Secret gardens of fresh verdure are above on the roofs and hidden on the ground. Gems and gold pattern all these noble and joyous places. Clear springs unstintingly fresh are surrounded by shady thickets. Above all, the place has an odor to give oppressed hearts their joy again (I. viii. 5).
His stories pictured on walls (depintura istoriata) whether fresco or mosaic, have a literary source. They are from the Troy stories pictured on the walls of Dido’s palace in Aeneid II. Boiardo’s briefer rendering may have been suggested by the “epigrams” of the Greek Anthology, or by survivals in southern Italy of such pictures with verse inscriptions. Certainly his palaces and gardens often recall the Norman-Arab art of Sicily. For it is art that he pauses to note oftener than scenery. In all this his classicism is both discreet and artistic. He does not borrow; he adapts.
The larger scene, the field of the traditional struggle of East with West, receives more definite geography. The haze over medieval Ermonie had been often pierced by merchant voyagers. Though there are still the Isole Felice or Lontane, we read now of Aragon and Barcelona, Granada, Toledo, Seville, Valencia, and Gibraltar; of Agrigentum and Mongibello as well as of Sicily at large; of Cyprus, Crete, and Rhodes; of Aigues Mortes, Bordeaux, Gascony, Languedoc, Perpignan, and Roussillon; of Damascus, Niniveh, Trebizond, and Tripoli.
The traditional chivalric equality of Saracen knights with Christian, as in Malory, is emphasized.
King Charles the Great with genial face had seated himself among his paladins at the round table. Before him were also Saracens, who would not use chair nor bench, but lay like mastiffs on their rugs, scorning the usage of the Franks (I. i. 12-13).
The paynim king Balugante, divining Rinaldo’s irritation at some of his fellow Christians, sends him a courteous and discerning message. Saracen knights are armed, titled, respected as are Christian, and mingle with them freely. Their bravery is not merely admitted; Rodomonte is a legendary demon of force, and Ruggiero in his pagan days is a pattern of both force and courtesy.
The traditional echoes of folklore are repeated. Feraguto’s strength revives when he touches earth. A child stolen in infancy is recognized. Herbs are gathered under a new moon. Ruggiero, as Percival, is brought up beyond sight of arms. There are waters of forgetfulness, a loathly lady waiting to be restored by a kiss, a magic steed, a white hart, a monster adversary transformed, and a retreat under water.
Grotesque interludes, barely touched by Malory, found occasionally elsewhere, and quite regular in Italian popular versions, are not only admitted by Boiardo; they are dwelt upon with evident relish. Thus Rinaldo fights with a giant.
Of no avail the furious assault; of no avail the baron’s nimble skill. He could not reach so high. Suddenly Rinaldo dismounted and with one bound leapt upon the giant’s croup when he was not looking. He knocked his helm and his steel cap to pieces and, redoubling his strokes as if he were hammering iron at the furnace, he split the great head in two. Fell the giant with a rush that made the earth shake (I. iv. 64-65).
Orlando leapt even higher, so that again and again he met his giant face to face—in the air. Angelica threw into a monster’s mouth a cake that stuck his teeth together, so that Rinaldo might safely, though with enormous effort, strangle him. Rodomonte bare-headed at sea hears his hair rattle with ice. Astolfo is beguiled to board a whale, and Rinaldo follows, both on horseback.