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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54259 ***</div>
<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Chapters on Spanish Literature, by James
Fitzmaurice-Kelly</h1>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10">
  <tr>
    <td valign="top">
      Note:
    </td>
    <td>
      Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive. See
      <a href="https://archive.org/details/chaptersonspanis00fitziala">
      https://archive.org/details/chaptersonspanis00fitziala</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full" />
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p class="center"><br /><br />CHAPTERS ON<br />
SPANISH LITERATURE</p>

<hr />

<h1><span class="gesperrt">
CHAPTERS ON<br />
SPANISH LITERATURE</span></h1>

<p class="center">
<small><small><small>BY</small></small></small><br />
<br />
<span class="gesperrt">JAMES FITZMAURICE-KELLY</span><br />
<br />
<small><small><small>FELLOW OF THE BRITISH ACADEMY<br />
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE SPANISH ACADEMY<br />
MEDALLIST OF THE HISPANIC SOCIETY OF AMERICA, ETC.</small></small></small><br />
<br />
<small><span class="gesperrt">LONDON<br />
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE<br />
AND COMPANY LTD.</span><br />
1908</small></p>

<hr />

<p class="center">
<small><small>TO</small></small><br />
<br />
<small>MY FELLOW-MEMBERS</small><br />
<br />
<small><small>OF</small></small><br />
<br />
<small>THE HISPANIC SOCIETY OF AMERICA</small><br />
<br />
<small><small>THESE LECTURES<br />
<br />
ARE CORDIALLY DEDICATED</small></small><br />
</p>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">&nbsp;</a></span></p>
<h2>PREFACE</h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Last</span> summer the Trustees of the Hispanic Society of
America did me the honour to invite me to give a course
of lectures on Spanish literature in the United States,
and almost at the same time an invitation to lecture
on the same subject reached me from the Provost of
University College, London. The chapters contained in
the present volume are the result. The lectures on the
Cid, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderón, and Modern
Spanish Novelists were delivered during the autumn
and winter of 1907 at the University of Columbia;
some of these were repeated at Cornell, Harvard,
Johns Hopkins, Pennsylvania, and Yale Universities;
some at Bryn Mawr, Mount Holyoke, and Smith’s
College (Northampton, Massachusetts); and the whole
series was given this spring at University College,
London.</p>

<p>Owing to the limited amount of time available for
each lecture, it became necessary to omit a few paragraphs
here and there in delivery. These are now
restored. With the exception of the chapter on the
Archpriest of Hita (part of which has been recast),
all the lectures are printed substantially as they were
written. Occasional references have been added in the
form of notes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">viii</a></span></p>
<p>In addresses of this kind some repetition of ‘you’ and
‘I’ is almost unavoidable. It has, however, been thought
better to retain the conversational character of the
lectures, and it is hoped that the use of the objectionable
first personal pronoun does not degenerate into abuse.</p>

<p>Lastly, it is a duty and pleasure to thank my friendly
audiences in America and England for the indulgence
with which they listened to these discourses.</p>

<p class="right padr1">JAMES FITZMAURICE-KELLY.</p>

<p><small><span class="smcap">Kneippbaden</span>: <i>vid</i> <span class="smcap">Norrköping</span>,<br />
<span class="h">xxxxxxxxx</span><i>May 1, 1908</i>.</small></p>

<hr />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>




<table summary="Contents" width="100%" border="0"><tr>
<td class="tdc"><small><small>CHAP.</small></small></td><td>&nbsp;</td><td class="tdr"><small><small>PAGE</small></small></td>
</tr><tr>
<td>&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl">PREFACE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">I.</td><td class="tdl">THE CID</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">II.</td><td class="tdl">THE ARCHPRIEST OF HITA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">III.</td><td class="tdl">THE LITERARY COURT OF JUAN II.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">IV.</td><td class="tdl">THE <i>ROMANCERO</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">V.</td><td class="tdl">THE LIFE OF CERVANTES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">VI.</td><td class="tdl">THE WORKS OF CERVANTES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_143">142</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">VII.</td><td class="tdl">LOPE DE VEGA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td class="tdl">CALDERÓN</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">IX.</td><td class="tdl padr1">THE DRAMATIC SCHOOL OF CALDERÓN</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="tdr">X.</td><td class="tdl">MODERN SPANISH NOVELISTS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td>&nbsp;</td><td class="tdl">INDEX</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td>
</tr></table>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">&nbsp;</a></span></p>


<h2>CHAPTER I<br /><br />

<small>THE CID</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Just</span> as a portrait discloses the artist’s opinion of his sitter,
so the choice of a hero is an involuntary piece of self-revelation.
As man fashions his idols in his own image, we are in
a fair way to understand him, if we know what he admires:
and, as it is with individual units, so is it with races.
National heroes symbolise the ambitions, the foibles, the
general temper and radical qualities of those who have set
them up as exemplars. But there are two sides to every
character, and Spain has two national heroes known all the
world over: the practical Cid and the idealistic Don Quixote,
one of them an historical figure, and the other the child of
a great man’s fancy. Perhaps to the majority of mankind
the offspring of Cervantes’s poetic imagination is more
vividly present than the authentic warrior who headed
many a desperate charge. It is the singular privilege of
genius to substitute its own intense conceptions for the unromantic
facts, and to create out of nothing beings that
seem more vital than men of flesh and blood. Don Quixote
has become a part of the visible universe, while most of us
behold the Cid, not as he really was, but as Corneille
portrayed him more than five centuries after his death. It
may not be amiss to bring him back to earth by recalling
the ascertainable incidents in his adventurous career.</p>

<p>So marked are the differences between the Cid of history
and the Cid of legend that, early in the nineteenth century
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">2</a></span>his very existence was called in question by the sceptical
Jesuit Masdeu, an historian who delighted in paradox.
Masdeu’s doubts were reiterated by Samuel Dunham in his
<cite>History of Spain and Portugal</cite>, and by Dunham’s translator,
Antonio María de Alcalá Galiano, a writer of repute in his
own day. Alcalá Galiano’s incredulity caused him some
personal inconvenience, for—as his kinsman, the celebrated
novelist Juan Valera, records—he was threatened with an
action at law by a Spanish gentleman who piqued himself
on his descent from the Cid, and was not disposed to see
his alleged ancestor put aside as a fabulous creature like
the Phœnix. These negations, more or less sophistical, are
the follies of the learned, and they have their match in
the assertions of another school that sought to reconcile
divergent views by assuming the existence of two Cids, each
with a wife called Jimena, and each with a war-horse called
Babieca. This generous process of duplicating everybody
and everything has not found favour. Cervantes expresses
his view through the canon in <cite>Don Quixote</cite>:—‘That there
was a Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio, is beyond
doubt; but that they did the deeds which they are said to
have done, I take to be very doubtful.’ Few of us would
care to be so affirmative as the canon with respect to
Bernardo del Carpio, but he is perfectly right as regards
the Cid.</p>

<p>It is certain that the Cid existed in the flesh. He was
the son of Diego Lainez, a soldier who fought in the
Navarrese campaign. Pérez de Guzmán, in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Loores de
los claros varones de España</cite>, says that the Cid was born at
Río de Ovierna:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Este varón tan notable</div>
<div class="line">en Río de Ovierna<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> nasció.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">3</a></span>But the usual version is that the Cid was born at Bivar
near Burgos, about the year 1040, and thence took his
territorial designation. To contemporaries he was first of
all known simply as Rodrigo (or Ruy) Díaz de Bivar—Roderick,
son of James, of Bivar; and later, from his
prowess in single combat, as the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Campeador</em> (the Champion
or Challenger). What was probably his earliest feat of
this kind, the overthrow of a Navarrese knight, is recorded
in a copy of rudely rhymed Latin verses, apparently the
most ancient of the poems which were to commemorate the
Cid’s exploits:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container" lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Eia! laetando, populi catervae,</div>
<div class="line">Campi-doctoris hoc carmen audite!</div>
<div class="line">Magis qui eius freti estis ope,</div>
<div class="line i6">Cuncti venite!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Nobiliori de genere ortus,</div>
<div class="line">Quod in Castella non est illo maius:</div>
<div class="line">Hispalis novit et Iberum litus</div>
<div class="line i6">Quis Rodericus.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Hoc fuit primum singulare bellum,</div>
<div class="line">Cum adolescens devicit Navarrum:</div>
<div class="line">Hinc Campi-doctor dictus est maiorum</div>
<div class="line i6">Ore virorum.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The epithet gained at this early period clung to him
through life: it is applied to him even by his enemies. It
is curious to find that the Arab chroniclers constantly speak
of him as Al-kambeyator, but never as the Cid—a word
which is usually said to derive from the Arabic <em>Sidi</em> (= My
Lord). This circumstance makes it doubtful whether he
was widely known as the Cid during his own lifetime.
There is, indeed, a pleasing legend to the effect that the
King of Castile, on hearing Ruy Díaz de Bivar addressed as
<em>Sidi</em> by Arab prisoners of war, decreed that the successful
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">4</a></span>soldier should henceforth be known by that name. But
there is no evidence to support this story, and it is rather
too picturesque to be plausible. It seems more likely that
Ruy Díaz de Bivar was first addressed as <em>Sidi</em> by Arabs who
served under him or by the Arab population of Valencia
which he conquered towards the end of his career, that the
phrase was taken up by his Christian troops, and that it was
not generally current among Spaniards till after his death.
That he soon afterwards became widely known as ‘the Cid’
or ‘my Cid’ is apparent from a line in the rhymed Latin
chronicle of the siege of Almería, written some fifty years
later:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ipse Rodericus, mio Cid semper vocatus.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>But we need not discuss these minutiæ further. Let us
record the fact that Ruy Díaz de Bivar is known as the Cid
Campeador, and pass on to his historical achievements. At
the age of twenty-five he was appointed <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">alférez</em> (standard-bearer)
to Sancho <span class="smcap">II.</span> of Castile, a predatory monarch who
drove his brother Alfonso from León and his brother
García from Galicia, and annexed their kingdoms. Both
campaigns gave the Cid opportunities of distinction, and
he became the most conspicuous personage in Castile after
the murder of Sancho <span class="smcap">II.</span> by Bellido Dolfos at Zamora in
1072:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¡Rey don Sancho, rey don Sancho,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;no digas que no te aviso</div>
<div class="line">que de dentro de Zamora&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;un alevoso ha salido!</div>
<div class="line">llámase Vellido Dolfos,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;hijo de Dolfos Vellido,</div>
<div class="line">cuatro traiciones ha hecho,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;y con esta serán cinco.</div>
<div class="line">Si gran traidor fue el padre,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;mayor traidor es el hijo.—</div>
<div class="line">Gritos dan en el real:&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;¡A don Sancho han mal herido:</div>
<div class="line">muerto le ha Vellido Dolfos,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;gran traición ha cometido!</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The Castilians were in a difficult position: the assassination
of Sancho <span class="smcap">II.</span> left them without a candidate for the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span>vacant thrones of Castile and León. The Cid was not eligible;
for, though of good family, he was not of royal—nor even of
illustrious—descent. The sole legitimate claimant was the
dethroned Alfonso, and there was nothing for it but to offer
him both crowns. It is alleged that the exasperated Castilians
found a salve for their wounded pride by inflicting a
signal humiliation on the Leonese prince whom they invited
to rule over them. According to tradition, Alfonso was
compelled to swear that he had no complicity in Sancho’s
death, and this oath was publicly administered to him by
the Cid and eleven other Castilian representatives in the
church of Santa Gadea at Burgos. This story reaches us in
ancient <em>romances</em>, and Hartzenbusch has given it a further
lease of life by dramatising it in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Jura en Santa Gadea</cite>.
There may be some basis for it, and any one may believe it
who can. There is, however, no positive proof that any such
incident took place, and the tale reads rather like a later
invention, fabricated to account for the bad blood made
subsequently between the king and his formidable subject.
Picturesque stories concerning historical personages are
always ‘suspect,’ and are generally untrue. As there was
no pretender in the field, why should Alfonso submit to
insulting conditions? Is it not simpler to suppose that he
regarded the Cid with natural suspicion as the man mainly
responsible for his expulsion from León, and that the
Leonese nobles were careful to keep this resentful memory
alive? Now, as in the time of Fernán González:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Castellanos y leoneses&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tienen malas intenciones.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Is it not intrinsically probable that the Cid, like a true
Castilian, smarted under the Leonese supremacy; that his
allegiance was from the outset reluctant and half-hearted;
and that he scarcely troubled to conceal his ultimate design
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">6</a></span>of carving out for himself a semi-independent principality
with the help of his famous sword Colada? However this
may be, king and subject were, for the moment, mutually
indispensable. Neither could afford an absolute breach at
this stage; both were deep dissemblers; and on July 19,
1074, Alfonso <span class="smcap">VI.</span> gave his cousin Jimena in marriage to the
Cid. The wedding contract has been preserved—a prosaic
document providing for the due disposition of property on
the death of one of the contracting parties.</p>

<p>After this diplomatic marriage the Cid vanishes for some
time into the dense obscurity of domestic bliss, emerging
again into the light of history as defeating the Emir of
Granada, and then as being charged with malversation.
The details are by no means clear. What is clear is that
the Cid was exiled about 1081, that he entered the service
of Al-muktadir, Emir of Saragossa, and that he continued
in the pay of the Emir’s successors—his son Al-mutamen,
and his grandson Al-mustain. Henceforward we have a
relatively full account of the Cid’s exploits. He defeated
the combined forces of the King of Aragón, the Count of
Barcelona and their Mohammedan allies at Almenara near
Lérida; he routed the King of Aragón once more, this
second battle being fought on the banks of the Ebro; he
played fast-and-loose with Alfonso <span class="smcap">VI.</span>, was reconciled to his
former master, quarrelled, and was again banished. His
possessions were confiscated. But confiscation is a game
at which subjects can play as well as kings, and the Cid
was in a position to recoup his losses. By this time he
had gathered round him a motley host of raiders, men of
diverse creeds eager for any enterprise that offered chances
of plunder. Fortune was now about to furnish him with
a great opportunity. On the surrender of Toledo to
Alfonso <span class="smcap">VI.</span> in 1085 it was agreed that Yahya Al-kadir, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">7</a></span>defeated Emir, should receive Valencia by way of compensation;
and he was imposed on the restive inhabitants by a
force under the Cid’s nephew, Alvar Fáñez Minaya. In
ordinary circumstances the intruder might have held his
own; but the incursion of the African Almoravides, the
Jansenists of Mohammedanism, abruptly changed the
political aspect. It soon became clear that the gains of
the Reconquest were in jeopardy, and that Alfonso <span class="smcap">VI.</span>
must concentrate his army for a momentous struggle.</p>

<p>He might fairly plead that he had kept his bargain by
installing the ex-Emir of Toledo at Valencia, and that his
own kingdom was now at stake. He had no sooner recalled
Alvar Fáñez and his troops than the Valencians revolted,
and Al-kadir besought Al-mustain to come over and help
him. The inducements offered were considerable. But
Al-mustain was a mere figurehead at Saragossa; effective
aid could come only from his lieutenant, the Cid: the two
feigned acceptance of Al-kadir’s proposals, but secretly
agreed to oust him and to divide the spoil. The relief
expedition was commanded by the Cid in Al-mustain’s
name. It was a post after his own heart. Valencia was
then, as it is now, ‘the orchard of Spain,’ and the Cid was
in no hurry to reach the capital. He ravaged the outlying
districts of the fertile province, levied forced contributions,
or induced the inhabitants to pay blackmail to escape his
forays. He advanced cautiously, fortifying his position, and
scattering delusive promises as he went along. He assured
Alfonso <span class="smcap">VI.</span> that he was working in the interest of Castile,
and he assured Al-mustain that he was working in the
interest of Saragossa; he encouraged Al-kadir to put down
the Valencian rebels, and he encouraged the rebels to throw
off Al-kadir’s authority. A master of dissimulation, resolved
to make Valencia his own, he successfully deceived
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">8</a></span>all parties till the murder of Al-kadir by Ibn-Jehaf, and
the threatened advance of the Almoravides, forced him
to drop the mask. Failing to carry the city of Valencia by
storm, the Cid reduced it by starvation, and in June 1094
the Valencians surrendered on generous conditions. These
conditions were flagrantly violated. Ibn-Jehaf was tortured
till he revealed where his treasure was hidden; he was
finally burned alive, his chief supporters shared his fate,
and the Mohammedan population was given its choice
between banishment and something like slavery.</p>

<p>In all but name the Cid was now a king, and he was
careful to strengthen his hold on his prize. By taking
a census of Christians, and by forbidding them to leave the
city, he kept his most trustworthy troops together; and he
promoted military efficiency as well as religion by founding
a bishopric to which he nominated Jerónimo, the French
prelate mentioned in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>, and as valiant a
fighter as Archbishop Turpin in the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Tels curunez ne cantat unkes messe,</div>
<div class="line">Ki de sus cors feïst tantes proeces.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The Cid came out of his trenches to rout the Almoravides at
Quarte and in the valley of Alcoy; he extended his conquests
to Murviedro, and formed an independent alliance
with the King of Aragón. And, if the report of Ibn-Bassam,
the Arab chronicler, be true, he had more vaulting ambitions:
in a gust of exaltation, the Cid—so we are told—was
heard to say that, as the first Roderick had lost Spain, a
second Roderick might be destined to win it back. Ibn-Bassam
writes in good faith, but he is a rhetorician, and
moreover, in this case, he gives the story at second-hand.
It is difficult to believe that a clear-headed, practical man
like the Cid, who had recently found it hard enough to
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">9</a></span>seize a single province, can have talked in this wild way
about winning back all Spain. If he did, his judgment was
greatly at fault: the Reconquest was not completed till four
centuries later, and little more was done towards furthering
it during the Cid’s last days. His lieutenant, Alvar Fáñez,
was beaten at Cuenca: the Almoravides, flushed with victory,
again defeated the Cid’s picked troops at Alcira. The Cid
was not present on the field, but the mortification was too
much for him: he died—‘of grief and fury,’ so the Arab
historians state—in July 1099. Supported by Alvar Fáñez
and Bishop Jerónimo, Jimena held out for another two
years: then she retreated northwards, after setting fire to
the city. Valencia—the real ‘Valencia del Cid’—ceased to
exist. The Christians marched out by the light of the
flaming walls; the Cid’s embalmed body was mounted for
the last time on Babieca (a horse as famous as Roland’s
Veillantif), and was taken to San Pedro de Cardeña. There
you may still see what was his tomb, with this inscription
on it:—</p>

<div lang="la" xml:lang="la">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Belliger, invictus, famosus marte triumphis,</div>
<div class="line">Clauditur hoc tumulo magnus Didaci Rodericus.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But his body, after many vicissitudes, now rests in the
unimposing town hall of Burgos.</p>

<p>This is the Cid Campeador as he appears in Ibn-Bassam’s
<cite>Dhakira</cite>, written ten years after the Cid’s death, and in the
anonymous <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Gesta Ruderici Campidocti</cite> which dates from
between 1140 and 1170. The authors write from opposite
points of view, and are not critical, but they are trustworthy
in essentials, and a statement made by both may usually be
taken as a fact, or as a close approximation to fact. The
Cid, as you perceive, is far from being irreproachable. He
has all the qualities, and therefore all the defects, of a
mediæval soldier of fortune: he was brave, mercenary, perfidious
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">10</a></span>and cruel. How, then, are we to account for his
position as a national hero? In the first place, we must avoid
the error of judging him by modern standards, and in the
second place, we must bear in mind that almost all we learn
of his later years—the best known period of his life—comes
to us from enemies whose prejudices may have led them
unconsciously to darken the shadows in the portrait. It is
a shock to discover that the man who symbolises the spirit
of Spanish patriotism was a border chief in the pay of the
highest bidder; it is a greater shock to find that the man
who figures as the type of knightly orthodoxy fought for
the Mohammedans against the Christians. We must part
with our simple-minded illusions, and admit that Pius <span class="smcap">V.</span> was
right in turning a deaf ear when Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span> suggested (so it
is said) the canonisation of the Cid. All heroes are apt to
lose their glamour when dragged from the twilight of tradition
and poetry into the fierce blaze of fact and history.
The Cid is no exception. Renan sums up against him with
gay severity. ‘Tout ce qu’il fut, il le dut aux ennemis
de sa patrie, même le nom sous lequel il est resté dans
l’histoire. Le représentant idéal de l’honneur espagnol
était un <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">condottiere</em>, combattant tantôt pour le Christ, tantôt
pour Mahomet. Le représentant idéal de l’amour n’a
peut-être jamais aimé. Encore une idole qui tombe sous
les coups de l’impitoyable critique!’</p>

<p>Yet, if it were worth while, a case might be made for the
Cid without recourse to sophistry. It is enough to say that he
acted as all other leaders acted in his age and for long afterwards.
He was anything but a saint: if he had been a saint,
he would never have become the idol of a nation. It has been
thought that he had some consciousness of a providential
mission, but this is perhaps a hasty generalisation based
upon Ibn-Bassam’s story of his having said that a second
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span>Roderick might reconquer Spain. This theory ascribes to
him more elevation of character and more political foresight
than we can suppose him to have possessed. The supremacy
of Castile was not an accepted political ideal till it was on
the point of establishment, and this takes us forward, nearly
a century and a half, to the reign of St. Ferdinand. The
Cid was no idealist: he lived wholly in the present. The
land of visions was never thrown open to him; he had no
touch of Jeanne d’Arc’s mystical temperament; his aims
were immediate, concrete, personal. His popularity was
due, first of all, to his conspicuous and inspiring valour; due
to the fact that the last and most celebrated of his expeditions,
though undertaken primarily for his own profit,
incidentally helped the cause of national unity by wresting
a province from the Mohammedans; due to the instinctive
feeling that he represented more or less faithfully the
interests of Castile as against those of León—a feeling
which found frank expression five centuries later in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Soy Rodrigo de Vivar,</div>
<div class="line">castellano á las derechas.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And, no doubt, the man bore a stamp of self-confident
greatness which awed his foes and fired the imagination
of his countrymen. As posterity is apt to condone the
crimes by which it gains, it is not surprising that later
generations should minimise the Cid’s misdeeds, and should
end by transforming his story almost out of recognition.
But these capricious and often grotesque travesties are
relatively modern.</p>

<p>They are not found to any excess in the work of the
earliest poets who sang the Cid’s feats-of-arms. They do
not occur in the Latin poem, already quoted, which speaks
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span>enthusiastically of his exploits as being numerous enough
to tax the resources of Homer’s genius:—</p>

<div lang="la" xml:lang="la">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Tanti victoris nam si retexere,</div>
<div class="line">Coeperim cuncta, non haec libri mille</div>
<div class="line">Capere possent, Homero canente,</div>
<div class="line i8">Summo labore.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This cannot have been written much later than 1120, about
a score of years after the Cid’s death. The theme, like
many another theme of the same kind, was too alluring to
be left to monks who wrote in a learned language for a small
circle, and it was soon treated in the speech of the people
by <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">juglares</em>—not necessarily laymen—who recited their compositions
in palaces, castles, monasteries, public squares,
markets, or any other place where an audience could be
got together. In this way a body of epical poems came
into existence. You may say that this is late, and so it is
if you are thinking of <cite>Beowulf</cite> and <cite>Waldhere</cite> which, in their
actual shapes, certainly existed before the reign of Alfred,
and have even been assigned to the sixth century. But we
must make a radical distinction. <cite>Beowulf</cite> and <cite>Waldhere</cite> are,
we may say, sagas in verse, and have no immediate relation
to England, so far as subject goes: the French and Spanish
epics are conspicuously national in theme and sentiment.
We know that Spain possessed many epics which have not
survived: epics on Roderick, on Bernardo del Carpio, on
Fernán González, on Garci-Fernández, on Sancho García,
perhaps on Alvar Fáñez Minaya, the Cid’s lieutenant. Only
three of these ancient <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</cite> have been saved, and
among them is the epic known as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>,
Possibly it was not the first vernacular poem on the subject,
though it was composed about the middle of the twelfth
century, some fifty years after the Cid’s time; but, as we
shall see presently, there is a long interval between the
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span>date of composition and the date of transcription. As to
the author of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite> nothing is known. On the ground
that some two hundred lines relate to events occurring
at the monastery of Cardeña near Burgos, it has been
conjectured that the author was a monk attached to this
monastery. It has also been thought, owing to his warlike
spirit, that he was a layman, and that he came from the
Valle de Arbujuelo: this is inferred from his minute knowledge
of the country between Molina and San Esteban de
Gormaz, and from the relative vagueness of such knowledge
as the itinerary extends to Burgos and Saragossa. These,
however, are but surmises. It is further surmised that the
substance of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> may be derived from earlier
epic poems. That may be: but, as it stands, it has a unity
of its own.</p>

<p>The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Gesta Ruderici Campidocti</cite> survives in a unique manuscript
which was stolen during the last century from the
Monastery of St. Isidore at León, was bought in Lisbon by
Gotthold Heyne two years before he died on the Berlin
barricades of 1848, and is now, after many wanderings,
in the Academy of History at Madrid. The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>
also reaches us in a unique manuscript, the work of a certain
Per Abbat who in 1307 wrote out the text from a pre-existing
copy; this manuscript is not known to have passed
through any such adventures as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Gesta</cite>, but it has evidently
had some narrow escapes from destruction: the
beginning of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> is missing, a page is wanting
after verse 2337, and another page is wanting after verse
3307. Had Per Abbat not taken the trouble to write
out the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>, or had his manuscript disappeared before
October 1596 (when it was transcribed by Juan Ruiz de
Ulibarri), the epic on the Cid would be as unknown to us
as the epics on Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the rest.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span>Per Abbat seems to have followed an unfaithful copy in an
uncritical fashion, but the defects in the existing text cannot
all be laid at his door. There are passages in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema
del Cid</cite> which are almost universally regarded as interpolations,
and for these Per Abbat is not likely to be responsible.
It is more probable that he continued in the bad way of
his predecessors, who apparently took it upon themselves
to abridge the poem. This desire for greater brevity is
answerable for transpositions and corruptions which are the
despair of editors and translators; but, mutilated as it is,
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> is a primitive masterpiece, the merits of
which have been increasingly recognised since the text was
first published by Tomás Antonio Sánchez in 1779.</p>

<p>The interest in the literary monuments of the Middle
Ages was not then what it is now. We are talking of a
period more than half a century before any French <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chanson
de geste</cite> was printed, and the taste for mediævalism had
still to be created. The Spanish poet, Quintana, who died
only fifty years ago, and was a lad when the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>
was published, could see nothing to admire in it; and yet
Quintana’s taste in literature was far more catholic than
that of most of his contemporaries. Still the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite> slowly
made its way in the world of letters. One illustration will
suffice to show that it was closely studied within a few
years of its appearance in print. John Hookham Frere,
the British Minister at Madrid, read the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> on
the recommendation of the Marqués de la Romana, who
had praised it as ‘the most animated and highly poetical as
well as the most ancient and curious poem in the language.’
In verse 2348 of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Aun vea el hora que vos merezca dos tanto—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">the curt reply of Pero Bermuez to the Infantes of Carrión—Frere
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span>proposed to read <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">merezcades</em> for <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">merezca dos</em>, and
his conjectural emendation was approved by Romana to
whom alone he mentioned it. Some years later Romana
was destined to hear it again in striking circumstances.
He was then serving with the French in Denmark, and it
became necessary for Frere to communicate with him confidentially.
It was indispensable that Frere’s messenger
should be fully accredited; it was of the utmost importance
that, in case of arrest, he should not be found in possession
of any paper which might suggest his mission. The emended
verse of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>, easily remembered, formed his
sole credentials. Romana at once knew that the agent must
come from Frere, who—apart from his fragmentary translation
of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>, now superseded by Ormsby’s version—thus
began in a small amateurish way the work of critical
reconstitution which has been continued by Damas-Hinard
and Bello, by Cornu and Restori, by Vollmöller and Lidforss,
by Sr. D. Ramón Menéndez Pidal and Mr. Archer Milton
Huntington.</p>

<p>Thanks to these and other scholars whose labours cannot
be adequately acknowledged by any formal compliment,
the text of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> has been purged of many
corruptions, and made vastly more intelligible. But there
are still problems to be solved in connection with it. What,
for instance, is the relation of the Spanish epic to the
French? The ‘patriotic bias’ should have no place in
historical or literary judgments, but this is a counsel of
perfection. Scholars are extremely human, and experience
shows that the ‘patriotic bias’ often intrudes itself unseasonably
in their work. In writing of the French <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chansons de
geste</em>, Gaston Paris says:—<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘L’Espagne s’en inspirait dès le
milieu du XII<sup>e</sup> siècle pour chanter le Cid, et composait,
même sur les sujets carolingiens des <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</em> dont
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span>quelques débris se retrouvent dans les <em>romances</em> du XV<sup>e</sup>
siècle.’</span> Rightly interpreted, this is a fair statement of the
case. But earlier French scholars inclined to exaggerate
the amount of Spain’s indebtedness to France in this respect,
and—by a not unnatural reaction—there is a tendency
among the younger generation of Spanish scholars to
minimise it. We are not called upon to take part in this
contention of wits: we are not concerned here to-day with
ingenious special pleas, but with facts.</p>

<p>It is a fact that the earliest extant French <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chanson de
geste</em> was in existence a century before the earliest extant
Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantar de gesta</em>: it is also a fact that the French
version of Roland’s story was widely diffused in Spain at an
early date. It was there recorded in the forged chronicle
ascribed to Archbishop Turpin, and it filtered down to the
masses who heard it from French pilgrims on the road to
the shrine of St. James at Santiago de Compostela. Among
these pilgrims were French <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">trouvères</em>, and through them the
Spaniards became acquainted with the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>.
It was natural that suggestion should operate in Spain as it
operated in Germany, where Konrad produced his <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Rolandslied</cite>
about the year 1130. There is at least a strong presumption
that the author of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> had heard
the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>. Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo, whose
patriotism and fine literary sense make him a witness above
suspicion, admits that there is a marked resemblance between
the battle-scenes in the two poems, and further allows that
there are cases of verbal coincidence which cannot be accidental.
We may therefore agree with Gaston Paris that
the author of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> found his inspiration in the
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>: that is to say, the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson</em> probably
suggested to him the idea of composing a similar work on
a Spanish theme, and gave him a few secondary details.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span>We cannot say less, nor more: except that in subject and
sentiment the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> is intensely local.</p>

<p>As regards its substance, the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> is intermediate between
history and fable. There is no respect for chronology;
one personage is mistaken for a namesake; the Cid’s
daughters, whose real names were Cristina and María, are
called Elvira and Sol, and are provided with husbands to
whom they were never married in fact, but who may have
been maliciously introduced (as Dozy surmised) to exhibit
the Leonese in an odious light. It is the office of an epic
poet to exalt his hero, and to belittle that hero’s enemies;
you might as reasonably look for perfect execution in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> as for judicial impartiality. Apart from
freaks which may be due to bad copying, we accept the
fact that the metre is capricious, fluctuating between lines
of fourteen and sixteen syllables: we must also accept the
fact that history fares no better than metre, and often fares
worse. Yet the spirit of the poet is not consciously unhistorical;
he conveys the impression of believing in the
truth of his own story. There is an accent of deep
sincerity from the outset, in what—owing to mutilation—is
now the beginning of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em>, a passage recording the
exile of the Cid:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">With tearful eyes he turned to gaze upon the wreck behind:</div>
<div class="line">His rifled coffers, bursten gates, all open to the wind:</div>
<div class="line">No mantle left, nor robe of fur: stript bare his castle hall:</div>
<div class="line">Nor hawk nor falcon in the mew, the perches empty all.</div>
<div class="line">Then forth in sorrow went my Cid, and a deep sigh sighed he;</div>
<div class="line">Yet with a measured voice, and calm, my Cid spake loftily—</div>
<div class="line">‘I thank thee, God our Father, thou that dwellest upon high,</div>
<div class="line">I suffer cruel wrong to-day, but of mine enemy.’</div>
<div class="line">As they came riding from Bivar the crow was on the right,</div>
<div class="line">By Burgos gate, upon the left, the crow was there in sight.</div>
<div class="line">My Cid he shrugged his shoulders, and he lifted up his head:</div>
<div class="line">‘Good tidings, Alvar Fáñez! we are banished men!’ he said.</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</a></span>With sixty lances in his train my Cid rode up the town,</div>
<div class="line">The burghers and their dames from all the windows looking down;</div>
<div class="line">And there were tears in every eye, and on each lip one word:</div>
<div class="line">‘A worthy vassal—would to God he served a worthy Lord!’</div>
<div class="line">Fain would they shelter him, but none dared yield to his desire.</div>
<div class="line">Great was the fear through Burgos town of King Alfonso’s ire.</div>
<div class="line">Sealed with his royal seal hath come his letter to forbid</div>
<div class="line">All men to offer harbourage or succour to my Cid.</div>
<div class="line">And he that dared to disobey, well did he know the cost—</div>
<div class="line">His goods, his eyes, stood forfeited, his soul and body lost.</div>
<div class="line">A hard and grievous word was that to men of Christian race;</div>
<div class="line">And since they might not greet my Cid, they hid them from his face.</div>
<div class="line">He rode to his own mansion gates; shut firm and fast they were,</div>
<div class="line">Such the King’s rigour, save by force, he might not enter there.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>We cannot tell how the poem began in its complete state.
Some scholars think that what is missing was merely a short
unimportant prelude; others believe that the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>,
as we have it, is but the ending of a vast epic. It must
have been vast indeed, for the fragment that survives
amounts to 3735 lines; the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite> consists of
4001 lines, and it seems improbable that the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> was
much longer. At any rate, it is difficult to imagine a more
spirited opening than that which chance has given us. The
Cid is introduced at a critical moment, misjudged, calumniated,
a loyal subject driven from his own Castilian home by
an ungrateful Leonese king. There is something spacious
in the atmosphere, there is a stately simplicity even in the
deliberate repetition of conventional epithet—‘the Castilian,’
‘he who was born in a good hour,’ ‘the good one of Bivar,’
‘my Cid,’ and rarely—very rarely—‘the Cid.’ The poet
lauds his hero, as he should, but does not degrade him by
fulsome eulogy; he is in touch with realities. He seems to
feel that the Cid is great enough to afford to have the truth
told about him; with engaging simplicity the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> relates
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span>how the crafty chief imposed on the two Jews, Raquel and
Vidas, by depositing with them two chests purporting to
be full of gold (but really containing sand), and how he
fraudulently borrowed six hundred marks on this worthless
security. In the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>, a passage founded on a
re-cast of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> represents the Cid as refunding the
money, and in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite> of 1602 an anonymous
ballad-writer excused the trickery on the plea that the
chests contained the gold of the Cid’s truth:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">No habeis fiado</div>
<div class="line">vuestro dinero por prendas,</div>
<div class="line">mas solo del Cid honrado,</div>
<div class="line">que dentro de aquestos cofres</div>
<div class="line">os dejó depositado</div>
<div class="line">el oro de su verdad,</div>
<div class="line">que es tesoro no preciado.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But there is neither casuistry nor other-worldliness in the
primitive poet. He clearly looks upon the incident as a
normal business transaction, describes the Cid as postponing
payment when the Jews put in their claim, and sees no inconsistency
between this passage and an earlier one which
vouches for the Cid’s fine sense of honour. We read that
the Count of Barcelona, on his release,</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i4">spurred his steed; but, as he rode, a backward glance he bent</div>
<div class="line">Still fearing to the last my Cid his promise would repent:</div>
<div class="line">A thing, the world itself to win, my Cid would not have done;</div>
<div class="line">No perfidy was ever found in him, the Perfect One.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">No doubt the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> is very unequal. Too often
it degenerates into tracts of arid prose divided into lines of
irregular length with a final monotonous assonance: there
are too many deserts dotted with matter-of-fact details, names
of insignificant places, and the like. But the poet recovers
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span>himself, glows with local patriotism when recording a gallant
feat, and humanises his story with traits of gentler sympathy—as
when describing the parting of the Cid from Jimena
and his daughters at the monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña.
And the Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">juglar</em> has the faculty of rapid, dramatic
presentation. His secondary personages are made visible
with a few swift strokes—the learned Bishop Jerónimo who,
attracted by the Cid’s fame as a fighter, comes from afar
(‘de parte de orient’), and would almost as soon miss a Mass
as a battle with the Moors; the grim Alvar Fáñez, the Cid’s
right arm, his ‘diestro braço’ as Roland was Charlemagne’s
‘destre braz’; the Cid’s nephew, Félez Muñoz, always at
the post of danger; the stolid, inscrutable Pero Bermuez,
the standard-bearer whose habitual muteness is transformed
into eloquent invective when the hour comes for denouncing
the poltroonery of the Infantes of Carrión; and even these
fictitious rascals have an air of plausibility and life. In the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> we meet for the first time with that forcible
realistic touch, that alert vision, that intense impression of
the thing seen and accurately observed which give to
Spanish literature its peculiar stamp of authenticity. And
the poem ends on an exultant note with a pæan over the
defeat of the imaginary Infantes of Carrión, the really historical
betrothal of the Cid’s daughters, and the triumphant
passing of the Cid, reconciled to the King:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">And he that in a good hour was born, behold how he hath sped!</div>
<div class="line">His daughters now to higher rank and greater honour wed:</div>
<div class="line">Sought by Navarre and Aragon for queens his daughters twain!</div>
<div class="line">And monarchs of his blood to-day upon the throne of Spain.</div>
<div class="line">And so his honour in the land grows greater day by day.</div>
<div class="line">Upon the feast of Pentecost from life he passed away.</div>
<div class="line">For him and all of us the grace of Christ let us implore.</div>
<div class="line">And here ye have the story of my Cid Campeador.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span></p>

<p>The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</em> is the oldest and most important existing epic
on the Cid, but there is ample proof that his deeds were
sung in other <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</cite> of early date—earlier than
the compilation of Alfonso the Learned’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>,
which was finished in 1268. Recent investigations place
this beyond doubt. It was long supposed that the chapters
on the Cid in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> were largely derived from
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>, but Sr. D. Ramón Menéndez Pidal’s researches
into the history of the text of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> have
shown that this view is untenable. The printed text of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>, issued by Florián de Ocampo at Zamora in
1541, is not what it was thought to be—namely, the original
compiled by order of Alfonso the Learned: it lies at three
removes from that original, and this fact throws new light
on the history of epic poetry in Spain. Briefly stated, the
results of the recent researches are these: the First <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica
general</cite> was utilised in another chronicle compiled in 1344;
this Second <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> was condensed in an abridgment
which has disappeared; this last abridgment of the Second
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> is now represented by three derivatives—the
Third <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> issued by Ocampo, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de
Castilla</cite>, and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de Veinte Reyes</cite>. And it is further
established that pre-existing <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</cite> on the Cid were
utilised in the chronicles as follows: the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>
(from verse 1094 onwards) was used only in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de
Veinte Reyes</cite>, while what concerns the Cid in the first <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica
general</cite> comes principally—not (as was believed) from the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> as we know it, but—from another epic, no
longer in existence, which began and continued in very
much the same way as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite> for about 1250 lines,
where the resemblance ended. The chapters on the Cid in
the Second <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> derive mainly from another
vanished <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantar de gesta</cite> which coincided to some extent with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span>a surviving epic on the Cid known as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>, or
(less generally) as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cantar de Rodrigo</cite>.</p>

<p>This <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>, apparently written by a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">juglar</em> in the
diocese of Palencia, was thought by Dozy to be older than
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>, and Dozy has been made to feel his
error. But let us not reproach him, as though we were
infallible. Dozy undeniably overestimated the age of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite> as a whole; still the critical instinct of this
great scholar led him to conclude that it was a composite
work, that its component parts were not all of the same
period, and (a conclusion afterwards confirmed by Milá y
Fontanals) that the passage relating to King Fernando
(v. 758 ff.)—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">El buen rey don Fernando par fue de emperador—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is the oldest fragment embodied in the text. In these
respects Dozy’s views are admitted to be correct. The
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>, which in its present form is assigned to
about the end of the fourteenth century, is an amalgam of
diverse and inappropriate materials, and scarcely deserves to
be regarded as an original poem at all. If it is probable
that the author of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite> had heard the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson
de Roland</cite>, it is still more probable that the author of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite> had heard <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Garin le Lohérain</cite>. Not only does
he incorporate part of a lost <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantar de gesta</cite> on King
Fernando; he borrows from other lost Spanish epics, from
the existing <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del Cid</cite>, from degraded oral traditions,
and perhaps from foreign sources not yet identified. The
patchwork is a poor thing pieced together by an imitator
who has lost the secret of the primitive epic, and insincerely
commemorates exploits which he must have known to be
fabulous—such as the Cid’s expedition to France, and his
triumph under the walls of Paris. But, though greatly
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span>inferior to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite> is interesting in
substance and manner. It includes primitive versions of
legends which, in more refined and elaborate forms, were
destined to become famous throughout Europe: the quarrel
between the Cid’s father and Count Gómez de Gormaz (not
in consequence of a blow, or anything connected with an
extravagantly artificial code of honour, but over a matter of
sheep-stealing); the death of the Count at the hands of the
Cid, not yet thirteen years of age; and the marriage of the
Count’s daughter Jimena to her father’s slayer, who is
represented as a reluctant bridegroom:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ally despossavan a doña Ximena Gomes con Rodrigo el Castellano.</div>
<div class="line">Rodrigo respondió muy sannudo contra el rey Castellano:</div>
<div class="line">Señor, vos me despossastes mas a mi pessar que de grado.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The Cid in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite> is a loyal subject, faithful to his
alien King under extreme provocation. In the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica
rimada</cite> he is transformed into a haughty, turbulent feudal
baron, more like the Cid of the later Spanish ballads or
<em>romances</em>; and it is worth noting that the irregular versification
of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>, in which lines of sixteen syllables
predominate, approximates roughly to the metre of the
<em>romances</em>, to which I shall return in a later lecture. For the
moment it is enough to say that by 1612 there were enough
ballads on the Cid to form a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romancero</em>, and that in the most
complete modern collection they amount to 205. Southey
and Ormsby, both ardent admirers of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>, thought that
the <em>romances</em> on the Cid impressed ‘more by their number than
their light,’ and no doubt these ballads vary greatly in merit.
But a few are really admirable—such as the <em>romance</em> adapted
with masterly skill by Lope de Vega in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Almenas de Toro</cite>.</p>

<p>The mention of this great dramatist reminds one that
the Cid underwent another transformation in the theatre.
Guillén de Castro introduced him in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Mocedades del Cid</cite>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span>as the central figure in a dramatic conflict between love and
filial duty; Corneille took over the situation, and created a
masterpiece which completely overshadowed Castro’s play.
The names of other dramatists who treated the same theme
are very properly forgotten: another great dramatisation of
the Cid’s story is about as likely as another great dramatisation
of the story of Romeo and Juliet. But the poetic
possibilities of the Cid legend are inexhaustible. Nearly
fifty years ago Victor Hugo, then in the noontide of his
incomparable genius, reincarnated the primitive Cid in the
first series of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Légende des siècles</cite>. Who can forget the
impression left by the first reading of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Quand le Cid fut entré
dans le Généralife</cite>, by the sixteen poems which form the
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Romancero du Cid</cite>, by the interview between the Cid and the
sheik Jabias in <em>Bivar</em>, and by that wonder of symbolism <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le
Cid exilé</cite>? It is as unhistorical as you please, but marvellous
for its grandiose vision and haunting music:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Et, dans leur antichambre, on entend quelquefois</div>
<div class="line">Les pages, d’une voix féminine et hautaine,</div>
<div class="line">Dire:—Ah oui-da, le Cid! c’était un capitaine</div>
<div class="line">D’alors. Vit-il encor, ce Campéador-là?</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The question was soon answered. Within three years a
fiercer—perhaps a more melodramatic—aspect of the Cid was
revealed by Leconte de Lisle in three pieces which contributed
to the sombre splendour of the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Poèmes barbares</cite>,
and now appear among the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Poèmes tragiques</cite>; and thirty years
later, in our own day, José Maria de Heredia, the Benvenuto
of French verse, included a figure of the Cid among his
glittering <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Trophées</em>. These three are masters of their craft,
and one of them is the greatest poet of his time; but their
puissant art has not superseded the virile creation of the
nameless, candid, patriotic singer who wrote the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema del
Cid</cite> some eight hundred years ago.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER II<br /><br />

<small>THE ARCHPRIEST OF HITA</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Many</span> of the earliest poems extant in Castilian are anonymous,
impersonal compositions, more or less imitative. The
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Misterio de los Reyes Magos</cite>, for instance, is suggested by
a Latin Office used at Orleans; the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de Apolonio</cite>, the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Vida de Santa María Egipciacqua</cite>, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro dels tres Reyes
dorient</cite>, and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de Alixandre</cite> are from French sources.
French influence is likewise visible in the work of Gonzalo
de Berceo, the earliest Spanish poet whose name we know
for certain; writing in the first half of the thirteenth
century, Berceo draws largely on the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Miracles de Nostre
Dame</cite>, a collection of edifying legends versified by Gautier
de Coinci, Prior of the monastery at Vic-sur-Aisne. As
Gautier died in 1236, the speed with which his version of
these pious stories passed from France to Spain goes to
show that literary communication had already been
established between the two countries. At one time or
another during the Middle Ages all Western Europe
followed the French lead in literature. From about 1130,
when Konrad wrote his <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Rolandslied</cite>, French influence
prevailed in Germany for a century, affecting poets so considerable
as Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach,
and Gottfried von Strassburg. French influence was
dominant in Italy from before the reign of Frederick II.,
the patron of the Provençal poets and the chief of the
Sicilian school of poetry, till the coming of Dante; French
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span>versions of tales of Troy, Alexander, Cæsar and Charlemagne
were translated; so also were French versions of the
Arthurian legend, as we gather from the celebrated passage
in the fifth canto of the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Inferno</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="it" xml:lang="it">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante:</div>
<div class="line">Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse:</div>
<div class="line">Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">You all know that French influence was most noticeable in
England from Layamon’s time to Chaucer’s, and that
Chaucer himself, besides translating part of the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de
la Rose</cite>, borrowed hints from Guillaume de Machault and
Oton de Granson—two minor poets whose works, by the
way, were treasured by the Marqués de Santillana, of whom
I shall have something to say in the next lecture. Wherever
we turn at this period, sooner or later we shall find
that French literature has left its mark. Scandinavian
scholars inform us that the <cite>Strengleikar</cite> includes translations
of Marie de France’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">lais</cite>; and <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Floire et Blanchefleur</cite> was also
done into Icelandic at the beginning of the fourteenth
century when the Archpriest of Hita—who refers appreciatively
to this French romance—was still young. Jean
Bodel’s well-worn couplet is a trite statement of fact:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ne sont que trois matières à nul homme attendant,</div>
<div class="line">De France et de Bretaigne et de Rome le grant.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This rapid summary is enough to prove that Spain, in
copying French originals, was doing no more than other
countries. The work of her early singers has the interest
which attaches to every new literary experiment, but the
great mass of it necessarily lacks originality and force. It
was not until the fourteenth century was fairly advanced
that Spain produced two authors of unmistakable individual
genius. One of these was the Infante Don Juan Manuel,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span>the earliest prose-writer of real distinction in Castilian,
and the other was Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita, near
Guadalajara. We know scarcely anything certain about
Ruiz except his name and status which he gives incidentally
when invoking the divine assistance in writing his work:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">E por que de todo bien es comienço e rays</div>
<div class="line">la virgen santa marja por ende yo Joan Rroys</div>
<div class="line">açipreste de fita della primero fis</div>
<div class="line">cantar de los sus goços siete que ansi dis.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">In one of the manuscripts<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">2</a> which contain his poems, his
messenger Trotaconventos seems to state his birthplace:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Fija, mucho vos saluda uno que es de Alcalá.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">It has been inferred from this that the Archpriest was a
native of Alcalá de Henares, and therefore a fellow-townsman
of Cervantes. It is possible that he may have been,
but the Gayoso manuscript gives a variant on the reading in
the Salamanca manuscript:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Fija, mucho vos saluda uno que mora en Alcalá.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The truth is that we do not know where and when Juan
Ruiz was born, nor where and when he died. It is thought
that he was born towards the end of the thirteenth
century, and Sr. Puyol y Alonso in his interesting monograph
suggests 1283 as a likely date: but these are conjectures.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span>
Many persons, however, find it difficult to resign themselves
to humble agnosticism, and, by drawing on imagination
for fact, endeavour to construct what we may call hypothetical
biographies. Ruiz is an unpromising subject, yet
he has not escaped altogether. A writer of comparatively
modern date—Francisco de Torres, author of an unpublished
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de Guadalajara</cite>—alleges that the Archpriest was
living at Guadalajara in 1410. It is difficult to reconcile
this statement with the assertion made by Alfonso Paratinén
who seems to have been the copyist of the Salamanca
manuscript. At the end of his copy Paratinén writes:
‘This is the Archpriest of Hita’s book which he composed,
being imprisoned by order of the Cardinal Don Gil, Archbishop
of Toledo.’ This refers to Don Gil de Albornoz, an
able, pushing prelate who was Archbishop of Toledo from
1337 till his death in 1367. It is known that Don Gil de
Albornoz was exiled from Spain by Peter the Cruel in 1350,
and that on January 7, 1351, one Pedro Fernández had
succeeded Juan Ruiz as Archpriest of Hita. Now, according
to stanza 1634 in the Salamanca manuscript, Ruiz
finished his work in 1381 of the Spanish Era:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Era de mjll e tresjentos e ochenta e vn años</div>
<div class="line">fue conpuesto el rromançe, por muchos males e daños</div>
<div class="line">que fasen muchos e muchas aotras con sus engaños</div>
<div class="line">e por mostrar alos synplex fablas e versos estraños.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The year 1381 of the Spanish Era corresponds to 1343
in our reckoning, and we may accept the statement in the
text that Juan Ruiz wrote his poem at this date. We may
further take it that the poem was written in jail. We
might refuse to believe this on the sole authority of Alfonso
Paratinén whose copy was not made till the end of the
fourteenth (or the beginning of the fifteenth) century; but
the copyist is corroborated by the author who, in each of
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span>
his first three stanzas, begs God to free him from the prison
in which he lies:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">libra Amj dios desta presion do yago.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>It is reasonable to assume that Juan Ruiz was well past
middle age when he wrote his book; hence it is almost
incredible that, as Torres states, he survived his imprisonment
by nearly sixty years. There is nothing, except the
absence of proof, against the current theory that the Archpriest
died in prison—possibly at Toledo—shortly before
January 7, 1351, when Pedro Fernández took his place at
Hita; but there is nothing, except the same absence of
proof, against a counter-theory that he was released before
this date, that he followed Don Gil Albornoz into exile, and
that he died at Avignon. All such theories are, I repeat,
in the nature of hypothetical biography. We have no data,
and are left to ramble in the field of conjecture.</p>

<p>Some idea of the Archpriest’s personality may, however,
be gathered from his work. We are not told how long he
was in jail, nor what his offence was. He himself declares
in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cántica, de loores de Santa María</cite> that his punishment
was unjust:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Santa virgen escogida ...</div>
<div class="line">del mundo salud e vida ...</div>
<div class="line">de aqueste dolor que siento</div>
<div class="line">en presion syn meresçer,</div>
<div class="line">tu me deña estorcer</div>
<div class="line">con el tu deffendjmjento.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>His testimony in his own favour is not conclusive.
Possibly, as Sr. Puyol y Alonso suggests, Juan Ruiz may
have offended some of the upper clergy by ridiculing them
in much the same way as he satirises the Dean and Chapter
in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cántica de los clérigos de Talavera</cite> where influential
dignitaries are most disrespectfully mentioned by name, or
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span>
perhaps made recognisable under transparent pseudonyms.
The Archpriest is more likely to have been imprisoned for
some such indiscretion than for loose living. Clerical
morality was at a low point in Spain during the fourteenth
century, and, though Juan Ruiz was a disreputable cleric,
he was no worse than many of his brethren. But he was
certainly no better than most of them. His first editor,
Tomás Antonio Sánchez, acting against the remonstrances
of Jove-Llanos and the Spanish Academy of History, contrived
to lend Juan Ruiz a false air of respectability by
omitting from the text some objectionable passages and
by bowdlerising others. Sánchez did not foresee that his
good intentions would be frustrated by José Amador de los
Ríos, who thoughtfully collected the scandalous stanzas
which had been omitted, and printed them by themselves
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ilustraciones</cite> to the fourth volume of his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de la
literatura española</cite>. If Sánchez had made Juan Ruiz seem
better than he was, Ríos made him seem worse. Yet Ríos
had succeeded somehow in persuading himself that Juan
Ruiz was an excellent man who voluntarily became ‘a holocaust
of the moral idea which he championed.’ Few who
read the Archpriest’s poem are likely to share this view. It
would be an exaggeration to say that he was an unbeliever,
for, though he indulges in irreverent parodies of the liturgy,
his verses to the Blessed Virgin are unmistakably sincere;
he was a criminous clerk like many of his contemporaries
who had taken orders as the easiest means of gaining a
livelihood; but, unlike these jovial goliards, the sensual
Archpriest had the temperament of a poet as well as the
tastes of a satyr. It is as a poet that he interests us, as the
author of a work the merits of which can scarcely be overestimated
as regards its ironical, picaresque presentation
of scenes of clerical and lay life. The Archpriest was no
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span>
literary fop, but he was dimly aware that he had left behind
him a work that would keep his memory alive:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">ffis vos pequeno libro de testo, mas la glosa,</div>
<div class="line">non creo que es chica antes es byen grand prosa,</div>
<div class="line">que sobre cada fabla se entyende otra cosa,</div>
<div class="line">syn la que se alega en la rason fermosa.</div>
<div class="line i1">De la santidat mucha es byen grand lycionario,</div>
<div class="line">mas de juego e de burla chico breujario,</div>
<div class="line">per ende fago punto e çierro mj almario,</div>
<div class="line">sea vos chica fabla solas e letuario.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The very name of his book, which has but recently
become available in a satisfactory form, has long been
doubtful. About a century after it was written, Alfonso
Martínez de Toledo, the Archpriest of Talavera, called it a
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Tratado</cite>; a few years later than the Archpriest of Talavera,
Santillana referred to it curtly as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro del Arcipreste de
Hita</cite>; Sánchez entitled it <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poesías</cite> when he issued it in 1790,
and Florencio Janer republished it in 1864 as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de
Cantares</cite>. But, as Wolf pointed out in 1831,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> Ruiz himself
speaks of it as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>. However, we do
not act with any indecent haste in these matters, and it
was not till just seventy years later that Wolf’s hint was
taken by M. Ducamin. We can at last read the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de
buen amor</cite> more or less as Ruiz wrote it; or, rather, we
can read the greater part of it, for fragments are missing,
some passages having been removed from the manuscripts,
perhaps by over-modest readers. Yet much remains to do.
A diplomatic edition is valuable, but it is only an instalment
of what we need. If any one amongst you is in search of a
tough piece of work, he can do no better for himself and us
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span>
than by preparing a critical edition of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>
with a commentary and—above all—a vocabulary.</p>

<p>The Archpriest of Hita was an original genius, but his
originality consists in his personal attitude towards life and
in his handling of old material. No literary genius, however
great, can break completely with the past, and the Archpriest
underwent the influence of his predecessors at home.
It is the fashion nowadays to say that he was not learned,
and no doubt he poses at times as a simpering provincial
ignoramus, especially as regards ecclesiastical doctrine and
discipline:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Escolar so mucho rrudo, njn maestro njn doctor,</div>
<div class="line">aprendi e se poco para ser demostrador.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But the Archpriest does not wish to be taken at his word,
and, to prevent any possible misunderstanding, in almost the
next breath he slyly advises his befooled reader to consult
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Espéculo</cite> as well as</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">los libros de ostiense, que son grand parlatorio,</div>
<div class="line">el jnocençio quarto, vn sotil consistorio,</div>
<div class="line">el rrosario de guido, nouela e diratorio.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">He dabbles in astrology, notes (with something like a
wink) that a man’s fate is ruled by the planet under which
he is born, and cites Ptolemy and Plato to support a theory
which is so comfortable an excuse for his own pleasant vices.
We shall see that he knew much of what was best worth
knowing in French literature, and that he knew something
of colloquial Arabic appears from the Moorish girl’s replies
to Trotaconventos. Probably enough his allusions to Plato
and Aristotle imply nothing more solid in the way of
learning than Chaucer’s allusion to Pythagoras in <cite>The Book
of the Duchesse</cite>. Still he seems to have known Latin,
French, Arabic, and perhaps Italian, besides his native
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span>
language, and we cannot lay stress on his ignorance without
appearing to reflect disagreeably on the clergy of to-day.
The Archpriest was not, of course, a mediæval scholiast,
much less an exact scholar in the modern sense; but, for
a man whose lot was cast in an insignificant village, his
reading and general culture were far above the average.
A brief examination of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> will make
this clear: it will also show that the Archpriest had qualities
more enviable than all the learning in the world.</p>

<p>He opens with forty lines invoking the blessing of God
upon his work, and then he descends suddenly into prose,
quoting copiously from Scripture, insisting on the purity of
his motives, and asserting that his object is to warn men and
women against foolish or unhallowed love. Having lulled
the suspicions of uneasy readers with this unctuous preamble,
he parenthetically observes: ‘Still, as it is human nature to
sin, in case any should choose to indulge in foolish love
(which I do not advise), various methods of the same will be
found set out here.’ After thus disclosing his real intention,
he announces his desire to show by example how every
detail of poetry should be executed artistically—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">segund que
esta çiencia requiere</cite>—and returns to verse. He again commends
his work to God, celebrates the joys of Our Lady,
and then proceeds to write a sort of picaresque novel in
the metre known as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">mester de clerecía</cite>—a quatrain of
monorhymed alexandrines.</p>

<p>The Archpriest begins by quoting Dionysius Cato<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> to the
effect that, though man may have his trials, he should
cultivate a spirit of gaiety. And, as no man in his wits can
laugh without cause, Juan Ruiz undertakes to provide entertainment,
but hopes that he may not be misunderstood as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span>
was the Greek when he argued with the Roman. This
allusion gives the writer his opportunity, and he relates a
story which recalls the episode of Panurge’s argument with
Thaumaste, ‘ung grand clerc d’Angleterre.’ Briefly, the
tale is this. When the Romans besought the Greeks to
grant them laws, they were required to prove themselves
worthy of the privilege, and, as the difference of language
made verbal discussion impossible, it was agreed that the
debate should be carried on by signs (Thaumaste, you may
remember, preferred signs because ‘les matières sont tant
ardues, que les parolles humaines ne seroyent suffisantes à
les expliquer à mon plaisir’). The Greek champion was a
master of all learning, while the Romans were represented
by an illiterate ragamuffin dressed in a doctor’s gown. The
sage held up one finger, the lout held up his thumb and
two fingers; the sage stretched out his open hand, the lout
shook his fist violently. This closed the argument, for the
wise Greek hastily admitted that the Roman claim was
justified. On being asked to interpret the gestures which
had perplexed the multitude, the Greek replied: ‘I said
that there was one God, the Roman answered that there
were three Persons in one God, and made the corresponding
sign; I said that everything was governed by God’s will, the
Roman answered that the whole world was in God’s power,
and he spoke truly; seeing that they understood and
believed in the Trinity, I agreed that they were worthy
to receive laws.’ The Roman’s interpretation differed
materially: ‘He held up one finger, meaning that he would
poke my eye out; as this infuriated me, I answered by
threatening to gouge both his eyes out with my two fingers,
and smash his teeth with my thumb; he held out his open
palm, meaning that he would deal me such a cuff as would
make my ears tingle; I answered back that I would give
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span>
him such a punch as he would never forget as long as he
lived.’ The humour is distinctly primitive, but Juan Ruiz
bubbles over with contagious merriment as he rhymes the
tale, and goes on to warn the reader against judging anything—more
especially the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>—by appearances:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">la bulrra que oyeres non la tengas en vil,</div>
<div class="line">la manera del libro entiendela sotil;</div>
<div class="line">que saber bien e mal, desjr encobierto e donegujl,</div>
<div class="line">tu non fallaras vno de trobadores mjll.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Then, in his digressive way, the Archpriest avers that
man, like the beasts that perish, needs food and a companion
of the opposite sex, adding mischievously that this
opinion, which would be highly censurable if he uttered it,
becomes respectable when held by Aristotle.</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Como dise Aristotiles, cosa es verdadera,</div>
<div class="line">el mundo por dos cosas trabaja: por la primera</div>
<div class="line">por aver mantenençia; la otra cosa era</div>
<div class="line">por aver juntamjento con fenbra plasentera.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">Sylo dixiese de mjo, seria de culpar;</div>
<div class="line">diselo grand filosofo, non so yo de rebtar;</div>
<div class="line">delo que dise el sabio non deuemos dubdar,</div>
<div class="line">que por obra se prueva el sabio e su fablar.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Next the Archpriest, confessing himself to be a man of
sin like the rest of us, relates how he was once in love with
a Lady of Quality (too wary to be trapped by gifts) who
rebuffed his messenger by saying that men were deceivers
ever, and by quoting from ‘Ysopete’ an adaptation of
the fable concerning the mountain in labour. The form
‘Ysopete’ suggests that the Archpriest used some French
version of Æsop or Phaedrus, though not that of Marie
de France, in whose translation (as edited by Warnke) this
particular fable does not appear.</p>

<p>Undaunted by this check, the Archpriest does not lose
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span>
his equanimity, reflects how greatly Solomon was in the
right in saying that all is vanity, and determines to speak no
ill of the coy dame, since women are, after all, the most
delightful of creatures:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">mucho seria villano e torpe pajes</div>
<div class="line">sy dela muger noble dixiese cosa rrefes,</div>
<div class="line">ca en muger loçana, fermosa e cortes,</div>
<div class="line">todo bien del mundo e todo plaser es.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>A less squeamish beauty—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">otra non santa</cite>—attracted the
fickle Archpriest, who wrote for her a <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">troba cazurra</cite>, and
employed Ferrand García as go-between. García courted
the facile fair on his own account, and left Juan Ruiz to
swear (as he does roundly) at a second fiasco. However,
the Archpriest philosophically remarks that man cannot
escape his fate, and illustrates this by telling how a Moorish
king named Alcarás called in five astrologists to cast his
son’s horoscope: all five predicted different catastrophes,
and all five proved to be right. Comically enough, Juan
Ruiz remembers at this point that he is a priest, disclaims
all sympathy with fatalistic doctrine, and smugly adds that
he believes in predestination only so far as it is compatible
with the Catholic faith. But he forgets his orthodoxy as
conveniently as he remembered it, rejoices that he was born
under the sign of Venus (a beautifying planet which not
only keeps young men young, but takes years off the old),
and, since even the hardest pear ripens at last, he hopes
for better luck. Yet he is disappointed in his attempt to
beguile another Lady of Quality who proves to be (so to
say) a <em>bonâ fide</em> holder for value, and the recital of this third
misadventure ends with the fable of the thief and the dog.</p>

<p>At this point his neighbour Don Amor or Love comes to
visit the chagrined Archpriest, and is angrily reproached for
promising much and doing little beyond enfeebling man’s
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span>
mental and physical powers—a point exemplified by a
Spanish variant of that most indecorous <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fableau</cite>, the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Valet
aux douze femmes</cite>. After listening to fable upon fable,
introduced to prove that he is in alliance with the Seven
Deadly Sins, Love gently explains to the Archpriest that he
is wrong to flare into a heat, that he has attempted to fly
too high, that fine ladies are not for him, that he should
study the Art of Love as expounded by Pamphilus and Ovid,
that beauty is more than rank, and that he should enlist the
services of an ingratiating old woman. Love quotes the
tale of the two idlers who wished to marry, supplements this
with the obscene story of Don Pitas Payas, and recommends
the Archpriest to put money in his purse when he goes
a-wooing. Part of this passage may be quoted in Gibson’s
rendering:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">O money meikle doth, and in luve hath meikle fame,</div>
<div class="line">It maketh the rogue a worthy wight, a carle of honest name,</div>
<div class="line">It giveth a glib tongue to the dumb, snell feet unto the lame,</div>
<div class="line">And he who lacketh both his hands will clutch it all the same.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">A man may be a gawkie loon, and eke a hirnless brute,</div>
<div class="line">But money makes him gentleman, and learnit clerk to boot;</div>
<div class="line">For as his money bags do swell, so waxeth his repute,</div>
<div class="line">But he whose purse has naught intill’t, must wear a beggar’s suit.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">With money in thy fist thou need’st never lack a friend,0</div>
<div class="line">The Pope will give his benison, and a happy life thou’lt spend,</div>
<div class="line">Thou may’st buy a seat in paradise, and life withouten end,</div>
<div class="line">Where money trickleth plenteouslie there blessings do descend.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">I saw within the Court of Rome, of sanctitie the post,</div>
<div class="line">That money was in great regard, and heaps of friends could boast,</div>
<div class="line">That a’ were warstlin’ to be first to honour it the most,</div>
<div class="line">And curchit laigh, and kneelit down, as if before the Host.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">It maketh Priors, Bishops, and Abbots to arise,</div>
<div class="line">Archbishops, Doctors, Patriarchs, and Potentates likewise,</div>
<div class="line">It giveth Clerics without lair the dignities they prize,</div>
<div class="line">It turneth falsitie to truth, and changeth truth to lies....</div>
<div class="line l7">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span></div>
<div class="line">O Money is a Provost and Judge of sterling weight,</div>
<div class="line">A Councillor the shrewdest, and a subtle Advocate;</div>
<div class="line">A Constable and Bailiff of importance very great,</div>
<div class="line">Of all officers that be, ’tis the mightiest in the state.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">In brief I say to thee, at Money do not frown,</div>
<div class="line">It is the world’s strong lever to turn it upside down,</div>
<div class="line">It maketh the clown a master, the master a glarish clown,</div>
<div class="line">Of all things in the present age it hath the most renown.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Finally Love sets to moralising, and departs after warning
his client against over-indulgence in either white wine or
red, holding up as an awful example the hermit who,
after years of ascetic practices, got drunk for the first
time in his life, and committed atrocious crimes which
brought him to the gallows. The Archpriest ponders over
Love’s seductive precepts, finds that his conduct hitherto
has been in accordance with them, determines to persevere
in the same crooked but pleasant path, and looks forward to
the future with glad confidence. He straightway consults
Love’s wife—Venus—concerning a new passion which (as he
says) he has conceived for Doña Endrina, a handsome young
widow of Calatayud. Whatever may be the case with the
Archpriest’s other love affairs, this episode in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de
buen amor</cite> is imaginative, being an extremely brilliant
hispaniolisation of a dreary Latin play entitled <cite lang="la" xml:lang="la">De Amore</cite>,
ascribed to a misty personage known as Pamphilus Maurilianus—apparently
a monk who lived during the twelfth
century. The old crone of the Latin play reappears in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> as Urraca (better recognised by her nickname
of Trotaconventos), Galatea becomes Doña Endrina,
and Pamphilus becomes Don Melón de la Uerta. There are
passages in which Don Melón de la Uerta seems, at first
sight, to be a pseudonym of the Archpriest’s; but the
source of the story is beyond all doubt, for Juan Ruiz
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span>
supplies a virtuous ending, and carefully explains that for
the licentious character of the narrative Pamphilus and
Ovid are responsible:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">doña endrina e don melon en vno casados son,</div>
<div class="line">alegran se las conpañas en las bodas con rrason;</div>
<div class="line">sy vjllanja ha dicho aya de vos perdon,</div>
<div class="line">quelo felo de estoria dis panfilo e nason.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>In order that there may be no misconception on this
point, the Archpriest returns to it later, averring that no
such experience ever befell him personally, and that he
gives the story to set women on their guard against lying
procuresses and bland lechers:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Entyende byen mj estoria dela fija del endrino,</div>
<div class="line">dixela per te dar ensienpro, non por que amj vjno;</div>
<div class="line">guardate de falsa vieja, de rriso de mal vesjno,</div>
<div class="line">sola con ome non te fyes, njn te llegues al espjno.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>He resumes with an account of an enterprise which
narrowly escaped miscarriage owing to a quarrel with Trotaconventos,
to whom he had applied an uncomplimentary
epithet in jest; but, seeing his blunder, he pacified his
tetchy ally, and carried out his plan. Cast down by the
sudden death of his mistress, he consoled himself by writing
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares cazurros</cite> which delighted all the ladies who read
them (a privilege denied to us, for these compositions are
not included in the existing manuscripts of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen
amor</cite>). Having recovered from his dejection, in the month
of March the Archpriest went holiday-making in the mountains,
where he met with a new type of women whose
coming-on dispositions and robust charms he celebrates
satirically. These <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantigas de serrana</cite>,—slashing parodies on
the Galician <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantos de ledino</cite>,—perhaps the boldest and most
interesting of his metrical experiments, are followed by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span>
copies of devout verses on Santa María del Vado and on the
Passion of Christ.</p>

<p>The next transition is equally abrupt. While dining at
Burgos with Don Jueves Lardero (the last Thursday before
Lent), the Archpriest receives a letter from Doña Quaresma
(Lent) exhorting her officials—more especially archpriests
and clerics—to arm for the combat against Don Carnal who
symbolises the meat-eating tendencies prevalent during the
rest of the year. Then follows an allegorical description of
the encounter between Doña Quaresma and Don Carnal
who, after a series of disasters, recovers his supremacy, and
returns in triumph accompanied by Don Amor (Love). On
Easter Sunday Don Amor’s popularity is at its height, and
secular priests, laymen, monks, nuns, ladies and gentlemen,
sally forth in procession to meet him:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Dia era muy ssanto dela pascua mayor,</div>
<div class="line">el sol era salydo muy claro e de noble color;</div>
<div class="line">los omes e las aves e toda noble flor,</div>
<div class="line">todos van rresçebir cantando al amor....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">Las carreras van llenas de grandes proçesiones,</div>
<div class="line">muchos omes ordenados que otorgan perdones,</div>
<div class="line">los legos segrales con muchos clerisones,</div>
<div class="line">enla proçesion yua el abad de borbones.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">ordenes de çisten conlas de sant benjto,</div>
<div class="line">la orden de crus njego con su abat bendjto,</div>
<div class="line">quantas ordenes son nonlas puse en escripto:</div>
<div class="line">‘¡ venite, exultemus!’ cantan en alto grito....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">los dela trinjdat conlos frayles del carmen</div>
<div class="line">e los de santa eulalya, por que non se ensanen,</div>
<div class="line">todos manda que digan que canten e que llamen:</div>
<div class="line">‘¡ benedictus qui venjt!’ Responden todos: ‘amen.’</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Rejecting the invitations of irreverent monks, priests,
knights and nuns, Love lodges with the Archpriest, and sets
up his tent close by till next morning, when he leaves for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span>
Alcalá. The Archpriest becomes enamoured of a rich young
widow, and—later—of a lady whom he saw praying in church
on St. Mark’s Day; but his suit is rejected by both, and his
baffled agent Trotaconventos recommends him to pay his
addresses to a nun. The beldame takes the business in
hand, and finds a listener in Doña Garoza who, after much
verbal fencing and interchange of fables, asks for a description
of her suitor. Thanks to her natural curiosity, we see
Juan Ruiz as he presented himself to Trotaconventos’s (that
is to say, his own) sharp, unflattering sight, and the portrait
is even more precise and realistic than Cervantes’s likeness
of himself. Juan Ruiz was tall, long in the trunk, broad-shouldered
but spare, with a good-sized head set on a thick
neck, dark-haired, sallow-complexioned, wide-mouthed with
rather coarse ruddy lips, long-nosed, with black eyebrows far
apart overhanging small eyes, with a protruding chest, hairy
arms, big-boned wrists, and a neat pair of legs ending in
small feet: though given to strutting like a peacock with
deliberate gait, he was a man of sound sense, deep-voiced,
and a skilled musician:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Es ligero, valiente, byen mançebo de djas,</div>
<div class="line">sabe los instrumentos e todas juglerias,</div>
<div class="line">doñeador alegre para las çapatas mjas,</div>
<div class="line">tal ome como este, non es en todas crias.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Doña Garoza allows the Archpriest to visit her, makes him
acquainted with the charm of Platonic love—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">lynpio amor</em>—prays
for his spiritual welfare, and might have persuaded
him to renounce all carnal affections, had she not died
within two months of meeting him. Forgetting her virtuous
teaching, the Archpriest tries to set afoot an intrigue with a
Moorish girl, to whom he sends Trotaconventos with poems;
but his luck is out. The Moorish girl is deaf to his
entreaties, and Trotaconventos is taken from him by death.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span>
Saddened by this loss, and by the thought that many a door
which her ingratiating arts had forced open for him will now
be closed, he utters a long lament over the transitoriness of
mortal life, moralises at large, denounces the inexorable
cruelty of death, and at last resigns himself with the reflection
that the old wanton, who so nobly did such dirty work,
is honourably placed in heaven between two martyrs:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">!ay! mj trota conventos, mj leal verdadera!</div>
<div class="line">muchos te sigujan biua, muerta yazes señera;</div>
<div class="line">¿ado te me han leuado? non cosa çertera;</div>
<div class="line">nunca torna con nueuas quien anda esta carrera.</div>
<div class="line i1">Cyerto, en parayso estas tu assentada,</div>
<div class="line">con dos martyres deues estar aconpañada,</div>
<div class="line">sienpre en este mundo fuste per dos maridada;</div>
<div class="line">¿quien te me rrebato, vieja par mj sienpre lasrada?</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The Archpriest adds an impudent epitaph on Trotaconventos,
who is represented as saying that, though her mode
of life was censurable, she made many a happy marriage; as
begging all who visit her grave to say a <em>Pater Noster</em> for her;
and as wishing them in return the conjoint joys of both
heavenly and earthly love. After this sally of blasphemous
irony comes advice as to the arms which Christians should
use against the devil, the world, and the flesh—a tedious
exhortation from which the author breaks away to declare
that he has always wished everything (including sermons) to
be short, and with this he digresses into a panegyric on little
women. But another March has come round, and, as usual,
in the spring the Archpriest’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts
of love. In default of the gifted Trotaconventos, he employs
Don Furón, a liar, drunkard, thief, mischief-maker, gambler,
bully, glutton, wrangler, blasphemer, fortune-teller, debauchee,
trickster, fool and idler: apart from the defects
inherent to these fourteen characters, Don Furón is as good
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span>
a <em>fa tutto</em> as one can hope to have. But he fails in the only
embassy on which he is sent, and, with a good-humoured
laugh at his own folly, the Archpriest narrates his last misadventure
as a lover. With an elaborate exposition of the
saintly sentiments which actuated the author (for whom
every reader is entreated to say a <em>Pater Noster</em> and an <em>Ave
Maria</em>), the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> ends. What seems to be a
supplement contains seven poems addressed to the Virgin (a
begging-song for poor students being interpolated between
the second and third poem). The Salamanca manuscript
closes with an amusingly impertinent composition in which a
certain archpriest unnamed—possibly Juan Ruiz himself—is
described as being sent by Don Gil Albornoz, the Archbishop
of Toledo, with a brief from the Pope inculcating
celibacy on the Dean and Chapter of Talavera. What
follows has all the air of being a personal experience. The
brief is no sooner read in church than the Dean is on his
legs, threatening to resign rather than submit; the Treasurer
wishes that he could lay hands on the meddling Archbishop,
and both the Precentor Sancho and the Canon Don Gonzalo
join in an indignant protest against the attempt to curtail
clerical privileges. The Gayoso manuscript, which omits this
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cántica de los clérigos de Talavera</cite>, includes two songs for
blind men, and these are printed by M. Ducamin as a sort of
last postscript to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>.</p>

<p>Having analysed the contents of the work, we are now in
a better position to form a judgment on the conclusion implied
by an incidental question in M. Alfred Jeanroy’s admirable
book, <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Origines de la poésie lyrique en France au moyen
âge</cite>:—‘Mais qui ne sait que l’œuvre de Hita est une macédoine
d’imitations françaises, qui témoignent du reste de la
plus grande originalité d’esprit?’ The proposition may be
too broadly put, but it is fundamentally true. The Archpriest
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span>
borrows in all directions. The sources of between
twenty and thirty of his fables have been pointed out by
Wolf, and may be followed up a little higher in the works of
M. Hervieux and Mr. Jacobs. Orientalists no doubt could
tell us, if they chose, the origin of the story of King Alcarás
and his doomed son:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Era vn Rey de moros, Alcarás nonbre avia;</div>
<div class="line">nasçiole vn fijo bello, mas de aquel non tenja,</div>
<div class="line">enbjo por sus sabios, dellos saber querria</div>
<div class="line">el signo e la planeta del fijo quel nasçia.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Once at least the Archpriest hits on a subject which also
attracted his contemporary the Infante Don Juan Manuel:
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Conde Lucanor</cite> both relate
the story of the thief who sold his soul to the devil. But
the differences between the two men are more marked
than the resemblances. The Archpriest has nothing of the
Infante’s imposing gravity and cold disdain; his temperament
is more exuberant, the note of his humour is more
incorrigibly picaresque, and he seeks his subjects further
afield. The tale of the pantomimic dispute between the
learned Greek and the illiterate Roman is thought by Wolf
to derive probably from some mediæval Latin source, and
Sr. Puyol y Alonso particularises with the ingenious suggestion
that the Archpriest took it from a commentary by
Accursius on Pomponius’s text of the Digest (<em>De origine juris</em>,
Tit. ii.). Perhaps: but this is just the sort of story that
circulated orally in the Middle Ages from one country to
another as smoking-room jests float across the Atlantic now,
and Ruiz is quite as likely to have picked it up from a
tramping tinker, or a tumbler at a booth, as from the famous
juridical <em>glossator</em> of the previous century.</p>

<p>We cannot tell who his friends were nor where he went;
but the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> shows that he had acquaintances
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span>
in all classes—especially in the least starched of them—and
it would not surprise me to learn that he had wandered as
far as Italy or France. Life was brighter, more full of
opportunities, for a clerical picaroon in the fourteenth century
than it is to-day. Now he would be suspended as a
scandal: then the world was all before him where to choose.
Of Italian I am not so sure: certainly the Archpriest knew
French literature better than we should expect. Observe
that the Treasurer of the Talavera Chapter mentions
Blanchefleur, Floire and Tristan, and (of course) finds their
trials less pathetic than his own and the worthy Teresa’s.</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">E del mal de vos otros amj mucho me pesa,</div>
<div class="line">otrosi de lo mjo e del mal de teresa,</div>
<div class="line">pero dexare atalauera e yr me aoropesa</div>
<div class="line">ante quela partyr de toda la mj mesa.</div>
<div class="line i1">Ca nunca fue tan leal blanca flor a flores</div>
<div class="line">njn es agora tristan con todos sus amores;</div>
<div class="line">que fase muchas veses rrematar los ardores,</div>
<div class="line">e sy de mi la parto nunca me dexaran dolores.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>How did the Archpriest come to hear the tale of Tristan,
not yet widely diffused in Spain? Was it through <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le
Chèvrefeuille</cite>, one of Marie de France’s lais? His previous
reference to ‘Ysopete’ might almost tempt some to think
so:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">esta fabla conpuesta, de ysopete sacada.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>However this may be, there is no doubt as to where
the Archpriest found his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">exemplo</em> of the youth who wished
to marry three wives, and thought better of it: this, as
already stated, is a variant on the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fableau</em> known as <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le
Valet aux douze femmes</cite>. Sr. Puyol y Alonso hints at a
Spanish origin for the story of the two sluggards who, when
they went a-courting, tried to make a merit of their sloth;
but Wolf notes the recurrence of something very similar
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span>
in other literatures, and it most likely reached Ruiz from
France in some collection of supposititious Æsopic fables.
The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Exemplo de lo que conteció á don Payas, pintor de Bretaña</cite>—an
indecent anecdote which follows immediately on the
tale of the rival sluggards—betrays its provenance in its
diction. Note the Gallicisms in such lines as:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Yo volo yr afrandes, portare muyta dona ...</div>
<div class="line">Yo volo faser en vos vna bona fygura ...</div>
<div class="line">Ella dis: monseñer, faset vuestra mesura ...</div>
<div class="line">dis la muger: monseñer, vos mesmo la catat ...</div>
<div class="line">en dos anos petid corder non se faser carner....</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Can we doubt that these are free translations from a
French original not yet identified? It is significant that,
as the story of the Greek and the <em>ribaldo</em> reappears long
afterwards in Rabelais, so the story of Don Payas reappears
in Béroalde de Verville’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Moyen de parvenir</cite> and in La
Fontaine’s salacious fable <cite>Le Bât</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Un peintre étoit, qui, jaloux de sa femme</div>
<div class="line">Allant aux champs, lui peignit un baudet</div>
<div class="line">Sur le nombril, en guise de cachet.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Again, compare the Archpriest’s stanzas (already quoted)
on the power of money with our English <cite>Song in praise
of Sir Penny</cite>:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Go bet, Peny, go bet [go],</div>
<div class="line">For thee makyn bothe frynd and fo.</div>
<div class="line l03">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Peny is a hardy knyght,</div>
<div class="line">Peny is mekyl of myght,</div>
<div class="line">Peny of wrong, he makyt ryght</div>
<div class="line i2">In every cuntré qwer he goo.</div>
<div class="line i5">[Go bet, etc.]</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Ritson quotes a companion poem from ‘a MS. of the 13th
or 14th century, in the library of Berne’:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Denier fait cortois de vilain,</div>
<div class="line">Denier fait de malade sain,</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span>Denier sorprent le monde a plain,</div>
<div class="line">Tot est en son commandement.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And no doubt he is right in supposing that these variants
(together with the Archpriest’s version) come from <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dom
Argent</cite>, a story—not, as Ritson thought, a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fableau</em>—given
in extract by Le Grand d’Aussy in the third volume of
the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fabliaux, Contes, Fables et Romans du XII<sup>e</sup> et du XIII<sup>e</sup>
siècle</cite> published in 1829. Once more, take the story of
the abstemious hermit who once got drunk, went from bad
to worse, and finally fell into the hangman’s hands. As
Wolf points out, this episode was introduced earlier in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de Apolonio</cite>; but the Archpriest develops it more
fully, amalgamating the tale of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’Eremite qui s’enyvra</cite> with
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’Ermyte que le diable conchia du coc et de la geline</cite>. Lastly,
the combat between Don Carnal and Doña Quaresma is
most brilliantly adapted from the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bataille de Karesme et
de Charnage</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Seignor, ge ne vos quier celer,</div>
<div class="line">Uns fablel vueil renoveler</div>
<div class="line">Qui lonc tens a esté perdus:</div>
<div class="line">Onques mais Rois, ne Quens, ne Dus</div>
<div class="line">N’oïrent de millor estoire,</div>
<div class="line">Par ce l’ai-ge mis en mémoire.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But the Archpriest’s genial reconstruction outdoes the
original at every point. And this is even more emphatically
true of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pamphilus de Amore</cite>, which also no doubt, like the
<em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fableaux</em> and <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">contes</em>, drifted into Spain from France. At
moments Juan Ruiz is content to be an admirable translator.
Read, for instance, what Pamphilus says to Galatea in the
First Act (sc. iv.) of the Latin play—</p>

<div lang="la" xml:lang="la">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Alterius villa mea neptis mille salutes</div>
<div class="line">Per me mandavit officiumque tibi:</div>
<div class="line">Hec te cognoscit dictis et nomine tantum,</div>
<div class="line">Et te, si locus est, ipsa videre cupit—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span>and compare it with Don Melón’s address to Doña Endrina
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i2">Señora, la mj sobrina, que en toledo seya,</div>
<div class="line">se vos encomjenda mucho, mjll saludes vos enbya;</div>
<div class="line">sy ovies lugar e tienpo, por quanto de vos oya,</div>
<div class="line">desea vos mucho ver e conosçer vos querria.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>And you will find from thirty to forty points of resemblance
duly noted in Sr. Puyol y Alonso’s valuable study. But
what does it matter if a more microscopic scrutiny reveals
a hundred parallelisms? Ruiz proceeds as Shakespeare proceeded
after him. He picks up waste scraps of base metal
from a dunghill, and by his wonder-working touch transforms
them into gold. He breathes life into the ghostly
abstractions of the pseudonymous Auvergnat, creates a man
and a woman in the stress of irresistible passion, and evokes
a dramatic atmosphere. You read <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pamphilus de Amore</cite>: you
find it dull when it is not licentious, and you most often find
it both dull and licentious at the same time. Not a solitary
character, not a single happy line, not one memorable phrase
remains with you to redeem its tedious pruriency. The
Archpriest’s two lovers are unforgettable: they are not
saints—far from it!—but they are human in their weakness,
and in their downfall they are the sympathetic victims of
disaster. And the vitality of the other personage in this
concentrated narrative of illicit love is proved by its persistence
in literature. A feminine Tartufe, with a dangerous
subtlety and perverse enjoyment of immorality for its own
sake, Trotaconventos is the ancestress of Celestina, of
Regnier’s Macette, and of the hideous old nurse in <cite>Romeo
and Juliet</cite>. Turn to the end of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite>,
and observe the predatory figure of Don Furón: he, too,
is unforgettable as the model of the ravenous fine gentleman
who condescended to share Lazarillo’s plate of trotters.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span>
What matter if the Archpriest lays hands on a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fableau</em>,
or a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">conte</em>, or a wearisome piece of lubricity ‘veiled in the
obscurity of a learned language’? What matter if he
pilfers from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de Alixandre</cite>, or steals an idea from
the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de la Rose</cite>? He makes his finds his own by
right of conquest, like Catullus or Virgil before him, like
Shakespeare and Molière after him.</p>

<p>The sedentary historian, like a housemaid, dearly loves a
red coat, and tells us far more than we care to know of arms
and the men, drums and trumpets, and the frippery of war.
Juan Ruiz gives us something better: a tableau of society
in Spain during the picturesque, tumultuous reigns of
Alfonso XI. and Peter the Cruel. While other writers sought
their material in monastic libraries, he was content with
joyous observation in inns, and booths, and shady places.
He mingled with the general crowd, having his preferences,
but few exclusions. He does not, indeed, seem to have
loved Jews—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">pueblo de perdiçion</em>—but his heart went out
with a bound to their wives and daughters. For Jewish
and Moorish dancing-girls he wrote countless songs—not
preserved, unfortunately—to be accompanied by Moorish
music. So, also, he composed ditties to be sung by blind
men, by roystering students, by vagrant picaroons, and
other birds of night. He records these artistic exploits
with an air of frank self-satisfaction:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Despues fise muchas cantigas de dança e troteras,</div>
<div class="line">para judias e moras e para entenderas,</div>
<div class="line">para en jnstrumentos de comunales maneras:</div>
<div class="line">el cantar que non sabes, oylo acantaderas.</div>
<div class="line i1">Cantares fis algunos de los que disen los siegos</div>
<div class="line">e para escolares que andan nochernjegos</div>
<div class="line">e para muchos otros por puertas andariegos,</div>
<div class="line">caçurros e de bulrras, non cabrian en dyes priegos.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Few men have anything to fear from their enemies, but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span>
most are in danger of being made ridiculous by their
admirers. Puymaigre was no blind eulogist, and yet in
an unwary moment he suggests a dangerous comparison
when he quotes the passage describing the emotion of
Doña Endrina’s lover on first meeting her:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Pero tal lugar non era para fablar en amores:</div>
<div class="line">amj luego me venjeron muchos mjedos e tenblores,</div>
<div class="line">los mis pies e las mjs manos non eran de si senores,</div>
<div class="line">perdi seso, perdi fuerça, mudaron se mjs colores.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And he ventures to place these lines beside the evocation
in the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vita Nuova</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="it" xml:lang="it">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare</div>
<div class="line">La donna mia quand’ ella altrui saluta,</div>
<div class="line">Ch’ ogni lingua divien tremando muta,</div>
<div class="line">E gli occhi non l’ardiscon di guardare.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The suggested parallel does little credit to Puymaigre’s
undoubted critical instinct. It is, moreover, damaging to
the Archpriest who, in this particular passage, is simply
translating from the First Act of <cite lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pamphilus de Amore</cite>
(sc. iii.):—</p>

<div lang="la" xml:lang="la">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Quantus adesset ei nunc locus inde loqui!</div>
<div class="line">Sed dubito. Tanti michi nunc venere dolores!</div>
<div class="line">Nec mea vox mecum, nec mea verba manent.</div>
<div class="line">Nec michi sunt vires, trepidantque manusque pedesque.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Comparisons are odious, but, if they must be made, let us
compare like to like. No breath of Dante’s hushed rapture
plays round the libidinous Archpriest. The Spaniard never
stirs in his reader a flicker of mystic ardour; he is of the
world, of the flesh, and sometimes of the devil; his realism
is irrepressible, his view of human nature is cynical, and his
interpretation is pregnant with a constant irony. But he
enjoys life, such as it is, while he can. He gives us to understand
that people and things are what they are because
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span>
they cannot be otherwise, and he makes the most of both
by describing in a spirit of bacchantic pessimism the
ludicrous spectacle of the world. Learning is most excellent,
but the Archpriest finds as much wisdom in a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">proverbio
chico</em> as in the patter of the schools; a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantar de gesta</em> has
its place in the scheme of literature, for it lends itself to
parody; soldiers slash their way to glory, but, though they
fascinate the ordinary timorous literary man, the Archpriest
sees through them, and humorously exhibits them as
sharpers more punctual on pay-day than in the hour of
battle. His whole book, and especially his catalogue—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De
las propriedades que las dueñas chicas han</cite>—bespeak an
incurable susceptibility to feminine charm; but he leaves
you under no delusion as to the seductiveness of the women
on the hillsides:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Las orejas mayores que de añal burrico,</div>
<div class="line">el su pescueço negro, ancho, velloso, chico,</div>
<div class="line">las narises muy gordas, luengas, de çarapico,</div>
<div class="line">beueria en pocos djas cavdal de buhon rico.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">He thinks nothing beneath his notice, takes you with
him into convent-kitchens and lets you listen to Trotaconventos
while she rattles off the untranslatable names of
the dainties which mitigate the nuns’ austerities:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Comjnada, alixandria, conel buen diagargante,</div>
<div class="line">el diaçitron abatys, con el fino gengibrante,</div>
<div class="line">mjel rrosado, diaçimjnjo, diantioso va delante,</div>
<div class="line">e la rroseta nouela que deujera desjr ante.</div>
<div class="line i1">adraguea e alfenjque conel estomatricon,</div>
<div class="line">e la garriofilota con dia margariton,</div>
<div class="line">tria sandalix muy fyno con diasanturion,</div>
<div class="line">que es, para doñear, preciado e noble don.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And, in the same precise way, he satisfies your intelligent
curiosity as to musical instruments:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">araujgo non quiere la viuela de arco,</div>
<div class="line">çiufonja, gujtarra non son de aqueste marco,</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span>çitola, odreçillo non amar caguyl hallaço,</div>
<div class="line">mas aman la tauerna e sotar con vellaco.</div>
<div class="line i1">albogues e mandurria caramjllo e çanpolla</div>
<div class="line">non se pagan de araujgo quanto dellos boloña....</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The medley is sometimes incoherent, but even when
most diffuse it never fails to entertain. To us the vivid
rendering of small, characteristic particulars is a source of
delight. The Archpriest threw it off as a matter of course;
but he piqued himself on the boldness of his metrical
innovations, and he had good reason to be proud. Most
of his verses are written in the quatrain of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">mester de
clerecía</em>, or <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">quaderna vía</em>—an adaptation of the French alexandrine
or ‘fourteener’—but he imparts to the measure
a new flexibility, and he attempts rhythmical experiments,
moved by a desire to transplant to Castile the metrical
devices which had already penetrated into Portugal and
Galicia from Northern France and Provence. But the Archpriest
has higher claims to distinction than any based on
executive skill. He lends a distinct personal touch to all
his subjects. He has an intense impression of the visible
world, an imposing faculty of evocation, and what he saw
we are privileged to see in his puissant and realistic transcription.
Some modern Spaniards, with a show of indignation
which seems quaint in countrymen of Cervantes and
Quevedo, reject the notion that humour is a characteristic
quality of the Spanish genius. We must bear these sputterings
of storm with such equanimity as we can, and hope for
finer weather. The fact remains: Juan Ruiz is the earliest
of the great Spanish humourists; he is also the most eminent
Spanish poet of the Middle Ages, and, all things considered,
the most brilliant literary figure in Spanish history till the
coming of Garcilaso de la Vega.</p>

<p>Those of you who have read <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Carlos VI. en la Rápita</cite>—one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span>
of the latest volumes in the series of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Episodios Nacionales</cite>—will
call to mind another Juan Ruiz, likewise an Archpriest,
known to his parishioners as ‘Don Juanondón,’ and you may
remember that this Archpriest of Ulldecona quotes his
namesake, the Archpriest of Hita:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Tu, Señora, da me agora</div>
<div class="line">la tu graçia toda ora,</div>
<div class="line">que te sirua toda vja.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>As the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de buen amor</cite> had been in print for some
seventy years before the Pretender made the laughable
fiasco described by Pérez Galdós, it is quite possible that
Don Juanondón had read the first of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Goços de Santa
Maria</cite> in the supplement. But it is not very likely: for,
though the Archpriest’s poems are mentioned in an English
book published nine years before they appeared in Spain,<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">5</a>
they never were, and perhaps never will be, popular in the
ordinary sense. Juan Ruiz was far in advance of his age.
He lived and died obscure. No contemporary mentions him
by name, and the only thing that can be construed into a
rather early allusion is found in a poem by Ferrant Manuel
de Lando in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancionero de Baena</cite> (No. 362):—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Señor Juan Alfonso, pintor de taurique</div>
<div class="line">qual fue Pitas Payas, el de la fablilla.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But this, at the best, is indirect. Santillana merely refers
to the Archpriest incidentally. Argote de Molina, in the
next century, does indeed quote one of the Archpriest’s
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranillas</em> (st. 1023-27); but he is misinformed as to the
author, and ascribes the verses to a certain ‘Domingo Abad
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span>
de los Romances’ whose name occurs in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Repartimiento
de Sevilla</cite>. Still there is evidence to prove that Juan Ruiz
found a few readers fit to appreciate him. A fragment of
his work exists in Portuguese; the great Chancellor, Pero
López de Ayala, imitates him in the poem generally known
as the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rimado de Palacio</cite>; Alfonso Martínez de Toledo,
Archpriest of Talavera and a kindred spirit in some respects,
speaks of him by name, and lays him under contribution in
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Reprobación del amor mundano</cite>. The famous pander
who lends her name to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Celestina</cite> is closely related to
Trotaconventos, and Calixto and Melibea in that great
masterpiece are developed from Don Melón de la Uerta and
Doña Endrina de Calatayud. The Archpriest’s influence
on his successors is therefore undeniable. But, leaving
this aside, and judging him solely by his immediate, positive
achievement, he is not altogether unworthy to be placed
near Chaucer,—the poet to whom he has been so often
compared.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER III<br /><br />

<small>THE LITERARY COURT OF JUAN II.</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">The</span> reign of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> is one of the longest and most troubled
in the history of Castile. In his second year he succeeded
his father, Enrique <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">el Doliente</em>, at the end of 1406, and
for almost half a century he was the sport of fortune.
Enrique <span class="smcap">III.</span>’s frail body was tenanted by a masterful spirit:
his son was a puppet in the hands of favourites or of
factions. Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s uncle Fernando de Antequera (so called
from his brilliant campaign against the Moors in 1410,
celebrated in the popular <em>romances</em>) acted as regent of Castile
till he was called to the throne of Aragón in 1412, when
the regency was assumed by the Queen-Mother, Catherine
of Lancaster. The generosity of contemporaries and the
gallantry of elderly historians lead them to judge Queen-Mothers
with indulgence; but Catherine is admitted to have
been a grotesque and incapable figurehead, controlled by
Fernán Alonso de Robles, a clever upstart. Declared of
age in 1419, Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> soon fell under the dominion of Álvaro
de Luna, a young Aragonese who had come to court in 1408,
and had therefore known the king from childhood. Raised
to the high post of Constable of Castile, Álvaro de Luna
resolved to crush the seditious nobles, and to make his
master a sovereign in fact as well as in name. But the
king was a weakling who could be bullied out of any resolution.
Factious revolts were met with alternate savagery
and weakness. Opportunities were thrown away. The
victory over the Moors at La Higuera in 1431, and the rout
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span>
of the rebel nobles at Olmedo in 1445, failed to strengthen
the royal authority. At a critical moment, when he seemed
in a fair way to triumph, Álvaro de Luna made an irremediable
mistake. In 1447 he promoted the marriage of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>
with Isabel of Portugal: she was ‘the knife with which he
cut his own throat.’ At her suggestion the unstable Juan
took a step which has earned for him a prominent place
among the traitor-kings who have deserted their ministers
in a moment of danger. Álvaro de Luna had fought a
hard fight for thirty years. In 1453 he was suddenly
thrown over, condemned, and beheaded amid the indecent
mockery of his enemies:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Ca si lo ajeno tomé,</div>
<div class="line">lo mío me tomarán;</div>
<div class="line">si maté, non tardaran</div>
<div class="line">de matarme, bien lo sé.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">So even the courtly Marqués de Santillana holds up his
foe to derision, unconscious that his own death was not far
off. In 1454 Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> died, and during the scandalous reign
of Enrique <span class="smcap">IV.</span> it might well seem that the great Constable
had lived in vain. But his policy was destined to be carried
out by ‘the Catholic Kings,’ Ferdinand and Isabel.</p>

<p>Contrary to reasonable expectation, the court of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>
remained a centre of culture during all the storm of civil
war. Educated by the converted Rabbi Sh’lomoh Hallevi—better
known to orthodox Spaniards as Pablo de Santa
María, Chancellor of Castile,—Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> had something
more than a tincture of artistic taste. So stern a judge as
Pérez de Guzmán, who had no reason to treat him tenderly,
describes him as a wit, an excellent musician, an assiduous
reader, an amateur of literature, a lover and sound critic of
poetry. Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> had in fact all the qualities which are useless
to a king, and none of those which are indispensable.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span>
He himself wrote minor poetry, a luxury in which no
monarch less eminently successful than Frederic the Great
can afford to indulge. From his youth he was surrounded
by such representatives of the old school of poetry as
Alfonso Álvarez de Villasandino. Castile might go to ruin,
but there was always time to hear the compositions of this
persistent mendicant, or those of Juan Alfonso de Baena,
with the replies and rebutters of versifiers like Ferrant
Manuel de Lando and Juan de Guzmán. It was no good
training for either a poet or a king. In the few poems by
Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> which have come down to us there is an occasional
touch of laborious accomplishment: there is no depth of
feeling, no momentary sincerity. Poetry had become the
handmaid of luxury. Poetical tournaments and knightly
jousts were both forms of court-pageantry. Nature was
out of fashion; life was infected by artificiality, and literature
by bookish conceits. ‘Mesure est precioux tesmoing
de san et de courtoisie,’ according to the author of the
thirteenth-century <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Doctrinal</cite>, and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">mesura</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cortesía</cite> predominate
in the courtly verse of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s reign. The
Galician <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">trovadores</em> brought into Castile the bad tradition
which they had borrowed from Provence, and the emphatic
genius of Castile accentuated rather than refined the verbal
audacities of conventional gallantry. Macias o <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Namorado</em>,
the typical Galician <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">trovador</em> who died about 1390, had
dared to introduce the words of Christ Crucified as the tag
of an amatory lyric:—</p>

<div lang="it" xml:lang="it">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Pois me faleceu ventura</div>
<div class="line">en o tempo de prazer,</div>
<div class="line">non espero aver folgura</div>
<div class="line">mas per sempre entristecer.</div>
<div class="line">Turmentado e con tristura</div>
<div class="line">chamarei ora por mi.</div>
<div class="line i1"><em>Deus meus, eli, eli,</em></div>
<div class="line"><em>eli lama sabac thani.</em></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span></p>

<p class="noindent">And shortly after the death of Macias another literary force
came into play. As Professor Henry R. Lang observes in
a note to his invaluable <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancioneiro gallego-castelhano</cite>, ‘the
Italian Renaissance had taught the poet to combine myth
and miracle and to pay homage to the fair lady in the
language of religion as well as in that of feudal life.’ The
conventions of chivalry were combined with the expressions
of sacrilegious passion. So eminent a man as Álvaro de
Luna set a lamentable example of impious preciosity. In
one of his extant poems he belauds his mistress, declares
that the Saviour’s choice would light on her if He were
subject to mortal passions, and defiantly announces his
readiness to contend with God in the lists—to break a lance
with the Almighty—for so incomparable a prize:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Aun se m’antoxa, Senyor,</div>
<div class="line">si esta tema tomáras</div>
<div class="line">que justar e quebrar varas</div>
<div class="line">fiçieras per el su amor.</div>
<div class="line i1">Si fueras mantenedor,</div>
<div class="line">contigo me las pegara,</div>
<div class="line">e non te alçara la vara,</div>
<div class="line">per ser mi competidor.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This is not an isolated instance of profanity in high places,
for Álvaro de Luna’s repugnant performance was equalled
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Letanía de Amor</cite> by the grave chronicler Diego de
Valera, and was approached in innumerable copies of verse
by many professed believers. The abundance of versifiers
during the reign of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> is embarrassing. In the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ilustraciones</cite> to the sixth volume of his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de la literatura
española</cite>, José Amador de los Ríos gives two lists of poets
who flourished at this period, and (allowing for the accidental
inclusion of three names in both lists) he arrives at a total
of two hundred and fifteen. Even so, it seems that the
catalogue is incomplete; but we should thank Ríos for his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span>
good taste, forbearance, or negligence in not making it
exhaustive. It is extremely doubtful whether two hundred
and fifteen poets of superlative distinction can be found in
all the literatures of Europe put together; it is certain that
no such number of distinguished poets has ever existed at
one time in any one country, and many of the entries in
Ríos’s lists are the names of mediocrities, not to say
poetasters. We may exclude them from our breathless
review this afternoon, just as we must pass hurriedly over
the names of minor prose-writers. There is merit in Álvaro
de Luna’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Libro de las virtuosas e claras mugeres</cite> in which the
Constable replies to Boccaccio’s <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Corbaccio</cite> and takes up the
cudgels for women; there is uncommon merit in a venomous
and amusing treatise, branding the entire sex, by Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s
chaplain, Alfonso Martínez de Toledo—a work which he
wished to be called (after himself) the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcipreste de Talavera</cite>,
but to which a mischievous posterity has attached the title of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Corbacho</cite> or the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Reprobación del amor mundano</cite>. There is
merit also in the allegorical <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Visión delectable</cite> of Alfonso de la
Torre, and in the animated (though perhaps too imaginative)
narrative of adventures given by Gutierre Díez de Games in
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica del Conde de Buelna, Don Pero Niño</cite>. And no
account of the writers of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s reign would be complete
without some mention of the celebrated Bishop of Ávila,
Alfonso de Madrigal, best known as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Tostado</cite>. But <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Tostado</cite> wrote mostly in Latin, and, apart from this, his
incredible productivity weighs upon him.</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Es muy cierto que escrivió</div>
<div class="line">para cada día tres pliegos</div>
<div class="line">de los días que vivió:</div>
<div class="line">su doctrina assi alumbró</div>
<div class="line">que haze ver á los ciegos.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">We must be satisfied to quote this epitaph written on
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Tostado</cite> by Suero del Águila, and hurry on as we may,
blinder than the blind. When all is said, the importance of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Tostado</cite> and the rest is purely relative. We need only
concern ourselves with the more significant figures of the
time, and this select company will occupy the time at our
disposal.</p>

<p>One of the most striking personalities of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s reign
was Enrique de Villena, wrongly known as the Marqués de
Villena. Born in 1384, he owes much of his posthumous
renown to his reputation as a wizard, and to the burning of
part of his library by the king’s confessor, the Dominican
Fray Lope Barrientos, afterwards successively Bishop of
Segovia (1438), Ávila (1442), and Cuenca (1445). Barrientos
has been roughly handled ever since Juan de Mena,
without naming him, first applied the branding-iron in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Laberinto de Fortuna</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">O ynclito sabio, auctor muy çiente,</div>
<div class="line">otra é avn otra vegada yo lloro</div>
<div class="line">porque Castilla perdió tal tesoro,</div>
<div class="line">non conoçido delante la gente.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Perdió los tus libros sin ser conoçidos,</div>
<div class="line">e como en esequias te fueron ya luego</div>
<div class="line">vnos metidos al auido fuego,</div>
<div class="line">otros sin orden non bien repartidos.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Barrientos, however, seems to have been made a scapegoat
in this matter. He asserts that he acted on the express
order of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, and, in any case, we may feel tolerably
sure that he burned as few books as possible, for he kept
what was saved for himself. However this may be, owing
to his supposed dealings with the devil and the alleged
destruction of his library after his death, Villena’s name
meets us at almost every turn in Spanish literature: in
Quevedo’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Visita de los chistes</cite>, in Ruiz de Alarcón’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span>
La Cueva de Salamanca</cite>, in Rojas Zorrilla’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Lo que quería ver el
Marqués de Villena</cite>, and in Hartzenbusch’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Redoma
encantada</cite>. These presentations of the imaginary necromancer
are interesting in their way, but we have in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Generaciones
y Semblanzas</cite> a portrait of the real Villena done by
the hand of a master. There we see him—‘short and
podgy, with pink and white cheeks, a huge eater, and
greatly addicted to lady-killing; some said derisively that
he knew a vast deal of the heavens above, and little of the
earth beneath; alien and remote from practical affairs, and
in the management of his household and estate so incapable
and helpless that it was a wonder manifold.’ Yet Pérez de
Guzmán is too keen-eyed to miss Villena’s intellectual gifts.
From him we learn that, at an age when other lads are
dragged reluctantly to school, Villena set himself to study
without a master, and in direct opposition to the wishes of
his grandfather and family, showing ‘such subtle and lofty
talent that he speedily mastered whatever science or art to
which he applied himself, so that it really seemed innate in
him by nature.’ Here we have the man set before us—vaguely
recalling the figure of Gibbon, but a Gibbon who
has left behind him nothing to represent his rare abilities.</p>

<p>It must be confessed that Villena owes more of his
celebrity to his legend than to his literary work. Perhaps
the nearest parallel to him in our own history is Humphrey,
Duke of Gloucester. Both were fired by the enthusiasm
of the Renaissance; both were patrons of literature; both
were popularly supposed to practise the black art—Villena
in person, and Gloucester through the intermediary of his
wife, Eleanor Cobham. But, while Duke Humphrey was
content to give copies of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio to
the University of Oxford, Villena took an active part in
spreading the light that came from Italy. He was not the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span>
first Spaniard in the field. Francisco Imperial, in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dezir
de las siete virtudes</cite>, had already hailed Dante as his guide
and master, and had borrowed phrases from the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Divina
Commedia</cite>. Thus when Dante writes—</p>

<div lang="it" xml:lang="it">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">O somma luz, che tanto ti levi</div>
<div class="line">dai concetti mortali, alla mia mente</div>
<div class="line">ripresta un poco di quel che parevi—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Imperial transfers these lines from the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Paradiso</cite> to his own
page in this form:—</p>

<div lang="it" xml:lang="it">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">O suma luz, que tanto te alçaste</div>
<div class="line">del concepto mortal, á mi memoria</div>
<div class="line">represta un poco lo que me mostraste.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This is rather close translation; but students, more interested
in matter than in form, asked for a complete
rendering. Villena was already at work on the <cite>Æneid</cite>; at
the suggestion of Santillana, he further undertook to translate
the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Divina Commedia</cite> into Castilian prose. His diligence
was equal to his intrepidity. Begun on September 28, 1427,
his translation of Virgil was finished on October 10, 1428,
and before this date he had finished his translation of Dante.
These prose versions are Villena’s most useful contributions
to literature. With the exception of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arte cisoria</cite>—a
prose pæan on eating which would have attracted Brillat-Savarin,
and which confirms Pérez de Guzmán’s report
concerning the author’s gormandising habits—his extant
original writings are of small value. Pérez de Guzmán,
Mena, and Santillana speak of him with respect as a poet,
and, as Argote de Molina mentions his ‘coplas y canciones de
muy gracioso donayre,’ it is evident that Villena’s verses
were read with pleasure as late as 1575 when the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Conde
Lucanor</cite> was first printed. But they have not reached us,
and perhaps the world is not much the poorer for the loss.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span>
Still, we cannot feel at all sure of this. Villena showed
some promise in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Trabajos de Hércules</cite>, and ended by
becoming one of the clumsiest prose writers in the world;
yet Mena exists to remind us that a man who writes detestable
prose may have in him the breath of a true poet.</p>

<p>Judged by the vulgar test of success, Villena’s career was
a failure, and a failure which involved him in dishonour.
He did not obtain the marquessate of Villena, and, though
inaccurate writers and the general public may insist on
calling him the Marqués de Villena, the fact remains that
he was nothing of the kind. He had set his heart on
becoming Constable of Castile, and this ambition was also
baulked. He winked at the adultery of his wife with
Enrique III. and connived at her obtaining a decree of
nullity on the ground that he was impotent—a statement
ludicrously and notoriously untrue of one whom Pérez de
Guzmán describes as ‘muy inclinado al amor de las mugeres.’
Enrique <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">el Doliente</cite> rewarded the complaisant husband by
conferring on him the countship of Cangas de Tineo and the
Grand Mastership of the Order of Calatrava; but he was
unable to take possession of his countship, was chased from
the Mastership by the Knights of the Order, and remained
empty-handed and scorned as a pretentious scholar who had
not even known how to secure the wages of sin. Meekly
bowing under the burden of his shame, Villena retired to
his estate of Iniesta or Torralba—two petty morsels of
what had once been a rich patrimony—and there passed
most of his last years working at his translations or miscellaneous
treatises, and dabbling in alchemy. He had once
hoped to reach some of the highest positions in the state;
in his obscurity, his heart leapt up when he beheld a
turkey or a partridge on his table, and he speaks of these
toothsome birds with a glow of epicurean eloquence. But
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span>
his ill luck pursued him even in his pleasures. His gluttony
and sedentary habits brought on repeated attacks of gout,
and he died prematurely at Madrid on December 15,
1434. As a man of letters he is remarkable rather for his
industry than for his performance. But there is a certain
picturesqueness about this enigmatic and rather futile
personage which invests him with a singular interest. It
is not often that a great noble who stands so near the
throne cultivates learning with steadfast zeal. In collecting
manuscripts and texts Villena set an example which was
followed by Santillana, and by Luis de Guzmán, a later and
more fortunate Master of the Order of Calatrava. We cannot
doubt that, in his own undisciplined way, Villena loved
literature and things of the mind, and that by personal
effort and by patronage he helped a good cause which has
never had too many friends.</p>

<p>A man of stronger fibre, nobler character, and far greater
achievement was Fernán Pérez de Guzmán, the nephew of
the great Chancellor Pero López de Ayala, and the uncle of
Santillana. From a worldly point of view, he, too, may be
said to have wrecked his career; but the charge of obsequiousness
is the last that can be brought against him. He was
not of the stuff of which courtiers are made; his haughty
temper brought him into collision with Álvaro de Luna,
whom he detested; some of his relatives were in arms
against Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, and this circumstance, together with his
uncompromising spirit, threw suspicion on his personal
loyalty to the throne. Such a man could not fail to make
enemies, and amongst those who intrigued against him we may
probably count that inventive busybody Pedro del Corral,
whose <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica Sarrazyna</cite> he afterwards described bluntly as
a ‘mentira ó trufa paladina.’ After a violent scene with
Álvaro de Luna, Pérez de Guzmán was arrested together
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span>
with many of his sympathisers. On his release, though not
much past middle life, he closed the gates of preferment on
himself by withdrawing to his estate of Batres, and thenceforth,
like Villena, he sought in literature some consolation
for his disappointment. He had a most noble passion for
fame, and he won it with his pen, when fate compelled him
to sheathe his sword.</p>

<p>Any one who takes up the poem entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Loores de los
claros varones de España</cite> and lights upon the unhappy
passage in which Virgil is condemned for tricking out his
wishy-washy stuff with verbose ornament—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">la poca é pobre sustancia</div>
<div class="line">con verbosidad ornando—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is likely to be prejudiced against Pérez de Guzmán, and is
certain to think poorly of his judgment as a literary critic.
It is not as a literary critic that Pérez de Guzmán excels,
nor is he a poet of any striking distinction; but as a painter
of historical portraits he has rarely been surpassed. In the
first place, he can see; in the second, he writes with a pen,
and not with a stick. He is an excellent judge of character
and motive, and he is no respecter of persons—a greater thing
to say than you might think, for as a rule it is not till long
after kings and statesmen are in their graves that the whole
truth about them is set down. And it is the truthfulness of
the record which makes Pérez de Guzmán’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Generaciones y
Semblanzas</cite> at once so impressive and entertaining. There
is no touch of sentimentalism in his nature; rank and sex
form no claim to his indulgence; he is naturally prone to
crush the mighty and to spare the weak. If a queen is
unseemly in her habits, he notes the fact laconically; if a
Constable of Castile foolishly consults soothsayers, this weakness
is recorded side by side with his good qualities; if an
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span>
Archbishop of Toledo favours his relatives in little matters
of ecclesiastical preferment, this amiable family feeling is
set off against other characteristics more congruous to his
position; if an <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Adelantado Mayor</em> has a bright bald head and
pulls the long bow when he drops into anecdotage, these
peculiarities are not forgotten when he comes up for sentence.
There is no rhetoric, no waste: the person concerned
is brought forward at the right moment, described
in a few trenchant words, and discharged with a stain on
his character. The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Generaciones y Semblanzas</cite> is not the
work of an ‘impersonal’ historian who is most often a
sophist arguing, for the sake of argument, that black is not
so unlike white as the plain man imagines. Pérez de
Guzmán goes with his party, has his prejudices, his likes
and dislikes, and he makes no attempt to dissemble them;
but he is never deliberately unfair. The worst you can say
of him is that he is a hanging judge. He may be: but the
phrase in which he sums up is always memorable for picturesque
vigour.</p>

<p>He is believed to have died in 1460 at about the age of
eighty-four, and in any case he outlived his nephew Íñigo
López de Mendoza, who is always spoken of as the Marqués
de Santillana, a title conferred on him after the battle of
Olmedo in 1445. In 1414, being then a boy of eighteen,
Santillana first comes into sight at the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">jochs florals</cite> over
which Villena presided when Fernando de Antequera was
crowned King of Aragón; and thenceforward, till his death
in 1458, Santillana is a prominent figure on the stage of
history. His father was Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Lord
High Admiral of Castile; his mother was Leonor de la Vega,
superior to most men of her time, or of any time, in ability,
courage and determination. On both sides, he inherited
position, wealth, and literary traditions, and he utilised to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span>
the utmost his advantages. He was no absent-minded
dreamer: even in practical matters his success was striking.
During his long minority, his mother’s crafty bravery had
protected much of his estate from predatory relatives.
Santillana increased it, timing his political variations with
a perfect opportuneness. Beginning public life as a supporter
of the Infantes of Aragón, he deserted to Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>
in 1429, and, when the property of the Infantes was confiscated
some five years later, he shared in the spoil.
Alienated by Álvaro de Luna’s methods, he veered round
again in 1441, and took the field against Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>; once
more he was reconciled, and his services at Olmedo were
rewarded by a marquessate and further grants of land.
Apparently his nearest approach to a political conviction
was a hatred of Álvaro de Luna in whose ruin he was
actively concerned; but Santillana was always on the safe
side, and, before declaring openly against Luna, he provided
against failure by marrying his eldest son to the Constable’s
niece.</p>

<p>Baldly told, and without the extenuating pleas which partisanship
can furnish, the story of those profitable manoeuvres
leaves an unfavourable impression, which is deepened by
Santillana’s vindictive exultation over Álvaro de Luna in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Doctrinal de privados</cite>. But we cannot expect generosity
from a politician who has felt for years that his head was
not safe upon his shoulders. Yet Santillana’s personality
was engaging; he illustrated the old Spanish proverb which
he himself records: ‘Lance never blunted pen, nor pen
lance.’ He made comparatively few enemies while he lived,
and all the world has combined to praise him since his death
in 1458. The slippery intriguer is forgotten; the figure of
the knight who appeared in the lists with <em>Ave Maria</em> on his
shield has grown dim. But as a poet, as a patron of literature,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span>
as the friend of Mena, as a type of the lettered noble
during the early Renaissance in Spain, Santillana is remembered
as he deserves to be.</p>

<p>He had a taste for the dignity as well as for the pomps
of life. If he entertained the King and arranged tourneys,
he was careful to surround himself with men of letters.
His chaplain, Pedro Díaz de Toledo, translated the <em>Phaedo</em>;
his secretary, Diego de Burgos, was a poet who imitated
Santillana, and commemorated him in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Triunfo del
Marqués</cite>. But Santillana was not a scholar, and made no
pretension to be one. He knew no Greek, and he says that
he never learned Latin. This is not mock-modesty, for his
statement is corroborated by his contemporary, Juan de
Lucena. He tried to make good his deficiencies, airs a Latin
quotation now and then, and must have spelled his way
through Horace, for he has left a pleasing version of the ode
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Beatus ille</cite>. Late in life, he is thought to have read part of
Homer in a Spanish translation probably made (through a
Latin rendering) by his son Pedro González de Mendoza,
the ‘Gran Cardenal de España,’ the Tertius Rex who ruled
almost on terms of equality with Ferdinand and Isabel.
Whatever his shortcomings, Santillana’s admiration for
classic authors was complete. He caused translations to
be made of Virgil, Ovid and Seneca, and records his view
that the word ‘sublime’ should be applied solely to ‘those
who wrote their works in Greek or Latin metres.’ His
interest in learning and his wide general culture are beyond
dispute. His library contained the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de la Rose</cite>, the
works of Guillaume de Machault, of Oton de Granson, and of
Alain Chartier whom he singles out for special praise as the
author of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Belle dame sans merci</cite> and the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Reveil Matin</cite>—‘por
çierto cosas assaz fermosas é plaçientes de oyr.’ He
appeals to the authority of Raimon Vidal, to Jaufré de
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span>
Foixá’s continuation of Vidal, and to the rules laid down by
the Consistory of the Gay Science; and, if we may believe
the lively <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Coplas de la Panadera</em>, he carried his liking for
all things French so far as to appear on the battlefield
of Olmedo</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">armado como francés.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>He had a still deeper admiration for the great Italian
masters. In the preface to his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Comedieta de Ponza</cite>, which
describes the rout of the allied fleets of Castile and Aragón
by the Genoese in 1435, Boccaccio is one of the interlocutors.
There is a patent resemblance between Santillana’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Triunphete
de Amor</cite> and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Trionfi</cite> of Petrarch, who is mentioned
in the first quatrain of the poem:—</p>


<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Vi lo que persona humana</div>
<div class="line">tengo que jamás non vió,</div>
<div class="line">nin Petrarcha qu’ escrivió</div>
<div class="line">de triunphal gloria mundana.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But Dante naturally has the foremost place in Santillana’s
library. Boccaccio’s biography of the poet stands on the
shelves with the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Divina Commedia</cite>, the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Canzoni della vita
nuova</cite>, and the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Convivio</cite>. Without Dante we should not have
Santillana’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sueño</cite>, nor <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Coronación de Mossén Jordi</cite>, nor <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Comedieta de Ponza</cite>, nor the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Diálogo de Bias contra Fortuna</cite>:
at any rate, we should not have them in their actual forms.
Nor should we have <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Infierno de los Enamorados</cite>, in which
Santillana invites a dangerous comparison by adapting to
the circumstances of Macías <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">o Namorado</em> the plaint of
Francesca:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">La mayor cuyta que aver</div>
<div class="line">puede ningun amador</div>
<div class="line">es membrarse del plaçer</div>
<div class="line">en el tiempo del dolor.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>It is not, however, as an imitator of Dante that Santillana
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span>
interests us. He himself was perhaps most proud of his
attempt to naturalise the sonnet form in Spain; but these
forty-two sonnets, <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">fechos al itálico modo</em> in Petrarch’s manner,
are little more than curious, premature experiments. And,
as I have already suggested, the passion of hate concentrated
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Doctrinal de privados</cite> is incommunicative at a distance
of some four centuries and a half. Santillana attains real
excellence in a very different vein. His natural lyrism finds
almost magical expression in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranillas</em> of which <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Vaquera de la Finojosa</cite> is the most celebrated example, and
in the airy <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">desires</cite> which show his relation to the Portuguese-Galician
school. Indeed he has left us one song—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Por amar non saybamente</div>
<div class="line">mays como louco sirvente—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo believes to be ‘one of the last
composed in Galician by a Castilian <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">trovador</em>.’ In these
popular or semi-pastoral lays, so apparently artless and so
artfully ironical, Santillana has never been surpassed by any
Spanish poet, though he is closely pressed by the anonymous
writer of the striking <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranilla morisca</cite> beginning—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">¡Si ganada es Antequera!</div>
<div class="line">¡Oxalá Granada fuera!</div>
<div class="line">¡Sí me levantara un dia</div>
<div class="line">por mirar bien Antequera!</div>
<div class="line">vy mora con ossadía</div>
<div class="line">passear por la rivera—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">and still more closely by the many-sided Lope de Vega in
the famous barcarolle in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Vaquero de Moraña</cite>.</p>

<p>More learned, more professional and less spontaneous than
Santillana, his friend Juan de Mena was in his place as
secretary to Juan <span class="smcap">II</span>. We know little of him except that he
was born at Córdoba in 1411, that his youth was passed in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span>
poverty, that his studies began late, that he travelled in
Italy, and that, after his introduction at court, he was
a universal favourite till his death in 1456. Universal
favourites are apt to be men of supple character, and it must
have needed some dexterity to stand equally well with
Álvaro de Luna and Santillana. Perhaps a Spaniard is
entitled to be judged by the Spanish code, and Spaniards
seem to regard Mena as a man of independent spirit. But
it is unfortunate that our national standards in such matters
differ so widely: for the question of Mena’s personal
character bears on the ascription to him of certain verses
which no courtier could have written.</p>

<p>With the disputable exception of Villena, Juan de Mena is
the worst prose-writer in the Spanish language, and no one
can doubt the justice of this verdict who glances at Mena’s
commentary on his own poem <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Coronación</cite>, or at his
abridged version of the <cite>Iliad</cite> as he found it in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ilias latina</cite>
of Italicus. These lumbering performances are fatal to the
theory that Mena wrote the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de Don Juan II.</cite>, a good
specimen of clear and fluent prose. The ponderous humour
of the verses which he meant to be light is equally fatal to
the theory that he wrote the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Coplas de la Panadera</cite>, a political
pasquinade—not unlike <em>The Rolliad</em>—ascribed with much
more probability by Argote de Molina to Íñigo Ortiz de
Stúñiga. Till very recently, there was a bad habit of
ascribing to Mena anonymous compositions written during
his life—and even afterwards. But this is at an end, and
we shall hear little more of Mena as the author of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de Juan II.</cite>, of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Coplas de la Panadera</cite>, and of
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Celestina</cite>. Henceforward attributions will be based on
some reasonable ground.</p>

<p>Mena had an almost superstitious reverence for the
classics, and describes the <em>Iliad</em> as ‘a holy and seraphic
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span>
work.’ Unfortunately he is embarrassed by his learning, or
rather by a deliberate pedantry which is even more offensive
now than it was in his day. It takes a poet as great as
Milton to carry off a burden of erudition, and Mena was no
Milton. But he was a poet of high aims, and he produced
a genuinely impressive allegorical poem in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Laberinto de
Fortuna</cite>, more commonly known as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Trezientas</cite>. The
explanation of this popular title is simple. The poem in its
original form consisted of nearly three hundred stanzas—297
to be precise—and another hand has added three more,
no doubt to make the poem correspond exactly to its
current title. Some of you may remember the story of
Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s asking Mena to write sixty-five more stanzas so
that there might be one for every day in the year; and the
poet is said to have died leaving only twenty-four of these
additional stanzas behind him. This is quite a respectable
tradition as traditions go, for it is recorded by the celebrated
commentator Hernán Núñez, who wrote within half
a century of the poet’s death. We cannot, of course, know
what Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> said, or did not say, to Mena; but the twenty-four
stanzas are in existence, and the internal evidence goes
to show that they were written after Mena’s time. They
deal severely with the King—the ‘prepotente señor’ of whom
Mena always speaks, as a court poet must speak, in terms
of effusive compliment. Here, however, the question of
character arises, and, as I have already noted, Spaniards
and foreigners are at variance.</p>

<p>Thanks to M. Foulché-Delbosc, we are all of us at last
able to read <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Laberinto de Fortuna</cite> in a critical edition,
and to study the history of the text reconstructed for us
by the most indefatigable and exact scholar now working
in the field of Spanish literature. It has been denied
that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Laberinto de Fortuna</cite> owes anything to the <cite lang="it" xml:lang="it">Divina
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span>
Commedia</cite>. The influence of Dante is plain in the adoption
of the seven planetary circles, in the fording of the
stream, in the vision of what was, and is, and is to be.
The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Laberinto</cite> contains reminiscences of the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de la
Rose</cite>, and passages freely translated from Mena’s fellow-townsman
Lucan. It is derivative, and, though comparatively
short, it is often tedious. But are not most
allegorical poems tedious? Macaulay has been reproached
for saying that few readers are ‘in at the death of the
Blatant Beast’: the fact being that Macaulay’s wonderful
memory failed for once. The Blatant Beast was never
killed. But how many educated men, how many professional
literary critics, can truthfully say that they have read the
whole of the <cite>Faerie Queene</cite>? How many of these few are
prepared to have their knowledge tested? I notice that,
now as always, a significant silence follows these innocent
questions; and, merely pausing to observe that there are
two cantos on Mutability to read after the Blatant Beast
breaks ‘his yron chaine’ in the Sixth Book, I pass on.</p>

<p>The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Laberinto</cite>, with its constant over-emphasis, is not to
be compared with the <cite>Faerie Queene</cite>; but it has passages of
stately beauty, it breathes a passionate pride in the glory of
Castile, and, while the poet does all that metrical skill can
do to lessen the monotonous throb of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">versos de arte mayor</em>,
he also strives to endow Spain with a new poetic diction.
Mena thought meanly of the vernacular—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">el rudo y desierto
romance</em>—as a vehicle of expression, and he was logically
driven to innovate. He failed, partly because he latinised
to excess; yet many of his novelties—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">diáfano</em> and <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">nítido</em>, for
example—are now part and parcel of the language, and
many more deserved a better fate than death by ridicule.
Like Herrera, who attempted a similar reform in the next
century, Mena was too far in advance of his contemporaries;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span>
but this is not necessarily a sign of unintelligence. Mena
was too closely wedded to his classical idols to develop into
a great poet; still, at his happiest, he is a poet of real
impressiveness, and his command of exalted rhetoric and
resonant music enable him to represent—better even than
Góngora, a far more splendid artist—the characteristic
tradition of the poetical school of Córdoba.</p>

<p>I must find time to say a few words about Juan Rodríguez
de la Cámara (also called, after his supposed birthplace in
Galicia, Rodríguez del Padrón), whose few scattered poems
are mostly love-songs, less scandalous than might be expected
from such alarming titles as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Mandamientos de
Amor</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Siete Gozos de Amor</cite>. Nothing in these amatory
lyrics is so attractive as the legend which has formed round
their author. He is supposed to have served in the household
of Cardinal Juan de Cervantes about the year 1434, to
have travelled in Italy and in the East, to have been page
to Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, to have become entangled at court in some
perilous amour, to have brought about a breach by his
indiscreet revelations to a talkative friend, to have fled into
solitude, and to have become a Franciscan monk. Some
such story is adumbrated in Rodríguez de la Cámara’s novel
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Siervo libre de Amor</cite>, and the romantic part of it—the
love-episode—is confirmed by the official chronicler of the
Franciscan Order. An anonymous writer of the sixteenth
century goes on to state that Rodríguez de la Cámara went
to France, became the lover of the French queen, and was
killed near Calais in an attempt to escape to England. The
imaginative nature of this postscript discredits the writer’s
assertion that Rodríguez de la Cámara’s mistress at the
Spanish court was Queen Juana, the second wife of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s
son, Enrique <span class="smcap">IV.</span> Rightly or wrongly, Juana of Portugal is
credited with many lovers, but Rodríguez de la Cámara
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span>
was certainly not one of them. As <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Siervo libre de Amor</cite>
was written not later than 1439, the adventures recounted
in it must have occurred—if they ever occurred at all—before
this date; but the future Enrique <span class="smcap">IV.</span> was first married in
1440 (to Blanca of Navarre), and his second marriage (to
Juana of Portugal) did not take place till 1455. A simple
comparison of dates is enough to ensure Juana’s acquittal.
Few people like to see a scandalous story about historical
personages destroyed in this cold-blooded way, and it has
accordingly been suggested that the heroine was Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s
second wife, the Isabel of Portugal who brought Álvaro de
Luna to the scaffold. The substitution is capricious, but it
has a plausible air. Chronology, again, comes to the rescue.
Rodríguez de la Cámara became a monk before 1445, and
Isabel of Portugal did not marry Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> till 1447. The
identity of the lady is even harder to establish than that of
the elusive Portuguese beauty celebrated during the next
century by Bernardim de Ribeiro in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Menina e Moça</cite>.</p>

<p>There are scores of Spanish books which you may read
more profitably than Rodríguez de la Cámara’s novels. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Siervo
libre de Amor</cite> and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Estoria de los dos amadores, Ardanlier
é Liessa</cite>; and better verses than any he ever wrote may be
found in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancionero</cite> of Juan Alfonso de Baena, who
formed this <em>corpus poeticum</em> at some date previous to the
death of Queen María, Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s first wife, in 1445. But
Rodríguez de la Cámara has the distinction of being the
first courtly poet to put his name to a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>. One of the
three which he signs, and which were first brought to light
by Professor Rennert, is a recast of a famous <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> on
Count Arnaldos. He was not the only court-poet of his
time who condescended to write in the popular vein. Two
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, one of them bearing the date 1442, are given in
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancionero de Stúñiga</em> above the name of Carvajal who,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span>
as he resided at the court of Alfonso <span class="smcap">V.</span> of Aragón in
Naples, is outside the limits of our jurisdiction. But the
best <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, the work of anonymous poets disdained by
Santillana and more learned writers, will afford matter for
another lecture.</p>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER IV<br /><br />

<small>THE <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">ROMANCERO</cite></small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">The</span> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero</cite> has been described, in a phrase attributed
to Lope de Vega, as ‘an <em>Iliad</em> without a Homer.’ More
prosaically, it is a collection of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>; and, before going
further, it may be as well to observe that the meaning of
the word <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> has become much restricted in course
of time. Originally used to designate the varieties of speech
derived from Latin, it was applied later only to the body of
written literature in the different vernaculars of Romania,
and then, by another limitation, it was applied solely to
poems written in these languages. Lastly, the meaning of
the word was still further narrowed in Spanish, and a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
has now come to mean a special form of verse-composition—an
epical-lyric poem arranged primarily in lines of sixteen
syllables with one assonance sustained throughout. There
are occasional variants from the type. Some few <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
have a refrain; in some of the oldest <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> there is a
change of assonance: but the normal form of the genuine
popular <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> is what I have just described it to be.
There should be no mistake on this point, and yet a
mistake may easily be made. Though the metrical
structure of these popular Spanish ballads had been
demonstrated as far back as 1815 by Grimm in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Silva
de romances viejos</cite>, so good a scholar as Agustín Durán—to
whom we owe the largest existing collection of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>—has
printed them in such a shape as to give the impression
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span>
that they were written in octosyllabics of which only the
even lines (2, 4, 6, 8, etc.) are assonanced. Moreover, he
expounds this theory in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Discurso preliminar</cite>, and his view
is supported by the high authority of Wolf.<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">6</a> Still, it cannot
be maintained. It is undoubtedly true that the later artistic
ballads of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, written
by professional poets like Lope de Vega and Góngora, were
composed in the form which Durán describes. We are not
concerned this afternoon, however, with these brilliant artificial
imitations, but with the authentic, primitive ballads of
the people. These old Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, I repeat, are written
normally in lines of sixteen syllables, every line ending in a
uniform assonance. They should be printed so as to make
this clear, and indeed they are so printed by the celebrated
scholar Antonio de Nebrija who, in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Gramática sobre la
lengua castellana</cite> (1492), quotes three lines from one of the
Lancelot ballads:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Digas tu el ermitaño&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que hazes la vida santa:</div>
<div class="line">Aquel ciervo del pie blanco&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;donde haze su morada.</div>
<div class="line">Por aqui passo esta noche&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;un hora antes del alva.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>There are other erroneous theories respecting the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
against which you should be warned at the outset. Sancho
Panza, in his pleasant way, informed the Duchess that these
ballads were ‘too old to lie’; but he gives no particulars as
to their age, and thereby shows his wisdom. Most English
readers who are not specialists take their information on the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span>
subject from Lockhart’s Introduction to his <cite>Ancient Spanish
Ballads</cite>, a volume containing free translations of fifty-three
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, published in 1823. Lockhart, who drew most of
his material from Depping,<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">7</a> probably knew as much about
the matter as any one of his time in England; but, though
we move slowly in our Spanish studies, we make some progress,
and Lockhart’s opinions on certain points relating to
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> are no longer tenable. He notes, for example,
that the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancionero general</cite> contains ‘several pieces which
bear the name of Don Juan Manuel,’ identifies this writer
with the author of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Conde Lucanor</cite>, states that these
pieces ‘are among the most modern in the collection,’ and
naturally concludes that most of the remaining pieces must
have been written long before 1348, the year of Don Juan
Manuel’s death. Lockhart goes on to observe that the
Moors undoubtedly exerted ‘great and remarkable influence
over Spanish thought and feeling—and therefore over
Spanish language and poetry’; and, though he does not
say so in precise terms, he leaves the impression that this
reputed Arabic influence is visible in the Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>.
These views, widely held in Lockhart’s day, are now
abandoned by all competent scholars; but unfortunately
they still prevail among the general public.</p>

<p>Milá y Fontanals, who incidentally informs us that Corneille
was the first foreigner to quote a Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>,<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">8</a>
states that these theories as to the antiquity and Arabic origin
of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> were first advanced by another foreigner—Pierre-Daniel
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span>
Huet, Bishop of Avranches—towards the
end of the seventeenth century.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">9</a> But they made little
way till 1820, when the theory of Arabic origin was confidently
reiterated by Conde in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de la dominación
de los árabes en España</cite>. Conde’s scholarship has been
declared inadequate by later Orientalists, and the rest of
us must be content to accept the verdict of these experts
who alone have any right to an opinion on the matter. But
it cannot be disputed that Conde had the knack of presenting
a case plausibly, and of passing off a conjecture
for a fact. Hence he made many converts who perhaps
exaggerated his views. It is just possible—though unlikely—that
there may be some slight relation between an Arabic
<em>zajal</em> and such a Spanish composition as the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranilla</em> quoted
in the last lecture:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">¡Sí ganada es Antequera!</div>
<div class="line">¡Oxalá Granada fuera!</div>
<div class="line">¡Sí me levantara un dia</div>
<div class="line">por mirar bien Antequera!</div>
<div class="line">vy mora con ossadía</div>
<div class="line">passear por la rivera.</div>
<div class="line">Sola va, sin compannera,</div>
<div class="line">en garnachas de un contray.</div>
<div class="line">Yo le dixe: ‘<em>Alá çulay</em>.’—</div>
<div class="line">‘<i>Calema</i>,’ me respondiera.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But, in the first place, a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranilla</em> is not a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>; and, in
the second place, a more probable counter-theory derives
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">serranilla</em> form from the Portuguese-Galician lyrics which
are themselves of French origin. Beyond this very disputable
relation, there is no basis for Conde’s theory. Dozy has
shown conclusively that nothing could be more unlike than
the elaborately learned conventions of Arabic verse and
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span>
the untutored methods of the Spanish <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, the artless
expression of spontaneous popular poetry. It may be taken
as established that there is no trace of Arabic influence in
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, and there is no sound reason for thinking that
any existing <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> is of remote antiquity. So far from
there being many extant specimens dating from before the
time of Don Juan Manuel, there are none. What some
have believed to be the oldest known <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Alburquerque, Alburquerque,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;bien mereces ser honrado<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">10</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">refers to an incident which occurred in 1430, almost a
century after Don Juan Manuel’s death; and even if we
take for granted that one of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances fronterizos</em> or
border-ballads—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Cercada tiene á Baeza&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ese arráez Audalla Mir<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">11</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">was first written as early as 1368, we are still twenty years
after Don Juan Manuel’s time. There may be <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
which in their original form were written before these two;
but, if so, they are unrecognisable. The authentic <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
lived only in oral tradition; they were not thought worth
writing down, and they were not printed till late in the
day. The older a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> is, the more unlikely it is to
reach us unchanged. No existing <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>, in its present
form, can be referred to any period earlier than the fifteenth
century, and <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> of this date are comparatively rare.</p>

<p>The first to mention this class of composition is Santillana
in his well-known letter to the Constable of Portugal written
shortly before 1450, and he dismisses the popular balladists
with all the disdain of a gentleman who writes at his ease.
‘Contemptible poets are those who without any order, rule
or rhythm make those songs and <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> in which low folk,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span>
and of menial station, take delight.’ A cause must be prospering
before it is denounced in this fashion, and it may
therefore be assumed that many <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> were current when
Santillana delivered judgment. Writing in 1492 and quoting
from the Lancelot ballad already mentioned, Nebrija
speaks of it as ‘aquel romance antiguo’; but ‘old’ has a
very relative meaning, and Nebrija may have thought that
a ballad composed fifty years earlier deserved to be called
‘old.’ At any rate, the oldest <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> no doubt took
their final form between the time of Santillana’s youth and
Nebrija’s, and the introduction of printing into Spain has
saved some of these for us. But—it must be said again
and again—they are comparatively few in number, and no
Spanish ballad is anything like as ancient as our own <em>Judas</em>
ballad which exists in a thirteenth-century manuscript at
Trinity College, Cambridge.</p>

<p>Santillana slightly overstates his case when he speaks
of those who composed <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> as ‘contemptible poets’
catering for the rabble. We have seen that Rodrígue de
la Cámara and Carvajal both wrote <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> in the fourth or
fifth decade of the fifteenth century. Santillana cannot have
meant to speak contemptuously of his two contemporaries,
one a poet at the Castilian court of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, and the other
a poet at the Neapolitan court of Alfonso <span class="smcap">V.</span> of Aragón; he
evidently knew nothing of these artistic <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, and would
have been pained to hear that educated men countenanced
such stuff. No doubt other educated men besides Rodríguez
de la Cámara and Carvajal wrote in the popular manner;
possibly the Lancelot ballad quoted by Nebrija is the work
of some court-poet: the conditions were changing, and—though
Santillana was perhaps unaware of it—the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
were rising in esteem. But Santillana is right as regards the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span>
earlier period. The primitive writers of popular <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
were men of humble station, the impoverished representatives
of those who had sung the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</em>. These
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</em> were worked into the substance of histories
and chronicles, and then went out of fashion. The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">juglares</em>
or singers came down in the world; in the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries they had been welcome at courts and
castles where they chanted long epics; by the fourteenth
century they sang corrupt abridgments of these epics to
less distinguished audiences; by the fifteenth century the
epical songs were broken up. The themes were kept alive
by oral tradition in the shape of shorter lyrical narratives,
and these transformed fragments of the old epics were the
primitive <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> condemned by Santillana.</p>

<p>The subjects of these popular ballads were historical or
legendary characters like Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio,
the Counts of Castile, Fernán González, the Infantes of
Lara, the Cid and his lieutenant, and other local heroes.
Later on, the nameless poets of the people were tempted
to deal with the sinister stories which crystallised round the
name of Peter the Cruel, the long struggle against the
Moors, episodes famous in the Arthurian legends and the
books of chivalry, exploits recorded in the chronicles of
foreign countries, miscellaneous incidents borrowed from
diverse sources. It was gradually recognised that the
popular instinct had discovered a most effective vehicle of
poetic expression; more educated versifiers followed the lead
of Rodríguez de la Cámara and Carvajal, but with a certain
shamefaced air. The collections of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> published by
Alonso de Fuentes and Lorenzo de Sepúlveda (in 1550 and
1551 respectively) are mainly the work of lettered courtiers
who, like the ‘Cæsarean Knight’—the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Caballero Cesáreo</em>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span>
who contributed to the second edition of Sepúlveda’s book—are
conscious of their condescension, and withhold their
names, under the quaint delusion that they are ‘reserved
for greater things.’</p>

<p>But this bashfulness soon wore off. Before the end of the
sixteenth century famous writers like Lope de Vega and
Góngora proved themselves to be masters of the ballad-form,
and within a comparatively short while there came
into existence the mass of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> which fill the two
volumes of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite> published in 16OO and
1605. The best of these are brilliant performances; but
they are late, artistic imitations. For genuine old popular
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> we must look in broadsides, or in the collections
issued at Antwerp and Saragossa in the middle of the sixteenth
century by Martín Nucio and Esteban de Nájera
respectively. We may also read them (with a good deal
more) in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera y Flor de romances</cite> edited by Wolf
and Hofmann; and, most conveniently of all, in the amplified
reprint of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite> for which we are indebted
to Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo, the most eminent of living
Spanish scholars. But the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>—not all of them very
ancient—in the amplified <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite> fill three volumes; and,
as it would be impossible to examine them one by one, it
has occurred to me that the only practical plan is to take
Lockhart as a basis, and to comment briefly on the ballads
represented in his volume of translations—which I see some
of you consulting. There may be occasion, also, to point
out some omissions.</p>

<p>Lockhart begins with a translation of a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> quoted in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> by Ginés de Pasamonte, after the destruction of
his puppet-show by the scandalised knight:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Las huestes de don Rodrigo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;desmayaban y huian.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">12</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span>
The English rendering, though not very exact throughout,
is adequate and spirited enough:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay,</div>
<div class="line">When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they;</div>
<div class="line">He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown,</div>
<div class="line">He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">In a prefatory note to his version, Lockhart says that this
ballad ‘appears to be one of the oldest among the great
number relating to the Moorish conquest of Spain.’ This
is somewhat vague, but the remark might easily lead an
ingenuous reader to think that the ballad was very ancient.
This is not so. There is a thirteenth-century French epic,
entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Anséis de Carthage</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">13</a> which represents Charlemagne
as establishing in Spain a vassal king named Anséis. Anséis
dishonours Letise, daughter of Ysorés de Conimbre, and
Ysorés takes vengeance by introducing the Arabs into Spain.
Clearly this is another version of the legend concerning the
dishonour of ‘La Cava,’ daughter of Count Julian (otherwise
Illán or Urbán) by Roderick. Anséis is manifestly
Roderick, Letise is ‘La Cava,’ Ysorés is Julian, and Carthage
may be meant for Cartagena. The transmission of this story
to France, and a passage in the chronicle of the Moor Rasis—which
survives only in a Spanish translation made from
a Portuguese version during the fourteenth century by a
certain Maestro Muhammad (who dictated apparently to a
churchman called Gil Pérez)—would point to the existence
of ancient Spanish epics on Roderick’s overthrow. But no
vestige of these epics survives.</p>

<p>The oldest extant <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> relating to Roderick are
derived from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica Sarrazyna</cite> of Pedro del Corral,
‘a lewd and presumptuous fellow,’ who trumped up a parcel
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span>
of lies, according to Pérez de Guzmán. Corral’s book is
not all lies: he compiled it from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>, the
chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica Troyana</cite>, and
padded it out with inventions of his own. But the point
that interests us is that Corral made his compilation about
the year 1443, and it follows that the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> derived
from it must be of later date. They are much later: the
oldest were not written till the sixteenth century, and therefore
they are not really ancient nor popular. But some of
them have a few memorable lines. For instance, in the
first ballad translated by Lockhart:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Last night I was the King of Spain—to-day no king am I;</div>
<div class="line">Last night fair castles held my train,—to-night where shall I lie?</div>
<div class="line">Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,—</div>
<div class="line">To-night not one I call mine own:—not one pertains to me.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">There is charm, also, in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> which begins with
the line:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Los vientos eran contrarios,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la luna estaba crecida.<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">14</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And as Lockhart omits this, I may quote the opening in
Gibson’s excellent version<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">15</a>:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The winds were sadly moaning, the moon was on the change,</div>
<div class="line">The fishes they were gasping, the skies were wild and strange,</div>
<div class="line">’Twas then that Don Rodrigo beside La Cava slept.</div>
<div class="line">Within a tent of splendour, with golden hangings deckt.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Three hundred cords of silver did hold it firm and free,</div>
<div class="line">Within a hundred maidens stood passing fair to see;</div>
<div class="line">The fifty they were playing with finest harmonie,</div>
<div class="line">The fifty they were singing with sweetest melodie.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">A maid they called Fortuna uprose and thus she spake:</div>
<div class="line">‘If thou sleepest, Don Rodrigo, I pray thee now awake;</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span>Thine evil fate is on thee, thy kingdom it doth fall,</div>
<div class="line">Thy people perish, and thy hosts are scattered one and all,</div>
<div class="line">Thy famous towns and cities fall in a single day,</div>
<div class="line">And o’er thy forts and castles another lord bears sway.’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> of this series have perhaps met with rather
more success than they deserved on their intrinsic merits.
The second ballad translated by Lockhart—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Despues que el rey don Rodrigo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;á España perdido habia<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">16</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is quoted by Doña Rodríguez in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>; and the simple
chance that these <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> were lodged in Cervantes’s
memory has made them familiar to everybody. Nor is this
the end of their good fortune, for the first ballad translated
by Lockhart caught the attention of Victor Hugo, who
incorporated a fragment of it in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Bataille perdue</cite>.<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">17</a> Among
the twenty-five <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on Roderick in Durán’s collection,
those by Timoneda, Lorenzo de Sepúlveda, and Gabriel Lobo
Lasso de la Vega can, of course, be no older than the
middle or the latter half of the sixteenth century. Others,
though anonymous, can be shown to belong, at the earliest,
to the extreme end of the sixteenth century.</p>

<p>In a note to the eighth poem in his anthology—<cite>The Escape
of Count Fernan Gonzalez</cite>—Lockhart mentions ‘La Cava,’ and
remarks that ‘no child in Spain was ever christened by that
ominous name after the downfall of the Gothic Kingdom.’
Sweeping statements of this kind are generally dangerous,
but in this particular case one might safely go further, and
say that no child in Spain, or anywhere else, was ever
christened ‘La Cava’ at any time. ‘Cava’ appears to be an
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span>
abbreviation or variant of the name ‘Alataba,’ and it is first
given as the name of Count Julian’s daughter by the Moor
Rasis, an Arab historian who lived two centuries after the
downfall of the Gothic kingdom, and whose chronicle, as I
have already said, survives only in a fourteenth-century
Spanish translation made through the Portuguese. We cannot
feel sure that the name ‘Cava’ occurred in the original
Arabic; and, even if it did, no testimony given two hundred
years after an event can be decisive. But why does Lockhart
think that ‘Cava’ was an ominous name? Perhaps because
he took it to be the Arabic word for a wanton. This is,
in fact, the explanation given in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia verdadera del
rey don Rodrigo y de la pérdida de España</cite>, which purports
to be a translation from the Arabic of Abulcacim Tarif
Abentarique. It is nothing of the kind. Abentarique is
a mythical personage, and his supposititious chronicle was
fabricated at Granada by a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">morisco</em> called Miguel de Luna
who, by the way, was the first to assert that ‘La Cava’s’ real
name was Florinda. These circumstances enable us to
assign a modern date to certain <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> which are popularly
supposed to be ancient. If a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> speaks of Roderick’s
alleged victim as ‘La Cava’ in a derogatory sense, we know
at once that it was written after the publication of Luna’s
forgery in 1589: and accordingly we must reject as a late
invention the notorious ballad beginning—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
De una torre de palacio&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;se salió por un postigo.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">18</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>In Lockhart’s second group of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> the central figure
is Bernardo del Carpio who, says the translator, ‘belongs
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span>
exclusively to Spanish History, or rather perhaps to Spanish
Romance.’ The word ‘perhaps’ may be omitted. Bernardo
del Carpio was a fabulous paladin invented by the popular
poets of Castile, who, either through the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>,
or some similar poem, had heard of Charlemagne’s victories in
the Peninsula. It is not absolutely certain that Charlemagne
ever invaded Spain; still, his expedition is recorded by Arab
historians as well as by Castilian chroniclers, and no doubt
it was commonly believed to be an historical fact. But, as
time went on, the idea that Charlemagne had carried all
before him offended the patriotic sentiment of the Castilian
folk-poets, and this led them to give the story a very different
turn. What happened precisely is not clear, but the explanation
suggested by Milá y Fontanals and Sr. Menéndez y
Pelayo is ingenious and probable. Attracted perhaps by
the French name of Bernardo, the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">juglares</em> seem to have
seized upon the far-off figure of a certain Bernardo (son of
Ramón, Count of Ribagorza), who had headed successful
raids against the Arabs. They removed the scene of his
exploits from Aragón to Castile, transformed him into the
son of the Count de Saldaña and Thiber, Charlemagne’s
sister—or, alternatively, the son of the Count Don Sancho
and Jimena, sister of Alfonso the Chaste—called him
Bernardo del Carpio, and hailed him as the champion of
Castile. The childless Alfonso is represented as inviting
Charlemagne to succeed him when he dies; the mythical
Bernardo protests in the name of Alfonso’s subjects, and
the offer is withdrawn; thereupon Charlemagne invades
Spain, and is defeated at Roncesvalles—not, as in the
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite>, by the Arabs, but—by Spaniards from
the different provinces united under the leadership of
Bernardo del Carpio. The <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> speaks of Bernardo’s
slaying with his own hand ‘un alto ome de Francia
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span>
que avie nombre Buesso,’ and this was developed later into
a personal combat between Roland and Bernardo del Carpio
who, of course, is the victor. These imaginary exploits
were celebrated in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantares de gesta</cite> of which fragments
are believed to be embedded in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>, and
these are represented by three <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>. None of the forty-six
ballads in the Bernardo del Carpio series can be regarded
as ancient with the possible exception of—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Con cartas y mensajeros&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el rey al Carpio envió<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">19</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">quoted in the Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. This <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>,
as Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo thinks, is derived from a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cantar
de gesta</em> written after the compilation of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>.
Of the Bernardo <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> printed in Duran’s collection four
are by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda, four by Gabriel Lobo Lasso
de la Vega, and three by Lucas Rodríguez. Lockhart’s
four examples are all modern, and his renderings are not
specially successful; but in the original the first of the four—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Con tres mil y mas leoneses&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;deja la ciudad Bernardo<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">20</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is a capital imitation of a popular ballad. It makes its
earliest appearance in the 1604 edition of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero
general</cite>, and that is enough to prove its modernity.</p>

<p>Another modern ballad, which is also first found in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite>, is translated by Lockhart under the
title of <cite>The Maiden Tribute</cite>. Neither the translation nor
the original—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">En consulta estaba un dia&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;con sus grandes y consejo<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">21</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span>calls for comment. A similar legend is associated with the
name of Fernán González, the hero of the eighth poem
in Lockhart’s book. Fernán González, Count of Castile,
was an historical personage more remarkable as a political
strategist than as a leader in the field. However, he makes
a gallant figure in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema de Fernán González</cite>, a thirteenth-century
poem written in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">quaderna vía</cite>, which appears to
have been imitated a hundred years later by the French
author of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hernaut de Beaulande</cite>. But no extant <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
on Fernán González is based on the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema</cite>. The ballad
translated by Lockhart—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Preso está Fernán González&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el gran conde de Castilla<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">22</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">comes from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Estoria del noble caballero Fernán González</cite>,
a popular arrangement of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> as recast in
1344. The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> is a good enough piece of work, but
it is more modern than the ballad beginning</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Buen conde Fernán González&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el rey envia por vos;<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">23</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">and this last <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> is less interesting than another ballad
of the same period:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Castellanos y leoneses&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tienen grandes divisiones.<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">24</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Both of these are thought to represent a lost epic which
was worked into the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite> of 1344.</p>

<p>Lockhart prints translations of two <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> relating to
the Infantes of Lara, one of them being modern,<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">25</a> and the
other the famous</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A cazar va don Rodrigo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;y aun don Rodrigo de Lara.<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">26</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This was quoted by Sancho Panza, and—as M. Foulché-Delbosc
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span>
was the first to point out—it has had the distinction
of being splendidly adapted by Victor Hugo in the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Orientales</cite>
(xxx.) under the fantastic title of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Romance Mauresque</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Don Rodrigue est à la chasse</div>
<div class="line">Sans épée et sans cuirasse,</div>
<div class="line">Un jour d’été, vers midi,</div>
<div class="line">Sous la feuillée et sur l’herbe</div>
<div class="line">Il s’assied, l’homme superbe,</div>
<div class="line">Don Rodrigue le hardi.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">In this instance we have to do with a genuine old <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
derived—more or less indirectly—from a lost epic on the
Infantes of Lara written between 1268 and 1344, or perhaps
from a lost recast of this lost epic. And Lockhart might
have chosen other ballads of even more energetic inspiration
which spring from the same source. Among these are—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A Calatrava la Vieja&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la combaten castellanos<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">27</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">in which Rodrigo de Lara vows vengeance for the insult
offered to his wife by Gonzalo González, the youngest of
the Infantes of Lara; and that genuine masterpiece of
barbaric but poignant pathos in which Gonzalo Gustios kisses
the severed heads of his seven murdered sons:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Pártese el more Alicante&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;víspera de sant Cebrián.<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">28</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And to these Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo would add a third
ballad beginning with the line:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ya se salen de Castilla&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;castellanos con gran saña.<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">29</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But, if a foreigner may be allowed an opinion, this falls far
short of the others in force and fire.</p>

<p>The next ballad given by Lockhart, entitled <cite>The Wedding
of the Lady Theresa</cite>, is a translation of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">En los reinos de León&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el Quinto Alfonso reinaba<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">30</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span></p>

<p class="noindent">first printed by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda, who may perhaps
have written it. Whatever doubt there may be as to the
authorship, there is none as to the date of this composition:
it is no earlier than the sixteenth century. There would
seem to be some basis of fact for the story that some
Christian princess married some prominent Arab chief; but
there is a confusion between Almanzor and the Toledan
governor Abdallah on the one hand, and a confusion
between Alfonso <span class="smcap">V.</span> of León and his father Bermudo <span class="smcap">II.</span> on
the other hand, not to speak of chronological difficulties and
the like. But we need not try to unravel the tangle, for
there is no authentic old <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> on the Infanta Teresa,
though a poem on the subject—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Casamiento se hacia&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que á Dios ha desagradado<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">31</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">has crept into the collection edited by Wolf and Hofmann,
This is not unimpressive as a piece of poetic narrative; yet
as it is written—not in assonances, but—in perfect rhyme,
it is not a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> at all, according to the definition with
which we began.</p>

<p>In his choice of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on the Cid Lockhart has not
been altogether happy. He begins well with a translation
of the admirable</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Cabalga Diego Laínez&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;al buen rey besar la mano.<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">32</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is probably no older than the sixteenth century, yet,
apart from its poetic beauty, it has a special interest as
deriving from a lost <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cantar de Rodrigo</cite> which differed from
the extant <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>. But the remaining poems in
Lockhart’s group are mostly poor and recent imitations.
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ximena demands vengeance</cite> is translated from</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Grande rumor se levanta&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;de gritos, armas, y voces.<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">33</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span></p>

<p class="noindent">But this <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> appears for the first time in Escobar’s
collection published as late as 1612. Then, again. <cite>The Cid
and the Five Moorish Kings</cite> is translated from</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Reyes moros en Castilla&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;entran con gran alarido.<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">34</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And this is first given by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda who also
prints the original of the next ballad, <cite>The Cid’s Courtship</cite>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">De Rodrigo de Vivar&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;muy grande fama corria.<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">35</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Upon this follows a translation of a ballad which, says Lockhart,
‘contains some curious traits of rough and antique
manners,’ and ‘is not included in Escobar’s collection.’ The
ballad, which Lockhart entitles <cite>The Cid’s Wedding</cite>, is translated
from</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A su palacio de Burgos,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;como buen padrino honrado.<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">36</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But there is nothing antique about it; it was written in
Escobar’s own time, and appeared first in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero
general</cite>. Nor is there anything antique in the original of
<cite>The Cid and the Leper</cite>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ya se parte don Rodrigo,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que de Vivar se apellida.<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">37</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is first printed by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda, who is also
the first to give</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ya se parte de Toledo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ese buen Cid afamado,<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">38</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which Lockhart, whose version begins at the eleventh line,
calls <em>Bavieca</em>. These are, of course, no older than the
sixteenth century, and this is also the date of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A concilio dentro en Roma,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;á concilio bien llamado,<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">39</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span></p>

<p class="noindent">entitled <cite>The Excommunication of the Cid</cite> in the English
version. There is a note of disrespect in the original which
need cause no surprise, for our Spanish friends, though
incorruptibly orthodox, keep their religion and their politics
more apart than one might think, and at this very period
Charles <span class="smcap">V.</span> had shown unmistakably that he knew how to
put a Pope in his place as regards temporal matters. But
it need scarcely be said that the Spanish contains nothing
equivalent to Lockhart’s—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The Pope he sitteth above them all, <em>that they may kiss his toe</em>—</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">a Protestant interpolation so grotesque as to be wholly
out of keeping in any Spanish poem.</p>

<p>You will see, then, that most of the Cid ballads translated
by Lockhart are unrepresentative. He might have given
us a version of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Dia era de los reyes,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;dia era señalado<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">40</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">one of three <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em><a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">41</a> which are taken from the same
source as the first in his group—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Cabalga Diego Laínez&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;al buen rey besar la mano.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But the deficiency has been made good by Gibson who notes
as a proof of the ballad’s modernity—it is no older than the
sixteenth century—the inclusion of a passage from the Lara
legend—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">It was the feast-day of the Kings,</div>
<div class="line i1">A high and holy day,</div>
<div class="line">Venn all the dames and damosels</div>
<div class="line i1">The King for hansel pray.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span></div>
<div class="line">All save Ximena Gomez,</div>
<div class="line i1">The Count Lozano’s child,</div>
<div class="line">And she has knelt low at his feet,</div>
<div class="line i1">And cries with dolour wild:</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">‘My mother died of sorrow, King,</div>
<div class="line i1">In sorrow still live I;</div>
<div class="line">I see the man who slew my Sire</div>
<div class="line i1">Each day that passes by.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">A horseman on a hunting horse,</div>
<div class="line i1">With hawk in hand rides he;</div>
<div class="line">And in my dove-cot feeds his bird,</div>
<div class="line i1">To show his spite at me....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">I sent to tell him of my grief,</div>
<div class="line i1">He sent to threaten me,</div>
<div class="line">That he would cut my skirts away,</div>
<div class="line i1">Most shameful for to see!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">That he would put my maids to scorn,</div>
<div class="line i1">The wedded and to wed,</div>
<div class="line">And underneath my silken gown</div>
<div class="line i1">My little page strike dead!...’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Of the two hundred and five <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on the Cid printed
by Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos, probably one hundred
and eighty at least may be considered modern, and some we
know to have been written by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda, Lucas
Rodríguez, and Juan de la Cueva. But the rest are doubtless
ancient (as <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> go), and it is unfortunate that
Lockhart gives no specimen of the ballads on the siege of
Zamora. For example, the celebrated ballad that begins</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Riberas del Duero arriba&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;cabalgan dos Zamoranos<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">42</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">a splendid <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> the opening of which may be quoted
from Gibson’s rendering:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Along the Douro’s bank there ride</div>
<div class="line i1">Two gallant Zamorese</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span>On sorrel steeds; their banners green</div>
<div class="line i1">Are fluttering in the breeze.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Their armour is of finest steel,</div>
<div class="line i1">And rich their burnished brands;</div>
<div class="line">They bear their shields before their breasts,</div>
<div class="line i1">Stout lances in their hands.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">They ride their steeds with pointed spurs,</div>
<div class="line i1">And bits of silver fine;</div>
<div class="line">More gallant men were never seen,</div>
<div class="line i1">So bright their arms do shine.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Then follow their challenge to any two knights in Sancho’s
camp (except the King himself and the Cid), its acceptance
by the two Counts, the Cid’s mocking intervention, and the
encounter:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The Counts arrive; one clad in black,</div>
<div class="line i1">And one in crimson bright;</div>
<div class="line">The opposing ranks each other meet,</div>
<div class="line i1">And furious is the fight.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">The youth has quick unhorsed his man,</div>
<div class="line i1">With sturdy stroke and true;</div>
<div class="line">The Sire has pierced the other’s mail,</div>
<div class="line i1">And sent his lance right through.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">The horseless knight, pale at the sight,</div>
<div class="line i1">Ran hurrying from the fray;</div>
<div class="line">Back to Zamora ride the twain,</div>
<div class="line i1">With glory crowned that day!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And another <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> worth giving from the Zamora series
is the impressive</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Por aquel postigo viejo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que nunca fuera cerrado.<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">43</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Fortunately, Lockhart’s omission has been made good by
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span>
Gibson, though of course no translation can do more than
give a hint of the original:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">On through the ancient gateway,</div>
<div class="line i1">That had nor lock nor bar,</div>
<div class="line">I saw a crimson banner come,</div>
<div class="line i1">With three hundred horse of war;</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">I saw them bear a coffin,</div>
<div class="line i1">And black was its array;</div>
<div class="line">And placed within the coffin</div>
<div class="line i1">A noble body lay....</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>These ballads are included in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero del Cid</cite>, and
they are particularly interesting as being the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</em> of a
lost epic on the siege of Zamora which has apparently been
utilised in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica general</cite>; but perhaps a translator
might excuse himself for not dealing with them on the
ground that the Cid only appears incidentally. Indeed in</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Por aquel postigo viejo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que nunca fuera cerrado,</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">the Cid does not appear at all. The same excuse might be
given for omitting the well-known</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Doliente estaba, doliente,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ese buen rey don Fernando,<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">44</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">of which Gibson, however, gives a fairly adequate rendering,
so far as the difference of language allows:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The King was dying, slowly dying,</div>
<div class="line i1">The good King Ferdinand;</div>
<div class="line">His feet were pointed to the East,</div>
<div class="line i1">A taper in his hand.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Beside his bed, and at the head,</div>
<div class="line i1">His four sons took their place,</div>
<div class="line">The three were children of the Queen,</div>
<div class="line i1">The fourth of bastard race.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span></div>
<div class="line">The bastard had the better luck,</div>
<div class="line i1">Had rank and noble gains;</div>
<div class="line">Archbishop of Toledo he,</div>
<div class="line i1">And Primate of the Spains....</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">So, again, the Cid does not appear in the often-quoted
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> beginning—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Rey don Sancho, rey don Sancho,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;no digas que no te aviso.<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">45</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Nor does he figure in the still more celebrated ballad which
records Diego Ordóñez’ challenge to the garrison of Zamora
after Sancho’s assassination:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ya cabalga Diego Ordóñez,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;del real se habia salido.<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">46</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But we may thank Gibson for enabling English readers to
form some idea of both. His version of the Ordóñez ballad
is by no means unhappy:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Don Diego Ordóñez rides away</div>
<div class="line i1">From the royal camp with speed,</div>
<div class="line">Armed head to foot with double mail,</div>
<div class="line i1">And on a coal-black steed.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">He rides to challenge Zamora’s men,</div>
<div class="line i1">His breast with fury filled;</div>
<div class="line">To avenge the King Don Sancho</div>
<div class="line i1">Whom the traitor Dolfos killed.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">He reached in haste Zamora’s gate,</div>
<div class="line i1">And loud his trumpet blew;</div>
<div class="line">And from his mouth like sparks of fire</div>
<div class="line i1">His words in fury flew:</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">‘Zamorans, I do challenge ye,</div>
<div class="line i1">Ye traitors born and bred;</div>
<div class="line">I challenge ye all, both great and small,</div>
<div class="line i1">The living and the dead.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span></div>
<div class="line">I challenge the men and women,</div>
<div class="line i1">The unborn and the born;</div>
<div class="line">I challenge the wine and waters,</div>
<div class="line i1">The cattle and the corn.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Within your town that traitor lives</div>
<div class="line i1">Our King who basely slew;—</div>
<div class="line">Who harbour traitors in their midst</div>
<div class="line i1">Themselves are traitors too.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">I’m here in arms against ye all</div>
<div class="line i1">The combat to maintain;</div>
<div class="line">Or else with five and one by one,</div>
<div class="line i1">As is the use in Spain!’...</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">To Gibson’s fine instinct we are also indebted for an English
rendering of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">En las almenas de Toro,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;allí estaba una doncella<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">47</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">a ballad of doubtful date which is superbly ‘glossed’ in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Almenas de Toro</cite> by Lope de Vega, who uses the old
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> with astonishing felicity. But the most ancient
poem in the whole series of the Cid ballads is a composition,
said to be unconnected with any antecedent epic, and
possibly dating (in its primitive form) from the fourteenth
century:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Hélo, hélo por dó viene&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el moro por la calzada.<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">48</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> has been done into English by Gibson with
considerable success, as you may judge by the opening
stanzas:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">He comes, he comes, the Moorman comes</div>
<div class="line i1">Along the sounding way;</div>
<div class="line">With stirrup short, and pointed spur,</div>
<div class="line i1">He rides his gallant bay....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span></div>
<div class="line">He looks upon Valencia’s towers,</div>
<div class="line i1">And mutters in his ire:</div>
<div class="line">‘Valencia, O Valencia,</div>
<div class="line i1">Burn thou with evil fire!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Although the Christian holds thee now,</div>
<div class="line i1">Thou wert the Moor’s before;</div>
<div class="line">And if my lance deceive me not,</div>
<div class="line i1">Thou’lt be the Moor’s once more!’...</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>There is still much to be said concerning the Cid <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
which Southey dismissed too cavalierly; but my time is
running out, and I must pass on to the next ballads translated
by Lockhart. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Garci Perez de Vargas</cite> is a rendering
of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Estando sobre Sevilla&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el rey Fernando el tercero;<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">49</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">and <em>The Pounder</em>, which was referred to by Don Quixote
when he proposed to tear up an oak by the roots and use it
as a weapon, is a version of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Jerez, aquesa nombrada,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;cercada era de cristianos.<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">50</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Neither need detain us; both are modern, and the latter
is by Lorenzo de Sepúlveda. Much more curious are the
group of ballads on Peter the Cruel. In the Spanish drama
Peter is represented as the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rey Justiciero</em>, the autocrat of
democratic sympathies, dealing out summary justice to the
nobles and the wealthy, who grind the poor man’s face.
But this is merely what the sophisticated middle class
supposed to be the democratic point of view. The
democracy, as we see from the anonymous popular
poets, believed Peter to be much worse than he actually
was, and the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> record the deliberate calumnies invented
by the partisans of Peter’s triumphant bastard
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span>
brother, Henry of Trastamara. This is noticeable in the
translation of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Yo me estabá allá en Coimbra&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que yo me la hube ganado,<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">51</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which Lockhart calls <em>The Murder of the Master</em>. It is true
that Peter had his brother, Don Fadrique, Master of the
Order of Santiago, put to death at Seville in 1358; it is also
true that Fadrique was a tricky and dangerous conspirator,
who had already been detected and pardoned by his brother
more than once. The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> passes over Fadrique’s plots
in silence, and this is common enough with political hacks;
but it goes on to imply that the crime was suggested to
Peter by his mistress. This is almost certainly false, and
not a vestige of evidence can be produced in favour of it;
but no one is asked to swear to the truth of a song, and the
dramatic power of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>—which is supposed to be
recited by the murdered man—is undeniable.</p>

<p>A similar perversion of historical truth is found in <cite>The
Death of Queen Blanche</cite>, which Lockhart translates from</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Doña María de Padilla,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;no os mostredes triste, no.<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">52</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Lockhart, indeed, says: ‘that Pedro was accessory to the
violent death of this young and innocent princess whom he
had married, and immediately after deserted for ever, there
can be no doubt.’ But the matter is by no means so free
from doubt as Lockhart would have us believe. It is true
that Peter’s conduct to Blanche de Bourbon was inhuman,
but the circumstances—and even the place—of her death
are uncertain. Assuming that she was murdered, however,
it is certain that María de Padilla had no share in this crime.
María appears to have been a gentle and compassionate
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span>
creature, whose only fault was that she loved Peter too well.
But justice is not greatly cultivated by political partisans,
and the vindictiveness of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> is poetically effective.
Lockhart closes the series with a version (apparently by
Walter Scott) of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Los fieros cuerpos revueltos&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;entre los robustos brazos,<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">53</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">and with a disappointing translation of a very striking
ballad, in which an undercurrent of sympathy for Peter is
observable:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A los pies de don Enrique&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;yace muerto el rey don Pedro.<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor">54</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Refrains of any kind are exceptional in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>, but
in this instance a double refrain is artistically used:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Y los de Enrique</div>
<div class="line">Cantan, repican y gritan:</div>
<div class="line">¡Viva Enrique!</div>
<div class="line">Y los de Pedro</div>
<div class="line">Clamorean, doblan, lloran</div>
<div class="line">Su rey muerto.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is indeed a most brilliant performance, worthy, as
Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo says, of Góngora himself at his best;
but the very brilliance of the versification is enough to
prove that the ballad cannot have been written by a poet of
the people. Still, though it is neither ancient nor popular,
we may be grateful to Lockhart for including it in his
volume.</p>

<p>He was less happy in deciding to give us <cite>The Lord of
Buitrago</cite>, a version of a ballad beginning</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Si el caballo vos han muerto,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;subid, rey, en mi caballo.<a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">55</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is not of any great merit, nor is it in any sense popular
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span>
or ancient: it appears to be the production of Alfonso
Hurtado de Velarde, a Guadalajara dramatist who lived
towards the end of the sixteenth century, and much of its
vogue is due to the fact that it struck the fancy of Vélez de
Guevara who used the first six words as the title of one of
his plays. Lockhart was better advised in choosing <cite>The
King of Aragon</cite>, a translation of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Miraba de Campo-Viejo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el rey de Aragón un dia.<a name="FNanchor_56_56" id="FNanchor_56_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_56" class="fnanchor">56</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This is thought by Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo to be, possibly,
the production of some soldier serving at Naples under
Alfonso v. of Aragón, and in any case it is of popular inspiration.
Lorenzo de Sepúlveda’s text contains an allusion to
a page—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">un pajecico</em>—whom Alfonso is said to have loved
better than himself, and the translator was naturally puzzled
by it. It is precisely by attention to some such detail that
we are often enabled to fix the date of composition; and so
it happens in the present instance. A fuller and better
text is given by Esteban de Nájera, who reads <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">un tal hermano</em>
for the incomprehensible <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">un pajecico</em>. This reading makes the
matter clear. The reference is to the death of Alphonso v.’s
brother Pedro; this occurred in 1438, and the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> was
probably written not long afterwards.</p>

<p>At this point Lockhart enters upon the series of border-ballads
called <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances fronterizos</em>, and he begins with a
translation of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Reduan, bien se te acuerda&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que me distes la palabra,<a name="FNanchor_57_57" id="FNanchor_57_57"></a><a href="#Footnote_57_57" class="fnanchor">57</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">quoted by Ginés Pérez de Hita in the first part of his
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Guerras civiles de Granada</cite>, published in 1595 under the
title of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de los bandos de los Zegríes y Abencerrajes</cite>.
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span>
Pérez de Hita speaks of it as ancient, and Lockhart is, of
course, not to blame for translating the ballad precisely as
he found it in the text before him. Any translator would
be bound to do the same to-day if he attempted a new
rendering of the poem; but he would doubtless think it
advisable to state in a note the result of the critical analysis
which had scarcely been begun when Lockhart wrote. It
now seems fairly certain that Pérez de Hita ran two <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>
into one, and that the verses from the fourth stanza onwards
in Lockhart—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">They passed the Elvira gate, with banners all displayed—</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">are part of a ballad on Boabdil’s expedition against Lucena
in 1483. This martial narrative, describing the gorgeous
squadrons of El Rey Chico as they file past the towers of
the Alhambra packed with applauding Moorish ladies,
reduces to insignificance <cite>The Flight from Granada</cite>, though
the translation is an improvement on Lorenzo de Sepúlveda’s
creaking original:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">En la ciudad de Granada&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;grandes alaridos dan.<a name="FNanchor_58_58" id="FNanchor_58_58"></a><a href="#Footnote_58_58" class="fnanchor">58</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The next in order is <cite>The Death of Don Alonso de Aguilar</cite>,
a rendering of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Estando el rey don Fernando&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;en conquista de Granada.<a name="FNanchor_59_59" id="FNanchor_59_59"></a><a href="#Footnote_59_59" class="fnanchor">59</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This ballad commemorates the death of Alonso de Aguilar,
elder brother of ‘the great Captain’ Gonzalo de Córdoba,
which took place in action at Sierra Bermeja on May 18,
1501. This date is important. A serious chronological
mistake occurs in the opening line of the ballad, which
places Aguilar’s death before the surrender of Granada in
1492; and this points to the conclusion that the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span>
was not written till long after the event, when the exact
details had been forgotten. It is of popular inspiration, no
doubt, but it is clearly not ancient. Still, in default of any
other <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances fronterizos</em>, we receive it gratefully. This
section of Lockhart’s book is certainly the least adequate.<a name="FNanchor_60_60" id="FNanchor_60_60"></a><a href="#Footnote_60_60" class="fnanchor">60</a>
The border-ballads which he gives are most of them
excellent, but unfortunately he gives us far too few of them.
Some of his omissions may be explained. He tells us in
almost so many words that he leaves out a later ballad on
Aguilar’s death:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
¡Río Verde, río Verde,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tinto vas en sangre viva!<a name="FNanchor_61_61" id="FNanchor_61_61"></a><a href="#Footnote_61_61" class="fnanchor">61</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">because there was already in existence an ‘exquisite version’
by the Bishop of Dromore<a name="FNanchor_62_62" id="FNanchor_62_62"></a><a href="#Footnote_62_62" class="fnanchor">62</a>—whom some of you may not
instantly identify with Thomas Percy, the editor of the
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Reliques</cite>. Most probably Lockhart omitted a ballad with
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span>
an effective refrain (perhaps borrowed from some Arabic
song)—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Paseábase el ray moro&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;per la ciudad de Granada—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">because it had been translated, though with no very
striking success, by Byron a little while before.<a name="FNanchor_63_63" id="FNanchor_63_63"></a><a href="#Footnote_63_63" class="fnanchor">63</a> Nor can
Lockhart be blamed for omitting the oldest of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances
fronterizos</em>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Cercada tiene á Baeza&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ese arráez Audalla Mir.<a name="FNanchor_64_64" id="FNanchor_64_64"></a><a href="#Footnote_64_64" class="fnanchor">64</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Hidden in Argote de Molina’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Nobleza de Andalucía</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_65_65" id="FNanchor_65_65"></a><a href="#Footnote_65_65" class="fnanchor">65</a> this
ballad was generally overlooked till 1899 when Sr. Menéndez
y Pelayo did us the good service of reprinting it. It
still awaits an English translator who, when he takes it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span>
in hand, may perhaps have something destructive to say
respecting its alleged date (1368). Such a translator
might also give us an English version of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Moricos, los mis moricos,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;los que ganáis mi soldada,<a name="FNanchor_66_66" id="FNanchor_66_66"></a><a href="#Footnote_66_66" class="fnanchor">66</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which is thought to be the next oldest of these <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances
fronterizos</em>. Or he might attempt to render</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Álora la bien cercada,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tu que estás á par del río,<a name="FNanchor_67_67" id="FNanchor_67_67"></a><a href="#Footnote_67_67" class="fnanchor">67</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which commemorates the death of Diego de Ribera during
the siege of Álora in 1434. A passage in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Laberinto
de Fortuna</cite> implies that Ribera’s death was the theme of
many popular songs in the time of Juan de Mena,<a name="FNanchor_68_68" id="FNanchor_68_68"></a><a href="#Footnote_68_68" class="fnanchor">68</a> and
possibly the extant <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> may be taken to represent them.
There is another fine ballad on the historic victory of the
Infante Fernando (the first regent during Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s minority)
at Antequera in 1410:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
De Antequera partió el moro&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tres horas antes del dia.<a name="FNanchor_69_69" id="FNanchor_69_69"></a><a href="#Footnote_69_69" class="fnanchor">69</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This also calls for translation, for all that we possess is
Gibson’s version of Timoneda’s recast, a copy of verses disfigured
by superfine interpolations:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">His words were mingled with the tears</div>
<div class="line i1">That down his cheeks did roll:</div>
<div class="line">‘Alas! Narcissa of my life,</div>
<div class="line i1">Narcissa of my soul.’</div>
</div></div></div>



<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span>Nymphs called Narcissa are never met with in popular
primitive poetry; but Gibson (from whose version of Timoneda
I have just quoted) has happily translated some
genuine specimens of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances fronterizos</em>. Thus he has
given us a version of the justly celebrated</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¡Abenámar, Abenámar,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;moro de la morería!—<a name="FNanchor_70_70" id="FNanchor_70_70"></a><a href="#Footnote_70_70" class="fnanchor">70</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">in which Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span> questions the Moor, and declares himself,
according to an Arabic poetical convention, the suitor of
Granada:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">‘Abenámar, Abenámar,</div>
<div class="line i1">Moor of Moors, and man of worth,</div>
<div class="line">On the day when thou wert cradled,</div>
<div class="line i1">There were signs in heaven and earth....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Abenámar, Abenámar,</div>
<div class="line i1">With thy words my heart is won!</div>
<div class="line">Tell me what these castles are,</div>
<div class="line i1">Shining grandly in the sun!’</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">‘That, my lord, is the Alhambra,</div>
<div class="line i1">This the Moorish mosque apart,</div>
<div class="line">And the rest the Alixares</div>
<div class="line i1">Wrought and carved with wondrous art.’...</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Up and spake the good King John,</div>
<div class="line i1">To the Moor he thus replied:</div>
<div class="line">‘Art thou willing, O Granada,</div>
<div class="line i1">I will woo thee for my bride,</div>
<div class="line">Cordova shall be thy dowry,</div>
<div class="line i1">And Sevilla by its side.’</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">‘I’m no widow, good King John,</div>
<div class="line i1">I am still a wedded wife;</div>
<div class="line">And the Moor, who is my husband,</div>
<div class="line i1">Loves me better than his life!’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Gibson has missed an opportunity in not translating one
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span>
of the popular ballads on the precocious Master of the Order
of Calatrava, Rodrigo Girón, who was killed at the siege of
Loja in 1482:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
¡Ay, Dios qué buen caballero&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el Maestre de Calatrava!<a name="FNanchor_71_71" id="FNanchor_71_71"></a><a href="#Footnote_71_71" class="fnanchor">71</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But he makes amends with a version of a sixteenth-century
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em><a name="FNanchor_72_72" id="FNanchor_72_72"></a><a href="#Footnote_72_72" class="fnanchor">72</a> which he entitles <cite>The Lady and the Lions</cite>: the
story has been versified by Schiller, and has been still more
admirably retold by Browning in <cite>The Glove</cite>. And we have
also from Gibson a version of a rather puzzling <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
given by Pérez de Hita:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Cercada está Santa Fe,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;con mucho lienzo encerado.<a name="FNanchor_73_73" id="FNanchor_73_73"></a><a href="#Footnote_73_73" class="fnanchor">73</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The fact that full rhymes take the place of assonants is
a decisive argument against the antiquity, and also against
the popular origin, of this ballad in which, as Sr. Menéndez
y Pelayo points out, a rather insignificant Garcilaso de la
Vega of the end of the fifteenth century is confused with
a namesake and relative who fell at Baza in 1455, and is
further represented as the hero of a feat of arms—the slaying
of a Moor who insultingly attached the device <em>Ave
Maria</em> to his horse’s tail—which was really performed by
an ancestor of his about a hundred and fifty years earlier.
This later Garcilaso was a favourite of fortune, for, at the
end of the sixteenth century, Gabriel Lobo Lasso de la
Vega wrote a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> ascribing to him Hernando del Pulgar’s
daring exploit—his riding into Granada, fastening
with his dagger a placard inscribed <em>Ave Maria</em> to the door
of the chief mosque, and thus proclaiming his intention of
converting it into a Christian church.</p>

<p>It is needless to discuss Lockhart’s group of so-called
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span>
‘Moorish ballads.’<a name="FNanchor_74_74" id="FNanchor_74_74"></a><a href="#Footnote_74_74" class="fnanchor">74</a> If any one wishes to translate a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>
of this kind, let him try to convey to us the adroitly
suggested orientalism of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Yo me era mora Moraima,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;morilla de un bel catar:</div>
<div class="line">cristiano vino á mi puerta,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;cuitada, per me engañar.<a name="FNanchor_75_75" id="FNanchor_75_75"></a><a href="#Footnote_75_75" class="fnanchor">75</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">With scarcely an exception, the ‘Moorish ballads’ show no
trace of Moorish origin, and with very few exceptions, they
are not popular ballads. They are clever, artificial presentations
of the picturesque Moor as suggested in the anonymous
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de Abindarraez</cite>, and elaborated by Pérez de
Hita. We do not put it too high in saying that Pérez de
Hita’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Guerras civiles de Granada</cite>—the earliest historical
novel—is responsible for all the impossible Moors and incredible
Moorish women of poetry and fiction.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i15">Unmask me now these faces,</div>
<div class="line">Unmuffle me these Moorish men, and eke these dancing Graces...</div>
<div class="line">To give ye merry Easter I’ll make my meaning plain,</div>
<div class="line">Mayhap it never struck you, we have Christians here in Spain.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span>But Góngora’s voice was as the voice of one crying in
the wilderness. The tide rose, overflowed the Pyrenees,
floated Mademoiselle de Scudéri’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Almahide</cite> and Madame
de Lafayette’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Zaïde</cite> into fashion, and did not ebb till long
after Washington Irving followed Pérez de Hita’s lead by
ascribing his graceful, fantastic <cite>Chronicle of the Conquest of
Granada</cite> to a non-existent historian whom he chose to call
Fray Antonio Agapida. The Moor of fiction is so much
more attractive than the Moor of history that he has
imposed himself upon the world. Most of us still see him,
with the light of other days around him, as we first met
him in Scott’s <cite>Talisman</cite>, or in Chateaubriand’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Aventures
du dernier Abencérage</cite>. Still the fact remains that he is
a conventional lay-figure, and that a Spanish poem in
which he appears transfigured and glorified is neither
ancient nor popular, but is necessarily the work of some
late Spanish writer who knows no more of Moors than
he can gather from Pérez de Hita’s gorgeously imaginative
pages.</p>

<p>No serious fault can be found with Lockhart’s selection
of what he calls ‘Romantic Ballads.’ Most of them are
excellent examples, though <cite>The Moor Calaynos</cite>, an abbreviated
rendering of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Ya cabalga Calaynos&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;á la sombra de una oliva,<a name="FNanchor_76_76" id="FNanchor_76_76"></a><a href="#Footnote_76_76" class="fnanchor">76</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is no longer ‘generally believed to be among the most
ancient’ ballads. It was certainly widely known, as
Lockhart says, for tags from it have become proverbs; but
it mentions Prester John and the Sultan of Babylon, and
these personages are unknown to genuine old popular
poetry. According to Milá y Fontanals and Sr. Menéndez
y Pelayo, the Calaínos ballad is one of the latest in the
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span>
Charlemagne cycle, and is derived from a Provençal version
of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fierabras</em>. On the other hand, the original of <cite>The Escape
of Gayferos</cite>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Estábase la condesa&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;en su estrado asentada<a name="FNanchor_77_77" id="FNanchor_77_77"></a><a href="#Footnote_77_77" class="fnanchor">77</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is an authentic old popular <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> derived, it is believed,
more or less directly from the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de Berthe</cite>, while the
much later <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Melisendra</em> ballad—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
El cuerpo preso en Sansueña&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;y en Paris cautiva el alma<a name="FNanchor_78_78" id="FNanchor_78_78"></a><a href="#Footnote_78_78" class="fnanchor">78</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">owes most of its celebrity to the fact that it is quoted by
Ginés de Pasamonte when he acts as showman of the
puppets in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. Again, <cite>The Lady Alda’s Dream</cite>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
En Paris está doña Alda&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la esposa de don Roldan<a name="FNanchor_79_79" id="FNanchor_79_79"></a><a href="#Footnote_79_79" class="fnanchor">79</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is an ancient <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> of intensely pathetic beauty suggested
by the famous passage in the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chanson de Roland</cite> describing
Charlemagne’s announcement of Roland’s death to his
betrothed Alde, Oliver’s sister:—</p>

<div lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
‘Soer, chere amie, d’hume mort me demandes...’</div>
<div class="line">Alde respunt: ‘Cist moz mei est estranges.</div>
<div class="line">Ne placet Deu ne ses seinz ne ses angles</div>
<div class="line">Après Rollant que jo vive remaigne!’</div>
<div class="line">Pert la culur, chiet as piez Carlemagne,</div>
<div class="line">Sempres est morte. Deus ait mercit de l’anme!</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Another famous ballad in the Charlemagne cycle, translated
by Lockhart under the title of <cite>The Admiral Guarinos</cite>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Mala la vistes, franceses,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la caza de Roncesvalles<a name="FNanchor_80_80" id="FNanchor_80_80"></a><a href="#Footnote_80_80" class="fnanchor">80</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is also universally known from its being quoted in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>.
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span>
 Its origin is not clear, but it seems to be related
to <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ogier le Danois</cite>, and it has certainly lived long and
travelled far if, as Georg Adolf Erman reports, it was sung
in Russian in Siberia as recently as 1828. A more special
interest attaches to the fine elfin ballad—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
A cazar va el caballero,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;á cazar como solía<a name="FNanchor_81_81" id="FNanchor_81_81"></a><a href="#Footnote_81_81" class="fnanchor">81</a>—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which Lockhart entitles <cite>The Lady of the Tree</cite>. It is, as he
says, ‘one of the few old Spanish ballads in which mention
is made of the Fairies,’ and the seven years’ enchantment
reminded him of ‘those Oriental fictions, the influence of
which has stamped so many indelible traces on the imaginative
literature of Spain.’ The theory of Oriental influence
is not brought forward so often nowadays, and is challenged
in what was thought to be its impregnable stronghold. The
melancholy Kelt has taken the place of the slippery Oriental;
but theories come and go, and we can only hope that our
grandchildren will smile as indulgently at our Kelts as we
smile at our grandfathers’ Arabs.</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Hélo, hélo por do viene&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;el infante vengador<a name="FNanchor_82_82" id="FNanchor_82_82"></a><a href="#Footnote_82_82" class="fnanchor">82</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is the original of <cite>The Avenging Childe</cite>, a superb ballad which
is better represented in Gibson’s version. Compare, for
instance, the following translation with Lockhart’s:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">’Tis a right good spear, with a point so sharp, the toughest plough-share might pierce,</div>
<div class="line">For seven times o’er was it tempered fine, in the blood of a dragon fierce,</div>
<div class="line">And seven times o’er was it whetted keen, till it shone with a deadly glance,</div>
<div class="line">For its steel was wrought in the finest forge, in the realm of mighty France.</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span>Its shaft was made of the Aragon wood, as straight as the straightest stalk,</div>
<div class="line">And he polished the steel, as he galloped along, on the wings of his hunting hawk;</div>
<div class="line">‘Don Quadros, thou traitor vile, beware! I’ll slay thee where thou dost stand,</div>
<div class="line">At the judgment seat, by the Emperor’s side, with the rod of power in his hand.’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is more faithful, and consequently more vivid; and the
retention of the Emperor, whom Lockhart (for metrical
purposes) reduces to a King, gives the English reader a
useful hint that the ballad belongs to the Charlemagne series.
But its source is obscure, and its symbolism is as perplexing as
symbolism is apt to be.</p>

<p>All who have read <cite>Birds of Passage</cite>—that is to say,
everybody who reads anything—will</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">remember the black wharves and the slips,</div>
<div class="line i1">And the sea-tides tossing free;</div>
<div class="line">And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,</div>
<div class="line">And the beauty and mystery of the ships</div>
<div class="line i1">And the magic of the sea.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">These lines are recalled by <em>Count Arnaldos</em>, Lockhart’s translation
of the enchanting <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> which Longfellow has
incorporated in <cite>The Seaside and the Fireside</cite><a name="FNanchor_83_83" id="FNanchor_83_83"></a><a href="#Footnote_83_83" class="fnanchor">83</a>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span>¡Quien hubiese tal ventura&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;sobre las aguas del mar,</div>
<div class="line">como hubo el Conde Arnaldos&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la mañana de san Juan!<a name="FNanchor_84_84" id="FNanchor_84_84"></a><a href="#Footnote_84_84" class="fnanchor">84</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Probably nine out of every ten readers would turn to the <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Buch
der Lieder</cite> for the loveliest lyric on the witchery of song:—</p>

<div lang="de" xml:lang="de">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet</div>
<div class="line">Dort oben wunderbar,</div>
<div class="line">Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,</div>
<div class="line">Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme,</div>
<div class="line">Und singt ein Lied dabei;</div>
<div class="line">Das hat eine wundersame,</div>
<div class="line">Gewaltige Melodei....</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line i1">Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen</div>
<div class="line">Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn!</div>
<div class="line">Und das hat mit ihrem Singen</div>
<div class="line">Die Lore-Ley gethan.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">They may be right, but, if the tenth reader preferred
<span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Conde Arnaldos</cite>, I should not think him wrong. Though
Heine speaks of</p>

<div lang="de" xml:lang="de">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">this seems to be a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">façon de parler</em>, for the Lorelei legend
was invented by Clemens Brentano barely twenty years
before Heine wrote his famous ballad. However this may
be, in producing his effect of mystic weirdness the German
artist does not eclipse the anonymous Spanish singer who
lived four centuries earlier. This is a bold thing to say;
yet nobody who reads <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Conde Arnaldos</cite> will think it much
too bold.</p>

<p>Passing by a pleasing song (not in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> form),<a name="FNanchor_85_85" id="FNanchor_85_85"></a><a href="#Footnote_85_85" class="fnanchor">85</a>
we come to the incomplete <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Julianesa</cite> ballad which Lockhart
printed, so he tells us, chiefly because it contained an
allusion to the pretty Spanish custom of picking flowers
on St. John’s Day:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¡Arriba, canes, arriba!&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;¡que rabia mala os mate!<a name="FNanchor_86_86" id="FNanchor_86_86"></a><a href="#Footnote_86_86" class="fnanchor">86</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But, so far from being (like its immediate predecessor in
Lockhart’s book) an artistic performance, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Julianesa</cite>
ballad is one of the most primitive in the Gayferos group.
Its robust inspiration is in striking contrast to the too dulcet
<cite>Song of the Galley</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_87_87" id="FNanchor_87_87"></a><a href="#Footnote_87_87" class="fnanchor">87</a> which is followed by <cite>The Wandering
Knight’s Song</cite>, a capital version of a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> famous all the
world over owing to its quotation by Don Quixote at the
inn:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Mis arreos son las armas,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;mi descanso es pelear.<a name="FNanchor_88_88" id="FNanchor_88_88"></a><a href="#Footnote_88_88" class="fnanchor">88</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span>We need say nothing of the <cite>Serenade</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_89_89" id="FNanchor_89_89"></a><a href="#Footnote_89_89" class="fnanchor">89</a> <cite>The Captive Knight
and the Blackbird</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_90_90" id="FNanchor_90_90"></a><a href="#Footnote_90_90" class="fnanchor">90</a> <em>Valladolid</em>,<a name="FNanchor_91_91" id="FNanchor_91_91"></a><a href="#Footnote_91_91" class="fnanchor">91</a> and <cite>Dragut the Corsair</cite>.<a name="FNanchor_92_92" id="FNanchor_92_92"></a><a href="#Footnote_92_92" class="fnanchor">92</a>
We should gladly exchange these translations of late and
mediocre originals for versions of</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Fonte-frida, fonte-frida,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fonte-frida y con amor;<a name="FNanchor_93_93" id="FNanchor_93_93"></a><a href="#Footnote_93_93" class="fnanchor">93</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">or of one of the few but interesting ballads belonging to the
Breton cycle, such as the old <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> on Lancelot from
which Antonio de Nebrija quotes—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Tres hijuelos habia el rey,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tres hijuelos, que no mas;<a name="FNanchor_94_94" id="FNanchor_94_94"></a><a href="#Footnote_94_94" class="fnanchor">94</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">or of the curious <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> glossed by Gil Vicente, Cristóbal
de Castillejo, and Jorge de Montemôr—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
La bella mal maridada,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;de las lindas que yo ví;<a name="FNanchor_95_95" id="FNanchor_95_95"></a><a href="#Footnote_95_95" class="fnanchor">95</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">or of the well-known ballad which seems to have strayed out
of the series of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances fronterizos</em>—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Mi padre era de Ronda,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;y mi madre de Antequera.<a name="FNanchor_96_96" id="FNanchor_96_96"></a><a href="#Footnote_96_96" class="fnanchor">96</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Fortunately these have been translated by Gibson. But we
must not part from Lockhart on bad terms, for he ends with
the ballad of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Count Alarcos and the Infante Solisa</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">
Retraída está la Infanta&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;bien así como solía.<a name="FNanchor_97_97" id="FNanchor_97_97"></a><a href="#Footnote_97_97" class="fnanchor">97</a></div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>, which is often ascribed to a certain Pedro
de Riaño, is certainly not older than the sixteenth century,
and is rather an artistic than a popular poem; but it is
unquestionably an impressive composition remarkable for
concentrated and pathetic beauty.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span></p>

<p>Though I have far outrun my allotted time, I have merely
brushed the fringe of the subject; still, perhaps enough has
been said to stir your interest, and to set you reading the
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero</em> under the sagacious guidance of Sr. Menéndez
y Pelayo. That will occupy you for many a long day. To
those who have not the time to read everything, but who
wish to read the very best of the best, I cannot be wrong in
recommending the exquisite selection of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> published
by M. Foulché-Delbosc a few months ago.<a name="FNanchor_98_98" id="FNanchor_98_98"></a><a href="#Footnote_98_98" class="fnanchor">98</a></p>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">&nbsp;</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER V<br /><br />

<small>THE LIFE OF CERVANTES</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Some</span> men live their romances, and some men write them.
It was given to Cervantes to do both, and, as his art was
not of the impersonal order, it is scarcely possible to read
his work without a desire to know more of the rich and
imposing individuality which informs it. Posthumous legends
are apt to form round men of the heroic type who have
been neglected while alive, and posterity seems to enjoy
this cheap form of atonement. Cervantes is a case in point.
But the researches of the last few years have brought much
new material to light, and have dissipated a cloud of myths
concerning him: we are not yet able to see him as he
was at every stage of his chequered career, but we are nearer
him than we ever were before. We are passing out of the
fogs of fable, and are learning that, in Cervantes’s case, facts
are as strange as fiction—and far more interesting.</p>

<p>It is a foible with the biographers of great men to furnish
their heroes with a handsome equipment of ancestors, and
Cervantes’s descent has been traced back to the end of the
tenth century by these amateur genealogists. We may
admire their industry, and reject their conclusions. It is
quite possible that Cervantes was of good family, but we
cannot go further back than two generations. His grandfather,
Juan de Cervantes, appears to have been a country
lawyer who died, without attaining distinction or fortune,
about the middle of the sixteenth century. Juan’s son was
Rodrigo de Cervantes who married Leonor de Cortinas: and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span>
the great novelist was the fourth of their seven children.
Rodrigo de Cervantes was a lowly precursor of Sangrado—a
simple apothecary-surgeon, of inferior professional status,
seldom settled long in one place, earning a precarious living
by cupping and blistering. His son Miguel was born at
Alcalá de Henares—possibly, as his name suggests, on
St. Michael’s Day (September 29)—and he was baptized
there on Sunday, October 9, 1547, in the church of Santa
María la Mayor. There was a tradition that Cervantes
matriculated at Alcalá, and his name was discovered in the
university registers by an investigator who looked for it
with the eye of faith. This is one of many pleasing, pious
legends. Rodrigo de Cervantes was not in a position to
send his sons to universities. A poor, helpless, sanguine
man, he wandered in quest of patients and fortune from
Alcalá to Valladolid, from Valladolid to Madrid, from Madrid
to Seville, and it has been conjectured that Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra spent some time in the Jesuit school
at Seville. The dog Berganza, in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Coloquio de los Perros</cite>,
recalls his edification at ‘seeing the loving-kindness, the
discretion, the solicitude and the skill with which those
saintly fathers and masters taught these lads, so that the
tender shoots of their youth should not be twisted, nor
take a wrong bend in the path of virtue which, together
with the humane letters, they continually pointed out to
them.’ But it is evident that Cervantes can have had little
formal schooling. He was educated in the university of
practical experience, and picked up his learning as he could.</p>

<p>He made the most of his casual opportunities. Obviously
the man who wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> must have read the books
of chivalry, the leading poets, the chronicles, dramatic
romances like the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Celestina</cite>, picaresque novels like <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Lazarillo
de Tormes</cite>, pastoral tales like the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Diana</cite>, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">cancioneros</cite>,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span>
and countless broadsides containing popular ballads; and
he must have read them at this time, for his maturer
years were spent in campaigning, or in the discharge of
petty, exacting duties. In his early youth, too, he made
acquaintance with the theatre, witnessing the performances
of the enterprising Lope de Rueda, actor, manager and
playwright, the first man in Spain to set up a travelling
booth, and bid for public support. The impression was
ineffaceable: from Cervantes’s account of his experience,
given half a century later, it may be gathered that he
listened and watched with the uncritical rapture of a clever,
ardent lad, and that his ambition to become a successful
dramatist was born there and then. In the meantime, while
following his father in his futile journeys, he received a
liberal education. Jogging along the high-road, lodging in
wayside inns, strolling in market-places, he met men and
women of all ranks, from nobles to peasants, and thus
began to hoard his literary capital.</p>

<p>Like most young men of literary ambition, Cervantes
began by versifying, and, as he never grew old in heart, he
versified as long as he lived. A sonnet, written between
1560 and 1568, has come to light recently, and is interesting
solely as the earliest extant work of Cervantes. By 1566
he was settled in Madrid, and two years later he wrote a
series of elegiacs on the death of the Queen, Isabel de
Valois: these were published in a volume edited by Juan
López de Hoyos, a Madrid schoolmaster, who refers to
Cervantes as his ‘dear and beloved pupil.’ As the pupil
was twenty before López de Hoyos’s school was founded,
the meaning of the phrase is obscure. Perhaps Cervantes
had been a pupil under López de Hoyos elsewhere: perhaps
he was an usher in López de Hoyos’s new school: frankly,
we know nothing of his circumstances. He makes his formal
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span>
entry into literature, and then vanishes out of sight, and
apparently out of Spain. What happened to him at this
time is obscure. We know on his own statement that he
was once <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">camarero</cite> to Cardinal Giulio Acquaviva; we know
that Acquaviva, not yet a Cardinal, was in Madrid during
the winter of 1568, and that he started for Rome towards
the end of the year; and we know from documentary
evidence that Cervantes was in Rome at the end of the
following year. How he got there, how and when he
entered Acquaviva’s service, or when and why he left it—these,
as Sir Thomas Browne would say, are all ‘matters
of probable conjecture.’</p>

<p>While Cervantes was in Rome, a league was forming by
Spain, Venice and the Holy See against the Sultan Selim:
war was in sight, and every high-spirited young Spaniard
in Italy must have felt that his place was in the ranks. It
has been thought that Cervantes served as a supernumerary
before he joined Acquaviva’s household; but we do not
reach solid ground till 1571 when Cervantes is discovered
as a soldier in a company commanded by Diego de Urbina,
‘a famous captain of Guadalajara,’ as the Captive in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite> called him thirty-four years later. Urbina’s company
belonged to the celebrated <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">tercio</em> of Miguel de Moncada, and
in September 1571 it was embarked at Messina on the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Marquesa</em>,
one of the galleys under the command of Don John
of Austria. At dawn on Sunday, October 7, Don John’s
armada lay off the Curzolarian Islands when two sail were
sighted on the horizon, and soon afterwards the Turkish
fleet followed. Cervantes was ill with fever, but refused to
listen to his comrades who begged him to stay below: death
in the service of God and the King, he said, was preferable
to remaining under cover. The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Marquesa</em> was in the hottest
of the fight at Lepanto, and when the battle was won
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span>
Cervantes had received three wounds, two in the chest, and
one in the left hand. Like most old soldiers, he loved to
fight his battles over again, and, to judge from his writings,
he was at least as proud of having been at Lepanto as of
creating Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.</p>

<p>He was in hospital for seven months at Messina, received
an increase of pay, and returned to duty in April 1572.
This throws light upon a personal matter. Current likenesses
of Cervantes, all imaginary and most of them mere
variants of the portrait contrived in the eighteenth century
by William Kent, usually represent him as having lost an
arm. This is manifestly wrong: a one-armed private would
have been discharged as not worth his pay and rations.
Cervantes was appointed to Manuel Ponce de León’s company
in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">tercio</em> of Lope de Figueroa—the vehement
martinet who appears in Calderón’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Alcalde de Zalamea</cite>—and
took part in three campaigns; he was present at the
fiasco of Navarino in 1572, at the occupation of Tunis in
1573, and at the attempted relief of the Goletta in 1574.
He had already done garrison duty in Genoa and Sardinia,
and was now stationed successively at Palermo and Naples.
It was clear that there was to be no more fighting for a
while, and, as there was no opening for Cervantes in Italy,
he determined to seek promotion in Spain. Don John of
Austria recommended him for a company in one of the
regiments then being raised for Italy, and laid stress upon
his ‘merits and services,’ and a similar recommendation was
made by the Duke of Sesa, Viceroy of Sicily. These
flattering credentials and testimonials were destined to
cause much embarrassment and suffering to the bearer; but
they encouraged him to make for Spain with a confident
heart.</p>

<p>His optimism was to be put to the proof. On September
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span>
26, 1575, the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sol</em>, with Cervantes and his brother Rodrigo on
board, was separated from the rest of the Spanish squadron
in the neighbourhood of Les Saintes Maries near Marseilles,
and was captured by Moorish pirates. The desperate
resistance of the Spaniards was unavailing; they were overcome
by superior numbers and were carried off to Algiers.
What follows would seem extravagant in a romance of
adventures, but the details are supported by irrefragable
evidence. As Algiers was at this time the centre of the
slave-trade, the prisoners cannot have felt much doubt as
to what was in store for them. Cervantes’s first owner was
a certain Dali Mami, a Greek renegade, and captain of a
galley. He read the recommendatory letters from Don
John of Austria and the Duke of Sessa, and (not unnaturally)
jumped at the conclusion that he had drawn a prize:
his slave might not be of great use so far as manual labour
was concerned, but any one who was personally acquainted
with two such personages as Don John and the Duke must
presumably be a man of consequence, and would assuredly
be worth a heavy ransom. The first result of this fictitious
importance was that Cervantes was put in irons, and chains;
and, when these were at last removed, he was carefully
watched.</p>

<p>Cervantes found means to baffle his sentries. His first
attempt to escape was made in 1576: it was an ignominious
failure. He and his fellow-prisoners set out on foot to
walk to Orán, the nearest Spanish outpost; their Moorish
guide played them false, and there was nothing for it but
to go back to Algiers. In 1577 Rodrigo de Cervantes was
ransomed—he was reckoned cheaper than his brother—and
he undertook to send a vessel to carry off Miguel
and his friends. Meanwhile Cervantes enlisted the sympathies
of a Spanish renegade, a gardener from Navarre
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span>
named Juan; between them they dug out a cave in a
garden near the sea, and smuggled into it one by one
fourteen Christian slaves who were secretly fed during
several months with the help of another renegade from
Melilla, a scoundrel known as <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Dorador</em>. It is easier to
say that the scheme was a bad one than to suggest anything
better: it was within an ace of succeeding. The
vessel sent by Rodrigo de Cervantes drew near the shore
on September 28, and was on the point of embarking those
hidden in the cave when a Moorish fishing-boat passed by
and scared the crew, who stood out to sea again. A second
attempt at a rescue was made, but it was too late. The
plot had been revealed by <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Dorador</em> to Hassan Pasha,
the Dey of Algiers, and, when some of the crew landed to
convey the fugitives on board, the garden was surrounded
by Hassan’s troops. The entire band of Christians was
captured, and Cervantes at once avowed himself the sole
organiser of the conspiracy. Brought bound before Hassan,
he adhered to his statement that his comrades were innocent,
and that he took the entire responsibility for the plot. The
gardener was hanged; after some hesitation, Hassan decided
to spare Cervantes’s life, and finally bought him from Dali
Mami for five hundred crowns.</p>

<p>It is difficult to account for this act of relative mercy in
a man who is described in <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</em> as the murderer of
the human race, a hæmatomaniac who delighted in murder
for murder’s sake, one who hanged, impaled, tortured and
mutilated his prisoners every day. It may be that he
was genuinely struck by Cervantes’s unflinching courage;
it may be that he expected an immense ransom for a
man who was plainly the leader of the captives. What is
certain is that Cervantes was now Hassan’s slave; though
imprisoned in irons, he soon showed that his heroic spirit
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span>
was unbroken. He sent a letter to Martín de Córdoba, the
governor of Orán, asking for aid to enable himself and three
other captives to escape; the messenger seemed likely
to fulfil his mission, but was arrested close to Orán, sent
back, and impaled. For writing the letter Cervantes was
sentenced to two thousand blows, but the sentence was
remitted, and it would almost seem as though Cervantes
completely forgot the incident, for in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> he goes
out of his way to record that <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">un tal Saavedra</em>—a certain
Saavedra, Something-or-Other Saavedra (who can be nobody
but himself)—was never struck by Hassan, and was never
threatened by Hassan with a blow. This may appear perplexing,
but as the writer goes on to say that Hassan never
addressed a harsh word to this Saavedra, it is plain that the
whole passage is an idealistic arabesque; the discrepancy
between the gloss and the facts shows the danger of seeking
exact biographical data in any imaginative work, however
heavily freighted with personal reminiscences.</p>

<p>Hassan remitted the sentence, and, remarking that ‘so
long as he had the maimed Spaniard in custody, his Christians,
ships and the entire city were safe,’ he redoubled his
vigilance. For two years the prisoner made no move, but
plainly he was not resigned nor disheartened, for he conceived
the idea of inducing the Christian population of
Algiers to rise and capture the city. It was no mad,
impossible project; a similar rising had been successful at
Tunis in 1535, and there were over twenty thousand Christians
in Algiers. Once more Cervantes was betrayed, and
once more he escaped death. A less ambitious scheme also
miscarried. In 1579 he took into his confidence a Spanish
renegade and two Valencian traders, and persuaded the
Valencians to provide an armed vessel to rescue him and
some sixty other Christian slaves; but before the plan could
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span>
be carried out it was revealed to Hassan by a Dominican
monk, Juan Blanco de Paz. Very little is known of Blanco
de Paz, except that he came from Montemolín near Llerena,
and that he gave himself out as being a commissary and
familiar of the Inquisition. Why he should turn informer
at all, is a mystery: why he should single out Cervantes
as the special object of his hatred is no less a mystery.
The Valencian merchants got wind of his treachery, and,
dreading lest they might be implicated, begged Cervantes
to make his escape on a ship which was about to start for
Spain. To accept this proposal would have been to desert
his friends and to imperil their lives: Cervantes rejected it,
assuring the alarmed Valencians that he would not reveal
anything to compromise them, even if he were tortured. He
was as good as his word. Brought into Hassan’s presence
with his hands tied behind him and the hangman’s rope
round his neck, he was threatened with instant death unless
he gave up the names of his accomplices. But he was
undaunted and immovable, asserting that the plot had been
planned by himself and four others who had got away, and
that no one else had any active share in it. Perhaps there
was a certain economy of truth in this statement, but it
served its immediate purpose: though Cervantes was placed
under stricter guard, Hassan spared the other sixty slaves
involved.</p>

<p>This was Cervantes’s last attempt to escape. His family
were doing what they could to procure his release. They
were miserably poor, and poverty often drives honest people
into strange courses. To excite pity, and so obtain a
concession which would help towards ransoming her son,
Cervantes’s mother passed herself off as a widow, though
her husband was still alive, a superfluous old man, now
grown incurably deaf, and with fewer patients than ever.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span>
By means of such dubious expedients some two hundred
and fifty ducats were collected and entrusted to Fray Juan
Gil and Fray Antón de la Bella, two monks engaged in
ransoming the Christian slaves at Algiers. The sum was
insufficient. Hassan curtly told Fray Juan Gil that all his
slaves were gentlemen, that he should not part with any
of them for less than five hundred ducats, and that for
Jerónimo de Palafox (apparently an Aragonese of some
position) he should ask a ransom of a thousand ducats.
Fray Juan Gil was specially anxious to release Palafox, and
made an offer of five hundred ducats; but Hassan would
not abate his terms. The Dey and the monk haggled from
spring till autumn. Hassan then went out of office, and
made ready to leave for Constantinople to give an account
of his stewardship. His slaves were already embarked on
September 19, 1580, when Fray Juan Gil, seeing that there
was no hope of obtaining Palafox’s release by payment of
five hundred ducats, ransomed Cervantes for that sum. It
is disconcerting to think that, if the Trinitarian friar had
been able to raise another five hundred ducats, we might
never have had <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. Palafox would have been set
at liberty, while Cervantes went up the Dardanelles to meet
a violent death in a last attempt at flight.</p>

<p>He stepped ashore a free man after five years of slavery,
but his trials in Algiers were not ended. The enigmatic
villain of the drama, Juan Blanco de Paz, had been busy
trumping up false charges to be lodged against Cervantes
in Spain. It was a base and despicable act duly denounced
by the biographers; but we have reason to be grateful to
Blanco de Paz, for Cervantes met the charges by summoning
eleven witnesses to character who testified before Fray Juan
Gil. Their evidence proves that Cervantes was recognised
as a man of singular courage, kindliness, piety and virtue;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span>
that his authority among his fellow-prisoners had excited
the malicious jealousy of Blanco de Paz who endeavoured
to corrupt some of the witnesses; and—ludicrous detail!—that
the informer had been rewarded for his infamy with a
ducat and a jar of butter. This testimony, recorded by a
notary, is confirmed by the independent evidence of Fray
Juan Gil himself, and by Doctor Antonio de Sosa, a prisoner
of considerable importance who answered the twenty-five
interrogatories in writing. The enquiry makes us acquainted
with all the circumstances of Cervantes’s captivity, and shows
that he was universally regarded as an heroic leader by
those best able to judge.</p>

<p>His vindication being complete, he left Algiers for Denia
on October 24, and reached Madrid at some date previous
to December 18. His position was lamentable. He was
in his thirty-fourth year, and had to begin life again.
Perhaps if Don John had lived, Cervantes might have
returned to the army; but Don John was dead, and his
memory was not cherished at court. Cervantes had no
degree, no profession, no trade, no craft except that of
sonneteering: his life had been spent in the service of the
King, and he endeavoured to obtain some small official post.
Accordingly he made for Portugal, recently annexed by
Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span>, tried to find an opening, and was sent as King’s
messenger to Orán with instructions to call at Mostaganem
with despatches from the Alcalde. The mission was speedily
executed, and Cervantes found himself adrift. He settled
in Madrid, made acquaintance with some prominent authors
of the day, and, in default of more lucrative employment,
betook himself to literature. He was always ready to
furnish a friend with a eulogistic sonnet on that friend’s
immortal masterpiece, and thus acquired a certain reputation
as a facile, fluent versifier. But sonnets are expensive
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span>
luxuries, and Cervantes wanted bread. He earned it by
writing for the stage: to this period no doubt we must
assign the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Numancia</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Tratos de Argel</cite>, as well as many
other pieces which have not survived. Cervantes was like
the players in <cite>Hamlet</cite>. Seneca was not too heavy, nor
Plautus too light for him: he was ready to supply ‘tragedy,
comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,
tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,
scene individable, or poem unlimited.’ It was a hard
struggle to keep the wolf from the door, but perhaps this
was the happiest period of Cervantes’s life. He was on
friendly terms with poets like Pedro de Padilla and Juan
Rufo Gutiérrez; managers did not pay him lavishly for his
plays, but at least they were set upon the stage, and the
applause of the pit was to him the sweetest music in the
world. Moreover, following the example of his friend Luis
Gálvez de Montalvo, he was engaged upon a prose pastoral,
and, with his optimistic nature, he easily persuaded himself
that this romance would make his reputation—and perhaps
his fortune. He was now nearing the fatal age of forty, and
it was high time to put away the follies of youth. Breaking
off a fugitive amour with a certain Ana Franca (more probably
Francisca) de Rojas, he married a girl of nineteen,
Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, daughter of a
widow owning a moderate estate at Esquivias, a small town
near Toledo, then famous for its wine, as Cervantes is careful
to inform us. Doubtless his courtship was like Othello’s.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i5">I spake of most disastrous chances,</div>
<div class="line">Of moving accidents by flood and field,</div>
<div class="line">Of hair-breadth ‘scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach,</div>
<div class="line">Of being taken by the insolent foe</div>
<div class="line">And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence</div>
<div class="line">And portance in my travels’ history.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span>This to hear would Catalina seriously incline, yet there is
reason to think that the members of her family were less
susceptible, and regarded Cervantes as an undesirable suitor.
He undoubtedly was, from a mundane point of view; but
the marriage took place on December 12, 1584, and next
spring the First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Galatea</cite> (which had been licensed
in the previous February) was published. It is perhaps not
without significance that the volume was issued at Alcalá
de Henares: it would have been more natural and probably
more advantageous to publish the book at Madrid where
Cervantes resided, but his name carried no weight with the
booksellers of the capital, and no doubt he was glad enough
to strike a bargain with his fellow-townsman Blas de Robles.
Robles behaved handsomely, for he paid the author, then
unknown outside a small literary circle, a fee of 1336 <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">reales</em>—say
£30, equal (we are told) to nearly £150 nowadays.
Perhaps some modern novelists have received even less
for their first work. With this small capital the newly-married
couple set up house in Madrid: the bride had
indeed a small dowry including forty-five chickens, but
the dowry was not made over to her till twenty months
later. The marriage does not seem to have been unhappy,
as marriages go; but, owing to Cervantes’s wandering
existence, the pair saw little of each other till the last ten
or twelve years of their married life.</p>

<p>By the death of his father on June 13, 1585, Cervantes
became the head of the family, and the position was no
sinecure. His sister Luisa had entered the convent of
Barefooted Carmelites at Alcalá de Henares twenty years
before this date, and his brother Rodrigo had been promoted
to a commission in the army for his signal gallantry at the
Azores. But Cervantes’s mother and his sisters, Andrea
and Magdalena, were unprovided for, and looked to him
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span>
for help. He resumed writing for the stage, and is found
witnessing a legal document at the request of Inés Osorio,
wife of the theatrical manager Jerónimo Velázquez, with
whose name that of Lope de Vega is unpleasantly associated.
Now, if not earlier,—as a complimentary allusion in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> might suggest—Cervantes must have met that
marvellous youth who was shortly to become the most
popular dramatist of the age. Meanwhile Cervantes’s affairs
were going ill. According to his own statement he wrote
from twenty to thirty plays between 1582 and 1587; but
these plays cannot have brought him much money, for
there are proofs that some of his family sold outright to
a pawnbroker certain articles which Cervantes had left in
pledge two years before. Clearly he was hard pressed.
He eked out his income by accepting other work unconnected
with literature, executed business commissions as
far away as Seville, and looked around for permanent
employment. He found it as commissary to the Invincible
Armada which was then fitting out, and in the autumn of
1587 he took up his new duties in Andalusia. This amounts
to a confession of defeat. If a man of exceptional literary
genius can thrive on literature, he does not abandon it for
a less agreeable occupation. It is a fine thing to write
masterpieces, but in order to write them you must contrive
to live. Cervantes’s masterpieces lay in the future, and in
the meantime he felt the pinch of hunger.</p>

<p>He appears to have obtained his appointment through
the influence of a judge in the High Court of Seville, Diego
de Valdivia, a namesake of the affable captain in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Licenciado
Vidriera</cite>; and, after a few months’ probation, his
appointment was confirmed anew in January 1588. He
had already discovered that there were serious inconveniences
attaching to his post, for he had incurred excommunication
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span>
for an irregular seizure of wheat at Écija. It
would be tedious to follow him in his professional visits to
the outlying districts of Andalusia. Everything comes to
an end at last—even the equipment of the Invincible
Armada: when the fleet sailed to meet the enemy Cervantes
cheered it on to victory with an enthusiastic ode, and in a
second ode he deplored the great catastrophe. He continued
in the public service as commissary to the galleys,
collecting provisions at a salary of twelve <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">reales</em> a day,
making Seville his centre, and lodging in the house of
Tomás Gutiérrez. Weary of the sordid life, he applied in
1590 for a post in America, but failed to obtain it. At the
end of the petition, Doctor Núñez Morquecho wrote: ‘Let
him seek some employment hereabouts.’ Blessings on
Doctor Núñez Morquecho, the conscientious official! If
he had granted the petitioner’s request, Cervantes might
have been more prosperous, but he would not have written
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. He was forced to remain where he was,
engulfed in arid and vexatious routine.</p>

<p>Still one would imagine that he must have discharged
his duties efficiently, for he was one of four commissaries
specially commended to the King in January 1592 by the
new Purveyor-General Pedro de Isunza. Meanwhile his
condition grew rather worse than better: his poverty was
extreme. The financial administration was thoroughly disorganised,
and in 1591 Cervantes had not yet received
his salary for 1588. He seems (not unnaturally) to have
lost interest in his work, and to have become responsible
for the indiscreet proceedings of a subordinate at
Teba. Henceforward he was in constant trouble with the
authorities. In August 1592 his accounts were found to be
irregular, and his five sureties were compelled to pay the
balance; he was imprisoned at Castro del Río in September
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span>
for alleged illegal perquisitioning at Écija, but was released
on appeal. Now and then he was tempted to return to
literature. He signed a contract at Seville early in September
1592 undertaking to furnish the manager, Rodrigo Osorio,
with six plays at fifty ducats apiece: the conditions of the
agreement were that Osorio was to produce each play within
twenty days of its being delivered to him, and that
Cervantes was to receive nothing unless the play was ‘one
of the best that had been acted in Spain.’ The imprisonment
at Castro del Río a fortnight later interfered with this
project: no more is heard of it, and Cervantes resumed his
work as commissary. Two points of personal interest are
to be noted in the ensuing years: in the autumn of 1593
Cervantes lost his mother, and in the autumn of 1594 he visited
Baza, where (as Sr. Rodríguez Marín has shown recently
in an open letter addressed to me<a name="FNanchor_99_99" id="FNanchor_99_99"></a><a href="#Footnote_99_99" class="fnanchor">99</a>) his old enemy Blanco
de Paz was residing. As the population of Baza amounted
only to 1537 persons at the time, the two men may easily
have met: the encounter would have been worth witnessing,
for Cervantes was a master of pointed expression.</p>

<p>He passed on his dreary round to Málaga and Ronda,
returning to his headquarters at Seville, where, most likely,
he wrote the poem in honour of St. Hyacinth which won
the first prize at Saragossa on May 7, 1595. As the prize
consisted of three silver spoons, it did not greatly relieve
his financial embarrassments. These rapidly grew worse.
Cervantes had deposited public moneys with a Portuguese
banker in Seville; the banker failed and fled, and, as
Cervantes was unable to refund the amount, he was suspended.
There is a blank in his history from September
1595 to January 1597, when the money was recovered from
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span>
the bankrupt’s estate. Cervantes, however, was not restored
to his post. This is not surprising; for, though most of us
regard him with an affection as real as can be felt for any
one who has been in his grave nearly three hundred years,
even our partiality stops short of calling him a model official.
He  was not cast in the official mould. Cervantes, collecting
oil and wrangling over corn in Andalusia, is like Samson
grinding in the prison house at Gaza. Misfortune pursued
him. The treasury accountants called upon him to furnish
sureties that he would attend the Exchequer Court at
Madrid within twenty days of receiving a summons dated
September 6, 1597. Unable to find bail, he was imprisoned
till the beginning of December, when he was released with
instructions to present himself at Madrid within thirty days.
He does not appear to have left Seville, and he neglected a
similar summons in February 1599. This may seem like
contempt of court, but no doubt the real explanation is that
he had not the money to pay for the journey.</p>

<p>On July 2, 1600, Rodrigo de Cervantes, then an ensign
serving under the Archduke Albert in Flanders, was killed
in action; but Miguel de Cervantes probably did not hear
of this till long afterwards. He now vanishes from sight,
for there is another blank in his record from May 1601 to
February 1603. We may assume that he lived in extreme
poverty at Seville, and when next heard of—at Valladolid in
1603—his circumstances had not greatly improved. His
sister Andrea was employed as needlewoman by the
Marqués de Villafranca, and her little bill is made out in
Cervantes’s handwriting: clearly every member of the
family contributed to the household expenses, and every
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">maravedí</em> was welcome. Presumably Cervantes had come to
Valladolid in obedience to a peremptory <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">mandamus</em> from the
Exchequer Court. A brief enquiry must have convinced
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span>
the registrars that, with the best will in the world, he was
not in a position to make good the sum which (as they
alleged) was due to the treasury, and they left him in peace
for three years with a cloud over him. He had touched
bottom. He had valiantly endured the buffets of fortune,
and was now about to enter into his reward.</p>

<p>His mind to him a kingdom was, and during the years of
his disgrace in Seville he had lived, unhindered by squalid
circumstance, in a pleasaunce of reminiscence and imagination.
All other doors being closed to him, he returned to
the house of literature, took pen and paper, gave literary
form to his experiences and imaginings, and, when drawing
on to sixty, produced the masterpiece which has made his
name immortal. It may well be, as he himself hints, that
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was begun in Seville jail: perhaps it was finished
there. At any rate there was little to be added to it when
the author reached Valladolid in 1603—little beyond the
preface and burlesque preliminary verses. By the summer
of 1604 Cervantes had found a publisher, and it had leaked
out that the book contained some caustic references to
distinguished contemporaries. This may account for Lope
de Vega’s opinion, expressed in August 1604 (six months
before the work was published), that ‘no poet is as bad as
Cervantes, nor so silly as to praise <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>.’ This was
not precisely a happy forecast. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> appeared early
in 1605, was hailed with delight, and received the dubious
compliment of being pirated in Lisbon. Cervantes was the
man of the moment, in the first flush of his popularity, when
chance played him an unpleasant trick. On the night
of June 27, 1605, a Navarrese gallant named Gaspar de
Ezpeleta was wounded while in the neighbourhood of the
Calle del Rastro, called for aid at the door of No. 11 where
Cervantes lodged, was helped into the house, and died there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span>
two days later. The inmates were arrested on suspicion,
examined by the magistrate, and released on July 1. The
minutes of the examination were unpublished till recent
years, and these furtive tactics gravely injured the memory
of Cervantes, for they suggested the idea that the examination
revealed something to his discredit. It reveals that Cervantes’s
natural daughter, Isabel de Saavedra (whose mother,
Ana Franca de Rojas, had died in 1599 or earlier), was now
residing with her father; it proves that Cervantes was still
poor, and that calumnious gossip was current in Valladolid;
but there is not a tittle of evidence to show that any
member of the Cervantes family ever heard of Ezpeleta till
he came by his death.</p>

<p>Cervantes had made for himself a great reputation, but
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> did not apparently enrich him: otherwise he
would not have asked his publisher for an advance of 450
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">reales</em>, as we know that he did at some date previous to
November 23, 1607. However, we must renounce the pretension
to understand Cervantes’s financial affairs. His
daughter Isabel, who was unmarried in 1605, reappears in
1608 as the widow of Diego Sanz del Aguila, and as the
mother of a daughter: in 1608 she married a certain Luis
de Molina, and there are complicated statements respecting
a house in the Red de San Luis from which it is impossible
to gather whether the house belonged to Isabel, to her
daughter, or to her father. We cannot wonder that Cervantes
was the despair of the Treasury officials: these
officials did, indeed, make a last attempt to extract an
explanation from him on November 6 of this very year of
1608, and thenceforward left him in peace.</p>

<p>He settled in Madrid to pass his serene old age. An
atmosphere of devotion began to reign in the house in the
Calle de la Magdalena where he lived with his wife and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span>
his sisters, Andrea and Magdalena. In 1609 he was among
the first to join the newly founded Confraternity of the
Slaves of the Most Blessed Sacrament; in the same year his
wife received the habit of the Tertiaries of St. Francis,
as also did Andrea who died four months later (October 9);
in 1610 his wife and his surviving sister Magdalena both
became professed Tertiaries of St. Francis. It would appear
that Cervantes had been aided by the generosity of the
Conde de Lemos, and he could not hide his deep chagrin
at not being invited to join the household when Lemos was
nominated to the viceroyalty of Naples in 1610. The new
viceroy chose better than he knew. Cervantes applied
himself more closely to literature which he had neglected
(so far as publication goes) for the last five years, and, after
the death of his sister Magdalena in 1611, the results of
his renewed activity were visible. In 1612, when he
became a member of the Academia Selvaje (where we
hear of his lending a wretched pair of spectacles to Lope de
Vega), he finished his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Exemplares</cite> which appeared
next year. He published his serio-comic poem, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage
del Parnaso</cite>, in 1614; in 1615 he issued a volume containing
eight plays and eight interludes, and also published the
Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. It is curious that so many
things which must have seemed misfortunes to Cervantes
have proved to be a gain to us. In 1614 an apocryphal <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite> was published at Tarragona by Alonso Fernández
de Avellaneda of whom nothing has been discovered, and
this spurious sequel contained a preface filled with insolent
personalities. If Cervantes had received any one of the
appointments in Spanish America for which he petitioned,
we should not have had the first <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>; if he had
gone to Naples with Lemos we should never have had the
second; if it had not been for Avellaneda’s insults, we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span>
might have had only an unfinished sequel. Cervantes’s life
was now drawing to a close, but his industry was prodigious.
Apart from fugitive verses he was engaged on <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Trabajos
de Persiles y Sigismunda</cite>, on a play entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Engaño á los
ojos</cite>, the long-promised continuation of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, and two
works which he proposed to call <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Semanas del Jardín</cite> and
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El famoso Bernardo</cite>. All are lost to us except <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Persiles y
Sigismunda</cite> which appeared posthumously in 1617.</p>

<p>We catch interesting glimpses of Cervantes in the last
phase. He has left a verbal portrait of himself as he
looked when he was sixty-six, and it is the only authentic
portrait of him in existence. He was ‘of aquiline features,
with chestnut hair, smooth and unclouded brow, bright
eyes, and a nose arched, though well proportioned, silver
beard, once golden twenty years ago, long moustache, small
mouth, teeth of no consequence, since he had only six and
these in ill condition and worse placed, inasmuch as they
do not correspond to one another; stature about the
average, neither tall nor short, ruddy complexion, fair
rather than dark, slightly stooped in the shoulders, and
not very active on his feet.’ Two years later Noel Brûlart
de Sillery came to Madrid on a special mission from the
French Court, and his suite were intensely curious to hear
what they could of Cervantes; they learned that he was
‘old, a soldier, a gentleman, and poor.’ At this time, his
health must have begun to fail: it was undoubtedly failing
fast while he wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Persiles y Sigismunda</cite>. He was apparently
dependent on the bounty of Lemos and of Bernardo de
Sandoval, the Cardinal-Archbishop of Toledo. The hand
of death was on him when he wrote to the Cardinal on
March 26, 1616, a letter expressing his gratitude for a
recent benefaction. On April 2 he was professed as a
Tertiary of St. Francis, and the profession took place at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span>
the house in the Calle de León to which he had removed
in 1611 or earlier. He was never to leave it again alive:
on April 18 he received Extreme Unction; on April 19 he
wrote the celebrated dedication of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Persiles y Sigismunda</cite> to
Lemos; on April 23 he died, and on April 24 he was buried
in the convent of the Trinitarian nuns in the Calle del
Humilladero—the street which now bears the name of his
great rival Lope. His wife outlived him by ten years, and
his daughter by thirty-six; we hear no more of his granddaughter
after 1608. Presumably she died in infancy: if
so, the family became extinct upon the death of Isabel
de Saavedra in 1652.</p>

<p>Cervantes was no bloodless ascetic, no incarnation of
dreary righteousness: we do him wrong, if we present him
in that crude, intolerable light. With some defects of
character and with some lapses of conduct, he is a more
interesting and more attractive personality than if he were—what
perhaps no one has ever been—a bundle of almost
impossible perfections. He was even as we are, but far
nobler—braver, more resigned to disappointment, more
patient with the folly which springs eternal in each of us.
This inexhaustible sympathy, even more than his splendid
genius, is the secret of his conquering charm. He is one of
ourselves, only incomparably greater.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">His life was gentle, and the elements</div>
<div class="line">So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up</div>
<div class="line">And say to all the world, ‘This was a man.’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But it is not for us to write his epitaph. He needs no
marble sepulchre, and he has none, for the precise spot
where he rests is unknown. He has built himself a lordlier
and more imperishable monument than we could fashion
for him—a monument which will endure so long as humour,
wisdom, and romance enchant mankind.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER VI<br /><br />

<small>THE WORKS OF CERVANTES</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">The</span> best and wisest of men have their delusions—especially
with respect to themselves and their capabilities—and
Cervantes was not free from such natural infirmities. He
made his first appearance in literature with a sonnet
addressed to Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span>’s third wife, Isabel de Valois, and as
this poem is not included in any Spanish edition of his works,
I make no apology for quoting it (in an English version by
Norman MacColl which has not yet been published).</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Most Gracious Queen, within whose breast prevail</div>
<div class="line i1">What thoughts to mortals by God’s grace do come,</div>
<div class="line i1">Oh general refuge of Christendom,</div>
<div class="line">Whose fame for piety can never fail.</div>
<div class="line">Oh happy armour! with that well-meshed mail</div>
<div class="line i1">Great Philip clothed himself, our sovereign,</div>
<div class="line i1">Illustrious King of the broad lands of Spain,</div>
<div class="line">Who fortune and the world holds in his baile.</div>
<div class="line">What genius would adventure to proclaim</div>
<div class="line i1">The good that thine example teaches us;</div>
<div class="line i2">If thou wert summoned to the realms of day,</div>
<div class="line">Who in thy mortal state put’st us to shame?</div>
<div class="line i1">Better it is to feel and mutter ‘hush,’</div>
<div class="line i2">Than what is difficult to say, aloud to say.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This is not a masterpiece in little, nor even a marvel of
adroitness; but it is highly interesting as the earliest extant
effort of one who was destined to become a master, and,
moreover, it supplies us with his favourite poetical formulæ.
In his description of the Queen as the</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span>general refuge of Christendom,</div>
<div class="line">Whose fame for piety can never fail;</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">in his allusion to the</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Illustrious King of the broad lands of Spain,</div>
<div class="line">Who fortune and the world holds in his baile;</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Cervantes strikes the characteristic notes of devotion,
patriotism, and loyalty to his sovereign. Though he vastly
enlarged the circle of his themes later on, he was sufficiently
representative of his own time and country to introduce
these three motives into his subsequent writings whenever
a plausible occasion offered. This is particularly notable in
his fugitive verses. Sainte-Beuve says that nearly all men
are born poets, but that, as a rule, the poet in us dies young.
It was not so with Cervantes—so far as impulse was concerned.
From youth to old age he was a persistent versifier.
As we have seen, he first appeared in print with elegiacs on
the death of Isabel de Valois; as a slave in Algiers he dedicated
sonnets to Bartolomeo Ruffino, and from Algiers also
he appealed for help to Mateo Vázquez in perhaps the most
spirited and sincere of his poetical compositions; he was not
long free from slavery when he supplied Juan Rufo Gutiérrez
with a resounding patriotic sonnet, and Pedro de Padilla
with devotional poems. As he began, so he continued. He
has made merry at the practice of issuing books with
eulogistic prefatory poems; but he observed the custom in
his own <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, and he was indefatigable in furnishing such
verses to his friends. All subjects came alike to him. He
would as soon praise the quips and quillets of López Maldonado
as lament the death of the famous admiral Santa Cruz, and
he celebrated with equal promptitude a tragic epic on the
lovers of Teruel and a technical treatise on kidney diseases.
It must, I think, be allowed that Cervantes was readily
stirred into song.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span>At the end of his career, in his mock-heroic <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage del
Parnaso</cite>, he cast a backward glance at his varied achievement
in literature, and, with his usual good judgment,
admitted wistfully that nature had denied him the gift of
poetry. As the phrase stands, and baldly interpreted, it
would seem that excessive modesty had led Cervantes to
underestimate his powers. He was certainly endowed with
imagination, and with a beautifying vision; but, though he
had the poet’s dream, he had not the faculty of verbal magic.
It was not given to him to wed immortal thoughts to
immortal music, and this no doubt is what he means us to
understand by his ingenuous confession. His verdict is
eminently just. Cervantes has occasional happy passages,
even a few admirable moments, but no lofty or sustained
inspiration. He recognised the fact with that transparent
candour which has endeared him to mankind, not dreaming
that uncritical admirers in future generations would seek to
crown him with the laurel to which he formally resigned all
claim. Yet we read appreciations of him as a ‘great’ poet,
and we can only marvel at such misuse of words. If Cervantes
be a ‘great’ poet, what adjective is left to describe
Garcilaso, Luis de León, Lope de Vega, Góngora and
Calderón?</p>

<p>A sense of measure, of relative values, is the soul of
criticism, and we may be appreciative without condescending
to idolatry, or even to flattery. Cervantes was a rapid,
facile versifier, and at rare intervals his verses are touched
with poetry; but, for the most part, they are imitative, and
no imitation, however brilliant, is a title to lasting fame.
Imitation in itself is no bad sign in a beginner; it is a
healthier symptom than the adoption of methods which are
wilfully eccentric; but it is a provisional device, to be used
solely as a means of attaining one’s originality. It cannot
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span>
be said that Cervantes ever acquired a personal manner in
verse: if he had, there would be far less division of opinion
as to whether he is, or is not, the author of such and such
poems. He finally acquired a personal manner in prose, but
only after an arduous probation.</p>

<p>There are few traces of originality in his earliest prose
work, the First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Galatea</cite>, the pastoral which
Cervantes never found time to finish during more than
thirty years. I do not think we need suppose that we have
lost a masterpiece, though no doubt it would be profoundly
interesting to see Cervantes trying to pour new wine into
old bottles. The sole interest of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, as we have it,
is that it is the first essay in fiction of a great creator who
has mistaken his road. There does appear to have existed,
long before the composition of the Homeric poems, a primitive
pastoral which was popular in character. So historians tell
us, and no doubt they are right. But the extant pastoral
poetry of Sicily is the latest manifestation of Greek genius,
an artistic revolt against the banal conventions of civilisation,
an attempt to express a longing for a freer life in
a purer air. In other words it is an artificial product. The
Virgilian eclogues are still more remote from reality than
the idyls of Theocritus: as imitations are bound to be.
Artificiality is even more pronounced in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcadia</cite> of
Sannazaro who ‘prosified’ the Virgilian eclogue during the
late Renaissance: what else do you expect in an imitation
of an imitation? Neither in Sannazaro, nor in his disciple
Cervantes, is there a glimpse of real shepherds, nor even of
the Theocritean shepherds,—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Such as sat listening round Apollo’s pipe,</div>
<div class="line">When the great deity, for earth too ripe,</div>
<div class="line">Let his divinity o’erflowing die</div>
<div class="line">In music, through the vales of Thessaly.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span>What we find in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> is the imitation by Cervantes of
Sannazaro’s prose imitation of Virgil’s imitation of Theocritus.
To us who wish for nothing better than to read Cervantes
himself, his ambition to write like somebody else seems
misplaced, not to say grotesque. But then, for most of us,
Sannazaro has only a relative importance: to Cervantes,
Sannazaro was almost Virgil’s peer.</p>

<p>Everything connected with the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> is imitative—the
impulse to write it, the matter, and the manner. The
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> is no spontaneous product of the author’s fancy; it
owes its existence to Sannazaro’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcadia</cite>, and to the early
Spanish imitations of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcadia</cite> recorded in Professor
Rennert’s exhaustive monograph. We shall not be far
wrong in thinking that it might never have struggled into
print, had not Cervantes been encouraged by the example of
his friend Luis Gálvez de Montalvo, who had made a hit
with <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Pastor de Fílida</cite>. So, too, as regards the matter of
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>. The sixth book is a frank adaptation of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcadia</cite>; there are further reminiscences of Sannazaro’s
pastoral in both the verse and the prose of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>;
other allusions are worked in without much regard to their
appropriateness; León Hebreo is not too lofty, nor Alonso
Pérez too lowly, to escape Cervantes’s depredations. Lastly,
the manner is no less imitative: construction, arrangement,
distribution, diction are all according to precedent. Martínez
Marina, indeed, held the odd view that there was something
new in the style of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, and that Cervantes and
Mariana were the first to move down the steep slope that
leads to <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">culteranismo</em>. During the hundred years that
Martínez Marina’s theory has been before the world it has
made no converts, and therefore it needs no refutation.
But, though the theory is mistaken, some of the facts
advanced to support it are indubitable: the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> is
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span>
deliberately latinised in imitation of Sannazaro who sought
to reproduce the sustained and sonorous melody of the
Ciceronian period. So intent is Cervantes upon the model
that his own personality is overwhelmed. He probably
never wrote with more scrupulous care than when at work
on the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, yet all his pains and all his elaborate finish
are so much labour lost. Briefly, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> is little more
than the echo of an echo, and the individual quality of
Cervantes’s voice is lost amid the reverberations of exotic
music.</p>

<p>The sixteenth-century prose-pastoral was a barren product,
rooted in a false convention. It was not natural, and
it was not artistic: it failed to reproduce the beauty of the
old ideal, and it failed to create a modern ideal. It satisfies
no canon, and to attempt to make a case for it is to argue
for argument’s sake. Had Cervantes continued to work
this vein, he would never have found his true path, and
must have remained an imitator till the end; and it is a
mere chance that he did not return to the pastoral and
complete the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>. It was far too often in his thoughts.
As his butt Feliciano de Silva would have said, his reason
saw ‘the unreason of the reason with which the reason is
afflicted’ when given up to the composition of pastorals;
and yet the pastoral romance had a fascination for him.
Fortunately, he was saved from a fatal error by the fact
that, for nearly twenty years after the publication of the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, he was kept against his will in touch with the
realities of life: realities often grim, squalid, fantastic, cruel
and absurd, but preferable to the pointless philanderings of
imaginary swains and nymphs in a pasteboard Arcadia. The
surly taxpayers from whom Cervantes had to wring contributions,
the clergy who excommunicated and imprisoned
him, the alcaldes and jacks-in-office who made his life a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span>
burden, the cheating landlords and strumpets whom he met
in miserable inns—these people were not the crown and
flower of the human race, but they were not intangible
abstractions, nor even persistent bores; they were plain
men and women, creatures of flesh and blood, subject to
all the passions of humanity, and using vigorous, natural
speech instead of euphemisms and preciosities. It was by
contact with these rugged folk that Cervantes amassed his
wealth of observation, and slowly learned his trade. This
was precisely what he needed. After his return from
Algiers, and till his marriage, circumstances had thrown
him into a literary clique, well-read and well-meaning, but
with no vital knowledge of the past and no intellectual
interest in the present. The destiny which drove Cervantes
to collect provisions and taxes in the villages of the south
saved him from the Byzantinism of the capital, and placed
him once more in direct relation with nature—especially
human nature. This was his salvation as an author. And
eighteen years later he produced the First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite>.</p>

<p>It would be interesting to know the exact stages of composition
of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, but that is hopeless. We cannot
be sure as to when Cervantes began the book, but we may
hazard a conjecture. Bernardo de la Vega’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pastor de Iberia</cite>,
one of the books in Don Quixote’s library, was published
in 1591, and this goes to prove that the sixth chapter was
written after this date—probably a good deal later, for this
pastoral was a failure, and therefore not likely to come at
once into the hands of a busy, roving tax-gatherer. You
all remember the incident of Sancho Panza’s being tossed
in a blanket, and there is a very similar episode in the Third
Book of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Guzmán de Alfarache</cite>. Is there any relation between
the two? Is it a case of unconscious reminiscence, or is it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span>
simple coincidence? It would be absurd to suppose that
Cervantes deliberately took such a trifling incident from a
book published six years before his own. Where Cervantes
is imitative is in the dedication of the First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite>, which is pieced together from Herrera’s dedication
of his edition of Garcilaso to the Marqués de Ayamonte,
and from Francisco de Medina’s prologue to the same
edition. If the tossing of Sancho Panza were suggested
by <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Guzmán de Alfarache</cite>, it would follow that the seventeenth
chapter of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was written in 1599, or later,
and a remark dropped by Ginés de Pasamonte seems to
show that Cervantes had read Mateo Alemán’s book without
any excessive admiration. But the point is scarcely worth
labouring. My own impression is that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was
progressing, but was not yet finished, in 1602.</p>

<p>Consider the facts a moment! So far as external evidence
goes we have no information concerning Cervantes from May
1601 to February 1603, but I suggest that he was in Seville
during 1602. We know that Lope de Vega was constantly
in Seville from 1600 to 1604, and we know that Cervantes
wrote a complimentary sonnet for the edition of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dragontea</cite>
issued by Lope in 1602. The inference is that
Cervantes and Lope were on friendly terms at this date,
and it is therefore incredible that Cervantes had written—or
even contemplated writing—the sharp attack on Lope
in the forty-seventh chapter of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>. During the
course of 1602 differences arose to separate the two men,
and thenceforward Cervantes felt free to treat Lope as an
ordinary mortal, an author who invited trenchant criticism.
This would lead us to suppose that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was not
actually finished till just before Cervantes’s departure to
Valladolid at the beginning of 1603, and it would also
explain how Lope de Vega became acquainted with the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span>
contents of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> before it was actually published.
Cervantes is pleasantly chatty and confidential in print
respecting the books upon which he is at work; he is not
likely to have been more reserved in private conversation
with a friend. And it is intrinsically probable that at this
difficult period of his life Cervantes may have made many
confidences to Lope concerning his projects.</p>

<p>At first sight it may seem odd that we hear nothing of
Cervantes’s mingling in the literary circles of Seville; it
may seem still more strange, if we take into consideration
the fact that several of the poets whom he had praised in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> were then living in Seville. But there is nothing
strange about it, if we look at men and things from a contemporary
point of view. The plain truth is that at this
time Cervantes was a nobody in the eyes of educated people
at Seville. His steps had been persistently dogged by
failure. He had failed as a dramatist, and as a writer of
romance; he had been discharged from the public service
under a cloud, and his imprisonment would not recommend
him to the Philistines. Highly respectable literary persons
closed their doors to him, and in these circumstances Lope’s
companionship would be most welcome. From these small
details we may fairly infer that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was not finished
till the very end of 1602, and that the final touches were
not given till Cervantes went to Valladolid in 1603, a perfectly
insignificant figure in the eyes of literary men and
literary patrons. He was still nothing but a seedy elderly
hack when <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was licensed in September 1604.
The book stole into the market at the beginning of 1605,
with no great expectation of success on the part of the
publisher who had it printed in a commonplace, careless
fashion, and left it to take its chance on his counter at the
price of eight and a half <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">reales</em>. We all know the result.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span>
From the outset <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was immensely popular, and
from that day to this the author’s reputation has steadily
increased—till now he ranks as one of the great immortals.
The history of literature shows no more enduring triumph.</p>

<p>Cervantes himself tells us that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> is, ‘from
beginning to end, an attack upon the books of chivalry,’
and no doubt he means this assertion to be taken literally.
But, as I have said elsewhere, the statement must
be interpreted rationally in the light of other facts. It is
quite true that books of chivalry had been a public pest, that
grave scholars and theologians thundered against them, and
that legislation was invoked to prevent their introduction
into the blameless American colonies. The mystic Malón
de Chaide, writing in 1588, declared that these extravagances
were as dangerous as a knife in a madman’s hand;
but Malón de Chaide lived sequestered from the world, and
was evidently not aware that public taste had changed
since he was young. It is a significant fact that no romance
of chivalry was printed at Madrid during the reign of
Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span>, and the natural conclusion is that such publications
were then popular only in country districts. The
previous twenty years of Cervantes’s life had been passed
in the provinces, and one might be tempted to imagine
that he was unaware of what was happening elsewhere.
This would be an error: the fact that he mentions his own
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rinconete y Cortadillo</cite> in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> proves that he knew
there was a demand for picaresque stories, and that he was
prepared to satisfy it. The probability is that Cervantes,
who lived much in the past, had intended to write a short travesty
of a chivalresque novel, and that his original intention
remained present in his mind long after he had exceeded
it in practice. If any one chooses to insist that Cervantes
gave the romances of chivalry their death-blow, we are not
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span>
concerned to deny it; if he had done nothing more, it
would have been an inglorious victory, for they were
already at the last extremity: but in truth, though he
himself may have been unconscious of it, in writing <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite> Cervantes signalised the triumph of the modern
spirit over mediævalism.</p>

<p>He had set out impelled by the spirit of burlesque, and
perhaps had met in his wanderings on the King’s commission
some quaint belated personage who seemed a survival
from a picturesque, idealistic age, and who invited good-natured
caricature. With some such intention, Cervantes
began a tale, which, so far as he could foresee, would be no
longer than some of his <cite>Exemplary Novels</cite> (of which one, at
least, was already written); but the experiment was a new
one, and the author himself was at the mercy of accidents.
He saw little more than the possibilities of his central idea:
a country gentleman who had become a monomaniac by
incessant pondering over fabulous deeds, and who was led
into ridiculous situations by attempting to imitate the
imaginary exploits of his mythical heroes. Cervantes sets
forth light-heartedly; pictures his gaunt hero arguing with
Master Nicolás, the village barber, over the relative merits
of Palmerín and Amadís; and finally presents him aflame
with an enthusiasm which drives him to furbish up his
great-grandfather’s armour, to go out to right every kind of
wrong, and to win everlasting renown (as well as the empire
of Trebizond). Parodies, burlesque allusions, humorous
parallels crowd upon the writer, and his pen flies trippingly
along till he reaches the third chapter. At this point
Cervantes perceives the subject broadening out, and the
landlord accordingly impresses on Don Quixote the necessity
of providing himself with a squire.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span>It is a momentous passage: there and then the image of
Sancho Panza first flashed into the author’s mind, but not
with any definition of outline. Cervantes does not venture
to introduce Sancho Panza in person till near the end of the
seventh chapter, and he is visibly ill at ease over his new
creation. It is quite plain that, at this stage, Cervantes
knew very little about Sancho Panza, and his first remark is
that the squire was an honest man (if any poor man can be
called honest), ‘but with very little sense in his pate.’ This
is not the Sancho who has survived: honesty is not the most
pre-eminent quality of the squire, and if anybody thinks
Sancho Panza a born fool he must have a high standard of
ability. In the ninth chapter Cervantes goes out of his way
to describe Sancho Panza as a long-legged man: obviously,
up to this point, he had never seen the squire at close
quarters, and was as yet not nearly so well acquainted with
him as you and I are. He was soon to know him more
intimately. Perceiving his mistake, he hustled the long-legged
scarecrow out of sight, observed the real Sancho
with minute fidelity, and created the most richly humorous
character in modern literature. The only possible rival to
Sancho Panza is Sir John Falstaff; but Falstaff is emphatically
English, whereas Sancho Panza is a citizen of the
world, stamped with the seal of universality.</p>

<p>It can scarcely be doubted that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> contains
many allusions to contemporaries and contemporary events.
We can catch the point of his jests at Lope de Vega’s fondness
for a classical reference, or at a geographical blunder
made by the learned Mariana; but probably many an allusion
of the same kind escapes us in Cervantes’s pages. The same
may be said of Shakespeare, and hence both Cervantes and
Shakespeare have been much exposed to the attentions of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span>
commentators. In a celebrated passage of <cite>A Midsummer-Night’s
Dream</cite> Oberon addresses Puck:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i6">Thou rememberest</div>
<div class="line">Since once I sat upon a promontory,</div>
<div class="line">And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back</div>
<div class="line">Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath</div>
<div class="line">That the rude sea grew civil at her song</div>
<div class="line">And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,</div>
<div class="line">To hear the sea-maid’s music.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">An ordinary reader would be content to admire the lines
as they stand, but a commentator is an extraordinary
reader, who feels compelled to justify his existence by
identifying the mermaid with Mary Queen of Scots, the
dolphin with her first husband the Dauphin of France, and
the certain stars with Mary’s English partisans. In precisely
the same way Don Quixote has been identified with the
Duke of Lerma, Sancho Panza with Pedro Franqueza, and
the three ass-colts—promised by the knight to the squire
as some compensation for the loss of Dapple—have been
flatteringly recognised as the three Princes of Savoy,
Philip, Victor Amadeus, and Emmanuel Philibert. These
identifications seem quite as likely to be correct in the one
case as in the other. We need not discuss them. But if
<cite>A Midsummer-Night’s Dream</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> were really
intended as a couple of political pasquinades, they must be
classed as complete failures: the idea that Cervantes and
Shakespeare were a pair of party pamphleteers is a piece of
grotesque perversity.</p>

<p>Apart from the matter of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, the diversity of its
manner is arresting. Even those who most admire the
elaborate diction of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> are compelled to admit its
monotony. The variety of incident in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> corresponds
to a variety of style which is a new thing in Spanish
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span>
literature. Still there are examples of deliberate imitation,
not only in the travesties of the romances of chivalry, but
in such passages as Don Quixote’s famous declamation on
the happier Age of Gold:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the
name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so
coveted in this our iron one was gained without labour, but
because they that lived in it knew not the two words ‘mine’ and
‘thine.’ In that blessed age all things were in common; to win
the daily food no toil was needed from any man but to stretch out
his hand and pluck it from the mighty oaks that stood there
generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The crystal
streams and rippling brooks yielded their clear and grateful waters
in splendid profusion. The busy and wise bees set up their
commonwealth in the clefts of the rocks and the hollows of the
trees, offering without usance to every hand the abundant produce
of their fragrant toil.... Fraud, deceit, or malice had not as
yet tainted truth and sincerity. Justice held her own, untroubled
and unassailed by the attempts of favour and interest, which so
greatly damage, corrupt, and encompass her about....</p></blockquote>

<p class="noindent">And so forth. It is a fine piece of embroidered rhetoric,
which is fairly entitled to the place it holds in most anthologies
of Spanish prose. But it is not specially characteristic
of Cervantes: it is a brilliant passage introduced to prove
that the writer could, if he chose, rival Antonio de Guevara
as a virtuoso in what is thought the grand style. Nor is
Cervantes himself in the points and conceits which abound
in Marcela’s address to Ambrosio and the assembled friends
of the dead shepherd Chrysostom:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>By that natural understanding which God has given me I know
that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by
reason of being loved, that which is loved for its beauty is bound
to love that which loves it.... As there is an infinity of beautiful
objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true love
(so I have heard it said) is indivisible, and must be voluntary and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span>
uncompelled.... I was born free, and that I might live in freedom
I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I
find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to
the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I
am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside.... Let him who calls me
wild beast and basilisk leave me alone as a thing noxious and evil.</p></blockquote>

<p>To the mind of an English reader, this passage recalls
the recondite preciosity of Juliet:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I,’</div>
<div class="line">And that bare vowel, ‘I,’ shall poison more</div>
<div class="line">Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:</div>
<div class="line">I am not I, if there be such an I,</div>
<div class="line">Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer ‘I.’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">These exhibitions of verbal ingenuity are a blemish in the
early chapters of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> and in <cite>Romeo and Juliet</cite>. At
this stage of their development both Cervantes and Shakespeare
were struggling to disengage their genius from the
clutch of contemporary affectation, and both succeeded. As
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> progresses the parody of the books of chivalry
becomes less insistent, the style grows more supple and
adaptable, reaches a high level of restrained eloquence in
the knight’s speeches, is forcible and familiar in expressing
the squire’s artful simplicity, is invariably appropriate in
the mouths of men differing so widely from each other as
Vivaldo and the Barber, Ginés de Pasamonte and Cardenio,
Don Fernando and the left-handed landlord, the Captive
and the village priest. The dramatic fitness of the dialogue
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, its intense life and speedy movement are
striking innovations in the development of the Spanish
novel, and give the book its abiding air of modernity.
Cervantes had discovered the great secret that truth is a
more essential element of artistic beauty than all the
academic elegance in the world.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span>But the immediate triumph of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was not due—or,
at least, was not mainly due—to strictly artistic qualities.
These make an irresistible appeal to us, who belong to a
more analytic and sophisticated generation. To contemporary
readers the charm of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> lay in its amalgamation
of imaginative and realistic elements, in its accumulated
episodes, in its infinite sympathy, and its pervasive humour.
There was no question then as to whether <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was
a well of symbolic doctrine. The canvas was crowded with
types familiar to every one who had eyes to see his companions
on the dusty highways of Spain. The wenches who
served Don Quixote with stockfish and black bread; the
lad Andrés, flayed in the grove of oaks by Juan Haldudo
the Rich, of Quintanar; the goatherds seated round the
fire on which the pot of salted goat was simmering;
the three lively needle-makers from the Colt of Córdoba;
the midnight procession escorting the dead body from
Baeza to Segovia, and chanting dirges on the road; the
dozen galley-slaves tramping on, strung together like beads
on an iron chain—all these are observed and presented with
masterly precision of detail. But the really triumphant
creations of the book are, of course, Don Quixote and
Sancho Panza—the impassioned idealist and the incarnation
of gross common-sense. They were instantly accepted as
great representative figures; the adventures of the fearless
Manchegan madman and his timorous practical squire were
speedily reprinted in the capital and the provinces; and
within six months a writer in Valladolid assumed as a
matter of course that his correspondent in the Portuguese
Indies must have made the acquaintance of Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza.</p>

<p>One of the most attractive characteristics of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>
is its maturity; it may not have taken more than three or
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span>
four years to write, but it embodies the experience of a
lifetime, and it breathes an air of urbanity and leisure.
Cervantes was not an exceptionally rapid writer, and—if
he thought about the matter at all—probably knew that
masterpieces are seldom produced in a hurry. His great
rival Lope de Vega easily surpassed him in brilliant facility:
Cervantes’s mind was weightier, less fleet but more precise.
In the closing sentences of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> he had half promised
a continuation, and no doubt it occupied his thoughts for
many years. He had set himself a most formidable task—the
task of equalling himself at his best—and he may well
have shrunk from it, for he was risking his hard-won reputation
on a doubtful hazard. He was in no haste to put his
fortune to the touch. He sank into a pregnant silence,
pondered over the technique of his great design, and, with
the exception of an occasional sonnet, published nothing
for eight years. At last in 1613 he issued his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas
Exemplares</cite>, twelve short stories, the composition of which
was spread over a long space of time. One of these,
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rinconete y Cortadillo</cite>, is mentioned in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, and
must therefore date from 1602 or earlier; a companion
story, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Coloquio de los Perros</cite>, is assigned to 1608; and
the remaining ten are plausibly believed to have been
written between these dates. The two tales just mentioned
are the gems of the collection, but <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Gitanilla</cite> and
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Celoso extremeño</cite> are scarcely less striking, and certainly
seven out of the dozen are models of realistic art. Cervantes
was never troubled by mock-modesty, and ingenuously asserts
that he was ‘the first to attempt novels in the Castilian tongue,
for the many which wander about in print in Spanish are all
translated from foreign languages, while these are my own,
neither imitated nor stolen.’ There were earlier collections
of stories (from one of which—Eslava’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Noches de Invierno</cite>—Shakespeare
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span>
contrived to borrow the plot of <cite>The Tempest</cite>),
but they are eclipsed by the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Exemplares</cite>. These, in
their turn, are overshadowed by <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, but they would
suffice to make the reputation of any novelist by their fine
invention and engaging fusion of truth with fantasy. The
harshest of native critics yielded to the spell, and the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Exemplares</cite> were skilfully exploited by John Fletcher
and by Middleton and Rowley in England, as well as by
Hardy in France.</p>

<p>Cervantes had now so unquestionably succeeded in prose
that he was tempted to bid for fame as a poet. He mistrusted
his own powers, and, as the event proved, with
reason. His <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage del Parnaso</cite>, published in 1614, commemorated
the most prominent versifiers of the day in a
spirit of mingled appreciation and satirical criticism. It is
very doubtful whether there have been so many great poets
in the history of the world as Cervantes descried among his
Spanish contemporaries, and his compliments are too effusive
and too universal to be effective. A noble amateur, a
potential patron, is lauded as extravagantly as though he
were the equal of Lope or Góngora, and the occasional
excursions into satire are mostly pointless. There are
more wit, and pungency, and concentrated force in any
two pages of <cite>English Bards and Scotch Reviewers</cite> than in
all the cantos of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage del Parnaso</cite> put together. It
cannot be merely owing to temperamental differences that
Byron succeeds where Cervantes fails. There are splenetic
passages in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage</cite> relating to such writers as Bernardo
de la Vega and the author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Pícara Justina</cite>, but they
miss their mark. The simple truth is—not that Cervantes
was willing to wound and yet afraid to strike, but—that he
had no complete mastery of his instrument.</p>

<p>His instinct was right; he moves uneasily in the fetters
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span>
of verse, and only becomes himself in the prose appendix
to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage</cite> which (as the internal evidence discloses)
was written side by side with the Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Quixote</cite>. His true vehicle was prose, but he was reluctant
to abide by the limitations of his genius, and while the
sequel to <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was maturing, he produced a volume
of plays containing eight formal full-dress dramas and eight
sparkling interludes. By sympathy and by training Cervantes
belonged to the older school of dramatists, and his
attempts to rival Lope de Vega on Lope’s own ground are
mostly embarrassed and, in some cases, curiously maladroit;
yet he displays a happy malicious humour in the less
ambitious interludes, and, when he betakes himself to prose,
he captivates by the spontaneous wit and nimble gaiety of
his dialogue. These thumbnail sketches, like the kit-cats of
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Exemplares</cite>, may be regarded as so many studies
for the Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, at which Cervantes was
still working.</p>

<p>This tardy sequel, which followed the First Part at an
interval of ten years, might never have seen the light but
for the publication of Avellaneda’s apocryphal <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>
with its blustering and malignant preface. Cervantes’s
gentle spirit survived unembittered by a heavy burden of
trials and humiliations; but the proud humility with which
(in the preface to his Second Part) he meets Avellaneda’s
attack shows how profoundly he resented it. It would have
been well had he preserved this attitude in the text. He
was taken by surprise and, goaded out of patience, flung his
other work aside, and brought <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> to a hurried
close. Was Avellaneda’s insolent intrusion a blessing in
disguise, or was it disastrous in effect? It is true that but
for Avellaneda we might have lost the true sequel as we
have lost the Second Part of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite>, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Semanas del
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span>
Jardin</cite>, and the rest. It is no less true that, but for Avellaneda,
the sequel might have been even better than it
actually is. Cervantes had steadily refused to be hurried
over his masterpiece, and, so long as he followed his own
bent, his work is almost flawless. But Avellaneda suddenly
forced him to quicken his step, and in the last chapters
Cervantes manifestly writes in furious haste. His art suffers
in consequence. His bland amenity deserts him; his eyes
wander restlessly from Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to
Avellaneda, whom he belabours out of season. He allows
himself to be out-generalled, recasting his plan because his
foe had stolen it—as though the plan and not the execution
were the main essential! He advances, halts, and harks
back, uncertain as to his object; he introduces irrelevant
personalities and at least one cynical trait unworthy of him.
Obviously he is anxious to have the book off his hands, so as
to bring confusion on Avellaneda.</p>

<p>That these are blemishes it would be futile to deny; but
how insignificant they are beside the positive qualities of the
Second Part! Unlike some of his admirers, Cervantes was
not above profiting by criticism. He tells us that objection
had been taken to the intercalated stories of the First Part,
and to some scenes of exuberant fun bordering on horse-play.
These faults are avoided in the sequel, which broadens out
till it assumes a truly epical grandeur. The development
of the two central characters is at once more logical and
more poetic; Don Quixote awakens less laughter, and more
thought, while Sancho Panza’s store of apophthegms and
immemorial wisdom is more inexhaustible and apposite than
ever. Lastly, the new personages, from the Duchess downwards
to Doctor Pedro Recio de Agüero—the ill-omened
physician of Barataria—are marvels of realistic portraiture.
The presentation of the crazy knight and the droll squire
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span>
expands into a splendid pageant of society. And, as one
reads the less elaborate passages, one acquires the conviction
that the very dust of Cervantes’s writings is gold.
The Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> was the last of his works
that he saw in print. His career was over, and it closed in
splendour. His battle was fought and won, and he died, as
befits a hero, with the trumpets of victory ringing in his ears.</p>

<p>His labyrinthine romance, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Trabajos de Persiles y
Sigismunda</cite>, appeared in 1617. Even had this posthumous
work been, as Cervantes half hoped, ‘the best book of its
kind,’ it could scarcely have added to his glory. Though
distinctly not the best book of its kind, the great name on
its title-page procured it a respectful reception, and it was
repeatedly reprinted within a short time of its publication.
But it was soon lost in the vast shadow of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>: no
one need feel guilty because he has not read it. The world,
leaving scholars and professional critics to estimate the
writer’s indebtedness to Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius,
has steadily refused to be interested in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Persiles y Sigismunda</cite>;
and in the long run the world delivers a just judgment.
It is often led astray by gossip, by influence, by
publishers’ tricks, by authors who press their own wares on
you with all the effrontery of a cheap-jack at a fair; but the
world finds out the truth at last. An author’s genius may
be manifest in most or all of his works; but it is wont to be
conspicuous in one above the rest. Shakespeare wrote
<cite>Hamlet</cite>: one <cite>Hamlet</cite>. Cervantes wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>—two
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixotes</cite>: a feat unparalleled in the history of literature.
The one is the foremost of dramatists, and the other the
foremost of romancers: and it is to a single masterpiece that
each owes the greater part of his transcendent fame.</p>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER VII<br /><br />

<small>LOPE DE VEGA</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Cervantes</span> is unquestionably the most glorious figure in
the annals of Spanish literature, but his very universality
makes him less representative of his race. A far more
typical local genius is his great rival Lope Félix de Vega
Carpio who, for nearly half a century, reigned supreme on
the stage at which Cervantes often cast longing eyes. My
task would be much easier if I could feel sure that all of
you were acquainted with the best and most recent biography
of Lope which we owe to a distinguished American
scholar, Professor Hugo Albert Rennert. I should then be
able to indulge in the luxury of pure literary criticism. As
it is, I must attempt to picture to you the prodigious personality
of one who has enriched us with an immense library
illustrating a new form of dramatic art.</p>

<p>Lope Félix de Vega Carpio, as he signed himself, was
born at Madrid on November 25, 1562, just three hundred
and forty-five years ago to-day.<a name="FNanchor_100_100" id="FNanchor_100_100"></a><a href="#Footnote_100_100" class="fnanchor">100</a> There is some slight
reason to think that his parents—Félix de Vega Carpio and
Francisca Hernández Flores—came from the village of Vega
in the valley of Carriedo at the foot of the Asturian hills.
The historic name of Carpio does not accord well with the
modest occupation of Lope’s father who appears to have
been a basket-maker; but every respectable Spanish family
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span>
is more or less noble, and, though Lope was given to displaying
a splendidly emblazoned escutcheon in some of
his works—a foible which brought down on him the banter
of Cervantes and of Góngora—he made no secret of his
father’s lowly station. Long afterwards, when Lope de
Vega was in the noon of his popularity, Cervantes described
him as a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">monstruo de naturaleza</em>—a portent of nature—and,
if we are to believe the legends that float down to us, he
must have been a disconcerting wonder as a child—dictating
verses before he could write, learning Latin when he was
five. A few years later we hear of him as an accomplished
dancer and fencer, as an adventurous little truant from the
Theatine school at which he was educated, and as a juvenile
dramatist. One of his plays belonging to this early period
survives, but as a re-cast. It would have been interesting
to read the piece in its original form: its title—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Verdadero
Amante</cite> (The True Lover)—suggests some precocity in a
boy of twelve. At an age when most lads are spinning
tops Lope was already imagining dramatic situations and
impassioned love-scenes.</p>

<p>He appears to have been page to Jerónimo Manrique de
Lara, Bishop of Ávila, who helped him to complete his
studies at the University of Alcalá de Henares. Lope
never forgot a personal kindness, and in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dragontea</cite>
he acknowledges his debt to his benefactor whose intention
was clearly excellent; but it is doubtful if Lope
gained much by his stay at Alcalá except the horrid farrago
of undigested learning which disfigures so much of his
non-dramatic work, and is so rightly ridiculed by Cervantes.
His undergraduate days were scarcely over when he made
the acquaintance of Elena Osorio, daughter of a theatrical
manager named Jerónimo Velázquez, whom he has celebrated
as Filis in his early <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em>. He fought under
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span>
Santa Cruz at the Azores in 1582, and next year became
secretary to the Marqués de las Navas. He is one of
the many poets lauded by Cervantes in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Canto de
Calíope</cite>, and, though Cervantes bestows his praise indiscriminatingly,
it may be inferred that Lope enjoyed a
certain reputation when the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Galatea</cite> was published in 1585.
He was then twenty-three, and was no doubt already a
practised playwright: his acquaintance with Velázquez
would probably open the theatres to him, and enable him
to get a hearing on the stage. So far this intimacy was
valuable to Lope, but it finally came near to wrecking his
career. Elena Osorio was not apparently a model of constancy,
and Lope was a passionate, jealous, headstrong youth
with a sharp pen. On December 29, 1587, he was arrested
at the theatre for libelling his fickle flame and her father,
and on February 7, 1588, he was exiled from Madrid for
eight years, and from Castile for two. The court seems
to have anticipated that Lope might not think fit to obey
its order, for it provided that if he returned to Madrid
before the fixed limit of time he was to be sent to the
galleys, and that if he entered Castile he was to be executed.</p>

<p>The judges evidently knew their man. He went through
the form of retreating to Valencia, but he had no intention
of hiding his talent under a bushel in the provinces. His
next step was astounding in its insolence: he returned to
Madrid, and thence eloped with Isabel de Urbina y Cortinas,
daughter of a king-at-arms. The police were at once
in hot pursuit, but failed to overtake the culprit. He
parted from the lady, was married to her by proxy on
May 10, 1588, and nineteen days later was out of range
on the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">San Juan</cite>, one of the vessels of the Invincible Armada.
Lope took part in the famous expedition of the ‘sad Intelligencing
Tyrant’ when, as Milton puts it, ‘the very maw
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span>
of Hell was ransacked, and made to give up her concealed
destruction, ere she could vent it in that terrible and
damned blast.’ Returning from this disastrous adventure,
during which he found time to write the greater part of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Hermosura de Angélica</cite>, an epic consisting of eleven
thousand lines, Lope settled at Valencia, and joined the
household of the fifth Duke of Alba. It was the custom
of the time for a poor Spanish gentleman, who would have
been disgraced by the adoption of a trade or business, to
serve as secretary to some rich noble: the duties were
various, indefinite and not always dignified, but they
involved no social degradation. Lope’s versatile talents
were thus utilised in succession by the Marqués de Malpica
and the Marqués de Sarriá, afterwards Conde de Lemos
(the son-in-law of Lerma, and in later years the patron of
Cervantes).</p>

<p>His introduction to aristocratic society enlarged Lope’s
sphere of observation: it did nothing to improve his morals,
which were not naturally austere. During this period he
was writing incessantly for the stage, and the Spanish
stage was not then a school of asceticism. His wife died
about the year 1595, and the last restraint was gone. Lope
was straightway entangled in a series of scandalous amours.
He was prosecuted for criminal conversation with Antonia
Trillo de Armenta in 1596, and in 1597 began a love-affair
with Micaela de Luján, the Camila Lucinda of his sonnets,
and the mother of his brilliant children, Lope Félix del
Carpio y Luján and Marcela, who inherited no small share
of her father’s improvising genius. It is impossible to
palliate Lope’s misconduct, and the persistent effort to keep
it from public knowledge has damaged him more than the
attacks of all his enemies; but it is fair to remember that
he lived in the most corrupt circles of a corrupt age, that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span>
he suffered such temptations as few men undergo, and
that he repeatedly strove to extricate himself from the
mesh of circumstance.</p>

<p>In 1598 he published his patriotic epic, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dragontea</cite>, as
well as a pastoral novel entitled the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arcadia</cite>, and in this
same year he married Juana de Guardo, daughter of a
wealthy but frugal man who had made a fortune by selling
pork. Shakespeare was the son of a butcher, but the fact
was not thrown in his teeth: Lope was less fortunate, and
his second marriage was the subject of a derisive sonnet
by Góngora. So far as can be judged, Lope’s marriage
with Juana de Guardo was one of affection, and the reflections
cast upon him were absolutely unjust. But the stage
had him in its grip, and he could not break with his past,
try as he might. He strove without ceasing to make a
reputation in other fields of literature: a poem on St. Isidore,
the patron-saint of Madrid, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Hermosura de Angélica</cite> with
a mass of supplementary sonnets, the prose romance entitled
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Peregrino en su patria</cite>, the epic <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Jerusalén conquistada</cite>
written in emulation of Tasso—these diverse works were
produced in rapid succession between 1599 and 1609.
Meanwhile Lope had been enrolled as a Familiar of the
Holy Office, but the vague terror attaching to this sinister
post did not prevent an attack being made on his life in
1611. He may have enlisted in the ranks of the Inquisition
from mixed motives; yet we cannot doubt that he was passing
through a pietistic phase at this time, for between 1609
and 1611 he joined three religious confraternities. This
was no blind, no hypocritical attempt to affect a virtue
which he had not. He was even too regardless of appearances
all his life long.</p>

<p>The death of his son Carlos Félix was quickly followed
by the death of his wife, and his devotional mood deepened.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span>
He now made an irreparable mistake by entering holy
orders. No man was less fitted to be a minister of religion,
and his private correspondence discloses no sign of a
religious spirit, or of anything resembling a religious vocation:
on the contrary, it reveals him as frequenting loose
company, and cracking unseemly jokes at a most solemn
moment. The pendulum had already begun to swing before
his ordination, and for some years afterwards he was prominent
as an unscrupulous libertine. No one as successful
as Lope could fail to make many enemies: he had now
delivered himself into their hands, and assuredly they
did not spare him. In the Preface to the Second Part of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> Cervantes, though he does not mention Lope
de Vega by name, indulges in an unmistakable allusion
to him as a Familiar of the Inquisition notorious for his
‘virtuous occupation.’ Yes! a ‘virtuous occupation’ which
was an intolerable public scandal. From 1605 onwards Lope
had been on intimate terms with the Duke of Sesa, and
his correspondence with the Duke is his condemnation.
But his conscience was not dead. Among his letters to
Sesa many are stained with tears of shame and of remorse.
They reveal him in every mood. He protests against being
made the intermediary of the Duke’s vulgar gallantries; he
forms resolutions to amend, yet falls, and falls again.</p>

<p>In his fifty-fifth year he conceived an insane passion for
Marta de Nevares Santoyo. On the details of this lamentable
intrigue nothing need be said here. Once more
Samson was in the hands of the Philistines. Led on by
Góngora, they showed him no mercy, but he survived their
onset. His plays were acted on every stage in Spain; the
people who flocked to the theatre were spell-bound by his
dramatic creations, his dexterity, grace and wit; his name
was used as a synonym for matchless excellence; and he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span>
strengthened his position with the more learned public by
a mass of non-dramatic work. He seldom reaches such
a height as in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pastores de Belén</cite>—a perfect gem of
devotion and of art—but the adaptability of his talent is
amazing in prose and verse dealing with subjects as diverse
as the triumphs of faith in Japan and the fate of Mary
Queen of Scots. The short stories in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Filomena</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Circe</cite>
represent him at his weakest, but the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dorotea</cite>, a work that
had lain by him for many years, is an absorbing fragment of
autobiography which exhibits Lope as a master of graceful
and colloquial diction.</p>

<p>In one of his agonies of repentance he exclaimed: ‘A
curse on all unhallowed love!’ But the punishment of his
own transgressions was long delayed. Marta, indeed, died
blind and mad; but Lope still had his children, and, with all
his faults, he was a fond and devoted father. We may well
imagine that none of his own innumerable triumphs thrilled
him with a more rapturous delight than the success of his
son Lope Félix at the poetic jousts in honour of St. Isidore.
Strengthened by the domestic happiness which he now
enjoyed, Lope underwent a striking change. He wrote
more copiously than ever for the stage, but yielded no
longer to its temptations; his stormy passions lay behind
him—part of a past which all were eager to forget. In
1628 he became chaplain to the congregation of St. Peter,
and was a model of pious zeal. It was an astonishing metamorphosis,
and there may have been an unconscious histrionic
touch in Lope’s rendering of a virtuous <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rôle</em>. But the transformation
was no mere pose. Lope was too frank to be
a Pharisee, and too human to be a saint; but whatever
he did, he did with all his might, and he became a hardworking
priest, punctual in the discharge of his sacred office.
Towards the close he occupied an unexampled pre-eminence.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span>
Urban <span class="smcap">VIII.</span> conferred on him a papal order; though not a
favourite at court, he was invited by Olivares to exercise his
ingenious fantasy for the entertainment of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, who
was assuming the airs and graces of a patron of the drama.
With the crowd Lope’s popularity knew no bounds. Visitors
hovered about to catch a glimpse of him as he threaded his
way through the streets: his fellow-townsmen gloried in
his glory. There is nothing in history comparable to his
position.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Blessings and prayers, a nobler retinue</div>
<div class="line">Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,</div>
<div class="line">Followed this wondrous potentate.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">No man of letters has ever received such visible proofs of
his own celebrity, and none has retained it so long. For
something like half a century Lope had contrived to fascinate
his countrymen, but even he began to grow old at last.
Yet the change was not so much in him as in the rising
generation.</p>

<p>The swelling tide of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">culteranismo</em> was invading the stage;
the fatal protection of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> was beginning to undermine
the national theatre. Lope had always opposed the new
fashion of preciosity, and he could not, or would not, supply
the demand at court for a spectacular drama. One could
scarcely expect him to help in demolishing the work of his
lifetime. In his youth, and even in middle age, he looked
down upon his plays as being almost outside the pale of
literature. He lived long enough to revise his opinion,
though perhaps to the last he would have refused to admit
that his plays were worth all his epics put together. He
lived long enough to revise his opinion, and a little too long
for his happiness. His latest plays did not hit the public
taste: his successor was already hailed in the person of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span>
courtly Calderón whom he himself had first praised. To
his artistic mortifications were added poignant domestic
sorrows. He had dissuaded his son, Lope Félix, from
adopting literature as a profession: the youth joined the
navy, went on a cruise to South America, and was there</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i3">summoned to the deep.</div>
<div class="line">He, he and all his mates, to keep</div>
<div class="line">An incommunicable sleep.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The drowning of his son in 1634 was a grievous blow to
Lope, but a more cruel stroke awaited him. The flight of
his favourite daughter, Antonia Clara, from her home filled
him with an unspeakable despair. He could endure no
more. With the simple, confiding faith that never left him,
he believed that his sins had brought upon him the vengeance
of heaven, and he sought to make tardy atonement by the
severest penance, lashing himself till the walls of his room
were flecked with blood. But the end was at hand. On
August 23, 1635, Lope wrote his last two poems, fell ill,
and on August 27 his soul was required of him.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The extravagant and erring spirit hies</div>
<div class="line">To his confine.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Headed by the Duke of Sesa, the vast funeral procession
turned aside so as to pass before the convent of the Barefooted
Trinitarians where Lope’s gifted daughter Marcela
had taken the vows in 1621. From the cloister window the
nun watched the multitude on its way to the Church of
St. Sebastian in the Calle de Atocha; there, to the mournful
music of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dies irae</cite>, Lope was interred beneath the high
altar. His eloquent lips were silent; his untiring hand and
his unquiet heart were still: his passionate pilgrimage was
over. It might have been thought that all that was mortal
of him was at peace for ever, and that the final resting-place
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span>
of one so famous could not be forgotten. But, as if to show
that all is vanity, it was otherwise decreed by the mocking
fates. Early in the nineteenth century it became necessary
to remove Lope’s coffin from the vault in which it lay, and
no care was taken to ensure its subsequent identification.
Hence he, whose renown once filled the world, now sleeps
unrecognised amid the humble and the obscure.</p>

<p>It has been granted us to know Lope de Vega better than
we know most of our contemporaries. He lived in the
merciless light of publicity; his slightest slip was noted
by vigilant eyes and rancorous pens; and he has himself
recorded the weaknesses which any other man would have
studiously concealed. Yet, gross as were his sins, his
individual charm is irresistible. Ruiz de Alarcón taxed
him with being envious, and from the huge mass of his
confidential correspondence, a few detached phrases are
picked out to support this charge. None of us is as frank
as Lope; yet it seems highly probable that, if a selection
were made from the private letters written in this city
to-day and this selection were published in the newspapers
to-morrow, a certain number of personal difficulties might
follow. But let us test Ruiz de Alarcón’s charge. Of
whom should Lope be envious? Not of Ruiz de Alarcón
himself, undoubtedly a remarkable dramatist, but never
popular as Lope was. Not of Tirso de Molina, another
great dramatist, but a personal friend of Lope’s. Not of
Cervantes, who had abandoned the stage long before he
succeeded so greatly in romance. Not of Góngora, of whose
poetic principles Lope disapproved, but to whom he paid
sedulous court. Not of Calderón, who was nearly forty years
younger than himself, and whom he first presented to the
public. The accusation has no more solid base than a few
choleric words dropped in haste.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span>The truth is that Lope is open to precisely the opposite
charge of culpable complaisance. His genius, like that of
Cervantes, was creative, not critical; his praise is fulsome,
indiscriminating, and therefore ineffective. He was a most
loyal friend, and to him all his geese are swans. His <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Laurel
de Apolo</cite> is an exercise in adulation of no more critical
value than Cervantes’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Canto de Calíope</cite>. Famous writers,
once in port, are inclined to ‘nurse’ their fame by conciliating
their rivals. Lope’s constant successes provided
him with so many foes that it would have been folly to
increase their number by attacking rising men. Like most
other contemporaries he detested Ruiz de Alarcón; but
Ruiz de Alarcón could take very good care of himself in a
wrangle, and perhaps a man is not universally detested
without some good reason. Apart from any question of
tactics, Lope was naturally generous. There is a credible
story that he dashed off the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Orfeo</cite> to launch Pérez de
Montalbán, who published it under his own name, and thus
started on a prosperous, feverish career.</p>

<p>Lope was a sad sinner, but any attempt to represent him
as an unamiable man is ridiculous. It is certain that he
received large sums of money, and that he died poor: his
purse was open to all comers. He lived frugally, loving
nothing better than a romp with his children in the garden of
his little house in the Calle de Francos. His pleasures and
tastes were simple: careless remarks that drop from him
reveal him to us. Typical Spaniard as he was, he disliked
bull-fights, but he loved angling, and was a most enthusiastic
gardener. He had, as he tells us in his pleasant way, half
a dozen pictures and a few books; but the only extravagance
which he allowed himself was the occasional purchase of
flowers rare in Spain. He had a passion for the tulip—at
that time a novelty in Europe—and, by dedicating to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span>
Manoel Soeiro his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Luscinda perseguida</cite> (an early play, not
printed till 1621), he handsomely expressed his thanks for
a present of choice Dutch bulbs. But, even if such positive
testimony were wanting, we should confidently guess Lope’s
tastes from his poems, redolent of buds and blossoms, of
gardens and of glades, of sweet perfumes and subtle aromas.
In reading him, we think inevitably of <cite>The Flower’s Name</cite>:
you remember the lines, but I may be allowed to quote
them:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,</div>
<div class="line i1">Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;</div>
<div class="line">Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,</div>
<div class="line i1">Its soft meandering Spanish name;</div>
<div class="line">What a name! was it love or praise?</div>
<div class="line i1">Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?</div>
<div class="line">I must learn Spanish, one of these days,</div>
<div class="line i1">Only for that slow sweet name’s sake.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">It is very probable that Browning was not deeply read in the
masterpieces of Spanish literature, and that he knew comparatively
little of Lope; but in these verses we have (as it
were) Lope rendered into English: they are Lope all over.</p>

<p>No competent judge questions Lope de Vega’s right to
rank as a great poet, but scarcely any great poet—except
perhaps Wordsworth—is so unequal. The huge epics upon
which he laboured so long, filing and polishing every line,
are now forgotten by all but specialists, and (even among
these elect) who can pretend that he reads the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Jerusalén
conquistada</cite> solely for pleasure? On the other hand, no
unprejudiced critic denies the beauty of Lope’s best sonnets
and lyrics, nor the natural grace of his prose in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dorotea</cite>,
and in his unguarded correspondence. Had he written
nothing else, he would be considered a charming poet, and
wonderfully versatile man of letters. But these performances;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span>
astonishing as they are, may be regarded as the
mere diversions of exuberant genius.</p>

<p>It is, of course, to his dramatic works that Lope de Vega
owes his splendid pre-eminence in the history of literature.
He was much more than a great dramatist: in a very real
sense he was the founder of the national theatre in Spain.
It cannot be denied that he had innumerable predecessors—men
who employed the dramatic form with more or less
skill; and he himself joined with Cervantes in acclaiming
the metal-beater Lope de Rueda as the patriarch of the
Spanish stage. But even the joint and several authority of
Cervantes and Lope do not suffice in questions of literary
history. No doubt Lope de Rueda is a figure of historical
importance, and no doubt his actual achievement is considerable
in its way. There is, however, nothing that can
be called ‘national’ in Rueda’s formal plays, which are
mostly adaptations from the Italian, and the bluff hilarity of
his clever interludes is primitive. The later practitioners in
the Senecan drama are of less significance than Miguel
Sánchez and than Juan de la Cueva, both of whom foreshadow
the new developments which Lope de Vega was
to introduce. So far as the drama is concerned Miguel
Sánchez is represented to posterity by two plays only, and
it is therefore difficult to estimate the extent of his influence
on the Spanish drama. Cueva’s innovating tendency is
manifest in his choice of themes and his treatment of them:
he strikes out a new line by selecting a representative
historic subject, develops it regardless of the unities, and
occasionally strikes the note of modernity by approximating
to the comedy of manners—the cloak-and-sword play.
Withal, Cueva is more remarkable as an intrepid explorer
than as a finished craftsman, and he inevitably has the
uncertain touch of an early experimenter.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span>Lope de Vega is on a higher plane as an executant, and
is moreover a great original inventor. In its final form the
Spanish theatre is his work, and whatever he may once
have said of Lope de Rueda, he finally claimed the honour
which undoubtedly belongs to him. Anticipating Tennyson,
he pointedly remarks in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Égloga á Claudio</cite> that</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Most can raise the flowers now,</div>
<div class="line i1">For all have got the seed.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">The passage is well worth quoting. ‘Though I have departed
from the rigidity of Terence, and though I am far from
questioning the credit due to the three or four great
geniuses who have guarded the infancy of the drama, yet to
me’—he proudly continues—‘to me the art of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia</em>
owes its beginnings. To whom, Claudio, do we owe so
many pictures of love and jealousy, so many stirring passages
of eloquence, so copious a supply of all the figures within the
power of rhetoric to invent? The mass of to-day’s productions
is mere imitation of what art created yesterday. I it
was who first struck the path and made it practicable so that
all now use it easily. I it was who set the example now
followed and copied in every direction. ‘I it was who first
struck the path—I it was who first set the example.’ It is a
daring thing to say, but it can be maintained.</p>

<p>One of the chief difficulties in dealing with Lope, or in
persuading others to deal with him, is his prodigious copiousness.
But it is not insuperable. For our immediate purpose
we may neglect his non-dramatic writings—in every sense
a great load taken off, for they alone fill twenty-one quarto
volumes. There remain his plays, and their number is
astounding. We shall never know precisely how many plays
Lope wrote, for only a small part of what was acted has
survived, and his own statements are not altogether clear.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span>
Roughly speaking, he seems to have written 220 plays up to
the end of 1603, and from this date we can follow him as he
gallops along: the total rises to 483 in 1609, 800 in 1618,
900 in 1620, 1070 in 1625, and 1500 in 1632. Four years
afterwards Pérez de Montalbán published a volume of
eulogies on the master by various hands—something like
<em>Jonsonus Virbius</em>, to which Ford, Waller and others contributed
posthumous panegyrics on Ben Jonson in 1638;
and in this <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fama Póstuma</cite> Pérez de Montalbán asserts that
Lope wrote 1800 plays and more than 400 <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> and
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">entremeses</em>. Consider a moment what these figures mean:
they mean that Lope never wrote less than thirty-four plays
a year, that he usually wrote fifty, that the yearly average
rose to sixty as he grew older, and that in the last three
years of his life it increased to over a hundred—say, two
plays a week. Devout persons are sometimes prone to
exaggerate the number of miracles performed by their
favourite saint, and, if Pérez de Montalbán’s statements
were not corroborated by Lope, we might be inclined to
suspect him of some such form of pious fraud. As it is,
we have no ground for thinking that Pérez de Montalbán
was guilty of any deliberate exaggeration: most probably
he set down what he heard from Lope, as well as he
remembered it. But perhaps Lope’s calculations were
wrong. If anything like 1800 of Lope’s plays survived,
nobody would have the courage to attack them. Most have
perished, and we must judge Lope by the comparatively few
that have escaped destruction—431 plays and 50 <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>.</p>

<p>This may seem very much as though we were shown a
few stones from the Coliseum, and invited on the strength of
them to form an idea of Rome. It is no doubt but too likely
that among the 1369 lost plays there may have been some
real masterpieces (in literature the best does not always
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span>
survive); but it is inconceivable that only the failures have
been saved, and, as the collected pieces range from a play
written when Lope was twelve to another written shortly
before his death, we have the privilege of observing every
phase of his stupendous exploit. That is to say: we may
have the privilege if we have the leisure. The student who
sits down to the paltry remnant that has reached us will, if he
reads Lope de Vega’s plays without interruption for seven
hours a day, be over six months before he reaches the end
of his delightful task. I say it in all seriousness—a delightful
task—but it would be idle to pretend that there
are no tracts of barren ground. A large proportion of
Lope’s dramatic work is brilliant improvisation, and is not of
stuff that endures; but there are veins of pure ore in his
dross, and in moments of inspiration he ranks with the
greatest dramatists in the world.</p>

<p>He has himself endeavoured to state his dramatic theory
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo</cite>, and the
contrast with his practice is amusing. He opens with a
profession of faith in Aristotle’s rules, of which he knew
nothing beyond what he could gather from the pedantic
schoolmen of the Renaissance, but goes on to confess that
he disregards these sacred precepts because the public
which pays cares nothing for them, and must be addressed
in the foolish fashion that its folly demands. The only
approach to a dramatic principle in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arte nuevo</cite> is a
matter-of-course approval of unity of action, the necessity
of which has never been doubted by any playwright who
knew his business. The rest of the unities go by the board,
and the aspiring dramatist is solemnly exhorted to invent
a clever plot, to maintain the interest steadily throughout,
and to postpone the climax as long as possible so as to
humour the public which loves to be kept on tenterhooks
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span>
till the last moment. ‘Invent a clever plot and maintain
the interest steadily throughout’—it is easily said, but how
to do it? Lope proceeds to give his views as to the metres
most appropriate for certain situations and emotions: laments
are best expressed in <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">décimas</em>, the sonnet suits suspense, the
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> (or, still better, the octave) is the vehicle of narrative,
tercets are to be used in weighty passages, and <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">redondillas</em>
in love-scenes. And Lope ends by admitting that only six
of the 483 plays which he had composed up to 1609 were in
accordance with the rules of art.</p>

<p>How familiar it sounds—this wailing over ‘the rules of
art’! Just so Ben Jonson lamented that Shakespeare
‘wanted art’—that is, he paid no heed to the pseudo-Aristotelian
precepts concerning dramatic composition. Nor did
Lope: and it is precisely by neglecting to follow blind
leaders of the blind, and by giving free play to their
individual genius that Shakespeare and Lope de Vega have
become immortal. Rules may serve for men of simple
talent; but an original mind attains independence by intelligently
breaking them, and thus arrives at inventing a new
and living form of art. It is in this sense that we call Lope
the founder of the Spanish theatre. His transforming touch
is magical. Invested with the splendour of his imagination,
the merest shred of fact, as in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Estrella de Sevilla</cite>, is
converted into a romantic drama, living, natural, real, arresting
as an experience suffered by oneself. And, with all
Lope’s rapidity of workmanship, his finest effects are not
the result of rare and happy accident: they are deliberately
and delicately calculated. We know from the testimony
of Ricardo de Turia in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Norte de la poesía española</cite> that
Lope was an assiduous frequenter of the theatre; that, long
after his reputation was established, he would sit absorbed,
listening to whatever play was being given; and that he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span>
took careful note of every successful scene or situation. He
was never above learning from others; but they could teach
him little: he was the master of them all.</p>

<p>It is frequently alleged against him that his copiousness
was an artistic blunder, and that he would have acted more
wisely in the interest of his fame, if he had concentrated his
magnificent powers on a smaller number of plays, and perfected
them. In other words, he would have done more, if
he had done less. This may be true; Virgil wrote ten lines
a day, and they endure for ever: Lope wrote three thousand
lines a day, and most of them have perished. But we must
take genius as we find it, and be thankful to accept it on its
own conditions. It is far from clear to me that Lope chose
unwisely. He had not only a reputation to make, but a
mission to fulfil. For the work that he was born to do—the
creation of a national theatre—copiousness was an
essential need. Continuous production, as Chorley puts it,
is a vital requisite to ‘the existence of the drama in its true
form, as acted poetry.’ This, however, is beyond the power
of a few normal men of genius. Schiller and Goethe combined
failed to create a national theatre at Weimar: no one
but Lope could have succeeded in creating a national theatre
at Madrid. At precisely the right moment Spain happily
produced a most abnormal writer who could throw off
admirable plays—many of them imperfect, but many of them
masterpieces—in such profusion as twenty ordinary men
of genius could not equal. Luzán declares that Lope so
accustomed the Spanish public to constant novelty that no
piece could be repeated after two performances. This is
not quite exact. But assuming it to be true, you may say
that Lope spoilt the public, as well as his own work. Well,
that is as it may be: in our time, at all events, the plays
that run for a thousand nights are not always the best.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span>Lope was equal to the demand made by exacting audiences,
and he remained equal to it for an unexampled length of
time. The most hostile critic must grant that Lope was
the greatest inventor in the history of the drama. And he
excelled in every kind. In tragedy he has given us such
works as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Paces de los Reyes</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Fianza satisfecha</cite>,
and he would doubtless have given more had not the public
rebelled against a too mournful presentation of life. Chorley,
whom it is impossible to avoid quoting when Lope is under
discussion, points to the significant fact that so great a
tragedy as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Estrella de Sevilla</cite> is not included among Lope’s
dramatic works, nor in the two great miscellaneous collections
of Spanish plays—the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escogidas</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Diferentes</cite>, as they
are called. It exists only as a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">suelta</em>. Great in tragedy, Lope
is greater—or, at least, is more frequently great—in contemporary
comedy, in the realisation of character: <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El perro
del hortelano</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La batalla del honor</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los melindres de Belisa</cite>,
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las flores de Don Juan</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Esclava de su galán</cite> are there
to prove it. There are obvious flaws in Lope’s pieces, but
we can never feel quite sure that the flaws which irritate us
most are not interpolations. He seems to have revised only
the twelve volumes of his plays (Parts <span class="smcap">IX.-XX.</span>) published
between 1617 and 1625 inclusive, and two posthumous
volumes; a large proportion of his work is so mishandled
in the pirated editions that, as he avers, one line from his
pen is smothered by a hundred lines from the pen of some
unscrupulous actor or needy theatrical hanger-on.</p>

<p>The marvel is that such bungling has not been able to
destroy the beauty of his conception altogether. Dramatic
conception, and the faculty of distilling from no far-fetched
situation all that it contains, are Lope’s distinctive qualities.
He is less successful in maintaining a constant level of verbal
charm; he can caress the ear with an exquisite rhythmical
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span>
cadence, but he hears the impresario calling, sets spurs to
Pegasus, and stumbles. The Nemesis of haste pursues him,
and, as has often been remarked, some of his last acts are
weak. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La batalla del honor</cite> is a case in point: a splendid
play spoiled by a weak ending. But this undeniable defect
is not peculiar to Lope de Vega: it is noticeable in <cite>Julius
Cæsar</cite>, the last act of which reveals Shakespeare pressed for
time, and tacking his scenes rapidly together so as to put
the play punctually in rehearsal. Let us be honest, and use
the same scales and weights for every one: we shall find
the greatest works by the greatest men frequently come
short of absolute perfection at some point. Lope fails with
the rest, and, if he fails oftener, that is because he writes
more. Is it surprising that he should sometimes feel the
strain upon him? He had not only to invent plots by the
score, and create character by the hundred: he had also to
satisfy a vigilant and fastidious public by the variety of his
metrical craftsmanship, and in this respect he has neither
equal nor second.</p>

<p>We must accept Lope as Heaven made him with his
inevitable imperfections and his incomparable endowment.
He has the Spanish desire to shine, to be conspicuous, to
please, and he condescends to please at almost any cost.
Yet he has an artistic conscience of his own, endangers his
supremacy by flouting the tribe of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cultos</em>, and pours equal
scorn on the pageant-plays—the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedias del vulgo</em> which
were so soon to become the fashion in court-circles. Lope
needed no scene-painters to make good his deficiencies.
In <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ay verdades que en amor</cite>, he laughs at the pieces</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">en que la carpintería</div>
<div class="line">suple concetos y trazas.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">And well he might, for his alert presentation would convert
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span>
a barn into a palace. In the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia</em> which he invented—using
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia</em> in much the same sense as Dante uses
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">commedia</em>—his scope is unlimited: he stages all ranks of
human society from kings to rustic clowns, and is by turns
tragic, serious, diverting, pathetic, or gay. He has the
unique power of creating the daintiest heroines in the
world—beautiful, appealing, tender and brave. He has
the secret of communicating emotion, of inventing dialogue,
always appropriate, and he is ever prompt to enliven it
with a delicate humour, humane and debonair. He has
not merely enriched Spain: in some degree not yet precisely
known—for the history of comparative literature is in its
infancy—he has contributed to almost every theatre in
Europe.</p>

<p>Two or three illustrations must suffice. Rotrou, as the
handbooks tell us, has borrowed four—perhaps five—plays
from Lope: we may now say five and perhaps six, for in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cosroès</cite> Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Mudanzas de la fortuna y sucesos de don
Beltrán de Aragón</cite> is combined with a Latin play by Louis
Cellot. Every one remembers that Corneille borrowed <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don
Sanche d’Aragon</cite> and the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Suite du Menteur</cite> from Lope. There
are traces of Lope in Molière: in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Femmes savantes</cite>, in
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’École des maris</cite>, in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’École des Femmes</cite>, in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Médecin
malgré lui</cite>—and perhaps in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tartufe</cite>. And, even in the
present incomplete state of our knowledge, it would be
possible to draw up a long list of foreign debtors from
Boisrobert and D’Ouville to Lesage. Of Lope’s Spanish
imitators this is not the time to speak. He did not found
a school, but every Spanish dramatist of the best period
marches under Lope’s flag. There are still some who, in a
spirit of chicane, would withhold from him the glory of being
the architect of the Spanish theatre. So be it: but even
they acknowledge that he found it brick, and left it marble.</p>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br />

<small>CALDERÓN</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">For</span> some time before Lope de Vega’s death, it was evident
that Calderón would succeed him as dictator of the stage.
There was no serious competitor in sight. Tirso de Molina
was becoming rusty; Vélez de Guevara and Ruiz de Alarcón,
both on the wrong side of fifty when Lope died, had given
the measure of what they could do, and Ruiz de Alarcón’s
art was too individual to be popular. No possible rival to
Calderón was to be found among the younger men. His path
lay smooth before him. He developed the national drama
which Lope had created; he accentuated its characteristics,
but introduced no radical innovation. He found the most
difficult part of the work already done; he inherited a vast
intellectual estate, and it is the general opinion that the
patronage of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> helped him to exploit it profitably.
This point may stand over for the moment. Here and now,
it is enough to say that Calderón’s career, so far as we can
trace it, was one of uninterrupted success. Unfortunately,
at present, we can only sketch his biography in outline.
Within a year of his death, a short life of him was published
by his admirer and editor, Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel;
but, as Vera Tassis was thirty or forty years younger than
Calderón, he naturally knew nothing of the dramatist’s early
circumstances. He begins badly with a blunder as to the
date of Calderón’s birth, shows himself untrustworthy in
matters of fact, and indulges too freely in flatulent panegyric.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span>
For the present we are condemned to make bricks
with only a few wisps of straw; but if, as seems likely,
Dr. Pérez Pastor is as fortunate with Calderón as he was
with Cervantes, many a blank will be filled in before long.</p>

<p>Pedro Calderón de la Barca was born at Madrid on
January 17, 1600. He became an orphan at an early age.
His mother, who was of Flemish origin, died in 1610; his
father, who was Secretary of the Council of the Treasury,
seems to have offended his first wife’s family by marrying
again, was excluded from administering a chaplaincy in
their gift, and died in 1615. Calderón was educated at
the Jesuit college in Madrid, and later studied theology at
the University of Salamanca with a view to holding the
family living; but he gave up his idea of entering the
Church, and took to literature. It has been said that he
collaborated with Rojas Zorrilla and Belmonte in writing
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El mejor amigo el muerto</cite>, and he is specifically named as
being the author of the Third Act. On the other hand,
it is asserted that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El mejor amigo el muerto</cite> was played on
Christmas Eve, 1610, and, if this be so, we must abandon the
ascription, for Calderón was then a boy of ten, while Rojas
Zorrilla was only three years old. We may also hesitate
to accept the unsupported statement of Vera Tassis that
Calderón wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Carro del Cielo</cite> at the age of thirteen.
Such ‘fond legends of their infancy’ accumulate round all
great men. So far as can be gathered, Calderón first came
before the public in 1620-22 at the literary <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fêtes</em> held at
Madrid in honour of St. Isidore, the patron saint of the
city; and on the latter occasion Lope de Vega, who was
usually florid in compliment, welcomed the new-comer as
one who ‘in his youth has gained the laurels which time, as
a rule, only grants together with grey hair.’ From the date
of these first triumphs onward, Calderón never went back.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span>In 1621, four years before reaching his legal majority,
he was granted letters-patent to administer his estate. Vera
Tassis asserts that Calderón entered the army in 1625, and
that he served in Milan and Flanders. If so, his service
must have been very short, for he was at Madrid on September
11, 1625, and was still residing in that city on
April 16, 1626. We find him again at Madrid, and in a
scrape, in January 1629. His brother, Diego, had been
stabbed by the actor Pedro de Villegas, who took sanctuary
in the convent of the Trinitarian nuns; Calderón and his
backers determined to seize the culprit, broke into the
cloister, handled the nuns roughly, dragged off their veils,
and used strong language to them. Such conduct is very
unlike all that we know of Calderón; but this was the
current version of his proceedings, and the rumour fluttered
the dovecots of the devout. The alleged misdeeds of
Calderón and his friends were denounced by the fashionable
preacher, Hortensio Félix Paravicino, in a sermon
delivered before Philip <span class="smcap">IV</span>. on January 11, 1629. Calderon
retaliated by making a sarcastic reference in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe
constante</cite> to the popular ranter’s habit of spouting unintelligible
jargon:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i4">Una oración se fragua</div>
<div class="line">funebre, que es un sermón de Berberia.</div>
<div class="line">Panegírico es que digo al agua,</div>
<div class="line">y era emponomio Horténsico me quejo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But ‘the king of preachers and the preacher of kings,’
though ready enough to attack others, was not disposed
to share this privilege: and he had Philip’s ear. Calderón
was arrested. As the jibe does not appear in the text of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe constante</cite>, possibly the author was released on
the understanding that the offensive passage should be
omitted from any printed edition; but it is just as likely
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span>
that Calderón, who had not a shade of rancour in his
nature, voluntarily struck out the lines when the play was
published after Paravicino’s death, which occurred in 1633.</p>

<p>The escapade does not appear to have damaged him in any
way, and his fame grew rapidly. The chronology of his plays
is not yet determined, but it is certain that his activity at this
period was remarkable. It seems probable that he collaborated
with Pérez de Montalbán and Antonio Coello in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Privilegio de las mugeres</cite> during the visit of the Prince
of Wales (afterwards Charles I.) and Buckingham to Madrid
in 1623; <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sitio de Bredá</cite> was no doubt written soon after
the surrender on June 8, 1625; <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Dama duende</cite> is not later
than 1629, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Cena de Baltasar</cite> was performed at Seville in
1632, in which year also <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Banda y la flor</cite> was produced
and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Astrólogo fingido</cite> was printed; <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Amor, honor y poder</cite>
with <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Devoción de la Cruz</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Un Castigo en tres venganzas</cite>
were issued in a pirated edition in 1634. Two years later
Philip <span class="smcap">IV</span>. was so enchanted with <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los tres mayores prodigios</cite>
(a poor piece given at the Buen Retiro) that he resolved
to admit Calderón to the Order of Santiago. The official
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">pretensión</em> was granted on July 3, 1636, and the robe was
bestowed on April 8, 1637. In 1636 twelve of Calderón’s
plays were issued by his brother José, who published twelve
more in 1637. These two volumes raised the writer’s reputation
immensely, and well they might; for, besides <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Dama
duende</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Devoción de la Cruz</cite> (already mentioned), the
first volume contained, amongst other plays, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida es
sueño</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Casa con dos puertas</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Purgatorio de San Patricio</cite>,
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Peor está que estaba</cite>, and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe constante</cite>; while the
second volume, besides <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Astrólogo fingido</cite> (already mentioned)
contained <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Galán fantasma</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Médico de su honra</cite>,
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Hombre pobre todo es trazas</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Á secreto agravio secreta venganza</cite>,
and the typical show-piece <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El mayor encanto amor</cite>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span>Apart from the popular esteem which he thoroughly
deserved, Calderón was evidently a special favourite with
Olivares, who never stinted Philip in the matter of toys
and amusements, and levied a sort of blackmail (for this
purpose) on those whom he nominated to high office. Great
preparations were made for a gorgeous production of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
mayor encanto amor</cite> at the Buen Retiro in 1639. The
Viceroy of Naples was induced to make arrangements for a
lavish display by the ingenious stage-machinist, Cosme Lotti.
A floating stage was provided lit up with three thousand
lanterns; seated in gondolas, the King and his suite listened
to the performance; and the evening closed with a banquet.
These freakish shows were frequent. In February 1640
we hear of a stormy scene at a rehearsal, which ended in
Calderón’s being wounded. It is commonly said that he was
at work on his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Certamen de amor y celos</cite> when the Catalan
revolt broke out in 1640, and that he finished it off hurriedly
by a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tour de force</em> so as to be able to take the field. This
is a picturesque tale, but, like most other picturesque tales,
it seems to be somewhat doubtful. On May 28, 1640,
before the rebellion began, Calderón enrolled himself in
a troop of cuirassiers raised by Olivares, the Captain-General
of the Spanish cavalry; and he did not actually take his
place in the ranks till September 29. He proved an efficient
soldier, was employed on a special mission, and received
promotion. His health, as often happens with those destined
to live long, was never robust, and forced him to
resign on November 15, 1642. In 1645 he was granted
a military pension of thirty <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">escudos</em> a month: it was not
paid punctually, and he was more than once obliged to
dun the Treasury for arrears.</p>

<p>He had now reached an age when men begin to lose their
relatives and friends. In June 1645 his brother José was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span>
killed in action at Camarasa; his brother Diego died at
Madrid on November 20, 1647. Calderón’s life was generally
most correct, but he had his frailties, and his commerce with
the stage exposed him to the occasions of sin. We do not
know who was the mother of his son, Pedro José, but it
may be assumed that she was an actress. She died about
1648-50, soon after the birth of the boy, who passed as
Calderón’s nephew. In 1648 Calderón was dangerously ill,
and in December 1650 he alleged his increasing age and
waning strength as a reason for quitting the King’s service;
he announced his intention of taking orders, and petitioned
that his pension might, nevertheless, be continued. He
had already been received as a Tertiary of St. Francis, and
accepted the nomination to the living (founded by his grandmother
in 1612) which he had thought of taking when he
went to Salamanca University, some thirty years earlier.
He was ordained in 1651, and seems to have been an
exemplary priest.</p>

<p>An attempt was made to utilise his talents in a new
direction. He was requested to write a chronicle of the
Franciscan Tertiaries, undertook the task in 1651, but was
compelled to abandon it in 1653 owing to his ‘many occupations.’
In a letter of this period addressed to the Patriarch
of the Indies, Alfonso Pérez de Guzmán, Calderón declares
that he had meant to cease writing for the stage when he
took orders, and that he had yielded to the personal request
of the Prime Minister, Luis de Haro, who had begged him to
continue for the King’s sake. In the same letter Calderón
states that he had been censured for writing <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>, that a
favour conferred on him had been revoked owing to the
objection of somebody unknown—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">no sé quién</em>—that poetry
was incompatible with the priesthood, and he ends by asking
the Primate for a definite ruling: ‘the thing is either wrong
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span>
or right; if right, let there be no more difficulties; and, if
wrong, let no one order me to do it.’ The drift of this
alembicated letter is clear. The favour revoked was no
doubt a chaplaincy at Toledo, and Calderón politely gave
the Primate to understand that he should supply no
more <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> till he received an equivalent for the post of
which he had been deprived. His hint was taken; he was
appointed ‘chaplain of the Reyes Nuevos’ at Toledo in
1653, and his scruples were quieted. For the rest of his
life he wrote most of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> given at Madrid, and he
readily supplied show-pieces to be performed at the palace
of the Buen Retiro. Some idea of the importance attached
to these performances may be gathered from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Avisos</cite> of
Barrionuevo, who tells us that—while the enemy was at the
gate, while there was not a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">real</em> in the Treasury, while the
King was compelled to dine on eggs, while a capon ‘stinking
like dead dogs’ was served to the Infanta, and while the
court buffoon Manuelillo de Gante paid for the Queen’s
dessert,—there was always money to meet the bills of the
stage-machinist Juan Antonio Forneli, to maintain a staff
of from twenty-four to seventy actresses, and to import
from Genoa hogsheads of costly jasmine-oil for stage-purposes.</p>

<p>Apart from the composition of <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> and <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedias palaciegas</em>,
Calderón’s life was henceforth uneventful. His position in
Spain was firmly established, but foreigners were sometimes
recalcitrant. The French traveller Bertaut thought little of
one of Calderón’s plays which he saw in 1659, and thought
even less of the author whom he visited later in the day:—‘From
his talk, I saw that he did not know much, though
he is quite white-haired. We argued a little concerning
the rules of the drama which they do not know at all, and
which they make game of in that country.’ This seems to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span>
have been the average French view.<a name="FNanchor_101_101" id="FNanchor_101_101"></a><a href="#Footnote_101_101" class="fnanchor">101</a> Chapelain, writing
to Carrel de Sainte-Garde on April 29, 1662, says that he
had read an abridgment of a play by Calderón:—‘par où
j’ay connu au moins que si les vers sont bons, son dessein
est très mauvais, et sa conduite ridicule.’ What else could
a champion of the unities think?</p>

<p>Though a priest beyond reproach, Calderón was not left
in peace by busybodies and heresy-hunters. His <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em> concerning
the conversion of the eccentric Christina of Sweden
was forbidden in 1656. Another <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em>, entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las órdenes
militares ó Pruebas del segundo Adán</cite>, gave rise to no objection
when acted before the King on June 8, 1662; but it was
‘delated’ to the Inquisition, the stage-copies were seized,
and permission to perform it was refused. There can have
been no heresy in this <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em>, for the prohibition was withdrawn
nine years later. On February 18, 1663, Calderón became
chaplain to Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> (a post which carried with it no
stipend), and in this same year he joined the Congregation
of St. Peter, of which he was appointed Superior in 1666.
He continued writing <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedias palaciegas</em> during the next
reign: <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fieras afemina amor</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Estatua de Prometeo</cite> were
produced in honour of the Queen-Mother’s birthday in 1675
and 1679 respectively; and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El segundo Escipión</cite> was played
on November 6, 1677, to commemorate the coming of age
of Charles <span class="smcap">II</span>. On August 24, 1679, an Order in Council
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span>
was issued granting Calderón a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">ración de cámara en especie</em>
on account of his services, great age, and poverty; this is
perplexing, for his will (made twenty-one months later)
shows that he was very comfortably off.</p>

<p>There is a disquieting sentence in the preface to the
fifth volume of Calderón’s plays: Vera Tassis says that
the dramatist tried to draw up a list of pieces falsely
ascribed to him, and adds that ‘his infirm condition did
not allow of his forming a clear judgment about them.’
What does Vera Tassis mean? Are we to understand that
Calderón’s intellect was slightly clouded towards the end,
that he could not distinguish his own plays from those of
other writers, and that perhaps he had become possessed
with the notion (not uncommon in the aged) that he would
die in want? Surely not. The financial statements of
petitioners are often obscure. Calderón’s memory may
naturally have begun to fail when he was close on eighty,
but in other respects his mind was vigorous. His <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Hado
y divisa de Leonido y Marfisa</cite>, composed to celebrate the
wedding of Charles <span class="smcap">II.</span> with Marie-Louise de Bourbon, was
given at the Buen Retiro on March 3, 1680; it was produced
later for the general public at the Príncipe and Cruz
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">corrales</em>, and altogether was played twenty-one times—a
great ‘run’ for those days. For over thirty years Calderón
had been commissioned to write the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> for Madrid, and
in 1681 he set to work as usual, but while engaged on <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Cordero de Isaías</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La divina Filotea</cite>, his strength failed
him. He could only finish one of these two <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>, and left
the other to be completed by Melchor Fernández de León.
He signed his will on May 20, took to his bed and added
a codicil on May 23, bequeathing his manuscripts to Juan
Mateo Lozano, the parish priest of St. Michael’s at Madrid,
who wrote the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Aprobación</cite> to the volume of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Autos Sacramentales,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span>
alegóricos y historiales</cite> published in 1677. Calderón
died on Whitsunday, May 25, 1681.</p>

<p>Almost all that we hear of him is eminently to his credit.
Vera Tassis, who knew him intimately,—though perhaps
less intimately than he implies,—dwells affectionately on
Calderón’s open-handed charity, his modesty and courtesy,
his kindliness in speaking of contemporaries, his gentleness
and patience towards envious calumniators. Calderón was
a gentleman as well as a great man of letters—a rare combination.
Like Lope de Vega, he was apparently not
inclined to rank his plays as literature, and, unlike Lope,
he does not seem to have changed his opinion on this point.
In his letter to the Patriarch of the Indies he speaks
slightingly of poetry as a foible pardonable enough in an
idle courtier, but one which he regarded with contempt as
soon as he took orders; and his disdain for his own work is
commemorated in a ponderous epitaph, written by those who
knew him best:—</p>

<p class="center">
<span class="smcap lowercase">CAMŒNIS OLIM DELICIARUM AMÆNISSIMUM FLUMEN<br />
QUÆ SUMMO PLAUSU VIVENS SCRIPSIT,<br />
MORIENS PRÆSCRIBENDO DESPEXIT.</span><br />
</p>

<p>He was never sufficiently interested in his secular plays
to collect them, though he complained of being grossly
misrepresented in the pirated editions which were current.
According to Vera Tassis, he corrected <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Armas de la
hermosura</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Señora y la Criada</cite> for the forty-sixth
volume of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escogidas</cite> printed in 1679; but he did no
more towards protecting his reputation, though at the very
end of his life he began an edition of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>, the sacred
subjects of these investing them in his eyes with more
importance than could possibly attach to any secular drama.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span>
It is by the merest accident that we have an authorised
list of the titles of his secular plays. He drew it up, ten
months before he died, at the urgent request of the Almirante-Duque
de Veraguas (a descendant of Columbus),
and it was included in the preface to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Obelisco fúnebre,
pirámide funesto</cite>, published by Gaspar Agustín de Lara in
1784. Calderón’s plays were printed by Vera Tassis who—though,
as Lara is careful to inform us, he had not access
to the original manuscripts in Lozano’s keeping—was a fairly
competent editor, as editors went in those days. It is not
rash to say that to this happy hazard Calderón owes no small
part of his international renown. For a long while, he was
the only great Spanish dramatist whose works were readily
accessible. Students who wished to read Lope de Vega—if
there were any such—could not find an edition of his plays;
Tirso de Molina was still further out of reach. Circumstances
combined to concentrate attention on Calderón at
the expense of his brethren. With the best will in the
world, you cannot act authors whose plays are not available;
but Calderón could be found at any bookseller’s, and a few
of his plays, together with two or three of Moreto’s, were
acted even during the latter half of the eighteenth century
when French influence was dominant on the Spanish stage.</p>

<p>Calderón thus survived in Spain; and, owing to this
survival, he came to be regarded by the evangelists of the
Romantic movement abroad as the leading representative of
the Spanish drama. Some of these depreciated Lope de Vega,
with no more knowledge of him than they could gather from
two or three plays picked up at random. German writers
made themselves remarkable by their vehement dogmatism.
Friedrich von Schlegel declared that, whereas Shakespeare
had merely described the enigma of life, Calderón had
solved it, thus proving himself to be, ‘in all conditions and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span>
circumstances, the most Christian, and therefore the most
romantic, of dramatic poets.’ August von Schlegel was as
dithyrambic as his brother. Dismissing Lope’s plays as
containing interesting situations and ‘inimitable jokes,’—Schlegel,
<cite>On Jokes</cite>, is one of the many unwritten masterpieces,
‘for which the whole world longs,’—he turns to
Calderón, hails him as that ‘blessed man,’ and in a rhetorical
transport proclaims him to be ‘the last summit of romantic
poetry.’ Nobody writes in this vein now, and the loss is
endurable. We are no longer stirred on reading that
Calderón’s ‘tears reflect the view of heaven, like dewdrops
on a flower in the sun’: such imagery leaves us cold. But
the rhetoric of the Schlegels, Tieck, and others was most
effective at the time.</p>

<p>It was noised abroad that the Germans had discovered
the supreme dramatic genius of the world; the great names
of Goethe and Shelley were quoted as being worshippers of
the new sun in the poetic heavens; the superstition spread
to England, and would seem to have infected a group of
brilliant young men at Cambridge—Trench, FitzGerald, and
Tennyson. <cite>In The Palace of Art</cite>, as first published, Calderón
was introduced with some unexpected companions:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Cervantes, the bright face of Calderon,</div>
<div class="line i1">Robed David touching holy strings,</div>
<div class="line">The Halicarnasseän, and alone,</div>
<div class="line i1">Alfred the flower of kings,</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Isaïah with fierce Ezekiel,</div>
<div class="line i1">Swarth Moses by the Coptic sea,</div>
<div class="line">Plato, Petrarca, Livy and Raphaël,</div>
<div class="line i1">And eastern Confutzee.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">This motley company was dispersed later. In the revised
version of <cite>The Palace of Art Calderón</cite> finds no place, and
the omission causes no more surprise than the omission of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span>
‘eastern Confutzee.’ He is admired as a splendid poet
and a great dramatist, but we no longer see him, as Tennyson
saw him in 1833, on a sublime and solitary pinnacle of
glory—‘a poetical Melchisedec, without spiritual father,
without spiritual mother, with nothing round him to explain
or account for the circumstances of his greatness.’ As
Trench says, there are no such appearances in literature,
and Calderón has ceased to be a mystery or a miracle. Yet
it was not unnatural that those who took the Schlegels for
guides should see him in this light. The fact that the
works of other Spanish dramatists were not easily obtainable
necessarily gave an exaggerated idea of Calderón’s originality
and importance, for it was next to impossible to compare
him with his rivals. We are now more favourably
situated. We know—what our grandfathers could not
know—that Friedrich von Schlegel was as wrong as wrong
can be when he assured the world that Calderón was too
rich to borrow. In literature no one is too rich to borrow,
and Calderón’s indebtedness to his predecessors is great.
To give but one instance out of many: the Second Act of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Cabellos de Absalón</cite> is taken bodily from the Third Act
of Tirso de Molina’s sombre and sinister tragedy, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Venganza
de Tamar</cite>.</p>

<p>This was no offence against the prevailing code of morality
in literary matters. Most Spanish dramatists of this period
borrowed freely. Lope de Vega, indeed, had such wealth
of invention that he was never tempted in this way: so,
too, he seldom collaborated. So far from being a help,
this division of labour was almost an impediment to him,
for he could write a hundred lines in the time that it took
him to consult his collaborator. But Lope was unique.
Manuel de Guerra, in his celebrated <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Aprobación</cite> to the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Verdadera Quinta Parte</cite> of Calderón’s plays, calls him a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span>
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">monstruo de ingenio</em>. The words recall the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">monstruo de
naturaleza</em>, the phrase applied by Cervantes to Lope, but
there is a marked difference between the two men—a
difference perhaps implied in the two expressions. Lope
was possessed by an irresistible instinct which impelled him
to constant, and often careless, creation; Calderón creates
less lavishly, treats existing themes without scruple, and his
recasts are sometimes completely successful. His devotees
never allow us to forget, for instance, that in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Alcalde de
Zalamea</cite> he has transformed one of Lope’s dashing improvisations
into a most powerful drama, and they cite as a
parallel case the <cite>Electra</cite> of Euripides and the <cite>Electra</cite> of
Sophocles. Just so, when Calderón receives a prize at the
poetical jousts held at Madrid in 1620-22, the extreme
Calderonians are reminded of ‘the boy Sophocles dancing
at the festival after the battle of Salamis.’ Why drag in
Sophocles? There are degrees. It is quite true that
Calderón has made an admirable play out of Lope’s sketch;
but it is also true that the dramatic conception of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Alcalde
de Zalamea</cite> is due to Lope, and not to Calderón.</p>

<p>Any other dramatist in Calderón’s place would have been
compelled to accept the conventions which Lope de Vega
had imposed upon the Spanish stage—conventional presentations
of loyalty and honour. Calderón devoted his magnificent
gifts to elaborating these conventions into something
like a code. His readiness in borrowing may be taken to
mean that he was not, in the largest sense, an inventor, and
the substance of his plays shows that he was rarely interested
in the presentation of character. But he had the
keenest theatrical sense, and once he is provided with a
theme he can extract from it an intense dramatic interest.
Moreover, he equals Lope in the cleverness with which he
works up a complicated plot, and surpasses Lope in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span>
adroitness with which he employs the mechanical resources
of the stage. In addition to these minor talents, he has the
gift of impressive and ornate diction. It is a little unfortunate
that many who read him in translations begin
with <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida es sueño</cite>, a fine symbolic play disfigured by
the introduction of so incredible a character as Rosaura,
declaiming gongoresque speeches altogether out of place.
Calderón is liable to these momentary aberrations; yet, at
his best, he is almost unsurpassable. Read, for example,
the majestic speech of the Demon in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Mágico prodigioso</cite>
which Trench very justifiably compares with Milton. The
address to Cyprian loses next to nothing of its splendour in
Shelley’s version:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i12">Chastised, I know</div>
<div class="line">The depth to which ambition falls; too mad</div>
<div class="line">Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now</div>
<div class="line">Repentance of the irrevocable deed:—</div>
<div class="line">Therefore I chose this ruin with the glory</div>
<div class="line">Of not to be subdued, before the shame</div>
<div class="line">Of reconciling me with him who reigns</div>
<div class="line">By coward cession.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>It was once the fashion to praise Calderón chiefly as a
philosophic dramatist, and it may be that to this philosophic
quality his plays owe much of the vogue which they once
enjoyed—and which, in a much less degree, they still enjoy—in
Germany. As it happens, only two of Calderón’s plays
can be classified as philosophic—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida es sueño</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En
esta vida todo es verdad y todo es mentira</cite>—and, with respect
to the latter, a question arises as to its originality. French
writers have maintained that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En esta vida</cite> is taken from
Corneille’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Héraclius</cite>, while Spaniards argue that Corneille’s
play is taken from Calderón’s. On <em>a priori</em> grounds we
should be tempted to admit the Spanish contention, for
Corneille was—I do not wish to put the point too strongly—more
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span>
given to borrowing from Spain than to lending
to contemporary Spanish playwrights. But there is the
awkward fact that <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Héraclius</cite> dates from 1647, whereas <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En
esta vida</cite> was not printed till 1664. This is not decisive,
for we have seen that Calderón was not interested enough
in his secular plays to print them, and we gather incidentally
that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En esta vida</cite> was being rehearsed at Madrid by
Diego Osorio’s company in February 1659. How much
earlier it was written, we cannot say at present. The idea
that Calderón borrowed from the French cannot be scouted
as impossible, for Corneille’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Cid</cite> was adapted by Diamante
in 1658.<a name="FNanchor_102_102" id="FNanchor_102_102"></a><a href="#Footnote_102_102" class="fnanchor">102</a> Perhaps both Calderón and Corneille drew upon
Mira de Amescua’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rueda de la fortuna</cite>—a play which, as we
know from Lope de Vega’s letter belittling <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, was
written in 1604, or earlier. But, whichever explanation
we accept, Calderón’s originality is compromised. With
all respect to the eminent authorities who have debated
this question of priority, we may be allowed to think that
they have shown unnecessary heat over a rather unimportant
matter. Neither <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Héraclius</cite> nor <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En esta vida</cite> is a masterpiece,
and Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo holds that <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En esta vida</cite> contains
only one striking situation—the tenth scene in the First
Act, when both Heraclio and Leonido claim to be the sons
of Mauricio, and Astolfo refuses to state which of the two
is mistaken:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Que es uno dellos diré;</div>
<div class="line">pero cuál es dellos, no.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This amounts to saying that Calderón’s play is no great
marvel, for very few serious pieces are ever produced on the
stage unless the first act is good. The hastiest of impresarios,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span>
the laziest dramatic censor—even they read as far
as the end of the First Act. But, if we give up <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">En esta
vida</cite>, Calderón is deprived of half his title to rank as a
‘philosophic’ dramatist. We still have <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida es sueño</cite>,
a noble and (apparently) original play disfigured, as I have
said, by verbal affectations, such as the opening couplet on the</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Hipogrifo<a name="FNanchor_103_103" id="FNanchor_103_103"></a><a href="#Footnote_103_103" class="fnanchor">103</a> violento</div>
<div class="line">que corriste pareja con el viento,</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">which is almost invariably quoted against the author. So,
too, whenever <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida es sueño</cite> is mentioned, we are almost
invariably told that, as though to prove that life is indeed
a dream, ‘a Queen of Sweden expired in the theatre of
Stockholm during its performance.’ This picturesque story
does not seem to be true, and, at any rate, it adds no more
to the interest of the play than the verbal blemishes take
from it. The weak spot in the piece is the sudden collapse
of Segismundo when sent back to the dungeon, but otherwise
the conception is admirable in dignity and force.</p>

<p>Many critics find these qualities in Calderón’s tragedies,
and I perceive them in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Amar después de la muerte</cite>. The
scene in which Garcés describes how he murdered Doña
Clara, and is interrupted by Don Álvaro with—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i7">¿Fue</div>
<div class="line">Como ésta la puñalada?—</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span>is, as Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo says, worthy of Shakespeare;
and it long ago reminded Trench of the scene in <cite>Cymbeline</cite>
where Iachimo’s confession—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i7">Whereupon—</div>
<div class="line">Methinks, I see him now—</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">is interrupted by Posthumus with—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i5">Ay, so thou dost,</div>
<div class="line">Italian fiend!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But, for some reason, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Amar después de la muerte</cite> is not among
the most celebrated of Calderón’s tragic plays, and it is
certainly not the most typical—not nearly so typical as
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Á secreto agravio secreta venganza</cite>, and two or three others.
Here the note of genuine passion is almost always faint, and
is sometimes wanting altogether. Othello murders Desdemona
in a divine despair because he believes her guilty, and
because he loves her: Calderón’s jealous heroes, with the
exception of the Tetrarch in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Mayor monstruo los celos</cite>,
commit murder as a social duty. In <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Á secreto agravio
secreta venganza</cite> Don Lope de Almeida, with his interminable
soliloquies, ceases to be human, and becomes the
incarnation of (what we now think to be) a silly conventional
code of honour. Doña Leonor in this play is not so
completely innocent in thought as Doña Mencía in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Médico
de su honra</cite>; but Don Lope de Almeida murders the one,
and Don Gutierre Alfonso Solís murders the other, with
the same cold-blooded deliberation shown in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Pintor de
su deshonra</cite> by Don Juan de Roca, who has some apparent
justification for killing Doña Serafina.</p>

<p>With all the skill spent on their construction, these
tragedies do not move us deeply, and they would fail to
interest, if it were not that they embody the accepted ideas
concerning the point of honour in Spain during the seventeenth
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span>
century. It is most difficult for us to see things as a
Spaniard then saw them. He began by assuming that any
personal insult could only be washed away by the blood of
the offender: a man is killed in fair fight in a duel, but the
survivors of the slain must slay the slayer. Modern Europe,
as Chorley wrote more than half a century ago, has nothing
like this, ‘except the terrible Corsican <em>vendetta</em>.’ And, as
stated by the same great authority—the greatest we have
ever had on all relating to the Spanish stage—‘beneath the
unbounded devotion which the Castilian professed to the
sex, lay a conviction of their absolute and universal frailty.’
In Spanish eyes ‘no woman’s purity,’ Chorley continues, ‘was
safe but in absolute seclusion from men:—guilt was implied
and honour lost in every case where the risk of either was
possible,—nay, even had accident thrown into a temptation
a lady whose innocence was proved to her master, the
appearance of crime to the world’s eye must be washed
out in her blood.’ It has often been said that, in Calderón,
‘honour’ is what destiny is in the Greek drama.</p>

<p>This code of honour seems to many of us immoral
nonsense, and it is difficult to suppose that Friedrich von
Schlegel had <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Médico de su honra</cite> in mind when he
declared Calderón to be ‘in all conditions and circumstances
the most Christian ... of dramatic poets.’ It is
hard to imagine anything more unchristian than the conduct
of Don Gutierre Alfonso Solís which is held up for
approval; but no doubt it was approved by contemporary
playgoers. In this glorification of punctilio Calderón is
thoroughly representative. He reproduces the conventional
ideas which obtained for a certain time, in certain complicated
conditions, in a certain latitude and longitude.
This local verisimilitude, which contributed to his immediate
success, now constitutes a limitation. The dramatist may be
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span>
true to life, in so far as he presents temporary aspects of it
with fidelity; he is not true to universal nature, and therefore
he makes no permanent appeal. This, or something
like it, has been said a thousand times, and, I think, with
good reason. Still, it leaves Calderón where he was as
the spokesman of his age.</p>

<p>He is no less representative in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedias de capa y espada</cite>—his
plays of intrigue, which are really dramatic presentations
of ordinary contemporary manners in the vein of high
comedy. Opponents of the Spanish national theatre have
charged him with inventing this typical form of dramatic
art, as though it were a misdemeanour. There is no sense
in belittling so characteristic a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">genre</em>, and no ground for
ascribing the invention of cloak-and-sword plays to Calderón.
They were being written by Lope de Vega before Calderón
was born, and were still further elaborated by Tirso de
Molina. Lope’s redundant genius adapts itself easily enough
to the narrow bounds of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia de capa y espada</em>, but
he instinctively prefers a more spacious field. The very
artificiality of such plays must have been an attraction to
Calderón. All plays of this class are much alike. There
are always a gallant and a lady engaged in a love-affair;
a grim father or petulant brother, who may be a loose
liver but is a rigid moralist where his own women-folk are
concerned; a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">gracioso</em> or buffoon, who comes on the scene
when things begin to look dangerous. The material is the
same in all cases; the playwright’s dexterity is shown in the
variety of his arrangement, the ingenious novelty of the
plot, the polite mirth of the dialogue, the apt introduction of
episodes which revive or diversify the interest, and prolong
it by leaving the personages at cross-purposes till the last
moment. Calderón is a master of all the devices that help
to make a good play of this kind. Character-drawing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span>
would be almost out of place, and, as character-drawing
is Calderón’s weak point, one of his chief difficulties is
removed. He is free to concentrate his skill on polishing
witty ‘points,’ on contriving striking situations, and preparing
deft surprises at which he himself smiles good-humouredly.
The whole play is based on an idealistic
convention, and Calderón displays a startling cleverness in
conforming to the complicated rules of the game.</p>

<p>He fails at the point where the convention is weakest.
His <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">graciosos</em> or drolls are too laboriously comic to be
amusing. He has abundant wit, and the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">discreteo</em> of the
lover and the lady is often brilliant. But there is some
foundation for the taunt that he is interested only in fine
gentlemen and <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">précieuses</em>. He had not lived in courts
and palaces for nothing. The racy, rough humour of the
illiterate clearly repelled his fastidious temper, and the
fun of his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">graciosos</em> is unreal. This is what might be anticipated.
It takes one cast in the mould of Shakespeare,
or Cervantes, or Lope, to sympathise with all conditions of
men. Calderón fails in another point, and the failure is
certainly very strange in a man of his meticulous refinement
and social opportunities. With few exceptions, the
women in his most famous plays are unattractive. A
Spanish critic puts it strongly when he calls the women
on Calderón’s stage <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">hombrunas</em> or mannish. No foreign
critic would be brave enough to say this, but it is not an
unfair description. A man’s idea of a womanly woman is
often quaint: he sees her as something between a white-robed
angel and a perfect imbecile. That is not Calderón’s
way. Doña Mencía in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Médico de su honra</cite> and Doña
Leonor in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Á secreto agravio secreta venganza</cite> are distinctly
formidable, and, even in the cloak-and-sword plays, there
is something masculine in the academic preciosity of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span>
lively heroines. It is manifest that Calderón has no deep
knowledge of feminine character, that his interest in it
is assumed for stage purposes, and that his chief preoccupation
is—not to portray idiosyncrasies, nor even types
of womanhood, but—to make physical beauty the theme
of his eloquent, poetic flights. In this he succeeds admirably,
though his flights are apt to be too long. You probably
know Suppico de Moraes’ story of Calderón’s acting before
Philip <span class="smcap">IV</span>. in an improvisation at the Buen Retiro, the poet
taking the part of Adam, and Vélez de Guevara that of
God the Father. Once started, Calderón declaimed and
declaimed, and, when he came to an end at last, Vélez de
Guevara took up the dialogue with the remark: ‘I repent
me of creating so garrulous an Adam!’ Most probably the
tale is an invention,<a name="FNanchor_104_104" id="FNanchor_104_104"></a><a href="#Footnote_104_104" class="fnanchor">104</a> but it is not without point, for Philip
and the rest would have been a match for Job, if they
had never been bored with the favourite’s tirades. Like
most Spaniards, Calderón is too copious; but in lyrical
splendour he is unsurpassed by any Spanish poet, and is surpassed
by few poets in any language. Had he added more
frequent touches of nature to his idealised presentations, he
would rank with the greatest dramatists in the world.</p>

<p>As it is, he ranks only just below the greatest, and in one
dramatic form peculiar to Spain, he is, by common consent,
supreme. Everybody quotes Shelley’s phrase about ‘the
light and odour of the starry <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>’; but scarcely anybody
reads the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>, and I rather doubt if Shelley read them. It
is suggested that he took an <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em> to mean an ordinary play,
and this seems likely enough, for that is what an <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em> did
mean at one time. But an <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto sacramental</em> in Calderón’s
time was a one-act piece (performed in the open air on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span>
the Feast of Corpus Christi) in which the Eucharistic
mystery was presented symbolically. We can imagine this
being done successfully two or three times, but not oftener.
The difficulty was extreme, and as a new <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em>—usually two
new <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>—had to be provided every year, authors had
recourse to the strangest devices. There are <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> in which
Christ is symbolised by Charlemagne (surrounded by his
twelve peers), or by Jason, or Ulysses; there are <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> in
which an attempt is made to evade the conditions by introducing
saints famous for their devotion to the Eucharist.
Such pieces are illegitimate: they are not really <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos sacramentales</em>,
but <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedias devotas</em>.</p>

<p>Calderón treats the subject within the rigid limits of the
convention,—as a doctrinal abstraction,—and he treats it in
a spirit of the most reverential art. He does not fail even
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Valle de la Zarzuela</cite>, where he hampers himself by
connecting the theme with one of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>’s hunting-expeditions.
He tells us with a certain dignified pride that
his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> had been played before the King and Council for
more than thirty years, and he apologises for occasional
repetitions by saying that these are not so noticeable at a
distance of twenty years as when they occur between the
covers of a book. But no apology is needed. Calderón
dealt with his abstruse theme more than seventy times—not
always with equal success, but never quite unsuccessfully,
and never repeating himself unduly. This is surely one
of the most dexterous exploits in literature, and Calderón
appears to have done it with consummate ease. His reflective
genius, steeped in dogma, was far more interested
in the mysteries of faith than in the passions of humanity,
far more interested in devout symbolism than in realistic
characterisation. His figures are pale abstractions? Yes:
but he compels us to accept them by virtue of his sublime
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span>
allegory, his majestic vision of the world invisible, and the
adorable loveliness of his lyrism.</p>

<p>His <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> endured for over a century. As late as 1760
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Cubo de la Almudena</cite> was played on Corpus Christi at
the Teatro del Príncipe in Madrid, while <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Semilla y la
cizaña</cite> was played at the Teatro de la Cruz. The <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>
were obviously dying; they were no longer given in the
open air before the King and Court, and the devout multitude;
they were shorn of their pomp, and played indoors
before an indifferent audience amid irreverent remarks.
On one occasion, according to Clavijo, after the actor who
played the part of Satan had declaimed a passage effectively,
an admirer in the pit raised a cheer for the devil:—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">¡Viva el
demonio!</em> There is evidence to prove that the public performance
of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos sacramentales</em> was often the occasion
of disorderly and scandalous scenes. Clavijo has been
blamed for his articles in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Pensador matritense</cite>, advocating
their suppression, and perhaps his motives were not so pure
as he pretends. Yet he was certainly right in suggesting
that the day for <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em> was over. They were prohibited on
June 9, 1765. But they must soon have died in any case,
for the supply had ceased, and later writers like Antonio
de Zamora were mostly content to retouch Calderón’s <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos</em>.<a name="FNanchor_105_105" id="FNanchor_105_105"></a><a href="#Footnote_105_105" class="fnanchor">105</a>
Zamora and Bancés Candamo were not the men to keep
up the high tradition, and the attitude of the public had
completely changed.</p>

<p>The fact that his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">autos sacramentales</em> are little read in
Spain, and are scarcely read at all out of Spain, is most
unfortunate for Calderón, for his noblest achievement
remains comparatively unknown. His reputation abroad
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span>
is based on his secular plays which represent but one side
of his delightful genius, and that side is not his strongest.
The works of Lope de Vega and of Tirso de Molina have
become available once more, and this circumstance has
necessarily affected the critical estimate of Calderón as a
dramatist. Paul Verlaine, indeed, persisted in placing
him above Shakespeare, but Verlaine was the last of the
Old Guard. Calderón is relatively less important than
he was thought to be before Chorley’s famous campaign in
<cite>The Athenæum</cite>: all now agree with Chorley that Calderón
is inferior to Lope de Vega in creative faculty and humour,
and inferior to Tirso de Molina in depth and variety of
conception. But, when every deduction is made, Calderón
is still one of the most stately figures in Spanish literature.
Naturally a great lyric poet, his deliberate art won him a
pre-eminent position among poets who used the dramatic
form, and he lives as the typical representative of the
devout, gallant, loyal, artificial society in which he moved.
He is not, as once was thought, the synthesis of the
Spanish genius, but no one incarnates more completely
one aspect of that genius. Who illustrates better than
the author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Principe constante</cite> what Heiberg wrote of
Spanish poets generally just ninety years ago:—‘Habet
itaque poësis hispanica animam gothicam in corpore romano,
quod orientali vestimento induitur; verum in intimo corde
Christiana fides regnat, et per omnes se venas diffundit’?
The same thought recurs in <cite>The Nightingale in the Study</cite>:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">A bird is singing in my brain</div>
<div class="line i1">And bubbling o’er with mingled fancies,</div>
<div class="line">Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain</div>
<div class="line i1">Fed with the sap of old romances.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">I ask no ampler skies than those</div>
<div class="line i1">His magic music rears above me,</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span>No falser friends, no truer foes,—</div>
<div class="line i1">And does not Doña Clara love me?</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars,</div>
<div class="line i1">A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing,</div>
<div class="line">Then silence deep with breathless stars,</div>
<div class="line i1">And overhead a white hand flashing.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">O music of all moods and climes,</div>
<div class="line i1">Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly,</div>
<div class="line">Where still, between the Christian chimes,</div>
<div class="line i1">The Moorish cymbal tinkles faintly!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">O life borne lightly in the hand,</div>
<div class="line i1">For friend or foe with grace Castilian!</div>
<div class="line">O valley safe in Fancy’s land,</div>
<div class="line i1">Not tramped to mud yet by the million!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale</div>
<div class="line i1">To his, my singer of all weathers,</div>
<div class="line">My Calderon, my nightingale,</div>
<div class="line i1">My Arab soul in Spanish feathers!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>To most of us, as to Lowell, the Spain of romance is the
Spain revealed to us by Calderón. Though not the greatest
of Spanish authors, nor even the greatest of Spanish dramatists,
he is perhaps the happiest in temperament, the most
brilliant in colouring. He gives us a magnificent pageant
in which the pride of patriotism and the charm of gallantry
are blended with the dignity of art and ‘the fair humanities
of old religion.’ And unquestionably he has imposed his
enchanting vision upon the world.</p>
<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX<br /><br />

<small>THE DRAMATIC SCHOOL OF CALDERÓN</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Lope de Vega</span>, as I have tried to persuade you in a previous
lecture, may fairly be regarded as the real founder of the
national theatre in Spain. His victory was complete, and
the old-fashioned Senecan drama was everywhere supplanted
by the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia nueva</em> in which the ‘unities’ were neglected.
Playwrights who could no longer get their pieces produced
took great pains to prove that Lope ought to have failed,
and dwelt upon the enormity of his anachronisms and
geographical blunders. These groans of the defeated are
always with us. Just as the pedant clamours for Shakespeare’s
head on a charger, because he chose to place a
seaport in Bohemia, so Andrés Rey de Artieda, in his
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Discursos, epístolas y epigramas</cite>, published under the pseudonym
of Artemidoro in 1605, is indignant at the triumph
of ignorant incapacity:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i2">Galeras vi una vez ir per el yermo,</div>
<div class="line">y correr seis caballos per la posta,</div>
<div class="line">de la isla del Gozo hasta Palermo.</div>
<div class="line i2">Poner dentro Vizcaya á Famagosta,</div>
<div class="line">y junto de los Alpes, Persia y Media,</div>
<div class="line">y Alemaña pintar, larga y angosta.</div>
<div class="line i2">Como estas cosas representa Heredia,</div>
<div class="line">á pedimiento de un amigo suyo,</div>
<div class="line">que en seis horas compone una comedia.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>The meaning of this little outburst is quite simple: it
means that Rey de Artieda was no longer popular at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span>
Valencia, and that he and his fellows had had to make way
on the Valencian stage for such followers of Lope de Vega
as Francisco Tárrega, Gaspar de Aguilar, Guillén de Castro
and Miguel Beneyto—all members of the Valencian <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Academia
de los nocturnos</cite>, in which they were known respectively as
‘Miedo,’ ‘Sombra,’ ‘Secreto’ and ‘Sosiego.’</p>

<p>A very similar denunciation of the new school was published
by a much greater writer in the same year. Cervantes
ridiculed the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">comedia nueva</em> as a pack of nonsense without
either head or tail—<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">conocidos disparates y cosas que no llevan
pies ni cabeza</em>; yet he dolefully admits that ‘the public
hears them with pleasure, and esteems and approves them
as good, though they are far from being anything of the
sort.’ The long diatribe put into the mouth of the canon
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> is the plaint of a beaten man who calls for
a literary dictatorship, or some such desperate remedy, to
save him from Lope and the revolution. Whether Cervantes
changed his views on the merits of the question, or whether
he merely bowed to circumstances, we cannot say. But
he tacitly recanted in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Rufián dichoso</cite>, and even defended
the new methods as improvements on the old:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Los tiempos mudan las cosas</div>
<div class="line">y perfeccionan las artes ...</div>
<div class="line">Muy poco importa al oyente</div>
<div class="line">que yo en un punto me pase</div>
<div class="line">desde Alemania á Guinea,</div>
<div class="line">sin del teatro mudarme.</div>
<div class="line">El pensamiento es ligero,</div>
<div class="line">bien pueden acompañarme</div>
<div class="line">con él, do quiera que fuere,</div>
<div class="line">sin perderme, ni cansarse.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">Passing from theory to practice, Cervantes appeared as a
very unsuccessful imitator of Lope de Vega in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Casa de
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span>
los Celos ó las Selvas de Ardenio</cite>. The dictatorship for which
he asked had come, but the dictator was Lope.</p>

<p>All Spanish dramatists of this period came under Lope’s
influence. He was even more supreme in Madrid than in
Valencia, and other provincial centres. He set the fashion
to men as considerable as Vélez de Guevara, Mira de
Amescua, Tirso de Molina, and Calderón himself. Lope
and Ruiz de Alarcón were at daggers drawn; but these
were personal quarrels, and, original as was Alarcón’s talent,
the torch of Lope flickers over some of his best scenes.
These men were much more than imitators. If Lope ever
had a devoted follower, it was the unfortunate Juan Pérez
de Montalbán; but even Pérez de Montalbán was not a
servile imitator, and it was precisely his effort to develop
originality that affected his reason. Lope’s influence was
general; he founded a national drama, but he founded
nothing which we can justly call a school—a word which
implies a certain exclusiveness and rigidity of doctrine
foreign to Lope’s nature. So far was he from founding a
school that, towards the end of his life, he was voted rather
antiquated, and this view was still more widely held during
Calderón’s supremacy. In the autograph of Lope’s unpublished
play, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Quien más no puede</cite>, there is a note by
Cristóbal Gómez, who writes—‘This is a very good play,
but not suitable for these times, though suitable in the
past; for it contains many <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">endechas</em> and many things which
would not be endured nowadays; the plot is good, and
should be versified in the prevailing fashion.’ This is dated
April 19, 1669, less than forty years after Lope’s death; he
was beginning to be forgotten by almost all, except the
playwrights who stole from him.</p>

<p>Calderón, on the other hand, did found a school. For
one thing, his conventionality and mannerisms are infinitely
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span>
easier to imitate than Lope’s broad effects. ‘Spanish
Comedy,’ as Mr. George Meredith says, ‘is generally in
sharp outline, as of skeletons; in quick movement, as of
marionettes. The Comedy might be performed by a troupe
of the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">corps de ballet</em>; and in the recollection of the reading
it resolves to an animated shuffle of feet.’ Whatever we
may think of this as a judgment on Spanish comedy as a
whole, it describes fairly enough the dramatic work produced
by many of Calderón’s followers: with them, if not
with their master, art degenerates into artifice—a clever
trick. Calderón himself seems to have grown tired of the
praises lavished on his ingenuity. He knew perfectly that
neatness of construction was not the best part of his work,
and, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">No hay burlas con el amor</cite>, he laughs at himself and
his more uncritical admirers:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¿Es comedia de don Pedro</div>
<div class="line">Calderón, donde ha de haber</div>
<div class="line">por fuerza amante escondido,</div>
<div class="line">ó rebozada muger?</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>Unfortunately these stage devices—these concealed lovers,
these muffled mistresses, these houses with two doors, these
walls with invisible cupboards, these compromising letters
wrongly addressed—were precisely what appealed to the
unthinking section of the public, and they were also
the characteristics most easily reproduced by imitators in
search of a short cut to success. Other circumstances
combined to make Calderón the head of a dramatic school.
Except in invention and in brilliant facility the dramatists
of Lope’s time were not greatly inferior to the master. In
certain qualities Tirso de Molina and Ruiz de Alarcón
are superior to him: Tirso in force and in malicious humour,
Ruiz de Alarcón in depth and in artistic finish. There is
no such approach to equality between Calderón and the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span>
men of his group. No strikingly original dramatic genius
appeared during his long life, extending over three literary
generations. He himself had made no new departure, no
radical innovation; he took over the dramatic form as Lope
had left it, and, by focussing its common traits, he established
a series of conventions—a conventional conception of loyalty,
honour, love and jealousy. The stars in their courses
fought for him. He was equally popular at court and with
the multitude, pleasing the upper rabble by his glittering
intrigue and dexterous <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">discreteo</em>, pleasing the lower rabble
by his melodramatic incident and the mechanical humour
of his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">graciosos</em>, pleasing both high and low by his lofty
Catholicism and passionate devotion to the throne. Though
not in any real sense more Spanish than Lope de Vega,
Calderón seems to be more intensely national, for he reduced
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">españolismo</em> of his age to a formula. Out of the plays of
Lope and of Tirso, he evolved a hard-and-fast method of
dramatic presentation. He came at a time when it was
impossible to do more. All that could be done by those
who came after him was to emphasise the convention which,
by dint of constant repetition, he had converted into something
like an imperative theory.</p>

<p>It follows, as the night the day, that the monotony which
has been remarked in Calderón’s plays is still more pronounced
in those of his followers. The incidents vary, but
the conception of passion and of social obligation is identical.
The dramatists of Calderón’s school adopt his method of
presenting the conventional emotions of loyalty, devotion,
and punctilio as to the point of honour; and, having enclosed
themselves within these narrow bounds, they are almost
necessarily driven to exaggeration. This tendency is found
in so powerful a writer as Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla, of
whom we know scarcely anything except that he was born
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span>
at Toledo in 1607, and that he was on friendly terms with
both the devout José de Valdivielso and the waggish
Jerónimo de Cáncer—who in his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Vejamen</cite>, written in 1649,
gives a comical picture of the dignified dramatist tearing
along in an undignified hurry. In 1644 Rojas Zorrilla was
proposed as a candidate for the Order of Santiago, but the
nomination was objected to on the ground that he was of
mixed Moorish and Jewish descent, and that some of his
ancestors two or three generations earlier had been weavers
and carpenters. These allegations were evidently not
proved, for Rojas Zorrilla became a Knight of the Order
of Santiago on October 19, 1645. The autograph of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Ascensión del Cristo, nuestro bien</cite> states that this piece was
written when the author was fifty-five: this brings us down
to 1662. Rojas Zorrilla then disappears: the date of his
death is unknown. The first volume of his plays was
published in 1640, the second in 1645. In the preface to
the second volume he makes the same complaint as Lope de
Vega and Calderón—namely, that plays were fathered upon
him with which he had nothing to do—and he promises
a third volume which, however, was not issued.</p>

<p>It has been denied that Rojas Zorrilla belongs to Calderón’s
school, and no doubt he was much more than an obsequious
pupil. Yet he was clearly affiliated to the school. He
belonged to the same social class as Calderón; he was seven
years younger, and must have begun writing for the stage
just when it became evident that Calderón was destined to
succeed Lope de Vega in popular esteem; and, moreover, he
actually collaborated later with Calderón in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Monstruo de
la fortuna</cite>. It is hard to believe that Calderón, at the
height of his reputation, would condescend to collaborate
with a junior whose ideals differed from his own. No such
difference existed: as might be expected from a disciple,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span>
Rojas Zorrilla is rather more Calderonian than Calderón.
Out of Spain he is usually mentioned as the author of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Traición busca el castigo</cite>, the source of Vanbrugh’s <cite>False
Friend</cite> and Lesage’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Traître puni</cite>; but, if he had written
nothing better than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Traición busca el castigo</cite>, he would
not rise above the rank and file of Spanish playwrights. His
most remarkable work is <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite>, a famous
piece not included in either volume of the plays issued by
Rojas Zorrilla himself. The natural explanation would be
that it was written after 1645, and this is possible. Yet it
cannot be confidently assumed. As we have already seen,
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Estrella de Sevilla</cite> is not contained in the collections of
Lope’s plays. Plays were not included or omitted solely on
their merits, but for other reasons: because they were likely
to please ‘star’ actors, or because they had failed to please
a particular audience.</p>

<p>The story of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite> is so typical that it is
worth telling. García is the son of a noble who had been compromised
in the political plots which were frequent during
the regency of the Infante Don Juan Manuel. He takes
refuge at El Castañar near Toledo, lives there as a farmer,
marries Blanca de la Cerda (who, though unaware of the
fact, is related to the royal house), and looks forward to the
time when, through the influence of his friend the Count
de Orgaz, he may be recalled. News reaches him that an
expedition is being fitted out against the Moors, and he
subscribes so largely that his contribution attracts the
attention of Alfonso <span class="smcap">XI.</span>, who makes inquiries about him.
The Count de Orgaz takes this opportunity to commend
García to the King’s favour, but dwells on his proud and
solitary nature which unfits him for a courtier’s life.
Alfonso <span class="smcap">XI.</span> determines to visit García in disguise. Orgaz
informs García of the King’s intention and adds that, as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span>
Alfonso <i>XI.</i> habitually wears the red ribbon of a knightly
order, there will be no difficulty in distinguishing him from
the members of his suite. Four visitors duly arrive at
El Castañar, passing themselves off as hunters who have lost
their way, and, as one of the four is decorated as described
by Orgaz, García takes him to be the King. In reality he is
Don Mendo, a courtier of loose morals. Unrecognised,
Alfonso <span class="smcap">XI.</span> converses with García, telling him of the King’s
satisfaction with his gift, and holding out to him the prospect
of a brilliant career at court: García, however, is not
tempted, and declares his intention of remaining in happy
obscurity. The hunting-party leaves Castañar; but Don
Mendo, enamoured of Doña Blanca, returns next day under
the impression that García will be absent. Entering the
house by stealth, he is discovered by García who, believing
him to be the King, spares his life. Don Mendo does not
suspect García’s misapprehension, and retires, supposing that
the rustic was awed by the sight of a noble. But the stain
on García’s honour can only be washed away with blood.
In default of the real culprit, he resolves to kill his blameless
wife, who takes flight, and is placed by Orgaz under the
protection of the Queen. García is summoned to court, is
presented to the King, perceives that the foiled seducer was
not his sovereign, slays Don Mendo in the royal ante-chamber,
returns to the presence with his dagger dripping
blood, and, after defending his action as the only course open
to a man of honour, closes his eloquent tirade by declaring
that, even if it should cost him his life, he can allow no one—save
his anointed King—to insult him with impunity:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Que esto soy, y éste es mi agravio,</div>
<div class="line">éste el ofensor injusto,</div>
<div class="line">éste el brazo que le ha muerto,</div>
<div class="line">éste divida el verdugo;</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;<span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span></div>
<div class="line">pero en tanto que mi cuello</div>
<div class="line">esté en mis hombros robusto,</div>
<div class="line">no he de permitir me agravie</div>
<div class="line">del Rey abajo, ninguno.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Del Rey abajo, ninguno</cite>—‘None, under the rank of King’—is
the alternative title of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite>, and these
four energetic words sum up the exaltation of monarchical
sentiment which is the leading motive of the play. Buckle,
writing of Spain, says in his sweeping way that ‘whatever
the King came in contact with, was in some degree hallowed
by his touch,’ and that ‘no one might marry a mistress
whom he had deserted.’ This is not quite accurate. We
know that, at the very time of which we are speaking, the
notorious ‘Calderona’—the mother of Don Juan de Austria—married
an actor named Tomás Rojas, and that she
returned to her husband and the stage after her <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">liaison</em> with
Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> was ended. Still, it is true that reverence for the
person of the sovereign was a real and common sentiment
among Spaniards. Clarendon speaks of ‘their submissive
reverence to their princes being a vital part of their religion,’
and records the horrified amazement of Olivares on observing
Buckingham’s familiarity with the Prince of Wales—‘a
crime monstrous to the Spaniard.’ This reverential feeling,
like every other emotion, found dramatic expression in the
work of Lope de Vega. It is the leading theme in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Estrella de Sevilla</cite>, and Lope has even been accused of almost
blasphemous adulation by those who only know this
celebrated play in the popular recast made at the end of
the eighteenth century by Cándido María Trigueros, and
entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sancho Ortiz de las Roelas</cite>. The charge is based on
a well-known passage:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¡La espada sacastes vos,</div>
<div class="line">y al Rey quisisteis herir</div>
<div class="line"><span class="pagenum3"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span>¿El Rey no pudo mentir?</div>
<div class="line">No, que es imagen de Dios.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But it is not Lope who says that the King is the image of
God. These lines are interpolated by Trigueros, who felt no
particular loyalty to anybody, and overdid his part when he
endeavoured to put himself in Lope’s position. What was
an occasional motive in Lope’s work reappears frequently
and in a more emphatic form in Calderón’s work. The
sentiment of loyalty is expressed with something like
fanaticism in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Banda y la flor</cite> and in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Guárdate del agua
mansa</cite>; and with something unpleasantly like profanity in
the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto sacramental</em> entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Indulto general</cite> where the
lamentable Charles <span class="smcap">II.</span> seems to be placed almost on the
same level as the Saviour.</p>

<p>Rojas Zorrilla’s glorification of the King in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del
Castañar</cite> is inspired by Calderón’s example, and he follows
the chief in other ways less defensible. Splendid as
Calderón’s diction often is, it lapses into gongorism too
easily. Rojas Zorrilla’s natural mode of expression is direct
and energetic; his dialogue is both natural and brilliant in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Diego de Noche</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Lo que son mugeres</cite>; he knew the
difference between a good style and a bad one, and he
pauses now and then to satirise Góngora and the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">cultos</em>.
But he must be in the fashion, and as Calderón has dabbled
in <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">culteranismo</em>, he will do the same. And he bursts into
gongorism with all the crude exaggeration of one who is
deliberately sinning against the light. His little flings at
the Gongorists are few and feeble as in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sin honra no hay
amistad</cite>, where he describes the darkened sky:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Está hecho un Góngora el cielo,</div>
<div class="line">más obscuro que su libro.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">But a few pages later, in the second volume of his collected
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span>
plays, he rivals the most extravagant of Góngora’s imitators
when he describes the composition and dissolution of the
horse in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Encantos de Medea</cite>:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Era de tres elementos</div>
<div class="line">compuesto el bruto gallardo,</div>
<div class="line">de fuego, de nieve, y aire; ...</div>
<div class="line">fuese el aire á los palacios</div>
<div class="line">de su región, salió el fuego,</div>
<div class="line">nieve, aire y fuego, quedando</div>
<div class="line">agua lo que antes fue nieve,</div>
<div class="line">lo que fue antes fuego, rayo;</div>
<div class="line">exhalación lo que aire,</div>
<div class="line">nada lo que fue caballo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This is what Ben Jonson would call ‘clotted nonsense,’
and you find the same bombast in another play of Rojas
Zorrilla’s—and an excellent play it is—entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">No hay ser
padre, siendo Rey</cite>, upon which Rotrou’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Venceslas</cite> is based.
In such faults of taste Rojas Zorrilla leaves Calderón far
behind. You have seen him at his strongest in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del
Castañar</cite>: you will find him at his weakest—and it is
execrably bad—if you turn to the thirty-second volume of
the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Comedias Escogidas</cite>, and read <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida en el atahud</cite>. Here
St. Boniface goes to Tarsus and is decapitated: in the
ordinary course, you expect the curtain to fall at this point.
But Rojas Zorrilla prepares a surprise for you. The trunk
of the saint is presented on the stage, the martyr holding
his head in his hand; and the head addresses Milene and
Aglaes in such a startling way that both become Christians.
It seems very likely that, if Ludovico Enio had not been
converted by the sight of the skeleton in Calderón’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Purgatorio
de San Patricio</cite>, Milene and Aglaes would not have
been confronted with the severed head, talking, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vida
en el atahud</cite>.</p>

<p>Like Calderón, though in a lesser degree, Rojas Zorrilla
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span>
is not above utilising the material provided by his predecessors:
even in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite> there are reminiscences
of Lope de Vega’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Peribáñez y el Comendador de
Ocaña</cite>, of Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Villano en su rincón</cite>, of Vélez de
Guevara’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Luna de la Sierra</cite>, and of Tirso de Molina’s
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Celoso prudente</cite>. But, if he has all Calderón’s defects,
he has many of his great qualities. Few cloak-and-sword
plays are better worth reading than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Donde hay agravios, no
hay celos</cite>, or than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sin honra no hay amistad</cite>, or than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">No hay
amigo para amigo</cite> (the source of Lesage’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Point d’honneur</cite>).
Rojas Zorrilla has perhaps less verbal wit than Calderón,
but he has much more humour, and he shows it in such
pieces as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Entre bobos anda el juego</cite>, from which the younger
Corneille took his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Bertrand de Cigarral</cite>, and Scarron
his <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dom Japhet d’Arménie</cite>. Scarron, indeed, picked up a
frugal living on the crumbs which fell from Rojas Zorrilla’s
table. He took his <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Jodelet ou le Maître valet</cite> from <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Donde
hay agravios no hay celos</cite>, and his <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Écolier de Salamanque</cite>
from <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Obligados y ofendidos</cite>, a piece which also supplied the
younger Corneille and Boisrobert respectively with <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les
Illustres Ennemis</cite> and <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Généreux Ennemis</cite>. But observe
that, in Rojas Zorrilla’s case as in Calderón’s, the foreign
adapters use only the light comedies. The rapturous
monarchical sentiment of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite> no doubt
seemed too hysterical for the court of Louis <span class="smcap">XIV.</span>, and
hence the author’s most striking play remained unknown
in Northern Europe. You may say that he forced the note,
as Spaniards often do, and that he has no one but himself
to thank. Perhaps: Rojas Zorrilla adopts a convention,
and every convention tends to become more and more
unreal. Possibly the first man who signed himself somebody
else’s obedient servant meant what he wrote: you and
I mean nothing by it. But conventions are convenient,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span>
and, though nobody can have had much respect for Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>
towards the end of his reign, the monarchical sentiment was
latent in the people. Moreover, the scene of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del
Castañar</cite> is laid in the early part of the fourteenth century.
When all is said, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">García del Castañar</cite> has an air of—what
we may call—local truth, a nobility of conception, and a
concentrated eloquence which go to make it a play in a
thousand.</p>

<p>Nothing is easier to forget than a play which has little
more than cleverness to recommend it, and many of the
pieces written by Calderón’s followers are clever to the last
degree of tiresomeness. There is cleverness of a kind in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Conde de Sex ó Dar la vida por su dama</cite>, and, if there
were any solid basis for the ascription of it to Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>,
we should have to say that it was a very creditable performance
for a king. But then kings in modern times have
not greatly distinguished themselves in literature. You
remember Boileau’s remark to Louis <span class="smcap">XIV.</span>:—‘Votre Majesté
peut tout ce qu’Elle veut faire: Elle a voulu faire de
mauvais vers; Elle y a réussi.’ However, if <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Conde de
Sex</cite> would do credit to a royal amateur, it would be a rather
mediocre performance for a professional playwright like
Antonio Coello, to whom also it is attributed. Coello was
already known as a promising dramatist when Pérez de
Montalbán wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Para todos</cite> in 1632, but we can scarcely
say that his early promise was fulfilled. The air of courts
does not encourage independence, and Coello, apparently
distrustful of his powers, collaborated in several pieces with
fellow-courtiers like Calderón, Vélez de Guevara and Rojas
Zorrilla—notably with the two latter in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">También la afrenta
es veneno</cite>, which dramatises the malodorous story of Leonor
Telles (wife of Fernando <span class="smcap">I.</span> of Portugal) and her first
husband, João Lourenço da Cunha, <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">el de los cuernos de oro</em>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span>Shortly before he died in 1652 Coello had his reward by
being made a member of the royal household, but he would
now be forgotten were it not that he is said to be the real
author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Empeños de seis horas</cite> (<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Lo que pasa en una
noche</cite>), which is printed in the eighth volume of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escogidas</cite>
as a play of Calderón’s. Assuming that the ascription
of it to Coello is correct, he becomes of some interest to us
in England, for the play was adapted by Samuel Tuke
under the title of <cite>The Adventures of Five Hours</cite>. This piece
of Tuke’s made a great hit in London when it was printed
in 1662; four years later Samuel Pepys confided to his diary
that ‘when all is done, it is the best play that ever I read
in all my life,’ and when he saw it acted a few days afterwards,
he effusively declared that <cite>Othello</cite> seemed ‘a mean
thing’ beside it. There is a tendency to make the Spanish
author—for Tuke adds little of his own—pay for Pepys’s
extravagance. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Empeños de seis horas</cite> is nothing like a
masterpiece, but it is a capital light comedy—neatly constructed,
witty, brisk and entertaining. It is, indeed, so
much better than anything else which bears Coello’s name
that there is some hesitation to believe he wrote it. However,
he has the combined authority of Barrera and Schaeffer
in his favour, though neither of these oracles gives any
reason to support the ascription.</p>

<p>As a writer of high comedy Coello had many rivals in
Spain—men slightly his seniors, like Antonio Hurtado de
Mendoza, who became known in England through Fanshawe’s
translations, and who must also have been known in
France, since his play <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Marido hace mujer</cite> was laid under
contribution by Molière in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’École des maris</cite>; men like his
contemporary Álvaro Cubillo de Aragón, whose <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Señor de
Buenas Noches</cite> was turned to account by the younger
Corneille in <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Comtesse d’Orgueil</cite>; men like his junior,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span>
Fernando de Zárate y Castronovo, the author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Presumida
y la hermosa</cite>, in which Molière found a hint for <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les
Femmes savantes</cite>. But the most successful writer in this
vein was Agustín Moreto y Cavaña, who was born in 1618,
just as Calderón was leaving Salamanca University to seek
his fortune as a dramatist at Madrid. To judge by his more
characteristic plays we should guess Moreto to have been
the happiest of men, and the gayest; but late in life he
gave an opening to writers of ‘hypothetical biography,’ and
they took it. For instance, when he was over forty he
became devout, took orders, and made a will directing that
he should be buried in the Pradillo del Carmen at Toledo—a
place which has been identified as the burial-ground of
criminals who had been executed. This identification gave
rise to the theory that he must have had some ghastly crime
upon his conscience, and, as particulars are generally forthcoming
in such cases, some charitable persons leapt to the
conclusion that Moreto was the undetected assassin of Lope’s
friend, Baltasar Elisio de Medinilla.</p>

<p>One is always reluctant to spoil a good story, but luck is
against me this afternoon. A few moments ago I mentioned
the ‘Calderona,’ and stated that she returned to the stage
after her rupture with Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>: that destroys the usual
picturesque story of her throwing herself in an agony of
abjection at Philip’s feet, and going straightway into a
convent to do penance for the rest of her life. I am afraid
that I must also destroy this agreeable legend about Moreto’s
being a murderer. It is unfortunate for Moreto, for many
who have no strong taste for literature are often induced
to take interest in a man of letters if he can be proved
guilty of some crime: they will spell out a little Old
French because they have heard that Villon was a cracksman.
Well, we must tell the truth, and take the consequences.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span>
The identification of the Pradillo del Carmen
turns out to be wrong. The Pradillo del Carmen was the
cemetery used for those who died in the hospital to which
Moreto was chaplain, and to which he bequeathed his
fortune: the Pradillo del Carmen has nothing to do with
the burial-place for criminals, though it lies close by.
Moreto evidently wished not to be separated in death from
the poor people amongst whom he had laboured; but, as it
happens, his directions were not carried out, for when he
died on December 28, 1669, he was buried in the church
of St. John the Baptist at Toledo. And this is not the
only weak point in the story. Medinilla was killed in 1620
when Moreto was two years old, and few assassins, however
precocious, begin operations at that tender age. Lastly,
it would seem that Medinilla was perhaps not murdered at
all, but was killed in fair fight by Jerónimo de Andrade y
Rivadeneyra. These prosaic facts compel me to present
Moreto to you—not as an interesting cut-throat, not as a
morose and sinister murderer, crushed by his dreadful
secret, but—as a man of the most genial disposition, noble
character, and singularly virtuous life.</p>

<p>He was all this, and he was also one of the cleverest
craftsmen who ever worked for the Spanish stage. But
nature does not shower all her gifts on any one man, and
she was niggardly to Moreto in the matter of invention.
He made no secret of the fact that he took whatever he
wanted from his predecessors. His friend Jerónimo de
Cáncer represents him as saying:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Que estoy minando imagina</div>
<div class="line">cuando tu de mí te quejas;</div>
<div class="line">que en estas comedias viejas</div>
<div class="line">he hallado una brava mina.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">He did, indeed, find a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">brava mina</em> in the old plays, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span>
especially in Lope de Vega’s. From Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Gran Duque
de Moscovia</cite> he takes <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe perseguido</cite>; from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Prodigio de Etiopia</cite> he takes <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Adúltera penitente</cite>; from
Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Testimonio vengado</cite> he takes <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Como se vengan los
nobles</cite>; from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Pobrezas de Rinaldo</cite> he takes <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Mejor Par de los doce</cite>; from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De cuando acá nos vino</cite>
... he takes <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De fuera vendrá quien de casa nos echará</cite>; from
Lope’s delightful play <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Mayor imposible</cite> he constructs the
still more delightful <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">No puede ser</cite>, from which John Crowne,
at the suggestion of Charles <i>II.</i>, took his <cite>Sir Courtly Nice, or,
It cannot be</cite>, and from which Ludvig Holberg, the celebrated
Danish dramatist, took his <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Jean de France</cite>. Moreto was
scarcely less indebted to Lope’s contemporaries than to
Lope himself. From Vélez de Guevara’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Capitán prodigioso
y Príncipe de Transilvania</cite> he took <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe prodigioso</cite>;
from Guillén de Castro’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las Maravillas de Babilonia</cite>
he took <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El bruto de Babilonia</cite>, and from Castro’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los hermanos
enemigos</cite> he took <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Hasta el fin nadie es dichoso</cite>; from Tirso de
Molina’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Villana de Vallecas</cite> he took <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La ocasion hace al
ladrón</cite>; and from a novel of Castillo Solórzano’s he took the
entire plot of <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Confusion de un jardín</cite>. This is a fairly
long list, but it does not include all Moreto’s debts.</p>

<p>He has his failures, of course. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El ricohombre de Alcalá</cite>
looks anæmic beside its original. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Infanzón de Illescas</cite>,
which is ascribed to both Lope and Tirso; and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Caer para
levantar</cite> is a wooden arrangement of Mira de Amescua’s
striking play, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Esclavo del demonio</cite>. If you can filch to
no better purpose than this, then decidedly honesty is the
best policy. Perhaps Moreto came to this conclusion himself
in some passing mood, and it must have been at some
such hour that he wrote <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Parecido en la Corte</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Trampa
adelante</cite>, both abounding in individual humour. But such
moods are not frequent with him. If you choose to say
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span>
that Moreto was a systematic plagiarist, it is hard for me to
deny it. Every playwright of this period plagiarised and
pilfered, more or less, from Calderón downwards: we must
accept this as a fact—a fact as to which there was seldom
any concealment. Just as Moreto was drawing towards the
end of his career as dramatist, a most intrepid plagiarist
arose in the person of Matos Fragoso, of whom I shall have
a word to say presently. But Matos Fragoso was sly, and a
bungler: Moreto was frank, and a master of the gentle art
of conveyance. He pilfers in all directions; but he manipulates
the stolen goods almost out of recognition, usually
adding much to their value. And this implies the possession
of remarkable talent. In literature, as in politics, if
he can only contrive to succeed, a man is pardoned for
proceedings which in other callings might lead to jail: and
Moreto’s success is triumphant. The germ of his play, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
lindo Don Diego</cite>, is found in Guillén de Castro’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Narciso
de su opinión</cite>; but for Castro’s rough sketch Moreto substitutes
a finished, final portrait of the insufferable, the
fatuous snob who pays court to a countess, is as elated as
a brewer when he marries her and fancies himself an aristocrat,
but wakes up with a start to the reality of things on
discovering that the supposed countess is the sharp little
servant Beatriz who has seen through him all along, and has
exhibited him in his true character as a born fool. Don
Diego is always with us—in England now, as in Spain three
centuries ago—and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El lindo Don Diego</cite> might have been
written yesterday.</p>

<p>Still better is <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El desdén con el desdén</cite>, a piece which shows
to perfection Moreto’s unparalleled tact in making a mosaic
a beautiful thing. Diana, the young girl who knows no
more of the world than of the moon, but who imagines men
to be odious wretches from what she had read of them—Diana
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span>
is taken from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Vengadora de las mugeres</cite>; the
behaviour of her various suitors is suggested by Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De
corsario á corsario</cite>; the quick-witted maid is from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los
Milagros del desprecio</cite>; the trick by which the Conde de
Urgel traps Diana is borrowed from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Hermosa fea</cite>.
Not one of the chief traits in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El desdén con el desdén</cite> is
original; but out of these fragments a play has been constructed
far superior to the plays from which the component
parts are derived. The plot never flags and is always
plausible, the characters are full of life and interest, and the
dialogue sparkles with mischievous gaiety. All this is
Moreto’s, and it is a victory of intellectual address. It
clearly impressed Molière, who set out to do by Moreto
what Moreto had done by others: the result is <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Princesse
d’Élide</cite>, one of Molière’s worst failures. Gozzi renewed the
attempt, and failed likewise in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Principessa filosofa</cite>. <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
desdén con el desdén</cite> outlives these imitations as well as
others from skilful hands in England and in Sweden, and
surely it deserves to live as an example of what marvellous
deftness can do in contriving from scattered materials a
charming and essentially original work of art.</p>

<p>Compared with Moreto, Juan Matos Fragoso is, as I have
said, a bungler. In <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">A lo que obliga un agravio</cite>, which is from
Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los dos bandoleros</cite>, he fails, though he has the
collaboration of Sebastián de Villaviciosa. He fails by himself
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Venganza en el despeño</cite>, which is taken from Lope’s
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Príncipe despeñado</cite>. There is some reason to think that
he tried to pass himself off as the author of Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El
Desprecio agradecido</cite>. This play is given in the thirty-ninth
volume of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escogidas</cite> with Matos Fragoso’s name attached
to it, and, as Matos Fragoso edited this particular volume,
it seems to follow that he lent himself to a mean form of
fraud. However, there is no gainsaying his popularity, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span>
he may be read with real pleasure—as in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sabio en el
rincón</cite>, which is from Lope’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Villano en su rincón</cite>—when he
hits on a good original, and gives us next to nothing of
his own. A better dramatist, and a far more reputable
man, was Antonio de Solís, who was born ten years after
Calderón; but Solís’s reputation really depends on his
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Historia de la conquista de Méjico</cite>, which appeared in 1684,
two years before his death. He was naturally a prose-writer
who took to the drama because it was the fashion.
And that play-writing was a fashionable craze may be
gathered from the fact that Spain produced over five
hundred dramatists during the reigns of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> and
Charles <span class="smcap">II.</span> So the historians of dramatic literature tell
us, but perhaps even they have not thought it necessary
to read all this mass of plays with minute attention. Here
and there a name floats down to us, not always flatteringly;
Juan de Zabaleta, for instance, is remembered chiefly
through Cáncer’s epigram on his ugliness and on his
failure:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i3">Al suceder la tragedia</div>
<div class="line">del silbo, si se repara,</div>
<div class="line">ver su comedia era cara,</div>
<div class="line">ver su cara era comedia.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>This is not the kind of immortality that any one desires,
but this—or something not much better—is the only kind
of immortality that most of the five hundred are likely
to attain. The iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth its
poppy on the crowd, and the long line closes with Bancés
Candamo, who died in 1704. He was the favourite court-dramatist
as Calderón had been before him. To say that
Bancés Candamo occupied the place once filled by Calderón
is to show how greatly the Spanish theatre had degenerated.
No doubt it must have perished in any case, for institutions
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span>
die as certainly as men. But its end was hastened by two
most influential personages—one a man of genius, and the
other a fribble—who had the welfare of the stage at heart.
By reducing dramatic composition to a formula, Calderón
arrested any possible development; by lavish expenditure
on decorations, Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> imposed his taste for spectacle
upon the public. The public gets what it deserves: when
the stage-carpenter comes in, the dramatist goes out. Compelled
to write pieces which would suit the elaborate scenery
provided at the Buen Retiro, Calderón was the first to suffer.
He and Philip,<a name="FNanchor_106_106" id="FNanchor_106_106"></a><a href="#Footnote_106_106" class="fnanchor">106</a> between them, dealt the Spanish drama
its death-blow. It lingered on in senile decay for fifty
years, and with Bancés Candamo it died. It was high
time for it to be gone: for nothing is more lamentable
than the progressive degradation of what has once been a
great and living force.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER X<br /><br />

<small>MODERN SPANISH NOVELISTS</small></h2>


<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">If</span> asked to indicate the most interesting development in
Spanish literature during the last century, I should point—not
to the drama and poetry of the Romantic movement,
but—to the renaissance of fiction. As the passion for
narrative ‘springs eternal in the human breast,’ Cervantes
was sure to have a train of successors who would attempt
to carry on his great tradition. But, in the history of art,
a short, glorious summer is usually followed by a long,
blighting winter. The eighteenth century was an age of
barrenness in Spain, so far as concerns romance. No doubt
Torres Villaroel’s autobiography contains so much fiction that
it may fairly be described as a picaresque novel, and you
might easily be worse employed than in reading it. Nature
intended the author to be a man of letters and a wit;
poverty compelled him to become an incapable professor of
mathematics, and a diffuse buffoon. With the single exception
of Isla, no Spanish novelist of this time finds readers
now, and Isla’s main object is utilitarian. The amusement
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fray Gerundio</cite> is incidental, and art has a very secondary
place. Spain appears to have remained unaffected by the
great schools of novelists in England and France: instead of
being influenced by these writers, she influenced them.
After lending to Lesage, she lent to Marivaux; she lent
also to Fielding and Sterne, not to mention Smollett; but
she herself was living on her capital. She has no contemporary
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span>
novelists to place beside Ramón de la Cruz, González
del Castillo, and the younger Moratín, all of whom found
expression for their talent in the dramatic form. Not till
about the middle of the last century does any notable
novelist come</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">From tawny Spain, lost in the world’s debate.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>While the War of Independence was in progress men were
otherwise engaged than in novel-reading, and in Ferdinand
<span class="smcap">VII.</span>’s reign literature was apt to be a perilous trade.
The banishment or flight of almost every Spaniard of liberal
opinions or intellectual distinction had one result which
might have been foreseen, if there had been a clear-sighted
man in the reactionary party. It brought to an end the
period of cut-and-dry classical domination. The exiles
returned with new ideals in literature as well as in politics.
There was a restless ferment of the libertarian, romantic
spirit. Interest revived in the old national romantic drama
which had fallen out of fashion, and had been known
chiefly in recasts of a few stock pieces. Quaint signs of
change are discernible in unexpected quarters. When the
termagant Carlota, the Queen’s sister, snatched a state-paper
out of Calomarde’s hands and boxed his ears soundly,
the crafty minister put the affront aside by wittily quoting
the title of one of Calderón’s plays: ‘<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las manos blancas no
ofenden</cite>.’ Fifteen years earlier he would probably have
quoted from some wretched playwright like Comella.
French books were still eagerly read, but they were not
‘classical’ works. Chateaubriand and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre
became available in translations. Joaquín Telesforo
de Trueba y Cosío, a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">montañés</em> residing in London, came
under the spell of Walter Scott, and had the courage to
write two historical romances in English: I have read many
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span>
worse novels than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Gomez Arias</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">The Castilians</cite>, and every
day I see novels written in much worse English. The
shadow of Scott was projected far and wide over Spain, and
those who read <cite>The Bride of Lammermoor</cite> usually went on
to read <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Notre-Dame de Paris</cite>. If Scott had never written
historical novels, and if Ferdinand <span class="smcap">VII.</span> had not made many
excellent Spaniards feel that they were safer anywhere
than in Spain, we should not have had Espronceda’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sancho
Saldaña ó El Castellano de Cuéllar</cite>, nor Martínez de la Rosa’s
Doña Isabel de Solís, nor perhaps even Enrique Gil’s much
more engaging story, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Señor de Bembibre</cite>, which appeared
in 1844. The first two are unsuccessful imitations of Scott,
and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Señor de Bembibre</cite> is charged with reminiscences of
<cite>The Bride of Lammermoor</cite>.</p>

<p>It is one of life’s little ironies that the first writer of this
period to give us a genuinely Spanish story was not a writer
of pure Spanish origin. Fernán Caballero, as she chose to
call herself,—and as it is most convenient to call her, for she
was married thrice, and therefore used four different legal
signatures, apart from her pseudonym,—was the daughter
of Johann Nikolas Böhl von Faber, who settled in Spain
and did useful journeyman’s work in literature. Born and
partly educated abroad, with a German father and a
Spanish mother, it is not surprising that she had the gift
of tongues, and that one or two of her early stories should
have been originally written in French or in German. Yet
nothing could be less French or German than <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Gaviota</cite>,
which appeared four years after <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Señor de Bembibre</cite> in a
Spanish version said (apparently on good authority) to be by
Joaquín de Mora. But, though Mora may be responsible for
the style, nobody has ever supposed that he was responsible
for the matter, and any such theory would be absurd, considering
that Fernán Caballero wrote many similar tales long
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span>
after Mora’s death. In <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Gaviota</cite>, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Familia de Albareda</cite>,
in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cuadros de costumbres</cite>, and the rest—transcriptions of
the simplest provincial customs, long since extirpated from
the soil in which they seemed to be irradicably implanted—there
is for us nowadays an historical interest; but there is
nothing historical about them: they are records of personal
observation. Fortunately for herself Fernán Caballero, who
had no elaborate learning, did not attempt any reconstruction
of the past, and was mostly content to note what she
saw around her. In this sense she may be considered as
a pioneer in realism. The title would probably not have
pleased her, owing to the connotation of the word ‘realism’;
but nevertheless she belongs to the realistic school, and she
expressly admits that she describes instead of inventing.
To prevent any possible misapprehension, it should be said
at once that her realism is gentle, peaceful and demure.
She had some small pretensions of her own, felt a mistaken
vocation to do good works among the heathen, and to be
a trumpeter of orthodoxy. Each of us is convinced, of
course, that orthodoxy is his doxy, and that heterodoxy is
other people’s doxy; but Fernán Caballero’s insistence
has a self-righteous note which may easily grow tiresome.
There are some who find pleasure in her exhortations—especially
amongst those who regard them as expositions
of obsolete doctrine; but very few of us have reached this
stage of cynicism.</p>

<p>These moralisings are the unessential and disfiguring
element in Fernán Caballero’s unconscious art. It is something
to be able to tell a story with intelligence and point,
and this she does constantly. And, besides the power of
narration, she has the characteristic Spanish faculty of undimmed
sight. When she limits herself to what she has
actually seen (and, to be just, her expeditions afield are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span>
rare), she is always alert, always attractive by virtue of her
delicate, feminine perception. Many phases of life are
unknown to her; from other phases she deliberately turns
away; hence her picture is necessarily incomplete. But
she sympathises with what she knows, and the figures on
her narrow stage are rendered with dainty adroitness.
There is no great variety in her tableau of that mild Human
Comedy which, with its frugal joys and meek sorrows, it
was her office to describe; but it has the note of sincerity.
Her methods are as realistic as those used in later romances
professing to be based on ‘human documents’—a phrase
now worn threadbare, but not yet invented when she began
to write. She reverted by instinct to realism of the national
type,—realism which was fully developed centuries before
the French variety was dreamed of,—and it was in the
realistic field that her successors won triumphs greater than
her own.</p>

<p>Some ten or twelve years after the appearance of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Gaviota</cite>, Antonio de Trueba leapt into popularity with a succession
of stories all of which might have been called—as
one volume was called—<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cuentos de color de rosa</cite>. In the
past my inability to appreciate Trueba as he is appreciated
in his native province of Vizcaya has brought me into
trouble. Each of us has his limitations, and, fresh from
reading Trueba once more, I stand before you impenitent,
persuaded that, if he flickers up into infantile prettiness,
he sputters out in insipid optimism. We cannot all be
Biscayans, and must take the consequences. In the circumstances
I do not propose to deal with Trueba,—who,
like the rest of us, appears to have had a tolerably good
conceit of himself,—nor to spend much time in discussing
the more brilliant Pedro Antonio de Alarcón. Alarcón
seems likely to be remembered better by <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sombrero de
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span>
tres picos</cite>—a lively expansion in prose of a well-known
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>—than by any of his later books. All literatures
have their disappointing personalities: men who at the
outset seemed capable of doing anything, who insist on
doing everything, and who end by doing next to nothing.
Nobody who knows the meaning of words would say that
the author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sombrero de tres picos</cite> did next to nothing,
but much more was expected of him. Whether there was,
or was not, any reasonable ground for these high hopes is
another question. The ‘Might-Have-Been’ is always vanity.
Save in such rare cases as that of Cervantes, who published
the First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite> when he was fifty-eight (the
age at which Alarcón died in 1891), imaginative writers have
generally done their best work earlier in their careers. But,
however this may be, our expectations were not fulfilled
in Alarcón’s case. A few short stories represent him to
posterity: like M. Bourget, he ‘found salvation,’ lost much
of his art, and, in his more elaborate novels, became tedious.
Fortunately, about ten years before the publication of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sombrero de tres picos</cite>, a new talent had revealed itself
to those who had eyes to see; and, as always happens
everywhere, these were not many.</p>

<p>While Trueba was writing the rose-coloured tales which
endeared him to the general public, José María de Pereda
was growing up to manhood in the north of Spain.<a name="FNanchor_107_107" id="FNanchor_107_107"></a><a href="#Footnote_107_107" class="fnanchor">107</a> Though
the verdict of the capital still counts for much, it would
not be true nowadays to say that the rest of Spain accepts
without question the dictation of Madrid in matters of
literary taste and fashion; but it was true enough of all
the provinces—with the possible exception of Cataluña—in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span>
the late fifties and early sixties, when Pereda began
to write for a Santander newspaper, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Abeja montañesa</cite>.
Though he was over thirty, he had then no wide experience
of life; he had been reared in a simple, old-fashioned circle
where everybody stood fast in the ancient ways, and where
there was no literary chatter. He seems to have had the
usual traditional stock of knowledge flogged into him in
the old familiar way by the irascible pedagogue whose
portrait he has drawn not too kindly. From Santander
Pereda went to Madrid, studied there a short while, joyfully
returned home, and, till his health failed, scarcely
ever left Polanco again, except during the short period
when he was sent as a deputy to the Cortes. He hated
the life of the capital, and remained till the end of his
days an incorrigibly faithful <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">montañesuco</em>.</p>

<p>It is necessary to bear these circumstances in mind, for
they help us to understand Pereda’s attitude. Hostile
critics never tired of charging him with provincialism, but
‘provincialism’ is not the right word. The man was a
born aristocrat, with no enthusiasm for novelties in abstract
speculation, no liking for political and social theories which
involved a rupture with the past; but his mind was not
irreceptive, and, if his outlook is circumscribed, what he
does see is conveyed with a pitiless lucidity. This power
of imparting a concentrated impression is noticeable in the
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escenas montañesas</cite> which appeared in 1864 with an introductory
notice by Trueba, then in the flush of success. It
is an amusing spectacle, this of the lamb standing as sponsor
to the lion; and, with a timorous bleat, the lamb disengages
its responsibility as far as decency allows. The book was
praised by Mesonero Romanos—to whom Pereda subsequently
dedicated <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera</cite>;
but with few exceptions outside Santander, where local
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span>
partiality rather than æsthetic taste led to a more favourable
judgment, all Spain agreed with Trueba’s implied view that
Pereda’s temperate realism was a morose caricature. The
hastiest commonplaces of criticism are the most readily
accepted, and Pereda was henceforth provided with a
reputation which it took him about a dozen years to live
down. He lived it down, but not by compromising with
his censors. He remained unchanged in all but the mastery
of his art which gradually increased till <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Bocetos al temple</cite>
was recognised as a work of something like genius.</p>

<p>It is a striking volume, but the distinguishing traits of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Bocetos al temple</cite> are precisely those which characterise
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Escenas montañesas</cite>. Pereda has developed in the sense that
his touch is more confident, but his point of view is the
same as before. Take, for example, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Mujer del César</cite>,
the first story in the book: the moral simply is that it is
not enough to be beyond reproach, but that one must also
seem to be so. You may call this trite or old-fashioned in
its simplicity, but it is not ‘provincial.’ What is true is
that the atmosphere of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Bocetos al temple</cite> is ‘regional.’ The
writer is not so childish as to suppose that Madrid is peopled
with demons, and the country hill-side with angels. Pereda
had no larger an acquaintance with angels than you or I
have, and his personages are pleasingly human in their
blended strength and weakness; but he had convinced
himself that the constant virtues of the antique world are
hard to cultivate in overgrown centres of population, and
that the best of men is likely to suffer from the contagion
of city life. To this thesis he returned again and again:
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pedro Sánchez</cite>, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Sabor de la Tierruca</cite>, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Peñas arriba</cite>,
he argues his point with the pertinacity of conviction.
There is nothing provincial in the thesis, and it is good
for those of us who are condemned to live in fussy cities
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span>
to know that we, too, seem as narrow-minded as any fisherman
or agricultural labourer. Can anything be more
laughably provincial than the Cockney, or the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">boulevardier</em>,
who conceives that London, or New York, or Paris is the
centre of the universe, that the inhabitants of these places
are foremost in the files of time? Nobody is more provincial
than an ordinary dweller in one of these large, straggling,
squalid villages. Pereda is not afflicted with megalomania;
he is not impressed by numbers; he does not ‘think in
continents.’ He believes all this to be the bounce of
degenerate vulgarians, and leaves us with a disquieting
feeling that he may not be very far wrong.</p>

<p>He is not one of those who look forward to a new heaven
and a new earth next week. If you expect to find in him
the qualities which you find in Rousseau, or in any other
wonder-child of the earthquake and the tempest, you will
assuredly be disappointed. But, if we take him for what
he is—a satirical observer of character, an artist whose
instantaneous presentation of character and of the visible
world has a singular relief and saliency—we shall be compelled
to assign him a very high place among the realists
of Spain. No one who has once met with the frivolous
and vindictive Marquesa de Azulejo, with the foppish
Vizconde del Cierzo, with the futile Condesa de la Rocaverde,
or with Lucas Gómez, the purveyor of patchouli literature,
can ever forget them. In this particular of making his
secondary figures memorable, Pereda somewhat resembles
Dickens, and both use—perhaps abuse—caricature as a
weapon. But the element of caricature is more riotous in
Dickens than in Pereda, and the acumen in Pereda is more
contemptuous than in Dickens. Pereda is in Spanish
literature what Narváez was in Spanish politics: he ‘uses
the stick, and hits hard.’ Cervantes sees through and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span>
through you, notes every silly foible, and yet loves you as
though you were the most perfect of mortals, and he the
dullest fellow in the world. Pereda has something of
Cervantes’s seriousness without his constant amenity. He
is nearer to Quevedo’s intolerant spirit. Exasperated by
absurdity and pretence, he reverses the apostolic precept:
so far from suffering fools gladly, he gladly makes fools
suffer. The collection entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Tipos trashumantes</cite> contains
admirable examples of his dexterity in malicious portraiture—the
political quack in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Excelentísimo Señor</cite> who, like
the rest of us Spaniards (says Pereda dryly), is able to do
anything and everything; the scrofulous barber in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Un Artista</cite>,
whose father was killed in the <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">opéra-comique</em> revolution of
’54, who condescends to visit Santander professionally in
the summer, and familiarly refers to Pérez Galdós by his
Christian name; the hopeless booby in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Un Sabio</cite>, who has
addled his poor brain by drinking German philosophy badly
corked by Sanz del Río, and who abandons the belief in
which he was brought up for spiritualistic antics which
enable him to commune with the departed souls of Confucius
and Sancho Panza. These performances are models
of cruel irony.</p>

<p><cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Bocetos al temple</cite> was the first of Pereda’s books to attract
the public, and it may be recommended to any one who
wishes to judge the writer’s talent in its first phase. Pereda
did greater things afterwards, but nothing more characteristic.
It was always a source of weakness to his art that
he had a didactic intention—an itch to prove that he is
right, and that his opponents are wrong, often criminally
wrong—and this tendency became more pronounced in
some of his later books. Such novels as <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Buey suelto</cite>,
and the still more admirable <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De tal palo, tal astilla</cite>, have
an individual interest of their own, but we are never allowed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span>
the privilege of forgetting that the one is a refutation of
Balzac’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Petites misères de la vie conjugale</cite>, and the other a
refutation of Pérez Galdós’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Doña Perfecta</cite>. To Pereda the
problem seems perfectly simple. You have been discouraged
from matrimony by Balzac, who has told you that the life
of a married man is a canker of trials and disappointments—small,
but so numerous that at last they amount to a
tragedy, and so cumulative that the doomed creature feels
himself a complete failure both as a husband and a father.
Pereda seeks to encourage you by exhibiting the other side
of the medal. Gedeón is a bachelor, a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">buey suelto</em>: he has
freedom, but it is the desolate freedom of the stray steer—or
rather of the wild ass. He is worried to death by the
nagging and quarrelling of his maid-servants; he gets rid of
them, and is plundered by men-servants; he is miserable in
a boarding-house, he is neglected in an hôtel; he has no
family ties, is profoundly uncomfortable, goes from bad to
worse, and finally expiates by marrying his mistress shortly
before his death. The picture of well-to-do discomfort is
powerful, but, as a refutation of Balzac, it is not convincing.
So, again, in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">De tal palo, tal astilla</cite>. Fernando encounters
the pious Águeda; his suit fails, he commits suicide, and she
finds rest in religion, the only consoling agent. This is all
far too simple. Are we to believe that every bachelor is a
selfish dolt, or that only atheists commit suicide? Pereda,
no doubt, lived to learn differently, but meanwhile his insistence
on his own views had spoiled two works of art.</p>

<p>Something of this polemical strain runs through all his
romances, and, after the fall of the republic and the restoration
of the Bourbons, his conservatism may have contributed
to make him popular in the late seventies and the early
eighties. But we are twenty or thirty years removed from
the passions of that period, and Pereda’s work stands the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span>
crucial test of time. He is not specially skilful in construction,
and digresses into irrelevant episodes; but he
can usually tell his tale forcibly, and, when he warms to it,
with grim conciseness; he is seldom declamatory, is a
master of diction untainted by gallicisms, and records with
caustic humour every relevant detail in whatever passes
before his eyes. He is the chronicler of a Spain, reactionary
and picturesque, which is fast disappearing, and will soon
have vanished altogether. If the generations of the future
feel any curiosity as to a social system which has passed
away, they will turn to Pereda for a description of it just
before its dissolution. He paints it with the desperate
force of one who feels that he is on the losing side. His
interpretation may be—it very often is—imperfect and
savagely unjust; but its vigour is imposing, and, if his
world contains rather too many degraded types, it is also
rich in noble figures like Don Román Pérez de la Llosía
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera</cite>, and in profiles of
humble illiterates who, in the eyes of their artistic creator,
did more real service to their country than many far better
known to fame.</p>

<p>One is tempted to dwell upon Pereda’s achievement—first,
because his novels are thronged with lifelike personages;
and second, because they proved that Spain,
though separated from the rest of Europe in sentiment
and belief, was not intellectually dead. While Pereda was
writing <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pedro Sánchez</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sotileza</cite>, the world north of the
Pyrenees was wrangling over naturalism in romance as
though it were a new discovery. The critics of London
and Paris were clearly unaware that naturalism had been
practised for years past in Spain by novelists who thus
revived an ancient national tradition. Pereda is still little
read out of Spain, and, though attempts to translate him
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span>
have been made, he is perhaps too emphatically Spanish
to bear the operation. Spaniards themselves need some
aids to read him with comfort, and the glossary at the end
of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sotileza</cite> has been a very present help to many of us in
time of trouble. A writer who indulges in dialectical
peculiarities or in technical expressions to such an extent
may be presumed to have counted the cost: and the cost
is that he remains comparatively unknown beyond his own
frontier. He cannot be reproached with making an illegitimate
bid for popularity, nor accused of defection from the
cause of realism. Pereda was not indifferent to fame, but
he did not go far to seek it. Like the Shunamite woman,
he chose to dwell among his own people, to picture their
existence passed in contented industry, to exalt their ideals,
and to value their applause more than that of the outside
world.</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Fu vera gloria? Ai posteri</div>
<div class="line i2">L’ardua sentenza.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>A perfect contrast in every way was Juan Valera, whose
ductile talent had concerned itself with many matters before
it found an outlet in fiction. Pereda was stubbornly regional
and fanatically orthodox: Valera was a cosmopolitan
strayed out of Andalusia, a careless Gallio, observing with
serene amusement the fussiness of mankind over to be, or
not to be. Pereda tends to tragic or melodramatic pessimism:
Valera is a bland and disinterested spectator, to
whom life is a brilliant, diverting comedy. He had lived
much, reflected long, and seen through most people and
most things before committing himself to the delineation
of character. To the end of his life he never learned
the trick of construction, but he was a born master
of style and had an unsurpassed power of ingratiation.
He had scarcely come up from Córdoba when he became
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span>
‘Juanito’ to all his acquaintances in Madrid, and his personal
charm accompanied him into literature. Macaulay
says somewhere that if Southey wrote nonsense, he would
still be read with pleasure. This is true also of Valera,
who, unlike Southey, never borders on nonsense. Though
he has no prejudices to embarrass him, he has a rare dramatic
sympathy with every mental attitude, and this keen, intelligent
comprehension lends to all his creative work a savour
of universality which makes him—of all modern Spanish
novelists—the most acceptable abroad. Yet, despite his
sceptical cosmopolitanism, which is by no means Spanish,
Valera is an authentic Spaniard of the best age in his fusion
of urbanity and authoritative insight. This politely incredulous
man of the world is profoundly interested in
mysticism, and still more in its practical manifestations.
Nothing human is alien to him, and nothing is too transcendental
to escape criticism.</p>

<p>In this frame of mind, habitual with him, he sat down to
write <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pepita Jiménez</cite>. The story is the simplest imaginable.
Pepita, a young widow, is on the point of marrying Don
Pedro de Vargas, when she meets his son Luis, a young
seminarist with exaggerated ideas of his own spiritual gifts.
Luis is a complete clerical prig, who disdains such everyday
work as preaching the gospel in his own country, and
vapours about being martyred by pagans. As he has not
a vestige of religious vocation, the end is easily foretold.
At some cost to her own character Pepita pricks the bubble,
and all the young man’s aspirations melt into the air; he
is made to perceive that his pretensions to sanctity are silly,
marries the heroine who was to have been his stepmother,
and subsides into a worthy, commonplace husband. In his
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Religio Poetae</cite> Patmore praises <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pepita Jiménez</cite> as an example
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span>
of ‘that complete synthesis of gravity of matter and gaiety
of manner which is the glittering crown of art, and which,
out of Spanish literature, is to be found only in Shakespeare,
and even in him in a far less obvious degree.’ Patmore has
almost always something striking to say, and even his critical
paradoxes are interesting. We have no means of knowing
how far his Spanish studies went, but we may guess that his
acquaintance with Spanish literature was perhaps not very
wide, and not very deep. As regards Pepita Jiménez his
verdict is conspicuously right: it is conspicuously wrong
with respect to Spanish literature as a whole. The perfect
blending of which he speaks is as rare in Spain as elsewhere.
In Valera it is the result of deliberate artistic method; his
gravity is a necessity of the situation; his gaiety is rooted in
his sceptical politeness. In his critical work his politeness
is decidedly overdone; he praises and lauds in terms which
would seem excessive if applied to Dante or Milton. He
knows the stuff of which most authors are made, presumes
on their proverbial vanity, and flatters so violently that he
oversteps the limits of good-breeding. Some of you may
remember the dignified rebuke of these tactics by Sr. Cuervo.
But in his novels Valera strikes no attitude of impertinent
or sublime condescension. He analyses his characters with
a subtle and admirably patient delicacy.</p>

<p>A hostile critic might perhaps urge that Valera’s novels
are too much alike; that Doña Luz is cast in the same mould
as Pepita Jiménez, that Enrique is a double of Luis, and so
forth. There is some truth in this. Valera does repeat the
situations which interest him most, but so does every
novelist; his treatment differs in each case, and is logically
consistent with each character. There is more force in the
objection that he overcharges his books with episodical
arabesques which, though masterly <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tours de force</em>, retard the
development of the story. Now that we have them, we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">246</a></span>
should be sorry to lose the brilliant passages in which the
quintessence of the great Spanish mystics is distilled; but it
is plainly an error of judgment to assign them to Pepita.
However, this objection applies less to <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Doña Luz</cite> than to
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Pepita Jiménez</cite>, and it applies not at all to <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Comendador
Mendoza</cite>—doubtless a transfigured piece of autobiography,
both poignant and gracious in its evocation of a far-off
passion. And in his shorter stories Valera often attains
a magical effect of disquieting irony. Most authors write
far too much, either from necessity or from vanity, and
Valera, who was too acute to be vain, wasted his energies in
too many directions and on too many subjects. Still he has
improvised comparatively little in the shape of fiction, and,
even in extreme old age, when the calamity of blindness
had overtaken him, he surprised and enchanted his admirers
with more than one arresting volume. Speaking broadly,
the characteristics of the best Spanish art are force and
truth, and in these respects Valera holds his own. Yet
he is more complicated and elaborate than Spaniards are
wont to be. His work is penetrated with subtleties and
reticences; his force is scrupulously measured, and his truth
is conveyed by implication and innuendo, never by emphasis
nor crude insistency. Compared with his exquisite adjustment
of word to thought, the methods of other writers seem
coarse and brutal. You may refuse to recognise him as a
great novelist, if you choose; but it is impossible to deny
that he was a consummate literary artist.</p>

<p>At this point I should prefer to bring my review to a
close. The authors of whom we have been speaking belong
to history. So, too, does Leopoldo Alas, the author of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La
Regenta</cite>, an analytical novel which will be read long after his
pungent criticisms are forgotten, though as a critic he did
excellent work. It is a more delicate matter to judge contemporaries.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span>
You will not expect me to compile a list of
names as arid and interminable as an auctioneer’s catalogue.
How many important novelists are there in France, or
England, or Russia? Not more than two or three in each,
and we shall be putting it fairly high if we assume that
Spain has as many notable novelists as these three countries
put together. Passing by a crowd of illustrious obscurities,
we meet with Benito Pérez Galdós, and with innumerable
examples of his diffuse talent. Copiousness has always been
more highly esteemed in Spain than elsewhere, and in this
particular Pérez Galdós should satisfy the exacting standard
of his countrymen. But to some of us copiousness is no
great recommendation. There are forty volumes in the
series of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Episodios Nacionales</cite>, and who knows how many
more in the series of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Españolas Contemporáneas</cite>?
Frankly there is a distasteful air of commercialism in this
huge and punctual production. It would seem as though in
Spain, as in England, literature is in danger of becoming a
business, and of ceasing to be an art. This is not the way
in which masterpieces have been written hitherto; but
masterpieces are rare, and there is no recipe for producing
them.</p>

<p>If there had been, we may feel sure that Pérez Galdós
would have hit upon it, for his acumen and perseverance
are undoubted. Not one of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Episodios Nacionales</cite> is a
great book, but also not one is wanting in great literary
qualities—the faculty of historical reconstruction, the evaluation
of the personal factor in great events, and the gift of
picturesque detail. If the power of concentration were
added to his profuse equipment, Pérez Galdós would be
an admirable master. Even as it is, to any one who wishes
to obtain—and in the most agreeable way—a just idea of
the political and social evolution of Spain from the time of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span>
Charles <span class="smcap">IV.</span> to the time of the Republic, the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Episodios
Nacionales</cite> may be heartily commended. And, in these
crowded pages, some figures stand out with remarkable
saliency—as, for instance, the guerrilla priest in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Carlos VI.
en la Rápita</cite>, a volume which shows the author to be
unwearied as he draws near the end of his long task, and
as vivid as ever in historical narrative. He is, moreover,
an astute observer of the present, far-seeing in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fortunata y
Jacinta</cite> and humoristic in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Doctor Centeno</cite>. You perhaps
remember the description of the cigar which Felipe smoked,
the account of the banquet presided over by the solemn
and amiable Don Florencio—Don Florencio with alarming
eyebrows, so thick and dark that they looked like strips of
black velvet. These peculiarities are hit off in Dickens’s
best manner, and yet with a certain neutral touch. Not
that Pérez Galdós is habitually neutral: he is an old-fashioned
Liberal with a thesis to prove—the admirable
thesis that liberty is the best thing in the world. But this
is not an obviously Spanish idea. The modernity of Pérez
Galdós is exotic in Spain. He gives us an interesting view
of Spanish society in all its aspects. Still,—let us never
forget it,—the picture is painted not by a native, but by
a colonial, hand. Born in the Canary Islands, Pérez Galdós
lives in Spain, but is not of it; he dwells a little apart from
the high road of its secular life. And this lends a peculiar
value to his presentation; for what it loses in force, it gains
in objectivity.</p>

<p>A foreign influence is unquestionably visible in the novels
of both Armando Palacio Valdés and the Condesa Pardo Bazán—perhaps
the most gifted authoress now before the public.
The existence of this foreign element is denied by partisans,
but it would not be disputed by the writers themselves.
Was not the Condesa Pardo Bazán the standard-bearer of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span>
French naturalism in Spain during the early nineties? We
are apt to forget it, for what she then called ‘the palpitating
question’ palpitates no more. Who can read the Condesa
Pardo Bazán’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Madre Naturaleza</cite> without being reminded of
Zola, or Palacio Valdés’s <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Hermana San Sulpicio</cite> without
being reminded of the Goncourts? Yet in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Hermana San
Sulpicio</cite>, where Gloria is the very type of the sparkling
Andalusian, and in the still more charming <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Marta y María</cite>
which appeared some years earlier, there is a genuine
original talent which fades out in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Espuma</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Fe</cite>.
In these last two books Palacio Valdés does moderately well
what half a dozen French novelists had done better. One
vaguely feels that Palacio Valdés is losing his way, but he
finds it again in the Spanish atmosphere of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Majos de
Cádiz</cite> where we see Andalusia once more through Asturian
spectacles. As to the Condesa Pardo Bazán, she has unfortunately
diffused her energies in all directions. No one can
succeed in everything—as a poet, a romancer, an essayist,
a critic, a lecturer, and a politician. Yet the Condesa Pardo
Bazán is all this, and more. We would gladly exchange all
her miscellaneous writings for another novel like <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Pazos
de Ulloa</cite>, where the peasant is displayed in a light which
must have pained Pereda. Is Galicia so different from the
Mountain? But extremes meet at last. Dr. Máximo Juncal
in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Madre Naturaleza</cite> thinks with Pereda that townsfolk
are beyond salvation: only—and the difference is capital—he
would leave nature to work her will without the restraints
of traditional ethics. Clearly all women are not hampered
by timidity and conservative instincts! But Palacio Valdés
may be read for the constant, acrid keenness of his appreciation
of character, and the Condesa Pardo Bazán for her
vigorous portraiture of the Galician peasantry, and her art
as a landscape painter.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span>We have the measure of what they can do, and they are
at least as well known out of Spain as they deserve. A more
enigmatic personality is Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. It is the
charm of most modern Spanish novelists that they are
intensely local. Pérez Galdós is an exception; but Valera
is at his best in Andalusia, Pereda in Cantabria, Palacio
Valdés in Asturias, and the Condesa Pardo Bazán in Galicia.
Blasco Ibáñez is a Valencian; he knows the orchard of Spain
as Mr. Hardy knows Dorsetshire, and he is most himself in
the Valencian surroundings of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Flor de Mayo</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Barraca</cite>,
and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cañas y barro</cite>. But his allegiance is divided between
literature and politics. Not content with propagating his
ideas in the columns of his newspaper, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Pueblo</cite>, he propagates
them under cover of fiction. He is the novelist of the
social revolution, and the revolution is needed everywhere.
The scene of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Catedral</cite> is laid in Toledo, the scene of
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Intruso</cite> in Bilbao, and in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Horda</cite> we have the proletariate
of Madrid in squalid truthfulness. Each of these is a <em lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">roman
à thèse</em>, or, if you prefer it, an incitement to rebellion. Blasco
Ibáñez is the apostle of combat, he knows the strength of
the established system, and his revolutionary heroes die
defeated by the organised forces of social and ecclesiastical
conservatism. But he is fundamentally optimistic, convinced
that the final victory of the revolution is assured if the
struggle be maintained. We may not sympathise with his
views, and may doubt whether they will prevail; but the
gospel of constancy in labour needs preaching in Spain, and
Blasco Ibáñez preaches it with impressive (and sometimes
rather incorrect) eloquence. His latest story, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Maja
desnuda</cite>, is more in the French manner, but it is no mere
imitation; it is original in treatment, a record of gradual
disillusion, a painful, cruel, true account of the intense
wretchedness of a pair who once were lovers. Blasco Ibáñez
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">251</a></span>
has given us three or four admirable novels, and he is still
young enough to reconsider his theories, and to grow in
strength and sanity.</p>

<p>He is not alone. In <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Paradox</cite>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rey</cite>, and in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los últimos
románticos</cite> Pío Baroja introduces a fresh and reckless note
of social satire, while novelty of thought and style characterise
Martínez Ruiz in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Las confesiones de un pequeño filósofo</cite>
and Valle-Inclán in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Flor de Santidad</cite> and <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Sonata de otoño</cite>.
These are the immediate hopes of the future. But prophecy
is a vain thing: the future lies on the knees of
the gods.</p>

<hr />

<h2>FOOTNOTES:</h2>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">1</span></a> ‘Nierva’ in Eugenio de Ochoa, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rimas inéditas</cite> (Paris, 1851), p. 305.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">2</span></a> The Archpriest’s poems are preserved in three ancient manuscripts
known respectively as the Gayoso, Toledo, and Salamanca MSS. (1) The
Gayoso MS. was finished on Thursday, July 23, 1389; it formerly belonged
to Benito Martínez Gayoso, came into the possession of Tomás Antonio
Sánchez on May 12, 1787, and is now in the library of the Royal Spanish
Academy at Madrid. (2) The Toledo MS., which belongs to the same
period, has been transferred from the library of Toledo Cathedral to the
Biblioteca Nacional at Madrid. (3) The Salamanca MS., formerly in the
library of the Colegio Mayor de San Bartolomé at Salamanca, is now in
the Royal Library at Madrid: though somewhat later in date than the
Gayoso and Toledo MSS., it is more carefully written, and the text is less
incomplete.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">3</span></a> In a contribution to the <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Jahrbücher der Literatur</cite> (Wien, 1831-2),
vols. iv., pp. 234-264; lvi., pp. 239-266; lvii., pp. 169-200; lviii., pp. 220-268;
lix., pp. 25-50. See the reprint in Ferdinand Wolf, <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Studien zur
Geschichte der spanischen und portugiesischen Nationalliteratur</cite> (Berlin,
1859).</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">4</span></a>

<div lang="la" xml:lang="la">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis,</div>
<div class="line">Ut possis animo quemvis sufferre laborem.—<i>Disticha</i>, iii. 6.</div>
</div></div></div></div></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">5</span></a> In <cite>Letters from an English Traveller in Spain, in 1778, on the origin
and progress of Poetry in that Kingdom</cite> (London, 1781). This work was
published anonymously by John Talbot Dillon, who acknowledges his
‘particular obligations’ to the works of Luis José Velázquez, López de
Sedano, and Sarmiento.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">6</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero General, ó Colección de romances castellanos anteriores al
siglo XVIII. recogidos, ordenados, clasificados y anotados por Don
Agustín Durán</cite> (Madrid, 1849-1851). This collection forms vol. x. and
vol. xvi. of the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Biblioteca de Autores Españoles</cite>.</p>

<p><cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera y Flor de romances publicada con una introducción y notas por
D. Fernando José Wolf y D. Conrado Hofmann</cite> (Berlin, 1856).</p>

<p>Throughout the present lecture the references to the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite> are to
the second enlarged edition issued by Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo at Madrid in
1899-1900.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">7</span></a> <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Sammlung der besten, alten Spanischen Historischen, Ritter- und Maurischen
Romanzen. Geordnet und mit Anmerkungen und einer Einleitung
versehen von Ch. B. Depping</cite> (Altenburg und Leipzig, 1817).</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">8</span></a> In the <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Avertissement</cite> to <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Cid</cite> (editions of 1648-56), Corneille quotes
two ballads from the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite>:</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">(<i>a</i>) Delante el rey de León&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Doña Jimena una tarde...</div>
<div class="line">(<i>b</i>) Á Jimena y á Rodrigo&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;prendió el rey palabra y mano.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>They are given in Durán, Nos. 735 and 739.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">9</span></a> <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Traitté de l’origine des romans</cite>, preceding Segrais’ <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Zayde, Histoire
Espagnole</cite> (Paris, 1671), p. 51.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">10</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite> (Apéndices), No. 17.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">11</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> (Apéndices), No. 18.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">12</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 5; Durán, No. 599.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">13</span></a> <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Anseis von Karthago.</cite> <cite lang="de" xml:lang="de">Herausgegeben von Johann Alton</cite>, 194ste Publication
des Litterarischen Vereins in Stuttgart. (Tübingen, 1892.)</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">14</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 5<i>a</i>; Durán, No. 602.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">15</span></a> James Young Gibson, <cite>The Cid Ballads, and other Poems and Translations
from Spanish and German</cite> (London, 1887).</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">16</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 7; Durán, No. 606.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">17</span></a> <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Orientales</cite>, <span class="smcap">XVI.</span> Victor Hugo may probably have heard of this <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em>,
and of the Lara <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> mentioned on pp. 91-92, through his elder brother
Abel, who gave prose translations of both ballads in his <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Romances historiques</cite>
(Paris, 1822), pp. 11-12, 135-137.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">18</span></a> Durán, No. 586. Durán points out the absurd impropriety of the line:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Sabrás, mi florida Cava,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que de ayer acá, no vivo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>
The ending of this <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> is far better known than the beginning:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Si dicen quien de los dos&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;la mayor culpa ha tenido,</div>
<div class="line">digan los hombres ‘La Cava,’&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;y las mujeres ‘Rodrigo.’</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">19</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 13<i>a</i>; Durán, No. 654.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">20</span></a> Durán, No. 646. <cite>The Complaint of the Count of Saldaña</cite>, as Lockhart
entitles it, is from Durán, No. 625:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Bañando está las prisiones&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;con lágrimas que derrama.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p><cite>The Funeral of the Count of Saldaña</cite> is from Durán, No. 657:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Hincado está de rodillas&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ese valiente Bernardo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>
<cite>Bernardo and Alphonso</cite> is from Durán, No. 655:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Con solos diez de los suyos&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ante el Rey, Bernardo llega.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">21</span></a> Durán, No. 617.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">22</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 15; Durán, No. 700.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">23</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 17; Durán, No. 704.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">24</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 16; Durán, No. 703.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">25</span></a> Durán, No. 686.
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">No se puede llamar rey&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;quien usa tal villanía.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">26</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 26; Durán, No. 691.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">27</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 19; Durán, No. 665.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">28</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 24.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">29</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 25.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">30</span></a> Durán, No. 721.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">31</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 27.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">32</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 29; Durán, No. 731.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">33</span></a> Durán, No. 732.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">34</span></a> Durán, No. 737.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">35</span></a> Durán, No. 738.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">36</span></a> Durán, No. 740.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">37</span></a> Durán, No. 742.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">38</span></a> Durán, No. 886. Lockhart begins at the line—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">El rey aguardara al Cid&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;como á bueno y leal vasallo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">39</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 34; Durán, No. 756.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">40</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 30<i>b</i>; Durán, No. 733.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">41</span></a> The other two are (<i>a</i>) <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 30:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Cada dia que amanece&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;veo quien mató á mi padre.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>(b) <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 61<i>a</i>, and Duran, No. 922:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">En Burgos está el buen rey&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;don Alonso el Deseado.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">42</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 42<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">a</cite>; Durán, No. 775.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">43</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 50; Durán, No. 1897.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">44</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 35; Durán, No. 762.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">45</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 45; Durán, No. 777.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">46</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 47; Durán, No. 791.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">47</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 54; Durán, No. 816.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">48</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 55; Durán No. 858.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">49</span></a> Durán, No. 935.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">50</span></a> Durán, No. 933.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">51</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 65; Durán, No. 966.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">52</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 68; Durán, No. 972.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">53</span></a> Durán, No. 978.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">54</span></a> Durán, No. 979.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">55</span></a> Durán, No. 981.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_56_56" id="Footnote_56_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_56"><span class="label">56</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 101<i>a</i>; Durán, No. 1227.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_57_57" id="Footnote_57_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor_57_57"><span class="label">57</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 72; Durán, No. 1046.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_58_58" id="Footnote_58_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor_58_58"><span class="label">58</span></a> Durán, No. 1082.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_59_59" id="Footnote_59_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor_59_59"><span class="label">59</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 95; Durán, No. 1088.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_60_60" id="Footnote_60_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor_60_60"><span class="label">60</span></a> <cite>The Departure of King Sebastian</cite>, referring to the expedition of 1578, is
obviously modern; the original is to be found in Durán, No. 1245:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Una bella lusitana,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;dama ilustre y de valía.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_61_61" id="Footnote_61_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor_61_61"><span class="label">61</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 96<i>a</i>; Durán, 1086.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_62_62" id="Footnote_62_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor_62_62"><span class="label">62</span></a> <cite>Reliques of Ancient English Poetry</cite> (London, 1765), vol. i., pp. 319-323.
Percy’s version begins as follows:—
</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Gentle river, gentle river,</div>
<div class="line i1">Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,</div>
<div class="line">Many a brave and noble captain</div>
<div class="line i1">Floats along thy willow’d shore.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">All beside thy limpid waters,</div>
<div class="line i1">All beside thy sands so bright,</div>
<div class="line">Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors</div>
<div class="line i1">Join’d in fierce and mortal fight.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Lords, and dukes, and noble princes</div>
<div class="line i1">On thy fatal banks were slain;</div>
<div class="line">Fatal banks that gave to slaughter</div>
<div class="line i1">All the pride and flower of Spain.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>
Percy also gives an adaptation of Durán, No. 53:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Por la calle de su dama&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;paseando se halla Zaide.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>
In a preliminary note he says:—‘The Spanish editor pretends (how truly
I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language.
Indeed the plain, unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity
of language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, prove that they
are ancient; or, at least, that they were written before the Castillians began
to form themselves on the model of the Tuscan poets, and had imported
from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement which has for these two
centuries past so miserably infected the Spanish poetry, and rendered it so
unnatural, affected, and obscure.’</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_63_63" id="Footnote_63_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63_63"><span class="label">63</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 85a; Durán, No. 1064. Byron’s adaptation is entitled
<i>A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama, which, in
the Arabic language is to the following purport</i>:—
</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">The Moorish king rides up and down,</div>
<div class="line">Through Granada’s royal town;</div>
<div class="line">From Elvira’s gates to those</div>
<div class="line">Of Bivarambla on he goes.</div>
<div class="line i2">Woe is me, Alhama!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Letters to the monarch tell,</div>
<div class="line">How Alhama’s city fell:</div>
<div class="line">In the fire the scroll he threw,</div>
<div class="line">And the messenger he slew.</div>
<div class="line i2">Woe is me, Alhama! etc.</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>
Ginés Pérez de Hita states that this ballad was originally written in
Arabic, and that the inhabitants of Granada were forbidden to sing it.
Possibly the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romance</em> was suggested by some Arabic song on the loss of
Alhama.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_64_64" id="Footnote_64_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor_64_64"><span class="label">64</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite> (Apéndices), No. 18.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_65_65" id="Footnote_65_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65_65"><span class="label">65</span></a> Published at Sevillo in 1588, and reprinted at Jaén in 1867.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_66_66" id="Footnote_66_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor_66_66"><span class="label">66</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 71; Durán, No. 1039.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_67_67" id="Footnote_67_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor_67_67"><span class="label">67</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 79; Durán, No. 1073.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_68_68" id="Footnote_68_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor_68_68"><span class="label">68</span></a> See M. R. Foulché-Delbosc’s edition (Macon, 1904), p. 189.
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line i1">Aquel que tu vees con la saetada,</div>
<div class="line">que nunca mas faze mudança del gesto,</div>
<div class="line">mas, por virtud de morir tan onesto,</div>
<div class="line">dexa su sangre tan bien derramada</div>
<div class="line">sobre la villa no poco cantada,</div>
<div class="line">el adelantado Diego de Ribera</div>
<div class="line">es el que fizo la vuestra frontera</div>
<div class="line">tender las sus faldas mas contra Granada.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_69_69" id="Footnote_69_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69_69"><span class="label">69</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 74; Durán, No. 1043.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_70_70" id="Footnote_70_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor_70_70"><span class="label">70</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 78<i>a</i>; Durán, No. 1038.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_71_71" id="Footnote_71_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor_71_71"><span class="label">71</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 88; Durán, No. 1102.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_72_72" id="Footnote_72_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor_72_72"><span class="label">72</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 134; Durán, No. 1131.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_73_73" id="Footnote_73_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor_73_73"><span class="label">73</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 93; Durán, No. 1121.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_74_74" id="Footnote_74_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor_74_74"><span class="label">74</span></a> The original of <cite>The Bull-fight of Gazul</cite> is Durán, No. 45:—</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Estando toda la corte&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;de Almanzor, rey de Granada.</div>
</div></div></div></div>

<p>
It appears first in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite>: so also does the original of <cite>The
Zegri’s Bride</cite>, Durán, No. 188.
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Lisaro que fue en Granada&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;cabeza de los Cegríes.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
<p>
<cite>The Bridal of Andalla</cite> represents Durán, No. 128:—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ponte á las rejas azules,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;deja la manga que labras.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
<p>
The verses entitled <cite>Zara’s Earrings</cite> are altogether out of place in this
section. The orientalism is Lockhart’s own; there is n<i>o</i> mention of ‘Zara,’
‘Muça,’ ‘Granada,’ ‘Albuharez’ daughter,’ and ‘Tunis’ in the original,
which will be found in Durán, N<i>o</i>. 1803.
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">¡La niña morena,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;que yendo á la fuente</div>
<div class="line">perdió sus zarcillos,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;gran pena merece!</div>
</div></div></div></div>
<p>
<cite>The Lamentation for Celin</cite> represents a poem first printed in the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero
general</cite>, and given in Durán, No. 126.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_75_75" id="Footnote_75_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75_75"><span class="label">75</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 132; Durán, No. 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_76_76" id="Footnote_76_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor_76_76"><span class="label">76</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 193; Durán, No. 373.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_77_77" id="Footnote_77_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor_77_77"><span class="label">77</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 171; Durán, No. 374.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_78_78" id="Footnote_78_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor_78_78"><span class="label">78</span></a> Durán, No. 379.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_79_79" id="Footnote_79_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor_79_79"><span class="label">79</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 184; Durán, No. 400.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_80_80" id="Footnote_80_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor_80_80"><span class="label">80</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 186; Durán, No. 402.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_81_81" id="Footnote_81_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81_81"><span class="label">81</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 151; Durán, No. 295.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_82_82" id="Footnote_82_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor_82_82"><span class="label">82</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 150; Durán, No. 294.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_83_83" id="Footnote_83_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83_83"><span class="label">83</span></a>
</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me</div>
<div class="line i1">As I gaze upon the sea!</div>
<div class="line">All the old romantic legends,</div>
<div class="line i1">All my dreams, come back to me.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,</div>
<div class="line i1">Such as gleam in ancient lore;</div>
<div class="line">And the singing of the sailors,</div>
<div class="line i1">And the answer from the shore!</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Most of all, the Spanish ballad</div>
<div class="line i1">Haunts me oft, and tarries long,</div>
<div class="line">Of the noble Count Arnaldos</div>
<div class="line i1">And the sailor’s mystic song.</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Like the long waves on a sea-beach,</div>
<div class="line i1">Where the sand as silver shines,</div>
<div class="line">With a soft, monotonous cadence</div>
<div class="line i1">Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;—</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Telling how the Count Arnaldos,</div>
<div class="line i1">With his hawk upon his hand,</div>
<div class="line">Saw a fair and stately galley,</div>
<div class="line i1">Steering onward to the land;—</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">How he heard the ancient helmsman</div>
<div class="line i1">Chant a song so wild and clear,</div>
<div class="line">That the sailing sea-bird slowly</div>
<div class="line i1">Poised upon the mast to hear,</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">Till his soul was full of longing,</div>
<div class="line i1">And he cried with impulse strong,—</div>
<div class="line">‘Helmsman! for the love of heaven,</div>
<div class="line i1">Teach me, too, that wondrous song!’</div>
<div class="line">&nbsp;</div>
<div class="line">‘Wouldst thou,’ so the helmsman answered,</div>
<div class="line i1">‘Learn the secret of the sea?</div>
<div class="line">Only those who brave its dangers</div>
<div class="line i1">Comprehend its mystery!’</div>
</div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_84_84" id="Footnote_84_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor_84_84"><span class="label">84</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 153; Durán, No. 286.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_85_85" id="Footnote_85_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor_85_85"><span class="label">85</span></a> Depping, <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, No. 19, p. 418:—<br />
</p>

<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">À coger el trebol, Damas!</div>
<div class="line">La mañana de san Juan,</div>
<div class="line">À coger el trebol, Damas!</div>
<div class="line">Que despues no avrà lugar.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_86_86" id="Footnote_86_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor_86_86"><span class="label">86</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 124; Durán, No. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_87_87" id="Footnote_87_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor_87_87"><span class="label">87</span></a> Durán, No. 1808.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_88_88" id="Footnote_88_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88_88"><span class="label">88</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 125; Durán, No. 300.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_89_89" id="Footnote_89_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor_89_89"><span class="label">89</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero general</cite> (Madrid, 1604), p. 407<i>v</i>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_90_90" id="Footnote_90_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor_90_90"><span class="label">90</span></a> Durán, No. 1454.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_91_91" id="Footnote_91_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor_91_91"><span class="label">91</span></a> Durán, No. 292.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_92_92" id="Footnote_92_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor_92_92"><span class="label">92</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, No. 274.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_93_93" id="Footnote_93_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93_93"><span class="label">93</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 116; Durán, No. 1446.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_94_94" id="Footnote_94_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor_94_94"><span class="label">94</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 147; Durán, No. 351.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_95_95" id="Footnote_95_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor_95_95"><span class="label">95</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 142; Durán, No. 1459.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_96_96" id="Footnote_96_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor_96_96"><span class="label">96</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 131; Durán, No. 255.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_97_97" id="Footnote_97_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor_97_97"><span class="label">97</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera</cite>, No. 163; Durán, No. 365.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_98_98" id="Footnote_98_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor_98_98"><span class="label">98</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">XV. Romances</cite>. (Ordenólos R. Foulché-Delbosc.) Barcelona [1907].</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_99_99" id="Footnote_99_99"></a><a href="#FNanchor_99_99"><span class="label">99</span></a> <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Lunes de El Imparcial</cite> (9 de Julio de 1906): ‘<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El peor enemigo de
Cervantes.</cite>’</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_100_100" id="Footnote_100_100"></a><a href="#FNanchor_100_100"><span class="label">100</span></a> The present lecture was first delivered at the University of Pennsylvania,
Philadelphia, on November 25, 1907.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_101_101" id="Footnote_101_101"></a><a href="#FNanchor_101_101"><span class="label">101</span></a> Yet Quinault had already adapted <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El galán fantasma</cite> under the title of
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Fantôme amoureux</cite>, which is the source of Sir William Lower’s <cite>Amorous
Fantasme</cite> (1660), and there are other French imitations by Quinault,
Scarron, and Thomas Corneille. Calderón was popular in Italy. As early
as 1654, Cardinal Giulio Rospigliosi (afterwards Clement <span class="smcap">IX.</span>) based on <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">No
siempre lo peor es cierto</cite> the libretto of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dal male il bene</cite>, which was set to
music by Antonio Maria Abbatini and Marco Marazzoli. In 1656 <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El mayor
monstruo los celos</cite> was arranged for the Italian stage by Giacinto Andrea
Cicognini, who afterwards produced many other adaptations of Calderón’s
plays: see an interesting and learned article by Dr. Arturo Farinelli in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cultura Española</cite> (Madrid, February 1907), pp. 123-127.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_102_102" id="Footnote_102_102"></a><a href="#FNanchor_102_102"><span class="label">102</span></a> If Calderón be really the author of the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">sainete</em> entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Labrador
Gentilhombre</cite> printed at the end of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Hado y divisa de Leonido y Marfisa</cite>, he
had evidently read Molière’s <cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bourgeois gentilhomme</cite>. But the authorship
of this <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">sainete</em> is uncertain.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_103_103" id="Footnote_103_103"></a><a href="#FNanchor_103_103"><span class="label">103</span></a> Most Spaniards who ridicule Calderón for using <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">hipogrifo</em> accentuate
the word wrongly in speech and writing. <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">Hipógrifo</em> is a mistake; the word
is not a <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">palabra esdrújula</em>, as may be seen from Lope de Vega’s use of it in
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Gatomaquia</cite> (silva vii.):—
</p>
<div lang="es" xml:lang="es">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="line">Que vemos en Orlando el hipogrifo,</div>
<div class="line">monstruo compuesto de caballo y grifo.</div>
</div></div></div></div>
<p>
Calderón himself gives it as a palabra llana in his <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em> entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La lepra de
Constantino</cite>. For other examples, see Rufino José Cuervo, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Apuntaciones
críticas sobre el lenguaje bogotano con frecuente referencia al de los países de
Hispano-América</cite>. Quinta edición (Paris, 1907), pp. 11-12.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_104_104" id="Footnote_104_104"></a><a href="#FNanchor_104_104"><span class="label">104</span></a> Pedro Jozé Suppico de Moraes, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Collecção politica de apothegmas, ou ditos
agudos, e sentenciosos</cite> (Coimbra, 1761), Parte 1., pp. 337-338.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_105_105" id="Footnote_105_105"></a><a href="#FNanchor_105_105"><span class="label">105</span></a> Zamora’s arrangement of Calderón’s <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">auto</em> entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El pleito matrimonial</cite>
was played at the Príncipe theatre in Madrid on the Feast of Corpus Christi,
1762.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_106_106" id="Footnote_106_106"></a><a href="#FNanchor_106_106"><span class="label">106</span></a> Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span> is usually described as a man of artistic tastes, but the evidence
does not altogether support this view. For instance, on February 18, 1637,
at a poetical improvisation in the Buen Retiro, Philip set Calderón and Vélez
de Guevara the following subjects:—(1) ‘Why is Jupiter always painted
with a fair beard?’ (2) ‘Why are the waiting-women at Court called
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">mondongas</em>, though they do not sell <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">mondongo</em> (black-pudding)?’ Time did
not improve Philip. Some twenty years later, according to Barrionuevo,
Philip arranged that women only should attend a certain performance at the
theatre, and gave instructions that they should leave off their <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">guardain-fantes</em>
on this occasion. His idea was to be present with the Queen, and
(from a spot where he could see without being observed) watch the effect
when a hundred mice were suddenly let out of mice-traps in the <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">casuela</em> and
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">patio</em>—‘which, if it takes place, will be worth seeing, and a diversion for
Their Majesties.’ Owing (apparently) to remonstrances which reached him,
Philip was compelled to abandon the project, but his intention gives the
measure of his refinement. See an instructive article, entitled <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Los Jardines
del Buen Retiro</cite>, by Sr. D. Rodrigo Amador de los Rios in <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La España
Moderna</cite> (January 1905); and the <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Arisos de D. Jerónimo to de Barrionuevo</cite>
(1654-1658) edited by Sr. D. Antonio Paz y Mélia (Madrid, 892-93), vol. ii,
p. 308.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_107_107" id="Footnote_107_107"></a><a href="#FNanchor_107_107"><span class="label">107</span></a> It may be worth noting that the date of Pereda’s birth is wrongly given
in all the books of reference, and he himself was mistaken on the point. He
was born on February 6, 1833, and not—as he thought—on February 7, 1834.</p></div>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span></p>

<h2>INDEX</h2>


<ul class="IX"><li>
Abad de los Romances (Domingo), <a href="#Page_53">53</a>-54.</li><li>
Abarbanel (Judas), 147.</li><li>
Abbatini (Antonio Maria), <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Abindarraez y Jarifa, Historia de</cite>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.</li><li>
Abentarique (Abulcacim Tarif), <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li><li>
Achilles Tatius, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li><li>
Accursius, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li><li>
Acquaviva (Giulio), <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li><li>
Æsop, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li><li>
Águila (Suero del), <a href="#Page_60">60</a>.</li><li>
Aguilar (Alonso de), <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li><li>
—— (Gaspar de), <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</li><li>
Alarcón (Juan Ruiz de). <i>See</i> Ruiz de Alarcón.</li><li>
—— (Pedro Antonio de), <a href="#Page_235">235</a>-236.</li><li>
Alas (Leopoldo), <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li><li>
Albornoz (Gil de), <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li><li>
Alcalá Galiano (Antonio Maria de), <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.</li><li>
Alemán (Mateo), <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li><li>
Alfonso <span class="smcap">V.</span> (of Aragón), <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">V.</span> (of León), <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">VI.</span> (of Castile), <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">X.</span> [the Learned], (of Castile), <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">XI.</span> (of Castile), <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Alixandre, Libro de</cite>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.</li><li>
Al-Kadir. <i>See</i> Yahya Al-Kadir.</li><li>
Almanzor, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
<cite>Almería, Rhymed Latin Chronicle of</cite>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.</li><li>
Al-muktadir, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li><li>
Al-mustain, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.</li><li>
Al-mutamen, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li><li>
Alton (Johann), 85 <i>n</i>.</li><li>
Álvarez de Villasandino (Alfonso), <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Amore, De.</cite> <i>See</i> Pamphilus Maurilianus.</li><li>
Andrade y Rivadeneyra (Jerónimo de), <a href="#Page_225">225</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Anséis de Carthage</cite>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Apolonio, Libro de</cite>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
Argote de Molina (Gonzalo), <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</li><li>
—— y Góngora (Luis). <i>See</i> Góngora y Argote (Luis).</li><li>
<cite>Athenæum, The</cite>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>.</li><li>
Avellaneda (Alonso Fernández de). <i>See</i> Fernández de Avellaneda (Alonso).</li><li>
Ayala (Pero López de). <i>See</i> López de Ayala (Pero).</li><li>
Ayamonte (Marqués de), <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

Bakna (Juan Alfonso de), <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
Balzac (Honoré de), <a href="#Page_241">241</a>.</li><li>
Bancés Candamo (Francisco Antonio de), <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li><li>
Baroja (Pío), <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li><li>
Barrera y Leirado (Cayetano Alberto de la), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Barrientos (Lope), <a href="#Page_60">60</a>.</li><li>
Barrionuevo (Jerónimo de), <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Bella (Antonio de la), <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</li><li>
Bello (Andrés), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Belmonte Bermúdes (Luis de), <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li><li>
Beneyto (Miguel), <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</li><li>
<cite>Beowulf</cite>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li><li>
Berceo (Gonzalo de), <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Bertaut (François), <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Berthe, Roman de</cite>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.</li><li>
Blanca, wife of Enrique <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li><li>
Blanche de Bourbon, wife of Peter the Cruel, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li><li>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span>
Blanco de Paz (Juan), <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li><li>
Blasco Ibáñez (Vicente), <a href="#Page_250">250</a>-251.</li><li>
Boabdil [= Abu Abd Allah Muhammad], <a href="#Page_105">105</a>.</li><li>
Boccaccio, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</li><li>
Bodel (Jean), <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li><li>
Böhl von Faber (Johan Nikolas), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
Boileau-Despréaux (Nicolas), <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li><li>
Boisrobert (François Le Métel de), <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li><li>
Bourget (Paul), <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.</li><li>
Brentano (Clemens), <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li><li>
Brillat-Savarin (Anthelme), <a href="#Page_62">62</a>.</li><li>
Browne (Sir Thomas), <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li><li>
Browning (Robert), <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li><li>
Brûlart de Sillery (Noel), <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</li><li>
Buckle (Henry Thomas), <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li><li>
Burgos (Diego de), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Byron (George Gordon, Lord), <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

Caballero (Fernán), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>-235.</li><li>
Calderón de la Barca (Diego), <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (José), <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Pedro), <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>;<ul><li class="li padl3">
biography of, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>-193;</li><li class="li padl3">
works of, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>-209; <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li></ul></li><li>
—— —— (Pedro), son of the dramatist, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.</li><li>
Calderona (María), <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.</li><li>
Calomarde (Francisco Tadeo), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Cáncer y Velasco (Jerónimo de), <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cancionero de Stúñiga</cite>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
—— <i>general</i>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li><li>
Carlota, wife of Francisco de Paula de Borbón, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Carpio y Luján (Lope Félix del), <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Marcela del), <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li><li>
Carvajal, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li><li>
Castillejo (Cristóbal de), <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Castillo Solórzano (Alonso de), <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li><li>
Castro y Bellvis (Guillén de), <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li><li>
Catherine of Lancaster, wife of Enrique <span class="smcap">III.</span>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>.</li><li>
Cava (La), <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>-88.</li><li>
<cite lang="la" xml:lang="es">Celestina, La</cite>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li><li>
Cellot (Louis), <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li><li>
Cervantes (Cardinal Juan de), <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li><li>
—— (Juan de), grandfather of the novelist, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li><li>
—— Saavedra (Andrea de), <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Luisa de), <a href="#Page_132">132</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Magdalena de), <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Miguel de), <a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>;<ul><li class="li padl3">
life of, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>-141;</li><li class="li padl3">
as a poet, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>-145;</li><li class="li padl3">
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">La Galatea</cite>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>-147;</li><li class="li padl3">
First Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>-158;</li><li class="li padl3">
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Novelas Exemplares</cite>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>-159;</li><li class="li padl3">
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Viage del Parnaso</cite>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>-160;</li><li class="li padl3">
plays, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>;</li><li class="li padl3">
Second Part of <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Don Quixote</cite>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>-162;</li><li class="li padl3">
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Persiles y Sigismunda</cite>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</li></ul></li><li>
—— —— (Rodrigo de), father of the novelist, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Rodrigo de), brother of the novelist, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.</li><li>
Chapelain (Jean), <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
Charlemagne, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li><li>
Charles <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">V.</span>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>.</li><li>
Chartier (Alain), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Chaucer (Geoffrey), <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li><li>
Chateaubriand (François-René de), <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Chorley (John Rutter), <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>.</li><li>
Christina, Queen of Sweden, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
Cicognini (Giacinto Andrea), <a href="#Page_191">191</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Cid, Poema del</cite>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>-21.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Romancero del</cite>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li><li>
—— The. <i>See</i> Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo).</li><li>
Clavijo y Fajardo (José), <a href="#Page_207">207</a>.</li><li>
Clement <span class="smcap">IX.</span>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Coello (Antonio), <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>-223.</li><li>
Comella (Luciano Francisco), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Conde (José Antonio), <a href="#Page_80">80</a>.</li><li>
Córdoba (Gonzalo de), <a href="#Page_105">105</a>.</li><li>
—— (Martín de), <a href="#Page_127">127</a>.</li><li>
Corneille (Pierre), <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.</li><li>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">254</a></span>
Corneille (Thomas), <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Cornu (Jules), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Corral (Pedro del), <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.</li><li>
Cortinas (Leonor de), <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica de Castilla</cite>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">de Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span></cite>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">de Veinte Reyes</cite>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">general</cite> (First), <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Second [1344]), <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">rimada</cite>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>-23, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
—— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Troyana</cite>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.</li><li>
Crowne (John), <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li><li>
Cruz y Cano (Ramón de la), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Cubillo de Aragón (Álvaro), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Cuervo (Rufino José), <a href="#Page_200">200</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_245">245</a>.</li><li>
Cueva (Juan de la), <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.</li><li>
Cunha (João Lourenço da), <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Dali Mami</span>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>.</li><li>
Damas-Hinard (Jean-Joseph-Stanislas-Albert), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Dante, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li><li>
Depping (Georg Bernard), <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a> <i>n</i>.</li><li>
Désirée, Queen of Sweden, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li><li>
Diamante (Juan Bautista), <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Diana, La</cite>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li><li>
Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo or Ruy),<ul><li>
biography of, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>-11;</li><li>
epics on, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>-23;</li><li>
plays and poems on, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>-24;</li><li>
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>-101.</li></ul></li><li>
—— de Toledo (Pedro), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Dickens (Charles), <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a>.</li><li>
Díez de Games (Gutierre), <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.</li><li>
Dillon (John Talbot), <a href="#Page_53">53</a> <i>n</i>.</li><li>
Dionysius Cato, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li><li>
Dolfos (Bellido), <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.</li><li>
D’Ouville (Antoine Le Métel, sieur), <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li><li>
Dozy (Reinhart Pieter Anne), <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>.</li><li>
Ducamin (Jean), <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li><li>
Dunham (Samuel Astley), <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.</li><li>
Durán (Agustín), <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a> <i>n.</i>, 100 n., <a href="#Page_101">101</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a> <i>n.</i><br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Emmanuel Philibert</span>, Prince of Savoy, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li><li>
Enrique <span class="smcap">III.</span>, <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">El Doliente</cite>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eremite qui s’enyvra</cite> (<i>L’</i>), <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eremyte que le diable conchia du coc et de la geline</cite> (<i>L’</i>), <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
Erman (Georg Adolf), <a href="#Page_114">114</a>.</li><li>
Escobar (Juan de), <a href="#Page_94">94</a>.</li><li>
Eslava (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.</li><li>
Espronceda (José de), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
Euripides, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.</li><li>
Ezpeleta (Gaspar de), <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Fadrique</span>, brother of Peter the Cruel, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li><li>
<cite>Faerie Queene, The</cite>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>.</li><li>
Fáñez Minaya (Alvar), <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li><li>
Fanshawe (Richard), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Farinelli (Arturo), <a href="#Page_191">191</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Ferdinand, Saint, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">VII.</span>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
Fernández (Pedro), <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.</li><li>
—— de Avellaneda (Alonso), <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>.</li><li>
—— de León (Melchor), <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li><li>
—— de Moratín (Leandro), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Fernando de Antequera, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Fernán González, Estoria del noble caballero</cite>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li><li>
—— —— <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Poema de</cite>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li><li>
Fielding (Henry), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Figueroa (Lope de), <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li><li>
FitzGerald (Edward), <a href="#Page_195">195</a>.</li><li>
Fletcher (John), <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Floire et Blanchefleur</cite>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li><li>
Ford (John), <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li><li>
Forneli (Juan Antonio), <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li><li>
Foulché-Delbosc (Raymond), <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>-92, <a href="#Page_108">108</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li><li>
Franqueza (Pedro), <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li><li>
Frederic <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Frere (John Hookham), <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Fuentes (Alonso de), <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Gálvez de Montalvo</span> (Luis), <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li><li>
Gante (Manuelillo de), <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li><li>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span>
García (Sancho), <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li><li>
Garci-Fernández, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Garin le Lohérain</cite>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li><li>
Gautier de Coinci, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Gibson (James Young), <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Gil (Enrique), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
—— (Juan), <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</li><li>
Girón (Rodrigo), <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li><li>
Goethe (Johann Wolfgang von), <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>.</li><li>
Gómez (Cristóbal), <a href="#Page_212">212</a>.</li><li>
—— de Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco), <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</li><li>
Goncourt (Edmond and Jules de), <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.</li><li>
Góngora y Argote (Luis), <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</li><li>
González (Fernán), <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;<ul><li>
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on, 87-91.</li></ul></li><li>
—— del Castillo (Juan Ignacio), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
—— de Mendoza (Pedro), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Gormaz (Gómez de), <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li><li>
Gozzi (Carlo), <a href="#Page_228">228</a>.</li><li>
Granson (Oton de), <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Grimm (Jacob), <a href="#Page_77">77</a>.</li><li>
Guardo (Juana de), <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.</li><li>
Guerra (Manuel de), <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li><li>
Guevara (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</li><li>
—— (Luis Vélez de). <i>See</i> Vélez de Guevara (Luis).</li><li>
Guillaume de Machault, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Gutiérrez (Tomás), <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li><li>
Guzmán (Juan de), <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li><li>
—— (Luis de), <a href="#Page_64">64</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Hallevi</span> (Sh’lomoh). <i>See</i> Santa María (Pablo de).</li><li>
Haro (Luis de), <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.</li><li>
Hartmann von Aue, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Hartzenbusch (Juan Eugenio), <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>.</li><li>
Hassan Pasha, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</li><li>
Heiberg (Johan Ludvig), <a href="#Page_208">208</a>.</li><li>
Heine (Heinrich), <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li><li>
Heliodorus, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li><li>
Heredia (José María de), <a href="#Page_24">24</a>.</li><li>
Hernández Flores (Francisca), <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hernaut de Beaulande</cite>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li><li>
Herrera (Fernando de), <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li><li>
Hervieux (Léopold), <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li><li>
Hofmann (Conrad), <a href="#Page_78">78</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
Heyne (Gotthold), <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li><li>
Hita, Archpriest of. <i>See</i> Ruiz (Juan).</li><li>
Holberg (Ludvig), <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li><li>
Huet (Pierre-Daniel), <a href="#Page_80">80</a>.</li><li>
Hugo (Abel), <a href="#Page_87">87</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
—— (Victor), <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>.</li><li>
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>.</li><li>
Huntington (Archer Milton), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Diego), <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li><li>
—— de Velarde (Alfonso), <a href="#Page_104">104</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Ibn-Bassam</span>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li><li>
Ibn-Jehaf, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.</li><li>
Illán. <i>See</i> Julian.</li><li>
Imperial (Francisco), <a href="#Page_62">62</a>.</li><li>
Irving (Washington), <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li><li>
Isabel <span class="smcap">I.</span>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
—— wife of Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
—— de Valois, wife of Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li><li>
Isla (José Francisco de), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Isunza (Pedro de), <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li><li>
Italicus, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Jacobs</span> (Joseph), <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li><li>
Janer (Florencio), <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</li><li>
Jaufré de Foixá, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Jeanroy (Alfred), <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li><li>
Jerónimo (Bishop), <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li><li>
Jimena, sister of Alfonso the Chaste, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li><li>
—— wife of the Cid, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
Jiménez de Rada (Rodrigo),</li><li>
John of Austria, son of Charles <span class="smcap">V.</span>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</li><li>
Jonson (Ben), <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li><li>
Jove-Llanos (Gaspar de), <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li><li>
Juan <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</li><li>
—— de Austria, son of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li><li>
—— Manuel, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li><li>
Juana, wife of Enrique <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
<i>Judas</i>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>.</li><li>
Julian (Count), <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Karesme et de Charnage</cite> (<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bataille de</cite>), <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
Kent (William), <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li><li>
Konrad, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Lafayette</span> (Madame de), <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li><li>
La Fontaine (Jean de), <a href="#Page_46">46</a>.</li><li>
Lainez (Diego), <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.</li><li>
Lando (Ferrant Manuel de), <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li><li>
Lang (Henry R.), <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li><li>
Lara, Infantes of, 83, 87, 91-92.</li><li>
—— (Gaspar Agustín de), <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.</li><li>
Lasso de la Vega (Gabriel Lobo), <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li><li>
Layamon, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Lazarillo de Tormes</cite>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li><li>
Leconte de Lisle (Charles-Marie), <a href="#Page_24">24</a>.</li><li>
Legrand d’Aussy (Pierre-Jean-Baptiste), <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
Lemos (Conde de), <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li><li>
León Hebreo. <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">See</em> Abarbanel (Judas).</li><li>
Lerma, Duke of, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li><li>
Lesage (Alain-René), <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Lidforss (Volter Edvard), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Lockhart (John Gibson), <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a> <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">n.</em>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Longfellow (Henry Wadsworth), <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</li><li>
López de Ayala (Pero), <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>.</li><li>
—— de Hoyos (Juan), <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.</li><li>
—— de Mendoza (Íñigo). <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">See</em> Santillana (Marqués de).</li><li>
—— de Sedano (Juan Joseph), <a href="#Page_53">53</a> <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">n.</em></li><li>
Lotti (Cosme), <a href="#Page_188">188</a>.</li><li>
Lowell (James Russell), <a href="#Page_209">209</a>.</li><li>
Lower (William), <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
Lozano (Juan Mateo), <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.</li><li>
Lucena (Juan de), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Luján (Micaela de), <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li><li>
Luna (Álvaro de), <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
—— (Miguel de), <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li><li>
Luzán (Ignacio de), <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Macaulay</span> (Thomas Babington, Lord), <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>.</li><li>
MacColl (Norman), <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li><li>
Macías, <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">o Namorado</em>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</li><li>
Madrigal (Alfonso de), <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">el Tostado</em>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.</li><li>
Maldonado (López), <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li><li>
Malón de Chaide (Pedro), <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li><li>
Malpica (Marqués de), <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li><li>
Manrique de Lara (Jerónimo), <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">María Egipciacqua, Vida de Santa</cite>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Mariana, wife of Philip <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
—— (Juan de), <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li><li>
Marie de France, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.</li><li>
Marie-Louise de Bourbon, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li><li>
Marivaux (Pierre de), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Marazzoli (Marco), <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li><li>
Martínez de la Rosa (Francisco de Paula), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
—— de Toledo (Alfonso), <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.</li><li>
—— Gayoso (Benito), <a href="#Page_27">27</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
—— Marina (Francisco), <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li><li>
—— Ruiz (J.), <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li><li>
Masdeu (Juan Francisco de), <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.</li><li>
Matos Fragoso (Juan de), <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>-229.</li><li>
Medina (Francisco de), <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li><li>
Medinilla (Baltasar Elisio de), <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>.</li><li>
Mena (Juan de), <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>-74, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li><li>
Mendoza (Antonio Hurtado de). <i>See</i> Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio).</li><li>
Menéndez Pidal (Ramón), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li><li>
Menéndez y Pelayo (Marcelino), <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li><li>
Meredith (George), <a href="#Page_213">213</a>.</li><li>
Mesonero Romanos (Ramón de), <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li><li>
Michaëlis de Vasconcellos (Carolina), <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.</li><li>
Middleton (Thomas), <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.</li><li>
Milá y Fontanals (Manuel), <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li><li>
Milton (John), <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li><li>
Mira de Amescua (Antonio), <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li><li>
Molière, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>.</li><li>
Molina (Luis de), <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</li><li>
Moncada (Miguel de), <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li><li>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span>
Montalbán (Juan Pérez de). <i>See</i> Pérez de Montalbán (Juan).</li><li>
Montemôr (Jorge de), <a href="#Page_118">118</a>. <i>See</i> also <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Diana, La</cite>.</li><li>
Mora (Joaquín de), <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
Moratín (Leandro Fernández de). <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">See</em> Fernández de Moratín (Leandro).</li><li>
Moreto y Cavaña (Agustín), <a href="#Page_224">224</a>-228.</li><li>
Muhammad, El Maestro, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li><li>
Muñoz (Félez), <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Nájera</span> (Esteban de), <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>.</li><li>
Navas (Marqués de las), <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li><li>
Nebrija (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Nevares Santoyo (Marta de), <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>.</li><li>
Nucio (Martín), <a href="#Page_84">84</a>.</li><li>
Núñez de Toledo (Hernán), <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.</li><li>
—— Morquecho (Doctor), <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Ocampo</span> (Florián de), <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li><li>
Ochoa y Ronna (Eugenio de), <a href="#Page_2">2</a> <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">n</em>.</li><li>
Olivares (Conde de), <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li><li>
Ormsby (John), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li><li>
Ortiz de Stúñiga (Íñigo), <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.</li><li>
Osorio (Diego), <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.</li><li>
—— (Elena), <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li><li>
—— (Inés), <a href="#Page_133">133</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Padilla</span> (María de), <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li><li>
—— (Pedro de), <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.</li><li>
Palacio Valdés (Armando), 248-249, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li><li>
Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano (Catalina de), <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.</li><li>
Palafox (Jerónimo de), <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</li><li>
Pamphilus Maurilianus, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Panadera, Coplas de la</cite>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.</li><li>
Paratinén (Alfonso), <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li><li>
Paravicino y Arteaga (Hortensio Félix), <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li><li>
Pardo Bazán (Condesa de), <a href="#Page_248">248</a>-249, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li><li>
Paris (Gaston), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li><li>
Patmore (Coventry Kersey Dighton), <a href="#Page_245">245</a>.</li><li>
Paz y Mélia (Antonio), <a href="#Page_230">230</a> <i>n</i>.</li><li>
Pedro, brother of Alfonso <span class="smcap">V.</span> of Aragón, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>.</li><li>
Pepys (Samuel), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Per Abbat, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.</li><li>
Percy (Thomas), <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li><li>
Pereda (José María de), 236-243, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li><li>
Pérez (Alonso), <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li><li>
—— (Gil), <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li><li>
—— de Guzmán (Alfonso), <a href="#Page_189">189</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Fernán), <a href="#Page_2">2</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>-66, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.</li><li>
—— de Hita (Ginés), <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li><li>
—— de Montalbán (Juan), <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li><li>
—— Galdós (Benito), 53, 240, 247-248, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li><li>
—— Pastor (Cristóbal), <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li><li>
Peter <span class="smcap">I.</span> of Castile (the Cruel), <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;<ul><li>
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>-103.</li></ul></li><li>
Petrarch, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.</li><li>
Phaedrus, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li><li>
Philip <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li><li>
—— <span class="smcap">IV.</span>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li><li>
—— Prince of Savoy, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li><li>
Pindarus Thebanus. <i>See</i> Italicus.</li><li>
Pius <span class="smcap">V.</span>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li><li>
Pomponius, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li><li>
Ponce de León (Luis), <a href="#Page_144">144</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Manuel), <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Primavera y Flor de romances</cite>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Pulgar (Hernando del), <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li><li>
Puymaigre (Count Théodore de), <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</li><li>
Puyol y Alonso (Julio), <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Quevedo y Villegas</span> (Francisco Gómez de). <i>See</i> Gómez de Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco).</li><li>
Quinault (Philippe), <a href="#Page_191">191</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Quintana (Manuel José), <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span>
<span class="smcap">Rabelais</span> (François), <a href="#Page_46">46</a>.</li><li>
Rasis, The Moor [=Abu Bakr Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Musa, <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">al-Razi</em>], <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.</li><li>
Regnier (Maturin), <a href="#Page_48">48</a>.</li><li>
Renan (Ernest), <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li><li>
Rennert (Hugo Albert), <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li><li>
Restori (Antonio), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Rey de Artieda (Andrés), <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Reyes Magos, Misterio de los</cite>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Riaño (Pedro de), <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Ribeiro (Bernardim de), <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li><li>
Ribera (Diego de), <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li><li>
Ríos (José Amador de los), <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.</li><li>
—— (Rodrigo Amador de los), <a href="#Page_230">230</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Ritson (Joseph), <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li><li>
Robles (Blas de), <a href="#Page_132">132</a>.</li><li>
—— (Fernán Alonso de), <a href="#Page_55">55</a>.</li><li>
Roderick, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>;<ul><li>
<em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>-88.</li></ul></li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Rodrigo, Cantar de</cite>. See <cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Crónica rimada</cite>.</li><li>
Rodríguez (Lucas), <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.</li><li>
—— de la Cámara (Juan), 74-76, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li><li>
—— del Padrón (Juan). <i>See</i> Rodríguez de la Cámara (Juan).</li><li>
—— Marín (Francisco), <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li><li>
Rojas (Ana Franca de), <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</li><li>
—— (Tomás), <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li><li>
—— Zorrilla (Francisco de), <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>-222, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roland, Chanson de</cite>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li><li>
<cite>Rolliad, The</cite>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman de la Rose, Le</cite>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>.</li><li>
Romana (Marqués de la), <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li><li>
Rospigliosi (Giulio). <i>See</i> Clement <span class="smcap">IX.</span></li><li>
Rotrou (Jean de), <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li><li>
Rowley (William), <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Ruderici Campidocti, Gesta</cite>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li><li>
Rueda (Lope de), <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>.</li><li>
Ruffino (Bartolomeo), <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li><li>
Ruiz (Juan), <a href="#Page_25">25</a>-54.</li><li>
—— de Alarcón (Juan), <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>.</li><li>
—— de Ulibarri (Juan), <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Saavedra</span> (Isabel de), daughter of Cervantes, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</li><li>
Sainte-Beuve (Charles-Augustin), <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li><li>
Saint-Pierre (Bernardin de), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Saldaña (Conde de), <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Sánchez (Miguel), <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.</li><li>
—— (Tomás Antonio), <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</li><li>
Sancho <span class="smcap">II.</span>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.</li><li>
—— (Conde Don), <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li><li>
Sandoval y Rojas (Bernardo de), <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</li><li>
Sannazaro (Jacopo), <a href="#Page_145">145</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li><li>
Santa Cruz (Marqués de), <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li><li>
—— María (Pablo de), <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li><li>
Santillana (Marqués de), <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>-70, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li><li>
Sanz del Águila (Diego), <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</li><li>
—— del Río (Julián), <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</li><li>
Sarmiento (Martín), <a href="#Page_53">53</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Sarriá (Marqués de). <i>See</i> Lemos.</li><li>
Scarron (Paul), <a href="#Page_191">191</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li><li>
Schack (Adolf Friedrich).</li><li>
Schæffer (Adolf), <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Schiller (Johann Friedrich), <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.</li><li>
Schlegel (August Wilhelm von), <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li><li>
—— (Friedrich von), <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li><li>
Scott (Walter), <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li><li>
Scudéri (Madelène de), <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li><li>
Segrais (Jean Regnauld, sieur de), <a href="#Page_80">80</a> <i>n</i>.</li><li>
Sepúlveda (Lorenzo de), <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>.</li><li>
Sesa (Fifth Duke of), <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li><li>
—— (Sixth Duke of), <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li><li>
Shakespeare (William), <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</li><li>
Shelley (Percy Bysshe), <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.</li><li>
Silva (Feliciano de), <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li><li>
Smollett (Tobias George), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Soeiro (Manoel), <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li><li>
Solís y Ribadeneyra (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li><li>
Sophocles, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.</li><li>
Sosa (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</li><li>
Southey (Robert), <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>.</li><li>
Sterne (Laurence), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
<i>Strengleikar</i>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li><li>
Suppico de Moraes (Pedro Jozé), <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">259</a></span>
<span class="smcap">Tárrega</span> (Francisco), <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</li><li>
Tennyson (Alfred, Lord), <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li><li>
Thiber, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li><li>
Timoneda (Juan de), <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</li><li>
Tirso de Molina [<i>i.e.</i> Gabriel Téllez], <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li><li>
Torre (Alfonso de la), <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.</li><li>
Torres (Francisco de), <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.</li><li>
—— Villaroel (Diego), <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li><li>
Trench (Richard Chenevix), <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li><li>
<cite lang="es" xml:lang="es">Tres Reyes dorient, Libro dels</cite>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li><li>
Trigueros (Cándido María), <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li><li>
Trillo de Armenta (Antonia), <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li><li>
Trueba (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>.</li><li>
—— y Cosío (Joaquín Telesforo de), <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li><li>
Tuke, Samuel, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li><li>
Turia (Ricardo de), <i>pseud.</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.</li><li>
Turpin (Archbishop), <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Urban VIII.</span>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>.</li><li>
—— (Count). <i>See</i> Julian (Count).</li><li>
Urbina (Diego de), <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li><li>
—— y Cortinas (Isabel de), <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Valdivia</span> (Diego de), <a href="#Page_133">133</a>.</li><li>
Valdivielso (José de), <a href="#Page_214">214</a>.</li><li>
Valera (Diego de), <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li><li>
—— (Juan), 2, 243-246, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li><li>
Valle-Inclán (Ramón del), <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li><li>
Vanbrugh (John), <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li><li>
Vázquez (Mateo), <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li><li>
Vega (Bernardo de la), <a href="#Page_148">148</a>.</li><li>
—— (Garcilaso de la), <em lang="es" xml:lang="es">romances</em> on, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li><li>
—— (Garcilaso de la), poet, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li><li>
—— (Leonor de la), <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li><li>
—— Carpio (Félix de), father of the dramatist, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.</li><li>
—— —— (Lope Félix de), <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>;<ul><li class="li padl3">
biography of, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>-172;</li><li class="li padl3">
character and tastes, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>-174;</li><li class="li padl3">
as a poet, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>;</li><li class="li padl3">
as a dramatist, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>-183; <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li></ul></li><li>
Vega Carpio y Guardo (Antonia Clara), <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li><li>
—— —— y Guardo (Carlos Félix), <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.</li><li>
Velázquez (Jerónimo), <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li><li>
—— (Luis José), <a href="#Page_53">53</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Vélez de Guevara (Luis), <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a> <i>n.</i></li><li>
Veraguas (Duke of), <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.</li><li>
Vera Tassis y Villarroel (Juan), <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>.</li><li>
Verlaine (Paul), <a href="#Page_208">208</a>.</li><li>
Verville (Béroalde de), <a href="#Page_46">46</a>.</li><li>
Vicente (Gil), <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li><li>
Victor Amadeus, Prince of Savoy, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li><li>
Vidal (Raimon), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li><li>
Villafranca (Marqués de), <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.</li><li>
Villaviciosa (Sebastián de), <a href="#Page_228">228</a>.</li><li>
Villegas (Pedro de), <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li><li>
Villena (Enrique de), <a href="#Page_60">60</a>-64.</li><li>
Vollmöller (Carl), <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Waller</span> (Edmund), <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li><li>
Warnke (Carl), <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li><li>
Wolf (Ferdinand Joseph), <a href="#Page_31">31</a> <i>n.</i>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li><li>
Wolfram von Eschenbach, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Ximena</span>. <i>See</i> Jimena.</li><li>
Yahya Al-Kadir, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.</li><li>
‘Ysopete,’ <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.<br /><br /></li><li>

<span class="smcap">Zabaleta</span> (Juan de), <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li><li>
Zamora (Antonio de), <a href="#Page_207">207</a>.</li><li>
Zárate y Castronovo (Fernando de), <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.</li><li>
Zola (Émile), <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.</li>
</ul>

<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span></p>
<p class="center">Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br />
at the Edinburgh University Press.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr />
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10">
  <tr>
    <td align="center">
      <b>Transcriber's Note</b>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      The cover image was prepared by the transcriber
      and is placed in the public domain.
    </td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54259 ***</div>
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