The Visions of Dom Francisco de Quevedo VillegasQuevedo, Francisco de
General
The Visions of Dom Francisco de Quevedo Villegas
Quevedo, Francisco de
Satire; Spanish literature -- Translations into English
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!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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