Chapter 17

"O libertad preciosaNo comparada al oro."

The story is meagre, and inartificial to a singular degree. But we follow an example set us, of giving some slight detail of it, for the sake of introducing a coincidence of a singular nature.[78]Anfrisio and Belisarda are lovers; Anfrisio is of so high descent that he believes Jupiter to be his grandfather; but Belisarda is designed by her parents to be the bride of the rich, ignorant, and unworthy Salicio. Anfrisio is forced to remove to a distant part of the country; but by a fortunate circumstance, thither also Belisarda is brought by her father, and the lovers meet and enjoy each other's society till scandal begins to busyherself with them, and, at the request of his mistress, Anfrisio sets out for Italy, so to baffle the evil thoughts of the malicious. He loses his way during his wanderings, and comes to a cavern, wherein resides Dardanio, a magician, who promises to grant him any wish he may express, however impossible. Anfrisio, with a moderation astonishing to our more grasping minds, asks only to see the object on whom he has placed his affections. He beholds her in conversation with a rival, whom, in pure pity, she presents with a black ribbon; which sight transports Anfrisio with jealousy, and he meditates revenging her perfidy by putting her to death; but Dardanio carries him off in a whirlwind. Soon after he returns home, and to annoy Belisarda, pretends to be in love with the shepherdess Anarda; while she in revenge openly favours Olimpio. They are both very miserable; and still more so when driven to desperation, Belisarda marries Salicio. Soon after, an explanation ensues between her and Anfrisio, but it is too late. Anfrisio's sole resource is to forget; and by means of the sage Polinesia, through a visit to the Liberal Arts, and an acquaintance with the lady Grammar and the young ladies Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, and Geometry, and others not less agreeable—Perspective, Music, Astrology, and Poetry—he arrives at the temple of Disengaño, or Dis-illusion; where things are seen as they are, the passions cease to influence, the imagination to deceive, and the lovelorn shepherd becomes a rational man.

The composition of this story has given rise to a singular conjecture. When Montemayor wrote "Diana," and Gil Polo continued it, and Cervantes composed "the robe in which the lovely Galatea appeared to the eyes of men," it is known that they embodied their own passions and sorrows in the pastoral personages they brought on the scene; but Lope is not the hero of his tale. Anfrisio is supposed to represent the duke of Alva himself—the tyrant, the destroyer—who, it would seem, requested his youngprotegéto immortalise his early loves in the manner other poets had done their own. A good deal of testimony is brought in supportof this hypothesis.[79]In the commendatory verses prefixed to the "Arcadia" there is a sonnet from Anfrisio to Lope de Vega, which addresses him by the name of Belardo, under which he personified himself in the pastoral; and which shows by its context that it was written by a man of consequence, and a protector of the poet. "Belardo," he says, "it has proved fortunate for my loves, that you came to my estate and became one of my shepherds; for now neither time nor oblivion will cover them. You have dwelt upon my sorrows, yet not to the full; since they are greater than you have described, though the cause wherefore I suffered lessened them. Tagus and my renowned Tormes listen to you. They call the shepherd of Anfrisio, Apollo. If I am Anfrisio, you are my Apollo!" The painter Francisco Pacheco, in the eulogy that accompanies his portrait of Lope, speaking of the "Arcadia," says that the poet "had succeeded in what he designed, which was to record a real history to the pleasure of the parties."

Montalvan hints at the same thing, when he says that Lope wrote this work at the command of the duke, and calls it a "mysterious enigma of elevated subjects, concealed in the disguise of humble shepherds." And Lope himself says, "The 'Arcadia' is a true story;" and again, in the prologue to the work itself, he insists several times on the fact that he describes the sorrows of another, not his own. He assumes the name of Belardo for himself, but introduces himself only as a Spanish shepherd, poor and pursued by adversity. At the conclusion he comes forward as Belardo, addressing his pipe, and taking leave of the tale on which he was occupied. In this he talks of leaving the banks of the Manzanares (the river of Madrid), and seeking a new master and a new life. "What is better," he says, "when one has lost a blessing, than to fly from the spot where one enjoyed it, so not to see it in the possession of another? My fortunes are dubious; but what evil can befall him who has once known happiness? I lost that which was mine, more from not beingworthy of it, than from not knowing its value; but I console myself with the expectation of fresh disasters."[80]

As the "Arcadia" was written in early life, but not published till 1598, it is impossible to say to what particular period of his career or to what misfortunes the above alludes.

It were a subject for a painter to portray the old grey-headed duke—the persecutor of heroes, the slayer of the innocent, but retaining throughout a satisfied conscience, and the dignity of virtue—pouring his love-tale in the young Lope's ear, or listening with delight while Lope read to him the tale of his early love, clothed in the fantastic costume of a pastoral and the ideal imagery of poetry.

Lord Holland has given a specimen of the poetry of the "Arcadia" in his life; but we refer to his pages, and will only conclude by mentioning that, despite the conceits, the false taste, and exaggeration, there is much genius, much real poetry, simplicity, and truth—lines full of sweetness and grace, and a lucidness of expression, which reminds the reader of Metastasio, who was indeed a lover of Spanish verse, and who has never been surpassed in the crystal clearness of his expressions, and the chiseled perfection (so to express ourselves) with which he represents his ideas.

The "Arcadia," though written thus early, was not published, as has been mentioned, till 1598; and it is conjectured that the death of its hero, the duke of Alva, was the cause of the delay. But it may be added, that Lope wrote a great deal but published nothing before that period, when, his plays having made him popular, he printed most of his early works.

He left the service of the duke of Alva, when he married a lady of rank, donna Isabel de Urbino, daughter of don Diego de Urbino, king-at-arms. The marriage took place to the satisfaction of the friends of both parties; and the lady is praised as beautiful and discreet. He did nothowever, long enjoy his domestic happiness. "It happened," says Montalvan, "that there was a sort of half-and-half hidalgo[81](for there is a twilight in the origin of nobility as well as in the break of day) of small fortune, but of great skill in contriving to dress and eat as well as the rest of the world, without other employment than frequenting society, when with little trouble to himself he lived cheaply by flattering those present and back-biting the absent. Lope heard that on one occasion he had entertained a company at his expense. He passed over the impertinence, not from fear, but contempt; but seeing that the man persisted in his attacks, he grew tired; so without quarrelling with him by sword or word—the first being impious, the second foolish—he depicted him in a song so pleasantly, that every body laughed." The would-be wit grew angry—none being more easily offended than those who take licence to offend—and he challenged Lope. They met; and the cavalier was dangerously wounded. This was the immediate cause that obliged Lope to quit Madrid; though Montalvan mentions other scrapes which he had got into in his youth, and which his enemies took this occasion to bring against him. He left wife and home with a heavy heart, and took up his residence in Valencia, where he was treated with distinction and kindness.

He remained at Valencia for some years, and doubtless wrote a great deal, though at that time he published nothing. He formed a friendship there with Vicente Mariner, himself a voluminous poet, whose compositions remain inedited in the king of Spain's libraries. Among these are many to the honour and memory of Lope, and in fierce attack of his enemies—so fierce that they deserve the name of abuse, and show that the Spanish cavalier could descend, as so many literary men have before, to calling names, as argument.[82]

After a few years, Lope returned to Madrid; and such was his joy in revisiting the scenes of his youth, and being reunited to his wife, that even his health was affected by it. He did not, however, long enjoy this newfound happiness: his wife died shortly after his return. The death of this lady was celebrated in an eclogue, written conjointly by Lope and Medina Medinilla. The strophes, composed by Lope, are full of the tenderest grief and impatient despair, but there is not a word relative to their separation; he exclaims at Death for having divided them, and implores her to take him to where she is—to where they might live for ever secure together.

1588.Ætat.26.

Almost immediately after he became a soldier, and joined the Invincible Armada.

The causes of this apparent freak are differently represented. Montalvan attributes it chiefly to his grief on losing his wife. In the eclogue to Claudio, which Lope writes with the avowed intention of recording the events of his early life, but in which he mentions no adventures anterior to this period, he speaks of being banished from Filis, and that he sought relief from his tender sorrows by changing climate and element; and Mars coming to his aid, he marched to Lisbon with the Castilian troops, with a musket on his shoulder, and tore up for cartridges the verses he had written in his mistress's praise. In several of his sonnets also he gives the same reason for his military career.[83]

It is the fashion of the present day to ransack every hidden corner of a man's life, and to bring to light all the errors and follies which he himself would have wished to consign to oblivion. A writer offers a fairer mark than any other for these inquiries, as we can always fancy at least that we trace something of the man himself in his works, and so form a tissue of some sort from these patchwork materials; Lope felt this, and in one of his epistles, laments that by publishing his verses,he has perpetuated the memory of his follies. "My love-verses," he says, "were the tender error of my youth; would I could cover them in oblivion! Those poets do well who write in enigmas, since they are not injured by the hidden." We do not know that we should have enlarged on this portion of his life, but for some conjectures given in the article before quoted in the eighteenth volume of the "Quarterly Review." The author of that article, in mentioning Lope's second marriage, says, "Lope speaks of this marriage as a happy one; yet among the sonnets there are two which may excite a suspicion that his heart was placed on another object. The inference from the first of these poems is, that he did not love the woman whom he married; and from the second that he had formed a miserable attachment to the wife of another man. This last inference will be much strengthened if there be any reason for supposing that he shadowed out his own character in the 'Dorotea;' one of the most singular, and, unless such a supposition be admitted, the most unaccountable of all his works."

Taking it for granted that these sonnets and the 'Dorotea' refer to himself, we think there is every proof to show that they allude to his early life, his first marriage, and all those subsequent disasters, to fly from which he embarked on board the Armada. Certainly great obscurity hangs over the period of his first marriage, and the causes of his long exile at Valencia. His antagonist in the duel was a man of no consequence, and merely wounded; so, although that duel might have occasioned him to fly, it would not have forced so protracted an absence. He does not allude to any of these circumstances in his eclogue to Claudio. In his epistle to doctor Gregorio de Angulo he seems to imply that being married, he loved another woman, or that he was not happy in his first marriage.[84]Montalvan, in speaking of his flight toValencia, mentions, in addition to the duel, youthful scrapes, which his enemies took that opportunity of bringing against him.[85]In a funeral eulogium, written on Lope by don Joseph Pellicer, there are these expressions:—"The excellent qualities of Lope excited the animosity of several powerful enemies, who forced him several times to become a wanderer. His pen was his faithful companion in his disasters and exile, and secured him shelter and welcome in distant provinces."[86]

Putting all these circumstances and hints together, it is plain that Lope suffered a good deal of adversity at this time. His illustrious patron, the duke of Alva, died soon after his marriage. When the duel and other circumstances caused him to fly, he had no powerful friend to assist him, but was driven to absent himself even for years. During so long a separation from home, and being only about four-and-twenty at this period, it is not impossible nor strange that he should have formed an unfortunate attachment.

The sonnets Mr. Southey mentions, and which he translates, are the following:—

"Seven long and tedious years did Jacob serve,And short had been the term if it had foundIts end desired. To Leah he was bound,And must by service of seven more deserveHis Rachael.—Thus will strangers lightly swerveFrom their pledged word. Yet Time might well repayHope's growing debt, and Patience might be crowned,And the slow season of expectance passed,True Love with ample recompense at last,Requite the sorrows of this hard delay.Alas for me—to whose unhappy doom,No such blest end appears! Ill fate is his,Who hopes for Rachael in the world to come,And chained to Leah drags his life in this."[87]"When snows before the genial breath of springDissolve—and our great Mother reassumesHer robe of green; the meadow breathes perfumes,Loud sings the thrush, the birds are on the wing,The fresh grass grows, the young lambs feed at will.But not to thee, my heart, doth nature bringThe joy that this sweet season should instil:Thou broodest alway on thy cherished ill.Absence is no sore grief—it is a glass,Wherein true love from falsehood may be known;Well may the pain be borne which hath an end;But woe to him whose ill-placed hopes attendAnother's life, and who till that shall passIn hopeless expectation wastes his own."[88]

"When snows before the genial breath of springDissolve—and our great Mother reassumesHer robe of green; the meadow breathes perfumes,Loud sings the thrush, the birds are on the wing,The fresh grass grows, the young lambs feed at will.But not to thee, my heart, doth nature bringThe joy that this sweet season should instil:Thou broodest alway on thy cherished ill.Absence is no sore grief—it is a glass,Wherein true love from falsehood may be known;Well may the pain be borne which hath an end;But woe to him whose ill-placed hopes attendAnother's life, and who till that shall passIn hopeless expectation wastes his own."[88]

These sonnets are two among many, all addressed to a lady whom he calls Lucinda. Generally speaking, they treat only of her cruelty and his sufferings: there is no date given to certify at what period they were written; but they were published in 1604, during the life of his second wife—with whom there is every proof that he lived in harmony, and he would never have pained her by publishing his desire for her death. This circumstance renders it conclusive that they referred to the passions of his youth.

The "Dorotea" is indeed a singular performance, and we have read it with some care to discover what it contains that gives the idea that he shadowed forth himself. And we will give some account of the work, whichdiffuse and tedious, will hardly attract the reader, but which at least presents a vivid picture of Spanish manners, and if relating to Lope himself, must be regarded with increased interest. We must premise that though this work was one of the last that he published, and that he mentions it as the favourite his of old age[89], yet that it was written at Valencia in his youth.[90]

"Dorotea" is not a play; it is a story told in dialogue, a sort of composition which has lately been named "Dramatic Scenes." It is in prose, with a few poems interspersed. It is, as usual, very diffuse, and even incoherent and obscure in parts, and contains the story of the intrigues of a young man, whom it has been conjectured Lope intended for himself.

Don Fernando, the hero of the piece, says of himself that his parents dying, and leaving him in poverty, he went to the Indies to try his fortune, but not prospering he returned to Madrid, where he was hospitably received by a rich relation. This lady had in her house a daughter and a niece; with the niece, named Marfisa, Fernando fell, in some sort, in love. Unfortunately she was obliged to marry a gentleman of some rank and merit, but aged. The lovers parted with tears; but the marriage was of short duration, the husband dying soon after. Meanwhile Fernando, on the very day of Marfisa's wedding, was introduced to Dorothea. He was then, he tells us, two-and-twenty, Dorothea fifteen, and beautiful beyond description. They seemed formed for each other, and though they now met for the first time, yet they felt as if they had known one another for years.

Dorothea was already married, but her husband was far away in India. She was courted by a foreign prince, whom she coquetted with, giving him large hopes, and slight favours. This powerful rival Fernando at lengthgets rid of: but he suffers from another evil, the evil of poverty; and the thoughts engendered by want of money fill him with melancholy. Dorothea observes his sadness, and he confesses its cause; she promises at once to give up all feasts and amusements, and sends to his house her jewels and plate in two coffers. He disposes of these, and even so draws on his mistress's resources, that she is obliged to deny herself fitting dress, and to betake herself to unaccustomed labour for her maintenance.

This lasted for five years; and the piece begins at this period, when an officious neighbour, Gerarda (who is set on by don Belia, a creole, who is another and a rich admirer of Dorothea) attacks Theodora, the mother of Dorothea, on the scandal the neighbours promulgate with regard to her daughter's life. Theodora is alarmed, and commands Dorothea to see Fernando no more. She, in despair, hurries (accompanied by her maid) to his house, to impart the sad intelligence. Fernando takes it very coolly, and dismisses her in a manner to make her believe that he no longer loves. But when she is gone, he falls into a transport of despair; and partly piqued at her daring to think of obeying her mother, and partly too miserable to stay longer in a town where he may no longer behold her, he resolves to quit Madrid, and go to Seville. Being in want of means, he applies to his old friend Marfisa; and trumping up a story of having killed a man, and being obliged to fly (which, he says, is true, since he himself was dead, and at the same time obliged to absent himself), Marfisa gives him "the gold she possessed, and the pearls of her tears;" and thus enriched, Fernando departs for Seville.

Dorothea remains: she talks of her lover, and her hard fate, with her maid Celia. Among other things, Celia says, "The scandal that arose was greatly occasioned by Fernando writing verses in his lady's praise." Dorothea replies, "What greater riches can a woman possess, than to have herself immortalised? Her beauty fades, but the verses written in her honour are eternal witnesses of it. The Diana of Montemayor was a ladyof Valencia; and the river Ezla and herself are immortalised by his pen. And the same has happened to the Philida of Montalvo, the Galatea of Cervantes, the Camila of Garcilaso, the Violante of Camoens, the Silvia of Bernaldes, the Philis of Figueroa, and the Leonora of Corte-real." But though Dorothea loves Fernando, and is grateful for his verses, she proves false, and admits to her favour his rich rival, don Belia.

Meanwhile Fernando, unable to endure his absence from her, returns. They meet by accident, and Dorothea feels all her affection revive. She exclaims on the cruelty of her mother, and the misery of her fate, and then intimates her falsehood. "All were against me," she says; "my mother with ill usage, Gerarda with flattery, you by leaving me, and a cavalier by persuading me." However, notwithstanding this, they are for a time in some sort reconciled. But Fernando becomes cold and uneasy; assured that Dorothea loves him, he grows indifferent; certain of her falsehood, he is annoyed: he fancies that his honour is injured in the eyes of the world by his toleration, and he resolves to break with her. He sees in Marfisa the love of his early years. "We had been brought up together," he says; "but although it is true that she was the object of my first attachment in the early season of my youth, her unlucky marriage, and the beauty of Dorothea, caused me to forget her charms as much as if I had never seen them. She returned home after the untimely death of her husband; and she regarded me with eyes of favour, but I vainly tried to admire her: yet I resolved to cultivate my attachment for her without giving up Dorothea. She (Dorothea) perceived a change, but attributed it to my honour being offended by the pretensions of don Belia; and in this she was right, since for that cause I had resolved to hate her. She indeed would have been willing to love me alone, but that was impossible—her fortunes forbade it."

Meanwhile an unlucky encounter with his rival, to whom he is forced to give way, rouses him to revenge against Dorothea; and fate puts theoccasion in his hands. By mistake he sends her a letter from Marfisa to himself; a violent quarrel ensues; and they part to meet no more. A friend of Fernando prophesies to him the sequel of these disasters; he tells him that he will be persecuted by Dorothea and her mother, and thrown into prison, but afterwards liberated and banished; before this he will have become attached to a young lady, whom he will marry to the discontent of the relations on both sides. She will accompany him in his banishment with great constancy and love, but will die. He will then return to Madrid, Dorothea being then a widow, and will wish to marry him, but his honour has more influence over him than her riches, and he will refuse her. He will afterwards be very unfortunate in love, but by help of prayer will extricate himself, and enter another state of life. Marfisa will again marry a literary man, who will leave the kingdom with an honourable employment, but she will soon again be a widow, and then marrying a Spanish soldier, she will be very unhappy, and at last be assassinated by her husband in a fit of jealousy. Fernando is astonished at these prophecies, and announces his intention of joining the Invincible Armada. Dorothea, on her side, is teaching herself no longer to love him; she breaks his portrait, and burns his letters. But while she is looking forward to happiness with don Belia, he is killed in a duel. She rushes out in despair, and Gerarda falls into a well, and is drowned. "And thus ends Dorothea," says the author, "the rest being only the misfortunes of Fernando; the poet could not fail in the truth, for the story is true. Look at the example, for which end it is written."

All this strange medley of a story is told in dialogue, much of which is spirited and natural, but much, very much, pedantic, and beyond expression tedious. By some means, despite her misconduct, we are interested in Dorothea; she is so frank, so beautiful, so generous;while Fernando is, on the contrary, an object of contempt. He takes the money of Dorothea, and then angry at the first mention she makes of her mother's interference, he flies from her rather in revenge than in grief: throughout he is selfish and ungenerous.

Whether Lope shadowed forth himself is very doubtful. There is a sort of dwelling upon trifles, and a reality in the situations, that makes the whole look as if it were founded on fact; yet the facts do not accord with the circumstances known of his life. If it be himself that he portrays, it is himself at two or three and twenty, in the first inexperienced dawn of life, in all the heyday of the passions, when love was life, and moral considerations and the softer affections still lingered far behind in the background. To this period he often alludes in his epistles, when he mentions the troubled sea of love in which he was lost before his second marriage; from which period he dates his peace and felicity. And all this together proves to us that his allusions to an unfortunate attachment have no reference to that happier time. We deduce also from this various evidence that his taking up the life of a soldier, and joining the Armada, arose from his desire to fly from the adversity he had fallen into, "to change clime and element," to begin a new career, in the hope of becoming a new man. Montalvan strengthens this view, when he says that this enterprise was undertaken in a fit of desperation, when he was desirous of finishing life and its sorrows at the same time; and thus driven by adversity, he enlisted under the banners of the duke of Medina Sidonia. Leaving Madrid, he traversed Spain to Cadiz, and thence repaired to Lisbon, where he embarked with a brother, who was an alferez de marina, a title probably answering to our midshipman, unless it be that he was ensign in a marine corps. Lope was a simple volunteer.[91]

It is well known with what sanguine expectations of glorious victory the Invincible Armada sailed. The privateering or piratical expeditions of Drake and Hawkins though in accordance with the manners of the times, and, indeed, disgracefully imitated in late years, had excited feelings full of burning animosity and fierce vengeance in the hearts of the Spaniards. Added to these natural feelings, was the odium of English heresy, which, deep rooted and rankling in Philip II.'s heart, was participated in by his subjects; they considered the expedition of the Armada as holy, as well as patriotic. Lope felt the full force of these sentiments; he bade the invincible fleet go forth and burn the world; wind would not be wanting to the sails, nor fire to the artillery, for his breast, he said, would supply the one, and his sorrow the other. Such was his ardour and such his sighs.

Twelve of the largest vessels, according to the favourite Spanish custom, were named after the twelve apostles. Lope's brother had a commission in the galleon San Juan, and he embarked on board the same vessel. In accordance with the crusading spirit of the expedition, all persons sailing in it were called upon to be duly shriven, and receive the sacrament with humility and repentance; and the general order went on to forbid all blasphemy against God, our Lady, and the saints; all gambling, all quarrels, all duels. Lope felt the enthusiasm of such an hour, and of such a character: a soldier of God going to relieve many contrite spirits oppressed by heretics,—a patriot about to avenge the disasters brought on his country by her enemies.

Lope gives an animated description of the setting forth of the Armada,—its drums and clarions, its gay pendants, the ploughing up of the waves by the keels, and the gathering together of the busy crews.[92]Of himself, he says that Aristotle slept, with matter, forms,causes, and accidents; but he was not idle; and in another work, he mentions that in this expedition, in which, for a few years, he followed the career of arms, "my inclination prompted me to use my pen, and the general finished his enterprise when I did mine; for there, on the waters upon the deck of the San Juan, beneath the banners of the Catholic king, I wrote, 'The Beauty of Angelica.'" Thus, amidst storms and disasters, when his brother died in his arms, struck by a ball in a skirmish with the Dutch at the very commencement of the expedition; while the ships around them were a prey to winds, and waves, and the enemy; and the fury of the violent tempests spread destruction around, Lope wrapped himself in his imagination, and beguiled his sorrows and anxieties by the pleasures of composition. "The Beauty of Angelica" is a continuation of Ariosto's poem. The Italian leaves the heroine on her road to Cathay, and Lope brings them to Spain. His tale is unconnected. Carried away by Spanish diffuseness, he frames neither plot nor story, but rambles on as his fancy leads. It opens with the marriage of Lido, a king of Andalusia with Clorinarda, a daughter of the king of Fez, who, meanwhile, loves Cardiloro, a son of Mandricardo and Doralice; a pair familiar to all the readers of Ariosto. The unhappy bride dies of grief, and her husband follows her to the tomb, leaving his kingdom to the most beautiful, be that either man or woman. The judges sit in judgment, and give their stupid opinions, on which Lope exclaims—

"O dotards! through your spectacles who pry,And ask the measure of a lovely face;Measure the influence of a woman's eye,And ye may then I ween compute the space;That intervenes between the earth and sky."[93]

Many candidates arrive,—the old and ugly and decrepit, leaving their homes, and braving every danger,—to claim the reward of beauty. Among them, but surpassing all in charms, Angelica and Medoro appear. Angelica is described with the greatest minuteness,—brow, eyes, nose, ears, and teeth are all depicted. But more beautiful than this sort of Mosaic portraiture are the verses that portray her companion.

"Scarce twenty years had seen the lovely boy,As ringlet locks and yellow down proclaim;Fair was his height, and grave to gazers seemedThose eyes, which where they turned with love and softness beamed."

The judges decide in favour of Angelica, and she and her husband are crowned. But their beauty gives rise to many a passion in the bosoms of others; and various are the incidents, brought about by enchantments and other means, which for a time disunite the beautiful pair, who, at last, discover their mistakes, and the poem ends with their happiness. This work possesses little merit, except here and there in short passages; but it is a singular specimen of Lope's power of composition, amidst circumstances so foreign to the subject in hand.

1590.Ætat.28.

On his return from the Armada, he quitted the career of arms, and entered the service, first, of the marquis de Malpica, and soon after of the count of Lemos, leaving him only on occasion of his second marriage to donna Juana de Guardio, a lady of Madrid, of whom he thus speaks:—

"Who could have thought that I should find a wife,When from that war I reached my native shore,Sweet for the love which ruled her life,Dear for the sorrows which she bore?Such love which could endure through cold and hot,Could only have been mine or Jacob's lot."[94]

The sorrows to which Lope alludes, we conjecture to have arisen from straitened means. He brought out a vast quantity of plays at this time, and received no scanty remuneration; still he was not risen to the zenith of his fame, when on every side he received donations and pensions. He was extravagant we know, and prodigality might easily produce a gap between his expenses and his chance receipts as an author. This view is strengthened by his dedication of his play "El Verdadero Amante," The True Lover, to his little son Carlos. This was not published till 1620, but must have been written long previous, as Carlos died before (how long, we know not) 1609, and is dedicated to himwhile he was learning the rudiments of the Latin language.He bids him follow his studies without impeding them with poetry, because he who had addicted himself to it was ill rewarded. He continues—"I possess only, as you know, a poor house, with table and establishment in proportion, and a small garden, whose flowers divert my cares and inspire me with ideas. I have written 900 plays, and twelve volumes on various subjects in prose and verse, so that the printed will never equal in quantity the unprinted; and I have acquired enemies, critics, quarrels, envy, reprehension, and cares; having lost precious time, and arrived nearly at old age without leaving you any thing but this useless advice." Notwithstanding this repining. Lord Holland is probably right in supposing that the years of Lope's second marriage were the happiest of his life, though, perhaps, he felt at the commencement some pecuniary embarrassments. Through life he was extravagant, and on first setting out as an author might easily be in debt; yet, as he rose in fame his fortunes mended, and affection and content enshrined the family circle.

The period of his domestic happiness did not last long. At six years old, his little son died; his wife soon followed her child to the tomb, and Lope was left with two daughters.[95]From his own pen we give anaccount of his wedded happiness, and his grief when his home again became desolate. In the Eclogue to Claudio, he says:—

"I saw a group my board surround,And sure to me, though poorly spread,'T was rich with such fair objects crowned—Dear bitter presents of my bed!I saw them pay their tribute to the tomb,And scenes so cheerful change to mourning and to gloom."

In addition to this affecting picture, he makes frequent mention of these circumstances in his epistles, and we subjoin extracts, which we are sure must interest the reader.

One of these epistles is addressed to doctor Mathias de Porras, who had been appointed corregidor of the province of Canta in Peru. These epistles are in verse; but as their length is great, the abstract made from them might as well be in prose:—

Since you left me, Señor Doctor, and without dying went to the other world, I have passed my life in melancholy solitude; the evils of my lot increasing in proportion to the blessings of which you saw me deprived. Did not my new office (of priest) give me breath, the prop of my years would fall to the ground. O vain hopes! How strange are the roads that life passes through, as each day we acquire new delusions!" He then goes on to speak of his early loves and sorrows, and of the power of beauty, and continues, "But the vicissitudes of a life of passion were then over, and my heart was liberated from its importuning annoyances, when each morning I saw the dear and sincere face of my sweet wife at my side, and when Carlos—his cheeks all lilies and roses—won my soul by his charming prattle. The boy gambolled about me as a young lamb in a meadow at the morning hour. The half-formed words of his little tongue were sentences for us, interpreted by our kisses. I gave thanks toEternal Wisdom, and content with such mornings after such dark nights, I sometimes wept my vain hopes, and believed myself secure—not of life—but of reserving this felicity. I then went to write a few lines, having consulted my books. They called me to eat, but I often bade them leave me, such was the attraction of study. Then bright as flowers and pearls, Carlos entered to call me, and gave light to my eyes and embraces to my heart. Sometimes he took me by the hand, and drew me to the table beside his mother. There, doctor, without pomp, an honest and liberal mediocrity gave us sufficing sustenance. But fierce Death deprived me of this ease, this cure, this hope. I lived no longer to behold that dear society which I imagined mine for ever. Then I disposed my mind for the priesthood, that asylum might shelter and guard me. The Muses were idle for a time, and I refrained from all things worldly, and humbly attained the sacred stole."

Another epistle is written under the feigned name of Belardo, the appellation he had assumed in his "Arcadia," to Amaryllis.[96]In this he gives a sketch of portions of his life. He speaks of his early turn for poetry and his predilection for study, and continues:—"Love, and love ever speaks false, bade me incline to follow him. What then befell me I now feel; but as I loved a beauty never to be mine, I had recourse to study, and thus the poet destroyed the love that destroyed him. Favoured by my stars, I learned several languages, and enriched my ownby the knowledge I gained through them. Twice I married; from which you may gather that I was happy—for no one tries twice a painful thing. I had a son whom my soul lived in. You will know by my elegy that this light of my eyes was called Carlos. Six times did the sun retrocede, equalling day and night, counting thus the time of his birth, when this my sun lost its light. Then expired life that was the life of Jacinta. How much better it had been that I had died, than that Carlos in his very morning should encounter so long a night! Lope remained, if it be Lope who now lives. Marcella at fifteen obliged me to offer her to God, although, and you may believe me, though a father's love might be supposed blind, she was neither foolish nor ugly. Feliciana showed me in her words and eyes the image of her lost mother, who died in giving her birth. Her virtues enforce tears, and time does not cure my sorrow. I left the gaieties of secular life; I was ordained. Such is my life; and my desires aspire to a good end only, without extravagant pretensions."

In his epistle to don Francisco de Herrera he enlarges on the vocation of Marcella. "Marcella," he says, "the first care of my heart, thought of marrying, and one evening she spoke freely to me of her betrothed. I, seeing that it was prudent to examine her wish, since accident might have swayed it, grew attentive; at the same time that I desired to avoid shaking her intention if it were founded in the truth of her heart. But her anxiety increasing each day, I resolved to give her the husband to whom she aspired with so much love." He then explains the Son of God to be her bridegroom—vows of chastity her nuptial benediction. He describes the whole ceremony of her taking the veil. The marchioness de la Tela was her godmother; the duke of Sesa and many other nobles being present. Hortensio preached the sermon. "She asked me," he says, "leave to conclude the marriage, and she whom I had loved, and whose lovelyperson I had adorned more like a lover than a father, in gold and silk—like a rose that fades and falls to pieces at the close of day, losing the pomp of her crimson leaves—now sleeps upon rough straw, and barefoot and ill clad sits at a poor table."

The dates of the various events of Lope's life are very uncertain, and none more so than that of his second marriage. He mentions it as happening soon after his return from the expedition to England. Yet he speaks of taking orders soon after his wife's death, and he took orders 1609. The term of his second marriage, however, endured only for eight years. It would therefore appear that several years elapsed after his return to Madrid before he married a second time. As diligent a researcher as M. Viardôt in old parish books and official documents, would clear up this obscurity. As it is, we can only give the facts, as we find them stated, obscurely.

The effect of his bereaved condition was, as has been mentioned, to induce him to take vows, and be ordained. He prepared himself, by retiring from gay society, assumed a priestly dress, served in hospitals, and performed many acts of charity; and finally, visiting Toledo, took orders, and said his first mass in a Carmelite church. He entered a fraternity of priests dedicated to the performance of good works and the assistance of the poor, and fulfilled his duties zealously, so that he became named head chaplain, and was as generous as conscientious in the exercise of his office. To his other sacred employments he added that of being a familiar of the inquisition. His piety, which was catholic and excessive, led to this; but it is a painful circumstance, in our times especially, when we are told that he presided over the procession of the confraternity of familiars of the holy office, on the occasion of anauto da fé, when a relapsed Lutheran was burned alive. We feel sure that Cervantes would never have been led to a similar act.

Meanwhile his reputation as an author was rising to that height which it afterwards reached. In 1598, the canonisation of St. Isidro, a native ofMadrid, was the occasion of prizes being given to the authors of verses written in his honour. Each style of poetry gained its reward, but above one could not be gained by the same person. Lope succeeded in the hymns; but he had tried in all. He wrote a poem of ten cantos in short verse, numberless sonnets and ballads, and two comedies. These were published under the feigned name of Tomé de Burguillos, and are among the best of Lope's compositions. Already his dramas were in vogue, and the public were astonished by their number and excellence. In this year also he published the "Arcadia," written long before. Afterwards he published others of his younger productions; for it is singular that he printed nothing while a very young man, and that he had established his reputation by his plays before he deluged the world with his lyric and epic poetry. The "Hermosura de Angelica" did not see light till 1604; and thus was it with many other of his productions, which he wrote probably at Valencia during his exile, and which when he found profit by so doing, he bestowed on the public.

The reputation he attained awakened the enmity of rivals and critics. When Cervantes published "Don Quixote," in 1605, Lope was risen high in popular estimation; he was generally applauded—almost adored. The abundance and facility of his verses, and the amiableness of his character, were in part the occasion of this; but the eminent cause was his theatre, which we delay considering, not too much to interrupt the thread of his history, but whose originality, novelty, vivacity, and adaptation to the Spanish taste, secured unparalleled success. Cervantes did not feel the merits of his innovations, and he considered himself also the unacknowledged originator of many of the improvements attributed to Lope. We have seen in what Cervantes's dramatic pretensions consisted—high wrought and impassioned scenes connected, not by the intricacies of a methodical plot, but by the simple texture of their causes and effects, such as we find in life itself. He feltthat he had written well; he was unwilling to acknowledge that Lope wrote better, nor did he, as a master of the human heart, and as presenting more affecting situations; but he did, as comprehending and representing more to the life the manners and feelings of his day. Cervantes easily perceived the faults of his rival; he discovered his incongruities, and noted the vanity or cupidity which made him more abundant than correct, and the currying to the depraved taste of the times, through a desire of popularity. In short, Lope was not perfect, but he had something that while he lived stood in the stead of perfection—he hit the public taste; he supplied it with ever fresh and ever delightful food; he pleased, he interested, he fascinated. To act posterity, and judge coolly of his works, was an invidious task; and though it was natural that a man so profound and sagacious as Cervantes should be impelled so to do, yet, by attacking him and proving him in the wrong, he could not weaken his influence, while he made an enemy. There is a sonnet against Lope attributed to him, of which the point is not acute; but it displays contempt for his pastorals and epics, and sarcastically alludes to his superabundant fertility. However, it is more than probable that Cervantes did not write this sonnet; for he wrote in praise of Lope in other works, and it was unlike the noble disposition of that single-hearted and excellent man to have contradicted himself. Still less likely is it that Lope wrote the answer. It is vulgarly abusive and ridiculously assuming: he calls Cervantes the horse to Lope's carriage; bids him do Lope honour, or evil will betide him; and sums up by saying that "Don Quixote" went about the world in wrappers to parcels of spices. It looks more like the spurt of an over-zealous disciple than of a man of Lope's judgment and character.[97]

His war with Gongora was of a more grave description, and we defer farther mention of it till in the life of Gongora we give some account of his poetic system.

Meanwhile Lope rose higher and higher in the estimation of the public.There is scarcely an example on record of similar popularity. Grandees, nobles, ministers, prelates, scholars—all solicited his acquaintance. Men came from distant lands to see him; women stood at their balconies as he passed, to behold and applaud him. On all sides he received presents; and we are even told that when he made a purchase, if he were recognised, the seller refused payment. His name passed into a proverb; it became a synonyme for the superlative degree,—a Lope diamond, a Lope dinner, a Lope woman, a Lope dress, was the expression used to express perfection in its kind. All this might well compensate for attacks; yet as these were founded in truth, and he must sometimes have dreaded a reaction of popularity, he felt at times nettled and uneasy.1616.Ætat.54.His part was, however, warmly taken by his adherents. Their intolerance was such that they gravely asserted that the author of the "Spongia," who had severely censured his works and accused him of ignorance of the Latin language, deserved death for his heresy.[98]

His works were more numerous than can be imagined. Each year he gave some new poem to the press; each month, and sometimes every week, he brought out a play; and these at least were of recent composition, though the former consisted frequently in the productions of his early years, corrected and finished. He tried every species of writing, and became celebrated in all. His hymns and sacred poems secured him the respect of the clergy, and showed his zeal in the profession he had embraced. When Philip IV. came to the crown, he immediately heaped new honours on Lope; for Philip was a patron of the stage; and several plays of considerable-merit, published as written "By a Wit of the Court" (Por un Ingenio de esta Corte), are ascribed to him.1621.Ætat.59.Lope published at this time his novels, imitated from Cervantes—whom he graciously acknowledges to have displayed some grace and ease of style, and whom he by no means succeeds in rivalling—and severalpoems—which that they were ever read is a sort of miracle; and the Lope mania must have been vehement indeed that could gift readers with patience for his diffuseness.

Still the taste was genuine, (though it seems to us perverted), as is proved by a rather dangerous experiment which he made. He published a poem without his name, for the sake of trying the public taste. It succeeded; and the favour with which his unacknowledged "Soliloquies on God," were received must have inspired him with great reliance on his own powers. The death of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots at this time spread a very general sensation of pity for her and hatred for her rival through Spain. Lope made it the subject of a poem, which he called the Corona Tragica, which he dedicated to pope Urban VIII.; who thanked him by a letter written in his own hand, and by the degree of doctor of theology. This was the period of his greatest glory. Cardinal Barberini followed him in the streets; the king stopped to look at him as he passed; and crowds gathered round him whenever he appeared.

The quantity of his writings is incredible. It is calculated that he printed one million three hundred thousand lines, and this, he says, is a small part of what he wrote.

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