"In Seville, along the Guadalquivir, and close to the bank that leads
to the convent of San Jerónimo, may be found a kind of lagoon, which
fertilizes a miniature valley formed by the natural slope of the bank,
at that point very high and steep. Two or three leafy white poplars,
intertwining their branches, protect the spot from the rays of the
sun, which rarely succeeds in slipping through them. Their leaves
produce a soft and pleasing murmur as the wind stirs them and causes
them to appear now silver, now green, according to the point from
which it blows. A willow bathes its roots in the current of the
stream, toward which it leans as though bowed by an invisible weight,
and all about are multitudes of reeds and yellow lilies, such as grow
spontaneously at the edges of springs and streams.
"When I was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, and my soul was overflowing
with numberless longings, with pure thoughts and with that infinite
hope that is the most precious jewel of youth, when I deemed myself a
poet, when my imagination was full of those pleasing tales of the
classic world, and Rioja in his _silvas_ to the flowers, Herrera in
his tender elegies, and all my Seville singers, the Penates of my
special literature, spoke to me continually of the majestic Bétis, the
river of nymphs, naiads, and poets, which, crowned with belfries and
laurels, flows to the sea from a crystal amphora, how often, absorbed
in the contemplation of my childish dreams, I would go and sit upon
its bank, and there, where the poplars protected me with their shadow,
would give rein to my fancies, and conjure up one of those impossible
dreams in which the very skeleton of death appeared before my eyes in
splendid, fascinating garb! I used to dream then of a happy,
independent life, like that of the bird, which is born to sing, and
receives its food from God. I used to dream of that tranquil life of
the poet, which glows with a soft light from generation to generation.
I used to dream that the city that saw my birth would one day swell
with pride at my name, adding it to the brilliant list of her
illustrious sons, and, when death should put an end to my existence,
that they would lay me down to dream the golden dream of immortality
on the banks of the Bétis, whose praises I should have sung in
splendid odes, and in that very spot where I used to go so often to
hear the sweet murmur of its waves. A white stone with a cross and my
name should be my only monument.
"The white poplars, swaying night and day above my grave, should seem
to utter prayers for my soul in the rustling of their green and silver
leaves. In them the birds should come and nest, that they might sing
at dawn a joyous hymn to the resurrection of the spirit to regions
more serene. The willow, covering the spot with floating shadows,
should lend to it its own vague sadness, as it bent and shed about its
soft, wan leaves, as if to protect and to caress my mortal spoils. The
river, too, which in flood tide might almost come and kiss the border
of the slab o'ergrown with reeds, should lull my sleep with pleasant
music. And when some time had passed, and patches of moss had begun to
spread over the stone, a dense growth of wild morning-glories, of
those blue morning-glories with a disk of carmine in the center, which
I loved so much, should grow up by its side, twining through its
crevices and clothing it with their broad transparent leaves, which,
by I know not what mystery, have the form of hearts. Golden insects
with wings of light, whose buzzing lulls to sleep on heated
afternoons, should come and hover round their chalices, and one would
be obliged to draw aside the leafy curtain to read my name, now
blurred by time and moisture. But why should my name be read? Who
would not know that I was sleeping there?"[1]
[Footnote 1: _Obras de Gustavo A. Becquer_, Madrid, 1898, vol. II,
pp. 242-245. This edition will be understood hereafter in all
references to the works of Becquer.]
So mused the poet Becquer[1] in the golden days of his youth, when his
veins were swelling with health, when his heart was fired with
ambition, and in his ears was ringing the joyous invitation of his
muse.
[Footnote 1: The name is spelled indifferently with or without
accent--_Bécquer_ or _Becquer_. In the choice of the latter
spelling, the authority of his principal biographer, Ramón Rodriguez
Correa, has been followed.]
His knowledge of the world was confined to the enchanting city of his
birth. Her gems of art and architecture had wrought themselves into
the fabric of his dreams; he had mused in her palm-gardens, worshiped
in her temples, and dreamed long afternoons on the shores of her
historic river. He knew nothing of the cold, prosaic world of selfish
interests. The time had not yet come when, in bitterness of spirit,
and wrapping his mantle about him against the chill wind of
indifference, he should say: "To-day my sole ambition is to be a
supernumerary in the vast human comedy, and when my silent role is
ended, to withdraw behind the scenes, neither hissed nor applauded,
making my exit unnoticed."[1]
[Footnote 1: _Obras_, vol. II, p. 251.]
Indeed, in those later days of trial and hardship, he would often look
out wearily upon Madrid, the city of his adoption, the scene of his
crushing struggle with necessity, as it lay outspread before his
windows,--"dirty, black, and ugly as a fleshless skeleton, shivering
under its immense shroud of snow,"[1] and in his mind he would conjure
up the city of his youth, his ever cherished Seville, "with her
_Giralda_ of lacework, mirrored in the trembling Guadalquivir, with
her narrow and tortuous Moorish streets, in which one fancies still he
hears the strange cracking sound of the walk of the Justiciary King;
Seville, with her barred windows and her love-songs, her iron
door-screens and her night watchmen, her altar-pieces and her stories,
her brawls and her music, her tranquil nights and her fiery
afternoons, her rosy dawns and her blue twilights; Seville, with all
the traditions that twenty centuries have heaped upon her brow, with
all the pomp and splendor of her southern nature."[2] No words of
praise seemed too glowing for her ardent lover.
[Footnote 1: _Ibid_., vol. III, p. iii.]
[Footnote 2: _Obras_, vol. III, pp. 109-110.]
By some strange mystery, however, it had been decreed by fate that he
should only meet with disappointment in every object of his love. The
city of his birth was no exception to the rule: since Becquer's death
it has made but little effort to requite his deep devotion or satisfy
his youthful dreams. You may search "the bank of the Guadalquivir that
leads to the ruined convent of San Jerónimo," you may spy among the
silvery poplars or the willows growing there, you may thrust aside the
reeds and yellow lilies or the tangled growth of morning-glories, but
all in vain--no "white stone with a cross" appears. You may wander
through the city's many churches, but no tomb to the illustrious poet
will you find, no monument in any square. His body sleeps well-nigh
forgotten in the cemetery of San Nicolás in Madrid.
If you will turn your steps, however, to the _barrio_ of Seville in
which the celebrated D. Miguel de Mañara, the original type of _Juan
Tenorio_ and the _Estudiante de Salamanca_, felt the mysterious blow
and saw his own funeral train file by, and will enter the little
street of the Conde de Barajas, you will find on the facade of the
house No. 26 a modest but tasteful tablet bearing the words
EN ESTA CASA NACIÓ
GUSTAVO ADOLFO
BECQUER
XVII FEBRERO MDCCCXXXVI.[1]
[Footnote 1: This memorial, which was uncovered on January 10th,
1886, is due to a little group of Becquer's admirers, and especially
to the inspiration of a young Argentine poet, Román Garcia Pereira
(whose _Canto á Becquer_, published in _La Ilustración Artística_,
Barcelona, December 27, 1886, is a tribute worthy of the poet who
inspired it), and to the personal efforts of the illustrious Seville
scholar, Don José Gestoso y Pérez. It is only fair to add here that
there is also an inferior street in Seville named for Becquer.]
Here Gustavo Adolfo Dominguez Becquer opened his eyes upon this
inhospitable world. Eight days later he was baptized in the church of
San Lorenzo.[1] He was one of a family of eight sons, Eduardo,
Estanislao, Valeriano, Gustavo Adolfo, Alfredo, Ricardo, Jorge, and
Jose. His father, Don Jose Dominguez Becquer, was a well-known Seville
genre painter. He died when Gustavo was but a child of five, too young
to be taught the principles of his art; but he nevertheless bequeathed
to him the artistic temperament that was so dominant a trait in the
poet's genius. Becquer's mother, Doña Joaquina, survived his father
but a short time, and left her children orphaned while they were yet
very young. Gustavo was but nine and a half years old at the time of
his mother's death. Fortunately an old and childless uncle, D. Juan
Vargas, took charge of the motherless boys until they could find homes
or employment.
[Footnote 1: The following is a copy of his baptismal record:
"En jueves 25 de Febrero de 1836 años D. Antonio Rodriguez Arenas
Pbro. con licencia del infrascrito Cura de la Parroquial de Sn.
Lorenzo de Sevilla: bautizó solemnemente á Gustavo Adolfo que nació
en 17 de dicho mes y año hijo de José Dominguez Vequer (_sic_) y
Doña Juaquina (_sic_) Bastida su legitima mujer. Fué su madrina Doña
Manuela Monchay vecina de la collación de Sn. Miguel á la que se
advirtió el parentesco espiritual y obligaciones y para verdad lo
firmé.--Antonio Lucena Cura." See La _Illustración Artística_,
Barcelona, December 27, 1886, pp. 363-366. Citations from this
periodical will hereafter refer to the issue of this date.]
Gustavo Adolfo received his first instruction at the College of San
Antonio Abad. After the loss of his mother his uncle procured for him
admission to the College of San Telmo, a training school for
navigators, situated on the banks of the Guadalquivir in the edifice
that later became the palace of the Dukes of Montpensier. This
establishment had been founded in 1681 in the ancient suburb of
Marruecos as a reorganization of the famous _Escuela de Mareantes_
(navigators) of Triana. The Government bore the cost of maintenance
and instruction of the pupils of this school, to which were admitted
only poor and orphaned boys of noble extraction. Gustavo fulfilled all
these requirements. Indeed, his family, which had come to Seville at
the close of the sixteenth century or at the beginning of the
seventeenth century, from Flanders, was one of the most distinguished
of the town. It had even counted among its illustrious members a
Seville Veinticuatro, and no one who was unable to present proof of
noble lineage could aspire to that distinction.[1]
[Footnote 1: "Don Martin Becquer, _mayorazgo_ and _Veinticuatro_, of
Seville, native of Flanders, married Doña Úrsula Díez de Tejada.
Born to them were Don Juan and Doña Mencia Becquer. The latter
married Don Julián Dominguez, by whom she had a son Don Antonio
Domínguez y Becquer, who in turn contracted marriage with Doña Maria
Antonia Insausti y Bausa. Their son was Don Jose Dominguez Insausti
y Bausa, husband of Doña Joaquina Bastida y Vargas, and father of
the poet Becquer." The arms of the family "were a shield of azure
with a chevron of gold, charged with five stars of azure, two leaves
of clover in gold in the upper corners of the shield, and in the
point a crown of gold." The language of the original is not
technical, and I have translated literally. See _Carta á M. Achille
Fouquier_, by D. Jose Gestoso y Pérez, in _La Ilustración
Artística_, pp. 363-366.]
Among the students of San Telmo there was one, Narciso Campillo, for
whom Gustavo felt a special friendship,--a lad whose literary tastes,
like his own, had developed early, and who was destined, later on, to
occupy no mean position in the field of letters. Writing of those days
of his youth, Señor Campillo says: "Our childhood friendship was
strengthened by our life in common, wearing as we did the same
uniform, eating at the same table, and sleeping in an immense hall,
whose arches, columns, and melancholy lamps, suspended at intervals, I
can see before me still.
"I enjoy recalling this epoch of our first literary utterance
(_vagido_), and I say _our_, for when he was but ten years old and I
eleven, we composed and presented in the aforesaid school (San Telmo)
a fearful and extravagant drama, which, if my memory serves me right,
was entitled Los _Conjurados_ ('The Conspirators'). We likewise began
a novel. I wonder at the confidence with which these two children, so
ignorant in all respects, launched forth upon the two literary lines
that require most knowledge of man, society, and life. The time was
yet to come when by dint of painful struggles and hard trials they
should possess that knowledge, as difficult to gain as it is
bitter!"[1]
[Footnote 1: Article on Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, by Narciso Campillo,
in La Ilustración Artística, pp. 358-360]
Shortly after the matriculation of young Becquer, the College of San
Telmo was suppressed by royal orders, and the lad found himself in the
streets. He was then received into the home of his godmother, Doña
Manuela Monchay, who was a woman of kind heart and much intelligence.
She possessed a fair library, which was put at the disposal of the
boy; and here he gratified his love for reading, and perfected his
literary taste. Two works that had considerable influence upon him at
this time were the Odes of Horace, translated by P. Urbano Campos, and
the poems of Zorrilla. He began to write verses of his own, but these
he later burned.
"In 1849," says Señor Campillo, "there were two noteworthy painters in
Seville, whose studios were open to and frequented by numerous
students, future rivals, each in his own imagination, of the glories
of Velasquez and Murillo. One of these studios, situated in the same
building as the Museo de Pinturas, was that of D. Antonio Cabral
Bejarano, a man not to be forgotten for his talent, and perhaps also
for his wit, the delight of those who knew him. The other, situated in
an upper room of the Moorish _alcázar de Abdelasis_, near the patio
_de Banderas_, was directed by D. Joaquin Dominguez Becquer, a brother
and disciple of D. Jose, Gustavo's father."[1]
[Footnote 1: Narciso Campillo, _loc_. cit.]
In spite of this relationship, Gustavo Adolfo, at the age of fourteen,
entered the studio of Bejarano. There he remained for two years,
practicing the art of drawing, for which he had a natural talent. He
then came under the instruction of his uncle, who, judging that his
nephew was even better qualified for a literary than for an artistic
career, advised him to follow the former, and procured for him a few
Latin lessons. Meanwhile Gustavo continued to enlarge his poetical
horizon by reading from the great poets and by the contemplation of
the beauties of nature. With his friend Campillo he composed the first
three cantos of a poem entitled La _Conquista de Sevilla_, and with
him he wandered about the beautiful city of his birth and dreamed such
dreams as the one with which this Introduction begins.
Gustavo's godmother, who was a woman in easy circumstances and without
children or near relatives, would doubtless have bequeathed to him her
property had he fulfilled her wishes and settled down to an honorable
mercantile life. But the child, who had learned to draw and to compose
almost before he could write, and who had always paled before the
simplest problem of arithmetic, could not reconcile himself to such a
life. The artist within him rebelled, and at the age of seventeen and
a half, feeling the attraction of the capital strong upon him, he bade
farewell to the friends of his youth and set out to seek for fame and
fortune. It was in the autumn of 1854 that Becquer arrived in Madrid,
"with empty pockets, but with a head full of treasures that were not,
alas, to enrich him." Here he encountered an indifference that he had
not dreamed of; and here he remained in the shadow of oblivion, eking
out a miserable existence of physical as well as mental suffering, in
utter loneliness of spirit, until he was joined in 1856 by one who
came to be his lifelong friend and first biographer--Ramón Rodriguez
Correa, who had come to the capital with the same aims as Becquer, and
whose robust health and jovial temperament appealed singularly to the
sad and ailing dreamer. The new-found friend proved indeed a godsend,
for when, in 1857, Gustavo was suffering from a terrible illness,
Correa, while attending him, chanced to fall upon a writing entitled
_El caudillo de las manos rojas, tradición india_. Charmed by its
originality in form and conception, he urged his friend to publish it.
Becquer acquiesced, and the story was accepted and published by La
_Crónica_. The joy of this first success, and perhaps the material aid
that resulted, must have had a great deal to do with Gustavo's speedy
recovery.
A short time after this he entered with his friend Correa the office
of the _Dirección de Bienes Nacionales_ as copyist, at the munificent
salary of some $150 a year. The employment was decidedly contrary to
his taste, and to amuse his tedium he used often to sketch or read
from his favorite poets. One day, as he was busy sketching, the
Director entered, and, seeing a group about Gustavo's chair,--for the
young artist's sketches were eagerly awaited and claimed by his
admiring associates,--stole up from behind and asked, "What is this?"
Gustavo, suspecting nothing, went on with his sketch, and answered in
a natural tone, "This is Ophelia, plucking the leaves from her
garland. That old codger is a grave-digger. Over there..." At this,
noticing that every one had risen, and that universal silence reigned,
Becquer slowly turned his head. "Here is one too many," said the
Director, and the artist was dismissed that very day.
It cannot be said that he received the news of his dismissal
regretfully, for he had accepted the position largely to please a
sympathetic friend. Slight as was the remuneration, however, it had
aided him to live; and when this resource was removed, Gustavo was
again obliged to depend upon his wits. His skill with the brush served
him in good stead at this time, and he earned a little money by aiding
a painter who had been employed by the Marquis of Remisa to decorate
his palace, but who could not do the figures in the fresco.
In 1857, together with other _littérateurs_, Becquer undertook the
preparation and direction of a work entitled _Historia de los Templos
de España_.[1] Like so many of the author's plans, this work remained
unfinished; but from the single volume that appeared can be seen how
vast was the scope of the work, and how scholarly its execution.
Gustavo is himself the author of some of the best pages contained in
the volume, as, for example, those of the Introduction and of the
chapters on _San Juan de los_ Reyes. He is likewise the author of many
of the excellent sketches that adorn the work, notably that of the
_portada_. These sketches, as well as others published elsewhere, show
how eminent his work as artist would have been, had he decided to
cultivate that field instead of literature.
[Footnote 1: The complete title of the work is _Historia de los
Templos de España, publicada bajo la protección de SS. MM. AA. y muy
reverendos señores arzobispos y obispos--dirigida por D. Juan de la
Puerta Vizcaino y D. Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. Tomo I, Madrid, 1857.
Imprenta y Estereotipia Española de los Señores Nieto y Compañía._]
Essentially an artist in temperament, he viewed all things from the
artist's standpoint. His distaste for politics was strong, and his
lack of interest in political intrigues was profound. "His artistic
soul, nurtured in the illustrious literary school of Seville," says
Correa, "and developed amidst Gothic Cathedrals, lacy Moorish and
stained-glass windows, was at ease only in the field of tradition. He
felt at home in a complete civilization, like that of the Middle Ages,
and his artisticopolitical ideas and his fear of the ignorant crowd
made him regard with marked predilection all that was aristocratic and
historic, without however refusing, in his quick intelligence, to
recognize the wonderful character of the epoch in which he lived.
Indolent, moreover, in small things,--and for him political parties
were small things,--he was always to be found in the one in which were
most of his friends, and in which they talked most of pictures,
poetry, cathedrals, kings, and nobles. Incapable of hatred, he never
placed his remarkable talent as a writer at the service of political
animosities, however certain might have been his gains."[1]
[Footnote 1: Ramón Rodriguez Correa, _Prólogo_, in _Obras de
Becquer_, vol. I, xvi.]
Early in his life in Madrid, Gustavo came under the influence of a
charming young woman, Julia Espín y Guillén.[1] Her father was
director of the orchestra in the Teatro Real, and his home was a
rendezvous of young musicians, artists, and _littérateurs_. There
Gustavo, with Correa, Manuel del Palacio, Augusto Ferrán, and other
friends, used to gather for musical and literary evenings, and there
Gustavo used to read his verses. These he would bring written on odd
scraps of paper, and often upon calling cards, in his usual careless
fashion.
[Footnote 1: She later married Don Benigno Quiroga Ballesteros, an
illustrious engineer, congressman, minister of state, and man of
public life, who is still living. She died in January, 1907.]
His friends were not slow in discovering that the tall, dark, and
beautiful Julia was the object of his adoration, and they advised him
to declare his love openly. But his timid and retiring nature imposed
silence upon his lips, and he never spoke a word of love to her. It
cannot be said, moreover, that the impression created upon the young
lady by the brilliant youth was such as to inspire a return of his
mute devotion. Becquer was negligent in his dress and indifferent to
his personal appearance, and when Julia's friends upbraided her for
her hardness of heart she would reply with some such curt and cruel
epigram as this: "Perhaps he would move my heart more if he affected
my stomach less."[1]
[Footnote 1: Facts learned from conversation with Don Manuel del
Palacio, since deceased.
The editor of this sketch is indebted to the courtesy of the
Exc^{mo}. Sr. D. Benigno Quiroga Ballesteros and to his lately
deceased wife, Doña Julia, the muse of at least some of Becquer's
_Rimas_, for an opportunity to examine a couple of albums containing
some of the poet's verse and a most interesting collection of pencil
sketches, which but confirm his admiration for Becquer's artistic
talent. Here is a list of the sketches:
_First Album:_
Lucia di Lamermoor--Eleven sketches, including frontispiece.
A dream, or rather a nightmare, in which a man is pictured in a
restless sleep, with a small devil perched upon his knees, who
causes to fly as a kite above the sleeper's head a woman in graceful
floating garments.
A fat and jolly horned devil in the confessional box, with a
confessor of the fair sex kneeling at one side, while at the extreme
right two small acolytes point out to each other a suspicious
looking tail that protrudes from beneath her skirts, thus stamping
her as Satan's own.
A belfry window with a swinging bell, and bestriding the bell a
skeleton tightly clutching the upper part of it--ringing the
_ánimas_ perhaps.
Gustavo himself seated smoking, leaning back in his chair, and in
the smoke that rises a series of women, some with wings.
A nun in horror at discovering, as she turns down the covers of her
bed, a merry devil.
A woman's coffin uncovered by the sexton, while a lover standing by
exclaims, "¡¡Cáscaras!! ¡cómo ha cambiado!"
A scene at the _Teatro Real_ with Señor Espin y Guillén in a small
group behind the scenes, and a prima donna singing. Actors standing
apart in the wings.
A visit to the cemetery. A skeleton thrusting out his head from his
burial niche, and a young man presenting his card. "DIFUNTO: No
recibo. VISITANTE: Pues hai (_sic_) queda la targeta (_sic_)."
A fine sketch of "Eleonora," a stately form in rich
fifteenth-century garb.
A number of sketches of women, knights, monks, devils, soldiers,
skeletons, etc.
_Second Album: Les morts pow rire, Bizarreries dédiées à
Mademoiselle Julie, par G. A. Becker (sic)_.
Fantastic frontispiece of skulls, bones, and leafy fronds, and two
young lovers seated, sketching.
Skeletons playing battledore and shuttlecock with skulls.
A tall slim skeleton and a round short one.
Skeletons at a ball.
A skeleton widow visiting her husband's grave.
The husband returning her visit, and coming to share her lunch in
the park.
A circus of skeletons, in two scenes: (1) Leaping through the hoop.
(2) One skeleton balancing himself, head downward, on the head of
another who is standing.
A skeleton singer on the stage.
A skeleton horse leaping a hurdle.
A skeleton drum-major with his band.
A skeleton bull-fight.
A duel between skeletons.
A tournament on skeleton horses.
A woman recently deceased, surrounded by skeletons offering their
compliments. They are presented by one of their number, with hat in
hand.
A balcony courting scene between skeleton lovers.
The word _FIN_ in bones concludes the series of grotesque and
uncanny sketches, which but emphasize a fact ever present in the
poet's mind--that while we are in life we _are_ in death.]
Finding his devotion to Julia unrequited, Becquer, in a rebellious
mood, and having come under the influence of the charms and
blandishments of a woman of Soria, a certain Casta Estéban y Navarro,
contracted, in or about the year 1861, an unfortunate marriage, which
embittered the rest of his life and added cares and expenses which he
could ill support. He lived with his wife but a short time, during
which period two sons were born to them--Gustavo, whose later career
was unfortunately not such as to bring credit to the memory of his
illustrious father, and, Jorge, who died young. Becquer was
passionately fond of his children, and succeeded in keeping them with
him after the separation from his wife. They were constantly the
objects of his affectionate solicitude, and his last thoughts were for
them.
About 1858 the newspaper _El Contemporáneo_ had been founded by the
able and broad-minded Jose Luis Albareda, and Correa, who was
associated with the management, succeeded in obtaining for his friend
a position on its staff. Becquer entered upon his new labors in 1861,
and was a fairly regular contributor until the suppression of the
paper. Here he published the greater part of his legends and tales, as
well as his remarkable collection of letters _Desde mi Celda_ ("From
my Cell"). The following year his brother Valeriano, who up to that
time had exercised his talents as a genre painter in Seville, came to
join him in Madrid. He too had been unfortunate in his domestic
relations, and the brothers joined in sympathy to form a new
household. A period of comparative comfort seemed to open up before
them. This period was of short duration, however; for Gustavo (who was
never strong) soon fell ill, and was obliged to withdraw from the
capital, in search of purer air, to the historic monastery of Veruela,
situated on the Moncayo, a mountain in northern Spain. His brother
Valeriano accompanied him, and there they passed a year in complete
isolation from the rest of the world. The spur of necessity, however,
compelled them both to keep to their work, and while Gustavo was
writing such legends as that of _Maese Pérez_, and composing his
fascinating _Cartas desde mi Celda_, Valeriano was painting Aragonese
scenes such as La _Vendimia_ ("The Vintage") or fanciful creations
such as _El Barco del Diablo_ or La _Pecadora_.
The next year the two brothers returned to the capital, and Gustavo,
together with his friend D. Felipe Vallarino, began the publication of
_La Gaceta literaria_, of brief but brilliant memory. During this same
year and during 1863 Gustavo continued on the staff of _El
Contemporáneo_, enriching its pages with an occasional legend of
singular beauty.
At the Baths of Fitero in Navarre, whither, with his inseparable
brother, he had gone to recuperate his health in the summer of 1864,
Gustavo composed the fantastic legend of the _Miserere_, and others no
less interesting. On his return from Fitero he continued in _El
Contemporáneo_, and shortly after entered a ministerial daily, the
irksome duties of which charge he bore with resignation.
At this time Luis Gonzalez Bravo, a man of _fine_ literary
discrimination, whatever may be thought of him politically, was prime
minister under Isabel II. He had become interested in the work of
Gustavo, and, knowing the dire financial straits in which the young
poet labored, he thought to diminish these anxieties and thus give him
more time to devote to creative work by making him censor of novels. A
new period of calm and comparative comfort began, and for the first
time in his life Becquer had the leisure to carry out a long-cherished
project, at once his own desire and the desire of his friends: that of
gathering together in one volume all his scattered verse and of adding
to the collection other poems as well that had not yet seen the light.
This he did, and the completed volume so charmed his friend and
patron, Gonzalez Bravo, that he offered of his own accord to write a
prologue for the work and to print it at his own expense. But in 1868
came the revolution which dethroned Isabel II, and in the confusion
that followed the downfall of the ministry and the hasty withdrawal of
Gonzalez Bravo to the French frontier the volume of poems was lost.
This was a sad blow to Becquer, but he courageously set to work to
repair the loss, and with painful effort succeeded in recalling and
rewriting his _Rimas_, which were published after his death in the
third volume of his works by his friend Correa.
Becquer, with extreme punctiliousness, tendered his resignation as
censor of novels. A pension of 10,000 reals that the government had
assigned to Valeriano for the study of national customs was withdrawn,
and both brothers were again deprived of permanent employment. They
joined forces, and while the one sketched admirable woodcuts for the
_Almanac Anual_ of Gaspar y Roig, the other wrote such original
articles as _Las Hojas Secas_, or chafed under such hack work as the
translation of popular novels from the French, which language he read
with ease, though he did not speak it well. Gustavo had already felt
and described the charm of the old Moorish city of Toledo in his
_Historia de los Templos de España_, and in 1869 he and Valeriano
moved their little household temporarily to the city of their dreams,
with a view to finding inspiration for their pens and brushes, and
thus subsistence for their joint families.[1]
[Footnote 1: It was at this time that Gustavo wrote the letter which
is published for the first time on page xxxix.]
An amusing account is given by Correa of an adventure that befell the
two brothers one night in Toledo as they were wandering about its
streets. He says: "One magnificent moonlight night both artists
decided to contemplate their beloved city bathed in the fantastic
light of the chilly orb. The painter armed with pencils and the writer
with his souvenirs had abandoned the old city and on a ruined wall had
given themselves up for hours to their artistic chatter ... when a
couple of _Guardias civiles_, who had doubtless those days been
looking for marauders, approached them. They heard something of apses,
squinches, ogives, and other terms as suspicious or as dangerous ...
and observing the disarray of those who thus discoursed, their long
beards, their excited mien, the lateness of the hour, the solitude of
the place, and obeying especially that axiomatic certainty of the
Spanish police to blunder, they angrily swooped down upon those night
birds, and, in spite of protests and unheard explanations, took them
to continue their artistic themes in the dim and horrid light of a
dungeon in the Toledo jail.... We learned all this in the office of
_EC Contemporáneo_, on receiving from Gustavo an explanatory letter
full of sketches representing the probable passion and death of both
innocents. The staff _en masse_ wrote to the mistaken jailer, and at
last we saw the prisoners return safe and sound, parodying in our
presence with words and pencils the famous prisons of Silvio
Pellico."[1]
[Footnote 1: Correa, _op. cit._, pp. xxi-xxiii.]
In this same year, 1869, we find the brothers housed in modest
quarters in the Barrio de la Concepción in the outskirts of Madrid.
Here Adolfo wrote some new poems and began a translation of Dante for
a _Biblioteca de grandes autores_ which had been planned and organized
by _La Ilustración de Madrid_, founded by Gasset in 1870. The first
number of this noteworthy paper appeared on January 12 of that year,
and from its inception to the time of his death Gustavo was its
director and a regular contributor.[1] His brother Valeriano
illustrated many of its pages, and here one can form some idea of his
skill as a portrayer of Spanish types and customs. "But who could
foretell," says their friend Campillo, "that within so short a time
his necrology and that of his beloved brother were to appear in this
same paper?"[2]
[Footnote 1: These articles of Gustavo's have not, for the most
part, been published elsewhere. There remains for the future editor
of his complete works a large number of such articles, which it
would be well worth while to collect.]
[Footnote 2: _La Ilustración Artística_, p. 360.]
Their life of hardship and anxiety was tearing to shreds the delicate
health of the two young artists, and on September 23, 1870, Valeriano
breathed his last in the arms of Gustavo. His death was a blow from
which Gustavo never recovered. It was as though the mainspring was
broken in a watch; and, though the wheels still turned of their own
momentum, the revolutions were few in number and soon ceased. "A
strange illness," says Correa, "and a strange manner of death was
that! Without any precise symptom, that which was diagnosed as
pneumonia turned to hepatitis, becoming in the judgment of others
pericarditis, and meanwhile the patient, with his brain as clear as
ever and his natural gentleness, went on submitting himself to every
experiment, accepting every medicine, and dying inch by inch."[1]
[Footnote 1: Correa, _op. cit._, p. xix.]
Shortly before the end he turned to his friends who surrounded his
bed, and said to them, "Acordaos de mis niños."[1] He realized that he
had extended his arm for the last time in their behalf, and that now
that frail support had been withdrawn. "At last the fatal moment came,
and, pronouncing clearly with his trembling lips the words 'Todo
mortal!', his pure and loving soul rose to its Creator."[2] He died
December 22, 1870.
[Footnote 1: This fact was learned from a conversation with Don
Francisco de Laiglesia, who, with Correa, Ferrán and others, was
present when the poet breathed his last.]
[Footnote 2: Correa, _op. cit._, p. xx.]
Thanks to the initiative of Ramón Rodriguez Correa and to the aid of
other friends, most of the scattered tales, legends, and poems of
Becquer were gathered together and published by Fernando Fe, Madrid,
in three small volumes. In the Prologue of the first edition Correa
relates the life of his friend with sympathy and enthusiasm, and it is
from this source that we glean most of the facts that are to be known
regarding the poet's life. The appearance of these volumes caused a
marked effect, and their author was placed by popular edict in the
front rank of contemporary writers.
Becquer may be said to belong to the Romantic School, chief of whose
exponents in Spain were Zorilla and Espronceda. The choice of
mediaeval times as the scene of his stories, their style and
treatment, as well as the personal note and the freedom of his verse,
all stamp him as a Romanticist.
His legends, with one or two exceptions, are genuinely Spanish in
subject, though infused with a tender melancholy that recalls the
northern ballads rather than the writings of his native land. His love
for old ruins and monuments, his archaeological instinct, is evident
in every line. So, too, is his artistic nature, which finds a greater
field for its expression in his prose than in his verse. Add to this a
certain bent toward the mysterious and supernatural, and we have the
principal elements that enter into the composition of these legends,
whose quaint, weird beauty not only manifests the charm that naturally
attaches to popular or folk tales, but is due especially to the way in
which they are told by one who was at once an artist and a poet.
Zorilla has been said to be Becquer's most immediate precursor, in
that he possesses the same instinct for the mysterious. But, as Blanco
Garcia observes, "Becquer is less ardent than Zorilla, and preferred
the strange traditions in which some unknown supernatural power hovers
to those others, more probable, in which only human passions with
their caprices and outbursts are involved."[1] Correa says of his
legends that they "can compete with the tales of Hoffmann and of
Grimm, and with the ballads of Rückert and of Uhland," and that
"however fantastic they may be, however imaginary they may appear,
they always contain such a foundation of truth, a thought so real,
that in the midst of their extraordinary form and contexture a fact
appears spontaneously to have taken place or to be able to take place
without the slightest difficulty, if you but analyze the situation of
the personages, the time in which they live, or the circumstances that
surround them."[2]
[Footnote 1: _La Literatura Española en el Siglo XIX_, Madrid, 1891,
vol. II, p. 275.]
[Footnote 2: Correa, _op. cit._, p. xxx.]
The subtle charm of such legends as _Los Ojos Verdes_, _La Corza
Blanca_, _Maese Pérez el Organista_, etc., full of local color as they
are, and of an atmosphere of old Spain, is hard to describe, but none
the less real. One is caught by the music of the prose at the first
lines, enraptured by the weird charm of the story, and held in
breathless interest until the last words die away. If Becquer's phrase
is not always classic, it is, on the other hand, vigorous and
picturesque; and when one reflects upon the difficult conditions under
which his writings were produced, in the confusion of the
printing-office, or hurriedly in a miserable attic to procure food for
the immediate necessities of his little family, and when one likewise
recalls the fact that they were published in final book form only
after the author's death, and without retouching, the wonder grows
that they are written in a style so pleasing and so free from
harshness.
Becquer's prose is doubtless at its best in his letters entitled
_Desde mi Celda_, written, as has been said, from the monastery of
Veruela, in 1864. Read his description of his journey to the ancient
Aragonese town of Tarazona, picturesquely situated on the River
Queiles, of his mule trip over the glorious Moncayo, of the
peacefulness and quiet of the old fortified monastery of Veruela, and
you will surely feel inspired to follow him in his wanderings. Writing
of his life in the seclusion of Veruela, Becquer says: "Every
afternoon, as the sun is about to set, I sally forth upon the road
that runs in front of the monastery doors to wait for the postman, who
brings me the Madrid newspapers. In front of the archway that gives
entrance to the first inclosure of the abbey stretches a long avenue
of poplars so tall that when their branches are stirred by the evening
breeze their summits touch and form an immense arch of verdure. On
both sides of the road, leaping and tumbling with a pleasant murmur
among the twisted roots of the trees, run two rivulets of crystalline
transparent water, as cold as the blade of a sword and as gleaming as
its edge. The ground, over which float the shadows of the poplars,
mottled with restless spots of light, is covered at intervals with the
thickest and finest of grass, in which grow so many white daisies that
they look at first sight like that rain of petals with which the
fruit-trees carpet the ground on warm April days. On the banks of the
stream, amid the brambles and the reeds, grow wild violets, which,
though well-nigh hidden amongst their creeping leaves, proclaim
themselves afar by their penetrating perfume. And finally, also near
the water and forming as it were a second boundary, can be seen
between the poplar trunks a double row of stocky walnut-trees with
dark, round, compact tops." About half way down the avenue stands a
marble cross, which, from its color, is known in the vicinity as the
Black Cross of Veruela. "Nothing is more somberly beautiful than this
spot. At one end of the road the view is closed by the monastery, with
its pointed arches, its peaked towers, and its imposing battlemented
walls; on the other, the ruins of a little hermitage rise, at the foot
of a hillock bestrewn with blooming thyme and rosemary. There, seated
at the foot of the cross, and holding in my hands a book that I
scarcely ever read and often leave forgotten on the steps of the
cross, I linger for one, two, and sometimes even four hours waiting
for the papers." At last the post arrives, and the _Contemporáneo_ is
in his hands. "As I was present at its birth, and as since its birth I
have lived its feverish and impassioned life, _El Contemporáneo_ is
not for me a common newspaper like the rest, but its columns are
yourselves, my friends, my companions in hope or disappointment, in
failure or triumph, in joy or bitterness. The first impression that I
feel upon receiving it, then, is one of joy, like that experienced
upon opening a letter on whose envelope we recognize a dear familiar
handwriting, or when in a foreign land we grasp the hand of a
compatriot and hear our native tongue again. The peculiar odor of the
damp paper and the printer's ink, that characteristic odor which for a
moment obscures the perfume of the flowers that one breathes here on
every hand, seems to strike the olfactory memory, a strange and keen
memory that unquestionably exists, and it brings back to me a portion
of my former life,--that restlessness, that activity, that feverish
productiveness of journalism. I recall the constant pounding and
creaking of the presses that multiply by thousands the words that we
have just written, and that have come all palpitating from our pens. I
recall the strain of the last hours of publication, when night is
almost over and copy scarce. I recall, in short, those times when day
has surprised us correcting an article or writing a last notice when
we paid not the slightest attention to the poetic beauties of the
dawn. In Madrid, and for us in particular, the sun neither rises nor
sets: we put out or light the lights, and that is the only reason we
notice it."
At last he opens the sheet. The news of the clubs or the Cortes
absorbs him until the failing light of the setting sun warns him that,
though he has read but the first columns, it is time to go. "The
shadows of the mountains fall rapidly, and spread over the plain. The
moon begins to appear in the east like a silver circle gleaming
through the sky, and the avenue of poplars is wrapped in the uncertain
dusk of twilight.... The monastery bell, the only one that still hangs
in its ruined Byzantine tower, begins to call to prayers, and one near
and one afar, some with sharp metallic notes, and some with solemn,
muffled tones, the other bells of the hillside towns reply.... It
seems like a harmony that falls from heaven and rises at the same time
from the earth, becomes confounded, and floats in space, intermingling
with the fading sounds of the dying day and the first sighs of the
newborn night.
"And now all is silenced,--Madrid, political interests, ardent
struggles, human miseries, passions, disappointments, desires, all is
hushed in that divine music. My soul is now as serene as deep and
silent water. A faith in something greater, in a future though unknown
destiny, beyond this life, a faith in eternity,--in short, an
all-absorbing larger aspiration, overwhelms that petty faith which we
might term personal, that faith in the morrow, that sort of goad that
spurs on irresolute minds, and that is so needful if one must struggle
and exist and accomplish something in this world."[1]
[Footnote 1: _Obras_, _vol._ II, pp. 222-229.]
This graceful musing, full in the original of those rich harmonies
that only the Spanish language can express, will serve sufficiently to
give an impression of the series as a whole. The broad but fervent
faith expressed in the last lines indicates a deeply religious and
somewhat mystical nature. This characteristic of Becquer may be
noticed frequently in his writings and no one who reads his works
attentively can call him elitist, as have some of his calumniators.
Beautiful as Becquer's prose may be considered, however, the universal
opinion is that his claim to lasting fame rests on his verse. Mrs.
Humphrey Ward, in her interesting article entitled "A Spanish
Romanticist,"[1] says of him: "His literary importance indeed is only
now beginning to be understood. Of Gustavo Becquer we may almost say
that in a generation of rhymers he alone was a poet; and now that his
work is all that remains to us of his brilliant and lovable
personality, he only, it seems to us, among the crowd of modern
Spanish versifiers, has any claim to a European audience or any chance
of living to posterity." This diatribe against the other poets of
contemporary Spain may seem to us unjust; but certain it is that
Becquer in the eyes of many surpasses either Nuñez de Arce or
Campoamor, with whom he forms "a triumvirate that directs and
condenses all the manifestations of contemporary Spanish lyrics."[2]
[Footnote 1: _Macmillan's Magazine_, February, 1883, p. 307.]
[Footnote 2: Blanco Garcia, _op. cit._, vol. II, p. 79.]
Becquer has none of the characteristics of the Andalusian. His lyrical
genius is not only at odds with that of Southern Spain, but also with
his own inclination for the plastic arts, says Blanco Garcia. "How
could a Seville poet, a lover of pictorial and sculptural marvels, so
withdraw from the outer form as to embrace the pure idea, with that
melancholy subjectivism as common in the gloomy regions bathed by the
Spree as it is unknown on the banks of the Darro and Guadalquivir?"[1]
The answer to the problem must be found in his lineage.
[Footnote 1: _Ibid._, p. 80.]
In spite of the fascination early exercised by Julia Espin y Guillén
over the young poet, it may be doubted if she can fairly be said to
have been the muse of his _Rimas_. She doubtless inspired some of his
verse; but the poet seems to sing the praises or lament the cruelty of
various sweethearts. The late Don Juan Valera, who knew Gustavo well,
goes so far as to say: "I venture to suspect that none of these women
ever lived in the world which we all corporeally inhabit. When the
mind of the poet descended to this world, he had to struggle with so
much poverty, he saw himself engulfed and swallowed up by so many
trials, and he was obliged to busy himself with such prosaic matters
of mean and commonplace bread-winning, that he did not seek, nor would
he have found had he sought them, those elegant and semi-divine women
that made of him now a Romeo, now a Macías, now an Othello, and now a
Pen-arch.... To enjoy or suffer really from such loves and to become
ensnared therein with such rare women, Becquer lacked the time,
opportunity, health, and money.... His desire for love, like the arrow
of the Prince in one of the tales of the Arabian Nights, shot high
over all the actual _high-life_ and pierced the golden door of the
enchanted palaces and gardens of the Fairy Paribanú, who, enraptured
by him, took him for her spouse."[1] In fact Becquer, speaking of the
unreality of the numerous offspring of his imagination, says in the
Introduction to his works, written in June, 1868: "It costs me labor
to determine what things I have dreamed and what things have happened
to me. My affections are divided between the phantasms of my
imagination and real personalities. My memory confuses the names and
dates, of women and days that have died or passed away with the days
and women that have never existed save in my mind."[2]
[Footnote 1: _Florilegio de Poesías Castellanas del Siglo XIX_, con
introducción y notas, por Juan Valera. Madrid, 1902, vol. I, pp.
186-188.]
[Footnote 2: _Obras_, vol. I, p. L.]
Whatever may be one's opinion of the personality of the muse or muses
of his verse, the love that Becquer celebrates is not the love of
oriental song, "nor yet the brutal deification of woman represented in
the songs of the Provençal Troubadours, nor even the love that
inspired Herrera and Garcilaso. It is the fantastic love of the
northern ballads, timid and reposeful, full of melancholy tenderness,
that occupies itself in weeping and in seeking out itself rather than
in pouring itself forth on external objects."[1] In this matter of
lyrical subjectivism Becquer is unique, for it cannot be found in any
other of the Spanish poets except such mystic writers as San Juan de
la Cruz or Fray Luis de León.
[Footnote 1: Blanco Garcia, _op. cit._, p. 83.]
In one of Becquer's most beautiful writings in prose, in a _Prológo_
to a collection of _Cantares_ by Augusto Ferran y Forniés, our author
describes two kinds of poetry that present themselves to one's choice:
"There is a poetry which is magnificent and sonorous, the offspring of
meditation and art, which adorns itself with all the pomp of language,
moves along with a cadenced majesty, speaks to the imagination,
perfects its images, and leads it at will through unknown paths,
beguiling with its harmony and beauty." "There is another poetry,
natural, rapid, terse, which springs from the soul as an electric
spark, which strikes our feelings with a word, and flees away. Bare of
artificiality, free within a free form, it awakens by the aid of one
kindred idea the thousand others that sleep in the bottomless ocean of
fancy. The first has an acknowledged value; it is the poetry of
everybody. The second lacks any absolute standard of measurement; it
takes the proportions of the imagination that it impresses; it may be
called the poetry of poets."[1]
[Footnote 1: _Obras_, vol. III, pp. 112-113.]
In this description of the short, terse, and striking compositions of
his friend Ferran, Becquer has written likewise the apology for his
own verse. His was a poetry of "rapid, elemental impressions." He
strikes but one chord at a time on his lyre, but he leaves you
thrilled. This extreme simplicity and naturalness of expression may be
well illustrated by the refrain of the seventy-third poem:
_¡Dios mío, qué solos
Se quedan los muertos!_
His poetry has often been compared to that of Heine, whom he is said
to have imitated. Becquer did not in fact read German; but in _El
Museo Universal_, for which he was a collaborator, and in which he
published his _Rimas_, there appeared one of the first versions of the
_Intermezzo_,[1] and it is not unlikely that in imitation of the
_Intermezzo_ he was led to string his _Rimas_ like beads upon the
connecting thread of a common autobiographical theme. In the
seventy-six short poems that compose his _Rimas_, Becquer tells "a
swiftly-moving, passionate story of youth, love, treachery, despair,
and final submission." "The introductory poems are meant to represent
a stage of absorption in the beauty and complexity of the natural
world, during which the poet, conscious of his own high,
incommunicable gift, by which he sees into the life of things, is
conscious of an aimless fever and restlessness which is forever
turning delight into weariness."[2]
[Footnote 1: Blanco Garcia, op. cit., p. 86.]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Ward, _loc. cit._, p. 316.]
Some of these poems are extremely beautiful, particularly the tenth.
They form a sort of prelude to the love-story itself, which begins in
our selections with the thirteenth. Not finding the realization of his
ideal in art, the poet turns to love. This passion reaches its
culminating point in the twenty-ninth selection, and with the
thirtieth misunderstanding, dissatisfaction, and sadness begin.
Despair assails him, interrupted with occasional notes of melancholy
resignation, such as are so exquisitely expressed in the fifty-third
poem, the best-known of all the poet's verse. With this poem the
love-story proper comes to a close, and "the melancholy, no doubt more
than half imaginary and poetical, of his love poems seems to broaden
out into a deeper sadness embracing life as a whole, and in which
disappointed passion is but one of the many elements."[1] "And,
lastly, regret and passion are alike hushed in the presence of that
voiceless love which shines on the face of the dead and before the
eternal and tranquil slumber of the grave."[2]
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Ward, _loc. cit._, p.319.]
[Footnote 2: _Ibid._, p. 316.]
Whatever Becquer may have owed to Heine, in form or substance, he was
no servile imitator. In fact, with the exception of the thirtieth, no
one of his _Rimas_ seems to be inspired directly by Heine's
_Intermezzo_. The distinguishing note in Heine's verse is sarcasm,
while that of Becquer's is pathos. Heine is the greater poet, Becquer,
the profounder artist. As Blanco Garcia well points out,[1] the moral
inclinations of the two poets were distinct and different also.
Becquer's instinct for the supernatural freed him from Heine's
skepticism and irreligion; and, though he had suffered much, he never
doubted Providence.
[Footnote 1: op. _cit._, p.86.]
The influence of Alfred de Musset may be felt also in Becquer's
_Rimas_, particularly in the forty-second and forty-third; but in
general, the Spanish poet is "less worldly and less ardent"[1] than
the French.
[Footnote 1: Corm, _op. cit._, p. xl.]
The _Rimas_ are written for the most part in assonanced verse. A
harmonious rhythm seems to be substituted for the music of the rhyme.
The meter, too, is very freely handled. Notwithstanding all this, the
melody of Becquer's verse is very sweet, and soon catches and charms
even the foreign ear. His _Rimas_ created a school like that inspired
by the _Doloras_ of Campoamor. But the extreme simplicity and
naturalness of Becquer's expression was difficult to reproduce without
falling into the commonplace, and his imitators have for the most part
failed.
AN UNPUBLISHED LETTER OF THE POET BECQUER, ONE OF THE FEW THAT HAVE
SURVIVED HIM, ADDRESSED TO SOR. C. FRANCO DE LA IGLESIAS, MINISTERIO
DE ULTRAMAR, MADRID. DATED IN TOLEDO, JULY 18TH, 1869.[1]
[Footnote 1: The accentuation and punctuation of the original are
preserved. This letter is of particular interest, showing, as it
does, the tender solicitude of Becquer for his children, his dire
financial straits when a loan of three or four dollars is a godsend,
and his hesitation to call upon friends for aid even when in such
difficulties. The letter was presented to the writer of this sketch
by Don Francisco de Laiglesia, a distinguished Spanish writer and
man of public life and an intimate friend of Becquer. Señor de
Laiglesia is the owner of the magnificent portrait of Gustavo by
Valeriano Becquer, of the beauty of which but a faint idea can be
had from the copy of the etching by Maura, which serves as a
frontispiece to the present volume.]
Mi muy querido amigo:
Me volvi de esa con el cuidado de los chicos y en efecto parecia
anunciarmelo apenas llegue cayó en cama el mas pequeño. Esto se
prolonga mas de lo que pensamos y he escrito á Gaspar y á Valera que
solo pagó la mitad del importe del cuadro Gaspar he sabido que salio
ayer para Aguas Buenas y tardará en recibir mi carta Valera espero
enviará ese pico pero suele gastar una calma desesperante en este
apuro recurro una vez mas á vd. y aunque me duele abusar tanto de su
amistad le ruego que si es posible me envie tres ó cuatro duros para
esperar el envio del dinero que aguardamos el cual es seguro pero no
sabemos que dia vendrá y aqui tenemos al medico en casa y atenciones
que no esperan un momento.
Adios estoy aburrido de ver que esto nunca cesa. Adios mande vd. á su
amigo que le quiere