Lisarda; or, The Travels Of Love And Jealousy (Part 2)

lisarda1bExtreamly pleased was the Melancholy Gentleman, with the courteous offers of Ricardo, who desir’d not to wonder that he of himself should relate a misfortune, that ought to be for his honour kept private from all the World, but his Civilities had such influence over him, that he had not Power to refuse him any thing; besides he thought the stillness of the night requir’d a Companion to Discourse with to pass away those tedious hours; so that Ricardo began, and related the whole story of his Misfortunes; and having ended, the Gentleman confest his Misfortunes were great, but those he should relate were far exceeding his, in as much as he had not only lost a Mistress that he lov’d, but a Wife, whom he admir’d above all Worldly things; and his Honour, a thing that ought to be dearer than Life…

Whatever the Criticks made of the first part of Lisarda, it seems that its author’s overriding ambition for it –  that “the Book sells” – was sufficiently fulfilled to satisfy Mr Cox’s publisher, since the concluding part of the short novel appeared in due course; with the two being reissued together in September of 1690.

Not that the author’s opinion of himself, or his opinion of his readers’ opinions, seem to have altered as a result of his apparent success. The second part of Lisarda opens with another address to “The Reader” wherein Mr Cox expresses his dismal conviction that they probably followed his advice, tendered at the beginning of the first part, and bought his book chiefly to abuse it; with more to come:

Now do not I know whether with truth begin with Gentle, Courteous, or Kind Reader; for perhaps you deserve none of these Epithets; examine your Conscience, and if you find yourself clear of having abus’d either Book or Author, send me but word of it, and I have left sufficient to have any of those to begin with: But if you had rather show your Wit, and exercise your Talent in Criticism; perhaps I shall give you subject enough to work on in this second Part, so that you would really be at a loss, if you had spent all your Satyrical Phrases on the first, and prodigally thrown away the last Jear your Mistress sent you on an odd expression you preferr’d from the Academy of Complements to your Heroick Love Epistle; and for a further advancement made it the ridicul’d Interpreter of your Incomprehensible thoughts; your Lovely Cælia, Aminta, or what other fine Romantick Names you have bestow’d on the sweet Lady. I protest, Sir, if so, you must change your Company, and there wait a fit occasion to put if off a second time: Or else continue saying every now and then, with a bonne Grace, But Damn me, Madam, if it ben’t very Silly. This will do; for without doubt, Sir, the Ladies will credit you; and the unknown Author hath but lost his labour, in thinking to forestall you, and be satyrical first; he’ll bemoan the loss of so much pains; and ten to one the next Novel he writes, you will read in the Preface that he hath either hang’d or drown’d himself to put the thoughts of it out of his mind…

(For what it’s worth, I can’t find that Cox ever did publish a second novel…)

The second part of Lisarda opens with the unhappy Ricardo slowly recovering from his wounds, but much tormented by his kinsman, the Corregidor, and other friends who keep trying to cheer him up. Finally, when he is able, Ricardo decides to go travelling. He heads first to Barcelona, and from there embarks; his ultimate destination being Rome.

On board the ship on which he is travelling, Ricardo meets another gentleman as miserable as he is; and since misery truly does love company, the two of them immediately fall into a “My Sufferings Are Worse Than Yours” contest; while the reader is presented with a clear indication that Lisarda has shifted into the realm of the picaresque with the appearance of our old friend, or at least acquaintance, the Interpolated Narrative:

My name is Enrique Thomas de Guanches Fernandez Ysugo, my Country Barcelona, the Metropolitan of the noble Principality of Cattalonna, my Quality of the Most Illustrious in that State; my Estate, though not of the largest, yet enough; and my Age thirty four years: There dwelt in the very next House to my Fathers a young Lady, whom I lov’d as I grew in sense and years, beginning from my Childhood: I mistake, I should say ador’d…

Don Enrique and Donna Estefania marry young, with the blessing of their respective parents, and at first all is well; very well indeed:

Whoever says that Marriage gluts, and consequently impairs Love, certainly must be such dull Souls, who more like Brutes than Men, are but satisfying their sensual Appetite, while I’m sure all refin’d Spirits, who by the continual Enjoyment, have daily the Experiments of the Wit, the Modesty, the pleasing Behaviour, affording daily fresh supplies to edge his Appetite…

But alas for our Refin’d Spirit, disaster was looming:

…but who would think it, Don Ricardo, that with all these visible signs of Love, (I am asham’d to say it) that Estefania should offend my Honour, that she should defile my Bed, rejoicing in a Strangers Arms; at least in desire if not in deed; and who would think, that I being who I am, should live to own it, and that grief for the loss of my Honour should not deprive me of Life: I will not, my Dear Friend, nor will my Honour permit me to speak ill of that Sex, since we owe our Births to them, with the dangers of their own lives; but laying these natural Obligations aside, and to speak how firm they ought to be, and how constant: Tell me what trust can a Man put in that Sex, or who can sleep secure of their Treasons, since Estefania could be false?

My sex thanks you for the sour persimmons, Don Enrique, while also noting that little loophole about in desire if not in deed: could this by any wild, improbable chance be another instance of an over-emotional Spaniard jumping the gun on flimsy-to-non-existent evidence??

Enrique and Estefania have a son, and because he cannot bequeath the boy as large an estate as he would wish, Enrique begins manoeuvring to acquire him a title. Esefania throws herself into the plan with enthusiasm, pressing Enrique to travel to Madrid, to the Court, to pursue the matter. Though he expects to encounter many difficulties, in fact the king is very gracious, and Enrique achieves his purpose very swiftly and hurries home ahead of the expected time. Not far out, however, he is caught in a violent storm and takes refuge at an inn, where he finds himself sharing quarters with another gentleman, a certain Don Federico, who also has cause to bemoan the delay, as he was in eager expectation of having his pursuit of a certain lovely lady come that night to fruition.

Once the servants have gone, Enrique asks Federico for more of his story—merely to pass the time, and never dreaming of the shock in store. Federico has mentioned that his would-be lover’s name is “unfortunate”, and Enrique picks up this point:

…but no sooner did I see our selves alone, but with as impertinent a Curiosity, as malicious, and designedly to know the Lady’s Name, I told him, I thought no Name in Spain unfortunate, because they are Names of Saints that are always given in Spain. To this he answer’d, That ever since in Castile there was a Lady named Estefania, who was Kill’d by her Husband, without ever offending him, only by the deceit of a Servant, That it was a vulgar Attribute of the Estefania’s to be Unfortunate. According to this your Lady is called Estefania said I, a little alter’d: And he answer’d, Having told you the Story first, it would be a folly to think to hide her Name now: So craving leave to sleep, he turn’d himself, and left me not altogether free from a villainous suspicion of being Horn’d…

…and to dwell on one detail in that story to the exclusion of another.

The next day, Enrique rushes on his fate, pressing Federico for all the details of his amour: the accidental meeting, the pursuit, the encouragement, the lady’s fear for her reputation, and finally a capitulation to the point of allowing Federico into her house. Federico explains how, by questioning some chair-men about a certain livery, he learns that the servants he described belonged to Donna Estefania de Arcosty Fuentes; while his further description of the lady’s house seems to settle the point. From that moment there is only one thought on Enrique’s mind:

At the crossing of a very thick Wood, where for many Years the Branches of the Trees hid the Roots from the heat of the Sun, I drew my Sword and gave him so strong a thrust through the Breast, that without speaking he fell on the Ground, where lighting from my Horse I gave him many Blows, that in a short time I put him past offending me, or defending himself; he begg’d me not to kill him, but to give him time to confess, not knowing me, nor why I used him so cruelly: I then thinking it would be too much Rigour, not to spare him so much time, since in it though his Body was beyond the Art of Chirurgery to heal, his Soul might be cured; I left him alive; for one thing it is to revenge my Honour as a Gentleman, and another thing to be a Christian…

Enrique’s first thought is to serve Estefania the same way, except that this would make his dishonour known to the world; finally he decides that he will never see her again. He tells his servants that he and Federico had a falling out and fought a duel, and that as a consequence he must leave the country—gaining their assistance to disguise himself and to cover up when he left Madrid. Without looking back, he embarks upon a galley to Naples…and loses no time in blurting out the whole thing to Ricardo.

The two bereft men decide to travel on together, and after seeing Rome and the Vatican, they move on to “Loretta” (Loreto) to see the Basilica. There Ricardo is suddenly accosted by a man in a state of emotional collapse and, after a moment, realises who it is…

(Ricardo remembers; our author, Mr Cox, not so much: first he misspells Fulgencio’s name as “Fulgentio”, then he renders the duplicated part of his name as Antonio, instead of Ricardo!)

Then of course it’s time for another Interpolated Narrative, as Fulgencio catches us up on his various misfortunes—which we might well consider he deserves, since it turns out that it was he (with a band of paid bravos) who engineered the abduction of Lisarda!—after first, of course, ridding himself of the unfortunate Clara:

…giving Clara a thousand sweet words lest she obstruct my Design, I left her in the Village…

This seems to be a recurrent theme for poor Clara.

Fulgencio and his goons then ride off with Lisarda’s coach:

I hoping by this to confirm her in the Belief of your Infidelity; and if not to get my own Ends at least, to dispose her never to make you happy. While we were on the way I used my Rhetorick, with all the Vows and Protestations imaginable, after my endeavours of disswading her from you; then I told her that ’twas in my power whither I carried her, and how I’d dispose of her; and therefore she had better comply than venture the Displeasure of a cholerick Man: But all this produc’d nothing but Scorns and Slights from her, telling me no Man should ever have her, save Ricardo, who, however the Misfortune happen’d that Night, she was sensible he lov’d her, and was one deserving her love. I told her you were kill’d in the Skirmish…

The effect of this upon Lisarda isn’t quite what Fulgencio expects. Sure, there’s a Flood of Tears, but then—

…he is dead, said she, and the Cause so near me yet lives! Snatching my Dagger from my side, gave me a Wound in my Breast, that had certainly kill’d me had her Arm had but a little more Strength…

Fulgencio then carries Lisarda to an isolated country house of his, where he imprisons her—

—to see if I possibly could gain her by all the Endeavours that Love and Kindness could invent.

So I guess it’s true what they say: hope springs eternal in the human breast that has just had a dagger stuck into it.

More sensibly, Fulgencio absents himself for a while to let Lisarda cool down; and, with nothing else to do, he passes the time dallying with Clara—with surprising results:

…Clara, who daily so endeavoured to make me love her; and considering I was married, and that I had best to make my Life as easie as I could: In two Months time seeing no hope of prevailing on Lisarda, Clara had so far gain’d me, that I really felt Motions of the greatest Tenderness for her; and as they say, Love begets Love, so was it with me; I left plying Lisarda with Letters, and began to forget her…

But at least – at least – Fulgencio gets around to telling Lisarda the truth about Ricardo: that he did recover, and then went travelling; and this off his conscience, he has her conveyed back to her father’s house.

Ricardo and Enrique dine with Fulgencio, and afterwards he tells them the rest of his story.

Fulgencio and Clara were very happy for a time—though not as happy as her family, with their erring daughter achieving respectable wifehood—but then…well, you know those Spaniards!

But as I lov’d her, so did I grow Jealous of her, remembering she had been faulty, and leaving one Night stay’d out, the next Morning a Servant told me he had seen a Man enter into my House, that was but just gone before my coming, who with all their Privacy in bringing him in and out, could not escape his Eyes: I without any further assurance, thought it must be Clara that was faulty, and there-withal going to her, though she lay asleep, wak’d her with a thousand Reproaches, upbraiding her with her former Life; and maugre all the Assurances and Protestations she made, to such a height my Choler grew, that I struck her… At last putting on her Night-Gown, she came near a Table where a Pen-knife lay, and taking it up, gave herself several Stabs…

At this rather critical moment, Clara’s maid enters the room; and, inevitably—

‘Twas I brought in the Man last night, who is my Husband…

It’s too late for poor Clara, however, though at least she dies vindicated; and in the wake of what he likes to call “the Misfortune”, Fulgencio sets out on a pilgrimage to Loretta.

Leaving Fulgencio to do his penance, Ricardo and Enrique set out for Andalusia; though they go a longer way, via Monserrat, so that Enrique will not be endangered by passing through Barcelona. The city is crowded due to a large influx of pilgrims to an image of the Virgin Mary known as Our Lady Of Monserrat. The two men are watching events from the window of their room when Enrique sees a familiar face—none other than Federico, not dead after all. It is clear, too, that there is a lady in his coach; and it takes all of Ricardo’s tact and persuasions to stop Enrique doing – yet again – something stupid. Finally he promises to look into it himself and goes out to investigate; sensibly locking Enrique in their room first.

Sure enough, Federico and Estefania it is; but they are not alone: Estefania’s sister, Donna Angela, is with them; and it does not take Ricardo long to establish that (i) Estefania is innocent; (ii) she has done nothing for the past two years but search for her missing husband; and (iii) it was Angela whom Federico was pursuing, and to whom he is now married. Moreover, discovering after he had recovered that the story of Enrique’s attack upon himself and Estefania’s supposed adultery was being gossiped about, Federico took pains to make sure everyone knew the truth, and that Estefania’s honour was re-established.

And so Enrique and Estefania are reunited. Meanwhile, Ricardo gets his reward from Angela:

Then Donna Angela desired to know if she might be acquainted with his Mistresses Name, which he told her was Lisarda, O then, Sir, saith she, you may safely depend on your Marriage, for by her name I guess yours to be Don Ricardo Antonio, the only person she hath told me should be her Husband; for about three Months ago I came acquainted with her here, she having vowed the Romery for your Prosperity; we became so intimately acquainted lodging in the same Inne together, that she told me the whole Story of your Loves…

Ricardo immediately sets out for Andalusia, where we discover than some people never learn anything:

…perceiving some Gentlemen at the Door of Donna Clara Lisarda’s House, tuning their Instruments, by which he knew they had a mind to Divert some Lady; he at a distance alighted off his Horse, desirous, if it was possible, to know who these were, serendaing, as he thought, his Mistress… No sooner ended, but he heard the Lady shut her Window; the Company took leave of one another, and one who seemed to be the Master of this Treat, mounted a Horseback: Don Ricardo, though tired with a long Journey, and very desirous to see Don Pedro de Vargas the Corregidor, was yet more desirous to see his supposed Rival…

Seriously, Ricardo? SERIOUSLY!?

Following his, sigh, rival, Ricardo is attacked by bandits, from whom his, sigh, rival rescues him—turning out to be none other than Don Pedro, who is delighted to see his cousin and takes him home for the night. The delight isn’t entirely mutual, but I’ll spare you Ricardo’s tossings and turnings and torments (at least he refrains from trying to kill anyone!), and cut to the chase: even more inevitably that poor Clara’s “lover” being nothing of the kind, Don Pedro is courting Lisarda’s cousin, Donna Maria, who happens to be staying with her.

Perversely enough, it turns out that the band of goons hired by Fulgencio were from amongst Donna Maria’s vassals; but between the letter which Fulgencio wrote to the Corregidor, taking all the blame onto himself, and Maria’s pleading for her people, they got off lightly. Don Pedro was immediately captivated by Maria, but soon discovered that he had, sigh, a rival: a story that of course requires an Interpolated Narrative.

The, sigh, rival is Don Roderido Vasques, a man who has acquired a reputation for courage and daring without doing anything to earn it—much to the annoyance of Don Pedro, who has earned the same reputation the hard way. The two men get put to the test when Maria’s house catches fire. It is Pedro who saves her, but Roderigo who manages to be there when Maria recovers from her inevitable swoon.

Wow! That chestnut’s even older than I imagined!

The grateful Maria promises to marry Roderigo:

    He with a feigned Modesty, said, That truly he had done nothing for their Service, at least, it was so little, as did not deserve Thanks from her Mouth, much less so great a Blessing as her self; but it was too Good to be refused, and that he now trusted to her Word.
    The next day it was all about the Town that Don Roderigo had ventur’d through the Fire, and rescu’d Donna Maria: This was every bodies story which did not a little vex me. I affirm’d the Action to be mine, and said that he ly’d who said the contrary. Don Roderigo said, Yes it was I did it; but that with such a false Smile, such a feigned Dissimulation, and with such Equivocating words, that he own’d the Action more in his Denial, than I in all my Affirmatives.

Luckily for Pedro, and for Maria, during his rescue of her he took a ring from her finger, which he could not have gained possession of at any other time. This backs up his claims, and Roderigo retires, as they say, disconsolate.

Which sorts out all our immediate romantic problems; and allows Mr Cox to wrap up his story of insanely jealous foreigners in a one brisk paragraph of happy-ever-afters:

…the Joy Lisarda had at the sight of Ricardo, cannot be exprest, no more than his at the sight of her. But to be short with you, and to make an end, both his Marriage with Lisarda, and his cousins with Donna Maria were concluded, and to be Celebrated both the following Sunday; on the day before the Marriage, Don Enrique and Don Federico, with their Ladies Arrived, so that they had a full House, great Entertainment, and a long continued Feast for Joy, and living very lovingly and happily all the Days of their Lives.

…or at least until some poor SOB looks the wrong way at Lisarda…

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4 Comments to “Lisarda; or, The Travels Of Love And Jealousy (Part 2)”

  1. “My name is Enrique Thomas de Guanches Fernandez Ysugo”… you killed my father, prepare to die.

    Ah, well, Clara was prepared to live with a man without benefit of marriage; obviously she would be willing to do that with any man.

    If your lover wakes you in the middle of the night and starts beating you, several stabs with a pen-knife may well be appropriate, but not to yourself, I feel. In fact it seems to me that all our heroes have taken a personality test before being allowed into the book:

    Q. 6: you find flimsy evidence to suggest that your beloved may have seen Another. Do you:
    (a) kill her;
    (b) kill yourself;
    (c) both a and b, ideally in that order;
    (d) send her to a nunnery, with or without killing yourself;
    (e) investigate further and/or ask her about it (answer no further questions on this test)?

    • And I wish I could tell you that “She slept with one man, she’ll sleep with ANY man” was a 17th century thing, but in fact it’s one of the recurrent plot-points of 18th century fiction. (I don’t want to think about “beyond”.)

      Sadly this reminds me of my own little quiz re: The Court Secret, where our “hero” finds himself in bed with a drugged teenager instead of the woman who invited him to join her…

  2. So if it weren’t for the last few paragraphs, there could have been unlimited sequels.

    An ending like that kind of sounds like the author got sick of his own story and just wanted it to be over.

    • Well, that’s the nature of picaresque fiction: it can go on as long as you like and stop at any point, since there’s no actual story.

      Cox may have been on a word / page limit: the two parts are almost exactly the same length. The story of Pedro and Roderigo in particular is unnecessary and feels like stretching to a finish line.

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