simplicity itself in comparison with the bewildering intricacy
of the former. It is merely Fiammetta’s own detail of her unfortunate
passion for a young Tuscan, and her lamentation for his inconstancy
after his recall to his home by a stern father. The auto-biographical
element is unquestionable, but it is extremely unlikely that Boccaccio
would have accused himself of infidelity in the person of Pamfilo. It
has been conjectured to be the work of some anonymous writer who took
him as a hero; but had this been so, the fact would assuredly have
come to light. It is more probable that it represents, not Fiammetta’s
feelings, but his own, and that, to avoid gossip, or for artistic
reasons, he inverted the situation and the characters. Fiammetta
undoubtedly excites more interest than Pamfilo could have done, and her
sufferings appear in a more tragic light as the penalty of her breach
of conjugal fidelity.
It may also well be the case that Boccaccio, finding his affection for
Fiammetta on the wane, anticipated Goethe by hastening to cleanse his
bosom of the perilous stuff while it yet retained sufficient vitality
for the purposes of art. However this may be, Fiammetta has the merits
and defects of Werther, real pathos and truth to nature associated
with the tedium hardly separable from a long monologue, however well
composed; and Boccaccio’s style here, although a great advance on
that of the _Filocopo_, still suffers from ambitious rhetoric and
a superfluity of adjectives. Great part of the book, nevertheless,
attains the level of true eloquence; and Boccaccio did much for prose
when he proved it to be an apt medium for the expression of passions
heretofore chiefly restricted to verse.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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