Published in 1504, Jacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia had a long literary tradition behind it — well over 1,500 years — with Theocritus and Virgil as the progenitors of pastoral poetry. Much closer to Sannazaro’s own time, fellow Italians Dante and Petrach also wrote in the genre, one which situates shepherds in an idyllic setting where various ideas are able to be discussed: city versus country, for example, or matters like love, loss, and death. Shepards do tough work, but the shepherds to be found in the pages of pastoral poetry are rarely seen laboring; rather, songs and competition fill their time, and there’s relatively little concern or discussion about practical matters relating to their profession. That’s just the nature of the genre.
Sannazaro’s pastoral work combines both verse and prose in each of its twelve chapters, and is sometimes considered the first pastoral romance. But its uniqueness in this regard by no means diminishes its contextual relationship with its predecessors. Arcadia is filled with allusions to other works and poets, and Virgil and Theocritus, in particular, are never far from Sannazaro’s mind when creating a scene.
Arcadia does, however, possess more of an autobiographical tinge to it than do previous pastoral works. Sannazaro (1456-1530), who was born into noble circumstances — though ones not without drama and difficulties — inserts these elements primarily into the figure of Sincero, who functions as the narrator of Arcadia. Sincero, like the author, is from Naples, and has arrived in Arcadia after leaving his native land — a process of removing himself in order to undergo a period of reflection (and geographical retreat), so as to get away from vexations at home, including a matter of unrequited love.
Sincero’s travials are not unique to him. Arcadia is full of lovelorn shepards, a few who are so weighed down by their sorrows and agonies that they neither act, look, nor feel like themselves and even entertain death as a better option. There are also scenes of happiness and playful interactions among the shepards, but it’s hard not to feel that Arcadia is a rather dark work, infused with immense sorrow, sadness, and despair.
This is how it begins, and more or less how it ends — like a sheet of music which starts in D minor and finishes in the same dreary key.
The first character we meet, other than the narrator — who tells us in the prologue that his purpose is to “recount…the rude eclogues issued from a natural vein…as I heard them sung by the shepherds of Arcady” (pp. 29-30) — is a man who has become completely undone. Lying near a tree, the shepherd Ergasto excludes himself from a celebration nearby, and instead broods on his state of anguish. Later, in Chapter Six, Sincero describes himself in much the same way: “[I] had cast myself down at the base of a tree, sorrowful and immeasurably discontent” (p. 63). And in the subsequent chapter, at the request of a fellow shepherd, Sincero spills out in detail his sad state of affairs. This palette of dark and gloomy emotions is nearly everywhere in Arcadia, with relatively few moments of glee.
Alongside this presentation of the unsettled human being, are scenes of beautiful and vivid descriptions, both of nature and art. The land of Arcadia is given a glorious presentation; and, later on, in one of the book’s most bizarre and fantastical scenes, the topography of Sincero’s (i.e., Sannazaro’s) Naples receives similar treatment.
In the book’s several scenes of ekphrasis, Sannazaro is just as lucid — as, for example, when Sincero describes a series of paintings outside the temple of Pales. Among these paintings is one which shows nymphs who have fled a lustful satyr, and who taunt him upon reaching safety. Since so many of the characters in Arcadia undergo the disappointments of unfulfilled or abandoned loves, it seems reasonable to analyze this scene with that in mind. There are other similar pieces of art or objects, including a beechen cup with an image of Priapus who is “trying to kiss her [a nymph] against her will” (p. 52).
But interpreting scenes in Arcadia — whether those of art or in general — is certainly no straightforward matter. Sannazaro is constantly playing off of his predecessors (and not always in obvious ways), and consequently some of Sannazaro’s artistry is not readily apparent without help. Ralph Nash, the editor and translator of the book, does provide limited notes, an introduction, and a helpful index of names.
One aspect of the book which all readers (especially at first) must deal with — and then later on perhaps form a judgement about — is how the chapters do (or do not) fit together. Since each chapter includes both a prose section and a verse eclogue, the relation between these elements adds an added layer of complexity.
While it’d be a stretch to say the chapters neatly cohere, it could be said that once the initial jarring effect has subsided, it’s much less of a dizzying experience to take in. One’s familiarity with the Arcadian world and what its shepards are about, grows quickly. Similarly, though the content of some of the chapters may be more easily to identify with than others, each has its merits.
As for the reader’s more visceral and gut-level response, Sannazaro’s Arcadia is no reservoir of positivity or an impetus for laughter (something most of us could benefit from during this gloomy time). But it’s thoughtful and often deep, and a great example of how pastoral literature — though perhaps not the most exciting genre to read — has its fair share of satisfaction.
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Sannazaro, Jacobo, and Ralph Nash. 1966. Arcadia & Piscatorial Eclogues. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.
Spectatio 
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