The Visions of Dom Francisco de Quevedo Villegas

by Francisco de Quevedo

“Face about now, and mind those decrepit sots there that can scarce lift a leg over a threshold, and yet they must be dyeing their hair, colouring their beards, and playing the young fools again, with a thousand hobby-horse tricks and antique dresses. On the other side, ye have a company of silly boys taking upon them to govern the world, under a visor of wisdom and experience.” “What lord is that,” said I, “in the rich clothes there, and the fine laces?” “That lord,” quoth he, “is a tailor, in his holiday clothes; and if he were now upon his shop-board, his own scissors and needles would hardly know him: and you must understand that hypocrisy is so epidemical a disease that it has laid hold of the trades themselves as well as the masters. The cobbler must be saluted Mr. Translator. The groom names himself gentleman of the horse; the fellow that carries guts to the bears, writes, one of His Majesty’s officers. The hangman calls himself a minister of justice. The mountebank, an able man. A common whore passes for a courtesan. The bawd acts the Puritan. Gaming ordinaries are called academies; and bawdy-houses, places of entertainment. The page styles himself the child of honour; and the foot-boy calls himself my lady’s page. And every pick-thank names himself a courtier. The cuckold-maker passes for a fine gentleman; and the cuckold himself, for the best-natured husband in the world: and a very ass commences master-doctor. Hocus-pocus tricks are called sleight-of-hand; lust, friendship; usury, thrift; cheating is but gallantry; lying wears the name of invention; malice goes for quickness of apprehension; cowardice, meekness of nature; and rashness carries the countenance of valour. In fine, this is all but hypocrisy, and knavery in a disguise, for nothing is called by the right name. Now there are beside these, certain general appellations taken up, which by long usage are almost grown into prescription. Every little whore takes upon her to be a great lady; every gown-man, to be a councillor; every huff to be a soldat; every gay thing to be a cavalier; every parish-clerk to be a doctor; and every writing-clerk in the office must be called Mr. Secretary.

“So that the whole world, take it where you will, is but a mere juggle; and you will find that wrath, gluttony, pride, avarice, luxury, murder, and a thousand other heinous sins, have all of them hypocrisy for their source, and thither they’ll return again.” “It would be well,” said I, “if you could prove what you say; but I can hardly see how so great a diversity of waters should proceed from one and the same fountain.” “I do not wonder,” quoth he, “at your distrust, for you are mistaken in very good company; to fancy a contrariety in many things, which are, in effect, so much alike. It is agreed upon, both by philosophers and divines, that all sins are evil; and you must allow, that the will embraces or pursues no evil but under the resemblance of good; nor does the sin lie in the representation, or knowledge of what is evil, but in the consent to it. Which consent itself is sinful, although without any subsequent act: it’s true, the execution serves afterward for an aggravation, and ought to be considered under many differences and distinctions. But in fine, evident it is that the will entertains no ill, but under the shape of some good. What do ye think now of the hypocrite that cuts your throat in his arms, and murders you, under pretence of kindness? ‘What is the hope of an hypocrite?’ says Job. He neither has nor can have any: for he is wicked as he is an hypocrite; and even his best actions are worth nothing, because they are not what they seem to be. So that of all sinners he has the most to answer for. Other offenders sin only against God. But the hypocrite sins with Him, as well as against Him, making use of His holy Name as a cloak and countenance for his wickedness. For which reason, our blessed Saviour, after many affirmative precepts delivered to His disciples for their instruction, gave only this negative: ‘Be not sad as the hypocrites,’ which lays them open in few words; and He might as well have said ‘Be not hypocrites, and ye shall not be wicked.’”

We were now come to the place the old man told me of, where I found all according to my expectation, and took the higher ground, that I might have the better prospect of what passed. The first remarkable thing I saw was a long funeral train of kindred and guests, following the corpse of a deceased lady, in company with the disconsolate widower, who marched with his chin upon his breast, a sad and a heavy pace, muffled up in a mourning hood, enough to have stifled him, with at least ten yards of cloth upon his body, and no less in his train. “Alack, alack!” cried I, “that ever I should live to see so dismal a spectacle! Oh blessed woman! How did this husband love thee in thy lifetime, that follows thee with this infinite faith and affection, even to thy grave! And happy the husband, doubtless, in a wife that deserved this kindness! and in so many tender friends and relations, to take part with him in his sorrows. My good father, let me entreat you to observe this doleful encounter.” With that (shaking his head and smiling) “My son,” quoth he, “thou shalt by and by perceive that all is nothing in the world but vanity, imposture, and constraint; and I will shew thee the difference between things themselves, and their appearances. To see this abundance of torches, with the magnificence of the ceremony and attendance, one would think there should be some mighty matter in the business; but let me assure thee that all this pudder comes to no more than much ado about nothing. The woman was nothing (effectually) even while she lived: the body now in the coffin is somewhat a less nothing: and the funeral honours, which are now paid her come to just nothing too. But the dead it seems must have their vanities, and their holidays as well as the living. Alas! what’s a carcass but the most odious sort of putrefaction? A corrupted earth, fit neither for fruit nor tillage. And then for the sad looks of the mourners: they are only troubled at the invitation; and would not care a pin, if the inviter and body too were both at the devil. And that you might see by their behaviour, and discourses; for when they should have been praying for the dead, they were prating of her pedigree, and her last will and testament. ‘I’m not so near akin,’ says one, ‘but I might have been spared; and I had twenty other things to do.’ Another should have met company at a tavern; a third, at a play. A fourth mutters that he is not placed according to his quality. Another cries out, ‘A pox o’ your meetings where there is nothing stirring but worms’ meat.’ Let me tell ye further, that the widower himself is not grieved as you imagine for the dead wife; but for the damned expense in blacks, and scutcheons, tapers, and mourners; and that she was not fairly laid to rest, without all this ado: for he persuades himself, that she might have found the way to her grave without a candle. And since she was to die, ’tis his opinion, that she should have made quicker work on’t: for a good wife is (like a good Christian) to put her conscience in order betimes, and get her gone; without lingering in the hands of doctors, ’pothecaries, and surgeons, to murder her husband too. Or (to save charges) she might have had the discretion to have died of the plague, which would have staved off company. This is the second wife he has already turned over, and (to give the man his due) he has had the wit to secure himself of a third, while this lay on her deathbed. So that his case is no more than chopping of a cold wife for a warm one, and he’ll recover this affliction, I warrant ye.”

The good man, methought, spoke wonders; and being thoroughly convinced of the danger of trusting to appearances, I took up a resolution, never to conclude upon anything, though never so plausible, without due examination and inquiry. With that, the funeral vanished, leaving us behind; and for a farewell, this sentence: “I am gone before, you are to follow; and in the meantime, to accompany others to their graves, as you have done me; and as I, when time was, have attended many others, with as little care and devotion as yourselves.”

We were taken off from this meditation by a noise we heard in a house behind us, where we had no sooner set foot over the threshold, but we were entertained with a concert of six voices, that were set and tuned to the sighs and groans of a woman newly become a widow. The passion was acted to the life; but the dead little the better for’t. They would be ever and anon clapping and wringing of their hands; groaning and sighing, as if their hearts would break. The hangings, pictures, and furniture were all taken down and removed; the rooms hung with black, and in one of them lay the poor disconsolate upon a couch with her condoling friends about her. It was as dark as pitch, and so much the better, for the parts they had to play; for there was no discovering of the horrid faces and strains they made, to fetch up their artificial tears and lamentations. “Madam,” says one, “tears are but thrown away; and really the grief to see your ladyship in this condition has made me as lost a woman to all thought of comfort as yourself.” “I beseech you, madam, cheer up,” cries another, with almost as many sighs as words, “your husband’s e’en happy that he is out of this miserable world. He was a good man, and now he finds the sweet on’t.” “Patience, patience, dear madam,” cries a third, “’tis the will of Heaven, and there’s no contending.” “Dost talk of patience,” says she, “and no contending? Wretched creature that I am! to outlive that dear man! Oh that dear husband of mine! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” And then she fell to blubbering, sobbing, and raving a thousand times worse than before. “Alas, alas, who will trouble himself with a poor widow! I have never a friend left to look after me; what shall become of me!”

At this pause came in the chorus with their nose-instruments; and there was such blowing, snobbing, snivelling, and throwing snot about, that there was no enduring the house. And all this, you must know, served them to a double purpose; that is to say, for physic and for complement: for it passed for the condoling office, and purged their heads of ill humours all under one. I could not choose but compassionate the poor widow, a creature forsaken of all the world; and I told my guide as much; and that a charity (as I thought) would be well bestowed upon her. The Holy Writ calls them mutes, according to the import of the Hebrew: in regard that they have nobody to speak for them. And if at any time they take heart to speak for themselves, they had e’en as good hold their tongues, for nobody minds them. Is there anything more frequently given in charge throughout the whole Bible, than to protect the fatherless, and defend the cause of the widow? as the highest and most necessary point of Christian charity: in regard that they have neither power, nor right to defend themselves. Does not Job in the depth of his misery and disgraces make choice to clear himself toward the widow, upon his expostulations with the Almighty? [If I have caused the eyes of the widow to fail] (or consumed the eyes of the widow; after the Hebrew) so that it seems to me, beside the general duty of charity, we are also bound by the laws of honour and generosity to assist them: for the poor souls are fain to plead with their eyes, and beg with their eyes, for want of either hands or tongues to help themselves. “Indeed you must pardon me my good father,” said I, “if I cannot hold any longer from bearing a part in this mournful concert, upon this sad occasion.” “And is this,” quoth the old man, “the fruit of your boasted divinity? to sink into weakness and tears, when you have the greatest need of your resolution and prudence. Have but a little patience, and I’ll unfold you this mystery; though (let me tell ye) ’tis one of the hardest things in nature, to make any man as wise as he should be, that conceits himself wise enough already. If this accident of the widow had not happened, we had had none of the fine things that have been started upon’t: for ’tis occasion that awakens both our virtue and philosophy; and ’tis not enough to know the mine where the treasure lies, unless a man has the skill of drawing it out, and making the best of what he has in his possession. What are you the better for all the advantages of wit and learning, without the faculty of reducing what you know into apt and proper applications?

“Observe me now, and I will show you that this widow that looks as if she had nothing in her mouth but the service for the dead, and only hallelujahs in her soul, that this mortified piece of formality has green thoughts under her black veil, and brisk imaginations about her, in despite of her calamity and misfortune. The chamber you see is dark; and their faces are muffled up in their funeral dresses. And what of all this? when the whole course of their mourning is but a thorough cheat. Their weeping signifies nothing more, than crying, at so much an hour; for their tears are hackneyed out, and when they have wept out their stage, they take up, and are quiet. If you would relieve them, leave them to themselves; and as soon as your back is turned, you shall have them singing and dancing, and as merry as Greeks: for take away the spectators, their hypocrisy is at an end, and the play is done; and now the confidents’ game begins. ‘Come, come, madam, ’faith we must be merry’ cries one, ‘we are to live by the living, and not by the dead. For a bonny young widow as you are, to lie whimpering away your opportunities and lose so many brave matches! There’s, you know who, I dare swear, has a month’s mind to you; by my troth I would you were in bed together, and I’d be hanged, if you did not find one warm bedfellow worth twenty cold ones.’ ‘Really, madam,’ cries a second, ‘she gives you good counsel; and if I were in your place, I’d follow it, and make use of my time. ’Tis but one lost, and ten found. Pray’e tell me, madam, if I may be so bold; what’s your opinion of that cavalier that was here yesterday? Certainly he has a great deal of wit; and methinks he’s a very handsome proper gentleman. Well! if that man has not a strange passion for you, I’ll never believe my eyes again for his sake; and, in good faith, if all parties were agreed, I would you were e’en well in his arms the night before to-morrow. Were it not a burning shame to let such a beauty lie fallow?’ This sets the widow a-pinking, and simpering like a furmety-kettle; at length she makes up the pretty little mouth, and says, ‘’Tis somewhat of the soonest to talk of those affairs; but let it be as Heaven pleases. However, madam, I am much beholden to you for your friendly advice.’ You have here the very bottom of her sorrow: she has taken a second husband into her heart before her first was in his grave. I should have told you that your right widow eats and drinks more the first day of her widowhood than in any other of her whole life: for there appears not a visitant, but presently out comes the groaning cake, a cold baked meat, or some restorative morsel or other, to comfort the afflicted; and the cordial bottle must not be forgotten neither, for sorrow’s dry. So to’t they fall, and at every bit or gulp, the lady relict fetches ye up a heavy sigh, pretends to chew false, and makes protestation that for her part she can taste nothing; she has quite lost her digestion; and has such an oppression in her stomach that she dares not eat any more, for fear of over-charging nature. ‘And in truth,’ says she, ‘how can it be otherwise; since (unhappy creature that I am!) he is gone that gave the relish to all my enjoyments; but there is no recalling him from the grave, and so, no remedy but patience.’ By this time, you see,” quoth the old man, “whether your exclamations were reasonable, or no.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when hearing an uproar among the rabble in the street, we looked out to see what was the matter. And there we saw a catchpole, without either hat or band, out of breath, and his face all bloody, crying out, “Help, help, in the king’s name! stop thief, stop thief!” and all the while, running as hard as he could drive, after a thief that made away from him, as if the devil had been at his breech. After him, came an attorney, all dirty, a world of papers in his hand, an inkhorn at his girdle, and a crowd of nasty people about him; and down he sat himself just before us, to write somewhat upon his knee. Bless me (thought I) how a cause prospers in the hand of one of these fellows, for he had filled his paper in a trice. “These catchpoles,” said I, “had need to be well paid, for the hazards they run to secure us in our lives and fortunes; and indeed they deserve it. Look how the poor wretch is torn, bruised, and battered, and all this for the good and benefit of the public.”

“Soft and fair,” quoth the old man; “I think thou wouldst never leave talking, if I did not stop thy mouth sometime. You must know, that he that made the escape and the catchpole are a couple of ancient friends and pot-companions. Now the catchpole quarrels the thief for not giving him a snip in the last booty; and the thief, after a great struggle, and a good lusty rubber at cuffs, has made a shift to save himself. You’ll say the rogue had need of good heels, to outrun this gallows-beagle; for there’s hardly any beast will outstrip a bailiff that runs upon the view of a quarry. So that there’s not the least thought of a public good in the catchpole’s action; but merely a prosecution of his own profit, and a spite to see himself choused. Now if the catchpole, I confess, without any private interest had made this attempt upon the thief, (being his friend) to bring him to justice, it had been well; and yet, take this along with you: it is as natural to let slip a serjeant at a pickpocket as a greyhound at a hare. The whip, the pillory, the axe, and the halter make up the best part of the catchpole’s revenue. These people are of all sorts the most odious to the world; and if men in revenge would resolve to be virtuous, though but for a year or two, they might starve them all. It is in fine an unlucky employment, and catchpoles as well as the devils themselves have the wages of tormentors.”

“I hope,” said I to my guide, “that the attorneys shall have your good word too.” “Yes, yes, ye need not doubt it,” said the old man, “for your attorney and your catchpole always hunt in couples. The attorney draws the information, and has all his forms ready, so that ’tis no more then but to fill up the blanks, and away to the jail with the delinquent; if there be anything to be gotten ’tis not a halfpenny matter, whether the party be guilty or innocent: give but an attorney pen, ink, and paper, and let him alone for witnesses. In case of an examination, he has the grace not to insist too much upon plain and naked truth; but to set down only what makes for his purpose, and then when they come to signing, to read over in the deponent’s sense (for his memory is good) what he has written in his own; and by this means, the cause goes on as he pleases. To prevent this villainy, it were well, if the examiners were as well sworn to write the truth as the witnesses are to speak it. And yet there are some honest men of all sorts but among the attorneys; the very calling does by the honest catchpoles, marshal’s men, and their fellows, as the sea by the dead: it may entertain them for a while, but in a very short space it spews them up again.”