Source: http://www.heroicage.org/issues/13/sypeck.php
Timestamp: 2019-04-22 04:53:21+00:00

Document:
© 2010 by Jeff Sypeck. All rights reserved. This edition copyright © 2010 by The Heroic Age. All rights reserved.
Abstract: Four Latin poems by Theodulf of Orleans (d. 821) translated into rhyming English verse.
§1. A Visigothic refugee from Islamic Spain, Theodulf was a beacon of brilliance at Charlemagne's court. Armed with extensive classical and patristic learning, he weeded errors out of the Latin Bible; he probably wrote the Libri Carolini, the lengthy Carolingian response to the Second Council of Nicea; and in 798 he served as a missus dominicus, or judicial investigator, in the south of France. At the end of the eighth century, Charlemagne appointed him bishop of Orleans and abbot of Fleury, but in 818, four years after Charlemagne's death, he was implicated in a plot against the new emperor, Louis the Pious. Deprived of his bishopric, Theodulf spent his remaining years strenuously protesting his innocence, sometimes in verse, from the monasteries of Angers and Le Mans.
§3. Twelve centuries ago, Theodulf vied with Alcuin, the Northumbrian-born abbot of Tours, for the distinction of being the greatest early Carolingian poet. Today, the judgment usually falls in Theodulf's favor, largely for his ability to embody both the classical and the Christian. Even so, the old bishop is better known for his wit than for any inherent warmth. The four short works of light verse translated below, therefore, hint at a more approachable Theodulf, a poet whose humor could sometimes be fanciful rather than baldly satiric.
§4. Theodulf's adherence to classical forms lent his verse an air of ancient dignity. Although the meter of much medieval Latin poetry was determined, as in modern English poetry, by patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables, medieval Latin poetry based specifically on classical models was quantitative rather than accentual. In quantitative poetry, the length of vowels—literally, the quantity of each vowel, either long or short—determines the meter. In accentual verse, a dactyl consists of a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables; in quantitative verse, a dactyl consists of a long vowel followed by two short vowels.
§6. Medieval verse based on classical forms is tricky for a translator. In rendering these four poems, I have not tried to concoct an accentual equivalent of Theodulf's quantitative verse. Instead, I acknowledge the medieval respect for form by rendering three of these four poems in rhymed accentual couplets, which are often associated with light verse in modern English but which also, in the 21st century, feel suitably old-fashioned. I have also indulged, as did Theodulf, in alliteration while trying to echo, faintly, his penchant for leonine rhyme.
§7. As Theodulf is said to have been "influenced by the anima cortese of Virgil, the candor of Ovid, [and] the urbanitas and humanitas of Horace" (Wilkinson 1955, 374–375), the bishop himself would no doubt insist, as do I, that any failure of these poems to amuse is the fault of the translator alone.
§8. At the end of the eighth century, Alcuin wrote a letter to Theodulf hailing the bishop of Orleans as the "father of vineyards" and deploying biblical allusions, by turns fanciful and desperate, to entice Theodulf to send him wine: "Although that which strengthens [i.e., bread] may be lacking, perhaps that which gladdens is not, for our hope rests in the bountiful wine of the cellars of Orleans, not in a dried-up fig tree."6 Alcuin insists that no lesser authority than Christ has ordered wine to be sent from Orleans to Tours, and he cites the Gospel of Luke to emphasize his preference: "Remember, do not put new wine in old skins. 'No one, drinking old wine, desires the new, for he says: "The old is better."'"
§9. Theodulf's epigram about wine is not a reply to Alcuin, but it does contrast sharply with Alcuin's irreverent letter. Theodulf, usually the wit, is here disarmingly sincere, offering only a straightforward allusion to the miracle at Cana alongside possible echoes of oenological references in the De Laudibus Dei of fifth-century Christian poet Blossius Aemilius Dracontius (Alexandrenko 1970, 282).
And grant our day be joyful and divine.
§11. Praised by modern scholars as the rare early Carolingian with solid knowledge of Ovid (Godman 1985, 8), Theodulf borrows nearly the entire sixth line of this short poem from Ovid's Amores III.5.2, in which a young lover seeks an interpretation of his dream about a bull, a heifer, and a crow.
§12. Medieval audiences, already familiar with fables about talking animals, perhaps expected a beast reminiscent of the symbol of St. Luke the Evangelist to utter words of wisdom. Well aware that humor results from subverted expectations, Theodulf instead composes the most perfunctory dream vision in all of medieval literature.
Then you, mighty elephant, bring forth a mouse.
"Father, I'll say what I see in my mind.
An ox who could speak I encountered tonight.
He talked! We were rather amazed at the sight."
Inquired the father, "What news did he bring?"
Answering him, he replied, "Not a thing."
§14. Readers who know Theodulf as a Christian intellectual prone to sophisticated satire and a heavy moral tone will find this poem a pleasant surprise. Largely unencumbered by biblical or classical allusions, "A Lost Horse" hinges on a gimmick that was probably already hoary by Theodulf's day. Such a durable joke translates well across ages and cultures: Alexandrenko (1970, 277 n1) notes that this poem closely resembles "The Threat," an 1885 short story by Anton Chekhov.
Often a weakling on wits can subsist.
In his encampment retrieved his lost horse.
"If you stole my horse, then return it to me!
Like my father before me in Rome—so take heed!"
Fearing for all, he returned the man's horse.
By all of the men who'd been greatly afraid.
Just what it was that his father had done.
He flung 'round his neck, the poor man, and walked back.
So useless his spurs; on his heels they stayed put.
Once a great horseman, he came home on foot.
I'd have done the same thing had I not found my horse."
§16. Medieval poets liked to treat animals fancifully or allegorically, but this poem about a stymied fox in a monastery garden enjoys a rare immediacy, not only because of its memorable descriptions but also because Theodulf lets his readers infer any moral for themselves. The fox's predicament lends itself to a Christian interpretation: Foxes in medieval saints' lives are often compelled to return stolen hens before dying (Ziolkowski 1993, 54).
§17. Some of Theodulf's diction here may have been influenced by Christian poets of Late Antiquity such as Prudentius, Calpurnius, and Venantius Fortunatus (Alexandrenko 1970, 274), but the most vivid allusion is Vergilian: Describing the hen's "thousand-colored" wings, Theodulf adds a dash of mock-epic bathos by recalling the Aeneid IV.701, in which Iris trails a thousand colors as she flies to earth to end Dido's misery.
§18. More mundanely, this poem may be a response to a fable by Alcuin about a fox and a rooster. A similarity in their opening lines suggests that the two poems were recited in tandem at Charlemagne's court (Ziolkowski 1993, 53).
§19. This translation omits the first eighteen lines, which commemorate Count Rotharius and his wife, Euphrasia, for founding the monastery of Charroux, where Theodulf claims this incident took place.
The sources of the brothers' every meal.
She gobbled in her jaws, that wicked thing.
Thus making clear the way of her deceit.
For every pathway led to her defeat.
Whose stones were stacked so steeply and so tall.
She flailed her neck and thrashed her head, distressed.
They saw God's wondrous portents in this sight.
Now steal away, demonic, sinful thief!
Angel, come; bring merciful relief.
And in this place let faith and hope abide.
Feed their minds, O Christ, and grant them health.

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