With the multiplicity of stories that Jorge de Montemayor intricately weaves together in his 1559 Diana, it’s inevitable that readers will form a wide range of opinions about their merits. At the heart of Montemayor’s pastoral romance are Syrenus and Diana, but neither their personalities nor their plots necessarily jump out as the most enthralling. There’s a bevy of voices found in the seven books of Diana — including shepherds and shepherdesses, dainty nymphs, a sagacious healer, seducers and schemers, high born and humble — each of which brings something vital to the text.
The common denominator, however, is that virtually all of them find themselves in the throes of the love experience: its flurry of diverse emotions, and the prospect of gaining — or losing — something seemingly invaluable. Some characters find fulfilment (often in unexpected or circuitous ways), while others come up painfully empty-handed.
The story of Belisa and Arselius — which plays out in books 3 and 5, and briefly book 4 — is an example of the former: a love which is neatly tied up, but not without considerable sadness, confusion, and longing prior to its merry fulfillment.
As mentioned, this happy outcome is not unique among the many stories in Diana, but there are some fairly distinctive elements about their narrative. Briefly, before elaborating on them, they are the following. One, the initial attraction between the two arises much more from an external, incidental cause than it does from a conscious action on the part of either of them. Granted, Belisa makes a rather concerted effort to bring Areselius into her life, doing what she can both to assess what feelings he might have for her, and, further, taking certain actions in order to gain his love. But Belisa becomes this way only because of the (unintended) effects of Arenius’s letter. (In fact, it seems reasonable enough to think that, had Arsenius not been the father of Arsileus, she and the latter would not necessarily have crossed paths at all.) But regardless, Belisa’s initial desire is clearly presented as something which arises in the course of her reading Arsineus’s letter, and suspecting that it came from the hand of his poetically and musically gifted son.
The second (and closely related) element that is relatively distinct to Belisa’s and Arsileus’s narrative, is the role of poetry and music. Much of Diana is filled with both of these, but in this case, their presence has an especially prominent role. It is primarily through these mediums in which they directly and, as often, indirectly encounter each other. Indeed there are just many indirect interactions between the two as there are direct, especially in the beginning. That is, their relationship builds as a result of acts which were not intended to produce the effects which ultimately occur.
So, to return to the first point. Belisa and Arsileus develop an attraction which is quite random, incidental and unintended, as opposed to one that is brought because one party has an initial desire. It’s helpful to consider their relationship by contrasting it with the desire that Syrenus and Sylvanus feel for Diana, which is introduced in the first book. We as the readers first encounter each of them already in the throes of love and, specifically, dealing with the harsh realization that Diana is now married. They are as much in the snares of love as any forlorn lovers could be. Belisa, on the other hand, is presented as being both “free from love” and a “novice” in such matters (p. 111; p. 113). These are her circumstances even despite the fact that Arsenius has made continual efforts over several years to gain her attraction. She’s simply not interested.
But everything changes when she receives the letter from Arsenius (written by his son, Arselius, who thinks he’s writing it for a friend of his father’s, Argastus) — a letter which Belisa retrospectively describes as “the beginning of all the harme…” (p. 119). She starts to develop a fondness for Arselius, while simutuatenlsly feeling her walled-up demenaor towards his father gradually soften. Her magnetism toward the former is so strong that she says, “[I] yeeld up my entyre libertie into his hands” (p. 119). Her attraction only grows from thereon, not least when she overhears the music Arselius is playing for his father’s friends one night, in the vicinity of her bedroom window. Tellingly, she says “that I could not choose, but heare the musicke,” and just a little later, “I was gone almost as farre as might be in Cupids affects” (p. 120). Belisa, then, goes from a state of liberty to one of nearly total control by Cupid — all stemming from Arsenius’s letter meant to woo her. The unintended consequences are wild.
As for the presence of music and poetry, some of this has already been mentioned above. Belisa doesn’t encounter Arsileus face-to-face at first, but rather forms — and develops — her attraction to him by experiencing his artistic acts. This is fitting, since a salient characteristic of Arselius is that he’s an exceptionally talented young man who’s recently come back from Salamanca, where he excelled in studies of poetry, music, and other areas.
But interestingly enough, it’s not just him who produces strong feelings in others in such ways. He himself is allured by the sound of Belisa singing to her friend, whom he chances to come across while out hunting. He hears the sound of Belisa’s voice before he actually sees her. It’s then immediately after this that the two (presumably) first ever meet. Belisa, in the course of conversation, then adeptly assesses whether he might be attracted to her, and before long, the two are assured of each other’s love for one another.
[Read no further, if you haven’t read the story and want to encounter its twists and turns “fresh.”]
As Belisa relates this tale to the shepherds, shepherdesses, and nymphs who have happened to come upon her in her isolated cote where she’s lived in the utmost sorrow for six months, she finishes the story with deaths of father and son, Arsenius and Arselius. Before the not-actually-dead Arselius and Belisa are reunited, the penultimate scene is, once again, Belisa listening to the sound of his singing, as he waits for the Polydora (one of the nymphs) to return with Belisa. Upon hearing his voice — and perhaps even before seeing him; it’s not quite clear — she exclaims to the nymph, “This is, without doubt, the voice of my Arsileus” (p. 210). The two are then reunited, with the glee and happy drama that we would expect.
I don’t want to belabour the above points about the role of music and poetry in the story of Belisa and Arselius; Diana, after all, is a pastoral romance, and it’s hardly surprising that it contains a plethora of scenes involving these elements. That said, from the inception of Belisa’s attraction to Arselius, to their blissful scene of being restored to one another, these elements play an absolutely critical role. They’re also elements that make their story one of the more entertaining and engrossing ones to read in Montemayor’s 16th-century romance.
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Montemayor, Jorge de 1520?, Judith M. Kennedy, Bartholomew Young, and Gaspar Gil 1516? Polo. 1968. A Critical Edition of Yongs Translation of George of Montemayors Diana and Gil Polos Enamoured Diana. Oxford: Clarendon P.
Spectatio 