Don Francisco de Quevedo | Page 9

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 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 León, 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