Some refreshers to help with the coming chapter

About the engenderment of the sons of Sir Galaor and King Cildadan, and what the Endriago was. 

View of the Lindajara garden in the Palace of the Nazaríes at the Alhambra. Photo by Sue Burke.
 
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I’d like to refresh readers’ memories about a couple of references coming in the next chapter, Chapter 123. It talks about events in Book II, specifically in Chapter 59.

In it, King Cildadan of Ireland had challenged King Lisuarte of Great Britain to a war, and the fighting force was limited to 100 knights on either side. Amadis of Gaul took part, disguised as Beltenebros. He rescued King Lisuarte when he was captured by a giant in battle, and helped win the war.

However, Sir Galaor and King Cildadan were badly injured, and when they were found after the battle was over, they seemed likely to die. Then twelve maidens arrived from the sea and carried the two men away, unconscious.

Sir Galaor awoke in a beautiful room in a garden. King Cildadan awoke in a tower. Both were receiving expert treatment for their injuries. Soon they realized they were in the custody of Urganda the Unrecognized, the powerful sorceress. Each was cared for by a beautiful damsel, nieces of Urganda and the descendants of a king, and in the course of the care, the damsels became pregnant.

Galaor’s son would be called Talanque and Cildadan’s Maneli, and as adults they would be very valiant and brave knights.

Chapter 123 also mentions that Amadis visited the court of the Emperor of Constantinople after he killed the fearsome Endriago. This horrible demon-monster was introduced in Book III, Chapter 73. He had taken over an island in the realm of the Emperor and had killed or driven off all its inhabitants.

Amadis had been traveling by ship and was blown off course to the island. When he learned about the monster, he decided to fight him as a service to God. After a fierce battle, Amadis killed him, but was badly injured. The demon’s “strong, sharp claws tore open all the armor on his back and the flesh and bones down to his entrails.” Only the services of the good doctor Elisabad saved Amadis’s life.

After Amadis was well, he traveled to the court of the Emperor of Constantinople, who welcomed him as a hero. There he met the Emperor’s young, charming daughter, Leonorina.

I hope this refresher helps you enjoy the coming chapter with a little less befuddlement.

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Why Cervantes claimed he didn't write Don Quixote

You’ll get a lot of jokes in Don Quixote only if you’ve read Amadis of Gaul.
 

Photo by Sue Burke.

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 In front of Spain's National Library in Madrid, a statue of Miguel de Cervantes stands with one foot resting on a pair of books. One of them is spine-out, and we can read its title: Amadís de Gaula (Amadis of Gaul).

In many ways, Cervantes satirizes (or pays homage to) that tale, including a characteristic element of novels of chivalry that began with Amadis of Gaul. An earlier version of Amadis had existed since the 1300s in the form of a three-book novel, but the only surviving version, by Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, was different, as Montalvo himself explains in his prologue:

"I corrected these three books of Amadis, such as they could be read, due to poor writers or very corrupt and dissolute scribes, and I translated and added a fourth book and a sequel, Sergas de Esplandián, which until now no one has seen. By great good fortune, a manuscript was discovered in a stone tomb beneath a hermitage near Constantinople, and it was brought by a Hungarian merchant to eastern Spain in such ancient script and old parchment that it could only be read with much difficulty by those who knew the language."

Of course, Montalvo himself wrote the fourth book and Sergas de Esplandián (Exploits of Espandian). Why lie about it? Because, as he himself put it, the novel "had been considered rank fiction rather than chronicles." By proclaiming it an ancient story and perhaps even forgotten history rather than fiction, it could obtain the status of works by Homer and Cicero.

He didn't seem to have fooled anyone, but he did set a pattern. Supposedly, the manuscript for the sequel Lisuarte de Grecia (Lisuarte of Greece) by Juan Díaz (1514) had been written in Greek in Constantinople and taken to Rhodes when the city fell to the Ottomans. Amadis de Grecia (Amadis of Greece) by Feliciano de Silva (1530) had been found in a wooden box behind a wall in a cave in Spain, hidden during the Moslem invasion in 711. Silves de la Selva (Silves of the Jungle) by Pedro de Luján (1546) was encountered in the magical sepulcher of Amadis himself, written in Arabic.

And so on. Manuscripts were discovered in distant castles and during voyages to far-off lands. Some were written in Hungarian, Latin, Tuscan, German, Chaldean, and "Indian" (Sanskrit, perhaps). A few were even supposedly written by characters from earlier novels.

Among the many jokes in Don Quixote whose punchline we have forgotten today is the one in Chapter IX. It recounts how, in a market in Toledo, a boy was selling some old paper to be reused. Cervantes looked at one of the papers, a pamphlet, and it turned out to be part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written in Arabic by Cide Hamete Benengeli. He purchased a translation of the pamphlets for two pecks of raisins and two bushels of wheat. This discovered manuscript, Cervantes claimed, became the basis of the rest of the first part of his novel. Rather than being found in some exotic place after a search filled with drama, difficulty, and great cost, Don Quixote was supposedly rescued from the garbage and translated on the cheap.

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A version of this article also appeared in Fall 2015 issue (pdf) of The Source, a quarterly publication of the American Translators Association Literary Division.

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An overview of Book IV

Hints of current affairs and new attitudes seep into the text. 

Queen Isabel I at prayer, as portrayed in the altarpiece at the church of the Miraflores Charterhouse in Burgos. She commissioned it in honor of her parents, who are buried in the church. Photo from ArteHistoria.
 
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In the late 1400s and early 1500s, Europe developed an interest – a fandom, in fact – for knighthood and chivalry. Tournaments, festivals, and new literary works dedicated to knights in armor and their feats entertained everyone. It was fueled both by a revitalized interest in historical traditions and by the newly invented printing press, which brought the price of books down to levels so low that the merely modestly wealthy could afford them. The reach of the printing press even extended to illiterate people, who could attend public readings of rented books, which became a popular form of entertainment.

In Britain, Le Morte d’Arthur by Thomas Malory was published in 1485, along with other chivalrous works; in France, Tristan was republished in 1489 and Lancelot in 1494; and in Austria, Emperor Maximilian I called himself the last knight and patronized chivalry in literature and art.

During those heady times, Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo decided to set his hand to renewing an old, prestigious Spanish chivalric classic, Amadis of Gaul.

As you may know, the novel originally consisted of three books. Book I is the oldest and dates back to around the 1330s. It tells how Amadis is born and raised, how he falls in love with Oriana, and how he saves her father, King Lisuarte, from a rebellion sparked by the evil sorcerer Arcalaus. Before the turn of the century, Books II and III were added. Book II tells how Oriana mistakenly spurns Amadis, who retreats to a distant hermitage, and after that misunderstanding is settled, treachery drives him from the court of King Lisuarte. Book III follows Amadis’s pursuit of fame as an anonymous knight-errant, eventually returning to rescue Oriana from a forced marriage to the Emperor of Rome.

Actually, the original Book III had a much different ending – more about that soon. No spoilers, but think in terms of George R.R. Martin: lots of death. Montalvo, writing at the end of the 1400s, changed the ending so that a fourth book could be added, as well as changing or adding occasional details in the earlier books. Then he wrote another novel, Las serjas de Esplandián (The Exploits of Esplandian), about the adventures of Amadis’s son, Esplandian.

One reason for these changes may have been the waning of the Middle Ages and the new sensibilities of the coming Renaissance: more triumphalism and apparently more aggressive piety as well. In the earlier books, Amadis is inspired by the frivolities of love, but Montalvo inserts, as best he can, inspiration in the glory of God and in the protection of Christendom, especially in the novel about Esplandian. Those moralizing little sermons that appear here and there even in the earlier books of Amadis come from Montalvo’s hand. It is also possible that Oriana’s conflicts to achieve the throne in Book IV mirror those of Queen Isabel I of Spain, whom Montalvo admired. Fighting styles change, too, with fewer one-on-one fights and more grand battles, reflecting new real-world warfare techniques, which had been used in the reconquest of Granada by Queen Isabel and King Fernando in 1492.

Montalvo also focuses more on Amadis, while earlier books featured an ensemble of characters in interlacing stories. The prose style in Book IV differs, too: Montalvo’s is more complex and less elegant, with a more Latinized syntax, than the earlier medieval prose. This does not always come through in the translation, which might not be a loss for you.

These changes in focus and attitude gave the novel new life and made it Europe’s first bestseller. Its popularity remained high throughout the 1500s. It also served as the inspiration for more than two dozen sequels and a hundred new chivalry novels with different characters in various languages all across Europe.

And now, the fourth and final book of the story of the greatest knight who ever lived is underway. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy bringing it to you.

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Welcome back

It’s time to start Book IV. 

From Horae ad usam romanum, a 15th century prayer book, at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, manuscript 1156B.
 
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After a brief summer vacation, we’re all back to start Book IV, the final section of Amadis of Gaul. The greatest knight in the world will face new and old foes and ever greater challenges.

Book IV differs in several ways from the earlier sections of the novel, as I’ll discuss farther on. For now, know that the chapters tend to be shorter, so I’ll be posting a translation every Tuesday instead of every other Tuesday. I’ll continue to offer commentaries about the text and the medieval world on occasional Thursdays.

As always, if you have questions or suggestions, please let me know. I hope you enjoy this landmark work in European literature in every way.

Your translator,

Sue Burke

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Medieval sidesaddles

They weren’t like modern sidesaddles at all. 

A Spanish sidesaddle from the 14th or 15th century. Photo from Georgia Ladies Aside.
 
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“Then her brother gave the reins of her horse to the childe, who took them and led them to the palace.” – Chapter 78.

Time and again we’ve read in Amadis of Gaul how some knight or nobleman takes the reins of a woman’s horse as they ride along. Is that mere chivalry? No.

As you probably know, women rode sidesaddle in the Middle Ages, but sidesaddles then weren’t like sidesaddles now. Modern sidesaddles have a pair of pommels, which are sort of like curved horns, that women can brace their legs around or against, as well as safety stirrups and other improvements. These allow women to jump fences and gallop safely.

Medieval sidesaddles weren’t exactly chairs mounted sideways on the horse, but that’s what they amounted to. The rider sat in a pillion or padded seat, and her feet rested on a planchette or footrest. A woman didn’t face the direction her horse was going, she sat perpendicular. And she didn’t sit especially securely.

That’s why they rode palfreys. A palfrey isn’t a breed of horse but rather a kind of horse, a lighter-weight animal with a smooth, ambling gait. This is much easier for the rider, and women had to avoid jolts.

So when a man takes a woman’s reins, he’s doing it because someone has to lead her horse. The woman is in no position to do so herself.

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Loyal Peak castle: Peñafiel

It’s open for visitors, and 100,000 come every year – for the wine. 

In 1917, it became a national monument.

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Few castles in Spain – and Spain has thousands of castles – are as striking and well-preserved as Peñafiel. It rises along the length of the tallest butte-like peak in Valladolid Province beside the River Duero. From there it can control movements in three river valleys, protecting an enclave at its feet.

Construction began in the 10th century at the site of an earlier fort known as Peña Falcón, “Falcon Peak.” The castle was taken and held by the Muslim ruler Almaznor for twenty years, and finally reconquered by Count Sancho García in 1013, who said, “Desde hoy en adelante esta será la peña más fiel de Castilla.” (“From now on this will be the most loyal peak in Castile.”) And so it became Peñafiel, Loyal Peak.

Over the next few centuries, the castle was expanded and often put to use. In 1112, King Alfonso I “The Battler” was besieged there by his wife, Queen Urraca, and in 1451 its owner, Juan of Aragón, led a revolt against Juan II of Castile. Although at times it served as a royal residence, it never lost its character as a military fortification.

Built directly on living rock, the castle takes the elongated shape of a ship: 150 meters/490 feet long and about 20 meters/66 feet wide. A three-storey high keep rises in the center.

These days it attracts visitors not just to admire its mighty stone walls. The north end of the castle houses the Provincial Wine Museum, which offers information about the history and culture of Ribera del Duero wines, along with guided tastings.

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 Vistor information
 
 Location: 41.596574, -4.113969

 and Video

Four medieval firsts

Inventions we still use today. 

Detail of Visit of the Angel by Master Bertram, from the Buxtehude Altar, Hamburg, 1400-1410. Notice that the Virgin, who is knitting, wears a dress with tight set-in sleeves while the child wears an older-style robe, with buttons.
 
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Knitting seems to have begun around 1000 A.D. in Egypt. Evidence of the first knitting in Europe comes from Moorish Spain in 1275, and it quickly spread around the continent. Central heating was still centuries away, so warm clothing mattered.

In about 1280, the first eyeglasses for reading came into use in Italy, but no one knows who invented them. Although they were useful for monks and scholars, there wasn’t much to read, so they didn’t take off until the printing press made books more available in the late 1400s – and soon Amadis of Gaul had become the Europe’s first best-seller.

Around 1330, the set-in sleeve came into use in Europe, discovered by some brave little tailor. The top of this kind of sleeve is rounded and set into a round armhole, and it’s the way most clothing is made today. Previously, sleeves were straight, often cut at the same time as the garment in a T-shape. This new kind of sleeve allowed both the bodice and sleeve to be fitted more closely, which created a fashion revolution because, at the same time, buttons and buttonholes came into wide use. Combined with the new sleeve design, they allowed garments to be tailored to fit snug to the body. Suddenly clothing got much sexier.

In 1402, Jean de Béthencourt led an expedition to conquer the Canary Islands for the King of Castile. A small yellow-green finch there had an amazingly beautiful song, and the natives had the custom of keeping the birds in cages to enjoy their singing. He brought the birds back to the royal courts of Spain and France. Soon the canary caught on and has since been bred into a variety of colors. They’re still popular pets here in Spain, and it’s common to hear one singing on a balcony as you walk down the street.

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The truth about good King Wenceslaus

“Good King Wenceslaus looked out on the Feast of Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even...” 

According to legend, Wenceslaus was holding this church door handle when he was struck down. Photo by Sue Burke.
 
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Christmas was an important holiday in the Middle Ages, and not just Christmas Day but all the time around it, starting with Advent in November and ending with the visit of the Magi in January. People feasted and drank, gave gifts, danced, and sang carols.

The carol about “Good King Wenceslaus” is only somewhat medieval. It was published in 1853 by John Mason Neale in Great Britain, the words inspired by medieval legends that described the king as pious and generous, constructing and visiting churches and giving to the poor. But Neale set it to a tune that was entirely medieval, originally for a 13th-century spring carol.

Wenceslaus was born in about 907 in Prague, son of the Duke of Bohemia. Legends say his family struggled between Christianity and paganism, but his Christian faith never wavered. He became the Duke at age 18 in 924 or 925.

In September 935, his brother Boleslav the Cruel and other nobles quarreled with him on the way to church and he was killed – legend says with his hand on the door of the church where he sought shelter from the attack.

Wenceslaus immediately became a saint and martyr with followers in Bohemia and England, extolled as a righteous king whose power arose in part from his piety. Holy Roman Emperor Otto I soon awarded him the posthumous title of king. Today he is the patron saint of the Czech Republic.

So although the words to the Christmas carol about Wenceslaus are modern, the tune and the sentiment in it come straight from the Middle Ages. Sing and celebrate during the holidays.

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After next week, a vacation

We’re halfway through Book III.

Your translator, Sue Burke, at the Torres dels Serrans, the triumphal entry gate to medieval Valencia. Photo by Jerry Finn.
 
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As usual, this blog will take August off after the post next week, July 22, which will finish Chapter 72.

When we meet again in September, the action will begin as the Knight of the Green Sword finds himself on Devil’s Island facing a hideous monster, the Endriago. Soon, he is traveling to Great Britain, where he must rescue Oriana....

In the meantime, you can learn more about me and translating in an interview with Lisa Carter at Intralingo’s Spotlight on Literary Translators:
http://intralingo.com/spotlight-on-literary-translator-sue-burke/

Remember that this blog is licensed under Creative Commons 4.0, so please feel free to use your summer to copy, distribute, display, share, or perform all or any part of it, or to create derivative works — for non-commercial use. Just say that you got it here. If you’re interested in commercial use, I can be very reasonable.

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The story of the madman in the bath

Let this be a lesson for you. 

The apodyterium or dressing room of the medieval public bath in Girona, Spain – an outstanding website worth a visit. Like Roman baths, it also had cold, warm, and hot rooms for bathing.

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Here’s a little medieval story with a moral and a punch line. It comes from El Conde Lucanor, a book written in 1335 by Sir Juan Manuel (1282-1348), Prince of Villena and nephew of King Alfonso X the Wise of Castile.

The book is filled with “exemplary stories” to help the fictitious Count Lucanor deal with his concerns. For example, this story blogged in March 2012 turns out to be the source for “The Emperor’s New Clothes” with the lesson that you should never trust people who tell you not to trust the people who have always been honest with you.

In Example XLIII, the Count has asked how much he should tolerate from bad people. His advisor Patronio tells him this story, whose final line has become a refrain:

“A good man had a public bath, and a madman came to the bath when people were bathing. He hit them with buckets and stones and sticks and everything else he could find, so no one in the world dared to go to the bath that belonged to the good man. He lost his income.

“When the good man realized that the madman was making his business fail, he got up early one day and went to the bath before the madman came. He took off his clothes and got a bucket of boiling water and a large wooden club. Then the madman who had been attacking people arrived at the bath.

“The naked good man who was waiting saw him and ran toward him bravely and angrily. He threw the bucket of boiling water at his head and grabbed the club and began to strike him again and again on his head and body. The madman was afraid he would be killed and thought that the good man was mad.

“He ran out screaming, and he encountered a man who asked him why he was running and yelling. The madman told him:

 “ ‘My friend, beware, because there is another madman in the bath.’ ”

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The lovers of Teruel

Silly girl, silly boy. 

Each February since 1996, the city of Teruel has celebrated a reenactment of the wedding of Isabel de Segura.

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Spoiler: This is a medieval tale, and they loved tragic endings back then, so get out your kleenex.

In 1217 in the city of Teruel in east-central Spain, Isabel de Segura and Juan Diego Martínez de Marcilla grew up together and fell in love. Both were of noble families, in fact the Seguras were very rich.

Some versions of the story say the Marcillas had fallen on hard times, others say that as the second son, Diego inherited only a horse, but both Diego and Isabel knew her parents would never grant him permission to marry her if he was poor. Some versions of the story says Diego talked to her father, others say he spoke only to Isabel, but in any case they reached an agreement: he would have exactly five years to seek his fortune. And so he rode off.

For five years, Isabel waited with no news from Diego while she fended off suitors, claiming that she had vowed to remain a virgin until age 20 and that no woman should marry until she knew how to run a household. At exactly five years, her father gave her in marriage to Pedro de Azagara.

As Teruel celebrated the wedding, city guards announced a commotion at a gate: Diego was arriving, and he was rich. She had started counting five years from the day they made their agreement, and he began his count on the following day.

That night, he snuck into the newlyweds’ bedchamber, woke Isabel, and begged: “Kiss me, for I am dying.” She refused out of dedication to her new husband. Diego fell dead next to the bed. She woke Pedro, who praised her virtue but feared he would be blamed for Diego’s death, so their servants quietly carried his body to his parents’ home.

The next day during the funeral, a woman walked into the church and proceeded toward the altar: Isabel, in her splendid wedding dress. She stopped at the corpse of her beloved Diego, bent to kiss him, and after she did, fell dead on top of him.

They were buried together, finally united in love for eternity.

The legend spread and gave rise to the refrain: “Los amantes de Teruel, tonta ella, tonto él.” The lovers of Teruel, silly girl, silly boy, commenting on the way passion can give rise to misfortune.  

Is this story true?

 Maybe. In Italy in 1353, Boccaccio told a similar story about Girolamo and Salvestra, and he may have borrowed it from Spanish folklore. In Spain, writers including Tirso de Molina and Tomás Bretón have also dramatized the story.

In 1555, the bodies of the lovers (or of some people) were exhumed and found to have mummified, which is not unusual in Spain’s dry climate, and they were placed into beautiful new marble tombs sculpted by Juan de Ávalos in San Pedro Church. The two lovers are carved into the lids of their tombs, and their outstretched hands almost touch. On the sides of the tombs, open stonework filigree allows visitors to view their mummified remains.

If you can’t get to Teruel to visit the mausoleum, you can visit the website of “The Lovers Foundation” here.

But if you can get to Teruel, each February it hosts a city-wide recreation of the tale with plenty of medieval festivities, as you can see in the promotional video for 2013: food, dance, and spectacle.

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Welcome back

Book II continues. 

“Knights” by xkcd.

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It’s good to be back after summer vacation.

Amadis of Gaul consists of four books, and between now and July 2013, the translation for Book II will be competed.

As you may recall, Book II began as Amadis won Firm Island with all its beauty and enchantments — then he received a letter from his beloved Oriana. In it, she called him a faithless liar and ordered him never to appear before her again.

Amadis retired to a solitary island and almost died of sorrow before Oriana realized her error and sent the Damsel of Denmark to rescue him. (Yes, a damsel rescued a knight in distress.) Using the name Beltenebros, he returned to Great Britain and secretly stayed with Oriana in her castle. Together, they won the magic sword and wreath of loyal lovers. As Beltenebros, he quickly earned great fame, most of all by being decisive in the battle between King Cildadan and Oriana’s father, King Lisuarte. At the height of the battle, Amadis revealed his true identity, to the terror of his opponents and the joy of Lisuarte’s other knights. After the victory, his injured brother Sir Galaor and King Cildadan were taken away by mysterious maidens.

Over the coming chapters, sorcerers will perform amazing magic. Amadis will face dire perils and win even greater honor. Then things will go horribly wrong.

If you’re new to this blog, you can find links to summaries of previous chapters in the left-hand column, along with other items of interest.

Without further ado, we shall return to the Middle Ages and this centuries-old novel full of admirable deeds outside the order of nature.
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See you in September

August is a time to rest and relax. 

At the Alhambra in December 2011. Photo by Jerry Finn.

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As usual, after one more post to finish Chapter 58, this blog will take a European-style August vacation. It will resume on September 11 with more amazing adventures.

Galaor will awaken in prison. King Lisuarte will face new dangers. And despite Amadis's brave deeds, things will go badly for him, for his friends, and for Oriana.

During the break, as well as resting, I will attend Chicon 7, the 70th World Science Fiction Convention.

— Sue Burke

Don Quixote fights giants

The giants win, of course.
 

Illustration by Gustave Doré for Don Quixote de La Mancha, 1863.



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Translation by John Ormsby, 1885. At Project Gutenberg.

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From Chapter VIII of Don Quixote de La Mancha, by Miguel de Cervantes: Of the good fortune which the valiant Don Quixote had in the terrible and undreamt-of adventure of the windmills, with other occurrences worthy to be recorded.

At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long."

"Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go."

"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat."

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you."

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance ready and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail, the wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, for with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.

"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to mind what you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made any mistake about it but one who had something else in his head."

"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of war more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword."

"God order it as He may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare.[...]

Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses.
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All about me

Here are links to some recent interviews. 

Me in front of St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague Castle. Photo by Jerry Finn.

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In case you're wondering about the person translating this novel, you can read about me in a series of interviews posted recently by members of the Blog Ring of Power.

About me and moving to Spain, at Terri Bruce's blog:
http://www.terribruce.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=114:sue-burke&catid=49:author-interviews&Itemid=95

About writing, at T. W. Fendley's blog:
http://twfendley.com/?p=714

How translating is different from writing, at E. M. LaBonte's blog, The Realms of a Fantastical Mind:
http://emlabonte.blogspot.com/2012/03/blog-ring-of-power-interview-with-sue.html

Technical aspects of translating, at Sandra Ulbrich Almazan's blog:
http://ulbrichalmazan.blogspot.com/2012/03/brop-interview-with-sue-burke_19.html

Business aspects, at Dean C. Rich's blog, The Write Time:
http://deanswritingtime.blogspot.com/2012/03/blog-ring-of-power-interview-with-sue.html

In addition, at Jaleta Clegg's blog, The Far Edge of Normal, she and I recently discussed more personal topics, including how I relax and what inspires my creativity:
http://jaletaclegg.blogspot.com.es/2012/03/author-interview-sue-burke.html
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The men who tricked a king

You probably heard this story as a child, but in a different version. Here's the medieval original.

Illustration for the Hans Christian Anderson version of the story by Vilhelm Pederson, 1849.

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In 1335, Sir Juan Manuel (1282-1348) sat down to write a book of tales to exemplify good and foolish behavior. He was a nephew of King Alfonso X the Wise of Castile, grandson of Saint Ferdinand III, King of Castile, and was himself Prince of Villena, among other titles. He had been well-educated as a youth and had spent his life involved in politics and the defense of the realm.

Although literature was deemed unworthy a man of his high estate, he became the first writer in Castilian to consider himself what we would call a professional writer, and he worked hard to perfect his works. He wrote a dozen books on topics ranging from chivalry and hunting to history and religion, but his best-known is El libro de los enxiemplos del Conde Lucanor e de Patronio (The Book of Examples of Count Lucanor and Patronio).

In that book, Count Lucanor asks his advisor Patronio for counsel about his problems and concerns, and Patrionio answers with short stories or fables — 50 stories in all. Some are drawn from Arabic folk tales or classical sources like Aesop, others are original.

Eventually these stories were translated into different languages, and they inspired future writers. Here is Example XXXII from El Conde Lucanor. The Count says that a man has proposed an important business matter that could be very advantageous, but insisted that it be kept secret. Patronio responds:

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My lord Count Lucanor, so that you understand what I think would be best for you to do, I would like you to know what happened to a Moorish king when three rogues came to see him....

My lord Count, the three rogues came before a King and told him they were excellent master weavers. Their greatest skill was to make a cloth that could be seen by any man who was the son of his father as everyone believed, but the cloth could not be seen by a man who was not the son of the man everyone said was his father.

This seemed very good to the King, for by that means he would know the men in his realm who were the true sons of their fathers and who were not, and that way he could confiscate their estates and increase his own, because Moors did not inherit from their fathers if they were not truly their sons. To do that, he ordered the weavers be given a large hall so they could make the cloth.

They asked the King to order the hall locked until the cloth was finished so he could be sure there was no trickery. This also seemed very agreeable to the King. They were given a great deal of gold, silver, silk, and everything else they needed to make the cloth, and they entered the hall and were locked inside.

They put up their looms and seemed to spend all day weaving the cloth. After several days, one of them went to tell the King the cloth had been begun and it was one of the most beautiful things in the world. He described the patterns and decorations that they had begun to create and asked him, if it was his wish, to come and see it, but no one at all should accompany him. The King was pleased by all of this.

The King, to have someone else test himself first, sent his chamberlain, whom he did not think would be fooled. When the chamberlain saw the weavers and heard what they said, he did not dare to say that he could not see it. And so, when he returned to the King, he said he had seen the cloth. The King then sent another servant, who said the same thing. And since all those who had been sent by the King assured him that they had seen the cloth, the King went to see it.

He entered the hall and saw the weavers working while they said, "You can see this decoration here, and this pattern, and this figure, and this color."

And they all agreed about what they said, yet they had not woven anything. The King saw nothing and heard them describe the cloth, but he could not see it even though the others had. He felt frightened to death, believing that he could not see it because he was not the son of the man he thought was his father the king. He feared that if he said he could not see it, he would lose his kingdom.

Because of that, he praised the cloth and paid close attention to all the details that the weavers showed him. When he returned to his court and his courtiers, he began to speak wonders about how good and how marvelous that cloth was, and he described the figures and patterns that were in it, but he felt very unsure about himself.

After two or three days, he sent his governor to see the cloth and told him about the virtues and marvels that he would see in it. The governor went and when he entered, he saw the weavers working and describing the decorations and patterns of the cloth, but, since the King had said he could see it and the governor could not, he believed it was because he was not the son of the man he had held to be his father. He thought that if anyone found out, he would lose his honors, so he began to praise the cloth as much or more than the King had.

When he returned to the King and told him that he had seen the cloth and it was the most worthy and handsome thing in the world, the King felt even more disgraced, thinking that since the governor had seen the cloth and he had not, he had no doubts that he was not the son of the king, as he had believed. For that reason, he began to praise even more highly the quality and beauty of the cloth and the skills of those who had woven it.

The next day the King sent his favorite courtier, and the same thing happened to him. What more shall I tell you? This way, out of fear, the King and many in his land were fooled because none dared to say that he did not see the cloth.

And so the business continued until a big festival approached, and everyone told the King he should wear that cloth for the occasion. The weavers brought the cloth wrapped in fine linen sheets, and they acted as if they unrolled it, then asked the King what kind of outfit they should sew. The King described the kind of clothing he wanted. They measured him and acted as if they were cutting the cloth and sewing.

When the day of the festival arrived, the weavers brought the King the cloth, cut and sewn, and made him think they were dressing him and smoothing out the folds. When the King thought he was dressed, he did not dare to say that he could not see the cloth.

And clothed that way as you have heard, he mounted a horse to ride through the city. It was good for him that it was summer.

When people saw him coming dressed that way, they knew that he who could not see the cloth was not the son of the man he thought was his father. Everyone believed that although he did not see it, the rest could, and if he were to say so, he would be lost and dishonored.

That way the secret was kept and no one dared to reveal it until a black man, the King's horseman, who had nothing to lose, approached the King and told him, "My lord, it makes no difference to me if you think I am the son of the man I say is my father or someone else, and because of that, I tell you that either I am blind or you are naked."

The King began to insult him, saying that he could not see the clothes because he was not the son of the man he believed was his father.

But after the black man had said this, someone who had heard him said the same thing, and then others said so until the King and all the rest lost their fear and recognized the truth, and so they understood the trickery that the rogues had done. When they went to look for them, they did not find them, for they had left with everything they had gotten from the King by means of the trickery that you have heard about.

And so, Count Lucanor, since that man has told you that no one you trust should know what he has proposed, you may be sure that he wishes to trick you. You should realize that he has no reason to want your success, since he hardly knows you, while those who have lived with you have given and done much for you, because they will always want what is good for you and to serve you.
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Links to the Middle Ages

Beauty, danger, inspiration, original texts, and a green palace. 

 Illustration from Vidal Mayor, a legal code written and illuminated in Huesca, Spain, between 1290 and 1310 for King James I of Aragon and Catalonia. Now at the Getty Center in Los Angeles. 
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Gothic Grandeur: Manuscript Illumination, 1200–1350
The J. Paul Getty Museum is hosting an exhibit of rare texts to explain the role of illustrations in medieval books. If you can't get to Los Angeles before May 13, visit the website for stunning pictures and mini-lectures.
http://www.getty.edu/art/exhibitions/gothic_grandeur/

Violent knights feared post-traumatic stress
A researcher of medieval violence at the University of Copenhagen has come upon a book by a 14th century knight who wrote about the psychological stress of being a knight. But King Languines told the boy Amadis in Chapter 4, when he asked to be made a knight, "Whoever wants to become one and uphold the honor of the title of knight must do many grave things that will often trouble his heart."
http://sciencenordic.com/violent-knights-feared-posttraumatic-stress

Visit the Winchester Cathedral
For more than a thousand years, pilgrims have come to Winchester Cathedral. The cathedral's website invites you to be transformed and overwhelmed by beauty — a virtual visit with video, music, and photos.
https://winchester-cathedral.org.uk/

Internet Medieval Sourcebook
Part of Fordham University's Internet History Sourcebooks Project, the sourcebook offers a collection of public domain and copy-permitted historical texts presented for educational use. A must for the serious researcher.
http://www.fordham.edu/Halsall/sbook.asp

The Queen goes green
Windsor Castle, the site of many events in Amadis of Gaul, is now powered by a hydroelectric plant. Two 40-ton Archimedes screws in the River Thames began generating electricity on January 1, which Queen Elizabeth buys for the castle — a move that will both save money in these times of austerity and be more environmentally friendly.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/queen-elizabeth-II/8966322/Queen-finally-goes-green-as-Windsor-Castle-turns-to-hydroelectric-power.html
Photos of the castle and the turbines:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/theroyalfamily/8749107/The-Queen-goes-green-hydroelectric-turbines-arrive-at-Windsor-Castle.html

Summary, Book II through Chapter 51

Amadis will obey his lady Oriana in all things, which may cause his undoing. 

View of Madrid from the west, created in 1562 by Antoon Van Den Wijngaerde for King Felipe II. In the foreground is the Manzanares River. The medieval walls are still standing guard around the city. At the left on the bluff is the royal castle, which burned down in 1734 and was replaced by the present-day palace.
 
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Beginning of Book II

Apolidon is a wise and mighty young knight whose parents are the King of Greece and a sister of the Emperor of Constantinople. He defeats a giant and takes over Firm Island, where he lives in great pleasure with his beloved, the sister of the Emperor of Rome. But after many years, he is called to rule Constantinople.

Before he goes, he sets an enchantment so that no one shall rule the island if they do not equal his fortitude at arms, his beloved's great beauty, and both their loyalty in love. He creates a arch at the entry to a garden that no one can pass through if they have erred from their first love.

Then he erects magic barriers of invisible warriors ready to attack at the entrance to the chamber where they had lived; no knight can pass them unless he surpasses Apolidon's skill at arms. But if the knight reaches the chamber, he will become lord of the island.

Chapter 44

Amadis, Galaor, Florestan, and Agrajes leave Queen Briolanja in the Kingdom of Sobradisa to rejoin King Lisuarte's court, but as they travel, they meet a maiden from Firm Island and decide to go there to test its enchantments.

Agrajes and Amadis pass through the arch of the loyal lovers; Florestan and Galaor do not even try. Instead, they attempt to enter the chamber and fail. Amadis tries and succeeds and becomes lord of the island, to the joy of all.

But as ye will recall, Oriana has been given bad information and believes that Amadis loves Queen Briolanja instead of her, so she sends him a letter withdrawing her love and ordering him never to come before her again. She orders a page named Durin, brother of the Damsel of Denmark, to deliver it.

Chapter 45

Durin reaches Amadis just after he has won Firm Island, but Amadis's squire, Gandalin, makes him wait to deliver the letter until after the celebration has ended, knowing that Amadis will overreact to whatever it says. Indeed, to Durin's distress, when Amadis finally reads the letter, he weeps and faints repeatedly with grief.

Amadis has lost the will to live. He leaves the island as secretly as possible to wander desolate in the mountains.

Chapter 46

Gandalin and Durin follow Amadis and listen as he mourns his cruel fate in long speeches addressed to fate, Oriana, his father, and many other people whom he loves and esteems.

Meanwhile, a knight passes nearby singing of his love for Oriana. Gandalin goes to Amadis and urges him to attack this knight, and Amadis easily defeats him, then says goodbye to Durin and leaves with Gandalin.

Chapter 47

A flashback reveals that the singing knight is named Patin and had come to King Lisuarte's court to woo Oriana. The King did not wish to give her to him, so he responded with an ambiguous answer to avoid offending him. Patin, though, he was sure he had won her and rode off joyfully.

Durin speaks briefly with Patin after his defeat by Amadis, then leaves to tell Oriana how Amadis has reacted to her letter.

Chapter 48

Galaor, Florestan, and Agrajes learn that Amadis has left Firm Island in sorrow, although they do not know why, and they ride off to find him. They find Patin, then decide to split up to search more widely, and to meet again at King Lisuarte's court.

Gandalin tries to talk some sense into Amadis but fails, and while Gandalin sleeps, Amadis leaves him to wander the mountains again. He rides until he meets a hermit at a spring. He convinces the hermit to allow him to live at the hermitage on an island named Poor Rock, where he can pass what little time remains in his life. Grief is killing Amadis, despite the hermit's counsel to abandon his sorrow as a worldly vanity.

At Amadis's request, the hermit gives him a new name: Beltenebros, which could be translated as "Handsome Gloom."

Gandalin searches for Amadis and meets some damsels who had found his armor, which Amadis had abandoned at the spring when he left with the hermit. A knight named Guilan the Pensive has taken the armor to King Lisuarte's court. Gandalin resumes his search.

Chapter 49

Durin tells Oriana how her letter made Amadis want to die. She faints with sorrow and guilt, but soon sends the Damsel of Denmark to Scotland to look for Amadis, thinking he would go there to see his foster father. If the Damsel finds Amadis, she will tell him to meet Oriana at her castle, Miraflores. But the Damsel does not find him.

Chapter 50

Sir Guilan the Pensive meets an evil knight on his way to King Lisuarte's court, defeats him in a perilous adventure, and continues on to the court to deliver Amadis's arms to the Queen. Everyone is distressed at their sight and wonders what has happened to Amadis.

Chapter 51

While Beltenebros is at the hermitage at Poor Rock, he composes a sad song. He knows that he is faithful and that Oriana is wrong, but he will obey her at the cost of his life.

One night, he hears damsels singing, and discovers that his brother Florestan's lover, Corisanda, has stopped there on her way to King Lisuarte's court to look for Florestan. He teaches the song to her damsels before they leave.

When Corisanda arrives at the court, she tells about meeting the sad Beltenebros, and Oriana and her friends realize that he is Amadis.
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Amadis's angry song: three English translations

We have the words, now we need the music. 

Text from the 1526 edition printed in Seville by Jacobo and Juan Cromberger.

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Who knew that Amadis could sing, let alone compose music? We still have the lyrics but the tune is lost — that is, the tune awaits someone to write it anew. As ye might expect, though, the English translations vary.

First, here is the original Spanish:

Pues se me niega vitoria
do justo m'era devida,
allí do muere la gloria
es gloria morir la vida.

Y con esta muerta mía
morirán todos mis daños
mi esperança, mi porfía,
el amor y sus engaños;
mas quederá en mi memoria
lástima nunca perdida,
por me matar la gloria
me mataron gloria y vida.

Here is my translation. I've taken the liberty to switch some lines to preserve the meter and rhyme:

Being denied the victory
that I justly deserved,
wherever dies that glory,
death with glory is served.

And with that I shall die
and with me die my woes,
love and all its lies,
my struggles and my hopes.
But this one thought remains
from sorrow never free:
that with my glory slain,
glory and life killed me.

Robert Southey, in his 1803 translation, for some reason used a French translation of Amadis for his lyrics, although he used a Spanish edition for the text. Here is the French version and Southey's translation:

Pues qu'a grand tort la victoire
meritee on me denye,
Alors que fine la gloire,
Gloire est de finir la vie.

Et aussi par mièsme mort
Maurent mes plus grands malheurs,
Mon espoir et mon confort,
Amour me fine et ses chaleurs.

Mas toujours t'auray memoire
De perpetuel esmoy:
Car pour fin meure á ma gloire,
On meuririst ma gloire et moy.

Sith that the victory of right deserved
By wrong they do withhold for which I served,
Now sith my glory thus hath had a fall,
Glorious it is to end my life withall.
By this my death, likewise my woes release,
My hope, my joy, my inflamed love doth cease.
But ever will I mind my during pain,
For they, to end my glory and my gain,
myself have murdered, and my glory slain.

Finally, Edwin Place and Herbert Behm translated Amadis in 1974, and here is their version:

Since victory is denied me
Where rightly it was owed to me,
There where glory dies
It is glory for life to die.

And with this death of mine
Will die all my hurts
My hope, my striving,
Love and its deceits.
But there will remain in my memory
A lament never lost,
For in order to kill my glory
My glory and life have been slain.
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The Hebrew translation of Amadis of Gaul

More than a mere translation, Jacob Algaba's 1541 version tells us about the complex relationship between Jewish and Spanish cultures.

 

The Theodosian Walls of Constantinople near the Golden Gate. Photo by Sue Burke.

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A recent post at the website of David A. Wacks, Associate Professor of Spanish at the University of Oregon, discusses the Spanish influences on the Sephardim. After the Jews' expulsion from Spain in 1492, many moved to Constantinople, where they changed Jewish culture in that city. That culture in turn affected the Hebrew translation of Amadis of Gaul — a translation also tells us a lot about the Spanish original and why it became popular.

"Reading Amadís in Istanbul" at:
http://davidwacks.uoregon.edu/2011/10/29/amadis/

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