Medievalia et Humanistica, No. 39: Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Culture: New Series (Volume 39) (Medievalia et Humanistica Series, 39) [39 ed.] 9781442226739, 9781442226746, 1442226730

Table of contents :
Contents
Editorial Note
Articles for Future Volumes
Preface
In Memoriam Paul Maurice Clogan (1931–2012)
Mountains as a Novel Staging Ground in Late Medieval and Early Modern Literature
“I still retain the Empire of my Minde”
Liturgical and Sacramental Imagery in the Disputation between a Christian and a Jew
Con le Muse in Parnaso
Narrative, Elegy, Parody
Review Notices

Citation preview

MEDIEVALIA ET HUMANISTICA

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M ED I E VA L IA E T H U MA N ISTICA Editors Reinhold F. Glei (articles) and Wolfgang Polleichtner (reviews) with the editorial assistance of Nina Tomaszewski Ruhr-Universität Bochum E DITORIA L BOA RD David Bevington University of Chicago

Peter Dembowski University of Chicago

Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski University of Pittsburgh

Yasmin Haskell University of Western Australia, Perth

Robert Boenig Texas A & M University

David Lines University of Warwick

Daniel Bornstein Washington University, St. Louis

Richard Marsden University of Nottingham

Christopher S. Celenza American Academy in Rome

Adriano Prosperi Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa

Albrecht Classen University of Arizona

Francesco Stella Università di Siena

Jacques Dalarun Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes, Paris

Jan M. Ziolkowski Harvard University

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M E D I E VA L I A E T HUMANISTICA S T U D I E S I N M E D I E VA L A N D R E N A I S S A N C E C U LT U R E NEW SERIES: NUMBER 39 *** IN HONOR OF PAUL MAURICE CLOGAN ***

EDITED BY R E I N H O L D F. G L E I ( A R T I C L E S ) AND WOLFGANG POLLEICHTNER (REVIEWS) W I T H T H E E D I T O R I A L A S S I S TA N C E O F NINA TOMASZEWSKI

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD PUBLISHERS, INC.

Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

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Published by Rowman & Littlefield 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom Copyright © 2014 by The Medieval and Renaissance Society, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress has catalogued this serial publication as follows: Medievalia et humanistica, fasc. 1–jan. 1943–; New ser. No 1– 1970– Totowa, N.J. [etc.] Rowman & Littlefield [etc.] no. 29 cm Annual, 1943– “Studies in medieval and renaissance culture.” Vols. for 1970–1972 issued by the Medieval and neo-Latin society; 1973– by the Medieval and Renaissance Society. Key title: Medievalia et humanistica, ISSN 0076-6127. ISBN: 978-1-4422-2673-9 eISBN: 978-1-4422-2674-6 Library of Congress (8108)

™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

Editorial Note

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Manuscript Submission Guidelines

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Articles for Future Volumes

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Preface In Memoriam Paul Maurice Clogan (1931–2012) Reinhold F. Glei Mountains as a Novel Staging Ground in Late Medieval and Early Modern Literature: Felix Fabri’s Evagatorium (1493), Aeneas Silvio Piccolomini’s Historia Austrialis (after 1452), and Emperor Maximilian’s Tewrdank from 1517 Albrecht Classen

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“I still retain the Empire of my Minde”: Thomas Ross’s Continuation of Silius Italicus (1661, 1672) Eva von Contzen

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Liturgical and Sacramental Imagery in the Disputation between a Christian and a Jew Luuk Houwen

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Con le Muse in Parnaso: Classical and Medieval Mythography on the Pierides and a Possible Source for Giovanni Boccaccio Simona Lorenzini

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Narrative, Elegy, Parody: The Medieval Latin Comedy Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria Kurt Smolak

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review notices Bowers, John M., An Introduction to the “Gawain” Poet (Maik Goth)

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Jansen, Katherine L., Joanna Drell, and Frances Andrews, eds., Medieval Italy: Texts in Translation (James A. Palmer)

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López-Morillas, Consuelo, El Corán de Toledo. Edición y estudio del ms. 235 de la Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha (Ana Echevarria Arsuaga)

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Ritter, Carolin, Ovidius redivivus. Die Epistulae Heroides des Mark Alexander Boyd. Edition, Übersetzung und Kommentar der Briefe Atalanta Meleagro (1), Eurydice Orpheo (6), Philomela Tereo (9), Venus Adoni (15) (Christoph Pieper) Schneider, Bernd, and Christina Meckelnborg, eds., Odyssea Homeri a Francisco Griffolino Aretino in Latinum translata. Die lateinische Odyssee-Übersetzung des Francesco Griffolini (Wolfgang Polleichtner) Wilkens, Karsten, ed., Johannes Gaza: Bacchi Piratae. Eine humanistische Warnung vor dem Alkohol (1531). Einleitung, Edition, Kommentar und Versuch einer Einordnung (Markus Stachon) Zacher, Samantha, Preaching the Converted: The Style and Rhetoric of the Vercelli Book Homilies (Mary Dockray-Miller)

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Editorial Note

Since 1970, this new series has sought to promote significant scholarship, criticism, and reviews within the fields of medieval and Renaissance studies. It has published articles from a variety of disciplines, and it has given attention to new directions in medieval and humanistic scholarship and to significant topics of general interest. This series has been particularly concerned with the exchange between specializations, and scholars of diverse approaches have complemented each other’s efforts on questions of common interest. Medievalia et Humanistica is sponsored by the Modern Language Association of America. Publication in the series is open to contributions from all sources, and the editorial board welcomes scholarly, critical, or interdisciplinary articles of significant interest on relevant material. Contributors are urged to communicate in a clear and concise style the larger implications and the material of their research, with documentation held to a minimum. Text, maps, illustrations, diagrams, and musical examples are published when they are essential to the argument of the article. In preparing and submitting manuscripts for consideration, potential contributors are advised to follow carefully the instructions given in the sections titled “Manuscript Submission Guidelines” and “Articles for Future Volumes.” Articles in English may be submitted to editor Reinhold F. Glei or to any member of the editorial board. Books for review should be addressed to Wolfgang Polleichtner, Seminar für Klassische Philologie, Medievalia et Humanistica, Ruhr-Universität Bochum, GB 2 / 162, Universitätsstraße 150, 44780 Bochum, Germany. Inquiries concerning subscriptions should be addressed to the publisher: Rowman & Littlefield 4501 Forbes Blvd, Suite 200 Lanham, MD 20706

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Manuscript Submission Guidelines Preparing Your Word File • Double-space your file, except for extracts (lengthy quotes), which should be single-spaced with a line space above and below. • Use only one space between sentences. Use tabs, not letter-spaces, to indent text. • Type note callouts as superior numbers, then type out the notes themselves at the end of your document. Avoid the Notes feature of Word. Style Matters • Spell out numbers up to one hundred—both cardinals and ordinals (e.g., twentieth century). • Use American punctuation and spelling: commas and periods go inside closing quotation marks. • Lowercase biblical, medieval. Capitalize Bible, Middle Ages, West, Western. • Style for literary works includes Book of Acts, Genesis (book of the Bible), Genesis A (poem), Gospel of Matthew. • Short quotations: Put small quotations with translations in running text into parentheses: “Ipsa autem nocte vidit mulier . . .” (“That very night his wife saw . . .”). • Long quotations: For longer quotations with translations, set them off as extracts with the translation in brackets below. If the original text is poetry with half-lines, use only one tab between each half-line. Although the text will look uneven in your Word file, the tab will make the lines align exactly when typeset: Cynewulf describes her as she sits on a throne while the Jews crowd around her: þrungon þa on þreate in cynestole geatolic guðcwen

þær on þrymme bád casere mæg, golde gehyrsted.

[They crowded where the Caesar’s kinswoman was waiting / in majesty upon a throne, / a magnificent battle-queen clad in gold] (329–331) Sample Notes Journal Article: 1. Melinda Shepard, “The Church in Eleventh-Century Europe,” Medieval Studies 15, no. 1 (1993), 211–226. Book: 2. Shepard, p. 223. Shepard notes other similarities as well. See also R. A. Potter, Church and Medieval State (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 301.

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Articles for Future Volumes

Articles may be submitted to editor Reinhold F. Glei (reinhold.glei@ rub.de) or to any member of the editorial board: David Bevington ([email protected]) Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski ([email protected]) Robert Boenig ([email protected]) Daniel Bornstein ([email protected]) Christopher Celenza ([email protected]) Albrecht Classen ([email protected]) Jacques Dalarun ([email protected]) Peter Dembowski ([email protected]) Yasmin Haskell ([email protected]) David Lines ([email protected]) Richard Marsden ([email protected]) Adriano Prosperi ([email protected]) Francesco Stella ([email protected]) Jan Ziolkowski ([email protected]) For inquiries concerning review articles and review notices please contact Wolfgang Polleichtner ([email protected]). Prospective authors are encouraged to contact the editors at the earliest opportunity to receive any necessary advice. The length of the article depends on the material, but brief articles or notes normally are not considered. The entire manuscript should be typed, double-spaced, with ample margins; documentation should be held to a minimum. The articles should be submitted via e-mail in both Microsoft Word and PDF formats. Notes, prepared according to The Chicago Manual of Style, fifteenth edition, should be double-spaced and numbered consecutively, and they should appear at the end of the article; do not use the Notes feature of Word. All quotations and references should be in finished form.

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Preface

With the publication of volume 37 (2011) of Medievalia et Humanistica, Paul M. Clogan retired from editorship. It was his extraordinary learnedness and effort that made the journal internationally successful and highly reputed. For this, the scientific community is deeply indebted to him. In 2012 we were honored to succeed him as the new editors and to assume his duties for the publication of volume 38. We endeavored to continue the well-proven approach of Medievalia et Humanistica and published articles from various areas of medieval and Renaissance studies. In the future, too, we would be delighted to receive contributions of a transdisciplinary and transepochal nature but will also welcome detailed studies whose focus is on a single text or author. It was also our intention to continue Medievalia et Humanistica as a well-established review journal. Since the task of editing this journal requires a considerable amount of time, we decided to share the work: Reinhold F. Glei was and will be responsible for articles and Wolfgang Polleichtner for reviews. We were delighted that most members of the editorial board joined us for further cooperation, and after having published the first volume under the new auspices, we are happy to confirm that cooperation is running smoothly. It was a great shock for all of us that Paul M. Clogan unexpectedly passed away in the summer of 2012. Since we heard about his death only in December 2012 when volume 38 was already in press, it was not possible to include any information or comment on that sad news. Therefore, we decided to dedicate the current volume to his memory: readers will find a dedication to him on the title page and also an obituary included in the volume. Furthermore, the present issue contains five articles from different fields of medieval and humanistic scholarship including both interdisciplinary and disciplinary studies on itineraries, literary supplements, Christian-Jewish controversies, the Muses, and medieval comedy. We hope that readers will appreciate the wide range of disciplines and issues presented here. This interdisciplinary scope is also reflected in the

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review section, which comprises seven review notices. We are grateful to the staff of Rowman & Littlefield for their production of the annual volume and for their patience with the new editors. RFG / WP Ruhr-University Bochum

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In Memoriam Paul Maurice Clogan (1931–2012) R E I N H O L D F. G L E I

Paul Maurice Clogan, former editor of Medievalia et Humanistica since 1970, passed away at his home in Austin, Texas, on Sunday, July 29, 2012. I did not know him personally, and Clogan lived, at least in his last years, a very secluded life; therefore it is not possible to give a full biography here, and I will concentrate on Clogan’s scholarly efforts and contributions. Nevertheless, some facts should be mentioned:1 Clogan was born in 1931 in Boston and earned his first academic degrees (BA and MA in English) at Boston College in 1956 and 1957, respectively. Then he moved to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where he received his PhD in 1961. In the very same year, he became an assistant professor of English at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina, where he taught for four years. From 1965 to 1967, he was a scholar in residence at the American Academy in Rome. After returning to the United States he taught as a professor of English at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio, from 1967 to 1972, and as a full professor of English at the University of North Texas in Denton from 1972 to 1996. In 1972 he was married to the late Julie Sydney Davis, with whom he had three children. After his retirement from professorship and the death of his wife, a completely new phase in Clogan’s life began: he studied theology, received an MDiv degree, and was ordained as a priest of the Catholic Church in 1999. Rev. Paul Clogan served as a diocesan priest in various functions until 2005. Clogan’s dissertation, entitled “Chaucer and the Medieval Statius” (University of Illinois, 1961), is not only a study in literary reception but also a groundbreaking documentation of the medieval Statius. Clogan was the first to draw a picture of Statius not as a Silver Age Latin poet of the Flavian epoch (he lived from about 45 to 96 c.e.) but as a “medieval” author and authority as well, praised for instance by Dante and following in Virgil’s footsteps, as Statius himself said (Theb. 12,816f.). “Heretofore no scholar or editor has studied in detail the form in which Chaucer may have known Statius’ poetry. This dissertation . . . is a reinterpretation of xv

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Chaucer’s knowledge of the Thebaid and Achilleid as they appeared in medieval manuscripts and in the light of their medieval Latin commentaries.”2 The PhD thesis as such is unpublished, but it was the starting point of many scholarly articles on Statius manuscripts, glosses, and commentaries. In 1968 Clogan published an edition of the “medieval” Achilleid of Statius, which had already been part of his dissertation.3 It is an excellent piece of both classical and medieval Latin philology that clearly shows the “entanglement” and continuity of Latin language and literature from antiquity to the Middle Ages so often denied by classicists. Thus, Clogan was—as a professor of English—also a pioneer of a modern view of Latin philology that was by no means a matter of course in the sixties and even the seventies. Consequently, Clogan was also a participant in the First International Congress of Neo-Latin Studies, which took place in Louvain, Belgium, in 1971. This new discipline was founded, among others, by Josef Ijsewijn, professor at the famous Seminarium Philologiae Humanisticae (former Collegium Trilingue) in Louvain, and Paul Oskar Kristeller, professor at Columbia University at that time. During this congress Clogan read a paper entitled “The Latin Commentaries to Statius: A Bibliographical Project,”4 which was a sketch of his planned contribution to the Catalogus Translationum et Commentariorum (CTC) founded by Kristeller.5 In the following years Clogan published a considerable number of articles on this subject, but unfortunately the entire project was never completed, and Statius is still not included in the CTC. But besides his contributions to Statius and to the learned medieval Latin tradition,6 Clogan of course published widely on medieval English literature and its reception in the modern period. Of special interest are his studies on the Theban myth and medieval novel in general.7 Clogan’s greatest service to the scholarly community to be mentioned here is his long-lasting editorship of Medievalia et Humanistica. For more than forty years Clogan directed this journal devoted to the whole field of medieval and early modern studies. When he took over this courageous task in 1970, Clogan was only in his late thirties and a young professor at Case Western Reserve University. The journal had been founded by S. Harrision Thomson in 1943, and seventeen volumes had been published at that point. Clogan initiated a new series, starting with number 1 in 1970 (which was dedicated to the former editor, S. Harrison Thomson), and wrote in his preface: “Medievalia et Humanistica will continue to publish . . . significant scholarship, criticism, and reviews in all areas of medieval and Renaissance culture: literature, art, archaeology, history, law, music, philosophy, science, and social and economic institutions.”8 This programmatic statement is remarkable in more than one sense: first of all, continuity from the Middle Ages to early modern

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times is stressed rather than discontinuity; secondly, a broad interdisciplinary or transdisciplinary focus is established; and thirdly, a “cultural turn” (avant la lettre) is initiated. Therefore, the policy of the journal and its editor has been an entirely modern one from the very beginning. During the first fifteen years of Medievalia et Humanistica, Clogan committed himself not only to editing but also to writing for the journal. Being present in almost every issue, he published on a variety of themes.9 After having well established the journal in the scientific landscape, he withdrew from writing articles in his own journal and confined himself to editorship: in the twenty-five years since 1984, he authored only one contribution.10 As late as 2009 Clogan took up the pen again and published a great survey on Dante’s reception of Statius,11 followed by an analysis of Dante’s use of Lucan in 2011.12 This was included in the last issue of Medievalia et Humanistica published under Clogan’s aegis and can therefore be regarded as a kind of legacy, too. At the age of eighty and after thirty-seven volumes, published in the course of forty-one years, Paul Clogan retired from editorship and handed it over to younger colleagues. Unfortunately, Clogan did not see the publication (in late 2012) of volume 38, which was already in press when he passed away. Following the example Clogan set with volume 1 (1970), the present volume is dedicated to its former editor. The new editors, the members of the board, and the readers of Medievalia et Humanistica will keep a thankful memory to him.

Notes 1. The following information is taken from the obituary published in the Austin American-Statesman on August 5, 2012: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/ statesman/obituary.aspx?page=lifestory&pid=158976950#. 2. See Paul M. Clogan, “Chaucer and the Medieval Statius,” Dissertation Abstracts 22 (1962): 3641. 3. Paul M. Clogan, The Medieval Achilleid of Statius. Edited with Introduction, Variant Readings, and Glosses (Leiden: Brill, 1968). 4. In J. Ijsewijn and E. Kessler, eds., Acta Conventus Neo-Latini Lovaniensis. Proceedings of the First International Congress of Neo-Latin Studies, Louvain 23-28 August 1971 (Leuven: Leuven University Press; München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1973), 149-57. 5. The first volume of the CTC published by the Catholic University of America Press (Washington, D.C.) appeared in 1960, the second one in 1971, in the year of the first Neo-Latin congress. The subsequent volumes were published in 1976 (3), 1980 (4), 1984 (5), 1986 (6), 1992 (7), 2003 (8), and 2011 (9). The editors, after Kristeller, were Ferdinand Edward Cranz and the late Virginia Brown, respectively. Volume 10, now directed by Greti Dinkova-Bruun, is at press and volume 11 is in preparation, “but no Statius will be present in either” (I owe this information to Greti Dinkova-Bruun, by e-mail on June 11, 2013).

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6. Including studies on late antique and medieval school books: see, e.g., “Literary Criticism in the Liber Catonianus,” in Acta Conventus Neo-Latini Sanctandreani, ed. I. D. McFarlane, Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress of Neo-Latin Studies, St. Andrews, 24 August to 1 September 1982 (Binghamton, New York, 1986), 569-78; “The Ethical Poetic in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries,” in Knowledge and the Sciences in Medieval Philosophy, ed. R. Työrinoja et al., Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Medieval Philosophy, Helsinki, 24-29 August 1987 (Helsinki, 1990), 3:193-204; “Moral Discourse in the Trivium,” in Les philosophies morales et politiques au Moyen Age, Actes du IXe Congrès International de Philosophie Médiévale, Ottawa du 17 au 22 août 1992 (New York, 1995), 350-59. 7. See, for example, his “New Directions in Twelfth-Century Courtly Narrative: Le Roman de Thèbes,” Mediaevistik 3 (1990): 55-70; “Lydgate and the Roman Antique,” Florilegium 11 (1992): 7-21; “Visions of Thebes in Medieval Literature,” in The Force of Vision, ed. G. Gillespie, vol. 3, section 3: “Visions in History,” Tokyo Proceedings of the XIIIth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association, 1991 (Tokyo, 1995), 144-51. 8. Editorial Note in Medievalia et Humanistica 1 (1970): vii. 9. Clogan’s articles cover a wide range of topics: see “The Planctus of Oedipus,” Medievalia et Humanistica 1 (1970): 233-39; “The Figural Style and Meaning of The second Nun’s Prologue and Tale,” Medievalia et Humanistica 3 (1972): 213-40; “From Complaint to Satire: The Art of the Confessio Amantis,” Medievalia et Humanistica 4 (1973): 217-22; “The Textual Reliability of Chaucer’s Lyrics: A Complaint to His Lady,” Medievalia et Humanistica 5 (1974): 183-89; “Literary Criticism in William Godwin’s Life of Chaucer,” Medievalia et Humanistica 6 (1975): 189-98; “Two Verse Commentaries on the Ending of Boccaccio’s Filostrato,” Medievalia et Humanistica 7 (1976): 147-52; “The Narrative Style of The Man of Law’s Tale,” Medievalia et Humanistica 8 (1977): 217-33; “Chaucer and Leigh Hunt,” Medievalia et Humanistica 9 (1979): 16374; “Literary Genres in a Medieval Textbook,” Medievalia et Humanistica 11 (1982): 199-209; and “The Theban Scenes in Chaucer’s Troilus,” Medievalia et Humanistica 12 (1984): 167-85. 10. “The Knight’s Tale and the Ideology of the Roman Antique,” Medievalia et Humanistica 18 (1992): 129-55. 11. “Dante and Statius: Revisited,” Medievalia et Humanistica 35 (2009): 77-101. 12. “Dante’s Appropriation of Lucan’s Cato and Erichtho,” Medievalia et Humanistica 37 (2011): 111-15.

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Mountains as a Novel Staging Ground in Late Medieval and Early Modern Literature Felix Fabri’s Evagatorium (1493), Aeneas Silvio Piccolomini’s Historia Austrialis (after 1452), and Emperor Maximilian’s Tewrdank from 1517 ALBRECHT CLASSEN

Abstract The attitude about and treatment of the mountain in late medieval literature and art can be utilized well to identify the critical moments of the paradigm shift from the Middle Ages to the early modern age. While medieval writers and artists normally presented the mountain as a threatening and hostile geophysical entity, this changed considerably by the end of the fifteenth century. Crucial examples confirming this thesis are drawn from the famous pilgrimage account by Felix Fabri, Aeneas Silvio Piccolomini’s chronicle of Austria, and Emperor Maximilian I’s allegorical romance Tewrdank. The study is then rounded off with a brief examination of the discovery of the motif of the mountainous landscape in sixteenth-century art.

When and how did the general approach to and interest in mountains change from feelings of horror and dislike to a veritable interest? While medieval and early modern writers normally seem to disregard mountains, the discovery of mountains as intriguing and noteworthy entities not only for cartographers, but also for travelers, explorers, poets, and philosophers, among others, is often identified as the marker of modernity (that is, the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries). Drawing

Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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from a variety of literary and other sources heretofore ignored in this context, the present paper will argue that this perspective needs to be corrected quite dramatically, without forcing us to change the global characterization of medieval and early modern mentality, since we are dealing with a gradual process of change in the perception of the natural world. The purpose of this paper is not to revise our historiographical periodization but to explore a subtle but remarkable shift in the history of mentality concerning mountainous heights, drawing its inspiration from recent ecocriticism, that is, the critical investigation of how people viewed their natural environment and interacted with it,1 and tentative efforts by a variety of literary scholars working in late antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance.2 A rather contradictory approach to mountains, in which they are disliked and yet also regarded with considerable respect, can be found in late medieval travel literature, the ideal medium to identify references to and comments about mountains. The opinio communis about when the true fascination with mountains emerged draws much strength from standard research literature, but even here much confusion and ignorance rules. We occasionally hear of comments about the importance of mountains in the Old Testament, for instance, or in John Mandeville’s Travels (fourteenth century), but the general assumption only points to the latter half of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries when mountains and mountaineering really gained their first true momentum.3 Certainly, in its extreme form, climbing a mountain for the sake of reaching the peak just by itself probably became popular only at that time. Nevertheless, the awareness of, interest in, and sometimes also fascination with mountains can be traced to much earlier periods in Western culture, which might force us to acknowledge the porous nature of the artificial divide between the Middle Ages and the early modern age.4 Let us begin with a very late example that serves well as a retrospective mirror. In the famous universal encyclopedia by Johann Heinrich Zedler (vol. 1 from 1733), we are already given a quite comprehensive overview of the geography of the Alps and their etymology. Zedler goes even so far as to include specialized articles on various parts of the Alps in different regions of central Europe, revealing thereby a rather comprehensive understanding and acceptance of mountains as a natural fact of the natural environment already at that time.5 The style of the article is very much matter-of-fact, and the author does not seem to breach a new topic; instead, he only summarizes what the current level of knowledge about mountains was, which sheds important light also on the mentality of the previous century, and perhaps even earlier when that knowledge

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was first acquired and disseminated. There is no sense of wonder, fear, or worry, since the Alps and other mountains simply rise up before his eyes and invite a detailed description as part of general learning, which this encyclopedia practically promotes. For this encyclopedist, then, the Alps, or any other range of mountains, constituted a fact of nature that required close analysis, without evoking any particular kinds of emotions or sentimental reactions.

The Travelogue Author Felix Fabri While the High Middle Ages only saw a sprinkling of pilgrims making their way across the Alps to Italy (Venice) and from there to the Holy Land—or alternatively to Santiago de Compostella and Rome—in the following centuries the interest in religious tourism increased tremendously, resulting in a vast corpus of narrative accounts about those travels, the pilgrimage sites, relics, churches, and the like.6 One of the best informed and most influential pilgrimage authors of his time was the Dominican preacher Felix Fabri in Ulm (southern Germany) who embarked in 1480 on his first pilgrimage to the Holy Land, which briefly took him to Jerusalem. In 1483 he returned on a second pilgrimage, by then much better prepared and having planned his tour rather thoroughly, which at that time included visits to Jerusalem, the Sinai, and Egypt in the company of a large group of knights and other pilgrims from Ulm and elsewhere.7 His journeys also required the crossing of the Alps, of which we normally do not hear much in late medieval travelogues and other texts because mountains did not seem to enjoy the same popularity then as they do today; instead, they were commonly regarded with dread and great dislike, obviously for good reasons considering the difficulties of travel at that time.8 This is, however, significantly not quite the case in Fabri’s account, which tells us more details about his traversing of the Alpine region than we are used to: Sic ergo cum gaudio alpes penetravimus, usque ad Insprugg, et consequenter cum festinatione equitavimus, ut Venetias citius veniremus. Porro, unum contigit nobis in montanis, quod volo recitare. Cum venissemus usque ad villam, quae dicitur ad Scalam, et ibi a vera et regia via erravimus. Debuissemus enim montem ascendisse, et per ipsum castrum, quod in alto est situm, equitasse. Quod non fecimus, sed montem cum castro ad sinistram dimisimus, et per aulonem descendimus, via satis trita et longa. Et cum iam extra montana de alto prospiceremus in planum, vidimus ante nos oppidum satis magnum, de quo mirati sumus, quia audivimus de aliquo oppido, ad quod venturi essemus illo die. (11B, I, p. 30)

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[So thus we entered the Alps with joy as far as Innspruck [Innsbruck], and after leaving that place rode hurriedly forward, in order that we might arrive the sooner at Venice. Now, while we were in the mountains, one thing befell us which I should like to tell you of. When we had come to the village which is called Ad Scalam, we there wandered away from our true road and the king’s highway, for we ought to have climbed the mountain, and ridden past the castle which stands on the top of it; however, we did not do this, but left the mountain and the castle on our left hands, and descended through a valley, by a long and well-beaten road. When at last we gained a view of the plain below the mountains, we saw before us a town of considerable size, at which we were surprised, because we had (not) heard of any town which we should reach on that day.]9

Of course, apart from this reference to their unexpected detour, then a quick note on where they stayed for the night and a remark on their inability to communicate with the Italians, Fabri subsequently leaves all references to the Alpine mountains aside and turns his attention to Venice with its Fondaco dei Tedeschi, where all German merchants stayed, and to the travel preparations for the voyage by ship to the Holy Land. The Alps disappear from our sight since they were, at least for this pilgrim, and most others, primarily a bothersome, if not threatening, hindrance that needed to be overcome as quickly as possible in order to reach the true goal far beyond the sea. As mountains, from a natural point of view, the Alps did not concern Fabri much, either negatively or positively, which by itself deserves attention. They were, after all, only a very early stage in his pilgrimage to the eastern Mediterranean. He had, like all other Christian pilgrims, set his mind on seeing the religious locations beyond the sea. At first sight we might assume that his comments would support and reconfirm the traditional understanding of premodern attitudes toward those daunting geophysical heights, but on the other hand they also alert us to a somewhat modified awareness of how to present the travel across those great heights to his German/Latin readers. After all, Fabri lingers much longer on that section between Innsbruck and Venice than does Bernhard von Breydenbach, for instance, who simply ignores the Alps altogether in his pilgrimage account Peregrinatio in Terram Sanctam from 1486, which is very much in line with most other travelogues from that time. This finds its confirmation also in the section in which Fabri discusses his return travel from Venice to Ulm via Trent, where he rested and let a group of English pilgrims, who were later robbed and wounded by a group of bandits, make their way across the mountains ahead of him (22A, pp. 56–59; I, pp. 45–46). Certainly, while he provides us with the name of one mountain, Sericius (22A, p. 59; I, pp. 45), the Alps as such do not fully appear before our eyes in this otherwise very detailed account. Nevertheless, the pilgrim author does not ignore the various

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stages on his journey over the passes and emphasizes, even if only indirectly, that his audience should pay attention to that section of the long road as well. When Fabri went on his second pilgrimage in 1483, he offered more details about the mountain route and passes in the Rhaetian Alps (the border region between Switzerland and Italy, also extending further east to Austria, including the area of Graubünden), but at that point he still has mostly negative things to say, complaining bitterly about the mud, the snow, and the treacherous passageway, then about the thievery of some of the local miners, and subsequently, after having left Innsbruck and having crossed the Brenner Pass, about the snow and ice at that high elevation. We hear a little about the towns of Brixen and Sterzing, and the monastery of Neustift, but those are already located on the southern side of the Alps in a region today called South Tyrol, then still part of Austria, today belonging to Italy (Alto Adige). His interest rests on the road constructions carried out on behalf of the duke of Austria, on the wealth in the towns of Bozen and Meran, the change of the common language spoken in the former (that is, from Italian to German due to a wave of immigrants), then on Trent and other cities and towns further South (26B–27A, pp. 68–70; I, pp. 59–74). Fabri relates only what concerns his travel here and does not yet allow his eyes to wander over the mountains, hills, slopes, or craggy tops. Instead he talks about the road itself, the inclement weather conditions, the people, linguistic problems, churches, his efforts to read Mass here and there, inns, food, and the like. The Alps, as such, fade away behind all those anecdotal aspects, although we still get a clear sense of these mountains forming the critical backdrop for this part of his extensive travelogue. Altogether, Fabri deserves credit for his extensive report, outlining fastidiously what he, as a well-prepared traveler and pilgrim, experienced on that long journey traversing the Austrian Alps, which is altogether more specific than in many other contemporary pilgrimage accounts, not to mention literary—that is, secular—texts (e.g., Fortunatus, 1509). One remarkable case, for instance, proves to be a moment when the travel group is already close to the Mediterranean Sea somewhere between Feltre and Venice near the Dolomite Mountains. Anxious to gain an overview and a notion of where they are and where they are heading, the company, instigated by Fabri, climbs a grassy hill “qui erat multo altior, quam nobis apparuit” (30B, p. 80; “which was much higher than we had thought,” I, p. 75), to satisfy their curiosity, a remarkable moment in the history of the late Middle Ages.10

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Very similar to the famous experience shared by Petrarch with his readers after he had reached the peak of Mont Ventoux, located in the Provence, through a (fictional?) letter addressed to his former confessor, Dionigi di Borgo San Sepolcro (Epistolae familiares, IV, 1),11 Fabri relates that they began to gaze intently into all four directions: “Et conjectis oculis contra meridianam plagam, extra montana in planitiem Italiae et post planitiem mare mediterraneum vidimus” (30B, p. 80; “Casting our eyes southwards, we beheld beyond the mountains the plain of Italy, and beyond the plain country the Mediterranean Sea,” I, p. 75). Then: “Demum satiati hoc aspectu per montana in nostro circuitu respeximus et multa antiqua destructa castra vidimus” (30B, p. 80; “Satisfied at last with our view of it, we turned away to look at the mountains which stood round about us, and saw many ancient castles in ruins,” I, p. 75). However, the author subsequently turns his attention to historical reflections about the ancient founders of the ruined castles, concluding his account with a quick comment about their descent under rapidly declining sunlight and their dinner back at the inn (31A, pp. 80–81; I, p. 76). Even in this minute regard the parallels to Petrarch’s account are striking. In a section dealing with global geography, inserted in the chapter on Venice, Fabri demonstrates a fairly good understanding of where and how the major European rivers develop in the Alps: Rhenus in ipsis Rhaeticis montibus oriens contra occidentem tendit, secumque infinita flumina in oceanum pertrabit. Rodanus cum Rheno in origine socius, contra meridiem currens secum reliqua flumina in mare Tyrrhenum pertrahit. Sic Athesis ex alpibus et Padus et Brenta trahentes originem, in mare mediterraneum decurrunt. (43A, p. 119) [The Rhine rises in the Rhaetic Mountains and runs to the westward, and takes innumerable rivers into the Ocean along with itself. The Rhône, whose source is close to that of the Rhine, runs to the southward, and takes the remaining rivers with it into the Tyrrhenian Sea. So, too, the Adige, the Po, and the Brenta, which rise in the Alps, run into the Mediterranean Sea. (I, p. 116)]

Granted, this display of knowledge does not indicate any further interest in the mountains as such, and instead would have to be identified as a piece of learned writing, similar to the entry on Alps in Zedler’s Universal-Lexicon; nevertheless, Fabri indicates the true extent to which he as a travel writer was concerned with mountains and what vantage points they could offer. Moreover, he simply acknowledged, as a learned person, the fact that many parts of Europe and beyond were profoundly marked by mountains. Of course, he does not ignore the huge bodies of water, such as the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, but for our purpose it suffices to recognize that Fabri demonstrates a willing and noteworthy interest in mountains because they deserve the scholar’s attention.

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When the occasion has come much later to discuss his experience on Mount Sinai, Fabri offers many more details than any other travel author before him because of the mountain’s religious significance, for instance: Ex illo monte est respectus ad regiones procul existentes, ad quas tamen clarior respectus est de monte S. Catharinae, ideo ibidem loquar de illis regionibus. Et iam dictis patet descriptio sacri montis, commendatio tamen eximia et sanctitas ejus ex canonicis scripturis clarius habetur in multis locis. . . . Ex quibus omnibus infertur, quod mons Oreb Synai est mons excellentiae et altitudinis; mons divinae habitationis et angelorum frequentationis; mons luminis, ignis et inflammationis; mons terribilis nubis et caliginis; mons sapientiae et eruditionis; mons misericordiae et promissionis, justitiae et comminationis; mons fulguris et corruscationis. . . . (II, 46a, pp. 459–60) [From this mount there is a view to far-off regions, but these are more clearly to be seen from St. Catharine’s Mount, wherefore I shall speak of those regions when describing that place. The description of the holy mount is plain from what hath been said; its especial praise and its holiness may be more distinctly gathered from many places in the canonical books of Scripture. . . . In all these [biblical] places we are taught that the Mount Horeb of Sinai is a most excellent and lofty mount; a mount inhabited by God and frequented by angels; a mount of light, fire, and burning; a mount of dreadful clouds and darkness; a mount of wisdom and learning; a mount of pity and promise, of righteousness and cursing; a mount of lightning and flashing fire. . . . (II, 1, p. 560)]

We clearly observe a strong blending of mythical and realistic elements, all deeply supported by biblical images but hence not of a real mountain. Most aspects of mountains as geophysical entities fall away and make room for religious reflections or comments on the practical side of the travel. The one remarkable case proves to be Fabri’s description of the climb down the precipitous and dangerous slopes: “per praeceps viam periculosam, terribilem et saltuosam valde, ita, quod nonnumquam necesse fuit, ut submitteremus nos deorsum per saltus, in ventrem nos ponendo super praecipites rupes” (II, 46b, p. 460; “we came down the west side of the mount, down a steep and dangerous road, very frightful and precipitous, so that sometimes we were forced to let ourselves slip down over the steep rocks by lying on our bellies,” p. 562). The other significant exception pertains to the climb of the Mount of St. Catharine, which represented numerous new challenges: “Ascendiumus ergo montem per viam longiorem, asperiorem et duriorem, per invias crepidines, per scopulos praeruptos, per petras superpendentes, per minaces rupes, per horribiles saltus perque praecipites clivos, per intensissimos desuper solis ardores” (II, 46b, p. 461; “We went up the mountain by a long, rough, and stony path, through pathless valleys, over sheer cliffs, overhanging stones, menacing rocks, frightful steeps, and precipitous ways, under a most burning sun,” p. 563). Fabri also notes the extraordinary cold from which the pilgrims all suffered, and

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describes the way the Arab guides helped them by making fire (II, 47b, p. 464; pp. 566–67). The final rock to be circumvented represented a huge and fearsome challenge: “sicut collum a corpore procedit in homine; et hoc collum est adeo altum, quod stupor est videre” (II, 48a, p. 465; “This neck is so lofty that one shudders to behold it, and above the neck is the head of the mount,” p. 568). However, instead of studying its physical appearance, Fabri, as was common for the learned community in the Middle Ages, immediately refers to the Speculum Historiale for historical explanations (II, 48a, p. 465; pp. 568–69). Nevertheless, Fabri still conveys in an impressively realistic fashion the bitingly low temperatures affecting them all drastically when they had reached the summit: “ubi dum essemus, adeo asper et durus fortisque flavit ventus, quod nec orare nec quidquam boni facere voluimus absque igne” (II, 48b, p. 466; “When we were there, so harsh, cold, and strong a wind was blowing, that we could neither say our prayers nor do any good thing without a fire,” p. 569). However, instead of enjoying their personal accomplishments of having reached their goal, Fabri emphasizes how much they all suddenly felt a longing for their home country (II, 48b, p. 466; p. 569). Still, in remarkable contrast to most other Sinai travelogue authors, Fabri goes into many more details, so, for example, when he examines some of the concrete rocky features: “Caput sive cacumen sacri montis Synai est integra petra et una, in summitate plana ita, quod platea supernis est rotunda, non multum lata, circiter sex passuum” (II, 48b, p. 466; “The head or top of Mount Sinai is all of one piece of rock, which on the top is flat, so as to form a round flat place not very wide, measuring about six paces across,” p. 570). Although his subsequent description of the vast perspective opening up to them while on top of the mountain, turning to all four directions, is each time framed by biblical and patristic references, we still can credit Fabri with having recognized the unique characteristic of the exploration of the world from his vantage point at that high elevation: Conjecimus ergo oculos primo contra orientem in latissimum fretum, in sinum arabicum, qui et mare rubrum dicitur et de mari indico progreditur, nec potuimus contra orientem videre oculis corporeis nisi acquas, quae se extendebant usque in montana Madian. (II, 49a, p. 468) [First we cast our eyes eastward toward a wide piece of water, to wit, the Arabian Gulf, also called the Red Sea, which comes from the Indian Ocean, and to the eastward our eyes could see nothing but water, which reached as far as the mountains of Midian. (p. 572)]

Even here, the parallels to Petrarch’s narrative in his famous letter describing his experience on Mont Ventoux are remarkable, although it

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might seem a bit far-fetched to assume any kind of borrowing on the part of the Ulm friar minor. Driven by his religious interest, Fabri adds many aspects about the religious significance of that mountainous height, referring, for example, to a mysterious monastery of holy men (II, 49a, pp. 468–69; p. 576) and to individual saintly men (II, 49a, p. 468; p. 577). He also includes numerous comments on biblical history as represented by the distant lands, but clearly reveals at the end his happiness that their time for the return home has come, leaving the mountains behind them for good (50b–51a, pp. 473–75; p. 581). Nevertheless, even for a pilgrimage report, this extensive description of their climb to the top represents an innovative element in the history of late medieval mentality. Granted, Fabri mostly demonstrates interest in mountains only if they are associated with saints, monasteries, or sacred history, as we learn from a passage dealing with his return from his first journey to the Holy Land: Porro in via transivimus ad radices cujusdam altissimi montis, in cujus supercilio Capella est, in qua dixerunt nobis crucem dextri latronis esse locatam, et mirabiliter suspensam, quam libenter vidissem. Sed tempus non habui, ideo etiam hoc ad secundam peregrinationem meam suspendi. (16A, p. 43) [On our way we passed the foot of an exceeding [sic] high mountain, on the summit whereof is a chapel, in which they told us was the cross of the good thief, wondrously suspended. I should have liked to have seen it, but had not the time, so put off this also for my next pilgrimage. (I, p. 25).]

But despite the common and mostly negative remarks, Fabri still can be credited with paying extensive attention to mountains as part of his geophysical environment.

The Mountains in the World of a Humanist: Eneas Silvio Piccolomini In a very similar vein to Petrarch, but also related to Fabri’s approach, Eneas Silvio Piccolomini, the later Pope Pius II (1405–1464), in his biography of Emperor Frederick III, which was part of his larger Historia Austrialis, provides a detailed discussion of the Apennines, separating them specifically from the Alps and explaining the value of their heights, which allowed Frederick to gain a solid overview of the entire world below him: In cuius cacumen cum Federicus venisset, primus omnium inferum mare conspicatus comites admonuit, hinc Africam, illinc Hispaniam navigantes petere, atque ubi Sardinia, ubi Corsica, ubi Baleares insulae cunctarumque decus

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insularum Sicilia iacerent, digito designavit. Ubi autem transmissis altioribuus iugis ad collem ventum est, unde videri Florentia potest, incredible est, quanta omnes admiratio Germanos implerit.12 [When Frederick had reached the peak, he first gazed at the sea below him, pointed out to his companions that some were sailing in that direction leading to Africa, or that direction to Spain, and he pointed out with his finger where Sardinia, where Corsica, where the Balearic Islands, and the supreme island, Sicily, were located. After they had reached a hill, having climbed over the higher mountain ridges, from where one could see Florence, all Germans were filled with admiration beyond measure.]

Of course, Piccolomini does not indicate a specific interest in the mountainous height itself, but rather cared about the unique vantage point that it provided, making it possible for him as a writer to display how much the group of German courtiers with the emperor marveled about the beauty of Italy, that is, especially, Florence and the Toscana: “omnes dicerent, que super omnes Italiae urbes floreret, quamvis prisco nomine Confluentia diceretur” (III, 11, p. 318; “everyone admitted that the city was correctly called ‘Florentina’ since she superseded in its flowering all other cities of Italy”). As soon as the author has confirmed, indeed, the absolute supremacy of Florence in its beauty, wealth, and power, he completely leaves the mountain behind and turns to political history, describing Frederick’s ceremonial entrance into Florence (III, 11, p. 318). Still, Piccolomini discusses the etymology of the name for the Apennines in comparison or relationship with the Alps, rejecting some of the traditional authorities, such as Isidore of Seville and Otto von Freising (III, 10, pp. 314–16), although he does not reveal any further interest in the mountains as such, since they do not offer any significance by themselves for the emperor in his political maneuvers. Nevertheless, the author highlights the importance of the mountain at large, which provides the critical vantage point that allows the company to analyze and understand the entire world below their eyes, which would not have been possible from the flatland.13 If we search further and consider Piccolomini’s Historia Austrialis in more detail, we discover many references to mountains as defining elements in the history of Austria. When he rejects, for instance, what Ptolemaeus had to say about that mountainous region, specifically the “Mons Cetius” (today Kahlenberg in the “Wienerwald”), we have to realize that mountains constituted for him a very normal geophysical aspect, not associated with any spirits or mythical creatures: “Nam hic multo altior est atque nemorosior eos, qui nostra aetate Hungarim ab Austria disiungit” (I, 1, p. 12; “This mountain range is much higher and more covered with woods than that what in our time separates Hungary from

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Austria”). Examining the condition of Switzerland, he naturally refers to various mountain ranges, quoting from Caesar: una ex parte flumine Rheno latissimo atque altissimo, qui agrum Helvecium a Germanis dividit, altera ex parte monte Iura altissimo, qui est inter Sequanos et Helvetios, tertia lacu Lemanno ex flumine Rhodano, qui provintiam nostram ab Helveciis dividit. (I, 14, p. 66–68) [[the borders of Switzerland] are determined on the one side by the very wide and deep Rhine, which separates the area of the Swiss from the Germanics; on the other side by the very high Jura mountains that extend between the area of the Sequanians and Swiss; on the third side by the Lake Geneva and the river Rhône, which separates our province from the Swiss.]

Mountains in Late Medieval German Literature: Maximilian I’s Tewrdank Previous research has commonly emphasized that in the Middle Ages there was no real awareness of mountains, not even to speak of any kind of significant interest. That position, however, has recently been considerably revised, at least with regard to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and beyond, and we are currently exploring at great length to what extent mountains were actually on the mental horizon of medieval writers and artists.14 Felix Fabri, above all, but then also Piccolomini, prove to be significant voices from the late Middle Ages heretofore not considered with that aspect in mind, especially if we consider the former’s surprisingly great attention to specific mountains with religious import. Although it would certainly take until the nineteenth century for a real enthusiasm for mountains to emerge,15 we can point toward most impressive, not at all negative descriptions of mountains already in the fourteenth and fifteenth century. Some of the major commentators in this regard were Marco Polo, Petrarch, and our Felix Fabri, although none of them cared about the Alps; instead, they discussed mountainous elevations in other regions, especially those bordering the Mediterranean, in the Sinai, and in the Orient.16 By contrast, when a literary protagonist in the High Middle Ages reaches a mountain top, he normally regards himself at a loss and bewails his destiny, suffering from the involuntarily imposed isolation and sense of being forlorn in the wilderness, as Meleranz expresses in the Pleier’s eponymous romance most explicitly (late thirteenth century), which might be one redeeming facet of this rather trivial Arthurian narrative.17 Indeed, literary authors in the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries were very hesitant to include specific references to mountains or to

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describe them in positive terms, since climbing a mountain normally represented a severe and uncalled-for task and danger. Mountains hence could only symbolize the protagonist’s existential challenge, of being lost in the wilderness or being on the way to a new world, this, however, at the risk of his life (for instance: Marie de France, Les deux amanz; Tristan in Gottfried von Straßburg’s Tristan; Duke Ernst in the anonymous Herzog Ernst; The Pleier’s Meleranz; and Juan Ruiz’s El libro de buen amor). In contrast to this general observation, one of the earliest courtly romances where the protagonist operates voluntarily in the mountains and where his life undergoes the greatest transformations seems to be nothing less than Emperor Maximilian I’s Tewrdank from 1517,18 which proves to be a veritable paean to life in the mountains and presents them as a fascinating, meaningful, and worthwhile realm with which Austrian nobles could identify as an ordinary matter of life. Maximilian’s Tewrdank represents a massive literary enterprise commissioned by the emperor, who might have created the basic story line himself. Drawing heavily from the tradition of the allegorical romance, the author outlines the many challenges that his protagonist experiences when he embarks on his journey to his future bride, Mary of Burgundy, in 1478, here under the sobriquet of Lady Emreich (Rich in Honor), daughter of King Romreich (Rich in Glory). This monumental work was richly illustrated and published in Nuremberg in 1517, then reprinted in 1519 and 1589, as one in the series of other monumental allegorical romances by and for Maximilian. In essence, it presents to us a protagonist who “meistert alle Gefahren, selbst Naturkatastrophen und Krankheiten, durch Besonnenheit, Weisheit und Tapferkeit” (“masters all dangers, even natural catastrophes and sickness, by means of carefulness, wisdom, and courage”).19 Tewrdank was later reprinted a number of times and appeared at least until 1679 in Augsburg and Ulm. While Maximilian was heavily involved in its production, probably outlining the essential plot elements and the concepts for the woodcuts, a whole team of high-ranking courtiers around Maximilian carried out the plans and brought them to final fruition. These courtiers included especially Marx Treitzsaurwein and Melchior Pfintzing, along with a number of artists (Hans Schäufelin, Hans Burgkmair, and Leonhard Beck) who created the 101 woodcuts. The book first appeared in about forty copies printed on parchment, all destined as valuable gifts for members of the high nobility, and in about three hundred copies on paper, printed by Johann Schönsperger

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the Elder (ca. 1455–1521), those perhaps intended for the general book market.20 The Tewrdank belongs to a series of other monumental works created by and for the emperor—his Gebetbuch, the Weißkunig, and the Ehrenpforte21—and continues to represent one of bibliophiles’ treasures in major research libraries.22 While research has so far focused primarily on the elements of narrative self-representation, the literary glorification of the court, and the differences between Tewrdank and the tradition of King Arthur romances,23 as well as on the production of this massive romance, here the interest will rest on the way the poet and his collaborators orient themselves toward the world of the mountains where the protagonist operates much of his time, which is actually not unusual for this kind of autobiographical work by a Habsburg prince at the end of the Middle Ages who lived in the Alpine region.24 From early on, the woodcuts present the protagonist in a mountainous, wooded landscape, such as on fol. 49, 59, 64, 68, and 77. Tewrdank is regularly invited by his evil councilor Fvrwittig to go hunting for dangerous animals, which indeed transports him into life-threatening situations. However, the young hero overcomes all challenges and operates highly successfully in the wild forest situated somehow, as the illustrator helps us to understand, in the Alpine region. However, hunting chamois proves to be an especially convenient plot for Fvrwittig to expose the prince to dangerous mountainous settings where he could easily fall to his death. He admonishes one of the hunters familiar with that region: Für morgen disen Tewren man Auf das hohe gepirg hindan Aus deiner kunst mit gotem fueg Allein fuer Inn darauff hoch genueg Sey keck vnd lasse kheins wegs ab Dan Ich vonn Im vernomen hab Wie Er vor anndern geschickt vnnd frey Die scharpffen genng zuo steygen sey. (82) [Tomorrow take this worthy man / up to the high mountains, / use your best skills in that. / Take him as high up as possible, / be courageous and do not shy away from any path, / since I have heard from him / that he is more skilled and bolder than others / in climbing the narrow paths.]

The strategy works because the emperor demonstrates his enjoyment of spending time in the mountains and cares little about the risks that the heights might present to him. The chamois would be inaccessible for almost any other hunter but Tewrdank, who does not rest until he has finally found a narrow spot just big enough for his right foot to hold on: “Zueletzt fand Er ein pletzlein klein / Darauf Er mit eim fuß allein / Muestet stan in der hohen wandt” (83). The narrator clearly comments:

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“Vnnd in toedlich gefar sein khomen” (85), although the protagonist does not seem to have worried about that. Fittingly, the evil courtier sings a false praise of Tewrdank’s enormous climbing skills, which his own wife would have enjoyed watching (84). As negative as that might seem at first sight, the entire narrative setup is built on the realization that the mountains prove to be an ideal stage for the hero’s rite of passage. While the steep walls emerge as highly dangerous for the hunter, he dares to go hunting even there because the chamois pass their time just in that part of the mountains. The woodcut on page 99 provides a clear impression of how much the protagonist operates like a daredevil, but it does so without casting the mountainous area itself simply as negative. In a subsequent episode Fvrwittig arranges another, even more difficult hunting situation where a chamois has rescued itself by jumping to an otherwise inaccessible rock. The evil councilor leads the prince to that site, near which the court is also assembled to watch Tewrdank perform his manly deed, which is, of course, supposed to kill him. Nevertheless, the hero accepts this challenge as well: Tewerdannck ging mit sorgsamkait Auf der platten das poeß geleyt Als weit als mueglich was fuogeen Da Er nun nicht weitter mocht steen Belib Er vnnd Ruefft dem Jeger Das Er Im lanngt seinen schafft heer (93) [Teuerdank carefully moved ahead. / On the platform evil was planned for him / as far as that was even possible. / When he could no longer find a good footrest / he stopped and called to the huntsman / to hand to him the long spear]

The climb down, however, after the chamois has been killed, proves to be extremely difficult and could easily have brought death upon him (94). Fvrwittig subsequently pretends to be full of praise for the emperor, but in reality he is furious about the failure of his deadly scheme (95), which was, however, predicated on his awareness of the young man’s passion to go hunting in the mountains. This does not mean that the evil councilor would refrain from resorting to other strategies, such as to lure Tewrdank onto thin ice during the winter (105–07), which then finally results in Fvrwittig’s punishment (108–11). But already the next evil councilor, Vnfalo, awaits him with his murderous intentions (112–17), then invites the young man to a wild boar hunt in a forest, where he deliberately endangers his life. The artist, however, again places this scene in a mountainous landscape with rugged hills and steep peaks in the distance (124), as is commonly the case. Over and over again the protagonist ventures into the mountains to hunt for chamois upon the incitement of the evil courtier,

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but Tewrdank obviously enjoys the challenges in the mountains, even though the text normally states that he was led there (141). This does not necessarily indicate that the protagonist enjoys the mountains as such, mountains that seem to interest the artists almost more than the narrator. Nevertheless, chamois populate mountain heights and steep walls; hence, the young hunter pursues them there without worrying about any dangers. Vnfalo also endeavors to have peasants placed on the top of a mountain from which they are supposed to throw heavy rocks down onto the protagonist in order to kill him. The usual plot consists of luring Tewrdank into the mountains where he could go hunting chamois again, which pleases him, of course: “Tewrdannck dem Held gefiel die sach” (172; “For the hero Teuerdank this was a good idea”). He is never afraid of mountains and voluntarily explores those heights because he gains enjoyment from the risky endeavor to chase those animals: Tewerdannck Im nichts geferlichs dacht Sonnder aus rechter edler gir Tracht Er den nechsten zuo dem Tier gieng aus seim vnuerzagem muot In das gepirg mit seim schafft guot (140) [Teuerdank did not think of any danger; / instead, driven by a noble desire / he desired to approach the animal. / With undiminished courage / he went up the mountains with his good spear]

But Tewrdank also demonstrates a certain degree of carelessness and at one point would almost have made a risky jump if his loyal huntsman had not held him back and so prevented his untimely death (141). Only later does he admit to Vnfalo that the mountains represent dangers for one’s life (142), yet that admission does not fall into the other extreme of rejecting the idea of climbing to lofty heights for the purpose of hunting. The narrator regularly falls back to similar formulations, underscoring how easily the protagonist can be inspired to go hunting in the mountains, which we must assume is one of his most favorite terrains: Tewrdannck dem gefiel die sach Vnnd sprach auf den kunfftigen tag Last all sachen ordnen darzuo So will Ich an dem morgen fruo Hinauff an dasselb gepyrg geen Vnnd mich darinnen vndersteen Ob Ich ein gembsen fellen mocht (280) [Teuerdank was pleased with this plan / And said, preparing for the following day, / “Get all things ready for it, / I want to go early in the morning / up into the mountains / and try out / whether I might be able to kill a chamois”]

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Then, of course, his equipment fails, and he could easily have fallen into the depth, suffering an untimely death: Dann vnnder seim fuß waich der mieß Vnnd hafftet an dem harten stein An den eysen ein kunckh allein Wo derselb auch zerbrochen wer So het er muessen fallen mer Dann hundert klaffteren hinab Zuo todt wie Ichs gesehen hab (281) [Under his foot the moss gave way / and got stuck to the hard rock below [?]. / Only a part of the iron shoe stayed. / If that had broken as well, / he would have had to fall down / more than two hundred yards / to his death, as I have observed it [before]]

As we can easily recognize, the narrative purpose is not aimed at glorifying the mountains as such nor projecting them as a most dangerous area best avoided. Instead, the didactic intention clearly dominates throughout the entire text, illustrating the dangers for young people if they listen to ill advice and allow such evil councilors to lead them astray. Nevertheless, Maximilian I (and his ghost writers) obviously reflected the deep fascination that mountains in the Alpine region exerted and present them as an important testing ground for the young man. In this regard, this allegorical romance constitutes one of the first literary examples since the Middle Ages in which the mountains as such gained considerable weight because there the protagonist experiences critical challenges and can prove himself, slowly maturing in that process and gaining independence in his judgment at the end. In the second half of the romance the theme of hunting in the mountains is increasingly replaced by other dangers the protagonist has to overcome, but the illustrations hardly ever disregard the mountains as the steady background for all events. As much as Tewrdank enjoys hiking in the high altitudes to go hunting there, we are also informed of the dangers that lurk in the mountains. Vnfalo explicitly reflects on this phenomenon when he asks a new hunter: “Du bist der boesen pyrg erfarn” (311; “You are experienced in the evil mountains”). This traitor knows a good area where the victim could be taken: “. . . Ich ways ein gepyrg ist mar / Vnnd die stein brechen allweg gar” (311; “I know of a horrible mountain where the rocks break off easily”). In sum, Tewrdank introduces mountains as a critical staging ground where the young protagonist meets a series of challenges and overcomes them with skill, strength, but also much good luck. We can certainly identify this beautifully illustrated romance, then, as an important stepping-stone in the changing attitude toward mountains in the late Middle

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Ages, as both the text itself and the woodcuts indicate impressively. As much as the artists mostly copied topographical features for their works and commonly stylized their sceneries, they still demonstrated, just as the author or authors, the great interest that the task of presenting mountains and rocks had triggered in them. Indeed, we are in a good position to identify the mountain itself as a meaningful criterion by which to identify the paradigm shift leading us from the Middle Ages to the early modern age.25

Late Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives toward Mountains in the Visual Arts; Also a Conclusion I would like to conclude this study with a brief comparison between two very different works of art, one an oil painting by the Italian Master “Tommaso,” active at the end of the fifteenth and the early sixteenth centuries, and the other an etching and engraving by Johannes and Lucas van Doetecom (fl. 1554–1606 and fl. 1554–1572), called Large Alpine Landscape (ca. 1525/30–1569), closely modeled after one of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s (1525/30–1569) famous drawings.26 Tommaso provides a stunningly sensuous scene with Saint Sebastian standing bound to a column, with archers from below, in much smaller size, shooting their arrows into his body. Angels are already carrying the crown and palm of martyrdom to Sebastian, who is painted in a typical late Renaissance style as an impressively muscular man, only his loins covered by a cloth. The artist made considerable efforts to project some natural background, allowing the eye to wander into an extensive depth where we see a river meandering its way through a valley. Hills and possibly also real mountains rise on both sides, sparsely covered by some trees. There are clear indications that this is supposed to be a variegated landscape, but Tommaso was satisfied with simple allusions, standard features of his art, and with silhouettes of some rocky peaks in the distance that basically disappear in the dusk, painted in very light blue and gray because those elevations only served to fill up the background. By contrast, Joannes and Lucas van Doetecom and Pieter Bruegel, respectively, present us with a stunningly detailed and delightfully projected Alpine landscape, with high mountain peaks and craggy rocks, but then also with pastures populated with some grazing goats and a beautiful valley deep below where a small village is nestled along a creek, equally meandering, but now viewed from high above. We know that Bruegel traveled extensively in the Alpine region on his way back

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home from Venice, and in turn the van Doetecom brothers proved to be greatly inspired by him and his models of Weltlandschaften (world landscapes) when they created the etchings based on his drawings.27 However, they rendered this scene in a more detailed manner, giving us a clear sense of the individual geological stages from the bottom in the valley to the pastures high on the slopes to the steep mountain peaks. One valley leads over to another one, and the entire landscape is dotted with a wealth of details, including fences, tunnels, roads, bushes, trees, bridges, some people, and rocks. A horseman pausing on a cliff to the top right overlooks the vast vista in front of him, perhaps serving, indirectly, as the critical lens through which the spectators are also supposed to perceive, probably more vividly than ever before, the vast Alpine panorama. The extent to which we might face here in this etching a truly realistic depiction still could be discussed further, but we certainly recognize most impressively the growing awareness of and interest in the Alps, or mountainous regions at large, a clear signal of the emerging modern world in which mountains certainly began to exert some fascination, at least in artistic and literary terms.28 Previous scholarship has mostly focused on the motif of the meandering creek or river, while we can also unmistakably recognize here Bruegel’s and his followers’ intrigue with the Alpine world with its stark contrasts between mountains and valleys.29 By contrast, many of the early Renaissance artists, not to speak of those from the Middle Ages, still pursued the same traditional strategy and revealed the same lack of interest, utilizing natural background only for some ornamental fillings, if at all.30 It remains rather doubtful whether Tommaso ever studied mountains as such or really cared about those lofty heights. Obviously, his audience or patrons did not care either, so we really have to wait until the sixteenth century in terms of art history when we finally discover a remarkable paradigm shift, which was, however, preceded by major changes in the way mountains already figured in travelogues and literary texts, as we have seen above. Artists such as Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528), Albrecht Altdorfer (ca. 1482/85–1538), Augustin Hirschvogel (1503–1553), Hans Lautensack (1524–1566), and Pieter Bruegel the Elder all began to pursue rather innovative perspectives as reflected especially, but not only, by their depictions of mountains in many of their paintings, etchings, and prints. Considering the strong efforts by writers such as Felix Fabri and Eneas Silvio Piccolomini, and by authors such as Maximilian I and his assis-

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tants at the court of Innsbruck, who had begun exploring mountains as intriguing, though still challenging, elevations that deserved to be climbed for their own sake and that provided new and vast overviews of the world, we recognize, keeping those sixteenth-century paintings in mind as well, the rise of a new discourse in which mountains simply mattered, both in literature and in the sciences, both in encyclopedias and in romances.

Notes 1. For theoretical reflections on medieval ecocriticism and a practical application for literary interpretation, see Connie Scarborough, Inscribing the Environment: Ecocritical Approaches to Medieval Spanish Literature. Fundamentals of Medieval and Early Modern Culture 12 (Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter, 2013). 2. Wolfgang Kofler, Martin Korenjak, and Florian Schaffenrath, eds., Gipfel der Zeit: Berge in Texten aus fünf Jahrtausenden. Karlheinz Töchterle zum 60. Geburtstag. Rombach Wissenschaften: Reihe Paradeigmata 12 (Freiburg i.Br., Berlin: Rombach, 2010). 3. Robert Macfarlane, Mountains of the Mind: A History of Fascination (London: Granta Books, 2008), 14–15. However, as to modern approaches to mountains, we can certainly agree with him: “Mountain-worship is a given to millions of people. The vertical, the ferocious, the icy—all these are now automatically venerated forms of landscape, images of which permeate an urbanized Western culture increasingly hungry for even second-hand experiences of wildness and wilderness” (17). 4. See, for example, the attempt by Jacek Wózniakowski, Die Wildnis: Zur Deutungsgeschichte des Berges in der europäischen Neuzeit, trans. from the Polish by Theo Mechtenberg (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1987), to trace first comments on mountains in early modern literature and the arts, but he moves rapidly from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to the age of romanticism. For the earlier period he limits his comments mostly to Renaissance art, such as by Andrea Mantegna (1431–1506), whose interest in depicting rocks he characterizes as unique and far-developed (37). 5. Grosses vollständiges Universal Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste (Halle and Leipzig: Zedler, 1733), 1:1334–36. In the article on “Berg” (mountain), the author discusses at great length ways to measure the height of a mountain. Moreover, he discusses whether mountains could be called beautiful and how they fit in God’s creation, but refrains from any moral or aesthetic judgments. But then he emphasizes that good drinking water comes out of mountains, that animals find good pasture there, and that mountains contain valuable ores and gems. He is also interested in the question of the origin of mountains but can only speculate that they might have arisen after the biblical deluge (2:1227–30). 6. Larissa J. Taylor, Leigh Ann Craig, John B. Friedman, Kathy Gower, Thomas Izbicki, and Rita Tekippe, eds., Encyclopedia of Medieval Pilgrimage (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2010).

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7. H. F. M. Prescott, Jerusalem Journey: Pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the Fifteenth Century (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1934), offers a larger picture of late medieval Christian pilgrimage, including the one by Fabri, but mostly summarizes his accounts. A critical summary is provided by Kurt Hannemann, “Fabri, Felix,” in Die deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters: Verfasserlexikon. vol. 2, ed. Kurt Ruh et al. (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1980), cols. 682–89. See also Stefan Schröder, Zwischen Christentum und Islam: Kulturelle Grenzen in den spätmittelalterlichen Pilgerberichten des Felix Fabri. Orbis mediaevalis: Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters 11 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2009). But cf. Wieland Carls in Felix Fabri: Die Sionpilger, Texte des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit 39, ed. Wieland Carls (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1999), 53–56, for the most precise discussion of his biography. 8. The famous pilgrimage account by the Mainz Canon Bernhard von Breydenbach, richly illustrated by Erhard Reuwich, first printed in 1488, simply ignores the travel section between southern Germany and northern Italy, thus jumping over the Alps, and begins with his account in Venice, after having mentioned the departure in Mainz, because, as he says, “die selben land stett vnd weg wol bekant . . . durch teutsch land biß gen venedig” (fol. 11r; here I rely on the original print in the University of Cambridge Library, Inc.2.A.1.7.35). When Breydenbach has an occasion to describe mountains in the Holy Land, he only formulates negative statements, such as the following: “Da kamen wir zwuoschen gar hoch durr gebirg von grussenlichen velsen besetzet vnnd heysset das selb gebyrg yn arabescher sprach Gelhelel” (no folio no. given, but it is contained in the section for August 24; “We reached an area in the midst of a very high and naked mountain range, covered by horrible rocks. That mountain range is called in Arabic Gelhelel”). For a comprehensive discussion of this travelogue, see Frederike Timm, Der Palästina-Pilgerbericht des Bernhard von Breidenbach und die Holzschnitte Eerhard Reuwichs: die Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (1486) als Propagandainstrument im Mantel der gelehrten Pilgerschrift (Stuttgart: Ernst Hauswedell, 2006). 9. Felix Fabri, Evagatorium in Terrae Sanctae, Arabiae et Egypti peregrinationem. 3 vols. Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins in Stuttgart 2, 3, 18, ed. Conrad Dietrich Hassler (Stuttgart: Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins, 1843– 1849); this edition is now also available online at http://books.google. co.uk/books?id=ztUWAAAAQAAJ; Aubrey Stewart, trans., The Book of the Wanderings of Brother Felix Fabri, vol. 1, Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society VII–X (London: Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society, 1892–1893), 9–10. Fabri’s German version was originally titled Nu hebpt sich das bilger buoch von den heiligen stetten ze jerusalem vnd jm heilgen land vnd haißt vagathor (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Ms.Germ.Fol. 1266), then titled: Reyßbuch deß heyligen Landes, which the famous Frankfurt book printer and publisher Siegmund Feyerabend reprinted in 1584. 10. This is, of course, a topic that has been discussed from many perspectives; see, for instance, Justin Stagl, A History of Curiosity: The Theory of Travel 1550–1800 (London and New York: Routledge, 2004); Neil Kenny, Curiosity in Early Modern Europe: World Histories, Wolfenbütteler Forschungen 81 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998); Barbara M. Benedict, Curiosity: A Cultural History of Early Modern Inquiry (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001); cf. also the contributions to Curiosity and Wonder from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment, ed. R. J. W. Evans and Alexander Marr (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006); cf. also Toby E. Huff, Intellectual Curiosity and the Scientific Revolution: A Global Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).

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11. Petrarch’s Ascent of Mount Ventoux: the Familiaris IV, I, new commented ed. by Rodney Lokaj, Scriptores Latini 23 (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 2006). For an online English translation of Petrarch’s letter, see http://history. hanover.edu/texts/petrarch/pet17.html. This is, of course, a “classical” text that has been discussed already from many different perspectives; see, for instance, Karlheinz Stierle, Francesco Petrarca: Ein Intellektueller im Europa des 14. Jahrhunderts (Munich and Vienna: Hanser, 2003); see also Essays über Petrarca, Stauffenburg-Bibliothek 4, trans., ed., and comm. Giuseppe Gazzola and Olaf Müller (Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 2006); for more global discussions regarding modernity in Petrarch, see William T. Rossiter, Chaucer and Petrarch, Chaucer Studies 41 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 12. Aeneas Silvius [Piccolomini, the later Pope Pius II], Die Geschichte Kaiser Friedrichs III, trans. Th. Ilgen, 2 vols., Die Geschichtsschreiber der deutschen Vorzeit. XV. Jahrhundert, 2 (Leipzig: Dyk’schen Buchhandlung, 1889– 1890), 2:29–30; but here I quote from the bilingual edition and translate myself into English: Aeneas Silvius de Piccolomini, Historia Austrialis, ed. and trans. Jürgen Sarnowsky, Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters, Freiherr-vom-Stein-Gedächtnisausgabe 44 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2005). Cf. Michel Goldsteen, trans., Enea Silvio Piccolomini—Pius II (1405–1464): een humanistisch paus op de bres voor Europa: bloemlezing uit zijn brieven en Gedenkschriften, Middeleeuwse studies en bronnen 126 (Hilversum: Verloren, 2011). 13. See the contributions to Eneas Silvio Piccolomini: uomo di lettere e mediatore di culture: atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Basilea, 21–23 aprile 2005, ed. Maria Antonietta Terzoli (Basel, 2006); Enea Silvio Piccolomini nördlich der Alpen: Akten des interdisziplinären Symposions vom 18. bis 19. November 2005 an der Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, ed. Franz Fuchs, Pirckheimer Jahrbuch für Renaissance- und Humanismusforschung 22 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2007). 14. Albrecht Classen, “Terra Incognita? Mountains in Medieval and Early Modern German Literature,” in Heights of Reflection: Mountains in the German Imagination from the Middle Ages to the Twenty-First Century, ed. Sean Ireton and Caroline Schaumann (Rochester, N.Y.: Camden House, 2012), 35–56; Classen, “The Discovery of the Mountain as an Epistemological Challenge: A Paradigm Shift in the Approach to Highly Elevated Nature. Petrarch’s Ascent to Mont Ventoux and Emperor Maximilian’s Theuerdank,” in Humanity and the Natural World, ed. David Hawkes (Turnhout: Brepols, forthcoming). While I mostly focus on the discussion of mountains in a variety of medieval texts from across Europe in the first piece, and on Middle High German literature in the second piece, here I am exploring the field of travel literature and historiography, complementing my previous investigations in this regard. 15. Bernard Debarbieux, ed., La montagne réinventée: géographes, naturalistes et sociétés: (XVIIIe–XXe siècles) = Reinventing Mountain Areas: Geographers, Naturalists and Society. Revue de géographie alpine 82, no. 3 (Grenoble: Institute de Géographie Alpine, 1994). 16. Classen, “The Discovery of the Mountain.” 17. Markus Steffen, ed.,“Melerantz von Frankreich”—Der Meleranz des Pleier. Nach der Karlsruher Handschrift: Edition—Untersuchungen—Stellenkommentar, Texte des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit 48 (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 2011), vv. 344–409. When Meleranz has to spend the night on the top of a

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18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25.

Medievalia et Humanistica mountain, this does not lead to any specific descriptions of the geophysical features, and the mountain itself is characterized as a site where the young protagonist really has lost his way. Kaiser Maximilian I, Theuerdank, with an epilogue by Horst Appuhn, Die bibliophilen Taschenbücher 121 (Dortmund: Harenberg Kommunikation, 1979). I will quote from this edition only. For the larger context, see also Stephan Füssel, The Theuerdank of 1517: Emperor Maximilian and the Media of His Day; A Cultural-Historical Introduction (Cologne and London: Taschen, 2003). Stephan Füssel, “Maximilian I,” in Deutsche Dichter der frühen Neuzeit (1450– 1600): Ihr Leben und Werk, ed. Stephan Füssel (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1993), 200–216; here 205. See also the comprehensive study by Jan-Dirk Müller, Gedechtnus: Literatur und Hofgesellschaft um Maximilian I, Forschungen zur Geschichte der älteren deutschen Literatur 2 (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1982), 108–30, esp. 124–25. Peter Strohschneider, Ritterromantische Versepik im ausgehenden Mittelalter: Studien zu einer funktionsgeschichtlichen Textinterpretation der “Mörin” Hermanns von Sachsenheim sowie zu Ulrich Fuetrers “Persibein“ und Maximilians I. “Teuerdank,” Mikrokosmos 14 (Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 1986); Elaine C. Tennant, “Understanding with the Eyes: The Visual Gloss to Maximilian I’s ‘Theuerdank,’” in Entzauberung der Welt: deutsche Literatur 1200–1500, ed. James F. Poag and Thomas C. Fox (Tübingen: Francke, 1989), 211–76; Jan-Dirk Müller, “The Court of Emperor Maximilian I,” in Princes and Princely Culture 1450–1650, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 118, ed. Martin Gosman, Alasdair A. MacDonald, Alasdair James Macdonald, and Arie Johan Vanderjagt (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003–2005), 1:295–311. Ursula Rautenberg, ed., Reclams Sachlexikon des Buches (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2003), 225–26. See the digitized version of the 1517 print edition in the Staatsbibliothek München: http://daten.digitale-sammlungen.de/~db/0001/bsb00013106/ image_1; for a digital version of the 1519 edition in the Polish State Library Warsaw: http://www.polona.pl/item/1682888/; for the edition in Vienna, see https://fedora.phaidra.univie.ac.at/fedora/get/o:59548/bdef:Asset/ view. Gerhild S. Williams, “The Arthurian Model in Emperor Maximilian’s Autobiographic Writings ‘Weisskunig’ and ‘Theuerdank,’” Sixteenth Century Journal 11, no. 4 (1980): 3–22. Kaiser Maximilians Theuerdank, Die geuerlicheiten und einsteils der geschichten des loblichen streytparen und hochberuembten helds und Ritters herr Tewrdanncks, Facsimile of the 1517 ed., Kommentar by Heinz Engel, Elisabeth Geck, and H. Th. Musper (Plochingen and Stuttgart: Müller und Schindler, 1968); for background information see the second volume. Research has recognized from early on that Maximilian was very open to the sciences, literature, and the arts, although it remains a question of debate whether he truly introduced the Renaissance at his court; see Halthaus, ed., Theuerdank, hrsg. und mit einer historisch-kritischen Einleitung versehen von Carl Haltaus, Bibliothek der gesammten deutschen National-Literatur 2 (Quedlinburg and Leipzig: G. Basse, 1836), 7–12. He does not have anything to say about the references to mountains, however. For further research on Maximilian, see the contributions to Kaiser Maximilian I. (1459–1519) und die Hofkultur seiner Zeit, ed. Sieglinde Hartmann and Freimut Löser, Jahrbuch

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28. 29. 30.

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der Oswald von Wolkenstein-Gesellschaft 17 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2009). None of the authors considers, however, the aspect treated here. Today in the possession of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, UK. For a digital copy of Bruegel’s work, today in the Musée Du Louvre, Paris, France, see www.pieter-bruegel-the-elder.org/Landscape-of-the-Alps-large.html. Barbara Butts and Joseph Leo Koerner, with narrative commentary by Betha Whitlow, The Printed World of Pieter Bruegel, the Elder (St. Louis, Mo.: St. Louis Art Museum, 1995); Leopoldine Prosperetti, Landscape and Philosophy in the Art of Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568–1625) (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009). See also Nadine M. Orenstein, ed., Pieter Bruegel the Elder: Drawings and Prints (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). Joseph Leo Koerner, “The Printed World,” in The Printed World of Pieter Bruegel, the Elder, 20–34; here 31. Christopher White, “Pieter Bruegel the Elder: A New Alpine Landscape Drawing,” Burlington Magazine 729, no. 105 (1963): 560–63. The painting is owned by the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

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“I still retain the Empire of my Minde” Thomas Ross’s Continuation of Silius Italicus (1661, 1672) E VA V O N C O N T Z E N

Abstract In the 1650s, Thomas Ross, royal librarian to the exiled King Charles II, translated Silius Italicus’s epic poem Punica into English and added a continuation in three books dedicated to the king, published in 1661 and 1672 in a second edition. While the subject matter of the Second Punic War was worthy of the royal dedicatee and can be situated within the thriving context of translations from the classics in the seventeenth century, the Continuation has been neglected so far. This article considers Ross’s creative addition to the Punica as a literary achievement in its own right that demonstrates not only Ross’s skills as a writer but also his astute commenting on the political situation in England. The contents and narrative style of the Continuation are scrutinized before one central episode, the tragic death of Sophonisba, is analyzed as a prime example of Ross’s narrative technique of interpreting the present through the past and encoding Royalist ideas.

In the 1650s, in the midst of the political upheaval in England, while Charles II was exiled in the Netherlands, the man who would later become his majesty’s librarian, Thomas Ross, translated the epic poem Punica by Silius Italicus. To the translation of the seventeen books of Silius’s epic of the Silver Age he added a Continuation in three books that end with the death of Hannibal. The combined work, written in heroic couplets, was published for the first time in 1661 and saw a second edition in 1672 under the title The Second Punick War Between Hannibal, and the Romanes: The whole Seventeen Books, Englished from the Latine of Silius Italicus: With A Continuation from the Triumph of Scipio To the Death of

Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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Hannibal.1 Ross’s contribution to English literature in the seventeenth century may be rather small in comparison to the influence of Dryden’s or Milton’s epics, yet I believe he has been neglected unjustifiably. His continuation of the Punica in particular is a remarkable instance of engagement with the classics in seventeenth-century England and deserves to be appreciated not only for its polished and elevated style and careful choice and arrangement of scenes, but also for its subtle reinterpretation of the classical material for a contemporary audience.

Thomas Ross: Life and Work(s) Thomas Ross, who was baptized in 1620 and died in 1675, is remembered primarily for his loyalty to Charles II: after having obtained a BA from Christ’s College, Cambridge, in 1642, Ross aligned himself with the heir apparent. He accompanied Charles to his exile on the continent, where he was actively engaged in politics and acted as Charles’s messenger. At one point he even proposed action to assassinate Oliver Cromwell.2 In 1661, after the Restoration, Ross was appointed keeper of the king’s library.3 He remained in the king’s service and was sent on diplomatic missions, the longest stay being three years (1671 to 1674) in Sweden with the English ambassador, Henry Coventry. From 1658 onward Ross tutored James Scott, the later duke of Monmouth, Charles II’s illegitimate child from his affair with Lucy Walter. Ross traveled with the duke when the latter served in the royal navy during the Second AngloDutch War in 1665. Ross’s influence on his protégé was quite substantial, climaxing in the so-called black box affair: Ross advanced the issuing of a marriage certificate between Charles II and James’s mother in order to make James the legitimate heir to the throne. The relevant documents were said to be hidden in a black box in the possession of Sir Gilbert Gerrard, son-in-law of Lucy Walter’s confessor, John Cosin, bishop of Durham. However, Ross’s plans were revealed, and he was banned from tutoring James for some time. Ross’s literary endeavors reflect his close relationship with the king. The Second Punick War is dedicated to Charles II and contains, apart from the dedicatory “Epistle at Bruges. To His Sacred Majestie” (dated November 18, 1657), also a poem of ninety-eight lines “To the King” in which Charles II is praised and a glorious future under his reign envisaged. The Continuation is preceded by its own dedication, to the second earl of Strafford, William Wentworth. William was the son of Thomas Wentworth, first earl of Strafford, who actively supported

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Charles I in parliament during the civil war and was executed for his Royalist commitment in 1641. William was also one of the patrons of the work: his name appears on two of the engravings (plates 11 and 20) that introduce each new book. Next to a frontispiece, The Second Punick War and the Continuation contain twenty engravings (nineteen in the first edition), all but two of which bear the signature of Jozef Lamorlet. Lamorlet (1626–c. 1681) was a prominent Antwerp engraver, and Ross appears to have commissioned the plates in the 1650s already, deliberately choosing a qualified artist from Antwerp rather than Bruges, where he was staying. Also, as has been shown, Ross is likely to have worked together with Larmolet on some of the motifs.4 In spite of intrigues and dissent, the court’s exile to the continent offered a prolific environment for intellectual life. Scientific and philosophical engagement with European thinkers was fostered and doubtlessly also created an atmosphere in which Ross could compose his translation and the Continuation of the Punica.5 As his collaboration with Lamorlet demonstrates, Ross himself directly benefited from the exchange between the English expatriates and their hosts in Europe. The choice of Silius Italicus as his subject matter shows Ross’s careful consideration of both political and literary reasons. For one, Silius was held in high regard by English poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,6 yet his work never received as much attention as the Aeneid or Pharsalia. This allowed Ross to break fresh ground and establish himself as a poet and at the same time express his admiration for the exiled king whose literary taste was flattered by the rare and heroic work in Virgilian emulation. With respect to the Continuation, Ross may have found a model in Thomas May, the English translator of the Pharsalia: May had added a Continuation till the death of Iulius Caesar to his translation, which was very popular and printed five times in the seventeenth century before 1661.7 The Punica’s content marks a return to more traditional values, befitting the newly restored monarchy: “By translating the poet who had attempted to turn Roman epic back from the radicalism of the Pharsalia to the traditionalism of the Aeneid, Ross signaled his intention to shift the focus of English versions of Latin poetry back from Republicanism to Royalism.”8 During the time of composing The Second Punick War, Ross could of course not know whether the English monarchy would indeed be reestablished—although there may be hints of that in the Continuation—but the work clearly reflects his hopes and retrospectively becomes a herald of Royalist and imperial ideas. A further reason for Ross’s choice of the Punica may have been the prominent theme of filial piety: both Scipio and Hannibal draw their

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motivation for war from their fathers, like Charles II who was fighting to restore the monarchy after Charles I’s execution for high treason.9 In 211 b.c. Scipio’s father Publius Cornelius Scipio was killed in battle against the Carthaginians in Hispania, for which his son sought revenge, and Hannibal was driven by his oath sworn to his father Hamilcar never to befriend the Romans. At the same time, the focus of the Punica on two protagonists allowed for a broad application of the work to Charles’s situation and hence for drawing parallels with both Hannibal and Scipio: “Charles would have found the countless vignettes of martial prowess, heroic fortitude, and admirable statesmanship, Carthaginian as well as Roman, with which the Punica abounded, truly inspiring and highly relevant to his own condition.”10 Overall, the Second Punic War is a demonstration of the unstableness of fate, which can change quickly and turn the seemingly certain victor into the defeated after all. The background of Thomas Ross’s literary career would not be complete if we were not to consider another work also devoted to the wars between Rome and Carthage. Published in 1671, one year before the second edition of The Second Punick War, a tripartite publication was issued under the title An Essay Upon the Third Punique War. Lib. I and II. To which are added Theodosius’s Advice to his Son. And The Phenix, Out of Claudian.11 Neither the title page nor the preface identifies the author other than through the initials, “T. R.” It is tempting and indeed likely to identify the anonymous “T. R.” with Thomas Ross.12 The subject of the Essay constitutes the logical resumption of Ross’s previous work, covering the period from 149 to 146 b.c. and ending with the destruction of Carthage by Scipio Aemilianus.13 What is more, the preface is dedicated “To the Illustrious Prince James Duke of Monmouth,” Ross’s student. As the very first sentence makes unequivocally clear, the work is meant to be an exercise in the art of war. Addressed to the duke, the author states that the Essay “hath the Honour to be Born in Your Service,” which may be a reference not only to his tutorship but also to Ross having accompanied James to his military service in the Second Anglo-Dutch War in 1665. Like the Continuation, the Essay is composed in heroic couplets, and its style too is remarkably similar. There are fewer similes, but also elaborated passages of direct discourse, a focus on virtue and honor, and an eye for the key points of the narrative. In contrast to the relatively sparsely used marginal comments of The Second Punick War and the Continuation (see below in more detail), the Essay contains sixty-three footnotes, which often contain lengthy commentaries and explain in more detail the historical background of the poetic descriptions as well as names or cultural practices. Frequently, sources are provided too. For

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instance, in the second book Ross recounts the Somnium Scipionis and adds footnotes such as the following: the line “That Immortality to Souls assigns” (29) is footnoted “Plato in his Phædo,” and the line “Whose Souls from hence descending, while they are / Confin’d to Bodies, which, on Earth, they wear” is explicated in the note “The praexistence of Souls asserted by Plato in his Phædo and Timæus, and Cicero in Somn. Scip.” (32). That the purpose of the Essay is a didactic one is visible from these rich notes and explanations, which aptly link poetic enjoyment of the narrative with an educational agenda. A more detailed treatment and critical appreciation of the Essay is clearly called for, which, however, goes beyond the scope and focus of this article.

The Continuation So far, Ross’s addition to his translation of the Punica has only been noted in passing by scholars as an interesting contribution by an author primarily known for his engagement in politics and his position at Charles II’s court. Yet the three books are worth considering in more detail as a literary achievement in their own right. They provide a striking example of reading, writing, and interpreting epic poetry in the seventeenth century from an English perspective. The two editions of the Continuation are identical; they even contain the same mistakes in the pagination: in both the 1661 edition and the 1672 one, page 33 is erroneously numbered 35, and what should be page 40 bears the number 38. The longest of the three books is book II, which runs to 938 lines. It is framed by the shorter books I and III, which are of roughly the same scope (786 and 728 lines respectively). The three books relate the events following the Battle of Zama in which the Romans were victorious (ca. 202 b.c.) up to Hannibal’s death in the 180s b.c. Thus the Continuation picks up the storyline exactly where Silius’s epos breaks off, after Scipio’s triumphal return to Rome. Each of the three books is headed by a summary of the “argument.” I provide these summaries and then a more detailed overview of the contents of each book.14

Book I The Argument The Romane Piety, and Zeal to pay (At Scipio’s Return) the Vows, which they

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In War had made. King Syphax Captive dies By voluntary Famine. The sad Cries Of Carthaginian Dames. Their Citie’s quite Disarm’d. Imilce’s parting Tears. By Night, Great Hannibal his Treach’rous Country flies; Sails to Cercinna: and, in Sacrifice, A Day consumes. Fearing to be betray’d; Those, whom he doubts, by Wine asleep are lay’d.

ll. 1–30 ll. 31–68 ll. 69–183 ll. 184–346

ll. 347–414 ll. 415–64 ll. 465–578 ll. 579–642

ll. 643–708 ll. 709–86

Scipio’s return to Rome and celebrations of the Roman victory; offerings are made to Piety Praise of the people to Juno; the Flamen’s prayer to Jove and sacrifice of one hundred bulls Syphax captive; recalls the past; laments his unhappy situation before he dies from starving In Carthage: people suffer from their defeat; recollections of past greatness; laments of Carthaginian mothers for their sons being sent to Rome Revenge takes on Amilcar’s shape and incites Hannibal to war Hannibal in Stygian temple: talk with old priestess who asks him to return the following night Hannibal is received by Imilce who expresses her love and fears of losing him; Hannibal’s loving reply and good-bye Hannibal’s second visit to the temple; the priestess’s oracle and Hannibal’s (misguided) interpretation: he is ready to attack Rome again Hannibal sets out to prepare his attack; speech of the Genius of the place Hannibal’s arrival in Cercinna; meets with the Carthaginians and persuades them to follow him by making them drunk

Book II The Argument To Hannibal Isalces doth relate King Masanissa’s Love, and the sad Fate Of Sophonisba. Rome dreads the Report Of a new War. In the Ephesian Court Scipio, and Hannibal are entertain’d, And meet, as Friends. The City, Temple, and Its Wealth describ’d. Great Alexander’s Deeds Eumolpus sings. Whence a Discourse proceeds,

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Who the best Captains were. Past Actions are Revolv’d. The King resolves upon a War.

ll. 1–322 ll. 323–404 ll. 405–62 ll. 463–606

ll. 607–90 ll. 691–740 ll. 741–900 ll. 901–38

On the way to gathering forces: Isalces tells the story of Syphax, Masanissa and Sophonisba’s unhappy ending Arrival at the court of Ephesus; celebration of Hannibal; forces gather from Asia and Europe Rome becomes aware of the Carthaginian preparations for war; laments of Roman women in the temple Scipio’s arrival in Ephesus; digression: founding of the city and description of its present splendor, Diana’s temple in particular Conversation between Scipio and Hannibal at the Ephesian banquet Eumolpus sings of Alexander’s greatness Conversation between Scipio and Hannibal continued: who is the greatest general in war? Ephesian king promises all his armies to Hannibal

Book III The Argument The Syrian Rome defies, both Scipios are, By choice, appointed to pursue the War. Contagion wafts the Roman Navy, while The Syrian Fleet’s detain’d near Venus Isle, By adverse Winds. The Syrian Lords, a Shore With Hannibal, the Cyprian Rites explore. The Winds again invite both Fleets to Sea. They meet, and fight. The Syrians lose the Day. The Libyan Captain to Bethynia flies, Where, to shun Treason, He by Poison Dies.

ll. 1–29 ll. 30–202

ll. 203–56

ll. 257–306

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Minio, the Ephesian king’s favorite, is ready to fight; on the way to Italy In Rome: preparations for war; decision in the Senate to send both Scipios and Laelius; gathering of the Roman army and navy Envy guides Syrian counsels; Juno infects the Roman troops with a contagious illness; navy has to retreat to the open sea Venus calls Aeolus for help; the Syrian fleet is stuck in a calm and forced to land in Cyprus

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ll. 307–424

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Hannibal and his men disembark in Cyprus; digression: description of Cyprus; story of Pygmalion, told by a young priest Hannibal’s men are summoned to their ships to prepare for war The naval battle Hannibal’s valor and stratagem Juno intervenes: thunderstorm turns day into night; Hannibal’s troops have to leave their ships and flee; refuge at Ephesian king’s court is no longer safe; Hannibal continues flight to king of Bithynia All of Asia submit themselves to Rome; Hannibal is declared enemy Hannibal is surrounded by armed forces; makes final speech before he commits suicide by poison

The broad outline of the three books follows the main events toward the end of the Second Punic War and partly overlaps with the events of the Macedonian war and, in particular, the Syrian war against Antiochus the Great, whom Hannibal subsequently sought as an ally. Ross’s marginalia grant insight into the sources he used. Overall, sixty-three marginal notes and comments accompany the Continuation.15 These notes are not primarily intended to name the sources but rather to provide additional information—that is, to explain allusions, rites, names, and contexts. For instance, the phrase “Janus Gates” (B. I, l. 63, p. 3) contains a note on the Roman custom of closing the temple doors in times of war (note c). Other marginalia explain the practice of displaying captives after a victory (note p; B. I, l. 543, p. 17), the reference to the Lotus in an episode about Ulysses’ travels (note s; B. I, l. 714, p. 22), and specify the Syrian king’s name, Antiochus, which is not given in the text (note c; B. II, l. 346, p. 35). In the last two cases, Ross adds the sources from which he took his information: Homer’s Odyssee, Book 9, and Strabo, Book 17, for the Lotus reference, and Appian, Syriaca, for Antiochus’s name. The marginal notes thus function both as a guide for the readers to facilitate their understanding of the epic’s contents and at the same time as signposts for the author’s erudition. Ross stages himself as teacher and poet at the same time, thus epitomizing the ideal combination of writing in a pleasurable and yet instructive manner. The Horatian paradigm behind this double purpose of literary activity is programmatically put on the title page of The Second Punick War: Aut prodesse solent, aut Delectare Poetæ.

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The specification of the sources Ross consulted in the process of writing hence is a side effect of his self-fashioning in the marginalia. The following sources are provided: Poetic authors: Expert writers: Historians:

Biographers: Oratory: Philosophical works: Others:

Homer, Odyssey; Silius Italicus; Ovid, Tristia and Metamorphoses; Virgil, Georgica Pliny the Elder; Strabo, Geographica Appian, Syriaca and Libya (on the Syrian and Libyan wars respectively); Justinus; Livy; Polybios; Quintus Curtius (Rufus), Historiae; Tacitus Plutarch, Lives (the Lives of Scipio, Alexander, and Pyrrhus are named) Cicero, In Verrem Cicero, De natura deorum and De amicitia St. Paul, Acts

Clearly Ross was well-read and could draw on a broad range of texts, comprising poets, expert writers, and historians as well as philosophers. That Ross knew his sources and studied them thoroughly can be seen by two cases in particular. In book I, after the episode of Syphax’s death, note h (l. 184, p. 7) explains: That [Syphax] dyed by Abstinence, is consonant to the Opinion of Appian: his great Heart not brooking the Shame of being lead in Triumph. That he was a Spectacle in this Triumph Mariana denies, though Polyb. (lib. 16) and Livy (whom Silius follows) consent.

The explanation is very specific and not only compares the three historians’ accounts but also names Silius’s main source. Similarly, note k in the same book (l. 314, p. 10) calls attention to a difference between Livy and Appian in the number of Carthaginian youths who are handed over to the Romans. In both these examples, the information provided does not change the reception of the poem; it is not even necessary to understand the passages in question. Rather, Ross shows off his profound knowledge of the classical sources. Thereby he gives weight to the credibility of his Continuation and implicitly demonstrates that his depiction of the events, even though composed in poetic form, can withstand claims of historical accuracy. In the seventeenth century, classical historiography, that of Livy in particular, enjoyed wide popularity. Machiavelli’s Discourses were translated into English in 1636, and in 1544 Anthony Cope translated Livy’s account of Hannibal and Scipio, entitled Historye of the Two Most Noble Captaynes of the World, Anniball and Scipio, which was published three

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years later. Philemon Holland’s translation The Romane Historie written by T. Livius of Padua, which additionally contained Johannes Freinsheim’s supplement on the second decade, was published in 1600, 1659, and 1686. Walter Raleigh too devoted much of book 5 of his History of the World (1614) to the Punic Wars.16 The notes in the edition of Livy owned by scholar Gabriel Harvey (1550–1630) are a perfect example of how the work was held in high esteem and read as a commentary for contemporary events.17 From Harvey’s notes we learn that he found Hannibal and the war against Rome a stimulating and exemplary story, and that he expressed admiration for Hannibal’s valor.18 Despite the historical grounding of the Continuation, Ross’s interest is not only in the historically correct representation of the aftermath of the Second Punic War. His skillful rendering of the material into epic form reflects his long and deep engagement with Silius and also with other epic poems of the classical period. The overall treatment of the events is creative: Ross adds digressions and descriptions, inserts elaborate passages of direct speech, and makes use of the full range of the epic inventory—heroic characters (Hannibal and Scipio), interventions and dialogues of the gods (Juno, Venus, Aeolus), reversed order of events (the retrospective account of Sophonisba’s tragic death), narratorial omniscience and commentary on the events (e.g., the commentary to Hannibal having misunderstood the oracle in book I), battle scenes (the naval battle in book III), heterodiegetic narrators and embedded narratives (Isalces, the nameless priest in Cyprus), topographical digressions (Ephesus, Cyprus), elaborate descriptions in which the reality of the narrator merges with the reality of the description on the story level (the temple of Diana in Ephesus), and epic similes.19 For the remainder of this article I concentrate in more detail on one aspect of Ross’s Continuation, the tragic narrative of Sophonisba’s death, to emphasize that the work can justifiably be read both as a creative poem in its own right and as a commentary to the political situation in England.

Rewriting a Tragic Heroine: Sophonisba The story of Sophonisba is told at the beginning of book II. While Hannibal and his men rest at night on their way to Ephesus, where they want to make King Antiochus their ally against Rome, Isalces tells them about Sophonisba. Isalces is introduced as Hannibal’s “sure Numidian Guide / Who once attended on great Syphax Bride” (ll. 11–12, p. 26).

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In book 5 of the Punica another Isalces makes his appearance: the prospective son-in-law of Hannibal’s youngest brother Mago, who is killed in the battle of Trasimene by Appius.20 Like Silius’s Isalces, Ross’s character of the same name is also of African descent and connected with a story of love and death, even though Isalces is not the protagonist but merely the teller of the story. As Queen Sophonisba’s former servant, Isalces knows about her death in detail, and Hannibal encourages him to tell the story that he and his men only heard “by Common Fame” (l. 28, p. 26). Isalces’s narrative covers 291 lines (ll. 31–322) and contains substantial embedded narratives. Isalces’s words frame the story, while he has both Masanissa and Sophonisba but also Scipio speak in direct discourse extensively. The Continuation presents the story as follows: Sophonisba, daughter of the Carthaginian king Hasdrubal, is married to the Numidian king Syphax. When Syphax is defeated by the Romans and taken captive, another Numidian named Masanissa, who has taken sides with Rome, seeks to gain both the Numidian Empire and Syphax’s wife. Sophonisba is waiting to be brought to Rome when Masanissa approaches her and declares his love: “nothing I / Have gain’d . . . , unless your Love / This Happiness confirm” (ll. 48–50, p. 27). He praises her as being worthy only to a king and asks for her hand: “Accept my Love, by which, You can alone / Shun Romane Chains, and still possess a Throne” (ll. 65–66, p. 27). Despite his deferential tone, Masanissa makes it unequivocally clear that he has absolute power over her, stressing that Syphax has lost everything and that only his newly acquired status and might can save her. Sophonisba reacts unwillingly (“an extream Disdain / Of what He offer’d in Her Soul did Reign”; l. 68, p. 27), but her fear of being “a Spectacle at Rome” (l. 69, p. 27) is so great, greater than dying even, that she considers Masanissa’s offer. She tells him that his victory does not mean as much to her as he presumes, that her love will always be for her husband Syphax, and that she needs some time to accept her new fate (cf. ll. 75–84, p. 28). Masanissa agrees but urges her to not delay her decision since the captives are soon due to be sent to Rome. Sophonisba’s subsequent fight with herself is phrased in typical images of mourning and despair: she tears her hair, scratches her face, and cries for Syphax. This is when Isalces enters the room and is addressed by the queen. She expresses her fears and laments her dilemma: she is trapped between having to marry Masanissa, hence betraying Syphax, or being exposed as a trophy to Rome, hence betraying her roots and deepest beliefs (cf. ll. 115–35, p. 29). Isalces advises her to remain true to her country because this would have been in accordance with Syphax’s wishes (cf.

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ll. 144–58, p. 30). Dismissively, Sophonisba then accepts Masanissa’s proposal and makes him agree to one condition: to assist her in dying lest she should be handed over to the Romans.21 Isalces draws the sad conclusion: “asham’d to have it said, / One Day a Captive her, and Bride had made” (ll. 207–8, p. 31). The marriage oracle is doomed, but Masanissa ignores the fatal signs before they consummate the marriage. This is when “Fame” carries the news to Scipio who immediately tells Masanissa that Sophonisba as a conquered king’s wife belongs to Rome as part of the war spoils. Masanissa is urged to “shake this lewd Passion off” (l. 272, p. 35 [33]). He is ashamed and knows that he has to obey. Yet he remains true to his word and grants his newly wed wife her wish by sending her poison to kill herself. Sophonisba accepts her fate “with a Look / Moor Chearful, then when She a Bride was made” (ll. 304–5, p. 34). Her last words express her loyalty to Carthage and also her regret of having married Masanissa: . . . Sophonisba would more pleas’d have Dy’d, If, at her Death, She had not been his Bride: For then my Country might upon my Tomb Have writ, that, thus, I Triumph’d over Rome. (ll. 311–14, pp. 34–35)

Sophonisba’s story is told in the histories of Livy, Appian, Cassius Dio, Zonaras, and Diodorus Siculus.22 According to Appian, Cassius Dio (Zonaras), and Diodorus, Sophonisba was first betrothed to Masanissa before her father decided to marry her to Syphax for political reasons since Hasdrubal was against Masanissa joining forces with Rome. Hence in these accounts Sophonisba and Masanissa know each other already when they meet again after Syphax’s defeat, which further complicates the love triangle. A comparison of the Continuation with Livy’s depiction reveals that Ross’s main source is clearly the Roman historian, whom he follows closely in the overall outline of the episode:23 Masanissa meets Sophonisba shortly after the victory in her palace; Sophonisba expresses her wish of dying rather than being handed over to the Romans; the marriage is arranged quickly to ensure Sophonisba is Masanissa’s wife before the Romans can claim her as a captive; Scipio disapproves of the marriage and orders his ally to let her go; Masanissa sends a slave with a poisoned cup to his wife, which Sophonisba accepts; she then commits suicide. However, Ross introduces changes to the Livian episode that considerably alter the overall meaning. The most substantial change concerns the depiction of Sophonisba. In Livy, Masanissa is the actual protagonist of the episode. His dilemma between his political role as ally to Rome and his personal desires toward Sophonisba ultimately show him as a

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man misguided by love and yet faithful in granting Sophonisba’s wish. Crucially, Livy recounts that it is Sophonisba who approaches Masanissa first and who asks for his help in freeing her from the Romans: “. . . quid Carthaginiensi ab Romano, quid filiae Hasdrubalis timendum sit uides. si nulla re alia potes, morte me ut uindices ab Romanorum arbitrio oro obtestorque.”24 Masanissa is struck by her words and beauty and, as is typical of the Numidian character, Livy notes, he falls in love: “. . . sed, ut est genus Numidarum in uenerem praeceps, amore captiuae uictor captus. data dextra in id quod petebatur obligandae fidei, in regiam concedit.”25 What is more, in Livy Masanissa does not utter a single word in direct discourse. His actions and reactions are described, his feelings summarized, and his addresses to Sophonisba and his slave provided in reported speech. In contrast, Ross not only embellishes Sophonisba’s words, he also introduces additional scenes that further define her character as a thoughtful, considerate, and faithful wife and queen. Her immediate reply to Masanissa’s offer, in which she asks to postpone her decision, her conversations with Isalces, and her acceptance speech to Masanissa are additions to the original story. Her outspokenness and consideration come especially to the fore when she explains herself to Isalces: “Tis not, because Uncrown’d, / (Isalces) that I grieve; a deeper Wound / My Soul afflicts, and I am wrack’d between / Two dire Extreams” (ll. 115–17, p. 29). In Livy, by contrast, Sophonisba is a femme fatale, driven by a radical patriotism. She seduces Masanissa and almost succeeds in driving Scipio and Masanissa apart.26 Sophonisba’s faithfulness to both her husband and the Carthaginians (rather than the latter only, as in Livy) also affects the depiction of Syphax. Ross recounts his death in book I of the Continuation (see above), and he does not play any active role in Sophonisba’s death. Livy, in sharp contrast, has the captive Syphax talk to Scipio and induce him with suspicion of his wife’s intentions. According to Syphax, madness entered his house after his marriage to Sophonisba, which he claims is ultimately responsible also for his defeat by the Romans. The only consolation he has is that Masanissa has now also fallen into the queen’s scheming and dangerous hands.27 Here Syphax takes on the role of the jealous husband in blaming his wife and taking revenge on Masanissa while clearly demonstrating powerless fury about his present situation. The story of Sophonisba has obvious parallels to both Dido and Cleopatra and can also be set in relation to other Livian heroines such as Lucretia and Virginia, who equally prefer death to shame and dishonor. Poetic accounts of the story in English literature with which Ross may have been familiar are John Marston’s play The Wonder of Women, or the

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Tragedie of Sophonisba, staged for the first time in 1606, and Sir David Murray’s poem “The Tragicall Death of Sophonisba” (1611).28 Murray follows Livy too; that is, Masanissa sees Syphax’s wife for the first time after the Romans and their allies have defeated Hasdrubal and his men, while in Marston’s play Sophonisba has been married to Masanissa before she is given to Syphax by a decree of the Senate. Their meeting after the defeat is hence a reunion. Of the two texts The Wonder of Women bears the least similarity to Ross’s depiction. Apart from the reliance on a source other than Livy (possibly Appian), the story is heavily romanticized and focuses on the tragic love story between Syphax, Masanissa, and Sophonisba. The question of honor is still central and problematized,29 but that is not so much due to Marston’s deliberate changes as it is to the implications of the story itself. Murray’s poem on Sophonisba’s tragic death has a bipartite structure: roughly the first half of the text consists of a letter Masanissa sends with the poison to Sophonisba. The second half is devoted to Sophonisba’s final speech after she has received and read the letter. She then takes the poison and dies. What is remarkable about Murray’s version is his choice of a very exclusive and inward perspective. Both Masanissa and Sophonisba present their motives, emotions, fears, and reasoning in direct speech and in first-person narration, which gives unusual depth to their characters. Also, the fact that they do not converse directly further highlights the difficult position in which they find themselves. Overall, the poem is reminiscent of Ovid’s Heroides, not least because of Masanissa’s letter and the fact that Sophonisba’s reply can be read like a response letter. I could not find any verbatim correspondences between the Continuation and Murray’s poem, but there are a number of more general similarities: like Ross, Murray depicts Masanissa and Sophonisba as complex and sympathetic characters with whom the reader is invited to identify. Sophonisba in particular is shown as a considerate woman who is deeply attached to her home country. For instance, she expresses her patriotism as follows: “My freedomes lease till death doth not expire, / Which I to forfeit never shall desire.” If anything, Murray’s poem may have given Ross a model for a positive depiction of the tragic heroine. Sophonisba is not reduced to the femme fatale who deliberately schemes against Rome and seduces Masanissa for her purposes. Other European adaptations of the subject matter may also have been available to Ross, especially while he was on the continent and in close contact with European intellectuals. The entire fifth book of Petrarch’s Africa is devoted to the tragic story of Sophonisba and Masanissa.30 Petrarch also attempts a more positive portrayal of Sophonisba,

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even though, following Livy, he retains her consciously scheming against Rome.31 Petrarch emphasizes the motif of love to such a degree that the political motivations behind the episode are backgrounded. Rather than romanticizing the relationship, the Africa seeks to psychologize both Masanissa and Sophonisba’s actions. Masanissa’s decision to marry Sophonisba is thought through, and his promise to save her from the Romans if need be is by no means a rash one.32 What is more, Petrarch’s unfinished poem Trionfi about Amor’s triumphal procession also features Masanissa and Sophonisba. Here, Sophonisba is presented as the loving wife who became the tragic victim of political scheming.33 Another Italian humanist, Boccaccio, used the story in his work De claris mulieribus. Following Livy, his account stresses the political background of the events and emphasizes Sophonisba’s role. Long passages of direct discourse, which underline her proud and self-determined character, are put into her mouth.34 However, apart from the emphasis on Sophonisba as the main character of the episode, which contradicts Livy’s and the other classical historians’ accounts, these and other European adaptations of the topic are only very loosely connected to the Continuation.35 It seems as if Ross, if not entirely ignorant of the existing adaptations and versions of the story, chose to rely predominantly on classical sources, Livy in particular, and changed the account considerably in Sophonisba’s favor. In what follows I turn to the questions of why he made these changes and how they can be placed within the broader framework of the historical and political context of the English Civil War, the Interregnum, Royalist hopes, and Charles II’s exile.

Encoding Political Commentary: Sophonisba as Royalist Symbol As we have seen, Ross sets Sophonisba in a much more positive light than Livy does, where the Carthaginian queen uses men to her own purposes and is depicted as being seductive, selfish, and arrogant. The alteration introduced by Ross as well as the considerable amount of space devoted to the story emphasize its significance. In fact, the Continuation presents Sophonisba’s story as a prefiguration for the death of Hannibal. Like Hannibal, Sophonisba hates nothing more than subjecting herself to the Romans, and like Hannibal she chooses death before living in a relationship in order to avoid becoming the Romans’ spoils of war. Implicitly, strong-hearted and strong-headed Sophonisba becomes

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a model for Hannibal in the stoic acceptance of her fate, an acceptance guided by her strong principles. She is a both a compatriot and kindred spirit to Hannibal in her steadfastness and rejection of the Romans, from which she draws all her self-respect and confidence. One may want to note that Syphax too is depicted favorably by Ross: his death by starving equally presupposes a strong-mindedness and will not be treated by the Roman victors in any despicable way: . . . yet is my Will Free, as the Conquerour’s: and Rome shall finde, I still retain the Empire of my Minde, That stands above her reach, where I alone Will rule, and scorn to live, but on a Throne. (B. I, ll. 150–54, p. 6)

His lament too contains hints toward Hannibal’s subsequent fall. Syphax bemoans the fickleness of fate and the meaninglessness of making vows and believing to hold fate in one’s own hands. Sophonisba in effect continues her former husband’s decision and thereby shows how closely she is connected and acts in accordance with his principles and beliefs. Both Syphax and Sophonisba stress their freedom of thought and their ability to not allow their situation to take hold of them. The same is true of Hannibal at his death. His final words go beyond both Syphax’s and Sophonisba’s and verbalize the theme of the Punica: Rome may be victorious now but it cannot control and rule everything, and ultimately Hannibal too retains his honor and virtue as a hero in war. His final words are an apostrophe to Rome, not to Scipio or any other Roman general. Thus at the very end Hannibal and the Continuation at large leave behind individuals and elevate the theme of the Punica—the fight for honor, virtue, and victory between two equally honorable and virtuous forces—to a more general level. Ross, as was discussed above, lived and worked in an environment of intellectual stimulation and at the same time was actively engaged in Royalist campaigns in support of Charles II. Of the literary forms available, epic poetry in particular was one of the preferred genres of the Royalists to transmit political commentary in disguise. Thus “Royalist writers turned to the translation of Latin poetry as a way of making coded statements of their loyalty to the defeated cause.”36 Of course, the writing of epic poetry on contemporary events was too dangerous a topic. The politically fragile circumstances not only fostered the composition of epics on noncontemporary, historical subject matters but also led to an “inward turn” of epic poetry in general, which resulted in a focus on consciousness and psychologizing.37 Classical topics allowed for exploring current political events by means of comparison, symbolism, and allegory. Since these strategies can be evoked in parallel, even

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simultaneously within one episode of a poem, potential ambiguities can remain unresolved and at the same time protect the author. Examples of these epics also include biblical subjects, such as Abraham Cowley’s Davideis (1656), and folk legends, as in William Davenant’s Gondibert (1649–50).38 As a consequence, one can assume that Ross was well aware that his work could and would be read as a commentary to contemporary events, most certainly the civil war, and possibly also the Restoration, depending on when exactly the Continuation was written and completed. Hannibal uses the metaphor of the stain in his last speech: “But this vile Stain (O Rome) / More lasting, then thy Trophies, shall become” (ll. 719–20, p. 76). Is Hannibal to be identified with the Republicans and Cromwell in particular, who, after 1660, could from a Royalist perspective be a “stain” on history’s vest of the monarchy in England? Yet one does not have to go that far: clearly the episode of Sophonisba’s tragic death is suggestive of the expression of the Royalist agenda. Indeed, it may not be a coincidence that Ross also embellishes another “royal” episode in the Continuation: Hannibal and Scipio’s peaceful meeting at the court of King Antiochus. The meeting is set in the context of a feast day: It was a Day, when to commemorate The King’s Nativity, th’ Ephesian State With annual Rites their Loyal Joys exprest. The King (as Custom was) a Stately Feast Prepares: the Nobles all, invited, come, And there the Fates of Carthage, and of Rome (Scipio, and Hannibal) the Banquet grace, And now meet, not to Fight, but to Embrace. (ll. 623–30, p. 44)

None of the sources I consulted contains any specification of this kind, not even another kind of festivity. It seems one can assume that Ross added this small but potentially significant detail. When Charles II returned to England in 1660, he arrived in London on his birthday (May 29); this day was later announced a public holiday. Did Ross compose these lines after the event in 1660 and deliberately add a “royal” reference to contemporary events? Indeed, the potential parallels go beyond the king’s birthday: just as Scipio and Hannibal meet in peace, so was Charles received peacefully and did not have to fear any attack on his life. The line “not to Fight, but to Embrace” is the closest the Continuation comes to suggesting a reconciliation between royal and republican representatives. If these specifics of time can be true, it is but small wonder that Ross remains careful and cryptic about drawing too obvious a parallel since the Restoration could only have been accomplished

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very recently, and the future was still highly questionable. Both the depiction of Sophonisba and the possible commentary on political developments—whether being written prior to or after the actual arrival of Charles in England—reflect typical features of seventeenth-century literature and yet go beyond them in their creative use of the classical story. In the episode of Sophonisba’s death, the tragic heroine is used as a prefiguration of Hannibal’s death on the level of the story. At the same time, the narrative functions as a symbol of the Royalist cause. In line with the practice of disguising political commentary, Ross adds an additional layer of meaning to the story in subtly changing its details, the depiction of Sophonisba in particular. Her royal attributes are stressed, as well as her patriotic love. Her death is not the result of a love triangle in which she is objectified, but follows from her consequent love for Carthage to which she subordinates everything else. Hence Sophonisba’s suicide is both a heroic and a “royal” one. She dies a queen and has not forsaken her country, thereby repeating Syphax’s steadfastness, which is equally “royal” in its consequence. Rome and its republican leader Scipio cannot subdue the couple. Perhaps this royal rewriting of Sophonisba as well as Syphax transmits a message of solace: the Royalists may have lost England and the monarchy, but they can still be true to themselves and do not have to give in to the republican powers. Implicitly, Ross provides his readers with a strategy for upholding their faith in the monarchy, which contains a Stoic incentive: their thoughts are still free and no one and nothing can prescribe or influence their opinions and beliefs. Syphax’s final words can therefore be read as the hidden agenda of Ross’s Continuation. These words prefigure, and summarize, Sophonisba’s death and also Hannibal’s suicide and yet may also be read as an imperative to action—namely, that the Royalists will never give up the hope of restoring the monarchy: “I still retain the Empire of my Minde, / . . . where I alone / Will rule, and scorn to live, but on a Throne” (B. I, ll. 152–54, p. 6).

Notes 1. Why Christopher Bond maintains that the 1661 edition promised the Continuation but in fact did not include it is unclear. Cf. “The Phoenix and the Prince: The Poetry of Thomas Ross and Literary Culture in the Court of Charles II,” Review of English Studies, New Series 60, no. 246 (2009): 588–604, here 590. All three of Ross’s texts mentioned in the article are available at Early English Books Online (EEBO): http://eebo.chadwyck.com/ home.

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2. Cf. Philip Lewin, “Ross, Thomas (bap. 1620, d. 1675),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, online edition), www. oxforddnb.com/view/article/24134. See also Bond, “The Phoenix and the Prince,” 598. 3. The title pages of the two editions of his translation from Silius specify his position as follows: “Tho. Ross, Esq., Keeper of his Majesties Libraries, and Groom of His most Honourable, Privy-Chamber.” 4. See in more detail on the engravings Katrien Daemen-de Gelder and JeanPierre Vander Motten, “Thomas Ross’s Second Punick War (London 1661 and 1672): Royalist Panegyric and Artistic Collaboration in the Southern Netherlands,” Quærendo 38 (2008): 32–48. See also by the same authors “A ‘Copy as Immortal as Its Original’: Thomas Ross’s Second Punick War,” in Living in Posterity: Essays in Honour of Bart Westerweel, eds. Jan Frans van Dijkhuizen and Paul Smith (Hilversum: Verloren, 2004), 185–90. 5. Cf. P. H. Hardacre, “The Royalists in Exile During the Puritan Revolution, 1642–1660,” Huntington Library Quarterly 16 (1952): 353–70; Geoffrey Smith, “‘Long, Dangerous and Expensive Journeys’: The Grooms of the Bedchamber at Charles II’s Court in Exile,” special issue, Early Modern Literary Studies 15 (2007): 1–26, http://purl.oclc.org/emls/si-15/smitjour.htm. 6. Edward L. Bassett, “Silius Italicus in England,” Classical Philology 48, no. 3 (1953): 155–68. Thomas May’s translation of the Pharsalia was published in 1627 (books 1–3 in 1626 already) and subsequently printed five more times in the seventeenth century (1631, 1635, 1650, 1659, 1679). See Robert Cummings and Stuart Gillespie, “Translations from Greek and Latin Classics 1550–1700: A Revised Bibliography,” Translation and Literature 18 (2009): 1–42, here 23. The Aeneid was translated by John Ogilby and printed three times before Ross’s publication (1649, 1650, 1654); further editions followed after 1660. 7. In 1630, 1633, and 1657 on its own, and in 1650 and 1659 as a supplement to May’s translation of the Pharsalia. Cf. Birger Backhaus, Das Supplementum Lucani von Thomas May. Einleitung, Edition, Übersetzung, Kommentar, BAC 65 (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 2005). 8. Bond, “The Phoenix and the Prince,” 592. 9. Cf. Bond, “The Phoenix and the Prince,” 592. 10. Daemen-de Gelder and Vander Motten, “Thomas Ross’s Second Punick War,” 35. 11. Bond argues that Ross uses the story of the phoenix as an image for his hopes of the duke of Monmouth becoming heir to the throne. The phoenix is mentioned briefly already in the dedicatory poem to the 1661 edition of The Second Punick War. Cf. “The Phoenix and the Prince,” 596–603. 12. Cf. also Bond, “The Phoenix and the Prince,” 590. 13. Curt Zimansky mixes up the Continuation with the Essay; cf. “The Literary Career of Thomas Ross,” Philological Quarterly 21, no. 4 (1942): 443–44, here 444. In the dedication to the earl of Strafford, which precedes the Continuation, Ross mentions that he thought about writing about the Third Punic War at first but then decided against it because “Conscious of the Weakness of what I have already built, I feared, that, by raising, too many Stories, It might fall under its own Bulk, and my self under the Censure of Ambition, in aspiring to so great a Work” (“The Epistle Dedicatory,” unnumbered page). This fear may have led to the decision to publish the Essay anonymously, and may also come to the fore in the motto inscribed on the title page of the Essay, “Scribimus indocti doctique poemata” (“learned and

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14. 15. 16.

17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

Medievalia et Humanistica unlearned, we write poems”), which clearly plays down the author’s literary achievement. The line numbering is mine. The distribution is as follows: eighteen notes each in book I and book II and twenty-six notes in book III. Cf. on historiography in the period David Norbrook, “The English Revolution and English Historiography,” in The Cambridge Companion to Writing of the English Revolution, ed. N. H. Keeble (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 233–50. See also Peter Burke, “A Survey of the Popularity of Ancient Historians 1450–1700,” History and Theory 5 (1966): 135–52; Peter Culhane, “Philemon Holland’s Livy: Peritexts and Contexts,” Translation and Literature 13 (2004): 268–86; and Charles G. Salas, “Ralegh and the Punic Wars,” Journal of the History of Ideas 57, no. 2 (1996): 195–215. For a bibliographic overview cf. Robert Cummings, “Recent Studies in English Translation, c. 1590–1600. Part I: General Studies and Translations from Greek and Latin,” English Literary Renaissance 39, no. 1 (2009): 197–227. Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton, “‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” Past and Present 129, no. 1 (1990): 30–78, here 72. See Jardine and Grafton, “How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” 40–42, 58–59. This is a preliminary list of the similes used in the Continuation: gigantomachy (B. I, ll. 69–86), earthquake (B. I, ll. 109–12), rivers that run into the sea (B. I, ll. 156–57), lion in the Libyan woods (B. I, ll. 163–76), oil put into flames (B. I, ll. 405–7), tiger (B. I, ll. 644–45), tigress (B. II, ll. 91–98), sailor (B. II, ll. 159–64), Aurora (B. II, ll. 169–72), Alecto and sulphur (B. II, ll. 219–20), flame (B. II, ll. 277–78), Aeneas (B. II, ll. 631–38), nuptials which hold lover awake (B. II, ll. 935–38), and tiger (B. III, ll. 574–78). Overall, the similes are varied and work well in the context in which they are used. A comparison with Silius’s similes and Ross’s translation thereof would be a further interesting project. Cf. Pun. 5,289–96, in particular ll. 289ff.: “stabat fulgentem portans in bella bipennem / Cinyphius socerique miser Magonis inire / optabat pugnam ante oculos spe laudis Isalces . . . .” In Ross’s translation the lines read as follows: “For arm’d with a bright Ax, and, in the Sight / Of’s Father Mago, to engage in Fight / Ambitious: big with Hopes of Praise, there stood / Cinyphian Isalces” (The Second Punick War, p. 134). The Cinyps is a small river in Libya. “I here beseech you still, / By Death to free Me from the Romans Will” (ll. 191–92, p. 31). For the whole passage, see ll. 173–200. pp. 30–31. Cf. Livy, Ab urbe condita 30,12–15; Appian, Libyca 27,111–28,119; Cassius Dio 17,57; Zonaras 9,11–13; Diodorus Siculus 27,7. Polybios refers to Sophonisba in 14,4, but the relevant passages of the story are lacking. In the marginal note b on page 27 Ross glosses the reference to “My Rival’s Arms” in Masanissa’s address to Sophonisba with an explanation of the speaker’s background and his relationship to Syphax. Here Ross mixes Livy’s and Appian’s accounts—both sources are explicitly named—and explains that Sophonisba was first promised to Masanissa by her father, but then given to Syphax. The note leaves open whether Sophonisba and Masanissa were ever in direct contact or whether Hasdrubal made his plans without any meeting between the potential couple. Liv. 30,12,16. “. . . you see what a Carthaginian, what Hasdrubal’s daughter has to fear from the Romans. If you are not able to use any other means, I

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beg and beseech you to save me from the judgment of the Romans by my death.” 25. Liv. 30,12,18. “. . . but, as the Numidian people falls head over heels in love, the victor was captivated by love of his captive. Giving her his right hand as a pledge for granting her the request, he withdrew into the palace.” 26. On the depiction of Sophonisba in Livy, see in more detail, for example, Johannes Christes, “Massinissa und Sophoniba und die moralischen Prinzipien des P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus,” in Vergil und das antike Epos: Festschrift Hans Jürgen Tschiedel, eds. Stefan Freund and Meinolf Vielberg, Altertumswissenschaftliches Kolloquium 20 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2008), 507–24; Linda-Maria Günther, “Sophoniba—eine Patriotin?,” in Punica, Libyca, Ptolemaica: Festschrift für Werner Huss zum 65. Geburtstag, eds. Klaus Geus and Klaus Zimmermann (Peeters: Leuven, 2001), 289–309; Shelley P. Haley, “Livy’s Sophoniba,” Classica et Mediaevalia 40 (1989): 171–81; and Barbara Kowalewski, Frauengestalten im Geschichtswerk des T. Livius (München and Leipzip: Saur, 2002), esp. 219–39. Romance elements are discussed by J. M. K. Martin, “Livy and Romance,” Greece and Rome 11 (1941–42): 124–29. 27. Cf. Liv. 30,13,10–14,1: exitum sui furoris eum fuisse, non principium; tum se insanisse, tum hospitia priuata et publica foedera omnia ex animo eiecisse, cum Carthaginiensem matronam domum acceperit. illis nuptialibus facibus regiam conflagrasse suam; illam furiam pestem que omnibus delenimentis animum suum auertisse atque alienasse, nec conquiesse donec ipsa manibus suis nefaria sibi arma aduersus hospitem atque amicum induerit. perdito tamen atque adflicto sibi hoc in miseriis solatii esse, quod in omnium hominum inimicissimi sibi domum ac penates eandem pestem ac furiam transisse uideat. neque prudentiorem neque constantiorem Masinissam quam Syphacem esse, etiam iuuenta incautiorem; certe stultius illum atque intemperantius eam quam se duxisse. Haec non hostili modo odio, sed amoris etiam stimulis amatam apud aemulum cernens cum dixisset, non mediocri cura Scipionis animum pepulit . . . . Ross also alludes to this story and inserts hints that suggest that Syphax’s marriage to Sophonisba and his defeat may be linked (cf. I, ll. 105–6, 131–32, 182; see pp. 4, 5 and 7). Yet these links are not made explicit and are played down in order to serve the overall positive depiction of the Numidian king in the Continuation. 28. Cf. The Wonder of Women Or The Tragedie of Sophonisba, as it hath beene sundry times Acted at the Black Friers. Written by Iohn Marston. London. Printed by Iohn Windet and are to be sold neere Ludgate, 1606. See the edition by William Kemp (London and New York: Garland, 1979). For the poem by Murray, see The tragicall death of Sophinisba. Written by Dauid Murray. Scoto-Brittaine. At London: Printed [by George Eld] for Iohn Smethwick, and are to be sold at his shop in Saint Dunstans Church-yard in Fleetstreet, vnder the Diall, 1611. Reprinted by the Ballantyne Club in Poems by Sir David Murray of Gorthy, ed. Thomas Kinnear (Edinburgh, 1823). Murray (1567–1629) worked for James VI’s son Henry in Edinburgh at the time of composition; the poem is dedicated to Henry. 29. Cf. Peter Culhane, “Livy in Early Jacobean Drama,” Translation and Literature 14 (2005): 21–44, here 42. See also Rebecca Yearling, “John Marston, Stoic?

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30.

31. 32.

33. 34. 35.

36.

37.

38.

Medievalia et Humanistica Sophonisba and the Early Modern Stoic Ideal,” Ben Jonson Journal 18, no. 1 (2011): 85–100. For the Africa, cf. Thomas G. Bergin and Alice S. Wilson, trans., Petrarch’s Africa (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977); and Bernhard Huss, ed., Francesco Petrarca, Africa. Excerpta classica 24, 2 vols., text with German translation and commentary (Mainz: Dieterich, 2007). Sophonisba is paralleled with Dido throughout the story. See in more detail James Simpson, “Subjects of Triumph and Literary History: Dido and Petrarch in Petrarch’s Trionfi and Africa,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 35, no. 3 (2005): 489–508. Cf. Tamara Visser, Antike und Christentum in Petrarcas Africa. NeoLatina 7 (Tübingen: Narr, 2005), 177. Cf. 5,80–151 and 202–42 in particular. Visser argues that in the episode Petrarca seeks to reconcile the “pagan” context of the Second Punic War with Christian values and morals. From a Christian perspective, Sophonisba’s marriage to Masanissa is illegitimate because she is still legally married to Syphax. Cf. Visser, Antike und Christentum in Petrarcas Africa, 173–75. Cf. II,1–87. Cf. chapter LXX. This is especially true for the French tradition and Gian Giorgio Trissino’s tragedy Sofonisba (1515), which had a considerable influence on French drama. See in more detail Albert José Axelrad, Le Thème de Sophonisbe dans les Principales Tragédies de la Littérature Occidentale (France, Angleterre, Allemagne) (Lille: Bibliothèque Universitaire, 1956); and Karl Maurer, Goethe und die romanische Welt. Studien zur Goethezeit und ihrer europäischen Vorgeschichte (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1997), 223–41. Paul Hammond, “Classical Texts: Translations and Transformations,” in The Cambridge Companion to English Literature, 1650–1740, ed. Steven N. Zwicker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 143–61, here 146. See also Paul Salzmann, who states that epic offered opportunities of “oblique political commentary for Royalist writers” (“Royalist Epic and Romance,” in The Cambridge Companion to Writing of the English Revolution, ed. N. H. Keeble [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001], 215–30, here 215), and more generally David Quint, Epic and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). Cf. Anthony Welch, “Epic Romance, Royalist Retreat, and the English Civil War,” Modern Philology 105, no. 3 (2008): 570–602; and Nigel Smith, Literature and Revolution in England 1640–1660 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), esp. 203–30. See also Annabel Patterson, Censorship and Interpretation: The Conditions of Writing and Reading in Early Modern England (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1984). See Thomas N. Corns, Uncloistered Virtue: English Political Literature, 1640– 1660 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992).

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Liturgical and Sacramental Imagery in the Disputation between a Christian and a Jew LUUK HOUWEN

Abstract The few critics that have paid any attention to the Middle English debate poem known as the Disputisoun bytwene a cristenmon and a jew have generally regarded it as a poem written in the romance tradition. Although the present article does not deny the influence of romances on this debate, it argues that the Disputation is neither a romance nor a debate but an apologetic piece of literature the main aim of which is to emphasize the bodily presence of Christ in the consecrated host. This also helps to explain its presence and position in the Vernon manuscript (Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Eng. poet. a. 1.) where it accompanies other tracts in which the Mass and the Eucharist play central roles.

In his anthology of Middle English debate poetry Conlee prints a debate between a Christian and a Jew that had previously been edited by Furnivall and Horstmann.1 This Disputisoun bytwene a cristenmon and a jew recounts how an English and a Jewish theologian disputed in vain at Paris. The Christian argues the Virgin Birth and the redemption through Christ’s crucifixion and the Jew favors a God who has no son. In order to convince the Christian the Jew suggests he will prove the power of his religion by showing the Christian a vision of Christ on the cross. They travel to the Otherworld where the Christian proves the vision of the crucifixion to be a false one by confronting it with a consecrated host. The Jew admits the errors of his ways and converts to Christianity. At this point the Christian is identified as Sir Walter of Berwick who was made a penitentiary by the pope.2 Although the poem is quite remarkable in terms of content and structure, it has drawn little critical attention. Apart from a brief discussion in volume 3 of The Manuals of the Writings in Middle English and an article by Carlton Brown, which largely consists of a summary of a possible Latin source, it has been much neglected.3 Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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In spite of its title, the work is more of an extended exemplum than a true debate, as Conlee acknowledges.4 It abounds in narrative elements that are also found in folk literature and romances: there is the passage to the Otherworld, a subterranean castle, a taboo on eating, and both black and white magic. The Disputation uses the same sixteen-line tailrhyme stanzas that are also used in Sir Percevalles of Galles, Sir Degrevant, and The Avowing of King Arthur (all northern poems), which led some critics to suggest a northern, even Scottish, provenance. The Middle English Dictionary, however, locates it in the southwest and dates it to between 1365 and 1385.5 The work consists of twenty stanzas and is extant in only one manuscript, the Vernon manuscript (Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Eng. poet. a. 1.). The Disputation is interesting for a number of reasons. First, because it is one of the few Middle English debates between a Christian and a member of another religion although, as we shall see shortly, this is hardly a representative example. It also stands out because in addition to being a debate the poem displays characteristics of several other genres as well: not only does it combine a journey to the Otherworld with an Arthurian setting, but it is also strongly reminiscent of a vision. An analogue and possibly (indirect) source to this story, first identified by Brown, appears in Thomas of Cantimpré’s Bonum universale de apibus (II.57.23), where the disputants are a Dominican friar and a heretic, and the story is set in Germany instead of Paris. Compared to the Middle English version, Thomas of Cantimpré’s exemplum presents no more than a bare outline of the same narrative and is less than a fifth as long.6 Thomas’s version, Brown notes, is in turn a variation of an adventure related in the vita of St. Wulfram, but this version does not feature the Otherworld nor is a consecrated host used to dispel the apparition.7 In what follows I would like to examine this poem in somewhat greater detail, and I shall argue that the poet uses imagery derived from Otherworldly journeys and the visual arts to make a Christian doctrinal point, namely that of the Real Presence in the Eucharist, and that this imagery replaces much of the actual debate. In the process, it will also emerge that the assertions of earlier critics like Brown and Reed, who firmly place the Disputation in a romance setting, require substantial modification.8 Before we are even confronted with the Otherworld of romance, the actual verbal dispute in the Disputation starts with what strongly resembles a religious vision. The vision is not described in any detail; all we are told is that it seems to the Christian that he sees Christ “þat for vs di3ede on þe tre” (“who died for us on the cross”) (38) in the distance:

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Þe cristene mon seide as he þou3t “Lo, 3onde vr God þat vs bou3t! Oþer trouwe þou hit nou3t, Bi daye nor bi niht! (33–36; my emphasis) [The Christian said as he thought, “See there our God who redeemed us! And you had better believe it, by jolly!”]

This passage is puzzling since Walter points the cross out to his Jewish colleague, whose only response is to assert that there is only one God in heaven. Yet the use of introductory “as he þou3t” (33) suggests that Walter may well have had a vision. The phrase is commonly used in both Middle English and Middle Scots to signal the beginning of (dream-) visions and other reports of supernatural events,9 although it is a little unusual for it to be couched in reported speech rather than in the firstperson singular.10 Walter follows up this vision of Christ with a statement of faith that is to all intents and purposes a digest of the fourth article of the Nicene Creed—namely, that Christ died on the cross for the “welfare” of humankind and that he humbled himself by being born a man of the Virgin Mary in a stable surrounded by an ox and an ass (38–46). If we accept that Walter’s sighting of the cross is indeed a vision, then it would add both structure and meaning to the Disputation. It helps structure the narrative by setting the so-called debate apart from the rest. The central episode is then accentuated by two visions that envelop it: the first a true vision of Christ who died on the cross for the redemption of mankind, the second a false one conjured up by the Jew. The whole is framed by a prologue in which the two theologians are introduced and an epilogue in which the Jewish divine is converted and the Christian is “identified.”11 The initial vision is not only mirrored in the later apparition, but it also sets the sacramental tone of what is to follow. After the Jew has stated his belief in a single God, Walter introduces the subject of the belief in the Eucharist as a pivotal one to Christianity and hence redemption, and he notes that the Jew and all his people are irredeemably lost if they fail to believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the host: Þe cristen mon stondeþ stille, And seþþen he talkeþ him tille And seiþ þat “þi wikked wille Schal worche þe ful wo. Þou leuest not in þe Mes Þat euer God þer in is; ffor þi lyking is þe les And loren artou so, And al þi careful kynde Þat euer bicom of his strende

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Men schal in baret þe bynde And bete þe ful blo; Whon þou schalt of þis world wende, Þou schalt be tau3t to þe fende And euermore wiþouten ende In-to þe pyne go.” [65–80; my emphasis] [The Christian stood still and then he addressed him and said: “Your evil desire will bring you much harm. You do not believe in the Eucharist [and] that God is always present in it; because you do not wish it, so you are lost, and [so] is all your wretched kind that ever came from his lineage. You will be fettered in strife and beaten black-and-blue; when you will leave this world, you will go to the devil and live in pain for evermore.”]

At first glance this emphasis on the host is odd, since it would have made more sense for the Jew to accept the doctrines of the Trinity or the Virgin Birth before he has to worry about such finer points as the Transubstantiation. It shows, however, that the Middle English author is not primarily concerned with conversion, something that would have been somewhat futile anyway in fourteenth-century England, from which the Jews had all long since been expelled.12 His concern, here and elsewhere in the poem, is with the Eucharist and the Real Presence,13 an article of faith that was often reflected in both art and literature as well as in the popular imagination all the way up to the end of the Middle Ages. In vernacular literature it featured in a variety of genres, including drama (The Play of the Sacrament), sermon cycles, and lyrics (Corpus Christi carol) to name but a few.14 The Play of the Sacrament, which according to its colophon dates from 1461, also embeds the doctrine of Transubstantiation in a conversion story. In its introduction this unique play relates how a merchant in the city of Aragon sold a consecrated host to a rich Jew who, together with others, proceeded to stab it and nail it to a pillar and submit it to a host of other tortures to take revenge on it. When the oven in which they placed the host burst asunder they are overcome by contrition and are all converted. The play that follows relates a similar story but places it in Paris.15 Both exemplum and play, like the Disputation, demonstrate, if demonstration is needed, the close symbolic relationship between the Eucharist and the Crucifixion and thus the larger framework in which we should view the Disputation.16 In our poem Walter’s reference to the Eucharist and what it symbolizes is taken up again by the Jew who, as part of the wager to demonstrate the superiority of his religion, promises Walter he will show him the crucified Christ, thereby reiterating part of the earlier article of faith. This reiteration does not make much sense coming as it does from the Jew, but this is not unusual in medieval apologetic texts; the devil in

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many a saint’s life also often feels called upon to explain his deceitful ways. When Walter reminds the Jew that he and his people descend from Christ (73–74), the Jew neatly “answers” with a reference to Adam and Eve as the common ancestors of them all (83): . . . I schal lete þe him se Þou seist þat þe bouht, Boþe þe vuel and þe gode, Hou he was don on þe Roode, And alle þat bi him stoode Whon he to deþe was brought. (87–92) [I shall show to you him, who you say redeemed you, both the wicked and the good; how he was crucified and all those who stood near him when he was put to death.]

Walter accepts the wager and will acknowledge defeat if the Jew can show him Christ’s ultimate sacrifice on the cross. Having firmly established the host as his central concern, the author quickly proceeds to the actual journey. Without further discussion or explanation Walter assumes a journey is needed to settle the argument: To-morwe, set we þat day, We schal wende on vr way To winne vs þe wyne. (106–8) [Let’s decide that we shall leave tomorrow and be on our way to win the bet.]

This is puzzling because it is not clear why a journey would be needed in order to witness or conjure up a vision of the cross and the Crucifixion. However, such journeys are common in religious visions where they metaphorically depict a learning experience that results in spiritual enlightenment on the part of the protagonist and the reader. The prologue in William Langland’s Piers Plowman combines such a journey with a dream-vision of the postlapsarian world, the “fair field full of folk”; and in Pearl a grieving father lying on his deceased daughter’s grave embarks on a journey to the Earthly Paradise to be instructed by her. In both cases we are also dealing with allegorical texts that have an additional meaning to the one offered at the literal level of the text. The “field” in Langland, for example, refers to the world and all its inhabitants, just like “Everyman” or “Jederman” refers to all men in the morality plays of that name.17 In short, the purpose of these allegorical visions is a didactic one.18 This is no different here; the journey upon which the two divines are about to embark will turn out to be just such an experience, but it is largely a nonverbal one. Instead of dialogue, the roads traveled, the places visited, and the people encountered tell their own tale, and it is a cautionary one that must have made Walter happy that he had brought along a consecrated host to protect him against evil.

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Before we touch upon the nonverbal discourse, some of the more striking similarities between the journey in the Disputation and that found in religious visions of Hell and Purgatory should help establish the Disputation as essentially a religious vision rather than a romance. The first thing to strike one is the actual entrance into the world below through an opening in a hill. This may have been “a common feature in romances stemming from Celtic tradition” as Conlee notes,19 but it is also commonly found in such visionary journeys to the underworld as St. Patrick’s Purgatory, which is extant in over three hundred translations and adaptations.20 Treatises like St. Patrick’s Purgatory helped people accept the concepts of Hell and Purgatory. As Easting notes: Gregory the Great influentially tells how, with the approaching end of the world, other-world openings such as Etna were being enlarged so that those who had heard of the torments of Hell but still refused to believe were to see these realms with their own eyes. Six centuries later, the Cistercian H[enry] of Sawtry, in the prologue to the Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii tells how St Patrick’s Purgatory was similarly opened up in order that those who did not believe in Patrick’s preaching on Heaven and Hell might enter and discover the truth of the other world for themselves.21

In a kind of warped, inverted way, it serves the same purpose here even if it is the person who conjured it all up who is ultimately converted. But the parallels do not end with the entrance. In St. Patrick’s Purgatory Sir Owayne prepares for his journey by praying and fasting for fifteen nights; our theologians prepare themselves too, even if it is only by staying awake the night before (113). In the poem How to Hear Mass, which follows the Disputation in the Vernon manuscript, believers are urged to attend Mass before a journey,22 and this is indeed what Owayne does before he descends in the Cotton and Yale versions of St. Patrick’s Purgatory.23 Before they leave Paris Walter too says his matins and sings Mass (116–18). Both Walter and Owayne encounter “a hall” down below; both are awake when they make their journeys; and, as it emerges later, the Otherworld into which Walter is led reveals itself to be some sort of Hell with fiends to match (255, 268; cf. 137) rather than the Earthly Paradise it seemed at first.24 A further connection may be the timeframe in which some of the religious visions are set, which tend to be associated with the Crucifixion or Easter. The Auchinleck version of St. Patrick’s Purgatory or Owayne Miles, as Easting calls it, gives Easter Day as the date for William’s descent, whereas the Royal version has “the Friday next after the Fest of þe Exaltacion of þe Crosse” (SR2–4) and “the Friday next after holyrode day in harvest” (SR8–9). In the Vision of the Monk of Eynsham Edmund has his vision the night before Good Friday, just as Dante did in the Divina

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Comedia, and wakes up before compline on Saturday. That the mock crucifixion scene in the Disputation is also directly linked to Good Friday is suggested by the fact that Walter refuses to partake of the food and drink offered him in the hall: Seþþe awasschen, I weene, And wente to þe sete. Riche metes was forþ brouht To alle men þat good þouht; Þe cristen mon wolde nouht Drynke nor ete. (Disputation, 211–16) [Then [they went] to wash, I believe, and took their seats. Rich food was served to all men, which seemed fitting; the Christian man would neither eat nor drink.]

Conlee suggests quite plausibly that Walter wisely refrains from eating because “there is surely meant to be a contrast, too, between those who sup with the devil and those who partake of God’s supper,”25 but it is even more likely that Walter is observing the traditional fast on Good Friday that was kept by laymen and priests. In fact, Luke even suggests that Christ himself did not eat of the bread or drink of the wine he handed to his disciples at the Last Supper.26 Inevitably, the other events referred to in the text, even if their time frame is a little vague, then very likely also take place in Holy Week, turning the Disputation into very much an occasional poem. Once we start examining the Disputation as a religious vision and bear in mind the central role set aside for the Eucharist, the vision suddenly starts to make a lot of sense. That this journey will not result in spiritual enlightenment for Walter and may indeed turn out to be more sinister than it at first appears is hinted at right from the beginning when the Jew leads Walter down a path that quickly broadens into a street paved with gravel reminiscent of the broad highway leading to destruction mentioned in the Sermon on the Mount.27 Walter signals to the reader to beware when he starts to wonder what it all means (151–52) and when he “marvels” at what he sees: Fforþ heo wenten on þe ffeld To an hul þei biheold; Þe eorþe cleuet as a scheld On þe ground grene. Sone fond þei a stih; Þei went þeron radly; Þe cristene mon hedde ferly What hit mihte mene. (Disputation, 145–52) [They went ahead across the field to a nearby hill they spotted; the earth split open like a shield on the green ground. They soon discovered a path and went thereon readily; the Christian marveled what it might signify.]

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The term used here and later on is “ferly” (151, 175), which refers to a marvel or wonder, although the connotation of enchantment, magic, or even illusion cannot be ruled out.28 Be that as it may, Walter’s reaction suggests that he is well aware of the fact that this vision belongs to the realm of the marvelous rather than the miraculous, or, if you will, the realm of black magic rather than white magic. The paradisiacal setting in which they end up—filled with birdsong and halls that are decorated with purple and pall, not to mention the red gold of the castle and grounds, and Arthur and his men—all suggest an enchanted rather than a heavenly place, which is indeed how the narrator describes it.29 Þer was foulene song, Muche murþes among: Hose lenge wolde long, fful luitel him þouht. On vche a syde of þe halle, Pourpul, pelure and palle; Wyndouwes i þe walle Was wonderli i-wrouht. Þer was dosers on þe dees: Hose þe cheef wolde ches, Þat neuere ricchere wes In no sale souht. Boþe þe mot and þe molde Schon al on red golde. Þe cristen mon hedde ferli of þat folde Þat þider was brou3t. (Disputation, 161–76) [There was bird song, with much merriness: whoever would linger there for long would think it but a short while. On each side of the hall, there was purpure, fur hangings and fine cloth; there were finely wrought windows in the walls. There were ornamental cloths on the dais: whoever would choose the best of them would find none better in any hall. Both the castle and its grounds shone all over with red gold. The Christian marveled at the fold of cloth [?] that had been brought there.]

That in such an otherworldly place one may well encounter the living dead of romance becomes apparent when the narrator describes Arthur’s men as being arrayed “as þei weore quik” (“as if they were alive”) (191). However, the Jew reminds us that we are still on a journey of discovery with his allusion to Horace’s “aut prodesse . . . aut delectare”30 when he suggests that whoever abides in this place a little longer may both enjoy himself and learn something (195–96). We have already seen that, when he next shows Walter a nunnery inhabited by richly dressed ladies and squires, Walter declines to partake in the meal they offer him. The wealthy inhabitants of the nunnery accompanied by their squires are hardly what one would expect in a place characterized by a turning away from the world; they belong rather to the same late

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medieval satirical tradition that gave rise to the Land of Cokaygne with its monks and nuns who are more interested in carnal communion than observing their hours.31 Perhaps that explains why the narrator cheekily announces he does not know the name of the place (198)! It is not until after this feast that the Jew fulfills his promise and shows Walter the cross with the wounded and bleeding Christ, at the foot of which stood Mary and St. John, as well as saints Peter and Paul and John the Baptist. The latter is perhaps a little odd—after all, John the Baptist was beheaded before Christ was crucified—but in the visual arts it is not unusual to find John the Baptist closely associated with the Crucifixion.32 Walter, however, is not very gullible and produces the consecrated host with which he confronts the man on the cross, and in a flash the vision disappears, the building vanishes, all is darkness, and the two theologians find themselves back where they started on top of the hill as if nothing had happened. As we saw before, Thomas Reed called the Disputation “an exercise in romantic fantasy,”33 but this, I believe, misses the point completely. What the anonymous author presents us with here is a descent into Hell with a mock presentation of the Last Supper and the Crucifixion. The meal at the nunnery is a case in point. The mood may be that of a banquet, but the narrative order of events—the washing of hands followed by the food and then the wine (209–19)—closely follows the liturgical order. Moreover, the washing calls to mind Christ’s washing the feet of the disciples on Maundy Thursday and the washing of the hands of the priest before the consecration.34 The following crucifixion scene then foreshadows the liturgical consecration, and there are indeed some indicators that are suggestive of this. First, the two divines rise from the table before they see the cross35 (225–26), and only when they face the cross does the man on it start to bleed: Whon he was schewed to þe siht, Boþe of leom and of liht, Þe mon þat most was of miht His woundes gon blede. (Disputation, 237–40) [When he [Walter] was shown the radiant sight/vision, the wounds of the Man of Sorrows began to bleed.]

The wounds that only begin to bleed when the theologians behold the crucifixion scene suggest the actual moment of Transubstantiation when the bread becomes the body of Christ. This motif is reflected with variations both in the visual arts and literature (exempla) in the later medieval period.36 If Walter imitated Christ earlier in the mock Last Supper scene by refusing to eat, it is here that his sacerdotal function fully

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emerges when he produces the host that he had so far held close to his body and raises it in the same way the priest would elevate the host at the altar after addressing the man on the cross: Þe cristen mon hedde a derworþ þinge On his bodi, he gon hit brynge Þat a prest schulde wiþ synge Whon masse schulde be don. “3if þou be God so fre Þat for me di3ed on þe tre, Here þi sone mai þou se” (Disputation, 245–51) [The Christian had brought a great thing [hidden] on his body, which a priest would celebrate Mass with. “If you are the generous God who died for me on the cross, you may here see your son. . . .”]

At this moment of existential crisis in which the author makes deft, if not entirely orthodox, use of the Trinity by addressing Christ on the cross as his father,37 the spell is broken and the party is literally over (257–58). Up to this point this marvelous realm had, like the Earthly Paradise, been associated with light and joy, but now all the fiends flee and light is replaced by darkness (253–58, 267–68). In addition to the elevation itself, the description of the host as a “derworþ þing” carried on the body may well be liturgical as well, in which case it harks back to the practice by priests to hide the host until after they have said the words “hoc est corpus meum” and then raise it aloft. In the twelfth century this practice had actually been regulated by a Parisian synod.38 It is with the elevation of the host that the journey comes to an end and the wager is lost by the Jewish divine, who admits the errors of his ways and accepts wholeheartedly the truth revealed to him by Walter. The two return to Paris and Sir Walter of Berwick is appointed penitentiary by the pope and the Jew is baptized (307–20). Learning is a journey in conceptual metaphor theory,39 and the Disputation has not just revealed several important doctrinal aspects of Christianity to the Jew (Trinity, redemption, the Real Presence) but it has also impressed upon the audience the importance of the Real Presence in the sacramental bread that represents the power of the redemption. If my reading is accepted, it may be concluded that the Disputation is not primarily a debate at all but an apologetic piece of literature the main aim of which is to emphasize the bodily presence in the consecrated host. This fits in very well with the manuscript as a whole, which, in Derek Pearsall’s words, aims “to provide a comprehensive programme of religious reading and instruction.”40 It does so on a grand scale: it

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originally consisted of more than 420 very large leaves bringing together a vast number of religious and devotional texts, among them such important works as the South English Legendary, the Northern Homily Cycle, the Pricke of Conscience, the Abbey of the Holy Ghost, a version of the Ancrene Wisse, and an A-version of Langland’s Piers Plowman.41 The disputation appears in part II, which Blake characterizes as “general didactic material,”42 where it is followed by another tract in which the Eucharist plays a central role, namely Hou mon scholde here hys masse (f. 302), and this is by no means all; as part of the Northern Homily Cycle there is a Sermo in Festo Corporis Christi (f. 196ra), and also the Seuene Miracles þat bitydde by godes body (197ra), as the Index to the volume calls it.43 In short, it seems very likely that the Disputation made it into the Vernon collection not because it was a popular romance-like text, but because it fits in well with the other religious-didactic texts in this volume and complements them in its own modest way. It is therefore misleading to place the Disputation in the romance tradition or to compare the Disputation to such works as Thomas of Erceldoune.44 Both the Disputation and Thomas of Erceldoune use romance elements to communicate political or theological messages, but in the case of the latter we have prophecy disguised as romance. The Disputation, on the other hand, does not wrap its sacramental message in a romance at all: it relies for its narrative structure first on the medieval debate tradition and second on that of religious visions with their journeys through Hell and Purgatory which eventually result in illumination. But perhaps most importantly of all, in terms of narrative spirit, it relies on the exempla tradition of which Thomas of Cantimpré’s Bonum universale de apibus is but one example. It is this tradition that abounds with eucharistic tales, some of which also incorporate the conversion motif.45 Those elements it also shares with romances are little more than the icing on the cake that helps to make the work more digestible, a little in the way romance vocabulary is used in the South English Legendary; the romance features may even reinforce the otherworldly atmosphere. We see something similar, but then used ironically, in the opening lines of Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale, which is set in “th’olde dayes of the Kyng Arthour” (“the old days of King Arthur”) when all the land was “fulfild of fayerye” (“filled with fairies”).46 In the Disputation it might be used to disguise, at least initially, the true infernal nature of the otherworld. In short, the Disputation is a hybrid that combines a variety of elements from widely different traditions, all of which point toward what

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Rubin, speaking about the Grail romances, called “a eucharistic world which is overlaid with meanings and populated with numerous tasks, demanding and elusive.”47 The Disputation also adds further weight to Michael Camille’s observation that the host is “the single most important image to Christians from the middle of the thirteenth century onward, perhaps even overtaking veneration of the cross.”48

Notes 1. J. W. Conlee, ed., Middle English Debate Poetry (East Lansing, Mich.: Colleagues Press, 1991), 178–91. All references are to this edition. 2. For a full summary see Francis Lee Utley, William Matthews, and H. Wilson Robert, A Manual of the Writings in Middle English 1050–1500, Vol. 3: VII. Dialogues, Debates, and Catechisms, VIII. Thomas Hoccleve, IX. Malory and Caxton, ed. A. E. Hartung (New Haven: Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1972), 710. 3. Carleton Brown, “The Vernon Disputisoun Bytwene a Cristenemon and a Jew,” Modern Language Notes 25, no. 5 (May 1910): 141–44, and Utley, Matthews, and Robert, Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 710–11. 4. Conlee, Middle English Debate Poetry, 178. The word “debate” (or “disputation”) is really a misnomer here since there is no question of a proper dialogue between two more-or-less equal partners as we find in such other (Middle English) debates like The Owl and the Nightingale. Medieval religious debates are almost invariably heavily stacked in favor of the Christian point of view and their outcome is rarely in doubt. The Disputation is no different. There is never any doubt on whose side the narrator is, or that our Christian theologian is the true believer of the two, and consequently the Jewish divine is depicted as obstinate in his beliefs right from the start (31–32). Moreover, even before actions start to replace words, the clergymen do not engage each other in a conversation; the contestants merely state their beliefs and the Christian warns his fellow theologian of the sort of punishments he and his kin can look forward to if they persist in their errors (cf. 75–80). As in much apologetic literature, arguments, in the modern sense of the word, do not come into it. 5. Utley, Matthews, and Robert, Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 710. 6. In the version printed by Brown it only runs to 48 lines as compared to the 320 lines of the Middle English version. 7. Brown, “Vernon Disputisoun,” 141–42. The possible sources are given by Brown in full. 8. Brown, “Vernon Disputisoun,” 141, goes so far as to compare the poem to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Reed calls it “an exercise in romantic fantasy,” a “homiletic, allegorical romance . . . inspired by romance and the chanson d’aventure” (Thomas L. Reed, Middle English Debate Poetry and the Aesthetics of Irresolution [Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1990], 171–72). Conlee acknowledges the exemplary nature of the poem but also stresses the romance elements, especially in his notes; cf. those to lines 147–48, 161, 163–64, 183–92, 215–16, 217–20, 236, and 253–58.

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9. Dunbar is a good example of a late medieval poet who tends to use this phrase to signal (dream) visions or other imaginary events; see 4.5, 57; 52.9, 15; 75.2, 6, 18, and passim; and 77.2, 8 (all references are to poem number and lines; cf. The Poems of William Dunbar, ed. Priscilla Bawcutt, 2 vols. [Glasgow: Association for Scottish Literary Studies, 1998]). Cf. also the works of Chaucer: Canterbury Tales VII.662 (PrT); Book of the Duchess 291, 345, 1314; House of Fame 499, 1369, 1870, 2030, 2031; Parliament of Fowls 124; Legend of Good Women F 232, 234, 238; Romaunt of the Rose 92, 702 (all references are to Geoffrey Chaucer, The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Larry D. Benson [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987]). Even more apposite is its appearance in a late Middle English vision of purgatory in the Thornton manuscript, “A Reuelacyone schewed to ane holy womane now one late tyme” (c. 1422; for the text see Marta Powell Harley, ed., A Revelation of Purgatory by An Unknown Fifteenth-Century Woman Visionary [Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1985], 59/12). A search for “me thought” in the online version of Middle English Dictionary (MED) reveals many other examples, among others in Julian of Norwich’s Revelations of Divine Love (c. 1450), Alain Chartier’s Le Quadrilogue Invectif (c. 1475), The Pilgrimage of the Soul (a. 1500), and the Destruction of Troy (c. 1540). 10. This may be explained by the fact that in the Disputation the narrator has a strong presence and tends to “take over” the narrative. 11. Note that combinations of visions and debates are less unusual than one might think. As the literary genre of (bird) debates progresses in Middle English, such debates are increasingly framed by narrators who fall asleep and then dream the debate. Examples are such bird debates as the fifteenthcentury Clerk and the Nightingale, Clanvowe’s Cuckoo and the Nightingale, and Thomas Feylde’s Contrauersye bytwene a Louer and a Jaye, written somewhere between 1509 and 1535. 12. Edward I expelled the Jews from England in 1290; Philip IV of France followed suit in 1306. For a convenient summary of anti-Semitism in England see the appendix in Stephen Spector, “Empathy and Enmity in the Prioress’s Tale,” in Geoffrey Chaucer’s the Canterbury Tales: A Casebook, ed. Lee Patterson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 183–209 (194–99). 13. The root of this debate of the Real Presence of Christ’s body and blood in the Eucharist lies in the ninth-century controversy between Paschasius Radbertus, the fourth abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Corbie, and one of his monks, Ratramnus of Corbie (d. c. 868). In De corpore et sanguine Christi (revised 844) Radbertus argued in favor of the Real Presence, basing his argument on the writings of St. Augustine. Ratramnus replied with De corpore et sanguine Domini, in which he argues that the bread and the wine of the Eucharist are mystic symbols commemorating Christ’s sacrifice, but not the real body and blood. The debate is revived in the eleventh century by Berengarius of Tours and Lanfranc of Bec, with Berengar supporting Ratramnus of Corbie. Although Berengar does accept that Christ is present in the Eucharist, he denies that any material change in the elements was needed to explain it. He committed his eucharistic doctrine to paper in the De sacra coena. Lanfranc made his view clear in De corpore et sanguine Domini from about 1063. Unlike Berengar, Lanfranc’s main arguments against Berengar are not logical ones but authoritative and catholic ones. He is unwilling to dig too deep and considers Berengar’s logical arguments far too sophisticated, preferring instead to regard the Real Presence as one of the many mysteries of the faith into which one should not probe too deeply. Yet,

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14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Medievalia et Humanistica he maintains that the sacred species in the Eucharist contained the invisible body of Christ, identical with the body born of the Virgin Mary. Moreover, in chapter 18 of his treatise he briefly refers to the Aristotelian doctrine of substance and accidents, and it is this distinction that ultimately resulted in the doctrine of the Transubstantiation, in which the Real Presence of Christ in the host was explained and which became an article of faith (essential to salvation) at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215. In the course of my research it emerged that I was not the first to notice the central role played by the Eucharist in this poem. In an article dealing with doctrinal texts in the Vernon manuscript, Avril Henry refers to the Disputation in passing and notes (in full): “Disputation between Christian and Jew (f. 301v) conveys the meaning of Mass by a vision fusing a feast with a birdsongfilled landscape, the Round Table, the hospitality of a nunnery, and witness of the Crucifixion, all subsumed in the consecrated Host” (Avril Henry, “‘The Pater Noster in a Table Ypeynted’ and Some Other Presentations of Doctrine in the Vernon Manuscript,” in Studies in the Vernon Manuscript, ed. D. A. Pearsall [Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1990], 89–113, here 110). For an extensive discussion of the topic see Miri Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), esp. ch. 2. A poor Christian woman in Paris promises a Jewish moneylender a consecrated host in return for a gown. The Jew then proceeds to desecrate the host by stabbing it and submitting it to a range of other tortures, including burning. The host bleeds but is not destroyed and eventually the culprit is arrested and burned and his wife and family are converted. For the play see Norman Davis, ed., Non-Cycle Plays and Fragments, Early English Text Society, SS 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), lxxiii, 58–89. The symbolic link is also imprinted on the Eucharist itself, which “was usually inscribed with a cross, the letters IHS, and from the twelfth century, a crucifixion scene or the lamb of God” (Rubin, Corpus Christi, 39). Langland’s “field” is also of interest here because the theologians in the Disputation also end up in a field where they see the hill that gives them access to the underworld (145). Arnold Barel van Os, Religious Visions: The Development of the Eschatological Elements in Medieval English Religious Literature (Amsterdam: H. J. Paris, 1932), 7. Debate Poetry, 184, note to lines 147-48. Conlee refers to Sir Orfeo, Thomas of Erceldoun, and Marie de France’s Yonec. For an overview of such visions see Peter Dinzelbacher, Vision und Visionsliteratur im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1981); and Robert Easting, Visions of the Other World in Middle English (Woodbridge: Brewer, 1997). In Owayne Miles (Auchinleck) the “grisly” entrance to the otherworld is similarly situated on top of a hill. See St. Patrick’s Purgatory stanzas 11-12 in Robert Easting, ed., St. Patrick’s Purgatory: Two Versions of Owayne Miles and the Vision of William of Stranton Together with the Long Text of the Tractatus De Purgatorio Sancti Patricii, Early English Text Society, OS 298 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). Easting, Visions of the Other World, 11. F. J. Furnivall, ed., The Minor Poems of the Vernon MS, vol. 2, Early English Text Society, OS 117 (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1901), 484-93 (496, ll. 121-22). St. Patrick’s Purgatory, ll. 187 (Cotton), 180 (Yale). See Easting in St. Patrick’s Purgatory, lxxiv-lxxv. Middle English Debate Poetry, 187.

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26. Luke 22:16 and 18 could be read to show that Christ did not eat or drink at the Last Supper. In the other Synoptic Gospels Christ merely states he will drink “no more of the fruit of the vine until that day when I shall drink it new in the kingdom of God” (Mark 14:25). Cf. also Matthew 26:29. For further references see Robin Routledge, “Passover and Last Supper,” Tyndale Bulletin 53, no. 2 (2002): 203-22 (205n7). 27. Matthew 7:13: “broad is the way that leadeth to destruction” (DouayRheims). This broad way that “leadeth to destruction” and the narrow one that leads to salvation is another example of a popular motif that is used time and again in moral-didactic and other types of literature. It even ends up in the ballad “Thomas Rymer” (Child, 37A, stanzas 12-14) where the Faery Queen adds a third road to the two traditional roads, the third leading to Fairyland, which is where she takes Thomas. 28. Cf. MED ferli n. 2 and fairie n. 2. Although in the latter case the spelling ferli is not listed as a variant, it does appear in the quotations (2a: Piers Plowman A version). 29. The word he uses is “ffey” (184), which the MED, faie (adj. and n.), glosses as “Possessed of magical powers or properties; enchanted, enchanting.” Even though Walter may be prepared for this place, the narrator certainly is not and he is so carried away by the moment that he does not notice the metalepsis when he imagines himself to be there when he observes he had never seen anything like it (179-80). Note how reminiscent this hall is to the one in the “Corpus Christi Carol,” which was located in an orchard and “hangid with purpill and pall” (Douglas Gray, ed., The Oxford Book of Late Medieval Verse and Prose [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989], 173, l. 6); see also Middle English Debate Poetry, 185, note to l. 166. 30. Ars poetica 333-34 in Q. H. F. Horace, Satires. Epistles. Ars Poetica, ed. E. H. Warmington, trans. H. R. Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1942). 31. For the text see G. V. Smithers and J. A. W. Bennett, eds., Early Middle English Verse and Prose (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966), 136-44. For a convenient version on the web with translations, see www.thegoldendream.com/ landofcokaygne.htm. 32. A fourteenth-century retable, possibly from the Dominican priory at Thetford (Norfolk), has a central scene with the Crucifixion and Mary and John and flanking panels on which are depicted, among others, John the Baptist, St. Peter, and St. Paul; see Age of Chivalry: Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400, ed. Jonathan Alexander (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1987) no. 564. Cf. also an ivory triptych from the British Museum (no. 596) in the same volume. One of the most famous non-English examples must surely be Matthias Grünewald’s altarpiece at Isenheim where John the Baptist points toward the cross citing John 3:30: “He must increase: but I must decrease.” Conlee’s suggestion, therefore, that the presence of St. John the Baptist may be explained by the otherworldly nature of the scene should be taken with a pinch of salt. 33. Reed, Middle English Debate Poetry and the Aesthetics of Irresolution, 171. 34. For the close association of the washing of feet and the Eucharist, see Meditations on the Supper of Our Lord discussed by James H. Morey in Book and Verse: A Guide to Middle English Biblical Literature (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2000), 278. A further association may be that of the baptism of the catechumens, which in the early church would precede the (first) communion. 35. A detail also mentioned in Meditations on the Supper of Our Lord, l. 280. 36. Rubin, Corpus Christi. One example must suffice. A Sienese predella panel by Sassetta of the first half of the fifteenth century depicts a host that starts to

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37.

38. 39.

40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48.

Medievalia et Humanistica bleed when a young sinful monk is about to receive it in communion (128). Somewhat later Rubin notes: “So used did the eye become, so trained was the mind, to think of the transubstantiated host as the real Christ, and in one of his suffering personas, as a sacrificed child, that horrific tales of a bleeding child Christ in the host were tolerated within the culture, and could circulate in exempla” (137). One such exemplum is told in the Middle English Septem miracula de corpore cristi, ll. 109-268, in The Minor Poems of the Vernon MS 201-05. In the castle of Corbenic episode in the French Queste del saint Graal (and in Malory’s Morte Darthur) when Lancelot catches a glimpse of the grail “hit semed to sir Launcelot that above the prystis hondys were three men, whereof the two put the yongyste by lyknes betwene the prystes hondis” (The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, eds. Eugène Vinaver and P. J. C. Field, 3rd ed. 3 vols. (Oxford: OUP, 1990) II, 1015, ll. 30–33). In her discussion of this passage Anne Marie D’Arcy, while acknowledging its controversial nature, also stresses its theological orthodoxy (Anne Marie D’Arcy, Wisdom and the Grail: The Image of the Vessel in the Queste Del Saint Graal and Malory’s Tale of the Sankgreal [Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2000], 101-2). See V. L. Kennedy, “The Moment of Consecration and the Elevation of the Host,” Mediaeval Studies 6 (1944): 121-50 (122); also cited in D’Arcy, Wisdom and the Grail, 102 n. 54. Martin Cortazzi and Lixian Jin, “Bridges to Learning: Metaphors of Teaching, Learning and Language,” in Researching and Applying Metaphor, ed. Lynne Cameron and Graham Low (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 149-76. Derek Pearsall, ed., Studies in the Vernon Manuscript (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1990), x. Robert E. Lewis, “The Relationship of the Vernon and Simeon Texts of the Pricke of Conscience,” in So Meny People Longages and Tonges, ed. Michael Benskin and M. L. Samuels (Edinburgh: Middle English Dialect Project, 1981), 251-64 (251). See also the essays in Pearsall, Studies in the Vernon Manuscript. At the time of writing, Wendy Scase, ed., The Making of the Vernon Manuscript: The Production and Contexts of Oxford, Bodleian Library, Ms Eng. Poet. A. 1. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), had not appeared yet. N. F. Blake, “Vernon Manuscript: Contents and Organisation,” in Studies in the Vernon Manuscript, ed. Derek Pearsall (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1990), 45-59 (47). Mary S. Serjeantson, “The Index of the Vernon Manuscript,” Modern Language Review 32, no. 2 (1937): 222–61 (no. 262 on p. 240). Henry, “The Pater Noster in a Table Ypeynted,” 110, also discusses these texts in sacramental terms. Middle English Debate Poetry, 184, note to ll. 147-48. Rubin relates the tale adduced by Paschasius Radbert in support of his arguments in favor of the Real Presence of St. Basil and the Jew “where a child appeared in Basil’s hand at mass and bits of it were distributed to communicants, and led the Jew to conversion” (Rubin, Corpus Christi, 116). Riverside Chaucer III, 857-59. Rubin, Corpus Christi, 140. Michael Camille, The Gothic Idol: Ideology and Image-Making in Medieval Art, Cambridge New Art History and Criticism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 215; also referred to by Paul Hardwick, “A Problematic Representation of the Eucharist in Beverley St Mary,” in Bible de bois du Moyen Âge: Bible et liturgie dans les stalles médiévales, ed. Frédéric Billiet (Paris: Harmattan; Editions de l’UCO, 2003), 159-73 (163).

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Con le Muse in Parnaso Classical and Medieval Mythography on the Pierides and a Possible Source for Giovanni Boccaccio SIMONA LORENZINI

Abstract Boccaccio’s Genealogie is a summa of the classical and medieval mythographic tradition. Among the medieval mythographers he knew was Giovanni del Virgilio. In this paper I will argue that, even if Boccaccio does not mention Del Virgilio, Boccaccio’s interpretation of some myths may be explained as influenced by him. Boccaccio does not only share a common exegetic framework with Del Virgilio. They use the name Pierides both for the Muses and the daughters of Pierus, defeated by the Muses and turned into magpies. This meaning was unknown to the classical tradition, but they use the term with a great ambiguity. This ambiguity was the symptom of an environment where the boundaries between medieval and humanistic culture were blurred. These two aspects of the culture of Boccaccio’s time coexist in his works without being in contradiction since they respond to different purposes: the defense and the making of the poetry. Si nostros montes colles vallesque recusant versus, quid? Nobis Mopso Musisque canamus. Hec etenim vive resident in culmine sacri Parnasi sanctumque nemus fontemque sonorum observant Cirramque colunt desertaque rura; non, testor, victe sed parvi temporis usum Pyeridis prestant. Ideo, Meri, ha! nisi fallor, tempus adhuc veniet, nobis cecinisse iuvabit. [If our mountains, hills, and valleys refuse our verse, what then? Let us sing for ourselves, for Mopsus and for the Muses. The last-mentioned, in fact, stay to live on the top of holy Parnassus, and keep the sacred forest and the sounding source and take care of Cirrha and the deserted countryside. I assure you, they are not defeated, but, only for a short time, they relinquish faced by the Pierides.

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However, there will come a time, unless I am mistaken, oh Moeris, when we will love to have sung.]1

In a Latin eclogue (Tempus erat placidum, 64–71) sent around 1348–1349 to Checco di Meletto Rossi, secretary of the ruler of Forlì Francesco Ordelaffi, Giovanni Boccaccio, in the bucolic guise of the shepherd Menalcas, gives voice to a passionate defense and celebration of poetry. The eclogue, a long poetic epistle of 185 lines, is part of an epistolary pastoral correspondence Boccaccio, while staying in Romagna, had with Checco. Four eclogues make up this correspondence: the first and the third by Boccaccio, the second and the fourth by Checco. Under the veil of a political allegory, the eclogue deals with the tragic events that took place in Naples after the death of Robert of Anjou in 1343. Scholarly attention has been mainly directed to the historical implications and the biographical data covered by the allegory.2 Nevertheless, the historicalpolitical discourse is only one aspect of this text. The first part of the eclogue, in fact, resumes the metaliterary discourse begun by Boccaccio in his first eclogue to Checco,3 which precedes that quoted above, on the value of the poetry, which he has charged himself with guarding selflessly. In both eclogues, Boccaccio speaks of poetry as an alternative dimension and a corrective to the contemporary historical and political events. The figure of the poet, especially in the second eclogue, is called to a high moral commitment: to pursue his ideals and his work without regard to the contingencies of history. Virtue, says Boccaccio, is worthy in and of itself and does not need the approval of others (“virtus per se valet ipsa vigetque,” 63). This high idea of the role of the poet, and in general of the sage, is crucial, as we shall see, for understanding Boccaccio’s use of some mythic figures like that of the Muses, the Pierides, and Orpheus. In the lines quoted at the outset, Boccaccio claims that the situation seems unfavorable to poetry: little value is attributed to it (“montes colles vallesque recusant / versus”), there are few who can truly be counted in the number of poets, and Mount Parnassus is now deserted. Nevertheless, the poet has the moral obligation to sing for himself, for Mopsus (Petrarch’s pastoral mask in the bucolic fiction created by Boccaccio), and, although they temporarily appear to relinquish their role faced by the Pierides, for the Muses who continue to reside on Parnassus, of which they are the sacred guardians. In a few verses, Boccaccio gathers some of the most familiar elements related to the mythology of the Muses: Parnassus, its peak Cirrha, and the Pierides. His use of the classical patronymic Pieris, idis to designate the nine garrulous daughters of Pierus is an innovation in pastoral poetry. In the medieval literary tra-

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dition as represented by Giovanni del Virgilio, Boccaccio, and to some extent Dante, the meaning of the name Pierides was not univocal, since it could designate both the Muses, following Greek and Latin usage, and the daughters of Pierus defeated by the Muses and, as punishment, turned into magpies. This meaning was unknown to the classical tradition and the ambiguity of the term was common, as we shall see, even within the same author who had to manage composite mythical material. This ambiguity was also the symptom of an intellectual environment in which the boundaries between medieval and humanistic culture were still blurred. In the following pages, I will collect some of the most significant texts on the myth of the Pierides, their relationship with the Muses, and the allegorical interpretations related to them. Particularly, I will focus on Giovanni del Virgilio’s Allegoriae librorum Ovidii Metamorphoseos for two main reasons. First, his commentary gave order and coherence to the earlier exegetical tradition (mainly Arnulf of Orléans and John of Garland, who were his sources), and second, he merits recognition for the cultural role that he played in the literary circles to which Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch were linked. I will argue that Giovanni del Virgilio’s interpretation of the myth of the magpies may explain the unusual meaning that Boccaccio attributes to the patronymic Pierides in the eclogue to Checco di Meletto Rossi as well as in his vernacular works.4 Ovid tells the myth of the Pierides in the fifth book of Metamorphoses (294–678). Daughters of Pierus and Euippe, proud of being so numerous, the nine sisters dared to challenge the nine Muses in singing. The Pierides sang of Typhon’s assault on heaven, which had forced the gods to flee to Egypt. Calliope, who assumed the task of competing for her sisters, told of the abduction of Persephone by Dis. The Nymphs, who had to judge, declared the Muses winners of the contest, but the daughters of Pierus began to insult the Muses and finally they were turned into “volucres novas” (674), never-before-seen birds, magpies, “convicia nemorum,” clamor of the woods. Nevertheless, says Ovid, “quoque in alitibus facundia prisca remansit / raucaque garrulitas studiumque inmane loquendi” (“even as birds, they maintained their old eloquence, a raucous garrulity, an immense desire to talk,” 677–78).5 The episode of the Pierides can be connected to the similar myths of Arachne and Marsyas as examples of punished artistic pride. Mythographers often evoked the myth of the Pierides in reference to the Muses, interpreting it in a moral or a natural sense. In his Allegoriae super Ovidii Metamorphosin, Arnulf of Orléans, according to whom Ovidian myths translate into a poetic form the facts

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of ancient history, precepts of natural philosophy, and moral exempla,6 interprets the myth of the Pierides from a natural and physical point of view. As opposed to the Muses, they represent dissonance: Pierides novem filie Pieris contendentes cum Musis victe ab eis in picas sunt mutate. Vel per novem Musas novem habemus consonancias cum quibus novem Pierides i. novem dissonancie ut ita dicam disputaverunt. Quelibet enim consonancia dissonanciam habet sibi proximam et collateralem. Sed deinde a Musis victe i. cognite minus valere, mutari in picas finguntur propter garritum picarum ad quarum imitationem garriunt discordantes. (215) [The Pierides, nine daughters of Pierus, having a contest with the Muses and defeated by them, were turned into magpies. For the nine Muses we mean the nine consonances with which the nine Pierides, that is, the nine dissonances, had, as I say, a contest. Any consonance, in fact, has its proximate and collateral dissonance. But then defeated by the Muses, that is, recognized to be less worthy, they are imagined to be turned into magpies because of the chattering of magpies, in imitation of which those disagreeing with each other chatter.]

The brief reference to the myth of the Pierides in John of Garland’s Integumenta Ovidii comes directly after a long digression on the number and attributes of the nine Muses and closes the poetic exposition of the fifth book: “Garrulitatis honus Picarum garula lingua / Designat fundens iurgia, probra, minas” (“the strident voice of the magpies signifies the annoyance of garrulity that spreads quarrels, insults, and threats,” 275–76).7 As is clear from the proemial verses of his work, John of Garland’s intent is to unveil, beneath the integumentum of the myth, a historical reality, which can often be combined with a natural or moral sense.8 Although the latter constitutes the central part of the whole allegory, the myth always has a historical basis. Thus, transformations into birds can allude to flights or to real circumstances, such as in the case of the magpies. The mythographic tradition of Arnulf of Orléans and John of Garland is the source for Giovanni del Virgilio’s Allegoriae librorum Ovidii Metamorphoseos.9 In the atypical structure of a prosimetrum, Giovanni del Virgilio provides, in prose, a short summary of the metamorphosis and its allegorical interpretation, which he then summarizes in the verses, often in a clearer and more immediate way. Echoing an earlier tradition of glosses and commentaries that included Fulgentius as well as the already mentioned Arnulf and John, Giovanni del Virgilio was able to give this heterogeneous material order and structure. The myth of the Pierides is recorded in the extensive section dedicated to the Muses, which I quote and translate in its entirety in appendix 1. By interpreting the Muses as the various stages required to attain knowledge, from Clio which means “fame” to Calliope, “good voice,” Giovanni del Virgilio follows the interpretation of Fulgentius (Mytholo-

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gies I, 15), which is also echoed by the Third Vatican Mythographer, or the pseudo-Albericus of London (VIII, 17–19).10 In some cases, however, the interpretation of the name of each Muse does not seem consistent with that of his sources. Euterpe, for example, is interpreted as grande iuvamen, whereas both Fulgentius and Albericus speak of bene delectans; delight, as a necessary incentive to attaining knowledge, is instead attributed by Giovanni del Virgilio to Melpomene, suboblectatrix. The two previous mythographers give a different explanation for this Muse: meditationem faciens. The interpretation of the Muses as the ten organs of the human voice, attributed to an unidentified “Robertus,” goes back again to the Third Vatican Mythographer and Fulgentius; Albericus also adds the natural explanation of the celestial harmony of the planets for which Giovanni del Virgilio invokes instead the authority of Macrobius. As for the allegory of metamorphosis, Giovanni del Virgilio’s interpretation does not differ from that of Arnulf of Orléans, from which he draws the contrast between consonantia and dissonantia. However, differentiating himself from his source, Giovanni del Virgilio extends the myth’s explanation by adding the equivalence between Musae and sapientes et discretos loquentes on the one hand, and Pierides and garruli on the other: the Muses are the wise and judicious men, while the Pierides the talkative and gossipy people. It is this equivalence, as we shall see, that Boccaccio will echo in his works. The contrast between sapiens and insipiens also recurs in the interpretation of the myths of Marsyas and Apollo in Arnulf of Orléans: Marsias cum Apolline disputans ab eodem victus vivus excoriatus in fluvium sui nominis fuit mutatus. Allegoria. Marsia i. insipientia disputavit cum Apolline i. cum sapientia, sed confutata per sapientiam fuit excoriata. Insipiens enim a sapiente sibi non potest cavere quin totum quod dicit probetur nichil valere. In fluvium dicitur esse mutatus vel ideo quia est fluvius eiusdem nominis vel ideo quia quamvis a sapientia confutata diu est insipientia, tamen adhuc fluit. (217–18) [Marsyas, contesting with Apollo, defeated and flayed by him, was turned into a river that has his name. Allegory. Marsyas, that is foolishness, had a dispute with Apollo, that is wisdom, but silenced by wisdom, it was flayed. The fool, in fact, cannot be on his guard against the sage without everything the first says being proven worthless. They say Marsyas has been transformed into a river or because there is a river with his name or because foolishness, although refuted by wisdom, continues to flow.]

And it also appears in Giovanni del Virgilio, for whom Marsyas is the chattering sophist who uses deception and inappropriate words when he wants to challenge the wise.11 Worthy of note is Giovanni del Virgilio’s use of similar terminology in the interpretation of both myths. This terminology creates opposites

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that revolve around the concepts of wisdom/foolishness, concord/discord, true/false: Apollo/Muses sapientes vera argumenta discret[i] verum loquentes docti consonare/consonantia concors

Marsyas/Pierides insipientes fallacia, aliena verba et questiones iurare contra verum indocti dissonantia discors

Around the middle of the fourteenth century, we find the Ovidius moralizatus (1340) by the French Benedictine monk Pierre Bersuire. This work aims to provide an allegorical interpretation of Ovid’s myths within Christian and scriptural exegesis. The Ovidius moralizatus stands out from the text thus far considered because it is the work not of a teacher or a grammarian, but of an ecclesiastic. One understands, therefore, why Bersuire insists, above all, on the strictly moral aspect of the myth of the Pierides—namely, on the sin of pride and presumption: Istud expone contra garrulos qui scilicet contra musas id est sapientes non verentur frivolas opiniones suas asserere: et cum ipsis verbis contendere: et sic se sapientiores affirmare. Et dato quod rationibus convincantur nolunt tamen a verbis suis desistere. Isti igitur mutari videntur in picas inquantum more picarum in aera per praesumptionem efferentur et pennas superbiae munitae varia duplicitas pinguntur.12 [That speaks against the loquacious and talkative people who are not afraid to state their frivolous opinions before the Muses, that is the wise, and to compete with them, boasting to be learned. Even if they are defeated they do not stop talking; so it seems that they are transformed into magpies, since as the magpies, these people are raised in the air by their presumption and, with colorful feathers, are adorned with every kind of duplicity.]

Giovanni Boccaccio alludes to the myth of the Pierides in the eleventh book of Genealogie deorum gentilium where he treats the Muses as daughters of Jove. After a brief introduction that, as usual in the Genealogie, summarizes the information available to the author from previous traditions, Boccaccio discusses the meaning of the name of the Muses, echoing first Isidore and then, to a great extent, Fulgentius. Boccaccio describes a path that leads, through various stages of knowledge, to learning and poetry, and after having challenged, through the example of the Holy Scriptures and the authority of St. Jerome, the famous definition of the Muses as “scenicae meretriculae” given by Boethius (De consolatione philosophiae, I, 1, 8),13 he goes on to explain the meaning of their contest with the Pierides:

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Musis cum Pieriis fuisse de cantu certamen, hoc arbitror sensu sumendum. Sunt non nulli tam inepte audacie, ut, cum nulla noverint disciplinam, suo tamen innitentes ingenio, audeant se disciplinatis preferre, nec dubitent disputationis inire certamen, quod dum in conspectu doctorum faciunt, non scientifici doctis apparent, sed potius stolida quadam presumptione loquaces; et cum multa dicere ignaris videantur, nec aliquid tamen dicant rationi consonum, nec sese loquentes intelligant, lusi a prudentibus pice existimantur. Que quidem voces potius humanas, quam intellectum garriendo imitantur, et ob hoc tales a scientificis transformari in picas rite a poetis confictum est. (Genealogie XI, 2, 12–13)14 [I believe the contest in singing between the Muses and the Pierides should be understood with this meaning. There are men of such a foolish audacity who, not having any knowledge but trusting in their own cleverness, dare to stand in front of the wise and do not hesitate to have a debate with them; and when they did that in presence of the learned, they do not seem to them real scientists, but rather windbags because of a foolish presumption. While it seems to the ignorant that they say many things (and instead they say nothing suitable to reason), they do not understand themselves when they speak and, mocked by the wise, they are believed similar to magpies. These, in their chattering, imitate the voice of men rather than their intelligence and, for this reason, the poets well feigned that such men are changed into magpies by the wise.]

Reorganizing the classical mythological tradition in the Genealogie, Boccaccio gives an interpretation of the myth that echoes that of the eclogue to Checco di Meletto Rossi: the Pierides/magpies are a metaphor for the fools who, though ignorant, presumptuously put themselves in competition with the wise. In the mythographic tradition thus far examined, Boccaccio’s interpretation of the myth is innovative and, at the same time, perfectly appropriate to his defense of poetry and, specifically, to his defense of the excellence of those who devote themselves to poetry with the appropriate means. The main antecedent of his interpretation is Giovanni del Virgilio, who had established the opposition between sapientes, the Muses, and garruli, the Pierides, but also Pierre Bersuire, to whom belong both the hint at presumption and the word disputatio, never otherwise attested in reference to the myth of the Pierides.15 Boccaccio’s interpretation does not appear to have found resonance in the mythographic tradition that followed. In the Immagini delli Dei de gl’Antichi (1569), Vincenzo Cartari makes a brief reference to the myth of the Pierides transformed into magpies, pointing out the ability of magpies to imitate the human voice, an aspect already present in Ovid’s tale.16 Natale Conti in his Mythologiae (1568) does not talk about the myth,17 while Giglio Gregorio Giraldi mentions it briefly in his Historiae Deorum Gentilium (1548) without giving an allegorical interpretation. Discussing the various names by which the Muses are identified, Giraldi writes: Pierides, vel Pieriae Musae, cognominatae a Piero monte, ut Festus ait, et Cicero. Stephanus tamen Pieriam civitatem et regiunculam nominat. sed Apollonii Rhodii interpretes, Pieriam montem Thraciae asserunt, in quo versatus sit Or-

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pheus. Graeci Hesiodi expositores Pieriam Macedoniae montem esse tradunt, in quo genitae sint Musae, qui mons Thraciam usque attingere dictus est. quod ea ratione fictum arbitramur, quoniam primus apud Graecos et sapiens et poeta et theologus Orpheus in haec loca diversatus est. vel si Ovidio poeta credimus, Pieriae Musae dictae sunt a Pieri et Anippes filiabus, quae cum veris Musis ausae sunt decertare, unde victae in picas mutatae fuerunt. Pierum etiam vetustissimum poetam legimus, a quo Graecorum nonnulli Musas aiunt lepidis adeo carminibus celebratas, ut ab eo etiam Pieriae nuncupatae sint. Alii vero, quod Pierus Macedo, a quo mons cognominatus est, cum Thespias profectus esset, primus Musas novem statuerit, id quod in Boeoticis scribit Pausanias, et ipse in poetarum historia retuli. (Giraldi, Historiae Deorum Gentilium, 206) [Pierides or Musae are named after the mountain Pierus as Festus and Cicero say. Stephanus, instead, names Pieria a city and a region. However, Apollonius Rhodius’s interpreters claimed Pieria a mountain of Thrace where Orpheus lived. Greek interpreters of Hesiod say Pieria is a mountain of Macedonia where Muses were born and which borders upon Thrace. We believe they feigned it because first among the Greeks Orpheus, a sage, a poet, and a theologian, dwelled in these places. Alternatively, if we trust Ovid, Muses are called Pierides after Pierus and Anippes’ daughters who dared to compete with the true Muses and, defeated by the latter, were turned into magpies. We also read Pierus was an ancient poet who, according to several Greeks, celebrated the Muses in his pleasant poems, and for that reason the Muses are also named Pierides after his name. But others say that Macedonian Pierus, after whom a mountain was named, having gone to Thespis, was the first to establish the worship of the nine Muses (Pausanias wrote this in his Boeotica) and I myself numbered him among the poets.]

This long and detailed explanation testifies to the variety of meanings of the patronymic/toponymic Pierides. According to the classical Greek and Latin usage, as Giraldi remembers, it always designated the Muses: whether the masculine name Pierus designated a king of Emathia, father of nine daughters to whom he gave the names of the nine Muses, who were punished by being turned into magpies; or a Macedonian king who introduced the cult of the Muses at Thespis and who was therefore called their father; or a mountain of Pieria, a region between Thessaly and Macedonia considered the homeland of the Muses; or a city; or a famous ancient poet. Medieval vocabularies testify to the use of the patronymic Pierides to indicate the Muses. In the Catholicon by Johannes Balbus, we read: Pierus fuit pater novem picarum quas novem muse devicerunt unde pieris, pieridis filia vel neptis pieri et quia eas scilicet pierides muse devicerunt. Ideo ab illis muse pierides dicte sunt. [Pierus was the father of nine magpies whom the nine Muses defeated, whence pieris, pieridis i.e. daughters or granddaughters of Pierus, and because the Muses defeated those Pierides. For that reason, from those the Muses are called Pierides.]18

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This definition is probably the source for Boccaccio’s understanding in Genealogie XI, 2, 1–2: His [Musis] dicunt cum filiabus Pierii, numero totidem, bellum in cantu fuisse. Et quoniam victe sint a Musis, Pierides in picas mutate sunt et ob victoriam, Muse earum sunt consecute cognomen. [They say the Muses had a contest in singing with Pierus’s daughters, nine in number as the Muses. Defeated by the Muses, the Pierides were turned into magpies and, on account of the victory, the Muses deserved to be called Pierides.]19

In memory of their victory over the proud Pierides, the Muses would have therefore taken their name. With this meaning, which is the only one adopted in the classical tradition,20 the name Pierides is used in Giovanni del Virgilio’s poetic epistle to Dante, “Pyeridum vox alma” (“Sacred voice of the Pierides,” Ecl. I, 1), and by Dante in his first eclogue to Giovanni del Virgilio: “Pyerio demulsa modulamina sinu nobis” (“The modulations milked for us from the Pierian breast,” Ecl. II, 2).21 Giovanni del Virgilio himself gives us an interesting example of the double value he and Boccaccio give the name of the Pierides in their works. Following the classical Greek and Latin usage, he employs the name with the same meaning as in the poem of Dante, that is, “the Muses,” in his verses to an anonymous writer (“Sic o Pierides sic o sic saepius unde / profluit iste canor,” “O Pierides from whom full often thus, O thus, hath flowed that sound,” 5–6),22 in the eclogue to Mussatus (“Pieris indignum velut indignata canendi / carmen agreste licet dimittere noluit,” “wherefore the Pierian maid, as though scorning to sing of one unworthy, was loath to dispatch even a rustic song,” 257–58), and in the epitaph to Dante (“Pascua Pieriis demum resonabat avenis,” “he [Dante] was singing pastoral songs on the Pierian pipes,” 7).23 However, in his Allegoriae, as we have seen, he claims that “per Musas intelligimus sapientes . . . per Pierides intelligimus garrulos.” It is this latter meaning, alien to the classical tradition, which always refers to the Pierides as picae or through paraphrases as “the daughters of Pierus,” that Boccaccio adopts in his eclogue to Checco di Meletto Rossi, indicating the magpies, as metaphor of what poetry is not and of poetry’s detractors. This was an allegorical interpretation suitable to his poetics and already widely used in his other works, such as the Comedia delle Ninfe fiorentine or the Amorosa Visione, where the Pierides are always seen in opposition to the Muses.24 In the twelfth eclogue of the Buccolicum Carmen the “sorores / Pyerides” are certainly the Muses (105–6),25 as well as in the verses dedicated to Petrarch’s Africa—“Te quoque castalio servabunt vertice Muse / Pyerides” (“also for you, the Pierides Muses

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will watch over the Castalius peak”)26—and in De vita et moribus domini Francisci Petracchi de Florentia—“Pyeridum corus egregius” (“the excellent chorus of the Pierides”).27 Like Giovanni del Virgilio, Boccaccio used in his works both meanings of Pierides: the classical one, “Muses,” and the “innovative” one, “the daughters of Pierus.” It is probably not a coincidence that the first meaning became more common in the Latin works of his older years, when the lesson of the classics and the tendency to classicize his Latin style become most urgent. The diffraction of connotations related to the name Pierus summarized by Giraldi explains to some extent both the duplicity of meaning assumed by this patronymic/ toponymic in the medieval tradition represented by Giovanni del Virgilio and Boccaccio, and the uncertainty and indistinctness in its use. Let me conclude by returning briefly to Boccaccio’s interpretation of the myth of the Pierides for which I proposed Giovanni del Virgilio’s Allegoriae as a possible source. A detail of the myth of Orpheus as narrated by Boccaccio in his Genealogie seems to confirm this hypothesis. About the snake, which wanted to eat the head of Orpheus, Giovanni del Virgilio says: The sixth is the metamorphosis of the snake turned into stone. For the snake, which wanted to devour the head of Orpheus, but was turned into stone, I mean Troy that destroyed many Greeks but was eventually destroyed by them. Alternatively, for Orpheus I mean the wise man and for the snake the envious man who sometimes wants to bite the head of the wise, namely he wants to criticize him. However, the wise man turns him into stone because he silences him. For this reason, they say: “This snake is of stone for a changeless fate, / since the envious has been unable to harm the sage.” (77; for the Latin text see appendix 3)

and The first allegory of the eleventh book is that of the serpent turned into stone. For the latter I mean those who are envious of the wise. For the head of Orpheus, I mean the man of good reputation. Therefore, the snake wants to eat the head of Orpheus that is he wants to revoke the good reputation. However, in the end the snake loses its voice, because the good reputation prevails on envy and for that reason it says it is turned into stone. They say: “The snake because of envy tries to corrupt the reputation of the learned, / but not succeeding in it, it dies transformed into stone.” (93)28

In both passages, the head of Orpheus threatened by the serpent is an allegory of fame that the envy of men often tries to destroy. The serpent as a figure for livor is also present in the Integumenta Ovidii: “Serpens est livor qui morsu gaudet et umbra, / Ledere cum nequeat ut lapis ille riget” (“The snake is envy, which delights in biting and in shadow, but, not being able to harm, it becomes stiff as a stone,” 423–24), but John of Garland does not hint at the theme of Orpheus’s posthumous reputation as does Giovanni del Virgilio. The allusion to fame as related

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to Orpheus returns in the Genealogie, where, however, the serpent is no longer the image of envy, but of time trying to devour the fame of men. As for both John of Garland and Giovanni del Virgilio, envy cannot do anything against the true fame of men, so not even the passing of time can, for Boccaccio, obliterate the name of Orpheus: Quod autem serpens, qui caput Orphei devorare volebat, in lapidem versus sit, intelligo pro serpente annorum revolutiones, que caput, id est nomen Orphei, seu ea que ingenio Orphei composita sunt, cum in capite vigeant ingenii, consumere, ut reliqua faciunt, conate sint; sed in saxum ideo versus dicitur serpens, ut ostendatur nil illi posse tempus obsistere; quod quidem huc usque non potuit egisse quin adhuc famosus existat cum cythara sua, cum ex poetis fere antiquior reputetur. (Genealogie, V, 12, 14) [As for the snake that wanted to devour Orpheus’s head and was turned into a stone, I mean the passing of the time that tries to consume, as other events do, the head, i.e. the name of Orpheus or the things composed by his genius, since the genius flourishes in the head. But they say the snake is turned in a stone since time can do nothing against Orpheus; and indeed time has not been able so far to deprive him and his lyre of fame, because he is considered the most ancient among the poets.]29

Boccaccio interprets the story of the head of Orpheus as an allegory of the posthumous reputation of the artist whose name his works will immortalize.30 This is a minor detail of the myth of Orpheus, which Ovid’s commentators do not seem to have taken into consideration and which seems to emerge in the allegorical interpretation linked to the mythical Thracian poet only from the Integumenta Ovidii.31 Not only the recovery of a minor detail of the myth of Orpheus as narrated by Ovid,32 but also and above all the allusion to the theme of everlasting fame seems to link closely Boccaccio to Giovanni del Virgilio and, through the mediation of the latter, to John of Garland. The lack of any mention of Giovanni del Virgilio among the sources known and adopted by Boccaccio in the Genealogie, however, is remarkable. This absence is even more striking since Boccaccio certainly knew the figure of Giovanni del Virgilio: in his well-known autograph manuscript, “Zibaldone Laurenziano” (Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Pl. 29, 8), Boccaccio transcribed some of Giovanni del Virgilio’s works (the eclogues to Dante, the eclogue to Albertino Mussato, a fragment of epic poetry, the poetic correspondence with Guido Vacchetta, and a metric epistle to an anonymous man).33 Furthermore, as Mary Louise Lord has pointed out, in his glosses on the Culex Boccaccio quotes Giovanni del Virgilio for the interpretation of the mythological figures of the Belides. Jon Usher and Matteo Ferretti suggested two other examples of Giovanni del Virgilio as the possible source for Boccaccio’s works regarding, respectively, Phaethon’s myth and the mention of Byblis in the seventh book of the

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Teseida.34 Boccaccio’s acquaintance with Giovanni del Virgilio’s Allegoriae would, therefore, date back to his Neapolitan years, proving highly influential for Boccaccio in his glosses on the Culex,35 and for the Teseida, Allegoria mitologica, Genealogie, and the eclogue to Checco di Meletto Rossi where he made use, in poetic form, of his mythographic readings and knowledge. A more thorough search could provide new evidence for Boccaccio’s use of the Allegoriae librorum Ovidii Metamorphoseos across his oeuvre. By connecting this work to Boccaccio, we can better appreciate both the cultural status of Giovanni del Virgilio and the lasting influence that not only the Allegoriae but also the Expositio had for the interpretation of the Metamorphoses.36 Giovanni del Virgilio and Boccaccio’s ambiguous use of the patronymic Pieris mirrors a cultural situation in which medieval and humanistic traditions still coexisted; it also reflects a precise discussion on poetry. When Giovanni del Virgilio begins his poetic epistle to Dante with the words “Pyeridum vox alma,” he refers to a classical and sacred idea of poetry: in this perspective, the Pierides stand for the personification of the highest kind of poetry, namely the Muses, following the classical usage. In the name of this high poetic ideal, Giovanni del Virgilio can criticize Dante’s use of the vernacular in the Comedy. In his eclogue to Checco, Boccaccio is interested in a metaliterary discourse on poetry, too. However, now it is used no longer in order to oppose Latin and vernacular, but rather those who rightfully deserve the name of poets and those who proudly claim to be numbered among them. For this reason, Boccaccio makes use of a myth that the medieval exegetical tradition has interpreted as providing examples of punished intellectual pride, such as Arachne’s and Marsyas’s myths. The myth works for the poetic message Boccaccio wants to send with these verses: the exaltation of poetry as the highest expression of human intellectual activity. This same spirit inspires the last two books of the Genealogie, a passionate defense of letters and of the civil, moral, and spiritual role Boccaccio gives the poet. If this defense of poetry, both Latin and vernacular, is fully humanistic in its spirit and motivation, it is nonetheless still medieval in the interpretive framework adopted by Boccaccio, especially in the allegorical concept of poetry as truth hidden under a beautiful veil (Gen. XIV, 7). On one hand, this medieval approach leads Boccaccio to draw on the exegetical tradition represented by Giovanni del Virgilio, Pierre Bersuire, and medieval lexicographers such as the Catholicon when he has to interpret allegorically the myths of Orpheus and the

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Pierides. On the other hand, it prompts him to quote Virgil’s works and Petrarch’s Bucolicum Carmen (together with Dante’s Comedy) as examples of high truths veiled by the fables of the poets (Gen. XIV, 10). In the Genealogie, the concurrent mention of Virgil and Petrarch is not a coincidence: through the image of the Pierides, Boccaccio establishes a direct association between Virgil and Petrarch, since Virgil uses the term Pieris only in his eclogues. An attentive reader of Virgil’s pastoral poetry such as Boccaccio could not miss the connection between the classical poet and his master and friend Petrarch both in the verses dedicated to Africa and in the De vita Petracchi, where, as we have seen, Boccaccio uses the term Pierides in its classical meaning of the Muses. Petrarch, through his Latin works, especially Africa and Bucolicum Carmen, is a “new” Virgil, and both Virgils are Boccaccio’s guides. Boccaccio uses the classical meaning of Pierides also in Saphos, the twelfth eclogue of his Buccolicum Carmen, an autobiographical eclogue where the two interlocutors, Aristeus and Calliope,37 debate about Sappho, the personification of the highest poetry. Aristeus is the bucolic mask for the older Boccaccio, who in Virgil and in Petrarch’s Latin works recognizes the achievement of poetic perfection. As for the use of some myths, I tried to point out a different approach by Boccaccio. On the one hand, we have Boccaccio the Latin poet and biographer who, in his revival of the Latin classical sources, shows a humanistic attitude of strict adherence to the ancient usage. For this reason, the Pierides are always the Muses both in the Buccolicum Carmen, a work strongly indebted to the classical Virgilian model, and in the verses to Africa and in De vita, where Boccaccio, as Giovanni del Virgilio in his poem to Dante, uses the Pierides as the personification of a classical and humanistic idea of poetry. On the other hand, when, as in the Genealogie or in the eclogue to Checco, Boccaccio’s aim is a militant discourse in defense of poetry, he uses all the devices provided by the tradition closest to him: in particular, medieval allegorical exegesis. The two aspects of the culture of Boccaccio’s times, the medieval and the humanistic, coexist in him without being in contrast because they respond to two different purposes: the defense and the making of poetry. There is the mythographer who draws on a mythographic tradition and a way of interpretation that is still medieval, and there is the Latin poet, who is humanist both in his use of classical models and in his strong confidence in the high value of the poetry, both Latin and vernacular, as embodied by Virgil, Petrarch, and Dante.

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Appendix 1 [Giovanni del Virgilio on the Pierides; in F. Ghisalberti, Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi (Firenze: Olschki, 1933), 66–68.] Ultima est de Pieridibus conversis in picas. Ubi sciendum est quod de Musis diversa est opinion. Nam dicunt musici, sub quibus poete comprenduntur, quod Muse dicuntur a moyson quod est querere. Unde novem Muse dicuntur novem modi vel novem vie, quibus mediantibus octo principales toni dicuntur reperiri. Quomodo ergo erit de nona musa? Dicunt quod per ipsam habetur tonus qui generaliter se habet ad illos octo. Et ideo Caliope dicitur regina illarum aliarum.—Sed naturales aliter dicunt. Nam dicit Robertus quod per novem Musas intelligimus novem instrumenta necessaria ad vocem formandam. Nam per vocem cum fiat cantus et melodia, ideo Muse cantatrices dicuntur novem instrumenta formandi vocem scilicet quatuor dentes, duo labia, summitas lingue, concavitas palati superioris et canna pulmonis. Ita dicit Robertus super summulis.—Sed Macrobius dicit aliter dicit enim quod in ordine planetarum est quedam corea pulcerrima melodiam conferens. Nec sentimus eam propter longam consuetudinem que fuit in anima priusquam veniret ad corpus. Unde per novem Musas cantatrices intelligimus septem planetas in ordine melodiam facientes et circulum celestem et terrestrem inter quos planete sunt situati. Similiter Graecismus de his Musis vult gracitare quod abmicto ad presens quia omnibus potest patere.—Sed Fulgentius dicit. Per novem Musas intelligimus novem proprietates administrativas cuiuslibet ad perfectionem alicuius sciencie cupientis devenire. Quod apparet per eorum nomina et interpretationem. Prima enim vocatur Clio quod idem est quod gloria eo quod primum quod nos inducit ad scienciam est ex inde famam acquirere. Secunda vocatur Euterpe, quod interpretatur grande iuvanem, quia id quod nos inducit ad scienciam secundo est, quia per eam mente grande iuvanem habemus. Tercia est Melpomene que interpretatur suboblectatrix eo quod nisi ipsa sciencia oblectet hominem numquam devenitur ad culmen. Quarta vocatur Talia que interpretatur capacitas eo quod necesse est homini scientiam cupienti multorum capacitatem habere. Quinta vocatur Polimia, que interpretatur multa memoria, eo quod quinto est homini necessarium eorum que apprendit longam habere memoriam. Sexta vocatur Erato que interpretatur similium inventio eo quod est necessarium homini qui multa apprendit et longa memoria tenuit aliquid simile invenire his que didicit, aliter enim numquam efficeretur perfectus. Septima vocatur Tersicore, que interpretatur dijudicans eo quod homini est necessarium scire diiudicare inter ea que adinvenit.

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Aliter enim non diceretur invenisse. Octava est Urania que interpretatur celestis eo quod homini est necessarium octavo inter diudicata invenire quod probabilius est. ille enim qui scit hoc facere dicitur habere Uraniam i. esse celestis ingenii. Nona vocatur Caliope, que interpretatur optimus sonus, a calon quod est bonum et phonos sonus. Et ista est regina aliarum.—Sed in ista chorea Musarum introducitur Apolo qui dicutur decacordo i. decima corda, et hoc pro tanto quia novem Muse moraliter accipiendo ad eloquentiam ordinantur. Apolo autem deus est sapientie. Sed quia eloquentia sine sapientia parum prodest imo nocet ideo introducitur Apolo. U.d.e.: Prima scire petit fame dulcedine Clio Euterpe vocis grande iuvamen habet. Instat Melpomene super oblectans meditando Ipsa Talia sinu premeditata capit. Ne concepta fluant memorat Polimia multum Invenit hinc Erato que similantur eis. Tersicore super inventis diiudicat ipsa Eligit Uranie que meliora probat. Caliope regina sonat decreta sorori. His est virginibus facta chorea novem Castalios circum latices, ubi pulcer Apolo Spirat ovans medio plectra movere choro.

Sed quod nihil dictum est de transmutatione ideo dicamus. Dico ergo quod per novem musas superius nominatas intelligo novem consonantias. Sed quia unicuique est suum oppositum ideo per novem Pierides intelligo novem dissonantias. Et dicuntur Pierides Pieri filie a peiero—as quod est contra verum iurare, eo quod iste iurabant contra verum. Et ideo Caliope vertit eas in picas, hoc est quod illas dissonantias assimilat picis. Posset etiam bene dici quod per Musas intelligimus sapientes et discretos verum loquentes. Sed per Pierides intelligimus garulos. Et dicuntur mutari in picas, quia comuniter tales a vulgaribus appellantur pice. Unde illud: garula pica tace. U.v.: Musa novem flectit concordia semina vocum Et totidem vitiis peierat artis opus. Ergo Caliope docti vox optima cantus Picas discordes arguit esse sonus. [The last metamorphosis is that of the Pierides transformed into magpies. One should know that about the Muses there are different opinions. In fact, the musicians, that is, those who are devoted to music, among them poets are also included, believe the Muses are so called from moyson which means “to look for.” The nine Muses are the nine ways by which they say the eight major musical tones have obtained. How do we therefore have to interpret the ninth Muse? [The musicians] argue that this Muse means the musical tone you get from the other eight tones. That is why Calliope is considered the queen of all the others. However, the natural philosophers think differently. In fact, Robert says that for

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the nine Muses we are to understand the nine tools necessary for the formation of the voice. Since through the voice both song and melody are produced, the singing Muses38 are said to be the nine tools that create the voice, namely the four teeth, the two lips, the tongue’s tip, the concavity of upper palate and the windpipe. So Robert says in his super summulis [?]. It is rather different the interpretation given by Macrobius,39 who, in fact, argues that there is an orbit in the order of the planets that creates a beautiful melody. And we cannot perceive this melody because of the long usage that was in the soul before it came into the bodies. For this reason, for the nine singing Muses we mean the order of the seven planets that produce this heavenly melody and the heavenly and earthly circle located between these planets. Similarly, Everard de Béthune in his Graecismus [VII, 1–17] wants to talk40 about these Muses, but for the moment, I put him aside because it may be obvious to all. Fulgentius argues instead that we must interpret for the nine Muses the nine concrete and guiding activities to the improvement of which whoever wants to attain knowledge must turn. This is evident in their names and their meaning. The first, in fact, is Clio, whose name is the same as “fame” because the first thing that moves us in the searching of knowledge is the desire to gain fame from it. The second is Euterpe, which means “great benefit,” since this is what, secondly, drives us toward the knowledge, because thanks to the latter we obtain a great benefit for our purpose. Melpomene is the third Muse, meaning “what delights,” because if knowledge does not delight man, we can never reach the top of knowledge. The fourth is called Talia meaning “ability,” “attitude,” since it is necessary that men eager of knowing show great versatility. The fifth Muse is Polyhymnia, “great memory,” since it is necessary that man possess a long memory of what he learns. The sixth is called Erato, which means “to find similar things”: it is necessary for a man who learns many things and has a long memory to find some similarities in what he learns, otherwise he will never achieve perfection. The seventh Muse is called Terpsichore, “the one who judges and decides” because man must know how to judge and distinguish between the things he discovered. Otherwise, in fact, no one could say that he actually found those things. Eighth is Urania, which means “heaven,” because as the eighth step toward knowledge it is necessary for man to find what is most acceptable among the things he had found and judged. Whoever, in fact, is able to do that possesses Urania; that is to say, he has a heavenly intelligence. The ninth is called Calliope, which means “good voice” from calon “good” and phonos “voice.” This is the queen of the other Muses. However, in the group of the Muses Apollo is introduced: he is called “decachord,” that is, tenth string,41 and this is right as the nine Muses, by interpreting in a moral sense [moraliter], are ordered to eloquence. In fact, Apollo is the god of wisdom. Nevertheless, since eloquence without wisdom is not good enough, and it can be even harmful, for that reason, we introduce Apollo. That is why they say: “As first Clio seeks knowledge with the sweetness of fame / Euterpe has the great benefit of the name. / It follows Melpomene who enjoys meditating / the same Talia receives in her breast the premeditated things. / So that the learned things do not get away, Polyhymnia remembers many things / then Erato finds things that are similar to these. / The same Terpsichore judges on the found things / Urania chooses what she considers the better. / The queen Calliope echoes the decrees of her sisters. / The nine virgins form an harmonious circle / around the Castalian spring, where the handsome Apollo / blows enjoying playing the lyre among the Muses’ choir.” However, since nothing was said about the metamorphosis, now we will talk about it. Therefore, I say that for the nine above-mentioned Muses I intend the

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nine musical consonances. Since everything has its opposite, for the nine Pierides I intend the nine dissonances. Pierides are called the daughters of Pierus, from peiero,-as, which means to swear against the truth, since they swore against the truth. For that reason, Calliope turned them into magpies and this is why they compare those dissonances to the magpies.42 One can also assume that the Muses are the wise men and those who speak with discernment. Instead, for the Pierides we mean the talkative and gossipy people. They say the Pierides have been changed into magpies since these people are commonly called “magpies.” Whence this saying comes: “Shut up garrulous magpie.” Then they say: “The Muse modulates with harmony the nine tones of voice / and with so many defects we offend the product of art. / So, Calliope means the sublime melody of a well-done song / and the discordant magpies the noise.”]

Appendix 2 [Giovanni del Virgilio on Marsyas; in F. Ghisalberti, Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi (Firenze: Olschki, 1933), 73–74.] Trigesima est de Marsia excoriato. Nam per Palladem intellige artem rationis que aliquando inducit sophistam. Per ipsam sonare tibiam coram deis intellige ipsam uti sophismatibus coram sapientibus. Nam sicut tibia solum consistit in voce, ita qui sophista est solum vocalis. Et per ipsam dilatare genas intellige boatus quos faciunt sophiste. Sed per superos ridere intelligimus quod sapientes despiciunt tales. Sed ipsa descendit super Tritonem i. quod ars rationis ita spreta a sapientibus revertitur ad eternam cognitionem phylosophie naturalis s. phisice, et phylosophie moralis s. ethyce, et phylosophie rationalis s. logice. Et ibi videt deformitatem sophismatum. Tunc deicit ea. Sed Marsia accipiens tibiam et utens ea est homo sophista qui solum utitur fallaciis. Vult autem disputare cum Apolline i. cum sapiente. Sed Apollo devincit eum cithara i. veris argumentis a corde procedentibus non cum vocibus, quod denotatur per citharam, que non consistit in voce, sed tenetur a latere sinistro super cor. Et excoriavit eum, et detexit fallacias suas per distractionem unde sibi apparuerunt viscera, quia tales dum sunt ita excoriati apparent quales sunt. Ideo convertitur in fluvium, quia verba illorum fluunt in modum aque. Possumus etiam intelligere per Marsiam contemnentem Apolinem illos qui utuntur alienis verbis et questionibus. Et quando accipiuntur illa verba ab eo tunc remanent excoriate. Unde metrice d.e.: Ventosos calamos ars se speculata refutat Dum videt clusas intumuisse genas. Excipit hos fatuus contra doctumque tumescit Cui cithara cordis consonat apta manus. Disputat ore sonans non e ratione sophista,

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At sapiens imo pectore vera canit. Doctor et indocti clamantis viscera nudat Fit fluvius cuius verba repulsa fluunt. [The thirtieth metamorphosis is that of the flayed Marsyas. In fact, you have to understand by Pallas the logic [ars rationis] that sometimes leads the sophist. For Pallas playing the flute in front of the gods, you mean the same logic that makes use of sophistry in front of the learned. As the flute is based only on the voice, so the sophist has only voice. And indeed for Pallas who puffs up her cheeks, intend the roar that the sophists produce. Instead, for the laughing gods we mean that the wise despise the sophists. However, she descends on Triton, that is, the logic so despised by the wise turns to the eternal knowledge of natural philosophy, that is of physical and moral philosophy, that is ethics, rational philosophy, and logic. In this, we see the deformity of sophistry. Then she threw the flute. Marsyas who collects the flute and uses it is the sophist who uses only deception. He wants to deal with Apollo, that is, with the sage. But Apollo defeats him with the harp, that is, with real issues that arise from the heart not from the voice; that is, what one means by the lyre which is not based on the use of the voice, but is held on the left, that is, on the side of the heart. Apollo flayed him and laid bare his intrigues through the agony of his skin: this way his viscera appeared, because, while they are flayed, those men, that is the sophists, appear as they really are. For this reason, Marsyas is changed into a river, since the words of the sophists are as a flowing river. We can also understand for Marsyas who despises Apollo those who use inappropriate words and arguments. And when those words are understood by him (by Apollo, that is, by the wise), then the sophists remain flayed. So, in verses they say: “The art that contemplates itself rejects the empty flutes / when it sees that cheeks are swollen up. / A fool takes these [flutes] and blows contrary to the sage / who plays the harp on the heart with appropriate hand. / The sophist discusses producing sounds from his mouth, not according to the reason, / while the sage sings of the truth from his heart. / The teacher discovers the viscera of the chattering ignorant / whose words, refuted, flow as rivers.”]

Appendix 3 [Giovanni del Virgilio on Orpheus; in F. Ghisalberti, Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi (Firenze: Olschki, 1933), 77, 93.] (1) Sexta transmutatio est de dracone in saxum. Per draconem voluisse devorare caput Orphei sed mutatum esse in saxum, intelligo Troiam que consumpsit multos grecos sed tandem consumpta fuit ab eis. Vel per Orpheum intelligo hominem sapientem, et per draconem intelligo invidum, qui aliquando vult mordere caput sapientis i. reprendere. Sed tunc sapiens saxificat eum quia reddit eum mutum. U.d.e.: Saxeus hic serpens est immutabile fatum, Lividus aut doctor non nocuisse rigens.

(2) Prima alegoria undecimi libri de serpente converso in saxum. Per serpentem intelligo invidiosum sapientibus. Per caput Orphei intelligo

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hominem bone fame. Vult ergo serpens devorare caput Orphei i. vult revocare bonam famam. Sed tandem obmutescit, quia bona fama prevalet invidie, et ideo dicitur converti in saxum. U.d.e.: Serpens invidie famam corrumpere docti Nititur, at nequiens saxificatus obit.

Notes An earlier version of this essay was born as a paper for Prof. David Lummus’s class “Medieval and Early Modern Mythography” (Yale University, Spring 2010). I would like to thank Prof. Lummus for having supported me in the long process of rethinking, rewriting, and reviewing my previous paper. I have also benefited from the comments of the anonymous reader at Medievalia et Humanistica, whom I would like to thank too. 1. Boccaccio, Ecl. III, 64–71, in La corrispondenza bucolica di Giovanni Boccaccio e Checco di Meletto Rossi e l’egloga di Giovanni del Virgilio ad Albertino Mussato, ed. Simona Lorenzini (Firenze: Olschki, 2011), 148. Unless otherwise noted, the translations are my own. As for Pyeridis, it is a plural dative, as Di Benedetto rightly states in F. Di Benedetto, “Considerazioni sullo Zibaldone Laurenziano del Boccaccio e restauro testuale della prima redazione del Faunus,” Italia Medioevale e Umanistica 14 (1971): 118. 2. See, in particular, Giovanni Boccaccio, Carmina, ed. G. Velli, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca (Milano: Mondadori, 1992), V, to. 1, 412–27. 3. The eclogue is now published in La corrispondenza bucolica di Giovanni Boccaccio, 131–32. 4. Matteo Ferretti suggests a possible knowledge of the Allegoriae already during the years spent by Boccaccio at Naples, probably through the mediation of Paolo da Perugia, Boccaccio’s teacher, who in his commentaries on Persius’s Satires and Horace’s Ars poetica proves to know Giovanni del Virgilio’s work (M. Ferretti, “Boccaccio, Paolo da Perugia e i commentari ovidiani di Giovanni del Virgilio,” Studi sul Boccaccio 35 [2007]: 85–110). 5. For this myth, see also W. Brewer, Ovid’s Metamorphoses in European culture (Boston, Mass.: Cornhill, 1933), 191–94. 6. In the proem of his work, Arnulf says he will provide for each myth a single interpretation, moral, historical, or natural, although the first is more important for him: “Modo quasdam allegorice, quasdam moraliter exponamus, et quasdam historice.” I quote here and later from Fausto Ghisalberti, Arnolfo d’Orléans, un cultore di Ovidio nel secolo XII, Memorie dell’Istituto Lombardo di Scienze e Lettere 24 (Milano: Hoepli, 1932), 201. 7. I quote here and later from Giovanni di Garlandia, Integumenta Ovidii, poemetto inedito del secolo XIII, ed. F. Ghisalberti (Messina-Milano: Casa Editrice Giuseppe Principato, 1933). 8. “Morphosis Ovidii parva cum clave Johannis / Panditur et presens cartula servit ei. / Nodos secreti denodat, clausa revelat / Rarificat nebulas, integumenta canit. . . . Est sermo fictus tibi fabula vel quia celat, / Vel quia delectat, vel quod utrumque facit. / Res est historia magnatibus ordine gesta / Scriptaque venturis commemoranda viris. / Clauditur historico sermo velamine verus, / Ad populi mores allegoria tibi. / Fabula voce tenus tibi palliat integumentum, / Clausa doctrine res tibi vera latet” (5–8; 55–62).

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9. The only edition still available is F. Ghisalberti, Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi (Firenze: Olschki, 1933); the Latin text is on 66–68 (see appendix 1). For the manuscript tradition and the influence of the work see M. Ferretti, “Per la recensio e la prima diffusione delle Allegorie sulle Metamorfosi di Giovanni del Virgilio,” L’Ellisse: Studi storici di letteratura italiana 2 (2007): 9–28. See also C. Marchesi, “Le allegorie ovidiane di Giovanni del Virgilio,” Studi romanzi 6 (1909): 85–135; G. Rotondi, “I versi delle allegorie ovidiane di Giovanni del Virgilio,” Rendiconti del Reale Istituto Lombardo di Scienze, Lettere e Arti 71 (1938): 408–16; and B. Guthmüller, “Giovanni del Virgilio e la tradizione in volgare delle Metamorfosi di Ovidio,” in his Mito, poesia, arte: Saggi sulla tradizione ovidiana nel Rinascimento (Roma: Bulzoni, 1997), 65–83. 10. For the Third Vatican Mythographer see G. Henry Bode, ed., Scriptores Rerum Mythicarum Latini Tres Romae Nuper Reperti (Celle: Schulze, 1834); cf. also the English translation The Vatican Mythographers, trans. R. E. Pepin (New York: Fordham University Press, 2008). 11. For the Latin text and the translation, see appendix 2. On the myth of Marsyas in Giovanni del Virgilio’s Expositio and its relationship with the Ovidian tale see B. Guthmüller, “Il mito di Marsia nei volgarizzamenti delle Metamorfosi di Ovidio fra il Tre e il Quattrocento,” Musica e Storia 6 (1998): 110–12. 12. I quote here and later from Pierre Bersuire, Reductorium morale, Liber XV: Ovidius moralizatus, cap. ii–xv, nach de Parijse druk van 1509: Metamorphosis Ouidia, ed. J. Engels (Utrecht: Instituut voor Laat Latijn der Rijksuniversiteit, 1962), 90 (emphasis mine); see also F. Ghisalberti, “L’Ovidius moralizatus di Pierre Bersuire,” Studi romanzi 23 (1933): 5–136. The meaning of the Latin word duplicitas can be connected to the same contraposition of true/ false that I pinpointed in Giovanni del Virgilio’s interpretation of the myths of Marsyas and the Pierides. 13. See also Genealogie XIV, 20, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Genealogie deorum gentilium, ed. V. Zaccaria, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca (Milano: Mondadori, 1998), VII–VIII, 1494–99. 14. Boccaccio, Genealogie deorum gentilium, VII–VIII, 1080–84 (emphasis mine). 15. Bersuire, Reductorium morale, 90: “quae [pyerides] invidentes novem musis pegaseum fontem inhabitantibus voluerunt cum eis disputare et narrando fabulas decertare” (“who [the Pierides], envying the nine Muses who lived at the Pegaseus source, wanted to confront and compete with them in telling stories”); emphasis mine. 16. “Le coronavano [le Muse] poi di vari fiori e di diverse frondi et alle volte ancora con ghirlande di palma, overamente che cingevano loro il capo con penne di diversi colori, o fosse per le Pieride che le sfidarono a cantare e vinte poscia da quelle, come dicono le favole, furono mutate in piche, che sono le gaze, le qual oggidì ancora sanno imitare la voce umana, overo per le Sirene, superate da loro medesimamente nel cantare” (Vincenzo Cartari, Le imagini de i Dei de gli Antichi, ed. G. Auzzas, F. Martignago, M. P. Stocchi, and P. Rigo [Vicenza: Neri Pozza Editore, 1996], 52). Similarly, Giglio Gregorio Giraldi says that “sed et coronas interdum gestare Musae finguntur, ex pennis versicoloribus, non modo propter Pieri filias ab his superatas, et in picas conversas, sed etiam ob Sirenas devictas, ut alibi dictum est” (“they imagine the Muses carry on sometimes garlands made of feathers of different colors, not only because of Pierus’s daughters defeated by them, but also

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18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

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because of the Sirens equally overcome, as elsewhere they say”) (Giglio Gregorio Giraldi, Historiae Deorum Gentilium [Basileae: Oporinus, 1548], 204). Conti only gives little information on the name: “But once Pierus the Macedonian came to Thespiae, he saw to it that nine Muses (with the same names we use today) received their proper worship. However Aristocles, in the third book of this work on Dances, says that Pierus named his nine daughters after the Muse” (Natale Conti, Mythologiae, ed. and trans. John Mulryan and Steven Brown [Tempe, Ariz.: ACMRS, 2006], 655). Johannes Balbus, Catholicon (Westmead, Farnborough, Hants, England: Gregg International, 1971; anastatic reprint of the 1460 edition published at Mainz), s.v. Pierus. Boccaccio, Genealogie deorum gentilium, VII–VIII, 1074–75. See, for some examples, Onomasticon totius Latinitatis, opera et studio doct. J. Perin (Patavii: Typis Seminarii, 1940), s.v. Pieris. The epithet Pyerides to indicate the Muses seems unusual in Dante’s works: Dante, De vulgari eloquentia I, ii, 7, “Si vero contra argumentetur quis de eo quod Ovidius dicit in quinto Metamorfoseos de picis loquentibus, dicimus quod hoc figurate dicit, aliud intelligens”; Pg I, 10–12: “quel suono / di cui le Piche misere sentiro / lo colpo” (I quote respectively from Dante, De vulgari eloquentia, ed. M. Tavoni, in Dante, Opere, ed. M. Santagata [Milano: Mondadori, 2011], I, 1146–49; and La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, ed. G. Petrocchi , 4 vols. [Milano: Mondadori, 1966–67]). In the De vulgari eloquentia, Dante does not give any interpretation of the myth: he only says that Ovid is talking figurate, figuratively. Anyway, Mengaldo suggests that here Dante is following the interpretation of Arnulf d’Orléans, for whom, as we have seen, the Pierides, as opposed to the Muses, represent the nine dissonances (see Dante, De vulgari eloquentia, ed. P. V. Mengaldo, in Dante, Opere Minori, ed. P. V. Mengaldo, B. Nardi, et al. (Milano, Napoli: Riccardi, 1979), II, 37–38. On the meaning of Dante’s allusion to this myth in his works, see also J. Levenstein, “Resurrecting Ovid’s Pierides: Dante’s Invocation to Caliope in Purgatorio 1. 7–12,” Dante Studies, with the Annual Report of the Dante Society 126 (2008): 1–19. Probably Dante adopts the patronymic in his eclogue following the tradition of the epistolary genre, which required intertextual references of this kind. On the rhetoric-stylistic features of the medieval tenzone, see M. Pedroni and A. Stüable, eds., Il genere tenzone nelle letterature romanze delle origini (Ravenna: Longo, 1999); C. Giunta, “Metro, forma e stile della tenzone,” in his Due saggi sulla tenzone (Roma, Padova: Antenore, 2002), 122–208; P. G. Schmidt, “I conflictus,” in Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo. I. La Produzione del testo (Roma: Salerno Ed., 1993), II: 157–70. It is the eighth poem in the English edition of the Dante and Giovanni del Virgilio’s bucolic correspondence. For all these works and their translation see Dante and Giovanni del Virgilio, including a critical edition of the text of Dante’s Eclogae Latinae and of the poetic remains of Giovanni del Virgilio, ed. P. H. Wicksteed and E. G. Gardner (Westminster: A. Constable, 1902). See, for example, Comedia delle Ninfe fiorentine XXI, 3, “garrula quale le figlie di Piero” (Giovanni Boccaccio, Comedia delle Ninfe fiorentine, ed. A. E. Quaglio, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca [Milano: Mondadori, 1964], II, 732); Amorosa Visione XXXV, 55–60, “Ivi ve’ tu ancora il gran romore / che fanno le figliuole di Piero / voltate in piche per greve dolore. / Veggon sanza lor pro ora quel vero / ch’a lor superbamente s’ocultava / nel loro parer fallace e non intero” (Giovanni Boccaccio, Amorosa Visione,

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25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

33.

34.

Medievalia et Humanistica ed. V. Branca, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca [Milano: Mondadori, 1974], III, 234–35). Giovanni Boccaccio, Buccolicum Carmen, ed. G. Bernardi Perini, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca (Milano: Mondadori, 1994), V, 2. Boccaccio, Carmina, (it is the poem IX, 107–8), V, to. 1, 418. Giovanni Boccaccio, Vite, ed. R. Fabbri, in Giovanni Boccaccio, Tutte le opere, ed. V. Branca, (Milano: Mondadori, 1992), V, 1. Giovanni del Virgilio is here commenting respectively on Met. VIII, 358 and XI, 56–60. For the Latin text, see appendix 3. Boccaccio, Genealogie deorum gentilium, VII–VIII, 544–45. Concerning this aspect of the Orpheus myth in Boccaccio, see C. Segal, Orpheus: The Myth of the Poet (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1989), 168–69; J. B. Friedman, Orpheus in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1956), 140–42. In particular, Friedman points out that “[w]hether Boccaccio was referring obliquely to the fact that Orpheus’ lyre had been made a constellation and so was beyond the reach of time, or whether he meant simply that the works of a famous man can keep his name alive, the problem which concerns him is outside the tradition of previous Orpheus commentary. Only new knowledge of the legend (and the Lesbos episode was not newly uncovered, but part of the standard account in Ovid) or a different set of interests from those which had prompted men to comb the legend for Christian allegories could have produced this interpretation.” Patricia Vicari observes, “And again in Boccaccio, after centuries of silence on the subject, we hear of the severed head that continued to sing and the lyre that played on after death (Boccaccio may also have been alluding to the story of the stellification of the lyre); the head and lyre symbolize fame—a new preoccupation that signals the end of the Middle Ages—‘a famous man lives on [after his death] by this fame’” (emphasis mine; P. Vicari, “Sparagmos: Orpheus among the Christians,” in Orpheus: The Metamorphoses of a Myth, ed. John Warden [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985], 68). However, neither Segal nor Friedman nor Vicari make mention of Giovanni del Virgilio and John of Garland’s interpretation of Orpheus’s myth. I did not find any reference in Fulgentius, in the Third Vatican Mythographer, or in Arnulf of Orléans. Cf. Met. XI, 56–60: “hic ferus expositum peregrinis anguis harenis / os petit et sparsos stillanti rore capillos. / Tandem Phoebus adest morsusque inferre parantem / arcet et in lapidem rictus serpentis apertos / congelat et patulos, ut erant, indurat hiatus.” For a detailed description of this manuscript, see A. M. Bandini, Catalogus codicum latinorum Bibliothecae Medicae Laurentianae (Firenze, 1775), II, coll. 9–28; H. Hauvette, “Notes sur des manuscrits autographes de Boccace à la Bibliothèque Laurentienne,” Mélanges d’archéologie et d’historie 14 (1894); F. Di Benedetto, “Considerazioni sullo Zibaldone Laurenziano del Boccaccio e restauro testuale della prima redazione del Faunus,” Italia Medievale e Umanistica 14 (1971): 91–129; and more recently, La corrispondenza bucolica di Giovanni Boccaccio, 99–104. M. L. Lord, “Boccaccio’s Virgiliana in the Miscellanea Latina,” Italia Medievale e Umanistica 34 (1991): 127–97 (in particular, 164–65); Ferretti, “Boccaccio, Paolo da Perugia,” 98–100; Jon Usher, “Global Warming in the Sonnet: The Phaethon Myth in Boccaccio and Petrarch,” Studi sul Boccaccio 28 (2000): 153–54; see also Ferretti, “Per la recensio e la prima diffusione delle Allegorie,” 18–19.

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35. For the dating of the Miscellanea Virgiliana (Pl. 33, 31) in the last years of the Neapolitan period, cf. S. Zamponi, M. Pantarotto, and A. Tomiello, Stratigrafia dello Zibaldone e della Miscellanea Laurenziani. Gli Zibaldoni di Boccaccio. Memoria, scrittura, riscrittura, Atti del Seminario internazionale (Firenze, Certaldo, 26–28 aprile 1996), eds. M. Picone and C. Cazalé Bérard (Firenze: F. Cesati, 1998): 181–258 (in particular, 239). 36. In this regard, see B. Guthmüller, Ovidio Metamorphoseos vulgare (Boppard am Rhein: Harald Boldt Verlag, 1981), and his Mito, poesia, arte: Saggi sulla tradizione ovidiana nel Rinascimento (Roma: Bulzoni, 1997); E. Ardissino, “Narrare i miti in volgare: Le Metamorfosi tra Arrigo Simintendi da Prato e Giovanni Bonsignori da Città di Castello,” in Le Metamorfosi di Ovidio nella letteratura tra Medioevo e Rinascimento, ed. G. M. Anselmi-M. Guerra (Bologna: Gedit, 2006), 55–74; and her “Saggio per l’edizione critica dell’Ovidio Metamorphoseos Vulgare di Giovanni di Bonsignori: Il Proemio e l’Esordio,” Traditio 48 (1993): 107–71. 37. In this eclogue, Calliope defines herself and the other Muses with the periphrasis “the sister Pieridis.” 38. “Muse cantatrices”: the word cantatrix is rare (Apuleius, Christian Latin) and Giovanni del Virgilio seems the first to use it as apposition for the Muses (see Thesaurus Linguae Latinae [Leipzig, 1900–], s.v. cantatrix). 39. Macr. Somn. 2,3,1–2: “theologi . . . novem musas octo sphaerarum musicos cantus et unam maximam concinentiam, quae confit ex omnibus, esse voluerunt; unde Hesiodus in Theogonia sua octavam musam Uraniam vocat.” 40. The verb here used by Giovanni del Virgilio, gracitare, is late Latin (see T. De Mauro, Il dizionario della lingua italiana [Torino: Paravia, 2000], s.v. gracidare); the vernacular form gracidare, “to croak,” betrays perhaps a not entirely positive judgment on Everard. 41. Decac(h)ordus is a rare adjective; as referred to Apollo, Giovanni del Virgilio’s source is Fulg. Myth. I,15: “cum decacorda Apollo pingitur cithara.” 42. For the etymology of the word pica see Isid. Orig. XII,7,46: “Picae quasi poeticae, quod verba in discrimine vocis exprimat, ut homo. Per ramos enim arborum pendulae inportuna garrulitate sonantes, et si linguas in sermone nequeunt explicare, sonum tamen humanae vocis imitantur. De qua congrue quidam ait: ‘Pica loquax certa dominum te voce saluto: / si me non videas, esse negabis avem’ [Mart. Epigr. XIV,76].”

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Narrative, Elegy, Parody The Medieval Latin Comedy Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria KURT SMOLAK

Abstract The late twelfth- or early thirteenth-century elegiac comedy Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria, which was written in France and the names of whose characters are taken from Terence’s Andria, is conceived as a parody of the Passion of Christ, his resurrection, and ascension into his Father’s reign. This can be proved by linguistic and scenic allusions that do not only serve as a means of making readers laugh occasionally, but serve the duty of forming a coherent narrative, although it seems probable that the plot refers to a real event. In applying a parody of biblical texts—a technique familiar in Latin lyrics—to the “modern” genre of elegiac comedy, the author enriches it by a new feature. As he also makes use of elements of the vernacular narrative of the chevalier errant, he creates a specific piece of entertaining literature. Both innovations may point to a rather late dating of the play.

The anonymous elegiac comedy1 Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria, simply named after its dramatis personae, is extant in the Vatican manuscript Reginensis 344 of the late twelfth or early thirteenth century and in the late twelfth-century Codex 2020 in the Royal Library of Copenhagen. It is also listed in the catalog of the Library of Saint-André de Villeneuve of 1307.2 The plot of this comedy in 104 elegiac distiches is easily told: a young man on horseback, accompanied by his servant, is looking for his beloved and finds her in Paris. Recognition, a typical scene both of Hellenistic comedy and of Roman fabula palliata, in the medieval play takes place at the beginning and not at the end as is the case in the classic recognitions (α′ναγνωρισµοιí); it functions as an exposition and not as the dénouement. The scene is rendered in a deliberately complicated way: The lady who had once left her lover after a quarrel or dispute now obviously earns her living in the capital as a prostitute—which is not Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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explicitly stated, but seems inevitable in a medieval social context. This young lady pretends to recognize (cognoscere) only the servant, not her lover: one may assume an allusion to the everyday and biblical-euphemistic meaning of the verb cognoscere for having sexual intercourse, commonly known from Mary’s reply to the announcement of the archangel Gabriel in Luke 1:34. The servant suggests they “become acquainted” in a rented room (hospitium), and that is where all three of them go. A sumptuous meal is prepared, followed by the sexual union of the lovers, a union avoiding conception as is frankly stated in line 97 with—in the Middle Ages—hardly surprising directness.3 Only afterward do they discuss their future: the lover persuades the lady, who remembers previous disputes and quarrels, to return to him and promises better behavior. Next morning the servant announces that the horse, a hired beast, died overnight; it had prepared itself well for its end, by the way, as it had been left without fodder to “philosophize”4—that is, it (probably) practiced a kind of medieval meditatio mortis, the goal of philosophical existence since Socrates.5 Having lost their horse, the trio has to struggle all the way back home on foot. In the city of Evreux they are beaten up by the police because they cannot prove their identities. They escape and finally arrive at their destination, Lisieux. There the servant, characterized as voracious, expects an invigorating meal at the home of the city’s bishop, while the lovers are welcomed and united by the overjoyed father: “Urbi succedunt; hilaris pater accipit illos; / gaudent; illa suum sic habet, ille suam” runs the last distich of the play, the happy ending for the strange trio is perfect. We will get back to this final scene toward the end of this article. So much for the plot. Its linearity, as a consequence of positioning the scene of recognition at the beginning, constitutes a principal difference from the Roman fabulae palliatae, Latin comedies based on Greek originals, as mentioned before. But even in doing so, the anonymous author’s reference to the classical genre is intentional. A particular reference is to the Andria of Terence, which is always in first position in manuscript tradition.6 Only there—apart from other details of the plot—the names of all three characters of the medieval poem do appear together: Pamphilus, the young lover; Glycerium, the courtesan, who turns out to be the daughter of a citizen of Athens; and Byrria, the slave.7 By the way, the anonymous medieval author might have stressed his heroine’s radiant beauty, which is not explicitly mentioned, by spelling “Gliscerium” in a way committed to medieval Latin phonetics and orthography, because the name now has an assonance to the verb gliscere (to shine)—and no longer to the highly suggestive Greek term

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of endearment “Sweety,” “La Douce.” The few similarities of motif with the Andria are of such a general nature, however, that they can hardly testify to the author’s intention to create a modern version of the ancient drama as a whole. They are limited to the following items: (1) the lovers living together out of wedlock until the happy turn of events at the very end; (2) their relation having been—or remaining—in danger; (3) recognition, but dramaturgically rendered in a different way and concerning other people; (4) contrast between home and abroad—that is, Lisieux and Paris and Andros and Athens, respectively; and (5) marriage or approval of the relationship by some kind of father (pater). The names of the characters are a sufficient proof of the author’s familiarity with the comedy of Terence, and maybe some of the aspects mentioned above could also be regarded as cases in point.8 Similarities of language cannot be expected, however, for the play belongs to the species of elegiac comedies, which—from the very beginning with Vitalis and his brother William of Blois—aimed at replacing the obsolete language and metrics of the fabulae palliatae by the more elegant meter of Ovidian love poetry—that is, the elegiac couplet—which, to their mind, was more appropriate to the predominantly erotic subject matter of comedies. An outline of the development of this genre would exceed the scope of this study. Suffice it to say that contemporary issues were eventually preferred to antique ones for dramatization, and the oriental influence of the farce, imported as a consequence of the Crusades, played an important role.9 Sometimes nothing but the names of the dramatis personae or the title of the play reminds us of the ancient palliatae, as is the case with the anonymous Miles gloriosus, a title that quotes a famous comedy of Plautus. This is also true of the Comoedia elegiaca discussed here. The play is basically medieval in character and seems to refer to an event the details of which are no longer known, or rather reflects on it with the literary means of this genre, as we will see later on. The atmosphere of the Middle Ages is evoked by four elements. First, it is suggested by portraying the two male proponents at the very beginning: Pamphilus does not appear on stage as a citizen of ancient Athens or another Greek town accompanied by his slave as in the Latin fabulae palliatae, but as a man on horseback followed by his servant on foot—one cannot help thinking of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, a couple that Cervantes in the early seventeenth century modeled after a scheme of medieval chivalric romances.10 And, indeed, the hero of the only preserved medieval Latin epic of chivalry, entitled Ruodlieb, the most important fragments of which once belonged to the library of the Bavarian Abbey of Tegernsee, also sets out on his journey on horse in the company

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of his shield-bearer (scutifer) on foot.11 All these couples are typical character constellations of medieval court literature—the chevalier errant (the knight-errant), his squire, and their adventures.12 In the opening scene in question Pamphilus actually passes himself off as an expert horseman: performing dressage he tries to impress the still-reluctant Gliscerium. In Birria’s character there are, admittedly, traits typical of the characters of slaves in ancient comedies:13 he never misses an opportunity to fill his stomach and he is lazy or a coward in some situations—only he is said to flee from the beating scene in Evreux. Nevertheless, we know similar types of slaves from medieval Latin elegiac comedies as well. An extremely drastic example is the character of Spurius and his mistress Spurca in the play Alda of William of Blois: the educated clerical upper class obviously show their disdain for the “common people” with glaring distinctness.14 As far as the portraying of the squire is concerned, the anonymous author of Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria places himself into the medieval literary tradition by this detail—into the Latin tradition, however, and not the court tradition as he does portraying the chevalier. Second, in the Palliates there is no parallel to the beating scene as far as we know today, but there are similarities with the medieval Latin elegiac comedy De nuncio sagaci, also named Ovidius puellarum, which—in this part—does not seem to have any points of contact with Menander’s Leucadia in its rendering of Turpilius, which has been regarded as the medieval author’s source.15 This is appropriate to the—compared with antiquity—sometimes coarser shade of medieval humor. Third, there is a parallel for the setting of the play in medieval France: Vitalis of Blois already located his comedy Geta not in the Greek metropolis of Athens, regarded as the city of philosophers and place of action in many Hellenistic comedies (admittedly not of Plautus’s Amphitruo, his text of reference), but in the contemporary French metropolis of Paris: Vitalis’s comic hero does not return from a military campaign against the Teleboae, a tribe of bad fame in Acarnania, as in Plautus, Amphitruo 734, but from studies of logic in Paris. In doing so, Vitalis extends the myth into the contemporary medieval world. Fourth, the most effective medium for creating medieval flair is, however, the inclusion of Christianity confined to the way of literary presentation. It is in this respect that the play differs from all other products of this literary genre known today, a point Cordier already mentioned in 1931 without proving it seriously;16 the Italian editor, Annamaria Savi, on the other hand, offers a complete list of biblical and liturgical reminiscences,17 sometimes also noting their parodist tone without drawing consequences from these facts. Several literal quotations from the New Testament or quotes only slightly modi-

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fied to comply with metrical requirements just aim at making the reader smile—in their immediate context—at a Bible parody en miniature. This is the case, for instance, when Pamphilus praises his servant as early as in verse 20 with the words of Matthew 25:23 “euge, serve bone!”—in a breath, by the way, with the forceful interjection hercule of the Roman comedy. The repeated occurrence of such well-calculated biblicisms cannot but lead to a result exceeding the purpose of isolated quotations just mentioned. What is more, it creates a coherent co-text to the plot of the comedy, a kind of biblical co-text that suggests—in retrospection—a reading of the whole play unexpected for the genre of elegiac comedies: the reading as a parody in the tenor of bible-parodist scenes or poems of high medieval lyrics like several pieces of the Carmina Burana or even the plays edited by Paul Lehmann in his well-known monograph about parody in Latin Middle Ages18—but of a refined type.19 To support the hypothesis of a parodist reading, I will analyze the central scene from this point of view in greater detail. It is remarkable that the central scene is the love feast, a caritas or agape of a special kind, consisting of an opulent meal and the sexual union of the loving couple—not an unexpected sequence, which is also hinted at in the elegiac comedy De tribus puellis.20 The love feast is celebrated in a rented house, as mentioned, which the servant considers a more appropriate place for their cognoscere—the ambiguity of the word has already been pointed out—rather than in public (ll. 31-36). Birria seems to assume the role of the matchmaker (leno) of the Roman comedy. But none of the details of lenocinium remind us of antique prototypes. On the contrary, the servant, who in line 37 is said to fulfill the order of his magister (master), is sent to buy food. These two details taken together establish a relation to the Last Supper before the Passion of Jesus. According to the synoptic accounts of Matthew 27:17–19, Mark 14:13–15, and Luke 22:10–12, Jesus sent the apostles away to prepare supper, which also took place at somebody else’s house, and called himself magister (master), or rabbi, in the bidding (Mark 14:14). At the beginning of the meal, which Birria prepared in the function of the coquus or µάγειρος of Hellenistic comedies—tempore cenandi (l. 45), which is virtually synonymous with the expression vespere autem facto of the synoptic accounts—the servant takes a cloth (mantile), pours water into a bowl, and washes the hands of the lovers who have already sat down at the table. In this scene the anonymous author evokes the Last Supper once again, this time including the Gospel of John, by using the word pelvis (bowl), which occurs only in the fourth Gospel, and the term mantile, synonymous with John’s linteum (linen cloth). Both items, the bowl and the cloth, are requisites

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of washing the feet as John describes it in the scene of the Last Supper (13:4–5), but here it is the master who washes the feet of his disciples in order to demonstrate humility, whereas in the comedy it is the servant who washes the hands of the lovers. By using the word discumbentibus for the people reclining at the table, the author takes an expression from the synoptic accounts of the Last Supper, without even any morphological change. The comparison of the keenly busy Birria with the biblical person of Martha according to Luke 10:40–41 distracts from the Last Supper, it is true, but does not seem to have been chosen just for the effect, as it provides a biblical point of reference for the constellation of one person serving versus two people being served, a constellation that does not occur in the Last Supper but at the house of Lazarus’s sisters Martha and Mary, where Martha serves Jesus himself and Mary listens to his words. Of even greater importance is the fact that Birria, vulgarly devouring his meal, remarks to his “master” in line 54 that he lived on love: “te, Pamphile, pascit amor.”21 Whether this gnomic sentence was phrased in parodist language or in sincere continuation of Psalm 22:1—“dominus pascit me” (“the Lord is my shepherd”; verbally: “feeds me”)—cannot be proved with certainty, but within the context of the sensuously interpretable love feast it can only be understood as a parodist reference to the “new commandment” (mandatum novum), that of mutual love, which the “master” gave to the apostles according to John 13:34 at the Last Supper, possibly with a hint to the eucharistic bread, which is spiritual food of the human soul not the material food for the body, offered by God, who is love (caritas) according to 1 John 4:8, 16. In the comedy this new commandment of love is realized as Eros, not as the Christian agape. Before this very specific and highly individual interpretation of Christ’s demand of mutual love, poma, probably in the Romance meaning of “apples,” and nuces (nuts) are served as dessert. Both might be regarded as sexual metaphors and therefore as early references to the erotic agape that is to follow.22 The catalog of fruits (l. 64, 66–68) starting with apples and nuts (on the list) corresponds to the introductory catalog of main dishes (ll. 39–40). If we assume a literary intention behind these two enumerations, to which the following would not only entitle but even compel us, it might be the desire to establish a contrast to the biblical Last Supper, where the meal is served in the shape of the true Easter lamb, Christ. The feast continues until the first cockcrow in the depths of the night. Here, the author does not only quote the beginning of the hymn of the cockcrow, Ad galli cantum, of Ambrose (nr. 1),23 but—and this is of greater importance for a comprehensive interpretation of the play—in

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line 69 he also quotes a prominent passage from the biblical account of the Passion of Christ: “et statim gallus cantavit” (“and immediately the cock crew”), according to John 18:27, there in connection with Peter’s second denial, which took place after the Last Supper. In the comedy, however, the cockcrow is the signal for the sexual union of the lovers. It starts with the drinking of wine, which is not conspicuous as such—there are parallels, if such are considered necessary, already in Roman literature, in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius for example24 and in the murals of Pompeii25—but gets its contextual meaning by Birria’s behavior: he serves as a cupbearer, pours wine into a cup (calyx), and, kneeling, hands it to his master (ll. 75–76). We have to regard this as an allusion to liturgy—that is, to the offering of wine in the Eucharist. Because this liturgical act is understood as a repetition of the offering at the Last Supper of wine, which is considered to be the blood of Christ, the scene contains not only another allusion to the parodist intention of the poem, but also at the same time an exemplification of the proverbial aphorism of Terence, Eunuchus 732, that “without Ceres and Bacchus/ Liber [food and drink in a wider sense of the word] Venus freezes” (“sine Libero et Cerere friget Venus”). In this way the meal turns into a Eucharist for Venus. Keeping that in mind, the enigmatic expression in verse 78 makes sense: “the bed which was rather intended for a religious purpose” (“lectus qui potius religiosus erat”).The bed has a function in the religious cult of Venus, being her altar in some respect. That is why Birria prepares it in a way similar to that of a sacristan, who prepares the altar for the celebration of a mass—with gorgeous blankets (“decus ornatusque cubilis”) but without the linen cloth indispensable for Catholic service (l. 80). In accordance with the previous observations, this can be regarded as a further indication of the parodist character of the play. In this scenario Pamphilus behaves like a courtly minstrel: he serves (famulatur) his beloved, untying her shoelaces, a typical servant’s duty, which gains special profile with John the Baptist’s words to Jesus in the Gospels, according to Mark 1:7, Luke 3:16, and John 1:27: “I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of his [Jesus’] shoes”; in the tenth-century hagiographic drama Abraham heremicola of Hrotsvit of Gandersheim, Mary, a young hermit seduced by a leno in disguise of a wandering monk, has fallen to prostitution; when her uncle Abraham, himself a hermit, came to free her from the brothel in disguise of a suitor, she behaves toward him like Pamphilus toward Gliscerium, taking off his boots.26 Well, Pamphilus, having served his beloved, enthrones her on the bed. One cannot help being reminded of the mockery of Hagia Sophia by the West European knights at the conquest of Constantinople in the Fourth

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Crusade of 1204, where a whore was seated on the patriarch’s throne behind the altar and blasphemously worshipped as Holy Wisdom.27 Instead of saying his evening prayers and reciting the psalm for nocturne and making the sign of the cross, Pamphilus undresses his beloved and does chivalrous service—to Venus—by sleeping with Gliscerium, equating the love for a woman with war service, a metaphor that has its roots in antiquity and was quite common in medieval Latin due to Ovid.28 Birria is sleeping all the while just as the three apostles slept during Jesus’ mortal fear on the Mount of Olives.29 After their union the partners discuss their future: Gliscerium is skeptical and afraid that Pamphilus may again turn violent, tie her hands, beat her up, and threaten her. Pamphilus, however, who calls his own words a “gospel” (l. 106), dispels her doubts with great eloquence and can finally win back his beloved. A new (!) covenant (pactum) is made in a wider setting of the Supper. In the context of the scenes in the hospice, this “new covenant” can be understood as the novum testamentum, which was concluded with a chalice of wine, the blood of Jesus, according to Luke 22:20: “hic est calyx novum testamentum” (“this chalice is the new alliance”). It is surely not a mere coincidence that the love union in the comedy starts with the drinking of wine from a cup, which is done both in the Gospel of Luke and in the comedy only after the meal. “And again a cock crowed,” follows in line 127. This crowing finalizes the new love union because, according to a popular belief, it dispels evil30 and is a signal for a good new start—like in the hymn to the cockcrow of Ambrose, Ad galli cantum, quoted shortly before. Peter also regrets his denial of Jesus after the second cockcrow according to Mark 14:72. The subsequent journey of the love-knight-errant Pamphilus from Paris to Lisieux consists of the painful part up to Evreux, a via dolorosa, and the happy homecoming. The previous elements of parody of the Passion of Christ methodically justify interpreting this passage in the context of the Gospels as well. In this reading, the journey on foot, which the death of the horse made necessary, corresponds—all in all—to the way to Golgotha, and the reactions that the three foreigners arouse in the local population of Evreux, where they get into conflict with the authorities as explained at the beginning, remind the readers, in fact, of the behavior of the people and Pilate, who represents the authorities, at the condemnation of Jesus according to all four Gospels. Some people call for his release, as does Pilate himself, by shouting: “dimitte iustum” (l. 185)—dimittere is the keyword for Pilate’s intention in the Passion of Christ according to all canonical Gospels.31 The others

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call for capital punishment with the words “mortificate reum” (l. 186).32 This demand is reminiscent of the call of the crowd “crucify him“ (“crucifige eum”) according to Mark 15:13–14 and John 19:15. In contrast to the trial of Jesus, it is the party with the friendly attitude that gains the upper hand in the comedy—otherwise it would not be a comedy. Finally the trio arrives at their hometown after three days. This can hardly be a coincidence but obviously alludes to the resurrection of Christ after three days. Furthermore, the town shares certain traits with Jerusalem; this is the only possible explanation for the term “pinnaculum templi,” which Gliscerium points at in line 197 when the group is coming closer to the city. She does not point at the cathedral or at some other prominent building, but at the pinnacle of the temple, which the Gospel of Matthew 4:5 mentions as the highest point of the city. It escaped both the destruction of the city by Titus in the year 70 and the suppression of the Bar-Kochba-Revolt by Hadrian in 131. The pinnacle was one of the sights of Jerusalem for pilgrims in late antiquity, as can be seen, among others, from tales of pilgrims.33 In addition to that, the city of Jerusalem, the name of which contains “peace,”34 promises a long period of peace (longa quies) and a Sabbath without any want (ll. 200–201), benefits which here are applied to the city of Lisieux. These qualities, pertaining to the Holy City, the heavenly Jerusalem of the saints of Revelation 21, are coarsened, it is true, in the style of a comedy and materialized, pronounced by the tired and hungry Birria (ll. 201–2), but still remain identifiable for the reader. Pamphilus finally mentions his blood relationship with King Henry and in this connection emphasizes that he walks into the city on foot in spite of his high rank. Behind this there may be another allusion—to the worldly Jerusalem, this time, not always clearly distinguishable from the heavenly one. For Pamphilus’s behavior reminds the reader of a detail of the legend of the Holy Cross: when the Emperor Heraclius, bringing back the regained Holy Cross from Persia to Jerusalem, wanted to ride into the city on horseback, the door suddenly was obstructed by a stone wall and an angel is said to have refused him admittance because Jesus himself rode not on a noble horse, but on a humble donkey. Only when the emperor advanced on foot like a pilgrim did the city gate open.35 If this supposition is true, it would be an impressive idea of the author to have the sublimity of the event made banal through Birria’s mouth, drawing attention to the simple fact that Pamphilus had to enter the city on foot as he was no longer in possession of a horse.

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However, the fact that Pamphilus’s entering into the city is referred to and commented upon shows that the author pays special attention to this detail. The allusion to Jerusalem, it seems, is still aimed at. This is in perfect accord with the style of the play, which has a happy ending with homecoming into the newly found fatherland. But one question remains: to whom does the word “father” who welcomes Pamphilus and Gliscerium refer? Supposing that Pamphilus’s relative, King Henry, is Henry II Plantagenet, the French editor (and following him the Italian editor and, more recently, the editor of the poems of Arnulf, Ewald Könsgen) thinks that the bishop mentioned by Birria in line 201 as praesul of the city was Arnulf, who headed the Church of Lisieux from 1141 to 1181; the French editor even regards the bishop’s nephew Silvester, who is known to have written literary works, as the author.36 But also another, more refined interpretation of the word “father” is possible. It need not exclude the former one since it belongs to a different hermeneutic level, namely a literary-formal and not a literal one. Both the unexpected announcement of the royal blood of the love-knight-errant Pamphilus at the end of the play and the mentioning of a father who welcomes the lovers are unmistakably reminiscent of endings of comedies such as Terence’s Andria. Although the scene of the recognition is positioned at the beginning of the medieval comedy, there is a happy turn of events concerning the social status at the end of both comedies, which is not unexpected in this genre: Terence’s hetaera Glycerium turns out to be the daughter of an honorable citizen of Athens, and, in the medieval play, the knight who enters the city under deplorable circumstances reveals himself as a member of the French higher nobility. On the other hand, the father, who was not mentioned previously—whether Pamphilus’s or Gliscerium’s remains unclear—is likely to approve the union of the couple, maybe even in the form of marriage. The line already quoted at the beginning of this article could indicate this: “They are happy; each of them has his/her own beloved.” That much for literary hermeneutics. In the sense of literal understanding, a bishop could actually marry the lovers. In addition to these two interpretations, there is a third one that is literarily immanent. It includes the biblical co-text established by quotations and scenic references into the hermeneutic horizon. This interpretation must be different from the interpretations previously described but is nevertheless compatible with them, at least if the possibility of the existence of a metalevel is accepted in not-first-class poetry, too. In this interpretation the father is God the Father, of course, or his parodistic counterpart, for, entering as just explained the clearly indicated Jerusa-

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lem means the return to God the Father made possible by the Passion of Christ—to God the Father who, like the father in the parable of Luke 15:20 in the New Testament, gladly welcomes his lost son. If one combines this co-text-related hermeneutic level with one or both of the other levels, the co-text level suggests a marriage in heaven—that is, a marriage of the Lamb, the symbol of the Son of God, in the Apocalypse. This marriage, to which the words of Revelation 19:9 refer, could be related to the eucharistic bread, installed at the Last Supper, as instances in Latin patristic exegesis demonstrate.37 By the way, according to the liturgical reformations of the Second Vatican Council, the words of Revelation 19:9 are spoken by the priest in Catholic liturgy before the distribution of the eucharistic bread: “beati qui ad caenam nuptiarum agni invitati sunt” (“blessed are those who are invited to the marriage of the Lamb”). This hermeneutic result amounts to an encouragement of the recipient to reconsider the entire play under the aspect of parody of the divine plan of salvation with the literary means of elegiac comedy and the adventure of the knight-errant, which is part of the medieval ambience of chivalry. The first hint at the place of action in the play can be found in the introductory distich and refers to traveling: Pamphilus mounts his horse for going to Paris, and Birria follows on foot—a “mortal” task for his feet (ll. 3–4). The concluding verses also refer to traveling—namely, to homecoming, as intrabo and incedas in lines 204 and 206 are verbs of movement; as a matter of fact, the group keeps moving from the second cockcrow (l. 127) onward. The act of salvation of the Son of God, however, was expressed in a metaphor of traveling already in the famous hymn to Christ in Paul’s Letter to the Philippians 2:6–11 as descent and ascent; descendere and ascendere or descensus and ascensio are keywords in Christian soteriology, the latter also being applicable to the souls returning from the limbus home to heaven who achieved resurrection together with Christ according to Mathew 27:52—this is the basis of the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus38 and the representation of Christ’s resurrection, Anastasis, in Byzantine iconography derived from it. It is just this idea that serves as the basis for the image in stanza 9 of the Dies irae, where Christ is addressed in the following way: “Recordare, Iesu pie, / quod sum causa tuae viae, / ne me perdas illa die” (“remember, merciful Jesus, that I am the cause of thy way, lest thou lose me on that day”). Applied to the comedy, this would mean Pamphilus, who takes Gliscerium home in love, would take the role of Christ. However, this would not be a parody, indicated clearly by the catachrestic allusions to biblical and liturgical episodes. In the play the beloved did not run away from

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her lover out of spite, as the soul ran away from God in soteriological metaphors, but she was driven away by his rough treatment; it is not she but he who must repent—and so he does. A journey motivated in this way carries traits of a parody all in all, formulated as an erotic-comic imitatio Christi.39 This element enriches the genre of the medieval Comoediae elegiacae, in any case, by striking other, previously not used literary chords inherent in the genre due to their quality of “verba otiosa et risum moventia” (“flattery words which cause laughter”).40 These “chords” are, apart from the Ovidian and ancient comedy-like ones, those of playing with parody of the Bible and liturgy, elements that used to be confined to other genres—that is, to secular lyrics and formal imitations—in a way similar to how experimental music produces sounds on the piano not only by striking its keys and making the strings vibrate, but also by knocking at its sounding board.

Notes 1. For general information on the genre of Comoedia elegiaca see Ferruccio Bertini, “La Commedia Elegiaca,” in Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo, vol. 1, book 2, ed. Guglielmo Cavallo et al. (Roma: Salerno Editrice, 1993), 217–30 (on Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria see 223, 226–27); Kurt Smolak, “Die elegischen Komödien des Mittelalters. Zur Rezeption der römischen Palliata und Ovids,” Wiener Humanistische Blätter 36 (1994): 65–89. An extensive but nevertheless incomplete bibliography is given by Armando Bisanti, L’interpretatio nominis nelle Commedie Elegiache Latine del XII e XIII secolo. Studi 15 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 2009), 289–316 (on Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria see 231–38). 2. The text was edited for the first time by Karl Lohmeyer, “Pamphilus und Gliscerium. Eine unedierte elegische Komödie,” Zeitschrift für Deutsches Altertum 41 (1897): 144–55, followed by André Cordier, “Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria,” in La “Comédie” Latine en France au XIIe siècle, vol. 2, ed. Gustave Cohen (Paris: Les belles-lettres, 1931), 84–101, and Annamaria Savi, “Pamphilus, Gliscerium et Birria,” in Commedie Latine del XII e XIII secolo (Genova: Università di Genova, Facoltà di lettere, Pubblicazioni dell’Istituto di Filologia Classica 38, 1976), 1:197–277. 3. “Pamphilus ad tempus gremiis elapsus amice” (“just in time Pamphilus slid from his mistress’ womb”). 4. 95–96: The horse “philosophizes,” since the drunken Birria has forgotten to feed it. 5. About “meditation on death” as one of the main tasks of a philosopher see Dorothea Frede, Platons “Phaidon”: Der Traum von der Unsterblichkeit der Seele (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1999), 15–33. 6. Already in the tenth century Hrotsvit of Gandersheim, liber secundus, praefatio 2, remarks that Terence was a very popular author in the curricula of monastic schools of her age. Surprisingly, in the Comoediae elegiacae he is used as a text of reference less often than the genuine or even not genuine Plautus.

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7. Bertini, “La Commedia Elegiaca,” 223, assumes that the character of Birria is derived from his namesake in the comedy Geta by Vitalis of Blois, an adapted version of Plautus’s Amphitruo, because the slaves are characterized in both texts in a similar manner. This fact, however, can also be applied to the slave Sosia in the Amphitruo, but it can be proved and is therefore commonly accepted that the anonymous writer wanted to enter into combat with Vitalis in characterizing the slave. Joachim Suchomski, “Delectatio” und “utilitas”: Ein Beitrag zum Verständnis mittelalterlicher komischer Literatur (Bern, München: Francke Verlag 1975), 151–52, adopting too-modern criteria of genre, regards the piece less as a comedy than above all as an attempt to imitate Vitalis in a narrative. It is less of a tour de force to assume a reference to Terence, although Birria is shaped according to the model of Vitalis. It is hard to understand that Bertini, “La Commedia elegiaca,” 226, only calls Pamphilus and Gliscerium “classici nomi terenziani.” 8. The apodictic formulation through Konrad Gaiser, Menanders Hydria: Eine hellenistische Komödie und ihr Weg ins lateinische Mittelalter (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Carl Winter, 1977), 400, should be extenuated. It runs as follows: “Die Namen der drei Personen mögen aus der ‘Andria’ des Terenz übernommen sein. Im übrigen aber ist an die Benützung einer antiken Komödie . . . nicht zu denken.” 9. The core of the anonymous elegiac comedy Lidia might serve as an example; it is the ingenious deception of an old spouse through his young wife by means of an allegedly magic tree. This motif can be traced back to oriental narratives; see Isabella Gualandri and Giovanni Orlandi, “Lidia,” in Commedie latine del XII e XIII secolo, vol. 6 (Genova: Pubblicazioni del D.AR. FI.CL.ET, N.S. 176, 1998), 167–69. 10. Bertini, “La Commedia Elegiaca,” 225, calls this setting “un’aria donchisciottesca.” 11. Ruodlieb, fragmentum 1, 1–23; for an analysis of the whole scene (1, 1–71) see Alois Wolf, “Ruodliebs Ausfahrt. Mittelalterliches Erzählen zwischen Latein und Volkssprache,” in Strukturen und Interpretationen: Festschrift für Blanka Horacek, ed. Alfred Ebenbauer (Wien: Wilhelm Braumüller Verlag, 1974), 380–400. 12. On this topic see Robert Fajen, Die Lanze und die Feder: Untersuchungen zum Livre du Chevalier errant von Thomas III, Markgraf von Saluzzo (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2003). 13. On the figures of slaves in Roman Comedy see Peter Spranger, Historische Untersuchungen zu den Sklavenfiguren des Plautus und Terenz. 2nd edition (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden GMBH, 1984), especially 90–108. 14. Guilelmus Blessensis, Alda, 305–56. Characteristically, the section begins with the mentioning of the “address” of Spurius’s house: “plebis in egestu” (“in the dregs of the mob,” 305). 15. Gaiser, Menanders Hydria, 472–82. 16. Cordier, “Pamphilus,” 91. 17. Savi, “Pamphilus,” 230–32. 18. Paul Lehmann, Die Parodie im Mittelalter. 2nd edition (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann Verlag, 1963), 233–52. 19. The first to point out traits of parody was Gustavo Vinay, “La commedia latina del secolo XII (Discussioni e interpretazioni),” Studi Medievali s. II, 18 (1952): 209–71 (reprinted as “Peccato che non legessero Lucrezio,” in Commedie o “fabliaux,” ed. Claudio Leonardi (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo [CISAM], 1989), 213, followed by Savi, “Pamphilus,”

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20. 21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

Medievalia et Humanistica 233, and Bisanti, “L’interpretatio nominis,” 232n420, who only refer to particular quotations or passages without even considering the possibility of an intention of a biblical co-text and its feasible consequences. Concerning the possible conclusion from the fact that biblical parody appears nowhere but in the comedy at issue, see note 36. Pseudo-Ovidius, De tribus puellis, 187–218. As indicated in the title of his monograph, Bisanti, “L’intepretatio nominis,” 236, assumes an interpretation of Pamphilus’s name in this verse. This, however, may be doubted since, first of all, the apostrophe in the vocative case of the main character occurs several times (apart from the line under discussion in ll. 8, 32, 71, and 103) and without any etymological reference to the Greek name; secondly, only the rear part of the name would be concerned; moreover, Pamphilus stands for an active form of loving (“giving love to all”), whereas the sentence “te, pamphile, pascit amor” obviously hints at a passive one (“receiving love”). Consequently, the interpretation of the name could not but point at the effect of “contrary to expectation,” which, however, is in no way indicated. For apple-like breasts as a constitutive element of female beauty in the Middle Ages see “Blasser Teint und Äpfelbrüste,” www.scienceblogs.de/beautyfull-science/ (May 13, 2012); for nuts as a metaphor for testicles compare burnes in vulgar French and Nüsse in vulgar German. The verse under discussion contains the following group of words: “praeco diei iam sonat” (“the herald of the day is already crowing”); Prudentius, Cathemerinon 1,1 clearly modifies Ambrose’s hymn when he writes: “ales diei nuntius” (“the bird, which announces the day”); the author of the comedy unites the initial verses of the two hymns, both used in liturgy, by writing in lines 71–72: “praeco diei / alis et leto nunciat ore diem”; because of the coordinating conjunction et, which does not make sense in the reading of the manuscript, namely ales, Cordier (“Pamphilus,” 95), followed by the Italian editor Savi (“Pamphilus,” 266), changed ales to alis, “with its wings.” On the one hand, it is not true that the cock announces daybreak by flapping its wings; rather, it announces it by crowing. On the other hand, we may assume that by this superfluous reference to the flapping, the author alludes to the verse of Prudentius quoted above, rendering diei nuntius with nunciat diem and replacing ales by the paronomastic alis. The allusion to Prudentius might well have influenced the wording of the manuscript. Apuleius, Metamorphoses 2,16. A mural painting in House I 3, 8 in Pompeii (now in Naples, Museo Nazionale Archeologico, inv. nr. 9015) may serve as an example. Servants like Birria in the text at issue appear in the painting, too. For a picture see Theodor Kraus and Leonard von Matt, Lebendiges Pompeji (Köln: DuMont, 1973), nr. 216. Hrotsvit, Abraham VII 1. On this desecration of the main church of the city see Niketas Choniates, Historia, pars prior, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae, Series Berolinensis 11.1, ed. Jan-Louis van Dieten (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 574. The locus classicus of this concept is, for medieval Latin literature, the programmatic distich in Ovid, Amores 1,9,1–2.: “militat omnis amans et habet sua castra Cupido, / Attice, crede mihi: militat omnis amans.” Matthew 26:45; Mark 14:41. One example out of many can be found in Prudentius, Cathemerinon 1, 37–40.

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31. Matthew 27:17, 21; Mark 15:6, 9; Luke 23:16, 17–18, 20, 22; John 18:39, 19:10, 12. 32. Note the deliberated rhyme reum / eum. 33. About the pinnacle, the only remains of the Jerusalem Temple after the destruction of the city by the Romans in a.d. 70, prominent and rich in symbols, see Kurt Smolak, “Ut pictura poesis? Symmikta zum so genannten Dittochaeon des Prudentius,” in Text und Bild. Tagungsbeiträge, ed. Victoria Zimmerl-Panagl and Dorothea Weber, Sitzungsberichte der philosophischhistorischen Klasse 813 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), 167–94, and especially 182n41. 34. The etymology of Jerusalem, visio pacis (“vision of peace”), made well-known to the medieval readers by Jerome (in his Liber interpretationum nominum Hebraicorum alone it appears six times, not to mention his other writings) might be alluded to in lines 198 and 200 in the words visi and quies (synonym of pacis). This impression is even intensified by the verb sabbatizabo (“I will celebrate Sabbath”), to be exact: in the bishop’s kitchen (coquina / praesulis) in lines 201–2. If one includes the attribute of quies, namely longa, one arrives at a parody of an exegesis of the seventh day of creation as a day of permanent Sabbath rest, that is to say in the heavenly Jerusalem of the Apocalypse, an exegesis that was popular at least since Augustine, who uses it in the following instances: Confessiones 13,36; Contra Faustum Manichaeum 6,4; Sermones 362 (PL 39,1631, 42). 35. Iacobus de Voragine, Legenda aurea 131,33–39. 36. Savi, “Pamphilus,” 208–20, refutes the assumption of Bernard de Montfaucon, Bibliotheca Bibliothecarum, Paris, 1739, t. I, 50, who ascribed the comedy to a certain magister Serlo, and regards Hugues de Nonant, another nephew of Arnulf, as the author, although the parallels with his Historia mirabilis, his only extant work, are not convincing because they could just as well be quotations from another work. More recently, Ewald Könsgen, Die Gedichte Arnulfs von Lisieux († 1184) (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Carl Winter, 2002), 68–71, excluded Hugues de Nonant and returned to regarding Silvester as the author, without, however (as he himself confesses), being able to prove it. In his assumption, the attribute of pater in the penultimate verse, namely hilaris, plays an important role, since it is characteristic of Arnulf’s letters, but does not belong to the typical vocabulary of elegiac comedies. It might be understood either as praise or as ironical treatment of the bishop of Lisieux, being hilarious in every situation of life. In view of the parodistic, or rather blasphemic tendency of the comedy, which is in some respect a “contrafacture” of the basic biblical concept, one may rather consider a less friendly attitude toward the “hilarious” bishop, who is called pater. This would very well go with Silvester, whose close relationship with his uncle can be proved from the latter’s letters. Nevertheless, Könsgen’s assumption only holds true if pater points to the bishop and not to Pamphilus’s physical father, as suggested by Frederic J. E. Raby, A History of Secular Latin Poetry in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), 2:63, and Ferruccio Bertini, La Commedia Elegiaca Latina in Francia nel secolo XII. Con un saggio di traduzione dell’Amphitryo di Vitale di Blois (Genova: Tilgher-Genova, 1973), 24 or, according to Max Manitius, Geschichte der lateinischen Literatur des Mittelalters (München: C. H. Beck, 1931), 3:1028, to the father of Gliscerium. 37. Cp. Tertullianus, De spectaculis 28; Augustinus, Sermones 231 (Sources Chrétiennes 116, p. 256, l. 148). 38. Evangelium Nicodemi = Acta Pilati 7–8 (23–24).

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39. Even if one assumes, as Lohmeyer, “Pamphilus,” 154, and Manitius, Geschichte der lateinischen Literatur, 1026, did, that the comedy is based on a true incident, this is not contradictory to the interpretation proposed in this article, which concerns only the way of poetic presentation, not the question of reality or fictionality. 40. Benedicti regula 6,8.

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John M. Bowers, An Introduction to the “Gawain” Poet. New Perspectives on Medieval Literature: Authors and Traditions. Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2012. Pp. xviii + 206.

John M. Bowers’s Introduction to the “Gawain” Poet is published in New Perspectives on Medieval Literature: Authors and Traditions, a series that, in the words of series editors R. Barton Palmer and Tison Pugh, aims to “introduce readers to the finest authors of the Middle Ages and to illuminate both their literature and their world” (ix). Following this mission statement, Bowers expertly blends close readings of the Gawain poet’s alleged works, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Cleanness, Patience, St. Erkenwald, and Pearl, with information on the poet’s life, times, and politics in the book’s five central chapters. These are prefaced by a speculative biographical sketch of the poet (chapter 1: “Life of the Author”) and rounded off by a survey on sources and influences in chapter 7. Narrating the life of an anonymous and hence elusive medieval poet is a paradoxical task, but Bowers makes a virtue of necessity.1 While giving a short tour through the world of the Gawain poet from Cheshire to London and from court to clerus, he teaches students a lesson in historical indeterminacy, biographical fallacy, manuscript history, and theories of authorship (e.g., Foucauldian theory). The individual chapters on the poems are mainly running commentaries. Bowers en passant familiarizes first-time readers with the Ricardian court, MS traditions, scribes, rituals, folklore, history, theology, and politics; surveys critical approaches to various literary, textual, and cultural issues; and offers glimpses of academic history. His main objective is to counter the still somewhat current view that the poet was “a lone genius stranded in some backwoods household” (153). Drawing on his landmark study The Politics of “Pearl”: Court Poetry in the Age of Richard II, he instead portrays the Gawain poet as an educated and widely traveled Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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cleric at the Ricardian court, who fell out of favor after Richard II’s deposition and Henry Bolingbroke’s rise to power.2 Much of the book hence establishes parallels between the poems and Ricardian court culture—for instance, in the identification of Queen Anne as the Pearl Queen. In addition to such contextualizing, Bowers’s level-headed readings trace common patterns, motifs, and themes in all five poems, and celebrate the poet’s creative and often playful engagement with literary genres like the romance, homily, saint’s life, dream vision, funeral elegy, and epithalamion. Bowers is especially adept at unfolding the poet’s craftsmanship, such as his narrative techniques, his vivid descriptions of landscapes, and his complex wordplay. Such a holistic approach to the texts and their contexts will help beginners in medieval studies not only to understand the cultural landscape of late fourteenth-century England, but also to develop a feeling for the poet’s considerable literary achievements and for medieval poetry in general. The thematic breadth of this short introduction is impressive. Bowers elaborates on, among others, the Fourth Lateran Council, the Crusades, Lollard reformers, art, crafts (especially jewelry), fin amor, homosexuality, the living conditions in London, hospitality, Rome-running, the Great Schism of 1378 to 1415, seafaring, acedia and ariditas spiritualis, potentia absoluta and potentia ordinata, the 1399 Articles of Deposition, the Statutes of Laborers, and the Peasants’ Revolt; he also mentions Chaucer, Langland, Gower, Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Chrétien de Troyes, Thomas Usk, St. Francis of Assisi, John Wyclif, Henry Yvele, and Philippe de Mézière. It is perhaps the greatest achievement of this introduction that Bowers, by breaking down information into easily digestible portions, never allows this mass of material to overwhelm beginners. Students will also appreciate his presentation of the poems and the cultural milieu in which they were written for its liveliness and insight. Naturally, an introduction of this kind cannot treat every detail of the texts and contexts exhaustively, let alone assign every critical voice its due space. Here, Bowers’s ample references to criticism old and new will guide interested students and teachers through the welter of medieval criticism on to new research opportunities. The inclusion of St. Erkenwald among the Gawain poet’s alleged works is a potentially controversial choice.3 Bowers specifically follows Peterson and Borroff,4 and underscores that the “vocabulary, thematic contents, poetic style, and Cheshire dialect” of St. Erkenwald “have long made it a strong candidate as another work by the Gawain poet” (87). That this has by now become the predominant view is best illustrated by the inclusion of the poem in Andrew and Waldron’s Complete Works of the “Pearl” Poet (1993).5 Indeed, Bowers’s chapter on St. Erkenwald blends seamlessly

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with his discussions of the Gawain poet’s other works and thus contributes further evidence for the case of common authorship. It is a strength of his introduction that Bowers does not merely reiterate entrenched views, but seeks to disseminate new findings among beginners. The book is written in simple and clear language, and is pleasantly free of jargon. Bowers is often particularly adept at spicing up his academic prose with student-friendly terms, such as the “cliff-hangers” (38) and “split-action narration” (39) in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and the observation that “[t]he narrator’s eye [in Patience] moves as if directing a mobile camera in a movie” (78). Moreover, he describes armed combat at the Christmas Games humorously and quite fittingly as “the medieval equivalent of the ‘extreme sports’ of today’s teenage boys” (22), and explains that the Green Knight has “much the same effect on Arthur’s household as a father arriving home early to find his teenage son throwing a drunken party for his high school friends” (24). Only occasionally does he perhaps overshoot his mark. I was somewhat bewildered by Gawain’s “stress-related male impotence” (42) and the “super-clean God” (58) of, yes, Cleanness, but I realize that these statements may work well with students and will certainly enliven discussion in the classroom. Bowers’s Introduction to the “Gawain” Poet is a well-conceived volume. Its cover is graced with a color reproduction of the Wilton Diptych, which is repeatedly referenced in his interpretations. Appendices featuring the major sources of the poems (biblical texts for Cleanness, Patience, and Pearl; Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People for St. Erkenwald) and a concise glossary of mainly literary terms will undoubtedly prove useful for students and the university classroom. Students and teachers will likewise profit from the index, which helps navigate the ample names, texts, and subjects treated in this introduction. The book is well edited and contains only occasional typographical errors (e.g., on 40, 41, 82, and 150). A few points of minor criticism remain. Among others, I would have expected a section on the language of the Gawain poet (Cheshire dialect, alliterative verse, etc.). For this, students will have to turn to Putter’s earlier introduction (1996).6 Additionally, a book that so skilfully references artworks, manuscripts, and craft would have merited at least some illustrations in addition to the Wilton diptych on the cover. Such criticism aside, Bowers’s short and rich introduction is a useful guide through a body of often difficult but ultimately rewarding poetry and is highly recommended as a student textbook supplementing Andrew and Waldron’s The Complete Works of the “Pearl” Poet.

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Notes 1. The biographical sketch is a convention of the series in which the present volume appears. 2. John M. Bowers, The Politics of “Pearl”: Court Poetry in the Age of Richard II (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2001). 3. St. Erkenwald is not included in British Library MS Cotton Nero A.x, the single source for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Cleanness, Patience, and Pearl, but has been handed down to us in MS Harley 2250. 4. Bowers refers to Clifford Peterson, ed., St. Erkenwald (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), 15-23, and Marie Borroff, “Narrative Artistry in St. Erkenwald and the Gawain-Group: The Case for Common Authorship Reconsidered,” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 28 (2006): 41–76. Borroff stresses that nineteenth-century critics frequently suggested that the Gawain poet was also the author of St. Erkenwald. 5. Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron, introduction to The Complete Works of the “Pearl” Poet, eds. Malcolm Andrew, Ronald Waldron, and Clifford Peterson, trans. Casey Finch (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 2. 6. See Ad Putter, An Introduction to the “Gawain”-Poet, Longman Medieval and Renaissance Library (London and New York: Longman, 1996).

Maik Goth [email protected]

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Katherine L. Jansen, Joanna Drell, and Frances Andrews, eds., Medieval Italy: Texts in Translation. The Middle Ages Series. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009. Pp. xxvii + 591, 30 b/w figures, 3 genealogical tables, and 2 maps.

The editors of this new collection of medieval Italian sources declare that it was their intention that it should contain everything one might need to teach a course on the High and late Middle Ages in Italy. This is a welcome effort in a field where the sourcebook most frequently used for teaching is still Gene Brucker’s venerable The Society of Renaissance Florence: A Documentary Study, originally published in 1971. Jansen, Drell, and Andrews’s volume goes beyond the cities, beyond the Renaissance, and beyond Florence, but it does more than this. Within its pages, one finds the marvelous, mundane, lively, and enigmatic world that has drawn so many, over the years, to the study of medieval Italy, and one indeed finds everything needed to teach the historian’s craft through an exploration of that simultaneously foreign and familiar country. In its contents and organization, this volume reflects much of what makes the field of medieval Italian studies so vital. A conscious effort has been made to include, and even more importantly to integrate, sources from both the north and the south of the peninsula as well as from Latin, Greek, Jewish, and Muslim communities. This wide array of material foregrounds Italy’s Mediterranean, cosmopolitan character. In addition to showcasing Italy’s complex cultural heritage, the rich selection of sources here presented also serves to underscore the commonalities between Italy and the rest of Christendom. One finds sections treating the relation between city and countryside, ecclesiastical and lay authority, commerce, violence, law, buildings, marriage and the family, Rome and the papacy, education, medicine, religion, and memory. The sources presented in each section reflect the odd fragments from which any coherent picture of medieval Italy must be crafted. Some sources will captivate students with vivid glimpses of a past world, while others will challenge them. Undergraduates will surely be drawn to a fifteenthcentury witchcraft trial or the clear narrative of a chronicle, but they will also learn how to make use of notarial records, like land sales or testaments, or the inventory of a parish church, difficult sources that must more obviously be coaxed into giving up their treasures through careful reading. Though many of the seemingly more straightforward narrative sources, such as hagiographies or chronicles, are only presented in the latter portions of the book, the editors have charitably interspersed Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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bits and pieces of them throughout the volume in a way that will offer more stable footing for uncertain students. Thus, for example, the Villani chronicle appears repeatedly, in chapters on disease (discussing the plague), on the countryside (famine), and on violence (on the origins of the Guelfs and Ghibellines). Such an abundance of sources certainly runs the risk of being simply overwhelming, of being rendered useless by its sheer volume. Happily, the inclusion of a truly exceptional scholarly apparatus provides against this possibility. Immediately following the table of contents reflecting the book’s thematic organization, there is a second table organized chronologically by century and marking each source as either northern or southern (in the latter case meaning, specifically, the Regno). Unfortunately, because the first page of each source is not paginated, one sometimes searches in vain for page numbers as one flips through the book. In the back of the book one finds a timeline and two maps (showing cities and regions), as well as three genealogies (Norman, NormanHohenstaufen, and Anjou), a list of medieval popes, and a glossary of terms. Of particular use for teaching purposes is the suggested further reading, with a thematic organization that parallels that of the sources, which will be of great help to students wondering where to begin their research for term papers. The bibliography for each theme includes a good mixture of classic works and recent scholarship. In addition to introducing students to the wide range of primary and secondary sources pertaining to medieval Italy, the book also introduces them to the field as it is embodied in the researchers who make it what it is. This volume includes contributions from sixty scholars in eight countries, a testament to the field’s continued interconnectedness and vitality. The majority of these (one is puzzled by the few omissions) are listed in the back of the book, along with their institutional affiliation. This is a valuable resource for advanced students who may be curious about where and with whom one might pursue the study of medieval Italy. Very affordable on a student budget in its paperback edition, this book seems ideally suited to an upper-level undergraduate course focused on Italy, in which it would play a central part. For the student who would take such a course, this volume will be a truly valuable resource, something to be turned to again and again. The editors, contributors, and press should be proud to have produced a volume that will have a place in classrooms for years to come. James A. Palmer [email protected]

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Consuelo López-Morillas, El Corán de Toledo. Edición y estudio del ms. 235 de la Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha. Bibliotheca Arabo-Romanica et Islamica 5. Gijón, Spain: Ediciones Trea, 2011. Pp. 605.

The so-called Koran of Toledo is one of the most interesting Koranic translations of the Middle Ages, and its edition by one of the leading experts in Aljamiado literature has been long awaited. The results have been worthwhile. López-Morillas has devoted most of her academic career to the study of Korans written by Moriscos and is, therefore, the ideal person to undertake this difficult task. She had already provided a preliminary study of the volume, kept in the Library of Castilla-La Mancha1 and well-known in the field.2 López-Morillas places this particular Koran in perspective in her introduction, following her former articles on the genealogy of Morisco versions of the Koran.3 This is the only extant translation of the whole Koran into Spanish—the other unicum, the translation written in Salonica by Ybrahim Isquierdo in 1569 (ms. 447 National Library of France) is just an abridgment—dating from the Mudejar-Morisco period (fifteenth to seventeenth centuries). All the other Koranic translations are fragments, selections taken from the Koran or abridgments. The second remarkable feature is that it is transmitted in Latin script, unlike most of the contemporary Koranic translations, which are normally written in aljamía (Spanish language and Arabic script). Only the titles of some suras are copied in both Spanish and Arabic, but this practice is not consistent throughout the text (16). The manuscript shows a number of conventions commonly used in this genre, such as the division of the text in sections for recitation each night of the month of Ramadan. A number of glosses and marginalia give more information about practices conducted during reading, such as prostrations. In the process of determining the authorship of this volume, LópezMorillas has carefully analyzed all the possibilities with regard to the original translation and to this particular seventeenth-century rendering. Several studies have suggested that this was the Koran translated by Yça ibn Jabir for Cardinal Juan de Segovia in Ayton (Savoy), around 1456, although the manuscript dates to 1606 and the Arabic version that should have circulated together with the translation to Spanish has not been copied.4 A comparison with the Latin fragments of Yça’s translation as transmitted by Juan de Segovia does not necessarily confirm, in the eyes of López-Morillas, the identification of this manuscript as a copy of Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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that particular translation.5 Only the division of the work in four parts, ended by colophons, would suggest some relationship between the two texts. However, López-Morillas masterly proves that both versions of the Koran are part of a cultural universe, that of the transmission of the Koran among Muslims living under Christian rule, with all the restrictions and limitations to the circulation of their commentaries (tafsīr) and manuscripts, and later part of a movement of Islamic texts from Castile to Aragon in the first decades of the sixteenth century in an attempt to save Arabic codices from the fires lit by the Inquisition (42). She also compares this work to another translation, supposedly written by the convert Juan Andrés for Martín García, bishop of Barcelona, around 1510, again to conclude that the versions are not the same. A detailed comparison with all the Morisco Koranic manuscripts preserved establishes that ms. T 235 is independent from all others, although it shares some identical passages and other similar or parallel fragments with some of them, namely Junta 25, 51 and 3 (Biblioteca Tomás Navarro Tomás, CSIC, Madrid) and Real Academia de la Historia 9416a/V 8. The scribe is identified as Muh.ammad ibn Ibrāhīm “el Rubio” from Villafeliche (Zaragoza) due to his involvement in the production of two other manuscripts, a religious miscellany (Real Academia de la Historia, S1) and a legal treatise, the Alquiteb de la tafría (Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha, T 232).6 Muh. ammad travelled to Tunis, where he acted as patron of subsequent translations for the Andalusi community of Moriscos established there (27-28). The last part of the introduction is devoted to linguistic aspects of the text and the translation, emphasizing the mistakes of the translator or the scribe, who was not familiar enough with Koranic Arabic but seems to have been quite accurate in the use of the Spanish religious register. Although López-Morillas does not insist here on this, I think her study of miscomprehensions of the Koranic message might indicate that this was not Yça ibn Jabir’s translation, given that he was a renowned muftī, and if he knew the Koran by heart, as it seems from Juan de Segovia’s description of his method, the mistakes would not be so obvious.7 The use of colloquial Arabic orthography, and the mention of plants according to Latin/Arabic glossaries, should be further analyzed in other contexts. A very interesting part of López-Morillas’s conclusions is the use of commentaries of the Koran that become part of the text in order to provide an explanation for the reader. The authors preferred by the translator were widely circulated in al-Andalus, first, and probably later among Mudejars and Moriscos: Ibn Abī Zamānīn of Elvira (d. 1008),

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the Meccan Al-Zamah. sharī (1075-1144), Ibn ‘At.iyya of Granada (10881151), and Ibn Kat.īr (d. 1373), the most recent prevailing over the others. Most of them were marked red in the manuscript to enhance the difference between the sacred text and the commentary, but after fol.105 red ink is dropped and the commentary is indistinguishable from the Koranic text itself. The luxurious edition of the Koran has been carefully designed to provide as much information as possible without hindering the reader. Symbols from the original manuscript have been kept where possible, as has the alternation of red and black ink. Arabic letters have been transcribed with the same symbols as in the original translation, which is carefully explained in the introduction. Abbreviations, both Spanish and Arabic, have been expanded. At the end of the edition, a glossary provides around seven hundred words, selected from those that are hardly comprehensible in current Spanish use.

Notes 1. Consuelo López-Morillas, “El Corán romanceado: la traducción contenida en el manuscrito T 235,” Sharq Al-Andalus: Estudios mudéjares y moriscos 16-17 (1999-2002) (Ejemplar dedicado a: Homenaje a Leonard P. Harvey): 265–86. 2. In fact, it was so well-known that another edition appeared some years ago, entitled Alcorán: traducción castellana de un morisco anónimo del año 1606, intro. Joan Vernet, ed. Lluís Roqué Figuls (Barcelona: Reial Academia de Bones Lletres/UNED, 2001). Inferring from the short introduction and almost nonexistent study, this volume was produced as a tool for comparative analysis of Koranic translations by the team working for Vernet. The criteria for transliteration in Vernet and Roqué’s edition serve that purpose and are definitely less clear to the general public than the more readable 2011 edition by López-Morillas. 3. Consuelo López-Morillas, “The Genealogy of the Spanish Qur’ān,” Journal of Islamic Studies 17 (2006): 255–94, being the most recent, with updated bibliography. 4. Gerard A. Wiegers, Islamic Literature in Spanish and Aljamiado: Yca of Segovia (fl.1450); His Antecedents and Successors (Leiden: Brill 1994), 15. 5. Of the same opinion are Ulli Roth and Reinhold F. Glei, “Die Spuren der lateinischen Koranübersetzung des Juan de Segovia—alte Probleme und ein neuer Fund,” Neulateinisches Jahrbuch 11 (2009): 109-54, 119-25. 6. A Spanish translation of the Kitāb al-tafrī’ by Ibn al-Jallāb al-Basrī (d. 378/988), widely used by Mudejars and Moriscos as a legal source at the time. 7. Of course, it can be argued that the mistakes are due to the subsequent transmission and reinterpretation in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

Ana Echevarria Arsuaga [email protected]

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Carolin Ritter, Ovidius redivivus. Die Epistulae Heroides des Mark Alexander Boyd. Edition, Übersetzung und Kommentar der Briefe Atalanta Meleagro (1), Eurydice Orpheo (6), Philomela Tereo (9), Venus Adoni (15). Noctes Neolatinae 13. Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 2010. Pp. x + 518.

Excavating forgotten Latin literature from the early modern period seems to be widely considered a major task of Neo-Latin philology. It is debatable whether every discovery really deserves our modern scholarly attention. In the case of the Scottish poet Mark Alexander Boyd (or Bodius, 1563–1601), however, I feel that we should be grateful to Carolin Ritter, whose doctoral dissertation (Göttingen, 2008) allows us to catch a glimpse of his oeuvre. But Ritter does not only offer the first modern edition of a selection of his Latin verses. Her book is also an interesting case study for the fascinating Nachleben of Ovid’s Heroides in humanistic literature. Ritter’s voluminous book edits only four of the fifteen Epistulae Heroidum (i.e., 410 verses in total) that Boyd published in 1592. One might criticize this choice as somewhat random (the criterion for having chosen the four epistles is that their content is largely dependent on Ovid’s Metamorphoses, but in the case of the fifteenth epistle Venus Adoni, this is only partly true, as Ritter’s analysis reveals). On the other hand, the detail of the line-by-line commentary compensates for the loss of textual completeness. Its richness is the strongest aspect of the book, especially because Ritter has decided not to restrict her comments to intertextual relationships with ancient literature or explanation of the content. Instead, she also situates the poems in their early modern context by referring to the earlier reception of the classical models or by simply stating intertextual links with writers of the (especially Italian) Renaissance. It is impossible to enter into a deeper discussion with Ritter’s many noteworthy observations. Therefore, I will mention just one possible addition. In my opinion, the sexual atmosphere of letter 15 Venus Adoni deserves more attention than she gives it. The reference to the bloody inguen et ora in V. 16 foreshadows the importance of mouth and genitals in the poem (Ritter is more cautious by translating inguen as “Weiche”; cf. the commentary on 383). The combination of the two parts of Adonis’s body reaches its peak in vv. 61–64: Venus first kisses the mouth of the dying Adonis in order to receive his last breath and afterward inserts his body into her naked womb. Apart from an obvious Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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imitation of Bion’s Lament for Adonis (which Ritter mentions), it would have been worthwhile to remark that Bion himself is imitating Ps.-Plato’s famous epigram dedicated to Agathon in which he describes the transition of the soul during a kiss (A.P. 5.78). In the Italian Quattrocento, this epigram was parodied by among others Cristoforo Landino (Xandra 2.22) and Leonardo Dati (two versions in Florence, Bibl. Naz. Centr., cod. Magl. VII 1120, fols. 63r-v); they describe a man who has sex with a prostitute and dies when ejaculating. Obviously, Boyd’s poem reacts to this by combining the original kiss and the later sexual versions. By this lengthy remark, I just want to show how useful and thoughtprovoking Ritter’s thorough commentary is. The edition itself is also trustworthy. One has to admit that her job as editor is relatively easy as her text depends on only two printed editions, the earlier of which (A) was supervised by Boyd himself. Therefore, Ritter decides to follow A as closely as possible (even for the orthography and the punctuation). Only very rarely does her text differ from A. In most of these cases, the reason is the grammatical incorrectness of A. In 15.45, however, I do not see why the lectio difficilior vilescit should not be kept in the text. Two special cases deserve a more detailed discussion: (1) In the fifteenth letter of Venus Adoni, B has three alternative versions that differ substantially from the text of A. Ritter admits on 79 that she can hardly explain them, but she decides to stick to A in all those cases. I think that in two of the three cases the corrections of B are based on the meter. In 15.4 (serta deerranti A] sertaque turbatae B), deerranti would have to be read without contraction of the first two “e,” but in classical poetry we find the verb only thrice (Plaut. Men. 1113; Lucr. 3.860; Verg. Ecl. 7.7), and in all three cases, the first two syllables are contracted to one long syllable. In 15.46 (candida nympha Pani A] et Arcadi nympha deo B), the spondeic Pani would have to be measured as iambic. (2) In the ninth epistle Philomela Tereo, Ritter prints 9.13 non licet iratae pares Philomela sorori within cruces. But the verse can easily be healed by reading par est and translating “even if Philomela is not the same as her angry sister.” The potentially difficult iratus (Procne’s revenge has not yet happened) can be explained by the fact that Philomela is anticipating this revenge—or even suggesting it to the implied addressee, who according to Ritter’s fine analysis is Procne herself. Ritter’s German translation of the four poetic epistles is correct but in my view not very elegant. It is a good example of “translator’s German” that survives mostly in text editions of Latin or Greek authors. Sometimes, her attempt to remain faithful to the Latin original leads to awk-

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ward formulations of which I list the most obvious: 1.31 “Es gibt einen Ort auf der Welt,” but the place has been the topic of the preceding four verses, so a better version could be “dieser eine/einzigartige Ort auf der Welt” vel sim.; 1.54 (and similarly passim) “die recht weiche Luft” gives the usual poetic comparative too much emphasis; 6.33-34 “oder . . . oder” for aut . . . aut is not idiomatic (similarly 9.52 “und . . . und” for et . . . et); 9.57 “edel durch das gelbe Gold” instead of “vortrefflich/weithin sichtbar mit dem rötlich-goldenen Schmuck.” Besides text, translation, and commentary, Ritter’s monograph contains a short “interpretation” (467–77), which is hardly more than a summary of the most important literary aspects of the commentary, and an introduction (1–82). The introduction deals with Boyd’s life and presents the collection of his Epistulae Heroides. Ritter comments on Boyd’s reception of Ovid’s Heroides, briefly discusses other generic influences, gives an overview of the early modern genre of the Heroides, and finally tries to classify different levels of imitatio that Boyd uses. All of this is wellinformed and helpful. However, I would have hoped for deeper engagement with more recent approaches to Ovid’s Heroides that have analyzed the identity of the female writers/authors of the letters and have shown the experimental character of Ovid’s collection (e.g., D. Spentzou, Readers and Writers in Ovid’s Heroides [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003], or L. Fulkerson, The Ovidian Heroine as Author [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005]). If Ritter had incorporated these aspects into her discussion, she could have asked whether the experimental potential of the genre was one reason for humanist authors in general and specifically for Boyd to engage with Ovid’s model and to respond to it in a similarly creative way. The lack of such approaches is best visible in some of Ritter’s conclusions that attribute Ovidian characteristics to Boyd without recognizing the relationship with the ancient model (e.g., 4: “Diese Ausgangssituation stellt die Brieffiktion in Frage.” This is already typical for Ovid; 27 on Boyd’s heroines who are aware of their own ancient tradition—which is true also in Ovid; 474: “Durch den Brief wird die stumme Philomela also zu einer ‘sprechenden’ Heroine.” Ovid discusses the possibility of female authorship, too). In short, Ritter has produced a valuable study on Mark Alexander Boyd that triggers our curiosity to read more of his oeuvre. She has offered enough material to enable future research on Boyd’s poetry but also to inspire more general—and very welcome—research on the NeoLatin Heroides. Boyd’s Epistulae Heroidum show that the genre deserves our attention.

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Note I am very grateful to Kathryn Morgan (UCLA) for her helpful suggestions and for having corrected my English.

Christoph Pieper [email protected]

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Bernd Schneider and Christina Meckelnborg, eds., Odyssea Homeri a Francisco Griffolino Aretino in Latinum translata. Die lateinische Odyssee-Übersetzung des Francesco Griffolini. Mittellateinische Studien und Texte 43. Leiden, Boston: Koninklijke Brill NV, 2011. Pp. x + 330.

The editors of this fabulous and important edition of Griffolini’s translation of the Odyssee join once more so many editors who provide us with new editions of Latin texts of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Their efforts and work gain more and more importance even as digital reproductions of original manuscripts and prints continue to be the focus of the digital warehouses of libraries and other institutions. For example, a digitized copy of the editio princeps of Griffolini’s translation from the collection of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München (2 A.gr.a.39) is available online (cf. 25n76). The art of examining manuscripts and prints contributes so much to our understanding of and preserves a lot of information about the current condition of the textual material as we have it today. The history and description of the manuscript at the Universitätsbibliothek Leipzig (Ms 0602) shows that we cannot cease to care about the original texts. The introduction of this edition carefully situates Griffolini’s work within the efforts of speakers of Latin, from Petrarch onward, to translate Homer’s epic poems (1–11). The editors argue very convincingly for 1462 as the latest possible date for the completion of Griffolini’s translation of the Odyssee. Meckelnborg and Schneider acquaint us with the style of Griffolini’s “translation” in the next chapter of their introduction (11–19). Carefully they lead us through the intricacies of Griffolini’s understanding of what he was doing and what he hoped to accomplish. We are quite lucky that Griffolini even told us a few things about the art of translation in his dedicatory epistle to Pope Pius II. In sum, we need to state that Griffolini cut off quite a few details of Homer’s language and reduced the Odyssee to its basic story line. He focused more on a good Latin prose style than on a close ad verbum translation and preservation of the Homeric epic language. Toward the end of his translation, Griffolini’s account of the Odyssee becomes even more and more abbreviated. The third chapter of the introduction informs us about the nine extant manuscripts as well as the two first printed editions (1510 and 1516) of Griffolini’s work (19–52). In the end, the editors arrive at a stemma of the manuscripts and prints. They admonish us, however, to be aware Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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that they claim to have sorted out the relationship between five of the nine manuscripts. Everything else, they say, needs to remain speculation because of the deplorable condition and complicated contaminations and revisions of the manuscripts. Thus, the editors arrive at the concluding introductory chapter: their editorial maxims (53–54). Based on what they set out in the previous chapters, they based their editions mainly on the manuscripts from Naples, Siena, and the Vatican, which seems entirely plausible. After the introduction, the edition of Griffolini’s text follows. Two appendices (317–19 and 321–22) give us the text written on what seems to be a replacement of a folio of each of the manuscripts from Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale, lat. 8177: Od. 24.115–225) and Forlì (Biblioteca Comunale, VII 7: Od. 24.463–548). Especially important are the editors’ hints at those passages that point our attention to major discrepancies between Griffolini’s work and the Odyssee. Compare, for example, 194: Griffolini seems to have misunderstood Homer at Od. 13.155–158. Passages like these show the value of this book by Meckelnborg and Schneider. Their edition is a great and most welcome piece that will advance us on our way of understanding the value of Homer in Griffolini’s times and the understanding of what it meant to “translate.” The edition, just as the volume itself, is well made and produced. A helpful index nominum (323-30) concludes this useful book. Wolfgang Polleichtner [email protected]

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Karsten Wilkens, ed., Johannes Gaza: Bacchi Piratae. Eine humanistische Warnung vor dem Alkohol (1531). Einleitung, Edition, Kommentar und Versuch einer Einordnung. Commentationes Aenipontanae XXXVII. Tirolensia Latina 7. Innsbruck: Universitätsverlag Wagner, 2012. Pp. 208.

Karsten Wilkens’s book is the editio princeps of a poem by the little-known humanist Johannes Gaza found in the library of the Heinrich-SusoGymnasium Konstanz. After a description of the other works of which the bundle, which seems to be Gaza’s inheritance (33), consists (ch. 1.1, 7–10), Wilkens gives a biography of Johannes Gaza on the basis of Michael Dornvogel’s laudatio funebris on him, which is also printed in full Latin text, German translation, and commentary (ch. 1.2, 11–33). The accuracy with which Wilkens tries to reconstruct Gaza’s life may be illustrated by the fact that he has searched for Gaza’s (or Schatz’s) name in the register of the University of Heidelberg from 1490 to 1530—unfortunately, he did not find him (14, note on § 3). Also the search for the addressee of the Bacchi Piratae in the commentary of the epistola dedicatoria (78–81) shows how well informed Wilkens is about the local history of Gaza’s hometown. Gaza’s biography is followed by a description of the manuscript (ch. 1.3.1, ch. 1.3.2, 33–39), also prepared very carefully—in combination with the text it can be taken as a diplomatic transcription. The analysis of Gaza’s grammar and style (ch. 1.3.3, 39–42) would, however, have fit better in the commentary. The same can be said about his notes on the meter (ch. 1.3.4, 43–49). Unfortunately, there is a fatal error in his metrical scheme of the Alcaic stanza: three out of four verses contain a syllable too many (43). Gaza’s mastery of ancient meter is not the best either, as is shown in a list of Prosodiefehler, Besonderheiten und Probleme (44–47)—I will come back to this point later. Chapter 2 contains the Latin text of the Bacchi Piratae, a German translation, and notes on both (ch. 2.1, 52–63). The translation is well done although in some places it lavishes too many alternatives and brackets on the reader. For example, Naves agebant nautae (vv. 5–6) may be translated as “Seeleute lenkten ihre Schiffe” or as “Eine Mannschaft von Seeleuten lenkte ihre Schiffe,” but “(Eine Mannschaft von) Seeleute(n) lenkte(n) ihre Schiffe” (55) really offends the eye. The next chapter presents Gaza’s source, the Greek text of the Seventh Homeric Hymn, with a German translation (ch. 2.2.1, 64–67). As Gaza himself has quoted some passages from the Homeric hymn on the margin of his

Medievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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manuscript (cf. ch. 1.3.5, 49–50), both texts are printed once again in a synoptic edition (ch. 2.2.2, 68–77); Gaza’s quoted passages and literal translations are marked separately. The most striking differences between the two versions of the story about how Bacchus punishes pirates who wanted to abduct him are the extensive description of the pirates’ travel route (vv. 5–28) and the catalog of the several animals into which the pirates are transformed by Bacchus (vv. 97–99, eight animals instead of just dolphins as in Hom. h. 7, 53). This difference is explained by a comparison with contemporary portrayals of drunken people as animals; finally, the transformation of the pirates by the might of Bacchus is explained as a mental, not a physical, metamorphosis—the whole ode becomes a warning against alcohol (ch. 3.4, 168–81). The commentary (ch. 2.3, 77–143) offers nothing that might be new to anyone interested in humanist poetry: orthographical “oddities” such as soeculis are explained (in ch. 1.3.2 Wilkens has already listed them when describing the manuscript), ancient parallels for metonymical use of some words as pinus for a ship are offered, and so on. While giving so much basic information, Wilkens forgets to call attention to a clever wordplay: it is after the breaking of the fetters that Bacchus is called Liber for the first time in the poem (v. 41). Very useful is the index of eighteen sorts of vines with name, color, provenance, and loci in ancient texts (107–108), which is followed by an extensive commentary on the specifics of every single sort (112–28). Gaza’s music sheet to the ode is provided in a copy of the manuscript, along with a transcription into modern notation and a small commentary (ch. 2.4, 144–50). This commentary does not contain more than basic information either: Wilkens explains on every inverted chord that Gaza wanted to avoid a parallel fifth, which is right of course, but nothing for which it is necessary to refer to having visited lectures in musicology (5). As Gaza’s Bacchi Piratae lacks a reception history up to now, Wilkens offers one for the Homeric hymn (ch. 3). After a tabular comparison between Gaza’s text and the hymn (ch. 3.1, 152–53; he has already compared the two after the synoptic edition, ch. 2.2.3, 76–77) and a list of thirty-one ancient sources that mention the myth (ch. 3.2, 154), Wilkens deals with the “Variationen der Verwandlung” (ch. 3.3, 155–65)—that is, all the different varieties of how the pirates are transformed; here he adduces vase painting and sculpture as well. However, this reception history has little to do with the final analysis of Gaza’s own “variation of the transformation” (ch. 3.4, 165–81), which I have already summed up above.

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An exhaustive bibliography and two indices (works cited as well as people and things dealt with) complete the book. For some reason, the index of works cited does not contain references given in tabular frames (commentary on Dornvogel’s Laudatio funebris, list of vines). In sum, Wilkens has done his homework. There are just a few minor typing mistakes (15, “Hat er Lust . . . besuchen”; 23n55, “bis bis”; 24, “Feldzug- | steilnahme”; 65, “zu festzuhalten”); only the wrong metrical scheme (43) is inexcusable. His research about the little-known humanist Johannes Gaza is accurate and his results will surely be right in most cases. The low standard of the commentary is excused by the dedication of the book to the pupils of the Heinrich-Suso-Gymnasium Konstanz (5). This is what exciting lessons in Latin are made of: an old manuscript found in the school’s own library! So far so good. Now let us come to the core of the book: Johannes Gaza’s Bacchi Piratae. As Wilkens has noted himself (178n447), his interpretation as a warning against alcohol is based mainly on the plurality of animals the drinkers are transformed into; however, it cannot explain why Gaza has added the pirates’ travel route and developed it in extenso. Wilkens has also noted another inconsistency in Gaza’s adaptation (167): while the steersman of the pirates’ ship is the only one to survive as a human being in the Homeric hymn (for he alone paid reverence to the god), in Gaza’s adaptation the captain, who is identical with the steersman, also warns the others not to compete with a god, but then he disappears—we are not given any information about what happens to him. So the narrative of Gaza’s poem is not really harmonious. Let us follow the cue and talk about music, particularly rhythm and meter, the main aspects of the humanist ode. There are several verses that do not fit the melody because they contain either a syllable too many or a syllable too few than needed. Some of these mistakes Wilkens tries to rationalize away. But can videt really be measured as one short syllable? Let us see how Wilkens explains this (45): the e can be syncopated; but as nautas follows, the remaining vidt would be lengthened by position; but, behold, it is a muta cum liquida, be it between word ending and beginning; so finally we can measure the words postquam videt nautas as if they were pōstquām vĭ- dt-naūtās. Similarly Wilkens is able to create the form inclust out of inclusit by referring to contracted classical forms like repostum and petisti (46). The list of metrical anomalies is three and a half pages long (44–47): twelve of one hundred verses are metrically incorrect (15, 37, 42, 49, 57, 62, 69, 70, 73, 78, 85, 96)—well-disposed as I am, I have not included the unconventional usage of caesuras (twentythree of fifty Alcaic hendecasyllables lack a penthemimeres; this happens

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just five times in the whole Horatian corpus counting more than six hundred such verses). Should pupils learn lyric meter in that way? I do not think so. One could stop here criticizing the poem, but there is still something to be said. Wilkens describes Gaza’s style by listing some rhetorical figures found in the poem, including rather curious ones as “überflüssiges -que” or “einfallslose Wortwiederholung,” (40–42), but he does not call attention to the most obtrusive aspect of his style: most of the narrative consists of main clauses and enumerations. I have counted no more than three dependent clauses (vv. 37–38, 50–51, 54–55); two more are periphrases in the context of an enumeration (vv. 85, 86). For demonstration I arbitrarily quote one stanza: “Portu Lyaeus conspicitur pater. / Ex classe piratae exiliunt simul / Stulti. ruunt procursione / Barbarica. furit ira vulgi” (vv. 29–32). Reading such a staccato does not really give pleasure to me. But as Wilkens has decided to edit the poem, he does not give up defending Gaza’s deficiencies; he remarks that the manuscript is just a working copy (ch. 1.3.6, 50). But, I am inclined to ask, do we really have to edit everything just because it is Latin and therefore exalted, even if it is an obviously unfinished work by an unpopular author? We would do better if we accepted what O. Kunzer, who edited another work of Gaza’s in 1895 (more modestly in the Zeitschrift für die Geschichte des Oberrheins 10), argued about his output, that it is an “insignificant work” (“unbedeutende Leistungen,” 7). Wilkens’s book is a product of what J. Leonhardt has warned of (Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 146, 2003, 415–24): as long as there is no neo-Latin canon we have to beware of creating one by the first pieces that happen to be edited; a pupil must not think that Catullus, Vergil, and Gaza were the most important Latin poets just because he has read them and no others. So, I finally hope, future pupils will still become acquainted with the story of Bacchus and the pirates by Ovid’s Bacchi Piratae (Met. 3, 582–691) and learn lyric verses with Horace. For singing ancient lyric poetry one is better off with the complete conspectus of meters for SATB choir by P. Tritonius, L. Senfl, and P. Hofhaimer (edited in modern transcription by R. von Liliencron, Die Horazischen Metren in deutschen Kompositionen des XVI. Jahrhunderts [Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1887]) or with Jan Novák’s Cantica Latina for a single singer and piano (edited in cooperation with W. Stroh, Munich/Zurich: Artemis, 1985) than with a score that does not fit the text in every case. In sum, Wilkens has done his best to revitalize an unknown humanist, but he did not realize that Gaza might not really deserve it. So I do not

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see any apt reader for his book: a Neo-Latin scholar will be interested neither in the poem nor in the commentary, and pupils should read better literature, even if there have been unread manuscripts in their library for some centuries. Wilkens has tried to explore a treasure—unfortunately, he just found Gaza. Markus Stachon [email protected]

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Samantha Zacher, Preaching the Converted: The Style and Rhetoric of the Vercelli Book Homilies. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009. Pp. 348.

The only major problem with Samantha Zacher’s new book is its title. Zacher has refined her 2003 Toronto dissertation into a monograph striking for both its attention to fine detail and its placement of that detail in the context of a variety of scholarly discourses, including sermon history, lexicography, and hagiography. In her preface, Zacher tries to explain the ungainly and distracting title phrase “Preaching the Converted,” first by rejecting the necessarily implied phrase “preaching to the converted.” The meaning of the title seems to be as follows: the Preaching contexts of the homiletic texts that have been Converted from a variety of Latin discourses into vernacular texts strongly influenced by Old English poetic and rhetorical conventions—certainly not an idea easily understood by looking at the book cover. Her subtitle alone (the title of her original dissertation) certainly would have sufficed for clarity: “The Style and Rhetoric of the Vercelli Book Homilies.” That said, once Zacher has introduced her subject matter, she produces fresh insights and information about the Vercelli homilies in every chapter. She makes a convincing argument for Rochester as a possible location for the creation of the manuscript in chapter 1 (“Locating the Vercelli Homilies: Their Place in the Book, and the Book in Its Place”), casting doubt on Canterbury and Worcester, the more usual localizations. Despite her focus on “preaching,” Zacher does agree with the current critical consensus that the manuscript was made as a private devotional book for an individual rather than as a handbook for an active preacher (42). As such, she addresses the texts in an almost twofold manner, acknowledging their use in this manuscript as private reading but drawing on their sources and the book’s exemplars to see prior versions of the texts as active preaching texts. She sees the prose texts to advocate as a group for a moderate rather than an ascetic religious and spiritual practice, a goal that would fit well with a lay preaching audience as well as an individual reader. Zacher argues against Donald Scragg, the homilies’ most recent editor, in that she sees the book to have been made with planned, thematic unity. While Scragg and others see “no particular plan” in the compilation (63), Zacher sees the whole book to be an extended meditation on the relationship between the soul and the body. Her analysis of the orMedievalia et Humanistica, New Series, Number 39 (Wolfgang Polleichtner and Reinhold F. Glei, ed.), Rowman & Littlefield, 2014.

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der of the homilies, as well as the rhetoric and structure of the individual homilies themselves, shows that the collector/scribe engaged in “the making of a collection that arguably displays a discernable order with respect to both text and theme” (71). Her most prominent example in this part of her discussion is the overlap between homilies II and XXI; Zacher argues that the redundancy is not a mistake but a conscious rhetorical device that allows Doomsday catalogs to bookend the collection (103). In chapter 4, “‘Where Are They Now?’: The Sources and Techniques of Adaptation and Compilation in the Vercelli Book,” Zacher focuses on homily X as her primary example of combinations of Latin source content with vernacular rhetorical traditions. The homilist uses techniques more usually considered “poetic” (alliteration, assonance, and homeoteleuton) to embellish the prose texts with “variation and expansion” (121). Zacher’s point here—that Old English prose uses many of the same rhetorical figures as Old English poetry—is not new, of course, but it is newly made with respect to these prose texts that have not previously been treated so thoroughly as a rhetorically unified group. Similarly, in chapter 5, “The ‘Body and Soul’ of the Vercelli Book: The Heart of the Corpus,” Zacher argues for the book’s thematic unity based on soul-andbody traditions; the chapter focuses on homily XXII as a “reshaping of Isidore’s Synonyma to include vernacular intermediary sources” (178) but encompasses the full collection as well. Chapter 6 also addresses rhetorical figures in the book as a whole (with a handy chart of all the metaphors and similes employed in all the homilies), concluding that the cross-homily metaphoric language indicates a “self-conscious blending of art and utility” throughout the collection (224). The Vercelli Book ends with the prose Guthlac, and so does Preaching the Converted. While Zacher refers to the text as homily XXIII, she acknowledges its generic ambiguity: is it a homily? a vita? a lection-sized section of a vita? Zacher is at her best in this chapter, connecting Latin and Old English sources and analogues while providing minutely detailed lexical analysis to connect the text to the themes of soul and body she discussed earlier. Finally, Zacher convincingly shows that homily XXIII, “far from being the embarrassing add-on it is sometimes perceived to be, can in fact be argued to provide an entirely fitting conclusion to the Vercelli Book as a whole” (268), as it fits in the collection thematically, rhetorically, and stylistically. Despite Zacher’s de rigueur gesture toward more research that needs to be done on the Vercelli Book, her comprehensive work provides something of a sense of closure to the surge in academic publishing

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about Vercelli Cathedral’s Manuscript 117 over the last twenty-five years or so. Roberto Rosselli del Turco is working on a digital edition of the manuscript (project information at http://vbd.humnet.unipi.it), and its release will complete a set of scholarly tools for the community of AngloSaxonists who have access to the manuscript in facsimile, to modern editions and translations of all the texts, to a wide variety of essays in journals and collections, and now to this excellent monograph. Mary Dockray-Miller [email protected]

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