Romances from a coast of love and wine,
Echoing the music of adventurous swords,
Murmur of necromancy's dark ingyne,
And speech that holds the ghosts of curious words.
The literary genius of Catalonia was unquestionably a lyrical one,
as befitted a province so happily endowed by nature, clothed with the
purple mantle of vineyards, and laved by the calm beauty of a dreamy
ocean. Epic has her home in rugged and wind-swept lands, where the
elemental trumpets of the air arouse the soul of man to fiercer song
and fill the memory with the clash of war. But on sheltered strands,
mellow with sun and painted in the ripe colours of plenty, a softer
and more dreamy music mimics the æolian sound of the zephyrs which
steal like melodious spirits through orchard and vineyard. Yet this
province of the Trovadores was not without its legends of chivalric
enterprise, and indeed produced two romances of such intrinsic merit
that they may be regarded as occupying an unassailable position in
the literature of the Peninsula.
Partenopex de Blois
The beautiful and highly finished romance of Partenopex de Blois
was written in the Catalonian dialect in the thirteenth century,
and printed at Tarragona in 1488. That the tale was originally French
is highly probable, but it is no mere translation, and the treatment
it has received in the course of adaptation has undoubtedly made it
a thing as wholly Catalonian as The Cid is Castilian. Here is the
story of the knight Partenopex.
On the death of the Emperor Julian of Greece the rule of his kingdom
devolved upon his daughter Melior, a maiden of extraordinary talents,
who was, moreover, possessed of a deep knowledge regarding the hidden
sciences. Notwithstanding her ability, however, her advisers did
not think it fitting that she should rule alone, and insisted that
she should address herself to the task of selecting a husband. They
granted her a space of two years in which to make choice of a suitable
consort, and in order that she might be able to select a parti of a
rank sufficiently illustrious to match with her own, she dispatched
embassies to all the principal courts of Europe, bidding their members
to inquire diligently into the credentials of all eligible princes.
At this time there lived in France a youth of much beauty and promise
in arms called Partenopex de Blois, nephew to the King of Paris. While
following the train of his royal uncle in the chase one day, in the
green shades of the Forest of Ardennes, he became separated from the
rest of the party and lost his way. Forced to spend the night in the
forest, he awoke with the dawn, and, in trying to find his bearings,
came to the seashore. To his surprise, he beheld a splendid vessel
moored near to the land. In the hope that its crew would be able
to direct him as to the path he should take to reach home, he went
on board the ship, but found her deserted. He was about to quit the
vessel when she began to move, and, gaining speed, cleaved the water
with such velocity that to attempt to leave her was impossible. After
a voyage as short as it was swift, Partenopex found himself moored
in a bay in a country of the most enchanting description.
Disembarking, the youth walked inland, and soon came to the walls
of a stately castle. He entered, and, to his surprise, found it as
deserted as the vessel which had brought him thither. The principal
chamber was illuminated by the sparkle of countless diamonds, and the
young knight, who was by this time famished with hunger, was pleased
to see an exquisite repast spread on the table before him. He was soon
to learn the magical nature of all things in that enchanted castle,
for the dainties with which the table groaned found their own way to
his lips, and when he had refreshed himself sufficiently a lighted
torch appeared as if suspended in the air, and preceded him to a
bed-chamber, where he was undressed by invisible hands.
As he lay in bed thinking upon the extraordinary nature of the
adventure which had befallen him a lady entered the apartment, and
introduced herself as Melior, the Empress of Greece. She told the young
knight that she had fallen in love with him from the account of her
ambassadors, and had contrived to bring him to her castle by dint of
the powers of magic she possessed. She commanded him to remain at the
castle, but warned him that if he attempted to see her again before two
years had elapsed the result would be the loss of her affection. She
then quitted the apartment, which was entered in the morning by her
sister Uracla, who brought him the most splendid apparel.
The Mysterious Castle
In the mysterious castle of Melior Partenopex found no lack of
entertainment, for the extensive grounds by which it was surrounded
afforded him the pleasures of the chase, and in the evenings he
was amused by the sweet strains of invisible musicians. Everything
possible and impossible was done to render his stay pleasant and
memorable. But in the midst of the delights with which he was
surrounded he learned that his country had been attacked by a host
of enemies. He communicated to his invisible mistress his desire
that he should be permitted to fight for the land of his birth, and
when she had received his assurance that he would return she placed
at his service the magic vessel in which he had come to her coasts,
and by its aid he shortly regained the shores of France.
Partenopex was making his way as quickly as possible to Paris to
place his sword at the service of his king, when he encountered a
knight whose conduct toward him brought matters to the arbitrament
of a combat. When they had fought for a space Partenopex discovered
that his opponent was none other than Gaudin, the lover of Uracla,
the sister of Melior, and from being at daggers drawn the two young
knights became the closest companions, and rode on together to where
the Court sat at Paris.
Shortly after his return to the capital Partenopex was presented to
the Lady Angelica, niece of the Pope, who promptly fell in love with
him. Animated by the mistaken belief that 'All's fair in love,' she
intercepted his letters from Melior, and thus learned of his passion
for the wonder-working Empress of Constantinople. Enlisting on her
side a hermit of great sanctity, she bade him repair to Partenopex
and denounce his lady-love as a demon of darkness, who was so lost
to all good that she even partook of the outward semblance of a
fiend in possessing a serpent's tail, black skin, white eyes, and
red teeth. This story Partenopex stoutly refused to credit, but when
hostilities had come to an end and he had returned to the enchanted
castle the hermit's tale still agitated his mind, and he resolved
to put it to the test, for Melior had visited him in the dark and he
knew not how she appeared.
So one fateful night, when all the castle was plunged in slumber,
the young knight equipped himself with a lamp and made his way to the
chamber where he knew Melior slept. Entering softly, he held the lamp
above the form of his sleeping mistress, and when he beheld her warm
human beauty he knew that false slander had been spoken of her. But,
alas! as he gazed at her recumbent loveliness a drop of oil from
the lamp he held fell upon her bosom and she awoke. Furious that
her commands had been broken, she would have slain her unhappy lover
on the spot, but at the intercession of Uracla, who had entered the
chamber on hearing her sister's exclamations of anger, the incensed
Empress at last permitted him to depart without scathe.
The unfortunate Partenopex quitted the castle in all haste, and
in time came once more to the green shadows of Ardennes, where he
resolved to perish in strife with the savage beasts which haunted
its dark recesses. But although they devoured his steed they seemed
unwilling to encounter the knight himself. The neighings of his
charger brought Uracla, who had been searching for him, to the spot,
and she succeeded in inducing him to accompany her to her castle in
Tenedos, there to await a more complacent attitude on the part of her
sister. Returning to the wrathful Empress, she at last persuaded her
to send forth a decree that she would bestow her hand upon the victor
in a tournament she was about to proclaim.
Preparations for the tournament proceeded apace, and Partenopex awaited
the day in Uracla's castle in Tenedos. But he was not permitted to
remain in peace, for Parseis, one of Uracla's maidens, conceived a
passionate attachment to him, which she avowed to him while they were
taking a short trip in a boat. Partenopex, taken aback, was about to
protest, when the frail vessel was caught up by a terrific tempest,
and the pair were driven upon the coast of Syria. On landing they
were seized by the people of that country, who bore the knight to
their king, Hermon, and he was cast into prison.
A sad plight was that of Partenopex, for he heard that Hermon and other
knights had departed to the tournament of Melior at Constantinople,
while he had perforce to remain in durance vile and renounce all hope
of regaining his place in the affections of his lady by force of arms.
But Partenopex succeeded in interesting the Queen in his affairs,
and she assisted in his escape from his Syrian prison. He arrived at
Constantinople just in time to participate in the tournament. Many and
powerful were his opponents, the most formidable being the Soldan of
Persia, but at length he overcame them all, and when he asked to be
permitted to claim his reward he was received by Melior with every
mark of forgiveness and rejoicing.
The Type of 'Partenopex'
The romance of Partenopex is undoubtedly of the same class as those
of Cupid and Psyche and Melusine, in which one spouse must not behold
another on pain of loss. The loss invariably occurs, but poetical
justice usually demands that recovery should take place after many
trials. Frequently the husband or wife takes beast or reptile shape,
as in the grand old romance of Melusine, to which Partenopex bears
a strong resemblance, and by which I think it has certainly been
sophisticated. But in the story with which we have been dealing the
reputed semi-reptilian form which the heroine is said to possess is
proved to be the figment of the brain of a jealous rival, and in this
we have a valuable variant of the main form of the legend, illustrating
the rise within it of more modern ideas and the skilful utilization
of an antique form to the uses of the writer of fiction. The tale of
Partenopex de Blois certainly deserves fuller study at the hands of
folklorists than it has yet received, and I hope they will peruse its
Catalonian as well as its French form, thus rendering their purview
of the tale more embracive.
Tirante the White
The grand old tale of Tirante the White was the work of two Catalonian
authors, Juan Martorell and Juan de Gilha, the latter completing the
work of the former. Martorell states that he translated the romance
from the English, and it certainly seems as if portions of the work had
been sophisticated or influenced by the old English romance of Sir Guy
of Warwick. I cannot, however, discern any signs of direct translation,
and think it very probable that the author's statement in this regard
is one of those polite fictions employed by the romance-writers
of Old Spain to render their efforts more mysterious or to guard
themselves against the merciless critics with whom the Peninsula
seems to have swarmed in a period when well-nigh everybody was bitten
with the craze for belles-lettres. The romance was first printed at
Valencia in 1490. It contains reference to the Canary Islands, which
were first discovered in 1326, and were not well known even in Spain
until the beginning of the fifteenth century, so that we may perhaps
be justified in fixing the date of its composition about that period,
especially as it alludes to a work on chivalry entitled L'Arbre des
Batailles, which was not published until 1390. The book was translated
into Castilian and produced at Valladolid in 1511, and was followed by
Italian and French translations by Manfredi and the Comte de Caylus
respectively, but the latter has dreadfully mutilated the original,
and has even altered its main plot as well as many of its lesser
incidents, and has imported into it an unhealthy atmosphere which we
do not find in the work as given us by Martorell.
On the occasion of the marriage of a certain King of England with a
beautiful and accomplished princess of France the most extraordinary
efforts were made to signalize the entente thus ratified by a
tournament of the most splendid description. Learning of these
martial preparations, Tirante, a young knight of Brittany, resolved
to participate in them, and with a number of youthful companions who
had a like object in view he took ship for England, where in due time
he landed, and proceeded to Windsor. But the fatigues of the voyage
overtook him and he fell asleep, lulled into slumber by the jog-trot
of his weary charger.
It is not to be wondered at that in this manner he became separated
from his brisker companions, and that on awaking he found himself
alone on the broad highway. Setting spurs to his destrier, he pushed
on for a few miles, but feeling the necessity for rest and refreshment
he cast about for a halting-place, and was cheered by the sight of a
humble lodging, which he believed to be a hermitage, nestling among the
trees at some distance from the roadside and almost concealed in the
leafy shadows. Dismounting, he entered the place, and was confronted
by a person whose hermit's garb ill suited him, and whose disguise was
soon penetrated by the practised eye of knighthood, so that Tirante was
scarcely surprised to observe that the recluse was engaged in reading
the book known as L'Arbre des Batailles, a work which descants with
learning and insight upon the precepts and practice of chivalry.
The Hermit Earl
The hermit was, indeed, none other than William, Earl of Warwick,
a renowned champion, who, tired of the frivolities of the Court,
had gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Arrived at the Holy Sepulchre,
he had spread a report of his death, had returned to England in the
disguise of a pilgrim or palmer, and had taken up his abode in the
hermitage where Tirante discovered him, and which was not far from the
castle where his countess resided. But his retirement was not destined
to last long, for when the great King of the Canary Islands landed
in England with a formidable army, the Earl, beholding the widespread
consternation occasioned by his invasion, took up arms once more. The
advance of the raiders was, however, so swift that the King of England
was speedily driven from Canterbury and London, and was compelled to
seek refuge in the town of Warwick, where he was hotly besieged by the
Canarese forces. At this crisis the Earl came to his assistance, slew
the King of the Canaries in single combat, and dispersed his army in a
pitched battle. This accomplished, he revealed himself to his countess,
and once more retired to his hermitage. All of these details agree in
a measure with those of the old English romance of Sir Guy of Warwick.
Tirante made himself known to the hermit Earl, told him that he was
so called because his father was lord of the marches of Tirraine,
situated in that part of France which was opposite the coast of
England, and that his mother was daughter to the Duke of Brittany. He
further told his host that he was resolved to take part in the great
tournament held to celebrate the royal wedding, whereupon the Earl
read him a chapter from the book he had been perusing regarding the
whole duty of a knight. This he followed by a lecture upon the use
of arms and the exploits of ancient paladins. When he had finished
he observed that the hour was late and that as Tirante was ignorant
of the roads he had better hasten upon his way, and, pressing the
youthful champion to accept the book from which he had been reading,
he bade him farewell.
A twelvemonth passed. Tirante, having shown his superiority at the
tournament, was returning with some forty of his companions from the
Court, when they once more passed the Earl's retreat, and halted to
pay their duty to him. Interested to learn of the warlike pageant,
he inquired who had most distinguished himself, and was told that
Tirante had borne off the prize. A French lord called Villermes,
having objected to his wearing a favour given him by the fair Agnes,
daughter of the Duke of Berri, had defied him to mortal combat, and
had required that they should fight armed with bucklers of paper and
helmets of flowers. Villermes was slain in the encounter, but Tirante,
having recovered from eleven wounds, shortly afterward slew four
knights, brothers-in-arms, who proved to be the Kings of Poland and
Friesland and the Dukes of Burgundy and Bavaria. A certain subject
of the King of Friesland, rejoicing in the name of Kyrie Eleison, or
'Lord have mercy upon us,' and descended from the ancient giants,
now arrived in England to avenge his master's death. On beholding
his sovereign's tomb, however, he expired from grief on seeing the
arms of Tirante suspended over the Frisian standard. His place was
supplied by his brother, Thomas of Montauban, a champion of stature
still more gigantic, who was, however, defeated by the young Breton
knight and forced to sue for his life.
Having paid his respects to the Earl, Tirante returned to his native
Brittany, but he had been only a few days in the castle of his fathers
when a messenger arrived with the news that the Knights of Rhodes were
closely besieged by the Genoese and the Soldan of Cairo. Accompanied
by Philip, youngest son of the King of France, Tirante set out to
the relief of the island, and in the course of the voyage anchored in
the roads of Palermo, where he sojourned for a space. When at length
he arrived at Rhodes the besiegers beat a hasty retreat, and having
freed the island from their presence Tirante and his men returned to
Sicily, where Prince Philip espoused the princess of that country.
But the wedding festivities had scarcely come to an end when a herald
from the Emperor of Constantinople arrived at the Sicilian Court with
the moving information that his master's territories had been invaded
by the Grand Turk and the Soldan of the Moors. Once more chivalric
honour demanded that a Christian land should be rescued from the
clutches of the paynim, and Tirante, setting sail for Constantinople,
was, on his arrival there, entrusted with the supreme command of
the Hellenic forces. A great part of the romance is occupied by the
details of the war carried on against the Turks, who were invariably
defeated in battle after battle, so that at length they called for
a truce. This was granted, and the interval of repose was occupied
with splendid festivals and tournaments.
At this juncture of affairs no less a personage than the celebrated
Urganda arrived in Constantinople in quest of her brother, the
renowned Arthur, King of Britain. The Emperor, searching among those
of his prisoners who were kept in the most obscure dungeons, found
the hero of heroes pining out his old age in an iron cage, reduced
to the lowest level of physical debility. Restored to his ancient
weapon, the good sword Excalibur, the hapless monarch was able to
answer any questions put to him with address. But when the blade was
withdrawn from his grasp he sank ever lower into the second childhood
of senility. After giving a splendid supper, Urganda disappeared with
her ancient brother, nor was anyone aware whither they had gone.
Up to this time Tirante had contrived to remain fancy-free, but at last
he fell a willing victim to the bright eyes of the Emperor's daughter,
the Princess Carmesina. His affair went smoothly enough until one of
her attendants, Reposada, having fallen passionately in love with
the young knight, succeeded in arousing his jealousy by a wretched
stratagem, and, offended to the soul at what he believed to be the
baseness of his mistress, he set out once more for the army without
taking his leave of her. But the vessel in which he set sail was caught
in a violent tempest and driven upon the coasts of Africa. Wandering
disconsolate on the shore, Tirante encountered an ambassador of the
King of Tormecen, who conducted him to Court and presented him to
his master, whom he assisted in the wars in which that monarch was
naturally engaged. On one occasion he besieged the city of Montagata,
when a lady issued from its gates to sue for peace on behalf of its
inhabitants. To his surprise he found her to be one of the Princess
Carmesina's attendants, who told him the truth regarding the trick
played upon him by the false Reposada. He at once raised the siege,
and returned to Constantinople at the head of an enormous army to
succour the Greek Emperor. Burning the Turkish fleet, he rendered
the retreat of the Soldan's forces impracticable, and secured an
advantageous peace.
Splendid preparations were now made for the wedding of Tirante
and Carmesina. But while on his return to Constantinople after the
conclusion of the treaty he received orders, at the distance of a
day's journey from the city, to wait until the completion of those
preparations before entering Constantinople. While walking on the banks
of a river in conversation with the Kings of Ethiopia, Fez, and Sicily,
he was seized with a deadly pleurisy, and, despite all the efforts of
his attendants, expired shortly afterward. The Emperor and Princess,
on learning of his demise, were unable to restrain their grief,
and died on the day they heard of his death.
We have at last encountered a romance which does not end happily. In
what manner such a dénouement was received by the Spanish public
we know not, but at least they cannot but have been struck by its
originality. That Tirante the White was a popular favourite, however,
is clear from the praise lavished upon it by Cervantes. "By her
taking so many romances together," he says, "there fell one at the
barber's feet, who had a mind to see what it was, and found it to be
Tirante the White. 'God save me,' quoth the priest in a loud voice,
'is Tirante the White there? Give me him here, neighbour, for I shall
find him a treasure of delight, and a mine of entertainment.'" He
then advised the housewife to take it home and read it, "for though
the author deserves to be sent to the gallows for writing so many
foolish things seriously, yet in its way it is the best book in the
world. Here the knights eat and sleep and die in their beds, and make
their wills before their death, with several things which are wanting
in all other books of this kind."
Is not this the essence of the revolt against the unnatural absurdities
which so often characterized romance, expressed succinctly by the
man who headed the mutiny?