is reminiscent of the pantomime days of our youth. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly contents himself by remarking about this ballad that it scarcely calls for comment.

Count Fernan Gonzalez

"The Escape of the Count Fernan Gonzalez, which is based on the old Estoria del n.o.ble caballero Fernan Gonzalez," a popular arrangement of the Cronica General (1344), is later than two other ballads which Mr Kelly and others believe represent a lost epic which was worked into the Cronica in question. A wealth of legend certainly cl.u.s.tered round the name of this cavalier, and he has a string of romanceros to his credit. But are we to believe that in every case where ballads crystallize round a great name these are the broken lights of a disintegrated epic, worn down by attrition into popular songs? Is there, indeed, irrefragable proof that such a process ever took place anywhere? Or its reverse, for that matter? Practical writers of verse (if a writer of verse can be practical) do not take kindly to the hypothesis. They recognize the generic differences between the spirit of epic and that of folk-poetry, and prefer to believe that when both have fixed upon the same subject the choice was fortuitous and not necessarily evolutionary.

Fernan Gonzalez of Castile owed not a little of his romantic reputation to his wife, who delivered him from captivity on at least two occasions. On that celebrated in the ballad she played the part of a faithful lover and a true heroine. Gonzalez, taken by his enemies, had been carried to a stronghold in Navarre. A Norman knight pa.s.sing through that country requested the governor of the castle for an audience with the captive, and as he offered a suitable bribe the official gladly conceded the request. The interview over, the knight departed and sought the palace of King Garcia of Navarre, who held Gonzalez in bondage. One of the counts against the prisoner seems to have been that he had asked Garcia for the hand of his daughter, and to this princess, who secretly loved the captive, the knight now addressed himself:

The Moors may well be joyful, but great should be our grief, For Spain has lost her guardian when Castile has lost her chief.

The Moorish host is pouring like a river o'er the land: Curse on the Christian fetters that bind Gonzalez' hand!

At 'mirk of night' the Infanta rose, and, proceeding alone to the castle where Gonzalez was confined, proffered such a heavy bribe to the governor to set him at liberty that he permitted his prisoner to go free. But the hero was still hampered by his chains, and when the pair were stopped by a hunter-priest who threatened to reveal their whereabouts to the King's foresters unless the Infanta paid him a shameful ransom, Gonzalez was unable to punish him as he deserved. But as the wretch embraced the princess she seized him by the throat, and Gonzalez grasped the spear which he had let fall and drove it through his body. Shortly afterward they encountered a band of Gonzalez'

own men-at-arms, with which incident their night of adventure came to a close.

The Infantes of Lara

Few Spanish romanceros celebrate incidents more tragic or memorable than those which cl.u.s.ter round the ma.s.sacre of the unfortunate Infantes or Princes of Lara by their treacherous uncle, Ruy or Roderigo Velasquez. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly thinks that one of these originated from a lost epic written between 1268 and 1344, "or perhaps from a lost recast of this lost epic." Strange that such epics should all be lost! He pleads that Lockhart might have utilized other more 'energetic' ballads to ill.u.s.trate this legend, but I think in this does some despite to the very fine and spirited translation ent.i.tled "The Vengeance of Mudara":

Oh, in vain have I slaughter'd the Infants of Lara; There's an heir in his halls--there's the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Mudara, There's the son of the renegade--sp.a.w.n of Mahoun: If I meet with Mudara, my spear brings him down.

As I read these lines I recall a big drawing-room, the narrow cas.e.m.e.nts of which look upon a wilderness of garden woodland made magical by the yellow shadows of the hour when it is neither evening nor afternoon. Upon a table of mottled rosewood lies a copy of the Spanish Ballads in the embossed and fretted binding of the days when such books were given as presents and intended for exhibition. A child of ten, I had stolen into this Elysium redolent of rose-leaves and potpourri, and, opening the book at random, came upon the lines just quoted. For the first time I tasted the delights of rhythm, of music in words. The verses photographed themselves on my brain. Searching through the book until darkness fell, it seemed to me that I could find nothing so good, nothing that swung along with such a gallop. But the cup had been held to my lips, and my days and nights became a quest for words wedded to music. I had to look for some time before I encountered anything better than, or equal to, the haunting rhythm of "The Vengeance of Mudara." The years have brought discoveries beside which the first pales into insignificance, adventures in books of a spirit more subtle, carrying the thrill of a keener amazement; but none came with the force of such revelation as was vouchsafed by that page in an unforgotten book in an unforgettable room.

The first of the ballads in which Lockhart deals with the subject of the Infantes of Lara--for the one we have been discussing follows it--is ent.i.tled "The Seven Heads," and details the circ.u.mstance of the ma.s.sacre of the unhappy princes. From the Historia de Espana of Juan de Marinia (1537-1624) we learn that in the year 986 Ruy Velasquez, lord of Villaren, celebrated his marriage with Donna Lombra, a lady of high birth, at Burgos. The festivities were on a scale of great splendour, and among the guests were Gustio Gonzalez, lord of Salas of Lara, and his seven sons. These young men, of the blood of the Counts of Castile, were celebrated for their chivalric prowess, and had all been knighted on the self-same day.

As evil chance would have it, a quarrel arose between Gonzalez, the youngest of the seven brothers, and one Alvar Sanchez, a relation of the bride. Donna Lombra thought herself insulted, and in order to avenge herself, when the young knights rode in her train as she took her way to her lord's castle, she ordered one of her slaves to throw at Gonzalez a wild cuc.u.mber soaked in blood, "a heavy insult and outrage, according to the then existing customs and opinions of Spain." What this recondite insult signified does not matter. But surely, whatever its meaning, and making all allowance for the rudeness of the age of which she was an ornament, the lady did greater despite to herself than to her enemy by the perpetration of such an act of crude vulgarity. The slave, having done as he was bid, fled for protection to his mistress's side. But that availed him nothing, for the outraged Infantes slew him "within the very folds of her garment."

Ruy Velasquez, burning with Latin anger at what he deemed an insult to his bride, and therefore to himself, was determined upon a dreadful vengeance. But he studiously concealed his intention from the young n.o.blemen, and behaved to them as if nothing of moment had occurred. Some time after these events he sent Gustio Gonzalez, the father of the seven young champions, on a mission to Cordova, the ostensible object of which was to receive on his behalf a tribute of money from the Moorish king of that city. He made Gustio the bearer of a letter in Arabic, which he could not read, the purport of which was a request to the Saracen chieftain to have him executed. But the infidel displayed more humanity than the Christian, and contented himself with imprisoning the unsuspecting envoy.

In furtherance of his plans Velasquez pretended to make an incursion into the Moorish country, in which he was accompanied by the Infantes of Lara with two hundred of their followers. With fiendish ingenuity he succeeded in leading them into an ambuscade. Surrounded on all sides by the Saracen host, they resolved to sell their lives at the highest possible price rather than surrender. Back to back they stood, taking a terrible toll of Moorish lives, and one by one they fell, slain but unconquered. Their heads were dispatched to Velasquez as an earnest of a neighbourly deed by the Moorish king, and were paraded before him and in front of their stricken father, who had been released in order that Velasquez might gloat over his grief. When he had satisfied his vengeance the lord of Villaren permitted the stricken father to return to his empty home.

But Ruy Velasquez was not destined to go unpunished. While Gustio Gonzalez had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the Moorish King of Cordova he had contracted an alliance with that monarch's sister, by whom he had a son, Mudarra. When this young man had attained the age of fourteen years his mother prevailed upon him to go in search of his father, and when he had found his now aged parent he learned of the act of treachery by which his brothers had been slain. Determined to avenge the cowardly deed, he bided his time, and, encountering Ruy Velasquez when on a hunting expedition, slew him out of hand. Gathering around him a band of resolute men, he attacked the castle of Villaren, and executed a fearful vengeance upon the haughty Donna Lombra, whom he stoned and burnt at the stake. In course of time he was adopted by his father's wife, Donna Sancha, who acknowledged him as heir to the estates of his father.

We have already indicated the stirring nature of the ballad in which Mudarra takes vengeance upon the slayers of his brethren. Its predecessor in Lockhart's collection, that in which the agonized father beholds the seven heads of his murdered sons, falls far short of it in power.

"My gallant boys," quoth Lara, "it is a heavy sight These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night; Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, And blood of Moors, G.o.d rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain."

He took their heads up one by one,--he kiss'd them o'er and o'er, And aye ye saw the tears run down--I wot that grief was sore.

He closed the lids on their dead eyes, all with his fingers frail, And handled all their b.l.o.o.d.y curls, and kissed their lips so pale.

"O had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away.

The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbeliever's horn, And the last of all the Lara's line a Gothic spear had borne."

The Wedding of the Lady Theresa

"The Wedding of the Lady Theresa" is a semi-historical ballad which tells of the forced alliance of a Christian maiden to a n.o.ble worshipper of Mahoun. Alfonso, King of Leon, desirous of strengthening his alliance with the infidel, intended to sacrifice his sister, Donna Theresa, to his political necessities. He paved the way for this betrayal by pretending that Abdalla, King of the Moors, had become a Christian, and by indicating to her the benefits of a union with the pagan prince. Totally deceived by these representations, the lady consented to the match, was taken to Toledo, and wed to the Moor with much splendour. But on the day of the marriage she learned of her brother's perfidy, and when she found herself alone with the Moorish lord she repulsed him, telling him that she would never be a wife to him in aught but name until he and his people embraced the Christian faith. But Abdalla ridiculed her scruples, and took advantage of her unprotected state. As she had prophesied, a scourge fell upon him as the consequence of his wicked act. Terrified, he sent Theresa back to her brother, with an abundance of treasure, and she entered the monastery of St Pelagius, in Leon, where she pa.s.sed the remainder of her days in pious labours and devotions.

Sad heart had fair Theresa when she their paction knew; With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must go: That she, a Christian damosell, a Christian firm and true, Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe.

But all her tears and all her prayers, they are of small avail; At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale.

This ballad is no earlier than the sixteenth century, and seems to be based upon historic fact, and, as Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly points out, it confuses Almanzor and the Toledan governor Abdalla on the one hand and Alfonso V of Leon with his father, Bermudo II, on the other, and introduces chronological difficulties.

Pa.s.sing by the ballads of the Cid, to the subject-matter of which we have already done ample justice, we come to that of

Garcia Perez de Vargas

This Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly dismisses in a word, although it seems to me to merit some attention. De Vargas distinguished himself greatly at the siege of Seville in the year 1248. One day, while riding by the banks of the river, accompanied only by a single companion, he was attacked by a party of seven mounted Moors. His comrade rode off, but Perez, closing his visor, and setting his lance in rest, faced the paynim warriors. They, seeing who awaited them, made all speed back to their own lines. As he made his way back to camp Perez noticed that he had dropped his scarf, and immediately returned to seek for it. But although he rode far into the danger zone ere he found it, the Moors still avoided him, and he returned to the Spanish camp in safety. The ballad makes Perez recover the scarf from the Moors, who had found it and "looped it on a spear."

"Stand, stand, ye thieves and robbers, lay down my lady'spledge!"

He cried; and ever as he cried they felt his faulchion's edge.

That day when the Lord of Vargas came to the camp alone, The scarf, his lady's largess, around his breast was thrown; Bare was his head, his sword was red, and, from his pommel strung, Seven turbans green, sore hack'd, I ween, before Don Garci hung.

This last verse shows how strongly Lockhart was indebted to Scott for the spirit and style of his compositions. [52]

Pedro the Cruel

We come now to those ballads which recount the vivid but sanguinary history of Don Pedro the Cruel. Many attempts have been made to prove that Pedro was by no means such an inhuman monster as the balladeers would have us believe. But probability seems to be on the side of the singers rather than on that of the modern historians, who have done their best to remove the stain of his ferocious acts from Pedro's abhorred name. His first act of atrocity was that celebrated in the ballad ent.i.tled "The Master of St Iago," which refers to his illegitimate brother. On the death of that n.o.bleman, his father, well aware of Pedro's vindictive temperament, fled to the city of Coimbra, in Portugal. But, believing Pedro's a.s.severations that he had no intention of offering him violence, he accepted his invitation to the Court of Seville, where a gallant tournament was about to be held. No sooner had he arrived, however, than he was secretly put to death (1358), it is believed at the instance of the notorious Maria de Padilla, Pedro's mistress.

"Stand off, stand off, thou traitor strong," 'twas thus he said to me.

"Thy time on earth shall not be long--what brings thee to my knee?

My lady craves a New Year's gift, and I will keep my word; Thy head, methinks, may serve the shift--Good yeoman, draw thy sword."