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Ancient National Poetry of Spain II

I. As, according to popular tradition, no man ever exercised over the destinies of his country an influence so peculiar as Don Roderic, who is often, but incorrectly, designated the last of the Goths, it might have been expected that he should be made the subject of numerous popular songs, and it is matter of surprise that so few are extant concerning him. Either the subject itself was too painful for patriotic contemplation, or time has shown less partiality to them than to others which we might naturally suppose much inferior in point of interest. And of the five or six which have come down to us, all, with one exception, are evidently of so improved a stamp, that we are more inclined to regard them as comparatively new compositions, than as modernized versions of more ancient ballads. We think they cannot be referred to a period earlier than the fifteenth century.

The one which, from internal evidence, we have thus excepted, will be considered the more interesting from its having furnished Sir Walter Scott with the idea of the fearful yet magnificent scene in his "Vision of Don Roderic." Of this ballad we give as literal and close a version as possible. And we would here remark, once for all, that in the following translations we have been studious to avoid every thing like elegance, every thing that might remind us of later and more improved times. We have endeavoured to preserve, not merely the quaintness, but even the rudeness of the originals, from a conviction that no version could be faithful, which did not bear the impress of both these qualities. 1

Don Roderic opens the House of Herades. 2

"The Spanish monarch, Don Rodrigo,
His chivalry to tournay calls;
To grace his reign each knight doth summon—
Within Toledo's regal walls.

Within those walls is soon assembled [5]
A host of sixty thousand spears;
And for the martial pastime anxious
Each gallant horseman then appears.

But first his vassals pray that monarch,
Like all his ancestors of yore, [10]
To add another bolt of iron
To old Alcides' dreaded door.

No bolt would fasten Don Rodrigo
But by his senseless avarice led,
Each massive lock he broke asunder [15]
To see what treasures there were hid.

And now behind that ancient door
These awful words a tablet bore:

'A king art thou for thy destruction,
'That enterest this dreary gloom, [20]
'The monarch that this house doth open,
'His native Spain shall soon consume!'

A chest of workmanship full costly
Behind a lofty pillar stood;
Within were flags and banners many, [25]
With figures strange to chill the blood.

Of Araby stood horsemen fearful,
Which halting seemed in their course,
And eke a sword from each suspended,
And tams were there of mighty force. [30]

Now sore dismayed Don Roderic grew,
Nor dared he more those terrors view.
An eagle soon from heaven descended,
And soon by flames that scene was ended.

The conquer Afric's burning regions, [35]
A numerous band that monarch seat;
Of horsemen five and twenty thousand—
The whole a gallant armament.

That numerous band, so will'd Rodrigo,
Had brave Count Julian at their head, [40]
Who in the raging deep embarked them
To follow whither glory led.

Of fair ships soon he lost two hundred,
Of galleys eke one hundred more;
And of his troops four thousand only [45]
Ever lived to reach the shore."

Among the early Spanish heroes, no one, save the ever-unrivalled Cid, is so famous in the history, real or fabulous, of the country, as Bernardo del Carpio. Accordingly we find that the ballads concerning him are as numerous as his adventures are singular and interesting.

Bernardo's origin is thus related. Alphonso the Chaste, say the chroniclers and romancers, had a sister, Donna Ximena, who, not having received from heaven the same precious gift as himself, secretly married Don Sancho Dias, the Count of Saldaña. But her pregnancy soon revealed the secret to the king. Whether moved by dislike of his brother-in-law, or incensed at the clandestine marriage, he compelled the infanta to take refuge in a cloister, imprisoned the daring count in the castle of Luna, and carried their infant Bernardo to be educated nobly in the Asturian court, not as the legitimate son of that princess, but as his own bastard. When the young prince arrived at mature years, he learned the secret of his birth from his grandmother, and henceforth he longed for the deliverance of his father, who still languished in prison. There is extant a pathetic lamentation of the count, who inveighs with no greater severity than justice against the implacable king, and the apparent indifference of his son. That son, however, never lost sight of his filial duty: by the most signal and important services he hoped to bend Alphonso, and obtain the liberty of Don Sancho. At length, after a splendid victory over the French at the famous battle of Roncesvalles, he was permitted by the queen (for Alphonso, like our Edward the Confessor, had a wife) to appear at court, on her promising to intercede for the unfortunate count. There, however, he had the mortification to witness the ill success of her suit: "Queen," said the monarch," trouble not thyself in vain: never will I release Don Sancho,— never will I break my vow." Sorely was she grieved, but her grief did not equal the anger of Bernardo. He resolved to demand himself his father's liberation, and if unsuccessful, to effect it by force of arms. He recapitulated his well-known services, as the price of which he solicits his boon. "I wish not to offend you, king, but I must complain that, while I am fighting for you, my father lies in prison." "Be silent, Don Bernardo!" replied the other, "and I will do thine asking. Before mass is said to-morrow in the church of St. John Lateran, thou shalt see thy father free." Morning came, and with it the fulfilment of the royal promise, but Don Sancho had no longer his eyes: they had been pulled out by the king's command. This act of cruelty destroyed the last remains of loyalty in the bosom of Bernardo: he now bent all his thoughts to revenge. The romance in which he rushes unbidden into the king's presence, and taxes that monarch with cruelty and ingratitude, is interesting enough to be laid entire before the reader. From an unwillingness to multiply our translations in verse, we give the present one in prose, which indeed is as good a medium for most of these narrative ballads as any combination of measured numbers could be.— (Depping, No. 25, p. 20. London edit. Vol. i. p. 49.)

"With only ten of his men, Bernardo, with hat in hand, and all meet reverence, sought the king (three hundred others had he placed outside the palace, and drawn up two deep.) 'Now ill luck to thee, thou traitor!' said the king, 'from traitorous parents art thou sprung, and in treachery wert thou begotten. So! Thou hast driven Carpio into revolt, which thou holdest from me in fief. But be thou assured that I will have vengeance. Nothing strange is it that a traitor should beget a traitor: no need hast thou to seek excuses, for not a good one canst thou find.' Bernardo, who listened to all, replied with an angry look: 'Wickedly hath some one advised you, my king, and wicked is the tale. Well known it is that my father was a good man and true, and that in nothing was he behind your ancient race. And whoever saith that he was a traitor, is a liar, saving your royal person, who as king must be excepted. But with this vile name are my services rewarded; well would it be if they were better remembered. But it is the wont of the ungrateful, my king, to forget benefits, that the reward may be withheld. It is meet that ye be put in mind of one if ye forget the rest; ye remember when in the fierce battle of Romeral your horse was slain, and your person in great jeopardy; did not I, traitor as I am called, lend you my own, and free you from the peril? For which thing ye promised, with sweet words, to restore me my father alive, and without hurt. Ill have ye fulfilled your royal word and promise, and little faith have ye as a king: for well ye know that through you be died in prison. 3 But were I the son I ought to be, his death should ye rue to your cost: and revenge it I will in a manner that shall trouble you sore.' 'Seize him! Seize him! 'cried the king, 'my knights there, kill that unmannered caitiff who doth thus insult me! —Seize him! Seize him! 'still shouted the king; but no one obeyed; for all saw that Bernardo was wrapping his cloak round his arm, and laying hand on his sword, while he cried out; 'Let no man dare to stir a foot : I am Bernardo, and my sword doth not move even at a king's bidding. Well do ye know that it can cut, as ye have felt.' Seeing this dispute, the ten approach: they lay hand on their weapons—they loosen their cloaks—with great fury do they take their stand by Bernardo's side—and at the same time make signal to those without, who seize the gates of the palace, and shout 'Hurrah, for Bernardo! death to whoever doth offend him!' Their resolution saw the king, who, with smiling countenance, thus spake: 'What I said to you in jest as true have ye taken!' 'I do take it as jest, my king!' replied Bernardo, as he left the hall, without deigning a salute. With him retire the three hundred, in gay and gallant show, with cloaks unloosened, and their shining arms displayed. Thus did the king remain insulted, and thus was his injustice punished."

"Like a frank and true knight," says the romance, Bernardo next visited his father's grave, to whose shade he vowed vengeance on King Alphonso. He then journeyed to Grenada, to enter into an alliance with the Moorish king, Muza. The reception which the latter gave him is the best illustration we could offer of the courtesy that we asserted to have existed between the hostile nations. "Muza embraced him, and said, 'Although thine enemy, much have I longed to have thee for my friend; and now, since heaven hath heard my prayer, embrace me like wise, and command me as thou wouldst thy veriest menial. And if at any time thou find me false, may heaven and all God's creatures fail me!'"— (Depping, No. 22, p. 29.— Lond. edit. vol. i.p. 57.)

This is the last of the romances we have been able to consult respecting this hero. The chronicles say that he was defeated by Alphonso, and compelled to retire to France, where he ended his days. There is no doubt that much of the preceding romance, as well as of all those which relate to him generally, is mere fable. Some of the best Spanish critics, indeed, such as Pellicer, Mantuano and Mondejar, go so far as to deny his existence; and they found their incredulity on the total silence of contemporary writers. Others again, of equal eminence, contend that this negative argument is of no weight, and that this silence is capable of satisfactory explanation, from the fear those writers had of incurring the royal displeasure by dwelling on a subject (to, so) delicate. In our opinion no rational doubt can be enterained of his existence, nor of some of his bravest actions; but (to, so) confused are the places, and above all the dates—the events of the reign of Alphonso the Great, who died in 910, being confounded with those of Alphonso the Chaste, who died in 845—that to separate the true from the fabulous would be a hopeless attempt.

The next celebrated hero of Spanish romance—we mean the next in order of time—is Fernan Gonsalez, first Count of Castile, whose adventures are no less extraordinary than those of Bernardo del Carpio. For his matchless valour he had been placed over the newly formed Countship, which—as its domains were contiguous to the Moorish states, and in consequence continually exposed to hostile aggressions—was to serve as a bulwark, to all Christian Spain.

The chronicles assure us that the count was an especial favourite of heaven. On the eve of his battle with Almansor, A.D. 952, he retired to a hermitage near his camp, and there passed some time in prayer. The anchoret at length accosted him, and exhorted him to confidence, for that God would assuredly give his handful of men the victory over the countless hosts of the enemy. The prediction was verified by the splendid events of the following day: the infidels being routed with great slaughter. Some time after, the same King of Cordoba invaded his domains with a still mightier army. To resist the approaching torrent, Gonsalez had only 15,000 infantry, and 450 horsemen; yet did he resolve to hazard an engagement. He visited the same hermitage, but the holy Pelayo had passed to a better life. Equally disappointed and afflicted, he entered the chapel, and while praying on the tomb of the anchoret, he felt so sudden and supernatural a confidence, that he arose, hastened to his troops, harangued them, promised them the victory, and after an obstinate struggle completely annihilated the formidable army of Almansor.

Of the numerous ballads relating to this hero, the most interesting are those which recount the particulars of his two escapes from captivity. The count being a widower, accepted the proposal made by the kings of Leon and Navarre, of a marriage with Donna Sancha, the sister of the latter—a proposal, however, in which perfidy had more to do than good faith. Having no reason to distrust the King of Navarre, he went to Pampeluna, attended by an inconsiderable escort, to receive the hand of the infanta; but there he was seized, and closely confined in prison. The manner in which he was visited by a pilgrim knight from Normandy, who afterwards repaired to Donna Sancha, and prevailed on her to attempt his escape; how she effected her purpose, and fled with him in the darkness of night; how, though unarmed and fettered, he yet punished a reverend hunter, who would have forced her; and how the fugitives at length fell in with the vassals of the count, who were marching to the succour of their lord, may be seen in a highly interesting ballad in Mr. Lockhart's collection. Another ballad representing the consternation of the Castilians on learning the detention of their hero, and their vow to release him, is not less striking.

"All swore with one accord that they would never return to Castile without their lord the count. His image carved in stone tbey drag on a sledge, and vow that if that do not turn back, no more will they: whoever moves one foot backwards shall be held a traitor—an agreement to which all swore by holding up their right hands. Having saluted the image, they hung their banner from it, and all kissed its hand, from the babe to the old man. And like good vassals, as they are, they march towards Alarzon: they leave Burgos empty of people, and the villages round about: only women and children stay behind."

Before, however, they entered the Navarrese dominions they meet their count and his lady. "Whence come ye, my Castilians? tell me, for God's sake! Why leave ye my castles a prey to Almansor?" "My lord!" replied Nuño Laynez, "we were in search of you, resolved either to be taken or killed, or set ye free!" All joyfully returned to face the King of Cordoba.— (Deppinig, No. 25, p. 35.— London edit. vol. i. p. 70.)

The second imprisonment of the count was at the instance of the King of Leon. The countess, Donna Sancha, soon heard of the misfortune; but instead of wailing, as other women would have done, she set her wits to work how to release him a second time. Feigning a pilgrimage to Santiago, in Galicia, she passed through Leon, and obtained the king's permission to see her beloved lord. With great difficulty she prevailed on him to exchange garments with her, and to escape by means of the horses which she had prepared for him. The king, Don Sancho, hesitated some time whether he should punish or reward the artifice of the heroine: at length, says the chronicler, remembering that he was a knight before he became a king, he not only released her, but praised her constancy of affection, and honourably restored her to her husband at the court of Burgos.

Much of the history of Fernan Gonsalez is as apocryphal as that of Bernardo. It is, however, indisputable, that there existed a hero of that name, who was the scourge of the Moors, and who from his victories acquired the name of Great. And, doubtless, when we consider the state of society in Spain during the middle ages, we should not hastily condemn as fictions, events which appear to us improbable and romantic. What is probable and natural in one age, may seem the reverse in another. And let us not forget, that the only standard by which the credibility of historic actions can be measured, is the genius, the character, and the habits of the people among whom those actions are reported to have passed.

The Cid, Rodrigo de Bivar, will complete the trio of illustrious Spanish heroes. Of this wonderful personage more than a hundred popular ballads (of which almost all are in Depping's Collection) are extant, besides the metrical chronicle which bears his name. They record the minutest details of his life, from his infancy to his death in Valencia: nay, they acquaint us with some astounding things which occurred afterwards. As, however, enough is known of this pride of Spain, especially since Dr. Southey 's publication of the Chronicle just mentioned, we shall content ourselves with noticing only one of the romances concerning him; but that one is not the least interesting. It is the last of a series, which embraces the greater part of the eleventh century; it records a miracle which happened to a Jew who dared to stretch forth an impious hand towards the beard of the dead Cid. 4 — (Depping, No. 131, p. 185, — Lond. edit. vol. ii. p. 111.)

The Cid's Corpse and the Jew.

"Within St. Peter's holy walls
Embalm'd the corse remain'd
Of the victor Cid, who never did
To Moor or Christian bend.

At King Alphonso's word that corse [5]
To sit erect is made:
Still ever seem those members sheen
In knightly garb array'd.

Uncover'd was that victor's face;
Its look was fix'd and grave; [10]
And eke his beard so long appear'd,
Thar reverence more it grave.

His trusty sword, Tizona call'd,
Is sheathed at his side.
'He doth but dream!’—might all men deem, [15]
'Still breathes he in his pride!'

And now seven years are past and gone,
Since he was seated there:
And for this knight, in glory bright,
Is held a feast each year. [20]

To see that knight's most noble corse,
Flock all, whate'er betide;
And in his praise, a feast they reise,
Whitout where he doth bide.

Alone remains that noble corse,— [25]
No living thing is near;
For all who hie the dead to spy,
Do quickly disappear.

'Mongst others came a certain Jew,
Who to himself thus spake:— [30]
'Is this that wight, who in his might,
'Erst made the stoutest quake?'

This said, that in his living days,
'No man his beard might touch;
'But now he's dead—his spirit's fled— [35]
'May I not dare as much?—

'Can this same grinning Philistine
'Make me the deed repent?
'Now, Moses, see, if yet that he
'The insult may resent!' [40]

Outstretch'd that Jew his impious hand,
To do as he had said;
When—strange to say!—that corse doth lay
Its hand upon the blade,

And drew Tizona forth a palm!—[45]
The Jew he trembled sore!
With one laud yell he backward fell,
Upon the paved floor.

How long or short e'en knor not I,
That Jewish fellow lay, [50]
But he is found upon the ground,—
His wits are swoon'd away!

O'er his pale face is water pour'd,
His senses to recall,
And each doth yearn from him to learn, [55]
What hap might him befall.

'What fearful thing can so have wrought
'On thee, thon troubled Jew?'
With readiness doth he confess
The truth of all he knew. [60]

Now for this wondrous miracle
To God be praise decreed,
That he his own hath not forgot,
But in his grace hath freed

From that Jew man's unholy hands [65]
The ever honour'd dead.
A Christian soon that Isrealite,
And soon a priest also,

Within St. Peter's holy walls
God's mysteries doth show: [70]
And to the end his days doth spend,
Observant of his vow.”

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