History of Spanish Literature, vol. 1 (of 3)

by George Ticknor

The next considerable attempt approaches somewhat nearer to proper history. It is the series of chronicles relating to the troublesome reigns of Peter the Cruel and Henry the Second, to the hardly less unsettled times of John the First, and to the more quiet and prosperous reign of Henry the Third. They were written by Pedro Lopez de Ayala, in some respects the first Spaniard of his age; distinguished, as we have seen, among the poets of the latter part of the fourteenth century, and now to be noticed as the best prose-writer of the same period. He was born in 1332,[264] and, though only eighteen years old when Peter ascended the throne, was soon observed and employed by that acute monarch. But when troubles arose in the kingdom, Ayala left his tyrannical master, who had already shown himself capable of almost any degree of guilt, and joined his fortunes to those of Henry of Trastamara, the king’s illegitimate brother, who had, of course, no claim to the throne but such as was laid in the crimes of its possessor, and the good-will of the suffering nobles and people.

At first, the cause of Henry was successful. But Peter addressed himself for help to Edward the Black Prince, then in his duchy of Aquitaine, who, as Froissart relates, thinking it would be a great prejudice against the estate royal[265] to have a usurper succeed, entered Spain, and, with a strong hand, replaced the fallen monarch on his throne. At the decisive battle of Naxera, by which this was achieved, in 1367, Ayala, who bore his prince’s standard, was taken prisoner[266] and carried to England, where he wrote a part at least of his poems on a courtly life. Somewhat later, Peter, no longer supported by the Black Prince, was dethroned; and Ayala, who was then released from his tedious imprisonment, returned home, and afterwards became Grand-Chancellor to Henry the Second, in whose service he gained so much consideration and influence, that he seems to have descended as a sort of traditionary minister of state through the reign of John the First, and far into that of Henry the Third. Sometimes, indeed, like other grave personages, ecclesiastical as well as civil, he appeared as a military leader, and once again, in the disastrous battle of Aljubarrota, in 1385, he was taken prisoner. But his Portuguese captivity does not seem to have been so long or so cruel as his English one; and, at any rate, the last years of his life were passed quietly in Spain. He died at Calahorra in 1407, seventy-five years old.

“He was,” says his nephew, the noble Fernan Perez de Guzman, in the striking gallery of portraits he has left us,[267] “He was a man of very gentle qualities and of good conversation; had a great conscience and feared God much. He loved knowledge, also, and gave himself much to reading books and histories; and though he was as goodly a knight as any, and of great discretion in the practices of the world, yet he was by nature bent on learning, and spent a great part of his time in reading and studying, not books of law, but of philosophy and history. Through his means some books are now known in Castile that were not known aforetime; such as Titus Livius, who is the most notable of the Roman historians; the ‘Fall of Princes’; the ‘Ethics’ of Saint Gregory; Isidorus ‘De Summo Bono’; Boethius; and the ‘History of Troy.’ He prepared the History of Castile from the King Don Pedro to the King Don Henry; and made a good book on Hunting, which he greatly affected, and another called ‘Rimado de Palacio.’”

We should not, perhaps, at the present day, claim so much reputation as his kinsman does for the Chancellor Ayala, in consequence of the interest he took in books of such doubtful value as Guido de Colonna’s “Trojan War,” and Boccaccio “De Casibus Principum,” but, in translating Livy,[268] he unquestionably rendered his country an important service. He rendered, too, a no less important service to himself; since a familiarity with Livy tended to fit him for the task of preparing the Chronicle, which now constitutes his chief distinction and merit.[269] It begins in 1350, where that of Alfonso the Eleventh ends, and comes down to the sixth year of Henry the Third, or to 1396, embracing that portion of the author’s own life which was between his eighteenth year and his sixty-fourth, and constituting the first safe materials for the history of his native country.

For such an undertaking Ayala was singularly well fitted. Spanish prose was already well advanced in his time; for Don John Manuel, the last of the elder school of good writers, did not die till Ayala was fifteen years old. He was, moreover, as we have seen, a scholar, and, for the age in which he lived, a remarkable one; and, what is of more importance than either of these circumstances, he was personally familiar with the course of public affairs during the forty-six years embraced by his Chronicle. Of all this traces are to be found in his work. His style is not, like that of the oldest chroniclers, full of a rich vivacity and freedom; but, without being over-carefully elaborated, it is simple and business-like; while, to give a more earnest air, if not an air of more truth to the whole, he has, in imitation of Livy, introduced into the course of his narrative set speeches and epistles intended to express the feelings and opinions of his principal actors more distinctly than they could be expressed by the mere facts and current of the story. Compared with the Chronicle of Alfonso the Wise, which preceded it by above a century, it lacks the charm of that poetical credulity which loves to deal in doubtful traditions of glory, rather than in those ascertained facts which are often little honorable either to the national fame or to the spirit of humanity. Compared with the Chronicle of Froissart, with which it was contemporary, we miss the honest-hearted, but somewhat childlike, enthusiasm that looks with unmingled delight and admiration upon all the gorgeous phantasmagoria of chivalry, and find, instead of it, the penetrating sagacity of an experienced statesman, who looks quite through the deeds of men, and, like Comines, thinks it not at all worth while to conceal the great crimes with which he has been familiar, if they can be but wisely and successfully set forth. When, therefore, we read Ayala’s Chronicle, we do not doubt that we have made an important step in the progress of the species of writing to which it belongs, and that we are beginning to approach the period when history is to teach with sterner exactness the lesson it has learned from the hard experience of the past.

Among the many curious and striking passages in Ayala’s Chronicle, the most interesting are, perhaps, those that relate to the unfortunate Blanche of Bourbon, the young and beautiful wife of Peter the Cruel, who, for the sake of María de Padilla, forsook her two days after his marriage, and, when he had kept her long in prison, at last sacrificed her to his base passion for his mistress; an event which excited, as we learn from Froissart’s Chronicle, a sensation of horror, not only in Spain, but throughout Europe, and became an attractive subject for the popular poetry of the old national ballads, several of which we find were devoted to it.[270] But it may well be doubted whether even the best of the ballads give us so near and moving a picture of her cruel sufferings as Ayala does, when, going on step by step in his passionless manner, he shows us the queen first solemnly wedded in the church at Toledo, and then pining in her prison at Medina Sidonia; the excitement of the nobles, and the indignation of the king’s own mother and family; carrying us all the time with painful exactness through the long series of murders and atrocities by which Pedro at last reaches the final crime which, during eight years, he had hesitated to commit. For there is, in the succession of scenes he thus exhibits to us, a circumstantial minuteness which is above all power of generalization, and brings the guilty monarch’s character more vividly before us than it could be brought by the most fervent spirit of poetry or of eloquence.[271] And it is precisely this cool and patient minuteness of the chronicler, founded on his personal knowledge, that gives its peculiar character to Ayala’s record of the four wild reigns in which he lived; presenting them to us in a style less spirited and vigorous, indeed, than that of some of the older chronicles of the monarchy, but certainly in one more simple, more judicious, and more effective for the true purposes of history.[272]

The last of the royal chronicles that it is necessary to notice with much particularity is that of John the Second, which begins with the death of Henry the Third, and comes down to the death of John himself, in 1454.[273] It was the work of several hands, and contains internal evidence of having been written at different periods. Alvar Garcia de Santa María, no doubt, prepared the account of the first fourteen years, or to 1420, constituting about one third of the whole work;[274] after which, in consequence perhaps of his attachment to the Infante Ferdinand, who was regent during the minority of the king, and subsequently much disliked by him, his labors ceased.[275] Who wrote the next portion is not known;[276] but from about 1429 to 1445, John de Mena, the leading poet of his time, was the royal annalist, and, if we are to trust the letters of one of his friends, seems to have been diligent in collecting materials for his task, if not earnest in all its duties.[277] Other parts have been attributed to Juan Rodriguez del Padron, a poet, and Diego de Valera,[278] a knight and gentleman often mentioned in the Chronicle itself, and afterwards himself employed as a chronicler by Queen Isabella.

But whoever may have been at first concerned in it, the whole work was ultimately committed to Fernan Perez de Guzman, a scholar, a courtier, and an acute as well as a witty observer of manners, who survived John the Second, and probably arranged and completed the Chronicle of his master’s reign, as it was published by order of the Emperor Charles the Fifth;[279] some passages having been added as late as the time of Ferdinand and Isabella, who are more than once alluded to in it as reigning sovereigns.[280] It is divided, like the Chronicle of Ayala, which may naturally have been its model, into the different years of the king’s reign, each year being subdivided into chapters; and it contains a great number of important original letters and other curious contemporary documents,[281] from which, as well as from the care used in its compilation, it has been considered more absolutely trustworthy than any Castilian chronicle that preceded it.[282]

In its general air, there is a good deal to mark the manners of the age, such as accounts of the court ceremonies, festivals, and tournaments that were so much loved by John; and its style, though, on the whole, unornamented and unpretending, is not wanting in variety, spirit, and solemnity. Once, on occasion of the fall and ignominious death of the Great Constable Alvaro de Luna, whose commanding spirit had, for many years, impressed itself on the affairs of the kingdom, the honest chronicler, though little favorable to that haughty minister, seems unable to repress his feelings, and, recollecting the treatise on the “Fall of Princes,” which Ayala had made known in Spain, breaks out, saying: “O John Boccaccio, if thou wert now alive, thy pen surely would not fail to record the fall of this strenuous and bold gentleman among those of the mighty princes whose fate thou hast set forth. For what greater example could there be to every estate? what greater warning? what greater teaching to show the revolutions and movements of deceitful and changing fortune? O blindness of the whole race of man! O unexpected fall in the affairs of this our world!” And so on through a chapter of some length.[283] But this is the only instance of such an outbreak in the Chronicle. On the contrary, its general tone shows, that historical composition in Spain was about to undergo a permanent change; for, at its very outset, we have regular speeches attributed to the principal personages it records,[284] such as had been introduced by Ayala; and, through the whole, a well-ordered and documentary record of affairs, tinged, no doubt, with some of the prejudices and passions of the troublesome times to which it relates, but still claiming to have the exactness of regular annals, and striving to reach the grave and dignified style suited to the higher purposes of history.[285]

Of the disturbed and corrupt reign of Henry the Fourth, who, at one period, was nearly driven from his throne by his younger brother, Alfonso, we have two chronicles: the first by Diego Enriquez de Castillo, who was attached, both as chaplain and historiographer, to the person of the legitimate sovereign; and the other by Alonso de Palencia, chronicler to the unfortunate pretender, whose claims were sustained only three years, though the Chronicle of Palencia, like that of Castillo, extends over the whole period of the regular sovereign’s reign, from 1454 to 1474. They are as unlike each other as the fates of the princes they record. The Chronicle of Castillo is written with great plainness of manner, and, except in a few moral reflections, chiefly at the beginning and the end, seems to aim at nothing but the simplest and even the driest narrative;[286] while the Chronicle of Palencia, who had been educated in Italy under the Greeks recently arrived there from the ruins of the Eastern Empire, is in a false and cumbrous style; a single sentence frequently stretching through a chapter, and the whole work showing that he had gained little but affectation and bad taste under the teachings of John Lascaris and George of Trebizond.[287] Both works, however, are too strictly annals to be read for any thing but the facts they contain.