Don Francisco de Quevedo: Drama en Cuatro Actos. Eulogio Florentino Sanz
been named viceroy of Sicily in 1610. The uncommonly strong bond of friendship between these two men was founded upon mutual admiration of common qualities of fearlessness and red-blooded dash and spirit. In 1616 Quevedo followed Osuna to Naples, where he was of great service to him as adviser and confidential emissary. These years of semi-official activity brought Quevedo into the very midst of the tangle of politics involving France, Italy, and Spain, and above all into the bog of bureaucratic corruption. Osuna's business in Madrid with the prime minister, Lerma, was managed by Quevedo. Now Lerma and his creatures were amenable to reason only when accompanied by bribes. Access to him was denied to all who brought no gifts. Quevedo's disgust at these methods was boundless, but there was no avoiding them.[10] In recognition of his distinguished services Quevedo was made a knight of the order of St. James in 1618.[11]
In 1620 Osuna came to Madrid to answer the charge of having conspired to make himself independent viceroy of Naples. On his arrival he was thrown into prison, while Quevedo was held in custody at a distance from Madrid. Osuna died in 1624 before his guilt or innocence could be clearly proved. Quevedo afterward fought to clear his protector's name. At least he has secured his fame to posterity by the famous sonnet,
Faltar pudo su patria al grande Osuna,
Pero no a su defensa sus hazañas;
Diéronle muerte y carcel las Españas,
De quien el hizo esclava la Fortuna.
Lloraron sus invidias una a una
Con las propias naciones las extrañas;
Su tumba son de Flandes las campañas,
Y su epitafio la sangrienta luna.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
While Quevedo was enduring his enforced retirement Philip III died (March, 1621) and was succeeded by his son Philip IV. Uceda, the former's minister, was sent to follow his father Lerma into retirement and disgrace. Olivares, who had already won the confidence of young Philip, was installed as prime minister.
Superficial reforms by which Olivares signalized his arrival momentarily led Quevedo to hope for better things. He wrote to celebrate the wisdom of the new minister and to assure him of his loyalty. He was soon at liberty to enjoy the fame and wholesome respect that his political prominence and keen satire had won him. His enemies were numerous, but they dared not attack him. Olivares himself courted Quevedo, but the latter, grown discreet for the moment, lent his ear and not his heart: he could not give himself to a minister who was already beginning to show his unwillingness to go to the root of the evils that were ruining the country.
During these years of comparative political inactivity Quevedo had greater opportunity to study the vicious standards of living that stain this period of Spanish history. His writings are full of the scathing irony of his youth on the one hand, or of passionate religious fervor on the other. At other moments he indulges his tendency to seek refuge and comfort in the gentle stoicism of Seneca.
His reckless slurs on women did not prevent his taking a wife in 1633. Perhaps Doña Esperanza de Aragón possessed the qualities that Quevedo had flippantly demanded:
Noble, virtuous, and of good understanding, neither ugly nor beautiful; of these two extremes I prefer her beautiful, because it is better to have something to guard than some one to flee from. Neither rich nor poor, that she may not be buying me, nor I her. I desire her cheerful, for in our daily life we shall not lack for gloom. I wish her neither a young girl nor an old woman, cradle nor coffin, because I have forgotten my lullabies and not yet learned the prayers for the dying. I should thank God infinitely if she were deaf and a stammerer. But after all I shall esteem a woman such as I desire y sabré sufrir la que fuere como yo la merezco.
Their married life was cut short by the death of Doña Esperanza in the middle of the following year.
There can be no doubt of Quevedo's thinly-veiled distrust of the administration of Olivares during these years, nor that he foresaw the impending catastrophe. The campaign which he was now carrying on against the favorite drew upon him not only the fear but the hatred of Olivares. Philip himself was blind to the state of the peninsula, thanks to Olivares' successful efforts to keep him amused.
Finally one day early in December of 1639 Philip found in his napkin a petition in verse. It contained an eloquent description of the wretched condition of the country and a bitter arraignment of Olivares. Every circumstance pointed to Quevedo as the author. On the seventh of December he was arrested and his papers were confiscated. His disappearance was so sudden and complete that it was generally believed that he had been summarily done to death, but in reality he had been rushed to a dungeon in the monastery of San Marcos just outside the walls of the city of León. Here he received treatment probably intended to cause his death, for he wrote to his friend Adán de la Parra:
Although at first I had a tower of this holy dwelling for my prison... within a short time I was brought to another a great deal more comfortless. There I remain. It is nothing more than an underground room, as damp as a spring, so dark that it is almost always night in it, and so cold that it never ceases to seem January. Clear enough! they that take pleasure in seeing me suffer do not wish to cut once for all that which they must finally cut, but they wish rather that the frequency of their blows may make my martyrdom more painful by its longer continuance; for thus their satisfaction gains in length.
The tomb where I am buried alive is barely twenty-four feet long and nineteen wide. The vault and walls are in many places crumbling with dampness, and everything is so miserable that it appears rather the refuge of outlaw robbers than the prison of an honest man.
To enter it one must pass through two doors equally strong. One is at the level of the monastery floor and the other at the level of my cell, after twenty-eight steps that have the look of a precipice. Both are always closed except at moments when, more by courtesy than through confidence, they leave one open but the other doubly guarded.
In the middle of the room there stands a table where I am writing. It is large enough to permit of thirty or more books, with which my holy brothers keep me provided. At the right (to the south) I have my neither very comfortable nor extremely wretched bed.
The furniture of this miserable habitation consists of four chairs, a brasier, and a lamp. There is always noise enough, for the sound of my fetters drowns other greater ones, if not by its volume, by its pitifulness.... Not long ago I had two pairs, but one of the monks obtained permission to leave me with only one pair. Those that I am wearing now weigh about eight or nine pounds; the ones they took off were much heavier.... Such is the life to which I have been reduced by him who because I would not be his favorite is to-day my enemy.
He endured his confinement with fortitude, sustained by the conviction that he had given his best for the cause of justice.
The series of disasters that ultimately caused the fall of Olivares on January 23, 1643, has been discussed in another part of this introduction. Quevedo's release followed in June, but the iron had already entered his soul. A little more than two weeks before his death he wrote to his friend Francisco de Oviedo in a tone of profound discouragement:
They write bad news from everywhere, desperate news; and the worst of it is that every one expected it. All this, Don Francisco, I know not if it be drawing to its close or if it be already ended. God knows, for there are many things which, though they seem to exist and to have being, are no longer more than a word and a form.
He died at the age of sixty-five on September 8, 1645, at Villanueva de los Infantes.
Even the bare enumeration of the more important events of Quevedo's life suggests his eager activity. This characteristic is the most striking feature of his style. An idea is no sooner suggested than it is left undeveloped to make way for another, set down often in a sentence which in its turn is without a satisfactory conclusion; or the expression of it is so condensed that we marvel at its retaining any lucidity. Many of his earlier writings are little more than a series of sketches that appear to have been written with feverish impatience but at the same time with great penetration. In his satirical verses there is a world of double meanings and allusions that leaves the reader's mind