TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and added to the public
domain.
The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber.
The spelling of Spanish names and places mentioned in the text has been
adjusted to the rules set by the Academia Real Española. The spelling
of quotations in ancient Spanish presented in the text haves been kept
as they were written in the oriignal work.
A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.
Punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.
* * * * *
THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
IN TWELVE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
Agent for London.
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON,
4 Adam Street,
Adelphi, W.C.
THE·COMPLETE·WORKS·OF·MIGUEL
DE·CERVANTES·SAAVEDRA·VOL·II
GALATEA
EDITED·BY·JAS·FITZMAURICE-KELLY
TRANSLATED·BY·H·OELSNER·&·A·B·WELFORD
GOWANS·&·GRAY·GLASGOW·NOV·1^{ST} 1903
[Illustration]
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
in explanation of the different types employed.
In order to prevent a difficulty that sometimes arises of
distinguishing between the author and the editor, especially when
author's and editor's notes to a text both occur, the following plan
has been adopted. The text of the author and its variants have been
printed throughout in 'old style' type, while all notes &c. added by
the editor have been set in 'condensed' type. It is hoped that this
innovation will be found of no small service to the general reader as
well as to the student.
INDEX
Pag.
INTRODUCTION TO GALATEA vii
PROLOGUE 5
BOOK I 9
BOOK II 50
BOOK III 95
BOOK IV 143
BOOK V 191
BOOK VI 240
INTRODUCTION TO THE GALATEA.
Simple as the bibliography of the _Galatea_ really is, a habit of
conjecture has succeeded in complicating it. Though the earliest
known edition of the book is unanimously admitted to have appeared at
Alcalá de Henares in 1585, it is often alleged that the _princeps_
was actually issued at Madrid during the previous year. This is a
mistaken idea arising, probably, out of a slip made by Gregorio Mayáns
y Siscar, the first Spaniard[1] who attempted to write a formal
biography of Cervantes. In his thirteenth paragraph Mayáns[2] remarked
by the way that the _Galatea_ was published in 1584; but he laid no
stress upon the date, and dismissed the matter in a single sentence.
The error (if it were really an error, and not a mere misprint) was
natural and pardonable enough in one who lived before bibliography
had developed into an exact study. Unfortunately, it was reproduced
by others. It is found, for instance, in a biographical essay on
Cervantes which precedes the first edition of _Don Quixote_ issued by
the Royal Spanish Academy;[3] and the essayist, Vicente de los Ríos,
adds the detail that the _Galatea_ came out at Madrid. It was unlucky
that this statement should be put forward where it is. The Academy's
responsibility for the texts issued in its name is chiefly financial:
for the rest, it habitually appoints the most competent representatives
available, and it naturally gives each delegate a free hand. But
foreigners, unacquainted with the procedure, have imagined that Ríos
must be taken as expressing the deliberate and unanimous opinion of
the entire Academy. This is a complete misapprehension. On the face
of it, it is absurd to suppose that any corporation, as a whole, is
irrevocably committed to every view expressed by individual members.
Even were it otherwise, it would not affect the case. An error would be
none the less an error if a learned society sanctioned it. But, as a
matter of fact, like all those concerned in editing texts or in writing
essays for the Academy, Ríos spoke for himself alone. He was followed
by Pellicer[4] who, though he gives 1584 as the date of the _princeps_,
is less categorical as to the place of publication. Some twenty-two
years after Pellicer's time, Fernández de Navarrete[5] accepted his
predecessors' view as regards the date, and to this acceptance,
more than to anything else, the common mistake is due. Relying on
Navarrete's unequalled authority, Ticknor[6] repeated the mis-statement
which has since passed into general circulation. Further enquiry has
destroyed the theory that the _Galatea_ first appeared at Madrid in
1584. However, as most English writers[7] on this question have given
currency to the old, erroneous notion, it becomes necessary to set
forth the circumstances of the case. But, before entering upon details,
it should be observed (1) that no copy of the supposititious 1584
edition has ever been seen by any one; (2) that there is not even an
indirect proof of its existence; and (3) that, so far as the evidence
goes, no edition of the _Galatea_ was published at Madrid before 1736:
that is to say, until more than a century after Cervantes's death.
We do not know precisely when the _Galatea_ was written. M. Dumaine,[8]
indeed, declares positively that the poems in the volume--he must
surely mean some of them, not all--were addressed to a lady during the
author's stay in Italy. If this were so, these verses would date (at
latest) from September, 1575, when Cervantes left Italy for the last
time. Sr. D. José María Asensio y Toledo[9] holds that the _Galatea_
was begun in Portugal soon after the writer's return from Algiers in
1580. Of these views one may conceivably be true; one must necessarily
be false; and it is more than possible that both are wrong. As no data
are forthcoming to support either opinion, we may profitably set aside
these speculations and proceed to examine the particulars disclosed
in the preliminaries of the _Galatea_. The _Aprobación_ was signed by
Lucas Gracián[10] Dantisco at Madrid on February 1, 1584, and, as some
time must have passed between the submission of the manuscript to the
censor and the issue of his license, it seems certain that the text of
the _Galatea_ was finished before the end of 1583. In its present form,
the dedication, as will be seen presently, cannot have been written
till about the end of the following summer. Meanwhile, on February
22, 1584, the _Privilegio_ was granted at Madrid in the King's name
by Antonio de Erasso. It was not till a year later--the very end of
February 1585--that the _Fe de erratas_ was passed at Alcalá de Henares
by the Licenciado Vares de Castro, official corrector to the University
of that city. The _Tasa_, which bears the name of Miguel Ondarza
Zabala, was despatched at Madrid on March 13, 1585.
To those who have had no occasion to study such matters as these, the
space of time which elapsed between the concession of the _Privilegio_
and the despatch of the _Tasa_ might seem considerable; and it is not
surprising that this circumstance should be the basis of erroneous
deductions on their part. Apparently for no other reason than the
length of this interval, it has been concluded that, between February
22, 1584, and March 13, 1585, there was printed at Madrid an edition of
the _Galatea_, every copy of which has--_ex hypothesi_--vanished. This
assumption is gratuitous.
It is true that the first editions of certain very popular Spanish
books--such as the _Celestina_,[11] _Amadís de Gaula_,[12] _Lazarillo
de Tormes_,[13] _Guzmán de Alfarache_,[14] and _Don Quixote_[15]--tend
to become exceedingly rare and are, perhaps, occasionally thumbed out
of existence altogether. But the _Galatea_, like all pastoral novels,
appealed to a comparatively restricted class of readers, and was in no
danger of wide popularity. No doubt the _princeps_ of the _Galatea_ is
exceptionally rare,[16]--rarer than the _princeps_ of _Don Quixote_;
but rarity, taken by itself, is no proof that a work was popular, and,
in the present instance, the rarity may be due to the fact that the
_Galatea_ was issued in a more or less limited edition. This is what
we should expect in the case of a first book published in a provincial
town by an author who had still to make his reputation; but, in the
absence of direct testimony, the question cannot be decided. What
can be proved by any one at all acquainted with Spanish bibliography
is that there was no unexampled delay in publishing the _Galatea_.
Similar instances abound; but, for our present purpose, it will
suffice to mention two which are--or should be--familiar to all who
are specially interested in Cervantes and in his writings. As we have
just seen, the _Tasa_ of the _Galatea_ is dated thirteen months after
the _Aprobación_. An exact parallel to this is afforded by Cervantes's
own _Novelas exemplares_: Fray Juan Bautista signed the _Aprobación_
on July 9, 1612, and Hernando de Vallejo signed the _Tasa_ on August
12, 1613.[17] Here the interval is precisely thirteen months. A still
more striking instance of dilatoriness is revealed in the preliminaries
to another work which has been consulted--or, at least, quoted as
though it were familiar to them--by almost all writers on Cervantes
from 1761 onwards: namely, Diego de Haedo's _Topographia e Historia
general de Argel_, published at Valladolid in 1612. Haedo obtained the
_Aprobación_ on October 6, 1604, but the licence was not given till
February 8, 1610. In this instance, then, the legal formalities were
spread out over five years and, at the final stage, there was a further
pause of three years; in all, a delay of eight years.[18] There is
no ground for assuming that the official procedure in these matters
was more expeditions in 1585 than it was a quarter of a century later
and, consequently, in the case of the _Galatea_, the interval of time
between the issue of the _Aprobación_ and the despatch of the _Tasa_
cannot be regarded as calling for any far-fetched explanation.
The author's Letter Dedicatory to Ascanio Colonna, Abbot of St. Sophia,
is undated, but it contains a passage which incidentally throws
light on the bibliography of the _Galatea_. Speaking of his military
service under Ascanio Colonna's father, Cervantes mentions his late
chief--_aquel sol de la milicia que ayer nos quitó el cielo delante
de los ojos_--in terms which imply that Marco Antonio Colonna's death
was a comparatively recent event. Now, we know from the official
death-certificate[19] that the Viceroy of Sicily, when on his way to
visit Philip II., died at Medinaceli on August 1, 1584--exactly six
months after the _Aprobación_ for the _Galatea_ had been obtained.
Allowing for the rate at which news travelled in the sixteenth century,
it seems improbable that Cervantes can have written his dedication
much before the end of August 1584. It is conceivable, no doubt,
that he wrote two different dedications--one for the alleged Madrid
edition of 1584, and another for the Alcalá edition of 1585. It is
equally conceivable that though the Alcalá edition of the _Galatea_, in
common with every subsequent work by Cervantes, has a dedication, the
supposititious Madrid edition was (for some reason unknown) published
without one. Manifestly, one of these alternatives must be adopted
by believers in the imaginary _princeps_. But, curiously enough,
the point does not appear to have occurred to them; for, up to the
present time, no such hypothesis has been advanced. Assuming, as we
may fairly assume, that only one dedication was written, the complete
manuscript of the _Galatea_ cannot well have reached the compositors
till September or October 1584. It is possible that some part of the
text was set up before this date, but of this we have no proof. If
the 375 leaves--750 pages--of which the book consists were struck
off late in January or early in February 1585, so as to allow of the
text being revised by the official corrector at Alcalá de Henares,
and thence forwarded to Madrid by the beginning of March, it must be
admitted that the achievement did credit to the country printer, Juan
de Gracián, whose name figures on the title-page. Further, as Salvá[20]
shrewdly remarks, the appearance of the Colonna escutcheon on this
same title-page affords a presumption that the Alcalá edition of 1585
is the _princeps_: for it is unreasonable to suppose that a struggling
provincial publisher of the sixteenth century would go to the expense
of furnishing a simple reprint with a complimentary woodcut.
Each of the foregoing circumstances, considered separately, tells
against the current idea that the _Galatea_ was published at Madrid in
1584, and it might have been hoped that an intelligent consideration
of their cumulative effect would ensure the right conclusion: that
the story is a myth. But, so Donoso Cortés[21] maintained, man has an
almost invincible propensity to error, and the discussion on so plain a
matter as the bibliography of the _Galatea_ lends colour to this view.
The amount of confusion introduced into the debate is extraordinary.
It is occasionally difficult to gather what a partisan of the alleged
1584 edition holds; his pages blaze with contradictions: his theory is
half-heartedly advanced, hastily abandoned, and confidently re-stated
in a bewildering fashion.[22] Again, what was originally put forward
as a pious opinion is transfigured into a dogma. Just as there are
some who, when writing on the bibliography of _Don Quixote_, insist
that the 1608 edition of that book "must have been revised by the
author,"[23] so there are some who, when writing on the bibliography
of the _Galatea_, insist with equal positiveness that there "must have
been an edition of 1584."[24] This emphasis is out of place in both
cases; but it is interesting and instructive to note that these two
opinions are practically inseparable from each other. The coincidence
can scarcely be accidental, and it may prove advantageous: for,
obviously, the refutation of the one thesis must tend to discredit the
other. If a writer be convicted of error in a very simple matter which
can be tested in a moment, it would clearly be imprudent to accept his
unsupported statement concerning a far more complex matter to which
no direct test can be applied. And, as it happens, we are now enabled
to measure the accuracy of the assertion that the _princeps_ of the
_Galatea_ was published at Madrid in 1584.
Those who take it upon themselves to lay down that there "must have
been" an edition of that place and date are bound to establish the
fact. They are not entitled to defy every rule of evidence, and to
call on the other side to prove a negative. The burden of proof lies
wholly with them. But, by a rare and happy accident, it is possible to
prove a negative in the present case. In view of recent researches, the
theory that the _princeps_ of the _Galatea_ was issued at Madrid in
1584 is absolutely untenable. All doubts or hesitations on this head
are ended by the opportune discovery, due to that excellent scholar
and fortunate investigator, Dr. Pérez Pastor, of the original contract
between Cervantes and the Alcalá publisher, Blas de Robles. By this
contract Blas de Robles binds himself to pay 1336 _reales_ (£29. 13s.
9d. English) for the author's entire rights.[25] This legal instrument
is decisive, for it would be ridiculous--not to say impertinent--to
suppose that Cervantes sold his interest twice over to two different
publishers in two different cities. There can, therefore, be no
further controversy as to when and where the _Galatea_ appeared. It
is now placed beyond dispute that Cervantes had not found a publisher
before June 1584, and that the book was issued at Alcalá de Henares in
1585--probably not before the month of April. The first intention was
to entitle the volume _Los seys libros de Galatea_ but (perhaps with a
view to emphasizing the promise of a sequel) it was actually published
as the _Primera Parte de la Galatea, dividida en seys libros_.[26] On
June 14, 1584, Cervantes received 1116 _reales_ in advance, and, by
a deed of the same date, Blas de Robles undertook to pay the balance
of 250 _reales_ at the end of September:[27] the very period when, as
already conjectured, the printing was begun.[28]
Cervantes was in his thirty-third year when he was ransomed at
Algiers on September 19, 1580, and, when he reached Portugal in 1581,
he may have intended to enlist once more. It has, in fact, been
generally thought that he shared in at least one of the expeditions
against the Azores under the famous Marqués de Santa Cruz in 1581-83.
This belief is based on the _Información_ presented by Cervantes at
Madrid on June 6, 1590;[29] but in this petition to the King the claims
of Rodrigo de Cervantes and Miguel de Cervantes are set forth in so
confusing a fashion that it is difficult to distinguish the services
of the elder brother from those of the junior. It is certain that
Rodrigo served at the Azores in 1583, and we learn from Mosquera de
Figueroa that he was promoted from the ranks for his distinguished
gallantry in the action before Porto das Moas.[30] But it is by no
means clear that Miguel de Cervantes took any part in either campaign.
Such evidence as we have tells rather against the current supposition.
It is ascertained that Cervantes was at Tomar on May 21, 1581, and
that he was at Cartagena towards the end of June 1581, while we have
documentary evidence to prove that he pawned five pieces of yellow and
red taffeta to Napoléon Lomelin at Madrid in the autumn of 1583.[31] If
these dates are correct (as they seem to be), it is scarcely possible
that Cervantes can have sailed with Santa Cruz for the Azores.[32] The
likelihood is that he had to be content with some civil employment and,
if so, it was natural enough that he should turn to literature with a
view to increasing his small income. A modest, clear-sighted man, he
probably did not imagine that he was about to write masterpieces, or
to make a fortune by his pen. He perhaps hoped to keep the wolf from
the door, or, at the most, to find a rich patron, as his friend Gálvez
de Montalvo had done.[33] If these were his ideas, and if, as seems
likely, he thought of marrying at about this time, it is not surprising
that he should write what he believed would sell. So far as we can
judge, he would much rather have wielded a sword than a goose-quill,
and he was far too great a humorist to vapour about "art" or an
"irresistible vocation." His juvenile verses had found favour with Juan
López de Hoyos, and perhaps Rufino de Chamberí had appreciated the two
sonnets written in Algiers; but the spirited tercets to Mateo Vázquez
had failed of their effect, and Cervantes was shrewd enough to know
that versifying was not lucrative. Eighty years before it was uttered,
he realized the truth of the divine Gombauld's dying exclamation: _On
paie si mal des vers immortels!_ Fortunately, he had many strings to
his bow. Like Lope de Vega, he was prepared to attempt anything and
everything: prose or verse, the drama, picaresque tales, novels of
adventure, and the rest. But, to begin with, he divided his efforts
between the theatre and fiction.
In the latter province the path of a beginner was clearly marked out.
Too obscure, as yet, to venture upon a line of his own, and anxious,
if possible, to conciliate the general body of readers, Cervantes
was practically compelled to choose between the chivalresque romance
and the pastoral. Not knowing that he was born to kill the former
kind, he decided in favour of the latter--and for obvious reasons.
The Knight-errantries of Amadís and his comrades had been in vogue
from the fourteenth--perhaps even from the thirteenth[34]--century
onwards. _Amadís de Gaula_ was printed at least as early as 1508,[35]
and had begotten a numerous tribe; but, when Cervantes was feeling his
way in the ninth decade of the sixteenth century, popular enthusiasm
for these tales of chivalry was cooling. The pastoral novel was the
latest literary fashion. It would, possibly, be too much to say that
the Spanish pastoral novel was a mere offshoot of the chivalresque
romances; yet it is undeniable that the pastoral element is found in
chivalresque stories of comparatively early date. For example, in
the ninth book of _Amadís_, entitled _Amadís de Grecia_ (1530) the
shepherd Darinel and the shepherdess Sylvia are among the characters;
in the first two parts of _Don Florisel de Niquea_ (1532) the hero
masquerades as a shepherd and pays his court to the shepherdess Sylvia;
in the fourth part of _Don Florisel de Niquea_ (1551) the eclogues of
Archileo and Laris are early instances of what was destined to become a
tedious convention.[36] These, however, are simple foreshadowings of an
independent school of fiction which was in full vigour while Cervantes
was still a boy.
The Spanish chivalresque novel is thought by many sound judges to
derive directly from Portugal,[37] which may, in its turn, have
received the material of its knightly tales--and perhaps something
more than the raw material--from Celtic France.[38] The conclusion
is disputed,[39] but whatever opinion may prevail as regards the
source of the books of chivalry, it seems fairly certain that the
pastoral novel was introduced into Spain by a Portuguese writer whose
inspiration came to him from Italy. In a general sense, Virgil is the
father of the pastoral in all Latin lands: the more immediate source
of the Italian pastoral is believed to be Boccaccio's _Ameto_, the
model of Tasso and Guarini as also of Bembo and Sannasaro. Jacopo
Sannazaro,[40] a Neapolitan courtier of Spanish descent, is the
connecting link between the literatures of Italy and the Peninsula
during the first part of the sixteenth century. His vogue in the
latter was enhanced through the instrumentality of the renowned poet
Garcilaso de la Vega,[41] the "starry paladin" of Spain. No small part
of Garcilaso's work is a poetic recasting of Sannazaro's themes,[42]
and we can scarcely doubt that Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ suggested the
first genuine Spanish pastoral to the Portuguese, Jorge de Montemôr,
so called from his birthplace. The point has been contested, for
Montemôr's _Siete libros de la Diana_ are often said to have been
published in 1542,[43] and the first Spanish translation of Sannazaro's
_Arcadia_ (by Diego López de Ayala) does not appear to have been issued
till 1547.[44] It may, however, be taken as established that Montemôr's
_Diana_ was not really printed much earlier than 1558-9,[45] when it
at once became the fashion.[46] The argument sets forth that in the
city of León, by the banks of the Ezla, dwelt the beautiful shepherdess
Diana, beloved of the shepherds Sireno and Silvano; the shepherdess
favours Sireno, who is suddenly called away to foreign countries,
whence he returns a year later to find a change of times and hearts,
Diana being wedded to the shepherd Delio: "and here beginneth the
first book, and in the remainder you shall find very diverse histories
of events which in sooth befell, howbeit travestied under a pastoral
style." Montemôr's diverse histories, which owe something to Bernardim
Ribeiro's _Saudades_ or _Hystoria de Menina e moça_[47] (a novel that
begins as a chivalresque romance and ends as a pastoral tale), took
Western Europe by storm. They may have been in Spenser's mind when
he wrote _The Shepherd's Calendar_: they were unquestionably utilized
by Sir Philip Sidney in _The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia_, and it
has been alleged with more or less plausibility that--possibly through
Bartholomew Yong's version of Montemôr, which was finished in 1583,
though not published till fifteen years later--the episode of Felismena
has been transferred from the _Diana_ to the _Two Gentlemen of Verona_.
The _Diana_ ends with the promise of a Second Part in which the
shepherd Danteo and the shepherdess Duarda shall figure, but this
Second Part was not forthcoming as Montemôr was killed in Piedmont on
February 26, 1561.[48] His design was very badly executed in 1564 by
his friend Alonso Pérez, a Salamancan physician, who had the assurance
to boast that there was scarcely a scrap of original prose or verse in
his volume, the whole (as he vaunts) being stolen and imitated from
Latins and Italians. "Nor," adds this astonishing doctor, "do I deem
that I am in any sort to blame therefor, since they did as much by the
Greeks."[49] Another, and a far better, continuation of Montemôr's
_Diana_ was issued at Valencia in this same year of 1664 by Gaspar Gil
Polo--a sequel which, after proving almost as successful as Montemôr's
original, was destined to be plagiarized in the most shameless fashion
by Hierónimo de Texeda.[50]
That Cervantes was well acquainted with these early Spanish pastorals
is proved by the discussion on the little books--contrasting with the
hundred and more stately folios of the chivalresque romances--in Don
Quixote's library. The niece of the Ingenious Gentleman thought that
these slimmer volumes should "be burned as well as the others; for it
would be no wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my
uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and range the
woods and fields singing and piping." The Priest agrees in principle,
but in practice he is more mercifully disposed:--"To begin, then, with
the _Diana_ of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned, but
that it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and the
magic water,[51] and of almost all the longer pieces of verse: let it
keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the first of books
of the kind." And when questioned concerning the above-named sequels,
the judicious Priest declares:--"As for that of the Salamancan, let it
go to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's
be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself." With this jest on Gil
Polo's name, the Priest passes over the next in order of the pastoral
novels, Jerónimo de Arbolanche's _Las Habidas_ (1566)[52]--a very rare
work which, though not on Don Quixote's shelves, was more or less
vaguely known to Cervantes[53]--to pronounce judgment on _Los diez
Libros de Fortuna d'Amor_, an amazingly foolish book published in 1573
by a Sardinian soldier named Antonio de lo Frasso. Cervantes was just
the man to praise (if possible) the work of an old comrade-in-arms,
and, in fact, he contrived (through the Priest) to express his opinion
of lo Frasso's book in terms which proved misleading:--"By the orders
I have received, since Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been
Muses, and poets have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as this
has never been written, and in its way it is the best and the most
singular of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and he who
has not read it may be sure he has never read what is delightful.
Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found it
than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff." It might seem
difficult to interpret this as praise, and impossible to misunderstand
the Priest's delight at meeting with what had already become a
bibliographical rarity; but, some hundred and thirty years later, the
last words of the passage were taken seriously and led to a reprint of
lo Frasso's book by Pedro de Pineda, one of the correctors of Tonson's
_Don Quixote_, who had manifestly overlooked the ridicule of the
Sardinian in the _Viaje del Parnaso_.[54]
These pastorals, together with the chivalresque romances, had probably
been the entertainment of Cervantes's youth. It was probably another
and much later essay of the same kind which induced him to try his luck
in the pastoral vein: the _Pastor de Fílida_, published at Madrid in
1582 by his friend Luis Gálvez de Montalvo, who is said (on doubtful
authority, as we shall see presently) to have introduced Cervantes in
his text as the shepherd Tirsi--_de clarísimo ingenio_. Whether this
be so, or not, Cervantes, in his usual kindly, indulgent way, places
his friend's work on Don Quixote's shelves, and treats it with gracious
deference:--"No Pastor that, but a highly polished courtier; let it
be preserved as a precious jewel." The book has but trifling interest
for us nowadays; yet we may be sure that Cervantes's admiration was
whole-hearted, and the fact that the volume passed through several
editions[55] vindicates him from any suspicion of excessive partiality.
It was his fine habit to praise generously. Neither his temperament
nor his training was critical, and he attached even more than its due
importance to the verdict of the public. He frankly rejoiced in Gálvez
de Montalvo's success, and it is not unreasonable to conjecture that
this success helped to hasten the appearance of the _Galatea_.
It may seem strange that Cervantes, whose transcriptions from life are
eminently distinguished for truth and force, should have been induced
to experiment in the province of artificial, languid pastoralism. But
if, as Taine would have it, climate makes the race, the race makes
the individual, and at this period the races of Western Europe had
gone (so to say) pastorally mad.[56] The pastoral novel is not to our
modern taste; but, as there is no more stability in literature than in
politics, its day may come again.[57] In Cervantes's time there was
no escaping from the prose idyll. Prodigious tales from the Indies
had stimulated the popular appetite for wonders, and the demand was
supplied to satiety in the later chivalresque romances. Feliciano de
Silva and his fellows could think of nothing better than the systematic
exaggeration of the most marvellous episodes in _Amadís de Gaula_. The
adventures became more perilous, the knights more fantastically brave,
the ladies (if possible) lovelier, the wizards craftier, the giants
huger, the monsters more terrific, and so forth. In this vein nothing
more was to be done: the formula was exhausted. The rival and more
cultured school, founded by Sannazaro, endeavoured to lead men's minds
from these noisy banalities to the placid contemplation of nature, or
rather of idealized antiquity, by substituting for the din of arms, the
stir of cities, and the furrowing of strange oceans by the prows of
vulgar traders, the still, primeval
"Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth, and oarless sea."
Unluckily no departure from Sannazaro's original pattern was thought
legitimate. Sir Philip Sidney rejects every attempt at innovation with
the crushing remark that "neyther Theocritus in Greek, Virgill in
Latine, nor Sanazar in Italian did affect it."[58] Hence the unbroken
monotony of the pastoral convention. Nothing is easier than to mock at
this new Arcadia where beauteous shepherdesses vanish discreetly behind
glades and brakes, where golden-mouthed shepherds exchange confidences
of unrequited passion, arguing the high metaphysical doctrine of
Platonic love, or chanting most melancholy madrigals at intervals which
the seasoned reader can calculate to a nicety beforehand. There never
was, and never could be, such an atmosphere of deliberate dilettantism
in such a world as ours. Taken as a whole these late Renascence
pastorals weary us, as Sidney's _Arcadia_ wearied Hazlitt, with their
everlasting "alliteration, antithesis and metaphysical conceit,"
their "continual, uncalled-for interruptions, analysing, dissecting,
disjointing, murdering everything, and reading a pragmatical,
self-sufficient lecture over the dead body of nature." Briefly, while
these pastoral writers of the sixteenth century persuaded themselves
and their readers that they were returning to communion with hills
and forests, to us it seems as though they offered little beyond
unassimilated reminiscences of conventional classicism.
It would be idle to deny that the _Galatea_ has many defects of
the school to which it belongs, but it must always have a singular
interest as being the first serious literary experiment made by a
writer of consummate genius. Cervantes had the model, the sacred model,
perpetually before his eyes, and he copied it (if not with conviction)
with a grim determination which speaks for itself. He, too,--the
_ingenio lego_--must be interpolating his learning, and referring to
Virgil, Ovid, Propertius and the rest of them, with an air of intimate
familiarity. Twenty years afterwards, when he had outgrown these little
affectations, and was penning the amusing passage in which he banters
Lope's childish pedantry,[59] the brilliant humorist must surely have
smiled as he remembered his own performances in the same kind. He
does honour to the grand tradition of prolixity by putting wiredrawn
conceits into the mouths of shepherds who are much more like love-sick
Abelards than like Comatas or Lacon, and, when his own stock of
scholastic subtleties is ended, he has no scruple in allotting to Lenio
and Tirsi[60] a short summary of the arguments which had been used
long before by Filone and Sofía in his favourite book, León Hebreo's
_Dialoghi di Amore_.[61] Had he taken far more material than he
actually took, he would have been well within his rights, according to
the prevailing ideas of literary morality. Whatever illiterate admirers
may say, it is certain that Cervantes followed the fashion in borrowing
freely from his predecessors. No careful reader of the _Galatea_ can
doubt that its author either had Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ on his table, or
that he knew it almost by heart.[62] His appreciation for the _Arcadia_
was unbounded, and in the _Viaje del Parnaso_[63] the sight of Posilipo
causes him to link together the names of Virgil and Sannazaro:--
Vímonos en un punto en el paraje,
Do la nutriz de Eneas piadoso
Hizo el forzoso y último pasaje.
Vimos desde allí á poco el más famoso
Monte que encierra en sí nuestro hemisfero,
Más gallardo á la vista y más hermoso.
Las cenizas de Títiro y Sincero
Están en él, y puede ser por esto
Nombrado entre los montes por primero.
In the _Galatea_, enthusiasm takes the form of conscientious imitation.
It cannot be mere coincidence that Ergasto's song--_Alma beata et
bella_--is echoed by Elicio as _O alma venturosa_; that such a
_ritornello_ as _Ricominciate, o Muse, il vostro pianto_ reappears
as _Pastores, entonad el triste canto_; that _Ponete fin, o Muse,
al vostro pianto_ is rendered as _Pastores, cesad ya del triste
canto_. The sixth book of the _Galatea_ is an undisguised adaptation
of Sannazaro's work. In view of these resemblances, and many others
indicated by Professor Scherillo,[64] the large indebtedness of
Cervantes to Sannazaro cannot be denied.
Nor are León Hebreo and Sannazaro Cervantes's sole creditors. The
_Canto de Calíope_, which commemorates the merits of a hundred poets
and poetasters, was probably suggested by the _Canto de Turia_ in the
third book of Gil Polo's _Diana enamorada_, or by the list of rhymers
in Boscán's _Octava Rima_, or even by a similar catalogue interpolated
in the thirty-eighth canto of Luis Zapata's unreadable epic, _Carlos
famoso_.[65] It may be pleaded for Cervantes that he admired Boscán,
Gil Polo, and Zapata, and that his imitation of them is natural enough.
_Sea muy enhorabuena._ The same explanation cannot apply to the uncanny
resemblance, which Professor Rennert[66] has pointed out, between the
address to Nisida in the third book of the _Galatea_ and the letter
to Cardenia in the second book of Alonso Pérez' worthless sequel to
Montemôr's _Diana_. Had Cervantes remembered this small loan when
writing the sixth chapter of _Don Quixote_, gratitude would probably
have led him to pass a more lenient sentence on the impudent Salamancan
doctor.
It was in strict accordance with the pastoral tradition that the
author should introduce himself and his friends into his story. In
Virgil's Fifth Eclogue, Daphnis was said to stand for Julius Cæsar,
Mopsus for Æmilius Macer of Verona, Menalcas for the poet himself.
Sannazaro had, it was believed, revived the fashion in Italy.[67]
Ribeiro presented himself to the public as Bimnardel, Montemôr
asked for sympathy under the name of Sireno, and Sir Philip Sidney
masqueraded as Pyrocles. In the _Pastor de Fílida_, it is understood
that Mendino is Don Enrique de Mendoza y Aragón, that Pradileo is the
Conde de Prades (Luis Ramón y Folch), that Silvano is the poet Gregorio
Silvestre, that Tirsi is Francisco de Figueroa (or, as some rashly
say,[68] Cervantes), and that Montalvo himself appears as Siralvo.
The new recruit observed the precedents and, if we are to accept the
authority of Navarrete,[69] the Tirsi, Damon, Meliso, Siralvo, Lauso,
Larsileo, and Artidoro of the _Galatea_ are pseudonyms for Francisco
de Figueroa, Pedro Láinez, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Luis Gálvez de
Montalvo, Luis Barahona de Soto, Alonso de Ercilla, and Andrés Rey de
Artieda respectively.[70] Lastly, commentators and biographers are
mostly agreed that the characters of Elicio and Galatea stand for
Cervantes and for Doña Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano[71]
whom he married some ten months after the official _Aprobación_ to his
novel was signed. We know on Cervantes's own statement that many of
his shepherds were shepherds in appearance only,[72] and Lope de Vega
confirms the tradition;[73] but we shall do well to remember that, in
attempting to identify the characters of a romance with personages in
real life, conjecture plays a considerable part.[74] Some of the above
identifications might easily be disputed, and, at the best, we can
scarcely doubt that most of the likenesses given by Cervantes in the
_Galatea_ are composite portraits.
In any case, it is difficult to take a deep interest in Cervantes's
seventy-one[75] shepherds and shepherdesses. Their sensibility is
too exquisite for this world. Among the swains, Lisandro, Silenio,
Mireno, Grisaldo, Erastro, Damon, Telesio, Lauso, and Lenio weep
most copiously. Among the nymphs, Galatea, Lidia, Rosaura, Teolinda,
Maurisa, Nisida and Blanca choke with tears. Teolinda, Leonarda and
Rosaura swoon; Silerio, Timbrio, Darinto, Elicio and Lenio drop down in
a dead faint. In mind and body these shepherds and shepherdesses are
exceptionally endowed. They can remain awake for days. They can recite,
without slurring a comma, a hundred or two hundred lines of a poem
heard once, years ago; and the casuistry of their amorous dialectics
would do credit to Sánchez or Escobar. All this is common form. A
generation later, Honoré d'Urfé replied to the few who might accuse
Astrée of talking above her station:--"Reponds-leur, ma Bergere, que
pour peu qu'ils ayent connoissance de toy, ils sçauront que tu n'es
pas, ny celles aussi qui te suiuent, de ces Bergeres necessiteuses
qui pour gagner leur vie conduisent les troupeaux aux pasturages:
mais que vous n'auez toutes pris cette condition que pour viure plus
doucement & sans contrainte. Que si vos conceptions & vos paroles
estoient veritablement telles que celles des Bergers ordinaires,
ils auroient aussi peu de plaisir de vous escouter que vous auriez
beaucoup de honte à les redire."[76] The plea was held to be good. The
pastoral convention of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries thrust
out all realism as an unclean thing. The pity is that Cervantes, in
his effort to conform to the rule, was compelled to stifle what was
best and rarest in his genius. Yet, amid these philosophizings and
artificialities, a few gleams of his peculiar, parenthetical humour
flash from him unawares: as when the refined Teolinda seeks to console
Lidia--_limpiándole los ojos con la manga de mi camisa_:[77] or in the
description of Crisalvo's fury--_que le sacaba de juicio, aunque él
tenía tan poco, que poco era menester para acabárselo_: or in Arsindo's
thoughtful remark that the shepherds might possibly be missed by the
flocks from which they had been absent for the last ten days. Again,
there is a foreshadowing of a famous passage in _Don Quixote_ when the
writer compares the shepherd's life with the courtier's. Once more,
the story of Timbrio's adventures--which are anything but idyllic--is
given with uncommon spirit. There are ingenuity and fancy in many
of the poems, and there is interest as well as grace in the little
autobiographical touches--the mention of Arnaute Mamí, the local
patriotism that surges up in allusions to the river Henares on which
stands the author's native town--_el gran Compluto_, as he says in his
eloquent way.
Cervantes is admittedly a wonderful creator; but the pastoral of
his time--a pastiche or mosaic of conventional figures--gave him
no opportunity of displaying his powers as an inventor. He is
also a very great prose-writer, ranging with an easy mastery from
the loftiest rhetoric to the quick thrust-and-parry of humoristic
colloquy. Still, as has often been remarked, his attention is apt to
wander, and vigilant grammarians have detected (and chronicled) slips
in his most brilliant chapters. In the matter of correctness, the
_Galatea_ compares favourably with _Don Quixote_, and its style has
been warmly eulogized by the majority of critics. And, on the whole,
the praise is deserved. The _Galatea_ is (one fancies) the result of
much deliberation--the preliminary essay of a writer no longer young
indeed, but abounding in hope, in courage, and in knowledge of the
best literary models which his country had produced. The First Part
of _Don Quixote_ was dashed off at odds and ends of time by a man
acquainted with rebuffs, poverty, disastrous failure of every kind.
Purists may point to five grammatical flaws in _Don Quixote_ for one
in the _Galatea_, and naturally the latter gains by this comparison.
But, whatever the technical weaknesses of _Don Quixote_, that book has
the supreme merit of allowing Cervantes to be himself. In the _Galatea_
he is, so far as his means allow, Virgil, Longus, Boccaccio, Petrarch,
León Hebreo, Sannazaro, Montemôr--even the unhappy Pérez--every one, in
fact, but himself. Hence, in the very nature of things, the smoothly
filed periods of this first romance cease to be characteristic of the
writer, and have even led some to charge him with being a corrupter of
the language, a _culto_ before _culteranismo_ was invented.[78]
The charm of Cervantes's style, at its best, lies in its spontaneity,
strength, variety, swiftness, and noble simplicity: it is the
unrestrained expression of his most original and seductive personality.
In the _Galatea_, on the other hand, Cervantes is too often an echo, a
timid copyist, reproducing the accepted _clichés_ with an exasperating
scrupulousness. Galatea is _discreta_, Silvia is _discreta_, Teolinda
is _discreta_: Lisandro is _discreto_, Artidoro is _discreto_, Damon
is _discreto_. The noun and its regulation epithet are never sundered
from each other. And _verde_--the eternal adjective _verde_--haunts
the distracted reader like an obsession: the _verdes árboles_, the
_verde suelo_, the _verde yerba_, the _verde prado_, the _verde carga_,
the _verde llano_, the _verde parra_, the _verde laurel_, the _verdes
ramos_,--and even _verdes ojos_.[79] A hillock is _espeso_: a wood
is _espeso_. One may choose between _verdadero y honesto amor_ and
_perfeto y verdadero amor_. Beauty is _extremada_: grace or wit is
_extremada_: a good voice is _extremada_. And _infinito_ sparkles on
almost every second page. It is all, of course, extremely correct and
in accord with a hundred thousand precedents. But, since the charm
palls after incessant repetition, it would not be surprising if some
should think that such undeviating fidelity to a model is not an
unmixed good, that tame academic virtues may be bought too dear, and
that a single chapter of that sadly incorrect book, _Don Quixote_, is
worth a whole wilderness of impeccable pastorals.
Still we cannot feel so sure as we should wish to be that Cervantes
was of this mind. He longed to be an Arcadian, though he had no true
vocation for the business. And yet the sagacious criticism of Berganza
in the _Coloquio de los perros_[80] shows that he saw the absurdity
of shepherds and shepherdesses passing "their whole lives in singing
and playing on the pipes, bagpipes, rebecks, and hautboys, and other
outlandish instruments." The intelligent dog perceived that all such
tales as the _Diana_ "are dreams well written to amuse the idle,
and not truth at all, for, had they been so, there would have been
some trace among my shepherds of that most happy life and of those
pleasant meadows, spacious woods, sacred mountains, lovely gardens,
clear streams and crystal fountains, and of those lovers' wooings as
virtuous as they were eloquent, and of that swoon of the shepherd's
in this spot, of the shepherdess's in that, of the bagpipe of one
shepherd sounding here, and the flageolet of the other sounding
there." Cervantes knew well enough that shepherds in real life were
not called Lauso or Jacinto, but Domingo or Pablo; and that they spent
most of their leisure, not in chanting elegies, but in catching fleas
and mending their clogs. He tells us so. And that he realised the
faults of his own performance is evident from the verdict pronounced
on "the _Galatea_ of Miguel de Cervantes" by the Priest in _Don
Quixote_:--"That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of
mine, and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than
in verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us
with something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for
the Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed
in winning the full measure of indulgence that is now denied it; and
in the meantime do you, Señor Gossip, keep it shut up in your own
quarters."[81]
This reference, as Mr. Ormsby noted, "is Cervantes all over in
its tone of playful stoicism with a certain quiet self-assertion."
Cervantes had, indeed, a special tenderness for the _Galatea_ as being
his eldest-born--_estas primicias de mi corto ingenio_--and this is
shown by his constant desire to finish it, his persistent renewal of
the promise with which the First Part closes. The history of these
promises is instructive. In 1585 Cervantes[82] publicly pledged himself
to bring out a continuation, if the First Part of the _Galatea_
were a success: it was to follow shortly (_con brevedad_). The work
does not seem to have made a great hit; but Cervantes, the only man
entitled to an opinion on this particular matter, was satisfied with
its reception and, as the Priest's speech shows, in 1605 he held by
his intention of publishing the promised sequel. But he dallied and
tarried. _Con brevedad_ is, as posterity knows, an expression which
Cervantes interprets very liberally. Twenty-eight years after the
publication of the _Galatea_, he used the phrase once more in the
preface to the _Novelas exemplares_: the sequel to _Don Quixote_,
he promises, shall be forthcoming shortly (_con brevedad_). This
announcement caught Avellaneda's eye, and drove him into a grotesque
frenzy of disappointment. It seems evident that he took the words--_con
brevedad_--in their literal sense, imagining that Cervantes had nearly
finished the Second Part of _Don Quixote_ in 1613, and that its
appearance was a question of a few months more or less. Accordingly,
meanly determining to be first in the field, he hurried on with his
spurious sequel, penned his abusive preface, and rushed into print.
It is practically certain that this policy of sharp practice produced
precisely the result which he least desired. Perhaps he hoped that
Cervantes, discouraged at being thus forestalled, would abandon his own
Second Part in disgust. There was never a more complete miscalculation.
Stung to the quick by Avellaneda's insolence, Cervantes, in his turn,
made what haste he could with the genuine continuation. Had Avellaneda
but known how to wait, the chances are that Cervantes would have
devoted his best energies to the composition of _Las Semanas del
Jardín_ (promised in the dedication of the _Novelas exemplares_), or
of _El Engaño á los ojos_ (promised in the preface to his volume of
plays), or of _El famoso Bernardo_ (promised in the dedication of
_Persiles y Sigismunda_). Frittering away his diminishing strength on
these various works, and enlarging the design of _Don Quixote_ from
time to time--perhaps introducing the Knight, the Squire, the Bachelor
and the Priest as shepherds--Cervantes might only too easily have left
his masterpiece unfinished, were it not for the unintentional stimulus
given by Avellaneda's insults.
How far is this view of the probabilities confirmed, or refuted, by
what occurred in the case of the _Galatea_? The Second Part of that
novel, like the Second Part of _Don Quixote_, had been promised _con
brevedad_. Ten years passed, and still the sequel to the pastoral did
not appear. Ticknor[83] records the tradition that Cervantes "wrote the
_Galatea_ to win the favour of his lady," Doña Catalina de Palacios
Salazar y Vozmediano, and cynically adds that the new Pygmalion's
"success may have been the reason why he was less interested to
finish it." The explanation suggested is not particularly creditable
to Cervantes, nor is it credible in itself. Cervantes's intention,
so often expressed, was excellent, and it is simple justice to
remember that, for the best part of the dozen years which immediately
followed the publication of the _Galatea_, he was earning his bread
as a tax-collector or tithe-proctor. This left him little time for
literature. Twenty years went by, and still the promised _Galatea_ was
not issued. One can well understand it. Cervantes had been discharged
from the public service: he was close on sixty and seemed to have
shot his bolt: his repute and fortune were at the lowest point. His
own belief in the _Galatea_ might be unbounded; but it was not very
likely that he would succeed in persuading my businesslike bookseller
to issue the Second Part of a pastoral novel which had (more or less)
failed nearly a quarter of a century earlier. He struck out a line
for himself and, in a happy hour for the world, he found a publisher
for _Don Quixote_. It was the daring venture of a broken man with
nothing to lose, and its immense success completely changed his
position. Henceforward he was an author of established reputation, and
publishers were ready enough to take his prose and pay for it. As the
reference in _Don Quixote_ shows, Cervantes had never, in his most
hopeless moment, given up his idea of publishing his sequel to the
_Galatea_. His original promise in 1585 was explicit, if conditional:
and manifestly in 1605 he held that the condition had been fulfilled.
In the latter year he was much less explicit as to his intention of
publishing a continuation of _Don Quixote_, and, in the concluding
quotation adapted from _Orlando Furioso_, he almost invited some other
writer to finish the book. Probably no contemporary reader would have
been surprised if the sequel to the _Galatea_ had appeared before the
sequel to _Don Quixote_.[84] Still it must be acknowledged that the
instant triumph of _Don Quixote_ altered the situation radically. In
these circumstances, which he could not possibly have foreseen when he
vaguely suggested that another hand might write the further adventures
of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Cervantes was perfectly justified in
deciding to finish the later work before printing the earlier one. It
would have been the most natural thing in the world for an ordinary man
to make the most of his popularity and to bring out both sequels in
rapid succession. But Cervantes was not an ordinary man, and few points
in his history are more inexplicable than the fact that, after the
amazing success of _Don Quixote_, he published practically nothing for
the next eight years.
At last in 1613, the _Novelas exemplares_ were issued. The author was
silent as to the continuation of the _Galatea_, but he promised that
the Second Part of _Don Quixote_ should be forthcoming--_con brevedad_.
We know what followed. The _Viaje del Parnaso_ was published in the
winter of 1614; and, though it contains a short Letter Dedicatory and
Preface,[85] which might easily have been made the vehicle of a public
announcement in Cervantes's customary manner, there is no allusion to
the new _Don Quixote_ or to the new _Galatea_. Next year, however, in
the dedication[86] of his _Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses nuevos_,
Cervantes informed the Conde de Lemos,--with whom the book was a
special favourite[87]--that he was pushing on with the _Galatea_. He
makes the same statement in the Prologue to the Second Part of _Don
Quixote_,[88] and the assurance is repeated by him on his deathbed in
the noble Letter Prefatory to _Persiles y Sigismunda_.[89] This latter
is a solemn occasion, and Cervantes writes in a tone of impressive
gravity which indicates that he weighed the full meaning of what he
knew would be his last message. _Ayer me dieron la Extremaunción, y hoy
escribo esta: el tiempo es breve, las ansias crecen, las esperanzas
menguan._ And, in the Prologue, written somewhat earlier, the old man
eloquent bids this merry life farewell, declares that his quips and
jests are over, and appoints a final rendezvous with his comrades in
the next world. At this supreme moment his indomitable spirit returns
to his first love, and once more he promises--for the fifth time--the
continuation of the _Galatea_.
In view of the dying man's words it is exceptionally difficult to
believe that not a line of this sequel was actually written. It is
equally difficult to believe that, if the _Galatea_ existed in a
fragmentary state, the widow, the daughter, the son-in-law, the patron,
the publisher, the personal friends, the countless admirers of the
most illustrious and most popular novelist in all the Spains, should
have failed to print it. We cannot even venture to guess what the
facts of the case really were. From Cervantes's repeated declarations
it would seem probable that he left a considerable amount of literary
manuscript almost ready for the Licenser. With the exception of
_Persiles y Sigismunda_, every shred of every work that he mentions as
being in preparation has vanished. It would be strange if this befell
an author of secondary rank: it is incomprehensible when we consider
Cervantes's unique position, recognized in and out of Spain. All we
know is this: that, on Cervantes's lips, _con brevedad_ might mean--in
fact, did mean--more than thirty years, and that the sequel to the
_Galatea_, though promised on five separate occasions, never appeared.
Providence would seem to have decreed against the completion of many
Spanish pastorals. Montemôr's _Diana_, the sequels to it by Pérez and
Gil Polo, all remained unfinished: the _Galatea_ is unfinished, too.
It is possible, but unlikely, that the world has been defrauded of a
masterpiece. Yet, unsuited as was the pastoral _genre_ to the exercise
of Cervantes's individual genius, we should eagerly desire to study
his treatment of the old theme in the maturity of his genius and with
the consciousness that his splendid reputation was at stake. He might
perhaps have given us an anticipation in prose of Lope de Vega's play,
_La Arcadia_,[90] a brilliant, poetic parody after Cervantes's own
heart. Fate has ruled against us, and
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain.[91]
The pastorals lived on for many years in Spain[92] and out of it;
but _Don Quixote_, the _Novelas exemplares_, _Guzmán de Alfarache_,
and the growing crowd of picaresque realistic tales had so completely
supplanted them in popular favour that Cervantes himself could scarcely
have worked the miracle of restoring their former vogue among his
countrymen.
Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez,[93] whose honourable enthusiasm for all that
relates to Cervantes forbids his admitting that there are spots on his
sun, considers the _Galatea_ to be the best of pastorals, and other
whole-hearted admirers (such as August and Friedrich von Schlegel)[94]
have said as much. This, however, is not the general verdict of those
who have read the _Galatea_ from beginning to end, and really such
readers are not many. Prescott[95] cautiously observes that it is "a
beautiful specimen of an insipid class." Hazlitt, who may be taken as
the honest representative of a numerous constituency, confesses that
he does not know the book, and offers an ingenious apology for his
remissness. Cervantes, he declares, claims the highest honour which can
belong to any author--"that of being the inventor of a new style of
writing." But, after this ingratiating prelude, he continues:--"I have
never read his _Galatea_, nor his _Loves of Persiles and Sigismunda_,
though I have often meant to do it, and I hope to do so yet. Perhaps
there is a reason lurking at the bottom of this dilatoriness. I am
quite sure that the reading of these works could not make me think
higher of the author of _Don Quixote_, and it might, for a moment or
two, make me think less." And no doubt it might: just as the reading
of _Hours of Idleness_, of _Zastrozzi_, and of _Clotilde de Lusignan
ou le beau Juif_ might, for a moment or two, make us think less of the
authors of _Don Juan_, of _Epipsychidion_, and of _Eugénie Grandet_.
The _Galatea_ survives as the first timorous experiment of a daring
genius. It had no great vogue in Spain, and it is a mistake to say
that "seven editions were called for in the author's lifetime."[96]
At least, bibliographers know that, if they were called for, they
certainly did not appear. As a matter of fact the book was only twice
reprinted while Cervantes was alive, and, as neither of these editions
was published in Spain, it is possible that he was unaware of their
existence. In 1590 the _Galatea_ was reproduced at Lisbon, expurgated
of all heathenish allusions by Frey Bertholameu Ferreyra, acting for
the Portuguese Inquisition; and this incomplete Portuguese reprint
helped to make the pastoral known outside the Peninsula. It so happened
that César Oudin, a teacher of Spanish at Paris--where he had already
(1608) reprinted the _Curioso impertinente_,[97]--travelled through
Spain and Portugal during 1610, and in the course of his journey he
unsuccessfully endeavoured to obtain a copy of the Alcalá _Galatea_.
He had to be content with a copy of the mutilated Lisbon edition, and
this he reprinted in 1611 at Paris,[98] probably with an eye to using
it as a text-book for his French pupils who were passing through an
acute crisis of the pastoral fever. M. Jourdain had not yet put his
embarrassing question to his music and dancing masters:--"Pourquoi
toujours des bergers?" At all events, there is some evidence to prove
that the _Galatea_ was popular in fashionable Parisian circles while
Cervantes still lived. In his _Aprobación_ to the Second Part of _Don
Quixote_, the Licenciado Francisco Márquez Torres records that when,
on February 25, 1615, he visited the French embassy, he was beset
by members of the Envoy's suite[99] who, taking fire at the mention
of Cervantes's name, belauded the First Part of _Don Quixote_, the
_Novelas exemplares_, and the _Galatea_--which one of them knew almost
by heart.[100] It is unlikely that the author himself knew much of
the _Galatea_ by heart; but at about this period Honoré d'Urfé[101]
had restored the vogue of pastoralism in France, and Márquez Torres's
ecstatic Frenchman (if he really existed) only shewed the tendency to
exaggeration characteristic of recent converts. He was, very possibly,
among the last of the elect in Madrid. One edition--some say two
editions--of the _Galatea_ appeared posthumously in 1617: two more
editions (provincial, like their immediate predecessor or predecessors)
were issued in 1618. Then the dust of a hundred years settled down on
all copies of the forgotten book. Three reprints during the eighteenth
century, ten reprints during the nineteenth century, satisfied the
public demand.[102]
The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries did not produce a
single translation of the _Galatea_.[103] But in 1783 appeared a French
adaptation of this pastoral by the once famous Chevalier Jean-Pierre
Claris de Florian,[104] who compressed the six books of the original
into three, added a fourth book of his own in which he married Elicio
to Galatea, and so contrived a happy ending. "Il _florianise_ tant soit
peu toutes choses," says Sainte-Beuve[105] drily. In this delicate,
perfumed, powder-and-patch arrangement by the idyllic woman-beater[106]
and Captain of Dragoons, Cervantes's novel became astonishingly
popular. Edition after edition was struck off from the French presses,
and the work was read all over Europe in translations: three in German,
two in Italian, three in English, two in Portuguese, one in Greek.
Odder still, in this form, the book made its way home again and, just
as certain Spaniards who had forgotten Guillén de Castro enjoyed Juan
Bautista Diamante's translation (1658) of Corneille's _Cid_, so three
editions go to prove that, a century and a half later, certain other
Spaniards who had forgotten Cervantes enjoyed Casiano Pellicer's
translation (1797) of Florian's _Galatée_.[107] And there was more
to follow next year. Cándido María Trigueros[108] showed himself
worthy of his Christian name by bettering Florian's example: he laid
violent hands on Cervantes, suppressed here, amplified there, purged
the book of its verses, and supplied a still happier ending--on a
monumental scale--by incontinently marrying ten lucky shepherds to ten
lovely shepherdesses. One cannot help wondering what Cervantes would
have thought of this astounding performance. It was too much for the
Spanish public, and Trigueros turned to do better work in adapting
old plays to the modern stage. The taste for Arcadianism died away at
the beginning of the nineteenth century. Artificial pastorals have,
indeed, not yet recovered from a polite but deadly note published in
the preface to _Obermann_: "Le genre pastoral, le genre descriptif out
beaucoup d'expressions rebattues, dont les moins tolérables, à mon
avis, sont les figures employées quelques millions de fois et qui, dès
la première, affaiblissent l'objet qu'elles prétendaient agrandir."
Such expressions, continues the writer, are _l'émail des prés_,
_l'azur des cieux_, _le cristal des eaux_, _les lis et les roses de
son teint_, _les gages de son amour_, _l'innocence du hameau_, _des_
_torrens s'échapperènt de ses yeux_--"et tant d'autres que je ne veux
pas condamner exclusivement, mais que j'aime mieux ne pas rencontrer."
Sénancour was perhaps thinking more particularly of Florian at the
moment, but his criticism applies also to Cervantes's first book.
It was not till 1830 that the first genuine translation of the
_Galatea_ appeared, and this German version was followed by two others
in the same language. These stood alone till 1867[109] when it occurred
to a droll, strange man named Gordon Willoughby James Gyll (or James
Willoughby Gordon Gill),[110] to publish an English rendering of
Cervantes's pastoral in which, as he thought, "the rural characters
are nicely defined; modesty and grace with simplicity prevailing."
Gyll, who wrongly imagined that he was the first to translate the
_Galatea_, seems to have been specially attracted by Cervantes's
verses,--a compliment which the author would have enjoyed all the more
on learning from his admirer that these "compositions are cast in
lyrics and iambics, without being quite of a dithyrambic character,
furnishing relief to the prose, and evincing the skill and tendency
of the bard in all effusions relative to love, the master-passion of
our existence, without which all would be arid and disappointing to
the eagle spirit of the child of song." After this opening you know
what to expect. And you get it--three hundred and forty-nine pages of
it! Gyll never writes of parts, but of "portions"; rather than leave
a place, he will "evacuate" it; nothing will induce him to return if
he can "revert"; he prefers "scintillations" to gleams, "perturbators"
to disturbers, "cogitation" to thought, and "exculpations" to excuses.
Gyll's English, as may be judged from the specimens just quoted, is
almost as eccentric as the English of Mohindronauth Mookerjee in his
_Memoir of the late Honourable Justice Onoocool Chunder Mookerjee_, and
it is much less amusing. His effrontery is beyond description. He knew
nothing of Cervantes whom he actually believed to be a contemporary
of Floridablanca in the eighteenth century.[111] He almost implies
that he has read Cervantes's lost _Filena_, though he admits that it
"is now rarely found." His ignorance of Spanish is illimitable. How
he can have presumed to translate from it passes all understanding.
He misinterprets the easiest phrases, and he follows the simple plan
of translating each word by the first rough equivalent that he finds
given in some poor dictionary. It would be waste of time to criticize
the inflated prose and detestable verse which combine to make Gyll's
rendering the worst in the world. Two specimens will suffice to show
what Gyll can do when he gives his mind to it. At the very opening
of the First Book, he reveals his powers:--"But the perspicacity
of Galatea detected in the motions of his countenance what Elicio
contained in his soul, and she evinced such condescension that the
words of the enamoured shepherd congealed in his mouth, though it
appeared to him that he had done an injury to her, even to treat of
what might not have the semblance of rectitude." This is Gyll as a
master of prose. Gyll, the lyric poet, is even richer in artistic
surprises. Take, for instance, the closing stanzas of Lauso's song at
the beginning of the Fifth Book:--
In this extraordinary agony,
The feelings entertained go but for dumb
Seeing that love defies,
And I am cast in the midst of the fierce fire.
Cold water I abhor
Were it not for my eyes,
Which fire augments and spoils
In this amorous forge.
I wish not or seek water,
Or from annoyance supplicate relief.
Begin would all my good,
My ills would finish all,
If fate should so ordain,
That my sincere trust in life,
Silenca[112] would assure,
Sighs assure it.
My eyes do thoroughly me inform
Me weeping in this truth.
Pen, tongue, will
In this inflexible reason me confirm.
These examples speak for themselves.[113] Cervantes was not
indeed a very great poet; but his verses are often graceful and
melodious, and it would have afflicted him sorely to see his lines
travestied in this miserable fashion. It is inexplicable that such
absolute nonsense should be published. But it is a singular testimony
to the public interest in all concerning Cervantes that, in default of
anything better, this discreditable version should have been read, and
even reprinted.
For the present edition a new translation has been prepared. It
proceeds on the one sound principle of translating from the original as
faithfully as possible, without either omission or addition. The task
of rendering the _Galatea_ into English is less trying, and therefore
less tempting, than the task of rendering _Don Quixote_ or the _Novelas
exemplares_; but the _Galatea_ offers numerous difficulties, and it
will be found that these have been very satisfactorily overcome by
Dr. Oelsner and Mr. A. Baker Welford. They have the distinction of
producing the first really adequate translation of the _Galatea_ in any
language.
JAS. FITZMAURICE-KELLY.
February, 1903.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The article on Cervantes in Nicolás Antonio's _Bibliotheca
Hispana_ (Roma, 1672), vol. ii., p. 105, is bibliographical rather
than biographical. In Antonio's time practically nothing was
known concerning the details of Cervantes's life. It is curious
that the first writer to attempt a biography of Cervantes was a
foreigner--possibly Peter Motteux, whose English translation dates from
1700: a biographical sketch, entitled _An Account of the Author_, was
included in the third volume (London, 1703). The following sentences,
which I quote from the first volume of the third edition (London,
1712), are not without interest:--
"For the other Passages of his Life, we are only given to understand
that he was for some time Secretary to the Duke of Alva" (p. ii). "Some
are of the Opinion, that upon our Author's being neglectfully treated
by the Duke of Lerma, first Minister to K. Philip the Third, a strange
imperious, haughty Man, and one who had no Value for Men of Learning;
he in Revenge, made this Satyr which, as they pretend, is chiefly
aim'd at that Minister" (pp. iii.-iv.). The biographer then refers to
Avellaneda's spurious sequel, and continues:--"Our Author was extremely
concern'd at this Proceeding, and the more too, because this Writer was
not content to invade his Design, and rob him, as 'tis said, of some of
his Copy, but miserably abuses poor Cervantes in his Preface" (p. iv.).
These idle rumours as to Cervantes's relations with Lerma are taken
from René Rapin's _Réflexions sur la poétique d'Aristote, et sur les
ouvrages des Poetes anciens & modernes_ (Paris, 1674, p. 229) and from
Louis Moréri's _Grand Dictionaire historique ou le mélange curieux de
l'histoire sacrée et profane_ (Paris, 1687, third edition, vol. i., p.
795); but it is odd to find them reaching England before they reached
Spain. Mayáns and Pedro Murillo Velarde do not reproduce them till 1737
and 1752 respectively: the first in his _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra_ (Briga-Real), and the second in his _Geographica historica_
(Madrid), vol x., lib. x., p. 28.
[2] See the _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ in Tonson's reprint
of _Don Quixote_ (Londres, 1738), vol. i., p. 6. This edition is
generally described as Lord Carteret's edition; but, though Carteret
certainly commissioned Mayáns to write the biography of Cervantes,
and though he may have patronized Tonson's venture, it does not seem
so sure that he paid for printing the text (which, as regards the
First Part, is merely a mechanical reproduction of the 1607 Brussels
edition). The usual version of the story is that Carteret, on looking
over the library of Queen Caroline, wife of George II., missed _Don
Quixote_ from the shelves, and ordered the sumptuous Tonson edition
with a view to making the Queen a present of the most delightful book
in the world. It may be so. Carteret appears to have been interested
in Spanish literature, and we know that Harry Bridges's translation
(Bristol, 1728) of some of the _Novelas exemplares_ was brought
out "under the Protection of His Excellency." But, with regard to
Carteret's defraying the entire cost of Tonson's reprint of _Don
Quixote_, there are some circumstances which cause one to hesitate
before accepting the report as true. So far as can be gathered, the
first mention of Carteret in this connexion is found in Juan Antonio
Mayáns's preface to the sixth edition (Valencia, 1792) of Luis Gálvez
de Montalvo's _Pastor de Fílida_:--
"Carolina, Reina de Inglaterra, muger de Jorge segundo, avia juntado,
para su entretenimiento, una coleccion de libros de Inventiva, i la
llamava _La Bibliotheca del sabio Merlin_, i aviendosela enseñado a
Juan Baron Carteret, le dijo este sabio apreciador de los Escritores
Españoles, que faltava en ella la Ficcion más agradable, que se avia
escrito en el Mundo, que era la Vida de D. Quijote de la Mancha, i que
él queria tener el mérito de colocarla" (p. xxv.).
This statement, it will be seen, was made more than fifty years after
the event to which it refers. Nevertheless it may be true. Juan Antonio
Mayáns may have had the story from Gregorio Mayáns. He was most
unlikely to invent it, and the fact that he gives 1737 as the date of
Gregorio's biography inclines one to believe in his general accuracy:
all other writers give 1738 as the date, but it has recently been found
that a _tirage à part_ was struck off at Briga-Real (i.e. Madrid) a
year before the _Vida_ was printed in London. It must, however, be
remembered that Gregorio Mayáns never met Carteret, and was never in
England. Knowing that Carteret paid him for his share in the work, he
might easily have imagined that Carteret also paid Tonson, and may have
been understood to state this inference as a positive fact. In any
case, the memory of an elderly man is not always trustworthy in such
matters as these. Moreover, as Gregorio Mayáns died in 1781, we must
allow for the possibility of error on the part of Juan Antonio, when
repeating a tale that he had heard at least eleven years before.
Some external evidence, such as it is, tells against the common
belief, Leopoldo Rius in his _Bibliografía crítica de las obras de
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Madrid, 1895-1899) notes (vol. ii. p.
300) a German work entitled _Angenehmes Passetems_ (Frankfurt and
Leipzig, 1734): in the preface to this publication it is stated as
a piece of news that the Spanish Ambassador in London, the Conde de
Montijo, has ordered a copy of _Don Quixote_ to be handsomely bound
for Queen Caroline. We do not know if Montijo gave her the book, but
it seems certain that _Don Quixote_ was in her library. A copy of the
Antwerp edition of 1719, bearing her name and the royal crown, passed
into the possession of my friend, the late Mr. Henry Spencer Ashbee:
see his pamphlet, _Some Books about Cervantes_ (London, 1900), pp.
29-30. Possibly the interview with Carteret took place before 1734, or
before Queen Caroline possessed the Antwerp edition. But it is worth
noting that the Queen died on November 20, 1737, and that Tonson's
edition appeared next spring. If Carteret were so deeply engaged in
the undertaking as we are assured, and if his chief motive were (as
reported) to pay a courtly compliment to Queen Caroline, it is strange
that he should not have caused the edition to be dedicated to the
Queen's memory, and it is still stranger that the preliminaries should
not contain the least allusion to her. As it happens, the Dedication,
dated March 26, 1738, is addressed to the Condesa de Montijo, wife of
the ex-Ambassador above-named. It would be a small but useful service
if one of Cervantes's many English admirers should establish what share
Carteret actually had in an enterprise for which, hitherto, he has
received the whole credit.
[3] See _El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha...._ Nueva
edición corregida por la Real Academia Española (Madrid, 1780), vol.
i., p. xii.
[4] See Juan Antonio Pellicer's edition of _Don Quixote_ (Madrid,
1797-1798), vol. i. pp. lxxv.-lxxvi.: "Restituido pues Cervantes á
España en la primavera del año de 1581 fixó su residencia en Madrid....
Hizo también lugar para escribir y publicar el año de 1584 _La
Galatea_."
It appears that all the assertions here made by Pellicer are mistaken.
(1) Cervantes did not return to Spain in the spring of 1581, but late
in 1580; (2) he did not reside permanently in Madrid during 1581,
for we find him at Tomar on May 21 of that year; (3) if we are to
understand that the _Galatea_ was composed in 1684, this is disproved
by the fact that the manuscript was passed by the censor on February
1, 1584, and must naturally have been in his possession for some time
previously; (4) it will be shewn that the _Galatea_ was not published
in 1584, but in 1585. Pellicer is not to be blamed for not knowing the
real facts. The pity is that he should give his guesses as though they
were certainties. Yet, in a sense, events have justified his boldness;
for no man's guesses have been more widely accepted.
[5] See Martín Fernández de Navarrete's _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra_ (Madrid, 1819), pp. 65-68. Navarrete, however, points
out that the _Galatea_ cannot have appeared early in 1584, as his
predecessors had alleged: "No se publicó hasta los últimos meses de
aquel año." I do not understand him to say that the book was published
at Madrid.
[6] See George Ticknor's _History of Spanish Literature_ (Sixth
American Edition, Boston, 1888), vol. ii., p. 117.
[7] Amongst others, John Gibson Lockhart in his _Introduction_ to
a reprint of Peter Motteux's version of _Don Quixote_ (Edinburgh,
1822), vol. i., p. 25; Thomas Roscoe, _The Life and Writings of Miguel
de Cervantes Saavedra_ (London, 1839), p. 38; Mrs. Oliphant in her
_Cervantes_ (Edinburgh and London, 1880), p. 76; and Alexander James
Duffield in his _Don Quixote: his critics and commentators_ (London,
1881), p. 79. In his _Later Renaissance_ (London, 1898), p. 149, Mr.
David Hannay gives the date as 1580. On the other hand, John Ormsby
stated the facts with his habitual accuracy in the Introduction to the
first edition of his translation of _Don Quixote_ (London, 1885), vol.
i., p. 29.
[8] See C.-B. Dumaine's _Essai sur la vie et les œuvres de Cervantes
d'après un travail inédit de D. Luis Carreras_ (Paris, 1897), p. 47:
"Les vers de la Galatée remontent au temps de son séjour en Italie.
Ces poésies étaient addressées à une dame, à laquelle il témoignait de
tendres sentiments."
[9] See Sr. D. José María Asensio y Toledo's _Nuevos documentos
para ilustrar la vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, con algunas
observaciones y articulos sobre la vida y obras del mismo autor y las
pruebas de la autenticidad de su verdadero retrato_ (Seville, 1864),
pp. 51-52. Sr. Asensio y Toledo, who repeats his view as to the date
of composition in his _Cervantes y sus obras_ (Barcelona, 1901), p.
195, relies mainly on an expression in the preface: "Huyendo destos
dos inconvenientes no he publicado antes de ahora este libro." Taken
by itself, this phrase certainly implies that the book had been
completed some time before; but the passage is too rhetorically, and
too vaguely, worded to admit of safe deductions being drawn from it.
The idea that the _Galatea_ was written in Portugal was thrown out long
ago by Eustaquio Fernández de Navarrete: see his _Bosquejo histórico
sobre la novela española_ in Manuel Rivadeneyra, _Biblioteca de autores
españoles_, (Madrid, 1854), vol. xxxiii., p. xxiv.
[10] Lucas Gracián Dantisco wrote an imitation of Della Casa's book
under the title of _Galateo español_ (Barcelona, 1594). His brother,
Tomás, is mentioned by Cervantes in the _Canto de Calíope_.
[11] The earliest known edition of the _Celestina_ is believed to be
represented by an unique copy which was once in Heber's collection.
The colophon of this volume is dated Burgos 1499; but there is some
doubt concerning the date inasmuch as the last page has been recently
inserted and may not be a faithful reproduction of the original
printer's mark. It is, however, tolerably certain that this edition
came from the press of Fadrique de Basilea (Friedrich Biel): for whom,
see Conrad Haebler's _Typographie Ibérique du quinzième siècle_ (La
Haye and Leipzig, 1901), pp. 30-32. It is also fairly certain that
this Heber copy, whatever its exact date may be, is earlier than the
Seville edition of 1501, reprinted (1900) by M. Raymond Foulché-Delbosc
in his _Bibliotheca Hispanica_. Finally, the probability is that the
edition which survives in the Heber volume was preceded by another
edition of which no trace remains: see M. Foulché-Delbosc's remarkable
_Observations sur la Célestine_ in the _Revue hispanique_ (Paris,
1900), vol. vii., pp. 28-80.
[12] The earliest known edition of _Amadís de Gaula_ (Zaragoza,
1508) is believed to exist in an unique copy in the British Museum,
press-marked as C. 57. g. 6. But there is reason to think that there
was a previous edition which has disappeared.
[13] There are three distinct editions of _Lazarillo de Tormes_ all
dated 1554. They were published respectively at Alcalá de Henares,
Burgos, and Antwerp, and--so M. Foulché-Delbosc inclines to believe--in
the order here given: see his _Remarques sur Lazarille de Tormes_
in the _Revue hispanique_ (Paris, 1900). vol. vii., pp. 81-97. M.
Foulché-Delbosc argues with great ingenuity that these three editions
of 1554 derive from another edition (printed before February 26, 1554)
of which no copy has as yet been found.
[14] Sr. D. Francisco Rodríguez Marín mentions that a copy of the
_princeps_ of the _Primera Parte de Guzmán de Alfarache_ (Madrid, 1599)
existed in the library of the Marqués de Jerez de Caballeros, recently
acquired by Mr. Archer M. Huntington: see Rodríguez Marín's _El Loaysa
de "El Celoso Extremeño"_ (Sevilla, 1901), p. 283, _n._ 102. Another
copy of this rare edition is in the British Museum Library.
[15] Rius (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 4) mentions eight copies of the
_princeps_ of _Don Quixote_ (Madrid, 1605), and it is certain that
there are other copies in existence.
[16] In _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_ (London, 1895), p. 267,
Mr. Henry Edward Watts, says of the Alcalá _Galatea_ (1585) that "only
one copy is known--in the possession of the Marqués de Salamanca."
This is a mistake. Rius, who does not refer to the volume alleged to
be in the Marqués de Salamanca's possession, specifies (_op. cit._,
vol. i., pp. 100-101) five other copies. He could not be expected to
know that there was yet another copy in England. English students of
Cervantes were, however, aware of the fact fifteen years before the
publication of Mr. Watts's work: see _A Catalogue of the printed books,
manuscripts, autograph letters, and engravings, collected by Henry
Huth. With collations and bibliographical descriptions_ (London, 1880),
vol. i., p. 282.
[17] See the Introduction to vol. vii. of the present edition (Glasgow,
1902), p. viii.
[18] It may be interesting to note the exact dates attached to the
official instruments in Haedo's book. The _Licencia_ of the General of
the Benedictines was signed by his deputy, Fray Gregorio de Lazcano, at
Valladolid on October 6, 1604; the _Aprobación_ was signed by Antonio
de Herrera at Madrid on October 18, 1608; the _Privilegio_ was signed
by Jorge de Tovar at Madrid on February 18, 1610; the _Fe de erratas_
was signed by Dr. Agustín de Vergara at Valladolid on June 3, 1612; the
_Tasa_ was signed by Miguel Ondarza Zabala at Madrid on October 19,
1612. As we have already seen, the last-named signed the _Tasa_ of the
_Galatea_ some twenty-six years previously.
[19] See Fernández de Navarrete, _op. cit._, pp. 392-393: "Petri ad
vincula 1º día de agosto de 1584 murió el Ilmo. Sr. Marco Antonio
Colona, virey de Sicilia, en casa del Ilmo. Sr. duque de Medinaceli,
que fué miércoles en la noche, á las once horas de la noche: rescibió
todos los sacramentos: no hizo testamento: enterróse en depósito, que
se hizo ante Hernando de Durango, secretario del consejo del Ilmo. Sr.
duque, en la capilla mayor de esta colegial á la parte del evangelio,
debajo de la reja de las reliquias; hiciéronse tres oficios con el
cabildo de esta colegial, y en todos tres oficios celebraron por el
ánima de S. E. todos los prebendados, y seis días consecutivos, que fué
cada prebendado nueve misas: no se hizo otra cosa,--El canónigo Guzmán."
[20] See the _Catálogo de la biblioteca de Salvá_, escrito por D. Pedro
Salvá y Mallen, y enriquecido con la descripcion de otras muchas obras,
de sus ediciones, etc. (Valencia, 1872), vol. ii., p. 124, no. 1740.
[21] See the _Obras de Don Juan Donoso Cortés_, ordenadas y precedidas
de una noticia biográfica por Don Gavino Tejado (Madrid, 1854), vol.
iv., pp. 59-60: "Entre la verdad y la razón humana, después de la
prevaricación del hombre, ha puesto Dios una repugnancia inmortal y una
repulsión invencible ... entre la razón humana y lo absurdo hay una
afinidad secreta, un parentesco estrechísimo."
[22] Of these perplexing statements it will suffice to note a few which
occur in _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works by Henry Edward Watts_
(London, 1895):
(_a_) "A new epoch in the life of Cervantes opens in 1584. In that
year he printed his first book...." (p. 76).
(_b_) "A few days before the publication of _Galatea_, Cervantes was
married at Esquivias.... The 12th of December, 1584, was the date of
the ceremony." (p. 90).
(_c_) "Cervantes married his wife in December, 1584, and for reasons
which will be manifest to those who have read the story of his life
I think we may presume that his first book was printed before that
date." (p. 257).
(_d_) "The _Galatea_, Cervantes' first book ... was approved for
publication on the 1st of February, 1584, but, for some reason not
explained, it was not published till the beginning of the year
following." (p. 87).
(_e_) "Salvá maintains it (_i.e._ the Alcalá edition of 1585) to be
the _editio princeps_, but I agree with Asensio and the older critics
in believing that there must have been an edition of 1584." (p. 257).
(_f_) "Navarrete and Ticknor, following all the older authorities,
make the place of publication Madrid and the date 1584. But Salvá has
proved in his Bibliography that the _Galatea_ was first published at
Alcalá, the author's birthplace, at the beginning of 1585." (p. 87
_n._ 3).
These sentences do not appear to convey a strictly consistent view:
(_b_) contradicts (_c_), (_c_) contradicts (_d_), (_d_) contradicts
(_e_), and (_e_) contradicts (_f_).
As to (_b_) and (_d_), the expressions "a few days" and "the beginning
of the new year" should evidently be interpreted in a non-natural
sense. The _Tasa_, as we have seen, was not signed at Madrid till
March 13, 1585; the next step was to return the printed sheets to the
publisher at Alcalá de Henares; the publisher had then to forward the
_Tasa_ to the printer, and finally the whole edition had to be bound.
In these circumstances, the date of publication cannot easily be placed
earlier than April, 1585. Accordingly, the expression (_b_)--"a few
days"--must be taken to mean about ninety or a hundred days: and "the
beginning of the year," mentioned under (_d_), must be advanced from
January to April.
Concerning (_e_), it is true that Sr. Asensio y Toledo was at one
time inclined to believe in the existence of a 1584 edition of the
_Galatea_: see Salvá, _op. cit._, vol ii, p. 124. But Sr. Asensio
y Toledo admitted that Salvá's argument had shaken him: "sus
observaciones de V. me han hecho parar un poco." This was over thirty
years ago. Meanwhile, Sr. Asensio y Toledo has revised his opinion,
as may be seen in his latest publication, _Cervantes y sus obras_
(Barcelona. 1902). "En el año 1585 salió á luz _La Galatea_" (p.
268).... "El libro se imprimió en Alcalá, por Juan Gracián, y es de
la más extremada rareza" (pp. 382-383). He now accepts Salvá's view
without reserve.
As to (_f_), I have searched Navarrete's five hundred and eighty pages
and Ticknor's one thousand six hundred and ninety-seven pages, but have
been unable to find that either of them gives Madrid as the place of
publication. An exact reference to authorities is always advisable.
[23] See the _Life of Miguel de Cervantes by Henry Edward Watts_
(London, 1891), p. 117.
[24] See _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works by Henry Edward Watts_
(London, 1895), p. 257.
[25] See _Documentos Cervantinos hasta ahora inéditos recogidos
y anotados por el Presbítero D. Cristóbal Pérez Pastor Doctor en
Ciencias_. Publicados á expensas del Excmo. Señor D. Manuel Pérez de
Guzmán y Boza, Marqués de Jerez de los Caballeros (Madrid, 1902), vol.
ii., pp. 87-89: "Madrid, 14 Junio 1584. En la villa de Madrid a catorce
días del mes de Junio de mil e quinientos e ochenta e quatro años por
ante mi el escribano público e testigos deyuso escriptos, paresció
presente Miguel de Çerbantes, residente en esta corte, e otorgó que
zede, vende, renuncia e traspassa en Blas de Robles, mercader de
libros, residente en esta corte, un libro de prosa y verso en que se
contienen los seis libros de Galatea, que él ha compuesto en nuestra
lengua castellana, y le entrega el previllegio original que de Su
Magestad tiene firmado de su real mano y refrendado de Antonio de
Heraso, su secretario, fecho en esta villa en veinte e dos días del mes
de Hebrero deste presente año de ochenta e quatro para que en virtud
de él el dicho Blas de Robles, por el tiempo en él contenido, haga
imprimir e vender e venda el dicho libro y hacer sobre ello lo (_sic_)
y lo a ello anejo, dezesorio y dependiente, todo lo que el dicho Miguel
de Çerbantes haria a hazer podria siendo presente, y para que cumplidos
los dichos dies años del dicho previllegio pueda pedir e pida una o más
prorrogaciones y usar y use de ellas y del privillegio que de nuevo se
le concediere, esto por prescio de mill e trescientos e treynta e seys
reales que por ello le da e paga de contado de que se dió y otorgó por
bien contento y entregado a toda su voluntad, y en razón de la paga y
entrega dellos, que de presente no paresce, renunció la excepcion de
la _non numerata pecunia_ y las dos leyes y excepcion del derecho que
hablan e son en razón de la prueba del entregamiento como en ellas y en
cada una de ellas se contiene, que no le valan, e se obligó que le será
cierto e sano el dicho previllegio e las demas prorrogaciones que se le
dieren e concedieren en virtud de él e de este poder e cesion e no le
será pedido ni alegado engaño, aunque sea enormísimo, en más o en menos
de la mitad del justo precio, porque desde agora, caso que pudiera
haber el dicho engaño, que no le hay, se lo suelta, remite y perdona, y
si alguna cosa intentare a pedir no sea oido en juicio ni fuera de él,
y se obligó que el dicho previllegio será cierto e sano e seguro y no
se le porná en ello agora ni en tiempo alguno por ninguna manera pleito
ni litigio alguno, e si le fuere puesto incoará por ello causa y la
seguirá, fenescerá y acabará a su propia costa o mision e cumplimiento
de su interese, por manera que pacificamente el dicho Blas de Robles
quede con el dicho previllegio e prorrogaciones libremente so pena de
le pagar todas las costas e daños que sobre ello se le recrescieren,
e para el cumplimiento de ello obligó su persona e bienes, habidos
e por haber, e dió poder cumplido a todas e qualesquier justicias e
juezes de Su Magestad Real de qualesquier partes que sean al fuero e
jurisdicion de las quales y de cada una de ellas se sometió, e renunció
su propio fuero, jurisdicion e domicilio y la ley _Si convenerit de
jurisdictione omnium judicum_ para que por todo rigor de derecho e via
executiva le compelan e apremien a lo ansi cumplir e pagar con costas
como si sentencia definitiva fuese dada contra él e por él consentida
e pasada en cosa juzgada, e renunció las leyes de su favor e la ley e
derecho en que dice que general renunciacion fecha de leyes non vala, e
ansi lo otorgó e firmó de su nombre siendo testigos Francisco Martínez
e Juan Aguado e Andrea de Obregón, vecinos de le dicha villa, al qual
dicho otorgante doy fee conozco.--Miguel de Cerbantes.--Pasó ante mi
Francisco Martínez, escribano.--Derechos xxxiiij^o."
[26] Sr. Asensio y Toledo (_op. cit._, p. 194) inclines to think that
Cervantes, when engaged on the first rough draft of his novel, intended
to call it _Silena_.
[27] _Documentos_, vol. ii., pp. 90-92. "Madrid, 14 Junio 1584. Sepan
quantos esta carta de obligacion vieren como yo Blas de Robles,
mercader de libros, vecino de esta villa de Madrid, digo: que por
quanto hoy día de la fecha de esta carta y por ante el escribano yuso
escripto, Miguel de Çervantes, residente en esta corte de Su Magestad,
me ha vendido un libro intitulado los seys libros de Galatea, que el
dicho Çervantes ha compuesto en nuestra lengua castellana, por prescio
de mill e trescientos e treynta e seys reales y en la escriptura que
de ello me otorgó se dió por contento y pagado de todos los dichos
maravedís e confesó haberlos rescebido de mi realmente y con efecto,
y porque en realidad de verdad, no obstante lo contenido en la dicha
escriptura, yo le resto debiendo ducientos e cinquenta reales y por la
dicha razón me obligo de se los dar e pagar a él o a quien su poder
hubiere para en fin del mes de Setiembre primero que verná deste
presente año de ochenta e quatro, llanamente en reales de contado, sin
pleito ni litigio alguno, so pena del doblo e costas, para lo qual
obligo mi persona e bienes habidos e por haber e por esta carta doy
poder cumplido a todas e qualesquier justicias e juezes de Su Magestad
real de qualesquier partes que sean, al fuero e jurisdicion de las
quales e de cada una de ellas me someto, e renuncio mi propio fuero,
jurisdicion e domicilio y la ley _Si convenerit de jurisdictione omnium
judicum_ para que por todo rigor de derecho e via executiva me compelan
e apremien a lo ansi cumplir e pagar con costas como si sentencia
difinitiva fuese dada contra mi e por mi consentida e pasada en cosa
juzgada, e renuncio todas e qualesquier leyes que en mi favor sean y
la ley e derecho en que dice que general renunciacion fecha de leyes
non vala, en firmeza de lo qual otorgué esta carta de obligacion en
la manera que dicha es ante el presente escribano e testigos deyuso
escriptos. Que fué fecha e otorgada en la villa de Madrid a catorze
días del mes de Junio de mill e quinientos e ochenta e quatro años,
siendo testigos Andrés de Obregón e Juan Aguado e Baltasar Pérez,
vecinos de esta villa, y el otorgante, que doy fee conozco, lo firmó
de su nombre en el registro.--Blas de Robles.--Pasó ante mi Francisco
Martínez, escribano.--Sin derechos."
[28] It may be as well to say that my conjecture (p. xiii) was made,
and that the draft of this Introduction was written, before the
publication of Dr. Pérez Pastor's second volume.
[29] See Navarrete, _op. cit._, pp. 312-313: "Señor.--Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra dice, que ha servido á V. M. muchos años en las
jornadas de mar y tierra que se han ofrecido de veinte y dos años
á esta parte, particularmente en la batalla naval, donde le dieron
muchas heridas, de las cuales perdió una mano de un arcabuzazo, y el
año siguiente fué á Navarino, y después á la de Túnez y á la Goleta, y
viniendo á esta corte con cartas del Sr. D. Joan y del duque de Sesa
para que V. M. le hiciese merced, fué captivo en la galera del Sol,
él y un hermano suyo, que también ha servido á V. M. en las mismas
jornadas, y fueron llevados á Argel, donde gastaron el patrimonio que
tenian en rescatarse, y toda la hacienda de sus padres y los dotes
de dos hermanas doncellas que tenía, las cuales quedaron pobres por
rescatar á sus hermanos, y después de libertados fueron á servir á V.
M. en el reino de Portugal y á las Terceras con el marques de Santa
Cruz, y agora al presente están sirviendo y sirven á V. M., el uno
dellos en Flandes de alferez, y el Miguel de Cervantes fué el que
trajo las cartas y avisos del alcaide de Mostagan, y fué á Oran por
orden de V. M., y después ha asistido sirviendo en Sevilla en negocios
de la armada por orden de Antonio de Guevara, como consta por las
informaciones que tiene, y en todo este tiempo no se le ha hecho merced
ninguna."
[30] See Cristóbal Mosquera de Figueroa's _Comentario en breve
compendio de disciplina militar, en que se escriue la jornada de las
islas de los Açores_ (Madrid, 1596), f. 58.
Dr. Pérez Pastor sums up the case concisely in the _Prólogo_ to his
_Documentos Cervantinos_ (Madrid, 1897), vol. i., pp. xi.-xii.; "Casi
todos los biógrafos de Cervantes han sostenido que éste asistió á la
jornada de la Tercera, fundándose en que así lo indica en el pedimento
de la Información del año 1590; pero si tenemos en cuenta que en
dicho documento van englobados los servicios de Miguel y Rodrigo de
Cervantes, y por ende que es fácil atribuir al uno los hechos del otro
hermano, que Miguel estaba en Tomar por Mayo de 1581, en Cartagena
á fines de Junio de este año, ocupado en cosas del servicio de S.
M., y en Madrid por el otoño de 1583, que el Marqués de Santa Cruz,
después de haber reducido la Tercera y otras islas, entró en Cádiz el
15 de Septiembre del dicho año, se hace casi imposible que Miguel de
Cervantes pudiera asistir á dicha jornada."
[31] _Ibid._, p. 89. "Madrid, 10 Septiembre, 1585. En la villa de
Madrid, a diez días del mes de septiembre de mill y quinientos y
ochenta y cinco años, en presencia de mi el presente y testigos de yuso
escriptos parescieron presentes Rodrigo de Zervantes y doña Magdalena
de Zervantes, hermanos, residentes en esta corte, e dixeron que por
quanto habrá dos años, poco más o menos tiempo, Miguel de Zerbantes,
su hermano, por orden de la dicha doña Magdalena empeñó al señor
Napoleon Lomelin cinco paños de tafetan amarillos y colorados para
aderezo de una sala, que tienen setenta y quatro varas y tres quartas,
por treinta ducados, y que hasta agora han estado en el empeño, y la
dicha doña Magdalena hizo pedimento ante el señor alcalde Pedro Bravo
de Sotomayor en que pidió se le entregasen pagado el dicho empeño, y
después de haber puesto y fecho el dicho pedimento se han concordado
en esta manera.... Testigos que fueron presentes a lo que dicho es,
Juan Vázquez del Pulgar y Juste de Oliva, sastre, los quales juraron a
Dios en forma debida de derecho conocer a los dichos otorgantes y que
se llaman e nombran como de suso dize sin cautela, y Marcos Diaz del
Valle, estantes en Madrid, y los dichos otorgantes lo firmaron de sus
nombres.--Rodrigo de Cerbantes.--Doña Magdalena de Cerbantes--Pasó ante
mi Baltasar de Ugena. Derechos real e medio."
[32] Curiously enough, there is some dispute as to whether Cervantes's
great rival, Lope de Vega, did or did not take part in an expedition
to the Azores. Lope's assertion in his _Epístola_ to Luis de Haro is
explicit enough. If any doubt on the subject has arisen, this is mainly
due to Lope's vanity in under-stating his age.
[33] See the _Letter Dedicatory_ in Gálvez de Montalvo's _Pastor
de Fílida_ addressed to Don Enrique de Mendoza y Aragón. Gálvez de
Montalvo rejoices in his good fortune without any false shame: "Entre
los venturosos, que a U. S. conocen, i tratan, he sido yo uno, i estimo
que de los más, porque deseando servir a U. S. se cumplio mi deseo, i
assi degè mi casa, i otras mui señaladas, dò fué rogado que viviesse, i
vine a èsta, donde holgaré de morir, i donde mi mayor trabajo es estar
ocioso, contento, i honrado como criado de U. S."
[34] See the suggestive observations of that admirable scholar, Madame
Carolina Michaëlis de Vasconcellos in Gustav Gröber's _Grundriss der
romanischen Philologie_ (Strassburg, 1897), II Band, 2 Abteilung, p.
216, _n._ 2. "Schon an den Namen _Amadís_ knupft sich so manche Frage.
Ist er eine willkurliche, auf der Halbinsel entstandene Abänderung
aus dem frz. _Amadas_ (engl. _Amadace_) latinisirt zu _Amadasius_? d.
h. eine wohlklingendere Analogiebildung zu dem portug. Namen _Dinís_?
also _Amad-ysius_? Man vergleiche einerseits: _Belis Fiis Leonis Luis
Belianis Belleris; Assiz Aviz; Moniz Maris_ etc., und andererseits
das alte Adj. _amadioso_, heute _(a)mavioso_. Oder gab es eine frz.
Form in _-is_, wie die bereits 1292 vorkommende ital. (_Amadigi_)
wahrscheinlich machen würde, falls sie erwiesen echt wäre (s. _Rom._
xvii., 185)?..."
[35] See a very interesting note in _Il Cortegiano del Conte Baldesar
Castiglione annotato e illustrato da Vittorio Cian_ (Firenze, 1894), p.
327. Commenting on Castiglione's allusion to _Amadís_--"pero bisogneria
mandargli all'Isola Ferma" (lib. iii., cap. liv.)--Professor Cian notes
the rapid diffusion of _Amadís de Gaula_ in Italy: "Ma i' _Amadís_ era
conosciuto assai prima frai noi, ed è notevole a questo proposito una
lettera scritta in Roma da P. Bembo, il 4 febbraio 1512, al Ramusio,
nella quale parlando del Valerio (Valier), loro amico, e amico del
nostro C. e dell' Ariosto e dei Gonzaga di Mantova, il poeta veneziano
ci porge questa notizia: 'Ben si pare che il Valerio sia sepolto in
quel suo Amadagi....' (pubbl. da me nel cit. _Decennio delta vita del
Bembo_, p. 206)."
[36] See vol. xl. of Manuel Rivadeneyra _Biblioteca de autores
españoles_ entitled _Libros de caballerías con un discurso preliminar y
un catalógo razonado por Don Pascual de Gayangos_ (Madrid, 1857), pp.
xxxi. et seqq.
[37] The Portuguese case is well stated by Theophilo Braga in his
_Historia das novelas portuguezas de cavalleria_ (Porto, 1873), in his
_Questões de litteratura e arte portugueza_ (Lisboa, 1881), and in
his _Curso de historia de litteratura portugueza_ (Lisboa, 1885). It
is most forcibly summarized by Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos (_op.
cit._, pp. 216-226) who cites, as partisans of the Portuguese claim,
Warton, Bouterwek, Southey, Sismondi, Clemencín, Ticknor, Wolf, Lemcke,
and Puymaigre. To these names might be added those of the two eminent
masters, M. Gaston Paris and Sr. D. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo.
[38] See _La Littérature française au moyen âge XI^e-XIV^e siècle par
Gaston Paris, Membre de l'Institut_. Deuxième édition revue, corrigée,
augmentée et accompagnée d'un tableau chronologique. (Paris, 1890).
Referring to the _romans bretons_, M. Gaston Paris writes (p. 104):
"Le Perceforest français au XIV^e siècle, _l'Amadís_ portugais puis
espagnol aux XV^e et XVI^e siècles sont des imitations de ces grands
romans en prose."
[39] Chiefly by Gayangos in the _Discurso preliminar_ to Rivadeneyra,
vol. xl.; by José Amador de los Ríos in his _Historia crítica de la
literatura española_ (1861-65), vol. v., pp. 78-97; by Eugène Baret
in _De l'Amadis de Gaule_ (second edition, Paris, 1871); by Ludwig
Braunfels in his _Kritischer Versuch über den Roman Amadis von
Gallien_ (Leipzig, 1876); and by Professor Gottfried Baist in the
above-mentioned section of the _Grundriss der romanischen Philologie_,
pp. 440-442.
[40] See the _Arcadia di Jacobo Sannazaro secondo i manoscritti e le
prime stampe con note ed introduzione di Michele Scherillo_ (Torino,
1888).
[41] _Ibid._, pp. cclxi.-cccxliv.
[42] Compare, for example, Garcilaso's lines:--
Tengo vna parte aqui de tus cabellos,
Elissa, embueltos en vn blanco paño;
Que nunca de mi seno se me apartan.
Descojolos, y de vn dolor tamaño
Enternecer me siento, que sobre 'llos
Nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan,
Sin que de allí se partan:
Con sospiros calientes,
Mas que la llama ardientes:
Los enxugo del llanto, y de consuno
Casi los passo y cuento vno a vno,
Iuntandolos con vn cordon los ato,
Tras esto el importuno
Dolor, me dexa descansar vn rato.
with the lines sung by Meliseo at the end of Sannazaro's twelfth
_egloga_:--
I tuoi capelli, o Phylli, in una cistula
Serbati tegno, et spesso, quand' io volgoli,
Il cor mi passa una pungente aristula.
Spesso gli lego et spesso oimè disciolgoli,
Et lascio sopra lor quest' occhi piovere;
Poi con sospir gli asciugo e inseme accolgoli.
Basse son queste rime, exili et povere;
Ma se'l pianger in Cielo ha qualche merito,
Dovrebbe tanta fe' Morte commovere.
Io piango, o Phylli, il tuo spietato interito,
E'l mondo del mio mal tutto rinverdesi.
Deh pensa, prego, al bel viver preterito,
Se nel passar di Lethe amor non perdesi.
An exhaustive study on Garcilaso's debts to Italy is given by Professor
Francesco Flamini--_Imitazioni italiane in Garcilaso de la Vega_--in
_La Biblioteca delle scuole italiane_ (Milano, June 1899).
[43] See George Ticknor's _History of Spanish Literature_ (Sixth
edition, Boston, 1888), vol. iii., p. 94. Ticknor, however, failed to
notice that the date in his copy was a forgery: see Mr. J. L. Whitney's
_Catalogue_ (Boston, 1879), p. 234, and compare Salvá y Mallen, _op.
cit._, vol. ii., p. 168.
[44] Scherillo, _op. cit._, p. ccxlvii.
[45] The proof of this has been supplied independently by the late John
Ormsby (see vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 51,
_n._ i.); by Professor Hugo Albert Rennert (see _The Spanish Pastoral
Romances_ (Baltimore, 1892), p. 9); and by myself (see the _Revue
hispanique_ (Paris, 1895), vol. ii., pp. 304-311). All three appear
to have been anticipated in the excellent monograph entitled _Jorge
de Montemayor, sein Leben und sein Schäferroman die_ "_Siete Libros
de la Diana_" _nebst einer Übersicht der Ausgaben dieser Dichtung
und bibliographischen Anmerkungen herausgegeben von Georg Schönherr_
(Halle, 1886), p. 83.
The decisive point is that Ticknor's copy, the oldest known edition,
must be at least as late as 1554, for Montemôr here refers to the
Infanta Juana as a widow: see (lib. iv.) the fifth stanza of the _Canto
de Orfeo_. Her husband, Dom João, died on January 2, 1554. A duplicate
of the Ticknor volume is in the British Museum library.
[46] See the preface to Fray Bartholomé Ponce's _Primera Parte de la
Clara Diana á lo divino, repartida en siete libros_ (Zaragoza, 1582):
"El año mil quinientos cincuenta y nueue, estando yo en la corte del
Rey don Philipe segundo deste nombre ... vi y ley la Diana de Jorge
de Mõtemayor, la qual era tan accepta quanto yo jamas otro libro en
Romance aya visto: entonces tuue entrañable desseo de conocer a su
autor, lo qual se me cumplio tan a mi gusto, que dentro de diez días
se offrecio tener nos combidados a los dos, vn canallero muy Illustre,
aficionado en todo estremo al verso y poesia."
[47] For Ribeiro, see Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos, _op. cit._, pp.
291-295. Ribeiro's work seems to have been printed posthumously, the
earliest known edition being issued at Ferrara in 1554. But, as Madame
Michaëlis de Vasconcellos observes (p. 295, _n._ 8): "Dass lange vor
dem ital. Drucke Ribeiro's wie Falcao's Werke grossen Ruf hatten, steht
ausser Zweifel. Sie müssen in Handschriften oder Flugblättern unter den
Lesenden Kurs gehabt haben." It is, perhaps, not superfluous to mention
that Ribeiro's _Menina e moça_, like Virgil's _Formosum Corydon ardebat
Alexim_, takes its title from the opening words.
[48] See Schönherr, _op. cit._, p. 26. "Was das genauere Datum des
Todes Montemayor's betrifft, so wird hierfür im Vorwort der _Diana_ ed.
1622 der 26. Februar des Jahres 1561 angegeben, und zwar war es des
Dichters Freund Alonso Pérez, der es der Nachwelt überlieferte, wiewohl
es sich in dessen erster, 1564 erschienener Ausgabe der _Segunda Parte
de la Diana_ noch nicht findet. Die Richtigkeit seiner Angabe lässt
sich einigermassen prufen, nicht mit Hülfe der Elegie des Dorantes, die
Salvá's Vermutung (No. 1909) entgegen der Ausgabe vom Jahre 1561 noch
nicht angehängt ist, wol aber in Hinblick auf des oben stehende Sonett
Pagan's, welches bereits in dessen 1562 erschienener _Floresta de varia
poesía_ enthalten ist, so dass man hiernach keine Ursache hat, der
Datierung des Pérez zu misstrauen."
The sonnet mentioned by Schönherr, and reprinted by Salvá y Mallen,
occurs on _f_ of Diego Ramírez Pagán's _Floresta de varia poesía_
(1562):
Nuestro Monte mayor, do fué nascido?
En la ciudad del hijo de Laerte.
Y que parte en la humana instable suerte?
Cortesano, discreto, y entendido.
Su trato como fué, y de que ha biuido?
Siruiendo, y no acerto, ni ay quien acierte.
Quien tan presto le dió tan cruda muerte?
Imbidia, y Marte, y Venus lo ha mouido.
Sus huessos donde están? En Piamonte.
Porque? Por no los dar a patria ingrata.
Que le deue su patria? Inmortal nombre.
De que? Larga vena, dulce, y grata.
Y en pago que le dan? Talar el monte.
Y haura quien le cultiue? No ay tal hõbre.
The British Museum Library contains a copy of Ramírez Pagán's
_Floresta_: a book esteemed by Gallardo, Gayangos, and Salvá (_op.
cit._, vol. i., p. 153, no. 339) as "uno de los más raros que existen
en la literatura poética española."
[49] See the prologue to Pérez' continuation (A 5 of the Antwerp
edition, 1580) " ... casi en toda esta obra no ay narracion, ni
platica, no solo en verso, más aun en prosa, que à pedaços de la flor
de Latinos y Italianos hurtado, y imitado no sea; y no pienso por ello
ser digno de reprehension, pues lo mesmo de los Griegos hizieron."
[50] The whole history, bibliographical and literary, of the pastoral
movement in Spain may be studied in the searching and learned monograph
of Professor Hugo Albert Rennert, _The Spanish Pastoral Romances_
(Baltimore, 1892). A minute examination of Texeda's plagiary, which
escaped detection by Ticknor, will be found on pp. 39-42 of Professor
Rennert's work.
[51] The reference is, no doubt, to the passage in the fifth book of
Montemôr's _Diana_: "Y tomando el vaso que tenía en la mano izquierda
le puso en la suya á Sireno, y mando que lo bebiese, y Sireno lo hizo
luego; y Selvagia y Silvano bebieron ambos el otro, y en este punto
cayeron todos tres en el suelo adormidos, de que no poco se espantó
Felismena y la hermosa Belisa que allí estaba...." Cp. Sannazaro's
_Arcadia_ (_Prosa nona_, Scherillo's edition, p. 171): "Al quale
subgiunse una lodula, dicendo, in una terra di Grecia (dela quale yo
ora non so il nome) essere il fonte di Cupidine, del quale chiunche
beve, depone subitamente ognie suo amore."
The expedient of the magic water, to which Cervantes refers once
more in the _Coloquio de los Perros_ (see vol. viii. of the present
edition (Glasgow, 1902), p. 163), seems to be as old as most things
in literature. Scherillo, in his valuable commentary to the _Arcadia_
cites a parallel from Pliny, _Naturalis Historia_, lib. xxxi., cap.
16: "Cyzici fons Cupidinis vocatur, ex quo potantes amorem deponere
Mucianus credit."
[52] It is just possible, however, that Cervantes may have omitted the
_Habidas_ deliberately; for though Ticknor (_op. cit._, vol. iii., p.
99, _n._ 18), on the authority of Gayangos, quotes the book as "among
the earliest imitations of the Diana," so excellent a scholar as
Professor Rennert (_op. cit._, p. 111) inclines to think "that it is
rather a 'Novela Caballeresca.'"
[53] This seems to follow from the references in the _Viaje del
Parnaso_:
El fiero general de la atrevida
Gente, que trae un cuervo en su estandarte,
Es ARBOLANCHES, muso por la vida (cap. vii., ter. 81).
And
En esto, del tamaño de un breviario
Volando un libro por el aire vino.
De prosa y verso que arrojó el contrario.
De verso y prosa el puro desatino
Nos dió á entender que de ARBOLANCHES eran
_Las Avidas_ pesadas de contino (cap. vii., ter. 60-61).
These sallies have brought down on Cervantes the displeasure of
implacable bibliographers. Salvá y Mallen (_op. cit._, vol. ii., pp.
19-20, no. 1518) drily observes that, as the book is almost wholly in
verse, it does not at all correspond to Cervantes's description of it,
and he gives us to understand (what most readers have realised for
themselves) that, in criticism of his contemporaries, Cervantes--like
the rest of the world--is prone to err.
See also _Cervantes vascófilo ó sea Cervantes vindicado de su supuesto
antivizcainismo por Julián Apráiz y Sáenz del Burgo, Natural de Vitoria
y vizcaino, alavés y guipuzcoano por todos sus abolengos_. Nueva
edición considerablemente aumentada (Vitoria, 1895), pp. 270-274. In
a note (p. 274) to his letter addressed (April 23, 1884), to Sr. D.
José Colá y Goiti, Dr. Apráiz--who courageously sets himself to prove
that Cervantes, so far from disliking the Basques as has been generally
supposed, had in fact the highest opinion of them--points out that
_Los nueve libros de las Habidas_ take no more space than a 16mo.
volume. "Y una vez leída la obra del poeta navarro insisto, tanto en
que no hay más prosa que brevísimos renglones del argumento de la obra,
como acerca del mérito que le reconocen Rosell, Gayangos y Vedia, y
Gallardo, mucho más habida cuenta de la temprana edad de 20 años que
tenía el poeta al escribir su poema, según el mismo dice al dirigirse
á la señora (_i.e._ Doña Adriana de Egues y de Biamonte), á quien lo
dedica. Parece que había muerto 3 años antes de la publicación de su
poema."
If Arbolanche (or Arbolanches) really died in 1563, it is almost
impossible that Cervantes can have had--as has been insinuated--any
personal grudge against him. Perhaps he had read the _Habidas_ when he
was a lad, was bored, and in his old age exaggerated his impression,
without remembering very clearly the contents of the book. Or, it may
be, as Dr. Apráiz suggests (_op. cit._, pp. 273-274), that Cervantes
mistook Arbolanche (or Arbolanches) for the author of some dull
pastoral whose name escaped him. If this be so, it is exceedingly
regrettable that he should twice have made the same blunder: for the
consequence has been that the name of Arbolanche (or Arbolanches), a
poet of distinct merit, has become--among those who have not read him
and who follow Cervantes blindly--a synonym for a ridiculous prose
writer. Cp. the lines in the celebrated _Sátira contra los malos
escritores de su tiempo_ by Jorge Pitillas (_i.e._ José Gerardo de
Hervás y Cobo de la Torre):--
De Arbolanches descubre el genio tonto,
Nombra á Pedrosa novelero infando
Y en criticar á entrambos está pronto.
[54] See cap. iii., ter. 81-89.
Miren si puede en la galera hallarse
Algún poeta desdichado acaso,
Que á las fieras gargantas puede darse.--
Buscáronle, y hallaron á LOFRASO,
Poeta militar, sardo, que estaba
Desmayado á un rincón marchito y laso:
Que á sus _diez libros de Fortuna_ andaba
Añadiendo otros diez, y el tiempo escoge,
Que más desocupado se mostraba.
Gritó la chusma toda: Al mar se arroje,
Vaya LOFRASO al mar sin resistencia.
--Por Dios, dijo Mercurio, que me enoje.
¿Cómo? ¿y no será cargo de conciencia,
Y grande, echar al mar tanta poesía,
Puesto que aquí nos hunda su inclemencia?
Viva _Lofraso_, en tanto que dé al día
Apolo luz, y en tanto que los hombres
Tengan discreta alegre fantasía.
Tocante á tí, o _Lofraso_, los renombres,
Y epítetos de agudo y de sincero,
Y gusto que mi cómitre te nombres.--
Esto dijo Mercurio al caballero,
El cual en la crujía en pie se puso
Con un rebenque despiadado y fiero.
Creo que de sus versos le compuso,
Y no sé cómo fué, que en un momento
Ó ya el cielo, ó _Lofraso_ lo dispuso,
Salimos del estrecho á salvamento,
Sin arrojar al mar poeta alguno:
Tanto del sardo fué el merecimiento.
[55] Salvá y Mallen (_op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 143, no. 1817) states
that the _Pastor de Fílida_ was reprinted at Lisbon in 1589. at Madrid
in 1590, at Barcelona in 1613, and at Valencia in 1792: and there may
be other editions.
[56] Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ was translated into French by Jean Martin
in 1644; see Heinrich Koerting, _Geschichte des französischen Romans
im XVII Jahrhundert_ (Oppeln und Leipzig, 1891), vol. i., p. 64.
Montemôr's _Diana_ was translated into French by N. Colin in 1579.
Nicolas de Montreux, who used the anagram of Olenix du Mont-Sacré,
published the first volume of _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ in the same
year as the _Galatea_ (1585).
[57] Cp. an interesting passage in the _Avant-propos_ to George Sand's
_François le Champi_ (Paris, 1868), pp. 15-16:
--"Oui, oui, le monde naïf! dit-il, le monde inconnu, fermé à notre
art moderne, et que nulle étude ne te fera exprimer à toi-même, paysan
de nature, si tu veux l'introduire dans le domaine de l'art civilisé,
dans le commerce intellectuel de la vie factice.
--Hélas! répondis-je, je me suis beaucoup préoccupé de cela. J'ai vu
et j'ai senti par moi-même, avec tous les êtres civilisés, que la
vie primitive était le rêve, l'idéal de tous les hommes et de tous
les temps. Depuis les bergers de Longus jusqu'à ceux de Trianon, la
vie pastorale est un Éden parfumé où les âmes tourmentées et lassées
du tumulte du monde ont essayé de se réfugier. L'art, ce grand
flatteur, ce chercheur complaisant de consolations pour les gens trop
heureux, a traversé une suite ininterrompue de _bergeries_. Et sous
ce titre: _Histoire des bergeries_, j'ai souvent désiré de faire un
livre d'érudition et de critique où j'aurais passé en revue tous ces
différents rêves champêtres dont les hautes classes se sont nourries
avec passion.
J'aurais suivi dans leurs modifications toujours en rapport inverse
de la dépravation des mœurs, et se faisant pures et sentimentales
d'autant plus que la société était corrompue et impudente. Ce serait
un traité d'art complet, car la musique, la peinture, l'architecture,
la littérature dans toutes ses formes: théâtre, poëme, roman, églogue,
chanson; les modes, les jardins, les costumes même, tout a subi
l'engouement du rêve pastoral. Tous ces types de l'âge d'or, ces
bergères qui sont des nymphes et puis des marquises, ces bergères de
l'_Astrée_ qui passent par le Lignon de Florian, qui portent de poudre
et du satin sous Louis XV., et auxquels Sedaine commence, à la fin
de la monarchie, à donner des sabots, sont tous plus ou moins faux,
et aujourd'hui ils nous paraissent niais et ridicules. Nous en avons
fini avec eux, nous n'en voyons plus guère que sous forme de fantômes
à l'opéra, et pourtant ils ont régné sur les cours et ont fait les
délices des rois qui leur empruntaient la houlette et la panetière."
[58] See his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (Arber's reprint, London, 1869), p.
63.
[59] See vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 8.
[60] See the discussion in book iv. of the _Galatea_.
[61] These borrowings have been pointed out by Sr. D. Marcelino
Menéndez y Pelayo in his _Historia de las ideas estéticas en España_
(Madrid, 1883-1891), tom. ii., vol i., p. 108-109: " ... el sentido de
esta controversia es enteramente platónico, y derivado de León Hebreo,
hasta en las palabras, de tal suerte, que podríamos suprimirlas, á no
ser por la reverencia debida á todas las que salieron de la pluma de
Cervantes, puesto que nada original se descubre en ellas, y aun la
forma no es por cierto tan opulenta y pródiga de luz, como la de _El
Cortesano_."
Sr. D. Adolfo y San Martín, in his Castilian translation of my _History
of Spanish Literature_ (Madrid, 1901) which he has enriched with many
valuable notes, observes (p. 325) that Cervantes, when writing the
preface to the First Part of _Don Quixote_ in 1604, evidently did not
know there were in existence at least three Spanish renderings of the
_Dialoghi_--one of them, published at Madrid in 1590, being by the
famous Inca, Garcilaso de la Vega.
For León Hebreo (or Judas Abarbanel) see Solomon Munk, _Mélanges de
philosophie juive et arabe_ (Paris, 1857), pp. 522-528 and Dr. B.
Zimmels, _Leo Hebraeus, ein jüdischer Philosoph der Renaissance; sein
Leben, seine Werke und seine Lehren_ (Breslau, 1886).
[62] Yet the obvious resemblances between the _Arcadia_ and the
_Galatea_ have been unaccountably overlooked by Francesco Torraca in
a monograph entitled _Gl'imitatori stranieri di Jacopo Sannazaro_
(Seconda edizione accresciuta, Roma, 1882). "Non mi sembra, però,
che la _Galatea_ e l' _Arcadia_ di Lope contengano imitazioni dello
scrittore napoletano." (p. 23).
[63] See cap. iii., ter. 49-51.
[64] See Scherillo, _op. cit._, pp. ccliii.-cclx. for an interesting
and striking enumeration (which might, as the commentator says,
be extended) of Cervantes's debts to Sannazaro. It is quaint and
significant to find that while Sannazaro in his _Prosa duodecima_
alludes apologetically, but with excellent reason, to _il mio picciolo
Sebetho_, Cervantes in his sixth book, with no reason of any sort,
introduces _las frescuras del apacible Sebeto_.
[65] Cervantes, as appears from a somewhat confused allusion early in
the seventh chapter of the First Book of _Don Quixote_, seems to have
been one of the few (besides the author) who enjoyed _Carlos famoso_.
Zapata himself complained with a comic ruefulness that his forty
thousand lines were not widely appreciated, and that he was out of
pocket in consequence: "Yo pensé también que en haber hecho la historia
del Emperador Carlos V., nuestro señor, en verso, y dirigídola á su
pio y poderosísimo hijo, con tantas y tan verdaderas loas de ellos y
nuestros españoles, que había hecho algo. Costóme cuatrocientos mil
maravedís la ímpresión, y de ella no saqué sino saña y alongamiento
de mi voluntad." Zapata, however, consoles himself with thinking that
he is in good company and closes with a pious, confident moral: "De
Homero se dice que en su vida no se hizo de él caso, _et sua riderunt
tempora Meonidem_. Del autor del famoso libro poético de Amadís no se
sabe haste hoy el nombre, honra de la nacion y lengua española, que en
ninguna lengua hay tal poesía ni tan loable.... De manera que podemos
decir todos el _sic vos non vobis_ de Virgilio, por lo cual todos de
paso y como accesorio deben no poner su felicidad acá, donde no hay
ninguna, sino atender á aquello que Dios les ha prometido; que si
plantaren la viña de las buenas obras, gozarán perpétuamente del fruto
de ella y otro no se la vendimiará." See Zapata's _Miscelánea_ in the
_Memorial histórico español_ (Madrid, 1859), vol. xi., pp. 304-305.
It is interesting to note that Zapata hazards no guess as to the
authorship of _Amadís de Gaula_.
[66] _Op. cit._, pp. 60-61, _n._ 76.
[67] Sannazaro's latest and best editor, Signor Scherillo, is properly
sceptical (_op. cit._, pp. clxxvi.-ccviii.) as to many current
identifications of the personages in the _Arcadia_. It seems certain
that Barcinio is Chariteo of Barcelona, and that Summontio is Pietro
Summonto, the Neapolitan publisher of the book. It is probable that
Meliseo is Giovanni Pontani, and that Massilia is the author's
mother. It is possible that Sincero is Sannazaro. But, as Signor
Scherillo drily observes, it is not easy to follow those who think
that Sannazaro was Ergasto, Elpino, Clonico, Ophelia, and Eugenio--not
"three gentlemen at once," but five. Other writers hold that Ophelia
is Chariteo; that Pontano is Ergasto, Opico and Montano; that Eleuco
is the Great Captain; and that Arcadia stands for France. These and
similar absurdities are treated as they deserve in Signor Scherillo's
masterly introduction.
[68] The supposition that Tirsi, in the _Pastor de Fílida_, was
intended to represent Cervantes is noted by Navarrete (_op. cit._,
p. 278), and on the authority of that biographer has been frequently
repeated. It is right to say that Navarrete simply mentions the
identification in passing, and that he is careful to throw all
responsibility for it on Juan Antonio Mayáns who was the first to
suggest the idea in the introduction to his reprint of the _Pastor de
Fílida_ (Valencia, 1792), pp. xxxvii, lxxvii, and lxxx. The theory has
been disproved by Juan Antonio Pellicer (_op. cit._, p. cxxxiii.)
There can be no reasonable doubt that the Tirsi of the _Pastor de
Fílida_ is Francisco de Figueroa. It is absolutely certain that the
Tirsi of the _Galatea_ is Figueroa: for, in the Second Book, Cervantes
places it beyond question by ascribing to Tirsi two sonnets and a
_canción_ by Figueroa. Cp. _Poesías de Francisco de Figueroa, llamado
el Divino_ (Madrid, 1804).
(_a_) ¡Ay de quan ricas esperanzas vengo
Al deseo más pobre y encogido,
Que jamas encerró pecho herido
De llaga tan mortal, como yo tengo!
Ya de mi fe, ya de mi amor tan luengo,
Que Fili sabe bien quan firme ha sido,
Ya del fiero dolor con que he vivido,
Y en quien la vida á mi pesar sostengo;
Otro más dulce galardon no quiero,
Sino que Fili un poco alce los ojos
A ver lo que mi rostro le figura:
Que si le mira, y su color primero
No muda, y aun quizá moja sus ojos,
Bien serán más que piedra helada y dura. (p. 17)
(_b_) La amarillez y la flaqueza mia,
El comer poco y el dormir perdido,
La falta quasi entera del sentido
El débil paso, y la voz ronca y fría;
La vista incierta, y el más largo día
En suspiros y quejas repartido,
Alguno pensará que haya nacido
De la pasada trabajosa vía:
Y sabe bien amor, que otro tormento
Me tiene tal; y otra razón más grave
Mi antigua gloria en tal dolor convierte:
Amor solo lo sabe, y yo lo siento:
Si Fili lo supiese: ¡o mi suave
Tormento, o dolor dulce, o dulce muerte! (p. 15)
(_c_) Sale la aurora de su fértil manto
Rosas suaves esparciendo y flores,
Pintando el cielo va de mil colores,
Y la tierra otro tanto,
Quando la dulce pastorcilla mía,
Lumbre y gloria del día,
No sin astucia y arte,
De su dichoso albergue alegre parte. (pp. 45-46).
[69] _Op. cit._, p. 66.
[70] Juan Antonio Mayáns declares (_op. cit._, p. xxxvii) that Damon is
Figueroa; but, as previously stated (p. xxxi, _n._ 2), his mistake is
shown by Pellicer.
[71] This is not, however, the opinion of Eustaquio Fernández de
Navarrete (_op. cit._, p. xxxii): "Puede sospecharse que la primer
heroína de su novela no fué doña Catalina Palacios de Salazar, con
quien Cervantes casó á poco tiempo de publicar su libro, sino que lo
escribió en Portugal durante sus amores con una dama de aquel país, á
quien debió grandes obligaciones; y que después cuando volvió a España,
al trabar relaciones con doña Catalina, retocó la obra y la acomodó al
nuevo sugeto." This story of Cervantes's relations with an anonymous
Portuguese lady, supposed to be the mother of his illegitimate
daughter, was generally accepted till 1895. It was never anything more
than a wild guess and, thanks to Dr. Pérez Pastor, we now know that
there is no truth in it.
On the other hand Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez, in his _Vida de Miguel
de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Cádiz, 1876), pronounces very emphatically
in favour of the current identifications as regards the hero and the
heroine: "En Elicio se ve con mucha perfección la imagen de Cervantes.
Galanteador, tímido, discreto, delicado, sentidisimo, su amor es tan
casto como los pensamientos de su alma. Adora más que ama; venera más
que pretende" (p. 69). "Ningún otro personaje puede encubrir á Elicio
sino Cervantes: ninguna otra señora puede velarse bajo la figura de
Galatea sino Doña Catalina de Palacios. Son los retratos al natural de
dos seres privilegiados, de dos personas ilustres, de dos amantes que
más ó menos encubiertamente se tributaban el homenaje de su adoracion."
(p. 71.)
It will be observed that Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez takes things very
seriously.
[72] See p. 6 of the present volume.
[73] See the _Dorotea_, Act 2, sc. 2: "¿Qué mayor riqueza para una
mujer que verse eternizada? Porque la hermosura se acaba, y nadie que
la mire sin ella cree que la tuvo; y los versos de la alabanza son
eternos testigos que viven en su nombre. La Diana de Montemayor fué
una dama de Valencia de Don Juan, junto á León, y Ezla, su rio, y ella
serán eternos por su pluma. Así la Fílida de Montalvo, y la Galatea de
Cervantes, la Camila de Garcilaso, la Violante de Camoes, la Silvia de
Bernaldez, la Filis de Figueroa, la Leonor de Corte-Real no eran damas
imaginarias."
[74] It is conjectured, for instance, that Lenio was intended for Pedro
Liñán de Riaza, and that Daranio was meant for Diego Durán. These are
simple guesses.
[75] I do not profess to have counted the number, which I give on
the authority of Carlos Barroso: see his letter to Sr. Ramón León
Máinez, entitled _Mais noticias Cervanticas_, in the _Crónica de los
Cervantistas_ (Cádiz, 1872), vol. i., pp. 166 et seqq.
[76] See _L'Avthevr a la Bergere Astrée_ at the beginning of the First
Part of _Astrée_, I quote from vol. i. of the Paris edition of 1647.
[77] This, however, may be an unintentional slip into realism. But
it has all the effect of humour, and may fairly be bracketed with a
passage from the fourth book of Sidney's _Arcadia_, quoted by Professor
Rennert (_op. cit._, p. 11, _n._ 29): "O my dun-cow, I did think some
evil was towards me ever since the last day thou didst run away from
me, and held up thy tail so pitifully."
[78] See Francisco Martínez Marina's _Ensayo histórico-crítico sobre
el origen y progresos de las lenguas: señaladamente del romance
castellano_ in the _Memorias de la Real Academia de la Historia_
(Madrid, 1805), vol. iv., pp. 61-62: "Los primeros que se señalaron,
á mi parecer, en esos vicios, que es en preferir su gusto é ingenio á
las reglas del arte antigua, y en consultar más con su imaginación que
con los modelos del excelente lenguaje, y en pretender hacerse únicos
y singulares en su clase por la novedad de sus plumas, fueron, según
yo pienso, y permítaseme decir lo que ninguno ha dicho tan claramente
hasta ahora, los insignes Mariana y Cervantes.
¡Qué nuevo y extraño es el modo de hablar del primero. ¿En qué se
parece al de nuestros mejores escritores castellanos? ¡Quán afectado su
estilo! ¡artificiosas las arengas! ¡estudiados los períodos y aun las
palabras, y hasta la colocacion de ellas!... Pues ¡y Cervantes quanto
ha latinizado! Véase la Galatea"....
[79] In the Second Book of the _Galatea_, Silveria is said to have
green eyes, Attentive readers will remember that Loaysa has green
eyes in _El Celoso extremeño_: see vol. viii. of the present edition
(Glasgow, 1902), p. 24. Green would seem to have been a favourite
colour with Cervantes: see a paper entitled _Lo Verde_, published by
a writer who uses the pseudonym of Doctor Thebussem, in _La España
moderna_ (Madrid, March, 1894), vol. lxiii., pp. 43-60.
[80] See vol. viii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), pp. 163-164.
[81] See vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), pp. 52-53.
[82] See the last paragraph of the _Galatea_: "El fin deste amoroso
cuento y historia, con los sucessos de Galercio, Lenio y Gelasia:
Arsindo y Maurisa; Grisaldo, Artandro y Rosaura: Marsilio y Belisa,
con otras cosas sucedidas á los pastores hasta aquí nombrados, en la
segunda parte desta historia se prometen. La qual, si con apazibles
voluntades esta primera viere rescebida, tendrá atrevimiento de salir
con brevedad a ser vista y juzgada de los ojos y entendimientos de las
gentes."
[83] _Op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 119.
[84] Sr. Asensio y Toledo has suggested (_Cervantes y sus obras_,
pp. 382-386) that Cervantes's reference in _Don Quixote_ to Bernardo
González de Bobadilla's _Nimphas y Pastores de Henares_, a pastoral
published at Alcalá in 1587, denotes some irritation against one
whom he possibly regarded as a poacher. What really happened was
that, during the diverting and important scrutiny of the Knight's
library, the Barber came upon González de Bobadilla's book, together
with Bernardo de la Vega's _Pastor de Iberia_ and Bartolomé López de
Enciso's _Desengaño de los celos_. The Priest directed the Barber to
"hand them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not
why, or we shall never have done." On the strength of this, some genial
contemporaries seem to have charged Cervantes with being jealous of
these obscure writers. Cp. the passage in the _Viaje del Parnaso_:--
Ni llamado, ni escogido
Fué el gran pastor de Iberia, el gran BERNARDO
Que DE LA VEGA tiene el apellido.
Fuiste envidioso, descuidado y tardo,
Y á las ninfas de Henares y pastores,
Como á enemigo les tiraste un dardo.
Y tienes tu poetas tan peores
Que estos en tu rebaño, que imagino
Que han de sudar si quieren ser mejores.
(cap. iv. ter. 169-171.)
[85] As Cervantes intended to dedicate the new _Don Quixote_ (and,
presumably, the new _Galatea_) to the Conde de Lemos, he may very
naturally have thought that it would be out of place to mention either
of these works in the dedication of the _Viaje del Parnaso_ to Rodrigo
de Tapia. But the short address to the reader gave him the opportunity
which no one used more cleverly--when he had any announcement to make.
Moreover, he had another excellent opening when he referred to the
_Galatea_ in the text of the _Viaje del Parnaso_:
Yo corté con mi ingenio aquel vestido
Con que al mundo la hermosa Galatea
Salió para librarse del olvido. (cap. iv. ter. 5.)
[86] " ...luego yra el gran Persiles, y luego las semanas del jardín, y
luego la segunda parte de la Galatea, si tanta carga pueden lleuar mis
ancianos ombros."
[87] Lemos's liking for the _Galatea_ is mentioned in the Letter
Dedicatory to _Persiles y Sigismunda_: "si a dicha, por buena ventura
mía, que ya no sería ventura, sino milagro, me diesse el cielo vida,
las (_i.e._ Semanas del Jardín y Bernardo) verá y con ellas fin de la
Galatea, de quien se està aficionado Vuessa Excelencia...."
[88] See vol. iv. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 8.
[89] See note (2) above.
[90] It may be convenient to point out that the _Arcadia_ mentioned in
the text is a play published in the _Trezena Parte de las Comedias de
Lope de Vega Carpio_ (Madrid, 1620) and should not be confounded with
Lope's pastoral novel, the _Arcadia_ (Madrid, 1598). This warning will
appear unnecessary to Spanish scholars. But the bibliography of Lope's
works is so vast and intricate that a slip may easily be made. For
example, Mr. Henry Edward Watts (_Life of Miguel de Cervantes_, London,
1891, p. 144) at one time mistook Lope's _Dorotea_ for the _Arcadia_,
assuming the former to be a pastoral novel. This very curious error is
corrected in the same writer's _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_
(London, 1895, p. 200, _n._) with the remark that "if any blunder is
excusable in a writer it is that of not remembering the name of one
of Lope's multitudinous productions." In the same work we are assured
(p. 111) that of all Lope's plays "there are not half-a-dozen whose
names are remembered to-day out of Spain; nor one character, scene or
line which any one not a member of the Spanish Royal Academy cares to
recall." If ignorance has really reached this point, the caution given
in the opening words of this note may be useful to the general reader.
[91] Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez, in an exuberant paragraph, sketches out
(_op. cit._, p. 71) the continuation as he believes Cervantes to have
conceived it: "Si más tarde hubiera cumplido su promesa de estampar
la segunda parte de aquella obra bellísima, que indudablemente dejó
escrita al morir, y fué una de las producciones suyas inéditas que se
perdieron; cuán deleitosa y dulcemente hubiera hablado en ella de la
prosecución de sus amores, de la fina correspondencia en lo sucesivo
para con él por parte de su idolatrada doncella, del allanamiento de
dificultades, del progreso de sus aspiraciones y de la realización de
sus deseos! Allí nos hubiera descrito con la perfección, dulzura y
encanto que él sabíalo hacer, el regocijo de su alma, la felicidad de
su amada, el vencimiento de su contrario, los esmeros y desvelos de
los amigos, el beneplácito de sus deudos, y su bien logrado casamiento
con doncella tan ilustre, de tal hermosura y virtud adornada. El
relato de las bodas estaría hecho en la segunda parte de _Galatea_ con
encantadora sencillez, y con amenidad incomparable, como trabajo al fin
de mano tan maestra y acreditada."
This prophecy tends to allay one's regret for the non-appearance of the
_Galatea_; but it is exceedingly possible that Sr. Máinez knows no more
of Cervantes's intentions than the rest of us.
[92] For particulars, see Professor Rennert, _op. cit._, pp. 64-119.
[93] _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Cádiz, 1876): "_La
Galatea_ de Cervantes á todas las producciones pastoriles sobrepuja
en las dotes inventivas. No mentemos esa innumerabilidad de
composiciones que aparecieron antes y después de 1584. Comparar
con ellas la concepción de Cervantes, sería ofender la memoria de
este autor esclarecido" (p. 67). "_La Galatea_ no sólo es una obra
superior entre todas las pastorales españolas, mirada en cuanto á
la inventiva: es también mejor que las que antes y después de su
aparición se publicaron, considerada bajo el punto de vista de la forma
y de los méritos literarios" (p. 79). Cp. also a passage on p. 65:
"Tal vez ninguno de los idiomas modernos pueda ofrecer tan preciadas
concepciones como en este género presentan las letras castellanas."
The biographer notes the weak points of Montemôr's _Diana_, of Gil
Polo's _Diana enamorada_, of Lope de Vega's _Arcadia_ (the novel, not
the play), of Suárez de Figueroa's _Constante Amarilis_, of Valbuena's
_Siglo de oro_, and concludes (p. 68): "el talento de Cervantes era
tan grande, tan superior, tan de eximio y delicado gusto, que supo
evitar todos esos vicios, olvidarse de todos los defectos, para imitar
lo bueno, y ofrecer una obra, en lo posible, perfecta. Vense en ella
acción dramática, vitalidad, episodios interesantísimos, escenas
amenas, gracia, seducción, hermosura. El ánimo se solaza y dulcemente
se regocija al presenciar tal conjunto de preciosidades."
Sr. Máinez praises (p. 80), as a model of style, a passage in the
First Book of the _Galatea_, beginning: "En las riberas de Betis,
caudalosísimo río que la gran Vandalia enriquece, nació Lisandro
(que éste es el nombre desdichado mío), y de tan nobles padres, cual
pluguiera al soberano Dios que en más baja fortuna fuera engendrado."
Scherillo points out, however (_op. cit._, p. cclv), that this is
modelled upon the opening of Sincero's story in the _Prosa settima_ of
Sannazaro's _Arcadia_: "Napoli (sicome ciaschuno molte volte può avere
udito) è nela più fructifera et dilectevole parte de Italia, al lito
del mare posta, famosa et nobilissima città.... In quella dunque nacqui
io, ove non da oscuro sangue, ma (se dirlo non mi si disconviene)
secondo che per le più celebre parti di essa città le insignie de'
miey predecessori chiaramente dimostrano: da antichissima et generosa
prosapia disceso, era tra gli altri miei coetanei forse non il minimo
riputato."
[94] See August Wilhelm von Schlegel's _Sämmtliche Werke_ (Leipzig,
1846-1847), vol. i., p. 339 for a sonnet on the _Galatea_:--
Wie blauer Himmel glänzt auf Thales Grüne
Ein heller Strom fleusst lieblich auf und nieder
Von Berg und Wald verdeckt, erscheint er wieder,
Und spiegelt klar der Landschaft bunte Bühne.
Wer ist die Blonde dort mit sitt'ger Miene?
Wie tönen süss die Leid- und Liebes- Lieder!
Mit ihren Heerden nah'n die Hirtenbrüder,
Und jeder zeigt, wie er der Holden diene.
O Lust und Klang! o linde Aetherlüfte!
Im zarten Sinn sinnreich beschneider Liebe
So Himmlisches, doch Kindlichem Verwandtes.
Fremd wären uns die feinsten Blumendüfte,
Wenn Galatea nicht sie uns beschreibe,
Die Göttliche des göttlichsten Cervantes.
Friedrich von Schlegel is no less rapturous in prose. See his
corybantics in the periodical entitled _Athenaeum_ (Berlin, 1799),
vol. ii., pp. 325-326. After referring to Cervantes as the author of
_Don Quixote_, Schlegel continues: "der aber doch auch noch andre ganz
ehr-und achtbare Werke erfunden und gebildet hat, die dereinst wohl
ihre Stelle im Allerheiligsten der romantischen Kunst finden werden.
Ich meyne die liebliche und sinnreiche Galatea, wo das Spiel des
menschlichen Lebens sich mit beschneidner Kunst und leiser Symmetrie
zu einem künstlich schönen Gewebe ewiger Musik und zarter Sehnsucht
ordnet, indem es flieht. Es ist der Blüthekranz der Unschuld und
der frühsten noch schücternen Jugend." He repeated his enthusiastic
appreciation in the following year (_Athenaeum_, Berlin, 1800, vol.
iii., p. 80): "Da Cervantes zuerst die Feder statt des Degens ergriff,
den er nicht mehr führen konnte, dichtete er die Galatea, eine
wunderbar grosse Composition von ewiger Musik der Fantasie und der
Liebe, den zartesten und lieblichsten aller Romane." ...
[95] See William H. Prescott, _Biographical and Critical Miscellanies_
(London, 1845), p. 114.
[96] See _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_ by Henry Edward Watts.
(London, 1895), p. 88.
[97] See vol. iii., p. xxvi, and vol. vii., p. xiv, _n._ 2 of the
present edition (Glasgow, 1901-1902). Cp. M. Alfred Morel-Fatio's
interesting monograph, _Ambrosio de Salazar et l'étude de l'espagnol
sous Louis XIII_. (Paris and Toulouse, 1901).
[98] It may be interesting to read the address _A los estudiosos y
amadores de las lenguas estrangeras_ at the beginning of his reprint:
"Llevome la curiosidad a España el año passado, y mouiome la misma
estando allí, a que yo buscasse libros de gusto y entretenimiento,
y que fuessen de mayor prouecho, y conformes a lo que es de mi
profession, y también para poder contentar a otros curiosos. Ya yo
sabia de algunos que otras vezes auian sido traydos por acá, pero
como tuuiesse principalmente en mi memoria a este de la Galatea,
libro ciertamente digno (en su género) de ser acogido y leydo de los
estudiosos de la lengua que habla, tanto por su eloquente y claro
estilo, como por la sutil inuencion, y lindo entretenimiento, de
entricadas auenturas y apazibles historias que contiene. De más desto
por ser del author que inuento y escriuio, aquel libro, no sin razón,
intitulado _El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote_. Busquelo casi por toda
Castilla y aun por otras partes, sin poderle hallar, hasta que passando
a Portugal, y llegando a vna ciudad fuera de camino llamada Euora,
tope con algunos pocos exemplares: compre vno dellos, mas leyendole vi
que la impression, que era de Lisboa, tenía muchas erratas, no solo en
los caracteres, pero aun faltauan algunos versos y renglones de prosa
enteros. Corregilo y remendelo, lo mejor que supe; también lo he visto
en la presente impression, para que saliesse vn poco más limpio y
correcto que antes. Ruego os pues lo recibays con tan buena voluntad,
como es la que tuue siempre de seruiros, hasta que y donde yo pueda. C.
Oudin."
[99] The following statement occurs in _Miguel de Cervantes, his life
& works by Henry Edward Watts_ (London, 1895), p. 179, _n._ 1: "This
French ambassador, called by the Spanish commentators the _Duque de
Umena_, must have been the Duc de Mayenne, who was sent by the Regent
Anne of Austria, to conclude the double marriage of the Prince of
Asturias (afterwards Philip IV.) with Isabelle de Bourbon, and of Louis
XIII. of France with the Infanta Ana, eldest daughter of Philip III."
The familiar formula--"must have been"--is out of place here. The
necessity does not exist. It seems unlikely that Márquez Torres can
have met the members of Mayenne's suite on February 25, 1615; for
Mayenne's mission ended two and a half years previously. Mayenne and
his attachés left Madrid on August 31, 1612: see Luis Cabrera de
Córdoba, _Relaciones de las cosas sucedidas en la Córte de España,
desde 1599 hasta 1614_ (Madrid, 1857), p. 493, and François-Tommy
Perrens, _Les Mariages espagnols sous le règne de Henri IV. et la
régence de Marie de Médicis, 1602-1615_ (Paris, 1869), pp. 403 and
416-417. "Umena" is, as everybody knows, the old Spanish form of
Mayenne's title; but no Spaniard ever dreamed of applying this title to
the ambassador of whom Márquez Torres speaks. As appears from a letter
(dated February 18, 1615) to "old Æsop Gondomar," the special envoy to
whom Márquez Torres refers was known as "Mr. de Silier": see Navarrete,
_op. cit._, pp. 493-494. Mr. de Silier was the brother of Nicolas
Brûlart, Marquis de Sillery, Grand Chancellor of France from September,
1607, to May, 1616. The special envoy figures in French history as the
Commandeur Noel Brûlart de Sillery: he and his suite reached Madrid
on February 15, 1615 (Navarrete, _op. cit._, p. 493), and they left
that city on March 19, 1615 (Perrens, _op. cit._, p. 519). One might
have hoped that, as M. de Sillery founded the mission of Sillery near
Quebec, his name would be known to all educated Englishmen. His death
on September 26, 1640, is mentioned by his confessor, St. Vincent de
Paul, in a letter to M. Codoing, dated November 15, 1640. See _Lettres
de S. Vincent de Paul_ (Paris, 1882), vol. i., p. 100.
I do not know who the above-mentioned "Regent Anne of Austria" is
supposed to be. The French Regent who sent Mayenne and Sillery to Spain
was Marie de Médicis, mother of Louis XIII. Her regency ended in 1615.
In 1615 Anne of Austria, sister of Philip IV., became the wife of Louis
XIII. Her regency began in 1643. It would almost seem as though the
earlier French Queen-Regent had been mistaken for her future Spanish
daughter-in-law, or, as though the writer were unaware of the fact that
the "Regent Anne of Austria" and the "Infanta Ana" were really one and
the same person. But the whole passage indicates great confusion of
thought, as well as strange misunderstanding of Navarrete's words and
of the document printed by him.
An old anecdote, concerning Cervantes and a French Minister at the
Spanish Court, is inaccurately reproduced in _Camoens: his Life and
Lusiads. A Commentary by Richard F. Burton_ (London, 1881), vol. i., p.
71: "Cervantes, who had been excommunicated, whispered to M. de Boulay,
French Ambassador, Madrid, 'Had it not been for the Inquisition, I
should have made my book much more amusing.'" Sir Richard Burton
evidently quoted from memory, and, as his version is incorrect, it
may be advisable to give the idle tale as it appeared originally in
_Segraisiana ou Mélange d'histoire et de littérature. Recueilli des
Entretiens de Monsieur de Segrais de l'Académie Françoise_ (La Haye,
1722), p. 83: "Monsieur du Boulay avoit accompagné Monsieur * * *
dans son Ambassade d'Espagne dans le tems que Cervantes qui mourut en
1618 vivoit encore: il m'a dit que Monsieur l'Ambassadeur fit un jour
compliment à Cervantes sur la grande réputation qu'il s'étoit acquise
par son _Dom Quixotte_, au de-là des monts: & que Cervantes dit à
l'oreille à Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, sans l'Inquisition j'aurois fait
mon Livre beaucoup plus divertissant."
It will be observed that M. du Boulay was not Ambassador; that he does
not pretend to have heard Cervantes's remark; that he merely repeats
the rumour of what Cervantes was alleged to have whispered to M. * * *
(who may, or may not, be M. de Sillery); and that he does not mention
the Ambassador as his authority for the story. Moreover, Jean Regnauld
de Segrais was born in 1624, and died in 1701. Assuming that he was
no more than thirty when he met M. du Boulay, this would mean that
the story was told nearly forty years after the event. If the volume
entitled _Segraisiana_ was compiled towards the end of Segrais' life,
we are at a distance of some eighty years from the occurrence. In
either case, there is an ample margin for errors of every kind.
[100] Gregorio Mayáns y Siscar suggests (_op. cit._, vol. i., pp.
28-29) that the _Aprobación_, though signed by Márquez Torres, was
really written by Cervantes himself: "57 ... Pensarà el Letor que quien
dijo èsto, fué el Licenciado Màrquez Torres; no fué sino el mismo
Miguèl de Cervantes Saavedra: porque el estilo del Licenciado Màrquez
Torres, es metaforico, afectadillo, i pedantesco; como lo manifiestan
los _Discursos Consolatorios que escriviò a Don Christoval de Sandoval
i Rojas, Duque de Uceda en la Muerte de Don Bernardo de Sandoval i
Rojas, su hijo, primer Marquès de Belmonte_; i al contrario el estilo
de la _Aprovacion_, es puro, natural, i cortesano, i tan parecido
en todo al de Cervantes, que no ai cosa en él que le dístinga. El
Licenciado Màrquez era Capellán, i Maestro de Pages de Don Bernardo
Sandoval i Rojas, Cardenal, Arzobispo de Toledo, Inquisidor General;
Cervantes era mui favorecido del mismo. Con que ciertamente eran
entrambos amigos.
"58. Supuesta la amistad, no era mucho, que usase Cervantes de
semejante libertad. Contèntese pues el Licenciado Màrquez Torres, con
que Cervantes le hizo partícipe de la gloria de su estilo. I veamos que
moviò a Cervantes a querer hablar, como dicen, por boca de ganso. No
fué otro su designio, sino manifestar la idea de su Obra, la estimacion
de ella, i de su Autor en las Naciones estrañas, i su desvalimiento en
la propia."
Navarrete protests (_op. cit._, pp. 491-493) against the theory put
forward by Mayáns, notes that Márquez Torres published his _Discursos_
in 1626 when _culteranismo_ was in full vogue, and contends that he may
have written in much better style eleven years earlier.
It would be imprudent to give great importance to arguments based
solely on alleged differences of style. That Márquez Torres was in holy
orders, and that he was appointed chaplain to a prelate so virtuous
and clear-sighted as the Cardinal-Archbishop of Toledo are strong
presumptions in his favour. Nothing that is known of him tends to
discredit his testimony. It would be most unjustifiable to assume of
any one in his responsible position that he was capable of inventing
an elaborate story from beginning to end, and of publishing a tissue
of falsehoods to the world. Nor can we lightly suppose that Cervantes
would lend himself to such trickery. The probability surely is that
there is some good foundation for the anecdote, though perhaps the tale
may have lost nothing in the telling.
Still, the history of literature furnishes analogous examples of
persons who tampered with preliminary matter--dedications and the
like--and stuffed these pages with praises of themselves. Le Sage
evidently refers to a recent incident in real life when he interpolates
the following passage into the revised text of _Le Diable boiteux_
(Rouen, 1728), pp. 37-38: "A propos d'Epîtres Dédicatoires, ajoûta le
Démon, il faut que je vous raporte un trait assez singulier. Une femme
de la Cour aiant permis qu'on lui dédiât un ouvrage, en voulut voir
la Dédicace avant qu'on l'imprimât, & ne s'y trouvant pas assez bien
loüée à son gré, elle prit la peine d'en composer une de sa façon & de
l'envoier à l'Auteur pour la mettre à la tête de son ouvrage."
A somewhat similar instance is afforded by La Rochefoucauld, who asked
Madame de Sablé to review his _Pensées_ in the _Journal des Savants_.
The lady thoughtfully submitted the manuscript of her article to the
author, and the result is recorded by Hippolyte Cocheris, _Table
méthodique et analytique des articles du Journal des Savants depuis
sa réorganisation en 1816 jusqu'en 1858 inclusivement précédée d'une
notice historique sur ce journal depuis sa fondation jusqu'à nos jours_
(Paris, 1860), pp. vi.-vii. "Larochefoucauld prit au mot Mme de Sablé;
il usa très-librement de son article, il supprima les critiques,
garda les éloges, et le fit insérer dans le _Journal des Savants_
(1665, p. 116 et suiv.), ainsi amendé et pur de toute prétention à
l'impartialité."
[101] The full title of d'Urfé's book is _L'Astrée, où par plusieurs
histoires et sous personnes de bergers et d'autres sont déduits les
divers effects de l'Honneste Amitié_. The date of publication has
long been doubtful; it is now, apparently, established that the First
Part, consisting of twelve books, was originally issued in 1607. Only
one copy of this edition is known to exist. For a description of this
unique volume, discovered by M. Edwin Trossat at Augsburg in 1869, see
the _Catalogue des livres du baron James de Rothschild_ (Paris, 1887),
vol. ii. p. 197, no. 1527.
D'Urfé had been preceded by Nicolas de Montreux who, under the
anagrammatic pseudonym of Olenix du Mont-Sacré, had published the five
volumes entitled _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ at Paris between 1585
and 1598: see Heinrich Koerting, _Geschichte des französichen Romans
im XVII. Jahrhundert_ (Oppeln und Leipzig), vol. i., pp. 66-68. But,
though Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac declares (_Œuvres complètes_, Paris,
1665, vol. ii. p. 634) that _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ was long
preferred to _Astrée_ by French provincials during the seventeenth
century, Montreux found so little favour in Paris, that he abandoned
pastoralism, and took to writing a history of the Turks instead: see
Émile Roy, _La Vie et les œuvres de Charles Sorel, sieur de Souvigny,
1602-1674_ (Paris, 1891), pp. 115-116. It was d'Urfé who made the
pastoral fashionable. Part of his immediate vogue may be attributed to
the fact that his Euric, Galatée, Alcidon and Daphnide were supposed
to represent Henri IV., Marguerite de Valois, the Duc de Bellegarde,
and the Princesse de Conti. These dubious identifications, however,
would not explain the enthusiasm of readers so different in taste
and character, and so far apart in point of time, as St. François de
Sales, Madame de Sévigné, Prévost (the author of _Manon Lescaut_),
and Rousseau. There is no accounting for tastes, and perhaps Márquez
Torres's polite Frenchman sincerely admired the _Galatea_; but indeed
he had left a far better pastoral at home. _Astrée_ greatly exceeds
the _Galatea_ in achievement, importance, and significance. M. Paul
Morillot is within the mark in saying: "_L'Astrée_ de d'Urfé est
vraiment notre premier roman; elle est l'ancêtre, la source de tous
les autres" (_Le Roman en France_, p. 1). He perhaps grants too much
by his admission (p. 27) that "de nos jours _L'Astrée_ est tout à fait
oubliée." A useful _Index de "L'Astrée"_ by Saint-Marc Girardin proves
that the book has had passionate admirers down to our time: see the
_Revue d'Histoire littéraire de la France_ (Paris, 1898), vol. v., pp.
458-483 and 629-646. The _Index_ has an interesting prefatory note by
M. Paul Bonnefon.
[102] Besides (1) the _princeps_, published at Alcalá de Henares by
Juan Gracián in 1585 there are the following editions of the _Galatea_:
(2) Lixboa, Impressa con licencia de la Sancta Inquisición, 1590; (3)
Paris, Gilles Robinot, 1611; (4) Valladolid, Francisco Fernández de
Cordona, 1617; (5) Baeza, Juan Bautista Montoya, 1617; (6) Lisboa,
Antonio Álvarez, 1618; (7) Barcelona, Sebastián de Cormellas, 1618; (8)
Madrid, Juan de Zúñiga (Francisco Manuel de Mena), 1736; (9) Madrid, la
Viuda de Manuel Fernández, 1772; (10) Madrid, Antonio de Sancha, 1784;
(11) Madrid, Imprenta de Vega, 1805; (12) Madrid, los hijos de Da.
Catalina Piñuela, 1829; (13) Paris, Baudry, 1835; (14) Paris, Baudry,
1841; (15) Madrid, Rivadeneyra, 1846; (16) Madrid, Rivadeneyra, 1863;
(17) Madrid, Gaspar y Roig, 1866; (18) Madrid, Álvarez hermanos, 1875;
(19) Madrid, Nicolás Moya, 1883.
It may be well to state that in Nos. (12), (13), (14), (15), (16)
and (17) the _Galatea_ is not printed separately, but forms part of
collections of Cervantes's works.
It has hitherto been uncertain whether No. (5) really existed or
not. It is noted by Nicolás Antonio (_op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 105).
This Baeza edition is also mentioned under the heading of _Romans
historiques_ by Gordon de Percel who, in all likelihood, simply copied
the note from Antonio: see _De l'usage des romans où l'on fait voir
leur utilité & leurs differens caracteres avec une_ _Bibliothèque des
romans, accompagnée de remarques critiques sur leur choix et leurs
éditions_ (Amsterdam, 1734), vol. ii., p. 108. Despite the imprint on
the title-page, this work was actually issued at Rouen: see a valuable
article in the _Revue d'Histoire littéraire de la France_ (Paris, 1900,
vol. vii., pp. 546-589) by M. Paul Bonnefon who describes Gordon de
Percel--the pseudonym of the Abbé Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy--as an
odious example of an odious type, carrying on the _métier d'espion sous
couleur d'érudit_.
There can now, apparently, be no doubt that an edition of the _Galatea_
was printed at Baeza in 1617, for Rius (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 104)
states that he possesses a letter from the Marqués de Jerez, dated
September 14, 1890, in which the writer explicitly says a copy of this
edition was stolen from him at Irún. I do not at all understand what
Rius can mean by the oracular sentence which immediately precedes this
statement: "No tengo noticia de ejemplar alguno, ni sé que nadie la
(_i.e._ la edición) haya visto."
It has been remarked in the text of this Introduction (p. xxxv) that
Cervantes applies the word _discreta_ with distressing frequency to
his heroine and her sister shepherdesses. The repetition of this
adjective appears to have produced a considerable impression on the
Lisbon publisher, Antonio Álvarez, for his edition--No. (6) in the
above list--is entitled _La discreta Galatea_. No. (5) is also said to
be entitled _La discreta Galatea_. But on this point no one, save the
Marqués de Jerez de los Caballeros, can speak with any certainty.
[103] Koerting (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 65) states that d'Audignier
translated the _Galatea_ into French in 1618. This is a mistake.
Koerting was probably thinking of the _Novelas exemplares_. Six
of these (_La Española inglesa_, _Las dos Doncellas_, _La Señora
Cornelia_, _La Ilustre fregona_, _El Casamiento engañoso_, and the
_Coloquio de los perros_) were translated by d'Audignier in 1618, the
remaining tales being rendered by Rosset.
[104] Now best remembered, perhaps, by Giovanni Martini's setting of
the _romance_--
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment--
which, sung by that incomparable artist, Madame Pauline Viardot-Garcia
(sister of Malibran, and wife of the well-known Spanish scholar, Louis
Viardot), delighted our fathers and mothers. It may be worth noting
that the song is assigned to the goatherd in _Célestine: Nouvelle
Espagnole_. Readers of contemporary literature will remember the
adaptation of the opening words by the Baron Desforges in M. Paul
Bourget's _Mensonges_.
[105] _Causeries du lundi_ (Troisième édition, Paris), vol. iii., p.
236. Joubert's appreciation of Florian's talent is practically the
same as Sainte-Beuve's. In his _Pensées_ (titre xxiv., art. xxxi.), he
expresses himself thus, concerning Florian's extremely free rendering
of _Don Quixote_, first published in 1799: "Cervantes a, dans son
livre, une bonhomie bourgeoise et familière, à laquelle l'élégance
de Florian est antipathique. En traduisant _Don Quichotte_, Florian
a changé le mouvement de l'air, la clef de la musique de l'auteur
original. Il a appliqué aux épanchements d'une veine abondante et riche
les sautillements et les murmures d'un ruisseau: petits bruits, petits
mouvements, très-agréables sans doute quand il s'agit d'un filet d'eau
resserré qui roule sur des cailloux, mais allure insupportable et
fausse quand on l'attribue à une eau large qui coule à plein canal sur
un sable très-fin."
[106] _Causeries du lundi_ (Troisième Edition, Paris), vol. iii., p.
238. See also M. Anatole France, _La Vie littéraire_ (Paris, 1889),
p. 194. "Longtemps, longtemps après la mort de Florian, Rose Gontier,
devenue la bonne mère Gontier, amusait ses nouvelles camarades comme
une figure d'un autre âge. Fort dévote, elle n'entrait jamais en scène
sans faire deux ou trois fois dans la coulisse le signe de la croix.
Toutes les jeunes actrices se donnaient le plaisir de lutiner celle qui
jouait si au naturel _Ma tante Aurore_; elles l'entouraient au foyer et
lui refaisaient bien souvent la même question malicieuse:
--Mais est-ce bien possible, grand'maman Gontier, est-il bien vrai que
M. de Florian vous battait?
Et, pour toute réponse et explication, toute retenue qu'elle était, la
bonne maman Gontier leur disait dans sa langue du dix-huitième siècle:
--C'est, voyez-vous, mes enfants, que celui-là ne payait pas."
[107] Rius (_op. cit._, vol. ii., 319) mentions three editions of
Pellicer's translation, the latest being dated 1830. A reprint is
said to have been issued at Paris in 1841. On p. xvii of the 1814
edition--the only one within my reach--Casiano Pellicer suggests that
Cervantes introduced Diego Durán into the _Galatea_ under the name of
Daranio: "Puedese presumir que el Daranio, cuyas bodas refiere tan
menudamente, sea Diego Durán, á quien supone natural de Toledo ó de su
tierra, y alaba también en su canto de Calíope de gran poeta."
[108] The title of this arrangement is _Los Enamorados ó Galatea y sus
bodas. Historia pastoral comenzada por Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,
Abreviada después, y continuada y últimamente concluida por D. Cándido
María Trigueros_ (Madrid, 1798).
[109] The only translations of the _Galatea_ are the following:--
English (by Gordon Willoughby James Gyll), London, 1867, 1892.
German (by F. Sigismund), Zwickau, 1830; (by A. Keller and F. Notter),
Stuttgart, 1840; (by F. M. Duttenhofer), Stuttgart, 1841.
[110] Gyll's name is very naturally omitted from the _Dictionary of
National Biography_. His publications, so far as I can trace them, are
as follows:
(1) _The Genealogy of the family of Gylle, or Gill, of Hertfordshire,
Essex and Kent, illustrated by wills and other documents_ (London,
1842). This pamphlet is an enlarged reprint of a contribution to
_Collectanea Topographica et Genealogica_, vol. viii.
(2) _A Tractate on Language_ (London, 1859): a second revised edition
appeared in 1860.
(3) _History of the Parish of Wraysbury, Ankerwycke Priory, and Magna
Charta Island; with the History of Horton, and the Town of Colnbrook,
Bucks._ (London, 1862.)
(4) _Galatea: A pastoral romance. By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.
Literally translated from the Spanish_ (London, 1867). A posthumous
reprint was issued in 1892.
(5) _The Voyage to Parnassus: Numantia, a Tragedy; The Commerce of
Algiers, by Cervantes. Translated from the Spanish...._ (London, 1870).
Concerning the writer I have gathered the following particulars: they
are to some extent derived from statements scattered up and down his
works. For the references to _Notes and Queries_ I am particularly
indebted to Mr. W. R. Morfill, the distinguished Reader in Slavonic at
the University of Oxford.
Our Gyll was born on August 1, 1803 (_History of Wraysbury_, p.
100), being the third son of William Gill (at one time an officer
in the army), and the grandson of a City alderman. William Gill,
the elder, was a partner in the firm of Wright, Gill, and Dalton,
wholesale stationers in Abchurch Lane, London. He was elected alderman
in 1781, served as Sheriff in 1781-1782, was appointed Treasurer
of Christ's Hospital in 1784-1785, and in due course became Lord
Mayor for 1788-1789. He died in the Treasurer's house at Christ's
Hospital on March 26, 1798, being then seventy-four years of age: his
brother-in-law and partner, Thomas Wright, died on April 9, 1798. An
obituary note in _The Gentleman's Magazine_ (vol. lxviii., p. 264)
states that the elder William Gill "was a respectable tradesman and
died immensely rich." The younger William Gill died on February 16,
1806, at the age of thirty-one. I do not know to what school Gordon
Willoughby James Gill was sent. He speaks of himself as "a member of
the University of Oxford" (_A Tractate on Language_, First Edition, p.
iii.). This is confirmed by the appended note in the Matricula Book,
which am enabled to print through the kindness of my friend Mr. H.
Butler Clarke:--
"From the Register of Matriculations of the University of Oxford. 1822
Jan. 15. Coll. Pemb. Gordon Willoughby Jacobus Gill, 18, Gulielmi, de
par. S. Mariæ bonæ Arm. fil. 3^{ius}.
A true extract, made 30 Jan^{y.}, 1903 by T. Vere Bayne, Keeper of the
Archives."
Unfortunately, this entry is not an autograph: all the other entries on
the page which contains it are, as the Keeper of the Archives informs
me, in the same handwriting. The _Oxford University Calendar_ for 1823
gives (p. 275) our author's names in this form and sequence: James
Willoughby Gordon Gill. This form and order are repeated in the _Oxford
University Calendar_ for the years 1824 and 1825. In the alphabetical
index to the _Calendar_ for 1823-1824-1825 this Pembroke undergraduate
is entered as: _Gill, James G. W._ As the editors of the semi-official
_Calendar_ derive their information from the College authorities,
we may take it that, from 1822 to 1825 inclusive, the future author
passed as James Gill at Pembroke, and amongst those who knew him best.
It cannot be supposed that the Master and Fellows of Pembroke made
a wrong return for three consecutive years, nor that they wilfully
reversed the order of Gill's Christian names with the express object of
annoying him. Had they done either of these things, Gill was the very
man to protest energetically: his conduct in later years snows that
he was punctilious in these matters. However, it is right to bear in
mind that the Matricula Book gives Gill's Christian names in the same
order as they appear on his title-pages. I have failed to obtain any
details of his career at Pembroke. Mr. Wood, the present Librarian at
Pembroke, states that there is "no proper record" of the Commoners at
that College in Gill's time. On this point I have only to say that the
poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes was in residence at Pembroke with Gill, and
that information concerning Beddoes's undergraduate days is apparently
not lacking. Possibly more careful research might discover some trace
of Gill at Oxford. He seems to have taken no degree, and to have left
no memory or tradition at Pembroke. He himself tells us (_A Tractate
on Language_, First Edition, p. iii) that when at Oxford "he formed an
acquaintance with a gentleman of considerable erudition, but not of
either University, who had made the English tongue his peculiar care."
To this association we owe _A Tractate on Language_, and, perhaps, the
peculiarities of style which Gill afterwards developed. But, in the
latter respect, a serious responsibility may attach to Milton; for, in
his _Tractate_, Gill refers to the poet and laments (p. 224) that, at
the period of which he speaks, "the Allegro and Penseroso were confined
to the closets of the judicious." The inference is that Gill modelled
his diction on both these poems.
His name disappears from the _Oxford University Calendar_ in 1826. He
visited Mexico in 1832 (_History of Wraysbury_, p. 49), and perhaps
during this journey he picked up a queer smattering of Spanish. On
August 29, 1839, he married "Anne Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edward
Bowyer-Smijth, Bt.," and this seems to have given a new direction to
what he calls his "studious tendencies."
The founder of his wife's family was plain William Smith, who died in
1626; this William Smith's son developed into Thomas Smyth, and died a
baronet in 1668; Sir Thomas Smyth's great-great-grandson, the seventh
baronet, was known as Sir William Smijth, and died in 1823. Gill's
father-in-law,--Vicar of Camberwell and Chaplain to George IV.--was the
ninth baronet. On June 10, 1839, he assumed the name of Bowyer by royal
license, and was styled Sir Edward Bowyer-Smijth. In this the Vicar
was practically following the lead of his younger brother, a captain
in the 10th Hussars, who assumed the name of Windham by royal license
at Toulouse on May 22, 1823, and thenceforth signed himself Joseph
Smijth-Windham. The contagion infected Gill.
After his marriage to Miss Bowyer-Smijth, third daughter of the ninth
baronet, Gill became a diligent student of genealogy, heraldry and
county-history. It might be excessive to say that he was attacked by
the _folie des grandeurs_; but he does appear to have felt that, since
the Smiths had blossomed into Bowyer-Smijths and Smijth-Windhams, a
man of his ability was bound to do something of the same kind for the
ancient house of Gill. And something was done: a great deal, in fact.
The first-fruits of Gill's enterprise are garnered in _The genealogy
of the family of Gylle, or Gill, of Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent,
illustrated by wills and other documents_ which he printed in 1842.
At this first stage he acted with praiseworthy caution, signing his
pamphlet with the initials G. G. If he was ever known by so vulgar a
name as James--the name of the patron-saint of Spain--he had evidently
got rid of it by 1842. At Pembroke in 1823 his initials were J. G. W.
G., according to the _Oxford University Calendar_: nineteen years later
they were G. G. This advancement passed unnoticed, and the delighted
investigator continued his researches. These were so successful that,
according to Gill's shy confession wrung from him long afterwards, "as
the old annals, parish registers, tombs, wills. &c., wrote our name
Gyll, we, by sign manual, returned to that orthography in 1844": (see
_Notes and Queries_, March 24, 1866, vol. ix., p. 250). The English
of this avowal is bad, but the meaning is clear. Henceforward Gill is
transfigured into Gyll. These easy victories led him to enlarge his
plan of campaign, and thus we find in the 1846 edition of _Burke's
Landed Gentry_ the pedigree of the family of Gyll of Wyrardisbury,
which contains the statement that on October 13, 1794, the head of the
house (of the Gylls of Wyrardisbury), "William Gyll, Esquire, Captain
2nd Regiment Life Guards, and Equerry to H. R. H. the Duke of Sussex"
married "Lady Harriet Flemyng, only child of the Right Hon. Hamilton
Flemyng, last Earl of Wigtoun, and had issue" our author, and other
children with whom we are not concerned here.
According to George Lipscomb's _History and Antiquities of the County
of Buckingham_ (London, 1847, vol. iv., p. 605, _n._ 1.), it was on
December 17, 1844, that "Her Majesty was pleased ... to permit the
family of Gyll of Wyrardisbury, to resume the ancient orthography
of their name." The enthusiastic Gyll (as we must now call him)
interpreted the privilege in a generous fashion. It galled the
patrician to think that his grandfather had been a lowly alderman,
and to know that this lamentable fact was on record at Wraysbury.
There were epitaphs in Wraysbury Church describing his grandfather as
"Alderman of the City of London"; describing his father as "only son
of Alderman Gill"; describing his aunt, Mrs. Paxton, as "daughter of
William Gill, Esq., Alderman of the City of London." Our Gyll had all
these odious references to the aldermanship removed; in their stead he
introduced more high-sounding phrases; he interpolated the statement
that his grandfather was "of the family of Gyll of Wyddial, Herts";
and on all three monuments he took it upon himself to change Gill into
Gyll. The changes were made clumsily and unintelligently, but one
cannot have everything. Gordon Gyll was indefatigable in his pious
work, and, within three years, he somehow induced Lipscomb (_op. cit._,
vol. iv., p. 604) to insert a pedigree connecting the family of "Gyll
of Buckland and Wyddial Hall, co. Herts, Yeoveny Hall, co. Middlesex,
and Wyrardisbury Hall, co. Bucks," with certain Gylls established in
Cambridgeshire during the reign of Edward I. It is impossible not to
admire the calm courage with which the still, strong man swept facts,
tombstones, epitaphs, and obstacle's of all kinds from the path of his
nobility.
His proceedings passed unnoticed during fourteen happy years. At
last attention was drawn to them in _Notes and Queries_ (May 11,
1861, p. 365) by a correspondent who signed himself "A Stationer." "A
Stationer" remarked sarcastically on the erasure of all references to
the aldermanship from the monuments in Wraysbury Church, noted that
the dead Gills had been glorified into Gylls, deplored Gordon Gyll's
ingratitude towards the ancestors to whom he owed everything, censured
Gyll's conduct as "silly," and protested against such tampering as
improper. The editor of _Notes and Queries_ supported "A Stationer's"
view on the ground that monuments had hitherto been accepted as
testimony in suits at law, and that their evidential value would be
completely destroyed if Gyll's example were generally followed. Gyll
put on his finest county manner, and replied in an incoherent letter
(_Notes and Queries_, May 26, 1861, p. 414) which breathes the haughty
spirit of a great territorial chieftain. He denounced the insolence of
"A Stationer" in daring to criticize "a county family," branded the
intruder as a "tradesman," a "miserable citizen critic," and pitied the
poor soul's "confined education." But he failed to explain his conduct
satisfactorily, and laid himself open to the taunts of Dr. J. Alexander
(_Notes and Queries_, June 8, 1861, p. 452), who declared that Gyll had
"proved himself unable to write English, and ignorant of some of the
simplest rules of composition." Dr. Alexander added that,--if a licence
obtained in 1844 could justify changing the spelling of the name of a
man who died in 1798,--by parity of reasoning, "had the worthy alderman
accepted the proferred baronetcy, all his ancestors would, _ipso
facto_, become baronets. I believe China is the only country where
this practice obtains." In the same number of _Notes and Queries_, "A
Stationer" returned to the subject, and posed a number of very awkward
questions. "Are the Gylls really a county family? And when did they
become so? Has any member of the house ever filled the office of Knight
of the shire, or even that of sheriff for the county of Buckingham?"
And, after reproaching Gyll for his repudiation of his hard-working
grandfather, "A Stationer" ended by assuring the proud squire that "the
Stationers of London have a more grateful recollection of their quondam
brothers and benefactors--for benefactors they were to a very unequal
extent. From Alderman Wright, the Stationers received 2000_l._ 4 per
cents.: from Alderman Gill (who left a fortune of £300,000) 30_s._ a
year to be added to Cator's dinner. However, their portraits are still
to be seen in the counting-house of the Company, placed in one frame,
side by side. "_Par nobile fratrum!_" Gyll dashed off a reply which
the editor of _Notes and Queries_ (June 29, 1861, p. 520) declined to
insert: "as we desire to avoid as much as possible any intermixture
of personal matters into this important question." At this the blood
of all the Gylls boiled in the veins of Gordon Willoughby James.
He was not to be put off by a timorous journalist, and he secured
the insertion in _Notes and Queries_ (July 27, 1861, p. 74) of an
illiterate letter which, says the editor, "we have printed ... exactly
as it stands in the original." The letter seems to have been written
under the influence of deep emotion, for the aristocratic Gyll twice
speaks of his grandfather as a "party." He demanded an ample apology,
and ended with the announcement that "if I do not hear from you I shall
send the family lawyer to meet the charge." Gyll did not obtain the
apology, did not attempt to answer "A Stationer's" string of questions,
did not accept the editor's offer to print the suppressed letter, did
not "send the family lawyer to meet the charge." In fact he did nothing
that he threatened to do, and nothing that he was asked to do. If he
consulted his solicitor, the latter probably joined with the editor and
told him not to make a fool of himself.
But Gyll had no idea of abandoning his pretensions, and he renewed
them with abundant details in his _History of Wraysbury_, a quarto
which contains more than its title implies. He is not content to note
(p. 153) that "occasionally those dreary landmarks in the vast desert
of human misery, called Coroner's inquests, arise in Wraysbury." He
also proves, to his own satisfaction, that "the family of Ghyll,
Gyll, Gylle, Gille, Gill, for it is recorded in all these ways, is
derived from that one which resided in the North, temp. Edward the
Confessor, 1041, at Gille's Land in Cumberland" (p. 99), and that "in
1278 Walter le Gille served as a juryman at Tonbridge" (p. 98). The
arms of the Gylls are duly given: "Sable, two chevrons argent, each
charged with three mullets of the field, on a dexter Canton, or; a lion
passant at guard, gules. Also Lozenges or and vert; a lion rampant at
guard, gules." Heralds whom I have consulted have jeered at the Gyll
escutcheon, but I cannot bring myself to give their ribald remarks in
print. Apparently, the main purpose of the _History of Wraysbury_ is
to shew that the Gylls (with a _y_) are very Superior Persons, and
that the Gills (with an _i_) are People of No Importance. Gyll admits
that the latter produced a worthy man in the person of John Gill, "a
Baptist divine"; and the historian, when writing of his poor relations
(p. 125), emphasizes the fact that John Gill was not an Anabaptist.
Anabaptists were evidently an inferior set.
It will be seen that Gyll traced back his pedigree to a period earlier
than the Norman Conquest: six centuries before his wife's ancestors
(then known as Smith) were first heard of. It was a great achievement
and henceforth no Gyll need fear to look a Bowring-Smijth in the face.
And Gyll's ambition grew. He could not prove that he was the child of a
baronet, and, in so much, he was in a position of social inferiority to
his wife. But he did the next best thing by declaring that, if he was
not the son of a baronet, he easily might have been. In his _History
of Wraysbury_, he states (p. 97) that his grandfather was Lord Mayor
of London when George III. went to St Paul's to give thanks for his
recovery from his first attack of insanity, that the usual patent
"was prepared and announced in all the public papers, 18th and 19th
April, 1789, to create him a Baronet, which is usual when the King
honours the city on any great occasion, but the profered advancement
was not accepted for family reasons. Nor was the claim revived until
his son "William Gyll, Captain 2nd Life Guards, who had in 1803 at his
own expense raised two troops of cavalry at the threat of invasion,
solicited the favour which his father had injudiciously declined, when
he too unfortunately died prematurely, and the expected honour has not
since been conferred." This is a repetition of a favourite phrase: for
Lipscomb (_op. cit._, vol. iv., p. 605, _n._ 3) states that the younger
William Gyll "unfortunately died suddenly, and the expected honour
has not since been conferred." One can guess the source of Lipscomb's
information.
I regret to say that Gyll throws all the blame for this catastrophe
on his grandmother, as may be seen by an intemperate foot-note which
follows the passage just quoted from the _History of Wraysbury_: "His
(the Lord Mayor's) wife Mary induced him to forego the honour, because
there was a son by his first wife, who only survived a few years and
died unmarried. Women may be very affectionate but not discreet. They
have a fibre more in their hearts, and a cell less in their brains than
men." This is most improper, no doubt. Still, great allowance should be
made for the exasperation of a man who longed to be a baronet's son,
who might have been one, and who was not.
Gyll had certainly played his part gallantly. Considering the material
that he had to use, he worked wonders. He had (perhaps) transformed
himself from James to Gordon; he had (unquestionably) evolved from
Gill to Gyll. He had wiped out the horrid memory of the aldermanship,
and had buried the old stationer's shop miles beneath the ground-floor
of limbo. And there is testimony to his social triumphs in the list
of subscribers that precedes his _History of Wraysbury_, which is
dedicated "by permission" to the late Prince Consort. Among the
subscribers were two dukes, two earls, five barons, ten baronets:
and these great personages were followed by Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Milner
Gibson, the Dean of Windsor, the Provost of Eton, and other commoners
of distinction.
It was a glorious victory which Gyll enjoyed in peace for four years.
Then his hour of reckoning came. A correspondent of _Notes and
Queries_, signing himself "Anglo-Scotus," pointed out (February 24,
1866, p. 158) that the statement concerning the Gylls in _Burke's
Landed Gentry_ was erroneous; that no officer named Gyll ever held a
commission in either regiment of the Life Guards; that Hamilton Flemyng
was not the last (or any other) Earl of Wigtoun; and that consequently
no such person as Lady Harriet Flemyng ever existed. Gyll pondered
for a month and then, at last, nerved himself to write to _Notes and
Queries_ (March 24, 1866, p. 250) asserting that Hamilton Flemyng was
"_per legem terrae_, 9th and last Earl of Wigton." His letter was
thought to be too rambling for insertion: the editor confined himself
to printing this crucial passage, and referred Gyll to the report
of the Committee for Privileges which set forth that "the claimant
(Hamilton Flemyng) hath no right to the titles, honours, and dignities
claimed by his petition." This report was quoted in the same number of
_Notes and Queries_ (pp. 246-247) by an Edinburgh correspondent signing
himself G., and G. went on to say that, though no Gyll ever held a
commission in the Life Guards, a certain William Gill figures in the
Edinburgh Almanacs for 1794-5-6 as a Lieutenant in the 2nd Life Guards.
I have since verified this statement, and I find that William Gill was
gazetted to the 2nd Life Guards on September 26, 1793. In spite of
the interest that he took in his family history, Gyll had no accurate
knowledge of his father's doings. William Gill was transferred to the
Late 2nd Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards (a reduced corps receiving
full pay) on March 23, 1796, and he retired on March 19, 1799 (see _The
London Gazette_, Nos. 13,878 and 15,116). But Gyll was ever a muddler
and a bungler. He informed Lipscomb that his father had "died suddenly"
(_op. cit._, vol. iv., p. 605); while, in the _History of Wraysbury_
(p. 121), he copies an epitaph recording William Gill's death "after a
long and painful illness."
It was thus established that the family name was Gill; that the younger
William Gill did not marry the daughter of the last Earl of Wigton (or
Wigtoun); that he was never a Captain in the 2nd Life Guards; and that
in 1803, when he was alleged to have raised two troops of cavalry, he
had already resigned his commission four years. Human nature being
what it is, this exposure may have brought a smile to the lips of the
Bowyer-Smijths who had listened to Gyll's stories of a cock and of a
bull for a quarter of a century. Gyll collapsed at once when detected,
and he published no more results of his genealogical researches. It is
a pity, for who knows to what length of absurdity he might not have
gone? Who knows, indeed, whether his little tale of the Lord Mayor
and the baronetcy is not of a piece with the rest? I have searched
the contemporary newspapers, and the nearest approach that I can find
to a confirmation of Gyll's assertion is in _The Diary; or Woodfall's
Register_ (Friday, April 24, 1789): "That the Lord Mayor will be a
Baronet is now certain; and that Deputies Seekey and Birch will be
knighted is extremely probable." I do not know what happened to Seekey
and Birch. The Gylls are enough for a lifetime. Years afterwards a
correspondent to _Notes and Queries_ (December 26, 1876, p. 512)
derisively observed that "the Gyll family, however, quarter the Flemyng
arms, and also the Flemyng crest." But the badger was not to be drawn a
third time: Gyll endured the affront in the meekest silence.
The versatile man had relieved his severe antiquarian studies by
excursions into light literature. _A Tractate on Language_ was
published because, as the author avows (p. iii), "he thought (perhaps
immaturely) that some occult treasures and recondite truths in
philology were eliminated, and were worthy public consideration." When
Gyll wrote these words (1859) he was in his fifty-seventh year, and
was as mature as he was ever likely to be. The work, which contains
the alarming statement (p. 171) that "Noah taught his descendants his
matricular tongue," seems to have been rudely handled by critics. In
the second edition of his _Tractate_ Gyll replies with the ladylike
remark that "as regards his opinions, it was not consistent with
equity or delicacy that they should have been encountered with _savage
phrenzy_;" and, with a proper contempt for reviewers, he adds that
"while such reviews indulge thus indiscriminately, pourtraying sheer
obliquity of mind and judgment in lieu of that _manly acumen_ to which
they pretend, the critics must perceive how much below the dignity
of the criticised it is to evince uneasiness or resentment--both as
easily 'shaken off as dewdrops from the lion's mane.'" It is unlikely
that Gyll is widely read nowadays, and this is my excuse for doing
what I can to save two distinguished aphorisms from the wreck of his
_Tractate_. There is nothing like them (it is safe to say) in Pascal or
La Rochefoucauld.
(_a_) "As in religion what is bones to philosophy is milk to faith"
(pp. iii-iv).
(_b_) "A literary man, however, is like a silkworm employed and wrapped
up in his own work" (p. 163).
After his exposure in _Notes and Queries_ Gyll dropped genealogy,
heraldry, and topography as though they were so many living coals.
But, though he dreaded the fire, he was still bent on making the world
ring with the name of Gyll. Spanish literature, which was at that
time cultivated in these islands by such men as Chorley, FitzGerald,
Archbishop Trench, Denis Florence Mac-Carthy and Ormsby, seemed to him
a promising field in which he should find no dangerous rivals. In the
_History of Wraysbury_ (p. 146) he included his own name among the
"names of literary and distinguished characters of Wraysbury," and
under the date 1860, he mentions his "Translation from the Spanish
of Don Guzmán de Alfarache." I presume this was a version of Mateo
Alemán's picaresque novel, but I can find no trace of it. At the age
of sixty-four the extraordinary Gyll furbished up the few words of
Spanish which he had learned in Mexico thirty-five years earlier, and
courageously started as a translator of Cervantes. His versions are
the worst ever published in any tongue. But criticism was impotent
against his self-complacency. A true literary man, he lived--to use his
own happy phrase--"like a silkworm employed and wrapped up in his own
work." On the whole his was a prosperous career. Carpers might do their
worst, but the solid facts remain. Gyll had practically blotted out the
stain of the stationer's shop and the aldermanship; he had obtained
permission to write his name with a _y_: he had elbowed his way into
county-histories, into Burke's _Landed Gentry_ and into Burke's
_General Armory_; he had published such works as, in all probability,
the world will never see again. He appreciated these performances to
the full, and he revelled in gazing on the south window in Wraysbury
Church, of which he writes (_History of Wraysbury_, p. 123): "At the
summit are two small openings of painted glass, and in the centre is
a quatrefoil in which the letters G. W. J. G. are convoluted.... The
play of colours on the monuments when the sun is brilliant, affords a
pleasing variegation." What more could the mind of man desire? Gordon
Willoughby James Gyll died on April 6, 1878.
[111] See p. viii. of Gyll's version: "Dedicated by Cervantes, to
his Excellency Don Joseph Moniño, Count of Florida Blanca, Knight
of the Grand Cross of the Royal Order of K. Charles III." The
fact is, of course, that Gyll translated from _Los seis libros de
Galatea_, reprinted in 1784 by Antonio de Sancha with a dedication to
Floridablanca. The words--"Dedicated by Cervantes"--are interpolated
by Gyll. Floridablanca died in 1808, nearly two hundred years after
Cervantes.
[112] Evidently a misprint for Silena.
[113] In justice to Gyll, the polemist, I reprint his two letters
contributed to _Notes and Queries_ (May 25, 1861, and July 27, 1861):--
(_a_) "A STATIONER writes his remarks on the subject of some
alterations on lapidary inscriptions in Wraysbury Church: and pray,
Sir, by what right does this tradesman ask any family why they choose
to change a monumental reading, provided nothing is inserted which
militates against truth?
What has the world to do with family arrangements? And whether is the
article to be taken for a _charge_ or a _lament_? I only wish this
busy citizen to employ his time more profitably--while I wonder that
any periodical should condescend to introduce the subject, without
notice being given to members of the family, and an inquiry made. If
they had reasons good for it, what on earth does the public care about
it? Certain words on certain monuments were not approved by a county
family, and they were omitted: and lo! a citizen rises to impeach the
_proprietary_ of it. The case stands thus, Monument No. 1:
This was an unusually large slab, on which the simple record of the
deaths of Wm. Gyll, Esq., and his wife, were only inscribed. The family
thought the space might be occupied by the addition of other family
names, &c.--and it was done. And now the slab is full.
No. 2. Wm. Gyll, Esq., was styled here Equerry to H.R.H. Duke of
Sussex; but that he was also Captain in the 2nd Life Guards was
omitted. It was deemed expedient to make room for its insertion, and it
was done.
No. 3. On Mrs. Paxton's monument, a daughter of Wm. Gyll, Esq., the
latter gentleman is styled _of this parish_; and as he had considerable
property here, it was his proper designation. Room was made to effect
this, and it was done.
There are thirteen monuments to the family of Gyll, or relations, in
the chancel of Wraysbury Church; and where the patronymic was spelt
with an _i_ as formerly, instead of _y_ as latterly, a change was made
that these names might correspond with the same orthography on other
monuments (see Chauncey & Clutterbuck, _Herts_), and with antique deeds
(see _Collectanea Topographica_, vol. viii.).
The family for many years had returned to the _original_ mode of
spelling their patronymic, to distinguish them from other families
similarly called; and for this privilege a permission was obtained by
_sign manual_ in 1844. And if a correspondent change was made on the
monuments, what has anyone in the world to do with it but the family?
In one case a mistaken date was inscribed, 17th for 26th March. This
is made a _charge and a crime_ by this miserable citizen critic, as if
these mistakes were made purposely.
In two cases Dr. Lipscomb's monumental inscriptions give _widow_ for
wife, and _Sept._ for April. Had the STATIONER, who is so wonderfully
correct, and turns all things to wrongs, gone or sent to Wraysbury, he
would have found _his_ improvements already on the monuments.
But his candid soul converts all this to _vanity_: and, no doubt,
vanity finds endless occupation for ingenuity and invention. Suggests
that a family ought to be proud of civic honours. Many thanks to the
_suggestive_ STATIONER; but if this family is not, what cares the world
about it? It may have gained nothing by the position; but if he will
be _obtrusive_, let him tell the next editor who is in want of matter
another _secret_--for he uses _this term_ in his disquisition--that Mr.
Gyll, in 1789, refused to be created a Baronet, and that the patent was
made out and was ready for execution. See the newspapers _passim_, 18th
and 23rd April, 1789.
It may be the family desires no remembrance of the honours conferred,
or the honours proffered; and if so, what daring presumption gives a
STATIONER a plea to impugn any act done by A. or B., and parade it
before the public in an accommodating journal? His confined education
may preclude his knowing that a Lord Stanhope doffed his title and
removed his arms from all his carriages; and that Horace Walpole
remarked, that calling him "My Lord," was calling him _names_ in his
old age. Many have not assumed honours to which they were entitled.
As the STATIONER, or the poor malice of the writer under this name,
has made a _charge_, I trust, Sir, in your _equity_, that you will
insert this explanation in your next number; and I also trust to read
in your most interesting and useful publication, for the future, more
that _concerns_ the curious world than that a family substituted on a
monument a _y_ for an _i_, and withheld altogether the naming of an
honour which might have appeared there.
GORDON GYLL.
7, Lower Seymour Street, Portman Square."
(_b_) "As you have not published the letter I sent to your office in
answer to that of A STATIONER, and also to an LL.D., who, instead of
quietly confining himself to an opinion on a point of law, rushed into
_personalities_ quite unjustified by circumstances, for no letter was
addressed to him unless he be the STATIONER in disguise, who, in his
arrogance dared to say that I was ignorant of the first principles of
composition--I wish to know whether the LL.D. or STATIONER mean to
assert that by our improving certain monuments in Wraysbury Church
(which we, as a family acting in unison, were entitled to do without
the interference of anyone) we have falsified them.
If that be intended, we consider the allegation _false and injurious_,
and unless we have an unequivocal denial, we shall refer the case to
our legal adviser. The entire object of the STATIONER was to insult our
family, and to impute motives, which was enough to incite to resentment.
If he had politely said that we had caused one letter to be substituted
for another, which did not change the sound of the name, and had put
in a Christian name where the title of a civic honour was inscribed,
whereby the party was more _clearly_ identified--for Mr. Alderman A.
may be anybody--it had been well and harmless, and no such letter,
which he terms acrimonious, had been written.
You gave, in a note to my letter, an opinion that the question was
_not touched_. Now, Sir, I wish to ask you or the LL.D. if any LAW is
violated, and if a family has a right to inscribe on a monument that A.
or B. were Deputy-Lieut., Magistrates, M.P., or High Sheriffs? and if
so, if a party is termed Alderman where his proper description would be
Lord Mayor, the family may not legally and judiciously alter it?
We stand impeached with _breaking a law_, and by implication with,
_falsifying_ a lapidary inscription. We wish to know if _these
imputations_ are meant either by LL.D. or the STATIONER, for if they
are, let the case be tried before proper tribunal, or else let us have
a denial. If I do not hear from you I shall send the family lawyer to
meet the charge.
GORDON GYLL.
7, Lower Seymour Street, Portman Square."
The above are reproduced exactly as printed in _Notes and Queries_. As
already observed (p. lii. _n._), Gyll did not carry out his threats.
FIRST PART
OF THE
GALATEA
DIVIDED INTO SIX BOOKS
WRITTEN BY
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
DEDICATION
TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS LORD,
ASCANIO COLONNA,[114]
ABBOT OF SANTA SOFIA.
Your Lordship's worth has prevailed with me so much as to take away
from me the fear I might rightly feel in venturing to offer you these
first-fruits of my poor genius. Moreover, considering that your August
Lordship came to Spain not only to illumine her best Universities, but
also to be the pole-star by which those who profess any real science
(especially those who practise that of poetry) may direct their
course, I have not wished to lose the opportunity of following this
guidance, since I know that in it and by it all find a safe haven and
a favourable reception. May your Lordship be gracious to my desire,
which I send in advance to give some kind of being to this my small
service; and if I do not deserve it for this, I may at least deserve it
for having followed for several years the conquering banners of that
Sun of warfare whom but yesterday Heaven took from before our eyes, but
not from the remembrance of those who strive to keep the remembrance
of things worthy of it, I mean your Lordship's most excellent father.
Adding to this the feeling of reverence produced in my mind by the
things that I, as in prophecy, have often heard Cardinal de Acquaviva
tell of your Lordship when I was his chamberlain at Rome; which now
are seen fulfilled, not only by me, but by all the world that delights
in your Lordship's virtue, Christian piety, munificence, and goodness,
whereby you give proof every day of the noble and illustrious race
from which you descend; which vies in antiquity with the early times
and leaders of Rome's greatness, and in virtues and heroic works with
equal virtue and more exalted deeds, as is proved to us by a thousand
true histories, full of the renowned exploits of the trunk and branches
of the royal house of Colonna, beneath whose power and position I
now place myself to shield myself against the murmurers who forgive
nothing; though, if your Lordship forgive this my boldness, I shall
have naught to fear, nor more to desire, save that our Lord may keep
your Lordship's most illustrious person with the increase of dignity
and position that we your servants all desire.
Most Illustrious Lord,
Your humblest servant kisses your Lordship's hands,
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
FOOTNOTES:
[114] (Son of Marc Antonio Colonna, Duke of Paliano, whose share in the
famous battle is set forth in P. Alberto Guglielmotti's _Marcantonio
Colonna alla bataglia di Lepanto_ (Firenze, 1862). Marc Antonio
Colonna, then Viceroy of Sicily, was summoned to Spain by Philip II. in
1584. He died suddenly at Medinaceli on August 1, 1584. The dedication
is a compliment paid to the son of the author's old commander. J. F.-K.)
PROLOGUE.
CURIOUS READERS,
The occupation of writing eclogues, at a time when poetry is generally
regarded with such little favour, will not, I fancy, be counted as so
praiseworthy a pursuit, but that it may be necessary especially to
justify it to those who, following the varying tastes of their natural
inclination, esteem every taste differing from it as time and labour
lost. But since it concerns no man to justify himself to intellects
that shut themselves up within bounds so narrow, I desire only to
reply to those who, being free from passion, are moved, with greater
reason, not to admit any varieties of popular poetry, believing that
those who deal with it in this age are moved to publish their writings
on slight consideration, carried away by the force which passion for
their own compositions is wont to have on the authors. So far as this
is concerned, I can urge for my part the inclination I have always had
for poetry, and my years, which, having scarcely passed the bounds
of youth, seem to permit pursuits of the kind. Besides, it cannot be
denied that studies in this art (in former times so highly esteemed
and rightly) carry with them no inconsiderable advantages: such as
enriching the poet (as regards his native tongue); and acquiring a
mastery over the tricks of eloquence comprised in it, for enterprises
that are loftier and of greater import; and opening a way so that the
narrow souls that wish the copiousness of the Castilian tongue to be
checked by the conciseness of the ancient speech, may, in imitation
of him, understand that it offers a field open, easy, and spacious,
which they can freely traverse with ease and sweetness, with gravity
and eloquence, discovering the variety of acute, subtle, weighty, and
elevated thoughts, which, such is the fertility of Spanish men of
genius, Heaven's favourable influence has produced with such profit in
different parts, and every hour is producing in this happy age of ours,
whereof I can be a sure witness, for I know some men who, with justice
and without the impediment I suffer, could safely cover so dangerous
a course. But so common and so diverse are men's difficulties, and so
various their aims and actions, that some, in desire of glory, venture,
others, in fear of disgrace, do not dare, to publish that which, once
disclosed, must needs endure the uncertain, and well-nigh always
mistaken, judgment of the people. I have given proof of boldness in
publishing this book, not because I have any reason to be confident,
but because I could not determine which of these two difficulties was
the greater: whether that of the man who, wishing to communicate too
soon the talent he has received from Heaven, lightly ventures to offer
the fruits of his genius to his country and friends, or that of him
who, from pure scrupulousness, sloth, or dilatoriness, never quite
contented with what he does and imagines, counting as perfect only
that which he does not attain, never makes up his mind to disclose and
communicate his writings. Hence, just as the daring and confidence of
the one might be condemned, by reason of the excessive license which
accompanies security; so, too, the mistrust and tardiness of the other
is vicious, since late or never does he by the fruits of his intellect
and study benefit those who expect and desire such aids and examples,
to make progress in their pursuits. Shunning these two difficulties, I
have not published this book before now, nor yet did I desire to keep
it back longer for myself alone, seeing that my intellect composed it
for more than for my pleasure alone. I know well that what is usually
condemned is that no one excels in point of the style which ought to be
maintained in it, for the prince of Latin poetry was blamed for having
reached a higher level in some of his eclogues more than in others;
and so I shall not have much fear that any one may condemn me for
having mingled philosophical discourses with some loving discourses of
shepherds, who rarely rise beyond treating of things of the field, and
that with their wonted simplicity. But when it is observed (as is done
several times in the course of the work) that many of the disguised
shepherds in it were shepherds only in dress, this objection falls to
the ground. The remaining objections that might be raised as regards
the invention and ordering may be palliated by the fixed intention of
him who reads, if he will do so with discretion, and by the wish of the
author, which was to please, doing in this what he could and actually
did, achieve; for even though the work in this part do not correspond
to his desire, he offers others, yet to come, of better taste and
greater art.
BY LUIS GÁLVEZ DE MONTALVO.
TO THE AUTHOR.
SONNET.
What time thy neck and shoulders thou didst place,
Submissive, 'neath the Saracenic yoke,
And didst uphold, with constancy unbroke
Amidst thy bonds, thy faith in God's own grace,
Heaven rejoiced, but earth was for a space,
Without thee, well-nigh widowed: desolate,
Filled with lament and sadness for thy state,
Was left the Muses' royal dwelling-place.
But since that, from amidst the heathen host,
Which kept thee close, thy manly soul and tongue
Thou didst unto thy native land restore,
Heaven itself of thy bright worth makes boast,
The world greets thy return with happy song,
And the lost Muses Spain receives once more.
BY DON LUIS DE VARGAS MANRIQUE.
SONNET.
In thee the sovran gods their mighty power,
Mighty Cervantes, to the world declared.
Nature, the first of all, for thee prepared
Of her immortal gifts a lavish store:
Jove did his lightning on his servant pour,
The living word that moves the rocky wall:
That thou in purity of style mightst all
With ease excel, Diana gave her dower:
Mercury taught thee histories to weave:
The strength Mars gave thee that doth nerve thine arm:
Cupid and Venus all their loves bestowed:
'Twas from Apollo that thou didst receive
Concerted song: from the Nine Sisters charm
And wisdom: shepherds from the woodland god.
BY LÓPEZ MALDONADO.
SONNET.
Out from the sea they issue and return
Unto its bosom when their course is o'er,
As to the All-Mother they return once more,
The children who have left her long forlorn.
She is not lesser made whene'er they go,
Nor prouder when their presence they restore;
For she remaineth whole from shore to shore,
And with her waters aye her pools o'erflow.
Thou art the sea, oh Galatea fair!
The rivers are thy praises, the reward
Whereby thou winnest immortality.
The more thou givest to us, thou canst spare
The more; though all before thy feet have poured
Their tribute, yet thou canst not greater be.
GALATEA.
BOOK I.
What time unto my sad and mournful cry,
Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,
The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply
In bitter echo of my vain desire,
Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,
The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,
Issue in my despite, asking in vain
Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.
The stream is swollen by the tears which flow
Forth from my wearied eyes: the flowery mead
Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow
Into my soul: the lofty hill doth heed
Nowise my sorrows; and the plain below
Of hearing is awearied: in my need
No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill
I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.
I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,
Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,
Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,
The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet
In frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dame
As me they wound, who am her slave; and yet
No noose nor fire hath power against a heart
That is of marble made, nor net nor dart.
But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,
I waste away: before the net unseen
I tremble not: my neck I humbly place
Within the noose; and of his arrow keen
I have no fear: thus to this last disgrace
Have I been brought--so great my fall has been
That for my glory and my heart's desire
The dart and net I count, the noose and fire.
Thus on the banks of the Tagus sang Elicio, a shepherd on whom nature
had lavished as many gifts as fortune and love had withheld; though
the course of time, that consumes and renews man's handiwork, had
brought him to such a pass, that he counted for happiness the endless
misfortunes in which he had found himself, and in which his desire
had placed him, for the incomparable beauty of the peerless Galatea,
a shepherdess born on those same banks. Although brought up in
pastoral and rustic exercises, yet was she of so lofty and excellent
an understanding, that gentle ladies, nurtured in royal palaces, and
accustomed to the refined manners of the Court, counted themselves
happy to approach her in discretion as in beauty, by reason of the many
noble gifts with which Heaven had adorned Galatea. She was loved and
desired with earnest passion by many shepherds and herdsmen, who tended
their herds by the banks of the Tagus: amongst whom the gay Elicio made
bold to love her, with a love as pure and honest, as the virtue and
modesty of Galatea allowed. It must not be thought of Galatea that she
despised Elicio, still less that she loved him: for, at times, almost
persuaded, as it were, and overcome by the many services of Elicio, she
with some modest favour would raise him to heaven; and, at other times,
without taking account of this, she would disdain him in such wise,
that the love-sick shepherd scarce knew his lot. The excellencies and
virtues of Elicio were not to be despised, nor were the beauty, grace,
and goodness of Galatea not to be loved. On the one hand, Galatea did
not wholly reject Elicio; on the other, Elicio could not, nor ought
he to, nor did he wish to, forget Galatea. It seemed to Galatea, that
since Elicio loved her with such regard to her honour, it would be too
great an ingratitude not to reward his modest thoughts with some modest
favour. Elicio fancied that since Galatea did not disdain his services,
his desires would have a happy issue; and, whenever these fancies
revived his hope, he found himself so happy and emboldened, that a
thousand times he wished to discover to Galatea what he kept concealed
with so much difficulty. But Galatea's discretion well knew from the
movements of his face what Elicio had in his mind; and she gave such an
expression to hers that the words of the love-sick shepherd froze in
his mouth, and he rested content with the mere pleasure of that first
step: for it seemed to him that he was wronging Galatea's modesty in
treating of things that might in some way have the semblance of not
being so modest, that modesty itself might take their form. With these
up and downs the shepherd passed his life so miserably that, at times,
he would have counted as gain the evil of losing her, if only he might
not feel the pain which it caused him not to win her. And so one day,
having set himself to consider his varied thoughts, in the midst of
a delightful meadow, invited by the solitude and by the murmur of a
delightful streamlet that ran through the plain, he took from his
wallet a polished rebeck (singing to the sound of which he was wont
to communicate his plaints to Heaven), and with a voice of exceeding
beauty sang the following verses:
Amorous fancy, gently ride
On the breeze if thou wouldst show
That I only am thy guide,
Lest disdain should bring thee low,
Or contentment fill with pride.
Do thou choose a mean, if fate
Grants thee choice amidst thy plight,
Neither seek to flee delight
Nor yet strive to bar the gate
'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.
If it be thy wish that I
Of my life the course should run,
Take it not in wrath: on high
Raise it not, where hope is none,
Whence it can but fall to die.
If presumption lead astray,
And so lofty be thine aim,
This at last thy course will stay:--
Either thou wilt come to shame,
Or my heart thy debts will pay.
Born therein, thy sinning lay
In thy birth; the guilt was thine,
Yet for thee the heart must pay.
If to keep thee I design,
'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.
If thou stayest not thy flight,
Wherewith thou dost mount the skies
(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)
Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss
Thy repose and my delight.
Who to fate, thou mayst declare,
Yields himself, does well: his spirit,
Spurring on to do and dare,
Not as folly but as merit
Will be counted everywhere.
To aspire so loftily,
Yearning thus to reach the goal,
Peerless glory 'tis to thee,--
All the more when heart and soul
Do with the design agree.
Thee to undeceive I seek,
For I understand the meaning:
'Tis the humble and the meek,
Rather than the overweening,
Who of Love's delights can speak.
Greater beauty cannot be
Than the beauty thou desirest;
Thy excuse I fail to see,
How it comes that thou aspirest
Where is no equality.
Fancy, if it hath desire
Something raised on high to view,
Looks and straightway doth retire,
So that none may deem it true
That the gaze doth thus aspire.
How much more doth Love arise
If with confidence united
Whence it draws its destinies.
But if once its hope be blighted,
Fading like a cloud it dies.
Thou who lookest from afar
On the goal for which thou sighest,
Hopeless, yet unto thy star
True,--if on the way thou diest,
Diest knowing not thy care.
Naught there is that thou canst gain,
For, amidst this amorous strife,
Where the cause none may attain,
Dying is but honoured life,
And its chiefest glory pain.
The enamoured Elicio would not so soon have ended his agreeable song,
had there not sounded on his right hand the voice of Erastro, who with
his herd of goats was coming towards the place where he was. Erastro
was a rustic herdsman; yet his rustic lot, out in the woods, did not so
far prevail with him as to forbid that Gentle Love should take entire
possession of his manly breast, making him love more than his life the
beauteous Galatea, to whom he did declare his plaints whenever occasion
presented itself to him. And though rustic, he was, like a true lover,
so discreet in things of love, that whenever he discoursed thereon,
it seemed that Love himself revealed them to him, and by his tongue
uttered them; yet withal (although they were heard by Galatea), they
were held of such account as things of jest are held. To Elicio the
rivalry of Erastro did not give pain, for he understood from the mind
of Galatea that it inclined her to loftier things--rather did he have
pity and envy for Erastro: pity in seeing that he did indeed love, and
that in a quarter where it was impossible to gather the fruit of his
desires; envy in that it seemed to him that perhaps his understanding
was not such as to give room for his soul to feel the flouts or favours
of Galatea in such a way that either the latter should overwhelm
him, or the former drive him mad. Erastro came accompanied by his
mastiffs, the faithful guardians of the simple sheep, which under their
protection were safe from the carnivorous teeth of the hungry wolves;
he made sport with them, and called them by their names, giving to each
the title that its disposition and spirit deserved. One he would call
Lion, another Hawk, one Sturdy and another Spot; and they, as if they
were endowed with understanding, came up to him and, by the movement of
their heads, expressed the pleasure which they felt at _his_ pleasure.
In such wise came Erastro to where he was amiably received by Elicio,
and even asked, allowing that he had not determined to spend the warm
season of the sultry noon-tide in any other place, since that place in
which they were was so fitted for it, whether it would be irksome to
him to spend it in his company.
'With no one,' replied Erastro, 'could I pass it better than with
you, Elicio, unless indeed it were with her who is as stubborn to
my entreaties as she has proved herself a very oak to your unending
plaints.'
Straightway the twain sat them down on the close-cropped grass,
allowing the herd to wander at will, blunting, with teeth that chew the
cud, the tender little shoots of the grassy plain. And as Erastro by
many plain tokens knew perfectly well that Elicio loved Galatea, and
that the merit of Elicio was of greater carat than his own, in token
that he recognised this truth, in the midst of his converse, among
other discourses addressed to him the following:
'I know not, gay and enamoured Elicio, if the love I have for Galatea
has been the cause of giving you pain, and if it has, you must pardon
me, for I never thought to offend you, nor of Galatea did I seek aught
save to serve her. May evil madness or cruel rot consume and destroy
my frisky kids and my tender lambkins! when they leave the teats of
their dear mothers, may they not find in the green meadow aught to
sustain them save bitter colocynth and poisonous oleander, if I have
not striven a thousand times to put her from my memory, and if I have
not gone as many times more to the leeches and priests of the place,
that they might give me a cure for the anguish I suffer on her account!
Some of them bid me take all kinds of love-potions, others tell me to
commend myself to God, who cures everything, or that it is all madness.
Suffer me, good Elicio, to love her, for you can be sure that if you,
with your talents and admirable graces and discourses, do not soften
her, I shall scarce be able, with my simple ways, to move her to pity.
This favour I beg of you, by what I am indebted to your deserving: for,
even if you do not grant it me, it would be as impossible to cease
loving her, as to cause these waters to cease from giving moisture, or
the sun with his combed tresses from giving us light.'
Elicio could not refrain from laughing at Erastro's discourse, and at
the courtesy with which he begged of him permission to love Galatea;
and thus he replied to him: 'It does not pain me indeed, Erastro, that
you love Galatea; it pains me much to know from her disposition, that
your truthful discourses and sincere words will be of little avail with
her. May God give you as fair success in your desires as the sincerity
of your thoughts deserve! and henceforward cease not on my account to
love Galatea; for I am not of so mean a disposition that, if fortune
fail me, I rejoice that others should not attain her. But I pray you,
by what you owe to the good-will I show you, that you should not deny
me your converse and friendship, since of mine you can be as sure as I
have declared to you. Let our herds go united, since our thoughts go in
unison. You to the sound of your pipe will declare the pleasure or the
pain which Galatea's joyous or sorrowful countenance shall cause you,
I to the sound of my rebeck, in the silence of the stilly night, or in
the heat of the glowing noon-tide, in the cool shade of the green trees
by which this bank of ours is made so fair, will help you to carry the
heavy load of your trouble, proclaiming mine to Heaven. And in token of
our good intent and true friendship, while the shadows of these trees
grow longer, and the sun is declining towards the west, let us tune our
instruments and make a beginning of the practice which henceforth we
are to follow.'
Erastro did not need asking, but with signs of supreme content at
seeing himself in such friendship with Elicio, drew forth his pipe, and
Elicio his rebeck: and, one beginning, and the other replying, they
sang what follows:
ELICIO.
Ungrateful Love, thy servant thou didst place
In sweet, caressing, peaceful bonds the day
When first I saw the golden hair and face
Of that fair sun that dimmed the sun's own ray.
Straightway I came to drink with eager gaze
Love's cruel bliss, which, like a serpent, lay
Within the ruddy tresses; for 'twas there
I saw the sun, amid the clustered hair.
ERASTRO.
I stood amazed, and filled with rapturous flame,
Voiceless was I like to a flinty rock,
When Galatea's grace and beauty came,
In all their loveliness my sight to mock.
On my left side stood Love (ah bitter shame!),
My love-lorn breast sustained his arrow's shock,
A gate was opened in me by his dart
Whereby the maid might come and steal my heart.
ELICIO.
His breast, who, wretched, follows in thy train,
Love, by what miracle dost open wide?
What glory from the wound doth he attain,
The wound that thou didst deal him in his side?
Whence from the loss thou sendest, comes the gain?
And whence the joyous life when thou hast died?
The soul that hath endured these at thine hand
The cause, but not the ways can understand.
ERASTRO.
So many faces in a broken glass
Are seen not, nor in glass formed with such art,
That if one looks therein, one sees to pass
A multitude portrayed in every part,
As are the cares on cares that spring, alas!
From that cruel care, which from my shattered heart
Goes not away, though conqueror in the strife,
Until it doth depart along with life.
ELICIO.
The white snow of her cheek, the crimson rose
Which neither summer wastes nor winter's cold,
The sun's twain morning-stars, wherein repose
Soft Love doth find, the spot where time untold
Shall guard the voice, strong to subdue our woes,
As did hell's furies Orpheus' voice of old,
The many charms I saw, though blind I ween,
Have made me tinder for the fire unseen.
ERASTRO.
Twain apples rosy-red no tree can bear
As those in Galatea's cheeks displayed;
Iris herself could boast no bow so fair
As the twain archèd eye-brows of the maid,
Two rays of light, two threads, beyond compare,
Of pearls 'twixt scarlet:--and if more be said--
The peerless graces which in her I find
A cloud have made me to the amorous wind.
ELICIO.
I burn nor am consumed, I live and die,
Far from myself am I and yet so near,
I sink to hell, I rise to Heaven on high,
One thing alone I hope, and yet I fear.
Gentle, yet fierce--for what I loathe I sigh,
To love thee racks my soul with torment drear,
Thus step by step already am I come,
Drawn in these different ways to my last doom.
ERASTRO.
Elicio, mark! how gladly would I pour
At Galatea's feet all that she hath left
To me in life, if but she would restore
The heart and soul whereof I am bereft.
My herd I would bestow, and furthermore
My Spot and Hawk, if she would but the theft
Forego: but ah! the goddess on her throne
More than aught else would have my soul alone.
ELICIO.
Erastro, mark! if once the heart on high
Be placed by fate, or chance, or what you will,
To pluck it down 'twere foolishness to try
By force, or art, or any human skill.
Rejoice that she is blessed; though thou canst die
In truth without her, 'tis my thought that still
No life on earth can be more full of bliss
Than death for such a noble cause as this.
Erastro was already setting himself to follow on in his song when they
perceived, by a thickly wooded hillock which was at their back, no
slight clamour and sound; and, both rising to their feet to see what it
was, they saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, running at the
greatest speed in the world, with a naked knife in his hand, and the
hue of his countenance changed, and, coming after him, another shepherd
swift of foot, who in a few strides overtook the first, and seizing him
by the collar of his skin-coat, raised his arm in the air as high as he
could, and a sharp dagger which he carried unsheathed, and buried it
twice in his body, saying:
'Receive, oh ill-starred Leonida, the life of this traitor, which I
offer up in vengeance of your death.'
This happened with such rapidity that Elicio and Erastro had not the
opportunity to stop him; for they came up at the time when the stricken
shepherd was already giving out his last breath, struggling to utter
these few ill-formed words:
'Would that you had allowed me, Lisandro, to satisfy Heaven with a
longer repentance for the wrong I did you, and had then taken from me
the life which, for the reason I have said, now departs from this flesh
ill-content.'
And without being able to say more he closed his eyes in everlasting
night. By these words Elicio and Erastro fancied that for no small
cause had the other shepherd inflicted on him so cruel and violent a
death. And the better to inform themselves of the whole occurrence,
they would fain have inquired of the murderous shepherd; but he, with
retreating step, leaving the shepherd dead and the two wondering,
turned to go back into the hillock beyond. And when Elicio desired to
follow him, and to learn from him what he wished, they saw him come
again out of the wood, and, being a good space distant from them, in a
loud voice he said to them:
'Pardon me, gentle shepherds, if I have not been gentle in having
wrought in your presence that which you have seen, for the just and
mortal rage which I had conceived against that traitor did not permit
a more moderate course on my part. What I counsel you is, that, if you
would not anger the Deity that dwells in high Heaven, you should not
offer the last rites and accustomed prayers for the traitorous soul of
that body which you have before you, nor give it burial, if here in
your country it is not the custom to give it to traitors.'
And, saying this, he turned with all speed to go into the forest, with
so much haste as to take away from Elicio the hope of overtaking him,
even though he followed him. And so the twain with tender hearts turned
to perform the pious office, and to give burial, as best they could, to
the wretched body, which had so suddenly ended the course of its short
days. Erastro went to his hut which was not far away, and, bringing
sufficient implements, made a grave at the very spot where the body
was; and, bidding it the last farewell, they placed it therein. Not
without compassion for his hapless lot they returned to their herds,
and, collecting them again with some haste (for the sun was already
entering with all speed by the gates of the west), betook themselves
to their accustomed shelters, where neither the comfort they felt
therein, nor the little that his cares allowed him, could keep Elicio
from wondering what causes had moved the two shepherds to come to so
desperate a pass; and already he regretted that he had not followed the
murderous shepherd, and learnt from him, if possible, what he wished.
With this thought, and with the many that his love caused in him, after
leaving his herd in a place of safety, he went out from his hut, as
was his wont at other times, and by the light of the beauteous Diana,
who showed herself resplendent in the sky, he entered the denseness of
a dense wood beyond, seeking some solitary spot where, in the silence
of the night, with greater peace he might give rein to his amorous
fancies: for it is an assured fact that, to sad, fanciful hearts, there
is no greater joy than solitude, the awakener of sad or happy memories.
And thus going little by little, enjoying a gentle breeze which blew
against his face, full of most delicate scents, which from the scented
flowers wherewith the green earth was heaped it gently stole, as it
passed through them wrapped in the delicate air, he heard a voice as
of one who grievously complained, and checking for a while his breath
within him, so that the sound might not hinder him from hearing what it
was, he perceived that from some thickset bramble bushes, a little way
off, the mournful voice proceeded, and though interrupted by endless
sighs, he understood that it uttered these sad words:
'Cowardly and craven arm, mortal enemy of that which you owe to
yourself, look, naught now remains on which to take vengeance, save
yourself! What does it profit you to prolong the life I hold in so
great abhorrence? If you think that our ill is of those that time is
wont to heal, you live deceived, for there is nothing more remote from
cure than our misfortune: seeing that she who might have made mine
pleasant, had a life so short that, in the green years of her joyous
youth, she offered it to the blood-thirsty knife, that it might take
it from her, through the treason of the wicked Carino. He to-day,
by losing his own, will have in part appeased that blessed soul of
Leonida, if, in the heavenly region where she dwells, she can cherish
desire for any vengeance. Ah, Carino, Carino! I beseech the high
Heavens, if by them just prayers are heard, not to heed the plea, if
any you offer, for the treachery you have done me, and to suffer that
your body may lack burial, even as your soul lacked mercy. And you,
fair and hapless Leonida, receive, in token of the love I bore you in
life, the tears I shed at your death; and put it not down to lack of
feeling that I do not end my life, with all I feel at your death: for a
grief that should end so soon would be a scant return for what I ought
and wish to feel. You will see, if you take account of things here, how
this wretched body will one day be consumed by grief, little by little,
for its greater grief and suffering: even as powder, moist and kindled,
which, without making a noise, or raising a flame on high, is consumed
in itself, without leaving of itself aught save the traces of consumed
ashes. It grieves me as much as it can grieve me, oh soul of my soul,
seeing that I could not enjoy you in life, that in death I cannot
perform for you the last rites and honours which befitted your goodness
and virtue; but I promise to you, and swear, for the short time--and it
will be very short--that this impassioned soul of mine shall rule the
heavy burden of this wretched body, and my weary voice have breath to
form it, not to treat aught else in my sad and bitter songs save your
praises and deserts.'
At this point the voice ceased, from the sound of which Elicio clearly
perceived that it was the murderous shepherd; whereat he was much
rejoiced, because it seemed to him that he was in a position to learn
from him what he desired. And, wishing to approach more closely, he
needs must stop again, for it seemed to him that the shepherd was
tuning a rebeck, and he wished first to hear if he should say anything
to its sound. And he did not wait long before he heard him, with gentle
and tuneful voice, singing after this wise:
LISANDRO.
Blest soul, that from the veil
Of human life below
Free to the realms above didst, deathless, wing,
Leaving as in a jail
Of misery and woe
This life of mine which yet to thee did cling!
The bright light of the spring,
When thou art gone is dead,
And beaten to the ground
The hope I thought to found
On that firm seat where joy its radiance shed.
Alas! when thou wert gone,
My life died too: naught lived save grief alone.
Death claimed thee for his prey,
He revelled in his prize,
Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred;
He came to take away
The light of these mine eyes
Which gazed on thee and did their riches hoard.
Swiftly beneath his sword,
Like wax in summer's sun
Or cloud before the wind,
The fancies of my mind
Which sprang from glorious Love have been undone.
The stone above thy tomb
Shuts in my fortune and declares my doom.
How could thy brother speed
His cruel, ruthless hand
In hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart?
How came the wicked deed
To tear thee from the land
And set thee from thy mortal veil apart?
Why sought he with his dart
Two lovers thus to sever?
Our love had had no end,
Our pathway would we wend
In holy wedlock hand in hand for ever.
Command why didst thou give,
Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?
My hapless soul shall spend
The days, the months, the years,
In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.
'Midst joys that have no end
Thy soul shall know no fears
Of stubborn time--forgot for aye thy woes;
Secure in thy repose,
The bliss thou shalt behold
That thy good life hath won
Which ne'er shall be undone:
Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold,
If unto thee be given
To keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.
Blest, lovely soul above!
How foolish have I been
To ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain;
Who gave thee all his love.
Eternally, I ween,
Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain.
'Twere better for my gain
That I should be forgot,
That woe should waste away
The life that yet doth stay,
That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot,
Since in my bitter grief
Death's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.
Amidst the holy choir,
Amongst the sainted dead,
Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight,
That fears nor time nor fire;
The mercies that are shed
On all who flee not from the path of right.
I hope to reach that height,
To dwell with thee in bliss,
Amidst eternal spring,
If to thy steps I cling
And know no dread nor yet the pathway miss.
Oh lead me to this goal!
For such a deed as this befits thy soul.
And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, behold
The good that I desire,
Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.
Here ceased the voice, but not the sighs of the hapless swain who had
sung, and both served to increase in Elicio the desire to know who
he was. And bursting through the thorny brambles so as to reach more
quickly the spot whence the voice proceeded, he came to a little meadow
which, in the fashion of a theatre, was girt all round with very dense
and tangled shrubs; and there he saw a shepherd who was standing in an
attitude of great vigour, with his right foot advanced and his left
behind, his right arm raised in the manner of one hoping to make a
mighty throw. And such was the truth, for at the noise which Elicio
had made in bursting through the bushes, he, thinking it was some
wild beast (against which the woodland shepherds were forced to defend
themselves), had placed himself in a position to hurl at him a weighty
stone he was holding in his hand. Elicio, perceiving his intent by his
posture, before he could accomplish it, said to him: 'Calm your bosom,
hapless shepherd, for he who comes hither, brings a bosom ready for all
you might ask of it; desire to learn your fortune has made him break in
upon your tears, and disturb the solace which might attend upon you in
solitude.'
With these gentle and courteous words of Elicio the shepherd was
calmed, and with no less gentleness replied to him, saying: 'I
gratefully acknowledge your kind offer, whoever you be, courteous
shepherd; but, as for fortune, if you desire to learn mine who never
had any, you will scarce be able to have your wish.' 'You speak true,'
answered Elicio, 'since from the words and plaints I this night have
heard from you, you clearly show the little or none that you have. But
you will no less satisfy my desire by telling me your troubles than by
making known to me your joys. May fortune give you these in what you
desire, so that you do not deny me what I beg of you, if indeed your
not knowing me do not prevent it; although I would have you know, so
as to reassure and move you, that I have not a soul so happy as not to
feel as much as it should the miseries you would recount to me. This I
tell you, for I know that nothing is more wasted, nay thrown away, than
for an unhappy man to recount his woes to one whose heart is brimful
with joys.' 'Your kindly words,' answered the shepherd, 'compel me to
satisfy you in what you ask me, not only that you may not fancy that
from a mean and craven soul spring the complaints and lamentations
you say you have heard from me, but also that you may realise that
the feeling I show is but small as compared with the cause I have for
showing it.'
Elicio thanked him heartily, and after some more courteous words had
passed between the two, Elicio giving proof that he was a true friend
of the woodland shepherd, the latter, recognising that they were not
feigned promises, granted in the end what Elicio asked. The twain sate
them down on the green grass, covered with the splendour of the fair
Diana, who could that night rival her brother in brightness, and the
woodland shepherd, with tokens of a tender grief, began to speak in
this wise:
'On the banks of the Betis, a stream exceeding rich in waters, which
enriches great Vandalia, was born Lisandro (for that is my luckless
name), and of parents so noble that I would to Almighty God I had been
begotten in a lowlier station; for ofttimes nobility of lineage lends
wings and strength to the soul to raise the eyes to where a humble lot
would never dare to raise them, and from such boldness calamities are
often wont to spring such as you shall hear from me, if with attention
you will listen to me. In my village was also born a shepherdess,
whose name was Leonida, the sum of all the beauty which, as I fancy,
could be found in a great part of the world,--born of parents no less
noble and wealthy than her beauty and virtue deserved. Whence it came
to pass that, the parents of both being among the chief people of the
place, and the rule and government of the village being vested in
them, envy, the deadly enemy of a peaceful life, brought about strife
and mortal discord between them over some differences concerning the
administration of the village, in such a manner that the village was
divided into two factions; the one followed that of my parents, the
other that of Leonida's, with so deep-rooted a hatred and malice that
no human effort has been able to bring about peace between them. Fate
then decreed, as though to shut out every prospect of friendship, that
I should fall in love with the fair Leonida, daughter of Parmindro,
the head of the opposite faction; and my love was, indeed, so great
that, though I strove in countless ways to put it from my heart, they
all ended in my remaining yet more vanquished and enslaved. Before me
rose a mountain of difficulties, which hindered me from gaining the
end of my desire, such as Leonida's great worth, the inveterate enmity
of our parents, the few or no occasions which presented themselves to
me for disclosing my thoughts to her: and yet, whenever I turned the
eyes of fancy towards the rare beauty of Leonida, every difficulty was
made smooth, so that it seemed to me a little thing to break through
sharp points of adamant, that I might reach the goal of my loving and
honourable thoughts. Having then for many days battled with myself,
to see if I could turn my soul from a design so arduous, and seeing
that it was impossible, I set all my skill on considering how I might
give Leonida to understand the secret love in my breast. And even
as, in any matter, the beginnings are always difficult, so in those
that relate to love they are for the most exceedingly difficult,
until Love himself, when he wishes to show himself favourable, opens
the gates of the remedy, where they seem most closely barred. Thus
it appeared in my case, for my thought being guided by his, I came
to fancy that no better means presented themselves to my desire than
to make friends with the parents of Silvia, a shepherdess who was a
bosom friend of Leonida, and often they visited each other at their
houses, in company with their parents. Silvia had a kinsman called
Carino, a very close companion of Crisalvo, fair Leonida's brother,
whose boldness and harshness of manner had gained him the nickname
of cruel, and so, by all those who knew him, he was generally called
cruel Crisalvo; and in the same way they called Carino, Silvia's
kinsman and Crisalvo's companion, the cunning Carino, from his being
officious and sharp-witted. With him and with Silvia (for it seemed
to serve my purpose) by means of many presents and gifts I forged
a friendship, to outward seeming: at least on Silvia's side it was
stronger than I desired, for the presents and favours, which with pure
heart she bestowed on me, constrained by my unceasing services, were
by my fortune taken as instruments to place me in the misery where now
I see myself. Silvia was passing fair, and adorned with graces so many
that the hardness of Crisalvo's savage heart was moved to love her (but
this I did not learn save to my hurt); and many days later, after that
from long experience I was sure of Silvia's good-will, an opportunity
offering itself one day, in the tenderest words I could, I disclosed to
her the wound in my stricken breast, telling her that, though it was so
deep and dangerous, I did not feel it so much, only because I thought
that in her solicitude lay its cure. I informed her, too, of the
honourable goal to which my thoughts were tending, which was to unite
myself in lawful wedlock with the beauteous Leonida; and that, since
it was a cause so just and good, she must not disdain to take it under
her care. Finally, not to weary you, love furnished me with such words
to say to her, that she, being overcome by them and more by the pain
which she, like a clever woman, recognised from the signs of my face as
dwelling in my soul, determined to take charge of my cure, and to tell
Leonida what I felt for her, promising to do for me all that her power
and skill might achieve, even though such an undertaking was fraught
with difficulties for her, by reason of the great enmity she knew to
exist between our parents; though, on the other hand she thought that
it might put an end to their differences, if Leonida were to marry me.
Moved then by this good intention, and softened by the tears I shed, as
I have said before, she dared to intercede on behalf of my happiness,
and, discussing with herself how she would approach Leonida, she made
me write her a letter, which she offered to give her at the moment
she thought fitting. Her counsel seemed to be for my good, and that
same day I sent her a letter, which I have always known by heart, as
having been the beginning of the happiness I felt at the reply to it,
though it would be better not to remember happy things at a time so sad
as that in which I now find myself. Silvia received the letter, and
awaited the opportunity for placing it in Leonida's hands.'
'Nay,' said Elicio, interrupting Lisandro's discourse, 'it is not right
that you should fail to repeat to me the letter you sent to Leonida,
for, seeing that it was the first, and that you were so deeply in love
at that time, it must undoubtedly be eloquent. And since you have told
me that you know it by heart, and of the pleasure you obtained from it,
do not now withhold it from me by not repeating it.'
'You say well, my friend,' replied Lisandro, 'for I was then as deeply
in love and timid as now I am unhappy and despairing; and, on that
account, it seems to me that I did not succeed in uttering any eloquent
words, though it was sufficient success that Leonida should believe
those which were in the letter. Since you wish so much to hear them, it
ran as follows:
LISANDRO TO LEONIDA.
"So long as I have been able (though with very great grief to myself)
to resist with my own strength the amorous flame which for you, fair
Leonida, consumes me, fearful of the exalted worth which I recognise in
you, I have never had the boldness to discover to you the love I bear
you; but now that the virtue, which up till now has made me strong, is
consumed, it has become necessary for me to disclose the wound in my
breast, and thus, by writing to you, to make trial of the first and
last remedy in your power. What the first may be, you know, and to be
the last is in your hand, from which I hope for the pity that your
beauty promises, and my honourable desires merit. What they are, and
the goal to which they tend, you shall learn from Silvia, who will give
you this: and since she has been so bold, being who she is, as to bring
it to you, know that they are as honourable as is due to your merit".'
The words of this letter did not seem bad to Elicio, and Lisandro,
continuing the story of his love, said:
'Many days did not pass before this letter came into the fair hands
of Leonida, by means of the kindly hands of Silvia, my true friend.
In giving it, she told her such things that she largely assuaged the
rage and emotion which Leonida had felt at my letter, such as telling
her how good it would be if through our marriage the enmity of our
parents were to cease, and that an object so well meant should lead her
not to reject my desires; all the more as it should not be compatible
with her beauty to allow one who loved her as much as I to die,
without more consideration; adding to these other reasonings, which
Leonida recognised as just. But, so as not to show herself vanquished
in the first encounter, and won in the first advance, she did not
give to Silvia as pleasant a reply as she wished. But still, at the
intercession of Silvia, who forced her to it, she replied with this
letter which I shall now repeat to you:
LEONIDA TO LISANDRO.
"If I had thought, Lisandro, that your great daring had sprung from
my lack of modesty, I would have carried out on myself the punishment
that your fault deserves; but as what I know of myself makes me sure
on this point, I have come to the conclusion that your great boldness
has proceeded more from idle thoughts, than from thoughts of love; and
though they may be as you say, think not that you can move me to cure
them, as you did Silvia to believe them. I complain more of her for
having made me answer you, than of you who dared to write to me, for
silence had been fit answer to your folly. If you draw back from your
purpose, you will act wisely, for I would have you know that I deem my
honour of more account than your empty thoughts."
This was Leonida's reply, which, together with the hopes that Silvia
gave me, though it seemed somewhat harsh, made me count myself the
happiest man on earth. Whilst these matters were passing between
us, Crisalvo did not neglect to woo Silvia with countless messages,
gifts and services; but so hard and severe was Crisalvo's disposition
that he could never move Silvia to grant him the smallest favour.
Whereat he was as desperate and impatient as a bull when speared and
vanquished. For the sake of his love he had formed a friendship with
the cunning Carino, Silvia's kinsman, though these two had first been
mortal enemies, for in a wrestling-bout, which on a great feast-day
the deftest swains of the place held before all the village, Carino
was vanquished by Crisalvo, and mauled: so that he conceived in his
heart undying hatred for Crisalvo, and no less was the hatred he felt
against another person, a brother of mine, for having thwarted him
in a love-affair, in which my brother carried off the fruit Carino
hoped for. This rancour and ill-will Carino kept secret till time
disclosed to him the opportunity when he might avenge himself on both
at once, in the cruellest way imaginable. I kept friends with him,
so that admission to Silvia's house might not be denied me; Crisalvo
adored him, so that he might further his designs with Silvia; and his
friendship was such that whenever Leonida came to Silvia's house,
Carino accompanied her: wherefore it seemed good to Silvia to tell
him, since he was my friend, of my love-affair with Leonida, which was
by this time prospering with such ardour and good fortune, through
Silvia's good offices, that we now awaited but the time and place to
cull the honourable fruit of our pure desires. On hearing of this,
Carino used me as an instrument to commit the greatest treason in
the world. For one day (feigning to be true to Crisalvo, and giving
him to understand that he rated his friendship higher than his
kinswoman's honour), he told him that the chief reason why Silvia did
not love or favour him, was that she was in love with me; he knew
it unmistakably, and our love-affair was going on so openly that if
he had not been blinded by his amorous passion he would by now have
perceived it from a thousand signs; and the more to assure himself of
the truth he was telling him, he bade him look to it henceforward,
for he would see clearly how Silvia without any restraint granted
me exceptional favours. At this news Crisalvo must have been quite
beside himself, as appeared from what followed therefrom. Henceforward
he employed spies to watch my dealings with Silvia; and as on many
occasions I sought to be alone with her, in order to speak not of the
love he thought, but of things concerning mine, these were reported
to Crisalvo, together with other favours prompted by pure friendship,
which Silvia showed me at every step. Whereat Crisalvo came to so
desperate a pass, that many times he sought to kill me, though I did
not think it was for such a cause, but on account of the long-standing
enmity of our parents. But as he was Leonida's brother, I was more
concerned to guard myself than to harm him, thinking it certain that
if I married his sister our enmities would have an end. Of this he
was quite ignorant, thinking rather that, because I was his enemy, I
had sought to make love to Silvia, and not because I was really fond
of her; and this increased his anger and resentment to such a degree
that it robbed him of reason, though he had so little that little was
needed to destroy it. And this evil thought wrought so strongly in
him, that he came to loath Silvia as much as he had loved her, merely
because she favoured me, not with the good-will he thought, but as
Carino told him. And so, in whatever circle or assembly he was, he
spoke ill of Silvia, giving her dishonourable names and epithets.
But as all knew his ugly character and Silvia's goodness, they lent
little or no belief to his words. Meanwhile Silvia had arranged with
Leonida that we two should be married, and, in order that it might be
done with more safety to ourselves, that it would be well for Leonida,
one day when she came with Carino to her house, not to return that
night to that of her parents, but to go thence in Carino's company to
a village half a league distant from ours, where some rich kinsmen
of mine lived, in whose house we could with greater peace effect our
designs. For if Leonida's parents were not pleased at the issue, it
would at least be easier, when she was away from them, to come to
terms. This resolve having been taken, Carino was informed of it, and,
displaying the greatest spirit, offered to Silvia to escort Leonida
to the other village as she desired. The services I did to Carino for
the good-will he showed, the promises I uttered to him, the embraces
I gave him, would methinks have sufficed to extinguish in a heart of
steel any evil purpose it might cherish against me. But that traitor
of a Carino, casting behind him my words, deeds and promises, without
regarding what he owed himself, planned the treason which now you
shall hear. Having informed himself of Leonida's wish, and seeing
that it agreed with what Silvia had told him, he planned that on the
first night which from the appearance of the day promised to be dark,
Leonida's departure should be effected, offering once more to maintain
all possible secrecy and loyalty. After making this agreement which
you have heard, he went off to Crisalvo, as I have since learnt, and
told him that his kinswoman Silvia had gone so far in her love-affair
with me, that I had determined on a certain night to steal her from
her parents' house, and take her to another village where my kinsmen
dwelt. There an opportunity offered itself to avenge his feelings on
both, on Silvia for the small account she had made of his services, on
me for our long-standing enmity, and for the injury I had done him in
robbing him of Silvia, since she was leaving him on my account alone.
Carino knew how to exaggerate to him, and to say what he wanted, in
such a way as, even with less effort, would have moved to any evil
purpose a heart not so cruel as his. The day being now arrived which
I thought was to be the day of my greatest bliss, after having told
Carino not what he actually did do, but what he was to do, I went off
to the other village to give orders how to receive Leonida. And to
leave her entrusted to Carino was like leaving the innocent lamb in
the power of the hungry wolves, or the gentle dove in the claws of the
fierce hawk, who tears it to pieces. Ah, friend! when I come to this
point with my imagination, I know not how I have strength to sustain
life, nor thought to think of it, much more tongue to tell it! Ah,
ill-advised Lisandro! How did you not know Carino's duplicity? Yet,
who would not have trusted his words, since he risked so little in
proving them true by deeds! Ah, ill-starred Leonida! how little did
I know how to enjoy the favour you did me, in choosing me for your
own! Finally, to end with the tragedy of my misfortune, you must know,
discreet shepherd, that on the night Carino was to take Leonida with
him to the village where I was expecting her, he summoned another
shepherd, called Libeo, who ought to have considered him an enemy,
though Carino concealed it beneath his wonted false dissimulation, and
asked him to accompany him that night, for he was resolved to carry off
a shepherdess, his sweetheart, to the village I have told you, where
he purposed to marry her. Libeo, a man of spirit and a lover himself,
readily offered him his company. Leonida bade farewell to Silvia with
close embraces and loving tears, an omen, as it were, that it was to
be the last farewell. The hapless maid must needs have thought then of
the treason she was committing against her parents; not of that Carino
was planning against her,--and how bad a return she was making for the
good opinion that was held about her in the village. But, passing over
all these thoughts, constrained by the loving thought that vanquished
her, she entrusted herself to the care of Carino, who was to conduct
her to where I awaited her. How often do I call to mind when I reach
this point, what I dreamed the day I would have counted fortunate,
had the number of my days ended thereon! I remember that, leaving the
village a little while before the sun withdrew his rays from our
horizon, I sate me down at the foot of a tall ash tree on the very
road by which Leonida was to come, waiting till night should close in
a little more to further my purpose and to receive her, and without
knowing how or wishing it, I fell asleep. Scarce had I yielded my eyes
to slumber when, methought, the tree against which I leaned, bending
before the fury of a fierce wind that was blowing, tearing its deep
roots out of the earth, fell upon my body, and attempting to get away
from the heavy weight, I rolled from side to side. While in this plight
methought I saw a white hind beside me, which I earnestly implored to
lift, as well as it could, the heavy burden from my shoulders, and when
moved with compassion, it was about to do it, at the same moment a
fierce lion sprang from the thicket, and seizing it in his sharp claws,
marched off with it through the forest. After I had escaped with great
toil from the heavy burden, I went to look for it in the mountain,
and found it torn and wounded in a thousand places. Whereat I felt so
much grief that my soul was wrung from me merely by reason of the pity
it had shown at my plight: and thus I began to weep in my dreams, so
that the tears themselves awoke me, and finding my cheeks bathed with
sorrow I was beside myself, pondering on what I had dreamed; but in the
joy I hoped to have in seeing my Leonida, I failed to see then that
fortune was showing me in dreams what was to happen in a short time
to me awake. At the moment when I awoke night had just closed in with
such darkness, with such terrible thunder and lightning as furthered
the perpetration of the cruel deed which that night was perpetrated.
As Carino left Silvia's house with Leonida, he entrusted her to
Libeo, telling him to go with her by the road to the village I have
mentioned, and though Leonida was perturbed at seeing Libeo, Carino
assured her that Libeo was no less a friend of mine than he was, and
that in security she could go with him slowly whilst he went forward
to give me tidings of her approach. The guileless maid, being after
all in love, believed the words of the treacherous Carino, and with
less mistrust than was fitting, guided by the courteous Libeo, advanced
her timid steps, which were to be the last of her life, thinking they
led her to the height of her bliss. Carino went on before the two, as
I have already told you, and gave information of what was happening
to Crisalvo, who with four of his kinsmen was in ambush on the very
road by which they were to pass, this being wholly shut in by forest
on either side. He told them how Silvia was coming and I was the only
one with her, and that they should rejoice at the good opportunity
fate put in their hands to avenge the wrong we two had done him, and
that he should be the first to prove the edge of his knife on Silvia,
though she was a kinswoman of his. Immediately the five cruel butchers
prepared to stain themselves in the innocent blood of the pair who
came along the road all unsuspicious of such treason; when they reached
the place where the ambush was, at once the traitorous murderers were
on them, and surrounded them. Crisalvo came up to Leonida, thinking
she was Silvia, and with insulting and excited words, in the hellish
rage which mastered him, left her stretched on the ground with six
mortal wounds, whilst Libeo weltered on the earth with countless stabs
dealt by the other four, who thought they were inflicting them on me.
When Carino saw how well his traitorous intent had turned out, without
awaiting words, he went away, and the five traitors, fully satisfied
as if they had done some notable exploit, returned to their village.
Crisalvo went to Silvia's house himself to give her parents the news of
what he had done, so as to increase their grief and pain, telling them
to go and bury their daughter Silvia, whose life he had taken because
she had set more store on the cold esteem of Lisandro his enemy, than
on the unremitting attentions shown by him. Silvia, who heard what
Crisalvo was saying,--her soul telling her what had happened, told him
that she was alive, and free too from all that he had accused her of;
and that he should be sure he had not killed one whose death would
grieve him more than the loss of his own life. And with this she told
him that his sister Leonida had that night left her house in unwonted
apparel. Crisalvo was amazed to see Silvia alive, thinking for sure
that he had left her dead, and being suddenly seized with great fear,
immediately hastened to his house, and not finding his sister there,
returned alone in the greatest consternation and frenzy to see who it
was he had killed, since Silvia was alive. Whilst all this was going
on, I was awaiting Carino and Leonida with strange anxiety; and as it
seemed to me that by this time they were later than they should be, I
wished to go and meet them, or learn if by any accident they had been
detained that night. I had not gone far along the road when I heard
a piteous voice saying: "Oh sovereign Maker of Heaven, withhold the
hand of thy justice and open that of thy mercy in order to show mercy
to this soul, which soon shall give account to thee of the offences
it has committed against thee! Ah Lisandro, Lisandro! surely Carino's
friendship will yet cost you your life, since it cannot be that grief
for my having lost mine for your sake will put an end to it! Ah,
cruel brother, can it be that without hearing my excuses you desired
to inflict on me so soon the punishment of my error?" When I heard
these words, I at once recognised from the voice and from them that it
was Leonida who uttered them, and--an augury of my misfortune--with
feelings in a turmoil, I set to groping where Leonida was weltering in
her own blood; and, having at once recognised her, I let myself fall
on her wounded body, and with the greatest grief possible, said to
her: "What woe is this, my joy, my soul? what cruel hand was it that
did not respect so much beauty?" At these words I was recognised by
Leonida; and raising her weary arms with much effort, she threw them
round my neck, and, pressing with all her strength, she joined her
mouth to mine, and, with weak and broken utterance, spoke but these
words to me: "My brother has killed me, Carino ... betrayed, Libeo is
without life, and may God give you yours, Lisandro mine, for long and
happy years, and may he grant that I enjoy in another life the peace
denied me here;" and, joining her mouth closer to mine, she pressed her
lips together to give me her first and last kiss; and, as she opened
them, her soul went from her, and she lay dead in my arms. When I
perceived it, I abandoned myself to grief over her body, and remained
senseless; and if, instead of being alive, I had been dead, whoever saw
us in that plight had called to mind the hapless plight of Pyramus and
Thisbe. But on coming to myself, I had opened my mouth to fill the air
with cries and sobs, when I perceived someone coming with hurried steps
to where I was; and, when he was near, though the night was dark, the
eyes of my soul gave me assurance that he who came there was Crisalvo,
as was the truth. He was coming back to convince himself whether
perchance it was his sister Leonida he had killed. When I recognised
him, before he could guard himself against me, I came upon him like a
raging lion; and, giving him two blows, I brought him to the ground.
Before he ceased to breathe, I dragged him to where Leonida was, and,
placing in her dead hand the dagger her brother wore--the same with
which she had been killed--I guided it and plunged it thrice through
his heart. And mine being somewhat consoled by Crisalvo's death,
without further delay I took upon my shoulders Leonida's body, and
bore it to the village where my kinsmen lived. Telling them what had
happened, I asked them to give it honourable burial, and immediately
determined to take on Carino the same vengeance as on Crisalvo; but,
since he has kept away from our village, it has been delayed until
to-day, when I found him on the skirts of this wood, after going about
in search of him for six months. Now he has come to the end his treason
deserved; and none now is left on whom to wreak vengeance, unless it be
the life I endure so much against my will. This, shepherd, is the cause
whence proceed the laments you have heard from me. If it seems to you
sufficient to cause yet a deeper grief, I leave to your good judgment
to determine!'
Therewith he ended his discourse, and set to weeping so copiously that
Elicio could not refrain from keeping him company therein; but after
they had for a long while eased with gentle sighs, the one the pain he
suffered, the other the compassion he felt thereat, Elicio began to
console Lisandro with the best arguments he knew, though his misfortune
was as far beyond consolation as he had seen from its issue. Amongst
other things he said to him, the one which gave Lisandro most solace
was to tell him that in misfortunes beyond remedy, the best remedy was
to hope for none; and, since one might believe from Leonida's purity
and noble disposition, according to his account, that she was enjoying
a life of bliss, he should rather rejoice at the happiness she had
gained, than grieve for that which she had lost. Whereto Lisandro
replied:
'I know full well, my friend, that your arguments have power to make
me believe they are true; but not that they have--nor will all the
arguments in the world have--power to give me any consolation. With
Leonida's death began my evil fortune, which will end when I behold her
again; and since this cannot be without I die, the man who should help
me to attain death will I count the greatest friend of my life!'
Elicio did not wish to give him more sorrow with his words of
solace, since he did not regard them as such; only he asked him to
come with him to his hut, where he might stay as long as it pleased
him, offering him his friendship in all wherein he might be able to
serve him. Lisandro thanked him as heartily as possible; and though
he was unwilling to consent to go with Elicio, yet he had to do so,
constrained by his repeated asking. And so the two arose, and came to
Elicio's cabin, where they rested for the little that remained of the
night. Now when the white dawn was leaving the couch of her jealous
husband, and beginning to give signs of the coming day, Erastro arose
and began to put in order Elicio's herd and his own to lead them to
the accustomed pasture. Elicio invited Lisandro to come with him; and
so, when the three shepherds came with their gentle flock of sheep
through a ravine below, on ascending an incline, they heard the sound
of a gentle pipe, which was straightway recognized by the two enamoured
swains, Elicio and Erastro, for it was Galatea who was playing it.
And it was not long before some sheep began to show themselves over
the crest of the hill, and immediately behind them Galatea, whose
beauty was such that it were better to leave it to speak for itself,
since words fail to enhance it. She came dressed like a girl of the
mountains, with her long hair free to the wind, whereof the sun himself
appeared to be envious, for, smiting it with his rays, he sought to rob
it of lustre if he could; but that which came from the glimmer of it
seemed another new sun. Erastro was beside himself looking at her, and
Elicio could not keep his eyes from gazing at her. When Galatea saw the
flock of Elicio and Erastro join hers, she showed that she did not wish
that day to keep them company, and called to the pet lamb of her flock,
which the rest followed, and directed it to another spot, different
from that for which the shepherds were making. Elicio, seeing what
Galatea was doing, and being unable to endure such open contempt, came
to where the shepherdess was and said to her:
'Permit your flock, fair Galatea, to come with ours, and, if you do not
like our company, choose that which will please you better, for your
sheep will not, through your absence, lack good pasturage, since I,
who was born to serve you, will take more care of them than of my own.
Do not seek to disdain me so openly, for the pure affection I cherish
towards you does not deserve it. According to the way you were taking,
you were making for the spring of slates, but, now you have seen me,
you wish to change your road; and, if this is as I think, tell me where
you wish, to-day and always, to graze your herd, for I swear to you
never to take mine there.'
'I assure you, Elicio,' replied Galatea, 'that it was not to shun your
company or that of Erastro that I have changed the way you think I was
taking, for my intention is to spend the noon-tide of to-day by the
stream of palms, in the company of my friend Florisa, who is awaiting
me there, for as early as yesterday we two agreed to graze our flocks
there to-day. As I came along, heedlessly playing my pipe, the pet lamb
took the road of slates, as more accustomed for it. For the affection
you bear me and the offers you make me I thank you, and count it no
small thing that I have justified myself against your suspicion.'
'Ah, Galatea!' replied Elicio, 'how well you invent what seems good
to you, though you have so little need to use stratagem with me, for
after all I do not seek to wish more than you wish! Now, whether you
go to the stream of palms, to the wood of council, or to the spring of
slates, be assured that you cannot go alone, for my soul accompanies
you always; and, if you do not see it, it is because you do not wish to
see it, so that you may not be obliged to heal it.'
'Until now,' said Galatea, 'I have yet to see my first soul, and so I
am not to blame if I have healed none.'
'I do not know how you can say that, fair Galatea,' replied Elicio,
'since you see them to wound them, and not to heal them.'
'You accuse me falsely,' replied Galatea, 'in saying that I have
wounded anyone without arms, seeing that these are not granted to
women.'
'Ah, discreet Galatea,' said Elicio, 'how you jest at what you perceive
of my soul, which you have invisibly wounded, and with no other arms
than those of your beauty! I do not so much complain of the wrong you
have done me, as that you hold it in little account.'
'I would hold myself in less account, if I held it in more,' replied
Galatea.
At this moment Erastro came up, and, seeing that Galatea was going off
and leaving them, said to her:
'Where are you going, whom do you flee, fair Galatea? If you part from
us who adore you, who shall hope for your company? Ah fair foe! how
heedlessly you go your way, triumphing over our affections! May Heaven
destroy the warm affection I bear you, if I do not long to see you in
love with some one who may value your plaints in the same degree as you
value mine! Do you laugh at what I say, Galatea? Then I weep at what
you do.'
Galatea could not answer Erastro, for she was going away, guiding her
flock towards the stream of palms; and bowing her head from afar in
token of farewell, she left them. When she saw herself alone, whilst
she was making for the spot where her friend Florisa thought she would
be, with the exquisite voice Heaven had pleased to give her, she went
along singing this sonnet:
GALATEA.
Away with noose and frost, with dart and fire,
Whereby to strangle, freeze, or wound or burn,
Love doth essay! 'Tis vain: my soul doth yearn
For no such knot, nor doth such flame desire.
Let each bind, freeze, kill, press, consume in ire,
'Gainst any other will its anger turn,
But mine shall snow or net or arrow spurn,
To hold me in its heat let none aspire.
My chaste intent will chill the burning flame,
The knot I shall break through by force or art,
My glowing zeal will melt away the snows,
The arrow shall fall blunted by my shame,
And thus nor noose nor fire, nor frost nor dart,
Shall make me fear, safe in secure repose.
With juster cause might beasts stand still, trees move and stones
unite on hearing Galatea's gentle song and sweet harmony than when to
Orpheus' lute, Apollo's lyre, or Amphion's music the walls of Troy
and Thebes of their own accord set themselves in the ground without
any craftsman laying hand thereon, and the sisters, dark dwellers in
deepest chaos, grew gentle at the exquisite voice of the unheeding
lover. Galatea finished her song, and at the moment came to where
Florisa was, by whom she was received with joyous mien, as being her
true friend, and she to whom Galatea was wont to tell her thoughts.
After the two had allowed their flocks to go at their will to graze on
the green grass, they determined, invited by the clearness of the water
of a stream flowing by, to wash their beauteous faces; for, to enhance
their beauty, they had no need of the vain and irksome arts whereby
those ladies in great cities who think themselves most beautiful,
torture theirs. They remained as beautiful after washing as before,
save that, through having rubbed their faces with their hands, their
cheeks remained aflame and blushing-red, so that an indescribable
beauty made them yet more fair, and especially Galatea. In her were
seen united the three Graces whom the Greeks of old depicted naked to
show (amongst other purposes) that they were mistresses of beauty.
Straightway they began to gather divers flowers from the green meadow
with intent to make each a garland wherewith to bind up the disordered
tresses that flowed freely over their shoulders. In this task the two
beauteous shepherdesses were engaged when of a sudden they saw, by
the stream below, a shepherdess coming of gentle grace and bearing,
whereat they wondered not a little, for it seemed to them that she
was not a shepherdess of their village nor of the others near by:
wherefore they looked at her with more attention and saw that she
was coming gradually to where they were; and though they were quite
near, she came so absorbed and lost in thought that she never saw them
until they chose to show themselves. From time to time she stopped,
and raising her eyes to Heaven, uttered sighs so piteous that they
seemed to be torn from her innermost soul; at the same time she wrung
her white hands, and tears like liquid pearls she let fall down her
cheeks. From the extremes of grief the shepherdess displayed Galatea
and Florisa perceived that her soul was filled with some inward grief,
and to see on what her feelings were set, both hid themselves amongst
some close-grown myrtles, and thence watched with curious gaze what
the shepherdess was doing. She came to the brink of the stream, and
with steadfast gaze stopped to watch the water running by; and letting
herself fall on its bank, as one wearied, she hollowed one of her fair
hands, and therein took up of the clear water, wherewith she bathed her
moist eyes, saying with voice low and enfeebled:
'Ah water clear and cool, how little avails your coldness to temper the
fire I feel in my soul! Vain will it be to hope from you--or indeed
from all the waters the mighty ocean holds--the remedy I need; for if
all were applied to the glowing passion that consumes me, you would
produce the same effect as do a few drops on the glowing forge which
but increase the flame the more. Ah, sad eyes, cause of my ruin! to how
lofty a height did I raise you for so great a fall! Ah fortune, enemy
of my repose! with what haste didst thou hurl me from the pinnacle of
my joy to the abyss of misery wherein I am! Ah cruel sister! how came
it that Artidoro's meek and loving presence did not appease the anger
of your breast devoid of love? What words could he say to you that you
should give him so harsh and cruel a reply? It seems clear, sister,
that you did not esteem him as much as I; for, if it were so, you would
in truth have shown as much meekness as he obedience to you.'
All that the shepherdess said she mingled with such tears, that no
heart could listen to her and not be moved to compassion; and after
she had calmed her sorrowing breast for a while, to the sound of the
water gently flowing by, she sang with sweet and dainty voice this
gloss, adapting to her purpose an ancient verse:
_Hope hath fled and will not stay
One thought only brings delight:
Time that passes swift of flight
Soon my life will take away._
Two things, all the world among,
Help the lover to attain
All that doth to Love belong:
E'en desire the good to gain,
Hope that makes the coward strong.
Both within my bosom lay.
No, 'twas in my stricken soul
That they lurked to take away
My desire to reach the goal.
_Hope hath fled and will not stay._
Though desire should cease to be,
What time hope is on the wane,
Yet 'tis not the same in me.
My desire doth wax amain,
Though my hope away doth flee.
'Gainst the wounds my soul that blight
I can take nor care nor thought,
Martyr to my hapless plight,
In the school where Love hath taught,
_One thought only brings delight_.
Scarce the blessing from on high
Had unto my fancy come,
When, as gently they passed by,
Heaven, fate, and bitter doom,
With it from my soul did fly.
Whoso for my grievous plight
Fain would mourn, let him strike sail,
Into the haven of delight
Glide more gently 'fore the gale
_Than Time that passes swift of flight_.
Who that hath such woe as mine
Would not faint beneath his fate?
From such woes we may divine
Joy to be a featherweight,
Sorrow lead from deepest mine.
Though my fortune be not gay,
Though I falter to my knees,
Yet this blessing is my stay:
He who robbed me of my peace
_Soon my life will take away_.
Soon the shepherdess ended her song, but not the tears which made it
more sad. Moved to compassion thereby, Galatea and Florisa came out
from where they lay concealed, and with loving and courteous words
greeted the sad shepherdess, saying to her among other things:
'So may Heaven, fair shepherdess, show itself favourable to what you
would ask of it, and so may you obtain from it what you desire, if you
tell us (allowing that it be not displeasing to you), what fortune or
what destiny has brought you to this region, for, according to the
experience we have of it, we have never seen you on these banks. Now
that we have heard what you have just sung, gathering from it that
your heart has not the calm it needs, and by reason of the tears you
have shed, of which your lovely eyes gave witness, in the name of fair
courtesy we are bound to give you all the solace in our power; and if
your evil be of those that do not permit of consolation you will at
least perceive in us a good will to serve you.'
'I know not, fair maidens,' replied the strange shepherdess, 'how I
shall be able to repay you save by silence for the courteous offers you
make me, unless by saying no more about it, and being grateful for it,
and valuing them as much as they deserve it, and by not withholding
from you what you wish to learn from me, although it would be better
for me to pass by in silence the circumstances of my misfortunes, than
to tell them and give you cause to count me immodest.'
'Your countenance and the gentle bearing that Heaven has given you,'
replied Galatea, 'do not betoken an intellect so coarse as to make you
do a thing in telling which afterwards you must needs lose reputation;
and since your appearance and words have in so short a time made this
impression on us, that we already count you discreet, prove to us,
by telling us your life, whether your misfortune comes up to your
discretion.'
'As far as I believe,' replied the shepherdess, 'both are on a level,
unless, indeed, fate has given me more judgment, the more to feel the
griefs that present themselves; but I am quite sure that my woes exceed
my discretion, in the same degree as all my craft is overcome by them,
since I have none wherewith to cure them. And that experience may set
you right, if you wish to hear me, fair maidens, I will tell you, in as
few words as possible, how, from the great understanding you judge I
possess, has sprung the woe which surpasses it.'
'With nothing will you better satisfy our desires, discreet maiden,'
replied Florisa, 'than with telling us what we have asked you.'
'Let us retire, then,' said the shepherdess, 'from this spot, and seek
another, where, without being seen or disturbed, I may be able to tell
you what it grieves me to have promised you, for I foresee that it will
not cost more to lose the good opinion I have gained with you, than to
reveal my thoughts to you, however late, if perhaps yours have not been
touched by the affliction I am suffering.'
Desirous that the shepherdess should fulfil her promise, straightway
the three arose, and betook themselves to a secret and retired place,
known already to Galatea and Florisa, where, beneath the pleasant shade
of some leafy myrtles, without being seen by anybody, all three could
be seated. Forthwith, with exquisite grace and charm, the strange
shepherdess began to speak in this wise:
'On the banks of the famous Henares, which ever yields fresh and
pleasant tribute to your golden Tagus, most beauteous shepherdesses,
was I born and nurtured in a station not so lowly, that I might
count myself the meanest of the village. My parents are labourers
and accustomed to field-labour, in which occupation I followed them,
leading a flock of simple sheep over the common pastures of our
village. So well did I adapt my thoughts to the condition in which
my lot had placed me, that nothing gave me more joy than to see my
flock multiply and increase, and I had no other thought save how to
gain for them the richest and most fertile pastures, the clearest
and freshest waters I could find. I had not, nor could I have, cares
beyond those that might arise from the rustic duties on which I was
engaged. The woods were my companions, in whose solitude, ofttimes
invited by the sweet birds' gentle harmony, I sent forth my voice in
a thousand simple songs, without mingling therein sighs or words that
might give any token of a love-sick breast. Ah! how often, merely to
please myself and to allow the time to pass away, did I wander from
bank to bank, from vale to vale, culling, here the white lily, there
the purple iris, here the red rose, there the fragrant pink, making
from every kind of sweet-smelling flowers a woven garland, wherewith
I adorned and bound up my hair; and then, viewing myself in the clear
and peaceful waters of some spring, I remained so joyous at having seen
myself, that I would not have changed my happiness for any other! And
how often did I make sport of some maidens, who, thinking to find in
my breast some manner of pity for the misery theirs felt, disclosed
to me, with abundance of tears and sighs, the love-secrets of their
soul! I remember now, fair shepherdesses, that one day there came to
me a girl friend of mine: throwing her arms round my neck, and joining
her face to mine, she said to me with streaming eyes: "Ah, sister
Teolinda!" (for this is the name of the hapless being before you). "I
truly believe the end of my days has come, since love has not dealt
with me as my desires deserved." Whereupon I, wondering at her display
of grief, thinking that some great misfortune had befallen her, in
the loss of her flock, or the death of her father or brother, wiped
her eyes with the sleeve of my smock, and asked her to tell me what
misfortune it was that caused her to lament so much. She, continuing
her tears, nor giving truce to her sighs, said to me: "What greater
misfortune, oh Teolinda, would you have happen to me, than that the son
of the chief man in our village, whom I love more than the very eyes in
my head, should have gone away without saying a word to me; and that
I have this morning seen in possession of Leocadia, daughter of the
head shepherd Lisalco, a crimson belt which I had given to that false
Eugenio, whereby was confirmed the suspicion I had of the love-affair
the traitor was carrying on with her?" When I ceased hearing her
complaints, I swear to you, friends and ladies mine, that I could not
cease from laughing within myself, and saying to her: "By my faith,
Lydia," (for so the unhappy girl was called) "I thought from your
complaints that you came stricken with another and a greater wound. But
now I know how void of sense are you who fancy yourselves in love, in
making much ado about such childish things. Tell me on your life, dear
Lydia, what is the worth of a crimson belt, that it should grieve you
to see it in Leocadia's possession or to find that Eugenio has given it
to her? You would do better to consider your honour and what concerns
the pasturage of your sheep, and not to mix yourself up with these
fooleries of love, since we draw nothing from them, so far as I see,
but loss of honour and of peace." When Lydia heard from me a reply so
contrary to the one she hoped for from my lips and pitying disposition,
she did nothing but bow her head, and adding tear to tear and sob to
sob, went from me; and after a little while, turning her head, she
said to me: "I pray God, Teolinda, that soon you may see yourself in
a state, compared to which you would count mine happy, and that love
may so treat you that you may tell your grief to one who will value
it and feel it in such wise as you have done mine;" and therewith she
went away, and I was left laughing at her madness. But ah! poor me! I
perceive clearly at every moment that her curse is working in me, since
even now I fear that I am telling my grief to one who will sorrow but
little at having learnt it!'
Thereto Galatea replied: 'Would to God, discreet Teolinda, that you
might find a remedy for your loss as easily as you will find in us
pity for it, for you would soon lose the suspicion you cherish of our
sympathy.'
'Your lovely presence, sweet shepherdesses, and pleasant converse,'
replied Teolinda, 'make me hope so; but my poor fortune compels me to
fear the contrary. Yet, come what may, I must now tell you what I have
promised you. With the freedom I have told you, and in the pursuits I
have related to you, I passed my life so joyously and peacefully that
desire knew not what to bid me do, until avenging love came to exact
from me a strict account for the small account in which I held him,
wherein he vanquished me in such a way that though I am his slave I
fancy that he is not yet paid nor satisfied. It happened then, that
one day (which would have been for me the happiest of the days of my
life, had not time and season brought such a decrease to my joys),
I went with other shepherdesses of our village to cut branches and
gather rushes and flowers and green sword-lilies to adorn the temple
and streets of our native place; for the following day was a most
high festival, and the inhabitants of our hamlet were bound by vow
and promise to keep it. We chanced to pass all together through a
delightful wood which is situated between the village and the river,
where we found a group of graceful shepherds, who were spending the
heat of the glowing noon-tide in the shade of the green trees. When
they saw us, we were at once recognised by them, for they were all
cousins or brothers or kinsmen of ours, and coming to meet us and
learning from us the purpose we had in view, they persuaded and
constrained us with courteous words not to go farther, for that some
of them would fetch the branches and flowers for which we were going.
And so, being overcome by their prayers--they were so earnest--we
granted their desire, and forthwith six of the youngest, equipped with
their bill-hooks, went off in great glee to bring us the green spoils
we sought. We girls (there were six of us) went to where the other
shepherds stood; and they received us with all courtesy, especially
a strange shepherd who was there, known to none of us, who was of
such noble grace and spirit that all stood wondering on seeing him,
but I stood wondering and overcome. I know not what to tell you,
shepherdesses, save that as soon as my eyes beheld him, I felt my heart
grow tender and there began to course through all my veins a frost
that set me aflame, and without knowing why, I felt my soul rejoice to
have set eyes on the handsome face of the unknown shepherd; and, in a
moment, though I was inexperienced in the ways of love, I recognised
that it was love that had stricken me; straightway had I wished to
make my plaint of him, if time and circumstances had permitted. In
short I then remained as now I am, overcome and filled with love,
though with more hope of recovery than I now possess. Ah! how often in
that hour did I long to go to Lydia, who was with us, and say to her:
"Forgive me, Lydia dear, for the discourteous reply I gave you the
other day, for I would have you know that now I have more experience
of the woe you complained of than you yourself!" One thing fills me
with wonder, how all the maidens there failed to see from the workings
of my face the secrets of my heart, and the cause of this must have
been that all the shepherds turned to the stranger and begged him
to finish the singing of a song he had begun before we came up. He,
without waiting to be pressed, continued the song he had begun, with
so exquisite and marvellous a voice that all who listened to it were
transported at hearing it. Then at last I yielded myself all in all
to all that love demanded, without there being left in me more desire
than if I had never had any for anything in my life. And, although I
was more entranced than all on hearing the shepherd's sweet melody,
yet I did not fail to lend the greatest attention to what he sang in
his verses; for love had already brought me to such a pass that it
would have touched me to the soul, had I heard him singing a lover's
themes, since I would have fancied that his thoughts were already
engaged, and perchance in a quarter where mine might have no share in
what they desired. But what he then sang was nothing but praises of the
shepherd's lot and the peaceful life of the fields, and some useful
counsels for the preservation of the flock; whereat I was not a little
pleased; for it seemed to me that if the shepherd had been in love,
he would have treated of naught but his love, since it is the way of
lovers to think time ill-spent which is spent on aught save extolling
and praising the cause of their griefs or joys. Mark, friends, in how
short a space I became mistress in the school of love. The end of the
shepherd's song and the first sight of those who came with the branches
occurred at the same moment; and the youths, to one who saw them from
afar, looked for all the world like a little hillock moving along trees
and all, as they came in staid procession covered with branches. As
they came near us, the six all raised their voices, and, one beginning
and all replying, with tokens of the greatest joy and with many merry
shouts, began a graceful chant. Amidst this joy and happiness they came
nearer than I wished, for they deprived me of the happiness I felt at
the sight of the shepherd. When they had laid down their green burden,
we saw that each had a lovely garland entwined round his arm, composed
of various charming flowers, which with graceful words they presented,
one to each of us, offering to carry the branches to the village; but
we, full of joy, thanked them for their fair courtesy and wished to
return to the village, when Eleuco, an old shepherd who was there, said
to us: "It will be well, fair shepherdesses, that you should repay us
for what our youths have done for you by leaving us the garlands you
are taking away over and above what you came to seek; but it must be
on condition that you give them to whomsoever you think fit, with your
own hands." "If you will be satisfied by so small a return from us,"
replied one of the maidens, "I for my part am content," and taking
the garland with both hands placed it on the head of a gallant cousin
of hers. The others, guided by this example, gave theirs to different
youths who were there, all of them their kinsmen. I who remained to
the last, and had no kinsman there, affecting a certain indifference,
went up to the strange shepherd and placed the garland on his head,
saying to him: "For two reasons I give you this, fair youth, one, for
the pleasure you have given us all by your charming song, the other,
because in our village it is our custom to honour strangers." All
the bystanders were delighted with my action, but how can I tell you
what my soul felt when I saw myself so near to him who had stolen it
away? I can only say that I would have given any happiness I could
have wished for at that moment (save that of loving him), to be able
to encircle his neck with my arms as I encircled his brows with the
garland. The shepherd bowed to me and with well-chosen words thanked me
for the favour I did him, and as he took his leave of me, stealing the
opportunity from the many eyes that were there, with low voice said to
me: "I have rewarded you, fair shepherdess, better than you think, for
the garland you have given me; you take a pledge with you, and if you
know how to value it, you will perceive that you remain my debtor." I
would gladly have answered him, but such was the haste my companions
imposed on me that I had no chance of replying to him. In this wise I
returned to the village with a heart so different from that wherewith
I had set out that I myself marvelled at myself. Company was irksome
to me, and every thought that came to me and did not tend to thinking
of my shepherd, with much haste I strove forthwith to put away from my
mind as unworthy to occupy the place that was full of loving cares. I
know not how in so short a time I became changed into a being other
than that of old; for I no longer lived in myself but in Artidoro (for
such is the name of the half of my soul I go seeking). Wherever I
turned my eyes, I seemed to see his face; whatever I heard, straightway
his gentle music and melody sounded in my ears; nowhere did I move my
feet but I had given my life, if he had desired it, to find him there;
in food I did not find the wonted savour nor did my hands succeed in
finding aught to give it. In a word, all my senses were changed from
their former state, nor did my soul work through them as it was used
to do. In the consideration of the new Teolinda who was born within
me, and in the contemplation of the shepherd's grace that remained
imprinted on my soul, all that day passed away from me, and the night
preceding the solemn festival; and when this came, it was celebrated
with the greatest rejoicing and enthusiasm by all the inhabitants of
our village and of the neighbouring places. After the sacred offerings
in the temple were ended and the ceremonies due performed, well-nigh
most of the people of the hamlet came together in a broad square
before the temple, beneath the shade of four ancient leafy poplars
which were therein, and all forming a circle, left a space for the
youths from near and far to disport themselves in honour of the
festival in various pastoral games. Straightway on the instant a goodly
number of fit and lusty shepherds showed themselves in the square,
and giving joyous tokens of their youth and skill, began a thousand
graceful games. Now they tossed the heavy caber, now they showed the
lightness of their supple limbs in unwonted leaps, now they revealed
their great strength and dexterous craft in complicated wrestling
bouts, now they proved the swiftness of their feet in long races, each
one striving so to acquit himself in all that he might win the first
prize out of the many the chief men of the village had offered for the
best who should excel in such sports; but in these I have mentioned,
and in many others which I pass by so as not to be tedious, none of
all the neighbours or men of the district present achieved as much
as my Artidoro, who chose by his presence to honour and gladden our
festival, and to carry off the highest honour and prize in all the
games that were held. Such, shepherdesses, was his skill and spirit,
so great the praises all gave him, that I grew proud, and an unwonted
joy revelled in my breast at the mere reflection that I had known to
fill my thoughts so well. But despite this it gave me very great grief
that Artidoro, being a stranger, would have soon to depart from our
village; and, if he went away without at least knowing what he took
from me--that is, my soul--what a life would be mine in his absence, or
how could I forget my sorrow, at least by lamenting, since I had no one
to complain of save myself? Whilst I was occupied with these fancies,
the festival and rejoicing ended; and when Artidoro would have taken
leave of the shepherds, his friends, they all joined in asking him to
spend with them the eight remaining days of the festival, if nothing
more pleasing prevented it. "Nothing can give me greater pleasure,
kind shepherds," replied Artidoro, "than to serve you in this and all
else that your wish may be; for although it was my wish now to go and
seek a brother of mine, who has for a few days been missing from our
village, I will fulfil your desire, since it is I who gain thereby."
All thanked him greatly, and were pleased at his remaining; but I was
more so, thinking that in those eight days an opportunity could not
fail to present itself to me, when I might reveal to him what I could
no longer conceal. We spent nearly all that night in dances and games,
and in telling one another the feats we had seen the shepherds perform
that day, saying: "Such a one danced better than such a one, though
so and so knew more turns than so and so; Mingo threw Bras, but Bras
ran better than Mingo;" and finally, all came to the conclusion that
Artidoro, the strange shepherd, bore off the palm from all, each one
praising in detail his graces one by one; and all these praises, I
have already said, redounded to my delight. When the morning of the day
after the festival came, before fresh dawn lost the pearly dew from her
lovely locks, and the sun had fully displayed his rays on the peaks of
the neighbouring mountains, some twelve of us shepherdesses, the most
admired of the village, came together, and, linking hands, to the sound
of a flageolet and a bagpipe, weaving and unweaving intricate turns and
dance-movements, we went from the village to a green meadow not far
away, giving great pleasure to all who saw our mazy dance. And fortune,
which so far was guiding my affair from good to better, ordained that
in that same meadow we should find all the shepherds of the place, and
Artidoro with them. When they saw us, straightway attuning the sound
of a tabor they had to that of our pipes, they came forth to meet
us with the same measure and dance, mingling with us in bewildering
but well-ordered maze; and as the instruments changed their note, we
changed the dance, so that we shepherdesses had to unlink and give our
hands to the shepherds; and my good fortune willed that I should chance
to give mine to Artidoro. I know not, my friends, how to describe fully
to you what I felt at such a moment, unless by telling you that I was
so perturbed, that I failed to keep fitting step in the dance; so much
so that Artidoro was obliged to draw me violently after him, in order
that the thread of the measured dance might not be broken if he let me
go. Seizing the opportunity for it, I said to him: "Wherein has my hand
offended you, Artidoro, that you press it so hard?" He replied in a
voice that could be heard by none: "Nay, what has my soul done to you
that you use it so ill?" "My offence is clear," I replied gently; "but
for yours, neither do I see it, nor will it be seen." "This is just the
mischief," replied Artidoro, "that you can see your way to do evil, but
not to cure it." Herewith our discourse ended, for the dancing ended,
and I remained happy and thoughtful at what Artidoro had said to me;
and though I thought they were loving words, they did not convince me
that they came from one in love. Straightway we all, shepherds and
shepherdesses, sate down on the green grass; and when we had rested a
while from the fatigue of the dances that were over, the aged Eleuco,
attuning his instrument, which was a rebeck, to the pipe of another
shepherd, asked Artidoro to sing something, for he should so rather
than any other, since Heaven had bestowed such talent on him that it
were ingratitude to wish to conceal it. Artidoro, thanking Eleuco for
the praises he gave him, straightway began to sing some verses; and I
fixed them in my memory, since the words he had spoken to me before
had given me a suspicion, so that even now I have not forgotten them.
Though it may be irksome to you to hear them, I shall have to repeat
them to you, only because they are needful for you to understand,
stage by stage, through what stages love has brought me to the pass in
which I find myself. They are as follows:
Wild, close-confined and gloomy be his night,
Never may he behold the longed-for day,
Incessant and unending be his woe,
Far, far away from bliss, and joy, and laughter,
Ought he to be, wrapt in a living death,
Whoso without sweet Love shall spend his life.
Full though it be of joyousness, yet life
Naught save the shade can be of briefest night,
The veritable counterfeit of death,
If during all the hours that fill the day
It doth not silence every pang of woe,
And gladly, gladly welcome Love's sweet laughter.
Where liveth gentle Love, there liveth laughter,
And where Love dieth, dieth too our life,
Our choicest pleasure is transformed to woe,
Into the darkness of eternal night
Is changed the radiance of the peaceful day,
Life without Love is naught but bitter death.
Dangers wherein the issue is but death
The lover doth not flee: rather with laughter
He seeks his chance and longeth for the day,
When he may offer up his treasured life--
Until he shall behold the last calm night--
Unto Love's flame, and unto Love's sweet woe.
The woe that is of Love, we call not woe,
Nor yet the death that Love bestoweth, death:
Let none to Love's night give the name of night,
Nor call Love's laughter by the name of laughter.
His life alone can be accounted life,
Our only merriment his joyous day.
Oh blest, thrice-blest to me this happy day,
Whereon I can restrain my bitter woe,
Rejoicing that I have bestowed my life
On her who can bestow or life or death!
What will it be, what can I hope save laughter
From that proud face that turns the sun to night?
Love hath my cloudy night to cloudless day
Transformed, to laughter my increasing woe,
And my approaching death to length of life.
These were the verses, fair shepherdesses, which my Artidoro sang that
day with wondrous grace and no less pleasure on the part of those that
heard him. From them, and from the words he had spoken to me before, I
took occasion to consider if by chance the sight of me had caused some
new sensation of love in Artidoro's breast; and my suspicion did not
turn out so vain, but that he himself justified it to me on our return
to the village.'
Teolinda had reached this point in the tale of her love, when the
shepherdesses heard a great uproar of shepherds shouting and dogs
barking. This caused them to end the discourse they had begun, and to
stop and observe through the branches what it was; in this way they saw
a pack of hounds crossing a green plain on their right hand, in pursuit
of a timid hare, that was coming with all speed to take shelter in the
dense underwood. It was not long before the shepherdesses saw it coming
to the same place where they were, and going straight to Galatea's
side. There, overcome by the fatigue of its long course, and almost as
it were safe from the peril nigh at hand, it sank down on the ground
with such wearied breath, that it seemed on the point of breathing its
last. The hounds pursued it by scent and track, until they came to
where the shepherdesses were; but Galatea, taking the timid hare in her
arms, checked the vengeful purpose of the eager hounds, for it seemed
to her not to be right to fail to defend a creature that had sought her
aid. Soon after there approached some shepherds, following the hounds
and the hare; and amongst them came Galatea's father, out of respect
for whom Florisa, Teolinda and she went out to meet him with due
courtesy. He and the shepherds were filled with wonder at Teolinda's
beauty, and desired to know who she was, for they saw clearly that she
was a stranger. Galatea and Florisa were not a little annoyed at their
approach, seeing that it had robbed them of the pleasure of learning
the issue of Teolinda's love; and they asked her to be good enough not
to leave their company for some days, if the accomplishment of her
desires were not by chance hindered thereby.
'Nay, rather,' replied Teolinda, 'it suits me to remain a day or two on
this bank, to see if they can be accomplished; and on this account, as
also not to leave unfinished the story I have begun, I must do what you
bid me.'
Galatea and Florisa embraced her, and offered her their friendship
anew, and to serve her to the best of their power. Meanwhile Galatea's
father and the other shepherds, having spread their cloaks on the
margin of the clear stream, and drawn from their wallets some country
fare, invited Galatea and her companions to eat with them. They
accepted the invitation, and, sitting down forthwith, they sated their
hunger, which was beginning to weary them as the day was already far
spent. In the course of these doings, and of some stories the shepherds
told to pass the time, the accustomed hour approached for returning
to the village. Straightway Galatea and Florisa, returning to their
flocks, collected them once more, and, in the company of fair Teolinda
and the other shepherds, gradually made their way to the hamlet; and at
the break of the hill where that morning they had happened on Elicio,
they all heard the pipe of the unloving Lenio, a shepherd in whose
breast love could never take up his abode; and thereat he lived in such
joy and content, that in whatever converse or gathering of shepherds he
found himself, his sole intent was to speak ill of love and lovers, and
all his songs tended to this end. By reason of this strange disposition
of his, he was known by all the shepherds in all those parts, and by
some he was loathed, by others held in esteem. Galatea and those who
came there stopped to listen, to see if Lenio was singing anything,
as was his wont, and straightway they saw him give his pipe to a
companion, and begin to sing what follows to its sound:
LENIO.
An idle careless thought that wanders free,
A foolish vaunting fancy of the mind,
A something that no being hath nor kind,
Nor yet foundation, nursed by memory,
A grief that takes the name of jollity,
An empty hope that passes on the wind,
A tangled night where none the day may find,
A straying of the soul that will not see.
These are the very roots wherefrom, I swear,
This old chimera fabled hath its birth,
Which beareth o'er the world the name of Love.
The soul that thus on Love doth set its care,
Deserveth to be banished from the earth,
And win no shelter in the heavens above.
At the time that Lenio was singing what you have heard, Elicio and
Erastro had already come up with their flocks in the company of the
hapless Lisandro; and Elicio, thinking that Lenio's tongue in speaking
ill of love went beyond what was right, wished clearly to show him his
error, and, adopting the very theme of the verses he had sung, at the
moment Galatea, Florisa, Teolinda and the other shepherds came up, to
the sound of Erastro's pipe he began to sing in this wise:
ELICIO.
Whosoever keepeth Love,
In his breast a prisoner close,
Hurl him down from heaven above,
Give him not on earth repose.
Love a virtue is unending,
Virtues many more attaining,
Semblance after semblance gaining,
To the primal cause ascending.
Whosoever from such love,
Shall be banished by his woes;
Hurl him down from heaven above,
Grant him not on earth repose.
A fair form, a lovely face,
Though but mortal, doomed to fade,
Are but copies, where portrayed
We may see the heavenly grace.
Grace on earth who doth not love,
Nor to it allegiance owes,
Shall be hurled from heaven above,
Nor on earth shall find repose.
Love, when taken quite apart,
And untainted with alloy,
Filleth all the world with joy,
Even as Apollo's dart,
Whoso hath mistrust of Love,
Love that hides its blessing close,
Shall not win to heaven above,
But in deepest earth repose.
For a thousand joys a debtor,
Each of us to Love is seen,
For 'tis Love that turns, I ween,
Bad to good, and good to better.
He who lets his fancies rove,
E'en a hair's breadth from Love's woes,
Shall not win to heaven above,
Nor on earth find sure repose.
Love indeed is infinite,
If but honour be its stay;
But the love that dies away
Is not love, but appetite.
Whoso shall the veil of love
Raise not, but his heart shall close,
Slay him, lightning from above!
Earth, permit him not repose!
The shepherds given to love felt no small pleasure at seeing how well
Elicio defended his view: but the loveless Lenio did not on this
account cease to remain firm in his opinion; nay, rather, he sought
anew to resume his song and to show in what he sang how ineffectual
Elicio's reasonings were to darken the bright truth which, following
his judgment, he upheld. But Galatea's father, who was called Aurelio
the venerable, said to him:
'Don't weary yourself for the present, discreet Lenio, in seeking to
show us in your song what you feel in your heart, for the road from
here to the village is short, and it seems to me more time is needed
than you think to defend yourself against the many who hold a view
contrary to yours. Keep your reasonings for a more convenient spot,
for some day you and Elicio with other shepherds will be together at
the spring of slates or the stream of palms, where, with greater ease
and comfort, you may be able to discuss and make clear your different
opinions.'
'The opinion Elicio holds is mere opinion,' replied Lenio, 'but mine is
absolute knowledge, and proved, which, sooner or later, forced me to
uphold it, seeing that it carried truth with it; but, as you say, there
will not fail a time more fitting for this end.'
'This will I arrange,' answered Elicio, 'for it grieves me that so fine
an intellect as yours, friend Lenio, should lack what might improve
it and enhance it, like the pure and true love whose enemy you show
yourself.'
'You are deceived, Elicio,' replied Lenio, 'if you think by specious
words and sophisms to make me change principles I would not hold it
manly to change.'
'It is as wrong,' said Elicio, 'to persist in wrong, as it is good to
persevere in good, and I have always heard my elders say it is the part
of the wise to take counsel.'
'I do not deny that,' answered Lenio, 'whenever I see that my judgment
is not correct; but so long as experience and reason do not show me the
contrary to what they have shown me hitherto, I believe that my opinion
is as true as yours is false.'
'If the heretics of love were to be punished,' said Erastro at this
point, 'I would begin from this moment, friend Lenio, to cut wood
wherewith to burn you for the greatest heretic and enemy that love has.'
'And even though I saw naught of love, save that you, Erastro, follow
it, and are of the band of lovers,' replied Lenio, 'that alone would
suffice to make me renounce it with a hundred thousand tongues, if a
hundred thousand I had.'
'Do you think then, Lenio,' answered Erastro, 'that I am not fit to be
a lover?'
'Nay,' replied Lenio, 'I think that men of your disposition and
understanding are fitted to be among love's servants; for he who is
lame falls to the ground at the slightest stumble, and he who has
little wisdom, wants but little time to lose it all; and as for those
who follow the banner of this your valorous captain, I for my part hold
that they are not the wisest in the world; and if they have been, they
ceased to be it, the moment they fell in love.'
Great was the displeasure Erastro felt at what Lenio said, and thus he
answered him:
'I think, Lenio, your insane reasonings deserve another punishment than
words; but I hope that some day you will pay for what you have just
said, without being aided by what you might say in your defence.'
'If I knew of you, Erastro,' answered Lenio, 'that you were as brave as
you are fond, your threats would not fail to fill me with dread: but,
as I know you are as backward in the one, as in the other you are to
the fore, they cause laughter in me rather than terror.'
Here Erastro lost all patience, and if it had not been for Lisandro and
Elicio, who placed themselves between, he had replied to Lenio with his
fists; for by this time his tongue, confused with rage, could scarce
perform its office. Great was the pleasure all felt at the sprightly
quarrel of the shepherds, and more at the rage and displeasure Erastro
displayed; for it was necessary that Galatea's father should make peace
between Lenio and him, though Erastro, if it had not been for fear of
losing the respect of his lady's father, would in no way have made it.
As soon as the matter was ended, all with rejoicing went their way to
the village, and whilst they were going, the fair Florisa, to the sound
of Galatea's pipe, sang this sonnet:
FLORISA.
With increase may my tender lambs be crowned
Amidst the grassy mead or forest's fold:
Throughout the summer's heat or winter's cold
May herbage green and cooling streams abound.
May I through all my days and nights be found
Wrapt but in dreamings of a shepherd's life;
In no wise yielding to Love's petty strife,
Nor may his childish acts have power to wound.
Here one Love's countless blessings doth proclaim,
Love's fruitless cares another maketh known.
I cannot say if both be brought to shame,
Nor yet to whom to give the victor's crown.
This much I know: that many Love by name
May call, yet few are chosen for his own.
Short indeed was the road to the shepherds, beguiled and entertained
by the charming voice of Florisa, who ceased not her song till they
were quite near the village and the huts of Elicio and Erastro, who
stopped there with Lisandro, first taking leave of the venerable
Aurelio, Galatea, and Florisa, who went with Teolinda to the village,
the remaining shepherds going each to where he had his hut. That same
night the hapless Lisandro asked leave of Elicio to return to his
country or to where he might, in harmony with his desire, finish the
little of life that, as he thought, remained to him. Elicio with all
the arguments he could urge on him, and with the endless offers of true
friendship he made him, could by no means prevail on him to remain
in his company even for a few days; and so the luckless shepherd,
embracing Elicio with many tears and sighs, took leave of him,
promising to inform him of his condition wherever he might be. Elicio,
having accompanied him half a league from his hut, again embraced him
closely; and making again fresh offers, they parted, Elicio being in
great grief for what Lisandro suffered. And so he returned to his hut
to spend the greater part of the night in amorous fancies and to await
the coming day that he might enjoy the happiness the sight of Galatea
caused him. And she, when she reached her village, desiring to learn
the issue of Teolinda's love, arranged so that Florisa, Teolinda and
she might be alone that night; and finding the opportunity she desired,
the love-sick shepherdess continued her story as will be seen in the
second book.