[107]This translation is from Mr. Wiffen, to show how simply and beautifully Gongora wrote in his young and unspoiled style, and we give the Spanish of this last song:"A UNA DAMA PRESENTANDOLA UNAS FLORES."De la florida faldaque oy de perlas bordó la Alba luciente,tegidos en guirnalda,traslado estos jazmines a tu frente,que piden con ser floresblanca a tus sienes, y a tu boca olores.Guarda destos jazminesde avejas era un esquadron volante,onco, si, de clarines,mas de puntas armado de diamante,puselas en huiday cada flor mi cuestra una herida.Mas Clori que he texidojazmines al cabello desatado,y mas besos te pidoque avejas tuvo el esquadron armado,lisonjas son iguales,servir yo en flores, pagar tu en panales."Obras de Gongora, 1633.
[107]This translation is from Mr. Wiffen, to show how simply and beautifully Gongora wrote in his young and unspoiled style, and we give the Spanish of this last song:
"A UNA DAMA PRESENTANDOLA UNAS FLORES."De la florida faldaque oy de perlas bordó la Alba luciente,tegidos en guirnalda,traslado estos jazmines a tu frente,que piden con ser floresblanca a tus sienes, y a tu boca olores.Guarda destos jazminesde avejas era un esquadron volante,onco, si, de clarines,mas de puntas armado de diamante,puselas en huiday cada flor mi cuestra una herida.Mas Clori que he texidojazmines al cabello desatado,y mas besos te pidoque avejas tuvo el esquadron armado,lisonjas son iguales,servir yo en flores, pagar tu en panales."Obras de Gongora, 1633.
"A UNA DAMA PRESENTANDOLA UNAS FLORES.
"De la florida faldaque oy de perlas bordó la Alba luciente,tegidos en guirnalda,traslado estos jazmines a tu frente,que piden con ser floresblanca a tus sienes, y a tu boca olores.
Guarda destos jazminesde avejas era un esquadron volante,onco, si, de clarines,mas de puntas armado de diamante,puselas en huiday cada flor mi cuestra una herida.
Mas Clori que he texidojazmines al cabello desatado,y mas besos te pidoque avejas tuvo el esquadron armado,lisonjas son iguales,servir yo en flores, pagar tu en panales."
Obras de Gongora, 1633.
[108]Discurso sobre la Nueva Poesia por Lope de Vega.
[108]Discurso sobre la Nueva Poesia por Lope de Vega.
[109]Lord Holland's Life of Lope de Vega.
[109]Lord Holland's Life of Lope de Vega.
[110]Lop.Sois vulgar o culterano?Sev.Culto soy.Lop.Quedaos en casaY escribireis mis secretos.Sev.Sus secretos! por que cansa?Lop.Porque nadie los entienda.
[110]Lop.Sois vulgar o culterano?
Sev.Culto soy.
Lop.Quedaos en casaY escribireis mis secretos.
Sev.Sus secretos! por que cansa?
Lop.Porque nadie los entienda.
[111]"Aquella que escribe en cultopor a quel Griego lenguage;que no lo supo Castilla,ni se enseñóle su madre."
[111]
"Aquella que escribe en cultopor a quel Griego lenguage;que no lo supo Castilla,ni se enseñóle su madre."
"Aquella que escribe en cultopor a quel Griego lenguage;que no lo supo Castilla,ni se enseñóle su madre."
[112]"A UN PEYNE, QUE NO SABIA EL POETA SI ERA DE BOXO DE MARFIL."Sulca del mar de amor las rubias ondas,barco de Barcelona, y por los belloslazos navega altivo, aunque por ellostal vez te muestres, y tal vez te escondas.Ya no flechas, Amor, dorados ondasteje de sus esplendidos cabellos;tu con los dientes no lo quites dellos,para que a tanta dicha correspondas.Desenvuelve los rizos con decoro,los paralelos de mi sol desata,box o colmillo de elephante Moro,y en tanto que esparcidos los dilataforma por la madeja sendas de oraantes que el tiempo los convierta en plata."
[112]
"A UN PEYNE, QUE NO SABIA EL POETA SI ERA DE BOXO DE MARFIL."Sulca del mar de amor las rubias ondas,barco de Barcelona, y por los belloslazos navega altivo, aunque por ellostal vez te muestres, y tal vez te escondas.Ya no flechas, Amor, dorados ondasteje de sus esplendidos cabellos;tu con los dientes no lo quites dellos,para que a tanta dicha correspondas.Desenvuelve los rizos con decoro,los paralelos de mi sol desata,box o colmillo de elephante Moro,y en tanto que esparcidos los dilataforma por la madeja sendas de oraantes que el tiempo los convierta en plata."
"A UN PEYNE, QUE NO SABIA EL POETA SI ERA DE BOXO DE MARFIL.
"Sulca del mar de amor las rubias ondas,barco de Barcelona, y por los belloslazos navega altivo, aunque por ellostal vez te muestres, y tal vez te escondas.Ya no flechas, Amor, dorados ondasteje de sus esplendidos cabellos;tu con los dientes no lo quites dellos,para que a tanta dicha correspondas.Desenvuelve los rizos con decoro,los paralelos de mi sol desata,box o colmillo de elephante Moro,y en tanto que esparcidos los dilataforma por la madeja sendas de oraantes que el tiempo los convierta en plata."
[113]"Era del año la estacion florida,en que el mentido robador de Europa(media Luna las armas de su frente,y el Sol todos los rayos de su pelo)luziente honor del cieloen campos de zafiro pace las estrellas,quando el que ministrar podia la copaa Jupiter, mejor que el garçon de Idanaufragò, y desdeñado sobre ausentelagrimosas de Amor, dulces querellasDá al mar, que condolidofue a las ondas, que al vientoel misero gemido,segundo de Arion dulce instrumentodel siempre en la montaña opuesto pino,al enemigo Notopiadoso miembro roto,breve tabla, Delfin no fue pequeñoal inconsiderado peregrino,que a una Libia de ondas su caminofio, y su vida a un leñodel oceano, pues antes sorvidoy luego vomitado,no lexos de un escollo coronadode secos juncos, de calientes plumas,(Alga todo, y espumas)hallò hospitalidad donde hallò nidode Jupiter el ave,besa la arena, y de la reta naveaquella parte pocaque lo expuso en la playa, dio a la roca,que aun se dexan las peñaslisongear de agradecidas señas,desnudo el joven, quanto ya el vestidooceano ha bevidorestituir le haze a las arenas,y al sol lo estiende luego,que lamiendolo apenassu dulce lengua de templado fuegolento lo embiste, y con suave estilola menor honda chupa al menor hilo."
[113]
"Era del año la estacion florida,en que el mentido robador de Europa(media Luna las armas de su frente,y el Sol todos los rayos de su pelo)luziente honor del cieloen campos de zafiro pace las estrellas,quando el que ministrar podia la copaa Jupiter, mejor que el garçon de Idanaufragò, y desdeñado sobre ausentelagrimosas de Amor, dulces querellasDá al mar, que condolidofue a las ondas, que al vientoel misero gemido,segundo de Arion dulce instrumentodel siempre en la montaña opuesto pino,al enemigo Notopiadoso miembro roto,breve tabla, Delfin no fue pequeñoal inconsiderado peregrino,que a una Libia de ondas su caminofio, y su vida a un leñodel oceano, pues antes sorvidoy luego vomitado,no lexos de un escollo coronadode secos juncos, de calientes plumas,(Alga todo, y espumas)hallò hospitalidad donde hallò nidode Jupiter el ave,besa la arena, y de la reta naveaquella parte pocaque lo expuso en la playa, dio a la roca,que aun se dexan las peñaslisongear de agradecidas señas,desnudo el joven, quanto ya el vestidooceano ha bevidorestituir le haze a las arenas,y al sol lo estiende luego,que lamiendolo apenassu dulce lengua de templado fuegolento lo embiste, y con suave estilola menor honda chupa al menor hilo."
"Era del año la estacion florida,en que el mentido robador de Europa(media Luna las armas de su frente,y el Sol todos los rayos de su pelo)luziente honor del cieloen campos de zafiro pace las estrellas,quando el que ministrar podia la copaa Jupiter, mejor que el garçon de Idanaufragò, y desdeñado sobre ausentelagrimosas de Amor, dulces querellasDá al mar, que condolidofue a las ondas, que al vientoel misero gemido,segundo de Arion dulce instrumentodel siempre en la montaña opuesto pino,al enemigo Notopiadoso miembro roto,breve tabla, Delfin no fue pequeñoal inconsiderado peregrino,que a una Libia de ondas su caminofio, y su vida a un leñodel oceano, pues antes sorvidoy luego vomitado,no lexos de un escollo coronadode secos juncos, de calientes plumas,(Alga todo, y espumas)hallò hospitalidad donde hallò nidode Jupiter el ave,besa la arena, y de la reta naveaquella parte pocaque lo expuso en la playa, dio a la roca,que aun se dexan las peñaslisongear de agradecidas señas,desnudo el joven, quanto ya el vestidooceano ha bevidorestituir le haze a las arenas,y al sol lo estiende luego,que lamiendolo apenassu dulce lengua de templado fuegolento lo embiste, y con suave estilola menor honda chupa al menor hilo."
Spaniards may look back with pride to this epoch, so fertile in genius, so prolific of the talent and high character that germinates in the Spanish soul, and which it required unexampled despotism and cruelty to crush and efface. Not that the inborn greatness of that people is lost, but its outward demonstration, after this period, became the unheard and sightless prey of political oppression. The words of Gray, wherein he speaks of the heroes and poets who may have been born and died without achieving distinction, or performing any act capable of winning it, is so true, perhaps, in no country as in Spain: but with them it cannot be said, that
"Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul."
"Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul."
It was the stake and the dungeon, a system of misrule, and the aspect of the merciless deeds committed by their governors on helpless multitudes, that destroyed the energies, and blighted the genius, of the people. When we read of such acts as the banishment of the Moriscos, and the history of all that high-hearted people suffered—torn from their native vales and hills, and cast out upon the stranger—we wonder what manner of men lived in Spain, and feel that these inhuman and impious deeds must have poisoned the very air. But, politically speaking, it is not the act, but its effects, that are so baneful; national crime influences by causing the degeneracy of the race. The youth may live a life of sin; it is the man that is the sufferer. And thus the heroes of Spain of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, might glory in their children of the sixteenth; but the infection of evil had touched these,and their descendants made good the awful denunciation,—that the children are to suffer for their parents' crimes—an annunciation of divine will, so carried out in the vast system of the world, though often omitted in particular instances, as to demonstrate that it is one of the laws bestowed by heaven to govern the human race.
Among the men who, last of the Spaniards of renown, flourished at that epoch, Quevedo deserves particular mention. He was a man of genius—a man who acted as well as wrote, and displayed in both originality, penetration and rectitude; whose character was as admirable as his intellect. He was the victim, also, of the most frightful misrule; and the fate of Quevedo alone might be brought forward as an example of the infamy of the political institutions of Spain.
Don Francisco Gomez de Quevedo Villegas, was born at Madrid in September 1580. His father, Pedro Gomez de Quevedo, was a courtier. He had been secretary to the empress Mary, and afterwards filled the same situation to queen Anne, wife of Philip II. His mother, donna Maria de Santibanez, also was attached to the court, and was a lady of the bedchamber to the queen. They were both of noble family, and descended from the most ancient landed proprietors of the Montana, in the Valle de Toranzo.
His father died when he was a child; and he was brought up in the royal palace by his mother, but she also died when he was young[114], as we gather from one of his ballads, in which he gives a jocosely bitter account of the ill luck that pursued him through life. He went early to the university of Alcalà, and there his passion for study developed itself in all its intensity, so that we are told that he took his degree in theology, to the wonder of every body, at fifteen. This seems almostincredible; but it is plain he took it with credit, and a the expense of great labour.
This science and success, however, did not satisfy him. He gave himself eagerly up to the acquirement of other knowledge: civil and canon law, medicine and natural history, the learned languages, and the various systems of philosophy, were in the number of his studies and acquirements: poetry was added to the list. His grasping and clear mind became informed by all the learning of the times; it converted it all to nutriment, and acquired power from the various intellectual weapons he taught himself to wield.
His career was checked by a circumstance that may rather be looked on as fortunate, since it forced him to quit the immediate atmosphere of the court, and to make his way elsewhere, through his own exertions and merits. He was, though so young, held in high esteem for his conduct, and, as the most accomplished cavalier of his time, was often made the arbitrator of quarrels: in which character he displayed his good sense and good feeling by the care he at once took, to watch over the point of honour and to reconcile adversaries. He himself wielded all weapons of defence with singular dexterity; though, being born with both his feet turned in, this deformity must have impeded the full developement of his powers, which, nevertheless, exceeded those of most men in strength and skill, and were aided by his bravery and greatness of mind. These qualifications had brought him off the conqueror in several unexpected and inevitable rencontres, where he had been obliged to defend or assert himself. On one occasion a man, calling himself a gentleman, entirely unknown to him, took advantage of the darkness in which churches are plunged during the evening of Holy Thursday, to insult a lady (equally unknown to Quevedo), in the church of St. Martin, at Madrid. Quevedo came forward to her assistance, forced the insulter into the street, and, reproving him for his brutality, they drew on each other, and Quevedo ran his adversary through the body. The friends of the cavalierendeavoured to seize him, and he was obliged to fly: he took refuge in Italy, and thence, invited by the viceroy, repaired to Sicily.
At this time Don Pedro Giron, duke of Osuna and grandee of Spain, was viceroy of Sicily. He was a man of singular character; and the career he ran, in which Quevedo was involved, was as strange and various as was his disposition and designs.[115]The character of the Spanish, under the gloomy influence of Philip II., had become dignified, grave and ceremonious. His son Philip III. was of a different character. His father had taken pains to inculcate all his own bigotry in matters of religion, and, at the same time, to inspire him with application, judgment, and a knowledge of the arts of government. In the first part of his education he succeeded; in the latter he wholly failed. Philip III. was a weak prince and as such given up to favouritism. On coming to the crown, he devolved all the labours of government on the marquis of Denia whom he made duke of Lerma, who again entrusted much of the royal patronage and power to Don Rodrigo de Calderon, a man of low birth, but of high and haughty mind, who became count of Oliva and marquis de Siete Iglesias. The court of Philip III., however, preserved much of the dignity, the severe etiquette and solemn gravity brought in by Philip II. In this serious and ceremonious circle the duke of Osuna was almost regarded as a madman. He displayed the fervour and spirit of youth in a gaiety and recklessness of manner and behaviour, wholly at war with courtly decorum and seriousness. His wit was brilliant, his understanding penetrating, his imagination full of fire and extravagance; his temper ardent and joyous. He was often called insane, and the sober tried to bring him into disesteem. His high birth and vast fortunes, however, gave him rank and weight, and he had distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, not only by his bravery but by his military skill. His disposition prompted him to love the trade ofwar; and he made such use of his experience during the struggle carried on in that disturbed country, that he became reputed fit to command an army. His valour was undoubted; on one occasion he had three horses killed under him, and the success that attended his enterprises surrounded them with still greater lustre. He was licentious in his habits, but so grossly so, that he was never the slave of love. His ambition was unbounded; his designs vast: his imagination suggested a thousand strange modes of satisfying it, and engendered schemes so wild and daring that, while the world was amazed, and its repose disturbed, their very singularity, in many instances, commanded success. His military reputation was the cause, joined to the influence of Uzeda, son of the duke of Lerma, who was his friend, that, notwithstanding his indiscretions and levity, he came to be named viceroy of Sicily.
Quevedo was an invaluable acquisition to such a man. His gaiety and wit recommended him as a companion: his understanding, his integrity, his elevated character, his resolution, his capacity for labour, and his great knowledge, caused him to be a useful servant to one, whose vast designs required instruments of power and skill. The duke showed his great confidence in his talents and fidelity by sending him as his ambassador to Madrid, to recount his exploits and explain his designs. Quevedo succeeded so well that, the king and council bestowed a pension on him, and the duke of Osuna was advanced to the viceroyalty of Naples—which opened a new scene for his schemes and a wide field for his towering ambition. Osuna's first acts were directed against the Turkish power, and he obtained several splendid victories in the Mediterranean and on the coasts of Africa, but he had designs more at heart than a victory over the Turks. The war of the Low Countries was concluded, and there was peace between France and Spain. The Spanish power, possessed of Sicily and Naples and Milan, threatened to becomeomnipotent in Italy. Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy, a gallant and patriotic prince in vain endeavoured to make head against it: he was forced to submit. Still in heart he was at war; and this sovereign and the republic of Venice made a quiet but determined stand against the encroachments of Spain in Italy. The Duke of Osuna set himself in opposition to them, and, in particular, used every means he could command, to weaken and injure the Venetians.
The methods he took were lawless and dishonourable, but they shewed his despotic and daring spirit. He encouraged the Uscocchi, a tribe of pirates who inhabited Istria, and infested the Mediterranean. A Spanish fleet protected their attacks on the Venetians, intercepted the forces of the republic sent against them, and seized upon their merchantmen in the Adriatic. Corsairs and pirates of all nations brought their prizes to the ports of Naples, and found shelter and protection: they were permitted to trade; and Osuna thus gathered together a number of desperate men whom he could use in the execution of any daring enterprise. The fair traders and merchants of Naples however, finding commerce decline, complained at the court of Madrid; the French also made representations against the nefarious acts of the pirates protected by Osuna; and the court, which had entered on a treaty of peace with Savoy, and was negotiating one between Venice and Ferdinand of Austria, sent an order to the viceroy to suspend all hostilities.
Osuna would not obey. He sent a fleet into the Adriatic, and threatened with death any one who should dare carry complaints to Madrid. His pretence was the alarm of an intended invasion by the Turks, while at the same time he was endeavouring to induce the Porte to attack Candia. This fleet was driven into port by a storm: but he had a number of privateers which, notwithstanding Spain was at peace with Venice, captured the vessels of that state; and, when he was ordered to restore them, he obeyed by sending back the vessels and keeping the cargoes. Invain did the Venetians complain. Osuna declared that he would persist while he detected latent enmity to Spain in the councils of the republic, and the Spanish ambassador was forced to allow that the viceroy was beyond royal control.
But his designs did not end here; his heart was set on the destruction of Venice: and, his daring and uncontrolled imagination suggesting the wildest schemes, he set on foot another attempt even less venial than his encouragement of the Uscocchi. It is true that Spanish historians, and, among them, Ortiz, deny the complicity of Spain in the conspiracy formed against Venice, and throw upon the Venetian senate the accusation of trumping up a plot, for the sake of getting rid of the Spanish ambassador: but all other nations concur in believing the conspiracy to have been real, and in affirming that the interesting account Saint Real gives, is, in the main, founded on undoubted facts.
The name of the Bedmar conspiracy against Venice is familiar to us through Otway's play. This is not the place to go into minute detail. The marquis of Bedmar was a man of great talent and acquirements. The Spanish government held him in high esteem; he was sagacious and discerning, and he had that zeal for the glory of his country, which in that day distinguished the Spaniards: and it was of the first importance to the prosperity of Spain to weaken, how much more to destroy the state of Venice. His design was to introduce foreign troops surreptitiously into the town—to fire the arsenal and other parts of the city, and to seize on its places of strength. The senators were to be massacred; and if the citizens offered resistance, artillery was to be turned on them, and the city laid in ruins. The plot was discovered: it is not known exactly how. It seems probable, that a conspirator, a Venetian, a Jaffier, betrayed it through the suggestions of fear or humanity, and Venice was preserved.
Bedmar, it is said, communicated his plot to Osuna, and they acted in concert. There can be no doubt, but that both ministers were zealouslybent on weakening the power of Venice; and, as there appears ample proof that this conspiracy originated in the marquis of Bedmar, so is it also probable that he associated in it a spirit so lawless, a man so bold and resolute as Osuna. Quevedo was the emissary that passed between them, and if Osuna was privy to the plot, it seems certain that Quevedo also was.1618.Ætat.38.This is a painful circumstance. We hear so much of the integrity and excellence of Quevedo's character, that we are averse to believe his complicity in the nefarious attempt to destroy a rival state, not by the fair advantages of war, but by conspiracy, incendiarism, and massacre; that state also not only being at peace, but the plot originating in, and carried on by one who bore the sacred character of an ambassador. But, nurtured under the poisonous influence of the Inquisition, fraught with a zeal, which does not deserve the name of patriotic, since the true honour of their country was not consulted, the Spaniards nourished a false conscience; and the men who could serve God by the murder of the innocent and helpless, could serve their king by perjury and assassination. During his various political services the life of Quevedo had been several times attempted, and this also might tend to blunt his sense of right: he might fancy that it was but fair retaliation to use towards others the secret weapon levelled against himself. However this may be, whether or not he were acquainted with the secret of the conspiracy, and took a part in it, it is certain that he was in Venice at the time that the plot was discovered. Many of his intimate friends were seized and perished by the hands of the executioner; but he contrived to elude the vigilance of the senate, and finally made his escape in the guise of a mendicant.
Osuna continued viceroy of Naples, and it began to be suspected that he intended to arrogate power independent of the king his master. His success at sea against Venice raised him many enemies, as he gained it through the destruction of all fair trade, and also by the imposition of vast and burthensome taxes. The Neapolitan nobility were, in a body,inimical to him; and all those disaffected to the Spanish rule made him the apparent object of their hatred and complaints. He, aware of their aversion, endeavoured to crush them; he visited all those crimes severely which they had hitherto, under shadow of their rank, committed unpunished. He excluded them from all offices of power and trust, and took occasion when he could, to confiscate their property. He encouraged a spirit of sedition among the common people; he surrounded himself by foreign troops; he encouraged men of desperate fortunes—he commanded the sea—and his power became unbounded. He utterly despised the king his master, calling him the great drum of the monarchy, as if he had been a mere tool and instrument, and possessed no real authority.
With all this it is not probable that he really conspired to seize on Naples. He wished to rule absolutely and unquestioned, but did not go beyond into forming designs of putting his power on a new and independent foundation. His wild projecting brain was well known, and caused many of his acts to pass unnoticed; but his enemies increased, and their complaints at court were frequent. They fabricated accusations to his dishonour, exaggerated his weaknesses and faults, and combined together for his overthrow. Finding that he became aware of their attempts, they, fearful of his revenge, renewed them with increased fervour. Men of the highest rank in Naples visited Madrid, and put themselves forward to misinterpret his actions. They art-fully represented that the ruin of commerce, and the desolation of the kingdom arose from his dissolute life and misrule. The king and his ministers gave ear to these representations, and commanded Osuna to return to Madrid. This was a great blow to the duke: though he received it with apparent constancy, he neither liked to lose his place, nor, above all, to lose it under dishonourable imputations, and he delayed obedience. Thus colour was given to the idea that he meant to assert hisindependence. The court of Madrid, therefore, proceeded more warily: they contrived to get possession of his galleys and other vessels of war; and orders were despatched to cardinal don Gaspar de Borgia, who was named his successor, to proceed instantly from Rome, where he was residing, to Naples, and to seize on the government. Borgia arrived at Gaëta, but still Osuna protracted his stay under various pretences. The nobles represented that he was endeavouring to raise an insurrection among the populace and soldiers; and Borgia, to put an end to the struggle, having gained the support of the governor of the Castel Nuovo, introduced himself into that fortress by night. The following morning the discharge of artillery proclaimed his arrival, and Osuna was obliged to submit. He returned by slow journies to Spain. He presented himself at court, and the king turned his back on him. Osuna eyed his sovereign with contempt, muttering, "The king treats me not as a man, but as a child." Not long after, Philip III. died. The enemies of Osuna were not idle; fresh accusations of his treasonable intents at Naples were perpetually made; and one of the first acts of the reign of Philip IV. was to throw him into prison. The distress of his mind increased the disease of which he was the victim, and he died in prison of a dropsy, in the year 1624.
1620.Ætat.40.
Quevedo was enveloped in his ruin. He had been a zealous and laborious servant to Osuna and to his government. He had, by his attention to the finances discovered various frauds, and brought large sums into the treasury. He crossed the sea seven times as ambassador to the court of Madrid, and fulfilled the same employment at Rome. He had been rewarded by the gift of the habit of Santiago. He loved and revered Osuna, and testified his attachment by writing several sonnets in his honour. One is on his death, in which he says, "The fields of Flanders are his monument—the blood-stained Crescent his epitaph: Spain gave him a prison and death; but though his country failed him, his deeds were hisdefence."[116]He wrote three other sonnets as epitaphs[117]: Ortiz mentions them as containing an epitome of the duke's life. He says of him that he was "The terror of Asia, the fear of Europe, and the thunder-bolt of Africa. His name alone was victory, there where the Crescent ruled. He divorced Venice and the Sea." In another he sums up his achievements against the Turks:—"He liberated a thousand Christians from the galleys; he assaulted and sacked Goletta, Chicheri, and Calivia: the Danube, and Moselle and the Rhine paled before his armies." The fall of Osuna included his own. There can be no doubt that he was innocent of all participation in any treasonable designs of the viceroy, but innocence was a slight resource in Spain against powerful accusers. He was arrested and carried to his villa of Torre de Juan Abad, and imprisoned there for three years and a half. He was confined with such rigour, that in default of medical aid he fell severely ill, so that he wrote to the president of the council, to represent the miserable state of his health, and obtained leave to attend to his cure in the neighbouring city of Villa Nueva de los Infantes. A few months after he was liberated, under the restriction that he was not to appear at court. But the total absence of all proof against him, caused this sentence to be taken off soon after. Unfortunately he was not satisfied with freedom from persecution. His fortunes had suffered during his imprisonment, and he sought to mend them by claiming the arrears of his pension, the payment of which had been suspended during his disgrace. This lighted again the fire of persecution, and he was again exiled, and retired to his villa of Torre Juan Abad, till after the lapse of another year he was allowed to return to Madrid. No longer persecuted, and restored to his proper place in society, he resided for some time at court, where he enjoyed the reputation his talents, prudence, and conduct commanded, sothat the king, to reward his services, and compensate for his sufferings, named him one of his secretaries.
1632.Ætat.52.
But such honours had ceased to charm Quevedo. Misfortune and disgrace had taught him to look with aversion on public employments; his long imprisonment had accustomed him to study, and engendered a love of tranquillity. Several places were offered him by the count-duke Olivarez, minister and favourite of Philip IV., such as minister for state despatches, and the embassy to Genoa, but he declined them and gave himself up to study and philosophy. His writings were many, and gained for him a high reputation; he was in correspondence with all the most learned men of Europe, and was enriched by the revenue of several benefices; thus for several years he enjoyed reputation and prosperity.1634.Ætat.54.He gave up, however, his church preferments for the sake of marrying. His wife was donna Esperanza de Aragon y la Cabra, Señora of Cetina, and she belonged to one of the highest families in the kingdom. With her he retired to Cetina; but he was not long allowed to enjoy the happiness he promised himself: his wife died within a few months, and this last misfortune, destroying the fabric of felicity he had erected, and counted upon possessing to the end of his life, was the heaviest blow of all. His resource and consolation was retirement and study. He took up his abode at Torre Juan Abad, and gave himself up to the cultivation of literature and poetry.
Several of his poems are expressive of the delight he felt at leaving Madrid for the solitude of his villa which was placed in the Sierra of La Mancha. One of his romances describes his progress from Madrid through Toledo, la Mancha, and the Sierra, to his estate: the poem is burlesque, and in ridicule of all he sees; but there are others in which he dwells with satisfaction on his tranquil occupations. "Retired to the solitude of these deserts," he writes, "with few but wise books, I enjoy the conversation of the dead, and with my eyes listen to those who areno more. The press gives into our hands those great souls whom death has freed from injury. The hour takes its irrevocable Sight, but that is spent best which improves us by reading and study."[118]
He was an excellent landlord, and a kind master; he exerted himself in acts of charity towards his vassals, and conducted himself with Christian humility and mercy. For a few years he was permitted to enjoy this tranquillity; it was a sort of calm after storm, where the absence of sorrow is called happiness. His active mind furnished him with occupation, while his piety and philosophy taught him content. He might now hope that he was assured of such a state of peace to the end of his life,—for he had relinquished every ambitious project, and limited his views to the narrowed sphere immediately around him. But Quevedo was one of those men marked by destiny for misfortune. He playfully, and yet with some bitterness, alludes to his evil fate, in a poem before quoted. He says: "My fortunes are so black, they might serve me for ink: I might be used as an image of a saint;—for, if the country people want rain, they have but to turn me out naked, and they are sure of a deluge; if they want sun, let me be covered by a mantle, and it will shine at night; I am always mistaken for some object of vengeance, and receive the blows intended for another. If a tile is to fall, it waits till I pass under. If I wish to borrow from any one, he replies so rudely,that, instead of borrowing, I am obliged to lend my patience. Every fool prates to me; every old woman makes love; every poor person begs; every prosperous one takes offence. When I travel, I always miss my road; when I play, I always lose; every friend deceives, every enemy sticks to me; water fails me at sea,—in taverns I find it in plenty, mingled with my wine. I have given up all employments, for I know that if I turned hosier, people would go bare-legged; if physician, no one would fall ill. If I am gallant towards a woman, she listens to or refuses me,—both are equally disastrous. If a man wished to die neither by poison nor pestilence, he has but to intend to benefit me, and he will not live an hour. Such is the adverseness of my star, that I submit and try to propitiate its pride by my adoration."[119]
1641.Ætat.61.
But worse luck was in store for him, and a misfortune so heavy, as to put an end to his life, after exhausting him by suffering. He was suspected of being the author of certain libels against the court, and to the injury of public morals;—and an accusation was brought against him, either by some malicious enemy, or officious and mistaken medler. Happening to visit Madrid for some cause, and being in the house of a grandee, his friend, he was arrested at eleven at night, in the month of December 1641, and imprisoned in a dungeon of the royal Casa de San Marcos de Leon, and his possessions seized on. His confinement was cruel as well as rigorous,—his dungeon was damp;—a stream flowed through it close to his pillow. He was allowed no money, and lived by charity; his clothes became rags, and he could not renew them. This frightful situation produced sores on his body, and not being allowed medical aid, he was forced to dress them himself.
There are two letters of his extant, written in prison,—one addressed to a friend,—the other, a memorial to the count-duke Olivarez,soliciting inquiry into his case.[120]These letters are far less interesting than might have been expected from so vivid a writer as Quevedo, describing the squalid wretchedness of a dungeon, and the horrors of his lot; but they are curious monuments of the manners of the day, shewing how men endured the evils of misrule, and evincing the resignation and dignity Quevedo could preserve throughout.
The first is addressed to a gentleman whom his biographers name his intimate friend, don Diego de Villagomez, a cavalier of the city of Leon; but the style is as cold and ceremonious as if written to an archbishop. It begins by saying:—"I who am a warning write to you who are an example to the world,—but different as we are, we both travel to the same end,—and adversity has this of good, that it serves as a lesson to others. Even in learning the military profession, you have shewn yourself a good captain. For you have not left it, but attained preferment. War endures to all men through life, for life is war; and to live and to struggle is the same thing."—He then makes a religious application of this maxim, saying, that to leave a worldly service for that of Jesus, is to follow a better banner and to be assured of the pay; and, after a long disquisition on this subject, and in praise of St. Ignatius, he concludes by saying: "I can count, señor don Diego, fourteen years and a half of imprisonment, and may add to this the misery of this last dungeon, in which, I count the wages of my sins. Give me pity in exchange for the envy I bear you; and since God gives you better society, enjoy it, far from the solitude of your friend, who lies in the grasp of persecution, far short in his account, though he pays much less than he owes. And may God give you his grace and benediction. From prison, the 8th of June, 1643."
The memorial to the count-duke is far more to the purpose, but, even that is very diffuse and pedantic, though the facts he details were impressive enough to obtain compassion without quotations from the ancients; but such was the tone of that age.
"My lord," he writes, "a year and ten months have passed since I was thrown into prison, on the seventh of December, on the eve of the Conception of our Lady, at half-past ten at night; when I was dragged in the depth of winter, without a cloak, and without a shirt, in my sixty-first year, to this royal convent of San Marcos de Leon; where I have remained all the time mentioned, in most rigorous confinement; sick with three wounds, which have festered through the effects of cold, and the vicinity of a stream that flow's near my pillow; and not being allowed a surgeon, it has been a sight of pity to see me cauterise them with my own hands. I am so poor that I have been clothed, and my life supported by charity. The horror of my hardships has struck every one with dread. I have only one sister, a nun among the barefooted Carmelites, from whom I can hope nothing, but that she should recommend me to God. I acknowledge (for so my sins persuade) mercy in this cruelty. For I am myself the voice of my conscience, and I accuse my life. If your Excellency found me well off, mine would be the praise. To find me miserable, and to do me good, makes the praise yours; and if I am unworthy of pity, your Excellency is worthy to feel it, and it is the appropriate virtue of so great a noble and minister. 'There is nothing,' says Seneca, when consoling Marcia, 'that I consider so meritorious in those who hold a high station, as the pardoning many things, and seeking pardon for none.' What worse crime can I commit, than persuading myself that my misfortunes are to be the limit of your magnanimity? I ask time from your Excellency to revenge myself on myself. The world has already heard what my enemies can say against me; I desire now that they should hear me against myself, and my accusations will be the more true from being exempt from hatred. I protest, before God, our Lord, that in all that is said of me, I am guilty of no other crime, than not having lived an exemplary life, so that my sins may be attributed to my folly. Thosewho see me, do not believe that I am a prisoner on suspicion, but under a most rigorous sentence; wherefore I do not expect death, but live in communion with it. I exist only through its generosity,—and I am a corpse in all except the sepulture, which is the repose of the dead. I have lost every thing. My possessions, which were always trifling, are reduced to nothing, between the great expenses of my imprisonment, and the losses it has occasioned. My friends are frightened by my calamity, and nothing remains to me but my trust in you. No mercy can bestow many years on me, nor any cruelty deprive me of many. I do not, my lord, seek this interval, naturally so short, for the sake of living longer, but of living well for a little while."
He then sums up, by quoting Pliny and Trajan on the merits of mercy, and the preferability of being loved rather than feared.
This memorial had the effect of drawing attention to his cause and sufferings. The accusation on account of which he was imprisoned was examined, and it was discovered that he had been calumniated, and the real author of the libel came to be known; on this he was set at liberty, and allowed to return to court. His first labour was to recover his property, the whole of which, except the portion he had entrusted to his powerful friend, doctor Francisco de Oviedo, had been sequestered. It was a work of difficulty; and, meanwhile, he found himself too poor to live with becoming respectability at court, so he retired to his country seat. Here he soon fell ill from the effects of neglect during his last, long, and cruel imprisonment; and he was obliged to remove to Villa Nueva de los Infantes, for the sake of medical treatment. He was long confined to his apartment, suffering great pain and annoyance, all of which he endured with exemplary patience. He made his will, and prepared his soul for death. He named his nephew his successor, on condition that he took the name of Quevedo. His death was lingering. Tothe last he displayed fortitude and a tranquil spirit of resignation. He died the 8th of September, 1647, at the age of sixty-five.
In person, Quevedo was of middle height, and robust, though his feet were deformed. He was handsome in face, fair, and with curly hair inclined to red. He was short-sighted—but his countenance was full of animation. Notwithstanding his deformity, he was vigorous,—addicted to, and excelling in, manly exercises.
His life was spent in a series of vicissitudes; at one time enjoying power and reputation; at another, a prisoner, suffering all the evils of poverty and neglect. He bore all with fortitude: his active mind gave him employment, his genius caused him to find a resource in writing;—and the vivacity and energy of his works display the unabated vigour of his soul. Nearly fifteen years of his life he spent in prison, as he mentions in his letter above quoted. Meanwhile his character remained uninjured by adversity. His disposition was magnanimous, so that he never revenged himself on any of his enemies: he was generous and charitable to those in need; and so diffident of his own merit, that the only poems he published saw light under a feigned name.
His integrity had been put to the proof at Naples, where bribes were offered him to conceal the frauds practised on the royal revenue; but he was far above dishonesty and peculation. The only slur on his character is his possible complicity in the Bedmar conspiracy; but in those days the advantage of the state to which a man belonged was deemed preponderant to all the suggestions of justice and right. Quevedo also acted on this occasion (if he did act) under the command of his superiors; and believed that fidelity to his patron was his first duty.
Of his "Affaires du Cœur," the great subject with poets, we know little. Several ladies are celebrated in his verses; but a great proportion of his erotic poetry is dedicated to one, whom he names Lisi,and to whom he appears to have been faithfully attached for a considerable space of time. In one of his sonnets to her, he says that ten years had taken their swift and noiseless flight since first he saw her; and for these ten years the soft flame had warmed his veins, and reigned over his soul; "for the flame," he says, "that aspires to immortal life, neither fears to die with the body, nor that time should injure or extinguish it." Many of his poems express great aversion to matrimony, and when, at last, in advanced age, he did marry, we have seen that he was widowed almost as soon as wed.
With the never-to-be-omitted exception of Cervantes, Quevedo is the most original prose writer Spain has produced; but at the same time he is so quaint, referring to local peculiarities, and using words unknown, except colloquially, that he is often unintelligible, especially in his burlesque poetry, to a foreigner. His countrymen esteem him highly. One of the most pleasing stanzas of Lope de Vega's Laurel de Apolo is dedicated to his praise. He speaks of him as "Possessing an acute but gentle spirit; agreeable in his wit, and profound in his serious poetry." He adopted something of thecultostyle and conceits blemish his verses. Quintana says of him, "Quevedo was every thing in excess; no one in the same manner displays in the serious, a gravity so rigid, and morals so austere; no one in the jocose, shows a humour, so gay, so free, and so abandoned to the spirit of the thing. His imagination was vivid and brilliant but superficial and negligent; and the poetic genius that animates him, sparkles but does not glow, surprises but does not move deeply, bounds with impetuosity and force, but neither flies nor supports itself at the same elevation. I am well aware that Quevedo often diverts with what he writes, and raves because it is his pleasure. I know that puns have their proper place in such compositions, and that no one has used them more happily than he. But every thing has itsbounds; and heaped together with a prodigality like his, instead of pleasing they only create weariness.
"His verse, however, is for the most part full and sonorous, his rhyme rich and easy. His poetry, strong and nervous, proceeds impetuously to its end; and if his movements betray too much of the effort, affectation and bad taste of the writer, their course is yet frequently seen to have a wildness, an audacity, and a singularity hat is surprising.[121]"
To give some idea of Quevedo's style to the English reader we may liken him to Butler; but it is Butler rather in his fragments than in Hudibras, for a more elevated poetic tone is displayed in those. Quevedo could be sublime, though only by snatches. Serious he could be, to the depths of grave and profound disquisition, as his ethical and religious treatises testify.
One singular circumstance appertains to Quevedo's literary career—that he published none of his poetry himself, except that portion which he gave to the world under the feigned name of the Bachiller Francisco de la Torre. These are the choice of all. Being more elevated, more sweet, more pure in their diction and taste, several critics would deprive Quevedo of the merit of being their author. But who Torre was, if he were not Quevedo, nobody can tell: while, these poems appearing under his editorship, and the very name—Francisco being his own, and the surname, "of the Tower," appropriate to his position, as the verses werewritten while he was living secluded in his patrimonial villa of Torre Juan Abaci, seems to fix them unquestionably on him. Of the rest, a friend of Quevedo assures us that not a twentieth part of what he wrote has escaped destruction. His dramas and historical works have perished; by which he has lost the right to being considered the universal writer his contemporaries name him. This friend, and afterwards his nephew and heir, published his poems, distributed under the head of six muses, pedantically headed with mottos from Seneca. There is Clio the historic, consisting chiefly of sonnets on great events addressed to great people; Polyhimnia the sententious; Melpomene, composed chiefly of epitaphs; Erato the erotic, or as it is styled, "singing of the achievements of love and beauty:" the greater part of which is dedicated to Lisi. Terpsichore the light, gay and satirical, a large portion of which are written in the jargon of the gypsies, and are unintelligible on this side of the Pyrenees; and Thalia, longest of all, which sings, "de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis."
It is as a prose writer, however, that Quevedo has acquired fame out of his own country. And this not from his serious works; nor from his "picaresco," in which he relates the life of the great Tacaño, or captain of thieves, the type of a Spanish rogue. This tale, by its familiarity with vice, squalid penury, and vulgar roguery, becomes tiresome; nor is it to be compared in richness of humour to Mendoza's history of Lazarillo de los Tormes. The letters of the "Cavallero de Tenaza," or knight of the pincer, are very whimsical. They are in ridicule of avarice, a sin, which Quevedo declares in another work to be the most unnatural of all. They are addressed to a lady; and are lessons to teach how little can be given, and how much preserved, by a man on all occasions. This sort of dry humour turning on one idea amuses at first, but at last becomes wearisome.
It is on his Visions however, his most original work, that his Europeanreputation rests. Nothing can be more novel, singular and striking. They consist of various visions of the other world; where he sees the end of earthly vanities and the punishments that await crime. They are full of knowledge of human nature, vivacity, wit and daring imagination; they remind the reader of Lucian; and if they are less airy and fanciful, they are bolder and more sarcastic. They have the fault, it is true, of dwelling too exclusively on subjects of mean and vulgar interest—alguazils, attornies, ruffians, and all sorts of rogues of both sexes; among which, tailors figure preeminently. Now that tailors provide their own cloth, we have lost that intense notion of "cabbaging," which was so deeply impressed on the minds of our ancestors, when they only fashioned cloth sent to them. Tailors are with Quevedo the veryne plus ultraof a thief. As lord Byron styles a pirate "a sea-solicitor," so Quevedo calls a robber "a tailor of the highways." Several of these visions were written while their author was comparatively young: (one, dedicated to the duke of Osuna, is dated 1610, when he was thirty years of age), and possess the glow and spirit of early life. Nothing can be more startling and vivid than the commencement of the "Vision of Calvary." The blast of the last trump is described, and then he goes on to say: "The sound enforced obedience from marble, and hearing from the dead. All the earth began to move, giving permission to the bones to seek one another. After a short interval, I beheld those who had been soldiers arise in wrath from their graves, believing themselves summoned to battle: the avaricious looked up with anxiety and alarm fearing an attack, while men of pleasure fancied that the horns sounded to invite them to the chase. Then I saw how many fled with disgust or terror from their old bodies, of which some wanted an arm, some an eye; and I laughed at the odd figures they cut, while I admired the contrivance of Providence, that all being confounded together, no mistake was made. In one churchyard only, therewas some confusion and exchanging in the appropriation of heads; and I saw an attorney who denied that his own soul belonged to him. But I was most frightened at seeing two or three merchants who put on their souls so awry, that all their five senses got into their fingers."
The commencement of the "Alguazil possessed" is equally spirited. A spectator calling him a man bedevilled, the bad spirit, within, cries out that "He is not a man but an alguazil; and you must know that it is against their will that devils possess alguazils; so that you ought rather to call me a devil be-alguazilled than an alguazil bedevilled." He is almost as inveterate against duennas, a race of people peculiar to Spain, and he disposes of them ludicrously enough in the infernal regons. "I went a little further," he says, "and came to an immense and troubled swamp, where there was so much noise that my head was bewildered: I asked what it was, and was told that it proceeded from women who had turned duennas on earth. And thus I discovered that those who are duennas in this life, are frogs in the next, and like frogs, are for ever croaking amidst the wet and mud; and very properly do they act the parts of infernal frogs, since duennas are neither fish nor flesh. I laughed to see them turned into such ugly things, with faces as care-worn and wrinkled as those of duennas here on earth."
Such is the sort of wit that Quevedo indulges in; terse, pointed, bitter, and driven home with an unsparing hand. Extravagant in its imaginations, yet so proportioned to the truth of nature as to excite admiration as well as surprise, and to be the model of a variety of imitations, none of which come up to him in penetration, vivacity and subtle felicity of expression.