II
The Romances of Chivalry

The turn of the fifteenth century heralded the true beginning of the democratization of reading with the rise of the so-called "romances of chivalry," which were the first popular literature to demonstrate the commercial possibilities of the recently invented printing press. Taking its strongest hold in Spain soon after the discovery of America, this literary fashion spread like a contagion into the neighboring countries of Europe and, presently, crossed the ocean to the New World. Everywhere the appeal of this fiction proved overpowering and the literate elements of all social classes succumbed to it. And long before this enthusiasm subsided completely these fantastic tales had left their imprint on contemporary customs and manners, had fired the imaginations of adventurers in Europe and America, and had inspired the greatest masterpiece in Spanish literature.

These novels were usually long accounts of the impossible exploits of knightly heroes in strange and enchanted lands inhabited by monsters and extraordinary creatures, and they presented a highly imaginative, idealized concept of life in which strength, virtue, and passion were all of a transcendent and unnatural character. These prolix narratives were, indeed, the melodrama of their age, and readers, unrestrained by any knowledge of what are today the most elementary scientific facts, accepted avidly and uncritically the wildest extravagances that the authors generously offered them. As the public clamored for more of these romances, it identified itself completely with the world of these fictional knights. Like the motion pictures of a later day, these romantic novels exerted a profound influence on contemporary conduct, morality and thought

patterns, and they furthered the acceptance of artificial standards of value and false attitudes toward reality. These books provided a pleasant escape from the harsh monotony of an essentially primitive existence, and they brought a touch of color to the drab lives of their readers. The latter, despite the denunciations of moralists against these "lying histories," continued to find in them authentic portrayals' of life from which they derived not only patterns of behavior as well as ideas of a larger reality but incitement to greater endeavors.

The popularity of these romances in the sixteenth century was, in reality, a more democratic revival in the Spanish Peninsula of a medieval passion for the literature of chivalry. The folk ballads, which belonged to the whole people and still retained the affection of the less cultivated at the time of the Conquest, contained some of the same fanciful and idealistic elements, but rivaling them in appeal among the more aristocratic classes were the newer forms of chronicles purporting to give historical accounts of the past. As the Moorish frontier, where the conflicts of Christian and infidel supplied so many themes for artistic expression, was pushed farther south, leaving a greater degree of security and leisure in the northern provinces, these prose chronicles took on more and more a picturesque flavor. In time they were dominated by a spirit of poetic invention and chivalry which blended fact and fiction in- distinguishably.^[1] Hence the chivalric romances were but a step further and they reappeared with something of the aura of authenticity enveloping the contemporary chronicle. The multiplying agency of the printing press could not fail to make this revival far more widespread and influential, for the circulation of these romantic tales was no longer limited by the manuscript form to the wealthy aristocracy.

The vastly increased diffusion of secular knowledge and entertainment through the printing of books in the vernacular was a phenomenon of the sixteenth century as remarkable in its way as radio broadcasting in the early twentieth century, for the impact of this innovation on the daily lives and thoughts of an enormously expanded sector of the population was nearly as revolutionary. Reading was abruptly transformed from the special privilege of a small elite able to possess handwritten copies to the democratic

opportunity of all classes, and a more widespread literacy was stimulated. The effect was not unlike that of radio communication later in widening the appreciation of music and in democratizing the enjoyment of that great art. But inevitably, when a mechanical agency suddenly gives access to an art medium to a large and unprepared audience, the common denominators of taste operate at a lower level and the vulgarization of a creative expression tends to debase traditional esthetic canons. The romances of chivalry, as the earliest genuinely popular literature made available by the printing press, illustrate this law. The literary merit of Amadis of Gaul, the first truly successful novel to circulate in print, was never equaled in the long procession of sequels and imitations that it inspired, and these continuations degenerated to such extremes of absurdity that, more than any other factor, they ultimately destroyed their own vogue.

With the origin and earlier manifestations of the chivalrous novel it is not necessary to be concerned here. Chronologically the first real work of this character in Spain was the Historia del caballero de Dios que avrá por nombre Cifar, a somewhat didactic novel with a mixture of realism and fantasy which marks it as a transitional composition and a link between obscure medieval beginnings and the later novelistic forms in Spanish literature. But the Caballero Cifar apparently did not appear in print until 1512 and hence was not widely known until more authentic romances of chivalry had already established the fashion. The earliest printed work of this sort seems to have been Tirant lo Blanch, published in the Catalan language at Valencia in 1490. This was a narrative of considerable artistic value with realistic elements and a relative lack of the magical incident that characterized the more typical tales of chivalry. The Castilian version did not appear until 1511 and its success was comparatively modest. Indeed, no documentary evidence of the transfer of copies, either of Tirant lo Blanch or of the Caballero Cifar, to the New World, soon to be an important market for Spanish books, has thus far been found in the records of the sixteenth century, and it is safe to assume that both works were far overshadowed by the phenomenally popular Amadis of Gaul, the first known edition of which was printed in 1508. In the last decade of the fifteenth century a number of French romances of the so-

called Celtic and Carlovingian cycles were translated into Spanish and published, but it is doubtful whether they did more than prepare the way for the most famous knight of all, Amadis of Gaul, whose narrative may well have had an earlier edition during the same period.^[2]

The complicated question of the obscure origin, antecedents, and authorship of this landmark of Spanish literature need not be discussed here, since the concern is primarily with the effect produced on many readers by the printed version of this work and its rivals. Suffice it to say that France, Portugal and Spain each claim the legend as originating in its own national literature. References to Amadis are noted in the Hispanic Peninsula as early as the fourteenth century and increasingly throughout the fifteenth. The first known printing, that of 1508 at Zaragoza already mentioned, was entitled Cuatro libros de Amadís de Gaula, with the author's name indicated as Garci-Rodríguez de Montalvo, though given in later editions as Garci-Ordoñez de Montalvo. Information concerning this writer is practically limited to the fact that he was a regidor of Medina del Campo and the belief that he wrote the preface of his historic work between 1492 and 1504.

The four books into which the novel is divided recount the origin, adventures and undying love of Amadis and Oriana, the daughter of Lisuarte, King of Great Britain. Amadis is born of the secret union of Perion, King of Gaul, and the Princess Elisena, who conceals his birth by placing the baby in an ark which floats out to sea. The infant is rescued by a Scottish knight, who rears the foundling in the court of the King of Scotland. There, in the course of time, young Amadis meets the charming princess Oriana to whom, at the mature age of twelve, he surrenders his heart, and, to quote the text, "... this love lasted as long as they lasted, for as well as he loved her did she also love him." The obscure origin of Amadis, however, made his suit presumptuous and left him no recourse but to sally forth as a knight errant and win by his own prowess the right to Oriana's hand. Then follows an involved narrative of the varied adventures of Amadis and his companions, including personal and collective combats, rescues, monsters, enchanted islands, and other extraordinary experiences. Through all these travels and encounters Amadis remains steadfastly faithful to

his lady love and, quite properly, his remarkable constancy is rewarded by fame and by marriage to his beloved Oriana.^[3]

This romantic tale has been characterized as "the first idealistic modern novel, the epic of faithfulness in love, the code of honor and courtesy which schooled many generations."^[4] And, indeed, the medieval ideal of chivalry, cast in elevated prose, with emphasis on the theatrical aspects of knight errantry and its elaborate formalities, together with marvelous adventures in mysterious lands and among strange creatures, and all centered in an attractive hero and a beautiful heroine with whom the reader of either sex could identify himself, made this story of irresistible appeal. These fascinating features, including the novelty of human love depicted as permanent adoration, could not fail to assure the narrative the flattery of wide imitation. Other knightly heroes soon sought to emulate the deeds of Amadis, including an imposing number of his lineal descendants, but the Four books of Amadis of Gaul remained throughout the sixteenth century the favorite of innumerable readers, the manual of good taste, the model of valor and nobility, and the oracle of elegant conversation. To what extent its influence lingers in the ceremonial courtesy and courtly manners still practiced by the cultured elements of Hispanic society on both sides of the Atlantic is an interesting subject for speculation. Of more immediate interest is the certainty that the vista of exotic lands, strange peoples, and hidden wealth offered by the novel to contemporary conquistadors could not fail to lure them on to fantastic adventures abroad in the suddenly expanded world in which they lived.

The author, Montalvo, appears to have anticipated in some measure the resounding success of Amadis of Gaul and to have calculated shrewdly on the commercial advantages to be derived from the literary vein that he was tapping. Toward the end of the preface of his first work, in which he claims to have "corrected" the first three books of the novel and emended the fourth, he announces a forthcoming Fifth book to be known as Sergas de Esplandián . This continuation would recite the exploits of Amadis' illustrious son. Two years later, in 1510, the volume appeared and, although greatly inferior, it met with comparable success, attaining at least ten editions and probably more during the course of the sixteenth century. As will later appear, the inclusion in this sequel

of the recently reinvigorated myth of the warlike Amazons may have caused the Sergas de Esplandián to have a more direct influence on the Conquistador than its superior predecessor.

The enthusiastic reception accorded the narratives of the legendary Amadis and of his son encouraged similar accounts of successive descendants until a lengthy genealogy of knightly heroes had evolved.^[5] These continuations and the imitations of them by different writers poured forth, reaching a crest about the middle of the sixteenth century which slowly receded during the second half of the period. From 1508 to 1550 more than fifty different and bulky romances of chivalry appeared, but in the next forty years only nine new works of this character are known. In the last decade or so only three more were added, but practically all of the earlier favorites were reprinted again and again, even after Don Quixote de la Mancha appeared in 1605, and their fascination remained for many readers long after the vogue had passed. Policisne de Boecia, published in 1602, is usually regarded as the last of the long procession. Meanwhile, the sons, grandsons and great grandsons of Amadis and Esplandián carried on the family traditions, repeating the exploits of their forefathers in successive books, each with separate titles. Florisando came forth the same year as the Sergas de Esplandián, Lisuarte de Grecia in 1514, Amadís de Grecia in 1530, Don Florisel de Niquea in 1532, etc., until there were twelve books in the Amadis cycle.^[6] These were collectively grouped as the "chronicles of Amadis," and the use of this designation was common when referring generically to the whole series, as was done in the prohibitory legislation by which authorities strove vainly to stamp out what they regarded as a pernicious reading habit.

Scarcely were the original heroes of the Amadis saga launched on their glamorous careers when a rival dynasty offered competition. This was the so-called Palmerín cycle,^[7] the first novel being Palmerín de Oliva, who entered the lists in 1511. The son of this hero, Primaleón, like Esplandián, follows in the paternal footsteps and, from generation unto generation, invincible sires are exceeded in achievements by more invincible sons whose exploits and adventures grow progressively more fantastic and absurd. Still other rivals appear on the scene to captivate unsophisticated readers and these tales, like the themes of modern cinematographic drama, frequently

incorporate palpable imitations of the characters, adventures, and plot of the original creation which scored a commercial success.

During the first half century of the truly epic feats by flesh-and-blood heroes, the Spanish conquistadors, the so-called Greco-Asiatic cycle of novels, which includes the Amadis series, appears to have enjoyed the widest appeal and exerted the strongest influence on the imaginations of Peninsular readers. Aside from the tedious repetition of the same combats and adventures, there were certain common features in these highly seasoned tales which seemed to give a convincing air of reality to the mythical knights that moved through their pages. Some of these characteristics were: the basing of the narrative on the alleged discovery of an ancient manuscript and its translation, thus giving the impression that the account was derived from an historical document; the obscure but noble birth of the hero who vindicates his lofty lineage by his extraordinary valor and daring exploits; the achievement of fame and fortune by individual effort, thus confirming the individualistic Spaniard's faith in his own sufficiency; the assured eventual triumph of the hero as an "Emperor of Constantinople" or monarch of some other exotic kingdom or enchanted island; and, finally, the fanciful geography of these romances with their vaguely located regions, wealthy cities, and magical isles. The apparent historicity of these tales, together with the enormous expansion of the physical horizons brought about by the recent discoveries in Africa and the New World, gave a plausibility to the wildest notions with which writers might season their stories. The vast possibilities that the earthly globe thus seemed to offer stirred the fevered imagination of readers to a high pitch of excitement and moved the more adventurous to seek out the mysterious wonders and the untold treasure with which the unknown lands were endowed so authoritatively. Exploring expeditions being fitted out for operations in the New World did not find the task of recruiting their members too difficult, for in that bright morning of the modern age nothing was impossible.

These tremendously popular works of fiction, then, stimulated the emotions and won the passionate devotion of all literate classes of Spain, from the great Emperor Charles V himself to the lowliest clerk in his service. Even the general addiction of twentieth-century

English-speaking readers to detective novels is hardly comparable, for the reading public of the early sixteenth century, much more credulous and uncritical than that of later generations, surrendered itself to these knightly tales with an abandon now seldom experienced by mankind except in childhood. The pages of this chivalric fiction were thumbed with an enthusiasm amounting to a passion, and their fascination spurred the illiterate to master quickly the art of reading. In the royal palace and in the humblest hut these novels were read, often aloud, so that a completely unlettered audience could enjoy vicariously the seemingly real and historical experiences of noble heroes. The aristocracy of every shade and degree, including its womenkind, and even the clergy, devoted much of their ample leisure to this diverting pastime.

This universal devotion to the popular fiction is clearly reflected in the contemporary protests of moralists and the prohibitory legislation of the mid sixteenth century and later against the "lying histories" which consumed so much time of youths and maidens, particularly, and inspired them to ape so slavishly the manners, habits, and speech of imaginary heroes and heroines. Indeed, the allegedly depraved younger generation, and some of its elders, seemed to prefer the dubious ethics and doubtful codes of chivalry to the sterner doctrines taught by the Church. Mothers who left their daughters at home locked in their rooms for safety from the dangers besetting their virtue were only exposing these damsels to corruption and imperiling their eternal salvation, for it too frequently happened that the young ladies occupied themselves during this incarceration with reading secreted copies of chivalric novels. And often as not the mother herself read them, openly or clandestinely.

Even before the appearance of the published version of Amadis of Gaul, a partiality for similar light reading existed in the highest social spheres. Pious Queen Isabella was known to have in her castle at Segovia a scroll copy of a chivalric tale Historia de Lanzarote,^[8] which was probably the Demanda del Sancto Grial con los maravillosos fechos de Lanzarote y de Galaz, first printed in 1515 after her death. But it was her illustrious grandson, Charles V, who really fell under the sway of this literature. His imperial enthusiasm for the knightly Belianis de Grecia, it is said,^[9] induced its author to write a sequel, and a similar work in French was translated into Castilian

verse at the Emperor's command. And when this titular head of the Holy Roman Empire abdicated the throne of Spain, he took into retirement with him one or more of these chivalric narratives.^[10] Nor was he unique among European monarchs in this fondness for romantic fiction, though his responsibility may have been large for the fondness of his royal prisoner, Francis I of France, for these books, whom he seems to have introduced to them. A later French king, Louis XIV, and William the Silent were also among the royalty who succumbed to their charm.^[11]

The favor of princes encouraged the diffusion of chivalric literature among their subjects and stimulated the translation of these Spanish novels into various languages of Europe, thus making them accessible to the literate classes everywhere. The statesmen and diplomats of politically dominant Spain sought relaxation from the heavy strain of their responsibilities by reading such fiction much as their counterparts in a later age find momentary release in detective mysteries. One of the most distinguished diplomats of sixteenth-century Spain, Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, while traveling to Rome as ambassador, took copies of Amadis of Gaul and the Celestina as his only books on the journey.^[12] The informant complains that this dignitary seemed to derive more inspiration from these contrasting works of entertainment than he did from the Epistles of St. Paul. The catalogue of Ferdinand Columbus, the titled son of the discoverer of America, shows that he had many early editions of these romances in the rich library that he assembled.^[13] A prominent humanist, Juan de Valdés, well known in courtly circles, who also went to Italy, confessed in his famous Diálogo de la lengua that he had spent ten of the best years of his life in palaces and courts where he did not employ himself "in any exercise more virtuous than in reading these falsehoods," which gained such power over him that when he picked up a more respectable work he was never able to finish reading it. He had firsthand knowledge of most of the romances of chivalry of his time and, in his judgment, Amadis of Gaul, Palmerín and Primaleón were the best written.^[14]

People of distinction with a passion for the current literary fashion were by no means confined to the secular elements of society. Although the clergy railed at the widespread reading of the

novels of chivalry, many of their own number, including some renowned for their piety and mysticism, were addicted, at least briefly, to this worldly vice, as a few ruefully admitted later. Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuit Order, was accustomed to peruse such "vayne Treatises" and asked for them to relieve the tedium of convalescence from a broken leg suffered at the siege of Pamplona in 1521.^[15] Under the influence of some traumatic experience it seems likely that this great saint's early enthusiasm for the lofty codes and romantic idealism of the knights of chivalry was transferred to the vastly profounder idealism of the Founder of Christianity, thus spiritualizing the chivalric ideal. Indeed, one literary critic asserts that Loyola's militant Jesuits were a kind of knight-errantry a lo divino .^[16]

Another great religious leader of the Counter Reformation who succumbed to the fascination of Amadis and his tribe was no less a figure than that profoundly mystical and eminently practical lady, Santa Teresa de Jesús (1515–1582) of Avila. In the second chapter of a sort of autobiography she states that she caught the contagion of such fiction from her otherwise virtuous mother. "I began to fall into the habit of reading them [romances of chivalry]," she reports, "... and it seemed to me that it was not wrong to spend many hours of the day and night in such vain exercise, though concealed from my father. I became so utterly absorbed in this that if I did not have a new book [to read], I did not feel that I could be happy...."^[17] This early contact with the literature of chivalry undoubtedly had a psychological influence on her own mystical writings, particularly in the militant symbolism of spiritual struggle present in her most important work, El castillo interior o Las Moradas . Both courtly love and divine love were exalted by the same heroic conception of moral obligation and, as a French student of the Saint of Avila wrote, "La devise d'Amadis des Gaules et celle de Thérèse pourrait être egalement 'aimer pour agir.'"^[18] Indeed, it is fair to assume that the exaltation induced in youthful, impressionable minds by the idealism and fearlessness of these fictional heroes was subconsciously transfused by some subtle process into the superhuman energy of those tremendous poets of action—the conquistadors—and of those incomparable poets of the spirit—the mystics.

Santa Teresa's sixteenth-century biographer, Francisco de Ri-

bera, sought to exonerate her from this girlhood peccadillo by asserting that it was the Devil who induced her to read such literature. He adds that she spent much time in this way and "... her wit was so excellent and ... she imbibed their language and style so well that, within a few months, she and her brother, Rodrigo de Cepeda, composed a novel of chivalry full of adventure and imagination, and it was such that a good deal might be said of it...."^[19] This youthful creative excursion of Santa Teresa, which was probably known to all the younger members of the family, may have had some repercussion many years later when one of her brothers, known as Agustín de Ahumada, who was in the New World seeking his fortune, wrote to the viceroy of Peru. In this letter, dated in Quito on October 25, 1582, he informed the king's representative in Lima that he was negotiating with the Royal Audiencia for aid in organizing an expedition of "... up to a hundred men to go in search of a certain province that some residents of this district came upon which they found was the most populous and richest in gold ever seen; from what they tell of it and the description that they give, one can believe that it must be without any doubt at all the El Dorado, in the pursuit of which thousands of leaders and men have been lost." Like all other such fantasy-inspired will-o'-the-wisps, it was so near at hand that "... in a week of journeying one is there!"^[20]

If venerated saints of the sixteenth-century Church acknowledged strong though temporary attachment to these highly imaginative tales, it is certain that lesser members of the clergy were also addicted to them and probably more permanently. To cite one instance, Melchor Cano, a noted theologian of the time, reported that he knew a priest who was not only familiar with the deeds of Amadis and other knightly heroes, but believed that they were true because he had seen them in print!^[21] With varying degrees of credence, then, these romantic stories were read and accepted by the religious and lay alike, and the writers and poets of both groups were consciously or subconsciously influenced by this popular literature in their own artistic expression. Even in far-off Cuzco, the ancient seat of the Inca civilization in the lofty Sierra of Peru where the Conquistador had introduced this fiction, a youthful mestizo, offspring of a Spanish conqueror and an Incan princess, was steeping

himself in chivalric narratives; this was Garcilaso de la Vega—el Inca, as he was called—who was to write the first truly American work, the Royal Commentaries of the Incas . Long afterwards he shamefacedly admitted this early fondness which, he claimed, was changed to aversion by reading the thundering denunciation of these entertaining books in the preface of Pedro Mexía's learned Historia Imperial .^[22]

Doubtless a long list of such confessions by other more or less distinguished contemporaries who were enamored of the novels of chivalry could be compiled, but it is sufficiently clear that few able to read, whatever their class, occupation or social standing, lacked intimate acquaintance, at least in their youth and often late in life, with the highly colored exploits of Amadis, Esplandián, Palmerín, and other mighty heroes of fiction and were subtly influenced by their reading. If among the intellectuals this effect was largely limited to their own literary expression, the habits and manners of the majority of the less well endowed were modified, and many of the ordinary people, from whom the ranks of the conquistadors were recruited, were incited to adventurous action in distant lands, lured by the wonders and the wealth which the chivalric romances revealed to them so glamorously. Led by such intrepid captains as Cortés, Pizarro and Jiménez de Quesada, they performed flesh-and-blood prodigies of valor which, in boldness and daring, dwarfed those of the imaginary world of Amadis and his followers.