Lisarda; or, The Travels Of Love And Jealousy (Part 1)

lisarda1b“I find it hard to marry a Man who woos not me but my Estate; and yet could I bear with this, (for Ambition is so grown into the World, that there must be a new Creation to find disinteress’d men:) who can assure their selves of their manners, where there are so many Cheats. In the time of wooing the most vicious appears a Saint, and detests all Vice: with what protestations doth the inconstant at that time avouch his Constancy? and how assured of his Mistress’s Vertue is the Gallant, who many times afterwards, he proves murderously troublesome with his Jealousy; and all, how false soever, call Heaven to witness the sincerity of their Love: O! how they Adore, Admire, Esteem, with many other such like terms, till they have got their aim. His friend stiles him vertuous, good, &c. His Relations will say that for him, He is good-natured, and given to no remarkable Vice; another as a gallant young Gentleman; Nay the Maid, the young Ladies Confident, hath had the itching of her Palms answer’d, to give her good word, and all this to her cost, who takes him for better or for worse; and gives her hand and heart to an Enemy…”

So I made it to 1690.

{Insert slow, sarcastic hand-clapping.}

We’ve touched previously upon some of the events of 1690, and I imagine they’ll be cropping up in the Chronobibliography in due course; but our current work, Lisarda; or, The Travels Of Love And Jealousy by one “H. Cox” (a gentleman, his title page reassures us) has nothing to do with politics, or indeed with anything serious. Despite its title (and noting that “travels” is an archaic rendering of “travails”), this is a mostly humorous short work about various young Spaniards at romantic cross-purposes that serves as another illustration of the shifting position of fiction in England as the country entered the final decade of the 17th century.

The Puritan resistance to fiction, which retarded the development of the English novel, saw local writers frequently compromise by setting their stories in foreign countries—whether they were writing actual fiction, or political allegories disguised as such, as per the numerous romans à clef which we have already considered. In the former case, it was a way of dodging criticism, since the works in question could be pitched as cautionary tales about foreigners and how lucky everyone was to be English.

What is chiefly interesting about Lisarda is that, while it is set in Spain, there is no sense at all of this being a defensive tactic: rather, it simply suited Mr Cox to take advantage of the differences (real and perceived) between Spanish customs and those prevailing in England: another “cautionary tale” if you like, but one with its tongue tucked into its cheek.

This attitude is made clear from the very outset, in the book’s dedication to The Honourable James Levinston, Esq., wherein Cox speaks for his anxious heroine:

That, Sir, I hope will excuse my Presumption of Introducing Lisarda to you; A Lady, who though Vertuous to a Superlative, yet Unfortunate, till the Consummation of her Marriage with Don Ricardo, and the greater Happiness of attaining the Honour to be Presented to you; fearful least her Misfortunes might follow her here into England, and that many might blame that here, for want of knowing the Customs of Spain, which there is not felt a fault, no not a venial one: She fears our Ladies might be offended with so much Forwardness in Spanish Women, which for want of a Spanish Confinement, they are not Guilty of themselves: These thoughts are what troubled her, till now that I assur’d her, You were too Courteous to refuse your Patronage to a Lady…

Cox then moves on to address the reader directly, offering an amusingly clear overview of the state of the English novel, and the English novel-writer, circa 1690.

This may, in fact, be the most important aspect of this short novel. We are so accustomed to pointed dedications, to writers with political intent declaring their allegiances and/or showing that they have friends in high places, that the absence here of any such addendum – or rather, the substitution of a bit of prosaic reality – acts as a measure of how completely things had changed in England during the comparatively brief period between the “Glorious Revolution” and the publication of Cox’s work: fiction is longer necessarily about a political agenda, but about entertainment; it is also about the serious business of making a living, one opposed by the emergence of a new enemy. The main thing that writers of fiction had to fear was no longer The Law, but—The Criticks:

I have offer’d you this Book without the Commands of any Person of Quality, or the urgent desires of any friend, only for my own Pleasure, and perhaps a little for my Profit; besides, I think it a pleasant thing, though I shall no impose this Opinion on any one, nor think myself oblig’d to him who favours it; do but buy it, and let the Bookseller take your money; then Curse it, Damn it, and the Author, and throw it away, or what you please. Nor have I omitted my Name for fear of the Criticks, who I desire to have no more mercy on the Book, when once bought, than they have of their own unpitied Souls, who likely they may damn, by way of affirming the poor ignorant Author for a Blockhead, a Dunce, and Fool, with a long Et cætera of their ironical Titles; a thing that he’ll but smile to bear, so that his Expectations are but answer’d, and the Book sells…

Though Cox is clearly joking, the inference that it is no longer necessary for writers of fiction to publish anonymously is also significant.

The reader is then introduced to Clara Lisarda, a beautiful and virtuous sixteen-year-old with an equally attractive fortune. Naturally such a prize is much courted; but although eager for love and marriage, she hangs back, only too aware that she must be the target of fortune-hunters as well as honourable gentleman, and that courtship is often a matter of flowery falsehoods. The matter is becoming one of urgency for Lisarda, since among the throng of her admirers, her fancy has lighted upon one Don Ricardo.

Among many other public events to mark a new alliance between Spain and France, a bull-fight (sigh) is arranged to allow the gentlemen of Seville to display their courage. A certain Don Fulgencio nearly loses his life when he and his horse are attacked by a bull and, at this appalling sight, Lisarda faints. Thus she misses Don Ricardo rushing bravely to the rescue, dispatching the bull and saving Fulgencio’s life.

When the dust settles, Ricardo looks up at the spectators’ boxes to see how his actions have impressed Lisarda:

Ricardo lighting from his Horse, lookt up to the Window where Lisarda sate; but his Servants telling him that they saw her carried away in a swound when the Bull so fiercely attacqued Fulgencio, he concluded he was the Chosen from among the Crowd of her Adorers, and running to help him up, taking him by the Arm, said, Sir, Your fall to you is like that of Saul, for it hath made known your Election; and so retir’d extreamly discontented to his Lodging: where we’ll leave him complaining of his hard Fate…

…because, after all, who could get sick over a little thing like a horse getting disembowelled?

This moment sets the tone for an entire comedy of misunderstanding, wherein Cox’s characters are constantly leaping to ridiculous conclusions and taking drastic (and I mean drastic) action on the strength of evidence so flimsy it can scarcely be called “evidence”—and sometimes on the strength of no evidence at all.

Recovering at home, the dismayed Lisarda learns that Ricardo intends that afternoon to fight a bull on his own account. After struggling with herself, she decides to send him a letter begging him not to risk himself again, though she can only justify her action by admitting to him that she loves him.

When Ricardo – whose full name, we now learn, is Don Ricardo Antonio – receives Lisarda’s letter, however, the outcome is not exactly what she intended, though not through any fault of hers:

…he knew not what to make of the Letter; the Directions he knew to be Lisarda’s writing, but never having receiv’d, nor heard that she had ever writ to any of her Lovers before, he conjectur’d it was to discard him: since she had made her choice of Fulgencio, least she might give him Ombrage, or cause Jealousy, by entertaining still her old Suitors, she had writ to them all to forbear their vain Endeavours. This now past for granted, and he was resolv’d not to open the Letter, least it might draw Effeminate tears into his Eyes, therefore retaking his Poniard, he said, Come welcome steel, thy sharpness is much easier to be endur’d, than to see the happiness of my Rival; end my Misery; and as he was going to strike, says he, No. Though thy Charms hath made me miserable to that degree, that to avoid that succeeding Chain of Miseries that must needs follow, I will end my life. Yet in my last hour such is my Constancy, I will kiss thy Name, paying my last devoir to the sign of my cruel Sentence, submitting— More he would have said, but having open’d the Letter to kiss the name, he could not so confine his sight…

Yyyyeah: I generally find it is a good idea to find out what the contents of a letter are before killing yourself over them…

Having answered Lisarda’s letter, Ricardo does as she asks and refrains from participating further in the bull-fights. He attends, however, and Fulgencio invites him to sit in his box—which happens to be next to that occupied by Lisarda. The two spend the afternoon making goo-goo eyes at each other, so openly that Fulgencio can’t avoid noticing:

…at this he was in so great a Passion, that with much difficulty could he contain himself within the compass of Discretion, Envy, Jealousy, Anger, and a thousand other Passions tore his Breast; in short, he found them prevailing over his Reason, and least by seeing more it should be overpower’d, and that not being a fit place for a quarrel or disturbance, he slunk away…

With marriage to Lisarda on his horizon, Ricardo’s thoughts turn to how best to rid himself of his mistress—whose name, uncomfortably enough, is also Clara—Donna Clara Euphegenia. We learn that she is of good birth, but was seduced and abandoned by another man, and turned to elegant prostitution after being cast off by her family. She sincerely loves Ricardo, and it is soon clear to him that she isn’t going to go quietly:

nor would she hear him speak, but threatened to tear Lisarda to pieces; this urg’d Ricardo to think of another course, so that saying nothing, he went Streight to the Corregidors, or Governour of the Town who was his kinsman, and one that really lov’d him, to him he told the whole, and desir’d his assistance to get rid of her, which he promis’d; then they agreed; that the ensuing night, about eleven a Clock, the Corregidor should come with a Coach and Guards, and with a feign’d Warrant seize her, and send her in a Coach to Madrid, where the Guards should leave her…

Ricardo is on his way home from this highly honourable mission when he runs into Fulgencio, who by now has worked himself into a real state, and insists that they fight. Ricardo tells him, in essence, that he’s too busy just now, but he’ll be happy to fight him later, when he’s finished getting his mistress deported on trumped-up charges. A busy boy, Ricardo then calls upon Lisarda and makes his vows and proposals to her, before returning to Clara Euphegenia and dissembling his intentions, in order to keep her placated until the Guards arrive. He does it very thoroughly:

…he din’d with her, and staid with her till near four of the Clock, in which time he show’d so much love, and Caress’d her so handsomely, that she could not doubt but he was sincere…

—a little too thoroughly: Lisarda’s parents are away (thus she has been able to meet with Ricardo and answer him directly), and now, as she spots Ricardo, returning to the celebrations as she thinks, but in fact going back to Clara’s house for a second round of, ahem, placating, she follows him, meaning to join him, but finds herself outside a house which her servant is able to tell her belongs to him:

…she went in, but being in the first room, the door of the second stood half open, from whence our Lady heard these words; Ah, my dear Clara, Don’t imagine or think, that I can be false to thee; It is to have little Confidence in thine own Charms; Knowing this voice to be Ricardo’s, she carefully lookt the opening of the door, and saw her Lover lying on Clara’s Lap: O, Ye juste Powers! said she to herself, Is this possible! Could silly, easy Lisarda have believ’d it, had not her Eyes and Ears been Witnesses of his Ingratitude: Here she stopt hearing Ricardo speaking thus: My dear Clara, I don’t deny, that for my Friends satisfaction I gave out, and pretended to love Lisarda, but that was, that I might with secrecy give a full scope to my wishes, and thy Dear Embraces. What is Lisarda comparable to thee, but as a False Glass to a Diamond…

Lisarda can’t take any more, and rushes into the room—telling her startled rival that she’s welcome to Ricardo:

…I assure you, I have no design, if I could, which would be impossible, he being withheld by your all-powerful Charms, to rob you of the Gallant, who so justly enjoys your good will, that you ought to love him for his many good Parts, I mean as to his Body, for as to the rest, Heaven never fram’d a man so False, so ungrateful a Creature…

And in the middle of this scene, Ricardo hears the signal from Fulgencio, reminding of their appointment to fight. Worried about what might happens in his absence, he bundles Clara into another room and locks her in, then hurries downstairs to ask Fulgencio if they can put it off for an hour or two, as he has rather a lot on his plate; but Fulgencio isn’t in a mood to be put off, so they go off to duel. Meanwhile, hearing voices and now calm enough to worry about consequences, Lisarda throws on her veils to conceal herself from any newcomers—and thus finds herself under arrest and being carried off to Madrid…

The real Clara, meanwhile, escapes out of a window with her maid, and in the darkness encounters Fulgencio returning from the duel. He mistakes her for Lisarda and begins upbraiding her:

Madam, Might I never be so happy in any other Woman, I would not exchange the Hell wherein you have put me, not for that happiness: And she mistaking him for Antonio, I thought you would not have been in pain while you possest my heart; at least you have often told me so: He perceiving she mistook him for t’other was overjoy’d, not knowing he himself was mistaken , but on the contrary, by having seen her in the street go into Antonio’s; her discourse of having seen him that night, and his seeing Antonio go in just before her, had not any scruple, but really thought it was the Person he took her for; and since she took him for his Rival, not being able to worst Antonio by the Sword, he thought now to revenge himself by a trick, and so proceeded.
Well, Madam, said he, Since we love sincerely, let me beg of you, before we go further, to give me the assurance, you’ll ever be mine: How shall I do that, replied Clara? Why, Madam, for several urgent reasons, for your advantage as well as mine, we may be married now, and keep it private till— Here cutting off his words, not having power to contain her self for Joy, said, Ay, my Antonio, I Consent, You know I can refuse you nothing. So presently they went to a Priest, who was at Fulgencio’s Devotion, or rather was devoted to the gold he expected, who married them by the light of one single Lamp that hung i’ the church, so that neither perceived their mistake…

Amusingly enough, our author feels obliged to interject here—having reached levels of ridiculousness that, evidently, he considered too great even for a bunch of Spaniards. He has, of course, already made it clear that our ladies’ names overlaps; now he clarifies:

What cover’d extreamly the mistake was, as in all Foreign Countries, having two Names, Fulgencio could answer by that of Ricardo, and designedly did so, Clara was the first Name of Lisarda’s as well as hers, whom we call by that Name…

Meanwhile, Ricardo – whose disarming of Fulgencio in the duel is mentioned only in passing – returns to Clara’s house and there learns what has befallen Lisarda. He dashes off to the Corregidor, gets an order rescinding the warrant, and rides off after the coach, calling upon it to stop. Instead it goes faster, which prompts Ricardo to start firing his pistols after it. Someone fires back, and they keep it up until both are out of bullets—at which point, Fulgencio calls out to Ricardo, and before we know it, the two are in the middle of another duel, which ends exactly as the first did, much to Fulgencio’s mortification:

…when he came to examine the business, it was the discovery of a double deceit: First instead of Lisarda, whom both thought was in the Coach, they found Clara Ricardo’s late Mistress, and to Fulgencio’s great perplexity, his now Wife; he no sooner knew who t’was but he would have disown’d her, but in vain, for he had told Ricardo in his Capitulation, that on Condition he would not meddle with a Lady in the Coach, who he had that Night Married, he would surrender, but without that Promise, Disarm’d as he was, the Dispute should continue, and assuring him it was no Person sent by Command of the Corregidor, and consequently not the Person he sought for; Ricardo had granted his Request, deliver’d him his Sword, and went to wish the Lady Joy; when, Gods! what a surprise was it to him to see Clara; had he been capable to have receiv’d any Pleasure amidst that throng of Vexations, undoubtedly this would have been a great one to see himself rid of so troublesome a Mistress…

Washing his hands of that mess, Ricardo returns to the chase, and finally overtakes the government coach. The guards acknowledge their new orders and obligingly offer Ricardo a seat in the coach, inviting him to stay wherever they put up for the night. He accepts, although there is still a deathly silence within the coach, as both parties try to figure out what to say to one another, when the coach is suddenly held up by a band of men, who shoot three of the guards before Ricardo can finish making a speech:

Madam, I am far from being sorry for this occasion, of shewing how tenderly I love you; if I live I hope to clear my self of what things have happen’d to night; but if it is my misfortune to be kill’d, let me beg you to entertain a Charitable Opinion for me…

Ricardo manages to kill one of the band, but is shot and injured himself as the carriage is driven away. He expends what he honestly believes to be his dying breath on making yet another speech, a distinctly self-pitying one, only to be rescued by some locals—Cowardly Bores, we are assured—who heard the shots but kept well clear until the fight was over, and in fact only show up now to rob the corpses. They get a shock when one of the dead men starts resisting them, and Ricardo in danger of his life yet again when more guards show up, these dispatched from the nearest town where word of the fight and abduction was also carried.

Ricardo survives his ordeal, but is left in complete ignorance of Lisarda’s fate and can only fear the worst.

Meanwhile, we discover that this town has a short way with boring people:

…the Bores were carried before the Corregidor, who committed them to Gaol…innumerable were the imprecations laid on the Bores…the poor Bores were loaded with Irons, and laid in a Dungeon…

[To be continued…]

Advertisements

8 Comments to “Lisarda; or, The Travels Of Love And Jealousy (Part 1)”

  1. ACOSR in full effect, turning steady again. Yeah.

  2. Interesting to se they fact on how the Puritans got around the problem of what was deemed acceptable reading material.

    • Fiction was lying, so to get around it you insisted you were telling a true story and it wasn’t your fault the characters were behaving so badly… As we noted re: Aphra, it took a long time in England for the history” to become “the novel”, but by 1690 the transition had been made.

  3. so the Bores were thrown into a dungeon? how many of us would escape if that were still the general rule? For some reason, some people have accused me of being boring. They just don’t understand the sublimity of my conversation.

    • There’s a reason I keep myself to myself… Of course, if anyone connects me with my internet identity, I’ll be in BIG trouble.

  4. What? Read the letter first? But then where would operas come from?

    “Fulgencio, you know how much I love fighting you, but I’ve got my intended to woo, my mistress to have exiled, my enemies to blame for it; I’m swamped.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: