The Spanish chivalresque novel is thought by many sound judges to derive directly from Portugal,[37] which may, in its turn, have received the material of its knightly tales—and perhaps something more than the raw material—from Celtic France.[38] The conclusion is disputed,[39] but whatever opinion may prevail as regards the source of the books of chivalry, it seems fairly certain that the pastoral novel was introduced into Spain by a Portuguese writer whose inspiration came to him from Italy. In a general sense, Virgil is the father of the pastoral in all Latin lands: the more immediate source of the Italian pastoral is believed to be Boccaccio's Ameto, the model of Tasso and Guarini as also of Bembo and Sannasaro. Jacopo Sannazaro,[40] a Neapolitan courtier of Spanish descent, is the connecting link between the literatures of Italy and the Peninsula during the first part of the sixteenth century. His vogue in the latter was enhanced through the instrumentality of the renowned poet Garcilaso de la Vega,[41] the "starry paladin" of Spain. No small part of Garcilaso's work is a poetic recasting of Sannazaro's themes,[42] and we can scarcely doubt that Sannazaro's Arcadia suggested the first genuine Spanish pastoral to the Portuguese, Jorge de Montemôr, so called from his birthplace. The point has been contested, for Montemôr's Siete libros de la Diana are often said to have been published in 1542,[43] and the first Spanish translation of Sannazaro's Arcadia (by Diego López de Ayala) does not appear to have been issued till 1547.[44] It may, however, be taken as established that Montemôr's Diana was not really printed much earlier than 1558-9,[45] when it at once became the fashion.[46] The argument sets forth that in the city of León, by the banks of the Ezla, dwelt the beautiful shepherdess Diana, beloved of the shepherds Sireno and Silvano; the shepherdess favours Sireno, who is suddenly called away to foreign countries, whence he returns a year later to find a change of times and hearts, Diana being wedded to the shepherd Delio: "and here beginneth the first book, and in the remainder you shall find very diverse histories of events which in sooth befell, howbeit travestied under a pastoral style." Montemôr's diverse histories, which owe something to Bernardim Ribeiro's Saudades or Hystoria de Menina e moça[47] (a novel that begins as a chivalresque romance and ends as a pastoral tale), took Western Europe by storm. They may have been in Spenser's mind when he wrote The Shepherd's Calendar: they were unquestionably utilized by Sir Philip Sidney in The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, and it has been alleged with more or less plausibility that—possibly through Bartholomew Yong's version of Montemôr, which was finished in 1583, though not published till fifteen years later—the episode of Felismena has been transferred from the Diana to the Two Gentlemen of Verona.
The Diana ends with the promise of a Second Part in which the shepherd Danteo and the shepherdess Duarda shall figure, but this Second Part was not forthcoming as Montemôr was killed in Piedmont on February 26, 1561.[48] His design was very badly executed in 1564 by his friend Alonso Pérez, a Salamancan physician, who had the assurance to boast that there was scarcely a scrap of original prose or verse in his volume, the whole (as he vaunts) being stolen and imitated from Latins and Italians. "Nor," adds this astonishing doctor, "do I deem that I am in any sort to blame therefor, since they did as much by the Greeks."[49] Another, and a far better, continuation of Montemôr's Diana was issued at Valencia in this same year of 1664 by Gaspar Gil Polo—a sequel which, after proving almost as successful as Montemôr's original, was destined to be plagiarized in the most shameless fashion by Hierónimo de Texeda.[50]
That Cervantes was well acquainted with these early Spanish pastorals is proved by the discussion on the little books—contrasting with the hundred and more stately folios of the chivalresque romances—in Don Quixote's library. The niece of the Ingenious Gentleman thought that these slimmer volumes should "be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and piping." The Priest agrees in principle, but in practice he is more mercifully disposed:—"To begin, then, with the Diana of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and the magic water,[51] and of almost all the longer pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the first of books of the kind." And when questioned concerning the above-named sequels, the judicious Priest declares:—"As for that of the Salamancan, let it go to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself." With this jest on Gil Polo's name, the Priest passes over the next in order of the pastoral novels, Jerónimo de Arbolanche's Las Habidas (1566)[52]—a very rare work which, though not on Don Quixote's shelves, was more or less vaguely known to Cervantes[53]—to pronounce judgment on Los diez Libros de Fortuna d'Amor, an amazingly foolish book published in 1573 by a Sardinian soldier named Antonio de lo Frasso. Cervantes was just the man to praise (if possible) the work of an old comrade-in-arms, and, in fact, he contrived (through the Priest) to express his opinion of lo Frasso's book in terms which proved misleading:—"By the orders I have received, since Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found it than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff." It might seem difficult to interpret this as praise, and impossible to misunderstand the Priest's delight at meeting with what had already become a bibliographical rarity; but, some hundred and thirty years later, the last words of the passage were taken seriously and led to a reprint of lo Frasso's book by Pedro de Pineda, one of the correctors of Tonson's Don Quixote, who had manifestly overlooked the ridicule of the Sardinian in the Viaje del Parnaso.[54]
These pastorals, together with the chivalresque romances, had probably been the entertainment of Cervantes's youth. It was probably another and much later essay of the same kind which induced him to try his luck in the pastoral vein: the Pastor de Fílida, published at Madrid in 1582 by his friend Luis Gálvez de Montalvo, who is said (on doubtful authority, as we shall see presently) to have introduced Cervantes in his text as the shepherd Tirsi—de clarísimo ingenio. Whether this be so, or not, Cervantes, in his usual kindly, indulgent way, places his friend's work on Don Quixote's shelves, and treats it with gracious deference:—"No Pastor that, but a highly polished courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel." The book has but trifling interest for us nowadays; yet we may be sure that Cervantes's admiration was whole-hearted, and the fact that the volume passed through several editions[55] vindicates him from any suspicion of excessive partiality. It was his fine habit to praise generously. Neither his temperament nor his training was critical, and he attached even more than its due importance to the verdict of the public. He frankly rejoiced in Gálvez de Montalvo's success, and it is not unreasonable to conjecture that this success helped to hasten the appearance of the Galatea.
It may seem strange that Cervantes, whose transcriptions from life are eminently distinguished for truth and force, should have been induced to experiment in the province of artificial, languid pastoralism. But if, as Taine would have it, climate makes the race, the race makes the individual, and at this period the races of Western Europe had gone (so to say) pastorally mad.[56] The pastoral novel is not to our modern taste; but, as there is no more stability in literature than in politics, its day may come again.[57] In Cervantes's time there was no escaping from the prose idyll. Prodigious tales from the Indies had stimulated the popular appetite for wonders, and the demand was supplied to satiety in the later chivalresque romances. Feliciano de Silva and his fellows could think of nothing better than the systematic exaggeration of the most marvellous episodes in Amadís de Gaula. The adventures became more perilous, the knights more fantastically brave, the ladies (if possible) lovelier, the wizards craftier, the giants huger, the monsters more terrific, and so forth. In this vein nothing more was to be done: the formula was exhausted. The rival and more cultured school, founded by Sannazaro, endeavoured to lead men's minds from these noisy banalities to the placid contemplation of nature, or rather of idealized antiquity, by substituting for the din of arms, the stir of cities, and the furrowing of strange oceans by the prows of vulgar traders, the still, primeval
"Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth, and oarless sea."
Unluckily no departure from Sannazaro's original pattern was thought legitimate. Sir Philip Sidney rejects every attempt at innovation with the crushing remark that "neyther Theocritus in Greek, Virgill in Latine, nor Sanazar in Italian did affect it."[58] Hence the unbroken monotony of the pastoral convention. Nothing is easier than to mock at this new Arcadia where beauteous shepherdesses vanish discreetly behind glades and brakes, where golden-mouthed shepherds exchange confidences of unrequited passion, arguing the high metaphysical doctrine of Platonic love, or chanting most melancholy madrigals at intervals which the seasoned reader can calculate to a nicety beforehand. There never was, and never could be, such an atmosphere of deliberate dilettantism in such a world as ours. Taken as a whole these late Renascence pastorals weary us, as Sidney's Arcadia wearied Hazlitt, with their everlasting "alliteration, antithesis and metaphysical conceit," their "continual, uncalled-for interruptions, analysing, dissecting, disjointing, murdering everything, and reading a pragmatical, self-sufficient lecture over the dead body of nature." Briefly, while these pastoral writers of the sixteenth century persuaded themselves and their readers that they were returning to communion with hills and forests, to us it seems as though they offered little beyond unassimilated reminiscences of conventional classicism.
It would be idle to deny that the Galatea has many defects of the school to which it belongs, but it must always have a singular interest as being the first serious literary experiment made by a writer of consummate genius. Cervantes had the model, the sacred model, perpetually before his eyes, and he copied it (if not with conviction) with a grim determination which speaks for itself. He, too,—the ingenio lego—must be interpolating his learning, and referring to Virgil, Ovid, Propertius and the rest of them, with an air of intimate familiarity. Twenty years afterwards, when he had outgrown these little affectations, and was penning the amusing passage in which he banters Lope's childish pedantry,[59] the brilliant humorist must surely have smiled as he remembered his own performances in the same kind. He does honour to the grand tradition of prolixity by putting wiredrawn conceits into the mouths of shepherds who are much more like love-sick Abelards than like Comatas or Lacon, and, when his own stock of scholastic subtleties is ended, he has no scruple in allotting to Lenio and Tirsi[60] a short summary of the arguments which had been used long before by Filone and Sofía in his favourite book, León Hebreo's Dialoghi di Amore.[61] Had he taken far more material than he actually took, he would have been well within his rights, according to the prevailing ideas of literary morality. Whatever illiterate admirers may say, it is certain that Cervantes followed the fashion in borrowing freely from his predecessors. No careful reader of the Galatea can doubt that its author either had Sannazaro's Arcadia on his table, or that he knew it almost by heart.[62] His appreciation for the Arcadia was unbounded, and in the Viaje del Parnaso[63] the sight of Posilipo causes him to link together the names of Virgil and Sannazaro:—