La Chanson de Roland

La Brèche de Roland zou volgens de legende het werk zijn van ridder Roland (ook bekend als Roeland of Orlando; ° ca. 736; † 15 augustus 778). In het Frankische Rijk van Karel de Grote was Roland graaf van de Bretonse mark. Hij sneuvelde bij de terugtocht uit Spanje na Karels veldtocht tegen de Waskonen (Basken). In een bergpas bij Roncevaux in de Pyreneeën werd de Frankische achterhoede, waar Roland bevelhebber van was, verslagen in de Slag van Roncevaux Pas.

Net voor zijn dood zou hij de kloof geslagen hebben met zijn zwaard Durendal, in een – tevergeefse – poging om het te vernietigen voor het in handen zou vallen van de vijand.

Vanaf de 11e eeuw werd, losjes gebaseerd op historische bronnen, van Roland een populaire held gemaakt door de middeleeuwse minstrelen. Hij werd het symbool van de “nobele Christen” die door Moslims in de pan werd gehakt. Op dat moment was het Iberisch schiereiland immers deels in handen van moslims.

Over Rolands daden en dood in de Slag van Roncevaux Pas ontstond in de loop der tijd een aantal liederen en verhalen; uiteindelijk werden die in het Franse Chanson de Roland samengevoegd (1050 – 1150).

18 juli 2008 vertrokken Katrien en ik richting deze ‘legendarische’ kloof (2807m), vanaf de Col des Tentes, via de Refuge de Roland (aka Refuge des Sarradets). Een klim van een 700 tal meter hoogteverschil, 3 kwart van de tijd door de sneeuw ploeterend onder een fel brandende zon zonder stijgijzers of andere klimattributen (met uitzondering van een paar goedkope wandelstokjes). De tocht was adembenemend! We hebben er meer sneeuw gezien dan in de laatste 7 Belgische winters samen.

We zijn dan misschien niet zo heldhaftig als Roland, wij zijn wél terug thuis geraakt.
In your face, Roland!

Bijgevoegd nog een extract uit de Engelse vertaling van la Chanson de Roland voor de liefhebbers:

CLXXI

Then Rollant feels that he has lost his sight,
Climbs to his feet, uses what strength he might;
In all his face the colour is grown white.
In front of him a great brown boulder lies;
Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes;
The steel cries out, but does not break outright;
And the count says: “Saint Mary, be my guide
Good Durendal, unlucky is your plight!
I’ve need of you no more; spent is my pride!
We in the field have won so many fights,
Combating through so many regions wide
That Charles holds, whose beard is hoary white!
Be you not his that turns from any in flight!
A good vassal has held you this long time;
Never shall France the Free behold his like.”

CLXXII

Rollant hath struck the sardonyx terrace;
The steel cries out, but broken is no ways.
So when he sees he never can it break,
Within himself begins he to complain:
“Ah! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain!
Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays!
In Moriane was Charles, in the vale,
When from heaven God by His angel bade
Him give thee to a count and capitain;
Girt thee on me that noble King and great.
I won for him with thee Anjou, Bretaigne,
And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine,
And Normandy the free for him I gained,
Also with thee Provence and Equitaigne,
And Lumbardie and all the whole Romaigne,
I won Baivere, all Flanders in the plain,
Also Burguigne and all the whole Puillane,
Costentinnople, that homage to him pays;
In Saisonie all is as he ordains;
With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales,
England also, where he his chamber makes;
Won I with thee so many countries strange
That Charles holds, whose beard is white with age!
For this sword’s sake sorrow upon me weighs,
Rather I’ld die, than it mid pagans stay.
Lord God Father, never let France be shamed!”

CLXXIII

Rollant his stroke on a dark stone repeats,
And more of it breaks off than I can speak.
The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least,
Back from the blow into the air it leaps.
Destroy it can he not; which when he sees,
Within himself he makes a plaint most sweet.
“Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed!
Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals:
Saint Peter’s Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile,
Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise,
Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary.
It is not right that pagans should thee seize,
For Christian men your use shall ever be.
Nor any man’s that worketh cowardice!
Many broad lands with you have I retrieved
Which Charles holds, who hath the great white beard;
Wherefore that King so proud and rich is he.”

CLXXIV

But Rollant felt that death had made a way
Down from his head till on his heart it lay;
Beneath a pine running in haste he came,
On the green grass he lay there on his face;
His olifant and sword beneath him placed,
Turning his head towards the pagan race,
Now this he did, in truth, that Charles might say
(As he desired) and all the Franks his race;–
‘Ah, gentle count; conquering he was slain!’–
He owned his faults often and every way,
And for his sins his glove to God upraised.

AOI.

CLXXV

But Rollant feels he’s no more time to seek;
Looking to Spain, he lies on a sharp peak,
And with one hand upon his breast he beats:
“Mea Culpa! God, by Thy Virtues clean
Me from my sins, the mortal and the mean,
Which from the hour that I was born have been
Until this day, when life is ended here!”
Holds out his glove towards God, as he speaks
Angels descend from heaven on that scene.

~ door Dirk Mariën op november 8, 2008.