Orlando Furioso pdf Ludovico Ariosto Free Download

In a rush

The foul air overwhelmed him like a whiff

Of sulphur or of pitch. Trying to brush

The vapour from his nose and eyes, the duke

On his descent yet further footsteps took.

And now the lower down Astolfo goes,

The darker, thicker, murkier the fume,

And stronger steadily his feeling grows

He must return the way that he has come.

But something suddenly (Astolfo knows

Not what) he sees above him in the gloom.

Much like a corpse which in the rain perhaps,

Or wind or sun, has dangled long, it flaps.

It was so dark, the duke could scarcely see

Along the smoky thoroughfare of Hell,

And what this object in the air might be,

In his bewilderment, he could not tell.

In an attempt to solve the mystery,

He drew his sword to strike it; the blows fell

Without effect, as though he slashed through mist.

A spirit it must be, Astolfo guessed.

He heard a plaintive voice, which these words spoke:

‘Do not molest us, pray, as you descend,

Tormented as we are by the black smoke

Which the infernal fires upward send.’

Astolfo, stupefied, arrests his stroke

And to the shade replies, ‘As God may end

The rising of these fumes from deepest Hell,

Be not displeased about your state to tell.

‘And if you wish me to take news of you

Into the world above, I am your knight.’

The spirit answered, ‘To return anew

By fame into the sweet, life-giving light

So pleases me that my deep longing to

Receive this boon urges me to recite

And pulls my story from me by the roots,

Though ill such speech my inclination suits.’

And she began, ‘Sir, I am Lydia,

Born of the Lydian king to high estate.

By God’s will, to this smoky area

Eternal condemnation is my fate,

For, while I lived above in the sweet air,

For faithful love I gave not love, but hate.

These regions an infinity contain,

For a like fault condemned to a like pain.

Harsh Anaxàrete dwells farther on,

Suffering more torment in a denser fume.

Her body in the world was turned to stone,

Her soul to suffer in this realm has come,

For she could see, unmoved, her lover wan

Hanged at her door, so desperate become;

And, near by, Daphne knows how much at last

She erred to make Apollo run so fast

‘If one by one these souls I were to name

Of the ungrateful women here below,

It would be long ere to the end I came,

For to infinity their numbers grow;

And longer still, if it should be my aim

To tell you all the men who deeper go

To a worse place; for their indifference,

Where flames are hotter, smoke is yet more dense.

‘Since women are more easily deceived,

Justice demands that their betrayers should

Be lower down; he who Medea grieved,

He who left Ariadne by the flood,

He who abandoned Dido, have received

Worse pains, with him who drove to deeds of blood

Prince Absalom, by raping of Tamar.

Here erring wives, there erring husbands, are.

‘But now, to tell you more about the sin

Which for my punishment has brought me here:

I was so beautiful and proud that in

My life on earth I was beyond compare.

Yet of these two, I know not which would win:

Beauty and pride, which rivals in me were;

Since pride, it seemed, continued to arise

From beauty which was pleasing to all eyes.

‘There was a cavalier who lived in Thrace,

Esteemed in all the world the best in arms.

So many praised the beauty of my face,

My loveliness of person and my charms,

My image henceforth he could not erase.

A champion, undeterred by war’s alarms,

He thought that if he offered me his love,

His valour and brave deeds my heart would move.

‘He came to Lydia; by a stronger noose,

Soon as he saw my beauty, he was caught,

And, from these bonds unable to get loose,

He served my father, and so well he fought,

So varied were his valiant deeds, the news

Of them on the swift wings of Fame was brought.

Long would it take to say all he deserved

If but a grateful monarch he had served!

‘Pamphilia, Caria, Cilicia

Were conquered for my father by the knight,

For never was the army sent to war

Unless he judged that they would win the fight.

So, having now a cornucopia

Bestowed, he asked my father, as of right,

If in reward for so much toil and strife

He would consent that I should be his wife.

‘He was rejected by the king, who aimed

To marry me to one of high degree,

Not to a knight-at-arms, however famed,

Possessed of nothing but his gallantry.

By avarice, that sin which is acclaimed

The school of vice, the king is ruled, and he

Appreciates good deeds about as much

As tunes upon a lyre a donkey touch.

‘But when Alcestes, he of whom I speak,

Received this snub, his anger was intense.

He felt that he was injured to the quick

By such ingratitude and insolence;

And, not disposed to turn the other cheek,

Vowed he would bring his lord to penitence,

And to Armenia’s king, our enemy,

He went, and stirred up his hostility.

‘And to such enmity he roused the king

That on my father he made war; Alcest,

So celebrated for his soldiering,

As captain of those troops was judged the best;

And all the spoils he promised he would bring

To the Armenian monarch, but, his breast

Still burning to enjoy my fair young limbs,

Those for himself as a reward he claims.

‘He caused the king, my father, in that war

More injury than I could ever tell.

Four armies in one year defeated are:

He leaves him not a town or citadel,

Except for one which perpendicular

And lofty walls render impregnable.

Therein the king, with those whom he loves best,

Flees with what treasure can be snatched in haste.

‘Our adversary then besieged us there.

By dint of his assault and battery

He soon reduced my father to despair,

Who willingly would then have bartered me

As wife, and servant too, and named him heir

To half his kingdom, if he might go free:

Seeing how low the stores of victuals were,

He knew that he would die a prisoner.

‘Before this happens, he resolves to try

Whatever remedy seems possible.

As his first hope, he chooses me, and I,

Whose beauty was the cause of so much ill,

To parley with Alcestes go; and my

Intention is to do my father’s will:

To plead with him to take me as his wife,

And half our kingdom, for an end to strife.

‘Alcestes, having heard of my intent,

Proceeds towards me, pale and tremulous,

More like a captive in whom hope is spent

Than a commander so victorious.

The words which I now use are different

From those I planned before I saw him thus,

And when the situation I discern

I change my tactics as I see him burn.

‘So I begin to curse his love for me

And to lament what it has brought us to:

My father victim of his cruelty,

Myself a hostage: this (I said) was due

To his decision to use force; if he

Had been content, I added, to pursue

His former ways, so pleasing to us all,

I had been his after an interval.

‘For, though my father had at first refused

The honourable wish he had expressed

(Of stubbornness the king might be accused

And never would he grant a first request),

He did not thus deserve to be abuse

With such ferocious anger; for the rest,

I said, still braver deeds he should have tried

To win the boon my father had denied

‘And had my father still ungrateful proved,

I should have prayed and urged him in my turn

To let me wed the cavalier I loved;

And if he had continued still to spurn

All our entreaties, and remained unmoved,

We should have wed in secret; but the stern,

Unyielding course that he had chosen then

Had changed my mind, nor could it change again.

‘Although I had come forth to speak with him,

Moved to compassion by my father’s plight,

No fruit would ever grow on such a stem,

For never now his love would I requite;

And sooner would I let him tear me limb

From limb than in my person take delight

And on my body satisfy his lust.

By force first overpower me he must.

‘These words I used and others similar,

Knowing what power over him I had.

Repentant he became and humbler far

Than any saint or hermit; then he made

Obeisance, and, like a prisoner,

Kneeling he drew and handed me a blade.

I was to take revenge with it, he said,

For all his evil deeds and strike him dead.

‘Finding him in this state, I formed a plan

To follow through my triumph to the end.

I let him hope that, if as he began

He now continues, I will be his friend

And grant those joys desired by every man,

If he agrees his errors to amend:

My father’s kingdom he must first restore,

Then win my love by loyalty, not war.

‘He gave his word and to our citadel

He sent me back, untouched, as I set out.

He did not dare to kiss me, such the spell

By which I bound him, for beyond all doubt

Cupid, as you can see, was aiming well

And still more arrows was prepared to shoot.

He then departed to negotiate

With the Armenian king he’d served of late.

‘And with the utmost courtesy he speaks,

Entreating him to leave my father his

Now ravaged kingdom and, no more to vex

Him, to withdraw behind the boundaries

Of old Armenia; scarlet in both cheeks,

The angry king is deaf to all such pleas:

He will not end the war which has been planned

The while my father has one inch of land.

‘And if some whining woman’s wily ways

Have made Alcestes alter his design,

So much the worse for him, the monarch says.

He for his part refuses to resign

Their hard-won gains. Once more the other prays:

His words, he sees, are useless (unlike mine).

First he laments, then vows the king will rue it,

For willy-nilly he will force him to it.

‘His anger grew, and soon from threats he passed

To actions even worse and angrier.

He drew his sword against the king at last,

Though countless of his nobles present were,

And ran him through as they looked on aghast,

Helpless to aid him or to interfere.

And he defeated the Armenian troops

With Thracians whom he paid, and other groups.

‘After one month and at his own expense

(And not one penny did my father pay),

Our kingdom he restores; in recompense

For widespread ruin under which it lay,

Not only costly booty he presents,

But makes Armenia heavy tribute pay,

With Cappadocia which borders it,

While to his raids Hyrcanians submit.

‘No triumph for Alcestes had we planned,

But plotted how to kill him, though at first,

Since he had many friends, we held our hand,

Knowing a chance would come to do our worst.

Day after day I said I loved him and

With female guile his fondest hopes I nursed;

But other foes, I say, he must bring low

Ere the sweet joys he longed for he could know.

‘I send him here, I send him there, alone

Or with few troops, on many a strange task

Or perilous adventure, from which none

But he would e’er return, but all I ask

He does, killing the monsters, every one,

And earning glory in which heroes bask.

By cannibals and giants he is tested

With which my father’s kingdom is infested.

‘Not Hercules such labours had to face

For King Eurystheus or for Juno, in

Nemea, Erymanthus, Lerna, Thrace,

Aetolian valleys and Numidian,

By Tiber, Ebro – whatsoe’er the place.

The tasks which he performed could not begin

To rival those on which my swain I sent

With winsome words and murderous intent.

‘And when my plan has failed in its effect,

I choose another, which is better still.

The minds of those who love him I infect

With poison, and such hatred I instil,

His reputation in their eyes is wrecked.

His greatest joy is to obey my will.

I raise my finger: at my side he stands

And blindly he performs my least commands.

‘When by these means I see that I have rid

My father of all enemies, and not

One friend, because of everything I did

Stands by Alcestes, then I tell him what

(Until this moment came) from him I hid:

That he has been the victim of a plot,

That ineradicable is my hate

And his demise with joy I contemplate.

‘I thought the matter over carefully:

If my intention was too plainly shown

I might incur a name for cruelty

(Too many knew the deeds which he had done)

And so I banished him from sight of me

(I judged this deprivation would alone

Suffice); no letter would I read of his,

And turned a deaf ear to all messages.

‘And my ingratitude such bitter pain

Inflicted on him that his spirit broke.

When he had pleaded many times in vain,

Illness confined him to his bed; he spoke

No more, and soon he died, by sorrow slain

And now I weep and on my face the smoke

Has left a tinge that is indelible,

For no redemption can be found in Hell.’

Thus the unhappy Lydia ends her tale.

The duke moves onward to seek other souls,

But the avenging fog, like a thick veil,

As he advances, still more thickly rolls.

Soon not a handbreadth farther down the vale

Can he proceed; the smoke his senses dulls.

Not only must his footsteps be retraced,

But if he wants to live he must make haste.

And, striding rapidly, he seems to run,

Not walk, as he completes his upward climb

To where his journey to Inferno was begun.

He sees the aperture in a short time

Where the dark air is tempered by the sun.

Escaping breathless from the choking grime,

From the vile depths where he has been confined

He clambers forth, leaving the smoke behind.

And that those greedy pests may never more

Return, Astolfo gathers stones and rocks,

From pepper- and amomum-trees a store

Of branches cuts, and with these sticks and stocks

He makes a wall and hedge to bar the door;

So well this aperture Astolfo blocks,

The harpies will not find it possible

To make their exit thence again from Hell.

While he had visited that murky place,

The black smoke rising from the burning pitch

Not only stained Astolfo’s hands and face

But worse, it left an inner blemish which

Was hidden by his clothes; searching apace,

He found a spring at last in a small niche.

In this, to cleanse away the grime and soot,

Astolfo washed himself from head to foot.

Seated upon the hippogriff again,

Away into the air Astolfo flies.

The mountain’s summit he intends to gain,

Which almost to the moon is said to rise.

Now for the solid earth he feels disdain,

Ascending ever higher in the skies.

He does not once look down, nor does he stop

Until he lands upon the very top.

Sapphires and rubies, pearls and topazes,

Diamond, jacinth, chrysolite and gold

Might be compared with flowers which the breeze

Has painted there; and could we here behold

Those grassy slopes which now Astolfo sees,

The green would brighter seem than emerald.

The branches of the trees are no less fair,

Bright with the blossoms or the fruit they bear.

The little song-birds a sweet concert make

And gay their multi-coloured feathers gleam.

Clearer than crystal shines a quiet lake,

Translucent flows an ever-murmuring stream.

The foliage the breezes softly shake.

So constant, so unfaltering they seem,

The air so tremulous at their caress,

That nowhere can the heat of day oppress.

From flowers, fruit and grass the breezes stole

The varied perfumes, wafting to and fro;

And on this mingled sweetness fed the soul

Which only this delight desired to know.

Midway along a plain, upon a knoll,

A palace stood; with flame it seemed to glow.

Such light and splendour by its walls were cast,

All mortal buildings by it are surpassed.

Astolfo slowly rides towards the pile

And gazes on the wondrous monument.

It stretches, he observes, for many a mile,

For more than thirty is circumferent.

The beauty of the landscape and the style

Of the fair palace (so he argued) meant

Our fetid world by Heaven abhorred must be,

So sweet and fair that other is to see.

And when he next observes how luminous

The palace is, what can he do but stare?

A single gem, carved by a Daedalus,

Brighter and ruddier than rubies are!

Stupendous fabric! Nothing built by us

With structure such as this could we compare.

Let everyone be silent who would try

The seven wonders here to glorify.

And on the threshold of that house of bliss

An elder stands to greet the duke; his gown

Is white as milk, redder his mantle is

Than minium, silver his hair, and down

His breast extends a snowy beard which his

Ethereal aspect heightens, while a crown

Of light irradiates him in such wise

He seems of the elect of Paradise.

The duke approached on foot,in reverence,

And with a joyful face the elder said:

‘A will divine, O paladin, consents

That on the earthly paradise you tread.

Why you have come, nor where you go from hence,

You have not heard, but do not be misled:

For long predestined was your journey here

From the far distant northern hemisphere.

‘To rescue Christendom and Charlemagne

From present peril of the Infidel

You have been brought on high to this terrain.

Be now advised by what I have to tell:

Courage and knowledge would have been in vain,

My son – your horn, your wingéd horse as well;

Nothing could help you to attain this height

If God did not so will it in His might.

‘We shall discuss it later at our ease,

When I shall tell you what you have to do.

First take refreshment with us, if you please.

So long a fast is wearisome for you.’

And he proceeded, with such words as these,

The duke’s surprise and wonder to renew;

And in the end the greatest marvel came

When the old man revealed his saintly name.

For he was the Evangelist, that John

Whom Christ so loved that the belief was spread

That when his span of years was past and gone

He would not die, because these words were said

To Peter the Apostle by God’s Son:

‘If he await me, why art thou dismayed?’

Although He did not say: ‘He will not die’,

Yet we see plainly what His words imply.

For he ascended to this mountain where

Enoch the patriarch had come to dwell.

Elijah, the great prophet, too was there

Who has not perished but is living still.

And far beyond our pestilential air

They will enjoy eternal Spring until

The trumpets from on high shall sound aloud

And Christ shall come again on a white cloud.

With gracious hospitality the knight

Was welcomed to a chamber by the saints.

The hippogriff was stabled for the night.

With corn in plenty, it had no complaints.

And when Astolfo tasted the delight

Of fruits of paradise, of the constraints

On our first parents he revised his views:

Their disobedience he could excuse.

When the adventurous duke had satisfied

His natural needs for food and for repose

(With every comfort he had been supplied),

Aurora from her husband’s bed arose

(Despite his age her love has never died,

But as he older, she the fonder, grows).

Astolfo, rising too, saw standing near

The loved disciple Jesus held so dear.

Clasping Astolfo’s hand, of things he spoke

Which I in silence deem it best to pass;

And then he said, ‘My son, the Christian folk

In France (more than you know) are in distress,

For you must learn that your Orlando took

The wrong direction and is now, alas!,

Enduring retribution, for God sends

Dire punishment when one He loves offends.

‘On your Orlando God bestowed at birth

The greatest strength and courage, and beyond

The usage of all combatants on earth,

His body cannot suffer any wound.

Our holy Faith’s Defender, he stands forth,

And so appointed by God’s mighty bond,

Like Samson, champion of the Hebrew lines

Against their enemies, the Philistines.

‘But your Orlando for his gifts has made

To his Creator but a poor return.

The more it was his duty to lend aid,

The more the Faithful have been left forlorn.

His blinding passion for a pagan maid

This Christian knight of judgement has so shorn

That cruelly his cousin twice he fought

And with impiety his death has sought.

‘And God for this has caused him to run mad,

With sides and chest and belly stripped and bare

(So that his foes have reason to be glad),

Of others and himself quite unaware;

And a like retribution, I will add,

Nebuchadnezzar was obliged to bear

For seven years, when, as the Bible says,

On pasture, like an ox, God made him graze.

‘Since the wrong-doings of the paladin

Are less to be condemned, so they incurred

Less retribution than the monarch’s sin;

And, for the ways in which Orlando erred,

A sentence of three months was passed, and in

This period his intellect was blurred.

And now God wills that you from us shall learn

How you can make Orlando’s wits return.

‘Another journey I must take you on,

Leaving the earth beneath us far below,

Until we reach the circle of the moon –

The nearest of the planets, as you know.

The only means to cure Orlando soon

Is hidden there and that is why we go.

And when the moon is riding high tonight

We shall set out together on our flight.’

Of this and other matters with the duke

St John Evangelist discoursed that day;

But when the sun the western world forsook,

The moon her horn had started to display

Then that same chariot which in God’s Book

From the Judaean mountains bore away

Elijah out of sight of mortal eyes

Is now made ready for the enterprise.

Four chestnut steeds, shining and ruddier

Than flame, the saint first harnessed to the coach

And, seated now beside his passenger,

He takes the reins and at his skilful touch

The horses rise; first, like a hoverer,

The chariot rotates, then they approach

The sphere of fire, and by a miracle

They are not burned or singed, and all is well.

When they have left the ring of fire behind

, They reach the kingdom of the moon, which brigh

As spotless steel, for the most part they find,

Equal (though somewhat smaller) in their sight

To our own globe, the last of those confined

Within the circling spheres, although not quite

Identical, for if that were to be

The moon would be encompassed by the sea.

Astolfo had two reasons for surprise:

First, that the kingdom of the lunar sphere

Should be so large, when such a tiny size

Its circle seems to us when glimpsed from here;

Next, that he had to screw up both his eyes

To see the globe we live on plain and clear.

Since earth and ocean have no proper light,

Their image does not rise to a great height.

There, other lakes and rivers, other rills

From ours down here on earth are to be found,

And other plains and valleys, other hills.

Cities and castles on the moon abound;

The size of houses with amazement fills

The paladin; extending all around

Are deep and solitary forests where

Diana’s huntress-nymphs pursue the deer.

The duke did not delay to view each sight,

For that was not the aim of his ascent.

Between two mountains of prodigious height

The travellers to a deep valley went.

What by our fault, or Time’s relentless flight,

Or Fortune’s chances, or by accident

(Whatever be the cause) we lose down here,

Miraculously is assembled there.

Not only wealth and kingdoms, which the wheel

Of Fortune whirls at random among men,

But what she has no power to give or steal,

Such as the following, I also mean:

Tatters of fame are there, on which a meal

Is made (the tooth of Time is sharp and keen);

Prayers to God and penitential vows

Which sinners make with humbled knees and brows,

The tears of lovers and their endless sighs,

The moments lost in empty games of chance

Vain projects none could ever realize,

The fruitless idleness of ignorance

And unfulfilled desire – which occupies

More room than all the rest and more expanse

In short, whatever has been lost on earth

Is found upon the moon, for what it’s worth.

Between the garnered heaps Astolfo passed,

Asking to be enlightened by his guide.

He heard the whistling shriek and gusty blast

Of swollen bladders; these, St John replied,

Had once been crowns, by monarchs worn, long past,

Who once were celebrated far and wide,

Whose very names now scarce remembered are,

Of Persia, Greece, Lydia, Assyria.

Fish-hooks of gold and silver, a vast hoard

Of treasure, were the futile offerings

Made in the hope of mercy or reward,

To patrons, avaricious princes, kings.

Garlands with hidden snares were praises poured

In adulation, like the chirrupings

Of cicadas which, empty now and spent,

The homage sung by poets represent.

Fetters of gold and bonds with gems encrusted

Were fruitless love-affairs pursued in vain.

Talons of eagles were the powers entrusted

To eager toadies by their sovereign.

The princely favours for which minions lusted

And granted favours willingly to gain

(No longer prized when youth had lost its bloom),

Were bellows filled with empty air and fume.

Ruins of cities and of fortresses

Lay scattered all about, with precious stores,

Plots ill-contrived, broken alliances,

Feuds and vendettas and abortive wars,

Serpents whose faces had the semblances

Of thieves and coiners and seductive whores.

Phials lay broken – he saw many sorts –

The futile service of ungrateful courts.

And pools of soup from many basins spilled

(Such was the explanation of St John)

Were all bequests which dying persons willed

For charitable ends; then, moving on,

They passed a heap of flowers which once filled

The air with perfume but turned putrid soon.

This was the gift (if such it can be said)

Which Constantine to Pope Sylvester made.

Traps, snares and lures, he saw, besmeared with lime.

These, ladies, your sweet charms and graces were.

But if I weave a pattern in my rhyme

Of all the things shown to Astolfo there,

Unending it will be and long the time.

Every event in life, every affair

Is found, with one exception, on the moon:

Never will madness from the earth be gone.

Some days the duke had lost next caught his eye;

Some of his deeds which he performed in vain,

St John interpreted as they walked by;

And what we think we never lose, I mean

Our wits (for them we raise no prayers on high),

Towering like a mountain on the plain,

Exceeded all the other smaller mounds

In which the kingdom of the moon abounds.

A liquid, thin and clear, Astolfo sees,

Distilled in many vases, large and small,

Which must (so volatile the fluid is)

Be tightly corked; the largest of them all

Contains the greatest of those essences:

The mind of mad Anglante, of whose fall

You are aware and of his frenzied fits.

And on it the duke read: ‘Orlando’s wits’.

On other bottles too the names are shown

To whom the wits belong. To his surprise,

Astolfo finds a great part of his own;

And, more astonished still, before his eyes

He sees the wits of those he thought had none.

But this his first impression verifies:

That little wit they must retain down here

If such a quantity is found up there.

Some lose their wits for love, some for reward

Of fame, still others scour the seas for gain;

Another hopes for favours from his lord;

Others in futile magic trust in vain;

Some paintings treasure, others jewels hoard;

All for their hearts’ desire have gone insane:

Astrologers and sophists by the score

Have lost their reason, poets too, still more.

Astolfo takes his wits (for this St John

Allows); putting the bottle to his nose,

He sniffs, and to their former place they run;

And Turpin says (and I believe he knows)

Astolfo lived more wisely from then on,

Save for one error, as I will disclose,

Which later made him lose his wits again

And all his friends’ remonstrances were vain.

The largest, fullest bottle, which contained

Orlando’s wits, Astolfo also took.

He found these were less easily attained

(Since they were higher up); before the duke

Descended from the moon, and earth regained,

The author of the apocalyptic book

Led him to where a river ran beside

A palace, and invited him inside.

Fleeces and bales were stacked in every room,

Of flax, of silk, of cotton and of wool,

Bright-hued, or sombre with the tones of doom.

A white-haired woman wound a spindleful

Of skeins from all these fibres, as when some

Young country lass the moistened spoils will pull

From the cocoons in summer-time anew,

When the silk-harvest of the year is due.

When all the fibre from one fleece is gone,

The next is brought; the worst and the best thread

Are separated by another crone

(For she who winds it pays no heed to grade).

‘What work is this?’ Astolfo asked St John.

‘The two old women are the Fates,’ he said,

‘They the divinities immortal are

Who spin your mortal lives from stamina.

‘Long as a skein endures, so long will last

A human life, and not one moment more.

Death takes away the fibres of the past,

And Nature’s watchful task is to restore.

And by the second Fate the threads are classed.

Some will adorn the robes of souls before

The heavenly throne, but the defective will

Be fashioned as harsh bonds for those in Hell.’

The spindles, full of fibres to be spun,

And for their several uses set aside,

Were tagged with little disks; on every one,

Iron, silver, gold, a name could be descried.

And as the progress of the work went on,

Untiring to and fro an old man plied,

Taking away the spindles from the store

And always coming back again for more.

So swift and nimble was that ancient man,

You would have thought he had been born to race;

And to reduce that heap appeared his plan,

Decreasing it as he increased his pace.

The reason why he did and where he ran

I’ll tell you at some other time and place,

If I receive a welcome sign from you

That I should take my story up anew.

CANTO XXXV

Who will ascend for me into the skies

And bring me back the wits which I have lost?

The dart you aimed, my lady, with your eyes

Transfixed my heart, to my increasing cost.

Yet I will utter no complaining cries

Unless more triumph over me you boast;

But if my wits continue to diminish

I know that like Orlando I will finish.

But to regain my sanity, I know

I have no need to journey to the moon

Or to the realms of Paradise to go,

For not so high my scattered wits have flown.

Your eyes, your brow, your breasts as white as snow,

Your limbs detain them here, and I will soon

Retrace them with my lips, where’er they went,

And gather them once more, with your consent.

Through spacious, lofty halls the paladin

Strode on, gazing at lives that were to be,

When on the fateful distaff he had seen

Those other lives complete their destiny.

Among them he perceived a golden skein.

The brightest gems, fashioned as filigree,

Not by one thousandth would with this compare,

However exquisite and fine they were.

The wondrous lustre of this life outshone

All other skeins; though they were numberless,

This golden marvel had no paragon.

Whose life it was Astolfo longed to guess,

And when it would begin on earth. St John

Revealed that twenty years (no more, no less)

Before that designated M and D

This life would enter on its infancy.

And as that lovely skein no equal had,

So the blest age that would arise with it

Would put all former ages in the shade,

By such unprecedented splendour lit!

To bounteous Nature’s gifts, Fortune would add

Her kindly share and Man his part remit

These rare endowments to perpetuate

And a fair paradise of grace create.

‘The king of rivers holds in his embrace

A humble little town. The waters flow

In proud twin branches where it turns its face;

Behind, to a deep, misty marsh they slow.

And as the centuries roll on apace,

In splendour and in fame I see it grow.

Through all the length of the peninsula

Its buildings and its arts unrivalled are.

‘And not by chance, for it is Heaven’s plan

This city shall so quickly gain repute

To be a birthplace worthy of this man,

Just as the branches which will bear the fruit

Are grafted by the skilful husbandman,

Who watchfully thereafter tends the shoot,

Or as a jeweller refines the gold

Which in its circle a fair gem will hold.

‘Never a lovelier vesture has been worn

By any spirit in the realms below;

And rarely has been, rarely will be, born

A soul as noble as Ippolito,

Who at the will of Heaven will adorn

The Este lineage; for you must know

Ippolito d’Este is the name by which

He will be called whom God will so enrich.

‘Those ornaments of soul,of which a few

Suffice to honour many men, will be

Combined in him of whom I speak to you,

Whose merits, gifts and talents I foresee.

Virtue he will protect, and learning too.

But if I list in their entiret

The noble deeds he will perform, it’s plain

Orlando for his wits will wait in vain.’

These were the words which Christ’s disciple said

In converse with the duke. When they had been

In all the rooms where lives were stored, he led

Astolfo to the stream which he had seen

On entering; sand, rising from the bed,

Rendered the water clouded and unclean

There on the bank they found that ancient man

Who to and fro perpetually ran.

I do not know if you remember him

From the last lines of Canto Thirty-four?

Old in the face, but lean and lithe of limb,

As fast as any deer he runs, and more.

He fills his lap with labels to the brim

In vain endeavour to deplete the store

And in the stream, named Lethe, which takes all

His precious load of plaques, he lets them fall.

When he arrived upon the river-ban

That prodigal old man his garment shook,

And all those names, no matter what their rank,

The turbid stream engulfed; and as the duke

observed, by far the greater number sank

Beyond the reach of fishing-line and hook;

Out of a hundred thousand thus obscured

Beneath the silt, scarce one, he saw, endured.

A flock of vultures wheeled about the flood

With jackdaws, crows and other birds of prey,

Hovering greedily as if for food

And cawing in a raucous roundelay.

The swooped upon the waters like one brood

Soon as they saw the treasures cast away.

These shining tokens of renown they seek

And bear them off (not far) in claws or beak.

But when such birds attempt to soar on high

They lack the stamina to bear the weight,

And of the names they choose, howe’er they try,

Oblivion in Lethe is the fate.

Two birds there are, and only two, which I

Believe can sing the praises of the great:

Two silver swans, as white my lord, as your

Proud eagle; in their mouths fame is secure.

So, counter to the impious desgin

Of the old man who each and every name

To the Lethean waters would consign,

These kindly swans a few preserved for fame.

Now moving, mirrored, in a stately line,

Now by their beating pinions borne they came

Beyond the stream, but not yet out of sight,

To where a noble temple crowned a height.

Sacred it is to immortality.

Thence a fair nymph to Lethe’s shore descends.

From the swans’ beaks the precious tokens she

Removes and near a sculptured form appends,

Reared on a column to eternity.

These plaques the nymph so consecrates and tends

That their renown will shine for evermore

In poetry and legendary lore.

Who this old man can be, the reason why

He casts the shining names into the stream,

The birds of prey which fail to reach the sky,

The swans, the temple and the nymph, which seem

Recondite mysteries to signify,

Astolfo begs to have explained to him.

St John with his request at once complies

And in the words which follow he replies:

‘You must believe, my son, no frond is stirred

On earth that is not mirrored in this sphere.

Every result of every act and word

Its corresponding counterpart has here.

That ancient man, by speed so swiftly spurred

That nothing with his pace can interfere,

The selfsame work performs, the same effects,

As Time performs on earth, in all respects.

‘When all the fibre of a reel is spun,

A human life completed is and past.

Its fame on earth is here inscribed upon

A laue such as ou saw the old man cas

Into the turbid stream; and either one

(But for its foe) eternally would last:

The bearded man who runs and never waits

And Time who men’s renown obliterates.

‘And, as up here the vultures and the crows,

The jackdaws and the other birds of prey

Swoop for the labels which the old man throws,

And the most shining try to bear away;

So ruffians sycophants, buffoons, all those

Who bear false witness, ganymedes who play

The loyal friends of rulers (all these are

More welcome than the virtuous by far),

‘Who are called courtiers and thought well-bred

Because the ass and hog they imitate –

These, when that white-haired crone has spun the thread

Of their lord’s life (who dies inebriate

As like as not, or of excess in bed),

These hangers-on, whose aim is but to sate

Their bellies, take his name upon their lips,

Then let it sink for ever in eclipse.

‘But, as the silver swans with joyful song

Convey these medals safely to the shrine,

Poets on earth renown and fame prolong

Which Time would to oblivion consign.

Wise and far-sighted princes (few among

So many!) who the steps of the benign

Augustus follow and hold writers dear,

Of Lethe’s waters you need have no fear.

‘Poets (like swans up here) are rare on earth;

I mean true poets, who deserve the name.

The will of God, perhaps, ordained this dearth;

Or princely avarice may be to blame,

Which beggars makes of those whom at their birth

The Muses have endowed with sacred flame,

And Good suppresses but on Evil smiles,

And every true and noble art exiles.

‘But God deprives such ignoramuses

Of intellect and so bedims their sight

That art to them abomination is;

And so the sepulchre consumes them quite.

Yet, notwithstanding all iniquities,

Their reputation would be lily-white,

More fragrant it would smell than nard or myrrh,

If they in life the friends of poets were.

‘Aeneas not so pious, nor so strong

Achilles was, as they are famed to be;

Hector was less ferocious; and a throng

Of heroes could surpass them, but we see

Their valour and their deeds enhanced in song,

For their descendants had so lavishly

Rewarded poets for their eulogies

With gifts of villas, farm-lands, palaces.

‘Not so beneficent Augustus was

As Virgil’s epic clarion proclaimed.

His taste in poetry must be the cause

Why his proscriptions were left uncondemned.

No one would know of Nero’s unjust laws,

Nor would he for his cruelties be famed

(Though he had been by Heaven and earth reviled)

If writers he had wooed and reconciled.

‘Homer makes Agamemnon win the war;

The Trojans cowardly and weak he shows.

Although the suitors so persistent are,

Penelope is faithful to her spouse.

But if for truth you are particular,

Like this, quite in reverse, the story goes:

The Greeks defeated, Troy victorious,

And chaste Penelope notorious.

‘Consider Dido; she, whose heart was pure,

Was faithful to Sichaeus to the end;

But she is thought by all to be a whore,

Because Vergilius was not her friend.

And do not be amazed that I deplore

The fate of writers and on them expend

So many words: I love them, and I do

But pay my debt: I was a writer too.

‘Reward above all others I have won,

Which neither Time nor Death can take from me,

Which I was justly granted by the Son

Whom I so praised, as was my destiny.

And now I grieve for those whose course is run

In times ungenerous, when Courtesy

Has shut the door, and writers, lean and pale,

Beat on it night and day, to no avail.

‘And so there is no cause to be amazed

If poets and if scholars now are few;

For where there is no pasture to be grazed,

Nor shelter, such a terrain beasts eschew.’

As the Disciple spoke, his eyes so blazed,

That like two fires of righteous wrath they grew.

Then with a smile he turned towards the duke.

Serene, no longer troubled, was his look.

But for the present let Astolfo keep

In converse with the Gospel-writer. I

The distance from the moon to earth must leap;

My wings are tired with bearing me so high.

I will return to Bradamante, whom a deep

And painful wound torments, inflicted by

The lance of jealousy. I left her just

As she had made three monarchs bite the dust.

When evening fell she came to a redoubt

Along the road to Paris, where she heard

That Agramante had been put to rout

And all his camp to Arles had been transferred.

There her Ruggiero is, she has no doubt.

No sooner had the light of day appeared

Than towards Provence where Charlemagne, she knew,

Pursued the pagans, she set out anew.

Towards Provence, along a route direct

She rode, and met a damsel in distress.

Though she was sad, the observer could detect

The beauty of her face and of her dress,

Her gentle manner which inspired respect.

She is that stricken sweetheart, you can guess,

Of Monodante’s son, a captive now

Of Rodomonte who fulfils a vow.

She had been looking for a cavalier

To fight as well in water as on land

(As though an otter, not a knight, he were),

And fierce enough to take a valiant stand.

She who so sadly yearned for her Ruggier

This sadly-yearning damsel greeted, and,

After exchange of courtesies, she next

Enquired by what affliction she was vexed.

Gazing upon her, Fiordiligi sees

(She thinks) a cavalier who meets the case.

She tells her, therefore, what the trouble is:

How at the bridge the king all comers stays,

And how her lover he had come to seize;

Not by his greater strength, but by his base

Manoeuvring, that monarch, fierce and grim

Gained an advantage from the bridge and stream.

‘If you’, she said, ‘as valiant are and brave

As by your aspect you appear to be,

Avenge me, for God’s sake, upon the knave

Who, to my sorrow, took my love from me;

Or, if some other mission you now have,

Is there a knight of equal gallantry,

Who in so many wars so well has fought,

The pagan’s vantage he can bring to naught?

‘Not only will you thus fulfil the part

Of a knight-errant and a courteous man;

You will bring succour to a faithful heart

With whose fidelity no lover can

Compete; his virtues (but I must not start

To speak of them) exceed the normal span

Of goodness; and if anyone you find

Who knows not this, he must be deaf and blind.’

The noble-hearted Maid, to whom such feats

Are always welcome for the fame they bring,

Who every worthy challenge gladly meets,

No time desires to waste in dallying.

And the more readily this risk she greets

Death, if it comes, will end her suffering.

Despairing now of being Ruggiero’s wife,

The unhappy Maid has no desire for life.

‘For what I’m worth, love-smitten lass,’ she said,

‘I’ll undertake this exploit as you ask.

The reasons why I offer you my blade

Are chiefly such as I prefer to mask;

Yet one there is which I will not evade,

Which above all inclines me to the task:

Your lover’s faithfulness; I swear to you

That I believed all men to be untrue.’

These final words were uttered on a sigh,

A sigh which came from deep within her breast.

Then, ‘Let us go,’ she said. And when the sky

Is gold with dawn, they reach that narrowest

Pass perilous which boldly they defy.

By his guard’s trumpet summoned to the test,

The pagan arms himself and by the bridge

Takes his position at the water’s edge.

And when he sees that warrior draw near,

He threatens her with death unless she makes

Oblation of her arms and destrier.

But Bradamante’s courage he mistakes;

She knows the story of the sepulchre,

And Isabella’s fate her wrath awakes

(The damsel told her of it as they came),

And thus she answers the proud pagan’s claim:

‘You brute! You make the innocent atone

In reparation for your evil deed?

You killed the maiden, as by all is known.

The sin, the guilt, are yours, and you should bleed.

And better than the victims you have thrown,

Robbing them of their weapons and their steed,

A sacrifice I’ll offer that is due:

Her death I will avenge by killing you.

‘My gift will be more pleasing for the fact

That I too am a woman as she was,

And I have come here to perform this act

To avenge her death, and for no other cause.

But let us first between us fix a pact

In true conformity with knighthood’s laws :

If I by you am vanquished, I agree

To join the others in captivity.

‘If I beat you (as I believe and hope)

I take your weapons and your destrier.

These and these only I will offer up

And of all others strip the sepulchre,

And you must free the captives from their coop.’

‘What you propose’, the pagan answered her,

‘Seems just; but you must know that I could not

Release the vanquished captives on the spot.

‘I sent them to my African domain;

But rest assured, for solemnly I vow

That if (by chance) on horseback you remain

And I on foot to you defeated bow,

I will set all the captives free again,

If you the interval of time allow

Which is required to send a messenger,

To do as you command, from here to there.

‘But if instead it is your fate to fall,

As I am sure is bound to be the case,

I’ll not suspend your trophy on the wall,

Nor any evidence of your disgrace.

My triumph over you in arms I shall

Donate to your sweet eyes, your hair, your face.

Such loveliness I cannot but adore,

If you will love, not hate me as before.

‘My valour and my prowess are so great,

No scorn you’ll suffer if I lay you low.’

He gave a smile, a smile of bitter hate

And wrath; no other feeling did it show.

The Maid did not reply, nor did she wait,

But to the bridge-head turned at once to go.

She spurred her horse and with the golden lance

Against the Moor made ready to advance.

And Rodomonte for the joust prepares.

He rides so fast, he makes the bridge resound

With echoes which must deafen many ears,

I think perhaps, for many miles around.

The golden lance which Bradamante bears

Performs as usual, and to the ground

It throws the Moor, a champion of the joust.

Poised in mid-air, he drops, and bites the dust.

And as she passed him on that narrow strip,

The valiant Maid could scarce find room enough.

It almost seemed as if her horse would slip

And she was on the verge of falling off.

But Rabicano never missed a step.

This charger was not made of equine stuff,

But fire and wind; along the bridge he pranced,

And on a sword’s edge too he could have danced.

She turns and to the pagan whom she tossed

She gallops back and utters this bon mot:

‘Now you can see’, she said, ‘which one has lost

And which of us has now to lie below.’

The pagan king, astonished and nonplussed

To think a woman dealt him such a blow,

Cannot, or it may be will not, reply,

But as one stupefied can only lie.

Speechless and crestfallen, he rose at last

And doffed his helm, his armour and his shield.

These with his arms against the rocks he cast.

Alone, on foot, with bitter hatred filled,

From the Maid’s vision Rodomonte passed;

But not before his vow he had fulfilled,

Giving a message to a squire to free

The vanquished champions in captivity

He went and nothing more of him was heard,

Except that he took refue in a cave.

Meanwhile the Maid the pagan’s arms transferred

To the great sepulchre; those of the brave

True paladins, by Charlemagne preferred,

She bade the squire take down; the rest to leave

Untouched upon the walls the Maid saw fit,

And their removal she would not permit.

As well as those of Monodante’s son

Were those of Sansonet and Oliver.

When looking for Orlando they had gone,

The route they took (the straightest) led them here,

Where they were vanquished by the pagan on

The narrow bridge and taken prisoner.

The Maid commanded that their arms be stripped

From where they hung, and in the tower kept.

She left the other trophies on the wall,

For pagans’ weapons such was her disdain:

Even the armour of a king, who all

Those many steps had taken, but in vain,

Searching for Frontalatte – you recall

The king I speak of – the Circassian,

Who at this bridge his other charger left

And thence departed, of his arms bereft.

Disarmed, the king departed, and on foot,

Leaving the bridge of peril far behind.

Others of his religion followed suit,

For Rodomonte then was of no mind

To call them back or to attempt pursuit.

Yet Sacripante did not feel inclined

To make his way to camp: he’d suffer scorn,

After his boasting, should he thus return.

New longing urged him to pursue his quest

Of her his heart enshrined (and her alone).

I know not if he heard, or if he guessed,

But Fate ordained that he should learn quite soon

That she had left for home, towards the East.

And as Love goaded him and spurred him on,

He left straightway to follow in her track.

But I to Bradamante must turn back.

She placed a new inscription first, to show

That by her deed this pass was rendered free.

To Fiordilligi then, whose face, held low

Was bathed in tears, she turned, and tenderly

Enquired of her where she now wished to go.

The damsel said, ‘The only road for me

Is that which leads to Arles, that I may gain

The territory of the Saracen.

‘I hope to find a vessel and a crew

To take me safely to the other shore.

I will not rest, all efforts I’ll renew

Until I reach my lord whom I adore,

My husband Brandimarte fond and true

I will try every means, that evermore

He will be free; should Rodomonte fail

To keep his word, my help must then avail.’

‘I will escort you,’ Bradamante said,

‘At least along a portion of your course,

Until you come where Arles lies close ahead.

There, for my sake, employ all your resource

To find Ruggiero (no more valiant aid

Has Agramante). Give him back this horse,

Which I from the proud Saracen have won,

Since by my weapon he was overthrown,

‘And say to him, exactly as I say:

“A cavalier who has good reason to

Believe that he can demonstrate today

That you have broken faith, and proved untrue,

That you may be equipped in every way,

Gave me this destrier to give to you,

Bidding you put your armour on at once

And meet him where he waits with sword and lance.”

‘Say this and nothing else; if he should ask

You who I am, tell him you do not know.’

The damsel, ever courteous, the task

Accepts; she says, ‘I’d never weary grow

Of serving you’ (her thanks she does not mask);

‘My life I’d pay, not words, for all I owe.’

The Maid, well pleased, gives her Frontino’s rein

And thus together they set out again.

Along the river the fair travellers

Ride resolutely on their route until

They catch a glimpse of Arles and in their ears

The booming of the surf is audible.

Here at the boundary the Maid prefers

To wait, some distance from the citadel,

And of the time required allowance makes

For her who to her love his charger takes.

The damsel enters by the outer gate

And, with a faithful squire for company,

Crosses the drawbridge at a spanking rate.

Finding the lodging of Ruggiero, she

Dismounts, her message ready to dictate.

She trusts a servant with her embassy.

Expecting no reply, she gallops on

And to her love’s assistance soon is gone.

Ruggiero is bewildered and perplexed:

Who it can be he cannot tell, who thus

Reproaches him one moment, and the next,

Sending Frontino, is so courteous.

What man is there so bold as to have vexed

Him by an insult so gratuitous?

No answer to the problem can he find:

All names, save Bradamante’s, come to mind.

It may be Rodomonte is the one;

But still there is a mystery to solve.

Why should he challenge him in such a tone?

This problem he continues to revolve.

Except for him, in all the world, there’s none

With whom he has a quarrel to resolve.

Meanwhile the Maid, with martial pride and scorn,

Beyond the walls, in challenge, sounds her horn.

Soon Agramante and Marsilio

Have heard the news; and present there, by chance,

Is Serpentino, who asks leave to show

The knight what he can do with sword and lance.

He promises that he will bring him low

In retribution for his arrogance.

Already on the walls spectators throng,

Every inhabitant, both old and young.

Clad in a surcoat costly and enriched,

With fair accoutrements, Galicia’s king

Rode forth to joust – and at first blow lay stretched

Upon the ground; his horse, it seemed, took wing.

The gallant Maid rode after it and fetched

It by the rein; she waited, menacing,

And said, ‘Remount, and tell your lord from me

To send a knight of more ability.’

King Agramante from a near-by wall

Has watched the joust with a large retinue.

He is amazed by Serpentino’s fall

And by the gesture of the unknown foe.

The Saracens, on hearing of it, call:

‘He is his prisoner, he lets him go.’

Then Serpentino comes and, as the Maid

Commands, asks for an abler knight instead.

Grandonio of Volterna, wild with rage,

The proudest cavalier throughout all Spain,

Desired to be the second to engage

In combat with the stranger on the plain.

‘Your courtesy,’ he threatened, ‘I’ll presage,

Will be of no avail; if you remain

Alive, I’ll lead you captive to my lord;

But you will die, if deeds with might accord.’

The Maid replied, ‘Your vile discourtesy

Will not provoke me to an equal spite.

Before you learn how hard the ground can be,

Go back; I give you warning, as is right.

Go back, and tell your lord and king from me

That not with such as you I come to fight,

But with a warrior of such esteem

That it is fitting I should joust with him.’

This biting, bitter answer which she made

The bosom of the Saracen inflames.

He says no word but turns his horse instead

And combat with the challenger thus claims.

Turning her horse likewise, at him the Maid

Both golden lance and Rabicano aims.

The magic weapon barely strikes the shield:

Heels in the air, he’s stretched out on the field.

Holding the bridle of his destrier,

The Maid then says: ‘I told you in advance

You would be wise to be my messenger,

Rather than be so ready with your lance.

Now tell your king to choose a cavalier

Who equals me in skill and valiance.

I have no wish to waste my time in fights

With inexperienced and untrained knights.’

The watchers on the wall are at a loss:

Who is the warrior who sits upright

While one by one the others take a toss?

They name those names which chill their blood with

Many say Brandimarte, others guess [fright:

Rinaldo (the majority), the knight

Whom they most fear; and many would have said

Orlando, save that news of him has spread.

Lanfusa’s son, requesting the third joust,

All hope of being victorious disclaimed.

‘But if I too’, he said, ‘shall bite the dust,

Less reason these will have to feel ashamed.’

All the accoutrements a warrior must

In jousting wear, this combatant (named

Ferraù) put on; he chose one steed

(Out of a hundred), skilled and of great speed.

Thus he rode forth to tilt against the Maid;

But first, as was correct, he greeted her,

And she returned his greeting; then she said,

‘In courtesy, pray tell me who you are.’

Rarely, if ever, did the knight evade

Such a request; the valiant challenger

He satisfied: ‘though I’d prefer to fight’,

, She said, ‘instead of you, another knight.

‘Who?’ asked the Saracen; and she replied

‘Ruggiero’, stammering upon the name,

Suffused with blushes which she could not hide,

Till like a rose her lovely face became.

Then she went on, ‘His praises far and wide

Are sung and I, attracted by his fame,

Am here with one desire: to prove and test

His prowess, and with him alone contest.’

She said these words in all simplicity

(Though some may take them in another sense),

And Ferraù replied, ‘First let us see

Who is the better-trained for tournaments.

If, as before, you also vanquish me,

I shall be comforted in my laments

By that brave cavalier with whom you say

The joys of jousting you would now essay.’

While they discourse the Maid does not replace

Her visor, thus revealing to the eyes

Of Ferraù the beauty of her face.

He, as though conquered, gazes in surprise,

And to himself, but not aloud, he says:

‘Can this an Angel be from Paradise?

Though by no lance I’m wounded or unseated,

By those fair eyes already I’m defeated.’

They turned their horses round and, as before,

This combatant was toppled and thrown clear.

The Maid secured the destrier once more

And said, ‘Now keep your word.’ The Saracen,

Ashamed, rose to his feet and, bruised and sore,

Returned to tell Ruggiero, who was in

Attendance on his king, that the strange knight

Desired with him, and only him, to fight.

Not knowing he is challenged by the Maid,

Ruggiero, at these words of Ferraù,

Accepts with joy, for he is unafraid.

The deadly blows which from their saddles threw

The other knights have left him undismayed.

His coat of mail, his helm and hauberk too

He dons, and forth he rides; but what occurred

Must now to my next canto be deferred.

CANTO XXXVI

A noble heart (no matter whose it is)

Will always gracious, kind and just remain

Nature and habit formed it in this guise;

It is beyond its power to alter then.

A base, ignoble heart not otherwise

(No matter whose) its villainy makes plain.

Nature has given it an evil trend

Which habit then finds difficult to mend.

Many a noble deed of courtesy

By warriors in former days was done,

And few in modern times; but treachery

And sacrilegious acts to you were known,

My lord, when trophies of the enemy

Adorned your churches and when you alone

Led their proud vessels, captured in that war,

Loaded with booty to your native shore.

All the inhuman acts and cruelties

Which Tartar, Turk or Moor had ever wrought

(But Venice truly not the culprit is :

With chivalry unstained the Lion fought)

Were perpetrated by the mercenaries

Whose evil hands such woe and havoc brought.

Of homesteads set on fire I will not speak,

Of farms destroyed and blazing every rick.

Though a vile act of vengeance against you

That was; for at the siege of Padua

(Where Maximilian was present too)

It was by your command that in that war

Fires were put out, as the Venetians knew,

And villages and churches, near and far,

Were spared, such the nobility and worth

Which graced your nature ever since your birth.

That deed I will omit, and other ones

As cruel and unchivalrous, and turn

Instead to this event which tears from stones

Should cause to flow and marble move to mourn

Whenever woe the tragic tale intones:

That day when those who honour held in scorn

Abandoned ship and to a fort withdrew,

Followed by loyal troops despatched by you.

Like Hector and Aeneas who defied

The deep to burn the Grecian fleet they went.

An Alexander, Hercules, I spied

Who, spurring neck and neck, on havoc bent,

Reached the redoubt and passed so far inside

(To goad the enemy being their intent),

The former almost failed to get away,

The latter captured was and held that day.

Ferruffino escaped: Cantelmo stayed.

O duke of Sora, what were your thoughts then,

Your feelings when your valiant son was led

On board a ship, amid a thousand men,

And helmetless, across a gunwale laid,

Was there beheaded? Execrable scene!

I marvel that the spectacle alone

Did not despatch you, as the sword your son.

Cruel Slavonians! Where did you learn

Such soldiering? In what barbaric lands

Are rules of war so merciless and stern

That he who has surrendered and who hands

His weapons to his captors shall thus earn

His death? Its light the sun unjustly lends

To this our age which the vile deeds renews

Of Tantalus, Thyestes and Atreus.

Cruel barbarians, thus to behead

The bravest youth this century has known!

From pole to pole, or from the Ganges’ bed

To the Far West, he had no paragon.

E’en Anthropophagus, of brutal breed,

And Polvphemus, mercy would have shown

To such fair limbs, but you are worse than all

The Cyclopes or any cannibal.

No such example of barbarity

Among the cavaliers of old you’d find.

To honour, noble deeds and chivalry

They pledged themselves with heart and soul and mind;

Nor were they cruel after victory.

The Maid, as you recall, was not unkind

To those whom she unhorsed; holding the rein,

She bade them mount upon their steeds again.

I told you how this valorous, fair Maid

First Serpentino Stella had unseated;

Grandonio Volterna next I said,

Then Ferraù, to a like shame were fated.

They climbed back to their saddles with her aid

And none of them for further combat waited.

The third imparts her challenge to Ruggier,

Who does not doubt she is a cavalier.

The challenge was accepted joyfully,

And while Ruggiero armed, the others turned

To the discussion of the mystery.

King Agramante and his nobles burned

To know the cavalier’s identity,

And Ferraù was asked if he discerned,

From converse, who it was who with his lance

Gave in all ways such proof of excellence.

‘You can be certain’, Ferraù replied,

‘He is not one of those whom you have guessed.

Seeing him with his visor lifted, I’d

Have sworn he was (and this seemed likeliest)

Rinaldo’s brother; but now, having tried

His valour, Ricciardetto by this test

I must exclude; his sister it may be:

I hear there is great similarity.

‘Renowned for prowess and for fortitude,

The equal of Rinaldo she is deemed

And of her cousin; and today she showed

Such skill that their superior she seemed.’

And when Ruggiero heard these words, a flood

Of crimson all his face suffused and brimmed,

As when the morning paints the sky anew.

His heart distraught, he knows not what to do.

A shaft of love so pricks him at this news,

His passion is rekindled in a trice;

And at that very moment too there flows

Through all his bones a chill of fear like ice –

Fear that a love so ardent he may lose,

That of delay disdain may be the price.

Perplexed, Ruggiero cannot now decide

Whether to go to meet her, or to bide.

It happened that Marfisa too was there

And longed to try her skill against the knight;

And she was fully-armed, for it was rare

To find her otherwise, by day or night.

She thought that if she waited for Ruggier

He would deprive her of the chance to fight.

Thus she resolved that she would get there first,

So great for glory was Marfisa’s thirst.

She mounts her horse, impatient to depart

To where the daughter of the Montalbans

Awaits Ruggiero with a beating heart.

Longing to take him prisoner, she plans

And carefully considers in which part

It will least harmful be to aim her lance.

Marfisa through the gateway now appears.

A phoenix on her helm as crest she wears,

Either in pride, to signify that she

In all the world in prowess is unique,

Or as a symbol of her chastity,

Since never for a consort would she seek.

The Maid observes her; when she does not see

Those features she so loved, she bids her speak:

What is her name? ‘Marfisa,’ she replies –

And there her rival is, before her, eyes.

Or rather, not her rival, but the one

With whom she thinks Ruggiero has betrayed

Her trust, who (so she thinks) his love has won.

Resolved that retribution shall be paid,

She turns her destrier and spurs him on

In hate, in wrath, the purpose of the Maid

Not being to unhorse but through the breast

To pierce her and from jealousy find rest.

Marfisa by this stroke was flung below

And if that day the ground was soft or hard

A good position she was in to know.

So seldom is she taken off her guard,

She is infuriated by the blow

And to avenge herself she draws her sword.

But Aymon’s daughter proudly calls to her:

‘What are you doing? You’re my prisoner.

‘Though courteous with others I may be,

I will not show such courtesy to you,

Who are endowed with every villainy,

And insolent and overweening too.’

As in a rocky cavern by the sea

A piercing wind is heard to shriek, just so

Marfisa’s rage is uttered not in speech

(She cannot find the words) but in a screech.

She wields her weapon, aiming it as much

At her opponent’s steed in paunch and breast

As at the rider. At a skilful touch

Upon the rein, it rises to the test

And leaps aside; at the same moment, such

Is Bradamante’s rage, that, lance in rest,

She strikes her adversary down again,

Sending her sprawling backwards on the plain.

No sooner is she down than to her feet

She springs, and lays about her with her sword.

The Maid, her lance in rest, the selfsame feat

Renews and sends her rolling on the sward.

Though Bradamante’s skill and strength are great,

She could not thus at every blow have floored

Marfisa, had it not been for the lance

Which magic virtue adds to excellence.

Some cavaliers arrived upon the scene

And stayed as witnesses of the event –

Some of the Christian cavaliers, I mean,

Who to the area of jousting went,

Which lay about a mile or two between

The camps; they saw the prowess which had sent

Marfisa to the ground; the Maid they deemed

A Christian cavalier – and so she seemed.

They see the late Troiano’s gallant son,

Alert and vigilant, approach the walls.

He lays his plans and nothing leaves undone

All danger and reverses he forestalls.

He bids his captains put their armour on

And muster for whatever now befalls.

Among them is Ruggiero, whom in haste

And eagerness Marfisa had replaced.

Such was his apprehension for his bride

He could not quell the tumult in his breast,

For well he knew that she whom she defied

In many a deadly combat came off best.

This was at first, when they began to ride

In wrath towards each other, lance in rest;

But when he saw how the encounter went,

Ruggiero was amazed at the event.

And when from combat they did not withdraw,

As was the case with the preceding three

With deep foreboding stricken, he foresaw

Both warriors would be in jeopardy.

Although remaining faithful to Love’s law,

He loves them both in all sincerity:

His love for one all ardour is and flame;

His other love affection I would name.

Gladly Ruggiero would have stopped the fight,

Save that his honour he would thus impugn;

But his companions deem it just and right

To snatch the palm from Charles’s champion

(Who seems to them superior in might)

By bursting forth upon the field; and soon

The Christians also, from the other side,

To the encounter in a body ride.

Now here, now there, the trumpets sound ‘To arms!’

As was the custom almost every day.

‘All cavaliers on foot, to horse! Take arms,

All those unarmed!’, their piercing voices say,

And ‘He who would defend his lord from harms,

Around his banner rally straight away!’

And while the trumpets rouse the cavalry,

Tabors and drums arouse the infantry.

A fierce and bloody skirmish was engaged,

And terrible the slaughter was indeed.

The Maid in wrath and disappointment raged

That in her purpose she did not succeed –

To kill Marfisa; while the others waged

A deadly war, she turned her mighty steed

And, twisting here and there, on every side

For her Ruggiero searched, for whom she sighed.

She knows him by the eagle on his shield

Which the young Moorish hero always bears.

(Argent it was, upon an azure field.)

She stops and at his handsome aspect stares

Her eyes remembering caress his build

His girth, his shoulders, all his graceful airs

Another woman now this form enjoys

And she exclaims, with fury in her voice:

Can I allow another’s lips to kiss

Those sweet and lovely lips, if mine may not?

No other woman shall enjoy that bliss,

Fate to no other woman shall allot

The boon which I no longer may possess,

Since all your vows of love are now forgot.

Die with me here! Inferno will restore

You to me, to be mine for evermore.

‘On your account I die, so it is right

That by revenge I shall be comforted:

Justice demands, whoever kills in spite,

By his own death, the forfeit shall be paid.

And yet your death will not my own requite:

Yours is deserved and mine unmerited.

I slay a man who longs for me to die,

You slay the one whom you are worshipped by.

‘My hand, why should you now reluctant be

To pierce with steel the bosom of my foe

Who under pledge of love has wounded me,

Who safely dealt me many a mortal blow,

Who now would slay me, not unwillingly,

Having no scruple for my bitter woe!

Be bold, my heart, against this ruthless one:

Avenge my thousand deaths by his alone.’

She spurs against him now, but first ‘Beware!’,

She shouts. ‘As long as I can summon force,

You shall not flaunt, perfidious Ruggier,

The trophy of a maiden’s heart.’ Her horse,

Which she then urges onwards, brings her near.

Ruggiero thinks (and it is true, of course)

This is his bride; her voice, which he would know

Among a thousand others, tells him so.

And from her words he clearly understands

That something more she wishes to imply:

That with a breach of promise she intends

To charge him; signalling, he hopes to try

To parley with her and to make amends;

But she, her visor closed, is driven by

Her grief and rage; her purpose is to loft

Him, where the ground is hard perhaps, not soft.

And as he watched the angry Maid advance,

Ruggiero for her fierce attack sat braced.

In readiness the lover couched his lance,

But, that it might not harm his bride, he placed

It to one side; and she, although she wants

To slay him and all mercy has effaced.

Discovers with surprise, as she draws near,

She cannot bring herself to use her spear.

So on the empty air the lances bore,

And neither in this combat came off best.

This was as well, for Love the warrior

A lance of passion drove into each breast.

The Maid, no longer wishing, as before,

To harm Ruggiero, still by anger pressed,

Vents it upon the Infidel near by,

Performing deeds whose fame will never die.

In a short space of time she had unseated

Three hundred with her magic lance of gold.

The maid alone that day the moors dereated;

The victor was hers. Ruggiero called

Her name, and as he searched for her, entreated:

‘Pray let me talk with you; do not withhold

This favour, or I die. What have I done?

Ah! why is it my presence you now shun?’

As when mild winds which blow across the sea,

Wafting the warm breath of a southern clime

Dissolve the snows and set the torrents free,

In rigid ice enclosed all winter-time,

So at Ruggiero’s voice and at his plea,

From Bradamante’s heart the frosty rim

Is melted; from her anger, which to stone

Was turning her, to pity she is won.

Unwilling or perhaps unable yet

To answer him in words, she rides athwart

His path, and signals where her course is set.

Leaving the battlefield, she draws apart

From all the multitude and fevered fret

Towards a valley; at its very heart

Are cypress-trees outlined against the sky –

Each printed, so it seems, from the same die.

Within the glade there was a marble tomb,

Newly erected, large, and gleaming white.

To anyone who cared to know for whom

The sepulchre was built, verses invite

Perusal; but I doubt the Maid had come

To read what monumental masons write.

Ruggiero gallops after her; the grove

Of cypresses he reaches, and his love.

But let us find Marfisa once again.

Remounted on her mighty destrier,

She had been searching for the Maid in vain,

Who with her well-aimed weapon did not err.

She saw her leave the field on Rabican,

She saw Ruggiero turn and follow her.

She little thought that love thus spurred him on:

She judged there was a combat to be won.

Pricking her steed, she followed without pause

And caught the others up just by the grove;

And how unwelcome her arrival was

I need not say to those who are in love.

The Maid, moreover, saw her as the cause

Of all her sorrow; who could now remove

The firm conviction that what brings her there

So fast is her devotion to Ruggier?

Again she charges him with perfidy:

‘So you were not content, perfidious one,

That rumour of your infidelity

Should reach my ears; but now’, so she went on,

‘You bring that woman face to face with me?

I know you scarce can wait till I am gone,

So with your wish I’m willing to comply,

But I will make him come who makes me die.’

No viper’s fury can with hers compare

As, having spoken thus, she swivels round

And at Marfisa’s shield so drives her spear,

She topples her, head foremost, to the ground;

And half her helmet seems to disappear,

So deep a dent she makes; nor can this round

Be said to take Marfisa by surprise:

Yet head first, down she goes, for all she tries.

Count Aymon’s daughter, who intends to kill

Marfisa (or to die herself instead),

Being incensed with rage no loner will

Employ her golden lance, which she has shed.

Her purpose now – more dire and terrible –

Is to divide the torso from the head,

Which from afar seems buried in the sand.

Dismounted, she approaches, sword in hand.

But she arrives too late; Marfisa stands

To face her, furious that once again

So easily upon the ground she lands.

Her longing for revenge she does not feign.

Ruggiero pleads and shouts, ‘Put up your brands!’

But all his well-meant efforts are in vain.

He sees that, blinded by their wrath and hate,

Both women warriors are desperate.

They clash their weapons without more ado,

Burning with inextinguishable pride.

Their blades are crossed; all that remains to do

In this impasse is cast their swords aside.

Seizing their daggers, they begin anew.

His deep concern Ruggiero does not hide.

He begs and pleads, but might as well be mute,

The words he utters bear so little fruit.

Seeing that words are so much empty air,

He tries by force to separate the twain,

And takes their daggers from their hands; to spare

Them (and himself) all further risk or pain,

He lays them by a cypress-tree with care.

He threatens and cajoles, but all in vain:

For neither of the warriors desists,

And, faute de mieux, they fight with feet and fists.

Ruggiero perseveres: first one he takes

And then the other by the hand or arm.

Against himself Marfisa’s wrath he wakes.

She who would gladly the whole world disarm

And who in battle many a buckler breaks

Is now prepared to do Ruggiero harm,

And, snatching up her sword from where it lies,

From Bradamante turns and him defies.

‘You are discourteous, you are uncouth,

Ruggiero, to presume to intervene;

And by this hand I promise you, in truth,

I’ll cause you to repent; it will be seen

One hand suffices to defeat you both.’

Ruggiero tries to calm her with serene

And civil words, which are inadequate

Marfisa’s scorn and fury to abate.

Her anger finally provoked the knight.

He too with rage was scarlet in the face.

No spectacle, I think, no epic fight

In Athens, Rome, or any other place

Afforded onlookers so much delight

As Bradamante felt; for now all trace

Of jealousy had vanished and all doubt;

All anguish from her heart was blotted out.

She now retrieved her sword and passively

Withdrew, though vigilantly keeping guard.

The god of war himself she seemed to see

When she beheld Ruggiero turn toward

His foe, prepared for combat; whereas she

With an Erinys might have been compared,

Unleashed but recently from Hell: in truth.

The sight of her unnerved the valiant youth.

But, knowing well the virtue of his blade,

Which he had tested many times before,

That, by enchantment, every stroke he made

(Unless the weapon lost its magic power)

Would be unerring, to himself he said

That use of point and edge he would abjure.

This for a time Ruggiero tried to do,

But suddenly his anger flared anew –

Because Marfisa, with a mighty stroke,

Lifted her sword as though to split his head.

Ruggiero raised his shield and on it took

The impact of the savage blow instead.

The eagle was unharmed; but by the shock

His arm was rendered senseless, as if dead,

And, but for Hector’s armour, which he wore,

Would have been lost to him for evermore.

The blow would then Ruggiero’s skull have cleft,

As pitiless Marfisa had intended.

Ruggiero can scarce move his arm (his left),

Nor bear the shield by which he is defended.

So now at last, of all restraint bereft,

With blazing eyes, his wrath with frenzy blended,

He drives his weapon’s point straight at his foe.

Had it struck home, Marfisa, alas for you!

I cannot tell you how it came to pass:

The weapon struck against a cypress-tree

And by a handbreadth entered it, no less.

(The grove was thickly planted.) Suddenly

The plain and near-by hills were shaken as

By a vast tremor of the earth; all three

At the same moment from the sepulchre

A voice, louder than any mortal’s, hear.

The voice, in tones inspiring terror, said:

‘Cease from this conflict! You commit grave sin.

Let not a brother strike a sister dead:

Let not a sister kill her kith and kin.

You, my Ruggiero, you, my warrior-maid,

Marfisa, hear the truth from me: within

One womb and from one seed you came to birth;

Together you emerged to life on earth.

‘Ruggiero, called the Second, was your sire,

And Galaciella was your mother’s name.

Her brothers slew your father and with dire

Unbrotherly indifference, to their shame,

Though she was pregnant, left her to expire

(Though from their origin you also came),

Placing her helpless in their cruelty

In a frail vessel on the open sea.

‘But Fortune, who had chosen you, unborn,

For glorious achievements here on earth,

Guided the vessel, which was safely borne

To empty Libyan shores, where, giving birth

Your mother perished, leaving you forlorn.

(Of joy her soul in Heaven has no dearth.)

And I, as God and as your fate decreed,

Was near at hand to help you in your need.

I gave your mother decent burial,

As best I could on that deserted strand.

I wrapped you, tender nurselings, in my stole

And bore you to the mountains, where I planned

To rear you; from the forest, at my call,

A lioness came forth; at my command,

She left her cubs and tame and docile grew;

For twenty months I made her suckle you.

As it befell, I was obliged one day

To take a journey and by chance there passed

A band of Arabs, who stole you away,

Marfisa; but Ruggiero was too fast

For them; do you remember? My dismay

When I returned was infinite; downcast

At losing you, a solemn oath I swore

That I would guard Ruggiero all the more.

‘Ruggiero, if Atlante guarded you,

If he was zealous, you can testify.

A prophet who could read the stars, I knew

A victim of betrayal you would die

Among the Christians. I endeavoured to

Conceal you from them, but, defeated by

The destiny to which your soul aspired,

I pined away in sorrow and expired.

‘Before I died, here, where I had foreseen

That pre-ordained you were one day to come

And would engage in combat with your twin,

I gathered heavy stones to form this tomb

(With Hell’s assistance) and to Charon in

Loud tones I thus decreed: “When I succumb,

My soul must tarry in this cypress-glade

Until my wards to battle here are led.”

‘And so my spirit in this pleasant grove

Has waited for you long and eagerly,

That you, fair Bradamante, who so love

Our dear Ruggiero, pangs of jealousy

Shall cease to suffer; now I must resolve

To go where darkness will encompass me.’

He ceased. Wide-eyed, Marfisa Ruggier

And Bradamante in amazement stare.

Ruggiero claims his sister with great joy;

Marfisa also recognizes him,

And they embrace; but this does not annoy

The Maid, although her ardour is no whim.

They recollect when they were girl and boy

And, though at first the memories are dim,

As each and every detail they renew,

They find that what the spirit said is true.

Ruggiero from his sister did not hide

How Bradamante had transfixed his heart,

And he described in words of loving pride

How much he owed to her; with subtle art

The former enemies he pacified.

No disagreement kept them now apart,

So, as a sign that hatred was erased,

As he desired, they lovingly embraced.

Marfisa then desired to know still more

About their father, who his forebears were,

And how he died: in a closed combat or

In battle? And their mother, what of her?

Why did she die upon an alien shore?

Who set her thus adrift? Did none demur?

In years gone by she may have heard it all,

But none, or little, could she now recall.

Ruggiero told her then of their descent

By Hector’s line from Trojan ancestry;

How Astyanax escaped the dire intent

Of cunning Ulysses, who cruelly

Despatched a substituted innocent.

The princeling, after many months at sea,

Found refuge on Sicilian shores, and there

He was Messina’s king for many a year.

His heirs, leaving Messina’s straits behind,

Ruled over regions in Calabria;

And later generations had a mind

To seek the city of the god of war.

Many a king and emperor, she’ll find,

From this same Roman branch descended are,

Beginning with Constantius and then

To Constantine and up to Charlemagne.

‘Ruggiero, called the First, and Giambaron

Were of this stock, Buovo, Rambaldo and

Ruggiero, called the Second, who upon

Our mother sired us, as you understand.

The deeds of our descendants will be known

In history and famed in many a land.’

And he described to her King Agolant’s

Arrival, with his sons, to menace France.

A daughter too the king accompanied.

Such was her valour, many a paladin

She had unhorsed from many a brave steed;

And she, who came to love Ruggiero, in

Defiance of the king, the Christian creed

Accepting, was baptized; not long she’d been

Ruggiero’s wife before Beltramo burned

With an incestuous love and traitor turned.

His country, father, brothers he betrayed,

Hoping thereby to gain Ruggiero’s bride.

He opened Reggio to the foe, who made

A cruel havoc once they were inside.

Then Agolante, whom no mercy stayed,

And his two sons who kinship’s laws defied,

Placed Galaciella, six months gone with child,

Adrift in winter, tossed by tempests wild.

Marfisa listened with a brow serene,

Absorbed at first in all her brother said,

Rejoicing that their fount and origin

she knew Monglane and Clairmont both had been

Descended from the Trojan fountain-head

And that for many years both lines had won

Renown and splendour, paralleled by none.

Yet when she hears her new-found brother say

Not only Agramante’s father, but

His grandfather and uncle made away

With their brave sire Ruggiero and then put

His wife, their mother, in such jeopardy,

The sister scarce can hear the story out.

She interrupts him, ‘Brother, with respect,

Our father’s honour how can you neglect?

‘For if Almonte’s or Troiano’s blood

You cannot shed, since they did not survive,

Why do you not exterminate their brood?

Why, if you live, is Agramant alive?

After so many injuries, how could

You hold your hand? Nay, how could you contrive

To serve him at his court and in the field?

This blemish to no bleach will ever yield.

‘I swear to God that I will worship now

Christ the true God to whom my father prayed;

And I will not put off these arms, I vow,

Till vengeance for my parents has been paid.

And you will cause my head with grief to bow

If from today I see you use your blade

In Agramante’s ranks, or any Moor’s,

Unless their swift undoing it ensures.’

Fair Bradamante lifts her face anew,

Alight with happiness, soon as she hears

The course his sister tells him to pursue;

And to her admonition she adds hers,

Bidding him come and kneel in homage to

King Charles, who honours, praises and reveres

King Charles, who honours, praises and reveres Ruggiero’s father yet for his renown.

Than whom no greater warrior was known.

Ruggiero wisely said that both were right,

That he should thus have acted from the start,

But since he had misjudged the matter quite,

It was too late to play another part;

For Agramant it was who dubbed him knight.

If he now drove a dagger through his heart,

It would be treachery for he had sworn

, To guard him as his lord from harm and scorn.

As he had promised Bradamante, so

He gave his promise to Marfisa that

All avenues would be explored and no

Occasion overlooked whereby his fate

Might make it possible for him to go

With honour to serve Charles; and if of late

He seemed inactive, he was not to blame,

But Mandricard, who left him sore and lame.

And she who every day sat by his bed,

That he was gravely wounded testified.

Much by each woman warrior was said

On the affair, and each in full replied.

At last to this conclusion they were led:

Ruggiero should return to fight beside

King Agramante till a circumstance

Arose to let him serve the king of France.

‘Let him deart,’ Marfisa said at last

To Bradamante, ‘put aside your fears.

I promise that ere many days have passed

I’ll find a way to set him free.’ She swears,

But at that moment she could not have guessed

What she had promised by that oath of hers.

They say farewell and with no loitering

Ruggiero mounts his steed to join his king.

But all at once they heard a piteous wail

Which stopped the comrades in their tracks, all three.

It seemed to echo from a near-by vale;

The timbre of the tones was womanly.

But now I wish to interrupt this tale

And in this wish of mine please bear with me,

For better things I promise you next time,

If you will hear what follows in my rhyme.

CANTO XXXVII

As to perfect some precious gift or ben

Which Nature without toil cannot bestow,

Women have laboured, day and night intent,

And well-earned recognition sometimes know,

Would that they chose to be as diligent

And a like dedicated care would show

In studies more esteemed and highly prized,

Whence mortal virtues are immortalized.

And would they might their powers then devote

To women’s own commemorative praise,

Rather than look to men to sound this note,

Whose envious spite their judgement overlays,

For Woman’s merits many a man will not

Proclaim, though gladly ill of her he says.

By women, women’s fame could reach the skies,

Higher perhaps than men’s renown could rise.

And often men are not content to sing

In praise of each the other’s world renown,

But all their efforts they apply to bring

To light why purists should on women frown.

Unwilling they should rise in anything,

They do the best they can to keep them down

(I speak here of the past), as if the fame

Of women would dissolve or dim their name.

And yet no powers of the hand or tongue,

Transformed to voice or words upon the page

(Though ill-repute be magnified among

All men, and virtue by an envious gauge

Be minished), could contrive to leave unsung

All women’s merits, for despite the rage

Of male detractors, some are known about,

Although the greater part are blotted out.

Harpàlyce, Tomyris and the maid

Who fought by Turnus, Hector’s Amazon,

She whom the men of Tyre and Sidon made

Their leader and to Libya sailed on,

Zenobia and she who, unafraid,

Assyria, Persia, India warred upon,

These women warriors are but a few

Whose fame the chronicles of war renew.

And women, wise and strong and true and chaste,

In other regions than in Greece and Rome,

Wherever the sun shines, from the Far East

To the Hesperides, have had their home,

Whose virtues and whose merits are unguessed.

Concerning them historians are dumb:

Contemporary authors, filled with spite,

The truth about such women would not write.

But, ladies, do not cease on this account

To persevere in works which you do well.

Let not discouragement ambition daunt,

Nor fear that recognition never will

Be yours. Good no immunity can vaunt

From change, Evil is not immutable,

And if in history your page was blurred,

In modern times your merits will be heard.

Marullo and Pontano championed you;

Both Strozzi: first the father, then the son;

Now Bembo and Cappello pay their due,

And he who formed the courtier’s paragon,

And Luigi Alamanni and the two

Beloved of Mars and of the Muses, one

And the other equally, both of the blood

Which rules the town which stems the Mincio’s flood.

One of these two, whose natural desire

Is to pay honour to your excellence,

Up to Parnassus, Cynthus, even higher,

His praises of you offers, like incense;

But more: the love, the faith, in spite of dire

Afflictions and of menacing events,

His Isabella’s courage which abjures

Defeat, have made him, not his own, but yours.

And so he never wearies of the theme

Of lauding you in his enduring songs.

If some speak ill, you can depend on him

To take up arms at once and right your wrongs.

He holds his life but little in esteem

Compared with giving praise where praise belongs.

He is himself a theme of eloquence,

For he gives fame to others’ excellence.

And it is fit that one so well endowed

With virtue that she seems to comprehend

All goodness that on women is bestowed,

From wifely constancy should never bend,

But like a column has unswerving stood,

Whatever shocks or ill the Fates might send.

He deserves her, and she deserves him too

No pair was better coupled than these two.

New trophies he has brought to Oglio’s shore,

Composing many a well-turned line of verse

Amid the clamour and the clash of war,

Which envy on the near-by Mincio stirs.

Ercole Bentivoglio’s praises soar

In celebration of you to the spheres.

Trivulzio and Guidetto cannot fault you,

Nor Molza, named by Phoebus to exalt you

And Ercole, the duke of Chartres, the son

Of my Alfonso, spreads his mighty wings

And, not unlike the legendary swan,

Flying, your praises to the heavens sings.

My lord of Vasto, whose exploits alone

Would furnish Rome’s and Athens’ chronicling

A thousand times, shows it is now his will

To render you immortal with his quill.

Besides all these who champion you today

And many more who praise you lavishly,

You to yourselves could equal homage pay;

For many women leave embroidery

To seek the Muses and their thirst allay

At Aganippe’s fount; and then we see

That greater is our need of words of yours

Than you have need of any words of ours.

And if a good account I were to give,

And fully to such women’s worth attest,

I’d fill so many pages, I believe,

This canto would be nothing but a list.

And if I were to choose, say, six, or five,

I might offend and anger all the rest.

How shall I solve the problem? Speak of none?

Or choose among so many only one?

I will choose one and she whom I will name

No envious disdain or scorn will stir.

No other women will be put to shame

If I omit them all and praise but her.

Not only has she won immortal fame

With her sweet style – no sweeter do I hear;

To him of whom she speaks or writes, she give

New life: awakened from the tomb, he lives.

As Phoebus his fair sister, pure and whit

Gazing upon her, renders fairer still

Than Venus, Mercury or other light

Which circles with the heavens, or at will:

, So into her I speak of more insight

And sweeter eloquence he breathes to fill

Her lofty-sounding words with such élan

That in our heavens shines a second sun.

She is Vittoria and justly crowned,

As one to victory and triumph born.

Where’er she walks, the laurel-leaves abound

And diadems of fame her brow adorn.

Like Artemisia, lauded and renowned,

Who her Mausòlus never ceased to mourn,

She is a yet more pious, loving wife:

She gives her spouse not burial, but life

If Laodamia and if Brutus’ spouse,

Evadne, Arrìa, Argìa and many more

Were praised, and praised deservedly, because

Each wished to share her husband’s sepulchre,

What greater marvel does that wife arouse

Who draws from Lethe and the ninefold shore

Of Styx her consort back to life and breath

Despite the Fates and in despite of Death!

If fierce Achilles envy in the breast

Of Alexander stirred for deeds proclaimed

By the Maeonean poet’s epic blast,

Then all the more would you, by all acclaimed,

Francesco di Pescara, by your chaste

And loving wife, rightly for ever famed!

, By her your glory echoes ever higher

No more resounding peal could you desire.

If everything that might be said of her,

And all I wish to say, I’d here unfold,

I’d cover many pages, I aver,

Yet much would even so remain untold.

And of Marfisa who is waiting there

With her two comrades, resolute and bold,

The story which I promised to pursue

Would have to be deferred today anew.

So now, since you have come to hear my tale,

And not to break the promise I have made,

At greater leisure I’ll myself regale

With all the praise of her I would have said

Not that I think my lines are of avail

To her whose vein such richness has displayed

But for the need I feel to honour her

Whose genius I acknowledge and revere.

So, ladies, I conclude: in every age

There have been women worthy of renown;

But envious writers have left blank the page

Which after death should make your glory known.

This will no longer be: you must engage

To make yourselves immortal from now on.

Had the two sisters been aware of this,

They had been sooner friends than enemies.

I speak of Bradamante and the twin

Of her Ruggiero; their brave deeds I strive

To bring to light, though nine times out of ten

The facts are missing; yet I will revive

The memory of such as still remain.

For noble acts which men to hide contrive

Should be revealed; also in token of

My wish to please you, ladies, whom I love.

Ruggiero, as I said, was just about

To leave and had already bid goodbye

And from the tree had pulled his weapon out

(And no one now opposed him), when a cry

Arrested him and held them all in doubt.

Not far away it sounded but near by;

And, with Marfisa and his bride, he made

Towards the sound, if need be to lend aid.

Forward they rode and louder grew the sound,

Until at last the words were audible.

Reaching the vale, three women there they found

Whose plight indeed was strange and terrible.

Shrill cries they uttered, seated on the ground,

For cut short up to the umbilical

Their skirts had been; to hide herself each tries

As best she can and, sitting, dares not rise.

And like the son of Vulcan who from dust

Came forth to life, not from a mother’s womb,

By Pallas to Aglauros as a trust

Committed (and he his serpent feet from

Her keen eyes concealed, sitting with legs crossed

Beneath him on the quadriga which some

Have said he first constructed), even so

These three their secret parts tried not to show.

This monstrous and dishonourable sight

To two brave warriors’ cheeks is seen to bring

An altered hue, as vivid and as bright

As a red rose in Paestum in the Spring;

And Bradamante recognizes, quite

Beyond all doubt (but greatly wondering),

Ullania, whom she had met by chance,

The queen of Iceland’s messenger to France.

She recognized no less the other two,

For at Ullania’s side they always were;

But she addresses her enquiry to

The one whom she most honours, asking her

Who was the miscreant who had been so

Devoid of decency as to lay bare

Those secrets, by all casual passers eyed,

Which Nature, it would seem, prefers to hide.

Ullania has recognized the Maid,

By her insignia and by her speech

For she recalls her as the one who had

Some little time ago unseated each

Of the three kings; now in reply she said

That at a castle, within easy reach,

The evil folk not only cut her skirt,

But beat her too, and did her other hurt.

What happened to the shield she cannot say,

Nor how the kings had fared who by her side

Had travelled many a land for many a day.

They might be prisoners, they might have died.

Although on foot, she chose to come this way,

Hoping to be avenged if she applied

For help to Charlemagne to right the wrong;

She judged he would not suffer it for long

From the three faces of the cavaliers,

Whose bosoms no less tender are than brave,

Serenity has vanished: wrath appears.

When they have seen and heard how vile and grave

An injury her ladies’ was and hers,

Their other obligations they now waive;

She has no further need to plead her case:

They gallop off at once towards the place.

With one accord they drew their surcoats off,

Stirred by the deep compassion in their hearts.

These garments, as it proved, were long enough

To cover the poor women’s shameful parts.

The Maid, to spare Ullania the rough

Uneven path and further pain and smarts,

Takes her up pillion on her destrier.

Marfisa follows suit, so does Ruggier.

Ullania, on Bradamante’s horse,

Points out the shortest routes along the way,

While Bradamante, for her part, assures

Her charge that she will be avenged that day.

They leave the valley for a winding cours

Which to a hill-top climbs, first now this way

And then the other; long before they stopped

For rest the sun behind the sea had dropped.

They find a little hamlet perched on high.

The path to it is steep and bleak and bare.

Here they take lodging and are glad to try

The supper, which is good but humble fare

They look about them and where’er they spy

They see the inhabitants all women are,

Some young, some old; no matter where they turn,

In that vast crowd, no man do they discern.

Jason, I think no greater marvel knew,

When on the isle of Lemnos he set foot

(Nor did the Argonauts, his faithful crew),

And no one there but women saw, who put

Their sons and brothers all to death, who slew

Their husbands and their fathers, so that but

One virile face was seen, than did Ruggier

And his companions on arriving there.

The women warriors give orders soon

That the three ladies should be brought attire.

Three dresses are supplied, which they put on.

If they lack style, they are at least entire.

The good Ruggiero beckons to him one

Among the women, wishing to enquire

Where all the men are: not one can he spy;

And she obliges eager to reply.

‘This, which to you is strange and marvellous,

That all these women live here without men,

Is an intolerable grief to us.

Here we are banished to this wretched den

To make our exile more monotonous,

Our fathers, husbands, sons, we know not when

We’ll see, whom we so love; and this divorce

, A tyrant has imposed on us by force.

‘And from his kingdom, which not distant is

Two leagues from us, the land where we were born,

He drove us forth with many cruelties,

First bitterly reviling us with scorn.

Our men and us (alas !) he menaces

With death by torture if to him are borne

Reports that they have visited us here,

Or we with love receive them, should they dare.

‘Of women he is such a bitter foe,

He cannot bear us near him, nor consent

That any man should come near us, as though

They might be poisoned by the female scent.

We’ve seen the branches shed and twice regrow

Their crowning glory since we here were sent,

And still the tyrant rages in his wrath

And no one curbs him on his frenzied path.

‘His subjects feel for him the greatest fear

That death itself could ever inculcate,

For Nature to his spite beyond compare

Has joined a giant size and strength so great,

All others he surpasses in this sphere;

Nor to his female subjects is this threat

Confined; for to all women visitors

This tyrant’s hostile acts are even worse.

‘So, if your honour and the honour of

These ladies you escort are dear to you,

It is to your advantage not to move

Another step along the pathway to

The castle of this tyrant who no love

For women has, whose plan is to subdue

By scorn and shame all those who there ascend

Both men and women – to his evil end.

‘This villain, Marganorre (thus is named

The lord by whom we women are coerced),

More Nero-like than Nero, or others famed

For cruelty, more evil, more accurst,

The blood of humans, like a beast untamed,

Desires; for female blood a greater thirst

He has; no wolf a lamb more relishes,

Than he who every woman banishes.’

What drove the tyrant to this frenzied state

The women and Ruggiero long to know.

The tale in full they beg her to relate

Or, rather, back to the beginning go.

‘This lord’, said she, ‘was always filled with hate

And always cruel, but he did not show

These vile propensities at first; the role

He played concealed the evil in his soul.

‘While his two sons were yet alive, whose ways

To Marganorre’s no resemblance bore

(They were as different as chalk and cheese),

For they were kind, enjoying nothing more

Than visitors and friends from overseas,

Good manners, courtly deeds were seen to flower,

And, though the king was parsimonious,

His sons could, if they wished, be generous.

‘Ladies and cavaliers were formerly

So well received that each and every one

Rode off delighted with such courtesy

And by the two young men all hearts were won.

Both took the solemn vows of chivalry;

They kept their vigil side by side. The one

Cilandro was, the other youth was called

Tanacro; both were regal, gallant, bold.

‘And they might always have been worthy of

Such praise and honour, but they both fell prey

To that desire we dignify as love;

And from the straight path wandering astray,

Through labyrinths of error now they move,

And all the good they did is straight away

Perverted to become its opposite,

As though some sickness had infected it.

‘A cavalier arrived, as it befell,

From the Byzantine court, and in his train

There rode a lady who, as I heard tell,

Drew the admiring glances of all men.

So deep in love with her Cilandro fell,

So grievously he languished in his pain,

He thought that he would die if she departed

Leaving him unfulfilled and broken-hearted.

‘Because entreaties would have borne no fruit,

His purpose was to capture her by force.

He armed and hid himself along the route

The two had chosen for their homeward course.

The frenzied passion which had taken root

Left him no time to think, and when the horse

Of the Greek cavalier he saw advance

He galloped to attack, lance against lance.

‘He thought he would succeed at the first blow,

Winning both lady and the victory,

But the Greek knight, who knew a thing or two

About the art and skill of chivalry,

Shattered like glass the hauberk of his foe.

The tidings reached the father instantly,

Who, seeing he was dead, beside their great

And ancient forebears buried him in state.

‘The welcome all received was not decreased,

The hospitality remained the same;

For no less affable to every guest

Tanacro was, who shared Cilandro’s fame

For courtesy; but not a year had passed

When from afar a lord and lady came.

He was a gallant, handsome man, and she

Most beautiful and lovely was to see.

‘And no less virtuous she was than fair

And truly worthy of all men’s esteem.

Courage was in his blood, and bold and rare

Those rivals must have been who equalled him;

And it is just that those who greatly dare

Should win a coveted reward. His name

Olindro was, Baron of Lungavilla,

And she, the baroness, was called Drusilla.

‘No less for her the young Tanacro burned

Than did Cilandro for the lovely Greek

When all his life to dust and ashes turned;

No less now than his brother did he seek

(So little from that precedent he learned)

The laws of hospitality to break

Rather than to this strange and new desire

Acknowledge his surrender, and expire.

‘Having his brother’s death before his eyes

And wary of Olindro’s wrath, he planned

To take the lady from him in such guise

He’d have no fear of his avenging hand.

That virtue soon diminishes and dies

On which Tanacro stands, as on dry land,

Above the floods of vice which round him sweep,

In which his father flounders fathoms deep.

‘So in the depths of night, without a sound,

Some miles away, he stationed twenty men

In grottoes which along the route are found,

Or where the cross-roads intersect; and then

Olindro’s passage was cut off all round.

He could not forward move, nor back again.

That day the baron was deprived of wife

And, after a courageous stand, of life.

‘Her husband slain, Tanacro captive led

The lovely baroness; she, bowed with grief,

Would not by any means be comforted,

But at his hands she begged for the relief

Of death; her one desire was to be dead.

She flung herself at last from a high cliff.

She did not die, but with a broken skull

She lingered, frail and bruised and sorrowful.

‘Tanacro had no other way to bear

Her home than on a stretcher; and the best

Of medical attention, every care

He lavished on her, fearing death might wrest

This precious booty from him; they prepare

Meanwhile to celebrate the wedding feast:

The name of wife, Tanacro judged, was more

Acceptable to her than paramour.

‘Tanacro had no other waking thought,

No other wish, no other care, no dream

But of possessing her; all else was naught.

He begged her to forgive, he took the blame,

But all in vain; the longer he besought,

The more he tried, the more she hated him

And stronger grew, with each and every breath,

Her fixed desire to bring about his death.

‘Her hatred of him did not so erase

Her wits that she no longer understood

That cunning was essential in the case,

That her true feelings she must mask and hood.

While plotting secretly, she must efface

All outward tokens of her inward mood

And (though all she desired was to destroy him)

Show every sign of longing to enjoy him.

‘ “Peace”, her face pretends; “vengeance”, her heart

And will no other purpose contemplate. [cries,

The ways and means that pass before her eyes

Seem good or bad or indeterminate;

At last it seems to her that if she dies

She will succeed, and eagerly this fate

She welcomes; how or for what better cause

Can she now die than to avenge her spouse?

‘She seems all joy and happiness, and feigns

The utmost longing for the wedding-day;

And it appears from all the evidence

That she is eager to avoid delay.

Before her looking-glass she prinks and preens.

Thoughts of Olindro now seem far away,

But she has one request: the marriage vows,

As in her land, must honour her dead spouse.

‘It was untrue, however, that the rite

Was in her land conducted as she said;

But since no other answer to her plight

She could devise, she told this lie instead,

Hoping by such a method to requite

The miscreant who struck her husband dead;

She wants the wedding to be held, she says,

According to her native country’s ways.

‘ “A widow who remarries,” she pretends,

“Ere she becomes the wife of someone new,

Must first placate the soul whom she offends

By masses, which are celebrated to

Remit past scores; thus she must make amends

Before the dead man’s tomb; then, as is due,

At the conclusion of this offering,

The bridegroom on the bride bestows the ring.

‘ “And meantime the officiating priest

Over a flask of wine will offer up

A holy prayer; when the wine is blessed,

He pours it from the flask into a cup

And hands it to the bride and groom to taste;

The bride must first receive the holy stoup

And be the first to lift it to her lips,

Before the bridegroom from it also sips.”

‘Tanacro does not see what this implies,

And if the rite does not involve delays

He offers no objection, he replies.

The wretch does not perceive that by such ways

She leads him to his death, nor realize

That for Olindro’s murder he thus pays;

And so intently he is fixed on one

Thing only, for all else his wits have flown.

‘Drusilla had with her an agèd maid

Who, having come to serve her, stayed to serve.

She called her to her and discreetly said,

Where none could overhear them or observe,

“Mix me a poison of the kind you’ve made

Before, such as all traitors well deserve,

And I will punish Marganorre’s son

For the foul villainy which he has done.

‘ “I know a way to save myself and you:

I’ll tell you later; now do as I ask.”

The old and faithful serving-maid withdrew

And secretly performed her fearful task.

With a sweet wine from Candia the brew

Was stirred and mingled in a crystal flask

Which would do duty on the wedding-day;

And now there was no reason for delay.

‘At the appointed hour, adorned with gems

The bride arrived, dressed in a lovely gown.

Olindro in the place of honour seems,

His tomb raised on two columns; they intone

The office of the mass with solemn hymns.

The people flock to hear from court and town,

And Marganorre, joyful just this once,

Comes with his son and his companions.

‘The rites were said for him who lay in state,

The flask containing poisoned wine was blessed.

The priest continued to officiate,

Filling a golden cup, at her request.

She drank as much as was appropriate

And for her promised husband left the rest.

With joyful face she handed him the cup:

Tanacro drank it down to the last drop.

‘Handing the chalice to the priest, he turns

With joy to clasp his bride in his embrace.

Her docile tenderness has gone: there burns

Instead a wrathful passion in its place.

Pushing him back, his fond advance she spurns

With fury blazing in her eyes and face;

And in an awesome voice and chilling tone

She shouts: “Traitor, keep back, from me be gone!

‘ “You think to take your joy of me, while I

From you have tears and suffering and woe?

These hands have done their work: you will now die.

That wine was poisoned (what? you did not know?).

Your execution is too mild and by

A death too kind, alas!, you are brought low.

What hangman’s hands, what savage penalty

In all the world could match your treachery?

‘ “It grieves me that your death does not perfect

My sacrifice; if I had managed it

As I desired, there would be no defect;

My act of vengeance would have been complete.

May my belovèd husband not reject

My offering, but may he find it sweet.

Unable to despatch you as I would,

I’ve done for you the only way I could.

‘ “The punishment I long to give you here

I hope your soul will suffer, as is due,

Among the dead and damned down yonder; there

I’ll take my fill of joy in watching you.”

Such were her words; with eyes no longer clear

She looked above; then she began anew,

Her face aglow with love: “Olindro, take

This wifely offering for vengeance’ sake;

‘ “And pray that by the grace of our dear Lord

I may ascend to you in Heaven today.

If only souls who merit such reward

May be admitted to His kingdom, say

Against an evil monster I have warred

And bring the spoils of battle to array

His shrine; is there a more deserving deed

Than to exterminate so vile a breed?”

‘Together life and words came to a close.

Her face in death was joyful and content

That such a traitor she had punished thus,

He who the life-blood of her spouse had spent.

Whether he died before her no one knows.

I rather think he was the first who went.

The poison sooner worked in him because

His portion of the wine the greater was.

‘When Marganorre sees his only son

Collapse, when in his arms he lifeless lies,

He, unprotected, through the breast is run

By grief so sharp that he too almost dies.

Two sons he had and now he is alone.

Two women are to blame for their demise:

One was the cause of death of the first brother,

And one with her own hands destroyed the other.

‘Love, pity, anger, grief and frenzied rage,

Desire for death and for revenge as well

In the bereaved and anguished father wage

A conflict, as when wild winds lash and swell

The sea; his pain unable to assuage,

Drusilla’s body, now insensible,

Goaded and stung by burning spite he tries

To desecrate and ravage where it lies.

‘Just as a snake in vain the spike will bite

Which, piercing it, has pinned it to the ground,

Just as a mastiff vents its futile spite

Upon a pebble with a snarling sound,

Maddened by bestial rage or appetite,

So Marganorre – worse than any hound

Or snake – continues his assault upon

That helpless body from which life has gone.

‘Nothing induces him to hold his hand;

Nothing his thirst for vengeance will allay.

The church is tightly packed with women, and

Not one of us he spares, but tries to slay

Us all, slicing us with his cruel brand

Just as a peasant scythes a field of hay.

He slaughters thirty, then a hundred more

He wounds, and leaves them lying in their gore.

‘So feared is he by troops and servitors,

No man dare raise a finger to his wrath.

The women flee the church in headlong course.

No villager but takes the homeward path.

At last his impetus has spent its force.

He quits the scene, leaving an aftermath

Of death and lamentation down below,

And to his fortress he consents to go.

‘He yielded then (though still his rage was hot)

To those who begged him not to kill us all;

Perpetual exile was to be our lot.

And that same day (there was no interval)

He published a decree: all women out!

Here was the boundary, and woe befall

Whatever woman dared to show her face

Nearer the castle than this dismal place.

‘And thus it was that husbands from their wives

Were separated, sons from mothers too.

If any man to visit us contrives

And Marganor gets wind of it, then woe

To him! it will be strange if he survives.

Such culprits die a cruel death and slow.

And at the castle he has passed a law

More dire than anyone e’er heard or saw.

‘A woman who is captured in the dale

(And some do venture there, I must confess)

Is to be whipped and sent beyond the pale;

But first, according to this law, her dress

Is cut so high and short that none can fail

To see what Nature hides and seemliness.

If any on an armed escort relies,

The law is even more severe: she dies.

‘If any is escorted by a band

Of cavaliers, before the dead sons’ tombs

She’s dragged and sacrificed by his own hand.

To ignominious restraint he dooms

The knights, relieving them of horses and

Their weapons, armour, retinue and grooms.

This is within his power, for all around

More than a thousand men-at-arms are found.

‘And further, any knight whom he may spare

(If it shall ever please him) lifelong hate

For all the female sex is made to swear

And on the holy wafer consecrate

His vow; so if, in spite of all, you are

Resolved to lose your lives, ride to the gate

Where you will find this fiend at home, and see

Which is the worse – his strength, or cruelty.’

Her words the women warriors incite

First to such pity, then to so much ire,

That if it had been day instead of night

They would have left at once; but all retire

To take their rest; and when Aurora’s light

Signals the stars to yield before their sire,

The cavaliers rearm and on their steeds

Remount, resolved to punish such vile deeds.

When they are ready to set off, the sound

Of many hoofs is heard not far away

Behind their backs; at this they all turn round

And gaze into the valley; I should say

About a stone’s throw from the higher ground

A company along a narrow way

Progressed, twenty armed men, or thereabout;

Some were on horseback, others were on foot.

And with them, mounted on a horse, they brought

A woman; from her wrinkles you could guess

That she was old; her aspect, you’d have thought,

Suggests a felon taken to the place

Of execution; though she was distraught,

Though so much time has passed, her dress and face

The village women recognize at once:

It is Drusilla’s servant, they pronounce:

That serving-wench who with her mistress stayed

(When she was captured by the second son),

To whom was then entrusted, as I said,

The task of mixing poison; she’d not gone

To church that day to see Drusilla wed:

She feared the consequence of what she’d done;

But from the village she escaped to where

She hoped to live in safety, free from fear.

But Marganorre traced her through his spies

And found that she had fled to Austria.

Unceasingly he thought how to devise

A plan to capture and to punish her:

The gallows and the stake were in his eyes

Too mild a penance for a poisoner.

A baron who her safety had ensured

Betrayed her, by rich spoils and offers lured.

He sent her all the way to Constance, bound

Like merchandise upon a donkey’s back.

Since she was gagged, she could not make a sound,

And none could see her hidden in a sack.

Thence Marganorre’s troops, who now surround

Her, had received commands to bring her back

By him in whom all mercy now is fled,

Whose rage will not be spent till she is dead.

As the great river which from Viso flows,

The nearer it descends towards the sea,

And more and more to the Ticino owes,

To Lambra, Adda and many a tributary,

In swelling pride and spate of water grows,

So does Ruggiero’s anger rise when he

Has heard the crimes of Marganor, and thus

The women warriors wax furious.

Their hearts were so inflamed with wrath and hate

Against the tyrant for his cruelties,

Such crimes they were resolved to castigate,

Despite the number of his troops; to seize

And slay him quickly seemed too kind a fate,

Unworthy of offences such as his.

It will be better to prolong the throes

So that no single pang unnoticed goes.

Their duty first is to the serving-maid,

To save her from the fearful death she faces.

With slackened reins and ready heels they aid

Their eager steeds to show their fastest paces.

No sharper onslaught has that cavalcade

Experienced; each man for safety races.

Lucky are those who leave behind their gear,

Their shields, their armour and the prisoner.

As when a wolf, returning to his lair,

Clenching between his jaws his helpless prey

And confident no enemies are near,

Sees all at once a hunter cross his way

With all the pack, his booty drops in fear,

And where the bush is thickest lopes away,

So did those troops as speedily make off,

Escaping from attack into the rough.

Arms and the woman thus abandoning,

And of their horses a fair quantity

(So as to speed their flight), themselves they fling

From cliffs and grottoes, unrestrainedly.

This to the others was a welcome thing.

Of the unwanted horses they took three,

For the three women who the day before

Had made three other horses’ cruppers sore.

Then with all haste their journey they pursue

Towards that infamous and cruel peak.

They want the servant to come with them too,

As witness of the vengeance they will wreak.

This the old creature is afraid to do,

But finds it all in vain to shout and shriek;

Ruggiero lifts her to Frontino’s croup

And with her thus behind him gallops up.

They reached the summit whence they saw below

A large and thriving town; on every side

It could be entered without hindrance; no

Enclosing bastion or moat they spied.

A crag rose in the midst, with lofty brow,

And on its back a castle seemed to ride.

Towards this eagerly the warriors rode,

For this they knew was Marganor’s abode.

When they have entered, men-at-arms who guard

The entrance shut the outer fortress-gate.

The exit too the warriors see is barred;

And Marganorre, issuing in state,

Surrounded by his chosen bodyguard

Of horse and foot, for parley does not wait.

Briefly and arrogantly he disclosed

The cruel customs which he had imposed.

100

Marfisa had already formed a plan

With which Ruggiero and the Maid of France

Were in agreement: for reply she ran

Against him, but not lowering her lance,

Nor brandishing her famous sword; with an

Astounding force upon his helm she plants

Her fist; he scarcely can remain astraddle,

But droops insensible across his saddle.

101

At the same moment Bradamante spurs,

Nor does Ruggiero long inactive stay,

But with an impetus to equal hers

He runs his lance through six without delay,

Yet from its rest his weapon never stirs.

One paunch, two breasts, one neck, one head display

Its deadly thrusts; and in the sixth it snaps,

Piercing the coward’s spine through to his paps.

102

As many as are touched but lightly by

Count Aymon’s daughter’s golden lance, she floors.

It seems a bolt, hurled from the burning sky,

As when the Thunderer against us wars.

The people scatter, some of them on high,

Some to the plain; some lock themselves indoors;

Some to the churches, others home are fled,

And in the square all who remain are dead.

103

Marfisa in the interval had bound

The tyrant with his hands behind his back.

Drusilla’s maid had charge of him and found

That pleasure in this work she did not lack.

They plan to raze the city to the ground

And all the dwellings they will burn and sack

Unless the tyrant’s laws are changed in haste

And by Marfisa’s legal code replaced.

104

The people will accept without demur

Marfisa’s rule; not only do they dread

That further penalties they may incur,

That she may go beyond what she has said,

But they fear Marganorre even more

And all the cruel laws which he has made;

But, like most subject peoples, those whom most

They hate they most obey, to their great cost:

105

So no man trusts his neighbour or his brother,

No man his thoughts of vengeance dare confide.

They let him exile one, and kill another,

One dispossess, rob one of rightful pride.

Though here the heart its anguish has to smother,

In Heaven its sufferings aloud are cried.

God’s vengeance comes at last in recompense,

And punishment, though tardy, is immense.

106

And now that mob, seething with rage and hate,

Desired to be revenged on tyranny.

No man, the proverb says, will hesitate

To gather firewood from a fallen tree.

So let all rulers mark this tyrant’s fate:

The fruit of evil deeds will evil be.

To see him punished for his sins gave joy

To great and small, to every man and boy.

107

Many whose sisters, daughters, mothers, wives

By Marganorre have been put to death,

No longer now in terror of their lives,

Run, hands uplifted, eager for his death.

A wonder it will be if he survives.

The trio save him for a different death:

They plan that he shall die by slow degrees,

As though by torture, rack and little-ease.

108

Into the hands of that old serving-wench

As naked as the day when he was born

They gave him, bound so tight that by no wrench

Could he break free; with all a woman’s scorn

And hate she made him tingle in revenge

For all the suffering which she had borne,

Poking him mercilessly with a goad

Which someone handed to her from the road.

109

Ullania and both the damsels, who

Their shameful treatment never will forget,

Are actively engaged in vengeance too.

They, like the servant, have to square a debt.

Their strength gives out, but they begin anew

(For they are far from finished with him yet) :

They stone and scratch and bite him for his sins,

Or prick and stick and needle him with pins.

110

As when a torrent, proud and swollen made

By heavy rain betimes or melting snows,

Uproots in a precipitous cascade

The rocks, the trees, the corn that riper grows

But when its force is spent, a child can wade,

A woman step across it with dry shoes,

No longer now the raging flood which poured,

Shrunk to the trickle of a narrow ford:

111

So Marganorre, at whose very name

His subjects trembled, of his antlers shorn,

From being so proud has now become so tame

That even children hold him up to scorn

And tweak his beard and pull his hair in game

So, leaving him on all sides pricked and torn,

Ruggiero, Bradamante and Marfise

Approach the summit where the castle is.

112

The garrison did not resist the three.

The castle with its costly furnishings

Was yielded up; a part relentlessly

They sacked and burned; but for her sufferings

They gave Ullania some finery.

They found the golden shield and the three kings

Imprisoned there; I think I told you how

They’d gone unarmed, on foot, to keep their vow.

113

Unseated by the Maid, that very day

All armour, arms and horses they forswore,

And with Ullania went on their way,

Whom they’d escorted from so far a shore.

And whether it was worse I cannot say,

That they in her defence no weapons bore:

She was thus unprotected but the cost

Would have been heavy if the kings had lost.

114

She would have shared the other women’s doom

Who with an escort came, and in a trice

Have been conducted to the brothers’ tomb

And by their father slain in sacrifice.

Less terrible than dying, I presume,

It is to show those parts that are not nice

And every shame is lessened and excused

If we can say that on us force was used.

115

Before the women warriors depart

All the inhabitants are called to swear

That wives henceforth shall take the leading part

In government; if anyone shall dare

To flout this law, he shall be made to smart.

To sum the matter up, just as elsewhere

Husbands are masters, here the wives shall be

By right invested with authority.

116

As well as this they had to promise more:

Whoever here on foot or horseback came

Must not admitted be by any door,

No matter who they were or what their fame,

Unless by God and all His Saints they swore

(Or any god which has a better claim)

To help all women in adversity

And of their foes for ever foes to be.

117

And if they married late or married soon,

Or if they stayed unmarried all their lives,

The law would be the same for everyone:

Subjection and obedience to wives.

Marfisa would return before the sun

Moved south, before the trees had shed their leaves,

And if the law neglected then she found,

She’d sack and burn the city to the ground.

118

Drusilla’s corpse from the unhallowed pit

Wherein it lay they lifted reverently,

And with her husband’s body buried it

In a rich sepulchre, most fair to see.

The serving-maid continued still to hit

The back of Marganorre lustily.

She longed to have the strength to use the spike

Without a pause for rest, as she would like.

119

The sisters see a column in the square

Which Marganorre’s vile and infamous

Decrees and legislation used to bear.

But now these two, who are victorious,

Append his helmet as a trophy there

With his cuirass and shield (and hazardous

It were to take them down). And under those,

New laws are then inscribed, which they impose.

120

Marfisa waited till this work was done.

The law the mason cut was the reverse

Of what was once inscribed upon the stone,

To women’s ignominy, death or worse.

Ullania remained when they had gone.

She did not think that makeshift gown of hers

Was suitable for court, and she desired

To be once more appropriately attired.

121

She, left with Marganorre in her power,

Fearing he might revert to his old ways

If he escaped in an unguarded hour,

No longer his deserved despatch delays,

But makes him leap below from a high tower.

No greater leap he’d made in all his days.

But now I’ll leave her and her demoiselles

And of the ones who go towards Arles I’ll tell.

122

All through that day, and on the next they race,

Till after the third hour; at last they reach

A branching of the path; this is the place

Where they must say farewell; clasped each to each,

Repeatedly the lovers re-embrace.

They verify at length which path is which.

The women ride towards the camp, Ruggier

To Arles; and I will end my canto here.

CANTO XXXVIII

Sweet ladies, who such kind attention give

To these my verses, from your looks I’d say

News of Ruggiero’s going you receive

With deep displeasure and as much dismay

As Bradamante; that a knight could leave

His promised bride again and ride away

Suggests to you (from what I say above)

In him but faintly burns the flame of love.

But if, against the wishes of his bride,

He had departed on some other quest,

If hopes of wealth had lured him on his ride –

A vaster sum than in his treasure-chest

Croesus or Crassus e’er amassed – then I’d

Agree with you: Love’s arrow to his breast

Had failed to penetrate: such joy, such bliss,

No purse of gold or silver purchases.

Since to protect his honour he has gone,

Not only pardoned, lauded he should be;

For to do otherwise than he has done

Discredit would incur and obloquy

And if his lady had insisted on

His still remaining in her company,

One of two things would have been clear to him:

She loved but little, or her wits were dim.

As she who is in love should value more

Than her own life her lover’s life (I speak

Of love that strikes a lover to the core),

So pleasure second place must always take

To honour, since of all the joys in store

Which life can offer or that Man can seek,

Honour above all others is revered

And sometimes is to life itself preferred.

Ruggiero, in continuing to serve

His lord, fulfils his duty as a knight,

And from this path he is not free to swerve

Without good reason; for it is not right

To think that Agramante should deserve

To suffer for Almonte’s act of spite,

Since for Ruggiero many things he’s done

Which for his forebears’ evil deeds atone.

Ruggiero honourably kept his bond

And Bradamante did her duty too,

Not clinging to him with repeated fond

Entreaties; at another time, she knew,

Though now to satisfy her was beyond

His power, this he would return to do.

But honour may be injured in a trice:

To satisfy it then no years suffice.

Ruggiero goes to Arles, where Agramant

Deploys such troops as still remain to him.

The warrior-maids, Marfise and Bradamant,

Joined now in fond and sisterly esteem,

Set off to where King Charles attempts to daunt

The foe by mustering his force; his scheme

Is by a battle or by siege to free

The land of France from her long agony.

When Bradamante’s presence there was known,

The camp was in a ferment of delight.

Welcomed, saluted, hailed by everyone,

She bows her head in answer, left and right

Rinaldo, hearing news of her, had gone

To meet his sister; nor must I omit

Ricciardo, Ricciardetto, all her kin,

Who rise and joyfully escort her in.

And when the word went round and it was plain

That her companion was Marfisa, she

Who from Cathay as far as western Spain

Was crowned with laurel-wreaths of victory,

Not one of all the soldiers would remain

In the pavilions; out they poured to see,

Jostling and elbowing, from here, from there

That splendid, martial and heroic pair.

They came before King Charles with reverence

This was the only time (so Turpin says)

Marfisa knelt to make obeisance.

To Pepin’s son this homage she now pays

That majesty he only represents

Which she has never seen in all her day

In Christian or in pagan kings renowned

For glory or by virtue’s halo crowned

The Emperor received her graciously,

And forth from his pavilion towards her came;

And at his side desired that she should be,

In precedence of princes of great fame.

And some who did not leave, but lingered, he

Dismissed, for an élite was now his aim

Of paladins and foremost lords; the crowd

Beyond the palisade was not allowed.

Marfisa in a pleasing tone thus speaks:

‘Illustrious Caesar, famed in many lands,

From India’s sea to Hercules’ twin peaks,

From Scythian snows to Ethiopian sands,

Before your silver cross the proudest necks

Have bowed; most wise and just are your commands.

Led by your fame, which knows no boundary,

I journeyed far to see Your Majesty.

‘To tell the truth, envy my motive was.

My only aim was to make war on you.

No king so mighty but must keep the laws

I kept; the battlefields a scarlet hue

With Christian blood I stained; and for this cause

I would have shown you other tokens too

Of my hostility; but in the end,

As it befell, I changed from foe to friend.

‘When most intent on spilling Christian blood,

I learned I was the daughter (at some other

Time I’ll tell you more) of the famed and good

Ruggiero of Reggio by his evil brother

Slain; I, as yet unborn, so it ensued,

To Africa was carried by my mother.

She died in childbirth; in my seventh year

Some Arabs stole me from a sorcerer.

‘In Persia then they sold me as a slave.

The king who purchased me I later slew.

He tried to take my maidenhood and have

His way with me; I killed his courtiers too

And chase to his degenerate sons I gave.

I seized the realm and such good fortune knew,

No less than seven kingdoms I possessed,

When scarce my eighteenth birthday I had passed.

‘As I have told you, envious of your fame,

I had determined in my heart to bring

Disaster down on you, defeat and shame.

Who knows if I’d have failed in such a thing?

But now extinguished is my fury’s flame

And such ambition droops upon the wing

Since I have heard (and blood, my lord, less thin

Than water is) that we are kith and kin.

‘My sire, your kinsman, served you as his lord,

And I, your kinswoman, will serve you too

The jealousy, the hate, I felt toward

Your Majesty, I now forget, or to

A better purpose it’s reserved and stored:

Against Troiano’s son and any who

Are kinsfolk of my father’s murderers,

For in me now desire for vengeance stirs.’

She wished to be a Christian, she next said,

And when King Agramante had been killed

The subjects of her kingdom would be made

To undergo conversion, if Charles willed;

And, next, wherever in the world men prayed

To Termagant, or by Mahomet held,

She would take arms against them in the name

Of Holy Church and for the Empire claim.

The Emperor was no less eloquent

Than he was valorous and wise; he praised

The damsel for her deeds; then her descent,

Her father’s virtues too, on high he raised.

His heart’s nobility was evident

From his reply, so courteously phrased.

He thanked her for the motive which had brought her,

Accepting her as kinswoman and daughter.

He then arose, embracing her once more,

And like a father kissed her on the brow.

The paladins who were her foes of yore,

The Monglanes and the Clairmonts, claimed her now

With joyful faces as their friend; before

Her too, Rinaldo came to make his bow.

Long it would take me to record his praise

Of all her deeds of their Albracca days.

Long it would take me to describe the joy

Of Aquilant, Guidone, Sansonet

And of Grifone (that imprudent boy)

As they recall the city where they met.

Repeatedly the other three destroy –

Viviano, Malagigi, Ricciardet –

Lanfusa’s traffickers, Maganza’s men,

Recalling how Marfisa helped them then.

Her baptism is fixed for the next day;

And Charles himself makes it his special care

That everyone his orders shall obey.

A place of rich adornment they prepare.

Bishops from near at hand and far away,

And learned clerics, searched for everywhere,

Well-versed in doctrine, hither are conducted,

That in the Faith Marfisa be instructed.

In sumptuous pontificals arrayed,

Archbishop Turpin came to christen her.

Charles with due ceremony raised the maid

From the health-giving, saving lavacer.

But it is time now to apply the aid

So needed by the frenzied cavalier,

Which Duke Astolfo carried from the moon,

Returning in the chariot with St John.

Astolfo had returned from the bright sphere

And landed on the highest point on earth,

Bringing that precious phial with him here,

To give Orlando’s witless mind rebirth.

St John then shows the English cavalier

A herb, whose virtue is of wondrous worth,

And with it, when to Nubia he flies,

He is to touch the king and heal his eyes.

For this and former benefits the king

Will give him troops for an attack upon

Biserta; inexpert in soldiering,

They must be trained and armed; when this is done,

He must instruct them in manoeuvring

Across the dazzling sand in blinding sun.

And point by point, all that Astolfo ought

To do, the venerable Elder taught.

The duke remounted the winged quadruped

Which first Atlante, then Ruggiero, rode

And, parting from St John, away he sped,

Leaving behind our parents’ first abode.

Next by the Nile’s divarications led,

Which now to one side, now the other, flowed,

To Nubia he came and in the town

Which is the capital he fluttered down.

Great was the joy and great was the delight

He caused the king by his return, who well

Recalled how he had freed them from the blight

Of harpies, monstrous, hideous and fell.

And when that thickness which obscured the light

The potent juices of the herb unseal

And he can see as clearly as before,

He worships his deliverer still more.

Not only does he give him all the men

He asks, to take Biserta by surprise,

But adds a hundred thousand more, and then

His service offers in the enterpris

So large a host is mustered that the plain,

It seems, the vast array can scarce comprise.

All are on foot – no horses there are found,

Though elephants, and camels too,abound.

And on the eve of the appointed day

When King Senapo’s army shall march forth,

Astolfo in the darkness flees away,

Urging the hippogriff for all it’s worth.

He reaches Auster’s hill without delay,

That frenzied wind which blows from south to north,

And finds the narrow slit through which it streaks

Whenever from its slumber it awakes.

And, as St John instructed, he had brought

An empty wineskin with him on his rid

And, moving quietly, as he was taught,

Not to disturb the sleeping wind inside,

Which wear from its work suspected naught

The wineskin to the narrow crack applied.

The wind next morning, bursting from the crag,

Was caught and held securely in the bag.

The paladin, delighted with his prize,

Returns to Nubia, and that same morn

With his black army of so vast a size

Sets out; provisions after them are borne.

The desert sand (a peril otherwise)

Astolfo does not fear but holds in scorn

(The wind being prisoner), and all his host

As far as Atlas’ foothills safely crossed.

And once beyond the range, he led them where

The land is broadened to a coastal plain,

And, choosing his best squadrons, those who were,

He judged, the best and easiest to train,

He spaced them out, some here, and others there.

Like one who has momentous plans in train,

He left them at the bottom of a hill

And set off to the summit with a will.

And when he reached the top, he knelt and prayed

(His mentor-saint would answer him, he knew).

Next, down the hill, rock after rock he sped.

How much a firm belief in Christ can do!

The rolling stones no natural laws obeyed,

For, as they tumbled down the slope, they grew

A rounded belly, legs, a neck, a muzzle

(And how they did it still remains a puzzle).

And with shrill neighs and whinnyings they speed,

Bounding and leaping down the craggy way,

Then shake their cruppers, every one a steed,

Some dapple and some roan and others bay.

To their arrival paying careful heed,

The waiting squadrons seized them straight away.

Soon every man was mounted on a horse.

(Saddled and bridled they were born, of course.)

Ten times eight thousand, ten times ten, plus two

That day from infantry to cavaliers

He changed; then Africa they scoured all through,

Burning and sacking, taking prisoners.

King Agramante had entrusted to

The king of Fers, the king of Algaziers

And King Branzardo all the safety of

His realm: these now against Astolfo strove.

But first they have despatched a slender dho

Which speeds by oar and sail as if on wings,

And messages to Agramant of how

The Nubians invade his kingdom brings.

By day, by night, the pilot will allow

No rest, but urges on his underling

Until they reach Provence; and there in Arle

Is Agramante, threatened by King Charles

When Agramante heard this and saw plain

What danger to his kingdom he had brough

By his invasion of the Franks’ domai

The counsel of his leaders he first sought

He knew he would not look to them in vain

Sobrino’s and Marsilio’s eye he caught

(They were the most experienced and wise)

And he addressed the meeting in this wise

It ill becomes a commandant, I know,

To tell his men, “I did not think of this”,

But such is my predicament, I owe;

And yet, if from remote contingencies

Disaster strikes (and this indeed was so),

Less blameworthy perhaps the error is

In leaving Africa unarmed, I erred

If Nubia’s attack was to be feared.

‘But who could have foreseen, save God alone,

To Whom (whatever is concealed from us)

No aspect of the future is unknown,

So vast an army from so far would cross

Those shifting sands, by winds for ever blown,

And prove so menacing and dangerous?

Yet it has come: Biserta is attacked

And a great part of Africa is sacked.

‘In this dilemma your advice I need:

Should I depart, my task unfinished here,

Or should I battle on till I succeed

And Charlemagne is taken prisoner?

How can I both these claims together heed:

Our kingdom save, this Empire rend and tear?

If any of you know, speak out, I pray;

So let us find and follow the best way.’

Thus Agramante speaks, then turns his glance

On King Marsilio who sits near by,

As if to indicate that he first wants

His second-in-command to make reply.

He kneels and bows his head in reverence,

Then on his throne of honour, placed on high,

Once more reseats himself, and thus gives voice

Concerning Agramante’s fateful choice:

‘Rumour her tidings, whether bad or good,

Has always tended to exaggerate.

My courage sinks no lower than it should,

Nor rises higher than the facts dictate,

For, whatsoever the vicissitude,

My hopes and fears I always moderate.

And so, my liege, I lend but half an ear

To all the many voices which I hear.

‘And all the less acceptance do I give

The more such tales defy my common sense

Now, it is plain that no one can believe

That, contrary to all experience,

A king a region so remote would leave

With such a vast array of regiments,

To cross those sands unwisely hazarded

By troops too rashly by Cambyses sped.

‘I can believe that Arabs have descended

And sacked and killed and pillaged and laid waste

Wherever citadels were ill-defended,

And that Branzardo, whom you there had placed

As viceroy and lieutenant, has amended

The numbers of the foe and has made haste

To add two noughts to every ten of them,

That his excuse acceptable may seem.

‘Let us concede that they are Nubians,

Rained down miraculously from the sky;

Or it may be the clouds hid their advance

Since nobody could see them passing by:

What could they do against your Africans,

Unaided by a powerful ally?

Your garrison poor stuff must be indeed

If frightened by so unwarlike a breed.

‘Send over a few ships, just to display

Your standards, scarce will ropes be cast off here

Than to their borders they’ll have fled straightway –

These Nubians, or Arabs, or whate’er.

Because they know that you are far away

From your domain across the sea, they dare

(What in your presence they would fear to do)

To take advantage and make war on you.

‘This is the moment of revenge to take

Against King Charles, for in the absence of

Orlando no one else a stand will make;

But if to seize this palm you do not move,

Or from your hesitation do not wake,

The wisdom of this saying you will prove:

“Time has a forelock, but is bald behind”,

As to our shame and injury we’ll find.’

With these and other cunning words he sought

To bring the Council to his point of view:

That till King Charles was driven forth, they ought

To stay and finish what they came to do.

But King Sobrino, who could read the thought

Behind the urgings of the Spaniard (who

Promoted his own interest rather than

The common good) his answer thus began:

‘When my advice was “Stay at peace”, my king,

Ah, how I wish my prophecy had erred!

But since events its truth to light now bring,

Would you had trusted your Sobrino’s word!

But Rodomonte’s bold adventuring,

Alzirdo, Martasino you preferred,

And Marbalusto: would I might confront

Them with their boasts, above all Rodomont!

‘How I’d reproach him for his arrogance!

For it was he, as I remember well,

Who promised you that he would shatter France

Like glass, and that in Heaven or in Hell

He’d follow, nay, he’d leave behind, your lance.

And now his paunch he scratches, in a fell

Stupor; I, who for telling truth was set

Down for a coward, I am with you yet!

‘So I will always be until I end

This life, which, burdened now with many years,

For you each day to risk of death I lend

Against the bravest champions and peers

Of France, and whatsoever Fate may send.

No man is there in all the world who dares

To call me coward; I as much have done,

Nay more, than many a boastful champion.

‘Thus you can see that what I said before

And what I am again about to say,

From no faintheartedness or fear of war

Arises, but from love and loyalty:

Go back, I urge, to your paternal shore

As fast as possible, perhaps today.

Unwise is he who loses what is his

To try to gain what someone else’s is.

‘You know the gain: thirty-two vassal kings

Set out with you from port, their sails full-spread

And now, according to my reckonings,

Barely a third are left, the rest are dead.

Pray God will spare us further sufferings,

But if you persevere, our fate I dread:

For scarce a fifth or quarter will remain

And all your hapless army will be slain.

‘Orlando’s absence is a help to us;

We are but few, we might have been wiped out.

But our position is still perilous,

Our agony is but the more drawn-out.

Rinaldo is still there, as dangerous

As was the Count (of this there is no doubt).

There are his kinsmen, all the paladins,

Eternal terror of our Saracens.

‘They also have that second god of war

Named Brandimarte; though to praise the foe

Gives me no joy, he and Orlando are,

As I and others have good cause to know,

Well-matched as paladins and similar

In martial skill; and then, as you must owe,

For many days Orlando has been gone,

Yet we have lost far more than we have won.

‘If in the past our losses have been grave,

They will be yet more numerous, I fear;

For Mandricard is dead and in his grave,

Gradasso has withdrawn, no one knows where,

Marfisa has deserted us, to save

Her soul; if only Rodomonte were

As true as he is valorous, no need

There’d be of captains of an Eastern breed.

‘While we of their assistance are deprived,

And many thousands of our troops lie slain

(And all who were to come have now arrived –

For further shiploads now we look in vain),

Four valiant cavaliers Charles has contrived –

As though to match our fourfold loss – to gain,

Who with his nephews are compared, with reason;

Knights such as these are few at any season.

‘I do not know if you know who Guidon

Selvaggio is, or Sansonetto, or

The twin-born sons of Oliver? I own

That I respect and fear each of them more

Than any other Christian champion

Who comes to help the Empire in this war,

Of German or whate’er outlandish tongue

Of northern lands barbaric and far-flung.

‘Whenever you go forth to take the field

You will be routed and disgraced, I know.

If Africa and Spain were forced to yield

When they were twice as many as the foe,

Now that the whole of Europe forms a shield

Around King Charles, what does our future show?

When twice our number we shall have to face,

What else have we to hope for but disgrace?

‘Your army you will lose and your domain,

If in this venture you are obstinate;

But if you change your plan, you will retain

The remnants of your forces and the State

But you would be regarded with disdain

If you should leave your ally to his fate.

There is a remedy – with Charles make peace.

If you, then he, would like the war to cease.

‘But if you think your honour jeopardized

That, disadvantaged, you for peace should sue

If martial triumphs are more highly prized,

At least make sure the victor will be you!

And this ambition can be realized,

Despite our lack of fortune hitherto:

Entrust your quarrel to one cavalier

And as that delegate select Ruggier.

‘I know and you know too Ruggiero is

A formidable foe in single fight.

Neither Orlando nor Rinaldo his

Resource can match, nor any Christian knight.

If you insist on full hostilities,

Though superhuman is Ruggiero’s might,

He against many will be only one

And by a greater strength must be undone.

‘The right course seems to me, if you agree,

To send this message to their sovereign:

To halt this bloodshed which both you and he

Are still inflicting on each other’s men

(And Charlemagne on yours especially),

Two knights, one Christian and one Saracen,

Be chosen from the bravest on each side,

And let their duel the whole war decide.

‘The pact to be: the loser’s king must face

Defeat, and tribute to the other pay.

Charles will accept this offer with good grace,

Though the advantage now has gone his way.

And in Ruggiero so much trust I place,

I know that his strong arm will win the day.

So evident it is that right is ours

That he would win if he encountered Mars.’

With these and still more telling arguments

Sobrino overrules the king of Spain.

Interpreters that very day ride hence

With the ambassadors to Charlemagne.

In all his peers he has such confidence

The outcome of the fight to him is plain.

He chose Rinaldo for the Christian side,

On whom, after Orlando, he relied.

Both armies are delighted with the pact

And equally on both sides they rejoice.

By weariness of mind and body wracked,

All long for rest; and every soldier’s choice

Will be a life of ease henceforth – in fact

All bitterly regret and with one voice

They curse the wrath, the frenzy and the rage

Which made them in such martial strife engage.

Rinaldo sees that Charles to a great height

Has raised him, for in such an enterprise

He trusts him more than any other knight,

And gladly to the task himself applies.

Ruggiero he disdains, for all his might:

A poor opponent in Rinaldo’s eyes,

No match for such as him, although he slew.

King Mandricard in combat, as he knew

Ruggiero, on the other hand, although

Much honoured to be chosen by his king

Among so many valiant knights, for so

Important and responsible a thing

Cannot disguise his sorrow and his woe.

Not that his heart with fear is fluttering:

He’d take on both the cousins, let alone

Rinaldo Montalbano on his own.

He is aware Rinaldo’s sister is

His dearest and most faithful bride to be,

Who showers him with countless messages,

Urging her grievance and anxiety.

Now if he adds to former injuries

The will to wound her brother mortally,

Her love for him will turn to bitter hate,

Beyond Ruggiero’s powers to placate.

If silently Ruggiero mourns and grieves,

Regretting the sad task he undertakes,

His future wife, when she the news receives,

Into a fit of tears and sobbing breaks

And her despair and anguish next relieves

By beating her fair breast; her tender cheeks

She ravages, her golden locks abuses,

Her love ungrateful calls, her fate accuses.

Whichever way the duel was to end,

For her the only consequence was grief.

That death to claim Ruggiero might descend,

She dare not let herself imagine; if

For past offences Christ on high should send

A judgement down on France, beyond relief

Her sorrows then would be: her brother dead,

And she in a dilemma dire and dread.

For censure she would then incur, and scorn,

And all her kindred’s deep hostility,

If to Ruggiero she should then return

And claim him as a husband openly,

A thing she dreamed of doing night and morn,

Planning the manner of it frequently.

Such is the promise which unites these two,

No second thoughts will now their bonds undo.

But she who is accustomed to lend aid

And does not fail her loved ones in distress

Could not endure to hear the doleful Maid

(I mean Melissa, the kind sorceress).

She came at once to comfort her, and said

At the right moment she would bring redress

By the disruption of the coming fight

Which was the cause of Bradamante’s plight.

Rinaldo and illustrious Ruggier

Put on their arms for the ensuing test.

The choice lay with the Christian cavalier,

Defender of the Empire of the West.

He, ever since he lost his destrier,

Has fought on foot, and so he held it best

To fight with battle-axe and dagger, clad

In mail and armour; and this choice he made.

Whether by chance, or whether by advice

Of Malagigi, provident and shrewd,

Who knows how Balisarda loves to slice

Through plated armour, it is understood

(Perhaps I do not need to tell you twice)

The warriors the use of swords exclude.

The site they choose is a broad plain, outside

The ramparts by which Arles was fortified.

As soon as vigilant Aurora from

Tithonus’s abode had raised her head,

In signal that the day and hour had come

When preparations now might go ahead,

Those delegated now emerge, by whom

Pavilions are erected at the head

Of the stockades, and altars then are raised

Where God by both the monarchs will be praised.

Soon afterwards the pagan troops parade,

Rank after rank, in martial discipline.

In sumptuous, barbaric pomp arrayed,

King Agramante in their midst is seen.

Ruggiero on a charger is conveyed:

A bay, black-maned, white-blazed, it steps between

Two kings, and level keeps; and he of Spain

To be Ruggiero’s squire does not disdain.

The helmet which he won some time before

In pain and travail from another king,

The helmet which the Trojan Hector wore,

As you have heard a greater poet sing,

Marsilio beside him humbly bore;

And other princes, other barons, bring

His other arms, his other weapons hold,

With gems encrusted and adorned with gold.

And from the other side King Charles appears.

He sallies forth with all his men-at-arms,

With all the panoply, as bold and fierce,

As if in answer to a call to arms.

He is surrounded by his famous peers.

Rinaldo comes on foot in all his arms –

Except his helmet, won from King Mambrin,

Borne by Ugier, the Danish paladin.

One axe is carried in Duke Namo’s hand

And one by him of Brittany’s domain.

Charles to one side assembles all his band,

Facing the host of Africa and Spain;

And in between is a large tract of land

Where nobody may step, because, on pain

Of death, that was reserved, as they all knew,

By edict, for the combat of the two.

The ritual of second choice began

(Ruggiero had this right); when this was done,

Two priests, one Christian, one Mohammedan,

Came forward, bearing volumes, of which one

Was our Lord’s life, the other the Koran;

But neither of the priests came forth alone:

The Emperor was at his chaplain’s side,

The king his holy man accompanied.

Before the altar which his men had made,

Charles in petition raised his palms on high:

‘O God, Who suffered for our sakes,’ he prayed,

‘O Lady, who so pleased the Almighty by

Thy virtue that to bring us timely aid

He took from thee our form in which to die

And dwelt for nine months in thy sacred womb

(Yet still unsullied was thy virgin bloom),

‘Bear witness to the promise which I swear

For me and all successors who hold sway,

To Agramante and to every heir

Who shall succeed him in his realm, to pay

A score of asses’-loads of gold each year,

If overthrown my champion is today.

I promise that the truce shall now commence

And that I guarantee its permanence.

‘May thy just anger blaze, if I should fail,

And in swift retribution upon me

And mine send down a formidable flail,

Though sparing all these in my company,

That they may know what vows to thee entail,

How great the cost of broken faith can be.’

His hand lay on the Bible as he spoke

And heavenward enraptured was his look.

The others then approached and stood before

The altar which the pagans had arrayed

With costly ornament; their monarch swore

His troops across the sea would be conveyed

And the same tribute to the Emperor –

Of twenty golden ass-loads – would be paid,

If on this day Ruggiero vanquished fell.

A lasting truce he guaranteed as well.

And he likewise, in accents clear and loud,

On his great Prophet could be heard to call;

And by the book his Imam held he vowed

That what he said he would observe in full.

Then from the field the monarchs quickly strode,

Each to his waiting troops. No interval

Elapsed before the moment came when both

The champions stepped forth to take their oath.

Ruggiero promises, if in this fight

His king (or deputy) should intervene,

He will no longer serve him as his knight;

The Emperor shall be his sovereign.

Rinaldo promises the opposite:

If Charlemagne removes him from the scene

Before he is defeated or Ruggier,

Allegiance to the African he’ll swear.

The ceremony being now complete,

Each combatant returns to his own side;

And soon, by shrilling trumpetings which greet

The day, the hour of Mars is signified.

The champions step forth; on cautious feet,

With skill and wariness, they choose each stride.

See now the fateful strokes which they begin

And hear the axe-heads’ formidable din.

Now with the blade, now with the haft, at first,

They simulate attack on foot or head;

In all such nimble moves they are so versed,

A true account would not be credited.

Ruggiero, sadly pledged to do his worst

On him whose sister he so longed to wed,

Delivered blows so cautious and so few

He seemed the less courageous of the two.

His moves aim less to strike than to defend,

But what he hopes he knows no more than I.

He would be saddened by Rinaldo’s end,

Yet he himself has no desire to die.

But now I reach a point where I will end,

And it is good to put the story by.

The rest in the next canto you will hear,

If next time you desire to join me there.

CANTO XXXIX

Indeed the anguish of Ruggiero is

Relentless, bitter, harsh, beyond all grief

Faced by two deaths, to one of them he sees

He must succumb, he can find no relief:

Death from Rinaldo if his expertise

Prevails, or from his promised bride; for if

He kills her brother, he’ll incur a fate

More terrible than death – her bitter hate.

Rinaldo meanwhile harboured no such thought,

But aimed at victory with every blow.

With frenzy and ferocity he fought,

Swinging his battle-axe now high, now low.

Swerving this way and that, Ruggiero sought

To parry with his haft and, if his foe

He sometimes struck, he seemed to do his best

To choose a spot where it would hurt him least.

This does not please the pagan chiefs one bit.

Unequal, they consider, is the fray:

Ruggiero is too hesitant to hit,

Rinaldo has it too much his own way.

King Agramante, looking on at it,

Fretted and fumed, revealing his dismay.

He blamed Sobrino for his bad advice,

Of which this blunder was the bitter price.

Melissa in the meantime, living fount

Of every magic art and sorcery,

Put off the female shape which she was wont

To wear, and took the form convincingly,

In gestures and in face, of Rodomont.

Her armour, dragon’s hide appeared to be;

Just such a shield, just such a blade she bore,

His own they could not have resembled more.

Spurring her conjured demon-thoroughbred

Before the late Troiano’s doleful son,

With furrowed brow, in a deep voice, she said:

‘My liege, I must protest, this is ill-done,

To expose a callow youth to risk so dread

Against this famous Gallic champion,

And in an enterprise of such a sort,

To African renown of vast import.

‘Forbid this combat; it must not proceed.

Too great will be the detriment to us.

On Rodomonte be it! Pay no need

To broken oaths: this pact is dangerous.

Let each man show his mettle and his breed.

You are a hundred times more numerous

Now I am here.’ These words on him so wrought,

The king rushed on the field without a thought.

Belief that Rodomont was with him there

Made Agramante disregard the pact.

If he had seen a thousand knights appear,

He would have felt less reassured, in fact.

Horses were spurred, and couched was every spear,

As each the other army reattacked.

Melissa, who the battle had ignited

By means of phantoms, disappeared, delighted.

Seeing their combat interrupted thus,

In violation of a sacred oath,

The two heroic and illustrious

Opponents ceased exchanging blows, and both

Agreed, pledging their faith in chivalrous

Accord, not to resume until the truth

As to which king was guilty could be told:

Young Agramant, or Charlemagne the old.

And their avowed intent they swear anew,

To be the enemy of him who broke

The truce. The ranks are seen to run in two

Directions: faces back or forwards look,

And feet a corresponding course pursue.

A single move reveals two kinds of folk,

For while they run at the same speed, the cowards

Are running backwards, and the brave men forwards.

Imagine if you will an eager hound

Which sees the other dogs pursue the hare

As it eludes them, running round and round.

The hunter holds it back and in despair

It tugs the leash, its howls and yelps resound

In vain, it struggles, leaping here and there:

Just so, until that moment held at bay,

Marfisa and her sister were that day.

That day until this moment they had seen

Rich booty on the spacious battlefield,

And bitter the regret of both had been

That by the pact they were restrained and held.

Their sighs were deep and their impatience keen

To chase the prey and harvest such a yield.

Now that the pact was merely empty words,

Joyful they leapt upon the pagan hordes.

Marfisa’s lance emerged two yards behind

The breast of her first foe; then with her blade

She split four helmets (my words lag behind

Her speed) as if of glass they had been made.

And Bradamante with a different kind

Of lance, with like success, about her laid.

All those it touched, the weapon overthrew

(And they were twice as many), but none slew.

In all this derring-do, they were so close,

Each was the other’s witness at first hand.

Then, separating, where wrath leads, each goes

To strike at random in the Moorish band.

Who the full tally of the fallen knows,

Thrown by the lance in Bradamante’s hand?

Or of the heads split open or truncated

By that dread sword no blood has ever sated?

As, in the season when the winds blow mild

And on the Apennines green shoulders peep,

Two torrents rise, impetuous and wild,

Which at the outset close together keep,

Then plunge their separate ways, by speed beguiled,

And boulders loosen, trees from summits rip,

And cornfields wash into the vale below,

Like rivals in the havoc they would show,

Thus these two sisters, valiant warriors,

Redoubtable Marfisa and the Maid,

Divided now to devastate the Moors,

One with her spear, the other with her blade.

With difficulty from a headlong course

King Agramant his fleeing army stayed.

In vain he asked, and looked behind, in front:

Nowhere was there a trace of Rodomont.

Yet at his instigation (he declared)

The pact which Agramante swore that day,

Calling the gods to witness, he had dared

To break, but now he’d vanished clean away,

And King Sobrino too had disappeared.

(He was in Arles and there he meant to stay;

For such a breach of faith dire punishment

Would fall that day, he thought, on Agramant.)

Marsilio had likewise fled to Arles,

Aghast at such a sacrilegious deed:

So Agramant was left to face King Charles,

Who all his allied troops against him led,

His Marios, his Henrys and his Karls,

All of them valiant, of heroic breed.

His paladins among them stand out bold

Like jewels on embroidery of gold.

Among them also were some paragons

Of perfect chivalry, of the world’s best:

For instance, Oliver’s two famous sons,

Guidon Selvaggio, of intrepid breast;

I have already spoken more than once

Of the two damsels and their martial zest.

So many Saracens by these were slain,

To try to count them all would be in vain.

But I will leave this battle for a time

And go without a ship across the sea.

I’ve said enough about the French and I’m

Returning to Astolfo. Let me see:

I have already told you in my rhyme

All that St John had done; it seems to me

You also know the Algazieran king

And Branzard all their troops against him fling.

This army had been marshalled at top speed

With remnants from the whole of Africa;

The old, the sick were taken, such the need;

This was no time to be particular.

For Agramante twice his kingdom bled,

So obstinately he pursued the war;

Those now remaining were not numerous –

A band of raw recruits and timorous,

As they now prove by scampering for their lives

As soon as from afar they glimpse the foe.

Astolfo, with more hardened warriors, drives

Them on like sheep; across the fields they go

And there they stay; some band perhaps contrives

(Those few who greater skill at running show)

To reach Biserta, where Branzardo flees,

But Bucifar Astolfo’s prisoner is.

Branzardo feels the loss of Bucifar

To be more serious than all the rest.

He wonders what the terms of ransom are.

He knows unaided he will fail the test

Of siege: Biserta is too big by far.

And while he ponders, moody and depressed,

His prisoner, Dudone, comes to mind,

Whom he has held for several months confined.

The king of Sarza in a coastal raid,

When first he reached the walls of Monaco

This Danish paladin his captive made.

(He was the son of Ugier, as you know.)

A message from Branzardo is conveyed

To the commander of the Nubian foe

(His true identity from spies he hears),

Suggesting an exchange of prisoners.

He knows Astolfo as a paladin

Another paladin will gladly free.

The noble duke, when he informed has been,

Straightway concurs; once more at liberty,

Dudone thanks the duke and joins him in

The conduct of the war; wherever he

Can best assist, he lends a helping hand,

For he is expert both on sea and land.

The army of Astolfo was so vast,

It would have daunted seven Africas.

Recalling now the converse which had passed

Between him and St John, and how he was

To free Provence and Aiguesmortes at last

From Agramant, who held those areas,

The duke selected a large company,

The least inept, he judged, to put to sea.

Then, filling both his hands, he quickly tore

Innumerable leaves from many plants –

Palms,laurels,olives,cedars; to the shore

He carried them without a backward glance

And on the water threw his precious store.

O grace which God to men so rarely grants!

O wondrous miracle which from the leaves

Arose, soon as they floated on the waves!

They grew in number beyond estimate,

Becoming heavy, curved and thick and long.

The slender veins traversing them of late

Changed into ribs and planking, firm and strong.

The pointed tips in which they terminate

Remain the same, and every leaf ere long

Becomes a ship, and the varieties

Reflect the different fronds of different trees.

O miracle! They were transmogrified

To form tall galleons, galleys, caravels.

O miracle! They were as well supplied

With oars and sails and rigging and all else

As other ships. For mariners well-tried

Astolfo does not lack (nor miracles) :

Near-by Sardinia and Corsica

Both good recruiting grounds for seamen are.

Twenty-six thousand soldiers put to sea;

Of every sort they were, of every skill.

Dudone was their commandant and he

Was ever shrewd, in fortune good or ill,

By land or sea; and while the company

For a fair wind in port was waiting still,

A ship put in upon that very shore,

A ship which many captive warriors bore.

They were the cavaliers who on the strait

And narrow bridge were taken prisoner

By Rodomonte, as you heard me state.

There was Orlando’s brother (Oliver),

And faithful Brandimart and Sansonet

And others whom I need not name; they were

Italians, Gascons, Germans, brave and bold,

All now inactive in the vessel’s hold.

And here the pilot confidently steers

Into the bosom of the enemy,

Leaving astern the harbour of Algiers

(For this his destination was to be,

But a strong wind had blown him on). No fears

He has, no further risks can he foresee.

He comes, he thinks, to a home port to rest,

Like Procne winging towards her twittering nest.

But when the pilot the Imperial Bird,

The Golden Lilies and the Pards has seen,

He blanches like a man whose foot has stirred

A deadly serpent hidden, sleeping, in

The grass, who when he sees how he has erred,

Recoils in pallid terror from the scene,

Running as fast and far as legs will take

Him from the venom of the angry snake.

The pilot is unable to draw back,

Nor can he hide the prisoners down below

The only future facing him is black,

And with the paladins he’s forced to go

Before Dudone and the duke; no lack

Of joy on seeing friends again they show.

The pilot’s passengers ask that he be

Chained to the galley-benches as his fee.

As I was saying, by King Otto’s son

The Christian cavaliers were welcome made

A banquet in their honour in his own

Pavilion was prepared and tables laid.

Arms were supplied to each and every one.

To speak with them a while, Dudone stayed.

Their company is no less gain, he’s sure,

Than setting out a day or two before.

They briefed him on the state of things in France

And Charlemagne’s position – where he could

Most safely land and have the greatest chance

Of making his proposed offensive good;

And while they gave him this intelligence,

A hurly-burly in the neighbourhood

Gives rise to frantic calls: ‘To arms! To arms!’,

And startles everybody and alarms.

Astolfo and his noble company

Who dined and talked together in his tent

Put on their arms and mounted instantly

And to the source of the commotion went,

Hoping along the way some signs to see

Of what the nature was of the event.

They come to where they see a man so savage

That, naked, the whole army he could ravage.

He whirled a heavy cudgel round and round,

Of solid wood, and in so firm a grasp,

Each time it fell, a man dropped to the ground.

More than a hundred lay at their last gasp,

Whom Death at this unguarded moment found

And carried off inert in a chill clasp.

Arrows were shot at him from far away,

But nobody for his approach would stay.

Dudone, Brandimarte and the duke,

With Oliver, towards the tumult sped.

The strength and spirit of the savage struck

Them with a sense of marvel mixed with dread;

And, while on that stupendous force they look,

Attired in black as if she mourned the dead

A damsel gallops up – and to her heart

With both her arms embraces Brandimart.

This was fair Fiordiligi, who so burned

With love that Rodomonte’s penalty,

Which robbed her of the one for whom she yearned,

Brought her with grief near to insanity.

Then from his cunning captor she had learned

That he had sent her love across the sea,

In company with many cavalier

To languish in a prison in Algiers.

At Marseilles, on the point of setting sail,

She saw a ship arrive from the Levant.

On board was a retainer, old and frail,

Once of the household of King Monodant.

He had sought Brandimart, to no avail,

By land, by sea, a questing immigrant;

Then news of him in France he heard at last

And so just now to Europe he had passed.

She recognized him as Bardino, who

Had stolen Brandimart when he was small.

(To manhood in Silvana he then grew,

Having no knowledge of his home at all.)

So when Bardino’s aim the damsel knew,

She asked his help; and in the interval

She told him what the circumstances were

And how her love was taken prisoner.

When they had landed on the Afric shore,

News reached them of Astolfo’s victory.

Of Brandimarte’s fate they were not sure,

But rumour had it he had been set free.

Fair Fiordiligi, seeing him before

Her very eyes, with spontaneity

Rushed to reveal how all her former sadness

Served to intensify her present gladness.

43.

No less delight the noble cavalier

Experienced on seeing his dear wife.

She was more precious to him and more dear

Than any thing or person in his life.

He clasps and tenderly embraces her

And would have never ceased from kissing if

He had not seen, on lifting up his eyes,

Bardino standing there, to his surprise.

With open arms to welcome him he strode,

Intending to enquire why he had come;

But he was interrupted ere he could,

By the aforesaid pandemonium.

The bludgeon brandished by the savage nude

In a wide ring created ample room.

Then Fiordiligi, turning to confront

The naked man, called out, ‘It is the Count!’

At the same moment too the English duke

By certain signs the Count could recognize,

For which the holy ancients bade him look

Up yonder in the Terrestrial Paradise.

His former noble aspect so forsook

Him now, they’d ne’er have known him otherwise.

And for so long his body he disdains,

His face is like a beast’s, more than a man’s.

Astolfo, pierced by pity through his breast,

Turned, weeping, to Dudone who was near,

And then to Oliver and all the rest

And, pointing, cried, ‘That is Orlando there!’

To recognize him they all did their best,

Eyeing him with a fixed, unblinking stare.

To find him in this terrible condition

Fills all of them with stupor and contrition.

They wept to see the state the Count was in,

So grievous, they could not imagine worse.

‘Now is the time to give him medicine,’

Astolfo says, ‘not tears,’ and from his horse

He leaps. And soon no less than five are seen

Converging in a group with headlong force

To seize King Charles’s nephew, hoping to

Control his madness and his rage subdue.

Orlando, seeing them round him in a ring,

Wielded his cudgel like a maniac.

Dudone, with his buckler covering

His head, moved closer, and a heavy whack

Taught him the foolishness of such a thing.

But for the blade of Oliver, the crack,

Though devastating, would have been still more so,

And would have split shield, helmet, head and torso.

It only broke his shield, but such a thump

It landed on his helmet that he fell.

The sword of Sansonetto to a stump

Reduced the club, chopping it by an ell.

Then Brandimarte seized him by the rump

With both his arms, as tight as possible;

And while he pinions thus Orlando’s flanks

Astolfo holds him firmly by the shanks.

Orlando gave a jerk: the Englishman

Ten paces off upon his beam-end landed;

But Brandimart he does not find he can

Dislodge; his body-grip is iron-handed.

When Oliver too close unheeding ran,

Orlando gave him just what he demanded,

And knocked him senseless; ashy pale he lies,

The life-blood gushing from his nose and eyes.

And if his helmet had not been robust

That would have been the end of Oliver;

Even as it was, he lay unconscious, just

As if his soul had joined the heavenly sphere.

Dudone and the duke rise from the dust

(A swollen face the son of Ugier

Presents), and on the Count, with Sansonet

Who neatly chopped the club, once more they set.

Dudone gripped Orlando from behind,

Attempting with one foot to trip him up.

Astolfo and the other three combined

To hold his arms, but he defied the group.

If you will call a baited bull to mind,

Beset with fangs about its ears and crop

As bellowing it drags the dogs along

Which still hang on, although it is so strong,

You can imagine how Orlando tugged

Those warriors along with him that day.

Then Oliver who, sprawling like one drugged,

Beneath the impact of that cudgel lay,

Rose up and from himself the stupor shrugged.

He looked and saw that this was not the way

To bring Orlando down; and he bethought

Him of a plan which to success he brought.

He calls for ropes and quickly on the ends

He fastens running knots; first he lassoes

Orlando’s limbs; then, as each rope descends,

Curling, about the madman’s trunk, he throws

The warp to one or other of his friends

And, pulling hard, they tighten every noose.

Just as a farrier will fell a horse,

So was Orlando tumbled in mid-course.

Once he is down, they fling themselves on top

And tighter yet by hand and foot secure him.

Orlando jerks and twists to make them stop:

In vain, for every time they overpower him.

The duke commands that he be lifted up

And carried to the shore, where he can cure him.

Dudone, of a size to bear the brunt,

Upon his sturdy back conveys the Count.

Astolfo bids them wash him seven times

And seven times immerse him in the waves

So that the filthy coating that begrimes

His brutish face and limbs the water laves.

Then certain herbs which he has picked betimes

He stuffs into that mouth which puffs and raves,

For he desires the orifice to close

So that he cannot breathe save through his nose.

Astolfo had prepared the precious phial

In which Orlando’s wits preserved had been,

And placed it to his nose in such a style

That with one breath he drew the contents in

And straightway emptied it. O miracle!

His intellect returned to its pristine

Lucidity as brilliant as before,

As his fair discourse later witness bore.

As one who wakes from a distressful dream

Of gruesome monsters which could never be,

However grim and menacing they seem,

Or of committing some enormity,

And though his senses have returned to him,

From his amazement cannot yet shake free,

So now Orlando, wakened from illusion,

Remained in stupefaction and confusion.

In silence first he stared at Oliver,

At Brandimarte, at the English duke.

Then next he gazed all round, now here, now there,

With an astonished and bewildered look,

Wondering how and why and when and where

All this had happened, but to no one spoke.

That he is naked, further puzzles him,

And tied with ropes all round and on each limb.

Then, like Silenus when he was secured

By captors in a cave, ‘Solvite me’,

Orlando said; and they, being reassured

By his expression of serenity,

Released him, and some clothes for him procured.

And when he was attired in decency,

They all consoled him, for the bitter grief

Which overwhelmed him then was past belief.

Orlando, now a man again and wise

(Still manlier and wiser than before),

Discovered he was cured of love likewise.

The one whom he was wont so to adore,

Who was so fair and queenly in his eyes,

He now dismisses and esteems no more.

All his desire and all his zeal he’ll use

To reacquire what Love has made him lose.

Meanwhile Bardino spoke with Brandimart

And told him of the death of Monodant,

And that he came to call him, on the part

Not only of his brother, Ziliant,

But of the islands many miles apart,

To take the throne, and rule in the Levant;

In all the world there was no kingdom which

So joyful was, so populous and rich.

Among the many reasons which he gave

Was the sweet love of fatherland and home,

That if he once would taste its joys, he’d have

No inclination ever more to roam.

The prince replied that he must try to save

The realm of Charlemagne and Christendom.

If he could see the conflict to its end,

To his own plans he could then best attend.

On the next day, while to Provence is sped

The great armada of Dudon the Dane,

Orlando with the duke is closeted

And hears from him the state of the campaign.

Next, all Biserta under siege is laid.

Orlando credit gives for every gain

To Duke Astolfo, though he but conducts

The operation as the Count instructs.

Where they deploy their troops and when and how,

And from what side they take the citadel,

To whom the bravest deeds I must allow,

Why at the first assault Biserta fell –

If I do not pursue these matters now,

Be not dismayed, all this you’ll hear me tell.

But in the meantime let me go to Arles,

To see the Pagan harassed by King Charles.

King Agramant is left almost alone

In this, the greatest peril of the war.

Sobrino and Marsilio have gon

To Arles, which seems the safest place by far,

While many more discretion still have shown

And to the ships which close by anchored are

Have fled; and many a Moorish soldier took

A leaf from many a Moorish leader’s book.

But Agramante stays and holds his ground;

Not easily does he give up the fight.

When he can do no more, he swivels round

, And gallops to the near-by gates in fright.

The hoofs of Rabican behind him pound,

Whose mettle Bradamante’s spurs excite.

She yearns to kill him for depriving her

So many times so long of her Ruggier.

Marfisa also harboured in her breast

An urge to avenge her father (better late

Than never); she too gave her steed no rest;

But neither damsel reached the city gate

In time; despite their eagerness and haste,

They failed to cut off Agramant’s retreat.

Beneath the battlements he disappeared

And thence for safety to his fleet repaired.

As when a brace of handsome hunting pards

At the same moment from the leash set free,

Dash in pursuit of deer or goats, which yards

Ahead of them have tantalizingly

Escaped, lope back, as if ashamed, towards

The waiting huntsman, almost guiltily,

So the two warrior-damsels, sighing, turned

When they the king’s escape at last discerned.

Despite their setback, they do not draw rein.

To left, to right, among the fugitives

Such merciless, such deadly, blows they rain

And each so well her thwarted wrath relieves,

That many fall and do not rise again.

The routed army no respite receives.

For his protection Agramant has shut

The city gate, which keeps all comers out.

All bridges too across the Rhône are down.

Unhappy plebs! Tyrants to their own good

(Or what may seem the interest of the Crown)

Will sacrifice you like a helpless brood

Of sheep or goats; some in the river drown,

And some enrich the pastures with their blood.

Many are killed, few taken prisoner

(Since few of value for a ransom were).

Of the great multitude which on each side

Was slain in this engagement of the war

(The figures do not equally divide,

For heavier the pagan losses are,

Above all where the warrior-maidens ride),

The evidence can still be seen: not far

From Arles, along the delta of the Rhône,

Tomb after tomb bears witness in mute stone.

But to resume, at Agramant’s command

The heavy ships set sail for the deep sea,

Leaving some lighter vessels near the strand,

To wait for others hoping yet to flee.

They rode at anchor for two days, as planned

(The winds, moreover, had been contrary).

On the third day the sails were spread once more

To take the king to his paternal shore.

Marsilio was filled with deepest dread

Lest Spain the penalty should have to pay

And lest the tempest lowering overhead

Should burst in fury on his fields one day.

He landed at Valencia and sped

To strengthen his defences; in this way

He brought about his ruin, and the cause

Of the undoing of his allies was.

King Agramante sails for Africa

With ships ill-fitted, almost void of men

(Though fully laden with complaints they are).

Three quarters of his troops are lost or slain.

Some call the king too arrogant by far,

Some call him cruel or foolish, others vain.

All bear him rancour in their secret hearts

But none of them, for fear, his thoughts imparts,

Save two or three who each to each unseal

Their lips; trusting as friends to loyalty,

Their anger and resentment they reveal.

Unhappy Agramante thinks that he

Can surely count on their devotion still;

And this he thinks for he can only see

False faces, and the only words that greet

His ears are adulation, lies, deceit.

He thought it would be inadvisable

To put in at Biserta; certain news

That Nubians held all that littoral

Had reached him, so elsewhere he had to choose,

And his intention was to make shore well

Beyond, where none his landing would oppose,

And then return to bring his people aid

In their affliction: thus his plans he laid.

But cruel Destiny, at variance

With this design so provident and wise,

Decrees that the armada which from plants

Was seen miraculously to arise,

Now furrowing the waters towards France,

The ships of Agramante shall surprise

By night, when it is stormy and so black,

That there can be no warning of attack.

No spy had told King Agramante yet

Of the vast navy which Astolfo sent

(If any had, he wouldn’t credit it

So unbelievable was the event –

That plants turned into ships); and so he set

No look-outs but, serenely confident

That no one dared attack him, on he sailed

And from aloft no warning voices hailed.

So the armada which Dudon the Dane

Commanded for the duke, in the half-light

Of evening saw the other vessels plain

And turned in their direction to give fight.

With grappling-irons their ships the Christians chain.

All unprepared, the Moors a fearful plight

Now face. The Christians quickly get to know

That these are Moors: their speech reveals the foe.

And as the fleet for the attack moves in

(Seconded by the wind which blows their way),

At such a speed they ram the Saracen

That many Moorish ships are sunk that day.

With hands (and wits) the Christians then begin

To add their rain of missiles to the fray:

Fire-brands and boulders which no targets miss.

No storm at sea has ever equalled this.

Dudone’s men, on whom the Powers on high

Unwonted strength and daring now bestowed

(The time for punishment at last was nigh

Which to the Saracens had long been owed),

Such deadly blows, from far off or near by,

Inflicted, to the king himself they showed

No quarter; clouds of arrows clatter round him,

On all sides grapnels, axes, pikes confound him.

He hears the sound of heavy boulders crashing,

Hurled by ballistas and by catapults,

The prow and stern of many a vessel smashing,

Opening a passage for the waves’ assaults;

And of Greek fire he sees the dreaded flashing,

Igniting eager flames which nothing halts.

The hapless rabble scrambling to escape

Is caught between the Devil and the deep.

Some whom the enemy pursues with swords

Dive overboard and drown; one who can swim

With long and rapid strokes makes off towards

An overladen boat; the crew repulses him

(And its own safety thereby thinks it guards).

His hand – too eager – clutching at the rim

Is left, the bleeding stump is seen to slip

Below where it incarnadines the deep.

Some to preserve their life trust to the sea

(Or hope at least to lose it with less pain);

But when their breath deserts them and they see

For all their efforts no respite they gain,

To the voracious flames which they would flee

The fear of drowning brings them back again.

They clutch a burning hulk and seek to shun

Two deaths – and are by both at once undone.

Others in terror of an axe or pike

Which comes too near, try what the sea can do;

But from behind them stones or arrows strike

And so the strokes which they can make are few.

Perhaps it is now best, while you still like

My song, to end it, rather than pursue,

Lest by excessive length I put you off,

Failing to see when you have had enough.

CANTO XL

If all the details of this naval joust

I were to tell, I should not soon be done.

Reciting them to you would seem almost,

Unconquered, noble, Herculean son,

Like owls to Athens, so much labour lost

Or pots to Samos; or, I might go on,

Like crocodiles to Egypt; you, my lord

Have demonstrated what I but record.

Your subjects a long spectacle beheld

When you provided day and night a show

As in a theatre, that time you held

The hostile vessels on the river Po

Trapped between fire and sword. Ah, how they yelled

As the waves crimsoned with a gory flow!

You saw and showed to many in that war

How many different ways to die there are.

But, as you know, I did not witness it,

For I had gone six days before post-haste

(With frequent change of horses) to entreat

The Holy Shepherd to lend aid – a waste

Of time – it was not needed; such defeat

The Golden Lion was obliged to taste,

I have not feared those teeth or claws of his,

Thanks to your action, from that day to this.

But Trotto and Afranio were there,

Alberto, Bagno, Zerbinatto too;

Three of my kinsmen who my surname share,

Annibale, and Piero Moro knew.

They told me, and the banners made it clear,

And all the trophies, in the church on view,

And fifteen galleys, if I needed more,

And other captive vessels on our shore.

All those who of that scene were witnesses,

Who saw that carnage and that holocaust –

Vengeance for pillage of our palaces,

Pursued till every ship was sunk or lost –

Can see the horror which now menaces

The stricken and defenceless Moorish host,

At sea with Agramante that dark night,

Predestined victims of Dudone’s might.

When battle was first joined, the night was black

And not a gleam could anywhere be seen;

But once the foe began the harsh attack

By pouring sulphur, pitch and bitumen

On prow and stern, which all defences lack,

The greedy flames illuminate the scene

With such a pyrotechnical display,

It seems as if the night has turned to day.

King Agramante in the darkness thought

The foe was of but little consequence,

And whatsoe’er the strength with which they fought,

His forces could resist and drive them hence;

But when the shadows lifted, he was taught

That twice as many (a great difference)

As he had judged the hostile vessels were,

And so he changed those plans made earlier.

With only a few men he boards a ship

(With Brigliadoro and such things as he

Holds dear); in silence furtively they creep

Between the vessels to a safer sea;

Thus the king gives his harassed fleet the slip,

Leaving it to the Dane’s ferocity,

To fire and flood, to death in every shape,

While he, the cause of it, makes his escape.

Thus Agramante fled and with him took

Sobrino, whose advice he disobeyed.

By ills foreseen now sadly brought to book,

In self-reproach he humbly bowed his head.

But let us to Orlando, who the duke

Advised, before Biserta could get aid,

To raze it to the ground, so that no chance

It had henceforth of making war on France.

Astolfo gave the order for attack

Within three days; he had already planned

For this by holding many vessels back

When the armada sailed; and the command

Of these he gave to Sansonet – no lack

Of skill he had on sea as on dry land.

His fleet was anchored now a mile away

Outside the harbour, ready for the fray.

True to their Christian faith, the paladins,

Who, facing peril, never fail to pray,

Give orders that before the siege begins

All troops shall fast and their devotions say,

Then, armed with spears (or native javelins),

The signal shall await; on the third day

Biserta’s time will come to be attacked

And, being captured, to be burned and sacked.

Then, after prayers had been devoutly said

And fasting was religiously observed,

Friends, relatives, acquaintances broke bread

Once more together and refreshment served

To weary bodies needing to be fed.

Then, weeping, they embraced, as if unnerved,

Their words and gestures such as people use

When they their dearest are about to lose.

Inside Biserta too the holy men

Are weeping with their people in their grief.

They beat their breasts as they entreat again,

Calling on their Mahomet, who is deaf.

What offerings are made in secret then!

What vigils kept! It passes all belief

What temples, altars, statues are erected,

Eternal monuments to woes inflicted!

The Imam blessed the people; after this

They took their arms and to the walls went back.

While fair Aurora lingered yet in bliss

With her Tithonus and the sky was black,

The duke his forces, Sansonetto his,

On land and out to sea were holding back;

But when they heard Orlando’s whistle-blast,

The terrible assault began at last.

Biserta, bounded on two sides by sea,

Upon the other two stood on dry land.

Her walls, of unexampled masonry,

Had been constructed by a master hand.

These almost were her sole security;

No other reinforcement could be planned.

When King Branzardo there for refuge fled,

Masons were scarce and time was limited.

Astolfo gives the task to Prester John

Of shooting at the line of battlements

With sling-stones, fire-brands, arrows, till not one

Of those inside his face outside presents.

So to the walls, the soldiers, one by one,

Of infantry and mounted regiments,

Pass unmolested, bearing boulders, beams

And planks, and anything that useful seems.

Rubble and refuse of all kinds were cast

Into the moat (the water was cut off

The day before).

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