Chapter 18

"The printed part, though far too large, is lessThan that which yet unprinted still remains."[99]

Among these it is asserted that 1800 plays and 400 sacramental dramas have been printed. This account long passed as true. Lord Holland detected its fallacy; and the author of the article in the Quarterly follows up his calculations, and proves the absurdity of the account. He himself says, in the preface to the "Arte de Hacer Comedias," that he had brought out 483. There are extant 497. Some may be lost certainly, but not so many as this computation would assume. Many of his pieces forthe theatre, indeed, consist of loas and entremeses, small pieces in single acts, which may have been taken in to make up this number, but which do not deserve to rank among plays.

With regard to the number of verses he wrote there is also exaggeration. He says he often wrote five sheets a day; and the most extravagant calculations have been made on this, as if he had written at this rate from the day of his birth, till a month or two after his death. It is evident, however, that the period when he wrote five sheets a day, and a play in the twenty-four hours, was limited to a few years. With all this he is doubtless, even in prolific Spain, the most prolific of writers, and the most facile. Montalvan tells us, that when he was at Toledo, he wrote fifteen acts in fifteen days, making five plays in a fortnight; and he adds an anecdote that fell under his own experience. Roque de Figueroa, a writer for the theatre of Madrid, found himself on an occasion without any new play, and the doors of his theatre were obliged to be shut—a circumstance which shows the vast appetite for novelty that had arisen, and the cause wherefore Lope was induced to write so much, since the public rather desired what was new than what was good. But to return to Montalvan's story. Being carnival, Figueroa was eager to open his theatre, and Lope and Montalvan agreed to write a play together; and they brought out the "Tercera Orden de San Francisco," dividing the labour. Lope took the first act and Montalvan the second, which they completed in two days; and the third they partitioned between them, eight pages for each; and as the weather was bad, Montalvan remained all night in Lope's house. The scholar finding that he could not equal his master in readiness, wished to surpass him by force of industry, and rising at two in the morning, finished his part by eleven. He then went to seek Lope, and found him in the garden, occupied by an orange-tree, which had been frost-bitten in the night. Montalvan asked how his verses speeded? Lope replied, "I began to write at five, andfinished the act an hour ago. I breakfasted on some rashers of bacon, and wrote an epistle of fifty triplets, and having watered ray garden, I am not a little tired." On this he read his act and his triplets, to the wonder and admiration of his hearer.

He gained considerable profit by his writings. The presents made him by various nobles amounted to a large sum. His plays and autos, and his various publications, brought him vast receipts. He had received a dowry with each wife. The king bestowed several pensions and chaplaincies. The pope gifted him with various preferments. With all this he was not rich; his absolute income apparently amounted to only 1500 ducats, and profuse charities and prodigal generosity emptied his purse as fast as it was filled. He spent much on church festivals; he was hospitable to his friends, extravagant in his purchase of books and pictures, and munificent in his charities, so that when he died he left little behind him. We cannot censure this disposition; indeed it is inherent in property gained as Lope gained it, to be lost as soon as won; for being received irregularly, it superinduces irregular habits of expense. That Lope, the observed of all, he to whom nature and fortune had been so prodigal, should have been grasping and avaricious would have grated on our feelings. We hear of his profusion with pleasure: the well-watered soil, if generous in its nature, gives forth abundant vegetation; the receiver of so much showed the nobility of his mind in freely imparting to others the wealth so liberally bestowed on him.

In his epistles and other poems, Lope gives very pleasing pictures of the tranquillity of his life as he advanced in age. Addressing don Fray Placido de Tosantos, he says: "I write you these verses, from where no annoyance troubles me. My little garden inspires fancies drawn from fruits and flowers, and the contemplation of natural objects." In the epistle before quoted to Amaryllis, he says, "My books are my life, and humble content my actions—unenvious of the riches of others. Theconfusion sometimes annoys me; but, though I live in Madrid, I am farther from the court than if I were in Muscovy or Numidia. Sometimes I look upon myself as a dwarf, sometimes as a giant, and I regard both views with indifference; and am neither sad when I lose, nor joyful when I gain. The man who governs himself well, despises the praise or blame of this short though vile captivity. I esteem the sincere and pure friendship of those who are virtuous and wise; for without virtue, no friendship is secure; and if sometimes my lips complain of ingratitude, this is no crime." To Francisco de Rioja he writes: "My garden is small; it contains a few trees, and more flowers, a trained vine, an orange tree, and a rose hush. Two young nightingales dwell in it, and two buckets of water form a fountain, playing among stones and coloured shells." "My hopes are fallen," he says in another place, "and my fortune shuts herself up with me in a nook, filled with books and flowers, and is neither favourable nor inimical to me." In the "Huerto Deshecho," or Destroyed Garden, he gives further testimony of his love for his garden, which had just been laid waste by a tempest. He thus addresses his fair retreat:—

"Dear solace of my weary sorrow,Unhappy garden, thou who slept,Foreseeing not the stormy morrow,The while the tears that night had wept,Morning drank up, and all the flowers awoke,And I the pen that told my thoughts up took."

and he goes on bitterly to grieve over the desolation the storm had made.

If there is a touch of melancholy, and a half-checked repining in any of these quotations, I do not see that he is to be reprehended. Covered with renown and gifted with riches—it is said, who can be happy, if Lope de Vega were not? But we must remember that neither wealth nor fame are in themselves happiness. Lope had through death lost the dearest objects of life; in a spirit of piety he had shut himself out from forming others. His heart was the source of his disquiet—but he hadrecourse to natural objects for its cure, and often found repose among them. That his disposition was amiable and his temper placid, there is ample proof. He says of himself, "I naturally love those who love me, and I cannot hate those who hate me:" and we may believe him: for this is a virtue a man never boasts of without possessing it; to a nature formed to hate and to revenge, hatred and revenge seem natural and noble. That he was vain is evident: his sort of character, vivacious, kindly and expansive, tends to vanity. He would have been more than man not to have been vain, flattered as he was. Lord Holland mentions his complaints of poverty, obscurity, and neglect, in the preface to the "Peregrino," but they do not amount to much. He certainly writes in a very ill temper, nettled, it would appear, by some plays having appeared with his name, which were not written by him. There is more of complaint in his poem of the "Huerto Deshecho," one of the most elegant and pleasing of his poems. Alluding to his love of study, he says, "Though that be a work of praise, it was but the fatal prelude of the unhappy result of my hopes, since, in conclusion, my verses were given to the winds. Strong philosophy, and retired, but contented old age animate me on my way. If I do not sing, it is enough that others sing what I deplore—devouring time destroys towers of vanity and mountains of gold; one only thing, divine grace, suffers no change."

It is strange, indeed, that he should say that he had given his verses to the winds—but he says himself,

"No he visto alegre de su bien ninguno—"I ne'er saw man content with what he had.

Thus he passed many years, living according to the dictates of his conscience, with moderation and virtue; unmindful of life, but deeply mindful of death, so that he was ever prepared to meet it. His piety indeed was tinged with superstition; but he was a catholic and a Spaniard, and dwelt fervently on the means of satisfying the justice ofGod in this world, so as to secure a greater stock of happiness in the next. Charitable he was to prodigality; and as he grew old he used his pen on religious subjects only, repenting somewhat of his labours for the stage.

1635.Ætat.73.

His health was good, till, within a very short time before he died, he fell into a state of hypochondria, which clouded the close of his existence.[100]His friend, Alonzo Perez de Montalvan, seeing him thus melancholy, asked him to dine with him and a relation, on the day of Transfiguration, which was the 6th of August. After dinner, as all three were conversing on several subjects, he said, that such was the depression of spirits by which he was afflicted that his heart failed him in his body, and that he prayed God to ease him by shortening his life. On which, Juan Perez de Montalvan (his biographer, friend, and pupil) remarked, "Do not feel thus, I trust in God and in your healthy looks, that this indisposition will pass away, and that we shall see you again in the health you enjoyed twenty years ago." To which Lope replied with some emotion, "Ah, doctor, would to God, I were well over it!"

His presentiments were verified: Lope was soon to die; this his feelings foretold, and so prepared him for the event. On the 18th of the same month he rose very early, recited the divine service, said mass in his oratory, watered his garden, and then shut himself up in his study. At mid-day he felt chilled, either from his work among his flowers, or from having, as his servants averred, used the discipline on himself with severity, as was proved by the recent marks of blood being found on the discipline, and staining the walls of the room. Lope was indeed a rigid catholic, as this circumstance proves, and also his refusing to eat any thing but fish, though he had a dispensation to eat meat, and it was ordered him during his indisposition. In the evening he attended a scientific meeting, but being suddenly taken ill, he was obliged to return home. The physicians now gathered round with their prescriptions;and it happened that doctor Juan de Negrete, the king's physician, passed through the street, and he was told that Lope de Vega was indisposed, on which he visited him, not as a doctor, as he had not been called in, but as a friend. He soon perceived his danger, and intimated that it were better that he should take the sacrament, with the usual excuse, that it was a relief to any one in danger, and could only benefit him if he lived. "If you advise this," said Lope "there must be a necessity;" and that same night he received the sacrament. Extreme unction followed but two hours after. He then called for his daughter, and blessed her, and took leave of his friends as one about to make so long a journey; conversing concerning the interests of those left behind, with kindness and piety. He told Montalvan, that virtue was true fame, and that he would exchange all the applause he had received, for the consciousness of having fulfilled one more virtuous deed; and followed up these counsels with prayers and acts of catholic piety. He passed the night uneasily, and expired the next day, weak and worn, but alive to a sense of religion and friendship to the last.

His funeral took place the third day after his death, and was conducted with splendour by the duke of Sesa, the most munificent of his patrons, whom he had named his executor. Don Luis de Usategui, his son-in-law, and a nephew, went as mourners, accompanied by the duke of Sesa and many other grandees and nobles. The clergy of all classes flocked in crowds. The procession attracted a multitude; the windows and balconies were thronged, and the magnificence was such, that a woman going by, exclaimed, "This is a Lope funeral!" ignorant that it was the funeral of Lope himself, and so applying his name as expressive of the excess of all that was splendid. The church was filled with lamentation when at last he was deposited in the tomb. For eight days the religiousceremonies were kept up, and on the ninth, a sermon was preached in his honour, when the church was again crowded with the first people of Spain.

By his will, his daughter, donna Feliciana de Vega, married to don Luis de Usategui, inherited the moderate fortune he left behind. He added in his will a few legacies of pictures, books, and reliques to his friends.

In person Lope de Vega was tall, thin, and well made; dark complexioned, and of a prepossessing countenance; his nose aquiline; his eyes lively and clear; his beard black and thick. He had acquired much agility, and was capable of great personal exertion. He always enjoyed excellent health, being moderate in his tastes, and regular in his habits.

To gather Lope's character from the events of his life, and his accounts of himself, it may be assumed that while young his disposition had all the vivacity of the south—that his passions were ardent, his feelings enthusiastic—that he was heedless and imprudent perhaps, but always amiable and true. Generous to prodigality—pious to bigotry—patriotic to injustice, he was given to extremes, yet he did not possess the higher qualities, the cheerful fortitude, and fearless temper of Cervantes. Time and sorrow softened in after times some portions of his character; but still in his garden, among his flowers and books, he was vivacious, perhaps petulant (for his complaints of neglect are to be attributed to petulancy rather than to a repining temper); warm-hearted, charitable and social, vain he might also be, for that we all are. The activity of his mind resembled more a spontaneous fertility of soil, than the exertion of labour: "plays and poetry were the flowers of his plain," as he says: and this seems an unexaggerated picture of the ease with which he composed. We need scarcely allude to the hypochondria that darkened his last hours, as Montalvan seems to mention it as a mere precursor of death. If it were more, it is only another proof that the mind must not work too hard, while it has this fragile body for its instrument and prop.

In drawing up Lope's character, Montalvan[101]praises him as agreeable and unpresuming in conversation. He was zealous in the affairs of others, careless of his own; kind to his servants, courteous, gallant and hospitable, and exceedingly well bred. His temper, he says, was never ruffled but by those who took snuff before company; with the grey who dyed their locks; with men who, born of women, spoke ill of the sex; with priests who believed in gipsies; and with persons who without intentions of marriage asked others their age. Good taste as well as good feeling is displayed in most of these slight intimations of character: it is to be cleanly to dislike to see snuff taken; it is being unusually just always to speak well of women.

As no writer ever surpassed him in quantity, so it will be impossible to give a full account of his works. We have already mentioned several:—His "Arcadia," the production of his youth, which may be considered the best of such of his writings as are not dramas;—"The Beauty of Angelica," is chiefly remarkable as showing how superior the Italian romantic poets are to any that Spain has produced. The "Dragontea" is another poem of which Sir Francis Drake is the hero, and the poet has not been sparing of vituperation. It is founded on the last expedition of Drake, when, to revenge the armada, and to inflict a deep blow on the Spanish power, injured by the destruction of its fleet, he scoured the Spanish coast, and did immense injury to the shipping. The poem of Lope is very patriotic; the hatred felt in Spain for the English queen was furious and personal; the marriage of Philip II. with bloodyqueen Mary, having caused much intercourse between the two nations, and the accession of Elizabeth being the signal of our island again falling off from the Roman Catholic faith; all therefore that could be imagined of horror for her heresy and wickedness, and that of her ministers, animated the soul, and directed the pen of Lope.

The "Jerusalem" was his next attempt at an epic; of this Richard Cœur de Lion is the hero, though the English of course are rendered subordinate to the Spaniards. We have not read it. Lord Holland pronounces it a failure; and the critic of the Quarterly observes, "A failure indeed it is, and a total one; the plan, when compared to that of the 'Angelica' is as 'confusion worse confounded,'—it has neither beginning, middle, nor end; neither method, nor purpose, nor proportion; and many of the parts might be extirpated, or, what is more extraordinary, might change places without any injury to the whole. But there is more vigour of thought in it, and more felicity of expression than in any other of his longer poems." And thus Spaniards alone write; with them a poem resembles a pathless jungle: you come to a magnificent tree, a wild and balmy breathing flower, a mossy pathway, and clear bubbling fountain; and beside these objects you linger a moment, but soon you plunge again among tangled underwood and uncultivated interminable wilds. When Lope takes a subject in hand he does not follow it up as a traveller who has a bourne in view; but he scrambles up every mountain, visits every waterfall, and plunges into every cavern; and like a tourist without a guide in an unknown country, he often loses his way, and often leads his reader a wild chase after objects, which, when reached, were not worth visiting.

This prodigality of verse, which caused him to be named the Potosi of rhymes, was indulged in to the utmost, when, on the canonisation of St. Isidro, he entered into the lists to win the prize instituted for poemsin celebration of the event. Isidro had been elevated into a saint at the solicitation of Philip III., who had been cured of a fever by the body of the defunct miracle-maker being brought to him. Every Spanish poet of the age, and they were all but innumerable, entered the lists. There are two volumes of Lope's productions, some in his own name, consisting of a sort of epic, composed in quintillas, or stanzas of five short lines each, a measure more suited to the genius of the Spanish language than longer ones; and a play, and a vast quantity of lyrics given under the name of Burguillos. These were all burlesque; but subsequently Lope continued to adopt the name, and published several poems under it, among others, the "Gatomaquia, or War of Cats," a mock heroic, which is a great favourite in Spain. The "Corona Tragica," a poem written on the death of Mary, queen of Scots, brought him an increase of reputation: it is bigoted to the excess of blind Spanish inquisitorial bigotry, and, except in a few passages, does not rise above mediocrity. It is impossible to give even a cursory account of Lope's lyrics and sacred poems. The best of the former are to be found in the "Arcadia" and the "Dorotea."

But it is not on any of these productions that the reputation of Lope really rests. That was founded on his theatre, and on that it must continue to subsist. There he showed himself master of his art: original, fecund, national, universal, true and spirited, he produced a form of dramatic writing that, to this day, rules the stage of every country of the world.

It was with considerable difficulty that the theatre established itself at all in Spain, the church setting itself against theatrical representations. This prejudice has continued even to modern days. No Spanish monarch since Philip IV. has entered a theatre; and Philip V., when he found in Farinelli the solace of his painful distemper, not only never heard him in a theatre, but caused him to give up the public stage, when he was admitted to sing privately before him. In the earlyday of which we are writing, the clerical outcry was furious, and the drama only became tolerated by making over the theatres to two religious corporations, one a hospital, and the other of flagellants; and the wickedness of the stage was permitted[102]for the sake of the benefits to charity and religion to result therefrom. The sites of the theatres then consisted of two open court yards,corrales—corral is the Spanish term for farmyard, or any enclosure for cattle, and long continued to be synonymous with a theatre. The representations took place at first in the open air. Alberto Gavasa, an Italian, who brought over a company of buffoons, was enabled by the greatness of his success to cover his corral with an awning, the court yard itself was paved and provided with movable benches, and called thepatio, or pit, which no women ever entered. The grandees sat looking out of the windows of the houses that looked into the court yard, which government appropriated and distributed on this occasion. A prince or very great man having a room allotted to him, and minor gentlemen a single window, and this primitive arrangement was we are told the origin of our boxes. In addition, there were several galleries, into some of which women only were admitted. It was called thecazuela, and open to all classes.

Yet even this pious dedication of the proceeds of the theatre did not silence the clergy. In 1600, Philip III. ordered the subject to be referred to a junta of theologians. This council established certain conditions on which the performances were to be tolerated, the principal being that women were not to act, nor to mingle with the audience. It was at this time, and with this licence that Lope's career was run. He alone furnished all Spain with plays; and so great a favourite was he, that none but his were received with any approbation. On the accession of Philip IV., a man of pleasure, the theatre was more frequented than ever. Yet still, it maybe observed, the clergy nourished a prejudiceagainst it, censured Lope for being the occasion of much sin, and caused him on his death bed to express his regret at having written for the stage, and to promise that if he recovered he would do so no more.

Cervantes boasts of the improvements he occasioned in theatrical representations. Still his plays, though they have great merit from the passion and poetry they display, are inartificial in their construction, while Lope on the contrary, became popular from the admirable nature of his plots. His dramas are praised by a Spanish critic for "the purity and sweetness of his language, for the vivacity of his dialogue, for the propriety of many of the characters, for his invention, his exact description of national manners, for his serious passages, his merriment and his wit." There is often something barbaric in his carelessness of time and place, and also in the hinging on of his incidents: still the plot was preserved carefully throughout, and the catastrophe showed the intention of the author to have been always in his mind, even when he most seemed to swerve from it. The number of plays that Lope wrote has been alluded to, and is really astonishing: there is something of sameness, perhaps, at the bottom of all, but this is joined to prodigious variety and novelty within the circle by which his invention is circumscribed. He says himself—

"Should I the titles now relateOf plays my endless labour bore,Well might you doubt, the list so great,Such reams of paper scribbled o'er;Plots, imitations, scenes, and all the rest,To verse reduced, in flowers of rhetoric drest.The number of my fables toldWould seem the greatest of them all;For strange, of dramas you beholdFull fifteen hundred mine I call,And full an hundred times—within a day,Passed from my muse, upon the stage, a play."

The number of my fables toldWould seem the greatest of them all;For strange, of dramas you beholdFull fifteen hundred mine I call,And full an hundred times—within a day,Passed from my muse, upon the stage, a play."

And so entirely did he possess the ear and favour of the audience, that many a play of which he was innocent was brought out under his name, and thus obtained applause.

The causes of his success are easily discovered. The Spaniards hadhitherto wanted a national literature. Their poetry and their pastorals did not express the heroism, the bigotry, the tenacious honour and violent prejudices that formed their character. Their ballads did, and so did the romances of chivalry; but the latter had become mere imitations, and while they echoed some of the sentiments they entertained, did not mirror their manners. It was like a new creation when the poetic genius of Spain embodied itself in the drama, and under the guise of tragedy and comedy, each romantic, made visible to an audience the ideal of their prejudices and passions, their virtues and vices; and these, in connection with a story that engaged their interest and warmed their hearts with sympathy.

The plays of Lope were either romantic tragedies, or plays of la Capa y Espada, of the sword and cloak, sometimes tragic and sometimes comic, but which were founded on the manners of the day. Of course there is a great deal of killing and slaying, but none of the horrors that startle the reader of Titus Andronicus, and other English tragedies of that period.

The point of honour, loyalty, love, and jealousy, form the standard groundwork of the dramas of Lope. Lord Holland has analysed the "Star of Seville," in which the interest depends on an affianced lover killing the brother of his betrothed at the instance of the king, and then refusing to betray his royal master's secret. Love and jealousy take singular forms. It was the custom of the lover to watch beneath the barred windows of the house of his lady, and she, if she favoured him, descended and conversed with him from her casement. They never hesitate to acknowledge their love, but it must never be suspected by others. Were it known that a cavalier were thus favoured, the relations of the lady would at once assassinate him, and stab her or shut her up in a convent. Yet when the lovers have escaped these dangers, they marry, and at the sound of wedlock the honour of the family is secured; the injury, to be so mortally avenged, is no longer an injury, and all is well andhappy. If a husband is jealous, it is not that he doubts the fidelity of his wife, or even her attachment, but that she has been placed in a situation which might have led to dishonour. Others know this, and she must expiate the fault with her life. In the "Certain for the Doubtful," a lady wishing to dissuade the king from marrying her, confesses that his brother, who is his rival, had once kissed her without her permission. The king instantly resolves to have him assassinated, since he cannot marry the lady till his brother's death has freed her from the dishonour that must accrue, while the perpetrator of such an act lives. He says at the same time "I know that there is no reality in what you tell me, but, although this strange incident be a falsehood invented for the purpose of inducing me not to marry you, it suffices that it has been said, to force me to revenge it. If love makes me in any manner give credit to your story—Henriquez shall die, and I marry his widow; for then, if what you tell me shall be discovered, we shall neither of us be dishonoured; for you will be the widow of this kiss, as others are of a husband." Accordingly assassins are commissioned to waylay his brother. Meanwhile Henriquez and the lady marry, and the king seeing the evil without remedy, and his honour safe, pardons the lovers.

Schlegel observes, "Honour, love, and jealousy are uniformly the motives: the plot arises out of their daring and noble collision, and is not purposely instigated by knavish deception. Honour is always an ideal principle, for it rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher morality which consecrates principles without regard to consequences: the honour of the women consists in loving only one man, of pure, unspotted honour, and loving him with perfect purity: inviolable secrecy is required till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared. The power of jealousy, always alive, and always breaking out in a dreadful manner,—not like that of eastern countries, a jealousy of possession, but of the slightest emotions of the heart, and its most imperceptibledemonstrations, serves to ennoble love. In tragedies, this jealousy causes honour to become a hostile destiny for him who cannot satisfy it, without either annihilating his own felicity, or becoming even a criminal."

Schlegel, in his hatred of the French, espouses with too much warmth, and elevates too highly the nobleness of the passions on which the interest of the Spanish drama is founded. Where jealousy is the main spring of every action, there is little tenderness; however, it is in the comedies that this passion displays itself in the worst light. In tragedies, death, hovering over the scene, gives dignity and elevation to that which otherwise must seem the excess of self-love. The comedies present a tissue of intrigues and embroglios; but these are arranged with so much art, carried on with so much spirit, and aided by sparkling and natural dialogue, that it is impossible not to be amused, and even interested.

To these subjects are added plays in which religion is the master passion, where Catholicism is raised to the height which makes its assumed truth a justification for the worst crimes; and the vengeance which Moor or Jew pursue for infinite injuries, be considered a crime to be expiated by a cruel death. In the same way, the point of honour led to falsehood and dishonourable actions, all of which were considered venial, as founded on, or tending to, a lofty aim. Even in the lighter comedies, there is a dangerous and ticklish sense of honour always on the alert to create danger, and enliven the interest.

Lope also wrote many sacred dramas and Autos Sacramentales. Some of these are allegorical; others founded on the lives of the saints. God Almighty, the Virgin, the Saviour, and Satan are among his dramatis personæ. But in this species of writing he was far surpassed by Calderon. It required sublimity to give a proper tone to such subjects, and to this quality Lope cannot pretend. Hisentremesesor interludes, farces they may be called, are full of merriment; his vast facility in inventing plots enabled him to bestow a subject that might easily bedrawn out into a comedy of five, on a piece of one act. French and English writers have consulted him as a mine. In him originated also the introduction of the Grazioso, or jester—a clown who makes ludicrous observations on what is going on, and turning tragic sentiment into burlesque, acts as censor upon the motives and actions of the personages, and often disturbs the current of interest excited; but often also the sprightly wit he thus introduces, relieves the monotony of passion on stilts, and he is always a convenient personage in explaining away a difficulty, and disclosing a secret.

Lope, of course, wholly disregards unity of time and place. The incongruities of his plots are manifold. Success, popular success, was what he aimed at, and he gained it; but he was aware of the barbarism of many of his dramas, and has himself warmly censured his plays. In his "Arte de hacer Comedias" he says[103]:—

"I, doomed to write, the public taste to hit,Resume the barbarous dress 'twas vain to quit:I lock up every rule before I write,Plautus and Jerome drive from out my sight,Lest rage should teach those injured wits to join,And their dumb books cry shame on works like mine.To vulgar standards then I square my play,Writing at ease, for, since the public pay,'Tis just methinks we by their compass steer,And write the nonsense that they love to hear:"

And again in the same poem:—

"None than myself more barbarous or more wrong,Who, hurried by the vulgar taste along,Dare give my precepts in despite of rule,Whence France and Italy pronounce me fool.But what am I to do? who now of plays,With one complete within these seven days,Four hundred eighty-three, in all have writ,And all, save six, against the rules of wit."

And in his eclogue to Claudio:—

"Then spare, indulgent Claudio, spareThe list of all my barbarous plays;For this with truth I can declare,And though 'tis truth, it is not praise,The printed part, though far too large, is lessThan that which yet unprinted waits the press."

To this severe censure of his own works was joined considerable study of the dramatic art. It had engaged his attention, he says, since he wasten years old; and in the "Dramatic Art" from which we have just quoted, he shows great good taste and penetration in his observations.

His plays are not now acted in Madrid. The theatre, indeed, has declined in Spain, and melodrames and vaudevilles have taken place of the higher species of drama. Still Lope's works are a mine of wealth for any dramatist, whence to draw situations, plots, and dialogue. Dryden borrowed much from him; and, notwithstanding his faults, there may be found in his plays a richness of invention, a freshness and variety of ideas, and a vivacity of dialogue unsurpassed by any author.

[74]In an epistle he mentions his father as having emigrated to Madrid—he speaks of him as living in the valley of Carriedo, but deficiency of means caused him to leave his ancestral inheritance of Vega, and to remove to Madrid. There had been a quarrel between him and his wife, who was jealous, and with reason, as Lope tells us he loved a Spanish Helen; she however followed him, and they were reconciled:"Y aquel diafu piedra en mi primero fundamentola paz de su zelosa phantasia.En fin por zelos soy; que nascimiento!imaginalde vos, que haver nacidode tan inquieta causa fue portento."Belardo á Amarylis.

"Y aquel diafu piedra en mi primero fundamentola paz de su zelosa phantasia.En fin por zelos soy; que nascimiento!imaginalde vos, que haver nacidode tan inquieta causa fue portento."Belardo á Amarylis.

"Y aquel diafu piedra en mi primero fundamentola paz de su zelosa phantasia.En fin por zelos soy; que nascimiento!imaginalde vos, que haver nacidode tan inquieta causa fue portento."

Belardo á Amarylis.

[75]Pellicer, Tratado sobre el origen de la Comedia.

[76]"Efectos de mi genio y mi fortuna,que me eseñastes versos en la cuna,dulce memoria del principio amadodel ser que tengo, á quien la vida debo,en este panagyrico me llamaingrato y olvidado,pero si no me atrevo,no fue falta de amor, sino de fama,que obligacion me fuerza, amor mi inflama.Ma si Felix de Vega no la tuvo,basta saber que en el Parnaso estuvo,haviendo hallado yo sus borradores,versos eran á Dios llenos de amores;y aunque en el tiempo que escribió los versos,no eran tan crespos como ahora y tersos,ni las Musas tenían tantos brios,mejores me parecen que los mios."Laurel de Apolo.

[76]

"Efectos de mi genio y mi fortuna,que me eseñastes versos en la cuna,dulce memoria del principio amadodel ser que tengo, á quien la vida debo,en este panagyrico me llamaingrato y olvidado,pero si no me atrevo,no fue falta de amor, sino de fama,que obligacion me fuerza, amor mi inflama.Ma si Felix de Vega no la tuvo,basta saber que en el Parnaso estuvo,haviendo hallado yo sus borradores,versos eran á Dios llenos de amores;y aunque en el tiempo que escribió los versos,no eran tan crespos como ahora y tersos,ni las Musas tenían tantos brios,mejores me parecen que los mios."Laurel de Apolo.

Laurel de Apolo.

[77]Lope often mentions having been a soldier in early youth. These expressions are generally used in reference to his having served on board the Invincible Armada, but there is a stanza in the "Huerto Deshecho," that intimates that he had entered the army at fifteen."Ni mi fortuna mudaver en tres lustros de mi edad primeracon la espada desnudaal bravo Portugues en la Tercera,ni después en las naves Españolasdel mar Ingles los puertos y las olas."Yet in the following stanza he calls himself "Soldado de una guerra." In these verses, and in many others indeed in which he speaks of himself, his expressions are so obscure, and the whole stanza so ill worded, that it is scarcely possible to guess even at what he means. The translation of these verses seems to be:—"Nor did my fortune change on seeing me in the third lustre of my tender age, with a drawn sword among the brave Portuguese at Tercera, nor afterwards in the English ports and waves on board a Spanish fleet."

"Ni mi fortuna mudaver en tres lustros de mi edad primeracon la espada desnudaal bravo Portugues en la Tercera,ni después en las naves Españolasdel mar Ingles los puertos y las olas."

Yet in the following stanza he calls himself "Soldado de una guerra." In these verses, and in many others indeed in which he speaks of himself, his expressions are so obscure, and the whole stanza so ill worded, that it is scarcely possible to guess even at what he means. The translation of these verses seems to be:—"Nor did my fortune change on seeing me in the third lustre of my tender age, with a drawn sword among the brave Portuguese at Tercera, nor afterwards in the English ports and waves on board a Spanish fleet."

[78]Quarterly Review, vol XVIII.

[79]Quarterly Review, vol. XVIII.

[80]In this and other quotations the reader must not expect sense. Even while reprehending Gongora for obscurity, from carelessness or from a notion of fine writing, Lope's meaning can very often only be guessed at. This may partly be attributed to misprints; in his best poems he is, for a Spaniard, singularly perspicuous.

[81]Lord Holland calls Lope's antagonist, a gentleman of considerable rank and importance—Montalvan's expressions denote the contrary: "un hidalgo entre dos luces, de poca hacienda, &c."

[82]Lord Holland's Life of Lope de Vega. Were these MSS. examined, we might discover the real history of Lope's life at this period.

[83]Vide Sonnets 46, 66, 82, 92, &c. of Rimas Humanas, parte 1.

[84]"Crióme don Geronimo Manrique:estudié en Alcalá, bachilleréme,y aun estuve de ser clerigo á pique:cegóme una muger, aficionéme,perdoneselo Dios, ya soy casado,quien tiene tanto mal, ninguno teme."Epistola undecima.

[84]

"Crióme don Geronimo Manrique:estudié en Alcalá, bachilleréme,y aun estuve de ser clerigo á pique:cegóme una muger, aficionéme,perdoneselo Dios, ya soy casado,quien tiene tanto mal, ninguno teme."Epistola undecima.

Epistola undecima.

[85]"Este y otros desayres de la fortuna, ya negociados de su juventud, y ya encarecedos de sus opuestos, le obligaron á dejar su casa, su patria y su esposa, con harto sentimiento."—Fama, Postuma á la Vida de Lope de Vega.

[86]Bouterwek says that all the panegyrics and epitaphs written on Lope, ought to be carefully consulted as to the circumstances of his life. We accordingly looked them over; but amidst an incredible abundance and variety of hyperbolical praise, there are but two or three that allude to any events of his life—the one above quoted, which, after all, speaks vaguely and confusedly; the other is an elegy by Andres Carlos de Balmaseda, which mentions his sailing with the Armada, and his two marriages. But it tells nothing new. One or two others recount some anecdotes of his old age to prove his charity and piety.

[87]"Sirvió Jacob los siete largos años,breves, si al fin, qual la esperanza fuera,á Lia goza—y á Rachel esperaotros siete después, llorando engaños,assí guardan palabra los estranos.Pero in efecto vive, y consideraque la podra gozar antes que muera,y que tuvieron termino sus daños;triste de mi, sin limite que midalo que un engaño al sufrimiento cuesta,y sin rimedio que el agravio pida.Ay de aquel alma á padecer dispuestaque espera su Rachel en la otra vida,y tiene á Lia para siempre en esta."Parte I. de las Rimas Humanas de Lopede Vega, 1604. Soneto V.

[87]

"Sirvió Jacob los siete largos años,breves, si al fin, qual la esperanza fuera,á Lia goza—y á Rachel esperaotros siete después, llorando engaños,assí guardan palabra los estranos.Pero in efecto vive, y consideraque la podra gozar antes que muera,y que tuvieron termino sus daños;triste de mi, sin limite que midalo que un engaño al sufrimiento cuesta,y sin rimedio que el agravio pida.Ay de aquel alma á padecer dispuestaque espera su Rachel en la otra vida,y tiene á Lia para siempre en esta."Parte I. de las Rimas Humanas de Lopede Vega, 1604. Soneto V.

Parte I. de las Rimas Humanas de Lopede Vega, 1604. Soneto V.

[88]"Quando la Madre antigua reverdeze,bello pastor, y à quanto vive aplaze,quando en agua la nieve se dehaze,por el sol que en el Aries resplandeze,la yerba nace, la nacida crece,canta el silguero, el corderillo pace,tu pecho a quien su pena satisfacedel general contento se entristece.No es mucho mal la ausencia que es espejode la cierta verdad ó la fingida;si espera fin, ninguna pena es pena.¡ Ay del que tiene por su mal consejoEl remedio impossible de su vidaEn la esperanza de la muerte agena!"Ibid. SonetoXI.

[88]

"Quando la Madre antigua reverdeze,bello pastor, y à quanto vive aplaze,quando en agua la nieve se dehaze,por el sol que en el Aries resplandeze,la yerba nace, la nacida crece,canta el silguero, el corderillo pace,tu pecho a quien su pena satisfacedel general contento se entristece.No es mucho mal la ausencia que es espejode la cierta verdad ó la fingida;si espera fin, ninguna pena es pena.¡ Ay del que tiene por su mal consejoEl remedio impossible de su vidaEn la esperanza de la muerte agena!"Ibid. SonetoXI.

Ibid. SonetoXI.

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