Chapters on Spanish Literature
CHAPTER X
MODERN SPANISH NOVELISTS
If asked to indicate the most interesting development in Spanish literature during the last century, I should point—not to the drama and poetry of the Romantic movement, but—to the renaissance of fiction. As the passion for narrative ‘springs eternal in the human breast,’ Cervantes was sure to have a train of successors who would attempt to carry on his great tradition. But, in the history of art, a short, glorious summer is usually followed by a long, blighting winter. The eighteenth century was an age of barrenness in Spain, so far as concerns romance. No doubt Torres Villaroel’s autobiography contains so much fiction that it may fairly be described as a picaresque novel, and you might easily be worse employed than in reading it. Nature intended the author to be a man of letters and a wit; poverty compelled him to become an incapable professor of mathematics, and a diffuse buffoon. With the single exception of Isla, no Spanish novelist of this time finds readers now, and Isla’s main object is utilitarian. The amusement in _Fray Gerundio_ is incidental, and art has a very secondary place. Spain appears to have remained unaffected by the great schools of novelists in England and France: instead of being influenced by these writers, she influenced them. After lending to Lesage, she lent to Marivaux; she lent also to Fielding and Sterne, not to mention Smollett; but she herself was living on her capital. She has no contemporary novelists to place beside Ramón de la Cruz, González del Castillo, and the younger Moratín, all of whom found expression for their talent in the dramatic form. Not till about the middle of the last century does any notable novelist come
From tawny Spain, lost in the world’s debate.
While the War of Independence was in progress men were otherwise engaged than in novel-reading, and in Ferdinand VII.’s reign literature was apt to be a perilous trade. The banishment or flight of almost every Spaniard of liberal opinions or intellectual distinction had one result which might have been foreseen, if there had been a clear-sighted man in the reactionary party. It brought to an end the period of cut-and-dry classical domination. The exiles returned with new ideals in literature as well as in politics. There was a restless ferment of the libertarian, romantic spirit. Interest revived in the old national romantic drama which had fallen out of fashion, and had been known chiefly in recasts of a few stock pieces. Quaint signs of change are discernible in unexpected quarters. When the termagant Carlota, the Queen’s sister, snatched a state-paper out of Calomarde’s hands and boxed his ears soundly, the crafty minister put the affront aside by wittily quoting the title of one of Calderón’s plays: ‘_Las manos blancas no ofenden_.’ Fifteen years earlier he would probably have quoted from some wretched playwright like Comella. French books were still eagerly read, but they were not ‘classical’ works. Chateaubriand and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre became available in translations. Joaquín Telesforo de Trueba y Cosío, a _montañés_ residing in London, came under the spell of Walter Scott, and had the courage to write two historical romances in English: I have read many worse novels than _Gomez Arias_ and _The Castilians_, and every day I see novels written in much worse English. The shadow of Scott was projected far and wide over Spain, and those who read _The Bride of Lammermoor_ usually went on to read _Notre-Dame de Paris_. If Scott had never written historical novels, and if Ferdinand VII. had not made many excellent Spaniards feel that they were safer anywhere than in Spain, we should not have had Espronceda’s _Sancho Saldaña ó El Castellano de Cuéllar_, nor Martínez de la Rosa’s Doña Isabel de Solís, nor perhaps even Enrique Gil’s much more engaging story, _El Señor de Bembibre_, which appeared in 1844. The first two are unsuccessful imitations of Scott, and _El Señor de Bembibre_ is charged with reminiscences of _The Bride of Lammermoor_.
It is one of life’s little ironies that the first writer of this period to give us a genuinely Spanish story was not a writer of pure Spanish origin. Fernán Caballero, as she chose to call herself,—and as it is most convenient to call her, for she was married thrice, and therefore used four different legal signatures, apart from her pseudonym,—was the daughter of Johann Nikolas Böhl von Faber, who settled in Spain and did useful journeyman’s work in literature. Born and partly educated abroad, with a German father and a Spanish mother, it is not surprising that she had the gift of tongues, and that one or two of her early stories should have been originally written in French or in German. Yet nothing could be less French or German than _La Gaviota_, which appeared four years after _El Señor de Bembibre_ in a Spanish version said (apparently on good authority) to be by Joaquín de Mora. But, though Mora may be responsible for the style, nobody has ever supposed that he was responsible for the matter, and any such theory would be absurd, considering that Fernán Caballero wrote many similar tales long after Mora’s death. In _La Gaviota_, in _La Familia de Albareda_, in the _Cuadros de costumbres_, and the rest—transcriptions of the simplest provincial customs, long since extirpated from the soil in which they seemed to be irradicably implanted—there is for us nowadays an historical interest; but there is nothing historical about them: they are records of personal observation. Fortunately for herself Fernán Caballero, who had no elaborate learning, did not attempt any reconstruction of the past, and was mostly content to note what she saw around her. In this sense she may be considered as a pioneer in realism. The title would probably not have pleased her, owing to the connotation of the word ‘realism’; but nevertheless she belongs to the realistic school, and she expressly admits that she describes instead of inventing. To prevent any possible misapprehension, it should be said at once that her realism is gentle, peaceful and demure. She had some small pretensions of her own, felt a mistaken vocation to do good works among the heathen, and to be a trumpeter of orthodoxy. Each of us is convinced, of course, that orthodoxy is his doxy, and that heterodoxy is other people’s doxy; but Fernán Caballero’s insistence has a self-righteous note which may easily grow tiresome. There are some who find pleasure in her exhortations—especially amongst those who regard them as expositions of obsolete doctrine; but very few of us have reached this stage of cynicism.
These moralisings are the unessential and disfiguring element in Fernán Caballero’s unconscious art. It is something to be able to tell a story with intelligence and point, and this she does constantly. And, besides the power of narration, she has the characteristic Spanish faculty of undimmed sight. When she limits herself to what she has actually seen (and, to be just, her expeditions afield are rare), she is always alert, always attractive by virtue of her delicate, feminine perception. Many phases of life are unknown to her; from other phases she deliberately turns away; hence her picture is necessarily incomplete. But she sympathises with what she knows, and the figures on her narrow stage are rendered with dainty adroitness. There is no great variety in her tableau of that mild Human Comedy which, with its frugal joys and meek sorrows, it was her office to describe; but it has the note of sincerity. Her methods are as realistic as those used in later romances professing to be based on ‘human documents’—a phrase now worn threadbare, but not yet invented when she began to write. She reverted by instinct to realism of the national type,—realism which was fully developed centuries before the French variety was dreamed of,—and it was in the realistic field that her successors won triumphs greater than her own.
Some ten or twelve years after the appearance of _La Gaviota_, Antonio de Trueba leapt into popularity with a succession of stories all of which might have been called—as one volume was called—_Cuentos de color de rosa_. In the past my inability to appreciate Trueba as he is appreciated in his native province of Vizcaya has brought me into trouble. Each of us has his limitations, and, fresh from reading Trueba once more, I stand before you impenitent, persuaded that, if he flickers up into infantile prettiness, he sputters out in insipid optimism. We cannot all be Biscayans, and must take the consequences. In the circumstances I do not propose to deal with Trueba,—who, like the rest of us, appears to have had a tolerably good conceit of himself,—nor to spend much time in discussing the more brilliant Pedro Antonio de Alarcón. Alarcón seems likely to be remembered better by _El Sombrero de tres picos_—a lively expansion in prose of a well-known _romance_—than by any of his later books. All literatures have their disappointing personalities: men who at the outset seemed capable of doing anything, who insist on doing everything, and who end by doing next to nothing. Nobody who knows the meaning of words would say that the author of _El Sombrero de tres picos_ did next to nothing, but much more was expected of him. Whether there was, or was not, any reasonable ground for these high hopes is another question. The ‘Might-Have-Been’ is always vanity. Save in such rare cases as that of Cervantes, who published the First Part of _Don Quixote_ when he was fifty-eight (the age at which Alarcón died in 1891), imaginative writers have generally done their best work earlier in their careers. But, however this may be, our expectations were not fulfilled in Alarcón’s case. A few short stories represent him to posterity: like M. Bourget, he ‘found salvation,’ lost much of his art, and, in his more elaborate novels, became tedious. Fortunately, about ten years before the publication of _El Sombrero de tres picos_, a new talent had revealed itself to those who had eyes to see; and, as always happens everywhere, these were not many.
While Trueba was writing the rose-coloured tales which endeared him to the general public, José María de Pereda was growing up to manhood in the north of Spain.[107] Though the verdict of the capital still counts for much, it would not be true nowadays to say that the rest of Spain accepts without question the dictation of Madrid in matters of literary taste and fashion; but it was true enough of all the provinces—with the possible exception of Cataluña—in the late fifties and early sixties, when Pereda began to write for a Santander newspaper, _La Abeja montañesa_. Though he was over thirty, he had then no wide experience of life; he had been reared in a simple, old-fashioned circle where everybody stood fast in the ancient ways, and where there was no literary chatter. He seems to have had the usual traditional stock of knowledge flogged into him in the old familiar way by the irascible pedagogue whose portrait he has drawn not too kindly. From Santander Pereda went to Madrid, studied there a short while, joyfully returned home, and, till his health failed, scarcely ever left Polanco again, except during the short period when he was sent as a deputy to the Cortes. He hated the life of the capital, and remained till the end of his days an incorrigibly faithful _montañesuco_.
It is necessary to bear these circumstances in mind, for they help us to understand Pereda’s attitude. Hostile critics never tired of charging him with provincialism, but ‘provincialism’ is not the right word. The man was a born aristocrat, with no enthusiasm for novelties in abstract speculation, no liking for political and social theories which involved a rupture with the past; but his mind was not irreceptive, and, if his outlook is circumscribed, what he does see is conveyed with a pitiless lucidity. This power of imparting a concentrated impression is noticeable in the _Escenas montañesas_ which appeared in 1864 with an introductory notice by Trueba, then in the flush of success. It is an amusing spectacle, this of the lamb standing as sponsor to the lion; and, with a timorous bleat, the lamb disengages its responsibility as far as decency allows. The book was praised by Mesonero Romanos—to whom Pereda subsequently dedicated _Don Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera_; but with few exceptions outside Santander, where local partiality rather than æsthetic taste led to a more favourable judgment, all Spain agreed with Trueba’s implied view that Pereda’s temperate realism was a morose caricature. The hastiest commonplaces of criticism are the most readily accepted, and Pereda was henceforth provided with a reputation which it took him about a dozen years to live down. He lived it down, but not by compromising with his censors. He remained unchanged in all but the mastery of his art which gradually increased till _Bocetos al temple_ was recognised as a work of something like genius.
It is a striking volume, but the distinguishing traits of _Bocetos al temple_ are precisely those which characterise _Escenas montañesas_. Pereda has developed in the sense that his touch is more confident, but his point of view is the same as before. Take, for example, _La Mujer del César_, the first story in the book: the moral simply is that it is not enough to be beyond reproach, but that one must also seem to be so. You may call this trite or old-fashioned in its simplicity, but it is not ‘provincial.’ What is true is that the atmosphere of _Bocetos al temple_ is ‘regional.’ The writer is not so childish as to suppose that Madrid is peopled with demons, and the country hill-side with angels. Pereda had no larger an acquaintance with angels than you or I have, and his personages are pleasingly human in their blended strength and weakness; but he had convinced himself that the constant virtues of the antique world are hard to cultivate in overgrown centres of population, and that the best of men is likely to suffer from the contagion of city life. To this thesis he returned again and again: in _Pedro Sánchez_, in _El Sabor de la Tierruca_, in _Peñas arriba_, he argues his point with the pertinacity of conviction. There is nothing provincial in the thesis, and it is good for those of us who are condemned to live in fussy cities to know that we, too, seem as narrow-minded as any fisherman or agricultural labourer. Can anything be more laughably provincial than the Cockney, or the _boulevardier_, who conceives that London, or New York, or Paris is the centre of the universe, that the inhabitants of these places are foremost in the files of time? Nobody is more provincial than an ordinary dweller in one of these large, straggling, squalid villages. Pereda is not afflicted with megalomania; he is not impressed by numbers; he does not ‘think in continents.’ He believes all this to be the bounce of degenerate vulgarians, and leaves us with a disquieting feeling that he may not be very far wrong.
He is not one of those who look forward to a new heaven and a new earth next week. If you expect to find in him the qualities which you find in Rousseau, or in any other wonder-child of the earthquake and the tempest, you will assuredly be disappointed. But, if we take him for what he is—a satirical observer of character, an artist whose instantaneous presentation of character and of the visible world has a singular relief and saliency—we shall be compelled to assign him a very high place among the realists of Spain. No one who has once met with the frivolous and vindictive Marquesa de Azulejo, with the foppish Vizconde del Cierzo, with the futile Condesa de la Rocaverde, or with Lucas Gómez, the purveyor of patchouli literature, can ever forget them. In this particular of making his secondary figures memorable, Pereda somewhat resembles Dickens, and both use—perhaps abuse—caricature as a weapon. But the element of caricature is more riotous in Dickens than in Pereda, and the acumen in Pereda is more contemptuous than in Dickens. Pereda is in Spanish literature what Narváez was in Spanish politics: he ‘uses the stick, and hits hard.’ Cervantes sees through and through you, notes every silly foible, and yet loves you as though you were the most perfect of mortals, and he the dullest fellow in the world. Pereda has something of Cervantes’s seriousness without his constant amenity. He is nearer to Quevedo’s intolerant spirit. Exasperated by absurdity and pretence, he reverses the apostolic precept: so far from suffering fools gladly, he gladly makes fools suffer. The collection entitled _Tipos trashumantes_ contains admirable examples of his dexterity in malicious portraiture—the political quack in _El Excelentísimo Señor_ who, like the rest of us Spaniards (says Pereda dryly), is able to do anything and everything; the scrofulous barber in _Un Artista_, whose father was killed in the _opéra-comique_ revolution of ’54, who condescends to visit Santander professionally in the summer, and familiarly refers to Pérez Galdós by his Christian name; the hopeless booby in _Un Sabio_, who has addled his poor brain by drinking German philosophy badly corked by Sanz del Río, and who abandons the belief in which he was brought up for spiritualistic antics which enable him to commune with the departed souls of Confucius and Sancho Panza. These performances are models of cruel irony.
_Bocetos al temple_ was the first of Pereda’s books to attract the public, and it may be recommended to any one who wishes to judge the writer’s talent in its first phase. Pereda did greater things afterwards, but nothing more characteristic. It was always a source of weakness to his art that he had a didactic intention—an itch to prove that he is right, and that his opponents are wrong, often criminally wrong—and this tendency became more pronounced in some of his later books. Such novels as _El Buey suelto_, and the still more admirable _De tal palo, tal astilla_, have an individual interest of their own, but we are never allowed the privilege of forgetting that the one is a refutation of Balzac’s _Petites misères de la vie conjugale_, and the other a refutation of Pérez Galdós’s _Doña Perfecta_. To Pereda the problem seems perfectly simple. You have been discouraged from matrimony by Balzac, who has told you that the life of a married man is a canker of trials and disappointments—small, but so numerous that at last they amount to a tragedy, and so cumulative that the doomed creature feels himself a complete failure both as a husband and a father. Pereda seeks to encourage you by exhibiting the other side of the medal. Gedeón is a bachelor, a _buey suelto_: he has freedom, but it is the desolate freedom of the stray steer—or rather of the wild ass. He is worried to death by the nagging and quarrelling of his maid-servants; he gets rid of them, and is plundered by men-servants; he is miserable in a boarding-house, he is neglected in an hôtel; he has no family ties, is profoundly uncomfortable, goes from bad to worse, and finally expiates by marrying his mistress shortly before his death. The picture of well-to-do discomfort is powerful, but, as a refutation of Balzac, it is not convincing. So, again, in _De tal palo, tal astilla_. Fernando encounters the pious Águeda; his suit fails, he commits suicide, and she finds rest in religion, the only consoling agent. This is all far too simple. Are we to believe that every bachelor is a selfish dolt, or that only atheists commit suicide? Pereda, no doubt, lived to learn differently, but meanwhile his insistence on his own views had spoiled two works of art.
Something of this polemical strain runs through all his romances, and, after the fall of the republic and the restoration of the Bourbons, his conservatism may have contributed to make him popular in the late seventies and the early eighties. But we are twenty or thirty years removed from the passions of that period, and Pereda’s work stands the crucial test of time. He is not specially skilful in construction, and digresses into irrelevant episodes; but he can usually tell his tale forcibly, and, when he warms to it, with grim conciseness; he is seldom declamatory, is a master of diction untainted by gallicisms, and records with caustic humour every relevant detail in whatever passes before his eyes. He is the chronicler of a Spain, reactionary and picturesque, which is fast disappearing, and will soon have vanished altogether. If the generations of the future feel any curiosity as to a social system which has passed away, they will turn to Pereda for a description of it just before its dissolution. He paints it with the desperate force of one who feels that he is on the losing side. His interpretation may be—it very often is—imperfect and savagely unjust; but its vigour is imposing, and, if his world contains rather too many degraded types, it is also rich in noble figures like Don Román Pérez de la Llosía in _Don Gonzalo González de la Gonzalera_, and in profiles of humble illiterates who, in the eyes of their artistic creator, did more real service to their country than many far better known to fame.
One is tempted to dwell upon Pereda’s achievement—first, because his novels are thronged with lifelike personages; and second, because they proved that Spain, though separated from the rest of Europe in sentiment and belief, was not intellectually dead. While Pereda was writing _Pedro Sánchez_ and _Sotileza_, the world north of the Pyrenees was wrangling over naturalism in romance as though it were a new discovery. The critics of London and Paris were clearly unaware that naturalism had been practised for years past in Spain by novelists who thus revived an ancient national tradition. Pereda is still little read out of Spain, and, though attempts to translate him have been made, he is perhaps too emphatically Spanish to bear the operation. Spaniards themselves need some aids to read him with comfort, and the glossary at the end of _Sotileza_ has been a very present help to many of us in time of trouble. A writer who indulges in dialectical peculiarities or in technical expressions to such an extent may be presumed to have counted the cost: and the cost is that he remains comparatively unknown beyond his own frontier. He cannot be reproached with making an illegitimate bid for popularity, nor accused of defection from the cause of realism. Pereda was not indifferent to fame, but he did not go far to seek it. Like the Shunamite woman, he chose to dwell among his own people, to picture their existence passed in contented industry, to exalt their ideals, and to value their applause more than that of the outside world.
Fu vera gloria? Ai posteri L’ardua sentenza.
A perfect contrast in every way was Juan Valera, whose ductile talent had concerned itself with many matters before it found an outlet in fiction. Pereda was stubbornly regional and fanatically orthodox: Valera was a cosmopolitan strayed out of Andalusia, a careless Gallio, observing with serene amusement the fussiness of mankind over to be, or not to be. Pereda tends to tragic or melodramatic pessimism: Valera is a bland and disinterested spectator, to whom life is a brilliant, diverting comedy. He had lived much, reflected long, and seen through most people and most things before committing himself to the delineation of character. To the end of his life he never learned the trick of construction, but he was a born master of style and had an unsurpassed power of ingratiation. He had scarcely come up from Córdoba when he became ‘Juanito’ to all his acquaintances in Madrid, and his personal charm accompanied him into literature. Macaulay says somewhere that if Southey wrote nonsense, he would still be read with pleasure. This is true also of Valera, who, unlike Southey, never borders on nonsense. Though he has no prejudices to embarrass him, he has a rare dramatic sympathy with every mental attitude, and this keen, intelligent comprehension lends to all his creative work a savour of universality which makes him—of all modern Spanish novelists—the most acceptable abroad. Yet, despite his sceptical cosmopolitanism, which is by no means Spanish, Valera is an authentic Spaniard of the best age in his fusion of urbanity and authoritative insight. This politely incredulous man of the world is profoundly interested in mysticism, and still more in its practical manifestations. Nothing human is alien to him, and nothing is too transcendental to escape criticism.
In this frame of mind, habitual with him, he sat down to write _Pepita Jiménez_. The story is the simplest imaginable. Pepita, a young widow, is on the point of marrying Don Pedro de Vargas, when she meets his son Luis, a young seminarist with exaggerated ideas of his own spiritual gifts. Luis is a complete clerical prig, who disdains such everyday work as preaching the gospel in his own country, and vapours about being martyred by pagans. As he has not a vestige of religious vocation, the end is easily foretold. At some cost to her own character Pepita pricks the bubble, and all the young man’s aspirations melt into the air; he is made to perceive that his pretensions to sanctity are silly, marries the heroine who was to have been his stepmother, and subsides into a worthy, commonplace husband. In his _Religio Poetae_ Patmore praises _Pepita Jiménez_ as an example of ‘that complete synthesis of gravity of matter and gaiety of manner which is the glittering crown of art, and which, out of Spanish literature, is to be found only in Shakespeare, and even in him in a far less obvious degree.’ Patmore has almost always something striking to say, and even his critical paradoxes are interesting. We have no means of knowing how far his Spanish studies went, but we may guess that his acquaintance with Spanish literature was perhaps not very wide, and not very deep. As regards Pepita Jiménez his verdict is conspicuously right: it is conspicuously wrong with respect to Spanish literature as a whole. The perfect blending of which he speaks is as rare in Spain as elsewhere. In Valera it is the result of deliberate artistic method; his gravity is a necessity of the situation; his gaiety is rooted in his sceptical politeness. In his critical work his politeness is decidedly overdone; he praises and lauds in terms which would seem excessive if applied to Dante or Milton. He knows the stuff of which most authors are made, presumes on their proverbial vanity, and flatters so violently that he oversteps the limits of good-breeding. Some of you may remember the dignified rebuke of these tactics by Sr. Cuervo. But in his novels Valera strikes no attitude of impertinent or sublime condescension. He analyses his characters with a subtle and admirably patient delicacy.
A hostile critic might perhaps urge that Valera’s novels are too much alike; that Doña Luz is cast in the same mould as Pepita Jiménez, that Enrique is a double of Luis, and so forth. There is some truth in this. Valera does repeat the situations which interest him most, but so does every novelist; his treatment differs in each case, and is logically consistent with each character. There is more force in the objection that he overcharges his books with episodical arabesques which, though masterly _tours de force_, retard the development of the story. Now that we have them, we should be sorry to lose the brilliant passages in which the quintessence of the great Spanish mystics is distilled; but it is plainly an error of judgment to assign them to Pepita. However, this objection applies less to _Doña Luz_ than to _Pepita Jiménez_, and it applies not at all to _El Comendador Mendoza_—doubtless a transfigured piece of autobiography, both poignant and gracious in its evocation of a far-off passion. And in his shorter stories Valera often attains a magical effect of disquieting irony. Most authors write far too much, either from necessity or from vanity, and Valera, who was too acute to be vain, wasted his energies in too many directions and on too many subjects. Still he has improvised comparatively little in the shape of fiction, and, even in extreme old age, when the calamity of blindness had overtaken him, he surprised and enchanted his admirers with more than one arresting volume. Speaking broadly, the characteristics of the best Spanish art are force and truth, and in these respects Valera holds his own. Yet he is more complicated and elaborate than Spaniards are wont to be. His work is penetrated with subtleties and reticences; his force is scrupulously measured, and his truth is conveyed by implication and innuendo, never by emphasis nor crude insistency. Compared with his exquisite adjustment of word to thought, the methods of other writers seem coarse and brutal. You may refuse to recognise him as a great novelist, if you choose; but it is impossible to deny that he was a consummate literary artist.
At this point I should prefer to bring my review to a close. The authors of whom we have been speaking belong to history. So, too, does Leopoldo Alas, the author of _La Regenta_, an analytical novel which will be read long after his pungent criticisms are forgotten, though as a critic he did excellent work. It is a more delicate matter to judge contemporaries. You will not expect me to compile a list of names as arid and interminable as an auctioneer’s catalogue. How many important novelists are there in France, or England, or Russia? Not more than two or three in each, and we shall be putting it fairly high if we assume that Spain has as many notable novelists as these three countries put together. Passing by a crowd of illustrious obscurities, we meet with Benito Pérez Galdós, and with innumerable examples of his diffuse talent. Copiousness has always been more highly esteemed in Spain than elsewhere, and in this particular Pérez Galdós should satisfy the exacting standard of his countrymen. But to some of us copiousness is no great recommendation. There are forty volumes in the series of _Episodios Nacionales_, and who knows how many more in the series of _Novelas Españolas Contemporáneas_? Frankly there is a distasteful air of commercialism in this huge and punctual production. It would seem as though in Spain, as in England, literature is in danger of becoming a business, and of ceasing to be an art. This is not the way in which masterpieces have been written hitherto; but masterpieces are rare, and there is no recipe for producing them.
If there had been, we may feel sure that Pérez Galdós would have hit upon it, for his acumen and perseverance are undoubted. Not one of the _Episodios Nacionales_ is a great book, but also not one is wanting in great literary qualities—the faculty of historical reconstruction, the evaluation of the personal factor in great events, and the gift of picturesque detail. If the power of concentration were added to his profuse equipment, Pérez Galdós would be an admirable master. Even as it is, to any one who wishes to obtain—and in the most agreeable way—a just idea of the political and social evolution of Spain from the time of Charles IV. to the time of the Republic, the _Episodios Nacionales_ may be heartily commended. And, in these crowded pages, some figures stand out with remarkable saliency—as, for instance, the guerrilla priest in _Carlos VI. en la Rápita_, a volume which shows the author to be unwearied as he draws near the end of his long task, and as vivid as ever in historical narrative. He is, moreover, an astute observer of the present, far-seeing in _Fortunata y Jacinta_ and humoristic in _El Doctor Centeno_. You perhaps remember the description of the cigar which Felipe smoked, the account of the banquet presided over by the solemn and amiable Don Florencio—Don Florencio with alarming eyebrows, so thick and dark that they looked like strips of black velvet. These peculiarities are hit off in Dickens’s best manner, and yet with a certain neutral touch. Not that Pérez Galdós is habitually neutral: he is an old-fashioned Liberal with a thesis to prove—the admirable thesis that liberty is the best thing in the world. But this is not an obviously Spanish idea. The modernity of Pérez Galdós is exotic in Spain. He gives us an interesting view of Spanish society in all its aspects. Still,—let us never forget it,—the picture is painted not by a native, but by a colonial, hand. Born in the Canary Islands, Pérez Galdós lives in Spain, but is not of it; he dwells a little apart from the high road of its secular life. And this lends a peculiar value to his presentation; for what it loses in force, it gains in objectivity.
A foreign influence is unquestionably visible in the novels of both Armando Palacio Valdés and the Condesa Pardo Bazán—perhaps the most gifted authoress now before the public. The existence of this foreign element is denied by partisans, but it would not be disputed by the writers themselves. Was not the Condesa Pardo Bazán the standard-bearer of French naturalism in Spain during the early nineties? We are apt to forget it, for what she then called ‘the palpitating question’ palpitates no more. Who can read the Condesa Pardo Bazán’s _Madre Naturaleza_ without being reminded of Zola, or Palacio Valdés’s _La Hermana San Sulpicio_ without being reminded of the Goncourts? Yet in _La Hermana San Sulpicio_, where Gloria is the very type of the sparkling Andalusian, and in the still more charming _Marta y María_ which appeared some years earlier, there is a genuine original talent which fades out in _La Espuma_ and _La Fe_. In these last two books Palacio Valdés does moderately well what half a dozen French novelists had done better. One vaguely feels that Palacio Valdés is losing his way, but he finds it again in the Spanish atmosphere of _Los Majos de Cádiz_ where we see Andalusia once more through Asturian spectacles. As to the Condesa Pardo Bazán, she has unfortunately diffused her energies in all directions. No one can succeed in everything—as a poet, a romancer, an essayist, a critic, a lecturer, and a politician. Yet the Condesa Pardo Bazán is all this, and more. We would gladly exchange all her miscellaneous writings for another novel like _Los Pazos de Ulloa_, where the peasant is displayed in a light which must have pained Pereda. Is Galicia so different from the Mountain? But extremes meet at last. Dr. Máximo Juncal in _La Madre Naturaleza_ thinks with Pereda that townsfolk are beyond salvation: only—and the difference is capital—he would leave nature to work her will without the restraints of traditional ethics. Clearly all women are not hampered by timidity and conservative instincts! But Palacio Valdés may be read for the constant, acrid keenness of his appreciation of character, and the Condesa Pardo Bazán for her vigorous portraiture of the Galician peasantry, and her art as a landscape painter.
We have the measure of what they can do, and they are at least as well known out of Spain as they deserve. A more enigmatic personality is Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. It is the charm of most modern Spanish novelists that they are intensely local. Pérez Galdós is an exception; but Valera is at his best in Andalusia, Pereda in Cantabria, Palacio Valdés in Asturias, and the Condesa Pardo Bazán in Galicia. Blasco Ibáñez is a Valencian; he knows the orchard of Spain as Mr. Hardy knows Dorsetshire, and he is most himself in the Valencian surroundings of _Flor de Mayo_, _La Barraca_, and _Cañas y barro_. But his allegiance is divided between literature and politics. Not content with propagating his ideas in the columns of his newspaper, _El Pueblo_, he propagates them under cover of fiction. He is the novelist of the social revolution, and the revolution is needed everywhere. The scene of _La Catedral_ is laid in Toledo, the scene of _El Intruso_ in Bilbao, and in _La Horda_ we have the proletariate of Madrid in squalid truthfulness. Each of these is a _roman à thèse_, or, if you prefer it, an incitement to rebellion. Blasco Ibáñez is the apostle of combat, he knows the strength of the established system, and his revolutionary heroes die defeated by the organised forces of social and ecclesiastical conservatism. But he is fundamentally optimistic, convinced that the final victory of the revolution is assured if the struggle be maintained. We may not sympathise with his views, and may doubt whether they will prevail; but the gospel of constancy in labour needs preaching in Spain, and Blasco Ibáñez preaches it with impressive (and sometimes rather incorrect) eloquence. His latest story, _La Maja desnuda_, is more in the French manner, but it is no mere imitation; it is original in treatment, a record of gradual disillusion, a painful, cruel, true account of the intense wretchedness of a pair who once were lovers. Blasco Ibáñez has given us three or four admirable novels, and he is still young enough to reconsider his theories, and to grow in strength and sanity.
He is not alone. In _Paradox_, _Rey_, and in _Los últimos románticos_ Pío Baroja introduces a fresh and reckless note of social satire, while novelty of thought and style characterise Martínez Ruiz in _Las confesiones de un pequeño filósofo_ and Valle-Inclán in _Flor de Santidad_ and _Sonata de otoño_. These are the immediate hopes of the future. But prophecy is a vain thing: the future lies on the knees of the gods.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] ‘Nierva’ in Eugenio de Ochoa, _Rimas inéditas_ (Paris, 1851), p. 305.
[2] The Archpriest’s poems are preserved in three ancient manuscripts known respectively as the Gayoso, Toledo, and Salamanca MSS. (1) The Gayoso MS. was finished on Thursday, July 23, 1389; it formerly belonged to Benito Martínez Gayoso, came into the possession of Tomás Antonio Sánchez on May 12, 1787, and is now in the library of the Royal Spanish Academy at Madrid. (2) The Toledo MS., which belongs to the same period, has been transferred from the library of Toledo Cathedral to the Biblioteca Nacional at Madrid. (3) The Salamanca MS., formerly in the library of the Colegio Mayor de San Bartolomé at Salamanca, is now in the Royal Library at Madrid: though somewhat later in date than the Gayoso and Toledo MSS., it is more carefully written, and the text is less incomplete.
[3] In a contribution to the _Jahrbücher der Literatur_ (Wien, 1831-2), vols. iv., pp. 234-264; lvi., pp. 239-266; lvii., pp. 169-200; lviii., pp. 220-268; lix., pp. 25-50. See the reprint in Ferdinand Wolf, _Studien zur Geschichte der spanischen und portugiesischen Nationalliteratur_ (Berlin, 1859).
[4]
Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis, Ut possis animo quemvis sufferre laborem.—_Disticha_, iii. 6.
[5] In _Letters from an English Traveller in Spain, in 1778, on the origin and progress of Poetry in that Kingdom_ (London, 1781). This work was published anonymously by John Talbot Dillon, who acknowledges his ‘particular obligations’ to the works of Luis José Velázquez, López de Sedano, and Sarmiento.
[6] _Romancero General, ó Colección de romances castellanos anteriores al siglo XVIII. recogidos, ordenados, clasificados y anotados por Don Agustín Durán_ (Madrid, 1849-1851). This collection forms vol. x. and vol. xvi. of the _Biblioteca de Autores Españoles_.
_Primavera y Flor de romances publicada con una introducción y notas por D. Fernando José Wolf y D. Conrado Hofmann_ (Berlin, 1856).
Throughout the present lecture the references to the _Primavera_ are to the second enlarged edition issued by Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo at Madrid in 1899-1900.
[7] _Sammlung der besten, alten Spanischen Historischen, Ritter- und Maurischen Romanzen. Geordnet und mit Anmerkungen und einer Einleitung versehen von Ch. B. Depping_ (Altenburg und Leipzig, 1817).
[8] In the _Avertissement_ to _Le Cid_ (editions of 1648-56), Corneille quotes two ballads from the _Romancero general_:
(_a_) Delante el rey de León Doña Jimena una tarde...
(_b_) Á Jimena y á Rodrigo prendió el rey palabra y mano.
They are given in Durán, Nos. 735 and 739.
[9] _Traitté de l’origine des romans_, preceding Segrais’ _Zayde, Histoire Espagnole_ (Paris, 1671), p. 51.
[10] _Primavera_ (Apéndices), No. 17.
[11] _Ibid._ (Apéndices), No. 18.
[12] _Primavera_, No. 5; Durán, No. 599.
[13] _Anseis von Karthago._ _Herausgegeben von Johann Alton_, 194ste Publication des Litterarischen Vereins in Stuttgart. (Tübingen, 1892.)
[14] _Primavera_, No. 5_a_; Durán, No. 602.
[15] James Young Gibson, _The Cid Ballads, and other Poems and Translations from Spanish and German_ (London, 1887).
[16] _Primavera_, No. 7; Durán, No. 606.
[17] _Orientales_, XVI. Victor Hugo may probably have heard of this _romance_, and of the Lara _romance_ mentioned on pp. 91-92, through his elder brother Abel, who gave prose translations of both ballads in his _Romances historiques_ (Paris, 1822), pp. 11-12, 135-137.
[18] Durán, No. 586. Durán points out the absurd impropriety of the line:—
Sabrás, mi florida Cava, que de ayer acá, no vivo.
The ending of this _romance_ is far better known than the beginning:—
Si dicen quien de los dos la mayor culpa ha tenido, digan los hombres ‘La Cava,’ y las mujeres ‘Rodrigo.’
[19] _Primavera_, No. 13_a_; Durán, No. 654.
[20] Durán, No. 646. _The Complaint of the Count of Saldaña_, as Lockhart entitles it, is from Durán, No. 625:—
Bañando está las prisiones con lágrimas que derrama.
_The Funeral of the Count of Saldaña_ is from Durán, No. 657:—
Hincado está de rodillas ese valiente Bernardo.
_Bernardo and Alphonso_ is from Durán, No. 655:—
Con solos diez de los suyos ante el Rey, Bernardo llega.
[21] Durán, No. 617.
[22] _Primavera_, No. 15; Durán, No. 700.
[23] _Primavera_, No. 17; Durán, No. 704.
[24] _Primavera_, No. 16; Durán, No. 703.
[25] Durán, No. 686.
No se puede llamar rey quien usa tal villanía.
[26] _Primavera_, No. 26; Durán, No. 691.
[27] _Primavera_, No. 19; Durán, No. 665.
[28] _Primavera_, No. 24.
[29] _Primavera_, No. 25.
[30] Durán, No. 721.
[31] _Primavera_, No. 27.
[32] _Primavera_, No. 29; Durán, No. 731.
[33] Durán, No. 732.
[34] Durán, No. 737.
[35] Durán, No. 738.
[36] Durán, No. 740.
[37] Durán, No. 742.
[38] Durán, No. 886. Lockhart begins at the line—
El rey aguardara al Cid como á bueno y leal vasallo.
[39] _Primavera_, No. 34; Durán, No. 756.
[40] _Primavera_, No. 30_b_; Durán, No. 733.
[41] The other two are (_a_) _Primavera_, No. 30:—
Cada dia que amanece veo quien mató á mi padre.
(b) _Primavera_, No. 61_a_, and Duran, No. 922:—
En Burgos está el buen rey don Alonso el Deseado.
[42] _Primavera_, No. 42_a_; Durán, No. 775.
[43] _Primavera_, No. 50; Durán, No. 1897.
[44] _Primavera_, No. 35; Durán, No. 762.
[45] _Primavera_, No. 45; Durán, No. 777.
[46] _Primavera_, No. 47; Durán, No. 791.
[47] _Primavera_, No. 54; Durán, No. 816.
[48] _Primavera_, No. 55; Durán No. 858.
[49] Durán, No. 935.
[50] Durán, No. 933.
[51] _Primavera_, No. 65; Durán, No. 966.
[52] _Primavera_, No. 68; Durán, No. 972.
[53] Durán, No. 978.
[54] Durán, No. 979.
[55] Durán, No. 981.
[56] _Primavera_, No. 101_a_; Durán, No. 1227.
[57] _Primavera_, No. 72; Durán, No. 1046.
[58] Durán, No. 1082.
[59] _Primavera_, No. 95; Durán, No. 1088.
[60] _The Departure of King Sebastian_, referring to the expedition of 1578, is obviously modern; the original is to be found in Durán, No. 1245:—
Una bella lusitana, dama ilustre y de valía.
[61] _Primavera_, No. 96_a_; Durán, 1086.
[62] _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ (London, 1765), vol. i., pp. 319-323. Percy’s version begins as follows:—
Gentle river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow’d shore.
All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors Join’d in fierce and mortal fight.
Lords, and dukes, and noble princes On thy fatal banks were slain; Fatal banks that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain.
Percy also gives an adaptation of Durán, No. 53:—
Por la calle de su dama paseando se halla Zaide.
In a preliminary note he says:—‘The Spanish editor pretends (how truly I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language. Indeed the plain, unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, prove that they are ancient; or, at least, that they were written before the Castillians began to form themselves on the model of the Tuscan poets, and had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement which has for these two centuries past so miserably infected the Spanish poetry, and rendered it so unnatural, affected, and obscure.’
[63] _Primavera_, No. 85a; Durán, No. 1064. Byron’s adaptation is entitled _A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama, which, in the Arabic language is to the following purport_:—
The Moorish king rides up and down, Through Granada’s royal town; From Elvira’s gates to those Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell, How Alhama’s city fell: In the fire the scroll he threw, And the messenger he slew. Woe is me, Alhama! etc.
Ginés Pérez de Hita states that this ballad was originally written in Arabic, and that the inhabitants of Granada were forbidden to sing it. Possibly the _romance_ was suggested by some Arabic song on the loss of Alhama.
[64] _Primavera_ (Apéndices), No. 18.
[65] Published at Sevillo in 1588, and reprinted at Jaén in 1867.
[66] _Primavera_, No. 71; Durán, No. 1039.
[67] _Primavera_, No. 79; Durán, No. 1073.
[68] See M. R. Foulché-Delbosc’s edition (Macon, 1904), p. 189.
Aquel que tu vees con la saetada, que nunca mas faze mudança del gesto, mas, por virtud de morir tan onesto, dexa su sangre tan bien derramada sobre la villa no poco cantada, el adelantado Diego de Ribera es el que fizo la vuestra frontera tender las sus faldas mas contra Granada.
[69] _Primavera_, No. 74; Durán, No. 1043.
[70] _Primavera_, No. 78_a_; Durán, No. 1038.
[71] _Primavera_, No. 88; Durán, No. 1102.
[72] _Primavera_, No. 134; Durán, No. 1131.
[73] _Primavera_, No. 93; Durán, No. 1121.
[74] The original of _The Bull-fight of Gazul_ is Durán, No. 45:—
Estando toda la corte de Almanzor, rey de Granada.
It appears first in the _Romancero general_: so also does the original of _The Zegri’s Bride_, Durán, No. 188.
Lisaro que fue en Granada cabeza de los Cegríes.
_The Bridal of Andalla_ represents Durán, No. 128:—
Ponte á las rejas azules, deja la manga que labras.
The verses entitled _Zara’s Earrings_ are altogether out of place in this section. The orientalism is Lockhart’s own; there is n_o_ mention of ‘Zara,’ ‘Muça,’ ‘Granada,’ ‘Albuharez’ daughter,’ and ‘Tunis’ in the original, which will be found in Durán, N_o_. 1803.
¡La niña morena, que yendo á la fuente perdió sus zarcillos, gran pena merece!
_The Lamentation for Celin_ represents a poem first printed in the _Romancero general_, and given in Durán, No. 126.
[75] _Primavera_, No. 132; Durán, No. 3.
[76] _Primavera_, No. 193; Durán, No. 373.
[77] _Primavera_, No. 171; Durán, No. 374.
[78] Durán, No. 379.
[79] _Primavera_, No. 184; Durán, No. 400.
[80] _Primavera_, No. 186; Durán, No. 402.
[81] _Primavera_, No. 151; Durán, No. 295.
[82] _Primavera_, No. 150; Durán, No. 294.
[83]
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me.
Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore!
Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor’s mystic song.
Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;—
Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;—
How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear,
Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried with impulse strong,— ‘Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!’
‘Wouldst thou,’ so the helmsman answered, ‘Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!’
[84] _Primavera_, No. 153; Durán, No. 286.
[85] Depping, IV., No. 19, p. 418:—
À coger el trebol, Damas! La mañana de san Juan, À coger el trebol, Damas! Que despues no avrà lugar.
[86] _Primavera_, No. 124; Durán, No. 8.
[87] Durán, No. 1808.
[88] _Primavera_, No. 125; Durán, No. 300.
[89] _Romancero general_ (Madrid, 1604), p. 407_v_.
[90] Durán, No. 1454.
[91] Durán, No. 292.
[92] _Ibid._, No. 274.
[93] _Primavera_, No. 116; Durán, No. 1446.
[94] _Primavera_, No. 147; Durán, No. 351.
[95] _Primavera_, No. 142; Durán, No. 1459.
[96] _Primavera_, No. 131; Durán, No. 255.
[97] _Primavera_, No. 163; Durán, No. 365.
[98] _XV. Romances_. (Ordenólos R. Foulché-Delbosc.) Barcelona [1907].
[99] _Los Lunes de El Imparcial_ (9 de Julio de 1906): ‘_El peor enemigo de Cervantes._’
[100] The present lecture was first delivered at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, on November 25, 1907.
[101] Yet Quinault had already adapted _El galán fantasma_ under the title of _Le Fantôme amoureux_, which is the source of Sir William Lower’s _Amorous Fantasme_ (1660), and there are other French imitations by Quinault, Scarron, and Thomas Corneille. Calderón was popular in Italy. As early as 1654, Cardinal Giulio Rospigliosi (afterwards Clement IX.) based on _No siempre lo peor es cierto_ the libretto of _Dal male il bene_, which was set to music by Antonio Maria Abbatini and Marco Marazzoli. In 1656 _El mayor monstruo los celos_ was arranged for the Italian stage by Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, who afterwards produced many other adaptations of Calderón’s plays: see an interesting and learned article by Dr. Arturo Farinelli in _Cultura Española_ (Madrid, February 1907), pp. 123-127.
[102] If Calderón be really the author of the _sainete_ entitled _El Labrador Gentilhombre_ printed at the end of _Hado y divisa de Leonido y Marfisa_, he had evidently read Molière’s _Bourgeois gentilhomme_. But the authorship of this _sainete_ is uncertain.
[103] Most Spaniards who ridicule Calderón for using _hipogrifo_ accentuate the word wrongly in speech and writing. _Hipógrifo_ is a mistake; the word is not a _palabra esdrújula_, as may be seen from Lope de Vega’s use of it in _La Gatomaquia_ (silva vii.):—
Que vemos en Orlando el hipogrifo, monstruo compuesto de caballo y grifo.
Calderón himself gives it as a palabra llana in his _auto_ entitled _La lepra de Constantino_. For other examples, see Rufino José Cuervo, _Apuntaciones críticas sobre el lenguaje bogotano con frecuente referencia al de los países de Hispano-América_. Quinta edición (Paris, 1907), pp. 11-12.
[104] Pedro Jozé Suppico de Moraes, _Collecção politica de apothegmas, ou ditos agudos, e sentenciosos_ (Coimbra, 1761), Parte 1., pp. 337-338.
[105] Zamora’s arrangement of Calderón’s _auto_ entitled _El pleito matrimonial_ was played at the Príncipe theatre in Madrid on the Feast of Corpus Christi, 1762.
[106] Philip IV. is usually described as a man of artistic tastes, but the evidence does not altogether support this view. For instance, on February 18, 1637, at a poetical improvisation in the Buen Retiro, Philip set Calderón and Vélez de Guevara the following subjects:—(1) ‘Why is Jupiter always painted with a fair beard?’ (2) ‘Why are the waiting-women at Court called _mondongas_, though they do not sell _mondongo_ (black-pudding)?’ Time did not improve Philip. Some twenty years later, according to Barrionuevo, Philip arranged that women only should attend a certain performance at the theatre, and gave instructions that they should leave off their _guardain-fantes_ on this occasion. His idea was to be present with the Queen, and (from a spot where he could see without being observed) watch the effect when a hundred mice were suddenly let out of mice-traps in the _casuela_ and _patio_—‘which, if it takes place, will be worth seeing, and a diversion for Their Majesties.’ Owing (apparently) to remonstrances which reached him, Philip was compelled to abandon the project, but his intention gives the measure of his refinement. See an instructive article, entitled _Los Jardines del Buen Retiro_, by Sr. D. Rodrigo Amador de los Rios in _La España Moderna_ (January 1905); and the _Arisos de D. Jerónimo to de Barrionuevo_ (1654-1658) edited by Sr. D. Antonio Paz y Mélia (Madrid, 892-93), vol. ii, p. 308.
[107] It may be worth noting that the date of Pereda’s birth is wrongly given in all the books of reference, and he himself was mistaken on the point. He was born on February 6, 1833, and not—as he thought—on February 7, 1834.
INDEX
Abad de los Romances (Domingo), 53-54.
Abarbanel (Judas), 147.
Abbatini (Antonio Maria), 191.
_Abindarraez y Jarifa, Historia de_, 111.
Abentarique (Abulcacim Tarif), 88.
Achilles Tatius, 162.
Accursius, 44.
Acquaviva (Giulio), 123.
Æsop, 35.
Águila (Suero del), 60.
Aguilar (Alonso de), 105, 106.
—— (Gaspar de), 211.
Alarcón (Juan Ruiz de). _See_ Ruiz de Alarcón.
—— (Pedro Antonio de), 235-236.
Alas (Leopoldo), 246.
Albornoz (Gil de), 28, 29, 43.
Alcalá Galiano (Antonio Maria de), 2.
Alemán (Mateo), 149.
Alfonso V. (of Aragón), 76, 82, 104.
—— V. (of León), 93.
—— VI. (of Castile), 4, 5, 6, 7.
—— X. [the Learned], (of Castile), 21.
—— XI. (of Castile), 49.
_Alixandre, Libro de_, 25, 49.
Al-Kadir. _See_ Yahya Al-Kadir.
Almanzor, 93.
_Almería, Rhymed Latin Chronicle of_, 4.
Al-muktadir, 6.
Al-mustain, 6, 7.
Al-mutamen, 6.
Alton (Johann), 85 _n_.
Álvarez de Villasandino (Alfonso), 57.
_Amore, De._ _See_ Pamphilus Maurilianus.
Andrade y Rivadeneyra (Jerónimo de), 225.
_Anséis de Carthage_, 85.
_Apolonio, Libro de_, 25, 47.
Argote de Molina (Gonzalo), 53, 62, 71, 107.
—— y Góngora (Luis). _See_ Góngora y Argote (Luis).
_Athenæum, The_, 208.
Avellaneda (Alonso Fernández de). _See_ Fernández de Avellaneda (Alonso).
Ayala (Pero López de). _See_ López de Ayala (Pero).
Ayamonte (Marqués de), 149.
Bakna (Juan Alfonso de), 57, 75.
Balzac (Honoré de), 241.
Bancés Candamo (Francisco Antonio de), 207, 229, 230.
Baroja (Pío), 251.
Barrera y Leirado (Cayetano Alberto de la), 223.
Barrientos (Lope), 60.
Barrionuevo (Jerónimo de), 190, 230 _n._
Bella (Antonio de la), 129.
Bello (Andrés), 15.
Belmonte Bermúdes (Luis de), 185.
Beneyto (Miguel), 211.
_Beowulf_, 12.
Berceo (Gonzalo de), 25.
Bertaut (François), 190.
_Berthe, Roman de_, 113.
Blanca, wife of Enrique IV., 74.
Blanche de Bourbon, wife of Peter the Cruel, 102.
Blanco de Paz (Juan), 128, 129, 130, 135.
Blasco Ibáñez (Vicente), 250-251.
Boabdil [= Abu Abd Allah Muhammad], 105.
Boccaccio, 59, 61, 69.
Bodel (Jean), 26.
Böhl von Faber (Johan Nikolas), 233.
Boileau-Despréaux (Nicolas), 222.
Boisrobert (François Le Métel de), 183.
Bourget (Paul), 236.
Brentano (Clemens), 117.
Brillat-Savarin (Anthelme), 62.
Browne (Sir Thomas), 123.
Browning (Robert), 110, 174.
Brûlart de Sillery (Noel), 140.
Buckle (Henry Thomas), 218.
Burgos (Diego de), 68.
Byron (George Gordon, Lord), 107, 159.
Caballero (Fernán), 233-235.
Calderón de la Barca (Diego), 186, 188.
—— —— (José), 187, 188.
—— —— (Pedro), 144, 172; biography of, 184-193; works of, 193-209; 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 227, 229, 230, 232.
—— —— (Pedro), son of the dramatist, 189.
Calderona (María), 218, 224.
Calomarde (Francisco Tadeo), 232.
Cáncer y Velasco (Jerónimo de), 215, 225.
_Cancionero de Stúñiga_, 75.
—— _general_, 79.
Carlota, wife of Francisco de Paula de Borbón, 232.
Carpio y Luján (Lope Félix del), 166, 169, 171.
—— —— (Marcela del), 166, 171.
Carvajal, 75, 82, 83.
Castillejo (Cristóbal de), 118.
Castillo Solórzano (Alonso de), 226.
Castro y Bellvis (Guillén de), 23, 211, 226, 227.
Catherine of Lancaster, wife of Enrique III., 55.
Cava (La), 85, 87-88.
_Celestina, La_, 54, 71, 121.
Cellot (Louis), 183.
Cervantes (Cardinal Juan de), 74.
—— (Juan de), grandfather of the novelist, 120.
—— Saavedra (Andrea de), 132, 136, 139.
—— —— (Luisa de), 132.
—— —— (Magdalena de), 132, 139.
—— —— (Miguel de), 1, 2, 27, 41, 52, 87; life of, 120-141; as a poet, 142-145; _La Galatea_, 145-147; First Part of _Don Quixote_, 148-158; _Novelas Exemplares_, 158-159; _Viage del Parnaso_, 159-160; plays, 160; Second Part of _Don Quixote_, 160-162; _Persiles y Sigismunda_, 162, 164, 165, 168, 172, 173, 197, 204, 211, 231, 236, 240.
—— —— (Rodrigo de), father of the novelist, 121, 128, 132.
—— —— (Rodrigo de), brother of the novelist, 125, 126, 132, 136.
Chapelain (Jean), 191.
Charlemagne, 20, 85, 89.
Charles II., 191, 192, 219, 229.
—— V., 95.
Chartier (Alain), 68.
Chaucer (Geoffrey), 26, 32.
Chateaubriand (François-René de), 112, 232.
Chorley (John Rutter), 180, 181, 202, 208.
Christina, Queen of Sweden, 191.
Cicognini (Giacinto Andrea), 191 _n._
_Cid, Poema del_, 12-21.
—— _Romancero del_, 23.
—— The. _See_ Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo).
Clavijo y Fajardo (José), 207.
Clement IX., 191 _n._
Coello (Antonio), 187, 222-223.
Comella (Luciano Francisco), 232.
Conde (José Antonio), 80.
Córdoba (Gonzalo de), 105.
—— (Martín de), 127.
Corneille (Pierre), 24, 79 _n._, 183, 198, 199.
Corneille (Thomas), 191, 221, 223.
Cornu (Jules), 15.
Corral (Pedro del), 64, 85, 86.
Cortinas (Leonor de), 120, 128, 135.
_Crónica de Castilla_, 21.
—— _de Juan II._, 71.
—— _de Veinte Reyes_, 21.
—— _general_ (First), 19, 21, 86.
—— —— (Second [1344]), 21, 91, 98.
—— _rimada_, 22-23, 93.
—— _Troyana_, 86.
Crowne (John), 226.
Cruz y Cano (Ramón de la), 232.
Cubillo de Aragón (Álvaro), 345.
Cuervo (Rufino José), 200 _n._, 245.
Cueva (Juan de la), 96, 175.
Cunha (João Lourenço da), 222.
Dali Mami, 125, 126.
Damas-Hinard (Jean-Joseph-Stanislas-Albert), 15.
Dante, 25, 50, 61, 62, 69, 73, 183.
Depping (Georg Bernard), 79, 117 _n_.
Désirée, Queen of Sweden, 201.
Diamante (Juan Bautista), 199.
_Diana, La_, 121.
Díaz de Bivar (Rodrigo or Ruy), biography of, 1-11; epics on, 12-23; plays and poems on, 23-24; _romances_ on, 93-101.
—— de Toledo (Pedro), 68.
Dickens (Charles), 239, 248.
Díez de Games (Gutierre), 59.
Dillon (John Talbot), 53 _n_.
Dionysius Cato, 33.
Dolfos (Bellido), 4.
D’Ouville (Antoine Le Métel, sieur), 183.
Dozy (Reinhart Pieter Anne), 22, 80.
Ducamin (Jean), 31, 43.
Dunham (Samuel Astley), 2.
Durán (Agustín), 77, 78, 79 _n._, 84 _n._, 86 _n._, 87, 88 _n._, 90, 91 _n._, 92 _n._, 93 _n._, 94 _n._, 95 _n._, 96 _n._, 97 _n._, 98 _n._, 99 _n._, 100 n., 101 _n._, 102 _n._, 103 _n._, 104 _n._, 105 _n._, 106 _n._, 107 _n._, 108 _n._, 109 _n._, 110 _n._, 111 _n._, 112 _n._, 113 _n._, 114 _n._, 116 _n._, 117 _n._, 118 _n._
Emmanuel Philibert, Prince of Savoy, 154.
Enrique III., _El Doliente_, 55, 63.
—— IV., 56, 74, 75.
_Eremite qui s’enyvra_ (_L’_), 47.
_Eremyte que le diable conchia du coc et de la geline_ (_L’_), 47.
Erman (Georg Adolf), 114.
Escobar (Juan de), 94.
Eslava (Antonio de), 159.
Espronceda (José de), 233.
Euripides, 197.
Ezpeleta (Gaspar de), 136.
Fadrique, brother of Peter the Cruel, 102.
_Faerie Queene, The_, 73.
Fáñez Minaya (Alvar), 7, 9, 12, 20, 83.
Fanshawe (Richard), 223.
Farinelli (Arturo), 191 _n._
Ferdinand, Saint, 11.
—— VII., 232, 233.
Fernández (Pedro), 28, 29.
—— de Avellaneda (Alonso), 139, 160, 161.
—— de León (Melchor), 192.
—— de Moratín (Leandro), 232.
Fernando de Antequera, 55, 66, 108.
_Fernán González, Estoria del noble caballero_, 91.
—— —— _Poema de_, 91.
Fielding (Henry), 231.
Figueroa (Lope de), 124.
FitzGerald (Edward), 195.
Fletcher (John), 159.
_Floire et Blanchefleur_, 26.
Ford (John), 177.
Forneli (Juan Antonio), 190.
Foulché-Delbosc (Raymond), 72, 91-92, 108 _n._, 119.
Franqueza (Pedro), 154.
Frederic II., 25.
Frere (John Hookham), 14, 15.
Fuentes (Alonso de), 83.
Gálvez de Montalvo (Luis), 131, 146.
Gante (Manuelillo de), 190.
García (Sancho), 12.
Garci-Fernández, 12.
_Garin le Lohérain_, 22.
Gautier de Coinci, 25.
Gibson (James Young), 37, 86, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 108, 109, 114, 118.
Gil (Enrique), 233.
—— (Juan), 129, 130.
Girón (Rodrigo), 110.
Goethe (Johann Wolfgang von), 180, 195.
Gómez (Cristóbal), 212.
—— de Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco), 240.
Goncourt (Edmond and Jules de), 249.
Góngora y Argote (Luis), 74, 78, 84, 103, 111, 112, 144, 159, 164, 167, 172.
González (Fernán), 5, 13, 83; _romances_ on, 87-91.
—— del Castillo (Juan Ignacio), 232.
—— de Mendoza (Pedro), 68.
Gormaz (Gómez de), 23.
Gozzi (Carlo), 228.
Granson (Oton de), 26, 68.
Grimm (Jacob), 77.
Guardo (Juana de), 167.
Guerra (Manuel de), 196.
Guevara (Antonio de), 155.
—— (Luis Vélez de). _See_ Vélez de Guevara (Luis).
Guillaume de Machault, 26, 68.
Gutiérrez (Tomás), 134.
Guzmán (Juan de), 57.
—— (Luis de), 64.
Hallevi (Sh’lomoh). _See_ Santa María (Pablo de).
Haro (Luis de), 189.
Hartmann von Aue, 25.
Hartzenbusch (Juan Eugenio), 5, 61.
Hassan Pasha, 126, 127, 128, 129.
Heiberg (Johan Ludvig), 208.
Heine (Heinrich), 117.
Heliodorus, 162.
Heredia (José María de), 24.
Hernández Flores (Francisca), 163.
_Hernaut de Beaulande_, 91.
Herrera (Fernando de), 73, 149.
Hervieux (Léopold), 44.
Hofmann (Conrad), 78 _n._, 84, 93.
Heyne (Gotthold), 13.
Hita, Archpriest of. _See_ Ruiz (Juan).
Holberg (Ludvig), 226.
Huet (Pierre-Daniel), 80.
Hugo (Abel), 87 _n._
—— (Victor), 24, 87, 92.
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, 61.
Huntington (Archer Milton), 15.
Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio), 223.
—— —— (Diego), 66.
—— de Velarde (Alfonso), 104.
Ibn-Bassam, 8, 9, 10.
Ibn-Jehaf, 8.
Illán. _See_ Julian.
Imperial (Francisco), 62.
Irving (Washington), 112.
Isabel I., 56, 68.
—— wife of Juan II., 56, 75.
—— de Valois, wife of Philip II., 122, 142, 143.
Isla (José Francisco de), 231.
Isunza (Pedro de), 134.
Italicus, 71.
Jacobs (Joseph), 44.
Janer (Florencio), 31.
Jaufré de Foixá, 68.
Jeanroy (Alfred), 43.
Jerónimo (Bishop), 8, 9, 20.
Jimena, sister of Alfonso the Chaste, 89.
—— wife of the Cid, 2, 6, 9, 23, 93.
Jiménez de Rada (Rodrigo),
John of Austria, son of Charles V., 123, 124, 125, 130.
Jonson (Ben), 177, 179, 220.
Jove-Llanos (Gaspar de), 30.
Juan II., 55, 56, 57, 67, 72, 75, 82, 109.
—— de Austria, son of Philip IV., 218.
—— Manuel, 26, 44, 79, 81.
Juana, wife of Enrique IV., 74, 75.
_Judas_, 82.
Julian (Count), 85, 87, 88.
_Karesme et de Charnage_ (_Bataille de_), 47.
Kent (William), 124.
Konrad, 16, 25.
Lafayette (Madame de), 112.
La Fontaine (Jean de), 46.
Lainez (Diego), 2.
Lando (Ferrant Manuel de), 53, 57.
Lang (Henry R.), 58.
Lara, Infantes of, 83, 87, 91-92.
—— (Gaspar Agustín de), 194.
Lasso de la Vega (Gabriel Lobo), 87, 90, 110.
Layamon, 26.
_Lazarillo de Tormes_, 48, 121.
Leconte de Lisle (Charles-Marie), 24.
Legrand d’Aussy (Pierre-Jean-Baptiste), 47.
Lemos (Conde de), 139, 140, 141, 166.
León Hebreo. _See_ Abarbanel (Judas).
Lerma, Duke of, 154, 166.
Lesage (Alain-René), 183, 216, 221, 231.
Lidforss (Volter Edvard), 15.
Lockhart (John Gibson), 79, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111 _n._, 112, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118.
Longfellow (Henry Wadsworth), 115.
López de Ayala (Pero), 54, 64.
—— de Hoyos (Juan), 122.
—— de Mendoza (Íñigo). _See_ Santillana (Marqués de).
—— de Sedano (Juan Joseph), 53 _n._
Lotti (Cosme), 188.
Lowell (James Russell), 209.
Lower (William), 191.
Lozano (Juan Mateo), 192, 194.
Lucena (Juan de), 68.
Luján (Micaela de), 166.
Luna (Álvaro de), 5, 56, 58, 59, 64, 67, 71, 75.
—— (Miguel de), 88.
Luzán (Ignacio de), 180.
Macaulay (Thomas Babington, Lord), 73, 244.
MacColl (Norman), 142.
Macías, _o Namorado_, 57, 58, 69.
Madrigal (Alfonso de), _el Tostado_, 59.
Maldonado (López), 143.
Malón de Chaide (Pedro), 151.
Malpica (Marqués de), 166.
Manrique de Lara (Jerónimo), 164.
_María Egipciacqua, Vida de Santa_, 25.
Mariana, wife of Philip IV., 191.
—— (Juan de), 146, 153.
Marie de France, 26, 35, 45.
Marie-Louise de Bourbon, 192.
Marivaux (Pierre de), 231.
Marazzoli (Marco), 191.
Martínez de la Rosa (Francisco de Paula), 233.
—— de Toledo (Alfonso), 31, 54, 59.
—— Gayoso (Benito), 27 _n._
—— Marina (Francisco), 146.
—— Ruiz (J.), 251.
Masdeu (Juan Francisco de), 2.
Matos Fragoso (Juan de), 227, 228-229.
Medina (Francisco de), 149.
Medinilla (Baltasar Elisio de), 224, 225.
Mena (Juan de), 60, 62, 63, 68, 70-74, 108.
Mendoza (Antonio Hurtado de). _See_ Hurtado de Mendoza (Antonio).
Menéndez Pidal (Ramón), 15, 21.
Menéndez y Pelayo (Marcelino), 16, 70, 78 _n._, 84, 89, 90, 92, 103, 104, 110, 112, 119, 199, 201.
Meredith (George), 213.
Mesonero Romanos (Ramón de), 237.
Michaëlis de Vasconcellos (Carolina), 96.
Middleton (Thomas), 159.
Milá y Fontanals (Manuel), 22, 79, 89, 112.
Milton (John), 72, 165.
Mira de Amescua (Antonio), 199, 212, 226.
Molière, 49, 183, 223, 228.
Molina (Luis de), 138.
Moncada (Miguel de), 123.
Montalbán (Juan Pérez de). _See_ Pérez de Montalbán (Juan).
Montemôr (Jorge de), 118. _See_ also _Diana, La_.
Mora (Joaquín de), 233.
Moratín (Leandro Fernández de). _See_ Fernández de Moratín (Leandro).
Moreto y Cavaña (Agustín), 224-228.
Muhammad, El Maestro, 85.
Muñoz (Félez), 20.
Nájera (Esteban de), 84, 104.
Navas (Marqués de las), 165.
Nebrija (Antonio de), 78, 82, 118.
Nevares Santoyo (Marta de), 168, 169.
Nucio (Martín), 84.
Núñez de Toledo (Hernán), 72.
—— Morquecho (Doctor), 134.
Ocampo (Florián de), 21.
Ochoa y Ronna (Eugenio de), 2 _n_.
Olivares (Conde de), 170, 188, 218.
Ormsby (John), 15, 23.
Ortiz de Stúñiga (Íñigo), 71.
Osorio (Diego), 199.
—— (Elena), 165.
—— (Inés), 133.
Padilla (María de), 102.
—— (Pedro de), 131.
Palacio Valdés (Armando), 248-249, 250.
Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano (Catalina de), 131, 138, 139, 141.
Palafox (Jerónimo de), 129.
Pamphilus Maurilianus, 38, 39, 47, 48, 50.
_Panadera, Coplas de la_, 69, 71.
Paratinén (Alfonso), 28.
Paravicino y Arteaga (Hortensio Félix), 186, 187.
Pardo Bazán (Condesa de), 248-249, 250.
Paris (Gaston), 15, 16.
Patmore (Coventry Kersey Dighton), 245.
Paz y Mélia (Antonio), 230 _n_.
Pedro, brother of Alfonso V. of Aragón, 104.
Pepys (Samuel), 223.
Per Abbat, 13, 14.
Percy (Thomas), 106.
Pereda (José María de), 236-243, 250.
Pérez (Alonso), 146.
—— (Gil), 85.
—— de Guzmán (Alfonso), 189, 190.
—— —— (Fernán), 2, 56, 61, 62, 63, 64-66, 86.
—— de Hita (Ginés), 104, 105, 107 _n._, 110, 111, 112.
—— de Montalbán (Juan), 173, 177, 187, 212, 222.
—— Galdós (Benito), 53, 240, 247-248, 250.
—— Pastor (Cristóbal), 185.
Peter I. of Castile (the Cruel), 28, 49, 83; _romances_ on, 101-103.
Petrarch, 61, 69, 70.
Phaedrus, 35.
Philip II., 10, 130, 151.
—— IV., 170, 184, 187, 188, 190, 191, 205, 206, 222, 224, 229, 230.
—— Prince of Savoy, 154.
Pindarus Thebanus. _See_ Italicus.
Pius V., 10.
Pomponius, 44.
Ponce de León (Luis), 144.
—— —— (Manuel), 124.
_Primavera y Flor de romances_, 78, 81 _n._, 84, 86 _n._, 87 _n._, 90 _n._, 91 _n._, 92 _n._, 93 _n._, 97 _n._, 98 _n._, 99 _n._, 100 _n._, 102 _n._, 104 _n._, 105 _n._, 106 _n._, 107 _n._, 108 _n._, 109 _n._, 110 _n._, 111 _n._, 112 _n._, 113 _n._, 114 _n._, 116 _n._, 117 _n._, 118 _n._
Pulgar (Hernando del), 110.
Puymaigre (Count Théodore de), 50.
Puyol y Alonso (Julio), 27, 29, 44, 45, 48.
Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco Gómez de). _See_ Gómez de Quevedo y Villegas (Francisco).
Quinault (Philippe), 191 _n._
Quintana (Manuel José), 14.
Rabelais (François), 46.
Rasis, The Moor [= Abu Bakr Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Musa, _al-Razi_], 85, 86.
Regnier (Maturin), 48.
Renan (Ernest), 10.
Rennert (Hugo Albert), 75, 146, 162.
Restori (Antonio), 15.
Rey de Artieda (Andrés), 210.
_Reyes Magos, Misterio de los_, 25.
Riaño (Pedro de), 118.
Ribeiro (Bernardim de), 75.
Ribera (Diego de), 108.
Ríos (José Amador de los), 30, 58, 59.
—— (Rodrigo Amador de los), 230 _n._
Ritson (Joseph), 46, 47.
Robles (Blas de), 132.
—— (Fernán Alonso de), 55.
Roderick, 12, 13; _romances_ on, 83, 84-88.
_Rodrigo, Cantar de_. See _Crónica rimada_.
Rodríguez (Lucas), 90, 96.
—— de la Cámara (Juan), 74-76, 82, 83.
—— del Padrón (Juan). _See_ Rodríguez de la Cámara (Juan).
—— Marín (Francisco), 135.
Rojas (Ana Franca de), 131, 138.
—— (Tomás), 218.
—— Zorrilla (Francisco de), 61, 185, 214-222, 223.
_Roland, Chanson de_, 8, 16, 18, 89.
_Rolliad, The_, 71.
_Roman de la Rose, Le_, 49, 68, 73.
Romana (Marqués de la), 14, 15.
Rospigliosi (Giulio). _See_ Clement IX.
Rotrou (Jean de), 183, 220.
Rowley (William), 159.
_Ruderici Campidocti, Gesta_, 9, 13.
Rueda (Lope de), 122, 175, 176.
Ruffino (Bartolomeo), 143.
Ruiz (Juan), 25-54.
—— de Alarcón (Juan), 60, 172, 173, 184, 212, 213.
—— de Ulibarri (Juan), 13.
Saavedra (Isabel de), daughter of Cervantes, 138, 140.
Sainte-Beuve (Charles-Augustin), 143.
Saint-Pierre (Bernardin de), 232.
Saldaña (Conde de), 89, 90 _n._
Sánchez (Miguel), 175.
—— (Tomás Antonio), 14, 27 _n._, 30, 31.
Sancho II., 4, 5.
—— (Conde Don), 89.
Sandoval y Rojas (Bernardo de), 140.
Sannazaro (Jacopo), 145, 146.
Santa Cruz (Marqués de), 143, 165.
—— María (Pablo de), 56.
Santillana (Marqués de), 31, 53, 56, 62, 64, 66-70, 71, 81, 82, 83.
Sanz del Águila (Diego), 138.
—— del Río (Julián), 240.
Sarmiento (Martín), 53 _n._
Sarriá (Marqués de). _See_ Lemos.
Scarron (Paul), 191 _n._, 221.
Schack (Adolf Friedrich).
Schæffer (Adolf), 223.
Schiller (Johann Friedrich), 110, 180.
Schlegel (August Wilhelm von), 194, 195, 196.
—— (Friedrich von), 194, 196.
Scott (Walter), 102, 112, 232, 233.
Scudéri (Madelène de), 112.
Segrais (Jean Regnauld, sieur de), 80 _n_.
Sepúlveda (Lorenzo de), 83, 84, 87, 90, 93, 94, 101, 104, 105.
Sesa (Fifth Duke of), 124.
—— (Sixth Duke of), 168, 171.
Shakespeare (William), 48, 49, 153, 154, 159, 162, 167, 179, 182, 194, 204, 210.
Shelley (Percy Bysshe), 195, 198, 205.
Silva (Feliciano de), 147.
Smollett (Tobias George), 231.
Soeiro (Manoel), 174.
Solís y Ribadeneyra (Antonio de), 229.
Sophocles, 197.
Sosa (Antonio de), 130.
Southey (Robert), 23, 101, 244.
Sterne (Laurence), 231.
_Strengleikar_, 26.
Suppico de Moraes (Pedro Jozé), 205.
Tárrega (Francisco), 211.
Tennyson (Alfred, Lord), 176, 195, 196.
Thiber, 89.
Timoneda (Juan de), 87, 108, 109.
Tirso de Molina [_i.e._ Gabriel Téllez], 172, 184, 194, 196, 203, 208, 212, 213, 221, 226.
Torre (Alfonso de la), 59.
Torres (Francisco de), 28, 29.
—— Villaroel (Diego), 231.
Trench (Richard Chenevix), 195, 196, 198, 201.
_Tres Reyes dorient, Libro dels_, 25.
Trigueros (Cándido María), 218, 219.
Trillo de Armenta (Antonia), 166.
Trueba (Antonio de), 235, 236, 237, 238.
—— y Cosío (Joaquín Telesforo de), 232.
Tuke, Samuel, 223.
Turia (Ricardo de), _pseud._, 178.
Turpin (Archbishop), 8.
Urban VIII., 170.
—— (Count). _See_ Julian (Count).
Urbina (Diego de), 123.
—— y Cortinas (Isabel de), 165.
Valdivia (Diego de), 133.
Valdivielso (José de), 214.
Valera (Diego de), 58.
—— (Juan), 2, 243-246, 250.
Valle-Inclán (Ramón del), 251.
Vanbrugh (John), 216.
Vázquez (Mateo), 143.
Vega (Bernardo de la), 148.
—— (Garcilaso de la), _romances_ on, 110.
—— (Garcilaso de la), poet, 52, 144, 149.
—— (Leonor de la), 66.
—— Carpio (Félix de), father of the dramatist, 163.
—— —— (Lope Félix de), 23, 70, 77, 78, 84, 100, 133, 137, 139, 141, 144, 149, 150, 153, 159, 160; biography of, 163-172; character and tastes, 172-174; as a poet, 174; as a dramatist, 175-183; 184, 185, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 199, 200 _n._, 203, 204, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 218, 219, 221, 224, 226, 228, 229.
Vega Carpio y Guardo (Antonia Clara), 171.
—— —— y Guardo (Carlos Félix), 167.
Velázquez (Jerónimo), 133, 165.
—— (Luis José), 53 _n._
Vélez de Guevara (Luis), 104, 184, 205, 212, 221, 222, 226, 230 _n._
Veraguas (Duke of), 194.
Vera Tassis y Villarroel (Juan), 184, 185, 192, 193.
Verlaine (Paul), 208.
Verville (Béroalde de), 46.
Vicente (Gil), 118.
Victor Amadeus, Prince of Savoy, 154.
Vidal (Raimon), 68.
Villafranca (Marqués de), 136.
Villaviciosa (Sebastián de), 228.
Villegas (Pedro de), 186.
Villena (Enrique de), 60-64.
Vollmöller (Carl), 15.
Waller (Edmund), 177.
Warnke (Carl), 35.
Wolf (Ferdinand Joseph), 31 _n._, 44, 45, 47, 78, 84, 93.
Wolfram von Eschenbach, 25.
Ximena. _See_ Jimena.
Yahya Al-Kadir, 6, 7, 8.
‘Ysopete,’ 35, 45.
Zabaleta (Juan de), 229.
Zamora (Antonio de), 207.
Zárate y Castronovo (Fernando de), 224.
Zola (Émile), 249.
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