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

by George Ticknor

Other Romances of Chivalry. — Lepolemo. — Translations from the French. — Religious Romances. — Cavallería Celestial. — Period during which Romances of Chivalry prevailed. — Their Number. — Their Foundation in the State of Society. — The Passion for them. — Their Fate.

Although the Palmerins failed as rivals of the great family of Amadis, they were not without their influence and consideration. Like the other works of their class, and more than most of them, they helped to increase the passion for fictions of chivalry in general, which, overbearing every other in the Peninsula, was now busily at work producing romances, both original and translated, that astonish us alike by their number, their length, and their absurdities. Of those originally Spanish, it would not be difficult, after setting aside the two series belonging to the families of Amadis and Palmerin, to collect the names of about forty; all produced in the course of the sixteenth century. Some of them are still more or less familiar to us, by their names at least, such as “Belianis of Greece” and “Olivante de Laura,” which are found in Don Quixote’s library, and “Felixmarte of Hircania,” which was once, we are told, the summer reading of Dr. Johnson.[384] But, in general, like “The Renowned Knight Cifar” and “The Bold Knight Claribalte,” their very titles sound strangely to our ears, and excite no interest when we hear them repeated. Most of them, it may be added,—perhaps all,—deserve the oblivion into which they have fallen; though some have merits which, in the days of their popularity, placed them near the best of those already noticed.

Among the latter is “The Invincible Knight Lepolemo, called the Knight of the Cross and Son of the Emperor of Germany”; a romance, which was published as early as 1525, and, besides drawing a continuation after it, was reprinted thrice in the course of the century, and translated into French and Italian.[385] It is a striking book among those of its class, not only from the variety of fortunes through which the hero passes, but, in some degree, from its general tone and purpose. In his infancy Lepolemo is stolen from the shelter of the throne to which he is heir, and completely lost for a long period. During this time he lives among the heathen; at first in slavery, and afterwards as an honorable knight-adventurer at the court of the Soldan. By his courage and merit he rises to great distinction, and, while on a journey through France, is recognized by his own family, who happen to be there. Of course he is restored, amidst a general jubilee, to his imperial estate.

In all this, and especially in the wearisome series of its knightly adventures, the Lepolemo has a sufficient resemblance to the other romances of chivalry. But in two points it differs from them. In the first place, it pretends to be translated by Pedro de Luxan, its real author, from the Arabic of a wise magician attached to the person of the Sultan; and yet it represents its hero throughout as a most Christian knight, and his father and mother, the Emperor and Empress, as giving the force of their example to encourage pilgrimages to the Holy Sepulchre; making the whole story subserve the projects of the Church, in the same way, if not to the same degree, that Turpin’s Chronicle had done. And in the next place, it attracts our attention, from time to time, by a picturesque air and touches of the national manners, as, for instance, in the love passages between the Knight of the Cross and the Infanta of France, in one of which he talks to her at her grated balcony in the night, as if he were a cavalier of one of Calderon’s comedies.[386] Except in these points, however, the Lepolemo is much like its predecessors and followers, and quite as tedious.

Spain, however, not only gave romances of chivalry to the rest of Europe in large numbers, but received also from abroad in some good proportion to what she gave. From the first, the early French fictions were known in Spain, as we have seen by the allusions to them in the “Amadis de Gaula”; a circumstance that may have been owing either to the old connection with France through the Burgundian family, a branch of which filled the throne of Portugal, or to some strange accident, like the one that carried “Palmerin de Inglaterra” to Portugal from France rather than from Spain, its native country. At any rate, somewhat later, when the passion for such fictions was more developed, the French stories were translated or imitated in Spanish, and became a part, and a favored part, of the literature of the country. “The Romance of Merlin” was printed very early,—as early as 1498,—and “The Romance of Tristan de Leonnais,” and that of the Holy Cup, “La Demanda del Sancto Grial,” followed it as a sort of natural sequence.[387]

The rival story of Charlemagne, however,—perhaps from the greatness of his name,—seems to have been, at last, more successful. It is a translation directly from the French, and therefore gives none of those accounts of his defeat at Roncesvalles by Bernardo del Carpio, which, in the old Spanish chronicles and ballads, so gratified the national vanity; and contains only the accustomed stories of Oliver and Fierabras the Giant; of Orlando and the False Ganelon; relying, of course, on the fabulous Chronicle of Turpin as its chief authority. But, such as it was, it found great favor at the time it appeared; and such, in fact, as Nicolas de Piamonte gave it to the world, in 1528, under the title of “The History of the Emperor Charlemagne,” it has been constantly reprinted down to our own times, and has done more than any other tale of chivalry to keep alive in Spain a taste for such reading.[388] During a considerable period, however, a few other romances shared its popularity. “Reynaldos de Montalban,” for instance, always a favorite hero in Spain, was one of them;[389] and a little later we find another, the story of “Cleomadez,” an invention of a French queen in the thirteenth century, which first gave to Froissart the love for adventure that made him a chronicler.[390]

In most of the imitations and translations just noticed, the influence of the Church is more visible than it is in the class of the original Spanish romances. This is the case, from its very subject, with the story of the Saint Graal, and with that of Charlemagne, which, so far as it is taken from the pretended Archbishop Turpin’s Chronicle, goes mainly to encourage founding religious houses and making pious pilgrimages. But the Church was not satisfied with this indirect and accidental influence. Romantic fiction, though overlooked in its earliest beginnings, or perhaps even punished by ecclesiastical authority in the person of the Greek Bishop to whom we owe the first proper romance,[391] was now become important, and might be made directly useful. Religious romances, therefore, were written. In general, they were cast into the form of allegories, like “The Celestial Chivalry,” “The Christian Chivalry,” “The Knight of the Bright Star,” and “The Christian History and Warfare of the Stranger Knight, the Conqueror of Heaven”;—all printed after the middle of the sixteenth century, and during the period when the passion for romances of chivalry was at its height.[392]

One of the oldest of them is probably the most curious and remarkable of the whole number. It is appropriately called “The Celestial Chivalry,” and was written by Hierónimo de San Pedro, at Valencia, and printed in 1554, in two thin folio volumes.[393] In his Preface, the author declares it to be his object to drive out of the world the profane books of chivalry; the mischief of which he illustrates by a reference to Dante’s account of Francesca da Rimini. In pursuance of this purpose, the First Part is entitled “The Root of the Fragrant Rose”; which, instead of chapters, is divided into “Wonders,” Maravillas, and contains an allegorical version of the most striking stories in the Old Testament, down to the time of the good King Hezekiah, told as the adventures of a succession of knights-errant. The Second Part is divided, according to a similar conceit, into “The Leaves of the Rose”; and, beginning where the preceding one ends, comes down, with the same kind of knightly adventures, to the Saviour’s death and ascension. The Third, which is promised under the name of “The Flower of the Rose,” never appeared, nor is it now easy to understand where consistent materials could have been found for its composition; the Bible having been nearly exhausted in the two former parts. But we have enough without it.

Its chief allegory, from the nature of its subject, relates to the Saviour, and fills seventy-four out of the one hundred and one “Leaves,” or chapters, that constitute the Second Part. Christ is represented in it as the Knight of the Lion; his twelve Apostles as the twelve Knights of his Round Table; John the Baptist as the Knight of the Desert; and Lucifer as the Knight of the Serpent;—the main history being a warfare between the Knight of the Lion and the Knight of the Serpent. It begins at the manger of Bethlehem, and ends on Mount Calvary, involving in its progress almost every detail of the Gospel history, and often using the very words of Scripture. Every thing, however, is forced into the forms of a strange and revolting allegory. Thus, for the temptation, the Saviour wears the shield of the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, and rides on the steed of Penitence, given to him by Adam. He then takes leave of his mother, the daughter of the Celestial Emperor, like a youthful knight going out to his first passage at arms, and proceeds to the waste and desert country, where he is sure to find adventures. On his approach, the Knight of the Desert prepares himself to do battle; but, perceiving who it is, humbles himself before his coming prince and master. The baptism of course follows; that is, the Knight of the Lion is received into the order of the Knighthood of Baptism, in the presence of an old man, who turns out to be the Anagogic Master, or the Interpreter of all Mysteries, and two women, one young and the other old. All three of them enter directly into a spirited discussion concerning the nature of the rite they have just witnessed. The old man speaks at large, and explains it as a heavenly allegory. The old woman, who proves to be Sinagoga, or the representation of Judaism, prefers the ancient ordinance provided by Abraham, and authorized, as she says, by “that celebrated Doctor, Moses,” rather than this new rite of baptism. The younger woman replies, and defends the new institution. She is the Church Militant; and the Knight of the Desert, deciding the point in her favor, Sinagoga goes off full of anger, ending thus the first part of the action.

The great Anagogic Master, according to an understanding previously had with the Church Militant, now follows the Knight of the Lion to the desert, and there explains to him the true mystery and efficacy of Christian baptism. After this preparation, the Knight enters on his first adventure and battle with the Knight of the Serpent, which, in all its details, is represented as a duel,—one of the parties coming into the lists accompanied by Abel, Moses, and David, and the other by Cain, Goliath, and Haman. Each of the speeches recorded in the Evangelists is here made an arrow-shot or a sword-thrust; the scene on the pinnacle of the temple, and the promises made there, are brought in as far as their incongruous nature will permit; and then the whole of this part of the long romance is abruptly ended by the precipitate and disgraceful flight of the Knight of the Serpent.