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Thomas Montgomery Tulane University The more familiar one becomes with the Infantes legend, and with scholarly commentaries written about it, the more one is aware of its ambiguities and mysteries, its characters' departures from expected behavior, its network of tacit assumptions amounting to a cultural environment both baffling and fascinating. The apparent incongruities might be simply taken as devices and inconsistencies of a type found in second or third rate literature, used by an author to get along conveniently with a plot that will attract naive or unthinking hearers, as some late medieval romances amble nonchalantly from one phantasmagoric escapist invention to the next. The Infantes story does not at all give that sort of impression, however; rather, it carries the conviction of a work deeply rooted in its cultural and social milieu. The successions of strange turns and details amaze the reader, but do not put him off as arbitrary and artificial. They are intriguing because they appear genuine. They seem to open a window, however slightly, onto a far-removed but authentic archaic perception of reality. It is less a historical than a fictional reality: a higher one, no doubt, but elusive. The legend lends itself therefore to widely divergent interpretations depending on the assumptions or orientation of the particular reader and the details that catch his eye (Bluestine, «Power» is especially perceptive). As a deliberately ambiguous modern text may encourage or require the collaboration of the reader to give it meaning, this text invites us to reconstruct its sense from whatever clues we can find, to reach across the centuries and glimpse fragments of a coherent semantic structure. A fundamental question arises: Can we assume that in its original cultural setting it was unified and unambiguous, or was it always made up of a variety of narrative elements of differing antiquity that fit together or made sense in that the amalgamation created a satisfying and acceptable whole? From the fluid state of the narrative attested by its various versions, we may be forced to assume the latter. Yet the disparate elements were not thrown together arbitrarily. There is an underlying stance or structure that controls the process of selection; for instance, the crimes of the first part and the vengeance of the second are interdependent even though they are different in character (Acutis 95), and the story has developed until neither part is able to stand by itself (Monteverdi 141).
Still, we cannot suspend critical judgment and accept every narrative segment as having equal value. They are of unequal antiquity (Richthofen 156-57), and the late ones may mirror late medieval cultural concerns and literary currents. An example, to
my mind, is the backgammon game which leads to an insult which in turn motivates Mudarra to inquire about and then seek out his father. The same story is told of Bernardo del Carpio and of a late hero of French epic, Galien (who plays chess, not backgammon) and was magnified in dramatic treatments of Mudarra in later centuries, as questions of paternity grew in importance in Spanish literature. The episode does not seem essential to the Infantes legend, in which there is no arduous quest for the father. It was simply very easy to introduce as a ready-made segment at the point it occupies in the tale (in Galien, too, only one version has it). More important, surely, are elements from the romances which may contain matter more remote in origin though
they are late in date of attestation,
Many if not most studies of the legend include a summary of it. That each one is different attests to the work's many facets. Since narrative elements will often be considered out of their original order in this study, a synopsis will again be provided, extremely brief in this case. The inadequacy of any summary will become apparent to readers who take the time to go to the several original versions and experience for themselves «leur horreur farouche et leur saisissante beauté» (Paris 251). The three chief versions are in the Primera Crónica General, the Crónica de 1344, and an Interpolación de la Tercera Crónica General88; the second, our base text, is the most complete at many points and to some observers the most important (Monteverdi [126], García Montoro [111]; the three are lucidly compared by Cummins). The story goes as follows: In the late tenth century, the great warrior Ruy Velázquez marries the noble lady Doña Llambra in Burgos. The festivities are attended by his sister Doña Sancha, her husband Gonzalo Gustioz of Salas (seat of the alfoz of Lara to the southeast of Burgos), and their seven sons. Doña Llambra harbors, or else conceives through a series of incidents during and after the wedding, an implacable, aggressive hatred of the seven Infantes; commentators do not agree on whether the combative young men, guided by Gonzalo, the youngest, or the witchlike bride are the more to blame for the hostile clashes between the two families. The two chief incidents involve killings: by Gonzalo of Doña Llambra's cousin Alvar Sánchez over feats of strength at the tablado or spearing target after she has immodestly praised her kinsman, and by the seven brothers who kill a servant she has sent to strike Gonzalo with a blood-laden cucumber as a sign of displeasure at his alleged improper exposure of himself while bathing. The seven are placed in the service of Ruy Velázquez, who, under the influence of Doña Llambra, arranges, by means of a letter to Almanzor, regent of Córdoba, to have them beheaded in a border skirmish with a large Moorish army. The letter also requests the decapitation of the bearer, the victims' father Gonzalo, but instead Almanzor makes him prisoner. The seven heads, with that of their mentor, are delivered to the court, where Gonzalo identifies them and eulogizes his sons in a powerful, much-celebrated scene. Almanzor sends a princess, his sister in the two later versions, to console Gonzalo in his captivity, and soon afterward sets him free. At his departure, the princess, called Zenla in the Interpolación, informs him that she will bear his child. In due course the child, Mudarra, goes to Salas to find his father and wreak terrible vengeance upon the traitor Ruy Velázquez. In the 1344 version, Doña Sancha takes a part in the execution. Doña Llambra becomes a wanderer and dies in wretched isolation.
The first plot element to be considered more closely exhibits confusing signs of both early and late incorporation into the tale. When Gonzalo Gustioz departs from Córdoba, he breaks a ring into two parts and leaves one for Mudarra to identify himself with on his eventual arrival at Salas. The device appears also in the Galien (like the chess game), but is quite superfluous in the Spanish story, in which the identities of both Gonzalo and Mudarra are unmistakable. It could therefore be a late, artificial touch; but it has more primitive associations as well. Earlier, when assigned to console Gonzalo in his bereavement, Zenla suggests a means of obtaining vengeance. «E yo veo vos los cabellos blancos e el rrostro muy fresco, e por ventura ["quizás"] podedes aun fazer fijos que vengaran a los otros» (Reliquias 213). Gonzalo regards the suggestion as a dream to be fulfilled: «Dueña, vos açomastes ["provocasteis"] el sueño, Dios lo quiera soltar asi», and confirms his virility by taking her
forcibly. Soon afterward Almanzor arrives to set him free, he splits the ring before leaving, and shortly thereafter, «luego a pocos de dias que el fue ido» (PCG 196 and Interpolación 214), she gives birth. This indication
The «few days» pregnancy has a counterpart in the late epic Mocedades de Rodrigo, where the child again is noble, illegitimate, born abroad of a Spanish father and a foreign mother (daughter of the Duke of Savoy [Deyermond 267-69, 275-76]), who provides a solution to bitter conflicts. Even if one ascribes the second chronological discrepancy -the contradictory statements of the time from Mudarra's birth to his exploits- to divergences among manuscripts, several points invite interpretation. The word used for the magic ring, sortija, had the broad meaning usually associated today with anillo; it was not always worn on the finger, but could be a large ring, and its name bore some relation to the word suerte fortune, etc. (Corominas-Pascual s. v.), sortero «soothsayer». Its essential property was its circular shape, associated with perfection and movements of heavenly bodies. One may wonder how a man could «part» a ring with his hands, especially when the text states explicitly that the same operation became impossible after the ring reformed itself. The breaking of the ring is plainly a symbolic act. A family connection is temporarily undone, Gonzalo also leaves something of himself behind when he departs, and the obstacle of illegitimacy, an apparently lately-developed complication of the story, will be overcome when the ring allows the father to recognize, that is, acknowledge, Mudarra as his own. But there are probably more archetypal symbolic values as well. Gonzalo leaves the half-ring in the possession of the future mother with instructions as to its use if the child is a boy. If a girl is born, no disposition of the object is envisioned; it will be forgotten as a powerless fragment in some repository in the women's quarters. Just as the ring is broken and powerless, Gonzalo leaves Córdoba a broken, powerless man. The princess has encouraged him to take heart and seek a remedy through an enchantingly improbable he (the beautiful young maiden claims to have lost many sons herself without succumbing to despair), but after his departure he does nothing but weep, his loss of eyesight being a further sign of his faded virility. His vigor will pass to Mudarra, but for now the princess holds the key to it: an idealized feminine figure belonging to the forbidden land, the land of no return (for the Infantes; see below), the dark Other World, is the custodian of the future well-being of Castile, which while dominated by Ruy Velázquez is a blighted, unproductive land. She proves entirely trustworthy, a benign fertile spirit. Gonzalo, for his part, has nothing to offer his homeland except a shared fate and eight severed heads, which he carries home to be displayed in the church in Salas. As an audible reminder of his degradation and loss, every day Ruy Velázquez has his men throw seven stones against the door of his house. But when the ring is finally joined he too becomes whole, and ready to meet Ruy Velázquez in single combat in place of Mudarra -though his offer is refused. Without his seven sons or their replacement Mudarra, and perhaps without the complete ring, Gonzalo is reduced to a state of hapless nonexistence. With them he is again himself. The themes that seem central to his transitions are those of fertility and continuity. The transitions, in Castile as in Gonzalo, are cyclical.
Perhaps, rather than a benign, potent mother figure, Zenla is merely a woman doing as she is told, as is proper in both of Spain's male-dominated societies. This view would bring her into line with the other actors in the story, who, except perhaps for Doña Llambra, fulfill their roles according to orders,
Another point to examine is the strange role of the ruler in this legend. The Count of Castile, Garci Fernández, is curiously passive, performing only a few functions scarcely more than ceremonial, overshadowed by the mutinous Ruy Velázquez. Almanzor's position is seen in varying lights. On receiving the treacherous letter, he bursts into laughter and tears it up, declaring its contents to the bearer Gonzalo Gustioz -but only the half of those contents immediately affecting Gonzalo. The second request, for the slaughter of the seven, takes effect with the same unquestioned inexorability as the other actions of the narrative. A puzzling aspect of Almanzor's authority is its relation to that of Ruy Velázquez. During the battle in which thousands of Moors will massacre the Infantes, the two Moorish generals Viara and Galve, seeing the seven alone and overcome by the fatigue of combat, provide them with respite and refreshment. Ruy Velázquez, furious, threatens to denounce the generals as traitors before Almanzor if the Infantes survive. The two Moors seem genuinely distressed by the potential power of Ruy Velázquez: «ca si... fuesse pora Cordova assi commo diz, tornarseye mucho ayna moro et Almançor darleye todo su poder, et buscarnosye mucho mal por esta razon» (PCG 194 and both other versions). «Darle... todo su poder» may mean «put his armies at his disposal»; rather than abdicate in his favor, but still, the authority envisioned for Ruy Velázquez is awesome unless the Moors are lying to get out of an awkward situation and get on with the killing -perhaps the audience was supposed to expect Moors to lie when under stress. In fact the traitor gets no chance to verify the benefits of apostasy. When Almanzor learns of the thousands of lives lost in this encounter, he cuts his ties to his ally, who, thus isolated, becomes an outlaw in his own land. It is apparently the treacherous nature of the uncle's actions as well as the size of the losses that moves Almanzor; he will be tolerant of Gonzalo's griefcrazed killings of bystanders when the eight heads are displayed in the palace. Almanzor is a totally reasonable man, quite unlike the vengeful Christians of the legend, and a generous, doting uncle to Mudarra, his chosen heir. Mudarra adopts the Christian way, however, and in spite of his promise to return to Almanzor after finding his father (217; another instance of falsehood with Moors?) he renounces or forgets his right to rule in splendor over Córdoba, preferring the rigors of life in Salas (Bluestine, «Foreshadowings» [468] proposes an explanation). So both Ruy Velázquez and his avenger have extraordinary potential power in the Moorish court, which they fail to attain or exercise. As a final note on Almanzor, historically a most terrible scourge of Spanish Christendom, we observe that in these texts, during the ten or eighteen years of Mudarra's youth, the great ruler appears to conduct no military campaigns against Christian Spain -after having the Infantes eliminated as the only warriors capable, as Ruy Velázquez claims, of protecting Castile. In fact during the 28 years preceding his death in 1002, Almanzor made repeated brutal incursions into the north. Some of the literary idealization of Moorish life that blossomed in the sixteenth century (El Abencerraje, etc.) seems already to be making its appearance in this work of fiction.
When the story is examined from different angles, the cast of characters appears increasingly improbable. As a prime mover, a bride bent on mischief, as the objects of her perverse designs, seven brothers on whom the security and well-being of Castile depend, along with their mother and father. As her
Doña Llambra's hatred of the Infantes appears in the chronicles to originate in the death of her cousin at the hands of the youngest brother Gonzalo, in the altercation over their relative skill at target-breaking, one of the chief diversions at the wedding celebration. The enmity then takes on the appearance of a family feud. But the matter is settled by the count, who is uncle to the dead youth, and Gonzalo Gustioz, father of the Infantes, who even takes the occasion to place them in the service of Ruy Velázquez. Thus the families are apparently reconciled; indeed, they have just been joined by the marriage. Another motive for Doña Llambra's animosity should perhaps be sought. A good possibility is provided by the romance «Ay Dios qué buen caballero!» (Menéndez Pidal, Flor 107), in which she expresses scorn, disgust, or, we may suggest, jealous resentment of Doña Sancha's fecundity: «que paristeis siete hijos como puerca en cenagal ( var. muladar)». During most of the narrative the focus shifts away from the contrast and antipathy between the sexually aggressive but infertile Llambra and the proper, family-oriented Sancha, but these givens frame the tale, and we may recall that the eventual solution to the conflict comes through the fertility of Zenla. Presumably the Infantes, being in the service of Ruy Velázquez, must also be subject to the will of his wife. While lodging with Llambra, they go hunting, and as they wait for the catch to be cooked for dinner, they bathe, assuming they are out of sight of the ladies, who, in case of doubt, could avert their eyes as a matter of ordinary propriety. Llambra instead takes offense, «bien cudo que no lo faze por al sinon que nos enamoremos del» (181) and sends the bloody cucumber, instructing her servant to strike Gonzalo with it, «e desi vente pora mi quanto pudieres, e non ayas miedo, ca yo te amparare». The result was foreseeable; she could scarcely fail to know that the provocation of such high-spirited and therefore dangerous young men was risky, and that a masculine act such as hurling a cucumber might deprive her of feminine prerogatives, including the protective power of her cloak. The Infantes pursue the servant precisely because he follows orders and runs back to her, reacting properly to a violation of their honor if not in fact falling into the lady's trap. Now, Doña Llambra is from La Bureba, to the northeast of Burgos and still, in the tenth century, on the fringe of Basque-speaking territory. Her name, then a common one according to Menéndez Pidal, derives from Latin Flammula, but another word would produce the same phonetic result in the Castilian of Burgos: the Basque lamiña, in which the palatalization of the ñ is conditioned by the preceding palatal vowel i. It is therefore equivalent to lamina, a variant which in fact occurs. It should be proparoxytonic, in accordance with its derivation, and would be Castilianized as lambra, as femina gives fembra, hembra89. Caro Baroja (35-72) identifies lamiña as a derivative of Latin lamia, Greek lámia, and documents the terms very fully in both Classical and Renaissance sources. It designates a witch who takes many forms and has diverse habits in different times and places, but whose most characteristic act is to steal and kill children. The original Lamia, according to the Greek commentator of Aristophanes, was one of Zeus's many lovers, whose children the jealous Hera destroyed. In her grief and frustration, Lamia began stealing and murdering other women's children. Once beautiful, her anguish made her monstrous; she was often thought of as a sea monster, and sometimes as part woman and part bird, with claws. Her name was on occasion used simply to mean «hideous woman», and was later generalized as a synonym of «witch». In the maritime areas of the Basque country, the lamiña was (and is) usually like a mermaid, and in the mountains she is likely to have traits of a bird and five in a cave. She is sometimes a seductress, capable of changing shape, who devours the men she attracts.
Doña Llambra's name could hardly fail to be associated with the Basque lamiña, even if the phonological correspondence were only approximate. Her functions in the legend also fit the witch's character: sexual effrontery, attaining power over Doña Sancha's children and destroying them, attracting and destroying a husband. Her character best matches the tradition, however, when viewed without insisting on particulars. Less probable, but perhaps worth considering, is a correspondence of Doña Sancha, «muy buena dueña et conplida de todas buenas mañas», with the benign, beautiful earth spirit called xana ([šana], from Diana) in Asturias and anjana (earlier [anšana]) in northern Castile (Cantabria and La Montaña, near the Basque country), another cave-dweller (Menéndez Pidal, «Mitología» 333) of whom stories comparable to those of the lamiña are told. This connection is unnecessary to the understanding of the Siete Infantes legend. Still, Sancha is a reasonable approximation to [anšana], as well as to santa, and such associations are hard to ignore if they correspond to perceptions of character and to well-known traditions. Doña Sancha has no active role in the story until the arrival in Salas of Mudarra, which is announced to her in a dream. She adopts him as her own in a ceremony at the time of his knighting by the count, in which she draws him through the broad sleeves of her falifa or outer garment (1344: 223). She takes the dominant role, finally, when her brother Ruy Velázquez, wounded by Mudarra, is brought before her. She kneels to drink from the blood flowing from his wounds as she did in her dream (but is restrained) and decides the exact manner of the traitor's execution, tied to two beams and made the target of the weapons of many of those he once wronged. So she brings to full circle the process of retribution, making the beams a reminder of the tablado or target which provided the first impulse for the treachery, and thus takes a role interpretable as the opposite of that of Doña Llambra: «e quiero en estas bodas fazer armar un tablado, por que la trayçion que el fizo fue començada sobre alançar a tablado en Burgos, quando el caso con doña Llambra, e sobre esto se levanto la trayçion». The two women's rivalry, centering on the issue of fertility, thus appears as the basic motivation for the plot. If the two women provide the underlying framework for the story -one which still needs much elucidation if not revision- the other characters evidently represent fragments of other disparate narratives. A number of inconsistencies, implausible elements, and recurring symbols, of which only a few can be noted, suggest the amalgamation or confusion of once-distinct mythic materials. The seven brothers are invincible in Castile, are necessary for the protection of the realm, and are said to be the only real obstacle to Moorish invasion there, yet it is through the initiative and insistence of Ruy Velázquez, not the Moors, that they are destroyed. Some commentators have seen them as responsible for the evil that ensues. Thus in 1471, Lope García de Salazar made a summary in his Libro de las bienandanzas y fortunas (Menéndez Pidal, Leyenda 345-51) in which he blames the seven for excesses committed against Ruy Velázquez and especially Doña Llambra (347-48). (The author was under siege by his own sons at the time of writing, which , along with the change in times, may have affected his interpretative stance). Again, Acutis regards the brothers as the aggressors, and Llambra as passive, in a simple clan conflict without moral or legal implications. To me the Infantes are guilty of nothing more than callowness. When they kill, it is in accordance with their understanding of their knightly profession in an age when fights at celebrations were routine. Even their worst transgression, the murder of the servant under Doña Llambrá's cloak, follows their considered observation of his behavior to determine that he has dishonored them. (In view of the lamia theme, it is possible to think of the servant's murder as a symbolic infanticide; Burt 151.)
The seven maintain their allegiance to Ruy Velázquez after this incident, and are eager to follow him to Moorish lands. As they approach the frontier they see omens, or rather supernatural signals too obvious to ignore, culminating when a screaming eagle alights in a pine by the road, tears itself apart, and falls lifeless at their feet. Their mentor Nuño Salido, an expert in reading omens, pleads in vain with them to turn back and finally draws a line across their path: «Si esta risca pasades... bien llana miente veo vuestra muerte... nos nunca mas aca tornaremos a nuestros lugares» (201). The theme of the Land of No Return could scarcely be stated more clearly, which presents a problem because myths of
Among the other men and women who people this legend, the brothers' mentor, Nuño Salido, may be singled out to show an aspect of apparent social reality which is seen to some degree in all the characters. His lonely Cassandra-like role comes to the fore after he has turned back, leaving the Infantes to pursue their fate beyond the forbidden frontier. On the way toward Salas, he begins to reconsider his decision and the possible consequences which he perceives all too clearly: being old, he should fear death less than they, who are so careless of their lives; if they die, Ruy Velázquez will persecute and kill him and all will speak ill of him; again, if they die, he will be thought an accomplice and will accordingly be dishonored in his old age. (These last two predictions actually turn out to apply, mutatis mutandis, to Ruy Velázquez). Moved by these reflections, Nuño Salido goes to rejoin the Infantes and share their fate. The scene shows him totally isolated in his society, as indeed are all the characters (taking the Infantes collectively, of course). More clearly still, it shows what we have noted regarding other characters, that his actions and death are determined by uncontrollable forces. Whether weighing or ignoring consequences, he and all the others move like puppets, following the rules of their society (mostly rules of honor) that apply variably as conditions develop and change. Into those conditions, as in this example, enters a strong impersonal imperative. Evil runs its machinelike course, overcoming the wise as well as the innocent. Such a powerful and essential undercurrent must reflect realities of attitude and belief that prevailed in the environment in which the legend took shape. The far-reaching effects of evil and the dangers of innocence appear as basic themes. Like Nuño Salido, Ruy Velázquez must choose the manner of his death. When Mudarra wounds and unhorses him and is about to dispatch him, he pleads to be allowed to die of the wound already received, for his death to be delayed. So he seems to collaborate in the preparation of his terrible sacrifice in Vilviestre, his home, whence he sent the treacherous letter and where Doña Sancha will sentence him. His evil career thus comes full circle, and this paper is carried back to an initial consideration: Is the source of his action deeply embedded in the culture that produced him and now demands retribution, perhaps its own expiation, or is it a literary artifice permitting a fittingly climactic ending? It appears to be both; we are looking at an impressive artistic creation.
WORKS CITED
Acutis, Cesare. La leggenda degli Infanti de Lara: Due forme epiche nel Medioevo occidentale. Torino: G. Einaudi, 1978. Bluestine, Carolyn. «The Power of Blood in the Siete Infantes de Lara». Hispanic Review 50 (1982): 201-17. ——. «Foreshadowings of the Doppelgänger in the Siete Infantes de Lara and the Romanz del Infant García». Romance Philology 38 (1985): 463-74. Burkert, Walter. Homo Necans. The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Ritual and Myth. Trans. Peter Bier. Berkeley: U of California P, 1983. Burt, John R. «The Bloody Cucumber and Related Matters in the "Siete infantes de Lara"». Hispanic Review 50 (1982): 345-52. Caro Baroja, Julio. Algunos mitos españoles. 3ª ed. Madrid: Ed. del Centro, 1974. Catalán, Diego. Reliquias de la poesía épica española... 2ª ed. Madrid: Gredos, 1980. Cummins, J. G. «The Chronicle Texts of the Legend of the Infantes de Lara». Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 53 (1976): 101-16. Deyermond, A. D. Epic Poetry and the Clergy: Studies on the "Mocedades de Rodrigo". London: Tamesis, 1969. Paleographic ed. of the poem, pp. 222-77. García Montoro, Adrián. El león y el azor. Simbolismo trifuncional en la épica medieval española. Madrid: Ed. «R», 1972. Menéndez Pidal, R. La leyenda de los siete Infantes de Lara. 3ª ed. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1971. ——. ed. Flor nueva de romances viejos. 28ª ed. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1976. Monteverdi, Angelo. «Il Cantare degli "Infanti di Salas"». Studi Medievali 13 (1934): 113-50. Paris, Gaston. «Les Sept Infants de Lara». Poèmes et légendes du Moyen Âge. Paris: Société d'Editions Artistiques. 1900. 215-51. Richthofen, Erich von. Estudios épicos medievales. Madrid: Gredos, 1954. Riquer, Martin de. La leyenda del Graal y temas épicos medievales. Madrid: Ed. Prensa Española, 1968. Stover, Leon E. and Bruce Kraig. Stonehenge: the IndoEuropean Heritage. Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1978.
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