What springs to mind when you read the word gallant? For me, the word is from a time gone by, when social norms were very different.
The adjective can be used to describe bravery and heroism; but it is mostly used to describe a male, not a female, who is charmingly attentive to women, and chivalrous and courteous. Originally, the word gallant meant spirited or dashing (from the Old French galant), but in the seventeenth century the French adopted it to mean politely attentive to women.
Pick up a work of classic literature and you will invariably encounter gallantry: a knight-in-shining-armour sort. But what of more modern works?
My new book Masquerade is set in Andalucía, Spain, in 1976. This was a seminal time in Spanish history, when society was on the cusp of great change. The dictator Franco was dead, and a new king and government were developing Spain into a nation that could stand proudly beside its European neighbours. Long-entrenched social norms were being cast aside in favour of a more liberated, modern way of living. Nowhere was the transformation more evident than in the shift in relations between men and women. Spanish women had long been cast as the damsels in distress; now they wanted their own rights and the freedom to be themselves and the equals of men. (For more information, see my blog post ‘Luz: A heroine of the sexual revolution’).
The women’s right movement that was gaining ground in this era was scathing of gallantry. Yet many women then and since have seen a certain beauty in the gallant actions of a man, so long as they are coming from a place of respect and not domination.
In Masquerade, the story opens with the ultimate act of gallantry. Luz, the heroine, falls from her horse and loses consciousness, and a gypsy, Leandro, carries her to his encampment and cares for her, and then takes her on horseback back to her home. Afterwards, Luz thanks him:
‘I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking care of me after my fall and returning me safely home. It was very kind of you.’
‘You were hurt, what else could I do?’
She thought she glimpsed a spark of something in his eyes: frustration, anger, impatience, but then it was gone and his expression became unreadable again.
‘Still, not everyone would have been so … gallant,’ she stammered, trying to find the right word. As she said it, she thought of him delivering her directly to her bedroom and felt her face warm at the suggestion of just how gallant he had been.
As if reading her mind he looked down at her and gave a slow, mischievous smile.
‘This is true. But we gypsies can be honourable, too.’ Green eyes glittered at her with amusement as he lowered his face closer to hers and added, ‘Or did you think we were all rogues and bandits, perhaps?’
Leandro is quick to associate his gallantry with honour, a very important tenet for the Spanish man. He is also careful to break down any assumption that gallantry is only a gentleman’s quality; a gypsy can be gallant too. How is Luz, the modern woman who is feisty and independent, to interpret such care? Are her feminist sensibilities to be injured, or is she to accept his action in the spirit it was carried out: simple kindness and protection for a lady in need?
Later in the book, a strong attraction has grown between Luz and Leandro. In his straightforward and provocative way, Leandro calls Luz on their feelings, and why she will not give into them.
‘There’s no shield from the forces of destiny,’ he says.‘I think you want it as much as I do – it was there from the first moment we laid eyes on each other. When two consenting adults are in agreement, where is the problem?’
Luz responds:‘But I don’t believe I’ve given my consent to anything of the sort so I think your presumption is a little misplaced.’
From there, the conversation turns:
‘We’re going to have to do something about your old-fashioned ways, Luz.’
‘I’m not old-fashioned, I simply don’t …’
‘Don’t what, Luz?’ As before, his eyes travelled up and down her in a way that made her legs go weak and her stomach fill with butterflies. ‘I think you are a little tense then.’
‘I’m not tense,’ she lied, instinctively taking two paces back and crossing her arms against her chest. She needed some distance between them; to put their relationship – such as it was – back on a more formal footing. ‘What you’re so casually suggesting is not something a decent woman does lightly, that’s all. And no decent man should demand it either.’
‘It’s not gallant, you mean?’ His green gaze was twinkling again.
She couldn’t help but smile at that quaint description she’d once used with regard to him. ‘It’s a question of “la honra” as even rogues and bandits know.’
The challenge, for Luz – and indeed for all the women of her time – is whether to desire and advocate for gallantry, or fight against it at every turn.
Here, Leandro is not being ungallant; he is not, of course, demanding that Luz be with him; he is mischievously challenging what holds her back: her head, not her heart or soul. He is asking her to consider what is old fashioned in her beliefs and values; how they fit with the progressive Spain.
But it is one thing to believe in progress and try to be a strong and free-willed woman; it is another to walk that path. As the poet John Donne wisely wrote:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
Luz has to place her choices and actions within the context of the society in which she lives. And although that society is changing, it is not entirely changed; the vanguard exists still, and plenty of traditional views and norms are adhered to. The reality for Luz is that her honour is still very important.
Luz was well aware of the Spanish traditions that ruled the women in her country. Men often had dalliances before they committed to marriage; it was widely accepted. Spanish society also demanded that a woman be a virgin on her wedding night.
Where does that leave Luz and Leandro? Must she insist that he be a gallant gentleman and not seduce her? Must she suppress her own sexual awakening, and turn her back on the sexual revolution occurring around her? Or can she put aside gallantry and take control of her own desires and needs – and destiny? But if she does, what will be the consequences in a still-conservative country? Will she face rejection for her own casting off of gallantry? Is the path of a woman who does not closely protect ‘la honra’ a lonely one?
In my new book Masquerade, the heroine, Luz, is descended from an old and well-respected Andalucían family. But such is her manner that she usually avoids mixing with the aristocratic circles of the region, preferring instead quiet evenings spent with the same handful of friends, long walks in the countryside around Jerez and riding her mare.
To appease her parents, however, sometimes Luz must put on a beautiful dress and attend an event as one of the de Ruedas. Going to see a performance of the opera Carmen is no hardship, especially given that it is held at this spectacular theatre in Cadiz:
As her father puts it, the Gran TeatroFallain the Plaza Fragela is one of the notable monuments of Andalucía, a lovely example of the neo-Mudéjar style. It stands in the Plaza Fragela, in the north-west quarter of the Old Town, a grand and atmospheric theatre welcoming its visitors with beckoning mystery, like a magician inviting one to step back in time.
Inside, the theatre is the perfect setting for an opera attended by the gentry of Andalucía, with a handsome marble staircase, antiquated gold and claret décor, and ornate Moorish revival arches, all overlooked by a stunning nineteenth-century ceiling fresco, Felipe Abárzuza’s vast allegory of Paradise. Beautiful – but a little faded, Luz can’t help but notice. Her generation, the new blood of an emancipated Spain, is not represented here. This is an old world to which her parents belong, but not so much Luz.
In the family’s box, Luz scans the audience with a pair of opera glasses:
The lights were dimming, and she was on the verge of putting them down when she breathed in sharply. She found herself looking directly into another person’s pair of binoculars, a man seated in the box opposite. Luz just had time to notice the slow smile that curled at the side of the stranger’s mouth before the place fell into darkness. The curtain lifted and the first notes of Carmen’s overture resonated in the vast auditorium.
For the entirely of the performance, Luz is consumed by the thought of this strange man watching her. She is barely present, barely watches the show.
In contrast, a little earlier in the book Luz is a spectator of a very different kind of performance, one which holds her attention absolutely. She has found a gypsy encampment near her home, and hiding behind a large clump of bristling cactus, she watches a vibrant Romani spectacle of song and dance. Then, when night falls, a solo performance takes centre-circle. He is the gypsy who rescued her at the start of the book, and he is mesmerising as he strums the guitar and sings. The words are in Caló, the language of the gypsies, and Luz cannot understand them; but she sense that he is singing from his soul, laments of sorrow and misfortune, and declarations of passion and longing.
He sang in a kind of trance, as if reaching deep down into his soul to uproot the pain, drawing out the final notes in a prolonged, descending strain, with seemingly never-ending turns and tremolos. It was a haunting sound, so poignant Luz had great difficulty in controlling her urge to reach out to him.
Luz is supremely moved by the gypsy Leandro’s performance; in so many ways this is the show she wants to watch. This is where she wants to be, in nature, wild, impassioned: not in the theatre with the gentry watching performers pretend to be gypsies, but within the action itself.
But she does not belong in the gypsy encampment. As I write: she was not a part of these strange, passionate people, merely an onlooker, an intruder; she had no right to be there.
The two spectacles that Luz watches represent a difficult conflict in her character. She wants to be her own person in this new Spain, yet she cannot completely cast off traditions and what is deemed respectable for a young woman in the 1970s. She wants to follow her heart, but she cannot ignore the logic of the head.
Over the course of the book, Luz becomes torn between two men who symbolise this struggle between old and new, traditional and maverick, respectable and liberated. Andrés is the hidalgo, the gentleman – the kind of man who is respected in aristocratic circles and approved of by her parents. Leandro, conversely, is a gypsy, against whose people a great deal of prejudice exists; and how could Luz’s parents ever accept him, given their rocky history with the gypsies?
For Luz, falling in love forces a journey of self-definition, of who she is and what she will stand for. Does she want to attend the theatre and sit politely and silently as a performance unfolds, or does she want to stand in the circle of gypsies and stand and clap and chant her affinity with the performance? Or in fact is the very choice illusionary? Must Luz choose between one and the other; or can she find a way to embrace both?
Welcome to Cadiz, setting for my new novel Masquerade. But not the sparkling, alluring parts of Cadiz to where the tourists flock: welcome to another world – to the gypsies’ world.
A little distance from the sea in a glade as dry as brown wrapping paper, wild and barrenlay the encampment. Yawning with caves and split by rocky gorges… Formed in a rough crescent along the hillside skirting the glade, many of these homes had crude rectangular doorways in front of which were assembled rickety chairs, tables and lines of washing.
Great flaming wood fires were burning, above which large copper containers filled with stew – the powerful smelling pirriá for the evening meal – hung from iron hooks. Two gypsies were singing while beating metal horseshoes on an anvil over a fire, their strong, hoarse voices resounding loudly in the camp. Men sat in groups of three or four in front of their tents, chatting or playing cards; decrepit-looking mongrels sniffed around the cooking pots, hoping for a bone; olive-faced urchins of various ages played hopscotch or ball in front of their doorways.
Now that you have taken tentative steps into the camp, allow me to introduce you to the indisputable leader of these gypsies:
She must have been in her late forties or early fifties, still handsome and well-preserved for a gypsy, not a wrinkle on her olive skin, which nonetheless had a somewhat pallid look. A mass of tousled black hair undulated wildly around a fiercely sensual but hard face, and down to her shoulders. The gold and silver chains and bracelets she wore spoke of her status within the camp: a striking gypsy queen.
Here is Marujita, antagonist of Indiscretion, the first book in the Andalucían Nights trilogy – the beautiful, seductive gypsy who coveted Salvador de Rueda, but lost him to Alexandra de Falla. Now, it is a generation later, and while Salvador and Alexandra have moved on, Marujita has never relinquished her bitterness over the past, and her thirst for vengeance against the couple she believes wronged her.
Marujita is not only a gypsy queen now; she is a mother – to Leandro. Whom she loves. And whom she will mercilessly manipulate in her final days, as she slips slowly away.
And when Leandro rescues a girl named Luz, thrown from a horse, and brings her to the encampment for treatment by his mother, little does he know the chain of events he is setting in motion. At once, Marujita recognises Luz as the daughter of Salvador and Alexandra, and she sees her opportunity.
‘My wish has been granted,’ she tells Leandro,‘and only you, my beloved son, can carry it out to its final closure so I may die in peace.’
Gypsies never forget a bad deed, she informs her son, and the evil actions of enemies must be returned upon them or their children, by law. She demands that her son exact la venganza de Calés (the vengeance of the gypsies) upon the de Ruedas.
What would you do, in such a predicament? Leandro is a good man with a conscience, and already he feels the stirrings of attraction and protectiveness towards Luz. But if he does not do the bidding of the one they call Il Diabolica, the one they all fear, she will cast him out and curse him. As will the other gypsies, to whom Leandro’s identity is tied. Plus there is the small matter of his uncle, Marujita’s brother, who promises to hunt Leandro down and kill him, should he let his mother down.
Of course Leandro does not wish to let his mother down. Whatever she is, whatever she has done and would have him do, she is his one and only mother, and that is sacred. He wishes her to die in peace, released from so many years of hatred. Loving him. Proud of him.
Marujita’s plan is simple: Leandro must seduce Luz, make her fall in love with him – entice her to become his lover. And then:
‘She will be used goods. No honourable Spanish man will marry her after that. La honra in those aristocratic circles obeys rules just as fierce as ours. It will ruin her life and her parents will shed tears of blood, as I have.’
La honra: the honour. Such an integral value in Spanish culture. Marujita is relying on her son’s honour in doing right by his mother, and she is relying on the societal notion of honour to condemn Luz and lay low the de Rueda family.
But what of Leandro’s honour? I am reminded of an axiom from the classical Greek philosopher Socrates: ‘The greatest way to live with honour in this world is to be what we pretend to be.’ But that, of course, means taking off the mask and revealing one’s true self. Will Leandro find the courage to do so, or will he remain a player in the great masquerade?
Welcome to my blog, and thank you for visiting!
When it came to deciding which book/movie to focus on for this hop, the choice was easy for me:
I have loved Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind and its film adaption all of my life. Here’s why:
It’s the Great American Novel.
Many readers agree, and so did the judges of the Pulitzer Prize in 1937. It’s one of the bestselling novels of all time for its fantastic story, its depth of emotion and its evocative depiction of a seminal time in American history: the Civil War and Reconstruction.
Both the book and the movie are truly epic (see my recent post ‘Epic Romance: Redefining a Classic Term at http://hannahfielding.net/epic-romance-redefining-a-classic-term/). I love the thickness of the book and all its vivid description, and I love the costumes, the scenery and the direction of the film.
The author is inspirational.
I love to read works by writers I admire, and since I first discovered Margaret Mitchell she has been one of my inspirations. Did you know that Margaret lost her first love, an army lieutenant who was killed in the First World War? That her first husband was an abusive bootlegger? That she wrote for the Atlanta Journal at a time when women working was shocking? Her life is fascinating. So, too, is her career as a novelist. She began work on Gone with the Wind while recuperating from a car accident, after her husband tired of lugging books home for her and suggested she write one instead. It was another nine years before she submitted it to a publisher (after which she rewrote the opening chapter several times before publication). By then, thank goodness, she had changed the heroine’s name from Pansy to Scarlett…
It has so much spirit.
Margaret Mitchell said of the book the year it was published:
If Gone with the Wind has a theme it is that of survival. What makes some people come through catastrophes and others, apparently just as able, strong, and brave, go under? It happens in every upheaval. Some people survive; others don’t. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality ‘gumption.’ So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn’t.
That survival spirit makes any reader/viewer root for the characters.
It has one of the best couples in fiction.
Scarlett and Rhett. Phenomenal! So much chemistry, and sharp-edged banter that was well ahead of its time:
“Sir,” she said, “you are no gentleman!” “An apt observation,” he answered airily. “And, you, Miss, are no lady.”
And on the big screen, Vivien Leigh and Clarke Gable were iconic:
It has such a powerful ending.
When Clarke Gable delivered the following line, he made cinematic history:
I am giving away the 75th Anniversary Edition of Gone with the Wind in paperback (international entry). To enter, simply fill out the Rafflecopter form below.
Visit all the other blogs in the hop for more great opportunities to win books and movies. Good luck! <!– end LinkyTools script –>
Being a writer means immersing yourself in story worlds. Living and breathing the characters’ lives. Knowing those characters. Loving those characters.
When I am writing a novel, I am at one with it, lost in it. Blissfully happy.
Then comes that pivotal word: ‘END’.
I busy myself with the business of being an author. I send the book to my publisher, work on edits with my editor, check the proofs, give input on the cover, and wait eagerly for the day the doorbell rings and I find a courier on the doorstep, holding out a box full of paperbacks. I take out my novel, and I hold it in my hands, and I feel happy, excited – fulfilled.
The book goes on the shelf, and I dive into a new story world. I immerse myself in that new novel, and when I reach that word, END, I send it to the publisher… and so on. And so on.
Meanwhile, the book whose world was once my own, the first book, it sits on the shelf. Not forgotten, never forgotten, but no longer prominent.
This week, I was sitting at my desk working on my forthcoming novel, Legacy, when my eyes strayed to the bookshelf and fixed upon Burning Embers, my debut novel, published three years ago. Three years! What an adventure I have had since in publishing: reviews, blog tours, blog hops, awards, giveaways… and three more books on that shelf.
I took down my copy of Burning Embers, and I began to flick through it, reading the odd line here and there.
Gradually the mist had lifted, and the sun burst forth, a ball of fire radiating the sky with unnaturally incandescent hues. Coral was reminded of the strident brushwork and wild colours of the Fauvist paintings that filled her mother’s gallery, which Coral had always loved. The scene was now set for the show to begin: the drama in which the broad, breath-taking landscapes of Africa were the stage and the animals the actors.
… and I missed wild, beautiful Kenya.
Rafe had sat back in his chair so his face was in the shadow, but she knew he was watching her through half-closed eyes. When he leaned forward, the fire from the candles flickered, throwing shadows on the planes of his face. She could see his eyes clearly now, and their steady focus was causing her insides to stir. There was romance in the still air; the rhythm of dripping water from the fountain behind him, the velvet sky studded with stars, the balmy perfumes of the night, all combined to accompany the endless song that had begun in her heart again as she watched him, enthralled.
… and I missed Coral and Rafe’s smouldering attraction.
“Oh, Coral, Coral,” he murmured, his one almost reproachful, but still he did not make any attempt to cross the space between them. Unspoken words and unfulfilled gestures trembled in the air. In the flickering light of the fire, his bronze skin glowed warmly. Rafe stood there very still, the muscles in his body tense. Coral knew he was waiting for her. She could feel the familiar ache, shattering the last of her control. Before she knew it, she was against him, her arms around his neck. She looked up at him, her lips parted, soft and moist.”
… and I missed those moments of connection.
I was assailed by a feeling of longing. I missed this story world. I missed writing this book. I missed being in Kenya in the early 1970s, with Coral and Rafe; I missed their passion.
So I took a break from my writing, and I read Burning Embers. And it was like meeting a dear old friend for coffee. Comforting. Bolstering. A reminder of why I write every day, of the dream that led me to writing.
In a sense, I am like my heroine Coral. At the beginning of the story she is aboard a ship bound for Mombasa, about to start a new life in a strange new land. That was me, three years ago, when Burning Embers was published. Full of dreams, yet also trepidation. As the story of Burning Embers unfolds, Coral casts off her naivety and builds a life for herself in Kenya. But, like me, she will never forget the beginning; the courage it took her to make the move; and, most of all, those who supported her. For Coral, that is Rafe, the man who shows her the kindness of strangers on the ship. For me, it is a wonderful group of readers and book bloggers who have championed my writing.
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all who have supported me on my journey, and to invite you, as I did, to return to the very beginning and slip into dreamy world of Burning Embers, ‘epic romance like Hollywood used to make’. There, I can promise you beautiful landscapes, intriguing mystery, dark forces and passion, so much passion.