Stories from the Italian Poets: With Lives of the Writers, Vol. 2 - Leigh Hunt
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The two friends took up the dead king on their shoulders, and were
hasting away with the beloved burden, when the whiteness of dawn began to
appear, and with it, unfortunately, a troop of horsemen in the distance,
right in their path.
It was Zerbino, prince of Scotland, with a party of horse. He was a
warrior of extreme vigilance and activity, and was returning to the camp
after having been occupied all night in pursuing such of the enemy as had
not succeeded in getting into their entrenchments[13].
"My friend," exclaimed the huntsman, "we must e'en take to our heels. Two
living people must not be sacrificed to one who is dead."
With these words he let go his share of the burden, taking for granted
that the friend, whose life as well as his own he was thinking to secure,
would do as he himself did. But attached as Cloridan had been to his
master, Medoro was far more so. He accordingly received the whole burden
on his shoulders. Cloridan meantime scoured away, as fast as feet could
carry him, thinking his companion was at his side: otherwise he would
sooner have died a hundred times over than have left him.
In the interim, the party of the Scottish prince had dispersed themselves
about the plain, for the purpose of intercepting the two fugitives,
whichever way they went; for they saw plainly they were enemies, by the
alarm they shewed.
There was an old forest at hand in those days, which, besides being thick
and dark, was full of the most intricate cross-paths, and inhabited only
by game. Into this Cloridan had plunged. Medoro, as well as he could,
hastened after him; but hampered as he was with his burden, the more he
sought the darkest and most intricate paths, the less advanced he found
himself, especially as he had no acquaintance with the place.
On a sudden, Cloridan having arrived at a spot so quiet that he became
aware of the silence, missed his beloved friend. "Great God!" he
exclaimed, "what have I done? Left him I know not where, or how!" The
swift runner instantly turned about, and, retracing his steps, came
voluntarily back on the road to his own death. As he approached the scene
where it was to take place, he began to hear the noise of men and horses;
then he discerned voices threatening; then the voice of his unhappy
friend; and at length he saw him, still bearing his load, in the midst of
the whole troop of horsemen. The prince was commanding them to seize him.
The poor youth, however, burdened as he was, rendered it no such easy
matter; for he turned himself about like a wheel, and entrenched himself,
now behind this tree and now behind that. Finding this would not do,
he laid his beloved burden on the ground, and then strode hither and
thither, over and round about it, parrying the horsemen's endeavours
to take him prisoner. Never did poor hunted bear feel more conflicting
emotions, when, surprised in her den, she stands over her offspring with
uncertain heart, groaning with a mingled sound of tenderness and rage.
Wrath bids her rush forward, and bury her nails in the flesh of their
enemy; love melts her, and holds her back in the middle of her fury, to
look upon those whom she bore.[14]
Cloridan was in an agony of perplexity what to do. He longed to rush
forth and die with his friend; he longed also still to do what he could,
and not to let him die unavenged. He therefore halted awhile before
he issued from the trees, and, putting an arrow to his bow, sent it
well-aimed among the horsemen. A Scotsman fell dead from his saddle. The
troop all turned to see whence the arrow came; and as they were raging
and crying out, a second stuck in the throat of the loudest.
"This is not to be borne," cried the prince, pushing his horse towards
Medoro; "you shall suffer for this." And so speaking, he thrust his hand
into the golden locks of the youth, and dragged him violently backwards,
intending to kill him; but when he looked on his beautiful face, he
couldn't do it.
The youth betook himself to entreaty. "For God's sake, sir knight!" cried
he, "be not so cruel as to deny me leave to bury my lord and master. He
was a king. I ask nothing for myself--not even my life. I do not care for
my life. I care for nothing but to bury my lord and master."
These words were spoken in a manner so earnest, that the good prince
could feel nothing but pity; but a ruffian among the troop, losing sight
even of respect for his lord, thrust his lance into the poor youth's
bosom right over the prince's hand. Zerbino turned with indignation to
smite him, but the villain, seeing what was coming, galloped off; and
meanwhile Cloridan, thinking that his friend was slain, came leaping full
of rage out of the wood, and laid about him with his sword in mortal
desperation. Twenty swords were upon him in a moment; and perceiving
life flowing out of him, he let himself fall down by the side of his
friend.[15]
The Scotsmen, supposing both the friends to be dead, now took their
departure; and Medoro indeed would have been dead before long, he bled so
profusely. But assistance of a very unusual sort was at hand.
A lady on a palfrey happened to be coming by, who observed signs of life
in him, and was struck with his youth and beauty. She was attired with
great simplicity, but her air was that of a person of high rank, and her
beauty inexpressible. In short, it was the proud daughter of the lord of
Cathay, Angelica herself. Finding that she could travel in safety and
independence by means of the magic ring, her self-estimation had risen to
such a height, that she disdained to stoop to the companionship of the
greatest man living. She could not even call to mind that such lovers as
the County Orlando or King Sacripant existed and it mortified her beyond
measure to think of the affection she had entertained for Rinaldo.
"Such arrogance," thought Love, "is not to be endured." The little archer
with the wings put an arrow to his bow, and stood waiting for her by the
spot where Medoro lay.
Now, when the beauty beheld the youth lying half dead with his wounds,
and yet, on accosting him, found that he lamented less for himself than
for the unburied body of the king his master, she felt a tenderness
unknown before creep into every particle of her being; and as the
greatest ladies of India were accustomed to dress the wounds of their
knights, she bethought her of a balsam which she had observed in coming
along; and so, looking about for it, brought it back with her to the
spot, together with a herdsman whom she had met on horseback in search
of one of his stray cattle. The blood was ebbing so fast, that the poor
youth was on the point of expiring; but Angelica bruised the plant
between stones, and gathered the juice into her delicate hands, and
restored his strength with infusing it into the wounds; so that, in a
little while, he was able to get on the horse belonging to the herdsman,
and be carried away to the man's cottage. He would not quit his lord's
body, however, nor that of his friend, till he had seen them laid in the
ground. He then went with the lady, and she took up her abode with him in
the cottage, and attended him till he recovered, loving him more and more
day by day; so that at length she fairly told him as much, and he loved
her in turn; and the king's daughter married the lowly-born soldier.
O County Orlando! O King Sacripant! That renowned valour of yours, say,
what has it availed you? That lofty honour, tell us, at what price is it
rated? What is the reward ye have obtained for all your services? Shew us
a single courtesy which the lady ever vouchsafed, late or early, for all
that you ever suffered in her behalf.
O King Agrican! if you could return to life, how hard would you think it
to call to mind all the repulses she gave you--all the pride and aversion
and contempt with which she received your advances! O Ferragus! O
thousands of others too numerous to speak of, who performed thousands of
exploits for this ungrateful one, what would you all think at beholding
her in the arms of the courted boy!
Yes, Medoro had the first gathering of the kiss off the lips of
Angelica--those lips never touched before--that garden of roses on
the threshold of which nobody ever yet dared to venture. The love was
headlong and irresistible; but the priest was called in to sanctify
it; and the brideswoman of the daughter of Cathay was the wife of the
cottager. The lovers remained upwards of a month in the cottage. Angelica
could not bear her young husband out of her sight. She was for ever
gazing on him, and hanging on his neck. In-doors and out-of-doors, day as
well as night, she had him at her side. In the morning or evening they
wandered forth along the banks of some stream, or by the hedge-rows of
some verdant meadow. In the middle of the day they took refuge from the
heat in a grotto that seemed made for lovers; and wherever, in their
wanderings, they found a tree fit to carve and write on, by the side of
fount or river, or even a slab of rock soft enough for the purpose, there
they were sure to leave their names on the bark or marble; so that, what
with the inscriptions in-doors and out-of-doors (for the walls of the
cottage displayed them also), a visitor of the place could not have
turned his eye in any direction without seeing the words
"ANGELICA AND MEDORO"
written in as many different ways as true-lovers' knots could run.[16]
Having thus awhile enjoyed themselves in the rustic solitude, the Queen
of Cathay (for in the course of her adventures in Christendom she had
succeeded to her father's crown) thought it time to return to her
beautiful empire, and complete the triumph of love by crowning Medoro
king of it.
She took leave of the cottagers with a princely gift. The islanders of
Ebuda had deprived her of every thing valuable but a rich bracelet,
which, for some strange, perhaps superstitious, reason, they left on her
arm. This she took off, and made a present of it to the good couple for
their hospitality; and so bade them farewell.
The bracelet was of inimitable workmanship, adorned with gems, and had
been given by the enchantress Morgana to a favourite youth, who was
rescued from her wiles by Orlando. The youth, in gratitude, bestowed it
on his preserver; and the hero had humbly presented it to Angelica, who
vouchsafed to accept it, not because of the giver, but for the rarity of
the gift.
The happy bride and bridegroom, bidding farewell to France, proceeded by
easy journeys, and crossed the mountains into Spain, where it was their
intention to take ship for the Levant. Descending the Pyrenees, they
discerned the ocean in the distance, and had now reached the coast, and
were proceeding by the water-side along the high road to Barcelona, when
they beheld a miserable-looking creature, a madman, all over mud and
dirt, lying naked in the sands. He had buried himself half inside them
for shelter from the sun; but having observed the lovers as they came
along, he leaped out of his hole like a dog, and came raging against
them.
But, before I proceed to relate who this madman was, I must return to the
cottage which the two lovers had occupied, and recount what passed in it
during the interval between their bidding it adieu and their arrival in
this place.
PART THE THIRD
THE JEALOUSY OF ORLANDO.
During the course of his search for Angelica, the County Orlando had just
restored two lovers to one another, and was pursuing a Pagan enemy to no
purpose through a wild and tangled wood, when he came into a beautiful
spot by a river's side, which tempted him to rest himself from the heat.
It was a small meadow, full of daisies and butter-cups, and surrounded
with trees. There was an air abroad, notwithstanding the heat, which made
the shepherds glad to sit without their jerkins, and receive the coolness
on their naked bodies: even the hard-skinned cattle were glad of it; and
Orlando, who was armed _cap-a-pie_, was delighted to take off his helmet,
and lay aside his buckler, and repose awhile in the midst of a scene so
refreshing. Alas! it was the unhappiest moment of his life.
Casting his eyes around him, while about to get off his horse, he
observed a handwriting on many of the trees which he thought he knew.
Riding up to the trees, and looking more closely, he was sure he knew it;
and in truth it was no other than that of his adored mistress Angelica,
and the inscription one of those numerous inscriptions of which I have
spoken. The spot was one of the haunts of the lovers while they abode in
the shepherd's cottage. Wherever the County turned his eyes, he beheld,
tied together in true-lovers' knots, nothing but the words
"ANGELICA AND MEDORO."
All the trees had them--his eyes could see nothing else; and every letter
was a dagger that pierced his heart.
The unhappy lover tried in vain to disbelieve what he saw. He endeavoured
to compel himself to think that it was some other Angelica who had
written the words; but he knew the handwriting too well. Too often had he
dwelt upon it, and made himself familiar with every turn of the letters.
He then strove to fancy that "Medoro" was a feigned name, intended for
himself; but he felt that he was trying to delude himself, and that the
more he tried, the bitterer was his conviction of the truth. He was like
a bird fixing itself only the more deeply in the lime in which it is
caught, by struggling and beating its wings.
Orlando turned his horse away in his anguish, and paced it towards a
grotto covered with vine and ivy, which he looked into. The grotto, both
outside and in, was full of the like inscriptions. It was the retreat the
lovers were so fond of at noon. Their names were written on all sides of
it, some in chalk and coal,[17] others carved with a knife.
The wretched beholder got off his horse and entered the grotto. The first
thing that met his eyes was a larger inscription in the Saracen lover's
own handwriting and tongue--a language which the slayer of the infidels
was too well acquainted with. The words were in verse, and expressed the
gratitude of the "poor Medoro," the writer, for having had in his arms,
in that grotto, the beautiful Angelica, daughter of King Galafron, whom
so many had loved in vain. The writer invoked a blessing on every part
of it, its shades, its waters, its flowers, its creeping plants; and
entreated every person, high and low, who should chance to visit it,
particularly lovers, that they would bless the place likewise, and take
care that it was never polluted by foot of herd.
Thrice, and four times, did the unhappy Orlando read these words, trying
always, but in vain, to disbelieve what he saw. Every time he read, they
appeared plainer and plainer; and every time did a cold hand seem to be
wringing the heart in his bosom. At length he remained with his eyes
fixed on the stone, seeing nothing more, not even the stone itself. He
felt as if his wits were leaving him, so abandoned did he seem of all
comfort. Let those imagine what he felt who have experienced the same
emotions--who know, by their own sufferings, that this is the grief which
surpasses all other griefs. His head had fallen on his bosom; his look
was deprived of all confidence; he could not even speak or shed a
tear. His impetuous grief remained within him by reason of his
impetuosity--like water which attempts to rush out of the narrow-necked
bottle, but which is so compressed as it comes, that it scarcely issues
drop by drop.
Again he endeavoured to disbelieve his eyes--to conclude that somebody
had wished to calumniate his mistress, and drive her lover mad, and so
had done his best to imitate her handwriting. With these sorry attempts
at consolation, he again took horse, the sun having now given way to the
moon, and so rode a little onward, till he beheld smoke rising out of
the tops of the trees, and heard the barking of dogs and the lowing of
cattle. By these signs he knew that he was approaching a village. He
entered it, and going into the first house he came to, gave his horse to
the care of a youth, and was disarmed, and had his spurs of gold taken
off, and so went into a room that was shewn him without demanding either
meat or drink, so entirely was he filled with his sorrow.
Now it happened that this was the very cottage into which Medoro had been
carried out of the wood by the loving Angelica. There he had been cured
of his wounds--there he had been loved and made happy--and there,
wherever the County Orlando turned his eyes, he beheld the detested
writing on the walls, the windows, the doors. He made no inquiries about
it of the people of the house: he still dreaded to render the certainty
clearer than he would fain suppose it.
But the cowardice availed him nothing; for the host seeing him unhappy,
and thinking to cheer him, came in as he was getting into bed, and opened
on the subject of his own accord. It was a story be told to every body
who came, and he was accustomed to have it admired; so with little
preface he related all the particulars to his new guest--how the youth
had been left for dead on the field, and how the lady had found him, and
had him brought to the cottage--and how she fell in love with him as he
grew well--and how she could be content with nothing but marrying him,
though she was daughter of the greatest king of the East, and a queen
herself. At the conclusion of his narrative, the good man produced the
bracelet which had been given him by Angelica, as evidence of the truth
of all that he had been saying.
This was the final stroke, the last fatal blow, given to the poor hopes
of Orlando by the executioner, Love. He tried to conceal his misery, but
it was no longer to be repressed; so finding the tears rush into his
eyes, he desired to be alone. As soon as the man had retired, he let them
flow in passion and agony. In vain he attempted to rest, much less to
sleep. Every part of the bed appeared to be made of stones and thorns.
At length it occurred to him, that most likely they had slept in that
very bed. He rose instantly, as if he had been lying on a serpent. The
bed, the house, the herdsman, every thing about the place, gave him such
horror and detestation, that, without waiting for dawn, or the light of
moon, he dressed himself, and went forth and took his horse from the
stable, and galloped onwards into the middle of the woods. There, as soon
as he found himself in the solitude, he opened all the flood-gates of his
grief, and gave way to cries and outcries.
But he still rode on. Day and night did Orlando ride on, weeping and
lamenting. He avoided towns and cities, and made his bed on the hard
earth, and wondered at himself that he could weep so long.
"These," thought he, "are no tears that are thus poured forth. They are
life itself, the fountains of vitality; and I am weeping and dying both.
These are no sighs that I thus eternally exhale. Nature could not supply
them. They are Love himself storming in my heart, and at once consuming
me and keeping me alive with his miraculous fires. No more--no more am I
the man I seem. He that was Orlando is dead and buried. His ungrateful
mistress has slain him. I am but the soul divided from his body--doomed
to wander here in this misery, an example to those that put their trust
in love."
For the wits of the County Orlando were going; and he wandered all night
round and round in the wood, till he came back to the grotto where Medoro
had written his triumphant verses. Madness then indeed fell upon him.
Every particle of his being seemed torn up with rage and fury; and he
drew his mighty sword, and hewed the grotto and the writing, till the
words flew in pieces to the heavens. Woe to every spot in the place in
which were written the names of "Angelica and Medoro." Woe to the place
itself: never again did it afford refuge from the heat of day to sheep or
shepherd; for not a particle of it remained as it was. With arm and sword
Orlando defaced it all, the clear and gentle fountain included. He hacked
and hewed it inside and out, and cut down the branches of the trees that
hung over it, and tore away the ivy and the vine, and rooted up great
bits of earth and stone, and filled the sweet water with the rubbish, so
that it was never clear and sweet again; and at the end of his toil, not
having satisfied or being able to satisfy his soul with the excess of
his violence, he cast himself on the ground in rage and disdain, and lay
groaning towards the heavens.
On the ground Orlando threw himself, and on the ground he remained, his
eyes fixed on heaven, his lips closed in dumbness; and thus he continued
for the space of three days and three nights, till his frenzy had mounted
to such a pitch that it turned against himself. He then arose in fury,
and tore off mail and breastplate, and every particle of clothing from
his body, till humanity was degraded in his heroical person, and he
became naked as the beasts of the field. In this condition, and his wits
quite gone, sword was forgotten as well as shield and helm; and he tore
up fir-tree and ash, and began running through the woods. The shepherds
hearing the cries of the strong man, and the crashing of the boughs, came
hastening from all quarters to know what it was; but when he saw them he
gave them chase, and smote to death those whom he reached, till the whole
country was up in arms, though to no purpose; for they were seized with
such terror, that while they threatened and closed after him, they
avoided him. He entered cottages, and tore away the food from the tables;
and ran up the craggy hills and down into the valleys; and chased beasts
as well as men, tearing the fawn and the goat to pieces, and stuffing
their flesh into his stomach with fierce will.
Raging and scouring onwards in this manner, he arrived one day at a
bridge over a torrent, on which the fierce Rodomont had fixed himself for
the purpose of throwing any one that attempted to pass it into the water.
It was a very narrow bridge, with scarcely room for two horses. But
Orlando took no heed of its narrowness. He dashed right forwards against
man and steed, and forced the champion to wrestle with him on foot; and,
winding himself about him with hideous strength, he leaped backwards with
him into the torrent, where he left him, and so mounted the opposite
bank, and again rushed over the country. A more terrible bridge than
this was in his way--even a precipitous pass of frightful height over
a valley; but still he scoured onwards, throwing over it the agonised
passengers that dared, in their ignorance of his strength, to oppose
him; and so always rushing and raging, he came down the mountains by the
sea-side to Barcelona, where he cast his eyes on the sands, and thought,
in his idiot mind, to make himself a house in them for coolness and
repose; and so he grubbed up the sand, and laid himself down in it: and
this was the terrible madman whom Angelica and Medoro saw looking at them
as they were approaching the city.
Neither of them knew him, nor did he know Angelica; but, with an idiot
laugh, he looked at her beauty, and liked her, and came horribly towards
her to carry her away. Shrieking, she put spurs to her horse and fled;
and Medoro, in a fury, came after the pursuer and smote him, but to no
purpose. The great madman turned round and smote the other's horse to the
ground, and so renewed his chase after Angelica, who suddenly regained
enough of her wits to recollect the enchanted ring. Instantly she put
it into her lips and disappeared; but in her hurry she fell from her
palfrey, and Orlando forgot her in the instant, and, mounting the poor
beast, dashed off with it over the country till it died; and so at last,
after many dreadful adventures by flood and field, he came running into
a camp full of his brother Paladins, who recognised him with tears; and,
all joining their forces, succeeded in pulling him down and binding him,
though not without many wounds: and by the help of these friends, and the
special grace of the apostle St. John (as will be told in another place),
the wits of the champion of the church were restored, and he became
ashamed of that passion for an infidel beauty which the heavenly powers
had thus resolved to punish.
But Angelica and Medoro pursued the rest of their journey in peace, and
took ship on the coast of Spain for India; and there she crowned her
bridegroom King of Cathay. The description of Orlando's jealousy and
growing madness is reckoned one of the finest things in Italian poetry;
and very fine it surely is--as strong as the hero's strength, and
sensitive as the heart of man. The circumstances are heightened, one
after the other, with the utmost art as well as nature. There is a
scriptural awfulness in the account of the hero's becoming naked; and the
violent result is tremendous. I have not followed Orlando into his feats
of ultra-supernatural strength. The reader requires to be prepared
for them by the whole poem. Nor are they necessary, I think, to
the production of the best effect; perhaps would hurt it in an age
unaccustomed to the old romances.