Making and Rethinking the Renaissance: Between Greek and Latin in 15th-16th Century Europe 9783110660968, 3110660962

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Making and Rethinking the Renaissance: Between Greek and Latin in 15th-16th Century Europe
 9783110660968, 3110660962

Table of contents :
List of figures
Through the Eyes of the Greeks: Byzantine Émigrés and the Study of Greek in the Renaissance
Janus Lascaris’ Florentine Oration and the ‘Reception’ of Ancient Aeolism
Manuel Calecas’ Grammar: Its Use and Contribution to the Learning of Greek in Western Europe
Issues in Translation: Plutarch’s Moralia Translated from Greek into Latin by Iacopo d’Angelo
Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin: Niccolò Perotti and Plutarch’s On the Fortune of the Romans
Humanist Translations and Rewritings: Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly between Guarino and Alberti
Cardinal Bessarion and the Introduction of Plato to the Latin West
The Reception of Aeschylus in Sixteenth-Century Italy: The Case of Coriolano Martirano’s Prometheus Bound (1556)
Rethinking the Birth of French Tragedy
‘Pantagruel, tenent un Heliodore Grec en main [...] sommeilloit’: Reading the Aethiopica in Sixteenth-Century France
From Greek to the Greeks: Homer (and Pseudo-Homer) in the Greco-Venetian Context between the Late Fifteenth and Early Sixteenth Century
The Wanderings of a Greek Manuscript from Byzantium to Aldus’ Printing House and Beyond: The Story of the Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf.
The Reception of Horace’s Odes in the First Book of Marcantonio Flaminio’s Carmina
Orazio Romano’s Porcaria (1453): Humanist Epic between Classical Legacy and Contemporary History
List of Contributors

Citation preview

Making and Rethinking the Renaissance

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Jonas Grethlein · Philip R. Hardie Stephen J. Harrison · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Tim Whitmarsh · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 77

Making and Rethinking the Renaissance Between Greek and Latin in 15th–16th Century Europe Edited by Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison

ISBN 978-3-11-065783-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-066096-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-065797-5 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019938415 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck

Preface This volume largely emerges from a conference held at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, in June 2016 under the auspices of a Marie Curie individual research project (2015–17) held by Dr Paola Tomè and based at the Medieval and Modern Languages Faculty, University of Oxford. Thanks go to the Corpus Christi College Centre for the Study of Greek and Roman Antiquity for its sponsorship of the event, to the conference staff at Corpus for their support and hard work, to all those who spoke (especially those whose papers are not, for various practical reasons, included in this volume), and to all the attenders who made it a lively occasion. The publication of this project is inevitably overshadowed by the sad passing of its principal organiser Dr Paola Tomè, who died in December 2017 after a long battle with cancer. The conference and volume were her idea, and could not have come about without her. Her courage and determination over the last year of her life, and her constant commitment to the study of Italian humanism, give a shining example to us all; she is much missed by a world-wide network of scholarly friends and collaborators as well as by close colleagues and her loving family. We dedicate this book to her memory. Giancarlo Abbamonte nobly took on the role of principal editor of this volume after Paola Tomè’s death, and Stephen Harrison would like to thank him most warmly for his generosity in accepting this onerous task. Both of us would like to thank Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos, General Editors of Trends in Classics, for accepting this book for the series, and all those at De Gruyter who have made the volume possible. Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison Naples and Oxford

Contents Preface | V List of figures | IX Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison Introduction | 1 Federica Ciccolella Through the Eyes of the Greeks: Byzantine Émigrés and the Study of Greek in the Renaissance | 9 Han Lamers Janus Lascaris’ Florentine Oration and the ‘Reception’ of Ancient Aeolism | 27 Fevronia Nousia Manuel Calecas’ Grammar: Its Use and Contribution to the Learning of Greek in Western Europe | 51 Giancarlo Abbamonte Issues in Translation: Plutarch’s Moralia Translated from Greek into Latin by Iacopo d’Angelo | 67 Fabio Stok Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin: Niccolò Perotti and Plutarch’s On the Fortune of the Romans | 79 Martin McLaughlin Humanist Translations and Rewritings: Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly between Guarino and Alberti | 95 Michael Malone-Lee Cardinal Bessarion and the Introduction of Plato to the Latin West | 109 Giovanna Di Martino The Reception of Aeschylus in Sixteenth-Century Italy: The Case of Coriolano Martirano’s Prometheus Bound (1556) | 125

VIII | Contents

Tristan Alonge Rethinking the Birth of French Tragedy | 143 Wes Williams ‘Pantagruel, tenent un Heliodore Grec en main [...] sommeilloit’: Reading the Aethiopica in Sixteenth-Century France | 157 Caterina Carpinato From Greek to the Greeks: Homer (and Pseudo-Homer) in the Greco-Venetian Context between the Late Fifteenth and Early Sixteenth Century | 175 Stefano Martinelli Tempesta The Wanderings of a Greek Manuscript from Byzantium to Aldus’ Printing House and Beyond: The Story of the Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf. | 195 Giacomo Comiati The Reception of Horace’s Odes in the First Book of Marcantonio Flaminio’s Carmina | 213 Marta Celati Orazio Romano’s Porcaria (1453): Humanist Epic between Classical Legacy and Contemporary History | 233 List of Contributors | 253 Index | 255

List of figures W. Williams Fig. 1: Heliodorou Aithiopikes Historias Biblia Deka. Heliodori Historiae Aethiopicae libri decem, nunquam antea in lucem editi, ed. Vincentius Obsopoeus (Basel: ex officina Hervagiana, 1534) Bodleian, shelfmark Byw. O. 1.9; opening page | 165 Fig. 2: L’Histoire ethiopique d’Heliodore : contenant dix liures, traittant des loyalles & pudiques amours de Theagenes Thessallien, & Chariclea Ethiopienne. Traduite de grec en françois, par Maistre J. Amiot conseiller du Roy (Paris: Chez Anthoine de Sommaville, 1626), facing p. 635. Taylor Library | 165 Fig. 3: Montaigne, Reproduction en quadrichromie de l’Exemplaire de Bordeaux des Essais de Montaigne, f. 169v, detail. Courtesy of Philippe Desan, Montaigne Studies | 173 C. Carpinato Fig. 1: Frontispiece of the editon of the Iliad translated into vernacular Greek by Nikolaos Loukanis, Venice 1526. Private collection | 191 Fig. 2: Nikolaos Loukanis, Iliad translated into vernacular Greek, Venice 1526 (Colophon). Private collection | 192 Fig. 3: Nikolaos Loukanis, Άλωσις της Τροίας, text added to the Iliad translated into vernacular Greek by Nikolaos Loukanis, Venice 1526. Private collection | 193 Fig. 4: Nikolaos Loukanis, Iliad translated into vernacular Greek, Venice 1526 (woodcut at the end of the book). Private collection | 194 S. Martinelli Tempesta Fig. 1: Aristotle’s Physics in the editio princeps (Ambr. Inc. 393b) | 196 Fig. 2: Ambr. P 35 sup. (Aldus Manutius, Greek Grammar, autograph), f. 3v | 198 Fig. 3: Ambr. C 195 inf. (Plutarch, Moralia), f. 94r | 199 Fig. 4: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 116r | 201 Fig. 5: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 190v | 202 Fig. 6: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 138r | 203 Fig. 7: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 105r | 203 Fig. 8: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 110r | 203 Fig. 9: Ambr. B 7 inf. (binding) | 204 Fig. 10: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 192r | 205 Fig. 11: Nikolaos’ letter, private collection | 205 Fig. 12: Ambr. B 7 inf., flyleaf | 206 Fig. 13: Ambr. B 7 inf. Back of the front cover | 206 Fig. 14: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 89v | 207 Fig. 15: Ambr. P 35 sup., f. 3v | 207

X | List of figures

Fig. 16: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 75r | 208 Fig. 17: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 77v | 208 Fig. 18: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 92r | 208 Fig. 19: Ambr. B 7 inf., Pinelli’s ex-libris | 209 Fig. 20: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 195r | 210

Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison


From the fourteenth century in Europe there began to emerge a growing discontent with the culture which had been created in the course of the Middle Ages and which had reached a zenith in the systems of scholasticism, above all in its Thomistic form. In this all perceptions and sensations, all reasoning from the most simple to the most complex, came to be catalogued, scrutinised and refined through a selection of texts, the so-called recognised auctoritates; these were primarily the texts of scripture, followed by a few classical Latin authors, but for Greek were limited to Aristotle. The criticism of this cultural model had various champions and some organisational centres on the Italian peninsula; pre-eminent were the Veneto, where the influence of Petrarch had been strong, and Florence, where this cultural revolution took its first steps with personalities such as Boccaccio and Salutati. However, in order for these intellectuals to dismantle the robust construction of scholasticism, well symbolised by Gothic architecture, the resources of their culture would be insufficient by themselves; they turned, therefore, to the literatures of antiquity, Greek and Latin (the ‘classics’), and to the intellectual and material culture produced by the Graeco-Roman civilization, where they were confident they would find the appropriate tools and arguments to dispute the predominant cultural framework of scholasticism. In fact, the study of the classics had never been interrupted during the Middle Ages, in which the schools of the West and of Byzantium had continued to teach Greek and Latin from the classical texts; several periods of real attention to the texts of antiquity by medieval scholars had been seen in the course of the centuries (we think of the Carolingian culture, or the Byzantine school of Photius). However, the value of the classical texts as sources of morality, law and religion had always been subordinate to that of scripture, the Church Fathers and theology, whose primacy had never been questioned. Fundamentally, if we look at the medieval West, we can see that this interest in the classics was limited to a selection of Latin works in poetry or prose, which were mostly read for purposes linked with the scholastic world: a few others, such as the philosophical works of Cicero and Seneca, were able to regain their place amongst the moral auctoritates, but amongst the Greeks only Aristotle, translated into Latin, was allowed by scholasticism to play a primary role in the definition of concepts linked to metaphysics, physics and ethics itself. Medieval Christianity, whether Western or Byzantine, lacked a real interest in the diversity of the

2  Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison message transmitted by the combined Graeco-Roman culture (the whole range of literature, philosophy, politics, architecture, engineering and the figurative arts). In this respect, the distrust of the thought of Plato was significant; his works were officially condemned by the Eastern church because of certain of his positions (on the eternity of the world, the possession of women in common in the Republic, the transmigration of souls). This condemnation affected the transmission of Plato in the West in the course of the fifteenth century, which did not happen with ease specifically owing to the anathema of the Eastern church. This is illustrated here by the chapter of Malone-Lee which describes the stages of the polemical debate on the thought of Plato which was first unleashed in the minds of the Greek intellectuals who participated in the Council of Ferrara-Florence (1437–8), such as Gemistos Plethon, and then in the Greek diaspora became established in Italy (George of Trebizond, Bessarion). The causes of the progressive and irreversible decline of the Greek language in the countries of Western Europe, starting in the Late Antique period and then running through the Middle Ages (with the exception of some areas of Italy and the Dalmatian coast) were numerous. A major role here was played by the somewhat secular distrust between the church of Rome and its Eastern counterpart over the intervening centuries. The new intellectuals who were educated from the second half of the fourteenth century and over the whole fifteenth century reacted to this situation; these are those we usually call humanists, who favoured a more holistic study of classical culture, which required a knowledge of Greek; their goal was to found their criticism of scholastic culture on Graeco-Roman thought. The recovery of the language and culture of Greece in the West came about in a variety of ways, which are illustrated by the contributions collected in this volume. Research on the penetration of Greek culture in the West, and the ways and means by which it was absorbed, can be found in a succession of studies which have achieved a certain success in recent years, as shown by the volume Teachers, Students and Schools of Greek in the Renaissance, edited by Federica Ciccolella and Luigi Silvano, Leiden/Boston, Brill, 2017. Until now, research in this area was dominated by the vision of its topic suggested by works which are still essential, such as those of Sabbadini or the three volumes of I dotti bizantini e le origini dell’Umanesimo, by Giuseppe Cammelli, Florence 1941–1954, in which the arrival of Greek in the West was indissolubly linked to the activity of a few Greek intellectuals, who provided a training in Greek to groups of young Western humanists; amongst these Emmanuel Chrysoloras was primary, especially for the prestige of his students (Bruni, Guarino, Poggio, Filelfo).

Introduction  3

Without wishing to undervalue the research and critical approach of Cammelli, which connected the birth of Italian humanism to the arrival of Greek scholars in the West, or the undeniable role those Greek intellectuals had in the fifteenth century, the current volume aims to broaden our view of a series of phenomena concerned with contact between the West and Greek culture which are better known today than when Sabbadini and Cammelli wrote. Though it is indeed beyond doubt that the Italian students of Chrysoloras contributed to the spread of the ideals of humanism, it is today a view shared by the majority of scholars that these pupils carried forward a cultural discourse in which the message of classicism was expressed predominantly in the Latin language and made reference to the texts of the Roman classical writers. Emblematic here is the success enjoyed by Plutarch’s Lives in the Quattrocento, when numerous translations were executed in order to make their content known; already the pupils of Chrysoloras, Iacopo d’Angelo and Leonardo Bruni, dedicated themselves to rendering the Lives of figures from ancient Rome (Brutus, Cicero, Pompey, Antony, Cato Uticensis, etc.), invited by Coluccio Salutati, whose interest in these texts of Plutarch dated from before the arrival of Chrysoloras; it is still a matter of debate whether Chrysoloras encouraged these Plutarchan translations amongst his pupils, either as part of his original plan of study or in order to content his Florentine patron Salutati. In any case, the choice to make Plutarch’s lives of Roman figures available in Latin made it thoroughly clear that the study of Greek per se was not a prospect either desired or practised by the humanists. Our gains in knowledge today require a less idealised vision of the arrival of Greek in the West. They sketch out a process of penetration which is far from constantly in progress; at the beginning of the period learned Byzantines of the calibre of Chrysoloras and Bessarion were welcomed, but, especially after the fall of Constantinople (1453), the flood of refugees became an imposition, and the supply of teachers of Greek exceeded the demand; the demand itself began to be fulfilled by Italians too, at the level of teaching Greek and even of writing manuals of Greek grammar in Latin (Urbano Bolzanio, 1497/98). The result was a situation of intellectual unemployment for learned Greeks or of posts which were poorly paid and worse regarded, discussed here by Federica Ciccolella, who reports the testimony of the letters of Constantine Lascaris from Messina. But if the contents of Greek culture were valued in the West, the same could not be said for the Byzantine masters; at the beginning, these latter had been imposed as the only mediators between the two worlds, but in the course of the fifteenth century they were replaced by Italian humanists who often combined excellent levels of knowledge both of Greek and of the Latin translations of Greek

4  Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison works, which enabled even those without Greek to come into contact with Greek culture. Some Greek intellectuals such as Janus Lascaris engaged with this reduced social role of the Greeks and tried to improve it; in particular, Lascaris tried to pick up the threads of the two cultures with a bold intellectual enterprise, which linked the Latin language to Greek, deriving it from the Aeolic dialect. The episode is described here by Han Lamers: we may feel some doubt as to whether Lascaris’ proposal returned dignity and employment to the Greek intellectuals, but it is certain that when the study of Indo-European came into being in the nineteenth century, the thesis that Latin was derived from Greek enjoyed a certain success and influenced many works of lexicography, in which Greek etymologies for Latin words like those set out by Lascaris continued to be provided. The scale of the phenomenon of the recovery of Greek sometimes also produced moments of interest in Greek per se: some of these are linked to the world of printing and, in this regard, this volume could not be without a reference to the publishing enterprise of Aldus Manutius, who was one of the few sincere and untrammelled philhellenes of Italian humanism. Stefano Martinelli Tempesta describes some phases of the monumental printing project accomplished by Manutius of publishing the Greek text of Aristotle in five volumes (1494–1498). It was simultaneously a highly ambitious operation of both scholarship and philosophy: of scholarship, in that numerous witnesses were chosen and collated to establish the text of every single work of Aristotle, and of philosophy, because the edition emphasised a ‘naturalistic’ reading of his work, which uncoupled him from the metaphysical tradition of the framework of scholasticism. Indeed, the edition gathered in its second volume the botanical works of Theophrastus, Galen, and Philo, and in its fourth Theophrastus again, together with the naturalistic commentary of Alexander of Aphrodisias. But for Greeks and the students of Greek, Venice did not mean only Aldus’ printing-shop; in the city on the lagoon a beginning was also made in the printing of works written in modern Greek and aimed at a Greek-speaking readership, composed not only of the Greek community in Venice but also of the inhabitants of islands under Venetian control, and perhaps, of the Greek subjects of the Ottoman empire. Caterina Carpinato illuminates some of these works published in modern Greek, by the printer Stefano da Sabbio, such as the adaptation of the Iliad by Nikolaos Loukanis, a sort of intralinguistic translation of Homer; she identifies the readership of this kind of work as belonging to the middle-class Greeks of the areas already mentioned, and finds in these editorial activities the first traces of a national Hellenic spirit which would only come to full maturity in the nineteenth century.

Introduction  5

Turning to the relationship between Westerners and Greeks, the first difficulty encountered by those who wished to apply themselves to the study of the Greek language was the lack of educational tools suitable for learning, such as bilingual grammars and dictionaries. Chrysoloras produced a manual for his Italian students, which was revised by Guarino da Verona and enjoyed a certain success in the West; this did not spring from a vacuum, as Fevronia Nousia shows here, but was based on the didactic tradition of forms which dominated grammatical teaching at Byzantium from the times of Manuel Moschopoulos (ca. 1265– 1316). Furthermore, the success of Chrysoloras’ grammar in the West should not erase the memory of another attempt to simplify the profuse case-framework of Moschopoulos which had already been made by another Greek scholar, a refugee in Italy for religious reasons, Manuel Calecas, whose Grammatica, focussed especially on morphology, probably suggested to Chrysoloras indications of which route to follow when starting from the method of Moschopoulos. However, the reappropriation of the contents of Greek literature came about only partly thanks to the learning and direct knowledge of the language; the modalities of its teaching and its impact on the West are excellently explored in the volume of Ciccolella and Silvano mentioned above. As Ciccolella well explains in her contribution which appears here, as already emphasised, humanism did not set out amongst its objectives the study of Greek culture per se: the instrumental function of Greek appears clearly if we consider the vast extent of the phenomenon of Latin translations of Greek works in the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which are dealt with in many of the contributions presented here, but in particular by Giancarlo Abbamonte, Fabio Stok and Martin McLaughlin. In fact, most European intellectuals took over the contents of Greek works above all through their translation into Latin: this is a case of a cultural phenomenon of vast proportions, which saw in the course of roughly a century and a half very many humanists, first Italian and then from the remainder of Europe, translate hundreds of Greek works and authors. The success of these translations was also decreed by the development of printing, which allowed the European intellectual classes to come into contact with the various contents of Greek literature. Just think: in the middle of the Cinquecento virtually all the works of Greek literature from Homer to the earliest Byzantine authors were available in Latin and often in convenient printed books. It may be useful to make a comparison so that the reader can realise the vast nature of this phenomenon. Today, we do not have a number of translations of Greek literature into Spanish, German or Italian which comes remotely close to that then attained by Latin versions; even for French and English, which possess collections of some antiquity and of continuing copious publication such as Les

6  Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison Belles Lettres (1919–), Les Sources Chrétiennes (1943–), or the Loeb Classical Library (1911–), such collections do not reach the numbers of the projects enterprises in this field completed under humanism. Furthermore, the liveliness which characterised the debate on modes of translation, which had been set in motion by Chrysoloras himself (if we are to believe his pupils Cencio de’ Rustici, Leonardo Bruni e Guarino da Verona), and the frequent polemics between humanists on the qualities or defects of a translation reveal the attention paid by the intellectuals of the period to this literary genre and the importance assigned to the final destination of these works, that is, the Latin text, rather than their point of departure. One victim of these polemics was certainly Iacopo d’Angelo, an early pupil of Chrysoloras already at Constantinople, where he lived for some nine months; this pioneer of translation into Latin, one of the first copyists who used the littera antiqua for Salutati, and one of the first collectors of books in three languages (the vernacular, Latin and Greek), was overshadowed by a quarrel with Leonardo Bruni which expunged his memory, to the extent that a later translator of Plutarch, Niccolò Perotti, indubitably used Iacopo’s version of some works of Plutarch which probably circulated anonymously (so Stok). The phenomenon of the reuse of previous translations by the humanists was extensive and still needs to be studied in detail, but it is confirmation of the fact that the humanists held the final text in Latin in closer affection than the Greek original. The same Perotti, who was secretary to a Greek cardinal (Bessarion), and who was brought up to appreciate Greek culture, proves the humanist predilection for Roman culture and their suspicion of Greek authors, even if they were called Plutarch. In the dedication to Pope Nicholas V of his version of the Plutarchan treatise The Fortune of the Romans, the humanist admits almost breaking off his perusal of the text owing to his indignation at reading that, according to Plutarch, the conquests of Rome were merely the result of a good deal of luck, by contrast with the successes of Alexander which were due to his courage. Amongst methods of translation, the procedure operated by Leon Battista Alberti deserves attention. He took up in the title of his Musca the agreeable minor work of Lucian, which, however, he knew through the Latin version of Guarino: Alberti’s work, therefore, can only be considered a translation by using a very generous definition, given that the humanist showed great ease and freedom towards the Greek text, creating in the end an original short work (as demonstrated by Martin McLaughlin). The case of Perotti and many other humanists who behaved like the infamous traduttor dei traduttori of the Iliad (Vincenzo Monti, 1754–1828), and that of Alberti’s Musca clearly indicate that the appropriation of the contents of Greek

Introduction  7

works could come about not only by means of regular translations from the original Greek, but in many ways, amongst which was even the possibility of bypassing the problem of knowing the Greek language. Sometimes, however, as in the case of the Latin tragedies Prometheus, Electra and Medea of Coriolano Martirano (1503–1557), treated in the essay of Giovanna Di Martino, this freedom towards Greek tragic models led to indifference on the part of critics, who in their indecision whether to treat these works as translations of Aeschylus or Euripides or as original works ended by leaving them untouched. A similar lack of attention was shown by French literary criticism concerning the Greek model of French tragedy, in the conviction that the only classical contribution to the French tradition came from the Latin tragedies of Seneca. The essay of Tristan Alonge refutes this commonplace idea and shows that, on the contrary, France produced before the middle of the sixteenth century a great number of free French versions of Greek tragedies, and showed great interest, especially in the circle at Bourges surrounding Marguerite de Navarre, in tragedy, and more generally in Greek literature. The eclipse of the Greek model which followed, replaced by Seneca who then dominated the classic period of French tragedy (with the exception of Racine, who did make use of Greek), is probably owed to the growth of religious struggles. This theme stands outside the chronological limits of this volume, but in a study which sets out to examine the phenomenon of the presence of Greek in the West from an extended diachronic perspective, importance should surely be given to the impact exercised both by the prohibition on reading scripture in Greek passed by the Council of Trent and by Catholic suspicions which tended to identify the study of Greek with a certain sympathy towards the Reformation (qui graecizabant lutheranizabant, to cite Ignatius of Loyola). In summary, we hope that the following idea will emerge fairly clearly from this volume, that it is not possible to limit the idea of translation only to works which provide versions of Greek in Latin, but that the whole series of activities carried out by the humanists with Greek texts which can be included in a broad definition of translations should also come into consideration. Amongst the strategies deployed by Martirano to distance his ‘translation’ from its Aeschylean original Prometheus Bound is the use of intertexts drawn from the poetry and prose of Latin writers, as if to confirm what has several times been observed about the final objective which the humanists had in mind in appropriating Greek literature. In particular, it was the models of Greek poetry which were to be extensively absorbed within neo-Latin poetry: this kind of reuse comprised poetic situations, thematic adaptations, and sometimes even intertexts which were reactivated in Latin. Accordingly, an Italian poet from the circle of Margue-

8  Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison rite of France, Marcantonio Flaminio (1498–1550), wove into his Carmina intertexts drawn from the whole of Greek and Roman poetry, amongst which the presence of Theocritus is notable, even if he shows a preference for the most lyric and Greek of the Latin poets, Horace, from whom Flaminio adopts movements of sound and language, not so much in order to produce a cento as to illuminate characteristic aspects of the addressees of his lyrics through the words of the poet from Venosa; so the political concerns of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese and the accompanying invitation to otium from Flaminio are described with the words addressed by Horace to Maecenas (Carm. 3.8). In conclusion, we hope to have illuminated in this introduction some of the themes present in this volume and how all of these relate to the question of the presence of Greek culture in the West and of the diverse modes by which it succeeded in pushing its way in during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The volume does not aim to include all aspects of this cultural phenomenon which developed not just in Italy and France, the two regions most considered in this volume, but involved various regions of Western Europe and the Balkans. Studies in this area are not far enough advanced to trace solid lines of interpretation, but some tendencies, not all favourable to Greek culture and its representatives, of this phenomenon in the course of these two centuries have emerged by now in the scholarship of recent decades, and we believe that in this book these can find new confirmation alongside some opening up of new perspectives for unexpected further research. Naples and Oxford, October 2018

Federica Ciccolella

Through the Eyes of the Greeks Byzantine Émigrés and the Study of Greek in the Renaissance Abstract: The migration of Byzantine scholars to Italy in the fifteenth century was fundamental for the development of Renaissance culture. However, in spite of the receptive climate prompted by Manuel Chrysoloras’s teaching in Florence and the Council of Ferrara-Florence, and in spite of the sympathy caused by the fate of Constantinople, the condition of Greek émigrés was difficult. Five academic prolusions in defence of Greek studies, composed in Latin by four émigrés who taught in fifteenth-century Italy, provide important information about Western humanism as seen through Byzantine eyes. This paper focuses on the earliest of these orations, the one Theodore Gazes delivered in Ferrara in 1446. Gazes’ oration sheds light on the author’s sense of national and cultural identity and attitude toward Western culture; at the same time, it provides information on the status of Greek studies in Italy during the second half of the fifteenth century. Keywords: Greek revival in the Renaissance, Greek migrations to the West, academic prolusions, Greek cultural identity, Theodore Gazes

Modern technologies and new approaches are stimulating an increasing number of studies of manuscripts, documents, and literary texts related to the Greek revival in the Renaissance. As more details are being added to the general picture of early modern culture, some consolidated myths are being disproved. This paper intends to contribute to this burgeoning field of research by looking at the Greek revival from the perspective of its Byzantine protagonists. While the contribution of Byzantine émigrés to Renaissance culture has been successfully analyzed,1 recent scholarship is paying increasing attention to the voices of the Greeks who migrated to the West during the fifteenth century and were involved in the cultural process that shaped the entire period. Indeed, except for a few well-documented cases, we are almost ignorant of, for example, how these

 1 See, e.g., Sabbadini 1922, Cammelli 1941–1954, Pertusi 1964, Monfasani 2012, Wilson 2017, and the essays collected in Weiss 1977 and Monfasani 2016. For an overview of the development of modern studies, see Nuti 2014, 73–76, and the bibliography quoted therein.

10  Federica Ciccolella Greeks experienced their condition of exiles without a country, how they perceived the culture of their hosts and patrons, and, most of all, if and to what extent they accepted and elaborated on the stimuli provided by Western culture.2 Among the vast amount of material that needs to be investigated in order to answer these questions,3 a group of orations written by Byzantine scholars who were engaged in the teaching of Greek in Italy holds a special place. Teaching was, in fact, one of the principal activities carried out by the first Greek émigrés. Also, the classroom represented a privileged meeting point between Byzantine and Western cultures: in order to achieve their pedagogical goals, the first Greek teachers in Italy, who had been educated in the Byzantine pedagogical system, had to adapt their methods and mentality to the tastes and demands of their Western pupils. These orations bear witness to their efforts and constitute valuable documents of the attitudes of Greek teachers toward Western culture. At the same time, they demonstrate that the establishment of Greek in the Western curriculum studiorum was not as easy and straightforward as the writings of the first enthusiastic Western students of Greek may lead us to believe.

 The beginning: myth and reality The beginning of the Greek revival in the West traditionally has a date, a place, and a protagonist. In February 1397, the Byzantine scholar Manuel Chrysoloras accepted the invitation of Coluccio Salutati and moved to Florence to teach Greek at the city’s Studium. Previously, Francesco Petrarca had received some Greek lessons from the monk Barlaam of Calabria, and Giovanni Boccaccio had invited Leontius Pilatus to teach Greek in Florence; however, neither Barlaam nor Pilatus managed to create a school of Greek. Unlike his predecessors, Chrysoloras apparently knew Latin well enough to communicate with his Western pupils and translate Greek literary texts; also, he had some experience in teaching Greek to Westerners.4 Most probably, however, the main reason for his success was his creation

 2 See the excellent study by Lamers (2015), who correctly remarks (14): ‘even though [the Byzantine émigrés] were instrumental to humanism as teachers, translators, and copyists of Greek texts, and had to work in a decidedly humanist environment, they also had their own intellectual agendas and placed their own ‘Byzantine’ emphases on what they read and thought.’ 3 See, e.g., Geanakoplos 1973 and 1989, Harris 1995, and Monfasani 2002. A complete history of Greek migrations to the West between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries is still a desideratum. 4 On Chrysoloras’s knowledge of Latin, see Rollo 2002, 38f. and Thorn-Wickert 2006, 33f. Before moving to Florence, Chrysoloras taught Greek to Roberto Rossi in Venice in 1390/91 and to

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  11

of the first ‘Greek grammar for foreigners.’ This grammar, entitled Erotemata, ‘Questions’, presented elementary Greek morphology in a catechistic format; it was similar to other Byzantine school grammars (in particular, Manuel Moschopoulos’s Erotemata), as well as the Latin elementary grammar called Ianua, which was familiar to every Westerner who had learned Latin. More importantly, Chrysoloras simplified the complex system of Greek nominal inflection codified in the Canons of Theodosius of Alexandria, following the model offered by Latin grammar.5 Chrysoloras departed from Florence in March 1400, leaving a durable mark on the culture of the city and the rest of Europe. Humanists hailed his teaching as the beginning of a new era and praised him for bringing Greek back to the West after many centuries of oblivion. Their writings convey the impression that, from the early fifteenth century onwards, the study of Greek rapidly spread from Florence to Italy and then Europe, learning Greek became the conditio sine qua non of membership in the educated élites, and teachers of the new discipline were immediately in demand throughout the entire West.6 However, we cannot help wondering why none of the rulers or city councils of the countries that Chrysoloras visited after leaving Florence seized the opportunity to appoint him as a teacher of Greek.7 Even the success of Chrysoloras’s teaching in Florence should be set in the right perspective. Pier Paolo Vergerio the Elder, who was his pupil in Florence, says in one of his letters that the difficulty of the Greek language and the amount of work that was necessary to master it discouraged most of the young men who attended Chrysoloras’s classes.8 Also, the transmission of Chrysoloras’s  Iacopo d’Angelo in Constantinople in 1395/96; no evidence, however, reinforces the common opinion that Chrysoloras held a regular teaching post or directed a school in the Byzantine capital: see Thorn-Wickert 2006, 37–39. 5 Chrysoloras replaced the traditional fifty-six Greek declensions, based on the endings of the nominative singular, with ten declensions resulting from the combination of the endings of the nominative and the genitive singular. See my considerations in Ciccolella 2008, 97–102. On Chrysoloras’s appointment and teaching in Florence, see Thorn-Wickert 2006, 39–50. For an edition of Chrysoloras’s Erotemata and a thorough study of the use, spread, and fate of this grammar, see Rollo 2012. 6 For a partial list of these texts, see Thorn-Wickert 2006, 114–128. On the creation of Chrysoloras’s ‘myth’, particularly by Guarino Guarini, see Thomson 1966, 70–75; Fera 2002; Rollo 2002, 32f. n. 4; and Wulfram 2012. 7 For Chrysoloras’s travels and activities from his departure from Florence to his death in Constance in 1415, see Thorn-Wickert 2006, 50–114. 8 Thorn-Wickert 2006, 46 n. 213, quoting Vergerio’s letter 96, 244 (ed. Smith 1934): [...] pauci [...] usque ad extremum discendo perseveraverunt [...]. Nam multos ab initio qui convenerant alios discendi labor deterruit, alios sciendi desperatio, quasi maiore cura et longiore tempore opus esset,

12  Federica Ciccolella Erotemata shows that this grammar underwent significant modifications from the early fifteenth century, most probably to make up for the discomfort of teachers and pupils who used it. While the original text survives only in a limited number of manuscripts, other versions, often contaminated with other grammatical material, circulated much more widely. These new versions – and particularly the so-called Compendium attributed to Guarino Guarini of Verona – transformed the still too descriptive Erotemata of Chrysoloras into a prescriptive grammar, which gave much more room to forms and paradigms of inflection than to definitions.9 Another factor should be considered in evaluating the impact of Chrysoloras’s teaching. After Chrysoloras’s departure, the chair of Greek at the Florentine Studium remained empty for thirteen years. In 1413, the appointee, Guarino Guarini, had been in Florence for three years already, teaching Greek privately. But Guarino never took his position and left for Venice one year later.10 Apparently, during the first half of the Quattrocento, taking classes in Byzantium was still the best way to learn Greek, as several humanists demonstrate.11 Probably, Salutati’s initiative and Chrysoloras’s teaching would have been less effective if two events had not caused a change in the approach to Greek culture in Italy: the Council of Ferrara-Florence in 1438–39 and the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453. Although the Council did not accomplish any durable result, it provided the first real opportunity for a direct encounter between Westerners and Byzantines. Religious dogmas, philosophical ideas, and methods of

 ‘[...] few students [...] continued to learn up to the end [...], for, of the many who had initially gathered, some were discouraged by the effort of learning, others by despair of knowing (the language), which, as it were, would require greater zeal and more time.’ Thorn-Wickert observes that Vergerio may have emphasized the difficulty of Chrysoloras’s classes to make his own cleverness and skills stand out. 9 See Rollo 2012, 86–165. 10 Guarino had been in Florence since 1410, hosted by Antonio Corbinelli; he taught Greek privately to Antonio and Angelo Corbinelli and Giovanni Toscanella. On Antonio Corbinelli, one of Chrysoloras’s pupils according to Vespasiano da Bisticci (vols. 1, 586 and 2, 141 in Greco’s 1970– 1976 edition), see Rollo’s 2004 excellent study. Controversies with Niccolò Niccoli and other members of the Florentine élite induced Guarino to move to Venice in July 1414. See Sabbadini 1896, 17–19; Davies 1998, 82; Pistilli 2003; and Thorn-Wickert 2006, 98 and 117. On the Studium Florentinum, see Davies 1998 and Grendler 2002, 77–82. 11 For example, Guarino Guarini (1403–08), Giovanni Aurispa (1405–13 and 1421–23), Francesco Filelfo (1420–27), Giovanni Tortelli (1435–38), and Pietro da Portico (1491–96). See Ciccolella/Speranzi 2010, 441; on Pietro da Portico, see Speranzi 2017.

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  13

interpreting texts were compared and discussed; this comparison revealed substantial similarities, as well as crucial differences between the two cultures.12 Byzantine migration to the West started when the Turks began advancing westwards and conquering Byzantine territories; with the fall of Constantinople, it became an exodus. Men of culture packed their books and belongings and went to Italy, where some of them earned their living teaching Greek.13 The increase in the number of teachers caused a qualitative improvement of the contents and methods of teaching; at the same time, the need for adequate tools to teach Greek grammar to more and more demanding Western pupils stimulated other émigrés – in particular, Theodore Gazes and Constantine Lascaris – to produce their own grammars adopting and improving Chrysoloras’s innovations.14

 Byzantine intellectuals and the teaching of Greek The influence of Byzantine scholars on Renaissance culture ranged from the most prestigious disciplines, such as philosophy, to the initial levels of education, such as the teaching of grammar, for which more or less famous teachers created tools and pedagogical methods that were fundamental for the spread and development of Greek studies in the West.15 While some Greek intellectuals – for example, Cardinal Bessarion – earned power and social prestige, the situation was different for many of them, particularly for teachers of Greek. A gloomy picture of their fates appears in a letter that Constantine Lascaris wrote after 1481, in Messina, to his friend Juan Pardo: ‘Whenever I recall the unrestrained unkindness of the rulers and the outrage of my teaching for free, I regret it and would drag myself into Philoxenus’s quarry rather than be together with such rulers. [...] Indeed, I received no reward from either my pupils or the ruler:16 they pity cripples and blind men and give them alms but hate and despise wise men [...], claim that philosophers are invisible, and make fun of poets and rhetoricians as if they were crazy.  12 For a general account of the Council, see Setton 1978, 54–81. The consequences of the Council on fifteenth-century culture are analyzed by Wilson 2017, 63–66. 13 On the causes and extent of the migration from Byzantium in the fifteenth century, see Harris 1995, 9–38. 14 See Nuti 2014, 131–148, 235f., and below, 16. 15 On the teaching of Greek in the Renaissance, see in particular Ciccolella 2008, Botley 2010, Nuti 2014, the essays collected in Ciccolella/Silvano 2017, and the bibliography quoted therein. 16 I.e., Ferdinand I of Aragon, King of Naples from 1458 to 1494.

14  Federica Ciccolella [...] There was no consideration for Greek culture, but Homer had been banished from everywhere and Demosthenes and Plato were despised. [...] If you do not trust me, let the fates of some men persuade you. The rulers’ thrift drove Theodore, who had reached the highest level of wisdom, to Calabria and forced him to die ingloriously (alas!) at Policastro. Andronikos Kallistos moved to the British Isles, where he died bereft of friends. As for Franculios, a wise man, I do not know where in Italy he is now. Demetrios was forced to return to his country and serve the barbarians. I leave out my wise master, John Argyropoulos, who lives in poverty in the centre of Rome selling his books every day.’17

Lascaris claims that ignorance and lack of interest in Greek culture in the court of Naples forced him to settle in Messina.18 Therefore, he had to share the fate of other Greek intellectuals who were victims of the meanness of other Italian rulers: Theodore (Gazes), Andronikos Kallistos, Franculios (Servopoulos), Demetrios (Kastrenos?), and his own master, John Argyropoulos.19 More generally, Lascaris expresses the dissatisfaction of many Greek scholars who had moved to the West thinking they would find a welcoming environment: they were not only disappointed in their expectations, but also sometimes received with open hostility.

 17 My translation covers lines 17–48 of the critical edition in Martínez Manzano 1994, 160–162. See also Martínez Manzano 1998, 167–169 (Spanish translation); Monfasani 1990, 45f.; Russell 2013, 109–113; and Cammelli 1941–1954, vol. 2, 167f., who proposes 1481, the date of Argyropoulos’s return to Rome, as a terminus post quem for the composition of the letter. 18 In 1465, Constantine Lascaris moved from Milan to Naples following his pupil Ippolita Sforza, who married the heir to the Neapolitan throne, Alfonso. In Naples, King Ferdinand I appointed him teacher of Greek. One year later, on his way to Greece, Lascaris accepted the invitation of Messina’s authorities to settle in the city, where he taught Greek at the Basilian monastery of San Salvatore until his death in 1501. On Lascaris’s life and works, see Martínez Manzano 1994 and 1998. 19 For a biography of Theodore Gazes, see Bianca 1999; see also below, 19. Andronikos Kallistos, born in Constantinople in the early 15th century, taught in Padua and Bologna before moving to Rome, where he joined Bessarion’s circle. From 1471 to 1475, he was in Florence; Angelo Poliziano was among his pupils. In 1475, he moved to Milan and then to France and England, where he died in 1476; see Bigi 1961; Harris 1995, 128 and 139–143; Russell 2013, 105–138; and Wilson 2017, 109 and 131–133. On Franculios Servopoulos, a supporter of the Union of Florence and a diplomat, see Harris 1995, ad indicem. ‘Demetrios’ is probably Demetrios Kastrenos, who taught in Ferrara, Milan and, finally, Constantinople: see Lampros 1916 (quoted by Martínez Manzano 1994, 161 n. 22); on the doubtful identification with Demetrius Chalcondylas, see Russell 2013, 111. The most extensive study on John Argyropoulos is still Cammelli 1941–1954, vol. 2; see also Bigi 1962 and Wilson 2017, 99–103. On Byzantine scholars in fifteenth-century Rome, see Bianca 2015 and the bibliography quoted therein.

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  15

Indeed, the wave of sympathy caused by the tragic fate of Byzantium, which initially overcame the ambivalent attitude of the first humanists toward the Greeks, did not last long.20 According to Geanakoplos: ‘[A]s increasing numbers of near-destitute refugees streamed westward after Constantinople’s fall in 1453, the Westerners began to look more critically upon these men and even to formulate an opinion of many as parasites.’21

Cultural causes also appear relevant in this context. Firstly, in the second half of the fifteenth century, the resistance against the revival of pagan culture in general and Greek culture in particular, which had been always latent in humanism,22 caused a progressive re-evaluation of the Latin tradition at the expense of Greek culture, which was considered more frivolous and pagan and, consequently, more dangerous. Secondly, the demand for Greek teachers decreased because their Italian pupils took their places in schools and universities: Italians had the advantage of a better mastery of Latin, which was fundamental for the study of Greek. Humanists generally pursued the study of Greek to extend and improve their knowledge of Latin.23 In his letter of appointment, dated 28 March 1396, Coluccio Salutati specified that Chrysoloras was expected to stimulate Florentine young men to ‘drink from both springs and combine Greek and Latin for the sake of a more copious knowledge’ (de utroque fonte bibere, Latinisque Graeca miscere, uberioris doctrinae causa).24 In fifteenth-century West, Greek was commonly taught in Latin, with the ‘meta-language’ used for Latin grammar applied to Greek grammar; translating from Greek into Latin engaged most of the energies  20 See Bisaha 2004, 118–134; and Hankins 1995. 21 Geanakoplos 1958, 158. As Lamers has pointed out (2015, 90), the fall of Constantinople caused a change in the social status of the Byzantines, who, from diplomats or invited scholars, were transformed into ‘highly cultured but homeless dependents who had to make a living by offering their decreasingly precious knowledge of Greek.’ 22 The most famous example of anti-humanistic polemic is Giovanni Dominici’s Lucula noctis, published in 1406 (modern edition: Hunt 1940). Dominici (Giovanni di Domenico Banchini), a member of the most conservative wing of the Dominican order, attacked Coluccio Salutati for his interest in the classics; see Holmes 1992, 32–35. Also, a letter by Francesco Barbaro of c. 1416 rebukes Lorenzo de’ Monacis, secretary to the Venetian Senate and Chancellor of Crete, for his hostility to everything Greek, including the language and culture; see Pertusi 1980, 209f. At the end of the fifteenth century, the Dominican Annio (Giovanni Nanni) of Viterbo challenged the contribution of Greek culture to Western civilization and, consequently, the value of Greek studies: see Fubini 2012, Lamers 2015, 169f., and the bibliography quoted therein. 23 See the passages quoted by Lamers 2015, 79f. 24 For the Latin text of the letter, see Thorn-Wickert 2006, 41f.

16  Federica Ciccolella of Renaissance teachers and students of Greek.25 The Compendium of Chrysoloras’s Erotemata bears clear evidence of the Latinization of the teaching of Greek at the elementary level of instruction: from at least 1475, this grammar was printed with the Greek text and its word-by-word Latin translation in parallel columns; a printed Latin commentary dating from 1471 suggests that, at that time, explaining Greek grammar in Latin was common practice.26 The grammars by Lascaris and Gazes were first printed entirely in Greek and eventually equipped with Latin translations by Giovanni Crastone and Erasmus, respectively.27 The appropriation of the teaching of Greek by Westerners can be considered as complete with the first Greek grammar written in Latin, the Institutiones Graecae grammaticae by Urbano Bolzanio of Belluno, published in 1497/98.28 Similarly, acquaintance with the masterpieces of Greek literature did not change Westerners’ primary interest in Latin culture. An example comes from Angelo Poliziano’s Silvae, the poetic prolusions to his lectures at the Studium of Florence.29 Poliziano, who surpassed many of his contemporaries in his knowledge of Greek, supported his literary analyses with quotations from both Latin and Greek

 25 On the use of Latin in the teaching of Greek, see Ciccolella 2018 and Ciccolella 2008, 130– 139. Apparently, the teaching of Greek in Greek and the oral practice of the Greek language, which Guzmán Ramírez (2013, 17–30) attributes to the influence of Byzantine teachers, was not very common in fifteenth-century humanist schools; see also below, 20f. 26 The earliest printed edition known to us, usually attributed to the so-called ‘Printer of Chrysoloras’ (ISTC ic00489500), does not contain indications of place, date, and printer’s name. Robert Proctor assigned it to the press of Giovanni da Reno (Joannes de Reno) in Vicenza, possibly in conjunction with Dionigi Bertocchi (Dionysius Bertochus), and dated it to c. 1475: see Barker 1992, 25. The commentary, entitled Ἐρωτήματα μικρὰ πολλὺ (sic) ὠφέλιμα (ISTC ic00492000) was probably published in Venice in 1471 by Adam von Ambergau: see Pertusi 1962, 323f., and especially Rollo 2012, 147–153. 27 The Greek-Latin edition of Lascaris’s grammar (Compendium octo orationis partium et aliorum quorundam necessariorum editum a Constantino Lascari Byzantio cum interpretatione Johannis monachi Placentini: ISTC il00066000) was printed in Milan by Bono Accorsi in 1480, four years after the editio princeps of the Greek text (Milan 1476, by Dionigi Paravicino for Demetrios Damilas, ISTC il00065000). Aldus Manutius published Theodore Gazes’ grammar in Venice in 1495 (ISTC ig00110000); the bilingual edition (Theodori Gazae Thessalonicensis Grammaticae institutionis liber primus sic translatus per Erasmum Roterodamum etc.) was published in Basle by Johann Froben in 1516. 28 Published by Aldus Manutius (ISTC iu00066000), who, in his preface, underlined the usefulness of this grammar to speakers of Latin (text and English translation in Wilson 2016, 60– 63). See Rollo 2001. 29 Poliziano taught poetic and rhetoric at the Studium from 1480 to his death in 1494; see Cesarini Martinelli 1996.

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  17

authors. However, his centre of interest remained Latin literature, whose superiority he rarely questioned. Thus, in the beginning of the first silva, entitled Manto and published in 1482, while explaining Virgil’s Bucolics through Hesiod’s Works and Days and Theocritus’s Idylls, Poliziano stated that Nemesis, the goddess of Retribution, tamed the military and literary glories of Greece by making the Greeks slaves to the Latins and, most significantly, putting an end to Greek supremacy in eloquence through Cicero. In the next lines, Poliziano admitted the superiority of Greek poetry over early Latin poetry, but immediately added that this superiority was not everlasting, saying (lines 29–32): Behold! Maro [i.e., Virgil] was born, with whom none can compare, whether he sing of woodlands or countryside or ‘arms and the man’, for, though he barely rivals the Syracusan piper, he surpasses Hesiod and contends with great Homer.30

This concept is stated in other silvae, as well. Apparently, Poliziano’s appreciation of contemporary Greeks and their culture was inversely proportional to his fondness for ancient Greek.31 In a letter to Urceo Codro of 1494, while engaging in a dispute with Ianus Lascaris, Poliziano expressed his pride in his Greek epigrams. His depreciation of Lascaris’s work extends to the entire production of Byzantine poetry: I have composed nearly a book of Greek epigrams, which my friends often urge me to publish; and they say [...] that it will be not only to the glory of the Latins, but altogether to the glory of the age if I, a Latin, arouse the Grecian Muses that have been sleeping now so long. In fact, not a poem is to be found written by a Greek these six hundred years that can be read with patience.32

Poliziano solved the competition between Greek and Latin cultures with the victory of the latter. It is easy to imagine that Byzantine scholars in Italy did not share this opinion. Byzantine writers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries often expressed their frustration in being the ‘remains’ (λείψανα) of the ancient Greeks and Romans, as well as their awareness that their world was collapsing. During the last

 30 Text and translation in Fantazzi 2004, 8f. 31 On Poliziano’s anti-Greek polemics, see Lamers 2015, 185–188, and the sources and bibliography quoted therein. 32 English translation by Hutton 1935, 135. Although the causes of the dispute between Poliziano and Lascaris are not entirely clear, this letter suggests that it centered on Byzantine and/or Latin poetry: see Lauxtermann 2009, 52f.; Lamers 2015, 168, and the bibliography quoted therein.

18  Federica Ciccolella stage of the Empire, as contacts with the West intensified, several Byzantine intellectuals acknowledged the superiority of Westerners in politics, economy, and technology; the sense of decline extended to their view of their culture, despite the fact that it had flourished more than ever at the courts of the last Palaeologan Emperors.33 However, those who migrated to Italy and participated in the humanist cultural project gave significance to their role by configuring themselves as the representatives of the glorious culture to which the whole of Western civilization was indebted.34 The idea of being heirs to the ancient Greek tradition, which became stronger after the fall of Constantinople, stimulated several initiatives for the recovery and preservation of Greek culture35 and, at the same time, fuelled a sort of competition with Westerners for cultural preeminence. The extant five Latin academic prolusions composed by Byzantine émigrés in Italy bear witness to this tension. Although delivered at different times and places and diverging in extension and literary quality, all of them show the typical structure of medieval and early modern academic prolusions: an exposition of the qualities of the discipline and an exhortation to pursue its study.36 Also, the same motifs and even the same quotations occur constantly: all the authors emphasized the tight relationship between Greek and Roman cultures, displaying their knowledge of Greek literary texts and the most important works of Latin poets and prose writers. However, they did not confine themselves to cultural issues: other recurring themes are the preoccupation with the fate of Greek territory, people, and culture, as well as the wish that Westerners would liberate Byzantium from the Turks.37

 33 See Ševčenko 1961, 172–176. 34 See Lamers 2015 (in particular, 55–62) and Steiris 2016. 35 Two well-known examples are the constitution of a Greek library by Cardinal Bessarion and the printing of the most important texts of Greek liturgy, philosophy, and language by Zacharias Kallierges and Nicholas Vlastos. On the importance of literature for the preservation of the Greek heritage, see Nuti 2012. 36 Orations De litteris Graecis were composed by Theodore Gazes (Ferrara 1446), Andronikos Kontovlachas (Venice, between 1450 and 1460), Demetrius Chalcondylas (Padua, 1463 and 1464), and Ianus Lascaris (Florence 1493). I am currently preparing commented translations of these orations. For a list of similar orations composed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and an updated bibliography on these texts (except for Lascaris’s), see Gastgeber 2014, 70–77. 37 For example, according to Thomson (1966, 76–79) and Hankins (2002, 176f.), teaching was only a component of what Chrysoloras considered his most important mission: gaining the favour of Italian educated élites for the Byzantine cause.

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  19

The earliest oration is most probably Theodore Gazes’ speech, delivered in Ferrara on 18 October 1446 on his appointment at the city’s Studium.38 Gazes begins by stating that even ancient Romans recognized the usefulness of a Greek education: they studied and translated Greek literary texts because they knew how deeply they were indebted to the Greeks for their culture;39 similarly, modern scholars can benefit from a knowledge of Greek, which is fundamental in order to restore, preserve, and edit Latin texts. Many examples from the past demonstrate the importance of Greek culture for the Romans: Cicero acknowledged that Athens was the cradle of eloquence, all the protagonists of Roman history knew Greek, and the greatest Latin writers took inspiration from Greek literature.40 Then Gazes moves to the present: after praising the major Western Hellenists of his time (Vittorino da Feltre, Giovanni Aurispa, and Guarino Guarini), he highlights the usefulness of the study of the authors he intends to read in his courses: Demosthenes, Plato, Homer, Aristotle, and Xenophon.41 The final part of Gazes’ oration focuses on the study of Greek.42 Gazes, who is well aware of the difficulties encountered by students,43 reminds them that all serious and important pursuits require time, energy, and commitment: thus, Greek trains students to overcome the difficulties of life. Gazes supports his assertions with examples from Greek and Roman history and concludes with a quotation from Hesiod’s Works and Days on the close connection between virtue and sweat.44 Then, through rhetorical questions, Gazes addresses more directly the study of the Greek language: learning Greek may be difficult for the ‘Scythians’ –

 38 The text has been edited by Mohler 1942, 253–259 (henceforth: M.), thoroughly analyzed by Papademetriou 2000, and summarized by Gastgeber 2014, 78–80 (who dates it to ‘ca. 1460’). For an analysis of Gazes’ Greek and Latin sources, see Ciccolella, forthcoming. On Gazes’ teaching in Ferrara, see Monfasani 1994. 39 Ch. 3, 253, 30–254, 26 M. 40 Chs. 4–7, 254, 27–256, 12 M. 41 Chs. 8–10, 256, 13–257, 36 M. 42 Chs. 11–12, 257, 37–258, 36 M. 43 Ch. 11, 237, 37f. M.: Sed forsitan dixerit quispiam vestrum, adolescentes optimi, haec quidem, ut dixi, ita se habere, rem tamen ipsam difficilem esse, ‘But perhaps some of you, excellent young men, may say that what I have said is true, but the discipline itself is difficult.’ 44 Ch. 11, 268, 10–24 M. Gazes mentions the journeys that Solon, Lycurgus, Plato, ‘and many others’ (alii permulti) took to Egypt and the journeys of Roman young men to Athens to learn Greek: neither the dangers of navigation nor intense work discouraged them. Also, labour helped Hercules and Numa Pompilius achieve glory; indeed, according to Hesiod, Op. 289, ‘the gods placed sweat before virtue.’

20  Federica Ciccolella i.e., the Turks – and the other ‘barbarians’, but, because of the similarities between the two languages and cultures, not for Latins.45 Finally, if neither old age nor intense political activity prevented Cato the Elder from learning Greek, young men who have a fresh mind and are free from any commitment should do it easily.46 Although mentioning the difficulty of the discipline may be conventional,47 Gazes’ words seem to mirror a real problem among Western students: apparently, about forty-six years after Vergerio’s letter, they were experiencing the same difficulties with Greek as Chrysoloras’s pupils. Gazes tried to respond to this situation by composing a Greek grammar; in spite of his efforts, however, the search for effective tools and methods to learn Greek in the West continued through the entire Renaissance period. In a moderate and conciliatory tone that certainly pleased patrons and audiences, the orations of Byzantine émigrés attempted to persuade Westerners to study Greek in order to recover the roots of their culture, stressing the tight relationship between Greeks and Latins. The long prolusion Ianus Lascaris delivered in 1493 at the Florentine Studium, although dealing with the same themes, represents an exception.48 Lascaris emphasizes the Greek origins of the Latins, their language, and their literature; in this way, he asserts the importance of Greek studies in liberal education and, additionally, the superiority of Greek culture. By claiming the fundamental role of the Greeks in Western culture, Lascaris was certainly reacting to contemporary anti-Greek polemics49 and probably voicing the feelings of many of his fellow Byzantines. Indeed, his claim for a major role for Greek and, consequently, Greeks in Western education was not isolated. For example, in 1472, in an oration entitled ‘Exhortation from Gortyna to Rome in Italy’, the Cretan Michael Apostolis criticized the teaching of Greek in Latin and the  45 Ch. 12, 268, 25–30 M.: Neque tamen res tam difficilis est, studiosissimi adolescentes, quam vobis fortasse videtur. Nam, per Deum immortalem, quae tanta in eis litteris addiscendis difficultas inesse potest? Praesertim Latinis, quorum litterae tantam cum Graecis similitudinem habent? Scythis forsitan et aliis quibusvis barbaris hoc studium difficile esse potest, quibuscum nihil nobis praeter hominis figuram commune est, ‘However, the discipline is not as difficult as it may seem to you, most diligent young men. For – o immortal God! – how can there be so much difficulty in learning that language, especially for Latins, whose language has such a resemblance to Greek? This study may be difficult for the Scythians and any other of the barbarians, with which we have nothing in common, except for our human body.’ On the Turks as ‘Scythians’, see Bisaha 2004, 50–60. 46 Ch. 12, 268, 32–6 M. 47 See Papademetriou 2000, 271 n. 107. 48 For an analysis of Lascaris’s oration, see Meschini 1983 (with a critical edition of the text on 90–113), Lamers 2015, 166–199, and the essay of Lamers here published. 49 See Lamers 2015, 185–190.

Through the Eyes of the Greeks  21

translation of Greek authors into Latin practiced by Western teachers, on the grounds that the use of Latin as a point of reference and the continuous switching from one language to the other prevented students from reaching full mastery of the Greek language.50 About twenty years earlier, Apostolis had challenged the ability of Western teachers of Greek, observing that, while many Byzantines taught Greek in the West, no Westerner would ever be able to do it in the East.51

 Conclusions Within the general project of a reconstruction of an ideal antiquity, the main goal of the revival of Greek culture in the Renaissance was the acquisition of a more complete knowledge of Latin culture. Consequently, classical Greek was rarely learned per se. At the first stage of the Greek revival, in the fifteenth century, the study of Greek was considered as accessory to the study of Latin and was pursued only as far as literary studies were involved. After the first wave of enthusiasm, Westerners adopted a more detached attitude toward the Byzantine Greeks who had brought the new culture; as Western teachers replaced Greek teachers in the most important schools of Italy, they were facing unemployment. Consequently, although considering their own culture as superior to that of their hosts, Byzantine intellectuals generally adapted to their roles and tasks in the Western educational system. With their orations in defence of Greek letters, they tried to convince their audiences of the usefulness of the study of Greek, highlighting its cultural and practical advantages and, most of all, the similarities between Greek and Latin cultures. Michael Apostolis’s advocation of a study of Greek per se in his Gortyna oration remained isolated, demonstrating that an ‘entirely Greek humanism’ was not feasible in fifteenth-century Italy.52 Despite the triumphant tone with which humanists hailed the recovery of Greek in the West, the meeting between Greek and Latin cultures in the Renaissance was not an easy process. The competition for cultural superiority mirrors the religious opposition that even the long debates in the Council of Ferrara-Florence had been unable to solve. In general, the concept of ‘cultural transfer’ from East to West should be taken cautiously, because Westerners saw Greek culture  50 See Pontani 1996 (text and Italian translation) and Percival 2002 (English translation). 51 See Geanakoplos 1958. On Apostolis’s anti-Latin polemics, see Steiris 2016, 176–179. 52 See Meschini 1983, 83: ‘L’ipotesi di un integrale umanesimo greco, considerati gli animi degli interlocutori e le circostanze storiche, era destinata a un inevitabile insuccesso.’

22  Federica Ciccolella through their own lenses and adapted it to their needs and demands. The situation was more complex on the Greek side. Undoubtedly, Byzantine émigrés deprived of their country saw national identity and cultural heritage as ways to avoid being completely assimilated. Some of them managed to find an original synthesis between their Greek background and the stimuli they received from Western culture. However, our picture of Greek culture in early modern Europe will remain defective until all its aspects are explored and clarified.

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Davies, J. (1998), Florence and Its University during the Early Renaissance, Leiden/Boston/ Cologne. Fantazzi, C. (ed.) (2004), Angelo Poliziano, Silvae, Cambridge (Ma)/London. Fera, V. (2002), ‘La leggenda di Crisolora’, in: Maisano/Rollo (2002), 11–18. Fubini, R. (2012), ‘Nanni, Giovanni’, in: DBI, vol. 77, Rome, online at: enciclopedia/giovanni-nanni_(Dizionario-Biografico)/, consulted in August 2018). Gastgeber, C. (2014), ‘Griechischstudium im italienischen Humanismus’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 64, 67–104. Geanakoplos, D.J. (1958), ‘A Byzantine Looks at the Renaissance: The Attitude of Michael Apostolis toward the Rise of Italy to Cultural Eminence’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 1, 157–162. Geanakoplos, D.J. (1973), Byzantium and the Renaissance: Greek Scholars in Venice. Studies in the Dissemination of Greek Learning from Byzantium to Western Europe, Hamden. Geanakoplos, D.J. (1989), Constantinople and the West: Essays on the Late Byzantine (Palaeologan) and Italian Renaissances and the Byzantine and Roman Churches, Madison (Wi). Greco, A. (ed.) (1970–1976), Vespasiano da Bisticci, Le vite, edizione critica con introduzione e commento, 2 vols., Florence. Grendler, P.F. (2002), The Universities of the Italian Renaissance, Baltimore/London. Guzmán Ramírez, G. (2013), Katà phýsin: De methodis atque subsidiis linguae Graecae tradendae aetate renascentium artium usurpatis, Rome. Hankins, J. (1995), ‘Renaissance Crusaders: Humanist Crusade Literature in the Age of Mehmed II’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 49, 111–207. Hankins, J. (2002), ‘Chrysoloras and the Greek Studies of Leonardo Bruni’, in: Maisano/Rollo (2002), 175–197. Harris, J. (1995), Greek Emigres in the West 1400–1528, Camberley. Holmes, G. (1992), The Florentine Enlightenment, 1400–1450, Oxford. Hunt, E. (ed.) (1940), Ioannis Dominici Lucula Noctis, Notre Dame (In). Hutton, J. (1935), The Greek Anthology in Italy to the Year 1800, Ithaca (N.Y.). Lamers, H. (2015), Greece Reinvented: Transformations of Byzantine Hellenism in Renaissance Italy, Leiden/Boston. Lampros, S. (1916), ‘Δημητρίου Καστρηνοῦ ἀνέκδοτος ἐπιστολὴ πρὸς Σοφιανόν’, Νέος Ἑλληνομνήμων 13, 408–413. Lauxtermann, M.D. (2009), ‘Janus Lascaris and the Greek Anthology’, in: S. De Beer/K.A.E. Enenkel/D. Rijser (eds.), The Neo-Latin Epigram: A Learned and Witty Genre, Leuven, 41–65. Maisano, R./Rollo, A. (2002) (eds.), Manuele Crisolora e il ritorno del greco in Occidente. Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Napoli, 26–29 giugno 1997), Naples. Martínez Manzano, T. (1994), Konstantinos Laskaris; Humanist, Philologe, Lehrer, Kopist, Hamburg. Martínez Manzano, T. (1998), Constantino Láscaris: semblanza de un humanista bizantino, Madrid. Meschini, A. (1983), ‘La prolusione fiorentina di Giano Làskaris’, in: (s.e.), Miscellanea di studi in onore di Vittore Branca, vol. 3: Umanesimo e Rinascimento a Firenze e Venezia, Florence, 69–113 (see also: Pontani, A.). Mohler, L. (1942), Kardinal Bessarion als Theologe, Humanist und Staatsmann, vol. 3: Aus Bessarions Gelehrtenkreis, Paderborn. Monfasani, J. (1990), ‘L’insegnamento universitario e la cultura bizantina in Italia nel Quattrocento’, in: L. Avellini/A. De Benedetti/A. Cristiani (eds.), Sapere e/è potere. Discipline,

24  Federica Ciccolella dispute e professioni nell’università medievale e moderna. Il caso bolognese a confronto. Atti del 4o Convegno (Bologna, 13–15 aprile 1989), Bologna, 43–65 (= Byzantine Scholars in Renaissance Italy: Cardinal Bessarion and Other Emigrés, Alderhsot 1995, XII). Monfasani, J. (1994), ‘L’insegnamento di Teodoro Gaza a Ferrara’, in: M. Bertozzi (ed.), Alla corte degli Estensi. Filosofia, arte e cultura a Ferrara nei secoli XV e XVI. Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi (Ferrara, 5–7 marzo 1992), Ferrara, 5–17. Monfasani, J. (2002), ‘Greek Renaissance Migrations’, Italian History & Culture 8, 1–14. Monfasani, J. (2012), ‘The Greeks and Renaissance Humanism’, in: D. Rundle (ed.), Humanism in Fifteenth-Century Europe, Oxford, 31–78. Monfasani, J. (2016), Greek Scholars between East and West in the Fifteenth Century, Farnham (Va). Nuti, E. (2012), ‘Salvezza delle lettere greche. Ideali e Realpolitik negli scritti degli umanisti bizantini (Cidone, Crisolora, Gaza, Calcondila)’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 23, 119–137. Nuti, E. (2014), Longa est via. Forme e contenuti dello studio grammaticale dalla Bisanzio paleologa al tardo Rinascimento veneziano, Alessandria. Papademetriou, P.G. (2000), ‘Θεοδώρου Γαζη Oratio de litteris graecis: ενάς βυζαντινός λόγιος εγκωμιάζει τα Ελληνικά γράμματα στη Φεράρα του Leonello d’Este’, Thesaurismata 30, 241–275. Percival, W.K. (2002), ‘Greek Pedagogy in the Renaissance’, in: W. Hüllen/F. Klippel (eds.), Heilige und profane Sprache. Die Anfänge des Fremdsprachenunterrichts im westlichen Europa, Wiesbaden, 94–109. Pertusi, A. (1962), ‘Ἐρωτήματα. Per la storia delle prime grammatiche greche a stampa’, Italia Medioevale e Umanistica 5, 321–351. Pertusi, A. (1964), Leonzio Pilato fra Petrarca e Boccaccio: le sue versioni omeriche negli autografi di Venezia e la cultura greca del primo Umanesimo, Venice. Pertusi, A. (1980), ‘L’umanesimo greco dalla fine del secolo XIV agli inizi del secolo XVI’, in: G. Arnaldi/M. Pastore Stocchi (eds.), Storia della cultura veneta, 3: Dal primo Quattrocento al Concilio di Trento, vol. 1, Vicenza, 177–264. Pistilli, G. (2003), ‘Guarini, Guarino’, in DBI, vol. 60, Rome, online at: enciclopedia/guarino-guarini_(Dizionario-Biografico)/, consulted in August 2018). Pontani, A. (1996), ‘Sullo studio del greco in Occidente nel sec. XV: l’esempio di Michele Apostolis’, in: M. Tavoni (ed.), Italia ed Europa nella linguistica del Rinascimento: confronti e relazioni. Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Ferrara, Palazzo Paradiso, 20–24 marzo 1991), Ferrara, 133–170 (see also: Meschini, A.). Rollo, A. (2001), ‘La grammatica greca di Urbano Bolzanio’, in: P. Pellegrini (ed.), Umanisti bellunesi fra Quattro e Cinquecento. Atti del Convegno di Belluno (5 novembre 1999), Florence, 177–209. Rollo, A. (2002), ‘Problemi e prospettive della ricerca su Manuele Crisolora’, in: Maisano/Rollo (2002), 31–85. Rollo, A. (2004), ‘Sulle tracce di Antonio Corbinelli’, Studi medievali e umanistici 2, 25–95. Rollo, A. (2012), Gli Erotemata tra Crisolora e Guarino, Messina. Russell, E. (2013), Literature and Culture in Late Byzantine Thessalonica, London. Sabbadini, R. (1896), La scuola e gli studi di Guarino Veronese, Catania. Sabbadini, R. (1922), Il metodo degli umanisti, Florence. Setton, K.M. (1978), The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), vol. 2: The Fifteenth Century, Philadelphia.

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Ševčenko, I. (1961), ‘The Decline of Byzantium Seen Through the Eyes of Its Intellectuals’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 15, 167–186. Smith, L. (ed.) (1934), L’epistolario di Pier Paolo Vergerio, Rome. Speranzi, D. (2017), ‘Praeclara librorum suppellectilis. Cretan Manuscripts in Pietro da Portico’s Library’, in: Ciccolella/Silvano 2017, 155–212. Steiris, G. (2016), ‘Byzantine Philosophers of the 15th Century on Identity and Otherness’, in: G. Steiris/S. Mitralexis/G. Arabatzis (eds.), The Problem of Modern Greek Identity: From the Ecumene to the Nation State, Newcastle upon Thyne, 173–199. Thomson, I. (1966), ‘Manuel Chrysoloras and the Early Italian Renaissance’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 7, 63–82. Thorn-Wickert, L. (2006), Manuel Chrysoloras (ca. 1350–1415). Eine Biographie des byzantinischen Intellektuellen vor dem Hintergrund der hellenistischen Studien in der italienischen Renaissance, Frankfurt am Main. Weiss, R. (1977), Medieval and Humanist Greek: Collected Essays, Padua. Wilson, N.G. (ed.) (2016), Aldus Manutius, the Greek Classics, Cambridge (Ma)/London. Wilson, N.G. (2017), From Byzantium to Italy: Greek Studies in the Italian Renaissance, London (2nd ed.; 1st ed. Baltimore 1992). Wulfram, H. (2012), ‘Ein Heilsbringer aus dem Osten. Manuel Chrysoloras und seine Entindividualisierung im italienischen Frühhumanismus’, in: F. Kolovou (ed.), Byzanzrezeption in Europa. Spurensuchen über das Mittelalter und die Renaissance bis in die Gegenwart, Berlin/Boston, 89–116.

Han Lamers

Janus Lascaris’ Florentine Oration and the ‘Reception’ of Ancient Aeolism Abstract: This paper reconsiders Janus Lascaris’ Florentine Oration (1493) by analyzing its central argument that the Latin language is Greek (Latina lingua Graeca est). It situates Lascaris’ thesis in the context of ancient ideas about the relationship between Latin and Greek (chiefly Aeolism) and their reception in later periods. Specifically, it discusses his use of etymology, indebted not only to Latin but also to Byzantine sources. Outlining a ‘reconstructive’ method based on etymology to trace Latin words to their alleged Greek roots, Lascaris’ Florentine Oration not only marks an important moment in the reception history of Aeolism, but also complicates the ways in which the story of its reception has usually been told. Keywords: etymology, Aeolism, paragrammatism, Janus Lascaris, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Eustathius of Thessalonica, history of ideas, history of scholarship

Introduction Since antiquity, it has commonly been recognized that Latin and Greek have commonalities in vocabulary, morphology, and syntax. Before the emergence of Indo-European studies in the nineteenth century, these similarities were generally not attributed to a common source language. Some regarded them as the result of conscious linguistic borrowings, and thus as a symptom of cultural Hellenism, while others explained them from the direct descent of Latin from Greek. The theory of direct descent has a long but surprisingly poorly documented history. One single sentence from the Roman Antiquities by the Greek historian Dionysius of Halicarnassus (d. after 7 BC) counts as the fullest expression of the idea preserved from antiquity.1 Writing for a Greek audience under Augustus, Dionysius claimed that [t]he language spoken by the Romans is neither utterly barbarous nor absolutely Greek, but a mixture, as it were, of both, the greater part of which is Aeolic; and the only disadvantage

 1 Stevens 2006/2007, 115, 117–118.

28  Han Lamers they have experienced from their intermingling with these various nations is that they do not pronounce all their sounds properly [...].2

In Dionysius’ account, the affinity of Latin with Greek is part of his larger argument that the Romans were essentially a Greek people, both in terms of descent and in terms of culture.3 Circa 1500 years later, in 1493, one of the most prominent Greek scholars of the Italian Renaissance, Janus Lascaris Rhyndacenus (ca. 1445– 1534), resumed Dionysius’ argument in a speech delivered at the Florentine ‘university’ (the studium generale), where he taught Greek.4 In this speech, inaugurating his course on Demosthenes and the Greek Anthology, Lascaris not only argued that the ‘Latin people’ (genus Latinum) was of ancient Greek extraction but also contended that ‘the Latin language [was] Greek’ (Latina lingua Graeca est). In fact, his Florentine Oration is the fullest argument in favour of the Latin derivation from Greek after Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities. Perhaps more importantly, in his speech, Lascaris elaborates the idea more fully than any other source available from antiquity through the Middle Ages. This places him at the beginning of a tradition of etymologizing thought about the relationship between Latin and Greek that lasted until well into the nineteenth century, when it was eventually replaced by the Proto-Indo-European hypothesis, tracing commonalities between Latin and Greek to a common ancestor: from then on, the two languages were generally no longer to be considered as mother and daughter, but rather as distant relatives.5  2 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.90.1: Ῥωμαῖοι δὲ φωνὴν μὲν οὔτ᾽ ἄκρως βάρβαρον οὔτ᾽ ἀπηρτισμένως Ἑλλάδα φθέγγονται, μικτὴν δέ τινα ἐξ ἀμφοῖν, ἧς ἐστιν ἡ πλείων Αἰολίς, τοῦτο μόνον ἀπολαύσαντες ἐκ τῶν πολλῶν ἐπιμιξιῶν, τὸ μὴ πᾶσι τοῖς φθόγγοις ὀρθοεπεῖν [...]. Translation by Earnest Cary 1937. 3 For Dionysius and his views on ancient Rome and Latin, see e.g. Gabba 1982 and Marin 1969. 4 Janus Lascaris taught Greek in Florence, Paris, and Rome. He was responsible for the editiones principes of the Planudean Anthology (in a self-designed Greek font), Callimachus’ Hymns, four tragedies of Euripides, Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica, and Lucian’s Dialogues, and translated Xenophon’s Anabasis and parts of Polybius into Latin. Apart from his scholarly work, he also published poems in both Greek and Latin and worked as a librarian for Lorenzo de’ Medici and later as a diplomat for the French king and the pope. On Janus Lascaris, see Ceresa 2004, with further references. A critical edition of his Florentine Oration is available in Meschini 1983. On this oration, see Lamers 2015, 166–199, with further references. 5 See also below, p. 46. This is not to say that there were no earlier attempts to redefine the relationship of Latin and Greek. The most notable attempts to break away from the theory of direct descent were by Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540–1609), who denied any privileged relationship between the two languages, and Marcus Zuerius van Boxhorn (1612–1653), who traced them to a common ‘Scythian’ ancestor. On Scaliger’s matrices-theory, see Van Hal 2010a, 141–169. On the ‘Scythian theory’, see Van Hal 2010b.

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Although the importance of Janus Lascaris’ speech for the theorization of the idea that Latin derived from Greek has incidentally been acknowledged in the scholarship,6 his argument has not been discussed in any detail, nor has it been placed in context in order to understand its specific significance for the history of ideas. Following along the lines of Anna Meschini, Mirko Tavoni regarded Lascaris’ argument as ‘wholly dependent on Dionysius of Halicarnassus, apart from the usual substitution of the idea of Aeolic origin by the more generic one of Greek.’7 While Lascaris’ Florentine Oration indeed relies on Dionysius’ history of Rome, and tacitly adopts its main argument about the Greek origin of the Romans, it also substantially expands on it, especially where its argument about the origin of Latin is concerned. This chapter therefore revisits Lascaris’ argument, paying particular attention to the Greek etymologies he presented to his Florentine audience in order to show that ‘the Latin language was Greek.’ After discussing in some more detail Lascaris’ etymologies and the way he attempted to systematize them, in the final section, I will specifically concentrate on his use of the notions of anagrammatism and paragrammatism, which he apparently adopted from Byzantine commentaries on ancient texts rather than from the classical sources themselves. Before analysing Lascaris’ etymological method in more detail, however, the next section will first introduce the modern scholarly consensus regarding the ancient Aeolic theory and its reception in a critical fashion, setting the coordinates for a more differentiated reception history of the idea that Latin directly descended from Greek.8

 Reformulations of Aeolism The sentence from Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities, quoted above, is the locus classicus for what is known as ‘Aeolism’ or the ‘Aeolic theory’: the notion that Latin

 6 In Tavoni 1986. See also Vast 1878, 29–30. 7 Tavoni 1986, 218. 8 Previous versions of this paper were presented at the Annual Meeting of the North American Association for the History of the Language Sciences (Boston (Ma), 3 January 2013), the Greek studies seminar of Markus Asper at the Humboldt University of Berlin (9 May 2016), and at the two-day conference ‘Making and Rethinking the Renaissance’ (Oxford, 14–15 June 2016). I am indebted to Maria Accame for generously sharing her work on Leto’s notes on Varro’s De lingua Latina (see below, n. 26) and to Giancarlo Abbamonte for some valuable suggestions. Moreover, I owe special thanks to Laura Prauscello and Raf Van Rooy for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper.

30  Han Lamers (at least partly) derives from the Aeolic dialect of Greek. This idea was connected, as in Dionysius’ account, with the presumably much older argument that the ancestors of the Romans were in fact Greeks, more specifically Aeolic-speaking Arcadians who had reportedly settled on the Italian peninsula under their king Evander.9 The ancient evidence of Aeolism is fragmentary, and no coherent set of ideas regarding Latin’s descent from Greek has been transmitted from antiquity. All the same, modern scholarship often understands Aeolism in terms of a theory or even a ‘doctrine’ about the Aeolic origin of Latin, which then ‘survived’ in later periods. It has been claimed, for instance, that, in Augustan Rome, ‘we actually witness the elaboration of a theory [about] the Greek origin of Latin’10 and that, ‘from Dionysius to Quintilian, Plutarch, Servius, Macrobius and beyond […] [the] theory was consolidated and became commonplace.’11 Benjamin Stevens sought to bring a more nuanced position to the discussion by emphasizing that, in antiquity, Aeolism was ‘never fixed or given doctrinal form, but remained a subject of debate’ and thus opened the theoretical possibility of varieties of Aeolism ‘with different versions and degrees of dependence between Latin and its putative source-language.’12 Indeed, some ancient sources voice the general idea that Latin is somehow related to Greek, and to Aeolic in particular.13 But even then, the evidence is mostly too unspecific to draw definitive conclusions about how individual au-

 9 This idea is attested as early as Fabius Pictor (FGrHist 809 F 3 = HRR fr. 1 Peter) and Cato the Elder (Funaioli 1907, 311, no. 295). The idea may also resonate in what is left of the work of Philoxenus and Varro (see also below, n. 13). Strabo (5.230–1), by contrast, calls the Arcadian origin of Rome ‘legendary’ (cf. Stevens 2006/2007, 126). On Roman ‘Arcadism’, see esp. Bayet 1920. On the supposed Arcadian origin of Rome and Latin, see Gabba 1963, Dubuisson 1984, and Stevens 2006/2007. 10 Dubuisson 1984, 60: ‘On y observe en effet l’élaboration d’une théorie, celle de l’origine grecque du latin, précisément destinée à réfuter l’opinion, courante chez les Grecs, de sa nature barbare.’ 11 Tavoni 1986, 210. See also the discussions of, among others, Dubuisson 1984, Gabba 1963, Schöpsdau 1992, 117–119, and Stevens 2006/2007. 12 Stevens 2006/2007, 121. For the (reconstructed) contours of the debate, see Dubuisson 1984. 13 This is not the place to revisit the ancient sources, which I plan to do elsewhere. The most important ancient sources cited in modern discussions of Aeolism are, apart from the passus in Dionysius, Hypsicrates of Amisa (Funaioli 1907, 107, no. 1 and 108, no. 2), cited from Varro and Aulus Gellius; Philoxenus of Alexandria (Mazzarino 1955, 396–397 = Theodoridis 1976, 240, no. 323), cited from George Choeroboscus; Tyrannion (?) (Haas 1977, 176, no. 63), cited from the Suda; Claudius Didymus (Mazzarino 1955, 104; Funaioli 1907, 447, no. 1; Mazzarino 1955, 107, no. 4), cited from Priscian; Varro (Funaioli 1907, 311, no. 295 and 312, no. 296), cited from John the Lydian; and Quintilian (Inst. 1.6.31, 1.5.58, etc.).

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thors construed the relation between Latin and Greek, both historically and linguistically. This equally holds true for how ancient authors looked at the similarities in vocabulary, morphology, and syntax which they recognized to exist between Latin and Greek. Apart from the many Greek words in the Latin language, ancient grammarians note the similarity of the Latin u and the Aeolic digamma, the equivalence of the Greek sigmatic aorist and the sigmatic perfect in Latin, and the absence of the dual form in both Latin and Aeolic.14 While the modern scholarship sometimes treats such comparative observations, especially in the grammarians, as linguistic arguments in favour of the Aeolist thesis, it is in most cases unclear whether or not such perceived similarities were indeed interpreted in terms of a specifically genetic relationship.15 Similar criticism can be raised against the claim that Aeolism persisted as a solid theory after the classical period.16 Although there is some evidence to confirm that a general sense of the idea was still known after the first century AD (for example, in the work of Charisius),17 it is impossible to induce something like a theory about the Greek origin of Latin from the comparative remarks and GrecoLatin etymologies in later grammarians such as Cassiodorus, Priscian, and Isidore of Seville.18 Thus, the fragmentary evidence puts the ‘reception’ of Aeolism in later periods in a much more complex relationship with the classical heritage than has been recognized, and Lascaris’ argument in the Florentine Oration aptly illustrates this. Without a full classical theory that can be ‘received’, we may wonder how we can best think about the ‘reception’ of Aeolism. Perhaps it is more appropriate to think in terms of traces of Aeolism (for instance, in Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities) that were rediscovered and put to the service of the argument that Latin derived from Greek.

 14 For a useful overview of comparative grammar in antiquity, see Schöpsdau 1992. 15 Pace Gabba 1963, 189: ‘non è difficile per noi ripercorrere le tappe di svolgimento [della teoria che il latino fosse un dialetto greco di tipo eolico].’ 16 For example, Stevens 2006/2007, 127 suggests the possibility that there existed a continuous, mostly implicit tradition of Aeolism in the second through fifth century AD, when grammarians such as Priscian and Isidore of Seville, according to him, ‘may also have repeated Aeolist notions or phrasings.’ Tavoni 1986, 210, too, states that ‘the idea that Latin derives from Greek had by this time [the early Middle Ages] become a commonly accepted prejudice, and as such was no longer explicitly stated.’ 17 Keil, Gramm. Lat. 1.292.16–17 (with Swiggers and Wouters 1990, 12–13 and Fögen 2000, 50, n. 79). 18 Pace Tavoni 1986, 210 and Stevens 2006/2007, 127.

32  Han Lamers For the early modern and modern period, the sources are more substantial than for antiquity.19 It seems that, from the early Renaissance onwards, the notion that Latin derived from Greek was taken up again and was given renewed significance.20 If it is at all possible to generalize at this stage, at least two differences with what we find in the ancient sources stand out. First, as Mirko Tavoni has already suggested, the idea seems to have lost much of its original ‘Aeolic’ specificity.21 Although some authors emphasized the special status of Aeolic (and also Doric) in the history of Latin, as did Gian Vincenzo Pinelli (1535–1601) and Claude Saumaise (1588–1653), many others traced Latin back to ‘Greek’ more generically.22 Additionally, etymology, or the derivation of Latin words from Greek, became the principal means of revealing the Greek origins of Latin. This coincides with the changing epistemic status of etymology in the study of language that occurred during this period. Etymology had previously already played a role in various domains such as poetry and rhetoric, philosophical speculation, and biblical exegesis.23 With humanism, it was also put to the service of historical enquiry, and thus the study of the original history of words became implicated in the passionate quest for ancient communal or ‘national’ origins that characterized early modern Europe. Janus Lascaris’ Florentine Oration comes early in the Renaissance reformulation of what is now known as Aeolism. Although there are ample sources dealing with the alleged Greek origins of Latin for the period from the sixteenth century onwards, the evidence for Lascaris’ own Quattrocento is rather meagre. While, in the early 1480s, Bartolomeo Benvoglienti (d. 1486) vigorously contested the idea that Latin derived from Greek, a similar treatise in favour of the opposite position has so far not come to light.24 On the other hand, there is strong evidence suggest-

 19 A first and very useful exploration is by Tavoni 1986. Van Hal 2010a, passim also discusses the idea. 20 The renewed interest in Aeolism coincided with the publication of Lampugnino Birago’s Latin translation of Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities (1480) and the general upsurge of interest in Greek dialects which occurred at the end of the century. On Birago’s translation, see GW VII, nos. 8423–8424. The manuscript had been in circulation in the decades before (see Miglio 1968). On the revived interest in Greek dialects at the end of the Quattrocento, see Van Rooy 2017. 21 See Tavoni 1986, 214. 22 On Pinelli, see Tavoni 1986, 227–228. On Saumaise, see Van Hal 2010a, 354. Van Rooy 2017 offers a discussion of early modern material regarding the Greek origin of Latin. 23 For overviews of the history of etymological thought, with an emphasis on its post-antique reception, see Amsler 1989, Buridant 1998, Haßler 2009, Hummel 2007, 613–655, and Klinck 1970. 24 For Benvoglienti’s treatise, see Tavoni 1975.

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ing that, by the time Lascaris delivered his speech in 1493, the idea had been reinvigorated. In addition to the scattered statements gathered by Mirko Tavoni, all testifying to the almost casual acceptance of Latin’s affinity with Greek,25 a particularly interesting trace of the idea in this early period is in Pomponio Leto’s (1428–1498) commentary on Varro’s De lingua Latina, as reflected in his students’ class notes. Varro had argued that termen derived from τέρμων ‘for Evander, who came to the Palatine, was an Arcadian from Greece’ (5.21). Leto reportedly commented on this passage as follows: Due to bad neighbours, who were unendurable, many people left their native soil and migrated to foreign lands. And these were Achaeans, Iberians, Albanians, Sicilians, and those who make up the origin of the Romans: the Aborigines from Reate, the Pelasgians under Hercules and the Arcadians under [E]vander. From Greece it was, therefore, that the Latins took the Greek words they had, from the Pelasgians, the Argives, and the Arcadians.26

Although there are no such clear echoes of Dionysius’ account in Leto’s observation as there are in Lascaris’ speech, his words resonate with Dionysius’ general idea that a series of Greek arrivals on the peninsula had deeply affected Latin. Leto in this passage does not claim that Latin was essentially Greek, but rather traces an unspecified number of Latin words to specific waves of Greek migration. While the main argument of Lascaris’ speech thus resonates with a more widespread notion that Latin somehow depended on Greek, the Florentine Oration seems to be the earliest instance of a full Renaissance reformulation of ‘classical’ Dionysian Aeolism, in which Dionysius’ original argument for the partly Aeolic origin of Latin is transformed into an argument for an entirely Greek origin,

 25 Tavoni 1986, 211–218. 26 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 47.15, fol. 4v: Propter malos vicinos qui ferri non poterant plerique mortales relicto patrio solo alio migraverunt et hi fuere Achaei, Iberi, Albani, Siculi et qui primordia fecerunt Romanis Aborigines ex agro Reatino, Pelasgi duce Hercule et Archades duce Ruandro [sic]. [E]x Graecia verba igitur Graeca quae habuerunt Latini accepere a Pelasgis et Argivis et Archadibus. Compare the laconic (and rambling) note in Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. Lat. 3415, fol. 5v, dating to 1484: Palatium Latium primi et Graeci occupaverunt, Latium duce Evandro, postea Achei et Pelasgi duce Hercule. Omnes dicuntur reliquisse patriam per malos vicinos, ut asserit Lucius Columella (i.e., De re rustica 1.3.6–7), original punctuation slightly adapted. For an overview of the manuscripts of Leto’s commentaries, see Brown 1980, 467–474. On various aspects of Leto’s dictata on Varro, see the work of Maria Accame, esp. Accame 1980 (on his use of Festus in Vat. Lat. 3415); Accame 1998 (on his commentary on books VIII–X); Accame 2007 (on his courses on Varro more generally); Accame 2011 (on his discussion of the Scythians in his Varro notes); and Accame 2015 (on his Vita of Varro), all with rich bibliography.

34  Han Lamers mainly supported by etymological evidence, absent in Dionysius or any other ancient source available to Lascaris when he wrote his speech.27 As it resonated with the cultural concerns of both Latin humanists and Greek scholars such as Lascaris, the notion of Latin’s affinity with Greek was very timely. Even if, by the end of the century, the battle over the acceptance of Greek in the humanist school curriculum was largely over,28 Italian humanists were still very much ‘concerned with the problem of relating [themselves] to the Greek heritage’, especially so in the final decades of the fifteenth century.29 While the socalled ‘Hellenizers’ were in favour of using Greek literature and language as a source of inspiration, others regarded Greek studies as something ‘alien’ to Latin culture and as a potential threat to Latin cultural autarky.30 For Lascaris and his fellow Greek scholars who settled in Italy – for instance, George of Trebizond, Theodore Gazes, and Demetrius Chalcondylas – another problem was more urgent: how could they relate their Greek heritage to the Latin-oriented humanist culture of their hosts? For Latin ‘Hellenizers’ and Greek scholars alike, highlighting the perceived affinity of Latin with Greek was one way of justifying the study of Greek. Moreover, for Lascaris and his compatriots, who saw themselves as true heirs to the ancient Hellenes, the notion that Latin derived from Greek helped them to claim cultural superiority over their Latin hosts to whom they were socially and politically inferior.31 By arguing that Latin essentially is a Greek language, Lascaris in his Florentine Oration makes an exceptionally bold attempt to situate Hellenism in the predominantly Latin culture of Italian humanism: he sides with the Hellenizers not only by showing the relevance of Greek to the humanist curriculum, but also by placing Greek at the heart of the humanists’ selfperception: the Latin language.

 27 Dionysius does not cite direct linguistic evidence for his claim that Latin derives from Aeolic. Incidentally, he does derive a Latin word from Greek, as he does in Rom. Ant. 1.20.3, where he traces Velia to Greek ἔλεια, but his point there is not to prove that Latin is of Greek extraction (see Gabba 1963, 188–189). 28 Celenza 2009, 150–166, with references. 29 Tavoni 1986, 226–227. 30 On the conflict between ‘Hellenizers’ and Latin purists, exemplified by the case of Francesco Filelfo, see Lamers 2018. 31 Cf. Tavoni 1986, 209, 213. On the revived Hellenism of the Byzantine intelligentsia in Renaissance Italy generally, see most recently Lamers 2015.

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 Latina lingua Graeca est: Lascaris’ etymological methodos In the Florentine Oration, Lascaris’ argument about the Greek origin of Latin is consistent with his attempt to show that the Greeks and Latins were essentially one and the same people (idem et unum genus). The primeval ancestors of the genus Latinum had been Greek settlers, and the Romans had imitated the Greeks in all relevant domains of their public and private lives, from festivals to poetry, so that, according to Lascaris, they seemed to prove the Pythagorean thesis of μετεμψύχωσις, or the transmigration of souls. If the Romans had been able to surpass the ancient Greeks, most notably in creating a more durable world empire, Lascaris explained this as the result of their successful implementation of Greek examples. In other domains, however, the Roman imitation of Greek examples had been less successful, most notably in language and literature. According to the Greek scholar, Latin literature was ultimately inferior to Greek, as was the Latin language. Whereas Dionysius, with a similar argument, had tried to convince the Greek-speaking population of the Roman empire that the Romans were a cognate and friendly people and not an imperialistic enemy, Lascaris argued for a Latin audience that it should regard the Greeks as a familiar people and embrace their (superior) culture and literature as their own, and so save it from total obliteration.32 After having argued that the Latin people was of Greek extraction, Lascaris introduces his argument that the Latin language is principally Greek as well: In my view, you will not only regain your learning from the Greek authors but even your very own language, so that you will not reproduce the sounds you have heard in the same way as magpies and parrots do, and that you are not ignorant of the proper signification and correctness of words, that you know what is tropical, what is figurative, and that you understand a rationale or method (μέθοδος) behind the infinite names of things and do not seem somehow to describe indivisible bits and pieces (ἀτόμους). For the Latin language is Greek, as has been said. The ancient Romans used the Greek language, but due to the proximity of the barbarians it was not entirely perfect. The epigrams they incised in bronze and

 32 On Lascaris’ wider argument in the context of fifteenth-century Florence, see Lamers 2015, 166–199.

36  Han Lamers marble with Greek words and letters may stand as evidence to this, but a better indication is the matter itself.33

Following Dionysius’ account, Lascaris explains the perversion of ‘Roman’ Greek from contact with those who did not speak Greek and whom Lascaris explicitly calls barbarians (barbari). According to him, the Greek roots of Latin appear best from ‘the matter itself’ (res ipsa), and he fleshes out his thesis by citing more than fifty Latin words that he believed had originated in Greek, implicitly presenting them as a sample for Latin in general. However, Lascaris does not content himself with producing a set of examples of individual Latin words with Greek roots but tries to systematize them, identifying regularities behind the seemingly random relationship between the Greek and Latin words he cites. A substantial part of the etymologies mentioned by Lascaris is attested in ancient sources, for example in the works of Varro, Festus (via Paul the Deacon’s epitome, that is), and Isidore of Seville, although he does not follow one single author consistently.34 It is difficult to say if Lascaris derived his examples directly from these sources, which he probably knew.35 In any case, he clearly shows

 33 Meschini 1983, 100: Ac meo consilio non solum disciplinas a Graecis auctoribus repetes, sed et linguam ipsam tuam, ne picarum et psitacorum more audita proferas, ignores proprietatem et rectitudinem nominum, quid tropicum, quid figuratum haud quaquam intelligas, nullam rationem aut μέθοδον in infinitis rerum nominibus teneas, sed ἀτόμους quodammodo persequi videare. Nam, ut dictum est, lingua Latina Graeca est. Graeca enim veteres Romani utebantur, propter vicinitatem tamen barbarorum non adeo integra: huius indicium vel epigrammata esse possunt, quae in aere et in marmore Graecis et verbis et litteris incidebant, sed maius indicium res ipsa. The passage from Lascaris’ speech central to the discussion below is in Meschini 1983, 100–102. 34 nympha < νύμφα: Serv. Aen. 8.336; fama < φάμα: Prisc. Inst. 2.11.21; mala < μᾶλα: Varro, Ling. 5.102, Isid. Etym. 11.1.44; sus < ὗς: Varro. Ling. 5.96, Isid. Etym. 12.1.28; serpo < ἕρπω: P.Fest. p. 472 Lindsay, p. 349 Müller; nox < νύξ: Varro Ling. 6.6 (cf. Charisius Gramm. p. 117, 17 B; Prisc. Inst. 2.280.3); chorea < χορεία: Prisc. Inst. 2.24.17; fur < φώρ: Gell. 1.18.5 (cf. Paul. Dig. 47.2.1; Serv. Georg. 3.407; Prisc. Inst. 2.11.21); mus < μῦς: Prisc. Inst. 2.27.21, Isid. Etym. 12.3.1, id. 12.8.11; nemus < νέμος: Varro Ling. 5.36; nothus < νόθος: Isid. Etym. 9.5.23 (cf. Quint. Inst. 3.6.97, Serv. Aen. 7.283); taurus < ταῦρος: Varro Ling. 5.96, Isid. Etym. 12.1.28; polus < πόλος: Varro Ling. 7.14; ager < ἀγρός: Varro Ling. 5.34, Quint. Inst. 1.6.38; character < χαρακτήρ: Isid. Etym. 20.16.7; donum < δῶρον: P.Fest. p. 60 Lindsay, p. 69 Müller; Phoenix < φοῖνιξ: Plin. Nat. 13.42 (‘a φοῖνιξ’); deus < θεός: Isid. Etym. 7.15; moriones < μωραίνω: Aug. Pecc. mer. 1.22.32; unguis < ὄνυξ: Isid. Etym. 11.1.72; pulcher < πολύχρους: Scaurus, De orthographia, 31.3. 35 The editio princeps of Isidore of Seville’s Etymologies was printed in 1472 (Valastro Canale 2004, 28). Varro’s De lingua Latina and Paul the Deacon’s epitome of Festus were published for the first time in print in 1470/1, in the edition of Pomponio Leto (for Varro, see Brown 1980). Paul the Deacon’s epitome was published again, in a separate edition, in Rome in 1475 (on this edition, see Lamers 2013).

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awareness of etymologies from the Latin grammatical tradition. This becomes apparent when he explicitly contradicts them in favour of Greek etymologies. For example, he claimed that a field is not called ager ‘because something is driven into it’ (quod in eo aliquid agatur, a reference to ploughing), as had been suggested by Varro. Lascaris preferred the Greek etymology also suggested by Varro, which traced the word to ἀγρός (Ling. 5.34, cf. Quint. Inst. 1.6.37). Similarly, he rejected the Latin etymology of deus (quia ei nihil deest: ‘because he lacks nothing’), which he could read in Paul the Deacon’s epitome of Festus (Festus p. 62 Lindsay, p. 71 Müller). Instead, he preferred the alternative Greek etymology also favoured in the epitome, which related deus to the Greek word for god, θεός.36 Although a substantial part of the Greek etymologies cited by Lascaris thus circulated in the ancient and medieval sources, many of them apparently did not, and Lascaris probably invented some of them himself. While, for instance, Isidore of Seville had seen a connection between lac and λευκός (white, bright), Lascaris traced the word directly to the Greek word for milk, γάλα: a derivation that is, as far as I can see now, not attested elsewhere in the ancient sources.37 Alternative Greek etymologies for Latin words that he could have found in the sources but which he did not cite are lyra from the Greek verb ληρεῖν (while Lascaris traced the word directly to λύρα),38 palaestra ‘ἀπὸ τῆς πάλης, ἀπὸ τῆς πάλλειν’ (while he derived it from παλαίστρα),39 and malus from μέλας (while he traced it to μὴ ὅλος, for which see below, p. 41).40 Lascaris did not cite these etymologies randomly. He grouped them loosely in categories in order to suggest a certain systematicity in the relationship between the Greek words and their Latin derivations. The categories he used pertain to different scholarly and literary traditions, from comparative grammar to liter-

 36 According to Paul the Deacon’s epitome of Festus, θεός underwent phonetic modification: aspiratione dempta, qui mos antiquis nostris frequens erat (P.Fest. p. 62 Lindsay, p. 71 Müller). For a discussion of the passage from a modern linguistic point of view, see Szemerényi 1999, 14– 15. According to another etymology offered in the epitome, which was popular in the Middle Ages, deus derived from δέος, meaning fear (see Klinck 1977, 90–97). 37 Isid. Etym. 11.1.77. The derivation of lac from γάλα is not attested in the ancient sources (see Maltby 1991, s.v. ‘lac’), although Isidore of Seville notes that ‘Gallia’ is so called after the whiteness of its people since γάλα is the Greek word for lac (milk) (Etym. 14.4.25). Cf. E. Forcellini, Totius Latinitatis lexicon, s.v. lac, suggesting an etymology from the Greek genitive γάλακτος (I am grateful to Giancarlo Abbamonte for this reference). 38 Isid. Etym. 3.22.8. 39 Serv. auct. Aen. 8.138, 8.24. 40 Isid. Etym. 10.176.

38  Han Lamers ary play with letters as we find it in, for instance, ancient comedy. Lascaris, however, used these diverse categories to describe the language change that, according to him, Greek underwent when it came into contact with ‘barbarian’ (viz. nonGreek) languages on the Italian peninsula. In what follows, we will see how, according to Lascaris, ‘the matter itself’ revealed the Greek roots of Latin. What regularities did Lascaris discern? Some of his etymologies are reformulations of phenomena that had been described in comparative grammar since antiquity.41 According to him, there was a large group of literal transliterations of Greek words in Latin (which he called the dictiones prolatae).42 Some of these had undergone slight changes of letters: from Greek υ to Latin y (as in lyra < λύρα and nympha < νύμφα), from ου to u (as in Musa < Μοῦσα), from αι to ae (as in palaestra < παλαίστρα), from φ to f (as in fama < φάμα), and from κ to c (as in coma < κῶμα). Lascaris does not comment upon them, probably because he regarded the Latin letters y, u, f and c and the diphthong ae as obvious phonetic equivalents for the Greek υ, ου, φ, κ and αι, as had been established by comparative grammar in antiquity, mainly Priscian,43 as well as by humanists interested in the correct spelling of Greek words in Latin, most notably Tortelli, who used Priscian as one of his main sources next to Quintilian, Servius, and Gellius.44 Lascaris’ observation that the Greek aspirate in Latin had changed into a sibilant, with ὗς becoming sus and ἕρπω becoming serpo (which he calls the spiritus in litteram mutatio), also stems from the tradition of comparative grammar and had already been known to Varro.45 Lascaris explicitly alludes to this grammatical tradition when he mentions the accentuum variatio or change in stress ‘according to the rules of the grammarians’ (secundum grammaticorum regulas) as in pharetra < φαρέτρα, lampas < λαμπάς and pyra < πυρά. Apart from such phonetic modifications, Lascaris furthermore signals permutations in noun endings when they are borrowed from Greek in Latin, which he labels the ad Latinam terminationem redactio. In particular, he pointed out that Greek nouns of the second declension ending in –ος and –ον, typically changed their endings to –us and –um; nouns of the first declension ending in –ης, changed to –a; and those of the third declension ending in  41 A detailed analysis of comparative Greco-Latin grammar in antiquity is available in Schöpsdau 1992. 42 The most straightforward examples Lascaris mentions are astrologia < ἀστρολογία, philosophia < φιλοσοφία, theologia < θεολογία, and mala < μᾶλα. 43 Most notably in Priscian’s chapter on the letters. He regarded Latin y as an equivalent for υ (Inst. 2.24, 2.26, 2.36–7); u for the Greek diphthong ου; ae for Greek αι (Inst. 2.37); f for Greek φ (Inst. 2.11, 2.19). 44 On Tortelli, see esp. Donati 2006. 45 See Varro Ling. 6.96 and Rust. 2.4.9. See also Prisc. Inst. 3.16.

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–ηρ, changed to –er.46 Like the other sound variations between Latin and Greek cited by Lascaris, such patterns in Latin and Greek were known from comparative grammars such as those of Priscian.47 Whereas the transliteration of Greek words into Latin, the relation between aspiration and sibilant, the dissimilar stress accents in Latin and Greek, and the correspondences between Latin and Greek word endings were all well-known phenomena from the ancient grammatical tradition, in Lascaris’ speech they are put into a new context. In his account, they do not merely serve to bring out the formal differences and similarities between Greek and Latin, as they would in the regular comparative grammars: Lascaris makes the perceived linguistic affinities between Latin and Greek directly subservient to his general argument about the genetic relationship between the two languages. Where the similarities between Greek and Latin words were less obvious, Lascaris relied on the technique of adding, eliminating, transposing, and altering letters in order to connect Latin with Greek words. This technique had proven a powerful means of revealing the hidden relationships between what seemed to be unrelated idioms, and it had a long history, spanning from Greek antiquity to the Latin Middle Ages. Depending on context, the permutation of letters could serve many purposes: from literary word play to finding the etyma, or true origins, of words, as in philosophy and, later, biblical exegesis. In Greek linguistics, from the Alexandrian grammarian Tryphon (c. 60–10BC) to the Byzantine scholar Gregory Pardos (c. 1070–1156), the addition, elimination, transposition, and alteration of letters had moreover been used to describe and explain linguistic variations in the Greek dialects. These mutations, known as πάθη, did not follow sound laws in the modern sense but were invented ad hoc in order to reduce anomalous forms to the common forms (koiné).48 In the Latin grammatical tradition, the principles of permutatio litterarum, which possibly originated in ancient stylistics, were applied to explain how Latin words had changed over time.49 The precise relationship between the coeval theories of permutatio litterarum and the Alexandrian πάθη, as well as the reception of ‘pathology’ in Byzantine grammar,

 46 Examples of the first group: νέμος > nemus, ἄντρον > antrum, νόθος > nothus, ταῦρος > taurus, πόλος > polus, ἀγρός > ager. Examples of the second group: ναύτης > nauta and αὐλητής > auleta. Examples of the third group: χαρακτήρ > character and πατήρ > pater. 47 See, for instance, Prisc. Inst. 2.71, 2.143, 2.156. 48 As a linguistic device, the permutation of letters is known as the theory of πάθη or affectiones. On the intellectual history of pathology, see esp. Lallot 1995 and Wackernagel 1876. 49 Classically in Varro Ling. 6.2. On the tradition of permutatio litterarum and its reception, see esp. Cram 1999.

40  Han Lamers from where it entered early modern linguistic thought, would merit a self-standing treatment elsewhere. In any case, it is impossible to trace Lascaris’ approach to one single tradition, and not only because of his lack of ‘referencing’ in the modern sense of the word. He used the well-tried technique of changing letters in a new context to explain how Greek words had mutated, or rather degenerated, into Latin ones. Specifically, Lascaris mentioned the modification of consonants into liquids or liquids into other liquids (consonantium aut liquidarum in liquidas mutatio), as in θήρ > fera, δῶρον > donum and φοῖνιξ > Phoenix, as well as the transmutation of aspirated consonants into voiced consonants (aspiratarum in medias mutatio), as in θεός > deus.50 Additionally, he specified that vowels may be altered into other vowels ‘according to paragrammatism’, which meant that, apart from being changed, the vowels could be transposed within the word as well (vocalium in vocales mutatio κατὰ παραγραμματισμόν). On the basis of this procedure, Lascaris explained the derivation of Latin nox (‘night’) from Greek νύξ, citing as additional examples chorea (< χορεία), fur (< φώρ), trutina (< τρυτάνη), mus (< μῦς), domitor (< δαμάτωρ), and duplus (< διπλοῦς). Apart from paragrammatism, he also mentions anagrammatism (ἀναγραμματισμός): the reorganization of syllables (preferably without adding, omitting, or changing letters), which reveals the original meanings (ἐτυμολογίαι) of words. To illustrate this kind of etymology, he cites examples from Greek such as ‘ἀρετή: ἐρατή, quod virtus desyderetur’ and ‘Ἥρα: ἀήρ, quod Iuno aer sit.’ According to Lascaris, citing Horace (Ars P. 53), there are numerous Latin words that similarly ‘descend from a Greek source with a slight deviation,’ for example frustum (from τρύφος via *φρυστο), lac (from γάλα via *λαγα), forma (from μορφή via *φορμη), palantes (from πλάνητες via *π[α]λάντες), madidus (from μυδαλέος via *μαδ[ιδ]ος), parvus (from παῦρος via *παρυος), unguis (from ὄνυξ via *ονξυ), ahenum (from χόανον via *αχ[ε]νον), meus (from ἐμός via *μεος), and pulcher (from πολύχρους via *πουλχρος). Lascaris’ emphatic use of the Greek terms ἀναγραμματισμός and παραγραμματισμός in this context, not attested in the ancient sources, can be traced to the Byzantine commentary tradition, and more specifically to contexts of language corruption, to which I will return in the final section of this paper. Lascaris also found Greek words in Latin that had changed not only their letters but also their meaning. In order to co-ordinate sound change and semantic

 50 Within Greek, similar sound variations (for example, between θ and φ and between θ and δ) were described by Eustathius (see Ahrens 1839, 42–44), whose work Lascaris knew well. These permutations of letters, however, were not generalized in terms of changing phonetic qualities such as the evolution from aspirata in media.

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modification, Lascaris used more complex etymological techniques. In such cases, he supposed the original word to disclose something of the ‘true meaning’ of the derivative. For instance, Lascaris singled out as one specific category of derivations those words that, according to him, had not only changed an unvoiced into a voiced consonant (which was a purely formal change) but also changed their meaning (tenuium in medias mutatio per ἐτυμολογίαν). In such cases, the meanings of the original and the derived words could be connected associatively or, in Lascaris’ own wording, ‘by etymology.’ He exemplified this peculiar phenomenon by deriving bonus from πόνος. For Lascaris, this pair illustrated the modification of an unvoiced (π) into a voiced consonant (b), whereas the semantically unrelated words were also connected by the moralizing maxim that ‘all good things (bona) can be bought through work (πόνος).’ While Lascaris generally follows grammarians when he discusses sound change, he invokes the authority of ‘the philosophers’ when he describes composite nouns that, according to him, combined a Latin and a Greek element and were composed on the analogy of the Greek original (a Graeca et Latina dictione composita). The only example Lascaris cites for this extravagant category is the name of the Roman god Saturnus, which he believes is a composite of Latin saturitas and Greek νοῦς after the manner of Greek Κρόνος, being a creative composite of κόρος νοῦς: ‘satiety of mind.’ Of all categories Lascaris mentions, this is the one most difficult to imagine as in line with his general idea of language corruption implying the progressive change of Greek into Latin (unless perhaps we accept that saturitas is a barbarian word that replaced κόρος at some point).51 A final category of Greek words in Latin, discerned by Lascaris, is exemplified by Latin malus, which the Greek scholar derived from the Greek μὴ ὅλος by means of ‘etymology with crasis’ (per ἐτυμολογίαν κατὰ κρᾶσιν). He ‘unfolded’ malus into its alleged constituent Greek compounds: μὴ ὅλος. The meaning of these compounds (‘not complete’) was then interpreted as ‘prefiguring’ the meaning of the Latin word (‘bad’) since ‘what is incomplete must be bad.’ Thus, the ‘etymological’ part of the derivation explains the ‘true meaning’ of malus traditionally by unfolding it in two separate words, which together form the semantic unit that is made to account for the meaning of the resultant noun. The ‘crasis’ or contraction subsequently explains the phonetic transmutation of the Greek word into malus. On the previous pages, it has been shown that Lascaris used the traditional means of comparative grammar and various forms of etymology and applied them in a new way in order to make them account for historical language change.  51 Lascaris also mentions ‘indeterminate mutation’ (varia et indeterminata mutatio), citing fides as a derivation from the Greek verb εἴδω (‘to know’).

42  Han Lamers Rhetorically, this works in two ways. First, he uses the categories as a means of describing how Greek changed into Latin. Secondly, he uses them to explain how Latin words had developed from Greek roots. In this way, Lascaris suggests the rough contours of a reconstructive method that would enable his audience to trace any Latin word to its Greek roots. Obviously, in his speech, Lascaris was not as comprehensive as Christian Becmann (1580–1638) and Gerhardus Johannes Vossius (1577–1649) later were in their treatises on Latin etymology.52 But even so, he invited his audience to see a methodos or system behind the seemingly random relations between Greek and Latin words, and he did so in a way that he had not found in the ancient sources. Therefore, I would argue, his argument for the Greek origin of Latin cannot be regarded as the plain reception of a fully elaborated ancient theory. Lascaris rather adopted various elements from diverse ancient traditions and adapted them in such a way as to support the central argument of his speech. This also appears from the way in which he used terms specific to the Byzantine commentary tradition, to which we will turn in the next section.

 Ana– and paragrammatism: Lascaris’ use of Byzantine sources Although it is difficult to establish the exact sources for most of the rules of derivation Lascaris mentions in his speech, two of them – anagrammatism and paragrammatism – apparently belong to the Byzantine commentary tradition.53 Herbert Hunger has shown that, in Byzantine literature, there had been a long tradition of anagrammatism and paragrammatism, especially in relation to names in contexts of blame and praise.54 Hunger regarded both phenomena as ‘rhetorical-grammatical’ devices, the functions of which could vary from mere literary play to aggressive political attack.55 The Byzantine commentator Eustathius of Thessalonica (c. 1110–c. 1195) offers some examples of playful literary anagrammatismoi, and his contemporary colleague John Tzetzes (c. 1110–c. 1180)

 52 In his De originibus Latinae linguae 1602, Christian Becmann defined 37 etymological rules for tracing Latin words to Greek roots. Vossius’ Etymologicon linguae Latinae 1664 offers a list of admissible permutationes litterarum. See Cram 1999. 53 Cf. Meschini 1983, 77–78, 78–79. 54 Hunger 1991–1992, 6–11. 55 Hunger 1991–1992, 2, 5.

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specifically evokes the literary anagrams of the Hellenistic poet Lycophron.56 The notion of paragrammatism had a similar rhetorical usage. The colossal tenth-century encyclopaedia, known as the Suda, defines it as the change of one letter into another (ὅταν γράμμα ἀντὶ γράμματος τεθῇ), citing examples from Aristophanes’s Knights.57 Tzetzes, too, regarded paragrammatism as a rhetorical σχῆμα, or figure of speech.58 In his commentary on the Frogs, for instance, he evoked, as an example of paragrammatizein how Aristophanes had called Kallias ‘son of Hippobinos’ (‘horse-fucker’), being an obscene paragramma of ‘Hipponikos’ (‘horsevictor’).59 Such purely literary notions of anagrammatism and paragrammatism obviously presuppose the intentional manipulation of sounds in words for comic or rhetorical effect. In Latin humanist discourse, too, the term anagrammatismus was sometimes used, without clear distinction from paragrammatism, to denote a rhetorical pun on someone’s name by reorganizing and adding letters. This is, for instance, how Joachim du Bellay used it in a poem to Pierre de Ronsard (‘In Petri Ronsardi anagrammatismum’), in which he transformed Ronsard’s family name into the Greek Τέρπανδρος, thus playfully ‘revealing’ a parallel with the lyric poet Terpander of Antissa (7th cent. BC).60 It would seem, then, that Lascaris adopted a literary or rhetorical device and, irrespective of its original contexts of use, adapted it to describe and explain historical language change. This would be perfectly consistent with the changing epistemic status of etymology in the Renaissance study of languages, alluded to above (p. 32). However, in the Byzantine tradition, the meaning of paragrammatism was slightly more complex than has sometimes been assumed; it was not restricted to literary and rhetorical usage in the same way as the idea of anagrammatism apparently was. Two examples from the commentaries of Eustathius in particular illuminate this alternative usage of παραγραμματισμός. In his commentary on Homer’s Iliad, the commentator used the term as follows: Orchomenos is a city in Europe, flourishing due to its wealth (be it other peoples’ wealth). Since when the citadel was still secure (as is narrated in the Odyssey), many inhabitants of the surrounding towns trusted their money to it. […] According to the ancient sources, there

 56 Eustathius: 45.45–46.9 = I 74 van der Valk. Tzetzes: Schol. Lyc. p. 5.7 Scheer. 57 See Suda s.v. ‘Παραγραμματισμός’ (with schol. Ar. Eq. ed. Jones & Wilson 1969, 59b and schol. Ar. Eq. ed. Jones & Wilson 1969, 79c). See also Suda s.v. ‘Παραγραμματίζων’ (with Diog. L. 3.26 and Pl. Symp. 185C). 58 See Tz. H. 8.169.113–121, 10.319.227–242, 11.392.866–871. 59 Schol. Ar. Ra. ed. Koster 1962, 428a. 60 du Bellay 1974, 108.

44  Han Lamers were many cities called Orchomenos, as is clearly shown in Boeotia. […] The masses now call these places ‘Charmenas’, mispronouncing the name through paragrammatism.61

In his commentary on Dionysius Periegetes’ description of the world in hexameter verse (2nd–3rd cent.), Eustathius used the notion of paragrammatism in a similar context: And the harbour near Byzantion was so called [Bosporion] due to paragrammatism or rather due to what the orators call ‘corruption’, while it should be called ‘Phosphorion’, as the ancients call it.62

In both passages from his commentaries on Homer and Dionysius Periegetes, Eustathius uses the term as the very opposite of literary play with letters, although the rhetorical usage of the term was also known to him. In the passage from his commentary on Dionysius, he employs the term to refer to language corruption, more specifically παραφθορά: a term commonly used by grammarians and commentators to frame language variations in terms of language corruption or degeneration.63 Due to their lack of knowledge about the correct pronunciation of Greek words, the masses tended to pronounce ‘Orchomenos’ falsely as ‘Charmenas’ (by changing ‘Orch-’ in ‘Char-’, altering the word’s ending, and omitting the second syllable). Because of their lack of knowledge about the origins of words (i.e. the etymology of Greek), some similarly wrote ‘Bosporion’ instead of ‘Phosphorion’ (transforming ph into the labial consonants b and p).64 While as a literary or rhetorical device, paragrammatism, just like anagrammatism, presup-

 61 Eust. Il. 758.22–28: Ὀρχομενὸς δὲ πόλις ἐν Εὐρώπῃ, κομῶσα καὶ αὐτὴ πλούτῳ, πλὴν ἀλλοδαπῷ. Ἐπεὶ γάρ, ὡς καὶ ἐν Ὀδυσσείᾳ ἱστόρηται, ὀχυρὸν ἦν τὸ φρούριον, πολλοὶ τῶν περιοίκων ἐπίστευον ἐκείνῳ τὰ χρήματα. […] Πολλοὶ δὲ κατὰ τοὺς παλαιούς, ὡς καὶ ἐν τῇ Βοιωτίᾳ δηλοῦται, Ὀρχομενοί. […] Τούτους δὲ βαρβαρίζοντες νῦν οἱ πολλοὶ ἐν παραγραμματισμῷ Χαρμένας λέγουσιν. 62 Eust. D.P. 142 (p. 242 l. 34–p. 243 l. 2 Müller, p. 112, ll. 11–14 Bernhardy): Καὶ ὁ περὶ τὸ Βυζάντιον δὲ λιμὴν οὕτως ὕστερον ἐκλήθη κατὰ παραγραμματισμὸν ἢ μᾶλλον κατὰ τὴν παρὰ τοῖς ῥήτορσι λεγομένην παραφθορὰν, Φωσφόριον ὀφείλων καλεῖσθαι, ὥς φασιν οἱ παλαιοί. 63 For an overview of the use of the term παραφθορά to denote various forms of linguistic corruption in the ancient grammatical tradition and in Byzantine commentaries, see Schmidt 1854, 15–19 and Wackernagel 1876, 34–47. 64 There are a few additional places in his commentaries where Eustathius refers to paragrammatism in order to explain alternative names, apparently without intentional rhetorical puns. See Eust. D.P. 175 (p. 246 ll. 25–28 Müller, p. 118 ll. 1–4 Bernhardy) and Eust. D.P. 828 (p. 363 ll. 29–34 Müller, p. 261, ll. 10–15 Bernhardy). Similar usage of the term in Herodianus’ De orthographia (Lentz, Gramm. Gr. III, 2 p. 383), cited in the handbook of Stephanus of Byzantium.

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posed subtle language skills in both user and audience, paragrammatism, understood in terms of παραφθορά, implied the opposite: the corruption of language due to linguistic ignorance. In Eustathius’ commentaries, Lascaris found a notion of paragrammatism that resonated with the general argument of his speech, summarized above. As he found that, in the Italian peninsula, the Greek language had degenerated into Latin ‘due to the vicinity of the barbarians’, the ‘Eustathian’ concept of paragrammatism in particular enabled him to represent the supposed deviations from ‘correct’ Greek in terms of ‘barbarization.’65 Just like those who had called Orchomenos Charmenas, and Phosphorion Bosporion, the Latins had generally ‘barbarized’ the language of their Greek ancestors, and from this process of barbarization, Latin had emerged. Although in 1493, when Lascaris delivered his speech, the editiones principes of Eustathius’ commentaries had not yet been printed,66 the Greek scholar had easy access to the autograph of Eustathius’ commentary on the Iliad as well as other manuscripts containing his works in the library of the Medici family in Florence.67 More importantly, mainly thanks to Donald Jackson, we know Lascaris’ personal copies of all of the above-mentioned commentaries, which are now in the National Library of France in Paris, some of which contain the scholar’s personal notes.68 In the Renaissance, direct knowledge of the Byzantine commentators was generally more common than it is now. Illustratively, the paragramma of the name ‘Bosporion’, discussed above, was also known to the French topographer and ichthyologist Pierre Gilles (1490–1555). In his travel letters, Gilles noted, explicitly citing Stephanus and Eustathius as his sources, that the Bosporius portus was not so called because of the proximity of the Bosporus but because of the ‘depraved manners of the inhabitants of Byzantium, who call the harbour ‘Bosporius’ by changing a letter’ (immutatione literae).69

 65 Note that Eustathius also expressed the idea that the Latins had adopted both Hellenic customs and Greek (esp. Doric) words: ‘even if afterwards the Hellenic nouns degenerated with time and became false’ (Eust. Od. 1398.55–1399.10). On this passage, see Cullhed 2017, 292–295. 66 Eustathius’ commentaries, co-edited by Lascaris’ former student Matthaeus Devarius (c. 1505– 1581), were printed between 1542 and 1550; the commentary on Dionysius Periegetes was issued in 1547. 67 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 59.2 and Plut. 59.3. 68 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Graec. 2701 (commentary on the Iliad), Graec. 2702 (on the Odyssey), and Graec. 2695 (on Dionysius Periegetes). He also read the commentary on the Periegetes in the manuscript Paris, BnF, Graec. 2855 (Jackson 2003, 130) and possessed an index on Eustathius’ commentaries (now Graec. 2704) (cf. Jackson 2003, 90). 69 Gilles 2007, 191.

46  Han Lamers Lascaris’ usage of the Byzantine sources to flesh out his expanded Dionysian notion that Latin derived from Greek demonstrates that his argument was by no means wholly dependent on Dionysius of Halicarnassus but shows a much more complex reception of previous material. As far as we are able to see now, Lascaris seems to have been one of the first – if not the first – to take the traces of Aeolism in Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities as a starting point for his own argument that Latin derived from Greek and in so doing significantly expanded Dionysius’ idea. He did so not only by replacing the chiefly Aeolic origin of Latin in Dionysius by an exclusively Greek one, as was customary at the time, but also by formulating specifically language-based arguments for his thesis, which we do not find in the sources in this form. Although most of the sources Lascaris used cannot be specified with certainty, it has become clear from what has been said that, in demonstrating the Greek origin of Latin by looking at the language itself, the Greek scholar not only relied on ancient comparative grammars but also on ancient etymological principles as well as Byzantine commentaries. He thus anticipated a tradition in which etymology would become the principal means of tracing Latin words to their putative Greek roots.

 By way of conclusion Today, Greek and Latin are no longer regarded as mother and daughter. With the rise of Indo-European studies, the similarities between utraque lingua have become understood in terms of common descent from an original ‘Ur’-language. In 1850, one of the ‘founding fathers’ of Indo-European linguistics, August Schleicher (1821–1868), referred to the idea that Latin derived from Greek as ‘das alte, ich hoffe endlich zu Tode gehetzte Steckenpferd der Philologen.’70 The idea did not die out overnight, all the same. It was not restricted to antiquity, nor to the context of Italian humanism, and did in fact not lose its intellectual appeal until well into the nineteenth century. In 1814, the Scottish philologist John Jamieson (1759–1838) could still write that it was ‘generally admitted that the Latin language is merely the Aeolic dialect of Greek’,71 and fifteen years later, the Italian Classicist Antonio Nodari (1790–1840), echoing Varro, claimed that ‘the Latin language [was] born from and nourished by Aeolic Greek and Celtic.’72

 70 Schleicher 1850, 132 (I owe this reference, with thanks, to Bas Clercx). 71 Jamieson 1814, 148–149. My translation. 72 Nodari 1829, 12. My translation.

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Even after the institutionalization of comparative linguistics, the idea lingered on. Its last complete academic formulation by the archaeologist Ludwig Ross (1806–1859), first published in 1858, bears striking similarities to Lascaris’ argument in the Florentine Oration. The provocative title of the book’s second and revised edition (Italiker und Gräken: Lateinisch ist Griechisch) reads like a direct translation of Lascaris’ motto ‘Latina lingua Graeca est.’ Although Ross did not know the Florentine Oration, which was first published only forty years after his death,73 his approach was steeped in the etymological tradition of Renaissance humanism anticipated by the Greek scholar. Like Lascaris’ Hellenizing etymologies, Ross’ etymological approach was based on combinations of ‘Umbildungen’ and ‘Begriffsverschiebungen’, which he sought to systematize in alleged sound laws, as well as in correspondences between the Greek and Latin nominal and verbal systems.74 To cite only one example: Ross derived ceterus from ἕτερος, puer from ἡβός, and comes from ὁμός, since he believed, just like Lascaris, that the Greek rough breathing could change into any Latin consonant.75 To trace the intellectual history of the idea that Latin derived from Greek, from the Middle Ages to the modern period, including both Lascaris’ Florentine speech and Ross’ eccentric book, would be a fascinating task for the future. The fact that the ancient evidence for Aeolism was as fragmentary for many of the later scholars who endorsed a variant of it as it is for us today, is a powerful reminder that humanist ideas about this issue were not so ‘directly linked with the theory conceived in the Classical period’ as we might think.76 Instead, it seems that later reformulations of ‘classical’ Aeolism stand in a much more complex relation to the classical heritage than is often recognized. This raises questions as to how, and in what contexts, the idea re-emerged and evolved. Is it appropriate to speak of a continuous tradition, with proponents of the theory building on each other’s work? Or did similar ideas about the Greek origins of Latin sometimes emerge independently in unrelated contexts? To me at least, the evidence so far strongly suggests that we have to think not so much in terms of the survival or reception of a full-fledged theory but to rethink the history of Aeolism as the recovery and reinterpretation of traces of an idea only incompletely expressed in the ancient sources as they have come down to us.  73 Müllner 1899. The speech had already been discussed by Vast 1878, 26–32. 74 Ross 1859, XIII. 75 Ross 1859, 108–16. Sometimes, Ross offers the same etymologies as Lascaris, e.g. with lac (Ross 1859, 42) and madidus (Ross 1859, 201). Elsewhere, Ross differs from Lascaris, e.g. with pulcher, which he derives from μελιχρός (Ross 1859, 85), or frustum, which he derives from θραυστός (Ross 1859, 151). 76 Tavoni 1986, 210.

48  Han Lamers

Bibliography Abbreviations DBI Dizionario biografico degli italiani. Available at . GW Gesamtkatalog der Wiegendrucke. Available at .

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50  Han Lamers Swiggers, P./Wouters, A. (1990), ‘Langues, situations linguistiques et réflexions sur le langage dans l’Antiquité’, in: P. Swiggers/A. Wouters (eds.), Le langage dans l’Antiquité, Leuven, 10–46. Szemerényi, O. (1999), Introduction to Indo-European Linguistics, Oxford. Tavoni, M. (1975), Il discorso linguistico di Bartolomeo Benvoglienti, Pisa. Tavoni, M. (1986), ‘On the Renaissance Idea that Latin Derives from Greek’, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. Classe di Lettere e Filosofia 16 (1), 205–238. Theodoridis, C. (1976), Die Fragmente des Grammatikers Philoxenos, Berlin/New York. Valastro Canale, A. (2004) (ed.), Isidoro di Siviglia, Etimologie o origini, Turin. Van Hal, T. (2010a), Moedertalen en taalmoeders: Het vroegmoderne taalvergelijkende onderzoek in de Lage Landen, Brussels. Van Hal, T. (2010b), ‘On ‘the Scythian Theory’: Reconstructing the Outlines of Johannes Elichmann’s (1601/1602–1639) Planned Archaeologia Harmonica’, Language and History 53 (2), 70–80. Van Rooy, R. (2017). Through the Vast Labyrinth of Languages and Dialects: The Emergence and Transformations of a Conceptual Pair in the Early Modern Period (ca. 1478–1782). Unpublished PhD dissertation (KU Leuven). Vast, H. (1878), De vita et operibus Jani Lascaris, Paris. Wackernagel, J. (1876), De pathologiae veterum initiis, Basel.

Fevronia Nousia

Manuel Calecas’ Grammar Its Use and Contribution to the Learning of Greek in Western Europe Abstract: The paper examines Manuel Calecas’ Grammar, its extant manuscrips, its structure and content, in an attempt to assess its value and contribution to the learning of Greek in Western Europe. Composed ca. 1391–1396, Calecas’ Grammar appealed to an audience of non-Greek-speaking students, who did not need the detailed and vast grammatical theory in order to acquaint themselves with the language. In terms of content and structure, Calecas follows the Byzantine grammatical tradition, drawing the theoretical grammatical sections from Moschopoulos’ Erotemata or his Peri schedōn. Calecas bridged the gap with the previous grammatical tradition, accommodating, abbreviating, and re-organising to a degree the vast grammatical theory for the needs of foreign students, thus paving the way for his contemporary Manuel Chrysoloras to further organise grammatical theory and provide a new impetus for the learning and studying of Greek language and literature in the West. Keywords: Byzantine Greek, grammar, Renaissance, humanists

Manuel Calecas remains an intriguing personality. Very few biographical details are available in sources, and these emerge from his own works, mainly his Letters and his theological treatises.1 Born in Constantinople around 1360, he taught grammar and rhetoric there, where he had his own school. As part of his teaching he composed his own Grammar, probably sometime between 1391 and 1396.2 He 

A first version of this paper was presented in Berlin at the 61st Annual Meeting of the Renaissance Society of America’s Conference in March 2015, in the panel Exploring the Greek Revival I: The Study of the Language organized by Federica Ciccolella and Luigi Silvano. I would like to thank Giancarlo Abbamonte and Stephen Harrison for including the present, revised version in the volume with the Proceedings of the Conference ‘Making and Rethinking Renaissance between Greek and Latin in 15th–16th century Europe’ organized in Oxford in June 2016 (and the late Dr Paola Tomè for her support).  1 Pertusi 1962, Bernardinello 1971–1972, and 1976, Loenertz 1947, and 1950. 2 Loenertz 1947, 199; However, Bernardinello 1971–1972, 205 notes that, according to Mercati 1931, 99 n.1, there is also the possibility that Calecas composed his Grammar between 1403–1404.

52  Fevronia Nousia also copied a school anthology3 with grammatical and other school texts he used most probably for his own teaching,4 preserved in his autograph manuscript Hierosolymiticus graecus 405.5 Calecas was also interested in Aristotelian philosophy, which he studied in this period.6 In spring 1390 Calecas met Demetrios Cydones, became his student (later his friend and colleague) and copied his collection of Letters.7 Through Cydones’ translations of Thomas Aquinas’ Summa contra Gentiles and De rationibus fidei ad cantorem Antiochenum he started familiarizing himself with Western scholastic thought and began learning Latin. Being an anti-Palamite (an opponent of the theologian Gregory Palamas), Calecas entered Cydones’ Latinophile circle and acquainted himself with Maximos Chrysoberges and Manuel Chrysoloras, both students of Cydones. In turn Chrysoloras introduced Calecas to Iacopo d’Angelo da Scarperia,8 who helped him improve his Latin. Fleeing from Constantinople after he was asked by the Patriarch to make a profession of faith, Calecas took refuge in the Genoese quarter of Pera, where he wrote two Apologies, one addressed to the Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos (1391–1425) and the other to ecclesiastical circles. It is in this period (1396) that the Emperor sent a letter ostensibly addressed to his oikeios (minister) Alexios Iagoup, which was actually a response to criticisms expressed by Calecas about Manuel’s preoccupation with theology and his internal ecclesiastical policy. In this letter Manuel describes Calecas as a deserter, who cannot be trusted either by his compatriots or his new friends, namely the Latinophiles and the Latins.9 Calecas finally converted to Catholicism and subsequently travelled to the Peloponnese, Crete, Pavia and Milan. It was in this period that he translated Latin liturgical texts10 and Boethius’ De Trinitate,11

 3 Canart 2010; 2011. 4 Such as Hercules’ Twelve Labours, The Golden Verses of Pythagoras, an anonymous grammatical treatise, Michael Synkellos’ treatise on syntax, Libanios’ Letters, proverbs, other grammatical excerpts, excerpts from Ps- Nonnos’ commentary on four orations of Gregory of Nazianzos, other short excerpts from Plato’s works, such as Phaedon, Apologia Socratis, Symposium, etc. 5 For a description of the codex see Papadopoulos-Kerameus 1891, 408–411. 6 Loenertz 1947, 200. 7 This codex is the Città del Vaticano, Urbin. gr. 133, which is Calecas’ autograph. See Loenertz 1947, 200. 8 This is the name in the documents of the public records: see Abbamonte and Stok in this book and their edition: Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 293–294. 9 See Dendrinos 2001. 10 See Rigo 2011, 221–222, 224. 11 Loenertz 1947, 205.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  53

and composed theological treatises, orations, letters and a commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. Calecas died in Mytilene in 1410, after having entered the Dominican Order in 1403. Our research sheds further light on his teaching activity, more specifically on his Grammar. The main source of the sparse information we have on Calecas as a teacher is his correspondence. In Letter 2, addressed to the father of his student Matthew, we are informed that Calecas tried to couple his teaching with lectures on virtue.12 Calecas was considered erudite even by Scholarios, who belonged to the opposing theological party.13 Calecas’ Grammar is preserved in only five extant manuscripts14, none of which is an autograph, datable close to Calecas’ time, which is indicative of its rather limited use and circulation. Marcianus graecus X 7 (= M) and Parisinus graecus 2605 (= P) are the only codices that preserve both the work and its title. P contains a slightly reduced version of the text.15 In M, f. 1r, we read: γραμματικῆς σύνοψις ἠκριβωμένη. διορθωθεῖσα. παρὰ τοῦ σοφωτάτου μανουὴλ τοῦ καλέκα, with a note added in the bottom margin of the last folio that contains the work (f. 77v): πόνημα μανουὴλ τοῦ καλέκα. P, f. 1r, bears the title: γραμματικῆς πόνημα μανουὴλ τῶ καλλέκα περι ονομτ(ων) κλή(ως). Calecas’ Grammar can be divided into the following nine sections16: 1. (ff. 1r–v) An introductory section on προσωδίαι (kinds of accents [εἴδη τῶν τόνων], quantity of syllables [μακρές / βραχεῖες], on breathings, on the twentyfour letters of the alphabet [and their classification into vowels, consonants, and diphthongs] and on the traditional division of speech into eight parts [ὄνομα, ῥῆμα, μετοχή, ἄρθρον, ἀντωνυμία, πρόθεσις, ἐπίρρημα, σύνδεσμος]). 2. (ff. 1v–33v) Section on nouns (properties, genders [5! ἀρσενικόν, θηλυκόν, οὐδέτερον, κοινόν καί ἐπίκοινον], numbers, cases). Calecas then divides nouns into imparisyllabic and parisyllabic, grouping them into five declensions.

 12 Calecas, Ep. 2. 22, ed. Loenertz 1950: τοὺς περὶ ἀρετῆς λόγους τοῖς μαθήμασι παραζεύγνυμαι πειρῶμαι. 13 Georges-Gennade Scholarios, Oeuvres complètes, 3 (ed. Jugie, Petit, and Siderides 1930), 13– 14, as stated by Loenertz 1950, 19, especially note 1. 14 Codd. Par. gr. 425, paper (end 15th c./beginning 16th c.); Par. gr. 2565, paper, copied by Constantine Paleocappa (1st half 16th c.); Par. gr. 2605, parchment (15th c.); Marg. gr. X 7, parchment (ante 1478) and Marc. gr. X 8, paper (15th c.). For the description of the Parisini codices, see Omont 1, 1886, pp. 45-46 and 3, 1888, 6 and 12 respectively; For the Marciani codices, see Mioni, vol. 3, 1973, 44–45. 15 Bernardinello 1971–1972, 207. 16 We have used for reference in the analysis of text below the complete version of Calecas’ Grammar that appears in Marc. gr. X. 7 (= M).

54  Fevronia Nousia 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

(ff. 33v–66v) Section on verbs (definition of the verb, παρεπόμενα, ἐγκλίσεις, διάθεσις, εἴδη, σχήματα, πρόσωπα, χρόνος). (ff. 66v–67r) Section on articles. (ff. 67r–68v) Section on pronouns. (ff. 68v–75v) Section on prepositions. (ff. 75v–76r) Section on adverbs. (ff. 76r–77v) Section on conjunctions. (f. 77v) Closing section with two short paragraphs on barbarism and solecism.

In order to evaluate Calecas’ Grammar and the way it contributed to the learning of Greek, we need to examine its structure, analysis and contents, bearing in mind that this work stands between the two milestones in the teaching of Ancient Greek grammar in Byzantium and in the West, namely Manuel Moschopoulos’ Erotemata Grammatica,17 ‘the school-text par excellence’,18 and Manuel Chrysoloras’ Erotemata.19 Calecas’ work deals mainly with morphology. After a short introductory theoretical section, he proceeds with the two major parts of his Grammar: on nouns and verbs.20 In the noun section he groups nouns into two categories: first imparisyllabic and then parisyllabic,21 influenced by the grammatical work of Neilos Diasorenos, who lived before Calecas’ time.22 The criterion for this first grouping of nouns is the ending of the genitive. Imparisyllabic nouns constitute the first and densest declension.23 Parisyllabic nouns, depending on the ending of the genitive and the nominative, form the other four declensions (2nd–5th). It has been suggested that the five declensions reflect the Latin system of declensions.24 The nominal declensions in Calecas’ Grammar are as follows:

 17 We have used the edition of the Moschopoulean Erotemata, published in Basel in 1540. On the transmission and reception of Moschopoulos’ Schedography in the West, see Nousia 2017. 18 Rollo 2012, 91. 19 We have used the Aldine edition of Chrysoloras’ Erotemata, published in Venice in 1512. 20 See Bernardinello 1971–1972, 214–216. 21 Chysoloras, in his own grammar, preferred to deal first with the parisyllabic nouns and then with the imparisyllabic ones. 22 Pertusi 1962, 339. I was unable to consult Diasorenos’ text. 23 M, f. 26r: τὰ περιττοσυλλάβως κλινόμενα κατὰ τὴν εὐθεῖαν, ἐπὶ τῆς ληγούσης ποικίλλεσθαι δύναται [...] ὅτι ἀεὶ τὴν γενικὴν εἰς ος λήγουσαν ἔχει [...]. In the transcription we have tacitly supplied mute iota and we have corrected spelling mistakes, omissions and mistakes of the accents and spirits. 24 Ciccolella 2008, 119.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  55

– – – – –

1st declension: imparisyllabic nouns of all genders with genitive in -os 2nd declension: parisyllabic nouns in -ας, -ης, -ος, -ον with genitive in -ου 3rd declension: parisyllabic nouns in -α, -η with genitive in -ης 4th declension: parisyllabic nouns in -α with genitive in -ας 5th declension: parisyllabic nouns in -ας with genitive in -α

The section on the declension of nouns concludes with a note about the Attic nouns which form the so-called Attic second declension, specifying that all nouns are traced back to the five aforementioned declensions, word-types from the other Greek dialects included.25 For every nominal grammatical category, Calecas first declines representative nouns by way of example; he cites the masculine ones first, then the feminine ones and finally he gives the nouns of the neuter gender. He keeps this method for all declensions and he does not mix the genders of his paradigms. All the nouns that are declined are preceded by their article, which is also declined. Once the noun-paradigm is declined, Calecas provides the relevant grammatical rule and other nouns that follow the given rule or are exempted from it.26 In addition, Calecas gives examples of the nouns he also cites in other dialects (f. 6r: ἰωνικῶς – κοινὴ διάλεκτος / κοινῶς – ἡ τῶν ἀττικῶν – δωρικῶς (f. 12r), – αἰολικῶς, f. 18v, 19v – [ποιητικῶς, f. 6v] [Ἴωνες καὶ ποιηταί, f. 7v]). Concerning Calecas’ sources, he clearly draws his examples from the traditional grammatical treatises by Ailios Herodianos and Ps.- Herodianos’ (2nd c.) works (De prosodia catholica, Partitiones [= Ἐπιμερισμοί], Περὶ αὐθυποτάκτων καὶ ἀνυποτάκτων, Περὶ γραμματικῆς, Περὶ κλίσεως ὀνομάτων), Theodosios’ (4–5th c.), Canones isagogici de flexione nominum, Ps.-Theodosios’ Περὶ γραμματικῆς, Georgios Choiroboscos’ (9th c.) Epimerismi in Psalmos, and Theognostos’ (9th c.) Canones sive De orthographia.

 25 M, f. 33r: ἐτέρα δὲ κλίσις παρὰ τὰς εἰρημένας ε, οὐκ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ πάντα τὰ ὀνόματα εἰς ταύτας ἀνάγονται. See also Rollo 2012, 100. 26 E.g.: M, f. 11v: ἡ μῆνις. τῆς μήνιδος. τῇ μήνιδι. τὴν μήνιδα. καὶ μῆνιν. ὦ μῆνις. τὰ μήνιδε. ταῖν μήνιδοιν. ὦ μήνιδε. αἱ μήνιδες. τῶν μηνίδων. ταῖς μήνισι. τὰς μήνδας ὦ μήνιδες. Ἡ γενικὴ τῆς μήνιδος. ὁ κανών, τῶν θηλυκῶν ὅσα εἰς νις λήγει καὶ μακρὰ παραλήγεται, ἐκβολῇ τοῦ σ. καὶ προσθέσει τοῦ δὸς κλίνεται. μῆνις. μήνιδος. νεάνις, νεάνιδος, ἀλλὰ || f. 12r καὶ ὅσα βραχεῖα μὲν παραλήγεται. ἔχουσι δὲ τὸ ρ. ἔρις, ἔριδος. ἴρις ἴριδος, Κύπρις, Κύπριδος. πλὴν τοῦ ὕβρις ὕβρεως. πανήγυρις, πανηγύρεως. τὸ δὲ χάρις χάριτος, δωρικῶς γέγονε τροπῇ τοῦ δ΄ εἰς τ΄, ὥσπερ τὸ Θέμις, Θέμιτος καὶ πλεονασμῷ τοῦ σ Θέμιστος ποιητικῶς. καὶ ὅσα δὲ ἀπὸ τῶν διὰ τοῦ η εἰς ις ἀρσενικῶν μεταπεποίηνται. δραπέτης δραπέτου. δραπέτις, δραπέτιδος. προφήτης προφήτου. προφῆτις προφήτιδος. ὅσα δὲ μήτε τὸ ρ, μήτε τὸ ν ἔχει, διὰ τοῦ ἕως κλίνονται. πόλις, πόλεως. λέξις λέξεως. σημείωσαι τὸ ὄρνις ὄρνιθος.

56  Fevronia Nousia Bernardinello’s remark that Calecas uses ‘rare words’ (giving as examples the words ἐλέτειρ, ἐλεάζειρ, Πίηρ27 and χροῦς28) is not valid, since all these words occur in earlier traditional grammatical treatises. It should be mentioned, however, that Calecas did not always copy his source correctly: thus he wrote ἐλέτειρ instead of Ἐλάτειρ, which is a Celtic river, as Choiroboscos mentions in his Epimerismi in Psalmos,29 while Ἐλεάζειρ and Σά(σ)πειρ (instead of the erroneous σαπφείρ copied in the manuscripts) are non-Greek names, as Stephanos Byzantios (6th c.) states in his Ethnica.30 From all the words Calecas uses as examples, only a single case has not been identified so far, i.e. φράος. At the end of every declension and before proceeding to the next, Calecas repeats the ending of the cases, summarizing the aforementioned rules. The first declension is the longest one, since it contains the most nominal groups and occupies no less than 48 folios, while the second declension occupies 9 folios, the third 2 folios, the fourth a single folio, and the fifth 3 folios. Evidently, Calecas decreases the number of Moschopoulos’ fifty-five nominal groups.31 In his Grammar, Moschopoulos had organised his material in a different and more pedantic way, presenting separately all the canons for masculine nouns, then the canons for feminine ones, and finally the canons for neuter nouns. On the other hand, Chrysoloras grouped nouns into ten declensions, five uncontracted and five contracted (συνῃρημέναι), four of parisyllabic nouns and six of imparisyllabic ones.32 All nouns used as examples by Moschopoulos are also used by Calecas with the single exception of the nominal group of Ἀλκμάν, while Calecas altered these examples to a certain degree, using certain different nouns (e.g. ἡ τριάς, τὸ σίνηπι, ἡ σοφία etc.). The next, most important section of Calecas’ Grammar is that on verbs. Following the previous tradition, Calecas divides verbs into thirteen groups: six

 27 Ailios Herodianos and Ps.-Herodianos, De prosodia catholica, ed. Lentz (1867; repr. 1965), Part+volume 3,1 p. 48, l. 15: Πίηρ, Βύζηρ ἔθνος ἐν τῷ Πόντῳ. 28 Ailios Herodianos and Ps.-Herodianos, De prosodia catholica, ed. Lentz (1867; repr. 1965), Part+volume 3,1 p. 126, l. 31: […] τὰ εἰς ους ὀνόματα ἁπλᾶ μὲν ὄντα περισπῶνται οἷον βοῦς, νοῦς, πλοῦς, χροῦς, θροῦς […]. 29 Choiroboscos, Epimerismi in Psalmos, ed. Gaisford (1842), vol. 3, p. 4, l. 9: Ἐλάτειρ, (ποταμὸς Κελτικός). 30 Byzantios, Ethnica, ed. Billerbeck, (2006), lemma 82, ll. 1–2: Σάπειρ, ἢ μετὰ τοῦ σ Σάσπειρ, Ἐλεάζειρ, ὀνόματα βαρβάρων. 31 Rollo 2012, 94, which actually should have been fifty-six, since Moschopoulos omits the name-noun Ἡρακλῆς. 32 Pertusi 1962, 344, Rollo 2012, 102.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  57

groups of barytone verbs, three groups of contracted ones, and four groups of verbs ending in -μι.33 Calecas presents and organizes his material in the following way: the verb is conjugated in each mood (ὁριστική, προστακτική, εὐκτική, ὑποτακτική, ἀπαρέμφατος, in this order), in all active tenses first (i.e., he examines the verb in all indicative moods of every active tense before proceeding to the next mood - the imperative in all the active tenses, etc.). Finally the verb is conjugated in the same way in the passive voice. In every mood of each tense he first conjugates the verb and then he pedantically provides the rules for every person in the tense.34 Calecas deals with the participle after the infinitive. He gives all the types of the participle in every tense of the active voice and then he repeats this method in the passive voice as well. The first conjugation of the barytone verbs is the most analytical one (occupying thirty-nine folios), while the other five conjugations are very concise.35 Calecas uses the same verbs as examples as Moschopoulos with the exception of the fourth conjugation of the barytone verbs where Moschopoulos used the verb

 33 1st group, verbs with stem in -β/-π/-φ/-πτ, Future tense in -ψ, Present Perfect in -φ, the Middle Present Perfect keeps the stem of the Present tense, Aorist in -ψ and the 2nd Aorist and the 2nd Future keep the stem of the Present tense; 2nd group, verbs with stem in -γ/-κ/-χ/-κτ, Future tense in -ξ, Present Perfect in -χ, Middle Present Perfect in -κα; 3rd group, verbs with stem in -δ/-θ/-τ, Future tense in -σ, Present Perfect in -κ; 4th group, verbs with -ζ/-σσ, Future tense in -ξ/-σ, -ξ, Present Perfect in -χ/-κ/-γ; 5th group, verbs with stem in -λ/-μ/-ν/-ρ, Future tense in -λ/-μ/-ν/-ρ, Present Perfect in -κ; 6th group, verbs with stem in -ω, Future tense in -σ, Present Perfect in -κ, Aorist in -σ. The three contracted conjugations are: 1st in -εω; 2nd in -αω; 3rd in -oω; The four conjugations in -μι are: 1st the verb τίθημι>τιθέω; 2nd the verb ἵστημι>ἱστάω; 3rd the verb δίδωμι>διδόω; 4th the verb ζεύγνυμι>6th conjugation of the barytone verbs in -ω. 34 E.g., M, f. 38v, for the indicative of the 1st future: τύψω, τύψεις, τύψει, τύψετον, τύψετον, τύψομεν, τύψετε, τύψουσι. ὁ μέλλων α΄ος ἀπὸ τοῦ ἐνεστῶτος κανονίζεται. τύπτω ὁ μέλλων τύψω. ὁ κανών. πᾶς μέλλων ἐνεργητικὸς εἰς ω λήγει. καὶ συνέρχεται τῷ ἐνεστῶτι. πλὴν τοῦ στρέφω, θρέψω, καὶ ἔχω ἕξω. ὅπερ ἐν μὲν τῷ ἐνεστῶτι ψιλοῦται. ἐν δὲ τῷ μέλλοντι δασύνεται. ἵνα μὴ συνεμπέσῃ τῷ ἔξω ἐπιρρήματι. 35 The 2nd conjugation occupies 1 folio; the 3rd conjugation occupies 2 folios; the 4th conjugation occupies 1 folio; the 5th conjugation occupies 2 folios; the 6th conjugation occupies 1/2 folio. The 1st conjugation of the contracted verbs occupies 2 ½ folios, the 2nd 1 folio, the 3rd 2 ½ folios. The 1st conjugation of the verbs in -μι occupies 9 folios, the 2nd conjugation of the verbs in -μι occupies 1 folio, the 3rd conjugation of the verbs in -μι occupies 1/2 folio, the 4th conjugation of the verbs in -μι occupies 2 folios.

58  Fevronia Nousia ὀρύσσω instead of the verb πήσσω that Calecas uses.36 In the case of the verbs, too, Chrysoloras altered the examples.37 Moschopoulos conjugated the verb of all conjugations by mood – ὁριστική, ἀπαρέμφατον, προστακτική, εὐκτική, ὑποτακτική (in this order) –, first in the active tenses and then in the passive voice, before proceeding to the next mood, again in the active tenses first and then in the passive voice. Chrysoloras, on the other hand, followed Calecas’ method, examining every mood in a different order – ὁριστική, προστακτική, εὐκτική, ὑποτακτική, ἀπαρέμφατον – in all tenses of the active voice before moving on to the passive voice in the same way. The verbs are followed by a brief section on articles, which occupies a single folio. Here Calecas copies selectively from the introductory section on articles from Moschopoulos’ Erotemata, omitting whatever he considers superfluous, citing verbatim most parts and simplifying the rest. Chrysoloras’ approach is more practical, omitting the theory, which he seems to consider unnecessary, and providing only the absolutely necessary information.

Moschopoulos’ Erotemata (p. )

Calecas’ Grammar (f. v)

Περὶ ἄρθρων. Τί ἔστιν ἄρθρον; μέρος λόγου πτωτικόν, προτασσόμενον τῆς κλίσεως τῶν ὀνομάτων, καὶ ὑποτασσόμενον. πόθεν ἄρθρον; παρὰ τὸ ἀρῶ τὸ ἁρμόζω. Πόσα παρέπεται τῷ ἄρθρῳ; τρία. γένη, ἀριθμοί, πτώσεις. Εἰς πόσα διαιροῦνται τὰ ἄρθρα; εἰς δύο. εἰς προτακτικά, καὶ ὑποτακτικά. πόσα ἄρθρα προτακτικὰ τῶν ἀρσενικῶν ὀνομάτων; δέκα. ἑνικὰ μὲν τέσσαρα. ὁ τοῦ τῷ,

Περὶ ἄρθρου. Περὶ ἄρθρων. τί ἔστιν ἄρθρον. μέρος λόγου πτωτικόν, προτασσόμενον τῆς κλίσεως τῶν ὀνομάτων, καὶ ὑποτασσόμενον.

πόσα παρέπεται τὸ ἄρθρον. τρία. γένη, ἀριθμοί, πτώσεις. διαιροῦνται δὲ τὰ ἄρθρα, εἰς προτακτικά, καὶ ὑποτακτικά. πόσα προτακτικὰ τῶν ἀρσενικῶν ὀνομάτων, δέκα. ἑνικὰ

Chrysoloras’ Erotemata (p. )

τῶν ἄρθρων, τὰ μὲν πρωτακτικά, τὰ δὲ ὑποτακτικά. πρωτακτικὰ μὲν ἀρσενικά, εἰσὶ ταῦτα. ἑνικὰ ἡ εὐθεῖα, ὁ. ἡ γενική, τοῦ. ἡ δοτική,

 36 For the other declensions the verbs-examples are: 2nd Conj.: the verb πλέκω; 3rd Conj.: the verb ἐλεύθω; 4th Conj.: the verb πήσσω; 5th Conj.: the verb σπείρω; 6th Conj.: the verb ἀκούω; 1st Conj. - εω: ποιέω; 2nd Conj. - αω: βοάω; 3rd Conj. -οω: χρυσόω. 1st Conj. -μι: τίθημι, 2nd Conj. -μι: ἵστημι, 3rd Conj. -μι: δίδωμι, 4th Conj. -μι: ζεύγνυμι. 37 Chrysoloras used the verb λέγω instead of πλέκω, the verb πλήθω instead of ἐλεύθω, the verbs φράζω and ὀρύσσω instead of ὀρύσσω only, the verb ἱππεύω instead of ἀκούω.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  59

Moschopoulos’ Erotemata (p. )

Calecas’ Grammar (f. v)

Chrysoloras’ Erotemata (p. )

τόν. δυϊκὰ δὲ δύο, τώ, τοῖν. πληθυντικὰ δὲ τέσσαρα, οἱ, τῶν, τοῖς, τούς.

μὲν τέσσαρα. ὁ τοῦ τῷ, τόν. δυ- τῷ, ἡ αἰτιατική, τόν. δυϊκά, ἡ ϊκὰ δὲ δύο, τώ, τοῖν. πληθυντικὰ εὐθεῖα καὶ ἡ αἰτιατική, τώ. ἡ δὲ τέσσαρα, οἱ, τῶν, τοῖς, τούς. γενική, καὶ δοτική, τοῖν. πληθυντικά, ἡ εὐθεῖα, οἱ. ἡ γενική, τῶν. ἡ δοτική, τοῖς. ἡ αἰτιατική, τούς.

There follows a section on pronouns where Calecas draws the definition from the Moschopoulean Erotemata, copying it verbatim and omitting only what he considered unnecessary. For the rest, Calecas uses the relevant section from Moschopoulos’ other major work, Peri schedōn,38 since Moschopoulos, in his Erotemata, avoided repeating the theory on prepositions that he had already included in his Peri schedōn. In addition, Calecas omits the references to other dialects and all the material he considered redundant. Chrysoloras, on the other hand, is very concise, limiting the material to what is necessary and useful.

Moschopoulos’ Erotemata (p. )

Moschopoulos’ Peri schedōn (p. )

Calecas’ Grammar (f. r)

Chrysoloras’ Erotemata (p. )

Περὶ ἀντωνυμίας. Περὶ ἀντωνυμιῶν. τί ἐστιν ἀντωνυμία; λέξις ἀντὶ ὀνόματος παραλαμβανομένη, προσώπων ὡρισμένων δηλωτική. πόθεν ἀντωνυμία; παρὰ τὴν ἀντὶ πρόθεσιν, καὶ τὸ ὄνομα. τὸ τω; μέγα. ὄνομα μόνον μικρόν, τὰ δὲ παρ’ αὐτοῦ μεγάλα, οἷον ἀνώνυμος, δυσώνυμος.

Περὶ ἀντωνυμίας. Περὶ ἀντωνυμίας. τί ἐστιν ἀντωνυμία. λέξις ἀντὶ ὀνόματος παραλαμβανομένη. προσώπων ὡρισμένων δηλωτική.

Πόσα παρέπεται τῇ ἀντωνυμίᾳ; ἕξ. γένη,

πόσα παρέπεται τῇ ἀντωνυμίᾳ. ἕξ. γένη,

 38 On the Moschopoulean schedography see Nousia 2016, 75–88, 273–276.

60  Fevronia Nousia

Moschopoulos’ Erotemata (p. )

Moschopoulos’ Peri schedōn (p. )

εἴδη, σχήματα ἀριθμοί, πτώσεις, πρόσωπα

Calecas’ Grammar (f. r) εἴδη, σχήματα ἀριθμοί, πτώσεις, πρόσωπα

Πρωτοπρόσωποι ἀντωνυμίαι τοῦ πρώτου προσώπου ἡ εὐθεῖα ἐγώ. ὅπερ ἀττικῶς λέγεται ἔγωγε. σύνηθες γὰρ τοῖς ἀττικοῖς προσλαμβάνειν παραπληρωματικοὺς συνδέσμους, καὶ ἐπαίρειν τὰς λέξεις ἀπὸ τοῦ κοινοῦ καὶ χθαμαλοῦ. καὶ δωρικῶς, ἐγών, καὶ ἐγώνη. Ἡ γενική [...]

πόσα εἴδη τῶν ἀντωνυμιῶν. πέντε, εἰσὶ γὰρ πρωτότυποι, κτητικαί, δεικτικαί, ἐπιταγματικαί, καὶ σύνθετοι.

Chrysoloras’ Erotemata (p. )

πόσα εἴδη τῶν ἀντωνυμιῶν, πέντε. πρωτότυποι, κτητικαί, δεικτικαί, ἐπιταγματικαί, καὶ σύνθετοι.

Πόσαι πρωτότυποι Οἱ πρωτότυποι οὕτως ἀντωνυμίαι; τρεῖς. ἐκφέρονται. τοῦ πρώ- ἐγώ. σύ. ὅς. του προσώπου, ἡ εὐθεῖα ἐγώ.

ἡ γενική [...]

Next comes the section on prepositions, where Calecas copies verbatim the largest part of Moschopoulos’ text, though supplementing his section by drawing selectively from Choiroboscos’ Epimerismi in Psalmos, especially for the introductory part of this section.39 For the rest of the section on prepositions, Calecas is more analytical than Moschopoulos and Chrysoloras, using Moschopoulos’ Peri schedōn as his source in this case, too. In the subsection on the syntax of the prepositions Calecas repeats verbatim most of Moschopoulos’ section, omitting parts or phrases that he viewed as unnecessary or perhaps as too advanced for his own didactic purposes.  39 M, ff. 68v–69r: Τί ἐστι πρόθεσις; Λέξις προτιθεμένη πάντων τῶν τοῦ λόγου μερῶν ἔν τε τῇ συνθέσει καὶ συντάξει. ἐν μὲν τῇ συνθέσει, οἷον ἀναφορά, εἰσφορά·ἐν δὲ τῇ συντάξει, οἷον ἐπὶ τῆς ἀττικῆς, κατὰ τῆς ἀττικῆς, cf. Choiroboscos, Epimerismi in Psalmos, ed. Gaisford (1842), vol. 3, p. 12, l. 34 – p. 13, l. 2; Πόσαι προθέσεις. τῇ μὲν φωνῇ ὀκτωκαίδεκα· τῷ δὲ σημαινομένῳ, ἑπτακαίδεκα. ἡ γὰρ ἀμφὶ καὶ ἡ περὶ τὸ αὐτὸ σημαίνουσι· καὶ μονοσύλλαβοι, μὲν ἕξ, ἐν, εἰς, ἐξ, σύν, πρός, πρό. δισύλλαβοι δὲ δυοκαίδεκα. ἀνά, κατά, διά, μετά, παρά, ἀντί, ἐπί, περί, ἀμφί, ἀπό, ὑπό, ὑπέρ, cf. ibid., p. 13, ll. 15–10; Πόσα παρέπεται τῇ προθέσει· πέντε· τὸ ὀξύνεσθαι·εἰ ἐπιδέχεται τόνον. τὸ βραχυκαταληκτεῖν. πλὴν τῆς εἰς, καὶ ἐξ. τὸ μέχρι τῆς δισυλλαβίας αὔξεσθαι·τὸ διὰ ψιλοῦ συμφώνου ἐκφέρεσθαι, πλὴν τῆς ἀμφί. καὶ τὸ ψιλοῦσθαι εἰ ἀπὸ φωνήεντος ἄρχεται· πλὴν τῆς ὑπό, καὶ ὑπέρ, cf. ibid., p. 14, ll. 26–35.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  61

In the section on adverbs Calecas does not cite all the examples mentioned by Moschopoulos. The section on conjugations is copied verbatim from the corresponding introductory Moschopoulean section of the Erotemata, except from the last two paragraphs of this section in Calecas’ Grammar: the first one is an extract from Ailios Herodianos and Ps.-Herodianos’, Περὶ αὐθυποτάκτων καὶ ἀνυποτάκτων where the conjugations were called particles and not conjugations [Δέον μαθεῖν καὶ περὶ τῶν ὑποτακτικῶν μορίων, καὶ πόσα μόρια ὑποτάσσουσιν, οἷον ἵνα, ὄφρα…].40 The second paragraph comes from Choiroboscos’ Epimerismi in Psalmos.41 Calecas closes his Grammar with two short sections on barbarism and solecism, which indicate his concern on morphology and syntax. These sections come from anonymous grammatical treatises De barbarismo et solecismo.42 On the whole, it appears that Calecas’ Grammar did not enjoy popularity among his contemporaries, either in the Greek East or in the Latin West. This is understandable, for the changes Calecas introduced with relation to Moschopoulos’ works were very limited and not adequate to replace them. Two extant manuscripts (Marc. gr. X. 7 and Par. gr. 425) of Calecas’ Grammar are our only testimonies and sources for the use of this text by Westerners, since the third manuscript, Marc. gr. X.8, even though it belonged to the humanist Giovanni Calfurnio da Brescia (1443–1503), adds nothing more to our knowledge. Marc. gr.X. 7 is a teaching miscellany, a typical textbook for a Westerner who wanted to learn Greek.43 It belonged at some stage to the erudite Pietro da Montagnana (ca. 1395–1478), who in 1478 donated it to the monastery of St John in Verdara of Padua. It contains a grammar accompanied by easy texts, in this case Cato’s Distichs, to enable students practice their knowledge of grammar. In addi-

 40 Cf. Ailios Herodianos et Ps.- Herodianos, Περὶ αὐθυποτάκτων καὶ ἀνυποτάκτων, ed. Bekker, I. (1821), p. 1088, ll. 16–22. 41 Choiroboscos, Epimerismi in Psalmos, ed. Gaisford (1842), vol. 3, p. 52, ll. 23–27: ὁ ἊΝ σύνδεσμος συμπλεκτικὸς ἢ καὶ παραπληρωματικός. Εἰς τὸ ἊΝ τί πνεῦμα; Ψιλόν. Διατί; Οἱ σύνδεσμοι πάντες ψιλοῦνται, πλὴν τῶν αἰτιολογικῶν· οἱ γὰρ αἰτιολογικοὶ δασύνονται πλὴν τοῦ ὌΦΡΑ, καὶ βραχυκαταληκτοῦσι, πλὴν τοῦ ὍΠΩΣ; ibid., p. 20, ll. 25–26: Πᾶς σύνδεσμος συμπλεκτικὸς μὲν ὀξύνεται, συνεπόμενος δὲ καὶ βαρύνεται. 42 M, f. 77v: Περὶ σολοικισμοῦ· τί ἐστι σολοικισμός. ἡ ἀκατάλληλος συμπλοκὴ τῶν λέξεων. Συμβαίνει δὲ κατὰ τρόπους ἔνδεκα. Κατὰ πλεονασμὸν λέξεων· κατὰ ἔνδειαν· κατὰ ἐναλλαγήν· κατὰ γένος· κατὰ εἶδος· κατὰ ἀριθμόν· κατὰ πρόσωπον· κατὰ χρόνον· κατὰ διάθεσιν· κατὰ ἔγκλισιν· κατὰ σχῆμα· διαφέρει δὲ βαρβαρισμὸς τοῦ σολοικισμοῦ· ὅτι ὁ μὲν βαρβαρισμὸς ἐν λέξει γίνεται· ὁ δὲ σολοικισμὸς ἐν λόγῳ, cf. Anonymi De barbarismo et solecismo, ed. Valckenaer 18222, 177, l. 10– 179, l. 3. 43 Nuti 2012, 251.

62  Fevronia Nousia tion, a Latin hand made some corrections to the manuscript, occasionally separating with a small vertical line two words that were copied as one (e.g. f. 3v.12 and 17, τοῦ|τόπου and διὰ|τοῦ ).44 However the major contribution of the Latin hand is that it added interlinear or marginal glosses with the Latin equivalent of the Greek words the writer considered fundamental, including the title of Calecas’ work which is defined as ‘compendium’ (for σύνοψις), the titles of the sections, and other words in the text, such as the equivalent Latin words for the parts of speech, the accents, the breathings etc. It should be noted that these ‘interventions’ are limited to the section on nouns. The second witness to the Latin use of Calecas’ work in the West is Par. gr. 425, which eventually came into the possession of Cardinal Mazarin (1602– 1661).45 Calecas’ Grammar, with the title omitted, is partially contained in ff. 80– 87. The text preserves the introductory sections until the declension of βότρυς. As Bernardinello noted, the copyist omitted many other declensions (e.g., ἡ τριάς, τό κρέας, ὁ Δημοσθένης, etc.). Bernardinello also claimed that a text in Latin preserved on ff. 77r–79v, before the section of Calecas’ Grammar, is a compendium of the same work in Latin. This, however, is inaccurate, as he was misled by the note in the top margin on f. 77r: ex libro manuelis graeci qui cognominatur Kaleca et incipit: ‘isteon oti deca isi prosodiai’,46 on the basis of which he attributed even this summary to Calecas. Actually, this Latin compendium belongs to Chrysoloras, as sections on the comparative and superlative degrees, irregular verbs, and patronymics form parts of his Erotemata and not of Calecas’ Grammar. The aforementioned transliterated Greek characters into Latin of the first phrase of Calecas’ Grammar (i.e., ‘isteon oti deca isi prosodiai’), has great value as it shows how Byzantine Greek words sounded (ἰστέον ὅτι δέκα εἰσὶ προσωδίαι), which is very close to the Modern Greek pronunciation.47 A third manuscript, Marc. gr. X. 8, is well known to have been owned at some stage by the humanist Giovanni Calfurnio da Brescia. As there is no sign of use of the manuscript in the form of annotation, it is difficult to tell whether Calecas’ Grammar was studied by Calfurnio and/or his circle of humanists.48

 44 See also Bernardinello 1971–1972, 206 with n. 3. 45 See Omont 1886, 45–46. 46 Pontani 1994, 112. 47 See also Bernardinello 1971–1972, 209 with n. 1. 48 On the humanistic activity of Calfurnio and also on his studies see Pellegrini 2001 and 2003.

Manuel Caleca’s Grammar  63

To conclude, it is clear that even though contemporary with Manuel Chrysoloras, Calecas and his Grammar appealed to a different audience which could avail itself of the cumbersome and vast theory of Greek grammar. In this sense it met different needs, for the detailed grammatical theory would simply discourage a non-Greek from learning Greek by making it difficult to understand and absorb all this material in a relatively short period. Most probably Calecas’ Grammar was not addressed to Greek-speaking students. In terms of content and structure, Calecas keeps to the Byzantine grammatical tradition, modelling the theoretical grammatical sections either on Moschopoulos’ Erotemata or his Peri schedōn. Calecas selects, abridges or omits Moschopoulos’ grammatical material; otherwise he quotes it verbatim. He also attempted to organise more effectively the material he had in front of him, namely Moschopoulos’, which continued to be in use in the West, too, along with Chrysoloras’ grammar. Ultimately, Calecas bridged the gap with the previous grammatical tradition, accommodating, abbreviating, and re-organising to a degree the vast grammatical theory (morphology) for the needs of his students. In this way, he paved the way for Chrysoloras to further organise grammatical theory and provide a new impetus for the learning and studying of Greek language and literature in the West.

Bibliography Abbamonte, G./Stok, F. (2017), Iacopo d’Angelo traduttore di Plutarco: De Alexandri fortuna aut virtute e De fortuna Romanorum, Pisa. Bekker, I. (ed.) (1821), Anecdota Graeca, vol. III, Berlin, pp. 1086–1088. Bernardinello, S. (1971–1972), ‘La Grammatica di Manuele Caleca’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici, n.s. 8–9, 203–218. Bernardinello, S. (1976), ‘La Grammatica di Manuele Caleca’, in: M. Berza/E. Stănescu (eds.), Actes du XIVe congrès international des études byzantines. Bucarest, 6–12 Septembre 1971, Bucarest, 51–56. Billerbeck, Μ. (ed.) (2006), Stephani Byzantii Ethnika (Volumen I: Α–Γ) [Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae. Series Berolinensis 43/1] Berlin. Canart, P. (2010), ‘Pour un répertoire des anthologies scolaires commentées de la période des Paléologues’, in: A. Bravo García/I. Pérez Martín (eds.) with the assistance of J. Signes Codoñer, The Legacy of Bernard de Montfaucon: Three Hundred Years of Studies on Greek Handwriting. Proceedings of the Seventh International Colloquium of Greek Palaeography (Madrid–Salamanca, 15–20 September 2008), Turnhout, 449–462. Canart, P. (2011), ‘Les anthologies scolaires commentées de la période des Paléologues, à l’école de Maxime Planude et de Manuel Moschopoulos’, in: P. van Deun/C. Macé (eds.), Encyclopedic Trends in Byzantium? Proceedings of the International Conference held in Leuven, 6–8 May 2009, Leuven, 297–331.

64  Fevronia Nousia Ciccolella, F. (2008), Donati Greci, Leiden/Boston. Ciccolella, F./Silvano, L. (eds.) (2017), Teachers, Students, and Schools of Greek in the Renaissance, Leiden/ Boston. Dendrinos, Ch. (2001), ‘Ἡ ἐπιστολὴ τοῦ αὐτοκράτορος Μανουὴλ Β΄ Παλαιολόγου πρὸς τὸν Ἀλέξιο Ἰαγοὺπ καὶ οἱ ἀντιλήψεις του περὶ τῆς σπουδῆς τῆς θεολογίας καὶ τῶν σχέσεων Ἐκκλησίας καὶ Πολιτείας’, Φιλοσοφίας Ἀνάλεκτα 1, 58–74. Gaisford, T. (ed.) (1842), Georgii Choerobosci epimerismi in Psalmos, vol. 3, Oxford. Jugie, M./Petit, L./Siderides, X.A. (eds.) (1928–1936), Œuvres complètes de Georges (Gennadios) Scholarios, vol. 6, Paris. Lentz, A. (ed.) (1867; repr. 1965), Grammatici Graeci, vol. III.1, Leipzig. Loenertz, R.-J. (1947), ‘Manuel Calecas, sa vie et ses œuvres d’après ses lettres et ses apologies inédites’, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum, XVII, 195–207. Loenertz, R.-J. (1950), Correspondance de Manuel Calecas, Città del Vaticano. Mercati, G. (1931), Notizie di Procoro e Demetrio Cidone, Manuele Caleca e Teodoro Meliteniota, ed altri appunti per la storia della teologia e della letteratura bizantina del secolo XIV, Città del Vaticano. Mioni, E. (1973), Bibliothecae Divi Marci Venetiarum codices Graeci manuscripti. Vol. 3: Codices in classes nonam decimam undecimam inclusos et supplementa duo continens, Rome, 44–45. Nousia, F. (2016), Byzantine Textbooks of the Palaeologan Period, Città del Vaticano. Nousia, F. (2017), ‘The Transmission and Reception of Manuel Moschopoulos’ Schedography in the West’, in: F. Ciccolella/L. Silvano (eds.), Teachers, Students, and Schools of Greek in the Renaissance, Leiden/Boston, 1–25. Nuti, E. (2012), ‘Reconsidering Renaissance Greek Grammars through the Case of Chrysoloras’ Erotemata’, GRBS 52, 240–268. Omont, H. (1886), Inventaire sommaire des manuscrits grecs de la Bibliothèque nationale. Ancient fonds grec, vol. 1 (codd. 1–1318), Paris, 45–46. Omont, H. (1888), Inventaire sommaire des manuscrits grecs de la Bibliothèque nationale et des autres bibliothèques de Paris et des Départements, vol. III (codd. 2542–3117. Coislin Supplément grec), Paris, 6 and 12. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, A. (1891), Ἱεροσολυμιτική Βιβλιοθήκη: ἤτοι, Κατάλογος τῶν ἐν ταῖς Βιβλιοθήκαις τοῦ ἁγιωτάτου ἀποστολικοῦ τε καί καθολικοῦ ὀρθοδόξου πατριαρχικοῦ θρόνου τῶν Ἱεροσολύμων καὶ πάσης Παλαιστίνης ἀποκειμένων Ἑλληνικῶν κωδίκων, συνταχθεῖσα μὲν καὶ φωτοτυπικοῖς κοσμηθεῖσα πίναξιν, vol. 1, St Petersburg, [repr. Brussels, 1963], 408–411. Pellegrini, P. (2001), ‘Χεὶρ χεῖρα νίπτει. Per gli incunaboli di Giovanni Calfurnio, umanista editore’, Italia Medioevale e Umanistica, 42, 181–283. Pellegrini, P. (2003), ‘Giovanni Calfurnio e i commenti umanistici a Svetonio: filologia a “margine” nella Padova di fine Quattrocento’, in E. Barbieri/G. Frasso (eds.), Libri a stampa postillati, Milan, 231–266. Pertusi, A. (1962), ‘Erotemata, Per la storia e le fonti delle prime grammatiche greche a stampa’, Italia Medioevale e Umanistica, 5, 321–351. Pontani, A. (1994), ‘I Graeca di Ciriaco d’Ancona (con due disegni autografi inediti e una notizia su Cristoforo da Reti)’, Θησαυρίσματα 24, 37–148. Rigo, A. (2011), ‘Textes spirituels occidentaux en grec: les œuvres d’Arnaud de Villeneuve et quelques autres exemples’, in: M. Hinterberger/Chr. Schabel (eds.), Greeks, Latins, and Intellectual History 1204–1500, Leuven, 219–242.

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Rollo, Α. (2012), Gli Erotemata tra Crisolora e Guarino, Messina. Valckenaer, L.C. (18222), Ammonius. De differentia adfinium vocabulorum, Leipzig, 176–187.

Giancarlo Abbamonte

Issues in Translation Plutarch’s Moralia Translated from Greek into Latin by Iacopo d’Angelo Abstract: The Latin translations of Plutarch made by Iacopo d’Angelo (ca. 1370– 1411) have been often criticized for his Latin style, regarded as inelegant, and his misunderstandings of Greek. The present work will focus on Iacopo’s translations of three treatises from Plutarch’s Moralia, namely the two works On the Virtue and Fortune of Alexander the Great, and the one On the Fortune of the Romans, in order to show that most of the criticisms, today still repeated, were made by Iacopo’s enemy, Leonardo Bruni. In fact, some mistakes and misinterpretations by Iacopo depended on the lack of basic tools in his age, such as a Greek or bilingual lexicon, and on the condition of the Greek manuscript he used for his translations. Keywords: Iacopo d’Angelo, Plutarch, Alexander the Great, Alexander V Pope (Peter Philargis), Romans, concept of fate

Iacopo d’Angelo was the first pupil of Coluccio Salutati to have contact with the Greek scholar Manuel Chrysoloras.1 In 1395 Iacopo was sent by Salutati to Constantinople in order to learn Greek, to meet Chrysoloras (and Demetrios Cydones) and to persuade Chrysoloras to accept the chair at the university offered by the State of Florence in order to teach Greek.2 Iacopo remained in Constantinople until the fall of 1396 (almost nine months) and during this stay he learned both spoken and ancient Greek, the first pupil of Salutati to do so. Iacopo acquired also Greek manuscripts for Salutati, who requested from him at least the works of Plato, Plutarch and Homer,3 and lived closely with Chrysoloras, Cydones, and a Greek theologian known there, Manuel

|| 1 On Iacopo’s life and works see Mehus 1743, Falzone, 2004, Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 293–334. 2 Salutati promised to Chrysoloras an exceptionally high salary and many benefits: see Cammelli 1941, 107–108, Loenertz 1950, 66, and Ciccollela in this book p. 10–12. 3 See the letter published by Novati 1896, 131–132 (IX 16) and dated March 25th, 1396, which Salutati sent to Iacopo in Constantinople. On this letter see Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 299–300.

68 | Giancarlo Abbamonte

Calecas: they were all in favour of the reconciliation between the Roman and the Byzantine Churches. Cydones and Calecas themselves converted to Catholicism.4 In March 1397 Chrysoloras, arrived in Florence, started to teach Greek and remained for three years there, where he taught some young students who were the first group of Italians learning Greek not for commercial reasons, but for literary and merely cultural interests (certain members of the class were Iacopo, Leonardo Bruni, Palla Strozzi, Antonio Corbinelli, and Pier Paolo Vergerio).5 But Iacopo was a pioneer in other ways too. In fact, he was the first pupil of Salutati who moved to Rome (1400), in order to work at the pontifical Curia. After him Poggio and Bruni followed the same route to Rome in the following years. As far as we know, Iacopo first produced translations of Greek works into Latin: a few years before the end of the century he was seemingly the author of the Latin translation of the so-called Letter of Aristeas to Philocrates,6 and he certainly translated Plutarch’s Life of Brutus in 1400.7 Another pioneering aspect of Iacopo was his trilingual collection of books: he had a manuscript of Dante’s Commedia in the vernacular, one of Virgil, a manuscript of Plato’s Gorgias which was lent to Vergerio, a Greek manuscript containing at least the Heroicus of Philostratus, and presumably a manuscript of Ptolemy’s Geography, a work which he translated into Latin, and one of Homer, whose works Iacopo shows he knows well.8 In recent years, the Florentine palaeographers Zamponi and De Robertis have demonstrated that Iacopo was also one scribe in Salutati’s circle, studied by Berthold Ullman. In particular, Iacopo was one of Salutati’s scribes who abandoned the

|| 4 About the religious problems in Constantinople in the end of the fourteenth century see Loenertz 1950 and Bianconi 2008. On Calecas see here the essay of F. Nousia. 5 List and discussion on the participants in Chrysoloras’ classes in Rollo 2002, 47 and note 52. 6 The authorship of Aristeas’ Latin translation was disputed in the past, but the recent discovery (Zamponi 2010, 413, and Bianca 2013, 311–312) of the hand of Iacopo in the only manuscript which transmits the translation (Florence, BML, Plut. 25 sin. 9), and studies on the manuscript (Stok 2010) and on the Latin style of the text (Olszaniec 2011 and Abbamonte 2014) confirm the attribution to Iacopo. 7 The date is provided by the subscription of the manuscript in Oxford, Bodleian Library, Canon. class. Lat. 214, f. 101r: Vita M. Bruti conversa de graeco in latinum per litteratissimum virum Iacobum de Scarparia Arparia [sic] Florentinae diocesis. Anno domini millesimo CCCC° [...] (‘Life of M. Brutus translated from Greek into Latin by the most cultivated man, Iacopo from Scarperia in the year of Our Lord 1400’, my transl.). See Weiss 1955, 272 note 109, Pade 2007 II, 232 [num. 331], and Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 301, 8 On Iacopo’s knowledge of Homer see Abbamonte 2016.

Issues in Translation | 69

Textualis script (better known as Gothic script) and turned to the new humanist form.9 Although Iacopo was the first to reach so many goals, he remains often forgotten and at the margins of the whole humanist movement, masked by bulky personalities such as Bruni, who had an argument at the Curia with Iacopo,10 Poggio, and Niccoli. Modern scholars seem to be still under the influence of the contemporaries of Iacopo, whose harsh opinions have been recently repeated. The first scholar who criticized the translations made by Iacopo was Remigio Sabbadini: [...] traduce abbastanza letteralmente, ma non sempre con esattezza. Nel maneggio del latino è inespertissimo (Sabbadini 1896, 134).11

Unfortunately, the famous Italian scholar, whose works represent the starting point in the study of Italian humanism, based his sharp opinion against Iacopo on the Latin translations of Plutarch’s Lives of Alexander and Caesar, which were actually made by Guarinus.12 Later, in 1955, Roberto Weiss wrote one of the few studies entirely dedicated to Iacopo published in the twentieth century. Notwithstanding Weiss’ interest in Iacopo, his opinion on Iacopo’s translations was no different from Sabbadini’s: Angeli [...] is not always accurate [scil. in translating]. As for the style of his Latin, it is not exaggerated to say that it is simply atrocious [...]. Similarly, the few original Latin writings by him which have reached us, that is to say the two epigrams on Salutati and the long epistle to Chrysoloras, cannot really be said to show any distinction [...]. As a scholar he was certainly not brilliant [...]. He only acquired his Greek slowly and his Latin never rose above mediocrity.13

More recently, Marianne Pade has referred to Iacopo’s translation of Plutarch’s Life of Brutus and confirmed the judgment of the previous scholars:

|| 9 On the scribes working for Salutati see Ullman 1963, 263–280. On Iacopo’s script see de la Mare 1994, Zamponi 2010, De Robertis 2016. 10 Bruni never forgot this argument: see his letter published by Mehus 1741, 3 (Epist. I 1 = num. 3 Luiso 1980). 11 ‘[...] He translates quite literally, but not always with accuracy. He does not master the Latin language at all’ (my transl.). 12 Stok 2009, 171, has shown that Sabbadini’s sentence echoes the words on Iacopo used by Bruni in his Cicero novus. 13 See Weiss 1955, 275.

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At some point Guarino actually revised Angeli’s translation, which contains numerous errors of translation and is written in very inelegant Latin.14

The name of Iacopo does not appear in the famous volumes dedicated to Italian humanism by Eugenio Garin.15 More recently, there are rare and limited hints at Iacopo in the handbook on the Italian humanism of the early Quattrocento written by Guido Cappelli, where he is mentioned only in relationship to Bruni, Poggio (and the Curia) or Chrysoloras.16 Fortunately, over the last two decades the works of Cesarini Martinelli, Olszaniec, Stok and myself on the translations of Iacopo have provided a more balanced judgment on Iacopo and his culture.17 In some beautiful pages of his Il metodo degli umanisti, Remigio Sabbadini deals with the method the humanists used in order to learn Greek and explains that, except for the grammar book of Chrysoloras, Italian humanists rarely had a Greek teacher, whilst they often learned Greek in most improbable ways.18 Iacopo was certainly privileged in comparison with the majority of humanists, for he first took advantage of a nine-month stay in Constantinople, where he studied Greek and started to talk also in modern Greek with Chrysoloras, Cydones and Calecas.19 Then, once he was back in Florence, he kept on studying with Chrysoloras for three years and later, when the master left Florence, Iacopo could improve his knowledge of the texts of Greek authors thanks to his collection of Greek manuscripts.20 However, the privileged position offered to Iacopo in order to learn Greek did not provide him more tools than other humanists for carrying on his Latin translations of Plutarch. Except a Greek manuscript of Plutarch and what he had learned at the school of Chrysoloras, he probably never had the opportunity to

|| 14 Pade 2007 I, 116. 15 See Garin 1952, 1957, and 1965. I found two small mentions of Iacopo in Garin’s long chapter (pages 44 and 78) on the humanism of the Storia della letteratura italiana, edited by E. Cecchi/ N. Sapegno (= Garin 1966). 16 See Cappelli 2010, 88, 109, 114, 165–166. Perhaps, the inattention (or at worst the prejudice) of Remigio Sabbadini played a role in the scarce knowledge and the subsequent underestimation of Iacopo’s activity. 17 See Cesarini Martinelli 2000, Stok 2009, Olszaniec 2011, and Abbamonte/Stok 2017. 18 E.g. someone read the Bible in Latin and then in Greek, or made use of the Latin grammar entitled Ianua translated into Greek by Planudes in the second half of the thirteenth century. 19 A letter of Calecas, published by Loenertz 1950, 212 [Epist. 33, dated 1398], testifies that Iacopo was able to write back to him in Greek: see Weiss 1955, 261, Falzone 2004, 31, and Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 299–300. 20 On the manuscripts belonging to Iacopo see Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 319–334.

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get a bilingual or Greek lexicon which could help him in understanding the meanings of many words. Thus, in his translations of two works of Plutarch belonging to the Moralia, on which I shall focus, Iacopo makes some mistakes simply because he often knew one meaning for each Greek word, usually the most common, whilst he seems to be unable to grasp the special feature of that word implied by Plutarch. The two works of the Moralia translated by Iacopo are entitled On the Virtue and Fortune of Alexander the Great (the work is divided into two speeches), and On the Fortune of the Romans.21 Iacopo translated these works between 1405 and 140922 and was one of the first to show an interest not only in Plutarch’s Lives, but also in the Moralia.23 In this part of the work I shall discuss some misunderstandings of Greek made by Iacopo. In the first work on Alexander’s virtue, Plutarch praises the Macedonian king, since [...] he established more than seventy cities among savage tribes and sowed all Asia with Grecian magistracies and thus overcame its uncivilized and brutish manner of living (Engl. transl. by Frank Cole Babbit, my emphasis).24

In Greek Plutarch says: Ἀλέξανδρος δ᾽ ὑπὲρ ἑβδομήκοντα πόλεις βαρβάροις ἔθνεσιν ἐγκτίσας καὶ κατασπείρας τὴν Ἀσίαν Ἑλληνικοῖς τέλεσι, τῆς ἀνημέρου καὶ θηριώδους ἐκράτησε διαίτης (328E, p. 81,12–14 in the edition of Nachstädt 1935).

Whilst Plutarch’s word telesi (τέλεσι) is rendered by Grecian magistracies above, Iacopo translates the whole sentence: Alexander, cum plures quam septuaginta urbes inter nationes barbaras condidisset et tributa per Asiam undique sparsisset, victus agrestes ferinosque mollivit (Alex. I, 110–112 Abbamonte, my emphasis).

The magistracies of Plutarch become taxes (tributes or contribution) in the Latin translation, for that is the most common meaning of the word telos (τέλος) in a context referring to the cities and their administration. || 21 They are respectively numbers 56 and 57 in the list of Plutarch’s works made by Planudes. 22 The works are dedicated to Petrus Philargis and in the dedicatory letter Philargis is called by Iacopo ‘cardinal.’ Philargis was a cardinal between 1405 and 1409. 23 Before him, Simon Atumanus, in the middle of the fourteenth century, had translated Plutarch’s treatise entitled On the Control of Anger: see Fedalto 2007 and Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 11. 24 See Babbit 1936.

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Sometimes, in Plutarch we find foreign words or names, as when Plutarch says that the Persian king Darius III (the one who was defeated by Alexander) was not a member of the royal family, but descended from a slave, who was a courier of the king. In Greek Plutarch uses the Persian word astandes (ἀστάνδης) meaning ‘courier.’ Probably, since Iacopo did not know this rare word, his translation of the expression ἐκ δούλου καὶ ἀστάνδου βασιλέως (326E, p. 76,12 N.) becomes ex servo Astandi regis (Alex. I, 15 Abbamonte). The humanist regards the genitive astandou (ἀστάνδου) as the proper name of a Persian king, in whose service Darius’ father worked as a slave. Moreover, in the name of his translation Iacopo sacrifices the conjunction καὶ (‘and’) of the Greek sentence, which is generally transmitted by the manuscripts. If Iacopo does not know the meaning of a Greek word and the available tools do not provide him any help, he tries sometimes to grasp the meaning of the Greek word through an etymological reasoning. Thus, where Plutarch deals with the philosophical interests of Alexander, he says that the king admired very much the cynic philosopher Diogenes for his radical opposition to bodily comforts and his way of living. In Greek, Alexander speaks and says: εἰ μὴ πλούσιος καὶ Ἀργεάδης (scil. Διογένης ἂν ἤμην) (331F, p. 89,6 N.). If I were not rich and an Argead (I should be Diogenes) (Engl. transl. by Babbit).

Alexander says that he would like to be like Diogenes, but he cannot because of his noble roots, which make him rich and a member of the royal Argead dynasty. Iacopo writes: Si non dives et splendidus (scil. Diogenes essem) (Alex. I, 272 Abbamonte). Iacopo mistranslates the Greek attribute Argeades (Ἀργεάδης), probably because he does not know the name of the Macedonian dynasty (rarely used by Latin writers), and tries to reconstruct the meaning of the attribute through an analysis of the word. In the first part of the word Iacopo recognized the root of the Greek attribute argòs (ἀργός, ‘brilliant’). Therefore he considered the word Argeades as a form connected with this attribute and translates it as splendidus. Another passage where Iacopo introduces a false etymology allows us to understand how he pronounced some words. Plutarch is praising the civilizing mission of Alexander among savage populations, and says that Alexander actually achieved in his life what the philosophers were used only to theorize, but never to accomplish:

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οὐδ᾽ ἄθεσμα καὶ ἀνήκοα φύλα νόμους διδάσκοντες καὶ εἰρήνην ἐπῄεσαν (328B, p. 80,7–8 N.). nor did they (scil. the philosophers) go on and on, instructing lawless and ignorant tribes in the principles of law and peace (Engl. transl. by Babbit).

Iacopo translates: neve apud solutas et impacabiles nationes legum pacisque fuere conditores (Alex. I, 82–83 Abbamonte).

In particular, the translation of the two attributes ἄθεσμα καὶ ἀνήκοα referred to the tribes (φῦλα) with solutas et impacabiles nations is problematic. The first attribute, solutas, refers to the lack of laws (‘lawless’ is the translation by Babbit), whilst impacabiles is clearly a misunderstanding of the Greek ἀνήκοα (‘ignorant’). Probably, Iacopo interpreted the attribute as composed of ἀ (= un/in-) + νίκη (victory) and gave it the meaning of ‘invincible.’ That would also confirm that Iacopo pronounced the attribute as anikoa with iotacism. Sometimes, Iacopo’s translation is not close to Plutarch’s text because of the Greek manuscript he was using as model. In fact, the Greek manuscript used by Iacopo belongs to the family of Plutarch’s manuscripts produced in the circle of Maximos Planudes in the end of the thirteenth century.25 Also the layout of the so-called Planudes family played a role in the Latin translation not only because Iacopo sometimes finds it difficult to read the Greek manuscripts, but also because in the Planudes family Plutarch’s treatises were apparently accompanied by glosses in the margins, which either explained some passages in Plutarch or added different readings to Plutarch’s texts, inserted sometimes by Planudes himself.26 The most evident case of a gloss taken into account by Iacopo is in the treatise De fortuna Romanorum and concerns the so called ficus ruminalis, the fig-tree where the wolf nursed Romulus and Remus. Plutarch says: τὸν μὲν οὖν ἐρινεὸν ῥουμινᾶλιν ὠνόμασαν ἀπὸ τῆς θηλῆς, ἣν ἡ λύκαινα παρ᾽ αὐτῷ ὀκλάσασα τοῖς βρέφεσι παρέσχε (Rom. 320D p. 57,15–17 N.).

|| 25 On the Greek manuscript used by Iacopo for his translation of the three Moralia see Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 335–396, in particular on the manuscripts belonging to the Planudes family see p. 360–396. 26 On the glosses of Planudes see Garzya 1988.

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Wherefore they named this wild fig-tree Ruminalis, from the teat (ruma) which the wolf offered to the children as she crouched beside the tree (Engl. transl. by Babbit).

Both the wording and the manuscript transmission of the passage do not present any difficulty. However, Iacopo does not translate it literally, but makes significant changes in relation to the Greek text: Ruminalis haec arbor a ‘ruma’ vetere uberum vocabulo nomen traxit, quod apud eam arborem lupa declinans ubera infantibus praebuisset (Rom. 226–228 Stok). This tree is called ruminalis from ruma, an ancient term for ‘teats’, which the wolf offered to the children as she crouched beside the tree (my transl.).

First Iacopo uses the general term ‘tree’ and does not translate the information given by Plutarch, that ruminalis is a species of fig-tree. Then, he derives the etymology of ruminalis from ruma, an archaic Latin term meaning ‘teat’. In Latin literature Varro (De re rustica), Pliny the Elder, and the lexicographer Nonius deal with this etymology: Varro Rust. 2.11.5: Mamma enim rumis, ut ante dicebant; Plin. Nat. 17.77: ruminalis appellata quoniam sub ea est lupa infantibus praebens rumin (ita vocabant mammam); Non. 167 M.: RVMAM veteres mammam dixerunt […], Ruminae pro rumam, id est prisco vocabulo mammam.27

Varro and Pliny the Elder were known in the circle of Salutati, who had manuscripts of both of them.28 However Iacopo has not taken the etymology from one of the Latin sources, but has here made use of a gloss explaining this passage of the text which is transmitted by the Planudes family of manuscripts:

|| 27 The three passages can be translated as follows: Varro: ‘In fact, teat was previously named rumis’ (my transl.); Pliny the Elder: ‘The tree is called ruminalis since under this tree the wolf offered her rumis (thus they called the teats) to the children’ (my transl.); Nonius: ‘RUMA the teat was so called by the old Romans [...] Ruminae is instead of ruma, which is an old word for teat’ (my transl.). 28 On the circulation of the agricultural texts of Cato and Varro in the circle of Salutati see Reeve 1983. Salutati had a manuscript of Pliny the Elder’s Natural History: see Gentile 1992, 56. We are not very well informed about the circulation of Nonius in the beginning of the fifteenth century: Salutati tried to get a copy of Nonius, but he did not succeed, whilst Bruni received later a manuscript of Nonius from Pavia (see Reynolds 1983).

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ῥοῦμα γὰρ κατὰ τοὺς ἀρχαίους Λατίνους ἡ θηλή (MS. Milan, Ambros. C.126.inf. = α, f. 275v left marg.).29 According to the ancient Romans Ruma is the teat (my transl).30

Iacopo has undoubtedly combined in his translation Plutarch’s text and that of the marginal gloss, where he found the meaning of the word. However, it remains unclear why Iacopo inserted the text of the gloss. Either Iacopo rightly regarded the gloss as an explanation of the Latin attribute ruminalis, or it seemed to him a different reading in Plutarch’s text inserted by someone who could have see the emendation in another manuscript. There are two other passages where Iacopo adopted the gloss in the margin rather than the reading of the main text: 321B p. 59,11 N.: ̓Εγερίαν in the margin of the Planudes family MSS (‘Egeria’ Engl. transl. by Babbit)31 ἐσπερίαν All the other manuscripts. Iacopo: Egeriam (Rom. 263 Stok). 324B p. 68,7 N.: ταῖς πολιτικαῖς ἔχθραις in the margin of the Planudes family MSS (‘for political quarrels’)32 ταῖς πολιτικαῖς χρείαις ΓΦΨFα1 (‘for political advantages’ my transl.) ταῖς πολιτικαῖς δυσμενείαις ΣFmg1 (‘for political difficulties’ my transl.) Iacopo: civili contentione (Rom. 420–421 Stok).

In the first case, Iacopo read esperian (ἐσπερίαν), which is in the text of all the manuscripts, but translated Egeriam, which is the word found in the margin of the Planudes manuscripts. The presence in some manuscripts of the abbreviation

|| 29 I am taking the gloss from the Milan manuscript (α), which represents the closest text to the translations made by Iacopo. This gloss has the same text in the manuscripts Paris, BnF, Graec. 1671 (A), f. 146v left marg., Vat. Gr. 139 (γ), f. 345r II col. l. 13–14 right marg., Florence, BML, Plut. 80,5 (κ), f. 320r l. 27–28 right marg. I follow the sigla of Plutarch’s manuscripts used by Nachstädt 1935 and D’Angelo 1998. 30 On the different texts of the gloss see Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 377. 31 γρ. αἰγερίαν: α (f. 276r right marg.), A (f. 146v col. I l. 53 left marg.), γ (f. 345v col. I l. 32 left marg.), and Vat. Gr. 1676 (n), f. 144v l. 11 left marg. 32 I reproduce the text of α (f. 277r right marg.), which is the same of A post correctionem (f. 147r col. II l. 42), γ (f. 347v col. I l. 10), n (f. 146v l. 5), κ (f. 321v l. 11).

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gr. before Egeriam (that abridges grafetai and means ‘one has to write’) could persuade Iacopo to regard the gloss as a reading suggested by some cultivated scholar and to prefer it to the transmitted, but meaningless esperian. In the second passage, the intervention of Planudes in the manuscript was accepted by Iacopo, who accordingly translates contentione. In both cases, Iacopo apparently considered the marginal addition as part of the text, namely as a reading added in the margin by some cultivated scholar who was, in the eyes of Iacopo, able to correct the main text of the manuscript. In conclusion, as I have tried to show, Iacopo’s translations of Plutarch’s texts owe most of their mistakes and misunderstandings to the situation in which he operated, rather than to his ignorance of Greek and Latin, as claimed by Leonardo Bruni. In fact, he translated without a lexicon and grasped the meanings of the Greek words only on the basis of what he had learned in Constantinople, what he had read of Greek literature, and what Chrysoloras had explained in his classes. Moreover, he based his translation on a Greek manuscript of Plutarch containing glosses in the margins which needed to be interpreted and evaluated. Finally, in assessing the qualities of Iacopo as translator one has to avoid the mistake of judging his translations on the basis of Bruni’s theory of the ideal translation published in his treatise entitled On the Correct Translation (de recta interpretatione), written around 1420. In fact, in a context where all the Italian humanists were translating from one non-mother-tongue language (Greek) into another one (Latin), Leonardo Bruni theorised a mode of translation which privileged the final language (i.e. Latin and its style). After him not only do the humanists prefer to follow Bruni’s theory, but also we know that just a few years after Iacopo the condition of Greek studies improved very much and Italian scholars had many more Greek manuscripts, Greek teachers and Greek or bilingual lexica at their disposal. Iacopo, who worked before Bruni, did not take part in the debate on translation and his choices seem to give much more emphasis to the Greek, respecting as much as possible its wording, its phrasing, etc. Probably, Iacopo’s position was deliberate and therefore cannot be judged on the model of Bruni’s theory.33 Moreover, as far as we know, the attention to and the respect for the first language (the Greek) in the translation process was seemingly also the position taken by Chrysoloras and taught in his classes.34

|| 33 See Stok 2009, 182. 34 See Berti 1987, 1998, and 2007.

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Bibliography Abbamonte, G. (2014), ‘Un altro capitolo del viaggio di Aristea nell’Umanesimo italiano’, Roma nel Rinascimento, 31–37. Abbamonte, G. (2016), ‘Iacopo Angeli traduttore di alcuni esametri omerici’, in: A. Setaioli (ed.), Apis Matina. Studi in onore di Carlo Santini, Amsterdam, 1–13, Abbamonte, G./Stok, F. (2017), Iacopo d’Angelo traduttore di Plutarco: De Alexandri fortuna aut virtute e De fortuna Romanorum, Pisa. Babbit, F.C. (ed.) (1936), Plutarch’s Moralia, vol. 4, London/Cambridge (Ma.). Berti, E. (1987), ‘Alla scuola del Crisolora. Lettura e commento di Luciano’, Rinascimento, II ser., 27, 3–73. Berti, E. (1998), ‘Manuele Crisolora, Plutarco e l’avviamento delle traduzioni umanistiche’, Fontes 1, 81–99. Berti, E. (2007) a cura di, Luciano di Samosata, Caronte. Timone. Le prime traduzioni, Florence. Bianca, C. (2010) a cura di, Coluccio Salutati e l’invenzione dell’Umanesimo. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Firenze, 29–31 ottobre 2008, Rome 2010. Bianca, C. (2013), ‘Mattia Palmieri e la traduzione della Lettera di Aristea’, in: V. Costa/M. Berti (eds.), Ritorno ad Alessandria. Storiografia antica e cultura bibliotecaria: tracce di una relazione perduta, Tivoli (RM), 305–318. Bianconi, D. (2008), ‘La controversia palamitica. Figure, libri, testi e mani’, Segno e Testo 6, 337–376. Cammelli, G. (1941), I dotti bizantini e le origini dell’Umanesimo. I: Manuele Crisolora, Florence. Cappelli, G. (2010), L’umanesimo italiano da Petrarca a Valla, Rome. Cesarini Martinelli, L. (2000), ‘Plutarco e gli umanisti italiani’, Antichi e moderni, 2, 5–34. D’Angelo, A. (ed.) (1998), Plutarco, La fortuna o la virtù di Alessandro Magno, prima orazione, Naples. de la Mare, A.C. (1994), ‘A Palaeographer’s Odyssey’, in: J. Onians (ed.), Sight and Insight. Essays on Art and Culture in Honour of E.H. Gombrich at 85, London, 89–107. De Robertis, T. (2016), ‘I primi anni della scrittura umanistica. Materiali per un aggiornamento’, in: R. Black/J. Kraye/L. Nuvoloni (eds.), Palaeography, Manuscript Illumination and Humanism in Renaissance Italy: Studies in Memory of A.C. de la Mare, London, 55–85. Falzone, P. (2004), ‘Iacopo di Angelo’, in: DBI, vol. 62, Rome, 28–35. Fedalto, G. (2007), Simone Atumano, Brescia. Garin, E. (1952), L’Umanesimo italiano, Bari. Garin, E. (1957), L‘educazione in Europa 1400/1600, Bari. Garin, E. (1965), Scienza e vita civile nel Rinascimento italiano, Bari. Garin, E. (1966), ‘La letteratura degli umanisti’, in: E. Cecchi/N. Sapegno (eds.), Il Quattrocento e l’Ariosto, 4th volume of the Storia della letteratura italiana, Milan, 1–368. Garzya, A. (1988), ‘Planude e il testo dei Moralia’, in: Garzya/Giangrande/Manfredini 1988, 39–53. Garzya, A./Giangrande, G./Manfredini, M. (eds.) (1988), Sulla tradizione manoscritta dei Moralia di Plutarco, Salerno. Gentile, S. (ed.) (1992), Firenze e la scoperta dell’America. Umanesimo e geografia nel ’400 Fiorentino, Florence. Loenertz, R.-J. (1950), Correspondance de Manuel Calécas, Città del Vaticano. Luiso, F.P. (1980), Studi su l’epistolario di Leonardo Bruni, a cura di L. Gualdo Rosa, Rome.

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Maisano, A./Rollo, A. (eds.) (2002), Manuele Crisolora e il ritorno del greco in Occidente, Naples. Mehus, L. (1741) rec., Leonardi Bruni Arretini Epistolarum libri VIII, Florentiae [rist. a cura di J. Hankins, Rome 2007]. Mehus, L. (1743), Vita Jacobi Angeli F., in: Leonardi Dathi Canonici Florentini Epistolae XXXIII, rec. L. M., Florentiae, LXXIII–XCII. Nachstädt, W. (1935) hrsg. von, Plutarchi De fortuna Romanorum, De Alexandri fortuna aut virtute, in: W. Sieveking (hrsg. von), Plutarchi Moralia, vol. II, Leipzig. Novati, F. (ed.) (1896), Epistolario di Coluccio Salutati, vol. III, Rome. Olszaniec, W. (2011), ‘Iacopo Angeli da Scarperia traduttore della Lettera di Aristea’, Humanistica 6.1, 25–31. Pade, M. (2007), The Reception of Plutarch’s Lives in Fifteenth Century Italy, 2 vols, Copenhagen. Reeve, M.D. (1983), ‘Cato and Varro’, in: Reynolds 1983, 40–42. Reynolds, L.D. (ed.) (1983), Texts and Transmission. A Survey of the Latin Classics, Oxford. Reynolds, L.D. (1983a), ‘Nonius Marcellus’, in: Reynolds 1983, 248–252. Rollo, A. (2002), ‘Problemi e prospettive della ricerca su Manuele Crisolora’, in: Maisano/Rollo 2002, 31–85. Sabbadini, R. (1896), La scuola e gli studi di Guarino Guarini Veronese, Catania. Stok, F. (2009), ‘Le traduzioni di Iacopo Angeli da Scarperia’, in: P. Volpe Cacciatore (ed.), Plutarco nelle traduzioni latine di età umanistica, Naples, 147–187. Stok, F. (2010), ‘La più antica traduzione latina della Lettera di Aristea’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 30, 77–90. Ullman, B.L. (1963), The Humanism of Coluccio Salutati, Padua. Weiss, R. (1955), ‘Iacopo Angeli da Scarperia (c. 1360–1410/11)’, in: AA.VV., Medioevo e Rinascimento. Studi in onore di Bruno Nardi, Florence 1955, vol. II, 803–817 [repr. in Weiss, R. 1977, Medieval and Humanistic Greek. Collected Essays, Padua, 255–277]. Zamponi, S. (2010), ‘Iacopo Angeli copista per Salutati’, in: Bianca 2010, 401–420.

Fabio Stok

Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin Niccolò Perotti and Plutarch’s On the Fortune of the Romans Abstract: This article examines the unpublished Latin translation of Plutarch’s On the Fortune of the Romans by Niccolò Perotti. For this translation Perotti used not only the Greek text of the treatise, reading it in an unidentified manuscript, but also the translation of this work made fifty years earlier by Iacopo d’Angelo. The comparison of the two translations with the Greek text enables us to explain the method used by Perotti in his translation work. Keywords: Latin translations, translation method, Niccolò Perotti, Plutarch, Iacopo d’Angelo

 Niccolò Perotti, born in 14301 in Sassoferrato, studied in Mantua at the school of Vittorino da Feltre and went to Rome in 1447 with the English nobleman William Gray, appointed as King’s Proctor at the Papal Court.2 Shortly afterwards Perotti entered the service of Cardinal Bessarion, with whom he worked until the cardinal’s death in 1472. In 1458 he was appointed Bishop of Siponto (in modern Apulia); in the following years he was Governor of Viterbo (1464–1469), Spoleto (1471–1473), and Perugia (1474–1477). After his retirement to Sassoferrato, Perotti wrote the Cornu copiae, the first Latin vocabulary of the modern age.3 He died in 1480. Perotti studied Greek in the school of Vittorino and then improved his knowledge with the Greek Bessarion. He worked on Latin translations from Greek4 in two periods of his life: from 1449 to 1453, when he was Bessarion’s secretary in Rome and Bologna, and in the early 1470s, when he translated works by Bessarion, Aristides, Libanius, and Pseudo-Aristotle’s De virtutibus.

 1 According to Monfasani 1981, 225, who corrected the previous dating of 1429 given by Mercati 1925, 17. 2 On Gray see Rundle 2016, 86–92. 3 Stok 2002, 217–218. 4 See Oliver 1954, 138–145 and Pade 2009.

80  Fabio Stok The translations of the first period were almost all dedicated to Pope Nicholas V,5 who was very interested in Latin translations of Greek works6 and thus generously remunerated the young translator: he gave him 500 gold ducats just for his translation of Polybius’ Histories.7 It is uncertain which was Perotti’s first translation, probably at the end of 1449: scholars have suggested in the past the pair of translations on envy, that is the translations of Plutarch’s On Envy and Hate (De individa et odio) and Saint Basil’s On Envy (De invidia),8 but recently Abbamonte has claimed that Perotti in fact first translated Plutarch’s On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander (De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute).9 Envy was an appropriate moral theme, for a young man, to acquire the favour of the Pope. The choice of the theme perhaps also had a personal justification: Perotti in the prefatory letter to the translation of Saint Basil’s treatise claims that envy is commonly linked with ingratitude and that this scourge, so widespread in the whole world, rages particularly in the courts of princes. The reference is obviously to the Pontifical Curia and it is easy to recognize in Perotti himself the man preferred by the prince for his culture and loyalty and therefore envied. In fact, he had been involved in the wrangles of the Curia immediately after his arrival in Rome: the Apostolic Secretary Poggio Bracciolini had sharply criticised him for not having returned a copy of Priscian to a certain Giovanni of Sassoferrato (Johannes de Saxoferrato), probably referring to a book borrowed by Perotti before leaving Sassoferrato and going to Mantua, to the school of Vittorino.10 This episode was the beginning of a long enmity: some years later Perotti supported Lorenzo Valla in his polemic against Poggio; his invective and that of Poggio against Perotti are among the most heavy-handed and violent written throughout the whole period of humanism.11 Perhaps it was really Poggio’s enmity which induced Perotti to enter the service of Bessarion, a powerful member of the Curia who was not on good terms with Poggio. In the prefatory letter to the translation of Saint Basil12 Perotti also displays his knowledge of Greek, writing that for the virtue that Greeks call ἀφθονία ‘we  5 Except the translation of Hippocrates’ Oath, dedicated to Bartolomeo Troiano, a physician who had been a fellow student of Perotti (see Stok 1998). 6 See Niutta 1990. 7 Mercati 1925, 36. 8 Mercati 1925, 36; Oliver 1954, 17. 9 Abbamonte/Stok 2011, 217–222. 10 Mercati 1925, 29. 11 Schaller 2002; D’Alessandro 2007. 12 Text in Bertalot 1923, 506.

Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin  81

do not have a corresponding word in the Latin language.’ Otherwise, its opposite, which the Greeks call either φθόνος or βασκανία, is expressed by the Latin words livor and invidia. Probably a few weeks later Perotti presented the Pope with the ‘twin’ translation of Plutarch’s On Envy and Hate. In his short preface Perotti says that he translated this booklet ‘in the last few days’, after the day of Basil’s homily (2nd January). The similarity of the theme in both works permits Perotti to get immediately in medias res: the relation between envy and hate, he writes, is a problem that seems to many people ‘difficult and also very obscure’ and some people think that there is no difference between the two vices, envy and hate being the same thing. He does not give his opinion about this problem and seems to leave the solution to the Pope. In the final part of the letter, Perotti presents his translation as a first work and a sample of the studies that the young man intends to propose later, subjecting his future diligence to the approval of the Pope: after your approval, he writes, ‘I will work with greater zeal’ (enitar). This sentence echoes Cicero’s Dream of Scipio, where Scipio Aemilianus solemnly promises Scipio Africanus that ‘with so great a prize before me, much more watchfully will I strive’ (enitar multo vigilantius). It is less clear why Perotti translated Plutarch’s treatise on Alexander. We can suppose that Nicholas V was interested in Alexander as the founder of Alexandria, whose library he adopted as a model for his own Vatican Library,13 but in the prefatory letter14 Perotti does not emphasize the figure of Alexander and presents the work as a eulogy of human virtue, more highly valued than the view that human life is ruled by fortune. Supporting this position, the letter adopts an invective tone, insistently repeating the contrary statement, that all is ruled by fortune (Fortuna omnia reguntur). Virtue’s primacy is shown by the classical examples of Atilius Regulus, Scipio Africanus and Fabricius (Perotti also mentions one of his sources, Gellius), and by the contemporary example of the Pope, whose career, as Perotti writes, highlights the importance of virtue. After the invective, eulogy prevails in this part of the letter, with a sequence ended by Perotti himself, who affirms that he does not subordinate the debate to the praise of the Pope. In the final part of the letter Perotti hopes that the Pope will value the work and its young translator. It is the same topos of modesty we have found in the letter introducing Plutarch’s On Envy and Hate. Consistent with this topos is the affirmation that, if the translation appears well-formed and elegant to the eyes of the  13 See Bianca 1996. Plutarch’s Life of Alexander had been translated many years before by Guarino: see Pade 2007 II, 133. 14 Text in Cassidy 1967, 103–110.

82  Fabio Stok Pope, this is due not to the ability of the translator but to his patron, that is Bessarion, who supported the young man in his work.

 Plutarch’s treatise on Alexander is paired in the manuscript tradition with the treatise entitled On the Fortune of the Romans (De fortuna Romanorum), and Iacopo d’Angelo had also translated both treatises.15 It is very likely that Perotti planned to do this translation as early as 1449, but in the following years he worked on other translations. One reason for the postponement was due to the Pope himself, who commissioned Perotti to translate Epictetus’s Enchiridion and the commentary on this work written by Simplicius. Perotti worked on the Enchiridion in Bologna, where Bessarion had been appointed as Governor of the city. The translation was completed in 1450 but presented to the Pope only in June 1451.16 For unknown reasons, Perotti did not translate the whole commentary by Simplicius, but only his preface. In a letter to Giovanni Tortelli sent in November 145017 Perotti explained that his delay was due to the bad condition of the Greek manuscript he used, and states that he is waiting for a new manuscript ordered by Bessarion. In fact, if the manuscript used by Perotti to translate Epictetus is that identified by Boter,18 that is the manuscript Graec. 261 in the Biblioteca Marciana of Venice, then the argument of Perotti is odd, since in this manuscript the commentary of Simplicius is legible enough. The Pope insisted the following year and Perotti, in a letter sent to Tortelli in January 1452,19 adduced a new justification for the delay: he wrote that the manuscript he was using had been taken to Florence by Bessarion, to save it from the riots which had occurred recently in Bologna. In the same letter Perotti expresses his intention of translating the Histories of Polybius, perhaps to excuse the failure which had occurred with Simplicius. To translate Polybius Perotti needed a manuscript which he requested from Tortelli, who was head of the Vatican Library.20 While awaiting this manuscript  15 Published by Abbamonte/Stok 2017. On Iacopo d’Angelo see the chapter by Abbamonte in this volume. 16 D’Alessandro 1995, 290 n. 17 Text in Cessi 1912, 73–75. 18 Boter 1993. 19 Text in Cessi 1912, 77–78. 20 Cessi 1912, 78; Bertalot 1975, 372.

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he resumed his old project regarding Plutarch’s On the Fortune of the Romans and translated this work in the following months. The work was completed in late 1452.21 In the prefatory letter22 Perotti writes that the translation was ordered by the Pope (iussa tua). We may imagine that Nicholas, in reading the treatise on Alexander, also wanted to read the other one about the Romans. That the Pope required this translation however fits in with the story told in the letter, according to which Perotti wanted to stop translating the treatise because he was outraged by what he was reading in Plutarch’s work (coeperam itaque hunc quoque mecum stomachari parumque abfuit quin a coepto traducendi opere desisterem). His indignation regarded the importance given by Plutarch to fortune in Roman history, undervaluing the valour of so many Roman heroes (ita mihi tot ac tantorum virorum res gestas deprimere videbatur, cum paulo ante unius Alexandri tantopere extulisset). Perotti’s position reflects an idea widespread among the Humanists, that the Romans were superior to the Greeks, and also some kind of xenophobic prejudice of his time.23 But Perotti found himself in a very difficult position, because he was in the service of a Greek, Bessarion, although one converted to the Catholic Church. It was Bessarion, in fact, who resolved Perotti’s problem by showing him that the treatise was incomplete and that Plutarch’s position was not very clear: hoc opusculum apud Graecos multis manifestissimisque argumentis imperfectum deprehendi asseruit, quod profecto satis verisimile videtur.24

In the prefatory letter Perotti also gives a role to his father: when Niccolò was a boy, his father urged him to read Plutarch’s works, saying that this author was a Greek who took into account the point of view of the Romans. From his father Niccolò also received, with this advice, a surprising lesson of historiographical methodology: the historian, so Francesco taught his son, can be partial in referring to his own country and instead undervalue the feats of other people:

 21 Abbamonte/Stok 2011, 242; Stok 2011, 30. 22 The prefatory letter was published by Sabbadini 1907, 53–54 (from the manuscript of Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, L 27 sup.). 23 Iacopo had a different attitude towards the two works of Plutarch and in general towards the Greek culture. 24 ‘the treatise is patently incomplete, and also contains a repetition, probably due to not having revise the work’ (my transl.). See Swain 1989, 505–506.

84  Fabio Stok ‘Etenim nostrorum’, inquit, ‘res gestas omnis, quantum veritas patitur, sine reprehensione referre possumus, ex aliorum vero rebus gestis absque mendacio multa dimittere, dum ea quae dixerimus a veritate non abhorreant.’

Recalling this advice, writes Perotti, increased the disappointment caused by the reading of Plutarch’s treatise. The narrative and autobiographical form of this letter reveals a relationship between Perotti and the Pope which was different from what emerges from the letters of 1449, written by a young man looking for success. He is now the righthand man of Bessarion, the Governor of Bologna, and the Emperor Frederick III had crowned him in January 1452 as poeta laureatus. Therefore he can communicate with the Pope using allusive language. The allusion regards the role of the father. The reason for his presence in the letter is explained in the final part. A few weeks earlier Nicholas had appointed Francesco Perotti as a public official in the town of Todi. In previous years Niccolò had insistently sought this office for his father, in his letters to Tortelli,25 to Nicholas V and also during his stay in Rome in July 1451. It was only in the summer of 1452 that the Pope informed him about the desired decree: ‘as you requested, we have assigned your noble father to the district court of Todi, considering his distinguished skills and your wish.’26 This office permitted Perotti’s family not only to overcome their present difficulties, but also to lead a comfortable life (nobis non solum vitam dedisti, sed ut omnes quam iocundissime viveremus effecisti). Perotti acknowledges this in the letter, where he ascribes the family’s past difficulties to adverse fortune: a statement consistent with the subject of the Plutarch treatises he translated.

 In the prefatory letter on The Fortune of the Romans Perotti writes, as we have seen, that he has recently (nuper) discovered the content of Plutarch’s treatise. This statement is not credible, because Perotti knew it from the time when he had translated the treatise on Alexander, not only from the Greek text, but also from the Latin translation of Iacopo d’Angelo. Both Perotti’s translations, in fact, presuppose the knowledge of both the Greek text and the previous Latin translation.27 Perotti’s use of both sources is revealed as early as the initial part of the work:  25 Cessi 1912, 75–76. 26 Text: Giorgi 1742, 207. 27 See Abbamonte/Stok 2011.

Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin  85

Plut. Rom. 316C: Αἱ πολλοὺς πολλάκις ἠγωνισμέναι καὶ μεγάλους ἀγῶνας Ἀρετὴ καὶ Τύχη πρὸς ἀλλήλας μέγιστον ἀγωνίζονται τὸν παρόντα, περὶ τῆς ‘Рωμαίων ἡγεμονίας διαδικαζόμεναι ποτέρας γέγονεν ἔργον καὶ ποτέρα τὴν τηλικαύτην δύναμιν γεγέννηκεν.28 Iacopo: Quae saepe nonnulla certamina simul inivere Fortuna Virtusque, maxime impraesentiarum certant de Romanorum imperio, subiturae iudicium utrius earum id opus fuerit et quae tam incredibilem ferme potentiam comparaverit (Rom. 1–4).29 Perotti: Quae multa saepenumero maximaque certamina certaverunt fortuna et virtus, maximum nunc inter se certamen certant de Romanorum imperio, iudicium subiturae utrius tandem id opus fuerit et utra earum tantam potentiam compararit.30

Perotti used the syntactical structure and some of the Latin words of Iacopo’s translation. Moreover, the innovations presuppose his having read the Greek text too: multa maximaque is a more faithful translation of the Greek πολλοὺς [...] καὶ μεγάλους (Iacopo: nonnulla); utrius [...] utra is closer to Plutarch’s text (ποτέρας [...] ποτέρα) than Iacopo’s translation (utrius […] quae). Other innovations correct the Latin of Iacopo making it more elegant and closer to the language used by humanists in the mid–15th century: saepenumero instead of the simple saepe; the adverb impraesentiarum, never used by Cicero, is replaced by the more common nunc; maximum [...] certamen (instead of Iacopo’s maxime [...] certant, closer to the Greek text) allows Perotti to give the etymological figure certamina certaverunt and certamen certant. Perotti’s whole translation reveals similar features: it is a paraphrase of Iacopo’s translation that introduces a language and a style commensurate with humanist Latin, and also corrects mistakes made by Iacopo or where the latter’s translation had strayed too far from Plutarch’s text. An example of Iacopo giving a translation which was too free regards Plutarch’s autobiographical reference to his own birthplace, where he had seen an inscription by Sulla:

 28 ‘Virtue and Fortune, who have often engaged in many great contests, are now engaging each other in the present contest, which is the greatest of all; for in this they are striving for a decision regarding the hegemony of Rome, to determine whose work it is and which of them created such a mighty power.’ Here and henceforth I am using the English translation by F.C. Babbit (Loeb). 29 The numbers of the lines are those of my edition in Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 151–181. 30 The text of Perotti’s translation is unpublished. Here and henceforth I am using a text based on the whole manuscript tradition (on which see Stok 2011).

86  Fabio Stok Rom. 318 D:· τοῖς δ᾿ Ἕλλησιν οὕτως ἔγραφε [scil. Σύλλα] ‘Λούκιος Κορνήλιος Σύλλας Ἐπαφρόδιτος’, καὶ τὰ παρ᾿ ἡμῖν ἐν Χαιρωνείᾳ τρόπαια κατὰ [Reiske, καὶ τὰ Ω] τῶν Μιθριδατικῶν οὕτως ἐπιγέγραπται31. Iacopo: apud Graecos autem se inscripsit ‘L. Cornelium Syllam Venereum’, ut in Chaeronia Plutarchi, qui haec graece descripsit, patria notum est, et ut de de bello Mithridatico trophaea pariter inscripta reperta sunt (Rom. 113–116). Perotti: apud Graecos vero ita se ipsum inscripsit ‘L. Cornelius Sylla Venereus’, et tam nostra in Cheronia, quam Mithridatica trophea ita inscribuntur.

Iacopo oddly introduces the third person instead of the first used by Plutarch. Perotti restores the first person. As both translators had the wrong text of the manuscripts (corrected conjecturally by the editors), they therefore had difficulty in linking the reference to Chaeroneia with the one about the trophies of the Mithridatic Wars. In the following cases Perotti corrects mistakes or wrong translations made by Iacopo: Rom. 319 B: ἐν τοῖς ὑπὸ Καίσαρος τῷ δήμῳ καταλειφθεῖσι κήποις (‘in the Gardens bequaethed by Caesar to the People’). Iacopo: in hortis Caesaris a plebe eversis (Rom. 148–149). Perotti: in hortis plebi Caesaris relictis.

In Iacopo’s translation, Caesar’s gardens are destroyed by the people, not inherited. It is not clear if Iacopo misinterpreted the Greek text or modified it deliberately, as he disliked Caesar (like many Florentines of his time, Iacopo was a sympathizer with the Roman Republic).32 Rom. 324 E: ᾑροῦντο δικτάτωρα Φούριον Κάμιλλον, ὃν εὐτυχῶν μὲν καὶ ὑψαυχενῶν ὁ δῆμος ἀπεσείσατο καὶ κατέβαλε (‘appointed as dictator Furius Camillus, whom the people in their prosperity and lofty pride had rejected and deposed’). Iacopo: dictatorem declaravere Furium Camillum, quem fortunatis clarisque gestis insignem populus deiecerat et exulem fecerat (Rom. 443–445).

 31 ‘for the Greeks he wrote his name thus: ‘Lucius Cornelius Sulla Epaphroditos.’ And the trophies at my home in Chaeroneia and those of the Mithridatis Wars are thus inscribed quite appropriately.’ 32 Stok 2009, 159–160.

Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin  87

Perotti: dictatorem elegerunt Furium Camillum, quem paulo ante cum quiete ac tranquillitate frueretur Romanus populus eiecerat atque in exilium miserat.

Iacopo mistakenly refers the participles εὐτυχῶν / ὑψαυχενῶν to Camillus, instead of attributing them to the people.33 Perotti gives a correct translation. Rom. 322 B: ἐκλείσθη δ᾿ οὖν τότε καὶ τὸ τοῦ Ἰανοῦ δίπυλον, ὃ πολέμου πύλην [τύχην codd.] καλοῦσιν (‘therefore at that time the double door of Janus’s temple was shut, which the Romans call the Portal of War’). Iacopo: clausum igitur tunc Iani templum est, quod ‘belli Fortunam’ dicunt (Rom. 310–311). Perotti: idcirco clausum per id tempus fuit Iani templum, cuius geminam ianuam belli portas appellant.

The Greek text is wrong in the manuscripts; the correction πύλην was introduced by Xylander (1570). But Perotti who writes portas (Iacopo translates the wrong τύχην) had already thought of this conjecture. It should also be pointed out that Perotti keeps the innacurate translation of δίπυλος as templum, but adds the right translation geminam ianuam. In other cases Perotti inherits mistaken translations from Iacopo, probably because he did not pay too much attention to the Greek text. In the following case the translation attributes lascivious behaviour to Marκ Antony, perhaps suggested by the following mention of Cleopatra: Rom. 319 E:· Ἀντώνιος ὕβριζεν (‘Antony played the wanton’). Iacopo: Antonius lasciviis datus est (Rom. 183). Perotti: Antonius lasciviis deditus est.

In another case both translations replace Plutarch’s reference to the Battle of Actium with the name of the beaten commander, that is Antony: Rom. 322 B: Μέχρι τῆς ἐν Ἀκτίῳ νίκῆς Καίσαρος (‘until Caesar’s victory at Actium’). Iacopo: usque ad victoriam Caesaris in Antonium (Rom. 318). Perotti: usque ad victoriam Caesaris in Antonium.

 33 Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 285.

88  Fabio Stok In these cases Perotti was careless or considered Iacopo’s alterations unimportant. In the following case Iacopo’s translation modifies deeply the telling of Plutarch: Rom. 319 C: εὑρὼν δὲ τὸν Πομπήιον ἄθρουν καὶ πολὺν μὲν ἐν γῇ πολὺν δ᾿ ἐν θαλάσσῃ μετὰ πασῶν ἅμα τῶν δυνάμεων καθεζόμενον, αυτὸς ὀλιγοστὸς ὢν τῆς μετ᾿ Α ̓ ντωνίου καὶ Σαβίνου στρατιᾶς αὐτῷ βραδυνούσης, ἐτόλμησεν εἰς ἀκάτιον μικρὸν ἐμβὰς καὶ λαθὼν τόν τε ναύκληρον καὶ τὸν κυβερνήτην ὥς τινος θεράπων ἀναχθῆναι. σκληρᾶς δὲ πρὸς τὸ ῥεῦμα τοῦ ποταμοῦ γενομένης ἀντιβάσεως καὶ κλύδωνος ἰσχυροῦ […].34 Iacopo: cum Pompeium in omni apparatu belli invenisset eumque mari terraque splendidum et omnibus copiis praecinctum existere, ipse parvula tantorum pars, ne Antonii copiae ad ipsum accessurae diutius tardarent, est ausus cymbam parvam ascendere et gubernatorem latens sese non Caesarem sed servum quendam simulare. Sed, cum procella altius nauigando saeviret […] (Rom. 155–161). Perotti: cum vero Pompeium in maximo belli apparatu invenisset terra marique omni copiarum genere munitissimum pauxillis ipse Antonii ac Sabini copiis diutius tardantibus, ausus est exiguam quandam cimbam solvere, dum dominum ac gubernatorem navis latet sese alicuius ministrum simulans. Atque procella vehementius saeviente […].

Iacopo translates the first part of the passage rather freely, using a twisted unclear syntax. Perotti improves the syntax and the style of Iacopo’s translation verifying the Greek text, because he adds the name of Sabinus, omitted by Iacopo (he also removes the word splendidum, which is an addition by Iacopo). In the second part, Perotti also uses the Greek text to remedy an omission by Iacopo, who had not mentioned the captain of the boat (Iacopo only mentions the pilot). Instead, he retains the most important modification introduced by Iacopo in this part: in his translation the boat is surprised by a storm at sea, while Plutarch speaks of the current of the river. The modification was suggested to Iacopo by Lucan,35 who in his Civil War writes that the boat with Caesar and his pilot (alone, as in Iacopo’s translation!) while at sea, was struck by a storm:

 34 ‘when he found that Pompey had a compact and numerous army on land and a large fleet on the sea, and was well entrenched with all his forces, while he himself had a force many times smaller, and since his army with Antony and Sabinus was slow in coming, he had the courage to go on board a small boat and put out to sea in the guise of a servant, unrecognized by the captain and the pilot. But there was a violent commotion where heavy surge from without encountered the current of the river [...].’ 35 Cf. Stok 2009, 177–180.

Translating from Greek (and Latin) into Latin  89

niger inficit horror terga maris, longo per multa volumina tractu aestuat unda minax flatusque incerta futuri turbida aestuatur conceptos aequora ventos

(Lucan 5.564–567).36

Perotti was probably aware of Iacopo’s imitation of Lucan, but maintained it in his own translation. It should be noted that Perotti also sometimes inserts information not given by Plutarch, as in the following case: Rom. 317 E: καὶ Κόκλιος Μάρκος [πάκιος καὶ μάρκος codd.] ἁριστεὺς παραποτάμιος Τυρρηνικοῖς βέλεσι βαρυνόμενος [...] (‘and Marcus Horatius, the hero of the battle by the Tiber, weighed down by Etruscan shafts […]’) Iacopo: illic alii et penes fluvium Etruscorum alius missilibus gravis (Rom. 73–74). Perotti: illic Marcus ille Oratius Cocles qui apud pontem Sublicium victoria potitus est Etruscorum telis oppressus.

The Greek manuscripts mistakenly give the name of the hero and Iacopo did not identify him (and did not understand the passage). Perotti restores the name of Marcus Horatius, but also refers to the Sublicius bridge, not mentioned by Plutarch (Livy was likely the source of Perotti).37 In the following passage, in which Plutarch lists the victories of Pompey, Perotti reproduces the previous wrong translation: Rom. 324A: Νομάδας μὲν ἐν Λιβύῃ μέχρι τῶν μεσημβρινῶν ἀπέκοψεν ἠιόνων, Ἰβηρίαν δὲ Σερτωρίῳ συννοσήσασαν ἄχρι τῆς Ἀτλαντικῆς κατεστρέψατο θαλάσσης· τοὺς δ᾿ Ἀλβανῶν βασιλεῖς διωκομένους ἐπὶ τὸ Κάσπιον πέλαγος ἔστησε.38 Iacopo: Numidas usque arenas cecidit; Hiberiam cum Sertorio novis studentem rebus usque pelagus Atlanticum evertit; Albanorum persecutus reges, eos in mari Caspio fixit (Rom. 407–410).

 36 ‘a dusky swell pervades the surface of the sea; with many a heaving along their lengthened track the threatening waves boil up, uncertain as to impending blasts: the swelling seas betoken the winds conceived’, Engl. Transl. by H.T. Riley. 37 See Liv. 2.10.1. 38 ‘in Africa he drove back the Numidians to the strands of the southern sea; even as far as the Atlantic Ocean, he subdued Iberia, which had joined in the distemper of Sertorius; the kings of the Albanians were pursed until he brought them to a halt near the Caspian Sea.’

90  Fabio Stok Perotti: Numidas in Lybia usque ad meridianum littus profligavit, Hiberiam cum Sertorio novis rebus studentem usque ad Athlanticum pelagus evertit, Albanorum reges usque ad mare Caspium persecutus est.

Perotti improves the Latin of Iacopo and translates Plutarch’s reference to the South Ocean, omitted by Iacopo, but even he does not understand the meaning of συννοσέω (‘to be sick together’)39 and reproduces novis rebus studentem (‘searching for new things’), a translation with seems to presuppose the adjective σύννους (‘in deep thought’) and that reproduces a sentence by Cicero (Catil. 1.3). Perotti, in conclusion, used Iacopo’s Latin translation and verified it, often but non always, using a Greek manuscript of Plutarch’s work.40 This examination enabled him to detect and correct many mistakes and omissions made by Iacopo. But he did not retranslate several passages in which d’Angelo translated Plutarch too freely or not exactly. Instead, Perotti worked more systematically to improve the syntax and the Latin style of the translation, in the various cases in which d’Angelo had reproduced the structure of the Greek text too closely.41

 Perotti also used previous translations in some of his Latin translations of Greek works. In his most widely renowned translation, that of the Histories of Polybius, he used the translation by Leonardo Bruni, included in his work on the First Punic War (De primo bello Punico, 1421).42 It is noteworthy that Perotti criticised Bruni’s translation in a letter sent to Tortelli in 1452,43 in which he wrote that it was too literal and that the translator sometimes shortened the Greek text, sometimes expanded it, and often omitted important parts of it:

 39 Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 282. 40 I have not identified the Greek manuscript used by Perotti. Cassidy 1967, 84–87 and D’Angelo 1994, 40 thought a Greek manuscript, which belonged to the π and θ families, had been used for the translation of the De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute, but they ignored that Perotti used the translation by Iacopo. See also Abbamonte in Abbamonte/Stok 2011, 230–231. 41 Perotti’s translation of the De Alexandri Magni fortuna et virtute presents the same features: see Abbamonte in Abbamonte/Stok 2011, 223–231. 42 The speculation of Oliver 1954, 15 (and Kristeller 1985, 12) was confirmed by Pace 1988 (see also Reynolds 1954). 43 Text: Cessi 1912, 77.

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aliqua fere verbo de verbo traduxit, multa longe aliter, immo plane e contrario, complurima etiam scitu dignissima praetermisit.

In his own translation Perotti used a Greek manuscript to correct the omissions and the errors made by Bruni, but not continuously, as some inconsistencies between the parts translated directly by Perotti and those copied from Bruni’s translation reveal.44 In that period, Perotti planned to translate the Anabasis of Alexander by Arrian, but he never in fact did so.45 In the above-mentioned letter to Tortelli written in January 1455 he asked the Vatican Librarian for the translation of Arrian by Pier Paolo Vergerio:46 Perotti justifies his request by referring to the bad condition of the Greek manuscript he owned,47 and writes that Vergerio’s translation was wrong (inepta), but that it would help him to work faster and more easily (et celerius et cum minori labore).48 Perotti’s practice of translation is well revealed by this statement that a wrong Latin translation could be useful in the presence of a wrong Greek manuscript. In the case of Polybius the previous translation by Bruni was well known, and Perotti was aware that his readers could compare his own translation with that of his famous predecessor. In the case of Plutarch he wrote, in the prefatory letter to Nicholas V, that he translated the treatise from Greek (ita ut Graece scriptum erat, Latinum feci), without any reference to the previous translation. The reason for his not mentioning Iacopo was that the latter virtually unknown, and that Perotti himself probably did not know the author of the translation he used.49 The copy of d’Angelo’s translation used by Perotti was in fact very closed to that of the manuscript Vat. lat. 1875, in which the translation is anonymous. This manuscript belonged to the library of Nicholas V. The following is an example of the closeness between the Vatican manuscript and the copy used by Perotti: Rom. 316 D: Ἴων μὲν οὖν ὁ ποιητὴς ἐν τοῖς δίχα μέτρου καὶ καταλογάδην αὐτῷ γεγραμμένοις […] (‘the poet Ion in his prose works [...]’).

 44 See Pace 1988, 226–231. 45 Oliver 1954, 139. 46 On Vergerio’s translation see Stadter 1976, 3–7, who identified the manuscript requested by Perotti, the Paris, BnF, 1302, copied for Parentucelli (Nicholas V) during his legation in Germany (1444–1446). 47 Stadter 1976, 7 thinks that Perotti referred to the manuscript Vat. gr. 325, which is really lacunous (it is less probable that he was referring to the Vat. gr. 143). 48 Cessi 1912, 84; D’Alessandro 2001, 142. 49 Stok 2009, 168–70.

92  Fabio Stok Iacopo: Ion poeta in dychametris quae soluto sermone condidit [cod. Vat. 1875: composuit] [...] (Rom. 14–15). Perotti: Ion poeta in his quae non numerosa sed soluta oratione composuit [...].

Perotti read composuit instead of condidit, as in the Vatican manuscript. He corrects the striking mistake of d’Angelo, who did not understand the meaning of δίχα μέτρου (‘without metre’). The family of the Vatican manuscripts also includes a manuscript perhaps known to Perotti, which belonged to his secretary in Perugia, Francesco Maturanzio (it is the ms. 305 of the Biblioteca Comunale of Perugia). In this manuscript the translation is falsely attributed to Leonardo Bruni.50 Another reason for Perotti’s silence about the previous translation was the content of Iacopo’s preface, that Perotti probably read, though he did not know the name of the author. Unlike Perotti, Iacopo acknowledges the greatness of Alexander and of the Greek language, and is not disturbed by the role assigned by Plutarch to fortune in the history of Rome. Perotti, as we have seen, did not agree with this opinion of Plutarch and affirms that he wanted to stop the translation, before Bessarion intervened. The different position of Iacopo is explained by his relationship of patronage with the cardinal and theologian Peter Philargis (Peter of Candia), who was Greek and an admirer of Alexander the Great, whose name he assumed on becoming antipope Alexander V (1409).51 It was Philargis who commissioned d’Angelo to translate both the treatises of Plutarch, the one about Alexander and the one on the fortune of the Romans. The poor reputation of d’Angelo was also due to his attitude towards the Greeks. In one of the few manuscripts of his translations52 there is a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Genoa Pileo de Marini (1400–1429), in which his criticism of Plutarch’s treatise is similar to Perotti’s, that is denying that the greatness of Rome was due to good fortune.53

 50 Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 47. 51 Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 18–20. 52 The ms. 1996 of the Darmstadt, Universitäts- und Landes-bibliothek. 53 Abbamonte/Stok 2017, 21.

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Bibliography Abbamonte, G./Stok, F. (2011), ‘Perotti traduttore degli opuscoli plutarchei De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute e De fortuna Romanorum’, Renaessanceforum 7, 217–259. Abbamonte, G./Stok, F. (2017), Iacopo d’Angelo traduttore di Plutarco: De Alexandri fortuna aut virtute e De fortuna Romanorum, Pisa. Bertalot, L. (1923), ‘Lauri Quirini Dialogus in Gymnasiis Florentinis. Ein Nachklang zum Certamen Coronario (1442)’, Archivum Romanicum 7, 478–509 [repr. in: L. Bertalot, Studien zum Italienischen und Deutschen Humanismus I, hrsg. von P.O. Kristeller, Rome 1975, 339–372]. Bianca, C. (1996), ‘Il soggiorno romano di Aristea’, Roma nel Rinascimento, 36–41. Boter, G (1993), ‘The Greek Sources of the Translations by Perotti and Politian of Epictetus’ Encheiridion’, RHT 23, 159–188. Cassidy, B.J. (1967), Barberini Latin Manuscripts 47–56 and Niccolò Perotti’s Latin Version of the De Alexandri Fortuna aut Virtute of Plutarch, diss. New York. Cessi, R. (1912), ‘Notizie umanistiche III: tra Niccolò Perotti e Poggio Bracciolini’, Giornale Storico della Letteratura Italiana 60, 73–111. D’Alessandro, P. (1995), ‘L’archetipo dell’Enchiridion Epicteti di Niccolò Perotti’, Rinascimento 35, 297–317. D’Alessandro, P. (2001), ‘Documenti perottini editi e inediti. La traduzione delle Historiae di Polibio e una lettera mal datata’, Res Publica Litterarum 24, 137–145. D’Alessandro, P. (2007), ‘La polemica col Perotti nelle lettere di Poggio Bracciolini’, Humanistica 2, 45–54. D’Angelo, A. (1994), ‘Niccolò Perotti traduttore di Plutarco: il De Alex. Magni fort. aut virt. or. I’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 14, 39–47. Giorgi, D. (1742), Vita Nicolai Quinti Pont. Max. ad fidem veterum monumentorum, Romae. Humble, D. (2016), ‘The Circulation and Use of Humanist Miscellanies in England’, MEFRM 128, 85–99. Kristeller P.O. (1981), ‘Niccolò Perotti ed i suoi contributi alla storia dell’umanesimo’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 1, 7–26 [repr. in: P.O. Kristeller, Studies in Renaissance Thought and Letters II, Rome 1985, 301–319]. Mercati, G. (1925), Per la cronologia della vita e degli scritti di Niccolò Perotti Arcivescovo di Siponto, Rome. Monfasani, J. (1981), ‘Il Perotti e la controversia tra Platonici e Aristotelici’, Res Publica Literarum 4, 195–231 [repr. in J. Monfasani, Byzantine Scholars in Renaissance Italy: Cardinal Bessarion and Other Émigrés. Selected Essays, Aldeshot 1995 (n. 1)]. Niutta, F. (1990), ‘Da Crisolora a Niccolò V. Greco e Greci alla Curia romana’, Roma nel Rinascimento, 13–36. Oliver, R.P. (1954), Niccolò Perotti’s Version of the Enchiridion of Epictetus, Urbana (Il). Pace, N. (1988), ‘La traduzione di Niccolò Perotti delle Historiae di Polibio’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 8, 221–234. Pade, M. (2007), The Reception of Plutarch’s Lives in Fifteenth-Century Italy, 2 vols, Copenhagen. Pade, M. (2009), ‘Niccolò Perotti and the Ars traducendi’, in: Sol et homo. Mensch und Natur in der Renaissance. Festschrift zum 70. Geburtstag für Eckard Kessler, München, 79–100. Reynolds, B. (1954), ‘Bruni and Perotti Present a Greek Historian’, Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 16, 108–118.

94  Fabio Stok Sabbadini, R. (1907), ‘Briciole umanistiche LIII: Niccolò Perotto’, Giornale Storico della Letteratura Italiana 50, 53–54. Schaller, D. (2002), ‘Poggio Bracciolinis Invektive gegen Niccolo Perotti’, in: J. Müller Hofstede (ed.), Florenz in der Frührenaissance. Kunst – Literatur – Epistolographie in der Sphäre des Humanismus. Gedenkschrift für Paul Oskar Kristeller, Rheinbach, 171–180. Stadter, Ph.A. (1976), ‘Arrianus, Flavius’, in: Catalogus translationum et commentariorum III, Washington, D.C., 1–20, Stok, F. (1998), ‘Pier Paolo Vergerio, Niccolò Perotti e la traduzione del Giuramento di Ippocrate’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 18, 167–75. Stok, F. (2002), Studi sul Cornu copiae di Niccolò Perotti, Pisa. Stok F. (2009), ‘Le traduzioni di Jacopo Angeli da Scarperia’, in: P. Volpe Cacciatore (ed.), Plutarco nelle traduzioni latine di età umanistica, Naples, 147–187. Stok, F. (2011), ‘Perotti traduttore di Plutarco: il De fortuna Romanorum’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 31, 29–44. Swain, S.C.R. (1989) ‘Plutarch’s De fortuna Romanorum’, Classical Quarterly 39, 504–516.

Martin McLaughlin

Humanist Translations and Rewritings Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly between Guarino and Alberti Abstract: Guarino da Verona translated Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly into Latin at the beginning of the fifteenth century but he only published it in 1440, when he dedicated it to Scipione Mainenti. Guarino then sent a copy of his version to Leon Battista Alberti in 1441, and Alberti immediately decided to compose a Latin rewriting of Lucian’s mock encomium, entitled Musca, in 1442–43. This chapter compares these two Latin versions of the Greek original, one a straightforward translation, the other a longer and more elaborate rewriting, with a strong autobiographical dimension and an emphasis on ancient Roman culture. Both works, in their different ways, contributed to the diffusion of knowledge of Lucian in Quattrocento Italy. Keywords: Lucian, Guarino, Alberti, translation, rewriting, Renaissance

Guarino da Verona (1374–1460) translated Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly into Latin at the beginning of the fifteenth century (1403–08) during his stay in Constantinople, but he only published it, with the title Musce collaudatio vel explicatio, in 1440, when he dedicated it to Scipione Mainenti, bishop of Modena.1 Guarino then sent a copy of his version to Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72) in 1441, and Alberti immediately decided to compose a Latin rewriting of Lucian’s mock encomium, entitled simply Musca, in 1442–43.2 This chapter compares these two Latin versions of the Greek original, one a straightforward translation, the other a longer and more elaborate rewriting, with a strong autobiographical dimension and an emphasis on ancient Roman culture. Both works, in their different ways, contributed to the diffusion of knowledge of Lucian in Quattrocento Italy. Let us start with the two dedicatory letters that accompany the translation and the rewriting. Guarino’s erudite letter to his fellow-humanist, Mainenti, opens by stating how much the dedicatee admires Lucian, particularly his style and his correct Greek lexis, as well as the variety of his subject matter; but he

 1 Marsh 1998, 28, 159–161. 2 For the dating of the Musca, see Alberti 2010, 1037.

96  Martin McLaughlin appreciates most of all the satirist’s jokes and witticisms especially when attacking people’s vices. The Veronese humanist notes that the bishop is aware that knowledge of a wide range of texts is essential to the study of sacred literature, and that Mainenti had expressed a wish to see some of Lucian’s humorous works translated into Latin. Guarino had recently come across his own early translation of the Encomium of the Fly, and says that the work will be all the more agreeable to Mainenti since it is now autumn, the period of wine, must and flies. This remark is enhanced by an allusion to the opening of the second book of Virgil’s Georgics and by a play on words (mustorum et muscarum): Inscribitur autem Muscae laudes. Res eo tibi acceptior esse debebit, quo ‘spumante plenis vendemia labris’ mustorum pariter et muscarum tempestivitas est.3

This alliterative play on words (mustorum […] muscarum) is characteristic of Guarino’s Latin in this translation and the idea for such rhetorical play may well have come from Lucian himself, as we shall see. In fact the following two sentences, which are the last two in the letter, both offer two more examples of the same rhetorical figure. Guarino says that Mainenti will surely not approve of the behaviour of the Emperor Domitian who famously would enclose himself in a private room and in a frenzied battle would attack flies with a knife so that to those who enquired whether there was anybody inside with the Emperor, his guard could reply ‘not even a fly’, an anecdote recounted by Suetonius: Nec illud Domitiani Cesaris factum probabis, qui aliquando intra secretum clausus muscas ita stilo quasi tumultuaria pugna pongens insectabatur, ut interrogantibus quibusdam essetne quispiam intus cum Cesare, cubicularius responderit ‘ne musca quidem.’ (G, 184)4

The form pongens presumably is a variant for the more common pungens which would have made the alliterative play on words with pugna even more obvious. The final sentence contains a third example, when Guarino says he hopes that

 3 Billerbeck/Zubler 2000, 182. Henceforth quotations from Guarino’s translation will be from this edition and will be provided in the text with the abbreviation ‘G’, followed by the page number in Billerbeck/Zubler 2000. The verse quoted spumat plenis vindemia labris comes from Virgil, Georgics, 2.6, the verse before the one where Virgil himself talks of the new must (musto novo). 4 The passage is from Suetonius, Domitian, 3.1: Inter initia principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum sumere solebat, nec quicquam amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo praeacuto configere; ut cuidam interroganti, essetne quis intus cum Caesare, non absurde responsum sit a Vibio Crispo, ne muscam quidem.

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the bishop will take up his translation of Lucian’s The Fly and look at Lucian himself, not so that he has to expound him but so that he will become acquainted with him, turning the pages as he reads the work: Tu vero, venerande presul, sic in Musca Lucianum suscipies et suspicies, ut non expongas, sed inter manus legendo conteras. (G, 184)

Once more, we find an alliterative play on words in the two verbs suscipies et suspicies. When we turn to Alberti’s brief dedicatory letter to fellow humanist and admirer, Cristoforo Landino, we find a more autobiographical and humorous account than in Guarino’s dedication: this is appropriate since Alberti’s rewriting of Lucian’s Encomium contains a strong autobiographical dimension and is more humorous than the original. In the letter Alberti recounts how he had been lying ill with a fever surrounded by friends when a letter arrived from Guarino containing his Latin translation of Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly which he had dedicated to Alberti. The latter was so cheered up by reading the translation that he asked one of his friends to write down a work that he felt inspired to dictate. The sick man needed only a short time before dictating his own Musca, which caused so much hilarity that his fever and sweats immediately disappeared. A mutual friend, Marco Parenti, then asked Alberti to send the work to Landino so that he could laugh as well. The author congratulates and thanks the flies who helped him to convalesce: Incideram in febriculam et languore affectus per meridiem accubabam, amicis aliquot astantibus, cum ad nos littere Guarini allate sunt et cum his Musca Luciani, quam meo nomini latinam effecerat. Litteris igitur et Musca perlectis facti illariores: ‘Utrum – inquam – vestrum est quispiam, qui pro nostro more velit, me dictitante, scribere?’ Cum illico sumpsissent calamos, paulo premeditatus hanc edidi Muscam tanto cum cachinno, ut ex ea hora febris tedium, levi sudore evaporato, solveretur. Postridie Marcus noster petiit eam ad te mitterem, quo et tu rideres. Congratulor et habeo gratias muscis, quarum ope convalui.5

Unlike Guarino’s dedication, the emphasis here is very much on hilarity and friendship and the healing power of laughter.

 5 Alberti 2010, 1036. Future quotations from Alberti’s Musca will be from this edition, and will be given in the text with the abbreviation ‘A’, followed by the page number.

98  Martin McLaughlin

 Guarino’s translation Turning to the text of Guarino’s translation, this turns out to be a fairly faithful version, in broadly classical, even Ciceronian Latin, with just one or two omissions or mistakes, some of which may have been due to the Greek manuscript of The Fly that Guarino based his translation on. In the very first sentence – ‘The fly is not the smallest of winged creatures, at least in comparison with gnats and midges and things still tinier’6 – Guarino omits the negative in Lucian’s first clause and says something a little different: ‘The fly is so small amongst other winged creatures that it can be compared to gnats and midges and things still tinier’ (Musca quidem adeo inter volucres pusilla est, ut ad empidas et culices aliasque minuciores cumparari valeat; G, 186). An even larger omission occurs towards the end of the text. Lucian describes the way the fly shares the food of others thus: ‘Goats give milk for her, bees work for flies and for men quite as much as for themselves, and cooks sweeten food for her. She takes precedence even of kings in eating, and walks about on their tables sharing their feasts and all their enjoyment’ (my emphasis).7 However, Guarino’s version omits the two clauses in italics: ei namque capelle mulgentur, apes non minus muscis quam hominibus opera factitant. Mensas inambulans, comunia cum hominibus celebrat convivia et conctis socialiter vescitur (G, 188), though again this may have been due to a faulty Greek manuscript used by Guarino. On another occasion he adds something not in the original. Lucian describes the fly’s use of its proboscis thus: ‘She differs, however, from the wasp and the bee, in that her weapon is not the hinder-part, but the mouth, or rather the proboscis’; but the Latin translator begins this sentence with an invented clause, saying that Whenever it is roused to take revenge, unlike the wasp and bee etc’ (‘Cum ad ultionem concitaturus, non more vesparum uel apum […]’; G, 186; emphasis mine).8 Finally, Guarino adopts a misleading euphemism to translate Lucian’s sentence at the end of the encomium about a prostitute named Muia: Lucian calls her a famous prostitute from Attica (καὶ ἄλλη ἑταίρα τῶν Ἀττικῶν ἐπιφανής),9 but the Veronese humanist translates this as ‘a noble female friend’ (‘apud Atenienses altera amica sane nobilis’; G, 189): either he did not know the real meaning of ἑταίρα, or he did not want to lower the tone of his Latin translation  6 Lucian 1913, 83. 7 Lucian 1913, 91. 8 Lucian 1913, 85. 9 Lucian 1913, 92.

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dedicated to a bishop. Despite these imperfections, Guarino’s is a fairly faithful translation in sound classical Latin. When we turn to Guarino’s Latin style in the version, we can see that on a number of occasions he indulges in the kind of word-play that we highlighted in the dedicatory letter. Thus at the beginning of the text when Lucian describes the fly as using its proboscis to seek out food, to draw it up and hold onto it, Guarino uses two alliterative verbs for the last two actions: haurit et inherens (G, 186). Later when describing how the fly walks about on men’s tables sharing their feasts and all their enjoyment, again the translator uses alliteration: comunia cum hominibus celebrat convivia (G, 188), underlining the common sharing of food with words such as comunia and convivia. On another occasion, Guarino is even able to fashion a play on Latin words that is not in the Greek original: when Lucian quotes a line from a Greek tragedy that talks of armed men fearing the enemy’s spear (ἄνδρας δ᾿ ὁπλίτας πολέμιον ταρβεῖν δόρυ),10 the Veronese humanist translates this as hosticas hastas (G, 189), thereby also suggesting an etymological connection between hostis (enemy) and hasta (spear). The technique continues right to the end of the translation. Towards the conclusion of the work, Lucian describes the species of enormous camp-flies as having a very harsh buzz and a very rapid flight, and for this Guarino deploys two parallel phrases which almost rhyme: boatu quam asperrime, volatu vero quam celerrime (G, 190). And this rhetorical flourish is present even in the penultimate sentence of the encomium: here Lucian says that these camp-flies are bisexual, that they act as both male and female since they both enter and are entered during mating, like Hermaphroditus, the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, who had two natures and double beauty. Guarino translates using alliteration of the letter ‘f’ in the first phrase of the sentence and a play on the common root of officium and faciunt, while in the second phrase he resorts to the present and past participles of the same verb (inire) to stress the bisexual nature of their behaviour: utrumque et maris et femine officium faciunt, partim ineuntes, partim inite, sicuti de Mercurii et Veneris filio perhibent, cuius mixtum genus et geminata species erat (G, 190).11

 10 Lucian 1913, 92. 11 Interestingly even the current Loeb edition of the encomium omits in the English translation the detail of the flies entering and being entered by each other (though the version is over a century old now). The Greek original reads κἀκεῖνο θαυμάζειν ἄξιον, ὅτι ἀμφότερα, καὶ τὰ θηλειῶν καὶ τὰ ἀρρένων, δρῶσιν καὶ βαινόμεναι καὶ βαίνοντες ἐν τῷ μέρει κατὰ τὸν Ἑρμοῦ καὶ Ἀφροδίτης παῖδα τὸν μικτὸν τὴν φύσιν καὶ διττὸν̇ τὸ κάλλος; the translation runs: ‘Another surprising thing in them is that they are bisexual, like the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, who had two natures and double beauty’ (Lucian 1913, 92–95).

100  Martin McLaughlin Perhaps the most interesting example of this rhetorical trope is the one that may well be the source for Guarino’s cult of such word-play. When Lucian praises the fly’s bravery, he points out that Homer compares Achilles not to a lion, a leopard or a wild boar but to the fearless fly, and he adds ‘Homer says that the fly possesses not rashness but courage’ (οὐδὲ γὰρ θράσος ἀλλὰ θάρσος φησὶν αὐτῇ προσεῖναι).12 The Greek phrase here is significant because it too contains a play on very similar words, two anagrams in fact: θράσος (rashness) and θάρσος (courage) and this may well be the origin of Guarino’s love of this rhetorical feature. On this occasion the translator cannot find two Latin words that sound the same or are anagrams, but they do at least come from the same root (‘fid-’): Neque confidentiam, sed fiduciam illam habere [Homerus] dicit (G, 187). Other aspects of Guarino’s rhetorical training are in evidence in the translation and not just in the dedicatory letter. Thus in the original Lucian states that Plato omitted to say in his discussion of the soul’s immortality, that flies too have an immortal soul, since when ashes are sprinkled on a dead fly, it revives and has a new life. At this point, the Greek satirist adds the following sentence: ‘This should absolutely convince everyone that the fly’s soul is immortal like ours, since after leaving the body it comes back again, recognises and reanimates it, and makes the fly take wing.’13 Lucian only mentions the word for the fly’s body (τὸ σῶμα) once, but Guarino’s Latin version repeats it in each clause in order to produce a climactic tricolon: unde et omnibus accurate persuasum est immortalem earum esse animam, si digressa iterato revertitur, si corpus agnoscit, corpus exsuscitat, corpus volare facit. (G, 188; my emphasis)

Guarino’s version is, then, a fairly accurate translation, written in a Latin that is largely classical and with appropriate rhetorical ornaments for a piece of mock epideictic rhetoric.

 12 Lucian 1913, 86–87. 13 ὡς ἀκριβῶς πεπεῖσθαι πάντας, ὅτι κἀκείνων ἀθάνατός ἐστιν ἡ ψυχή, εἴ γε καὶ ἀπελθοῦσα ἐπανέρχεται πάλιν καὶ γνωρίζει καὶ ἐπανίστησι τὸ σῶμα καὶ πέτεσθαι τὴν μυῖαν ποιεῖ (Lucian 1913, 88–89).

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 Guarino’s translation and Alberti’s rewriting As far as the content of the Guarino’s and Alberti’s works are concerned, I have argued elsewhere that the main differences between Lucian’s Encomium of the Fly and Alberti’s Musca can be arranged under four headings: in the Italian humanist’s work we find a strong, autobiographical streak; a more pervasive sense of humour; a more insistent ethical dimension; and a striking emphasis on ancient Roman culture.14 Since, as has been noted, Guarino’s Latin version is a largely faithful translation of the Greek original, these four areas of difference would also hold when comparing Guarino’s version with Alberti’s rewriting. But it is worth dwelling on one or two elements of the comparison that have not been emphasized before. In particular, there is an aspect of the ethical strand in Alberti’s work which has not been considered before and to which Alberti seems to draw attention, since it concerns the negative exemplum he would have already read in Guarino’s dedicatory letter, namely that of the Emperor Domitian. In Guarino’s letter there was a brief allusion to the episode recounted by Suetonius, which recalled that Domitian would enclose himself in a private room killing flies, so that to those who enquired whether there was anybody inside with the Emperor, his guard could reply ‘not even a fly.’ But the anecdote is recounted briefly in just one sentence in Guarino’s letter, with the emphasis remaining on the guard’s grimly witty reply. In Alberti, the episode is placed in the actual text of his Musca, and is amplified into a lengthy section which is worth quoting in full, where Alberti praises the fly for its discretion in never revealing secrets except in this one case: The fly never made public anybody’s secrets for the purposes of revenge except when it was moved by the atrocity of the offence to reveal Domitian’s crime and inhumanity. This most evil Emperor, crazed with his excessive hatred for the family of flies, persecuted these domestic, familiar companions of his solitude with detestable cruelty, thus rightly making him their enemy. For who could have tolerated any longer this man who attacked them with a deadly sharp dagger as though they were the enemies of the fatherland and the disturbers of public law and dignity? Thus with this one weapon whereby we private citizens can take revenge on the injuries done to us by princes, and the one thing that rulers themselves have never learned not to fear, namely an evil reputation, the fly decided that it was right and lawful to exact punishment from this most wicked man, winning the consensus and approval of the most upright men in society. So the fly divulged his evil deed and his cruel and squalid mind, so that this would be open knowledge to everyone, and so that he should be an object of hatred throughout the world for his evil reputation. And the fly did not do this

 14 See McLaughlin 2015.

102  Martin McLaughlin of its own accord, but rather because it was forced to: for there was no other way of taking revenge on a man who was protected by so many of his satellites and in addition it was not possible not to take notice of so many and such awful offences. Who then will blame the fly if it took its revenge by using the only means at its disposal, namely broadcasting these many terrible injuries and making public this secret crime?15

Guarino had alluded to the incident in a brief sentence in his dedicatory letter. But Alberti expands the episode in the text of his re-writing and his language here is charged with ethical indignation, as his rhetorical amplification brings in issues of public law and order, and the right to take revenge on a tyrant. The Latin lexis bears this out. Here he uses the words flagitium et immanitatem (criminal inhumanity) (A, 1021) to describe Domitian’s cruelty to flies: immanitas is a key word in Alberti and it recurs later to describe the insect’s deadly enemy, the totally heartless spider: immanissimam Aragnem (A, 1023). By contrast, the fly pursues humanity and pietas: humanitatis […] et pietatis memores (A, 1018), and it is particularly praised for its innocence, gentleness, mild manners, simple and peaceful nature, as well as its calm and equable way of living its life: innocentiam, mansuetudinem, mitem animum, simplex pacatumque ingenium, tranquillam et equabilem vite degende rationem (A, 1020); and the idea of innocence is repeated at the end of the eulogy when the harmless nature of flies is contrasted with the cruelty of the spider: Atque tanta erga innocuum muscarum genus crudelitate bellua ipsa sevire crassarique assuevit (A, 1023). There is none of this ethical emphasis on the fly’s innocent, peace-loving qualities in the Greek original. The autobiographical dimension emerges in Alberti’s description of the fly’s versatility, its work ethic, its cult of friendship, its patience in dealing with enemies, and castigation of the foolish with appropriate saying: these are all elements that are found in the humanist’s self-portrait in his Latin autobiography, the Vita, written a few years before (c. 1438).

 15 musca nullius preter unius tantum Domitiani flagitium et immanitatem, atrocitate iniurie permota, vindicte causa, promulgavit; scelestissimum enim principem, nimiis in muscarum familiam odiis delirantem et domesticas familiaresque atque sue solitudinis comites muscas detestabili crudelitate prosequentem, ut par fuit, inimicum effecit. Etenim quis hunc, qui se preacuto stilo veluti hostem patrie et iuris publici atque dignitatis perturbatorem prosequeretur, ferre diutius quivisset? Igitur qua una re sola principum iniurias privati ulciscimur, quamve unam rem solam principes ipsi non metuere non didicere, ea sibi musca penas a consceleratissimo desumere iusque fasque ex probatissimorum consensu et opinione duxit: infamia. Nam eius nefarium facinus, diram et tetram mentem, ut omnibus paterent, ut esset orbi terrarum sua infamia odio, promulgavit. Neque id quidem sponte, sed coacta: nam tantis satellitibus armatum ulcisci principem non linquebatur et tantas tamque atroces iniurias non sentire non licebat. Quis igitur inculparit si graves musca iniurias quoquo potuit pacto occulti sceleris promulgatione vindicavit? (A, 1020–21).

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As for the first quality, versatility, this is in evidence in Alberti’s mentions of the fly’s achievements in music, mathematics and astronomy. There is a striking difference between Lucian’s brief, neutral description of the fly’s eyes – ‘The eyes are prominent, and have much of the quality of horn’ (occuli praefixi, colore admodum corneo; G, 186) – and Alberti’s expanded emphasis on how the fly’s eyes lead to research and knowledge: The fly knows that it has been born to pursue the investigation and knowledge of things and recognizes that it has been endowed with enormous eyes. These eyes can easily discover what lies hidden beyond the heavens, or in the depths of the earth or outside the borders of its own region and indeed beyond the last horizon. As a result, one wonders in what operation could the fly be more appropriately occupied – guided as it is by nature, and accompanied by its own wisdom – than in that very pursuit whereby, thanks to its zealous study, nothing that is hidden escapes its researches.16

One other remarkable difference between Guarino’s translation and Alberti’s rewriting of Lucian’s The Fly is the agonistic dimension in Alberti’s text. Whereas Guarino simply provides a good Latin translation of the encomium, Alberti constantly emphasizes what we might call Romanitas, a constant series of allusions to Roman/Latin culture which is of course absent in the Greek original and in Guarino’s translation. As for Romanitas, it is present right from the start. Alberti’s Musca begins by claiming that if bees ultimately derive from Io (an allusion to Virgil’s fourth Georgic which stated that bees could be born from a cow’s carcass, and Io had been transformed into a cow), then flies are descended from Centaurs – an invented ancestry which Alberti claims is actually confirmed in ancient Rome’s ‘linen books’ or ‘linen rolls’, the books that recorded Rome’s earliest annals: muscas ex Centaurorum genere prognatas, ut linteis annalium libris testari fama est (A, 1017). These linen scrolls are mentioned by Livy several times as one of his key sources for the early history of Rome, so the first intertextual allusions in the Musca are to two major Roman writers of prose and verse, Livy and Virgil. Later he asserts that the offspring of flies also derive from Bellona, the Roman goddess of war, and that the fly’s music could arouse Mars to battle (A, 1018). Thus these initial claims set the tone for the Roman stamp that the humanist will give to the rest of his eulogy.  16 Musca quidem, cum se ad rerum investigationem et cognitionem ortam animadverteret, cum a natura ita se adornatam oculis pregrandibus senserit, ut que trans celum, que imo sub profundo queve omnem ultra regionis limbum atque ultimum orizontem latitent facile discernat, quonam in opere commodius, duce natura, comite solertia, exercebitur quam in eo quidem quo flagranti suo studio assequatur, ut nulle se rerum occultarum latebre indagantem lateant? (A, 1020).

104  Martin McLaughlin This emphasis on Romanitas continues throughout the eulogy. Thus when Lucian describes the fly’s physical makeup, he simply notes that ‘the abdomen is armoured and resembles a corselet in having flat zones and scales’,17 and Guarino duly translates this as: Alvus et ipsa munitissima thoraci perquam similis, late cingula et squamas habens (G, 186). When Alberti comes to describe the fly’s body, he adds in yet another Roman allusion: Aureo enim et discolori ere thoraca et ab humeris pendulis alis pro tua, o Romane, toga utitur musca (‘The fly has a breastplate of gold and shimmering bronze and it uses wings that descend from its shoulders just like a Roman toga’; A, 1018). Perhaps the most unusual example of this Roman dimension is the passage towards the end when Lucian objectively recounts the mating habits of the fly: In mating, love, and marriage they are very free and easy. The male is not on and off again in a moment, like the cock; he covers the female a long time. She carries her spouse, and they take wing together, mating uninterruptedly in the air, as everyone knows. (Lucian 1913, 89)

Guarino translates this as Mas enim non more gallorum inscendens statim residit, sed diucius vectatur a femina; illa vero sponsum portat (G, 188), omitting the detail of the uninterrupted mating in the air. Alberti, on the other hand, steers clear of the details of mating and claims that flies support and carry each other, not during mating, but when one of them is tired, in a display of the great Roman virtue of pietas, epitomised by Aeneas himself: Indeed the most conspicuous sign of the way they live together with grace and pietas is to be observed in the fact that when one of their number is tired, its friends support and carry it through the air on their shoulders, and it was for a similar display of pietas that Virgil succeeded in raising Aeneas’s fame beyond the stars.18

There are many other such Roman allusions dotted throughout the text.19 Alberti is not content to translate a Greek original, rather in rewriting Lucian’s encomium he was keen to counterbalance this homage to Greek culture with allusions to the great authors of Latinity. In a number of places we see Alberti actually contradicting Lucian in order to portray the fly in his own image. Thus whereas Lucian states that the fly rests

 17 Lucian 1913, 85. 18 Utrumne qua inter se pietate ac gratia convivant palam et in promptu parum est, quando fessas muscas ab amica submissis humeris toto portari ethere intueamur, quo uno solo pietatis merito effecit vates, ut se Eneas supra sidera notum gloriaretur? (A, 1019). 19 For fuller details, see McLaughlin 2015, 18–19.

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at night and does not fly or sing, but retreats and rests motionless, and of course Guarino repeats this concept – Noctu pacem agit; neque volando fertur neque cantus ciet, sed contracta et immota requiem servat (G, 187), Alberti maintains that even at night the fly does not sleep but continues its contemplation of great matters gazing at the heavens, and further adds that we should take the fly as a model for both the active and contemplative life: And we should imitate the fly who both in daytime never ceases from its cult of virtue, and at night, released from its daytime activities, spends the time mostly awake, deep in the meditation of great matters. In order to make best use of its wakefulness, throughout the night it contemplates the heavens, reclining with its feet hanging from the panelled ceiling or from the chimney breast.20

Alberti was obsessed with his own work-ethic, his commitment to study and research even in the evenings, as is clear from his autobiography, so he attributes it to the fly as well.21 Thus he would not agree with Lucian that the fly is devoted to leisure and enjoys the fruits of the toil of others, finding a bounteous table set everywhere: Guarino translates this passage accurately (Ipsa cum ocio dedita remissaque sit, alienorum laborum ut dominus fructus carpit, eique ubi libet opipare structe sunt mense; G, 188). Instead Alberti systematically portrays the fly as industrious by day and by night. This motif emerges also in the way he picks up some of Lucian’s philosophical allusions and takes them in another direction. Thus the Greek satirist had mentioned Plato at one stage, as we saw, for having omitted the fly from his discussion of the immortality of the soul, a mock serious allusion. But when Alberti mentions the Greek philosopher in his encomium it is in a serious passage, suggesting that the philosopher was a model for the fly in travelling far in the pursuit of knowledge, again a homage to the insect’s capacity for hard work: Plato is praised as are many others who were devoted to literature and the knowledge of things, because they went on very long travels in order not to be ignorant of anything that men believed, no matter where they lived. Do you then hate the industry of the fly, you  20 […] et imitasse quidem muscam decet, que cum interdiu nusquam a cultu virtutis cesset, tum et noctem a forensi opere vacua in meditatione rerum maiorum magna ex parte insomnem ducit, et, noctem ipsam ut celum spectans commodius per vigilias trahat, pedibus a lacunari aut a camini labro resupine adacta dependet (A, 1022). 21 Numquam vacabat animo a meditatione et commentatione; raro se domi ex publico recipiebat non aliquid commentatus, tum et inter coenas commentando (‘His mind never stopped meditating and commenting on things; it was a rare thing if he went home from the city without having pondered on something, and he would also reflect on various subjects over dinner’): see Alberti 2012, 82.

106  Martin McLaughlin ignorant wretches, just because in its dedication to its own philosophy it wants you also to be not entirely lazy?22

Lastly, we should not forget the fact that Alberti’s rewriting is much more humorous than Lucian’s original. The Greek satirist adorns his text with a few allusions to other writers such as Homer and Plato, as well as anonymous Greek writers of comedy and tragedy, and mythical characters such as Muia, Endymion, Mercury, Venus and Hermaphroditus. But when Alberti mentions mythical personages it is to make fun of them too, even in a passage about the fly’s immeasurable store of knowledge: The fly actually knows which cakes Circe laid out in order to turn her guests into monsters; it has learnt where the much sought after Osiris lies hidden; it even knows what blemishes Helen of Troy has on her bottom, has fondled all of Ganymede’s hidden parts, and knows by constantly landing on them how bitter is the taste of Andromache’s ancient, sagging breasts.23

Each of these five mythical characters are treated humorously: the allusions seem very learned at first sight but they are comical because what the fly claims to know about them is either banal (Circe’s cakes), or insignificant (Osiris was ‘found’ every year by Isis and his own devotees) or an excuse for sexual innuendo (Helen’s buttocks, Ganymede’s private parts, Andromache’s breasts). When Alberti rewrites Lucian’s mock encomium of The Fly, he expands it enormously but also endows it with characteristic Albertian traits: autobiography, ethics, constant reference to Roman/Latin culture and literature, but primarily humour.

 Conclusion The return of Greek to the West in the fifteenth century takes many forms. In the two texts examined here, we are not dealing with school texts or resources for learning Greek, but rather two sophisticated works by two humanists who had  22 Laudatur Plato, laudantur et alii non paucissimi viri litteris et rerum cognitioni dediti, quod longas obierint peregrinationes nullas res ignorandi gratia, quas quidem mortales quovis loco tenuissent: vosne solertiam muscarum odistis, improbi atque ineptissimi, quod pro suo philosophandi instituto vos esse non usquequaque otiosos velint? (A, 1022). 23 Ac novit quidem musca quas offas Circes, suos ut in monstra hospites converteret, exposuerit; novit quonam loco quesitus Osiris latitet; novit et quenam in natibus adsint vitia Helene, et Ganimedis occulta omnia attrectavit; Andromache quoque pendulas vietasque mammas quid austerum saperent iterum atque iterum applicans sensit (A, 1020).

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more than a smattering of the Greek language. Alberti’s Musca was inspired by Lucian’s brief Encomium of the Fly, which had been translated into Latin by Guarino Veronese. Guarino was much more expert in Greek language and literature than Alberti: in fact we still do not know the precise extent of Alberti’s knowledge of Greek, though he appears to have read at least parts of Herodotus in the original.24 The timing of the Musca is significant since the year 1441 is regarded as the year when his quotation of Greek authors reached a peak.25 He cites many Greek texts in his vernacular dialogues of the time: in the fourth book of De familia, in Theogenius, in Profugiorum ab erumna libri. He had read Homer and some of Plutarch in Latin translation, but the new authors he mentions in this period include Aeschylus and Euripides.26 By the time he writes the treatise on architecture in the late 1440s and early 1450s there will be many new ‘acquisitions’ in Alberti’s Greek library: from Arrian and Demosthenes to Theophrastus and Thucydides. Of course Guarino knew Greek better than Alberti, but the latter was a much more original writer than the former. It is interesting that Alberti prefers to rewrite rather than translate. Indeed apart from an early vernacular translation of Walter Map’s misogynistic treatise, which might just have been a rhetorical exercise, Alberti translated only from his own works, such as the two stories from his Intercenales, Uxoria and Naufragus.27 As we have seen, Guarino translated Lucian’s mock encomium of the fly into a good Latin panegyric, with a number of intertextual allusions and some appropriate rhetorical trappings. Alberti, by contrast, rewrites the encomium from scratch in a substantial work that is four times longer than the Greek original and Guarino’s translation, and is structured like a classical oration, with a proem, a central narratio and a conclusion. The Musca is a work that has a strong autobiographical dimension, with parallels to Alberti’s Canis and the Latin autobiography, Vita. But it also lays a strong emphasis on the fly as an ethical model, and it underlines the importance of Latin and Roman culture. Autobiography, ethics and Romanitas are all characteristics of Alberti’s rewriting of Lucian and are absent from the Greek original and Guarino’s version. The final characteristic of the Musca is that it is much more humorous than the Greek original. Alberti admits that his starting point was Guarino’s translation but he takes humanistic Latin in new directions. The return of Greek to the West also does this: it leads not just to good translations but to the composition of new and complex creative works. The Roman emphasis in Alberti’s rewriting of Lucian

 24 Bertolini 1998 and 2005. 25 Bertolini 2005, 102. 26 Bertolini 2005, 102. 27 For details see McLaughlin 2012.

108  Martin McLaughlin is systematic and deliberate and probably reflects the fact that while Alberti is inspired by a Greek original to write his Musca, he also wants to vie with Greek culture and even perhaps suggest the superiority of Latin.

Bibliography Alberti, L.B. (1984), Musca, in: Alberti 1984, 172–95. Alberti, L.B. (2010), Musca, in: Alberti 2010, 1015–38. Alberti, L.B. (1984), Apologhi ed elogi, ed. R. Contarino, Genoa. Alberti, L.B. (2010), Opere latine, ed. R. Cardini, Rome. Alberti, L.B. (2012), Autobiografia e altre opere latine, L. Chines/A. Severi (eds.), Milan. Bertolini, L. (1998), Grecus sapor. Tramiti di presenze greche in Leon Battista Alberti, Rome. Bertolini, L. (2005), ‘Per la biblioteca greca dell’Alberti’, in: Cardini 2005, 101–103. Billerbeck, M./Zubler, C. (eds.) (2000), Das Lob der Fliege von Lukian bis L.B. Alberti, Bern. Cardini, R. et al. (eds.) (2005), Leon Battista Alberti. La biblioteca di un umanista, Florence. Coppini, D. (2005), ‘Leon Battista Alberti si corregge. Il caso della Mosca riccardiana’, in: Cardini 2005, 51–56. Guarino Veronese, Musce collaudatio vel explicatio, in: Billerbeck/Zubler (eds.) (2000), 186– 190. Lucian, The Fly, in: Lucian 1913, vol. I, 81–95. Lucian 1913, tr. Harmon, A.M. et al., 8 vols, Cambridge (Ma). Marsh, D. (1998), Lucian and the Latins. Humor and Humanism in the Early Renaissance, Ann Arbor (Mi). McLaughlin, M. (2012), ‘Alberti traduttore di se stesso: Uxoria e Naufragus’, in: Rubio Arquez/ D’Antuono 2012, 77–106. McLaughlin, M. (2015), ‘Alberti’s Musca: Humour, ethics and the challenge to classical models’, in: M. McLaughlin/I.D. Rowland/E. Tarantino (eds.) Authority, Innovation and Early Modern Epistemology. Essays in Honour of Hilary Gatti, London, 8–24. Rubio Arquez, M./D’Antuono, N. (2012) (eds.), Autotraduzione. Teoria ed esempi fra Italia e Spagna (e oltre), Milan.

Michael Malone-Lee

Cardinal Bessarion and the Introduction of Plato to the Latin West Abstract: The dialogues of Plato became known in the Latin West mainly through Latin translations in the course of the fifteenth century. Plato was regarded with suspicion for his unorthodox teachings and the perceived lack of clarity in his exposition. Cardinal Bessarion’s mission was to make Plato better known to the Latins. In his work In Calumniatorem Platonis, written in response to a virulently anti-Platonic work by George of Trebizond, he was careful to make his exposition of Plato palatable to the Latin West by emphasising the conformity of Plato with Christian orthodoxy and the compatibility of Plato with Aristotle. Keywords: Aristotle, Bessarion, Christian orthodoxy, Council of Florence, Ficino, literal meaning and underlying meaning, Melissus, Parmenides, Plato, Plethon, Proclus, Scholarios, Simplicius, Trebizond

There was a flowering of interest and knowledge of Plato in the West during the fifteenth century but he was not universally accepted. Cardinal Bessarion (1403– 1472) was an influential figure in the process of bringing Plato to the West but he had to contend with suspicion. Suspicion or, at least, anxiety about Plato was deeply rooted. In the Greek East there was a long tradition of suspicion of philosophy. In 1082 the Orthodox Church pronounced an anathema which was read out annually on the first Sunday of Lent. It included: Cursed be those who go through a course of Hellenic studies and are taught not simply for the sake of education but follow these empty notions and believe in them as the truth, upholding them as a firm foundation.1

In the fourteenth century certain named philosophers who espoused the philosophy of Aristotle, Plato and other Greek philosophers were condemned and added to the list of heresiarchs anathematized on the Sunday of Orthodoxy.2

 1 Quoted in Parry 2006, 229 and Wilson 1996, 154. 2 See ‘Palamisme’ in Villier 1984, XII (1) 100–101.

110  Michael Malone-Lee In the Latin West there were some supporters of Plato. Petrarch (1304–1374), although he could not read Greek, expressed a preference for Plato over Aristotle.3 But there was an enduring suspicion of Plato despite the fact that the texts of the dialogues were not widely known until well into the fifteenth century. The powerful Dominican Cardinal Dominici (1356–1420) in his Lucula noctis of 1405 criticised Plato for denying God’s universal creation and for maintaining the transmigration of souls.4 Translators of Plato like Leonardo Bruni (1369–1444) and Pier Candido Decembrio (1399–1477) felt it prudent to bowdlerize their texts slightly.5 In his translation of the Republic Pier Candido Decembrio shrouded potentially offensive passages in ambiguity. Bruni had already rejected the idea of translating the Republic because of some of its dangerous moral teaching and in his translation of the Phaedo he bowdlerised a passage on homosexual love.6 The Augustinian Bishop Niccolò Palmieri (1401–1467) wrote to Pietro Barbo, Pope Paul II, who was not enthusiastic about humanists or Platonic philosophy, re-

 3 ‘Dicono che Platone è maggior filosofo che Aristotile allegando Sant’ Agostino diciente Aristotile principe de’ filosofi, eccetto sempre Platone. Non dicono perché Sant’Agostino il premette: perché in sua openione dell’anima è píu conforme alla fede cattolica, ma nelle cose naturali ch’hanno bisogno di dimonstrazioni e di pruove Aristotile è il maestro di color che sanno. Perché perdendo il tempo in fievoli disputazioni non sanno che sieno i prencìpi naturali (quoted in Garin 1969, 159).’ See Schmitt 1976. Petrarch annotated Chalcidius’ Latin translation of the Timaeus and had Aristippus’ translation of the Phaedo. See Pfeiffer 1976, 14 and Sandys 1908, 2, 9. 4 Ibi est Plato, fovens Originem, quo anime simul fuerint create, necnon quod postquam felicem vitam fuerint adepte, iterum ad corpora incipere velle reverti, et illius vite felicitate finita, miseriis huius adhuc peregrinacionis involvi (Lucula 22.8). In hiis gimnasiis, dicam an animarum lupanaribus, garriunt Plato et Platonici, Stoyci, Achademici priores et novi, Porphirius et Cycero, de Republica scribens: cum corporibus animas beatificari non posse, quasi Deus, qui celestem animam corporum ergastulis detrusit in terris, corpora mundata et restituta animabus beatis super ethera locare non possit (Lucula 40.3). Non fuit Plato primus fictor Deum non cuncta creasse, sed prescise que durant omne per evum, quum in libris multis seculis ante Platonem legit: ‘Didici quod omnia opera, que fecit Deus perseverent per in aeternum; non possumus eis quidquam addere, nec auferre, que fecit Deus, ut timeatur’ (Lucula 45.9) for the Lucula Noctis see Coulon 1908. 5 See Hankins 1990, 126–130 and 136–138. 6 See Hankins 1990, 47, 126–130 and 136–138. In his Vita Aristotelis (1429) Bruni’s appreciation of Plato is qualified. His arguments occasionally lacked necessary proof. His teaching on the soul was more akin to revelation than demonstration. Some of his teachings on the ideal state were abhorrent. His doctrine was inconsistent and unclear. His books are more suitable for the mature than tender minds. See Griffiths 1987, 288–289.

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garding a work by Fernando of Cordoba, De laudibus Platonis. His verdict on Fernando’s defence of Plato was: venenum quod intus, ut hamus latet in escha, in his que scripta.7 Even in the sixteenth century Melanchthon (1497–1560), although sympathetic to Plato, thought that his works were too difficult for young people to understand and that they should concentrate on Aristotle.8 He criticised Plato for being ambiguous and unsystematic.9 Even later the great Jesuit theologian Robert Bellarmine (1542–1621), is said to have advised Pope Clement VIII against the teaching of Plato on the grounds that he was so close to Christianity that he would more easily seduce minds into error than other pagan philosophers.10 The perceived problem with Plato is well illustrated by the case of Francesco Verino (1524–1591) who was professor of philosophy in Pisa from 1559 to 1590. In contravention of the University statutes he lectured on Plato until forced to stop because of protests by colleagues. He described the objections to Plato of students and professors in his work Vere conclusioni di Platone conformi alla doctrina christiana et a quella d’Aristotile (Florence 1589). They said that Plato should not be taught in Universities. His writing was not methodical in a way which was an aid to memory. His arguments were ‘topical’ and probable, and not as demonstrative and productive as were those of Aristotle.11 There were three main objections to Plato: he was regarded as obscure and unsystematic; his teaching on the transmigration of souls, polytheism and his rejection of creation ex nihilo was contrary to Christian orthodoxy; and his reputed support for homosexuality and advocacy of wives held in common was morally offensive. The advent of Plato into the Latin West was gradual. By and large knowledge of Greek was not extensive during most of the fifteenth century. At the beginning  7 See Hankins 1990, 620–621. 8 Maxima pars operum ironica est, quae figura ad deridendum accomodatior est quam ad docendum [...]. Utile est igitur adolescentes ad Aristotelicam consuetudinem assuefieri. Quoted in Schmitt 1976, 102 n. 6. 9 See Tigerstedt 1973, 35. 10 See Grendler 2002, 306 and del Soldato 2010, 337. 11 ‘Altri dicono che Platone non merita di esser pubblicamente esposto per gli Studii si perché non procede con Methodo o vero ordine, che conferisce alla Memoria, si ancora perché le sue ragioni son topiche et probabili et non come quelle di Aristotile demonstrative ed producitrici negli animi nostri di scienza.’ Quoted by Grendler 2002, 308. ‘Topical’ (topiche) referred to a particular form of dialectical argument which was a matter of controversy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries between the strict Aristotelian logicians and the humanists like Valla. It was a form of logic which was case based (topoi) and was plausible rather than rigorous. See Del Soldato 2010, 337.

112  Michael Malone-Lee of the century only the Phaedo and Meno of Plato’s dialogues were available in Latin translation. There were also partial translations of the Timaeus and of the Parmenides.12 It was not until 1484 that Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499) produced a Latin translation of the complete works of Plato although translations of individual dialogues had been appearing throughout the century. Among the delegation of seven hundred Greeks that came with the Emperor and Patriarch to the Council of Ferrara/Florence in 1438 was Gemistus Plethon (c.1355–1452).13 As a lay philosopher he could not participate in the sessions of the Council so he had time on his hands. He gave lectures on Plato and Neo-Platonism to the intelligentsia of Florence.14 According to Gennadios Scholarios (ca. 1400 – ca. 1473), who attended the Council in the entourage of the Emperor as a lay philosopher, Plethon attracted flocks of eager Italians to his lectures who, in his words, knew as much about philosophy as Plethon did about dancing.15 But according to Ficino Cosimo de’ Medici (1389–1464) was so inspired by the lectures that he founded a Platonic Academy in Florence.16 In the light of these comments some scholars have maintained that Plethon’s lectures fired up a resurgence of interest in Plato in the West. But there are difficulties with this. Plethon spoke and wrote in Greek so the impact of his lectures was likely to have been diminished by having to speak through an interpreter. His exposition was philosophically difficult and, as Scholarios acknowledged, the interests of the audience  12 Henricus Aristippus had translated the Phaedo and Meno in the twelfth century. Cicero had translated the Timaeus as far as 47b and his translation was used by Augustine. Chalcidius translated the Timaeus as far as 53c and wrote an influential commentary in the fourth century. William of Moerbeke in the thirteenth century had translated Proclus’ commentary on the Parmenides and included a translation of the text of the Parmenides up to the end of the first hypothesis (142a). 13 Bessarion had studied under Plethon in Mistra; see Capranica’s funeral oration in Mohler 1942, 3, 406. For Bessarion’s sojourn in Mistra, see Mioni 1991, 47–56. Mohler 1923, 1, 45 puts the dates of Bessarion’s sojourn at Mistra as 1431–6. 14 For the text see Lagarde 1973. There is an English translation in Woodhouse 1986, 192–214. The work was in Greek as was Scholarios’ reply. This suggests that it was written with a Greek readership in mind but Masai 1956, 330–331 calls this into question. He argues that Plethon was writing for Latin Platonists because the references to Averroes would have been lost on Greeks and he notes that Scholarios in his reply says: ‘I know those in Italy who are under the sway of Plato and for whom [Plethon] says he conceived this work’ (Petit 1935, 4.4.2–4). It is, nevertheless, odd that a work in Greek should be addressed to people who were unlikely to be able to read it. 15 Scholarios, edit. Petit 1935 4.4.4–6. See also Woodhouse 1986, 15 ff. 16 Preface to Ficino’s translation of Plotinus’ Enneads, Opera Omnia (Basel 1576) 1537. Hankins 2004, 2, 219–272 and 351–386 casts doubt on the accuracy of Ficino’s story about Cosimo’s foundation.

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were literary rather than philosophical. But Scholarios, who was no admirer of Plethon, is explicit in his account. Later Plethon turned his lectures into a small treatise, De differentiis Aristotelis et Platonis. In it he proposed to show the inferiority of Aristotle to Plato.17 The treatise did make an impact but not among the Latins. There is no mention of De differentiis in any Latin author before a mention by Ficino twenty years later, nor is there evidence of widespread knowledge of Plethon’s other works among the Latins.18 The Greek text with Latin translation was not published in print until 1540.19 But the treatise sparked off a lengthy debate among the Greeks. The work attempted to discredit Aristotle by comparing him to Plato. Plethon took Plato as the standard of truth.20 The debate was mainly conducted between Greek emigré scholars who were bitterly divided between the protagonists of Aristotle and those of Plato. A feature of the controversy is the uncompromising positions taken by the protagonists. Bessarion alone seems to have taken a more nuanced view either out of irenic diplomacy or from deeper philosophical understanding. One work was so bitter in its polemic that it elicited a letter of rebuke from Bessarion. He was unusual in his admiration of both Plato and Aristotle. He wrote that he held Plato and Aristotle in equal regard and he was not impressed by attacks on Aristotle.21 The debate continued for nearly twenty years. In 1458 George of Trebizond (1395–1472 or 1473) produced a Latin response to Plethon entitled Comparatio phylosophorum Aristotelis et Platonis.22 Trebizond came from Crete but settled in

 17 De differentiis in Lagarde 1973, 321–320. 18 See Monfasani 1976, 202–205, and Hankins 1990, 436–440. 19 See Hankins 1990, 438 and n. 8. 20 This view had a long tradition. It is found in Numenius (ap. Eusebius Praep. Ev. IX.7.1), Diogenes Laertius 3.56 and Atticus (ap. Eusebius Praep. Ev. XI.1.2). 21 ἐμὲ δέ [...] φιλοῦντα μὲν ἴσθι Πλάτωνα, φιλοῦντα δ’ Ἀριστοτέλη, καὶ ὡς σοφωτάτω σεβόμενον ἑκατέρω, Πλάτωνά τε τῆς μεγαλανοίας καὶ εὐφυΐας ἀγάμενον, τῆς τοσαύτης πρὸς Ἀριστοτέλη μάχης τε καὶ δυσνοίας μὴ ἐπαινεῖν (Mohler 1942, 3, 511–513). 22 See Monfasani 1976, 156–162 for a summary account of the work. There are eleven surviving manuscripts of the work including Bessarion’s own copy (Marc. Lat. VI 76). This is not a large number but suggests wide distribution. It was printed by Iacobus Pentius de Leuco in Venice in 1523. The edition has a preface addressed to Francesco II Sforza of Milan by the Augustinian theologian Benedictus Moncettus who said that he wished both sides of the Plato-Aristotle debate to get a hearing since hitherto only Bessarion’s ICP had been available in print. See Monfasani 1984, 600–602 for a full account of Trebizond’s text. Garin 1969, 288 argues that it was a profoundly conservative work which is a failed attempt to construct a philosophical-theological

114  Michael Malone-Lee Italy where he became so proficient in Latin that he taught it and absorbed Latin culture. He converted to Catholicism and was a convinced scholastic. His work was a virulently anti-Platonic polemic. It contains an apocalyptic vision of the disastrous effect of Platonism on Latin Christianity. In his view Platonic hedonism brought about the ruin of the Roman Empire. Platonists were at the root of heresy. A succession of Platos starting with Plato and including Mohammed and Plethon had corrupted civilisation.23 They would be followed by a fourth Plato who would surpass all others.24 The fourth Plato is not named but was probably Cardinal Bessarion himself. Trebizond obviously regarded Bessarion as a hardline Platonist. In the opening chapter of Comparatio Trebizond wrote that those who had been brought up in the Greek East had been seduced by Plato’s lenocinium verborum. This was a veiled attack on Bessarion and his circle.25 Trebizond’s work had more influence than previous works in the controversy because it was written in Latin rather than Greek. It must have had some traction because it was widely read and quoted by influential figures such as Melanchthon (1497–1560) and Savonarola (1452–1498) up until the end of the sixteenth century.26 Bessarion seems to have been caught unawares. He took ten years to reply. After several drafts he produced a massive Latin text under the title In calumniatorem Platonis. Bessarion was born in Trebizond possibly in 1403 but moved as a youth to Constantinople where he received a liberal education. He became a monk and priest and as a young priest he went to study in Mistra under Plethon who probably introduced him to Proclus and the Neo-Platonists. He was extraordinarily

 defence against the decline of western Christian civilisation represented by Plethon. After its publication several Italians entered the debate. See Monfasani 1976, 214–219. 23 See Monfasani 1976, 159 and Garin 1973. Trebizond considered Epicurean hedonism a continuation of Platonic voluptas. Mohammed had imbued his Platonist hedonism from a Syrian monk whom he encountered in Ethiopia. See Hankins 1990, 158–159 nn. 119 and 121. 24 Compare Trebizond’s intemperate attacks on Plato with similar themes in Battista Crispo’s De ethnicis philosophis caute legendis disputationum ex propriis cuiusque principiis quinarius primus (Rome 1594) where Plato is the patriarch of heretics, the source of Origenism, Arianism and the Prophet Mohammed’s belief in reincarnation. 25 Trebizond had developed a personal enmity for Bessarion. In 1452, in response to a request from Pope Nicholas V, Trebizond had produced a translation of and commentary on Ptolemy’s Almagest. The Pope had asked the Augustinian scholar, Jacobus Cremonensis, to review the work and had received several pages of vigorous criticism of it. It is probable that Bessarion had supported Cremonensis’ criticisms. Trebizond lost favour with the Pope as a result of this incident and it poisoned his relations with Bessarion. See Monfasani 1976, 105–108 and Hankins 1990, 210–211. 26 See Hankins 2004, 2, 39.

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precocious. In a letter which he wrote in 1463 as titular Patriarch of Constantinople to the clergy and people of Byzantium he boasted of the esteem in which he was held as a young man by the leaders of the Greek world. His name was known throughout the Greek-speaking world. Before the age of twenty-four the most prominent Greek intellectuals preferred him before not only his peers but his seniors.27 He was recalled by the Emperor to Constantinople, was made a bishop at an early age and was one of the leading participants at the Council of Ferrara/ Florence in 1438–9 where he advocated union with the Latin Church. While at the Council he met and became friendly with a circle of leading Italian humanists. He returned to Constantinople, but when the theological agreement with the Latins forged at the Council was repudiated he returned and settled in Italy. In the meantime the Pope had made him a Cardinal and until his death in 1472 he exercised great influence in Italy and Northern Europe. He was a serious scholar. At his death he bequeathed his collection of four hundred and eighty-two Greek manuscripts to the Venetian Republic. Some of our modern Greek texts are heavily dependent on Bessarion’s manuscripts in Venice. His work In calumniatorem Platonis had three purposes. It was a work of polemics in response to Trebizond’s attack on Plato.28 He never refers to Trebizond by name but throughout speaks of him as objurgator. Secondly in order to do this Bessarion set out the teachings of Plato for the Latins who, he said, were ignorant of them.29 His third purpose was to demonstrate that Plato was more in conformity

 27 P.G. 161 col. 461D. 28 Haec igitur cum legissem, non potui tam iniquam hominis mentem non exsecrari [...]. Quapropter favendum imprimis censui auctoritati sanctorum virorum elaborandumque mihi summo studio, ut religionem, cuius membrum divina pietas me esse voluit, pro mea virili tuear atque defendam, tum etiam Platoni succurendum (ICP 1.1.4 p. 7.19–20 and 5 p. 9.15–18). 29 Perabsurdum tum et periniquum iudicarem legi haec sine contradictione, ab hominibus praesertim Latinis, qui aut Platonis opera non habent, aut si qua habent in Latinam linguam conversa, perraro ea legere consueverunt. Atqui Platonis doctrinam variam atque multiplicem tum diversis rationibus et auctoritate historiae communique omnium sententia tum ipsius operum testimonio demonstrabimus (ICP 1.1.5 p. 9.20–25). Hankins argues that by appealing to communi omnium sententia Bessarion was diverging from the practice of the high Scholastic period and resorting to an ancient practice of Christian apologists found in Tertullian, Eusebius, Irenaeus and Vincent of Lérins. Bessarion had adopted the appeal to a consensus at the Council of Florence but this was an essentially theological tool which Bessarion was now applying to Trebizond’s critique of Plato. He used the ancient authority of studiosi philosophiae ac bonarum artium peritissimi viri (ICP 2.2 p. 83.15). In doing so he confused doctrinal auctoritas with historical testimonium and failed to respond to Trebizond’s argument in Comparatio 2.1 that religious authority is irrelevant to establishing historical truth (see Hankins 1990, 249–253). See also De Ghellinck 1935.

116  Michael Malone-Lee with Christian doctrine than Aristotle.30 In this he was following the Greek Fathers of the Church and Plethon.31 Bessarion went to enormous lengths to argue the compatibility of Plato and Aristotle. This was important at the time because Aristotle enjoyed an entrenched position in the West in the teaching of theology and philosophy.32 Bessarion carefully selected his material to show how Plato’s teaching was consistent with Christian orthodoxy. His purpose was, no doubt, to make Plato palatable to the Latins. Bessarion held Plato and Aristotle in equal respect. He confesses that because he had been forced by Trebizond to defend Plato he might appear to detract from Aristotle. That is not his intention. Both were the wisest of mortals and we should be grateful for the great benefits they have brought to humanity.33 He held that generally Aristotle agreed with Plato and emphasised the fact that Aristotle was a student of Plato.34 In a letter to his friend, William Fichet (1433–c.1480), Chancellor of the University of Paris, he said that he had written a work on Plato ‘in which he showed that Aristotle, whom he had admired from his earliest years, had followed his teacher, Plato, so that it could be easily judged that where Plato’s teaching had been right Aristotle had learnt much and had developed it by his genius.’35 It was legitimate, therefore, to use Aristotle as an authentic commentator on Plato. Aristotle could illuminate the meaning of the text of Plato. He was drawing on a tradition within Greek thought. Clement of Alexandria said that many Platonists wrote books to show that the Stoics and Aristotle took most of their most important teachings from Plato.36 The view of most Platonists in the period of socalled Middle Platonism was that Aristotle and Plato were compatible if Aristotle

 Bessarion’s argument that in criticising Plato Trebizond was attacking the Fathers of the Church confused auctoritas with testimonium. 30 Ostendemus et doctrinam Platonis magis quam Aristotelis nostrae religioni consentaneam esse demonstrabimus (ICP 2.1.1 p. 81.16–17). 31 Plethon invoked Cyril of Alexandria as an authority that Plato is compatible with Christianity. See Maltese 1988, p. 3.31–4.3. 32 See the revealing comment in the Greek text of ICP 2.11.1 p. 198.33–6: τὰ μὲν τοῦ Ἀριστοτέλους κατὰ ταύτης τῆς ὑπολήψεως ἐν τῷ τρίτῳ τῶν περὶ Οὐρανοῦ εἰρημένα σοφώτατα ἐπαναλαβεῖν οὐ χρή, γνώριμα πᾶσιν ὄντα καὶ μάλιστα Λατίνοις σοφώτατοις οὖσιν ἀνδράσι καὶ Ἀριστοτέλην πνέουσι. 33 ICP 2.3.1. 34 ICP 2.11.2 p. 201.20–2. 35 Letter from Bessarion to Fichet December 1470 in Mohler 1942, 3, 554–556. 36 Clement of Alexandria Stromata 6.2 at Migne P.G. 9 col. 244A.

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was understood correctly.37 Any contradictions were the result of putting too much faith in the literal wording of texts rather than in the spirit. So Simplicius wrote that a thorough understanding of Aristotle’s usage was needed. An unbiased judgement was required to avoid malicious interpretation of his words or an ill- considered preference for his philosophy. It was necessary not just to have regard to his words criticising Plato, but to look at the intention behind the words to see the agreement of the two philosophers in most matters.38 Bessarion advanced the same argument in defence of Aristotle’s congruence with Plato.39 These Platonists had a conviction that Plato’s philosophy was perfect and a model to be followed by Aristotle and later philosophers.40 As a student of Plato, Aristotle was a good source for interpreting his master.41 Bessarion cited Simplicius as arguing the conformity of Plato and Aristotle.42 Simplicius described Aristotle as the ‘best exegete of Plato’ and argued that Plato’s view of the

 37 Bessarion commented: Fuerunt etiam, qui convenire inter sese duos philosophos summo ingenio nixi sunt ostendere, ut apud Graecos in plerisque Simplicius fecit, apud Latinos facturum se pollicitus est Boëthius (ICP 1.1.1 p. 3.32–5.20). Boethius aimed to refute the opinion that Plato and Aristotle were opposed in the essentials of their thinking. See In librum De interpretatione 2 c. 3 (Meiser 1877, p. 79.16– 80.9) and Liebeschütz 1967, 540. For Simplicius see Simplicius In Aristotelis Categorias Commentarium 6.7–18 and 7.23–32 and In Aristotelis de Caelo commentaria 454.23–24 and 640.27–32. Karamanolis 2006, 21 cites Plutarch in De fato (572a11–b4), where he attributed to Plato a definition of chance which is in fact taken from Aristotle (Physics 197a5–6) as an example of the way in which Platonists regarded Aristotelian and Stoic philosophy as the voice of Plato. 38 δεῖ δὲ καὶ τῶν πανταχοῦ τῷ φιλοσόφῳ γεγραμμένων ἔμπειρον εἶναι καὶ τῆς Ἀριστοτελικῆς συνηθείας ἐπιστήμονα. δεῖ δὲ καὶ κρίσιν ἀδέκαστον ἔχειν, ὡς μηδὲ τὰ καλῶς λεγόμενα κακοσχόλως ἐνδεχόμενον ἀδόκιμα δεικνύναι μηδὲ εἴ τι δέοιτο ἐπιστάσεως, πάντῃ πάντως ἄπταιστον φιλονεικεῖν ἀποδεῖξαι, ὡς εἰς τὴν αἵρεσιν ἑαυτὸν ἐγγράψαντα τοῦ φιλοσόφου. δεῖ δὲ οἶμαι καὶ τῶν πρὸς Πλάτωνα λεγομένων αὐτῳ μὴ πρὸς τὴν λέξιν ἀποβλέποντα μόνον διαφωνίαν τῶν φιλοσόφων καταψηφίζεσθαι, ἀλλ’ εἰς τὸν νοῦν ἀφορῶντα τὴν ἐν τοῖς πλείστοις συμφωνίαν αὐτῶν ἀνιχνεύειν (In Categorias 7.24–32). Blumenthal 1986 argues that the Neo-Platonist commentators interpreted Aristotle by imposing on him their own (Platonist) positions. 39 ICP 2.11.2. Francisco Filelfo (1398–1481) maintained that Aristotle appeared to disagree with Plato but really he was of the same mind (verbo sane a Platone magistro Aristoteles pluribus in locis videtur dissentire, cum re ipsa maxime omnium cum illo conveniat). The reason that Aristotle appeared to refute Plato was, according to Filelfo, out of jealousy for Xenocrates who had been preferred to him in the leadership of the Academy on the death of Plato. See Garin 2012, 156 quoting from Filelfo Epistulae (1502) c.150. 40 See Atticus fr. 1.19–23, Albinus Isagoge 149, Diogenes Laertius 3.56. See Karamanolis 2002, 260–261. 41 Karamanolis 2006, 16. 42 ICP 1.1.

118  Michael Malone-Lee immortality of the soul in the Phaedo and the Phaedrus was in harmony with Aristotle.43 Bessarion made a distinction, which he drew from Proclus, between the language of physicists, which concerned the principles of nature and was the language of Aristotle, from the language of theologians, who spoke of intelligible being and the first principles.44 The latter was the language of Plato and the Platonists. In cases where Aristotle disagreed with Plato he tried to mount arguments to show that in reality the two philosophers were in agreement. He makes much of the distinction between the surface meaning of words and their underlying and hidden meaning. He argues that some of Aristotle’s criticisms of Plato and the Pythagoreans are only valid against the literal meaning of their words; if the underlying meaning of the words is understood they did not disagree with each other.45 He holds that Aristotle was aware of this but was concerned to protect the ignorant from being misled by the literal meaning of words. In a bizarre argument he wrote that: ‘Aristotle always acts like a teacher. But if [the ancient authors] seem to have used words ambiguously, perhaps by taking words meant for one context and applying them to another, he does not address the real meaning of the words. He tries to argue not so much against the real meaning of the words but against the arguments based on the incorrect use of the words [...]. He does this in order to avoid somebody being misled by the apparent argument into ideas contrary to the correct understanding of the matter.’46 He cites as an example of confusion between the surface meaning of words and their underlying meaning Aristotle’s criticism in the Physics of the teaching of the Eleatics, Parmenides and Melissus, on the One, existence and the first principle of beings.47  43 Simplicius In De anima 245.12 and 246.16–248.16. 44 See Proclus In Tim. 1.13.1–8. περὶ φυσικῶν ἀρχῶν καὶ στοιχείων and περὶ τοῦ ὄντως ὄντος καὶ τῆς νοητῆς καὶ πρώτης ἀρχῆς and ICP 2.12.2 p. 201.3–6. 45 Argumenta, quibus Aristoteles adversus Platonem usus fuit, non ad sententiam, sed ad primum quasi aspectum pro suis assumpsit (ICP 2.11.1 p. 199.10–11). 46 Agit quidem Aristoteles semper more eorum, qui aliqua de re docent, sermone artificiose scripto et optima ratione disposito [...]. Si qui vero verba fortassis ex re alia in aliam transferrentes minus proprie locuti videntur, eorum verba ipsa parum proprie insectatur, nec quod illi senserunt, sed quod verbi improprietate urgeri potest, conatur refellere. Quod iudicio quidem omnium doctissimorum ideo, ut supra diximus, facit, ne quis primo aspectu sermonis arreptus sentiat, quid alienum sit a rei, de qua agitur, recta veraque ratione (ICP 2.11.2 p. 199.18–201.1). See also: Sed voluit [Aristoteles] [...] auditoribus suis consulere, ne forte divinarum rerum disciplinam ad naturalium considerationem imprudenter transferrent (ICP 2.12.9 p. 217.34–36). 47 ICP 2.12. See Aristotle Physics 184b15–187a11.

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He says that this is the best and clearest example of how Aristotle and Plato were in fact saying the same things about the One, about being and about the principle of beings.48 Aristotle was refuting the view which he attributed to Parmenides and Melissus that existence is single and changeless. Bessarion’s response is that Aristotle’s critique of Parmenides and Melissus was not valid because they were talking about different things. Aristotle was talking about nature, whereas Parmenides and Melissus were talking about divine and intelligible things.49 The words might be the same but the connotation is different. Aristotle interpreted Melissus and Parmenides to be talking about being in the physical world. Bessarion, based on Simplicius, understood that Melissus and Parmenides were talking of self-existent being (περὶ τοῦ ὄντως ὄντος) which is pure substance without predicates.50 Bessarion explains why Aristotle presented the arguments of Melissus and Parmenides as he did; he was taking account of the inexperience of his hearers in philosophical language.51 The argument is surely tendentious. His purpose was to defend Aristotle and to sustain his thesis that Aristotle and Plato were really in agreement. In the case of Parmenides and Melissus he said that Aristotle knew their true opinions and thought no differently from them.52 Bessarion worked hard to show Plato’s congruence with Christian orthodoxy. He tended towards the mystical rather than literal interpretation of Plato. He argued that Plato thought that theological matters should be communicated only to the initiated. If any were put into writing it should be done fabulis and

 48 ἑνί τινι παραδείγματι, μεγίστῳ μέντοι τῶν πάντων καὶ σαφεστάτῳ, τὸν πάντα πιστωσόμεθα λόγον, τὰ ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ τῶν Φυσικῶν κατὰ Μελίσσου καὶ Παρμενίδου, ταὐτὸ δ’ εἰπεῖν καὶ Πλάτωνος περὶ τοῦ ἑνὸς καὶ τοῦ ὄντος καὶ τῆς τῶν ὄντων ἀρχῆς εἰρῆσθαι δοκοῦντα προχειρισάμενοι (ICP 2.12.1 p. 200.40–202.2). This sentence appears in Bessarion’s Greek text from which the canonical Latin text was prepared but it does not occur in the Latin text. 49 Cum itaque viri illi de rebus intelligibilibus ac divinis et de primo principio vereque ente agerent, his verbis utebantur, unum esse ens ipsum idque immobile et infinitum et reliqua, quae huic sententiae conveniunt (ICP 2.12.3 p. 211.8–10). Non enim physici erant, nec de principiis, hoc est naturalibus, sed divinis et intelligibilibus disserebant (ICP 2.12.2 p. 209.33–5). 50 See Cherniss 1935, 65. Proclus drew a similar distinction regarding Plato and Aristotle: καὶ ὅσα τῇ οὐσίᾳ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ὁ Πλάτων, ταῦθ’ οὗτος τῇ κυκλοφορίᾳ, τῶν μὲν θεολογικῶν ἀρχῶν ἀφιστάμενος, τοῖς δὲ φυσικοῖς λόγοις πέρα τοῦ δέοντος ἐνδιατρίβων (In Tim. 1.295.25–27). 51 Auditorum adhuc imperitiorum ingenio humaniter consulens ea proponebat, ut omni ex parte tutissime erudirentur (ICP 2.11.2 p. 201.23–24). 52 Ubi de summis philosophiae opinionibus agitur, sententiam Parmenidis et Melissi quamquam veram esse [Aristotelis] existimat nec ab ea opinione dissentit, tamen diversa dissimulat (ICP 2.11.2 p. 201.7–9).

120  Michael Malone-Lee aenigmatibus.53 He saw himself as an intepreter of these mysteries to the Latins. For him the text of Plato needed a key. He was standing within an ancient tradition. Proclus in the Platonic Theology said that the philosophy of Plato had revealed the intellect and truth hidden in God. But Plato hid his revelation in a sanctuary until in the fullness of time it was brought to light by a chosen few philosophers including Plotinus, Amelius, Porphyry, Iamblichus and Theodore of Asine.54 He used the vocabulary of revelation. This is an important text for understanding how Bessarion saw the Platonic texts and the commentators. He placed himself in this tradition of interpreting the hidden philosophy of Plato citing Plotinus, Porphyry, Amelius, Iamblichus, Syrianus, Proclus and all followers of Plato.55 Ficino acknowledged Bessarion’s place in this tradition. In a letter to Bessarion in response to receipt of a copy of In calumniatorem Platonis he wrote of the gold within Plato which had been elucidated by Plotinus, Porphyry, Iamblichus and Proclus and now Bessarion himself.56 This tradition of revealing some hidden truth legitimised Bessarion’s practice of using the Neo-Platonic

 53 Etenim substantiarum huiusmodi ut nullus sermo est, ita nulla vocabulorum haberi proprietas potest [...]. Accedit ad haec rerum divinarum decens occultatio, quas Plato verbis mathematicis adumbrare pulcherrime conatur, quem ad modum alios quoque gentiles theologos, fabulis alios, alios aenigmatibus sive allegoriis videmus fecisse. Quos quis non vidit, quantis verborum velaminibus divinarum rerum praecepta contexerint? Pleni sunt huiusmodi arcanis libri prophetarum, plena vetus omnis scriptura sacra, allegoriis scilicet, suspectionibus, relationibus, translationibus, et tamen nemo hanc nisi impius reprehendit (ICP 2.8.17–18 p. 157.15–30). 54 Ἅπασαν τὴν Πλάτωνος φιλοσοφίαν [...] καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν ἐκλάμψαι νομίζω κατὰ τὴν τῶν κρειττόνων ἀγαθοειδῆ βούλησιν, τὸν ἐν αὐτοῖς κεκρυμμένον νοῦν καὶ τὴν ἀλήθειαν τὴν ὁμοῦ τοῖς οὖσι συνυφεστῶσαν ταῖς περὶ γένεσιν στρεφόμεναις ψυχαῖς [...] ἐκφαίνουσαν, καὶ πάλιν ὕστερον τελειωθῆναι καὶ ὥσπερ εἰς ἑαυτὴν ἀναχωρήσασαν [...]. οὕτως δὲ σεμνῶς καὶ ἀπορρήτως ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ τὴν πρώτην ἐκλάμψασαν οἷον ἁγίοις ἱεροῖς καὶ τῶν ἀδυνάτων ἐντὸς ἱδρυνθεῖσαν ἀσφαλῶς καὶ τοῖς πολλοῖς τῶν εἱσιόντων ἀγνοηθεῖσαν, ἐν τακταῖς χρόνων περιόδοις ὑπὸ δή τινων ἱερέων ἀληθινῶν καὶ τὸν προσήκοντα τῇ μυσταγωγίᾳ βίον ἀνελομένων προελθεῖν μὲν ἐφ’ ὅσον ἦν αὐτῇ δυνατόν, ἅπαντα δὲ καταλάμψαι τὸν τόπον καὶ πανταχοῦ τὰς τῶν θείων φασμάτων ἐλλάμψεις καταστήσασθαι. τούτους δὴ τοὺς τῆς Πλατωνικῆς ἐποπτείας ἐξηγητὰς [...] εἶναι θείην ἂν ἔγωγε Πλωτῖνόν τε τὸν Αἰγύπτιον καὶ τοὺς ἀπὸ τούτου παραδεξαμένους τὴν θεωρίαν, Ἀμέλιόν τε καὶ Πορφύριον, καὶ τρίτους οἶμαι τοὺς ἀπὸ τούτων [...] Ἰάμβλιχόν τε καὶ Θεόδωρον (Proclus Plat. theol. 1.1). 55 ICP 2.6.17 p. 127.35–37. 56 Sed tandem in Plotini primo, deinde Porphyrii et Iamblichi, postremo Procli officinam aurum illud deportatum exquisitissimo ignis examine excussis arenis emicuit usque adeo, ut omnem terrarum orbem miro quodam splendore illustraverit (Letter of Ficino to Bessarion in Mohler 1942, 3, 544–545).

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commentators, particularly Proclus, as authorities for the exposition of Plato, even quoting them verbatim. Bessarion acknowledged that Plato was not some kind of proto-Christian.57 He frankly admitted that he did not agree with Plato in everything and stipulated some of the points on which he differed – the pre-existence of souls, multiplicity of gods, ensouled cosmos and stars.58 He gave a clue to what he meant when he claimed that Plato was consistent with Christianity when he said that he wanted to demonstrate to anybody looking for corroboration of Christianity in the pagan philosophers that they were more likely to find it in Plato than Aristotle.59 He said that the main point of convergence between Plato and Christianity was his belief that faith was the principal virtue through which we reach divine matters.60 He contrasted Plato with Aristotle. Aristotle insisted that rational demonstration was always essential.61 Bessarion’s point was that theological knowledge transcends νοῦς. To make his case he referred to texts in the Timaeus, Laws and Gorgias.62 The claim that Plato placed such a high value on fides is difficult to sustain. In his argument that Plato believed in πίστις Bessarion quoted from Proclus’ Platonic Theology, where Proclus says that the faith in the gods unites all things to the good. We find the good by abandoning ourselves to the divine light. This faith is superior to knowledge. Proclus gave a full account of the nature of the faith by which the soul is united in love with God. He said that union with the One is called πίστις by the theologians. He cited the authority of Plato’s

 57 Quod non ideo faciemus, quia Platonem aut existimemus aut velimus ostendere Christianum fuisse; alienus enim uterque a nostra fide tam Plato quam Aristoteles fuit et ut nomine sic religione gentilis uterque (ICP 2.1. p. 81.18–20). 58 ICP 2.3.3 p. 87.17–19. 59 Itaque non est consilium laborare, ut Platonem Christianum fuisse ostendamus, quem ad modum de Aristotele facit adversarius, sed ita hunc locum conabimur tractare, ut si quis ex auctoritate quoque gentilium philosophorum veritatem nostrae religionis corroborare voluerit, Platonis potius libris quam Aristotelis id effici posse demonstremus (ICP 2.1 p. 81.23–27). 60 Plato vero in hoc praecipue cum nostra religione convenire videtur, quod nullam quaerit demonstrationis rationem, sed primam praecipuamque omnium virtutum fidem constituit, per quam res divinas merito colendas existimat (ICP 2.5.11 p. 105.15–18). 61 Demonstrationis enim necessitatem ubique sectatus est nec versari in rebus voluit, quae probari manifesta ratione non possent (ICP 2.5.10 p. 105.9–10). He went on to say that Aristotle had nothing to say about supernatural theological matters. Fidem autem de supernis ac divinis rebus, quibus nihil est prius, unde sumi demonstrationis medium possit, cum omnium rerum primae et universorum causae sint, praeteriit omnino, ita ut non modo nihil de his scripserit, sed etiam quid senserit, obscurum omnibus reliquerit (ibid. p. 105.10–14). 62 Plato Timaeus 40, Laws 630a–c, 926e–927a, Gorgias 523, 524a, and 526d.

122  Michael Malone-Lee Laws for the link between ‘faith’ and truth and love.63 But Proclan faith is not the same as Christian faith nor even Platonic faith. Christian faith is belief in revelation; Platonic faith is conviction based on sense data in contrast to dianoetic knowlege. Proclan faith is a ‘theurgic power’ which unifies the soul and unites it with God.64 Bessarion was an important figure as a transmitter and interpreter of Plato in the fifteenth century. But it is difficult to gauge precisely his influence. It took a long time for Plato to be adopted in the West, particularly in the academy.

Bibliography Abbreviations ICP Mohler, L. (ed.) (1927), Bessarion In Calumniatorem Platonis, Paderborn. P.G. Migne, J-P. (ed.) (1857–66), Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca, Paris.

References Albinus, Isagoge, in: C.F. Hermann (ed.) (1892), Platonis dialogi secundum Thrasylli tetrologias dispositi Vol 3, Leipzig, 147–151. Atticus Fragments in: E. Des Places (ed.) (1977), Atticus Fragments, Paris. Cherniss, H. (1935), Aristotle’s Criticism of Pre-Socratic Philosophy, Baltimore. Coulon, R. (ed.) (1908), Beati Johannis Dominici, Cardinalis S. Sixti, Lucula Noctis, Paris. Blumenthal, H.J. (1986), ‘Alexander of Aphrodisias in the Later Greek Commentaries on Aristotle’s de Anima’, in: J. Wiesner (ed.), Aristoteles’ Werk und Wirkung, Berlin, 2, 90– 106. De Ghellinck, J. (1935), ‘Patristique et argument de tradition au bas moyen âge’, in: A. Lang/ J. Lechner/M. Schmaus (eds.), Aus der Geisteswelt des Mittelalters, Münster, 403–426. Del Soldato, E. (2010), ‘Sulle tracce di Bessarione: la fortuna cinquecentesca dell’In calumniatorem Platonis’, Rinascimento 50, 321–342. Garin, E. (1969), L’età nuova: Ricerche di storia della cultura dal XII al XVI secolo, Naples. Garin, E. (1973),‘Il platonismo come ideologia della sovversione europea. La polemica antiplatonica di Giorgio Trapezunzio’, in: E. Hora/E. Kessler (eds.), Studia Humanitatis Ernesto Grassi zum 70. Geburtstag, Munich, 113–120. Grendler, P.F, (2002), The Universities of the Italian Renaissance, Baltimore/London. Griffiths, G./Hankins, J./Thompson, D. (eds.) (1987), The Humanism of Leonardo Bruni: Selected Texts and Studies, Binghampton (N.Y.).  63 Proclus Plat. theol. 1.25. For Bessarion’s debt to Proclus’ Plat. theol. in book two of ICP see Hankins 1990, 441–444. 64 Majercik 1989, 12.

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Hankins, J. (1990), Plato in the Italian Renaissance, Leiden. Hankins, J. (2004), Greeks and Latins in Renaissance Italy, Studies on Humanism and Philosophy in the 15th century, Aldershot. Karamanolis, G. (2002), ‘Plethon and Scholarios on Aristotle’, in: K. Ierodiakonou (ed.), Byzantine Philosophy and its Ancient Sources, Oxford, 253–281. Karamanolis, G. (2006), Plato and Aristotle in Agreement? Platonists on Aristotle from Antiochus to Porphyry, Oxford. Lagarde B.(ed.) (1973), ‘Le De Differentiis de Pléthon d’après l’autographe de la Marcienne’, Byzantion 43, 321–343. Liebeschütz, H. (1967), ‘Boethius and the legacy of antiquity’, in: A.H. Armstrong (ed.), The Cambridge History of Later Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Cambridge, 535–564. Majercik, R. (1989), The Chaldean Oracles, Text, Translation and Commentary, Leiden. Maltese, E.V. (ed.) (1988), Georgii Gemisti Plethonis contra Scholarii pro Aristotele obiectiones, Leipzig. Masai, F. (1956), Pléthon et le Platonisme de Mistra, Paris. Meiser, C. (ed.) (1877), Boethius, In Librum Aristotelis de Interpretatione, Leipzig. Mioni, E. (1991), ‘Vita del Cardinale Bessarione’, in: Miscellanea Marciana vol. 6, Venice. Mohler, L. (1923–1942), Kardinal Bessarion als Theologe, Humanist und Staatsmann, Aarlen/ Paderborn. Monfasani, J. (1976), George of Trebizond, a Biography and Study of his Rhetoric and Logic, Leiden. Monfasani, J. (1984), Collectanea Trapezuntiana, New York. Parry, K. (2006), ‘Reading Proclus Diadochus in Byzantium’, in: H. Tarrant/D. Baltzly (eds.), Reading Plato in Antiquity, London, 223–235. Petit, L./Siderilès, M./Jugie, M. (eds.) (1928–1936), Georges Scholarios, Œuvres complètes de Georges Scholarios, Paris. Pfeiffer, R. (1976), History of Classical Scholarship from 1300 to 1850, Oxford. Sandys, J. (1908), A History of Classical Scholarship, Cambridge. Schmitt, C. (1976), ‘L’Introduction de la Philosophie Platonicienne dans l’Enseigement des Universités de la Renaissaince’, in: J. Vrin (ed.), Platon et Aristote à la Renaissance. XVIe Colloque international de Tours, Paris, 93–104. Tigerstedt, E.N. (1974), ‘The Decline and Fall of the Neoplatonic interpretation of Plato’, Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum 52, 5–105. Villier, M. (1937–1995), Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, Paris. Wilson, N.G. (1996), Scholars of Byzantium, London. Woodhouse, C.M. (1986), George Gemistus Plethon, the Last of the Hellenes, Oxford.

Giovanna Di Martino

The Reception of Aeschylus in SixteenthCentury Italy Τhe Case of Coriolano Martirano’s Prometheus Bound (1556) Abstract: In 1737, a plagiarist named Giovanni Scarfò reprinted as his own a liber rarissimus containing some otherwise forgotten versions of Greek tragedies and comedies, translated into Latin by Coriolano Martirano and published by his nephew in 1556. Amongst these, there appears the first version of any Aeschylean play published in Italy; specifically, the tragedy that has been regularly revisited in Europe in varying forms over the centuries: the Prometheus Bound. In this chapter, I argue that Martirano’s translation strongly informs Renaissance translation theory by its reference to the key factors that would influence translators and writers in subsequent centuries – patronage, religion and dramaturgical translatability. Through his translation, Martirano also presents a particular interpretation of Prometheus, represented as an icon of defiance in his struggle against a tyrannical Zeus, one that foreshadows some of the most evocative readings of the play belonging to the Romantic period. Keywords: Sixteenth-century Italy, Renaissance translation theory, Greek tragedy reception, Aeschylus’ reception, Prometheus Bound

In 1737, a plagiarist named Giovanni Crisostomo Scarfò reprinted as his own a liber rarissimus, as the annotation in the copy preserved in the Vatican library states.1 This very rare book contained some otherwise forgotten Latin versions of Greek tragedies and comedies adapted into Latin by Coriolano Martirano and published by his nephew in 1556 as poemata.2 Alongside translations of Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes, we surprisingly find the first version of any Aeschylean play published in Italy, the tragedy that will regularly be revisited in

 1 Scarfò 1737. It is thanks to Gaetano Volpi (1689–1761), an Italian editor and writer, that the plagiarist was unmasked, as he himself notes on the copy preserved in the Vatican library (see Manzi 1972, 244–247). 2 Martirano 1556. Marzio, Martirano’s nephew, refers to Martirano’s works as poemata in the dedicatory letter that accompanies the book.

126  Giovanna Di Martino Italy in varying forms throughout the centuries: the Prometheus Bound.3 Oddly enough, it is thanks to Scarfò that Martirano’s works were brought back to life: his Nubes and Christus were reprinted in 1781 and 1786 respectively, translated into the vernacular, and performed.4 Apart from this brief revival – albeit at first unrecognised because masked by Scarfo’s plagiarism – Martirano did not receive much attention in later Italian handbooks, which often treated his works either as mere scholarly exercises, or else as unoriginal because they were only ‘copies’ of certain Greek plays, though now published as his own.5 As ‘copies’, however, they lacked the necessary fidelity to the original texts: Martirano had dared to cut, add, and adjust words and content as he liked.6 For this reason, not long ago, it was argued that his Prometheus ‘is obviously not a translation, not even when judged by the wide interpretation given to the term literary translation in the sixteenth century, nor is it a new dramatization of a classical theme.’7 His translations of Euripides’ plays were said to be ‘the rather tardy result of a provincial and markedly academic culture, in the worst sense of the term […], meaningless works and stillborn.’ If one can

 3 I have personally conducted a study, using Wartelle 1978 and Allacci 1755 in particular, from which it clearly emerges that the Prometheus Bound, amongst Aeschylus’ tragedies, has been the most translated play in Italy, especially from the sixteenth up until the nineteenth century (see Zoboli 2000 for a twentieth-century catalogue). 4 Martirano 1781, and Martirano 1786. See Fanelli 2009, 349–362 for the Nubes; and Fanelli 2009, 362–366 and Pometti 1897, 159–172 for the Christus. While the Nubes is a translation of Aristophanes’ play, Martirano’s Christus, inspired by Gregory of Nazianzus’ Christus Patiens, is the only tragedy by him that is not a translation or reworking of an ancient play, and is therefore considered his most original tragedy. 5 Tafuri 1744, 93–99 discussed him in a few pages on the history of writers during the Kingdom of Naples, reporting praises of his Latin; Tiraboschi 1787, 1467 briefly mentions him, explaining how his translations were ‘versions of ancient Greek writers, rather than works invented and created by him’, as though he wanted to warn his readers that they were not original; Cantù 1865, 499 acknowledged only the existence of his translations; while Pometti 1897 wrote no less than 135 pages (sic!) on Martirano and his brother, a fact which made Benedetto Croce laugh, clearly thinking that they were not worth such a lengthy treatment (see Croce 1921, 73). For twentiethcentury handbooks, see especially Bertana 1905, 38–39; Flamini 1905, 124; Toffanin 1954, 56. 6 Particularly interesting in this regard is a twentieth-century critic of Italian literature, Emilio Bertana, who presents Martirano’s works as a clear example of the ‘irreverent velleity’ that humanists displayed towards ancient tragedy especially. His claim is that the way in which humanists appropriated ancient tragedy did not exhibit a new way of conceiving drama, because, even though they tweaked and adapted the ancient scripts, they would then use the same plots, the same rules, and even portray the same characters, in a sort of plagiaristic and irreverent act towards the classics (Bertana 1905, 38–39). 7 Gruys 1981, 64.

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accept those parts of the translations in which Martirano faithfully translates the Greek, ‘we refuse categorically to consider as legitimate some suppressions or tweaks […] so as to conform the Euripidean text to some principles of Christian morality.’8 Again, Martirano’s translations are dismissed on the grounds of non-legitimacy. Too loose to be considered translations, and too close to the plot and general meaning of the original to be something other, Martirano’s works fall into a sort of limbo. With such a legacy, it is not surprising to find that very little study has been made of his works: Prometheus, Electra (Sophocles), Medea, and his unpublished version of the Iliad are the only translations to which a few scholars have dedicated some attention.9 And yet, to measure his translations by a narrowly defined and anachronistic yardstick of translational fidelity is to misunderstand not just his texts, but the spirit of humanism more generally.

 Dramaturgical translatability in sixteenthcentury Italy After the advent of printing and the publication of numerous newly rediscovered ancient texts, sixteenth-century scholars devoted themselves to the frenzied activity of appropriating the classics, which Stuart Gillespie rightly defines as the ‘primary end’ of translation in the early modern period.10 This new proliferation of ancient texts in translation was closely intertwined with the privileging of the one particular genre that became the preferred source of inspiration in sixteenth-

 8 Pertusi 1966, 217, my translation. 9 See Mund-Dopchie 1978, Mund-Dopchie 1984, and Gruys 1981, 67–70 for Prometheus; Sarközy 1999 for Electra; Pometti 1897, 175–183 for Medea; Fabbri 2002 for the Iliad. 10 Gillespie 2011, 36. As Outi Merisalo 2015, 76 explains, ‘the translation strategies employed do not represent a clear rupture with those employed in the late Middle Ages’; the major difference between these two historical periods consists in ‘the dissemination and import of Renaissance translations’, which were far greater in number than those available before. ‘All the translators’, she continues, ‘were able to use translation to develop the vernacular into an instrument comparable to Latin in a way that considerably improved upon similar efforts made by their medieval predecessors.’ The means and ends of translating were rapidly undergoing a huge transformation, which, however, would not have been possible if medieval scholars had ceased their activity of tradere, ‘passing down’, the classics – through their mediation – to posterity.

128  Giovanna Di Martino century Italy: tragedy, and Greek tragedy in particular.11 Italian humanists provided a considerable number of ‘volgarizzamenti’ (‘vernacular versions’), mostly taken from Euripides and Sophocles, with a very few drawing on Aeschylus. With the establishment of so-called Italian Renaissance tragedy, then, reproducing classical plays often entailed a radical reconfiguration of the ancient texts, a displacement and a re-interpretation of their models. For sixteenth-century Italian tragedians, the distinction between a new play and a translation was illusory because a kind of recodification of the original, both in terms of structure and content, was considered a necessary stage through which the text had to pass.12 Every piece of translation that claimed to be a reworking of a tragedy was conceived for the stage, regardless of whether the performance actually occurred. As Alessandro Pazzi de’ Medici reminds us in the preface to his Dido in Cartagine and Ifigenia in Tauride, tragedy is a poem ‘ordinato per la recitazione ne i magnifici spettacoli’ (‘meant to be performed in magnificent spectacles’); and in translating Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, he professes to have maintained Euripides’ ‘dispositione’ (‘disposition’) of matters, along with the general meaning of the play, without, however, constraining his version by the ‘rigide leggi della traduzione’ (‘rigid laws of translation’), as he strove to render the ‘substantia’ (‘substance’) of Euripides’ lines.13 Along similar lines, we read that Lodovico Dolce is presenting his version of Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis ‘con altra lingua e altra forma’ (‘in another language and form’), and his Medea ‘con nuovi panni […] vestita’ (‘clothed in new garments’).14 Yet, Giovan Battista Giraldi offers probably the most eloquent statement in this respect when, in the prologue of his tragedy Altile, he justifies his ‘disobedience’ to the rules of tragedy passed down by the ancients as something that the Greeks themselves would have done in order to ‘servire a l’età, a gli spettatori’, ‘soddisfare a questi tempi, a’ spettatori, a la materia nova’, i.e. accommodate the tastes of their contemporaries.15

 11 See in particular Di Maria 2002 and 2005, 428–443; Herrick 1965. 12 Along with revitalising the tragic genre, sixteenth-century humanists wanted to renew theatre itself, taking control of ‘the social, physical and economic organisation of theatres and theatre performances’, as Richard Andrews points out (Andrews 2006, 31). 13 Solerti 1887, 45–46. 14 Dolce 1551, 57; 1557, 2. 15 Giraldi 1586, 1–2; on this matter, see especially Di Maria 2002, 17–34.

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Martirano was a close friend of Lodovico Dolce and a member of important literary circles in Rome and Cosenza, circles to which some of the Italian tragedians mentioned above belonged.16 He was part of the same entourage of scholars who would translate ancient tragedies for the stage ‘newly clothed’, in ‘another form’, to accommodate the tastes of his contemporaries. Although we do not have any personal statements concerning his intentions in translating these plays, it is not purely speculative to allege some kind of performative intent behind what scholars have usually seen as a mere academic exercise, as the eighteenth-century performances of two of his plays already testify.17 Hints in this direction are Martirano’s additions of some lines, here and there, that could be interpreted as stage directions, together with his habit of breaking dialogues down into more parts so as to best accommodate dramatic needs. One example of this occurs in the Prometheus before Oceanus’ entrance, when the Chorus utter (168–170):18 Atque ipse en pater tempori adest tibi Oceanus pede propero. Cernin’? Eccum. Licet audire loquentem.

They are announcing their father’s entrance, and – most importantly – they are letting the readers/spectators know that Oceanus is their father.19 Another example occurs after the first stasimon, when the Chorus recite a few lines as if they want their audience to reconnect with the main character Prometheus (171–172):20 Sed quid repente corde suspirium elicis? Obducta et atris fronte nubibus taces?

 16 Tafuri 1744, 99 mentions their friendship. See Pometti 1897, 157–185 and Fanelli 1996 for a complete account of Martirano’s life. 17 Martirano’s plays were published against his will by his nephew, Marzio, who explains in detail his struggles before eventually deciding to publish them. They had apparently been destined for the fire (see the dedicatory letter in Martirano 1556). 18 The following lines have no equivalent in the Greek text; they should be located after the Chorus’ speech to Prometheus, PV 280–285. 19 Mund-Dopchie 1978, 174 believes that Martirano added these lines only to clarify that Oceanus is their father. Indeed, it was Martirano’s intent to inform his readers about Oceanus’ relationship with the Chorus, but what is notable is that he does so within the ‘rules’ of Greek theatre, through spoken stage directions. 20 Again, the following lines have no equivalent in the Greek text; they are placed at the end of the first choral ode (PV 397–435) which Martirano condenses to 16 lines.

130  Giovanna Di Martino After the choral ode in which they bemoan Prometheus’ fate, the Chorus want to re-establish a dialogue with the Titan, and they do so in a theatrical way, using spoken stage directions as the Greek tragedians did. Similarly, we also have Io’s long speech in which she repeatedly asks the Chorus and Prometheus to look at her face and at her repulsive body (viden’?); or when the Chorus implore her to tell her story, and she utters audite Nymphae, audite, as if she were suggesting that this was the dramaturgical moment for them to gather around her.21

 Religion and Prometheus: Martirano’s original interpretation of the play Dramaturgical adaptability, however, represents only one of the functions of this translation: religion, which inevitably guided Martirano’s process of interpreting the text, plays an essential role too. Even the choice of this particular play can be traced back to the poet/translator’s devotion to the Catholic Church, a devotion which led him to enter the episcopacy and later participate in the Council of Trento as one of the few bishops chosen to represent the Kingdom of Naples. As Olga Raggio points out, the myth of the figure of Prometheus from late antiquity onwards had been conflated in the Christian tradition with the Christian God – this ‘moral interpretation’ saw in Prometheus ‘a prefiguration of the true God.’22 Late-antique Biblical illustrations, as well as Italian illustrated editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, represented Prometheus as the first moulder of men, referring to him as being in some way parallel to God. This God-like Prometheus was corroborated by Boccaccio, Marsilio Ficino, and Charles de Boulles.23 Not surprisingly, then, Martirano found himself drawn to reviving the Aeschylean tragedy which strongly resonated with him, and which potentially had so many Christian and moral implications. Interestingly, though, Martirano, as a man of the Church, is not afraid to render Aeschylus’ harsh portrayal of Zeus, and he is especially keen to appreciate fully Prometheus’ humanity. In this sense, Martirano foreshadows some of the

 21 Cf. Martirano 1556, 175–176. 22 Raggio 1958, 49. 23 Raggio 1958, 53–56.

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most evocative readings of the play from the Romantic period, in which Prometheus is represented as an icon of defiance, in his struggle against a tyrannical Zeus.24 From the prologue of Martirano’s translation, which refers to Prometheus Vinctus (hence PV) 5–11, it is already possible to detect hints in this direction (164): Necessitas: Nefandus hic, semperque detestabilis, qui clam Tonante Solis ab curru impudens subduxit ignem: Dis et invitis suo pro numine illum dividit mortalibus. Age ergo, longis discat ut fractus malis Saturnium quid sit pericli fallere. ΚΡΑΤΟΣ: […] τόνδε πρὸς πέτραις ὑψηλοκρήμνοις τὸν λεωργὸν ὀχμάσαι ἀδαμαντίνων δεσμῶν ἐν ἀρρήκτοις πέδαις. τὸ σὸν γὰρ ἄνθος, παντέχνου πυρὸς σέλας, θνητοῖσι κλέψας ὤπασεν. τοιᾶσδέ τοι ἁμαρτίας σφε δεῖ θεοῖς δοῦναι δίκην, ὡς ἂν διδαχθῆι τὴν Διὸς τυραννίδα στέργειν, φιλανθρώπου δὲ παύεσθαι τρόπου.25



Necessitas (‘Necessity’) is the name under which Martirano condenses both Κράτος and Βία, dehumanising the character, who only knows what needs to be done. In her harsh speech, she addresses Prometheus as nefandus et detestabilis, which translates the Greek λεωργόs. The Greek term, which, according to Mark Griffith, comes to mean simply a ‘criminal’, is rendered with adjectives full of Christian and moral implications: nefandus, detestabilis and impudens.26 Necessitas then prefigures how Prometheus, fractus malis (‘destroyed by evils’), will learn that it is dangerous to deceive Zeus (Saturnium quid sit pericli fallere).

 24 On the figure of Prometheus during the Romantic period, see, amongst others, Dougherty 2006, 91–115. 25 ‘To bind this criminal to the high rocky cliffs in the unbreakable fetters of adamantine bonds; for it was your glory, the gleam of fire that makes all skills attainable, that he stole and gave to mortals. For such an offence he must assuredly pay his penalty to the gods, to teach him that he must accept the autocracy of Zeus and abandon his human-loving ways’ (Sommerstein 2008, 445). Henceforth, the Greek text reproduced is from Page 1972. Both Mund-Dopchie 1978, 165 and Gruy 1981, 69 provide some textual evidence that Martirano’s starting point for his translation was Robortello’s edition (1552), although he followed the Aldine (1518) for some words. 26 Griffith 1983, 82. The CDS (Cross Database Searchtool) of the DLD (Database of Latin Dictionaries) gives an interesting statistics for these three words (nefandus, detestabilis, and impudens),

132  Giovanna Di Martino Vulcan’s reply follows promptly, retracing PV 12–15, but Necessitas’ speech immediately after is one of those additions that have made scholars deny Martirano’s version the label ‘translation’ (164): Vulcanus: Necessitas invicta, surda, pervicax: in te Iovis sortita sunt finem horrida præcepta; nil ut increpandi sit loci. Ego propinquum sanguine his iugis Deum, veteremque amicum figere haud quaque audeo. Necessitas: Oblitus ergo vertice ab celso aetheris quum pronus exturbaris? Haud levior manet te casus illo, ni obsequeris naviter. ΗΦΑΙΣΤΟΣ Κράτος Βία τε, σφῶιν μὲν ἐντολὴ Διὸς ἔχει τέλος δὴ κοὐδὲν ἐμποδὼν ἔτι, ἐγὼ δ’ ἄτολμός εἰμι συγγενῆ θεὸν δῆσαι βίαι φάραγγι πρὸς δυσχειμέρωι.27


In an adjectival accumulation in asyndeton, a feature characteristic of Martirano’s Latin translation, Vulcan addresses Necessitas as invicta, emphasising the process of dehumanization which this character clearly undergoes; surda, ‘insensitive’, ‘soulless’; pervicax, ‘obstinate’, as Fate / Necessitas always proves to be.28 Prometheus, in Vulcan’s words, represents a vetus amicus, an expression that stands instead of the Greek συγγενῆ θεὸν, ‘kindred god.’ The choice of this phrase is a first hint of Martirano’s humanization of Prometheus and of those who stand with him: amicitia more than kinship is what binds the two gods, and is the real reason Vulcan is reluctant to bind Prometheus to the rocks. Necessitas’ answer is even more interesting – she cruelly reminds Vulcan of his duty again, if he does not want to end up like his ‘friend’, to which Vulcan

 the usage of which almost tripled during the Middle Ages as compared to their occurrences in late antiquity and antiquity. 27 ‘So far as you two are concerned, Power and Violence, the orders of Zeus have been completely fulfilled, and there is no task still lying before you. But for my part, I can hardly bring myself to take a kindred god and forcibly bind him at this stormy ravine’ (Sommerstein 2008, 445). 28 The term pervicax is of Senecan origin, an author most dear to Martirano, though it has been used by others as well. Lycus says that Megara is pervicax after her repeated refusal to marry him (Sen. Her. 501); pervicax is also the dreadful clades that falls upon Oedipus’ citizens (Sen. Oed. 57), as is the gaze that can only see smoke coming from Troy’s destruction, as Eurybates reports in the Agamemnon (Sen. Ag. 458).

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replies that: AMICITIA, sanguisque res nimium efficax, which translates PV 39 (Ηφ. τὸ συγγενές τοι δεινὸν ἥ θ’ ὁμιλία).29 Again, where the Greek reaffirms the importance of τὸ συγγενές (‘bonds of kinship’) and ὁμιλία (‘closeness’), Martirano reaffirms the importance of ‘friendship.’ In case his readers were still uncertain whether he was translating the Greek as amicus on purpose in the first place, they were now reassured of the importance of this concept, because Martirano capitalised the entire word. A moral bond deeper than the bonds of blood ties the two gods together. A few lines after, Vulcan employs the usual rising climax to respond to Necessitas’ repeated order to complete his duty: crudelis usque tu, peratrox, et rapax, which renders PV 42 (Ηφ. αἰεί γε δὴ νηλὴς σὺ καὶ θράσους πλέως)30 possibly even more intense and emphatic. In response to this, Necessitas utters words that only remotely recall those of the Greek: tu ineptus es, vecorsque: qui in cassum ingemas ‘you are foolish and insane: you lament in vain.’31 Merciless as she is, Necessitas cannot understand Vulcan’s mercy, and calls him ‘foolish’, even ‘insane.’ And, again, in rendering PV 69 (Ηφ. ὁρᾶις θέαμα δυσθέατον ὄμμασιν),32 Martirano presents the usual accumulation of adjectives: horrendum, atrox, crudele spectaclum aspicis, says Vulcan when he finishes binding Prometheus to the rock. This literary device recurs throughout the translation, usually serving to enhance Zeus’ harshness or that of his followers.33 After Prometheus has described his atrocious sufferings, the Chorus declare (166): […] Solus implacabilis ille est, superbus, asper, indomitus, ferus. […] ὁ δ’ ἐπικότως ἀεὶ θέμενος ἄγναμπτον νόον δάμναται οὐρανίαν γένναν, οὐδὲ λήξει

164,bis 165

 29 ‘Kinship is terribly powerful, you know, and so is companionship’ (Sommerstein 2008, 447). 30 ‘You are always pitiless and full of ruthlessness’ (ibid., 449). 31 Cf. PV 43–44: σὺ δὲ / τὰ μηδὲν ὠφελοῦντα μὴ πόνει μάτην: ‘So, don’t waste effort when it won’t be of an use’ (ibid.). 32 ‘Do you see this sight, hard for eyes to look on?’ (ibid., 453). 33 As seen in the Necessitas-Vulcan scene, this device is also used by Zeus’ spokespersons. Mercurius’ first words to Prometheus are (cf. PV 943–946): hostis deorum, garrule, impudens, loquax (179). And again, when Mercurius acknowledges that Prometheus will not collaborate, he utters (cf. PV 999–1000): heu heu miser, demensque, penitus desipis (180).

134  Giovanna Di Martino πρὶν ἂν ἢ κορέσηι κέαρ ἢ παλάμαι τινὶ τὰν δυσάλωτον ἕληι τις ἀρχάν.34

There is no trace of Zeus overthrowing the sons of Uranus, nor does Martirano mention the possibility of someone else dethroning Zeus himself. The translator, though, seems rather keen to impress his readers/spectators with a dense rising sequence of adjectives that loosely retrace the god’s ‘constant anger’ (ἐπικότως ἀεὶ) and the inflexibility of his resolutions (θέμενος ἄγναμπτον νόον).35 The Chorus will recall two of these adjectives some lines later, when they restate that animis feris esse ille et indomitis puer / Saturnius perhibetur, atque acerrimus. The text is a loose translation of PV 184–185, where Aeschylus speaks of ἀκίχητα ἤθεα (‘irremovable character’) and κέαρ ἀπαράμυθον (‘inexorable heart’). Ferus and indomitus, as before, qualify Zeus’ animus, along with acerrimus, which will reoccur in Prometheus’ reply in partnership with violentus (167). As Vulcan did before, the Chorus are now describing Zeus as a cold-hearted tyrant, incapable of human feelings, which they show they have by empathizing with Prometheus’ situation. Another interesting passage in this respect is Martirano’s translation of PV 324, where Oceanus calls Zeus a ‘harsh monarch’, who wields power in a way that is ‘not subject to (judicial) review’, as Podlecki explains (169):36 Invictus ille, invictus est rerum Arbiter, Dominusque: celso corde, coedere nescius. Ille pede mundum versat; ille turbidis ventis et atris obsitus nimbis caput, curru polum sonante fulgentem quatit. τραχὺς μόναρχος οὐδ’ ὑπεύθυνος κρατεῖ.37


Invictus, a term that – interestingly – has already been used for Necessitas, Zeus is Arbiter of all things. He is a Dominus characterised by a ‘haughty heart’, ‘unable to yield’; he ‘turns’ the world ‘with his foot’, and, covered with ‘turbid winds’ and  34 ‘He, with constant anger, / making his resolve inflexible, / is conquering the sons of Uranus, nor will he stop / till either he has glutted his desires, or by some contrivance / another takes his power – which is hard to take’ (Sommerstein 2008, 463). 35 The adjective implacabilis referring to Zeus will return when Prometheus warns Oceanus against his desire to help him (cf. PV 330–334): age aliud, implacabilis / ille est, atroxque: iramque non facile excoquit. / Quiescito (inquam) cessa; et in primis cave, / via haec tibi ne forte quid pariat mali (169). 36 Podlecki 2005, 172. 37 ‘We have a harsh monarch holding irresponsible power’ (Sommerstein 2008, 479).

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‘black’ clouds, he ‘shakes’ the sky, which ‘shines’ with his ‘wide-sounding chariot.’ If we think that Martirano’s translation is often a condensed and abridged version of the Greek text, it is remarkable that here we find five lines against one in Greek. Dreadful descriptions of Zeus’ power are by no means new to Latin literature (cf., i.e., Hor. Carm. 1.34.5–12). Yet, this passage is not only a homage to Latin literature; it also represents another nod towards Martirano’s interpretation of Zeus and his subalterns as inhuman. Almost every character within the play symp- and emp-athises with Prometheus’ plight. The Chorus in the first place: est durus, est ahenus, est etiam silex (168) is their answer to his speech, which elaborates on PV 242–243. Io calls him miser when she discovers his fate (175). Vulcan regards him as a vetus amicus. Oceanus asks to ‘suffer’ (aegrotare) the same ‘pain’ (aegritudo) as his friend (170), a loose translation of PV 384–385. The only two characters who can neither understand nor pity Prometheus are Necessitas, who does not even seem to be human, and Mercury, a corrupted lackey of Zeus. Indeed, with his characterization of Necessitas as a sort of spokesperson for Fate, and his empathy with Prometheus, Martirano portrays a Prometheus who closely recalls that of Boccaccio or Ficino, but with one major difference. Being parallel to God, their Prometheus sapiens was not harassed by Zeus: he was not set against the ruler of gods. Martirano, on the other hand, voluntarily decides to exaggerate where possible the Aeschylean portrayal of Zeus, and that of the gods who collaborate with him, presumably because for him Zeus represents not the divine so much as the tyranny of the secular world. Strange as it might seem, though, he effects this critique of secular power by enhancing the praise for one of the most pagan mythical figures from the classical world: Prometheus. 38 This elevation of Prometheus’ humanity into an icon of defiance against a despotic Zeus represents a step forward in the history of his reception as a character, especially when compared to other contemporary translations.39

 38 See Mund-Dopchie 1984, 111–112 for a different interpretation. 39 See, for example, Antonio Cinuzzi’s political translation of the play (cf. Blasina 2006), which is believed to have been written during the same period as Martirano’s work.

136  Giovanna Di Martino

 Translating movements in Martirano’s Prometheus As stated above, the main reason for the previous dismissal of Martirano’s translations lies in the fact that they are extremely difficult to define in form, located somewhere between actual translations and adaptations. Especially when he renders metaphors and images from the Greek, Martirano often departs from the original, in order to find their equivalent in Latin literature. Even his characterization of Κράτος and Βία is probably modelled upon Horace’s saeva and dira Necessitas, who constrains mortals and immortals by her plans (Hor. Carm. 1.35.17; 3.24.6). A clear example of Martirano’s creative process in transposing images is the passage below, taken from Vulcan’s first speech (164): […] Phoebus ex arce aeris radiis petet te interdiu flammantibus. Et quum profusis caeca nox umbris ruet; ustus pruinis membra nocturnis gemes. Flos decolorque et tabidus cutis fluet caloribus, duroque perdomitus gelu. Diras querelas, atque lamentabiles luctus ciebis: aura quos ludens feret per maria nigris agitata fluctibus. […] σταθευτὸς δ’ ἡλίου φοίβηι φλογὶ χροιᾶς ἀμείψεις ἄνθος· ἀσμένωι δέ σοι ἡ ποικιλείμων νὺξ ἀποκρύψει φάος πάχνην θ’ ἑώιαν ἥλιος σκεδᾶι πάλιν· […] πολλοὺς δ’ ὀδυρμοὺς καὶ γόους ἀνωφελεῖς φθέγξηι·40



The translator elaborates on the Greek text to create new meanings, or – more properly – to adapt the Greek meanings to Latin. PV 22–25 occupy six lines in Martirano’s translation. Phoebus, taken from the Greek φοίβηι, which here is used as a simple adjective, becomes the subject and genesis of a new image, imbued with Greek mythology. The god will chase Prometheus from the sky, arce aeris, a  40 ‘You will lose the bloom of your skin, grilled by the brilliant flames of the sun; welcome to you will be Night of the gaudy apparel when she hides the daylight, but welcome too the return of the sun to disperse the early morning frost; […] you will utter many wailing laments, all in vain’ (Sommerstein 2008, 447).

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quasi-quotation from Ov. Met. 15.832 (arces aetherias), ‘with inflamed rays’, flammantibus radiis, and when the ‘blind night will fall’ with ‘generous shadows’, Prometheus, ustus, ‘burnt’, which hearkens back to the Greek σταθευτὸς, ‘will lament in the nocturnal dews’ over his limbs. Now, caeca nox could be seen as a misinterpretation of ἡ ποικιλείμων νὺξ, which literally means ‘the spangled-garb night.’41 However, the conjunction caeca nox is too recurrent in Martirano’s beloved Latin authors to be a coincidence here (Catull. 68 B.44; Cic. Mil. 50.6; Lucr. 1.1115–6, to cite three amongst others), especially when in Ov. Met. 11.521, a work particularly known to Martirano, the sky disposing of the sun’s ‘flames’, and the caeca nox ‘pressing’ on it with its shadows, are mentioned together. After these first few lines, Martirano returns to PV 23, where the Greek has it that the ‘skin’s bloom’ (χροιᾶς ἄνθος) of Prometheus will ‘be altered’; i.e., the colour of his skin will change. Flos, a translation of the Greek ἄνθος, is accompanied by the explanatory expansion decolorque et tabidus cutis, which along with the main verb fluet and the instrumental caloribus offers a perfect description of what will happen to Prometheus. The highly tragic and emphatic prefiguration then continues in asyndeton with the addition of duroque perdomitus gelu. Not only will the heat of the sun’s rays discolour the Titan’s skin, but the bitter cold of the night will ‘putrefy’ it, in a realistic and horrific image that recalls those of Seneca’s tragedies. Cutting out PV 26–32, Martirano offers a quite close translation of lines 33– 34, then tragically to conclude Vulcan’s speech with a new image, employed to render the Greek adjective ἀνωφελής, -ές, ‘unprofitable, useless.’ Prometheus’ laments will be ‘transported’ by the wind through the sea, ‘agitated by black waves.’ Once again, aura feret is an expression taken from Horace (Carm. 3.29.64), although transposed into a different context. Martirano plays with famous expressions from Latin literature, adapting them to his own needs. The translation is littered with all kinds of images; sometimes Martirano faithfully transposes them from the Greek, and at other times he searches for new ways of phrasing the same concept more apt to Latin, in order to convey the maximum tragedy within a few lines.42 The very last line of his translation is an example of this indomitable search for the tragic. Here Prometheus, instead of uttering

 41 Thus Mund-Dopchie 1978, 169. 42 An example of faithful translation is of PV 394–396: et iam mea haec pennata quadrupes diu/ lacessit auras aetheris, cupiens fugae:/ ut membra solitis flectat in praesepibus (170). An example of a reworking of the original is PV 878–886: perii misera en iterum/ calamis resonans Argus oboritur./ Iterum furiis agitor: gelido/ rursus quatior membra pavore./ Acris en oculos rabies occupat:/

138  Giovanna Di Martino ‘see how unjustly I suffer!’ (ἐσορᾷς ὡς ἔκδικα πάσχω; PV 1093),43 finishes with one of the most effective lines of the translation (182): o tellus, tuque, obrute in imo/ telluris Saturne barathro, aspicis, ut me Iuppiter urget?

 Martirano’s Prometheus between translation and adaptation Martirano’s Prometheus as a whole amounts to an abridged version of Aeschylus’ drama, with 877 lines versus 1093 in the original. The choral odes, in varied lyric metres, are much shorter than the odes in Greek, whereas some non-choric parts are remarkably longer than the original. In this way, Martirano exploits the Greek so as to advance his own interpretation of the play.44 Martirano faithfully reproduces the plot and the main entrances of the characters, as well as the major concepts of the play. His way of reproducing them, however, it has been argued, represents a sort of ‘betrayal’ of Aeschylus’ language, as he was not able to convey the ‘audacious images’ along with the great number of new ‘coinages’ that can be found in the original.45 In this view, his only merit, then, lies in making Aeschylus’ Prometheus more accessible to his contemporaries.46

 Mensque suis e sedibus excidat:/ moderari nec valeo linguae/ infelix, sub vortice nigro/ tantorum demersa malorum (173). The use of furor, and infelix at the beginning of a line, immediately reconnects us with his beloved Virgil and Seneca, to cite only two; with plastic expressions like acris en oculos rabies occupat, and mensque suis e sedibus excidat, in order to conclude with the highly tragic demersa, ‘immerged in a black/evil vortex of so many sufferings’, he reworks the Greek to create dense new Latin lines. 43 Sommerstein 2008, 563. 44 This is the case, for example, of Prometheus’ emphatic explanation of his peccata: one is drawn to empathise with him, like the Chorus do (cf. PV 228–236 with Martirano 1556, 167–168); Prometheus’ description of the miseries of mortals and his gifts to them is almost 20 lines longer than the original, with the most pathetic lines being about mortals’ lack of necessities, things Prometheus provides, including teaching them the art of divination (cf. PV 447–471 and 476– 506 with Martirano 1556, 171–173). Io’s speech is almost 10 lines longer than the original (cf. PV 640–686 with Martirano 1556, 175–176). Martirano often exploits the choral odes for his own ends. In the first choral ode, for example, the only lines that he renders quite closely are 402– 405, where, not surprisingly, the Chorus complain about Zeus’ tyrannical power: regna sua nunc Iuppiter urget/ lege puer, tyrannidis aciem/ intentans, fulmenque coruscum (171). 45 Mund-Dopchie 1978, 177. 46 Mund-Dopchie 1978, 177.

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How, then, can we define Martirano’s Prometheus? If one looks at early modern treatises on translation, it is clear that ‘the tension between ‘foreignizing’ and ‘naturalizing’ is expressed not so much at the level of theories of translation […] but at the level of practice.’47 The titles of early treatises on translation testify to this: De interpretatione recta (1424/1426) by Leonardo Bruni; La manière de bien traduire d’une langue en aultre (1540) by Etienne Dolet; and Dialogo del modo de lo tradurre d’una in altra lingua secondo le regole mostrate da Cicerone (1556) by Fausto da Longiano. Both Bruni and Dolet emphasise the importance of understanding the language of the source text and warn against verbum de verbo translation, privileging sensum exprimere de sensu, an expression used by Jerome in his letter to Pammachius (Jer. Ep. LVII, 5). Fausto Da Longiano, on the other hand, takes a rather different stance, criticising those ‘translations’ that fall into the category which he designates as ‘metafrasi.’48 Fausto refers to the Ciceronian precept nec converti ut interpres, sed ut orator (Cic., Opt. Gen. 5.14), but he overturns Cicero’s words, bending them to his own ends, claiming that translation stricto sensu is that which ‘expresses the sentences, preserves the order of things, and maintains the speech figures of the original text’, in order to ‘keep the virtue, strength and value the words have in the original text.’49 In other words, the would-be translator should render the source text not ut orator, but ut interpres. Fausto’s treatise, then, strongly testifies to the birth of a new quest amongst Italian scholars in the Renaissance: the need for a systematization and establishment of relevant patterns so as to be able to assess which ‘volgarizzamenti’ truly correspond to the ‘right’ translational criteria. The rigid definition Fausto gave of the translation process, condemning as ‘unfaithful’ most of his contemporaries’ works, pioneered a dogmatic way of ‘receiving’ the ancients that imposed limits on potential creativity. His definition defies humanist practice, which (though sharing a real veneration for the newly discovered texts) treated them with considerable freedom, by abridging, enlarging, and adding new sections. The humanists synthetically adapted them to their own time and taste, as Martirano did

 47 Clarke 2005, 17. 48 See Guthmuller 1990, 36. Interestingly, the category Fausto criticises for being insufficiently faithful to the original is called ‘metafrasi’, which instead becomes the most ‘literal’ category in Dryden’s tripartite scheme on translation in his ‘Preface to Ovid’s Epistles’ (1680). For Dryden, ‘imitation’ rightly stands for a looser appropriation of the ancient text. 49 Da Longiano (1556) § 119, 38, in Guthmuller 1990, 38, my translation.

140  Giovanna Di Martino in his translations. Yet, it is this new, anti-humanist attitude that will predominate in the following centuries and open the path to classicism.50 Is Martirano’s play not a translation, then? What I believe Martirano’s Prometheus successfully demonstrates is the performance of translating, that process which involves an inter- or trans- movement from a source language to a target one. The text appears full of quotations from Latin authors, adapted and re-constructed in order to reproduce the meaning of the original play. His Prometheus resonates with a mixture of Christian and classical influences, tweaked and reworked within a highly theatrical language, which suggests that, while translating, Martirano was thinking of a theatrical audience, whether real or imaginary. The text also shows newly made sections conceived by the author, and abridged versions of the Greek that represent the author’s particular reading of the play, alongside passages that appear faithful to the original language. Overall, one might infer, Martirano betrays the language of the original, so as to adapt it to Latin. The passages analyzed above have unveiled Martirano’s translating process in creating a new version of Prometheus Bound. This explains why Martirano’s nephew referred to Martirano’s works as poemata and not as ‘translations’, which contributed to the very peculiar reception history I have detailed above. Martirano’s interpretation of the play is also part of this creative process: partly modelled upon the Prometheus emerging from the works of Boccaccio and Ficino, Martirano’s Prometheus stands out as the shaper of human beings whose punishment is most incomprehensible to those who cannot understand a coldhearted tyrant.

 50 It seems that this new normative trend employed by scholars from the 1560s onwards facilitated the development of a binary attitude towards the appropriation of the classics: one that resembles what the French would later call belles infidèles, according to the definition that the philologist Gilles Ménage applied to Nicolas Perrot d’Ablancourt’s translations in 1654, a concept that would inform most of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Italian reworkings; the other, more closely recalling the activity that recent translation theory would ascribe to a ‘foreignization’ of the target language, i.e. a more ‘literal’ way of rendering the source text in all its nuances. These two contrasting attitudes towards the classics were both present in Italy, but something very similar is said to have been happening in seventeenth-century France (see Hayes 2008, 2). This was also the case in England, though delayed by several decades and appearing more as a chronological succession of the two, when the publication in 1791 of Alexander Fraser Tytler’s Essay on the Principles of Translation, while agreeing with some of the assumptions of the bellesinfidèles school, bent the course of translation practice towards a more ‘literal’ approach, with the aim of reaching ‘a balance between the conflicting claims of the SL [source language] and TL [target language] orientations’ (Windle/Pym 2011, 11).

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In conclusion, Martirano’s text reflects a century in love with the ancient authors, so much so that humanists personally revitalised them, in light of the spirit of their times, as a mark of their respect. Martirano, then, is translating: but within the rules of so-called Renaissance Italian tragedy, which, in a way, demanded and, more importantly, permitted a certain degree of freedom and creativity, an actual appropriation of the original. If betrayal meant to re-create images and concepts successfully in order to present a Prometheus ‘newly clothed’ and in ‘another language and form’ that was more accessible to Martirano’s contemporaries – in short, to allow the survival of Aeschylus’ text within a new form – then his translational practice was betrayal indeed.

Bibliography Allacci, L. (1755), Drammaturgia di Lione Allacci: accresciuta e continuata fino all’anno MDCCLV, Venice. Andrews, R. (2006), ‘The Renaissance Stage’, in: J. Farrell/P. Puppa (eds.), A History of Italian Theatre, Cambridge, 31–38. Bertana, E. (1905), La tragedia, Milan. Blasina, A. (ed.) (2006), Il Prometeo del Duca. La prima traduzione italiana del Prometeo di Eschilo (Vat. Urb. Lat. 789), Amsterdam. Cantù, C. (1865), Storia della letteratura italiana, Florence. Clarke, D. (2005), ‘Translation and the English Language’, in: G. Braden/R. Cummings/S. Gillespie (eds.), The Oxford History of Literary Translation in English, Oxford, 17–23. Croce, B. (1921), ‘I fratelli Martirano’, in: Idem, Curiosità storiche, Naples, 65–76. Di Maria, S. (2005), ‘Italian Reception of Greek Tragedy’, in: J. Gregory (ed.), A Companion to Greek Tragedy, Oxford, 428–443. Di Maria, S. (2002), The Italian Tragedy in the Renaissance: Cultural Realities and Theatrical Innovations, Lewisburg/London. Dolce, L. (1551), Ifigenia, Venice. Dolce, L. (1557), Medea, Venice. Fabbri, R. (2002), ‘Su una inedita (e sconosciuta) traduzione iliadica’, Studi Umanistici Piceni 22, 101–108. Fanelli, C. (1996), ‘Il contributo dato alla storia e alla cultura italiana dagli umanisti dell’Accademia cosentina’, in: F. Cozzetto (2004), Tra storia e letteratura: atti del primo decennio (1993–2003) del premio ‘Galeazzo di Tarsia’, Cosenza, 53–65. Fanelli, C. (2009), ‘Tragico e comico, sacro e profano, nel teatro di Coriolano Martirano’, in: S. Castellaneta/F.S. Minervini (eds.), Atti del Convegno sacro e/o profano nel teatro fra Rinascimento ed età dei Lumi, Bari, 345–366. Flamini, F. (1905), Storia Letteraria d’Italia. Il Cinquecento, Milan. Gallispie, S. (2011), English Translation and Classical Reception, Oxford. Giraldi, G. (1586), Altile, Venice. Griffith, M. (ed.) (1983), Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound, Cambridge.

142  Giovanna Di Martino Gruys, J.A. (1981), The Early Printed Editions (1518–1664) of Aeschylus: a Chapter in the History of Classical Scholars, Nieuwkoop. Guthmuller, B. (1990), ‘Fausto da Longiano e il problema del tradurre’, Quaderni Veneti 12, 9–56. Hayes, J.C. (2008), ‘From the Academy to Port-Royal, in: Idem, Translation, Subjectivity, and Culture in France and England, 1600–1800, Stanford, 1–34. Herrick, M.T. (1965), Italian Tragedy in the Renaissance, Urbana. Manzi, P. (1972), La tipografia napoletana nel ’500, Florence. Martirano, C. (1556), ‘Prometheus’, in: Idem, Tragoediae VIII: Medea, Electra, Hippolitus, Bacchae, Phoenissae, Cyclops, Prometheus, Christus. Comoediae II: Plutus, Nubes. Odyssae lib. XII. Batrachomyomachia. Argonautica, Naples, 164–182. Martirano, C. (1781), Socrate. Commedia tratta dalle Nubi di Aristofane da rappresentarsi nel collegio de' nobili di Parma, traduzione latina di Coriolano Martirano Vescovo di Cosenza. Parafrasi italiana della traduzione latina, Parma. Martirano, C. (1786), ‘Christus’, in: I. Affò/A. Mazza/E. Pilenejo/A. Bernieri/ (eds.), Christus Coriolani Martirani Cosentini episcopi tragoedia. = Il Cristo tragedia di Coriolano Martirano vescovo di Cosenza trasportata in versi toscani, Parma. Merisalo, O. (2015), ‘Translating the Classics into the Vernacular in Sixteenth Century Italy’, Renaissance Studies 29, 55–77. Mund-Dopchie, M. (1978), ‘Un travail peu connu sur Eschyle, le Prométhée latin de Coriolano Martirano (1556)’, Humanistica Lovaniensia 27, 160–177. Mund-Dopchie, M. (1984), La survie d’Eschyle à la Renaissance: éditions, traductions, commentaires et imitations, Paris. Page, D.L. (1972), ‘Prometheus Vinctus’, in: Idem, Aeschyli septem quae supersunt tragoedias, Oxford, 287–329. Pertusi, A. (1966) ‘Il ritorno alle fonti del teatro greco e classico: Euripide nell’Umanesimo e nel Rinascimento’, in: Idem, Venezia e l’Oriente fra tardo Medioevo e Rinascimento, Florence, 205–224. Podlecki, A.J. (transl.) (2005), Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound, Oxford. Pometti, F. (1897), I Martirano, Rome. Raggio, O. (1958), ‘The Myth of Prometheus: Its Survival and Metamorphoses up to the Eighteenth Century’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 21, 44–62. Sarközy, J. (1999), ‘L’Elettra latina di Coriolano Martirano’, Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 39, 313–328. Scarfò, G.C. (1737), Poesie varie latine ed italiane del P. Maestro Gio. Crisostomo Scarfò, Venice. Solerti, A. (ed.) (1887), Le tragedie metriche di Alessandro Pazzi de’ Medici, Bologna. Tafuri, G.B. (1744), Istoria degli scrittori nati nel regno di Napoli, Naples. Tiraboschi, G. (1787), Storia della letteratura italiana del cavaliere abate Girolamo Tiraboschi, Modena, vol. III. Toffanin, G. (1954), Storia Letteraria d’Italia. Il Cinquecento, Milan. Wartelle, A. (1978), Bibliographie historique et critique d’Eschyle et de la tragédie grecque: 1518–1974, Paris. Windle, K./Pym, A. (2011), ‘European Thinking on Secular Translation’, in: K. Malmkjaer/K. Windle (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Translation Studies, Oxford, 8–22. Zoboli, P. (2000), ‘Sulle versioni dei tragici greci in Italia (1900–1960)’, Aevum 3, 833–874.

Tristan Alonge

Rethinking the Birth of French Tragedy Abstract: this paper explores the French translations from Greek Tragedy at the beginning of the 16th century and aims to rethink the birth of French Tragedy, by showing that its origin was Greek and not Latin. Historical and religious reasons – and not a literary preference – explain Seneca’s hegemony after 1550: all the translators belong somehow to Marguerite de Navarre’s Evangelist network, heretics and Hellenists are frequently associated, and the impact of the Council of Trent’s prohibitions will put an end to this experience. For more than a century, until Jean Racine, Greek Tragedy will disappear from libraries and schools and Seneca will become the new predominant source for playwrights. Keywords: Council of Trent, Euripides, Evangelism, French Tragedy, Racine, reception, Seneca, Sophocles, translation

 Introduction The official date of birth of French Tragedy1 is considered to be the play called Cléopâtre captive, written by E. Jodelle in 1553, which actually is the first tragedy written in French. But what are the ancient models for this emerging tragedy in the second part of the 16th century? Is it Seneca or Greek authors like Sophocles and Euripides? If we take 1677, Racine’s Phèdre, as the acme for French Tragedy and we take a look at the plays written in that period of time, between 1553 and 1677, there can be no doubt about the answer. Except for Racine’s plays and a few other plays (Rotrou’s Iphigénie for instance), scholars have stressed the absence of Greek models for more than a century,2 models which are not even translated

 1 For an extended analysis of this subject, see Alonge 2015. The revised version of this PhD Dissertation will soon become a book, tentatively entitled D’Électre à Phèdre. Les origines grecques de la tragédie française : une occasion manquée (1537–1677). 2 Between 1553 and 1677, Racine being excluded, thirty-two French tragedies are potentially inspired by a Greek Tragedy, but twenty-six tragedies out of thirty-two have as a main source Seneca’s version of the Greek legend. Only five tragedies escape the Senecan filter by dealing with a not Senecan topic: Robert Garnier’s Antigone (1580), Alexandre Hardy’s Alceste ou la fidélité (1624), Jean de Rotrou’s Antigone (1639) and Iphigénie (1641), Leclerc’s Iphigénie (1675). And only one tragedy chooses to prefer the Greek model to the Latin one as a main source: Tallemant des Réaux’s Œdipe Roi (?).

144  Tristan Alonge into French (we will have to wait until Dacier’s translations in 1692).3 This period seems clearly to belong to Seneca, and so does the origin and the development of French Tragedy. The reasons for this dominance have been broadly emphasized by critics.4 First of all Seneca’s moralising, with characters either good or bad, exactly like in the medieval theatre; secondly, the Stoic revival in the second part of the 16th century which makes the Stoic Seneca more appealing; thirdly, Seneca’s love for horror and gory details, which is attractive in a period of bloody wars. All those reasons are literary reasons: Seneca seems to be a more attractive model. In the present paper, I will try to challenge this common view of the birth of French Tragedy, by answering three questions. First, is 1553 the real and appropriate birthdate of French Tragedy? Second, is Seneca the main source? Thirdly, does the explanation for the Senecan dominance stem from literary preference or from something else?

 French Tragedy’s childhood: translating Euripides and Sophocles before 1550 If we look at the emerging French Tragedy in the second part of the 16th century, Seneca seems to be the model for plays inspired by Greek mythology. For instance, the story of Agamemnon’s killing by Clytemnestra inspires in a few decades three different French plays: Agamemnon by Charles Toutain in 1557, another Agamemnon written in 1561 by François Le Duchat and a little bit later, in 1589, Clytemnaestra by Pierre Mathieu. The first two plays can almost be considered as translations from the Latin; the third one introduces some slight changes, and looks more like an adaptation than a translation. This example of the story of Agamemnon clearly shows French Tragedy’s evolution: authors started by translating and then became more and more independent from the source. But the fact is that Seneca seems to be this original source in any case. This is true for the story of Agamemnon’s legend, but also for all the other Greek myths, from Medea to Oedipus. Yet, the situation has not always been like this. In France previously, tragedy had a kind of early childhood in the first part of the century, when manuscripts  3 L’Œdipe et l’Électre de Sophocle. Tragédies grecques traduites en français avec des remarques par M. Dacier (Paris: C. Barbin, 1692). 4 See in particular Caigny 2011, 33ff.

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arrived and people started translating them into French.5 It would make sense to expect a lot of translations from Seneca and none from Sophocles and Euripides, but the exact opposite happens. We know no official and published translation into French of a Senecan tragedy; only two manuscript translations have been found, Hercules hors du sens and Octavie.6 Strangely enough the Latin author will dominate French Tragedy’s evolution but does not dominate its early childhood. Surprisingly enough, before 1550 French humanists seem to be more interested in Greek Tragedy. Seven translations have been identified: four manuscript ones and three published ones. Since 2016 we can now add a fourth published one, that was given up for lost by scholars, as will be shown below. The first translation is from Sophocles’ Electra and was published in 1537.7 The author is the French ambassador, Lazare de Baïf, who travelled very often in Italy and probably had contact with Greek manuscripts there. A few decades later, his son, JeanAntoine de Baïf, will be the last to translate a Greek tragedy in the 16th century, once again from Sophocles, with his Antigone, published in 1573,8 a play already translated before, in 1542, but never published, by Calvy de la Fontaine.9 Thus, we have three translations from Sophocles; the five others are from Euripides. Besides Iphigenia in 1547 by Sébillet,10 the other Euripidean translations come from the same city, Bourges, where Marguerite de Navarre, the King’s sister, used to spend some time and where she founded a university. The professor of Greek was Jacques Amyot, probably the most important Hellenist of that period. He started by working as a family tutor in the house of the king’s very influential finance minister, Guillaume Bochetel. Bochetel himself is considered to be the author of one of the five translations from Euripides, Hecube in 1544.11 Amyot is responsible for the translation of two other plays, another Iphigenia around 1545– 47,12 and the Trojan Women in 1542.13 As mentioned before, we then have one last play, a translation of the Suppliants, which is anonymous, not dated and deemed

 5 R. Sturel 1913 et M. Delcourt 1925 are the only scholars having systematically explored those translations. 6 For further details, see Sturel 1913, 269 n. 1. 7 Lazare de Baïf, Tragedie de Sophoclés, intitulee Electra edited in Fassina 2012. 8 Jean-Antoine de Baïf, Antigone de Sophocle in: Balmas/Dassonville 1993. 9 Calvy de La Fontaine, L’Antigone de Sophoclés, edited in Mastroianni 2000. 10 Sébillet, L’Iphigene d’Euripide poete tragiq : tourne de grec en françois par l’Auteur de l’Art Poetique, dedie à Monsieur Ian Brinon, Seigneur de Villenes, & Conseilher du Roy nottre Sire en Sa Court de Parlement, 1549 [BnF – Microfilm M-13272]. 11 Guillaume Bochetel, La tragedie d’Euripide, nommee Hecuba, edited in Fassina 2014. 12 Amyot, Iphigénie en Aulis, in: De Nardis 1996. 13 Amyot, Les Troades, in: De Nardis 1996.

146  Tristan Alonge lost by scholars.14 I had the chance to recover this translation and to suggest an attribution and a date in a recent article.15 This manuscript is dedicated to the Dauphin Henri, Francis I’s son, who was Dauphin (heir to the crown) for 12 years only, from 1536 to 1547, which is exactly the period in which Jacques Amyot was translating plays from Euripides in Bourges. Moreover, external elements (the book’s cover, the illustrations, etc.) suggest that this translation was produced in the same printer’s shop used by Jacques Amyot for other translations (Atelier du Salel). But, most important, in this play some Greek words or expressions are translated in a peculiar way, which recalls Amyot’s style. That is why I suggest that the Suppliants were translated by Amyot in Bourges in the 1540’s. Anyway, besides those details, what is impressive is the number of translations from Greek Tragedy in the first part of the century, eight known which become ten if we add the two lost translations, Trachiniae in 1565 and Medea in 1570, both translated by Jean-Antoine de Baïf.16 A quick overview of what is happening in Europe at that time gives the full measure of the French exceptional situation: during the entire 16th century, we have three translations from Greek Tragedy in Spain,17 only one in Germany,18 one in England,19 one in Hungary,20 one in the Low Countries,21 one in Croatia22. The only country largely above France is obviously Italy with thirty-two translations

 14 Anonyme, Suppliantes d’Euripide [supplément Rothschild 2200, Paris, BnF]. 15 Alonge 2016. 16 See Bolgar 1959. 17 Euripides’ Hecuba by Perez de Oliva in 1533; Euripides’ Medea by Simon Abril in 1595 et Sophocles’ Electra by Perez de Oliva in 1528 (source: Bolgar 1959). 18 Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulide by Bebst in 1584 (source: Bolgar 1959) 19 Bolgar 1959 identifies two translations (Euripides’ Phoenissae by Kinwelmersh and Gascoigne in 1566 and Sophocles’ Antigone by Watson in 1581), but according to Borza 2007 the second one is a Latin translation. 20 Sophocles’ Electra by Bornemisza in 1558 (source: Borza 2007). 21 Sophocles’ Antigone by Van Ghistele in 1556 (source: Borza 2007). 22 Sophocles’ Elektra by Zlatarić in 1597 (source: Borza 2007).

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(seventeen from Euripides23 and fifteen from Sophocles),24 but only twelve if we reduce the scope to the first half of the century, before 1550. If we take into consideration only the printed translations before 1550, the gap even disappears with three in both France and Italy. Thus, at that time France is clearly not far from the top as far as Greek Tragedy’s influence goes.

 A crucial step from Moralités to French Tragedy We might ask why are these translations so important? In order to better understand their importance in the childhood and early development of French Tragedy, two facts need to be stressed. First, the notion of tragedy itself in the first part of the 16th century was not clearly established and understood: while the streets of the Kingdom are dominated by the medieval forms of theatre like the ‘moralités’ (moralizing dramas with a religious origin), in the colleges some scholars are slowly rediscovering the existence of an ancient form of theatre, called ‘Tragedy.’ But scholars did not know much about Ancient Tragedy and Aristotle’s Poetics was almost unknown. So the definition of Tragedy itself does not

 23 Ten according to Bolgar 1959: Alcestis by Parisotti in 1525; Alcestis by Giustiniano in 1599; Hecuba by Dolce in 1543; Hecuba by Trissino in 1550; Hecuba by Gelli in 1563; Hecuba by Balcianelli in 1592; Iphigenia in Aulis by Dolce in 1551; Phoenissae by Guido Guidi in 1532; Phoenissae by Dolce in 1560; Medea by Dolce in 1559. We might add the three translations identified by Pertusi 1963, 415–417: ‘Se non andiamo errati, i primi volgarizzamenti di Euripide son costituiti dalle versioni poetiche dell’Ifigenia Taurica e del Ciclope di Alessandro Pazzi de’ Medici (1524 e 1525) […] si tratta di traduzioni piuttosto libere, ma generalmente corrette […] Altra traduzione ‘in verso toscano’ è quella dell’Ecuba di Matteo Bandello […] porta la data del 20 luglio 1539.’ We then have to add four manuscript translations listed in catalogues of Italian libraries: Le Penisse by Michelangelo Serafini (1548), Ippolito (1571) and Hecuba (1572) by Giovanni da Falgano, Hecuba (?) by Alberto Parma. Altogether, we then have seventeen translations from Euripides. 24 Eight according to Bolgar 1959: Antigone by Alamanni in 1532; Antigone by Guido Guidi in 1532; Oedipus Rex by Guido Guidi in 1532; Oedipus Rex by Dell’Anguillara in 1565; Oedipus Rex by Orsatto Giustiniani in 1585; Oedipus Rex by M.P. Angeli in 1589; Electra by Guido Guidi in 1532; Electra by Erasmo de Valvasone in 1588. To those eight translations, we have to add two more listed by Borza 2007 (Edipo Tiranno by Trapolini in 1581, Edipo il Re by Girolamo Giustiniano in 1590). We then have to add five manuscript translations listed in catalogues of Italian librairies: Edipo Principe (1525) by Alessandro Pazzi de’ Medici (in the same year, he is also the author of a latin version of Elettra, according to Borza 2007); Edipo Principe (1551) by Bernardo Segni; Antigone (?), Edippo Tiranno (?), Elettra (?) by Alberto Parma. Altogether, we then have fifteen translations from Sophocles.

148  Tristan Alonge correspond exactly to what it is for us today. For them Tragedy had a moral didactic element (ignored by Aristotle) and was supposed to show the role played by fortune in the fall of powerful people. Secondly, given this particular definition of Tragedy, it is not surprising if for French 16th century scholars Tragedy was only the ancient name for ‘moralité.’ One of our six translators is a perfect example of this way of thinking. In the preface to his Electra, Lazare de Baïf gives a definition of Tragedy25 by saying that ‘Tragedy is a moralité composed of great calamities happening to powerful people.’ In this context, the rediscovery and translation of Greek tragedies has to be considered as a crucial step, which creates the conditions for the birth of French Tragedy. Scholars, by reading Sophocles and Euripides, become aware of what Greek Tragedy actually is, besides theoretical definitions read in Horace or somewhere else. But why are those translations so important? We could assume that they are not original works, they do not bring anything new but transposing a Greek form of theatre. Actually, a close reading of the eight translations reveals another story: those works are a little more than word for word translations. In a certain way they already are a form of adaptation, embryonic French tragedies with a particular accent, an accent sounding like the medieval one in some ways. A few examples will show the two main innovations shared by all the translators. The first innovation is the strong Christian influence, which is the result of a conception of theatre coming from the previous period: the ‘moralités’ and the medieval theatre were born in front of the churches and cathedrals, the stories told were inspired by evangelical episodes. The situation has not changed much in the 16th century: our translators were born in this atmosphere; when they discover Greek tragedies and pagan theatre, they still wear the same spectacles, they still react in the same way. Religion is central for them. This is the reason why they translate from Greek with a Christian approach. Two examples will make things easier to understand. A first example of the Christian influence comes from Calvy de la Fontaine’s Antigone: in Sophocles’ version the princess was fighting in the name of the gods and the family’s rules against human laws/rules; in the French version, she is fighting in the name of charity (in the sense of selfless Christian love). More than

 25 ‘Tragedie est une moralité composee des grandes calamitez, meurtres et adversitez survenues aux nobles & excellentz personnaiges, comme Aias, qui se occist pour avoir esté frustré des armes d’Achillés, Oedipus qui se creva les yeulx aprés qu'il luy fut declairé comme il avoit eu des enfans de sa propre mere, aprés avoir tué son pere’ (L. de Baïf, Electra, p. 75).

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once Calvy calls her the ‘charitable Antigone.’26 She becomes a Christian heroine. A second example comes from the transformation of Iphigénie, in Amyot’s translation. In Euripides, the princess was at the same time a victim and a patriotic heroine; Euripides used to describe her the term ἑλέπτολις, ‘city destroyer.’27 Three times, Amyot does not translate this term but replaces it with ‘hostie’, ‘wafer’ with a clear allusion to the Christian communion: the city destroyer has become a poor victim, an immaculate host offered to God.28 The second innovation, shared by all the translators, and linked to the previous one, to religious influence, is the tendency to transform the complex Greek characters into flat ones. This is what scholars were used to when they read ‘moralités.’ In the medieval theatre, inspired by evangelical stories, there was no space for complexity, a character was either good or bad, the purpose of theatre being moral.29 Good and inspiring characters on one side, bad ones on the other side. Two examples make it easier to observe this transformation in a concrete way. The first example comes from Lazare de Baïf’s Electre. In the Greek version Electra is not just a poor suffering victim looking for revenge; more than once, through the Chorus’ words or through her sister’s opposition, Sophocles suggests that the princess is exaggerating, she is going too far because of her hybris. In the French version, Lazare has cancelled this complexity: sometimes he does not translate parts of the original,30 sometimes he modifies the text in order to give the image of a pure and heroic princess fighting against the evil Clytemnestra.31

 26 Calvy, Antigone, v. 755–756 (‘Estimoys tu que la severité/ De ton edict vainquist ma charité ?’); v. 1525–1526 (‘C’est chose juste, aux Dieux tres agreable,/ Que pïeté et estre charitable’); v. 1615– 1616 (‘Sans avoir faict chose reprehensible,/ Mays charitable ?’); v. 1279–1280 (‘A elle mérité/ Si dure mort pour telle charité?’). 27 E. IA v. 1475–1476; v. 1510–1514. 28 Amyot, IA, p. 244–245: ‘Menez moy hostie/ Par qui subvertie/ Troie en fin sera,/ Qui les Phrygiens/ par les Argiens/ Ruiner fera’; p. 247–248: ‘Voiez la noble iouvencelle/ Allant au sacrifice, celle/ Qui defera/ La gent Phrygiene traistresse,/ Qui d’Ilium la forteresse Razer fera./ Voiez son chef doré couvert/ De fleurs et de maint bouquet verd/ Comme une hostie/ De qui tantost la teste blonde/ D’avec le beau corps pur et monde/ Sera partie’; p. 253: ‘Et vous advertis qu’elle/ Prent ceste hostie en gré, doresnavant/ Vous ottroyant temps à gré et bon vent/ Pour faire voile en Phrygie.’ 29 Lebègue 1929, 82. 30 Cf. Baïf, Electra, v. 185–186 (‘En vain tu te donnes misere :/ Car à telz maulx remede n’a’) and S. El. 140–142; Cf. Baïf, Electra, v. 202 (‘Seulle n'es pas en ce deul cy’) and S. El. 153–156; Baïf, Electra, v. 286–289 (‘Car à toy sans cesse tu tires/ Douleurs, qui te font des martyres :/ Et conçoiz à l'entendement/ Combatz qui luy font grand tourment’) and S. El. 217–219. 31 Baïf, Electra, v. 130–133 (‘Excepté moy, qui le plaingz mort/ Par si tresgrande cruaulté/ De ma mere, laquelle à tort/ Luy fist tant de desloyaulté’) et S. El. v. 100–102.

150  Tristan Alonge A second example is given by the figure of Helen of Troy in the Trojan Women, translated by Amyot. In the Greek version, when she appears on stage she defends herself in a convincing way and her characterization is ambiguous since she is responsible for the war but she is not the only one. In the French version, each time somebody – Paris32 or Menelaus33 – is accused of being responsible for the war, Amyot replaces him with Helen, who becomes the only figure responsible for the war. The tragedy is no longer the description of human suffering and sorrow, but becomes the story of an imminent vengeance: Helen, responsible for the war, will pay soon. Those examples clearly show that, under the aspect of word for word translation, our translators do modify some essential characteristics of their Greek sources. They are not translators, they already are authors in a certain way, the first authors of the history of French theatre. In 1550 everything seems ready on the French stage for the birth of French Tragedy based on Greek models, exactly like in Italy, where after an initial period of translations, authors become more and more independent and start writing plays inspired by but not translated from Greek models. But precisely 1550 is the separating line between French and Italian experience: in Italy Euripides and Sophocles become prevalent, more than Seneca;34 in France, they suddenly disappear, and Seneca takes over for more than a century. We are now able to answer two of our three initial questions. First of all, is 1553 the real and appropriate birthdate of French Tragedy? Technically maybe, because the Cléôpatre captive is the first original play written in French, but de facto 1537 has to be mentioned and is of equal importance: Baïf’s Electra is the first tragic play written in French, not fully original, but still the first. Why should we consider Charles Toutain’s Agammenon or Le Duchat’s Agamemnon as original plays and not Baïf’s Electra? In the 16th century, especially at the beginning, as already stressed, there is no clear dividing line between translation and adaptation. The birth of French Tragedy has then to be rethought in order to include

 32 Amyot, Les Troades, p. 79: ‘Mais ta fille, o hault Iupiter,/ A bien sceu la mort eviter,/ Qui par ung damné mariage/ A destruict le divin ouvrage/ Des murs de Troie et par qui mortz/ Sont tant de Troiens dont les corps/ Ensanglantez gisent, helas/ Au long du temple de Pallas,/ Par les rues et carrefours/ En proye aux Aigles et vaultours,/ Dont Troie en triste solitude/ Porte le ioug de servitude’ (to be compared with E. Tr. v. 603–606). 33 Amyot, Les Troades, p. 111 : ‘Qu’il te plaise, o dieu,/ Que quant au meilieu/ De la mer Aegee/ La nef qui chargee/ D’Helene sera/ Voguer pensera/ La fouldre et orage/ Redoublé de rage/ La puisse abysmer/ Au fond de la mer’ (to be compared with E. Tr. v. 1100–1103). 34 Pertusi 1963, 391–392.

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this embryonic stage of development, in which translations from Greek Tragedy played a major role. This first answer brings us to the second question: is Seneca the main source of French Tragedy? The answer is yes if we look at the traditional timeframe, but if we stretch it in order to include this embryonic stage of translations, the answer becomes negative: Seneca is not present, Sophocles and Euripides are, which means that French Tragedy was born in Greek ‘nappies.’ However, no answer has been found to the third question (what is the explanation for the Senecan dominance?). And a fourth question can even be added: how does it come about that Greek Tragedy influences the birth of French Tragedy in the embryonic stage before 1550 and then disappears, eclipsed by Seneca for more than a century? The following pages will try to give an explanation for this anomaly, an explanation based not on literary preferences but on historical reasons.

 Heretics and Hellenists: a missed opportunity for French Tragedy In order to better understand this phenomenon of translating Greek tragedies, it becomes necessary to abandon literary grounds and make a detour to historical ones. Under Francis I, France experiences a Greek revival, in particular with the foundation of the Collège de France, where the professors teach Greek, and great importance is given to translations. In the 1530’s Nicholas Bobadilla, a founder of the Society of Jesus, tells in his memoirs that he came to Paris in order to learn Greek, but that Ignatius de Loyola discouraged him because at that time in Paris qui graecizabant lutheranizabant (‘those who spoke Greek were Lutherans’).35 That might seem a minor anecdote but gives an idea of the existing link between Greek and Religion at that time. And facts tend to confirm the minor anecdote. Two figures are crucial in the spread of Greek in France at the beginning of 16th century: Lefèvres d’Etaples and Guillaume Budé. The first is the translator of Aristotle into Latin but most of all the founder of Evangelism, often considered as a moderate French Luther. Evangelism will attract many people at the court of Francis I and especially Marguerite de Navarre, the King’s sister: around her and Lefèvre d’Etaples a network takes shape, that we can call with J. Reid the ‘Navarrian Network’,36 in which people share the desire to reform the Church without  35 Bobadilla 1913, ‘Autobiographia’, 614. 36 For further details on the ‘Navarrian Network’, see Reid 2009, 463.

152  Tristan Alonge abandoning it. Lefèvre knows Greek obviously in order to translate Aristotle, but first of all in order to translate the Bible. The second crucial figure for Hellenism in France is Guillaume Budé, probably also compromised with heretical or borderline positions in the matter of religion.37 The foundation of the Collège Royal in 1530, the future Collège de France, represents in a certain way a victory for Evangelism against theologians from the Sorbonne, who were against the spread of rare languages (Greek and Hebrew in particular). The importance given to translation in that period is also a sign of Evangelism’s predominating influence at the royal court, in particular thanks to the King’s sister Marguerite: the breakthrough of Hellenism is essentially based on translations, but on a new approach to translation. Not any more word for word translation, but an attempt to focus on general sense in order to make reader understand and enjoy the text. This approach, surprisingly enough, is exactly the same approach adopted by Luther in his Open letter on Translation. If we compare Luther’s principles and the rules expressed by Etienne Dolet,38 the first French theorist of translation in 1540, the similarity is striking. We know that Etienne Dolet was an ambiguous figure from a religious point of view, very close to Evangelism and Marguerite de Navarre;39 he definitely was part of the network. All those elements convey the idea that in France in the first part of the 16th century we cannot separate Hellenism and religion: in a certain way, qui graecizabant lutheranizabant. The translation of Greek tragedies emerges in this context, when people who translate and especially who translate from such rare languages as Greek, are easily assimilated to heretics. Is it the case for our six translators? Let us take each of them, one by one. Let us start with the Baïf family, father and son. Lazare de Baïf was the French ambassador in Venice and probably discovered his passion for Greek during his stay in Italy; we know little about his religious affiliation but he had some trouble in the 1530’s in Venice, when he was accused of protecting some heretics.40 Moreover he was very close to Marguerite de Navarre: he definitely was part of the network. His son Jean-Antoine grew up in this milieu of the Navarrian network, and was educated by Toussaint and Dorat, two figures linked to Evangelism. Our third and most important translator, Jacques Amyot, built his

 37 See in particular Charton-Le-Clech 1993, 220, and La Garanderie 1995, 212. 38 Dolet, Etienne, La Maniere de bien traduire d’une langue en aultre: d’advantage de la punctuation de la langue françoyse, plus des accents d’ycelle, le tout faict par Estienne Dolet (Lyon: E. Dolet, 1540). 39 See in particular Reid 2009, 463, and Febvre 1968, 221, 245–246. 40 Gaeta 1958, 253–254, 258.

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career first as tutor then as professor and eventually as bishop thanks to a few friendships: the monk Jacques Colin, abbot of Saint-Ambroise in Bourges, a centre of Evangelism, Marguerite de Navarre, the leader of Evangelism, and Guillaume Bochetel, our fourth translator, on the religious borderline himself. Bochetel, a powerful royal minister, was also very close to Marguerite, lived in the same city, Bourges – the centre of Evangelism – and had some trouble in his own family in the matter of religion: three, perhaps four of his children will embrace Protestantism, his daughter Jeanne will even write letters to Calvin.41 Based on this evidence, I would suggest that Amyot and Bochetel were both part of the network, anyway strongly associated with it. We know very little about the last two translators, Calvy de la Fontaine and Sébillet, but both of them took part in the MarotSagon querelle, a literary debate in which religion probably played a major role. Both Calvy and Sébillet defended Marot,42 a poet very close to Marguerite de Navarre and a member of the network. It would not be surprising if our two last translators were themselves part of the network. Is it a coincidence that all the six translators of Greek Tragedy seem related in a way or another to the Navarrian Network and to Evangelism? Probably not. We saw that the spread of translation and the spread of Greek under Francis I was related to religious debate, that heretics and Hellenists were frequently associated. I believe that we can go a step further and say that the birth of French Tragedy is wholly linked to the religious affiliation of our six translators. Evangelism played a major role in this birth, by developing an interest in Greek: the translators trained on Sophocles and Euripides in order to be able to read the Gospel in Greek. We are now able to answer our third question: why after 1550 do Greek authors disappear and Seneca become the only source for French playwrights for more than a century? I believe that the reason is not a literary one, but an historical one. Around 1550 three major events take place: the death of Francis I (1547), the death of his sister Marguerite (1549) and the opening of the Council of Trent (1545–1563). Francis and Marguerite had been a powerful support for the Evangelist network and the spread of Greek; without them this network and its desire to find a third way between Protestants and Catholics became impossible. This whole world suffered from violence during the religious wars after 1562, Greek being associated with heretics. By the way, one of the first decisions of the Council of Trent was the prohibition against reading the Bible in Greek; this decision

 41 Droz 1974, 34–35. 42 See in particular Mastroianni 2000, 7 and Desan 1997, 361.

154  Tristan Alonge had major consequences for the spread of Greek literature.43 For instance the number of editions of Euripides dropped sharply in the second part of the 16th century, and most of Euripides’ publishers were listed in the index of prohibited books and eventually went bankrupt. What pushed the French authors to choose Seneca instead of Sophocles and Euripides is not a literary preference but what we can call the ‘materiality of history’: access to manuscripts, the Council of Trent’s prohibitions, the spread of Greek, and religious fear.

 Conclusion In conclusion, if we have to summarize this attempt at rethinking the birth of French Tragedy, three points need to be stressed: first of all, Greek tragedies and in particular translations in the first part of the 16th century played a major – and often disregarded – role in this birth, making it possible to switch from the medieval theatre to the Renaissance one. Secondly, if Seneca takes over this role in the following years, after 1550 in particular, this is not because the 16th century French had a special relation to and love for Senecan tragedies, but because they had no alternative choice, after the rules imposed by the Counter-reformation against the Greek language, Hellenists and (as a collateral consequence) against Greek Tragedy. Without the historical context, the story of French Tragedy would have been very different. Finally, I would like to conclude by stressing a third point which goes a little further: not only the birth of French Tragedy, but also its acme, its maturity is strongly influenced by the existing link between history and literature, or better between religion and literature. When does Greek Tragedy return to the stage in France? With Jean Rotrou or Pierre Corneille? Actually, when you read them carefully, neither Rotrou nor Corneille really go back to Sophocles and Euripides, anyway not as much as Jean Racine: four of his nine official tragedies are directly inspired by Euripides. Jean Racine was with no doubt a great poet and a great scholar, but he was first of all one of the few people who knew Greek in that period. And why so? Because Jean Racine grew up with Jansenists in Port Royal and the Jansenists shared with the translators of the Navarrian Network the love for Greek. The reason was the same: borderline in religion and opposed to the prohibitions of the Council of Trent, the Jansenists wanted to read the Bible in the original and were used to teach Greek in their schools. Racine was probably one of

 43 See on this topic Saladin 2000, 402–403.

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their best students and was so able to read and translate Plutarch when he was sixteen years old. The Jansenists taught him Greek for religious reasons, Racine used it for literary reasons and brought Greek Tragedy back to the stage a few years after quitting Port Royal. I do think that a relation, a secret one, links the religious and literary experience of the translators of the Navarrian network and that of the Jansenists, a relation based on heterodox religious convictions, the same ones that strongly influenced the birth of French Tragedy.

Bibliography Alonge, T. (2015), Tragédies grecques et tragédie classique française, Thèse de doctorat, Paris, Paris Sorbonne (Paris IV). Alonge, T. (2016), ‘Les Suppliantes d’Euripide, une traduction inédite de Jacques Amyot?’, Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 78/1, 109–126. Balmas, E./Dassonville, M. (eds.) (1993), La tragédie à l’époque d’Henri II et de Charles IX, Première série, Vol. 5 (1573–75), Théâtre français de la Renaissance, Florence/Paris. Bobadilla, N.A. (1913), G. Lopez del Horno (ed.), Bobadillae monumenta, Nicolai Alphonsi de Bobadilla sacerdotis e societate Jesu gesta et scripta ex autographis aut archetypis potissimum deprompta, Madrid. Bolgar, R. (1959), ‘The Translations of Greek and Roman Classical Authors Before 1600’, in: R. Bolgar, The Classical Heritage and its Beneficiaries, Cambridge, Appendix II, 506–541. Borza, E. (2007), Sophocles redivivus. La survie de Sophocle en Italie au début du XVIe siècle. Éditions grecques, traductions latines et vernaculaires, Bari. Caigny (de), F. (2011), Sénèque le Tragique en France (XVIe–XVIIe siècles), Imitation, traduction, adaptation, Paris. Charton-Le-Clech, S. (1993), Chancellerie et culture au XVIe siècle, Les notaires et secrétaires du roi de 1515 à 1547, Toulouse. Delcourt, M. (1925), Étude sur les traductions des tragiques grecs et latins en France depuis la Renaissance, Bruxelles. De Nardis, L. (ed.) (1996), Les Troades – Iphigénie en Aulis, traductions inédites de Jacques Amyot, Naples. Desan, Ph. (1997), ‘Le feuilleton illustré Marot-Sagon’, in: G. Defaux (ed.), La Génération Marot, Poètes français et néo-latins (1515–1550), Actes du Colloque international de Baltimore – 5–7 décembre 1996, Paris, 348–380. Droz, E. (1974), ‘Une correspondance inconnue de Calvin : Madame de Laubespine’ in: E. Droz (ed.), Chemins de l’hérésie, tome troisième, Genève, 31–60. Fassina, F. (ed.) (2012), Lazare de Baïf, Tragedie de Sophoclés, intitulee Electra, Vercelli. Fassina, F. (ed.) (2014), Guillaume Bochetel, La tragedie d'Euripide, nommee Hecuba, Alessandria. Febvre, L. (1968), ‘Un cas désespéré : Dolet propagateur de l’Évangile’, in: L. Febvre, Au cœur religieux du XVIe siècle, Paris. Gaeta, F. (1958), Nunziature di Venezia, Rome.

156  Tristan Alonge La Garanderie, M.-M. (1995), Christianisme et lettres profanes, Essai sur l’Humanisme français (1515–1535) et sur la pensée de Guillaume Budé, Paris. Lebègue, R. (1929), La tragédie religieuse française – les débuts (1514–1573), Paris. Mastroianni, M. (2000), Nota introduttiva in: M. Matroianni (ed.), Calvy de La Fontaine, L’Antigone de Sophoclés, Alessandria, 7–12. Pertusi, A. (1963), ‘Il ritorno alle fonti del teatro greco classico : Euripide nell’Umanesimo e nel Rinascimento’, Byzantion 33, 391–426. Reid, J. (2009), King’s Sister – Queen of Dissent, Marguerite of Navarre (1492–1549) and her Evangelical Network, Leiden. Saladin, J.-C. (2000), La bataille du grec à la Renaissance, Paris. Sturel, R. (1913), ‘Essai sur les traductions du théâtre grec en français avant 1550’, Revue d’Histoire littéraire de la France 20, 269–296, 637–666.

Wes Williams

‘Pantagruel, tenent un Heliodore Grec en main [...] sommeilloit’ Reading the Aethiopica in Sixteenth-Century France Abstract: This chapter explores scenes of suspenseful reading which both involve an interrupted journey of some kind and invoke a much-travelled ancient Greek Romance: Heliodorus’s Aethiopica. Philological investigations into the temporality of reading, these episodes also serve as inroads into the central questions of this collection: the making and re-making of tradition, the Renaissance afterlives of Greek texts, and the heuristic value of periodisation. Keywords: Aethiopica, afterlives, Andromeda, French Renaissance, imagination, romance, suspense, Jacques Amyot, Heliodorus [of Emesa], Montaigne (Michel de), François Rabelais

1 Reading in a hammock I propose, in what follows, to outline a number of scenes of often unacknowledged quotation and interrupted reading: all of them involve journeys and states of transition, and all invoke the much-travelled, much translated ancient Greek Romance that is Heliodorus’s Aethiopica. My focus, however, is neither on the material conditions of either travel or translation, nor yet on the reception of Greek novels in Renaissance Europe; it is, rather, on the displacement of habitual ways of thinking occasioned by the reading of Heliodorus’s tale. The scenes explored here – from Rabelais to Montaigne, by way of several detours and digressions – figure in the first instance as philological investigations into the temporality of reading. But they also offer ways of rethinking the central questions of this collection: the making and re-making of tradition, and the heuristic value of periodisation. I want to suggest that Renaissance texts of the Heliodorian strain directly engage with just these questions, even as they imagine their readers (present and future) to be not at the start of something (not, in other words, ‘early modernists’); nor at the end of something else (not ‘late medievalists’); but always and already somewhere in the middle, somewhere interstitial and in between.

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The journey starts with an interruption, which is also a kind of mise-enabyme: an instance of literally suspended reading, which appears at first sight unpromising, incomplete, and characterised by boredom. The scene takes place on board ship, off the coast of the imaginary island of Chaneph, some way through a mid-century adventure in search of the Oracle of the Holy Bottle. It is found towards the end of Rabelais’s Quart Livre (1548–1552), the fourth book of that great quest narrative which takes the giant Pantagruel and his fellow-travellers far from home in an effort to find an answer to the question that has exercised them since at least the beginning of the Tiers Livre (1546), namely whether or not one of their number, Pantagruel’s friend and companion Panurge, should find himself a wife. Turning to chapter LXIII of the Quart Livre, ‘How Pantagruel fell asleep near the Island of Chaneph, and of the Problem propos’d to be solved when he wak’d’, the reader discovers a group of travellers strangely – and as it turns out, terminally – interrupted in the course of their journey. The wind has died down, and so they cannot land at the island; given that its name signifies hypocrisy, and its inhabitants are false, corrupt and abusive priests, perhaps this is no great loss. But the travellers will never land at an island again; though they don’t know it yet, and neither do we. The narrative, like the ship, comes to a standstill, as both passengers and crew are subject to the general sense of malaise: Nous ne voguions que par les Valentiennes, changeans de tribort en babort, et de babort en tribort, quoy qu’on eust es voiles adjoinct les bonnettes trainneresses. Et estions tous pensifz, matagrabolisez, sesolfiez, et faschez: sans mot dire les uns aux autres.1 We were/ becalm’d, and could hardly get o’head, tacking about from Starboard to Larboard, and Larboard to Starboard, tho’ to our sails we added Drablers. With this accident we were all out of sorts, moping, drooping, metagrabolized, as dull as Dun in the mire, in C sol fa ut flat out of Tune, off the hinges, and I-don’t-know-howish, without caring to speak one single syllable to each other.2

Rabelais’s deployment of the middle two of the four French adjectives towards the end of the last of these two sentences is a brave effort to introduce an air of at least lexical mystery into a scene in which all the characters are ‘faschez’: stuck, at a loss, and cross. ‘Sesolfiez’ is a Rabelaisian hapax, and ‘matagrabolisez’ is another word of his invention, although it proves to be a more durable survivor, and remains (just about) in use today. Unlike the loquacious narrator (and indeed

|| 1 Rabelais 1994, 119. 2 Rabelais 1994a, 667–668.

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unlike Rabelais’s inventive and embroidering early modern translator), the other characters on board the ship remain, as the sentence concludes: ‘sans mot dire les uns aux aultres’ [without caring to speak one single syllable to each other]. The situation, from a dramatic point of view, is unpromising: no wind, no speech; no speech, no scene. Since early modern travel narrative doesn’t really do interiority, or detailed description, there follows a roll call, in which the narrator simply checks that his fellow characters are present, and lists what each is doing. Prince Pantagruel, with whom the list starts, appears to have been reading, but is now dozing, half-asleep, the book still in his hand. Rabelais’s original French reads as follows: Pantagruel, tenent un Heliodore Grec en main, sus un transpontin au bout des Escoutilles sommeilloit. Telle estoit sa coustume, que trop mieulx par livre dormoit, que par coeur.3

The otherwise outstanding early modern translation of this passage, first published in 1708 by the Huguenot refugee, Pierre Motteux, reads as follows: Pantagruel was taking a Nap, slumbering and nodding on the Quarter-deck, by the Cuddy, with an Heliodorus in his hand, for still ‘twas his custom to sleep better by Book than by Heart.4

Read these two sentences aloud, and you will see, and hear, that the translator, in his reorganisation of this sentence, leaves out the linguistic qualifier of most interest to readers of this particular collection of essays: ‘Grec.’ Pantagruel, snoozing, is, then, the first of the several readers of Heliodore, Grec, I want to focus on here, for the collocation of Rabelais’s fictional hero and the ancient romance invites exploration even before its antique origins are elided by translation into English. By the time Motteux translates the Quart Livre, it seems, the Aethiopica is so immediately recognisable by its author’s name alone, and has so thoroughly become part of the modern, European novelistic tradition, that to draw attention to its ‘Greekness’ would seem out of place. And in truth, as we shall see, Pantagruel’s chosen reading is in fact already, in the mid-century of its original narration and vernacular publication, oddly untimely, if not out of date. By drawing attention to the fact that Pantagruel was reading this particular Greek novel, Rabelais need not be inviting readers to draw comparisons between the content of the Quart Livre and that of the multiply displaced young lovers,

|| 3 Rabelais 1994, 1191. 4 Rabelais 1994, 668.

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Theagenes and Chariclea. There are, for instance, no shipwrecks in Rabelais’ tale, and few women to speak of, either. It is true that the story of Pantagruel and Panurge might, in contemporary parlance, be equated to the genre of the bromance, and there is certainly more work to be done on the Greek tenor – at once philosophical and erotic – of the discussion of friendship and voluntary servitude in this tale. But Rabelais’s primary purpose in insisting on the fact that his hero is reading in Greek is to remind his own readers of the exhaustive and exciting learning programme set out for the young man by his father earlier in the epic sequence: Pantagruel, chapter VIII. Engaged as he had been in an argument against the Sorbonne concerning the inclusion of classical languages in the education programme of the Christian Humanist Prince, Rabelais there ensured that Gargantua, the giant’s father, and a figure often read as a fictional version of France’s own king, François 1er, instil in Pantagruel from an early age a desire for the serious study of Greek, along with all the ‘faictz de nature’ that he might be able to explore on his modern journey of exploration. In a now famous letter to his son, which reads as a hymn to that new age of learning we call the Renaissance, Gargantua suggests that the times are ripe for the productive reception of ancient texts: Maintenant toutes disciplines sont restituées, les langues instaurées : Grecque, sans laquelle c’est honte qu’une personne se die sçavant; Hébraique, Chaldaique, Latine. Les impressions tant élégantes et correctes en usance, qui ont esté inventées de mon aage par inspiration divine, comme à contrefil l’artillerie par suggestion diabolicque. Tout le monde est plein de gens sçavans, de précepteurs tresdoctes, de librairies tresamples, qu’il m’est advis que ny au temps de Platon, ny de Ciceron, ny de Papinian, n’y avoit point telle commodité d’estude qu’il y a maintenant […]. Et voulentiers me delecte à lire les Moraulx de Plutarche, les beaulx Dialogues de Platon, les Monumens de Pausanias, et Antiquitez de Atheneus, attendant l’heure qu’il plaira à dieu mon createur me appeler et commander yssir de ceste terre. Parquoy, mon fils, ie te admoneste que employes ta ieunesse à bien proffiter en estude et en vertus.5 Now is it that the mindes of men are qualified with all manner of discipline, and the old sciences revived which for many ages were extinct; now it is that the learned languages are to their pristine purity restored, viz. Greek (without which a man may be ashamed to account himself a scholar), Hebrew, Arabick, Chaldaean and Latine. Printing likewise is now in use, so elegant, and so correct, that better cannot be imagined, although it was found out but in my time by divine inspiration, as by a diabolical suggestion on the other side was the invention of Ordnance. All the world is full of knowing men, of most learned Schoolmasters, and vast Libraries; and it appears to me as a truth, that neither in Plato’s time, nor Cicero’s, nor Papinian’s, there was ever such conveniency for studying as we see at this day there is.

|| 5 Rabelais 1994, 347.

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[…] And I take much delight in the reading of Plutarchs Morals, the pleasant Dialogues of Plato, the Monuments of Pausanias, and the Antiquities of Athenaeus, in waiting on the hour wherein God my Creator shall call me and command me to depart from this earth and transitory pilgrimage. Wherefore (my sonne) I admonish thee, to employ thy youth to profit as well as thou canst, both in thy studies and in vertue.6

Pantagruel’s father, Gargantua, exemplifies, then, the early Renaissance optimism concerning the value of ancient Greek texts even into his retirement; chapter III of the Quart Livre confirms the King’s desire to sustain this at once classical and pious curriculum into the new age of his son’s exploration as Malicorne, Gargantua’s squire, delivers to Pantagruel a bundle of ‘joyous’ ancient texts to be read on the journey that will take the son far beyond the bournes of the ancient oikumene. One of these may well have been the Aethiopica… The inclusion of the adjectival marker ‘Grec’ when attached to Heliodorus’s romance in the Quart Livre, first published in this version in 1552, also functions however, as a different kind of sign. A clin d’oeil from narrator to reader, it suggests not only that Rabelais’s dozing hero finds the Greek romance dull, but also that the giant in whom his father had invested the hopes of Renaissance learning, may no longer be up to date. For it means that the dozy Prince is not reading Jacques Amyot’s enormously influential French translation of Heliodorus, first published in 1547. This in turn means that he has not (yet) been alerted by Amyot’s preface to just how exciting a book this actually is.7 Not having Amyot’s translation ‘en main’, Pantagruel will not have read the Proësme or mini-treatise on the poetics of romance which prefaces it: he will thus have missed out on registering the impact of Amyot’s account of the peculiar position granted to Heliodorus in the long story of reading, as of the novel. Not reading in translation, Pantagruel was missing out on the really exciting stuff, for to be still reading Heliodorus in Greek in 1552 probably meant that you were engaged in the kinds of ethnographic and morally instructive reading to which the Aethiopica had been habitually subject throughout the (early) Renaissance. It meant that you were still doing what your Father wanted you to be doing, and that you still shared (or laboured under) his at once instrumental and pious account of what novels were for. Pantagruel, falling asleep as he tries to make his way through the worthy, educational, instructive material contained in his ‘Heliodore Grec’, is, then, Rabelais suggests, both bored, and out of date. This is not because the French version

|| 6 Rabelais 1994a, 196. 7 Heliodorus/Amyot 1547, ‘Proësme du translateur’, fol. Aiiir. For a fine modern edition, rich with annexes and appendices, see Heliodorus/Amyot, ed Plazenet 2008.

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is racier than the original; Amyot is too faithful a translator, and too great a Hellenist, to make that sort of difference to a text. It is, rather, that the poetician in Amyot understood, and named, for the first time the distinctive force that drives this romance, and makes of its resurrection such a powerful intervention in the history of Western culture. To see how this is so – and to get some sense of what those who insist on reading the classics only in the original might be missing – it is worth spending a moment or two exploring Amyot’s claims.

2 Making the most of suspense In the Proësme which precedes his translation, the first full account of Heliodorus in any modern vernacular, Amyot sets out the way in which the Histoire aethiopique grafts the standard epic technique of starting a story in medias res onto romance, and does so in an altogether novel way. He explains – oscillating between pronouns which figure readers as now ‘them’, now ‘us’ – that by opening his narrative with a situation which is not so much in process, as wholly incomprehensible, Heliodorus provokes ‘un grand ebahissement’ [great amazement] in his readers. This in turn ‘engenders within them a passionate desire to hear the beginning’, but, ‘through the ingenious plotting of the links in the tale’, he keeps us waiting, and wanting more, until the end of the fifth book. On reaching this, the middle point of the novel, we finally discover what had happened at the outset, but we do so in such a way as to leave us burning with ‘even greater desire to see the end of the story than we had to see the beginning.’ Reading in this way, Amyot suggests, readers find their desire for knowledge frustrated, held in suspense: ‘l’entendement demeure suspendu.’ The verbs which structure Amyot’s account tell their own story. In the French, the movement oscillates between entendre and voir: what we lack in understanding, we make up for in the scopically figured volonté de [sa]voir. This is reading figured as pleasure and above all as spectacle. It is only at the conclusion of the tale, that the reader feels fully ‘satisfied, as are those who finally come into possession of something which they have desired intensely, and anticipated long’ [satisfait, de la sorte que le sont ceux, qui à la fin viennent à jouyr d’un bien ardemment desiré, et longuement atendu]. Of all of this the sleeping Pantagruel, ‘suspendu’ in his hammock, seems unaware; having read neither Amyot’s preface, nor for that matter the recent commentaries of either Giorgetto Giorgi or Terence Cave, he does not (yet) know that the preface to the translation of the novel

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he fell asleep reading had (already) introduced the French reading public to the eroticised narrative structure – and indeed the word – ‘suspens.’8 Heliodorus’s first editor, the humanist Vincentius Obsopoeus, whose Greek edition Amyot had en main while working on his initial translation, says very little in his liminary remarks about the narrative structure of the romance.9 But his prefatory account of how the story could now be brought back to life and to the light of publication – since he himself had rescued the sole surviving manuscript from a mercenary soldier who had earlier saved it from the flames during the sack of Corvinus’s library in Buda in 1526 – has about it something of a romance. Obsopoeus’s narrative of philological rescue is attractive, not least since it reworks that which structures the romance itself; modelled on the delivery of the mythical Andromeda from the monster, Heliodorus’s story stages the repeated rescue of Chariclea from pirates, ship-wreck, capture, flames and much else besides. But rather than draw attention to this fact, Obsopeous, in his dedication of the Aethiopica to the senators of the Republic of Nuremberg, presents the work not as an excitingly dangerous, erotically charged novel, but as classically instructive. Setting the author alongside both Virgil and Lucretius, he makes of Heliodorus an informed explorer of the worlds of nature and human custom, whose text offers itself readily to the Renaissance practice of exemplary reading: in the Ethiopian ruler, Hydaspes, for instance, we can see the model, or type of modern kingship, and as a list of further exemplary characters contained in the novel reinforces the claim, Obsopeous further assures his readers that: The author himself is most learned, showing real cosmographical knowledge and understanding in his depictions of many places; he digs out and reveals the hidden causes of not a few things, and there are not a few peoples whose customs and manners he describes, all with erudition. He explains the nature of a good many rivers, mountains, stones, plants and regions of Egypt and neighbouring Ethiopia (unknown to common folk) […] what is more he left nothing rude or unpolished in the whole of his work, nothing that could induce nausea in even the most delicate reader. (f.a3.r)

It is probably a step too far to imagine that Pantagruel, suffering from just such ‘nausea’ on board ship, had decided to set the book aside and try to get some rest. But judging by manuscript marginal notes on several extant copies of Obsopoeus’s edition, excerpts of the text included in natural historical compendia, epitomes of the romance constructed for schoolboys’ use, and indices appended

|| 8 For more on ‘suspense’ here see: Cave 1998, 19-28 and 2009, and Giorgi 1987 and 1994; see also Williams 2011. 9 Heliodorus/Obsopoeus 1534.

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to it from the very first Latin edition onwards, a good many early modern readers approached the book in ways very like those which Obsopoeus here outlines. Pierre Gilles, to take just one example, adduces passages concerning fish from Heliodorus (along with a number of other ancient natural historical authorities) in his edition and Latin translation of Aelian’s long zoological work, de vi et natura animalium (Lyon: Sebastian Gryphius, 1533). And Stanislaw Warschewiczki, Heliodorus’s first Latin translator, similarly advertises a ‘richly stored Index of memorable things and words’ from the novel on his title-page, while Philip Melanchthon, in his brief blurb for the Latin translation, stresses that the reader will here find: ‘a wonderful variety of counsels, incidents, events and emotions; and it contains many images of life.’10 Those early modern readers who annotated the copies of the romance now held by libraries in Cambridge, Oxford and London clearly agreed; their notes bear eloquent witness to the text’s having been ‘gutted’ for natural historical and ethnographic information.11 Not having read Amyot’s proësme, Pantagruel might well have been reading his Heliodorus in similar fashion. But this is not to say that he, any more than any other Renaissance reader unaware of Amyot’s proesme was altogether insensitive to the formal properties of the narrative. Indeed Obsopoeus himself draws attention – with a painterly flourish – to the ‘many and fine digressions’ and the ‘extremely pleasant parerga’ with which Heliodorus ‘mixes and tempers’ his portrait of the places through which the young lovers travel. Whoever scribbled on one of the copies now in the Bodleian Library was yet more rhetorically minded, offering a (partial) imitative Latin translation in the margin of the first book, copious references to Scaliger’s treatise on poetics, and corrections to the Greek throughout.

|| 10 Heliodorus/Warschewicki 1552. For more on this early reception history, see Doody 1996, 233–246, and Plazenet’s useful Annexe III, ‘Les Éthiopiques chez les contemporains de Jacques Amyot’, 775–837. 11 See for instance the copy of Heliodorus/Obsopeous once owned by P. Olivarius and now held in the Bodleian (Lib Polon. A. 190).

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Fig. 1: Heliodorou Aithiopikes Historias Biblia Deka. Heliodori Historiae Aethiopicae libri decem, nunquam antea in lucem editi, ed. Vincentius Obsopoeus (Basel: ex officina Hervagiana, 1534) Bodleian, shelfmark Byw. O. 1.9; opening page.

Jumping forward, we see that by the late 1620s, the Aethiopica had become a part of the narrative DNA of French writing to such an extent that some complained that novelists were now able to produce only ‘Heliodorus’s disguis’d […] children that came to Theagenes and Chariclea’s marriage, who so exactly resembled their

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father and mother, as to have not a hair of difference.’12 Others were more critical still of the French fad for this tale, and Racine’s strict preceptors at Port Royal taught him excellent Greek according to their radical new method, but forbade him to read the Aethiopica, confiscating it from him three times, before eventually consigning it to the flames (by which time, according to the legend first elaborated by Racine’s son, the future tragedian had learned it off by heart).13 Nor were the children born of this suspenseful encounter of antiquity with the early modern exclusively French. From Sidney to Cervantes, from Tasso to Swift, the children of Heliodorus settle all over early Europe (and beyond). It is clear, from the reception history of this tale that what its many and varied editors, translators, readers and illustrators were responding to was what Amyot had rightly referred to as ‘grand ebahissement’ [great amazement], generated by the plotting of the romance as it moves, by indirect, ingenious, and suspenseful design, towards it compelling final scene; the one which stages a reworking of the triangulated image common to visual representations of the Andromeda legend from late antiquity to the present: the girl in danger, the monster about to attack, and the passing stranger who saves the day.

|| 12 Guez de Balzac, ‘Lettre à une dame de qualité’ 1629. 13 Louis Racine, ‘Mémoires’ in Racine, J. 1999, 1120. For more on Racine and Heliodorus, see Collinet 1998, and for an influential early account of the broader context see Oefterding 1901.

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Fig. 2: L’Histoire ethiopique d’Heliodore : contenant dix liures, traittant des loyalles & pudiques amours de Theagenes Thessallien, & Chariclea Ethiopienne. Traduite de grec en françois, par Maistre J. Amiot conseiller du Roy (Paris: Chez Anthoine de Sommaville, 1626), facing p. 635. Taylor Library.

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Heliodorus rewrites the drama of Andromeda’s exposure as a famously extended and distinctly theatrical recognition scene in which women rescue women, and all is explained by way of a painting, an argument about resemblance and description, and an exemplification of the power of the imagination.14 For this is a story about the power of art, the generation of suspense, and the potentially fatal – but finally redemptive – force of the imagination. It concludes with the literal collocation of a painting of Andromeda before the eyes of the assembled nation; this collocation enables the king of Ethiopia to recognise the strange, monstrously white girl he was about to sacrifice to the gods as his own daughter; it absolves the girl’s mother from the guilt of having cast out her young baby for fear of being accused of adultery; and it allows the young lovers Theagenes and Chariclea not only to marry, but also – or such is the expectation – to found a new dynasty, and with it a newly celebratory and self-consciously hybrid culture.15 The role of Perseus-as-redeemer is taken in this tale by the nurse, for it is she who knows it is the Queen’s close attention to the image of Andromeda that once hung above the royal bed that explains the child’s appearance. This triangulated scene, with the roles of vulnerable prize, threatening monster and canny hero variously distributed, recurs across early modern culture, functioning both as an explanation of monstrous births and as a genealogy of cultural change. A particular focus of my own enquiries into this transitional period has been the work of authors operating within early modern medical traditions; for it is here above all that we find writers trying to gain a clearer sense of the force, and the reach, of the powerful metaphor, or concept, of the book-aschild, which accompanies the reception of Heliodorus’s romance as it travels from the poetics of fiction through to the pathology of embodied cognition. Foremost among the writers operating in this field is Ambroise Paré, the father of modern surgery and sixteenth century France’s leading teratologist. Paré, in his compelling treatise on monstrous births, their causes and their significance, first published in 1573, cites Heliodorus – alongside other authorities drawn from the Bible through to the animal kingdom – as evidence of the power of the imagination, as exemplified in the theory of maternal impression: Heliodore li. 10 de son histoire Aethiopique escrit que Persina, Royne d’Ethiopie, conceut du Roy Hydustes, tous deux Ethiopiens, une fille qui estoit blanche, et ce par l’imagination qu’elle attira de la semblance de la belle Andromeda, dont elle avait la peinture devant ses yeux pendant les embrassemens desquels elle devint grosse.

|| 14 For more on theatricality in Heliodorus, see Paulsen 1992, and for description, see Barscht 1989. 15 For an account of how this process worked in antiquity, see Whitmarsh 1998.

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Heliodorus (book 10, of his Aethiopian History) writes that Persina, the Queen of Ethiopia, conceived by King Hydustes – both of them being Ethiopians – a daughter who was white, and this because of the appearance of the beautiful Andromeda that she summoned up in her imagination, for she had a painting of her before her eyes during the embraces from which she became pregnant.16

In the course of a single paragraph, Paré reveals the enigma which motivates the birth of Chariclea in Heliodorus’s novel. He gives the game away, and in so doing pays scant attention to the poetics of suspense so prized by Amyot and others after him. For the good doctor, Heliodorus’s romance serves (as it did for many early modern medical men, and a good few women, too) as a species of proof of the embodied force of the imagination, and more specifically of the medical theory of maternal impression.17 This proof itself then generates another hybrid set of tales and arguments, including, subsequent to the ‘rebirth’ of Heliodorus in the 1540s, those which animate the writing of monsters across a range of fields and discourses in the early modern period. The local monster is dispatched, but it is the passing stranger who takes the monster-princess away, and together they generate significant cultural change, a new narrative repertoire, and a new brood of stories. A sustained study of Heliodorian reception would explore the detail of the triangulation of desire, hybridised allegory, and political expediency in this myth, its obsessive recurrence in early modern culture across novels, plays and poems from Rabelais to Racine and beyond, all the way through to the present day. I cannot, of course, offer such an account here, and have in any event sketched out some of the story in more detail elsewhere.18 For now, it might be enough to follow the example of the crowd, figured in the image reproduced above – just one of the many visual representations of the scene in the printed history of this tale – and (unlike Rabelais’s snoozing giant) to thrill to the wonder of it all.

3 Montaigne’s daughter Pantagruel, having dozed off with his Heliodore grec en main seems not to have sensed the shape of the change in both narrative custom and readerly taste that was to come. To be fair to him, none of the early modern Greek editions of this

|| 16 Paré 1971, 35; the translation here is mine. 17 Williams 2016. 18 Williams 2011.

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story are accompanied by such at once explanatory and inviting images as the one reproduced here, and it took a good half century for the full force of Jacques Amyot’s remarks on the novel’s redeployment of epic technique to take effect. But having been, it seems, the first to call Heliodorus’s narrative magic suspense, Jacques Amyot probably anticipated the wait. It would, as noted above, be tempting to linger lovingly over the uptake of Heliodorus’s romance by a wide range of writers across its first half century in print. But I want, rather, in the final section of this chapter, to follow Pantagruel’s example one last time: in other words, to suspend interest in anticipatory readings, in the writing of grand narratives of emergence, transmission and survival, and to attend instead to a final instance of reading which generates different forms of interest – or being in between – in relation to Heliodorus as he was interpreted and understood in sixteenth-century France. We know that among Ambroise Paré’s many readers was the essayist Michel de Montaigne; following the good doctor, Montaigne devotes an entire chapter of his Essais (first published between 1580 and 1595) to collating brief stories, anecdotes, and examples which attest to the power of the imagination (I, 21). Montaigne had little Greek, and so relied on translators (most notably Jacques Amyot) for his voracious reading of Plutarch above all, but also, as a number of notes in the Essais suggest, of Heliodorus. Montaigne praises Amyot lavishly, naming him as the best among all living French writers, especially for his translation of Plutarch; he also affords Heliodorus’s novel a particular, distinctive, place in his own writing, as we can see from his re-drafting, late in his life, of an essai which he had begun some fifteen or more years earlier concerning the affection of fathers for their children. Taking up his pen to think again, Montaigne decided to add one further example – that of a singular daughter – to the beginning of an already existing list of children. Written into the margins of his own copy of the Essais, annotated ready for publication, are the following words: [c] Heliodorus, ce bon Evesque de Tricea, ayma mieux perdre la dignité, le profit, la devotion d’une prelature si venerable, que de perdre sa fille, fille qui dure encore, bien gentille, mais à l’adventure pourtant un peu trop curieusement et mollement goderonnée pour fille ecclesiastique et sacerdotale, et de trop amoureuse façon. [a] Il y eut un Labienus à Rome […].19

|| 19 Montaigne 1965, 400. It is customary, when thinking about the history of composition of the Montaigne’s text, to mark passages with letters referring to the chronology of their publication in the Essais: [a] = 1580; [b] = 1588; [c] = after this, but prior to his death in 1592.

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[c] Heliodorus, that good bishop of Tricca, preferred to lose the dignity, the profit, and the piety of so venerable a prelacy rather than lose his daughter – a daughter who still lives on, and to this day is commended for her beauty, but is perhaps a little too curiously and loosely tricked out, and in too amorous a fashion, for the daughter of a churchman and a priest. [a] There was one Labienus, in Rome […].20

This [c] text emendation is, I think, striking for a number of reasons. Firstly, it sets Heliodorus as the first among equals; we read about his costly devotion to his daughter, before we read about the others on the list, all of whom in fact turn out to be required to make a sacrifice even starker than his: they surrender their lives alongside those of their children. Secondly, the bishop’s is the only daughter mentioned, singled out in a list otherwise composed entirely of plural and male children. And lastly, it is not at all clear from the context alone who Heliodorus himself was; other, that is, than a kindly bishop. Unlike Labienus and the fathers who follow him in the list, and whose life stories are told along with those of their children as we encounter them, which is to say just before they are put to the flames, are walled into tombs, and so on… in contrast to all of these, Heliodorus and his daughter are only very indirectly introduced, almost as if they are people the reader is already assumed to know: ‘ce bon Evesque de Tricea […] et sa fille.’ The indirection and the imprecision of the reference are, I think, part of Montaigne’s making the most of the suspenseful point of Heliodorus’s story: for as the list progresses, it becomes retrospectively clear that both father and daughter are metaphors, and that Chariclea is a species of monster. The indecorous daughter is in truth a book, and the ‘good bishop’, is a good father precisely in so far as he chooses, when given the alternative of keeping his pious and powerful position or keeping his book-child alive, he ensures that the Aethiopica is not thrown into the flames. And so the remainder of Montaigne’s essay explores the affection of authorial fathers for their textual children. This a theme which is developed at several points in the Essais, but Montaigne’s late ascription of Heliodorus and his ‘daughter’ to this theme might well have been inspired by the second, corrected edition of Jacques Amyot’s translation of the Aethiopica, first published in Paris in 1558/9. For it is there, in the revised version of the ‘proesme’ which Pantagruel had clearly not been reading on board his boat, that Amyot tells his readers of his own manuscript discovery on a recent research trip to the Vatican library, rumoured to have been funded by king François 1er as a token of his pleasure at reading Amyot’s translation of the Aethiopica.

|| 20 Montaigne 2003, 353 (translation slightly altered).

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It is in the Vatican Library that Amyot discovers a second and more complete version of Heliodorus’s romance than the one used in all previous editions of the work. Handwritten in Greek, it is preceded by information about its author, collated from a range of church historians, including one Nicephorus Callistus. It is here that Amyot learns of the painful choice put to the then Bishop of Tricca concerning the several ‘livres amatoires’ he had written when young. Rather than renounce his giovenile errore, the good Bishop ‘ayma mieux perdre son Evesché que supprimer ses livres.’21 Precisely this thought is, as we have seen, at once echoed and transformed by Montaigne: the essayist turns the plural books into a singular, monstrous child, even as he rehearses the repeated drama of survival and rescue of the mythical Andromeda from the monster; of Heliodorus’s Chariclea herself; and, finally, of the manuscript accounts of the narrative which connects their stories.

4 Conclusion In the one chapter in the Essais to discuss the worth and point of books in general, ‘des livres’ (II, 10), Montaigne drew up a brief list of authors, whose books he considers ‘simplement plaisants’ as opposed to objects of difficult and serious study; such texts are, as a result, ‘dignes qu’on s’y amuse’ [well worth reading]. As the best of the ‘moderns’, he names Boccaccio (for the Decameron), Jean Second (for his Baisers, a collection of neo-Latin erotic poems), and Rabelais (whose work is, it seems, his name). As the only example of such works which are not quite contemporary, dating, rather, from ‘des siecles un peu audessus du nostre’ [centuries a little behind/below ours], he singles out by title, rather than by the author’s name, the text we have focussed on here: ‘l’histoire Aethiopique.’22 Or at least he did until he recanted, late in the day. With a stroke of the same pen with which he had added Heliodorus to the list of affectionate fathers devoted to their children, their books, he made a further corrective emendation on the ‘Bordeaux copy’ of his own book, annotated for (as it turned out posthumous) publication:

|| 21 Heliodorus/Amyot 1558, 10; see also Callistus and Heliodorus/Amyot, 2008, 163. 22 Montaigne, 2002, f.169v; the Bordeaux Copy can also be accessed at the Montaigne Studies website:

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Fig. 3: Montaigne, Reproduction en quadrichromie de l’Exemplaire de Bordeaux des Essais de Montaigne, texte établi avec une introduction par Philippe Desan (Fasano-Chicago: Schena Editore, Montaigne Studies, 2002), f. 169v, detail. Courtesy of Philippe Desan, Montaigne Studies.

Montaigne’s manuscript alteration to his own copy of the Essais serves here as a concluding emblem of the ways in which now present, now absent, now excitedly discovered, now actively erased, the ‘cas’ or ‘exemple’ of the bishop’s daughter held a peculiar, indeterminate position in early modern culture. At once ancient and eroticised proof of the imagination’s extraordinary power and of the affection in which children of the mind can be held, the Aethiopica is also, it seems, soporific, troubling, and perhaps even something of an embarrassment. It is in and around this complex of inclusion and erasure, avowal and disavowal, discovery, exposure, and escape – of real and imaginary children, literal and metaphorical parents – that the readerly history of Heliodorus’s Aethiopica turned, and turns, still.

Bibliography Bartsch, S. (1989), Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius, Princeton (NJ). Callistus, N. Histoire ecclésiastique, XII, 34 (Migne, PG, 146, col. 860). Cave, T.C. (1988), Recognitions: A Study in Poetics, Oxford. Cave, T.C. (2009), ‘Towards a pre-history of suspense’, in: N. Kenny/W. Williams (eds.), Retrospectives: Essays in Literature, Poetics, and Cultural History, London, 158–167. Collinet, J.P. (1988), ‘Racine lecteur et adaptateur d’Héliodore’, PFSCL 15 (29), 399–415. Doody, M.A. (1996), The True Story of the Novel, New Brunswick (NJ). Giorgi, G. (1987), Antichità classica e Seicento francese, Rome. Giorgi, G. (1994), ‘Due fonti del romanzo barocco francese: Apuleio e Eliodoro’, in: G. Dottoli (ed.), Il Seicento francese oggi: situazione e prospettive della ricerca, Bari. Guez de Balzac, J.-L. (1629), ‘Lettre à une dame de qualité’, preface to: Boisrobert, Histoire indienne d’Anaxandre et d’Orazie, Paris.

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Heliodorus (1534), Helī odor̄ou Aithiopikes̄ Historias Biblia Deka Heliodori Historiae Aethiopicae nunquam antea in lucem editi. ed. V. Obsopoeus, Basel. Heliodorus (1547), L’Histoire aethiopique, trans. J. Amyot, Paris. Heliodorus (1552), Heliodori Aethiopicæ historiæ libri decem: nunc primùm è Gr[a]eco sermone in Latinum translati, [by Stanislaus Warschewiczki]; adiectum est etiam Philippi Melanthonis de ipso autore et hac eiusdem conversione judicium, Basel. Heliodorus (1558), L’Histoire aethiopique, trans. J. Amyot, Rouen. Heliodorus (1569?), An Æthiopian historie written in Greeke by Heliodorus, trans. Thomas Underdowne, London: Henrie Wykes, for Fraunces Coldocke, dwellinge in Powles Churcheyarde, at the signe of the greene Dragon. Heliodorus (1989), An Ethiopian Story, trans. J.R. Morgan, in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Los Angeles, 349–588. Heliodorus (2008), L’Histoire aethiopique, ed. L. Plazenet, Paris. Montaigne, M. de (1965), Les Essais, eds. P. Villey and V.-L. Saulnier, Paris. Montaigne (2002), Reproduction en quadrichromie de l’Exemplaire de Bordeaux des Essais de Montaigne, texte établi avec une introduction par Philippe Desan, Fasano/Chicago. Montaigne (2003), The Complete Works, trans. D.M. Frame, London. Oefterding, M. (1901), Heliodor und seine Bedeutung für die Literatur, Berlin. Paré, A. (1971), Des monstres et prodiges [1573], ed. J. Céard, Geneva. Paulsen, T. (1992), Inszenierung des Schicksals. Tragödie und Komödie im Roman des Heliodor, Trier. Rabelais, F. (1994), Les Cinq Livres, eds. J. Céard/G. Defaux/M. Simonin, Paris. Rabelais, F. (1994a), Gargantua and Pantagruel, trans. P. Motteux/T. Urquhart, ed. T. Cave, London. Racine, J. (1999), Œuvres complètes, 2 vols. ed. G. Forestier, Paris. Whitmarsh, T. (1998), ‘The Birth of a Prodigy: Heliodorus and the Geneaology of Hellenism’, in: R. Hunter (ed.), Studies in Heliodorus, Cambridge, 93–124. Williams, W. (2011), Monsters and their Meanings in Early Modern Culture: ‘Mighty Magic’, Oxford. Williams, W. (2016), ‘Montaigne on Imagination’, in: P. Desan (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Montaigne, Oxford, 679–698.

Caterina Carpinato

From Greek to the Greeks Homer (and Pseudo-Homer) in the Greco-Venetian Context between the Late Fifteenth and Early Sixteenth Century Abstract: In the years following the print revolution, Greek intellectuals adopted the new medium in order to convey the Greek literary heritage to a wider audience. One of the first (if not actually the first) Greek literary texts to be printed was the Batrachomyomachia, published in Brescia in 1474: the poem was printed at least three times during the second half of the fifteenth century (1474, 1486, 1488) and the first decades of the sixteenth century. It was also published in a vernacular Greek version (1539?). In 1526 Nikolaos Loukanis published a poetical reworking of the Iliad in Greek that included a poem about the fall of Troy. The use and re-use of the Homeric heritage by Greeks who had settled in Venice is symptomatic of reflection on the use of the spoken language and of vernacular literature amongst Greek scholars in the West. Keywords: Greek language and culture in Venice, reception of classical Greek texts in contemporary spoken Greek

In the year 1526 the doge of Venice was Andrea Gritti (1455–1538); Cardinal Pietro Bembo (1470–1547) had just published (1525) his Prose della volgar lingua, which introduced both a new conception of language and a linguistic comparison between ancient and modern languages; the publisher Niccolò d’Aristotele, known as Zoppino,1 brought out a vernacular (Italian) edition of Lucian’s I piacevoli dialoghi. In the same year, Carpaccio (ca.1465–1525/6) died in Capodistria and Titian (1488–1576) completed the Pesaro Altarpiece which still hangs in the Frari Church; Jacopo Sansovino (1486–1570) was engaged in an architectural renewal of the city and new ideas about poetic composition were being introduced from Rome by Pietro Aretino (1492–1556). In the same year, the print shop run by Aldus Manutius’ heirs published the editio princeps of Hippocrates with a dedication to the Vicenzan nobleman Gian Giorgio Trissino (1478–1550).2 Trissino was at the time still working on his L’Italia

|| 1 Severi 2009. 2 D’Achille 2011, and Pecci 2015.

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liberata dai Goti, a heroic poem set in the Greek-Gothic wars in Italy during the age of Justinian and which he would publish in 1547. The Arsenale, the Venetian shipyards, were growing exponentially and Venice was unquestionably ruler of the Aegean: both Crete and Cyprus were under its jurisdiction, while minor islands of the Aegean such as Astypalaia and Naxos were in the hands of Venetian families or had submitted to Venice. The administration of Ionian islands such as Corfu, Zakynthos, Lefkas and Cephalonia, all important ports on the eastern trading routes, was carried out from Venice. After conquering Constantinople in 1453, the Ottoman Turks had occupied most of the Greek-speaking areas, but Venice (from the time of the Fourth Crusade, but also before) ruled and indeed owned many Greek-speaking territories. In the first decades of the sixteenth century, Venice was the capital of Greek studies and books: it was home to Aldus Manutius (as well as to other printers), the Aldine Academy and Erasmus of Rotterdam. But the Greek language that was spoken (and studied) in Venice was not only that of Homer and the ancients. There was a growing market for texts in vernacular Greek and a certain degree of interest in spoken Greek, for commercial, political, social and economic reasons. In May 1526, the print shop of Master Stefano da Sabbio issued a very interesting publication. It was inscribed ad instantia di Miser Damiano di Santa Maria da Spici and bore the weasel device of Andreas Kounadis (Figs. 1 and 2). It was an edition of the Iliad3 in vernacular Greek composed by Nikolaos Loukanis of Corfu/Zakynthos (?), one of the first pupils of the Greek Gymnasium that had been founded in Rome by Leo X on the advice of Ianòs Laskaris. Its author was not unlearned: he had studied during the years in which Laskaris was publishing, at the Gymnasium’s print shop in Rome, Σχόλια παλαιά των πάνυ δοκίμων εις την Ομήρου Ιλιάδα (1517) and Porphyry’s Ομηρικά ζητήματα (1518).4 But nor was he a true innovator: the Homeric poems had been continually issued in Greek, or glossed in simplified terms, from antiquity onwards.

|| 3 On this Iliad and its author see Carpinato 1997, Carpinato 1998, Carpinato 1999, Badenas 2002, Dourou 2015, Dourou 2017. 4 I decided to use the monotonic system for Greek here. In the first page of the edition it is written: Σχόλια παλαιά των πάνυ δοκίμων εις την Ομήρου Ιλιάδα / Homeri Interpres pervetustus, seu Scholia graeca in Iliadem, addita ipsa Iliade, praemissis duobus Iani Lascaris epigrammatibus, Graece. /[Eτυπώθη εν ρώμη. παρά του κυρίνου λόφον. εν τη οικία του ευγενούς και σοφού ανδρός. προξένου τε των λογίων και κηδεμόνος αρίστου αγγέλου του κολλωτίου των απορρήτων Γραμματέως του άκρου αρχιερέως. έτει της ενσάρκου οικονομίας χιλιοστώ πεντακοσιοστώ επτακαιδεκάτω. Της Δε αναρρήσεως του παναγιωτάτου και θεοφιλεστάτου λέοντος πάπα Δεκάτου έτει πέμπτω [...]. On these editions see now Pontani 2017.

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His Iliad was new in one respect, however, and differed even from the vernacular Greek editions that had appeared since 1509: it was calculated to appeal to middle-class Greeks who bought Sabbio publications for their personal pleasure. It was a synthesis of the Homeric poem based on a number of different sources: Homer in primis, but also Ioannis Tzetzes, Konstantinos Ermoniakòs and the Πόλεμος της Τρωάδος, the long poem in decapentasyllables that was a reworking of Benoît de Saint Maure’s Roman de Troie. This work has come down to us in eight codices; the editio princeps was produced only in 1996.5 Theodore of Gaza had also paraphrased the Iliad and the Batrachomyomachia which are preserved in a Florentine manuscript and published in the early nineteenth century by the Cypriot scholar Nikolaos Theseus: Loukanis probably did not know these reworkings, but it was not unusual to rewrite Homeric poems for many different reasons. His Iliad was responding to a new feeling: Greek antiquity belonged to the Greek-speaking people, and also to whose were unable to understand the ancient Greek language profoundly. Greek antiquity was a new world for the western humanists but also a hidden heritage for too many Greek-speaking men and women. This treasure needed to be revealed. So, in the last section of his translation (or of his poetic summary of the Homeric text) a poem, in 478 lines, the Άλωσις της Τροίας, was added by the author (Fig. 3). Loukanis’ didactic and popularising intention is clear from the colophon, which states that the text is a synthesis and has undergone a linguistic revision. Loukanis warns the reader that his Iliad has been newly ‘reformulated’; he would have been familiar – as we have seen – with at least two other revisitations of the Homeric poem in vernacular Greek. These were: 1) The Iliad by Konstantinos Ermoniakòs6 (an obscure 14th-century author who lived in Epirus), three manuscripts of which survive and were published in 1890 by Èmile Legrand. 2) The Πόλεμος της Τρωάδος: he could had the opportunity to read it, while a manuscript (now in Bologna, Bibl. Univ. Graec. 3567) of this reduction of Benoît di Saint Maure’s Roman de Troie in decapentasyllables and composed around 1170, is known to have been present in Venice in the years in which Loukanis published his Iliad. Loukanis’ Iliad is not a philological, but a ‘communicative’ translation, in which the reader’s requirements take precedence over fidelity to the source text. It was with his reader’s enjoyment in mind that Loukanis added the poem on the Άλωσις

|| 5 Jeffreys/Papathomopoulos 1996, and Lavagnini 2016. 6 Carpinato 2004.

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της Τροίας, subdividing it into two large sections: a romantic epic on Achilles’ love for Polyxena and a second, more dramatic section on the burning of Troy and the tragic loss of the city (in which there are echoes of lamentations for the fall of Constantinople in 1453, as well as an excerpt from the chorus of Euripides’ The Trojan Women). Echoes of the famous love story between Achilles and Polyxena – which was well-known in medieval Europe – can even be found in Crete in the early fifteenth century: these characters of Trojan myth are briefly mentioned in the Ερωτήματα και Αποκρίσεις Ξένου και Αλήθειας (1403–1411) by Leonardos Dellaportas (native of Candia/Heraklion, before 1330–1419/20), the first printed edition of which was in 1995.7 Between the thirteenth and the fifteenth centuries, such revisitations in vernacular Greek of the Trojan myth had less to do with a rediscovery and didactic reading of Homer than with a phenomenon of cultural exchange that had come about in the Eastern Mediterranean following the arrival of large numbers of men and women during the Age of the Crusades. For the invaders of those lands where Greek was spoken, (and this applied also to Constantinople in 1204), the rediscovery of the Trojan myth at this time was also a way of legitimizing the invasion of Christian lands by other Christians. Legends about the origin of Troy were rediscovered not only in Rome, but also in Padua, for example, and this had the effect of ennobling and justifying the actions of those who were engaged in appropriating those territories where Greek was spoken. Although in recent years there has been renewed scholarly interest in Dares Phrygius, Dictys Cretensis8 and the various revisitations of the Iliad, it might perhaps be more useful to focus less on works of fiction than on the shifting historical perspective of how the Middle Ages and the Renaissance are now viewed. Brill’s Companion to Latin Greece9 allows us to form a clearer picture of a moment in history that often lies outside the competence of classical philologists, but is, however, of great importance, given that many of the Greek manuscripts that have come down to us belong to these years: the survival of Greek manuscripts of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was not due simply to luck or to the patient work and/or the culture of erudite Byzantines. Rather, the selection of texts and the reasons for certain survivals or losses were determined also by the new political and cultural reality that had formed in Greek-speaking areas in this period, following the arrival of the Franks from the West.

|| 7 See Manoussakas 1995.  8 See the huge recent (and not complete) bibliography by Lentano/Zanussi 2016–2017. 9 Tsougarakis/Lock (eds.) 2014.

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The Athens of the Acciaiuoli, Orsini’s Epirus, and the Frankish domination of the Peloponnese are the context in which, from the thirteenth century onwards, a new method of ‘appropriating’ Homer arose. In this sense, the philologically ‘incorrect’ use of ancient literature was also determined by reasons connected with the expansionist politics of the Western Franks, as well as by more strictly literary interests. Loukanis’ Iliad was prefaced with a glossary: Ομήρου Ιλιάς, μεταβληθείσα πάλαι εις την κοινήν γλώσσαν, νυν δε διορθωθείσα συντόμως,’ και κατά βιβλία, καθώς έχει η του Ομήρου βίβλος, παρά Νικολάου του Λουκάνου, εστί μεν η βίβλος πάνυ ωφέλιμος, και ωραία τοις αναγνωσομένοις και επειδή εισίν εν τη δε τη βίβλω πολλαί λέξεις δειναί, ήγουν ομηρικαί εγένετο και πίναξ, εν ω πίνακι, ευρήσι ταύτας τας ομηρικάς λέξεις, απλώς εξηγημεμένας, λάβετε τοιγαρούν πάντες την βίβλον ίνα ειδήτε τα ποικίλα καθορθώματα του Ομήρου (Fig. 1).10

As Loukanis says, it was included to help Greek readers decipher the more difficult terms. The following year, 1527, the same print shop published the so-called Corona Preciosa, a pocket-sized dictionary in ‘Vulgar Italian, Vulgar Greek, Latin and Literal Greek’ (την ιδιωτικήν και την αττικήν γλώσσαν των Ελλήνων, την γραμματικήν και την ιδιωτικήν γλώσσαν των Λατίνων). A need to re-appropriate the linguistic and cultural patrimony of the Ancient Greeks began slowly to grow among the new Greek readership, composed of exiles from Byzantine territories that had fallen into Ottoman hands and the subjects of Venetian possessions in the Aegean. This is the historical and cultural context in which Loukanis produced his translation, a compendium in which he eliminated those sections of the work he judged to be extraneous to the culture and taste of the book’s readership. If we take it that the interpretation of linguistic signs comes about by means of other signs in the same language, then the result here is a particularly interesting case of intralinguistic translation: Homer expresses himself in Greek and Loukanis translates him into Greek. So the ‘register of linguistic distancing’ (as G. Mounin defined it) is less characterized than the other two registers: the register of ‘historic distancing’ and the register of ‘intercultural distancing.’ This historical and intercultural separation brought about a ‘trauma’ that for sixteenth-century Greek readers was more serious than the trauma of linguistic differences. It was

|| 10 Glossary Άδε / τραγώδησε, Ατρείδης / ελέγετο ο Αγαμέμνων και ο Μενελάος οι δύο αδελφοί, ότι ήσαν υιοί του Ατρέως, άπειρα / αμέτρητα, απαράμηλοι / ασυύγκριτοι, Αργείοι, Αργείους / οι αυτοί και Έλληνες και Αχαίοι λέγονται […].

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above all this separation that translators strove to help their readers overcome. But in fact, the Greek translators of Homer and their readers were not completely unconnected with the language of the original texts, since their language preserved close ties with ancient Greek. They were, however, very distant from the culture of the original language. For an educated Greek reader of the sixteenth century, the complexity of Homer lay not so much in the morphological and syntactical differences between the languages, or the semantic value of the words, as in deep-seated historical and cultural differences. Francesco Amadi, author of a Dialogo sulla lingua composed in the third decade of the sixteenth century (but published for the first time only in the nineteenth century),11 wrote that la lingua greca non ha mai patito tanta alterazione, che la sia diventa aliena come la latina a noi; anzi hanno ritenuti e casi nei nomi e nei verbi persone, modi, tempi e numeri, tanto che femmine, fanciulli, marinai e villani intendono quasi ogni parola della messa.12

In other words, even uneducated Greeks could understand the ecclesiastical koinè. The transfer of the Homeric heritage into vernacular Greek was of great significance therefore for the development of Greek literature: the passage from one language to another, the manipulation of the source texts in order to render them more accessible, even the choice of texts to be translated, are all symptomatic of a particular cultural climate that was created in Venice during the first decades of the sixteenth century. Translating Homer into vernacular Greek in the sixteenth century therefore became a kind of competition on a level playing field.13 On the one hand this contributed to a wider appreciation of what had been produced in antiquity, and on the other it was tangible proof of increasing independence where literary production in the vernacular was concerned. The fact that re-workings in vernacular Greek of ancient Greek literary works were published in the first half of the century was of particular significance: in these years the Italian language || 11 See Amadi 1821, 74. 12 My Engl. trans.: ‘The alterations undergone by the Greek language have never been so great as to render it alien, as is the case of Latin for us: indeed they have retained both the cases for nouns and the different tenses, moods, persons and numbers in the verbs, so that women, boys, sailors and peasants can understand almost every single word of the mass.’ 13 I believe that in some cases, such as those examined in the present study, it is legitimate to state that translation is a comparison between equals. The debate on equivalence between the source text and its translation, or on the absolute and natural – also qualitative – dependence on the latter, has been the subject of lively discussions.

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was the object of widespread discussion, and those Greek intellectuals who translated ancient texts into the vernacular contributed to the debate about the function of language and the specific potential of the spoken language. The vernacular had come of age and was now deemed worthy of transmitting the works of ancient writers. If around 1530 Francesco Amadi could say that, quasi tutti gli uomini da bene biasimano questo trasportare da la latina in questa [lingua] più comune (‘almost all right-thinking men condemn this transportation of Latin into this more common [tongue]’), just fifteen years later, Fausto da Longiano (1502–1565?),14 was able to state, in his Dialogo del modo de lo tradurre, that translation into the vernacular was now favoured even by right-thinking men. Printed editions of works in vernacular Greek published in Venice in the first half of the sixteenth century at the print shop of the Nicolini da Sabbio brothers aroused the interest of several Italian and foreign scholars,15 but even today they are known only to a restricted circle of specialists. These were the first examples of printing in Greek destined for a Greek-speaking readership and the first interlinguistic and intercultural dialogue between ancient and vernacular Greek. Greeks of that time had not yet recovered any perception of a historical and cultural continuity with the pagan culture of the ancients: in Venice in the early sixteenth century, while the debate raged about how best to render the ancient literary patrimony, some Greeks began to scrutinize a few ancient texts through a linguistic filter, and some of these texts, such as the Iliad and the Batrachomyomachia, were printed. A little later, in 1544, Plutarch’s Περί παίδων αγωγής received the same treatment by Nikolaos Sophianos (ca. 1500–1551). It was just one year after the first Italian translation by Antonio Massa, of this very famous pedagogical text, printed in Venice by Michele Tramezino in 1543.16 The Batrachomyomachia was published in Venice in 1486 with interlinear explanatory glosses. Its brevity and its supposedly Homeric authority had certainly contributed to the success of the Brescia edition, printed as early as 1474; it was then included in the editio princeps of Homer of 1488, and reprinted several times (thanks also to its limited length) in the early sixteenth century. In 1539 (?) an edition of the Batrachomyomachia was produced by Nicolini da Sabbio with a translation into vernacular Greek in rhymed decapentasyllables. It was

|| 14 On Sebastiano Fausto, see Pignatti 1995. 15 See the recent monograph by Layton, 1994, 179–222, with extensive bibliography. 16 See the recent edition Lelli/Pisani 2017, 2507.

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edited by Dimitrios Zinos of Zakynthos, who was also a copyist and editor of liturgical texts destined for readers of Greek and those of Orthodox religion.17 There were a great number of manuscript copies of this poem on the war between mice and frogs in circulation, thanks to its attribution to Homer and the fact that it was used as a school text. The just over three hundred hexameters of the poem became 458 rhymed decapentasyllables: this was a significant increase in numerical terms, but where content was concerned, it was negligible. The list of foods that Psycharpax glories in, for example, is longer than in the source text (which seems likely to have been the 1486 Venetian version, and to which may be traced the interlinear glosses that have found their way into the translation), but overall the text maintains the same narrative structure. Zinos’ poem is preceded by a very interesting dialogue between the bookseller and the φιλομαθής, which is an amusing example of proto-publicity by a publisher, similar to the dialogue that precedes the 1499 edition of Chalkokondyles’ Suda and that of the Γέρας περί ονομασίας published by Arsenios Apostolis in Rome in 1519, both of which works Zinos would certainly have known. The poem was also translated into vernacular Italian in the mid-fifteenth century by the Florentine Antonio Pazzi, but it remained in manuscript (in a Magliabechi codex 1293, cl. VII) and was not published until 1820. Another Italian translation in hendecasyllables of the Latin version was made by Giuseppe Santafiore and, according to Gabriele Bucchi, can be dated to between 1520 and 1550.18 Zinos’ Batrachomyomachia takes on the rhythm of the rimade in decapentasyllables and bears witness to a novel and audacious cultural cherrypicking, skilfully adapted to the intellectual needs of those merchants, stratioti (soldiers), artisans and Greek students who were seduced by the charms of poetry. In order better to understand the task undertaken by the translator of the pseudo-Homeric poem, it is useful to see him in the context of the sixteenth century Venetian print shop, in which the editorial role of the copy-editor was growing in importance. To be employed in such an activity meant not only carrying out the duties of a specialized technician, but also becoming a protagonist in a true cultural mediation. Thanks to the vibrant productivity of the Venetian presses and to the dynamic intelligence of the editors, a climate was created that was favourable to the spread of works in the vernacular aimed at a wide readership. This was the ever-broadening perspective in which printed works in vernacular Greek were produced and promoted. They owed their

|| 17 On Zinos’s Batrachomyomachia see Carpinato 20142. 18 See Βucchi 2008, and Bucchi 2015.

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existence to a series of happy coincidences: 1) the presence of men of culture and of a new readership and a new audience for literature; 2) from a cultural and religious point of view, the particular political outlook of Venice where outsiders were concerned; 3) the widespread diffusion of printing presses and consumption of the printed word; 4) fruitful contacts between different cultures; and 5) a multilingual intellectual climate that was favourable towards the vernacular (or rather, towards the use of vernacular languages). The number of texts published in vernacular Greek grew steadily during the course of the first half of the sixteenth century: in the same period, in 1529, the Vicenzan nobleman Gian Giorgio Trissino published his Italian translation of Dante’s treatise De vulgari eloquentia in Venice. Issued under a false name and containing several errors of interpretation, it nevertheless added fuel to the heated debate about the value and function to be attributed to the spoken language. Given his engagement in literary activities, it was inevitable that Zinos too should feel the echoes of this querelle, which was particularly animated in erudite Venetian circles.19 The translation in decapentasyllables of Zinos’ Batrachomyomachia was republished by Martin Crusius in Tübingen in 1584 within his monumental Turcograecia – a work that was also admired by a young Giacomo Leopardi. Loukanis’ Iliad was reissued twice in the course of the seventeenth century (and known also later to Fabricius and to Melchiorre Cesarotti), but has had few readers in the last fifty years.20 Today, the work is easily accessible through Google Books. The translations of Loukanis and Zinos were essentially crafted to appeal to the understanding and sensitivity of the contemporary reader, rather than to provide a scrupulous linguistic transposition of the source text. They oscillate between over-translation (in which details are increased) and under-translation (with inevitable losses). Loukanis drew from the entire Homeric inheritance (and not only that), reworking literary material according to his needs: in the monologue of the lovestruck Achilles, for example, he introduces elements of Odysseus’ speech to Nausicaa, and of Achilles disguising himself on Skyros, as well as the invocation to Eros in the Achilleide, an anonymous poem in vernacular Greek. Loukanis presents him as a despairing lover, a youth who fears he will be judged harshly

|| 19 Carpinato 2017, 147–167. 20 See Follieri 1969, 119–130, Fischetti 1986, 147–158, Carpinato 1997, Carpinato 1999, Badenas 2002, 159–172, Dourou 2015, 199–218, Dourou 2017, 20–32. I do not agree with the ideological and nationalistic interpretation of Loukanis’s Iliad. His translation was a very innovative text in the political and cultural context of the time, but Loukanis was a scholar of his time.

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by his father and friends, a soldier who has cast aside his spear and wishes only to play his lyre and to sing. A very similar Achilles, love-struck and unable to decide how to act, appears in the love monologue of the Πόλεμος της Τρωάδος. His love for Polyxena brings about the hero’s death: Achilles is killed at the hands of Paris who, fearing that he will have to return the beautiful Helen to the Greeks, fatally wounds Achilles just before the celebration of the marriage that would have brought about a peaceful solution to the ten-year war. For Loukanis, the responsibility for Achilles’ murder lies entirely with Paris, as it does for Boccaccio in his notes to Canto V of the Divine Comedy; in the Πόλεμος, instead, the hero’s death is caused by Hecuba and Priam, while in the so-called Iliade bizantina, as in Ermoniakòs, the killing is carried out by Deiphobus and Paris. Loukanis was an unfashionable imitator of chivalric epic set in Trojan times whose work had a very wide distribution throughout Greek-speaking lands during the Frankish domination that followed the Fourth Crusade. The poem on the taking of Troy was the last stage of the creative journey of Homeric material in the Greek language. When the ashes of Achilles are deposited in a golden urn that had belonged to Patroclus, the voyage of Peleus’ son truly comes to an end. The Greeks are now subservient to Venice and partly assimilated; their community is riven by complicated internal feuds (usually provoked by questions of a religious nature). From the early seventeenth century until the fall of Crete (1669) and the reconquest of the Peloponnese by the Venetians (1687), the Greek-speaking people do not seem to have taken much notice of Homer. But I would like to remind readers that: 1) Loukanis’ poem was reprinted at least twice (in Venice 1603 by Antonio Pinelli – no reference – and in 1640 by Giovanni Pietro Pinelli; see also Athens 1870, critical edition by Émile Legrand).21 2) Homeric scenes (taken from Italian re-workings of the texts) in the Greek vernacular were used in the Jesuit drama developed on Chios. Only in the last few years have these texts begun to be appreciated, not so much for their literary qualities as for their value as historical and linguistic documents.22 3) Trojan themes are utilized through the mediation of Italian theatrical works, as in the case of the four intermissions in Fortunatos, a play written in Crete in the Latin alphabet by Markos Antonios Foskolos during the twenty-yearlong siege of Heraklion. It contains episodes from Ludovico Dolce (1508–

|| 21 Legrand 1870. 22 See Puchner/White 2017.

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5) 6)


1568), a prolific Venetian author who was at the time very fashionable, being the author of as many as 368 books, ranging from art criticism to plays, to reworkings of antique literary material, to actual rewritings with commentaries by contemporaries, from treatises on the language question to literary translations of Greek and Latin texts. These latter included ‘Ulysses from Homer’s Odyssey and rendered in iambic pentameters and which includes all the misfortunes and the feats of Ulysses, for a period of twenty years, from his leaving Troy until his return to his homeland’ (Gabriele Giolito 1573). The poems continue to be read and to be commentated on in an educational context (as is clear from numerous manuscripts dating from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which are often copies of printed editions). A long passage with Trojan themes is to be found in Κήπος χαρίτων by Kaesarios Dapontes written in 1768.23 It was only between the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, a period during which the intellectual refinement of the classics was being rediscovered all over Europe and Winckelmann’s ideal of beauty was being propounded as the canon both for the figurative arts and for literature, that Greek-speaking intellectuals began to feel a need to retrieve Ancient Greece for themselves. For Greeks, neo-classicism was not simply a recovery of the past but an actual recognition of identity, or even, a (re)discovery of a father. And for Greeks, that father was Homer. In Paris, Adamantios Koraìs worked on an edition of Homer and especially on the Prolegomena; in Vienna in 1818–19, the Kozani Greek scholar Gheorgios Rousiadis published a comprehensive edition of the Iliad (a work that has not been adequately studied) in katharevousa; again in the early nineteeth century Athanasios Christopoulos, Iakovakis Rizos Neroulòs and Dimitrios Gοuzelis were working on the recovery of the Homeric heritage and the Iliad in particular.24

Chronologically, we are now on the threshold of the revolution against the Turks, and the name of Homer is invoked for political reasons. Admiration for the great works of the Greek past and the political enthusiasm for the democratic values of fifth century BCE Athens are not merely concerned with literary models, but also interpret a desire for national dignity and libertarian political allegiance. Unlike Koraìs’ neo-classicism, which is mainly of a philological nature, the neo-classicism of Christopoulos, Rizos Rangavìs and Gouzelis is a symptom of a

|| 23 Angelou 1995. 24 Carpinato 1997–98, 287–311.

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cultural reality in evolution: the Greeks are beginning to feel that they are the worthy heirs of their glorious ancestors. This new-found closeness made their servitude to the Turks even more unbearable. For a people looking for national identity, the rediscovery of Homer meant recognition of the continuity of the γένος. During the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, most Greek scholars maintained an aristocratic distance from literary production in spoken Greek. These erudite conservatives, to whom we owe a debt of gratitude for their contribution towards saving the heritage of classicism, are fairly well known to scholars. However, scholarly contributions on this ‘marginal Greekness’, which deserves to be seen in the context of the millenarian evolution of Greek literature, have to date been few and far between.

Appendix To give a basic idea of the quality of the texts covered by this work, I submit to the reader's attention a passage from the Iliad of Nikolaos Loukanis (vv. 39–85), the introductory dialogue to Batrachomyomachia by Dimitrios Zinos (vv. 1–14); and several verses of the poems. They are translations of translations, but they still have some taste of the quality of Greek metafrastes. A passage from the Monologue of Achilles from Loukanis, vv. 39–85: ‘I have seen the city of Sparta too, and have been to Lacedaemon where there are many beautiful women, (40) but never have I seen a face and a breast like these, nor such beauty as this girl possesses. I am in torment looking at her and my eyes are never satisfied with gazing at her. Oh happy the man who shall have you in marriage! (45) I would not desire to be in heaven or to be a god or a saint if I had a girl like that for myself. For this woman I would turn into wind, so that I might blow upon you and kiss your lips, or I should like to be a rose, that a traveller might pluck me and cast me (50) upon your tender breast. Alas, I am assailed by a great fear: if I am victorious over the city, some soldier might make you his. I must find out where you live, young Trojan girl, so that when we take the city, I can come straight to you and carry you off to the ships (55) But what does reason say to me? I desire evil for this girl, I desire that her homeland be burned, that her father be killed, that she be made a slave. God will not allow me to carry out what this young girl does not want. (60) I would rather go on board the ship and, seated, play the lyre so that the girl cannot blame me for the fall of her city. But what am I saying? What will the Argives say, the valiant Argives, when they see me sitting (65) on the ships like a woman? And what will my father say? Peleus will curse me often because I no longer fight bravely, as I did before. But if I remain on the ships, the other Argives will enter the city and take the women as slaves. (70) Someone will take even her. If such a thing happened, I would want to die immediately. So I think it would be better to go together with these courageous men and surround the city

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walls and look as if I’m fighting and then stop in front of her and remain unsatisfied looking at her. (75) Eros, Eros, why do you distil passion in my eyes, why do you afflict me so? Why do you inflame my heart and take away my strength? I don’t want to fight and my mind is all directed towards that beautiful girl. Now that I have known love, and I know (80) what it is capable of: it tames even wild beasts and makes the bravest of men more humble than lambs. Ah! If I had never come with the others to Troy, there would not have been such pain in my heart because of you!’ Thus spoke Achilles (85) beneath the city walls, ardent with love, before her every day.

D. Zinos, Batrachomyomachia, introductory dialogue: Lover of literature: Have you got any new books to sell me? Bookseller: Yes, I do have a new one, you can have a look at it if you want. L. : Which one is it? I don’t have much time. I’ve got to study and I can’t start reading it now. B. : It’s the Batrachomyomachia by the learned Homer. L. : No, that’s not for me, it’s too complicated. B. : No, it’s really easy to read, because it’s translated into verses that rhyme. L. : It’s in verse? Give it to me then, quickly, just name your price. But tell me, who translated it and put it into verse? B. : It was a friend of yours. You know him well: It was Dimitrios Zinos from Zakynthos.

Batrachomyomachia by Dimitrios Zinos, incipit: (vv. 1–6) Invocation: Before I begin I pray that the great Zeus/ come to my aid in the telling of this story/ by sending me the Muses that live on Mount Helicon/ for alone I cannot recount/ (5) the terrible battle fought by the great Ares/ who is considered a god and a divine hero.

(vv. 7–12) the poet’s speech to his audience: I hope that you are all well,/ that you can pay attention,/ and open your ears/ so that you can hear the reason why the mice/ (10) engaged the frogs in battle and went to war/ and imitated men, the heroes of old,/ as it is told and sung, the terrible giants.

The boast of Psycharpax (vv. 39–104): The mouse answered him and said:/ ‘Why do you ask about my kin?/ Leave my name out of this./ Everybody in Asia and in Europe knows it,/ (40) the birds of the sky, men and the gods./ But if you insist on knowing it,/ I will happily tell you. Listen to my name./ I am Psycharpax, (Crumb-snatcher), and I don’t deny it,/ (45) the son of the magnanimous Psomofagus (Bread-nibbler)/ whose beard is as long as a goat’s./ My mother is of noble blood, she is called Lichomyli (Millstone-Licker)/ and her lips are usually covered in white dust./ It is said that she is the daughter of King Lardofagus (Lard-Eater)./ (50) She gave birth to me and let me breathe the sweet air/ she was in labour in a hut and my birth was not easy/ and she fed me with the foods that men nourish themselves with,/ with figs, and

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walnuts and hazelnuts/ and with good white almonds/ (55) and now a lot of other foods fill my belly./ How can I give you my friendship, Physignathos/ given that our two natures are in every way dissimilar?/ my diet is like that of men/ while you live in water and your life is there/ (60) and your food comes from aquatic plants./ While mine comes from the houses of men/ I eat everything heartily, without any effort./ I never go without well-kneaded bread, nor lalanghion made with honey/ (65) nor good pancakes seasoned with sesame,/ or those white, sweetened ones/ nor freshly-curdled cheese, made from milk/ nor soft misithres and other dairy products./ I have plentiful sweets, which everybody loves/ (70) and are even desired by the gods in heaven./ nor do I forgot all other foods cooked in pots/ by cooks who are experts in making delicious dainties/ using spices from India, true delicacies./ (75) I have found myself in the midst of battles and I have never avoided/ death that could result from war./ And when necessary, I don’t run for cover/ but I join those that are engaged in the thick of battle./ And another thing: I am not afraid of men./ (80) And this is true, I don’t say it to boast./ I go to his bed, where he’s sleeping/ and I nibble his toes and he doesn’t notice./ I even bite his heel, but he doesn’t wake,/ he continues to sleep undisturbed, so much so that he snores./ (85) There is nothing in the world that I am afraid of,/ except the cat and the falcon, those above all./ We mice all fear the wooden cat most of all/ which kills us by treachery./ When I see or I sense a cat near/ (90) I am so frightened that I almost faint/ and I run hither and thither wondering how to escape/ and I try to find a hole that I can dive into to get away/ because he could snatch me, corner me and suffocate me,/ and sink his sharp claws into this beautiful body of mine./ (95) These things are to be found in the fields and mountains,/ enemies that bring death to me and my kind./ But you are afraid of everything, of things great and small,/ of animals that crawl, that fly, of men and all other things./ And as the proverb says: you are even afraid of your own shadow./ (100) The only evidence for your existence is your raucous voice./ I neither eat cabbages, nor water plants,/ nor greens or celery, nor leeks, or radishes./ You instead are fond of all these foods and you eat them,/ you who squat in ponds and dwell therein.’

Bibliography Amadi, F. (1821), Della lingua italiana dialogo di Francesco Amadi, pubblicato per la prima volta nelle nozze Comello-Papadopoli, Venezia il giorno 15 gennaio 1821. Angelou, A. (ed.) (1995), K. Δαπόντες, Κήπος χαρίτων, Athens. Badenas, P. (2002), ‘Η Ιλιάδα του Νικολάου Λουκάνη στην ελληνική δημώδη γλώσσα: προβλήματα σύνθεσης και παράδοσης’, in: P. Agapitos/M. Pieris (eds.), «Τ’ αδόνιν κείνον που γλυκά θλιβάται»: εκδοτικά και ερμηνευτικά ζητήματα της δημώδους ελληνικής λογοτεχνίας στο πέρασμα από τον Μεσαίωνα στην Αναγέννηση, 1400–1600, Πρακτικά του 4ου Διεθνούς Συνεδρίου Neograeca Medii Aevi (Νοέμβριος 1997, Λευκωσία)/Ηράκλειο, 159–172. Bucchi, G. (2008), ‘Animali in guerra: una rara Batrachomyomachia cinquecentesca in ottava rima’, Versants 55/2, 21–34. Bucchi, G. (2015), ‘«In tenui labor». Homère comique: réception et traduction de la Batrachomyomachia au XVIe siècle’, Corpus Eve, Homére en Europe à la Renaissance. Traduction et réécrittures, online at:

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Carpinato, C. (1997–98), ‘La discoverta del vero Omero: riscritture greche. Athanasios Christòpulos, Ἀχιλλεύς (1805), Iakovakis Rizos Nerulòs, Πολυξένη (1814), Dimitrios Guzelis, Ἡ κρίσις τοῦ Πάριδος (1817)’, Italoellinikà 6, 287–311. Carpinato, C. (1997),‘Le prime traduzioni greche di Omero: l’Iliade di Nikolaos Lukanis e la Batrachomyomachia di Dimitrios Zinos’, in: E. Banfi (ed.), Atti del Secondo Incontro Internazionale di Linguistica greca (Labirinti 27), Trento, 411–440. Carpinato, C. (1998), ‘Posthomerica Neograeca I. Sulla fortuna di Achille e Fisignatos nei testi greci in demotico (XIV–XVI secc.)’, Acme 51/2, 21–50. Carpinato, C. (1999), ‘Il viaggio di Achille da Venezia alla Grecia: a proposito dell’ Άλωσις ήγουν έπαρσις της Τροίας di Nikolaos Lukanis’, in: A. Pioletti/F. Rizzo Nervo (eds.), Medioevo Romanzo e Orientale Il viaggio dei testi, III Colloquio Internazionale Venezia 10–13.10.1996, Soveria Mannelli, 487–505. Carpinato, C. (2004), ‘Leggendo l’Iliade con Konstantinos Ermoniakòs: La vita di Omero (I, 29– 141)’, Siculorum Gymnasium 52, 133–142. Carpinato, C. (20142), Varia Posthomerica neogreca, Milan. Carpinato, C. (2017), ‘Stampe veneziane in greco volgare nella prima metà del Cinquecento e questione della lingua,’ in: S. Kaklamanis/A. Kalokairinòs (eds.), Χαρτογραφώντας την δημώδη λογοτεχνία, Neograeca Medii Aevi VII, Εταιρεία Κρητικών Ιστορικών Μελετών, Ηράκλιο, 147–167. D’Achille, P. (2011), ‘Gian Giorgio Trissino’, in: Enciclopedia dell’Italiano, online at: http://’Italiano%29/ Dorou, C. (2015), ‘Μεταξύ αναγεννησιακού ουμανισμού και πρόδρομων μορφών Νεοελληνικής εθνικής αφύπνισης: αναψηλαφώντας την επική παράδοση του Ομήρου στην Ιλιάδα του Νικολάου Λουκάνη (1526)’, in: K.A. Dimadis (ed.), Continuities, Discontinuities, Ruptures in the Greek World (1204–2014): Economy, Society, History, Literature, 5th European Congress of Modern Greek Studies of the European Society of Modern Greek Studies, vol. II, Athens, 199–218. Dorou, C. (2017), ‘Turks and Greeks at the Beginning of the Sixteenth Century Through the Prism of the Τrojan War Legend: Issues of Ethnic Identity’, in: Ν. Μαυρέλος/Π. Συμεωνίδου (eds.), Identities: Language and Literature: Pre-Conference Meeting of Post-graduate Students and PhD Candidates on the Occasion of the 20th Anniversary of the Department of Greek of D.U.Th., Komotini, 20–32. Fischetti, G. (1986), ‘La prima traduzione neogreca di Omero’, in: G. Fischetti, Filologia e presenza dell’antico, Rome, 147–158. Jeffreys, E./Papathomopoulos, M. (eds.) (1996), Ο πόλεμος της Τρώαδος. Κριτική έκδοση με εισαγογή και πίνακες, Athens. Lavagnini, R. (2016), ‘Tales of the Trojan War: Achilles and Paris in Medieval Greek Literature,’ in: C. Cupane/B. Krönung (eds.), ‘Fictional Storytelling in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean and Beyond’, Leiden, 234–259 books/9789004307728). Layton, E. (1994), The Sixteenth Century Greek Book in Italy. Printers and Publishers for the Greek World. Venice: Library of the Hellenic Institute of Byzantine and post-Byzantine Studies No. 16. Legrand, É. (1870), Ομήρου Ιλιάς μεταβληθείσα πάλαι εις κοινήν γλώσσαν παρά Νικολάου του Λουκάνου, Athens/Paris. Legrand, É. (1890), La Guerre de Troie. Poème du XIVe siècle en vers octosyllabes, par Constantin Hermoniacos publié d’apres les manuscrits de Leyde et de Paris, Paris.

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Lelli, E./Pisani, V. (eds.), 2017, Plutarco, Tutti i Moralia. Prima traduzione italiana completa, testo greco a fronte, Milan. Lentano, M./Zanusso, V. (2016–2017), ‘Ditti Cretese e Darete Frigio: rassegna degli studi (2005–2015)’, Revue des etudes tardoantiques 6, 255–296. Manoussakas, M. (ed.) 1995), Λεονάρδου Ντελλαπόρτα, ποιήματα (1403–1411), Athens. Pecci, P. (2015), ‘Riscrittura e imitazione omerica ne L’Italia liberata dai Goti di Gian Giorgio Trissino’, in: S. D’Amico (ed.), Corpus Eve, Homère en Europe à la Renaissance. Traductions et réécritures, online at: Pignatti, F. (1995), ‘Fausto, Sebastiano’, in: DBI, vol. 45, Rome, online at: http://www.treccani. it/enciclopedia/sebastiano-fausto_(Dizionario-Biografico)/ Pontani, F. (2017), ‘Edizioni sicuramente del Ginnasio greco. Scholia in Homeri Iliadem; Porphyrii Quaestiones Homericae’, in: C. Bianca/S. Delle Donne/L. Ferreir/A. Gaspari (eds.), Le prime edizioni greche a Roma (1510–1526), Turnhout, 215–232. Puchner, W./White, A. (2017), ‘Jesuit Theatre in Constantinople and the Archipelago (1600– 1750)’, in: W. Puchner (ed.), Greek Theatre between Antiquity and Independence: A History of Reinvention from the Third Century BC to 1830, Cambridge, 196–245. Severi, L. (2009), Sitibondo nel stampar de’ libri. Niccolò Zoppino tra libro volgare, letteratura cortigiana e questione della lingua, Manziana. Tsougarakis, N.I./Lock, P. (eds.) (2014), A Companion to Latin Greece, Leiden.

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Fig. 1: Frontispiece of the editon of the Iliad translated into vernacular Greek by Nikolaos Loukanis, Venice 1526. Private collection.

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Fig. 2: Nikolaos Loukanis, Iliad translated into vernacular Greek, Venice 1526 (Colophon). Private collection.

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Fig. 3: Nikolaos Loukanis, Άλωσις της Τροίας, text added to the Iliad translated into vernacular Greek by Nikolaos Loukanis, Venice 1526. Private collection.

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Fig. 4: Nikolaos Loukanis, Iliad translated into vernacular Greek, Venice 1526 (woodcut at the end of the book). Private collection.

Stefano Martinelli Tempesta

The Wanderings of a Greek Manuscript from Byzantium to Aldus’ Printing House and Beyond Τhe Story of Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf. Abstract: Inside the front cover of the manuscript Ambr. B 7 inf.1 (= gr. 837), which contains Aristotle’s Physics and De anima, there are two partly erased ex-libris which prove that it belonged to Aldus Manutius. This paper proposes a reconstruction of its history from traces left by 15th and 16th century readers (George Scholarios, Lauro Quirini, Nicholas Byzantios, Aldus Manutius, Justin Dekadyos, G.V. Pinelli and Michael Sophianos). Further, ink stains and finger-prints invite the inference that the manuscript was used in the printing press during the preparation of the second of the five volumes of the Aldine Aristotle (1495–98). Keywords: Aldus Manutius, Aristotle, Aldine press, manuscript tradition, Ambr. B 7 inf., George Scholarios, Lauro Quirini, Nicholas Byzantios, Justin Dacadyus, Gian Vincenzo Pinelli, Michael Sophianos

Between 1495 and 1498 Aldus Manutius, the most important scholarly publisher of the Renaissance, published the first printed edition of the works of Aristotle and Theophrastus (Fig. 1).2

|| 1 I am publishing here, in the dear memory of Paola, the text I read during the Conference held in Oxford in June 2016, with the addition of an essential apparatus of footnotes. An editio maior of this paper has appeared in Italian after the Conference: Martinelli Tempesta 2016. The research has been accomplished within the Project ‘Manuscritos griegos en España y su contexto europeo (II)’ (FFI2015–67475–C2–2–P). 2 See Sicherl 1997, 31–113.

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Fig. 1: The beginning of Aristotle’s Physics in the editio princeps (Ambr. Inc. 393b).

Three main principles lie at the heart of this major achievement: colligere, conferre and corrigere, i.e. to collect, to collate, and, further, to correct. As Aldus himself says, the aim was to provide the University studiosi (a word meaning both scholars and students) with reliable and easily available texts, although the relatively high prices of the books point to an indirect form of availability, e.g. through libraries and teachers. In order to fulfil such a difficult enterprise, Aldus needed both a wealthy and generous supporter and an efficient team of collaborators. Let us have a look at Aldus’ words in the preface to the second volume of his Aristotle (February 1497), which was dedicated to his former pupil and now financial supporter, Alberto Pio, prince of Carpi: [...] Aristotelis vero et quae nunc legenda damus et quae mox Deo favente daturi sumus, multum certe elaboravi ut, tum quaerendis optimis et antiquis libris atque eadem in re multiplicibus, tum conferendis castigandisque exemplaribus, quae dilaceranda impressoribus traderentur perirentque ut pariens vipera, in manibus hominum venirent emendatissima. Id ita sit necne, sunt mihi gravissimi testes in tota fere Italia, et praecipue Venetiis Thomas Anglicus, homo et Graece et Latine peritissimus praecellensque in doctrinarum omnium

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disciplinis, et Gabriel meus, Brassicellae natus, vir impense doctus ac rei litterariae censor acerrimus alterque Quintilius; Iustinus etiam Corcyraeus, miro ingenio adolescens Graeceque sane quam eruditus; Ferrariae vero Nicolaus Leonicenus et Laurentius Maiolus Genuensis; quorum alter, philosophorum aetatis nostrae medicorumque omnium facile princeps, librorum Aristotelis, quos ipse haberet, mihi copiam humanissime fecit; alter, praestanti vir ingenio et maturo iudicio ac omnibus bonis artibus praeditus, omnes prope Aristotelis libros summa cura summoque studio contulit cum libris Leoniceni nostri meo rogatu. Idem et ipse Venetiis accuratissime feci, non sine adiumento virorum doctorum, qui et Venetiis sunt et Patavii. [...]3 I have done a great deal of work on Aristotle, both on the texts now offered to the reader and to those which we shall shortly offer, if God favours. In order that they should reach the public in as correct a state as possible, the best early manuscripts were sought, several copies of the same text were collated and corrected, and they were handed over to the printer to be taken apart, perishing like the viper that gives birth. For the truth of what I say I have the most reliable witnesses, from almost every part of Italy, especially Venice: Thomas the Englishman, a great expert in Greek and Latin and outstanding in all subjects, and my friend Gabriele, born in Brisighella, a man of extraordinary learning and a severe critic of literature, a new Quintilius; also Justin from Corfù, a young man of wonderful intelligence and pretty expert in Greek. But in Ferrara there are Niccolò Leoniceno and Lorenzo Maioli from Genoa. The former is by far the leading philosopher and doctor of our age and very kindly lent me his manuscripts of Aristotle; the latter, a man of great ability, mature judgment and knowledgeable in all the liberal arts, with great care and attention collated at my request all the Aristotelian texts with my friend Leoniceno’s manuscripts. I have done the same in Venice, with the utmost care, assisted by scholars in Venice and Padua. [transl. by Nigel G. Wilson]4

Aldus himself explains both his editorial technique and the main reason why the Druckvorlagen have mostly perished. Further he mentions the name of the skilled men he put together as members of his team: Thomas Linacre (ca. 1460–1524), ‘an expert in medicine who had already spent some time in Italy studying under Poliziano, Demetrius Chalcondyles and others’;5 Gabriele Braccio, who ‘set up as a printer in 1498, apparently in rivalry to Aldus, and issued two slim volumes, one containing Aesop, the other spurious letters attributed to Phalaris, the tyrant of Acragas (Agrigento), and other notable figures of antiquity’;6 Justin Dekadyos (b. ca. 1470 in Corfù), who ‘edited in Venice the Greek Psalter printed by Aldus in 1498’7 and then left Venice – we don’t know exactly when – and went back to the || 3 Dionisotti/Orlandi 1975, I, 16. 4 Wilson 2016, 43. 5 Wilson 2016, 334 n. 115. 6 Wilson 2016, 334–335 n. 116. 7 Wilson 2016, 335 n. 118. See now Pagliaroli 2017.

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East, but still kept in contact with Italian scholars, as some Greek letters testify; Niccolò Leoniceno (1428–1524), ‘an expert in medicine who taught in Ferrara for many years, beginning in 1464’,8 and owned a number of manuscripts, some of which are now preserved in the National Library of France in Paris;9 Lorenzo Maioli (or Maggioli) (d. 1501), who ‘was an Aristotelian philosopher who taught in Ferrara, whose pupils included Giovanni Pico della Mirandola and Alberto Pio.’10 In order to cast light upon the textual improvements made by a scholarly publisher, it is of paramount importance to identify the manuscripts he collected and used for his printed editions. How is it possible to recognise a printer’s copy? I quote the general rule recently introduced by Lotte Hellinga: The identification of a document (manuscript or printed) as having served as printer’s copy can only be based on the presence of compositor’s marks in combination with textual features. It cannot be based on textual features alone. When in the absence of marks textual features indicate a close relationship between a source and a printed edition, the possibility of a no longer extant intermediate copy deserves consideration. Conversely, and exceptionally, the presence of marks similar to compositor’s marks cannot be taken as decisive evidence if textual features contradict it.11

In Figs. 2 and 3 we can see two specimina of printer’s marks:

Fig. 2: Ambr. P 35 sup. (Aldus Manutius, Greek Grammar, autograph), f. 3v.

|| 8 Wilson 2016, 335 n. 119. 9 On his library see Mugnai Carrara 1991 and Muratore 2009, I, 123–151. 10 Wilson 2016, 335 n. 120. 11 Hellinga 2014, 42.

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Fig. 3: Ambr. C 195 inf. (Plutarch, Moralia), f. 94r.

A further addition is in my opinion necessary: when in the absence of compositor’s marks we still find sure traces of time spent in a printing house, such as stains of printer’s ink and fingerprints, if textual features suggest no close or confused relationship between a source and a printed edition, the possibility of the use of this source as Korrektivexemplar deserves serious consideration. Of course a Korrektivexemplar could be used by scribe-scholars in order to provide the emended copies directly commissioned by Aldus primarily for use in the printing house: in this case, we are very unlikely to find stains of printer’s ink or fingerprints. On the contrary, we should expect to find stains of printer’s ink and fingerprints if a given manuscript was used as Korrektivexemplar directly in the printing house. To date, only a part of the manuscript sources that lie behind Aldus’ Aristotle have been recognised; they are mainly two composite manuscripts (Paris, BnF, Suppl. gr. 212 and Harvardianus gr. 17 [Fig. 4])12 coming from the scattered quires of printer’s copies ‘rescued’ from the printing house a few years after their use by the Greek scholar Johannes Cuno, who worked with Aldus in 1504–1505 and then settled in Basel in 1510. After his death in 1513, his manuscript material came into possession of his pupil Beatus Rhenanus, who collected the various quires used by Aldus and bound them together with heterogeneous material: Rhenanus’ books mostly remained in the Bibliothèque Humaniste of his native city, Sélestat (Schlettstadt), in Alsace, but some of these composite volumes, such as Paris, BnF, Suppl. gr. 212 and Harvardianus gr. 17, were dismembered and sold to antiquarian booksellers.13

|| 12 The manuscript Paris, BnF, Suppl. Gr. 212 is at website: 1b85946003.r=supplement%20grec%20212?rk=21459;2. On this manuscript see, e.g., Sicherl 1978, 170–179; on the Harvard. gr. 17 ($1i) see Moraux et al. 1976, 110–117, and now Kavrus Hoffmann 2010, 211–222. 13 On this story see, e.g., Speranzi 2013, 286–287, Ferreri 2014, 510–512, and Martinelli Tempesta 2016, 232–233.

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3) 4)

5) 6)


8) 9)

Let us consider the manuscript sources so far recognised:14 Porphyrius, Isagoge (Aldine, vol. 1) Druckvorlage: Harv. gr. 17, ff. 139–142 (fragment only, copied by the Anonymus Harvardianus) Aristotelis De generatione et corruptione (Aldine, vol. 2) Druckvorlage = a lost indirect copy of Vat. gr. 253 (s. XIII); Korrektivexemplar (without stains of printer’s ink) = Harv. gr. 17 (written by an anonymous scribe, whose handwriting is similar to Demetrios Moschos’)15 and Paris. Graec. 2032 (a fourteenth-century book coming from the library of the agent of Manuel Chrysoloras; later it was probably in the hands of Niccolò Leoniceno).16 [Galen], Historia philosophorum (Aldine, vol. 3) Druckvorlage: Harv. gr. 17, ff. 154–172 (written by the Anonymus Harvardianus) Aristotle, Enquiry into animals (Aldine, vol. 3): Druckvorlage: Paris Suppl. gr. 212, ff. 22–147 Korrektivexemplaren (without stains of printer’s ink): Vat. gr. 262 and Ambr. I 56 sup. [Aristotle], Physiognomica (Aldine, vol. 3): Druckvorlage: Harv. gr. 17, ff. 143–152 (written by the Anonymus Harvardianus) [Aristotle], De signis aquarum et ventorum (Aldine, vol. 3) Druckvorlage: Harv. gr. 17, ff. 153r-v (fragment only, written by the Anonymus Harvardianus); Theophrastus, Enquiry into Plants and De causis plantarum (Aldine, vol. 4): Druckvorlage: Harv. gr. 17, ff. 54–138 (Aldus’ copy from Paris. Graec. 2069) (written by the Anonymus Harvardianus); Aristotle, Metaphysics (Aldine vol. 4); Druckvorlage: Paris. gr. 1848 (mostly written by Michael Apostolius); Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (Aldine, vol. 5): Harv. gr. 17, ff. 38–45 (Book I only, written by the Cretan scribe Thomas Bitzimanos)

In an attempt to further clarify such a complex background, I will tell the story of a thirteenth-century manuscript of Aristotle’s Physics and On the soul together with Simplicius’ Commentary now preserved in the Ambrosian Library: Ambrosianus B 7 inf.

|| 14 See Sicherl 1997, 31–113, Rashed 2001, 311–314, Berger 2005, 117–118. 15 On this hand see Martinelli Tempesta 2015, 294–295. 16 On Paris Graec. 2032 see Mugnai Carrara 1991, 66–67, 128, Rollo 2005 and Muratore 2009, 41– 42.

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In order to reconstruct the story of a manuscript we have two kinds of tools available: (a) The stemmatological analysis of the text, which allows us to establish the relationships between different witnesses. But this is not the present concern. (b) The codicological and palaeographical analysis of the manuscript, which allows us to tell when and where it was written, bound and used, by readers, scholars, collectors and so on. In other words, thanks to codicology and palaeography, we are able to trace the story of a manuscript. This is exactly what I am going to do now. The oldest part of Ambrosianus B 7 inf. dates most probably from the second half of the twelfth century. It is composed of two codicological units, copied by two similar and contemporary hands, which alternate in its first part.17

Fig. 4: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 116r (the two old hands).

It is impossible to say if the two parts were bound to form a single book from the beginning, because the present binding dates from the fifteenth century. Still the common origin of the two parts is certain, because the second codicological unit is by the same scribe who wrote the last pages of the first one.

|| 17 For a full codicological and palaeographical description, see Martinelli Tempesta 2016, 236– 243.

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In the margins of the manuscript we find a number of anonymous hands dating from the thirteenth to the fourteenth century, which so far do not allow us to say anything about the story of the manuscript during this period. On the contrary, we are able to say something more about the later stages of the story. (1) First of all: at the end of the manuscript (f. 190v) we find an interesting Latin note dating from the fifteenth century: georgius scholarius magister curiae imperiali.

Fig. 5: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 190v.

Thanks to the shape of some letters (g and a) we are able to say that the man who wrote these words was a Greek (this also accounts for the strange Latin: we expect the genitive curiae imperialis or even the locative in curia imperiali, rather than the dative curiae imperiali). This note is most probably by the hand of the famous Byzantine philosopher and theologian Georgius Scholarius (ca. 1400 – ac. 1472/3), who was then the first Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople under Turkish rule (1454–64). He defines himself as a Magister curiae imperialis, so this note arguably dates from the mid-forties of the fifteenth Century, when Scholarius was τῆς ἱερᾶς θεολογίας διδάσκαλος ἐν τῷ παλατίῳ, i.e. appointed to give the weekly sermon on Friday before the Emperor.18 (2) A second stage: in the margin of the manuscript we find many Greek and Latin notes by the famous professor of philosophy and a strong supporter of Aristotelism in Padua, Lauro Quirini (born in Venice or in Candia [Crete] in 1420, died in Candia in 1480). He taught in Padua until the end of the 1440s, when he moved to Candia, where he stayed even after the fall of Constantinople (1453) until his death.19

|| 18 See Blanchet 2008, 316–321. 19 On him see Branca (ed.) 1977 and, for the identification with Anonymus 9 Harlfinger, Rashed 2001, 259–265.

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Fig. 6: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 138r (Latin).

Fig. 7: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 105r (Greek).

Fig. 8: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 110r (Capitulatio).

The present binding of the manuscript is most probably Cretan, dates from the last quarter of the fifteenth century and, as I argued elsewhere, had something to do with a western monastic library in Crete.20 Therefore the manuscript arguably received its present binding when it was in Lauro Quirini’s hands.

|| 20 See Martinelli Tempesta 2016, 240–242, 248–249.

204 | Stefano Martinelli Tempesta

Fig. 9: Ambr. B 7 inf. (binding).

(3) A third stage: we do not know the details of the presence of the manuscript in the Aldine milieu, but this is proved by four different arguments. (3a) First argument (Fig. 10): at the end of the manuscript the third book of Aristotle’s De anima has been restored by a late fifteenth-century hand which

The Story of Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf. | 205

seems identical with that of Nikolaos Byzantios,21 one of Aldus’ Greek collaborators, who was responsible for the Index Graeco-Latinus in Ovid’s Metamorphoseon libri quindecim, published by Aldus in 1502. This identification is based on a comparison between the last folios of the Ambrosianus and the photograph of one of the two autograph letters by Nikolaos published in 1903 by Emile Legrand from Firmin Didot’s collection. The photograph of the letter was published in the Catalogue of the Exhibition held in Venice in 1994 from Alberto Falk’s collection.22

Fig. 10: Comparison between Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 192r and Nikolaos’ letter.

(3b) Second argument (Fig. 11): at the top of the flyleaf we read the ex-libris of Justin Dekadios, that ‘Justin from Corfù’ (my emphasis) mentioned by Aldus himself as ‘a young man of wonderful intelligence and quite expert in Greek’, was a member of the team working on the second volume of Aldus’ Aristotle, which also contains the Physics.

|| 21 See Martinelli Tempesta 2016, 246–247. 22 See Eleuteri 1994, 67.

206 | Stefano Martinelli Tempesta

Fig. 11: Ambr. B 7 inf., flyleaf.

(3c) Third argument (Fig. 11): under the ex-libris of Dekadios, we read a deleted note by the hand of another important scribe working for Aldus, i.e. the so called Anonymus Harvardianus. (3d) Fourth and last (but not least) argument (Fig. 12): on the back of the wooden front cover there are two ex-libris, the upper one still visible, the lower one erased. With the aid of a Wood Lamp it is possible to read, at least in part, also the erased one.

Fig. 12: Ambr. B 7 inf. Back of the front cover.

(1) questo libro si e de mi Aldo Ma (‘this book belongs to me, Aldus Ma(nutius)’), and infra:

The Story of Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf. | 207

(2) questo libro si pert[iene?] ad Aldo Manucio Romano | da Bassiano (‘this book Aldus Manutius Romanus | from Bassiano’). The book arguably belonged twice to Aldus Manutius and for a while to another owner, maybe Justin Dekadios, who possibly gave it back to Manutius, when he left Venice. We can find Aldus’ Greek handwriting also in the margin of the Ambrosianus, e.g. at f. 89v (Fig. 13).

Fig. 13: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 89v.

The identification is confirmed by a comparison with the certainly autograph Ambr. P 35 sup. (Fig. 14).23

Fig. 14: Comparison with Ambr. P 35 sup., f. 3v.

|| 23 On Aldus’ handwriting see Speranzi 2018.

208 | Stefano Martinelli Tempesta

Considering the name of Aldus, Dekadios, Nikolaos Byzantios and Anonymus Harvardianus, the obvious question is: was this manuscript one of the direct sources of the Aldine Aristotle? In order to answer this question, let us have a look at the following pages of the manuscript (Figs. 15–17).

Fig. 15: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 75r.

Fig. 16: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 77v.

Fig. 17: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 92r.

We find all over the margins a number of fingerprints and stains of printer’s ink; this is strong evidence that the manuscript was certainly used in Aldus’ printing house. Still, as we do not find the usual compositor’s marks, we should argue for

The Story of Aristotle Ambr. B 7 inf. | 209

a use of the manuscript as a Korrektivexemplar, rather than as a Druckvorlage, but this conclusion should be confirmed by the examination of textual features. The last stage of the story of the manuscript, before its acquisition by Federico Borromeo in 1609, is its transfer, in the middle of the sixteenth century, to the collection of Gian Vincenzo Pinelli in Padua (Fig. 18), where it was annotated by the Greek scholar Michael Sophianos (Fig. 19).24

Fig. 18: Ambr. B 7 inf., Pinelli’s ex-libris.

|| 24 On the library of Gian Vincenzo Pinelli see recently Nuovo 2007 and Raugei 2018; on Michele Sophianos see Meschini 1981.

210 | Stefano Martinelli Tempesta

Fig. 19: Ambr. B 7 inf., f. 195r.

Since its arrival in the Ambrosiana Library in 1609 the manuscript did not attract much attention and, except for the stemmatological study by Paul Siwek on the text of the De anima,25 it is still waiting for a full collation and for a more exact evaluation of its role in the textual history of Aristotle’s Physics (and Simplicius’ Commentary) and of its contribution to the constitutio textus.

Bibliography Berger, F. (2005), Die Textgeschichte der Historia animalium des Aristoteles, Wiesbaden. Blanchet, M.H. (2008), Georges-Gennadios Scholarios (vers 1400–vers 1472). Un intellectuel orthodoxe face à la disparition de l’empire byzantin, Paris. Branca, V. (ed.) (1977), Lauro Quirini umanista, Florence. Dionisotti, C./Orlandi, G. (1975), Aldo Manuzio editore. Dediche. Prefazioni. Note ai testi, 2 vols, Milan. Eleuteri, P. (1994), ‘I greci di Venezia’, in: S. Marcon/M. Zorzi, Aldo Manuzio e l’ambiente veneziano. 1494–1515, Catalogo della Mostra di Venezia, Venice, 62–67. Ferreri, L. (2014), L’italia degli umanisti. 1. Marco Musuro, Turnhout. Kavrus Hoffmann, N. (2010), ‘Catalogue of Greek Medieval and Renaissance Manuscripts in the Collections of the United States of America. Part V.2: Harvard University, The Houghton Library’, Manuscripta 54, 207–274. Hellinga, L. (2014), Texts in Transit, Leiden/Boston. Martinelli Tempesta, S. (2015), ‘Trasmissione di testi greci esametrici nella Roma di Niccolò V. Quattro codici di Demetrio Xantopulo e una lettera di Bessarione a Teodoro Gaza’, Segno e Testo 13, 271–350. Martinelli Tempesta, S. (2016), ‘Un nuovo manoscritto aristotelico appartenuto ad Aldo Manuzio: Ambr. B 7 inf. (gr. 837)’, Italia Medioevale e Umanistica 57, 229–253. Meschini, A. (1981), Michele Sofianòs, Padua. Moraux, P. et al. (1978), Aristoteles Graecus. Die griechischen Manusckripte des Aristoteles. I. Alexandrien/London, Berlin/New York.

|| 25 Siwek 1965.

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Mugnai Carrara, D. (1991), La biblioteca di Nicolò Leoniceno, Florence. Muratore, D. (2009), La biblioteca del cardinale Niccolò Ridolfi, 2 vols, Alessandria. Nuovo, A. (2007), ‘The Creation and Dispersal of the Library of Gian Vincenzo Pinelli’, in: M. Robin/M. Harris/G. Mandelbrotes (eds.), Books on the Move: Tracking Copies through Collections and the Book Trade, New Castle/London, 39–67. Pagliaroli, S. (2017), ‘Giano Lascari, Venezia, Mantova e uno sconosciuto θησαυρός di lettere autografe’, Studi Medievali e Umanistici 15, 393–449. Rashed, M. (2001), Die Überlieferungsgeschichte der aristotelischen Schrift De generatione et corruptione, Wiesbaden. Raugei, A.M. (2018), Gianvincenzo Pinelli e la sua biblioteca, Genève. Rollo, A. (2005), ‘Gli inizi dello studio del greco in Lombardia’, in: M. Vegetti/C. Pissavino (eds.), I Decembrio e la tradizione della Repubblica di Platone tra Medioeva e Rinascimento, Naples, 237–265. Sicherl, M. (1978), Johannes Cuno. Ein Wegbereiter des Griechischen in Deutschland, Heidelberg. Sicherl, M. (1997), Griechische Erstausgaben des Aldus Manutius. Druckvorlagen, Stellevert, kultureller Hitergrung, Paderborn. Siwek, P. (1965), Le De anima d’Aristote dans les manuscrits grecs, Città del Vaticano. Speranzi, D. (2013), Marco Musuro. Libri e scrittura, Rome. Speranzi, D. (2018), ‘La scrittura di Aldo e il suo ultimo carattere greco (con uno sconosciuto esemplare di tipografia)’, in: Five Centuries Later. Culture, Typography and Philology in Aldus Manutius, Proceedings of the Conference held in Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana (19 novembre 2015), Florence/Milan, 29–60. Wilson, N. (2016), Aldus Manutius. The Greek Classics, Cambridge (Ma.)/London.

Giacomo Comiati

The Reception of Horace’s Odes in the First Book of Marcantonio Flaminio’s Carmina Abstract: This paper will focus on the reception of Horace’s Odes in the first book of the Latin poems written by the Italian humanist, religious thinker, and poet, Marcantonio Flaminio (1498–1550). It argues that Flaminio’s reception of Horace is evidenced by the language, style, and choice of themes in his lyrical works from his early lyrical compositions (1515) onwards. These various forms of Horatian reception continued to be pronounced in Flaminio’s subsequent Latin poems, collected in the first book of his Carmina. Keywords: Horace, Marcantonio Flaminio, reception, Renaissance Latin poetry

 Introduction Marcantonio Flaminio (1498–1550) was one of the most esteemed Italian poets who composed Latin verse in the first half of the sixteenth century, as can be inferred from the inclusion of his lyrics in the 1548 anthology published in Venice by Valgrisi, Carmina quinque illustrium poetarum, a landmark volume collecting what were deemed to be the greatest Latin poetry written in Italy at the time.1 Flaminio’s texts appeared after the poems by Pietro Bembo, Andrea Navagero, Baldassarre Castiglione, and Giovanni Cotta. Flaminio was not officially involved in the organisation of this edition, but we know that he gave the editorial team some directions on how to organize his poetical works.2 This anthology was so successful that it was reprinted twice in Florence – in 1549 and 1552 – by Lorenzo Torrentino, who left unaltered the poetical corpus of the first four authors, but

 I am grateful to the late Paola Tomè and Stephen Harrison for their invitation to speak at an Oxford seminar, which led to this paper. I also would like to thank Dario Brancato, Bryan Brazeau, and Giovanni Ferroni for their kind and useful comments.  1 See Flaminio 1548. On Flaminio’s life and works, see Cuccoli 1897, Maddison 1965, Pisanti 1976, Pastore 1981, Pisanti 1982, and Scorsone 1993, 313–322. Throughout this article, I will quote Flaminio’s Latin poems from Scorsone 1993. I refer to Flaminio’s poems by book, text number, and line. English translations of Flaminio’s poems are mine, while the translations of Horace’s Carmina I, II, and III are taken from West 1995, West 1998, and West 2002, respectively. 2 See Ferroni 2015, 318.

214  Giacomo Comiati added two new books of poems to that of Flaminio published by Valgrisi (i.e. books VI and VIII, in modern numbering).3 Flaminio composed poetry in Latin throughout his literary career, albeit neither continuously nor exclusively. Whereas in his youth he allowed himself to indulge in various poetical activities (which later turned out to be books I–IV of his Carmina), in his maturity his devotional fervour became more pronounced and, embracing Evangelical ideas, he predominantly composed religious prose, occasionally pausing to write metrical epistles, later collected in books V and VI.4 In the last four years of his life, he devoted himself once again to poetry, composing two new books of Carmina, dealing exclusively with Christian matters: a lyric paraphrase of the Psalms (book VII) and a collection of poems entitled De rebus diuinis and dedicated to Queen Marguerite of France (book VIII).5 These two books constitute one of the three main groups into which Flaminio’s poetic production can be split: that of religious poems. The other two groups are composed of poetical letters (books V and VI), and occasional lyrics on diverse topics (such as love, pastoral, encomiastic and morality – books I–IV), respectively. As this brief introduction shows, Flaminio’s poetical works are extremely varied and cover a wide array of themes. Critical attention has so far been mainly paid to the more unified sections of his corpus (such as, for example, his religious books, or the collection of love poems, grouped together in book IV).6 Unlike pre-

 3 See Flaminio 1549 (where only book VI was added to the previous corpus of Flaminio’s texts) and Flaminio 1552 (in which book VIII was included too). The actual division of Flaminio’s lyrical corpus into eight books of poems (which is followed in Scorsone 1993) was introduced in the eighteenth century by Francesco Maria Mancurti, editor of both the Padua 1727 and 1743 editions of Flaminio’s opera omnia (see Mancurti 1727 and Mancurti 1743). Mancurti’s organization of Flaminio’s books was largely based on the book organisation of the 1552 edition of Flaminio’s Latin poems. Mancurti only partially changed the place of some books within the collection. In fact, in the 1552 volume, Flaminio’s books of Carmina were printed according to the following order: books I, V, II+III (as a single book), IV, VI, VII, and VIII. In placing book V after book I and combining books II and III, Torrentino followed the scheme in which Flaminio’s books appeared in the 1548 Venice volume of Carmina quinque illustrium poetarum. Torrentino also added books VI and VIII, absent in the 1548 edition. On the history of the editions of Flaminio’s texts see Cuccoli 1897, pp. 167–170, and Scorsone 1993, 319–322. 4 On books I–VI of Flaminio, see Grant 1957, Grant 1965, 335–336, Akkerman 1994, Scorsone 1997, Chiodo 1999, 85–98, Ferroni 2012, 225–270, Ferroni 2015, Marsh 2016, Di Iasio 2018, 5 On books VII and VIII, see Scorsone 1996–7, Bottai 2000, Ferroni 2014, Ferroni 2015, Ferroni 2016, and Pietrobon 2019. 6 On Flaminio’s book IV, see Grant 1965, 335–336, Scorsone 1997, Chiodo 1999, 85–98, Ferroni 2012, 248–270, Ferroni 2015, Di Iasio 2018; on Flaminio’s religious production, see Scorsone 1996–7, Bottai 2000, Ferroni 2014, Ferroni 2015, Ferroni 2016, and Pietrobon 2019.

The Reception of Horace’s Odes in the First Book of Marcantonio Flaminio’s Carmina  215

vious research, this article will largely focus on the first book of Flaminio’s Carmina, the eclecticism of which in terms of literary forms, metres, tones, and topics offers an interesting insight of the multifaceted features of the early-sixteenthcentury Latin poetical compositions. I shall consider both early lyric compositions that were published by the author in 1515 (later reprinted in the first book of the Carmina), and Flaminio’s post-1515 lyrics (also included in Carmina I). In analysing these Latin poems, my primary aim will be to investigate the intertextual links that the author creates with the literary authorities of the classical antiquity, and, specifically, with Horace, whose works are more extensively imitated in Flaminio’s Carmina I than in other sections of his book of poetry. This will illuminate Flaminio’s poetic process and some of the existing forms of classical Latin literary reception in his lyrical production. In his Carmina Flaminio follows several literary models and proves himself able to refer to and quote from different poetical sources. This trait is characteristic of Renaissance Latin poems.7 Yet, the heterogeneity of Flaminio’s lyrical production contributed to endorse his free approach to a broad variety of classical authorities. Some of Flaminio’s poems either receive passages from or revitalize themes previously developed in various works of Virgil, Propertius, Theocritus, Lucretius, and the Greek Anthology.8 A few carmina even show some forms of reception of Petrarch’s Italian compositions.9 However, Flaminio’s imitation of Catullus is much more extensive.10 Indeed, one of the classical sources most privileged by Flaminio is precisely Catullus’s Liber, whose poems are referred to and received in key texts of Flaminio’s corpus, such as the opening poem of his collection, Ecce Flaminii tui libellum (I.1), that echoes Catullus’s proemium not only in terms of metre (both texts are in Phalaecian hendecasyllables) but also of words (Flaminio chose to close the first line of his opening poem with the word libellum, that Catullus used to conclude his first line: Cui dono lepidum nouum libellum, Cat. 1.1). Catullus is also invoked in the first poem of Flaminio’s book IV, when Flaminio prays that Catullus’s muse migrate from Verona to Naples – where Flaminio was based at the time – to sustain his poetry. Nevertheless, although Flaminio’s reception of Catullus’s texts cannot be seen as subordinate to that of other classical authorities, it can certainly be paralleled to the wide-ranging and  7 See Russo 1950, Vecce 1994, Ijsewijn 1998, 412–419, and Moul 2015. 8 See Scorsone 1993, 6, note *, 35, note *, 77, note *, 79, notes * and **, 115, note *, 116, note *, and 232, note *. 9 See Comiati 2019 and Ferroni 2017. 10 See Ferroni 2012, 238 and 254, Ferroni 2015, 314–315, and Ferroni 2017. On the importance of Catullus’s reception in the Italian Renaissance, see Ludwig 1989, Gaisser 1993, Charlet 2005, and Parenti 2009.

216  Giacomo Comiati multi-layered array of imitative forms of Horace’s works that Flaminio displays throughout his poetical production, and extensively in his first book of Carmina. Since some scholars, such as Scorsone and Ferroni,11 have already dealt with the former, this article will investigate the latter, which has not been so far the object of any thoroughgoing study.

 Flaminio’s early poems: the 1515 Carminum Libellus Both Flaminio’s strong interest in Horace’s odes and his fascination for Horatian topics date to his formative years and are already discernible in his early poetical production. In Flaminio’s first collection of Latin poems, Carminum Libellus (1515), at least five of the seventeen texts show some forms of reception of Horace’s Carmina (i.e., poems 1, 2, 11, 14, and 17). These first lyrical compositions by Flaminio were published in the city of Fano in 1515 – when the poet was seventeen – together with two poetical works (the Neniae and the Epigrams) by Michele Marullo.12 Flaminio’s texts deal with varied and unrelated topics – from love to encomium, from elegy to morality – and are written in different metres. Most of them (thirteen to be precise) will be considered by their author worthy of being reprinted – sometimes with a few slightly altered lines – in later editions of his Carmina.13 Among these thirteen texts, Flaminio chose to keep all his early poems that contained various Horatian elements: poem 1 of the 1515 edition (Non semper rapido Cynthia belluas) later turned into carmen I.11; poem 2 (Virgo syluestrum domitrix ferarum) into I.34; poem 11 (Age, Bacche, quis furor me rabidum occupant? Agedum) into I.14; poem 14 (Ergo pro superum fides) into I.43; and poem 17 (Forte super tenero proiectus gramine Thyrsis) into II.34. In the 1515 Carminum Libellus, the first text that displays some forms of Horatian reception is the opening poem, dedicated to the poet’s friend Litavio Speranzio.14 The choice of beginning his lyric collection with a text rich in Horatian reminiscences might probably not be fully ascribable to a programmatic choice of  11 See Scorsone 1993, Ferroni 2012, Ferroni 2015, and Ferroni 2017. 12 See Flaminio 1515. On Flaminio’s early poems see Ferroni 2017. 13 Ode 1 of the 1515 volume became carmen I.11 of Flaminio’s following collection of poems; ode 2 carmen I.34; ode 5 carmen II.31; ode 6 carmen I.30; ode 7 carmen I.28; ode 9 carmen II.32; ode 10 carmen II.29; ode 11 carmen I.14; ode 12 carmen I.38; ode 13 carmen II.33; ode 14 carmen I.43; ode 16 carmen I.13; and ode 17 carmen II.34. 14 On this poem, see Ferroni 2012, 230–231.

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poetics. Yet, it nonetheless demonstrates Horace’s importance for the young Flaminio. In this first ode, the author derives some thematic elements, stylistic features, and rhetorical expressions from Horace’s Carmina. Flaminio’s poem is an invitation addressed to Litavio – described as unable to suspend his natural studies – to stop fatiguing himself in investigating the nature of God and the natural world, in order to rest, devote himself to humanistic otium, and enjoy the company of Flaminio. To emphasize the incessant labours of his friend, Flaminio’s poem opens with a parallel between Litavio’s condition – fixed and unchangeable – and several inconstant behaviour patterns of mythological gods. The rhetorical formula that the poet uses is that of the non semper (‘not always’) that he derived from Horace’s ode II.9 (Non semper imbres nubibus hispidos). In this non semper-pattern Horace established a correspondence between some kinds of unsteady albeit fierce weather-conditions and the idea that the sufferings of the ode’s dedicatee, Valgius, might similarly be impermanent. In his composition, Flaminio employs different images, but he draws a similar picture to that of Horace: Non semper rapido Cynthia belluas cursu persequitur, nec miseris solet semper letiferum Delius impiger arcum tendere gentibus, […]


Tu numquam studiis otia tristibus interponere amas [...]


Cynthia [i.e. Diana] does not always rapidly chase wild animals, and the tireless Delian Apollo does not always cast his deadly arrows against miserable mortals […], while you never insert moments of rest into your relentless studies.

Along with the rhetorical formula of the non semper, some images and stylistic elements employed in these first lines are drawn from Horace too. More precisely, Flaminio seems inspired by another of Horace’s odes where the Latin poet used the non semper-pattern: Carm. II.10. The mutable condition – to which Flaminio refers to at ll. 3–4 – of the various activities of the god Apollo (‘Delius’, l. 3) – who sometimes peacefully devotes himself to poetry together with the muses, and sometimes bellicosely draws his bow – echoes what Horace wrote in his ode II.10.19–20: neque semper arcum / tendit Apollo (‘Apollo does not always stretch his bow’). After having pointed out how untiringly Litavio devotes himself to his studies without ever pausing – differently from the constant change of the classical gods’

218  Giacomo Comiati patterns of behaviour, listed in the first two stanzas of the ode – Flaminio invites his friend to rest from his scientific labours: Iam mittas, Litaui, quaerere, quae Dei, quae natura animae, cur Iouis optima sit lux, curue senex falcifer inuido terras lumine fascinet.


Indulge potius, dum licet, otio, et solare leui Flaminium lyra maerentem ob dominae dissidium Chloes, et Lygdae noua proelia.


Stop already, Litavio, searching for the nature of God, the nature of the soul, why Jupiter’s light is the best, or why the old sickle-carrier with his baleful glaze bewitches the world. Indulge, instead, in repose and console Flaminio with the pleasing lyre who is sad from his break-up with his mistress Chloe and the new love-battles [he fights] with Lygda.

Flaminio’s invitation to indulge in otium is neither an extemporaneous proposal addressed to Litavio to relax, nor a mere request with which the author asks his friend to spend more time with him. In fact, the young Flaminio is making a complex but precise request of Litavio, nuanced with ethical reverberations. The poet solicits his interlocutor not to deal with those questions that exceed human comprehension (mittas […] quaerere, l. 21), but to seize the passing day (indulge […] otio, l. 25), while his age and means permit it (dum licet, l. 25). This theme is widely developed in Horace, and Flaminio enriches his composition with references to those Horatian poems in which this matter had been more deeply explored. First, Flaminio’s invitation mittas quaerere, connected to the investigation of both godly nature (l. 21) and astrological elements (ll. 22–24), recalls both Horace’s famous words to Leuconoe in Carm. I.11.1 (tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, ‘don’t ask […] – the gods do not wish it to be known’), and his urgings to Thaliarchus in Carm. I.9.13 (quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere, ‘don’t ask what will happen tomorrow’). Secondly, Flaminio’s request to Litavio to indulge in repose and poetic leisure has strong connections to the key Horatian concept of otium, as it is developed, for example, in Carm. II.3.15 Finally, Horace’s idea of seizing the day while the gods and fortune allow it (see, for example, Carm. II.3.15–16), is echoed in Flaminio’s parenthetical element dum licet, which is strongly intertwined with the notion of passing time as it is in Horace’s poetry. Accordingly, Flaminio’s references to the Latin poet’s odes are not simply the outcomes of his sophisticated

 15 On Horace’s otium, see André 1997.

The Reception of Horace’s Odes in the First Book of Marcantonio Flaminio’s Carmina  219

erudition, but they help the reader to see Flaminio’s poem to Litavio in a specific light. Through the Horatian nuances, Flaminio suggests that in his ode he wants to convince his friend both to avoid devoting time to unsuitable and overambitious matters, and to be able to seize the joy of the passing day. Some of the Horatian themes and features received in the opening ode of Flaminio’s 1515 volume are also employed in other poetical compositions of his first collection, and later poems of his first book of Carmina. On the one hand, the non semper formula is, for example, used in the middle of Flaminio’s Virgilian eclogue Thyrsis, the last poem of his Carminum Libellus (that later became poem II.34 of the author’s collected Carmina). At ll. 52–56, the shepherd Thyrsis invites his interlocutor, Menalcas, to hope that there will be an end to his uesanus dolor (‘fierce grief’), since non semper gelidis effundit nubibus imbres Iuppiter, aut uasti feriunt caua littora fluctus semper, et iratis strident Aquilonibus aurae. [ll. 52–54] Jupiter does not always pour rain down from the cold clouds, and the vast waves do not always strike the hollow shores, nor do the breezes whistle with angry Northern winds.

In this passage, the author does not simply employ the non semper-pattern, but he also explicitly mentions two of the images used by Horace in the opening lines of his ode II.9, the imbres (line 1) and the Aquilones (line 6). On the other hand, the poet’s suggestion, previously addressed to Litavio, of devoting himself to repose finds a vivid new form of expression in another poem by Flaminio that was not published in his 1515 collection: carmen I.16, Iam diem gyro breuiore claudens, addressed to Cardinal Alessandro Farnese. In this composition, the author invites his dedicatee – who is overwhelmed with political tasks and governmental duties – to grant himself a moment of rest and retire for a few days to the countryside, while the autumn season arrives: Iam diem gyro breuiore claudens Phoebus insani rabiem Leonis sedat, Autumnumque refert decorum mollior aestas. […] Ipsa pomosos Cytherea in agros migrat, et pulcher Iocus, et Voluptas: tu tamen durus potes in molesta urbe morari, semper et magnum celeri per orbem mente, Farnesi, uolitas, quid acer

4 17


220  Giacomo Comiati Turca, quid Rhenus paret, ac remota in parte Britannus, prouidens longe. Sed omitte curam imperi paucis uacuus diebus: te magis tantos uegetum ad labores rura remittent.


Already Phoebus Apollo, closing the day with a shorter turn, appeases the rabid hot weather of the season of the Lion, and the summer as it softens brings back fair Autumn […] Cytherean Venus also migrates towards the fruitful fields, and fair Jest and Pleasure do the same: you, instead, intransigent, choose to stay in the tedious city, and you, Farnese, always flit about the mighty world with your mind, looking ahead in the distance as to what the fierce Turk, or the Rhine is planning, or the Britons in their remote part of the world. But leave aside your concerns, freeing yourself for a few days from ruling; the country will send you back more eager to your great labours.

In Carm. III.29, Horace similarly invited his powerful friend and protector Maecenas to leave the city where he is busy with political occupations for a short time, and to find refuge from the summer heat – that is becoming autumn in Flaminio’s text – in the country villa of the poet, who waits for him so that they can rejoice together. As always in Horace’s production, the subtext of this invitation is that human beings need to set an end to preoccupations and try to seize every occasion to be joyful, since they all are doomed to die. The political anxieties of Cardinal Farnese in Flaminio’s composition (see ll. 21–25) are presented according to a rhetorical pattern and through stylistic features that echo those used by Horace to depict Maecenas’s political and social concern in Carm. III.29, where the Latin poet said to his addressee: Tu ciuitatem quis deceat status curas et urbi sollicitus times, quid Seres et regnata Cyro Bactra parent Tanaisque discors.


You are worrying what constitution would best suit the state. In your anxiety for the city you are afraid of plots by Chinese and Cyrus’ Bactrian kingdom, and peoples feuding on the Don.

Similarly, Horace invited his friend Maecenas to set an end to his civic worries in another of his odes, Carm. III.8: neglegens ne qua populus laboret parce priuatus nimium cauere et dona praesentis cape laetus horae: linque seuera.


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Do not ask if the Roman people is in trouble anywhere. You are a private citizen, spare yourself that excessive worry, take the gifts of this present hour, and enjoy them. Leave serious matters behind you.

This second Horatian ode with its strong connection between Maecenas’s apprehensions and the poet’s invitation to leave them aside can be considered as another literary source of Flaminio’s poem to Cardinal Farnese, alluded to not just in the structural disposition of the poetical elements of carmen I.16, but also in Flaminio’s appeal omitte curam (l. 25) that seems to stem from Horace’s invitation to Maecenas linque seuera. These allusions to Horace do not only enrich Flaminio’s poem from a lyrical point of view, but they also allow Flaminio to pay a metaliterary tribute to his dedicatee: indeed, thanks to the references to Carm. III.8 and III.29, Cardinal Farnese is compared to Maecenas himself. Other texts of Flaminio’s first collection of poems bear evidence of further forms of Horatian reception. In both the hymns to Olympian deities that are present in the Carminum Libellus (poem 2 is a hymn to Diana; poem 11 is a hymn to Bacchus), Flaminio establishes several links to Horace’s odes. In his poem to Bacchus (later carmen I.14) the Horatian echoes are evident in the opening lines, where the author explicitly alludes to the beginning of Horace’s carmen III.25. In the Roman ode, the poet wrote that he was carried along and driven by the god (Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui/ plenum? Quae nemora aut quos agor in specus/ uelox mente noua?, ‘Where, Bacchus, are you hurrying me, filled with yourself? Into what woods or caves am I driven so swiftly with a strange mind?’ – Carm. III.28.1–3). Flaminio declares the same in the first two lines of his ode, where syntactical and lexical references to Horace’s passage (e.g. the opening address to Bacchus, the question to the god, and the verb rapior) make the parallel between the two texts even clearer: Age, Bacche, quis furor me rabidum occupat? io io/ rapior, et alta cursu uolucri in nemora feror (‘Come on, Bacchus. What fury takes me up with enthusiasm? Hurray! Hurray! I am carried along [by you] and I am quickly driven towards the deepest part of woods’). After the Horatian opening, in the following lines of his poem Flaminio distances himself from Horace’s Bacchic composition, following instead another poem addressed to Bacchus: the hymn Ad Bacchum (I.6) by Michele Marullo (published in the same 1515 volume that included Flaminio’s Libellus).16 The links between Flaminio’s hymn to Diana (poem 2) and some Horatian odes devoted to the same goddess (above all Carm. III.22) are, however, more evident and widespread than the intertextual relationships between Flaminio’s ode

 16 See Scorsone 1993, 27, note *.

222  Giacomo Comiati to Bacchus and Horace’s Carm. III.28. Flaminio’s poem 2 (later I.34) does not simply share the metre – the Sapphic stanza – of two of Horace’s hymns to Diana (Carm. III.22 and the Carmen saeculare), but also resembles the poetic and organizational structure of Horace’s ode III.22. Horace there first invokes the goddess (in the opening stanza), then promises to consecrate a pine-tree to her and to regularly offer a sacrifice to the tree in honour of the goddess (ego laetus […] / uerris obliquum meditantis ictum / sanguine donem, ‘I gladly give it [the pine-tree] the blood of a young boar now practicing his sideways thrust’, ll. 6–8). Similarly, in his hymn 2, Flaminio first praises Diana (by also referring to some of her attributes mentioned in Horace’s Carm. I.21) and then invites his friend Achille Bocchi to offer the goddess an elm and regular sacrifices: Bocchius, linguae decus utriusque, doctus errantes agitare ceruos, hanc tibi uilla media locatam dedicat ulmum; unde ueloci domitae sagitta pendeant lynces, timidique damae, atque uiuacis tibi consecrata cornua cerui.



Bocchi – glory of both classical languages, able to hunt the roaming deer – dedicates to you this elm, positioned in the middle of the garden of his villa, from which lynxes, subdued with rapid arrows, and timid fallow does will be hanged for you, and the antlers of a longlived stag will be consecrated to you.

This ode is not the only text that Flaminio decided to address to Diana. He later devoted another composition to her (carmen I.4, At te quis tacitam sinat), in which he prays that she listen to the supplications of women in labour. In this poem, Flaminio’s main literary model is not Horace, but Catullus, and precisely his hymn to Diana (Cat. 34). It is interesting to note that, even though Flaminio wrote a new ode to Diana in Catullan form, he decided to preserve his previous Horatian-style ode to her among his poems, thus inviting us to consider that through his array of literary references he probably aimed to display his erudition and poetical ability. The last poem among Flaminio’s 1515 Libellus to include references to Horace is carmen 14 – that later turned out to be poem I.43. This text is a consolation poem addressed to the poet’s friend Achille Bocchi (dedicatee of poem 2 to Diana), who lost his mother. After some praise for his friend’s late mother and several lines of complaints about both the ferocity of death and uselessness of any prayers to bring her back to life, the poet invites his dedicatee to find consolation

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in the awareness of the mortal destiny of every human being and to bear with fortitude an unchangeable fate. These topics, which will be dealt with also in the following section of this article, are certainly commonplaces, but some stylistic and linguistic features used in the second part of the poem show a link between Flaminio’s lines and Horatian passages dealing with similar themes. First, Flaminio states that ibimus / omnes ad tenebras nigri / Plutonis (‘we will all go to the darkness of black Pluto’, ll. 30–32), alluding to Horace’s Carm. II.2.25 (omnes eodem cogimur, ‘we are all herded to the same place’). Secondly, while referring to death, Flaminio defines it as quod mutare nequit dura necessitas (‘what immutable necessity cannot change’, poem 14.42), echoing the Horatian expressions dira necessitas (‘cruel necessity’, Carm. III.24.6) and tarda necessitas (‘slow necessity’, Carm. I.3.32) that were both strictly linked to the idea of death in the Latin poet’s odes too. Furthermore, having repetitively pointed out the impossibility for human beings to avoid a mortal fate, Flaminio prays that his friend Achille cease his dirge with the same imperative (desine, ‘give over’, l. 40) that Horace used to invite his friend Valgius to stop mourning his dead beloved in Carm. II.9 (desine mollium tandem querellarum, ‘give over at last these soft complaints’, ll. 17–18). Finally, the Horatian moral call to face and bear human sufferings with an equanimous mind (aequam memento rebus in arduis / seruare mentem, ‘remember to keep your mind level when the path is steep’, Carm. II.3.1–2) is alluded to in the penultimate line of Flaminio’s poem: constanti animo feras (‘bear with a steady mind’, l. 41). These references to Horace help Flaminio to enhance the suavity of his poetic language through clarity and plainness of expression. They also contribute to increasing the emotional traits of his poetry by evoking the profound meanings that find expression in the Latin poet’s odes.

 Other Horatian poems in Flaminio’s first book of Carmina Two other compositions by Flaminio, written in the years after the publication of his first collection of poems, deal with the theme of the inescapability of death. These poems bookend carmen I.43 (formerly poem 14) within the first book of Flaminio’s Carmina: i.e. poems I.42 and I.44. These three odes can, then, be seen as a lyric triptych on human mortality, even though the last poem deals also largely with another subject (the correct use of wealth) before focusing on the theme of death in its last two stanzas. Both texts I.42 and I.44 do not merely share the same subject as I.43, but also bear some evidence of Horatian reception too.

224  Giacomo Comiati Poem I.42 – like I.43 – belongs to the genre of consolation in this text, the author tries to comfort Cardinal Rodolfo Pio for the recent loss of his brother, Costantino. As he did in the text addressed to Achille Bocchi, Flaminio invites his dedicatee to find partial solace in the awareness of inescapability of death. This concept is summarised in a line admirable for its breuitas: mortalis pereat necesse est (‘it is necessary that mortals die’, l. 26), and then emphasized in the following two verses, where the inscrutability of fate is embodied by Jupiter, presented as the divine force that gives life and takes it away at his own discretion (ut libet, uitam pater ipse divum / donat et aufert, ‘as he prefers, the father of the gods gives life and takes it back’, ll. 27–28). This image of Jupiter’s binary role is modelled on a passage of Horace’s ode II.10, where the father of the gods is described as the force that brings ugly winters to humanity and removes them (informis hiemes reducit / Iuppiter, idem // summouet, Carm. II.10.15–17). Aiming to further highlight the unfathomable nature of destiny, Flaminio invites Cardinal Pio to consider that while some die very young, others have to face a long wearying old age: Mors rapit cunis cita uagientem: flore sub primo cadit alter aeui: hic nimis uiuax queritur caducae damna senectae


Death quickly steals the wailing baby from its cradle; another falls in the prime of youth; another, too long lived, complains of the diminutions of a declining old age.

Much like the previous lines, these four too are modelled on a passage from Horace’s odes, specifically Carm. II.16.29–30 (abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem / longa Tithonum minuit senectus, ‘an early death carried off the glorious Achilles, a long old age reduced Tithonus’). The insistence on the theme of humans’ unavoidable mortal destiny is not an end in itself, but prepares the reader for the conclusive remarks with which Flaminio closes his poem. In a sentence running over the penultimate and the last stanza of his composition, the poet warns his dedicatee about the only possible truth on death: quanto satius, libenter / ferre quod aequa // mente ni suffers, tamen est ferendum (‘how much better is it to bear willingly what, if you do not bear it with a tempered mind, nevertheless must be endured’, ll. 35–37). We find here the same reference to the Horatian concept of bearing every torment with ‘aequa mens’ – drawn from Carm. II.3 – that was also used in poem I.43.41. Yet, it is included in a larger sentence whose structure and tone imitate those of another Horatian passage. It seems very likely that in this phrase Flaminio alludes to Carm. I.24.19–20: durum: sed leuius sit patientia / quicquid corrigere est nefas (‘it is hard. But by enduring, we can make lighter what the gods forbid us to change’). On the one hand, the reference to this Horatian

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ode makes Flaminio’s sentence more thoughtful and more profound thanks to the quotation’s meta-literality, since the Horatian words to which the poet refers are the final ones that Horace addressed to Virgil to console him for the death of Quintilius. On the other hand, Flaminio’s open allusion to Carm. I.24 at the end of his poem strengthens the possible parallel between his mention of Orpheus’s descent to the underworld in the central stanzas of his carmen (ll. 10–24) and the brief Horatian reference to the same mythical episode at ll. 13–14 of Carm. I.24 – one of the only two passages in which Horace mentions the name ‘Orpheus’ in the whole corpus of his odes.17 Exactly as the Latin poet did, Flaminio refers to Orpheus’s vain efforts to bring his beloved Eurydice back to daylight in order to prove to his dedicatee that humanity’s deadly fate cannot be modified. Thanks to the allusion to ode I.24 at the end of Flaminio’s poem, the formal proximity of the two references to the same mythological example – occurring in both texts – is consequently strengthened. Like carmen I.42, poem I.44 – addressed to Cesare Flaminio, cousin of the poet – shares with I.43 the theme of inescapability of death. The last lines of I.44 clearly declare that nothing worse than death has been given to humans by gods’ rage (nihil hac ab Orco / saeuius misit superas ad auras / ira deorum, ll. 18–20) and that since everyone’s life must come to an end, post rogum (‘after the funeral pyre’, l. 23) there will be no difference between mortals, or, according to the author’s words, there will be no distance between the rich Croesus and the poor beggar Iros (distat nihil ipse nudo / Croesus ab Iro, ll. 23–24). Flaminio employs this expression on purpose, because he clearly wants to point out to his cousin that even if someone amassed all the world’s goods, death is still inevitable and does not spare the rich. It is important to note that Flaminio’s closing sentence does not only generally focus on the equalising power of death – viewed as a consequence of the common deadly fate of human beings – but it also explicitly refers to the post-mortem equality of two specific categories of people (i.e. the rich and the poor) that were in opposition in their lifetime. The poet openly mentions them in order to bridge a link between his final remarks and the rest of his lyric composition, which mainly deals with the theme of avarice and the use of riches. Accordingly, Flaminio’s last stanza conveys a conclusive reminder about the non-salvific power of wealth at the end of an ode that repeatedly called for a moderate use of riches. These brief hints make the paraenetic tenor of poem I.44 already quite visible. Indeed, this carmen is one of the few texts in Flaminio’s poetical corpus entirely devoted to a moral topic. It is conceived as an invitation addressed to the  17 The other is at Carm. I.12.8.

226  Giacomo Comiati poet’s cousin to use goods in a correct way. According to the suggestions listed in Flaminio’s poem, Cesare should not long for exaggerated material wealth; instead he should remember to seize the day both by leading a life far away from the sufferings of greed and by being satisfied with honest modesty. The poem – whose theme and metre recall Horace’s ode to Sallustius Crispus (Carm. II.2) – opens with an overt reference to the sixth letter of Horace’s first book of Epistles, even though Flaminio inverts Horace’s phrase. In his text, the Latin poet reproached his dedicatee, Numicius, for continual misguided admiration of silver and gold (Epist. I.6.17–18), while Flaminio straightforwardly invites his cousin not to be fascinated by massive riches: Ne Midae ingentes stupeas aceruos, Caesar, aut fultam Pariis columnis regiam, aut regis nitido micantes aere cateruas [ll. 1–4] Do neither admire Midas’s vast piled-up riches, o Cesare, nor a palace shored up with marble columns of Paros, nor the king’s shining host of bright bronzes.

Flaminio does not simply wish his addressee to understand that he must not be dazed by anything – in accordance to the ‘nil admirari’ principle presented in Horace’s epistle I.6 – but, more concretely, he also wants his cousin to remember that only vulgar people are astonished by ostentation of wealth (Ista sed uulgus feriant inane, l. 5). In opposition to the vulgar yearnings just described, in the following stanza the poet lists what virtuous men should righteously look for: an honest mind, a modest house and enough fertile land for a small estate (piam mentem superos domumque / paruulam, et quantum satis est agelli / fertilis ora, ll. 6–8). These three components, which could be perceived as simple topoi, can also be linked to precise Horatian passages in which the Latin author opposes virtuous needs to rough and uncouth wishes. In Carm. III.16.43–44, Horace wrote that multa petentibus / desunt multa: bene est cui deus obtulit / parca quod satis est manu (‘for those who ask much, much is wanting. A man is doing well if God gives him enough with a thrifty hand’); while in Carm. I.31.17–20 he asked Apollo to be able to ‘enjoy what he has with good health and […] with sound mind, and that his old age may not be squalid’ (frui paratis et ualido mihi / […] integra / cum mente, nec turpem senectam / degere). Finally, in Carm. II.16 Horace listed what an untreacherous fate honourably gave him: parua rura et / spiritum Graiae tenuem Camenae / […] et malignum spernere uolgus (‘a small farm and the modest breath of a Greek Camena, and […] to despise the malice of the mob’, ll. 38–40). From each of these three passages, Flaminio picks a single element – the piam mentem from integra mente of Carm. I.31, the domum paruulam from parua rura

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of Carm. II.16, and quantum satis est agelli from quod satis est of Carm. III.16 – and combines them in his poem. Yet, Flaminio’s link with the third of these Horatian odes (II.16) is not limited to the reference to parua rura. Indeed, at the end of his third stanza, where the author spurs his cousin to distance himself from both the Arabs and Indians’ haughty treasures and worthless honours, Flaminio echoes the powerful expression that closes Horace’s ode II.16 (spernere uolgus) in his similar adonius spernit honores (l. 12), in which the Latin poet’s contempt for the plebeian class merges with Flaminio’s disgust for deceptive and useless decorations. In the following stanzas, the author first invites Cesare to consider once again that even if he had possessed the entire wealth of the people of Media, he would nonetheless be a slave as long as greed has power over him; and he then warns him to cautiously avoid this condition by keeping his distance from immoderate cupidity. As if what he had said were not sufficient, Flaminio concludes his poem by reminding his cousin – as we have already seen – that wealth would not spare him from dying. In the last sentence – in which the same deadly fate befalls rich Croesus and poor Iros – the author makes reference to another Horatian poetical image, by echoing two passages from the Latin poet’s odes: Carm. II.3.21–24 Diuesne prisco natus ab Inacho nil interest an pauper et infima de gente sub diuo moreris, uictima nil miserantis Orci. It makes no difference whether you are rich and of the stock of ancient Inachus, or a pauper born from the lowest family and living under the open sky – you are the victim of Orcus, who knows no pity.

and Carm. II.18.32–36 aequa tellus pauperi recluditur regumque pueris, nec satelles Orci callidum Promethea reuinxit auro captus.


the impartial earth opens for pauper and prince, and gold could not suborn the steward of Orcus to unbind ingenious Prometheus.

It is worth noticing that Flaminio’s poem I.44 establishes with the latter Horatian ode a stronger connection than this thematic link. Indeed, Horace’s Carm. II.18 –

228  Giacomo Comiati which closes, as Flaminio’s poem to his cousin does, with the image of the common deadly destiny of every human being – opens with a statement in which the author proclaims his modesty in a way strikingly similar to the beginning of Flaminio’s lyrical discourse to Cesare, as one can see by reading the exordium of Horace’s ode: Non ebur neque aureum mea renidet in domo lacunar, non trabes Hymettiae premunt columnas ultima recisas Africa neque Attali ignotus heres regiam occupaui [...].


No ivory nor gold-coffered ceiling gleams in my house, no beams from Mount Hymettus bear down on columns hewn in furthest Africa, nor am I the unknown heir of Attalus come to take over his palace [...].

Since Flaminio’s final stanza echoes the final stanza of Horace’s ode II.18, whose opening Flaminio also imitates closely, it is possible to determine a structural parallelism between the two poems and to consider Horace’s Carm. II.18 as a significant reference point for Flaminio’s composition.

 Conclusion Flaminio’s poetic compositions collected in the first book of his Carmina have several remarkable elements, which lie both in the poet’s stylistic and rhetorical mastery, and in the complex and refined array of his Horatian reception practices that played – as we have seen – a central role from the author’s early Latin poems onwards. By dealing with well-known Horatian topics in new forms, Flaminio shows off his poetic skills and his ability to compete with the Latin poet’s auctoritas. Furthermore, the references to Horace allow him to increase the suavity of his poetical discourse and the emotional features of his compositions. Nonetheless, some poems discussed above (such as I.44) are not thematically innovative. Yet, this partial lack of originality is per se another element of interest in Flaminio’s poetic texts, because it suggests certain elements of the author’s poetics. A lack in literary inuentio in some of the poet’s Carmina was pointed out by a friend of the author, Galeazzo Florimonte, in a letter that he sent to Flaminio in

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1549.18 In his reply to Florimonte, Flaminio stated that the best poetry must be the simplest: he believed that poets should neither write works of great originality, nor look for hidden meanings and subtle ideas in their compositions, if they aim to achieve lyrical sweetness and delight their readers. Indeed, Flaminio believed that the main thing that matters in poetry is the skill to express common ideas in uncommon forms. Accordingly, the literary compositions that we have analysed – even though they were written some time before the author’s reply to Florimonte’s letter – can be seen as early proofs of evidence of this aspect of Flaminio’s poetics.

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230  Giacomo Comiati Ferroni, G. (2015), ‘A Farewell to Arcadia. Marcantonio Flamino from Poetry to Faith’, in: A. Carlstedt/A. Cullhed/C. Franzén/P. Gillgren/E. Sellberg/E. Wåghäll Nivre (eds.), Allusions and Reflection. Greek and Roman Mythology in Renaissance Europe, Cambridge, 309–324. Ferroni, G. (2016), ‘Siculis et Tarentinis. Teologia, esegesi e poetica nei De rebus divinis carmina di Flaminio’, Bollettino della società di studi valdesi 218, 33–70. Ferroni, G. (2017), ‘La persona dell’humanista.’ Immagini della giovinezza di Marcantonio Flaminio (1515–1529)’, in: U. Motta/G. Vagni (eds.), Lirica in Italia 1494–1530. Esperienze ecdotiche e percorsi storiografici. Atti del Convegno (Friburgo, 8–9 giugno 2016), Bologna, 197–248. Flaminio, M. (1515), ‘Carminum Libellus’, in: Michaelis Tarcaniotae Marulli neniae. Eiusdem epigrammata numquam alias impressa. M. Antonii Flaminii carminum libellus, Fano. Flaminio, M. (1548), ‘Carmina’, in: Carmina quinque illustrium poetarum quorum nomina in sequenti charta continentur, Venice. Flaminio, M. (1549), ‘Carmina’, in: Carmina quinque illustrium poetarum quorum nomina in sequenti pagina continentur, Florence. Flaminio, M. (1552), ‘Carmina’, in: Carmina quinque illustrium poetarum quorum nomina in sequenti pagina continentur. Additis nonnullis M. Antonii Flaminii libellis nunquam antea impressis, Florence. Gaisser, J. (1993), Catullus and his Renaissance Readers, Oxford. Grant, W.L. (1957), ‘The Neolatin Lusus pastoralis in Italy’, Medievalia et Humanistica 11, 94–98. Grant, W.L. (1965), Neo-Latin Literature and the Pastoral, Chapel Hill (N.C.). Ijsewijn, J. (1998), ‘Language, Style, Prosody, and Metrics’, in: Id. with D. Sacré, Companion to Neo-Latin Studies, 2 vols (1990–1998), Leuven, 2, 377–433. Ludwig, W. (1989), ‘Catullus renatus—Anfänge und frühe Entwicklung des catullischen Stils in der neulateinischen Dichtung’, in: L. Braun (ed.), Litterae Neolatinae: Schriften zur Neulateinischen Literatur, Munich, 162–194. Maddison, C. (1965), Marcantonio Flaminio. Poet, Humanist and Reformer, London. Mancurti, F.M. (ed.) (1727), Marcantonio Flaminio: Carminum libri VIII, Padua. Mancurti, F.M. (ed.) (1743), ‘Marcantonio Flaminio: Carmina’, in: F.M. Mancurti (ed.), Marci Antonii, Joannis Antonii et Gabrielis Flaminiorum Forocorneliensium Carmina, Padua. Marsh, D. (2016), ‘Pastoral’, in: Ph. Ford/J. Bloemendal/C. Fantazzi (eds.), Brill’s Encyclopaedia of the Neo-Latin World Online, first appeared online 2014, accessed April 27, 2017, http:// Moul, V. (2015), ‘Lyric Poetry’, in: S. Knight/S. Tilg (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Neo-Latin, Oxford, 41–56. Parenti, G. (2009), ‘La tradizione catulliana nella poesia latina del Cinquecento’, in: R. Cardini/ D. Coppini (eds.), Il rinnovamento umanistico della poesia: L’epigramma e l’elegia, Florence, 63–100. Pastore, A. (1981), Marcantonio Flaminio: fortune e sfortune di un chierico nell’Italia del Cinquecento, Milan. Pietrobon, E. (2019), La penna interprete della cetra. I Salmi in volgare e la tradizione della poesia spirituale italiana nel Rinascimento, Rome. Pisanti, T. (1976), ‘L’umanesimo inquieto del Flaminio’, in: G. Tarugi (ed.), Interrogativi dell’Umanesimo, 3 vols, Florence, 1, 87–98.

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Pisanti, T. (1982), ‘Marcantonio Flaminio tra Umanesimo, Riforma e Controriforma’, in: V. Branca/C. Griggio/M. Pecoraro/E. Pecoraro/G. Pizzamiglio/E. Sequi (eds.), Il Rinascimento. Aspetti e problem attuali. Atti del X Congresso dell’Associazione internazionale per gli studi di Lingua e Letteratura italiana (Belgrado, 17–21 giugno 1979), Florence, 575– 588. Russo, L. (1959), Problemi di metodo critico, 2nd Ed., Bari. Scorsone, M. (ed.) (1993), Flaminio: Carmina, Turin. Scorsone, M. (1996–7), ‘Musae severiores: Della lirica sacra di Marcantonio Flaminio’, Atti dell’Istituto veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti 155, 83–115. Scorsone, M. (1997), ‘Il lusus pastoralis: lineamenti di storia di un genere letterario’, Proteo: Quaderni del Centro Interuniversitario di Teoria e Storia dei Generi Letterari 3.1, 23–33. Vecce, C. (1994), ‘La poesia latina’, in: F. Brioschi/C. Di Girolamo (eds.), Manuale di letteratura italiana. Storia per generi e problemi, 4 vols (1993–1996), Turin, 2, 256–270. West, D. (ed.) (1995), Horace: Odes I. Carpe diem, Oxford. West, D. (ed.) (1998), Horace: Odes II. Vatis Amici, Oxford. West, D. (ed.) (2002), Horace: Odes III. Dulce Periculum, Oxford.

Marta Celati

Orazio Romano’s Porcaria (1453) Humanist Epic between Classical Legacy and Contemporary History Abstract: This paper analyses one of the most significant examples of epic poetry in Italian humanism: Orazio Romano’s Porcaria, a sophisticated literary transposition of the historical events of Stefano Porcari’s conspiracy against pope Nicholas V (1453). This poem reveals the humanist tension between classical tradition and literary innovation. It is shaped by some typical motifs that marked classical epic and is constructed by the extensive use of classical sources; nevertheless, it displays many innovative elements that place this work in the ‘experimental’ area of humanist literature. In particular, the Porcaria shows distinctive features which can be traced back to the original choice of employing the epic genre to treat the topic of ‘conspiracy.’ The interplay between political matters and poetic patterns results in an original literary work characterized by a totally imaginary setting, a classical underworld, where classical figures are recalled as either positive or negative exemplars. The conflation of historical and fantastic elements, along with the eclectic combination of manifold classical models, constructs the poem’s ideological perspective and conveys the author’s political propapal standpoint in a subtle and effective manner. Keywords: Epic, classical tradition, Italian humanism, politics, exemplarity

The Porcaria is the first epic poem in the fifteenth century to deal with the topic of conspiracy. It represents one of the most important literary works related to Stefano Porcari’s plot against pope Nicholas V (1453) and it was composed by Orazio Romano, a not very well known humanist who lived in the little city of Viterbo.1 The conspiracy was discovered by the pope before the conspirators could carry out the attack and all the plotters were captured and executed; nevertheless, despite its failure, this plot was a crucial event in the history of the fifteenth century and a considerable number of humanists wrote literary works on

 1 The text is published in Lehnerdt 1907. See also D’Elia 2007, Landrobe 1989, and Oliva 1994.

234  Marta Celati this episode, such as Leon Battista Alberti’s epistle, Porcaria coniuratio.2 The harsh reaction of Nicholas V, which led to the public executions of the plotters, reveals his determination to suppress any threats to the papacy and reinforce his political power, discouraging, at the same time, future attackers. This episode also shows Nicholas V’s consciousness of both the actual political instability of his government in Rome and the tangible danger that a conspiracy could bring about, in a period when the pope’s attempt to strengthen his political power in the papal state and unify the Church under a solid leadership had been more decisive than in previous years, as we shall see.3 Thus Porcari’s plot took place in a time when the papacy’s aims to consolidate its supremacy was still combined with the perception of the precarious situation that it had to face in the previous century and in the early Quattrocento, when popes had to confront several conflicts. They had to tackle internal opposition, conciliaristic positions, and frequent rebellions in Rome, often stirred up by the most powerful noble families, such as the Colonna: already Eugene IV tried to lay the foundation for a more solid papal state, after the uprising that forced him to escape on a boat from Rome to Florence in 1434;4 however, this political purpose was pursued more decisively by his successor, Nicholas V, although he was also endangered by the conspiracy plotted by Porcari, a noble knight from an ancient Roman family.5 While Porcari’s conspiracy has been more extensively studied from a historical point of view,6 less attention has been paid to the literary works devoted to this plot, in particular to the Porcaria and its author, who lived and worked around the middle of the 1400s in the cultural and political environment of the Roman Curia.7 He was appointed as magister in Viterbo, as shown by archival documents relating to the year 1448, and he also became papal secretary, as recounted by Enea Silvio Piccolomini in his In Europam sui temporis uarias continentem historias written in 1458.8 More generally, from the papacy of Nicholas V (1447–1455) to that of Pius II (1458–1464), Orazio was one of the humanists who took an active part in the cultural politics of the Curia and collaborated with the  2 Leon Battista Alberti’s Porcaria coniuratio is published in Regoliosi 2010. On the text see also Borsi 2015. For other literary and historical works on this conspiracy see Modigliani 2013. 3 On the conspiracy and the pope’s reaction to it see now Modigliani 2013 (and the bibliography mentioned in this volume). On Nicholas V and his pontificate: Prodi 1982; Miglio 1997; Miglio 2000; Coluccia 1998; Bonatti, Manfredi 2000. 4 See in particular Plebani 2012 and D’Elia, 2007, 209. 5 On Stefano Porcari and more generally on the Porcari family see Modigliani 1994. 6 See in particular Modigliani 2013. 7 See Oliva 1994. 8 See Oliva 1994, 23. For the documents in the Archive of Viterbo see Miglio 1991, 14–21.

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clergy, carrying out official commitments and composing literary texts mostly dedicated to popes. Orazio Romano’s epic poem is a sophisticated literary transposition of the conspiracy against Nicholas V. The Porcaria, divided into two books of roughly 500 lines each, is characterized by some typical motifs and patterns that marked the epic genre in both the classical and medieval traditions. Nonetheless, many elements of innovation place this poem in the experimental area of humanist epic, whose development in the Quattrocento has received little attention from scholars so far.9 The Porcaria also shows distinctive peculiarities, which can be related to the author’s original choice of employing the epic genre (and its rhetorical devices and structures) to treat the historical episode of the plot. In particular, the interplay between political matters and poetic frame results in an unusual work, characterized by a totally imaginary setting, in which the refined transfiguration of the events is aimed at conveying the poet’s political standpoint in a veiled but effective manner. The Porcaria may be placed in the literary tradition of the sub-genre of historical-epic poetry, one of the main branches of epic since antiquity. This genre, dealing with contemporary events, rather than ancient history, enjoyed widespread diffusion in the Middle Ages. During the fourteenth century Petrarch revived and rebuilt classical epic models, choosing to write epic poetry on ancient events, as in the Africa. However, despite Petrarch’s turning to classical themes, humanists in the fifteenth century shifted the focus to contemporary history: so, while imitating classical models in style and rhetoric, they followed in the footsteps of medieval poems as far as topic and historical issues were concerned. Thus, in humanist works, the main link with classical epic can be recognized in the epic colour of both events and characters (rather than contents). This stylistic trait is apparent in the humanists’ choices of epic patterns, motifs and topoi, and sometimes even in the names of characters. In addition to these elements, deployed to create an overall epic dimension, another essential component that fifteenth-century authors draw from classical models is lexis, usually extensively modelled on the language of the chief Latin epic sources, such as Virgil. Thus, the classical atmosphere that permeates the Porcaria, both in its rhetorical framework and style, is produced mainly by the substantial presence of classical references throughout the poem, and, in particular, by the widespread use of a classical epic vocabulary, which is extensively used to frame the epic

 9 The classic studies on humanist epic are Belloni 1912 and Zabughin 1921. For more general studies on epic in the Italian Renaissance see Everson 2001 and Kallendorf 1989.

236  Marta Celati diction. In doing so, Orazio Romano relies on the major Latin models which influenced most medieval and humanist poetry, Virgil, Lucan, Statius, and Ovid,10 but he goes further and employs also more recherché sources, such as Claudian. Moreover, the specific political topic treated by the humanist allows him to refer also to historiographical models: Sallust’s De coniuratione Catilinae is unsurprisingly the main one, but it is combined with Livy’s work, from which the author draws some references to episodes and characters in Roman history. The opening of the poem consists of a classical epic proemium, including the presentation of the topic and the invocation to the Muse (1.1–7): Insidias patriae qui struxit et arma parenti ipse parens refer et sceleri si Roma nefando annuerit, tenues nam si fragor impulit auras, Romuleos iterum formidat curia raptus. Tu potes obscuris fulgorem et lumina coecis 5 incertisque fidem, leuibus dare pondera rebus, tu mea Musa pater, uirtus mihi numen et aura […].11 Of he who plotted threats against the fatherland and wars against his father, you, my father, sing, and whether Rome went along with this infamous crime, for seeing that the tumult so shook the refined air of heaven, the Curia feared again the abduction of Romulus. You can give clarity to obscure deeds, light to secrets, credence to uncertainties, weight to levity, you father, are my Muse, my god and favouring breeze […].

Significantly, the outset is modelled on the incipit of Lucan’s Pharsalia. In particular, as in Lucan’s prologue, the opening line introduces immediately the vivid image of the civil war, with the very first words insidias patriae […] arma parenti being a counterpart to Lucan’s Bella per Emathios plus quam civilia campos [...] (1.1).12 Moreover, the invocatio is not addressed to the Muse, but to the author’s patron, the pope himself (1.7 Tu, mea musa, pater), hinting again at Lucan’s invocation of Nero in the Pharsalia (1.66).13 The allusion to Lucan at the very beginning of the poem fulfills the important symbolic function of implicitly representing Porcari’s rebellion as a civil war and an unfair attack against the fatherland,  10 On the use of these models see Everson 2001, 61–80. 11 All passages of the Porcaria are quoted from Lehnerdt 1907. All translations are mine. 12 Luc. 1.1–4: Bella per Emathios plus quam ciuilia campos, / iusque datum sceleri canimus, populumque potentem / in sua uictrici conuersum uiscera dextra, / cognatasque acies, et rupto foedere regni [...]. 13 Luc. 1.63–66: Sed mihi iam numen, nec, si te pectore uates / Accipio, Cirrhaea uelim secreta mouentem / sollicitare deum Bacchumque auertere Nysa / Tu [scil. Nero] satis ad uires Romana in carmina dandas.

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rather than an attack on the pope, who, in reality, was the actual target of the conspiracy. This thematic and political perspective pervades much of the Porcaria and is achieved not only by means of allusions to Lucan, but also through references to Statius’ Thebaid, which plays a prominent role at the outset of the poem. Immediately after the prologue, the Porcaria opens with the long funeral lament delivered by Porcari’s sister (1.10–108). She was also the wife of one of the plotters, Angelo di Maso, and the mother of another conspirator, Clemente di Maso:14 so in her speech the woman becomes the embodiment of grief for these three deaths. It is noteworthy that this threnody is mainly shaped around the model of the funeral laments in Statius’ Thebaid, with a considerable number of verbal expressions and echoes of mythological female characters which are aimed at placing emphasis on the tragic image of the woman mourning the death of her relatives. The overall framework of the threnody seems to be inspired by the long speech of Ide (Theb. 3.151–168), but Orazio also recalls Eriphyle (1.76–78; Theb. 2.265–305; 4.187–195), Iocasta (1.85–98; Theb. 1.56–70 and 7.475–527) and Agave (1.102–104; Theb. 11.318–319), while in the first section of the speech (1.14–22) he draws direct quotations from the threnody of Argia (Theb. 12.318–321).15 These laments, both in the classical source and in the Porcaria, represent the symbolic image of human suffering brought about by the atrocity of war. Hence the conspiracy is seen again as a thoughtless conflict, cause of sorrow and brutal death. After this lament the setting of the poem shifts to the underworld, where Porcari and the other two conspirators experience a sort of classical katabasis and are harshly punished. The longest part of the poem takes place in this fantastic and macabre hell, which is mostly inspired by the sixth book of Virgil’s Aeneid. The underworld in the Porcaria is inhabited by the typical infernal figures of the literary tradition – Charon, Cerberus and Minos – and also by historical characters from ancient Rome. Here Porcari, before being punished, meets Minos and narrates the main events of the conspiracy to him: the organization of the plot, the discovery by the pope and the capture of the plotters. What is most remarkable in this section is that Porcari quotes, in a direct speech, the lengthy oration  14 Antony D’Elia wrongly identified Porcari’s nephew with Battista Sciarra (D’Elia 2007, 213). 15 Porcaria, 1.14–22: Inclusit lacrimas oculis et corpore toto / sternitur; exangues uix spiritus errat in artus. / Illa uelut gelidum suprema in busta cadauer/ membra tenet resupina solo puluisque per ora / spargitur inque humeros fusi cecidere capilli. / Quam simulac trepidae uidere per atria natae, / actutum accurrunt, alternae in brachia matrem / suscipiunt tenuemque animam per mutua quaerunt / oscula, ut extremae ualeant succurrere luci; Stat. Theb. 12.318–321: [Argia] inclusitque dolor lacrimas; tum corpore toto / sternitur in uoltus animamque per oscula quaerit / absentem pressumque comis ac ueste cruorem / seruatura legit (my emphasis).

238  Marta Celati he delivered to his accomplices to urge them to rise up against papal domination. This speech is totally modelled on Catiline’s oration in Sallust’s De coniuratione Catilinae (20). The very incipit of the harangue in the Porcaria, Quonam usque feremus / Exitiale iugum? (1.252–253, ‘How much longer are we still going to endure this terrible domination?’), recalls one of the rhetorical questions in Catiline’s words in Sallust: Quae quousque tandem patiemini, o fortissumi viri? (Cat. 20.9, ‘How much longer are we still going to endure this, o bravest men?’). Besides this echo of Sallust, the opening question in the Porcaria is influenced, even more directly, by a line in Claudian’s poem In Rufinum, which is exactly echoed by Orazio Romano: Quonam usque feremus / exitiale iugum? (In Rufinum 5.86). This quotation sheds light on the prominent role played by Claudian as a seminal model in the Porcaria, a function that is confirmed by several direct allusions throughout the text, especially in the historical digression on Roman history at the end of the first book, as we shall see. In particular, this reference is placed in a crucial position in the poem, namely the beginning of the speech by the main character. The use of Claudian’s works by Orazio Romano demonstrates the sophisticated and polished nature of the Porcaria, which is clearly the result of the contamination of several classical models, including less expected sources. Although this late-classical author was already known and used by Petrarch,16 he still had a modest circulation around the middle of the fifteenth century, when Orazio Romano composed his poem. But interestingly it was in the cultural humanist environment of Rome in the same period that Claudian’s works were studied philologically, especially by Pietro Odo and Pomponio Leto.17 As for the Porcaria, in particular, the literary genre of historical and eulogistic poetry that was developed by Claudian provided the humanist with a relevant source of motifs and images, which could perfectly fit his poem on the conspiracy. However, after the erudite allusion that recalls both Sallust and Claudian, it is Sallust who is the main model of Porcari’s oration. Immediately after the opening question, the leader of the plot denounces the condition of slavery that the Roman people had to suffer because of the despotic power of papal government (1.253–259), an accusation that is clearly modelled on Catiline’s words in Sallust’s work (Cat. 20.7–8). Moreover, Orazio Romano, influenced by Sallust’s style, fills

 16 See Chines 2001. 17 Pietro Odo put together a considerable corpus of Claudian’s texts starting from the manuscript of the twelfth century, now Vat. Lat. 2809: see Gionta 1997. On Pietro Odo’s philological activity see also Donati 2000 (where the humanist’s work on Claudian, in the manuscripts Vat. Lat. 1660 and Vat. Lat. 2809, is examined). Poliziano, as is well known, in the second half of the century used Claudian extensively as a source in his work, especially in the Stanze.

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the conspirator’s oratio with a number of rhetorical questions, which give the speech vigour and liveliness. In particular, the two following pressing questions in the Porcaria, Quando haec mutabitur aetas? Nonne uiri sumus? (1.259–260, ‘When will this life be changed? Are we real men?’), hint at a similar statement in Sallust’s text, in the passage where Catiline, like Porcari, asserts that men should not suffer unfair political oppression and makes a specific allusion to the condition of ‘real men’: Etenim quis mortalium, cui uirile ingenium est, tolerare potest […]’ (Cat. 20.11, ‘Indeed, what mortal with a manly heart can endure it […]?’). After narrating his story, Porcari meets in the underworld the historical characters of Cato and Catiline, who condemn him, and then he disappears into hell. Finally, the closing section of the book is a historical digression that focuses on presenting the history of Rome, which is described as divided into four periods, as a development that culminates in the dominion of the popes. The first status urbis is the age of the Roman kings, represented as a period of savage violence; the second one is the Republican age, depicted as the time when civic values come to life and flourish; the third stage is the Roman Empire, portrayed as the epoch of decline and decadence; and finally, the last period consists of papal domination, which is considered as the most prosperous age, since it is seen as the combination of the civic values of Roman antiquity with the government of the pope, who is celebrated as both a ‘perfect prince’ and the embodiment of Christian religion. In describing this scenario, Orazio Romano, once more, turns to exemplary figures of classical antiquity, whom he mentions as traditional symbols of each specific historical period, relying on some of his main models: for instance, he derives the image of Brutus (1.424–426) from Virgil’s Aeneid (6.817– 821), while the references to Gaius Fabricius Luscinus and Marcus Atilius Regulus (1.435–436), two iconic figures of the Republican age, are inspired by Claudian’s In Rufinum (3.200–201).18 Claudian’s works are very influential in this final historical section of the book, and the humanist uses them to construct numerous lines, with specific literary quotations: 1.458–459; 465–466; 520–521; 529.19 How-

 18 Porcaria 1.435–437: Tunc rudis imposito vivebat consul aratro, / Fabricius parvo contentus munera regum / Despexit; Claud. In Rufinum 3.200–201: Fabricius parvo spernebat munera regum / sudabatque gravi consul Serranus aratro (my emphasis). 19 Porcaria 1.458–459: Exitium quod Roma tulit! Communia Caesar / Iura ferox in se leges et pacta resolvit; Claud. De bello Gildonico 15.49–50: postquam iura ferox in se communia Caesar / transtulit. Porcaria 1.465–466: Nil adeo insigne est, quod non exacta vetustas / Laeserit et longi labes madefecerit aevi; Claud. In Eutropium 18.287–288: nil adeo foedum, quod non exacta vetustas / ediderit longique labor commiserit aevi; Porcaria 1.520–521: Finibus aut agris pellit vis nulla colonos, / non laribus miles veteres detrudit avitis: Claud. In Rufinum 3.191–192: laribus

240  Marta Celati ever, Orazio resorts also to another chief classical model, Livy, from whose history (Liv. 1.48.7) he draws, for example, the image of Tullia Minor, Servius Tullius’ daughter (Porcaria 1.418–421). Thus, through these historical references in the explicit of the first book, which play an exemplary function, the ennobling link between classical antiquity and the papal state is strengthened decisively and will be reinforced still more in the following section. The second book is symmetrical with the first one, in so far as it opens with another funeral lament and, after that, shifts again into the underworld, where the historical character of Scipio Africanus appears. The Roman hero is shocked by the conspiracy and he is afraid that Rome could be in danger, so he resumes his mortal body and goes back to Rome. Orazio Romano draws this scene (2.141– 161), depicted with a vivid and colorful style, from the famous similar episode in the sixth book of Lucan’s Pharsalia, in which the sorceress Erichtho makes a dead soldier come back to life by means of a macabre magic ritual (Lucan 6.750–762). In the Porcaria, after reviving, Scipio visits Rome and the poem ends with the speech he delivers to the pope: here, Scipio condemns the plot and celebrates Nicholas V, and, after that, he disappears into the heavens. It is significant that, before talking to the pope, the Roman hero meets the librarian of the Vatican Library, the humanist Giovanni Tortelli, and finds him reading aloud a book about his (Scipio’s) heroic deeds. This metaliterary episode, which seems to recall Petrarch’s Africa, allows the author to introduce another brief historical excursus, in which Scipio himself narrates part of his biography (Porcaria 2.315–413). The main classical source of this account is again Livy (Books 33 to 37), as usual when Orazio Romano makes direct references to Roman history.20 As this brief synopsis has shown, in the Porcaria, and more generally in humanist epic, the selection of contemporary history as the main topic is connected with political issues and propagandistic purposes. This specific kind of poetry, as already in the Middle Ages, became one of the main literary vehicles for celebrating political rulers, their power and government. For this reason, most humanist poems narrate the main character’s heroic deeds. The protagonist can be either a king, such as Alfonso the Magnanimous in Matteo Zuppardo’s Alfonseis (1455– 1457), or a signore, like Francesco Sforza in Francesco Filelfo’s Sfortias (1451–

 pellit, detrudit avitis; / finibus; Porcaria 1.529: Possumus humano necdum mansuescere cultu; Claud. In Rufinum 5.42: humano nescit mansuescere cultu (my emphasis). 20 On the use of Livy in Renaissance epic see Everson 2001, 85.

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1472).21 Obviously, the main intent was that of praising the political ruler embodied in the hero. Conversely, the Porcaria is based on the story of a negative hero, the leader of the conspiracy: Porcari is totally condemned by Orazio Romano, whose aim is to celebrate the positive hero of the poem, Pope Nicholas V. However, also in this case, the flattering and eulogistic components are predominant and the poem is ultimately focused on the eulogy of papal government. Thus the Porcaria shows how the historical topic of conspiracy can easily match some of the defining features of humanist epic: the imaginative transfiguration of historical episodes; the employment of classic epic models to create a work on contemporary events; the role of historical-epic texts as a backing for political propaganda; the eulogistic and flattering aims. In particular, the centrality of eulogistic elements in the Porcaria links directly this humanist poem to the model of Claudian, from whose works Orazio Romano draws many literary quotations, as we have seen. The most significant trait that correlates the Porcaria and Claudian’s works is the close interaction of typical patterns of different genres: epic poetry and epideictic rhetoric. This is a distinctive feature of Claudian’s historical-epic poems, panegyrics and invectives, which have been defined as informed by a process of ‘panegyrization of epic’ or ‘epicization of epideictic rhetoric’,22 a development that ended up with the creation of a mixed genre of poetry, which enjoyed a considerable vogue from late antiquity onwards. This conflation of eulogy and epic is a crucial component in Orazio Romano’s work as well, but this is not the only trait in common with Claudian. It is likely that the humanist draws from this classical model also the short nature of the poem, consisting only of two books, like Claudian’s invectives In Rufinum and In Eutropium. From this point of view, the Porcaria can be defined as a short historical epic, as it shares this character of brevity not only with Claudian’s invectives, divided into two books, but also with his epic poems, De bello Gildonico and De bello Gothico, which are made up of one and three books respectively. Another crucial component in Orazio Romano’s historical epic is the imaginary and fantastic dimension. This is one of the major traits that make the Porcaria somehow different from most historical epics of the fifteenth century.23 In particular, unlike Orazio Romano’s text, other humanist epic works (such as Filelfo’s Sfortias) are characterized by a more realistic storyline and follow more

 21 Zuppardo’s Alfonseis is published by Albanese 1990. On Filelfo’s poem see Bottari 1986 and Zabughin 1921, I, 280. 22 See Fo 1982, 77. 23 The Porcaria was acknowledged as an ‘arcaizzante’ epic by Zabughin 1921, I, 280.

242  Marta Celati closely the narration of historical events, though they are also framed by mythological elements, as traditionally happens in epic poetry. On the other hand, in the Porcaria the actual historical episodes are narrated only in Stefano Porcari’s account of the plot (1.232–319), while in the rest of the poem there are no more than implied allusions to real history. It is also noteworthy that contemporary historical characters are simply referred to obliquely in the Porcaria, and this element enhances the classical and fantastic tone of the poem. Generally, these figures are neither called by their actual names, nor disguised under classical names. Beside Nicholas V (always called pater, ‘father’, in the poem), the only historical characters explicitly mentioned are Beltramus (2.253 – whom I have identified with Beltramo di Martino da Varese, the leader of the architectural restoration of the city in the service of the pope)24 – and Aretinum Iohannem (2.307 – Giovanni Tortelli, the librarian of the Vatican Library); while the conspirators are recognizable only by the textual context. All these elements help to place the historical events in a distant and imaginary atmosphere, depicted wholly by means of classical filters. From this perspective, it is also significant that in the Porcaria Roman historical figures are employed with an important literary and symbolic function, since they appear in the story as actual characters, such as Catiline, Cato and Scipio Africanus. Another striking aspect of the poem is that a real narrative structure is almost completely missing. It develops from scene to scene with quick transitions, and the slight storyline consists mainly of the juxtaposition of single episodes, monologues, descriptions, and historical digressions. As already mentioned, the only proper narrative section in the text is Stefano Porcari’s account of the conspiracy (1.228–319), while in the rest of the poem a descriptive style prevails. Moreover, there are only two locations in the Porcaria: the principal one is the underworld, where the first book and the first 150 lines of the second one take place, then the poem shifts to the city of Rome, where the character of Scipio, who has been brought back to life, meets Nicholas V. Thus the combination of imaginary epic components and actual historical events seems to be unbalanced, with a prevalence of fantastic elements, aimed at presenting the conspiracy through poetic transfiguration. Nevertheless, despite this effect of poetic distance, Orazio Romano’s political purpose is constantly implied in the Porcaria, since all classical figures and symbols deployed in the narration have a specific literary function in producing the political dimension of the poem. This political overtone is designed to condemn the conspiracy and celebrate papal power, by presenting it as being connected with the civic values of ancient Rome. Therefore the bond between the  24 On this historical character see Burrough 1990, 125–139.

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classical and imaginary dimension, on one side, and the historical background, on the other, lies in the whole structure of the text and it is intended to convey effectively the author’s political standpoint. This literary transfiguration emerges in the combination of every component of the poem: the rhetorical frame, the stylistic inflection, and the thematic elements. One of the most remarkable aspects of the Porcaria is that it is utterly permeated by a secular dimension. Although the poem revolves around the figure of the pope, the political perspective that comes to light is neither related to religious issues concerning papal power, nor to the problem of the juridical legitimacy of his government. These matters had been crucial in the debates of the previous centuries, but with the development of humanist culture they started to be regarded in different terms and became more interconnected with new political issues. In particular, the secular perspective in the Porcaria emerges in the symbolic use of the classical legacy, which is aimed at evoking political and ethical ideas that had become fundamental in the humanist age. In this regard, the fifteenth-century political view is distant from the religious conception of power prevailing in the Middle Ages, when the right to govern was mainly considered as bestowed by God. Now, in a more personal political system, rulers (even popes) resorted to the concept of the prince’s virtus as the main value on which to found their authority.25 In this scenario, the most effective contribution to strengthening political sovereignty was made by the humanists’ literary activity, which was intended to celebrate virtues and feats of rulers and, in doing so, legitimize them. Orazio Romano’s poem reflects this general approach, but it also displays specific ideological elements that make it a product of the Renaissance papal environment. The secular dimension in the Porcaria appears to be based on the new centralized political ideology that arose around the middle of the century in Italian states and also in the papal domain, especially during Nicholas V’s papacy, which was characterized by a substantial concentration of power in the pope’s hands. So, in the poem, the conspiracy against the pope is not seen as a threat to religious authority, but as an attack on the papal state and its subjects. Moreover, in the whole text, the image of Nicholas V turns out to be close to the figure of a prince. The representation of the pope as a ‘prince’ is encapsulated, for example, in the telling lines Felicem tanto vitam sub principe tuti ducimus (1.518 ‘We live in peace and serenity under the rule of so great a prince’) and Illa mihi visa est digno  25 For this process, already in the fourteenth century, cfr. Skinner 2002, II, 122–123. Among the large number of studies on humanist political thought see at least Skinner 1978; Rubinstein, 1979; Hankins 1996; 2010; Pastore Stocchi 2014, 26–84.

244  Marta Celati sub principe vera / libertas (1.535–536 ‘True liberty is that which you can find under a just prince’). The defining attributes of papal power are represented as the distinctive traits of the monarchical government: the rule of a single man who is able to keep his realm in a condition of peace and wealth. Thus Orazio Romano’s standpoint coincides with traditional pro-monarchic ideology, which depicts the princely regime as the only source of concordia and prosperity for the state and, consequently, for the people. In the final part of the first book, as we have seen, Nicholas V’s government is celebrated as the new thriving age of Rome. The humanist creates this eulogy through an uneasy parallel between the ancient Roman republic and the papal era, which is considered as a continuation of the golden age of the city, with the fundamental achievement of the Christian religion. Thus, according to this standpoint, papal rule brought to the Romans not only a prosperous state, but also the ‘true religion.’26 Indeed, in Orazio Romano’s portrayal of the Roman Republic the main drawback is the pagan religion (1.443–451), a negative aspect that is eventually removed by the popes. However, despite the occasional observations on religious issues, the poem revolves around a secular and centralized political ideology. Moreover, although it is undeniable that the employment of classical icons of the Roman republic in a poem devoted to commemorate papal autocratic rule can be considered inconsistent,27 nevertheless, this contradiction turns out to be less relevant if we consider again carefully how these classical images are used in the poem. These figures have to be seen as literary symbols, rather than icons of specific and exclusivist political ideologies. This exemplary function is directly associated, for example, with the character of Scipio, who does not represent a symbol of a specific political institution, but rather an image of virtue relevant to any kind of government. More generally, as James Hankins has compellingly pointed out, the distinction between republican and monarchic government in the humanist age does not have to be interpreted as strictly as it was in the past years in relation to Baron’s theories on ‘civic humanism.’28 An emblematic example can be found in the re-adaptation of classical figures in Porcaria, where both Cato and Scipio, traditionally two major iconic symbols of the Republican age, are enlisted to legitimate the pope’s rule. The first refers to Nicholas V as ‘the bishop who gave to Rome the most valued freedom’ (1.359–360), while the second delivers a lengthy accolade to the pope, who is described as a ‘happy prince,

 26 More generally, on the unification of secular and religious elements in Nicholas’ V pontificate, also from an ideological perspective, see Miglio 2004. 27 On this inconsistency see D’Elia 2007, 218–223. 28 See in particular Baron 1955, and now Hankins 1995 and 2010.

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higher than any power and greater than any wealth, population or arms’ (2.496– 497). The choice of celebrating the papacy by employing these classical historical figures, more directly connected with the republican tradition and municipal ideology which had always been present in Rome and had been revived by Cola di Rienzo’s famous insurrection in the previous century,29 may be also traced back to the intention of presenting Porcari’s plot as inspired by despotic purposes (and not by love for liberty) and as a tyrannical attempt aimed at subverting a legitimate rule: an attempt that, uncoincidentally, is depicted as associated with Catiline’s conspiracy (and, more indirectly, also with Caesar’s autocratic aims, as we shall see).30 The historical personalities who appear in the poem as actual characters are recalled as classical exemplars, either positive or negative. From this point of view, Cato and Catiline play an important symbolic role condemning Porcari’s plot: Cato stands for the symbol of Roman civic virtus, while Catiline represents the iconic image of the evil conspirator, as conventionally in the literary tradition, and the two figures were already paired, as a positive and negative exemplar respectively, on the shield of Aeneas in the Underworld scene in Virgil’s Aeneid (8.668–670). In this respect, the negative exemplar of Catiline is even more striking, since through his disapproval of Porcari the conspiracy against the pope is depicted as crueler than Catiline’s own plot. In this case, the modern conspirator has surpassed the classical exemplar. On the other hand Cato is a positive exemplar. In particular, he claims that Porcari’s name represents an arrogant attempt to offend his own family name, Porcius (1.352–358): [...] uirum quo non iactantior alter ad superos uixit uoueo, qui Porcia finxit nomina de porcis titulique ascripsit honorem gentibus obscuris. Unde hic sceleratior extat: num puduit claram prolem uirtutibus olim, unde tot illustres fulsere ad sidera ciues, offendisse hominem et rigidos lusisse Catones?


I vow to the gods that nobody ever lived who was more arrogant than him, who invented the name of ‘Porcii’ from that of ‘swine’, and bestowed the honour of this title upon obscure people. As a result of this he emerged as a greater criminal: was this man ever ashamed of

 29 On this issue see Esch 2007. 30 Some sources presented the conspiracy as a tyrannical attempt aimed at creating a signoria ruled by Porcari: on these texts and this biased opinion, probably spread by the pope’s propagandistic channels to isolate the plotters from the rest of the Romans, see Modigliani 2013, 73.

246  Marta Celati insulting such a lineage illustrious with virtue, so many of whose outstanding members shone to the heavens, and of mocking the virtuous Catones?

Stefano Porcari, indeed, used to use the Latin surname Porcius in order to ennoble his origin. This anecdote, based on the pun on ‘Porcia’ (the family name) and ‘porcus’ (swine), is evoked as an insult to Cato’s distinguished image, which is put forward to stress the divide between Porcari and the noblest tradition of Roman history. But the most relevant exemplary character in the poem is Scipio, who is enlisted as the embodiment of the direct link between the Roman golden age and the pope’s dominion, the hero who champions the pope’s government and bestows authority on it. In addition, the conspiracy itself is portrayed in the poem as a tyrannical attempt to subvert the just regime of Nicholas V, as is shown by the image of Caesar, recalled as a negative exemplar of a dictator and associated with the conspirator (1.266–267, 329–330). If we contextualize the role of Caesar’s image in the poem, it reveals that Porcari’s plot is condemned as a despotic plan aimed at subverting a just monarchic government. Conversely, despite the frequent employment of classical Republican icons, the papal-princely state is not criticized as an autocratic regime, but is eulogistically praised as a model of just rule. In this political view the plotter is now seen as the tyrant who illegitimately threatens the social body and the centralized state.31 This verticalized political standpoint has a close connection with the developing idea of statecraft that was at the core of Nicholas V’s policy throughout his papacy. In this respect, he has been defined by Paolo Prodi as the first pope of the Renaissance, the pope who made a remarkable effort to strengthen and consolidate his political power, seeking to construct a state similar to a monarchy, or a signoria, and making it an ecclesiastical principality.32 This centralizing process had already been undertaken by Eugenius IV, but it is only with Nicholas V that the entire papal policy goes in this specific direction of creating a princely rule. Firstly, this evolution concerned administrative policy, since the pope tried to consolidate his power by means of an extensive administrative reform, which created a new class of bureaucracy, made up of loyal officials; moreover, he sought to shape the Curia after the model of a court, by establishing a new system of relationships and a strict official protocol, and transforming the baronial aristocracy into a court society.33  31 On the more general evolution of the idea of tyrant in the 1400s see Hankins 1996, 128. 32 Prodi 1982, 43. 33 On these aspects of Nicholas V’s rule see in particular the compelling analysis in Prodi 1982, 91–126; on the creation of a new kind of segreteria papale see Gualdo 2004; more generally, on Nicholas V’s pontificate see also the studies mentioned in footnote 3.

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Beside these measures, a key aspect in this political process was the foundation of new cultural principles conceived as a backing to papal authority. Humanists and artists were deeply involved in constructing an ideal image of the papacy rooted in the cultural and political tenets which inspired Nicholas V’s pontificate34 and, thanks to them, the new monarchic values applied to the papal rule did not remain abstract, but were incarnated in the figure of the pope and, above all, in his artistic and literary representations. In this respect, Orazio Romano’s poem is one of the most important texts to be focusing on, since the pivotal guidelines of Nicholas V’s cultural policies can be recognized as the major ideological elements in the Porcaria. From this point of view, the poem reveals how the new princely figure of the pope is shaped: this image of papal sovereignty goes beyond medieval attributes related to the religious sphere, and is created by referring to classical models and images. This re-appropriation of classical antiquity is a crucial factor in this cultural process in Renaissance papacies and it plays a prominent role in constructing a new symbolism of power (so also in the following century, for instance, pope Paul III was celebrated by recalling Alexander the Great’s deeds).35 In particular, in the Porcaria papal authority tends to be represented as concrete political government, where the two dimensions of Rome, the holy and secular city, continuously overlap, resulting in a conflation that no longer shows universalising traits (as the image of the Holy Roman Empire did), but is embodied in the new actual figure of the pope. This is a princely regime in which we can find combined the traditional Christian idea of centralized religious authority, exercised by the pope as the heir of Peter, and the monarchic ideology that prizes the rulership of a single man, as in the classical and medieval pro-monarchic tradition.36 As we have seen, Nicholas V made a considerable effort to root the monarchic authority of the pope in Rome and tried to defeat definitively the conciliarist movement and to eradicate the independent forces still present in the city. Thus Orazio Romano’s poem represents ideologically an ideal picture of Nicholas V’s papacy, conveying the image of a state where the pope’s power is soundly established, generally accepted, and celebrated as the best form of government, to the extent that the image of the papal state in Rome ends up overlapping with the broader and more traditional idea of the fatherland. It is also for this reason that in the Porcaria the conspiracy is not regarded as an attack against the pope,

 34 See Miglio 1997 and Miglio 2004. 35 Prodi 1982, 97–98. 36 On these monarchic principles see Skinner 2002, II, 31–33.

248  Marta Celati but against the whole city of Rome, which serves as the focus for the highest concept of the fatherland, as is revealed by several passages of the poem (1.235–236, 325, 2.432–433, etc.). More generally, this is a recurrent element in humanist texts devoted to conspiracies and is aimed at isolating the conspirators from the rest of the civic community and condemning the plot as a dangerous subversive attack against the whole public body, rather than against the single ruler.37 Moreover, in the Porcaria, besides political disapproval of the event, Orazio Romano condemns it also from a universal perspective, by the lengthy threnodies inspired by Statius that depict the plot as a tyrannical abuse and as the cause of human grief. The poem also shares crucial ideological perspectives with other literary works related to Nicholas V’s papacy, such as Giuseppe Brivio’s invective in hexameters Conformatio Curiae Romanae (1453).38 In particular, the foremost element celebrated by writers is the architectural restoration of Rome planned by Nicholas V, aimed at reconstructing the city and renovating its buildings, fortifications, aqueducts and streets.39 In the Porcaria, the restoration of Rome is described in its actual development by means of the eulogistic image of the magnificent constructions described through Scipio’s eyes (2.241–276). So, the conspiracy is the event that put in danger the prosperity gained by the Romans under papal government; while the renovation of Rome is the tangible image of this flourishing city, which is protected from any threat by its fortifications. Both these ideas had a central position in Nicholas V’s own political guidelines, since they appear tightly connected in his last will and testament, which was quoted at the end of Giannozzo Manetti’s Vita Nicolai V, the most important biography of the pope.40 In the Porcaria, in particular, the emphatic reference to the pope’s ambitious restoration of the city is also placed at the end of the second book, in Scipio’s last words to Nicholas V (2.447–454), which encapsulate all the major traits that shape the pope’s propagandistic image: his princely virtue; the celebration of his architectural plan, as a representation of his power; and the eulogistic depiction of his government, as a new glorious period. This analysis of the Porcaria has shown how the extensive and eclectic presence of classical sources, models and symbols in the text builds up the overall framework of the text. The employment of classical auctoritates matches coherently the unfolding of the scenes of the poem, even when real historical scenarios

 37 On fifteenth-century humanist texts on conspiracies see Celati 2015, 6–12. 38 The text is published in Tommasini 1880, 111–123. 39 On this architectonic plan see Westfall 1974, Burrough 1990 and Modigliani 2013, 54–60. 40 The text is published in Modigliani 2005: III, §§ 16–18. In this volume, see also the Premessa by Massimo Miglio (7–37), and on the Testamentum Miglio 2004.

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are directly recalled. Thus the Porcaria turns out to be a bizarre and refined epic experiment of the humanist age, a multifaceted combination of classical poetry and prose. This eclecticism appears also in the use of political symbols drawn from the classical tradition. Historical characters and figures perform the function of bestowing authority on papal government, regardless of the actual political system they belong to in strictly institutional terms. More generally, they become icons of an ideal cultural and political dimension: a golden age whose symbols can be equally applied to different modern political ideologies. This eulogistic connection with the classical tradition emerges as one of the cornerstones of the new theory and practice of fifteenth-century power, even religious power. Humanists, such as Orazio Romano, were deeply involved in building this new image of the papacy, shaped by presenting it as anchored in ancient Roman values, which, more broadly, become the legitimizing vehicles for new political systems in the Renaissance.

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List of Contributors Giancarlo Abbamonte is Associate Professor of classical philology of the Department of Humanities at the Federico II University of Naples. Tristan Alonge is Associate Professor in Early Modern French Literature in the Département de lettres modernes at the Université de la Réunion. Caterina Carpinato is Associate Professor of Modern Greek Language and Literature in the Department of Humanities at the Ca’ Foscari University of Venice. Marta Celati is a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at the Centre for the Study of the Renaissance at the University of Warwick. Federica Ciccolella is Professor of Classics at the Texas A&M University, College Station (Texas). Giacomo Comiati is a Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Faculty of Medieval and Modern Languages, University of Oxford. At the moment, he collaborates on the project ‘Petrarch Commentary and Exegesis in Renaissance Italy, c.1350-c.1650.’ Giovanna Di Martino is Lecturer in Classics at St. Hilda’s (Oxford) and DPhil student in the SubFaculty of Classical Languages and Literature, University of Oxford. Stephen Harrison is Professor of Latin Literature at the University of Oxford and Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Corpus Christi College. Han Lamers is Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy, Classics, History of Arts and Ideas at the University of Oslo. Michael Malone – Lee is an independent scholar based in Oxford. Stefano Martinelli Tempesta is Researcher of Greek Literature in the Department of Literary Studies, Philology and Linguistics at the State University of Milan. Martin McLaughlin is Agnelli-Serena Professor of Italian Studies emeritus at the University of Oxford. Fevronia Nousia is an Assistant Professor of Byzantine Philology in the Department of Philology at the University of Patras. Fabio Stok is Professor of Latin Literature in the Department of Literary Studies, Philosophy and Art History at the Tor Vergata University of Rome.

254  List of Contributors Wes Williams is Professor of French Literature at the University of Oxford and Fellow and Tutor in French at St Edmund Hall.

Index Abril, Simon 146 Accorsi, Bono (printer) 16 Achilles 100, 148, 178, 183, 184, 186, 187, 224 Adam von Ambergau (printer) 16 Aelian 164 Aeneas 104, 254 Aeschylus 7, 107, 125–142 Aesop 197 Agamemnon 132, 144, 150 Alamanni, Luigi 147 Alberti, Leon Battista 6, 95–108, 234 Albinus (Academic philosopher) 117 Alcestis 147 Alcman 56 Alexander of Aphrodisias 4 Alexander the Great 6, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 81, 82, 83, 84, 90, 91, 92, 247 Alexander V (pope) see Philargis, Peter Alighieri, Dante 68, 183 Alphonse the Magnanimous, king of Naples 240 Alphonse II of Aragon, king of Naples 14 Amadi, Francesco 180 Amelius (Neoplatonic philosopher) 120 Amyot, Jacques 145, 146, 149, 150, 152, 153, 157, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166, 169, 170, 171, 172 Andromache 106 Andromeda 157, 163, 166, 168 Angeli degli (da Barga), Pietro 147 Annio of Viterbo 15 Antigone 145, 146, 147, 148, 149 Aphrodite 99 Apollo 136, 217, 220 Apollonius Rhodius 28 Apostolis, Arsenios (printer) 182 Apostolis, Michael 20, 21, 200 Aretino, Pietro 175 Argia 237 Argyropoulos, John 14 Aristides, Aelius 79 Aristippus, Henricus (Plato’s translator) 110, 112

Aristophanes 43, 125, 126 Aristotle 1, 4, 19, 53, 79, 109–123, 147, 151, 195–211 Arrian 91, 107 Athenaeus 161 Atilius Regulus 81 Attalus 228 Atticus (Academic philosopher) 113, 117 Atumanus, Simon (Plutarch’s translator) 71 Augustine (saint) 110, 112 Augustus 27 Aurispa, Giovanni 12, 19 Averroes 112 Bacchus 221, 222 Baïf de, Jean–Antoine 145, 146, 152 Baïf de, Lazare 145, 148, 149, 150, 152 Balcianelli, Giovanni 147 Balzac de, Guez 166 Bandello, Matteo 147 Barbaro, Francesco 15 Barbo, Pietro (pope Paul II) 110 Barlaam of Calabria 10 Basil (saint) 80, 81 Beatus Rhenanus 199 Bebst, H. 146 Becmann, Christian 42 Bellarmine, Robert (Jesuit) 111 Bellona (Roman goddness) 103 Bembo, Pietro 175, 213 Benoît de Saint Maure 177 Benvoglienti, Bartolomeo 32 Bertocchi, Dionigi (printer) 16 Bessarion (cardinal) 2, 3, 6, 13, 14, 18, 79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 92, 109–123 Birago, Lampugnino 32 Bitzimanos, Thomas 200 Bobadilla, Nicola (Jesuit) 151 Boccaccio, Giovanni 1, 10, 130, 135, 140, 172, 184 Bocchi, Achille 222 Bochetel, Guillaume 145, 153 Boethius 52, 117

256 | Index

Bolzanio, Urbano 3, 16 Bornemisza, Peter 146 Borromeo, Federico 209 Boulles de, Charles 130 Braccio, Gabriele 197 Bracciolini, Poggio 2, 68, 69, 70, 80 Brivio, Giuseppe 248 Bruni, Leonardo 2, 3, 6, 67, 68, 69, 70, 76, 91, 92, 110, 139 Brutus, Marcus Junius 3, 239 Budé, Guillaume 151, 152 Byzantios, Nicholas 195, 205, 208 Caesar, Julius 245, 246 Calecas, Manuel 5, 51–65, 68, 70 Calfurnio, Giovanni 61, 62 Callimachus 28 Callistus, Nicephorus (ecclesiastical historian) 172 Calvin, John 153 Calvy de la Fontaine, François 145, 148, 149, 153 Capranica, Niccolò (cardinal) 112 Carpaccio, Vittore (painter) 175 Cassiodorus 31 Castiglione, Baldassarre 213 Catiline 238, 239, 242, 245 Cato the Elder 20, 30, 74 Cato the Younger 3, 239, 242, 244, 245, 246 Catullus 137, 215, 222 Cencio de’ Rustici 6 Centaurs 103 Cerberus 237 Cervantes, Miguel de 166 Cesarotti, Melchiorre 183 Chalcidius (Plato’s translator) 110, 112 Chalcondylas, Demetrios 14, 18, 34, 182, 197 Chariclea (protagonist of the Aethiopica) 160, 163, 164, 168, 169, 171, 172 Charisius 31, 36 Charon 237 Chloe 218 Choeroboscus (or Choiroboscos), George 30, 55, 56, 60, 61 Christopoulos, Athanasios 185

Chrysoberges, Maximos 52 Chrysoloras, Manuel 2, 3, 5, 6, 9–12, 15, 16, 18, 20, 51, 52, 54, 56, 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 67, 68, 69, 70, 76, 200 Cicero 1, 3, 17, 19, 81, 85, 90, 110, 112, 137, 139, 160 Circe 106 Cinuzzi, Antonio (Aeschylus’ translator) 135 Claudian 236, 238, 239, 241 Claudius Didymus 30 Clement of Alexandria 116 Clement VIII (pope) 111 Cleopatra 87, 143, 150 Clytemnestra 144, 149 Codro, Urceo 17 Cola di Rienzo 245 Colin, Jacques (abbot of Saint Amboise in Bourges) 153 Columella, Lucius Moderatus 33 Corbinelli, Angelo 12 Corbinelli, Antonio 12, 68 Corneille, Pierre 154 Corvinus, Matthias 163 Cotta, Giovanni 213 Crastone, Giovanni 16 Crispo, Battista 114 Croesus 227 Crusius, Martin 183 Cuno, Johannes 199 Cydones, Demetrius 52, 67, 68, 70 Cynthia see Diana Cyrus the Great 220 Dacier, André 144 Damilas, Demetrios 16 Dante 184 Dapontes, Kaesarios 185 dʼAristotele Niccolò, see Zoppino Dares Phrigius 178 Darius III (Persian king) 72 Decembrio, Pier Candido 110 Deiphobus 184 Dellaportas, Leonardos 178 Dekadyos, Justin 195, 197, 205, 206, 207, 208 Delius see Apollo

Index | 257

Della Mirandola, Giovanni Pico 198 Demetrios ? (Kastrenos?), 14 De Monacis, Lorenzo (chancellor of Crete) 15 Demosthenes 14, 19, 107 Devaris Matthaeus 45 Diana 217, 221, 222 Dictys Cretensis 178 di Martino, Beltramo da Varese 242 di Maso, Angelo 237 di Maso, Clemente 237 Diogenes the Cynic 72 Diogenes Laertius 113, 117 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 46 Dionysius Periegetes 44, 45 Dolce, Lodovico 128, 129, 147, 184 Dolet, Etienne 139, 152 Dominici, Giovanni 15, 110 Domitian (Roman emperor) 96, 101, 102 Dorat, Jean 152 Dryden, John 139 du Bellay, Joachim 43 Egeria (Roman nymph) 75, 76 Electra 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150 Endymion 106 Epictetus 82 Erasmus of Rotterdam 16, 176 Erichto 240 Eriphyle 237 Ermoniakos, Konstantinos 177 Eros 187 Eugene IV 234, 246 Euripides 7, 28, 107, 125, 126, 127, 128, 143–155, 178 Eurydice 225 Eusebius 113, 115 Eustathius of Thessalonica 27, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45 Evander 30 Fabius Pictor 30 Fabricius (Roman hero) 81 Fabricius, Johann Albert 183 Farnese, Alessandro junior (cardinal) 8, 219, 220, 221

Fausto da Longiano 139, 181 Ferdinand I of Aragon (king of Naples) 14 Fernando of Cordoba 111 Festus, Sextus Pompeius 33, 36, 37 Fichet, William (Chancellor of the University of Paris) 116 Ficino, Marsilio 112, 113, 120, 130, 135, 140 Filelfo, Francesco 2, 12, 34, 117, 240, 241 Flaminio, Achille (brother of Marcantonio) 223 Flaminio, Cesare (cousin of Marcantonio) 225, 226, 227 Flaminio, Marcantonio 8, 213–231 Florimonte, Galeazzo (friend of Flaminio) 228, 229 Foskolos, Markos Antonios 184 Francis I (king of France) 151, 153, 160, 161, 171 Fraser Tytler, Alexander 140 Frederick III (emperor) 84 Furius Camillus 86, 87 Galen 4, 200 Gargantua 160, 161 Garnier, Robert 143 Gascoigne, George 146 Gazes, Thodore 9, 13, 14, 15, 18, 19, 20, 34, 177 Gelli, Giovan Battist a 147 Gellius, Aulus 30, 38, 81 Gemistus, Georgius (Plethon) 2, 112, 113, 114, 115 Georg of Trebizond 2, 34, 109, 113, 114, 115, 116 Gilles, Pierre 45, 164 Giolito, Gabriele (printer) 185 Giovanni da Falgano 147 Giovanni da Sassoferrato (?) 80 Giraldi, Giovan Battista 128 Giustiniani, Orsatto 147 Giustiniano, Girolamo 147 Gouzelis, Dimitrios 185 Gray, William 79 Gregory of Nazianzus 52, 126 Gritti, Andrea (doge of Venice) 175

258 | Index

Guarini, Guarino da Verona 2, 5, 6, 11, 12, 19, 69, 70, 81, 95–108 Guidi, Guido 147 Hardy, Alexandre 143 Hecuba 145, 146, 147, 184 Helen of Troy 106, 150, 184 Heliodorus 157–174 Henry (son of Francis I, king of France) 146 Hercules 19, 145 Hermaphroditus (son of Hermes and Aphrodite) 99, 106 Hermes 99 Herodianus, Aelius (grammarian, and ps. Herodianus) 44, 55, 61 Herodotus 107 Hesiod 17, 19 Hippobinos see Hipponikos Hippocrates 80, 175 Hippolytus 147 Hipponikos (father of Kallias) 43 Homer 4, 5, 14, 17, 19, 43, 44, 67, 68, 100, 106, 107, 175–194 Horace 8, 40, 136, 137, 148, 213–231 Horatius Cocles, Marcus (Roman hero) 89 Hydaspes (character of the Aethiopica) 160 Hydustes (king of Ethiopia) 168, 169 Hypsicrates of Amisa 30 Iacopo d’Angelo (da Scarperia) 3, 6, 11, 52, 67–76, 79–92 Iagoup, Alexios 52 Iakovakis–Rizos, Neroulos 185 Iamblichus (Neoplatonic philosopher) 120 Ianua (anonymous Latin grammar) 11 Ide 237 Ignatius de Loyola 7, 151 Io 103, 130, 135 Iocasta 237 Ion (Greek poet) 92 Iphigenia 145, 147, 149 Irenaeus 115 Iros 227 Isidore of Seville 31, 36, 37 Isis 106

Jacobus Cremonensis (Augustinian) 114 Jamieson, John 46 Jerome (saint) 139 Jodelle, Etienne 143 John da Reno (printer) 16 John the Lydian 30 Julius Caesar 86, 88 Jupiter see Zeus Justinian 176 Kallias (character of Aristophanes) 43 Kallierges, Zacharias 18 Kallistos, Andronikos 14 Kastrenos, Demetrios see Demetrios Kinwelmersch, Francis 146 Kontovlachas, Andronikos 18 Korais, Adamantios 185 Kounadis, Andreas 176 Kronos 41 Labienus, Titus 170, 171 Landino, Cristoforo 97 Lascaris, Constantine 3, 13, 14, 15, 16 Lascaris, Janus (Ianòs) 4, 17, 18, 20, 27– 50, 176 Leclerc, Michel 143 Le Duchat, François 144, 150 Lefèvre d’Étaples, Jacques 151, 152 Leoniceno, Niccolò 197, 198 Leto, Pomponio 29, 33, 36, 238 Leo X (pope) 176 Leontius Pilatus 10 Leopardi, Giacomo 183 Leuconoe 218 Libanius 52, 79 Linacre, Thomas 196, 197 Livy 103, 240 Loukanis, Nikolaos 4, 177, 179, 183, 184, 186, 191, 192, 193, 194 Lucan 88, 89, 236, 240 Lucian 6, 28, 95–108, 175 Lucretius 137, 163, 215 Luscinus, Gaius Fabricius 239 Luther, Martin 152 Lycophron 43 Lycurgus 19

Index | 259

Macrobius 30 Maecenas 8, 220, 221 Mainenti, Scipione (bishop of Modena) 95, 96, 97, 99 Maioli (or Maggioli), Lorenzo 197, 198 Malicorne 161 Mancurti, Francesco Maria (editor of Flaminioʼs works) 214 Manetti, Giannozzo 248 Manuel II Palaiologos 52 Manutius, Aldus 4, 16, 54, 175, 176, 195– 211 Map, Walter 107 Margaret of France (or Marguerite de Valois) 214 Marguerite de Navarra 7, 8, 143, 145, 151, 152, 153 Mark Antony 3, 87, 88 Mars 103 Martirano, Coriolano 7, 125–142 Martirano, Marzio (nephew of Coriolano) 125, 129, 140 Marullus, Michael Tarchaniota 216, 221 Massa, Antonio 181 Mathieu, Pierre 144 Matthew (student of Calecas) 53 Maturanzio, Francesco (secretary of Perotti) 92 Mazarin, Jules 62 Medea 144, 146, 147 Medici de’, Cosimo 112 Medici de’, Lorenzo 28 Melanchton, Philip 111, 114, 164 Melissus (Eleatic philosopher) 118, 119 Menalcas 219 Menelaus 150 Mercury 106, 133, 135 Midas 226 Minos 237 Mohammed 114 Moncettus, Benedictus (Augustinian) 113 Montaigne, Michel de 157, 170, 171, 172, 173 Monti, Vincenzo 7 Moschopoulos, Manuel 5, 11, 51, 54, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 63 Moschos, Demetrios 200

Motteux, Pierre 159 Muia (ancient Greek prostitute) 98, 106 Muses 187 Nausicaa 183 Navagero, Andrea 213 Nero 236 Niccoli, Niccolò 12, 69 Nicholas V (pope) 6, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 91, 114, 233, 234, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 246, 247, 248 Nicolini da Sabbio (printer) 181 Nodari, Antonio 46 Nonius Marcellus 74 Nonnus of Panopolis (and ps.–Nonnus) 52 Numa Pompilius 19 Numenius (Neoplatonic philosopher) 113 Numicius 226 Obsopoeus, Vincentius (printer) 163, 164 Oceanus (god) 129, 134, 135 Octavia (Seneca's tragedy?) 145 Odo, Pietro da Montopoli 238 Odysseus 183, 185 Oedipus 143, 144, 147, 148 Orpheus 225 Osiris 106 Ovid 130, 137, 236 Palamas, Gregory 52 Paleocappa, Constantine (scribe) 53 Palmieri, Niccolò 110 Pammachius 139 Pantagruel 157–174 Panurge 158, 160 Papinianus, Aemilius (Papinian, jurist) 160 Paravicino, Dionigi (printer) 16 Pardo, Juan 13 Pardos, Gregory 39 Paré, Ambroise 168, 169, 170 Parenti, Marco 97 Paris 150, 184 Parisotti, Giambattista 147 Parma, Alberto 147

260 | Index

Parmenides (Eleatic philosopher) 118, 119 Patroclus 184 Paul III (Farnese) 247 Paul the Deacon 36, 37 Paulus (jurist) 36 Pausanias 161 Pazzi, Alessandro 182 Pazzi de’ Medici, Alessandro 128, 147 Peleus 184, 186 Pentius, Iacobus de Leuco (printer) 113 Pérez de Oliva, Férnan 146 Perotti, Francesco 84 Perotti, Niccolò 6, 79–94 Perrot d’Ablancourt, Nicolas 140 Perseus 168 Persina (queen of Ethiopia) 168, 169 Peter (saint) 247 Petrarch 1, 10, 110, 215, 238, 240 Phalaris 197 Philargis, Peter (Alexander V) 67, 71, 92 Philo of Alexandria 4 Philostratus 68 Philoxenus of Alexandria 30 Phoebus see Apollo Photius 1 Piccolomini, Enea Silvio (Pius II) 234 Pietro da Montagnana 61 Pietro da Portico 12 Pileo de Marini (Archbishop of Genoa) 92 Pinelli, Antonio (printer) 184 Pinelli, Gian Vincenzo 32, 195, 209 Pinelli, Giovanni Pietro (printer) 184 Pio, Albert III, prince of Carpi 196, 198 Pio, Costantino (brother of Rodolfo) 224 Pio, Rodolfo (cardinal) 224 Pius II see Piccolomini Planudes, Maximos 28, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76 Plato 2, 14, 19, 52, 67, 68, 100, 105, 106, 109–123, 160, 161 Plethon, see Gemistus, Georgius Pliny the Elder 36, 74 Plotinus (Neoplatonic philosopher) 120 Plutarch 3, 6, 30, 67–78, 79–94, 107, 117, 155, 160, 170 Poggio, see Bracciolini, Poggio

Politian (Poliziano, Angelo) 14, 16, 17, 197 Polybius 28, 80, 82, 91 Polyxena 178, 184 Pompey 3, 88, 89 Porcari, Stefano 233–251 Porphyry (Neoplatonic philosopher) 110, 120, 176, 200 Priam 184 Priscian 30, 31, 36, 38, 39, 80 Proclus (Neoplatonic philosopher) 112, 114, 118–122 Prometheus 129–141, 227 Propertius, Sextus 215 Ptolemy (astronomer) 68, 114 Quintilian 30, 36, 37, 38 Quirini, Lauro 195, 202, 203 Rabelais, François 157–173 Racine, Jean 7, 143, 154, 155, 166, 169 Racine, Louis 166 Regulus, Marcus Atilius 239 Rizos Rangavis, Alexandros 185 Robortello, Francesco 131 Romano, Orazio 233–251 Ronsard, Pierre (de) 43 Ross, Ludwig 47 Rossi, Roberto 11 Rotrou de, Jean 143, 154 Rousiadis, Gheorgios 185 Sallustius, Crispus 226, 238, 239 Salutati, Coluccio 1, 3, 6, 10, 12, 15, 67, 68, 69, 74 Sansovino, Jacopo 175 Santafiore, Giuseppe 182 Saturnus 41 Saumaise, Claude 32 Savonarola 114 Scaliger, Joseph Justus 28, 164 Scarfò, Giovanni Crisostomo 125, 126 Schleicher, August 46 Scholarios, Gheorgios Gennadios 53, 112, 113, 195, 202 Sciarra, Battista 237 Scipio Aemilianus 81

Index | 261

Scipio Africanus 81, 240, 242, 244, 246, 248 Sébillet, Thomas 145, 153 Second, Jean 172 Segni, Bernardo 147 Seneca, Lucius Annaeus 1, 7, 132, 137, 138, 143–155 Serafini, Michelangelo 147 Sertorius, Quintus 89, 90 Servius and Servius auctus 30, 36, 38 Servius Tullius 240 Servopulos, Franculios 14 Sforza, Francesco I (duke of Milan) 240 Sforza, Francesco II (duke of Milan) 113 Sforza, Ippolita (daughter of Francesco I) 14 Sidney, Philip 166 Simplicius (Neoplatonic philosopher) 82, 109, 117, 118, 119, 200, 210 Solon 19 Sophianos, Michael 195, 209 Sophianos, Nikolaos 181 Sophocles 125, 127, 128, 143–155 Speranzio, Litavio 216, 217, 218, 219 Statius, Publius Papinius 236, 237 Stefano da Sabbio (printer) 4, 176, 177 Stephanus of Byzantium 44, 56 Suda 43, 182 Suetonius 96, 101 Sulla, Lucius Cornelius 86 Swift, Jonathan 166 Synkellos, Michael 52 Syrianus (Neoplatonic philosopher) 120 Tallemant des Réaux, Gédéon 143 Tasso, Torquato 166 Terpander of Antissa 43 Tertullian 115 Thaliarchus 218 Theagenes (protagonist of the Aethiopica) 160, 165, 168 Theocritus 8, 17, 215 Theodore of Asine (Neoplatonic philosopher) 120 Theodosius of Alexandria (grammarian, and ps.–Theodosius) 11, 55 Theophrastus 4, 107, 195, 200

Theseus, Nikolaos 177 Thomas Aquinas 52 Thucydides 107 Thyrsis 219 Tiziano Vecellio (painter) 175 Torrentino, Lorenzo 213, 214 Tortelli, Giovanni 12, 38, 82, 84, 90, 91, 240, 242 Toscanella, Giovanni 12 Toussaint, Jacques 152 Toutain, Charles 144, 150 Tramezino, Michele 181 Trapolini, Giovanni Paolo 147 Trissino, Giovan Giorgio 147, 175, 183 Troiano, Bartolomeo (physician) 80 Tryphon of Alexandria (grammarian) 39 Tullia Minor (daughter of Servius Tullius) 240 Tyrannion (grammarian) 30 Tzetzes, John 42, 43, 177 Ulysses see Odysseus Uranus (god) 134 Valgius (friend of Flaminio) 217, 223 Valgrisi, Vincenzo (printer) 213, 214 Valla, Lorenzo 80, 111 Valvasone de, Erasmo 147 Van Boxhorn, Marcus Zuerius 28 van Ghistele, Cornelis 146 Varro, Terentius Marcus 30, 33, 36, 37, 38, 39, 46, 74 Varus, Publius Quintilius 225 Venus 106 Vergerio, Pier Paolo, the Elder 11, 12, 20, 68, 91 Verino, Francesco 111 Vespasiano da Bisticci 12 Vincent of Lérins 115 Virgil 17, 96, 103, 104, 138, 163, 215, 219, 225, 236, 237, 245 Vittorino da Feltre 19, 79, 80 Vlastos, Nicholas 18 Volpi, Gaetano 125 Vossius, Gerhardus Johannes 42 Vulcan (god) 132, 133, 135, 136