The Pseudo-Historicity of the Romances of Chivalry

Daniel Eisenberg

Fiction, particularly prose fiction, did not have an easy birth. It represented the Renaissance's most radical departure from Classical literary models, and even though it met in many cases with overwhelming approval on the part of the book-buying public, it was rejected by purists and theoreticians until it had been established for generations, if not for centuries. This situation was aggravated by problems of vocabulary, as the complicated history of the words novela and roman illustrates. In Spain, the term historia had to serve a number of purposes in the sixteenth and, to a lesser extent, the seventeenth centuries¹.

To some authors of prose fiction, the ambiguous status of what they wrote was unimportant, or even a source of amusement, but others, especially the authors of the Spanish romances of chivalry, were conscious of it to a considerable degree. The present article is an attempt to examine how these authors resolved the question of the nature of their works by de-emphasizing their fictional quality, and, briefly, how Cervantes was influenced by them.

The difficulty facing the authors of the romances of chivalry was particularly severe because the romances marked the introduction of this new type of literature into Castile. Faced with a sudden demand on the part of a noble class turned sedentary after the conclusion of the reconquest², printers rapidly brought out editions of whatever chivalric material they could lay their hands on: El Baladro del sabio Merlín (1498), La Demanda del Sancto Grial (1500), La Historia de Carlomagno (1500), Tristán de Leonís (1501), and several other works, among which must be included some works of national history in which the chivalric element is stressed³. This first stage In the history of the Spanish romances of chivalry ended with the publication of the Amadís de Gaula (before 1508), the Sergas de Esplandián (before 1510), and the Caballero Cifar (1512)⁴. The publication of these works did not satisfy the demand, however, but rather increased it, and the supply of pre-existing romances having run low, the time had come for the production of additional ones.

The authors of the new romances, which were printed in large numbers during the following generation, had a model set for them by Montalvo, the person to whom we owe the version of the Amadís which has come down to us. At the beginning of his version, Montalvo says that the book:

Montalvo clearly presents himself as an editor, not the author, though taking liberties with his text which would not be permissible today. The idea of an earlier source, whose provenance is unclear, is stressed⁶. Throughout the work, he constantly uses formulae of historical writers: «dize la historia», «la historia contará adelante», «como la historia os ha contado»⁷.

Although sixteenth-century readers might have disagreed, we now know that Montalvo was truthful when speaking about an earlier source for Books I-III of the Amadís. When he comes to discussing Book IV, now taken to be his own work, he clearly distinguishes it from what he has done with the preceding books:

He reemphasizes this in the heading to the Sergas de Esplandián proper:

We see Montalvo thus metamorphosized from editor to translator, inasmuch as the language of his «source» has changed from archaic Spanish to Greek. The change in language is, of course, implied by the shift in locale from western Europe to the eastern Mediterranean¹⁰. Most striking, however, is that Montalvo had to claim it was written in a foreign language at all.

This fictional device (for that it is) solved several problems for Montalvo. It freed him of responsability for the work, except that of translating it correctly, while at the same time invested it with the allure of remote places, similar to the later use of eastern European locale in drama. Above all, it allowed the book to be presented as the work of an eyewitness, an official chronicler, similar to a historian such as López de Ayala, who both recorded events and participated in them¹¹.

Surely this pretense could not have been convincing more than once or twice. Yet, with the notable exception of Palmerín de Olivia, almost every sixteenth-century romance of chivalry I have been able to examine follows the example set by Montalvo, in that they are either «translations», or, in a few cases, «revisions» of an old Spanish text¹². A considerable variety of «original languages» is represented: English, German, Latin, Arabic (including Chaldean), Hungarian, and Phrygian, as well as the frequent Greek¹³. Official historians, similar to Elisabat, wrote some of the romances; we can cite Fristón, familiar from the Quijote, who recorded the deeds of Belianís de Grecia, and Novarco, chronicler of Cirongilio de Tracia.

Many of the later authors went beyond Montalvo's relatively unsophisticated device, however, and added additional details strengthening the presentation of themselves as mere translators. In several books we find two separate prologues, one of the «translator» and one of the «author». Such is the case with Lepolemo, a particularly interesting romance in view of its setting (North Africa) and the absence of fantastic elements. The Arab Xarton, who recorded the works of this Christian knight, introduces his work in a prologue full of Arabic formulae, and appropriately humble in tone:

He concludes pointing out that it is not strictly proper for him to be writing about a Christian, and noting that it was only at the Sultan's request.

Salazar's own prologue, directed to the Conde de Saldaña, is found under the heading «Prólogo del intérprete del presente libro». In it he explains how he came upon the book in «aquella barba la lengua arábiga» when he was a captive in Tunis, and translated it there. He points out his concern for what critics may say, but he would not want -a topos of historians- that «quedasen tan notables hechos en olvido, haziendo escudo que si la orden dél no está a placer de todos, echen la culpa al moro que lo ordenó, pues en mi traducir no he salido de su estilo»¹⁵.

Melchor Ortega, author of Felixmarte de Hircania, disguised his work through a series of translations, reminiscent of the medieval translation schools. The work was written, he tells us, by a certain Philosio Atheniense, translated from Greek into Latin by Plutarch (!), then from Latin into Tuscan by Petrarch (!!), from which language Ortega translated it into Castilian.

Returning to Montalvo, he also prefixed his own work with a story, at first glance ridiculously contrived, of how his source manuscript came into his possession. In the Sergas itself (Chapter XCIX), he describes how he came to know the conclusion of it, and how his writing is really at the request of Urganda la Desconocida. This story should be understood as adding to the historicity of the work, rather than detracting, as it is not as unbelievable as it looks at first glance. Many literary discoveries have been made under similar extraordinary circumstances. Most recently, we have seen the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, or in the preceding century the discovery of the largest known fragment of Menander in Egypt. In Hispanic studies, we can mention the aljamiado manuscripts buried in a box in the province of Zaragoza, or the jarchas found in a Cairo synagogue. How much more common this type of discovery must have been in the early Renaissance! The rediscovery of Heliodorus¹⁶, the manuscript of Catullus allegedly found in a Verona wineshop, or the discovery of Plautus early in fifteenth-century Italy¹⁷ are only some of the best-known examples¹⁸.

Various authors used this device of a fantastic story concerning the precedence of their manuscript. One of the more restrained is found at the beginning of Florambel de Lucea, where the author Enciso, criado of the Marqués de Astorga and presumably the author of Platir, claims the help of an unidentifiable friend:

The rôle of Enciso was merely that of correcting the translation²⁰.

In two works, Olivante de Laura and Marcos Martínez's Tercera parte del Espejo de príncipes y caballeros, we find a long prologue, in which the author undergoes an adventure reminiscent of that of Montalvo (Sergas de Esplandián, XCIX), which culminates in the receipt of the manuscript which he is charged with translating. In that of Martínez, who was more successful in his romance of chivalry than was Antonio de Torquemada, author of Olivante de Laura, the author explains in the prologue the extraordinary series of events which happened to him on Midsummer's Day. Having gone out from Alcalá de Henares to relax in the countryside, through a quarrel of love-struck shepherds he learns o£ the existence of the cave of Sifronio de Anglante. At first setting off to see it, when he decides to turn back because it is too far a wind picks him up and deposits him at the door, where the evil Selagio threatens to kill him, but is instead killed by Artemidoro and Lirgandeo (on whom see below). These give the bewildered Martínez a sword²¹, telling him he must kill with it «los nueve de la fama», beginning with King Arthur, who guard the cave. Having done this (for the sword was enchanted; presumably the guards were apparitions), he enters the cave, which has now turned into a palace, and is given a tour of all its murals of famous knights²², culminating in his receipt of the book, written in Greek and Latin in parallel columns.

Artemidoro and Lirgandeo are the two «authors» of the Espejo de príncipes y caballeros, characters created by Diego Ortúnez de Calahorra, author of Part I. By adding a second «author» Ortúñez imposed upon himself another requirement of the historian, that of evaluating and combining two different sources. The two occasionally disagree among themselves, as real historians might (one thinks of Alfonso el Sabio's compilers struggling to reconcile Lucas Tudense and Rodrigo Toledano):

In other romances of chivalry, we see other «histories» mentioned, as in the following quotation from Feliciano de Silva's Florisel de Niquea: «Y el príncipe Anaxartes [quedó] con su esposa, con tanto descanso cuanto con pena lo había deseado, que fue tanta por ambas partes cuanto su gran historia hace entera relación, porque como la reina Zirfea aquí de tantos hace relación, no pudo particularizar las cosas de cada uno, como en sus historias particulares se cuenta...»²⁴.

Closely related to their pseudo-historicity is a second characteristic of all the Spanish romances of chivalry, their deliberate inconclusiveness. The modern novel is normally expected to arrive at a logical conclusion and then stop, and although we make allowances for certain multi-volume works, no story is permitted to go on indefinitely; a conclusion must be reached sometime.

History, however, is not subject to the same restrictions, and in tacit recognition of the resistance of events to be broken down into logical segments, a certain amount of arbitrariness is accepted in the conclusion of a historical work. The authors of the romances of chivalry recognized this, and further simulated historical writers by deliberately accentuating the artificiality of the endings of their works. Although the physical book had to come to an end, the story does not, just as real events would not. Precisely when a happy resolution seems at hand, something occurs to prevent the «story» from ending. Characteristically, a new element, problem, or character is introduced, creating not only the possibility but the necessity of a sequel to the romance. For example, near the end of Part II of Belianís de Grecia²⁵, the conclusion of the work seems appropriate, as the various nations (Greeks, Trojans, Babylonians) taking part in the work are at peace, after a series of hostilities. Yet the seed of a new conflict is there, in a marriage designed to cement the peace; two knights desire the lady in question, and open warfare is about to break out again. To prevent this, Fristón, the magician/author of the work, whisks all the ladies of the court away and places them in an enchanted castle. The tranquillity in Babylonia ends as the knights start off to seek them out; at this point the book ends.

This inconclusiveness -sometimes only the birth of a son of whom great things are prophesized- might have served at times as a device to permit the author to continue writing, but it was felt as a requirement of the genre quite apart from the author's intentions. Thus, Jerónimo López, author of Lidamán de Ganail, Part IV of Clarián de Landanís, states that a continuation exists, but «quien saberlo quisiere junte la mano con el papel, y tome alguna parte del gran trabajo que yo he tenido en sacar esta crónica del lenguaje alemán en el vulgar castellano»²⁶. A similar statement is found at the end of the second Lisuarte de Grecia, Book VIII of the Amadís family²⁷.

Cervantes, of course, was aware of all of this in writing Don Quijote. If the authors of romances of chivalry found their manuscripts in remote places and incredible circumstances, he will find his being sold as waste paper in Toledo. (What were found under such circumstances were the ridiculous verses which conclude Part I). He speaks, at the end of Part I, of a continuation which could not be obtained, as did Avellaneda at the end of his continuation; perhaps Cervantes would have similarly concluded Part II, if his anger at Avellaneda had not led him to break an unwritten rule of the romances of chivalry and cause his protagonist to die. Cide Hamete has been, if grudgingly, recognized as inspired in the «chroniclers» of the romances of chivalry. In fact, particularly in view of his exaggerated concern for accuracy, he is a parody of them. The whole presentation of the Quijote as a history, rather than fiction, is based on this pretense of the romances of chivalry.