Don Francisco de Quevedo | Page 9

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 dizzy. The variety of his works is great. His facile creative brain passed from a ribald ballad or letrilla to a life of St. Francis de Sales or a treatise on Divine Providence. But through them all one can discern the motif of patriotism in the form of virulent satire against the vices that were gnawing at the life of the nation, or of a fervent plea for better standards in public and private life. When he felt the impotence of his rage or the fruitlessness of his pleas he turned earnestly and longingly to his cherished Seneca. But even in this frame of mind we cannot help feeling that there is something intensely passionate in his very patience. He gave his best years to the battle against national decay. Perhaps it is not too much to say that he died of disappointment and disgust.
Quevedo's life, then, is by no means devoid of aspects that would appeal strongly to a romantic poet like Florentino Sanz. The most striking feature, of course, is his struggle with Olivares, followed by apparent defeat and imprisonment at San Marcos de Le��n, which in reality meant a moral victory in the face of persecution. This in itself was an ideal situation to call forth the heroics of a romantic poet. Furthermore, Quevedo could properly complain that he had been misunderstood. He was giving himself to a great cause while many of his contemporaries recognized only the superficial wit or the obscenity of his satire. His proud scorn of stupidity and all mediocrity was easily susceptible of a romantic twist into a lofty contempt for the miserable human creatures that drag out their darkened groveling lives. To make the play an unqualified success it was necessary that Quevedo succumb to the gentle passion, although in reality Quevedo's stern heart had little room for it. There can be no denying his cynical disbelief in feminine virtue. Associations of his own choice gave him little opportunity for illusions on that score. To be sure, he married at fifty-two, but circumstances lead us to doubt his happiness. Quevedo in love is thorny ground for any author. It is difficult to understand how Sanz succeeded in making this innovation