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. Those who 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. To the 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.