Romantics and Realists

The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.

A. F. G. Bell
In Portugal

I grew up hoping to someday find the Gomez to my Morticia, a partner in crime to have grand adventures with. Instead, I somehow ended up playing Sally to clueless Jacks. For much of the English speaking world romance is exemplified by Romeo and Juliet, a fictional tale of two impulsive teenagers making bad decisions ‘til death do them part. Portugal, on the other hand, has Pedro and Inês, a real life king and his dead queen. 

Pedro I of Portugal was a 14th century king. Like most royalty his wife was chosen for him as a matter of political alliance while he was still a prince. The legend has it that on the very day of his bride’s arrival in the Portuguese court he fell, head over heels, madly, and eternally in love with Inês de Castro… his bride’s lady-in-waiting. Awkward. 

Pedro did as a prince was supposed to and produced a viable heir with his assigned wife, but also carried on his extramarital activities rather indiscreetly. His father, King Afonso IV, had hoped the infatuation with Inês would wear off, but it did not. When Pedro’s wife, Constance of Castille, died, the king tried to remarry the prince to politically appropriate women, but Pedro refused to accept any woman other than Inês and Afonso was having none of that. 

Afonso had banished Inês from the court a few years before the death of Constance of Castille. Still, Pedro refused to marry anyone else. Pedro went so far as to leave the Portuguese court to live with Inês in Coimbra, where they had four children and a reportedly very happy life together. Determined to separate the lovers, King Afonso IV had Inês brutally assassinated. This led to all kinds of drama, but eventually the old king died and the heartbroken Pedro inherited his father’s throne. At which point, he had Inês exhumed and declared queen posthumously.  

With so much macabre drama in the history books it stands to reason that Portuguese literature would have to take it even further. So while the rest of Europe was content to have a Romantic movement, the Portuguese-speaking world had to take it a step further and develop Ultrarromantismo, Ultra-Romanticism. There is this underlying philosophy that true love is selfless, is spiritual. Any pleasure would pollute this perfect love. 

Part of the assigned reading while I was studying in Portugal was José Matias by José Maria de Eça de Queirós. It is a self-aware exaggeration of ultrarromantismo. It infuriated me. 

I have known men like the fictional José Matias – these men who say love like it is a noun or an adjective, never learning the exhausting and exhilarating ways love exists as a verb – these men who practice love like performance art. They give a clever representation but not the thing itself. They pride themselves on their self-inflicted martyrdom as they poke at their hearts like a kid pressing a bruise, aimlessly fascinated with the sensation.

I have been loved this way. It can be intoxicating to be gazed at with longing, not leered at but gazed at. It feels like something pure, something sweet and spiced with tragedy. I have even had long-distance correspondences with such men who have excellent taste in love songs but, at the end of the day, choose to have sighs on their lips instead of kisses. They keep their distance and then fabricate stories of heartbreak, each as their own playwright, director, and cast. I am just the stage on which another of their tragedy plays is set. 

Matias dedicated his life to this perfect love such that the rest of his life rotted like a fruit basket being saved for a special occasion. Not only did a man of intelligence, education, and means amount to nothing productive, he buzzed about Elisa’s life like a housefly. She does well enough, with husbands and lovers stepping up where Matias would not. Still, I can’t help but think such romance is more cruelty than gift. It condemns anything more satisfying than emotional starvation as vulgar. 

I am grateful that Eça de Queirós ultimately holds Matias up as an anti-role model. I feared that his pointless devotion would be presented as a virtue. These romantics built altars on which to sacrifice their own hearts and would have their beloved condemned to a life of loneliness and longing or toppled from their pedestals as soon as things got real. I don’t know if Elisa ever found someone she could love and be loved by, but at least she didn’t sit alone in futile devotion. Suffering is not love. 

Longing can be a beautiful thing, but I don’t think that I care much for Saudade. I like longing as a form of anticipation, a chance to enjoy how delicious something is, even before you taste it. I enjoy longing as an appetizer, not a meal. I’m not saying I can’t relate to fruitless longing, I’m saying I prefer having over wanting. I’m not interested in all the drama, star-crossed lovers, dead queens. Mundane partnership is so much more thrilling to me. Even in Portugal, ultrarromantismo ultimately gave way to Literary Realism. 

She stepped inside of me, she said don’t ever lie to me 
This heart of mine can be yours 
Yea that’s what she said 

Everlast
Love for Real