Chapter 26
The champions were now joined by Rinaldo, who after the breaking of the pact by Agramant, had set off for India in search of Angelica, whom he still madly loved. But Disdain guided his steps to the Fountain of Hate, one draught of which changed his love to loathing, so that he abandoned his undertaking and hastened to join the Christian forces in Africa.
Olivier's wound proved slow to heal, and when at last the warriors heard of a hermit on a lonely isle who could help him, they hastened to take their wounded comrade thither. There they found Rogero, who had been shipwrecked while sailing to Africa, and had been baptized by the hermit, who was warned in a dream of his coming. The Christian warriors gladly welcomed Rogero to their ranks, for they knew of his valor; and Rinaldo, who had learned how the young hero had saved the life of Richardetto and had preserved Vivian and Malagigi, embraced him, and at the suggestion of the hermit, plighted him to his sister. Before they left the isle, Sobrino was converted by the pious hermit, and Olivier's wound was healed.
The knights were received with the greatest honor by Charlemagne, especially Rogero, the new convert. But what unhappiness awaited him! In his absence Bradamant's father had promised the maid to Leo, the son of the Greek emperor, Constantine, in spite of her prayers and entreaties.
Although Bradamant declared that she would die sooner than wed another, the heart-broken Rogero hastily departed for Constantinople to slay his rival. In his absence, Bradamant besought Charlemagne not to compel her to marry Leo unless he could defeat her in single combat; and her angry parents, on learning of this, took her from the court and shut her up in the tower of Rocca Forte. Rogero, in the mean time, reached Leo's realms just as the Greeks engaged in battle with the Bulgarians. Because of his hatred for Leo, he fought with the Bulgarians, and when their king fell he rallied their scattered troops and put the Greeks to flight. Rogero then followed the fleeing Greeks unaccompanied, and being recognized, was taken captive that night as he slept in a hostelry. At the entreaty of a kinswoman whose son Rogero had slain that day, the emperor surrendered his captive to her, and he was thrust into a gloomy dungeon, where he suffered agonies from hunger and cold. But Leo, who had admired his valor in battle and had longed to know him, rescued him, recovered his horse and armor, and by his generosity compelled Rogero to admire him as much as he had before hated him. The news of Charlemagne's decree now reached Leo, and he, fearing to fight Bradamant, asked the unknown knight of the unicorn to take his place. Rogero's heart sank within him, but he dared not refuse. His life was Leo's, and he must sacrifice himself for him, must either slay Bradamant, or be slain by her for his deliverer's sake. He accompanied Leo to France, and feigning a cheerfulness he did not feel, changed armor and steed that he might not be known, and, while Leo remained in his tent outside the city, entered the lists and encountered Bradamant, who was determined to slay her hated suitor. Rogero was equally determined not to slay her nor to allow himself to be conquered. When twilight fell and king and court saw that while the young knight had not overcome the maid, he had not allowed himself to be overcome, they declared that the couple were well matched and that they should wed.
The hopeless Rogero hastened back to Leo's camp, changed armor and steed, and during the night stole away from the hateful place to the greenwood that he might die there, since he could never possess his beloved. At the same time, Bradamant gave way to her grief in such a manner that Marphisa, already indignant at the treatment of her brother, appeared before the king in his behalf. She declared that Rogero and Bradamant had already exchanged all the vows of those who marry and therefore she was not free to wed another. She then suggested that since the matter had gone so far, Leo and Rogero should meet in the lists to decide to whom the lady belonged.
Leo at once set out in search of his knight of the unicorn, who he believed would defend him from all peril, and found him in the forest, almost fainting from fasting and sleeplessness. The Greek embraced Rogero tenderly and implored him to betray the cause of his grief, and so tender were his words and so gracious his manner that Rogero could not but unbosom himself. And when Leo learned that his unknown champion was no other than Rogero himself he declared that he would gladly forego Bradamant for him, and would rather have forfeited his life than caused such grief to such a faithful friend.
Joy filled the court when the story of Rogero's fidelity was made known, and the joy was increased when ambassadors came from Bulgaria, seeking the unknown knight of the unicorn that they might offer their throne to him. Duke Aymon and his wife were reconciled when they found that Rogero was to be a king, and the wedding was celebrated with the greatest splendor, Charlemagne providing for Bradamant as though she were his daughter.
In the midst of the celebrations Rodomont appeared to defy Rogero, and that knight, nothing loath, met him in the lists. The Moor fell under Rogero's blows, and all the Christian court rejoiced to see the last of the pagan knights fall by the hand of their champion.
SELECTION FROM THE ORLANDO FURIOSO.
THE DEATH OF ZERBINO.
As Orlando talked with Zerbino, whose life he had saved and to whom he had given his lady Isabel, also rescued by him, Mandricardo the Tartar king came up and challenged Orlando to single combat. While they fought, Mandricardo's steed, from which Orlando had slipped the rein, became unmanageable, and fled with its rider. Orlando asked Zerbino and Isabel to tell Mandricardo, if they overtook him, that he would wait for him in that place for three days to renew the battle. But while waiting, Orlando learned of Angelica's love for Medoro, and losing his senses from grief, threw away his armor, and went wandering through France. Zerbino and Isabel returned to the place to see if Mandricardo had returned, and there learned of Orlando's condition.
Far off, he [Zerbino] saw that something shining lay, And spied Orlando's corselet on the ground; And next his helm; but not that head-piece gay Which whilem African Almontes crowned: He in the thicket heard a courser neigh, And, lifting up his visage at the sound, Saw Brigliadoro the green herbage browse, With rein yet hanging at his saddle-bows,
For Durindane, he sought the greenwood, round, Which separate from the scabbard met his view; And next the surcoat, but in tatters, found; That, in a hundred rags, the champaign strew, Zerbino and Isabel, in grief profound, Stood looking on, nor what to think they knew: They of all matters else might think, besides The fury which the wretched count misguides.
Had but the lovers seen a drop of blood, They might have well believed Orlando dead: This while the pair, beside the neighboring flood, Beheld a shepherd coming, pale with dread. He just before, as on a rock he stood, Had seen the wretch's fury; how he shed His arms about the forest, tore his clothes, Slew hinds, and caused a thousand other woes.
Questioned by good Zerbino, him the swain Of all which there had chanced, informed aright. Zerbino marvelled, and believed with pain, Although the proofs were clear: This as it might, He from his horse dismounted on the plain, Full of compassion, in afflicted plight; And went about, collecting from the ground The various relics which were scattered round.
Isabel lights as well; and, where they lie Dispersed, the various arms uniting goes.
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Here Prince Zerbino all the arms unites, And hangs like a fair trophy, on a pine. And, to preserve them safe from errant knights, Natives or foreigners, in one short line Upon the sapling's verdant surface writes, ORLANDO'S ARMS, KING CHARLES'S PALADINE. As he would say, "Let none this harness move, Who cannot with its lord his prowess prove!"
Zerbino having done the pious deed, Is bowning him to climb his horse; when, lo! The Tartar king arrives upon the mead. He at the trophied pine-tree's gorgeous show, Beseeches him the cause of this to read; Who lets him (as rehearsed) the story know. When, without further pause, the paynim lord Hastes gladly to the pine, and takes the sword.
"None can (he said) the action reprehend, Nor first I make the faulchion mine to-day; And to its just possession I pretend Where'er I find it, be it where it may. Orlando, this not daring to defend, Has feigned him mad, and cast the sword away; But if the champion so excuse his shame, This is no cause I should forego my claim."
"Take it not thence," to him Zerbino cried, "Nor think to make it thine without a fight: If so thou tookest Hector's arms of pride, By theft thou hadst them, rather than by right." Without more parley spurred upon each side, Well matched in soul and valor, either knight. Already echoed are a thousand blows; Nor yet well entered are the encountering foes.
In 'scaping Durindane, a flame in show (He shifts so swiftly), is the Scottish lord. He leaps about his courser like a doe, Where'er the road best footing does afford. And well it is that he should not forego An inch of vantage; who, if once that sword Smite him, will join the enamored ghosts, which rove Amid the mazes of the myrtle grove.
As the swift-footed dog, who does espy Swine severed from his fellows, hunts him hard, And circles round about; but he lies by Till once the restless foe neglect his guard; So, while the sword descends, or hangs on high, Zerbino stands, attentive how to ward, How to save life and honor from surprise; And keeps a wary eye, and smites and flies.
On the other side, where'er the foe is seen To threaten stroke in vain, or make it good, He seems an Alpine wind, two hills between, That in the month of March shakes leafy wood; Which to the ground now bends the forest green, Now whirls the broken boughs, at random strewed. Although the prince wards many, in the end One mighty stroke he cannot 'scape or fend.
In the end he cannot 'scape one downright blow, Which enters, between sword and shield, his breast. As perfect was the plate and corselet, so Thick was the steel wherein his paunch was drest: But the destructive weapon, falling low, Equally opened either iron vest; And cleft whate'er it swept in its descent, And to the saddle-bow, through cuirass, went.
And, but that somewhat short the blow descends It would Zerbino like a cane divide; But him so little in the quick offends, This scarce beyond the skin is scarified. More than a span in length the wound extends; Of little depth: of blood a tepid tide To his feet descending, with a crimson line, Stains the bright arms which on the warrior shine.
'T is so, I sometimes have been wont to view A hand more white than alabaster, part The silver cloth with ribbon red of hue; A hand I often feel divide my heart. Here little vantage young Zerbino drew From strength and greater daring, and from art; For in the temper of his arms and might, Too much the Tartar king excelled the knight.
The fearful stroke was mightier in show, Than in effect, by which the prince was prest; So that poor Isabel, distraught with woe, Felt her heart severed in her frozen breast. The Scottish prince, all over in a glow, With anger and resentment was possest, And putting all his strength in either hand, Smote full the Tartar's helmet with his brand.
Almost on his steed's neck the Tartar fell, Bent by the weighty blow Zerbino sped; And, had the helmet been unfenced by spell The biting faulchion would have cleft his head. The king, without delay, avenged him well, "Nor I for you till other season," said, "Will keep this gift;" and levelled at his crest, Hoping to part Zerbino to the chest.
Zerbino, on the watch, whose eager eye Waits on his wit, wheels quickly to the right; But not withal so quickly, as to fly The trenchant sword, which smote the shield outright, And cleft from top to bottom equally; Shearing the sleeve beneath it, and the knight Smote on his arm; and next the harness rended, And even to the champion's thigh descended.
Zerbino, here and there, seeks every way By which to wound, nor yet his end obtains; For, while he smites upon that armor gay, Not even a feeble dint the coat retains. On the other hand, the Tartar in the fray Such vantage o'er the Scottish prince obtains, Him he has wounded in seven parts or eight, And reft his shield and half his helmet's plate.
He ever wastes his blood; his energies Fail, though he feels it not, as't would appear; Unharmed, the vigorous heart new force supplies To the weak body of the cavalier. His lady, during this, whose crimson dyes Were chased by dread, to Doralice drew near, And for the love of Heaven, the damsel wooed To stop that evil and disastrous feud.
Doralice, who as courteous was as fair, And ill-assured withal, how it would end, Willingly granted Isabella's prayer, And straight to truce and peace disposed her friend. As well Zerbino, by the other's care, Was brought his vengeful anger to suspend; And, wending where she willed, the Scottish lord, Left unachieved the adventure of the sword.
For to leave Durindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes; Though he could hardly sit upon his steed, Through mighty loss of life-blood, which yet flows. Now, when his anger and his heat secede, After short interval, his anguish grows; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains, He feels that life is ebbing from his veins.
For weakness can the prince no further hie, And so beside a fount is forced to stay: Him to assist the pitying maid would try, But knows not what to do, nor what to say. For lack of comfort she beholds him die; Since every city is too far away, Where in this need she could resort to leech, Whose succor she might purchase or beseech.
She, blaming fortune, and the cruel sky, Can only utter fond complaints and vain. "Why sank I not in ocean," (was her cry), "When first I reared my sail upon the main?" Zerbino, who on her his languid eye Had fixt, as she bemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred, Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead.
"So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried), "To love me yet, when I am dead and gone, As to abandon thee without a guide, And not to die, distresses me alone. For did it me in place secure betide To end my days, this earthly journey done, I cheerful, and content, and fully blest Would die, since I should die upon thy breast
"But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize I know not, my sad fate compels, I swear, My Isabella, by that mouth, those eyes, By what enchained me first, that lovely hair; My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies Into hell's deep and gloomy bottom; where To think, thou wert abandoned so by me, Of all its woes the heaviest pain will be."
At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows, Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose; Rose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, "Without me think not so, my heart, On this your last, long journey to depart.
"Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear. For I will follow thee to heaven or hell; It fits our souls together quit this sphere, Together go, for aye together dwell. No sooner closed thine eyelids shall appear, Than either me internal grief will quell, Or, has it not such power, I here protest, I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast.
"I of our bodies cherish hope not light, That they shall have a happier fate when dead; Together to entomb them, may some wight, Haply by pity moved, be hither led." She the poor remnants of his vital sprite Went on collecting, as these words she said; And while yet aught remains, with mournful lips, The last faint breath of life devoutly sips.
'T was here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, Crying, "My deity, I beg and pray, By that love witnessed, when thy father's land Thou quittedst for my sake; and, if I may In anything command thee, I command, That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day; Nor ever banish from thy memory, That, well as man can love, have I loved thee.
"God haply will provide thee with good aid, To free thee from each churlish deed I fear; As when in the dark cavern thou wast stayed, He sent, to rescue thee. Andante's peer; So he (grammercy!) succored thee dismayed At sea, and from the wicked Biscayneer. And, if thou must choose death, in place of worse, Then only choose it as a leaser curse."
I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Were so exprest, that he was understood: With these, he finished, like a feeble light, Which needs supply of wax, or other food. --Who is there, that has power to tell aright The gentle Isabella's doleful mood? When stiff, her loved Zerbino, with pale face, And cold as ice, remained in her embrace.
On the ensanguined corse, in sorrow drowned, The damsel throws herself, in her despair, And shrieks so loud that wood and plain resound For many miles about; nor does she spare Bosom or cheek; but still, with cruel wound, One and the other smites the afflicted fair; And wrongs her curling locks of golden grain, Aye calling on the well-loved youth in vain.
She with such rage, such fury, was possest, That, in her transport, she Zerbino's glaive Would easily have turned against her breast, Ill keeping the command her lover gave; But that a hermit, from his neighboring rest, Accustomed oft to seek the fountain-wave, His flagon at the cooling stream to fill, Opposed him to the damsel's evil will.
The reverend father, who with natural sense Abundant goodness happily combined, And, with ensamples fraught and eloquence, Was full of charity towards mankind, With efficacious reasons her did fence, And to endurance Isabel inclined; Placing, from ancient Testament and new, Women, as in a mirror, for her view.
The holy man next made the damsel see, That save in God there was no true content, And proved all other hope was transitory, Fleeting, of little worth, and quickly spent; And urged withal so earnestly his plea, He changed her ill and obstinate intent; And made her, for the rest of life, desire To live devoted to her heavenly sire.
Not that she would her mighty love forbear For her dead lord, nor yet his relics slight; These, did she halt or journey, everywhere Would Isabel have with her, day and night. The hermit therefore seconding her care, Who, for his age, was sound and full of might, They on his mournful horse Zerbino placed, And traversed many a day that woodland waste.
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He thought to bear her to Provence, where, near The city of Marseilles, a borough stood, Which had a sumptuous monastery; here Of ladies was a holy sisterhood.
_Rose's Translation, Canto XXIV_.
THE LUSIAD.
"The discovery of Mozambique, of Melinda, and of Calcutta has been sung by Camoens, whose poem has something of the charm of the Odyssey and of the magnificence of the Aeneid."
MONTESQUIEU.
The Portuguese epic, the Lusiad, so-called from Lusitania, the Latin name for Portugal, was written by Luis de Camoens.
He was born in Lisbon in 1524, lost his father by shipwreck in infancy, and was educated by his mother at the University of Coimbra. On leaving the university he appeared at court, where his graces of person and mind soon rendered him a favorite. Here a love affair with the Donna Catarina de Atayde, whom the king also loved, caused his banishment to Santarem. At this place he began the Lusiad, and continued it on the expedition against the Moors in Africa sent out by John III., an expedition on which he displayed much valor and lost an eye. He was recalled to court, but jealousies soon drove him thence to India, whither he sailed in 1553, exclaiming, "Ungrateful country, thou shall not possess my bones." In India his bravery and accomplishments won him friends, but his imprudences soon caused his exile to China, where he accumulated a small fortune and finished his poem. Happier circumstances permitted him to return to Goa; but on the way the ship laden with his fortune sank, and he escaped, saving only his poem. After sixteen years of misfortune abroad, Camoens returned to Lisbon in 1569. The pestilence that was then raging delayed the publication of the Lusiad until 1572. The poem received little attention; a small pension was bestowed on the poet, but was soon withdrawn, and the unfortunate Camoens was left to die in an almshouse. On his death-bed he deplored the impending fate of his country, which he alone could see. "I have loved my country. I have returned not only to die on her bosom, but to die with her."
The Lusiad tells the story of the voyage of Vasco da Gama. The sailors of Prince Henry of Portugal, commander of the Portuguese forces in Africa, had passed Cape Nam and discovered the Cape of Storms, which the prince renamed the Cape of Good Hope. His successor Emmanuel, determined to carry out the work of his predecessor by sending out da Gama to undertake the discovery of the southern passage to India. The Portuguese were generally hostile to the undertaking, but da Gama, his brother, and his friend Coello gathered a company, part of which consisted of malefactors whose sentence of death was reversed on condition that they undertake the voyage, and reached India.
The Lusiad is divided into ten cantos, containing one thousand one hundred and two stanzas. Its metre is the heroic iambic, in rhymed octave stanzas.
The Lusiad is marred by its mythological allusions in imitation of Homer and Virgil, but these are forgotten when the poet sings in impassioned strains of his country's past glory.
The Lusiad is simple in style; its subject is prosaic; it is a constant wonder that out of such unpromising materials Camoens could construct a poem of such interest. He could not have done so had he not been so great a poet, so impassioned a patriot.
Camoens was in one sense of the word a practical man, like Ariosto; he had governed a province, and governed it successfully. But he had also taken up arms for his country, and after suffering all the slights that could be put upon him by an ungrateful and forgetful monarch, still loved his native land, loved it the more, perhaps, that he had suffered for it and was by it neglected. He foresaw, also, as did no one else, the future ruin of his country, and loved it the more intensely, as a parent lavishes the fondest, most despairing affection on a child he knows doomed to early death.
The Lusiad is sometimes called the epic of commerce; it could be called far more appropriately the epic of patriotism.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE LUSIAD.