A poem called “Los Votos del Pavon,” The Vows of the Peacock, which was a continuation of the “Alexandro,” is lost. If we may judge from an old French poem on the vows made over a peacock that had been a favorite bird of Alexander, and was served accidentally at table after that hero’s death, we have no reason to complain of our loss as a misfortune.[89] Nor have we probably great occasion to regret that we possess only extracts from a prose book of advice, prepared for his heir and successor by Sancho, the son of Alfonso the Tenth; for though, from the chapter warning the young prince against fools, we see that it wanted neither sense nor spirit, still it is not to be compared to the “Partidas” for precision, grace, or dignity of style.[90] We come, therefore, at once to a remarkable writer, who flourished a little later,—the Prince Don Juan Manuel.
Lorenzo was an ecclesiastic,—bon clérigo é ondrado,—and his home was at Astorga, in the northwestern portion of Spain, on the borders of Leon and Galicia. Berceo belonged to the same territory, and, though there may be half a century between them, they are of a similar spirit. We are glad, therefore, that the next author we meet, Don John Manuel, takes us from the mountains of the North to the chivalry of the South, and to the state of society, the conflicts, manners, and interests, that gave us the “Poem of the Cid,” and the code of the “Partidas.”
Don John was of the blood royal of Castile and Leon; grandson of Saint Ferdinand, nephew of Alfonso the Wise, and one of the most turbulent and dangerous of the Spanish barons of his time. He was born in Escalona, on the 5th of May, 1282, and was the son of Don Pedro Manuel, an Infante of Spain,[91] brother of Alfonso the Wise, with whom he always had his officers and household in common. Before Don John was two years old, his father died, and he was educated by his cousin, Sancho the Fourth, living with him on a footing like that on which his father had lived with Alfonso.[92] When twelve years old he was already in the field against the Moors, and in 1310, at the age of twenty-eight, he had reached the most considerable offices in the state; but Ferdinand the Fourth dying two years afterwards, and leaving Alfonso the Eleventh, his successor, only thirteen months old, great disturbances followed till 1320, when Don John Manuel became joint regent of the realm; a place which he suffered none to share with him, but such of his near relations as were most involved in his interests.[93]
The affairs of the kingdom during the administration of Prince John seem to have been managed with talent and spirit; but at the end of the regency the young monarch was not sufficiently contented with the state of things to continue his grand-uncle in any considerable employment. Don John, however, was not of a temper to submit quietly to affront or neglect.[94] He left the court at Valladolid, and prepared himself, with all his great resources, for the armed opposition which the politics of the time regarded as a justifiable mode of obtaining redress. The king was alarmed, “for he saw,” says the old chronicler, “that they were the most powerful men in his kingdom, and that they could do grievous battle with him, and great mischief to the land.” He entered, therefore, into an arrangement with Prince John, who did not hesitate to abandon his friends, and go back to his allegiance, on the condition that the king should marry his daughter Constantia, then a mere child, and create him governor of the provinces bordering on the Moors, and commander-in-chief of the Moorish war; thus placing him, in fact, again at the head of the kingdom.[95]
From this time we find him actively engaged on the frontiers in a succession of military operations, till 1327, when he gained over the Moors the important victory of Guadalhorra. But the same year was marked by the bloody treachery of the king against Prince John’s uncle, who was murdered in the palace under circumstances of peculiar atrocity.[96] The Prince immediately retired in disgust to his estates, and began again to muster his friends and forces for a contest, into which he rushed the more eagerly, as the king had now refused to consummate his union with Constantia, and had married a Portuguese princess. The war which followed was carried on with various success till 1335, when Prince John was finally subdued, and, entering anew into the king’s service, with fresh reputation, as it seemed, from a spirited rebellion, and marrying his daughter Constantia, now grown up, to the heir-apparent of Portugal, went on, as commander-in-chief, with an uninterrupted succession of victories over the Moors, until almost the moment of his death, which happened in 1347.[97]
In a life like this, full of intrigues and violence,—from a prince like this, who married the sisters of two kings, who had two other kings for his sons-in-law, and who disturbed his country by his rebellions and military enterprises for above thirty years,—we should hardly look for a successful attempt in letters.[98] Yet so it is. Spanish poetry, we know, first appeared in the midst of turbulence and danger; and now we find Spanish prose fiction springing forth from the same soil, and under similar circumstances. Down to this time we have seen no prose of much value in the prevailing Castilian dialect, except in the works of Alfonso the Tenth, and in one or two chronicles that will hereafter be noticed. But in most of these the fervor which seems to be an essential element of the early Spanish genius was kept in check, either by the nature of their subjects, or by circumstances of which we can now have no knowledge; and it is not until a fresh attempt is made, in the midst of the wars and tumults that for centuries seem to have been as the principle of life to the whole Peninsula, that we discover in Spanish prose a decided development of such forms as afterwards became national and characteristic.
Don John, to whom belongs the distinction of producing one of these forms, showed himself worthy of a family in which, for above a century, letters had been honored and cultivated. He is known to have written twelve works; and so anxious was he about their fate, that he caused them to be carefully transcribed in a large volume, and bequeathed them to a monastery he had founded on his estates at Peñafiel, as a burial-place for himself and his descendants.[99] How many of these works are now in existence is not known. Some are certainly among the treasures of the National Library at Madrid, in a manuscript which seems to be an imperfect and injured copy of the one originally deposited at Peñafiel. Two others may, perhaps, yet be recovered; for one of them, the “Chronicle of Spain,” abridged by Don John from that of his uncle, Alfonso the Wise, was in the possession of the Marquis of Mondejar in the middle of the eighteenth century;[100] and the other, a treatise on Hunting, was seen by Pellicer somewhat later.[101] A collection of Don John’s poems, which Argote de Molina intended to publish in the time of Philip the Second, is probably lost, since the diligent Sanchez sought for it in vain;[102] and his “Conde Lucanor” alone has been placed beyond the reach of accident by being printed.[103]
All that we possess of Don John Manuel is important. The imperfect manuscript at Madrid opens with an account of the reasons why he had caused his works to be transcribed; reasons which he illustrates by the following story, very characteristic of his age.
“In the time of King Jayme the First of Majorca,” says he, “there was a knight of Perpignan, who was a great Troubadour, and made brave songs wonderfully well. But one that he made was better than the rest, and, moreover, was set to good music. And people were so delighted with that song, that, for a long time, they would sing no other. And so the knight that made it was well pleased. But one day, going through the streets, he heard a shoemaker singing this song, and he sang it so ill, both in words and tune, that any man who had not heard it before would have held it to be a very poor song, and very ill made. Now when the knight heard that shoemaker spoil his good work, he was full of grief and anger, and got down from his beast, and sat down by him. But the shoemaker gave no heed to the knight, and did not cease from singing; and the further he sang, the worse he spoiled the song that knight had made. And when the knight heard his good work so spoiled by the foolishness of the shoemaker, he took up very gently some shears that lay there, and cut all the shoemaker’s shoes in pieces, and mounted his beast and rode away.
“Now, when the shoemaker saw his shoes, and beheld how they were cut in pieces, and that he had lost all his labor, he was much troubled, and went shouting after the knight that had done it. And the knight answered: ‘My friend, our lord the king, as you well know, is a good king and a just. Let us, then, go to him, and let him determine, as may seem right, the difference between us.’ And they were agreed to do so. And when they came before the king, the shoemaker told him how all his shoes had been cut in pieces and much harm done to him. And the king was wroth at it, and asked the knight if this were truth. And the knight said that it was; but that he would like to say why he did it. And the king told him to say on. And the knight answered, that the king well knew that he had made a song,—the one that was very good and had good music,—and he said, that the shoemaker had spoiled it in singing; in proof whereof, he prayed the king to command him now to sing it. And the king did so, and saw how he spoiled it. Then the knight said, that, since the shoemaker had spoiled the good work he had made with great pains and labor, so he might spoil the works of the shoemaker. And the king and all they that were there with him were very merry at this and laughed; and the king commanded the shoemaker never to sing that song again, nor trouble the good work of the knight; but the king paid the shoemaker for the harm that was done him, and commanded the knight not to vex the shoemaker any more.[104]