Quevedo's last verses

Here is an extract from a story I wrote about Quevedo followed by a translation of what are thought to be the last verses he revised before his death.

In The Peace of These Deserts45

The ghost went on explaining himself as we continued on our zig-zagging path, “Ever since I put pen to paper I had roused anger in certain people. Some even went so far as forming the Tribunal of Righteous Revenge against my writings.46 So, I was often forced to retire to my tower of St. John of Abad to avoid unpleasantness.47 Which was fine by me because I enjoyed my solitude where I could write in peace.

“As I said, I had enemies in abundance but few real friends. Although sometimes the company of another is desirable. So on occasion I would play cards with the Duke of Medinaceli on his estate and engage in pleasant conversation. One night in particular we where deep into a game of Hombre.48 I believe the year was 1639 or so, I was leading the Duke with my last hand when out of nowhere a swarm of soldiers stormed the palace.

““What is the meaning of this?””

““Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas Gómez?””

““Yes.””

““I hereby place you under arrest by order of His Majesty King Philip IV.””

“Of course I knew it was his minister the Count-Duke of Olivares who was behind it all. We had fallen on bad terms since I began criticizing his politics. I saw them ruining Mother Spain, now reduced to a shell of her former self.49”

““So be it,” I said calmly and with that I was led away to a solitary castle of my order on the cold central plateau near León.50”

“By 1643, four years later, that dolt the Count-Duke of Olivares had fallen in disgrace, having since passed on, when I was finally released from my imprisonment. “Ten months of winter and two months of hell”51 as we say. How the cold of Castile got into my bones during those years! The chains chaffed at my skin, opening sores. I then retired to my Tower of Abad like Charles the Fifth to his monastery at Yuste.52 Defeated by life and fortune.”

“But the cold would still not leave my bones. Every member of my being was now as cold as ice. So I fled the chill to Villa Nueva de Infantes53 where I arrived more dead than alive.”

“One night in September, the year of Our Lord 1645, I sat a my desk preparing a book of my verse when a distant bell struck nine. I heard a horse galloping on the dusty plain. Clip-clop, clip-clop. I turned back to my work again as the pounding hooves seemed to come ever closer cutting through the night. Still unconcerned, I resumed my work hoping for posthumous glory. Closer, closer the hoof-falls came until they suddenly stopped. Relieved I turned my attention back to my work. Then I heard the neighing of a steed and the sound of a rider dismounting. Footfalls that could only come from massive boots sounded out in the night. And the rider like his horse came closer, closer . . .”

“Considering the matter to be more serious than I had suspected, I position myself strategically with my crutches. I was in a sorry state of decay. So I readied my steel as a loud pounding came at the door. Come what may.”

““Who goes there?” I called out. But the only answer that came was the howling wind.”

“Again the pounding came but much harder this time. I feared that the poor wooden door would not withstand much longer. Meanwhile my heart raced inside my chest as I readied my blade. Crack! A massive arm broke threw the door and tore it asunder. There stood a figure with a feathered hat and dressed in a black overcoat. On his feet were massive boots accompanied by punishing spurs. The intruder motioned toward me with an outstretched blade. Then I wondered whether the tortured spirit of the fencing hack Narvaéz had come back to prove himself. After all, I had revealed the stupidity of his method to everyone that night in the President of Castile’s house so long ago.54”

““So, Pacheco de Narvaéz, you’ve come at last. I heard you died forgotten and unsung. Which proves that the shortest distance between fame and oblivion is a straight line, eh?””

“There was no answer. The visitor beckoned once again with his blade at which point I administered a counter attack. The swordsman disengaged and almost threw me across the room but I stood my ground. I wasn’t a renowned swordsman for nothing. Still the battle was hard and at times the cold still clung to my bones. Yet I resisted and persevered.”

“I continued to fend off the intruder harnessing all my skill as a swordsman.

After what seemed like hours I looked to find my study was a mess with papers strewn about. I felt much weaker than before. Indeed, I felt I was fighting for my very life. At this point I wondered maybe it wasn’t Pacheco de Narvaéz after all . . .”

“Just then the stranger made a counter thrust and knocked my sword out of reach. I groped for it sadly as the black rider closed in. If I could only just . . . but I was too weak from sickness and age to do anything and lay helpless on the floor as he directed his blade towards my neck.”

“As a sign of victory he mockingly doffed his hat at me revealing a hideous skull underneath!”

“It wasn’t a stupid fencing master that had come calling that night. It was Death. Death had come for its own!”

You, oh wayfarer, listening to me now,

If you mean to obtain victory

Against the monster against whom you struggle;

You’ll make it so your memory goes on

To receive death,

That comes darkly and silently to unmake you.

Do not pay attention to anyone else,

For life flees step by step

Amidst false pleasures,

And dying you are born and living you die.

Tire, oh mortal,

In acquiring treasure and riches

For in the end, time must inherit thee

And all gold and silver be left behind.

Live for yourself if you can,

For if you die,

You only die to yourself alone.

Sólo la muerte . . .

Tú, pues, oh caminante que me escuchas,
si pretendes salir con la victoria
del monstruo con quien luchas,
harás que se adelante tu memoria
a recibir la muerte,
que oscura y muda viene a deshacerte.
No hagas de otro caso,
pues se huye la vida paso a paso;
y en mentidos placeres
muriendo naces, y viviendo mueres.

Cánsate ya, oh mortal, de fatigarte
en adquirir riquezas y tesoro,
que últimamente el tiempo ha de heredarte,
y al fin te dejarán la plata y oro:
vive para ti solo, si pudieres,
pues sólo para ti, si mueres, mueres.

(Escarnio, Quevedo)

---

In the Peace of These Deserts

45 See 33

46 Tribunal de la Justa Venganza contra los escritos de D. Francisco de Quevedo, maestro en errores, doctor en vergüenzas, licenciado en bufonerías, bachiller en suciedades, cátedra de vicios y Proto-diablo entre los hombres (1635) The Tribunal of Righteous Revenge against the writings of D. Francisco de Quevedo, master in errors, doctor in shamefulness, laureate in buffooneries, bachelor in dirtyness, chair of vices and foremost devil among men.

47 La Torre de San Juan de Abad. In Quevedo applied for the lordship over this small Manchegan town complete with imposing tower. He would spend his exiles there removed from the frantic life at court.

48 El Juego del Hombre “Man’s Game”- A popular card game of the time. Also known as Tresillo.

49 Felipe IV- El rey poeta- “The poet king”. Although more strong willed than his father Philip III, he enjoyed the finer things in life over the concerns of government like poetry, painting, plays, and many, many mistresses. As such the Count-Duke Olivares had free reign on government policies.

50 San Marcos, a residence of the Order of St. James where Quevedo was to stay under house arrest.

51 <>

52 After years of leading wars in Italy and Northern Europe the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V retired to a monastery at Yuste in Extremadura where he spent his last days as a monk.

53 A city near San Juan de Abad.

54 Luis Pacheco de Narvaéz, fencing master of Philip IV, with whom Quevedo maintained a bitter antagonism. It is said that Quevedo challenged him to show off his fencing skills one in the President of Castile’s mansion. Quevedo humiliated Narvaéz by removing his hat with a quick motion of his blade. Pacheco is also said to have headed up the Tribunal of Righteous Revenge and made his own efforts to have Quevedo’s work reviewed by the Inquisition. He was a proponent of a technique called “The Mysterious Circle” which used complicated math and geometry in order to avoid an adversary’s blade. Quevedo made fun of this method in his satirical writings.

More George Herbert en español

El Elixir

Enséñame Mi Dios, Mi Rey

a verte en toda cosa

Y lo que haga

Obrarlo por Ti

No de forma grosera

Cual bestia

Que la acción embiste

Mas hacerte poseedor

Y dotarle de perfección

El hombre que en telescopio mira

Puede mantenerle en la mirada

O si le place traspasarlo

Para contemplar los cielos

Todos de Ti compartir pueden

No hay cosa tan ruda

Que con tal tinta

No brille y se vea más limpia

Por esta cláusula

El criado hace divinidades de groserías

Quien barrare el suelo

Según Tus leyes

Rinde buena la labor.

Pues, esta es la piedra famosa

Que transforma todo en oro

Pues de lo que a Dios le toca y pertenece

No se podrá decir menos.

The Elixir.

TEach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do in any thing, To do it as for thee: Not rudely, as a beast, To runne into an action; But still to make thee prepossest, And give it his perfection. A man that looks on glasse, On it may stay his eye; Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, And then the heav’n espie. All may of thee partake: Nothing can be so mean, Which with his tincture (for thy sake) Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgerie divine: Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th’ action fine. This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold: For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told.

A letter from Unamuno to Clarín about Socrates' Rooster

Unamuno to Clarín

Socrates' Rooster gave me a lot to think about. It's my favorite thing of yours I've read. And it seemed to produce in me, upon reading it, the state of mind you would have written it in since I've gone through similar moods. How many times have I thought about second-hand sages and the will of imbeciles!


The story Socrates' Rooster seemed interesting to me, above all, as a product of its time. More specifically, the late 19th century conflict of Faith and Reason that lies behind this story from Ancient Greece, reflects contemporary concerns under the guise of the New Atheists. Unamuno and his El sentido tragico de la vida- The Tragic Sense of Life- are particularly instructive in this regard. This work clearly demonstrates, despite the author's explicit intention, the shallowness of positivistic scientific reason in the late 19th century. This same standard is now elevated as the apex of reason in much pop atheistic exploits of late. A different tack is the classical and Christian concept of reason, which is much more broad and inclusive and not an enemy of life.

Secondly, the concept of charisma is an important element in the story with an influential history. It reminds one of Weber's theory about the founding of world religions. Supposedly all the great world religions were founded by charismatic leaders. It was there charisma, not their message, which made followers. Then the original momentum and truth behind the movement is thought to have been corrupted by later accretions or obscured by mediocre followers as is the case of Crito in the story. Thus small men take the big truths of the founder captive and adapt them to their own limited understanding.


While the truth of the theory of charisma is debatable it reflects what we ourselves look for in our own leaders in contemporary society. Just look at the whole primary fiasco. It's as if we're choosing class president, not the leader of our country. I doubt it was Socrates' personality as such, or Jesus' coolness that gained them their subsequent influence in history.

Their is a fine-line between truth and BS, but people still know the difference. The difference lies in the will to be deceived and to hear what we want to hear.

Es amarga la verdad, quiero echarla de la boca

The truth is bitter, I want to spit it out of my mouth.

Socrates' Rooster part IV (the end)

“No way. There isn’t a second-rate idealist alive who can lay a hand on me. But why? What cruelty is this? Why are you chasing me?”

“Because upon dying Socrates ordered me to sacrifice a rooster to Esculapius in thanksgiving since he gave him true health, freeing him from all his ills by way of death.”

“Socrates said all that?

“No, he said that we owed a rooster to Esculapius.”

“So you made the rest up?”

“What other meaning could those words have had?”

“A most beneficial one. One that doesn’t cost blood or errors. Killing me to satisfy a god that Socrates didn’t believe in is to offend Socrates and insult the true gods and to inflict on me, which does exist, an immeasurable harm. For we don’t know all the woe or all the prejudice that lie in mysterious death.”

“Well Socrates and Zeus want your sacrifice.”

“Note that Socrates spoke with irony, with serene irony and without gall. His great soul could amuse itself with the sublime game of imagining reason and popular daydreams to be harmonious, without danger to himself. Socrates and all the creators of new spiritual life speak in symbols: they are rhetorical. When they become familiar with the mystery they close it in poetical form, respecting its ineffable character. The divine love of the absolute has this way of kissing their souls. But notice when they stop this sublime game and give lessons to the world how austere, laconic, and how unattached their maxims and moral precepts are from all useless imagery.”

“Gorgias’ rooster, shut up and die!”

“Go away and be quiet, unworthy disciple. Be ever quiet. You’re unworthy of your kind. You’re all the same. A genius’ disciple, a deaf and blind witness of the sublime soliloquy of a superior consciousness. By way of both your fancy and his you attempt to immortalize his soul’s perfume when you embalm his doctrine with drugs and recipes. You mummify the dead man in order to make him an idol. You petrify ideas and you use subtle thoughts like a blade that draws blood. Yes, you are a symbol of sad, sectarian humanity. From the last words of a wise man or saint you deduce a rooster’s blood as first consequence. If Socrates had been born to confirm his people in their superstitions he wouldn’t have died for what he died for nor would he have been philosophy’s patron saint. Socrates didn’t believe in Esculapius nor was he capable of killing a fly much less a rooster by following the mood of the crowd.”

“I’m sticking to his words. Come here.”

Crito searched for a rock, aimed at the head and blood came flowing out the rooster’s crest.

Gorgias’ rooster lost consciousness and as he fell he sung to the breeze:

“Cockle-doodle-doo. Let destiny be fulfilled. Be done unto me according to the will of imbeciles.”

And the rooster’s blood flowed down Palla Athena’s jasper forehead.

FIN

Socrates' Rooster part III

“Oh you idealist philosopher and imitator, “ the rooster said in Greek worthy of Gorgias himself, “won’t you even bother? You won’t even fly as much as a rooster can? What now? It frightens you that I can talk? Well, don’t you know me? I’m the rooster from Gorgias’ corral. I know you. You’re a shadow. The shadow of a dead man. It’s the destiny of disciples to outlive their masters. They remain here like larvae in order to frighten children. The inspired dreamer dies and his wing-clipped disciples remain, who are one more cause for fear and just another tragedy for the world. As well as a superstition that turns the poetic ideals of the sublime, clear-eyed master into stone.”

“Silence, rooster. In the name of the Idea of your Genus, nature commands that you be quiet!”

“I talk and meanwhile you boast about the Idea. Hey, I speak through my own individual ability and without permission from the Idea of my Genus. From so much hearing talk of Rhetoric, that is the art of talking for talking’s sake, I learned something of the profession.”

“And you repay your master by fleeing from his side, leaving his house and renouncing his power over you?”

“Gorgias is just as crazy but not as pleasant as you. You can’t live with such a man. He tests everything and that is both disturbing and tiring. He who demonstrates things all his life leaves life hallow. Knowing the why of everything is to be left with the geometry of things and the substance of nothing. Reducing the world to an equation is to render it meaningless. Look you, get out of here. For I could go on saying things like this for seventy days and seventy nights. Remember, I’m Gorgias the sophist’ rooster.”

“Well then, for being a sophist as well as sacrilegious and because Zeus wills it, you’re going to die. Come here!”

To be continued in part IV . . . . .

Socrates' Rooster (by Leopoldo Alas Clarín) part II

Crito anticipated the bird’s plans to hop down into the little square so he could pursue and grab him. It had gotten into his head (for when men begin to get stuck in religious ideas and feeling which are found to be irrational he doesn’t stop until embracing the most puerile of superstitions) that that rooster and no other was what Esculapius, I mean Asclepius, wished to be sacrificed for him. Crito chocked up the coincidence of the encounter to the will of the gods.

It appeared that the rooster was not of the same mind, for as soon as he noticed that a man was chasing him, he began to run, flapping his wings and clucking which was very uncomfortable, to be sure. The biped knew perfectly well who was chasing him form having seen him not a few times in his master’s garden endlessly discussing love, eloquence, beauty etc. while the rooster himself seduced a hundred hens in five minutes without so much philosophy.

“But it’s a good thing,” the rooster was thinking as he ran and got to ready to fly as much as he were able in case the danger got worse, “it’s a good thing that those wise men I abhor should try to have me for their own against all naturals laws known to them. It would be great if after freeing myself from the unbearable slavery Gorgias kept me in I were to fall to the hand of this poor devil and second hand thinker, who is a lot less entertaining than his chatter-box of a master.”

The rooster ran and the philosopher followed within reach. When he was about to grab with his hand the rooster flapped his wings and by way of a flight (or hop) and extreme exertion , brought on by panic, he managed to get on top of the head of a statue representing none other than the goddess Athena.

“Oh irreverent rooster,” the philosopher yelled, making himself a fanatical inquisitor, pardon the anachronism. He quieted down the shouting of his honest conscience, which said: Don’t steal that rooster, with a pseudo-pious sophism and thought: Now you surely deserve death on account of your sacrilege. You’ll be mine. You’ll be sacrificed.

The philosopher got on his tip toes, stretching himself as much as possible, and made short pathetic hops. But to no avail.

To be continued in part III . . . .

Socrates' Rooster- A story by Leopoldo Alas Clarín translated into English: part I

Leopoldo Alas Clarín (1850-1901) was a journalist and author of novels and short stories active during the latter half of the nineteenth century. He remains a rather enigmatic figure in the Spanish literary world, leaving a legacy that encouraged the search for God and humanism simultaneously. This aberrant confluence has facilitated the presence of various interpretations regarding the author's writings, most noticeably of his masterpiece, La Regenta.

(from Wikipedia)


The following is a short story from 1896 entitled el gallo de Sócrates- Socrates' Rooster. It starts off where the Apology and Crito leave off, following the death of Socrates. Crito must carry out his master's last wish as he lay dying . . .

Socrates' Rooster

After closing his master’s eyes and mouth Crito left the rest of the disciples around the dead body and left the jail, prepared to make good, as soon as possible, on the last errand that Socrates had given him. Maybe it was in jest, but doubting whether it was in earnest or not, he interpreted it literally,

For upon dying and showing his disciples the sad, vulgar spectacle of his death, Socrates had said:

“Crito, we owe rooster to Esculapius, don’t forget to pay this debt,” and he spoke no more, these being his last words.

That request was sacred for Crito. He didn’t wish to analyze it, didn’t wish to examine if it were more realistic that Socrates has only told a slightly ironic joke. Or if it were the last will of his master, his last desire. Hadn’t Socrates, contrary to Antitus’ and Melitus’ calumny, always been respectful toward the popular cult and the official religion? Of he course he gave myths (which Crito didn’t refer to in this way, of course) a symbolic, philosophical as well as a very sublime and idealistic interpretation but, amidst his poetic and transcendental paraphrases, he still respected the faith of the Greeks including the positive religion and state cult.

A beautiful episode from his last speech demonstrated this well (Crito noted that sometimes Socrates, in spite of his philosophical system of questions and answers, he would forget about his listeners and speak at length in a very flowery manner). He had depicted the marvels of the other world with topographic detail which contained more traditional imagination than rigorous dialectic and austere philosophy. And Socrates hadn’t said he didn’t believe in all that. Although, neither did he affirm the reality of what he described with the absolute certitude of a fanatic.

But this wasn’t surprising in he who even in respect to his own ideas, such as those he had expounded to defend the immortality of the soul, he had admitted, with abnegation of his illusions and pride, the possibility that things weren’t as he imagined them. In the end, Crito didn’t intend to contradict his master’s philosophical system or conduct by looking for a rooster to offer the god of medicine. And that as soon as possible.

As if Providence were with him, as soon as Crito went a hundred steps from Socrates’ prison he saw a strutting rooster with splendid plumage on top of a garden wall in a kind of solitary square. The bird has just hopped from a garden to the top of the wall and he was getting ready to jump into the street. He was a rooster in flight, a rooster freeing himself from wretched slavery.

To be continued in parts II and III . . . . .

Robert Louis Stevenson en español part III

Cantando

El pajarillo canta de huevos estrellados

Y nidos entre árboles.

Canta el marinero de cuerdas

y cosas de barcos sobre los mares

Los niños cantan en lejano Japón

Y el órgano del organista

Cantando está

Bajo la lluvia.

Singing

From Child's Garden of Verses

Of speckled eggs the birdie sings

     And nests among the trees;

The sailor sings of ropes and things

     In ships upon the seas.

The children sing in far Japan,

     The children sing in Spain;

The organ with the organ man

     Is singing in the rain.




De todos mis versos

De todos mis versos

Que no te agrade un renglón

Mas guste del título pues no es mío

Se lo robé a mejor escritor.

¡Oh si le hubiera robado el poema entero!

"Of All My Verse, Like Not . . ."

From Underwoods

Of all my verse, like not a single line;

But like my title, for it is not mine.

That title from a better man I stole:

Ah, how much better, had I stol'n the whole!

Robert Louis Stevenson en español part II

In addition to his travelogues and adventure novels Robert Louis Stevenson also wrote poetry. His 1885 Child's Garden of Verses is a very popular collection of poetry for children. These poems are very simple and elegant as well as easy to memorize. And quite good for learning English. Here are a few poems from the book I have translated into Spanish followed by their English original:

A cualquier lector

Como desde la casa tu madre te ve

Jugando por los árboles del jardín

Puedes ver, si miras por las ventanas de este libro

A otro niño, muy muy lejano,

jugando en otro jardín.

Pero no pienses que puedes

Llamarle picando las ventanas

Para que te oiga.

Absorto está en sus juegos.

No oye, ni mira

Ni se deja salir de este libro.

Pues hace mucho, decir la verdad,

que creció y se fue

Y es sólo un niño del aire

que se queda en el jardín aquel.

To Any Reader

From Child's Garden of Verses

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you.  He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Lluvia

Llueve por todas partes

Y cae sobre árbol y campo

Aquí sobre paraguas llueve

Y hasta en los barcos del mar.

Rain

From Child's Garden of Verses

The rain is falling all around,

     It falls on field and tree,

It rains on the umbrellas here,

     And on the ships at sea




 Hora de despertar

Un pajarillo con pico dorado

Salteaba sobre mi alféizar.  

Y encarándome el ojo brillante dijo: 

¿No te da vergüenza dormilón?

Time to Rise

From Child's Garden of Verses

A birdie with a yellow bill

Hopped upon my window sill,

Cocked his shining eye and said:

"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!"