Don Francisco de Quevedo | Page 8

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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 Do?a 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 Do?a 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