MODERN SPANISH NOVELISTS
If asked to indicate the most interesting development in Spanish
literature during the last century, I should point—not to the drama and
poetry of the Romantic movement, but—to the renaissance of fiction.
As the passion for narrative ‘springs eternal in the human breast,’
Cervantes was sure to have a train of successors who would attempt to
carry on his great tradition. But, in the history of art, a short,
glorious summer is usually followed by a long, blighting winter.
The eighteenth century was an age of barrenness in Spain, so far as
concerns romance. No doubt Torres Villaroel’s autobiography contains
so much fiction that it may fairly be described as a picaresque novel,
and you might easily be worse employed than in reading it. Nature
intended the author to be a man of letters and a wit; poverty compelled
him to become an incapable professor of mathematics, and a diffuse
buffoon. With the single exception of Isla, no Spanish novelist of
this time finds readers now, and Isla’s main object is utilitarian.
The amusement in _Fray Gerundio_ is incidental, and art has a very
secondary place. Spain appears to have remained unaffected by the
great schools of novelists in England and France: instead of being
influenced by these writers, she influenced them. After lending to
Lesage, she lent to Marivaux; she lent also to Fielding and Sterne, not
to mention Smollett; but she herself was living on her capital. She has
no contemporary novelists to place beside Ramón de la Cruz, González
del Castillo, and the younger Moratín, all of whom found expression for
their talent in the dramatic form. Not till about the middle of the
last century does any notable novelist come
From tawny Spain, lost in the world’s debate.
While the War of Independence was in progress men were otherwise
engaged than in novel-reading, and in Ferdinand VII.’s reign literature
was apt to be a perilous trade. The banishment or flight of almost
every Spaniard of liberal opinions or intellectual distinction had
one result which might have been foreseen, if there had been a
clear-sighted man in the reactionary party. It brought to an end
the period of cut-and-dry classical domination. The exiles returned
with new ideals in literature as well as in politics. There was a
restless ferment of the libertarian, romantic spirit. Interest revived
in the old national romantic drama which had fallen out of fashion,
and had been known chiefly in recasts of a few stock pieces. Quaint
signs of change are discernible in unexpected quarters. When the
termagant Carlota, the Queen’s sister, snatched a state-paper out of
Calomarde’s hands and boxed his ears soundly, the crafty minister put
the affront aside by wittily quoting the title of one of Calderón’s
plays: ‘_Las manos blancas no ofenden_.’ Fifteen years earlier he
would probably have quoted from some wretched playwright like Comella.
French books were still eagerly read, but they were not ‘classical’
works. Chateaubriand and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre became available
in translations. Joaquín Telesforo de Trueba y Cosío, a _montañés_
residing in London, came under the spell of Walter Scott, and had the
courage to write two historical romances in English: I have read many
worse novels than _Gomez Arias_ and _The Castilians_, and every day
I see novels written in much worse English. The shadow of Scott was
projected far and wide over Spain, and those who read _The Bride of
Lammermoor_ usually went on to read _Notre-Dame de Paris_. If Scott
had never written historical novels, and if Ferdinand VII. had not
made many excellent Spaniards feel that they were safer anywhere than
in Spain, we should not have had Espronceda’s _Sancho Saldaña ó El
Castellano de Cuéllar_, nor Martínez de la Rosa’s Doña Isabel de Solís,
nor perhaps even Enrique Gil’s much more engaging story, _El Señor
de Bembibre_, which appeared in 1844. The first two are unsuccessful
imitations of Scott, and _El Señor de Bembibre_ is charged with
reminiscences of _The Bride of Lammermoor_.
It is one of life’s little ironies that the first writer of this period
to give us a genuinely Spanish story was not a writer of pure Spanish
origin. Fernán Caballero, as she chose to call herself,—and as it is
most convenient to call her, for she was married thrice, and therefore
used four different legal signatures, apart from her pseudonym,—was
the daughter of Johann Nikolas Böhl von Faber, who settled in Spain
and did useful journeyman’s work in literature. Born and partly
educated abroad, with a German father and a Spanish mother, it is not
surprising that she had the gift of tongues, and that one or two of
her early stories should have been originally written in French or in
German. Yet nothing could be less French or German than _La Gaviota_,
which appeared four years after _El Señor de Bembibre_ in a Spanish
version said (apparently on good authority) to be by Joaquín de Mora.
But, though Mora may be responsible for the style, nobody has ever
supposed that he was responsible for the matter, and any such theory
would be absurd, considering that Fernán Caballero wrote many similar
tales long after Mora’s death. In _La Gaviota_, in _La Familia de
Albareda_, in the _Cuadros de costumbres_, and the rest—transcriptions
of the simplest provincial customs, long since extirpated from the
soil in which they seemed to be irradicably implanted—there is for us
nowadays an historical interest; but there is nothing historical about
them: they are records of personal observation. Fortunately for herself
Fernán Caballero, who had no elaborate learning, did not attempt any
reconstruction of the past, and was mostly content to note what she
saw around her. In this sense she may be considered as a pioneer in
realism. The title would probably not have pleased her, owing to the
connotation of the word ‘realism’; but nevertheless she belongs to the
realistic school, and she expressly admits that she describes instead
of inventing. To prevent any possible misapprehension, it should be
said at once that her realism is gentle, peaceful and demure. She had
some small pretensions of her own, felt a mistaken vocation to do good
works among the heathen, and to be a trumpeter of orthodoxy. Each
of us is convinced, of course, that orthodoxy is his doxy, and that
heterodoxy is other people’s doxy; but Fernán Caballero’s insistence
has a self-righteous note which may easily grow tiresome. There are
some who find pleasure in her exhortations—especially amongst those who
regard them as expositions of obsolete doctrine; but very few of us
have reached this stage of cynicism.
These moralisings are the unessential and disfiguring element in Fernán
Caballero’s unconscious art. It is something to be able to tell a
story with intelligence and point, and this she does constantly. And,
besides the power of narration, she has the characteristic Spanish
faculty of undimmed sight. When she limits herself to what she has
actually seen (and, to be just, her expeditions afield are rare),
she is always alert, always attractive by virtue of her delicate,
feminine perception. Many phases of life are unknown to her; from other
phases she deliberately turns away; hence her picture is necessarily
incomplete. But she sympathises with what she knows, and the figures
on her narrow stage are rendered with dainty adroitness. There is no
great variety in her tableau of that mild Human Comedy which, with its
frugal joys and meek sorrows, it was her office to describe; but it
has the note of sincerity. Her methods are as realistic as those used
in later romances professing to be based on ‘human documents’—a phrase
now worn threadbare, but not yet invented when she began to write. She
reverted by instinct to realism of the national type,—realism which was
fully developed centuries before the French variety was dreamed of,—and
it was in the realistic field that her successors won triumphs greater
than her own.
Some ten or twelve years after the appearance of _La Gaviota_, Antonio
de Trueba leapt into popularity with a succession of stories all of
which might have been called—as one volume was called—_Cuentos de
color de rosa_. In the past my inability to appreciate Trueba as he
is appreciated in his native province of Vizcaya has brought me into
trouble. Each of us has his limitations, and, fresh from reading
Trueba once more, I stand before you impenitent, persuaded that, if
he flickers up into infantile prettiness, he sputters out in insipid
optimism. We cannot all be Biscayans, and must take the consequences.
In the circumstances I do not propose to deal with Trueba,—who, like
the rest of us, appears to have had a tolerably good conceit of
himself,—nor to spend much time in discussing the more brilliant Pedro
Antonio de Alarcón. Alarcón seems likely to be remembered better by _El
Sombrero de tres picos_—a lively expansion in prose of a well-known
_romance_—than by any of his later books. All literatures have their
disappointing personalities: men who at the outset seemed capable of
doing anything, who insist on doing everything, and who end by doing
next to nothing. Nobody who knows the meaning of words would say that
the author of _El Sombrero de tres picos_ did next to nothing, but much
more was expected of him. Whether there was, or was not, any reasonable
ground for these high hopes is another question. The ‘Might-Have-Been’
is always vanity. Save in such rare cases as that of Cervantes, who
published the First Part of _Don Quixote_ when he was fifty-eight (the
age at which Alarcón died in 1891), imaginative writers have generally
done their best work earlier in their careers. But, however this may
be, our expectations were not fulfilled in Alarcón’s case. A few
short stories represent him to posterity: like M. Bourget, he ‘found
salvation,’ lost much of his art, and, in his more elaborate novels,
became tedious. Fortunately, about ten years before the publication of
_El Sombrero de tres picos_, a new talent had revealed itself to those
who had eyes to see; and, as always happens everywhere, these were not
many.
While Trueba was writing the rose-coloured tales which endeared him to
the general public, José María de Pereda was growing up to manhood in
the north of Spain.[107] Though the verdict of the capital still counts
for much, it would not be true nowadays to say that the rest of Spain
accepts without question the dictation of Madrid in matters of literary
taste and fashion; but it was true enough of all the provinces—with the
possible exception of Cataluña—in the late fifties and early sixties,
when Pereda began to write for a Santander newspaper, _La Abeja
montañesa_. Though he was over thirty, he had then no wide experience
of life; he had been reared in a simple, old-fashioned circle where
everybody stood fast in the ancient ways, and where there was no
literary chatter. He seems to have had the usual traditional stock of
knowledge flogged into him in the old familiar way by the irascible
pedagogue whose portrait he has drawn not too kindly. From Santander
Pereda went to Madrid, studied there a short while, joyfully returned
home, and, till his health failed, scarcely ever left Polanco again,
except during the short period when he was sent as a deputy to the
Cortes. He hated the life of the capital, and remained till the end of
his days an incorrigibly faithful _montañesuco_.
It is necessary to bear these circumstances in mind, for they help
us to understand Pereda’s attitude. Hostile critics never tired of
charging him with provincialism, but ‘provincialism’ is not the
right word. The man was a born aristocrat, with no enthusiasm for
novelties in abstract speculation, no liking for political and social
theories which involved a rupture with the past; but his mind was
not irreceptive, and, if his outlook is circumscribed, what he does
see is conveyed with a pitiless lucidity. This power of imparting a
concentrated impression is noticeable in the _Escenas montañesas_
which appeared in 1864 with an introductory notice by Trueba, then in
the flush of success. It is an amusing spectacle, this of the lamb
standing as sponsor to the lion; and, with a timorous bleat, the lamb
disengages its responsibility as far as decency allows. The book was
praised by Mesonero Romanos—to whom Pereda subsequently dedicated _Don
Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera_; but with few exceptions outside
Santander, where local partiality rather than æsthetic taste led to a
more favourable judgment, all Spain agreed with Trueba’s implied view
that Pereda’s temperate realism was a morose caricature. The hastiest
commonplaces of criticism are the most readily accepted, and Pereda was
henceforth provided with a reputation which it took him about a dozen
years to live down. He lived it down, but not by compromising with his
censors. He remained unchanged in all but the mastery of his art which
gradually increased till _Bocetos al temple_ was recognised as a work
of something like genius.
It is a striking volume, but the distinguishing traits of _Bocetos al
temple_ are precisely those which characterise _Escenas montañesas_.
Pereda has developed in the sense that his touch is more confident, but
his point of view is the same as before. Take, for example, _La Mujer
del César_, the first story in the book: the moral simply is that it
is not enough to be beyond reproach, but that one must also seem to be
so. You may call this trite or old-fashioned in its simplicity, but it
is not ‘provincial.’ What is true is that the atmosphere of _Bocetos al
temple_ is ‘regional.’ The writer is not so childish as to suppose that
Madrid is peopled with demons, and the country hill-side with angels.
Pereda had no larger an acquaintance with angels than you or I have,
and his personages are pleasingly human in their blended strength and
weakness; but he had convinced himself that the constant virtues of the
antique world are hard to cultivate in overgrown centres of population,
and that the best of men is likely to suffer from the contagion of city
life. To this thesis he returned again and again: in _Pedro Sánchez_,
in _El Sabor de la Tierruca_, in _Peñas arriba_, he argues his point
with the pertinacity of conviction. There is nothing provincial in
the thesis, and it is good for those of us who are condemned to live
in fussy cities to know that we, too, seem as narrow-minded as any
fisherman or agricultural labourer. Can anything be more laughably
provincial than the Cockney, or the _boulevardier_, who conceives that
London, or New York, or Paris is the centre of the universe, that the
inhabitants of these places are foremost in the files of time? Nobody
is more provincial than an ordinary dweller in one of these large,
straggling, squalid villages. Pereda is not afflicted with megalomania;
he is not impressed by numbers; he does not ‘think in continents.’ He
believes all this to be the bounce of degenerate vulgarians, and leaves
us with a disquieting feeling that he may not be very far wrong.
He is not one of those who look forward to a new heaven and a new
earth next week. If you expect to find in him the qualities which you
find in Rousseau, or in any other wonder-child of the earthquake and
the tempest, you will assuredly be disappointed. But, if we take him
for what he is—a satirical observer of character, an artist whose
instantaneous presentation of character and of the visible world has
a singular relief and saliency—we shall be compelled to assign him
a very high place among the realists of Spain. No one who has once
met with the frivolous and vindictive Marquesa de Azulejo, with the
foppish Vizconde del Cierzo, with the futile Condesa de la Rocaverde,
or with Lucas Gómez, the purveyor of patchouli literature, can ever
forget them. In this particular of making his secondary figures
memorable, Pereda somewhat resembles Dickens, and both use—perhaps
abuse—caricature as a weapon. But the element of caricature is more
riotous in Dickens than in Pereda, and the acumen in Pereda is more
contemptuous than in Dickens. Pereda is in Spanish literature what
Narváez was in Spanish politics: he ‘uses the stick, and hits hard.’
Cervantes sees through and through you, notes every silly foible,
and yet loves you as though you were the most perfect of mortals,
and he the dullest fellow in the world. Pereda has something of
Cervantes’s seriousness without his constant amenity. He is nearer to
Quevedo’s intolerant spirit. Exasperated by absurdity and pretence,
he reverses the apostolic precept: so far from suffering fools
gladly, he gladly makes fools suffer. The collection entitled _Tipos
trashumantes_ contains admirable examples of his dexterity in malicious
portraiture—the political quack in _El Excelentísimo Señor_ who, like
the rest of us Spaniards (says Pereda dryly), is able to do anything
and everything; the scrofulous barber in _Un Artista_, whose father was
killed in the _opéra-comique_ revolution of ’54, who condescends to
visit Santander professionally in the summer, and familiarly refers to
Pérez Galdós by his Christian name; the hopeless booby in _Un Sabio_,
who has addled his poor brain by drinking German philosophy badly
corked by Sanz del Río, and who abandons the belief in which he was
brought up for spiritualistic antics which enable him to commune with
the departed souls of Confucius and Sancho Panza. These performances
are models of cruel irony.
_Bocetos al temple_ was the first of Pereda’s books to attract the
public, and it may be recommended to any one who wishes to judge
the writer’s talent in its first phase. Pereda did greater things
afterwards, but nothing more characteristic. It was always a source of
weakness to his art that he had a didactic intention—an itch to prove
that he is right, and that his opponents are wrong, often criminally
wrong—and this tendency became more pronounced in some of his later
books. Such novels as _El Buey suelto_, and the still more admirable
_De tal palo, tal astilla_, have an individual interest of their own,
but we are never allowed the privilege of forgetting that the one is
a refutation of Balzac’s _Petites misères de la vie conjugale_, and
the other a refutation of Pérez Galdós’s _Doña Perfecta_. To Pereda
the problem seems perfectly simple. You have been discouraged from
matrimony by Balzac, who has told you that the life of a married man
is a canker of trials and disappointments—small, but so numerous that
at last they amount to a tragedy, and so cumulative that the doomed
creature feels himself a complete failure both as a husband and a
father. Pereda seeks to encourage you by exhibiting the other side of
the medal. Gedeón is a bachelor, a _buey suelto_: he has freedom, but
it is the desolate freedom of the stray steer—or rather of the wild
ass. He is worried to death by the nagging and quarrelling of his
maid-servants; he gets rid of them, and is plundered by men-servants;
he is miserable in a boarding-house, he is neglected in an hôtel; he
has no family ties, is profoundly uncomfortable, goes from bad to
worse, and finally expiates by marrying his mistress shortly before
his death. The picture of well-to-do discomfort is powerful, but, as
a refutation of Balzac, it is not convincing. So, again, in _De tal
palo, tal astilla_. Fernando encounters the pious Águeda; his suit
fails, he commits suicide, and she finds rest in religion, the only
consoling agent. This is all far too simple. Are we to believe that
every bachelor is a selfish dolt, or that only atheists commit suicide?
Pereda, no doubt, lived to learn differently, but meanwhile his
insistence on his own views had spoiled two works of art.
Something of this polemical strain runs through all his romances, and,
after the fall of the republic and the restoration of the Bourbons,
his conservatism may have contributed to make him popular in the late
seventies and the early eighties. But we are twenty or thirty years
removed from the passions of that period, and Pereda’s work stands the
crucial test of time. He is not specially skilful in construction,
and digresses into irrelevant episodes; but he can usually tell his
tale forcibly, and, when he warms to it, with grim conciseness; he is
seldom declamatory, is a master of diction untainted by gallicisms, and
records with caustic humour every relevant detail in whatever passes
before his eyes. He is the chronicler of a Spain, reactionary and
picturesque, which is fast disappearing, and will soon have vanished
altogether. If the generations of the future feel any curiosity as to
a social system which has passed away, they will turn to Pereda for a
description of it just before its dissolution. He paints it with the
desperate force of one who feels that he is on the losing side. His
interpretation may be—it very often is—imperfect and savagely unjust;
but its vigour is imposing, and, if his world contains rather too many
degraded types, it is also rich in noble figures like Don Román Pérez
de la Llosía in _Don Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera_, and in profiles
of humble illiterates who, in the eyes of their artistic creator, did
more real service to their country than many far better known to fame.
One is tempted to dwell upon Pereda’s achievement—first, because his
novels are thronged with lifelike personages; and second, because
they proved that Spain, though separated from the rest of Europe in
sentiment and belief, was not intellectually dead. While Pereda was
writing _Pedro Sánchez_ and _Sotileza_, the world north of the Pyrenees
was wrangling over naturalism in romance as though it were a new
discovery. The critics of London and Paris were clearly unaware that
naturalism had been practised for years past in Spain by novelists who
thus revived an ancient national tradition. Pereda is still little read
out of Spain, and, though attempts to translate him have been made, he
is perhaps too emphatically Spanish to bear the operation. Spaniards
themselves need some aids to read him with comfort, and the glossary
at the end of _Sotileza_ has been a very present help to many of us in
time of trouble. A writer who indulges in dialectical peculiarities
or in technical expressions to such an extent may be presumed to
have counted the cost: and the cost is that he remains comparatively
unknown beyond his own frontier. He cannot be reproached with making
an illegitimate bid for popularity, nor accused of defection from the
cause of realism. Pereda was not indifferent to fame, but he did not go
far to seek it. Like the Shunamite woman, he chose to dwell among his
own people, to picture their existence passed in contented industry, to
exalt their ideals, and to value their applause more than that of the
outside world.
Fu vera gloria? Ai posteri
L’ardua sentenza.
A perfect contrast in every way was Juan Valera, whose ductile talent
had concerned itself with many matters before it found an outlet in
fiction. Pereda was stubbornly regional and fanatically orthodox:
Valera was a cosmopolitan strayed out of Andalusia, a careless Gallio,
observing with serene amusement the fussiness of mankind over to
be, or not to be. Pereda tends to tragic or melodramatic pessimism:
Valera is a bland and disinterested spectator, to whom life is a
brilliant, diverting comedy. He had lived much, reflected long, and
seen through most people and most things before committing himself to
the delineation of character. To the end of his life he never learned
the trick of construction, but he was a born master of style and had
an unsurpassed power of ingratiation. He had scarcely come up from
Córdoba when he became ‘Juanito’ to all his acquaintances in Madrid,
and his personal charm accompanied him into literature. Macaulay says
somewhere that if Southey wrote nonsense, he would still be read with
pleasure. This is true also of Valera, who, unlike Southey, never
borders on nonsense. Though he has no prejudices to embarrass him, he
has a rare dramatic sympathy with every mental attitude, and this keen,
intelligent comprehension lends to all his creative work a savour of
universality which makes him—of all modern Spanish novelists—the most
acceptable abroad. Yet, despite his sceptical cosmopolitanism, which
is by no means Spanish, Valera is an authentic Spaniard of the best
age in his fusion of urbanity and authoritative insight. This politely
incredulous man of the world is profoundly interested in mysticism, and
still more in its practical manifestations. Nothing human is alien to
him, and nothing is too transcendental to escape criticism.
In this frame of mind, habitual with him, he sat down to write _Pepita
Jiménez_. The story is the simplest imaginable. Pepita, a young widow,
is on the point of marrying Don Pedro de Vargas, when she meets
his son Luis, a young seminarist with exaggerated ideas of his own
spiritual gifts. Luis is a complete clerical prig, who disdains such
everyday work as preaching the gospel in his own country, and vapours
about being martyred by pagans. As he has not a vestige of religious
vocation, the end is easily foretold. At some cost to her own character
Pepita pricks the bubble, and all the young man’s aspirations melt into
the air; he is made to perceive that his pretensions to sanctity are
silly, marries the heroine who was to have been his stepmother, and
subsides into a worthy, commonplace husband. In his _Religio Poetae_
Patmore praises _Pepita Jiménez_ as an example of ‘that complete
synthesis of gravity of matter and gaiety of manner which is the
glittering crown of art, and which, out of Spanish literature, is to
be found only in Shakespeare, and even in him in a far less obvious
degree.’ Patmore has almost always something striking to say, and even
his critical paradoxes are interesting. We have no means of knowing how
far his Spanish studies went, but we may guess that his acquaintance
with Spanish literature was perhaps not very wide, and not very deep.
As regards Pepita Jiménez his verdict is conspicuously right: it is
conspicuously wrong with respect to Spanish literature as a whole. The
perfect blending of which he speaks is as rare in Spain as elsewhere.
In Valera it is the result of deliberate artistic method; his gravity
is a necessity of the situation; his gaiety is rooted in his sceptical
politeness. In his critical work his politeness is decidedly overdone;
he praises and lauds in terms which would seem excessive if applied to
Dante or Milton. He knows the stuff of which most authors are made,
presumes on their proverbial vanity, and flatters so violently that he
oversteps the limits of good-breeding. Some of you may remember the
dignified rebuke of these tactics by Sr. Cuervo. But in his novels
Valera strikes no attitude of impertinent or sublime condescension. He
analyses his characters with a subtle and admirably patient delicacy.
A hostile critic might perhaps urge that Valera’s novels are too much
alike; that Doña Luz is cast in the same mould as Pepita Jiménez,
that Enrique is a double of Luis, and so forth. There is some truth
in this. Valera does repeat the situations which interest him most,
but so does every novelist; his treatment differs in each case, and
is logically consistent with each character. There is more force in
the objection that he overcharges his books with episodical arabesques
which, though masterly _tours de force_, retard the development of
the story. Now that we have them, we should be sorry to lose the
brilliant passages in which the quintessence of the great Spanish
mystics is distilled; but it is plainly an error of judgment to assign
them to Pepita. However, this objection applies less to _Doña Luz_
than to _Pepita Jiménez_, and it applies not at all to _El Comendador
Mendoza_—doubtless a transfigured piece of autobiography, both poignant
and gracious in its evocation of a far-off passion. And in his shorter
stories Valera often attains a magical effect of disquieting irony.
Most authors write far too much, either from necessity or from vanity,
and Valera, who was too acute to be vain, wasted his energies in too
many directions and on too many subjects. Still he has improvised
comparatively little in the shape of fiction, and, even in extreme old
age, when the calamity of blindness had overtaken him, he surprised and
enchanted his admirers with more than one arresting volume. Speaking
broadly, the characteristics of the best Spanish art are force and
truth, and in these respects Valera holds his own. Yet he is more
complicated and elaborate than Spaniards are wont to be. His work is
penetrated with subtleties and reticences; his force is scrupulously
measured, and his truth is conveyed by implication and innuendo,
never by emphasis nor crude insistency. Compared with his exquisite
adjustment of word to thought, the methods of other writers seem coarse
and brutal. You may refuse to recognise him as a great novelist, if you
choose; but it is impossible to deny that he was a consummate literary
artist.
At this point I should prefer to bring my review to a close. The
authors of whom we have been speaking belong to history. So, too, does
Leopoldo Alas, the author of _La Regenta_, an analytical novel which
will be read long after his pungent criticisms are forgotten, though as
a critic he did excellent work. It is a more delicate matter to judge
contemporaries. You will not expect me to compile a list of names as
arid and interminable as an auctioneer’s catalogue. How many important
novelists are there in France, or England, or Russia? Not more than two
or three in each, and we shall be putting it fairly high if we assume
that Spain has as many notable novelists as these three countries put
together. Passing by a crowd of illustrious obscurities, we meet with
Benito Pérez Galdós, and with innumerable examples of his diffuse
talent. Copiousness has always been more highly esteemed in Spain than
elsewhere, and in this particular Pérez Galdós should satisfy the
exacting standard of his countrymen. But to some of us copiousness
is no great recommendation. There are forty volumes in the series of
_Episodios Nacionales_, and who knows how many more in the series of
_Novelas Españolas Contemporáneas_? Frankly there is a distasteful air
of commercialism in this huge and punctual production. It would seem
as though in Spain, as in England, literature is in danger of becoming
a business, and of ceasing to be an art. This is not the way in which
masterpieces have been written hitherto; but masterpieces are rare, and
there is no recipe for producing them.
If there had been, we may feel sure that Pérez Galdós would have hit
upon it, for his acumen and perseverance are undoubted. Not one of the
_Episodios Nacionales_ is a great book, but also not one is wanting
in great literary qualities—the faculty of historical reconstruction,
the evaluation of the personal factor in great events, and the gift of
picturesque detail. If the power of concentration were added to his
profuse equipment, Pérez Galdós would be an admirable master. Even as
it is, to any one who wishes to obtain—and in the most agreeable way—a
just idea of the political and social evolution of Spain from the time
of Charles IV. to the time of the Republic, the _Episodios Nacionales_
may be heartily commended. And, in these crowded pages, some figures
stand out with remarkable saliency—as, for instance, the guerrilla
priest in _Carlos VI. en la Rápita_, a volume which shows the author to
be unwearied as he draws near the end of his long task, and as vivid
as ever in historical narrative. He is, moreover, an astute observer
of the present, far-seeing in _Fortunata y Jacinta_ and humoristic in
_El Doctor Centeno_. You perhaps remember the description of the cigar
which Felipe smoked, the account of the banquet presided over by the
solemn and amiable Don Florencio—Don Florencio with alarming eyebrows,
so thick and dark that they looked like strips of black velvet. These
peculiarities are hit off in Dickens’s best manner, and yet with a
certain neutral touch. Not that Pérez Galdós is habitually neutral:
he is an old-fashioned Liberal with a thesis to prove—the admirable
thesis that liberty is the best thing in the world. But this is not
an obviously Spanish idea. The modernity of Pérez Galdós is exotic in
Spain. He gives us an interesting view of Spanish society in all its
aspects. Still,—let us never forget it,—the picture is painted not by
a native, but by a colonial, hand. Born in the Canary Islands, Pérez
Galdós lives in Spain, but is not of it; he dwells a little apart from
the high road of its secular life. And this lends a peculiar value to
his presentation; for what it loses in force, it gains in objectivity.
A foreign influence is unquestionably visible in the novels of both
Armando Palacio Valdés and the Condesa Pardo Bazán—perhaps the most
gifted authoress now before the public. The existence of this foreign
element is denied by partisans, but it would not be disputed by the
writers themselves. Was not the Condesa Pardo Bazán the standard-bearer
of French naturalism in Spain during the early nineties? We are apt
to forget it, for what she then called ‘the palpitating question’
palpitates no more. Who can read the Condesa Pardo Bazán’s _Madre
Naturaleza_ without being reminded of Zola, or Palacio Valdés’s _La
Hermana San Sulpicio_ without being reminded of the Goncourts? Yet
in _La Hermana San Sulpicio_, where Gloria is the very type of the
sparkling Andalusian, and in the still more charming _Marta y María_
which appeared some years earlier, there is a genuine original talent
which fades out in _La Espuma_ and _La Fe_. In these last two books
Palacio Valdés does moderately well what half a dozen French novelists
had done better. One vaguely feels that Palacio Valdés is losing his
way, but he finds it again in the Spanish atmosphere of _Los Majos de
Cádiz_ where we see Andalusia once more through Asturian spectacles.
As to the Condesa Pardo Bazán, she has unfortunately diffused her
energies in all directions. No one can succeed in everything—as a poet,
a romancer, an essayist, a critic, a lecturer, and a politician. Yet
the Condesa Pardo Bazán is all this, and more. We would gladly exchange
all her miscellaneous writings for another novel like _Los Pazos de
Ulloa_, where the peasant is displayed in a light which must have
pained Pereda. Is Galicia so different from the Mountain? But extremes
meet at last. Dr. Máximo Juncal in _La Madre Naturaleza_ thinks with
Pereda that townsfolk are beyond salvation: only—and the difference is
capital—he would leave nature to work her will without the restraints
of traditional ethics. Clearly all women are not hampered by timidity
and conservative instincts! But Palacio Valdés may be read for the
constant, acrid keenness of his appreciation of character, and the
Condesa Pardo Bazán for her vigorous portraiture of the Galician
peasantry, and her art as a landscape painter.
We have the measure of what they can do, and they are at least as
well known out of Spain as they deserve. A more enigmatic personality
is Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. It is the charm of most modern Spanish
novelists that they are intensely local. Pérez Galdós is an exception;
but Valera is at his best in Andalusia, Pereda in Cantabria, Palacio
Valdés in Asturias, and the Condesa Pardo Bazán in Galicia. Blasco
Ibáñez is a Valencian; he knows the orchard of Spain as Mr. Hardy knows
Dorsetshire, and he is most himself in the Valencian surroundings of
_Flor de Mayo_, _La Barraca_, and _Cañas y barro_. But his allegiance
is divided between literature and politics. Not content with
propagating his ideas in the columns of his newspaper, _El Pueblo_,
he propagates them under cover of fiction. He is the novelist of
the social revolution, and the revolution is needed everywhere. The
scene of _La Catedral_ is laid in Toledo, the scene of _El Intruso_
in Bilbao, and in _La Horda_ we have the proletariate of Madrid in
squalid truthfulness. Each of these is a _roman à thèse_, or, if you
prefer it, an incitement to rebellion. Blasco Ibáñez is the apostle
of combat, he knows the strength of the established system, and his
revolutionary heroes die defeated by the organised forces of social
and ecclesiastical conservatism. But he is fundamentally optimistic,
convinced that the final victory of the revolution is assured if the
struggle be maintained. We may not sympathise with his views, and may
doubt whether they will prevail; but the gospel of constancy in labour
needs preaching in Spain, and Blasco Ibáñez preaches it with impressive
(and sometimes rather incorrect) eloquence. His latest story, _La Maja
desnuda_, is more in the French manner, but it is no mere imitation; it
is original in treatment, a record of gradual disillusion, a painful,
cruel, true account of the intense wretchedness of a pair who once were
lovers. Blasco Ibáñez has given us three or four admirable novels, and
he is still young enough to reconsider his theories, and to grow in
strength and sanity.
He is not alone. In _Paradox_, _Rey_, and in _Los últimos románticos_
Pío Baroja introduces a fresh and reckless note of social satire,
while novelty of thought and style characterise Martínez Ruiz in _Las
confesiones de un pequeño filósofo_ and Valle-Inclán in _Flor de
Santidad_ and _Sonata de otoño_. These are the immediate hopes of the
future. But prophecy is a vain thing: the future lies on the knees of
the gods.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] ‘Nierva’ in Eugenio de Ochoa, _Rimas inéditas_ (Paris, 1851), p.
305.
[2] The Archpriest’s poems are preserved in three ancient manuscripts
known respectively as the Gayoso, Toledo, and Salamanca MSS. (1)
The Gayoso MS. was finished on Thursday, July 23, 1389; it formerly
belonged to Benito Martínez Gayoso, came into the possession of Tomás
Antonio Sánchez on May 12, 1787, and is now in the library of the Royal
Spanish Academy at Madrid. (2) The Toledo MS., which belongs to the
same period, has been transferred from the library of Toledo Cathedral
to the Biblioteca Nacional at Madrid. (3) The Salamanca MS., formerly
in the library of the Colegio Mayor de San Bartolomé at Salamanca, is
now in the Royal Library at Madrid: though somewhat later in date than
the Gayoso and Toledo MSS., it is more carefully written, and the text
is less incomplete.
[3] In a contribution to the _Jahrbücher der Literatur_ (Wien, 1831-2),
vols. iv., pp. 234-264; lvi., pp. 239-266; lvii., pp. 169-200;
lviii., pp. 220-268; lix., pp. 25-50. See the reprint in Ferdinand
Wolf, _Studien zur Geschichte der spanischen und portugiesischen
Nationalliteratur_ (Berlin, 1859).
[4]
Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis,
Ut possis animo quemvis sufferre laborem.—_Disticha_, iii. 6.
[5] In _Letters from an English Traveller in Spain, in 1778, on the
origin and progress of Poetry in that Kingdom_ (London, 1781). This
work was published anonymously by John Talbot Dillon, who acknowledges
his ‘particular obligations’ to the works of Luis José Velázquez, López
de Sedano, and Sarmiento.
[6] _Romancero General, ó Colección de romances castellanos anteriores
al siglo XVIII. recogidos, ordenados, clasificados y anotados por Don
Agustín Durán_ (Madrid, 1849-1851). This collection forms vol. x. and
vol. xvi. of the _Biblioteca de Autores Españoles_.
_Primavera y Flor de romances publicada con una introducción y notas
por D. Fernando José Wolf y D. Conrado Hofmann_ (Berlin, 1856).
Throughout the present lecture the references to the _Primavera_ are to
the second enlarged edition issued by Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo at Madrid
in 1899-1900.
[7] _Sammlung der besten, alten Spanischen Historischen, Ritter- und
Maurischen Romanzen. Geordnet und mit Anmerkungen und einer Einleitung
versehen von Ch. B. Depping_ (Altenburg und Leipzig, 1817).
[8] In the _Avertissement_ to _Le Cid_ (editions of 1648-56), Corneille
quotes two ballads from the _Romancero general_:
(_a_) Delante el rey de León Doña Jimena una tarde...
(_b_) Á Jimena y á Rodrigo prendió el rey palabra y mano.
They are given in Durán, Nos. 735 and 739.
[9] _Traitté de l’origine des romans_, preceding Segrais’ _Zayde,
Histoire Espagnole_ (Paris, 1671), p. 51.
[10] _Primavera_ (Apéndices), No. 17.
[11] _Ibid._ (Apéndices), No. 18.
[12] _Primavera_, No. 5; Durán, No. 599.
[13] _Anseis von Karthago._ _Herausgegeben von Johann Alton_, 194ste
Publication des Litterarischen Vereins in Stuttgart. (Tübingen, 1892.)
[14] _Primavera_, No. 5_a_; Durán, No. 602.
[15] James Young Gibson, _The Cid Ballads, and other Poems and
Translations from Spanish and German_ (London, 1887).
[16] _Primavera_, No. 7; Durán, No. 606.
[17] _Orientales_, XVI. Victor Hugo may probably have heard of this
_romance_, and of the Lara _romance_ mentioned on pp. 91-92, through
his elder brother Abel, who gave prose translations of both ballads in
his _Romances historiques_ (Paris, 1822), pp. 11-12, 135-137.
[18] Durán, No. 586. Durán points out the absurd impropriety of the
line:—
Sabrás, mi florida Cava, que de ayer acá, no vivo.
The ending of this _romance_ is far better known than the beginning:—
Si dicen quien de los dos la mayor culpa ha tenido,
digan los hombres ‘La Cava,’ y las mujeres ‘Rodrigo.’
[19] _Primavera_, No. 13_a_; Durán, No. 654.
[20] Durán, No. 646. _The Complaint of the Count of Saldaña_, as
Lockhart entitles it, is from Durán, No. 625:—
Bañando está las prisiones con lágrimas que derrama.
_The Funeral of the Count of Saldaña_ is from Durán, No. 657:—
Hincado está de rodillas ese valiente Bernardo.
_Bernardo and Alphonso_ is from Durán, No. 655:—
Con solos diez de los suyos ante el Rey, Bernardo llega.
[21] Durán, No. 617.
[22] _Primavera_, No. 15; Durán, No. 700.
[23] _Primavera_, No. 17; Durán, No. 704.
[24] _Primavera_, No. 16; Durán, No. 703.
[25] Durán, No. 686.
No se puede llamar rey quien usa tal villanía.
[26] _Primavera_, No. 26; Durán, No. 691.
[27] _Primavera_, No. 19; Durán, No. 665.
[28] _Primavera_, No. 24.
[29] _Primavera_, No. 25.
[30] Durán, No. 721.
[31] _Primavera_, No. 27.
[32] _Primavera_, No. 29; Durán, No. 731.
[33] Durán, No. 732.
[34] Durán, No. 737.
[35] Durán, No. 738.
[36] Durán, No. 740.
[37] Durán, No. 742.
[38] Durán, No. 886. Lockhart begins at the line—
El rey aguardara al Cid como á bueno y leal vasallo.
[39] _Primavera_, No. 34; Durán, No. 756.
[40] _Primavera_, No. 30_b_; Durán, No. 733.
[41] The other two are (_a_) _Primavera_, No. 30:—
Cada dia que amanece veo quien mató á mi padre.
(b) _Primavera_, No. 61_a_, and Duran, No. 922:—
En Burgos está el buen rey don Alonso el Deseado.
[42] _Primavera_, No. 42_a_; Durán, No. 775.
[43] _Primavera_, No. 50; Durán, No. 1897.
[44] _Primavera_, No. 35; Durán, No. 762.
[45] _Primavera_, No. 45; Durán, No. 777.
[46] _Primavera_, No. 47; Durán, No. 791.
[47] _Primavera_, No. 54; Durán, No. 816.
[48] _Primavera_, No. 55; Durán No. 858.
[49] Durán, No. 935.
[50] Durán, No. 933.
[51] _Primavera_, No. 65; Durán, No. 966.
[52] _Primavera_, No. 68; Durán, No. 972.
[53] Durán, No. 978.
[54] Durán, No. 979.
[55] Durán, No. 981.
[56] _Primavera_, No. 101_a_; Durán, No. 1227.
[57] _Primavera_, No. 72; Durán, No. 1046.
[58] Durán, No. 1082.
[59] _Primavera_, No. 95; Durán, No. 1088.
[60] _The Departure of King Sebastian_, referring to the expedition of
1578, is obviously modern; the original is to be found in Durán, No.
1245:—
Una bella lusitana, dama ilustre y de valía.
[61] _Primavera_, No. 96_a_; Durán, 1086.
[62] _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ (London, 1765), vol. i., pp.
319-323. Percy’s version begins as follows:—
Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow’d shore.
All beside thy limpid waters,
All beside thy sands so bright,
Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors
Join’d in fierce and mortal fight.
Lords, and dukes, and noble princes
On thy fatal banks were slain;
Fatal banks that gave to slaughter
All the pride and flower of Spain.
Percy also gives an adaptation of Durán, No. 53:—
Por la calle de su dama paseando se halla Zaide.
In a preliminary note he says:—‘The Spanish editor pretends (how truly
I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco
language. Indeed the plain, unadorned nature of the verse, and the
native simplicity of language and sentiment, which runs through these
poems, prove that they are ancient; or, at least, that they were
written before the Castillians began to form themselves on the model of
the Tuscan poets, and had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit
and refinement which has for these two centuries past so miserably
infected the Spanish poetry, and rendered it so unnatural, affected,
and obscure.’
[63] _Primavera_, No. 85a; Durán, No. 1064. Byron’s adaptation is
entitled _A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama,
which, in the Arabic language is to the following purport_:—
The Moorish king rides up and down,
Through Granada’s royal town;
From Elvira’s gates to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.
Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell,
How Alhama’s city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.
Woe is me, Alhama! etc.
Ginés Pérez de Hita states that this ballad was originally written in
Arabic, and that the inhabitants of Granada were forbidden to sing it.
Possibly the _romance_ was suggested by some Arabic song on the loss of
Alhama.
[64] _Primavera_ (Apéndices), No. 18.
[65] Published at Sevillo in 1588, and reprinted at Jaén in 1867.
[66] _Primavera_, No. 71; Durán, No. 1039.
[67] _Primavera_, No. 79; Durán, No. 1073.
[68] See M. R. Foulché-Delbosc’s edition (Macon, 1904), p. 189.
Aquel que tu vees con la saetada,
que nunca mas faze mudança del gesto,
mas, por virtud de morir tan onesto,
dexa su sangre tan bien derramada
sobre la villa no poco cantada,
el adelantado Diego de Ribera
es el que fizo la vuestra frontera
tender las sus faldas mas contra Granada.
[69] _Primavera_, No. 74; Durán, No. 1043.
[70] _Primavera_, No. 78_a_; Durán, No. 1038.
[71] _Primavera_, No. 88; Durán, No. 1102.
[72] _Primavera_, No. 134; Durán, No. 1131.
[73] _Primavera_, No. 93; Durán, No. 1121.
[74] The original of _The Bull-fight of Gazul_ is Durán, No. 45:—
Estando toda la corte de Almanzor, rey de Granada.
It appears first in the _Romancero general_: so also does the original
of _The Zegri’s Bride_, Durán, No. 188.
Lisaro que fue en Granada cabeza de los Cegríes.
_The Bridal of Andalla_ represents Durán, No. 128:—
Ponte á las rejas azules, deja la manga que labras.
The verses entitled _Zara’s Earrings_ are altogether out of place in
this section. The orientalism is Lockhart’s own; there is n_o_ mention
of ‘Zara,’ ‘Muça,’ ‘Granada,’ ‘Albuharez’ daughter,’ and ‘Tunis’ in the
original, which will be found in Durán, N_o_. 1803.
¡La niña morena, que yendo á la fuente
perdió sus zarcillos, gran pena merece!
_The Lamentation for Celin_ represents a poem first printed in the
_Romancero general_, and given in Durán, No. 126.
[75] _Primavera_, No. 132; Durán, No. 3.
[76] _Primavera_, No. 193; Durán, No. 373.
[77] _Primavera_, No. 171; Durán, No. 374.
[78] Durán, No. 379.
[79] _Primavera_, No. 184; Durán, No. 400.
[80] _Primavera_, No. 186; Durán, No. 402.
[81] _Primavera_, No. 151; Durán, No. 295.
[82] _Primavera_, No. 150; Durán, No. 294.
[83]
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,
All my dreams, come back to me.
Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,
And the answer from the shore!
Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
And the sailor’s mystic song.
Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft, monotonous cadence
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;—
Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land;—
How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
Poised upon the mast to hear,
Till his soul was full of longing,
And he cried with impulse strong,—
‘Helmsman! for the love of heaven,
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!’
‘Wouldst thou,’ so the helmsman answered,
‘Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery!’
[84] _Primavera_, No. 153; Durán, No. 286.
[85] Depping, IV., No. 19, p. 418:—
À coger el trebol, Damas!
La mañana de san Juan,
À coger el trebol, Damas!
Que despues no avrà lugar.
[86] _Primavera_, No. 124; Durán, No. 8.
[87] Durán, No. 1808.
[88] _Primavera_, No. 125; Durán, No. 300.
[89] _Romancero general_ (Madrid, 1604), p. 407_v_.
[90] Durán, No. 1454.
[91] Durán, No. 292.
[92] _Ibid._, No. 274.
[93] _Primavera_, No. 116; Durán, No. 1446.
[94] _Primavera_, No. 147; Durán, No. 351.
[95] _Primavera_, No. 142; Durán, No. 1459.
[96] _Primavera_, No. 131; Durán, No. 255.
[97] _Primavera_, No. 163; Durán, No. 365.
[98] _XV. Romances_. (Ordenólos R. Foulché-Delbosc.) Barcelona [1907].
[99] _Los Lunes de El Imparcial_ (9 de Julio de 1906): ‘_El peor
enemigo de Cervantes._’
[100] The present lecture was first delivered at the University of
Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, on November 25, 1907.
[101] Yet Quinault had already adapted _El galán fantasma_ under the
title of _Le Fantôme amoureux_, which is the source of Sir William
Lower’s _Amorous Fantasme_ (1660), and there are other French
imitations by Quinault, Scarron, and Thomas Corneille. Calderón was
popular in Italy. As early as 1654, Cardinal Giulio Rospigliosi
(afterwards Clement IX.) based on _No siempre lo peor es cierto_ the
libretto of _Dal male il bene_, which was set to music by Antonio Maria
Abbatini and Marco Marazzoli. In 1656 _El mayor monstruo los celos_
was arranged for the Italian stage by Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, who
afterwards produced many other adaptations of Calderón’s plays: see an
interesting and learned article by Dr. Arturo Farinelli in _Cultura
Española_ (Madrid, February 1907), pp. 123-127.
[102] If Calderón be really the author of the _sainete_ entitled _El
Labrador Gentilhombre_ printed at the end of _Hado y divisa de Leonido
y Marfisa_, he had evidently read Molière’s _Bourgeois gentilhomme_.
But the authorship of this _sainete_ is uncertain.
[103] Most Spaniards who ridicule Calderón for using _hipogrifo_
accentuate the word wrongly in speech and writing. _Hipógrifo_ is a
mistake; the word is not a _palabra esdrújula_, as may be seen from
Lope de Vega’s use of it in _La Gatomaquia_ (silva vii.):—
Que vemos en Orlando el hipogrifo,
monstruo compuesto de caballo y grifo.
Calderón himself gives it as a palabra llana in his _auto_ entitled
_La lepra de Constantino_. For other examples, see Rufino José Cuervo,
_Apuntaciones críticas sobre el lenguaje bogotano con frecuente
referencia al de los países de Hispano-América_. Quinta edición (Paris,
1907), pp. 11-12.
[104] Pedro Jozé Suppico de Moraes, _Collecção politica de apothegmas,
ou ditos agudos, e sentenciosos_ (Coimbra, 1761), Parte 1., pp. 337-338.
[105] Zamora’s arrangement of Calderón’s _auto_ entitled _El pleito
matrimonial_ was played at the Príncipe theatre in Madrid on the Feast
of Corpus Christi, 1762.
[106] Philip IV. is usually described as a man of artistic tastes,
but the evidence does not altogether support this view. For instance,
on February 18, 1637, at a poetical improvisation in the Buen Retiro,
Philip set Calderón and Vélez de Guevara the following subjects:—(1)
‘Why is Jupiter always painted with a fair beard?’ (2) ‘Why are the
waiting-women at Court called _mondongas_, though they do not sell
_mondongo_ (black-pudding)?’ Time did not improve Philip. Some twenty
years later, according to Barrionuevo, Philip arranged that women
only should attend a certain performance at the theatre, and gave
instructions that they should leave off their _guardain-fantes_ on
this occasion. His idea was to be present with the Queen, and (from a
spot where he could see without being observed) watch the effect when
a hundred mice were suddenly let out of mice-traps in the _casuela_
and _patio_—‘which, if it takes place, will be worth seeing, and a
diversion for Their Majesties.’ Owing (apparently) to remonstrances
which reached him, Philip was compelled to abandon the project, but
his intention gives the measure of his refinement. See an instructive
article, entitled _Los Jardines del Buen Retiro_, by Sr. D. Rodrigo
Amador de los Rios in _La España Moderna_ (January 1905); and the
_Arisos de D. Jerónimo to de Barrionuevo_ (1654-1658) edited by Sr. D.
Antonio Paz y Mélia (Madrid, 892-93), vol. ii, p. 308.
[107] It may be worth noting that the date of Pereda’s birth is wrongly
given in all the books of reference, and he himself was mistaken on
the point. He was born on February 6, 1833, and not—as he thought—on
February 7, 1834.
INDEX
Abad de los Romances (Domingo), 53-54.
Abarbanel (Judas), 147.
Abbatini (Antonio Maria), 191.
_Abindarraez y Jarifa, Historia de_, 111.
Abentarique (Abulcacim Tarif), 88.
Achilles Tatius, 162.
Accursius, 44.
Acquaviva (Giulio), 123.
Æsop, 35.
Águila (Suero del), 60.
Aguilar (Alonso de), 105, 106.
—— (Gaspar de), 211.
Alarcón (Juan Ruiz de). _See_ Ruiz de Alarcón.
—— (Pedro Antonio de), 235-236.
Alas (Leopoldo), 246.
Albornoz (Gil de), 28, 29, 43.
Alcalá Galiano (Antonio Maria de), 2.
Alemán (Mateo), 149.
Alfonso V. (of Aragón), 76, 82, 104.
—— V. (of León), 93.
—— VI. (of Castile), 4, 5, 6, 7.
—— X. [the Learned], (of Castile), 21.
—— XI. (of Castile), 49.
_Alixandre, Libro de_, 25, 49.
Al-Kadir. _See_ Yahya Al-Kadir.
Almanzor, 93.
_Almería, Rhymed Latin Chronicle of_, 4.
Al-muktadir, 6.
Al-mustain, 6, 7.
Al-mutamen, 6.
Alton (Johann), 85 _n_.
Álvarez de Villasandino (Alfonso), 57.
_Amore, De._ _See_ Pamphilus Maurilianus.
Andrade y Rivadeneyra (Jerónimo de), 225.
_Anséis de Carthage_, 85.
_Apolonio, Libro de_, 25, 47.
Argote de Molina (Gonzalo), 53, 62, 71, 107.
—— y Góngora (Luis). _See_ Góngora y Argote (Luis).
_Athenæum, The_, 208.
Avellaneda (Alonso Fernández de). _See_ Fernández de Avellaneda
(Alonso).
Ayala (Pero López de). _See_ López de Ayala (Pero).
Ayamonte (Marqués de), 149.
Bakna (Juan Alfonso de), 57, 75.
Balzac (Honoré de), 241.
Bancés Candamo (Francisco Antonio de), 207, 229, 230.
Baroja (Pío), 251.
Barrera y Leirado (Cayetano Alberto de la), 223.
Barrientos (Lope), 60.
Barrionuevo (Jerónimo de), 190, 230 _n._
Bella (Antonio de la), 129.
Bello (Andrés), 15.
Belmonte Bermúdes (Luis de), 185.
Beneyto (Miguel), 211.
_Beowulf_, 12.
Berceo (Gonzalo de), 25.
Bertaut (François), 190.
_Berthe, Roman de_, 113.
Blanca, wife of Enrique IV., 74.
Blanche de Bourbon, wife of Peter the Cruel, 102.
Blanco de Paz (Juan), 128, 129, 130, 135.
Blasco Ibáñez (Vicente), 250-251.
Boabdil [= Abu Abd Allah Muhammad], 105.
Boccaccio, 59, 61, 69.
Bodel (Jean), 26.
Böhl von Faber (Johan Nikolas), 233.
Boileau-Despréaux (Nicolas), 222.
Boisrobert (François Le Métel de), 183.
Bourget (Paul), 236.
Brentano (Clemens), 117.
Brillat-Savarin (Anthelme), 62.
Browne (Sir Thomas), 123.
Browning (Robert), 110, 174.
Brûlart de Sillery (Noel), 140.
Buckle (Henry Thomas), 218.
Burgos (Diego de), 68.
Byron (George Gordon, Lord), 107, 159.
Caballero (Fernán), 233-235.
Calderón de la Barca (Diego), 186, 188.
—— —— (José), 187, 188.
—— —— (Pedro), 144, 172;
biography of, 184-193;
works of, 193-209; 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223,
224, 227, 229, 230, 232.
—— —— (Pedro), son of the dramatist, 189.
Calderona (María), 218, 224.
Calomarde (Francisco Tadeo), 232.
Cáncer y Velasco (Jerónimo de), 215, 225.
_Cancionero de Stúñiga_, 75.
—— _general_, 79.
Carlota, wife of Francisco de Paula de Borbón, 232.
Carpio y Luján (Lope Félix del), 166, 169, 171.
—— —— (Marcela del), 166, 171.
Carvajal, 75, 82, 83.
Castillejo (Cristóbal de), 118.
Castillo Solórzano (Alonso de), 226.
Castro y Bellvis (Guillén de), 23, 211, 226, 227.
Catherine of Lancaster, wife of Enrique III., 55.
Cava (La), 85, 87-88.
_Celestina, La_, 54, 71, 121.
Cellot (Louis), 183.
Cervantes (Cardinal Juan de), 74.
—— (Juan de), grandfather of the novelist, 120.
—— Saavedra (Andrea de), 132, 136, 139.
—— —— (Luisa de), 132.
—— —— (Magdalena de), 132, 139.
—— —— (Miguel de), 1, 2, 27, 41, 52, 87;
life of, 120-141;
as a poet, 142-145;
_La Galatea_, 145-147;
First Part of _Don Quixote_, 148-158;
_Novelas Exemplares_, 158-159;
_Viage del Parnaso_, 159-160;
plays, 160;
Second Part of _Don Quixote_, 160-162;
_Persiles y Sigismunda_, 162, 164, 165, 168, 172, 173, 197, 204, 211,
231, 236, 240.
—— —— (Rodrigo de), father of the novelist, 121, 128, 132.
—— —— (Rodrigo de), brother of the novelist, 125, 126, 132, 136.
Chapelain (Jean), 191.
Charlemagne, 20, 85, 89.
Charles II., 191, 192, 219, 229.
—— V., 95.
Chartier (Alain), 68.
Chaucer (Geoffrey), 26, 32.
Chateaubriand (François-René de), 112, 232.
Chorley (John Rutter), 180, 181, 202, 208.
Christina, Queen of Sweden, 191.
Cicognini (Giacinto Andrea), 191 _n._
_Cid, Poema del_, 12-21.
—— _Romancero del_, 23.
—— The. _See_ Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo).
Clavijo y Fajardo (José), 207.
Clement IX., 191 _n._
Coello (Antonio), 187, 222-223.
Comella (Luciano Francisco), 232.
Conde (José Antonio), 80.
Córdoba (Gonzalo de), 105.
—— (Martín de), 127.
Corneille (Pierre), 24, 79 _n._, 183, 198, 199.
Corneille (Thomas), 191, 221, 223.
Cornu (Jules), 15.
Corral (Pedro del), 64, 85, 86.
Cortinas (Leonor de), 120, 128, 135.
_Crónica de Castilla_, 21.
—— _de Juan II._, 71.
—— _de Veinte Reyes_, 21.
—— _general_ (First), 19, 21, 86.
—— —— (Second [1344]), 21, 91, 98.
—— _rimada_, 22-23, 93.
—— _Troyana_, 86.
Crowne (John), 226.
Cruz y Cano (Ramón de la), 232.
Cubillo de Aragón (Álvaro), 345.
Cuervo (Rufino José), 200 _n._, 245.
Cueva (Juan de la), 96, 175.
Cunha (João Lourenço da), 222.
Dali Mami, 125, 126.
Damas-Hinard (Jean-Joseph-Stanislas-Albert), 15.
Dante, 25, 50, 61, 62, 69, 73, 183.
Depping (Georg Bernard), 79, 117 _n_.
Désirée, Queen of Sweden, 201.
Diamante (Juan Bautista), 199.
_Diana, La_, 121.
Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo or Ruy),
biography of, 1-11;
epics on, 12-23;
plays and poems on, 23-24;
_romances_ on, 93-101.
—— de Toledo (Pedro), 68.
Dickens (Charles), 239, 248.
Díez de Games (Gutierre), 59.
Dillon (John Talbot), 53 _n_.
Dionysius Cato, 33.
Dolfos (Bellido), 4.
D’Ouville (Antoine Le Métel, sieur), 183.
Dozy (Reinhart Pieter Anne), 22, 80.
Ducamin (Jean), 31, 43.
Dunham (Samuel Astley), 2.
Durán (Agustín), 77, 78, 79 _n._, 84 _n._, 86 _n._, 87, 88 _n._, 90,
91 _n._, 92 _n._, 93 _n._, 94 _n._, 95 _n._, 96 _n._, 97 _n._,
98 _n._, 99 _n._, 100 n., 101 _n._, 102 _n._, 103 _n._, 104 _n._,
105 _n._, 106 _n._, 107 _n._, 108 _n._, 109 _n._, 110 _n._, 111 _n._,
112 _n._, 113 _n._, 114 _n._, 116 _n._, 117 _n._, 118 _n._
Emmanuel Philibert, Prince of Savoy, 154.
Enrique III., _El Doliente_, 55, 63.
—— IV., 56, 74, 75.
_Eremite qui s’enyvra_ (_L’_), 47.
_Eremyte que le diable conchia du coc et de la geline_ (_L’_), 47.
Erman (Georg Adolf), 114.
Escobar (Juan de), 94.
Eslava (Antonio de), 159.
Espronceda (José de), 233.
Euripides, 197.
Ezpeleta (Gaspar de), 136.
Fadrique, brother of Peter the Cruel, 102.
_Faerie Queene, The_, 73.
Fáñez Minaya (Alvar), 7, 9, 12, 20, 83.
Fanshawe (Richard), 223.
Farinelli (Arturo), 191 _n._
Ferdinand, Saint, 11.
—— VII., 232, 233.
Fernández (Pedro), 28, 29.
—— de Avellaneda (Alonso), 139, 160, 161.
—— de León (Melchor), 192.
—— de Moratín (Leandro), 232.
Fernando de Antequera, 55, 66, 108.
_Fernán González, Estoria del noble caballero_, 91.
—— —— _Poema de_, 91.
Fielding (Henry), 231.
Figueroa (Lope de), 124.
FitzGerald (Edward), 195.
Fletcher (John), 159.
_Floire et Blanchefleur_, 26.
Ford (John), 177.
Forneli (Juan Antonio), 190.
Foulché-Delbosc (Raymond), 72, 91-92, 108 _n._, 119.
Franqueza (Pedro), 154.
Frederic II., 25.
Frere (John Hookham), 14, 15.
Fuentes (Alonso de), 83.
Gálvez de Montalvo (Luis), 131, 146.
Gante (Manuelillo de), 190.
García (Sancho), 12.
Garci-Fernández, 12.
_Garin le Lohérain_, 22.
Gautier de Coinci, 25.
Gibson (James Young), 37, 86, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 108, 109, 114,
118.
Gil (Enrique), 233.
—— (Juan), 129, 130.
Girón (Rodrigo), 110.
Goethe (Johann Wolfgang von), 180, 195.
Gómez (Cristóbal), 212.
—— de Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco), 240.
Goncourt (Edmond and Jules de), 249.
Góngora y Argote (Luis), 74, 78, 84, 103, 111, 112, 144, 159, 164, 167,
172.
González (Fernán), 5, 13, 83;
_romances_ on, 87-91.
—— del Castillo (Juan Ignacio), 232.
—— de Mendoza (Pedro), 68.
Gormaz (Gómez de), 23.
Gozzi (Carlo), 228.
Granson (Oton de), 26, 68.
Grimm (Jacob), 77.
Guardo (Juana de), 167.
Guerra (Manuel de), 196.
Guevara (Antonio de), 155.
—— (Luis Vélez de). _See_ Vélez de Guevara (Luis).
Guillaume de Machault, 26, 68.
Gutiérrez (Tomás), 134.
Guzmán (Juan de), 57.
—— (Luis de), 64.
Hallevi (Sh’lomoh). _See_ Santa María (Pablo de).
Haro (Luis de), 189.
Hartmann von Aue, 25.
Hartzenbusch (Juan Eugenio), 5, 61.
Hassan Pasha, 126, 127, 128, 129.
Heiberg (Johan Ludvig), 208.
Heine (Heinrich), 117.
Heliodorus, 162.
Heredia (José María de), 24.
Hernández Flores (Francisca), 163.
_Hernaut de Beaulande_, 91.
Herrera (Fernando de), 73, 149.
Hervieux (Léopold), 44.
Hofmann (Conrad), 78 _n._, 84, 93.
Heyne (Gotthold), 13.
Hita, Archpriest of. _See_ Ruiz (Juan).
Holberg (Ludvig), 226.
Huet (Pierre-Daniel), 80.
Hugo (Abel), 87 _n._
—— (Victor), 24, 87, 92.
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, 61.
Huntington (Archer Milton), 15.
Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio), 223.
—— —— (Diego), 66.
—— de Velarde (Alfonso), 104.
Ibn-Bassam, 8, 9, 10.
Ibn-Jehaf, 8.
Illán. _See_ Julian.
Imperial (Francisco), 62.
Irving (Washington), 112.
Isabel I., 56, 68.
—— wife of Juan II., 56, 75.
—— de Valois, wife of Philip II., 122, 142, 143.
Isla (José Francisco de), 231.
Isunza (Pedro de), 134.
Italicus, 71.
Jacobs (Joseph), 44.
Janer (Florencio), 31.
Jaufré de Foixá, 68.
Jeanroy (Alfred), 43.
Jerónimo (Bishop), 8, 9, 20.
Jimena, sister of Alfonso the Chaste, 89.
—— wife of the Cid, 2, 6, 9, 23, 93.
Jiménez de Rada (Rodrigo),
John of Austria, son of Charles V., 123, 124, 125, 130.
Jonson (Ben), 177, 179, 220.
Jove-Llanos (Gaspar de), 30.
Juan II., 55, 56, 57, 67, 72, 75, 82, 109.
—— de Austria, son of Philip IV.,
218.
—— Manuel, 26, 44, 79, 81.
Juana, wife of Enrique IV., 74, 75.
_Judas_, 82.
Julian (Count), 85, 87, 88.
_Karesme et de Charnage_ (_Bataille de_), 47.
Kent (William), 124.
Konrad, 16, 25.
Lafayette (Madame de), 112.
La Fontaine (Jean de), 46.
Lainez (Diego), 2.
Lando (Ferrant Manuel de), 53, 57.
Lang (Henry R.), 58.
Lara, Infantes of, 83, 87, 91-92.
—— (Gaspar Agustín de), 194.
Lasso de la Vega (Gabriel Lobo), 87, 90, 110.
Layamon, 26.
_Lazarillo de Tormes_, 48, 121.
Leconte de Lisle (Charles-Marie), 24.
Legrand d’Aussy (Pierre-Jean-Baptiste), 47.
Lemos (Conde de), 139, 140, 141, 166.
León Hebreo. _See_ Abarbanel (Judas).
Lerma, Duke of, 154, 166.
Lesage (Alain-René), 183, 216, 221, 231.
Lidforss (Volter Edvard), 15.
Lockhart (John Gibson), 79, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95,
96, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111 _n._, 112, 113, 114,
115, 117, 118.
Longfellow (Henry Wadsworth), 115.
López de Ayala (Pero), 54, 64.
—— de Hoyos (Juan), 122.
—— de Mendoza (Íñigo). _See_ Santillana (Marqués de).
—— de Sedano (Juan Joseph), 53 _n._
Lotti (Cosme), 188.
Lowell (James Russell), 209.
Lower (William), 191.
Lozano (Juan Mateo), 192, 194.
Lucena (Juan de), 68.
Luján (Micaela de), 166.
Luna (Álvaro de), 5, 56, 58, 59, 64, 67, 71, 75.
—— (Miguel de), 88.
Luzán (Ignacio de), 180.
Macaulay (Thomas Babington, Lord), 73, 244.
MacColl (Norman), 142.
Macías, _o Namorado_, 57, 58, 69.
Madrigal (Alfonso de), _el Tostado_, 59.
Maldonado (López), 143.
Malón de Chaide (Pedro), 151.
Malpica (Marqués de), 166.
Manrique de Lara (Jerónimo), 164.
_María Egipciacqua, Vida de Santa_, 25.
Mariana, wife of Philip IV., 191.
—— (Juan de), 146, 153.
Marie de France, 26, 35, 45.
Marie-Louise de Bourbon, 192.
Marivaux (Pierre de), 231.
Marazzoli (Marco), 191.
Martínez de la Rosa (Francisco de Paula), 233.
—— de Toledo (Alfonso), 31, 54, 59.
—— Gayoso (Benito), 27 _n._
—— Marina (Francisco), 146.
—— Ruiz (J.), 251.
Masdeu (Juan Francisco de), 2.
Matos Fragoso (Juan de), 227, 228-229.
Medina (Francisco de), 149.
Medinilla (Baltasar Elisio de), 224, 225.
Mena (Juan de), 60, 62, 63, 68, 70-74, 108.
Mendoza (Antonio Hurtado de). _See_ Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio).
Menéndez Pidal (Ramón), 15, 21.
Menéndez y Pelayo (Marcelino), 16, 70, 78 _n._, 84, 89, 90, 92, 103,
104, 110, 112, 119, 199, 201.
Meredith (George), 213.
Mesonero Romanos (Ramón de), 237.
Michaëlis de Vasconcellos (Carolina), 96.
Middleton (Thomas), 159.
Milá y Fontanals (Manuel), 22, 79, 89, 112.
Milton (John), 72, 165.
Mira de Amescua (Antonio), 199, 212, 226.
Molière, 49, 183, 223, 228.
Molina (Luis de), 138.
Moncada (Miguel de), 123.
Montalbán (Juan Pérez de). _See_ Pérez de Montalbán (Juan).
Montemôr (Jorge de), 118. _See_ also _Diana, La_.
Mora (Joaquín de), 233.
Moratín (Leandro Fernández de). _See_ Fernández de Moratín (Leandro).
Moreto y Cavaña (Agustín), 224-228.
Muhammad, El Maestro, 85.
Muñoz (Félez), 20.
Nájera (Esteban de), 84, 104.
Navas (Marqués de las), 165.
Nebrija (Antonio de), 78, 82, 118.
Nevares Santoyo (Marta de), 168, 169.
Nucio (Martín), 84.
Núñez de Toledo (Hernán), 72.
—— Morquecho (Doctor), 134.
Ocampo (Florián de), 21.
Ochoa y Ronna (Eugenio de), 2 _n_.
Olivares (Conde de), 170, 188, 218.
Ormsby (John), 15, 23.
Ortiz de Stúñiga (Íñigo), 71.
Osorio (Diego), 199.
—— (Elena), 165.
—— (Inés), 133.
Padilla (María de), 102.
—— (Pedro de), 131.
Palacio Valdés (Armando), 248-249, 250.
Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano (Catalina de), 131, 138, 139, 141.
Palafox (Jerónimo de), 129.
Pamphilus Maurilianus, 38, 39, 47, 48, 50.
_Panadera, Coplas de la_, 69, 71.
Paratinén (Alfonso), 28.
Paravicino y Arteaga (Hortensio Félix), 186, 187.
Pardo Bazán (Condesa de), 248-249, 250.
Paris (Gaston), 15, 16.
Patmore (Coventry Kersey Dighton), 245.
Paz y Mélia (Antonio), 230 _n_.
Pedro, brother of Alfonso V. of Aragón, 104.
Pepys (Samuel), 223.
Per Abbat, 13, 14.
Percy (Thomas), 106.
Pereda (José María de), 236-243, 250.
Pérez (Alonso), 146.
—— (Gil), 85.
—— de Guzmán (Alfonso), 189, 190.
—— —— (Fernán), 2, 56, 61, 62, 63, 64-66, 86.
—— de Hita (Ginés), 104, 105, 107 _n._, 110, 111, 112.
—— de Montalbán (Juan), 173, 177, 187, 212, 222.
—— Galdós (Benito), 53, 240, 247-248, 250.
—— Pastor (Cristóbal), 185.
Peter I. of Castile (the Cruel), 28, 49, 83;
_romances_ on, 101-103.
Petrarch, 61, 69, 70.
Phaedrus, 35.
Philip II., 10, 130, 151.
—— IV., 170, 184, 187, 188, 190, 191, 205, 206, 222, 224, 229, 230.
—— Prince of Savoy, 154.
Pindarus Thebanus. _See_ Italicus.
Pius V., 10.
Pomponius, 44.
Ponce de León (Luis), 144.
—— —— (Manuel), 124.
_Primavera y Flor de romances_, 78, 81 _n._, 84, 86 _n._, 87 _n._,
90 _n._, 91 _n._, 92 _n._, 93 _n._, 97 _n._, 98 _n._, 99 _n._,
100 _n._, 102 _n._, 104 _n._, 105 _n._, 106 _n._, 107 _n._,
108 _n._, 109 _n._, 110 _n._, 111 _n._, 112 _n._, 113 _n._,
114 _n._, 116 _n._, 117 _n._, 118 _n._
Pulgar (Hernando del), 110.
Puymaigre (Count Théodore de), 50.
Puyol y Alonso (Julio), 27, 29, 44, 45, 48.
Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco Gómez de). _See_ Gómez de Quevedo y
Villegas (Francisco).
Quinault (Philippe), 191 _n._
Quintana (Manuel José), 14.
Rabelais (François), 46.
Rasis, The Moor [= Abu Bakr Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Musa, _al-Razi_],
85, 86.
Regnier (Maturin), 48.
Renan (Ernest), 10.
Rennert (Hugo Albert), 75, 146, 162.
Restori (Antonio), 15.
Rey de Artieda (Andrés), 210.
_Reyes Magos, Misterio de los_, 25.
Riaño (Pedro de), 118.
Ribeiro (Bernardim de), 75.
Ribera (Diego de), 108.
Ríos (José Amador de los), 30, 58, 59.
—— (Rodrigo Amador de los), 230 _n._
Ritson (Joseph), 46, 47.
Robles (Blas de), 132.
—— (Fernán Alonso de), 55.
Roderick, 12, 13;
_romances_ on, 83, 84-88.
_Rodrigo, Cantar de_. See _Crónica rimada_.
Rodríguez (Lucas), 90, 96.
—— de la Cámara (Juan), 74-76, 82, 83.
—— del Padrón (Juan). _See_ Rodríguez de la Cámara (Juan).
—— Marín (Francisco), 135.
Rojas (Ana Franca de), 131, 138.
—— (Tomás), 218.
—— Zorrilla (Francisco de), 61, 185, 214-222, 223.
_Roland, Chanson de_, 8, 16, 18, 89.
_Rolliad, The_, 71.
_Roman de la Rose, Le_, 49, 68, 73.
Romana (Marqués de la), 14, 15.
Rospigliosi (Giulio). _See_ Clement IX.
Rotrou (Jean de), 183, 220.
Rowley (William), 159.
_Ruderici Campidocti, Gesta_, 9, 13.
Rueda (Lope de), 122, 175, 176.
Ruffino (Bartolomeo), 143.
Ruiz (Juan), 25-54.
—— de Alarcón (Juan), 60, 172, 173, 184, 212, 213.
—— de Ulibarri (Juan), 13.
Saavedra (Isabel de), daughter of Cervantes, 138, 140.
Sainte-Beuve (Charles-Augustin), 143.
Saint-Pierre (Bernardin de), 232.
Saldaña (Conde de), 89, 90 _n._
Sánchez (Miguel), 175.
—— (Tomás Antonio), 14, 27 _n._, 30, 31.
Sancho II., 4, 5.
—— (Conde Don), 89.
Sandoval y Rojas (Bernardo de), 140.
Sannazaro (Jacopo), 145, 146.
Santa Cruz (Marqués de), 143, 165.
—— María (Pablo de), 56.
Santillana (Marqués de), 31, 53, 56, 62, 64, 66-70, 71, 81, 82, 83.
Sanz del Águila (Diego), 138.
—— del Río (Julián), 240.
Sarmiento (Martín), 53 _n._
Sarriá (Marqués de). _See_ Lemos.
Scarron (Paul), 191 _n._, 221.
Schack (Adolf Friedrich).
Schæffer (Adolf), 223.
Schiller (Johann Friedrich), 110, 180.
Schlegel (August Wilhelm von), 194, 195, 196.
—— (Friedrich von), 194, 196.
Scott (Walter), 102, 112, 232, 233.
Scudéri (Madelène de), 112.
Segrais (Jean Regnauld, sieur de), 80 _n_.
Sepúlveda (Lorenzo de), 83, 84, 87, 90, 93, 94, 101, 104, 105.
Sesa (Fifth Duke of), 124.
—— (Sixth Duke of), 168, 171.
Shakespeare (William), 48, 49, 153, 154, 159, 162, 167, 179, 182, 194,
204, 210.
Shelley (Percy Bysshe), 195, 198, 205.
Silva (Feliciano de), 147.
Smollett (Tobias George), 231.
Soeiro (Manoel), 174.
Solís y Ribadeneyra (Antonio de), 229.
Sophocles, 197.
Sosa (Antonio de), 130.
Southey (Robert), 23, 101, 244.
Sterne (Laurence), 231.
_Strengleikar_, 26.
Suppico de Moraes (Pedro Jozé), 205.
Tárrega (Francisco), 211.
Tennyson (Alfred, Lord), 176, 195, 196.
Thiber, 89.
Timoneda (Juan de), 87, 108, 109.
Tirso de Molina [_i.e._ Gabriel Téllez], 172, 184, 194, 196, 203, 208,
212, 213, 221, 226.
Torre (Alfonso de la), 59.
Torres (Francisco de), 28, 29.
—— Villaroel (Diego), 231.
Trench (Richard Chenevix), 195, 196, 198, 201.
_Tres Reyes dorient, Libro dels_, 25.
Trigueros (Cándido María), 218, 219.
Trillo de Armenta (Antonia), 166.
Trueba (Antonio de), 235, 236, 237, 238.
—— y Cosío (Joaquín Telesforo de), 232.
Tuke, Samuel, 223.
Turia (Ricardo de), _pseud._, 178.
Turpin (Archbishop), 8.
Urban VIII., 170.
—— (Count). _See_ Julian (Count).
Urbina (Diego de), 123.
—— y Cortinas (Isabel de), 165.
Valdivia (Diego de), 133.
Valdivielso (José de), 214.
Valera (Diego de), 58.
—— (Juan), 2, 243-246, 250.
Valle-Inclán (Ramón del), 251.
Vanbrugh (John), 216.
Vázquez (Mateo), 143.
Vega (Bernardo de la), 148.
—— (Garcilaso de la), _romances_ on, 110.
—— (Garcilaso de la), poet, 52, 144, 149.
—— (Leonor de la), 66.
—— Carpio (Félix de), father of the dramatist, 163.
—— —— (Lope Félix de), 23, 70, 77, 78, 84, 100, 133, 137, 139, 141,
144, 149, 150, 153, 159, 160;
biography of, 163-172;
character and tastes, 172-174;
as a poet, 174;
as a dramatist, 175-183; 184, 185, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 199,
200 _n._, 203, 204, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 218,
219, 221, 224, 226, 228, 229.
Vega Carpio y Guardo (Antonia Clara), 171.
—— —— y Guardo (Carlos Félix), 167.
Velázquez (Jerónimo), 133, 165.
—— (Luis José), 53 _n._
Vélez de Guevara (Luis), 104, 184, 205, 212, 221, 222, 226, 230 _n._
Veraguas (Duke of), 194.
Vera Tassis y Villarroel (Juan), 184, 185, 192, 193.
Verlaine (Paul), 208.
Verville (Béroalde de), 46.
Vicente (Gil), 118.
Victor Amadeus, Prince of Savoy, 154.
Vidal (Raimon), 68.
Villafranca (Marqués de), 136.
Villaviciosa (Sebastián de), 228.
Villegas (Pedro de), 186.
Villena (Enrique de), 60-64.
Vollmöller (Carl), 15.
Waller (Edmund), 177.
Warnke (Carl), 35.
Wolf (Ferdinand Joseph), 31 _n._, 44, 45, 47, 78, 84, 93.
Wolfram von Eschenbach, 25.
Ximena. _See_ Jimena.
Yahya Al-Kadir, 6, 7, 8.
‘Ysopete,’ 35, 45.
Zabaleta (Juan de), 229.
Zamora (Antonio de), 207.
Zárate y Castronovo (Fernando de), 224.
Zola (Émile), 249.
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press.