The extravagance of the metaphors used by Góngora was often as remarkable as their confusion and obscurity. Thus, when, in 1619, just after the appearance of two comets, one of his friends proposed to accompany Philip the Third to Lisbon,—a city founded, according to tradition, by Ulysses,—Góngora wrote to him, “Wilt thou, in a year when a plural comet cuts out mourning of evil augury to crowns, tread in the footsteps of the wily Greek?“[876] And again, in his first “Solitude,” speaking of a lady whom he admired, he calls her “a maiden so beautiful, that she might parch up Norway with her two suns and bleach Ethiopia with her two hands.” But though these are extreme cases, it is not to be denied that the later poems of Góngora are often made unintelligible by similar extravagances.[877]
He did not, however, stop here. He introduced new words into his verse, chiefly taken from the ancient classical languages; he used old Castilian words in new and forced meanings; and he adopted involved and unnatural constructions, quite foreign from the genius of the Spanish. The consequence was, that his poetry, though not without brilliancy, soon became unintelligible. This is the case with one or two of his sonnets, printed as early as 1605;[878] and still more with his longer poems, such as his “Solitudes,” or Deserts, his “Polyphemus,” his “Panegyric on the Duke of Lerma,” and his “Pyramus and Thisbe”; none of which appeared till after his death.
Commentaries, therefore, were necessary to explain them, even while they still circulated only in manuscript. The earliest were prepared, at his own request, by Pellicer, a scholar of much reputation, who published them in 1630, under the title of “Solemn Discourses on the Works of Don Luis de Góngora,” expressing, at the same time, his fears that he might sometimes have failed to detect the meaning of what was often really so obscure.[879] They were followed, in 1636, by a defence and explanation of the “Pyramus and Thisbe,” from Salazar Mardones.[880] And between that year and 1646, the series was closed with an elaborate commentary of above fifteen hundred pages, by Garcia de Salcedo Coronel, himself a poet.[881] To these were added contemporary discussions, by Juan Francisco de Amaya, a jurist; by Martin Angulo, in reply to an attack of Cascales, the rhetorician; and by others, until the amount of the notes on Góngora’s poetry was tenfold greater than that of the text they were intended to elucidate.[882]
Followers, of course, would not be wanting to one who was so famous. Of these, the most distinguished in rank, and perhaps in merit, was the Count of Villamediana,—the same unfortunate nobleman whose very bold and public assassination was attributed to the jealousy of Philip the Third, and created a sensation, at the time it happened, in all the courts of Europe. He was a man of wit and fashion, whose poetry was a part of his pretensions as a courtier, and was not printed till 1629, eight years after his death. Some of it is written without affectation,—probably the earlier portions; but, in general, both by the choice of his subjects,—such as those of Phaeton, of Daphne, and of Europa,—and by his mode of treating them, he bears witness to his imitation of the worst parts of Góngora’s works. His sonnets, of which there are two or three hundred, are in every style, satirical, religious, and sentimental; and a few of his miscellaneous poems have something of the older national air and tone. But he is rarely more intelligible than his master, and never shows his master’s talent.[883]
Another of those that favored and facilitated the success of the new school was Paravicino, who died in 1633, and whose position as the popular court preacher, during the last sixteen years of his life, enabled him to introduce “the cultivated style” into the pulpit, and help its currency among the higher classes of society. His poetical works were not collected and published till 1641, when they appeared under the imperfect disguise of a part of his family name,—Felix de Arteaga. They fill a small volume, which abounds in sonnets, and contains a single drama of no value. The best parts of it are the lyrical ballads, which, though mystical and obscure, are not without poetry; a remark that should be extended to the narrative ballad on the Loves of Alfonso the Eighth and the Jewess of Toledo, which Arteaga seems to have been willing to write in the older and simpler style.[884]
These were the principal persons whose example gave currency to the new style. Its success, however, depended, in a great degree, on the tone of the higher class of society and the favor of the court, to which they all belonged, and in which their works were generally circulated in manuscript long before they were printed,—a practice always common in Spain, from the rigorous supervision exercised over the press, and the formidable obstacles thrown in the way of all who were concerned in its management, whether as authors or as publishers. Fashion was, no doubt, the great means of success for the followers of Góngora, and it was able to push their influence very widely. The inferior poets, almost without exception, bowed to it throughout the country. Roca y Serna published, in 1623, a collection of poems, called “The Light of the Soul,” which was often reprinted between that time and the end of the century.[885] Antonio Lopez de Vega, neither a kinsman nor a countryman of his great namesake, who, however, praises him much beyond his merits, printed his “Perfect Gentleman” in 1620; a political dream, to which he added a small collection of poems of a nature not more substantial.[886]
Anastasio Pantaleon, a young cavalier, who enjoyed great consideration at court, and was assassinated in the streets of Madrid, being mistaken for another person, had his poems collected by the affection of his friends, and published in 1634, five years after his death.[887] A nun at Lisbon, Violante del Cielo, in 1646,[888] and Manoel de Melo, in 1649,[889] gave proofs of a pride in the Castilian which we should hardly have expected just at the time when their native country was emancipating itself from the Spanish yoke; but which enabled them to claim the favor of fashion alike at home and in Madrid. In 1652, Moncayo published a volume of his own extravagant verses;[890] and, two years later, persuaded his friend Francisco de la Torre to publish a similar collection in equally bad taste.[891] Vergara followed, in 1660, under the affected title of “Ideas de Apolo,”[892] and Rozas, in 1662, under one still more affected,—“Conversation without Cards.”[893]
Ulloa, who prepared his poetry for the press as early as 1653, but did not print it till many years afterwards, wrote sometimes pleasantly and in a pure style, but often followed that prevailing in his time.[894] And finally, in 1677, appeared “The Harp of Apollo,” by Salazar, quite as bad as any of its predecessors, and quite worthy in all respects to close up the series.[895] More names might be added, but they would be of persons of less note; and even of those just enumerated little is now remembered, and less read. The whole mass, indeed, is of consequence chiefly to show the wide extent of the evil, and the rapidity with which it spread on all sides.
The depth to which it struck its roots may, however, be better estimated, if we consider two things: the unavailing efforts made by the leading spirits of the age to resist it, and the fact, that, after all, they themselves—Lope de Vega, Quevedo, and Calderon—yielded from time to time to the popular taste, and wrote in the very style they condemned.[896]
Of these distinguished men, the most prominent, whether we consider the influence he exercised over his contemporaries or the interest he took in this particular discussion, was, undoubtedly, Lope de Vega. Góngora had, at some period, been personally known to him, probably when he was in Andalusia in 1599, or earlier, when he was hastening to join the Armada; and from this time Lope always retained an unaffected respect for the Cordovan poet’s genius, and always rendered full justice to his earlier merits. But he did not spare the extravagances of Góngora’s later style; attacking it in his seventh Epistle; in an amusing sonnet, where he represents Boscan and Garcilasso as unable to understand it; in the poetical contest at the canonization of San Isidro; in the verses prefixed to the “Orfeo” of Montalvan; and in many other places; but, above all, in a long letter to a friend, who had formally asked his judgment on the whole subject.[897]