The Wedding of Amadis and Oriana
When all was ready and the day of the wedding had at last arrived, a brilliant assembly mounted their palfreys and proceeded to the church, where the hermit Nasciano[11] celebrated Mass. When the ceremony had duly been performed, Amadis asked of Lisuarte that ere the revels began Oriana might be permitted to make test of the adventure of the Arch of True Lovers, as the enchantment still held good so far as ladies were concerned. To this the King gave his consent. As Oriana approached the image raised its trumpet and blew such a strain of sweetness as had never yet been heard in the island, and from the mouth of the trumpet fell flowers and roses in such abundance that they covered the ground. Without any hesitation Oriana passed on to the adventure of the Forbidden Chamber. As she passed between the pillars she felt hands invisible violently pushing her backward, and three times did they thrust her past the pillars. But by reason of her surpassing faithfulness and beauty she won, despite opposition, to the enchanted portal, where the hand which had admitted Amadis was thrust out, and she entered the chamber, while the voices of viewless singers softly chanted the praises of her beauty and constancy.
Now all the assembled company who had beheld this last marvel entered the chamber, and the marriage feast was spread therein. The long endurance of Amadis and Oriana was over, and at length united to each other and to their son Esplandian they looked forward to an existence of such happiness as is only vouchsafed to mortals in the unclouded pages of old romance.
So ends this brave old tale, in which we read of manners and modes of thought so widely removed from those of our own time as almost to appear like those of the people of another planet. The conduct of knight and damsel is, perhaps, a little strained. No matter how absurd a promise or fantastic the circumstances in which it was extracted, it is still regarded as binding, and if we admire the romantic nature of such a code we are tempted to smile at the seriousness with which bearded knights and all-powerful monarchs give way before the quibble of magicians whose lures and devices would be laughed at by a modern schoolboy. Nevertheless, in perusing the story we experience a strong conviction of its author’s purity of soul and integrity of purpose.
From the reader who has followed me through the mazes of this enchanting romance I must ask pardon for having omitted in my rendering of it many passages of rare beauty and touching humanity. My business in this volume, however, is to present the thread of the story, to describe its main incidents, and, keeping as closely as possible to the adventures and doings of its principal characters, to supply an outline of the whole. I might readily have enhanced the brilliancy and readableness of my account if I had chosen to narrate isolated adventures and the incidents of more surpassing excellence with which it teems. But my purpose, as I have said, is to provide readers who have little time to peruse an original text with the story in brief. At the same time I have attempted to conserve the true spirit of the romance, and if I have failed to do so that must in some measure be attributed to the difficult task of compression with which I was confronted. In the words of one who ‘set’ Amadis to verse, I may say, with justice:
To tell as meet the costly feast’s array,
My tedious tale would hold a summer’s day.
I let[12] to sing who mid the courtly throng
Did most excel in dance or sprightly song,
Who first, who last, were seated on the dais,
Who carped of love and arms in courtliest phrase.[13]
[1] See the work of Rivadeneyra, Biblioteca de Autores españoles, vol. xl (1846–48), where the romance is prefaced in a brilliant and scholarly manner by Gayangos. Its origins are ably discussed by Eugène Baret, Études sur la Redaction Espagnole de l’Amadis de Gaule (1853); T. Braga, Historia das Novellas Portuguezas de Cavalleria (1873); and L. Braunfels, Kritischer Versuch über den Roman Amadis von Gallien (1876).
[2] Anstruther, in Fife? The Spaniards would know the place through their intercourse with the Flemings, who traded considerably with it. A Spanish vessel put into Anstruther during the flight of the Armada round the coasts of Scotland.
[3] I think I can see in this giant Albadan the giant Albiona, one of the two monsters, sons of Neptune, who, according to Pomponius Mela, attacked Hercules in Liguria. The name Albion was once given to the whole of Britain, and later, as Alba and Albany, to Scotland, whose people were known as Albannach. This is said to mean ‘the White,’ in allusion to the cliffs of Dover! It is much more probable that it signified ‘the place or region of the god Alba,’ ‘the country of the white god.’ All the Scottish gods were giants, like the Fomorians of Ireland.
[4] Strange that a sword and a ring should so often be the test of identity in such tales! So it was, as regards the first of these tokens at least, with Theseus, Arthur, and many another hero. On this head see Hartland, The Legend of Perseus (1894–96).
[5] Urganda, as Southey remarks, is a true fairy, resembling Morgan le Fay in her attributes, but, as Scott says, she has no connexion with the more classic nymphidæ. But is not this dea phantastica identical with Morgan, and her name merely a Hispanic rendering of the Celtic fairy’s?
[6] Scott girds fiercely against Southey’s interpolation of Anthony Munday’s translation of these verses in his Amadis, and with justice. The above translation is only slightly more tolerable, but it is at least sense. Poor Tony was bitten by the absurdities of euphuism, and his lines are mere nonsense. But there is even less excuse for a modern translation to backslide into the style of the eighteenth century.
[7] She had previously visited Scotland and embarked there “for Great Britain,” and while on this voyage was driven on the Poor Rock, which would seem to have been ‘somewhere’ in the Mediterranean! Strange that geography should have been so shaky at such a period and among a people who had done so much for discovery and navigation.
[8] ’Cildadan’ I take to be Cuchullin (pron. Coohoolin, or Coolin), the hero of the well-known Irish epic.
[9] It was Munday’s translation of these verses from the French which chiefly aroused the scorn of Scott, and it is in dread of the memory of that scorn that I offer these lines, which partake much more of the nature of an adaptation than a translation, the original Spanish being much too stiff and artificial for rendition in English.
[10] I take this incident to be a reminiscence of the Minotaur story. Indeed the Firm Island appears to me, both from its geographical proximities and its whole phenomena, as a borrowing of Cretan or Minoan story. The “old covered way” from which the bull emerges is surely the Labyrinth. Is the wise old ape Dædalus?
[11] It is scarcely necessary to indicate to the reader that the name Nasciano is borrowed from that of Nasciens, the hermit king of Grail romance.
[12] Forbear.
[13] William Stewart Rose, Amadis de Gaul: A Poem in Three Books (London, 1803).