Tag: Orlando Innamorato

Orlando Innamorato, Part 2

Happy Easter. Admittedly, I did not finish the Orlando Innamorato during Lent as planned. Although I’m enjoying the story, it’s still slow going for me, not only because of so much else going on but because … the poetry of the translation really isn’t good. Mind you, I still think I chose the better of the two alternatives, but there simply is not a good translation of this in English. I really am looking forward to the sequel.

I’ve made it up to Canto XIX, which is not much further than where I was last time, alas. Orlando has lost his memory once and had it restored, Rinaldo has acquired a magical horse, and a lovestruck Saracen king has besieged Angelica in the hope of forcing her to marry him. Orlando has ridden to her aid and he and the enemy king, Agricane, have had repeated duels. In the end, they ride off to a secluded glade, fight once more to the death, and Orlando is victorious. In what is famously one of the poem’s most touching moments, Agricane asks to be baptized in the nearby fountain before his death, and Orlando graciously complies.

The religious outlook behind the Orlando Innamorato is necessarily baffling to the modern reader. At the beginning, Rinaldo proclaims without shame that Christians are known for gluttony, philandering, and war, and the general tenor of the work is less than pious, but there is also a sincere religious sentiment that shows itself at times. One may get the impression—and it may be a correct impression—that religion in the poem is not much at all about how one lives but simply about which god one swears fealty to, similar to a knight’s fealty to his lord. That may in fact be its viewpoint, but it’s unclear (at least to me, since I lack the proper background on the author and the culture of the time and place and so forth) whether that’s part of the satire or whether it’s sincere. It’s always worth keeping in mind that the age of chivalry was over when Boiardo wrote this.

Speaking of religion, I suspect that Kline has modernized some of the references just as Charles Stanley Ross has admitted to doing in his version. Frequently, the Saracens are represented as swearing to Allah, but it is my understanding that epic Christian poems of this sort are wholly ignorant of Islam’s actual doctrines and instead portray the Paynim as worshiping three gods called Apollyon, Termagante, and Mahound. The two latter are mentioned in the Song of Roland on which the present epic is based and portrays the Saracens tearing down their idols of Termagante and Mahound after they lose the Battle of Roncevaux Pass.

Not being an expert in this subject, I’m not sure how this misconception arose. Mahound, at least, is Mohammad, so it’s eeasy to see how that confusion happened. Apollyon is a name from the Book of Revelation, and since Christians have always read their present circumstances into that book, those Christians who were threatened by hordes of Muslims may have simply assumed that Apollyon must be the Muslim god. Termagante, who appears as “Trivigante” in both the Ordlando Innamorato and its sequel Orlando Furioso, is more obscure. I’ve done some looking around, and from what I’ve gathered, nobody is quite sure where the name comes from or how so many people in the Christian West convinced themselves it was the name of a Muslim deity.

At least in Kline’s translation, Trivigante first appears in Canto XVIII, in which Rinaldo does battle with what is so far one of the most interesting characters in the poem: Marfisa, a lady knight of India who has her handmaiden act as her squire. This is the first of the lady knights to appear, though she will be eclipsed in fame and importance later by Bradamante, who becomes one of the central characters and whom Ludovico Ariosto, in the sequel, makes ther the founder of the House of Este, Ariosto’s patron. Marfisa, we will later learn, is sister to Ruggiero, who will become Bradamante’s lover. Marfisa, at least at first, is an ironical character because she is so skilled in combat that she refuses to fight any but the best and most famous knights—which effectively makes her useless in war. She scowls and marches back and forth on a riverbank while the army she’s a part of is being routed, and she has a duel with Rinaldo, whom she seriously wounds, though he escapes because his horse bolts.

The only other character who, so far, has a personality is Astolfo. Astolfo is a clownish boaster with minimal skill who happened upon a magic lance that has made him one of the most formidable knights in a joust but is too silly to realize his recent successes are not due to his own ability. Boiardo clearly has some affection for Astolfo, and if I remember Bullfinch’s summary version correctly, he plays an important role in the epic. We might see him as Marfisa’s opposite: He rushes headlong into battle because of his arrogance and she refrains from it for the same reason.

Orlando Innamorato, Part 1

I have finished the first eight cantos of Orlando Innamorato, which brings us up to almost one hundred pages of A. S. Kline’s translation. That should put us well on track to finish the book before Easter on April 9th, which is our goal.

I think I made the right decision in buying this edition. Further checking has confirmed that Kline’s is one of only two complete translations of the Orlando Innamorato into English and the only one that attempts to imitate the original’s rhyming scheme. However, Kline’s translation varies considerably in quality and is often clunky. It’s entertaining, but I admit I’m looking forward to finishing it so I can get to Barbara Reynolds’s acclaimed translation of Orlando Furioso, which is a much more readable version of a more famous epic.

Historical Background

I neglected to note in my earlier post that these two works are based on another epic called the Song of Roland, written in Old French in the eleventh century, which is in turn loosely based on a real historical event, the Battle of Roncevaux Pass, which took place in AD 778. The situation described in the Song of Roland is unhistorical, though the battle itself really happened. In real life, Basques attacked Charlemagne’s forces in the Pyrenees during their return to France because, after unsuccessfully besieging Saragossa, Charlemagne tore down the walls of Pamplona. All of Charlemagne’s rearguard was slaughtered, including Roland, who subsequently became the subject of epic poetry. As portrayed in the Song of Roland, however, Charlemagne and his twelve paladins have conquered all of Spain except Saragossa, whose king Marsile first sues for peace but then treacherously attacks the retreating French thanks to Roland’s turncoat stepfather.

Summary

The story as Matteo Maria Boiardo and his successor Ludovic Oriosto tell it is even more convoluted and complicated.

A hundred pages in, and we are still a long, long way from the battle that will form the climax of the second of these two poems. Boiardo goes wherever his imagination happens to take him and does not particularly care if all the various adventures and subplots form a cohesive whole. With his tongue no doubt firmly in his cheek, he tells us that his outlandish tale is definitely true because he has it directly from Archbishop Turpin. Turpin is another real historical figure who entered myth, and is in the Matter of France one of fiercest of Charlemagne’s twelve paladins. Boiardo appeals to his authority whenever the details of his poem get especially ridiculous.

The story starts by introducing a great Saracen emperor, Gradasso, who reigns somewhere beyond India. Most of the world is at his feet, but he covets two things, both of which belong to Charlemagne’s paladins: One is the super-sharp sword Durindana, wielded by Orlando (the Italian name of Roland); it can cut through steel or stone, and its hilt (says the Song of Roland) contains several priceless relics. The second is Rinaldo’s steed Baiardo, the fastest runner and highest jumper of all the world’s warhorses. To secure the world’s greatest sword and its greatest horse, Gradasso plans a military campaign to conquer first Spain and then France. Why would someone from, presumably, the area of Myanmar attack France by way of Spain? Don’t ask questions like that; from Boiardo point of view, there is Christendom in Western Europe and outside of that a great, amorphous mass that might be termed Pagandom, the geographical features of which are malleable.

After Gradasso’s brief introduction, the story starts where it properly should, at a jousting tournament: Charlemagne has invited all the greatest warriors in the world, both Christian and Saracen, to compete. Although the poem is greatly concerned with the defense of Christendom against her powerful enemies, it is not especially pious: When a visiting Saracen king asks Rinaldo how to pay honor to Christian noblemen, Rinaldo promptly replies that Christians are gluttons at table and whores in bed, but above all admire martial prowess. One wonders if Bishop Turpin would approve.

The festivities are interrupted by the arrival of Angelica, a princess of Cathay, who offers to marry any man who can defeat her brother in combat. Cathay, by the way, is ordinarily a name for northern China, but Boiardo seems to think it is a city in India. We may envision Angelica as either a Chinese or Indian princess, depending on our preference.

In any case, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world and the paladins fall instantly in love with her, especially the titular Orlando. Charlemagne’s court wizard Malagigi, however, discovers that Angelica is part of a convoluted plot to destroy France. Shenanigans ensue, and when the dust settles, Angelica has disappeared, Orlando and Rinaldo have ridden off in search of her, and Astolfo—the worst warrior but biggest braggart among the paladins—has come into possession of a magic lance that can instantly unseat any opponent. Astolfo then unexpectedly dominates the jousting tournament, leading to further shenanigans that end with Astolfo imprisoned for brawling.

Meanwhile, Rinaldo drinks from a magic fountain that causes him to hate Angelica, but Angelica drinks from a different fountain that causes her to love Rinaldo. Further shenanigans ensue. Angelica’s lament, when Rinaldo flees from her, results in some of Kline’s best poetry:

Should he not offer me a glimpse, at least,
Of his fair face, so that by gazing there,
I might upon those handsome features feast,
Or quench love’s fire, and so no longer care?
Reason would wish to find desire had ceased,
And yet reason has no place in this affair.
I call him cruel, of harsh unbending will,
Yet, be that as it may, I love him still.

The solitary adventures are momentarily interrupted when Gradasso’s forces arrive in Spain. France comes to Spain’s aid but then Spain allies with Gradasso and the united forces attack France, besieging Paris. Charlemagne’s forces are almost defeated but Astolfo is released from prison and, riding forth with his magic lance, challenges Gradasso to single combat, which he wins. Gradasso, surprisingly good-natured about the whole business, turns around and goes home.

Orlando, meanwhile, slays his way through the wilderness, encountering giants and ogres every few steps. As an example of both Boiardo’s use of classical material and his sense of humor, Orlando helps a pilgrim who thanks him by giving him a magic book that can solve any riddle. Soon after, Orlando encounters the Sphinx, who tells him of Angelica’s whereabouts but then demands that he answer a riddle. Orlando, unable to answer the riddle, attacks the Sphinx, kills it after a long and brutal battle, and only afterward remembers the magic book in his possession.

While Orlando—supposedly the greatest of the Paladins even though he’s never where he should be—is dithering around, Rinaldo is abducted by the lovelorn Angelica. Despite her machinations, he easily escapes her. He has various adventures almost indiscernible from Orlando’s and finally arrives at the hair-raising Castle Cruel, where a withered crone and her army of giants feed captured knights to an invincible monster born from a corpse. Rinaldo is thrown into a pit with the monster. He is fighting for his life and bleeding from several wounds. A cliff-hanger ends the eighth canto.

Discussion

Boiardo borrows from anything and everything. The backstory of Castle Cruel pulls from the Metamorphoses and other sources of Greek mythology. The Sphinx from the legend of Oedipus gets a cameo. Tristan and Isolde get a mention. There are probably other references I didn’t recognize.

The story is absolutely all over the place. I wonder if Boiardo had an outline or simply went where his fancy took him. But in either case, he’s very good at remembering his various plotlines. He hasn’t dropped a thread yet, and he has several of them going simultaneously.

But I think what most fascinates me is how all this grew out of a real historical event. If we knew nothing about the Battle of Roncevaux Pass, we might assume the Orlando Innamorato is pure fantasy. But as it turns out, it has an historical core, albeit a deeply buried one. I may muse on that more in a later post.

Lenten Reading: The Matter of France

Years ago, I had an annual practice in which I gave up watching or reading any fictional works for Lent in order to focus on some substantial nonfiction reading. These days, my ratio of nonfiction to fiction is much higher, so I’ve abandoned this particular Lenten practice. Nonetheless, I have decided (a little late, since Lent started a week ago) on my Lenten reading, and I invite anyone interested to join me. It is not nonfiction, but that doesn’t matter.

I have decided I wish to read the romantic epic Orlando Furioso, one of the great works of western literature which Ludovico Oriosto produced in 1516 and revised in 1532. The work is a sequel to the earlier, unfinished Orlando Innamorato of Matteo Maria Boiardo. These works together are part of, or are based on, the “Matter of France,” a cycle of literature about the deeds of Charlemagne. Generally, the Matter of France contains few fantastical elements, but the two Orlando epics are pure fantasy containing little historical content but lots and lots of magic, strange creatures, and bizarre journeys. Many anime fans know some names from these epics thanks to the FATE franchise and would do well to familiarize themselves with the originals to clear up misconceptions.

I have previously read Bullfinch’s deceptively titled Legends of Charlemagne, which summarizes these two works in prose. Bullfinch conveys the impression, and may himself have believed, that he is delivering a faithful presentation of the Charlemagne cycle rather than the inventions of two poets. In any case, his work is engaging and makes a good starting point for anyone who finds epic poetry intimidating.

My plan for Lent is to make it through the Innamorato before Easter at least, and then tackle the Furioso itself later. Having decided this, I have to choose my translations, since I don’t read sixteenth-century Italian.

Because the Orlando Furioso is more popular than its prequel, there are more translations available, the earliest being that of John Harington from 1591. That might seem the best option since it is close to the publication of the Italian original—but an online search reveals that it and most early translations are Bowdlerized, leaving out all the steamy parts. I oppose Bowdlerization on principle.

I have therefore decided on Barbara Reynolds’s translation of the Orlando Furioso, which is available from Penguin. From what I’ve seen, Reynolds appears to know what she is doing, and her version does not appear to be an abridgment. Her translation is probably less beautiful than Harington’s, but it is apparently more complete. Also, it was written in the 1970s and does not appear to have been updated, which means it will contain few or none of the corruptions of language so beloved by today’s academics.

Choosing a translation of the Orlando Innamorato is more difficult because there are fewer and less satisfactory options. William Stewart Rose produced an abridged prose version that’s somewhat famous and would probably make a good introduction to the Furioso, but I have already read Bullfinch’s prose summary, so that does not interest me. More recently, Charles Stanley Ross produced a poetic but non-rhyming translation. However, the above-mentioned Barbara Reynolds convincingly eviscerated his work in a thorough review (that, maddeningly, I can’t find again, or else I’d link it). A few samples confirm Reynolds’s opinion that Ross’s poetry is awful. To make matters worse, the most recent edition of his work has a foreword announcing that “terms of gender and religion have been updated.” As already stated, I detest Bowdlerization, even self-Bowdlerization, so the Ross version is a no-go.

I finally decided on the translation by A. S. Kline. It’s recent, so I’m wary of it (a discerning reader should be wary of any translation produced within the last decade), but it might be the best version that is both in English and not abridged. Unlike Ross’s, it does not attempt to keep the meter of the original but—like the original and unlike Ross’s—it rhymes. From what I’ve seen of it so far, the poetry is merely passable, but that will have to do.