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The concept of the garden in selected Spanish works of the Medieval and Golden Age Hoess, Lucia 1994

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THE CONCEPT OF THE GARDEN IN SELECTED SPANISH WORKS OF THE MEDIEVAL AND GOLDEN AGE by LUCIA HOESS B.A. Simon Eraser University, 1980 M.A. Simon Fraser University, 1985 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES Department of Hispanic and Italian Studies We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August 1994 ® Lucia Hoess, 1994 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholariy purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. (Signature) Department of Hispanic and Italian Studies The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date October 17, 1994 DE.6 (2/88) ABSTRACT The vision of a beautiful garden has been a constant in man's imagination. Within the Judeo-Christian tradition, that vision was manifest as a longing for a return to the primeval paradise. Throughout the ages, this longing has found expression in art and literature and very often, the image of the garden has become associated, and even synonymous, with Heaven itself. In the Spanish literature of the late Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Baroque, the image of the garden as "hortus conclusus" enjoyed wide popularity. During the Middle Ages, that topos was mostly used in an allegorical context with a moralizing intent. In the Renaissance, the popularity of the topos decreased in favour of the concept and landscape of Arcadia, except in mystical literature, where it continued to flourish. The Spanish Counter-Reformation brought about a revival of religious intensity, often not without medieval undertones, and during this time. Arcadian Renaissance elements were carried over into the new epoch, albeit set into a new context, as the aesthetic appeal to the senses was now put in the service of God's praise. A parallel study of the treatment of gardens in literature in contrast with gardens in real life shows whether, in each epoch, real life gardens exerted an influence on imaginary gardens, or whether literary gardens were used as models for the creation of the real ones. From such a study it is possible to hypothesize that both, real and literary gardens can reflect the cultural climate of their times, and that any changes in their ii presentation can be indicative of changes in contemporary beliefs and concerns. The garden, concealed as a literary or philosophic topic, or as a commentary on social issues, can thus represent a place of learning and meditation, a plaisance for love and secrecy, a mere background for dramatic presentations, or an encomium in praise of God's creation. The five Spanish authors selected to test that hypothesis wrote at different periods and with different purposes. Their individual conception of the garden as a literary or ontological place has been studied and contrasted via a string of focal points: the type of garden conveyed, their view of the garden as a sacred place, the contrasting concepts of solitude and isolation related to different gardens; activities inside the garden; the possible changes a garden undergoes through mood perception and temporal variations; the garden residents' relationship to the divinity; and their hope for a return to paradise. Since the function implied by the authors of these five literary gardens reveals the audience they had in mind, it can be said that the garden has also the function of an exemplary text, and can thus be used as 1. a seductive didactic lesson; 2. as an admonitory moral "exemplvim"; 3. as a religious manual; 4. as a reflection on, and praise of, divine harmony; and 5. as a gallery of erudition. A garden is therefore able to disclose the attitudes and values projected onto it by its author and its time, allowing the reader a glimpse into its "Zeitgeist". iii TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS INTRODUCTION 0.1 0.2 CHAPTER I 1.1 1.2 1.3 CHAPTER II 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9 CHAPTER III 3.1 The History of Gardens Spain: Gardens and Literature Gonzalo de Berceo's Perfect "Prado" in his Milaqros de Nuestra Senora The Virgin Mary as locus amoenus Elements of the "prado" The Virgin-Garden Allegory Melibea's Precarious Paradise First Encounter: A Violation of Space Melibea's Model Signs of Instability Inversions Shadows over Paradise Paradise Cursed: The "Anti-Garden" The Problem of "lujuria" in the Garden Adam and Eve in the "huerto" Three Views of the "huerto": Melibea, Elicia, Pleberio "Serving the Lord of the Garden" Active Meditation: Drawing the Water from a Well Page ii iv vi 1 1 31 64 68 69 81 95 97 100 106 109 114 123 126 128 133 146 153 IV Page 3.2 3.3 3.4 CHAPTER IV Prayer of Quiet: Drawing Water with a Windlass Prayer of Recollection: Water Flowing from Stream or Spring Prayer of Union: Rain from Heaven Sent by God Voices of Praise in the Gardens of Aula Dei 157 162 167 187 4.1 The Gardens of Aula de Dios 192 4.2 4.3 4.1.1 "Claustro" 4.1.2 "Sepulcro" 4.1.3 "Pensil" and "huerto" 4.1.4 Poet's Private Garden 4.1.5 Names of the Virgin Mary 4.1.6 "Campana" Sounds and Silence in the Garden 4.2.1 Silence and Solitude 4.2.2 Silence that Speaks: Sounds within the Silence Silent Voices of Praise and Admiration 192 193 196 200 206 212 214 214 219 223 CHAPTER V 5.1 5.2 CONCLUSION BIBLIOGRAPHY 4.3.1 Praise by Nature—for Nature 4.3.2 Praise by Nature—for Man 4.3.3 Praise by Man—for God 4.3.4 Praise by Nature—for God Love and Restraint in the Garden: The Presence of the Female in Soto de Rojas' Paralso cerrado para muchos. iardines abiertos para pocos Mansiones 1-7 Art and Nature in Soto's Garden-Paradise 223 225 226 228 237 241 298 314 351 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This thesis is dedicated to Dr. Arsenio Pacheco, the "angel venerable" who, as teacher, supervisor, and inner guide has given me sufficient inspiration to last a lifetime. I thank him for his infinite patience, care and dedication, and for allowing me to take root, grow and develop in his vast hortus sapientiae. Many thanks also to the other members of my Supervisory Committee, Dr. Karl Kobbervig and Dr. Maria Tomsich, for reading this thesis, to Dr. Derek Carr for his role as topiarius of style, in trimming this dissertation into shape, to Beth Howarth for her cheerful assistance during the final formatting of this thesis, and to my husband Gary for his continued support and tolerance throughout my years of study. Last but not least, a very special thanks to all the members of the Department of Hispanic and Italian Studies for providing their students with an atmosphere conducive to peace and work. VI INTRODUCTION 0.1 The History of Gardens Gardening is an art of peace that harbours a dream of paradise. The idea of the garden originated in societies that had achieved stability and could afford the time necessary for the cultivation of plants (Cowell 5) . * Only when a society had moved beyond agrarian survival and possessed the necessary surplus funds, as well as the desire to embellish one's surroundings, temples, and public buildings could gardens be planted and properly cared for (Vercelloni 9). ^ During periods of relatively high civilization, gardens could be established and enjoyed for their aesthetic purposes. With continual care and effort, a garden could develop from mere economic utility to fulfil man's "quest for beauty, peace, contentment and delight", and show that in the art of gardening, the hand, the head, and the heart of man must work in unison (Cowell 8). To enjoy a garden and its plants for fragrance and for visual pleasure was a sensual appeal that came to Europe from the Middle East (Vercelloni 9). Around 2500 B.C. in Egypt a high government official named Methen, who lived during the Fourth Dynasty under the reign of King Sneferu, gave orders to have his future tomb frescoed with a record of his life's work, and his story, told in hieroglyphics, clearly shows that his garden was very important to him. The description of the same implies that it was a pleasure garden containing ornamental and fruit trees, vines and ponds. As far as we know he was the first human being 2 to describe a garden and his testimony proves that there existed a tradition of gardening as an art as far back as 25 centuries before the beginning of the Christian era (Cowell 11). According to Luise Gothein in A History of Garden Art, a typical garden site of those times appears as follows: The house stands inside the garden, enclosed by a wall. The entrance door leads straight into the garden . . . and the visitor proceeds to the house, which has garden all around it. . . . The most conspicuous place . . . is allotted to the vine arbour, where ripe grapes hang on a pergola . . . and among the trees are figs, pomegranates, and sycamores, which in their own avenue provide fruit and . . . shade (Gothein 10). ^  Thus, the site includes a piece of land, surrounded by a wall, the dwelling which is sheltered and shaded by trees, a vineyard in the centre of the garden, surrounded by avenues of various kinds of trees, and all the elements together constitute the earliest form of a fairly well developed formal garden in an advanced state of development in an early stage of man's history: "Rhythm, symmetry, and happy combination of elegance and utility have been fully attained and with them a delight in quiet communion with Nature, expressing as she does the sense of beauty in orderliness" (Gothein 10). This plan became a model for all future gardens, whether it was for those of the Persian kings after their occupation of 3 Egypt in the sixth century B.C., or for the European garden, and it represented for all later civilizations a precious cultural inheritance. Unlike the Egyptians, the Mesopotamians did not enjoy the security and stability of their neighbours to the south. They needed to seek refuge and survival in walled towns and the improbable possibility of gardens in such a context is described by Cowell in the following terms: Where a town was fortified by double defensive walls, the space between the inner and the outer wall would probably have been used for growing foodstuffs. Some may have become pleasure gardens . . . but the acutely cramped state of siege under which the townsfolk had to live, and the fierce warlike attitudes which were a condition of survival, combined with the eternal problem of providing sufficient water in their sub-tropical desert, ruled out pleasure gardens. . . . Due to the intensity of the Mesopotamian wars, battles, and sieges, which were bloody and brutal and intent on the utter extermination of the enemy, and the destruction of town, villages and plantations, . . . few but warrior kings could enjoy in brief periods of their success the security which gardens demand (Cowell 29). Nevertheless, the Mesopotamian garden did develop in the hands of rulers and wealthy citizens, so that it can be defined 4 as an enclosure of cultivated trees—most of them fruit-bearing—which was irrigated and embellished with shady pavilions to be used as a pleasure resort; it seems that flowers were not cultivated; at times such reserves were also used for hunting and belonged only to royalty (Diet. Bible 296). * These gardens were formal, architectural, and rectilinear, as were the Ziggurats which constitute the earliest Mesopotamian gardens and which have been defined as "artificial stylized hills created on a flat ground . . . by a people whose gods and temples had to be set on high places"; they were planted with trees, shrubs and vineyards in formal and linear planting; on its highest point were the temple, and a sacred grove consisting of pines (Hyams 10). ^ As evidence that even the "atrociously militarist Assyrians" loved and made gardens, there exists an inscription by Tiglath-Pileser where he records in 1100 B.C.: "Cedars and Box, All Kanu-wood have I carried off from the lands I conquered, trees that none of my forefathers have possessed, there trees have I taken and planted them in my own country, in the parks of Assyria have I planted them" (Hyams 11). Later on in Mesopotamian history, in the eighth century B.C., a clay tablet with a list of the plants in the royal gardens of Merodach Balan states: "I brought cedars, boxwood and oak trees, the like of which none of the Kings my forefathers ever planted, and I planted them in the gardens of my own land. I took rare garden fruits not found in my own land and caused them to flourish" (Cowell 29). However, it was the Egyptian garden—with Hellenistic culture combined—that became 5 the model for all future gardens. This specific idea of the garden was based on the principle of "aesthetic domestication of nature for man's own pleasure" (Vercelloni 9). Cultivation and the selective arrangement of plants demonstrate also the concept of programmatic dominion by man; this will be the relationship between man and nature in regard to gardens for centuries to come and it will be the founding principle for every European garden from classical antiquity to the garden of modern times (Vercelloni 9-10). This domination of nature by man is reflected in man's attitude to, and treatment of, the land to be cultivated, so that two different relationships between man and nature can be established: the masculine garden, and the feminine garden. ^  In the European Middle Ages, this relationship between man and nature is governed by the concept of the total domination of nature by man, whereby the notion of fertility in the masculine archetype "is reduced to the instrviment and moment of penetration". For instance, in a 14th century allegorical drawing showing how death can give birth to new life, a tree growing out of a dead man's corpse is depicted as phallic (Vercelloni 18). Such a "masculine concept of the idea of fertilization" is apparent also in the Italian gardens of the past where the orderly planting of repeated species of trees, of hedges clipped into geometrical patterns, orchards with symmetrical lay-outs all represent a continuation of man's domination and control of nature. Invariably, unchanging and predictable growth is planned 6 in order to avoid any margin of independent development of nature. Such planned planting and regularity is representative of the "masculine will to govern, dominate, and transform nature", and thus, the planting of a tree has the meaning of a finished task and the organized arrangement of this kind of planting is "man's putting the world in order, a world whose natural state he refuses to tolerate" (Vercelloni 18). Initiating a task, and keeping possessive and tight control over its development, this seems to be the essence of the masculine garden. This attitude stands in direct contrast to the feminine garden, where the fecundity and fertility chain forms an important aspect of the idea of the garden (Vercelloni 17). Here, participation of the gardener goes beyond the task of seeding, planting and fertilization; the garden, aside from continual love and tenderness, requires care during the various stages of its growth, cultivation, regular feeding, and maintenance of the plants' environment. Such a garden is not an object of aesthetic observation as if it were a picture. In this garden, man lives together with his plants, quite aware of their changes and transformations over time. The very essence of a biological product which takes root, grows, lives and dies is inseparably connected with the need of loving care, which, traditionally, is seen as a specifically feminine characteristic (Vercelloni 17). This dimension is an essential aspect of the female garden and it encompasses observation, adaptation to, and respect of nature, rather than possessive domination of it (Vercelloni 17). 7 Garden and Paradise: the Word There is no actual word for garden. Its roots go back to the Indo-European gher which meant farmyard, hedge, house, or enclosure (Brookes). ' Neither Greek nor Latin have a word for it, but the Greek term kepos, and the Latin hortus refer to enclosure of a cultivated plot (Vercelloni 11). Paradise is derived from pairidaeza which also means enclosure or park in old Avestan which is a language that predated Persian. Pairidaeza is formed on pairi (around) and diz (to mould, to form), which meant royal park, enclosure, or orchard of the Persian kings. The Greek word paradeisos was then adapted from the Persian, and came eventually to refer not only to "the sublimity of the Persian garden", but to "the supreme bliss of Eden", or "the reward of the faithful" as promised in the Koran in Sura 55. The subsequent history of the word took two directions: it became the Hebrew pardes and, adapted by the Greek, eventually became 'paradise' as we understand it (Giamatti 11). * Paradise The Hebrew word pardes. meaning garden or park, occurs only three times in the Old Testament: I made me gardens and orchards . . . (Eccles.2:5) A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse . . . (Cant.4:12) 8 And a letter unto Asaph, the keeper of the kings forest. (Neh.2:8). In these references it meant only specific verdant enclosures, as Giamatti points out: "the word had no connection with what we commonly call the earthly paradise, or garden of Eden of Genesis 2:8. . . . That specific identification was to come in later commentaries . . . after pardes had been influenced by its Greek cognate paradeisos". referring thus to a place where the dead are either awaiting, or have already enjoyed, resurrection. Giamatti explains further that in the apocalyptic tradition of the Jews, pardes signified "the Garden of Eden, or the opposite of Gehenna", the home of the blessed dead after their resurrection, while in the rabbinical tradition, pardes referred to "the blessed part of Sheol, where the good souls awaited the resurrection". Thus, with Greek influence, pardes took on the meaning of paradeisos^ and the original meaning of pari daeza (enclosure or royal park) took on new interpretations when used in a biblical context: the Garden in Eden on the one hand, and Heaven or the Abode of the Blessed Dead on the other (Giamatti 12). Therefore, the earliest link between word and place, between enclosure and Garden in Eden, paradise and earthly paradise, is initiated by the Greek adaptation of pairi daeza into paradeisos (Giamatti 11-12). The Greek work paradeisos has yet another, third, meaning, given to it by two figures of the 9 New Testament. In their interpretation of paradise, Lvike and Paul refer to it as Heaven, the celestial paradise: Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise . . . (Luke 23:43) He was caught up into Paradise, and heard unspeakable words. (II Ep.Cor.12:4) . Thus paradeisos. through Xenophon, the Septuagint writers, and the New Testament writers has three distinct meanings: 1. park or royal garden; 2. the Garden in Eden, and the Home of the Blessed; 3. Heaven, the celestial paradise (Giamatti 13). Paradise and Golden Age The state of blessedness, repose and inner harmony evokes invariably a garden, an earthly paradise, a perfect place. For Sumerians and Greeks, the place of this blessed existence was located at the other end of the world. In Gilaamesh. the "land of Dilmun" was situated in the Garden of the Sun; for other classical writers it was the Elysian Fields, the Fortunate Islands, the Islands of the Blessed, or the Garden of the Hesperides. All, however, thought of it as a place of peace and spiritual repose and bodily ease: "Idylls, eclogues, odes, epithalamia, epics, satires, romances and occasional verses all abound with descriptions of such an ideal life in an ideal landscape, but always remote, always inaccessible" (Giamatti 3). When, with the term paradeisos. general garden motifs became intermingled with the particular spiritual attributes of the Garden in Eden, it offered a mode of spiritual association for 10 Christian writers who wanted to hold up a model of that place of "bodily ease and inward harmony" which man had once possessed and then lost (Giamatti 13). As a direct result of the confluence of pagan and Christian traditions, it can be said that "Christianity had replaced the locus of the Golden Age with the place of the Fall" (Giamatti 4). Golden Age and Paradise Lost The earliest image of paradise lost has its origins not in the writings of the biblical and Christian writers, but in the literature dealing with the well known topos of the Golden Age. In its dual meaning, the Golden Age refers to both, a way of life "untroubled by strife and want", as well as a "(pseudo)-historical place" situated at the end of the world. The original myth of the Golden Age goes back to Homer's description of the Elysian Fields, that place " at the world's end . . . where living is made easiest for mankind" (Odyssey IV 561-68). But the first actual use of the term Golden Age occurs in Hesiod's Works and Days (109-120), where the "Golden Age", as a way of life, is taking place in the same location as Homer's Elysixim: at the end of the world, and it is here that the connection between the Golden Age and Elysium originates (Giamatti 16-17). Pindar also offers references to such a place and way of existence when he mentions a people, sacred to Apollo, whose land was a blessed place (Pythian X), and when he identifies the blessed life after death not only with the Island of the Blest, but also with 11 morality insofar as the virtuous are promised the reward of living in such a blessed existence (Olympian II) (Giamatti 21). Golden Age: Romans Although the Greeks referred to the blessed existence in that far away land as that of a 'golden age' under Cronos, it is the Romans who actually introduced the term Golden Age, referring to the reign of Saturn (Giamatti 25). The most famous Roman exponent of this myth is Virgil who in Eclogue IV predicts a Golden Age to come; and in Book VI of Aeneid, Anchises forecasts the future of Rome as the first Golden Age in Latium (Giamatti 25). Another Roman writer, Horace, shows similarities with Virgil in that he presents a vision of peaceful existence and, like Hesiod and Pindar, identifies the Island of the Blessed with the Golden Age (Giamatti 28). Another ancient poet to deal extensively with the Golden Age was Ovid who in his Metamorphoses I, III, and XV summarizes the essence of the Golden Age as a life in harmony, stability, peace, security and happiness, a blissful time of rustic simplicity, that would maintain its appeal for centuries to come (Giamatti 30). The paradise garden and the three prototypes of landscape description. In the Christian era, the search for an interpretation of paradise continued, as writers tried to define the location of the blissful place. Those who followed the allegorizing 12 tradition, saw paradise as a celestial place and considered the earthly version of it only as a reflection and symbol of the celestial Kingdom of Heaven. Its adherents followed the ideas of Clement and Origen. The second school of thought was the literal tradition that included Tertulian and Cyprian. They saw the earthly paradise as a "truly terrestrial place" and a worthwhile goal and dream to pursue (Giamatti 14-15). In western literature, the first detailed description and theory of the earthly paradise is found in De laude martyrii. erroneously assigned to Cyprian. It contains the image of eternal spring and stresses the preferential access to paradise that martyrs are believed to enjoy. Grimm explains: Das Paradies ist dort der locus Christi. wo die Erde von griinen Gefilden und Bliiten bedeckt ist. In den Hainen herrscht ewiger Friihling; ebensowenig wie die Jahreszeiten wechseln Tag und Nacht, Sonne und Mond bleiben immer an ihrem Ort (Grimm 46). By integrating elements from classical tradition into their exegesis. Christian writers as well as their pagan predecessors, resorted to the three Greek prototypes of landscape description which include the three basic types: 1. Gardens of all sorts, landscape seen as a garden; 2. set pieces of natural description; 3. landscapes of pastoral poetry. They are represented in the Greek prototypes as follows: 13 1. Odyssey, the garden of Alcinous: a garden proper; 2. Homeric Hymns, the myth of Proserpina: a wild landscape to decorate the tale; 3. Theocritus: human love is linked to the world of nature: landscape of pastoral poetry Pastoral poetry became thus a particularly important source of natural motifs as Christian writers saw parallels between its imagery and the biblical idea of shepherd and flock. What these landscape descriptions have in common is a sense of harmony, fulfilment and comfort all related to a garden or natural setting, and this is the inheritance that was passed on to the poets of Rome (Giamatti 33-38). Roman Poets and Greek Prototypes In many of the early Roman writers the assimilated Greek prototypes are reflected and varied upon. Horace, for instance, provided his successors with an image of simple life in a simple setting, that reveals at the same time his notion of "proper harmony between internal standards and external surroundings" (Vercelloni 42). He prefers the simple harmony of a rustic setting to the urban pomp of Rome, as he expresses in Epode II (1-3): Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens mortalium paterna rura bobus exercit suis (Happy the man who, far away from his business cares. 14 like the pristine race of mortals, works his ancestral acres with his steers . . .) As he says in Odes III xvi (29-30), he prefers a stream of pure water, a plot of good land, and a decent crop. He sees the ideals of man reflected in a type of rus amoenum. that would include a garden, a spring, and trees: Hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus, hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons et paulum silvae super his foret. (Satires II vi, 2-3). In such a place man can live in harmony with nature and enjoy the noble simplicity of country life in peace (Giamatti 40-42). Another poet who shared Horace's distrust of polished city life was Juvenal, as he too shows respect for the virtues of simple life in the country when he says: lanua Baiarum est et gratum litus amoeni secessus ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburae (Satires 11,4-5). (That is the Gate of Baiae, a sweet retreat upon a pleasant shore; I myself would prefer even Prochyta to the Subura). In his contrasting the two worlds of city and country life, in the sense of Virgil and Horace, there is hidden the idea of "bringing one's environment into harmony with one's standards and needs" (Giamatti 45). Seeing a garden as mirror of man's industry seemed an attractive ideal to the Roman view of a garden since a 15 garden was held to be a reflection of a man's values, and as such it was incorporated into the vocabulary and imagery of the Christian writers (Giamatti 46). In spite of its pagan origins, the classical literature that saw in gardens and landscapes the ideal site for harmony, love, retirement and peace proved to be a welcome storehouse of imagery and models for the writers of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance to draw from, so that the Christian poets could be said to have "plundered Elysi\am to decorate the earthly paradise" (Giamatti 15). Medieval Gardens: Monastic and Private Toward the height of the Middle Ages, the descriptions of the earthly paradise became more numerous and more conventional, but all of them share similar characteristics: the presence, amongst other elements, of the four rivers, gems, fruit, grass, flowers, trees, and the perpetual spring. Those poets who were most influenced by antiquity showed this influence in that their descriptions were mostly classical and standard, that is, they applied a certain classical 'formula' of description that summed up the earthly paradise in a few verbal 'props', while those poets who took the Bible as model for their descriptions showed less of the classical echoes and were freer to elaborate on their own ideas (Giamatti 78). The medieval period of garden history covers the period between the fall of Rome (A.D.410) and the beginning of the Renaissance (end of 14th century); in between, and for a period 16 of nearly one thousand years, Christianity ruled both as an earthly power and a philosophical force. Much of the civilization and many of the cultural achievements of this period were preserved in monasteries as they became focal points of the intellectual activities and assumed the role of repositories of knowledge, and they were also important contributors to the development of garden history. Meyvaert points out that The earliest allusion to monastic gardens can be found at the origins of the monastic movement itself. . . . Monasticism as a large-scale movement originated in Egypt in the early fourth century. Many small landholders living in Egyptian villages, after being converted to Christianity, came face to face with a great contemporary question: whether a full Christian life was compatible with earthly joys and pleasures and could therefore be led in the world, or whether it did not demand the renunciation of such pleasures, self-discipline, celibacy, and hence withdrawal from the world. The flight to the desert was the course many took, either to live singly, as hermits, or to band together into communities. Chronologically the eremitical form may have slightly preceded the cenobitic model . . . 17 but the earliest monastic literature that has come down to us, shows both forms developing side by side (Meyvaert 25). ' There are, however, no surviving medieval gardens. While their sites can often still be identified today and many of these gardens have been replanted, they are nevertheless different from the original ones, as neither design, plantings, nor decorations survived intact at any of the sites. In order to study these sites, one must resort to visual sources—such as illustrated manuscripts—or literary sources and evidence in the form of poetic or prose descriptions. Meyvaert notes that it was the description of the monastery of Abbot Isidore in the region of Thebes . . . that most influenced Western monastic founders, including St. Benedict. The description reads: We saw this most important monastery surrounded by large open spaces, and hemmed in by a wall; it had large dwellings for those who lived there. Within its boundary were many wells, well-watered gardens, and all the fruits and trees of paradise; it provided in abundance all that was necessary, so that the monks who lived within never needed to go outside for anything. (Meyvaert 27). 18 A great source of information is contained in the literature of the medieval Cistercians. Known for their skill in agriculture and gardening, they not only chose beautiful and secluded spots that were conducive to their undertaking, providing them with plenty of water and suitable fertile land, but they were also known to "make the desert blossom as the rose". ^ ° Since they lived close to the land and to growing things, they often used garden imagery to develop spiritual themes (Meyvaert 49). For many of these early Christian gardeners, gardening was more than survival; aside from growing food and medicine in their herb and kitchen gardens, their gardens could be "evocations of Paradise itself" (Cowell 178). For the monks of the Middle Ages, paradise was seen as the Garden of Eden, the paradisus voluptatis of Genesis 2:8, that most beautiful of all gardens that was planted by God himself; it was the pre-lapsian home of Adam and Eve, from which they later were exiled. In believing that paradise was a real place on earth, the monks could rely on the authority of St. Augustine who insisted in his De Genesi ad litteram that paradise was indeed a real garden "in Eden ad orientem" (Meyvaert 50). He was intent on disputing those who gave the Genesis account only a figurative meaning. In typological explanation, the earthly paradise of Eden represents the image of the Church. There, the redeemed have access to Christ, the Tree of Life, and through him they can begin, already here on earth, to live the vita beata. Seen from this typological point of view, the monastery was also a type of 19 paradise on earth. Meyvaert quotes Honorius Augustodunensis as follows: The monastery bears the image of Paradise and an even more secure Paradise than Eden. In this lovely garden the source of water is the baptismal font, the tree of Life in this paradise is the body of the Lord. The various kinds of fruit trees are the different books of the Bible. As a hidden, secret place this cloister bears the image of Heaven, in which the just are segregated from sinners just as those who profess the religious life are separated in the cloister from secular persons. Monasteries, moreover, foreshadow the Heavenly paradise. (Meyvaert 51). and goes on to say: Elsewhere it is the monastic cloister itself, namely, the central covered arcade, rectangular or square, from which the main monastic buildings (church, dormitory, refectory, cellary) radiated, which is compared to the heavenly paradise or Jerusalem. The green lawn of the cloister garden refreshes the eyes of the beholders 20 and recalls to their minds the amoenitas of the future life. (Meyvaert 51). Perhaps the idea of planting a juniper tree or bush at the cloister garden originates from these thoughts, since it is a custom already occurring in the ninth century plan of St. Gall (Meyvaert 52). Vercelloni says that the typical medieval garden was "an infinite chessboard of various preciosities, classified in an easily understandable and culturally acceptable way" (Vercelloni 21). It contained flower beds, a lawn with fountain and pavilions, beds for the growth of herbs, an orchard, a kitchen garden, a viridarium (which is the place for evergreens such as pine trees, cypresses, firs, laurels and olive trees, and also the place for protection from the summer's heat), a fish pond, and a pomarium (the orchard where trees were planted and grouped according to species). Water was supplied by the central fountain, which was covered by an architectural structure. Medieval gardens were enclosed by fences to allow for special cultivation of plants, for privileged use, as well as for contemplation. In the later Middle Ages, every monastery had an herb garden, although in the early centuries of our era it had not yet become the standard feature of a monastic garden that it would be later. Different from their predecessors in monastic life, the monks of the later Middle Ages had no hesitations to enjoy the beauty of nature with a good conscience, aware that such an environment was beneficial to body and soul alike. After 21 all it was Ekkehart IV himself who wrote at the end of the tenth century: "Delitiis plenus locus apellatur amenus" (Poetae V 533,10) ("a Man might no longer be dwelling in the beautiful Garden of Eden, but he was still able to recognize the beauty of nature around him—also part of God's creation—the beauty of verdant, flower-strewn fields, or fruitful orchards, of shady valleys") (Meyvaert 39-52). And in a monastic text of the later Middle Ages we find the following: Within the enclosure of this wall stand many and various trees, prolific in bearing fruit. It resembles a wood, and since it is near the cell of the sick brethren, it offers some comfort to their infirmities, while providing at the same time a spacious place for those who walk and a sweet place for those who are overheated can rest. Where the orchard ends the garden begins. Here too a lovely prospect presents itself to the infirm brethren; they can sit on the green edge of the great fountain, and watch the little fishes challenging one another, as it were, to warlike encounters, as they meet and play in the water . . . From this point on, one could say that with the addition of fruit trees, flowers, ponds, and piscines to the medieval herb and vegetable garden, a 22 conscious effort was made to improve the site aesthetically, as well as providing pleasure and relaxation to the contemplative viewer (Meyvaert 44). The later Middle Ages were also the time for the evolution of the private garden, a fenced-in enclosure surrounding the homes of common people, but the origin of private gardens at that time lay in the development of monastic estates where individual monastic officials were permitted to own property. The excess and abuse of such private possessions led to a call for reform by speakers of the Cistercian order who considered the vice of private property one of the main reasons for reform (Meyvaert 46). But whether in secular or in the hands of the clergy, the emphasis of the time seemed to be on how to live in such a garden. In an early 14th-century work De Ruralium Commodorum the author gives advice on how to design a garden so that it would become an expression of nature being dominated by man. The accompanying woodcut showed an enclosure, flowers in pots, herbs with a rabbit depicted in the plot as a symbol of fertility, architectural treillaaes covered with grape vine, a basin-fountain in the centre, a man playing the lute, his eyes downcast, and a woman listening to the music "with tender emotion"; all in all the message seems to be: this is how a garden was supposed to be enjoyed at the time (Vercelloni 22). It also hints at the cult of feeling that was gaining entry to real and literary gardens alike. 23 Whether a medieval garden was designed as monastic or as private, whether it contained fruit trees, flowers, or vegetables, what they all had in common was that these gardens were contained by a fence or wall. Fences and walls were graphic and symbolic marks for setting apart and enclosing a sacred and private space. They also served as treillacre to support climbing plants (Vercelloni 72), and some of the most ephemeral 'fences' were created by light wooden trellises, as well as interlacing living branches, thus offering shelter from the elements as well as from prying eyes. Lattices and trellised red roses have become literary staples in the Roman de la Rose where they create the throne room of the God of Love, as well as form the walls of the Marian garden (Stokstad 183). " Whether such structures were used to protect and safeguard what was inside the garden, or to halt encroachment of the outside world into the sheltered area, the importance of a fence lies in that the sacred space inside represents a type of selective microcosm, complete and controllable. It was a way of "bringing order to the chaos of nature, and so transform and clarify our experience of the world" (Cowell 184). From 15th-century miniature paintings one can recognize the preference for flowers and plants and their use considering their religious significance of the time. The white lily represented the purity of Mary, the red rose indicated divine love, cherries represented the joys of heaven, strawberries the fruit of righteousness, with the leaves of this plant signifying the Trinity, and apples stood 24 for the fall of man. From these 15th-century paintings one can discern that the garden symbolizing the Virgin Birth had lost little in meaning to the secularizing tendencies of the oncoming Renaissance. This garden still stood as a metaphor for the Church and the Virgin Mary, as well as for paradise and the reward of the faithful. ^^ The Renaissance Garden The idea of the Renaissance garden incorporates the revival of the Golden Age of Graeco-Roman culture. In the 15th-century Hypnerotomachia Poliphilif written by Francesco Colonna, there is a series of magnificent illustrations which are said to "propagandize the Renaissance idea of the garden and register the predisposition toward a wide antiquarian culture that was in fashion in the latter half of the century in Venice, Padua and Mantua" (Vercelloni 38). The Hypnerotomachia is an illustrated romance as well as a treatise on the humanistic and Renaissance garden. It is the story of a dream in which Poliphilio meets his beloved Polia in a garden with flowers and shrubs, under a pergola that is covered with plants. Inside a pavilion there are benches for sitting and conversing, and the pavilion itself forms an airy transparent space composed of marble columns. In his description of the book, Vercelloni remarks that the author used the expression 'topiary' to define plants which were "artfully clipped", that is, natural volumes of plant material were shaped into artificial forms, and he points out that topiary, meaning 25 more than adding a decorative touch to plants, required patience and skill, a fact that separates this craft from being a trivial undertaking. Famous as "the essential characteristic element of the Italian garden", topiary was a highly developed art form during the Renaissance in Italy, and its historic origins go back to classical Graeco-Roman times. In the Hellenistic age a topia—the painting of a model of an ideal garden—was placed in the gallery that surrounded the garden as a reference for both owner and gardener alike, in a desire for perfection. Later, Cicero referred to his gardener as topiarius. assimilating this cultural reference through a "metonymical revival of the Greek term, indicating those elegant practices which transformed a garden into a work of art". In the Renaissance, humanistic culture revived this term and it came to designate—through figures and geometrical shapes made out of plant material—"the government of man over nature" (Vercelloni 43). Another key element of the Renaissance garden is the fountain which is often regarded as the fons sapientiae. Renaissance fountains in general are architectural and sculptural, made of precious materials such as marble and metals, and are situated in a central position of the garden (Vercelloni 42). As a third constituent of a humanist Renaissance garden—aside from topiary and fountain—there is the notion of the "delightful mount", symbol of Mount Helicon and home of the Muses who, as Apollo's assistants, represent the idea of purity and harmony. In a 15th-century visual representation of both the 26 mount as well as artfully clipped trees, one can discern the message alluded to which indicates that such a place is "not abandoned to 'savage nature'", but is under the supervision and cultivation of man, representing once again, a reminder that man is powerful and wise and capable of dominating nature (Vercelloni 35). The Renaissance Botanical Garden As one of the expressions of such control over, as well as interest in. Nature, the Botanical Garden became a place for botanical experiments, as the garden became a metaphor for the world of knowledge. Vercelloni explains: "Unlike the ancient physick garden, with its medieval heritage, the Renaissance botanical garden became the place for observation and experimentation, the laboratory for studying the old and new plant world, and an area for new productive possibilities" (Vercelloni 47). The first botanical garden in Europe dates from 1545 in Padua, displaying 1,168 species, almost 50 years before the first book on the botanical garden was to be published in Venice in 1591 (Vercelloni 47). In Italy as well as in France, cultivating plants became a matter of growing them in regular beds bordered by hedging, containing different patterns and species, organized thus not with the aim of decoration but out of interest and pleasure in the plants themselves. This "clear and immediately comprehensive arrangement of all of the plant world that is possible and worthwhile" shows that such an organization 27 is undertaken for botanical interest as well as for aesthetic reasons and thus is "typical of Renaissance culture, which did not aim merely at decoration" (Vercelloni 50). During the European Renaissance the idea of the "physick garden" continued the work of medieval monasteries in that it preserved the traditional knowledge contained in the ancient wisdom of the monasteries, as well as medical practices developed in the recent past, so that history's heritage was preserved there for future cultivation and production (Vercelloni 47). In 1594 there appeared in England the first book in Europe dedicated exclusively to gardening. The Gardener's Labyrinth, an enlarged version of a treatise written in 1563. Gardening became a passion in Elizabethan England and saw the birth of a new figure: the amateur gardener, or dilettante, so that gardening thus became a defining characteristic of the new gentleman's style of life (Vercelloni). In a late Renaissance garden in Niirnberg, Germany, there are beds filled with herbs and flowers, organized systematically in order to reflect the "reasoned arrangement of the Renaissance, not symmetry reduced to decorative triteness" (Vercelloni 77). Arranging plants in such patterns serves to induce visitors to take a closer look and thus move beyond just taking a rapid glance at the overall lay-out and, hopefully, establish a link with individual flowers. Such a typical organization of plants in a Renaissance garden is related to the concept of the botanical garden, which is designed for the scientific study of plants and 28 the domestication of the plant world by man (Vercelloni 77). In what Vercelloni calls an "epistemological leap from the physick to botanical garden", a change in the status of the garden is expressed in the transformation of medical and botanical curiosity into interest in the garden. This is expressed in The Herbal or General Historie of Plants (1597), a book that contained useful gardening information. It opened the door for the notion of an aesthetic utilization of botany, which soon took the place of the study of plants for scientific use only. The 17th-century garden: Mannerism and Barogue The gardens of Versailles became a metaphor of the dominion over nature. They were designed by Le N6tre who was the founder of the style and school of French formal gardens, a style based on "a rigorous ^esprit de q§om6trie^, and on gigantesque dimensions" (Vercelloni 82). The 17th century was, however, not only an age that produced Versailles and the 17th-century garden par excellence, it also saw the publication of the first European book dedicated to women gardeners, The Countrie Housewife^s Garden of 1618. An accompanying woodcut shows the plan of a garden and house as a microcosm that reminds us of monastic models, as house and garden provide for all of man's requirements, allowing him thus total independence from the surrounding environment (Vercelloni 57). Onto the old concept of the garden, which was seen mainly as a productive unit, the artist had grafted the Renaissance idea of the garden, as well as 29 the figure of the amateur gardener, to indicate that in such a garden, usefulness and leisure were both equally attended to. Those gardens, however, that became the most famous in the 17th century were not the ones known for their reasoned balance of dulce et utile, rather, they were gardens known for their Mannerist bizarreness. No longer was there an emphasis on science, learning, on the idea of beauty and harmony of nature as reflecting its divine counterpart, rather, a form of theatricality and obsession with decor took possession of the imagination and became the new aesthetics of the garden. According to Vercelloni, the model for such an "aesthetics of bad taste" seems to have been the mid-16th century garden of Bomarzo in Italy, which has been described as a "mysterious garden full of curiosities and monsters" (Vercelloni 68). This Mannerist creation selected "wonders and rarities" which it transformed and incorporated, to become part of the garden's display of a "banal and gaudy form of aesthetics" (Vercelloni 68). As a result, this garden full of caprice and extravagance became famous for being "the popular theatre of objects of bad taste" (Vercelloni 68). In the Renaissance the ideas of reason and classification—in which systematic division of plant species in clear arrangement of rectangular beds were essential in order to study the plants—were compatible with the notion of an ordered universe. Now, in the mid 16th-century, the overt emphasis on "rarities and exotica were to dominate both, botanical and formal contexts". As Vercelloni explains: "Mannerist and formal cynicism merged on one 30 of the oldest and most complex figures in the history of mankind, the maze, with the banality of Mannerist decorative pattern, useful for decorating walls and ceilings, and for forming beds in gardens. This gratuitous decorativeness not only implied disinterest in the plant life . . . but also a more general indifference toward the garden, where the complex beds were to be placed" (Vercelloni 46). This is exemplified in treatises on 17th-century French baroque gardens where the compartement de broderie. the patterned growth of flowers, was to have the form of a carpet of flowers planted "with little plant life, in repetition of a Manneristic design" (Vercelloni 46). Where all energy is spent on decor, little emphasis was given to the plant as an organic existence. During times of Mannerist excess, a plant seemed to have become an inorganic substance to be added to a painter's palette. " Baroque Gardens The 17th century is a time when—with regard to garden development—Mannerist practices were merged with Baroque inventions. Although gardens in the Baroque period re-introduced the elements of the Italian classical gardens, and the great Renaissance traditions, they did so in a Mannerist alternative. The desire to follow fashion prevails over integrity in the relationship of man and nature; the process of amassing ornaments and symbols—which is primarily a mechanical undertaking—becomes paramount, and the garden has lost the special harmony for which 31 the original Italian models were famous. In some cases, an overly impressive great portal to a garden, urns with trees in them, columns supporting busts, obelisks, human statues, all can be seen as a "haughty Manneristic exercise", where the emphasis lies on possession, collection and display of curiosities, all belonging outside the field of botany (Vercelloni 76). Such gardens often host a repertoire of breathtaking inventions, such as hydraulic machinery, automata, scenographic and pyrotechnic happenings, so that the site tends to become a permanent theatre for the feastings of the powerful and well to do, and for the display of their newly acquired novelties. In such environments, the "idea of the Renaissance garden, with its beds, balustrades and architectural pergolas" is lost in the display of extravagance (Vercelloni 33). This materialist view and consumerism in the garden was a reflection of its time, as an ever greater fear of an inner spiritual vacuiun led to a frantic search for compensation: "Das Barock war eine schnellebige Epoche; zur Kehrseite der gigantischen and pompQsen festlichen Steigerungen gehorte—als ihr seelischer Grund—die Flucht vor der Leere" (Enge 108) . ** 0.2 Spain: Gardens and Literature In an excellent study of the topic, the Marquesa de Vald€s ** points out that the first Spanish gardens to be designed solely for the adornment of dwellings and the aesthetic enjoyment by their inhabitants, were legacies of Greece which 32 came to Spain by way of Rome. The Romans brought with them their skill in constructing irrigation systems in the form of water conduits and fountains. Another Roman design concept—the porticos and peristyles of Roman houses—has survived throughout Spain into the modern times in the form of Andalusian patios. convent cloisters, and other variations of the concept of the hortus conclusus. Italica and Merida were Roman cities revealing a number of distinctly Roman features, as the design of a typical Italica house includes all the familiar classic Graeco-Roman features such as an open courtyard, the cryptoporticus, the exedra, as well as the two most important characteristics of the whole design: the fusion of house and garden by means of courtyards, and the use of a central axis which shows how symmetry was a fundamental element to the houses of Italica. This is, says the Marguesa de Valdes, "the oldest known design, in which a garden is arranged symmetrically in relation to the centre of the house" (Valdes 2-5). The aftermath of the Roman conguest brought with it also the spread of Roman civilization, so that knowledge of new varieties of trees and plants came to Spain via Italy and the other Roman provinces. The most commonly used shrubs in Roman gardens were laurel, myrtle, and acanthus, together with many varieties of trees, among them the oak, the plane, the cypress, and fruit trees. Columella, a native of Gades living in Rome, described the care of a garden, naming flowers, vegetables and aromatic plants in his treatise on agriculture. Pliny the Elder, who lived 33 in Spain for a few years, makes several references to the vegetation and flora of Spain, mentioning plants that existed there in Roman times, for instance the pistachio, now no longer growing in Spain. As in Egyptian times, garlands were used for decoration by the Romans, and they consisted of a free combination of flowers, fruit and foliage all intermingled. Pliny the Elder praises the variety of colours and shapes of these wreaths and garlands and stresses that they "could not be reproduced in painting". Other Roman botanical favourites were creeping plants, such as grapevines, ivy, volubilis, used by the Romans to decorate pergolas and porticos (Vald^s 10). Spain was also famous for its abundance of aromatic and medicinal herbs—such as camomile, mint, thyme, oregano—and Pliny mentions that the 'cantabric herb' classified later as convulvulus cantabrica by Linnaeus, was discovered in Hispania during the time of Augustus and was used in the preparation of a festive cocktail (Valdes 13). From the point of view of agriculture and gardening, it can be said that Spain brought great riches to the Roman Empire, as the Peninsula was extremely important for its agricultural production in the form of enormous quantities of oil, wine, and grain that were exported to Rome. Rome, in turn, left the heritage of its civilization on the Peninsula, in the form of aqueducts, bridges, temples and villas, and the earliest examples of the art of gardening. With the subsequent barbarian invasions, this art was neglected and lies, as a by-product of a style of 34 life and culture of times gone by, "buried forever in the ruins of Roman palaces and gardens" (Vald§s 15). As Rodrigo Caro put it in his "Cancion a las ruinas de Itlilica", AquI ya de laurel, ya de jazmines coronados los vieron los jardines, que ahora son zarzales y lagunas . . . Casas, jardines, cesares murieron y aun las piedras que de ellos se escribieron. (Rodrigo Caro 691) . ^^  Gradually, time, in the form of nature, re-claimed these neglected ruins and left them, as expressed in the poem, "invaded by yellow mustard weeds", until, with the arrival of the Arabs in the 8th century, new gardens appeared in the South of Spain, which were unique to the territory due to their oriental inspiration (Vald§s 15). Islamic Gardens in Spain It is indeed in Spain that the oldest and most beautiful Islamic Gardens have survived. Arabic art has been a part of Spanish culture for so many centuries that subsequent Gothic art and, later, the Renaissance "never succeeded in uprooting orientalism as the popular art; all these other influences intermingled with it" (Valdes 24). Many of the Muslim invaders became very fond of gardening, a skill they gained from Persia and Syria by way of Byzantium, that is, the Graeco-Roman culture. They also invented the noria, the wheel used to draw water from 35 the river, an Arab invention that would, centuries later, serve as a Christian metaphor for drawing the grace of God, as seen in Santa Teresa's Vida. As an interesting curiosity with reference to walled gardens, it is worth pointing out that the Patio of Orange Trees in the Mosque of Cordoba "is perhaps the most ancient walled garden in the world" (Valdes 27). " This patio was begun by 'Abd al-Rahman II at the end of the 8th century, and a final addition was planted at the end of the 10th century; the existing patio belongs to the latter phase. The Chronicles prove that orange trees were unknown in Spain until the 12th or 13th centuries, and that the patio was planted with olive trees, palms, and laurels; later accounts from the end of the 17th century indicate that the patio was indeed planted at that time with 117 orange trees. The Alcdzar of the Christian Kings in Cordoba dates from the era of the Catholic Monarchs. It possessed beautiful gardens watered by the river Guadalquivir. Traces were found of eight fountains surrounded by eight pavilions indicating compliance with Arab garden design symbolizing the eight pearl pavilions of the Islamic paradise (Valdes 27-28) . ** Another feature of the gardens of the Alcazar at C6rdoba was a powerful water jet which, according to Al Maqqari's report of the middle of the 19th century, was "attaining a height never before seen in east or west". The Arabs were the first to construct such vertical water spouts (Valdes 30) . ^' 36 There were of course many more palaces and pleasure gardens in Muslim Spain, the most renowned of which are, of course, the Alhambra and the gardens of the Generalife in Granada. Granada and its charm need little introduction; with its spectacular setting, its Arab mystique, and its abundance of water, Granada and its gardens undoubtedly form one of the world's most beautiful sites. The gardens of the Alhambra and Generalife are also the oldest in Europe, and the oldest gardens that are still in existence from the 13th and 14th centuries. They reflect the oriental preference for viewing and enjoying scenery from a sheltered vantage point, which in itself, forms a variation on the other two traditional ways of enjoying a garden: by either walking slowly through it, or by viewing it from the outside without being in direct contact with the garden. The Marquesa de Vald§s explains that: "The Arabs designed their gardens for their sedentary and contemplative life . . . where beauty was created to be contemplated at leisure, with no sense of the passing of time" (Valdes 34). Being seated in a pavilion or patio and taking in the atmosphere of a garden, with its changing sources of light due to the varied greenery, the fragrance-filled air, the sound of the play of water jets and fountains, in undisturbed silence and contemplation, surely seems the most rewarding way of enjoying a garden's wealth, something that cannot be gained from viewing it from a distant vantage point located behind the window of the house. The Granada garden in general is composed of a variety of enclosures, much like 37 patios, but formed by leafy greenery and airy hedges instead of solid walls; the garden complex of the Generalife is a continuous series of such enclosures. While a resident of northern regions may be fascinated with the miracle of spring and the regenerative power of the sun, in hotter climates, trees, shade, and most of all, water not only provide comfort but survival itself. It is therefore easy to understand how to a people originating in the desert, water must seem as the most precious gift from heaven. This fascination with water lies at the root of the extraordinary playfulness the Arabs displayed in the design of all kinds of ways to deal with this precious element. Among their contributions to garden culture are the water wheel, the riad (irrigation by water channels), the vertical water jet, the reflecting pool, and in general a very sensuous and poetic appreciation of an element often taken for granted by other cultures. An inscription in the Alhambra reflects this sense of treasure that water represents to them: "Water, overflowing, resembles diamonds, pearls and liquid silver" (Valdes 39). A reference in the Koran to the Islamic paradise mentions gardens, "each planted with fruit-trees, the palm and the pomegranate" where the blessed "shall recline on green cushions and rich carpets" (Sura 55). The Generalife, says the Marquesa de Valdes, must have been built according to the symbolism of the Islamic paradise, for the rulers of Granada had it constructed as a country retreat where they could relax and meditate in close 38 communion with nature. No more suitable name could have been found for it than 'Generalife', since the word means what it represents: "most noble Garden" (Vald^s 40-41). It is a harmony of green and silver, plants and water, and the closest possible representation of paradise on earth, ^o The Andalusian Carmen The Arab word for carmen is yanna and means orchard or rustic property. In Granada such carmenes are small hillside homes located on the outskirts of town, overlooking a valley, and facing the Alhambra and the city of Granada. In their small-size gardens grow flowers, herbs, and vegetables "in picturesque confusion", stemming from the old Arab tradition of combining both kitchen and flower gardens. These carmenes often have added architectural structures, such as covered galleries and terraces or small towers, which enable the residents to contemplate the view sheltered from heat and prying eyes, according to the notion of privacy and seclusion of the oriental garden (Valdes 46). A short distance from Granada lies a particularly interesting carmen which the Marquesa de Valdes describes as follows: "The special charm of this site is its combination of lush verdure, reminiscent of northern gardens, with the clear light of the Andalusian skies and the magnificent view of the Sierra Elvira". The Marquesa is referring to the Palace of Cuzco in Viznar, the site of Federico Garcia Lorca's tragic death in 1939. She adds: "In the silence of this garden, the only sound is the murmur of 39 its fountain" (Valdes 52); and, one might add, the haunting voice of memory. Medieval Cloister Gardens Like many other aspects of Hispanic culture, the cloisters of Spanish monasteries contain gardens of many different periods and styles due to the convergence of Graeco-Roman and Arab traditions. Religious communities in search of peace and silence selected secluded places where they placed their gardens within colonnaded enclosures. Unlike patios. Christian cloisters have, in general, a low wall or parapet surrounding them, that serves as a basis for columns, while in the patios of Graeco-Roman and Arab tradition, the columns stand on the floor. The monastery cloister has evolved from the colonnaded peristyle of the Roman country house. There is no doubt that, without the shelter of the monasteries, much of classical culture and learning would have been lost. As in the restless Mesopotamian times, in the Middle Ages, life was a continuous struggle to resist invasion. In Spain, as in the rest of Europe, there was neither time nor space in the walled enclosures of towns and fortresses to allow for the peaceful occupation of gardening. During those days, only a monastery environment could provide the tranquillity necessary for the development of gardens. Meyvaert says: It is assumed that during the Middle Ages, each monastery had its own hortulanus, who 40 was also a monk of the community . . . St. Isidores early monastic rule mentions an hortulanus. whose duty it was to look after the gardens and the beehives, to provide seeds in the springtime and to announce when this or that crop needed planting or harvesting (Meyvaert 29). Among the first orders established in Spain were the Benedictines in the 10th and 11th centuries. The rule of St. Benedict, which became the basis for all subsequent rules, shows characteristics of Roman influence, and with respect to gardening, this is reflected in the fact that the Benedictine monastic design around a rectangular colonnade, recalls a Roman villa. Most of the Benedictine abbeys designated a small part of their orchards to the cultivation of medicinal herbs, and—inspired by Roman gardens—they also grow flowers, to decorate their altars. The cloister of the Benedictine monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos near Burgos has a misguidedly restored garden whose design and planting, even if not in keeping with its original medieval concept, still has a great effect on the visitor. The Marquesa de Vald§s describes it as "a haven of peace and golden Castilian light" (Valdis 78-80). The most famous gardeners among the early religious orders were the Cistercians who came to Spain in the 12th century. St. Bernard, concerned over the accumulation of material possessions 41 within the order of Cluny, founded the Cistercian order and became the first abbot of Clairvaux. His influence was such that a whole era was named after him: "Als Bernhardinisches Zeitalter bezeichnen Kirchen- und Profanhistoriker die erste Halfte des zwolften Jahrhunderts . . . und bringen damit zum Ausdruck, dass er dieses halbe Jahrhundert europaischer Geschichte gepragt hat" (Liechtenstein 3). ^^  He was a man who wholeheartedly dedicated his life to God and who loved the tranquillity and peace of the monastery environment. In a statement that could have easily been an excerpt of Santa Teresa's Vida—and an indication that she was influenced by his thinking—, he says: "Ich war also auf der Suche nach einem Ort, wo meine noch erstarrte Seele Zuflucht und Warme fande. Doch ich fand niemanden, der mir zur Hilfe kommen konnte, um die Nebel, die mich einschlossen, zu zerstreuen und einen milden Friihling herbeizufiihren" (Liechtenstein 12) . Two of the Cistercian monasteries, located close together, are the Monasteries of San Milllin de Suso, and San Mill^n de Yuso, the former the home of the Spanish poet Gonzalo de Berceo, the latter known still at the end of the 18th century for its large apothecary's shop and its botanical garden that contained many herbs and plants as well as a few trees (Valdes 83). The traditional elements of the Mediterranean cloister garden are an enclosure, a rectangle surrounded by porticos, a pool in the centre, and flowers in beds and pots, all of them still discerned in the remnants of Roman gardens excavated in Merida. When the Roman Empire was succeeded by Christianity, the 42 Church preserved the use of Mediterranean cloister gardens (Vald^s xiv). This cloister-garden tradition continued during the Gothic period, with the added detail of a pattern of lacery decor to the arches of the enclosure. When churches began to proliferate in Europe, representing the new spiritual power of Christianity, the cloister gardens of Spain were the only ones to retain the Moorish flavour of Mediterranean gardens (Vald^s 85). But gardens conducive to silence and contemplation were not the sole domain of monasteries, as now, laymen too were searching for intimacy and seclusion in the realm of controlled nature. They resorted to the garden room—as seen in medieval manuscripts and tapestries—which were enclosed private spaces of flowers and fountains (Valdes xv). The Renaissance Garden The Renaissance garden can be defined as "the triumph of stone over nature, architect over gardener, with hedges or boxwood and myrtle fashioned as stone. In such gardens . . . one could dispense with flowers . . . but not with water, which spouted from monumental fountains peopled with marble and bronze figures, or lay in pools reflecting the porticos and balustrades" (Valdes XV). At a time when open expanses and broad vistas were the fashion in garden design, and when porticos and steps were peopled with mythological figures in order to form the background for the staging of courtly festivities, Spain refused to co-operate, as "Arab influence was too deeply imprinted on the 43 Spanish soul to be erased by the new fashions from Florence and Versailles" (Valdes xv). When the Renaissance garden of Italy and the courtly garden of France were introduced to Spain, there was a resistence to adapting in toto to the new type of gardens. Spain always retained a preference for the intimacy of small spaces and a "limited appreciation of vast panoramas" (Vald§s xvi). Not even in the design of its royal gardens, such as the Escurial, Aranjuez, or San Ildefonso, is the notion of a panoramic view, such as in Versailles, of great concern. Rather, the design shows preference for a series of enclosures that seem to evoke the tradition of the Medieval garden. As happens in every epoch that is undergoing a major philosophical change, the Renaissance, in general, maintained part of its cultural inheritance from the Middle Ages and produced from it something new in conformity with its own aspirations. Such a process as manifest in the thought and literature of the times is quite revealing; Paul Oskar Kristeller says: "The partial continuity of medieval traditions, the introduction of new sources and problems, and the gradually increasing quest for new solutions and original ideas makes the Renaissance an age of fermentation rather than an age of synthesis in philosophy. . . . We may say that during the Renaissance, philosophical thought, without abandoning its theological connections, strengthened its link with the humanities, the sciences, and we may add, with literature and the 44 arts, thus becoming increasingly secular in its outlook" (Kristeller 154). ^ "Nunca este paisaje tiende a espiritualizarse", says Orozco to define the secular outlook of Garcilaso de la Vega's verses, in whose poetry one finds descriptions of nature that lack all aspiration to transcendency and which can be designated without a doubt as "terrenales y terrestres", since the poet's focus is on man, on nature, and on the relationship between the two, seen without any divine 'interference'. Orozco explains: "El poeta mira siempre hacia abajo; la verdura del valle, las flores, las penas, la corriente del rio", and when he does lift his gaze, he does not see, as does Fray Luis de Ledn, a blessed place in the form of a small garden on top of a mountain that is close to God geographically and spiritually, rather " su vista se detiene en las copas de los Srboles y en los perfiles de los montes. . . . La natura actfia asl como mediadora o sustituta de la Divinidad". (Checa 74). ^ His is the vision of natura naturans which creates and animates all life, as the poet expresses it in his Egloga II: Oh natura, ;cuan pocas obras cojas en el mundo son hechas por tu mano! (w. 80-81) . *• And yet, although his Eglogas firmly incorporate the world of nature into the Spanish poetry of the Renaissance, this idyllic nature does not convey a real landscape, but rather an ideal, nature as a dream, nature as it should be (Checa 47). 45 Garcilaso seems to guide his reader into the "almost mythical atmosphere of an eternally Edenic locus amoenus" where he watches the protagonists communicate with an ideal, but stylized nature (Rivers 133). " This longing for an ideal existence in sympathetic natural surroundings forms an essential aspect of the Renaissance spirit in poetry, as "a sensuous, metaphoric flow of bucolic, erotic and mythological images, motifs, and themes, expressing a new sense of subdued, haIf-melancholy joy in idealized classical attitudes and landscapes" (Rivers 17). *^ In his poetry, the reader is not required to understand or share a protagonist's struggle for redemption or justice, there is no striving for perfection or grace of illumination, all he is required to do is allow himself to be immersed in "a world of shade and water, of light and colour perceived at noon, of nymphs rising from the depths of their river to spend a pastoral siesta among the trees" (Rivers 133) . Love, beauty and the senses were, however, not the sole concerns of the time. In the Neoplatonic system, to which these poets adhere, there is a higher force that unites into one all parts of the universe. As Jones explains: "True love in men is a desire to possess the beautiful, and since beauty is spiritual, being a reflection of the greater beauty of God, true love is directed not to carnal union . . . but to the enjoyment of a spiritual beauty. The love of a man for a woman is a first step on a ladder which leads up to God" (Jones 49). ^ A similar 46 message is contained in an inscription on a cassone in 1430 in Florence. It says: Sensa honesta perduta e la bellessa Et sensa amor non fui mai gentilessa. [sic] (without honesty, beauty is lost, without love, nobility can never be.) This motto, while affirming the "chivalric faith" in the ennobling powers of love, also supports the view of the theologians that maintains that beauty is not enough (Watson 101) . ^* In the same manner, it can be said that not all Renaissance landscapes and gardens were centred exclusively on the terrestrial and human aspects of life, as the traditional earthly paradise was still a topic among the Christian poets of the time. Neither the church nor religion were 'dead'; the Church continued being a spiritual force and its language, Latin, can be credited for securing the survival of the image of the Christian earthly paradise into the era of the Renaissance. One of the best examples of this process is perhaps Giovanni Battista Spagnoli, also called Mantuan, son of a Spanish father and a Brescian mother, in whose Parthenices (seven poems on saints), there is a long description of the earthly paradise which shows little, if any, pagan or classical influence (Giamatti 135). This paradise, like that of Fray Luis de Ledn in his "Vida Retirada", is situated high on a mountain, but it differs from it in the absence of classical influence. What both authors do have in common, however, is the fact that there are "no divided 47 allegiances"; in the Mantuan's soul—as in that of Fray Luis— "the Church, the Virgin—in spite of his love for the ancients—absorbed his life" (Giamatti 135). The seductive myth and sensual descriptions of the garden of Venus, to be found in the vernacular accounts, which indicated man's separation from the original blessed garden, fail to attract the attention of these poets. As for the development of real gardens during the era of the Catholic Kings, the art of gardening saw very little change, and the gardens planted by their Moorish predecessors survived together with their traditions. As before, irrigation was carried out by means of pools and channels, and decorative materials— such as tiles, bricks, and plaster-work—continued to be used. One change introduced by Italian influence was that some of the Moorish water basins were now raised on graceful columns, indicating that fountains and gardens were no longer contemplated in the Arab manner from a sitting position on the floor, but required a new approach and perspective to be appreciated (Valdes 89) . There is little evidence left today of private gardens of Renaissance times in Spain. To obtain some idea of their characteristics, we must rely on chronicles and visual materials. El peregrine curioso by Bartolome de Villalba, for instance, offers a description of the gardens of the Duke of Alba, Don Fernando, in 1578 when the abadia gardens were said to have been in full splendour: 48 The pilgrim saw the paths of myrtle, the tables cut out of orange trees, and figures representing animals, birds and legendary figures . . . a tall fountain with four bases, the seven planets and twenty-five figures sculpted in full, and the portraits of the Duke and Duchess of Alba . . . He was astonished at the water patterns produced by all these figures, and the sound they made (quoted by the Marguesa de Valdes 92-94). The traveller also mentions sculptures of muscular giants situated in a lake or pool, many Roman busts, paths and walks covered with citrus and lemon trees, and airy fragrant walls of orange leaves, jasmine and other plants. From such a description, these gardens emerge almost as a combination of Berceo's "prado" and Soto de Roja's "mansiones", as they do indeed remind the reader of both these poets. Berceo's presence is evoked through the Renaissance visitor's calling himself a "pilgrim" taking a rest under trees: "Once he had seen the Garden, the pilgrim lay down for a siesta under the whisper of orange trees, 'the murmur of the water' and the sweet scent of orange blossom and roses" (Villalba 262-269). Pilgrim, peace, rest and fragrance, all bring to mind Berceo's "prado", while sculpted orange trees and figures of animals and legendary figures, tall fountains, fancy water patterns, and the joy in the sound of water seem an early announcement of Soto de Rojas' 17th century "paraiso". 49 As already pointed out, of the Spanish gardens of the latter part of the 16th century, very little has remained. From the scant evidence available, it can be inferred, however, that the gardens of Spanish palaces correspond, according to Lamperez, to two different types: 1. gardens "probably of Italian descent", showing features such as fountains with statues, fantastic plant sculptures, and in general of monumental design and arrangement; and 2. gardens belonging to the Hispano-Arab tradition, "and therefore essentially national", that show characteristics of natural vegetation, large water reservoirs made of tiles or marble, with water jets (Valdes 98) . "^ One of the gardens typical of the 16th century is the Palace of Cadalso de los Vidrios, belonging to the Marques de Villena. Built in 1534, and with a strong architectural component, it corresponds to the Spanish Renaissance style of Charles V: there was an open gallery on the main floor facing the garden, a wide encircling wall with an open arcade . . . and above a walk with benches, pergolas and balconies; the garden was square, enclosed by walls, it was planted in the classic style, and had in its centre an octagonal pavilion with columns (Valdes 98). Another private garden from the Renaissance and still in existence today is the country seat of "El Bosque" near Salamanca, which belongs to the Duke of Bejar. It dates from the year 1567, and has among its features a great pool, an island with a summer house in its centre, elm and plane trees in the garden, and a semicircular wall with a stone bench all along it, as background to the pond. A major feature of 50 this garden is a Baroque-style monumental fountain in stone that looks like a tower or building, and is decorated with coats of arms and masks (Vald6s 97). This garden in the Sierra de Candelario is connected to another piece of Spanish cultural history, as it was to Don Alonso, the grandson of the founder of El Bosque, that Cervantes had dedicated the first part of his Don Quixote (Vald^s 97). When the grandson of the Catholic Monarchs was to choose a place for retirement, he wanted a place that was hidden, private, yet still in possession of a beautiful view. He found such a place at the Hieronymite Monastery at Yuste, where he arrived in November 1556, to spend the last two years of his life. Fray Jose de Sigiienza reported that the Emperor, upon his arrival at Yuste, "expressed his desire to enliven the site with plants. On the eastern side a garden sprang up full of flowers and herb, and shaded by aromatic trees (lemon, citrus and orange), while water murmured in the fountain". The Marquesa de Valdes comments that the Emperor had always been a lover of nature, birds, and flowers, and that he spent many hours in his garden. She ascribes this inclination to the influence of his sojourns at the Alcazar of Seville, and the Alhambra, where he spent his honeymoon in 1526 (Valdes 90-92). ^ The palace of Aranjuez was built in 1387 as central house of the Military Order of Santiago; in the 16th century it passed to the Catholic Monarchs (Valdes 119) . As a royal residence, it had been the site of a pleasant holiday for Ferdinand and Isabella; 51 for Charles V it became a hunting lodge, and Philip II spent his convalescence there after a childhood illness (Collazos 11). '* Charles V enlarged the gardens during his reign, and when his daughter Maria married Maximilian, King of Bohemia, in 1548, the festivities were held in the Island garden, where, in accordance with the Emperor's Italian taste, a comedy by Ariosto was performed (Valdes 120). Twenty-two years after Charles V had spent his own honeymoon in the Alhambra, nuptial festivities celebrated in his family were, once again, connected to a beautiful garden environment. When one considers Garcilaso's landscapes full of rigs, fuentes cristalinos. and ^rboles umbrosos. the gardens of Aranjuez come easily to mind, as one of the special features of this place lies indeed in its groves of old trees and in its profusion of fountains. In spite of its abundance of water— Aranjuez "tenderly embraced by two rivers" says Collazos (11)—, Philip II had an enormous water reservoir built, so that fountains, ponds, and lakes could be maintained and the gardens kept in such profusion that a 19th-century visitor wrote that he believed "His Majesty had tried to recreate in Aranjuez what our parents had lost in the Garden of Eden" (Valdes 120). In contrast to his father's Italian taste, Philip II preferred the influence of northern Europe, and the gardeners he employed in Aranjuez were Dutch or Flemish. Their style of gardening was more to his liking: small compartmentalized gardens with clipped hedges, divisions and trellises, all laid out on flat ground. The only 52 Italian figures in his garden were statues of mythological heroes (Valdes 120). He is reported to have had an extraordinary and constant desire for flowers and insisted that the garden plots should be filled with them, alternating with strawberries and other plants; he was also very fond of roses, especially the musk rose. It is said that in 1582 he distributed about two tons of Alexandrine, Castilian, damask, and musk roses gathered in his various gardens among the royal apothecary stores, hospitals and convents of Madrid. When planting trees or seeds of flowers, Philip II avoided mixing the species, and kept each of them separate in beds or pots. Aranjuez was the most renowned of the King's gardens and it was he who created there the Island garden which was called "cuarto real" at the time (Valdes 120-122). According to his instructions it was laid out in the Flemish style, its squares and rectangles allowing for seclusion and privacy. Responses to his ideas on gardening were mixed: Queen Isabel de Valois wrote enthusiastically to her mother, Catherine de Medici, that Aranjuez "c'est un fort beau lieu", but the Ambassador to Spain in 1721, Saint Simon, felt confined by the lattice work and hedges and he wrote in his memoirs: "The whole garden is in the old Flemish style. Accustomed as we are now to refined taste in our gardens, as introduced by Le N6tre, who has been widely acclaimed and whose creations have become models, we cannot help finding Aranjuez mean and insignificant" (Valdes 122). Perhaps this is one of those occasions where Spain insisted on being different from the rest of Europe and did not bow to 53 general fashion. As Aranjuez, which the Marguesa de Valdes so fittingly calls, "an oasis in the heart of Castile" (120), seems to be a garden of many aspects: it shows northern design and much northern planting, it is located in a mild southern climate and provided with an abundance of water, both of which allow for profusion of growth of both northern and local species; with its compartments and hedged-in privacy, it is reminiscent of the seclusion and charm of the Arabic garden. With the image of Aranjuez still in mind, it seems difficult to agree with Elias Rivers when he says: The carefully cultivated, formal garden is used to symbolize the limits of man's imagination and technical ability, which soon weary the observer's eye, because of their brief range of simple repetitive patterns. In contrast to such Art, bounteous Nature with superb sprezzatura displays before one's untiring eye the infinite variety of a panoramic landscape having a river in the foreground and receding finally into mountains which rise toward their heavenly Creator. This poetry is obviously based on a binary opposition between Art and Nature (Rivers 256) . ^^  Although Rivers is referring to the poetry of the Renaissance, it seems doubtful whether the "simple repetitive patterns" of "cultivated formal gardens" symbolize really the limits of man's imagination. Rather they tend to demonstrate 54 man's control over nature on the one hand, and interest in individual plant life on the other. Furthermore, such growth is representative of the ordering of the universe and appreciation and love for each single plant worth studying, showing respect for each plant and the will to follow its progress, assisting its development, rather than submitting to wild sprezzatura of nature, and the brutal survival of the fittest in the plant world. But Rivers is correct in pointing out that "the limited microcosm of man and his art is emphatically subordinated to the limitless macrocosm created by Nature or God" (Rivers 256), as this applies to every phase of man's life and is not limited to formal gardens. The Baroque Garden The monarchical concept of the garden with its architectural components and monumental fountains, reached its perfection during the Baroque, when gardens became theatres in which gods and demigods of stone and metal enacted Ovid's Metamorphoses^ with characters brought to life by water leaping up in high fountain jets, or spilling over in cascades to form liquid palaces. Water tricks and fire works were the festive hallmark of the baroque gardens" (Valdes xv). In the ongoing battle between Art and Nature, it appeared that preference sided now with Art and, in contrast to the Renaissance gardens, everything was intended to dazzle visitors (Vercelloni 80). At a time when reality had become as doubtful as 'appearance', that which was 55 artificial, grandiose, and wonderful took on values of its own. As Checa says: "La desrazon e inseguridad del periodo se refleja en una actitud ironica o destructiva frente a las mixtificaciones idealizadoras heredadas del Renacimiento" (Checa 115). The Baroque does not represent a new beginning in traditions or literary styles; in garden culture, in art, or in literature, much of the content has remained the same as in the previous epogue. Reminiscences of Horace or Ovid, of Petrarch's painful love of Laura, of bucolic elements or aspect of Neoplatonism, all seem to continue into the art forms of the Baroque. What is different, however, is the new attitude towards these elements, as Hans Felten explains: "Der Schatten des Barocks, im Sinne einer 'superestructura ideol6gica y existencial' legt sich . . . iiber die bisherigen Themen und Formen. Und dieser neue Uberbau beinhaltet eine neue Wertewelt und mit ihr verbunden die Uberlagerung des aesthetischen Kanons der Renaissance durch einen 'c6digo est^tico'" (Felten 41). " This would imply, for instance, that the Garcilasean notion of the carpe diem which in the Renaissance had aspects of a harmless hedonism, is now seen in the context of vanitas and as a reminder of death and of the nothingness of everything terrestrial (Felten). The world of the imagination and artificiality takes precedence over the world of nature in an often violent confrontation of contrasts, and themes such as the juxtaposition of life and death, life and dream, and dream and death, beauty and evanescence, growth and decay, and love seen as a dulce malum become the norm (Felten 45). It was 56 Gongora who, in spite of his marvellous sprezzatura of nature, stressed some of these aspects when he says: . . . que a ruinas ya a estragos sabe el tiempo hacer verdes halagos (Gongora). And with respect to flowers, be they 'clavel', 'jazmin', 'alheli', or 'girasol', the message is the same: Aprended, flores, de ml lo que va de ayer a hoy, que ayer maravilla fui, y hoy sombra mla aun no soy. (Cancion LV). Information is again very limited for gardens of the Baroque age, but with the flourishing of garden literature of the time, art can step in where nature has vanished. From Polo de Medina's poetic description of the literary academias held in the Garden of Espinardo, near Murcia, one can discern the type of garden and the elements it contained. ** He speaks of the orchard, clipped trees watered by canals, shaven orange trees, marble statues, and many flowers (Valdes 108). In his poem "La azucena" there is not only the "aurora de los prados floreciente", and "con alma de oro castidad vestida", but imagery of art supplements that of nature, like for instance the "abejuela de plata" and especially the "estrella de cristal en verde esfera" (Academias w . 7-16) . ^' In his poem "el Slamo", there is an image typical of a memento mori ascribed not to man, but to a part of nature. He refers to the 57 tree as "vanidad de esmeralda" to show the intensity of its colour, but a few lines later he predicts that Cadaver estar^ su pompa hermosa, y amarillas leerSn sus hojas bellas muda leccion, a nuestras vidas graves. (w. 12-14) . Literary Academies were also held in the gardens of the Buen Retire, Madrid, which were the last gardens created by the Hapsburgs. The palace itself was inaugurated already in 1632, but the gardens with all their new features were officially introduced and celebrated in 1636 with a great festival. During the festivities of the year 1637, a poetry contest was organized by Calder6n in February, and the Literary Academy held there was attended by Lope and Quevedo. These gardens, praised by Lope and condemned, by an outsider, Robert de Cotte, who had never been to Spain, found little approval in the eyes of artists who were accustomed to the gardens of Le Notre. Gardens with statues, fountains and great vistas were not what they found in the Buen Retire gardens , and a place where the gardens were located at a higher level than the palace were bound to irritate the adherents of Versailles. It is not surprising that Robert de Cotte wrote that the gardens were "monotonous and lacking in perspective", and his suggestion was to enlarge the gardens in terraces towards the Nanzanares River, to give them a view in the style of French gardens. Had his plans been followed, the gardens would have been extended as far as the place where today the Atocha 58 Railway Station is located, an impossibility due to the amount of water needed to irrigate such a vast extension of land (Valdes 127-131). It is in response to episodes like this that Javier Mariategui Valdes writes: Spain must develop its own style, in accordance with its light, landscape and nature . . . We must make use of our local materials and numerous native plants . . . which will give our gardens fragrance and provide harmonious colours and shapes well adapted to the environment. . . . We shall listen to the genius loci and, guided by its whispers, we shall forge our own style (Valdes xvii). 59 NOTES 1. F. R. Cowell, The Garden as a Fine Art from Antiquity to Modern Times (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1978). 2. Virgilio Vercelloni, European Gardens, trans. Vanessa Vessey (New York: Rizzoli, 1990). 3. Marie Luise Gothein, A History of Garden Art, trans. Mrs. Archer-Hind (New York: Hackere Art Books, 1979). 4. Dictionary of the Bible, ed. John L. McKenzie (New York: MacMillan, 1965). 5. Edward Hyams, A History of Gardens and Gardening (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1971). 6. Paul Shepard, Man in the Landscape; A Historic View of the Esthetics of Nature (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1967). In this context, Paul Shepard writes: "Our society is focused on rational, practical, exploitive, political, commercial, abstract behaviour and values, not on intuitive, esthetic, organic, social, magic, internal space, religion, tradition, children, nature, or the arts. The low social and political status of women coincides with the general absence of devotion to place and of a mythology of rootedness in nature. In agricultural rather than commercial or pastoral societies special attributes of the female—menstruation, reproduction, lactation—have been part of ritual celebration. Such a society is slow to change itself or to alter its environment, is resistant to moving and migration, non-aggressive, and reluctant to accept "progress" when it means the substitution of ideological for organic principles. The garden is a kind of stronghold against this imbalance and is likely to preserve by its very existence an attitude toward the environment which is unsympathetic to currently prevailing values. . . . Abstraction is itself masculine and the garden is an abstraction of the essential femininity of the terrain. In the genesis of gods, the earth has been predominantly female, the sky, male. The Great Mother is the spirit of generation and nutrition. The garden is the threshold of her mystery, of birth and death, the place of giving and taking life (Shepard 108). 7. John Brookes, Gardens of Paradise (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1987). 60 8. A. Bartlett Giamatti, The Earthly Paradise and the Renaissance Spirit (New Jersey: Princeton U.P., 1966). 9. Paul Mayvaert, "The Medieval Monastic Garden," Medieval Gardens (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University, 1986), 23-53. 10. Jameson, Legends of the Monastic Order, quoted in Aurora Egido, p. 58. 11. Marilyn Stokstad, "The Garden as Art," in Medieval Gardens (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University (1980):183-85. 12. Looking back on the thousand years of medieval life, Heinrich Schippberges calls it "ein in sich geschlossenes saeculum, . . . Was in diesem Zeitraum Gestalt gewinnen konnte, ist eine ueberraschend geschlossene Kultur, ein Bildungsraum, den der mittelalterliche Mensch gestalten wollte wie ein Stueck Gartenland. Und so wundert es uns nicht, dass wir in dieser so ueberraschend konkreten Kultur des Mittelalters immer wieder auch den 'Garten' finden, den es zu pflegen gilt, wahrhaft ein "Hortus sanitatis": als "Hortulus" bereits bei Walahfrid Strabo, dem kraeuterkundigen Abt von der Reichenau, als "Hortus deliciarum" bei Herrad von Landsberg, der Aebtissin auf dem Odilienberg, die mit diesem 'Garten der Wonnen' nichts anderes meinte als die Wissenschaften. Die gewaltige Schoepfung in all ihrer Herrlichkeit, sie ist bei Hildegard von Bingen nichts als ein Garten, in dem Gott, der Herr, seine Augen weidet, Augen-Weide auch dem Menschen, der die Fruechte der Erde geniesst. Der gebildete Mensch soil es lernen, zu lesen in diesem 'Buch der Natur', soil alles zeichenhaft Gegebene verstehen, sich mit alien Dingen besprechen, so wie auch er allenthalben angesprochen und beansprucht ist. Es ist mit dem Garten aber auch jene dem Menschen anvertraute Natur gemeint, die das Schicksal des gefallenen Menschen teilt, seine Traurigkeit wehklagend demonstriert und seiner Hoffnung Ausdruck gibt, am Ende der Tage wieder heimgeholt zu werden zu ihrem Schoepfer. Denn Wohnung Gottes in der Schoepfung zu sein, das ist der geistige Sinn aller Natur (Schipperges 11). 13. Although it can be no more than a coincidence that Holland's 'tulipomania' happened towards the middle of the 17th century (1636), the occurrence of such a nationwide fixation on a single plant species could very well be considered a type of 'mannerist' exaggeration. 14. Enge, Schroder, Wiesenhofer, and Classen. Gartenkunst in Europa 1450-1800 (Koln: Benedikt Taschen Verlag, 1990). 61 15. Marguesa de Casa Valdes, Spanish Gardens, trans. Edward Tanner (Valencia: Antique Collectors' Club, 1973). 16. In Historia y antoloqia de la poesla espanola. by Federico C. Sainz de Robles (Madrid: Aguilar, 1964). 17. This, of course, should be qualified as the oldest walled garden 'existing' today, as walled gardens have existed already in the third Millennivun before the Christian era in Egypt. 18. The Marguesa de Valdes also relates that "today, these gardens only contain two square ponds, enclosed in the 17th century with iron railings, because Marica, Gongora's rebellious sister, pushed the Bishop's page into one of these ponds" (p. 28). 19. One of the many outstanding features of palaces and pleasure gardens on the outskirts of C6rdoba is located in the Almanzor, then known as Al-Zahra, on the Guadalquivir. It is the famous golden ceiling in the Hall of the Caliphs in Medina al-Zahra, which brings to mind Fray Luis de Leon's "dorado techo . . . fabricado por el sabio moro / en jaspes sustentado . . .". 20. Dr. Karl Kobbervig of the Department of Hispanic and Italian Studies at the University of British Columbia kindly allowed me to use the following information regarding the origin of the word Generalife: The name Generalife comes from the Arabic ianna(t) al-'arif which means "Garden of the architect /OR/ superintendent". The word in older Spanish alarife from al-'arif according to the dictionary of the Real Academia Expanola means "arquitecto o maestro de obras". F. Corriente in his Diccionario ^rabe-espanol translates 'arif as "conocedor, entendido, inspector; alarife, maestro de obras. jefe. conocido. ayudante. The "most noble garden" probably refers to what Rafael Lapesa says in his Historia de la lencma espanola (1980) p. 136: "Los castellanos del siglo xv, al sonar con el anhelado rescate de Granada, no encontraban nada comparable a sus jardines: el Generalife era "huerta que par no tenia". In other words that is the way Spanish speakers referred to the garden. 21. M. Adelheid Liechtenstein OCist, Bernhard von Clairvaux (Maria Roggendorf: Salterrae, 1990). 22. Paul Oskar Kristeller, Renaissance Concepts of Man (New York: Harper, 1972). 62 23. Jorge Checa Cremades, La poesla en el Sialo de Pro; Barroco (Madrid: Editorial Playor, 1982). 24. As mentioned in Checa (74). 25. Elias Rivers, "The Pastoral Paradox," Modern Lancfuaae Notes 77 (1962):130-44. 26. Elias Rivers, ed.. Renaissance and Baroque Poetry of Spain (Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, 1988), p. 17. 27. R. O. Jones, A Literary History of Spain; The Golden Age Prose and Poetry (London: Ernest Benn Ltd., 1971). 28. Paul F. Watson, The Garden of Love in Tuscan Art of the Early Renaissance (Philadelphia: Art Alliance Press, 1979). 29. Vicente Lamperez y Romea, Arauitectura civil espanola. ed. Saturino Calleja, Madrid, 1922, Vol I, p.419, quoted in Valdes 98. 30. The Marquesa de Valdes also relates the story of the Emperor's lily: "a lily in his garden, growing beneath his window, bore two buds, one of which flowered and in due course withered; the other remained a bud through the summer and the autumn, to the great astonishment of the gardeners and friars. But on the night of the twentieth of September (the night before the Emperor's death), it burst into full bloom, as an emblem . . . of the whiteness of the parting spirit, and of the sure and certain hope of its reception into the mansions of bliss'. This lily was placed on Charles V's coffin" (William Stirling, Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles the Fifth. London, 1853, p. 243, quoted in Valdes 90). 31. Oscar Collazos, Royal Palaces (Barcelona: Patrimonio Nacional, 1988). 32. Elias Rivers, "Nature, Art, and Science in Renaissance Poetry," Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 44 (1967):255-66. 33. H. Felten and A. Valcarcel, Spanische Lyrik von der Renaissance bis zum spaeten 19. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam jun. GmbH, 1990). 34. Orozco says ". . .el artista se recoge en su huerto o jardin que satisface su aspiraci6n de Arte y Naturaleza, y a la par le lleva a la reflexion moral . . . Las academias del iardln de Polo, no lo son solo por el tltulo y el artificio, como en otros casos, sino que corresponden a verdaderas reuniones de poetas que 'eligieron por asiento el jardin de Espinardo, digno sustituto de Helicona, florido cuidado de los abriles . . . " (140). 63 35. In Poesla by Polo de Medina, ed. de Francisco J. Diez de Revenga (Jacinto: Catedra, 1987). 64 CHAPTER I Gonzalo de Berceo's Perfect "Prado" in his Milaaros de Nuestra Senora "No more poetic place can be seen in Spain." This is how the Marquesa de Casa Vald6s describes in her book Spanish Gardens the monastery of San Millcin de Suso, home of the 13th-century Spanish religious poet Gonzalo de Berceo. Although born in the village of Berceo, the poet was educated at the monastery of San MillSn and later worked there as a secular cleric in various administrative functions in the legal and economic fields. His writings belong to the school of the mester de clerecla and can be divided into three groups: hagiographical works, works about the Virgin Mary, and works on religious doctrine. He is of historical importance insofar as he is the first Spanish poet known by name. In copla 489 of Vida de San Mill^n he says: Gonzalo fue so nomne qui fizo est tractado en Sant Millan de suso fue de ninez criado, natural de Berceo, ond Sant MillSn fue nado. The monastery of San MillSn de la Cogolla is named after Aemilianus Cucullatus, in Spanish "Millan de la Cogolla", a sixth century hermit. In 1030, part of his relics were brought to the abbey named after him, San MillSn, in order to connect the monastery's ideological foundation to the famous hermit. Nearly all of Berceo's works have what Michael Gerli calls "un trasfondo libresco", most of them displaying clearly identifiable sources of medieval Latin literature. With many 65 allusions to his sources, it is the poet himself who calls attention to that "origen libresco" of his work "explotando la reverencia del publico medieval por todo lo escrito" (Gerli 16) . * The awareness of written sources, a characteristic in the works of the mester de clerecla is, in this case, more than the poet's tribute to the world of learning; in the hands of a committed author like him, this awareness becomes a powerful didactic and persuasive tool, as it provides the text with "un tono de autoridad irreproachable" (Gerli 17). Berceo's literary importance lies in the fact that he was able to combine classical rhetorical tradition with the ecclesiastical tradition of the sermon and exhortation, and with the more popular tradition of the mester de iualarla. He says so himself more than once by calling himself "un juglar". As for Berceo's rhetorical skill, Michael Gerli states: "lejos de ser un autor ingenuo movido por arrebatos de sencilla piedad, Berceo fue un maestro de las t§cnicas y estructuras de la literatura did^ctica y un propagandista experto que sentla profunda lealtad por el monasterio al que estaba vinculado" (14). In writing the Milaaros de Nuestra Senora. ^  Berceo wanted to instill in the "lector-oyente" a type of trusting and unconditional devotion for the Virgin Mary. Works devoted to the Holy Virgin were commonplace at the time and stem from a tradition dating back to the tenth century. Although the earliest reference to the Virgin goes back to St. Paul (Gal. 4.4), in the early centuries of the Church by no means did Mary have the 66 status and importance she was to be granted later. When popular attention and devotion to her began to grow. Church Councils made attempts to discourage it, but eventually the pressure of popular belief and the desire to rely on a maternal figure who could intercede on man's behalf won the case for Mary, and by the tenth century, Marian devotion, after its earlier development in Eastern Europe, was firmly established in the West. Hymns were written to her, churches and special holidays were dedicated to her, and she began to play a prominent role in literature and the visual arts (Deyermond 64) . ' From the twelfth century on there is a real "explosion de devocion popular mariana" and Mary's presence takes on great importance in pilgrimages, in iconography, and in literature. Already in visigothic Marian liturgy, Mary takes on the role of "humani generis reparatrix", directly connected to God and endowed with His grace. This Virgin worship intensifies at the beginning of the twelfth century due to the appearance on the religious scene of St. Bernard of Clairvaux. For him, the Virgin Mary is the channel through which flows divine grace to man, and at the same time, she is the road to God. Gerli explains: "Si Cristo es la fuente de la vida, las aguas redentoras de la fuente, que son la gracia, llegan a nosotros por medio del siempre pleno acueducto que es su madre". The Virgin is defined in St. Bernard as the ideal figure to intercede between man and God, "su abogado cerca de el" (Gerli 21-22). 67 But aside from seeing the Virgin's services as that of intermediary between man and divine power, there is in Berceo's work also a strong emphasis on the gualard6n, the promised reward. At first sight, the merit received by man for rather small efforts on his side, achieved by virtue, seems a rather unlikely equation. It is however, not meant to be equated in such manner, instead, the goal is to show that the unproportionate aualard6n is a gift received by the grace of God. Matthew (20, 1-16) calls this reward a response of God's love, or, as is said in Romans 2.6, a response of the justice of God. In their function as "obra de devocion y de propaganda", the Milaqros de Nuestra Senora had the purpose of attracting, instructing and entertaining the pious pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago. In writing the Milaqros. Berceo was able to combine the practical socio-economic reality of his monastery with the faith of the people and the appeal of the popular traditions of his time. Among the three main types of Marian literature—narrative, doctrinal, and lyrical—Berceo's Milaqros pertain to the first group and represent one of the three major Hispanic collections of Marian miracles dating from the 13th century, the other two being Alfonso the Tenth's Cantiqas de Santa Maria, written in Galician-Portuguese, and Gil de Zamora's prose works, written in Latin. Berceo's Milaqros are written in the vernacular and the work contains one of the most significant descriptions of landscape in Spanish literature (Deyermond 64). It is written in 68 cuaderna via, the stanza form of the mester de clerecla. and consists of twenty-five traditional legends concerning Marian miracles, preceded by forty-six laudatory stanzas in praise of the Virgin Mary. In the introduction, Berceo describes a beautiful meadow in the medieval rhetorical tradition of the locus amoenus. seen not as the usual setting for the caprices of Venus, but as an allegory of the perfection of the Virgin Mary. Deyermond indicates that the purpose of the Milaaros is not so much to give information about Mary, as to inspire devotion to her, and there are more stories in which her followers are rewarded than punished. It appears that the severe teaching of the medieval Church on the subject of salvation is here replaced by "a mother's care for her wayward children" (Deyermond 65). Thus, by stressing the peace and comfort of this allegorical prado, Berceo alludes to the view of Mary as not only a place of rest and calm, but also as a place of refuge and maternal protection. 1.1 The Virgin Mary as locus amoenus According to Curtius, the pleasance, or locus amoenus is a clearly identified topos of landscape description; it consists of a beautiful shaded natural site, a meadow, a source of water in the form of spring or brook; birdsong, flowers and light breezes are additional features (Curtius 195). When comparing these guidelines to Berceo's introducci6n to the Milagros, it becomes obvious that the poet's description more than fulfils the 69 requirements implicit in Curtius' definition of the "six charms of landscape" (197), as his description contains a meadow, four springs, trees, fruit, flowers, fragrance, birdsong, and refreshing shade. Furthermore, this prado is forever green, the fountains agree with the seasons in that they are warm in winter and cool in summer, the fruit of the trees is of a constant quality and does not perish, and the flowers in this prado never stop replenishing themselves. 1.2 Elements of the "prado" Although no precise textual source has been found for Berceo's Introducci6n. the poet leaves little doubt as to the meaning of this meadow. Far from being a traditional pleasance of love, this locus amoenus and each one of its elements are dedicated to the praise of the Blessed Virgin. The prado as a whole symbolizes the perfection of the Mother of God; the four "fuentes claras" represent the four Apostles; the "aves" represent the Church Fathers, Prophets, confessors. Martyrs and virgins; the "sombra de los Srbores" are the prayers and the miracles of the virgin in favour of her devotees, while the flowers are the countless names for the Mother of Christ. As for the deeper meaning behind this composite picture, we must look to an allegorical interpretation of these elements in order to find the unifying principle behind Berceo's verses. Northrop Frye calls allegory a structural element of literature which begins with an idea for which must be found a concrete 70 image in order to express it (Frye 54). * Actual allegory exists when a poet "explicitly indicates the relationship of his images to examples and precepts, and so tries to indicate how a commentary on him should proceed" (Frye 89). In Chandler Raphton Post's words, allegory "crystallizes a more or less abstract idea by presenting it in the concrete form of a fictitious person, thing or event" (3). This is indeed the case with Berceo's Introducci6n. as he himself points out how the reader is to understand his verses and the message contained in them. Thus, after having described "lo de fuera" (v. 16), meaning the inviting "prado" with its green grass, fragrant flowers, clear fountains, trees and fruit, birdsong and refreshing shade, and after hinting that "Qui alll se morasse serle bienventurado!" (v. 12), he states that the hidden meaning of his allegory requires explanation: Sennores e amigos, lo que dicho avemos palavra es oscura, esponerla queremos: (V. 16). He then proceeds to "lo de dentro" (v. 16) and explains that the four fountains, signifying the four Apostles, had collaborated with the Virgin Mary and that the Gospels were written under her supervision: los quatro evangelios, esso significavan ca los evangelistas quatro que los dictavan, cuando escrivien ellos ella lo emendava (w. 21-22). 71 This means that , just like the four Gospels, being the four rivers of Paradise, all originate from one single source, so here too is Mary seen as being that source, because she has taken part in the composition of the Gospels through her role as Mother of Christ (Lorenz 265). ^  The importance of water as source of all life, as well as of everlasting life, is stressed in various scriptural references; for instance in John 4:14 we read: "Jesus said, 'Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water that I shall give him will be an inner spring always welling up for eternal life'"; and in John 7:38 we read: "Streams of living water shall flow out from within him" (Lorenz 265). Thus the four fountains representing the four Gospels are the requisite for man's salvation; without these streams of life nothing can grow, exist, nor prosper; they are that which sustains the earth. As far as the paradoxical temperature of these waters is concerned, a fairly common feature in the descriptions of paradise, Berceo gives no explanation why these fountains are "en verano bien frias, en invierno calientes" (v. 3). Traditional pleasance and paradise descriptions tend to portray their climate as that of eternal spring with temperatures of weather and water unchanging, or compensating each other for the greater enjoyment of their inhabitants. It seems doubtful, however, whether the different water temperatures of these fountains have any significance with reference to the interpretation of the four Gospels. 72 Berceo then speaks of the "sombra de los Srbores" (v. 23) and calls them "las oraciones de Santa Maria" (v. 23). This means that in the Virgin's care, in the refreshing shade and comfort of her protection, man is safe and can rest peacefully, since the Virgin prays for him "noch e dia". Erika Lorenz points out that both shade and prayer are connected through a common aspect—that of being intangible, incorporeal, without physical substance—and both are thus entirely spiritual (Lorenz 266), existing as a concept rather than as a form. This insubstantiality of shade and prayer contrasts strongly with the very concrete presence of the trees in the "prado". Not only do they stand out as a feature on the meadow due to their verticality, but they also represent a link between different worlds and spheres: while the roots of a tree are anchored in the substratum below ground, the majority of its mass and trunk as well as its lower branches are spreading into the human sphere, its upper branches, however, and its crown are reaching into the sky. A tree thus can represent the connection between Heaven and Earth, or, more metaphorical, it can be a link between all three worlds, "inferior, ctonico o infernal; central, terrestre; superior, celeste" (Cirlot 86). * For Berceo to see the tree as being equivalent to the miracles of Mary would imply that he assigns to the tree the symbolic significance of being, as Erika Lorenz calls it, the "Weltenbaxim", the world tree: "So wie dieser Erde und Himmel verbindet, und der Ort ist, an dem das Heilige in die Welt einbricht, so kommt auch jedes Wunder zustande durch das 73 Eingreifen Gottes. Maria splelt dabel die Rolle der Mittlerin, und ihre Wirkung lenken Gottes Gnadenwirkung auf den Menschen, und fuehren ihn zugleich zu Gott empor" (Lorenz 266). Thus, Mary's role here is not only that of ambassador of goodwill on man's behalf, acting as a channel between God's mercy and mankind, rather, in her role as intermediary, she also leads man towards God, step by step, as if she were a stairway into the realms of Heaven. In its double sense as "eje del mundo" and "expresion de vida inagotable", the tree becomes therefore the "centre cosmico" (Cirlot 87). In Berceo's work, this tree, nourished by the waters of the Gospels, promises eternal life, and all this is made possible by the miracles of the Blessed Virgin. Initially, when speaking of the fruit of the trees, Berceo mentions only that none of it is either "podridas nin azedas" (v. 4), but later he explains that it is "dulz e sabrido" (v. 15), stressing that Adam and Eve, had they eaten of this fruit, could have spared themselves much suffering and hardship. So far, what the reader knows about this fruit is only that it is sweet, non-perishable, and preferable to the sinful fruit of the primeval garden. However, one can infer that a fruit that comes from the blessed tree of Mary—with Mary being the source of wellbeing for man—is bound to be of a sweet and pleasant kind, indicating the "sweetness" man can expect should he become the protege of Mary and thereby a benefactor of her miracles. The repeated emphasis on the sweetness of the fruit seems significant 74 insofar as it represents the antithesis to "aquella primera fruta que fue la causa de nuestra perdici6n", the fruit of Eve, which, in medieval tradition was considered "amarga y maldita" (Gerli 41). Berceo establishes here the dichotomy of paradise lost and sin and redemption, in which the analogy is made between the paradise lost to man through disobedience and sin, and that of the promised garden, the return to the pre-lapsian Paradise. Berceo then turns to the "aves" and dedicates the next five stanzas (w. 26-30) to his praise of these creatures. Together with the earlier description of the song (stanzas 7-10), he thus devotes quite a considerable part of the introduction (eight stanzas, out of a total of forty-six) to this topic. This seems to indicate that the subject of birds, music, and harmony, as well as their symbolic interrelatedness, had an important place in his conception of a perfect locus amoenus^ and had a deeper significance for him than being mere pleasance decoration. In his initial 'physical' reference ("lo de fuera") of the "prado", he described the birds' song as being of an otherworldly nature when he says: Nungua udieron omnes organos mas temprados nin que formar pudiessen sones m^s acordados. (V. 7). In his view no human voice exists that could compare with the harmonious melody of their song because, as Erika Lorenz points out, such pure harmonies are impossible in a world which has been stained by original sin, while in the realm of the 75 Church, they still exist (Lorenz 267). Therefore, the birds' voices comprise all those who are singing in praise of the Virgin Mary: St. Augustine, St. Gregory, Isaiah and the other prophets, the Apostles, confessors. Martyrs, and all the virgins, they all sing "cascuno su sentencia" (v. 27). They are all arranged in the hierarchy of the Christian Church (Lorenz 267), because, as Berceo says, they sing united in "una creencia" (v. 27). It is interesting to note that the poet, in his role as narrator and pilgrim, does not mention the existence of birds until he literally has taken his place under the Virgin-tree, as if to emphasize the fact that such beautiful music—that of the birds or Gospels—can only be heard within close proximity of the tree itself, which is the Church. And so, an ordinary "romero" passing this way might well perceive the beauty of the place, see the grass, the fountains, the fruit and the flowers, but until he has stopped and placed himself under the protection and shade of that tree, he will be unable to hear and perceive the heavenly music of the Gospel-birds. It seems appropriate to point out that Berceo never describes the physical appearance of these birds; the reader never encounters them, he never knows what size they are, what colours their plumage displays, or how many of them are sitting in the "fructales". Perhaps the reason for their visual 'absence' is the fact that he speaks only of their aural presence, of hearing them and their "sonos dulces e modulados" (v. 7), but not of seeing them. Such emphasis on their aural aspect, together 76 with the otherworldly quality of their melody, would imply that this music, emitted by creatures who traditionally inhabit the sky and move about in the upper spheres of life, is bound to be of a spiritual nature and thus not of terrestrial but divine origin. As for the relationship birds-Church Fathers, Leo Spitzer notes that for medieval poets, birds are allegorical beings which represent Saints, and he explains: "This allegory is possible only within the frame of belief in a world harmony which encompasses both nature and art, of a Christian tendency to hear music wherever there is love and faith. Since religious worship is related to music and music, in its turn, is connected with order, discipline, and schooling, so the idea of birds in the guise of scholars . . . offers nothing incongruous to the medieval mind" (Spitzer 57) '. Music, aside from providing pleasure to both, mind and the senses, is also a norm for order which is based on numbers, and as such, it reveals the harmony of God's creation. It is thus an ideal vehicle for expressing and conveying the harmony of divine truth (Lorenz 266). If, as Spitzer says, artistic music and the music of nature are considered the same for the man of the Middle Ages (55), it is not surprising then that the exchange of roles between birds and saints of Berceo's verses seems to be a mutual one: birds are saints, and saints sing like birds; the music of nature and music of art, interchangeable, singing together one common song of praise and joy, in which the birds seem to know their Latin, and 77 the saints are able to bring forth those elusive "sones . . . acordados" (v. 7) of the birds. In this sense, birds and saints have become one in a harmony of "dulces voces", because "the song of birds and of saints, . . . nature and civilization, natural gifts and schooling, poetry and music, manifoldness and order, the beautiful and the moral, art and ethics, are integrated into one musical 'kalokayathia', into one paradisiac harmony of grace" (Spitzer 56). Berceo's pleasure in enumerating the varied forms of praise of the Church, via the activities of the heavenly songsters, is only surpassed by his entimeration of the praise of the Virgin Mary, in the form of a dazzling array of "flores" connected with her name. He dedicates nearly one third of the whole introduction to the Milaaros (thirteen stanzas out of forty-six) to this task, which he himself, however, declares as infinite, since Non es nomne ninguno que bien derecho venga que en alguna guisa a ella non avenga; non ha tal que ralz en ella no la tenga (w. 38-40) . As one of the motifs typical of many Christian descriptions of Paradise, fragrance is one attribute Berceo stresses repeatedly: Davan olor sovejo las flores bien olientes refrescaron en omne las carnes e las mientes (V. 3). . . . la olor de las flores, . . . refrescaronme todo e perdi los sudores: 78 podri§ vevir el omne con aguellos olores (V. 5). Nunqua trob6 en sieglo logar tan deleitoso, nin sombra tan temprada nin olor tan sabroso; (V. 6). This emphasis on fragrance is not a major feature in pagan descriptions of the locus amoenus; Giamatti points out that, in classical gardens, the fragrance of the earthly paradise is not overly stressed, while it is much mentioned in Christian accounts (Giamatti 70), where the fragrance of the earthly paradise represents, together with jewels and the four rivers, the three motifs typical in standard portraits of paradise. There, the marvellous odour of the spot is employed in connection with cvnamma. and amonum from which an expensive balsam was made (Giamatti 70). Combining fragrance with the concept of the locus amoenus could be seen as a further indication of a general blending of the classical and Christian traditions with regards to decor and elements of the earthly paradise. With reference to the "flores que componen el prado" (v. 31), the attributes of the Virgin, it is interesting to note that most of the twenty-nine images convey an indication of height or verticality. This could be either exhibited in their way of leading the eye vertically into the upper regions of the sky ("estrella", "estrella de los mares", "reina de los cielos", "estrella matutina", "palomba"); in the vertical structure of buildings or architectural structures ("tiemplo de Jesu Cristo", 79 "puerto", "puerta", "defensi6n", "trono"); via leadership symbols that are either royal or ecclesiastical ("guiona deseada", "reina", "Jesu Cristo", "sennora natural", "David", "Sion", "rei Salom6n", "Moises", "Aaron"); or via plant imagery reflecting vertical growth patterns (as opposed to the horizontal carpet-like spreading of ground-cover plants), such as "vid", "uva", "almendra", "malgranada", "oliva", "cedro", "bSlsamo", "palma". This notion of verticality is also contained in another image applied to the Virgin, that of the fountain. As a vertical structure, it is embedded into the ground but seems to be 'growing' out of it just as the plants do, having a downward, as well as an upward growth pattern. There are three separate allusions in the poem that evoke the image of the fountain: there is first of all the descriptive initial view of the "fuentes claras corrientes" (v. 3) que "manavan cada canto" (v. 3), recalling the four fountains of Paradise which are a "representaci6n perifrSstica de la 'fons vitae' y los cuatro rios del paralso mentados en el Genesis" (Gerli 44); then there is the reference to the "fuent de qui todos bevemos" (v. 35), an allusion to the Virgin Mary as the provider of food and shelter, and to whose door we all stream for salvation; and lastly, there is the image of Mary as "dicha puerta en si bien cerrada" (v. 36), which evokes the 'porta clausa' of the Garden of Salomon that contains the 'fons signatus' (Gerli 44). Thus, we have three different interpretations of the fountain, stemming from both Old and New 80 Testaments: the fountain of the garden of Genesis (Old Testament); the fountain symbol of Mary as the Mother of Christ and protector of mankind (New Testament); and the 'fons signatus', the Beloved, the Bride of Christ , the Bride of the Church, based on the Old Testament Song of Songs. Berceo combined here imagery of the Old and New Testaments, stressing the importance of water, the source of life and "queen of all elements" (Meyvaert 137), that which sustains and saves man, and releases him from his ties with the world of the "massa peccati" (Gerli 38). Michael Gerli points out that Berceo seeks to recreate the lost paradise "por medio de una sistem^tica elaboracion de imSgenes poetico-tipol6gicas. Es por esta raz6n por lo que adopta el motive del 'hortus conclusus' y urde alusiones a las profeclas marianas del Antiguo Testamento dentro de su descripcidn. El poeta desea establecer la clara tipologia entre el mundo de la Vieja Ley, el del pecado y el de AdSn y Eva, y el de la Nueva Ley, el de la posibilidad de salvaci6n del Pecado Original, por medio de Cristo, y el instrumento humano de su advenimiento, su madre" (Gerli 44). Thus, all the names for the Virgin seem to have one and the same purpose, whether they are seen in relation to Mary, or to the Holy Church itself: to assist and guide man, to strengthen him in time of weakness, and to defend and protect him on his pilgrimage (Lorenz 268). Every one of the 'flowers' is an image of strength and protection, of inspiration and guidance, a type of positive visualization of the 81 goal for man to follow, like atalavas of strength, placed along the route to salvation. 1.3 The Virgin-Garden Allegory James Burke calls attention to the fact that there existed an old tradition, often referred to in literature and in sermons, which compared the Virgin to a garden, seen as "the restored earthly paradise", while another tradition emphasized the "perfection of her physical as well as her spiritual presence" (Burke 35). * He perceives an intention and motive behind Berceo's handling of these two issues, since by the act of poetically combining these two themes, the poet presents the reader-sinner not only with a vision of hope for a return to paradise, but also with "a means by which to restore and perfect himself" (Burke 35). Thus, the Milaaros begin by presenting the idea of the Virgin—in the form of the restored earthly paradise—as the perfect antitype of the lost Eden. In this scenario, Mary assumes the role of Eve in reverse (Burke 32). This type of connection between the Virgin and Eve was common currency in the Middle Ages and already appears in St. Jerome who says: "Ahora se ha roto la cadena de la maldicion. Vino la muerte por medio de Eva, y la vida por medio de Maria" (Jerome Ep. 22, quoted in Gerli 37). Through exegesis of the Scriptures the early Fathers of the Church wanted to connect and reconcile the Old with the New Testament, thus showing how Maria becomes the New Eve, the woman who came to liberate us from the sins of 82 the original Eve (Gerli 37). This reversal of history, or 'correction' of its course goes to the credit of Mary who saved Paradise for Mankind after it was lost through the disobedience of our first parents: "Por el advenimiento de Cristo, encarnado por medio de la Virgen, se recobra lo perdido, se invierte la historia del Genesis" (Gerli 38). Thus, perfect Virgin, perfect garden, both are the promise of a return to a harmonious world, made possible through the Holy Mother's assistance and protection. This important lesson is repeated again and again throughout the Introduccion as well as the Milaaros themselves, stressing that all those who are followers of Mary enjoy her unique protection in this life, and also in the next (Burke 37). This type of Christian allegory is nothing new to Spanish soil, since the very tradition of the Christian use of allegory has roots in Spain. It is, as Post points out, the achievement of Prudentius to have been the first to employ the "Christian manipulation of allegory as the setting of a whole composition" (Post 15) . ' Recalling Northrop Frye's definition of allegory as that which begins with an idea which then creates an imaginary object as its exponent, and adding to it Frye's definition of a vision as being "allegory adorned with a visionary framework" (Frye 89), we have here the threefold framework of Berceo's Introducci6n; 1. the idea is of course the possibility of salvation through following the Virgin Mary; 2. the obiect by which the idea expressed is the "prado" with all its elements, and 3. the whole composition is a visionary framework of the 83 paradise garden, the lost, yet recoverable Eden. In this context, the narrative systematically refers to a locus amoenus. while the meaning, however, emphasizes the moral teaching. Allegory, says Frye, "is a contrapuntal technique, like canonical imitation in music", and he calls the works of other great allegorists such as Dante, Spenser and Tasso, "the masses and oratorios of literature" (Frye 90). In the light of this definition it would perhaps not be too presumptuous to call Berceo's work in this connection 'un serm6n lirico cantado'. As for Berceo's handling of the Virgin-Garden allegory, various views are posited. Post seems to be of the opinion that Berceo's efforts were those of an amateurish beginner in this field, when he says: "The mystical garden, the constituents of which are elucidated as the attributes of the Blessed Virgin, is attached very loosely and clumsily to the body of the work . . ., and it is not an integral part of the composition. . . . The chief importance of the Miracles . . . is that it exhibits the first clumsy method of allegorical interpretation. . . . For him, the mystical garden seems to be no more than the setting of agreeable allegories" (Post 118). Contrary to this view, Michael Gerli sees in Berceo's work a coherent structure that unifies the work in its entirety; he says: "Al examinar la 'Introduccion' a los Milaaros a la luz de la tipologia, descubrimos en ella un intricado y coherente sistema de asociaciones que unifica, estructura, y presta sentido no solo a la misma 'Introduccion' sino al resto de la obra" (Gerli 37). Typology, defined as the 84 study of symbolic representation of the origin and meaning of Scripture types (Oxford), is thus the process which establishes links between characters or events of both Old and new Testaments. In the Middle Ages, typology was employed in religious literature as a style of composition that would shed light on the conceptual organization of a work and create connections and correspondences between various parts of a particular work (Gerli 36). When looking at Berceo's work, it appears that he has done exactly this. He has organized his Scripture characters around the particular theme of Fall and Redemption; he has combined aspects of both Testaments, and he has built a network of elements around a unifying concept. He has done so through allusions to the Old Testament prophecies that announced the Virgin Mary, thereby giving hope of a possible restitution to man of the lost grace in the form of a return to the lost Eden (Gerli 47). Berceo's 'Introducci6n', Gerli says, "es un intricado sistema de imSgenes unidas entre si por medio de asociaciones tipoldgicas latentes en ellas, que, vistas en su totalidad, establecen una semSntica simbdlica, que por un lado evoca la historia de la Calda del hombre, y por otro, asegura su salvacion por medio de la devocion y fe marianas" (Gerli 47). Thus, Berceo's work is an allegory which functions via an interconnected framework of symbols, based on typological contacts between both Testaments. Therefore, rather than being a 'clumsy' and amateurish effort at allegorization, it is a logically thought out, systematically maintained, and coherently 85 composed piece of allegorical literature that need not hide itself for fear of unfavourable comparison. What makes his work especially valuable is the fact that he was able to say the 'profound' in clear and simple terms, enabling his work and message to reach all levels of his society. As for the locale of Berceo's "prado", the question is often raised whether such a site should be referred to as a pleasance, or as a holy place; opinions differ greatly also as to the chronological sequence between the two sites, that is, whether there was originally a locus amoenus that became divinized with time, or whether a former holy place underwent secularization. Curtius states that "the philosophical epic of the latter part of the twelfth century incorporates the 'locus amoenus' into its structure, and develops it into various forms of the earthly paradise" (Curtius 198). This view stands corrected by Erika Lorenz who says that the situation is exactly the reverse, whereby the pleasance is the result of secularization of older holy places, among which paradise belongs (Lorenz 259). And a further voice, that of Giamatti, tends to agree with Curtius by stating that "Christian writers . . . simply appropriated the Golden Age to their own purposes" (Giamatti 30). In Berceo's use of the topic of the locus amoenus. the question of the topic's origin does not arise. He followed tradition, and this tradition is based on the beliefs of his time which incorporated the locus amoenus into a form of earthly paradise. His locus seemingly started out as a concrete physical 86 place ("yendo en romeria caecl en un prado" (v. 2), and then becomes, when "lo de fuera" is left behind, a most empowering spiritual resort and paradise for all those who wish to find out what "lo de dentro" is all about. What 'seems', is not what 'is', or, as Erika Lorenz notes: "Die Dinge bedeuten . . . nicht sich selbst, sondern den Heilsplan Gottes" (Lorenz 263). Therefore, Berceo's "logar tan deleitoso" (v. 6) is intended to be a guide to salvation, a guide to a holy place which is equipped, however, with the components and decor of a more or less traditional locus amoenus. here cleansed of its amatory components. But rather than being mere ornament, each image was given by the poet a significance and meaning that would connect the outwardly form of the locus element with its spiritual content, so that one could say that he skilfully blended both concepts, the secular and the sacred, the notions of locus and hortus, the Virgin as protective mantle and as Church, the notions of pleasance and holy place, the presence of pilgrim and generous host, of sinner and of saint, of everyman and the selected few, hortus voluptatis and hortus conclusus. of "fuente cristalina" and fons sianatus. and most of all, connecting Eden with Paradise. His "prado" is a holy place in the guise of a locus amoenus. and by connecting beginning and end. Fall and Redemption, departure from Paradise and return, expulsion and re-admission, Berceo completed the circle and gave the reader and fellow pilgrim a vision of man's life, presenting it as being restored to peace and harmony, a 87 life of shelter and salvation, accessible via the Book of Nature, God's divine creation, because, as Berceo says: el que cri6 tal cosa, maestro fue anviso. (V. 14). Conclusion While combining the concepts of locus amoenus and paradise, Berceo incorporates at the same time certain differences between the two. Apart from the fact that he stresses the fragrance of the place, which is a Christian notion, he allows birds to be present, at least audibly, in paradise. This is contrary to another Christian notion of paradise that denies the presence of animals there, since animals, representing 'the wild' and thus the equivalent of passions, are seen as unfit for such a place. According to this interpretation, the paradise garden, the garden of virtues, does not admit the wild and irrational, and therefore must exclude animals (Grimm 28). ^^ Then there is the fact that the fountains of Berceo's "prado" have different temperatures in summer and winter, implying a change of season unknown to both the eternal spring of paradise as well as to the Golden Age pleasance. An even greater distinction from tradition seems to be the heavy emphasis on the Virgin as protagonist and representative of the Church, compared to other descriptions where Christ is the protagonist. Besides, in this role, the Virgin is not represented, as often before, as being the fountain in the centre of the garden, as in the Song of Songs, rather, the 88 image chosen for her in the Introducci6n is that of the tree, that which reaches up into the sky and connects the ground with the heavens, bringing man to God, and God to man. And unlike the Song of Songs, the story of which symbolizes an exchange of (spiritual) love among adults, with bridal imagery and nuptial pomp, in Berceo the love of the Virgin for mankind is that of a mother for her children and vice versa, implying a family bond stronger and more durable perhaps than that of Solomon's passionate even if spiritual, love for a woman. As for the appeal to the senses in Berceo's Introducci6n. we find that major emphasis is given to the gustatory, auditory, and olfactory senses, and very little attention is given to the visual or tactile faculties of man. First and foremost there is sound in this poem, the song of birds who sing in unison the praises of the Virgin; then there is the repeated reference to the sweetness of the fruit, and finally, there is the wonderful "olor" of the whole "prado". Thus, we hear the birds, taste the fruit, and smell the flowers—and yet, when we ask ourselves for details, we realize that we are never told just how the flowers smell: sweet like roses? spicy like cinnamon? pungent like country herbs? or intoxicating like jasmine? They seem to be 'generic' flowers, with a 'collective' "olor", the quality of which we never find out, except that it is pleasant and powerful. Besides, what exactly do these flowers look like? What shape are they? Do they stand tall or low? In clusters or separate? In sunshine or in shade? and most of all, what are their colours? 89 How can a description of flowers exist that stresses their fragrance, abundance and profusion, without at the same time taking into account one of the key attributes of the beauty of flowers—their colour? This is clearly not a real garden, but a conceptual one. Berceo may have been able to make the reader believe in the existence of such a lovely place in the country, but the fact that he leans in the direction of a conceptual abstraction of such a site, stressing selectively its spiritual aspects rather than its earthly physical qualities, shows clearly that he is definitely not interested in "lo de fuera", but mainly in "lo de dentro", the message and substance. From this point of view, it matters little that these flowers are non-descript, that they possess no individual fragrance, and that they have neither shape nor colour. What is important to Berceo is that their fragrance, taken as a whole, is pleasant, that it has healing powers, and that the abundance of these flowers is infinite, because they stem from the "campo del mas grand que savemos", and he who smells their "olor" is blessed because it contains nothing but goodness for him: "podria vevir el omne con aguellos olores". And after all, these flowers are but synonyms for the Virgin Mary, and her goodness and perfection far outshine all physical beauty, including that of "campo" and "flores". Perhaps Berceo wanted, like Blosius did to, "use the beauties of Nature as avenues, by which souls could be led to God" (Meyvaert 46), and so he invited "todos guantos vevimos" to a spiritual "romeria", chaperoned by the Virgin, and leading 90 everyone to salvation. Thus the prado-paradise of Berceo's 'Introducci6n' seems to belong to the paradisus = ecclesia tradition of the Christian Church, whereby all the beauty of nature may be deployed in the service and praise of the Holy Church, represented on earth by the Blessed Virgin, but only to reinforce the spiritual aspect and perfection of it, since, after all, it is only a reflection of the real and true paradise in Heaven. And for this task, Berceo is asking for the Virgin's kind assistance: Madre, plena de gracia, reina poderosa, tu me gula en ello, ca eres piadosa. (V. 46). When comparing the imagery of fruit and flowers, we seem to know a lot more about the fruit than about the flowers. Or do we? We are told that none of it is "podridas nin azedas" (v. 4), that it is "dulz e sabrido" (v. 15), that it is non-damaging, and at least we know that it is "dulce". But in Berceo's vocabulary, 'sweet' can mean many different things; we have: (v. 7) Sonos de aves, dulces e modulados (sonos) (v. 23) sombra de los cirbores buena, dulz e sania (sombra) (v. 25) ^rbores que facen sombra dulz e donosa (sombra) (v. 25) miracles mas dulces que aztlcar (miracles) (v. 26) las aves . . . que han las dulces voces (voces) (v. 15) el fructo de los Srbores era dulz e sabrido (fructo) 91 (V. 44) estos fructales, tan plenos de dulzores (fructales) With sweetness being attributed to various elements, such as sweet sounds, sweet shade, sweet miracles, and sweet voices, all of them representing a sweetness that is non-tastable, we can thus infer that 'sweet', just like "olor", is a generic quality, more related to a conception of something pleasant, beneficial, beautiful, than to a gustatory appreciation. The only sense perception we can be sure of as reader is that of the colour of the "prado", as its greenness is emphasized several times: (v. 2) prado verde e bien sencido (v. 5) la verdura del prado (v. 20) esti prado fue siempre verde (v. 11) siempre estava verde en su entegredat. There can be no doubt that this "prado" is green, evergreen and spotless, because it represents the Virgin and this is impeccable and perfect. But it is so perfect that in fact this 'greenness', this certainty of colour, although stressed repeatedly, tends to disappear before the brilliance and splendour of yet another 'colour' impression which as yet had not been mentioned but only alluded to: the immaculate whiteness and purity of the Virgin. It is her perfection that outshines all colour manifestation, and whose manifold presence in the many "flores" surpasses all the physical "olores" of any earthly flower. 92 In the light of such evanescence of sense perception we may ask, what does this "prado" really consist of? After all, we have a "prado" that is not really green but rather seems to radiate in a brilliant white; we have birds we hear but cannot see; there is fruit that is sweet, as 'sweet' as shade and voices and sound; we have flowers without shape and colour and having a generic scent only; we have fountains that change their temperature according to the seasons; we have trees that are 'miracles', and shade consisting of 'prayers'—what kind of place is this where nothing is tangible, identifiable, and where everything escapes man's grasp? Where none of man's senses find satisfaction in their 'physical' aspect, and where everything is alluded to without ever being gratified? A place that initially seems to have 'presence' and corporality, yet the more it is described, the more it seems to 'dissolve' before the reader's eyes, becoming incorporeal, insubstantial, elusive. What kind of place is this that lures the reader into the comfort of a locus amoenus, only to let it fade away bit by bit, leaving him with no more than an admonition to pray and behave himself? What magic did the poet use to achieve such effects? Surely, this is no 'clumsy' effort at allegorization. On the contrary, Berceo's skill is such that he created a beautiful vision containing a subtle moral message; he then gradually dissolved the external illusion, leaving the reader, however, not only with the message, but with a strong desire to re-experience that vision. He created, and then dissolved, a world before the reader's eyes. 93 leaving him, however, with the feeling of almost having been there, and, after its disappearance, with an even stronger feeling of really wanting to go there, or better yet, to return to a place he has never been before. 94 NOTES 1. Michael Gerli, ed., Milaaros de Nuestra Senora by Gonzalo de Berceo (Madrid: CStedra, 1988). 2. Gonzalo de Berceo, Milaaros de Nuestra Senora. ed. Michael Gerli (Madrid: C^tedra, 1988). 3. A. D. Deyermond, A Literary History of Spain: The Middle Ages (London: Ernest Benn, 1971). 4. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (New Jersey: Princeton U.P., 1973). 5. Erika Lorenz, "Berceo der 'Naive'," Romanistisches Jahrbuch 14 (1963):255-68. 6. Juan-Eduardo Cirlot, ed., Diccionario de slmbolos (Barcelona: Editorial Labor, 1969). 7. Leo Spitzer, Classical and Christian Ideas of World Harmony, ed. Anna Granville Hatcher (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1963) . 8. James Burke, "The Ideal of Perfection: The Image of the Garden Monastery in Gonzalo de Berceo's Milaaros de Nuestra Senora." Medieval. Renaissance and Folklore Studies in Honour of John Esten Keller, ed. Joseph R. Jones (Newark: University of Kentucky, 1980). 9. Chandler Raphton Post, Medieval Spanish Alleaory (Cambridge: Harvard U.P., 1915). 10. Reinhold R. Grimm, Paradisus Coelestis. Paradisus Terrestris: Zur Ausleaunasaeschichte des Paradieses im Abendland bis zum 1200 (Munchen: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1977). 95 CHAPTER II Melibea's Precarious Paradise The Traaicomedia de Calisto y Melibea * begins like a traditional tale in which two young people meet by chance and fall in love. A closer look at this work, however, reveals the inherent avant-gardism of the Celestina. Among the many traits setting it apart from conventional love-in-the-garden stories of the time is the role of Melibea's "huerto", because it represents the first dramatization of nature in Spanish literature (Orozco 87) . ^  Up to then, landscape description in medieval Spanish poetry was, according to Orozco, limited to simple allusion. It seems therefore that Act XIX, which contains the longest garden scene of the Celestina, represents an exception to the "general aridity of landscape descriptions in the author's period" (Shipley 289). ^  Concentrating on the role of the "huerto" in the Celestina. an attempt will be made at showing how the garden's perception, in its dual role of geographical/physical place, and psychological/affective place, changes from barrier to trap/cemetery, and from facilitator/accomplice to impartial observer of the final tragedy. Within the context of garden and lovers, an attempt is made to show how the concept of inversion of the norm functions with regard to the notions of refuge and isolation, as well as to order and chaos. Finally, the perceptions of the "huerto" as being a "para^so dulce" is contrasted with its identification as a "laberinto de errores". 96 It all begins very innocently: a bird escapes his master, a youth meets a maiden, falls in love with her, is rejected, and tries his best to win her for himself. A fairy tale beginning, followed, however, with a tragic ending. A sad story indeed, but predictable, to an extent, if one reads closely the "argumento" to Act I of the Celestina. where the reader is informed that the bird in question is a falcon, and that it escaped his master's control. Later, in Act IV, reference is made to the method of Calisto's entry into Melibea's garden when she angrily calls him "saltaparedes". The reader, equipped with this kind of information—the type of bird, the bird's escape, and the climbing of the garden wall—begins to perceive the potential for ambiguity and complications. The bird is not a harmless little songster but a bird of prey, a falcon, "a traditional symbol for rapine, appetite and destruction" (Weinberg 138), * and, according to Barbera, "a symbol of carnal lust, . . . its significance is the purely carnal aspect of love between man and woman" (Barbera 5). ' The fact that the falcon escapes control, leading his master straight to Melibea's "huerto", should provide a foreshadowing of the plot's development. If one now adds the fact that the "huerto" in question obviously had no door and thus could be entered only from within the house—the house standing for order, family, convention—one wonders why it never occurred to Calisto to knock politely at the family's door, explain his situation, and ask permission to enter the garden to retrieve his bird, which, under the circumstances no one would have refused 97 him. Besides, in this way, the opportunities for a chance meeting between the visitor and the maiden was as great, if not greater, than in the story itself. The excitement of an errant bird in one's garden, the bird's owner being a handsome and well-to-do young man of noble descent, who upon seeing the young lady fell in love with her—all this could have been the stage for the whole of Melibea's household engaging in a happy hunting affair, assuring that bird and master be re-united and, perhaps, first contacts be established between two young, handsome, and seemingly compatible, youths and their families. But such a simple situation would be an unlikely basis for the development of the literary events, since already in the prologue, the reader is informed that this work was written in reprehension of those who follow illicit pleasures, "los locos enamorados, que, vencidos en su desordenado apetito, a sus amigas llaman y dicen ser su Dios" (Rojas 52). Thus, with a bird of prey, representing desire gone out of control, and with forced entrance into the garden, the stage is set for complications. 2.1 First Encounter: a Violation of Space Calisto's climbing over the garden wall represents a serious violation of Melibea's private space, including that of home and family. Joaquin Verdti de Gregorio points to the notion of sacred space attached to one's home. ^ Within this private family space, which stands in radical opposition to the public space represented by streets and 98 squares—the realm of Celestina—there is the garden, "el espaclo que comunica con lo terrestre" (Verdti 339) . ' Being also the space of literature in the form of the locus amoenus. the garden brings to the city-dwelling a touch and memory of "campo" in that it not only serves as a status symbol for Pleberio, but is also the initial location of the drama. It is thus an extension of that notion of templum. the place to which the falcon escapes, and thus "ser^ el pretexto del encuentro de los amantes y el augurio y anuncio de su destine" (Verdfi 339). Any unauthorized entry into this private, intimate space of peace and protection would amount therefore to a violation that is equivalent to a destruction of that space (Verdti 339) . Critics are deeply divided as to the exact location of the first meeting between Calisto and Melibea; there are those who believe the first encounter between the lovers to have taken place in a church (Riquer, Rumeau), and that this encounter was not the first one between the two protagonists. Others (Faulhaber, Weinberg, Lida) have accepted Melibea's "huerto" as the first point of contact between Calisto and Melibea. * Faulhaber points out, however, that "more recent studies have accepted the traditional interpretation of the scene (Calisto's falling in love with Melibea as a result of a chance encounter occasioned by his strayed hawk) (436). To choose a garden as a meeting place for lovers is common practice in literature as in life; it is a conventional place for such an occasion not only due to its pleasant ambience, but also 99 due to the fact that it is an age-old locus of man's imagination, a dreamland, an ideal place, a refuge from the real world around him, a psychological 'home', rather than a factual 'laboratory'. Traditionally representing a symbol of expanded awareness, the garden has become a most suitable location for the definition of a completed, fulfilled existence (Shipley 289). Through it, man keeps alive and recreates his contacts with the universe. As a result of this relationship between man and the external world, literature has developed this "essential expressive capacity of the garden" into a long tradition of ideal natural sites, among them the locus amoenus^ focal point for plot development within the Celestina (Shipley 289). Some critics tend to minimize the function of the garden in the Celestina by pointing out that the original sixteen act version of the work contains very little information about the "huerto" itself. They see it as no more than a preparation for a garden scene. Pointing to the high wall surrounding the "huerto" as being the only traditional garden element, Truesdell says: The wall and its height are stressed by frequent mention, but in the 'love scene' itself, the only topics of discussion are Calisto's lechery and, following her deflowering, Melibea's regrets . . . It is what happens within the garden, rather than the garden itself, which is of chief interest. Rojas apparently considered it 100 sufficient to state that it was an 'hortus', to underline the fact that it was 'conclusus', and to sketch the act of 'luxuria' which took place therein" (Truesdell 261). ' However, the garden's importance and contribution to this chapter cannot be brushed aside with one wide sweep of moralizing judgement. Aside from Calisto's pleasant memories of Melibea's "huerto", ("aquel paraiso dulce, . . . aquel alegre vergel, entre aquellas suaves plantas y fresca verdura"), the fact remains that the garden's existence supplies the lovers with a location and an opportunity for their actions. It offered shelter, privacy, and sensual stimulation to carry out their 'luxuria', and its role in the development of the proceedings should not be underestimated. 2.2 Melibea's Model Although Melibea's "huerto' is site and place for several events and situations (Acts I, IV, XIV, XIX, XXI), none of the action is more controversial and central to the events than that of Act XIX, where the last meeting of the two lovers takes place. *° This scene is important insofar as it portrays a connection between the world of man and of the world above, becoming thus "the structural and functional equivalent for Melibea and Calisto, of the center of the world" (Shipley 288). The garden, the idealized homosphere, representative of an ideal world within 101 its walls, becomes united for a while with an ideal, yet undefined, cosmic power, a benign force, beyond the world of man, yet kindly disposed towards the lovers' dreams. In this world, aspects of the physical as well as of the psychological surroundings interact in support of Melibea and Calisto, whereby, for instance, the trees in the garden, growing upwards with branches intertwining, can be seen as an axis mundi. They represent: "a point of orientation and a symbol of the natural embrace in which the lovers are held while they embrace each other. Time is suspended, the surrounding natural objects are the lovers' allies; Calisto and Melibea, under the protection of caressing trees, are whole and integrated beings for the first time, and at their ease. The garden is for them a refuge, and symbol of the world as they would like it" (Shipley 288). Perhaps it is Orozco-Diaz who best summarized the tremendous appeal of this particular garden scene, as for him, the garden represents an essential constituent of the work as a whole: Nos costaria trabajo representarnos a los protagonistas sin ese fondo de jardin . . . Ese ambiente de nocturno entre la bella naturaleza—que sombrea idealizando su fuerte sensualidad—acenttia atin m^s el contraste entre el amor de los protagonistas y el de los criados y mozas . . . El cuadro de naturaleza y artificio del huerto exigia para la plena exaltacion de sus encantos y 102 seducclones el amblente prlmaveral, ^ sa es la estacldn escogida por Rojas. Hay que pensar que seria entre abril y mayo, cuando florecen los lirios y azucenas, cuando los dlas se alargan, tanto, que hacen desesperar a Calisto, que suena con la noche del huerto (Orozco 99). And later, when the outside world's importance is diminished and the two lovers begin to isolate themselves, the garden increases its role and almost becomes a third player in their game: . . . el huerto si vive con ellos; desempena aqui un papel esencial, como otro personaje. No podemos olvidar que los placeres y coloquios de amor pasan sobre las 'frescas yerbas' del huerto, 'ocultos' bajo las 'quietas sombras' de sus 'altos cipreses', embriagados por el olor de sus viciosas flores, oyendo 'correr el agua y cantar el ruisenor y sintiendo en sus rostros 'el templadico viento' primaveral que impulsa a la Naturaleza toda a que se aproxime y enlace. (Orozco 101). And in the song of Lucrecia we find what Orozco calls the essential elements of the 'tragicomedia', "un amor sin igual, el huerto, y la noche" (Orozco 100): 103 Nunca fue mSs deseado, amado, de su amiga, ni huerto mSs visitado, ni noche mSs sin fatiga. (Rojas 280) Already in Act XIV, Calisto, after his first encounter with Melibea, called the "huerto" a "paraiso dulce", a sympathetic site that harmonizes with the lovers' wishes, and it appears that in their love and in their isolation, Calisto and Melibea have re-shaped this piece of family property, Pleberio's backyard, into a unit of love that reflects, enhances, and supports their feeling for each other (Shipley 288). Within this ideal world, Melibea creates an ideal existence for herself and for Calisto, a perfect life in a perfect world, based on love and harmony; it is a world in which songs, birds, flowers and trees all interact and celebrate the lovers' happiness. This harmony extends up to the cosmos, when Melibea points to its participation in welcoming Calisto: "Todo se goza en este huerto con tu venida. Mira la luna cucin clara se nos muestra . . . " (281). The practice of placing paradise and the moon in close proximity is a commonplace tradition in the Middle Ages, whereby the apex paradisi is seen as reaching to the sphere of the moon, and where the palace of Nature is perceived as being situated "in the midst of a grove whose trees touched the sky and 'gave the clouds a kiss'" (Shipley 300). Melibea thus connects the world above with the world below in an attempt to harmonize both spheres into one united cosmos to love. It seems only 104 natural to her to combine the elements of the cosmos with her own enchanted view of life within the garden. But what for the critic may be a "splendidly inspired pathetic fallacy" (Shipley 302), is from her point of view only a sign of nature's interest and agreement in her love. In their "harmony-creating independence", she and Calisto are an "attractive microcosmic model" worthy of the protection of their surroundings (Shipley 302). To her it seems that the garden is pleased ("se goza"), the moon shines for them alone ("cu^ n clara se nos muestra"), the shadows shelter their secret ("aparejadas para encubrir nuestro deleyte"), and the trees and breeze caress ("se dan paz; los menea") (Shipley 302). She tries to recreate her environment in an attempt to transform reality into a dreamland, the world that really exists into the world according to her design. But the world that exists in reality will not submit entirely to her imagination, and despite her wishful thinking in seeing the trees as hugging and kissing, "they remain cypresses, mortal, funereal, unaltered by Melibea's attempt to transform the garden into a 'parayso dulce'" (Shipley 302). Thus the garden she describes has little to do with reality or scientific nature, "an indifferent distant perpetuum"; it is not concerned with worldly worries of outside society, because it is an independent model of perfection, created out of her dreams (Shipley 291). The lovers' greeting ritual in Act XIX begins with an all-inclusive statement of welcome, whereby Melibea stresses the 105 harmony of their situation and surroundings: "Todo se goza este huerto con tu venida" (281); she then goes on to describe, one by one, how each member of this welcoming ceremony is affected by Calisto's presence: "Mira la luna . . ., mira las nuves . . . oye la corriente agua . . . " (180). She includes the moon and the clouds, since she sees them as equivalent players and constituents of this enchanted garden, the same as the distant fountain, and it is, as if they had been "disengaged from that unresponsive outside world, and joined to the paradise refuge where they participate, co-operating with water, grass, trees, breeze, and shadows, in the love of Calisto and Melibea" (Shipley 291) . In what Orozco called "esa deliciosa e incomparable escena del huerto", the whole world is tuned in to the lovers' paradise: Es noche de luna llena, las estrellas 'relumbran', un templadico viento menea suavemente los 'sombrosos Srboles y cipreses', se oye el 'suave murmullo' del agua 'por entre las frescas yerbas', los lirios y las azucenas 'derraman' sus frescos olores. Todo se prepara para el gozo de los amantes. Melibea espera cantando con Lucrecia; despues canta sola, e, inconsciente, nos dice, con sombrlo presentimiento, que 'con ronca voz de cisne'. Dirige sus palabras a los ^ rboles, a las 106 estrellas, a los p^jaros; porgue todo se ha penetrado de vida y es testigo y parte inseparable de sus amores" (Orozco 102). While waiting for Calisto's visit, both Lucrecia and Melibea sing and describe in verse a vision of their dreams. The imagery of their song is reminiscent of life in the country, an idyllic locus amoenus. where a gardener gathers her flowers each morning, where there are animals ("cabritos") and birds ("papagayos", "ruisenores"), where the flowers ("lirios", "azucenas") are exhaling their fragrance over the water of the fountain—whereby one flower is symbolic of purity, the other of hypocrisy—(Truesdell 261), and where all is softened in the velvety cloak of the "noche", sparkling with the "luna" and the "estrellas". And so, for the duration of their month of love, the garden becomes a refuge from time and normalcy, almost a paradisiacal retreat, a separate place in a separate time, and "as complete a realization of the romance world of fulfilled desire as the lovers' imaginations, memories, and wills can refine out of available time and space" (Shipley 295). 2.3 Signs of Instability In their emotional and physical separation from normalcy, they go by a different clock and live in a geography of their own making. As Gregorio de Verdti explains: En su pasi6n . . . el tiempo y el espacio de Melibea ser^n el tiempo junto a Calisto y el espacio de 107 Calisto. Sus vldas, los instantes en que se hallan unldos . . . Todo se transforma en funci6n de ese estado emoclonal de los enamorados. Unidos, la noche parece alumbrarse. La noche de naturaleza amenazante se torna en espacio que cobija. La oscurldad se ira desvaneciendo . . . y la naturaleza otorga su plena armonia . . . Y otorga su cobijo, su envoltura que parece proteger a los amantes y alejar toda amenaza" (Verdti 343) . Without knowing that their dreamy existence had no future, they put a frenzy of intensity and passion into the meagre space of a month. This mens amori which becomes for them a period of "perfected time" (Shipley 296), consisted of precious moments of union which they then preserved and extended by memory; capsules of happiness carved out of the regular flow of time, just as the garden represents a parcel of geography sublimated above the hostile society beyond their paradise. It is their hope to live "isolated in a sensual eternity, and they do what they can to purify space and suspend time" (Shipley 296). However, while the lovers enjoy the garden's beauty, the reader is aware of its instability, due to the insight given to him of the danger looming over paradise. This is a fact which strongly contributes to the appeal and tension of this work. Shipley explains: "Certainly this co-existence of opposites in Melibea's images and the reader's experience of them . . . serves as a principal stimulator of that 'nervous discord' which is a 108 natural reader response to this scene" (Shipley 296). While Melibea and Lucrecia sing of their sublimated little paradise, the reader is tensely aware of Elicia's curse and of the transformatory spell cast over this island of love situated amidst a world in chaos. Were it not for this preview of things to come, the reader might well believe in the lovers' wish of fusion for sentiment and circumstances, a type of "sentimental cosmogony", in which the elements of nature are sharing the lovers' harmony; nevertheless, it is not an ideal order extracted and distilled from chaos, rather it appears to be "an ordered sphere still . . . surrounded by chaos" (Shipley 291). But Elicia's gloomy foreboding is not the only outside force intent on indicating the fragility of paradise. Although the lovers seem to feel at ease in their pastoral abode, the plot never loses the notion of secrecy and nervous tension. This is indicated by the fact that Melibea asks Lucrecia to sing "muy passo . . . que no nos oyran los que passaren" (177), a cautionary move which indicates to the reader that something improper and untoward is about to take place, something that needs to be hidden. "This element of fear coupled with deceit, envy, vice and condemnation of souls which were the topics of Tristan's preparatory conversation with Sosia (II 174-5) inform us, had we not known already, that this garden is to be interpreted in malo rather than in bono" (Truesdell 261), where love erroneously is interpreted as voluptas instead of noble 109 caritas. thus inverting the rules of nature, which in itself is a highway towards perdition." " 2.4 Inversions Among the many inversions of the norm occurring throughout this work, a major one is the reversal of day and night, of light and darkness, inside the garden and without. This process begins with Calisto who, scolded and rejected by Melibea (during daytime), decides to go to bed in broad daylight and ponder his pain in darkness. '^  The fact that Calisto has invariably reversed his life-style to a noctural existence proves the artificiality of his life and love, since in the society of the time, night-time is hardly conducive to romance and frivolity. " Calisto's request not to be woken until evening begins the stream of night and day inversions and illustrates his rejection of normal life and of the natural order of things. He orders his servant Sempronio to close the window of his bedroom and to let "la tiniebla acompanar al triste, y al desechado la ceguedad. Mis pensamientos tristes no son dignos de luz" (1,24). Calisto's words are heavy with meaning, since they reveal not only his woes as a rejected lover but rather, indicate his deeper character and provide the key to his behaviour, since "tiniebla" and "ceguedad" evokes the equation "darkness = evil (here, unbridled passion)" (Weinberg 139). The darkness surrounding him is physical as well as spiritual, and will remain with him until his death. The 110 extent of his inner darkness is revealed not only in the fact that he dies without confession, but it is also reflected in his mode of living, as Weinberg points out: "Rojas's audience never sees more than Calisto's bedroom, where he vegetates upon or near his bed, shutting out all light, because his sad thoughts are not 'worthy' of light. Suggestive light and dark symbolism is exploited here: the character possessed by 'loco amor' flees the night in order to hide his unworthy thoughts in a darkened bedroom, the very sanctuary of lust" (Weinberg 140) . *^ Irrevocably becoming that "fantasma de noche" that Melibea found so despicable at their first encounter, Calisto now lives up to this image by totally ignoring his former day-time responsibilities, and lives only for his night-time pleasures. When he does leave his shady abode, it is to either meet his lover in the garden, or to spend some time praying in a dimly lit church for Melibea's surrender. Once she is his, no further prayers and church visits seem necessary, and he spends his time only between his darkened bedroom and her moonlit garden. From here on, the lovers begin to live a life almost unworthy of human beings, since their whole existence has become little more than a pursuit of pleasure, executed during night-time hours, and in hiding from the rest of the world and its concerns. Surrendering their will and their reason to the pursuit of sensual pleasures only, they begin to live "on a subhiiman, an animal, even a vegetable level. Like the inhabitants of Plato's cave, they contend themselves with the shadows of Ill reality, morality, truth". Distant from order, convention and moral tradition, they reject what Leone Hebraeus calls "la divina claridad, que es el anima intelectiva" and they prefer to settle for "materia y obscuridad" (Weinberg 140). After having become a creature and hero of night-time pursuits, Calisto goes, however, beyond preferring to live in the dark dreaminess of his carnal enterprises. He becomes guilty of another type of darkness that also represents an inversion of light and reason versus the tenebrosity of his dubious pleasures: Calisto becomes a heretic. When speaking of Melibea, he refers to more than his love for her and her body; he also has the audacity to compare his pleasure in seeing her to one of the highest goals of Christian men: the beatific vision. He sees God's greatness in the fact that he granted nature to endow Melibea with such perfect beauty, and that he granted him, the undeserving Calisto, the favour of finally meeting her: "en dar poder a natura que de tan perfecta hermosura te ddtase, y hacer a mi inmerito tanta merced que verte alcanzarse" (Rojas 53). Thus, when Calisto asks, "Quien vido en esta vida cuerpo glorificado de ningtin hombre como agora el mio" (Rojas 54), the term "cuerpo glorificado" seems to refer to a privilege not normally granted to mere mortals. '^  By claiming that he, a mere mortal and sinner, was granted a privilege that even saints are denied, Calisto made himself guilty of blasphemy. In a few statements, made hastily and thoughtlessly, Calisto has managed to commit complete heresy; he 112 has raised Melibea to the level of a Goddess and has equated his pleasure in seeing her with the beatific vision (Truesdell 268). Although Calisto may have used the "lenguaje sacroprofano" (Truesdell 271) in a way common to the times and familiar to readers of courtly romances, Melibea rebukes Calisto for its use. She, who seems aware of this convention, is chiding him not so much for the content of his forward declaration, than for the form he clothed it in. She responds with disapproval, warning him that his "loco atrevimiento" deserves fierce punishment, due to the ugliness of the "intento" of his words (Truesdell). Since, as Truesdell says, Calisto has made no explicit immoral suggestions, this "intento" must therefore refer to his rather un-Christian impertinence of putting her, a creature of the terrestrial world, above God, the divine, and such an act would explain the "yllcito" amor as being the equivalent of loco amor (Truesdell 273) . When Calisto later refers to himself as "melibeo", worshipper of Melibea, he officially denounces and denies the supremacy of God, opting for a "reversion to paganism" (Weinberg 151). In this reversion-inversion, Calisto has performed the arch-sin of any believing Christian of his time: he has dethroned God and put a mortal in his place. Melibea, for her part, undergoes a similar transformation, in spite of her promising and upright beginnings in Act I of this work. Although she sharply reprimanded Calisto initially for confusing "illcito amor" with buen amor, she herself will later 113 join the ranks of the heretics, by declaring Calisto to be "mi senor", "luciente sol", "senor de mi alma", and "me fio en tus manos". She too has dared to raise her beloved in her estimation to improper heights, albeit more out of ignorance than out of defiance, because for Melibea, the real divinity is Love. This love shows itself, according to VerdU, from its other side: the infernal (Verdti 349) . In the end, she too will stoop to her desires, and by leaving behind manners, breeding and nobility of conduct, she will succumb to passion: "Queda la mujer, tr^s la doncella, en el Ultimo reducto del amor: la pasi6n. Ella es su tiltimo sentido de vida, vida de amor en y por Calisto" (Verdti 349). " In this dramatic counter-exemplum, the author wanted to stress the hidden danger of courtly love to adherents of the Christian faith and warn of its distractions and aberrations. Courtly love is amor malo because it can bring the lover to idolatry, replacing the one and only true God with an earthborn mortal. As Truesdell explains: "It is dangerous also . . . because it brings disorder to a number of other aspects of life: it fosters carnality, it precludes marriage (the sacrament that puts order into man's carnal appetites and also into society); it brings disorder into the home (Parmeno is "tornado desleal" as an indirect result), and into the larger world (Celestina's intervention)" (Truesdell 276). 2.5 Shadows over Paradise 114 Given all these considerations, the reader becomes gradually aware that Melibea's cosmic paradise is rather flawed and that it can no longer be confused with something sacred, because her model was lacking any "real cosmic correspondences" (Shipley 303). Her vision and belief in sympathetic support from nature are eliminated by the fall of Calisto from the ladder. And as rapidly as gravity pulls down his body towards the stony ground, just as swiftly has the previously sympathetic environment taken on a different meaning for all the characters involved. Suddenly, what was moments ago a paradise filled with love, has now become nothing but a site of loss and mourning, as within a few minutes a "vision of perfected desire" dissolves into a "wasteland where space and time are worthless and filled only with frustration. The sole remaining intensity . . . is Pleberio's sense of painful isolation" (Shipley 302). The lovers' Eden had become an inferno of suffering, and what was for Melibea a coherent picture of integration between cosmos, garden, and the lovers, is now for Pleberio a cruel disarray of loss and isolation, separating him from daughter, cosmos, world, and nature alike. In view of the tragic ending, one suddenly remembers that, among the garden paraphernalia, not only are clouds a rather unusual constituent of such abodes of love and happiness, diminishing the amount of moonlight falling onto the scene, but also that the large protective shadows of the trees are cast by the ominous cypress. One of the symbolic aspects of the cypress tree is not only its shade-giving and protective qualities, as 115 seen in Melibea's view, but it is also known as a tree of mourning, with its funereal connotations perfectly suited to the now prevailing mood of grief and sorrow. " After "esa deliciosa e incomparable escena del huerto" (Orozco 102), death, the greatest anti-climax to any living thing, has suddenly put a brutal end to love, "bueno" or "malo" alike. From the midst of a lover's embrace, Melibea is now facing the scattered remains of a body belonging to a man who, only moments ago, enjoyed the pleasures of their garden paradise with her, or, as Orozco puts it: "De un salto . . . se pasa del supremo gozo sensorial y sensual, al supremo horror de la muerte sin confesion" (102). Suddenly the garden is no longer seen as a caring protective companion but rather, it takes on the figuration of a trap, an obstacle and a barrier to freedom, which it indeed had become for Calisto. Walls, fences, and enclosures can express ambivalence in meaning. On the one hand they imply a notion of refuge, creation, and center, while on the other hand they can be disagreeable images in the sense of isolation, retreat, "or even trap" (Shipley 296). And what was earlier a sign of privacy and shelter now suddenly becomes a symbol of detention and barrier. Seen from Melibea's point of view, the wall offered protection and isolation from reality, which allowed her thus to combine her normal life with her abnormal nocturnal escapades, her indoor and her outdoor life, her present and her dreamed of future. For Calisto in turn, the wall, which already had begun by being an 116 obstacle, ended by becoming a trap that cost him his life. The life behind the walls of the garden was totally separate from reality, which had ceased to exist for him. He lived for his nocturnal present only, with no thoughts or considerations whatsoever given to the future. By combining the physical darkness of his night-time life, with the spiritual darkness that surrounded him, he lost sight in a double sense of the word, and as a result, he lost his path, his life, and even his salvation. With Calisto's fall, Melibea laments in a manner that seems to foreshadow the language of Quevedo and his concern with the vanity of life: "todo es ido en humo". For her, Calisto is a man who "en gracia naci6", and she seems to be unaware of the 'desgracia en que muri6', namely, in the street, shattered at the feet of his servants, victim of a quite unheroic exit, having left life without confession, "hecho pedazos". All she is aware of is "de todos soy dejada", and so it seems to be: "Dejada por el sueno, por la fibula, por el tiempo, por los afectos . . . Melibea prepara su dltimo escenario terrestre •• (Verdti 345) , with her physical fall from the tower. There she stands, high up and alone, close to, yet excluded from, the celestial regions, feeling equally excluded from the world below, and she wishes for nothing more than to be reunited with her lover. Thus for her, death does not mean departure, but encounter, not grief, but "descanso . . . alivio . . . mi acompanada hora" (290). She wants to leave behind this world which is now no more than "pena . . . pasidn . . . soledad" (290). Therefore she no longer wishes to 117 hear music "sonidos de vida", as she is embarked on the voyage to the world of eternal silence (Verdti 346) . It becomes obvious now that, no matter how determined Melibea was to reform the existing space into something truly beautiful, the forces of opposition were plotting against her right from the start. Melibea, who tried to recreate the world out of love, was opposed by the forces of hate and evil in the person of Elicia, who, conversely, also wished to reform space, but doing so out of intense hate, yearning to destroy what Melibea had constructed. And it is Elicia's wishes, not those of Melibea, which came true for Pleberio. If a garden is by definition "the imposition of human will on a portion of nature" (Shipley 299), Pleberio's last hopes become a shattered vision of that will to dominate. For him, the garden was no more than a piece of decorated real estate, built for status and for the comfort of his family. It was Melibea who was the creator of paradise, without realizing that she was pursuing an impossible task. Although she tried to convert a piece of land into an earthly paradise, the outcome of her effort is framed by negatives: on the one side there is the hate of Elicia and Arefisa, and on the other, there is the pain of Pleberio. Moreover, the garden-paradise is challenged within the work by Elicia, and the reader is witness of that challenge before it reaches Melibea. When her paradise is finally destroyed, also within the work, "we are the auditors of her father's futile 118 attempts to refit the shattered pieces of this paradise into an ordered cosmos" (Shipley 300). Melibea's death brings a sudden end to her father's hopes and aspirations, and while many of her images of nature celebration can be detected in Pleberio's speech, they are now no more than "pathetic relics, reminders for us of fusions of sentiment and scene, ideals and experience" (Shipley 298), which have now been destroyed. He cries out to the "fortuna variable": "DejSrasme aguella florida planta, en guien tu poder no tenias" (Rojas 294), and in a litany of eighteen images, the central one is given to the garden (Shipley 298), symbol of a "mundo false", when the father says: "me pareces . . . un desierto espantable, . . . regi6n llena de espinas, . . . campo pedregoso, prado lleno de serpientes, . . . fuente de cuidados . . . vana esperanza" (Rojas 295). But the most heartrending image of all is his denunciation of fortuna for leaving him alone in a "huerto florido e sin fruto" (Rojas 295); this image, more than any other, expresses the connection between Pleberio's collapsed world and the unsuccessful paradise the lovers tried to build. This flowering, but sterile, garden, in which a father stands over the shattered body of his only child, is the most vivid visualization of this double fate the garden was destined to suffer: "Willed on the one hand by Melibea to flower ('jardin florido'), and on the other, by Elicia to wither ('e sin fruto') . . . The prado y huerto filled with venom and sterility compress the then and now. 119 apparent prosperity and ultimate futility, and assert . . . the demonic consistency of all nature, desert, animal den, and garden pleasance alike" (Shipley 298). Melibea's garden had no chance against the onslaught of ill-will towards her happiness, and Pleberio's "huerto" was destined to reach maturity prematurely, and without harvest. Melibea's "huerto"—a terrestrial paradise? On various occasions throughout the work, references are made to Melibea's garden as being a terrestrial paradise; there are ominous allusions to the apple, to trees, serpents, and to the vices of women as having caused man's fall and expulsion from sin-free Eden. It seems that the very forces which substantiate the plot and the characters are exactly those which brought about the fall of man: temptation, desire, seduction, gratification and punishment (Weiner 389) .^* Allusions to the apple as a sign of discord and cause of man's post-lapsum state in the Celestina are, however, not taken from the biblical Garden of Eden alone, but are intermingled with Greek mythology. Ovid's myth of the judgement of Paris is evoked in Calisto's words who says: "Aquella proporcion que ver yo no pude, no sin duda, por el bulto de fuera, juzgo incomparablemente ser mejor que la de Paris juzgo entre las tres Deesas" (Rojas 66). And later, in Act VI, Calisto repeats this allusion to Melibea as being the winner of the beauty contest and thus receiving the apple from Paris: "Si hoy fuera viva Elena . . . todas obedecerlan a esta senora por quien 120 yo peno. Si ella se hallara presente en aquel debate de la manzana con las tres diosas, nunca sobrenombre de dlscordia le pusieran. Porque sin contrariar ninguna, todas concedieran y vivieran conformes en que la llevara Melibea" (Rojas 149). And just before the lovers begin to eat of the 'forbidden fruit', Melibea hesitates and tells Calisto: "Est^ quedo, senor mio. BSstete, pues ya soy tuya, gozar de lo exterior, de esto que es propio fruto de amadores; no me quieras robar el mayor don que la natura me ha dado" (Rojas 243). In order to heal Calisto's malady, which Celestina refers to as a 'toothache', but which in reality is sexual desire (Weiner 395), he must eat of the forbidden fruit which, as Weiner explains, "paradoxically, is both the cause and the cure of his affliction. It resembles the paradox in Eden, where man, having everything but knowledge, gains knowledge only to lose everything else" (Weiner 395). Thus, Rojas combines materials from biblical and mythological sources, from topoi of classical antiquity, and elements from courtly love, legend and history (Weiner 395). Without naming it, he also introduces the primeval snake into the lovers' paradise. Just as Adam and Eve, having been warned not to eat of the forbidden fruit, had paid no attention to this advice, Calisto ignores the warning of his servant Sempronio and instead allows the 'serpent' in the guise of Celestina to enter his house. As a consequence of that encounter, and after prepaying her for her dubious services, Parmeno knows that his master is on the way to perdition when he says to himself: "Deshecho es. 121 vencido es, caldo es: no es capaz de ninguna redencldn nl consejo ni esfuerzo" (Rojas 80). With reference to matters 'serpentine', the images are numerous throughout the work. Aside from direct verbal evocation of snakes, or parts of snakes ("lengua de vibora", "azeyte serpentine"), the former a potent aphrodisiac, the latter an element of witchcraft (Weiner 394), there are several references that connect Celestina herself to this image of malevolence. Like the serpent of Eden, she is described in similar terms by Sempronio: "hechicera, astuta, sagaz en cuantas maldades hay" (Rojas 68), and later, he refers to her as "esta venenosa bivora" (133), indicating that nothing good could be expected of her. Just as the serpent of Eden eventually became the enemy of those who had listened to it, Celestina too managed to divide those who had stood in amicable relationships to each other before her interference with them. More so, the fact that almost everyone who came in contact with Celestina either came to a bad ending, or, thanks to her influence, lost what little morals or nobility they might have had before succumbing to her world of sex and greed, indicates that Celestina's role throughout this work is that of evil incarnate, "a spiritual and moral vacuvim" (Weinberg 395) . Thus, with the serpent being the only true element of the original garden of Eden transported into the world of Calisto and Melibea, there can be little doubt in the reader's mind now that the paradise in question should not be confused with the original 122 garden of Adam and Eve. Among the many reasons for this 'non-parallelism' , there comes to mind another unfavourable comparison between the original model and the lovers' hideout, which represents another inversion of traditional conceptions regarding the vision of the landscape of the blessed: the absence of light. While the true paradise is normally associated with illumination, colour, splendour, and, most of all, brilliant and radiant light—one only needs to think of Dante's paradise, or the light symbolism of mystical literature—the sphere of Calisto and Melibea, however, is a midnight-paradise, with dark shadows, clouds, and only patches of moonlight between the branches of the trees. It is a paradise where the participants do not climb and rise through faith, purity and virtue, but where they descend and 'fall' into immorality. Like creatures of the dark, who come out at night to play and live intensely for a short span of pleasure, they withdraw at the first blink of dawn, only to remain inactive throughout the day in another dark, or darkened place, literally hiding from the light of day, the vision of truth, and the clarity of reason. Perhaps lovers may be forgiven for preferring the protective shelter of night-time and the intoxicating ambience of a scented garden in the moonlight, but the fact that one never sees the inside of this garden in the daytime, does not know the garden's lay-out, the colour of its flowers, the sparkling of the water of the "fontecica", conveys an aura of mystery, secrecy, and a need for concealment. What needs to be hidden in secrecy and darkness 123 is something that cannot comfortably be revealed in the light of day, and that which hides from the light of day can evidently not stand up to the light of reason. And that which ignores reason, is bound to have no staying power in any society and time. Therefore one can conclude that a paradise that has only a night-time existence, has little chance of representing the nobility of a true paradise, as it is missing that which lends it its glow and illumination: the splendour of light. 2.6 Paradise Cursed: The 'Anti-Garden' One of the characters who has a very different notion of paradise is Elicia; she too identifies the lovers' abode with a "paraiso", and this is evidenced by the fact that she wants it destroyed. In an evil curse, full of hateful destruction, she condenses her spite towards the lovers' place of pleasure, and gives vent to her hatred of Melibea for causing the death of Celestina, her "madre, manto y abrigo" (Rojas 255), when she says: Oh Calisto y Melibea, causadores de tantas muertes! Mai fin hayan vuestros amores, en mal sabor se conviertan vuestros dulces placeres! Tornese lloro vuestra gloria, trabajo vuestro descanso. Las hierbas deleitosas, donde tomSis los hurtados solaces, se conviertan en culebras, los cantares se os tornen lloro, los sombrosos 124 drboles del huerto se sequen con vuestra vista, sus flores olorosas se tornen de negra color. (Rojas 256) . Connecting this death-wish over Melibea's garden—the paradise of what she calls the "haba pintada"—with an earlier statement of Elicia's in which she declares that what she wants out of life amounts to very little ("no quiero en este mundo sino dia y vito y parte en paraiso" (170),the question remains as to what exactly she means by wanting her share of paradise. When combining her own wish for paradise—which, due to her godless life-style could hardly be confused with a faithful believer's yearning for the otherworldly realm of the Blessed—with the flaming cattiness of her cynical tirade over Melibea's appearance and beauty, and considering that most of her attack is directed more against Melibea and less at Calisto, the thought occurs that, perhaps, envy over more than economic well-being might have been her motivation. Aside from having been compared unfavourably to Melibea, whose beauty she considers inferior to her own and others like her, and considering her envy over Melibea's wealth and ability to afford fine clothes, one is left with the suspicion that she might have considered herself perhaps a more suitable 'substitute' for catering to Calisto's carnal desires, since, after all, she was a 'professional' in this field. Spending her time in a walled garden, with a young nobleman at 125 her side, would certainly have meant "parte en paralso" for a medieval prostitute. What is also remarkable is the fact that this malicious curse over paradise did not originate in a person of authority, of power, or of worth, but rather it stemmed from a creature residing on the lowest moral echelon of society: a godless, motherless, fatherless, loveless, penniless, amoral and beauty-less prostitute, all in all the very incarnation of a "dona nadie". It is all the more shocking then for the reader to find that it was this very 'prayer of evil' which won the contest of wills over the fate of the locus amoenus. since it was Elicia's curse that seemed to win, over Melibea's attempt at perfecting this same space into something beautiful. More revolting than Celestina's foul-smelling laboratory, and more graphic than the image of the various shattered bodies after their descent from life, this curse of Elicia's must be the ultimate of horrific visions of the whole book: a picture of boundless hatred, feeding on the innocent plant world, destroying it, and at the same time metamorphosing it to suit her gloomy spite. Elicia's vision stands in such contrast to the paradisiacal view that Melibea conveyed of this garden, that one shudders at the intensity of such a vision of hatred. The conversion of grass into snakes, and the vision of something fragrant, pleasant, life-sustaining, associated with spring, love and fertility, of organic growth and inherent organic order, an image of freedom, life, and simple 126 natural beauty, has been converted and transformed through hate. Each blade of grass, each plant, each stem now forms part of a multitude of fleshy stalks writhing and sguirming in a chaotic medley, interspersed with flowers "de negra color". The whole of it appears to be a snake-infested piece of walled-in real estate, intent on destroying the lovers. Such an image is bound to imprint itself deeply into the reader's mind. It seems no exaggeration to say that many literary gardens may have changed from being initially a joyful paradise to eventually becoming an emotional hell, be it for reasons of lost love, of disaffection or separation, of painful memories; few, however, have undergone such dreadful physical transformation. Through the haunting imagery of the evil forces invading, transforming, and dismantling paradise in Elicia's curse, this "huerto" has become the quintessential 'anti-garden' of all times. 2.7 The Problem of "lujuria" in the Garden It is small wonder that in a cursed garden, nothing is sacred; not even the naive, if foolish, exploratory love between Calisto and Melibea escapes intrusion from without. What may be called the second-lowest point in this work, a close second only to the paradise-hell conversion of the garden, is represented by a definite faux-pas by Lucrecia: her lustful wish to 'participate' in the lovers' games. The fact that Lucrecia is a servant increases the perception of impertinence when she tries to touch the possession dearest to the heart of her mistress—her 127 lover's body—a possession Melibea had put above and beyond herself, her parents, her honour, and most of all, above God himself. More so, Melibea finds herself in the situation where she literally has to fight off her servant, almost competing with her, to receive in her arms that which is rightfully hers, her lover Calisto, the price of fear, worry, sacrifice, the cause of neglect of family and reputation, and the sole reason for her existence. The insolence and disrespect by Lucrecia in trying to interfere in the affair of two lovers who seem aloof to the rest of the world and have time and space only for each other, seems incomprehensible, and trying to partake in their togetherness is nothing less than a vulgar intrusion upon their intimacy. Since their love is so 'sacred' to them that in their partial blindness they treat it as a religion of love, right or wrong, Lucrecia's transgression represents more than a moment of contagious carnality. Like Calisto, she violated a space that was not hers, of which she had no part, and in which she had no rightful claim to be. However, one must not overlook the fact that Lucrecia was, at an earlier stage, actually invited by Calisto himself, to participate in their pleasure. Melibea, cautious and at least somewhat concerned with her reputation, wanted to send Lucrecia away upon Calisto's arrival and explicit intentions ("apartate all^, Lucrecia"), and it was Calisto who answered "por que, mi senora? Bien me huelgo que est^n semejantes testigos de mi gloria" (243). Small wonder then that on Calisto's next visit, for which she helped prepare her mistress emotionally with song 128 and words, she too thinks of herself as being part of the situation and needs to be restrained by Melibea:"Lucrecia, que sientes amiga? Tornaste loca de placer? Dejamele, no me le despedaces, no le trabajes sus miembros con tus pesados abrazos. Dejame gozar lo que es mio, no me ocupes mi placer" (Rojas 281). The calculated juxtaposition of the garden's sensuous elements with the sobering reality of this double 'luxuria'— where a servant, along with her mistress "manhandles Calisto in her lust and envy" (Truesdell 262)—is bound to preclude any romantic interpretation of this passage. Instead, the garden image is used to emphasize the lover's games, and tend thus to be "associated with idolatrous sexual love used as a symbol for extreme cupidity" (Truesdell 262). 2.8 Adam and Eve in the "huerto" While the lovers must carry the major portion of the blame for the unfortunate outcome of the events, it appears nevertheless that critics have treated Melibea somewhat too harshly when considering her as a full player in the game of seduction and cupiditas right from the start. There are several situations and incidents that could perhaps be helpful in the attempt at 'salvaging' at least some of the positive traits of her character and upbringing: 1. It must not be forgotten that Melibea denounces Calisto's heretical babbling, and thereafter ejects him from her garden. 129 2. She recognizes the connection between illicit love and amor loco, and responds to Calisto accordingly. 3. She does not seem driven by desire from the start; the youths speak via closed doors. However, she herself did suggest the nightly visit to the "huerto", which could, for the virgin one supposes she was, mean anything from mere curiosity, romantic anticipation, to a touch of adventure. In order to feel desire, one generally needs to be aware of what one is desirous of; Melibea had no such experience. 4. She feels remorse immediately after the sexual act; she is aware of the consequences to her reputation and to her family's honour. 5. The Melibea of Act I (the act written by the original author), is not guilty of anything. It was the creator of the following acts, Rojas, who decided to turn her into a guilty sinner, as Truesdell explains: Melibea . . . 'is a good, virtuous maiden—one well instructed enough to know that love of God should be put before love of any of his creations . . . Melibea informs him that she is not the type of girl who allows such heretical things to be said to her, and that she . . .will not be taken in by such rantings and recognizes them for what they are: 'loco amor'—denounced from pulpit and confessional. She then orders him out. 130 and this is the last we ever hear from Melibea, until Rojas creates for us a new Melibea who appears for the first time in Act IV' . . . Thus, it is not a courtly Melibea who was offended . . . but rather the opposite: a Christian Melibea, who was offended by the heretical ravings of a courtly Calisto (Truesdell 271-74). 6. Contrary to the Genesis story of Adam and Eve, in this work it is not Eve who can be blamed for the seduction of Adam, but it is Adam (Calisto) who resorts to being the seducer. Contrary to Genesis, where both Adam and Eve, were exiled from paradise for their disobedience, the Melibea of Act I carries no guilt, as it was Calisto alone who ignored God's law and was therefore expelled by Melibea. It appears that it was "one of Rojas' afterthoughts to make his Melibea guilty also" (Truesdell 275) . 7. Melibea knows that "cuando el coraz6n estS embargado de pasi6n, estcin cerrados los oidos a consejo" (Rojas 290) . 8. She shows at least some concern for her parents, thinks of her father's grief and her mother's tears, and by offering "algunas consolatorias palabras" (292), she at least tries to explain her actions. Taking all these observations into consideration, it appears that Melibea is, up to a point, endowed with a more noble 131 character than Calisto, in spite of her later fall into cupiditas. since in most situations she at least tries to maintain a certain level of convention, even if unsuccessful. It is Calisto who, sharing none of her concerns (except those for his security), pursues his cause in a most direct manner, out of touch with ethics, and out of tune with reality. Adam-Calisto 1. It is Calisto who, from the very start, is out of control, like his bird, and who is scolded and rejected at the lovers' first meeting. 2. It is he who, like his musical instrument, is out of tune ("destemplado es este latid") , as his servant indicates, and it is he who is surrounded by "ceguedad" and "tinieblas". 3. The message is hidden in the choice of Calisto's name, since it means more than 'most beautiful'; what is implied here is the fact that Calisto, the master, becomes a dual servant, first to his own servants, and then to passion. He forgets the Stoic principle "never to be 'siervo de otro, m^s senor de ti mismo" (Fothergill-Payne 50). *' One must not forget that it was the misogynous Sempronio who mentioned, recommended, and introduced Celestina to Calisto's house, thus bringing evil and death to all concerned. 4. Most of all, it is Calisto who overestimates Celestina's services and therefore overpays her for her matchmaking by giving her the golden chain. Had he given her the 132 coat he promised, it would have neither raised her pride nor the servants' greed to such a level that they would have risked murder over a mere piece of clothing. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why Calisto, right up to his final moments, is depicted as an emblem of sin, because when he falls to his death, he is hurled headlong, exactly as sinners, who missed the steps of virtue and slipped on those of vice, are represented in religious paintings (Barbera 13). In comparison, Melibea was granted a heroic death, self-induced and self-willed, a death not caused by fate, like that of Calisto, but by her own free will. Like Cervantes' Marcela on the rock, she makes her speech from above, and then without awaiting an answer, she exits and disappears into oblivion. Therefore, the blame for the tragic outcome rests with Calisto who, in his lusty urge, set the scene for the events. His lechery preceded Celestina's greed, and his overevaluation of, and his overpaying for, the facilitation of his sexual pursuits set the chain of events in motion. Furthermore it is he, Calisto, who together with Sempronio, brought Celestina onto the scene and thus raised a vulgar ex-whore and procuress to the level of a Goddess, and worse yet, of a Holy Mother ("madre bendita"). Thus, it is not Eve-Melibea who caused Adam-Calisto to be expelled from paradise, rather, it is Calisto, the lusty Adam and seducer, who caused the 'fall', guided by the serpent Celestina who all along was willingly feeding her greed on his lust. 133 2.9 Three Views of the "huerto": Melibea, Elicia, Pleberio As the reader is aware, this ambiguous paradise has no shortage of serpents; they are present thanks to Elicia's curse, and, as we shall see, they are plentiful also in Pleberio's view of the garden, as it is he who is left to suffer the bitter venom of the serpent's curse. When comparing the three major views of Melibea's garden—Elicia's curse, Melibea's song and last reunion with Calisto, and Pleberio's painful planctus—one might say that, in short, the lovers created a dream world out of love, Elicia destroyed it out of hate, and Pleberio is left with the remains of the crushing forces of evil. Thus, lovers construct, hate destroys, and in the clash of opposite wills, the lovers disappear from life, Elicia goes on living, and Pleberio is left contemplating "the poverty of rude matter and the destructive conseguence of will power" (Shipley 299). It is ironic that among the very losers in this work are exactly those who were the creators of the garden paradise: Melibea, Calisto, and Pleberio. To them, the garden was an emotionally and physically real place, while the destroyers of paradise, Elicia and Areusa, won their way symbolically, yet gained nothing in doing so. Their 'victory' consisted of bringing harm to others, while it added nothing to their own lives. Those who 'lost' this contest can be said to have enjoyed at least a temporal term in paradise. 134 The biggest loser, however, is Pleberio, a builder of gardens and planter of trees, since he inherited the reality of seeing his garden, built for home and family, turned into a graveyard. This meant a double failure and loss for him, since he, the old man, now has to bury his offspring ("dpor q^^ ni® dejaste cuando yo te habia de dejar?"), and he will no longer be able to enjoy his garden without being reminded of the tragedy having taken place there. Gone is what brought joy to life for the residents of paradise: Calisto brought joy to Melibea, she in turn brought joy to her parents, and the "huerto", paradise to the lovers and recreation to the family in general, is doubly destroyed. It is lost to the lovers as well as to the parents, and gone is the physical as well as the psychological meaning of it as a paradise garden, due to its dual role of theatre of love and of death. If one looks at the progress of the concept of "huerto" throughout this work and the different descriptions it receives, one can almost predict the outcome of the tragedy, without knowing the rest of the plot. In other words, one could 'summarize' the plot by taking a key statement of each of the four major players (Calisto, Melibea, Elicia, and Pleberio) uttered with respect to the garden: Calisto: . . . y en tSn conveniente lugar . . . . . . aquel paraiso dulce, . . . aquel alegre vergel . . . 135 . . . en toda la tierra no hay igual que en este huerto. Melibea: Todo se goza este huerto con tu venida . . . . . . por entre las frescas hierbas . . . Canta m^s . . . y muy paso entre estas verduricas . . . . . . sea tu venida por este secreto lugar, Contentate con venir . . . por las paredes de ni huerto . . . . . . nuestro huerto escalade . . . Elicia: Las hierbas deleitosas, donde tomdis los hurtados solaces se conviertan en culebras . . . los sombrosos Arboles del huerto se sequen con vuestra vista, sus flores olorosas se tornen de negra color . . . Lucrecia: Quien fuese la hortelana de aquestas viciosas flores . . . Vistanse nuevas colores los lirios y el azucena . . . Nunca fue . . . huerto mas visitado . . . . . . dulces Srboles sombrosos . . . no seas hallado . . . en tSn sospechoso lugar . . . que mayor mengua sera hallarte en el huerto . . . 136 Pleberio: Para gui^n plante Srboles prado lleno de serpientes huerto florido e sin fruto Thus, one could say then that, for Calisto, the "huerto" was initially no more than a "conveniente lugar" to engage in even more convenient pleasures, while later he saw it as a sweet and cheerful playground. For Melibea, after having invited Calisto to visit her "por las paredes de mi huerto", it becomes "nuestro huerto"—a special place that holds and keeps their secret—. It then becomes a place that shares her joy upon the arrival of Calisto, and only at the end, moments before her death, will she disclaim ownership of the garden, when confessing to Pleberio how she came to be so discontent with life: "quebrant6 con escalas las paredes de tu huerto, quebrantd mi prop6sito. PerdI mi virginidad". When Elicia's curse had been fulfilled and she, the architect of the garden of death, the designer of black flowers and snaky blades of grass, had left Pleberio with this unexpected wasteland, there is little left for Pleberio to do than to lament his sudden ill fate. Being the most tragic and pathetic figure of the work, he, the old man, is now standing over the shattered body of his daughter who was his treasure and the hoped-for joy of his old age. Quite understandably he asks "^Para quien plante Srboles?" He, for whom the world suddenly was pulled out of 137 peaceful complacency and comfort; he, who was thrown into the unknown of a world that seems to him no more sympathetic than a field of serpents. What is interesting, however, is that the serpent Celestina, while poisoning all and everything throughout this work with her disastrous venom; she, who reached all social levels and all homes, climbing all the stairs and walking all the streets, frequenting cemeteries at midnight and churches in the daytime; she who was everywhere, never was seen setting foot into Melibea's paradise. That "huerto" is one place she never reached. Although this garden never was and never could be a real paradise due to the lovers' illicit "deleite" taking place there—and intensified by Lucrecia's vulgar lechery of manhandling Calisto on his way to Melibea—its threshold was nevertheless one boundary the serpent could not cross, one physical place it gained no entry. Perhaps this could be seen as another inversion of the original Genesis story, where the presence of the serpent is required to make paradise complete. What this fact seems to prove is the sad truth that the dark powers of this 'sierpe' were so strong and far-reaching that they could reach paradise without physically being there itself, that it could overcome any barrier, any obstacle and transgress all walls, doors, limits, and even minds that were forewarned against them, as if to prove true the author's insinuation that, in this work, the power of evil is omnipresent. Thus the garden has undergone a series of transformations all depending upon the situations of the characters within the 138 plot and their perception of it: "paralso dulce", "huerto mSs visitado", a place for snakes and black flowers, a "sospechoso lugar", and, finally, a meaningless slice of wasteland. Melibea What did the garden mean to Melibea, aside from being a meeting place? In the face of the two other views regarding the "huerto", that of her lover and of her father—being no more than an opportune location to the former, and a snake-infested meadow for the latter—it appears that for Melibea, the "huerto had a higher meaning. Although she felt the venom in the paradise (Calisto's death), she did not see the snakes. For her, the garden remained the locus amoris; there she met, loved, and lost her lover; there she spent the first, the best, and last hours with him, there she wished to die, surrounded by the memory of his last visit. There she decided to re-integrate physically her body with the location of her happiness—her spiritual remains being already dedicated to union beyond death with Calisto—there she wishes to join perishable matter to perishable matter, dust to dust, dissolving her body with the garden where her love was born, nurtured, blossomed, and was made to witness its own death, identifying the garden with being a "huerto florido" but "sin fruto". This garden, which proved to be a place with no apparent discipline or morals, a garden without guilt—and thus without a need for confession—a place where unauthorized actions take place (such as Calisto's unauthorized 'entry', a surprise action 139 and apparently unplanned), the garden episode also closes in this unorthodox manner, with unplanned action, a surprise act: Melibea's unauthorized 'exit'. The work thus comes to a conclusion on the same note it began: unauthorized actions, transgressions of the norm, all with horrendous consequences. Calisto entered the "huerto" in the pursuit of something wild and untameable, and so was Melibea's exit: a pursuit of something wild, unreasonable, unconventional. Once the 'wild' element had entered the garden, all problems followed from there: seduction, deception, greed, conspiracy, lust, murder, death, jealousy, envy, and finally, suicide. With Calisto's overcoming of the garden wall, the obstacle of initiation, a whole series of 'penetrations' begin to take place, the analysis of which would go beyond the scope of this thesis. Important is the fact that these 'penetrations' reach far beyond the physical aspect, as we witness the penetration of barriers, of convention, family and home, upbringing, morals, mind, faith spirit, and even the will to live. The difference is that Calisto acted in a predestined manner, while Melibea displayed her own free will. In contrast to Calisto, who lost his life due to circumstances to do with Melibea, she in turn gave her life to Calisto, even before his death. His death an incident of fate, her death a decision of free will. He broke into paradise, and as a consequence he fell to his death like the thief that he really was. Melibea on the other hand, was a creature of 'paradise', she owned it before Calisto came along. 140 and after making his acquaintance, tried to ennoble it with love, until, by her own choice, she left it for ever. She had sacrificed everything for her garden-love, and with Calisto gone, she felt she had nothing left to live for and thus she followed him voluntarily into death. Thus the garden represented to her the end of her past, the end of the present, and the end of the future, since all her memories were connected with this garden and with the love that took place therein. While Calisto entered the garden only by chance (he came, he conquered, and then died), Melibea's actions were more premeditated: she reasoned, was seduced, and then committed suicide. Perhaps she is the only one who benefitted most from the "huerto", since she neither saw the snakes nor the scorched flowers of hell. Instead she took with her to her death the garden as she knew and loved it: a protective and seductive place on moonlit heaven, where "quietas sombras", "frescas hierbas", "corriente agua", "altos cipreses", "luna Clara" and "templadico viento" all contributed to stolen moments of intoxicating young love, the purity of which only the lovers themselves were able to see. Conclusion Praised as a paradise by those enjoying its advantages on the one hand, and condemned as a Babylon by adverse critics, Melibea's "huerto" probably belongs somewhere in the middle ground between the two opposing views. This garden is a nocturnal place, lacking colour, light, and clarity; it fosters carnal 141 appetites, is hushed by fear and discovery, and harbours the albeit frustrated attempt at a manage ^ trois. It is a garden not entered properly but violated, because it was broken into, but at the same time it seems to lack a proper gate of entry. Although it is frequently referred to as 'paradise', it is however a garden without God; and in spite of lacking the archetypal 'sierpe', it is nevertheless a garden full of snakes rising out of the ground. In this garden, cursed by a prostitute, human blood was spilt, the blood of suicide, and it is thus a garden where joy has turned to mourning. Here, love became despair, life was given away in exchange for death. It is a garden with no past, a short present, and no future; a garden where symbols of fertility became emblems of sterility and where a hoped-for paradise became a wished-for hell. Worst of all, it is a place where humans became gods, and where God was ignored. Such a garden is truly unfit to bear the name of 'paradise'. Ethically and morally speaking, it is a 'sunken' garden, that is, sunken in relation to those perfect gardens of "limpieza moral" and hvimble faith, as represented in the allegorical gardens of virtue and illumination. And yet, to call this locus of conventional worldly sin a Babylon would seem somewhat exaggerated. This "huerto" is a garden created, cursed and destroyed by human beings, and as such, it is liable to imperfection. It is a place where, on the threshold of the Renaissance, human beings experimented with new attitudes towards life and tradition. As a lovers' garden, it was built on the sensual perception of a few 142 individuals, yet it shows that the literary experience of amor malo in a paradise garden can demonstrate the dangers inherent in a 'modified' attitude to traditional morals. Unlike the biblical paradise, this garden had no philosophical bases, since it was a garden created by man, and not by God. Once again we are faced with the age-old story of paradise, lost to man due to his own free will. And with the old traditional paradise gone, a new one, the author seems to imply, seems more remote than ever. It is a place where man "puso pie en el vacio y cayo" (292), and thus, imperfect as this garden is, it carries no harvest and no future. It is a garden "florido" but "sin fruto" (295), and it is, like life itself, a "laberinto de errores" (295). 143 NOTES 1. Fernando de Rojas, La Celestina. ed. Bruno Mario Damianl (Madrid: C^tedra, 1986) . 2. Emilio Orozco Diaz, Paisaie y sentimiento de la naturaleza en la poesla espanola (Editorial Prensa Espanola, 1968). 3. George A. Shipley, "Non erat hie locus: The Disconcerted Reader in Melibea's Garden," Romance Philology 26 (1973-74):286-302. 4. F. M. Weinberg, "Aspects of Symbolism in La Celestina." Modern Lanauacfe Notes 86 (1971) : 136-54. 5. Raymond E. Barbera, "Medieval Iconography in the Celestina," Romanic Review 61.1 (1970):5-13. 6. "El espacio de la casa estS ligado a lo sagrado, puesto que la casa es imagen del 'templum'—palabra latina que 'significa en sus origenes, recortado, separado '. La construcci6n del templo, en los tiempos primitives, tenia como finalidad la creaci6n de un 'cosmos' frente al 'caos'; repetici6n de la creacion del mundo, de un orden, de una ordenacion humana del espacio; una esfera de paz frente a la infiltracion de demonios hostiles" (Verdti 339) . I am using Verdti's definition of home as sacred space, in which the garden is an extension of it. 7. J. Verdti de Gregorio, "Melibea o el espacio imposible," Miscelanea de estudios hispanicos (Montserrat: Publicaciones de I'Abadia de Montserrat, 1982):335-50. 8. I will follow the point of view of those critics who have accepted Melibea's "huerto" as the initial place of encounter. 9. W. D. Truesdell, "The 'hortus conclusus' Tradition and the Implications of its Absence in the Celestina." Kentucky Romance Quarterly 20.1 (1973):257-77. 10. As with any topic regarding the Celestina. much is written, yet little agreed upon, another example of what Shipley calls the "chaotic critical pluralism" arising out of almost every instance of Rojas' work. Descriptions of this Act range from enthusiastic approval of the poetic and romantic qualities of the locus amoenus scene ("Atmosfera de c6smicas nupcias", Lapesa) and a suggestion of a transcendent , sacred experience (Shipley 288), to critical contempt ("no es la noche para alabar a las flores y las aves", Cejador, quoted in Shipley 287) . In this thesis, I agree with and follow Shipley's 144 acceptance of the garden as an important structural element of the Celestina. 11. Weinberg explains: "In Christian thought, God created sexual desire, yet. He gave man will and reason to control the appetites" (p. 147) . "The Stoics conceived of the happy life in terms of living in harmony with Nature. Nature's gifts are plentiful and easily accessible, Seneca states more than once. By contrast, the pursuit of 'voluptas' needs the hope of Fortune and results in a life of anxiety, suspicion and stress. In the anthology of Seneca's letters, 'voluptas' is translated as 'deleites y sobras' which are said invariable to bring . . . unnecessary organization, work and worry. Among these 'deleites y sobras' Seneca emphases sexual pleasures, as he states early in De Vita Beata 4,4—a passage translated as "ca el dla que se da el hombre el deleite corporal, ese dla es necesario que haya dolor y tristeza. . . . And this is the starting point of Act I of Celestina . . . For . . . a happy life, one needs to be at one with Nature, . . . possess a sound mind . . ., be courageous and energetic . . . and to use rather than to serve Fortuna . . . If not, one becomes a slave, and of all types of servitude, subservience to pleasure is the worst of all" (Fothergill-Payne 49). 12. Fothergill-Payne explains: "Calisto's desire to take to his bed in bright daylight means much more that the despair of a love-stricken youth. It goes against Nature, and that, of course, is a sure road to lasting unhappiness. Rojas takes up this . . . detail . . . by making master and servant an exemplum of such an unnatural lifestyle" (Fothergill-Payne 81) . 13. "Night is the time to put on heavy armour, while murderers go about and the watch makes his tireless rounds. This is the atmosphere in which Calisto, guarded by his armed servants, is to meet his beloved . . . Fear and apprehension are, indeed, important factors in the first meeting between the two lovers, and are reinforced by the servants' readiness to fly at the slightest provocation" (Fothergill-Payne 82). 14. Weinberg's idea is in my view correct but the expression "the very sanctuary of lust", referring to a bedroom seems somewhat exaggerated. Of course the bedroom is one of the places used for the sexual act of man, but it is first and foremost a proper and decent place of rest, a place for healthy sleep, a place where children take their naps, a place where the sick are cured, where children are born, and where most humans are destined to die. To see the bedroom exlusively as a place of lust seems rather restrictive. Besides, lust is not necessarily restricted to the bedroom. 145 15. Truesdell explains: "According to Catholic theology, the saints are enjoying beatific vision do so without the benefit of their earthly bodies. Only on Judgement Day will their beatified souls be reunited with their new, glorified bodies. Only Christ Himself and the Blessed Virgin . . . are in Heaven in both, body and soul. Calisto has now definitely overstepped the boundary line into heterodoxy. He is claiming that while still on Earth he is enjoying a privilege that even the saints are denied" (268). 16. "As D.W. Robertson has pointed out: 'The fact that the word love (amor) could be used for either charity or cupidity, opened enormous possibilities for literary word play' (p.28). Thus, the confusion of cupiditas with luxuria and fornicatio started with medieval exegesis and worked its way down to the popular mind" (Truesdell 276) . 17. Shipley explains: "Ovid gave literary form to the funeral connotations of the cypress in Book X of the Metamorphoses ("and still the cypress / remains a tree of mourning" p.238), while G. Cope . . . reviews the several expressive values of trees in Christian tradition and notes that the "evergreen species suggest the possibility of unending life . . . The evergreen cypress, more than any other tree, at once connotes mortality and life everlasting" (Shipley 293). 18. Jack Weiner, "Adam and Eve Imagery in La Celestina." Papers on Lancmage and Literature 5.4 (1969):389-96. 19. L. Fothergill-Payne, Seneca and Celestina (Cambridge: Cambridge U.P., 1988). 146 CHAPTER III "Serving the Lord of the Garden" " . . . puniendo lo que ha pasado por ml con toda la llaneza y verdad que yo he podido" (Vida 481) . * With this phrase Santa Teresa of Avila concludes the account of her life of prayer in 16th-century Spain. The book Libro de la vida was published in 1588 in Salamanca as part of her Obras completas. and constitutes part of her trilogy on the process of prayer and perfection in Christ, the other two being Camino de perfecci6n (1569), and Castillo interior (1588). The Vida has been variously described as an autobiography, "psychography", or hagiographic novel (Flasche 165) , ^  and in it she gives an account of what she simply calls "el modo de oraci6n" (Vida 117), meaning her life and struggle in trying to perfect herself in Christian virtues through prayer and so to follow the way of 'imitatio Christi.' While her overall goal was to please the Lord by following his way of perfection, as well as showing others the way, the task of formulating this attempt into practical terms took on a threefold mode: it involved not only describing the events that shaped her life of prayer but also included analysing and understanding them, as well as finding a way of teaching them to her novices. The result is a masterly exposition of her experiences and of her conversion to the way of prayer, written in everyday language and conversational style, without aesthetic decorations and sophisticated rhetoric. She displays a healthy scepticism towards grandiloquent words and pompous discourse and. 147 in her prefatory note to the Vida, she prayed for the grace to write "both truthfully and with complete clarity" (21). Santa Teresa lived during the Spanish Counter-Reformation and she whole-heartedly shared the ideals of this movement as summarized by Helmut Hatzfeld," to destroy Renaissance paganism, undo the Protestant Reformation, re-catholicize the world and strengthen the missionary conquest of the New World" (Hatzfeld 184) . ^  Her work echoes the decree of the Council of Trent (1545-1563) that stresses the need for the preaching of the Gospel, to feed the people . . . with wholesome words in proportion to their own and their people's mental capacity, by teaching them those things that are necessary for all to know in order to be saved, and by impressing upon them with briefness and plainness of speech the vices that they must avoid and the virtues that they must cultivate, in order that they may escape eternal punishment and obtain the glory of heaven (Schroeder 26) . '* Santa Teresa was ordered by her confessors to describe her way of prayer. No doubt, one of the reasons for this request was the fact that she knew how to reach people at their own level. She knew how to talk to them and she knew what imagery to choose in order to make her explanations relevant to them. She speaks to her nuns not as a poet interested in aesthetic pursuits, but as a 148 pedagogue concerned about the spiritual development of her fledglings (Hatzfeld 23). Indeed, as Victor Garcia de la Concha points out, the skill of convincing speech consists in "saber mover [las] afecciones a los oyentes" because, "mayormente en la gente comtin, m^s fScil es moverles a aborrecer o amar o a qualquier otra afecci6n que persuadirles por razones suficientes" (Garcia de la Concha 226). * As already mentioned, this process of clarification takes place on three levels: for herself, for her confessor's understanding of her experience, and for her nuns (Hatzfeld 39). By writing down, analysing and trying to understand the events of her own life she is able to present her journal as a teaching tool for her nuns and to explain to them, in simple words and familiar images, the problems and delights they should be prepared to encounter as they embark on their spiritual path to God. She knows from her own experience that "Ha menester aviso el que comienza, para mirar en lo que aprovecha mcis" (212) , because the lack of a good counsellor makes an already difficult undertaking even more problematic: "Que, como yo pase tanto, he l^stima a los que comienzan con solos libros" (212). Thus, experience, simplicity, and truthfulness are the guiding principles for her in the writing of her Vida. and she strives repeatedly to convince her nuns to believe her: "mas lo que dijere helo visto por espirienca" (286); or "No dire cosa que no la haya espirimentado mucho" (250), and "Esto que digo es entera verdad" (250). But most of all she insists that "all that 149 the beginner in prayer has to do . . .is to labour and be resolute and prepare himself with all possible diligence to bring his will into conformity with the will of God. As I shall say later, you may be quite sure that this comprises the very greatest perfection which can be attained on the spiritual road" (Interior Castle 51). * In her attempt "to guide souls to God", she combines therefore her intent of clarifying, understanding, and teaching with her principles of truthfulness, experience and approachability. Guided by her love of God and care for her nuns, she sets out in her Vida—particularly in the chapters 11-20—a system of support, a step-by-step guide towards spiritual purification. In doing so, she uses her famous allegory of the four ways of watering the garden of the soul, which refer to the four stages of prayer: 1. Active Meditation; 2. Prayer of Quiet; 3. Prayer of the Sleep of the Faculties; and 4. Prayer of Union. Unlike many of her Renaissance contemporaries, Santa Teresa did not perceive of a garden as a place of pleasure and relaxation. Although she was no adversary to nature's recreating and refreshing effects, for her the garden principally represents spiritual travail rather than sensual enjoyment. Orozco Diaz writes that nature played no part in bringing her closer to God: Ni en mementos iniciales de su itinerario asc^tico mistico ni, sobre todo, cuando ha superado los primeros grades de la vida de oracion, cuenta en Santa Teresa de manera 150 verdaderamente decisiva la valoraci6n de la naturaleza como medio que la pueda ayudar a llevarla hacla Dios, aunque sea consciente de que es un medio de ascenso espiritual para otras almas (179). This view seems opposed by Bertini who sees nature as occupying a rather important place in Santa Teresa's life and writing A trav^s de su vida y de sus escritos entra en la corriente renacentista un complejo muy significative y operante de experiencias entre las cuales el sentido de la naturaleza ocupa, sin duda, un puesto especial. (71). But Victor Garcia de la Concha explains that while she in her daily life enjoyed the refreshing aspects of nature, particularly that of water, she bypasses any possible sensual aspect of nature and sees in it mainly an aid to prayer: "Si habla de la naturaleza, no se detiene a regodearse en su sensible accidentalidad: 'aprovech^vame a mi tambien ver campo u agua, flores; en estas cosas hallava yo memoria del Criador, digo que me despertavan y recogian y Servian de libro, y en mi ingratitud y pecados" (Vida 204). He adds that while Santa Teresa may use natural images as "iluminantes" in her writing, she goes beyond the surface of their meaning: "No detiene su mirada . . en la superficie accidental de las cosas; las estruja, rSpida y apretadamente, para extraer de ellas el jugo de connotacion que pueda evocar la vivencia espiritual" (Vida 223). 151 The huerto she refers to in her Vida is therefore not described in terms of colour, fragrance, shade and leisure. There is "no link with BoscSn or Garcilaso" (Hatzfeld 54), rather, this huerto serves as a school of the mind, where willpower, effort and determination, self-control, commitment, and spiritual stamina are continuously tested and either rewarded for achievement or re-aligned for correction. The huerto she has in mind when writing the Vida is therefore not a real garden but an imagined one, used in an allegorical sense; it is a teaching tool she employs to make her novices understand—with an example taken from daily life—how they must proceed in developing a method of prayer and rapprochement to God. She says: "Ha de hacer cuenta el que comienza que comienza a hacer un huerto en tierra muy infrutuosa que lleva muy malas yerbas, para que se deleite el Senor. Su Majestad arranca las malas yerbas y ha de plantar las buenas" (193). It appears that the novice gardener has been given a head start over the normal procedure of turning a piece of 'tierra infructuosa' into a cultivated plot, since there has been no initial need to clear the land, dig up the soil, dispose of the weeds, plan the layout, plant the seed, take care of the tender seedlings, and finally choose which of them to keep and cultivate and which to discard and sacrifice for the benefit of others. Wasting no time on the advantage of such a beginner's bonus she simply declares: "Pues hagamos cuenta que estS ya hecho esto cuando se determina a tener oracion una alma y lo ha comenzado a 152 usar" (Vida 193). Our task therefore begins with being "good gardeners", which means we have to see to it that, "with God's help", these plants will grow. This involves careful watering so that these plants prosper and "que vengan a echar flores que den de si gran olor, para dar recreacidn a este Senor nuestro, y ansi se venga a deleitar nuchas veces a esta huerta y a holgarse entre estas virtudes" (Vida 193). This plan is, however, only a mere outline, a brief introduction to a long and arduous undertaking. The actual process of working this garden begins when the various methods of irrigation are introduced. As Hatzfeld explains: "The insertion of the great allegory of the watering of the garden qualifies Santa Teresa as a spiritual educator with a rare pedagogical skill to teach the difficulties, the relapses, progress, and glory of prayer, from the stage of oral stammering to the raptures of love" (Hatzfeld 184). ' Santa Teresa then gives a brief overview of the four different ways that this garden may be watered: u con sacar el agua de un pozo, que es a nuestro gran trabajo; u con noria y arcaduces que se saca con un torno (yo la he sacado algunas veces) es a menos trabajo que estotro y sScase mas agua; u de un rio u arroyo; esto se riega muy mijor, que queda m^s harta la tierra de agua y no se ha menester regar tan a menudo, y es a menos trabajo mucho del hortolano; u con Hover mucho, que lo riega 153 el Senor sin trabajo ninguno nuestro, y es muy sin comparaci6n mijor que todo lo que queda dicho (194). Before she goes on to describe in more detail these four methods of watering the garden, she explains that, with this infallible method, a good friend was able to advance in prayer faster in the short span of only four months, than she was in seventeen years of struggling on her own (78). From the very outset she wants to convey a sympathetic understanding to those who may have tried and have failed in prayer. In addition to the evidence of her own experience, she constantly presents herself as someone who not only is "not learned", but "wicked", and "unworthy", as if to convey to her students that no matter how undeserving and ignorant a beginner may be, the mere fact that someone like herself should be granted success in such a difficult undertaking only proves that there is hope for every serious beginner. She then proceeds to the four ways of watering the garden of the soul which refer to the four stages of prayer. 3.1 Active Meditation: Drawing the water from a well "De los que comienzan a tener oraci6n, podemos decir son los que sacan el agua del pozo, que es muy a su trabajo, como tengo dicho; que han de cansarse en recoger los sentidos que, como est^n acostumbrados a andar derramados, es harto trabajo" (194). 154 Stressing the importance of trying to exclude all external influences, she advises her nuns to search for solitude and to focus their thoughts on the life of Christ "y c^nsase el entendimiento en esto" (195). This is a very important result since it indicates the beginning of progress. It is particularly in the first stage that the difficulties seem insurmountable, since all four of the disturbing forces—the critical intellect, the imagination, the memory, and "a will not strong enough to eliminate these disturbances" (Hatzfeld 24) form together a substantial barrier to the efforts of an inexperienced and weak beginner. So, by increasing one's concentration on a particular topic, it is possible to reduce the distracting influences of the outside world, with the result that the soul can now begin "a sacar agua del pozo"—if there is any (195). She points out that the water's availability does not depend on the gardeners, "que ya vamos a sacarla y hacemos lo que podemos para regar estas flores" (Vida 195). Should there be no water, and the well temporarily dry, good can still be done "haciendo lo que es en nosotros como buenos hortolanos" (Vida 195). Meanwhile God preserves the flowers "sin agua . . . y hace crecer las virtudes (Vida 195). Should these periods of dryness continue, she encourages the gardener not to give up but to persevere in his efforts, even if "en muchos dias no hay sino sequedad y desgusto y dessabor y tan mala gana para venir a sacar el agua que, si no se le acordase que hace placer y servicio al Senor de la huerta y mirase a no perder todo lo servido . . . " (Vida 195). As if to 155 indicate that this process has little to do with the daily compensation method, she assures the gardener that "Tiempo vern^ que se lo pague por junto; no haya miedo que se pierda el trabajo; a buen amo sirve" (Vida 195). She not only emphasizes that "si persevera, no se niega Dios a nadie" (Vida 192), but points out as well that she believes these torments to be the Lord's way "para probar a sus amadores", to see whether they can "ayudarle a llevar la cruz, antes que ponga en ellos grandes tesoros" (Vida 196). Throughout these dry periods the gardener should nevertheless "Alegrarse y consolarse, y tener por grandisima merced de trabajar en huerto de tan gran Emperador. Y, pues sabe le contenta en aquello y su intento no ha de ser contentarse a si sino a El" (Vida 195). In order to overcome these difficult times of spiritual drought, she advises the gardener to resort to what today is called 'imaging', that is, "de pensar a Cristo a la coluna" (Vida 216). As Hatzfeld points out, this "recipe" conforms with the Ignatian spirit aiming to provoke spiritual progress by mental pictures that compel responses of love" (Hatzfeld 26). This cultivation of the presence of God is one of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, since such a "dwelling with Christ in prayer' will assist the participant to become absorbed by Christ (S.E. 30) . * With regard to imaging, for instance, St. Ignatius recommends that one make oneself a mental image of a particular place or event: "It should be noted . . . that when the meditation or contemplation is on a visible object, for example. 156 contemplating Christ our Lord during His life on earth, the image will consist of seeing with the mind's eye the physical place where the object that we wish to contemplate is present" (S.E. 54). He recommends using the imagination to apply the five senses to these contemplations in order to see the persons in my imagination, contemplating and meditating in detail the circumstances surrounding them . . . to hear what they are saying . . . to smell and taste in my imagination the infinite fragrance and sweetness of the Divinity, and of the soul, and of its virtues . . . to use in imagination the sense of touch . . . by embracing and kissing the place where the persons walk or sit, always endeavoring to draw some spiritual fruit from this (S.E. 72). Therefore, in spite of all initial barriers, Santa Teresa encourages her students to persevere and to keep faith even in the most difficult of times. Having made the decision to embark on the way of prayer puts the beginner already in a preferential state, since "harta merced nos hace en querer gue gueramos cavar en su huerto y estarnos cabe el Sefior del, que cierto estS con nosotros" (Vida 197). 157 3.2 Prayer of Quiet: Drawing Water with a Windlass Once the novices have overcome the arduous first stage, they are now ready for the next level of prayer, the prayer of quiet, "que es ya dar el Senor a el alma a sentir gustos mSs particulares" (Vida 217). It is interesting to note that the Lord, who up to now was described as a visitor to the soul-garden, has now become the "Senor del huerto" (217), while the duty of the one who prays seems to consist mainly of watering this garden. This is done by using a windlass, since with this device "el hortelano [sacase] mSs agua y a menos trabajo y pudiese descansar sin estar contino trabajando" (Vida 217). With this improved technology, there is a better chance of advancement and this is seen in the rapid development of the garden. The great changes taking place in the garden's growth are directly related to the work and care it is given: "y veamos c6mo comienzan estos Srboles a emprenarse para florecer y dar despu§s fruto; y las flores y los claveles lo mesmo para dar olor" (Vida 221). But before she relates details of the work to be done, she reflects on her own experiences as a beginning gardener: "me era gran deleite considerar ser mi alma un huerto y al [sic] Senor se paseaba en el. Suplic^bale aumentase el olor de las florecitas de virtudes que comenzaban, a lo que parecia, a querer salir y que fuese para su gloria y las sustentase, pues yo no querla nada para ml, y cortase las que quisiese que yo sabia habian de salir mijores" (Vida 222). However, work and good intentions alone will not suffice in bringing this garden to bloom, as no amount of 158 effort will be able to replace the necessary water. But what is the gardener to do if God, who is owner of this vital substance, withholds it from the garden? She stresses that there is nothing anyone can do and that the gardener must realize that "no hay diligencia que baste si el agua de la gracia nos quita Dios" (Vida 222) . Such moments, when "todo parece estS seco y que no ha de haber agua para sustentarle" (Vida 222) are sent by the Lord as trials in order to increase the soul's humility, "porque quiere el Sefior que le parezca a el pobre hortolano que todo el que ha tenido en sustentarle y regalarle va perdido" (Vida 222). Only when the gardener has realized that he truly is nothing, has nothing and can achieve nothing without the Lord's favour will he be able to proceed successfully, since this time of increased humility before the Lord is simultaneously the instant at which the necessary 'pruning' is taking place. This task is performed by the Lord himself, who is now described as both owner and gardener at once, and he will see to it that every worthless plant is weeded and rooted out, "tornaran de nuevo a crecer las flores" (Vida 222). This emphasis on humility is one of the leitmotifs throughout Santa Teresa's writing. In the Camino de perfeccion she names as the three prerequisites of true peace "love of one another", "detachment from all created things", and "true humility", with the latter being the most important, since it embraces all three elements (Trueman 44) . ' In the Vida she stresses that "Y como este edificio todo va fundado en humilidad" 159 (Vida 202), and that the love of the Lord consists "en servir con justicia y fortaleza de anima y humildad" (Vida 197). If humility entails gaining "a sense of reality concerning ourselves, our fellow creatures and our Creator", leading to the necessary "absence of self regard", it will make us realize that we truly have absolutely nothing and that everything we have comes as a gift from God (Trueman, 45). This manner of "forgetting the self within, and spending and being spent in the service of God and man" (Trueman 42) is the key to achieving the true conformity with the will of God, and it is built on what Hatzfeld calls a constant present triad: "ascetic effort, humility, and love" (Hatzfeld 41). As far as aesthetic effort is concerned, if during the previous stage of active meditation it was the will that needed to be isolated from external distractions, it is now, in the prayer of quiet, the intellect that must be put at rest. Now that the will "sin saber c6mo, se cativa" (Vida 218) and the soul has consented "para que la encarcele Dios" (Vida 218), the soul receives a fleeting taste of the "gustos de la gloria . . . porque comienza Su Majestad a comunicarse a esta alma" (Vida 219). During these moments of quiet and recollection, the soul experiences a feeling of peace and satisfaction manifested in "grandisimo contento y sosiego de las potencias y muy suave deleite" (Vida 224). This peace and quiet is of short duration, and soon the intellect will be "muy disbaratado" (Vida 227) by trying to understand what is happening to the soul. In order not 160 to lose that wonderful "centellica que comlenza el Senor a encender en el alma del verdadero amor suyo" (Vida 226), and not smother it with "lenos grandes puestos sin discreci6n" (Vida 227), the soul should be content to "descansar el alma con su descanso; quedense las letras a un cabo" (Vida 228). Under no circumstances should the soul "admitir ruido del entendimiento a que busque grandes cosas" (Vida 228), since more is achieved when it comes to kindling the fire, with "unas pajitas puestas con humildad" (Vida 228) than "que no mucha lena junta de razones muy dotas" (228). In case the soul is unable to remain in this state of calm and instead becomes a slave to servile fear, she recommends replacing this kind of fear for our own salvation with a fear based on faith. As Robertson points out: "A certain security, combined with humility and fear for our own salvation, immediately expels servile fear from the soul, and puts in its place a fear of much stronger growth, which springs from faith. Then we see that an entirely disinterested love of God is arising in us, and we desire spells of solitude, the better to enjoy this new blessing" (110) . ^° The repeated emphasis on solitude is another constant in Santa Teresa's writing; over and over she stresses the importance of solitude to prepare for an encounter with God, to enable a person to collect herself, to fill a soul with solitude, and to withdraw from external distractions. Already as a child, Teresa and her brother "ordenabamos ser ermitanos" (Vida 121) and built "ermitas" cells "en una huerta" (Vida 121). Later she tells us 161 she "Procuraba soledad para rezar mis devociones" (Vida 122). For beginners it is especially important to find a quiet place for prayer, since during their hours of prayer, they must remain "en soledad y, apartados, pensar su vida pasada" (Vida 194). She firmly believes in taking precautions to protect the monastic life from the influences of the mundane world by isolating and enclosing the religious community, in the manner of the saints who removed themselves to the desert. Most of all, she wants to be in solitude so that she can be alone with God and feel the bliss of His presence and as for her soul, she adds, "Quedase sola con fl, ique ha de hacer sino amarle?" (Vida 255). Thus, the prayer of quiet brings with it some early rewards, as well as great hurdles to overcome, since "hay muchas almas que llegan a tener esta oraci6n y pocas que pasen adelante" (Vida 224). Those who do, however, will be pleasantly surprised, as this stage is "un principio de todos los bienes, un estar ya las flores en t§rmino, que no les falta casi nada para brotar" (Vida 232). Given the necessary solitude to perform the prayer of quiet, the intellect will join the will in its resting stage. Now with a sufficient supply of water, great changes are taking place in the garden: some early blossoms begin to show, giving off their fragrance into the air, while others are on the verge of displaying their full floral beauty. The garden's growth is now fully underway and the author announces that better things are yet to come. 162 3.3 Prayer of Recollection: Water Flowing from a Stream or Spring Santa Teresa introduces the third stage of prayer—the prayer of the sleep of the faculties—as a subject "muy para levantar el espiritu en alabanzas de Dios" (Vida 233) . As for the supply of water for the garden, she points to the reduction in effort, since the stream or spring water facilitates this task, "aunque alguno [trabajo] da el encaminar el agua" (Vida 233) . It appears that the soul has now graduated from being garden apprentice and garden worker to a kind of supervisor of irrigation and, at the same time, becoming a welcome guest in this promising hortus. She says: "Quiere el Senor aqui ayudar a el hortolano de manera que casi il es el hortolano y el que lo hace todo. En un 'sueno de las potencias', que ni del todo se pierden ni entienden c6mo obran" (Vida 233). Santa Teresa then goes on to compare the soul's delight in this state to a type of dying in agony, but it is a welcome dying because it is a dying to all things of the terrestrial here-and-now: "Est^ gozando en aquel agonla con el mayor deleite que se puede decir: no me parece que es otra cosa, sino un morir casi del todo a todas las cosas del mundo, y estar gozando de Dios" (Vida 234). She says that in comparison to the previous state, the prayer of quiet, the pleasure and sweetness of the present state are incomparably higher; the soul is nearly submerged in the water of grace, which has now risen up to its neck, and it is somewhat thrown off balance, since it does not know what to do next: "porque ni sabe 163 si hable, ni si calle, ni si ria, ni si llore. Es un glorioso desatino, una celestial locura, adonde se deprende la verdadera sabiduria, y es deleitosisima manera de gozar el alma" (Vida 234). In this state of delight and bewilderment, the soul feels inebriated, and suffers from an explainable yet glorious confusion. She explains: Muchas veces estaba ansl como desatinada, embriagada en este amor, y jam^s habia podido entender como era. Bien entendla que era Dios, mas no podia entender c6mo obraba aqui; porque en hecho de verdad, estSn casi del todo unidas las potencias, mas no tan engolfadas que no obren. . . . Sdlo tienen habilidad las potencias para ocuparse todas en Dios (Vida 234-5). Trying to use the intellect to understand the situation will bring no results because "no vale aqui nada" (Vida 235). Like an ecstatic child whose heart and tongue are overflowing with joy and excitement, the soul can hardly contain itself; it has a strong desire to "dar voces en alabanzas . . . Toda ella querria fuese lenguas para alabar al Senor" (Vida 235); and it utters "mil desatinos santos" (Vida 235) trying to please the Lord. As for the impact of this state on the garden's progress, she says: "Ya, ya se abren las flores, ya comienzan a dar olor" (Vida 235), and she stims up this jubilant state of the soul with the words: 164 "jOh, v^lame Dios, cu^l est^ un alma cuando estS ansi!" (Vida 235). In such moments she feels ready for any kind of sacrifice for the Lord, and can easily sympathize with the martyrs and the reasons they endured their tortures. Then, still under the influence of "esta santa locura celestial" (Vida 236), she would like everyone to share in her exaltation: "suplicooslo yo que . . . lo esten todos los que yo tratare locos de vuestro amor" (Vida 236), and "Suplico a vuesa merced seamos todos locos por amor de quien por nosotros se lo llamaron" (Vida 237), and she adds, in a manner anticipating a very Calderonian image and expression: "Parece (jue sueno lo que veo" (Vida 237) . As if she were a spectator looking into the events of her own soul, "u, por mijor decir, [lo que] hace Dios en ella," (Vida 240), she is hinting at the new role of the soul as a guest of the Gardener, no longer required to concern itself with the work and watering of the garden. God has become the gardener: ". . .el toma ya el oficio de hortolano y quiere que ella huelgue . . . Digo que en tan alta oraci6n como esta . . . entiende que lo hace sin ningtin cansancio del entendimiento; sdlo me parece estS como espantada de ver como el Senor hace tan buen hortolano" (Vida 240-41). Now, as a visitor to the garden, the soul is not required to do any work; its activities are, for the time being, limited to take delight "en comenzar a oler las flores" (Vida 241). In this way, the reversal of roles has taken place between the host and the guest of the garden: the soul, initially working the garden for the enjoyment of the Lord's visits, has become a welcome and 165 pampered guest in the former place of work. As the Lord is not only the owner of the plot, but also the "criador del agua" (Vida 241), he is showing considerable generosity with this element, since he "dala sin medida" (Vida 241), making her realize the power of his grace: that which would have taken her poor soul twenty years or more "de cansar el entendimiento", amounts to less water than this "hortolano celestial" awards her in just one moment (Vida 241). Under such good care the garden prospers "y crece la fruta, y madtlrala de manera que se pueda sustentar de su huerto, queri^ndolo el Senor" (Vida 241). Although there seem to be no limits to growth and success in this garden, as well as to the soul's enjoying the harvest of the garden, there are limits to the soul's ability to "distribute the fruit" (Vida 241). This seems to be a precautionary step on God's behalf to prevent the soul from engaging in apostolic work without the proper foundation (Hatzfeld 32); the soul first needs to grow strong itself from eating this fruit before it is capable of distributing it to others. Should it start sharing its fruit prematurely, it risks depriving itself, and thus the Lord, of the essential nourishment and would therefore be unable to fulfil its role of growing through God's favours to full maturity, and thereafter be able to distribute, and thus multiply God's praise to others: "no dSndole nada de provecho ni pagSndosela a quien la diere, sino que los mantenga y d6 de comer a su costa, y guedarse ha el por ventura muerto de hambre" (Vida 241). 166 St. Teresa then analyses the results of this third stage of prayer and of the changes that have taken place within the soul. Not only have the virtues grown stronger when compared to the preceding stage, the prayer of quiet, but the changes in the soul allow that it "Comienza a obrar grandes cosas con el olor que dan de si las flores, que quiere el senor que se abran para que ella vea que tiene virtudes, aunque ve muy bien que no las podia ella, ni ha podido ganar en muchos anos, y que en aquello poquito el celestial hortolano se las dio" (Vida 241). She realizes the great help she has received from God and is filled with an overwhelming gratitude, which leads to an even deeper humility before God: "AquI es muy mayor la humildad y mcis profunda que el alma queda, que en lo pasado; porque ve mSs claro que poco ni mucho hizo, sino consentir que le hiciese el Senor mercedes y abrazarlas la voluntad" (Vida 241). Already in her introduction to the four ways of watering the soul-garden, she mentions that the Lord is awarding us with gifts "sin ningtin merecimiento nuestro" (Vida 185), and that "mientras mSs vemos estamos ricos, sobre conocer somos pobres, m^s aprovechamiento nos viene y atin mSs verdadera humildad" (Vida 185). In the Castillo interior she also stresses the importance of self-knowledge, which will make us aware of our insignificance, and thus emphasize the need for our cultivation of true hiimility: "so long as we are on this earth, nothing matters more to us than humility" (Castillo interior 38). She then reflects on the state of the various faculties and sees that the will, the understanding, and the 167 memory have been engaged in the process of prayer and at ease in their new respective roles: "Pareceme este modo de oracion union muy conocida de toda el alma con Dios, sino que parece quiere Su Majestad dar licencia a las potencias, para que entiendan y gocen de lo mucho que obra alii" (Vida 242). Now the garden is in full bloom, giving off fragrance. All the hard work is over, and with God the caring gardener and supplier of water, the soul is at once a guest of the Host, voluntary prisoner, and enchanted captive. 3.4 Prayer of Union: Rain from Heaven Sent by God While the other three faculties—will, intellect, and memory—have found their cause and destination, the last of the faculties remaining, the imagination, seems restless and uncontrolled, drifting about like an orphan, "no para en nada, sino de uno en otro" (Vida 244) causing fatigue and harm, until it too has found its terminus by being absorbed into the complete union of the soul with God. When speaking of the fourth stage of prayer, Santa Teresa is referring to the rain "esta agua que viene del cielo para con su abundancia henchir y hartar todo este huerto de agua" (Vida 250), and to the great dignity and favours the soul is invited to experience in this exhalted stated: "En toda oraci6n y modos de ella que queda dicho alguna cosa trabaja el hortolano; aunque en estas postreras va el trabajo acompanado de tanta gloria y consuelo del alma, que jamas querria salir del; y ansl no se siente por trabajo, sino por gloria" fVida 247). She 168 then attempts the difficult task of trying to describe the indescribable, namely that which is beyond intellectual comprehension, a perception of pleasure without the ability to comprehend it, register it, or evaluate it: AcS no hay sentir, sino gozar sin entender lo que se goza. Enti^ndese que se goza un bien adonde juntos se encierran todos los bienes, mas no se comprende este bien. OcHpanse todos los sentidos en este gozo, de manera que no queda ninguno desocupado para poder . . . no queda poder en el cuerpo, ni el alma le tiene para poder comunicar aquel gozo (Vida 247). All that the soul can do is let itself be carried off into a kind of "desmayo" (Vida 251) comparable to fainting, and indulge in its great calm and joy (251). In what Hatzfeld has called "the actual ecstasy in passive prayer, the post-ecstatic and inter-ecstatic periods . . ., and the actual mystical union (33), it is impossible for the soul to carry out any "thinking, remembering or feeling". All it can do is to delight in the moment, because the soul, without understanding what is happening to it, is aware that it is experiencing "the presence of God in rapture or ecstasy (33). Although this blissful "heavenly rain" often surprises the gardener when he least expects it, it seems that, particularly in the beginning, it follows "despues de larga oraci6n mental" (Vida 169 250). But, she says, the state of the faculties being "perdidas de todo y sin ninguna imaginacion en nada" (Vida 252), is only of brief duration, long enough however to leave the faculties for some hours "como desatinadas" (Vida 252). Replacing for a moment the metaphor of the beneficient water with that of the radiance of light, she says: "ha sido grande la claridad del sol que ha estado alii, pues ansi la ha derretido" (Vida 251). Understandably, the soul, having been exposed to intense turmoil after engaging first in long prayer, then experiencing brief moments of exaltation, followed by a long period of disorder of the faculties, is afterwards in need of communicating these events, particularly the soul's "inward sensations", but she advises that these should only be shared with those who had experienced them as well, "que no se puede entender, cuanto m^s decir" (Vida 252). Those who have felt their soul to be near God are likely to understand how she heard the Lord answer her curiosity regarding the state of her soul in such a moment: "DeshScese toda, hija, para ponerse mSs en Ml. Ya no es ella la que vive, sino Yo. Como no puede comprender lo que entiende, es no entender entendiendo" (Vida 252). Stressing that all this "no se puede decir m^s claro" (Vida 252), she then moves on to describe the effects of this water from heaven on the soul. In doing so she uses a fire and water paradox referring to "the fire assuaged by water", whereby the water is the water of her tears of Joy» a God-sent type of rain which, in turn, does not extinguish but rather increase the fire of her love of God. She 170 no longer needs to ponder over whether what happened to her was reality or dream, because seeing herself drenched with streams of painless tears that flowed with such force that they might have fallen from a cloud in heaven allows her to cast off any doubt regarding her experience and confirm what she already knew "que no habla sido sueno" (Vida 254). Once again, this is a time for deepening one's humility, since the soul becomes again aware of its own "vanity". It sees clearly how unworthy it is, "en pieza adonde entra mucho sol no hay telarana ascondida" (Vida 255). Being thus faced with "its past life", the soul can see for itself "que merece el infierno" (Vida 255), and it praises and thanks God because he has made "de pecina tan sucia como yo, agua tan Clara que sea para vuestra mesa" (Vida 255). Strengthened by these experiences which have made her aware that her soul-garden is ready for harvesting and, with God's help, well supplied to start distributing the fruit of the garden herself, she explains: . . . puede ya, con entender claro que no es suya la fruta, comenzar a repartir de ella, y no le hace falta a si" (Vida 255). The wealth of these "heavenly treasures" attracts the neighbours, since "ya las flores tiene tan crecido el olor, que les hace desear llegarse a ellas. Entiende que tiene virtudes, y ven la fruta que es codiciosa. Querrianle ayudar a comer (Vida 255). 171 She then reflects once more on the preparatory work necessary to achieve these positive results, and stresses the importance of detachment from any kind of self-interest: "Si esta tierra est^ muy cavada con trabajos y persecuciones y mormuraciones y enfermedades—que pocos deben llegar agui sin esto—y si esta mullida con ir muy desasida de propio interese, el agua se embebe tanto que casi nunca se seca; mas si es tierra que aun se estS en la tierra y con tantas espinas como yo al principle estaba, y aun no quitada de las ocasiones ni tan agradecida como merece tan gran merced, t6rnase la tierra a secar. Ya si el hortolano se descuida y el Senor por sola su bondad no torna a querer Hover, dad por perdida la huerta fVida 255). In its deepest sense, detachment means not only an indifference to any personal benefits and gains but rather it involves an impartiality to all created things, a distancing of the self from everything that is not related to God. It is a dying to the 'self, so that we may live unto God, that is, to "put to death our own desires in order to conform to God's will" (Trueman 54). It may be safe to postulate that on the topic of detachment, Santa Teresa may have been influenced, as on various other 172 issues, by St. Ignatius and St. Augustine, as both of them have similar expressions in their own writing. St. Ignatius says not only that the purpose of his Spiritual Exercises is "to help the exercitant to conquer himself, and to regulate his life so that he will not be influenced in his decisions by any inordinate attachment" (S.E. 47); he also states explicitly that "we must make ourselves indifferent to all created things" (S.E. 47). When speaking of humility, he says "I am in possession of it if my state of mind is such that I neither desire nor even prefer to have riches rather than poverty" (S.E. 82). As for St. Augustine, he states in his Rule: "Those who have the strength to lead simple lives should consider themselves the richest of people. For it is better to be able to make do with a little than to have plenty" (Rule 29), " which implies not only that inner freedom is superior to material possessions, but also that this kind of voluntary poverty goes beyond the resolution to 'do without' earthly possessions, for it means also to have no desire for them (71). In Santa Teresa, one finds a similar attitude expressed when she says that "Comi§nzase luego, en llegando aqui, a perder la codicia de lo de c^" (Vida 218) when the Lord begins to give it some of the blessed water, and, when tempted by the "ardides y gustos que da el demonic" (Vida 231), the best advice is "comenzar con determinaci6n de llevar camino de cruz desde el principle, y no los desear" (Vida 231). Although the soul was fortunate to have succeeded to the fourth stage of prayer and watering of the garden, there are no 173 guarantees that it could not succumb to delusions sent by the devil, and thereby endanger the harvest of the garden. She warns her students of the danger of self-confidence, since the soul has not yet acquired the proper strength and arms to do battle and defend itself. She explains that a soul, after perceiving the difference "del bien del cielo al de la tierra" (Vida 261), is full of love and confidence "de no caer de lo que goza" (Vida 261), and due to this false sense of security, the devil sees a chance to "quitale . . . la poca que ha de tener de si" (Vida 261). Then the soul "comienza con buen celo a dar de la fruta sin tasa, creyendo que ya no hay que temer de si" (Vida 261). Still inexperienced when it comes to recognizing potential dangers, the soul is still no more than a fledgling, capable of leaving the nest, "mas atin no estS para volar" (Vida 261) . This is where a spiritual counsellor is needed to bring a strayed soul back to the proper path of prayer. She then continues to speak of the state and effects of rapture upon body and soul. Being irresistible and of brief duration, it comes in the form of a "un impetu tan acelarado y fuerte, que veis y sentis levantarse esta nube o esta Sguila caudalosa y cogeros con sus alas" (Vida 264). Since there is no loss of consciousness, the person in this state sees one's body lifted off the ground and carried away "y no sab§is d6nde" (Vida 264). Although the senses are "disturbed", one still is able to see and hear things, though only dimly, "como cosa de lejos" (Vida 271). At the very height of rapture, "en los tiempos que se pierdan las potencias, porque estan muy 174 unldas don [sic] Dios" (Vida 271), the senses are unable to perceive "lo que pasa alll" (Vida 271). Mostly, the eyes are closed during these experiences, but if they do remain open, the soul "no atina y ni advierte lo que ve" (Vida 272). As for the after-effects, she says that the body is unable to move for many hours, and that the understanding and memory are "divertidos" (Vida 143). They are "como una persona que ha mucho dormido y sonado, y aun no acaba de despertar" (Vida 272). But when the awakening comes it seems to have the effect of an anti-climax, as Santa Teresa speaks of the "la pena de haber tornar a vivir" (Vida 272). More than ever the soul feels contempt for the things of this world and "lo poco que todo de aca se ha de estimar, y lo nada que es" (Vida 273). The soul-gardener does not even wish to partake in the rewards of the harvest, since it does not want "ni de un pero de esta huerta" (Vida 273). She leaves it up to the Lord to divide whatever goods there may be among others. Having experienced the brightness of this divine Sun, "se los hace cerrar a las cosas del mundo y los tenga abiertos para entender verdades" (Vida 275). It is fully aware that it is not the soul, but the "Senor del huerto" who distributes the garden's fruit, and that "todo el bien que tiene va guiado a Dios" (Vida 275). After chapter 20 of Vida, the allegory of the garden comes almost to an end. From now on, any mention of gardens, plants, fruit and water are mere references to the framework laid out in chapters 11 to 20. She speaks of "estas flores de virtudes" 175 (Vida 280) which, with time, increase their fragrance due to the growing of love and humility in the soul; she points out that the pleasures sent by the devil can only deceive those souls who have not experienced "gustos . . . de Dios" (Vida 313), and that such deception is of short duration as "al primer airecito de persecuci6n se pierden estas florecitas"(Vida 313); they are drying up because they have not been watered with the grace of God. She also mentions the need for pest-control in the garden, which means that there is a need to remove anything which impedes the growth of the tree/virtues; that is, the need to care for our reputation "En mucho se ha de tener una virtud, cuando el Senor la comienza a dar. Ansi es en cosas de honra" (Vida 376), which is nothing else but the proof of our lack of detachment. Those wishing to make progress in their prayer should free themselves from this attachment because it can do great harm. She warns: "que si no quitan esta oruga, que ya a todo el Srbol no dane, porque algunas otras virtudes quedarSn, mas todas carcomidas. No es ^rbol hermoso, sino que el no medra, ni aun deja medrar a los que andan cabe 61; porque la fruta que da de buen ejemplo no es nada sana; poco durarci" (Vida 376-77) . As for the comparison between input of effort in prayer and outcome of results, she advises against "querer entender las cosas por nuestro parecer y muy torcido de la verdad que tambien como en las del mundo" (Vida 462). She is more in favour of "oracion de poco tiempo que hace efectos muy grandes" (Vida 464) than to long-term prayer over many years, which has no more to show for itself than "unas 176 cositas menudas" (Vida 464). She presents God as being more interested in the results than concerned with the process itself, "que no [mira] en los afios" (Vida 463), and although he considers the soul's progress and advancement, he will in the end judge "por los efectos" (Vida 463). It is most fitting that Santa Teresa should choose as her last image relating to a garden a reference to "el glorioso San Agustin" (Vida 474), since he was a great influence on her life and on her writing. She points out that it brings not "tanto fruto" (Vida 474), when searching for God, to look in far-away places, as "no es menester ir al cielo, ni mSs lejos que a nosotros mesmos" (Vida 474). Where we find God, and where St. Augustine found him, was "ni en las plazas, ni los contentos, ni por ninguna parte que le buscaba" (Vida 474) ; rather, he found Him "dentro de si" (Vida 474), recalling St. Augustine's words in the Rule; "And honour God in one another, because each of you has become his temple" (58), and "This church building is the house of your prayers, but we ourselves are the real house of God" (59). Conclusion In trying to summarize the activities relating to Santa Teresa's allegory of the garden, one finds the following; Stage I: Active Meditation—The garden is watered by a well. This involves much hard work. The will is being subdued. 177 Here the garden is already fully planted. The novice gardener needs to prove himself by taking good care of it. This requires patience, hard work, and perseverance. The only 'reward' as such is the fact that the gardener can count himself among the ones chosen to work this garden. While in the introduction to the garden allegory in Chapter 11 the majority of garden images refer to the garden or orchard and only two to the 'gardener' himself, the emphasis here is on the plot (soul) to be cultivated. While in this first of the four prayer stages the vocabulary is balanced equally with references to 'gardener' and 'garden', the action in the garden itself is referred to only three times with working and digging the garden and the prognosis that the plants and flowers 'shall grow'. Stage II: Prayer of Quiet—The garden is watered by means of a windlass, which yields more water and costs less labour. The intellect is being subdued. The ownership of the garden has been transferred to the Lord, and now great changes are taking place. The emphasis is on action, work, and development as the trees 'begin to grow' and show blossom and plants 'begin to bud'. It is a time for pruning, weeding, and 'rooting out'. The flowers 'begin to grow', 'have grown', and are 'bursting into bloom'. Already there are two references to fragrance which, together with the bloom of flowers and the blossom of the trees, are an early reward in any 178 gardener's life. There is even identification of one particular kind of flower, 'carnation', which will, however, remain the only species mentioned throughout the book. The majority of the images refer to the garden itself, as it is there where great and noticeable changes have taken place. Stage III: Prayer of the Sleep of the Faculties—The garden is watered by a spring or stream which merely needs to be channelled. The memory is put to rest. The action relating to watering is now on a more voluminous scale. No longer is there any need for buckets to be taken to individual plants or areas, but Santa Teresa speaks now of 'irrigation'. With this more inclusive method, this 'flowing water' merely requires directing into 'the right channel'. With God having become the gardener, all emphasis seems to be on Him. He is the 'good Gardener', the 'heavenly Gardener', the 'celestial Gardener', and the 'Creator of the water'. Although He is said to 'help the gardener', he actually does 'all the work himself, while the soul-gardener's duties seem to consist of enjoying the pleasant environment where flowers 'give off scent' and 'fragrance', and where the fruit 'grows and ripens'. The garden is in a rather advanced stage, a joy to any gardener, either junior or master. The soul is now supervisor of irrigation and guest of the heavenly host, while the garden itself is referred to mainly through its products, its fruit. It not only grows and ripens, but the focus is on the consumption of 179 it—'eating it', 'consuming it', 'nibbling at it', and on not sharing it too soon. Although the opening of the flowers and the emission of fragrance is the equivalent of virtue becoming visible, the soul still has to learn about the management of the fruit-harvest, to achieve sufficient supply and sustenance for itself as well as for others. As long as the soul is not yet solvent itself in virtues, and is able to pay back the owner of the plot some of the debt, it is too early for the soul to go public and 'maintain others at its cost', for it may end up itself 'dying of hunger'. Stage IV: Prayer of Union—The garden is watered by rain sent by God. It is plentiful and comes without effort. The imagination is at rest. Although the mentioning of garden and gardener are almost in balance, the emphasis in this last phase of horticultural effort is on its harvest, the fruit. In eight references or allusions to it, the fruit is not only 'delicious', and connected with a perception of 'feast' and celebration, it is also seen as a valuable treasure: it may be given away or distributed, but it must not be lost. As for the work done in the garden, there is still an emphasis on how properly to treat the 'ground' or 'earth', and it is as if Santa Teresa wanted to give a brief summary of all the necessary tasks so far by concentrating on those patches of land which might accidentally have been overlooked and so have remained 'uncleared'. Although the rest of 180 the garden may well be in its fruiting stage, the left out pieces must undergo the same procedure as the remainder of the garden. This 'ground' must be 'dug over' and 'well broken up', so that it will not remain 'choked with thorns', but can be cultivated and able to soak up the heavenly water. There are no guarantees, and the life-sustaining water must be earned by trials and detachment from self-interest; if, however, the gardener becomes 'careless', the rain will cease falling, and "then you must give up the garden for lost" (Life 129), *^  as a 'careless' gardener will harvest no crop. Looking at the changing definitions for God, the soul, and the gardener, one finds that God begins by being 'Lord of the garden' in stage one, then becomes 'Owner of the plot' in stage two, metamorphoses into 'heavenly' and 'celestial Gardener' in stage three, and finally returns to being 'Lord of the garden' who 'distributes the garden's fruit'. The garden itself begins by being a patch of 'unfruitful soil' which then, in stage two, is intensely worked over with pruning and weeding to 'keep things green', but is still in danger of turning into the 'wretched soil' and 'dunghill' it was before. In stage three, the plants grow and ripen; the flowers display their scent; and some early fruit is ready for eating; and in stage four, it is a place of plentiful returns. As for the novice in prayer, she is seen first as a student-gardener, then as an advanced apprentice and garden-worker. In stage three she becomes supervisor of irrigation and guest of the 181 heavenly Gardener, and finally she becomes beneficiary of the harvest, manager of its products, and watchful guard and diligent inspector of the garden's evolution. As for her own person, Santa Teresa had a decidedly low opinion of herself. In writing "esta mi desbaratada vida" (Vida 481), she says "sabia mal cantar" (Vida 377) and "nunca fui para nada" (Vida 378). She describes herself as a woman "con tan tibia caridad" (Vida 279), and whose soul is "muy miserable y sin provecho y llena de mil miserias" (Vida 320). She refers to herself as being not good for anything but "poner ramitos y flores a im^genes" (Vida 364). This harsh self-criticism seems all the more misplaced, since she has not only cultivated her own soul-garden to produce an abundance of fragrant virtues, but she has also initiated countless other souls to do the same, thus proving herself to be an excellent gardener for God. For someone who had "no learning", and who we cannot say has been influenced by any specific authors, it is remarkable that her Vida could be regarded as a veritable cross-section of Spanish literature. In her Vida we find sentences that remind us of Berceo when she says that "somos acS peregrinos" (Vida 447) in this world. We are also reminded of Melibea's watchtower and Pleberio's anguish when Santa Teresa says: "Aqui esta mi vida, agui estS mi honra y mi voluntad; todo os lo he dado, vuestra soy" (Vida 278). And again, referring to "la miseria de la vida" (Vida 278), seen from the top of the tower, she continues with a very celestinesque expression reminiscent of Melibea, when she 182 speaks of looking at "esta farsa de vida tan mal concertada" (Vida 278). Like Melibea, she sees herself on top of a watchtower, the place from which the truth can be seen, and both are willing and decided to follow their 'masters' "en todo" (Rojas 292). Equally, both of them wish to "cerrar la puerta" (Rojas 288) to this world, but while Melibea is turning away from life and truth to disappear into the n6ant. Santa Teresa does not insist on corporal death, as long as she can be spiritually united with God. Her references to the "wretchedness of this life" (Life 149) evoke the image of the disconsolate Pleberio who, angry and crushed at fortune's blows, sees life as nothing more than an "enganosa feria", "Mar de miserias", "un desierto espantable", and a "vana esperanza" (Rojas 295). All of these are expressions that would seem to stand in no opposition to Santa Teresa's view of life, were it not for the difference in their goal and destination. Pleberio's words, spoken in a "huerto florido y sin fruto" (Rojas 295), portray the hopelessness of a life without future and of a death without purpose. Santa Teresa's words, spoken in a fruit-filled garden in whose harvest she is not even interested, reject the terrestrial world only because her soul had a foretaste of a better one, and her soul is longing to leave the captivity of her body, because it has savoured the taste of freedom. When she speaks of "cuerpos glorificados" (Vida 336), one thinks of Calisto's use, or misuse, of these same words. Her Vida, her Camino de Perfecci6n. and Castillo interior can be considered tools for religious, moral. 183 or ethical education. As such, her works could be considered a parallel to those of Luis Vives, who begins with: "I will give you rules for living", being guidelines of education for young boys. Santa Teresa's account of her life serves the same purpose, with the difference that her guidelines are directed to female students of life. As for literary ideas she may have passed on to later generations, some of which may originate with her, there is the concept of the monastery as a delightful place, that we find repeated, among others, in Miguel de Dicastillo. We think of Fernando de Herrera's 'furore divino' when we hear her speak of her "glorioso desatino, una celestial locura" (Vida 234), an idea first voiced by Plato. We find reflected in her writing some of the decrees of the Council of Trent. She alludes to her lack of imagination and explains how looking at pictures helped her in her meditations: "Tenia tan poca habilidad para con el entendimiento representar cosas, que si no era lo que via, no me aprovechaba nada de mi imaginacion, como hacen otras personas que pueden hacer representaciones adonde se recogen" (Vida 179) and explains how looking at pictures helped her in her meditations "A esta causa era tan amiga de imagenes" (Vida 180). Perhaps she was reflecting here on the Council's decree 'On the Invocation, Veneration, and Relics of Saints, and on sacred images', which states: "that the images of Christ, of the Virgin Mother of God, and of the other saints are to be placed and retained especially in the churches, and 184 that due honor and veneration is to be given to them" (Schroeder 216), as well as St. Ignatius' Spiritual Exercises where he recommends the use of mental images; that is, "seeing with the mind's eye the physical place where the object that we wish to contemplate is present" (S.E. 55). When speaking of the vanity of the things of this world and the recognition that "tan vanas que parecen las de este mundo cosa de juego de nifio" (Vida 318), and of the soul's contempt for "lo de acS" (Vida 273) and, "lo nada que es" (Vida 273), her words evoke the religious teachings of the Middle Ages, as well as antedating the voice of Quevedo. Her many references to her dream-like experiences, the necessity of distinguishing between "los que lo son [desasidas] de palabras, o los que ya estas palabras han confirmado con obras" (Vida 279), and especially her description of her new life "como una cosa que sofi6" (Vida 480) appear to foreshadow the Calderonian imagery of La Vida es sueno. published almost seventy years after the Vida was written. As for other literary currents, coinciding with Santa Teresa's writings, one could mention the joy of her soul which "toda ella querria fuese lenguas para alabar al Senor" (Vida 235), which seems to echo within Spain in Pedro de Espinosa and Dicastillo, and outside of Spain in the jubilant voice of nature reflecting the image of the divine Creator, as we find it two centuries later in Goethe and in the German religious poet Paul Gerhardt. Then, there is her statement that God "aunque era Dios, que era hombre, que no se espanta de las flaquezas de los 185 hombres" (Vida 439), which recalls Terence's "homo sum: human! nihil a me alienum puto". A very fundamental influence on her allegorizing method can be traced back to Philon of Alexandria, who saw the human soul as a garden of virtues in which to grow the plants of Paradise (Grimm 24). Many literary currents appear to be crossing through or emanating from Santa Teresa's work. There is one, however, which left a lasting impression on her from the days of her youth: St. Augustine. Like him, she felt herself to have been "a sinner" (69). Like him she knew that to walk in the way of the cross meant desiring no pleasures here on earth and to live a life of detachment and humility. She felt close to the "glorious St. Augustine" (308) because she once lived in a convent of his order, had read his Confessions^ and knew that the essence of prayer is such that "the words spoken by your lips should also be alive in your hearts (Rule 27). The spiritual affinity she felt for him rests also on the fact that she, who had always searched for anyone "quien me de luz" (Vida 189), had found a model in St. Augustine. He, the reformed sinner, had shown her how to spread "the life-giving aroma of Christ" (Rule 38), and find God, as he did "dentro de si" (Vida 474). Like St. Augustine she heard, and followed, "aquella voz en el huerto". 186 NOTES 1. Santa Teresa de Jestis, Libro de la Vida. ed. DSmaso Chicharro (Madrid: CStedra, 1987). 2. Hans Flasche, Geschichte der spanischen Literatur (Bern: Francke, 1977). 3. Helmut A. Hatzfeld, Santa Teresa de Avila (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1969). 4. Rev. H. J. Schroeder, O.P., The Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent (Illinois: Tan Books & Publishers, 1978). 5. Victor Garcia de la Concha, El arte literario de Santa Teresa (Barcelona: Editorial Ariel). 6. Teresa de Avila, Interior Castle, trans. E. Allison Peers (New York: Image Books, Doubleday, 1989). 7. I have followed the ideas of Hatzfeld with regard to the allegory of the four waters, since I believe this book to be a very useful guide to the understanding of Santa Teresa's Vida. 8. St. Ignatius de Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises, trans. A. Mottola (New York: Image Books, Doubleday, 1989). 9. E. W. Trueman Dicken, The Crucible of Love: A Study of the Mysticism of St. Teresa of Jesus and St. John of the Cross (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1963). 10. In "Doctrine of Charity", D. W. Robertson explains how man's journey is dependent on the two kinds of love and fear that guide and motivate him. One kind of love, cupidity, leads to a Babylon of society, and thus to eternal damnation, while the other kind of love, charity, recalls the peace and radiance of Jerusalem. As for the accompanying fears, cupidity is closely connected with fear for one's own earthly misfortune, while charity is a companion of the fear of God, which in turns leads to wisdom (28). 11. St. Augustine, Rule of St. Augustine, trans. Raymond Canning OSA (New York: Image Books, 1986). 12. Teresa de Avila, The Life of St. Teresa of Avila by Herself, trans. J. M. Cohen (Penguin Books, 1957). 187 CHAPTER IV Voices of Praise in the Gardens of Aula Dei The poet Miguel de Dicastillo can be described as a diluted Gongorist, since his writing, albeit following the Cordovan master's tradition, is considered far less 'culterano' than that of his model. He wrote during the first half of the 17th century, at a time when the 'culterano' influence in Spain was at its peak. Gongora had written and published his Soledades in 1627, and their echoes could be heard from all the corners of the Spanish literary world. In Dicastillo's poem Aula de Dios. ' published in 1637 under the pseudonym of Miguel de Mencos, and addressed to his friend Silvio (TomSs Andres CebriSn), one finds strong similarity to what Aurora Egido calls the "riqueza acumulativa" of G6ngora, and the "explosi6n sensual" of the Grenadine poet Soto de Rojas, though with Dicastillo's expression somewhat tamed by the "esplritu cartujo" (Egido 43) . ^  As for content, one finds a poet who "descrive la vida de sus monges, acusa la vanidad del siglo, acuerda las memorias de la muerte" (Dicastillo prologues iii). This implies that he intends to describe, warn, and remember, that is, to describe his present life, recall and correct mistakes in past and present, and admonish and remind of the death that is awaiting everyone. With this epistolary poem, the poet (calling himself Teodoro) tries to persuade his friend Silvio to abandon the life 188 of a wanderer through world and strife, and to come and join him at the monastery of Aula Dei, located near Zaragoza. In this invitation to the peaceful life at Aula Dei, the poet describes his existence and his surroundings with all the skills of a Baroque poet, using every stylistic means possible to provide his friend with an invitation too difficult to resist. His goal was "atraer . . . alguna alma retirada en los afanes del siglo a las quietudes y reposos de Dios, sin cuydar de m^s lima que la devocion, ni de otra cultura que la de su afecto, pretendiendo en esto solo conocerse, y que su grande amigo, tuviere materia para quedar reconocido de los errores que confiessa enternecido, elegante en la respuesta" (Mencos, pr61ogo xi). Taking the reader's imagination to the far horizon, the poem opens with images of snow, curving crystal, light, "azucenas", moving silver, distant mountains, and freedom from constraint. The poet begins by describing one of the sources of life itself, the origin of the "sierpe de cristal", the water of the winding river, by tracing it back to the snowcapped mountains of Galicia, and then following the river's embattled flow to its final home and resting place, the sea, where it arrives "hecho pedazos". However, before reaching this pool of comfort, the river passes through a valley which, due to contact with the river's waters, becomes "fecundo y delicioso, / florido, ameno, llano y espacioso" (2). And the river's journey is by no means a quiet entry into a quiet land, as the passage of this noisy traveller can be heard all over the valley, since "correr no puede sin 189 hacer ruido" (2). But such boisterous heralding of the river's presence is perhaps warranted due to its nobility, its rank, and the contribution to life it is making, since its waters are not only "de tan alto nacimiento" (2), but have also helped to create the lush Arcadia the poet is about to describe. It is within this transplanted Arcadia, with its wealth of trees, its flowers, fruit, and mild climate, that one finds the "alcSzar santo" inspired by el "Cherubin hvimano, ardiente Bruno" (3). This "alcazar" refers to the monastery complex of the Carthusians at Aula Dei, where the poet himself took his vows in 1626, and where he lived almost until his death in 1649. The "human angel" is of course St. Bruno, founder of the Carthusian order in 1086. "Their form of monasticism was eremitical, emphasizing poverty, solitude, and austerity, and inspired by the primitive monks of Egypt and Palestine rather than by the Rule of St. Benedict" (Farmer 73) . ' They were not only famous for their skill in gardening; in addition, "they were the first and greatest horticulturists in Europe; of the Carthusians it may emphatically be said that wherever they settled, they made the desert bloom as the rose" (Egido 58) . " One of the commentators on St. Bruno's description of his dwelling in Calabria points out that one senses "a real feeling for nature, nurtured in the tradition of the biblical paradise and the locus amoenus. that could lead medieval monks to feel that already here below they could perceive, through senses quickened by spiritual insight, the outlines of a garden paradise, lost to sinful man in Eden, 190 but still refreshing his soul by its intimations of the paradise awaiting the faithful in heaven" (Meyvaert 52). But the poet seems not yet ready to reveal to Silvio, or to his readers, further details about the monastery and its inhabitants, since he now takes a grand detour through Spanish history, paying homage to the founder of this monastery, Fernando de Arag6n, archbishop of Zaragoza, and to his grandfather, Fernando el Cat61ico, whose "fuerte espada" liberated Spain from Moorish occupation. It is not until many stanzas later (8) that the poet returns to the cause of his poetic creation, namely his friend Silvio's request to describe "todo", meaning everything regarding his life at Aula Dei; and so, Silvio now asks his friend to become "atento y curioso peregrino" and to follow him through a tour of the "Alcazar divino" (8). Again, the poet begins his description at the very periphery of the location, the road leading to the entrance of the monastery. By focusing on the approach to this "fortaleza", the trees along the way, and the door in the wall, he wants the visitor to collect himself and concentrate and be aware in silence of the world he is about to enter. That the visitors are welcome is indicated by the very door "del Cielo franca puerta" (10), which stands wide open, ready to receive its guests, as well as by the "viejo venerable" the guardian of this door, extending his welcome to all visitors. The pilgrim is led through the plaza, past the church with its beautiful fagade, and into the temple, where he is allowed to 191 witness and enjoy the "canto de tantos Seraflnes uniformes" (13) singing in "harmonla celestial". Then the visitor is shown the ornate "retablo", the sculptures and paintings, the "propiciatorio", the sanctuary with its splendour of art and jewels, and the holy Tabernacle with its "pinturas divinas". Having finished the tour of the "Templo todo", the guest is led into the two "claustros", one of which is surrounded by chapels, while the other is described as being a union of "proporci6n y hermosura" (20). Inside this second "claustro", there is a garden "ameno y dilatado" (23) . Before focusing our attention on it, it should be mentioned that the tour of Aula Dei continues further to the individual monks' quarters, the "celdas", with their adjoining "pensiles", then on to the fruit orchard, after which there is a description of the lives of the monks. This is the end of the "public" tour, and the poet now goes on to describe his personal routine, his daily life, the solitude and order governing it, and the communal Thursday outings into the "campo" and the valley; the prayers en route, the return to the monastery, and, as a final point of contact with the outside world, the view from the "corredores", where the residents of the monastery can look out into the "campana" and observe the daily life of the farmers and shepherds in their vicinity. The poem ends with a few thoughts and reflections on the poet's own life, and with his observations and thoughts on the cycle of time and life, the awareness of one's own mortality, and the importance of final salvation. 192 4.1 The Gardens of Aula de Dlos In keeping with the focus of this dissertation, we shall pay particular attention to those parts of the poem where the poet concentrates on descriptions of nature and gardens. In Aula de Dios there are six such sections: 1) Claustro; 2) Sepulcro; 3) Pensiles and Huerto; 4) the poet's garden; 5) the Virgin Mary's hortus conclusus; and 6) Campafta. I shall discuss each of the first four sections in turn, trying to focus on the garden elements, their context, and, wherever possible, their symbolic value in the Zeitgeist of the Spanish Baroque. 4.1.1 "Claustro" Although at the beginning of his introduction to the two claustros the poet makes a brief reference to the gardens within the enclosure describing them as "amenidad de rosas y jazmines / y otras flores, que ostentan sus jardines" (20), it is not until the second claustro that he offers a more detailed description of the garden: "Dentro de la grandeza de este claustro / ay un jardln ameno y dilatado" (23). In this garden, even the enclosure walls are made of plant material, as the "afeytadas murtas" are the "vallado", the greenery wall enclosing the garden's contents. Walls, a key element in the design of any monastic complex, are of particular importance here in Aula Dei, as there seem to be a series of walls within walls, made up of a variety of materials, as the poem will show. So far we have passed through the outside walls of the monastery, and are now within another set of walls made of greenery, inside the claustro. 193 The poet then names some of the various plants in this "verde Reptiblica". There are coniferous, deciduous, and fruit trees, as well as flowers, and the poet hints at an even wider selection of trees, "^rboles mSs conocidos y ordinaries" (25), too common to be worth mentioning, all of which, the poet hopes, will have a chance to introduce themselves to the friend, should Teodoro come and visit Silvio, or live at Aula Dei with him. With regard to flowers, the poet refrains here from mentioning details, indicating only a profusion of species and colours that make up this "confusa plebe" (25), whose beauty, colour, and fragrance may succeed in convincing the poet's friend to remain in Aula Dei. 4.1.2 "Sepulcro" In the centre of this "floresta", the poet points to the sepulchre of the monks, which is surrounded by "funestos cipresses", protecting and holding vigil over the "urna", which contains "la porci6n inferior". (26) There, beneath the "tronco mas robusto" (26), lies at rest another "viejo venerable", who had graced this monastery for many years, and seemed to have become something of a mentor for the poet, since he not only was "del edificio desta casa / la mas robusta, y importante vasa" (27), but whose help and comfort allowed the poet to "renacer con vida mejorada" (28). The poet gives him the symbolic title of "f€rtil oliva, hermosissima planta" (28), alluding perhaps to the fact that "oliva" holds connotations that go beyond a mere designation of a tree. The olive tree is an emblem of peace; as a 194 plant species it is robust, needing little care itself, yet is capable of sustaining others with its harvest, and the added property "fertil" only emphasizes an already understood attribute of the olive. Most important, however, the olive is a symbol of salvation and rebirth. Beneath this symbol of strength and protection, there grows a profusion of flowers which, with their varied colours and shapes, seem to represent "ftinebres geroglificos" (29) written by those buried there. In these "laberintos / de hermosos caracteres" (29), the leaves of this organic alphabet seem to represent "misteriosos orficulos" saying: que donde mueren ellos, ellas viven, y donde mueren ellas, ellos nacen, y eternos viven, donde muertos jacen (29). This clearly implies a mutual process of support and sustenance taking place between the deceased brothers and the flowers sustained by their mortal remains; moreover, the poet extends the word-play between morir and vivir by playing on the contrast between deceased men and living flowers, on the fact that flowers are dying at the place where souls are born, and on the opposition between the eternal life of the souls and the mortal remains of the buried dead. And in an invocation to nature, he sees the cemetery garden as the garden of all gardens: O sepulcro feliz, aunque terreno, de la muerte jardln, el m^s ameno (28). 195 Among these living letters, that is, the flowers gracing the grave, are the "lirios amarillos", suggesting the mortification practised by the saints; there are the "lirios blancos", symbolizing chastity and purity; there is the rose, mentioned in connection with the "mudo" pilgrim Harpocrates, standing as a symbol of silence; and there are the "alhelles" in the colours white, yellow and crimson. All displaying their virtues, all of them "abragSndose todas con sus ojas" (30), they show their bond with each other, thereby composing a beautiful "epitafio Ifigubre", whereby the flowers see themselves as "urna . . . de aromas construyda, y de Cartuxos ttimulo frondoso" (30) . They applaud with their fragrance the brief time of death, because it is rewarded with eternal life. They constitute a "habitaci6n florida y monumento misterioso" (30), in which the most beautiful flowers are born of the ashes the dead brothers left behind. It is small wonder then that, in the face of this beautifully thought-out organic epitaph, the poet has fallen into a contemplative mood which has induced him to further introspection into the meaning of life and death. He therefore appropriately concludes his visit to the sepulchre garden with a memento mori. whereby he becomes aware that, one day, he too will be resting here in this garden, in the soil of Aula Dei, and that for him, too, there will be waiting the "tronco de un cipr^s (30) as a final resting place. 196 4.1.3 "Pensil" and "huerto" From the "mansi6n de los muertos" (30), the poet now leads visitor and reader to the "albergue de los vivos" (31), the "celdas", the private quarters of the monks which represent, among other things, the "moradas para el alma" (31) where the inhabitant, surrounded yet by more walls, can meditate and find himself, by concentrating on the images and lives of the saints. Attached to each cell is a "pensil", a private garden which, although limited in space, is seen by the poet as forming together "una India de aromas y de colores" (31), and his praise is reinforced by the flattering "lengua de cristal" (32), which is celebrating the "florida hermosura" of the flowers. No further detail is given of the plants in the "pensiles", as the poet focuses his attention in this section more on the gardens' source of energy, the supply of water, describing it in several poetic terms: "rayo de plata", "Lengua de cristal", "manso ruido", "diSfanos cristales"; it is given the ability to "argentar las plantas", and the anthropomorphic attribute of smiling, "risueno" (32). Interest in plant life, however, is paramount when the poet turns to the orchard of the monastery, approaching it via an array of other "Srboles y vides", as here, in the "apacible y fertil huerta" (33), he verbally displays all the gifts of Pomona in their widest variety. He mentions over a dozen fruits by name, and emphasizes the boundless plenty of this spot by hinting that there are these and "otras mil frutas" (37). This is the reign of 197 Pomona, Goddess of fruit and fruit-bearing trees, and this orchard is so "lozano" and "difuso" that from a distance, one could mistake it for the "Selva de Diana", due to its luxuriance and vigour of growth. In order to convey a sense of the wealth of this orchard, the poet not only stresses the diversity of the "fruto sazonado" (33) available here, but he gives this whole environment an ennobling and elevated status by decorating it verbally with attributes of royal wealth: for instance, spring uses Aurora as a gilding agent for the plants ("porque las plantas dora") (33); the leaves of the plants are "copas de esmeralda" (34), which contain the "floridos azahares" (34), and these flowers in turn are "perlas" for the "ornato del cuello y de la frente" (34), and the "guindas carmesies" (34) take on the role of being "arracadas de rubles" (34). Thus, gold, emeralds, pearls, and rubies, royal gemstones, golden plants, chalices of emeralds, pearls on neck and forehead, earrings of rubies, all symbols and attributes taken from the courts of monarchs and rulers, convey a sense of beauty, wealth and splendour befitting those who are perceived to be the noblest in life on earth. From the colours mentioned so far, the poet now extends this spectrxim to include "todos los colores" when speaking of the "ciruelas" which tend to compete in colour range with the "alhelles", because "les hurtan todos los colores". This likens them however, on a more negative side, to the flatterers, of whom the "ciruelas" are a symbol, since they tend to speak "al paladar 198 de todos" (34). In their effort to adulate all, they may have replaced their image of being a silver tongue with that of having become an all-inclusive "rainbow-tongue". Among the other fruit he mentions, there is the "camuesa opilada", a type of apple, which thinks of itself as the most beautiful of all fruit. The poet praises the "sazonada pera", its many different species, and its long period of availability throughout the year, an attribute it shares with the "manzana". With reference to another kind of apple, the "pomos de oro" of the goddess Acidalia (pertaining to the goddess Venus), they are for the poet, together with the "melocotones", "confeccidn de aziicar y de algalia" (35), alluding to the perfumed substance extracted from the glands of the civet cat, making thus an appeal to both the sense of taste ("aztacar") and smell ("algalia") . When speaking of the pomegranate, the poet once again uses images of royalty to describe this fruit: he sees the shape of the fruit as "corona"; the fruit considers itself "Reyna", because "abriendo los pechos, / a dos sentidos dexa satisfechos" (35), a possible reference to the taste, as well as the intensive hue of its colouring; and, appropriate for the noble status of a queen, this crown-shaped fruit is gallantly defended by the "espinosas ramas que de archeros la sirven" (35). * The poet then turns to the "nispero" and the "serva" and explains that both their fruit are picked green and then stored, to bring out their colour and taste. He then introduces a particular tree, whose large leaves take up "tanta tierra y tanto 199 Cielo" (36), that it is capable of covering and shading "medio bosque". The fruit of this tree, described in neither colour nor taste, is said to resemble "al de los malos, / que bien tarde lo dan, o bien a palos" (36). This seems to be a reference to the "nogal" which, according to Herrera, belongs to the trees which "con su sombra por ser pesada hacen mucho dano a los otros Srboles, y plantas que estdn debajo dellos . . .", and he also mentions that the word noaales comes from the Latin word nocere "que en Castellano quiere decir nocir, o danar" (Herrera 321). " It is doubtful, however, whether Dicastillo shared the negative connotations that Herrera associates with this tree, since the poet speaks in a laudatory tone of the leafy shade, which tends to be a welcome feature in any southern country. Only the fruit, resembling "al de los malos" could perhaps be a suggestion that the nuts of the walnut tree could be likened to the fruit of the paradisiacal fig tree. The last fruit the poet introduces is the "p^lido membrillo", the quince, of which he is willing to acknowledge only its fragrance and colour, since as it is usually eaten as "came de membrillo" and not as a fruit, it cannot be accepted in a place where "came", even as a name, is totally banned. The passages or walkways between the trees, the "calles" as the poet calls them, are protected by a cover of laurel and vine leaves, whose intertwining forms the canopy above these passageways, with their hanging branches dangling about low and in abundance. And with a hint at "otras mil frutas" that fill the 200 view with their plenitude, the poet concludes his description of the physical attributes of Aula Dei, a place he calls "el grande Real sacro Palacio del Patriarca Bruno, Principe ilustre de la gran Cartuxa" (37). 4.1.4 Poet's Private Garden Turning now to his portrayal of the life of the monks inside these "soledades", the poet emphasizes the silence and solitude governing the life of these monks, and then goes on to recount his own daily life. With an image reminiscent of Fray Luis de Leon, he tells us that he enjoys beginning his day with the natural music of birdsong, "despierto con las cantoras aves . . . " (43), and he then talks of his early morning meditation, his quiet meals, the silence prevalent throughout the complex; he speaks of his hours of occupation and of those of "Ocio", which he seems to fill with two preferred activities: reading and gardening. Once again one gets the impression that nature and plants have a deeper meaning to him than merely and mechanically applying work and water to a plot of soil. The garden as a whole, and each plant in itself, is seen as containing a lesson for him, and for man in general, as if a garden were a divine book, to be read by man, and its wisdom assimilated by him. Thus, the poet's attempt to "trasladar la naturaleza y los jardines a sus versos" (Egido 30), is probably linked to the Carthusian affinity for nature, whereby a garden was not a mere symbol of contemporary fashion, but a time-honoured tradition. For the poet Dicastillo it was additionally a 201 reality with which he could "montar sus paralelismos y referencias con lo leldo", where he could feel sheltered and safe, so that this green place of his life and of his writing was the perfect spot to become the "prisi6n ideal para los guehaceres cartujos" (Egido 58). Whenever he has time to spend in his garden, the poet realizes that there, too, as in so many other instances, man has good reason to be grateful to God, since even in this small garden he can call his own, "cada florecilla . . . me ofrece algtln ejemplo" (52) , a lesson for life, a lesson to be followed. It is in his private garden where the monk is granted a small measure of individuality in an otherwise communal existence where the monks are expected to suppress their individuality and become "types" belonging to a fixed routine of life in a community of like spirits. The depiction of his own garden begins with an account of some of the flowers growing there, mentioning first the rose, queen of the flowers. The poet praises its freshness, its colour and its l\iminosity, using again terms of gems and jewellery to describe it: "grana", "coral", "rubl", "esmeraldas": la rosa, que preciada de escarlata con tantos resplandores el imperio se usurpa de las flores, y como Reyna del jardin se trata . . . (52). 202 but he points out that in spite of its superior position within the domain of the garden, the rose is itself one of the best examples of the brevity of beauty and of life, offering thus a valid analogy to human existence: en su misma beldad desvanecida frSgil retrata nuestra vida (52). The rose's dilemma is shared by the "Mosqueta" which, albeit more modest than the "Reyna", suffers the same fate as the rose, because cuando mSs de su fragancia arroja poco viento la encoge, o la deshoja (52). Another member of the royal garden 61ite is the carnation. The poet refers to it as "principe" and places it second only to the queen of the garden. He admires its intense colouring, the "regia purpurea", as well as its fragrance, which mingles with the aroma of the "Lenguas de jazmin", thus creating a harmony of fragrances that leads the poet once again to see the skill and "soberania" of the omnipotent "criador" displayed in the harmony of his creation. The next plant, the "albahaca", whose golden leaves have been silver-coated by the silver of the "arroyo", has a particular lesson for the poet since, as with all herbs, touching the leaves will release their fragrance or pungency. The poet points to the humility of this plant: the more its leaves are 203 crushed or crumbled, the more it displays its "olor", suggesting that while the crumbling of its leaves may be equal to damaging and destroying them, the fact that the greatest fragrance is created at that moment would indicate that this small, hvimble, flowerless plant shows utmost dignity in releasing selflessly all its wealth of fragrance at the very moment of its death. Another lesson to man is contained in the behaviour of the "girasol", which, being in love with the sun, not only attempts to look like its idol, but also longingly follows the path of the sun, thus suggesting an example of loyalty and selflessness. As for the "azuzena", the poet has already hinted at the connotations associated with this flower; now, the white lily, born in the "creptisculos de nieve", and spreading the radiance of its whiteness, is gilded by the dawn that illuminates the whole of the garden. And here too is a lesson embedded in the lily-white symbol of purity: the purer chastity is, the more vulnerable it is to being stained, as even the slightest "accidente" will destroy the perfection of its purity (54). The especially high standards set for this symbolic flower are also shared by the "jazmine" which, like the lily, also represents purity and chastity; more so, in fact, as the poet claims to find in it all the virtues combined, since its intertwining with the walls of "espolinas" (a grassy plant with silvery-white flowers), brings forth and demonstrates several important virtues and qualities: love, brotherhood, dependence, support, faith and trust in each other, a shared fate regarding season, shade. 204 water-supply, togetherness. This leafy embrace seems to suggest to the poet more than distant admiration or a casual and superficial sentiment; rather, it is the embodiment of the Christian monastic ideal. In his garden, the poet uses all the varied "florecillas" to create a formation of separate "cuadros", which together form an intricate "laberinto" which captures "todos los sentidos" of the observer. With the flowers' colours and shapes he engages the sense of vision; words like "se enlazan", "se abrazan", and "ajada", when speaking of the herbs, all refer to man's sense of touch; the various descriptions of appetizing fruit appeal to taste; our sense of smell has been engaged in the evocation of the flowers' fragrance; and the charm of birdsong has allowed our auditory sense to partake in his experiences, so that, all in all, the reader can agree when the poet says: Con esto honestamente se entretiene, el interior, y el exterior sentido, para que el alma afloxe la cuerda un poco al arco, . . . (54). Understandably, then, with exposure to all these pleasant appeals and stimulations, man can relax from his daily worries and concerns, and literally re-create himself for whatever tasks may lie ahead. This helps to keep his life not only emotionally in balance, but also assists in his wellbeing on a larger scale by forming part of those exercises that make for an enjoyable and 205 harmonious existence in which man is able to face life and be truly at peace with himself: Con estos exercicios la vida alegre passo, y tan contento, que aungue se que se passa, no lo siento . . . (55). Privacy, pleasure, contact with the outside world, and even communication within the silent atmosphere of Aula Dei are all rather limited and rare. Among the few things a monk can "possess", a garden tends to be his very own "property", where he is able to play, rest, and create at will. The hours spent in his garden, the exercise of working it, the pleasure of seeing its rewards, the soothing and at the same time invigorating effect of contact with the earth and the living plants have the hidden power of making a significant contribution to the well-being of each member, and in turn, to the whole of the monastic community. Gardening and reading are the two principal activities of the monk's hours of "ocio". Both occupations require a certain amount of effort before revealing their rewards. In both cases, what is required is patience, and a willingness to learn as the activity progresses; both contain valuable wisdom, coming from God and being directed in turn towards God; there are "ejemplos" and parables from which to learn, and in both cases, commitment and humility are of paramount importance. In the case of the garden, one only need think of Santa Teresa's warning that if the garden is not tended properly, the plants will wither and decay, 206 in order to realize the importance of watchful maintenance. Gardening and reading are both solitary occupations, and both can serve as the book of Creation, revealing divine wisdom and reflection of it in nature. Moreover, plants are as "mudas" as are books, silent teachers that respond to the treatment we give them. Thus, they are able to serve as a mirror of our actions. However, the difference between books and plants is that with plants, the effect of our actions can be observed almost immediately in natura viva—if they are neglected or over-cultivated, they let the gardener know their state, warning him in time to correct his ways of treating them. Books, on the other hand, tend to be more a mirror of the soul. This means that books hold up good examples from their content, to which the reader may then compare his own ways. He is therefore unable to see the effect of his actions; rather, he becomes aware of the distance that still separates him from the "perfection" represented in the books' examples. In the words of St. Augustine, "From his own reading he will discover his mistakes and the depth of his profanity" (Confessions 69). 4.1.5 Names of the Virgin Mary The silence and routine of monastic life are interrupted each Thursday when the monks are permitted to visit the village and "ver el campo". On these occasions, the brothers can converse freely on their way to the "pueblo", "donde el hablar es cortesia" (56). The poet seems to have made friends there with an 207 old man who "vivir sin hombres puede" (57), but who nevertheless seems to enjoy, as much as does the poet, those afternoons in which they both exchange "del siglo novedades", while seated in the shade of the "chopos y sauces mSs floridos" (57). When this enjoyable time comes to an end, when the shadows are returning to the valley, and when the sound of the "sonoro metal" is heard calling the monks to their "oraci6n angelica", they not only sink to their knees at the very location where they happen to be, but they are also about to occupy their minds with another type of garden, without ever setting foot in it: the enclosed garden, the hortus conclusus of the Virgin Mary. By reciting the Ave to the "virgen divina" they are praying to that saintly figure who, although having carried and given birth to a child, has miraculously preserved her chastity and perfection of her virginity, and thus has remained the unblemished hortus conclusus of the Sona of Songs. The names given to this evoked hortus, located in the midst of the "verdes orillas", are as follows: "Palma", "cipr^s", "oliva", "azuzena", "planta olerosa", "b^lsamo myrra", "cinamomo", "rosa", all being elements belonging to a beautiful and peaceful garden. Although the poet has earlier given some interpretations of the plants, it appears that when he is applying these metaphors to the Virgin Mary, he ignores the more individualized connotations he himself has given them, and he falls back on the more traditional meanings: thus, for instance, the rose is not mentioned here as a symbol of silence, but is 208 grouped together with cinnamon, balsam and myrrh, because what all these plants have in common is their appeal to the olfactory sense, their fragrance. It should also be mentioned that the rose in the context of the Virgin Mary does not have the function of highest-ranking flower in the garden, representing the highest virtues, as this designation is reserved for the white lily, since this is the flower that represents virginal purity, and this virtue stands above all other virtues in the teaching of Christianity (Strabo 32). ' As for the rose's function as a symbol of silence, Mercatante writes: "The rose is the flower of Venus, and in order that his deeds may be hidden, love (Cupid) dedicated this gift of his mother to Parpocrates, the God of Silence. Hence the host hangs the Rose over his friendly tables, in order that his guests may know that what is said beneath it will be regarded as a secret. . . . During the 16th and 17th centuries it was common practice to carve or paint roses on the ceilings of council chambers to emphasize the intention of secrecy" (Mercatante 48). » Among the many symbolic functions of the lily, it is mentioned with reference to the Messiah in the Song of Sonas. according to Hrabanus Maurus in his De rerum naturis. ' The lily, whose place of origin is said to be Palestine (Strabo 32), was also a popular symbol in Greek mythology; it is said that when Hera was breastfeeding Herakles, a few drops of 209 her milk spilled upon the earth. Out of these drops, white lilies are said to have grown (Strabo 32). Given this information, it is perhaps no coincidence that these references to divine motherhood, chastity and purity, induce the poet to give the lily priority, since it is the first flower mentioned in his praise of the Virgin Mary. Thus, while the rose is recognized for its beauty and fragrance, the indisputable throne seat among flowers is given to the lilium candidum. The other plant names given to the Virgin are all trees. Much could be said of their symbolic connotations. For instance, the balsam, according to Pliny, is a very valuable tree, since "balsam is superior to all other scents" (Pliny 170). *" He also says that it originated in Judea "where formerly it grew in two orchards only, both royal" (Pliny 170). The palm tree's symbolism enters many cultures east and west, and while it is frequently identified in Near-Eastern mythology with the Tree of Life, and in Hebrew writings as a symbol of the ruler of Israel, it is often used in Christian symbolism as a token of martyrdom (Mercatante 44). Herrera writes that the palms "son unos Srboles muy nobles, y antiguamente las usavan traer en las manos, en senal de paz y de victoria, y aun a los Mlrtires y Virgenes en senal de aver vencido, y triunfado del mundo, y de las concupicencias carnales, les ponen y pintan en las manos ramos de palmas, demostrando sus victorias" (Herrera 247). 210 Of the cypress tree it is said that, like the cedar, it is a tree of Lebanon, the timber of which was known as excellent building material. Often the term 'cypress' is used interchangeably with the juniper of Phoenicia, the timber which was used in the construction of the temple of Solomon; it is also reported to flourish in the desert (McKenzie 470). " Herrera has great esteem for this tree, because "dura mucho tiempo, tanto que casi parece ser eterna" (Herrera 202), and in a medieval Christian legend, Adam's son Seth was told by the Archangel to place some seeds in his dead father's mouth before burial. Out of these seeds, three trees grew: a pine, a cypress, and a cedar. Legend holds that the wood of this tree made its way from building material for the temple of Salomon to becoming the cross of the crucifixion; the cross was later discovered by the mother of Constantine the Great, was carried off by the Persians, and eventually recovered in 615, assigning to this tree a long tradition in Biblical symbolism. Of the olive tree, Herrera writes: "Son tantas las excelencias deste Srbol, que soy cierto, que para las decir bien, y declarar, antes me faltarSn palabras, que materia." And after describing the many uses of the products of the olive tree, he says: "Pues con todas estas excelencias tiene este ^rbol otra mayor, que es mucha facilidad en el nacer, y es Srbol de mucha vida, que es casi perpetuo, lleva presto, y aunque le dejen sin labrar muchos anos no perece, y entre tanto frutifica algo, y en tornando sobre el luego el retorna sobre si, y de viejo se hace 211 nuevo, y de enfermo sano, de seco verde, de est^ril frutifero". And, like the palm, the olive is also a symbol of peace, as in Genesis: "Noe echd de la area la paloma, y bolvio con un ramo de oliva en el pico, en senal de paz" (Herrera 235). Last but not least, this tree is also sacred to Minerva: "Trees were the temples of the gods . . . and different types of trees are dedicated to their own deities and these relationships are kept for all time" (Pliny 164). The myrrh is valued for its fragrance, although there are conflicting interpretations of its traditions. Limiting ourselves to biblical symbolism, we recall that myrrh was one of the gifts offered to the infant Jesus by the Magi; there is also the story that "wine mingled with myrrh" was offered to Jesus as a pain killer during the crucifixion, and myrrh is also used to anoint the bodies of the dead (Mercatante 3). With reference to the status and value of cinnamon, Pliny tells us that "Arabia has neither cinnamon nor cassia, but nevertheless enjoys the epithet 'Happy'—a false and ungrateful title . . .", since cinnamon, he says, grows in Ethiopia, where the right to sell this commodity is granted by the "king of the Gebbanitae" (Pliny 170). Belonging also to the inventory of any hortus conclusus is the reference to water, the "fuente", and Dicastillo has not neglected to add this feature to the outdoor prayer to the Virgin Mary, referring to her as "pozo" and "fuente", as did Gonzalo de Berceo in his "Introducci6n" to the Milaaros de Nuestra Senora: 212 "Ella es dicha fuent de qui todos bevemos" (35) and "Entramos en grand pozo, fondo nol trovaremos . . . " (42). All in all, when looking at all the qualities mentioned in connection with the various plants of Dicastillo's garden, one finds that with the exception of "palma" and "oliva", the one outstanding quality that unites the remaining plants is that of fragrance; be it balsam, myrrh, cinnamon, lily, rose, or cypress, all are known for their odoriferous qualities, be they sweet-smelling, spicy, or pungent. The poet combines this aspect of the scented plants by calling Mary, to whom all these plant names applied, and who is the recipient of all these attributes, the "planta olorosa", the summa summarium of all fragrance, superseding all gardens in quality and perfection. 4.1.6 "Campafta" After the monks' visit to the "campo", and their "visit" in prayer to the hortus conclusus of the Virgin, they return to their "dulce albergue desseado", happy, content, and "cada cual de si mismo acompaftado"; there, the poet "alegre y satisfecho", goes to seek his rest, after a day of visiting, companionship, conversation and enjoyment in God's garden of free nature. At the monastery, the cherished place of communal belonging, the poet, however, is not cut off altogether from the outside world, as he is able to maintain visual contact with the surroundings from the monastery's "corredores" 213 ya mi albergue me ofrece corredores . . . para ver descublerta la campana . . . (61). From there, he can observe the wide-open landscape, as well as the people working in it. He sees the rows of vines that seem to him like "soldados / de verdes plumas coronados"; he mentions the olive trees growing "fuertes y lozanos", and once again there are the "troncos de Alcides", the poplar trees, according to Virgil, the trees dearest to Alcides (Virgil 81) growing along the "verdes mSrgenes". In a play with words, he summarizes the vista before him, using a parallel construction, contrast, and anaphora as his stylistic devices: Ya de fecundos Srboles los setos, ya de plantas est^riles los sotos . . . (61). He sees thus the "prados", the "sembrados", and the "fuentes", all anthropomorphized in their human actions of "reyr", "murmurar", and "responder". From his vantage point he can hear "Filomena", chief staple of every beautiful garden; he sees the "labrador"; and he looks at the "prado" which seems to him "un liengo verde dilatado", where nature's brush "asienta los colores", and he ends this long poem with a finale that summarizes the essence of all things seen. All the "campos, sotos y las aves, los rios, selvas, Srboles y fuentes", strive to speak out to him "con lengua perceptible" as if to tell him to look and observe 214 como se passa todo sin que se advierta, ni perciba el modo (63). Everything before him seems to be one well-ordered system, where each phenomenon is happening in a preordained fashion: Aurora, golden sun, morning, afternoon, then night following the afternoon, the day followed by the week, the month, years and "luceros", centuries, ages, eventually becoming eternities, at the end of which he realizes humbly that there is no special place for man among men, because . . . iguales, somos 6 Silvio, todos los mortales. (64). 4.2 Sounds and Silence in the Garden 4.2.1 Silence and Solitude The poet tells us that within the community of Aula Dei, silence is a prime observance, in accordance with the Pax et tranquilitas of the Carthusian monasteries. Thus, once the silence motif is introduced in Aula de Dios. it is carried throughout the whole poem and becomes a recurrent leitmotif. Although the first reference to silence is not introduced until page nine of the poem, when the "gallardos ciparisos" stand guard at the entrance to Aula Dei and "con mudo silencio" remind the pilgrim to pay reverence to this honourable place, it soon becomes clear that the reader is about to enter a world of 215 peaceful calm. The line "los passes suspende al caminante" (9) suggests the atmosphere's capability of even "silencing" the steps of the visitor, who is expected to stand in attentive and watchful observation at the treasure about to be revealed. The pilgrim is then reminded of the special aura reigning in this monastery, that "este lugar es santo", and that a visitor should arrive "con pie desnudo" and "entre lo mudo" (10), and look in silence at all the "misterios" of the place and realize what fortune it means to find such a hospitable and beautiful "albergue" in this lonely region, "en estas soledades". In the temple, the poet explains how the choir members, although singing together, are not permitted to speak to one another. While sharing each other's company "en tr^nsito tranquilo", the rule is such that they "alin no pueden hablarse con los ojos", donde fin tan alto se conguista ay silencio tambien para la vista (14). The rule of silence is so strict that even visual contact between the monks is "silenced". In the claustros the poet stresses that in order to maintain the obligatory silence, even the two waterspouts in the garden are now "surtidores mudos", and although it would be easy for the monks to open the taps, they too are requested to comply and support the rule of silence of the monastery, thus "ensenando a los m^rmoles silencio". Even those elements that are used to 216 "speak", due to their inherent nature, are all requested to be silent here: porque hasta el agua pura adonde todos callan no murmura, y donde hablar un hombre no se atreve atln la lengua del agua no se mueve (20). And, as if to emphasize in addition the imposition of silence, even inanimate objects, such as the waterspouts, appear to be wearing "hcibito de cartujo" and are thus, like the monks, obliged to hold their tongue and obey the rule of pax et tranquilitas. When standing at the sepulchre of the "viejo venerable", the poet describes how the "funestos cipresses" surrounding the urn are ornament, applause, and vigil, that guard their treasure—the relics of the beloved old man—"con silencio grave". When he speaks of the rose, the poet is pointing not to its attributes of beauty and scent, and as a symbol of love (although he refers to them in passing); rather, he focuses on the aspect of quiet given to the rose. Dedicated to the "mudo Harpocrates", it stands not only as a symbol of his silence, but also as an incentive for the poet to try to imitate this silence "con amor y reverencia" (29). When describing the life of the monks, the poet again refers to his home as "estas soledades", where "el solitario" feels happy and "calla voluntario". Although he, the prisoner of love, is suffering "penas que son gustosas", whereby the body may suffer, the soul, however, is in a state of rejoicing. He adds 217 the reason why those who dwell in Aula Dei should be proud of living there: Aula Dei has a very noble resident within its walls, since it is God Himself who dwells among the brothers, and He more than contributes to help the monks cope with the requirements of monastic life, making everything "dulce y apacible". Silence, however, is more than an obligation to obey a fixed rule; the poet sees it as a form of shelter for the soul and as a protector of virtue: por ser refugio al alma mSs seguro y ser de la virtud el fuerte muro (40). Since the "profundo silencio" is always "inviolable", words soon become superfluous, as whatever needs to be communicated to the group as a whole is done via the silent way of speaking, that is, by the written word, the "ruido informe de una tabla / interprete comtin, que a todos habla" (40) . The poet refers to this silent communal life with another play on words, expressing contrasting meaning in a parallel construction: Asl con sociedad lo Anacorito, asI con soledad lo Cenobito (40). Though they are all "anacoritas", religious "solitaries", they live as a community, that is, a society of hermits. At the same time, they live the communal monastic life as solitary individuals, each in his solitary cell. However, like the 218 architectural arrangement of the monastery complex, they are grouped around a centre, the church, that unites and binds them and holds their life together as a unit in which many solitudes form a spiritual community. When speaking of his own routine, which he calls a "soledad apetecida", where all personal activities take place in complete silence, the poet tells us that he takes his meals "sin ruido ni embarazo"; the only sound heard is that of the water which is joyfully asserting its presence with its "bullicio", gently interrupting the silence of his mealtime. Again he stresses how silence holds a higher purpose than that of a simple rule to be obeyed; he sees it as functioning as a protective shield: asi como, asI ceno, seguro (porque solo) del veneno de los murmuradores (49). These, he recalls, have also been banished from the table of St. Augustine (50). Silent also are the companions of his leisure time, the books which he calls "mudos maestros", although they have a great deal to say to him; in them he finds the "lecci6n sagrada" that makes his "soledad" more pleasant. Thus, books too reveal to the attentive and silent student a wealth of truths and secrets that help him endure and enjoy the silent and solitary life, making it yet more pleasant, and enriching him with worthwhile wisdom. 219 On Thursdays, after a day of taking leave of their "soledad acompaftada" and of their "solitaria compania", and after spending the afternoon with the people of the valley, they gather again quietly at the end of the day to begin their return to Aula Dei, thus settling once again into their individual as well as communal silence. As if to stress the soundless quality of all life around him, he tells us that "reyr veo los prados / responder sus sembrados" (62). That is, he sees, rather than hears, the meadows laugh, and he sees the fields respond in kind. He follows this observation with a summary of all his observations of the silence surrounding him, when in the same silent manner, that is, via speech without sound, he says: Siembro, trasplanto, riego, alino, cabo y en cada florecilla a Dios alabo (52). It is in this silent work that all of nature reveals its secrets to him, silently wordless, manifesting thus the workings of the hand of the Creator, speaking visually to the silent observer, offering itself to him, and inviting him to respond with praise and gratitude at the magnificence and splendour of God's creation. 4.2.2 Silence that Speaks: Sounds within the Silence Notwithstanding the many reminders of the rule of silence, there are in this poem countless appeals to the reader's auditory 220 sense. Be it when the poet introduces himself as one who speaks with the Melibean "ronca voz" to his friend Teodoro, or the reference to the river Ebro which "correr no puede sin hacer ruido", or when the poet refers to his own writing as "mi canto". There is also the 'canto de tantos Serafines uniformes", singing in "harmonia celestial" in the temple, with references to their 'dulces Coros", their 'voces", their "verso". The choristers are "cisnes", "mtisicos". As they sing the Psalms, "en lo sonoro Angeles son". They could easily be mistaken by a visitor for alabaster figures, were it not for the sound of their voices. Among the sounds in the "claustro", there are the nightingales which "dan al ayre sus penas", which converse with each other in song, and which "cantan sus amores". Then in the cemetery garden, there are the mournful cypresses that given "aplauso de dolor e sentimiento"; there is the echo of the name Zuncarren that "rimbomba claro", and whose "sonoro zumbido / hace blandas lisonjas al oido". There are sounds reaching even into the next world as the venerable old man buried there enjoys "eternos aplausos en los Cielos", a task in which the flowers are engaged as well, as they participate in the anthropomorphic exercise of giving "doliente aplauso . . . si oloroso" by forming a fragrant urn "de aromas construyda". In the poet's own garden there are repeated references to a "voice" that is as varied as the sound it is capable of making: the voice of water. The little brook running through his garden produces a "manso ruido"; it speaks "por la boca de una piedra"; 221 it has a "lengua de cristal", which is flattering ("lisonjeando"); it runs "tan risueno"; it praises the Lord, and invites the poet "con su voz suave" to join in its praise of the Creator. When leading his guest through the "huerto", the poet points to one type of fruit that "m^s alabe el apetito", meaning the adulatory "ciruelas", because they know how to "hablar al paladar de todos". And on one of his frequent digressions from the "tour" through Aula Dei, the poet makes reference to the Old Testament, where David "in acento sonoro . . . predixo en citara de oro" (37) the events to come. Even the poet's private life is filled with sounds, particularly birdsong, in spite of the wordless silence of the monastery. Like Fray Luis de Le6n, he awakens to the sound of the winged creatures' melody: "despierto pues con las cantoras aves" which, with their "dulces voces y suaves", seem to him like "citaras . . . volantes", turning the leaves into "instrximentos, cuando las mueve el delicado viento"; they are "organos de pluma" who praise divine providence "en acorde harmonia". The poet tells us how he shares with them the "sacros hymnos", and he turns once again to the sound of water and its "bullicio", so that it almost seems as if the birdsong wished to accompany the sound of water in interrupting the surrounding silence and in giving "gracias al Cielo". A further reference to sound, as well as to the already mentioned image of "ronca voz", is the poet's admission of having 222 opened his heart to the silent trees in times of personal difficulties: de mis querellas y gemidos roncos hize testigo a los duros troncos (56). During the Thursday excursions the poet mentions his joy over the permission to speak. He recalls his conversations with his friend, the old wise man; he tells of the call to prayer; and recounts how he, who used to "cantar versos de finezas humanas", after having found his true way, now no longer gives "vozes al viento". When stepping out onto the "corredores", he is again captured, like Fray Luis, by the sound of birds: "escucho de las aves / mcls vozes agudas, y otras graves"; he mentions how the birds are giving thanks to the Creator "en metrica harmonia", and how "haziendo al dolor salva", the nightingale con eguivocas vozes me enamora, pues entre dulces passes de garganta, injurias cuenta, guando agravios canta (62). And at the end of the poem, all the elements of nature he described seem to speak out, without words, yet "con lengua perceptible", as if to tell him how all the forces of nature are interconnected, forming part of a coherent and well thought-out system, guided by the omniscient hand of God. 223 Thus, although Aula Dei is known as a place of silence, "pax" and "tranquilitas', it appears that sounds are not banished altogether. Its gardens therefore are not silent gardens, but only "speechless" gardens, and speechless only insofar as the voice of man has not been suppressed in toto. but is permitted to appear only in its musical mode, or in the form of prayer. This implies that, at Aula Dei, whenever the voice of man is heard, be it in singing, chanting, or in prayer, it is exclusively a voice of gratitude and exaltation, proclaiming the glory of God. 4.3 Silent Voices of Praise and Admiration Many are the voices of praise in Aula de Dios. From the variety offered, I have selected the following four types: 1) Praise by nature - for nature; 2) Praise by nature - for man; 3) Praise by man - for God; and 4) Praise by nature - for God. 4.3.1 Praise by Nature—for Nature Of this type of praise, there are at least three occurrences, in which nature corresponds, or interacts, with other elements of nature, in admiration or in a kind of dependency, carried out by the "Pinos", the "jazmines", and the "girasol". When speaking of the "Pinos", the poet describes them as being so tall as if they wanted to see where the sun "sale . . . en su Orizonte", and he explains: 224 que aun a las plantas sirve de contento volver los ojos a su nacimiento (24). He sees the trees making an almost intentional effort of stretching their necks to see into the land of their origin. While this attempt to make contact with one's distant origin may not be directly a voice of praise, it serves nevertheless as a subtle and veiled admission of interest in, and of a sense of belonging to, a far away natural home, an action which can stand as a sign of respect and admiration of one element of nature for another. A further example of nature's affinity for another element is the action of the "girasol" in the poet's garden which, in absolute loyalty, follows its beloved sun con amoroso anhelo al movimiento de su Cielo (53). Conveying its love to the sun, and letting the surrounding world know its total submission, expressed with such complete devotion, it involves its whole being to the extent of manipulating its own structure to avoid losing sight of its beloved sun. As for the "castos jazmines" in which the poet sees the union of all virtues combined, he describes how, totally anthropomorphized, they express their love for each other: 225 pues como ellos se enlazan y mas con otras entre si abrazan (54). The jasmine flowers not only love their own kind but are "en las canas texidos", that is, they are also reaching out to embrace in love the species next to them. Thus, with the pine trees longing to see the land of their birth, with the sunflower offering total submission and loyalty to the ways of the sun, and the jasmine presented as an image of love and brotherhood among themselves and all its neighbours, the poet uses examples from nature—as an eiemplo to man—to hold before his eyes the various ways in which nature shows and demonstrates its love and respect for its own kind. 4.3.2 Praise by Nature—for Man Apart from nature's tribute to man in offering him its harvest, ("y en tributes / sus troncos nos ofrecen, y sus frutos"), nature's praise of man is concentrated mainly in the celebration of the memory of the "viejo admirable", and of the other brothers buried in the communal grave. There, in loving memory and "en vez de elogios y epitaphios", the sepulchre "produze flores misteriosamente", rather than telling of glorias in the manner of traditional epitaphs. There surely can be no greater compliment and response from nature to the memory of man, than to adorn the place of his departure from this earth with a burst of fragrant flowers, especially if they grow 226 "misteriosamente". It is Indeed a song of praise of nature to man, as the flowers growing there not only offer the visitor a visual representation of the virtues of the deceased, but together form a "habitacidn florida", a fragrant urn, a "monumento misterioso", all in honour and memory of the deceased. This organic post-script is thus a far more symbolic laudatio than all the "aplauso", "monumento" and "honour" given the departed. It is the "natural" response of nature to the buried men, as out of their ashes flowers have sprung. 4.3.3 Praise by Man—for God In addition to the various examples of praise of God, contained in the verses describing the temple, the choir, the tabernacle, the individual cells, and in meditation before artistic images—all of them being stations designed for this purpose—I have selected those images and expressions which appear in or through nature, where nature teaches man to follow its example in praising the creator. The first example of man's praise of God, via the elements of nature, comes by way of a lesson the poet learns from the "arroyuelo" in the "pensil" of Aula Dei. The poet feels that the brook, sent there by God, had a particular mission, which was to engage him into sharing his own activity: a mi me obliga con su voz suave a que tambi§n su providencia alabe (32). 227 Another example of praise, this time without intermediary, comes from the poet directly when he says y como para Dios no hay imposible todo lo vuelve dulce y apacible, pues es mi indigno pecho templo vivo de Dios, Sagrario estrecho (45). This of course recalls the words of St. Augustine: "What can we promise God except that we wish to be his temple? We cannot offer him anything more pleasant than to say to him in the words of Isaiah 26:13: 'Take possession of us'" (Rule 58). When alone, after returning from the weekly excursion to the village, the poet describes how during the night he was encouraged once again by a bird, "un Argos en vela", to give praise to the Lord. This bird was calling him "para que a Dios alabe", which he then does, and proceeds to the Choir to sing "de Dios la gloria". Another invitation to participate in God's praise comes from the birds that awaken him in the morning with their celebrative song, and he begins his day by joining them: Salgo a cantar con ellas en sacros Hymnos, las primeras Horas (44). Perhaps the greatest symbol of praise for God, as expressed by the poet, is his admission that everything he does in his garden 228 is carried out with a love of commitment and the intention to dedicate its results to the divine Creator: Siembro, trasplanto, riego, alino, cabo y en cada florecilla a Dios alabo (52). 4.3.4 Praise by Nature—for God Most tributes and laudations in honour of God come however from nature itself, as the following examples will show. Already at the beginning of the poem we are told that the orchards and gardens "aromas dan al Cielo"; then there is the brook already mentioned, in its role of "prompter" for the poet to participate in its praise of God, and later, this "rayo de plata" that spends all its time going from cell to cell, visiting hurriedly all the plants along the way, is also very busy "alabando al Senor", who "alll le embia". Then there are of course the "cantoras aves" who not only act as "citaras . . . volantes", but also manage to extract sounds from plants when the delicate breeze, created by their flight, brings forth sounds, thus making "de las ojas instrumento", and all in all, they are "6rganos de pluma", which in perfect harmony proclaim and praise "la divina providencia". A further reference to a bird's praise of God is expressed in the action of a bird which, "parlera", is engaged in "dSndole gracias al Cielo". It occurs to the poet that this bird is not only doing the proper thing in giving thanks to God, but he 229 realizes that such a small creature, by its example, has actually a great deal to teach to mankind when it comes to showing gratitude to the divine order and the Creator. Already mentioned in the section on man's praise to God was the "florecilla", which stands as a symbol of the grouped-together harvest of the poet-gardener's efforts. Each activity performed in this garden, be it seeding, transplanting, watering, and placement of plants, is done with love and hope of success. The success itself, the reward, symbolized by the "florecilla", is itself dedicated to the Creator with love and gratitude. The jazmin, already performing a function in nature's praise to man in the cemetery garden, here too has a leading role in the song of praise entoned by nature, and directed towards God. The poet describes how among the "fragantes ojas" of the beautiful carnation he notices "lenguas de jazmin" which, by combining their fragrance with that of the carnations, not only display their harmony by their mingling of scents, but are thereby also praising "de su Criador la gran soberania". At the end of the poem, it is once again a bird which functions as nature's voice in praising its creator. The poet, standing on the "corredores" overlooking the open landscape before him, is listening to the birds which en m^trica harmonla le dan las gracias al Autor del dia (62). 230 It would be difficult to find a more apt and felicitous title of praise to convey the appreciation of the created world for its "maker" than the designation "Autor del dla". Not only because this definition embraces every aspect associated with the passing of a single day, but because there is also the allusion to language itself. An author is one who works with language, who creates things by naming them, and this, in turn, brings to mind the Ursprung of all creation, that which existed at the very beginning of time: the Word. Conclusion: Voices of praise for the Creator The poet of Aula de Dios has invited his friend Teodoro to join him in a place he considers paradise on earth. In order to attempt to persuade him, he has described an existing world and environment in terms of the "ideal", where all is beauty, love and harmony, united by faith. The poet has borrowed from many fields of knowledge, so that the wisdom of nature, history, environment, literature, art and sculpture, horticulture, agriculture, Arcadia and Eden, all have contributed to his ideal vision of Aula Dei, and have assisted him in creating the paradisiacal world of his poem. The poem is a panegyric in several ways: on a national level, he is paying homage to the country of his birth and to the builder and founder of Aula Dei, Fernando de Aragon; on a personal level it is an encomium to his friendship with Teodoro; within a socio-religious context he shows admiration for his 231 communal environment of the Carthusian monastery as well as for its founder St. Bruno, and on a physical level, he praises his immediate environment including all the gardens of Aula Dei—pensiles, orchards, sepulchre, and his own—but most of all, he praises God the Creator throughout the pages of this work. As for the poem itself, it represents many things in one: description, a type of conversation containing "I-you" speech patterns; at times it turns into a "tableau", and at others it is the expression of his reflections on life and on death. On the whole, this epistolary poem could be seen as a "berichtende Ezaehlung" (reporting narrative), as well as a "szenische Darstellung" (a scenic description), and it has furthermore aspects of a prayer since it contains "DemutsformeIn", "Bitte um Beistand", encomia, although it contains no direct addressing of God. With regard to the leitmotif of Aula de Dios. one could say that the poet's main goal was to attract his friend to this monastery, so that throughout the poem, the leitmotiv is: "Aula Dei is a wonderful place to live. Come Silvio, come live with me here". Nevertheless, this theme seems subordinated to an even greater caption, governing the whole of his existence, including his dedication, his actions, his writing, and his gardening. As everything he does and achieves, all is dedicated to God, so that his praise of God could be called the umbrella leitmotif governing every one of his actions. 232 For an investigation into the elements of style he employed, see Aurora Egido, who has offered many examples with reference to parallelism, oxymoron, anaphora, chiasm, synesthesia, repetition, accumulation, etc. Suffice it here to say that the poet uses as narrative times his present life, offers flashbacks into history (national and personal), and he also offers glimpses into the future, be it with regard to his hoped-for life with his friend at Aula Dei, or of the more distant future in eternity, of which life at Aula Dei is presented as a pleasant foretaste, as a piece of paradise right here on earth. With Aula de Dios. Dicastillo has given his reader a view of nature that begins on the far horizon, moves through the valley to the monastery of Aula Dei, the buildings, the gardens, to the very individual flowers and fruit of the gardens inside the cloisters. After giving his friend the grand tour of his life and all that is connected with it, he returns his gaze to the open vista of the fields, now seen however from the inside of the monastery. Thus, the movement of the poem is from the horizon and its wide perspective to the innermost spiritual places. It then returns to the vastness of the open landscape, as if moving through the various eras of man's history. From the open vistas of the Renaissance pastoral landscape he moves inward, to the monastery based on medieval principles and laws, yet enriching it with a Baroque sensuousness and preciosity of detail. He then moves back to the open Renaissance pastoral view as seen from the "corredores", but now with a sense of security and belonging to 233 the "inside" of his place of perspective, the selected small and silent world of peace, togetherness, and the presence of God. The reader's view is directed originally to a distant panorama which originally comes from the outside, and eventually returns to it, but is now firmly anchored inside the walls of Aula Dei. The poet acknowledges that the width and breadth of Renaissance life and freedom do exist and are readily available for the curious seeker, and while they may perhaps be pleasant to enjoy in small portions (such as once every Thursday afternoon), they do however hold no temptation for a resident of Aula Dei. Therefore, while the poet's gaze may return to the vastness of the outside world, his mind is made up to remain, with heart and soul, inside the medieval monastic world and life of Aula Dei. The author has guided the reader through history and art, and has explored with him the extent of Aula Dei and its surroundings. After roaming world, fields, orchards, buildings and gardens, he has humbly come to realize and accept that, in spite of all the wealth and beauty of the world, all life is meaningless, if it is not lived with the intent and goal of salvation. At the end, all the sounds, and all the silences together unite in the great choir of nature, in which every part of it speaks almost audibly of the harmony of creation, where all is regulated and presided over by the invisible yet discernible hand of God. Thus, from the grandeur of the eternal snows of distant mountaintops, to the irrevocable nothingness of human existence; 234 out of a remote no man's land to a handful of meaningless ashes; from the waters and snows of yesteryear down to the dust of man's remains, the poet has reminded friend, reader, and himself, that all the beauty and grandeur he described is worthless if it is not dedicated to God, the maker of words and of worlds—the "Autor del dia". 235 NOTES 1. Miguel de Dicastillo, Aula de Dios. Cartuxa Real de Zaraaoza. con estudio preliminar de A. Egido (Zaragoza: Edici6n facslmil, 1978). 2. Aurora Egido, estudio preliminar. Aula de Dios. Cartuxa Real de Zaraaoza ^  by Miguel de Dicastillo (Zaragoza: Edici6n facslmil, 1978). 3. David Hugh Farmer, The Oxford Dictionary of Saints (Oxford: Oxford U.P., 1992). 4. Jameson, Legends of the Monastic Orders, quoted in Egido, p. 58. 5. Aside from the romantic and sexual connotations of the pomegranate, it has also been reported, according to Jewish as well as Christian folklore, of having nourished our first parents. And in more recent history, it is said that Henry IV took the pomegranate for his coat of arms, after the tradition of the Moorish kings of Granada, with the motto "sour, yet sweet", to indicate that, as in the example given by the fruit, in a good king, severity should be tempered with mildness (Mercatante 81). 6. Alonso de Herrera, Aaricultura general. ed. Eloy Terr6n (Madrid: Ministerio de Agricultura, 1988). 7. Quoted in Hans-Dieter Stoffler, Der Hortulus des Walahfrid Strabo: Aus dem Kraeutergarten des Klosters Reichenau (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1989). Regarding the function of the rose the following is said in this context: "Da die Rose im Hohen Lied und im Neuen Testament nicht erwaehnt wird, kam ihr vor Walahfrid in der christlichen Literatur nicht die gleiche Bedeutung wie der Lilie zu. Vor allem war sie damals nicht Christussymbol." (Note 112) : "Vor Walahfrid wird Maria nur in der griechischen patristischen Literature einmal bei Johannes von Damaskus mit der Rose verglichen" (Strabo 46) . "Von der antiken Ueberlieferung her aber war sie die Blume des Fruehlings and und des Paradieses, zudem Schmuck der Toten. Bald aber gait das Rot der Rose als Ausdruck des fuer Christus vergossenen Blutes der Martyrer. Von Walahfrid wird sie daher zu Recht als 'Blume der Blumen' bezeichnet, die alle anderen an Kraft und Duft ueberfluegelt haben soil" (Strabo 46). 8. Anthony S. Mercatante, The Magic Garden (New York: Harper, 1976). 236 9. "Die Lilie bedeutet Christus, welcher im Hohenliede sagt: 'Ich bin die Blume des Feldes und die Lilie der Taeler', Cant. II, und "urn zu weiden in dem Garten und Lilien zu sammeln', als wenn er sagen wollte: ich bin eine Zierde der Erde und ein Ruhm der Niedrigen, er, der von seiner Braut sagt: 'so wie eine Lilie unter den Dornen, so ist meine Freundin unter den Maedchen', Cant. I, 'weil der Schnee ihrer Reinheit durch Truebsale erprobt wird'." (Strabo 32). 10. Pliny the Elder, Natura1 History. trans. John F. Healy (London: Penguin, 1991). 11. Dictionary of the Bible, ed John L. McKenzie (New York: MacMillan Publishing Company, 1965. 237 CHAPTER V Love and Restraint in the Garden: The Presence of the Female in Soto de Rojas' Paralso cerrado para muchos. iardines abiertos para pocos In contrast to the contemplative and peaceful garden of Miguel de Dicastillo in Aula de Dios. * the paradise described by the Grenadine poet Pedro Soto de Rojas is a dynamic place full of activity and movement. In his work Paralso cerrado para muchos. iardines abiertos para pocos ^ , the poet describes a series of seven gardens, located in the Albaicln, the former Arabic quarter of Granada, and as in the case of his 17th-century fellow-poet and compatriot, the natural environment evoked in these gardens does not spring from fantasy or imagination, but stems from real gardens which the poets are not only describing, but which both poets are calling their home. The poet and cleric Soto de Rojas began his literary career as a traditionalist following the Italianizing trend of the 16th-century style in poetry, yet within his preference for Petrarch and Garcilaso there are noticeable traces already of his future style which announce his famous mannerist phase (Felten 475). ' Born in 1584, Soto de Rojas belongs to the second generation of 17th-century poets—comprising those born around 1580—and including those poets who followed in the footsteps of their great model, Luis de Gongora. While a detailed analysis of gongoristic elements in Soto de Rojas' poetry would reach far beyond the scope of this study, there 238 are several elements in the Grenadine poet's work that are definitely not gongoristic: 1. the idea of seeing the poem as painting; 2. the artifice of nature; 3. Soto's recognized 'preciosismo'; and 4. what Juan Manuel Rozas calls the 'religiosidad' of his work (Rozas 101). * Soto de Rojas' preciosity, one of his most distinguishing features, has been connected with that of the Italian mannerist poet Marino, whose Adone may well have had a major influence on Soto's later work, to the extent even of his being accused of plagiarism (Rozas 93). And as a further preciosista element in Soto's work connecting him to Marino is the "manera de construir las fibulas mitol6gicas: amplificando el modelo grecolatino del tema central hasta el infinite con elementos decorativos" (Rozas 102). This becomes evident when looking at his poetic output, as from the four books of poetry he produced (Desenqano de amor en rimas. written 1611, published 1623; Los rayos de Faeton. written before 1628, published 1639; Adonis, published 1652; Paralso cerrado para muchos. iardines abiertos para pocos. published 1652), three of them show the presence of abundant mythological material. While Desenqano concerns itself with the theme of love and disillusion, and still belongs to the phase of the "Soto blando" (Rozas 97), the Rayos de Faeton and Adonis, both mythological poems, already belong to the time of the 'Soto intricado', as does the Paralso. The difference is that in the Paralso. the mythological material is subordinated to the 239 "tema descriptivo-paisajistico" (Bermtidez-Canete 110) . ' The theme of nature and its detailed description has gained great influence during the Baroque to the extent that it begins to sobrepasar la figura humana e incluso a prescindir de ella, desde el cuadro de paisaje al bodegdn, cuyo equivalente es el tipo de poema descriptive sin personajes, al que pertenece . . . el Paralso. (Bermtidez 110) . Given the fact that Soto's paradise is a place from which the human element has been banned, it might be interesting to see what has replaced the presence of man in this idealized enclosure. This study will examine the presence of the female figure, either physically present or alluded to literally, throughout the series of the seven gardens, and by focusing on the choices the poet has made, an attempt is made to determine or speculate on his preferences with reference to the female character, that is, the type of woman, her relationship to the men connected with her, and what her function in the garden might represent to the poet himself. It is hoped that, from the data found, conclusions can be drawn that will allow us to connect the information with the poet's personal life, thus enabling the reader to gain some insight into the poet's reasons for his voluntary seclusion from contemporary life and society. 240 The poet begins the description of his gardens in a traditional topical manner: the invocation of the Muses, and the localization of his paradise. From the onset, we hear of 'murallas', 'ruinas', 'historia', 'almohadas', 'turbantes', 'media luna', 'cerro antiguo', all of which refer to the geographical location of his property, on the hills of the Albaicin in Granada, where he is facing to his left the walls and historical buildings of the former Moorish castle of the Almohades, the Alhambra. It is interesting that he refers to the 'cerro antiguo' as having a 'cabeza fea'. BermUdez explains this inclination in taste as a choice particular to the 17th-century which "necesita el artificio de los jardines para encontrar bella la naturaleza, y rechaza sus formas salvajes" (Bermtidez 114) . While this point is valid and well-taken, one might perhaps add that, given the particular geographical location of Soto's paradise—looking directly at the red stone walls of the Alhambra—he could also have referred to the 'cabeza fea' of a hilltop that houses the ruins of a former Arab castle, which, declared as non-Christian, could have presented an offensive view to a Christian and cleric living in the turmoil and fervour of a return to sterner forms of Christian religiosity. Bermtidez also points out that these ruins, which the poet sees as 'periodos tristes', 'amargos fragmentos', and particles of an 'horrenda historia', are a reminder of the cruelty of time, and of the transitoriness of life (BermUdez 241 114). What is important here is the fact that real time, that is, the play of life that takes place within a certain duration or period, seems to exist only outside the poet's garden, as inside his paradise the world seems motionless and timeless, mythical and stoic. Soto thus begins with an historical time frame, to set the place and to build an historical stage for the background and contrast to his garden, while inside its walls timelessness rules, as universal themes are played out before the visitors' eyes and ears and non-historical battles are fought. All along there is this sense of removal from reality, actual time and actual places, since we are in a dream world, protected by strong walls from reality. Within this dream-garden there is a further gate staffed by an angel with a flaming sword, guarding the entrance to the 'paraiso'. 5.1 Mansiones 1-7 After working his way through the outer mythological-historical layer, and after having entered the stone wall to the inside of the garden, the reader-visitor is now faced with a further barrier, as Soto lets everyone know in no uncertain terms what exactly it is we are dealing with here: This is a "Paraiso cerrado" (v. 100), and it is guarded by a "cherubin enojado" (v. 102). The guardian angel is annoyed because he already had to perform the unpleasant task of banning the unlawful, the "inobedientes" from this reserve of the chosen 242 few. Here then is the first allusion to a female figure present in his garden, as the "inobedientes" are of course Adam and Eve, who, according to Trillo, * are located in a nicho en que estSn nuestros primeros padres con la fruta en las manos, y sobre el capitel y una vistosa peana est^ el Angel con la espada en la mano, representando toda aguella primera accion del Paralso (Egido 86). ' Thus, coincident with biblical chronology, Soto has given the place of the first woman actually present in his garden to Eve, first woman and first sinner on earth. The next female protagonist stands in strong contrast to Eve. Soto speaks of an "alfombra" shaped by the 'tisera' with the motif of the "dulce inocencia" (v. 147) which refers to the "tres cuadros de Jestis, Maria y Jos6, de brdtano y sopillo y tomillo." (86). Soto praises the image, calling it "pureza entera", "castidad", and "tanta hermosura", referring thereby to the Holy Family, where the Virgin Mary is the traditional bearer of attributes such as purity and chastity. She is the pure and virtuous virgin who was visited by the Holy Ghost and became the mother of Jesus, and thus closest to God, due to her purity, patience and sympathy for hxoman suffering. As if to emphasize the beauty, innocence and immaculate chastity associated with Mary, the poet now points to Ciparisio and lets him clothe the two naked people of the Old 243 Testament paradise: the "desnudo reo" and his "deliciosa compafiera" (v. 165). Trillo refers to this second mentioning of the inhabitants of the first paradise in a different context. No longer made of stone, standing apart in a 'gruta', Adam and Eve form here part of the 'creaci6n del mundo', made of pieces of 'cipr^s'. Ovid gives the origin of this tree in his Meta-morphoses . * where Cyparissus, "a boy loved by Apollo", made friends with and took special care of a majestic deer in the pasture of the Carthaean Field. One day Cyparissus unknowingly kills his pet deer and after learning of his error is so unhappy that he wanted to die. Apollo changes him into a cypress tree and says: You whom I weep for, shall share grief with others. And you shall stand wherever mourners are. (Metamorphoses X 278). Given the recurrent motif in Soto's poetry of the unhappy, unsuccessful or punished lover, it remains to be seen whether this choice of tree for the figures represented in his garden will have any special significance, or whether the cypress is merely one of a limited number of trees available in this particular site and region. Also made of cypress is the dancing couple mentioned by Trillo; he describes the two figures as "hombre y mujer, de cipr^s, que parece estar bailando y regocij^ndose de haber llegado al puerto . . .". Comparing this description with 244 Soto's poetry and taking into account some critics' interpretations, the identity of the couple alluded to here is unclear. Aurora Egido seems to think that the dancing couple belongs to the section of the poem where Ciparisio is clothing "al desnudo reo y su deliciosa companera" (Egido 102), but according to Trillo's description, the pair appears after the description of the 'piezas de cipr6s' (which include Adam and Eve), and after the "navio de mirtos frescos" v. 193. Thus, by trying to match Soto's verse with Trillo's descriptive sequence, it seems more likely that the dancing couple refers to the "patr6n galante' who "a anciana esposa con regocijo llega, / y el gran tesoro de la paz le entrega" (v. 201) and not to the "desnudo reo y su deliciosa companera". Besides, the question remains unanswered as to why the man is a culprit ('reo'), and why he is naked ('desnudo'), and why his companion's influence on him had such dire consequences "que influjo vil de apetitosa esfera / con dulce hSlago tierno, / de femenil insulto, / quiere introduzca entre golosas mieles / duro aguijon eterno . . .". It seems rather that the above lines are a fitting description of Adam and Eve, the first sinners, naked, seduced by 'dulce halago', and punished to the extreme, especially when a few lines later mention is made of the instigator of their downfall, the "sierpe cautelosa". The question remains, however, as to who the "patr6n galante" and his "anciana esposa" are who are dancing outside the gates of paradise. 245 If, as Trillo says, "toda esta primera mansion" represents "historicamente el Paralso", it becomes also clear that it begins with the juxtaposition of innocence and sin, as incorporated in the representative female figures, as both archetypes are present in this garden: Eve, the first female sinner, and Maria, symbol of innocence, chastity and purity. Contrary to chronological sequence, the first hximan figures one encounters in the garden are males, belonging to the New Testament ('Cristo', 'el Bautista', 'un serafin teniendo las vestiduras de nuestro Redentor' [85], while the Old Testament figures of Adam and Eve are mentioned in second place. Thus, Soto first introduces the presence of two members of the Holy Trinity ('Cristo', 'el Sagrado Espiritu') involved in the ritual of Baptism, the symbol of entry into the Christian life, and only then refers back to the events of the Old Testament, the first man and woman, the introduction of sin which was brought upon mankind through their disobedience. The next group of people, Jestis, Maria, Jos6, 'de brotano y sopillo y tomillo' brings a flashback to the beginnings of the New Testament, the birth of Christ, followed by a further appearance of Adam and Eve, made of cypress, which is different from their first emergence, as now the 'Eterno Padre' is present as well. Although Trillo mentions only the presence of Eve, Maria, and the dancing woman, Soto increases the pallet of female characters by alluding to and naming several additional 246 characters, either through invocation or allusion so that, before opening the gates to paradise, the poet, via his long introduction, has built a mythico-cultural background behind the characters that are actually present in his garden. He begins his poem with an invocation of Clio, Muse of History, ;oh Clio glorioso! . . . [sic] mientras le ofreces a mi dulce pluma, de obras de tanto actor, peguefia svima (V. 16-19) Then, in passing, he mentions Cleopatra, but not without hinting at her turbulent life of love and politics, of which the poet seems to disapprove. This controversial woman of the first century B.C. was noted for her governing skills, her ambition, her charm and her wit, and is well known for her amorous liaisons with Julius Caesar and Hark Antony. She was engaged in, as well as victimized by, several assassination plots within her own family, murdering one of her husbands, suffering the death of her son, as well as Caesar's assassination. Cleopatra proved to be so seductive to Mark Antony that he followed her to Egypt and divorced his wife to marry her. When he was killed in battle, she committed suicide, thus putting an end to a very turbulent career and life (Lass 53) . ' With reference to the "bilsamo por Cle6patra mal seguro" (v. 54), Aurora Egido mentions that balsam is named in the Song of Songs, but does not connect it to Soto's 247 verse. She does explain however that "el de la cumbre de Gelboe" refers to the area famous for "la derrota de Saul", that is, Saul's last campaign against the Philistines in which he and his sons were killed (McKenzie 310) , '° while the 'balsam' could well be the balm of Gilead "the aromatic resin obtained from the mastix tree . . ., a bushy evergreen which grew in Palestine . . . used for healing purposes, and mentioned by Jerome (8:22; 46:11). It was also known to be included in the gifts of Jacob to the Pharaoh (Gn 43:11), and was known to be one of the exports of Palestine (McKenzie 78, 310). Gilead was not included in the ideal vision of a restored Israel (Ezk 47:18) and was alluded to twice as a city of evildoers (Ho 6:8, 12:12). Given this information, it appears that no matter what the connection is between Cleopatra, the balsam, and Gilead, the impression one is left with, be it regarding the Egyptian queen, or the home of the famous balsam, seems to be negative, and places Cleopatra within the range of her female counterparts in Soto's garden, on the side of Eve, rather than on that of Mary. The last literary allusion to a female character, before meeting the actual presence of Eve, refers to Astrea when the poet says: Hija de Temis, una, la mas bella, a quien nieto de Tindaro bizarro luciente sirve de galcin bracero, a esta. Titan de su balcdn primero. 248 humllde galantea, solicito la asiste, la pasea, antes que oprima el encendido carro. (V. 66-72). Themis was one of the Elder Gods, the original twelve Titans, consisting of six male and six female members, all children of Uranus and Gaia (Lass 251). Aside from being Goddess of Justice, she was also one of the seven wives of Zeus with whom she engendered, among others, the virgin Astrea (Egido 98). This star-maiden, which is the meaning of her name, lived on earth during the Golden Age. When it came to a close she was placed among the stars in the form of the constellation Virgo (Hamilton 324). " Aurora Egido explains that Astrea, standing in the sign of Virgo, "significa el dia" and that therefore, "todo el fragmento seria una descripci6n del sol que inunda la Mansi6n primera desde el amanecer" (98). Ovid calls her mother Themis "the soul of justice" (257), and "queen of oracles" (40), and it appears that her daughter by Zeus has inherited the same title. Goddess of Justice. It is only now, after the allusion to Clio, Cleopatra, Themis and Astrea, that the poet introduces the first physical female character in his garden. Eve, followed by Maria, and that after his long circumscription, the tour of the gardens begins with these two significant figures out of the Old and New Testaments. 249 Before leaving "Mansidn primera", Soto introduces one more fictitious character, who keeps recurring throughout the seven gardens of his paradise: the Naya: "Naya que viene a festejar las flores" (v. 256). Aurora Egido explains that this refers to the "fuente hecha de azulejos y de las 17 cafterlas de agua" (105), where he alludes to the Naya "ninfa del agua . . y slmbolo, como las hamadrlas, del curso del agua en el que habitan" (105). These water nymphs are minor female deities who are usually associated with springs, rivers and lakes, and they are generally represented as beautiful maidens of eternal youth, who are of a friendly disposition to human beings. Given the necessity of water in southern regions in general, and for passionate gardeners in particular, and given the fact that these virginal creatures are not only beautiful but also delightful and non-threatening to mankind, there is no doubt that the Nayas occupy a preferential seat in Soto's garden gallery of women. All in all, this first garden is one of the more populated of all the seven gardens of Soto's paradise, with a notable presence of female characters, real or evoked, all showering the reader-visitor with moral and ethical cues, thus setting the stage and expectations for the remainder of the gardens. To the right of the first garden lies the Mansi6n segunda, "cubierta con quietud" (v. 268). The historical world 250 has been all but left behind now and what begins here is the play of mythological characters in a setting of water, birdsong, plants, and flowers. In Trillo's description there are no figures mentioned, only "arcos y mesas de jazmines, y unos vistosos parrales", and a "fuente de penascos" representing "dos galeras de metal, combatiendo un Castillo . . . todo de agua arrojadiza" (87). Bermddez sees the arrangement of this garden as an attempt at a "recogimiento umbrlo anSlogo al jardin drabe, y con su mismo interes por el espectSculo y la musicalidad del agua en movimiento" (116), whereby a central fountain is surrounded by organic walls and canopies of honeysuckle, and archways of jasmine. Aside from naming the 'fuente de penascos' as "de las Nayas palacio, que silencio y quietud guardan la Have" (v. 288), a minor reference to feminine role-play is contained in Soto's description of the fountain and its 'galeras de metal' and 'castillos roqueros', involved in a battle of waterjets, where Mars, God of war, is in charge of the 'batallantes.' They are 'feroces' and 'non lucrinas', meaning that they are disciples of Mars and not of Lucrina, which is another name for Venus, Goddess of love and beauty (Egido 108). Soto also calls her "la Citerea diosa" (v. 348), an allusion to Cythera, the famous island in the Ionian Sea which competes with Cyprus for the honour of being home of Aphrodite when she rose from the sea-foam out of which she was created. 251 Both places are centres of worship in her honour (Zimmerman, 78) . 12 It is said that "where she trod, flowers and grasses grew", but that she did not take kindly to being refused in her powers (although she rejected Zeus himself as a potential lover), and Ovid warns: Remember Venus, who takes fearful toll of those who wear hard hearts in human bodies (404). It seems rather courageous, then, that a little water-nymph called Syrinx should refuse Venus' blessing of love, as Soto alludes to the story of Syrinx and Pan: Sarc6fago florido, tSlamo delicioso de Cupido, termino dulce a su fatal carrera, hall6 Siringa aqui, ya no ligera. Y en siiave certamen, no contienda —que a cada luz la perdon6 rendida—, desafia olorosa, Candida, permanente, bien prendida, a la purpurea ofrenda, que en ara religiosa recibe alegre la Citerea diosa. (v. 338-348). As Ovid tells us in the story of Pan and Syrinx, Syrinx was a famous hamadryad of Nonacris who, due to her beauty and 252 her bird-like voice had many suitors. She managed to escape them all and it is said that "she slipped through clutches of most nimble satyrs" (Ovid 51). One day, the God Pan attempted to speak to her, but she, "shaken at the sight of Pan behind her" (51) ran off and begged her sister hamadryads to transform her "into less alluring shape to hasty gods like Pan". This they did, and when Pan caught up with her realized that "as he seized her held a sheaf of reeds" (51). Although Pan was known to be a "lusty, playful god: sex was his principal diversion" (Stapleton 171), "he sighed at her transformation into 'caiias' and consoled himself by making plaintive music on an instrument made from reeds, the syrinx. It appears thus that Syrinx not only defied Pan, but Cupid and Venus as well by escaping the "tilamo delicioso de Cupido" (v. 339), and by refusing to sacrifice at the altar of the Cit^rea Diosa. Syrinx was a follower of the chaste Diana, because She envied, imitated the virgin attitudes of Queen Diana— Her dress, her manner, all but the goddess' Golden bow was hers, and some few lovers Mistook her for Diana. . . (Metamorphoses 51). She preferred to be transformed into a plant in order to keep her chastity, rather than taking directions from a goddess who not only was notorious for her unfaithfulness to 253 her own husband, but who also had many lovers, and was the mother of many children, most of them sired by different fathers. It appears that Syrinx's refusal to listen to Venus, and instead become a follower of Diana would seem to be an attitude that Soto might find laudatory, as it almost seems that his women in the garden tend to fall into one of two categories: worshippers of Venus, or upholders of chastity and thus followers of Diana. Soto's third Mansion represents the shortest of all seven passages, with only 82 verses (v. 349-431). Beginning with Trillo, there is little the critics have to say regarding this garden. Trillo mentions only that it contains "frutales excelentes, parrales, paredes de naranjos, limones, hortalizas y varias flores y plantas . . . " (87). Once again there are no human figures named, and even Soto's poetic allusions are restricted to the characters of Pomona, Vertumnus, and Bacchus. In these "ricos presidios de apacible sombra" (v. 355), the "tSlamos abundantes" of Pomona and Vertiomnus are "mesas . . siempre llenas, siempre (ifanas" (v. 354) . The place is shady and pleasant, protected by "verdes gigantes" who, covered in spring sunshine, keep out the summer's heat; the "mesas siempre llenas" offer an abundance of products ("tiernos granates", "Bergamota", "membrillo", "pomas gigantes", "alberchigo", and the "persigo dorado"). In this garden dedicated to Pomona, Vertumnus, and Bacchus, there is little to detract the reader's attention 254 from the organic world of Pomona's kingdom, and most products described are elements of the "dulce copia", the fruitful harvest she brings to earth. Other deities mentioned, aside from Pomona and Vertiomnus are Aurora, Bacchus, and a brief reference is made to Neptune. With the "hijo femoral de Jove augusto" (v. 389), referring to the grapevine, allusion is made to Bacchus, and this brings to mind the fate of Bacchus' mother Semele. As for the violence connected with the birth of Bacchus, Aurora Egido refers to Euripides' version of the myth, according to which Bacchus' mother Semele "lo arroj6 de su seno cuando estaba en el sexto mes del embarazo" (111). This excerpt casts a somewhat shady light on Semele as being a perpetrator of family violence and of killing or treating unkindly her own flesh and blood in a state of frenzied anger. Other sources, including that of Ovid, show more kindness towards her and present her not as a violator of her own children, but as a victim of the wrath of the forever jealous Hera. According to the saying "None lived long who strove with Gods" (Hamilton 54), the Theban princess Semele soon found out its meaning, as she was considered "the most unfortunate woman of all those Zeus fell in love with" (Hamilton 54). During the time she was pregnant with Zeus' son, Bacchus, Zeus promised to grant her any wish she may have. Following Hera's malicious advice, she asked to see him in his full splendour as Ruler of Heaven and Lord of the Thunderbolt. Hera, as well as Zeus, 255 knew that no mortal could survive such force, but Zeus had no choice since he was committed by the oath he swore. He did as she had asked and Semele perished in his "awful glory of burning light" (55). Ovid explains how Bacchus was saved: The unborn child, ripped from its mother's womb Was nourished (so some said) until its birth Sewn in the hollow of its father's thigh" (Metamorphoses 94). Bacchus, however, longed for the mother he had never seen and undertook great efforts trying to find her; he even undertook the frightening descent to the lower world in search of her. After rescuing her from death, he brought her back but not to live on earth. He took her up to Olympus, where the gods consented to receive her as one of themselves, a mortal, indeed, but the mother of a god and therefore fit to dwell with immortals. (Hamilton 56). It is therefore most unlikely that Bacchus would have honoured his mother in such a way, had she tried to kill him before he was even born. Back in the "ricos palacios" of Soto's garden, all is quiet, as a peaceful calm supports the silent shade. Pomona is in her element as the care of a good keeper is noticeable everywhere. After all, according to Ovid, Pomona 256 . . . literally bloomed at raising flowers; She had a 'green touch' and made fruit trees bear . . . Her one delight was tending fields and orchards; Each orchard was her private nursery: no tree went thirsty, every root was watered; Each held her love, her care. . . . (402) Pomona had no interest in wild things, be it in nature or in man; she did not love the wild woodland but preferred to take care of orchards and enjoyed everything related to the gardener's art (Hamilton 285). In her private life, she shunned the company of men and favoured the company of her beloved trees over that of her suitors. She was wooed by Pan, Priapus and Silenus, but with her chaste attitude towards extra-horticultural activities, she managed to escape Venus' tricks for the longest time, until Vertumnus fell seriously in love with her. But his efforts to win her favour seemed doomed as well. Milton uses Pomona's constancy in remaining free from carnal involvement, when wanting to portray the innocence of the initial pre-lapsian Eve when he says: "Likeliest she seemed Pomona when she fled Vertvimnus" (Zimmerman 286). As for Vertumnus, he was the Roman god of changing seasons, gardens and orchards, capable of transforming himself into any form or shape. Vertumnus used many disguises in trying to win her love, but what got her attention was an argument relating to 257 her own field of activity, when Vertxamnus pointed to an elm tree over which grew a vine heavy with fruit and said: "How lovely they are together, and how different they would be apart, the tree useless and the vine flat on the ground unable to bear fruit. Are not you like such a vine? You turn from all who desire you. You will try and stand alone" (Hamilton 286). And he convinced her that there was someone who did not search for a superficial amorous diversion but who wanted a stable, lasting and reliable relationship, someone who would work by her side, taking care of orchards and gardens with her, because "He has a liking for all things that please you" (Ovid 404). He did persuade her finally, and since then, Pomona's orchards had two gardeners, both enjoying "talamos abundantes" in Soto's paradise. But aside from her caring interest in her garden work, an interest shared by the poet-gardener Soto, Pomona and Soto had another predilection they shared: privacy and solitude: To keep crude country lovers out of reach. She locked her garden gates against mankind. (Ovid 403). Like Soto, who kept his paradise closed to the multitudes, Pomona believed in keeping in, and safeguarding, what is worth protecting, and in keeping out what could bring potential problems to the harmony within the garden or the gardener. Perhaps Soto was aware of the teachings of Marcus Aurelius who discovered that 258 the needs of a happy life are very few. . . . Live out your days in untroubled serenity, refusing to be coerced though the whole world deafen you with its demands. . . . Nothing can prevent the mind from possessing itself in peace. . . . (Meditations 117). And like Marcus Aurelius, Soto and Pomona have decidedly refused to be "passion's puppet" (110); living in "simplicity and self respect" they all share an "indifference to everything outside the realms of virtue or vice" (110). There is one other female character in this garden and later, in Mansion five, to whom Soto makes allusion. In both cases, the context and the connotations are positive. When speaking of the goddess of the dawn, Aurora, he refers to her as "la apacible Aurora" (v. 409), and later makes offerings to her (v. 964). Soto seems to be following here in the footsteps of Ovid who made but favourable comments about Aurora: See how Aurora shines and shadows vanish (61). When swift Aurora in her golden car brings us tomorrow . . . (89). 259 . . . as when Aurora Flushes the sky with red and the sky pales To gold when sun goes up, . . . (164). Though all my talents are of feminine gifts, I never fail to turn each night to morning, I never fail to give each day new colours. (368). Perceive how darkness turns to purest light. Midnight to morning, then the blazing Sun; . . . Or when Aurora comes to wake the morning in tint of roses to receive the sun. (419). Aurora too was a character who loved and somehow paid a price for it. She married Priam's brother, Tithonius and bore him a son Memnon, who became one of the heroes of the Trojan war. He was killed by Achilles, as Ovid relates: For she, the brilliant mother of bright Memnon, Had seen him fall on Trojan battlefield Pierced by Achilles spear. And now where skies Once glowed like rose-red wine at early morning. The air turned grey in cloudy wilderness. (367). 260 It is said that the tears she shed over the loss of her son turned into the dew drops of early dawn, and when the first rays of dawn fall upon the statue erected in honour of Meinnon, "a sound came from it like the twanging of a harpstring." Thus, aside from the pearly freshness Aurora offers to the world each morning, she stands as the quintessence of light itself, bringing colour, clarity, dispelling darkness and shadows, and is thus a welcome guest in everyone's life and garden. When reaching the fourth Mansion, we find ourselves on the highest point of the garden, as from Mansion number five, a gradual descent begins. Trillo mentions this garden as containing "un espacioso estanque, lleno de peces, con dos estatuas de jazmin" (87) which represent Neptune "con un tridente en la mano", and Anfitrite holding a golden "caracol" in the right hand. The walls of this garden are covered with "limones, naranjas, jazmines y mosquetas" and the entrance to this Mansion are covered by four arches of "limones y naranjas". This garden seems to have a special significance for Soto. Not only has he given it the highest elevation of his garden, and by being the fourth of seven gardens it also holds the numerical centre of the whole structure, but it also conveys an image of balance and inner peace, experienced and described by the poet on the occasion of his visits to this very location. He reassures the reader 261 que slempre estS seguro, gulen tlene al cielo por defensa y muro. (V. 437-8). He then goes on to evoke an atmosphere of calmness and repose when speaking of "luces bellas", "esta paz", "mis pasiones rendidas", "espiritu claro", "concordia", "amistad", so that it is quite understandable that, when comparing this harmony with the "tropas" and "guerra" prevailing on earth, he wishes to return to the "luciente esfera" full of that "ciencia santa" (115). This moreover gives the reader the impression of being in the presence of Fray Luis de Leon's night song of peace, as this garden seems to be a compilation of "Noche Serena" and "Vida retirada" all in one. In this garden, there is no room for war, jealousy, love battles, acts of revenge or competition for beauty or sexual favours. Here, Neptune rules; his wife Anfitrite is obedient, and Doris, his mother-in-law, is "quitando enojos", both women being in the service of their master Neptune and his realm of water. Here, the only sounds heard are that of the water and birdsong; the air is full of fragrance of the flowers (mosqueta, jazmin), the winds are gentle, and as if not to interrupt the soft harmony of the whole structure, the flowers he chose for this spot are not of a stark chromatic variety, but are all white (mosqueta, jazmin, limones, naranjas): AquI de invierno se visti6 el verano con cuidadosa mano 262 que borda rico a su gab^n el campo, de la inosc[ueta y del jazmln, el ampo. (V. 514-17). It is suitable that in this atmosphere of tranquil stability, the only man-woman relationship described is that of a balanced marriage free from destructive passions, where, according to the mores of the time, the man rules, the woman is obedient, and even the mother-in-law is holding her tongue. Neptune is seen as feeder and sustainer of the "ejercito de peces n\imeroso" (v. 523); he is ruler of the seas, one of the twelve great Olympians, brother of Zeus, "and second only to him in eminence" (Hamilton 28). He commanded the storm wind and the surges of the sea, but it is said that when he rolled over the waters in his golden car, "the thunder of the waves sank into stillness, and tranquil peace followed his smooth-rolling wheels" (Hamilton 29). Although he was rarely successful in his dealings and contests with other gods (Athena defeated him for Athens, Hera for Argos, Apollo for Corinth), his numerous love affairs held up to those of his brother Zeus and could have easily earned him the title of Don Juan of the seas, had that title existed in the time of the Golden Age (Zimmerman 219). He married the Nereid Amphitrite, who was however not his original favourite. He was more interested in her sister Thetis, but there existed a prophecy that "any child born to Thetis by one of the Gods would be strong enough to overthrow 263 them" (Stapleton 24); thus he turned his courtship to Amphitrite instead. Even so, Amphitrite showed little interest in his advances, went and hid herself in the Atlas Mountains, and only after the mediation of Delphinus could she be persuaded to accept Poseidon's offer. It is not clear whether Soto's reference to "rico maridaje" as in el rico maridaje de calidad, de majestad consente. . . . (V. 537-8). could be read in connection with Neptune and Amphitrite, but one could speculate that, in Soto's eyes, a marriage based on law and obedience, with little or no passion playing a part, could also mean a relationship of stability, where reason is in command, and where, with passion banned, there is also no danger of upheaval looming in the background, endangering a solid relationship. Although Soto makes use of some bellicose imagery even here in this abode of peace ("lanzas de cristal", "flechas", "ejercito de peces"), they are employed in the portrayal of an ambience of unagitated stillness, where heart and mind move inwards and then travel heavenwards, ascending to divine truth, and trying to reflect it like the "estanque", which lies there silently, reflecting the image of the sky in its untroubled surface. The poet then reflects on his more troubled times and says: En cu^ntas lides fueron vencedoras 264 mis pasiones rendldas, que destrozar las dos pudieron vidas y los siempre alterados mis sentidos, que en esta paz reposan convencidos! (v. 452-56). He mourns the energy that had gone into the erroneous pursuit of earthly pleasures and realizes that life and thought that lead to "esta paz" also carry with them the potential of casting a glimpse into "la edad que mide tres edades" (v. 461), provided he start out with the necessary "esplritu claro". (v. 457). In this Virgilian mood of the happy man who studies nature's laws and thereby can trace the secret cause, as Virgil suggested in Georaics II, the poet becomes aware of the workings of nature around him and perceives in them the hand of the master who created "no de materia o semen preparada" (v. 465), but was able to "criar de la nada" (v. 464) the elements of life. Looking about him he perceives "en todo lo criado" the "correspondencia" and "general semejanza" pertaining to the harmony of God's creation, managing well without the interference of man. This stands in striking contrast to the picture offered to him when he turns his glance back to the sphere of man, "la pesada tierra" (v. 489), where he sees but danger, war, disharmony and menacing monsters lurking in the "nocturnas horas". But his goal is to cut through this perilous layer of physical obstacles so that he 265 . . . al fin penetra el centre, ve la piedad y la justicia dentro; (V. 497-98). Presumably, the poet is referring here to his own inner self following perhaps the Augustinian advice of finding God within oneself, as he hopes to connect from there to the "luciente esfera" (v. 500) to which he hopes to return. Bermtidez notes that in this series of secluded gardens there is now, for the first time "una apertura al paisaje cosmico" (117), where the poet for once leaves behind the brilliance of daylight and undertakes this "digresi6n nocturna" to the serene night skies of Fray Luis de Le6n (117). It is moreover interesting to note that this vertical reaching out to God, which is not repeated until the very last Mansion, happens exactly in the central one of the seven gardens, and from the highest located point in his series of Mansions, as if to indicate that this is the point where he, physically as well as spiritually, is closest to God. This is a new and almost unknown Soto that we encounter here, as in much of his writing he is a man filled with bitterness and deserigano, a man who posits himself as an example to learn from, who offers much advice on the dangers of love and its corrupting effects, and who despises the infidelity he believes inherent in females in general. Bitterness, defeat, and disappointment have coined his outlook, much like that of his other contemporaries, such as 266 Gongora or Quevedo, with the exception that he was more serious than G6ngora, yet never yielded to the sarcasm and cynicism of Quevedo. And where he seemed at a decided advantage over some of the other critical minds of his time and experts in desenaano. was the fact that he put his lesson of life into double action and did not become an armchair moralist and denouncer of ocio. Instead he used his concentrated energy to create, in letter as well as in deed, a dream he carried within himself, a dream that was therapy as well as recreation, representing mental activity, as well as physical exercise, carrying out both of these activities in praise of God and nature, the two influences that, unlike man, had never let him down. He found peace in nature, and in nature's peace he found access to God, offering an excellent example of how it is possible to reach God via his creation: pues cuanto encierra del jardin la planta es ABC de aguella ciencia santa. (V. 501-02). In this spirit of universal harmony, even the opposite seasons of summer and winter are compatible and have something in common as "aqui de invierno se visti6 el verano" (v. 514), referring to the fragrant layer of white flowers covering the green undergrowth. Including in this visual harmony the resonance of birdsong, Soto has given this garden the most outstanding compliment that can be given to any garden or any place on earth: 267 que este sitlo, y la jaula que las cierra, cielo parece con disfraz de tierra. (V. 535-36). Descending from the apex of Soto's estate, represented by the fourth Mansion, the path leads to the west, towards one of the more populated gardens among the seven units. According to Trillo, there are present the statues of Jason and Medea, in cypress, the dragon and Jason's horse, in myrtle, Diana "con escuadra de Nonacrinas ninfas" also in cypress, and the statue of Ante6n, ^* "casi transformado en cipr6s"; there are the satyrs pursuing the nymphs, and a 'feroz jaball', all in cypress, as well as a statue of Neptune made of metal. Furthermore, there are various mythological allusions to Flora, Aurora, Atalanta, and a "Candida Naya". As for the statue of Medusa (Trillo 88), Jos6 F. Dougnac points out that Trillo must have erroneously confused Medusa with Medea, since Soto's "la de Oete hija, de Eson nuera" (v. 620) makes reference to Medea, daughter of Oete, and daughter-in-law of Eson. Jason is, of course, the hero who succeeded in capturing the golden Fleece of Colchis, aided however by Medea, who used her magic powers in pursuit of her own amorous goals. Medea, enchantress, daughter of Aeetes, king of Colchis, and, one must not forget, also a niece of Circe, saw the stranger Jason when he and the Argonauts came to Colchis in quest of the Fleece. Medea fell in love with Jason and assisted him in attaining the Golden Fleece (Lass 268 163). Due to their actions, Jason and Medea had to flee Colchis. They took refuge in Corinth, where shortly afterwards Jason decided to abandon Medea to marry Glauca, daughter of the king of Colchis. Medea brought about the death of her rival, and killed the children she had borne to Jason. After several more unpleasant incidents, she eventually returned to Colchis, in her Dragon's car, unharmed (Lass 163). Her name today is usually associated with sorcery, vengefulness, and magical powers. Dougnac mentions that Medea "fue la primera que hall6 una flor que tenia la virtud de convertir los cabellos canos en negros, y esto hacia lavlndolas con agua caliente del cocimiento de aguella flor" (68). Ovid presents her as an enchantress and a worshipper of Hecate, the Goddess of night, travelling about in her chariot of dragons, torn between her attraction to the stranger Jason and her responsibilities to her family and nation: Shall I betray my father's kingdom, crown. To shield an alien hero in my bed. Then see him set his sails and make away With some new bride? And I, Medea, pitiful. Alone? . . . (188). But when Jason stood before her again, "the dying fires of love were waked again" (189), and when he began to speak and To prison her right hand in his, to sigh His need of her and promise marriage 269 (190). she agreed to help him, at the cost of betraying her own nation, believing his promises to be true, since Jason swore that his hand was hers forever. She took him at his word, . . . (190). While it is easy to condemn Medea for her acts of revenge, it is just as possible to understand her wrath. She had risked everything for the love of a man; she let herself be seduced by his looks, which she yet helped to rejuvenate and improve; she was taken in by his charms; and she overcame her thoughts of reason and reservation and was seduced in word and deed by the opportunistic stranger. When he deserted her after her usefulness to him had run out to marry another woman, she had valid reasons to hold a grudge against him who betrayed her in such a grave manner. Soto calls her a "criminal vencedora", and given the exaggerated acts of revenge, she might be called so, but nevertheless her anger had very solid reasons. It is interesting that Medea was willing to kill for Jason, that she killed because of Jason's betrayal, and that he himself even tried to kill her, after her slaying of their children. Medea is surrounded by death, either caused or suffered, and yet, she herself manages to escape Jason's sword "by taking refuge in her Dragon's car" (Ovid 199). Jason ended his days as a lonely and unhappy man, shunned by many who once celebrated him as a hero. He died on 270 the seashore in the shadow of the prow of his old ship when the prow of the rotten vessel fell upon him and killed him (Stapleton 126). Medea, on the other hand, returned to Colchis and was forgiven by her father for her desertion when she managed to restore him to his seat of power. Accompanied by her son Medus, son of Aegeus, she succeeded in extending the kingdom of Colchis, and the new territory was named Media in honour of her son Medus (Stapleton 134). Soto mentions that Medea, the "criminal vencedora" mSs cruel que Atalanta en la carrera, de su amante a los visos se colora. (V. 622-3). However, the question remains whether her blushing under the glance of Jason is due to the loving relationship they had initially, or whether she simply blushes under the guilt with which she has burdened herself due to her having killed Jason's uncle, Jason's future bride and father-in-law, and the two children she had with Jason. In general, Soto displays very little affinity for the workings of Venus in his later work, and throughout the Paraiso he never lets go of the reins of reason. It is perhaps safe to speculate that he was presenting Medea as a prime example not only of the horrifying wickedness of women, but also as a model of the unforeseeable complications that can ensue if reason is pushed aside to make room for flaming passion. Medea did initially have concerns regarding the 271 sudden unknown fire burning within her; she did hesitate and think of her obligations to family and country, as a voice within her warned her of hasty action: ' . . . But wait, Medea, do you call Heat marriage, and give a fancy name to your Desires? Look to the next day and the next. Look at your longings for what they are, leave them to die'—this to herself. And Daughterly Affection, Modesty, Right Thinking shone; Defeated Cupid nearly flew away. (Ovid 189). What Soto seems to be hinting at is Medea's neglecting to listen to the voice of warning within her, to ignore 'right thinking' and give in to Cupid's ploy, thereby giving free rein to passion. It is unclear who in this relationship is the real loser and who the winner, as both Jason and Medea, loved, used, and lost. Jason seduced Medea and gained considerably from their relationship; Medea fell for passion and, sacrificing her integrity for the sake of a stranger, was abandoned and took brutal revenge. Yet it appears, as Dougnac points out, that Jason represents to Soto "slmbolo de hombre honesto, representacion del buen camino a seguir" (66), while Medea remains for him a vicious murderess who is "mSs cruel que Atalanta", the men-slaying competitor. Atalanta, like Jason a descendant of Prometheus, daughter of lasus. King of Arcadia, was a chaste huntress who, like 272 Diana, wished to remain single. Her father, who was hoping for a son, left her to die on Mount Parthenon, but she was found and raised by a band of Hunters, who also taught her the skills of their trade. Eventually, her father recognized his now famous daughter, but insisted that she marry and fulfil her royal obligations as a princess (Stapleton 41). Her conditions were that she, "who could outrun all human kind" (Ovid 290), would marry only that man who succeeded in winning a race against her, "but if he loses, his gift is death" (Ovid 290), and in a manner recalling that of Don Quijote's Marcela she added: . . . These are the terms I've made; Take them or nothing. You have heard me speak. (290) . She leaves no doubt that she would carry out the implications of her rules, since she was "Indifferent to the boys who went to death" (291). But when Hippomenes, the great-grandson of Neptune, wanted to take up the challenge of beating her at her own game, the usually unwavering Atalanta not only noted his good looks and his charm, his noble descent, his youthfulness, but she hesitated to send this promising youth to a certain death Dear god, however much I love myself. That dreadful price is much too high for me (292) . She even offered to let him withdraw from the race: 273 Dear boy, go home. . . . —there is time to leave now; while you can, please go away. Escape a marriage that is poised with murder and fixed by Fate; . . . (292) . But Hippomenes decided to run the race against her, not without praying for the help of Cythera in this fateful undertaking. The goddess of love was obliging, and with a small amount of trickery and diversion, Atalanta became the bride of Hippomenes, proving perhaps that love need not be followed always by disastrous results. As if to balance the image of the previously cruel Atalanta, and more so, that of the monstrous Medea, with a noble picture of chastity and restraint, Soto introduces immediately after Medea and Atalanta the contrasting presence of the pure Diana. Yet she too seems plagued by expressions of revenge as she is described as holding el arco al viento tendido . . . dejando destrozado el, que di6 a su recato gran cuidado; (V. 625-28). This is an allusion to the myth of Actaeon and the chance meeting he had with Diana. Actaeon was a hunter who accidentally saw the goddess of the hunt taking a bath; 274 angered by this incident, she transformed him into a stag, whereafter he was torn to pieces by his own dogs (Lass 4). Although the full extent of the myth is not depicted in this picture, Trillo emphasizes the process of the punishment of Actaeon for having seen Diana naked, and he expresses this by letting him be "casi convertido en cipr^s" (88), showing Actaeon semi-metamorphosed into his new shape: un ciervo que, ante el movil poderoso, los tesoros registra de sus anos en el volumen que le dio ganchoso, y nonacrino el escuadron hermoso. (V. 629-32). It is interesting that Diana's entourage, the 'nonacrinas ninfas' accompanying her on her hunting excursions are also armed, "todas con arcos y flechas en manos" (Trillo 88), all pursuing poor Actaeon in defence of their patroness's virginity. Soto seems to think very highly of Diana, describing her as "la pureza", "la castidad", and, in Mansion seven, as "eminente Diana"; however, when looking at the whole myth of Actaeon one gets the impression that she is a very harsh judge indeed, as her kind of punishment for Actaeon's accidentally stumbling on Diana and her female crowd seems an over-reaction. After all, Actaeon had not set out to spy on the huntress queen, and granting that his surprise and delight are a very understandable hviman response at the beauty before him. 275 Diana's severe punishment of him shows a strain in her that is often overlooked or ignored. Diana, like most Gods, has two conflicting sides to her, and while she is better known for her defence of chastity and as a protector of the hunt, she, the twin sister of Apollo and daughter of Zeus and Leto, was one of the three maiden Goddesses of the Olympus: Golden Aphrodite who stirs with love all creation. Cannot bend nor ensnare three hearts: the pure maiden Vesta, Gray-eyed Athena who cares but for war and the arts of the craftsmen, Artemis, lover of woods and the wild chase over the mountain. (Hamilton 31). The fact that she asked her father's permission to never having to marry still seems no entitlement to putting to death anyone appreciating her beauty from a distance. In many accounts she is reported to be fierce and revengeful, and as the huntress with bow and quiver, she played a major role in deciding the fate of others in numerous myths: the death of Actaeon and Orion, the slaying of the children of Niobe, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and the tragedy of Hippolytus and Phaedra (Lass 20). Although she was commonly worshipped by women in her function as the guardian and protectress of women in childbirth (Stapleton 67), she did not refrain, if it suited her purpose, from slaying the innocent, as she did in 276 the story of Nlobe where she killed all twelve of Niobe's children. The myth of Niobe brings to mind the fate of Leto, Diana's mother, a Titaness noted for her gentleness (Stapleton 130). Zeus fell in love with her but abandoned her when she was pregnant with the twins Apollo and Diana. The fear of Hera's wrath was such that all countries and islands refused to give Leto a place to give birth to her children. Only a small piece of land floating in the sea, tossed about by wind and weather since it had no foundation, welcomed her and gave her refuge. The island981Xcaliedlos was rocky and barren and considered insecure due to its instability. But when Leto set foot on it, it suddenly became anchored, and from being the least noteworthy of the islands, it became the most renowned, because there Artemis and Apollo were born (Hamilton 294). The island that showed kindness to a desperate pregnant woman thus received a just reward. There are of course no explanations as to why Diana wished to stay clear of male companionship and secured her father's permission to remain free from the yoke of marriage; she was born a virgin goddess—but so were all her fellow goddesses—and no reasons are given as to why she wanted to remain that way. Yet, taking into consideration the circumstances of her birth and the hiimiliation her mother had to endure when she was helpless and ignored by all in power, one might be more sympathetic to her choice of life. 277 While Diana is revered by Soto as a model to emulate, there are many references to her 'other' side which let us appreciate the duality of her nature. Ovid, for example, not only stressed the innocent way of Actaeon's discovery of Diana in the woods: Strolling through unknown ways half-stumbled Into Diana's arbour . . . (90). He also discloses her righteous attitude when he says: If you remember how Diana acts Whenever that fine lady feels offended. (233) . But he best summarized her over-sensitivity to Actaeon's error and the general opinion about her in the following words: Some say, not till he died of many wounds Was angry Goddess of the Arrows pleased. (92). Ambiguous rumours were: the goddess was More violent than just; others spoke praise Of how she stood for chastity and both Extremes found worthy logic for their cause . . . (92). And yet, in spite of her elected celibacy and self-imposed distance from men, she is still a primal woman at heart, hating competition and willing to commit murder should another woman dare to down-grade her beauty: 278 . . . Since she had found herself More glorious than Diana, she said the goddess Was less attractive than she used to be. Diana, white with rage, restrung her bow and said; I'll please you with a silent answer. (309). It is only fitting that in this garden of punished attempts for unchaste desires, Soto has also placed the satyrs lusting after the water nymphs: Los satires extranos, con pie disforme y con neutral cabeza, del miedo y la belleza a muerte condenados, se quedan en la hierba aprisionados. (V. 633-37). Satyrs are lesser gods of the forest and attendants of Dionysus; they are representative of the vital forces of nature and have become the symbol of male sexuality (Lass 224). Engaged in their usual preoccupation, which is taking care of their desires by pursuing the nymphs, they are depicted as halted forever in their efforts, "en la hierba aprisionados". Once again there is the image of semi-transformation, already encountered in Actaeon, like a movement, as well as a process, frozen in time. In the case of the satyrs there is the added allusion perhaps of halting an illicit activity before its intended happening, of punishing 279 the mere attempt, and thus once again to maintain and protect the desired moral norms. As a last example of guiltful loving, there is in this garden the figure of the "feroz jaball", which evokes the sad fate of Adonis, the handsome youth who was loved by Aphrodite. He was killed by a wild boar, perhaps Aphrodite's lover Ares in disguise, and from his blood sprang the flower anemone (Lass 4). Red as the pomegranate seed in fruit. Soft echoes of the wind—'anemone'— Are in the flower's name; yet at one touch, the fading petals scatter—all too soon. (Ovid 296). All in all, in this fifth Mansion of Soto's garden, there are four separate love relationships and, interestingly enough, all of them fall prey to the losing lover syndrome. Some of them have loved and lost; others were punished for merely looking, or for their attempted pursuit of sexual interests: Jason and Medea; Actaeon and Diana; satyrs and nymphs; and Adonis and Venus. While Medea and Adonis were seduced and then punished after the consummation of the act of love, Actaeon and the satyrs were killed or debilitated for their thoughts or attempts, without having committed the carnal 'crime' itself. Interestingly enough, in all of these four myths, the representative figures were cut out of cypress, the tree 280 sacred to Diana, the tree also associated with mourning, and as in Mansion five, the tree of the lover who loses or dies. The "perlas" which Aurora is offering to Flora recall the tears mentioned already in Mansion three which the goddess of dawn is shedding over the loss of her son, Memnon, and which are now glistening among the leaves of the orange tree. She is not only the golden-haired goddess "who dispelled night's shadows" (Ovid 208), and whose shining power makes shadows vanish (Ovid 61), but she is also a very modest creature who, at times, seems to be taken for granted, as she herself seems to indicate in her speech to Jove: 'My lord', said she, 'in all these golden heavens, I am the least pretentious of your servants. Of all of us. Earth builds me fewest temples, . . . (367). In spite of the fact that Aurora, too, is afflicted with bouts of feminine jealousy, as in the myth of Cephalus and Procris, she is nevertheless one of the more lovable and harmless of all the goddesses of the ancient world, and represents in Soto's garden one of the most enjoyable woman characters about whom no denigrating statement can be made. Harming no one, and bringing joy and light to all the world, she stands almost alone in stainless popularity. Even though the next allusion to female characters is placed at the beginning of Mansion six, the two names mentioned belong still within the realm of Mansion five, as 281 Soto, in an all-inclusive statement summarizes the whole of this garden as "este cenit de Flora y Amaltea" (v. 671), referring thus to the abundance of the gifts of Flora, a goddess already encountered in this garden, and to the rich harvest of fruit alluded to by the presence of Amaltea, the she-goat that nursed the infant Zeus (Stapleton 23). In some versions of the myth, Amalthea is said to be the daughter of the king of Crete who fed the infant with goat's milk, and to whom Zeus, after coming to power, gave the goat's horn endowing it with the property of never-ending plenty (Stapleton 23). This Horn of Plenty, or Cornu copiae in Latin, is the symbol of an unending overflowing supply of fruit and flowers (Lass 55), and constituting a particularly popular image in literature as well as in painting in the artistic expression of the 17th century. The approach to Mansion six leads past a very elaborate section of the gardens, consisting of a "recoleto patinillo de azulejos y enredaderas", a marble fountain decorated with an "artificioso remate hecho de cristal" to produce artificially the play of light in a rainbow, and "mis estatuas de bronze con sus faunos, ninfas, delfines" (Bermtidez 119), eventually reaching a small museum with "pinturas y liminas de nobles pinceles" (Trillo 89). The actual Mansion six commences only hereafter, a "cerca arqueada con parras", where we find Apollo and the nine Muses, all with their appropriate instrxoments in 282 hand, a fountain, several fruit trees, and the walls and walkways all covered with jasmine and orange and lemon trees. Among the female figures present, Trillo mentions four nymphs, all connected with the structure of fountains, and the nine Muses, while Soto adds with his allusions the names of Bellona, Galathea, and Pomona. The first of the nymphs is the "ninfa de bronze dorado, con canastillo en la cabeza y peces y conchas a los pies" (Trillo 89). Soto refers to her as Bella tirana, o justiciera hermosa, arrebata, conquista la mSs severa o vagarosa vista; (v. 678-680). deliciosa se transforma o viste, lisonjeando a guien la busca triste; (v. 686-7). While describing the Naya's surroundings and the fountain of which she forms a part, Soto makes allusion to two other female figures: Bellona and Galathea, both designations for the water nymph of metal. Although he refers to the Naya as "Bellona paclfica" Soto seems to have difficulty refraining from his frequent use of bellicose vocabulary, even when describing an object as peaceful and enjoyable as a fountain sparkling in the sunshine. Belona is the Roman goddess of war, who, walking beside Mars, is said to bring with her Terror and Trembling and Panic; associated with their appearance is a 283 groaning voice rising behind them, and the earth is said to stream with blood (Hamilton 34). Of course the poet of the Paralso had no such horrors in mind when using her name, but her appearance and actions are described, even if playfully, in martial language, such as "bella tirana", "conquista", "trofeo", "lanzas", "combate", "armada", mentioning, however, that the whole spectacle is no more than a "combate apacible". On the one hand he sees her as "armada bronce y plata fulminante" (v. 700), albeit a peaceful Bellona; and on the other she is Galatea to him, "pisando escamas, conchas" (v. 702). This is a reference to the sea-born nymph Galatea, daughter of Doris and Neptune, the "charming, mocking sea nymph" (Hamilton 84), with whom the one-eyed Polyphemus was madly in love and to whom, aware of the hopelessness of his situation, he would resign himself to singing mournful lovesongs. When he saw her with her lover, Acis, he furiously killed him, but as Acis lay on the seashore dying, Galatea metamorphosed him into a river (Hamilton 84). Ovid calls her "white-limbed Galatea" (374), and with a particularly beautiful metaphor refers to her as being "more beautiful than fountain-watered gardens" (375), a compliment that sets her almost in competition with Soto's fragrant and shady paradise. But by placing her inside one of his fountains "pisando escamas, conchas", she is back in her original element, out of which she arose initially, and to which she fled during Polyphemus' violent outburst. Here in Soto's 284 garden she is safe, appreciated, and exposed to no worse dangers than the admiring glances of the garden's few visitors. The second nymph referred to in this garden is the "ninfa con trompeta en boca, arrojando agua a mucha altura" (Trillo 89). Soto speaks of the Naya solo, y a solas vencedora, vidrios guebrando y congelando muda victimas que al silencio ofrece santas —yo, que a su culto mi atenci6n consagro alcanzo al fuego manso que la ayuda no ser necesisad, aungue es milagro— . . . (V. 720-25). This image refers to the play of the fawns' and dolphins' waterjets and of the nymph's trumpet, whereby in both cases, the water-crystal is acclaimed "vencedor": colerico el cristal . . . vencedor se aclama, . . . (V. 708-9). Naya solo, a solas vencedora, (V. 720). Once again, a most peaceful and enjoyable image in the garden is seen and described with the terminology of animosity and battle; there is talk of "peligros", of "cristal colerico", of "vencedor" which always includes a victim of some sort, and all this refers to the "combates de la ardiente 285 siesta" of which the Naya remains the 'vencedora'. She makes an offering to "silencio" which is, as the poet adds, a pursuit close to his own heart, as he too "a su culto mi atenci6n consagro" (v. 723), and who loves and needs much silence in his life, not only to create his poetry, but to find inner peace. In this way, the silence of the garden becomes, in spite of the often 'armed' vocabulary of his poem, synonymous for tranquillity and inner renewal. The third nymph of this group is located on top of the marble fountain, "una ninfa con tabaque de frutas en la cabeza, que . . . por la boca, pechos y oldos dispara gran numero de piezas de cristal" (Trillo 91). Soto refers to her as "hermosa ninfa honesta, aunque desnuda" (v. 925), whom the "Plata cristalina" adorns and enhances, playfully throwing about her pearls and drops of water. It is almost amusing to see just how concerned Soto is with the perception of decency and proper attire, since he, when presenting this nymph, almost apologetically adds that she, the nude female figure, is "honesta, aunque desnuda", as if to assure the reader that this rare combination of nudity and decency may be peculiar but not impossible. More so, the poet is displaying here a certain sense of tolerance and hvimour, proving that, in certain instances, nudity and sensuality seem to pose no problem to the moral conceptions of this stern clergyman. This 'ninfa', commissioned for his garden like all the rest of the statues by the poet himself, is not only nude, but "arroja 286 agua por boca, pechos. y oidos", thus revealing the playfulness of her designer and inventor, as he lets her reward the occasional observer, with her attention as she "alj6foras le arroja y perlas tira" (v. 937). The present Mansion is different from the other gardens encountered so far in that it houses also a small art museum containing "pinturas, ISminas" and "algunas tallas". One of the images depicted on canvas is a reminder of the myth of Pan and Syrinx, already mentioned and alluded to in Mansion two, but repeated here anew: El rubio Pan sigui6 la ninfa bella, que hoy partida guarnece, . . . (V. 760). This time however depicted not in plant material, but "sin verduras, sin flores, sin brotones" (v. 762), in pigment on canvas. There is a further reference to this Arcadian nymph who chose to live as a plant rather than to give in to Pan's desires, when the poet speaks of the surroundings of the 'museo': Vecina, pues, comunicarse intenta mansi6n que ya pentiltima se arrima a los cultos umbrales del museo, donde el mejor de su verdor empleo ofrezca o restituya, en jazmines, siringas y azahares, del dulce albergue venerables lares 287 —puesto que se las debe—, victimas aromSticas de nieve. (V. 815-23). Once again it is noteworthy that in this part of the Mansion 'culta', equipped with painting, sculpture, and the presence of the Muses, Soto leaves the presence of colour to the painted canvas in his description of the fruit of the painted cornucopia, while the plants in this passage, as in most of the gardens, are the kind that has white, fragrant flowers, "jazmines, siringas, y azahares". And, as a mere coincidence perhaps, the fountain in this garden is of 'm^rmol bianco', and the water is described as in other sections of the garden, as "plata cristalina, o cristal plateado", keeping the range and value of colour in this part of the garden, with reference to plants and water, and on a rather monochromatic level, as if the colours white, silver and green were to provide a background to the statues of Apollo and the Muses. As far as these "ancianos" are concerned, Apollo and the Muses are a welcome presence not only in Soto's garden paradise, as it is said that "He is happy whom the Muses love" (Hamilton 37). The Muses, daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory), were the "personifications of the highest aspirations of artistic and intellectual minds" (Stapleton 141) who sang and danced at celebrations by gods and heroes. They were the companions of Apollo and of the Graces, and it 288 is said that "the man they inspired was sacred far beyond any priest" (Hamilton 37). Hesiod says of them: "They are all of one mind, their hearts are set upon song and their spirit is free from care" (Hamilton 37). Little wonder then that poets decided to invoke the muses at the beginning of their works to be blessed with their inspiration, just as Soto has done in the present poem. The order in which they appear in Soto's paraiso is the following: Melpomene (tragedy); Clio (History); Caliope (Epic poetry); Terpsicore (Dance); Talia (Comedy); Urania (Astronomy); Euterpe (Music, Lyric Poetry); Polihimnia (Sacred Song); Erato (Elegy). Trillo mentions that all of these ten figures, Apollo included, are cut out of cypress and myrtle, each of them "con el instrumento que le toca" (Trillo 89). This would mean that Melpomene would be holding in her hands a tragic mask and a 'coturno'; Clio carries a wreath of laurel and a scroll; Caliope is shown with a musical instrument; Terpsicore wearing a crown of laurel, and a musical instrument in hand; Talia is holding a comic mask and a shepherd's staff and sock; Urania is seen with a globe and compass; Euterpe is playing the flute; Polihimnia is hidden behind a veil; and Erato is playing the lyre (Zimmerman). Soto is well disposed towards all of these icons of art and intellect, and he has something positive to say about each one of them: Melpomene suspende con su canto 289 los tormentos al reino del espanto. (V. 831-2). Sarc6fagos horrendos del olvido, profundas sombras y forzozos mledos, a la luz desvanece y al sentido, ardiendo Clio en amiestad y en pompa, con voz de hierro y con sonante trompa . . . (V. 833-37). Caliope, imitando lo universal, ensena, deleitando (V. 838-39). Tersicore, discreta, los coros regocija que Talia teje con primaveras de alegria. (V. 840-42). Urania mide la distante esfera, oficiosa, de Euterpe companera, (V. 843-44). —dulce al compas de la sonante lira, que Polihimnia inspira—, (V. 846-47). el viento mide festejando Erato, que aqui reposa en apScible acato. (V. 848-49). Given the fact that they are the companions of Apollo, considered god of fine arts, medicine, music, poetry and 290 eloquence by some sources (Zimmerman 26), and god of intelligence and understanding, archery and healing by others, a god who represents "the most highly refined of the virtues esteemed by the Greeks" (Lass 14), and the only god common to Greece and Rome, since the Romans had no deity that seemed to them as attractive and inspiring to form his parallel, it is no wonder that he and the 'cerca hermosa' should find a place of reverence in Soto's garden world (Stapleton 32). This group of "hermosuras cuidadas" (v. 870) contains all the components necessary to contribute to a poet's happiness, to his physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being, as everything in this part of the garden is conducive to elevating his spirit, allowing him to perceive, and respond to, the divine stirring of his mind. In this "ajeno de dotrinas monte" (v. 688), in this Apollonian atmosphere, surrounded by the "sabio coro de las ninfas nueve" (v. 830), the poet truly feels at ease with himself as well as with the women surrounding him. All of them beautiful and wise, albeit not always viriginal—see Euterpe and Caliope—they represent the desiderate and yearned for mistresses of every poet's literary dream. The seventh and last Mansion of this elaborate garden complex consists, according to Trillo, of a "boveda de encanados sobre que asienta una galerla con ocho ventanas, todo de jazmines" and of a "Pared dilatada de yedras que . . . forma un dosel con su cubierta, que puede ser o tribunal de 291 las musas, o teatro de las flores . . . " (91). No mention is made of any statues, male or female, yet once again, Soto makes literary allusion to the following already encountered figures of Euterpe, Venus, Aurora, and Diana, and the only new face in this parade is Clicie. Aurora Egido points out that in this last garden "lleno de neoplatonismo", "cielo y suelo se prestan met^foras y se hacen equiparables" (133) and this is reflected in the poet's words when he says: . . . las flores bellas retrato dan con alma a las estrellas. (V. 951-52). This is the second time the poet enters into the kind of direct and vertical earth-sky connection already met in Mansion four at the very centre of the Paraiso, and, as we shall see, he is about to intensify this direct approach when he, at the end of the poem, speaks words destined for the ears of God alone. Meanwhile he presents to the Creator the choicest examples of fruit and flowers of his garden, and among the "flores nobles" which "todas de alegre y festive traje" (v. 965), he mentions the loyal Clicie who En su ecllptica . . . el movimiento observa de su amor acelerado (v. 1064-65). 292 This is an allusion to the love affair between Clicie and Apollo. Clicie, daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, was passionately loved by Apollo and was inconsolable when he deserted her. She was changed into a sunflower and is seen as the symbol of faithfulness and unwavering devotion (Zimmerman 66). In some accounts her love for Apollo is presented as unrequited, manifesting thus the rare story of a maiden in love with an unwilling god" instead of the reverse event of gods pursuing unwilling maidens (Hamilton 291). In both cases, Clicie ends up pining for a love she cannot have, yet remains faithful to her lover by following his daily path along the sky, always turning her face towards the sun. Among the many colourful and fragrant flowers of this garden, such as the 'clavel', 'violeta', 'jacinto', 'alhell', 'la mosqueta', 'las siringas', 'jazmin', the 'nardo', 'narciso', 'ligustro', and 'azahar', Soto selects the rose and declares her queen of all the flowers, putting her in charge of the "pueblo de las flores" (v. 1033) who accept her queen "inclinando las cabezas" (v. 992). In order for her to be lacking of nothing, the poet arranges for all the divine assistance possible for her and enrolls those gods that could further her well-being, but banishes those gods who might do her damage: No le assista Saturno. (v. 979). Tu, elocuente Mercuric, no le faltes; 293 a su obedlencia aprestaras tus alas (V. 980). . . . y la Citerea diosa caricia dellclosa prevenga en lo mSs blando de sus faldas, vertiendo halagos entre dulce risa. (V. 9 8 2 - 8 5 ) . Jt ipi ter d61e imperio (V. 986). . . . dele aslento eminente Diana; (V. 986-87). Saturn's assistance, probably due to his sombre outlook. Is not required here, while the service of Mercury Is put at her command, the aid of a very gentle Venus Is Invoked, Jupiter Is requested to give her royal status by providing her with a realm to govern, and even Diana Is asked to make room for the rose and accept her as an equal. '^  It appears that for once, the two goddesses who played a major role throughout these garden-poems, Venus and Diana, are now not In opposite camps fighting for dominance, but are called upon here to assist the queen of flowers getting established In her new domain. With Aurora playing only a minor part In this last Mansion, the most Important female figure of this garden Is of 294 course Euterpe, whom the poet addresses here, and who is acting as a mediator between himself and God: . . . Todo viviente llenarse, oh, cu^nto!, ves, musa elegante, puesto que eres maestra, . . . vuelve el paso ligero, la voz vuelve sonante, al soberano actor, al tierno amante, y dile asi: . . . (V. 1081-91). His message to the 'soberano actor', conveyed through the Muse of Music and Lyric Poetry, is that God is supreme, the manager of the garden of the world, in charge of Nature itself: Td, que con sabio proceder el modo amas en cuanto obr6 naturaleza, porque la hiciste en ntimeros cabales, en peso justo y con igual medida. (V. 1095-98). He is in charge of the elements, of the sea, of 'niebla', of the waves, of 'agua' and 'vientos'; he is the supreme gardener who, hands in soil, is dentro de las entranas de la tierra, . . . organizando las ralces con mixtos elementos . . . 295 (V. 1120-22). and he is the supreme garden designer who muestra las repetidas variedades, en los verdes, fructiferos sustentos, en formas de las flores y matices, (V. 1124-26). But last, and not least, he is the supreme artist "que sin pincel colora" (v. 1127). To this "Criador inefable", the poet is now offering the harvest of his labour, the product of hours of work carried out during the daylight hours of Aurora's presence. This last garden is no longer a place of mythological events and earthly sensations, and while some of the ancient figures are mentioned, they, with the exception of Euterpe, are lacking in importance in this Mansion. The emphasis now is on providing a sampling of the blessings of the earth, its best costume, the greatest abundance of flowers, and intense chromatization, and where in several earlier Mansions only dark trees, silvery water, and white flowers formed the picture, there is suddenly an explosion of colour and a wave of fragrance rising up to heaven to praise the Creator: Trompas de aromas tantas . . . (v. 1024). el nardo . . . plateados olores esparce en la que alcanza media esfera; 296 (V. 1034-35). entre inmensas riquezas de colores . . . (V. 1070). And with a blessing that reminds the reader of God's satisfaction with his own work in Genesis 1:31, where he saw his work and saw that it was good, the poet lets his Majesty show God's approval of the cornucopia laid out before him: La majestad su omnipotente diestra abrio, con bendicidn. (V. 1080-81). Bermtidez points out that there exists in this garden "a pesar de la desigualidad topografica del carmen, un resto del simbolismo ancestral del 'ascenso' que asociaba la subida geogrSfica al progreso espiritual. Al final del sensual poema descriptivo suena la mtisica espiritual de la armonia del mundo creado . . . " (120). Images of flight and ascension are scattered throughout this last Mansion and are associated particularly with Euterpe, since music and song have the inherent quality of rising through the air. Whether the poet is asking her "tened un poco el vuelo" (v. 941), whether he speaks of the Mansi