San Felipe was the liveliest, noisiest, and most popular spot in Madrid. Its proximity to the Estafeta, the building that housed the royal mails, where letters and notices from the rest of Spain, indeed, the entire world, were received, as well as its location overlooking the principal street of the city, made it an ideal site for the great public party in which opinions and gossip were exchanged, soldiers preened, clergy spread tales, thieves pilfered purses, and poets aired their talent and wit. Lope, Don Francisco de Quevedo, and the Mexican Alarcon, among others, were regulars. Any news, rumor, or lie that originated there rolled like a ball gaining momentum; nothing escaped the tongues that knew everything, that shredded the reputations of everyone from king to lowest of low.
Many years later, Agustin Moreto mentioned San Felipe in one of his plays, when a countryman and a gallant military man meet:
"I see these steps are something you cannot leave!"
"These knowing stones have me bewitched,
My friends and I invariably leave enriched,
For nowhere in all the world have I
Encountered such a fertile ground for lies."
Even the great Don Miguel de Cervantes, may he sit forever at the right hand of God, wrote in his Voyage to Parnassus:
Farewell, San Felipe, the grand paseo,
Where if the Turk descends or the English menace,
I read of it in the gazette of Venice.
I quote these lines that Your Mercies may see just how famous the place was. In its cliques, the state of affairs in Flanders, Italy, and the Indies were argued with the gravity of a meeting of the Council of Castile. Jokes and witticisms were traded; the honor of ladies, actresses, and cuckolded husbands was besmirched; foul obscenities were directed toward the Conde de Olivares; and the amorous adventures of the king spread in whispers' from ear to ear.
It was, all told, a most pleasant and sparkling place, a font of wit, news, and wicked tongues that drew a gathering every morning about eleven. That lasted until the pealing of the church bell one hour after the noontime Angelus had stirred people in the crowd to remove their hats, stand respectfully, then drift away, leaving the field to the beggars, students, slatterns, and ragamuffins waiting for the soup from the charitable Augustinians. The steps came back to life in the evening, at the hour of the rua on Calle Mayor, where rumor-mongers and tale-bearers could watch the passing parade of coaches: fine ladies; women of questionable reputation who gave themselves the airs of ladies; and "schoolgirls" from nearby brothels—there was a notorious one, actually, right across the street—all of them a source of conversation, flirtation, and jest. That lasted until the call to evening prayer, when, after praying with hat in hand, people in the crowd again dispersed until the following day, each to his own home—and God to all of theirs.
I stated earlier that Don Francisco de Quevedo frequented the steps of San Felipe; and in many of his paseos he was accompanied by such friends as Licenciado Calzas, Juan Vicuna, or Captain Alatriste. His fondness for my master was based, among other factors, in practicality. The poet was always involved in quarrels rooted in jealousy and exchanging obscenities with various rivals—something very typical in that day, and in all epochs of this benighted country of ours, with its Cains, calumny, trickery, and envy, where words offended, even maimed, as surely as or more surely than the sword. Some, like Luis de Gongora and Juan Ruiz de Alarcon, were always belittling each other, and not merely for what they wrote.
Gongora, for example, said of Francisco de Quevedo:
Muse that babbles inanities
Can earn no ducats or hope to inspire;
His fingers know better to rob my purse
Than pluck at that unmelodious lyre.
And the next day it would be the other way around. Don Francisco would counterattack with his heaviest artillery:
This Gongora, who blasts a mighty fart,
This acme of vice and fanfaronade,
This asshole, in flesh and also in art,
Is a man even buggerers seek to evade.
And along with these lines, he fired off other verses, as famous as they were ferocious, that flew from one end of the city to another, portraying Gongora as filthy in both body and lineage.
In person—and breeding—so far from clean,
In fact, so precisely the opposite,
That never, as far as I have heard,
Did a word leave his mouth that wasn't shit.
Such sweet sentiments. He also turned out cruel lines aimed at poor Ruiz de Alarcon, whose physical impediment—a hunchback—he loved to deride with pitiless wit.
Sacks of meal on back and chest.
Who's the one with those effects?
Alarconvex!
Such verses circulated anonymously, in theory; but everyone knew perfectly well who had composed them— and with the worst intentions in the world. Naturally, other poets did not hold back: sonnets and decimas flew back and forth. To sharpen his claws, Don Francisco would read his aloud in the mentideros, attacking and counterattacking, his pen dipped in the most corrosive bile. And if he wasn't defiling Gongora or Alarcon, it might be anyone at all; for on those days when the poet woke up spewing vitriol, he fired randomly at anyone who moved.
In regard to those horns you are forced to wear,
Don Whoever You Be, who put them there?
Your unfaithful wife, and if they are trimmed
She will help you grow them all over again!
Lines of that nature. So many that even though Quevedo was courageous, and skillful with the sword, having a man like Diego Alatriste beside him when he strolled among prospective adversaries was comforting for him. And it happened that one morning when Don Francisco was out with Captain Alatriste, Senor Whoever You Be of the sonnet—or someone who saw himself so portrayed, because in God's Madrid the cuckolded walked in double lines—escorted by a friend, came up to seek an explanation on the steps of San Felipe. The matter was resolved at nightfall with a taste of steel behind the wall of Los Recoletos, so thoroughly that both the presumed betrayed husband, as well as the friend—once their respective chest wounds had healed—turned to prose and never looked at a sonnet for the rest of their lives.
That morning on the steps of San Felipe, the general topic of conversation was the Prince of Wales and the infanta, alternating with the latest rumors from court on the war, which was reviving in Flanders. I recall that it was a sunny day, and that the sky was very blue and clean above the roof tiles of the nearby houses, and that the mentidero was a beehive of activity. Captain Alatriste continued to show himself in public without apparent fear—and now the hand that had been bandaged after the affair at the Gate of Lost Souls had healed. That day he was unobtrusive in dark hose, gray breeches, and a doublet fastened to the neck, and although the morning was warm, he was also wearing a cape to cover the grip of the pistol stuck in the back of his belt, in addition to his usual dagger and sword. Unlike most of the veteran soldiers of the period, Diego Alatriste was not fond of colorful adornments or trim, and the only bright note in his ensemble was the red plume in the band of his wide-brimmed hat. Even so, his appearance contrasted with the sobriety of Don Francisco de Quevedo's dark clothing, brightened only by the cross of Santiago showing beneath the short cape, also black, that we called a herreruelo.
I had been allowed to accompany them, and had just run some errands at the Estafeta. The rest of the group had already gathered: Licenciado Calzas, Juan Vicuna, Domine Perez, and a few acquaintances who chatted at the railing of the steps overlooking Calle Mayor. The bone they were chewing was the latest impertinence of Buckingham, who—they had on good authority—had the brass to be disporting himself with the wife of the Conde de Olivares.
"Perfidious Albion!" declaimed Licenciado Calzas, who had not been able to abide the English for years. Once, returning from the Indies, he had come close to being captured by Walter Raleigh, a corsair who had splintered a mast and killed fifteen men.
"Harsh treatment," opined
Vicuna, making a fist with his one remaining hand. "The only thing those heretics understand is harsh treatment. So that is how he repays the hospitality of our lord and king!"
Those grouped around him nodded circumspectly, among them two purported veterans with fierce mustaches who had never heard a harquebus fired in their lives; two or three idlers; a tall student from Salamanca named Juan Manuel de Parada, or de Pradas, who was wrapped in a threadbare cape and whose face spoke of hunger; a young painter recently arrived in Madrid and recommended to Don Francisco by his friend Juan de Fonseca; and a cobbler from Calle Montera named Tabarca, famous for leading the mosqueteros—the rowdy hoi polloi at the theater who stood in the open space at the back of the yard to watch the play, applauding or whistling their disapproval and thereby determining its success or failure. Although of lowly birth, and illiterate, this Tabarca was a man to be reckoned with. He presented himself as a supreme authority, an old Christian and hidalgo down on his luck—as nearly everyone was—and because of his influence among the rabble in the open-air theaters, he was flattered by authors attempting to make their name at court, and even by some who already had.
"At any rate," Calzas put in with a cynical wink, "I have heard that the wife of the favorite is not a bad judge of blades. And Buckingham is a fine specimen of a man."
Domine Perez was scandalized. "Please God, Senor Licenciado! Curb your tongue. I know the lady's confessor, and I can assure you that Sefiora dona Ines de Zufiiga is a pious woman. A saint."
"And saints," Calzas impudently replied, "always get a rise out of our king."
He laughed maliciously, watching the domine cross himself as he looked nervously around. For his part, Captain Alatriste was frowning at Calzas disapprovingly for speaking so frankly in my presence. The likable young painter named Diego de Silva, a Sevillano with a heavy accent, was observing us as if wondering what he had gotten himself into.
"With your leave, Your Mercies," he began timidly, lifting an index finger stained with oil paint.
But no one paid much attention to him. Despite his friend Fonseca's recommendation, Don Francisco de Quevedo had not forgotten that the minute the young artist reached Madrid, he had painted a portrait of Luis de Gongora, and although he had no reason not to like the youth, he meant to purge that capital sin by ignoring him for a few days. Although the truth is that Don Francisco and the young Sevillian were soon as thick as thieves, and the best portrait we have of the poet is precisely the one that the same young man later painted. Over time, he also became a very good friend to Diego Alatriste and to me, but that was when he was better known by his mother's family name: Velazquez.
Well, then. I was telling you that after the painter's unfruitful attempt to intervene in the conversation, someone brought up the question of the Palatinate, and everyone dived into an animated discussion of Spanish politics in central Europe, in which the cobbler Tabarca threw in his jack of spades with all the assurance in the world, giving his opinion on Maximilian of Bavaria, the Prince Elector of the Palatinate, and the Pope of Rome, who, it was generally agreed, had a secret agreement. One purported miles gloriosus (and here a bow to Plautus) swore that he had the latest word on the matter, passed on to him by a brother-in-law of his who served in the palace ... but that conversation was interrupted when all the men, except the domine, leaned over the railing to greet some ladies passing in an open carriage. Buried in a pouf of skirts, brocades, and farthingales, they were on their way to the silver shops at the Guadalajara gate: they were harlots, but very high-class harlots. In our Spain of the Austrias, even whores put on airs.
The men donned their hats again and continued their conversation. Quevedo, who was not listening very carefully, moved a little closer to Alatriste and pointed his bearded chin toward two individuals standing some distance away.
"Are they following you, Captain?" he asked in a low voice, looking off in the opposite direction. "Or are they following me?"
Alatriste chanced a discreet glance toward the pair. They had the look of bailiffs, or hired "problem solvers." When they realized they were being watched, they turned slightly away.
"I would say that they are following me, Don Francisco. But considering your verses, one never knows."
The poet looked at my master, frowning. "Let us suppose that it is you. Is it serious?"
"It may be."
"By my oath, it must be so. In that case there is no choice but to fight! Do you need my assistance?"
"No, not at the moment." The captain studied the swordsmen through half-closed eyes, as if attempting to engrave their faces in his memory. "Besides, you have enough trouble without taking on mine."
For a few seconds Don Francisco said nothing. Then he twirled his mustache and, after adjusting his eyeglasses, stared openly, angrily, at the two strangers. "In any case," he concluded, "if there is a challenge, two and two would make an even fight. You may count on me." "I know," said Alatriste.
"Ziss, zass.'We will take care of them." The poet rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, which was poking up the hem of his cape. "I owe you that much, and more. And my maestro is not exactly Pacheco."
The captain shared his malicious smile. Luis Pacheco de Narvaez was reputed to be the best fencing master in Madrid, having become the instructor of our lord and king. He had written several treatises on weapons, and once when he was in the home of the president of Castile, he had argued with Don Francisco de Quevedo about several points and conclusions. As a result, they took up swords for a friendly demonstration, and Don Francisco made the first move, striking Maestro Pacheco on the head and dislodging his hat. From that moment on, the enmity between the two men was legend: one had denounced the other before the tribunal of the Inquisition, and that one had portrayed him, with little charity, in The Life of a Petty Thief Named Pablos, which although it was printed two or three years later, was already circulating in manuscript copies throughout Madrid.
"Here comes Lope!" someone said.
To a man, they doffed their hats when the great Felix Lope de Vega Carpio was seen strolling toward them amid the greetings of people standing back to let him pass. He paused a few moments to converse with Don Francisco de Quevedo, who congratulated him on the play to be performed the next day in El Principe. Diego Alatriste had promised to take me to this important theater event, the first play I would see in my life. Then Don Francisco made some introductions.
"Captain Don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio ... You already know Juan Vicuna. . . . This is Diego de Silva. . . . The lad is Inigo Balboa, son of a soldier killed in Flanders."
When he heard that, Lope patted my head with a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. It was the first time I had seen him, although I would later have other opportunities. I will always remember him as a grave sixty-year-old with distinguished bearing, a dignified figure clad in clerical black, with a lean face, short, nearly white hair, gray mustache, and a cordial, somewhat distracted, almost weary smile that he bestowed on one and all before continuing on his way, surrounded by murmurs of respect.
"Do not ever forget that man or this day," the captain said, giving me an affectionate rap on the spot where Lope had touched me.
And I never forgot. Still today, so many years later, I put my hand to the crown of my head and feel the affectionate touch of the Phoenix of Geniuses. All of them—he, Don Francisco de Quevedo, Velazquez, Captain Alatriste, the miserable and magnificent epoch I knew—all are gone now. But in libraries, in books, on canvases, in churches, in palaces, streets, and plazas, those men left an indelible mark that lives on. The memory of Lope's hand will disappear with me when I die, as will Velazquez's Andalusian accent, the sound of Don Francisco's golden spurs jingling as he limped along, the serene gray-green gaze of Captain Alatriste. Yet the echoes of their singular lives will resound as long as that many-faceted country, that mix of towns, tongues, histories, bloods, and betrayed dreams exists: that marvelous and tragic stage we call Spain.