Spanish Theatre--Its three Periods: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon--
Spirit of the Spanish Poetry in general--Influence of the National History
on it--Form, and various species of the Spanish Drama--Decline since the
beginning of the eighteenth century.
The riches of the Spanish stage have become proverbial, and it has been
more or less the custom of the Italian, French, and English dramatists, to
draw from this source, and generally without acknowledgment. I have often,
in the preceding Lectures, had occasion to notice this fact; it was
incompatible, however, with my purpose, to give an enumeration of all that
has been so borrowed, for it would have assumed rather a bulky appearance,
and without great labour it could not have been rendered complete. What
has been taken from the most celebrated Spanish poets might be easily
pointed out; but the writers of the second and third rank have been
equally laid under contribution, and their works are not easily met with
out of Spain. Ingenious boldness, joined to easy clearness of intrigue, is
so exclusively peculiar to the Spanish dramatists, that whenever I find
these in a work, I consider myself justified in suspecting a Spanish
origin, even though the circumstance may have been unknown to the author
himself, who drew his plagiarism from a nearer source. [Footnote: Thus for
example, _The Servant of two Masters_, of Goldoni, a piece highly
distinguished above his others for the most amusing intrigue, passes for
an original. A learned Spaniard has assured me, that he knows it to be a
Spanish invention. Perhaps Goldoni had here merely an older Italian
imitation before him.]
From the political preponderance of Spain in the sixteenth century, a
knowledge of its language became widely diffused throughout Europe. Even
in the first half of the seventeenth century, many traces are to be found
of an acquaintance with Spanish literature in France, Italy, England, and
Germany; since that time, however, the study of it had every where fallen
into neglect, till of late some zeal for it has been again excited in
Germany. In France they have no other idea of the Spanish theatre, than
what can be formed from the translations of Linguet. These again have been
rendered into German, and their number has been increased by others, in no
respect better, derived immediately from the originals. The translators
have, however, confined themselves almost exclusively to the department of
comedies of intrigue, and though all the Spanish plays with the exception
of a few _Entremeses_, _Saynetes_, and those of a very late period, are
versified, they have turned the whole into prose, and even considered
themselves entitled to praise for having carefully removed every thing
like poetical ornament. After such a mode of proceeding nothing but the
material scaffolding of the original could remain; the beautiful colouring
must have disappeared together with the form of execution. That
translators who could show such a total want of judgment as to poetical
excellences would not choose the best pieces of the store, may be easily
supposed. The species in question, though in the invention of innumerable
intrigues, of such a kind as the theatrical literature of all other
countries can produce but few examples of it, it certainly shows
astonishing acuteness, is, nevertheless, by no means the most valuable
part of the Spanish theatre, which displays a much greater brilliancy in
the handling of wonderful, mythological, or historical subjects.
The selection published by De la Huerta in sixteen small volumes, under
the title of _Teatro Hespañol_, with introductions giving an account
of the authors of the pieces and the different species, will not afford,
even to one conversant with the language, a very extensive acquaintance
with the Spanish theatre. His collection is limited almost exclusively to
the department of comedies in modern manners, and he has not admitted into
it any of the pieces of an earlier period, composed by Lope de Vega, or
his predecessors. Blankenburg and Bouterwek [Footnote: The former, in his
annotations on _Sulzers Theorie der schönen Künste_, the latter in
his _Geschichte der Spanischen Poesie_.] among ourselves have laboured to
throw light on the earlier history of the Spanish theatre, before it
acquired its proper shape and attained literary dignity,--a subject
involved in much obscurity. But even at an after period, an immense number
of works were written for the stage which never appeared in print, and
which are either now lost or only exist in manuscript; while, on the other
hand, there is hardly an instance of a piece being printed without having
first been brought on the stage. A correct and complete history of the
Spanish theatre, therefore, can only be executed in Spain. The notices of
the German writers above-mentioned, are however of use, though not free
from errors; their opinions of the poetical merit of the several pieces,
and the general view which they have taken, appear to me exceedingly
objectionable.
The first advances of Dramatic Art in Spain were made in the last half of
the sixteenth century; and with the end of the seventeenth it ceased to
flourish. In the eighteenth, after the War of the Succession, (which seems
to have had a very prejudicial influence on the Spanish literature in
general,) very little can be mentioned which does not display
extravagance, decay, the retention of old observances without meaning, or
a tame imitation of foreign productions. The Spanish literari of the last
generation frequently boast of their old national poets, the people
entertain a strong attachment to them, and in Mexico, as well as Madrid,
their pieces are always represented with impassioned applause.
The various epochs in the formation of the Spanish theatre may be
designated by the names of three of its most famous authors, Cervantes,
Lope de Vega, and Calderon.
The earliest and most valuable information and opinions on this subject
are to be found in the writings of Cervantes; chiefly in _Don
Quixote_ (in the dialogue with the Canon), in the Preface to his later
plays, and in the _Journey to Parnassus_. He has also in various
other places thrown out occasional remarks on the subject. He had
witnessed in his youth the commencement of the dramatic art in Spain; the
poetical poverty of which, as well as the meagreness of the theatrical
decorations, are very humorously described by him. He was justified in
looking upon himself as one of the founders of this art; for before he
gained immortal fame by his _Don Quixote_ he had diligently laboured
for the stage, and from twenty to thirty pieces (so negligently does he
speak of them) from his pen had been acted with applause. On this account,
however, he made no very high claims, nor after they had fulfilled their
momentary destination did he allow any of them to be printed; and it was
only lately that two of these earlier labours were for the first time
published. One of these plays, probably Cervantes' first, _The Way of
Living in Algiers_ (_El Trato de Argel_), still bears traces of the
infancy of the art in the preponderance of narrative, in the general
meagreness, and in the want of prominency in the figures and situations.
The other, however, _The Destruction of Numantia_, has altogether the
elevation of the tragical cothurnus; and, from its unconscious and
unlaboured approximation to antique grandeur and purity, forms a
remarkable phenomenon in the history of modern poetry. The idea of destiny
prevails in it throughout; the allegorical figures which enter between the
acts supply nearly, though in a different way, the place of the chorus in
the Greek tragedies; they guide the reflection and propitiate the feeling.
A great deed of heroism is accomplished; the extremity of suffering is
endured with constancy; but it is the deed and the suffering of a whole
nation whose individual members, it may almost be said, appear but as
examples of the general fortitude and magnanimity, while the Roman heroes
seem merely the instruments of fate. There is, if I may so speak, a sort
of Spartan pathos in this piece: every single and personal consideration
is swallowed up in the feeling of patriotism; and by allusions to the
warlike fame of his nation in modern times, the poet has contrived to
connect the ancient history with the interests of his own day.
Lope de Vega appeared, and soon became the sole monarch of the stage;
Cervantes was unable to compete with him; yet he was unwilling altogether
to abandon a claim founded on earlier success; and shortly before his
death, in the year 1615, he printed eight plays and an equal number of
smaller interludes, as he had failed in his attempts to get them brought
on the stage. They have generally been considered greatly inferior to his
other prose and poetical works; their modern editor is even of opinion
that they were meant as parodies and satires on the vitiated taste of the
time: but to find this hypothesis ridiculous, we have only to read them
without any such prepossession. Had Cervantes entertained such a design,
he would certainly have accomplished it in a very different way in one
piece, and also in a manner both highly amusing and not liable to
misconception. No, they were intended as pieces in the manner of Lope:
contrary to his own convictions, Cervantes has here endeavoured, by a
display of greater variety, of wonderful plots, and theatrical effect to
comply with the taste of his contemporaries. It would appear from them
that he considered a superficial composition as the main requisite for
applause; his own, at least, is for the most part, extremely loose and
ill-connected, and we have no examples in his prose works of a similar
degree of negligence. Hence, as he partly renounced his peculiar
excellences, we need not be astonished that he did not succeed in
surpassing Lope in his own walk. Two, however, of these pieces, _The
Christian Slaves in Algiers (Los Baños de Argel_), an alteration of the
piece before-mentioned, and _The Labyrinth of Love_, are, in their
whole plot, deserving of great praise, while all of them contain so many
beautiful and ingenious traits, that when we consider them by themselves,
and without comparing them with the _Destruction of Numantia_, we
feel disposed to look on the opinion entertained pretty generally by the
Spanish critics as a mere prejudice. But on the other hand, when we
compare them with Lope's pieces, or bear in mind the higher excellences to
which Calderon had accustomed the public, this opinion will appear to
admit of conditional justification. We may, on the whole, allow that the
mind of this poet was most inclined to the epic, (taking the word in its
more extensive signification, for the narrative form of composition); and
that the light and gentle manner in which he delights to move the mind is
not well suited to the making the most of every moment, and to the rapid
compression which are required on the theatre. But when we, on the other
hand, view the energetical pathos in _The Destruction of Numantia_,
we are constrained almost to consider it as merely accidental that
Cervantes did not devote himself wholly to this species of writing, and
find room in it for the complete development of his inventive mind.
The sentence pronounced by Cervantes on the dramas of his later
contemporaries is one of the neglected voices which, from time to time, in
Spain have been raised, insisting on the imitation of the ancient
classics, while the national taste had decidedly declared in favour of the
romantic drama in its boldest form. On this subject Cervantes, from causes
which we may easily comprehend, was not altogether impartial. Lope de Vega
had followed him as a dramatic writer, and by his greater fertility and
the effective brilliancy of his pieces, had driven him from the stage; a
circumstance which ought certainly to be taken into account in explaining
the discontent of Cervantes in his advanced age with the direction of the
public taste and the constitution of the theatre. It would appear, too,
that in his poetical mind there was a certain prosaical corner in which
there still lurked a disposition to reject the wonderful, and the bold
play of fancy, as contrary to probability and nature. On the authority of
the ancients he recommended a stricter separation of the several kinds of
the drama; whereas the romantic art endeavours, in its productions, as he
himself had done in his romances and novels, to blend all the elements of
poetry; and he censured with great severity, as real offences against
propriety, the rapid changes of time and place. It is remarkable that Lope
himself was unacquainted with his own rights, and confessed that he wrote
his pieces, contrary to the rules with which he was well acquainted,
merely for the sake of pleasing the multitude. That this object entered
prominently into his consideration is certainly true; still he remains one
of the most extraordinary of all the popular and favourite theatrical
writers that ever lived, and well deserves to be called in all seriousness
by his rival and adversary, Cervantes, a wonder of nature.
The pieces of Lope de Vega, numerous beyond all belief, have partly never
been printed; while of those that have, a complete collection is seldom to
be found, except in Spain. Many pieces are probably falsely ascribed to
him; an abuse of which Calderon also complains. I know not whether Lope
himself ever gave a list of the pieces actually composed by him; indeed he
could hardly at last have remembered the whole of them. However, by
reading a few, we shall advance pretty far towards an acquaintance with
this poet; nor need we be much afraid lest we should have failed to peruse
the most excellent, as in his separate productions he does not surprise us
by any elevated flight nor by laying open the whole unfathomable depths of
his mind. This prolific writer, at one time too much idolized, at another
too much depreciated, appears here undoubtedly in the most advantageous
light, as the theatre was the best school for the correction of his three
great errors, want of connexion, diffuseness, and an unnecessary parade of
learning. In some of his pieces, especially the historical ones, founded
on old romances or traditional tales, for instance, _King Wamba_, _The
Youthful Tricks of Bernardo del Carpio_, _The Battlements of Toro,_ &c.,
there prevails a certain rudeness of painting, which, however, is not
altogether without character, and seems to have been purposely chosen to
suit the subjects: in others, which portray the manners of his own time,
as for instance, _The Lively Fair One of Tolédo_, _The Fair deformed,_ we
may observe a highly cultivated social tone. All of them contain, besides
truly interesting situations, a number of inimitable jokes; and there are,
perhaps, very few of them which would not, if skilfully treated and
adapted to our stages, produce a great effect in the present day. Their
chief defects are, a profusion of injudicious invention, and negligence in
the execution. They resemble the groups which an ingenious sketcher
scrawls on paper without any preparation, and without even taking the
necessary time; in which, notwithstanding this hasty negligence every line
is full of life and significance. Besides the want of careful finish, the
works of Lope are deficient in depth, and also in those more delicate
allusions which constitute the peculiar mysteries of the art.
If the Spanish theatre had not advanced farther, if it had possessed only
the works of Lope and the more eminent of his contemporaries, as Guillen
de Castro, Montalban, Molina, Matos-Fragoso, &c., we should have to praise
it, rather for grandeur of design and for promising subjects than for
matured perfection. But Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca now made his
appearance, a writer as prolific and diligent as Lope, and a poet of a
very different kind,--a poet if ever any man deserved that name. The
"wonder of nature," the enthusiastic popularity, and the sovereignty of
the stage were renewed in a much higher degree. The years of Calderon
[Footnote: Born in 1601.] keep nearly equal pace with those of the
seventeeth century; he was consequently sixteen when Cervantes, and
thirty-five when Lope died, whom he survived nearly half a century.
According to his biographer's account, Calderon wrote more than a hundred
and twenty plays, more than a hundred spiritual allegorical acts
(_Autos_), a hundred merry interludes or _Saynetes_ [Footnote: This
account is perhaps somewhat rhetorical. The most complete, and in every
respect the best edition of the plays, that of Apontes, contains only
a hundred and eight pieces. At the request of a great Lord, Calderon,
shortly before his death, gave a list of his genuine works. He names a
hundred and eleven plays; but among them there are considerably more than
three which are not to be found in the collection of Apontes. Some of them
may, indeed, be concealed under other titles, as, for instance, the piece,
which Calderon himself calls, _El Tuzani de la Alpujarra_, is named
in the collection, _Amar despues de la Muerte_. Others are unquestionably
omitted, for instance, a _Don Quixote_, which I should be particularly
desirous of seeing. We may infer from many circumstances that Calderon had
a great respect for Cervantes. The collection of the _Autos sacramentales_
contains only seventy-two, and of these several are not mentioned by
Calderon. And yet he lays the greatest stress on these; wholly devoted to
religion, he had become in his age more indifferent towards the temporal
plays of his muse, although he did not reject them, and still continued to
add to the number. It might well be with him as with an excessively
wealthy man, who, in a general computation, is apt to forget many of the
items of his capital. I have never yet been able to see any of the
_Saynetes_ of Calderon; I cannot even find an account whether or not they
have been ever collected and printed.] besides a number of poems which
were not dramatical. As from his fourteenth to his eighty-first year, that
in which he died, he continued to produce dramatic works, they spread over
a great space, and we may therefore suppose that he did not write with the
same haste as Lope; he had sufficient leisure to consider his plans
maturely, which, without doubt, he has done. In the execution, he could
not fail from his extensive practice to acquire great readiness.
In this almost incalculable exuberance of production, we find nothing
thrown out at random; all is finished in masterly perfection, agreeably to
established and consistent principles, and with the most profound artistic
views. This cannot be denied even by those who would confound the pure and
high style of the romantic drama with mannerism, and consider these bold
flights of poetry, on the extreme boundaries of the conceivable, as
aberrations in art. For Calderon has every where converted that into
matter what passed with his predecessors for form;--nothing less than the
noblest and most exquisite excellence could satisfy him. And this is why
he repeats himself in many expressions, images, comparisons, nay, even in
many plays of situation; for he was too rich to be under the necessity of
borrowing from himself, much less from others. The effect on the stage is
with Calderon the first and last thing; but this consideration, which is
generally felt by others as a restraint, is with him a positive end. I
know of no dramatist equally skilled in converting effect into poetry, who
is at once so sensibly vigorous and so ethereal.
His dramas divide themselves into four principal classes: compositions on
sacred subjects taken from scripture and legends; historical;
mythological, or founded upon other fictitious materials; and finally,
pictures of social life in modern manners.
The pieces founded on the history of his own country are historical only
in the more limited acceptation. The earlier periods of Spanish history
have often been felt and portrayed by Calderon with the greatest truth;
but, in general, he had too decided, I might almost say, too burning a
predilection for his own nation, to enter into the peculiarities of
another; at best he could have portrayed what verges towards the sun, the
South and the East; but classical antiquity, as well as the North of
Europe, were altogether foreign to his conception. Materials of this
description he has therefore taken in a perfectly fanciful sense:
generally the Greek mythology became in his hands a delightful tale, and
the Roman history a majestic hyperbole.
His sacred compositions must, however, in some degree, be ranked as
historical; for although surrounded with rich fiction, as is always the
case in Calderon, they nevertheless in general express the character of
Biblical or legendary story with great fidelity. They are distinguished,
however, from the other historical pieces by the frequent prominency of a
significant allegory, and by the religious enthusiasm with which the poet,
in the spiritual acts designed for the celebration of the festival of
Corpus Christi, the _Autos_ exhibits the universe as it were, under
an allegorical representation in the purple flames of love. In this last
class he was most admired by his contemporaries, and here also he himself
set the highest value on his labours. But without having read, at least,
one of them in a truly poetical translation, my auditors could not form
the slightest idea of them; while the due consideration of these
_Autos_ would demand a difficult investigation into the admissibility
of allegory into dramatical composition. I shall therefore confine myself
to those of his dramas which are no allegorical. The characterization of
these I shall be very far from exhausting; I can merely exhibit a few of
their more general features.
Of the great multitude of ingenious and acute writers, who were then
tempted by the dazzling splendour of the theatrical career to write for
the stage, the greater part were mere imitators of Calderon; a few only
deserve to be named along with him, as Don Agustin Moreto, Don Franzisco
de Roxas, Don Antonio de Solis, the acute and eloquent historian of the
conquest of Mexico, &c. The dramatic literature of the Spaniards can even
boast of a royal poet, Philip IV., the great patron and admirer [Footnote:
This monarch seems, in reality, to have had a relish for the peculiar
excellence of his favourite poet, whom he considered as the brightest
ornament of his court. He was so prepossessed in favour of the national
drama, that he forbade the introduction into Spain of the Italian opera,
which was then in general favour at the different European courts: an
example which deserves to be held up to the German Princes, who have
hitherto, from indifference towards every thing national, and partiality
for every thing foreign, done all in their power to discourage the German
poets.] of Calderon, to whom several anonymous pieces, with the epigraph
_de un ingenio de esta corte_, are ascribed. All the writers of that
day wrote in a kindred spirit; they formed a true school of art. Many of
them have peculiar excellences, but Calderon in boldness, fulness, and
profundity, soars beyond them all; in him the romantic drama of the
Spaniards attained the summit of perfection.
We shall endeavour to give a feeble idea of the spirit and form of these
compositions, which differ so widely from every other European production.
For this purpose, however, we must enter in some measure into the
character of the Spanish poetry in general, and those historical
circumstances by which it has been determined.
The beginnings of the Spanish poetry are extremely simple: its two
fundamental forms were the romaunt and the song, and in these original
national melodies we everywhere fancy we hear the accompaniment of the
guitar. The romaunt, which is half Arabian in its origin, was at first a
simple heroic tale; afterwards it became a very artificial species,
adapted to various uses, but in which the picturesque ingredient always
predominated even to the most brilliant luxuriance of colouring. The song
again, almost destitute of imagery, expressed tender feelings in ingenious
turns; it extends its sportiveness to the very limits where the self-
meditation, which endeavours to transfuse an inexpressible disposition of
mind into thought, wings again the thought to dreamlike intimations. The
forms of the song were diversified by the introduction into poetry of what
in music is effected by variation. The rich properties of the Spanish
language however could not fully develop themselves in these species of
poetry, which were rather tender and infantine than elevated. Hence
towards the beginning of the sixteenth century they adapted the more
comprehensive forms of Italian poetry, _Ottave Terzine_, _Canzoni_,
_Sonetti_; and the Castilian language, the proudest daughter of the Latin,
was then first enabled to display her whole power in dignity, beautiful
boldness, and splendour of imagery. The Spanish with its guttural sounds,
and frequent termination with consonants, is less soft than the Italian;
but its tones are, if possible, more fuller and deeper, and fill the ear
with a pure metallic resonance. It had not altogether lost the rough
strength and heartiness of the Gothic, when Oriental intermixtures gave it
a wonderful degree of sublimity, and elevated its poetry, intoxicated as
it were with aromatic fragrances, far above all the scrupulous moderation
of the sober West.
The stream of poetical inspiration, swelled by every proud consciousness,
increased with the growing fame in arms of this once so free and heroic
nation. The Spaniards played a glorious part in the events of the middle
ages, a part but too much forgotten by the envious ingratitude of modern
times. They were then the forlorn out-posts of Europe; they lay on their
Pyrenean peninsula as in a camp, exposed without foreign assistance to the
incessant eruptions of the Arabians, but always ready for renewed
conflicts. The founding of their Christian kingdom, through centuries of
conflicts, from the time when the descendants of the Goths driven before
the Moors into the mountains of the North first left their protecting
shelter for the war of freedom and independence, down to the complete
expulsion of the Arabian invaders, was one long adventure of chivalry;
nay, the preservation of Christianity itself in the face of so powerful a
foe seems the wondrous work of more than mortal guidance. Accustomed to
fight at the same time for liberty and religion, the Spaniard clung to his
faith with a fiery zeal, as an acquisition purchased by the costly
expenditure of noble blood. These consolations of a holy worship were to
him the rewards of heroic exertion; in every church he saw as it were a
trophy of his forefathers' bravery. Ready to shed the last drop of his
blood in the cause of his God and his King; tenderly sensitive of his
honour; proud, yet humble in the presence of all that is sacred and holy;
serious, temperate, and modest was the old Castilian: and yet forsooth
some are found to scoff at a noble and a loyal race because even at the
plough they were lothe to lay aside the beloved sword, the instrument of
their high vocation of patriotism and liberty.
This love of war, and spirit of enterprise, which so many circumstances
had thus served to keep alive among their subjects, the monarchs of Spain
made use of, at the close of the fifteenth and throughout the sixteenth
century, in an attempt to obtain universal monarchy; and while the arms of
the Spaniard were thus employed to effect the subjugation of other
nations, he was himself deprived of his own political freedom. The
faithless and tyrannical policy of Philip II. has unmeritedly drawn down
on the whole nation the hatred of foreigners. In Italy, Macchiavelism was
not confined to the Princes and Republican leaders; it was the universal
character; all ranks were infected with the same love of artifice and
fraud. But in Spain it must be laid to the charge of the Government alone,
and even the religious persecutions in that country seldom or never
proceeded from the outbreakings of a universal popular fury. The Spaniard
never presumed to question the conduct of his spiritual and worldly
superiors, and carried on their wars of aggression and ambition with the
same fidelity and bravery which he had formerly displayed in his own wars
of self-defence and patriotism. Personal glory, and a mistaken religious
zeal, blinded him with respect to the justice of his cause. Enterprises
before unexampled, were eagerly undertaken, and successfully achieved; a
newly discovered world beyond the ocean was conquered by a handful of bold
adventurers; individual instances of cruelty and avarice may have stained
the splendour of resolute heroism, but the mass of the nation was
uninfected by its contagion. Nowhere did the spirit of chivalry so long
outlive its political existence as in Spain. Long after the internal
prosperity, as well as the foreign influence of the nation, had fatally
declined under the ruinous errors of the Second Philip, this spirit
propagated itself even to the most flourishing period of their literature,
and plainly imprinted upon it an indelible stamp. Here, in all their
dazzling features, but associated with far higher mental culture, the
middle ages were, as it were, renewed--those times when princes and nobles
loved to indite the lays of love and bravery, and when, with hearts
devoted equally to their lady-love and the Holy Sepulchre, knights
joyfully exposed themselves to the dangers and hardships of pilgrimage to
the Land of Promise, and when even a lion-hearted king touched the lute to
tender sounds of amorous lamentation. The poets of Spain were not, as in
most other countries of Europe, courtiers or scholars, or engaged in some
peaceful art or other; of noble birth for the most part, they also led a
warlike life. The union of the sword and the pen, and the exercise of arms
and the nobler mental arts, was their watch-word. Garcilaso, one of the
founders of Spanish poetry under Charles V., was a descendant of the Yncas
of Peru, and in Africa, still accompanied by his agreeable muse, fell
before the walls of Tunis: Camoëns, the Portuguese, sailed as a soldier to
the remotest Indies, in the track of the glorious Adventurer whose
discoveries he celebrated: Don Alonso de Ercilla composed his
_Araucana_ in the midst of warfare with revolted savages, in a tent
at the foot of the Cordilleras, or in wildernesses yet untrodden by men,
or in a storm-tossed vessel on the restless ocean; Cervantes purchased,
with the loss of an arm, and a long slavery in Algiers, the honour of
having fought, as a common soldier, in the battle of Lepanto, under the
illustrious John of Austria; Lope de Vega, among other adventures,
survived the misfortunes of the Invincible Armada; Calderon served several
campaigns in Flanders and in Italy, and discharged the warlike duties of a
knight of Santiago until he entered holy orders, and thus gave external
evidence that religion was the ruling motive of his life.
If a feeling of religion, a loyal heroism, honour, and love, be the
foundation of romantic poetry, it could not fail to attain to its highest
development in Spain, where its birth and growth were cherished by the
most friendly auspices. The fancy of the Spaniards, like their active
powers, was bold and venturesome; no mental adventure seemed too hazardous
for it to essay. The popular predilection for surpassing marvels had
already shown itself in its chivalrous romaunts. And so they wished also
to see the wonderful on the stage; when, therefore, their poets, standing
on the lofty eminence of a highly polished state of art and society, gave
it the requisite form, breathed into it a musical soul, and refined its
beautiful hues and fragrance from all corporeal grossness, there arose,
from the very contrast of the matter and the form, an irresistible
fascination. Amid the harmony of the most varied metre, the elegance of
fanciful allusions, and that splendour of imagery and simile which no
other language than their own could hope to furnish, combined with
inventions ever new, and almost always pre-eminently ingenious, the
spectators perceived in imagination a faint refulgence of the former
greatness of their nation which had measured the whole world with its
victories. The most distant zones were called upon to contribute, for the
gratification of the mother country, the treasures of fancy as well as of
nature, and on the dominions of this poetry, as on that of Charles V., the
sun may truly be said never to set.
Even those plays of Calderon which, cast in modern manners, descend the
most to the tone of common life, still fascinate us by a sort of fanciful
magic, and cannot be considered in the same light with the ordinary run of
comedies. Of those of Shakspeare, we have seen that they are always
composed of two dissimilar elements: the comic, which, in so far as comic
imitation requires the observance of local conditions, is true to English
manners; and the romantic, which, as the native soil was not sufficiently
poetical for it, is invariably transplanted to a foreign scene. In Spain,
on the other hand, the national costume of that day still admitted of an
ideal exhibition. This would not indeed have been possible, had Calderon
introduced us into the interior of domestic life, where want and habit
generally reduce all things to every-day narrowness. His comedies, like
those of the ancients, end with marriages; but how different is all that
precedes! With them the most immoral means are set in motion for the
gratification of sensual passions and selfish views, human beings with
their mental powers stand opposed to each other as mere physical beings,
endeavouring to spy out and to expose their mutual weaknesses. Calderon,
it is true, also represents to us his principal characters of both sexes
carried away by the first ebullitions of youth, and in its unwavering
pursuit of the honours and pleasures of life; but the aim after which they
strive, and in the prosecution of which every thing else kicks the beam,
is never in their minds confounded with any other good. Honour, love, and
jealousy, are uniformly the motives out of which, by their dangerous but
noble conflict, the plot arises, and is not purposely complicated by
knavish trickery and deception. Honour is always an ideal principle; for
it rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher morality which
consecrates principles without regard to consequences. It may sink down to
a mere conventional observance of social opinions or prejudices, to a mere
instrument of vanity, but even when so disfigured we may still recognize
in it some faint feature of a sublime idea. I know no apter symbol of
tender sensibility of honour as portrayed by Calderon, than the fable of
the ermine, which is said to prize so highly the whiteness of its fur,
that rather than stain it in flight, it at once yields itself up to the
hunters and death. This sense of honour is equally powerful in the female
characters; it rules over love, which is only allowed a place beside it,
but not above it. According to the sentiments of Calderon's dramas, the
honour of woman consists in loving only one man of pure and spotless
honour, and loving him with perfect purity, free from all ambiguous homage
which encroaches too closely on the severe dignity of woman. Love requires
inviolable secrecy till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared.
This secrecy secures it from the poisonous intermixture of vanity, which
might plume itself with pretensions or boasts of a confessed preference;
it gives it the appearance of a vow, which from its mystery is the more
sacredly observed. This morality does not, it is true, condemn cunning and
dissimulation if employed in the cause of love, and in so far as the
rights of honour may be said to be infringed; but nevertheless the most
delicate consideration is observed in the conflict with other duties,--
with the obligations, for instance, of friendship. Moreover, a power of
jealousy, always alive and often breaking out into fearful violence,--not,
like that of the East, a jealousy of possession,--but one watchful of the
slightest emotions of the heart and its most imperceptible demonstrations
serves to ennoble love, as this feeling, whenever it is not absolutely
exclusive, ceases to be itself. The perplexity to which the mental
conflict of all these motives gives rise, frequently ends in nothing, and
in such cases the catastrophe is truly comic; sometimes, however, it takes
a tragic turn, and then honour becomes a hostile destiny for all who
cannot satisfy its requisitions without sacrificing either their happiness
or their innocence.
These are the dramas of a higher kind, which by foreigners are called
Pieces of Intrigue, but by Spaniards, from the dress in which they are
acted, Comedies of Cloak and Sword (_Comedias de Capa y Espada_).
They have commonly no other burlesque part than that of the merry valet,
known by the name of the _Gracioso_. This valet serves chiefly to parody
the ideal motives from which his master acts, and this he frequently does
with much wit and grace. Seldom is he with his artifices employed as an
efficient lever in establishing the intrigue, in which we rather admire
the wit of accident than of contrivance. Other pieces are called _Comedias
de figuron_; all the figures, with one exception, are usually the same as
those in the former class, and this one is always drawn in caricature, and
occupies a prominent place in the composition. To many of Calderon's
dramas we cannot refuse the name of pieces of character, although we
cannot look for very delicate characterization from the poets of a nation
in which vehemence of passion and exaltation of fancy neither leave
sufficient leisure nor sufficient coolness for prying observation.
Another class of his pieces is called by Calderon himself festal dramas
(_fiestas_). They were destined for representation at court on solemn
occasions; and though they require the theatrical pomp of frequent change
of decoration and visible wonders, and though music also is often
introduced into them, still we may call them poetical operas, that is,
dramas which, by the mere splendour of poetry, perform what in the opera
can only be attained by the machinery, the music, and the dancing. Here
the poet gives himself wholly up to the boldest flights of fancy, and his
creations hardly seem to touch the earth.
The mind of Calderon, however, is most distinctly expressed in the pieces
on religious subjects. Love he paints merely in its most general features;
he but speaks her technical poetical language. Religion is his peculiar
love, the heart of his heart. For religion alone he excites the most
overpowering emotions, which penetrate into the inmost recesses of the
soul. He did not wish, it would seem, to do the same for mere worldly
events. However turbid they may be in themselves to him, such is the
religious medium through which he views them, they are all cleared up and
perfectly bright. Blessed man! he had escaped from the wild labyrinths of
doubt into the stronghold of belief; from thence, with undisturbed
tranquillity of soul, he beheld and portrayed the storms of the world; to
him human life was no longer a dark riddle. Even his tears reflect the
image of heaven, like dew-drops on a flower in the sun. His poetry,
whatever its apparent object, is a never-ending hymn of joy on the majesty
of the creation; he celebrates the productions of nature and human art
with an astonishment always joyful and always new, as if he saw them for
the first time in an unworn festal splendour. It is the first awaking of
Adam, and an eloquence withal, a skill of expression, and a thorough
insight into the most mysterious affinities of nature, such as high mental
culture and mature contemplation can alone bestow. When he compares the
most remote objects, the greatest and the smallest, stars and flowers, the
sense of all his metaphors is the mutual attraction subsisting between
created things by virtue of their common origin, and this delightful
harmony and unity of the world again is merely a refulgence of the eternal
all-embracing love.
Calderon was still flourishing at the time when other countries of Europe
began to manifest a strong inclination for that mannerism of taste in the
arts, and those prosaic views in literature, which in the eighteenth
century obtained such universal dominion. He is consequently to be
considered as the last summit of romantic poetry. All its magnificence is
lavished in his writings, as in fireworks the most brilliant and rarest
combinations of colours, the most dazzling of fiery showers and circles
are usually reserved for the last explosion.
The Spanish theatre continued for nearly a century after Calderon to be
cultivated in the same spirit. All, however, that was produced in that
period is but an echo of previous productions, and nothing new and truly
peculiar appeared such as deserves to be named after Calderon. After him a
great barrenness is perceptible. Now and then attempts were made to
produce regular tragedies, that is to say, after the French model. Even
the declamatory drama of Diderot found imitators. I remember reading a
Spanish play, which had for its object the abolition of the torture. The
exhilaration to be expected from such a work may be easily conceived. A
few Spaniards, apostates from the old national taste, extol highly the
prosaical and moral dramas of Moratin; but we see no reason for seeking in
Spain what we have as good, or, more correctly speaking, equally bad at
home. The theatrical audience has for the most part preserved itself
tolerably exempt from all such foreign influences; a few years ago when a
_bel esprit_ undertook to reduce a justly admired piece of Moreto (_El
Pareceido en la Corte_,) to a conformity with the three unities, the pit
at Madrid were thrown into such a commotion that the players could only
appease them by announcing the piece for the next day in its genuine
shape.
When in any country external circumstances, such, for instance, as the
influence of the clergy, the oppression of the censorship, and even the
jealous vigilance of the people in the maintenance of their old national
customs, oppose the introduction of what in neighbouring states passes for
a progress in mental culture, it frequently happens that clever
description of heads will feel an undue longing for the forbidden fruit,
and first begin to admire some artistic depravity, when it has elsewhere
ceased to be fashionable. In particular ages certain mental maladies are
so universally epidemic that a nation can never be secure from infection
till it has been innoculated with it. With respect, however, to the fatal
enlightenment of the last generation, the Spaniards it would appear have
come off with the chicken-pox, while in the features of other nations the
disfiguring variolous scars are but too visible. Living nearly in an
insular situation, Spaniards have slept through the eighteenth century,
and how in the main could they have applied their time better? Should the
Spanish poetry ever again awake in old Europe, or in the New World, it
would certainly have a step to make, from instinct to consciousness. What
the Spaniards have hitherto loved from innate inclination, they must learn
to reverence on clear principles, and, undismayed at the criticism to
which it has in the mean time been exposed, proceed to fresh creations in
the spirit of their greatest poets.