The Sun Over Breda

I am still polishing the first line, but I have faith that the sense will please you. As for other matters, verses and earthly justice aside, all is going well. At court, the star of your friend Quevedo is still in the ascent, of which I make no complaint, and I am again well regarded in the house of the conde-duque and at the palace, perhaps because in recent days I have guarded my tongue and put my sword into safekeeping, despite my natural impulse to disencumber both one and the other. But a man must live, and given that I know exile, lawsuits, prisons, and affliction far too well, I think it will not stain my reputation to allow myself a truce and grant a period of quiet to my elusive fortunes. For that reason, each day I attempt to remember that one must proffer thanks to kings and powerful men, though there be no cause, and never voice a complaint, though there be cause to spare.But when I told you that I have kept my Toledo blade safely put away, I did not tell you the whole truth; in point of fact I unsheathed it some days ago to strike, as one would a servant or a lowlife, a certain servile and talentless poetaster, one Garciposadas, who in a number of villainous verses discredited poor Cervantes—may he reign in glory—alleging that Cervantes wrote the

Quijote with his maimed hand, that it was an insignificant work of little substance; poorly written prose with little to claim it as literature, and that many people read it speaks only of the tastes of common people. He vowed that the book affords little benefit and that tomorrow no one will remember it. This knave, whose pen spews foul venom, is a bosom friend of that sodomite Góngora, which says it all.One night, when I was more inclined to philosophize with my wine than waste time on swine, I met the varlet himself at the door of the Longinos tavern, the famous gathering place for Góngora’s followers, the bulwark of resplendence, tricliniums, purplessences, and umbrageous waves of undulating sea. He was accompanied by two sycophants who would grovel to carry his wine: the

bachiller Echevarría and the licenciado Ernesto Ayala, schooled reprobates—the latter grander than the first—who piss bile and maintain that the only authentic poetry is the gibberish, that is the Góngoberish, that no one but the select can appreciate. That select few being, of course, themselves and their companions. These coxcombs spend their lives belittling what others write, though they are incapable of stringing together fourteen lines to make a sonnet themselves. I was there with the Duque de Medinaceli and a number of young masked caballeros, all of them from the brotherhood of San Martín de Valdeiglesias, and we spent a happy while trimming the ears of those scoundrels (who, if truth be known, suffered no more than a few scratches), until the catchpoles arrived to impose peace, and we departed, and that was the end of that.

Here’s a truth, speaking as we were of lowlife. The news about the royal secretary, Luis de Alquézar, the man you so deeply admire, is that he continues to hold a privileged position in the palace, occupying himself with ever more important affairs of state, and that he, like everyone at court, is amassing a fortune at an outrageously rapid rate. As you know, he has a niece who by now is a very beautiful girl and is waiting upon the queen as one of her meninas. In regard to the uncle, it is fortunate that you find yourself at some distance; upon your return from Flanders you must be on your guard against him. One never knows how far the poison spit by serpents will reach.

And since I am speaking of serpents, I must tell Y.M. that some weeks ago I thought I saw that Italian with whom, I believe, you have unfinished business. I happened upon him in front of Lucio’s hostelry on Cava Baja, and, if it was truly he, he seemed to be enjoying excellent health. Which causes me to reflect that he is recovering remarkably well from your most recent conversations. He looked at me for an instant as if he recognized me and then went off down the street without a word. A sinister individual, one might say in passing, dressed in black from head to toe, with that pitted face and his enormous sword hanging from his belt. Someone to whom I discreetly mentioned the encounter told me that he is the leader of a small band of thugs and ruffians Alquézar keeps on a fixed wage, and who act as his evangelists in sinister assaults. This is a business, I venture, that Your Mercy will have to face one day—one way or another—since he who leaves the offender alive also leaves alivehis vengeance.I continue to be a faithful patron of the Tavern of the Turk, where your friends charge me with wishing you well, and I send effusive greetings from Caridad la Lebrijana, who, from what is said—and I have no proof to say it is a lie—feels your absence and reserves for you your old room on Calle del Arcabuz. She is still in good health, one might almost say in full bloom, which is not inconsequential. Martín Saldaña is convalescing from a nocturnal conflict with some ruffians who were attempting to gain refuge in San Ginés. He received a wound from one of their swords but will certainly recover. It is said that he killed three.I do not wish to rob you of more time. I ask only that you transmit my affection to young Íñigo, who by now must be a fine young lad and gallant emulator of Mars, having as he has Y.M. to act as his spiritual guide, in the manner of Virgil and Achilles. Recall to him, if you so please, my sonnet on youth and prudence, adding, again if it please you, these other verses with which I am still wrestling: