A Companion to the Spanish Renaissance 9789004330931, 9789004360372

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A Companion to the Spanish Renaissance

The Renaissance Society of America texts and studies series

Editor-in-Chief Ingrid De Smet (University of Warwick)

Editorial Board Anne Coldiron (Florida State University) Paul Grendler, Emeritus (University of Toronto) James Hankins (Harvard University) Craig Kallendorf (Texas A&M University) Gerhild Scholz-Williams (Washington University in St. Louis) Lía Schwartz Lerner (CUNY Graduate Center)

volume 11

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/rsa

A Companion to the Spanish Renaissance Edited by

Hilaire Kallendorf

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Anonymous portrait of Queen Isabel la Católica. Location: Museo Casa de los Tiros (Collection Generalife). The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2018956182

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. ISSN 2212-3091 ISBN 978-90-04-33093-1 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-36037-2 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

To Tony Grafton, for holding office hours on the bean bags at the children’s library in Princeton, many years ago, so my infant son could learn to crawl while we discussed my dissertation. You are a true Renaissance man.

∵

Contents Acknowledgements xi Figures and Maps xii List of Contributors xv Introduction: A Renaissance for the ‘Spanish Renaissance’? Hilaire Kallendorf

1

Part 1 Politics and Government 1

Laying the Foundations for a Spanish Renaissance: Late Medieval Politics and Government 31 Harald E. Braun

2

Politics and Government in the Spanish Empire during the 16th Century 61 Fabien Montcher

Part 2 Empire and Ethnicity 3

The Spanish Colonial Empire in the Renaissance: Establishing the First Global Culture 89 Beatriz de Alba-Koch

4

Ethnic Groups in Renaissance Spain 121 Mayte Green-Mercado

Part 3 Culture and Society 5

Daily Life and the Family in Renaissance Spain 143 Elizabeth A. Lehfeldt

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Birth and Death in the Spanish Renaissance 158 Stephanie L. Fink

7

Religion 186 Henry Kamen

8

Fashioning Disease: Narrative and the Sick Body in the Spanish Inquisition 205 Cristian Berco

Part 4 ‘High’ and ‘Low’ 9

Nobles and Court Culture 235 Ignacio Navarrete and Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry-Roisin

10

Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State 258 Edward Behrend-Martínez

11

Civic Ritual, Urban Life 277 Enrique García Santo-Tomás

12

Community and the Common Good in Early Modern Castile 293 Ruth MacKay

Part 5 Humanists and Their Legacy 13

Intellectual Life 317 Lía Schwartz and Susan Byrne

14

Ladies, Libraries and Literacy in Early Modern Spain 340 Elizabeth Teresa Howe

15

Philosophy, Law and Mysticism in Renaissance Spain 355 Bernie Cantens

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Part 6 Artistic Production 16

The Literature of the Spanish Renaissance 383 J.A. Garrido Ardila

17

Painting and Sculpture 407 Jeffrey Schrader

18

Visual Culture: Art and Ekphrasis in Early Modern Spain Frederick A. de Armas

Part 7 Currents and Currency 19

Spanish Science in the Age of the New 473 William Eamon

20

Doing Things with Money in Early Modern Spain 508 Elvira Vilches

21

Historiography and European Perceptions of Spain 531 Michael J. Levin Bibliography Index 644

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Acknowledgements I wish to thank Richard Kagan for his expert advice and extensive network of contacts, along with his kind willingness to help me mastermind the initial lineup of essays for this volume. A research grant from the Department of Hispanic Studies at Texas A&M University allowed me to launch the project, and later provided a publication support grant to see it through to completion. The Melbern G. Glasscock Center for Humanities Research at Texas A&M University generously paid for the illustrations. My research assistants Helena Shakesby and Irvin Claudio compiled the index. On the personal level, Craig Kallendorf has always been my first and best interlocutor. This volume was originally his idea. A special thanks to Alban Forcione, who taught me the profound extent to which Spain participated in the currents of humanism characteristic of a larger European Renaissance.

Figures and Maps Figures 3.1

3.2

3.3

3.4

3.5

3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 17.1

17.2 17.3

17.4

Chief accountant and treasurer, Tawantin Suyu khipuq kuraka (authority in charge of the knotted strings, or khipu, of the kingdom), from Waman Puma, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615), Royal Library of Denmark GKS 2232 4º, drawing 143 102 The administrator of the royal mines punishes the native lords with great cruelty, from Waman Puma, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615), Royal Library of Denmark GKS 2232 4º, drawing 211 103 Conjunto Conventual, adapted from James Lockhart and Stuart B. Schwartz, Early Latin America: A History of Colonial Spanish America and Brazil (Cambridge: 1983), 111 110 Atrium wall and Posa Chapel (Huejotzingo, Puebla), from Charlotte Ekland, Mexican Colonial Architecture photo archive, http://www.mexicanarchitecture.org/glossary/index.php?slideshow& building=Puebla_Huejotzingo_SanMiguel 112 Atrium cross (Acolman, Estado de México), from Charlotte Ekland, Mexican Colonial Architecture photo archive, http://www.mexicanarchitecture.org/glossary/index.php?detail=119#A 113 Diego de Valadés, Instructing the Indigenous, from Rhetorica christiana (Perugia, 1559), 111 114 Diego de Valadés, Sacraments in a church atrium, from Rhetorica christiana (Perugia, 1559), 107 115 Tomb of Saint Francis Xavier, Bom Jesus Basilica, Goa (photo courtesy of Beatriz de Alba-Koch) 119 Façade of the Bom Jesus Basilica, Goa (photo courtesy of Beatriz de Alba-Koch) 120 Pedro Berruguete (ca. 1445/50–1503). The Virgin Nursing Her Child (La Virgen de la Leche). ca. 1500. Oil on panel, 61×44cm. Ayuntamiento de Madrid. Museo de San Isidro. Los Orígenes de Madrid 416 Juan de Flandes (ca. 1465–1519). Isabel la Católica. ca. 1500–1504. Oil on panel, 43.4×34.2cm. Palacio Real de Madrid, Patrimonio Nacional 419 Alonso Berruguete (1490–1561). Sacrifice of Isaac, from altarpiece of San Benito el Real (Valladolid). 1526–1532. Polychrome wood, 89×46×32cm. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid 421 Juan de Juni (ca. 1507–1577). Burial of Christ. 1541–1544. Polychrome wood. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid 422

figures and maps 17.5

17.6

17.7

17.8

17.9

17.10

17.11

17.12

17.13

17.14

17.15 17.16

17.17 17.18

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Luis de Morales, ‘el Divino’ (ca. 1510–1586). Virgen Dolorosa. 1560–1570. Oil on panel, 73×50.5cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid 425 Luis de Morales, ‘el Divino’ (ca. 1510–1586). Ecce Homo. 1560–1570. Oil on panel, 73×50.5cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid 426 Pedro de Mena (1628–1688). Ecce Homo. ca. 1674–1685. Partial-gilt polychrome wood, 62.9×45.1×46.7cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 428 Pedro de Mena (1628–1688). Mater Dolorosa. ca. 1674–1685. Partial-gilt polychrome wood, 63×58.7×38.1cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 429 Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Queen Mariana of Austria. 1652–1653. Oil on canvas, 234.2×132cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid 434 Luisa Roldán (1656–1706). The Mystical Marriage of Saint Catherine. 1692– 1706. Terracotta group, polychrome, 36.5×45×29.5cm. Courtesy of The Hispanic Society of America, New York 435 Luisa Roldán (1656–1706). The Repose in Egypt. 1692–1706. Terracotta group, polychrome, 41×46×28cm. Courtesy of The Hispanic Society of America, New York 436 Francisco de Herrera the Younger (1627–1685). Triumph of Saint Hermengild. 1654. Oil on canvas, 326×228cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid 438 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–1682). Two Women at a Window. ca. 1655/60. Oil on canvas, 125.1×104.5cm. Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. 440 Juan Sánchez Cotán (1560–1627). Still Life with Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber. ca. 1602. Oil on canvas, 67.8×88.7cm. Gift of Anne R. and Amy Putnam. San Diego Museum of Art 441 Façade of Colegio de San Gregorio. ca. 1486–ca. 1499. Stone. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid 443 Clara Peeters (Spanish Netherlands, active 1607–1621). Still Life with Flowers, Gilt Goblets, Coins, and Shells. 1612. Oil on panel, 59.5×49cm. Bildagentur / Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe / Wolfgang Pankoke / Art Resource, NY 445 Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación (1597–1665). Autobiography frontispiece. Pen and ink drawing. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid 446 María Josefa Sánchez (active mid-17th century). The Crucified Christ. 1652. Oil on cross-shaped panel, 51×33.8×1.4cm. Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Ohio 447

xiv 17.19 18.1 18.2 18.3 18.4 18.5 18.6 19.1

19.2

19.3 19.4

19.5 19.6 19.7

figures and maps Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Juan de Pareja. 1650. Oil on canvas, 81.3×69.9cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 448 Peter Bruegel. The Painter and the Connoisseur. Albertina Museum, Vienna (Art Resource) 453 Titian. Venus Anadyomene. National Gallery of Scotland (Art Resource) 458 Giambattista Tiepolo. The Painter Apelles, Alexander the Great and Campaspe. Louvre, Paris (Erich Lessing / Art Resource) 460 Sandro Botticelli. The Birth of Venus. Uffizi, Florence (Scala/Art Resource) 462 Titian. Charles V at Mühlberg. Museo del Prado, Madrid (Gianni Dagli Orti / Art Resource) 465 Peter Paul Rubens. Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV of Spain. Uffizi, Florence (Scala/Art Resource) 468 Flayed cadaver holding his skin in one hand and a dissecting knife in the other, from Juan Valverde de Amusco, Anatomia del corpo humano (Rome, 1559), United States National Library of Medicine 478 Oviedo’s drawing of the pineapple ( yayama in Arawak) in Historia general y natural de las Indias Occidentales (General and Natural History of the West Indies, 1535) 482 Manucodiata (bird of paradise) from the Pomar Codex (drawings made from the Hernández manuscripts in the Escorial library) 485 The Torre Filosofal, a gigantic distillation apparatus installed in the Real Botica at El Escorial (from Les Passetemps of Jehan de Lhermite, a Belgian humanist who served as King Philip II’s valet) 489 The first European illustration of the tobacco plant (Nicotiana sp.), from Nicolás Monardes, Historia medicinal (1565–1574) 491 Illustration of the passionflower (granadilla, or maracuyá), from Juan Eusebio Nieremberg, Historia naturae maxime peregrinae (1635) 497 Datura plant (Datura sp.), used by Aztecs as a remedy for pain in the side (Badianus Codex, Vatican Library) 503

Maps 3.1 3.2 3.3

Philip II’s realms in 1598 92 Abraham Ortelius, Maris Pacifici (1589) 98 16th-century Portuguese-Spanish trade routes

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List of Contributors Beatriz de Alba-Koch is the founding Director of the Latin American Studies Program and Professor in the Department of History at the University of Victoria. She has published on Enlightenment thought and 16th-century indigenous accounts of the conquest of Mexico, particularly in the work of Francisco Javier Clavijero, as well as on Enlightenment novohispano appropriations of Golden Age genres such as the picaresque, female quixotism, and satirical allegories in the works of José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi and his contemporaries. She is currently working on the Baroque from the perspective of the formation of cultural patterns, their diffusion and re-imagination over the American and Asian colonies of the Iberian Monarchies. Edward Behrend-Martínez studies and writes about everyday life in Early Modern Iberia. He is the author of Unfit for Marriage: Impotent Spouses on Trial in the Basque Region of Spain 1650–1750 (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 2007) and several articles on the law, the Church, sexuality, and gender in Early Modern Spain. He is currently researching and writing about domestic violence, the Spanish household, and the courts. Dr. Behrend-Martínez is Professor of History at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Cristian Berco is Professor and Chair in the History Department at Bishop’s University. He also holds a Tier II Canada Research Chair in Social and Cultural Difference and coordinates the Crossing Borders Research Cluster. He has published extensively on gender, sexuality, and disease in Early Modern Spain. Harald E. Braun is Senior Lecturer in European History at the University of Liverpool. He is an intellectual historian who has published widely on Early Modern European (especially Spanish) political thought and culture. His most recent publications include the co-edited volumes Theorising the Ibero-American Atlantic (2013) and The Transatlantic Hispanic Baroque (2014). Susan Byrne is Professor of Hispanic Studies and Chair of the Department of World Languages and Cultures at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. She is the author of

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three monographic studies: Ficino in Spain (2015), Law and History in Cervantes’ Don Quixote (2012), El Corpus Hermeticum y tres poetas españoles: Francisco de Aldana, fray Luis de León y San Juan de la Cruz (2007), and a number of published articles. Her main research interest is the history of ideas as expressed in Renaissance Peninsular literature. Bernie Cantens is Professor in the Philosophy Department at Moravian College. He received his doctoral degree at the University of Miami. His areas of specialization are Late-Medieval Spanish Philosophy, Philosophy of Religion, American Pragmatism and Ethics. Frederick A. de Armas is Andrew W. Mellon Distinguished Service Professor in Romance Languages and Comparative Literature at the University of Chicago, where he has also served as Chair of the Department. His books and edited collections include: The Invisible Mistress: Aspects of Feminism and Fantasy in the Golden Age (1976); The Return of Astraea: An Astral-Imperial Myth in Calderón (1986); The Prince in the Tower: Perceptions of “La vida es sueño” (1993); Heavenly Bodies: The Realms of “La estrella de Sevilla” (1996); A Star-Crossed Golden Age: Myth and the Spanish Comedia (1998); Cervantes, Raphael and the Classics (1998); European Literary Careers: The Author from Antiquity to the Renaissance (2002); Writing for the Eyes in the Spanish Golden Age (2004); Ekphrasis in the Age of Cervantes (2005); Quixotic Frescoes: Cervantes and Italian Renaissance Art (2006); Hacia la tragedia áurea (2008); Ovid in the Age of Cervantes (2010); Calderón: del manuscrito a la escena (2011); and Objects of Culture in the Literature of Imperial Spain (2013). His edition of Cervantes’ La fuerza de la sangre has been published in Clásicos Hispánicos. His book Don Quixote Among the Saracens: Clashes of Civilizations and Literary Genres (2011) was recognized with the PROSE Award in Literature 2011, honorable mention. De Armas has been the recipient of several NEH fellowships and has directed an NEH Summer Institute and an NEH Seminar for College and University Teachers. He has also served as President of the Cervantes Society of America and is a Corresponding Member of the Hispanic Society of America. He is the immediate past President of AISO (Asociación Internacional Siglo de Oro). William Eamon is Regents Professor of History Emeritus at New Mexico State University. His research is on the history of science and medicine in Early Modern Italy and Spain. His books include Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in

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Medieval and Early Modern Culture (1994), The Professor of Secrets: Mystery, Medicine, and Alchemy in Renaissance Italy (2010), and (as co-editor with Víctor Navarro Brotòns), Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica / Beyond the Black Legend: Spain and the Scientific Revolution (2007). Stephanie L. Fink is an Associate Professor of History at Ashford University and the author of Widowhood in Early Modern Spain (2010). Her interdisciplinary research and publications consider women, family, gender, and identity in the Early Modern Habsburg Empire. She is also engaged in world and Atlantic history web-based curriculum development and the creation of open-source tools to enhance critical thinking. Enrique García Santo-Tomás is the Frank P. Casa Collegiate Professor of Spanish at the University of Michigan, and former Senior Fellow at the Michigan Society of Fellows (2011–2015). He is the author of La creación del ‘Fénix’: recepción crítica y formación canónica del teatro de Lope de Vega (2000), recipient of the ‘Premio Moratín de Ensayo a la Investigación Teatral’ (2001); Espacio urbano y creación literaria en el Madrid de Felipe IV (2004), winner of the Premio Villa de Madrid / Premio de Investigación Municipal Antonio Maura (2005); Modernidad bajo sospecha: Salas Barbadillo y la cultura material del siglo XVII (2008); and La musa refractada: literatura y óptica en la España del Barroco (2014). He has edited the volumes El teatro del Siglo de Oro ante los espacios de la crítica: encuentros y revisiones (2002), Cervantismos americanos (2005), Espacios domésticos en la literatura áurea (2006), and Materia crítica: formas de ocio y de consumo en la cultura áurea (2009). He is co-editor of Hacia la tragedia áurea: lecturas para un nuevo milenio (2008), and of a special cluster in the journal eHumanista titled Nocturnalia (2012). He has prepared editions of Lope de Vega’s Las bizarrías de Belisa (2004) and Arte nuevo de hacer comedias (2006; 2009; 2012); Alonso Jerónimo de Salas Barbadillo’s La hija de Celestina (2008) and Don Diego de noche (2013); Tirso de Molina’s Don Gil de las calzas verdes (2009; 2010; 2013; 2014) and Amar por arte mayor (2015); and Francisco Santos’ Día y noche de Madrid (2016). He has penned two poetry collections, Retorno a Ítaca (1998) and Las verdades del arce (2001), and has been a regular contributor to the literary supplement of the Spanish newspaper ABC. He is the recipient of a Sheridan Teaching Award from Brown University (1996), of a Fundación Juan March Manuscript Award (2000), of a Guggenheim Fellowship (2007), of the 46th William Riley Parker Prize for an Outstanding Article in PMLA (2009), and of a Michigan Humanities Award (2013). He is currently at work on a monograph titled Vital Signs:

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Midwifing Fiction in Spain, 1540–1690, and on an edited collection tentatively called Theater by Numbers: Science on the Stage in Early Modern Spain. J.A. Garrido Ardila earned a doctorate from the Universidad de Extremadura in English Literature and a second doctorate from the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid in Spanish literature with a thesis on the picaresque genre. He taught Spanish at Kalamazoo College, Marquette University and Milwaukee Area Technical College, and afterwards was Assistant Professor at the Universidad de Extremadura and Professor of Spanish and Comparative Literature at the University of Edinburgh. At Edinburgh he was the founding Director of the Centre for Contemporary Latin American Studies (2013–2016). He is currently Affiliate Professor at the University of Malta and Research Fellow at the Universiteit van Amsterdam. His publications on the Spanish Golden Age include the books El género picaresco en la crítica literaria (Biblioteca Nueva, 2008), La novela picaresca en Europa, 1554–1753 (Visor, 2009), Cervantes en Inglaterra (Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2014), and—as editor—The Cervantean Heritage (Legenda, 2009), Transnational Picaresque (Philological Quarterly, 2010), Cervantes’s Don Quixote in the Quatercentenary of Part II, 1615–2016 (Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 2015) and The Picaresque Novel in Western Literature (Cambridge University Press, 2015). Among his most recent publications are the books La construcción modernista de Niebla de Unamuno (Anthropos, 2015), Historia y política en La familia de Pascual Duarte (Castalia, 2016) and—as editor—A History of the Spanish Novel (Oxford University Press, 2015). With K.H. Andersen he also published Entre Escandinavia y España. De Cervantes al Nordic noir (Ínsula, 2016). Mayte Green-Mercado is Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Rutgers UniversityNewark. She is a historian of Early Modern Mediterranean, Islamic, and Spanish history focusing on Moriscos, and she is interested in the connections and circulation of ideas around the Mediterranean. Her work focuses on the significance of apocalyptic discourse in the formation of religious and political identities, and she is currently working on a book manuscript tentatively titled A Morisco Apocalypse: Politics of Prophecy in the Mediterranean (1492–1614). Elizabeth Teresa Howe is a Professor Emerita of Romance Languages at Tufts University. She specializes in Early Modern Spanish literature with a principal focus on Spanish mysticism and a secondary interest in works by and about women of the period. Her most recent published works include The Visionary Life of Madre Ana de

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San Agustín (Boydell & Brewer) and Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic World (Ashgate). Recently published with Ashgate is another book entitled Autobiographical Writing by Early Modern Hispanic Women. Hilaire Kallendorf is Professor of Hispanic and Religious Studies and a Cornerstone Faculty Fellow in Liberal Arts at Texas A&M University. She holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from Princeton University. She was a postdoctoral research fellow at UCLA and an American Council of Learned Societies / Andrew W. Mellon Junior Faculty Fellow. She was awarded a Howard Foundation Mid-Career Fellowship from Brown University and, in 2006, the $ 50,000 Hiett Prize in the Humanities, along with other research grants from the Renaissance Society of America, the Bibliographical Society of America, the Ford Foundation, Spain’s Ministry of Culture, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her research and teaching deal with many aspects of religious experience, especially as belief relates to literature and culture. She is the author of four academic monographs: Exorcism and Its Texts: Subjectivity in Early Modern Literature of England and Spain (University of Toronto Press, 2003); Conscience on Stage: The Comedia as Casuistry in Early Modern Spain (University of Toronto Press, 2007); Sins of the Fathers: Moral Economies in Early Modern Spain (University of Toronto Press, 2013); and Ambiguous Antidotes: Virtue as Vaccine for Vice in Early Modern Spain (University of Toronto Press, 2017). She was general editor of A New Companion to Hispanic Mysticism (Leiden: Brill, 2010), which won the 2011 Bainton Book Prize for Reference Works from the Sixteenth Century Society, as well as A Companion to Early Modern Hispanic Theater (Brill, 2014). She translated Spanish Baroque poet Francisco de Quevedo’s Silvas into English (Lima, Peru: Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, 2011). With her father, a celebrity tennis player, she wrote a memoir, Acing Depression: A Tennis Champion’s Toughest Match (Washington, D.C.: New Chapter Press, 2010). She has published articles in peer-reviewed journals on such topics as self-exorcism, piety and pornography, ghosts, Taíno religious ceremonies, and Christian humanism in the Renaissance. Her collected essays on religion and literature have recently appeared in Spanish translation as La retórica del exorcismo: ensayos sobre religión y literatura (Iberoamericana, 2016). Henry Kamen is Professor Emeritus of the Higher Council for Scientific Research (CSIC) in Barcelona. He is the author of Philip of Spain (Yale University Press, 1997), Early Modern European Society (Routledge, 2000), Philip V of Spain: The King Who Reigned Twice (Yale University Press, 2001), The Duke of Alba (Yale Univer-

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sity Press, 2004), Imagining Spain: Historical Myth and National Identity (Yale University Press, 2008), The Escorial: Art and Power in the Renaissance (Yale University Press, 2010), and The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision (Yale University Press, 2014), among other books. Elizabeth A. Lehfeldt is Professor of History and Dean of the Jack, Joseph & Morton Mandel Honors College at Cleveland State University. She has published extensively on the subject of female monasticism in late medieval and Early Modern Europe, including Religious Women in Golden Age Spain: the Permeable Cloister (Ashgate, 2005) and articles in Sixteenth Century Journal, the Journal of Social History, and the Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies. She is currently at work on a transnational study of the state-led reform of convents in England and Spain from 1450–1550. Michael J. Levin received his Ph.D. in Renaissance Studies from Yale University in 1997. He became Associate Professor of History at the University of Akron in 2005. He is the author of Agents of Empire: Spanish Ambassadors in Sixteenth-Century Italy (Cornell University Press, 2005), and a contributor to The Dangerous Trade: Spies, Spymasters and the Making of Europe, ed. Daniel Szechi (Dundee University Press, 2010). Dr. Levin’s research and teaching focus on Renaissance Europe, with a special interest in Spain, Italy, and diplomatic/ political history. His teaching features an interdisciplinary approach, combining art, literature, philosophy, and religion with the study of history. Ruth MacKay is the author of three books: The Baker Who Pretended to be King of Portugal (University of Chicago Press, 2012); ‘Lazy, Improvident People’: Myth and Reality in the Writing of Spanish History (Cornell University Press, 2006); and The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in Seventeenth-Century Castile (Cambridge University Press, 1999). She has worked as a university lecturer, editor, writer, translator, and interpreter. She lives in San Francisco. Fabien Montcher is an Assistant Professor of History at Saint Louis University. As a 2016–2017 ACLS Fellow and as the inaugural John Elliott Member at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton during 2016–2017, Fabien worked on a book entitled Scholarship and the Making of Politics in Early Modern Empires: The Iberian Routes of the Republic of Letters. This work explores the ways in which Early

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Modern scholarship contributed to the foundations of modern state politics between the Late Renaissance and the Enlightenment. As a social historian of ideas, his research seek to understand how Iberian communities of knowledge, both from the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, fostered political communication among Early Modern state information systems. Ignacio Navarrete is Professor of Spanish and Portuguese at the University of California, Berkeley. He is author of Orphans of Petrarch: Poetry and Theory in the Spanish Renaissance and of a forthcoming book on narrative culture and the introduction of printing in Spain ca. 1500. He has edited a collection of essays on the poet Garcilaso de la Vega, and has written numerous articles on Early Modern literature and culture. Jeffrey Schrader is Associate Professor of Art History at the University of Colorado-Denver, specializing in the Renaissance and Baroque periods and the art of the Spanishspeaking world. His research interests include the origin and development of miraculous images, the role of royal patronage in shaping the arts in Early Modern Europe, and contacts among Spain and colonial Latin America. More recently, he has spoken on the fortunes of sacred art during iconoclastic outbreaks in modern Spain, especially during the Civil War of 1936–1939. Publications include an article on the influence of El Greco (ca. 1541–1614) on modern American painters, a study of iconoclasm and royal portraits in 19th- and 20thcentury Spain, and an essay about miraculous images in Spanish Bolivia. Since 2013, he has been co-editor of the annual Visual Arts issue of the Hispanic Research Journal, published by Queen Mary University of London. Through his recent work as General Secretary of the American Society for Hispanic Art Historical Studies, Schrader has also sought to promote the study of the arts of Spain, Portugal, and the Iberian world. Lía Schwartz is Distinguished Professor of Hispanic and Comparative Literatures at the Graduate School of CUNY since 2000, when she came from Dartmouth College. There she held an endowed chair in Spanish, and from 2000 to 2011 served as executive officer of the Hispanic program. She has published numerous articles on Renaissance and Baroque poetry and prose and on Cervantes and the Classics. Schwartz has special expertise in the works of Francisco de Quevedo and Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola, among other Early Modern authors. Her books include Metáfora y sátira en la obra de Quevedo (1984); Quevedo: dis-

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curso y representación (1987); De Fray Luis a Quevedo. Lecturas de los clásicos antiguos (2005); the critical and annotated edition of Quevodo’s satire La Hora de todos y la Fortuna con seso (2009), based on the only extant manuscript, now in the Hispanic Society of America; and Lo ingenioso y lo prudente: Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola y la sátira (2013). She also co-authored two annotated anthologies of both Quevedo and Argensola. She belongs to the editorial board of many national and international journals in her field; was twice elected to the board of AISO; and served as Secretary General (1992–1998) and President (1998–2001) of the International Association of Hispanists. Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry-Roisin is a Visiting Assistant Professor of History at Austin College. She earned her Ph.D. in History at the University of California, Berkeley, with an A.B. in History from Dartmouth College. Her dissertation was entitled “The Granada Venegas Family, 1431–1643: Nobility, Renaissance, and Morisco Identity.” Elizabeth’s teaching and research interests are in the cultural, political and social history of medieval and Early Modern Europe, in particular, the history of Renaissance and chivalric culture. Elvira Vilches is Associate Professor in the Department of Romance Studies at Duke University. Her research explores the interaction of economics, cultural history, and literature during the Early Modern period in Spain and the Americas. She is the author of New World Gold: Monetary Disorders and Cultural Anxiety in Early Modern Spain (University of Chicago Press, 2010). She has received fellowships from the American Council of Learned Societies, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the John Carter Brown Library, and the Center for TwentiethCentury Studies. She is currently working on a book project on commerce and culture in the Early Modern Hispanic world.

introduction

A Renaissance for the ‘Spanish Renaissance’? Hilaire Kallendorf

The title of this book is a misnomer. There is no one reified, essential Spanish Renaissance. ‘Renaissance’ means different things to different people. When they hear that word, classical tradition folks see a rebirth of the classics. Historians, for their part, delineate Renaissance against Reformation and think of it as a time period earlier than ‘Early Modern.’ Literary and cultural studies types see it as an era of great flowering for art, literature, etc. and extend it much later, even to 1700. So which Renaissance are we covering in this volume? The answer is … all of the above. In overseeing this project, I have preferred the empirical method of studying what patterns emerge for temporal parameters instead of imposing a uniform time frame. The linguistic equivalent would be going out in the field to listen, for example, to the ‘Spanglish’ actually spoken in Texas instead of beating my students over the head with the Real Academia Española dictionary. This approach reflects a willingness to be guided by usage instead of making prescriptive pronouncements—to celebrate the messiness. A model for this strategy, borrowed from a related field, might be Bernard F. Reilly’s The Medieval Spains,1 whose very title recognizes that said Spains were various. However, keeping in mind Paul Ricoeur’s reminder in Time and Narrative that “the fantasy of an origin is itself an origin,”2 I have decided to retain the singular ‘Renaissance’ in the book’s title as it was commissioned by the Renaissance Society of America, all the while acknowledging its problematic nature and in fact calling attention to its inadequacy. Let us explore some reasons why this term is indeed inadequate. Before we do, though, it is worth remembering an axiom pronounced by John O’Malley about the ways in which labels become filters: I came to see, moreover, that such terms [he refers here to Reformation, Counter Reformation, and Catholic Reformation], even when accompanied by disclaimers, were not simple labels, for they acted as implicit 1 Bernard F. Reilly, The Medieval Spains (Cambridge: 2006). 2 Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, trans. Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer (Chicago: 1984–1988), 1:223. In his footnotes to this passage Ricoeur refers to François Furet, Interpreting the French Revolution, trans. Elborg Forster (Cambridge: 1981).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_002

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questions and implicit categories of interpretation. They thus subtly directed attention to some issues and away from others, highlighted certain phenomena and cast others into the shadows, admitted some evidence but filtered out the rest. I thought I had indications to show that historians see things one way when they wear the hermeneutical spectacles, for instance of “Counter-Reformation Rome,” and very differently when they wear those of “early modern Rome.” The traditional terms sometimes blind us to incongruities staring us in the face.3 In the words of exiled Spanish novelist Juan Goytisolo, “El lenguaje nunca es inocente” (language is never innocent).4 Or as semiotician Algirdas Greimas would have it, historical discourse is an “ideological machine.”5 O’Malley admits that he himself used to adopt a much more nonchalant attitude about terminology (hence the tongue-in-cheek title Trent and All That) until he began to think about its implications. Marshall Brown, in an essay titled “Periods and Resistances,” in Periodization: Cutting Up the Past—a special issue of Modern Language Quarterly which appeared in 2001—puts it this way: Periods are entities we love to hate. Yet we cannot do without them … If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. A collection such as ours is designed to confront the arrogance of the one critic and the timidity of the other, to help us think about why we need chapters of time, how we can make use of them, and how we can resist their seductions.6 Further on in his essay, he cites David Perkins’ axiom that periods are “necessary fictions … We require the concept of a unified period in order to deny it.”7 He concludes, “Chronology is also a psychology.”8 Similarly, Reinhart Koselleck in Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time asserts,

3 John W. O’Malley, “What’s in a Name?” in Trent and All That: Renaming Catholicism in the Early Modern Era (Cambridge, MA: 2000), 1–15, at 3. 4 “ ‘El lenguaje nunca es inocente’, según Juan Goytisolo,” El País, Sunday, 2 December 1984, http://elpais.com/diario/1984/12/02/cultura/470790008_850215.html (accessed 9 July 2016). 5 Algirdas Julien Greimas, Sémiotique et sciences sociales (Paris: 1976), 31. 6 Marshall Brown, “Periods and Resistances,” in Periodization: Cutting Up the Past, special issue of Modern Language Quarterly 62.4 (2001): 309–316, at 309–310. See also Jennifer Summit and David Wallace, “Rethinking Periodization,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37.3 (2007): 447–451. 7 David Perkins, Is Literary History Possible? (Baltimore: 1992), 64. 8 Brown, “Periods and Resistances,” 313.

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Historical time, if the concept has a specific meaning, is bound up with social and political actions, with concretely acting and suffering human beings and their institutions and organizations. All have definite, internalized forms of conduct, each with a peculiar temporal rhythm … Therefore, what follows will seek to speak, not of one historical time, but rather of many forms of time superimposed on one another.9 It is a similar plurality which the current volume strives to respect.

∵ We might begin our further observations with the assertion that ‘Renaissance’ is a term used less often than ‘Early Modern’ by many Hispanists. Why is this the case? Rather than leaving this hypothesis in the realm of the anecdotal and impressionistic, let us take a sample. For our purposes the bibliography for this very book will serve rather nicely as a specialists’ database, on the assumption that even if the contributor list is in some way skewed in line with its editor’s own particular prejudice, in order to generate their essays, these authors still had to draw on secondary sources available within the wider arena of current scholarship. The results are telling. For the top three terminological contenders for what to call the time period in question, ‘Golden Age’ appears 27 times, while ‘Siglo de Oro’ appears 18 times, ‘Edad de Oro’ 6 times, and the related term ‘Age of Gold’ once,10 for a combined 52 total occurrences. ‘Renacimiento’ appears 20 times, ‘Renacentista’ only 6, but ‘Renaissance’ itself generates a respectable 98 hits. However, ‘Early Modern’ is hands-down the winner of this contest, with 148 total occurrences, including 10 for the Spanish ‘Edad Moderna’. Now, before passing judgment, let us listen to the case presented advocating the use of each one of these competing terms. ‘Golden Age’ has been the traditional term used to describe this period, largely because that is how Spaniards saw themselves. The single most-often cited passage in all of Spanish literature which is summoned to support this point is Don Quixote’s discourse to the goatherds expressing nostalgia for a lost Golden Age:

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Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, trans. Keith Tribe (Cambridge, MA: 1985), xxii. Alexander A. Parker, “An Age of Gold: Expansion and Scholarship in Spain,” in The Age of the Renaissance, (ed.) Denys Hay (New York: 1967), 222–248.

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Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of golden, not because in the fortunate age the gold so coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it knew not the two words “mine” and “thine”!11 This purple passage by Cervantes has received a forceful critique from Meg Greer in a PMLA essay entitled “Thine and Mine: The Spanish ‘Golden Age’ and Early Modern Studies”12 which formed a part of a subsection of that journal issue in 2011 devoted to “The Vanishing Spanish Golden Age.” If the term still needed somebody to kill it off, this very public announcement pretty much sounded its death knell. One of the problems with this term is that ‘Golden Age’ connotes an arrogance which started within the period of Spaniards claiming that their language, out of all the Romance tongues, was closest to the original Latin. Spaniards liked to think of themselves and their speech as the closest extant links to Europe’s shared Greek and Roman past. Hispano, the first king of Spain, was believed to have been the son of Hercules (this legend was diffused by the emblems of Alciato).13 To round out their ethos of direct connections to antiquity, Spaniards cited Hispanic classical authors such as Lucan, Seneca, and Quintilian in support of the argument that theirs was a superior intellect. This praise of Spanish over other Romance languages is perhaps best understood through the words of a contemporary. Juan de Lucena, in his Diálogo de vida beata (1463), claims for Spain a precedence based on preserved linguistic similarity: [It was] agreed to transport many Spanish people to Rome and many Romans to Spain, and in this way both languages became bastardized. Before, the Roman language was perfect Latin, and from this today we call

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Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote, trans. John Ormsby, (eds.) Joseph R. Jones and Kenneth Douglas (New York: 1981), Part I, ch. 11, 74. The original reads: “Dichosa edad y siglos dichosos aquellos a quien los antiguos pusieron nombre de dorados, y no porque en ellos el oro, que en esta nuestra edad de hierro tanto se estima, se alcanzase en aquella venturosa sin fatiga alguna, sino porque entonces los que en ella vivían ignoraban estas dos palabras de tuyo y mío” (Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de la Mancha, Part I, ch. 11, [ed.] Francisco Rico [Barcelona: 1998], 1:121). Margaret R. Greer, “Thine and Mine: The Spanish ‘Golden Age’ and Early Modern Studies,” PMLA 126.1 (2011): 217–224. Ángel Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas: primeros ecos (Madrid: 1994), 146–148.

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our common speech romance, because it came from Rome. No nation, even though closer [to Rome], so appropriates its language, nor is any other tongue so close to Latin as this one.14 Lucio Marineo Siculo repeated the theme in 1530: “the Spanish language has an advantage over all the others, even Italian, in elegance and abundance of words.”15 In 1498 Pope Alexander VI held a debate for ambassadors from Spain, France, Portugal, and Italy to determine which of these languages was preferable, judging by its proximity to Latin. They wrote speeches for the occasion, after which contest Spain was declared to be the winner.16 The term ‘Golden Age’ of course echoed a similar claim made previously about Latin literature written by Virgil, Horace, Ovid and other classical authors writing around the time of Christ’s birth.17 The problems with this term are by now obvious: the ‘Golden Age’ was not golden for everyone, especially slaves, ethnic minorities, children, and women.18 New research shows that a cynical view of the ‘Golden Age’ was available even within literature of the period. Brandan Grayson, in a wonderful dissertation on Jesuit school drama,19 cites Pedro de Salas’ Coloquio de la Escolástica triunfante y la nueva Babilonia (1611), still available only in manuscript

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“acordó transportar muchas gentes ispanas en Roma y muchas romanas en Ispania, y en esta guisa ambas lenguas se bastardaron. Era antes la lengua romana perfecta latina, y dende llamamos oy nuestro común fablar romançe, porque vino de Roma. Ninguna naçion, aunque más vezina le sea, tan apropria su lenguaje de aquélla ni tan çercana es de la lengua latina quanto ésta” (Juan de Lucena, Diálogo de vida beata, quoted in Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas, 116). “la lengua española haze ventaja a todas las otras en elegancia y copia de vocablos y aun a la italiana” (Lucio Marineo Siculo, De las cosas illustres y excelentes de España [1530], quoted in Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas, 118). Martín de Viciana, Libro de alabanças de las lenguas hebrea, griega, latina, castellana y valenciana [Valencia, 1574]; quoted in Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas, 117. I have discussed these linguistic power struggles in Hilaire Kallendorf, “Celestina in Venice: Piety, Pornography, Poligrafi” in Celestinesca 27 (2003): 75–106, at 77. D. Barker, “ ‘The Golden Age is Proclaimed’? The Carmen Saeculare and the Renascence of the Golden Race,” The Classical Quarterly new series 46.2 (1996): 434–446. See Joan Kelly, “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” in Becoming Visible, (eds.) Renate Bridenthal and Claudia Koonz (Boston: 1977), 137–164. Kelly’s general arguments are extended more specifically to Spain in Anne J. Cruz, “Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the Search for the M/other in Early Modern Spain,” Indiana Journal of Hispanic Literatures 8 (1996): 31–54. Brandan Leigh Grayson, “The Model Prodigal: Jesuit School Plays and the Production of Devotion in the Spanish Empire, 1565–1611,” Ph.D. Dissertation, Washington University in St Louis (2011).

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at the Real Academia de la Historia in Madrid,20 in which gold is referred to as a “melancholy” color: “Como es el oro amarillo, / melancólico en color.”21 The play’s critique of nobles’ lust for gold—and, by extension, the trope of the socalled Golden Age—could not be more severe. A female character named Clara declares bitterly that whatever (literal, not metaphorical) gold she does receive is meant to pay for her silence, so that she will not speak the truth: … to the dogs so that they will not bark astute thieves give bread; to me these crazy people cover my mouth with gold so that I will not speak truths.22 Grayson notes that so much money was spent in bribes by the Duke of Lerma at King Philip III’s court that it amounted to the 1,500,000 ducats which had been paid in taxes by both Valencia and Catalonia.23 Such was the corruption which made Spain’s Empire great. This play contains an extended meditation on the ‘Golden Age’ which is worth quoting here in full: FEDERICO: Do you cry? CLARA: I do not cry, for the golden ages return. SOFÍA: Ages of gold? CLARA: And well gilded, the fine gold in its colors escapes from sinners, 20 21

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Pedro de Salas, Coloquio de la Escolástica triunfante y la nueva Babilonia (1611), Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid), Ms. 9/2750. Salas, Coloquio de la Escolástica, 52r, quoted in Grayson, “The Model Prodigal,” 201–202. I quote the passage as transcribed in Grayson’s dissertation, but have also consulted the original manuscript at the Real Academia de la Historia and am satisfied that his transcription is accurate (spelling has been modernized). … a los perros porque no ladren les dan astutos ladrones pan, a mí aquesta gente loca con oro tapa mi boca porque verdades no diga. (Salas, Coloquio de la Escolástica, 62v, quoted in Grayson, “The Model Prodigal,” 202–203). Grayson, “The Model Prodigal,” 203.

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RICARDO: CLARA:

RICARDO: CLARA:

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FEDERICO: CLARA:

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and all is gold, there is no copper, for no one charges if he is poor, as the collection is richer which is attained with more gold. Do you not weep for it? I do not weep for it, for the golden ages return. To which comes the fleet, that if the sea scourges it so much, it is because it covets its gold, for avarice corrupts [even] the sea. Already everything that glitters is gold, for nothing shines without gold, but they are not pure lights that leave us in the dark at the end. Shut up! I sing already and do not weep, for the golden ages return.24

¿Lloras? No lloro, pues tornan los siglos de oro. SOFÍA: ¿Siglos de oro? CLARA: Y bien dorados, el fino oro en sus colores escapa de pecadores, y todo es oro, no hay cobre, pues nadie cobra si es pobre, que más rica la cobranza que con más oro se alcanza. RICARDO: ¿No lo llores? CLARA: No lo lloro, pues tornan los siglos de oro. A la que viene la flota, que si el mar tanto la azota, es porque su oro codicia, que al mar corrompe avaricia. Ya es oro cuanto reluce, pues nada sin oro luce, pero no son luces puras que al fin os dejan a escuras. RICARDO: ¡Calla! CLARA: Canto ya y no lloro, pues tornan los siglos de oro. (Salas, Coloquio de la Escolástica, 62v, quoted in Grayson, “The Model Prodigal,” 203–204).

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It is perhaps symptomatic that a male character, Ricardo, tries to silence the female speaker by commanding her to shut up, but (parroting the discourse of the patriarchy while at the same time subverting it) the woman ironically gets to have the last word. Scholars of the period have increasingly picked up on these and similar cues, going so far as to refuse to employ the term ‘Golden Age’ without substantial modification. An example would be Margaret E. Boyle’s Unruly Women: Performance, Penitence, and Punishment in Early Modern Spain, in which the author tips her hand in the acknowledgements at the outset by self-identifying as part of a group she calls “scholars of the siglo del otro” (the other scholars she mentions—all women—are Ariadna García-Bryce, Gloria Hernández, Sherry Velasco, Lisa Vollendorf, and Amy Williamsen).25 It is unclear from her comments whether the critical stance of this informal coalition is informed by a Levinasian ethics or not. Other scholars who are not so cute with their terminology nevertheless pull back the curtain on the seamy underside of an age which is tired of being called great. Here I refer to studies in the vein of Walter Mignolo’s postcolonialist The Darker Side of the Renaissance,26 the title of which unfailingly reminds me of Darth Vader in Star Wars. I myself have participated in the trend of dismantling this scholarly edifice by advocating a reckoning for the ‘Golden Age’ with its not-so-golden track record in the area of ethics; as I opined in Sins of the Fathers: Moral Economies in Early Modern Spain, “It is time to put the tarnish back on the golden aura by exploring the nasty, murky grime which is sin.”27 But should we forsake ‘Golden Age’ completely? The very notion of a Golden Age was a Renaissance move,28 which invoked a messianic interpretation of Virgil’s 4th Eclogue.29 We should not relinquish this term entirely, because with it we would be throwing out a significant portion of how Early Mod-

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Margaret E. Boyle, Unruly Women: Performance, Penitence, and Punishment in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2014), vii. Walter D. Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance: Literacy, Territoriality, and Colonization (Ann Arbor: 2003). Hilaire Kallendorf, Sins of the Fathers: Moral Economies in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2013). See Harry Levin, The Myth of the Golden Age in the Renaissance (Bloomington: 1969). The ‘Golden Age’ was a term also applied explicitly in other countries besides Spain, in contexts as exotic as occult magic. See John S. Mebane, Renaissance Magic & the Return of the Golden Age: The Occult Tradition & Marlowe, Johnson, & Shakespeare (Lincoln: 1989). On this particular Christian humanist synthesis see Craig Kallendorf, “The Baptism of Virgil?” in The Protean Virgil: Material Form and the Reception of the Classics (Oxford: 2015), 48–58.

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ern Spaniards viewed themselves. We should let Early Modern subjects define themselves, as a gesture of respect. Yet at the same time, we do not necessarily have to buy into all their propaganda.30

∵ Let us turn now to ‘Early Modern,’ the alternative term which has been favored in recent years to replace the traditional one. Once again, the advantages are obvious. With this term we can avoid idealizing the undeniable accomplishments of a select few elites by de-emphasizing rebirth of the classics (which, after all, with a few notable exceptions such as the female lesbian poet Sappho, by and large were written by dead white males) and selecting a value-neutral term which carries within it a qualifier—‘Early’—so that now, instead of black and white, we are already seeing shades of gray. But is it really so value-neutral? The foremost practical problem which many scholars who work internationally have commented about is that the phrase ‘Early Modern’ is somewhat awkward in Spanish and not used as often by our Hispanic colleagues. However, the main issue with this term is very far from linguistic. ‘Early Modern’ imposes modernity on the historical subjects it describes and recreates them in our own image, thinly disguising a secret desire to make them look like us. This tendency is what Linda Charnes has called, in a memorable phrase, “The Fetish of ‘the Modern.’”31 Paul Gilroy, in The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, refers to “the standard pairing of Luther and Copernicus that is implicitly used to mark the limits of this particular understanding of modernity.”32 He defines “this particular understanding” as a syndrome in which “the universality and rationality of enlightened Europe and America were used to sustain and relocate rather than eradicate an order of racial difference inherited from the premodern era.”33 His comments imply that Early Modernity was not really modern at all,34 at least in any sense that

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The most glaring example of Renaissance propaganda as employed by the Hapsburg Monarchy was this dynasty’s self-concept of being direct heirs to the Roman Empire. See Marie Tanner, The Last Descendant of Aeneas: The Hapsburgs and the Mythic Image of the Emperor (New Haven: 1993). Linda Charnes, “The Fetish of ‘the Modern,’” in Hamlet’s Heirs: Shakespeare and the Politics of a New Millennium (New York: 2006), 13–25. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: 1993), 49. Gilroy, The Black Atlantic, 49. Nonetheless, Hans Blumenberg has defended what he calls The Legitimacy of the Mod-

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counted or could be defended as ethical ‘progress’ in the area of race relations.35 Whether justified or not, the fact is inescapable that the very term ‘Early Modern’ contains within it such ethical claims. What is worse, this term almost uniformly offends medievalists. Here I refer to what Patricia Clare Ingham and Michelle Warren call “the myth of medieval alterity”: “the premodern functions in current historicist practice not only to stabilize the identity of the modern, but also to underwire historicism per se.”36 The mental image here is of a bra’s underwire used to prop up sagging breasts. In a similar vein, at the turn of the millennium, the Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies devoted a special issue to De-Colonizing the Middle Ages.37 But there are some signs, at least, that not all medievalists wish to be de-colonized. The irresistible attraction of this term is apparently so great that in some circles, ‘medieval’ has now become ‘premodern’: witness The Marxist Premodern, a special issue of The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies released in 2004,38 and David Wallace’s Premodern Places: Calais to Surinam, Chaucer to Aphra Behn, released in the same year.39 This might be the periodicity equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome, where the kidnapped victim begins to identify with her captor. We would be remiss not to mention some alternative terms which may not be real contenders for the prize, but nonetheless appear frequently enough not to go completely ignored. A word like ‘Baroque’ used to designate the period immediately after the Renaissance gained great currency in this field during the 1970s when social historian José Antonio Maravall published La cultura del Barroco;40 but his work has since then been largely discredited, most notably in a special issue of Bulletin of the Comediantes devoted to reassessing his leg-

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ern Age (Hans Blumenberg, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age, trans. Robert M. Wallace [Cambridge, MA: 1983]). The same may be true for gender relations, as we see from Judith M. Bennett’s “Medieval Women, Modern Women: Across the Great Divide,” in Culture and History, 1350–1600: Essays on English Communities, Identities, and Writing, (ed.) David Aers (New York: 1992), 147–175. Patricia Clare Ingham and Michelle R. Warren, “Introduction: Postcolonial Modernity and the Rest of History,” in Patricia Clare Ingham and Michelle R. Warren (eds.), Postcolonial Moves: Medieval through Modern (New York: 2003), 1–18, at 6. De-Colonizing the Middle Ages, (eds.) John Dagenais and Margaret R. Greer, special issue of Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 30.3 (2000). The Marxist Premodern, (eds.) Bruce Holsinger and Ethan Knapp, special issue of The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 34.3 (2004). David Wallace, Premodern Places: Calais to Surinam, Chaucer to Aphra Behn (Malden, MA: 2004). José Antonio Maravall, La cultura del Barroco (Madrid: 1975).

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acy.41 Ivonne Levy and Kenneth Mills neverthelesss retain the term in their Lexikon of the Hispanic Baroque: Transatlantic Exchange and Transformation (2013),42 a concrete outcome of Canada’s prestigious Hispanic Baroque Project. This term is also highlighted in something like Jeremy Robbins’ “Renaissance and Baroque: Continuity and Transformation in Early Modern Spain,” included in The Cambridge History of Spanish Literature,43 the conglomerate title of which gives us the impression that its author throws in all possible designations just for good measure. A recent trend is to jettison all temporal considerations in favor of geography, thus shifting to the other end of the time-space continuum. I refer here to such phrases as ‘Atlantic World,’ which we may recognize from Gauvin Alexander Bailey’s survey with Carla Rahn Phillips and Lisa Voigt, “Spain and Spanish America in the Early Modern Atlantic World: Current Trends in Scholarship,” appearing in Renaissance Quarterly in 2009.44 This trend is also partly visible (albeit without the temporal parameters removed) in Jorge Cañizares Esguerra’s Puritan Conquistadors: Iberianizing the Atlantic, 1550–1700,45 as well as Douglas Catterall’s and Jodi Campbell’s edited volume Women in Port: Gendering Communities, Economies, and Social Networks in Atlantic Port Cities, 1500– 1800,46 which forms a part of the series “Atlantic World: Europe, Africa and the Americas, 1500–1830,” published in Leiden by Brill. This geographical emphasis echoes Fernand Braudel’s mammoth two-volume The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II,47 which is a landmark of scholarship. Indeed, two panels at the January 2016 Modern Language Association conference still organized their material according to this geographical designation.48 41 42 43

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Bulletin of the Comediantes 65.1 (2013), (ed.) Laura Bass. See in particular Ruth MacKay, “The Maravall Problem: A Historical Inquiry,” 45–56. Ivonne Levy and Kenneth Mills, Lexikon of the Hispanic Baroque: Transatlantic Exchange and Transformation (Austin: 2013). Jeremy Robbins, “Renaissance and Baroque: Continuity and Transformation in Early Modern Spain,” The Cambridge History of Spanish Literature, (ed.) David T. Gies (Cambridge: 2004), 137–148. Gauvin Alexander Bailey, Carla Rahn Philipps, and Lisa Voigt, “Spain and Spanish America in the Early Modern Atlantic World: Current Trends in Scholarship,”Renaissance Quarterly 62.1 (2009): 1–60. Jorge Cañizares Esguerra, Puritan Conquistadors: Iberianizing the Atlantic, 1550–1700 (Stanford: 2006). Douglas Catterall and Jodi Campbell (eds.), Women in Port: Gendering Communities, Economies, and Social Networks in Atlantic Port Cities, 1500–1800 (Leiden: 2012). Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II [1949], trans. Siân Reynolds (Berkeley: 1995), 2nd rev. ed., 2 vols. “Mediterranean Times: Past, Futurity, Afterwardness,” presided over by Yasser Elhariry of

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These terms are just the biggest among the small fish; there is no space here to dissect the minutiae of every competing descriptor out there, including a few which quite obviously failed ever to catch on, such as Hiram Haydn’s ‘CounterRenaissance.’49 Scholars have become so desperate in recent years to solve the periodization quandary that they have even begun to invent new terms in an attempt to move beyond the impasse. The perfect example of this is ‘Imperium Studies,’ a manifesto for which was penned in 2015 by the person who coined the term, Barbara Fuchs: I propose a focus on imperium, to highlight the mimetic rivalries occurring among emergent empires at the very time they solidify sovereignty. Imperium studies challenges the self-sufficient histories of nation and empire by arguing for their imbrication and competition: only a plural history of the intersections among them can provide the full picture. Moreover, imperium studies explicitly engages with the multiple Early Modern temporalities, as well as allegiances—to an imperial future, certainly, but also to a classical past that remained central as exemplar and motivator and to the imperfect, incomplete work of nation making.50 Only time will tell whether this new terminology will go viral, but so far it has not. In summary, then, and fully aware of the inherent dangers of this enterprise—which feels a bit like stepping into a battle field sown with land mines— I would like to take this opportunity to make the case for a renewed use of the term ‘Renaissance’ as applied to Spain. Once again, the problems with this proposal are all too painfully apparent. The first of these has to do with simple chronology: it is impossible to escape the fact that the Renaissance happened later in Spain than in most other European countries (many literary scholars accept 1492 as the start date51 for a time period that by all accounts was then ending just about everywhere else, although England is a notable excep-

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Dartmouth College; and “Global Migration across the Mediterranean,” presided over by Nevine El Nossery of the University of Wisconsin (Madison). Hiram Haydn, The Counter-Renaissance (Gloucester, MA: 1966). Barbara Fuchs, “Another Turn for Transnationalism: Empire, Nation, and Imperium in Early Modern Studies,” PMLA 130.2 (2015): 412–418, at 412. Fuchs’ ‘new’ approach was already being practiced as early as 2007 by scholars such as Sanjay Subrahmanyam. See Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Holding the World in Balance: The Connected Histories of the Iberian Overseas Empires, 1500–1640,” American Historical Review 112.5 (2007): 1359–1385. See Barbara Fuchs, “1492 and the Cleaving of Hispanism,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37.3 (2007): 493–510.

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tion).52 It may have started later, but it also lasted longer: many choose the death of King Charles II ‘el Hechizado’ in 1700 as a convenient stopping-point for a literary and cultural flowering which was by that date already on lifesupport along with Spain’s debilitated monarch. These are the essential parameters for this book, although some essays start earlier than this (but the reverse is not true: few scholars working in this field would extend ‘Renaissance’ in any iteration all the way into the Siglo de Luces). In the following paragraphs I share my own view of why this term might be ripe for recycling.

∵ These reflections start with questions. Could our use of ‘Renaissance’ at once recognize Spain’s extraordinary achievements during this period and also signal a willingness to play with the other children? ‘Renaissance’ is more parallel to the experience of other European countries and thereby aligns Spain on a more equal footing with its peers. The Renaissance Society of America has made overtures to us, but Hispanists have yet to embrace fully this designation (although I might point out that these contributors’ acceptance of my invitation to write chapters for this volume involves an implicit acknowledgement that there is some merit to the term). A literary scholar such as myself, when faced with this quandary, cannot avoid recalling the famous prologue to La Celestina, a Renaissance work par excellence, though still claimed also by medievalists. The theme of this text, penned by the converso Fernando de Rojas at the time of Spain’s greatest racial turmoil (published in 1499, it followed by seven years Spain’s expulsion of the Jews in 1492), is that all is conflict: All things are created after the fashion of a contest or battle, as that great sage Heraclitus says in this way: “Omnia secundum litem fiunt.” A proverb, to my mind, worthy of perpetual and memorable memory.53 Here Rojas, a lawyer and clearly the recipient of a humanistic education, cites the classical author Heraclitus in an effort to bolster his argument. In line with

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In England, the Renaissance arguably happened as late as it did in Spain. See Michael Hattaway (ed.), A Companion to English Renaissance Literature and Culture (Oxford: 2003). “Todas las cosas ser criadas a manera de contienda o batalla, dice aquel gran sabio Heráclito en este modo: ‘Omnia secundum litem fiunt.’ Sentencia a mi ver digna de perpetua y recordable memoria” (Fernando de Rojas, La Celestina: Tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea, [ed.] Dorothy S. Severin [Madrid: 1992], 40).

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his theme, we should not be surprised to find, in our attempts to synthesize ideas from this time period, a cacophony of competing voices. But there is hope: “History is not condemned to remain a battlefield between irreconcilable points of view. There is a place for a critical pluralism.”54 How reassuring. But let’s be honest: a generation ago, this volume—designed to provide a parallel to similar volumes for France, Germany, etc.— might never have been commissioned by the Renaissance Society of America. The rise in Hispanists’ participation in RSA meetings, if it were graphed, would present a steep incline. This volume could voice a representative answer from Hispanists to the RSA: “Thanks for the invite to the party. We’re ready to accept.” Let us not forget, after all, that words can take on new, additional layers of meaning. We should not discard the possibility that this very volume might hail a ‘renaissance’ of sorts for Early Modern Hispanic studies. Recent indicators all point in the direction of this trend. Fifteen years ago, the University of Toronto Press did not even host a book series with a Spanish Renaissance focus, but now the foremost venue for cutting-edge monographs in this area is arguably UTP’s Toronto Iberic. In similar fashion, Ashgate now publishes a series bearing the title New Hispanisms. To this list should of course be added the Renaissance Society of America’s Texts and Studies series, which includes things Hispanic and of which the current volume forms a part. This renewed interest, at least in North America, may be tied to the United States’ shifting demographics / rise in proportion of Spanish speakers and concomitant ripple effects as seen in the culture wars. The term ‘Renaissance’ respects the period’s otherness as distinct from ours without trying to make it an extension of ourselves. Alison Weber, in a PMLA article titled “Golden Age or Early Modern: What’s in a Name?” provides a salutary admonition to respect temporal Otherness in the specific area of religion: The traditional consensus that equated modernity with secularism and secularism with the abandonment of religion has been seriously challenged. It is now widely accepted that religion was an essential component of intellectual and social life in the period of the Enlightenment (Sheehan; Midelfort). If we think of secularization not as the rejection of religion but as the acceptance of a world less permeable to supernatural intervention (but spiritually porous nonetheless), then new patterns of thought become visible.55 54 55

Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:119. Alison Weber, “Golden Age or Early Modern: What’s in a Name?”PMLA 126.1 (2011): 225–232,

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Her approach manifests a certain synchrony with recent developments in related fields, such as the “sacramental sensibility motivating much medieval historiography”56 and the “the so-called religious turn in critical-theoretical studies.”57 A disclaimer might be in order here: ironically, the chapter on religion in the present volume ultimately concludes that Spanish society was not so religious as scholars have previously thought (although this assertion is contradicted by other essays within this same collection, such as those by Ed Behrend-Martínez and Bernie Cantens). A renewed attention to religious sensibilities—a sort of ‘spiritual renaissance,’ if you will—does not need to impose censorship, nor does it guarantee that scholarly assessments must be uniform. It just levels the playing field and allows religious questions to be asked, where they might have been stifled by scholars of previous generations who embraced a more secularizing agenda. In an effort toward inclusion of these multiple perspectives, including religious ones, this volume takes an interdisciplinary approach. So the question becomes: what constitutes ‘Renaissance’ in each discipline represented here? The literary Renaissance lasted longer in Spain, as has been mentioned. In fact, Renaissance Studies as an interdisciplinary field should be uniquely interested in Spain because the Renaissance lasted longer there than almost anywhere else. Just as postmodern neo-Baroque poets in Latin America insist on defying traditional temporalities,58 so too it might be possible for a ‘renaissance’ to occur as late as the 17th century—or even now. Lisa Lampert calls the 21st century, in some respects, neo-medieval.59 Neo-Latinist scholars study 21st-century revivals of the classics such as a Mexican poet living until 2015 who wrote epic poetry in Latin.60 Following the model of Heinrich Wölfflin’s art historical cate-

56 57 58

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at 228. She cites Jonathan Sheehan, “Enlightenment, Religion, and the Enigma of Secularization,” American Historical Review 108.4 (2003): 1061–1080; and H.C. Erik Midelfort, Exorcism and Enlightenment: Johann Joseph Gassner and the Demons of Eighteenth-Century Germany (New Haven: 2005). Bruce W. Holsinger, The Premodern Condition: Medievalism and the Making of Theory (Chicago: 2005), 5. Holsinger, The Premodern Condition, 21. For a recent revisionary approach to Latin American literary history by a poet who has himself been called ‘neo-Baroque’ but actually objects to the term, see my fine colleague Eduardo Espina’s essay “Neo-no-Barroco o Barrococó: hacia una perspectiva menos inexacta del Neobarroco,” Revista Chilena de Literatura 89 (2015): 133–156. He wrote this essay in the wake of a new course we taught together on Baroque and Neo-Baroque in the spring of 2012. Lisa Lampert, “Race, Periodicity, and the (Neo-) Middle Ages,”Modern Language Quarterly 65 (2004): 391–422. The poet is Francisco José Cabrera, author of Tres ciudades: tres cantos neolatinos. Mexicus

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gories such as ‘baroque’61 we could argue for stylistic features of art, literature,62 and architecture that might be termed ‘renaissances’ with a lower-case r. Or ‘renaissance’ might invoke a certain historical sensibility, as in Peter Burke’s The Renaissance Sense of the Past.63 This deliberate choice expresses our rejection of reification and essentialism while embracing an undeniable pattern of stylistic similarity. This approach in terms of method both implies and employs a broadly comparative view. At this moment I wish to acknowledge both the benefits and the limitations of my own training: this volume’s editorship reflects a literary scholar’s perspective more than a historian’s. However, I took graduate courses in History at Princeton and, in fact, the former president of the American Historical Association, Anthony Grafton, served on my dissertation committee (I am proud to call myself a ‘Graftonian,’ as we were affectionately designated at his recent 65th birthday celebration). As Paul Ricoeur pronounced uneasily—although it was easy for him to say, since he was a philosopher—“History is an ambiguous discipline, half literary, half scientific … [T]he epistemology of history can only register this state of affairs with regret.”64 He continued this provocative line of argument: History does nothing different from what philology or textual criticism does. When the reading of some received text or interpretation appears to be discordant in relation to other accepted facts, the philologist or textual critic rearranges the details to make everything intelligible again. Writing is rewriting.65 In an intriguing section of his three-volume Time and Narrative titled “Explanation by Emplotment,” Paul Ricoeur argued for the essential similarity of litera-

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Tenochtitlan, Angelopolis, Quauhnahuac (Mexico City: 2004). I became aware of Cabrera’s work through Nancy E. Llewellyn’s paper “Cabrera’s Tenochtitlan,” presented as part of a panel on “Neo-Latin Texts and the Hispanic New World: Diffusion and Alteration of European Attitudes,” organized by the American Association of Neo-Latin Studies for the American Philological Association congress in Philadelphia in January 2002. Heinrich Wölfflin, “Principles of Art History: The Problem of the Development of Style in Later Art,” in Baroque New Worlds: Representation, Transculturation, Counterconquest, (eds.) Lois Parkinson Zamora and Monika Kaup (Durham: 2010), 46–58. The classic example of this approach for literature is René Wellek, “The Concept of Baroque in Literary Scholarship,” in Concepts of Criticism (New Haven: 1963), 69–114. Peter Burke, The Renaissance Sense of the Past (New York: 1967). Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:91. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:155.

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ture to history. He described the “poetics” of historical discourse as grounded in the presupposition that “fiction and history belong to the same class as regards their narrative structure.”66 Here we might think of such brilliant analyses as J.B. Bullen’s The Myth of the Renaissance in Nineteenth-Century Writing, which treats the Renaissance as a myth in much the same way as we might analyze the myth of, say, Theseus.67 The ‘literariness’ of historiography explains why I as a literature scholar should be editing a volume dominated—of my choice, since I invited them—by historians, be they of the social or the intellectual variety. The choice of ‘Renaissance’ as historiographical designation is intimately bound up with larger questions about public humanities and the academy. What does it mean to study humanism68 in the 21st century? What is at stake here? Any responsible treatment of this question must attempt to deal with the so-called crisis of the human. I refer to current theoretical debates on humanity versus animality69 which are ultimately grounded in the work of philosophers like Giorgio Agamben. Here are the specific terms by which this discussion is framed: Man has now reached his historical telos and, for a humanity that has become animal again, there is nothing left but the depoliticization of human societies by means of the unconditioned unfolding of the oikonomia, or the taking on of biological life itself as the supreme political (or rather impolitical) task … The traditional historical potentialities— poetry, religion, philosophy—which from both the Hegelo-Kojevian and Heideggerian perspectives keep the historico-political destiny of peoples awake, have long since been transformed into cultural spectacles and private experiences, and have lost all historical efficacy. Faced with this eclipse, the only task that still seems to retain some seriousness is the

66 67 68 69

Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:161. J.B. Bullen, The Myth of the Renaissance in Nineteenth-Century Writing (Oxford: 1994). For further definitions of the Renaissance movement known as humanism, see the essay on “Intellectual Life” by Lía Schwartz and Susan Byrne in the present volume. See, for example, Carrie Packwood Freeman, “Embracing Humanimality: Deconstructing the Human / Animal Dichotomy,” in Arguments about Animal Ethics, (eds.) G. Goodale and J.E. Black (Lanham, MD: 2010), 11–30; Barbara Paterson, “Ethics for Wildlife Conservation: Overcoming the Human-Nature Dualism,”BioScience 56.2 (2006): 144–150; Stephanie Jenkins, “Returning the Ethical and Political to Animal Studies,”Hypatia 27.3 (2012), http:// people.oregonstate.edu/~cloughs/AnimalOthers.pdf; and Eva Giraud, “Veganism as Affirmative Biopolitics: Moving Towards a Posthumanist Ethics?” PhaenEx 8.2 (2013): 47– 79.

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assumption of the burden—and the “total management”—of biological life, that is, of the very animality of man … The total humanization of the animal coincides with a total animalization of man.70 At the root of this pernicious theory is an attempt to deconstruct the human / animal dichotomy. But if we accept the first premise that there is no essential difference between human beings and animals, where does that leave us exactly? On the same level with beasts? Renaissance humanists—foremost among them Pico della Mirandola, whose “Oration on the Dignity of Man” was delivered in a public forum before hostile adversaries in 1486—would say no.71 As founding father of the RSA Paul Oskar Kristeller explained, Humanism was one of the most pervasive traits of the Renaissance, and it affected more or less deeply all aspects of the culture of the time including its thought and philosophy. The modern term ‘humanism’ … was derived from the term ‘humanist’ coined in the late 15th century to designate a teacher and student of the ‘humanities’ or studia humanitatis. The word ‘humanity’ and its derivatives were associated with a ‘liberal’ education by several Roman writers, especially Cicero and Gellius. The term was revived by Petrarch, Salutati and others in the 14th century … Humanism has its proper domain or home territory in the humanities.72 The Renaissance is about humanism. Our use of the term ‘Renaissance’ restores humanity to the Early Modern period by preserving the distinction between man and animal and embracing human attempts at self-fashioning even if they involve deceit. This ‘Renaissance’ was for pícaros and prostitutes as much as for popes and princes. It implies a recognition of the messiness of ongoing constructions of subjectivity, at the same time engaging in the difficult work of sorting out the human from the demonic or the animal. Those who insist on denying what it means to be human have clearly not studied demonic pos-

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Giorgio Agamben, “Animalization,” in The Open: Man and Animal (Stanford: 2003), 75–77, at 76–77. See also Jacques Derrida, The Beast & the Sovereign, vol. 1, trans. Geoffrey Bennington, (eds.) Michel Lisse et al. (Chicago: 2009). Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, “Oration on the Dignity of Man,” trans. Elizabeth Livermoore Forbes, in The Renaissance Philosophy of Man, (eds.) Ernst Cassirer, Paul Oskar Kristeller and John Herman Randall, Jr. (Chicago: 1948), 223–254. Paul Oskar Kristeller, “Humanism,” in The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy, (eds.) Charles B. Schmitt et al. (Cambridge: 1988) 113–138, at 113–114.

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session. The perception of invasion of a human entity by an external force of darkness presumes by its very nature that said entity exists in the first place.73 Ironically, it seems to take a Jewish scholar like Moshe Sluhovsky to argue for a restoration of Catholic devotional practices, particularly by women, to their rightful place within accounts of the construction of Early Modern subjectivity: Both the intellectual transition from a medieval cosmology of similarity to a modern scientifically oriented perspective of discernment of difference by means of observation, and the introspective individual who is acutely aware of his or her interiority … can and should equally be traced to late medieval and 16th-century Catholicism in general, and to the intersubjective lives of Catholic women in particular.74 I would extend his argument to propose restoration of Spain to its rightful place within the larger European historiographical narrative of the Renaissance (several of his examples, such as St Teresa of Ávila, are in fact Spanish). While he acknowledges that “historians stand as the guardians of change” and “historians are the inventors of their documents,” Paul Ricoeur advocates “respect for the extreme slowness of real changes.”75 Here he obviously refers to Fernand Braudel’s article on “The Longue Durée”76 as well as to Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre, founders of the Annales school, and what he calls their “antipositivist battle.”77 A real attention to the slow changes where Spain is concerned would involve more efforts like Elizabeth Teresa Howe’s in Autobiographical Writing by Early Modern Spanish Women (2015) to reconstruct, through painstaking genealogy, autobiographical traces left behind in unlikely sources such as notarial documents.78 These non-traditional projects are only just starting to be completed now. It may take another generation before the results of this research can be incorporated into broader narratives about, say, Renaissance European women, or Renaissance subjectivity, and so forth.

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See Hilaire Kallendorf, “A Force Within: The Importance of Demonic Possession for Early Modern Studies,” in Exorcism and Its Texts: Subjectivity in Early Modern Literature of England and Spain (Toronto: 2003), xiii–xix. Moshe Sluhovsky, “Discernment of Difference, the Introspective Subject, and the Birth of Modernity,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 36 (2006): 169–199, at 178. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:105, 110. Fernand Braudel, “History and the Social Sciences: The Longue Durée,” in On History, trans. Sarah Matthews (Chicago: 1980), 25–54. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:107. Elizabeth Teresa Howe, Autobiographical Writing by Early Modern Spanish Women (Farnham: 2015).

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We must possess the courage to restore to the Renaissance its strangeness. Don’t try to assimilate it to modernity: Attending to ideologies, the collective unconscious, and unrehearsed speech confers on history a sense of strangeness, of distance and difference, comparable to that of the anthropologist’s gaze … It is ordinary people, often denied the right to speak by the dominant form of discourse, who regain their voice through this type of history. Its type of rationality is also indicative of the most interesting attempt to carry quantitative analysis to the third level, that of attitudes regarding such things as sex, love, death, spoken or written discourse, ideology, and religion.79 As Bruno Latour asserts so memorably through his book’s title: We Have Never Been Modern.80 Ricoeur’s challenge to “carry quantitative analysis to the third level” is answered by specific topics covered in this volume—like Stephanie Fink’s essay on birth and death, Cristian Berco’s study of health and illness, or Elvira Vilches’ chapter on currency, debt, and credit—which bears the imprint of the Annales school but tries to combine micro- with macrohistory. Twenty-odd years ago, in 1996, when I was a young and impressionable graduate student, I attended the opening of the Juan Carlos Center at New York University. There I heard a lecture by Sir John Elliott, who announced archly that “microhistory is for minihistorians.” While I admired his courage and decided to emulate his willingness to ask the big questions, nevertheless something disturbed me about his formulation. Might not microhistory be a beginning for macrohistory, an antidote to the axiom that ‘history is written by the winners’? What about histories of the marginalized, intimate glimpses of private life that will be impossible if we limit ourselves to a rigidly macrohistorical approach? This volume, like Saint Paul, strives to be “all things to all people”81 and, in doing so, is likely to please none of them. But just because such a synthesis is difficult does not mean that it should not be attempted.

∵ This volume is divided into seven sections: Politics and Government, Empire and Ethnicity, Culture and Society, ‘High’ and ‘Low’, Humanists and their Legacy, Artistic Production, and Currents and Currency. The first section opens with 79 80 81

Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:110, emphasis mine. Bruno Latour, We Have Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, MA: 1993). 1 Corinthians 9:22.

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a sort of pre-history for the Spanish Renaissance authored by Harald Braun (consider it a prequel of sorts to this movie). His essay is followed chronologically by a piece from Fabien Montcher on politics and government in Spain during the 16th century. The next section, Empire and Ethnicity, consists of two essays: one by Beatriz de Alba-Koch on Spain’s colonial Empire and another by Marya T. Green-Mercado on its various ethnic groups, including conversos, marranos, moriscos, Gypsies, Africans, and indios. The interactions of those groups, in turn, form the basis for the third section, Culture and Society, comprised by essays from Elizabeth Lehfeldt on family and daily life, from Stephanie Fink on birth and death, from Henry Kamen on religion, and from Cristian Berco on health and disease. The fourth section, ‘High’ and ‘Low’, starts out with an essay by Ignacio Navarrete and Elizabeth Terry on nobility and court culture but then moves toward popular culture and its interface with the legal system. This essay by Edward Behrend-Martínez connecting festivals to judicial proceedings forms a nice segue into a related chapter by Enrique García Santo-Tomás on civic ritual (including theatrical performance) and other aspects of urban life. Finally, the last essay in this section, a piece by Ruth MacKay on notions of community and the idea of the common good, in some ways unites ‘high’ and ‘low’ by embracing the totality of the Spanish populace. Next, we have a section which serves as a counterpoint to the last one: Humanists and their Legacy is in some ways a paean to erudition and thus the antithesis of popular culture. We start with a panoramic view of intellectual life by Lía Schwartz Lerner and Susan Byrne, focused on humanistic recovery of the classics, and then branch out into considerations of women and their access to learning in Spanish Renaissance society as studied by Elizabeth Teresa Howe. Next come philosophy, law and mysticism, in an essay by Bernie Cantens which concentrates on Francisco de Vitoria, Francisco Suárez, and St Teresa of Ávila, among other figures. The influence of the humanists may of course be seen also in the next section, namely Artistic Production, with essays on literature (Juan Antonio Garrido Ardila); painting, sculpture and architecture (Jeffrey Schrader); and visual culture (Frederick de Armas). The volume wraps up with a final group of essays called Currents and Currency, which includes chapters on scientific developments and new technologies (William Eamon), money (Elvira Vilches), and finally an exploration by Michael Levin on the question of how Spain was perceived by the rest of Europe. These attitudes have shaped historiographical trends of both how Spain tells her story and how her story has been told.

∵

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In conclusion, and as exemplified by this diverse volume, what can Renaissance Studies offer to a postmodern age? It can offer humanism in its fullest sense of affirmation of the human. Postmodernism is pernicious in its rejection of the priority of humanity and insistence on the falsity of the human vs. animal binary. When this dichotomy is deconstructed fully, then we are placed on the same plane with animals and potentially absolved of moral responsibility. Humanism offers a validation of the human vs. animal dichotomy while still embracing the messiness of human beings’ often unsuccessful efforts to rise above animality by combatting the Seven Deadly Sins such as Lust, Gluttony, etc.82 It acknowledges that through a constantly-perceived threat of demonic incursion, human ‘Virtue’83 is under assault. The very sensation of being besieged by demons or by sin in itself already preserves the distinction between what is human and what is not—the process of arriving at which Sluhovsky might call discernment of spirits: During the century prior to the Cartesian epistemological rupture, the discernment of spirits had already developed into “an activity of thinking that no longer consisted of comparing things among themselves, but of contrasting and discerning.”84 This process of discernment was arguably the same one employed by Early Modern casuists in an effort to sort out fine distinctions between right and wrong.85 These are the same critical thinking skills, in turn, which we attempt to instill in our students. We often lose sight of the fact that the Renaissance— especially the Spanish Renaissance—was the site of the casuists’ maximal flourishing.86

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For a study of the Seven Deadly Sins and Ten Commandments in Renaissance Spanish stage plays, see Hilaire Kallendorf, Sins of the Fathers: Moral Economies in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2013). I have recently completed a book titled Ambiguous Antidotes: Virtue as Vaccine for Vice in Early Modern Spain, published in 2017 by the University of Toronto Press, which demonstrates the problematic nature of this Renaissance term and its foundations in classical culture. Sluhovsky, “Discernment of Difference,” 181. He quotes Michel Foucault’s description of the Cartesian revolution but does not give an exact citation. See Hilaire Kallendorf, Conscience on Stage: The Comedia as Casuistry in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2007). See Albert R. Jonsen and Stephen Toulmin, “High Casuistry: Summists and Jesuits,” in The Abuse of Casuistry: A History of Moral Reasoning (Berkeley: 1989), 139–151, where the

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Attention to religious texts (especially Catholic ones), texts by women, and texts by Spaniards can help us recover a lost ‘Renaissance’ that extended later and covered more segments of the population than we previously thought. ‘Renaissance’ as a style might even be a way of thinking, a way of viewing the world, which is as pertinent now as it was in the 1500s. Just as there are various possible Baroques (and neo-Baroques), there could be multiple Renaissances and multiple Golden Ages—e.g. Latin, Latin American, or Spanish. For Spain, this approach entails a non-Eurocentric, multicultural view: 1492 begins the Renaissance in Spain instead of 1453 (when the Turks took Constantinople)87 because in Spain in 1453, the Muslims were still there. But was that necessarily a bad thing? As Janet Abu-Lughod recalls, “My work on the history of Cairo had convinced me that the Eurocentric view of the Dark Ages was ill-conceived. If the lights went out in Europe, they were certainly still shining brightly in the Middle East.”88 The same could be said for Muslimoccupied Spain. In that sense perhaps the ‘Renaissance’ actually happened earlier in Spain than in the rest of Europe (hence the so-called Renaissance of the 12th century).89 Maybe we need to leave behind the idea that the only crib of the Renaissance was Florence. It is time to decenter our discussion geographically as well as temporally: what if the ‘center’ was really Córdoba? This decentering approach has been employed profitably by recent studies like Gerald M. MacLean’s edited volume Re-Orienting the Renaissance: Cultural Exchanges with the East,90 Jack Goody’s The East in the West,91 and Lisa Jardine’s and Jerry Brotton’s Global Interests: Renaissance Art between East and West.92

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authors chronicle the zenith of European casuistry under the Jesuits. The Jesuit Order, or Company of Jesus, was founded by a Spaniard, Saint Ignatius Loyola (1491–1556). On the importance of this date as a dividing point, see David Lawton, “1453 and the Stream of Time,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37.3 (2007): 469–491. Janet L. Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: The World System, A.D.1250–1350 (Oxford: 1989), ix. See Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge: 1927); and Robert Louis Benson, Constable Giles, and Carol Dana Lanham (eds.), Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: 1991). Gerald M. MacLean, (ed.), Re-Orienting the Renaissance: Cultural Exchanges with the East (New York: 2005). Jack Goody, The East in the West (Cambridge: 1996). Lisa Jardine and Jerry Brotton, Global Interests: Renaissance Art between East and West (London: 2000). See also, by one of the same authors, Jerry Brotton, The Renaissance Bazaar: From the Silk Road to Michelangelo (Oxford: 2003).

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Further, what might it mean to engage in post-Renaissance Renaissance Studies? Was what happened in Spain more of a POST-RENAISSANCE? (These reflections are occasioned by Michelle Warren’s section title “Around the Next Post” in her provocative essay “Post-Philology”).93 Rather than lamenting Spain’s perpetual belatedness, perhaps it is time to embrace Spain’s unique place as a dot on the graph of European Renaissances, plural.

∵ We are in a culture-wide struggle to keep the humanities relevant.94 My acceptance speech for the Hiett Prize in the Humanities (2006) was titled “Putting the Human Back into the Humanities.”95 If we do away with the Renaissance per se, out goes humanism with it; and humanism is fundamentally about the humanities—i.e. the study of what it means to be human.96 Nowhere was this more true than in Spain. Next to the ‘crib of the Renaissance,’ which most scholars recognize as Italy, Spain participated more fully in the Christian Humanist synthesis97 than other countries where there was not so much pressure to find ways to make faith compatible with reason. Viewed from a different angle, it could be argued that Inquisitorial repression actually served as an impetus to humanist learning because there more newly-rediscovered texts of the ancients were being mined for nuggets of moral wisdom in an effort to support Christian truth.98

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Michelle Warren, “Post-Philology,” in Postcolonial Moves: Medieval through Modern, (eds.) Patricia Clare Ingham and Michelle R. Warren (New York: 2003), 19–45, at 36. In a further rumination on this prefix, she and her co-editor ask: “if … ‘the post- in postcolonial is the post- of the space-clearing gesture,’ what kinds of spaces might a premodern postcolonial approach clear?” (Ingham and Warren, “Introduction: Postcolonial Modernity and the Rest of History,” in Postcolonial Moves, 1–18, at 7). This sense of crisis, with accompanying applications of Renaissance humanism to our current situation, may be found in Jennifer Summit, “Renaissance Humanism and the Future of the Humanities,” Literature Compass 9/10 (2012): 665–678. Delivered in April 2006 to the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. For a recent emphasis on this connection, see David Rundle, “Before the Humanities, the Humanists,” History Today 64.9 (2014), http://www.historytoday.com/david‑rundle/ humanitieshumanists. The same linkage had been made previously by many scholars, notably Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine in From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenth and Sixteenth-Century Europe (London: 1986). For a reassessment of this term, see Charles Nauert, “Rethinking ‘Christian Humanism,’” in Interpretations of Renaissance Humanism, (ed.) A. Mazzocco (Leiden: 2006), 155–180. See, for example, Sagrario López Poza, “Quevedo, humanista cristiano,” in Quevedo a nueva luz. Escritura y política, (eds.) L. Schwartz and A. Carreira (Málaga: 1997), 59–81.

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An alarmist view might say that postmodern cultural critics are actively trying to dismantle humanities programs and remove the human element. Our world needs heroes, even if they are flawed.99 We can “redeem the time”100 by remembering the best that human beings have thought and felt. This injunction connotes an unapologetic striving for excellence—i. e. ‘Virtue’.101 I realized just how far our culture had drifted from overtly seeking to attain excellence when I first watched the animated cartoon movie The Incredibles (2004) with my little boy. The pretext for this film is that all the world’s superheroes have gone into hiding because the atmosphere has become so politically correct that “if we can’t all be incredible, then nobody is.” The Incredibles are a family of superheroes who come out of the closet, as it were, to reveal their true nature when crisis strikes and duty calls. The moral of the story is positive and upbeat: don’t settle for mediocrity. Unleash your secret superpowers and use them to change the world. Scholars of Renaissance Europe are too often criticized as white colonialist oppressors, to the point that we too are bullied and shamed into hiding. Our critics unfortunately conflate us with our objects of study. We don’t have to agree with the repressive policies of the Inquisition to study how the tensions thereby operating within Spanish culture led to the creation of great literature. In fact, we can even study marginal works—arguably, pretty lousy literature— but come at them from a cultural studies perspective that does not celebrate their ideology. Is it still indicative of the prevalence of the Black Legend102 that Spain does not ‘deserve’ to have a Renaissance? Why should it necessarily coincide with similar movements in other European countries? As postmodernist critics reject grand narratives and the accompanying tendency to reify and essentialize, why must there be one and only one Renaissance? Why can’t we grant to the Spanish Renaissance full citizenship and legitimacy without trying to pigeon-

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102

Here I refer specifically to the so-called pessimistic interpretation of Virgil’s Aeneid as voiced by Michael C.J. Putnam in The Humanness of Heroes: Studies in the Conclusion of Virgil’s Aeneid (Amsterdam: 2011). My reference here is to Saint Paul’s admonition to “Walk in wisdom toward them that are without, redeeming the time, because the days are evil” (Ephesians 5:16). ‘Virtue’ was a much-debated topic among Renaissance humanists, as we see from their translated treatises collected together in Knowledge, Goodness, and Power: The Debate over Nobility among Quattrocento Italian Humanists, (ed.) and trans. Albert Rabil, Jr. (Binghamton, NY: 1991). See Margaret R. Greer, Walter D. Mignolo, and Maureen Quilligan (eds.), Rereading the Black Legend: Discourses of Religious and Racial Difference in the Renaissance Empires (Chicago: 2007).

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hole it or force it into a Procrustean bed? As Dipesh Chakrabarty describes what he calls the “‘waiting-room’ version of history,” Historicism—and even the modern, European idea of history—one might say, came to non-European peoples in the 19th century as somebody’s way of saying ‘not yet’ to somebody else.103 For too long now, Spain has been the stepchild of European historiography. Hispanist scholars of the Renaissance have waited long enough. Because, you see, ‘Renaissance’ can mean a rebirth not just of the classics. A multicultural teleology informed by Hindu religion (or the 20th-century Latin American literary movement known as magical realism) might allow for multiple renaissances or rebirths. Witness all the multiple literary rebirths in the period: Lope de Vega (el ‘Fénix’) was perpetually reborn from the ashes. The first picaresque hero Lazarillo was reborn with each new master (his name bears the resonance of Lazarus, whom Jesus resurrected from his tomb, which thereby also simultaneously becomes a womb). In Góngora’s Soledades, the pilgrim is reborn from a shipwreck and seeks further marginalization / solitude, which leads us to meditate on the clever pun buried within the work’s title: Sol + edades (Solitudes or Ages of Gold). Let us take this word play to mean plural Golden Ages / Renaissances. We need a higher tolerance for what Ingham and Warren call “temporal diversity.”104 Sarah Gwyneth Ross exemplifies this pluralistic approach in Everyday Renaissances: The Quest for Cultural Legitimacy in Venice. The book’s front jacket reads: The world of wealth and patronage that we associate with 16th- and early 17th-century Italy can make the Renaissance seem the exclusive domain of artists and aristocrats. Revealing a Renaissance beyond Michelangelo and the Medici, Sarah Gwyneth Ross recovers the experiences of everyday men and women who were inspired to pursue literature and learning.105 The book includes uncharted waters such as “Testamentary Humanism” which studies ordinary people’s last wills and testaments. In this chapter, she claims 103 104 105

Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Colonial Difference (Princeton: 2000), 9, 8. Ingham and Warren, “Introduction,” 5. Sarah Gwyneth Ross, Everyday Renaissances: The Quest for Cultural Legitimacy in Venice (Cambridge, MA: 2016).

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that “[p]ractitioners of testamentary humanism went out of their way to disclose the Renaissances writ small taking place in their houses.”106 It is these domestic ‘renaissances’ too which have suffered undue neglect. ‘Renaissance’ as a word is eternally optimistic and hopeful, offering a chance for redemption. As Johannes Fabian rhapsodizes: “Our past is present in us as a project, hence as our future.”107 I would like to end these reflections with a final quote from Paul Ricoeur: Humanity’s lived past can only be postulated … [I]f this lived past were accessible to us, it would not be so as an object of knowledge. For, when it was present, this past was like our present, confused, multiform, and unintelligible … [H]istory aims at knowledge, an organized vision, established upon chains of causal or teleological relations, on the basis of meanings and values.108 It is these “meanings and values” we should be able to agree upon—so broadly defined as a shared sense of the human—even if we cannot come to any definitive closure on the question of what to call this time period. But I would like to submit that ‘Renaissance’ is as good a term as any. College Station, Texas August 2018 106 107 108

Ross, “Testamentary Humanism,” in Everyday Renaissances, 52–78, at 53. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: 2002), 93. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:99.

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able natural conditions related to climate and plague. Just as Charles’ reign had begun with crisis and revolt, by the end of Philip’s rule the Monarchy was subject to a new wave of political criticism.

4

From Political Criticism to World Governance

The Castilian-centered focus of modern histories of the Spanish Monarchy tends to over-emphasize the fact that, after the Comunidades (Revolt of the Comuneros) and the Germanías, internal revolts and political criticism disappeared in the face of increasing foreign conflicts. Nonetheless, even in Castile, resistance to authority did not simply disappear. In fact, revolts continued to shape the politics of the Monarchy.37 Ultimately, these tensions facilitated the circulation of information within the Monarchy and contributed to the affirmation of a state accustomed to negotiating obedience on a regular basis.38 Bad governance was a recurrent motif in Early Modern European political discourses and particularly in the Spanish Monarchy, where the image of the sovereign was diluted across a complex system of political delegations. The fear of possible ties between local communities and foreign enemies conditioned the Monarchy’s responses to resistance. For example, in the case of the Wars of Granada (1568–1571), the alleged support of North African and Ottoman rulers for the morisco revolt proved to be of strategic importance for the royal forces, using the threat of foreign intervention to legitimate violence against subjects of the king. Later on, the supposed Ottoman connections of the moriscos would be used in debates concerning their status within the Spanish Monarchy, ultimately contributing to their expulsion between 1609 and 1614. After the defeat of the Great Armada in 1588, in 1589 the crown fought for the Castilian Cortes to approve the new and extraordinary servicio of the millones (so named for the millions of maravedíes that were supposed to be collected).39 The Cortes approved the millones in 1590, whereby an indirect tax on basic food items would be paid by almost every subject. In exchange,

37

38 39

For the continuity of these phenomena during the 17th century see Ruth MacKay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in Seventeenth-Century Castile (Cambridge: 1999). Jean-Paul Zúñiga (ed.), Negociar la obedencia: autoridad y consentimiento en el mundo ibérico en la Edad Moderna (Granada: 2013). For a definition of this term, see the essay by Elvira Vilches in this volume, “Doing Things with Money in Early Modern Spain.”

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Philip II conceded collection of the millones and control over use of these funds to the Cortes and to some municipalities. Nonetheless, resistance to the tax increased, and nobles used the millones to foster political opposition. In 1590, resistance spread throughout the kingdom, especially in Madrid, Seville, and Ávila. While the Madrid revolts were rapidly suppressed, tracts and pamphlets against Philip II appeared in Ávila in October 1590. There, the town council refused to gather to vote in favor of the tax. Commoners, aristocrats, urban elites, and the clergy forged an alliance against the tax by reactivating the memory of the Comuneros. Eventually the crown reasserted its dominance and a nobleman, Diego de Bracamonte, was sentenced to death as the main tax rebel in Ávila. The continuous wars in the Netherlands were referred to by both rebels and royal agents as one of the causes of fiscal pressure and consequent revolts. The millones protests in Castile were followed by a revolt in Aragon in 1591. In less than two years, two of the most influential Kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula had expressed their discontent with royal government and administration.40 After these revolts, court writers were commissioned to craft narratives of these episodes. The polemics that these writers established with Aragonese scholars would constitute a space for debate in which new ideas about royal sovereignty would ultimately be elaborated during the 17th century. Revolts such as the Comuneros, Alpujarras, Naples (1585), and Aragon, among many others, represented just a small part of the resistance against royal politics and government within the Spanish Monarchy. In colonial America, crises and revolts also grew in intensity during the 16th century. Resistance accompanied conquests and the consolidation of colonial societies, and forced the communication of royal authority to improve. After the promulgation of the Leyes Nuevas in 1542, which reduced considerably the encomiendas (privileges conceded to conquerors over the jurisdiction of Indian populations) and abolished practices of Indian slavery that had been enshrined in the 1512 Leyes de Burgos, revolts among colonists and civil conflicts increased.41 In the midst of these civil wars in America, scholars raised their voices and helped frame the future government of colonial societies.42 In addition to cultural and social hybridity, military violence and disobedience became two active instru-

40 41

42

See Jesús Gascón Pérez, Alzar banderas contra su rey. La rebelión de 1591 contra Felipe II (Zaragoza: 2010). For an up-to-date examination of Gonzalo Pizarro’s revolt against Charles V see Gregorio Salinero, Trahison de Cortés. Désobéissance, procès politiques et gouvernement des Indes de Castille: seconde moitié du XVIe siècle (Paris: 2013). Sabine MacCormack, On the Wings of Time: Rome, the Incas, Spain, and Peru (Princeton: 2007).

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ments for the consolidation of Spanish settlements in America. In 1591–1593, in parallel to the millones and Aragonese revolts, the alcabala (sales tax) was introduced in America at a 2% rate (it was 10% in the Peninsula). In Quito revolts were launched against this tax and the specter of the 1540 Peruvian rebellion loomed again. In the end, these conflicts facilitated the formation of a criollo identity which would ultimately claim control over colonial politics in the Spanish Americas.43 One of the consequences of all these movements of resistance was (perhaps counterintuitively) the growing ability of the Spanish Monarchy to govern a worldwide Empire. A crucial factor in good government was the circulation of information adapted to the multi-continental scale of its administration. Several institutions and extra-institutional means developed to handle this circulation. During the reigns of Charles V and Philip II, the title of Correo Mayor y Maestro General de Postas was controlled by the Taxis family. Charles V’s father, Philip the Handsome, created the office in Castile in 1505 based on the imperial postal system established by Maximilian I at the end of the 15th century. Under Charles V the postal system became more reliable. It remained a monopoly in the hands of the same family until the reign of Philip IV (r. 1621–1665).44 Under Philip II, the postal system expanded to include the overseas possessions of the Monarchy. For example, in 1579 Philip II granted Martín de Olivares the title of Correo Mayor of New Spain. The posts were above all a business unto themselves. In addition to the royal postal system, the idea that the politics of the Spanish Monarchy relied on an administration built on paper has been reinforced by the image of King Philip II as the ‘Paper King’. One of the most well-known and striking images of Philip’s reign, in opposition to the depiction of his father as a travelling king, is that of him writing and signing from his Escorial palace desk as many as 400 letters a day (consultas) in collaboration with secretaries. His role as the ‘Paper King,’ however, was not necessarily in conflict with being a king on the move. In fact, Philip II consistently carried out a part of his government when traveling, all the while adapting the administrative structure of the Spanish Monarchy to his itinerancy.45 As Geoffrey Parker and Fernando Bouza 43

44 45

See Tamar Herzog, Defining Nations: Immigrants and Citizens in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America (New Haven: 2003). On artistic expressions of criollo identity, see the essay by Beatriz de Alba-Koch, “The Spanish Colonial Empire in the Renaissance: Establishing the First Global Culture,” in the present volume. See John B. Allen, Post and Courier Service in the Diplomacy of Early Modern Europe (The Hague: 1972). Teófilo Ruiz, A King Travels: Festive Traditions in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Princeton: 2012).

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have shown, his government strategy relied both on his obsession with paperwork and on his effort to reform and accelerate political decision-making. To this end, during his reign, Philip promoted the creation of juntas (intermediary assemblies which worked on specific matters) such as the Junta de Noche in which Philip’s main ministers and secretaries participated. Practices of writing also defined the political outcomes of campaigns of conquest such as those in Granada or America. By means of capitulaciones (surrender treaties) and documents such as the requerimiento,46 Spanish monarchs seized physical and symbolic power over new lands and peoples.47 These practices were the products of procedural and legal habits developed during the Middle Ages, when Christian kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula conquered Muslim lands and reorganized the whole social map of a region through new juridical status ( fueros).48 Politics and government during the 16th century were above all the result of these fictions of power put onto paper. These papers were contained and transmitted through archives such as Simancas— reformed during the reign of Philip II—, where state officers and private agents solicited or were asked to search through the collections in order to foster both private and public politics. As a logical consequence and response to this constant negotiation of power, political communication generated a learned culture articulated around governance practices. Based originally on Italian models and institutions, such as the office of secretary, the Spanish Empire helped globalize administrative and scholarly practices. The need for expert scholars and administrators eventually transcended the limits of the court and the councils. Soon the Castilian university system was unable to supply all the experts needed across all parts of the Spanish Monarchy. When conquered spaces constructed themselves as integrated societies of the Empire, a series of new universities were founded. The writing of history was also used to enact the rights contained within the paperwork of the Monarchy’s archives. From the New World, schol-

46

47 48

The requerimiento was a legal instrument of conquest. It took the form of an official document which proclaimed the sovereignty of the king over his new subjects. Though there is little evidence of its application in military contexts, the text circulated among reformers like Bartolomé de las Casas, who “did not know whether to laugh or cry” when considering such a juridical device. See Patricia Seed, Ceremonies of Possession in Europe’s Conquest of the New Worlds, 1492–1640 (Cambridge: 1995), 69–99. Rolena Adorno, The Polemics of Possession in Spanish American Narrative (New Haven: 2007). The fueros were charters which conferred to individuals, cities, and larger territories certain privileges and rights that political authorities should respect.

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ars such as Diego Muñoz Camargo (ca. 1529–1599), a son of a conquistador and an Indian woman, wrote a history of Tlaxcala. With a political formation grounded in classical culture, Muñoz Camargo introduced a more complex conception of Renaissance politics and discoveries.49 Serge Gruzinsky and Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra have shown the original contributions of these experts to Renaissance political culture as they extended the limits of traditional scholarship associated with classical learning and an exclusively European Republic of Letters. Renaissance classical culture, considered to be one of the keystones of modern political and critical thinking, was thus also inspired by pro- or anti-imperial politics from new vantage points across the Spanish Monarchy. Along with paperwork, the printing industry was used both as an instrument of propaganda and as a technology for the compilation needs of the Empire’s administration. The printing press also played a key role for individual petitioners who, after coming to the court in order to elevate their claims to the king, wanted to leave evidence of their inquiry. In addition, politics were fostered by the use of libraries. At the core of the administration, for example, some councils owned their own libraries and fostered politics of censorship and book printing, as well as historical writing. The introduction of the printing press in 1539 in Mexico, in 1584 in Lima, and in 1593 in Manila and Macao confirmed the fact that the cultures of knowledge of the Spanish Monarchy were closely connected to the needs of an administration articulated around what could be defined as ‘bibliopolitics.’ Circulation of scholars across the Empire, as well as letters exchanged by religious orders and merchants, also created an Empire-wide space of political communication.50 The existence of ‘composite’ nobilities, who moved between different offices all over the Monarchy, contributed to this dynamism as much as the army, which functioned mainly as an agent of political communication since it sustained the postal system and counted among its ranks writers who were formed as soldiers, scholars, and administrators. The case of Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616) as a soldier who participated in the 1571 Battle of Lepanto and who later worked as a royal tax administrator is representative of many other similar experiences. The scope of the novelties that the Empire had to deal with during the 16th century also favored the convergence of a political culture based on histori49 50

Marilyn Miller, “Covert Mestizaje and the Strategy of ‘Passing’ in Diego Muñoz Camargo’s Historia de Tlaxcala,” Colonial Latin American Review 6 (1997): 41–58. Federico Palomo, “Written Empires: Franciscans, Texts, and the Making of Early Modern Iberian Empires,” Culture & History 5.2 (2016): 1–8.

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cal writing, archival organization, and even the development of the natural sciences, all of which involved empirical collection of visual testimonies, combined with strong imagination.51 All of these elements conditioned a political desire to control space, time, and social settings through a systematic measurement of reality,52 which also enhanced the production of maps and questionnaires necessary for supporting a global bureaucracy. Under Charles V and Philip II, the Casa de la Contratación in Seville was placed in charge of creating and updating the Padrón General (the map used to obtain an overall vision of the spaces that were discovered). Maps like these were made by royal officers who were at the same time educating new men tasked with sailing overseas. Philip II’s desire to ground his political prudence through a renewed administration based on knowledge achieved its highest expression with the 1582 creation of the Royal Academy of Mathematics in Madrid. In both cases—the Casa de Contratación and the Royal Academy of Mathematics—theoretical and practical knowledge were conceived of as a single utility for imperial administration. The production of knowledge was of course not the exclusive preserve of the Spanish Monarchy. Map production in Spain was influenced by Portuguese map-making throughout the 16th century. Before the Iberian Union of the Crowns between Spain and Portugal in 1580, intense contacts were established between the engineers of Renaissance discoveries in both Monarchies.53 Accumulation of knowledge within the Spanish Monarchy benefited from political competition with other powers at this time. Learned friendships and diplomatic spies established the foreign connections necessary to keep information flowing through the Spanish Monarchy’s administrative structure.54 The reign of Charles V had already set the basis for such production of knowledge. Early on, and prefiguring Philip II’s state information system, the emperor asked Pedro Cieza de León in 1528 to inform him about New Spain. The communication of information related to local geography, demography, economy and local jurisdiction was required for good governance. Soon after, Gonzalo Fernández de Ovideo presented to the emperor a summary of this information in

51 52 53 54

Antonio Barrera-Osorio, Experiencing Nature: The Spanish American Empire and the Early Scientific Revolution (Austin: 2006). Alfred W. Crosby, The Measure of Reality: Quantification and Western Society, 1250–1600 (Cambridge: 1998). See William Eamon’s essay in this volume, “Spanish Science in the Age of the New.” John H. Elliott, “Learning from the Enemy: Early Modern Britain and Spain,” in Spain, Europe, and the Wider World, 1500–1800 (New Haven: 2009), 25–51.

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his Historia general y natural de las Indias, islas y tierra firme del mar oceano (1532). Fernández de Oviedo embodied a typical dual career as an administrator and an historiographer. He oversaw the smelting of gold in Santo Domingo, and upon his return to Spain he was appointed Royal Historiographer of the Indies (1523). At the end of Charles V’s reign, several humanists such as Juan Páez de Castro (1512–1570) had already designed a project of reform for historical writing and for the Spanish Monarchy’s archival and library system. This call for reform was heard by Philip II. From the early 1560s, the king launched important reforms related to the conciliar systems. The visita general of the Council of Indies conducted by Juan de Ovando between 1567 and 1571 pushed the council to collect more information about the territories, economies, societies, cultural habits and individuals of the New World. It was also necessary in order to create a body of laws proper to the Indies, like the 1571 Ordenanzas of the West Indies, that would be added to others like the 1567 New Recompilation of Castilian Laws (Nueva Recopilación de Leyes de Castilla). In parallel, the office of cronistacosmógrafo, which combined the theoretical and practical approaches of New World administration, was conferred upon Juan Fernández de Velasco that same year. From this point onward, the Council of the Indies relied on a constant stream of processed information to enforce its control over viceroys and audiencias in the American kingdoms. The subsequent reforms of the 1570s were marked by a craze for compiling political data. Compiling was seen as an indispensable tactic to counter foreign campaigns of propaganda against the imperial projects of the Spanish Monarchy, since writing the history of Spain from abroad was a common way to attack its policies. During this time, Philip II used the Escorial as his main base of operations, gathering scholars at his library—which was one of the most up-to-date (and public) collections in the Monarchy—in order to craft a new history of Spain. A wide range of disciplines and scholars shared their knowledge in order to sustain the compilation needs of the Monarchy, and to write a history that would summarize all its positive achievements during the last centuries. Many works contributed to this new architecture of knowledge. The publication of the Plantin Bible in Antwerp directed by Benito Arias Montano (1568–1573), for example, as well as the universal description of the geography of the Occidental Indies coordinated by Juan López de Velasco between 1571–1574, the writing of the first synthesis of the history of Spain by Esteban de Garibay published on the Plantin presses in Antwerp (1571), the Description of the Antiquities of Spain by Ambrosio de Morales (1575), and the panoramic views of the cities of Spain by Anton Van den Wyngaerde (1562–1570), among many other projects, were all connected to work done in the offices of the Escorial and contributed

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to the same overall political project.55 While enhancing politics thanks to better access to information, these projects also consolidated the dominion of the Monarchy over the scholarly and symbolic fronts of the late 16th-century European civil and religious wars. Notwithstanding the novelty of the scale through which governance was effected, it is worth recalling that many of the projects mentioned failed. The questionnaires sent to America around 1573 are a good example of this; but even if the project was not achieved, questionnaires and methods of historical writing developed under Charles V and Philip II were standardized and used during the reigns of Philip III and IV. New questionnaires were sent to the Indies in 1604 and 1635 in order to write a history of the Church in America and to make a claim in favor of royal patronage there. These continuously renewed projects consolidated political and scholarly practices throughout a Monarchy involved in permanent processes of reform. Sixteenth-century politics in the Spanish Monarchy had a strong impact on 17th- and 18th-century government through institutional continuity and the transmission of Renaissance knowledge. Other European states and empires were inspired by the Spanish Monarchy and the techniques for managing information and communication that it fostered. Even though some of the traces of these influences were erased by Enlightenment projects that (during the 18th century)56 defined what the Renaissance was supposed to have been, the Spanish Monarchy cannot be ignored as one of the major actors of the 16th-century political Renaissance. The study of the worldly interactions of the Spanish Empire is fundamental to show that it was not isolated and that it relied on global collaborations and conflicts. The analysis of collaborative and global dimensions of Renaissance politics, as much as examination of the circulation of political models during the Renaissance, would benefit from a better integration of Iberian components in studies of Early Modern history. 55 56

Richard Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493–1793 (New Haven: 2000). See Neil Safier, Measuring the New World: Enlightenment Science and South America (Chicago: 2008).

part 2 Empire and Ethnicity

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chapter 3

The Spanish Colonial Empire in the Renaissance: Establishing the First Global Culture Beatriz de Alba-Koch

1

Introduction

On 22 April 1616, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, who would become Spain’s most famous writer, died in Madrid. His Don Quijote (1605 and 1615) was the first modern novel and a cultural landmark whose impact, like that of the Spanish Empire, was to extend well beyond the borders of Cervantes’ native Castile. In Córdoba and perhaps on the same day, the Empire lost an important historian, Garcilaso de la Vega, ‘El Inca.’1 In his Comentarios reales de los Incas (1609 and 1617) he deploys his knowledge of Indigenous history to comment on the rise and conquest of Tawantinsuyu, the Inka Empire.2 His response to the histories that had heretofore been written from a European perspective3 brings to the fore the complexity of Spanish imperialism. Cervantes and El Inca died when the Spanish Golden Age was arguably transitioning from the Renaissance to the Baroque, the former usually seen as an era of growth in the Iberian context between about 1440 and 1600, and the latter as a period of decline extending throughout the 17th century. The year of these writers’ death offers a vantage point from which to look at the Spanish Monarchy’s imperial expansion and colonization, still in progress in 1616, and from which to consider how this Empire gave rise to the first global culture.4

1 The exact date of El Inca’s death is uncertain, with 22, 23, and 24 April 1616 all proposed. 2 I follow the increasingly prevalent practice in Canada of capitalizing the adjective “Indigenous” when referring to the pre-invasion inhabitants of areas subjected to colonization and their descendants. 3 On the historiography of early colonial Peru see Raúl Porras Barrenechea, Los cronistas del Perú (1528–1650) y otros ensayos (Lima: 1986) and David Anthony Brading, The First America: The Spanish Monarchy, Creole Patriots, and the Liberal State 1492–1867 (Cambridge: 1991), 30– 48, 139–144, 147–165, 255–272. 4 A politically unified kingdom of Spain did not exist before the Nueva Planta of 1716. I follow the authoritative lead of Sir John Huxtable Elliott in denoting the various territories that were united by not much more than a common sovereign as the “Spanish Monarchy.” See John H. Elliott, “A Europe of Composite Monarchies,” Past & Present 137 (1992): 48–71.

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El Inca and Cervantes were men of arms as well as of letters, and both participated in the consolidation and expansion of Spanish imperialism at early points in their careers. El Inca, under the command of Don Juan José de Austria, was granted the rank of captain for his service to the crown during the suppression of the 1568–1570 rebellion of the moriscos in the Alpujarras mountains of Andalusia.5 The Spanish crown feared that the Alpujarras could become the basis of an Ottoman invasion of Iberia, and this priority ascribed to control of the Mediterranean Sea was also evident in the war of 1570–1573 against the Ottoman Empire that soon followed. In 1571, Cervantes served under the command of Don Juan José de Austria as a soldier at the naval Battle of Lepanto,6 a great victory for the Spanish Monarchy and its allies over the Ottomans.7 What image of empire could Cervantes and El Inca have derived from their life experiences? The novelist experienced empire in the Old World: born in Alcalá de Henares in 1547, he travelled through Italy, fought in a number of Mediterranean military campaigns, survived five years of captivity in Algiers, and became a tax collector on his return home. The historian, who was born in Cusco in 1539 as Gómez Suárez de Figueroa to a Spanish captain and an Inka princess, was a first-generation mestizo who experienced biculturalism, witnessed the struggle for power amongst the conquistadores of Peru, and left his patria for the metropolis in the second decade of his life.8 El Inca’s experience of empire was transatlantic, and his transcultural perspective clearly marked his texts, to which Cervantes seems to have been attentive.9 Pondering the vast, transoceanic expanse of the Spanish Empire, Cervantes and El Inca could readily have agreed on its unprecedented reach, despite numerous domestic strains on the control of this domain and attacks on land and sea by rival powers. “The [Spanish] empire,” contends Henry Kamen, “so extensive as to stagger the imagination, was the biggest ever known to history.”10 5 6

7 8 9

10

Antonio Cornejo Polar, “Garcilaso Inca de la Vega,” Literatura peruana siglo XVI a siglo XX, (eds.) Antonio Cornejo Polar and Jorge Cornejo Polar (Lima: 2000), 19–33. Luis Solá Bartina, “Cervantes, soldado de mar de infantería española. Batallas y combates en que participó,” Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616). Revista General de Marina, suplemento (2016): 17–30. Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, rev. ed. (London: 2002), 241–242. For the Inca’s change of name see José Antonio Mazzotti, “Garcilaso en el Inca Garcilaso: los alcances de un nombre,” Lexis: Revista de Lingüística y Literatura 29.2 (2005): 179–218. The novelist appears to have read the Comentarios and integrated information drawn from them into some of his works. El Inca and Cervantes could have met in Montilla, near Córdoba. For the possible interactions between them see Diana de Armas Wilson, “Hilos rotos: Cervantes y el Inca Garcilaso,” in USA Cervantes: 39 Cervantistas en Estados Unidos, (eds.) Georgina Dopico Black and Francisco Layna Ranz (Madrid: 2009), 1137–1151. Henry Kamen, Empire: How Spain Became a World Power, 1492–1763 (New York: 2003), 305.

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The extent of the domains of Philip III, head of the Empire from 1598 to 1621, was indeed impressive. In addition to all of the Iberian Peninsula, the Spanish possessions in Europe included the kingdoms of Naples, Sicily, and Sardinia, the Duchy of Milan, and the Spanish Netherlands, Charolais, and the FrancheComté. These domains, however, were much reduced from what Philip III’s grandfather, Charles V, who ruled the Spanish Empire from 1519 to 1556, had inherited from his paternal grandparents, Maximilian of Austria and Mary of Burgundy, and his maternal grandparents, Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile. The ruling houses of the Habsburgs and the Trastámaras, from which Charles V descended, had used marriage as a means to augment the territories under their domination, but the result of these unions was a discontinuous Empire throughout Europe. Unity amongst these possessions would be further strained by the religious differences that gave rise to the Protestant Reformation.11 In contrast, the overseas domains of Philip III were considerably larger than those of Charles V. The Spanish Empire in the New World was governed through a system of captaincies-general, kingdoms, and viceroyalties. The Viceroyalty of New Spain grew from central Mexico to the south to include the Captaincy-General of Guatemala, most of which is today known as Central America. To the north, the viceroyalty expanded to include theoretically what are now Florida, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, and parts of Wyoming and Colorado, though over much of that vast expanse the Spanish did not exert any effective control. New Spain also administered the Spanish possessions in the Caribbean as well as the Captaincy-General of the Philippines. The Viceroyalty of Peru included all of the Spanish possessions in South America except Venezuela.12 From 1580 to 1640, the Portuguese and Spanish Empires were brought under a single ruler: the Portuguese succession crisis of 1578 allowed Philip II of Spain, who ruled from 1556 to 1598, to gain control of Portugal and its vast overseas Empire after the death of the heirless Sebastian I of Portugal. Brazil as well as an extensive network of trading posts and enclaves in Africa and Asia now came under the rule of the Habsburgs (see Map 1).13

11 12

13

Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, 166–169. The New World possessions of the Spanish Monarchy would reach their full extension in the second half of the 18th century during the Bourbon regime, when they stretched from Patagonia to the northern reaches of California. Two new viceroyalties, New Granada and La Plata, were carved from the Viceroyalty of Peru in the 18th century. See Jaime Rodríguez O., The Independence of Spanish America (Cambridge: 1998), 7–8. Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, 268–275.

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map 3.1

2

Philip II’s realms in 1598

Nautical Technology and the Search for Riches

Two key factors that contributed to Iberian overseas expansion were the desire to dominate commerce with Africa and Asia and improvements in nautical technology, including more accurate cartography, better shipbuilding, and the perfection of the mariner’s astrolabe.14 Castile, much the largest of the Iberian kingdoms, and Portugal searched for navigable sea routes that would allow them easier access to the riches of Africa and the East. In the midst of efforts to find more expeditious routes to Asia, the Iberian powers encountered the Americas. The potential for these rivals to fall into conflict over possession of lands in the New World and Asia led to papal arbitration. The 1494 Treaty of Tordesillas divided the world beyond Europe between the Spanish Monarchy and Portugal.15 The Renaissance is often seen as a Golden Age of ‘discovery,’ but neither the Spanish nor the Portuguese had colonization as their initial goal when they undertook overseas exploration in the 15th century. The search for gold and 14

15

See João Paulo Oliveira e Costa, “A posse do mar oceano (1422–1443),”História da expansão e do Império português, (eds.) João Paulo Oliveira e Costa, José Damião Rodrigues and Pedro Aires Oliveira (Lisbon: 2014), 51–52, 57, 67; António Estácio dos Reis, “Astrolábio náutico São Julião da Barra III,” Portugal e o mundo nos séculos XVI e XVII, (ed.) Ana de Castro Henriques (Sétubal: 2009), 64–65; Annemarie Jordan Gschwend and Kate Lowe, “Princess of the Seas, Queen of Empire: Configuring the City and Port of Renaissance Lisbon,” The Global City on the Streets of Renaissance Lisbon, (eds.) Annemarie Jordan Gschwend and Kate Lowe (London: 2015), 31–34. Kamen, Empire, 42.

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commerce as well as the dissemination of Latin Christianity were their main objectives as they sailed respectively west and south of the Iberian Peninsula. In the Americas, the search for gold and silver motivated inland exploration. However, the discovery of the rich silver veins of Potosí in present-day Bolivia16 and the abundant deposits at Zacatecas and Guanajuato in what is now Mexico were to become a mixed blessing for the Empire.17 Bullion arriving yearly to Seville in the galleons of the Carrera de Indias became a financial motor, but only a small portion of this wealth was invested in Spain’s economy. Charles V’s many wars in Northern Europe and the Mediterranean drained the Monarchy’s resources. The battle against Protestantism would not succeed in eradicating Lutheranism from the Holy Roman Empire, but would leave the crown chronically indebted to foreign bankers.18 The Monarchy declared bankruptcy on multiple occasions, disrupting imperial governance significantly each time.19 The increasing demand for valuable Asian goods spurred European powers to find an expeditious route to Asian producers in order not only to negotiate directly with them, but to dominate them. Portugal was to lead this initiative by sailing southward along the African coast, in explorations motivated initially by the desire to obtain more direct access to African gold;20 mariners in Castilian service later searched for a route to the East by sailing towards the West. In Africa and Asia, the Portuguese were more successful in creating commercial links than in fostering settler communities, though in South America the imprint of Portuguese colonialism would be more geographically extensive by the early 17th century.21 By contrast, the Spanish Empire became much more oriented toward territorial control of the Americas than toward monopolizing commerce with Asia.

16 17 18 19

20 21

Peter Bakewell, Miners of the Red Mountain: Indian Labour in Potosí 1545–1650 (Albuquerque: 1984), 7, 26–32. David Anthony Brading, Miners and Merchants in Bourbon Mexico 1763–1810 (Cambridge: 1971), 7–14, 340–347. Elliot, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, 199, 207. Enrique Martínez Ruiz, Los soldados del rey. Los ejércitos de la Monarquía Hispánica (1480– 1700) (Madrid: 2008), 223–226, 236; Geoffrey Parker, The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road, 1567–1659, rev. ed. (Cambridge: 2004), 118–119, 126–127. Oliveira e Costa, “A posse do mar oceano,” 52, 54. Stuart B. Schwartz, “The Economy of the Portuguese Empire,” Portuguese Oceanic Expansion, 1400–1800, (eds.) Francisco Bethencourt and Diogo Ramada Curto (Cambridge: 2007), 20.

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The Portuguese ‘Trading-Post Empire’

Portugal, lacking a Mediterranean coastline, was oriented towards the Atlantic. Superior maritime technology, partly acquired through contact with Islamic navigators and shipbuilders, gave Portugal a crucial advantage. By 1445, under Prince Henry the Navigator, the Portuguese established their first feitoria or trading post on the island of Arguin, near the coast of Mauritania.22 Gold, slaves, and gum arabic were the main commodities acquired there. As maritime technology improved, the Portuguese continued to follow the coast of Africa, always moving beyond the limits of European knowledge of the coastline. In 1471, they were the first Europeans to cross the Equator. Padrões or stone crosses with the royal coat of arms, such as the one left by Bartolomeu Dias when he rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, marked the territories reached by Portuguese navigators.23 Not unlike the padrões that were erected on the coasts, the Portuguese did not move significantly inland to establish settlements west of the Cape of Good Hope.24 Instead, following the pattern of Venetian imperialism, they preferred to remain on islands or at easily defendable coastal locations. Vasco da Gama, possibly aided by Ahmad ibn Madjid, was the first European to sail across the open waters of the Indian Ocean between Malindi (now in Kenya) and Calicut (Kozhikode), where he arrived in 1498.25 Other Portuguese navigators were soon to follow his route, and Portuguese settlements proliferated east of the Cape of Good Hope, mainly in what is now India, and limited to ports and their immediate environs. Sailing across the Bay of Bengal and through the South China Sea, the Portuguese reached China and later Japan. Macao, established around 1557 as their central trading post in China, remained Portuguese until 1999.26

22

23

24 25 26

A.J.R. Russell-Wood, “Patterns of Settlement in the Portuguese Empire 1400–1800,” in Portuguese Oceanic Expansion, 1400–1800, (eds.) Francisco Bethencourt and Diogo Ramada Curto (Cambridge: 2007), 177. João Paulo Oliveira e Costa and Víctor Luís Gaspar Rodrigues, Construtores do Império. Da conquista de Ceuta à criação do governo-geral do Brasil (Lisbon: 2017), 149–155; Jean Michel Massing, “Padrão de Santo Domingo,” in Portugal e o mundo nos séculos XVI e XVII, (ed.) Ana de Castro Henriques (Sétubal: 2009), 68. Russell-Wood, “Patterns of Settlement,” 169. Francisco Contente Domingues, “A arte de navegar,” Portugal e o mundo nos séculos XVI e XVII, (ed.) Ana de Castro Henriques (Sétubal: 2009), 33. Philip Curtin, Cross-Cultural Trade in World History (Cambridge: 1992), 136–149; Helder Carita, “Macau e as cidades comeciais de tradição manuelina,” Portugal-China: 500 anos (Lisbon: 2014), 63–65.

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The expedition of Pedro Álvares Cabral was key to the history of Portuguese colonialism, as it encountered a new area of exploration, conquest, and settlement. When in 1500 his fleet was detoured from the route to India, it reached the coast of what is now the Brazilian state of Bahia. The Portuguese were not the first Europeans to reconnoiter the South American continent. Christopher Columbus sailed along the Venezuelan coast in 1498, and the Spanish navigator Vicente Yáñez Pinzón had explored the estuary of the Amazon River a few months before Álvares Cabral arrived in Brazil.27 However, the Portuguese were the first Europeans to colonize the Brazilian coastline. The Indigenous of coastal Brazil, comprising sedentary and semi-nomadic peoples, were decimated by European diseases, enslaved, or coerced into providing labor for the Portuguese settlers. They did not play as prominent a role in the shaping of the coastal colony as did the Indigenous of Spanish America in the more extensive Spanish colonies of North America and the Andes. Somewhat further inland at São Paulo, a very different society emerged in which the Portuguese settlers intermingled extensively with the local Tupiniquin people: the Paulista social structure came to be dominated by Portuguese and ‘mameluco’ (mixed Indigenous and Portuguese) fazendeiros (landowners) whose modest prosperity was predicated on Indigenous slave labor and the slave trade. The dominant economic activity of the Portuguese colonies along the coast was soon the production of sugar, and from 1560 large numbers of Africans were imported to work on the sugar plantations, gradually replacing the Indigenous as the main source of slave labor. The scale of the African presence in Brazil gave this colony a distinctive cultural character, as the customs and beliefs of the slaves taken primarily from what is now Angola and the Democratic Republic of the Congo transformed plantation society.28 Much before 1616, the Portuguese had succeeded in dotting the outline of Africa, India, Sri Lanka, and what is now Malaysia and Indonesia with forts and feitorias. However, within the Estado da Índia, the Portuguese colonial Empire in East Africa and Asia, the western component was the site of the most numerous Portuguese settlements, including Calicut, Kochi, Cannanore (Kannur), Goa, Diu, Hormuz, and the coast north of present-day Mumbai to Daman. Initial commerce with Calicut was difficult, as its Hindu ruler and the Muslim merchants established in his kingdom forcefully resisted the foreign presence that threatened their monopoly of the spice trade. More successful 27 28

Emilio Soler Pascual, “1492, Vicente Yáñez Pinzón,” in Exploradores y viajeros por España y el Nuevo Mundo (Alicante: 2002), n.p. Russell-Wood, 183, 187–190; James Lockhart and Stuart B. Schwartz, Early Latin America: A History of Colonial Spanish America and Brazil (Cambridge: 1999), 181–252.

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interactions, relying on cooptation and cooperation in the wake of conquest, characterized the Portuguese regime at Kochi, at the time of contact a fiefdom of the Samoothiri (ruler) of Calicut, and later at Goa, which became the capital of the Estado da Índia after Afonso de Albuquerque defeated its Muslim ruler on Saint Catherine’s Day (24 November) 1510. The arrival of settler families, family formation with the local population, and evangelization were important contributing factors to the permanence and expansion of the Portuguese presence in this area.29

4

The Spanish Empire

Spanish rule in the Americas was widespread and well established when the Mayflower Pilgrims arrived at New England in 1620. Important cities of the Spanish Caribbean were already over a century old when El Inca and Cervantes died: Santo Domingo was founded by Christopher Columbus’ brother Bartholomew in 1496, San Juan Bautista de Puerto Rico in 1509, and Santa María Antigua del Darién, the first permanent Spanish settlement on the mainland of the Americas, was founded by Vasco Núñez de Balboa in 1510. Spanish settlements on the islands of the Caribbean as well as on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of the continent were rapidly established in the first decades of the 16th century. San Cristóbal de la Habana, destined to be the capital of Cuba, and the Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the first Spanish municipality in what is now Mexico, were founded, respectively, by Diego Velázquez and Hernán Cortés in the same year, 1519. In that year too, only six years after having reached the Pacific Ocean, Núñez de Balboa founded Nuestra Señora de Asunción de Panamá. Two events unfolding almost simultaneously were fundamental to the creation of a global culture linking Europe and Asia via New Spain: the destruction of the empire of Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin (Moctezuma II) in central Mexico by Cortés and his Indigenous allies allowed the establishment of New Spain, and Ferdinand Magellan’s voyage in search of a westward route to Asia circumnavigated the globe for the first time.30 While Cortés departed for Mexico from Cuba in February of 1519, Magellan’s five ships sailed from Seville in November of that same year. After crossing the strait that now carries his name and

29

30

Francisco Bethencourt, “Political Configurations and Local Power,” in Portuguese Oceanic Expansion, 1400–1800, (eds.) Francisco Bethencourt and Diogo Ramada Curto (Cambridge: 2007), 200–207; Schwartz, “The Economy of the Portuguese Empire,” 26–30. Oliveira e Costa, “A posse do mar oceano,” 133.

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traversing the Pacific, Magellan claimed what came to be known as the Philippine archipelago for Spain in March of 1521. In August of that same year, after a siege of three months, Cortés and his allies took Tenochtitlan, Motecuhzoma’s capital. Magellan (like Cortés) used local interpreters and saw the advantage of benefiting from rivalries amongst local leaders; both sought the baptism of their local allies. However, while Cortés succeeded in gaining the loyalty of the powerful lords of Tlaxcala and Texcoco, at the Battle of Mactan of 27 April 1521, Visayans who rejected Spanish domination killed Magellan. In 1522, only 18 of Magellan’s 234 men and one of his five ships, now under the command of Juan Sebastián Elcano, returned to Seville after rounding the Cape of Good Hope. Despite these enormous losses, the Victoria’s spice cargo made the expedition a commercial success (see Map 2).31 The transoceanic route that the Spanish Monarchy established to link the Pacific with the Atlantic, through an overland trajectory crossing New Spain from Acapulco to Veracruz, would allow it to compete effectively with Portugal. However, a viable route across the Pacific Ocean to New Spain had to be found before the Spanish trade with Asia could prosper.32 In 1564 Miguel López de Legazpi and Andrés de Urdaneta sailed from Barra de Navidad, in what is now Jalisco, under orders to re-establish contact with the Philippine archipelago.33 Legazpi’s expedition quickly established a Spanish colony, but the conquistadores were drawn northward by reports of the wealth of the large island of Luzon. In 1571 the capital of the Kingdom of Maynila on Luzon was razed as Legazpi and his Visayan allies approached; Legazpi established a city on the site that he called Manila. In 1591 Manila officially became the capital of the Spanish East Indies. The Captaincy-General of the Philippines was from its creation a component of New Spain.34 The tornaviaje (route back) from the Philippines to New Spain proved particularly difficult to find until Urdaneta and Alonso de Arellano sailed north of Japan, where the Kuro Shivo Current brought their ships back to North America, which they first reached near Cape Mendocino. From there the galleons would now regularly sail south along the coast until they reached Acapulco. The route Arellano and Urdaneta discovered required

31

32 33 34

For the conquest of Mexico see Ross Hassig, Mexico and the Spanish Conquest (Norman, OK: 2006), 65–175. For Magellan’s voyage see Kamen, Empire, 197–200 and Arturo Giráldez, The Age of Trade: The Manila Galleons and the Dawn of the Global Economy (London: 2015), 44–48. See Luis Laorden Jiménez, Navegantes españoles en el Océano Pacífico: la historia de España en el Gran Océano que fue llamado Lago Español, rev. ed. (Madrid: 2014), 101–131. Giráldez, The Age of Trade, 53–56. Kamen, Empire, 201–208.

map 3.2

Abraham Ortelius, Maris Pacifici (1589)

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four months to complete, but nonetheless remained central to Spanish commerce with Asia until the 19th century.35 Mexico City occupied a crucial position in this transoceanic trade. As celebrated by Bernardo de Balbuena in his 1604 poem Grandeza mexicana, New Spain’s capital became a cosmopolitan commercial center linking East and West.36 In addition to European products, local goods from New Spain including cacao, leather, and cochineal dye were shipped from Acapulco to Asia in the Galeón de Manila. Silver, however, was the most valued commodity transported by the galleons that crossed the Pacific: coins minted in New Spain became currency in China.37 The galleons returned to Acapulco loaded with timber, spices, silks, lacquers, porcelain, ivory carvings, and other precious items. The Manila galleons and their counterparts for the Atlantic trajectory in the Carrera de Indias never sailed without protection: not only were the galleons warships in themselves, but at least eight warships of the Armada de la Guarda de la Carrera de Indias escorted the galleons in order to protect their valuable cargo from British, Dutch, and French piracy (see Map 3).38 The Spanish Monarchy’s difficulties dominating its extensive Empire and lack of control over much of the territory it claimed are often noted as reasons for its decline. Where sedentary agricultural peoples were encountered, the Spanish had less trouble imposing colonial rule; in areas dominated by nomadic or semi-nomadic peoples such as northern New Spain, colonization proved to be more challenging. While the Spanish continued the expansion

35

36

37 38

Marina Alfonso Mola and Carlos Martínez Shaw, “Filipinas en la economía del Imperio español,” Tornaviaje. La Nao de China y el Barroco en México 1565–1815, (ed.) Luis Gerardo Morales Moreno (Puebla: 2016), 33–37. Balbuena emphasizes the centrality of Mexico City, claiming that “En ti se juntan España con China, / Italia con Japón, y, finalmente, / un mundo entero en trato y disciplina. / En ti los tesoros del Poniente / se goza lo mejor; en ti la nata / de cuanto entre su luz cría el Oriente” (Bernardo de Balbuena, Grandeza mexicana, [ed.] José Carlos González Boixó [Rome: 1988], 80). See also Beatriz de Alba-Koch, “La Grandeza mexicana y los aportes asiáticos a la Nueva España: lujo, ‘mestizaje cultural’ y espiritualidad,” in Actas del Primer Congreso Ibero-asiático de Hispanistas del Siglo de Oro, (eds.) Mariela Insúa and Vibha Maurya (Pamplona: 2012), 17–32. Vera Valdés Lakowsky, “México: corazón del comercio interoceánico,” Los galeones de la plata (Mexico City: 1998), 76. Giráldez, The Age of Trade, 123, 33. See also Flor Trejo Rivera, “Adversidades en la administración de la Carrera de Indias: el caso de la flota del general Miguel de Echazarreta,” and Patricia Meehan Hermanson, “Criterios y procedimientos para la elección de navíos insignia: el caso de Nuestra Señora del Juncal, capitana de la flota de la Nueva España de 1630,” in La flota de la Nueva España 1630–1631, vicisitudes y naufragios, (ed.) Flor Trejo Rivera (Mexico City: 2003), 66–70 and 81–83.

map 3.3

16th-century Portuguese-Spanish trade routes

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of their Empire in North America in the early 17th century, establishing settlements such as Santa Fe, New Mexico in 1607, the 1616 rebellion of the Tepehuanes in present-day Durango, Mexico was one of many such conflicts that ensured that violent resistance to Spanish imperialism was continuous in the peripheral areas of New Spain.39 In South America, despite Alonso de Ercilla’s claim in the opening stanza of his famous epic La Araucana (1569–1589) that the Spanish “on the neck of the untamed Arauco / placed a yoke of bondage with the sword,”40 the lands of the Mapuche south of the Captaincy-General of Chile remained unconquered in 1616.41 Resistance to colonialism took many forms. The hardships imposed by colonialism on the Indigenous of Peru were related poignantly to Philip III in the 1615 Nueva corónica y buen gobierno, composed by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, an Indigenous historian of Inka and Yarowilca ancestry.42 This voluminous letter contains 392 drawings by the author, which include today’s most widely disseminated images of quotidian Inka life and rituals before the arrival of the Spaniards and of colonial oppression. This remarkable manuscript, partly written in Qechwa, may never have arrived at the royal desk. Like the contemporaneous writings of Spanish arbitristas, the Nueva corónica proposed remedies for the ills of the Empire, but from the perspective of a colonized subaltern. Opposing intermarriage between the Indigenous and Europeans, Guaman Poma proposed that the Viceroyalty of Peru be reorganized as an autonomous Catholic kingdom ruled by Philip III and administered by Andeans.43 Carefully veiled dissension from Spanish rule and diverse forms of violent or passive resistance were characteristic of the pax hispanica of the New World, but were not sufficient to destabilize it (see Figures 3.1 and 3.2).

39

40

41 42

43

For the Tepehuan rebellion see Susan M. Deeds, “First-Generation Rebellions in Seventeenth-Century Nueva Vizcaya,” in Native Resistance and the Pax Colonial in New Spain, (ed.) Susan Schroeder (Lincoln, NE: 1998), 6–12. “a la cerviz de Arauco no domada / pusieron duro yugo por la espada” (Alonso de Ercilla, La Araucana, vol. 1, [eds.] Marcos A. Morínigo and Isaías Lerner [Madrid: 1983], 123, my translation). Lockhart and Schwartz, Early Latin America, 298–301. The autograph copy of the Nueva corónica y buen gobierno is housed in the Kongelige Bibliotek (Royal Library) of Denmark. A facsimile of the manuscript and scholarly edition of the transcription as well as related studies and documents are available on the Royal Library’s website (www.kb.dk/elib/mss/poma/). Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva crónica y buen gobierno, (eds.) John V. Murra, Rolena Adorno, and Jorge L. Urioste, 3 vols (Mexico City: 1987), 3:1056, 1059–1074.

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figure 3.1 Chief accountant and treasurer, Tawantin Suyu khipuq kuraka (authority in charge of the knotted strings, or khipu, of the kingdom) from Waman Puma, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615), Royal Library of Denmark GKS 2232 4º, drawing 143

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figure 3.2 The administrator of the royal mines punishes the native lords with great cruelty. from Waman Puma, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615), Royal Library of Denmark GKS 2232 4º, drawing 211

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Legacy of the Catholic Monarchs

The Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile ruled the Spanish Monarchy from 1479 to 1504. Their imperial policy was fundamental to the creation of the enormous Empire that their grandson Charles V and his descendants would rule. While royal marriages would expand the Empire, administration of the resulting large and disjointed realm was challenging. The system of viceroyalties, an administrative tool first used by the Crown of Aragon for its overseas possessions in the Mediterranean, was adopted for Castile’s transatlantic Empire. Specialized institutions were needed. The Council of the Indies, established in 1524, was a subsection of the Council of Castile; it assumed juridical, administrative, and legislative responsibilities. The Casa de Contratación, a customs storehouse founded in Seville, purported to control the exploration and colonization of America and later of the Philippines.44 It followed the model of the Portuguese 1501 Casa da Índia and its predecessor institutions reaching as far back as the 1434 Casa de Ceuta.45 Ferdinand and Isabella brought the Reconquista (Reconquest) to a triumphal conclusion with the 1492 capitulation of the Islamic Kingdom of Granada, the last bastion of al-Andalus. Reconquering the lands in Iberia taken by the Muslims from 711 was a quest of centuries which left an enduring, identityforming mark on Spanish culture that persisted in the crusading zeal which informed Castilian imperialism in the New World.46 Territorial expansion of the Spanish Christian states and the promotion of religious unity were essential aspects of the Reconquista. With the expulsion of the Spanish Monarchy’s Jews by Ferdinand and Isabella and the first transatlantic expedition financed by them both also occurring in 1492, the Empire’s identity as a militantly expansionist Catholic polity was affirmed in a particularly striking and oppressive manner. The crusading conquistadores that founded and expanded the crown’s possessions in the Americas embarked for the New World at their own expense, expecting recompense for their exploits in titles, lands, and labor similar to what was granted to their ancestors engaged in the Reconquista of Iberia. This recompense, when it was provided at all, usually came in the form of encomiendas. Under the encomienda system, the labor services of Indigenous communities were assigned to a conquistador, the encomendero, who had also been granted land. In return, the encomendero was obligated to protect the 44 45 46

Elliot, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, 170–181. Oliveira e Costa, “A posse do mar oceano,” 17–18, 110. Elliot, Imperial Spain 1469–1716, 46–66.

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Indigenous assigned to him and to ensure their conversion to Christianity while providing military service for the Monarchy. Initially, encomiendas were granted in perpetuity.47 Spaniards did not exert direct control over this system of exploitation as it was superimposed on extant pre-Hispanic social structures and modes of production. Indigenous lords, called caciques in the Caribbean, tlatoque in central Mexico, and kurakas in the Andes, were responsible for ensuring that labor service was provided and tribute paid to the Monarchy. The Spanish control of the New World, then, was in many contexts mediated through extant Indigenous power structures. Indeed, in central Mexico striking parallels between Castilian and Nahua48 culture made possible a phenomenon described by James Lockhart as “double mistaken identity.” In many respects, Indigenous culture survived due to the colonial administration’s mistaken conclusion that it had successfully imposed acceptance of European cultural norms, while preserving enough of traditional Indigenous culture that the Spanish administration was not faced with constant rebellions.49 However, the unprecedented violence of the conquest, the excessive demands of the encomenderos, and the diseases brought by Europeans for which the peoples of the New World had no immunity, resulted in a catastrophic demographic decline of the Indigenous population.50 Their virtual extinction in the Caribbean prompted the importation of African slaves and, on the mainland as well as in the Caribbean, the resettling of communities. In the context of the Spanish Monarchy’s imperial policy, then, the dawn of the Renaissance saw critical changes that affected negatively the societies of the Indigenous peoples of the Americas as well as Africans, and the Muslims and Jews of Iberia.

6

Utopianism and the Nuevas Leyes

Spanish domination of much of the New World was facilitated greatly by epidemic disease, which disrupted Indigenous societies and limited their capacity for resistance. Notwithstanding the negative impact of imperial expansion, however, the Spanish Monarchy was not alien to the utopian impulses of the 47 48 49

50

Lockhart and Schwartz, Early Latin America, 92–97. Commonly called ‘Aztec’ by later historians when referring to the Pre-Hispanic era. See Bernardo García Martínez, “La implantación eclesiástica en Nueva España,” Arqueología Mexicana 21.127 (2014): 43–53; and James Lockhart, Of Things of the Indies: Essays Old and New in Early Latin American History (Stanford: 1999), 98–119. For demographic decline in Mesoamerica see Colin M. MacLachlan and Jaime E. Rodríguez Ortiz, The Forging of the Cosmic Race: A Reinterpretation of Colonial Mexico, rev. ed. (Berkeley: 1990), 196, 201–203.

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Renaissance, and the foundation of its New World Empire was to be much more than the transplantation of European culture overseas. In his second letter to Charles V of 30 October 1520, published in 1522, Cortés named the recently subjugated lands in present-day Mexico “New Spain.”51 The term was not just a rhetorical flourish: it synthesized the view that a better, new society could be constructed in the Americas. In New Spain, utopianism was evident in the colonial regime’s approach to evangelization and urbanism. The conversion of the Indigenous was a responsibility entrusted mainly to the mendicant orders, whose members were preponderant among the first clerics to arrive to New Spain.52 Some secular clerics also embraced utopianism in their evangelizing efforts. The “spiritual conquest” of the Americas was initiated in New Spain by the Franciscans in anticipation of what they believed would be the Second Coming of Christ and the establishment of the Kingdom of God on Earth. This “spiritual conquest” provided the building blocks for the creation of a distinctively Mexican culture, neither altogether European nor Indigenous.53 Evangelization of the neophytes was seen as a moral imperative by the crown, the clergy, and the conquistadores despite the conflicts that arose amongst and between them. Evangelization was also a priority for Indigenous and mestizo elites in central Mexico. Peruvians such as Guaman Poma and El Inca clearly express their devotion to Catholicism while remaining critical of Spanish rule;54 Indigenous and mestizo writers of New Spain such as Fernando

51 52

53

54

Hernán Cortés, Cartas de relación, (ed.) Ángel Delgado Gómez (Madrid: 1993), 308. The Jesuits later were of greater importance in evangelizing the Indigenous, particularly in northern New Spain. They did not arrive until 1572, and initially their main goal was the education of the criollos or Europeans born in the New World. In New Spain, they did not establish the reducciones that were the basis of their evangelization in what is now Bolivia, Paraguay, and Argentina, and which have been considered utopic in inspiration. For the Jesuits in Paraguay and Argentina see Stelio Cro’s classic The American Foundations of the Hispanic Utopia, vol. 2: The Empirical Utopia, The Holy Guaraní Republic (Tallahassee, FL: 1994), 71–133; for New Spain see Charles W. Polzer, S.J., “Misiones en el noroeste de México,” and Jean Meyer, “El Gran Nayar,” Artes de México. Misiones Jesuitas 65 (2003): 47–55 and 57–63. For Bolivia see the beautifully illustrated text by Willy Kenning, Chiquitos: La utopía perdura/The Utopia Endures (Santa Cruz de la Sierra: 2003), 19–22; 83–86. See Antonio Rubial García, “La evangelización franciscana en Nueva España,” and Solange Alberro, “Los franciscanos y la tabula rasa en la Nueva España del siglo XVI: un cuestionamiento,” in El teatro franciscano en la Nueva España, (eds.) María Sten, Oscar Armando García and Alejandro Bullé-Goyri (Mexico City: 2000), 13–23, 35–37. Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva crónica y buen gobierno, 1: 2–5, 10–12, 20–30; 2: 410–413, 882–917; 3: 997–1002, 1010–1013; Garcilaso de la Vega, El Inca, Comentarios reales, (ed.) José de la Riva-Agüero (Mexico City: 1990), 4, 9–10, 28, 49–50.

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de Alva Ixtlilxóchitl and Diego Muñoz Camargo voice similar views.55 From the beginning, the acquisitiveness and violence of the conquerors clashed with the goals and values of the friars and the crown. The most important outcome of this conflict was the Nuevas Leyes (“New Laws”) of 1542 that abolished the perpetuity of the encomienda, establishing instead the repartimiento de labor, a system that was intended to be less rapacious and afforded the crown more control of Indigenous labor; it would also be imposed in the Philippines.56 This change was due partly to the persistent lobbying of the Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas, a former encomendero who became the first priest ordained in the Americas. He participated in the debates concerning the legality of the Spanish presence in the New World at Valladolid in 1550 and 1551. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda and Las Casas contended with one another about the just causes of war and conquest, whether or not the Indigenous were inferior to the Europeans and thus could be subjugated legitimately, and the morally acceptable approach to the Indigenous, including their Christianization.57 This reflective exercise by a conquering power and the subsequent legislation that resulted from this “polemic of possession,” as Rolena Adorno has called it,58 was unparalleled in the history of Early Modern European imperialism. Two important texts by Las Casas are linked to these debates. He began writing his Apologética historia sumaria de las gentes destas Indias, an early example of ethnography and relativism that favorably compared the culture of the Indigenous with that of ancient Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians. It was not published during his lifetime. He also penned the Brevísima historia de la destrucción de las Indias to convince his audience of the ills of conquest. This political tract, in which—following the prevailing conventions of rhetoric— Las Casas felt entitled to exaggerate the horrors of the conquest, was widely distributed and translated, greatly contributing to Spain’s ‘Black Legend.’ Thomas More’s Utopia has been linked to Las Casas’ 1516 Memorial de remedios para las Indias: the saint most likely drew from a draft of the Memorial when he wrote his text.59 The utopianism of Las Casas was evident in his 55

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Fernando de Alva Ixtlilxóchitl, Historia de la nación chichimeca, (ed.) Germán Vázquez (Madrid: 1985), 162, 168, 173, 224, 265; Diego Muñoz Camargo, Historia de Tlaxcala, (ed.) Germán Vázquez (Madrid: 2002), 200–206, 233–241. For the encomienda in the Philippines see Luis Alonso Álvarez, El costo del imperio asiático. La formación colonial de las islas Filipinas bajo dominio español, 1565–1800 (Mexico City: 2009), 49–51, 63–69. See Brading, The First America, 78–101. Rolena Adorno, The Polemics of Possession in Spanish American Narrative (New Haven: 2007), 61–98. See Victor N. Baptiste, Bartolomé de las Casas and Thomas More’s Utopia: Connections and

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approach to evangelization, as well as in his early attempts at establishing an ideal society first in Venezuela and later in Guatemala. Arriving in 1530, the cleric and judge Vasco de Quiroga promoted the creation of Indigenous settlements that were intended to replicate idealized early Christian communities.60 In the vicinity of Mexico City, he bought land to establish Santa Fe, his first hospital-pueblo. As Quiroga explains in his Ordenanzas the design of the town was inspired both by More’s Utopia and Plato’s Republic. In present-day Michoacán, he established another hospital-pueblo, also called Santa Fe, as well as other hospitals to serve the Indigenous. A legacy of Tata (Father) Vasco in Michoacán, as manifest in the abundance of handicrafts since produced by this region, was the development of a particular artisanal specialty for each town, with a view to enabling the local P’urhép’echa people to integrate their communities into the viceroyalty’s trade. The Nuevas Leyes also laid the foundation of a putatively dual society, one for the Indigenous called the república de los naturales (republic of the natives) and one for the Europeans, the república de los españoles (republic of the Spanish), which later would also include Africans and Asians.61 The republics and their respective cultures did not exist in isolation. In central Mexico the intermingling of Spaniards and Indigenous resulted in the emergence of biological and cultural mestizos, who were governed by the república de los españoles. A distinctively hybrid culture emerged. A complex pattern of transculturation became characteristic of central Mexico and fundamental to its cultural identity.

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Similarities (Culver City: 1990); and Lawrence A. Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas: A Biography (Cambridge: 2012), 98–100. See Antonino Colajanni, “Gli esperimenti di ‘utopie concrete’ con gli indigeni dell’America nel XVI secolo: Vasco de Quiroga e Bartolomé de las Casas,” Dada: Rivista di Antropologia Post-globale 1 (2012): 59–78; and Fernando Gómez, “Experimentación social en los albores coloniales de la modernidad: el deseo utópico-reformista de Vasco de Quiroga (1470– 1565),” Boletín Americanista 50 (2000): 109–120. For a discussion of the structuring of the two republics in New Spain see MacLachlan and Rodríguez Ortiz, The Forging of the Cosmic Race, 196–228; for Peru see Jeremy Mumford, “Aristocracy on the Auction Block: Race, Lords, and the Perpetuity Controversy in Sixteenth-Century Peru,” in Imperial Subjects: Race and Identity in Colonial Latin America, (eds.) Andrew Fisher and Matthew O’Hara (Durham, NC: 2009), 39–59. On the longterm consequences of the structuring of colonial society around the two “republics” see Brooke Larson, Trials of Nation Making: Liberalism, Race, and Ethnicity in the Andes, 1810– 1910 (Cambridge: 2004), 40–45.

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The ‘Spiritual Conquest’ and the Formation of Novohispano Culture

By 1523, only two years after the fall of Tenochtitlan, a relative of Charles V, the Franciscan Peter of Ghent, was already at work in New Spain. In Texcoco, he served as the first educator and evangelizer of the sons of the Indigenous elite. This first generation of bilingual, bicultural children would be instrumental in helping the friars learn Nahuatl, a primordial task if the clerics were to evangelize Nahua communities successfully. The dictionaries, grammars, guides for confessors, catechisms, histories, and plays produced during the colonial period helped preserve Indigenous languages.62 At San José de los Naturales, in Mexico-Tenochtitlan, Peter of Ghent founded a school in which the Indigenous were trained in a number of disciplines, including fine arts. Amongst this first generation of Indigenous artists was Marcos Cipac, also known as Marcos Aquino, who painted the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe that was venerated at Tepeyac, one of the most revered icons in Christianity and perhaps the most reproduced work of art ever.63 Twelve Franciscans arrived to New Spain in 1524, twelve Dominicans in 1526, and seven Augustinians in 1533. Within three decades, these few friars and their brethren that followed left an indelible mark on the viceroyalty’s culture.64 However, they would have been ineffective without the collaboration of the Nahua nobles, who for the most part were prepared to facilitate the conversion of their people as a means of preserving their privileged status in the context of Spanish colonial domination. Moreover, the Nahua did not understand conversion to Christianity as involving the abandonment of many of their traditional beliefs, and hence quickly converted in very large numbers. Given the small number of friars available to evangelize the Indigenous, communities were regrouped into larger units called congregaciones, a policy that also facilitated Spanish domination. The congregaciones were usually based on the most important settlement of an Indigenous señorío or dominion; a saint’s name was usually added to the original Indigenous name, a component of the new bicultural nature of the community. Incorporating some of the 62

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In New Spain, the use of Spanish as the mandatory language of communication for the church in Indigenous communities was imposed by the Bourbon regime in the second half of the 18th century. See David Anthony Brading, “Tridentine Catholicism and Enlightened Despotism in Bourbon Mexico,” Journal of Latin American Studies 15 (1983): 1–22. See Beatriz de Alba-Koch, “Religious Expressions of the Hispanic Baroque: The Virgin of Guadalupe and Syncretism in New Spain,” in East and West: Exploring Cultural Manifestations, (eds.) Kala Acharya and Ignacio Arellano (Mumbai: 2010), 519–536. Brading, The First America, 102–116.

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figure 3.3 Conjunto Conventual from James Lockhart and Stuart B. Schwartz, Early Latin America: A History of Colonial Spanish American and Brazil (Cambridge: 1983), 111

settlements’ original organization, the friars sought to design these communities according to the urban ideal of the Renaissance.65 The towns resembled a chessboard with their intersecting parallel streets surrounding a main square where the market, church, and administrative buildings were typically located, continuing in central Mexico the centrality of the temple, palace, and market in pre-Hispanic communities. The most imposing buildings in these settlements were the massive fortress-like church and monastery, complete with battlements, that could be used as defensive structures. The monastery included a hospital and an educational center where crafts as well as the cultivation of new crops were taught. The most novel structures of the settlements involve what Juan Benito Artigas Hernández labels “arquitectura a cielo abierto” (openair architecture).66 They were part of the conjuntos conventuales (religious complexes) developed in response to the exterior pre-Hispanic religious practices of the Indigenous (see Figure 3.3).

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Lockhart and Schwartz, Early Latin America, 72–73. “El tema de la arquitectura a cielo abierto tiene tanta importancia porque su presencia caracteriza al siglo XVI novohispano. Es la gran aportación de México a la historia general de la arquitectura y por ello la valoramos en primera instancia … [E]n la arquitectura a cielo abierto reside uno de los elementos fundamentales de la originalidad novohispana” (Juan Benito Artigas Hernández, México: arquitectura del siglo XVI [Mexico City: 2010], 11).

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Usually located on higher terrains than the towns, the conjuntos conventuales were typically built on the foundations of preexisting Indigenous ceremonial centers. The capilla abierta (open chapel) developed in this context has no European or Asian equivalent. Providing cover only for the altar, it was designed to enable neophytes to attend mass in the open air, and also served as a stopgap while a church was constructed. In front of the church and open chapel, the friars demarcated the atrium, a large walled area with access gates on one or more sides and small open capillas posas (stational chapels) in each of its four corners. Paths leading from one capilla posa to another facilitated processions. Following the liturgical calendar, the friars organized a cycle of communal festivities and devotional practices celebrated in the atrium.67 At the heart of the atrium a large stone cross was placed in remembrance of the Holy Sepulcher; it often occupied the same spot where an Indigenous altar had existed.68 By superimposing the symbol of Christ’s sacrifice on a site of human sacrifices, the friars marked the supersession of these practices by Christianity. The decoration of the conjuntos conventuales provided Indigenous craftsmen with an opportunity to integrate their modes of expression into these emerging focal points of Novohispano culture. The resulting tequitqui or Indo-Christian art is a unique New World contribution to the art of the Renaissance.69 It is seen clearly in the elaborate decoration of the atrium crosses, where Indigenous motifs are found alongside carvings of the instruments of the Passion, or the latter are rendered in an Indigenous aesthetic. Tequitqui is also found in baptismal fonts, place-name glyphs, murals, and other decorative elements (see Figures 3.4 and 3.5). To facilitate conversion, the friars developed new methods of knowledge transfer. Franciscan Jacobo de Testera, who arrived to New Spain in 1529, created a pictographic catechism, a kind of rebus to instruct the Indigenous using a visual mnemonic system. The mestizo Franciscan Diego de Valadés (1533– 1582), a disciple of Peter of Ghent, describes and depicts this pictorial technique in his 1579 Rhetorica christiana, the first history of the evangelization in New 67

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The breaking of piñatas during Christmas festivities originated at the Augustinian convent of Acolman, north of Mexico City. Each of the seven points of the star-shaped piñata represents one of the capital sins; the sweets and fruits in its interior, the blessings that will shower on the righteous (Sebastián Verti, El libro clásico de la Navidad en México [Mexico City: 1998], 62). Jaime Lara, City, Temple, Stage: Eschatological Architecture and Liturgical Theatrics in New Spain (Notre Dame: 2004), 170–174. For tequitqui see Gauvin Alexander Bailey, Art of Colonial Latin America (London: 2005), 82–87; and Eleanor Wake, Framing the Sacred: The Indian Churches of Early Colonial Mexico (Norman, OK: 2010), 171–180.

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figure 3.4 Atrium wall and Posa Chapel (Huejotzingo, Puebla) from Charlotte Ekland, Mexican Colonial Architecture photo archive, http://www.mexicanarchitecture.org/glossary/index.php ?slideshow&building=Puebla_Huejotzingo_SanMiguel

Spain (see Figure 3.6). Twenty-six engravings from Valadés’ hand embellish the Rhetorica; his illustration of the celebration of sacraments and instruction of the Indigenous in the atrium of a conjunto conventual underscores the importance of this space for the friar’s evangelizing efforts. As a symbolic representation of their work, the first 12 Franciscans who arrived in New Spain are shown carrying a church (see Figure 3.7). The Franciscan Bernardino de Sahagún coordinated the most significant and enduring contribution to the preservation of Nahua knowledge during the colonial era. Arriving in New Spain in 1529 at age 30, he worked for protracted periods until his death in 1590 at the Colegio Imperial de la Santa Cruz de Santiago de Tlatelolco, an institution of higher education for the sons of the Indigenous elite that were to serve as catechists or government officials in Indigenous communities. While Sahagún’s goal was to devise the best means to eradicate what he regarded as “idolatry,” he was convinced that in order to evangelize effectively, a detailed study of the target culture was needed. The breadth and depth of his endeavour, as well as his careful methods for collecting, recording, and confirming information, make his works one of the most reliable sources

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figure 3.5 Atrium cross (Acolman, Estado de México) from Charlotte Ekland, Mexican Colonial Architecture photo archive, http://www.mexicanarchitecture.org/glossary/index.php ?detail=119#A

for understanding the pre-Hispanic Nahua. The monumental Historia general de las cosas de la Nueva España took several decades and a team of collaborators to complete; it is an encyclopaedic account of natural and moral history, language, culture, and religion. The manuscript of the Historia general, also known as the Florentine Codex, is a bilingual Spanish-Nahuatl text containing 2,468 magnificent illustrations, many in color, produced by Sahagún’s Indigenous aides.70 To obtain information, Sahagún and his team devised questionnaires in Nahuatl that were used to interview elders and other Indigenous authorities in three localities: Tepepulco, Tlatelolco, and Mexico-Tenochtitlan. This methodology, conceived to obtain the most accurate, verifiable accounts possible in the Nahuas’ language while preserving their writing style and speech patterns, anticipates some of the practices fundamental to modern anthropological research.71

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This manuscript, housed in the Medicea Laurenziana Library in Florence, can be consulted through the World Digital Library (http://www.wdl.org/en/item/10096/). See Miguel León Portilla, “Sahagún antropólogo: su aportación cuestionada,” Letras Libres 1.12 (1999): 26–30; Alfredo López Austin, “Estudio acerca del método de invetigación de

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figure 3.6 Diego de Valadés, Instructing the Indigenous from Rhetorica christiana (Perugia, 1559), 111

Christianity was less readily accepted in Peru than in central Mexico. The mendicants of the Andes were not as filled with missionary zeal and apocalyptic expectations as the Franciscans of early New Spain, nor was evangelization as high a priority for Francisco Pizarro as it was for Cortés. In Peru, the mendicants preferred the relative comfort of cities to the challenges of learning Indigenous languages in remote rural communities, and the difficulties of proselytizing Christianity in the Andes were compounded by the region’s mountainous terrain. Moreover, the Viceroyalty of Peru was from its inception more dedicated to the systematic exploitation of Indigenous peoples than New Spain: the system of coerced labor known as the mita, organized by Viceroy

Bernardino de Sahagún,” Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 42 (2011): 358–364; and Brading, The First America, 119–124.

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figure 3.7 Diego de Valadés, Sacraments in a church atrium from Rhetorica christiana (Perugia, 1559), 107

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Francisco de Toledo by 1574, obliged Indigenous men of southern Peru and what is now Bolivia to work in the mines at Potosí and Huancavelica at least one year in every seven. Transculturation was less evident in the Andes, and the survival of pre-Hispanic beliefs and practices much more vigorous. New Spain’s cities, initially mostly inhabited by Europeans, were also designed in keeping with Renaissance ideals. The prominent Spanish aristocrat Antonio de Mendoza was the first Viceroy of New Spain, governing from 1535 to 1550. He participated in the planning of Mexico City. A reader of Leon Battista Alberti’s treatise on architecture, De re aedificatoria, Mendoza set for himself the goal of creating in the New World ideal Renaissance cities: he founded Valladolid (now Morelia), Guadalajara, and Querétaro, and redesigned Puebla de los Ángeles and Antequera (now Oaxaca) with this purpose in mind.72 In Mexico City, the grid-like urbanization was much facilitated by the original causeways of Tenochtitlan and the location of its main ceremonial center. The unwalled capital of the viceroyalty was thus stamped with the culture of the Renaissance while remaining linked to its origins. Many other cities in New Spain and elsewhere in the Empire were also organized around what now is considered a characteristic Hispanic urban design, a more ‘modern’ and orderly layout than that of medieval Iberian cities. From their earliest origins, Spanish cities in the Americas became cultural centers, “lettered cities” in the memorable formulation of Ángel Rama. Here, as Rama observes, formally educated creoles and peninsulares serving in a variety of insititutions administered the technologies of the written word. These letrados generated discursive practices through which the Empire would be controlled and “performed.”73 The vitality of the cities was reinforced by the presence of male and female religious orders. These transnational institutions made the imperial presence more visible by facilitating cultural transfers from the metropolis, but also fostered pride in the New World patria or homeland. Many members of these orders were criollos, and the creole patriotism that some of them demonstrated became an important dimension of colonial Latin American culture. Institutions of higher learning, libraries, and hospitals were also distinctive aspects of Hispanic cities. By 1503 Santo Domingo already was equipped with the Hospital de San Nicolás de Bari; Santo Domingo’s Universidad de Santo Tomás de Aquino, founded in 1538, was the first of the Americas, and was soon

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Guillermo Tovar de Teresa, “La utopía del Virrey de Mendoza,” in La utopía mexicana del siglo XVI: lo bello, lo verdadero y lo bueno (Mexico City: 1992), 19, 28–29. Ángel Rama, La ciudad letrada (Montevideo: 1998), 31–41.

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followed by the Universidad de San Marcos of Lima and the Universidad de México, both founded in 1551 with royal and pontifical approval.74 The circulation of engravings and the printing press were important facilitators of the lettered city. The first printing house of the Americas was founded in Mexico City: Juan Pablos began producing printed books in the viceroyalty’s capital as early as 1539. His first imprint was the Breve y compendiosa doctrina mexicana en lengua mexicana y castellana, a bilingual guide to Catholic doctrine written by the first archbishop, Juan de Zumárraga, as an aid to evangelization. Other works by Zumárraga printed by Pablos were intended to provide the Indigenous with greater access to biblically grounded Christian ideas. An Erasmian approach to Catholicism underscored the utopianism of early Novohispano learned culture emanating from the cities and was a point of contact between the república de los españoles and the república de los naturales. This Erasmian Catholicism would be weakened considerably by the popularity of devotion to images and statues of the Virgin Mary, which was beginning to attract more interest in the early 17th century.

8

The First Global Culture

The expeditions of the Portuguese and the Spanish confirmed that the world was indeed shaped as a globe and that the Earth rotates to the East, thus establishing the need for what was later called the International Date Line. The shape of the continents excepting Australia and Antarctica was better recognized thanks to their explorations. The great diversity of flora, fauna, and peoples of much of the world became better known to Europeans or, in many cases, known to them for the first time, and their translocation would have an impact on many communities around the world. Foodstuffs from Asia such as mangoes, limes, and coriander became integral to New Spain’s cooking, while chili peppers from Mexico transformed Asian cuisine fundamentally. Tomatoes, potatoes, chocolate, and corn from the Americas became key components of Spanish gastronomy; tobacco, first used by Europeans as a medicinal plant and later smoked for pleasure, became a commonplace feature of Hispanic culture.75 74

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Lima’s San Marcos has been continously active since its inception; the Universidad de México was closed by Mexican liberals in 1837, but reestablished as a secular university in 1910 by Porfirio Díaz. Alfred Crosby, The Columbian Exchange: Biological and Cultural Consequences of 1492 (Westport: 1972), 64–121, 165–207.

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By the early 17th century, Spain’s colonial Empire was an essential facet of Castile’s economy and an integral part of its society. Indianos and peruleros, Spaniards who had travelled to New Spain or Peru, were assumed to be wealthy. The Americas were incorporated into the Spanish imaginary, referenced often in plays and fictional prose. The Iberian settlements of Africa, Asia, and the Americas linked Europe to these parts of the world in an enduring and significant manner. East and West, the Old and the New World, came closer together through more expeditious and sustained commercial interactions that would transform exporters and importers. However, the establishment in the Iberian colonies of Portuguese and Spanish as common languages and Catholicism as the unifying religion were the main vehicles for the creation of long-lasting cultural practices. The international nature of religious orders and their cosmopolitanism were instrumental to the dissemination of a culture that would spread across the globe, but the friars and Jesuits were also attentive to local beliefs and customs. The life and cult of Saint Francis Xavier embodies the global nature of Iberian Golden Age culture.76 Departing Lisbon in 1541, the Navarrese Jesuit sailed eastward, established his base at Goa, and evangelized along the Portuguese trade routes in Asia until his death on Shangchuan Island in 1552.77 Never setting foot in the Americas, he became the focus of an iconographic network created by the Society of Jesus which extended his cult as the patron saint of missionaries throughout the Iberian colonial empires.78 The church which houses Saint Francis Xavier’s tomb, the Bom Jesus basilica of Goa, is recognizably Portuguese, yet was shaped by the distinctive work of local artisans. From the exterior it is dominated by a reticulated façade reminiscent of the structuring of the decoration of many Hindu temples (see Figures 3.8 and 3.9).79 The Jesuits in Asia promoted the integration of autochthonous devotional practices into the ‘universal’ belief system of Catholicism. This strategy, often described

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For an extensive study on this issue see Gabriela Torres Olleta, Redes iconográficas: San Francisco Xavier en la cultura visual del Barroco (Madrid/Frankfurt: 2009). For an overview of St. Francis Xavier’s life see Kala Acharya, “Introduction,” St. Francis Xavier: His Times and Legacy, (eds.) Kala Acharya and Carlos Mata (Mumbai: 2007), xi– xxxi. For the dissemination of prints based on Peter Paul Rubens’ depiction of St. Francis Xavier see Willibald Saurländer, The Catholic Rubens: Saints and Martyrs, trans. David Dollenmayer (Los Angeles: 2014), 90–97. For depictions from New Spain of St. Francis Xavier as “universal missionary” see Clara Bargellini’s catalogue entries in The Art of the Missions of Northern New Spain, 1600–1821, (eds.) Clara Bargellini and Michael K. Komanecky (Mexico City: 2009), 239, 250, 255, 270–272. José Pereira, Baroque Goa: The Architecture of Portuguese India (New Delhi: 1995), 45–47.

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figure 3.8 Tomb of Saint Francis Xavier, Bom Jesus Basilica, Goa photo courtesy of Beatriz de Alba-Koch

as syncretism, was also adopted in Iberoamerica, whose many Catholicisms differentiate but also unite its followers. While a nostalgic Inca Garcilaso, exiled from his homeland but persevering in the Empire he helped to consolidate, reminisced about his Peruvian childhood, Cervantes unsuccessfully applied twice for a position in the New World, hoping to benefit from Spanish American prosperity. El Inca and Cervantes were among the most creative participants in the first global culture arising from the Spanish colonial Empire of the Renaissance, and both help us understand some of its most important features and legacies. The Inca’s Comentarios reales, although providing an idealized, utopian view of Inka society, nonetheless is arguably the most important single source for understanding pre-Hispanic Andean cultures. With him, argues José Antonio Mazzotti, “we bear witness to the emergence of a new voice: the dominated yet privileged colonial subject.”80 Many voices like his were to flourish during the Baroque, 80

José Antonio Mazzotti, “The Lightning Bolt Yields to the Rainbow: Indigenous History and Colonial Semiosis in the Royal Commentaries of El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega,” Modern Language Quarterly 57.2 (1996): 197–211.

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figure 3.9 Façade of the Bom Jesus Basilica, Goa photo courtesy of Beatriz de Alba-Koch

when creole patriotism became an especially important dimension of Latin American culture. The fiction of Cervantes spearheaded the emergence of another kind of new voice. His Quijote responded with foresight and paradox to the decline of the Spanish Monarchy. He anticipates the artistic brilliance of the Baroque, a period of splendors and miseries that was just beginning in the first years of the 17th century.

chapter 4

Ethnic Groups in Renaissance Spain Mayte Green-Mercado

1

Introduction

There is no doubt that one of the best studied and perhaps most contested aspects of medieval Iberian history is the subject of ethno-religious diversity. It is this diversity that underpinned the now much-abused concepts of convivencia and Reconquista, two historiographical categories that posit coexistence and antagonism, respectively, as main axes of communal relations in medieval Iberia. For Spanish historians writing at the beginning of the 20th century, the heart of the matter was to understand the meaning of the history of Spain, and to determine or recover what was believed to be a Spanish “national character.”1 The two most prominent protagonists of this debate were literary scholar Américo Castro and historian Claudio Sánchez Albornoz. For Sánchez Albornoz, the Islamic conquest of 711 was merely an irritant to the continuous history of Spain, whose essence was above all Visigothic.2 In this sense the Reconquista, or the Christian conquest of Muslim territory, exemplified the mission of the Spanish being (el ser español). Américo Castro, in contrast, argued that a Spanish essence could be found in the “intermingling of three castes of believers.”3 For him, the convivencia, or the “living together” of Muslims, Jews, and Christians, which was characterized by a productive tension, shaped the Spanish national character. Beyond the thorny and essentialist question of a Spanish national character, a focus on interconfessional interaction can shed light on the political and constitutional transformations taking place in the transition between the medieval and Early Modern periods in Iberia. The southward advance of the Christian principalities of Iberia into the Muslim territory of al-Andalus resulted in the 1 J.N. Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography and Iberian Reality,”History and Theory 24.1 (1985): 23– 43. 2 Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, España, un enigma histórico (Buenos Aires: 1956). For a thorough discussion of this debate, see Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography.” See also José Luis Gómez Martínez, “Américo Castro y Sánchez-Albornoz. Dos posiciones ante el origen de los españoles,” Nueva Revista de Filología Hispánica 21 (1972): 301–320. 3 Américo Castro, The Spaniards: An Introduction to their History (Berkeley: 1971), 48, cited in Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography,” 33.

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incorporation of Muslim and Jewish populations as subjects of Christian kings. In this process, conquered Muslim and Jewish populations were organized according to their own religious, administrative, fiscal, and legal institutions, and were subject to royal or seigneurial authority.4 In other words, the status of Jews and Muslims was not solely a religious and communal matter; it was also a political and constitutional concern for Christian rulers in Iberia.5 While religious affiliation meant membership in the community into which one was born,6 it was also the principal denominator of status, as well as rights and duties in medieval Iberian society. Thus, the conversion of thousands of Jews in the late 14th and 15th centuries, and of Muslims in the early 16th century, upset this earlier constitutional structure and provoked a destabilization of traditional categories of religious identification.7 A new conception regarding the place of ethno-religious minorities characterized the Early Modern period. With the expulsion of the Jews in 1492 and the forced conversion of Muslims beginning in 1501, the very legal distinctions that had served to organize religious minorities in a Christian society increasingly became associated with markers of exclusion. For these New Christians, as the newly converted Jews and Muslims came to be known, the challenge was to define their place and that of their descendants in the larger Spanish society. Paulinist thinkers claimed that any previous racial or national distinction had been superseded by conversion, and that any claims of difference between ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Christians were quintessentially anti-Christian. The destabilization of the equilibrium between confessional groups that came as a result of the conversion of Jews and Muslims to Christianity gave way to a language of ethno-religious identification expressed in terms of lineage, ancestry, and 4 For ethno-religious minorities in medieval Iberia, see John Bosworth, The Royal Treasure: Muslim Communities under the Crown of Aragon in the Fourteenth Century (New Haven: 1977); Brian Catlos, The Victors and the Vanquished: Christians and Muslims of Aragon and Catalonia, ca. 1050–1300 (Cambridge: 2004); Hussein Fancy, The Mercenary Mediterranean: Sovereignty, Religion, and Violence in the Medieval Crown of Aragon (Chicago: 2016); Thomas F. Glick, From Muslim Fortress to Christian Castle. Social and Cultural Change in Medieval Spain (Manchester: 1995); Mark Meyerson, The Muslims of Valencia in the Age of Fernando and Isabel: Between Coexistence and Crusade (Berkeley: 1990); Mark Meyerson and Edward D. English (eds.), Christians, Muslims, and Jews in Medieval and Early Modern Spain: Interaction and Cultural Change (South Bend, IN: 2000); and David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton: 1996), among others. 5 Nirenberg, Communities of Violence, 21. 6 Margaret R. Greer, Walter D. Mignolo and Maureen Quilligan (eds.), Rereading the Black Legend: Discourses of Religious and Racial Difference in the Renaissance Empires (Chicago: 2007), 11. 7 David Nirenberg, “Mass Conversion and Genealogical Mentalities: Jews and Christians in Fifteenth-Century Spain,” Past & Present 174 (2002): 3–40.

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race, which intersected with legal categories of membership such as vecindad (citizenship) and naturaleza (nativeness)—thus informing discourses of community and difference.8 Furthermore, the concept of nación (nation) served further to distinguish Europeans and non-European foreigners living in Iberia and subject to the legal authority of the Spanish monarch.9 By the Early Modern period, then, the reconfiguration of communal boundaries was concomitant with the transformation of political and legal categories regarding membership and the processes of incorporation of new groups into the Christian fold.

2

Terms of Exclusion: Race, Lineage, Caste, and Blood

This chapter deals with categories of inclusion and exclusion as they were defined, debated, negotiated, and contested in Early Modern Iberia, covering the period between 1492 and the mid-1600s.10 It examines the discursive strategies, practices, and institutions that defined and measured different degrees of belonging. The challenges and appropriateness of using modern concepts of race and ethnicity for understanding the treatment of New Christian groups or cultural ‘Others’ in Early Modern Iberia have been amply debated.11 While some scholars have argued that the Christian policies of the late 14th and

8

9 10

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For this discussion, see David Graizbord, “Pauline Christianity and Jewish ‘Race’: The Case of João Baptista d’Este,” in Race and Blood in the Iberian World, (eds.) Max S. Hering Torres, María Elena Martínez, and David Nirenberg (Berlin: 2012), 61–79. For discussions of citizenship and nativeness in the Spanish American context, see Tamar Herzog, Defining Nations: Immigrants and Citizens in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America (New Haven: 2003). Nancy van Deusen, Global Indios: The Indigenous Struggle for Justice in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Durham, NC: 2015), 174. Given the historical approach of this essay, the term Early Modern is used here in a conventional manner, and no particular teleology is implied by its use. For the different periodizations in use regarding 15th- to 17th-century Iberia, and the limits of the term Early Modern, see the introduction to this volume. For a more in-depth discussion of scholarly debates surrounding the use of racial categories for the study of the premodern period, see for example Robert Bartlett, “Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31.1 (2001): 39–56; Greer et al. (eds.), Rereading the Black Legend; David Nirenberg, “Was There Race before Modernity?” in Neighboring Faiths: Christianity, Islam, and Judaism in the Middle Ages and Today (Chicago: 2015), 169–190; Hering Torres et al. (eds.), Race and Blood in the Iberian World; Miriam Eliav-Feldon, Benjamin Isaac, and Joseph Ziegler (eds.), The Origins of Racism in the West (Cambridge: 2009); Geraldine Heng, “The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages I: Race Studies, Modernity, and the Middle Ages,” Liter-

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15th centuries—particularly the question of purity of blood—were racist in nature, others have warned against the anachronistic use of discourses of race, mainly of the scientific kind associated with the 19th century, to understand the medieval and Early Modern periods. It is for these reasons that many scholars have instead resorted to the use of seemingly less charged categories such as ‘ethnic group’ when discussing certain segments of Early Modern Iberian society. The Greek word ethnos (nation) referred to a unity of persons of common descent, and not to a political unit. The adjectival form ethnikos entered into Latin as ethnicus, to refer to heathens.12 This latter rendering was the meaning that the humanist scholar of converso descent Juan Luis Vives used in his theological defense of the Christian faith against all “ethnicus (pagans), Jews, Hagarenes or Muslims, and wicked Christians.”13 The significance of Vives’ use of the term ethnicus is that the term designates a religious ‘Other.’ In considering the term ‘ethnic groups’ to analyze questions of alterity in Early Modern Iberia, my discussion encompasses both the idea of common descent or claims to kinship, broadly defined, as claims to a common history and the idea that ethnicity results from a process of labeling or identification of the ‘Other.’14 Thus, if ethnicity is an assigned identity, and an ethnic group “emerges only when that identity becomes part of the group’s own self-conception,”15 then to study ethnic groups in Early Modern Iberia, we must analyze both the processes in which terms of inclusion or exclusion were generated and put to use by the hegemonic group (the so-called Old Christians) and the ways in which the groups being analyzed conceived of themselves as sharing an identity by either adopting the terminology generated by Old Christians or creating other modes and languages of self-identification. Therefore, understanding Early Modern vocabularies of identification such as raza (race), linaje (lineage), nación (nation), and casta (caste or stalk), among others, in their proper historical context should shed light on any discussion of ‘religious’ or ‘ethnic’ groups in Early Modern Iberia.16

12 13

14 15 16

ature Compass 8.5 (2011): 258–274; and Francisco Bethencourt, Racisms: From the Crusades to the Twentieth Century (Princeton: 2014). For a discussion of the term ethnicos, see Stephen Cornell and Douglas Hartmann, Ethnicity and Race: Making Identities in a Changing World (Thousand Oaks, CA: 1998), 16. Fifth book of Juan Luis Vives, De Veritate fidei Christianæ libri Quinque, in quibus de Religionis nostre fundamentis, contra Ethnicos, Iudeos, Agarenos, siue Mahumetanos, & peruerse Christianos plurima exactissime disputantur (Lyon: 1551). See Bartlett, “Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity.” Cornell and Hartmann, Ethnicity and Race, 30. For this type of historicized methodological approach to race, see Nirenberg, “Was There

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Early Modern categories associated with particular cultural or religious groups were intimately linked to notions of descent and lineage that harked back to processes taking place in the late Middle Ages. With the mass conversion of Jews between 1390 and 1415 a heightened concern with genealogy resulted in a new way of thinking about religious identity in Iberia.17 Confronted by the realities of conversion and how to classify new converts, Jews, Christians, and conversos alike turned to lineage “as one means of reestablishing the integrity of religious categories of identity.”18 Terms such as raza and casta, which had been in use since the early 15th century, emerged as important denominators of ethno-religious identification. Conceptually these terms were closely associated with the notion of lineage, and together they made descent the primary category of inclusion or exclusion. The marker against which all groups were measured was that of the Old Christian (cristiano viejo). In his 1611 dictionary, Sebastián de Covarrubias expressed the intimate connection between ideas of purity and “Old” Christianity: that an “Old Christian” could be defined as a clean man (hombre limpio) with no “Moorish or Jewish race” (que no tiene raza de moro, ni de judío), thus making limpio the obvious term of choice to refer to an Old Christian.19 Thus, Old Christians prided themselves on having a lineage they claimed had never been tainted or ‘stained’ by Jewish or Muslim blood. Related to the concept of clean lineage was the term linajudo, which according to Covarrubias was a “vulgar term (vocablo bárbaro) used to refer to those who boast about their lineage, implying that they come from the caste of Goths, or one of the twelve peers of France, or other vanities.”20 In the 17th century the memory of a Visigothic past was still being invoked to elevate one’s status in society. Thus, behind the idea of clean or stained races lay the concept of lineage, which according to Covarrubias was the unbroken and recognized link that tied people to a common ancestor. In the Early Modern period the discourse of genealogy was firmly established as a form of historiographical and theological speculation. Biblical and royal genealogies had been widely used in asserting

17 18 19 20

Race before Modernity?” and Bartlett, “Medieval and Modern Concepts of Race and Ethnicity.” For other modes of identification such as nation and nativeness, see Herzog, Defining Nations. For a critique of the use of notions of race for the study of ethnic groups in Early Modern Iberia and Spanish America, see Tamar Herzog, “Beyond Race: Exclusion in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America,” in Race and Blood in the Iberian World, 151–167. Nirenberg, “Mass Conversion.” Nirenberg, “Mass Conversion,” 18. Sebastián de Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española (1611) (Madrid: 1995), 368, 716. A peer was the highest-ranking member of the French nobility.

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distinction and privileges. However, the distinction between linaje (descent from houses and families) and linajudo in Covarrubias’ dictionary highlights a novel shift in the history of ideas on genealogy that had been taking place since at least the 15th century, and it points to a certain routinization of genealogical discourse and its appropriation by the common people. The value of each lineage and the status of each house were defined by their casta. In this sense, there can be good casta, someone with superior lineage, and bad casta, with an inferior lineage. Covarrubias maintains that casta is often defined as noble lineage, and a castizo is the one “who is of good lineage and descent.” It is thus understood that someone with superior casta is one who can trace his or her descent through strictly Christian lines; to wit, an Old Christian. A bad casta, on the other hand, would indicate someone whose lineage traces back, for example, to a Muslim or Jewish ancestor. As for the term ‘race’ (raza), a term that began to enter into common usage in the late 15th century but had acquired by the 17th century certain negative associations, Covarrubias noted that “related to lineage it is understood as having a negative connotation, such as having some race of Moor or Jew.”21 As such, terms like linaje and casta became key categories in the exclusionary practices taking place in Early Modern Iberia, as they tied moral, religious, and cultural traits to the notion of genealogy inherited through blood.22

3

New Christians in Early Modern Iberia

3.1 Conversos As mentioned earlier, questions about genealogy and the inheritability of religious purity and stain began to emerge with the mass conversion of Jews to Catholicism in the late 14th and 15th centuries—a conversion that was neither spontaneous nor voluntary. The pogroms of 1391 that began in Seville and extended throughout the Iberian Peninsula produced an unprecedented number of conversions while also significantly weakening the Jewish presence, thus altering the previous equilibrium. These mass conversions created what David Nirenberg has described as a “classificatory dilemma” for Jews and Christians alike.23 If conversion was carried out by force and en masse, then who had actually converted, and were those conversions valid? How were Old Christians to 21 22 23

“Raza, en los linajes se toma en mala parte, como tener alguna raza de moro o judío” (Covarrubias, Tesoro, 851). For more, see Nirenberg, “Mass Conversion.” Nirenberg, “Mass Conversion,” 13.

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distinguish between these new converts, conversos, and Jews, when the former continued to have personal and financial ties to their old coreligionists, and they continued residing side by side? And how could these New Christians be distinguished from their Old Christian counterparts when both conversos and Jews were almost completely Castilianized, making them virtually indistinguishable from the Old Christians?24 A classificatory system developed along genealogical lines, with terms such as ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Christians, and along confessional lines, with terms like Jews, anusim (forced converts), and meshumadim (apostates). In the mid-15th century the exclusionary ideas implied by these distinctions were put into practice through mechanisms that sought to scrutinize and restrict both the public and the private lives of conversos. The statutes on purity of blood (estatutos de limpieza de sangre) banned newly converted Jews and their descendants up to the third generation from holding public offices or benefices and gaining access to certain professions, guilds, and religious and military orders.25 The earliest known manifestation of these statutes in the Early Modern period is the 1449 Sentencia-Estatuto of Toledo, which targeted conversos “descending from the perverse line of Jews,”26 claiming that they were Judaizers ( judaizantes) who had returned to their old religion. The SentenciaEstatuto argued that despite having converted to Catholicism, the conversos kept their original “rites and ceremonies,” in this way harming the Christian faith and thus making them enemies of the Old Christians.27 The SentenciaEstatuto expressed an anxiety over the possibility that the Judaizing conversos might hold positions of power over Old Christians, for example by serving as witnesses or public notaries. Moreover, the purity-of-blood statutes epitomized the tensions related to the control of municipal power, believed by many Old Christians to be in the hands of conversos or those associated with them. As Julio Valdón Baruque has noted, Old Christians saw in the new converts the same old Jews, but with the vexing element that their baptism implied: all doors had been opened for their total social integration, with all its attendant ben-

24

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26 27

See Carlos Carrete Parrondo, “Los judaizantes castellanos ante la Inquisición, 1482–1505,” in Inquisición y conversos. III Curso de Cultura Hispano-judía y Sefardí (Toledo, 6–9 septiembre, 1993), (eds.) Ana María López Álvarez et al. (Toledo: 1994), 191–201. On limpieza de sangre, see Albert A. Sicroff, Los estatutos de limpieza de sangre. Controversias entre los siglos XV y XVII (Madrid: 1985); and Max S. Hering Torres, “Purity of Blood: Problems of Interpretation,” in Race and Blood in the Iberian World, 11–38. Kenneth B. Wolf, “Sentencia-Estatuto de Toledo, 1449,” Medieval Texts in Translation, 2008, canilup.googlepages.com (consulted 22 May 2009). Wolf, “Sentencia-Estatuto de Toledo, 1449.”

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efits.28 Thus, the purity-of-blood statutes reflected the wishes of those groups that sought to curb the social and political integration of conversos while reserving for themselves the exclusive benefits of prestige, honor, social quality, and ultimately power, as well as the possibility of enrichment.29 The second mechanism of exclusion that arose in response to the presence of these new converts came in 1478 in the form of a papal bull by Pope Sixtus IV that granted Ferdinand and Isabella the authority to name bishops or priests to act as Inquisitors in the cities of their kingdoms. The bull had come at the specific request of the monarchs, who, echoing the charges advanced in the purity-of-blood statutes, were concerned that many converts from Judaism led a double life, behaving as Christians in public while continuing to observe the Jewish faith in private, as well as educating their children and attempting to persuade other converts to return to their old faith. Despite the persistent accusations of intimate relations between New Christians and Jews, the Inquisition created, since the very moment of its establishment, rifts and ruptures in social and familial networks between conversos and their former coreligionists.30 As regards the place of conversos in Christian society, the Inquisition, as an institution of social control, had the effect of discriminating against and stigmatizing New Christians. The fateful event of 1492 resulted in the abrupt end of a millennium-long Jewish presence in the Iberian Peninsula. The Charter of Expulsion of 31 March called for the banishment of Jews from all the kingdoms and lordships of the Catholic Monarchs. Echoing the mechanisms of exclusion set in place earlier in the 15th century, the charter claimed that the conversos were “bad Christians who Judaize and apostatize.”31 Given their close proximity and communication with the Jews, the latter had to be removed in order to preserve the safety and well-being of the kingdoms.32 A combination of factors, including a considerable dose of political opportunism, was behind the expulsion of the Jews. As James Amelang has recently observed, the expulsion was a gesture of power and determination by a recently created composite Monarchy whose author-

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Julio Valdón Baruque, “Los orígenes de la Inquisición en Castilla,” in Inquisición y conversos, (eds.) López Álvarez et al., 35–45, at 41. Rafael Carrasco, “Solidaridades judeoconversas y sociedad local,” in Inquisición y conversos, (eds.) López Álvarez et al., 61–79, at 61. Carrete Parrondo, “Los judaizantes castellanos ante la Inquisición.” “El edicto de expulsión,” in Judíos. Sefarditas. Conversos. La expulsión de 1492 y sus consecuencias, (ed.) Ángel Alcalá (Valladolid: 1995), 125–126. James Amelang, Historias paralelas. Judeoconversos y moriscos en la España moderna (Madrid: 2011), 95.

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ity was personal and still precarious.33 Thus, following the conquest of the last Muslim political power in the Peninsula, the expulsion of the Jews was a statement of Catholic unity directed not only toward the Spanish kingdoms but also to Europe. As is well known, with the expulsion, thousands of Jews were forcibly scattered throughout the Mediterranean and northern Europe. Identifying themselves as Sephardim, these Iberian Jews (along with their former brethren the Iberian conversos) were instrumental in solidifying networks that connected the Ottoman Empire, North Africa, Italy, Holland, and the Iberian Peninsula. Given the growing number of local purity-of-blood charters put into effect that banned conversos from many civil and religious offices, the conversos who remained in the Peninsula came to occupy professions that were traditionally associated with Jews: artisans in the textile and leather business, blacksmiths and silversmiths, merchants, doctors, and intermediaries between urban and rural spaces.34 With the arrival of Portuguese conversos to Castile as a result of the incorporation of Portugal to the Monarchy of Philip II in 1580, a new type of professional emerged: the hombres de negocios, or financiers. The Spanish monarchs came to rely on these Portuguese converso financiers, who served as a more malleable and less expensive alternative to Genoese bankers, and they formed an important element in the Iberian urban middle classes. Whichever their origin or profession, conversos continued to suffer throughout the 16th and 17th centuries the social stigma of impure blood (which many attempted to avoid by forging their genealogies). But despite the stereotype of the converso as Judaizer or secret Jew, it must be emphasized that converso identity was neither homogeneous nor stable. There were as many converso identities as there were converso experiences. José Faur has identified four ideological typologies of conversos: those who wanted to be Christians, cutting all ties with Judaism; those who wanted to be Jewish and have nothing to do with Christianity, albeit keeping external forms of Catholicism in public; those who wavered between both; and those who identified with neither Judaism nor Christianity.35 Faur argues that among those who pledged their allegiance to their new Christian faith were those who became instruments of the Catholic authorities in the processes of Inquisitorial surveillance and persecution of their newly converted coreligionists and, more importantly, of their former Jewish brethren. Moreover, while the sincer33 34 35

Amelang, Historias paralelas, 100–102. Amelang, Historias paralelas, 100. José Faur, “Four Classes of Conversos: A Typological Study,” Revue des Études Juives 149 (1990): 113–124.

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ity of the conversos’ religious beliefs is difficult to assess, it is clear that there were some who in upholding their new faith considered themselves, precisely because of their Jewish ancestry, true Christians and experts in the sacred Scriptures. Crypto-Jewish conversos, for their part, understood their relationship with their new faith in polemical terms. They attempted, under extreme duress and in secrecy, to maintain their gastronomical practices, such as abstention from consuming forbidden products like pork, maintenance of practices of ritual slaughter, and the celebration of religious holidays. These conversos were antagonistic toward Christianity at the polemical level. There were also those conversos who strived to reconcile the two faiths, navigating between forms of identification in public and in private to survive in both environments. Finally, according to Faur there were those conversos who saw in their forced acceptance of Christianity a lost battle for the achievement of immortality. Thus, recognizing the impossibility not only of full assimilation and acceptance but also of true adherence to either faith, they opted to remain at the margins of both. Whatever form converso identity took, the variety of options was, as James Amelang has noted, heavily conditioned by external pressures.36 3.2 Moriscos The conquest of Granada in 1492 put an end to more than 700 years of Islamic political presence in the Peninsula. As previous surrender agreements between Christian authorities and Muslim conquered populations had established, the Capitulation of Granada guaranteed that the new Muslim subjects of the Catholic Monarchs would acquire the status of mudéjares, or Muslims living under Christian rule. Illustrative of this tendency are the articles decreeing that Muslims could remain in their homes, that they could maintain their religious freedoms and practice in their religious spaces, and that they would be judged by their own law (xaraçunna) [Ar. Sharīʿah and Sunnah], under the council of their judges (alcadís) [Ar. al-qāḍī, pl. al-quḍāt], according to the customs of the Muslims (moros).37 Moreover, as subjects of the Catholic Monarchs, Muslims would

36 37

Amelang, Historias paralelas, 136. “é estar en su ley, é non les mandarán quitar las alguimas, é zumaas, é almuedanos, é torres de los dichos almuedanos, para que llamen á sus azalaes, é dejarán é mandarán dejar á las dichas algimas sus propios é rentas, como agora los tienen, é que sean juzgados por su ley zaraçunna, con consejo de sus alcadís, segund costumbre de los moros, é les guardarán é mandarán guardar sus buenos usos é costumbres” (“Capitulación de la toma é entrega de Granada en el Real de Su Vega, a 25 días del mes de noviembre de 1491 años,” in Francisco Fernández y González, Estado social y político de los mudéjares de Castilla [Madrid: 1866], 421–430, at 423).

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never be forced to wear any distinctive markers,38 nor would they be forced to convert to Catholicism. This last point included the elches, Christian converts to Islam.39 These promises, which had been upheld by the first Archbishop of Granada, Hernando de Talavera, were swiftly breached upon the arrival in Granada of Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros in 1499. Cisneros began a conversion campaign directed particularly toward the elches of Granada that was met with resistance by the Muslim populations. The disturbances began in the Muslim quarter of the Albaicín and extended throughout the neighboring towns and mountains of the Alpujarras. The revolt took nearly two years for the Christian authorities to contain, and it resulted in the conversion of Granada’s Muslim population. Yet the edict of conversion was not limited to the vanquished Granadans; just like the Jews ten years earlier, in 1502 all of the Muslim subjects of Queen Isabel of Castile were given the choice to accept baptism or be banished from their homes. Thus, at the dawn of the 16th century the mudéjar status that had so efficiently organized Muslim populations in the Kingdom of Castile for centuries ceased to exist as a viable social category. This defeat, however, did not mean the end of Islam in the Iberian Peninsula, at least not for the time being. In contrast to Isabel’s policy regarding religious minorities in her kingdom, in 1510 King Ferdinand signed a document certifying the rights of his Muslim subjects in Valencia. The king guaranteed that Muslims would not be expelled from the Kingdom of Valencia or forced to convert to Christianity.40 These same rights were guaranteed for his Muslim subjects in the Crown of Aragon. However, not a decade had passed when thousands of Muslims in Valencia were forced to convert to Catholicism during the antiseigneurial Revolt of the Germanías (artisanal brotherhoods or guilds) which took place between 1519 and 1523. While the validity of these conversions was soon called into question, since they had been carried out by force, by 1525 Charles V had sent an exhortatory letter to his Muslim subjects in the Crown of

38

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40

“Item, es asentado é concordado, que agora nin en tiempo alguno, sus Altezas nin el dicho señor Príncipe nin sus decendientes, non hayan de apremiar nin apremien á los dichos moros, asi á los que hoy son vivos como los que dellos subcedieren, á que traigan señales” (“Capitulación,” 424). “Item, es asentado é concordado, que á ningund moro ni mora non fagan fuerza á que se torne cristiano nin cristiana” (“Capitulación,” 427). The term elche comes from the Arabic ʿilj, meaning ‘infidel.’ “Fem fur nos que los Moros vehins, stadants et habitants en les ciutats e viles realies e altres ciutats viles e lochs e alqueries de ecclesiastiche … no sien expellits, foragitats, ni lançats del dit regne de Valencia ni de les ciutats e viles reales de aquell, contrets ni forçats de ferse chrestians” (“Capitulación,” 441).

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Aragon stating that from then on Christianity would be the only law throughout his kingdoms and estates.41 Thus, in the 1520s Catholicism had triumphed in the Spanish kingdoms, where there was no longer room for the religious diversity of earlier times. From that moment on, these newly converted Muslims and their descendants would be known as new converts (nuevos convertidos), New Christians of Muslim origin (cristianos nuevos de moro), or, later, moriscos.42 The life trajectories of these New Christians and their descendants, their way of life, their culture, and their relationship with both civil and ecclesiastical institutions were as varied as the processes of conversion in the different kingdoms. This had to do both with the different pace and histories of conquest of Muslim territory by Christians since the late medieval period, and with matters of political geography and demographics. After the forced conversions, the greatest concentrations of moriscos were naturally in the last Muslim kingdom in Iberia, Granada, where moriscos made up half the population. This situation changed after the Alpujarras Revolt (1568–1570), when the moriscos of the Kingdom of Granada were forced to abandon their homes and dispersed (often as slaves) throughout the Peninsula, particularly in Castile. The area most densely populated by moriscos in the Crown of Aragon was the Kingdom of Valencia. The scholarly consensus in terms of demographics is that on the eve of the general expulsion in 1609, there were between 300,000 and 350,000 moriscos living in the Peninsula; 68 percent lived in the Crown of Aragon and 32 percent in Castile.43 The moriscos of Valencia and Aragon were primarily agricultural laborers working on large seigneurial estates. Yet this was not the case for all moriscos living in rural areas. For example, before their expulsion from Granada in 1570, most Granadan moriscos owned and worked their own land, so they were neither exploited nor protected by feudal lords.44 In Castile, however, the small morisco population was primarily urban, living in morerías, or quarters on the outskirts of the city centers, where they lived as artisans, itinerant merchants, and mule drivers. These historical, demographic, and geographic differences reveal varying degrees of assimilation to the dominant Christian society. For Catholic authorities, the most certain path to assimilation was the evangelization of these newly 41 42 43

44

“Capitulación,” 443. For a discussion of the use of the term morisco, see L.P. Harvey, Muslims in Spain, 1500 to 1614 (Chicago: 2005), 2–6. For a classic study on morisco demography, see Henri Lapeyre, Geografía de la España morisca (Valencia: 2011). See also Antonio Domínguez Ortiz and Bernard Vincent, Historia de los moriscos. Vida y tragedia de una minoría (Madrid: 1985); and Harvey, Muslims in Spain. Domínguez Ortiz and Vincent, Historia de los moriscos, 110.

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converted populations, yet the doctrinal instruction of these New Christians was carried out unevenly in the different kingdoms. The result was a poorly instructed population that had only a rudimentary knowledge even of the basic prayers.45 Yet the battle for assimilation was not exclusively religious; it was also cultural. As early as 1526, a junta convened in Granada to study the assimilation of the moriscos. The document that resulted from these investigations barred all expressions of morisco culture, such as the use of the Arabic language (written or oral), morisco dress, circumcision, and ritual slaughter, among others.46 While these prohibitions were not put into practice immediately, the germ was planted, and they would inform the Inquisitorial surveillance of moriscos in the second half of the 16th century, particularly with the Pragmatic of 1567, proclaimed in Granada, which led to the Alpujarras Revolt. While most conversos fully assimilated—at least in their outward appearance—to Spanish society, the degrees of morisco assimilation varied significantly according to geographical boundaries and political events taking place in Iberia. The moriscos of the Kingdoms of Castile and Aragon, whose contact with Christians had been relatively close for centuries, were most acculturated to Spanish society. Many of them spoke Castilian exclusively, had lost their ability to communicate in Arabic, and dressed in the manner of Christians. In their writing they resorted to the use of aljamiado, preserving the sacred Arabic characters of revelation to render their native Castilian tongue. The moriscos of Granada, for their part, continued to hold on to their culture and language—despite being the first Muslims of the Peninsula to be converted forcibly—arguably because the memory of Muslim sovereignty over the land was still alive there. In Valencia Muslims had lived in villages and rural areas, protected by their feudal lords. After the forced conversions of the 1520s, most Valencian moriscos, like their Granadan counterparts, continued to speak Arabic and live in relatively isolated areas. While the status of mudéjar had been a source of communal anxiety in medieval Iberia, the condition of forced conversion to Christianity was a different matter. Having to face the reality of apostasy, some took refuge in the Islamic practice of taqiyyah (dissimulation). When confronted by threats upon their lives, Muslims could hide their allegiance to their old religion, appearing outwardly as Catholics. For those crypto-Muslim moriscos who upheld their Islamic faith, religious practice consisted of basic prayers five times a day; ablutions, if possible; fasting during the month of Ramadan; and observing major

45 46

There is evidence of this doctrinal illiteracy in numerous Inquisition trials. Domínguez Ortíz and Vincent, Historia de los moriscos, 22.

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feasts—all practices that could be performed in the privacy of their homes and that would not draw much attention. For the Catholic authorities, not only were all moriscos apostates who secretly lived as Muslims; they were also treacherous subjects who were willing to ally themselves with the enemies of the Spanish Monarchy in order to harm both Spain and Christendom. It was well known that some (not all) moriscos indeed collaborated with North African corsairs who raided the Mediterranean coasts of the Peninsula.47 It was also known that some (not all) moriscos placed their hopes in aid from their Muslim brethren around the Mediterranean.48 Thus, in resisting the processes of acculturation imposed by Catholic authorities, some moriscos not only took up arms (a famous example being during the Alpujarras Revolt in 1568) but also sought help from stronger Mediterranean powers like the Ottomans. Yet despite the fact that not all moriscos were Muslims and not all were willing and able to take up arms against the Spanish Monarchy, these were precisely the motives put forth by Philip III and his Council when they banished approximately 300,000 to 350,000 moriscos of Castile and Aragon from the Peninsula in 1609.

4

Other Ethnic Groups

4.1 Gypsies Of all ethnic groups in Early Modern Spain, gitanos or Gypsies (the name adopted by the Roma in Spain) were perhaps the most problematic. They defied one of the principles by which ‘Others’ (Old Christians, conversos, and moriscos) negotiated their identities: genealogy. Gypsies lacked a sense of longterm history and common descent. The Roma were a nomadic people who did not invoke their history as part of a much larger group whose origin lies on the Indian subcontinent. First identified outside of India in the 5th century CE, the Roma migrated rapidly throughout Central and Eastern Asia, known by different, sometimes related names (Dom, Lom, Roma), yet maintaining some important common traits: an itinerant lifestyle and a symbiotic relationship 47 48

Andrew C. Hess, The Forgotten Frontier: A History of the Sixteenth-Century Ibero-African Frontier (Chicago: 1978). Andrew C. Hess, “The Moriscos: An Ottoman Fifth Column in Sixteenth-Century Spain,” American Historical Review 74.1 (1968): 1–25; Louis Cardaillac, “Le Turc, suprȇme espoir des morisques,” in Actes del Premier Congres d’Histoire et de Civilisation du Maghreb (Tunis: 1979), 1:37–46. See also Marya T. Green-Mercado, “The Mahdī in Valencia: Messianism, Apocalypticism and Morisco Rebellions in Late Sixteenth-Century Spain,” Medieval Encounters 19 (2013): 193–220.

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(not without tensions) with already-settled peoples, for whom they performed specialized trades such as blacksmithing, small-scale commerce, and entertainment. Some Roma groups entered the Byzantine Empire in the 10th or 11th century, and from there some eventually made their way into Western and Southern Europe around 1415–1420.49 Their presence in Spain can be attested to as early as 1425. Upon their arrival in the Iberian Peninsula, they claimed to be Egyptians on pilgrimage (to where it is not known); a second wave in the 1460s declared themselves to be Greeks (grecianos). This is how they came to be known as egipcianos to the community of Spanish natives, and thus the term gitano evolved, similarly to the terms Egyptian and Gypsy in English. This was a way for the Roma to identify themselves vis-à-vis the non-Roma native Spaniards, but one that was devoid of any true genealogical weight. Being a Gypsy first and foremost meant acting like one: custom, rather than descent, came to mark Gypsy identity throughout the centuries, and thus the Roma are definable only imperfectly as an ethnicity.50 The Gypsies challenged not only the way of life of non-Gypsy natives of the Spanish kingdoms but also their very system of human taxonomy and all of their efforts directed at organizing themselves. During the Renaissance, Gypsies in Iberia traversed two remarkably different phases in the Early Modern period: from the moment of their arrival around 1425 until 1499, they maintained their itinerant lifestyle, spreading throughout the Peninsula.51 The social and political fragmentation of Iberia in the 15th century facilitated their mobility, and the Gypsy itinerant lifestyle and patri-

49

50

51

For details of the early history of the Roma people, see Angus Fraser, The Gypsies (Malden, MA: 1995); and interesting details in Yaron Matras, Romani: A Linguistic Introduction (Cambridge: 2004). Slawomir Kapralski, “Ritual of Memory in Constructing the Modern Identity of Eastern European Romanies,” in The Role of the Romanies: Images and Counter-Images of ‘Gypsies’/Romanies in European Cultures, (eds.) Nicholas Saul and Susan Tebbutt (Liverpool: 2004), 218–219; and Teresa San Román Espinosa, La diferencia inquietante: viejas y nuevas estrategias culturales de los gitanos (Madrid: 1997), 239–245. A recent useful monograph of early Gypsy history is Spain in Richard Pym, The Gypsies of Early Modern Spain, 1425–1783 (Houndmills: 2007), with ample bibliography; shorter but extremely informative is María Helena Sánchez Ortega, “Evolución y contexto histórico de los gitanos españoles,” in Entre la marginación y el racismo. Reflexiones sobre la vida de los gitanos, (ed.) Teresa San Román Espinosa (Madrid: 1987), 13–61; see also María Helena Sánchez Ortega, “La minoría gitana en el siglo XVII: represión, discriminación legal e intentos de asentamiento e integración,” Anales de Historia Contemporánea 25 (2009): 75–90. Finally, for a comparison between moriscos and Gypsies see the now-classic article by Mercedes García-Arenal, “Morisques et gitans,” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 14 (1978): 503–510.

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archal order met with grace in the sight of the grandees, who took them for exotic noblemen with their retinue—a self-governing community—moving along on a pilgrimage. They also enjoyed a somewhat warm reception by the authorities, especially the great aristocratic lords. Gypsy chiefs were afforded by them treatment as ‘dukes’ and ‘counts.’ But in 1499, with the radical reordering of the Spanish realms under the Catholic Monarchs, a decree was issued ordering the Gypsies either to settle and engage in a productive lifestyle or be expelled from Spain. This was the first in a long series of anti-Gypsy legislation during the 16th and 17th centuries.52 Yet as suggestive as the parallels might seem between this and the 1492 decree expelling the Jews, as well as the 1502 decree forcing Castilian Muslims to convert—initiating altogether an age of institutionalized intolerance of ethnic difference in the Spanish kingdoms— there were also notable differences. First, the nature of the intended assimilation of the Roma was quite different. Religion was not an issue: Gypsies were taken to be Christians (although the true nature of their religiosity is uncertain and much disputed). For Spanish Catholic authorities, the source of the Gypsy ‘problem’ was their nomadic lifestyle, which had become associated not with pilgrimage, but with vagabondage. If the goal of anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim legislation was religious unity, Gypsies were an obstacle to achieving a different utopia: that of a well-ordered political economy in which every subject was a producer. The second difference is that of effectiveness: whereas Jews and Muslims eventually disappeared from the Spanish kingdoms, Gypsies continued to live in the Iberian Peninsula. The very reason that Gypsies were the target of hostile legislation (their flexible, nomadic, unbound lifestyle) made all legislation against them useless. Jews and Muslims (both settled groups in towns and villages) were easy to govern and discipline. Gypsies, by their very way of life, were quite resilient to sovereignty; they formed small, flexible, movable bands called tropas and were not invested in the land. They seem to qualify as what James Scott has labeled “state-evading peoples,” even if they were a people that paradoxically survived in the core territories of the state.53 Thus, throughout the Early Modern period, the moving tropas continued to be a constant feature of Spain’s human geography. The Gypsies maintained their traditional lifestyle: the group size varied between 10 and 100 men and

52

53

Alejandro Martínez Dhier, “La condición social y jurídica de los gitanos en la legislación histórica española (a partir de la Pragmática de los Reyes Católicos de 1499),” Ph.D. Dissertation, Universidad de Granada, 2007, chaps. 1–2. James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven: 2009).

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women who were entirely self-ruled and led by a patriarch. They offered valuable services to towns and villages, such as blacksmithing, basket weaving, cattle trading, and occasional entertainment. Arguably, the pressure put upon them by the authorities forced many of them to enter a life of banditry, as the sources of the time repeatedly describe. At the same time, though, the Gypsy lifestyle (in its lawful and unlawful versions) attracted a considerable number of non-Gypsies. In Spain, as elsewhere in Europe, sources report that many among the Gypsies were natives who had adopted the Gypsy way of life, thus rejecting the increasing regulations of life in the Early Modern state. The ‘conversion’ of these natives could have been facilitated by the Gypsy culture’s disregard for descent as a key criterion of belonging. Unfortunately, we know little about the processes of entering and exiting Gypsy society, save the romanticized versions offered in works of literature such as Cervantes’ La gitanilla. The pressure of the law moved an indeterminate number of Gypsies to settle down. Settlement, however, proved unsatisfactory on many fronts. Gypsies did not ‘assimilate’ into the larger society as the authorities wished. They settled in ghettoes called gitanerías, keeping many aspects of their traditional culture and suffering a structural form of marginalization, perpetually stigmatized as thieves and idle, despite the depiction in multiple sources of Roma performing traditional trades to the benefit of the larger community. While Gypsies interacted with non-Gypsies in many peaceful and nonconflictive ways, tensions with neighbors and civil authorities continued for centuries. In the early decades of the 17th century the limited success of the forced settlement policy brought about an important change in the ways in which the authorities regarded the Gypsy community. On the one hand, following the expulsion of the moriscos in 1609, some began to demand a similar solution for the Gypsies. In 1633 the Count-Duke of Olivares settled the discussion by deeming it unfeasible and undesirable. On the other hand, bewildered as to the non-ethnically-centered dynamics of Gypsy society, some authors began to dispute the ‘ethnicity’ of the group and to describe them simply as Spaniards who had chosen to live outside the norm. The anti-Gypsy decrees then implemented a new kind of measure: Gypsies were called upon to settle down, and the very term gitano was banned as false and misdirected. Obviously, banning the name did not work, because it failed to consider that Gypsies were a real group, even if not constructed along genealogical lines. The change of paradigm, though, was consequential: implicitly, Gypsies (unlike Jews, Muslims, and moriscos) were being accepted as true Spaniards and not as ethnic ‘Others’ who could be extricated at any moment according to politics or convenience. This did not mean straightforward acceptance of them, however: Gypsies (itinerant or set-

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tled) were accepted as Spaniards only at the price of bearing the perpetual, inerasable stigma of being ‘flawed’ Spaniards.54 4.2

‘Others’ in Early Modern Spain: North Africans, Black Africans, and Indios Adding to the ethnic diversity of the Iberian urban fabric were also slaves from the African continent and the Americas. Slavery was part of Early Modern Spanish society; it was present in political theory and legislation, and the Catholic Church allowed for the possession (as property) of enslaved peoples.55 While genealogy was the primary marker of diversity and a marker of difference in Early Modern Spain, the descent of slaves mattered only tangentially. In the first place, enslaved peoples were removed from their families and communities. Their condition as slaves, regardless of their ethnic or religious background, defined their existence. Thus, with the exception of North Africans, whose proximity to their place of origin resulted in a greater likelihood of being freed by the families who owned them, most black African and indio slaves were stripped of a past.56 Genealogy did, however, matter with regard to reproduction; children of enslaved persons were themselves born slaves. But bondage also came to be considered a genealogical stain, not unlike the way religious descent became a marker of distinction for conversos and moriscos. This genealogical blemish was even more noteworthy if a person’s skin color set him or her apart. Thus, the condition of being a former slave distinguished the individual from the freeborn and the rest of Spanish society, and also stigmatized the person because of his or her past, making integration to Spanish society even more difficult.57 Slaves could be acquired through defeat and conquest, considered the result of a ‘just’ war. Such was the case of the moriscos defeated in the Alpujarras Revolt, who were sold in markets across the Peninsula. They were also acquired 54 55 56

57

Pym, Gypsies of Early Modern Spain, chaps. 5–6. Aurelia Martín Casares, La esclavitud en la Granada del siglo XVI (Granada: 2000), 13. For ransoming practices between Iberia and North Africa, see Daniel Hershenzon, “Plaintes et menaces réciproques: captivité et violence religieuses dans la Méditerranée du XVIIe siècle,” in Les musulmans dans l’ histoire de l’Europe, (eds.) Jocelyne Dakhlia and Wolfgang Kaiser (Paris: 2012), 2:441–460; and Daniel Hershenzon, “‘[P]ara que me saque cabesa por cabesa …’: Exchanging Muslim and Christian Slaves across the Mediterranean,” African Economic History 42 (2014): 11–36. Aurelia Martín Casares, “Free Black Africans in the Spanish Renaissance,” in Black Africans in Renaissance Europe, (eds.) T.F. Earle and K.J.P. Lowe (Cambridge: 2010), 252. See also the edited volume by Aurelia Martín Casares and Margarita García Barranco (eds.), La esclavitud negroafricana en la historia de España, siglos XVI y XVII (Granada: 2010), and Baltasar Fra Molinero, La imagen de los negros en el teatro del Siglo de Oro (Mexico City: 1995).

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through direct purchase transactions in the African continent between Europeans and African sovereigns. Through this practice black Africans came to constitute the largest number of slaves in the Peninsula. Slaves were also acquired through raids, the fate of the countless North African Muslims who came to inhabit Iberian coastal towns or populated Spanish galleys in the Mediterranean. The North African presence in Iberia was the result of Spanish conquests in North Africa and the establishment of presidios, or military outposts, there. Muslims from Oran, Tlemcen, Tunis, and Morocco were sold in Peninsular cities like Málaga, Cartagena, and Granada.58 In Early Modern Spain, the terms used to refer to enslaved persons were associated with geography, confession, and physiognomy. For example, the term moro (Moor) indicated the religious affiliation of a particular enslaved person. Berberisco referred to geography, marking one as being from North Africa (Berbería). Black Africans, for their part, were always named by what was understood to be a biological marker: their skin color—for Aurelia Martín Casares the implication is an association with a “natural” state and greater stability in the personal condition.59 The term negro (black) thus came to be synonymous with slave.60 While not all blacks were in fact born in Africa (some were Portuguese, Spanish, or North African), their physical traits were usually associated with a distant and unknown land. According to Covarrubias, negro is “the Ethiopian of black [skin] color.”61 He associates this color with ill fortune and sadness (color infausto y triste) and records the saying “In spite of being black, we are people.”62 The use of the category ‘black’ thus stripped from subjects their place of origin, was made to reference their religious affiliation, and naturalized their alleged inferiority—all essential elements for their domination. A less-studied ethnic entity in Early Modern Spain is the group known as indios, brought to the Peninsula and sold as domestic slaves. While in the Americas the New Laws issued in 1542 strictly prohibited the enslavement of Indigenous populations in the American territories of the Spanish Monarchy, the dislocation and transfer of indios to the Iberian Peninsula as slaves continued well into the 17th century.63 But the descriptor indio in Castile also referred to people from the East and West Indies, China, the Moluccas, India, Brazil, Hispaniola,

58 59 60 61 62 63

Martín Casares, La esclavitud, 95. For more on this discussion, see Martín Casares, La esclavitud. Casares, La esclavitud, 144. “el etíope de color negra” (Covarrubias, Tesoro, 775). “Aunque negros, gente somos” (Covarrubias, Tesoro, 775). For the most up-to-date study of indios in Iberia, see Van Deusen, Global Indios.

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Mexico, Peru, and the Philippines. According to Nancy van Deusen, “Such conflation was particularly evident at the fairs and in the plazas of the major Castilian towns where captive subjects from around the globe were branded and sold as indios to Castilians without regard to their place of origin.”64 Like the term negro, indio was a homogenizing label that constituted difference based on unequal power relations. As Van Deusen shows, indios, particularly those of the Americas, attempted to contest their bondage in the Peninsula through Castilian juridical channels precisely by proving their Indigenous origins.

5

Concluding Remarks

Tamar Herzog has argued that during the 15th and 16th centuries, “as a result of the growing competition for resources, different actors in different fora fought to restrict the enjoyment of certain benefits to those classified as belonging to the community.”65 Moreover, the institutional and social changes taking place in the Iberian Peninsula during the Early Modern period were framed by a political project that saw homogeneity as the primary marker of good subjecthood, resulting in a peaceful republic. In theory, the most significant marker of belonging was adherence to the Catholic faith, but the condition of social membership also depended on daily manifestations of it.66 For example, the Gypsies’ alleged refusal to lead a sedentary life and the Granadan moriscos’ adherence to the use of Arabic prevented their full integration into Spanish society. Black African and North African slaves were not only stigmatized by their condition of bondage but also could never be considered natives, as they were seen as “members of foreign nations and subjects of foreign kings.”67 Still other forms of inclusion or exclusion that seem to have trumped any condition of membership and assimilation were related to genealogy. More than ‘doing’ an ethnicity was ‘being’ an ethnicity, and this determined the place of certain groups in society; thus, conversos and moriscos would never be good Christians, or good subjects, because they descended from ‘impure’ races. 64 65 66 67

Van Deusen, Global Indios, 11. Herzog, “Beyond Race,” 154. For the most in-depth discussion of this issue, see Herzog, Defining Nations. Herzog, “Beyond Race,” 160.

part 3 Culture and Society

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chapter 5

Daily Life and the Family in Renaissance Spain Elizabeth A. Lehfeldt

Although popular conceptions of family and daily life in Renaissance Spain might skew towards a static impression of isolated and pious peasants at one end of the spectrum and status-obsessed nobles at the other, the reality is much more complicated. This era of Spanish history, which I have defined broadly as the period from the rise of Isabel and Ferdinand to the death of Philip II (1469–1598), witnessed tremendous social, economic, and political upheaval. These developments in turn shaped daily life in distinctive ways. Urban areas flourished, kings became less itinerant, religious orthodoxies hardened, prices soared, and wars proliferated. All of these developments required existing social structures to adapt and change to accommodate new circumstances. While Spaniards of different orders1 often did live dichotomously different lives, a host of factors could shape the daily experience of inhabitants of the Iberian Peninsula. In order to capture the complexity of Spanish society, this chapter explores the role of social standing, gender/sexuality, religion, and geography in shaping the quotidian existence of Spaniards. There is, of course, no ‘typical’ Spaniard of this period. But by isolating these categories, we can begin to appreciate the rich interplay of forces that gave texture and meaning to daily life. A male peasant, for example, might have less power or influence in his daily life than a noblewoman. A wealthy converso (Christian of Jewish descent) could face marginalization that transcended his economic status. We begin with the largest segment of the population: the peasantry. This group is best understood as agricultural workers whose relative wealth ranged from some land owning to working as day laborers. Land—as was the case with the upper strata of society as well—was the measure of wealth and prestige. Thus, a peasant proprietor enjoyed status within the community: serving on the village council, for example, a privilege which probably would have been denied his more impoverished brethren. More commonly land tenure was adjudicated through a rental system, with peasant farmers paying their 1 This chapter eschews the use of the word ‘class’; while this creates some linguistic awkwardness, the term ‘class’ is freighted with modern connotations that do not reflect Early Modern realities.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_007

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landlord a fixed rent either in kind or in cash (cash became somewhat more common by the 16th century).2 The work that these peasants performed was dependent on traditional agricultural methods. Many still employed a two-field system, planting one field and leaving the other fallow and then rotating the next year. Many peasants did not have their own ploughs and relied on a local ploughman who hired himself out to his neighbors in exchange for a portion of the crop. Most peasants farmed some sort of cereal crop, with wheat predominating, but barley and rye also playing a role. Olives and grapes were also popular crops where the climate supported them.3 Not surprisingly, these cereal crops were at the heart of the peasant diet. Bread was a staple and peasants also consumed various stews made from chickpeas, onions, and garlic. These basics were complemented by small amounts of meat and other protein sources like legumes, eggs, cheese, and occasionally fish. Wine was the most-consumed beverage.4 Foods from Spain’s Atlantic Empire were slow to penetrate the peasant diet. It was not until the 17th century, for example, that potatoes and corn were planted in sizeable amounts in Spain.5 This meager diet was precarious. Food scarcity was a real and common experience. Unpredictably bad weather could ruin a crop.6 Especially towards the end of the 16th century, there was a series of poor harvests. Episodic events like these coupled with rampant price inflation over the 16th century meant that most peasants were pushed both to and over the brink of subsistence. As a consequence, many of them were unable to make the rent payments on their land. Eventually, these defaults concentrated more of Spain’s landed wealth in the hands of the middling and noble strata of society. They also led to an evergreater reliance on (and thus increase in) the number of un-landed agricultural day laborers who hired themselves out in exchange for food and a daily wage.7 There were also a limited number of individuals who managed pastoral pursuits such as herding. Spanish wool was a valued commodity, both domestically and internationally, and sheepherding was a vital part of the economy. Debates raged in Renaissance Spain, in fact, over how much land should be given to 2 Teófilo F. Ruiz, Spanish Society, 1400–1600 (London: 2001), 39–41, 52. 3 Ruiz, Spanish Society, 52–53. 4 Jodi Campbell, At the First Table: Food and Social Identity in Early Modern Spain (Lincoln: 2017), 11–25; Ruiz, Spanish Society, 208–216; Juan Ignacio Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” in La vida cotidiana en la España de Velázquez, (ed.) José N. Alcalá-Zamora (Madrid: 1999), 61. 5 Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” 59. 6 Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” 56. 7 Henry Kamen, Spain 1469–1714: A Society of Conflict, 2nd ed. (London: 1991), 98–111, 168–171; Ruiz, Spanish Society, 41.

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herding at the expense of agriculture. A powerful cartel of sorts, the Mesta, oversaw the wool industry and fought for various kinds of protection and privileges.8 Peasants and rural laborers weathered these economic vicissitudes with their families. The typical family structure was nuclear with husband, wife, and children living under one roof. Multi-generational households or households composed of siblings and their families were not common and were limited to particular regions like the Basque country. Allowing for regional variation, the average household size in this period was probably around four.9 Houses were typically modest one-story buildings. The focal point of the main living area was the hearth with a chimney that provided warmth and a place to cook. There might be one or two bedrooms.10 These families practiced a system of partible inheritance, whereby all legitimate heirs—male and female—were entitled to an equal portion (legítima) of the family estate. Possessions might include tables, chairs, a chest, a bed, some blankets, and kitchen utensils. More well-off families might have other sorts of bed linens and mattresses.11 Dress, like everything else, was simple. Men wore a loose-fitting cloak-like garment with a shirt, wide pants, and stockings with sandals or an espadrillelike shoe. Women wore dresses and a kind of over-blouse. The fabric of all of these garments was typically wool of a grayish brown. Status and wealth were demonstrated by fabrics of higher quality and varying color.12 These peasant communities had strong traditions of community and selfgovernance. In some instances the local seigneurial lord asserted his or her13 authority directly, but by and large the community itself administered daily affairs. Like other villages throughout Europe, they relied on social contracts such as the understanding that the ‘commons’ was available to all villagers as a place to forage and graze animals. There is a tendency, perhaps because of this strong sense of village solidarity, to regard these communities as isolated and provincial. As the work 8

9 10 11 12 13

Julius Klein, The Mesta: A Study in Spanish Economic History, 1273–1846 (Port Washington, NY: 1964); Gonzalo Anes Álvarez and Ángel García Sanz (eds.), Mesta, trashumancia y vida pastoril. Exposición (Madrid: 1994). Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” 53. Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” 65–66. Eugene H. Korth and Della M. Flusche, “Dowry and Inheritance in Colonial Spanish America: Peninsular Law and Chilean Practice,” The Americas 43 (1987): 395–410. Amanda Wunder, “Dress,” in Lexicon of the Hispanic Baroque, (eds.) Evonne Levy and Kenneth Mills (Austin: 2013), 106–110; Gutiérrez Nieto, “El campesinado,” 67–68. Abbesses of powerful convents could function almost like seigneurial lords.

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of David Vassberg has demonstrated, however, this was not the case.14 In both their own movement beyond the village and through the influx of outsiders, villagers in Renaissance Spain were connected to larger social and cultural forces. Taking goods to market, herding sheep, serving in the military, working as an apprentice or domestic servant, and perhaps even migrating to the Americas all expanded the horizons and contacts of ordinary Spaniards. The Inquisition trial of the poor wool carder, Bartolomé Sánchez, as chronicled by Sara Nalle reveals that even this humble (but curious) individual had meetings with clerics and others outside his village.15 This exposure, in turn, brought him into contact with books and other printed material that shaped his religious views. Peddlers, billeted soldiers, and religious pilgrims also brought news and materials into the village, marking it as a place of exchange. Peasants also interacted—with varying degrees of frequency—with their overlords. These individuals could be members of the nobility or clergy (convents and monasteries were significant landowners in this period). The nobility comprised as much as 10 percent of the Spanish population. Over the course of the Renaissance era, this group became increasingly differentiated by questions of ancestry and landed wealth. The ability to claim a pure lineage (no Jewish or Islamic blood) was a sign of prestige. Many lawsuits were filed in the 16th century to ‘prove’ the noble standing of various families. Claiming such a title conferred noble status, but did not necessarily mean that a family was wealthy. By the 16th century many noble families presided over dwindling estates. But the claim of nobility came with privileges, most notably exemption from taxation. It also came with the significant responsibility of providing military service to the king.16 The nobility lived in grand structures and indulged in lavish lifestyles (for more on this topic, see the essay “Nobles and Court Culture” by Ignacio Navarrete and Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry-Roisin in this volume). Increasingly, as Spanish cities became more significant, nobles began moving to these urban locations. This process was accelerated after Philip II made Madrid his de facto capital in 1561. In these urban centers, the nobles built grand palaces. Nobles also marked their status with their style of dress. For women especially, sumptuous fabrics like silk were elaborately decorated and embroidered and adorned with braids, fringes, and other materials. These dresses communicated wealth and displayed the wearer’s attention to the latest styles. Increasingly for noblemen, 14 15 16

David Vassberg, The Village and the Outside World in Golden-Age Castile (Cambridge: 1996). Sara Nalle, Mad for God: Bartolomé Sánchez, the Secret Messiah of Cardenete (Charlottesville: 2001). Ruiz, Spanish Society, 68–81.

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black silk woven to display designs was a symbol of wealth and status—not least because men dressed this way in imitation of Philip II, who made the style fashionable.17 The prevailing interpretation of the Spanish nobility portrays them as a conservative group that refused to embrace new economic models during the Renaissance, clinging to their titles and landed wealth. The evidence does not bear this out. In fact, many noble families embraced merchant activity, particularly in cities like Barcelona and Seville that drew their prosperity from trade and commerce.18 However they amassed or preserved their wealth, the nobility ostensibly also practiced a system of partible inheritance. Yet by the 16th century many noble families had begun to entail portions of their estate into what was called a mayorazgo, which was distributed according to a system of primogeniture. This worked to the disadvantage of noble daughters, but as we will see below, this did not necessarily compromise the role that these women played within the family.19 One development that marked daily life in Renaissance Spain and set it apart from the medieval era was the rise of a new social group. It was composed of royal bureaucrats, notaries, and other university-educated individuals (which gave them the name letrados), but also increasingly included families whose wealth came from commerce and Spain’s expanding Empire. As such this group constituted a middling stratum of Spanish society. That said, because it remained the pinnacle of social status, this group also aspired to be noble. Many petitioned for and were granted noble status (without title). They sought with their clothes and their houses to imitate the lifestyles of the nobility. This aspiration caused considerable consternation among the noblemen, who resented the pretensions of this group and tried to create with more extravagant fashions, large dowries, and entailed estates ways to distinguish themselves from what they perceived as social upstarts.20 All of these social groups were the audience for a growing quantity of printed literature. Though literacy rates remained low during the Renaissance, the rise of the printing press created both supply and demand for printed materials.

17 18 19 20

Wunder, “Dress”; Mary D. Garrard, “Here’s Looking at Me: Sofonisba Anguissola and the Problem of the Woman Artist,” Renaissance Quarterly 47.3 (1994): 556–621. See, for example, Ruth Pike, Aristocrats and Traders: Sevillian Society in the Sixteenth Century (Ithaca: 1972). Isabel Beceiro Pita and Ricardo Córdoba de la Llave, Parentesco, poder y mentalidad. La nobleza castellana, siglos XII–XV (Madrid: 1990). Kamen, Spain 1469–1714, 152–155.

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A survey of books, pamphlets and broadsides in the mid-16th century demonstrates the overwhelming popularity of works with a religious theme, particularly smaller devotional works like manuals for private devotions, prayer books, and saints’ lives, as Elizabeth Teresa Howe’s essay in this volume shows. One of the most popular forms of secular literature was the chivalric novel. These “tales of adventure, fantasy, and romance” captured the attention of many readers.21 Ordinary Spaniards consumed culture in other ways as well. The most popular form of theater (before the rise of the late 16th- and 17-century comedia) was one-act religious dramas (autos sacramentales) performed by traveling troupes.22 In addition to social standing, gender conditioned the experience of daily life in distinct ways. Across the social spectrum, patriarchy constrained the lives of women. Fathers and husbands were the heads of households and directed the experiences of the women in their care. A family’s reputation and honor were closely tied to its ability to protect the sexuality of its female members. Moral treatises of the day were resolute in their assertions that a woman’s chastity was her defining feature: “a woman’s chastity … is the basis upon which the whole edifice is founded and, in short, it is the very being and substance of the wife, because, if she does not possess this, she is no longer a married woman but a perfidious harlot and the dirtiest mud.”23 To protect the chastity and honor of women, Spanish society upheld an ideal of feminine seclusion. Advice literature of the day instructed men to make sure that their daughters and wives did not leave the house unaccompanied and did not frequent public areas. Yet in practice, of course, such seclusion was not feasible for those women whose household and work responsibilities required them to leave the house regularly. So it was only among the upper classes that this standard could be observed. This expectation greatly restricted the mobility of these women. Attending church, public processions, or religious festivals provided limited opportunities to move beyond the home. Women of the lower strata of society participated in all aspects of daily life. Though there were distinct responsibilities that were gendered female— such as cooking and certain kinds of agricultural practices like viticulture or harvesting olives—women assisted wherever necessary and often performed demanding physical labor. Women in artisanal households, despite the occa21 22 23

Sara T. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile,” Past & Present 125 (1989): 65– 96. These troupes provide another example of the non-isolation of rural culture in Renaissance Spain. See Melveena McKendrick, Theater in Spain, 1490–1700 (Cambridge: 1989). From Fray Luis de León’s La perfecta casada, quoted in Allyson Poska, Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain: The Peasants of Galicia (Oxford: 2005), 3.

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sional protest of male-run guilds, often assisted their husbands in the workshop and managed the account books. Women of means performed less actual labor, but often had the responsibility of supervising the work of servants and ensuring the smooth functioning of the house and estate. Overall, the premodern household was an economic unit where everyone’s contribution mattered. Women were aided in the performance of some of these tasks by the limited education that they received. One of the most influential texts on the subject of female education in the Renaissance, the humanist Juan Luis Vives’ The Education of a Christian Woman, advocated that women receive a modest amount of instruction. While this was a striking proposition, it is worth examining closely what kind of education Vives intended and to what purpose he thought it should be put. While he believed that women should learn to read, he also thought that young women should read edifying texts that would encourage them in the maintenance of chastity and other virtues. Their male counterparts during the Renaissance were receiving a humanist education that emphasized training in rhetoric and other practical skills that would prepare them for civic life. Women, Vives famously argued, did not need these lessons: “I am not at all concerned with eloquence. A woman has no need of that; she needs rectitude and wisdom.”24 Even if it was only to receive an education in virtue, however, Vives did argue that women should read the Bible, Jerome, Augustine, Ambrose, Plato, Cicero, Seneca, and others. The other most famous piece of Spanish advice literature for women of this era, Luis de León’s La perfecta casada (The Perfect Wife), prescribed a similar model, in this case for a married woman. She was to be obedient and faithful to her husband, setting a virtuous example for her children. Her sphere was the home. Overall, then, women needed certain literacy skills, but these were to be in the service of virtue, not education for its own sake or education that might prepare a woman for a career. Despite the constraints of this patriarchal system, we also know that women negotiated, modified, and adapted to these restrictions in various ways that allowed them considerable authority and even agency. To begin with, Spain’s system of partible inheritance meant that women inherited and administered property and other resources. Other legal mechanisms allowed them even greater latitude. Both mothers and fathers were allowed to set aside up to onefifth (the quinto) of their estates for free bequests. If the total of these bequests was less than one-fifth, the remaining amount, the remanente del quinto, could be designated as a special bequest or mejora. In addition, either parent could 24

Juan Luis Vives, The Education of a Christian Woman, trans. and (ed.) Charles Fantazzi (Chicago: 2006), 71.

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also alienate an amount known as the tercio. This was one-third of his or her estate that could be designated for an heir of his or her choosing. All of this meant that women had considerable flexibility in sharing their resources— however modest—with others. Not surprisingly, they often used these opportunities to create additional ones for their female relatives and servants. A mejora, quinto, or tercio could supplement a young woman’s dowry, for example, allowing the family to attract a more desirable marriage partner or let their daughter enter a convent. They also used these sums to make patronage investments in art, architecture, and the Church.25 With such legal opportunities in place, we can observe women across the social spectrum exercising various kinds of authority and power. Noblemen in their wills, for instance, overwhelmingly designated their wives as the guardians of their children. And their reasons were clear: they believed that their wives were the most prepared and knowledgeable to perform the necessary tasks.26 The absence of men could also create opportunities. In parts of Spain, most notably Galicia, the expectation that men would migrate for work led to circumstances where women administered the household and supervised the family patrimony. As we saw above with the case of widows being appointed guardians, widowhood could confer significant power and responsibilities on a woman. And there were a large number of widows in Renaissance Spain. For the 16th century in the cities with good data, the number ranges from 15 (Valladolid) to 21 (Medina del Campo) percent of the total population.27 This is partly explained by the age at first marriage, which for men was mid- to late-twenties and for women the early twenties. In addition, war, migration, and immigration often drew men away from home, leaving their wives to manage estates, businesses, and general household affairs.28 A particularly striking example of such authority comes from the example of the peasant women of Galicia (and, in turn, demonstrates the significance of geography in shaping daily life, a factor that will be discussed in greater detail

25 26

27 28

Korth and Flusche, “Dowry and Inheritance.” The definitive examination of this is Grace Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern Spain (Burlington, VT: 2011); see also Helen Nader (ed.), Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain (Urbana: 2004). Cited in Stephanie Fink de Backer, Widowhood in Early Modern Spain (Leiden: 2010), 2. On difficulties which could arise when married men were absent from their wives for extended periods of time, see Allyson Poska, “When Bigamy is the Charge: Gallegan Women and the Holy Office,” in Women in the Inquisition: Spain and the New World, (ed.) Mary Giles (Baltimore: 1998), 189–205.

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below).29 In this northwestern corner of Spain where secular and ecclesiastical oversight was weaker and male migration was common due to harsh economic circumstances, single women, married women, and widows all exercised a noteworthy degree of control over economic resources. Single women managed their familial inheritances carefully to ensure their well-being. Married women were often entrusted with the management of household resources and their husbands treated them as partners in this regard. While widowhood could leave a woman vulnerable, the evidence from Galicia suggests that widows continued in the tradition of women exercising authority and financial aptitude to ensure their survival. And all of these women demonstrated legal savvy, using notaries and the courts to stake their claims and press their cases. Women also used religion as a means of expression and asserting authority. For laywomen this often meant providing patronage to religious institutions. The aforementioned legal mechanisms allowed women to earmark portions of their patrimony for chapels, anniversary masses, and religious dowries. Like women, children were under the protection and authority of the male head of the household. Despite high infant mortality rates, parents bonded with their children and showed them deep affection. In the households of peasants and artisans, children were expected to begin contributing and working at a young age. It was customary for adolescents to leave home, with boys apprenticing in a trade and girls performing domestic service. For boys this was the opportunity to prepare for future work, and for girls, it was a chance to help contribute to their dowry.30 Dowries were understood socially as the measure of a family’s status and worth. They were tied not only to what a family could contribute in cash, property, and other goods, but also to a family’s honor or reputation. Much has been made of the Spanish preoccupation with honor and its links to the protection of female sexuality. Recent scholarship, however, has provided a more sophisticated understanding of this concept. Our understanding of ‘honor’ in Renaissance Spain is overly indebted to Golden Age Spanish plays that depicted, for example, husbands murdering their adulterous wives in defense of their honor. In fact, very few wife-murder cases were recorded in Spain. This does not mean that honor did not matter. It mattered deeply, but Spaniards defended it in other ways. Male honor could be defined by a variety of factors including providing for one’s family, meeting credit obli-

29 30

See again Allyson Poska’s magisterial study Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain. For more on ideas about, and the experience of, childhood in Spain see Grace Coolidge (ed.), The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain (Burlington, VT: 2014).

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gations, executing an office or a trade, and performing sanctioned forms of aggressive male sociability. Intimations or accusations that a man was not doing these things well or appropriately could escalate into sometimes violent arguments and fights. Surviving records indicate these disputes sometimes spilled over into the courts, at which point the men could use the court case itself to defend their honor (for popular, even festival-like, elements of trials and law cases in this period see the essay “Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State” by Edward Behrend-Martínez in this volume). Female honor was certainly defined by a woman’s ability to protect her sexual reputation, but it could also be shaped by things such as economic interactions and family position. Like their male counterparts, women vigorously defended their honor through arguments, shaming one another, and legal recourse.31 Other definitions and experiences of sexual identity also contributed to daily life. Recent research has demonstrated that despite clerical and lay regulations against it, male and female homosexuals pursued same-sex relations in Renaissance Spain. We know more about male same-sex relations in part because they were more vigorously prosecuted.32 The court cases prosecuting sodomy reveal several important dynamics that contribute to our understanding of these encounters. To begin with, men understood and described these relationships along a familiar axis of masculinity/femininity. In other words, they used existing cultural constructs about sexual behavior to describe their activities. In addition, these encounters occurred across a range of semi-public locations of cities, towns, and villages, despite the risks that such activity posed. Finally, the prosecution of these cases was shaped not just by the accusation of sodomy but by the ethnicity, social class, and religious background of the accused. Charges of sodomy could be used, for example, to marginalize and regulate religious minorities even further. Female same-sex relations are more difficult to apprehend in the historical record, largely because they defied the cultural constructions of sexual relations as based on a hierarchy of active and passive where the defining feature was an act of penetration. And yet the celebrated case of the cross-dressing Catalina de Erauso (whose autobiography clearly expresses eroticism and intimacy between women), court cases prosecuting this behavior, and moral trea31

32

Scott Taylor, Honor and Violence in Golden Age Spain (New Haven: 2008). For female honor see Allyson Poska, “Elusive Virtue: Rethinking the Role of Female Chastity in Early Modern Spain,” Journal of Early Modern History 8.1/2 (2004): 135–146. Cristian Berco, Sexual Hierarchies, Public Status: Men, Sodomy, and Society in Spain’s Golden Age (Toronto: 2007).

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tises and religious constitutions that expressed concerns about these kinds of attachments between women, speak to a complex world of female same-sex relationships.33 Like gender, religion shaped daily life in profound ways. Although predominantly Christian, the presence of significant communities of Jews and Muslims in the Iberian Peninsula marked the religious life of Renaissance Spain as distinctive when compared to its western European neighbors (see the essay on “Ethnic Groups” by Mayte Green-Mercado in this volume). The visual evidence of this intermingling of cultures was everywhere—in the mudéjar34 architecture and decoration of Christian churches and monasteries in cities like Zaragoza, Toledo, and Seville, for example. Until the expulsion of Spanish Jews in 1492, Christians witnessed their Jewish neighbors observing the sabbath and going to synagogue. For Christians, various sorts of religious observances and practices governed the rhythms of daily life at all levels of society. Parishioners attended mass regularly and made confession at least once a year. They celebrated the feast days of saints and strove to do charitable works that would accrue to the benefit of their souls after death. They were deeply invested in the care and maintenance of their parish churches, local shrines, and other significant religious sites. Those who could gave generously to support local monasteries and convents or founded side chapels in their parish churches. Probably the most striking feature of daily religious practice was its distinctly local character. Although united around the core tenets of the faith, Christians throughout Spain practiced that faith in ways that were deeply shaped by distinct needs and local observances. The clearest evidence of this parochialism comes from the veneration of saints. As the work of William Christian has demonstrated vividly, Spaniards regarded the saints as their holy advocates. And so they turned to certain ‘specialist’ saints in times of trouble. St Sebastian and St Roch were particularly useful in times of plague; locusts were best combatted by the intervention of St Gregory of Nazianzus, St Gregory the Pope, and St Pantaleon.35 Saints also possessed geographical significance. Communities created shrines to particular saints in locations where those saints had appeared to the faithful.36

33

34 35 36

Sherry Velasco, Lesbians in Early Modern Spain (Nashville: 2011); Catalina de Erauso, Lieutenant Nun: Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World, trans. and (eds.) Michele Stepto and Gabriel Stepto (Boston: 1996). The name given to Muslims living under Christian rule. William A. Christian, Jr., Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1981), 42–43. Christian, Local Religion, 75–93.

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In the late medieval period, daily life was sometimes marked by periodic outbursts of ritualized violence towards minorities,37 who are once again among the ethnic groups described by Mayte Green-Mercado’s essay in the present volume. David Nirenberg has investigated the violence directed against medieval Jews by Christians in the Crown of Aragon. In 1331 in Girona, for example, Christians stoned the walls of the Jewish quarter. This ritualized violence was meant to “reinstitute differences and emphasize boundaries while displacing violence from the interior of the community.”38 Thus, it remained mostly contained and stylized, and tended to erupt during times of political and/or economic stress. Despite a history of mostly peaceful coexistence, it was during the Renaissance period that the Peninsula’s religious minorities came under pressure from an increasingly hegemonic Christianity. In the mid-15th century there were rising tensions at the royal court about the sincerity of Jews forcibly converted to Christianity (conversos or ‘New’ Christians as contrasted with those who could claim an unbroken Christian pedigree) in the late 14th century. Once this pressure was coupled with the desire of the Catholic Monarchs, Isabel and Ferdinand, to join political unity with religious uniformity, conversos and Jews found themselves under increased scrutiny. In 1486 the monarchs received permission from the papacy to bring a tribunal of the Inquisition to Spain. Its distinct purpose at this stage was to investigate conversos suspected of Judaizing. A few celebrated trials were held that found conversos guilty of this charge. This rising tide of suspicion reached a tragic high-water mark in 1492 when the monarchs expelled all Jews from the Iberian Peninsula. The Inquisition’s presence also left an indelible legacy as its powers and reach expanded to include investigating the beliefs and practices of Old Christians while continuing to prosecute conversos.39 The Peninsula’s Muslim population did not fare well, either. Ferdinand and Isabel defined their reign by their desire to complete the Christian Reconquest. Since 711 there had been an Islamic kingdom in southern Spain. With varying degrees of success, Spain’s medieval monarchs had reduced the size of—but not eradicated—this Islamic kingdom. By the mid-15th century the city of Granada and its environs formed the core of this Muslim stronghold. In 1492 troops led by Ferdinand successfully conquered Granada and the monarchs quickly set about rededicating the city in the name of Christianity, turn-

37 38 39

David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton: 1996). Nirenberg, Communities of Violence, 218. Kamen, Spain 1469–1714, 38–44.

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ing mosques into churches and declaring the Reconquest completed. Initially, the monarchs proposed a gradual conversion campaign for the city’s Muslim inhabitants. By 1502, however, this approach was rejected in favor of forced baptisms and conversions. This, in turn, created a new population of moriscos (Muslims converted to Christianity). This group, too, would attract the scrutiny of the Inquisition.40 So far, this discussion of family and daily life has assumed a primarily rural and agricultural model of society. This is appropriate since the vast majority of Spaniards lived in such a setting during the Renaissance. Cities, however, were still significant; on this topic see Enrique García Santo-Tomás’ essay “Civic Ritual, Urban Life” in the present volume. Cities derived their stature less from the size of their populations (which were growing in this period) and more from the presence in them of significant institutions like universities, cathedrals and law courts. As noted above, royal government was also increasingly entrenched in urban locations. The range of social classes in the city mimicked that of the countryside, with the middling classes—because their work was centered on urban areas— occupying a more prominent role. At the bottom of the social pyramid were urban workers, both skilled and unskilled. Like their peasant counterparts these urban workers possessed varying degrees of wealth, with the less welloff working in various trades for daily wages. The more prosperous members of this group were master artisans who managed their own workshops and perhaps exercised some political influence.41 The lower strata of urban society lived in modest dwellings, the Early Modern equivalent of tenements. Apartments or aposentos usually had a main sala—a combined living and dining area, and perhaps (but not necessarily) separate bedrooms. The greatest difference between rural and urban living for laborers was the lack of privacy in the city. From court cases and other evidence we know that it was difficult to shield your affairs from your neighbors and passers-by. Cities were congested, lively spaces where everyone knew your business.42 Urban laborers found community and solace in various corporate organizations. Guilds, which were trade associations organized around particular occupations, regulated employment and prices, but also provided support in times of crisis. A guild might, for example, cover the funeral expenses of a member. 40 41 42

Kamen, Spain 1469–1714, 32–37. James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (New York: 1999), 119–120; Ruiz, Spanish Society, 53–56. See the discussion of urban life in Richard L. Kagan, Lucrecia’s Dreams: Politics and Prophecy in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Berkeley: 1990), 14–32.

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Confraternities centered on parish churches and organized around particular devotions (Corpus Christi, for example) gave their members a sense of community and lessened the anonymity of the city. At the other end of the social spectrum, nobles increasingly made their home in urban areas. This was a shift driven largely by the decision of Spain’s monarchs to be less peripatetic and to reside more regularly in urban areas. This led to a growth in the number of noble residences in the cities, an architectural imprint that still endures. Because it was the locus of government and education (universities were distinctly urban institutions), Spain’s letrados also made the city their home. The distinction between living in the countryside and living in the city, then, could greatly condition the experience of daily life. Geography shaped it in other ways as well. Rather than regard Spanish geography monolithically, it is instructive to understand that different regions had distinct topographies and personalities. The northern tier of Spain is green and fertile and was dominated, unsurprisingly, by maritime interests. Some regions, like Galicia in the northwest corner, had a distinct language. Central Spain formed the core of the Iberian kingdoms and is characterized by high plains that brought extreme weather and made agricultural pursuits challenging. It included most of the realm’s most important cities such as Burgos, Valladolid, Madrid, and Toledo. Southern Spain, as we have seen, was the region that most felt the influence of Islamic culture. Irrigating innovations made farming in this region less demanding than in central Spain. Finally, the eastern part of Spain included the Kingdom of Aragon. This region benefitted immensely from Mediterranean trade. Within Aragon the city and surrounding region of Barcelona held to a proud tradition of autonomy and the distinctiveness of the Catalan language.43 All Spaniards, regardless of gender, religion, social standing, or where they lived, were at the mercy of disease, a topic explored in greater detail in an essay by Cristian Berco included in the present volume. Like their European counterparts, Spaniards battled a host of ailments which included measles, influenza, smallpox, and typhus. By the 16th century—whether because it was brought from the Americas or diagnosed differently than it had been previously—they also contended with syphilis. Curiously, the disease that most shaped daily life was bubonic plague.44 This was because plague recurred throughout the Renaissance period every 15 to 20 years. Thus, plague, which continued to exact a large demographic toll, was something that most Spaniards would experi-

43 44

Ruiz, Spanish Society, 12–16. Kristy Wilson Bowers, Plague and Public Health in Early Modern Seville (Rochester: 2013).

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ence in their lifetime. To treat all of these diseases and more minor ailments and injuries, most Spaniards sought the services of surgeons, barber-surgeons, and apothecaries/herbalists. University-trained physicians were expensive and would have been beyond the financial reach of most. We know as well from correspondence, recipe books, and other ephemeral evidence that women figured prominently in the delivery of much of this care and that the home was merely one end of a continuum of female medical practice in this period.45 Minor ailments could be remedied, bones set, and wounds healed. More serious diseases were still treated during the Renaissance according to Galen’s theory of humors. This theory held that each individual’s health was the result of a balance of humors within the body (blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm). Various things could condition this balance: gender, environment, and food, for example. Illness was the result of an imbalance and could be restored through practices like bloodletting, cupping (heated cups were applied to parts of the body to redirect the humors), and herbal remedies. The evidence suggests that Early Modern Spaniards had confidence in these healers and their practices. They sought their services and used their remedies. The experience of injury or illness could be frightening, but suffering patients by and large believed that medicine offered efficacious solutions. Overall, then, a complex set of factors contributed to the texture of daily and family life in Renaissance Spain. Social standing, gender, religion, and geography interacted to create distinct experiences for each individual. Some generalizations are possible, but they should be carefully tempered by scholarly attentiveness to the interplay of a diverse range of conditions. 45

Montserrat Cabré, “Women or Healers? Household Practices and the Categories of Health Care in Late Medieval Iberia,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 82.1 (2008): 18–51.

chapter 6

Birth and Death in the Spanish Renaissance Stephanie L. Fink

Birth and death, natality and mortality: two inescapable elements of human experience that transcend time and place, yet are understood differently within particular historical contexts. Broadly speaking, a long history of Western religious, philosophical and cultural traditions informed the ways these fundamental markers of human existence were encountered in the Spanish Renaissance during the 15th through the 17th centuries. The assured triumph of death over the physical body and the promise of an immortal life of the spirit conditioned attitudes toward life and preparation for its end. Thus, death was merely physical, leading to the soul’s sojourn in Purgatory, awaiting the final triumphant rebirth as promised by Scripture and witnessed by the Resurrection of Christ. Even though death marked the end of earthly existence, it ushered in the eternal life of the spirit that was still intimately linked to the living by means of highly orchestrated funerary and commemorative rituals to attend to the care of departed souls. The elaboration surrounding preparation for death, attention to appropriate funeral rites, and establishment of mass cycles sung for the dead indicate the extent to which death and ritual were essential elements of daily life across socioeconomic class, which intrinsically involved the metaphysical element of (re)birth: the freeing of spirit no longer entrapped by the corrupting flesh. The highly public rites associated with death left modern historians ample evidence to interpret, while birthing rituals were less well documented. Strikingly clear, however, is that the process of physical birth carried with it the imminent threat of death, both for mother and child, making it fraught with both anticipation and fear. Childbirth was the moment where the promise of life contended with the certainty of ultimate death—where, despite interventions (both physical and spiritual), a positive outcome for mother and child was never assured. Nowhere, then, was the precariousness, and even capriciousness, of the shift from life to death more viscerally experienced than at the time of birth and the immediate postpartum period, when midwives mediated the transit between liminal spaces for mother and child. In the case of unwanted births, due to the pressures of poverty or shame, newborns might be abandoned to the care of foundling hospitals. These institutions offered little protection against infant mortality, but at least attended to baptism and burial

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_008

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for foundlings to ensure the safe passage of the soul. Attitudes and practices surrounding the critical moments that magnify these intersections between life and death demonstrate how religiosity and socioeconomic reality fused to produce an understanding of birth that mirrored attitudes toward death. Birth, as with death, constituted a site of liminality revealed in the ways Spaniards wove together the material and the spiritual, the profane and the sacred, to contend with the realities of this world and expectations surrounding the world of the spirit. Although both men and women alike experience birth, Renaissance Spain, consistent with Western tradition, situated birth as an innately female space and drew connections between women and death as a commonplace. For daughters of Eve, giving birth could never be achieved in accordance with the only true exemplar of female purity—the Virgin; birth implied sexual contact, inherently a product of human lusts, even if sanctified by the sacrament of marriage. Thus polluted by the sins of the flesh, the woman’s body served as a conduit between the potential life of a new soul, condemned by Original Sin yet redeemable, and the corporeal corruption accompanying the death of the body. In accordance with this spiritual worldview, women, and most significantly their bodies, contended with the unending cycle of being, due to their proximity to birth and death. This relationship existed not merely in a woman’s personal experience of pregnancy, childbirth and early infant care, but also in the ways that women served as midwives, wet nurses, and caregivers for each other and for newborns. The intimacy of female space so vitally associated with the only marginally-controllable process of birthing, although socially condoned, nevertheless constituted a source of anxiety. Within this realm lurked the mysteries of women’s anatomy and sexuality, which generated fears of the unfettered access women alone possessed to knowledge of these latent sources of potential disorder and dissolution. As in other areas of Europe, from the 15th through the 17th centuries, Spanish midwives played the dominant role in managing the birthing space, attending to births for all classes of society. University-trained physicians showed little interest in what they considered a mere trade performed solely by women, and, by extension, a form of manual labor, making midwifery consistently marginal to the professionalization of medicine.1 Initial interest in regulating

1 Teresa Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination: Midwives in Early Modern Spain,” in The Art of Midwifery: Early Modern Midwives in Europe, (ed.) Hilary Marland (London: 1993), 95– 114, at 95–96. See also Fernando Conde Fernández, “Parteras, comadres, matronas. Evolución de la profesión desde el saber popular al conocimiento científico,” Academia de Ciencias e

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midwives appeared in the 1448 Ordenanzas de Madrigal, which proposed that local judges throughout the towns of Castile should oversee licensing for medical practitioners.2 The first concerted actions to formalize midwifery as a profession came with the creation of the Real Tribunal del Protomedicato under the Catholic Kings in the late 15th century. While the tribunal established in 1477 set norms for doctors, surgeons, and other medical professionals, midwives did not fall under any such jurisdiction. Treatments pertaining to childbirth were categorized by language suggesting these were “minor issues” and “natural processes.”3 By 1498, however, the monarchs issued a royal pragmatic recognizing the need to regulate the art of midwifery. Until 1523, midwives, along with all other medical practitioners, were examined by the king’s physicians (the protomédicos), the highest medical authorities in the realm. Yet after 1523, only physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, and barbers were examined. Midwives thenceforth came under the jurisdiction of local physicians, as outlined by individual municipal governments. Nevertheless, calls for stricter monitoring of midwives came to the fore in 1538 and 1558, asking that midwives be examined by “two doctors of science and experience” to obtain a license.4 The establishment of clear lines between different areas of medical practice, how they would be regulated, and whose authority would confer competence marked a significant demotion of midwifery as a profession.5 The professional profile of midwives continued to decline after 1576, when Philip II abolished regulatory measures altogether. Formal examination of midwives was not reintroduced until two centuries later in 1750 under the impetus of the Bourbon reforms.6 All the while, midwives resisted the intrusion of other professionals into their realm, countering with lawsuits against incompetent surgeons, for instance.7 However, due to the relative lack of standard formalized training and associated recognition of attaining a discrete set of skills, midwives were not able to form a professionalized group and over time became effectively marginalized as medical practitioners. Nevertheless, despite the

2

3 4 5 6 7

Ingenierías de Lanzarote. Discursos Académicos 49 (2011): 1–55, at 26. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://www.academiadelanzarote.es/Discursos/Discurso%2049.pdf. Gloria Gallego-Caminero, Margalida Miró-Bonet, Pilar Ferrer de Sant Jordi, and Denise Gastaldo, “Las parteras y/o comadronas del siglo XVI: el manual de Damiá Carbó,” Texto & Contexto Enfermagem 14.4 (2005): 601–607, at 603. Conde Fernández, “Parteras, comadres, matronas,” 25. Mary Elizabeth Perry, Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Seville (Princeton: 1990), 27, citing Luis S. Granjel, La medicina española renacentista (Salamanca: 1980), 136. Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination,” 98. Conde Fernández, “Parteras, comadres, matronas,” 24–25. Gallego-Caminero et al., “Las parteras y/o comadronas del siglo XVI,” 604.

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shift in examination and regulation processes, midwives continued to play the most prominent role in attending to childbirth and maintained a significant degree of autonomy into the 18th century. The ubiquity of midwives in Spanish society is matched only by the dearth of records that define with precision the rituals and practices surrounding childbirth. Spanish midwives did not publish any manuals, in part due to their marginalization as medical practitioners and lack of access to formal schooling. In addition, treatises penned by male physicians may not be entirely accurate in conveying the actual methods of the women they hoped to enlighten. The first manual on midwifery published in Spain and second in Europe (after Eucharius Rösslin’s Rosengarten) was penned in Castilian in 1541. Damián Carbón addressed his Libro del arte de las comadres y del regimiento de las preñadas y paridas y de los niños to midwives, called madrinas, whom he found to be particularly ignorant.8 While not specifically aimed at midwives, but rather at doctors and surgeons, the Tratado sobre partos (1551) by Luis Lobera de Ávila was written predominantly in Castilian (although annotations in one chapter are entirely in Latin) with the aim of expanding the range of medical knowledge to practitioners otherwise unschooled in Latin or without access to Latin texts. Ostensibly, midwives fell into this category. Francisco Núñez de Coria published the Libro del parto humano en el cual se contienen remedios muy útiles y usuales para el parto dificultoso de las mujeres in 1580. While he does not state outright for whom the manual is intended, the central figure attending to childbirth in the volume is indeed the midwife. Essentially an annotated translation of Rösslin the Younger’s De partu hominis (1532), Núñez de Coria’s work focuses on treatments for difficult childbirths and remedies for childhood illnesses. A third foundational text appeared in 1606, written by Juan Alonso de los Ruyzes de Fontecha, Diez previlegios para mujeres preñadas.9 While theoretically available to midwives, such treatises written by male physicians trained in medical theory dating from the classical period, made available to the West with the translation of medical texts from Arabic into Latin, do not appear to be strongly informed by actual gynecological practice.10 8 9 10

Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination,” 97. Conde Fernández, “Parteras, comadres, matronas,” 35. These manuals provide evidence that does not support Lacquer’s one sex / two sex model in Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (1990), as explicated by Helen King, The One-Sex Body on Trial: The Classical and Early Modern Evidence (Farnham: 2016): “His lack of knowledge of Hippocratic gynaecology, for example, weakens his comments on the 16th century, a period in which the Hippocratic insistence on women as entirely different from men was repeated as part of a male claim to be able to treat women’s diseases more effectively than could illiterate female healers” (xi).

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Teresa Ortiz asserts that it is unlikely that published manuals had much effect on midwives or their activities. Indeed, “putting them forward as advice books for this group was rather rhetorical, and may have been an attempt to overcome the obstacle of morality and customs which placed childbirth within the female domain.”11 Because practical experience informed training in the art of midwifery rather than schooling (the type of theoretical knowledge that characterized university medical studies), the appearance of such manuals primarily signals the process by which midwives became progressively marginal to the professionalization of medicine occurring in the Early Modern period. Despite the proclamations of physicians to the contrary, midwives in Renaissance Spain were, in practical terms, the foremost experts in matters pertaining to pregnancy, childbirth, and infancy. Their enduring authority is even visible in the way male authors began to include traditional practices of midwives in medical treatises and manuals, adding women’s practical knowledge to the theoretical information derived from the corpus of classical learning.12 Indeed, physician-authored texts indicate that midwives oversaw all stages of the birthing process and immediate post-partum period, including the postmortem caesarean. Surgeons intervened in cases of extracting a dead fetus, or other surgical issues, while physicians typically only answered to summons in cases of fevers or illnesses during the pregnancy or postpartum period.13 Even in the case of royal births, the prestigious physicians of the court or the universities who studied pregnancy and wrote about it were merely present at parturition, on hand to certify births rather like notaries, while the midwives took on active roles in assisting mother and newborn.14 In addition to caring for women during their pregnancies, assisting in the birthing process, and attending to postpartum care, midwives also had the responsibility to administer emergency baptisms in cases where the death of the newborn seemed imminent. Beyond the birthing chamber, midwives served as advisors in all matters concerning sexuality and reproduction. Finally, as working women, they testified in legal proceedings regarding their professional activities to provide evidence in inheritance suits. While sources for uncovering these routine activities are not abundant, Inquisition records, pastoral visitation logs, and notarial registers provide insight into the rituals and practices surrounding childbirth in the urban setting, while accounts of royal 11 12 13 14

Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination,” 97. Gallego-Caminero et al., “Las parteras y/o comadronas del siglo XVI,” 604. Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination,” 97. Julio Cruz y Hermida, “Biografía histórico-médica de Isabel la Católica,” Toletum: Boletín de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes y Ciencias Históricas de Toledo 51 (2005): 115–136, at 117.

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births likewise include the ever-present midwife.15 The ubiquity of the midwife’s presence in daily life is highlighted not by her remarkable activities, but instead by her position at the fulcrum of the precarious balance between birth and death. The roles played by midwives extended beyond the physical care of mothers and infants to taking part in key religious rituals and legal transactions. Their intimate involvement in communal life granted them remarkable social power, not to mention the ability to manage their own economic welfare.16 While the birthing process would seem to be a highly intimate affair involving the mother and the women attending her, notarial records show that public declarations of birth (cartas públicas de parto) brought notaries themselves to witness births. A woman of higher socioeconomic status giving birth after being widowed might enlist a notary to record the birth to provide documentary evidence of the child’s legitimacy. To establish the veracity of the birth, intimate details about the birthing process were recorded, where the midwife became a key witness providing such information. Not only would the midwife be present, but also other women assisting in the birthing process, who likewise stood as witnesses. Finally, a notary would typically be at hand to record all salient information. One such example drawn from the notarial registers of Zaragoza, reproduced in a study of documentary evidence pertaining to midwives published by Manuel Jesús García Martínez, provides a striking instance of the private made public.17 On 10 January 1490, between ten and eleven in the morning, in the upstairs bedroom of Sr Martín de Bureta’s house, with windows open and holy candles burning, two female attendants supported the woman in labor, who was shouting in pain due to the imminent emergence of the fetus. Present were the notary, Domingo de Cuerla, along with other witnesses summoned by Isabel de la Cavallería, in addition to the midwife, Catalina de Medina. The notary subjected all the women to a “pat down of their bodies and between their legs, and made them lift their skirts up to their undershirts to ensure that

15 16 17

Manuel Jesús García Martínez, “El oficio de partera entre los siglos XV al XVIII. Fuentes documentales para su estudio,” Cultura de Cuidados 16.32 (2012): 88–95, at 90. Conde Fernández, “Parteras, comadres, matronas,” 26. García Martínez, “El oficio de partera,” 88–95. The study reproduces the following document: “Carta de parto de Isabel de la Cavallería y viuda de Pedro de Francia, que dio luz un varón. Fecha: Carta de 10 de enero de 1490,” Archivo Histórico de Protocolos Notariales de Zaragoza, Protocolo de Domingo Cuerla, año de 1490, fols. 2v–4v. The transcription of the same document was previously published in María del Carmen García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto y recibir la criatura’: aportación al estudio de obstetricia bajomedieval,” Aragón en la Edad Media 8 (1989): 283–292.

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they were not trying to pull a trick by concealing a newborn” to present as Isabel’s. They then knelt before him to swear that they were not attempting any sort of deceit.18 This formalized process of assembling witnesses in front of the notary within the birthing chamber draws attention to the legal dimensions of childbirth by highlighting the importance of establishing paternity for the sake of confirming rights to inheritance, while simultaneously signaling male anxiety about women’s command of this space. At the same time, it suggests that the birthing chamber was, indeed, in most cases a space closed to male observation and participation, where midwives and their assistants presided authoritatively. The very nature of the collaboration of women in the birthing process stoked fears that it might be a site of deception: privy to the secrets of the pregnant body, a woman’s companions might assist her in perpetrating inheritance fraud. According to the mandates of Castilian law, children inherited separately from the maternal and paternal estates. Thus, the paternal share owed to the child born to a woman who was widowed during pregnancy could be quite considerable. Widows routinely served as guardians for their minor children, which included oversight of their estates. In the case of a child who died before coming of age, the widow was the heir, and would thus collect the portion of the inheritance stemming from her deceased spouse’s estate.19 A widow could certainly have ulterior motives for producing a ‘decoy child,’ whether it should live or die. Isabel de la Cavallería was the widow of a nobleman, the Lord of Bureta; thus, the inheritance in question may have been considerable.20 To confirm her child’s right to inheritance, and by extension her authority over this estate, Isabel not only chose to deliver the child in the household of paternal kin, but also to establish a legal document to defend both her child’s and her own interests.21 The private dimension of childbirth thus became a public concern, particularly whenever perilous pregnancies and the

18 19

20 21

Carta de parto of Isabel de la Cavallería (1490), as transcribed in García Martínez, “El oficio de partera,” 92. An example of a widow who became heir to two children who predeceased her and the laws governing such situations is noted in Stephanie Fink de Backer, Widowhood in Early Modern Spain (Leiden: 2010), 152–153. The potential value of an underage child’s estate to a widowed mother is discussed in Grace Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern Spain (Burlington: 2011), 20. García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto,’ ” provides the title of Isabel de la Cavallería’s deceased husband, Señor de Bureta (287). The issue of staking out potential inheritance rights for an unborn child appears in the case of Cecelia Egas, the widow of a town councilman, as discussed in Fink de Backer, Widowhood, 130–131.

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premature birth and death of heirs triggered efforts to preserve socioeconomic status among families with any level of wealth. The legal dimensions of childbirth demanded the public declaration of birth, yet establishing the veracity of the birth meant going far beyond the recording of witnesses and dispelling suspicions over female perfidy. This document also recorded intimate details surrounding the birthing process itself, which provide a visceral eye-witness account. The record concerning Isabel de la Cavallería describes the disposition of the space meticulously. In Isabel’s case, it would appear that her labor was complicated. Instead of the usual placement of relics on her abdomen and lighting a few candles, relics were strewn about and her birth chamber was ablaze with many holy candles, while a male relative had to help hold her in the final stages of labor.22 Surrounded by the other women, all kneeling, Catalina (the midwife) placed a cloth across her knees, prepared to receive the child. She placed a basin between Isabel’s legs to collect blood and amniotic fluid. In a short space of time, she birthed an infant, totally wet, with closed eyes, whom she received in her hands. Shortly thereafter, the midwife proceeded to extract the placenta, while the notary and the witnesses watched it fall into the blood-filled basin.23 The notary then examined the newborn to aver the presence of all the body parts that male children have, “called vulgarly cock and balls.”24 After the birth, the midwife had the responsibility to wrap up both mother and newborn according to accepted practices. The binding of the infant was deemed necessary to guard against deformation or curvatures that could produce life-long consequences.25 The public declaration of birth thereby recorded intimate elements of the birthing process, including the posture of the mother, the placement and role of the women in attendance, and the type of equipment they used, not to mention the surroundings filled with spiritually symbolic items associated with ensuring a successful birth. Even as midwives held in their hands birth and the promise of a new life, at the same time they continuously confronted the prospect of death. The reality of imminent death for mother, newborn, or both stood behind recommendations that midwives be able to perform emergency baptisms to meet

22 23

24 25

García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto,’ ” 289. A key danger associated with childbirth was retention of the placenta, which Early Modern practitioners estimated occurred in 4–10 % of all complicated deliveries. See Ortiz, “From Hegemony to Subordination,” 105. Carta de parto of Isabel de la Cavallería (1490), as transcribed in García Martínez, “El oficio de partera,” 92. García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto,’ ” 290.

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the imperative of ensuring salvation.26 Should the child survive, it would later be taken to a church for a formal baptismal ceremony with full rites to eliminate completely the danger associated with potential damnation.27 Following the publication of decrees emanating from the Council of Trent (Session 24, Chapter 3, November 1563), diocesan synods formalized mandates to put into place a system for visitations that answered the needs of clerics and parishioners in each region. As a result, each diocese created regulations governing the visitation process, which produced records collected by each inspector and housed in parochial archives.28 These documents include reports on hospitals and churches, along with the work of primary school teachers, doctors, and midwives. A typical visitation questionnaire might ask whether there was a midwife in said location, along with queries regarding her title, age, and civil status. To assess her efficacy, information was sought regarding the length of time she had been practicing her trade, her comportment, her level of expertise, the relationships she cultivated with other professionals, and whether she had been trained in the administration of emergency baptisms.29 Even though the post-Tridentine period saw a movement to constrain the activities of women as authoritative voices in the realm of things spiritual, the pragmatic necessity to avert the damnation of a newly-born soul required the agency of midwives. Consequently, religious authorities did not merely allow, but instead openly encouraged midwives to take on the otherwise strictly priestly role of administering one of the most fundamental sacraments of the church. The centrality of midwives as the steady hands holding the tenuous balance between life and death at the moment of birth granted them the power to mediate the sacred, so fiercely guarded by the priesthood. While midwives sought practical treatments to assist their charges, physicians addressed the threats to life posed by pregnancy and the commonplace nature of miscarriage by grounding causality in the classical tradition of humoral theory, which identified the physiological debility of women and fetuses as the intrinsic rationale for failed pregnancy. Because the uterus was

26 27 28

29

Teresa Vinyoles i Vidal, “De medicina, de magia y de amor: saberes y prácticas femeninas en la documentación catalana bajomedieval,” Clio & Crimen 8 (2011): 225–246, at 237. Manuel Lobo Cabrera and María José Sediles García, “Expósitos e ilegítimos en Las Palmas en el siglo XVII,” Anuario de Estudios Atlánticos 34 (1988): 159–203, at 165. José Jesús García Hourcade and Antonio Irigoyen López, “Las visitas pastorales, una fuente fundamental para la historia de Iglesia en la Edad Moderna,” Anuario de Historia de la Iglesia 15 (2006): 293–301, at 294. García Martínez, “El oficio de partera,” 93.

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regarded as a permeable organ, it could fall prey to climatological factors that provoked fetal malformation leading to spontaneous miscarriage. In addition, medical treatises noted that a woman’s place of origin, her occupation (such as prostitute or laborer), a propensity to drink wine, and a host of social conditions, including poverty-induced inadequate diet, affected the viability of a pregnancy.30 Physicians also cited violence at the hands of men as contributing to the incidence of pregnancy complications. As further attestation to the frequency of such mistreatment, Spanish penal law codes indicate that violence against women constituted the most frequently observed and punished form of misconduct that resulted in miscarriage.31 Men were likewise blamed for provoking miscarriage due to their insistence on intercourse during pregnancy, which, according to humoral theory, provoked a chilling of the uterus due to excessive heat produced in the maternal heart, resulting in fetal death.32 Whether due to the inherent instability of female physiology or external threats to reproductive health, miscarriage was considered a high risk. Midwives and their clients understood the difficulties associated with pregnancy and childbirth and sought divine intervention to protect against these harsh realities, which conferred upon them intercessory authority. Women made invocations to the Virgin of Good Childbirth (Virgen del Buen Parto) or the Virgin of the Belt (Virgen de la Cinta) and carried talismans bearing holy images, such as medals with the agnus dei. Women likewise wore “childbirth bags” containing herbs or chants hung around their necks or placed on their abdomens.33 In accordance with popular wisdom, pregnant women, or those seeking to become pregnant, made pilgrimages to holy sites associated with fertility. On the advice of her physicians, Queen Isabel made two different pilgrimages to the monastery believed to have been built by Saint Juan de Ortega in Barrios de Colina, Burgos, to pray for the birth of a child.34 After both treks, pregnancy and successful delivery ensued: Prince Juan, assisted by the midwife known as “La Herredera” in 1478, and Princess Juana in 1479.35 The town of Los Santos de la Humosa near Madrid was home to a hermitage containing the bones of the founding hermit, Pedro. These bones, when placed on the head 30 31 32 33 34

35

Paloma Moral de Calatrava, “El aborto en la literatura médica castellana del siglo XVI,” DYNAMIS 26 (2006): 39–68, at 47, 53–54, 57. Moral de Calatrava, “El aborto,” 57–59. Moral de Calatrava, “El aborto,” 65. Vinyoles i Vidal, “De medicina,” 237. Julio Cruz y Hermida, “Biografía obstétrica de Isabel la Católica (comentarios históricomédicos de los embarazos, partos y abortos de la reina),” Anales de la Real Academia Nacional de Medicina 121.4 (2004): 689–703, at 694. Cruz y Hermida, “Biografía obstétrica,” 695.

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of women suffering labor complications, produced a feeling of being aided by God and resulted in swift delivery.36 As recorded in the treatise of Damián Carbón, amulets made of coral or other minerals and herbs were positioned on different body parts to ease the birthing process. Such remedies included the following: emeralds or coral tied to the inner-left thigh; the heart taken from a live hen, basil root, cyclamen root, artemisia, and snakeroot (either individually or mixed together) placed on the knee; the feather from the left wing of an eagle or vulture placed under the left foot; a lapis stone tied to the left arm; and kite (hawk) nails placed beneath the undershirt.37 Remedies likewise appear in literary sources, such as a copla by Rodrigo de Reinosa, where the midwife requests pepper and lavender to ease the pain of her charge’s contractions, among her demands for roasted chicken and partridges as payment for her services.38 Such examples show how women actively sought to control the mysterious forces that placed them in peril of death at the same time as they held the ability to nurture life. Despite reliance on a host of palliatives, such remedies could not overcome the very real physical trauma of childbirth complications. The same midwife that guided Isabel de la Cavallería through her labor could not prevail over the breech position and tangled umbilical cord that resulted in Elvira de Esparta’s death from the injuries produced by giving birth.39 Queen Isabel the Catholic suffered a late miscarriage in between the births of her first and second children, while her fourth live-born child, María, had a twin who died in utero. María herself died at the age of 17 as a result of puerperal fever.40 The strains of multiple pregnancies and an itinerant court also had ill effects on the highly devout Isabel of Portugal, the wife of Charles V. Her first child died before the end of his first year while she was in the throes of malaria. Subsequent pregnancies and births in 1535 and 1537 left her in particularly poor health, leading to her death less than two weeks after giving birth to a premature son in 1539.41

36 37

38

39 40 41

William Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1981), 110. Damián Carbón, Libro del arte de las comadres y del regimiento de las preñadas y paridas y de los niños (Mallorca: 1541). See Chapter 20, “De las cosas que hazen el buen parto,” fol. 38r–38v. Rodrigo de Reinosa, Comiença un tratado hecho por coplas sobre que una señora embio a pedir por merced al auctor que las hizo que pues estava de parto le embiase algun remedio, el qual le responde por coplas (Toledo: ca. 1515), fol. 1v. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://gallica .bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k853422b. García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto,’ ” 289. Cruz y Hermida, “Biografía obstétrica,” 693, 696. Vinyoles i Vidal, “De medicina,” 244. Isabel de Portugal’s mother, María de Castilla, died in 1518, following the birth of her eighth child.

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Both the first and third wives of Philip II, María de Portugal and Isabel of Valois, died shortly after giving birth; his fourth wife, Ana de Austria, outlived her last child by only eight months.42 The perils of childbirth and resultant complications cruelly tormented the highest ranks of the nobility and dashed dynastic prospects just as they insistently threatened the ranks of the poor.43 From lighting holy candles to drinking holy water, in the face of high rates of infant mortality and pregnancy-related complications leading to death, women and midwives turned to rituals and practices that sought to ensure a safe childbirth for mother and child. Midwives’ practices, whether borne of empirical knowledge gained through experience or faith in the supernatural, were trusted as means to cure and protect mothers and children, to ensure fertility, and to affect sexual relationships. This understanding of reproduction and women’s sexuality could bring with it accusations of impropriety, ranging from dabbling in fertility magic, playing the role of procuress or, most gravely, harming mother and child alike with heretical dark forces. In terms of the archival record, when midwives were accused of using magic in the course of healing or attempting to intervene in sexual affairs, the charges levied were superstitious practices rather than diabolical witchcraft.44 Such methods might involve divinations or casting binding spells incorporating holy water or other holy objects to secure the affections of a lover.45 Carbón recommends that the women in the birthing chamber “all be family members; guard yourself against strange old women who are not your mother, mother-in-law, or otherwise very close to you.”46 The risk of entertaining a strange old midwife is that she might be some sort of enchantress, who will mutter strange words with her eyes turned toward heaven, then ultimately confess her errors in front of Inquisitors. In his admonitions, Carbón is not entirely off the mark, even if he is guilty of gross generalization. Over-

42

43

44 45 46

Francisco Pacheco, El túmulo de la reina doña Ana de Austria, (ed.) Bartolomé Pozuelo Calero (Madrid: 2004), Part III.2: Los túmulos de la Catedral de Sevilla durante el siglo XVI, C–CI. María de Portugal died four days after giving birth to Carlos, due to hemorrhaging. Isabel of Valois died following the stillbirth of her sixth child. Anna of Austria bore five children, only one of whom survived childhood, while she died just before her 31st birthday. For a discussion of how elite families anticipated births and feared the prospects of death for infants and mothers, see James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (London: 1999), 216. García Martínez, “El oficio de partera,” 92 and Vinyoles Vidal, “De medicina,” 244. See María Tausiet, “Magic for Love or Subjugation,” Ch. 3 in Urban Magic in Early Modern Spain: Abracadabra Omnipotens (Basingstoke, England: 2014). Carbón, Libro de las comadres, fol. 38r.

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whelmingly, midwives who ran afoul of Inquisitors did so by using the sacred in profane ways or by fraudulently seeking to invoke spirits based on the belief that their interventions would be efficacious. Not only did the midwife operate in the liminal space between life and death, but also in the ambiguous distinctions between the sacred and heretical, the legal and extralegal. Instances of doctrinal heresy associated with childbirth arose in circumstances where ‘New Christians,’ whether converts from Judaism (conversos) or Islam (moriscos), might be accused of backsliding. In one case dating from 1488, a laborer summoned a notary to record testimony regarding a circumcision ordered by the midwives attending his wife. Evidently, the infant had been born with a defect of the foreskin, resulting in circumcision out of medical necessity—not in accordance with Judaic ritual. Here, the father wanted to defend against any potential charges of Judaizing, which at this point in time, during the early days of the Inquisition’s establishment to extirpate false converts, would have been of keen interest to Inquisitorial eyes.47 Morisca midwives met with graver suspicion, driven by the dual forces of discrediting Islamic medicine and the identification of moriscos with sexual dissolution. Thus, women in areas with high morisco populations were instructed to avoid ‘New Christian’ midwives. Inquisitors observing morisco medical techniques such as fumigations, herbal vapors, and curative baths quickly identified these treatments as tantamount to heretical sorcery; thus, morisca midwives came under particular scrutiny.48 Despite the fact that the accepted medical canon drew on the recommendations of Avicenna and the practices of Old Christian midwives also employed remedies invoking supernatural and natural assistance, the proximity of midwives deemed only marginally Christian threatened to imperil the souls of women and newborns alike at the critical moment where lives began or ended. Nearly all medical practices stemmed from an understanding of disease and health as defined by both natural and supernatural forces. Therefore, distinctions made between superstition and medical knowledge or magic and sanctified invocation responded to cultural context and ultimately depended on the social status the midwife held in her community. The appearance of midwives as subjects of Inquisitorial investigation suggests more than anything that they were both feared and revered for their knowledge of the mysterious forces governing life and death.

47 48

García Herrero, “ ‘Administrar del parto,’ ” 288. Perry, Gender and Disorder, 28.

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By presiding over the rites of birth and possessing access to reproductive knowledge, the midwife provoked anxiety in a society that put a premium on the ideal of female chastity, if not actual adherence to it. On the one hand, her wisdom and skill earned respect; on the other hand, this same power held the potential to unleash the supposedly uncontrollable and destructive force of female sexuality, all the while challenging the authority of male physicians. Because birthing was a space monitored and controlled by women, it became a dangerous locus of inverting gender hierarchies.49 Such anxieties meant that the midwife was regarded as necessary to bring forth a new life, yet could be accused of being instrumental in fomenting illicit sex, feigned pregnancies, and abortions and otherwise enmeshing men in the damning snares of women’s unrestrained lasciviousness. By being privy to the inner chambers of women’s homes and bodies, the midwife likewise controlled men’s access to these spaces. As summarized by Mary Elizabeth Perry, “The sin of the midwives, then, was not their ignorance in matters of giving birth, but their knowledge, which seemed so close to magic and could facilitate illicit sex.”50 Warnings against female dishonesty stream forth in prescriptive discourse, including the medical treatises aimed at midwives, and particularly within literary texts. The midwife makes an early appearance in 14th-century literature in the Libro de Buen Amor, which ribaldly skewers the lust-driven foibles of the high- and low-born alike to offer satirically infused advice on moral uprightness. In copla 440, duplicitous crones transgress the prescriptive mandates that women should stay quietly behind closed doors as they walk about from house to house, calling themselves midwives, when they are actually vendors of herbal potions, powders, and makeup.51 Such deceits draw young women into immoral behavior by focusing their energies on outward appearance rather than pious contemplation. Expanding on the figure of the dissimulating old woman, the period’s most well-known midwife-as-procuress is Celestina, the central character in the work of Fernando de Rojas (the Celestina), published at the end of the 15th 49

50 51

Enrique García Santo-Tomás, “ ‘Offspring of the Mind’: Childbirth and its Perils in Early Modern Spanish Literature,” in Medical Cultures of the Early Modern Spanish Empire, (eds.) John Slater, María Luz López-Terrada, and José Pardo-Tomás (Farnham: 2014), 149–166, at 151. Perry, Gender and Disorder, 28. Juan Ruiz (Archpriest of Hita), El libro de Buen Amor (Alicante: 2000). Retrieved from http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/nd/ark:/59851/bmc89140. The partera appears in coplas 436–449. Copla 440: “Toma de unas Viejas que se fasen erveras,/andan de casa en casa e llámanse parteras;/con polvos e afeytes e con alcoholeras,/echan la moça en ojo e ciegan bien de veras.”

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century.52 In Act VII, while regaling Pármeno with her memories of his mother, Celestina notes that among the deceased woman’s many talents, she was best known as a midwife, the trade she had practiced for 16 years. Her other skills, as with Celestina, included arts associated with love magic, such as conjuring, incantations, and binding and loosing of demons, not to mention restoring virginity and acting as a go-between or procuress. Thus, the catalogue of activities associated with midwifery brought together an assortment of ways to work wonders in matters of love. Celestina and her companion, Pármeno’s mother, plied their illicit trades under the cover of midwives, a role that brought them into the intimate realms of women’s sexual lives. Similar fears surrounding the illicit pursuits of the immoral midwife bent on concealing unwelcomed pregnancies appear at approximately the same time in Rodrigo de Reinosa’s Coplas de las comadres.53 In one copla, the complicity of the midwife in one of her client’s multiple abortions is made manifest. The first stanza begins as the girl states, “midwife, if I am erring, you know well the truth,” before launching into the tale of being pimped by a female cousin to an abbot, which resulted in unwanted pregnancies: When I found myself pregnant before allowing myself to give birth I drank esparto water with which two times I moved and hid the fetuses under dirt in a courtyard to cover up my sin which was unknown until now.54

Cuando preñada me vi antes que me diesse el parto bevi el agua del esparto conque dos vezes movi y las criaturas meti so la tierra en un corral para encubrir mi mal no se supo hasta aqui.

The clear implication is that the midwife provided the girl the abortifacient to hide an affair that was particularly objectionable because the girl had been pawned off to a monk, supposedly bound by vows of chastity. Nowhere is the monk’s morality questioned, but rather the women in this tale have allegedly conspired to instigate, perpetuate, and obfuscate crimes borne of lust, which

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54

Fernando de Rojas, The Celestina: A Fifteenth-Century Spanish Novel in Dialogue, trans. Lesley Byrd Simpson (Berkeley: 2007). Regarding the argument that the Coplas de las comadres preceded La Celestina, see Francisco Márquez Villanueva, Orígenes y sociología del tema celestinesco (Barcelona: 1993), 123, n. 297. Rodrigo de Reinosa, Coplas de las comadres, 12. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://archive.org/ details/aquicomienzancop00rein.

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result in abortion. The gluttonous midwife in another copla by Reinosa knows all too well about the secret illegitimate births that had preceded her patient’s current pregnancy, revealed as the woman bemoans her fear of death in labor.55 The midwives in Reinosa’s coplas, like Celestina and her companion, have the ability to navigate anarchic tides of passion and hide the fruits of illicit affairs, indicating how midwives could be regarded as destabilizing characters who disrupted the ideal of legitimate childbirth within the bonds of marriage. Medical treatises written in Castilian and circulating in Spain during the 15th and 16th centuries likewise suggest that knowledge of birth control and abortifacients was quite widespread. Examples of compounds in the work of Luis Lobera (1551) include hare rennet as an abortifacient, hare manure in contraceptive amulets or ingested to induce abortion, and hare bladder as an ingredient in contraceptive suppositories.56 According to contemporary medical theory, women could suffer negative effects due to the accumulation of superfluous menstrual fluid, which the application of uterine purgatives or bloodletting might alleviate. Pregnancy could in some circumstances be regarded as a similar condition. Thus, the protocols recommended for menstrual complaints could justifiably be used when pregnancy was deemed threatening to a woman’s health, although the termination of the pregnancy was not the overtly stated intent of the treatment. Even if practitioners made decisions regarding the administration of purgatives and the potency of the formulation when trying to relieve health issues arising as complications associated with pregnancy, misuse of such remedies was acknowledged as endangering the fetus.57 This recognition suggests that physicians were well aware of the potential effects of such treatments. Included in medical treatises, denounced by religious authorities, and mentioned widely in popular literature, repeated references to deliberately induced abortion suggest that knowledge about purgatives was readily available to women, who most likely used them for multiple reasons, including termination of unwanted pregnancies. In a society that seemed governed by church doctrine affirming procreation within consecrated marriage as the only valid aim of sexual intercourse, women might understandably feel pressure to end an illicit pregnancy. Notwithstanding, the high rates of illegitimacy uncovered by demographic studies

55

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Rodrigo de Reinosa, Comiença un tratado hecho por coplas sobre que una señora embio a pedir por merced al auctor que las hizo que pues estava de parto le embiase algun remedio, el qual le responde por coplas (Toledo: ca. 1515), fol. 2r. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://gallica .bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k853422b. Moral de Calatrava, “El aborto,” 45, n. 13. Moral de Calatrava, “El aborto,” 45–46.

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combined with a wealth of scholarship concerning Early Modern Spanish sexuality demonstrate that out-of-wedlock births were far from abnormal, ranging from lows at approximately 5% to highs of 20%, depending on region and specific dates spanning the 16th through the 18th centuries. For example, at the end of the 16th century, 10% was the norm for Valladolid, 10–15 % for Barcelona, 7 % for Mérida, and nearly 25% for Seville. During the 17th century, Madrid showed 10%, while rates in Seville tapered down to a similar figure.58 Opinions on the moral and social ills associated with the implications of sexual licentiousness hardly went unexpressed by moralists, churchmen, and civic leaders. Novelists and playwrights likewise found fertile ground exploring sexual foibles, in particular the troubling prospects of unbridled female lust. But scholarly studies produced over the last decade have overwhelmingly confirmed that despite such protestations and the existence of prescriptive ideals regulating sexuality, extramarital sex and the resultant illegitimate offspring these unions produced were not as uniformly socially and ethically damning as previously believed. In part, relatively fluid attitudes toward illegitimacy were based upon unique elements of Spanish law, which defined two broad categories of out-of-wedlock births. Hijos bastardos (bastard children) were the product of a union between parents legally unable to marry. In such cases, one party might already be married and involved in an extra-conjugal relationship or might be a member of the church, whether clerical or monastic. Children conceived by parents who had no impediment to lawful marriage were considered hijos naturales (natural children) and were, in ecclesiastical terms, not a product of adultery, consanguinity, or sacrilege, but merely the outcome of simple fornication.59 Although almost impossible to quantify, it appears that many of these illegitimate children were integrated into their birth families or extended families. Some retained much the same social status as their parents, receiving the secret support of their fathers, whose identity might remain

58

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Manuel José de Lara Ródenas, “Ilegitimidad y familia durante el Antiguo Régimen: actitudes sociales y domésticas,” in Familia y mentalidades. Historia de la familia: una nueva perspectiva sobre la sociedad europea, (eds.) Ángel Rodríguez Sánchez and Antonio Peñafiel Ramón (Murcia: 1997), 113–130. Noted in Lara Ródenas is the work of Bennassar for Valladolid, Larquié for Madrid, and García Cárcel for Barcelona, among other regional studies. Figures for Seville are found in Gregorio García-Baquero López, Estudio demográfico de la parroquia de San Martín de Sevilla, 1551–1749 (Seville: 1982), 117. Data for Mérida are found in José Antonio Ballesteros Díez, “Natalidad, nupcialidad y fecundidad en Mérida durante el siglo XVI,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, serie 4, Historia Moderna 15 (2002): 11–34, at 28–29. Grace Coolidge outlines the degrees of illegitimacy in “‘A Vile and Abject Woman’: Noble Mistresses, Legal Power, and the Family in Early Modern Spain,” Journal of Family History 32.3 (2007): 195–214, at 201.

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anonymous, particularly if they were married or men of the church. In the case of well-known fathers of means, mothers would often declare a child’s paternity in hopes of securing shares of its inheritance. For children of less illustrious parentage, integration might also be the favored choice, where extra sets of hands to work outweighed the pressures of extra mouths to feed.60 Yet despite the relatively benign outcomes suggested by such situations, the crushing weight of poverty and desperation that accompanied illegitimate birth often meant another reality: abandonment. The ills brought on by rapidly expanding urban centers, with resultant demographic, economic, and social upheaval, included frequent instances of infant abandonment, which, within the context of literary sources, can be identified as a crisis in monstrous births. According to Sebastián de Covarrubias in the 1611 Tesoro de la lengua castellana o Española, the definition of monster begins by calling it “any birth that is against the natural rules and order.” The birth of a monstrous child announces an Otherness, which creates a social problem.61 Francisco Santos, in La Tarasca de parto en el Mesón del Infierno, relates a sinister vision of allegorical birth to personify a hellish Madrid. In the first discourse, a tarasque (a parade float in the shape of a dragon or serpent, featured in Corpus Christi processions) is born from a crack in the earth produced by a storm. The grotesque, bloated Tarasque takes shelter at the Hell’s Inn, where it proceeds to give birth to seven May queens, corresponding to 60

61

For cases of elite or noble families who integrated their illegitimate children, see Coolidge, Guardianship, 70. See also Coolidge, “ ‘A Vile and Abject Woman,’” 195–214. The case of Luisa de la Cerda is studied by María Pilar Manero Sorolla, “On the Margins of the Mendozas: Luisa de la Cerda and María de San José (Salazar),” in Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, (ed.) Helen Nader (Urbana: 2004), 113–131. For a case of a noblewoman and a high-ranking priest, see Stephanie Fink de Backer, “Prescription, Passion, and Patronage in Early Modern Toledo: Legitimizing Illicit Love at Santo Domingo de Silos ‘el Antiguo,’ Toledo,” in Sexuality in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Times: New Approaches to a Fundamental Cultural-historical and Literaryanthropological Theme, (ed.) Albrecht Classen (Berlin: 2008), 751–782. Casey refers to the relatively high status afforded illegitimate offspring in Early Modern Spain, at 214–215. For attitudes toward illegitimacy among the peasantry in Galicia, see Allyson Poska, Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain: The Peasants of Galicia (Oxford: 2006). Citing relevant scholarship based on parochial baptismal records, along with literary examples, see Juan Andrés Luna Díaz, “Sexualidad y familia en Granada durante el siglo XVI,” Videtur Quod: Anuario del Pensamiento Crítico (2011): 1–77, at 36. José Barragán and Luis Martín-Estudillo, “Monstrous Births: Authority and Biology in Early Modern Spain,” in Writing Monsters: Essays on Iberian and Latin American Cultures, (eds.) Adriana Gordillo and Nicholas Spadaccini, Hispanic Issues On Line 15 (2014): 12– 25, at 21–22. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://cla.umn.edu/sites/cla.umn.edu/files/hiol_15_01 _barragan_monstrousbirths.pdf.

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the Seven Deadly Sins.62 While the spawn of the Tarasque are monstrous, the birthing is even more so: there is no lactation and no child-rearing. Instead, these “pieces of hell” are expelled from the Tarasque violently and take flight immediately into the city to wreak havoc. Bearing children thus becomes separated from raising them, yet another unnatural, even monstrous, disjuncture.63 Metaphorically, the expulsion of the foundling from the family, the failure to be nursed by the mother, makes such a birth a monstrous product of a morally diseased urban landscape.64 The city gestates endless cycles of births that exacerbate the demographic and economic pressures leading to cycles of debilitating and destructive poverty. Yet mothers were not castigated or punished by the legal system for spurning their offspring, although prevailing attitudes toward such individuals were hardly accepting. Even if the abandoned child was, for instance, the product of an illicit union, and thus a marker of sin, Spaniards insisted on doing their utmost to care for these unfortunate children. The monstrosity of infant abandonment triggered efforts to restore communal integrity by reintegrating foundlings into the fabric of Christian society. José Barragán and Luis Martín-Estudillo tease out the extended meaning of Covarrubias’ example within his definition of monster, where parents commit parricide by disposing of a child born with two heads and two feet. They introduce how Roberto Esposito’s concept of immunity as related to Foucault’s work on biopolitics explores the Latin root munus (gift) as the origin of the terms immunity and community. Esposito suggests that in the social context, munus connotes “a form of gift immanent to the formation of community.”65 In Covarrubias, the parents who abandon the child “become a problem for the community, as they violently rejected the fruit of labor: the ‘monstro’, which had arrived to them as a munus, a gift that entails an obligation to the common.”66 The parents try to immunize themselves from the undesirable consequences of the birth by disposing of the child: they strive to reverse the birth by negating it, thus provoking a crisis in moral order. By analogy, the concept of monstrosity can be applied to all unwanted children. The abandonment of the infant represents the monstrous—that which is against natural order—where the child is cast off as either a mark of illicit

62 63 64 65 66

García Santo-Tomás, “ ‘Offspring of the Mind,’ ” 160–162. García Santo-Tomás, “ ‘Offspring of the Mind,’ ” 164–165. The importance Early Modern moralists and physicians placed on mothers nursing their own infants is outlined in Casey, Early Modern Spain, 217. Barragán and Martín-Estudillo, “Monstrous Births,” 22. Barragán and Martín-Estudillo, “Monstrous Births,” 23.

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sexuality or abject poverty by the parents, who according to nature should care for it. Further, in aggregate, the proliferation of abandoned children represents the hyper-multiple births that were categorized as monstrous in period medical treatises.67 Applying this concept of monstrosity to the case of all foundlings, they represent a socially constructed category of monstrous birth. Wide-scale infant abandonment, rejection of the gift of life, thereby brought about a social crisis by undermining the ethical and spiritual precepts of the community. But Spanish society chose not to punish parents for infant abandonment as a mechanism to address subversion of social mores. Instead, community-organized institutionalized care of foundlings exerted immunitary power to protect against the destabilizing effects of monstrosity. These institutions strove to reintegrate the child as a rightful member of society via adoption as an infrequently realized ideal, or at least shield the community from exposure to the misery of poverty.68 Perhaps most important to fulfilling ethical mandates, infants would be baptized to save their souls, even if their tiny bodies were consigned to the grave. In each instance, foundling hospitals reasserted the social and ethical order that was shaken by the disintegratory forces of poverty and illegitimacy rather than seeing the newborn completely shunned as threateningly monstrous. The abandonment of infants, while certainly not new to the Early Modern period, proliferated at this time to such an extent that it gained a degree of prominence as a social and moral ill that demanded concerted attention to alleviate. Even if routine, illegitimate birth still carried the potential for social stigma, not to mention economic hardship, thus prompting measures to hide 67

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See the last section of Chapter 6 in Damián Carbón, Libro de las comadres, which is dedicated to the generation of the fetus and deals with monstrous births. In Francisco Núñez de Coria, Libro intitulado del parto humano, monstrous births are considered in a chapter concerning difficult labor. The seventh chapter of the third volume of Luis de Mercado’s De affectionibus mulierum focuses on monstrous births, which are divided into five main categories, one of which is hyper-multiple births (more than seven in one delivery). For further discussion of these treatises as they pertain to monstrosity, see Barragán and Martín-Estudillo, “Monstrous Births,” 16–19. See also the discussion of esoteric, philosophical, and medical associations with the number seven and theories of multiple births, which were regarded as monstrous, in García Santo-Tomás, “‘Offspring of the Mind,’” 164. For a discussion of Seville’s orphanages for children typically between the ages of six and fourteen in the 18th century as sites that could “contain risk for both their wards and the broader communities,” but where “isolation was neither complete nor permanent,” see Valentina Tickoff, “Containing Risk: Integration and Isolation of Orphanage Wards within Eighteenth-Century Seville,” in The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain, (ed.) Grace Coolidge (Surrey: 2014), 273–293, at 273.

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its occurrence or mitigate its consequences. For the lower classes in particular, three main options existed to overcome the challenges of unwanted pregnancy: legitimizing the child via marriage of the parents in cases of hijos naturales; clandestine abortion; or infant abandonment.69 In response to evolving attitudes toward poverty and charity, confraternities, ecclesiastical authorities, civic leaders, and even the crown moved to avoid cases of infanticide associated with the abandonment of newborns as a key priority. In an era that saw an explosion of charitable institutions in urban settings such as hospitals and hospices dedicated to the care of the displaced, disadvantaged and diseased, foundling hospitals arose to meet the specific demands of society’s most fragile and otherwise unprotected members—those who were simultaneously the closest to both birth and death. The foundling hospital served, in this sense, as an intermediary womb, which would nurture the infant with the expectation of birthing it to life in society, or life in the hereafter. The dawn of the 16th century witnessed a turning point in attitudes and responses toward the abandonment of infants, in concert with broader societal concerns about redressing poverty. Private endeavors, contributions from cathedral chapters and monastic institutions, and confraternity activities to support the care of foundlings were increasingly supplanted by centralized, institutionalized remedies supported by civic initiatives.70 One of the earliest dedicated foundling institutions was established in Toledo in 1499 at the behest of Cardinal Pedro González de Mendoza, with construction of the magnificent edifice commencing in 1504. Ten years later, the Hospital de Santa Cruz took on the distinct mission of gathering up and caring for abandoned infants who otherwise had no place to turn, marking a new type of charitable institution, which had heretofore attended to temporary shelter and care of destitute and infirm adults.71 Other foundling hospitals appeared in Santiago de Compostela (1524) and Burgos (1525). Confraternities with the express mission of gathering up and caring for infants appeared in Toledo (1504), Valencia (1537), Valladolid (1540),

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See José Alegre, “Las mujeres en el Lazarillo de Tormes,”Revue Romane 16.1–2 (1981): side 11. Retrieved from https://tidsskrift.dk/index.php/revue_romane/article/view/11627/22094. For context regarding changing attitudes and approaches to charitable relief, see Linda Martz, Poverty and Welfare in Habsburg Spain: The Example of Toledo (Cambridge: 1983). James Casey notes: “One of the great features of the early modern period was, indeed, the increased provision for foundlings” (Casey, Early Modern Spain, 215). For ways that Spaniards used testamentary devices to support charitable endeavors, see Carlos Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Cambridge: 1995). Laura Santolaya Heredero, “Las constituciones del Hospital de Santa Cruz (Toledo),”Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, serie 4, Historia Moderna 3 (1990): 317–365, at 317–319.

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Seville (1558), Córdoba (1565), Madrid (1567), Málaga (1573), Salamanca (1586), and Baeza (1590).72 In all instances, the foundation of hospitals and confraternities corresponded with periods of economic expansion, which produced demographic surges in urban centers, making these environments particularly sensitive to fluctuations in regional fortunes. Prior to the establishment of institutions specifically associated with the protection of foundlings, their care was more or less a matter of religious obligation or personal decision made by individuals who chose to do so. Over the course of the Early Modern period, however, the task of providing for foundlings at the critical, often fleeting, juncture between birth and death evolved into an issue of civic necessity, understood in both ethical and pragmatic terms. The transformation from religious obligation to civic duty brought together multiple interests in response to the specific mission of caring for foundlings in rapidly changing urban settings. Earliest evidence for what would become Madrid’s Inclusa appears in a record book dating from 1505 titled “entrances and exits of children.”73 After a nearly 40-year gap in documentation, a 1543 petition for the foundation of an institution dedicated to the collection and care of “lost children” (niños perdidos) appears in Madrid’s municipal archives. Subsequently, references to the Inclusa y Colegio de Las Niñas de la Paz in 1546 indicate the presence of children in an institutional setting.74 During a nearly 20-year gap in documentation, Philip II moved the court from Toledo to what would become its permanent home in Madrid in 1563. Almost immediately the arrival of the court brought 13,000–14,000 residents to the city, including laborers, artisans, and servants seeking employment. With the influx of migrants came extramarital relationships and, as a consequence, a dramatic increase in abandoned children borne by single women, separated from their families, with no recourse or economic support.75

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Eulalia Torrubia Balagué, “La Provisión Real de Felipe II sobre los niños expósitos discutida en los claustros de la Universidad de Salamanca (6 de julio y 20 de octubre de 1588),” Papeles Salmantinos de Educación (2001): 47–74, at 48. The dates for Toledo and Valencia appear in Casey, Early Modern Spain, 215. Dates for Málaga and Baeza are found in José Luis Hernando Garrido, “Los niños expósitos en tierras de Zamora durante el antiguo régimen,” Revista de Folklore (digital edition) 364.5 (2012): 4–16, at 5. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://www.media.cervantesvirtual.com/jdiaz/rf364.pdf. Pedro Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa de Madrid vista a través de los artículos y trabajos históricos: recopilación de textos y notas, años 1400–2000 (Alicante: 2006), 31. Accessed April 17, 2016, http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/nd/ark:/59851/bmcxd1c0. For the transcription, see Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 39. Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 39–40.

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In 1567, the extant confraternity of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad y las Angustias, whose membership included women, sought to address the pressures produced by growing ranks of indigents by founding a hospice within the convent of La Victoria for poor priests and convalescing patients leaving other hospitals.76 Yet the presence of abandoned infants presented a distressing, distinct, and highly visible element of urban misery. The sense of crisis ushered in the involvement of Madrid’s city council, which in 1572 approved the confraternity’s decision to receive foundlings to house in new quarters rented out near the church of San Luis. By 1580, the institution had expanded rapidly, attending to hundreds of infants at any given time.77 After a failed attempt in 1586 to accommodate additional entrants by incorporating the Inclusa into the Hospital General, the children were moved to a new location near the Puerta del Sol between Carmen and Preciados streets, constituting the formal creation of a hospital solely dedicated to the care of foundlings.78 At the same time, the problem of infant abandonment in Salamanca came to the attention of Philip II. In response to royal pressure and despite suffering from economic difficulties, the university joined with the bishop, the city council, and the cathedral chapter to fund the confraternity of San José y Nuestra Señora de la Piedad to gather up and care for abandoned infants.79 In Seville, civic authorities funded the foundling hospital by subsidizing the meager salaries of wet nurses hired to care for infants during their first two years of life.80 Granada’s Hospital Real served as center for the organization, direction, and coordination of caregiving at numerous locations around the city.81 In sum, throughout Spain, major urban centers faced the pressures of rising populations, economic instability, and associated itinerancy, as witnessed in escalating levels and awareness of infant abandon-

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Claude Larquié, “La crianza de los niños madrileños abandonados en el siglo XVI,” in Historia de la Inclusa, (ed.) Espina Pérez, 97. The presence of women among the confraternity members is noted by Valentina Fernández Vargas, “Informe sobre el archivo de la antigua Inclusa de Madrid, hoy Instituto Provincial de Puericultura,” in Historia de la Inclusa, (ed.) Espina Pérez, 47–57, at 48. Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 35. Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 90. Torrubia Balagué, “La Provisión Real de Felipe II,” 47. Perry, Gender and Disorder, 162, drawing on the work of León Carlos Álvarez Santaló, Marginación social y mentalidad en Andalucía occidental: expósitos en Sevilla (1613–1910) (Seville: 1980). María del Prado de la Fuente Galán. “Una institución para los niños expósitos de Granada: la creación de la Casa-Cuna (siglos XVI–XVIII),”Boletín de la Asociación de Demografía Histórica 17.1 (1999): 115–130, at 119.

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ment.82 Despite the dismal survival rates in institutional settings, great energy was nonetheless expended to snatch foundlings marginalized from birth by isolation, borne of broken family ties and a life-threatening dearth of basic necessities, from the otherwise certain clutches of death. The prospect of sustaining life, no matter how precarious, stimulated extraordinary responses developed to care for foundlings. Prior to the establishment of dedicated foundling hospitals, infants would be left on the doorsteps of wealthy individuals, monastic or church entrances (at best), or in isolated locations such as in alleys, under bridges, or even along riverbeds. As foundling hospitals became the norm in urban settings, institutions set up continuously manned turnstiles (tornos) to receive newborns and prevent abandonment in places where they might otherwise go unnoticed. Constant was the desire to respect the anonymity of those who felt obligated to give up their children. In Madrid, an additional repository was monitored near the Puente de Segovia, where washerwomen gathered at the banks of the Manzanares. Infants were placed in turnstiles in varying conditions, ranging from practically nude or wrapped in old rags to adorned with personal or devotional objects. In some instances, a note accompanied the baby, indicating whether or not the child had been baptized and, if so, the baptismal name. On rare occasions, notes would provide some indication of the infant’s social status or if the child had been born of a legitimate or illegitimate union.83 The majority of babies left at Barcelona’s Hospital de la Santa Creu were dressed in old, simple, and tattered garments, but with consideration given to the necessities of infant garb of that period. Likewise, most were baptized before abandonment, though in some occasions, they received emergency baptism at the hospital itself rather than at a church.84 At Madrid’s Inclusa, as in many other locales, workers meticulously recorded all details surrounding the deposit of the infant in the eventuality that a family member might at some point return for the child. Occasionally, in the case of maternal death or illness, family members would reclaim the baby. In other rare circumstances, families suffering grave economic challenges would place newborns at an institution until such time as their situations might improve. Unsurprisingly, most chil-

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Casey notes how illegitimate children born in villages were routinely abandoned as foundlings at institutions in nearby urban centers (Casey, Early Modern Spain, 215). José Ignacio Arana Amurrio, “Historia de la Inclusa de Madrid,” Cuadernos de Historia de la Pediatría Española 4 (2012): 20–31, at 22–23. Teresa Vinyoles i Vidal, “Aproximación a la infancia y la juventud de los marginados. Los expósitos barceloneses del siglo XV,” Revista de Educación 281 (1986): 99–123, at 106.

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dren were never retrieved.85 What is more, arrival at a foundling hospital did not guarantee a positive outcome. In an era when overall infant mortality rates during the first year of life ranged from 25–30%, the weakened condition and overwhelmingly difficult circumstances facing foundlings resulted in mortality rates of approximately 80% among this particularly fragile population.86 The most urgent demand was the need to find wet nurses. At the outset, institutions such as the Inclusa set forth strict conditions for wet nurses. In addition to proven good health, robustness, and youth, with physical characteristics including broad hips and prominent breasts, the successful candidate would be a mother of between one and five children born in legitimate wedlock, who had never suffered miscarriages, and who did not have bad breath. In reality, such women were rarely found. Instead, foundling hospitals hired whomever they could, including prostitutes, single mothers, and mistresses. The only real precaution taken was to bar women who had syphilis or other communicable skin diseases, or those who were not lactating sufficiently.87 Nevertheless, most wet nurses were caring for three to four children at a time, stayed in poor health, and—due to the persistently low pay—subsisted at the same wretched socioeconomic status as their charges.88 Records from the

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Arana Amurrio, “Historia de la Inclusa,” 22–23. The registers at the Inclusa date from 1583, recording the arrival of 74 infants. After 1600, the annual figures run between 300 and 700 entrants per year through the 17th century, a number that would more than double thereafter. A peak year is noted in 1640, where officials sought funding from the crown on account of the need to care for 1,348 infants (Arrana Amurrio, “Historia de la Inclusa,” 41). Vinyoles i Vidal, “Aproximación a la infancia,” notes that only 10% of children in the period studied were reclaimed (111). These figures are provided for the 17th–18th centuries in José Luis Hernando Garrido, “Los niños expósitos en tierras de Zamora durante el antiguo régimen,” Revista de Folklore (digital edition) 364 (2012): 4–16, at 11–12. Retrieved from http://www.media.cervantesvirtual .com/jdiaz/rf364.pdf. Similar data for foundling institutions across Spain and Europe is presented by Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 59. Claude Larquié finds a mortality rate of 74% in the Madrid parish of San Ginés from 1658–1670 for children ages birth to five years old in “Étude de démographie madrilène: la paroisse de San Ginés de 1650 à 1700,” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 2.2 (1966): 225–258, at 228. Vinyoles i Vidal, “Aproximación a la infancia,” finds a mortality rate of approximately 80% (123). Luis Suárez Fernández, La crisis de la hegemonía española, siglo XVII. Historia general de España y América, vol. 8 (Madrid: 1986), 330, provides a rate of 69.4% for Seville found in the work of Álvarez Santaló and approximately 50 % for Murcia in the work of Kamen. Arana Amurrio, “Historia de la Inclusa,” 28–29. Jesús Fermosell Díaz, “Réplica a investigación publicada por el Dr. García Barreno, ‘Sobre el tema del Hospital General,’” in Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 60. Larquié, “La crianza,” notes record books that include information on the wet nurses at the Inclusa,

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Hospital de la Santa Creu in Barcelona from the mid-15th century tell much the same story, as seen in the case of the infant Violant. She was nursed by staff wet nurses for two days and subsequently transferred back and forth from the institution to the care of eight different contracted wet nurses for a total of twelve trips before dying within five months of her first arrival at the hospital.89 Infants like Violant were returned to the hospital for a variety of reasons, but most frequently due to their state of health, meaning that sick charges tended to be brought back to the institution at the point of death and passed away either the same day or shortly thereafter.90 At the Santa Creu, the toll of death is soberingly revealed in the expenditures on sepulchral garments, which accounted for 40 % of clothing costs.91 Yet despite these harsh realities, the attentiveness given to the collection of foundlings by strangers, the tokens that might accompany them, and the struggle to stave off imminent death demonstrate that despite the overwhelming odds against infant survival within the first year of life, Spaniards felt an obligation to care for them and expended great determination to do so. The priority given to foundlings indicates the level of concern regarding both the immediate material and spiritual necessities of newborns abandoned out of a sense of compulsion born from desperate parental circumstances. In the case of the Hospital de la Santa Creu in Barcelona, 90 % of infant deposits were characterized as furtive or anonymous. In one case, a man reported seeing a woman drop a basket at the main door of the hospital and run off. He shouted to her to wait to see if someone would come out to take the child, to which she merely responded “she’s Christian” while sprinting away. The man paused, summoning hospital personnel to take in the infant, who was dressed poorly, yet accompanied by a small jar of honey.92 Records from the Inclusa in Madrid note the receipt from a monk of an infant whose mother had died in the Hospital General. He came baptized as Agustín de los Reyes, bringing with him nothing at all. A baby girl wrapped in old blankets was placed in the care of a

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including marital status, occupation of husband, residence, salary, dates of receiving salary, changes in wet-nursing assignments, death of charges, or destiny after reaching the age of seven (98). Ximena Illanes Zubieta, “Historias entrecruzadas: el período de la lactancia de niñas y niños abandonados en el mundo femenino de las nodrizas durante la primera mitad del siglo XV,” Anuario de Estudios Medievales 43.1 (2013), 159–197, at 160. Accessed April 17, 2016, DOI: 10.3989aem.2013.43.1.06. Illanes Zubieta, “Historias entrecruzadas,” 180. Illanes Zubieta, “Historias entrecruzadas,”176. Vinyoles i Vidal, “Aproximación a la infancia,” 110.

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wet nurse from an outlying village. The infant Juan, sent to the Inclusa from the Hospital de la Pasión, where his mother lay ill, died a mere 18 days later.93 Despite the fact that such fragmentary notes in registers teeming with hundreds of similar stories give witness to the fragility of life and the near certainty of death, hospital staff dutifully received each of their charges with intentionality.94 Each infant was bathed, placed in clean clothing, and covered in blankets. Next, a physician appraised the child to detect signs of contagious disease— notably syphilis—keeping infants deemed ill apart from the other wards or placed under observation to reveal potential symptoms. Then, to identify each baby, staff placed a cord around its neck, suspending a medallion with the image of the Virgin on one side and a number and date of entry on the other. This medal would be worn until the child left the institution, or in most cases, passed away.95 The demands of abandonment and infrequent retrieval informed the pleas of hospital officials, who when making appeals for funding would issue a call to compassion, beseeching that “with Christian charity, the faithful will take heed of their innocence, cover their nakedness, wipe away their tender tears, and relieve the silent suffering of these helpless children.”96 In response, the support received by the Inclusa attests to the value donors saw in its operation. It was primarily financed by donations made to the associated church, managed by the confraternity of La Soledad until their disbanding in 1651, after which time the crown appointed all administrators. The Inclusa also benefitted from testamentary donations, as citizens of Madrid frequently bequeathed funds to the care of foundlings. Over the course of the 17th century, profits generated from two popular theaters and bullfighting venues helped to support charitable institutions in the city, including the Inclusa. Finally, royal bequests of money, 93 94

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Fernández Vargas, “Informe sobre el archivo de la antigua Inclusa,” in Historia de la Inclusa, (ed.) Espina Pérez, 55–56. Foundlings arriving with no names were provided them at the time of entrance or baptism. Common surnames given foundlings associated them either with the name of the institution that cared for them, or the place where they were initially found. For example, in Navarre, Goñis; Zaragoza, Gracia or de Gracia; Valladolid, San José; Palencia, Antolín; and everywhere Expósito (abandoned). Place names include: de la Calle (street); de la Iglesia (church); del Corral (courtyard); de la Fuente (fountain); del Bosque (woods); del Pozo (well); del Prado (pasture); del Río (river); and de la Piedra (the stone or step of an institution like a church). See Vicente Pérez Moreda, La infancia abandonada en España siglos XVI–XX (Madrid: 2005), 11. Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa, 28. Espina Pérez (ed.), Historia de la Inclusa: “… con caridad Cristiana atiendan su inocencia, cubran su desnudez y enjuguen sus tiernas lágrimas y socorran el silencio de estos desamparados,” 41.

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food, and supplies arrived in a steady stream.97 The level of aid provided to the Inclusa and other foundling hospitals shows that while depressingly high mortality rates can be interpreted as evidence of a system that failed to meet its stated goals, the dedication to creating and sustaining it speak to an enduring aspiration that it would succeed. The process of parturition, leading as it did so frequently from womb to tomb for the newborn and the mother, made birth a constant reminder of death. For the wealthy, desperate to maintain the family line, the hopes engendered by an eagerly anticipated birth could be cruelly thwarted by the demise of wives and infants alike. For the poor, desperate to maintain sustenance at a subsistence level, the predicament created by an unwanted birth could likewise be fatal for both mother and child. At the level of individuals and families, birth, whether desired or not, bore with it the lurking shadows of death. Even if death of the body could not displace the promise of the soul’s eternal life, the urgency with which it was combatted through physical and spiritual means can be seen in the ways that Spaniards sought to ensure safe delivery. As an extension, postpartum women and newborns, no matter how lowly, were not subjected to complete exclusion from the community despite the markers of sin they presumably bore. Marginalized women bearing children out of wedlock or within the throes of abject poverty had the ability to place their infants in the care of strangers without incurring legal penalty, even if they could not so easily escape the conditions that brought them to this point. Abandoned newborns who would otherwise have died from exposure had a precarious chance for both the physical survival of the body and spiritual survival of the soul, thanks to the efforts of foundling hospitals, which tried to redress the ills of urban poverty. At the individual, family, and community levels, during the Spanish Renaissance, birth and death alike ultimately symbolized hope and an enduring faith in the prospects for life, both here and in the hereafter. 97

Arana Amurrio, “Historia de la Inclusa,” 24.

chapter 7

Religion Henry Kamen

1

Introduction

Spain in Early Modern times enjoyed, like other countries in Europe, levels of spiritual experience and practice that varied according to region, economy and social status. The summary here deals only with Christian belief and leaves treatment of Islam or the Jewish faith, religions that played an important part in the evolution of Christianity itself, to the “Ethnic Groups” chapter of this volume. Thanks to a persistent romantic tradition perpetuated by travelers, religious belief has usually been stressed as a deeply ingrained feature of traditional Spain.1 However, despite the reputation that Spain enjoys of being a deeply religious country, little evidence for it exists and the study of its Catholic past is superficial. Spanish historians previously preferred to study its ecclesiastical history, on the premise that religion was about the church, not about what people did or believed. In the same way, scholars of literature produced innumerable studies on spiritual texts, but rather less on the social contexts that produced them. By the mid-20th century, political reaction in Spain against the Catholic Church led to a complete abandonment of interest in studying religion and its social role. The consequence was that the religious history of Christian Spain fell into an oblivion from which it is unlikely to recover. The period associated with the Renaissance was particularly affected. The present outline will follow convention in assuming that the ‘Renaissance’ (whose existence in Spain has been seriously questioned by many scholars) covers some aspects of elite culture from the late 15th century to the end of the 16th century; thereafter, the Council of Trent initiated religious changes that advanced the development of a Counter-Reformation in Spain. Some Spanish historians preferred to see the entire 16th and early 17th century as part of a con-

1 Notable contributors to the tradition of admiring the religion of Spain’s people were George Borrow, Richard Ford, Alexandre Dumas, and Sacheverell Sitwell; particularly charming is Gertrude Bone, Days in Old Spain (London: 1938).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_009

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tinuous Renaissance/Counter-Reformation,2 but the approach was not backed up by research and indeed was based on heavily ideological presuppositions.3

2

The Church

There was no single ‘Spanish Church’ (though we shall continue to use the term here): the clergy and bishops in the Crown of Castile, normally headed by the see of Toledo, were separate from those of the Crown of Aragon, who met under the leadership of the see of Tarragona. In numbers and wealth, the Spanish Church was the third largest in Christendom after those of Italy and France. At the end of the 16th century, after a reorganization of dioceses carried out by Philip II, there were in Castile five archbishops and 30 bishops, and in the Crown of Aragon three archbishops with 15 bishops. Subject to these was a clerical population in 1591 of some 40,000 secular priests and 50,000 religious of both sexes. On this basis, clergy were little more than 1.2 percent of the total population, but the distribution was extremely uneven, with a heavy concentration in the major towns and very few in remote rural areas. Without any upheaval comparable to the Reformation in northern Europe, the Catholic Church in Spain had achieved a position of almost complete independence from Rome. The crown already controlled the Church in Sicily through an 11th-century privilege called the Monarchia Sicula, by which the king himself acted as papal legate. Then in 1504 and 1508 two papal bulls granted the Patronato Real or full royal patronage over ecclesiastical finance and appointments in the New World, with the result that the Church in America became directly subordinate not to the Spanish bishops but to the crown alone, and its affairs were dealt with in the Council of the Indies. In Castile, royal claims were voiced in a lecture by the rector of Salamanca University in 1487: “Provisions made to churches in Castile and León by the vicar of Christ are null without the consent of our kings.” After several sharp conflicts the right to nominate all prelates was confirmed to Charles V by the pope in September 1523. Thereafter the crown controlled all important offices in the Church in both Castile and Aragon; by extension, it could also dispose of much revenue.

2 This is the approach of the standard survey in Spanish: Ricardo García-Villoslada, Historia de la iglesia en España, 5 vols (Madrid: 1979–1982). 3 The assumption was that Spanish Catholicism always remained pure and reformed, so that the whole Early Modern period could be seen as a continuous phase of religious perfection, unlike the rest of Europe, which needed a Reformation.

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Clergy in dispute could still exercise their right to appeal to Rome, but the many royal decrees restricting this were eventually confirmed by one of October 1572, which forbade any foreign jurisdiction over Spaniards in ecclesiastical cases. As a result, the pope was virtually deprived of any juridical authority in Spain, and the crown became absolute master of the Church. Thanks to its uninterrupted evolution over the centuries the Spanish Church was powerful and wealthy, but the distribution of wealth was very uneven. Its holdings in land were smaller than often thought, perhaps one-sixth of Spanish territory by the end of the 17th century, usually with full jurisdiction. Donations and wise investments in the course of the 16th century created wealth in other areas: by the 17th century, church institutions owned one-third of urban property in Seville, over half in Zaragoza, and three-fourths in Madrid; at the same time they were usually the largest group of investors in municipal bonds (censos) throughout the country.4 At the upper end of the scale some sees and monasteries were fabulously rich: there were prelates who controlled cities (Palencia, Santiago), castles and extensive estates. The richest see in Spain (Toledo) had an annual revenue in 1519 of over 66,000 ducats, controlled some 1,900 benefices, exercised jurisdiction over 19,000 vassals and commanded a score of fortresses; a hundred years later its annual income was over 200,000 ducats. This picture is modified if we remember that possibly a third of most episcopal income was spent on charitable welfare, that the state took a high proportion of revenue, and that the wealth was not typical: in 1534 about 40 percent of the sees in the Peninsula had incomes of 5,000 ducats or less. Extremes of wealth and poverty, uneducated clergy, and extensive abuse of clerical status were commonplace in the 16th-century Spanish Church and underline its unreformed state. No substantial improvement in the Church or the Catholic religion took place before the end of the 16th century, when the Counter-Reformation initiated changes. The Renaissance period left Church and people untouched.5

4 For more on the censos see the essay “Doing Things with Money in Early Modern Spain” by Elvira Vilches in the present volume. 5 The fiction that reforms took place can be found repeated in most traditional writers and Catholic apologists; also in recent student texts such as Teófilo F. Ruiz’s Spanish Society 1400– 1600, which states that “one can certainly speak of a reformed Church in Spain before the Reformation,” and that abuses were “met and redressed in Spain a quarter of a century before Luther” (Teófilo F. Ruiz, Spanish Society 1400–1600 [London: 2001], 84). A more accurate view is Helen Rawlings’: “Ferdinand and Isabella did little more than establish the foundations for a reform” (Helen Rawlings, Church, Religion and Society in Early Modern Spain [New York: 2002], 51).

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A handful of senior clergy had active intellectual links with Italy, because of contacts with the Church of Rome, but foreign influences barely affected the educated elite. There were three main channels of reform dating from the end of the 15th century: attempts of religious orders in Castile, aided by pope and king, to change their internal discipline; intervention by the crown to gain control over diocesan structure; and attempts by the papacy, culminating in the Council of Trent (1545–1563), to assert authority over the Church. Virtually all these channels concentrated on reform of clergy rather than laity, and benefited from the spiritual movements of the 15th century as well as from early humanism. The changes they achieved were extremely limited in scope. In consequence, the missionaries who were active in the Caribbean and Mexico from the 1500s drew on their own spiritual resources—in particular, late-medieval millenarian ideas—and were by no means the product of a reformed Spanish Church.6 By the end of the Renaissance period, the failings that the Reformation in Europe had tried to combat were also common in Spain. Clergy often held multiple posts; absenteeism was frequent (in 1549 in the diocese of Barcelona only six out of 67 parish priests were resident); concubinage was widespread (in 1562, 20 percent of the Barcelona parish clergy lived with women); clergy were notoriously ignorant and illiterate. Reforming bishops were unable to introduce reforms in so far as they themselves were non-resident: the Inquisitor Fernando de Valdés visited his see of Oviedo only once between 1527 and 1539, and was almost permanently absent from his see of Seville (1546–1568). Where bishops wished to reform, they were often impeded by the fact that laymen were owners of the benefices: in Oviedo in the 1500s the bishop reported that “all the monasteries in this diocese are lay foundations,” making intervention by him impossible. In Mallorca only 40 out of 500 benefices on the island, and in Orense only 70 out of 700 benefices, were in the gift of the bishop or the pope: the rest were controlled by lay lords or monasteries. The ignorance of the clergy was universally recognized. In Santiago de Compostela in 1543 the diocesan visitor reported that “parishioners suffer greatly from the ignorance of their curates and rectors,” while in Navarre in 1544 ignorant clergy “cause great harm to the consciences of these poor people.” Many rural parishes lacked clergy, particularly in Catalonia and the Basque country, where ignorance of the language made it impossible for priests to communicate with their flock. 6 For the colonial expansion of Spanish religion, see Robert Ricard, The Spiritual Conquest of Mexico, 1523–1572 (Berkeley: 1966); John L. Phelan, The Millennial Kingdom of the Franciscans in the New World (Berkeley: 1970); and C.R. Boxer, The Church Militant and Iberian Expansion 1440–1770 (Baltimore: 1978).

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The situation of the people followed inevitably from that of their pastors. Long before the Reformation, Church authorities had recognized the fact of a barely Christianized population. The Archbishop of Toledo in 1480 commented that people in his diocese “live in such ignorance that they can barely be called Christian.” The Bishop of Sigüenza commented in 1533 that “many do not know the creed, nor the sign of the cross, and are barely Christian.”7 Another reported that people in his diocese “know nothing about Christianity.” In 1554 Friar Felipe de Meneses claimed that everywhere in Spain there was ignorance of religion, “not only among barbarous and uncivilized mountain people but also in those presumed to be civilized, not only in small villages but even in cities. If you ask what it is to be a Christian, they can no more give an answer than savages can.” Ignorance, certainly, was a dimension of mass illiteracy. At the elite level, there were attempts to change perspectives. Clergy such as Antonio de Nebrija and Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros were keen to get in touch with European Renaissance scholarship. The most striking attempt to introduce new ideas came through the writings of Erasmus, whom Cisneros in 1517 unsuccessfully invited to come and visit. By 1524 a small number of clergy in the Peninsula had rallied around the ideas of Erasmus, to whom Luis Vives commented approvingly in June 1524, “our Spaniards are also interesting themselves in your works.” However, some clergy were critical of Erasmus’ approach, while others were uneasy at similarities between him and Luther. By the 1540s, Erasmus was out of fashion in the Peninsula.8 Another fashion was that of mystical Illuminism, cultivated by the alumbrados, who tended to be of Jewish origin and probably for that reason attracted the attention of the Inquisition. Among clergy, in practice, interest in humanism always took second place to the influence of Scholastic theology.9 The Florentine ambassador Guicciardini in 1512 made an observation that other foreigners also noted. Spaniards, he said, “are not interested in letters, and one finds very little knowledge

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9

Cited in Augustin Redondo, “La religion populaire espagnole au XVIe siècle: un terrain d’ affrontement?”, Culturas populares: diferencias, divergencias, conflictos (Madrid: 1986), 329–369, at 334, 337. The classic study is Marcel Bataillon, Erasme et l’ Espagne (Paris: 1937). A re-edition (Geneva: 1991) in three volumes does not modify the text, but adds new bibliography and some articles. For a comment on the state of Spanish humanism, see Jeremy Lawrance, “Humanism in the Iberian Peninsula,” in A. Goodman and A. MacKay, The Impact of Humanism on Western Europe (London: 1990), 248–254.

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either among the nobility or in other classes, and few people know Latin.”10 Regular contact with the Netherlands and Italy had by the early 1500s introduced the court and a handful of nobles to the art and spirituality of the North and the Latin literature of the Renaissance, but the impact on religion was small.

3

Religion of Spaniards

Religious practice and belief among Christian Europeans was seldom based on dogmatic tenets, since religious instruction was poor, and illiteracy among both clergy and people was high. The Church itself had not yet defined some of its basic beliefs. Daily religion in preindustrial society consisted of the diversions of the elite, based on property and privilege, and the diversions of the people, based on communal tradition. Both formed part of a common culture; both occupied a crucial role in daily life, and were intimately tied to the everyday framework of religious belief.11 Religion in Spain was less a matter of dogma than of social rituals, the sum of attitudes relating both to the invisible and to the visible world.12 There was, however, no clear distinction between ‘popular’ and ‘elite’ religion. Traditional religion was shared, to a greater or lesser degree, by all sections of the community. It was a largely unlettered world, often isolated from the culture of the great cities; the dominant realities were the precariousness of harvests and the insecurity of life. Food and survival, as in primitive rural communities today, dictated social, moral and religious attitudes. Poor diet, frequent crop failures, a high mortality rate, were not mere hazards but part of the very fabric of existence. Solutions were often available, giving rural magic a certain role in local culture. But there was also a role for church magic, in the form of miracles, which were never lacking in preindustrial society. Life was not, for all that, a pessimistic attempt to ward off disaster. There was every reason to abandon oneself to joy and celebration. In a rural Europe, there could never be the fulltime labor of post-industrial society, and the Christian Church obliged one to rest by turning at least one-third of the days in the year into obligatory feasts.

10 11 12

On the state of spoken Latin, see Luis Gil Fernández, Panorama social del humanismo español (1500–1800) (Madrid: 1981), 30–35. A good introduction to the subject is given by Redondo, “La religion populaire,” 329–369. Henry Kamen, The Phoenix and the Flame: Catalonia and the Counter-Reformation (New Haven: 1993), 82. Because some themes concerning Spain have never been researched, in these notes I also refer to publications on other countries.

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Ritual festivities and celebrations—plays, carnivals, processions—were not incidental but a major, integral and regular aspect of life.13 They were essential to the life of the community, which normally dictated their form and content; and they were pleasing to the Church, with whose great festivals (Christmas, pre-Lenten Carnival) they coincided. A division may be made between rituals of joy and rituals of protection; all coincided with the liturgical cycle of the Christian churches. The annual calendar began at Christmas, succeeded very quickly by an outburst of celebration for Carnival, which was the prelude to Lent, the season of waiting and reflection. After the spring solstice, the month of May arrived with its symbols of life and fertility. One feature of community festivities was the deliberate inversion of authority roles at a time of celebration. Wise men and fools, princes and beggars, old age and youth, were exchanged, reversed and stood upside down, in a brief mockery of the world and its ways. At carnivals, similarly, there was an informal license to gluttonize (as a prelude to Lent, when no meat could be eaten), be lascivious, and misbehave. Partly as a role reversal, partly also as a gesture to sexual fecundity, young people were given a leading part in carnivals, festivities and harvest ceremonies. They also directed charivaris, a curious custom which could include making riotous noise at second weddings. During the great religious feasts, such as Corpus Christi was in Southern Europe, all the ingenuity of the community was directed toward organizing processions (with giant statues), dances and music. There were also rituals of protection, which predominated among the types of ritual used by the community.14 In the Mediterranean, which suffered from frequent droughts, the majority of religious processions were made in order to intercede for rain. Of 34 identified processions in Barcelona, 33 were pleas for rain and one was for protection against epidemic.15 Death in preindustrial society was never greeted passively. Uncontrollable scourges, such as an epidemic, were accepted with resignation, but no effort was spared to identify the origins, control the outbreak and punish those deemed culpable of bringing it on. Mortality was a close companion of all Europeans. As a result, there grew up an extensive series of socio-religious rituals

13

14 15

See Kamen, The Phoenix, chap. 1; Ronald Hutton, The Rise and Fall of Merry England: The Ritual Year 1400–1700 (Oxford: 1994); and the essay “Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State” by Edward Behrend-Martínez in the present volume. Jean Delumeau, Rassurer et protéger. Le sentiment de sécurité dans l’Occident d’autrefois (Paris: 1989). Magda Mirabet, “Pregàries públiques,” Ier Congrés d’Història Moderna de Catalunya, 2 vols (Barcelona: 1984), 2:487–493.

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connected with death both now and in the afterlife. Death was an individual, personal experience, but it took place within one’s family or community and involved passing into another. For many Christians the late medieval doctrine of Purgatory, a halfway stage between heaven and hell, offered some hope to the dead sinner. The soul in Purgatory could be fully cleansed of its sins by the prayers of the living, and so pass into paradise. But the doctrine never adequately penetrated rural Spain in the 16th century, even though it took hold among sections of the ruling elite, where the practice of financing masses for the dead (that is, to liberate them from Purgatory) became an active business that helped bring income into churches. Some notable religious centers, such as the Escorial, had impressive numbers of masses paid for by the crown and by nobles.16 ‘Belief’ was by no means participation in a great universal creed, and religion was above all a matter of local practice.17 More recently, scholars have preferred to place emphasis on what ‘belief’ really meant in the day-to-day experience of ordinary Christians. The picture that emerges at the popular level of villages and towns is of a Christian body made up of a multiplicity of local communities with strongly local preferences. Worship of saints, for example, was highly particular: a village might honor its local Virgin Mary but be bitterly opposed to the Virgin Mary of a neighboring parish. Church dedications were overwhelmingly made to local and even fictional saints, rather than to Christ: of a sample of 646 churches in New Castile in the 1570s, only 11 were dedicated to the person of Christ.18 Patterns of disbelief also varied according to community,19 as did attitudes to all aspects of religious worship, ceremony and celebration. Formal Catholic doctrine during the Golden Age of Peninsular culture represented only one part of the essentially folk belief of Spaniards. Religious practice was traditional and sociable rather than theological. The practice of baptism, for example, was a social rite in which the whole community (the

16 17

18 19

See Carlos M. Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in SixteenthCentury Spain (Cambridge: 1995). William Christian, Jr.’s Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1981) is a stimulating study based on analysis of parish censuses of the villages of New Castile during the 1570s. Cited in Redondo, “La religion populaire,” 350. See Nicholas Griffiths, “Popular Religious Scepticism and Idiosyncrasy in Post-Tridentine Cuenca,” in Faith and Fanaticism: Religious Fervour in Early Modern Spain, (ed.) L. Twomey (Aldershot: 1997), 95–126.

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village, the neighborhood) tended to take part.20 If what the Church offered seemed insufficient, people went outside it for folk remedies and practices, or for exotic knowledge, or for spiritual and mystical solutions to their anxieties. Within the heart of Spain, the highest nobility of the court of Philip II became supporters of prophetic cranks.21 Church dogmas barely penetrated daily religion: for example, the doctrine of Purgatory became common in rural Spain only as late as the 1600s,22 and beliefs about the Virgin Mary were confused, causing bitter quarrels among the clergy over whether she was born free of Original Sin. Matrimony tended to be a social rather than a religious rite, since the ceremony of a blessing in church was given secondary importance. Basic observance of the essentials of religion could be sporadic. In the town of Bilbao, reported an Inquisitor in 1547, “the parish priests and vicars who live there report that one in twelve of the souls never goes to confession.”23 In the north of Aragon, reported another colleague in 1549, there were many villages “that have never had sight of nor contact with Church or Inquisition.” The profundity of Spain’s Catholicism during the period of the Renaissance and Counter-Reformation is still open to doubt and debate.24 The problem was particularly grave in rural areas. In Galicia in 1585, for example, the Inquisitors admitted that doubts about the presence of Christ in the sacrament were widespread, but “more out of ignorance than malice,” and that questioning of the virginity of Mary was “through sheer thick-headedness rather than out of a wish to offend.” They had the case of the man in a tavern who, when a priest present claimed to be able to change bread into the body of Christ, exclaimed in unbelief, “Go on! God’s in heaven and not in that host which you eat at mass!” In Granada in 1595, a shepherd from the village of Alhama claimed not to believe in confession and said to his friends: “What sort of confession is it that you make to a priest who is as much of a sinner as

20

21 22 23 24

On the importance of notions of the collective or “community” in this period see Ruth MacKay’s essay “Community and the Common Good in Early Modern Castile” in the present volume. See Richard L. Kagan, Lucrecia’s Dreams: Politics and Prophecy in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Berkeley: 1990). For the late arrival of the belief among Catholics in Europe, see Jacques Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory, trans. A. Goldhammer (London: 1984). M. Ángeles Cristóbal, “La Inquisición de Logroño,” in Inquisición española: nuevas aproximaciones (Madrid: 1987), 127–158, at 141. At least one expert on religious sociology believes that despite profanity, excess and ignorance, villagers had become Christian by the 19th century: Carmelo Lisón Tolosana, Belmonte de los Caballeros: A Sociological Study of a Spanish Town (Oxford: 1966), 281.

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I? Perfect confession is made only to God.” The Inquisitors concluded that “he seemed very rustic and ignorant and with little or no capacity of understanding,” and sent him to a monastery to be educated. It was of course an age of illiteracy,25 but how widespread was ignorance of religion? If an improvement in elementary religious knowledge really happened, it was certainly not general. In parts of Spain that did not enjoy the density of clergy and schools to be found in Madrid and Toledo, ignorance was still the order of the day. So too was skepticism, which was born not out of hostility to official doctrine but simply out of giving priority to one’s own common sense. The question to resolve was not whether Spain was Catholic, but whether it was Christian. What missionaries who went out into the villages doubted, as their correspondence makes clear, is whether any of the tenets and practices of the faith were understood or observed by the people (or the clergy), and whether the day-to-day social life of communities was being guided by Christian precepts.

4

Disciplining Belief: the Missions

Renaissance Spain, then, was Catholic by tradition but barely Catholic in belief and practice. Few areas of Europe were solid in belief, and in Spain efforts continued to be made to take religion to the people. Spanish religion of the early 16th century was still in all essentials late medieval: an easy-going combination of vague theology and irregular practice, with a heavy emphasis on local rituals and folk religion. In remote districts such as Galicia, Asturias and Navarre the problem was critical. In 1510 a local writer denounced the prevalence of witchcraft in the popular religion of Navarre; Alfonso de Castro in his Adversus haereses (Lyon, 1546) repeated the accusation. In Oviedo a canon of the cathedral, writing in 1568 to ask Francisco Borja to send his Jesuits, could say: “What we have here in Spain are very Indies, where great service to God our Lord may be done … The clergy and curates are, in general, idiots, because the benefices are very poor. And so this land is in extreme need of the work of good laborers, such as we trust are those in the Society of Jesus.” The foundation of the Society of Jesus by the Basque noble Ignatius of Loyola in 1534 brought into existence the most dynamic of the new 16th-century orders. Though the first three generals of the society were Spaniards, the Order 25

On literacy rates during this time period, especially among women, see the essay “Ladies, Libraries and Literacy in Early Modern Spain” by Elizabeth Teresa Howe in the present volume.

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was not predominantly Spanish in character or philosophy. Its base was in Rome, where it adopted a firmly international outlook. Jesuits were not active in Spain until 20 years after their foundation, when (in the 1560s) they were outstanding for their work of conversion among the upper classes and their missions among the common people. Ignatius and the Jesuits were primarily dedicated to spiritual regeneration, and neither reform of the Church nor combating Protestantism featured high up on their list of priorities.26 Missions were a major innovation in Europe. In the early years of European expansion many Catholic clergy—the most famous of them was the Navarrese Jesuit Francis Xavier—had looked to the ‘Indies’ of America and Asia as the ideal terrain to seek souls for Christ. With the need to protect souls in Europe against heresy came the realization that there were also ‘Indies’ in Europe, primarily among the rural population. Reform attempts in Spain were of long standing, as the example of Cisneros shows. In 1540 the new reforming bishop of Pamplona ordered the preaching of a sermon on Sundays, reservation of the sacrament on the altar, the keeping of records, and so on. These piecemeal local efforts were reinforced by the authority of the Council of Trent, whose decrees were issued by Philip II on 12 July 1564 as the law of the land. But there remained serious obstacles, notably that of language. Throughout Europe, missionaries found themselves frustrated by their inability to teach or preach in local tongues. In Spain, some Catalan and Basque congregations had to put up in the 1560s with sermons being preached to them in a language they did not understand: Spanish. Whereas the Protestant effort had been split into distinct areas and separate confessional loyalties, the Catholic effort became from the 1560s a vast coordinated campaign backed by pope, bishops, councils and missionary clergy. Literature was examined and purified, plays were banned, popular participation in carnivals and feasts was regulated, a whole range of liturgical customs (like the boy bishop, or dancing in church, or seasonal rites such as the Song of the Sibyl in the Christmas service) were rapidly done away with, and statues and paintings were censored. Religious practice was thoroughly revised. The reforms were by no means simply a consequence of the Reformation. Of the several disciplinary tools used by the Catholic reform movement, one was uniquely important: the resort to confession. A respected and traditional sacrament, after the Council of Trent confession was slowly transformed from being a seasonal community ritual (exercised once a year) into the main ingredient 26

Agostino Borromeo, “Ignacio de Loyola y su obra a la luz de las más recientes tendencias historiográficas,” in Ignacio de Loyola en la gran crisis del siglo XVI, (ed.) Quintín Aldea (Bilbao: 1993), 321–334.

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of a new routine of devotion and discipline.27 Seldom properly understood by the population, it was often used simply as a way of denouncing hated neighbors to the parish priest. Developed in particular by the Jesuits, who used it to remarkable effect in (for example) Austria, Bavaria28 and Catalonia, confession became the key to moral discipline and official spirituality. In the French Pyrenees29 and in Lille,30 it became the primary weapon of missionaries during the 17th century. In Milan, the Archbishop Carlo Borromeo introduced (in 1565) a new wooden structure called a ‘confessional’ in which penitents could preserve their anonymity while confessing their sins. Though changes occurred, it is not clear how profound they were. Since in most of Europe religion and ritual were the preserve of the community, it appears that changes in belief and practice made headway only where the community accepted them.31 Novelties with which the villages felt uneasy were provisionally accepted, but then quietly allowed to relapse. Many changes were never absorbed: “to the men and women of the villages, official religion played a small role.”32 If certain traditional practices disappeared, it may have been not because of pressure but simply because the people had adopted newer cultural forms. A case in point is the celebration of Midsummer Eve, the feast of St John. In England, the midsummer fires were celebrated until at least the mid16th century everywhere and in some regions well into the 19th century.33 There was little recorded opposition to the practice after the 16th century, and the custom lapsed into disuse. In some regions of Spain, where there was no opposition to the custom, it also perished through disuse; already in 18th-century Barcelona a writer could refer to the fires of St John as being a custom of “the old days.” It is still celebrated in full force, however, in other regions such as Galicia.

27 28 29 30 31 32 33

A recent study is Patrick J. O’Banion, The Sacrament of Penance and Religious Life in Golden Age Spain (University Park: 2012). W. David Myers, “Poor, Sinning Folk”: Confessions and Conscience in Counter-Reformation Germany (Ithaca: 1996). J.-F. Soulet, Traditions et réformes religieuses dans les Pyrénées centrales au XVIIe siècle (Pau: 1974), 246. Alain Lottin, Lille, citadelle de la Contre-Reforme? (1598–1668) (Dunkirk: 1984), 228–231. H.R. Schmidt, Dorf und Religion: Reformierte Sittenzucht in Berner Landgemeinden der Frühen Neuzeit (Stuttgart: 1995). Ronnie Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation, Central Europe 1550–1750 (New York: 1989), 134. Ronald Hutton, “The English Reformation and the Evidence of Folklore,” Past & Present 148 (1995): 89–116, at 110–111.

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Disciplining Belief: the Inquisition

In Renaissance Europe, the only country to have a state-supported body to discipline religion was Spain, whose Inquisition began operating in 1480. We happen to know a great deal about the Inquisition’s origins, objectives, methods and functioning.34 This occurred because many of its confidential papers, which touch on a vast range of themes, have survived and been used by diligent researchers. Research, however, has not entirely dissipated misunderstandings about a subject that invariably excites emotions. The comments that follow are applicable principally to the Renaissance period, and not to the subsequent three centuries of the Inquisition’s career. Though the 16th century is often considered the great era of the Inquisition, during that period its activities were not primarily directed against formal heresy. During the half-century 1480–1530, when the Inquisition was most active, its concern was not with religious belief or practice but exclusively with the supposed heresies of a small minority of Spaniards of Jewish origin who were converts to the Catholic religion. Prosecution of these conversos represented around 95 percent of all cases tried. Very few other matters involving faith came before the Inquisition, so it is crucial to remember that the tribunal was not intended to discipline or control religion: it was not interested in what people believed or read or did. Its almost exclusive concern was the issue of conversos. The alleged heresy of Jewish conversos had been largely dealt with by the 1530s, and ‘Lutheranism’ was only a momentary scare in the 1550s. In the period 1480–1530, an impressive number of accused were tried and sentenced to be burnt to death. Very many more managed to escape the country, but the likely total of those who died represents over three-fourths of all the persons executed by the tribunal in its entire three-century history. After the initial period of terror against Jewish conversos, when it enjoyed the vigorous support of the state and of non-Jewish Christians, the Inquisition evolved from an instrument of harsh repression into one of persuasion. With its limited personnel of about three Inquisitors in each of the 15 tribunals in Spain, and with no secure sources of income, it did not have the capacity to develop into an oppressive institution. Nor did it ever become a secret police that spied into and controlled people’s lives, since virtually all the accusations made to it were initi34

Two good introductions are Lu Ann Homza, The Spanish Inquisition, 1478–1614: An Anthology of Sources (Indianapolis: 2006), and Helen Rawlings, The Spanish Inquisition (Malden, MA: 2006). The standard full-length survey is Henry Charles Lea, A History of the Inquisition of Spain, 4 vols (New York: 1906–1908). The most up-to-date presentation is Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision (New Haven: 2014).

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ated not by its officials but by ordinary members of the public denouncing each other out of suspicion or malice. The punishments used by the Inquisition, moreover, were less severe than often alleged. Torture was the exception rather than the rule. The death penalty was rare, and used primarily against heretics, who were in any case numerically few after the middle of the 16th century. Against these considerations must be set the fact that there was always unease at the rule of secrecy in trials, at the infamy which any brush with the tribunal might bring on a man and his family, and at the continued reliance on confiscations as a source of income. Spaniards accepted the Inquisition, but it was never loved. As late as 1538 a request directed to Charles V claimed that “if the Catholic Monarchs were still alive they would have reformed it twenty years ago.” The Inquisition had a relevant role to play in questions of culture, through its control over censorship and the way it prosecuted select individuals. The overall impact of its activity, however, has usually been exaggerated. A state censorship law of 1558—applicable, it should be emphasized, not to all Spain but only to Castile—was followed in 1559 by the first Spanish-produced Index of forbidden books, drawn up by Inquisitor General Fernando de Valdés. This continued the suppression of Erasmus, by prohibiting 16 of his works including the Enchiridion. It also inevitably prohibited all heretical books and unlicensed versions of the Bible. In addition, however, the Inquisitors attempted to purify Spanish literature by sweeping away inferior writings and scrutinizing devotional works closely. Among the outstanding devotional works that fell prey to Valdés’ Index were the Audi filia of St Juan de Ávila, the Book of Prayer and Guide of Sinners of Luis de Granada, and the Works of a Christian of Francis Borja. In addition, the authors Jorge de Montemayor, Juan del Encina, Torres Naharro and Gil Vicente appeared among those with specific prohibited works, while the Lazarillo de Tormes was expurgated.35 Since none of these writers was suspected of heresy, and indeed all were among the foremost Hispanic authors of the period, it can be seen that the Index was intended to be not merely a defense against Protestantism but an instrument of literary control. This would explain why many prominent clergy collaborated as censors; for example, Arias Montano’s contribution as a censor in the Netherlands in 1570 was precisely because he thought the task too important to be left to ignorant persons. In practice, the Spanish Inquisition was not (as it is often imagined to be) a disciplinary body in religious matters: it had neither the finances nor the personnel to implement a policy of oppression, and above all it had no adequate

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For more on this case of censorship see the essay “Nobles and Court Culture” by Ignacio Navarrete and Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry-Roisin in the present volume.

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information for use in prosecution. The driving force behind its activities was in reality the people of Spain, who alone could supply the necessary information against secret Jews or Muslims. Prosecutions were initiated as a consequence of information, whether true or false, taken to the tribunal by persons with a grievance. Anti-Semitism immanent in Spanish society, rather than any state policy imposed from above, dictated the fate of conversos at the hands of the Inquisition. During the early 16th century information dried up, and so too did prosecutions. The Renaissance era was therefore the most bloody, but it was also the last big period of religious persecution. Thereafter the Inquisition played a very minor role in specific areas such as witchcraft superstition, or control over books. At no point did it play a significant role as guardian of orthodoxy or protector against heresy. Nor did it affect, whether for good or ill, cultural developments in Renaissance Spain, though there are documented instances of conflict between some clerical authors and the censors. Those who fled from Spain because of their Jewish or Muslim origins managed to take their culture with them.

6

Dissidences: Witchcraft

In Early Modern Europe tens of thousands of people were executed for sorcery between about 1500 and 1700. Yet possibly only one heretic died in Western Europe for every ten witches executed.36 Denunciations of witches, like denunciations for heresy, arose out of antipathies and grievances within the local community. Petty suspicions, jealousies and gossip led to the victimization of individuals and eventually to their prosecution.37 In a changing society, the disappearance of traditional neighborly charity and mutual help might give rise to resentments.38 Perhaps the most bizarre case occurred in Spain when the Inquisitor Salazar in 1611 visited Navarre; 1,802 people came forward as selfconfessed witches, and of them 1,384 were children aged under 14.39 36

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W. Monter, “Heresy Executions in Reformation Europe, 1520–1565,” in Tolerance and Intolerance in the European Reformation, (eds.) O. Grell and B. Scribner (Cambridge: 1996), 48–64, at 63. Cf. W. Behringer, “Witchcraft Studies in Austria, Germany and Switzerland,” in Witchcraft in Early Modern Europe, (eds.) J. Barry, M. Hester and G. Roberts (Cambridge: 1997), 64–95, at 89. The now-classic model proposed by Keith Thomas (Religion and the Decline of Magic [London: 2003]) and Alan Macfarlane (Witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England [London: 1999]). G. Henningsen, The Witches’ Advocate: Basque Witchcraft and the Spanish Inquisition (Reno: 1980), 301.

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In some parts of continental Europe, learned tradition had never accepted the possibility of diabolic witchcraft: the most striking example is Spain. Though secular tribunals there periodically condemned people for witchcraft, the Inquisition from 1526 onwards systematically refused to prosecute, on the grounds that witches were self-deluded. A discussion paper drawn up for the Inquisition that year stated categorically that “the majority of jurists in this realm agree that witches do not exist.”40 From 1526, therefore, the Inquisitors refused to take denunciations of witches seriously. In 1550, when the Inquisitors of Barcelona gave in to popular pressure and acted against ‘witches,’ they were immediately sacked from their posts. The Inquisitor who was sent to investigate the case, Francisco Vaca, produced an unequivocal indictment of witchcraft persecution and condemned the accusations as “laughable.” A small relapse from this position took place in 1610, when a wave of hysteria in Spanish Navarre led to a number of witches being executed at an auto de fe. The Inquisitor Alonso Salazar de Frías was sent to inquire into the circumstances and came to the conclusion that “there were neither witches nor bewitched until they were talked and written about.” Witchcraft only existed, he felt, if it were prosecuted. As a result, the Inquisition returned to its previous policy and seldom if ever again tried witches.

7

From Renaissance to Counter-Reformation

There is now no doubt that a substantial period of reform—the CounterReformation—occurred in Spain,41 but it did not occur until half a century after the death of Ferdinand and Isabella. In 1566 a royal official criticized previous efforts and called for a new reform of the Church, “not a three-day reform as we have had till now, but one that lasts.” In the 1570s, Philip II attempted to enforce the decrees of the Council of Trent, which he considered “the one true remedy,”42 and supervised the holding of provincial councils of the clergy. The king, who insisted that all aspects of the program should be under Spanish control, had two main objectives: to improve the quality of the clergy and

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Kamen, Inquisition, 271. Among the very few studies on it, three are basic: Kamen, Phoenix; Sara T. Nalle, God in La Mancha: Religion, Reform and the People of Cuenca 1500–1650 (Baltimore: 1992); and Allyson M. Poska, Regulating the People: The Catholic Reformation in Seventeenth-Century Spain (Leiden: 1998). Philip II to the Count of Luna, 12 May 1563, Colección de documentos inéditos para la historia de España (Madrid: 1842–1895) vol. 98, 438.

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convert the people to true religion. To help him in his goal he enlisted the Inquisition (which from this date began to look closely at the day-to-day religious and moral practice of Spaniards) and invited new religious orders from Italy (the Carmelites, Jesuits and Capuchins, among others) to enter the country and preach sermons. In everyday religion there were revolutionary innovations: the form of the mass was altered, thousands of new churches were built, pulpits and confessionals were set up for the first time, new devotions (such as the rosary) were introduced, the rules of marriage were changed, and lay associations (known as confraternities)43 were set up in each parish. At the same time traditional community acts, such as processions and festivities, were put under clerical control. The reforms tried to give a unique role to male clergy, especially to the person of the parish priest; by contrast, women were allotted only a secondary role in Church activities. The stagnant Catholic religion of the Renaissance period experienced changes in the last decades of the 16th century. Of the significant novelties, the first was the abolition of variations in liturgy and the imposition of the Roman missal and breviary (decreed by Rome in 1568 and 1570). Distinctive and curious local ways of saying mass in, for example, Mallorca and Asturias, were phased out. By 1571, the nuncio reported to Rome, all the dioceses and orders (although Toledo, with its ancient Mozarabic rite, was a permitted exception) had accepted the changes. This was certainly optimistic, but the change was undeniable. Second, the authority of bishops was strengthened. Fortified by Trent, prelates such as Cardinal Gaspar de Quiroga in Toledo and Bishop Juan de Vich in Mallorca were able to impose their wishes on parish clergy and bring about significant changes in clerical practice. Philip II supported this reform by ordering in a decree of July 1564 that provincial synods be held regularly. In 1565 they were held in Toledo, Santiago, Tarragona, Valencia, Saragossa and Granada; but thereafter, with the outstanding exception of the Church of the Crown of Aragon, the practice decayed. The third material change was in education. Trent had laid particular emphasis on the need for seminaries to train an educated clergy. There was considerable opposition to this program in Spain, where many colleges for clergy were already in existence and where cathedral chapters objected to the expense of new foundations which might duplicate their work. By contrast the education of the faithful made advances. In most parishes the priest was now enjoined to

43

Maureen Flynn, Sacred Charity: Confraternities and Social Welfare in Spain, 1400–1700 (London: 1986).

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preach a sermon at Sunday mass, an innovation as startling for the congregation as it must have been onerous for the incumbent. At the same time, religious instruction had to be given during mass, and Sunday schools for the children of the parish were made obligatory. Gradually over the late 16th and early 17th centuries the combined efforts of bishops, religious orders and the Inquisition managed to coax Spaniards into the new Catholicism. A striking feature of the new parish structure was the organization of confraternities, intended to encourage loyalty to the parish but also to heighten devotion, since confraternity rules stipulated regular confession and communion. In appearance, nothing seemed to have changed, but there were significant differences between the old religion of the Renaissance and the new Catholicism of the Counter-Reformation. Trent imposed on Spanish religion a sense of the sacred that endured into the 20th century. Where the church had been used for communal meetings and festivities, it was now totally separated from all secular use; all religious rites, and all baptisms, were to be performed in the church and in no other place; as an innovation, clergy were to wear distinctive robes to distinguish them from laity; priests were no longer to attend wedding parties and similar celebrations; carnivals, plays and dances were banned from church; processions with any hint of non-religious ritual were abolished; certain feast days (such as Corpus Christi) which had become laicized were reclaimed for the Church. A worshipper in post-Tridentine Spain would experience, among other innovations: whitewashed walls in church, paintings purged of sensuality, a pulpit if there had been none before, an eternal flame before the tabernacle, a sacristy to which no women were allowed access, strict separation of sexes among the worshippers, a confessional to separate priest from penitent (introduced in Barcelona, for example, from 1566), sermons, and a new liturgy, including the popularization of the rosary (1571) and the introduction of the Forty-Hours Devotion (brought to Barcelona by the Capuchins in 1580). New rules imposed on the parish priest included having to keep a record of all baptisms, marriages and burials. Parishioners were obliged to attend mass every Sunday and take communion at Easter, all of this being recorded by the priest. From faith and worship, the impact of these changes extended to all aspects of Christian life. Art was encouraged to serve the faith rather than to strive for profane effect: at its best, this produced the realistic sculpture of the School of Valladolid; at its worst, it produced stylized religious paintings lacking in quality.44 The reforming outlook also produced a generation of composers of sacred

44

For more on the School of Valladolid and other artistic traditions and movements in Spain

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music, culminating in the magnificent Italianate motets of Tomás Luis de Victoria (d. 1611). Religion made its presence more visible in public celebrations and ceremonies, where participation by clergy became more notable. There is less evidence, however, of any meaningful change in the quality of religious education, belief and everyday popular practice. of this time period see the essay “Painting and Sculpture” by Jeffrey Schrader in the present volume.

chapter 8

Fashioning Disease: Narrative and the Sick Body in the Spanish Inquisition Cristian Berco

1

Introduction

On 28 May 1637, the presiding Lima Inquisitors wrote to the Supreme Council of the Inquisition in Madrid to resubmit a censorship proposal against the writings of Dr Juan del Castillo, a central figure in the life and later canonization of the famed Rosa de Lima.1 Although local politics around the saint’s life had gained Castillo the enmity of the stewards of the local Holy Office, previous attempts to censor him dating as far back as 1624 had gone unanswered by Peninsular authorities. Now that the good doctor had just passed away, and notwithstanding a multitudinous funeral procession and Castillo’s close connections to Lima’s Dominicans, Inquisitors took their chance once more. A few weeks later they successfully obtained formal permission to censor his mystical writings, Revelaciones propias.2 Notwithstanding the local politics embedded in the relationship between Castillo and these Lima Inquisitors, the failed 1624 case of censorship against him offers a useful window onto the changing cultural frames of disease in the Hispanic world.3 The themes evident in Castillo’s late-Renaissance contretemps reflect the maturation of trends which had been over a century in the making. Consider, for instance, the Supreme Council’s reason for the initial

1 On Rose of Lima see Ramón Mujica Pinilla, Rosa Limensis. Mística, política e iconografía en torno a la patrona de América (Lima: 2001); and Fernando Iwasaki Cauti, “Mujeres al borde de la perfección: Rosa de Santa María y las alumbradas de Lima,” Hispanic American Historical Review 73.4 (1993): 581–613. For her relationship to Castillo, including references to the expurgations sought by Lima Inquisitors, see Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “Aproximaciones apocalípticas a los ‘desposorios místicos’ de Santa Rosa de Lima,” Anuario de Historia de la Iglesia 10 (2001): 522–529. Note that Manuel de Mendiburu, Diccionario histórico-bibliográfico del Perú (Lima: 1876), 2:323, in his entry on Juan de Castillo, mistakes his date of death as 1629. 2 On the 1637 censure against Castillo see Pedro Guibovich Pérez, Censura, libros e Inquisición en el Perú colonial, 1570–1754 (Seville: 2003), 198–199. 3 The 1624 censorship case may be found in Archivo Histórico Nacional (hereafter AHN), Inquisición, legajo 4466, no. 5.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_010

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refusal to condemn Castillo: illness. In fact, Castillo seems to have suffered from melancholy—that most typical of all late-Renaissance mental afflictions.4 Not only did Early Modern physicians, both in Spain and elsewhere in Europe, pay greater attention to the meaning and treatment of melancholy but, by the late 16th century, the illness had become an object of popular and intellectual obsession.5 Whether we think of claims about its connection to extremes such as genius and criminal witchcraft, its strongly gendered components, or even the intersection of melancholy with emerging forms of psychiatric treatment, what appears as a run-of-the-mill bureaucratic decision around illness is, in fact, cut across by Renaissance approaches to disease and their meanings in popular and institutional culture. The ancillary appearance of disease as somatic experience and narrative formula in the letters surrounding Castillo’s censorship case provides a springboard onto ways of looking at long-term complex trends in Spanish approaches to disease. Considering similar Inquisitorial correspondence from the late Spanish Renaissance, this chapter explores disease and its changing meanings in Hispanic culture.

2

Disease and the Spanish Renaissance

As a category of historical analysis, disease during the Spanish Renaissance evokes mixed feelings. In a strangely comforting yet unpleasant way, we realize we have a thread of physiological connection—the agony of unrelenting illness, the pleasure of respite from its claws—with our ancestors. At the same time, the understanding of historical illness and disease, not in the rationalized precision of analysis but in a visceral knowing that only experience brings, seems close enough to grasp but maddeningly elusive. After all, we know and experience pain, but can we truly approach what disease felt like when Renaissance somatic experiences were shaped through

4 “Y considerando las cualidades y circunstancias de la persona melancólica, así por el natural como por los muchos trabajos que tiene e imaginativa, y con falta de sueño y comida … juzgamos que todas sus proposiciones y revelaciones son devaneos procedidos de las circunstancias dichas … de modo que aunque dichos libros contengan proposiciones damnables nos parece que tiene más necesidad de medios medicinales para reparar la flaqueza de cabeza, que de otros que merezcan consideración” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 4466, no. 5). 5 Angus Gowland, “The Problem of Early Modern Melancholy,” Past & Present 191 (2006): 77– 120; Elena Carrera, “Madness and Melancholy in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Spain: New Evidence, New Approaches,” Bulletin of Spanish Studies 87 (2010): 1–15; Belén Atienza, El loco en el espejo: locura y melancolía en la España de Lope de Vega (Amsterdam: 2009); Roger Bartra, Melancholy and Culture: Diseases of the Soul in Golden Age Spain (Cardiff: 2008).

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medical practices and cultures alien to our own? Consider, for example, the difficulty of bridging the divide of centuries to understand the harrowing treatment for the pox known as salivation: as mercury poultices poisoned patients, they not only led to unending salivation but ravaged joints, blackened gums, ushered in hair loss and became altogether unbearable.6 In a celebrated poem, the poet Pantaleón de Ribera compared his drooling from treatment to that of a bridled horse and begged for his physician finally to kill him.7 Even beyond the purely somatic, can we fully grasp the cultural apparatus that came along with such treatment? It involved, at a minimum, hospitalization with all its Early Modern quirks, including the necessary Christian treatment of the soul; the social aftermath of mercurial salivation and the scars it might have left visible to all; and the possibility of relapse, added to ensuing negotiations with physicians for alternative, less harmful treatments.8 Thinking about disease in the Spanish Renaissance is cut across by all these complicating factors. As Michael Stolberg has argued, the Early Modern experience of disease was inherently shaped by culture while being at the same time partly circumscribed by the physiology we share with those long gone.9 Furthermore, illness mattered as somatic and social experience: its tentacles marked not only the very flesh of suffering patients but also their world, whether we think of work, family relationships, gendered repercussions, or integration into communities.10 Finally, disease and illness had further currency

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On the effects of the salivation treatment see Ian Michael, “Celestina and the Great Pox,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 78.1 (2001): 103–138, at 117. “… más babas estoy vertiendo/ que enfrenado un alazán,/ procurando en mis salivas/ escupir mi enfermedad./ Como los dos babeamos/ en la cama y el zaguán,/ las unciones que a tu mula/ dicen todos que me das./ ¡Oh, acaba ya de matarme,/ si de los hados está!/ Que doble sus esquilones/ en mi entierro el sacristán” (Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera, “Estando enfermo el poeta hizo este romance al médico que le curaba …,” in Obras de Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera [Madrid: 1648], 43r–43v; cited in Jesús Ponce Cárdenas, “De burlas y enfermedades barrocas: la sífilis en la obra poética de Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera y Miguel Colodrero de Villalobos,” Criticón 100 [2007]: 115–142). María Luz López Terrada, “El ‘mal de siment’ en la Valencia del siglo XVI. Imágenes del ‘morbo gallico’ en una ciudad mediterránea europea,” DYNAMIS 11 (1991): 119–146; Juan Ignacio Carmona, Enfermedad y sociedad en los primeros tiempos modernos (Seville: 2005), 215–231. Michael Stolberg, Experiencing Illness and Disease in Early Modern Europe (New York: 2011), 160. Teresa Ortiz Gómez and María Montserrat Cabré i Pairet, “Mujeres y salud: práctica y saberes,” DYNAMIS 19 (1999): 17–24; María Luz López Terrada, “Las prácticas médicas extraacadémicas en la ciudad de Valencia durante los siglos XVI y XVII,” DYNAMIS 22 (2002): 85–120; Alfredo Menéndez Navarro, “Trabajo, enfermedad y asistencia en las minas

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beyond individual patients: it birthed myriad literary tropes, it could at once shape the encounter with the Other and serve as a vehicle for expressing fears, it necessitated broad-based policy responses, and it affected institutions in new and unexpected ways.11 In short, given the universal salience of disease, it appears everywhere in Renaissance society, from the last breaths of dying kings to the festering wounds of suffering paupers, from the preoccupation with a healthy façade for public consumption to the way chronic illness changed family economies, from the witty literary tropes that amused readers and spectators to the bureaucratic legalese of institution-speak. Not only was disease personal and communal, somatic and metaphorical, but all these experiences were further affected by broad-based changes during the Spanish Renaissance. New diseases like the pox were accompanied by new medicines—often from the Americas—and new approaches, both theoretical and practical, to medieval Galenic-based treatments.12 Healthcare institutions grew and became more specialized, just

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de Almadén (Ciudad Real), siglos XVI–XX,” De Re Metallica: Revista de la Sociedad Española para la Defensa del Patrimonio Geológico y Minero 19 (2012): 95–102. On disease and literature see Michael Solomon, Fictions of Well-Being: Sickly Readers and Vernacular Medical Writing in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Philadelphia: 2010); Enrique Fernández, Anxieties of Interiority and Dissection in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2015); María Luz López Terrada, “ ‘Sallow-Faced Girl, Either It’s Love or You’ve Been Eating Clay’: The Representation of Illness in Golden Age Theater,” in Medical Cultures of the Early Modern Spanish Empire, (eds.) John Slater, María Luz López Terrada, and José Pardo Tomás (Farnham: 2014), 149–166; and Donald A. Beecher, “Lovesickness, Diagnosis, and Destiny in the Renaissance Theaters of England and Spain: The Parallel Development of a MedicoLiterary Motif,” in Parallel Lives: Spanish and English National Drama 1580-1680, ed. Louise and Peter Fothergill-Payne (Lewisburg: 1991), 152–166. On disease and constructions of an indigenous Other see Rebecca Earle, “ ‘If You Eat Their Food …’: Diets and Bodies in Early Colonial Spanish America,” The American Historical Review 115.3 (2010): 688–713. For non-healthcare institutions affected by growing interest in disease, consider the increasing recourse to medical expertise in various court proceedings as per Andrew Keitt, “The Miraculous Body of Evidence: Visionary Experience, Medical Discourse, and the Inquisition in Seventeenth-Century Spain,” Sixteenth Century Journal (2005): 77–96; and Edward Behrend-Martínez, “Female Sexual Potency in a Spanish Church Court, 1673–1735,” Law and History Review 24.2 (2006): 297–330. On the incorporation of American medical materials into Spanish medicine and treatment see José Luis Fresquet Febrer, “La difusión inicial de la materia médica americana en la terapéutica europea,” in Medicinas, drogas y alimentos vegetales del Nuevo Mundo: textos e imágenes españolas que los introdujeron en Europa, ed. José María López Piñero (Madrid: 1992), 317–388; and Teresa Huguet-Termes, “New World Materia Medica in Spanish Renaissance Medicine: From Scholarly Reception to Practical Impact,” Medical History 45.3 (2001): 359–376. On Renaissance changes to medical theory and practices see José María López Piñero, “Paracelsus and His Work in 16th and 17th Century Spain,” Clio Me-

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as the regulation of medical professionals became more extensive.13 Crackdowns on alternative healing practices, including magical ones, coincided with their stubborn persistence and the proliferation as well as popularization of medical knowledge.14 Institutions and policy makers, from the municipal level on up, reflected a growing medicalization which not only sought to control patients and the poor—often synonymous, in institutional realities—but also reverberated across a variety of fields.15 More important as markers than as an exhaustive list, the changes to the cultural, intellectual, and institutional factors shaping disease and its experience in the Spanish Renaissance were myriad and complex. Partly because disease was at once universal as a physiological experience and useful as a cultural product, its repercussions and connections cannot be expressed fully in a few pages. Rather than attempt, therefore, a broad overview of the changes to disease in the Spanish Renaissance that would leave little room for specificity, it might be best to approach the larger topic from a particular angle. This chapter will explore individual and institutional attitudes towards disease through late-Renaissance petitions from local Inquisitorial tribunals to the Supreme Council of the Inquisition in Madrid.16 The benefits of focusing on

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dica 8.2 (1973): 113–141; María Rey, “La introducción de la terapéutica química en la España moderna,” Anales de la Facultad de Medicina 57.4 (1996): 282–284; and Jon Arrizabalaga, “Los médicos valencianos Pere Pintor y Gaspar Torrella y el tratamiento del mal francés en la corte papal de Alejandro VI Borja,” in El hogar de los Borja, ed. Jon Arrizabalaga (Valencia: 2000), 141–158. Michele L. Clouse, Medicine, Government and Public Health in Philip II’s Spain: Shared Interests, Competing Authorities (Burlington: 2013). Enrique Perdiguero Gil, “Protomedicato y curanderismo,” DYNAMIS 16 (1996): 91–108; López Terrada, “Las prácticas médicas extraacadémicas.” Keitt, “The Miraculous Body of Evidence”; Melchor Bajén Español, “Sexo, moral y medicina en la España de la Contrarreforma. Un informe inédito del jesuita Miguel Pérez (1550– 1605) sobre la polución,” DYNAMIS 15 (1995): 443–457; Sonja Deschrijver, “From Sin to Insanity? Suicide Trials in the Spanish Netherlands, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Sixteenth Century Journal (2011): 981–1002; María José Pérez Álvarez and María Marta Lobo de Araujo, La respuesta social a la pobreza en la Península Ibérica durante la Edad Moderna (León: 2014). See José Ramón Rodríguez Besné, El Consejo de la Suprema Inquisición. Perfil jurídico de una institución (Madrid: 2000), 209–219 on the resolution of matters related to cases of faith, pardons, and justice. For examples of Inquisitorial pardons consult Virgilio Pinto Crespo, “El apogeo del Santo Oficio (1569–1621): los hechos y las actividades inquisitoriales en España. Los primeros lustros del siglo XVII: los indultos a hebreos portugueses,” in Historia de la Inquisición en España y América, ed. Bartolomé Escandell Bonet, Joaquín Pérez Villanueva, and Ángel Alcalá (Madrid: 1984), 1:897–890. For pardons in the secular realm see José Luis de las Heras Santos, “Indultos concedidos por la Cámara de Castilla en tiempos de los Austrias,” Studia Histórica. Historia Moderna 1 (1983): 115–142.

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sources that dealt with disease in contexts not necessarily and solely associated with medical care are multiple. First, the variability of authorship and themes allows us to obtain a good sense of how the somatic experience of illness intersected with broader sociocultural forces. Indeed, a great variety of petitions exist: from Judaizers, moriscos, and Old Christians clamoring for clemency to Inquisitorial officials asking for pay raises; from prisoners narrating disease as judicial strategy to nobles attempting to skirt their expected participation in Inquisitorial rituals. In short, the availability and variety of records make these petitions based on illness particularly rich and evocative of broader social interactions. As part of a bureaucratic process with a specific judicial outcome in mind, thus, the petitions sent by everyday citizens evince how illness narratives were deployed, the sociocultural tropes they touched upon, and the usefulness of or limits to such rhetorical exercises. In short, these sources can provide a window onto the social meanings of disease as a narrative tool. Second, the appearance of these disease narratives in otherwise non-medical sources allows us to explore how the aforementioned long-term changes to the experience and conceptualization of illness during the Renaissance eventually played out well beyond the hospital bed. Not only do the letters in question—which roughly cover the first half of the 17th century—provide us with an appropriate chronological vantage point to assess the eventual impact of the aforementioned trends, but they also give us an incidental yet rich window onto the salience of disease and its changing circumstances. After all, in the transition from the patient’s bed to the world at large, where disease was one of myriad factors shaping interactions, the somatic experience—already complex and malleable, even under a doctor’s care—was intersected by a variety of forces: social expectations, cultural codes, institutional needs, and personal objectives. But in this maelstrom where disease and society met, some of the essential features of the lived experience of illness during the Renaissance become all the more evident to historians. Disease, at once an intimate experience and a social tool, was distilled to its fundamental cultural codes. And in these letters, such codes, perhaps not coincidentally, reflect broad trends in changing approaches to disease. At the dusk of the Spanish Renaissance, the narratives of disease in Inquisitorial petitions and letters illuminate various subterranean and long-term trends in Spanish society’s changing and complex relationship to the medicalized body.

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Inquisitorial Correspondence and Illness

The examination of Inquisitorial petitions that focus on illness highlights the tensions inherent to writing about disease in a non-medical context and the weighty legal outcomes which are always on the table when we speak about the Holy Office. In such cases, Renaissance trends for how everyday people conceptualized illness were transformed in translation to a legalistic setting. Consider, for instance, both the proliferation and popularization of medical discourses about illness. In a rapidly accelerating process, not only was medical knowledge popularized during the Renaissance through a variety of published works for everyday consumption, but patients’ own discourses about illness reflected such medicalization. Whether we are thinking of practical manuals which brought the latest medical approaches to readers, or of the complex mixture of practical popular knowledge, medicalized theories, and alternative healing practices, the 16th and 17th centuries witnessed a rapid proliferation of medical discourses.17 But reading and writing about disease, or even voicing it, were one matter in a healthcare context, and another altogether different situation in an Inquisitorial one. Writing about disease in these petitions ultimately served the broader objective of obtaining a successful legal or institutional outcome. As such, these letters mediated between somatic descriptions that sometimes hint at late Renaissance views of disease while also requiring specific rhetorical strategies meant to convince Inquisitors. Some petitioners did not merely adduce illness to their Inquisitorial audience, but specifically sought to detail symptoms and diseases as part of a broader rhetorical strategy. Consider, for instance, a 1655 letter from Pedro Pérez Melero, a minor Inquisitorial official whose home sometimes served to house prisoners or other persons of interest to Madrid Inquisitors. Not only was he covering the costs of housing and feeding Leonor Rodríguez, daughter of a prisoner, for the last month, but he was also still owed for the monies spent on feeding Isabel de Heredia, a black female prisoner. Pérez Melero thus requested reimbursement for expenses, the transfer of Leonor Rodríguez, and an extraordinary one-time payment. The reason for such expected generosity: an accident he suffered

17

López Terrada, “Las prácticas médicas extraacadémicas”; Solomon, Fictions of Wellbeing; Perdiguero Gil, “Popularization”; Carolin Schmitz, “Barberos, charlatanes y enfermos: la pluralidad médica de la España barroca percibida por el pícaro Estebanillo González,” DYNAMIS 36.1 (2016): 143–166; Elisa Andretta, “Medical Cultures of the Spaniards of Italy,” in Medical Cultures of the Early Modern Spanish Empire, (eds.) John Slater, María Luz López Terrada, and José Pardo-Tomás (Farnham: 2014), 129–145.

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when he fell from a raised platform, thereby breaking a shinbone in his left leg.18 To Pérez Melero, it was not enough merely to mention illness as a cause for financial aid; he specifically detailed the accident and the subsequent disability he suffered. But, as much as this description of his accident was partly circumscribed by the somatic experience of illness, so did it respond to his broader rhetorical strategy in approaching the Supreme Council. Unlike petitions that dealt in generalities, Pérez Melero continuously introduced specific facts to bolster his case. Given the Inquisitorial penchant for detail, such framing from someone who knew Inquisitorial preferences well was clever. Thus, not content merely to make the case for obedient service and current need, Pérez Melero smartly deflected a possible criticism by alluding to his difficulties in collecting a debt of 6,000 ducats. Likewise, in an appeal to authority and collegiality, he mentioned that the head of the Madrid tribunal, Dr Escolano, had already promised him reimbursement. The whole petition depended not just on making a case, but on effectively deploying specific evidence to support it. Thus, Pérez Melero’s detailed somatic description went hand-in-hand with rhetorical calculation and immersed the experience of disease within the cultural frames of petitionwriting itself. Because references to illness in this context were embedded in the narrative structures of petition-writing, they proved particularly adaptable and flexible enough to obtain the desired outcomes. That illness could prove so successfully malleable as a cultural trope is evinced by an equally-persuasive focus on a different rhetorical strategy: somatic ambiguity. The petition from Juan Vicencio Fenollet, citizen of Madrid, reflects such a construction. Accused of bigamy and already imprisoned for a month, Fenollet impatiently waited for Inquisitor Don Gabriel de la Calle to proceed with the case. Among the various causes enjoining him to request a speedy trial, including his purported innocence, was the fact that his body was covered in llagas.19 This reference to a type of wound, as Covarrubias defined llaga in his seminal dictionary, should be seen in part against the backdrop of Renaissance changes in approaches to skin conditions. In particular, the field of surgery (which normally dealt with skin diseases) had grown in reputation and contributed novel theoretical and practical approaches to such illnesses throughout the 16th and early 17th centuries. Whether a partial response to the ever-present threat of the skin disease that characterized the Renaissance—the pox which first appeared

18 19

AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2485, no. 4, letter dated December 3, 1655. AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2487, letter dated August 7, 1660.

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in 1494—or a reflection of broader pan-European changes that saw the growth of practical approaches to dermatology, surgical writing on dermatological conditions soared. Among the most important was Pedro de León’s 1628 Práctica y teórica de los apostemas, in which he explored all sorts of skin abscesses, tumors and growths. Although steeped in Galenic tradition, of particular interest were León’s organization of pathological descriptions according to affected body part, novel surgical approaches, as well as his contributions to the nascent field of urology.20 While changes to surgical theories meant that Fenollet’s llaga would not have been understood in the same way a century before his letter to the Inquisition, the particular context in which he wrote to the Holy Office necessitated a specific rhetorical strategy. In fact, this reference to illness, unlike that of Pérez Melero, was anything but precise. Following López de León’s tract, while a llaga could refer to a general type of wound, it would nevertheless be more specifically categorized depending on symptoms. As such, López de León defined llagas as a break in the continuity of soft flesh—although, unlike ulcers, they do not putrefy. Furthermore, llagas could also be differentiated depending on where they occurred on the body, the nature of the affected organ, the way the wound was made, its size and shape, and the underlying affected humor.21 In short, llagas could be described variously as corrosive, virulent, sordid, fistulous and more.22 Fenollet’s llagas, then, were so imprecise as to be medically meaningless. The underlying condition could be anything from dangerous illnesses like erisipela, also known as the Fire of Saint Anthony, or a side-effect of leprosy (as the itchy skin all over the body was scratched), to more innocuous problems like scabies, hematomas or a mere series of wounds caused by humoral imbalance or accident.23 Such imprecision, however, reflected a strategy of purposeful ambiguity that aided Fenollet in two ways. First, a general reference to llagas could avoid the uncomfortable connection between certain illnesses and moral shame. We need go no further than the references to ugliness and marred faces that colored medical discourses about specific dermatological diseases such as leprosy and the Great Pox. Because of insidious messages that connected illness and 20

21 22 23

Jairo Solano Alonso, “Juan Méndez Nieto y Pedro López de León. El arte de curar en la Cartagena del siglo XVII,” in Cartagena de Indias en el siglo XVII, ed. Adolfo Meisel Roca and Haroldo Calvo Stevenson (Cartagena: 2007), 385–442; Hugo A. Sotomayor Tribín, “Cirujano y licenciado Pedro López de León y su libro Práctica y teórica de los apostemas (siglo XVII),” Repertorio de Medicina y Cirugía 18.1 (2009): 53–64. Pedro López de León, Práctica y teórica de los apostemas (Calatayud: 1692), 150–153. Diccionario de Autoridades, www.rae.es. López de León, Práctica y teórica, 146–149, 233.

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moral character, because of fears of physical and moral contagion, people were constantly refashioning private illnesses into public semblances of vim and vigor. From barber-surgeons and the bodies they shaped to women’s manuals and the countless recipes to both heal and beautify, from prescriptions on hygiene to condemnations of the disfigured: health, appearance, and social status were intimately connected.24 Renaissance Spaniards placed a premium, not just on health as a purely physiological experience, but on its public representation and performance. After all, such disfigurement implied shame because physical imperfections were thought to reflect moral ones. Thus, Alonso de Madrigal’s classic discussion of the Virgin Mary’s body argued that she was completely free of deformities or infirmities, including dermatological ones, precisely because she was sinless.25 But in Fenollet’s case, his reference to wounds remains ambiguous: were such wounds visible? Did they mar his face? Were they connected to particularly shameful illnesses that suggested moral reprobation? By providing a general description of symptoms, Fenollet could at once suggest suffering but also avoid any moral pitfalls attached to certain dermatological conditions. Second, Fenollet’s imprecision on disease also played into his rhetorical strategy by appealing subtly to Inquisitorial religiosity. In fact, his generalizing description of llagas brought to mind the common religious use of the term. Consider, for instance, Antonio Daza’s 1617 Historia de las llagas de nuestro seráfico padre San Francisco, or Agustín Benavente’s 1647 work on the wounds 24

25

On barbers and the importance of constructing a healthy appearance see Margaret Pelling, “Appearance and Reality: Barber-Surgeons, the Body and Disease,” in London 1500–1700: The Making of the Metropolis, ed. A.L. Beier and R. Finlay (London: 1986), 82–112; Sandra Cavallo, Artisans of the Body in Early Modern Italy: Identities, Families, and Masculinities (Manchester: 2007); Antonio Carreras Panchón, “Las actividades de los barberos durante los siglos XVI al XVIII,” Cuadernos de Historia de la Medicina Española 13 (1974): 205–218; and Luis Martín Santos, Barberos y cirujanos de los siglos XVI y XVII (Salamanca: 2000). On women’s healthcare knowledge and practices, including makeup, see Ortiz Gómez and Cabré i Pairet, “Mujeres y salud”; Alicia Martínez Crespo, “La belleza y el uso de afeites en la mujer del siglo XV,” DICENDA. Cuadernos de Filología Hispánica 11 (1993): 197–221; and Isabel Colón Calderón; “De afeites, alcoholes y hollines,” DICENDA. Cuadernos de Filología Hispánica 13 (1995): 65–82. For hygiene and its connection to health and appearance, also including makeup, see María Ángeles Ortego Agustín, “Discursos y prácticas sobre el cuerpo en la Edad Moderna,” Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, Anejo 8 (2009): 67–92. The connection between facial disfigurement due to illness and a broader moral reading was common for some illnesses. Consider, for instance, the association between syphilitic disfigurement and Judaism as discussed in Carolyn Wolfenzon, “La Lozana andaluza: judaísmo, sífilis, exilio y creación,” Hispanic Research Journal 8 (2007): 107–122. Alonso Fernández de Madrigal, Libro de las paradojas, ed. María Teresa Herrera (Salamanca: 2000), fols. 27r–28r.

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of Christ.26 Indeed, though the early church had already focused on Christ’s wounds, by the Early Modern period references to them were ubiquitous and reflected an intensification in popular devotions, including charitable organizations, dedicated to this aspect of Christ’s body.27 Just as llagas spoke to Christ’s suffering, so did Fenollet construct his bodily ailments as part of a narrative that emphasized undeserved tribulations. Thus, suffering as metaphor and physical reality was meant to connect his readership emotionally to Christ. Summoning the necessary pathos, Fenollet himself argued that “there is not a shadow of guilt in the testimony my enemies have forged against me and which I am suffering without guilt so that they realize their evil desire to strip me of my comforts to the point of being close to losing my life, as my health is so weakened that the least of it is having my body full of sores.”28 Consider here how Fenollet uses the metaphor of suffering (padeciendo) to connect the injustice of his legal situation to his poor physical condition. Indeed, just as he suffered persecution from his enemies, so does the tale then shift to a physical suffering so great that the least of his problems are the many wounds that cover his body. Ultimately, Fenollet’s rhetorical strategy of somatic ambiguity allowed him to allude to specific cultural tropes of religious suffering to aid his case. Given the intimate connection between disease and reputation throughout the Spanish Renaissance, it is not surprising to witness Fenollet downplaying shame and emphasizing religiosity. At the same time, the effectiveness of disease as a narrative tool also lay in its clay-like malleability. As disease seeped from the purely somatic into the cultural realm, even counterintuitive strategies that toyed with the potential of shame could be deployed successfully. Unlike that of Fenollet, Thomás Gómez’s petition shrewdly admitted to the possible shame of disease as part of a broader narrative focused on honor. A citizen of Madrid, Thomás had been condemned in 1650 to public dishonor in the auto de fe, wearing of the sambenito, imprisonment and confiscation of goods.

26 27

28

Antonio Daza, Historia de las llagas de nuestro seráfico padre San Francisco (Valladolid: 1617); Agustín Benavente, Segunda parte de las luces de Dios (San Benito El Real: 1647). William A. Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1981), 51; Jessica A. Boon, “Christ in Heavenly Play: Christology through Mary’s Eyes in the Sermones of Juana de la Cruz (1481–1534),” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte / Archive for Reformation History 102.1 (2011): 243–266. “… no tengo imaginación de culpa en el testimonio que mis enemigos me han acumulado y que estoy padeciendo sin culpa con que mis enemigos logran su mal intento de verme perder mis conveniencias y a pique de perder la vida por estar mi salud tan postrada que lo menos es tener mi cuerpo lleno de llagas” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2487, letter dated August 7, 1660).

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Although the Inquisitor General had already commuted his imprisonment for an exile that was itself later forgiven, Thomás sought a complete rehabilitation of his honor.29 The problem was the inhabilidad (ineligibility) that followed a finding of culpability. Indeed, those condemned by the Inquisition were not allowed to carry arms, wear silks, or join many professions and posts that, like familiaturas, required an honorable reputation.30 Immediately after his trial, therefore, Thomás moved to regain his honor. By 1654, the Supreme Council had already partially rehabilitated him by allowing him to carry arms in his travels outside Madrid. His letter dated 6 February 1656 sought to complete the process and gain a general rehabilitation.31 Much of the letter utilized well-trod tropes. Not only did Thomás “humbly beg” the Inquisitor General and remind him of his constant obedience, but he framed the possible rehabilitation as part of other Easter grants of pardon. Likewise, Thomás alluded to the happy future outcome of Queen Anne of Austria’s pregnancy (a baby girl would be stillborn later that year) as a motivating factor for the desired Inquisitorial grant. In short, the petition assumed the rhetorical submission expected of someone in his situation. The reason for such deference: to have his “honor completely restored by the hand of Your Grace.”32 But Thomás’ main argument, aside from docility and obedience, was based on a mysterious, shameful illness. Indeed, it was only at this point that he sought a complete rehabilitation “because he now lives with many ailments and secret maladies and cannot leave this court.”33 Setting aside his immobility and general poor health—which might well elicit pity—the reference to a secret illness may seem jarring in a petition built around the desire for honor. Thomás’ allusion to secret illnesses played a subtle, dangerous, but clever game. Yes, a secret illness was generally understood as one affecting the gen-

29 30

31 32 33

AHN, legajo 2485, no. 5, letter dated February 3, 1656. Jean-Pierre Dedieu, in “Les causes de la foi de l’ Inquisition de Tolède (1483–1820): essai statistique,” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 14 (1978): 143–171, found great attention paid by Toledo Inquisitors to those who did not follow their sentence of inhabilidad, with 251 tried for such a refusal between 1525 and 1575. Also see Henry Charles Lea, A History of the Inquisition of Spain (London: 1907), 3:172–182; and Bernardo José López Belinchón, “La memoria de la infamia,” in Felipe II (1527–1598): Europa y la Monarquía Católica, ed. José Martínez Millán (Madrid: 1998), 3:271–290. AHN, legajo 2485, no. 5, letter dated February 3, 1656. “… quedar honrado del todo de la mano poderosa de Vuestra Ilustrísima” (AHN, legajo 2485, no. 5, letter dated February 3, 1656). “porque ahora bive con muchos achaques y enfermedades secretas y no puede salir desta corte” (AHN, legajo 2485, no. 5, letter dated February 3, 1656).

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italia, usually the Great Pox, and thereby greatly subject to the loss of face.34 It was for that very purpose that contemporaries used the moniker of secret: it was meant to be kept away from prying eyes and gossiping lips. While the shame incurred from such an illness was not necessarily universal—consider the presumably wealthy who sought public care without much attempt to hide their identity, or contemporary references to nonchalance regarding this venereal disease—Thomás cleverly framed his illness as “secret” and thus shameful as a way of approaching Inquisitorial sensibilities.35 By conceptualizing his illness as shameful, Thomás alluded to common Renaissance tropes that sought to explain the epidemic-like spread of the French disease and its venereal implications. As early as 1558 the Bishop of Toledo, Bartolomé Carranza, railed against the spread of the Great Pox and the lack of shame people displayed: “Matters have taken such a state that now a man does not lose authority or honor for having this leprosy of bubas (pox), rather it is a court fad to have them.”36 Likewise, López de Úbeda’s La pícara Justina mordantly satirized the mores of the late 16th century by having his fictional narrator shamelessly publicize her otherwise secret illness, alongside other pox patients, without care for any loss of reputation.37

34

35

36 37

On the connection between the pox and shame see Linda F. Merians (ed.), The Secret Malady: Venereal Disease in Eighteenth-Century Britain and France (Lexington: 1997). Also note how Pantaleón de la Ribera, a famous Baroque Spanish poet infected with the pox, used the metaphor of the Inquisitorial sambenito and the shame incurred from it to refer to his venereal disease infection: “Érame yo ejecutoria/ pero ya soy sambenito/ que en la zarza me revuelco/ y en cada trago me pincho” (Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera, “Al Excelentísimo señor duque de Lerma, estando el poeta enfermo del achaque de que murió …,” in Obras de Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera [Madrid: 1648], 124r [BN, R-17223]; also cited in Jesús Ponce Cárdenas, “De burlas y enfermedades barrocas: la sífilis en la obra poética de Anastasio Pantaleón de Ribera y Miguel Colodrero de Villalobos,” Criticón 100 [2007]: 115– 142, at 132). On the display of wealth while seeking public care for the pox see Cristian Berco, “Textiles as Social Texts: Syphilis, Material Culture and Gender in Golden Age Spain,” Journal of Social History 44.3 (2011): 785–810. Cited in Carmona, Enfermedad y sociedad, 209. Justina admits to being infected with the pox (“concedo que soy pelona doscientas docenas de veces”) only to launch then into an invective of the shameleness of other patients: “Y viene esto bien con el refrán de los del hospital de la folga, en Toledo, que dice: ‘los pelados son hidalgos eclesiásticos y pájaros harpados.’ Y dícenlo, porque los de nuestra factión sin pena pierden la misa y sin vergüenza la fama. Dicen de todos más que relator en sala de crimen, y aun de sí no callan; y si una vez dan barreno a la cuba del secreto, hasta las heces derrama. Para decir de los otros son como galeotes en galera, y para pregonar su caza son como gallinas ponedoras, que para un huevo atruenan un barrio” (Francisco López de Úbeda, La pícara Justina [Paris: 1847], 8–10).

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When speaking of honor and secret venereal diseases, therefore, infection per se was not controversial but, rather, the question was how people dealt with this illness in the midst of public pressures. By framing his illness as “secret,” Thomás was tacitly siding with those who thought matters had gotten out of hand, who wanted a venereal illness to signify shame, and who resented the ease with which many admitted to it. The reasonable response of an individual like Thomás, who dutifully sought to maintain his reputation and who cared about the message his venereal illness might publicize if known, was to keep it secret. Framing it thus meant Thomás could be trusted with the restoration of his honor: he cared enough about it to keep such a shameful illness a private matter rather than one for public fodder. From honor to suffering, from poverty to religiosity, the way petitioners deployed illness was anything but neutral. As part of a petitionary economy that had overarching social and legal goals in mind, revealing illness involved a conscious fashioning that pushed specific cultural buttons. Ultimately, whether we think of detailed references to illness or somatic ambiguity, the ability of disease to shape cultural responses speaks to its flexibility and usefulness as cultural and social trope. At the same time, just as illness could appeal to Inquisitorial sensibilities, so could it open up avenues for critiques of Inquisitorial power. By placing a petitioner in a position of such great weakness that he or she was deemed worthy of pity and aid, disease allowed for complaints of mistreatment. Consider, for instance, Antonio Pimentel Sarmiento who, having been condemned to oneyear reclusion by the Madrid tribunal for an unspecified crime, languished for three months in the penitents’ jail of Cuenca. Petitioning the Madrid tribunal for an early parole, Antonio struck the usual chords expected of a supplicant. Not only did he connect his pardon to the important festivity of the Immaculate Conception, but he also metaphorically embodied submission, “surrendered and prostrated at Your Highness’ feet.”38 In this context, Antonio’s rationale for pardon rested on his excruciating need and miserable condition, given his lengthy imprisonment: not only was he “suffering infinite tribulations of nakedness and hunger,” but also “many other illnesses in his body.”39 In Antonio’s pitiful tale, illness functioned as yet another adversity, no matter how unspecific, in a long list of troubles. 38 39

“… rendido y postrado a los pies de Vuestra Alteza” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2496, no. 6, letter dated December 10, 1678). “… padeciendo infinitas calamidades de desnudez y hambre ademas de otros muchos accidentes de enfermedades de su cuerpo sin tener refrigerio ni amparo” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2496, no. 6, letter dated December 10, 1678).

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But, for all the exquisitely tortured expressions of subservience, Antonio’s suffering implied a critique of Inquisitorial actions. By framing bodily illness and hunger as the undeserved result of lengthy imprisonment, Antonio was suggesting that Inquisitorial power to punish had gone too far. Despite the imprisonment Antonio’s letter implicitly accepted as rightful, his petition suggested there were limits to Inquisitorial power over prisoners’ bodies. Illness, alongside other prison calamities like hunger, pointed directly at systemic faults, an injustice that Antonio hoped would provide him with enough space for redress and pardon. Petitioners’ implicit critique of Inquisitorial treatment as the cause of illness was powerful because it reflected both Inquisitorial sensibilities on this matter and their long-term institutionalization. Indeed, in a widespread phenomenon throughout Europe, including the Spanish kingdoms, institutions during the Renaissance became increasingly immersed in medical matters. Normally, when we consider the institutionalization of medicine, we rightly turn to the process of medicalization whereby groups such as the vagrant poor or the mad increasingly became defined in medical terms and thus experienced the full brunt of public health institutions and policies directed against them.40 The other side of the coin would have been the increasing attention paid to medical matters by all institutions—even those without a specific healthcare mandate. Consider, for instance, the Spanish royal court and the bureaucratization of its healthcare models and mandates. Although Charles V’s itinerant court obviously retained royal physicians, it was not until the court established itself in Madrid under his son Philip II that such matters became more precisely defined at an institutional level, including the creation of the Royal Distillery in Aranjuez, the Ladies’ Infirmary or the Royal Pharmacy, as well as the codifica-

40

Pérez Álvarez and Lobo de Araujo (eds.), La respuesta social a la pobreza; María Luz López Terrada, “El hospital como objeto histórico: los acercamientos a la historia hospitalaria,” Revista d’Història Medieval 7 (1996): 192–204; Teresa Huguet-Termes, “Madrid Hospitals and Welfare in the Context of the Habsburg Empire,” Medical History Supplement 29 (2009): 64–85; Jon Arrizabalaga, “Poor Relief in Counter-Reformation Castile: An Overview,” in Health Care and Poor Relief in Counter-Reformation Europe, ed. Ole Peter Grell, Andrew Cunningham and Jon Arrizabalaga (London: 1999), 151–176; María Luz López Terrada, “Health Care and Poor Relief in the Crown of Aragon,” in Health Care and Poor Relief, ed. Grell et al.; and Linda Martz, Poverty and Welfare in Habsburg Spain: The Example of Toledo (Cambridge: 1983). On madness see Teresa Huguet-Termes and Jon Arrizabalaga, “Hospital Care for the Insane in Barcelona, 1400–1700,” Bulletin of Spanish Studies 87.8 (2010): 81–104; and Elena Carrera, “Understanding Mental Disturbance in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Spain: Medical Approaches,” Bulletin of Spanish Studies 87 (2010): 105–136.

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tion of royal physicians’ obligations and their connection to the newly-founded Royal Protomedicato.41 In the case of the Holy Office, a similar institutionalization of healthcare matters played into specific Inquisitorial assumptions about disease and its meaning in the context of a judicial economy. Certainly, long-held views about the proper administration of justice meant the Inquisition sought, ideally, to keep prisoners in good health. As much as individual prisoner illness could be thought to reflect just punishment for a failed moral state, Inquisitors remained responsible for the well-being of those under their charge. Good intentions, however, were one thing; carrying them out was another. Lea notes that in the early years after the foundation of the Inquisition in 1478, the employment of physicians was by no means universal and even then, their pay was often lacking and required their continuing practice in private.42 With time, Inquisitorial physicians became regular staff members and, though relatively unstudied, some recent works have started to look at their careers and roles.43 Certainly, by 1561 the nationwide instructions drawn up by Inquisitor Valdés enjoined local tribunals to treat sick prisoners with diligence, providing all necessary remedies as per medical instructions for their care.44 Although abuses and Inquisitorial disinterest in the plight of prisoners were by no means unknown, for the most part Inquisitorial jails, even the dreaded secret ones, were thought to provide better treatment than secular or episcopal prisons.45 When insalubrious conditions arose, Inquisitors did not hesitate to investigate and rectify them. Given how budgets for prisoners were administered, these problems must have been common. In fact, tribunals sought to limit the amount of money spent on prisoners by paying the jailer a fixed amount per head. Not surprisingly, however, some officials cut back on rations and medi-

41

42 43

44 45

María del Mar Rey Bueno and María Esther Alegre Pérez, “La ordenación normativa de la asistencia sanitaria en la corte de los Habsburgos españoles (1515–1700),” DYNAMIS 18 (1998): 341–375. On these scientific innovations see also the essay “Spanish Science in the Age of the New” by William Eamon in this volume. Lea, Inquisition of Spain, 2:248–249. José Pardo Tomás and Álvar Martínez-Vidal, “Victims and Experts: Medical Practitioners and the Spanish Inquisition,” in Coping with Sickness: Medicine, Law and Human Rights—Historical Perspectives, ed. John Woodward and Robert Jütte (Sheffield: 2000), 11– 27. Compilación de las instrucciones de la Santa Inquisición hechas en Toledo año de 1561, in AHN, Inquisición, libro 497, fol. 48v. Lea, Inquisition of Spain, 2:509–511; for a case study on prison conditions, including illness, in a specific tribunal see Ana Cristina Cuadro García, “Las cárceles inquisitoriales del Tribunal de Córdoba,” Hispania 65/2.220 (2005): 443–464.

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cal care and, thus, pocketed a greater difference between the block grant they were provided and the expenses they incurred. These actions resulted in much suffering for prisoners. Such was the case for prisoners being housed in Madrid by Pedro de Salazar, portero de vara for the Supreme Council and alcalde for its jails. In 1651, tormented by grave illnesses, one of them, Joseph González, sought a hearing with Inquisitor Diego de Escolano. In it, González complained of conditions “very contrary to his health,” given the lack of food and the overcrowding in tiny cells. After conducting a formal investigation, Inquisitor Escolano found that not only were prisoners being underfed, but several proposed solutions could worsen prisoners’ health. For example, the suggestion that in order to avoid skimming by officials, rations be given directly to prisoners to cook for themselves was deemed impractical: cells were so small, hot, and smelly that allowing cooking fires would only make prisoners more ill.46 No matter the cloud of detestable criminality that hung about prisoners like Juan González housed in Inquisitorial jails, these institutions sought to provide a basic standard of healthcare. Disease thus emerges as a physical factor with such legal and cultural significance that it allowed prisoners to push back against the otherwise stern power of the Inquisition. So preoccupied were Inquisitors with the health of prisoners that sometimes disruption of Inquisitorial systems could stem from the judges themselves. Consider, therefore, how illness could call into question normal ritual procedures in a culture obsessed with rightful public penance. In 1667, for example, the Supreme Council was forced to mediate between two Toledo Inquisitors over the proper ritual expression of penitence for a certain Felipe López de Fonseca, an elderly and sick man, condemned for fautoría—aid given to heretics— to imprisonment for six months, confiscation of goods, and public shaming.47 The problem for Toledo Inquisitors, given Fonseca’s poor health, was how to implement his shaming in the public auto de fe. Because the auto was meant to reconcile penitents by showcasing their crimes and repentance, those to be shamed were normally paraded with a sambenito and a rope around their neck.48 At the heart of the dispute, however, was whether such penitents were

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AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2485, no. 2, letter dated April 17, 1651. AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2, letter dated May 15, 1668. On the auto de fe see Consuelo Maqueda Abreu, El auto de fe (Madrid: 1992); Miguel Avilés, “The Auto de Fe and the Social Model of Counter-Reformation Spain,” in The Spanish Inquisition and the Inquisitorial Mind, (ed.) Ángel Alcalá (New York: 1987), 249–264; and Maureen Flynn, “Mimesis of the Last Judgment: The Spanish Auto de fe,” Sixteenth Century Journal 22.2 (1991): 281–297.

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also expected to appear naked from the waist up. Inquisitor Francisco Esteban del Vado, with already a long career in the Toledo tribunal behind him, argued that it was customary to parade penitents shirtless. Not only had this been the practice in Toledo from time immemorial, but excusing such visible shame in the person of Fonseca after his sentence had already been read publicly would only invite public criticism.49 Nonsense, replied Inquisitor Diego Ozores. The senior Inquisitor wished Fonseca to be taken to the auto clothed, even if keeping the sambenito and the rope. Not only had he seen it practiced in this manner in the Inquisition of Granada but, furthermore, this position “is underscored for this defendant as he is so sick and exhibits such weakness because of his age.” In fact, so ill was Fonseca that during the original sentence, Inquisitors had to afford him the unusual dignity of sitting down. With the bad weather Toledo was experiencing, parading Fonseca shirtless “would manifestly endanger his life.”50 In Fonseca’s case, therefore, illness emerges as a wedge between Inquisitorial colleagues who, though in agreement regarding the necessity of shaming the prisoner, disagreed as to the proper form such public punishment should take. That illness could so divide Inquisitors when it came to the proper deployment of ritual—for a penitent, no less—speaks to its power as a cultural tool. Disease embodied such long-standing Christian messages about charity and care that it could even disrupt such a basic ritual in the Inquisitorial arsenal. This is all the more stunning if we consider the importance Inquisitors gave to ritualized behaviors that served important purposes: from instilling fear and maintaining internal hierarchies, to showcasing judicial power and underlining the common objectives of church and state.51 So obsessed were Inquisitors with ritual, that they did not mind going to bureaucratic battle against a nobleman like the Marquis of Malpica who, expected to lend gravitas to the 1675 public reading of the Edict of Faith, tried unsuccessfully to get out of such a

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AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2, letter dated May 15, 1668. “… sentencia por aver sido estilo de la Inquisición y averlo visto practicado asi en la de Granada, y que en este reo concurre mas el ser tan enfermo y tener tanta debilidad por su edad que en la reconciliación fue necesario estar siempre sentado y con el rigor del fin que al presente hace y ser el tiempo tan enfermo le parece era ponerle en manifiesto peligro de la vida” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2, letter dated May 15, 1668). Aside from the above-mentioned sources on the auto de fe, also consult María Concepción Gómez Roán, “Control ideológico y ritual: el ceremonial del Inquisidor General en un manuscrito de la segunda mitad del siglo XVII,” Revista de Estudios Políticos nueva época 103 (1999): 247–258. More broadly see Jane K. Wickersham, Rituals of Prosecution: The Roman Inquisition and the Prosecution of Philo-Protestants in Sixteenth-Century Italy (Toronto: 2012).

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task.52 That a grandee like Malpica suffered the brunt of Inquisitorial obsession with proper forms, while a penitent like Fonseca opened up a serious discussion about exempting him from long-standing rituals, reveals the ease with which illness could disrupt ingrained power structures. But the capacity of illness to affect a powerful institution like the Inquisition did not reside solely in its metaphorical and cultural relevance. Practical consequences for the everyday practice of Inquisitorial justice also played a role in how Inquisitors approached infirmity. Among these practical aspects affected by sickness, judicial confession stands out. Confession mattered because, at its heart, the Inquisition was in the business of salvation. While punishment may have been important to the judicial process, reconciliation of wayward heretics to the Catholic faith was essential. Thus, even though such an objective sometimes required purging of sins through a gruesome relaxation to the secular arm, for the most part Inquisitors functioned under a confessional model.53 As long as heretics fully and truthfully admitted their mistakes, genuinely sought forgiveness, and had not relapsed in their heresy, Inquisitors were more likely to reconcile them to the church through a formal abjuration of their errors and an accompanying penitence. Illness could greatly affect such an Inquisitorial mission by disrupting a process that ultimately sought to save the heretic’s soul. Consider, therefore, Inquisitorial regulations concerning the health of prisoners. Yes, as we saw, great attention was paid to the physical care of ill prisoners. But just as important was the spiritual succor they received. In fact, regulations on the treatment of ill prisoners focused much more on spiritual than on medical care. Thus, a confessor was to be provided to ill prisoners, unlike healthy ones, upon request—even if the confessor could not provide absolution, given the continuing trial. Likewise, if physicians deemed a prisoner to be gravely ill, Inquisitors should enjoin him by all necessary means to accept a confessor, even when none was requested. Finally, those prisoners who were on the verge of death would be first reconciled legally through the appropriate abjuration and then allowed spiritual absolution from their confessor.54 Illness, when likely fatal, thus required a mobilization of resources to care not just for a prisoner’s body but also his soul. In 1680, for instance, Francisco 52 53

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AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2496, no. 3, letter dated March 9, 1675. On how self-confessions to the Inquisition shaped autobiographical models in Early Modern Spain see David Gitlitz, “Inquisition Confessions and Lazarillo de Tormes,” Hispanic Review 68.1 (2000): 53–74. Compilación de las instrucciones, fol. 48v.

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de Medina, a Venetian Jew who had converted to Christianity in Barcelona, died of dropsy in Madrid’s jails while undergoing trial for Judaizing. Although the Inquisitorial physician, Dr Contreras, assiduously treated Medina until his death, he also advised Inquisitor Zambrana de Bolaños of the danger to his life. Immediately upon seeing the state of the case, the judge legally reconciled him and had Fr Andrés de San Pablo, calificador for the Supreme Council, administer the Eucharist and extreme unction. Having died a good Catholic, Medina was interred in a local convent.55 Ultimately, illness mattered to Inquisitors because it greatly impinged upon their objective to save prisoners’ souls. But this was not the sole practical matter that illness could affect. Just as illness could disrupt the spiritual-judicial process of confession, so could it alter the sentencing and punishment economy of the institution. This was particularly true regarding the matter of disabilities and galley service. The effect of illness on galley service mattered to Inquisitors because of the inordinate pressure from the crown to condemn heretics to such a penance. Although galley service was not unknown as a punishment in the time of the Catholic Monarchs, under Charles V and Philip II the increasing involvement of the Monarchy in Mediterranean warfare and prevention of piracy created an insatiable hunger for oarsmen drawn from the condemned in various Castilian and Aragonese jurisdictions. Already in 1530, Charles V allowed judges to commute punishments involving mutilation or exile to galley service for no less than two years.56 The emperor likewise prescribed that Castilian bigamists, along with other types of criminals, should be condemned to the galleys, a provision repeated by his son.57 According to I.A.A. Thompson, by the reign of Philip II heretics, blasphemers, moriscos and others tried by the Inquisition could be sent to the galleys as punishment.58 Furthermore, the monarch also increased the duration of galley service and made such a penalty open to most crimes that would normally have resulted in grave corporal punishments.59 The royal desire for an ever-increasing number of galeotes from various criminal jurisdictions led Inquisitors to prioritize this punishment. In 1567, the 55 56 57

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AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2498, no. 1, letter dated March 3, 1680. José Luis de las Heras Santos, “Los galeotes de la Monarquía Hispánica durante el Antiguo Régimen,” Studia Historica. Historia Moderna 22 (2000): 283–300, at 287. De las Heras Santos, “Los galeotes de la Monarquía Hispánica.” For Philip II’s 1562 provision on bigamists see E. William Monter, Frontiers of Heresy: The Spanish Inquisition from the Basque Lands to Sicily (Cambridge: 1990), 34. I.A.A. Thompson, “A Map of Crime in Sixteenth Century Spain,” The Economic History Review new series 21.2 (1968): 244–267, at 245. José Luis de las Heras Santos, “Los galeotes de los Austrias: la penalidad al servicio de la Armada,” Historia Social 6 (1990): 127–140, at 128–129.

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Suprema ordered that galley sentences must last at least three years, for otherwise the cost to the crown would be greater than the benefit. Furthermore, punishments of imprisonment and the sambenito could be replaced with galley service. By 1573, Inquisitors were enjoined to send convicted conversos to the galleys, even if they had fully confessed their crimes and would normally have merited lesser punishments.60 The Aragonese Inquisitorial tribunals, which were already closely connected to the Mediterranean galleys through ports like Barcelona and Valencia, took the lead in supplying rowers to the king’s galleys, sending 50 men per year to such service for the last 40 years of Philip II’s reign.61 In Castile itself, the Inquisition of Toledo (which, at the time, also included Madrid) sentenced 91 men to the galleys between 1575 and 1610.62 To make matters worse, changing galley designs meant that more rowers per ship were required over time: whereas 144 rowers were needed per galley in 1539, the required number grew to 260 by 1639.63 Overall, Inquisitors suffered a good amount of pressure to push the condemned into galley service. Despite the political importance of galley service to Inquisitors, illness from Inquisitorial mistreatment could easily disrupt this sentencing economy. Consider Juan Díez, a condemned bigamist who languished in Toledo’s Inquisitorial prison for six years after a sentence to the galleys because his injuries prevented him from serving in such capacity. In fact, every time he was scheduled to be sent to the galleys, officials decided against it. According to Juan’s 1608 petition, he could not serve “because I am disabled and crippled in feet and arms due to the great tribulations I have suffered from the long imprisonment. And recently they have cut the nerves close to my right elbow so that I cannot use, command or lord over my right arm and am thus completely unfit for galley service.”64 Containing the all-too-common critique of prison conditions, Juan’s petition also underscored the practical difficulties imprisonment could cause in administering otherwise necessary punishment. In the context of Inquisitorial conditions for prisoners, illness and disability thus emerge as potent cultural tools. Because Inquisitorial treatment could so negatively affect the health of prisoners, illness afforded petitioners a space to 60 61 62 63 64

Lea, Inquisition of Spain, 3:142–143. Monter, Frontiers of Heresy, 35. Thompson, “A Map of Crime,” 246–247. De las Heras Santos, “Los galeotes de la Monarquía Hispánica,” 289. “por estar impedido y tullido de pies y brazos a causa de los grandes trabajos que por la larga prisión he padecido tanto tiempo ha y agora ultimamente me han cortado en el brazo derecho los nervios junto al codo de manera que no lo puedo mandar ni soy señor del y estoy del todo inutil para servir en las galeras” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 3085, letter dated June 17, 1608).

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critique the Inquisitorial process openly, no matter the fear the institution normally engendered.65 From blatant challenges to Inquisitorial power to internal disagreements over the health of prisoners, from disruptions to the spiritual objectives of the tribunal to an unwelcome distraction from the serious politics of punishment in service of the crown, the effects of illness on the relationship between prisoner and judge speak to the overarching influence of disease as a moral, social, and cultural trope. But the effectiveness of illness as moral critique and practical spoke in the wheels of justice was counterbalanced by judicial skepticism regarding its claims. Precisely because illness provided a resonant narrative that could so easily disrupt power structures, Inquisitors were likely to view such stories with suspicion. The fact that Inquisitors often did not take illness narratives at face value reflects broader fears about deception in relation to disease. We need go no further than the all-too-common critique that the lame, misshapen, and diseased who prowled the urban streets in search of charity did so under false pretenses. Consider, for instance, Cristóbal Pérez de Herrera’s 1598 Discurso del amparo de los legítimos pobres y reducción de los fingidos where he thunders against the fake poor who hide their iniquity and laziness behind the appearance of disease for personal benefit.66 While such a suspicion of the disabled and their veracity may not have been invented in the 16th century, the moralizing discourses that not only questioned but sought to control the ill and maimed increased at a rapid pace throughout the Spanish Renaissance. Whether we think of early 16th-century and Christian humanist calls to reform public policy towards the poor, or late Renaissance skepticism about the truth behind appearances—including the apparently maimed—, Early Modern Spanish society displayed an ambivalent relationship to visible illness, disfigurement and disability.67 On the one hand, the rationalization and special65

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On the way the Inquisition used secrecy and fear as tools of control see Bartolomé Bennassar, “L’Inquisition ou la pédagogie de la peur,” in L’ Inquisition espagnole, XVe–XIXe siècles, ed. Bartolomé Bennassar (Paris: 1979), 101–137. Cristóbal Pérez de Herrera, Discurso del amparo de los legítimos pobres y reducción de los fingidos (Madrid: 1598). Javier Herrero, “Renaissance Poverty and Lazarillo’s Family: The Birth of the Picaresque Genre,” PMLA 94.5 (1979): 876–886; Anne J. Cruz, Discourses of Poverty: Social Reform and the Picaresque Novel in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 1999); Jeremy Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty: An Introduction to Seventeenth-Century Spanish Literature (London: 1998); and Enrique García Santo-Tomás, La musa refractada: literatura y óptica en la España del Barroco (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2014). On physical appearance and its importance see Montserrat Cabré, “Keeping Beauty Secrets in Early Modern Iberia,” in Secrets and Knowledge in Medicine and Science, 1500–1800, ed. Elaine Leong and Alisha Rankin (Aldershot: 2011), 167–190; and Colón Calderón, “De afeites, alcoholes y hollines.”

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ization of public health and charitable institutions spoke to the desire to aid the unfortunate. On the other hand, the very impetus towards aid which such disabilities evoked in observers—as we have seen with Inquisitors themselves— immediately created doubt. After all, could the Christian charity so cheerfully put forth not be subject to abuse by unscrupulous performers of disability?68 Such fears of deception tied to illness affected judicial and bureaucratic circles. Consider, once more, the aforementioned question of galley service. Because the galleys were so essential to the crown, royal bureaucrats sought to minimize pardons due to disability: not only was the Chamber of Castile ordered not to consider such requests, but the captains general of the galleys were given jurisdiction over resolving them in lieu of local secular judges. Furthermore, increasingly, great attention was paid to possible deception in faking illness to avoid galley service. Sometimes, it was claimed, prisoners went so far as cutting their own limbs to do so. In fact, a man was sentenced to death in 1585 for taking such an extreme measure to avoid the galleys.69 No matter the power of illness narratives, Inquisitorial and judicial skepticism coupled with political need meant somatic evidence was read with a doubtful eye. Inquisitors, faced with similar claims to avoid galley service, followed these trends and also looked skeptically on their veracity. Consider the case of Andrés Muñoz, a morisco from Ciudad Real tried in 1606 for magical healing connected to Islamic practices. Muñoz was well known among the morisco community in the city for his magic, even leaving behind hidden prohibited books that would lead to the arrest of the unsuspecting future occupant of his home.70 At the time of the original trial, Toledo Inquisitors considered Muñoz’s activities dangerous enough that they condemned him to serve five years in the king’s galleys. But, as with other cases of galley service, illness and disability would complicate matters. By February 1607, when the time had come to send him to his uncertain fate, Muñoz sought a hearing with Inquisitors and argued that “I am handicapped in my left arm and lame in my left leg, so that I can neither walk, move my arms, nor eat without help due to the torture I underwent and, thus, I have become and am unfit for galley service.”71 Here we encounter some 68

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Consider, for instance, Toledo’s Hospital de Santiago, which required would-be patients to submit themselves to an exam to ensure they were actually suffering from the French disease (AHN, Órdenes Militares, libro 70, fols. 67v–68r). De las Heras Santos, “Los galeotes de la Monarquía Hispánica,” 297–298. Francisco J. Moreno Díaz, “Notas sobre la escritura árabe y documentos musulmanes de los moriscos manchegos antes y después de la expulsión,” Ámbitos. Revista de Estudios de Ciencias Sociales y Humanidades 22 (2009): 51–63. “… Yo estoy manco del brazo izquierdo y tullido de la pierna izquierda de tal manera que no puedo andar ni menear los brazos y como por mano ajena por los tormentos que me

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common hallmarks of the rhetoric surrounding illness that usually made it so effective. Not only did Muñoz detail his infirmity, but he also introduced contextual elements meant to both corroborate his condition and engender pity. Thus, he did not stop at a clinical description of the symptoms (manco, tullido) but also referred to their social repercussions such as the inability to walk, move his arms and, embarrassingly, feed himself. Furthermore, and despite his status as a condemned morisco, he did not hesitate to blame Inquisitors themselves for the torture which left him lame. The reference to torture was particularly poignant because it constituted one of the few acts that could render Spanish judges liable for damages. Judges had to toe a fine line, for any deviation could result in illegal practices. Such was the advice, for instance, provided by the eminent jurist Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla in his 1597 book Política para corregidores. As a former judge with much experience under his belt, Castillo de Bobadilla advised would-be judges of the care they had to take in applying torture. Although he restated the general principle that a judge was not liable for injuries heaped on a defendant, he also took care to stipulate the many instances when judges could err. Not only, therefore, did Castillo de Bobadilla focus on the necessity of correctly identifying a suspect and ensuring that torture be given only when enough evidence warranted a strong suspicion of guilt, but he also advised his readers to stick to traditional methods and safeguards. Indeed, if they strayed and innovated with new cruelties that could obtain a confession more effectively, they would leave themselves open to prosecution, especially if the body of the defendant was irreparably marred.72 That his warnings were not empty is attested by the many cases prisoners and their families brought in the appellate courts against overzealous local judges.73 Though it is not clear whether Inquisitors might have been subject, at least theoretically, to such prosecution, this ambiguous context regarding torture meant that Inquisitorial regulations themselves sought to temper judicial zealotry in its application. Though regularly employed in its courts, the Inquisition created a set of legal precautions around torture meant to safeguard certain defendants’ health. For instance, directives stipulated that physicians examine defendants both before and during a torture session to ensure they could withstand it without harm. Some pre-existing illnesses like epilepsy or condi-

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fueron dados y ansi he quedado y quedo inútil para el servicio de galeras” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 3085, letter dated February 9, 1607). Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla, Política para corregidores (Madrid: 1759), 2:630–633. Archivo de la Real Chancillería de Valladolid, Registro de Ejecutorias, Caja 1825, no. 34; Caja 102, nos. 15, 23; Caja 1685, no. 37; Caja 1302, no. 16.

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tions like pregnancy could void torture or lead to a less severe application. If a defendant was too old or too young to suffer through it, Inquisitors could proceed with the case without a sentence of torture. Although such directives were not always followed, their stipulation and the regular oversight of visits condemning such practices suggest Inquisitorial ambivalence about the cultural and legal ramifications that could be so detrimental to health.74 However, regardless of Inquisitorial anxieties surrounding the effects of torture, and regardless of Muñoz’s textbook rhetorical appeal to pity and critique of judicial overreach, Inquisitors were so concerned with deception in such a politically-sensitive sentence that they sought corroboration of his injuries. On the same day they received his petition, they called on four medical practitioners to examine Muñoz. The first two, Domingo Loriente and Domingo Pérez, found the petitioner to be wholly unsuited to galley service, given his injuries. So did Dr Fernando Alonso, an outside expert. But, crucially, Francisco Bermejo, a surgeon—and thus more apt to examine fractures and the like— testified that, though currently handicapped, Muñoz could serve in the galleys “because such disabilities can be cured with time, and with some treatment and ointments.”75 Medical opinions were, perhaps too conveniently, divided on Muñoz’s injuries. Such a variance in the physical examinations meant Muñoz had little chance to be exempted from galley service. A week later, after reviewing the case, the Supreme Council responded with a terse command “that he fulfill the tenor of his sentence.”76 No matter the probable inability for Muñoz to serve effectively in the galleys; the medicalization to which he was subjected, ever ambivalent in its findings, sealed his fate. That is not to say, of course, that Inquisitorial skepticism and the accompanying medicalization could not be turned in favor of petitioners themselves. In such a context of increased fear of deception, some of those who approached Inquisitors were savvy enough to recognize the importance of providing corroborating evidence for otherwise uncertain claims of disease. Such a strategy can be witnessed in the case of Leonor Álvarez. Having spent six years in the secret jails of the Inquisition, she was condemned to perpetual prison to be 74 75

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On torture in the Spanish Inquisition see Lea, Inquisition of Spain, vol. 3, ch. 7; and Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision, 4th ed. (New Haven: 2014), 238–242. “… [P]ero que estas manquedades con el tiempo y con hazer algunas curas y unturas suelen sanar” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 3085, letter dated February 9, 1607). On the practice of surgery in Early Modern Spain see José Luis Fresquet Febrer, “La práctica médica en los textos quirúrgicos españoles en el siglo XVI,” DYNAMIS 22 (2002): 251–277. “Que cumpla el tenor de la sentencia” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 3085, letter dated February 9, 1607).

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served in Toledo’s jail for penitents. Though such sentences afforded the condemned certain freedom of movement to engage in menial trades or go to mass, Leonor had been sentenced to irremissible prison and thus could not expect leniency as a matter of course.77 Starting in Easter of 1667, soon after sentencing, Leonor attempted to have her punishment lessened in favor of more lax spiritual exercises through direct requests to the Supreme Council. Initially her petitions reflected typical rhetorical constructions about the suffering of illness and critiques of conditions for imprisonment. Summarizing her requests, the Supreme Council reflected her desperate pleas: “she is suffering great need and continuous illnesses alongside the great suffering she underwent in the secret jails.”78 Unfortunately Toledo’s opinion, which the Council sought on the matter, was not favorable: Leonor had been just too difficult a prisoner, given her unwillingness to confess her crimes during trial and the subsequent revocation of her confessions. In the context of such lingering animosities and suspicions on the part of local Inquisitors, it seemed Leonor’s petitions were going nowhere. But the crafty 70-year-old eventually came up with the adequate formula to prevail upon her captors: an appeal to medicalization. In a letter received July 10, 1668—after at least three others had received no positive response— Leonor “begs His Excellency to order the tribunal of the city of Toledo to employ the physicians it deems necessary to confirm the veracity of the aforesaid [illness].”79 Faced with this order, Toledo Inquisitors called in physicians who, indeed, confirmed Leonor’s poor health. Although she had to write yet again by autumn to force Toledo Inquisitors to release the report to the Supreme Council, when they finally forwarded it to Madrid on November 18, they had little choice but to admit that “the claims she makes are true and we believe, considering her many illnesses and age, that her petition may be granted.”80 77

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Note that so-called cárcel perpetua was in practice actually limited in time. Usually those condemned to cárcel perpetua could expect parole after three years; those condemned to cárcel perpetua irremisible might suffer through this limited penitentiary regime for no longer than ten years (Cuadro García, “Las cárceles inquisitoriales,” 457). “… está padeciendo mucha necesidad y achaques continuos … por lo mucho que ha padecido en las cárceles secretas” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2). “[P]or todo lo cual suplica a Vuestra Excelencia se sirva de mandar que el tribunal de la Inquisición de dicha ciudad de Toledo se informe de los médicos que le pareciere para que se reconozca ser cierto lo referido y de lo que resultare se dé cuenta al consejo para que en su vista se le haga la gracia que espera recibir de la grandeza y piedad de Vuestra Excelencia” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2). “Decimos que la relación que haze es cierta y nos parece que en consideración de sus muchos achaques y edad se le podrá hacer la merced que suplica” (AHN, Inquisición, legajo 2491, no. 2).

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In Leonor’s case, an appeal to medicalization (and the evidence it provided) afforded her the necessary leverage to succeed in her petition. That medical evidence played such an important role in these cases of doubtful illness reflects another important trend in legal-institutional development: the employment of physicians as expert witnesses. Just as the Spanish Renaissance witnessed the bureaucratization of medical roles in institutions like the Inquisition, so did it reflect a growing medicalization of the judicial process itself. The Holy Office thus increasingly called upon physicians to provide expertise on the physical aspects of crime (in cases of sodomy, for instance, their testimony could prove crucial). Likewise, medical doctors often testified regarding prisoners’ mental states, as a determination of insanity could lead to a suspension of the trial against them. Even in cases of Illuminism, where the line between saint and crackpot was thin, Inquisitors increasingly sought the aid of physicians if mental instability was suspected.81 Such a medicalization of the courtroom would continue unabated: by the mid-17th century, the field of legal medicine was growing by leaps and bounds.82 Doubt about the veracity of claims to illness and the accompanying medicalization of the process speak to both the power and complications of disease as rhetorical strategy. Suspicion against the ill existed and required corroboration precisely because disease could exert such a powerful cultural influence, precisely because it could turn even the most lopsided power relations like that between Inquisitor and penitent completely upside down. At the same time, while medicalization could allow Inquisitors to escape the moral repercussions of their treatment of prisoners, some petitioners such as Leonor were just as likely to adapt to the growing medicalization of illness and employ it as yet another layer in successful petitionary strategies.

4

Conclusion

The vignettes in these assorted letters to the Supreme Council of the Inquisition evoke at once the flexibility and the ubiquity of disease. As a cultural 81

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Keitt, “Miraculous Body of Evidence”; Hélène Tropé, “Inquisición y locura en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII,” Bulletin of Spanish Studies 87.8 (2010): 57–79; and François Soyer, Ambiguous Gender in Early Modern Spain and Portugal: Inquisitors, Doctors and the Transgression of Gender Norms (Leiden: 2012). Rafael Muñoz Garrido, “Historia de la medicina legal,” in Responsa iurisperitorum digesta, ed. José Ángel González Delgado (Salamanca: 2004), 5:317–338; and Jacalyn Duffin, “Questioning Medicine in Seventeenth-Century Rome,” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 28.1 (2011): 149–170.

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and rhetorical tool applied to the vagaries of Inquisitorial reasoning, disease emerges as infinitely malleable and useful. Even the lowest of the low—the suspected heretic—could employ illness and all it signified to gain some advantage. But this broader universe of meaning which disease encompassed— symbolic, social, and somatic—had its own rich history that inevitably shaped these interactions decades later. The Spanish Renaissance witnessed scores of crucial changes as to how disease was understood and managed—new shameful illnesses, treatments, and medicines—, and to how institutions interacted with these and other trends: medicalization, bureaucratization, and skepticism. Thus, while disease in Inquisitorial letters played out in ways specific to the Holy Office and its peculiarities, it also mirrored broader views, anxieties, and concerns. From somatic experience to rhetoric, disease cut across physical, cultural, and institutional spaces.

part 4 ‘High’ and ‘Low’

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chapter 9

Nobles and Court Culture Ignacio Navarrete and Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry-Roisin

1

Introduction: Courts

This essay examines the evolution of court culture in Spain and in the Spanish Empire in the Mediterranean, from the 15th century through the early 17th century. The development of the European court, and court culture, was an achievement of the Middle Ages, although literature on courtiership greatly expanded in the 16th century.1 The Carolingian court and the Ottonian court in the 9th and 10th century, the various French courts of the 12th century, the papal court, and later the Burgundian court and the courts of Northern Italian dukes in the 15th century, among others, all provided important stages in the development of a European court—both a place and a traveling retinue, both the administration of a state and the personal family household of its ruler.2 In Iberia in the 15th century, numerous cities such as Valladolid, Toledo, Zaragoza or Barcelona served as royal courts for Castile and Aragon when the king or queen was in residence; there was, however, no fixed court location where the monarch maintained his or her home and where the nobles and retainers could live. The court was a mobile configuration of followers and family around the crown.3 This was a characteristic shared with the courts of the Portuguese, English and French in the same period that persisted into the 16th century, as the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain, Charles V (1500–1558), was extremely mobile, but spent the most time overall in his court in Brussels.4

1 Stephen Jaeger argues that the clerics in the cathedral chapter at the Ottonian court developed a set of sophisticated behaviors and ideals that helped them impress their emperor and be appointed bishops, and that these are the origins of courtliness in Europe (Steven Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness: Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly Ideals, 939–1210, The Middle Ages Series [Philadelphia: 1985]). 2 A.G. Dickens, “Monarchy and Cultural Revival: Courts in the Middle Ages,” in The Courts of Europe: Politics, Patronage and Royalty, 1400–1800, (ed.) A.G. Dickens (New York: 1977), 13. 3 According to Rita Costa-Gomes, the Portuguese bureaucracy grew alongside this medieval court and developed into the institutions recognizable in the Early Modern period (Rita Costa-Gomes, The Making of a Court Society: Kings and Nobles in Late Medieval Portugal [Cambridge: 2003], 3). 4 Vicente de Cadenas y Vicent, Diario del Emperador Carlos V (Madrid: 1992), 138.

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His son Philip II (1527–1598) also had no fixed residence for most of his reign, but in 1561, he made Madrid the seat of his court, while he continued to travel frequently to his surrounding palaces, later including the famous Escorial, completed in 1584.5

2

Nobility

The growth of nobility as an elite class also took place over the course of the Middle Ages. Some medievalists argue that there was no clear definition of what made someone noble until the late Middle Ages, or even the Early Modern period. There are many national, regional and linguistic differences which make it problematic to generalize the composition of Western Europe’s nobility. Noble status in the medieval and Early Modern periods rested on a constellation of characteristics—noble lineage, landholding, military service, wealth, or municipal service; but ultimately, the two major markers of nobility were blood and service, and these two rested in tension, for service provided an opening for new nobility to enter the ranks. To Andreas Capellanus, writing in the 12th century, a knight’s deeds made him a nobleman, whereas to Ramon Llull, in the 13th century, a knight’s lineage gave him noble status.6 In 15thcentury Castile, noblemen also began to devote themselves to learning and letters. These ideas can all be seen in the five “excellences” of the Spaniard that Fray Benito de Peñalasa y Mondragón praised in 1629—his “military courage, possession and magnanimous use of his riches, the cultivation of letters, knowledge and worship of the true God, and nobility.”7 In the Early Modern Castilian context, there were several ranks of nobility.8 There were the títulos, or grandees, who held the title of Duque, Conde or Mar-

5 M.J. Rodríguez Salgado, “The Court of Philip II of Spain,” in Princes, Patronage and the Nobility: The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, (eds.) Ronald G. Asch and Adolf M. Birke (Oxford: 1991), 209. 6 Cited in Sidney Anglo, “The Courtier: The Renaissance and Changing Ideals,” in The Courts of Europe: Politics, Patronage and Royalty, 1400–1800, (ed.) A.G. Dickens (New York: 1977), 36– 37. 7 “Valor militar, posesión y uso magnánimo de la riqueza, cultivo de las letras, conocimiento y culto del verdadero Dios, y nobleza,” in Libro de las cinco excelencias del español que despueblan a España para su mayor potencia y dilatación (1629), cited in Albert A. Sicroff, Los estatutos de limpieza de sangre: controversias entre los siglos XV y XVII, trans. Mauro Armiño (Madrid: 1985), 339. 8 For a classic work on the Spanish nobility, see Antonio Domínguez Ortiz, Las clases privilegiadas en la España del Antiguo Régimen (Madrid: 1973).

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qués. Beneath them were the señores, or lords, and under them, caballeros, or knights, and the hidalgos, or lower nobles. Landholders were often called señores, and their property was their señorío. The distinction that mattered most was between a hidalgo and a non-hidalgo, for the hidalgo was exempt from municipal taxes. Hidalgos de sangre were considered hereditary, and hidalgos de privilegio, appointed. After three generations, hidalgos were considered hidalgos by blood.9 Service to the king in the Reconquista often earned a person a royal privilege of hidalguía, but that did not mean that those new privileges would be recognized by the towns and cities in which the person lived (these entities had a fiscal motivation to maintain their tax base). When a person’s hidalguía was not recognized, he or she could appeal to the Chancery Court in Valladolid or Granada.10 Perceived insults to hidalgo status sometimes led to violence, as in the attempted assassination of the Duke of Albuquerque in 1660.11 Nobles were powerful political players in Castile in the 15th century. Noble factions guided the course of Spanish politics, especially during the War of Castilian Succession. For many nobles, their economic base was in the military orders whose estates stretched out across the former and current frontier with the Muslim South. Leading nobles vied for masterships of the military orders for themselves and their sons because the orders could muster armies and buttress political factions.12 Over the course of the 15th century, Ferdinand of Antequera (later the King of Aragon), Álvaro de Luna and Juan Pacheco controlled various orders, personally or through clients.13 Not until Ferdinand of Aragon became the Master of the Orders of Santiago (1476), Calatrava (1487), and Alcántara (1494), and his heir Charles V was given the three by a papal bull (1523), were the orders under complete royal control.14 With the military orders

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M.L. Bush, Rich Noble, Poor Noble (Manchester: 1988), 43; Michael J. Crawford, The Fight for Status and Privilege in Late Medieval and Early Modern Castile, 1465–1598 (University Park: 2014), 2. Cities such as Seville were often jealous of their tax base and refused to honor grants of hidalguía made by the crown (Crawford, The Fight for Status and Privilege, Ch. 1, “The Constitution of Privilege,” and Ch. 2, “The Value of Status,” 17–68). William F. Connell, “A Morisco Assassin in the Cathedral of Mexico City: Due Process and Honor in the Seventeenth Century,” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History 11.1 (2010), https://muse.jhu.edu/ (accessed July 25, 2017). Juan Torres Fontes, “The Regency of Don Ferdinand of Antequera,” in Spain in the Fifteenth Century, 1369–1516: Essays and Extracts by Historians of Spain, (ed.) Roger Highfield, trans. Frances M. López-Morillas (New York: 1972), 126. Bernard F. Reilly, The Medieval Spains (Cambridge: 2006), 209. John H. Elliott, Imperial Spain, 1469–1716 (London: 2002), 88–89.

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at their command, Ferdinand—and Charles V after him—could be confident that the nobles would not be able to use this particular tool against them.

3

Caballero Renaissance

The nobility, generally called caballeros, were also some of the early proponents of Spain’s revival of Roman art, architecture, literature and political models. Íñigo López de Mendoza (1398–1458), the first Marqués de Santillana, was a poet and also one of the leading cultural, political and military figures of his day.15 Members of the Mendoza family were early patrons of Italian sculptors like Domenico Fancelli.16 Between 1509 and 1512, Don Rodrigo Vivar y Mendoza built the first major Renaissance palace-castle in Spain, the Castillo de Calahorra, near Granada. Its design followed both defensive castle architecture in use since the 13th century, as well as Renaissance palace designs from Lombardy.17 The caballeros grew more interested in letters as well as arms as the 15th century progressed, as patrons of humanistic scholarship and as poets in their own right. In the 16th century, noblemen such as Garcilaso de la Vega (1500–1536) and Hernando de Acuña (1520–1580) were examples of warriors, translators, and poets who embodied both arms and letters, and admired others like themselves.18

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José Luis Pérez López, El Cancionero de Toledo del Marqués de Santillana (Toledo: 1988), 16–18. “The Renaissance reached its fullest development in the mid-15th century when the Mendoza as patrons and artists dominated Castilian cultural life to the same degree they dominated its political life” (Helen Nader, The Mendoza Family in the Spanish Renaissance, 1350–1550 [New Brunswick: 1979], 77). For more on the role of the Mendoza in the Spanish Renaissance, see Erica Spivakovsky, Son of the Alhambra: Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, 1504–1575 (Austin: 1970). Rafael López Guzmán, Los palacios del Renacimiento (Granada: 2005), 11–13. Examples abound of individuals who fought in the king’s armies but pursued a very different career as well. Miguel de Cervantes and Ignatius of Loyola are two such examples. In Hernando de Acuña’s introduction to his translation of Olivier La Marche’s Le chevalier deliberé, he referred to La Marche as “un caballero muy honrado, y de gran experiencia no menos en letras que en armas” (Nieves Baranda and Víctor Infantes, Un libro para el Emperador, El caballero determinado, Olivier de la Marche, trans. Hernando de Acuña [Barcelona: Claudio Pornat, 1565; Toledo: 2000], 7).

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Iberia and Europe

In architecture, politics, economics and intellectual life Iberia was not isolated from Europe. In fact, the Peninsula attracted numerous merchants and courtiers, pilgrims on the way to Santiago de Compostela, and adventurers wishing to take part in the Reconquista. Spaniards traveled as well and met with Frenchmen and Italians at church councils and at Avignon.19 The fairs of Medina del Campo linked Castile’s economy intricately to the North, especially due to the demand of northern weaving towns for Castilian wool. Castile also supported England against the French in the Hundred Years’ War. Marriage diplomacy likewise provided an occasion for cultural exchange. In the late 15th century, Ferdinand and Isabella decided to marry their children to those of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I, the Duke of Burgundy. This prestigious match showed how highly the Catholic Monarchs were viewed in Northern European courts.20 The mercantile Kingdom of Aragon had ties to the rest of Europe as well, in particular to Naples. Alfonso the Magnanimous of Aragon conquered Naples in 1442. Aragonese nobles and adventurers traveled to Italy and built a hybrid court culture there in cooperation with Neapolitan nobles.21 Once the French invaded the Italian Peninsula in 1494 to assert their dynastic claims, Italy became a battlefield, but was still an important place of patronage and cultural renewal. Rome and Milan received many immigrants, soldiers, churchmen and bureaucrats from Spain.22 In the composite Monarchy which began to develop, even at this early stage, there was more than one Spanish court, for viceroys, nobles and regents could also sustain their own courts.

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Ottavio di Camillo has also shown how another sort of court, a religious council at Basel, 1434–1439, played a role in the development of the Spanish Renaissance. Alonso de Cartagena circulated a Latin copy of Leonardo Bruni’s Nicomachean Ethics among the churchmen present. As they had done in the earlier Middle Ages, church councils created another form of court culture, where clients gathered around pope, bishop, or ambassador as their patron. In this case, they were debating about Aristotle and contributing to the development of Spanish and Italian humanism. See Ottavio di Camillo, “Fifteenth-Century Spanish Humanism: Thirty-five Years Later,” La Corónica 39.1 (2010): 19–66, at 21. Maximilian was the son of Eleanor of Portugal. Karl Brandi called this agreement “the most remarkable marriage contract in the history of modern Europe” (Karl Brandi, The Emperor Charles V: The Growth and Destiny of a World Empire, trans. C.V. Wedgewood [London: 1939], 41). For more on Aragon in Naples see Spain in Italy: Politics, Society and Religion, 1500–1700, (eds.) Thomas James Dandelet and John A. Marino (Leiden: 2006). See Thomas J. Dandelet, Spanish Rome, 1500–1700 (New Haven: 2001).

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A number of scholars have argued that one of the driving tensions of the Early Modern period was the conflict, or negotiation, between king and parliament, and between an expensive, ostentatious court and the country as a whole.23 In Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella may have shared some similarities with their contemporaries, the early Tudors, because of their need to establish law and order after a time of civil war and revolt. However, they had different tools at their command than the Tudors. They used their war for Granada, 1482–1492, and their successful conquest of Granada to legitimize their rule, arguing that it rested on centuries of Christian longing and concomitant war.24 The Castilian Cortes called representatives of the cities to respond to the king’s demands for taxation, wherever he wished to meet with them, and various fueros, or privileges, were given to the cities. Thus, the Castilian experience was a negotiation among the crown, the cities and the nobility.25

5

Ferdinand and Isabella and the Dukes of Burgundy

The Union of Crowns between Aragon and Castile, in the persons of Ferdinand and Isabella, created a dual court, which needed a more sophisticated administration. Ferdinand and Isabella established the conciliar system, creating a council for the Crown of Castile, the Inquisition, the Crown of Aragon and the military orders.26 Some of the members of these councils were educated clerics, lawyers, or notaries, called letrados. Others were educated noblemen or noblemen skilled in war. Their personal and portable court slowly acquired a bureaucracy.27 In the time of Ferdinand and Isabella, key court posts such as that of the Constable of Castile or the Archbishop of Toledo were held by Castilian nobles. However, in the early 16th century, Castilian noble23

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Elias’ work (Norbert Elias, The Court Society, trans. Edmund Jephcott [Oxford: 1983]) has been the foundation for many historians’ studies on this topic. See Hugh Trevor-Roper, “The General Crisis of the Seventeenth Century,” Past & Present 16 (1959): 31–64. For more on this see Joseph F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia: 2003), 214–215. For a recent re-evaluation of the role of the cities in the Comuneros’ revolt, and in the reform of the judiciary which occurred under Charles V, see Aurelio Espinosa, The Empire of the Cities: Emperor Charles V, the Comunero Revolt, and the Transformation of the Spanish System (Leiden: 2009). For the conciliar system see John H. Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716 (London: 2002), 166. For the rise in popularity of legal education see Richard L. Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: 1974). For notaries, see María Amparo Moreno Trujillo, Juan María de la Obra Sierra, and María José Osorio Pérez, El notariado andaluz: institución, práctica notarial y archivos, siglo XVI (Granada: 2011).

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men had new rivals for these positions: Burgundian courtiers. After the death of Isabella of Castile in 1504, her younger daughter Juana, married to Philip, the Duke of Burgundy, inherited Castile. When Philip and Juana traveled to Spain for the first time in 1502, they brought with them Burgundian noblemen, French-speaking and cosmopolitan. After the incapacity of Juana, these nobles joined in the struggle between Philip I of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon for control over Castile. In particular, Castilian nobility who disliked Ferdinand fled to Burgundy to influence the young Prince Charles, who was growing up there. In 1517, after the death of his father Philip (1506) and grandfather Ferdinand (1516), Charles traveled to Castile for the first time, bringing with him many Burgundian courtiers. Charles had been tutored by Desiderius Erasmus, by Adrian of Utrecht (the future Adrian VI), by his aunt Margaret of Austria, and by the highest Burgundian nobility, including his closest advisor, Guillaume de Croÿ, Seigneur de Chièvres, who had been appointed his Grand Chamberlain by Emperor Maximilian in 1509.28 Charles never met Cardinal Jiménez de Cisneros, the regent of Castile, and appointed Adrian of Utrecht in his place. Charles also made the nephew of Chièvres the Archbishop of Toledo, despite his young age.29 The Castilian elites considered these appointments a slight, and were not happy with their new prince. Nor were the representatives of the towns, who in the Cortes of Santiago were asked to supply an extraordinary tax revenue to Charles, who needed the money for his trip to Germany to bribe the Holy Roman Electors. These problems came to a head when numerous towns threw out the men who had voted for the king’s tax and levy of troops. These preconditions and others led to the Comuneros’ Revolt of 1520–1521, an uprising led by urban elites in the cities. One of the demands of the Comuneros was that appointments within Castile be made to Castilians and not to foreigners. However, when the small city of Dueñas joined the revolt, rebelling against its

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“The controlling figure of this camarilla was thus notoriously Chièvres: and the general dissatisfaction with the royal rule was essentially indignation against him” (Henry Latimer Seaver, The Great Revolt in Castile: A Study of the Comunero Movement of 1520–1521 [Boston: 1928], 46–47); “Chièvres made haste to take full advantage of the opportunity” (Stephen Haliczer, The Comuneros of Castile: The Forging of a Revolution, 1475–1521 [Madison: 1981], 138). For a more positive biography of the Burgundian nobleman, see G. Dansaert, Guillaume de Croy-Chièvres, dit le Sage, 1458–1521 (Paris: 1945). According to Bishop Mota, who traveled with Charles on his first trip to Castile, “Monsieur de Chièvres is the most influential person in the court of the Prince.” See “The Bishop of Badajoz to the Cardinal Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros, Governor of Spain, 8 March 1516,” Calendar of State Papers: Spain, 1509–1525, vol. 2, (ed.) G.A. Bergenroth (London: 1866), 281.

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lord, powerful Castilian nobles (who had been ignoring the Comuneros) leapt into the fray and put down the revolt on behalf of their own interests, in the name of their king.30 When Charles returned, he owed the uneasy stability of his Spanish realms to the nobility, but also needed to reckon with the power of the elites in the cities. He honored nobles for their loyalty with positions in his government, ironically fulfilling some of the demands of the Comuneros that his ministers be native Spaniards.31

6

The Cosmopolitan Court of Charles V

The court of the King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V that developed in the early years of his reign was a far more international court than the court of his grandparents. When he was a young Duke of Burgundy, an Italian courtier named Luigi Marliano had invented for Charles his personal motto or device, Plus Oultre, or “more beyond,” set upon twin pillars, which he unveiled at the meeting of the Order of the Golden Fleece in Brussels in 1516. This was a statement of “promethean daring,” meant to place Charles on the world stage.32 After the death of Charles’ Burgundian advisor and confidant Chièvres at the Diet of Worms in 1521, other courtiers gained power and influence over the prince. Mercurino Gattinara, a Piedmontese courtier and one of the most important of these, became Charles’ Grand Chancellor. Gattinara was greatly influenced by Dante’s De monarchia, and believed that Italy should be the key to Charles’ policy. Following the imperial election of Charles in 1519, Gattinara wrote to him, “God has set you on the path towards a world monarchy.”33 Though Charles’ courtiers were from a variety of realms, in the 1520s they adopted a consistent ideological program—the Imperial Renaissance—designed to give their emperor the best image possible. Alfonso and Juan de Valdés, Gattinara and others depicted Charles as the Caesar or Constantine of 30 31

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Stephen Haliczer, The Comuneros of Castile: The Forging of a Revolution, 1475–1521 (Madison: 1981), 187. For a study of how the Comuneros have been appropriated by various other movements in modern Spanish history, see Enrique Berzal de la Rosa, Los comuneros. De la realidad al mito (Madrid: 2008). Earl Rosenthal, “The Invention of the Columnar Device of Emperor Charles V at the Court of Burgundy in Flanders in 1516,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 36 (1973): 198–230. H. Koenigsberger, “The Empire of Charles V in Europe,” in The New Cambridge Modern History, vol. 2: The Reformation: 1520–1559, (ed.) G.R. Elton (Cambridge: 1958), 301.

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a revived Roman Empire. The 1520s were the same decade that Charles’ troops captured the King of France and Cortés conquered the Aztecs. Courtier Antonio de Guevara saw the pagan Roman emperors as practical political models. He wrote the Golden Book of Marcus Aurelius (1528) for Charles V, though the letters of Marcus Aurelius he used were forged.34 Like Caesar, Charles V commanded his own armies in North Africa. At Tunis, in 1535, he was victorious against the Barbary pirates and Turks. When Charles visited Granada in the 1520s, he decided to build there a monument befitting a Roman emperor, the Palacio de Carlos V. This palace followed the architectural principles of the Roman architect Vitruvius, whose ideas were being revived in this period.35 Pursuing a strong relationship with the Church, like Constantine, Charles also entered into a financial agreement with Pope Clement VII in 1537 that made him military protector and financier of the church’s projects, including the new St Peter’s basilica.36 The idea that the Roman Empire was reborn under Charles V was a major theme in the culture of his court in the 1520s.

7

Burgundian Court Organization

Charles V was Holy Roman Emperor, King of Spain, and Duke of Burgundy. In these roles, he was the sovereign of the Burgundian Order of the Golden Fleece and Master of the Spanish military Orders of Santiago, Calatrava and Alcántara. In 1540, Charles obtained a dispensation from the pope to make the Order of Alcántara a lay order, such that he could appoint heads of households to it, as Castilian monarchs had done with Santiago since the 15th century.37 Appointing Knights of the Golden Fleece was another major diplomatic tool at Charles’ disposal. While Charles was in Germany fighting a war against the Protestant princes, he sent the Duke of Alba to his son Philip in Valladolid, with a mission to tell his son to re-organize his princely court like the court of their predecessors, the Burgundian dukes. This decision formally divided the administrative 34 35

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Thomas J. Dandelet, The Renaissance of Empire in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: 2014), 88. Thomas J. Dandelet, The Renaissance of Empire, 14. Charles V never lived in this palace or even saw it completed, though he did live with his wife in modest apartments nearby when they visited Granada in 1526–1527 (Juan Antonio Vilar Sánchez, 1526. Boda y luna de miel del Emperador Carlos V [Granada: 2000]). For more on this palace see Earl E. Rosenthal, The Palace of Charles V in Granada (Princeton: 1985). Thomas J. Dandelet, The Renaissance of Empire, 109. In 1540, a bull of Paul III allowed the Knights of Alcántara to marry (Definiciones de la Orden y cavalleria de Alcantara con la historia y origen della [Madrid: 1663], 333).

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councils from the prince’s household. This change, an introduction of Burgundian court ritual and organization, was one step in the growth of the Spanish bureaucracy and the size of the court, along with the expansion of the conciliar system.38 Charles and Philip further expanded this system by adding new councils for war, state, finance, the Indies, and Italy, and hiring more advisors.39

8

Philip II and Madrid

Valladolid and Toledo were both occasional seats of Philip II’s court, but in 1561, Philip II left Toledo and announced that he would move “with our court to that city [Madrid],” making it the capital of Early Modern Spain and placing his administration there.40 He built a grand palace in Madrid, his Palacio Real, with an ostentatious balcony. As the palace did not house all of the courtiers and councilors, there was a scramble to build other edifices, and nobles extended Philip’s building program in the city. Although the administration of his government took place in Madrid, Philip did not stay there all of the time, visiting his hunting lodge of Aranjuez, or his new palace of El Escorial (completed in 1584), or El Pardo. He used his time in these ‘retreats’ to work on correspondence and to consider pressing matters of governance. In Madrid, Philip granted audiences to many people each day. These demands on his time were tiring, and he found that his country palaces gave him more space within which to work.41

9

The Favorite

Philip II tried very hard to maintain control over the helm of state and sign every paper that crossed his desk. He had his councilors send him their remarks in writing so that he could review them. However, the weight of Spain’s imperial government was becoming too heavy for any one man. The minister-favorite emerged as a European phenomenon in the early 17th century to address this very problem, serving as a monarch’s chief of staff or gate-keeper. Yet as the bureaucracy of the Early Modern state kept growing, it did not replace the

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Werner Paravicini, “The Court of the Dukes of Burgundy,” in Princes, Patronage and the Nobility: The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, (eds.) Ronald G. Asch and Adolf M. Birke (Oxford: 1991), 100–102. For the conciliar system see John H. Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716 (London: 2002), 166. M.J. Rodríguez Salgado, “The Court of Philip II of Spain,” 209. M.J. Rodríguez Salgado, “The Court of Philip II of Spain,” 215–217.

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court, and there were deep ties between the court and these developing state structures. Patronage networks, rituals and personal relationships all helped a favorite retain his power.42 While an institutional need for a minister-favorite may have developed during this period, this does not mean that the favorites were well-liked.43 Both Charles V and Philip II experienced an ‘emancipation’ from powerful advisors, although Charles V’s happened much earlier in his life than Philip’s, after the deaths of Chièvres (1521) and Gattinara (1530). Philip’s happened when his favorite Ruy Gómez de Silva began to lose influence. Both rulers wrote to their sons, urging them to avoid giving too much power to one individual.44 Both Charles and Philip lived in the tension between a personal Monarchy and a growing bureaucracy, needing to delegate control to ministers in order to govern their vast empires, but also clinging to the ideal of a rule ungoverned by other men.45

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The Courts of Philip III and IV

The courts of Philip III and Philip IV were far more ostentatious than those of Charles V and Philip II. Charles V had built small apartments attached to a monastery in Extremadura, in which he lived his final days. Philip II’s Escorial was magnificent and austere, built to follow Vitruvian symmetry and Herrera’s style. Its foundations were built in the form of San Lorenzo’s martyr’s grill, with a basilica in the center, and a monastery and library individually taking up proportional space to the apartments of the king (an organization similar to the complex of St Peter’s). Both Philip and Charles competed in tournaments and held feasts and games, especially in their younger years, but they were traveling monarchs. It was the later Habsburgs who entertained at home. When

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For more on this phenomenon see The World of the Favorite, (eds.) John H. Elliott and L.W.B. Brockliss (New Haven: 1999). John H. Elliott, “Introduction,” in The World of the Favorite, (eds.) John H. Elliott and L.W.B. Brockliss (New Haven: 1999); James Boyden, The Courtier and the King: Ruy Gomez de Silva, Philip II, and the Court of Spain (Berkeley: 1995), 2. See James Boyden, The Courtier and the King: Ruy Gomez de Silva, Philip II, and the Court of Spain (Berkeley: 1995). “It is not until the 17th century that the structure of government is adjusted to cope with the territorial expansion of the 16th, in Spain, in France, in Britain. Until then, the Renaissance State expands continuously without bursting its old envelope. That envelope is the medieval, aristocratic monarchy, the rule of the Christian prince” (Hugh Trevor-Roper, The Crisis of the Seventeenth Century: Religion, the Reformation and Social Change [Indianapolis: 2001], 43).

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the Count-Duke of Olivares, one of Spain’s most important minister-favorites, built the Retiro Palace for Philip IV in 1629–1640, he built it near a small hermitage; but the palace itself was the center of the complex, and included many public areas meant to awe and inspire. Olivares’ propaganda argued that Philip was the “Planet King” around which the world should revolve. The paintings in the Hall of Realms in the Retiro Palace showed visitors the great size and strength of the Spanish Empire.46 The size of the king’s and queen’s household also expanded in this period. Philip IV and his wife Isabel de Valois supported two households of thousands of people.47 Court culture under Ferdinand and Isabella, and ultimately the Spanish Habsburgs, was intricately connected with the rest of Europe, through travelers, ambassadors, and courtiers. The court was an evolving institution, including the king’s household and the country’s administration, but it was also a place of patronage, politics, and image making, where both caballeros and letrados could make a career in pursuit of arms, letters, or both. Nobles were not the only powerful players in the Spanish court, but they remained deeply tied to it. The king and his councils could verify lineages and issue patents of nobility, and could make someone a Knight of Santiago, Alcántara, Calatrava, or the Golden Fleece by giving him the cowl or ‘habit’ of that order.48 In the 17th century, this increasingly bureaucratized process included lengthy applications and cash payments. Patents of nobility were slightly more rare. The crown bestowed 627 patents or cartas de privilegio between 1465–1800 in Castile.49 Ultimately, the king created more nobility than his cities and his realm could afford. The early 17th century saw a proliferation of titles across Europe as monarchs dispensed more and more favors and titles for cash, shrinking their tax base. In Spain in 1530 there were 28 Marquises and Dukes. In 1700, there were 334 Marquises and 113 Dukes.50 This “inflation of honors” and titles also happened in places like Venice and Amsterdam, mercantile centers where we would not

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“The King and the Favorite in the Hall of Realms,” in Jonathan Brown and J.H. Elliott, A Palace for a King: The Buen Retiro and the Court of Philip IV (New Haven: 1980), 141. “Documents Relating to the Household of Queen Margarita: Persons in Household, 1640,” The Bancroft Library at the University of California-Berkeley, Fernán Núñez Collection, 66. Another important boon was the mayorazgo, a trust for the eldest child that would pass on the family’s wealth intact (James Casey, Family and Community in Early Modern Spain: The Citizens of Granada, 1570–1739 [Cambridge: 2007], 81). M.L. Bush, Rich Noble, Poor Noble (Manchester: 1988), 66. Ronald G. Asch, Nobilities in Transition, 1550–1700: Courtiers and Rebels in Britain and Europe (New York: 2003), 16.

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expect noble status to have been such a strong ideal.51 Some economic historians have pointed to the negative consequences of entrepreneurs becoming rentiers, merchants ceasing their involvement in commerce and moving to the countryside to become landlords.52 In 17th-century Spain, the creation of new nobles also had an ethnic and religious component. In order to enter military orders or attain a title, applicants needed to prove their limpieza de sangre, or the ‘cleanliness of their blood,’ i.e. that they did not descend from Jews, ‘Moors’ or those punished by the Inquisition. Ultimately, even some moriscos— Christian descendants of Muslims, or converted Muslims—were able to join these orders, once enough time had passed. Nobility was proven through extent of lineage or length of service.53

11

The Literature of Courtiership in the Spanish Renaissance

The literature of courtiership in the Spanish Renaissance can be considered under three headings: manuals and treatises for effective courtiers, critiques of courtiership, and the literary and artistic production of Spanish courts. The starting point for any consideration of courtiership is necessarily the Libro del cortegiano of Baldesar Castiglione (1478–1529), first published in Italy in 1528, and rendered into Castilian by Juan Boscán (1490–1542) as El libro del cortesano at the instigation of his friend, the poet Garcilaso de la Vega (ca. 1500–1536). The translation, which was the first of Castiglione’s book, was published only 51 52

53

Jonathan Dewald, The European Nobility, 1400–1800 (Cambridge: 1996), 27; Peter Burke, Venice and Amsterdam: A Study of Seventeenth Century Élites (London: 1974). “In Spain, the bourgeoisie was hemmed in on all sides by a fast-multiplying and fastencroaching nobility” (Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 2, trans. Sian Reynolds [Berkeley: 1995], 725 and 727). A morisco, a descendent of Muslims or convert from Islam, could be considered an Old Christian, or cristiano viejo, if enough generations had passed: “En España se considera como cristianos viejos a todos los descendientes de judíos y de moros que se convirtieron al cristianismo en tiempos lejanos, y cuyos antepasados no dejaron huella alguna de apostasía” (Albert A. Sicroff, Los estatutos de limpieza de sangre: controversias entre los siglos XV y XVII. Versión castellana de Mauro Armiño revisado por el autor [Madrid: 1985], 163); Georges Duby, writing about medieval France, asks this question: “How old were these families on the eve of the 12th century? Or rather, since nobility was before all else a question of remote and well authenticated ancestors, how old was their ‘nobility’?” (Georges Duby, The Chivalrous Society, trans. Cynthia Postan [Berkeley: 1980], 64); the Granada Venegas family are an example of an elite morisco clan whose members successfully joined military orders, including Santiago and Alcántara (Elizabeth Ashcroft Terry, “The Granada Venegas Family, 1431–1643: Nobility, Renaissance, and Morisco Identity,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of California-Berkeley, 2015).

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six years after the Italian original. The author spent the last five years of his life in Spain and was clearly well-known to the Spanish elite, and there are important reasons for considering Castiglione’s book Spanish as well as Italian. Although the book presents a nostalgic look back at the court of the Duke of Urbino twenty years earlier, by 1521 its author had entered papal service, and in 1524 he was sent as the papal ambassador to Spain, where he lived the rest of his life. By the time of the book’s first publication it was clear to him that his prospects lay in Spain, particularly so after the sack of Rome in 1527, which estranged him from Pope Clement VII. Indeed, when he died in Toledo in 1529, Castiglione had just been named Bishop of Ávila; had he lived to take up the office, it would have sealed the shift in patronage from the pope to the emperor that led him to remark, “as I have received so many honors and attentions from this excellent nation, … I will never consider myself any less a Spaniard than an Italian.”54 In the successive elaborations of the book’s text, Castiglione attenuated praise of France while heightening the position of Spain. These changes took many forms, including elimination of an extended passage praising the French King Francis I, of a description of Ferdinand the Catholic’s nervous ticks, and of Spaniards as the butt of practical jokes; conversely, Spaniards were praised for their wit, their decorous clothing and manner of speaking, etc. These changes have been seen as reflections of political considerations on Castiglione’s part after his removal to Spain. But they can also be seen as indications of a more cosmopolitan turn in his thinking, away from the idea of perfection realizable only in Italy, towards the notion that the perfect court may be replicated abroad. Thus, Castiglione drops the characterization of non-Italians as barbarians and instead introduces a more pan-European geo-cultural entity, cristianità. Exposed to international politics at the papal court, and even more so in Spain, he insists on the courtier’s need to learn French and Spanish— preparation for patronage abroad, or a bow to the emergence of the more international courts he encounters as France and Spain expand their reach. Through these means, the construction of a Platonic ideal courtier, always based on aesthetic principles of grace and sprezzatura, is freed from the contingency of Italy’s political problems and becomes a model for international courts such as that of Spain.

54

José Guidi, “L’Espagne dans la vie et dans l’ oeuvre de B. Castiglione: de l’equilibre francohispanique au choix impérial,” in Présence et influence de l’Espagne dans la culture italienne de la Renaissance, Centre de Recherche sur la Renaissance Italienne 7 (Paris: 1978), 201.

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Translations and Imitations of Castiglione’s Libro del cortegiano

The translation project of Boscán and Garcilaso carries this movement a step further, for by translating Castiglione’s work, the poets appropriated the book’s teaching, making it available to Spaniards and thereby transferring the locus of its reception and influence. For if the book proclaims Italian culture of a certain time as a model, the translation suggests that the relevant audience for that model (i.e. the place where the imitation is to be realized) is Spain. The more seriously we take Castiglione’s rejection of specific rules and lists of rules, and the more we become attuned to his aesthetic preference for manner, example, and disinvoltura (similar to a Spanish word, desenvoltura), the more we will perceive his influence on Spain. The relative ease with which Boscán translates Castiglione’s key terms (corteganía/cortesanía, grazia/gracia, sprezzatura/desprecio) is due not only to Spanish and Italian both being Romance languages, but to the cognate cultural contexts that were present at this time. But this does not mean that Boscán and Garcilaso perceived Spanish courtly life as already equivalent to Italian. In his preface, Boscán writes that he translated the work so that Spaniards could benefit from such a good book even if they lacked knowledge of the language, and because the perfect courtier and lady are topics of such exceeding importance.55 Garcilaso in his preface amplifies the issues: the general poverty and dependence of Spanish literature are evident when he asserts the stylistic inferiority of other contemporary texts and the need for Boscán’s translation as a model. Moreover, this translation is praised in courtly terms, showing how for Garcilaso it will function in a double way: first, as the exposition of certain aesthetic principles and, second, as the fulfillment of those principles, attaining an exemplary role for future writers of Castilian prose. Boscán’s preface, written at the conclusion of a possibly thankless task that must have consumed a considerable amount of time, shows him attempting to justify that task in terms of its accomplishment; Garcilaso’s preface, written from Italy just as the poet is beginning to produce his greatest poems, shows his consciousness of the gap between the countries, but also a belief that it can be overcome.56 55 56

Baldesar Castiglione, El cortesano (1534), trans. and preface by Juan Boscán, preface by Garcilaso de la Vega, (ed.) M. Menéndez y Pelayo (Madrid: 1942), 5. On Castiglione’s Cortegiano in Spain, see Guidi, “ ‘L’Espagne’”; Ignacio Navarrete, Orphans of Petrarch: Poetry and Theory in the Spanish Renaissance, Publications of the Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies 25 (Berkeley: 1994), 38–72; Peter Burke, The Fortunes of the Courtier: The European Reception of Castiglione’s Cortegiano, Penn State Series in the History of the Book 1 (University Park: 1996), 55–80; and Olga Zorzi Pugliese, Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier (Il Libro del Cortegiano): A Classic in the Making (Naples: 2008), 139–171.

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There are many ways to assess the success of Boscán’s translation: its immediate influence, such as the preference by Juan de Valdés (ca. 1509–1541) for a courtier-based linguistic ideal in the Diálogo de la lengua (mid-1530s);57 the many reprints of the original Barcelona edition (16 in the 16th century alone); subsequent treatises on courtiership; and conversely, the parodies. The Spanish translation of the Cortegiano, like the Italian original, emphasized the principle of imitating the best model, but in the later tradition of Spanish works on courtiership, the trend was more towards prescriptive instructions than towards description of an ideal to be emulated. This trend coincides with a native Spanish tradition of advice for courtiers dating back to the 15th century (notably, Alfonso de Cartagena’s Doctrinal de caballeros, ca. 1445; Antonio de Guevara’s Aviso de privados y doctrina de cortesanos, 1539). This pattern can also be discerned in Italy itself, in works such as Giovanni della Casa’s Galateo (1558), which is more of a courtesy book than an evocation of courtiership. These did not, however, achieve extensive editorial success on the Iberian Peninsula. The next such work is the Galateo español (ca. 1582), by Lucas Gracián Dantisco (1543–1587). Although an adaptation of Della Casa’s book, its success far outstripped that of the more relatively straightforward Spanish translation of the Italian treatise by Domingo Becerra (1585). Several factors explain the popularity of Dantisco’s work. Margherita Morreale explains how he simplifies Della Casa’s Latinate style and dense intertextual references, condensing discussions but also amplifying through the introduction of facetious stories, anecdotes, and even a short novel. Both books are principally conduct manuals, and unlike the Cortegiano—which rarely resorted to counter-example—the later books portray both good and bad behavior. Like Castiglione, Dantisco condemns affectation, but descuido (Boscán’s rendering of sprezzatura) is mostly used in a pejorative sense, as in someone who is careless in behavior; and the concept of grazia appears mostly in the form of a gracioso, someone who is amusing. Felipe Ruan further investigates the contrast between the more limited appeal of Becerra’s faithful translation and the notable editorial success of the Galateo español which he attributes to Gracián Dantisco’s keen sensitivity to cultural and market demands. It is not a question of his incompetence as a translator—he descended from humanists with a history of royal service, including the Polish ambassador to the court of Charles V, Joannes Dantiscus— but rather that Dantisco was more attuned to the literary marketplace of his 57

On Valdés and Castiglione, see Lore Terracini, Lingua come problema nella letteratura spagnola del Cinquecento (Turin: 1979), and Ignacio Navarrete, “Juan de Valdés, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, and the Imperial Style in Poetry,”Renaissance and Reformation / Renaissance et Réforme 28 (2004): 3–25.

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time and to the desires of a book-buying urban middle class that existed uneasily on the margins of the court. So while Della Casa was not exclusively concerned with court behavior, Dantisco substitutes for the Italian’s gentiluomo the more precise cortesano, making his book more specifically relevant to those who seek success at court. Ruan also notes the explicit association of cortesanos with discreción, the art of making oneself pleasing to the powerful. Thus, the guiding principle of the Galateo español is a kind of decorum, a concept not altogether absent from Castiglione, but treated in a much more utilitarian fashion and in the context of power relationships in late 16th-century Madrid. A sense of social precariousness is further augmented by the frequent inclusion, as an appendix to Dantisco’s Galateo español, of the Inquisition-approved Lazarillo expurgado, the only version of Lazarillo de Tormes that was widely known in the later 16th century. Ruan examines the presence of this book in some private Madrid libraries at the turn of the 16th century: the book appears in six library inventories, three belonging to small artisans, and one each belonging to a royal architect, an accountant or functionary, and a nobleman and politician. The book thus spoke to a wide audience, not necessarily just social climbers, but people of many economic backgrounds. The same must have been true of Castiglione as well, given the popularity of his book; but Dantisco’s manual shows how by the end of the 16th century the court is seen less as an ideal setting for the maximum development of personal aesthetic qualities with the goal of positively influencing political behavior, and more as a dangerous environment in which carelessness will be punished and personal advancement is the goal.58 One final work on courtiership will be considered, Corte na aldeia e noites de inverno, published in Lisbon in 1619 and written by Francisco Rodrigues Lôbo (1580–1622). At this time the Crowns of Portugal and Spain were united, and many Portuguese noblemen had retired to the countryside. Rodrigues Lôbo dedicates his work to the family of the Dukes of Bragança, descendants of the Portuguese kings. As José Adriano de Carvalho has shown, Corte na aldeia bears significant similarities to Dantisco’s Galateo español, particularly the emphasis on rhetoric and decorum in many forms: how to address noblemen and even servants of different ranks, how to write letters and greet ambassadors, ceremonies of the table and comportment with women, even how to nar58

Lucas Gracián Dantisco, Galateo español, (ed.) Margherita Morreale (Madrid: 1968). On Dantisco, see Margherita Morreale, “Una obra de cortesanía en tono menor: el ‘Galateo español’, de Lucas Gracián Dantisco,” Boletín de la Real Academia Española 42.165 (1962): 47–89; and Felipe E. Ruan, “Court, Market, and the Fashioning of the Galateo Español,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 87.8 (2010): 921–938.

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rate stories, incorporating some of the same examples. Notwithstanding these similarities, however, Corte na aldeia clearly belongs to the same category of courtiership literature as the Cortegiano. For example, while it is true (as Carvalho asserts) that the use of the dialogue form was ubiquitous in the Renaissance and did not necessarily indicate an imitation of Castiglione, a return to the dialogue, after Dantisco’s use of the treatise, is surely significant. Rodrigues Lôbo dedicates his work to the Braganças: Since Portugal has been lacking a court of serene monarchs, the ancestors of your excellencies, from which foreign nations derived such satisfaction and neighboring ones such envy, titled nobility have retired to their palaces and estates and the other courtiers to their farms and homes, making courts there and renewing their nostalgia for the past with memories of the golden age of the Portuguese.59 Lôbo’s nostalgia for the court of Portugal under the Braganças before the invasion of Portugal by Philip II recalls not only Castiglione’s nostalgia for Urbino, but also his evocation of the Italian political crisis that had led to his exile. Although unlike Castiglione, Rodrigues Lôbo has not left his nation, he too is an exile from his spiritual home, the royal Portuguese court. As the city of Lisbon at the time of Lôbo’s writing had no royal court, he is left with the paradox of courtiership in the countryside, now the only place where courtiership—even if only in the sense of good manners and learned, witty conversation—can survive.60

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“Depois que faltou a Portugal a corte dos Sereníssimos Reis, ascendentes de V. Excelência (da qual as nações estrangeiras tinham tão grande satisfação e as vezinhas tão igual inveja), retirados os títulos polas vilas e lugares do Reino e os fidalgos e cortesãos por suas quintãs e casais, vieram a fazer corte nas aldeias, renovando as saudades da passada com lembranças devidas àquela dourada idade dos portugueses” (Francisco Rodrigues Lôbo, Corte na aldeia, [ed.] and intro. by José Adriano de Carvalho, Clássicos Presença 2 [Lisbon: 1992], 51). On Corte na aldeia see José Adriano de Carvalho, “A leitura de «Il Galateo» de Giovani della Casa na Península Ibérica: Damasio de Frias, L. Gracián Dantisco e Rodrigues Lobo,” Ocidente 89 (1970): 137–171; and Walter J. Schnerr, “Two Courtiers: Castiglione and Rodrigues Lôbo,” Comparative Literature 13 (1961): 138–153.

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Courtier Literature and the Picaresque

The title of Rodrigues Lôbo’s book also recalls another predecessor, Menosprecio de corte y alabanza de aldea (1539) by Antonio de Guevara (ca. 1481–1545). As already noted, Guevara was likewise the author of Aviso de privados y doctrina de cortesanos, a book of advice for courtiers, particularly those who would become royal favorites; although both works were published after Boscán’s translation of the Cortegiano, they belong more to a medieval tradition of satirical critiques of courtiership. This strand never waned during the Spanish Renaissance, and it is important to recognize it as a kind of double of the courtiership genre already discussed. Taking up the inclusion, after 1599, of the expurgated Lazarillo (minus the friar, the pardoner, and a few other excisions) in editions of Dantisco’s Galateo español, Harry Sieber questions what this odd combination of counsel for the would-be courtier along with picaresque novel can tell us about the ways these works were read. He speculates that both could be taken as advice books, one through direct instruction and the other through humorous example. In this interpretation, the squire’s insistence on maintaining appearances and defending his honor is useful for the prospective courtier. Thus details such as his graceful walk and cultivated speech, his refusal to doff his cap or to abide an insufficiently respectful greeting are all admirable instances of correct behavior. To Sieber, the ability to pass as a courtier is a common feature of the three most famous picaresque novels—Lazarillo del Tormes (ca. 1552, expurgated ed. 1573), Guzmán de Alfarache (1599), and El Buscón (ca. 1605, published 1626)— and all three works parallel the conduct books through their emphasis on these practices.61 Felipe Ruan goes further along the same lines. Using Pierre Bourdieu’s cultural analysis as a model, he sees the picaresque hero as one able to appropriate the courtier’s habitus, and as a result also able to amass the necessary cultural capital to pass himself off as a courtier: “In the social world, identity and social position center on the acquisition and representation of symbolic capital, a form of wealth that not only emphasizes status and prestige but that also legitimates social differences and positions.” The pícaro’s principal interest is not in destroying social categories but in manipulating them, and this is often achieved through a subversion of patron-client relationships. Pícaros and courtiers draw on shared cultural and social resources to maintain and enhance 61

Harry Sieber, “Literary Continuity, Social Order, and the Invention of the Picaresque,” in Cultural Authority in Golden Age Spain, (eds.) Marina S. Brownlee and Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht (Baltimore: 1995), 143–164.

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their positions, as the firmest association between pícaro and cortesano lies in a shared habitus inclining them to a mode of deportment centered on artful dissimulation and strategic self-presentation. This is a mode of being in which the individual’s strategies of self-representation are tied to self-advancement and self-promotion, given the struggles that take place in maximizing the types of capital at stake.62 The plot device of the pícaro passing for a nobleman is not a feature of all picaresque narratives; in Lazarillo, for example, there is no suggestion that the squire is not a genuine hidalgo, albeit an impoverished one. But he would nonetheless be a social climber, if he were only presented with the opportunity, as he explains to his servant: For instance, do I not have the ability to serve and please these men? By God, if I ran across one, I think I could become his very intimate, and do him a thousand forms of service, for I would know how to lie to him as well as anyone else, and to flatter him totally. I would laugh a good deal at his jokes even if they weren’t the greatest in the world, and never tell him anything that weighed upon him, even if it were to his benefit. And I would make sure to know plenty of gossip about other people’s lives, and recount it to him, and all the other trappings of behavior that are used in the palace these days, and that seem appropriate to men like him. For they do not want virtuous men in their homes, they abhor them and think little of them, call them fools and say that they are not men of affairs, and they are not the kind of person around which a lord can be at ease.63 The passage is a parody of Guevara’s advice to favorites, listing the skills necessary to ingratiate oneself with a superior. But even subtler than the parody of Guevara here is that of Castiglione, for in the Cortegiano the entire moral purpose of the courtier’s accomplishments is to become the prince’s favorite,

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Felipe E. Ruan, Pícaro and Cortesano: Identity and the Forms of Capital in Early Modern Spanish Picaresque Narrative and Courtesy Literature (Lewisburg: 2011), 7–9. “Pues por ventura ¿no hay en mí habilidad para servir y contentar a éstos? Por Dios, si con él topase, muy gran su privado pienso que fuese, y que mil servicios le hiciese, porque yo sabría mentille tan bien como otro y agradalle a las mil maravillas. Reílle ya mucho sus donaires y costumbres, aunque no fuesen las mejores del mundo; nunca decille cosa con que le pesase, aunque mucho le cumpliese; … y procurar de saber vidas ajenas para contárselas, y otras muchas galas de esta calidad que hoy día se usan en palacio y a los señores de él parecen bien; y no quieren ver en sus casas hombres virtuosos, antes los aborrecen y tienen en poco y llaman necios y que no son personas de negocios, ni con quien el señor se puede descuidar” (Lazarillo de Tormes, [ed.] Francisco Rico [Barcelona: 1980], 62–63).

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and thus be in a position to impart truthful information and dispense ethical advice. This of course is the opposite of what the squire would do. Other points of contact with Castiglione include the emphasis on jokes, and even the gossip, which is but a variation on the narration of facetious tales, the vivid telling of which Castiglione stipulated as a necessary talent for the successful courtier. Even the key concept of sprezzatura is subverted: Boscán’s term for it, descuido, indicating nonchalance that masks art, here becomes the lord’s moral carelessness in the presence of a genuinely hypocritical courtier. The model of the pícaro who passes as a courtier is more prominent in La vida del Buscón by Francisco de Quevedo (1580–1645). In the third part of the novel, Pablos, the scoundrel, arrives in Madrid, falls in with ruffians, and learns to imitate the rich. His manner of dress recalls that of the squire in Lazarillo. But whereas in the earlier novel, the squire’s mended clothes and tarnished sword were signs of the poverty that he needed to overcome in order to preserve the appearances of his social class, in this novel they are attempts at deception, at passing for what the protagonist is not. At this he is quite successful, amassing a fortune and courting a noblewoman, until he is exposed by an equestrian accident (not being a real knight, he does not know how to ride a horse), and recognized by his former master, Don Diego Coronel. Sieber suggests that Don Diego’s surname points to his own tainted background (the Coronels were a converso family from Segovia); while this would make the contrast with Pablos all the more ironic, it depends on the ascription of recognized Jewish identity to an otherwise neutral name.64 The greater irony is that Pablos’ exposure comes at the hands of the very person who had facilitated his fraud, for it was Pablos’ role as Don Diego’s servant, and the opportunity as such to accompany him to school and then to the university, that gave him the cultural capital to perpetrate his imposture. A pícaro can dress like a nobleman, but to truly impersonate one, he needs sprezzatura and a host of skills (one of which, horseback riding, Pablos lacks). Thus the link between Castiglione and the picaresque is reinforced: true courtiership cannot be learned from a book.

14

The Viceregal Courts

The works examined thus far belong either to a discourse about courtiership, or to a counter-discourse commonly called the picaresque. There remains to

64

Harry Sieber, “Literary Continuity,” 157.

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be examined the literature of courtiership itself. The best example of this is El cortesano, by Luis Milán, who was a musician, poet, and courtier at the viceregal court of Valencia in the mid-16th century; he is better known today as author of the first printed book of music for the vihuela. Valencia at the time was the closest thing in Spain to an Italian principality, ruled by Germaine de Foix (1488– 1538), widow of the Catholic King of Aragon, Ferdinand—who wed her after the death of Isabel—and Germaine’s second husband Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria (1488–1550), son and putative heir of Frederick, the last Trastámara king of Naples; after Germaine’s death, the duke married Mencía de Mendoza, of the important Mendoza family. El cortesano describes life at the viceregal court in Valencia. Peter Burke describes the Cortesano as “a view of Castiglione through late Medieval spectacles” for its lack of classical references and its emphasis on tournaments, jousts, heraldry, and courtly love.65 More recently, Ignacio López Alemany has taken a more nuanced view. He sees the vice-regents as essentially co-authors with Milán of El cortesano, for anything carried out under their patronage effectively reflects back upon them. Both Germaine and Fernando laid claim to royal stature in their own right, not merely as functionaries acting in the name of and carrying out the will of Charles V. Although El cortesano might suffer from comparison to Castiglione’s book, López Alemany shows how through subtle allusion, the Spanish author attempts to appropriate and supplant his Italian predecessor’s work, and present a new and revised form of courtiership more suited to the Valencian context. He also brings out the erotic allusions and belligerence of the poems and playlets that the book contains, and how they reinforce the hierarchical status of the participants, the noblemen and courtiers of the Valencian court.66 One might further note that the problem faced by the Valencian viceroys was the same as that faced by Castiglione’s courtier: what is the political and ethical purpose of aesthetic self-fashioning? Castiglione seeks to give meaning to the courtier’s activities by ultimately preserving an independent role as a political counselor. At the same time, however—and this must have been clear to such an astute observer—the Italian princes of Urbino and those of other small citystates were themselves losing any meaningful political role as the larger players in Italy, Venice, Florence, and Rome (and ultimately France and Spain) reduced them to the status of clients with deep ties to imperial centers elsewhere. The Italian princes were thus lowered to the same status as their courtiers: they

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Peter Burke, The Fortunes of the Courtier, 90. Ignacio López Alemany, Ilusión áulica e imaginación en El Cortesano de Luis Milán, North Carolina Studies in Romance Languages and Literatures (Chapel Hill: 2013).

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became pawns in a larger game of power, and the same is true of the Valencian viceroys vis-à-vis the Spanish Monarchy.67 In Early Modern Spain, court culture was not limited to the courts of kings or viceroys, for nobles also served as patrons to writers of literature. For example, in the 16th century, Fernando de Herrera attended an important literary tertulia in Seville patronized by the Count of Gelves. In nearby Granada, the Granada Venegas clan, an elite morisco family, sponsored their own literary tertulia which included the poets Juan Latino, Hernando de Acuña, and Gregorio Silvestre.68 In the 17th century, Madrid was the center of Spanish court life and politics, and yet, due to the size and organization of the Spanish Empire, it was not the only Spanish court. There were courts in Valencia, in Naples, throughout the Americas and in the Philippines, as well as a strong Spanish presence in the city of Rome. Castiglione’s legacy may have been most honored not by would-be courtiers, but by noblemen of all levels asserting, through the practice of patronage, their self-conception as princes. 67

68

Outside the scope of this essay, but significant for a full understanding of the Hispanic world, would be a study of the viceregal courts in the Americas as centers of patronage. Similarly important would be Jewish, Arabic, and indigenous American notions of social class and how these intersected with those of Christian Spain as their elites were incorporated into Spanish court culture and the Spanish Empire. A. Katie Harris, From Muslim to Christian Granada: Inventing a City’s Past in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: 2007), 48–50.

chapter 10

Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State Edward Behrend-Martínez*

Manifestations of Spanish popular culture like festivals, rituals, sayings, or dress often seem, if not timeless, then ancient—i.e. divorced from immediate political concerns. Thus the popular culture that gave expression to ordinary Spaniards’ lived experiences would seem to have little to do with the royal authority of the Spanish monarch and the growth of state power in the Early Modern period. And yet, though relatively limited, popular culture aided in increasing royal authority and the crown’s ability to affect the lives of citizens more and more over the course of the 15th to the 17th centuries.1 Part of the explanation for this success was the popular acceptance of monarchical authority. Several scholars have shown that popular culture gave legitimacy to the formation of the Early Modern state.2 This process of legitimization, for instance, became especially visible during Spanish festivals, as Teófilo Ruiz has demonstrated in his examination of the importance of the choreographed festivities that occurred during the entrances Spanish monarchs made into towns

* I would like to thank Jason White in the History Department of Appalachian State University for reading drafts of this piece. 1 The nature of this growth in monarchical authority is discussed in detail in J.B. Owens, “By My Absolute Royal Authority”: Justice and the Castilian Commonwealth at the Beginning of the First Global Age (Rochester: 2005). 2 Questions regarding the relationship among the state, daily life, and popular culture are addressed in Richard L. Kagan, Lucrecia’s Dreams: Politics and Prophecy in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Los Angeles: 1990); Ruth MacKay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in Seventeenth-Century Castile, Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History (Cambridge: 1999); Aurelio Espinosa, The Empire of the Cities: Emperor Charles V, the Comunero Revolt, and the Transformation of the Spanish System, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Traditions (Leiden: 2009); David A. Bell, “The ‘Public Sphere,’ the State, and the World of Law in Eighteenth-Century France,” French Historical Studies 17.4 (1992): 912–934; William T. Cavanaugh, “ ‘A Fire Strong Enough to Consume the House’: The Wars of Religion and the Rise of the State,” Modern Theology 11.4 (1995): 397–420; Michael P. Breen, Law, City, and King: Legal Culture, Municipal Politics, and State Formation in Early Modern Dijon, Changing Perspectives on Early Modern Europe (Rochester: 2007); and Julie Hardwick, Family Business: Litigation and the Political Economies of Daily Life in Early Modern France (Oxford: 2009).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_012

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and cities.3 In ritual festivals that became increasingly elaborate over the 16th century, Spanish kings came to expect not only feasts and bullfights, but also the ubiquitous presence of masses of commoners attesting to their monarchical authority. Enormous preparations went into these unique festivities, owing to the fact that they served many purposes. The festivities allowed elites and commoners to appeal to the monarch for patronage and favor while they helped legitimize both royal authority and the local hierarchies and elites who organized such entrances. This essay examines other discursive institutions, those related to finding justice, that—like festivals—connected people to the Early Modern Spanish state and to all higher powers. As early as the 15th century and continuing into the Early Modern period, Spanish popular culture had fully incorporated the vocabulary and mechanisms of litigation into everyday life.4 The connection between festival and litigation was explicit in the popular imagination, as witnessed in the terminology which peasants in many parts of Spain gave to patron saints, whom they called “lawyers” (abogados) ready to plead their cases before God.5 Some towns invoked, for instance, their patron saints to represent them in ritual trials convened against locusts over which God sat as judge.6 The Devil served as the locusts’ defense attorney before the court. Like festivals, the judicial system provided a means through which the populace could relate to and legitimize the monarchical and ecclesiastical powers of the Early Modern Spanish state. Festival and justice could often be intertwined. Take, for instance, the judicial pardons the king granted annually as part of Good Friday festivities or upon

3 Teófilo F. Ruiz, A King Travels: Festive Traditions in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Princeton: 2012). See also Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada, “Las fiestas en la cultura medieval” (Areté Biblioteca Digital de Aranjuez, 2004), http://biblioteca.aranjuez.es/i18n/consulta/ registro.cmd?id=31561; Julio Caro Baroja, El estío festival ( fiestas populares del verano) (Madrid: 1984); Antonia Castro, “El Corpus Christi y su octava en Peñalsordo, entre la fiesta y la religión,” Gazeta de Antropología 26.2 (2010): 1–32; Francisco J. Lorenzo Pinar, “Universos festivos y cultura popular en la Castilla moderna,” in Bajtín y la historia de la cultura popular: cuarenta años de debate, (ed.) Tomás Antonio Mantecón Movellán (Santander: 2008), 145– 174; and Tomás Antonio Mantecón Movellán (ed.), Bajtín y la historia de la cultura popular: cuarenta años de debate (Santander: 2008). 4 Owens, for instance, argues that the discussion of the beginnings of the Early Modern Castilian state properly belongs to the early 15th century rather than the 16th century, when a more formal discussion of the “state” enters political treatises. See Owens, “By My Absolute Royal Authority,” 6–7. 5 William A. Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1989), 55–58. 6 Christian, Local Religion, 29–30.

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the birth of an heir to the throne.7 These judicial pardons, which sometimes resulted in the mass release of criminals from jails throughout the Empire, were a demonstration of the King’s authority and mercy. Over the past decade many scholars have argued that we need to recognize the importance that litigation, the courts, and the law had as part of the foundation of the Early Modern state.8 Whereas a generation ago political theorists had focused on informal patronage networks as the primary conduit for power and politics, recent scholarship increasingly recognizes that the proliferation of litigation in Early Modern Europe was no mere sideshow. Rather, the courts were used as arenas of political—and I would add cultural—contestation on a day-to-day basis which often extended to commoners. Early Modern law and its many courts and jurisdictions were far from monolithic, and were nearly as diverse as Spain’s festivals; such variability reflected the diffuse nature of power within the Early Modern state itself. Spain’s judicial system was composed of thousands of courts and many jurisdictions, most important of which were its system of church courts, secular courts, and Inquisitorial tribunals. Church courts were abundant, with at least one bishop’s court operating in each of the Empire’s dioceses. And then there were municipal courts and the jurisdictions of the royal corregidores, and of course, the temporary and then permanent tribunals of the Inquisition. Smaller institutions and authorities, such as abbeys, some guilds, and powerful nobles, often had their own courts and even prisons.9 The royal factory in Guadalajara in the 18th century, for instance, had its own criminal court to try its employees.10 Though sharing form and purpose, each jurisdiction—whether the royal courts, the Inquisition, or particular courts like that run by the House of Trade in Seville—maintained idiosyncratic rituals and characteristics lending them particular legitimacy.

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Víctor Uribe-Urán, Fatal Love: Spousal Killers, Law, and Punishment in the Late Colonial Spanish Atlantic (Stanford: 2015), 109, 169. Michael Breen provides an excellent state-of-the-question regarding litigation and state formation in Early Modern France, for example. See Michael P. Breen, “Patronage, Politics, and the ‘Rule of Law’ in Early Modern France” (paper presented at the Proceedings of the Western Society for French History, 2005). David Bell links the growth of litigation to that of the Early Modern state in the French context in Bell, “The ‘Public Sphere,’ the State, and the World of Law in Eighteenth-Century France,” 912–934. Óscar López Gómez, “Espacios de opresión: las cárceles de Toledo en la baja Edad Media,” in Actas IV Simposio de Jóvenes Medievalistas (Lorca, 2008), (eds.) Juan Fco. Jiménez et al. (Lorca: 2009), 105–118, at 106. Uribe-Urán, Fatal Love, 39.

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In so many ways it is natural to think of the courts of Early Modern Spain as institutions that imposed a social hierarchy. And, in fact, the view that Spanish courts—especially the Inquisition—successfully enforced social control has a long and significant historiography.11 After all, university-trained legal scholars, royal officials, and clerics sitting in ecclesiastical synods codified Spanish law. Such a view stems from legal theory that sees the law as operating according to its own internal logic, quite separate from popular culture and society.12 Educated bureaucrats, judges, prelates, and bishops administered justice. And those with money paid for litigation. Still, there were many ways in which Early Modern courts were ‘popular.’ That is, such institutions needed to find legitimacy among those without economic, official, or political authority in society. These courts acted and responded to popular justice the way Owens has noted regarding the authority of local notables: “The creditworthiness of people in authority depended on their embrace of the common interpretive schemes that defined all citizens as members of the commonwealth.”13 The law and its application in Early Modern Spain needed to be accepted by the pop-

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The bibliography on Spanish courts, the Inquisition, and social control is extensive. A sound overview of recent Spanish scholarship on the subject of social control is José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Juan Eloy Gelabert González, and Tomás Antonio Mantecón Movellán, Furor et rabies. Violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad Moderna (Santander: 2002); see also Martin Dinges, “El uso de la justicia como forma de control social en la Edad Moderna,” in Furor et rabies, (eds.) Fortea et al., 47–68. On Spanish secular courts see Scott K. Taylor, Honor and Violence in Golden Age Spain (New Haven: 2008); Richard Kagan, Lawsuits and Litigants in Castile, 1500–1700 (Chapel Hill: 1981); Edward Behrend-Martínez, Unfit for Marriage: Impotent Spouses on Trial in the Basque Region of Spain, 1650–1750 (Reno: 2007); Abigail Dyer, “Heresy and Dishonor: Sexual Crimes Before the Courts of Early Modern Spain,” Ph.D. Dissertation, Columbia University, 2000; and Cynthia Ann Gonzales, “Taking It to Court: Litigating Women in the City of Valencia, 1550–1600,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Arizona, 2008. Key works on the Inquisition are, in particular order, Rafael Carrasco, Inquisición y represión sexual en Valencia: historia de los sodomitas, 1565– 1785 (Barcelona: 1986); Gustav Henningsen, The Witches’ Advocate: Basque Witchcraft and the Spanish Inquisition, 1609–1614 (Reno: 1980); Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision (New Haven: 1997); E. William Monter, Frontiers of Heresy: the Spanish Inquisition from the Basque Lands to Sicily, Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History (Cambridge: 1990); Sara Tilghman Nalle, Mad for God: Bartolomé Sánchez, the Secret Messiah of Cardenete (Charlottesville: 2001); Mary E. Giles, Women in the Inquisition: Spain and the New World (Baltimore: 1999); Francisco Bethencourt, The Inquisition: a Global History, 1478–1834 (Cambridge: 2009); Benzion Netanyahu, The Origins of the Inquisition in Fifteenth Century Spain (New York: 2001); and Gretchen D. Starr-LeBeau, In the Shadow of the Virgin: Inquisitors, Friars, and Conversos in Guadalupe, Spain (Princeton: 2003). On the contrast between social conceptual legal theories see Lawrence M. Friedman, “Law, Lawyers, and Popular Culture,” Yale Law Journal 98.8 (1989): 1579–1606. Owens, “By My Absolute Royal Authority,” 227.

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ulace to be legitimate. Without the acceptance by provincial townspeople and rural commoners of judicial processes and rulings, the courts could not function. So how did justice, and the meting out of justice, intersect with popular culture? How was justice popular? The commonly held expectation of communal justice connected the peoples of the rural countryside to the wider Spanish state, Church, and Empire. In many ways Spaniards shared popular expectations of social order and justice that, similarly, account for the impressive cohesion of Spain’s Empire through time and across vast distances. When Spaniards traveled from Castile’s rural countryside to, say, the Andes or Manila, their sense of adherence to the greater commonwealth went along with them. The efforts at conquest and colonialism that eventually proved so successful in the Americas and elsewhere in many ways originated in the Iberian countryside. Many Spaniards, in fact, considered Castile’s remote valleys and backwaters a kind of ‘Indies.’ Writing in the early 17th century, Sancho de Moncada lamented that the peasants of the Montes in central Spain “know less Christian doctrine than the inhabitants of the Indies.”14 The exercise of the courts and the sense of justice they promised shaped the lives of Spaniards in what was always an unruly Iberian countryside. And by engaging with the courts, rural Spaniards found themselves subjected to a kind of colonization not unrelated to the imperial project. The key institution that provided the state a judicial presence over the formidable Iberian landscape was the Church along with its system of ecclesiastical courts, which by the beginning of the 16th century was, arguably, an arm of the Monarchy.15 Not only did Christianity give rural Spaniards spiritual meaning, and a way to understand the cycle of the seasons and their lives, but those in charge of Christian ritual and religion created many of the institutions that governed daily life. Local churches, hermitages, monasteries, pilgrimage sites, and convents, to say nothing of cathedrals, basilicas, and episcopal palaces, all formed a structure that supported more than it vied with the authorities of local government.

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Sancho de Moncada, Restauración política de España, (ed.) Jean Vilar (Madrid: 1974), 74, quoted in Michael R. Weisser, The Peasants of the Montes: the Roots of Rural Rebellion in Spain (Chicago: 1976), 20. William Cavanaugh makes a convincing argument that Early Modern states—Spain, France, and England—had already effectively subsumed the main powers of the Church as early as the late 15th century. See Cavanaugh, “ ‘A Fire Strong Enough to Consume the House,’ ” 397–420. Examples of the many ways that the Spanish king controlled the Church are innumerable, from appointment of bishops, to control of the cruzada, the Inquisition, and even the promulgation of decrees by the Council of Trent.

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The ways in which religious ritual and the Church formed the center of daily life were many: from the parish churches that provided the settings for most great community events—even meetings of town councils, in some places— and personal moments (such as baptism, marriage, and death), to the religious processions, calendars and bells that divided time and gave names to everyone.16 And the Church provided two of the most important institutions for peasants to interact with the state: local church courts under the authority of the bishops and vicars, and the regional, state-controlled Inquisition, with its own network of agents and functionaries. The Spanish Church, in essence controlled by the monarch, made its courts the people’s conduit to the authority of the broader state. After all, church courts ruled on so many aspects of everyday life, from marital disputes to marital promises to—(acting in conjunction with the Inquisition and criminal courts) witchcraft and anything involving a cleric or ecclesiastical property. The Golden Age play Fuenteovejuna encapsulates this intersection among those in power, those subject to it, and justice. In arguably his most famous play, published in 1619, Lope de Vega retells the events of the 1476 murder of a Master of the Order of Calatrava, Fernán Gómez, assassinated to avenge the tyrannical crimes he committed against a town over which he ruled; his most egregious crime was the attempted rape of Fuenteovejuna’s most honorable maiden, Laurencia. The Catholic Monarchs Isabel and Ferdinand initiate a criminal investigation to discover the murderer, but they are unable to find out who killed Fernán Gomez because every commoner, under torture, confesses that the murderer was Fuenteovejuna itself. The village of Fuenteovejuna killed Fernán Gomez. In this story the entire town is implicated in the meting out of justice. Laurencia, the maiden dishonored by the town’s lord, forms a women’s regiment to avenge herself along with the men of the village. The investigator and monarchs who aim to bring justice are, instead, merely bystanders to the true justice brought about by the town as a whole, complicit in the execution of a rapist and a tyrant. Lope de Vega’s play, of course, is a dramatized account of an event which had occurred 150 years earlier, and it is merely one of many of his plays that centered on the theme of communal justice. It rings true, though, in the sense that the ‘people’ mattered in the courts of Early Modern Spain. At least a sense of the ‘popular,’ those without power, mattered. The voices of servants mattered 16

Calahorra’s town council often met in the cathedral. Similarly, Juan Javier Pescador notes that municipal elections were routinely held in the churches in the Basque country. See Juan Javier Pescador, The New World Inside a Basque Village: The Oiartzun Valley and Its Atlantic Emigrants, 1550–1800 (Reno: 2004), xx.

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in courts, as did those of women, because they were all called to testify and participate in proceedings. To quote Lope de Vega’s character Laurencia: “… but if a woman has no vote, she has a voice!”17 Few people fit our definition of ‘popular’ in Early Modern Spain as well as women, since the vast majority of women were left without legitimate forms of exercising power. And yet the courts provided them a voice. As Cynthia Gonzales put it in her study of litigating women in Valencia: “Litigation made these Valencian wives visible as it enabled them to officially document their personal actions, economic concerns, and familial and communal relationships. In effect they became visible by taking their lawsuits to court.”18 Fuenteovejuna also rings true in that it illustrates the connection of the power and character of the crown to the people via the meting out of justice. Judicial systems formed the sinews of the corporal image of the realm to which everyone belonged. Isabel’s and Ferdinand’s court, and their handling of justice, were famously peripatetic, reflecting the remarkable mobility of Early Modern Spaniards. The earliest Inquisitorial tribunals were also peripatetic, traversing the countryside in search of heresy. Later, the Peninsula and Empire became smaller still through Philip II’s centralization and bureaucratic growth, when Madrid became Spain’s permanent capital. Knowledge of the countryside blossomed through royal surveys like the Relaciones topográficas.19 Litigation crisscrossed these expanses of Iberia following highways of communication and trade, overcoming the natural geography that one might assume worked to isolate towns or villages. The sparsely populated, mountainous, and rocky terrain of Iberia would seem ideal for breeding isolated, mutually suspicious communities. However, communication—not isolation—characterized the Early Modern countryside. The dynamic nature of travel and exchange in 15th- and 16th-century Spain is in evidence in many of its documents and cultural products, not only in Don Quixote, in which the knight errant travels throughout Spain. Constant travel is also important in most picaresque lit-

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Lope de Vega, Fuente Ovejuna, in Three Major Plays, (ed.) and trans. Gwynne Edwards (New York: 1999), 55. Gonzales, “Taking It to Court,” 77. On women’s voices in Early Modern courts, see also Gayle K. Brunelle, “Contractual Kin: Servants and Their Mistresses in Sixteenth-Century Nantes,” Journal of Early Modern History 2.4 (1998): 374–394; and Kathryn Burns, “Forms of Authority: Women’s Legal Representations in Mid-Colonial Cuzco,” in Women, Texts, and Authority in the Early Modern Spanish World, (eds.) Marta V. Vicente and Luis R. Corteguera (Hampshire: 2003), 149–164. Alfredo Alvar Ezquerra, Elena María García Guerra, and María de los Ángeles Vicioso Rodríguez, Relaciones topográficas de Felipe II [texto impreso]: Madrid, 4 vols (Madrid: 1993), vol. 1.

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erature. It is further in evidence in the amazingly well-traveled Isabella and Ferdinand, who visited hundreds of towns, serving personally as judges and popularizing the crown couple. Seeing courts as cultural mediums for discourses of power in a way similar to that in which scholars have studied popular participation in festivals provides an important approach to the study of litigation. Francisco Lorenzo Pinar, following the work of Peter Burke and, earlier, Mikhail Bakhtin, has argued that Early Modern Spanish festivals provided ways for people without power in society to comment on and criticize those in power, especially the Church. “Popular,” in Pinar’s analysis, refers to those people who lacked power and authority.20 The Church and state court systems were organized around the same calendar and events that structured festivals (see the Good Friday pardons, for instance, already mentioned); all these systems were imbued with theological and political meanings. Almost everyone—from contemporaries to modern historians—naturally interprets courts and their procedures as onedirectional instruments of power: courts were, after all, institutions manned by university-educated notaries, lawyers, and judges who weighed and measured the situations, actions, and lives of ordinary folk and decided how disputes might best be reconciled. But because Early Modern litigation was a lengthy, orchestrated process involving a wide cast of characters, it can be a fruitful approach to interpret court cases culturally as we do festivals. Generations of scholars have shown how local populaces appropriated festivals to enter a dialogue with state authorities. And, naturally, by entering such a dialogue commoners ratified the powers of the state. Though different in many ways— purpose, time, and space—like festivals, courts and the cases they tried were institutions and processes that allowed for similar kinds of popular expression and discourse. Michael Breen’s view of courts in the French context in this sense is equally appropriate regarding the Spanish legal system: “The contents, procedures, and institutional settings of Early Modern [French] law should thus be understood primarily as a cultural system.”21 Spanish festivals, organized and held by secular and religious organizations like confraternities, have long been a conduit for relaying a vicinity’s identity and history. Local saints’ days and other religious celebrations were (and are) not simply occasions to venerate and worship. Rather, they retold important narratives that constructed and maintained local identities. Such was the case of the town of Peñalsordo in northern Extramadura, which used the com-

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Lorenzo Pinar, “Universos festivos y cultura popular en la Castilla moderna.” Breen, “Patronage, Politics, and the ‘Rule of Law’ in Early Modern France,” 103.

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mon celebration of Corpus Christi to retell its particular history of Christian Reconquest of land from Islam and the birth of the town.22 To this day the festivities retell the legend of chasing out the Moorish armies and the taking of the local castle stronghold in the 13th century. Two key aspects of Peñalsordo’s identity speak to Spain’s role in the Early Modern world: Christianity and conquest. These two aspects of Iberian cultural identity were retold and celebrated in thousands of towns throughout the Peninsula during the centuries as the Reconquest progressed. We still witness this celebration in many of the festivals and inaugurations that occurred throughout Spain in the 17th century. The festivities thrown to consecrate Jaén’s new cathedral in 1660, for example, conveyed to thousands of commoners how Spain was a bastion of Catholicism and had worked to Christianize Europe and the world.23 Saint Ignatius Loyola and the Jesuits, in particular, were glorified during the Jaén celebration as the epitome of Spanish religiosity and purity. Festivals provided marginalized people a rare opportunity to express themselves. Similarly, Early Modern Spanish courts, considered generally—ecclesiastical, secular, and Inquisitorial—also involved the broader public to achieve legitimacy. Traditionally marginalized people were provided voices in Early Modern courts, most often in the role of witnesses, which meant that the procurators believed that such voices and opinions would lend weight to the arguments they were trying to support. However, as in festivals, the participation of the powerless in these proceedings was carefully circumscribed. Witnesses were often only allowed to answer according to a specific list of questions that naturally limited the breadth of their responses. Another example of the use of litigation as a popular forum comes from Sazedon (Sacedón) in the diocese of Cuenca in 1599 when the local town council went to court to force the local parish priest to separate women and men during mass.24 The complaint was that certain women were talking and participating too much in the mass. While the town council and its lawyer appealed to written synodal decrees saying women should be seated separately, the local clergy responded in defense of the women—who were all cited by name—that local custom had always allowed their participation. In the end the local clergy and the women prevailed. This case illustrates how litigation created a forum for the community to discuss the position of those without power in Sazedon. It 22 23

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Castro, “El Corpus Christi y su octava en Peñalsordo, entre la fiesta y la religión,” 1–32. José Jaime García Bernal, “El templo y el imaginario festivo del Barroco: a propósito de la descripción panegírica de Núñez Sotomayor,” Studia Historica. Historia Moderna 30 (2008): 273–318. Archivo Diocesano de Cuenca, Legajo 789/1168.

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shows how litigation provided a medium for representation by which individuals and their communities could express cultural expectations—like justice, or social order, or silent women—rather than their material realities like corruption, turmoil, or outspoken parishioners.25 What few historians have emphasized, however, is how far down the social hierarchy this participation extended. The processes of Early Modern litigation could enmesh entire villages. We know, for instance, that the cheapness of litigation in many ordinary Spanish courts allowed peasants and artisans to engage in various kinds of lawsuits; it was a situation that Richard Kagan summed up so well as a “judicial marketplace” in which prospective litigants might shop for the court and jurisdiction that would prove most favorable to them.26 What is less a focus of scholarly studies, however, is the many other ways people participated in the processes of litigation aside from the roles of litigant and/or defendant. In any given community, courts relied on dozens of witnesses, experts, doctors, surgeons, accountants, notaries, and other community members to carry out their business. The process of litigation, therefore, could embroil a large part of a litigant’s family, household, neighborhood, parish, and so on. Furthermore, because it included witnesses, this participation could cut across the social spectrum, bringing slaves, servants, wives, and daughters to court and giving them an important voice. One of the most interesting and important characteristics of Early Modern courts was their close relationship to the communities they served. Most courts were conveniently located: Logroño’s tribunal of the Inquisition was briefly situated next to the town’s brothel.27 More commonly, courts were attached to the institution that gave them their authority, whether the town’s ayuntamiento, the diocesan cathedral, the episcopal palace, etc. Without appealing to the acceptance of a wider community, Early Modern Spanish justice would have

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On the question of law and the legal process as idealized representations of cultural ideals see Clifford Geertz, “Local Knowledge: Fact and Law in Comparative Perspective,” in Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: 1983), 167–234; and Friedman, “Law, Lawyers, and Popular Culture,” 1579–1606. Regarding the participation of all levels of Spaniards in litigation see Kagan, Lawsuits and Litigants, 126. On the “judicial marketplace” see further Kagan, Lawsuits and Litigants, 35. For the litigation of slaves in court, see Debra Blumenthal, “Sclaves Molt Fortes, Senyors Invalts: Sex, Lies and Paternity Suits in Fifteenth-Century Spain,” in Women, Texts, and Authority in the Early Modern Spanish World, (eds.) Marta V. Vicente and Luis R. Corteguera (Hampshire: 2003), 17–36. On women involved in litigation see Allyson M. Poska, Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain: The Peasants of Galicia (Oxford: 2005), 147–148; and Gonzales, “Taking It to Court.” Monter, Frontiers of Heresy, 145.

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failed. The 16th-century Jesuit and legal theorist Juan de Mariana made this argument explicitly in his De rege of 1599, arguing that law initially sprang from custom as it was best suited to the populace. Law was the people’s defense against princely tyranny.28 In many ways Early Modern courts depended on networks of local relationships to function, so the judicial process was as integral to the resolution of the issue at hand as any final verdict. But efforts by courts to appeal to the whole populace went further than networks of local elites, as we see when we consider the participation of women in court cases as litigants and witnesses. Courts gained their legitimacy, in part, by providing a sense of closure and justice to local communities, as well as an answer to the nearly ubiquitous violence of everyday life. Like much of Western Europe, violence pervaded Spain’s rural areas. Countryside bandits and their gangs were notorious, and in some cases, infamous. Early Modern Spaniards found safety in large urban areas rather than the countryside. Cities provided the protection of walls and buildings, the surveillance of crowds and neighbors, and a system of bailiffs, municipal officers, and courts. In this sense Early Modern peoples understood the relationship between violence and place in a vastly different way than Europeans today. Whereas today violence is often associated with crowded and impoverished urban areas, during the Early Modern period—and in Spain—violence was associated with the ungovernable rural countryside.29 And the Peninsula’s vast countryside, along with the highways that crossed it, was much more dangerous than its jewels of civilization: Spanish cities. This is why most travelers preferred to travel in groups or small convoys. Such traveling caravans not only provided mutual company and conversation, but much-needed protection. An example of how communities turned to the courts to address popular violence is the murder trial of Antonio de Galarreta.30 The residents of the Basque town of Valle de Gordojuela suspected him of killing his wife in 1705. Antonio’s wife died from a massive blow to the head at the bottom of a staircase. The manner of her death caused enough suspicion among local authorities that they arrested Antonio and attempted to prosecute him for murdering his wife. The local police did not have enough evidence, however, and Antonio 28

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Harald Braun, Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Spanish Political Thought (Aldershot: 2007), 44–45. See also the extensive discussion of Mariana in Owens, “By My Absolute Royal Authority,” 217–225. On rural violence in Early Modern Spain see Tomás Antonio Mantecón Movellán, “The Patterns of Violence in Early Modern Spain,” Journal of The Historical Society 7.2 (2007): 229–264. Archivo Catedralicio y Diocesano de Calahorra (hereafter abbreviated as ACDC), Legajo 357/58.

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was soon freed. The suspicions of his neighbors, though, remained. Soon after being freed, 50-year-old Antonio proposed marriage to his 30-year-old maid, María de Urriaga. The parish clergy balked at this attempt by a suspected wifemurderer to marry his lover so soon after his wife’s death; they refused to allow the couple to marry. Antonio petitioned the bishop’s court to force the local parish to marry them. This appeal, in turn, prompted the bishop’s court to open its own investigation of the alleged murder. When officials asked Antonio and María about the circumstances of his wife’s untimely death, they both claimed that she had gotten drunk, fallen down the stairs and hit her head on the corner of a piece of furniture. In its investigation, the church court uncovered the well-known sexual affair that Antonio had carried on with his maid before his wife’s death, and even that the wife had caught the couple in bed together. Considering that local authorities had been unable to convict Antonio for murder, and that there was no way to prevent the marriage, the court did the only thing it could. It charged the couple with publicly carrying on an affair (amancebamiento) and forced them to pay the smallish fine of 1000 maravedís each. This case provides a glimpse into how a community, working through the parish and the church courts, could bring about some form of justice, in this case against a man for committing adultery, abuse, and murder. Even though both the secular and church courts were helpless to convict Antonio of the homicide, the process of litigation allowed neighbors and local clergy to bring the case to light and into the official discourse of the state. If the local clergy refused to marry the couple, then it could be expected that other community members also shunned Antonio and María, perhaps denying them credit, business, and other forms of support. One’s reputation and standing often served, of course, as the only guarantee for the financial and physical aid that people needed to prosper and—when faced with the inevitable calamities of Early Modern life—even survive. Popular opinion was crucial when witness testimonies were the fundamental evidence. Witnesses in matrimony trials illustrate how people could play out the events of daily life in court, involving entire communities in a conversation about authority and justice. In the case of marital abuse cases, for instance, an individual had to make sure that his or her community was aware of an incident before finally approaching the court. We find that in most cases of spousal abuse municipal officials, clerics, or neighbors had already made attempts to calm and reform the abusive husband. Clerics often testified that they had elicited repeated promises from abusive husbands to change their violent behavior. Communities also often prodded couples to seek separation in court. In Calahorra in 1698, for instance, María de Trincado began her case for

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divorce at the insistence of a group of female neighbors and the local cathedral chapter. Neighbor “Angela de Arrieta told [María] that she did not have any other remedy than to get a divorce …”31 The women supporting the abused wife in this case had openly confronted municipal officials who were trying to force her to return to living with her husband. Clearly the close daily fellowship of women and their collective voice helped regulate and mitigate spousal abuse, but their voices became legitimized by the state when they spoke in court. The court in this case transformed popular women’s concerns into legitimate public opinion. Witnesses and their testimonies were not simply a way to determine the truth or find evidence to prove a truth in Early Modern trials. In many ways, calling witnesses and writing down their words spoken for or against someone was a way to measure communal opinion on a given topic. This was the way Lope de Vega portrayed testimonies in Fuenteovejuna: even under torture the commoners of the town—having previously sworn to one another to lie under oath—created justice collaboratively. They did not so much reveal a provable truth, as fashion one. Early Modern Spanish trials may not have had juries as in England, but the taking of witness testimonies was used as a means to gather or measure consensus on an issue from among neighbors and members of litigants’ communities. The participation of women in the judicial process shows that courts appealed to the powerless for legitimacy. Traditionally, it was assumed regarding Early Modern litigation that women were not often called to testify in cases; if they were, their testimony did not carry as much weight as that of men. This assumption, however, simply does not stand up to archival evidence. In terms of the percentages of witnesses, in cases concerning matrimonial litigation, women made up roughly half of all witnesses. In fornication cases tried by the Inquisition, women were also called to testify as often as the men. (Perhaps these results are hazards of my general research topics of marriage and sexuality. Still, other historians have found similar participation by women as witnesses. Cynthia Gonzales has found similar results for contract litigation in Valencia.)32 The point is not simply that women were taken seriously by the courts, but that courts and lawyers felt the need to appeal to the widest idea of community in Early Modern Spain, which included women, servants, workers, and even slaves. Their participation, furthermore, was not simply needed to

31 32

“Angela de Arrieta le dijo que no tenia mas remedio q[ue] Diborciarse,” ACDC, Legajo 27/187/47, testimony by Antonia de Amador. Gonzales, “Taking It to Court.”

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corroborate evidence in cases. Rather, I argue that it was important to include them directly in the creation of a just verdict and the reconciliation of opposing parties. Few judicial practices in Early Modern Spain appealed as directly to the community as much as that of the affidavit of siete deudos by which the court would seek out seven people from the family and/or community of the accused and ask them to swear in favor of the character or innocence of the person in question. This stemmed from the Roman legal practice septus manus.33 Here the creation of justice and truth itself rested in the hands of the immediate community and relationships of the individual. Furthermore, the court and its functionaries devolved a certain amount of authority to the community, and in turn expected its authority to be ratified. The church’s placard, called tablilla in the documentation, was an effective and direct method of publicity in the diocese. Placing a person’s name and accusation on parish placards was a drastic and powerful tool for local church authorities to instruct and control the laity. Tribunal officials could order the use of placards against individuals with or without an accompanying order for their excommunication. Once a community was informed about the tribunal’s goals, the ordinary lay person might further aid in the apprehension of the accused. This functioned much as did the posting of an Edict of Faith by the Inquisition and was most often used to prosecute cases of public adultery, called amancebamiento in Castilian. By referring to the placards, laity had the opportunity to denounce an alleged offender to parish authorities. Placards also informed and educated people about the church court’s expectations for husbands and other men. Perhaps more importantly, the rhetoric of the placards demonstrated the church’s power to control each individual’s public reputation. A good example of the power of church placards comes from the city of Vitoria in 1673. After marriage Magdalena Gonzalez de Chauarri was determined to continue living near her family, even though her husband had moved to distant Madrid where he had business. Rather than relocate with her husband to Madrid, Magdalena decided to try to force her husband to return to live with her in Vitoria. She convinced the ecclesiastical tribunal to place his name on placards in several parishes ordering her husband, Antonio Ruiz de Garibay, to return and live a married life with her. Before the placards were posted, Antonio had paid no attention to Magdalena’s pleas and demands as well as those, no 33

In both Spain and France courts used this method especially to determine if a marriage was consummated or not. See Pierre Darmon, Trial by Impotence: Virility and Marriage in Pre-Revolutionary France (London: 1985); and Behrend-Martínez, Unfit for Marriage.

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doubt, of her family; distance easily muted their complaints. However, what Antonio could not ignore were the humiliating public placards exhibited in parishes in Vitoria (and quite likely Madrid as well) that charged him with desertion and contempt for the Church’s justice. When he was finally forced to address his wife’s litigation, Antonio’s initial plea to the church court contained his most urgent request that the placards against him be removed. Antonio never could convince the court to take down its humiliating placards that called him a deserter and a man in contempt of the court. He was only eventually successful against the church court by removing the case to the court of the papal nuncio in Madrid, forcing Magdalena to move to the capital city with him.34 This case demonstrates how effectively public placards could be used against recalcitrant individuals. Though ultimately Magdalena lost to her husband’s legal maneuvers, she had prevailed at the local level and with the diocesan court in Calahorra. Public humiliation was more effective than simple orders by the church court. Placards succeeded, in this case, in coercing an initially unresponsive man to appear before the court. Against Antonio the court explicitly and publicly contradicted the traditional authority of a husband to decide how and where his wife would live. Once again, more important than the court’s ability to affect the married life of one couple was its public stand chastising a coercive husband. The court presented Antonio to the public as the antithesis of a Christian husband. Court documents provide good descriptions of where and how the litigation process used placards in public spaces to affect communal opinion. As censures ordered by the church court, the charges against the individual were initially read aloud to the parish by an agent of the court and then affixed to the doors of that individual’s parish church. As an example we have a case prosecuted by the Abbot of Nájera against Melchor Sánchez for annulment of his marriage.35 Sánchez had avoided responding to the court by ignoring it. The abbot ordered that disciplinary decrees be posted on the local parish church doors “where those who are excommunicated customarily appear.”36 This official publication of the decree was meant to initiate a public castigation of the accused by local clerics and parishioners, though this often depended on the receptiveness of the audience. In the case of Melchor Sánchez, for instance, although the court’s censures and placards announced his public excommunication as an individual openly defying its authority, the parish of his home

34 35 36

ACDC, Legajo 27/723/74, fol. 1. Archivo Histórico Provincial de La Rioja (hereafter AHPR), Legajo J 965/3. “donde parece se acostumbran poner los escomulgados” (AHPR, J 965/3 fol. 151).

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town repeatedly received him into their church and allowed him to participate in church services, much to the chagrin of his wife and the court. Most aspects of court procedure—from the taking of testimonies, to subpoenas, to the sequestration of goods—were inevitably public knowledge and often conducted in a public manner. According to diocesan ordinances only clerics or married women involved in sexual offenses had the privilege of secrecy in court proceedings.37 The Church granted clerics special secrecy, no doubt to protect its own and the clergy’s reputation. Why the names of adulterous wives were to be kept secret is less apparent. However, in several cases the church court did work to keep the identity of wives implicated in adultery secret. They inked out their names from testimonies and had witnesses silently write their names on pieces of paper rather than speak them openly. Perhaps such ordinances assumed that publicizing the name of an adulterous wife would place her life in danger; or it might have simply been a tactic to reduce scandalous gossip and maintain public order by attempting to keep already tenuous marriages intact. In any case, such secrecy was not afforded laymen tried by the court. Whether the charges were as damning as desertion, gambling, and drunkenness or concerned humiliating factors like impotency, castration, or being a hermaphrodite, publicity was the court’s friend and weapon. In many ways the true meting out of justice was often in the hands of the people who continued to punish convicts long after trials ended. This was especially the case for ecclesiastical courts in which the participation of (and appeal to) the public were even more necessary than they were for secular courts because here the means of punishment depended on community castigation and shame. Ecclesiastical punishments of excommunication and censure would have amounted to little without the condemned’s wider community participation in the court’s decision. The financial and/or physical harm caused by excommunication and censure were important, but minimal compared to the punishments available to a secular judge—who, of course, could condemn someone to anything from jail time, to whipping, or exile, or even death. Excommunication meant that an individual would be banned from local religious activities and denied the sacraments, and so face public rebuke on a daily basis. The Inquisition united many of these aspects of popular participation in communal justice, physical punishment, shaming, and, finally, festival. Its tribunals—though far fewer and less active across the Peninsula than other

37

Pedro de Lepe Dorantes, Constituciones synodales antiguas, y modernas del Obispado de Calahorra y La Calzada (Madrid: 1700), 681–682.

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courts—were generally more thorough. Unlike most other Spanish courts in which it was common for a case to be dropped or for the parties to settle out of court, for instance, Inquisitorial courts were unusually successful in completing their cases and pronouncing a verdict. This is evidence of the Inquisition’s resources, its commitment, and the efficiency of its personnel. It notoriously involved entire communities in its investigations, relying on extensive witnesses’ testimonies and confessions from people of many different backgrounds. Inquisitorial punishment was also more elaborate and costly when compared to that of other courts. In an odd conflation of the secular with the spiritual, the Inquisition prescribed penance, and through penance it reconciled heretics with the Christian community. Physical and pecuniary punishments often employed by secular courts—whippings or fines—also occurred publicly and reconciled the heretic directly with his or her community. Once the penitent completed his or her penance, the parish was supposed to welcome the heretic back into the Christian fold. As in so many other areas, the Inquisition was innovative in its relationship to the wider public, both involving it and excluding it in ways unlike regular church courts and municipal courts. Many scholars have noted the crucial symbiotic relationship between the Inquisition and a popular sense of justice in its celebration of the auto de fe, or ‘act of faith’ that was the triumphant culmination of its judicial process.38 The auto de fe, of course, was the quintessential religious celebration, judicial procedure, and communal reconciliation, in which those in power delivered justice to all those without it: both to the condemned and reconciled and to all those present in a trial. Although secular authorities actually carried out the physical punishments which the Inquisition handed down (whippings, executions, labor in the galleys, etc.), the Inquisition prepared the more important spectacle of reconciliation between the condemned and the Christian community. The auto de fe was a festival that Inquisitors designed to communicate deep meaning and legitimize the entire Inquisitorial process. It was the ideal combination of trial and festival. The attendance of the condemned in their full penitential garb was highlighted at mass in the morning, followed by a procession of the condemned through the main streets of town, often seated on mules, sometimes stripped naked from the waist up. Once they reached the town square the auto de fe would proceed in earnest.

38

See, for example, the study of symbols of the auto de fe in Maureen Flynn, “Mimesis of the Last Judgment: The Spanish Auto de Fe,” Sixteenth Century Journal (1991): 281–297.

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The Inquisition’s production of an auto de fe has been likened to the making of an earthly “Day of Judgment.”39 Certainly, as it developed over time the auto de fe became increasingly Baroque: elaborate, detailed, grandiose, and somber. In order of severity of the crime, from least serious to worst, the condemned would be presented to the gathered crowd one by one on a platform where they were supposed to beg forgiveness from God, the Church, and the community for their heresies. The presence of the spectators transformed them into participants in the trial, and by so doing they gave legitimacy to the Inquisition, its work, and the state that created it. The Inquisitor would then read the punishment and ‘relax’ the condemned to secular authorities—thus washing the Church’s hands of the case—so that another arm of the state, the municipality, could carry out the punishment.40 Over the course of its 356-year history the Inquisition executed a small percentage of victims in person, though that percentage was much higher during its first five decades of operation when the heretics were mainly conversos (Christians of Jewish ancestry). Numbers of people executed can be deceptive because even when the accused were condemned to burn, sometimes they had already fled, and so were burned in effigy only.41 Others burned had died “notwithstanding that thirty or forty years have passed”;42 they were ‘executed’ only after their bodies were exhumed and thus took part, in some way, in the procession and reconciliation. No court fused the state, ordinary people, and popular culture as clearly as the Inquisition. But it is only the most infamous of Spain’s court systems that united the populace to the state. As has been shown regarding many other ordinary church and secular tribunals, Spaniards were already comfortable with legal systems as a means of entering a conversation with the government. In conclusion, then, by arguing that judicial processes incorporated many individuals into a community for the purpose of fashioning justice, I do not mean

39 40 41

42

Flynn, “Mimesis of the Last Judgment.” Bethencourt, The Inquisition: A Global History, 273–286. Figures of the number of people tried by the Inquisition and those executed vary widely. Of those sentenced between 1540–1700 Gustav Henningsen and Jaime Contreras have estimated roughly 1.8 percent were executions of living heretics, amounting to 810 people. See Jaime Contreras and Gustav Henningsen, “Forty-four Thousand Cases of the Spanish Inquisition (1540–1700): Analysis of a Historical Data Bank,” in The Inquisition in Early Modern Europe: Studies on Sources and Methods, (eds.) Gustav Henningsen, John Alfred Tedeschi, and Charles Amiel (DeKalb: 1986); Pérez, The Spanish Inquisition, 170–173; and Henry Kamen’s essay on “Religion” in the present volume. Isidro de Argüello, “Instructions of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, Handled Summarily, Both Old and New. Part I,” in The Spanish Inquisition, 1478–1614: An Anthology of Sources, (ed.) and trans. Lu Ann Homza (Indianapolis / Cambridge: 2006), 61–79, at 69.

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to say that Early Modern Spanish courts were of the people. Rather, Spanish courts were in a sense like festivals which reinforced social hierarchies by allowing everyone to participate in them, giving voice to many ordinary (and ordinarily powerless) people. The public machinations of the litigation processes broadly appealed to many segments of, and individuals in, society to help buttress the foundations of social order, at the same time legitimizing the existing hierarchy.

chapter 11

Civic Ritual, Urban Life Enrique García Santo-Tomás

1

Introduction: Civic Rituals

Recent studies by scholars like María José del Río-Barredo, Diana Carrió-Invernizzi, and Teófilo F. Ruiz1 have connected seminal facets of religious and secular celebrations with some of the most visible cultural dynamics in Early Modern Iberian metropolises such as Madrid and Seville. Their work has analyzed the importance of rituals and parades in the formation of urban identity as well as in the emergence of a national ethos, particularly through the canonization of patrons and saints. Their research has also unveiled the unifying role played by non-calendrical events such as births, weddings, and royal and princely entries, along with the mourning of public figures, oftentimes making the intimate public and turning the human into sacred.2 In addition, the study of the local nobility through its most powerful and influential families by historians like Fernando Bouza and Enrique Soria Mesa and literary critics like Teresa Ferrer Valls and José María Díez Borque3—and in the latter category one has no option but to be very selective—has revealed fascinating aspects of leisurely life in the Baroque, at times pompously displayed, at times enjoyed in the privacy of the household.4 1 María José del Río-Barredo, Madrid, Urbs Regia. La capital ceremonial de la Monarquía Católica (Madrid: 2000); Diana Carrió-Invernizzi, El gobierno de las imágenes: ceremonial y mecenazgo en la Italia española de la segunda mitad del siglo XVII (Madrid: 2008); Teófilo F. Ruiz, A King Travels: Festive Traditions in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Princeton: 2012). 2 See, for example, Steven N. Orso, Art and Death at the Spanish Habsburg Court: The Royal Exequies for Philip IV (New York: 1989); Javier Varela, La muerte del rey. El ceremonial funerario de la Monarquía Española (1500–1885) (Madrid: 1990); and Carlos M. Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Cambridge: 1995). 3 Fernando Bouza, Imagen y propaganda: capítulos de historia cultural del reinado de Felipe II (Madrid: 1998); Enrique Soria Mesa, La nobleza en la España moderna. Cambio y continuidad (Madrid: 2007); Teresa Ferrer Valls, Nobleza y espectáculo teatral (1535–1622). Estudio y documentos (Madrid / Seville: 1993); José María Díez Borque, “Teatro de palacio: excesos económicos y protesta pública,” in Literatura, política y fiesta en el Madrid de los Siglos de Oro, (eds.) José María Díez Borque, Esther Borrego Gutiérrez, and Catalina Buezo Canalejo (Madrid: 2006), 43–78. 4 Thus, Bouza: “buena parte de la aristocracia se entrega a la cultura de la melancolía en el

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_013

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This essay builds on all these approaches, and includes the incorporation of key components of metropolitan culture, both central and liminal—and even marginal—in order to provide a more comprehensive and thought-provoking account of these phenomena. The former includes religious and secular theater, along with other forms of visual display like dances, banquets, coronations, and famous entries by royals and statesmen; the latter part of this panorama calls for a renewed attention to practices like drinking and smoking, all celebrated in fictional accounts that capture the joys and concerns of a society in steep decline. As María José del Río-Barredo has pointed out in a pivotal study, Madrid became both a focal point and a fertile ground for the celebration of all kinds of festivities during the second half of the 16th century. Although it had been chosen the site of the court in 1561, it wasn’t until the 1590s that it acquired an aire de capital, and only in the 1620s began to be thought of as a new political, social, and moral entity. Early Modern maps like those by Pedro Texeira (Madrid, Archivo de la Villa), Julius Milheuser (Madrid, Museo Municipal), Frederick de Wit (Madrid, Museo Municipal), and Antonio Marcelli (Madrid, Museo Municipal) have allowed modern scholars to appreciate the spatial expansion and demographic growth taking place in Madrid, whose main arteries staged the pomp and grandiosity of the Habsburg celebrations, thus rivaling other Renaissance cities with powerful aristocratic lineages like Seville and Valencia. The introduction of the so-called Burgundian etiquette by Charles V in 1548, inspired by the model of his paternal grandmother Mary of Burgundy, facilitated, for example, the transformation of the post of Mayordomo del Rey de Castilla (Steward of the King of Castile) into that of Mayordomo mayor (High Steward) as part of a larger reorganization of his service. New positions were also created, like the Sumiller de Corps—who was charged with everything regarding the running of the inner rooms of the palace where the king lived— and the Camarera mayor de Palacio (First Lady of the Bedchamber). However, as M. Sánchez Sánchez has indicated,5 historical evidence tells us that there was never a stable protocol, since the Burgundian ways were in constant flux, and were also frequently combined with other styles coming from the Castilian and Portuguese traditions; and, as Teófilo Ruiz reminds us, the hegemonic message coming out of all this magnificence wasn’t always jardín, del insuperable gusto artístico, de la poesía ignorante de gramática, de las libreas de fiesta, de los ademanes desembarazados y compuestos, de las cartas que conversan …” (Bouza, Imagen y propaganda, 214). 5 M. Sánchez Sánchez, “Etiquetas de corte: estado actual de la cuestión,”Manuscrt.Cao 3 (1990): 61–77.

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achieved, for there were times when it even backfired: “many of these highly scripted events easily became sites of contestation in which kingly power was often the loser or princely authority diminished.”6 We know, for example, that some of the newly implemented measures allowed a (still) young Prince Philip to have an entourage suited for his position, with a royal service so excessive that it eventually had to be scaled down in order to avoid resentment from nobles and commoners. As a result of these domestic and public changes, etiquette turned the lives of the first Habsburgs into a constant ritual, especially when it came to celebrations like banquets and royal entries. Thomas J. Dandelet has recently described this new Imperial spirit in Charles V as “the rebirth of the Caesar,”7 while Fernando Bouza has spoken of a “cultura de la persona” during the reign of Philip II.8 The Madrid of Philip II, in fact, combined images of power and solemnity with gestures of austerity and piety in a ceremonial framework that was pivotal in the articulation of relationships between the royal couple and their vassals. It is common currency to speak of ocultamiento, or concealment, when referring to the Prudent King in his desire to unite two of the most distinctive features of the Hispanic Monarchy, that is, invisibility and mercy.9 Bouza has written, “Either as a result of the imposition of Burgundian etiquette, or as the consequence of the majesty of concealment imposed by the monarch, or else because of his practice of dealing [with affairs] in witten form, the truth is that the second half of the 16th century witnessed the progressive distancing of the royal persona from the courtiers.”10 The king, we know, followed this ideal when he retired from public view in 1568, thus avoiding all courtly rituals in the city, a city that would later witness the famous 1570 entry of his fourth wife, Ana of Austria, in what would be the largest festivity to date according to its chronicler Juan López de Hoyos.11 The construction of the Alcázar in El Escorial, the creation of the Plaza Mayor, along with the erection of other distinctive buildings,

6 7 8 9 10

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Ruiz, A King Travels, 7. See Thomas J. Dandelet’s recent The Renaissance of Empire in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: 2014), especially chapters 1 and 2. Bouza, Imagen y propaganda, 205. The epithet “prudent” has been turned upside-down recently by Geoffrey Parker in his book Imprudent King: A New Life of Philip II (New Haven: 2014). “Bien como resultado de la imposición de la etiqueta borgoñona, bien como consecuencia de la majestad de ocultamiento que impone el monarca, bien por su práctica de despacho basada en la consulta escrita, lo cierto es que la segunda mitad del siglo XVI supuso el paulatino alejamiento de la persona real en su relación con los cortesanos” (Bouza, Imagen y propaganda, 212). For an overview of this visit, see Ruiz, A King Travels, 109–113.

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captured the vision of magnificence of this “restless” monarch, who for many of his contemporaries happened to be everywhere and nowhere.12 Alfredo Alvar Ezquerra has spoken of the “malleable” character of this young city, one that was organized to the liking of the king under the initial orchestration of Juan Bautista de Toledo, his main architect from 1563 to 1584 along with his disciple Juan de Herrera.13 Madrid experienced in the second half of the century a growth of unprecedented proportions, going from 10,000 residents in 1561 to over 80,000 by 1600. But this inertia was interrupted with the move of the court to Valladolid in January of 1601, an event that, according to the chronicler Gil González Dávila, would delay by more than a decade the full return of Madrid to its former glory.14 It comes as no surprise to read that the palatine ritual grew more and more complicated in the first decades of the 17th century under Philip III, in part resulting from the ambitions of his valido, the Duke of Lerma. These years also witnessed an increase in the processes of identity formation tied to the essence of a Villa that was a hospitable mater to its citizens, as local saints like Isidro (ca. 1070–1130) allowed madrileños to reconstruct their history and to look forward more confidently. The genre of the urban chronicle was particularly sensitive to this endeavor—more so after the 1622 festivities—, as proven by the hagiographies of this saint penned by Alonso de Villegas (1592), Lope de Vega (1622), and Jaime Bleda (1622). In fact, patrons like Isidro and his wife María de la Cabeza (d. 1175), as Del Río-Barredo has aptly indicated, “encapsulated the legendary history of the city, its values and aspirations. In addition to being spiritual protectors, in this period the patrons of Madrid became also emblems capable of articulating the redefinition of a changing city.”15

12

13 14 15

Ruiz, A King Travels, 13. On the nature and functionality of the first two, see, for example, recent studies by Jesús Escobar, The Plaza Mayor and the Shaping of Baroque Madrid (Cambridge: 2004); and Henry Kamen, The Escorial: Art and Power in the Renaissance (New Haven: 2010). Alfredo Alvar Ezquerra, El nacimiento de una capital europea. Madrid entre 1561 y 1606 (Madrid: 1989), 191. Gil González Dávila, Teatro de las grandezas de la Villa de Madrid, Corte de los Reyes Católicos de España (Madrid: 1623). “permitieron encapsular la historia legendaria de la ciudad, sus valores y aspiraciones. Además de protectores espirituales, en este período los patronos de Madrid se convirtieron también en emblemas capaces de articular la redefinición de una ciudad cambiante” (Del Río-Barredo, Madrid, Urbs Regia, 118). For an illuminating study of these phenomena, see Erin Kathleen Rowe, Saint and Nation: Santiago, Teresa de Ávila, and Plural Identities in Early Modern Spain (University Park: 2011).

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A ciudad cambiante. As I have written elsewhere,16 Madrid attracted talent from all over Europe, along with an unmatched generation of Spanish ingenios who turned it into a powerful cultural machine. Local writers like Lope de Vega, Alonso Jerónimo de Salas Barbadillo, Francisco de Quevedo, and Pedro Calderón de la Barca were soon joined by the likes of Luis Vélez de Guevara, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, and Cristóbal Suárez de Figueroa, followed later by Antonio Mira de Amescua (1616), Luis de Góngora (1617), the Count of Villamediana (1617), Guillén de Castro (1619), Tirso de Molina (1621) and the Marquis of Esquilache (1621). Calderón enjoyed many distinguished neighbors, including Lope himself, who immortalized the garden of his house in the Calle Francos (today Calle Cervantes); Góngora, who, as is recorded, had lived on Calle del Niño until 1619, before Quevedo arrived (and where today this street preserves his name); an elderly Cervantes who lived in Cantarranas (today Calle Lope de Vega), Salas Barbadillo on Calle Toledo, Ruiz de Alarcón on Calle de las Urosas, Francisco Santos on Calle del Olivar, Fray Hortensio Paravicino in the city’s Trinitarian monastery, and Tirso de Molina in the Mercedarian monastery near the Rastro flea market and the Duke of Alba’s palace. Most of these streets were located near (or at) the core of the artistic and bohemian quarters surrounding the two major playhouses, Corral del Príncipe and Corral de la Cruz, in which these playwrights spent many afternoons drinking, chatting and watching comedias. These were, in fact, crucial elements in the cultural and social fabric of the era; until the prohibition of theaters in 1642, the playhouses (corrales) were still in use, and would stay so until well into the following century due to their enormous popularity. Madrid thus became a lively metropolis, one that in the following years would also attract a new cast of artists like Diego Velázquez and Peter Paul Rubens (at the court in 1628–1629), as well as famous engineers and stage designers like the Roman Giulio Cesare Fontana (1622) and the Florentines Cosimo Lotti, Pietro Gandolfi (1626) and Baccio del Bianco (1651). Even a figure like Galileo Galilei, perhaps the most famous European of the time, petitioned no less than three times to be transferred there through a number of diplomatic contacts, including his friend Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola.17

16 17

Enrique García Santo-Tomás, Espacio urbano y creación literaria en el Madrid de Felipe IV (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2004). See my recent study La musa refractada: literatura y óptica en la España del Barroco (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2014).

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This massive success, as scholars like Elizabeth R. Wright and others have indicated,18 paradoxically coincided with the corrupt reign of the weak and dim-witted Philip III (1598–1621), nonetheless witnessing the birth of some of Spain’s greatest masterpieces in the realms of art and literature. With the role of the monarch in constant revision and the existence of a city with an unprecedented appeal, his son Philip IV spent most of his life in Madrid, participating in many of the courtly rituals and festivities that animated its streets and squares like juegos de cañas and corridas de toros. El rey se divierte, wrote José Deleito y Piñuela many decades ago in his homonymous study, for this “visible” king honored his vassals time and again much like his vassals honored him.19 Courtly life achieved new heights, for example, with the 1623 arrival of the Prince of Wales for a six-month stay in the city, an event that witnessed some of the most impressive festivities of the time according to chroniclers like Matías de Novoa.20 The royal visit helped the Count-Duke of Olivares to make his official presentation to society successfully with a celebration that topped all the previous ones, thus foregrounding what was going to be a new style of power in which most of the nobility, scholars have argued, would play a very minor role or simply end up excluded. The festivities of 1632, the cults to the Virgins of Atocha and Almudena, and celebrations like Corpus Christi—which presented the city as the head of the Hispanic Monarchy—solidified Madrid’s status as “royal ceremonial city” according to Del Río-Barredo.21 And paintings like Juan Gómez de Mora’s El Alcázar (Madrid, Museo Municipal), Louis Meunier’s Puerta del Sol (Madrid, Museo Municipal), Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo’s Un estanque del Buen Retiro (Madrid, Museo del Prado), Félix Castelló’s Vista del Alcázar (Madrid, Museo Municipal), and Juan de la Corte’s Fiesta en la Plaza Mayor (Madrid, Museo Municipal) captured the magnificence of this powerful and sought-after European capital, but also its dangers and its miseries.

18

19 20

21

Elizabeth R. Wright, Pilgrimage to Patronage: Lope de Vega and the Court of Philip III, 1598–1621 (Lewisburg: 2001); Juan Matas Caballero, José María Micó Juan, and Jesús Ponce Cárdenas (eds.), El Duque de Lerma. Poder y literatura en el Siglo de Oro (Madrid: 2011). José Deleito y Piñuela, El rey se divierte (Madrid: 1935). On the specifics of this visit as well as on the fictions that it inspired, see the essays united by Alexander Samson in The Spanish Match: Prince Charles’s Journey to Madrid, 1623 (Aldershot: 2006). “ciudad regia ceremonial” (Del Río-Barredo, Madrid, Urbs Regia, 148).

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Stages of Pleasure

Dangers and miseries were some of the ingredients that peppered the fiction of the time for a society with many different pastimes at its disposal. Below the visible, official layer of the city, a rich cartography of pleasurable tactics existed that included many of the ones we still enjoy today. This would be the case, for example, with the headaches afforded by the many dangers of gaming houses. One cannot forget the portrait of a gambling den in Miguel de Cervantes’ exemplary novel La gitanilla: the protagonist, a beautiful and talented young girl, visits what was probably a house de escaleras arriba (“Preciosa looked out through the grille, which was low, and saw in a very well-appointed and very fresh room many gentlemen who, some walking around and others playing various games, entertained themselves”) to come up a bit later unscathed and with a barato (tip) for the entertainment provided.22 The treatment of gambling in the fiction and in the political treatises of the time is, indeed, truly illuminating for our understanding of Early Modern Spanish culture because of the equation it frequently built between the nation’s wealth and the family’s patrimony.23 Some of the best-known moralists of the period argued, for example, that the virtuous husband ought to know how to run his household finances properly, for it was by safeguarding the welfare of the family that the larger unit of the state could benefit from a productive society. Many of the texts of the time insisted on the fact that the perils of chance had to be reserved to those who could afford them, that is, to caballeros with means like we read about in Cervantes’ novel—one of the gamblers, we are reminded once the cautious gypsy enters the place, belongs to the Order of Calatrava. The deck of cards had to be an orderly, chivalric, harmless companion to the male urbanite much like the sword, the gloves, the bigotera, and the snuffbox, a sign of social capital to be shared with equals on a specific timeframe. It was by adjusting the body to temporal imperatives which were socially acceptable that gambling could function not only as a catalyst for cohesiveness

22

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“Asomóse Preciosa a la reja, que era baja, y vio en una sala muy bien aderezada y muy fresca muchos caballeros que, unos paseándose y otros jugando a diversos juegos, se entretenían” (Miguel de Cervantes, Novelas ejemplares, [ed.] Jorge García López, [Barcelona: 2001], 40). See my essays “Naipes y tahúres a escena: Las pérdidas del que juega, comedia sin trampa,” Hecho teatral. Revista de Teoría y Práctica del Teatro Hispánico 2 (2002): 23–41, and “Outside Bets: Disciplining Gamblers in Early Modern Spain,” Hispanic Review 77. 1 (2009): 145–164. Also, see Michael Scham, ‘Lector Ludens’: The Representation of Play & Games in Cervantes (Toronto: 2014).

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among the members of the same community, but also as a barometer of one’s identity. But the fictional treatment of these locales wasn’t always that benevolent: plays like Lope de Vega’s Las pérdidas del que juega (1596–1603) and Mira de Amescua’s La casa del tahúr (1616), as well as novels like Diego de Ágreda y Vargas’ El premio de la virtud y castigo del vicio (1620) illustrated the ravishing effects of this appealing, yet addictive civic ritual. There were, however, other very popular pastimes that offered a more democratic and inclusive spirit. Few spectacles were more attractive for the monarchs and their entourage than theater, and soon Madrid became both the engine that inspired many of the most attractive plots and the setting to be celebrated in them. That is, urban space was the catalyst as much as object of attention in comedias urbanas, comedias de enredo, bailes, autos, and many other dramatic genres. But the existing political and social tensions experienced during these decades of upheaval no doubt triggered a good dose of conflict, confusion, and struggle, frequently staged by all the great playwrights of the time. Consider, for instance, Tirso de Molina’s satires on the Duke of Lerma’s pompous palace, Calderón’s concerns on the proliferation of gaminghouses, and Salas Barbadillo’s critique of greedy women as the embodiment of anxieties arising from these new urban realities. These struggles and displacements also touched on the local Parnassus: the dramatic output of these decades was heavily influenced by the social conditions of Hapsburg Madrid, where power relations shaped the dynamics of an extremely volatile cultural field.24 Some of the most notorious episodes in the social chronicle of the court were, in fact, defined by permanent rivalries among the giants of the era: Tirso’s antipathy for Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza, Francisco de Quevedo’s dislike for Luis de Góngora, and Lope de Vega’s puns about Juan Ruiz de Alarcón’s appearance tell us a great deal about this virulent literary field of the 1620s and 1630s. The result of these clashes produced literary testimonies of all kinds, even by well-established writers like Francisco de Quevedo, who spent some time in jail; Lope de Vega, who suffered banishment in his early years; Salas Barbadillo, who was prosecuted for some of his works; and Tirso de Molina, who was expelled from Madrid in 1625 because of political hostilities.25 Notions of center and periphery were more important than ever in this quest to be known, protected, and favored, and the privilege of belonging to the right social circles 24 25

See, for instance, Carlos Gutiérrez’s excellent study La espada, el rayo y la pluma: Quevedo y los campos literario y de poder (West Lafayette: 2005). For more on these rivalries, see Enrique García Santo-Tomás, “Early Modern Geographies: Teaching Space in Tirso de Molina’s Urban Plays,” in Approaches to Teaching Early Modern Spanish Drama, (eds.) Margaret R. Greer and Laura Bass (New York: 2006), 53–60.

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became a true obsession for both artists and their protectors, as we have come to learn from the private correspondence of writers like Lope de Vega, and from the fictionalized lamentations of Cervantes. Del Río-Barredo, in fact, has highlighted the complexity of these competing forces, arguing that [f]ar from being seen as an imperfect stage in the evolution of the modern state, the court is thus considered a true center of power, a complex world in which the courtly nobility constantly made and unmade alliances, as well as familial and clientelary networks with the goal of being close to the sovereign and benefitting from his grace in order to obtain and maintain honors, favors, and privileges of all kinds.26 And so cities like Seville and Madrid were depicted as the symbol of the cosmos and in the shape of a labyrinth, as a site of hidden and covered experiences through the portrayal of flirtatious lads and damsels (escondidos and tapadas), sometimes as a treacherous ocean, sometimes as a mundo abreviado that captured the complexity and variety of nature.27 Metaphors proliferated because the urban experience was always unique and never the same, a veritable ruse, as I have written recently, of speed and restlessness—some narrow streets with too much traffic were compared to the Straits of Magellan!28 And to that particular speed of coaches and carriages navigating Madrid’s geography another type of ‘vertigo’ was added, one brought about through processes of urbanization and demolition, renovation or reorganization, and through inevitable readjustments in social hierarchies; a place of magnificent palaces and beautiful promenades, but also of dark corners, dirty and foul-smelling streets, and the infamous casas a la malicia. Numerous plays from these decades of this true Golden Age of theater subscribe to this dual perception of the city. We now have a panorama of studies that have rendered a very nuanced view of the urban spectacle: Javier Huerta

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“Lejos de verse como una fase imperfecta en la evolución del Estado moderno, la corte se considera así un verdadero centro de poder, un complejo mundo en el que la nobleza cortesana formaba y deshacía continuamente facciones, redes familiares y clientelares con objeto de estar cerca del soberano y beneficiarse preferentemente de su gracia para la obtención y mantenimiento de honores, mercedes y prebendas de todo tipo” (Del RíoBarredo, Madrid, Urbs Regia, 128). Some ritualistic aspects of the veiled woman have been analyzed in Laura Bass and Amanda Wunder in “The Veiled Ladies of Early Modern Spain: Seduction and Scandal in Seville, Madrid, and Lima,” Hispanic Review 77.1 (2009): 97–144. “On Speed and Restlessness: Calderón’s Urban Kaleidoscope,” in A Companion to Early Modern Hispanic Theater, (ed.) Hilaire Kallendorf (Leiden: 2014), 165–183.

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Calvo, for example, has recently insisted on what he calls the “theatrical allegorization of the urban festival,” one that allowed public spectacles to blend harmoniously with the layout of a profoundly sensuous landscape.29 John Jay Allen has spoken of a “true inundation of dramatic representations during this century, in streets, corrales and coliseums,”30 while José María Ruano de la Haza has written fascinating pages on puppet shows during Lent, with “tightrope walkers, magicians and acrobats who performed in the streets, plazas or theaters of Spain.”31 José María Díez Borque, for his part, reminds us of testimonies that mentioned public street theater like Fiestas que se hicieron en Madrid a la beatificación de San Isidro labrador (1620), Relación del feliz parto que tuvo la reina, nuestra señora (1629), Panegírico nupcial by Alonso de Chirinos (1640), and Epitalamio a las felices bodas de nuestros augustos reyes Felipe y María Ana (1649) in which its author Diego Francisco de Andosilla y Enríquez mentions 36 different stages (tablados) for theater and dance.32 And how about its locations? The public sites immortalized onstage were, as we know from the pioneering work of José Deleito y Piñuela, Miguel Herrero, and José Simón Díaz,33 numerous. The Plaza Mayor with its different functions—from an auto de fe to a bullfight celebration—, the Calle de Alcalá with its voluptuous carriages, the many shops in the Calle Mayor, the Plaza de la Cebada where the canonization of San Isidro took place in 1622, and the different puertas where rascals gathered to swindle the newcomers were only a few of the many sites captured in comedias urbanas and carefully depicted in chronicles like Jerónimo de Quintana’s Historia de la antigüedad, nobleza y grandeza de la Villa de Madrid (1629). But the most ambitious project of these decades, and the one that best achieved this blend of physical and symbolic space, was

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“alegorización teatral de la fiesta urbana” (Javier Huerta Calvo, “El teatro en la plaza. La plaza en el teatro,” in Espacios teatrales del Barroco español: calle-iglesia-palacio-universidad. XIII Jornadas de Teatro Clásico [Almagro, 7–9 julio, 1990]), [ed.] José María Díez Borque [Kassel: 1991], 79–97). “verdadera inundación de representaciones dramáticas en el siglo, en calles, corrales y coliseos” (John Jay Allen, “Los espacios teatrales,” in Historia del teatro español, vol. 1: De la Edad Media a los Siglos de Oro, [ed.] Javier Huerta Calvo [Madrid: 2003], 629–653, at 629). “volatineros, prestidigitadores y saltimbanquis que actuaban en las calles, plazas o teatros de España” (José María Ruano de la Haza, “Siglos de Oro,” in Andrés Amorós and José María Díez Borque, Historia de los espectáculos en España [Madrid: 1999], 37–68, at 68). José María Díez Borque, “Distintas posibilidades del teatro en la calle,” in Literatura, política y fiesta, (eds.) Díez Borque et al., 3–26. José Deleito y Piñuela, Sólo Madrid es Corte. La capital de dos mundos bajo Felipe IV (Madrid: 1953); José Simón Díaz, Relaciones breves de actos públicos celebrados en Madrid de 1541 a 1650 (Madrid: 1982); Miguel Herrero García, Madrid en el teatro (Madrid: 1962).

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the famous Palacio del Buen Retiro, conceived by the architect Alonso Carbonell (1632–1633) as a large scenario of squares, gardens, ponds, theater (or coliseum) and casón (or dance hall), in which artists like Carducho, Maíno, Caxés, Pereda, Zurbarán and Velázquez (1634–1635) collaborated.34 We are arriving at a time—ca. 1640—when it is believed that Madrid had reached a pivotal stage in its development, achieving a physiognomy that would remain fairly unaltered for decades, in part because of demographic stagnation. However, in the cultural and political arena there would still be some important changes on the horizon, starting with the arrival of Mariana of Austria—second wife of Philip IV—in 1649, a queen who would contribute greatly to the development of the arts in the following years. Thus, in the 1650s the Coliseo welcomed Baccio del Bianco, a true multi-instrumentalist of the theater world who teamed up with Calderón to deliver masterpieces like the 1652 production of La fiera, el rayo y la piedra; Andrómeda y Perseo the following year; and the 1657 staging of El golfo de las sirenas.35 These were years of substantial technical advances in choreography and perspective that culminated with shows like La púrpura de la rosa (1660), a production that opened what is considered by many to be the last of the great decades of Spanish Baroque theater.36 By then Madrid had celebrated its first 100 years as the capital of an Empire in decline and as the host of a number of unforgettable celebrations and festivities.

3

Importing Taste

If the notion of taste and the idea of what a monarch should be evolved in this century that witnessed changes from the way rulers behaved to the techniques choreographers employed in their theatrical productions, the fabric of the city and its civic rituals were also shaped by the welcoming of foreign influences not only from Europe, but also from the other side of the Atlantic. Some of these

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See the classic study by Jonathan Brown and John H. Elliott, A Palace for the King: The Buen Retiro and the Court of Philip IV (New Haven: 2003). See, for example, Teresa Ferrer Valls, “El golfo de las sirenas de Calderón: égloga y mojiganga,” in Giornate Calderoniane / Calderón 2000. Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Palermo, 14–17 dicembre 2000), (ed.) Enrica Cancelliere (Palermo: 2003), 293–308; and Margaret R. Greer, The Play of Power: Mythological Court Dramas of Calderón de la Barca (Princeton: 1991). For a thorough view of some of these collaborations, see Louise Stein, Songs of Mortals, Dialogues of the Gods. Music and Theatre in Seventeenth-Century Spain (Oxford: 1993).

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experiences arrived in the form of material goods that excited and delighted the senses of the commoner, as we have come to read in the many chronicles of daily life in the largest Iberian metropolises. This phenomenon has become a fascinating scholarly endeavor in recent years, producing a number of excellent books that have unveiled the complex and sometimes paradoxical processes shaping consumer culture in cities like London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Florence.37 Equally generous has been, in the past decade, the Spanish paradigm, as cultural historians, social anthropologists, and literary critics working on cityscapes like Seville and Madrid have successfully demonstrated how social practices like smoking, drinking, and gambling were as worrisome for the city’s legislators as they were fascinating topics for the arts of the time.38 It has been, indeed, through the careful analysis of manuals written by physicians and botanists, of celebratory portrayals by painters and playwrights, and of reformist treatises by theologians and political schemers (arbitristas) that we can better understand the diversity of goods being traded and consumed in commercial towns and large cities of the Iberian Peninsula. As a result, today’s readers have at their disposal a rich constellation of studies on topics that had traditionally been deemed by literary critics as peripheral to our understanding of Early Modern culture. I would argue the opposite case, given the wide range of goals and uses of these textual and visual testimonies: if these products were in themselves highly controversial in nature, more so were the motivations of those who wrote personal apologies on their many benefits as pleasurable answers to the rigors of everyday life. It comes as no surprise that these pleasurable answers were oftentimes determined by religious anxieties, if only because of the heretical nature of some of these imports. Religious orthodoxy—and the lack of it—was, in fact, in the minds of both defenders and detractors when it came to activities like sniffing tobacco, preparing a cup

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See, for example, Simon Schama, The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age (New York: 1997); Lisa Jardine, Worldly Goods: A New History of the Renaissance (New York: 1996); Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (Cambridge: 1996); Subject and Object in Renaissance Culture, (eds.) Peter Stallybrass, Margreta de Grazia, and Maureen Quilligan (Cambridge: 2001); Lena Cowen Orlin, Material London, ca. 1600 (Philadelphia: 2000); Paul Griffiths and Mark S.R. Jenner (eds.), Londinopolis: Essays in the Cultural and Social History of Early Modern London (Manchester: 2000); and Daniel Roche, Histoire des choses banales. Naissance de la consommation, XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles (Paris: 1997). See, for example, the studies coming from different disciplines gathered in my anthology Materia crítica: formas de ocio y de consumo en la cultura áurea (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2009).

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of chocolate, and drinking the famous aloja (a combination of water, honey, and cinnamon sometimes mixed with red wine) in the playhouses. These imports have a controversial biography. The circumstances that enabled their incorporation into Spanish markets and daily life slowly opened the door to a debate focused on notions of gender, class, and place. Foreign elements were negotiated alongside local ones through fascinating dichotomies that opposed the orthodox with the heretical, the central with the peripheral, the barbarian with the civilized, and the masculine with the feminine—or the effeminate, as in the case of beer, brought into Spain by the circle of Charles V’s Dutchmen in the early 16th century. Jokes were commonplace when referring to a drink that was produced industrially in Spain by Flemish, Germans and Alsatians as early as the second decade of the 17th century, with a playwright like Lope de Vega writing through the words of the criado Panduro that “beer is a woman, and wine is a man.”39 But the reality was much more complex than these simple binaries. Of all the culinary delicacies arriving in the Iberian ports from the other side of the Atlantic—sugar, chocolate, coffee, Mexican clay for opilación—, tobacco became perhaps the most controversial import, sustaining an aura of mystery that exceeded that of any other product. As Marcia Norton has illuminated in a masterful study, the habit of smoking defined leisurely life in the Iberian Peninsula as early as the 1590s.40 Well before it became a European phenomenon a century later, its addictive powers had already been alluded to by Christopher Columbus, Ramón Pané—who brought the first seeds to Spain in 1499—, Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, and Bartolomé de las Casas. The existing bibliography on its representation in the Spanish arts is, however, somewhat limited, despite the fact that its impact on Iberia’s major cities was immediate, with Madrid soon becoming one of the great ‘Meccas of smoke.’ The habit eventually became a transnational preoccupation: a verifiable early reference to snuff is found in Pope Urban VIII’s 1642 bull forbidding tobacco consumption in the churches of Seville in response to complaints that both laypersons and clergy were smoking and sniffing not only in church but also during High Mass.

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“cerveza es mujer, / y el vino es hombre” (Parte veinte de las comedias de Lope de Vega Carpio [Madrid: 1625], fol. 72v). See Marcia Norton, Sacred Gifts, Profane Pleasures: A History of Tobacco and Chocolate in the Atlantic World (Ithaca: 2008). See also my reading of certain uses of tobacco in Tirso de Molina’s theater in “Los humos del mercedario: el postre americano de La villana de Vallecas,” RILCE. Revista de Filología Hispánica 26.1 (2010): 62–73.

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Tobacco consumption in 16th-century Spain spread from South to North, from low to high. Such was the case of the famous liquidambar (xochiccotzetl, or sweet gum), cited in some of Lope de Vega’s comedies such as El acero de Madrid. Like other little-known ingredients, it was frequently used as a stimulant that suppressed fatigue entirely, as had been observed in Seville with African slaves unloading cargo. As it gained popularity, it began to appear with increasing frequency in literature and in the visual arts, presented sometimes as a new and fashionably sophisticated activity, but more often characterized as a dubious one, linked to the lower classes. If it gradually became mandatory for a respectable man to smoke, women remained on the margins of recreational tobacco use, which was associated with sexual promiscuity, even though its medicinal value was perceived as virtually limitless: it seemed that there was no ailment that it could not cure, from shortness of breath and arthritis to labor pains and wounds, and even as a prophylactic against the plague, as Nicolás Monardes (1512–1588), a physician from the University of Seville, defended in his Historia medicinal de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales que sirven en medicina (1574). Nevertheless, all these advantages did not prevent it from becoming the object of popular clichés. For example, there was the characterization of the smoker as filthy, his moustache frequently dirty and/or sticky, because of the constant sneezing and loud nose-blowing. There was, indeed, plenty of nasal obstruction in the comedias and satires of the time, following the belief that the harder the blow, the more clarity of mind one would achieve. Sneezing then became an essential part of the process of incorporation of the nasal orifice within an aesthetic shared by other ‘open wounds’ like the mouth, the anus, and the vagina—all elements of a fertile symbolic potential frequently exploited by writers like Quevedo, Salas Barbadillo and Zabaleta. But these jokes concealed a serious reflection on the social standing of the madrileño as affected by the invasion of a mysterious substance that quickly brought with it a heavy cultural and economic capital. This new concern can be traced, for example, in Discurso de todos los diablos, where Quevedo complains of smokers, referring to them as tabacanos, a new word that combines the religious (luteranos) and spatial Other (tabaco). The fictionalizations of tobacco and chocolate therefore captured this transition from medical good to fetishized object, at a time when delicate and small things started to acquire enormous importance in the material exchanges of urban life. Amidst a growing attention to detail, these decades foresaw a taste for the refined, courtly society of the 1800s by abandoning exchanged goods like jewelry in favor of small personal objects in which certain substances were stored. In the case of tobacco, snuffboxes in the form of pumpkins or prayer books—from the

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clergy’s fondness for sniffing—had already become very popular among all social classes with the advent of the tobacco shop (estanco). From the intimate, hallucinatory experience of its first users, Spanish tobacco became, when sold or presented as a gift, the ultimate social experience, traveling not only in space, but also in time: from the brutal past of the Amerindians to the refined modernity of imperial centers of knowledge, where it was also used as a cosmetic to mask foul odors. Many comedias urbanas of these decades, especially those written by playwrights in their senectute, put characters onstage who lamented the passing of time, pernicious influences on the superficial youth, and the loss of a hospitable Villa that was forever gone. Madrid’s social fabric can thus be read as a sort of ‘paradise lost’—or perhaps just as the paradise that never was—, a space that was invaded aggressively by polluting elements of the Amerindian world. The foreign product was assimilated into courtly society, yet processed and expelled as part of human and urban decay. Riches from the Indies were then subject to a double reduction: sometimes evaporating like smoke, other times reduced to filth. Consequently, the highly ritualized consumption of products like chocolate and tobacco gave rise to an excellent metaphor of what the country experienced in the second half of the century: the consumption of spiritual and material riches by a corrupt nation and its tragic evaporation into smoke— “en sombra, en polvo, en nada,” just as beauty dissolved in Góngora’s famous sonnet. This cursory survey would not be complete without a brief mention of other popular customs associated with calendrical events such as those celebrated during Lent. In order to capture this sense of awe and disillusionment, a moralist and costumbrista writer like Francisco Santos (1623–1698) offered in the last three decades of the century one of the most detailed accounts of the festivities taking place in cities like Madrid. Santos wished for an authentic, more traditional way to celebrate local festivities, following an ideology expressed in texts like Juan de Mariana’s De spectaculis (1609), Antonio Liñán y Verdugo’s Guía y avisos de forasteros que vienen a la Corte (1620), and Remiro de Navarra’s Los peligros de Madrid (1646). He was inspired by popular emblems when depicting his famous gigantones, in particular those of Ripa and Alciato, which were behind many of the so-called decoraciones efímeras of the period. He chronicled many ludic rituals of the time, for example how during Shrove Tuesday people ate and drank immoderately, played the game of alfiler (hunt the pin), which involved hiding a pin and looking for it among the clothes of those present, that of the palillo (toothpick), which consisted of passing a toothpick from mouth to mouth, and the famous caldero (apple dunking), in which the victim had to pick up an apple out of a caldero or copper cauldron full of water

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without using his hands. Most striking yet was the author’s recurrent use of the image of the monstrous childbirth during the festivities of Lent to expose the excesses of the city, itself a monster in perpetual reproduction in novels like La Tarasca de parto en el Mesón del Infierno (1672).41 As the effects of social and economic decline were felt deeply in the Spain of the last 30 years of the century, the storm began to be used for allegorical births that were frequently novelized through carnivalesque features like hyperbole and animalization. Santos thus wrote how madrileños played at make-believe scenes of childbirth or law courts,42 among other improvised entertainments, which exhibited that change of roles so characteristic of Carnival. For him, as well as for some of his contemporary writers like Juan de Zabaleta, whose Día de fiesta por la mañana y por la tarde en Madrid (1666) offered a fascinating view of the city’s most appealing and abhorrent pastimes, goods were consumed as were national ambitions, raising new questions on how literature, politics, and economics intersected in Early Modern Spain. 41

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I have offered a detailed account of these fictionalizations in “‘Offspring of the Mind’: Childbirth and its Perils in Early Modern Spanish Literature,” ch. 7 of Medical Cultures in the Early Modern Spanish Empire, (eds.) María Luz López Terrada, John D. Slater, and José Pardo Tomás (Farnham: 2014). On further connections of law courts to popular festivals see the essay “Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State” by Edward Behrend-Martínez in the present volume.

chapter 12

Community and the Common Good in Early Modern Castile Ruth MacKay

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Introduction

On December 21, 1579, five officials in the seigneurial town of Alameda, in the province of Madrid, summoned inhabitants to address a recent request from King Philip II to respond to a questionnaire about the town and its history. In their report, the men wrote that the survey was “for the honor and nobility of these kingdoms.”1 Alameda, which at that point had 100 vecinos (or around 500 inhabitants) was confident that its participation in this project indeed brought both honor and nobility to the kingdoms, and it was not mistaken. A series of seminal books and articles began appearing in the 1980s showing that the Hispanic Monarchy had not been the simple, top-down absolutist machine that generations of historians had made it out to be. The new revisionists worked to understand the dynamics of negotiation between king and kingdom, rey and reino, that kept the machine whirring for nearly 200 years, and they found an immense and satisfying complexity.2 Their emphasis was (and is) on the nexus—usually the Cortes, Castile’s representative assembly— the coming together, the give and the take of money, jurisdiction, and privilege. But though fiscal relationships are often the focus of this revisionist (or, by now, mainstream) approach, and indeed will be discussed below, this essay demonstrates that community in Early Modern Castile involved not only vassalage, or the obedience/authority nexus, but also land use, memory, stories, craft identity, rights, and loyalty, to name just a few aspects. Like so much else in 16thand 17th-century Castile, community was a decentralized and varied notion. 1 Carmelo Viñas y Mey and Ramón Paz (eds.), Relaciones histórico-geográfico-estadísticas de los pueblos de España hechas por iniciativa de Felipe II. Provincia de Madrid (Madrid: 1979), 13. 2 Charles Jago, “Habsburg Absolutism and the Cortes of Castile,” American Historical Review 86.2 (1981): 307–326; I.A.A. Thompson, “Crown and Cortes in Castile 1590–1665,” Parliaments, Estates and Representation 2.1 (1982): 29–45 and many subsequent articles; Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, Fragmentos de monarquía (Madrid: 1993); José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Monarquía y Cortes en la Corona de Castilla (Valladolid: 1990); José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias. Una interpretación (Valladolid: 2008).

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This essay looks at community primarily “from the inside rather than in terms of its relationship with the monarchy,” to use the words of I.A.A. Thompson in a slightly different context.3 I am not arguing that inside was a warm, democratic place, but I am arguing that it is worth historians’ efforts to figure out what it might have been like there. How did it function? How did it feel? What were horizontal and vertical ties like, and what were the elements that people imagined a community must have in order to negotiate successfully with the king or their neighbors? What sort of language did people use to undermine or praise their community? What constituted a good neighbor? And how were community life and social experience shaped by political action? Vecindad as used in the medieval and Early Modern era is sometimes translated as citizenship, though vecino today simply means neighbor. Just as the definition of vecindad was never fixed, or if it allegedly was, it was always disputed; and just as allegedly codified law was always subject to contrary insistence on the higher virtues and validity of longtime practice and custom, so my characterization of community in the pages that follow is, to some extent, extrapolation. This essay charts different manifestations of community, often at times of crisis, offering frameworks that shrank and expanded or that allowed breaches here and there. The república, the society of citizens and of law, rested on general rules that usually applied and offered a repertoire of possibilities for stating claims or reaffirming loyalty, but much depended on contingency, interest, politics, or chance.4 What was never in doubt, however, was the virtue of the collective over the individual. As Thompson pointed out years ago, “The profound belief in individual liberty as a supreme good that pervades Castilian political thought was qualified … by the recognition that the exercise of that liberty had ultimately to be subordinated to the common good of the community.”5 There was ample political theory arguing for the primacy of the common good and enumerating

3 I.A.A. Thompson, “Castile,” in Absolutism in Seventeenth-Century Europe, (ed.) John Miller (New York: 1990), 69–98, at 70. 4 One aspect of community I do not examine here is that based on language or ‘nation,’ which obviously was of considerable importance to the Hispanic Monarchy; for an excellent recent contribution see Xavier Gil Pujol, “Las lenguas en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII: imperio, algarabía y lengua común,” in Community and Identity in the Iberian World: One-day Symposium in Honour of Jim Casey, (eds.) Francisco Chacón Jiménez and Silvia Evangelisti (Valencia: 2013), 81–119. 5 I.A.A. Thompson, “Castile: Polity, Fiscality, and Fiscal Crisis,” in Fiscal Crises, Liberty and Representative Government 1450–1789, (eds.) Philip T. Hoffman and Kathryn Norberg (Stanford: 1994), 140–179, at 144.

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the types and situations that would be considered illegitimate rule, and towns and their inhabitants often spoke and behaved as if they were familiar with that theory. The common good was the ultimate measure of justice, and it was that measure that was on the lips of every town council in the land when they justified whatever it was they were doing: obeying, resisting, petitioning, spending, punishing. David Vassberg wrote a book 20 years ago showing that the insular Castilian village, suspicious and ignorant of all that lay beyond its walls, was a myth.6 Rather, people sought work elsewhere, visited relatives, sent children to work as domestics or apprentices, joined the army, emigrated to America, or followed crops. Banishment, or destierro, within a certain radius and time period was the most common punishment for lesser crimes. (Had it been enforced, Castile would have been a land of the displaced. I have encountered hundreds of banishment sentences but not a single punishment for infractions, indicating it was loosely or only temporarily implemented.) Subsequent historians have used Inquisition records to confirm that image of a restless age,7 which one also finds reflected in contemporary literature, most obviously in the picaresque novels and in the works of Cervantes. People may have been homesick for the patria chica, but they nonetheless moved, often because they had to in order to survive. This physical and demographic traffic could be seen as an impediment to local loyalties (and wanderers in fact were suspicious characters), but it also linked Castilian villages, towns, and cities to one another, reinforcing political knowledge as well as shared stories and histories. Where people lived, where they came from, mattered to them, and it aided them in understanding the surrounding world. Here are four frameworks within which inhabitants of Castile could have recognized themselves as communities: citizenship, memory, Christian solidarity, and vassalage.

6 David Vassberg, The Village and the Outside World in Golden Age Castile: Mobility and Migration in Everyday Rural Life (Cambridge: 1996). Also on mobility see Satoko Nakajima, “Breaking Ties: Marriage and Migration in Sixteenth-Century Spain,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Tokyo, 2011; in ch. 1, she states that of the 346 men and women in her sample, taken from Inquisition records, only 28 (8 percent) had never left their hometowns. 7 For more on this concept of restlessness see the essay “Civic Ritual, Urban Life” by Enrique García Santo-Tomás in the present volume.

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Neighbors

A 60-year-old man named Domingo Martín, a vecino of a village on the outskirts of Valladolid, swore to a notary on March 18, 1637 that he was telling the truth when he testified that his friend Martín Herrera, who had called him as a witness, had planted and reaped grain for years, including that very same year; that his family lived with him; and that he was “useful and beneficial for the said village and this city,” for which reason he supported his friend’s desire to be named a vecino of the village. There were only five vecinos at the time, Domingo Martín said, “and everyone knows that the more people there are the better, and the said Martín Herera was an honorable and tranquil man, and if he weren’t then neither this witness nor the other people in the village would support him.”8 Exactly what a vecino (or vecina) was or wasn’t was never quite the same from place to place, but in general vecindad meant a series of rights and obligations and protection (or punishment) under local laws and traditional customs ( fueros). Because of this indeterminate set of features, belonging to a community and participating in it inevitably implied process and negotiation. It was not a given, and it was both objective and subjective. Vecindad meant someone could vote at an open town meeting (concejo abierto, an institution that had existed for hundreds of years), might have to serve in the militia, or could hold local office, use common grazing lands, and, above all, pay taxes.9 No one particularly wanted to serve in the militia or pay taxes, but they did want to belong. A constant when people requested vecindad is that they had manifested that desire aloud repeatedly over the years. They had been wherever they were for many years (so long that in one case a witness said he thought the petitioner actually was already a vecino). They had families, they testified, and would never move away and would always pay what they owed. They loved their community.10 These petitions do not explain why, if these men had lived in a given place for years and years, they were not already vecinos, but they leave no doubt as to 8

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“útil y provechoso al dicho arrabal y a esta ciudad … y es cosa llana que mientras mas gente hubieren el sea de mas provecho y por ser el dicho Martín Herrera persona muy honrada y bien quieto porque a no serlo este testigo ni los demás del dicho arrabal no lo consintirian …” (Archivo Municipal de Valladolid, Sec. Gen. caja 99.28). The exact name of the village (it was probably an outlying neighborhood) is unclear, but in any case, it was very near Valladolid. On vecindad see Vassberg, The Village, esp. ch. 1; and Tamar Herzog, Defining Nations: Immigrants and Citizens in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America (New Haven: 2003), introduction. For example, Archivo de Villa (Madrid) [hereafter AV] 2.347.21, AV 2.347.28, AV 2.347.29.

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their desire.11 As vecinos, they had a voice. They were part, a small part, of the kingdom, a member of a commune whose very existence was implicit in any treatise about a king’s power and reach.12 It was they who might be consulted by the town council when a new tax had to be imposed, or a corrupt official had to be dealt with, or even (in the case of the towns near Madrid such as Alameda) when Philip II sent round his surveyors to draw up what would become the Relaciones topográficas, the massive questionnaire of New Castile that is such a rich resource for historians. Town officials and vecinos would gather in an open meeting and choose a few men among them (“the ablest and most competent,” according to the instructions) to answer the king’s questions.13 In some cases, towns were required to hold open meetings to decide certain matters, and a representative of the royal appellate courts, the chancillería, would visit to order the meetings. Examples included approval of noblemen’s requests that portions of the common lands be enclosed and approval of census lists and military recruitment lists, as much of the state’s power lay in counting its inhabitants.14 But other times the town council itself decided to summon the vecinos. That was the case in Bilbao in the fall of 1599 when the plague had entered the city. Close to one hundred angry vecinos who were convinced the governor (corregidor) had done everything he could to ruin the city deliberately, including permitting the plague to spread, gathered in a church and voted to impose a special assessment on those who could pay it (a criterion that quickly led to litigation) so the city could meet the onerous costs of combating the disease. In Torrejón de Velasco (Madrid) in October 1638, the town council and “some” (algunos) vecinos met to decide which was the best and “gentlest way for the poor” to apply a new sales tax (sisa) aimed at paying for soldiers, an obligation that was in arrears. Sisas were regressive because they were placed on

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According to Herzog, this sudden need to formalize one’s vecindad points to the entirely contingent nature of something that only later became a formal legal status (Herzog, Defining Nations, 5). Helen Nader, “ ‘The More Communes, the Greater the King’: Hidden Communes in Absolutist Theory,” in Theorien kommunaler Ordnung in Europa, (ed.) Peter Blickle (Munich: 1996). “Los mas hábiles y suficientes”; the instruction appears throughout the questionnaire. Gerónimo Castillo de Bovadilla, Política para corregidores y señores de vasallos (Madrid: 1978 [1597]), vol. 2, ch. 16, 574–575; for open meetings to approve population and recruitment lists see, for example, Archivo de la Real Chancillería de Valladolid [hereafter ARCV] DM SG legs. 260 and 285. For a classic and detailed account of one open meeting see I.A.A. Thompson, “El concejo abierto de Alfaro en 1602. La lucha por la democracia municipal en la Castilla seiscientista,” Berceo (1981): 307–331.

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food staples; most towns and cities were carrying multiple sisas from the mid16th century to the mid-17th century, and a decision to tax oil or meat or wine was a serious one that townspeople may have thought they should have a say in. In the case of Torrejón de Velasco, they opted to tax meat and lard.15 Generally these meetings were in a church; it was the largest building in town, of course, but townspeople cannot have been indifferent to the fact that good government and the common good were being enacted in God’s house, the place where parishioners gathered to pledge their love and witnessed each other’s joys and sorrows. Church bells announced the meetings, a fact invariably recorded in the acts: “they joined together in an open meeting to the sound of tolling bells.” In Carmona (Seville) a few years earlier, around 110 people gathered in the church at 2p.m. to figure out how to pay for 20 soldiers they were obliged to supply; the vecinos included craftsmen of many stripes, town leaders identified as ciudadanos, laborers, and a lawyer, who spoke longer than anyone else. After the church bells chimed and the town crier announced that the meeting would begin, each participant proposed tax options and then votes were cast. As in Torrejón de Velasco, the verdict was for meat, which might have been slightly less onerous for the poor, who probably bought very little meat anyway.16 The point of virtually all these meetings was to impress upon the crown that the town was poor, had fewer people than the crown thought, was already burdened with taxes, and had suffered multiple calamities. But the meetings, open or not, also gave life to municipal institutions and practices whose existence and history were a reminder of where people resided in the republic’s mystical body, all of whose parts were essential. So the ability of towns, no matter how small, to decide which taxes would fund, for example, military recruitment or a barber-surgeon’s salary, reflects political choices and priorities. That was also the essence of the contract between the king and the Cortes, and between the Cortes and the cities, most notably with the millones tax, more on which below. These tax decisions may not have been made in open meetings (in fact most probably were not) but they still point to the unquestioned role of the municipality and, by extension, the unquestioned importance of a resident belonging to that collectivity in a formal way. Taxes, no matter how unpleasant, bound one to the republic, and there was no petition by craft guilds that did not point 15 16

“… el medio mejor y mas suave para los pobres …” (AV 3-418-8). The Carmona meeting, along with those held in other towns near Seville to obtain permission to levy sales taxes, is in Archivo Histórico Nacional [hereafter AHN] CS leg. 40891. The crown had to approve sisas; it generally did so but might modify the amount to be raised depending on what the money was being used for.

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out to the relevant municipal authority that weavers and tailors and farriers all paid taxes and that those taxes benefited the community. Townspeople were summoned to open meetings not only by bells but by town criers (pregoneros). The crier, his voice always described in town council minutes as “clear and loud,” called people to meetings, read laws aloud, announced prices, delivered legal verdicts and punishments so all could hear, and cried out edicts prohibiting or ordering townspeople to do whatever it was the town council had decided. Most of these announcements also were posted in town squares, but the visible was amplified with the aural. The crier had specified routes and certain places where he should stop and read aloud; Madrid had as many as 25 such spots, depending on the issue. The pregonero’s routes thus described the commune. In 1552 when Charles V issued a packet of excruciatingly detailed economic measures to get allegedly excessive shoe and leather prices under control, including taxes, tariffs, and prohibitions on an endless variety of shoe styles, parts of these measures were to be cried out.17 Unskilled carpenters (albañiles) in Toledo in December 1590 demanded that their guild’s ordinances, originally drawn up in 1534, be read aloud “for the much that they contribute to the good and universidad of this republic.”18 When the Valladolid city council decided that city buildings across the Esgueva River currently leased to second-hand clothing vendors (the lowest of the low) should instead be rented out, for days on end the pregonero went through the streets announcing that bids would be accepted.19 In Seville, when town criers announced that Gypsies must not do any labor other than farm work, a group of Gypsy smiths protested the measure, saying they provided “notable benefit to this republic.”20 A crier in Alcalá 17

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“La prematica que Su Magestad ha mandado …” and “Las pregmaticas que Su Magestad ha mandado …” These are the same document, found at the Hispanic Society of America under “Spain, Laws, Statutes, etc.”: Toledo, Juan de Ayala, 6 September 1552; and Alcalá de Henares, Casa de Juan de Brocar, 14 November 1552. Also in Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid) [hereafter BN] Raros 14090. “… por lo mucho que importa al bien e universidad desta Republica …” Ordenanzas para el buen régimen y gobierno de la muy noble, muy leal e imperial Ciudad de Toledo (Toledo: 1858), 37. The lexicographer Covarrubias defined universidad as “community and the coming together of people and things … also certain peoples who have union and friendship among them are called universidades” (“Vale comunidad y ayuntamiento de gentes y cosas … tambien se llaman universidades ciertos pueblos que entre sí tienen unión y amistad”) (Sebastián de Covarrubias Orozco, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o Española [1611] [Madrid: 1995]). Archivo Municipal de Valladolid [hereafter AMV] Sec. Gen. caja 14.1. “notable beneficio de toda esta republica …” (Archivo Municipal de Sevilla, Sec. IV Escrib. 16/42).

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de Henares in 1599 ordered that any person who knew of anyone else who had buboes or who had died of them must alert authorities so the victims’ belongings and clothing could be burned.21 In 1620 the Royal Council said that city officials in Madrid must set market prices on fish, fruit, and other food which should be announced on a daily basis in the Plaza Mayor, Santo Domingo, San Luis, Antón Martín, and the Puerta del Sol, all at fixed hours.22 And on and on. People in small towns and large cities, vecinos or not, were reminded, probably on a daily basis, of their obligations, of who their neighbors and local authorities were, and of the greater good that would be served by doing or not doing something. But even as orders were being called out, it was clear to everyone, judging from the documentation, that orders were a starting point for negotiations—for a conversation, as it were—and that the pregonero’s loud and clear voice was part of that conversation.

3

History and Memory

Communities’ sense of themselves grew out of their access to and use of memory, law, and history. Each was useful, each was valid. Collective memory, as Patrick Geary observed, is identity-forming.23 In weighing law against custom, more or less equivalent to practice, the fact that something was written did not make it immutable, and the fact that something was considered a custom did not mean it was not written. Writing about Germany, Mack Walker pointed out that “there is just as much reason to believe in the relative novelty of a Custom as in its antiquity,” but neither in Germany nor in Castile did that make custom any less useful as a rallying point.24 In a lawsuit over the cancellation of a market in Carrión de los Condes (Palencia), for example, plaintiffs alleged that “the said market in the said barrio was a custom used and protected since time immemorial.”25 If something had always been done a certain way, it was probably because a community had seen and learned that it was thus better served. Or at least so it claimed. As José I. Fortea Pérez wrote, all parties to municipal

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Real Academia de la Historia, Jesuitas 9-3662/182. AV 3.404.37. Patrick J. Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium (Princeton: 1994), 12. Mack Walker, German Home Towns: Community, State, and General Estate, 1648–1817 (Ithaca: 1971), 36. “el dicho mercado en el dicho barrio … era costumbre usada y guardada de tiempo immemorial …” (ARCV Registro de Ejecutorias, caja 1896, 87).

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conflicts, including the crown, argued their case pointing to laws dating back to the Catholic Monarchs or even further.26 Town officials who responded to Philip II’s request for information for the Relaciones topográficas cited what their ancestors had known, stories they themselves had heard, or things that the oldest members of the community said had happened long ago. In the village of Ciruelas (which in 2007 still had 114 inhabitants), in the province of Guadalajara, for example, people venerated St Blas “because of the plague in that place, according to what the oldest and most ancient said they had heard from their elders …”27 People remembered the disasters but they also remembered the accomplishments and the privileges. And they often had pieces of paper to prove them. In the words of James Casey, “The guardians of the national memory were not the school-teachers of a later age but the lawyers and the king.”28 It was the fueros, the often quasi-mythical ancient laws, the privileges, even the city council minutes that testified to the town’s place in the republic and its enactment of good government. If something had been done in the past and either a piece of paper or someone’s extraordinary memory could confirm it (which they invariably could), then it could be done again, and it formed part of a town’s patrimony. What people remembered, what they knew to be true from time immemorial, often trumped the letter of the law, which in any case was indistinct. Documents might indicate claims, but not necessarily entitlement. But it might also happen that the written word would triumph over the invocation of time immemorial. In any case, when municipalities spoke, either as institutions or with their vecinos behind them, they were sure they spoke on the side of history. Making a claim implicitly acknowledges one has the right to do so, and that collective right was based on practice, regardless of which orders had been issued by whom.

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José I. Fortea Pérez, “Los abusos del poder: el común y el gobierno de las ciudades de Castilla tras la rebelión de las Comunidades,” in Furor et rabies. Violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad Moderna, (eds.) José I. Fortea, Juan E. Gelabert, and Tomás A. Mantecón (Santander: 2002), 183–218, 211. “por la peste que en dicho lugar hubo segun que los viejos y mas ancianos decian haber oido a sus pasados …” (Relaciones topográficas de España. Relaciones de pueblos que pertenecen hoy a la provincia de Guadalajara, [ed.] Juan Catalina García, vol. 47 of Memorial Histórico Español [Madrid: 1903], 79). James Casey, “Patriotism in Early Modern Valencia,” in Spain, Europe and the Atlantic World: Essays in Honour of John H. Elliott, (eds.) Richard L. Kagan and Geoffrey Parker (Cambridge: 1995), 188–210, at 189. Casey here is talking about the Spanish Monarchy in general, not just Valencia.

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For an example of the simultaneity of memory and law, take the town of Bedmar (Jaén). Towns forced to come up with money to pay for soldiers could levy sisas, as we saw, and they also could enclose common lands to create a dehesa, an area for grazing. To do the latter, they had to prove that similar permission had been granted in the past, which sent town clerks everywhere scurrying to their archives. Bedmar received permission to create the dehesa but could not find the required papers, so it wrote to the king telling him the bad news. The previous existence of an approved dehesa “is known only through the word of many old people who saw the enclosure and knew of the royal permission [ facultad],” the town said, and it begged the king to relent so it could better serve him. The Council of Castile was unwilling to bend the rules, however, and told Bedmar it would have to rely on sisas on wine and meat to raise the money. But that verdict “appeared so harsh and injurious to the vecinos of this town, and particularly to the poor,” that the town council appealed and once again asked that it be allowed to enclose the dehesa even without the paper. This time the request was successful; the Council of Castile withdrew permission to levy sisas, and allowed the enclosure to proceed.29 Continual negotiations and haggling over taxes, which could take place at the lower level and certainly always affected it, made these encounters between judicial instances part of the daily political life of Castilian communities. Castile’s love of litigation30 and its frankly chaotic codification are the source of much humor in contemporaneous literary works, and historians used to simply throw up their hands at such petty belligerence and backwardness. But the complexity of the contest between law and custom or of competing codes was part of the dynamic by which communities acquired the ability to act and be heard. Nothing was ever quite settled, which had its advantages. The balance between written, codified law and memory (in its multiple forms) came into play when the community met the crown, generally to seek dispensation, always for the good of the poor, or when it met competing communities, usually to claim rights. Another reflection of the weight and utility of the past for Castilian communities is that as they captured territory from the Muslims, Christians began writing their history, generally as part of a strategy to secure particular ecclesiasti-

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“solo se sabe por noticia que de ello tienen muchas personas ancianas que vieron el rompimiento hecho y ganada la dcha facultad real … han parecido tan asperos y dañosos a los vecinos de esta villa y en particular a los pobres …” (AHN CS 40891). This was part of the same series of meetings as seen earlier with Carmona. On this tendency to be litigious see the essay “Popular Culture, Spanish Law Courts, and the Early Modern State” by Edward Behrend-Martínez in the present volume.

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cal, seigneurial, municipal, or royal jurisdictions.31 With these written histories, cities and towns might be asserting tax exemption or celebrating their independence from former overlords or making a case for some institution to establish itself there. Cities were said to be beautiful, blessed with good air and water (the latter was so wonderful in Alameda, the respondents to Philip II’s survey said, that Queen Isabella used to drink it always when she was in Madrid),32 founded by ancient heroes, the source of abundant and useful crops and objects, and inhabited by the king’s most loyal vassals. Cities in the 15th century (and later) spoke of themselves as “very noble” and “very loyal,” the suggestion being they had been practicing those virtues for a long, long time, and indeed that their nobility was tantamount to a title.33 Richard Kagan uses the term chorography, “a detailed description of a particular place,” when writing about local histories, which multiplied swiftly during the Early Modern era. While he counted fewer than ten published in 1500–1549, there were more than 60 in 1600–1649, and around 35 in the second half of the 17th century.34 Did townspeople themselves read these books or pamphlets? Many certainly could have, as literacy appears to have been more widespread than once thought.35 But tales of the past also could have been read aloud or acted in festivals or historical reenactments “as a way of teaching the local populace about the myths and historical moments that made their city unique.”36 Watching a historical spectacle or hearing an account together was a way of cementing community, a way of reminding people who they were and where they came from. Patrick Geary has written of “the right to speak the past,” and I am arguing that that right, that action, constitutes a claim also on the present and on

31 32 33 34

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In general, see Peter Linehan, History and the Historians of Medieval Spain (Oxford: 1993). Viñas y Mey and Paz (eds.), Relaciones histórico-geográfico-estadísticas, 15. Adeline Rucquoi, “Des villes nobles pour le Roi,” in Realidad e imágenes del poder. España a fines de la Edad Media, (ed.) Adeline Rocquoi (Valladolid: 1988), 195–214. Richard L. Kagan, “Clio and the Crown: Writing History in Habsburg Spain,” in Spain, Europe and the Atlantic World, (eds.) Kagan and Parker, 73–99, at 85, 92; further developed in Richard L. Kagan, Clio and the Crown: The Politics of History in Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: 2009). For a general discussion of literacy see Sarah T. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile,” Past & Present 125 (1989): 65–96; Antonio Viñao Frago, “The History of Literacy in Spain: Evolution, Traits, and Questions,” History of Education Quarterly 30.4 (1990): 573–599; and James Amelang, The Flight of Icarus: Artisan Autobiography in Early Modern Europe (Stanford: 1998), 52–56. Richard L. Kagan, “Clio and the Crown: Writing History in Habsburg Spain,” 98; see also Casey, “Patriotism,” 197, for such a festival in Valencia.

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one’s village, town, or city.37 When town leaders gathered to answer Philip II’s questions about their town, they might have turned to their elders, but in general establishing sequences of events was a work in progress. A great deal of talking—with one’s neighbors—was necessary to establish what happened when and in relation to what else and what events’ hierarchy of importance was. Similarly, legal testimony (always essential when requesting privileges or affirming rights) was not necessarily chronological. People dated events by how long ago they took place, how close to a saint’s day it was, or if it was just before the war (more or less). These estimations were the product of conversation and a common, and commonly elaborated, sense of the past.

4

Faith and Charity

The direct Spanish translation of community is comunidad, a word that carried heavy subversive baggage. Covarrubias defined the word (in plural) as “the rising up of peoples who, in the end, as they have neither direction nor basis, are lost.”38 The most famous case of comunidades in Castilian history, and the one Covarrubias probably had in mind, was the 1520–1521 uprising known as the Comuneros’ Revolt, in which cities and towns throughout Castile rose up against their new king, Charles I, just as he left Spain to be crowned Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire. The revolt encompassed a variety of deep-seated grievances: the Cortes neither wished to fund overseas projects nor to be governed by foreign, i.e. Flemish, substitutes for the absent king; the cities (which were not unanimous) resisted encroachments by the nobility; artisans and merchants demanded more voice and fewer taxes; and to some degree the peasantry also got involved. Social divisions ended up dooming the uprising, which nonetheless was spectacular while it lasted. The clergy, both regular and secular, played a disproportionately large role, acting as messengers, mediators, haranguers, and ideologues. Of the 293 people who eventually were excluded from Charles’ 1522 general pardon, 21 were clergymen.39 In the 37 38 39

Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 7. “… los levantamientos de pueblos, que al fin, como no tienen cabeza ni fundamento, se pierden” (Covarrubias, Tesoro, 341). Joseph Pérez, La revolución de las Comunidades de Castilla (1520–1521), trans. Juan José Faci Lacasta (Madrid: 1977), 482; more recently, Fernando Martínez Gil (ed.), En torno a las Comunidades de Castilla (Actas del Congreso International “Poder, conflicto y revuelta en la España de Carlos I”) (Cuenca: 2002). In English see the out-of-date Henry Latimer Seaver, The Great Revolt in Castile: A Study of the Comunero Movement of 1520–1521 (New York: 1966 [orig. 1928]); and Stephen Haliczer, The Comuneros of Castile (Madison: 1981).

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words attributed to an imprisoned Palencian priest, “the communities could do what they did because when princes are tyrants, communities must govern.”40 No wonder Covarrubias frowned. The Comuneros’ principal political entity was called the Santa Junta. This manifest overlay of holy and secular—which existed both before and after the revolt, but perhaps never with such clarity—created yet another potent breeding ground for commonality. Bound in rebellion, townspeople manifested some higher spiritual force, a common good that complied both with God’s will and with centuries of real or imagined law and practice. The simultaneity of holy and secular is not unusual, of course. Nearly every town and city had convents or monasteries, places of fictive kinship that were visible exemplars of ideal communities. The German Peasants’ Revolt, nearly contemporaneous with the Comuneros, and untold numbers of uprisings throughout Europe in the late Middle Ages also featured angry poor people convinced that God was on their side. The important note here is that throughout the two centuries following the revolt, Castilians remembered the Comuneros and continued to believe that civic and Christian devotion were not unrelated. Collective oaths (usually juramentos) or vows (votos), which could unite a community under physical and moral stress and define allegiances, were another example of public rituals that crossed secular and holy boundaries. During the Comuneros’ uprising, they were frequent. Oaths were taken by leaders and by entire towns, as when the people of Valladolid first physically and verbally abused the papal nuncio and then took an oath that no local junta members or town officials would speak to him further.41 Oaths were used (as they would be years later in the French Revolution) for the purposes of collective integration and coercion. One of the most radical of the Comunero leaders was Antonio de Acuña, Bishop of Zamora, who organized a monthlong road show through friendly territory before arriving in Toledo to proclaim himself Archbishop. Along the way, towns held oath-taking ceremonies as he arrived; the official accusation against Acuña, who was later executed, referred repeatedly to the “so-called Community” he championed, a delegitimizing device not unknown in our day.42 At the same time, of course, vows were religious events,

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“afirmaba que bien podían hazer las comunidades lo que hacían porque quando los príncipes eran tiranos las comunidades havian de governar …” (Lic. Cabezón to Charles V, August 4, 1521, cited in Manuel Dánvila, Historia crítica y documentada de las Comunidades de Castilla [Madrid: 1898], vol. 4, 441). Cardinal Adrian to Charles, February 6, 1521; cited in Dánvila, Historia crítica, 3:204. “… de la que decía Comunidad” (cited in Luis Fernández Martín, El movimiento comunero en los pueblos de Tierra de Campos [León: 1979], 498).

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generally celebrated by communities to request a saint’s intercession. According to William Christian, they “were contracts with the divine that theoretically had to be fulfilled, even if a hundred years had passed and all the villagers who had made the original vow had died … They were the corporate obligations of the community to the divine and were legally binding, usually drawn up officially as an act of government.”43 Public rituals, which implicitly evoked the past by virtue of the fact that they were so often repeated, also included civic events such as the open town meetings (convoked, as we saw, with church bells and held in churches) and historical and commemorative festivals, and naturally also included religious processions, the latter following a prescribed route, like that of the town criers. The repetitive, cyclical nature of religious rites, whether during the mass or on holidays, was a way of instilling memory and anchoring communities in their past and amid their surroundings. Processions gave thanks for God’s mercies, such as when epidemics receded or when rain fell at last or the locusts departed, or they simply marked the liturgical calendar. They brought people together and made visible who was who: dignitaries, parishioners, craftsmen, confraternity members, local nobility. When Valladolid celebrated the end of a virulent plague in 1599 there was a procession to the Monastery of San Francisco that the city council ordered to be announced “with trumpets and drums, even if it’s nighttime.” First would come the musicians, then the bailiffs, the city council dressed in velvet, then the town scribe (all on horseback), and it would be pregonado “in all the public squares and the usual places.”44 There was an infinite number of such civic and religious spectacles, familiar to anyone who reads Spanish (or European) history. The point is that they made community and authority visible (and audible) and were things in which townspeople physically participated, embodying their community. Yet another physical and holy manifestation of community was the always welcome presence or discovery of relics, real or otherwise. That these discoveries coincided with the rise in written local histories is no accident; both were ways of securing a place’s glorious past, and indeed the histories generally emphasized that saints and martyrs had once walked the village streets and found comfort in its inevitably beautiful countryside.45 As a saint’s severed fin-

43 44 45

William Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton: 1981), 32. “con trompetas y atabalas aunque sea de noche … lo qual se apregone en todas las plazas publicas y partes acostumbradas …” (AMV Actas, sig. 22-0, December 16, 1599). Among recent contributions are Katrina B. Olds, Forging the Past: Invented Histories in Counter-Reformation Spain (New Haven: 2015); María Tausiet, El dedo robado. Reliquias imaginarias en la España moderna (Madrid: 2013); and A. Katie Harris, “Gift, Sale, and

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ger or even her fingernail could stand in for the whole body, so too could one vecino, one town, be a part, a member, of the body politic. These departed saints had their shrines, sites of what William Christian memorably called “local religion,” where solidarity and mourning were collectively observed. If both in fact and in fable Castilians were enthusiastically litigious, their frequent visits to courtrooms should be seen not as an indication of frivolity or mean-spiritedness but rather a shared conviction that the common good, el bien común, which naturally was represented by their side, ultimately would win out. The king’s power was, at least rhetorically, never questioned, but on countless occasions the king’s vassals took it upon themselves to point out that particular situations or orders might endanger the ultimate objective of the king’s rule, which was justice. Castilian political theorists did not perceive the king’s subjects—any of them—to be passive beings. Rather, their relationship to their ruler was, in the words of Francisco Suárez (a Jesuit at the University of Salamanca), one of “active obedience” that rested on the pillars of freedom and equality.46 In the same vein, a fellow Jesuit, Juan de Mariana, in a 1598 mirror book for the future Philip III, wrote: “Given that royal power, if it is legitimate, is born from the people, and that the first kings of all commonwealths were placed in the summit of the state only through the consent and will of the people, it must be limited from the start by laws and sanctions so that its excesses do not harm subjects and it does not degenerate into tyranny.”47 This meant that simple obedience was not always mandatory or even desirable; orders contrary to established law, legal principles, or privileges, unless expressly excepted, were not to be obeyed until confirmed. This gave rise to the famous formula, “to obey and not comply” (obedecer y no cumplir), by which vassals recognized the legitimacy of the authority in general, but not in this specific case.48 Laws must be just and must respond to the common good, a fixture in juridical language starting from the 15th century and a ubiquitous term in the everyday language of Castilian communities. For Covarrubias, in fact, one definition of repúblico was “a man who deals with the common good.”49 Members of city councils and other officials spoke of their tasks as an enact-

46 47 48 49

Theft: Juan de Ribera and the Sacred Economy of Relics in the Early Modern Mediterranean,” Journal of Early Modern History 18 (2014): 193–226. Cited in José Antonio Maravall, Teoría del estado en España en el siglo XVII, 2nd ed. (Madrid: 1997), 323. Juan de Mariana, Del Rey y de la institución real (Barcelona: 1880), 162. Ruth MacKay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in SeventeenthCentury Castile (Cambridge: 1999), 1–2. “el hombre que trata del bien común” (Covarrubias, Tesoro, 861).

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ment of the common good, and though the language at times may have been formulaic, language does mean something. The indeterminacy of law in Early Modern Castile was such that nearly everything concerning rights and justice and the past was up for grabs, though the eventual winners naturally tended to be those in power. But as long as the fight lasted, parties had the tacit, de facto authority and even the obligation to define law, and communities did so using the common good as its yardstick. The term forced a consideration of what ‘common’ meant; in 1636 the town council of Zamora complained that a military official was “paying more attention to serving the king than to the common good of the commonwealth,” a significant distinction.50 The Cortes in 1632 heard complaints about royal governors who were “mindful more of their own interest than of the common good.”51 Thus ‘common’ was not ‘them’—it was us, the people, the community. The common good was a political virtue, but it also easily could be translated into economic terms. Guild ordinances were always written and defended and pregonadas with the public in mind, and no minor attribute was too small to deprive it of the majesty of the common good. Cobblers in Madrid in 1621 proclaimed the right to cut soles to replace them in old shoes “for the common good of the poor”;52 and 30 years later the same cobblers, or probably their sons and nephews, were claiming that they should be able to sell soles all day every day because it was “useful and advantageous to the public good.”53 Their comrades in Cantabria claimed in the highest royal appeals court that peddling leather throughout the hills and valleys of northern Spain, which they had been doing since time immemorial, was a “public good.”54 Back in Madrid, a lawyer for men who patched old hats and then resold them argued that his clients “benefit poor and needy, honest people [and] it is both useful and advantageous that they remain” where they were, which was the point of the litigation.55 Similarly, confraternities, which had religious as well as occupational identities, were dedicated to preserving the well-being of their community and

50 51

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“… atendiendo mas en él al real servicio que al bien comun …” (Archivo General de Simancas [hereafter AGS] GA leg. 1178, city to king, April 17, 1636). “La experiencia ha mostrado los grandes y notables daños que padecen las villas y lugares destos Reynos a causa de las visitas que hazen en ellos cada un año los Corregidores, sin atender al bien comun sino sólo a su interes propio …” (Escritura que el Reyno otorgo del servicio de los quatro millones en cada uno de seis años, con que sirvio a su Majestad en las Cortes [Madrid: 1632], fol. 48v). “pues es bien comun de los pobres” (AHN CS Alcaldes, Libro 1208, fol. 212). “es util y provechoso al bien publico” (AHN CS Alcaldes, Libro 1236, February 1651). “bien público” (ARCV Pleitos Civiles Pérez Alonso [F] 2362.6). AV 2.245.27; see also AHN CS Libros 1218 and 1267.

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enforcing harmony through acts of service and charity. Excessive prices, strictures on sales and workshops, and hoarding were all perceived to be attacks on the poor and on social peace. Caring for the sick and the poor, even those with deadly diseases, was never questioned as anything other than a community’s responsibility toward its own, toward the common good.56 Those who allegedly violated this covenant of decency—good-for-nothings, troublemakers, wife-beaters, vagabonds, cheaters—were chastised or punished, informally or formally. Bad neighbors could not, or should not, belong to the community.

5

Obedience

Vassals in Castile owed allegiance to their king, their city, and their neighbors, and that allegiance was conceived and articulated in the plural. Mutual obligation between ruler and ruled to some degree presupposes that the latter is a collective, and in Castile that collective acted as if somehow it had won (or had always possessed) that bilateral arrangement. It was an attitude that found reinforcement in contemporary political theory, and that agreement, that acknowledgment of negotiation, was a large part of the creation of the community as such. Just as law was mostly defined by social practice rather than by codification, so too community and authority were a product of interaction, not code. In Tamar Herzog’s words, “The interplay between the state and local communities, authorities and individuals, implicit and formal categorizations demonstrates that rather than communities creating a state, or states creating communities, it was the dynamic relation between one and the other that mutually constructed both.”57 To some degree, then, it was through bargaining—even if the end result of the bargain was submission—that the flock became an identifiable flock and not just a bunch of individual, mute sheep. The Castilian republic, in rough terms, had four instances: king, Cortes, municipalities (large and small), and individuals (vassals, vecinos, petitioners). Each embodied political ties to the rest, and those ties were used and molded as necessary. The hierarchy in any given moment could shift, though of course in the last analysis the crown was the crown. The horizontal ties of vecindad 56

57

On confraternities see Maureen Flynn, Sacred Charity: Confraternities and Social Welfare in Spain, 1400–1700 (Ithaca: 1989); and Linda Martz, Poverty and Welfare in Habsburg Spain (Cambridge: 1983). For a more political approach see Luis Corteguera, For the Common Good: Popular Politics in Barcelona, 1580–1640 (Ithaca: 2002), especially ch. 2. Herzog, Defining Nations, 205.

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were often cemented and reaffirmed in the process of negotiating with higher authorities, and indeed the rhetoric used when fending off taxes and other obligations to the crown often included references to the integrity, history, poverty, and loyalty of the community. The Cortes personified the kingdom (reino) when it was in session; the very term reino illustrates the enormous ambiguity and simultaneity of Castilian political life. It is a fixed, geographic term but also a dynamic term, embodying both power and obedience. Cities (and some towns) were both lords and vassals. Fiscal politics in Early Modern Castile was a matter of multidirectional traffic, the principal nodes of which were the crown and the Cortes, though the hierarchy was not always the same and smaller entities could and did insert themselves directly. The Cortes of Castile, which emerged in the late 12th century, at one time included representatives of as many as 100 towns but by the Early Modern era had dwindled to 18 cities—which claimed, not always successfully, to speak for the entire kingdom. When the cities’ representatives gathered in the Cortes, they created the reino, or the reino junto en Cortes, which was far more than the sum of 18 cities and which otherwise did not exist. Every step of the Cortes—from its convocation to deciding which cities should belong, how they should choose their representatives, and what those representatives’ voting power should be—reveals the Cortes not as an institution but as a process.58 Star billing when considering the role and activities of the Cortes goes to the millones, an indirect tax on foodstuffs first applied in the waning years of the reign of Philip II. The peculiarity of the tax was that it was a renewable contract; the Cortes approved the total amount of the subsidy (at first extraordinary but quickly ordinary and the most important of the Monarchy’s impositions), which was subject to dozens or hundreds of stipulations on a wide range of issues. In 1632, for example, the representatives after months of bitter debate approved the millones (four million ducats every year for six years) in exchange for the elimination of certain other impositions, limits on military recruitment, a reduction in tax collectors, reforms in tax inspections, price ceilings, apportionment of sisas by amounts and type, instructions on what the revenue could be used for, the possibility of appeals regarding implementation of the agreement, and more.59 Each municipality bore responsibility for a share of the total amount, which would be farmed out and collected according to whichever 58

59

This interpretation owes much to the work of the authors mentioned above, prior to which the Cortes were regarded as a powerless and discredited institution whose only function was to rubber-stamp the king’s requests for taxes. ACC vol. 50 (Madrid: 1931); see also Fortea, Las Cortes de Castilla y León, ch. 6.

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means the town or city decided was best, within broad limits established by the Cortes: the cities “have the freedom that they and their provinces may add other methods for the collection and administration of the sisas, each one deciding what is best according to the use and custom of the land …”60 The potential political importance of the millones lay in the fact that they revealed the balance of power at any given moment and offered communities—all communities—an opportunity to assert certain rights. The powersharing that the millones implied became concrete only at the local level. Earlier we saw how towns decided which local taxes to levy to raise money to pay their soldiers; sometimes these decisions were made in open meetings, though often not. But regardless of the venue, the tax chosen represented a political relationship and was both literally imposed (impuesto, still the Spanish word for ‘tax’) and negotiated. All impositions at all levels were defended by pointing to justice and the common good, though necessity was their immediate cause; there was always an urgent material reason for putting aside the supposedly otherwise harmonious and ancient loyalty and respect between ruler and ruled. Another financial instrument that reflects this balancing act was the encabezamiento, or ceiling, of the sales tax known as the alcabala, a permanent (as opposed to the theoretically temporary sisas) 10-percent tax on all goods sold. The ceiling first appeared in 1536 during the reign of Charles V and was periodically renegotiated. As with the millones, towns and cities were assigned a set amount; the alcabalas were then farmed out. At the heart of both instruments lay bargaining and a general pact between rey and reino which was multiplied throughout the kingdom as the aggregate of its members agreed to or modified its terms. As if they were refinancing mortgages, towns hit by catastrophes or by diminishing population (and there were few towns by the end of the 16th century that could not make that claim) petitioned royal treasury authorities and the Cortes—whose interests did not coincide and whose jurisdictions overlapped—to reduce their encabezamiento. Hearings were held, exhibits (past tax rolls, plummeting baptisms) were presented, and oral testimony was collected from residents and from vecinos in neighboring towns who one after another certified that the town that had once been bustling was now moribund and therefore should pay less.61 60

61

“A las ciudades y Villa de boto en Cortes se les deje en libertad para que en ellas y en sus provincias puedan añadir las demas cosas para la buena cobrança y administracion de las sisas, cada una como uiere que combenga y le esta mexor segun el uso y costumbre de la tierra …” (ACC vol. 50, 457). AGS Consejos y Juntas de Hacienda contains many such appeals.

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Modern historians have focused on taxes because it was there, in the face-toface encounter of a lord and his (or its) vassal, who was endowed with precious and usable rights, that the essence of the Castilian republic as a multiplicity of republics was most clear. But crucial as this meeting point was, it was not the only moment for municipalities to act as self-conscious political communities. They came to negotiations armed with vast experience and knowledge of the everlasting value of living as a community. Every day, they saw and heard and fought and assisted their neighbors, their fellow citizens. Every day, they struggled with the hardships God dealt them, celebrated the glories and steadfastness of their predecessors, and defended the laws and customs that they believed made possible the common good.

6

Conclusion

In the Cortes on December 20, 1566, with the assembly and the crown caught in one of their periodic logjams, one of Valladolid’s representatives complained of “the recently introduced novedades [novelties or innovations] that are ten times more damaging to the reino than they are beneficial to His Majesty.”62 That was always the issue: balancing the benefits and the justice accruing to the various parts of the body politic. Communities had a stake in continuity and in caring for one another, and they perpetually proclaimed both; never mind if either condition actually prevailed. That was the reason for the frequent and formulaic condemnation of novedades that would upset people’s claim on their past and therefore on their sense of community. The good lay in collective, shared experience. Castilians, whether vecinos or not, were (or had the ability to be) active, not passive, inhabitants of their towns and villages, the little republics of the Republic. I began this essay by saying it was worth our effort to figure out what that felt like, how it worked itself out in practice. I have suggested some possibilities: attendance at town meetings, paying (or not paying) taxes, listening to town criers, venerating local saints, caring for one’s poor neighbors, praising or documenting a town’s history. Virtually all surviving documents where we can capture the voices of villagers and townspeople—petitions, city council minutes, lawsuits—display familiarity with notions such as the common good, justice, and good government. These are political notions that assumed the 62

“las novedades que de poco tiempo a esta parte se han introducido diez veces mas dañosas al reino que provechosas a su magestad” (ACC, vol. 2, 83 [cited by Fortea, Las Cortes de Castilla y León, 134]).

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existence of a series of social contracts or covenants in various directions—up, down, and side-to-side—and law, however it was defined, was the guarantee of these contracts. It implicated everyone. Common people knew what legitimate authority looked like, and they knew what to do when they were being forced to comply with something different. They knew that acts of mercy and acts of obedience were political acts. The spark of Early Modern Castile’s political existence lay in the ubiquity and variability of its duality. It was in towns’ and cities’ concurrent existence as lords and vassals; the simultaneity of reino as a place and the capacity to speak; the unfixed quality and flexibility of law; the interchangeable nature of law, memory, and custom; and the compatibility of holy and secular—it was in those moments and places of duality that communities could take advantage of instability to assert themselves, fully conscious of their right to do so and fully competent in the requisite political, legal, and historical language.

part 5 Humanists and Their Legacy

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chapter 13

Intellectual Life Lía Schwartz and Susan Byrne

1

Introduction

Our title phrase is understood today to mean stimulating conversation among intellectuals, an open environment for critical study, and rigorous academic exchange on challenging issues. That same model exemplifies intellectual life in Early Modern Spain, with one additional stimulus: a considerable influx of classical-era works that evidenced different civic and philosophical models while challenging man as the agent capable of, and responsible for, producing and transmitting knowledge. The 16th and 17th centuries in Spain were a time of unparalleled artistic flourishing and philosophical exploration, as well as intellectual, disciplinary, and cultural development. Intellectual life was driven by a desire for education and nurtured by its ever-increasing availability in universities old and new throughout Spain’s vast territorial holdings. Ancient and classical sources that had been lost were celebrated and debated when rediscovered. Private and institutional library holdings show that readers avidly consumed newly available Latin translations. The point of departure for such cultural moves in the 16th century was a renewal of educational goals and methods in schools and universities. Children of the nobility and an emerging bourgeoisie would attend municipal or religious schools that prepared them to develop interests in the fields of literature, art, philosophy and history, all of which would become intellectual and professional choices in adulthood. The colleges established by the Jesuit Order expanded during the last decades of the 16th century and became real centers of knowledge for their students, who were educated according to a strict Latin curriculum that included, in most institutions, some basic instruction in Greek. In this context, the development of Spanish humanism and the influence of Italian scholars, some invited to teach in Spain, will be described and with it, new interests in philosophical schools and systems, among them neo-Platonism and Erasmism—the former a consistent presence and the latter, a powerful force until the Council of Trent. In the last decades of the 16th century and throughout the 17th, Spanish thinkers, writers and artists developed what would be a long engagement with neo-Stoicism, promoted by figures

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like Justus Lipsius and other members of the Republic of Letters who corresponded with him. Creative expression will be examined to trace the dissemination of ideas and knowledge in various cultural spheres, in court practices, and in the world of academies which—structured under the influence of Italian examples—also promoted the exchange of ideas among writers, artists and noblemen interested in participating in the shaping of Spanish culture. Intellectual life was nourished in the universities but was also stimulated by the above-mentioned philosophical movements which came from outside its walls. A comparable development took place in the area of rhetoric. The publication of many new editions of the classics made it possible to rediscover authors of the Silver Age of Rome, enlarging the corpus of texts to be imitated, accepted, or rejected by authors and rhetoricians involved in the socalled polémica gongorina.

2

Classical and Early Modern Humanism

Thousands of manuscripts containing knowledge considered lost to the Western world began to be recovered in a period dubbed by historians the Renaissance of the 12th century.1 This rebirth of literature and learning would spur a revival of classical humanism by thinkers attracted to the formal rhetorical polish as well as the messages and mores in those recovered writings, providing the first stimulus for later intellectual, literary and artistic developments. Today, humanism writ large is defined in various ways by scholars in different fields. For philosophers, it is a change in pedagogical methods from the medieval trivium (grammar, rhetoric, dialectic) and quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy) to studies in humanities (history, moral philosophy, ancient and classical literatures).2 Some historians have interpreted humanism as pri-

1 Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: 1955), and The Rise of Universities (New York: 1940); see also Christopher Brooke, The Twelfth Century Renaissance (New York: 1970). 2 For Paul Oskar Kristeller, humanism was an adaptation of the trivium (Renaissance Thought and its Sources [New York: 1979]); for Domingo Ynduráin, it is grammar that becomes a “new science” (Humanismo y Renacimiento en España [Madrid: 1994], 65). Di Camillo notes a general renovation in educational practice, with a particular interest in rhetoric, history, moral philosophy and ethics (El humanismo castellano del siglo XV [Valencia: 1976], 25– 36). Christopher Celenza studies the relationship among humanist philology, philosophy and theology in educational goals and practice (The Lost Italian Renaissance [Baltimore: 2004]).

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marily secularism,3 while others have seen in early Italian humanists the creation of the modern-day intellectual.4 Mid-20th-century scholars of literature frequently reduced the term to mean, simply, a marked focus on the central place of the human being in creative texts.5 Spanish humanism was a field unexplored, and frequently denied, until the 1970s, when Ottavio di Camillo signaled that a “consciousness of a new age” was “clearly discernible” in Spanish thinkers of the first decades of the 15th century.6 Since then, studies have shown that certain courts and monarchs fostered this revival of the classics: Juan II of Castile and Alphonse V of Aragon are prime examples from the first half of the 15th century, and the Naples court of the latter would be praised by 16thcentury historians for the monarch’s efforts to recover classical works.7 Studies on specific figures have elucidated trends in early Castilian humanist thought: Alonso de Cartagena exchanged letters with Leonardo Bruni and Pier Candido de Decembrio, debated with them the contents of Greek texts as well as the quality of their Latin translations, himself translated the writings of Cicero and Seneca, and showed “the same aspirations” as contemporary Italian humanists.8 Íñigo López de Mendoza, the Marqués de Santillana, penned 42 “Italianstyle sonnets” (Sonetos al itálico modo), amassed a library rich in texts by classical and contemporary authors, and exchanged letters with Poliziano in which

3 Roger Schlesinger, “The Influence of Italian Renaissance Civilization in Fifteenth-Century Spain,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (1970), 12–13. 4 Ottavio di Camillo, “Fifteenth-Century Spanish Humanism: Thirty Five Years Later,” La Corónica 39.1 (2010): 19–66, at 46–48. 5 “Humanism means valuing and exalting the human, man, his reason, subordinating everything else to him” (“humanismo significa valoración y ensalzamiento de lo humano, del hombre, de su razón, subordinándole todo lo demás”) (Américo Castro, El pensamiento de Cervantes [Barcelona: 1987], 84). 6 Ottavio di Camillo, “Spanish Humanism in the Fifteenth Century,” Ph.D. Dissertation, Yale University (1972), ix–x. See also the same author’s El humanismo castellano (Valencia: 1976), 9 and his “Fifteenth-Century Spanish Humanism.” 7 Paolo Giovio, Elogios o vidas breves (Granada: 1568), fols. 73r–75r. In a text first published in French in 1577, then in English translation in 1594, Louis Leroy praises Alphonse V for his role in the revival of classical learning, and the Kings of Castile and Portugal for their role in the discovery of the New World (Of the Interchangeable Covrse, or Variety of Things in the Whole World, and the Concvrrence of Arms and Learning [London: 1594], 110v). 8 Di Camillo, “Fifteenth Century,” 23, 30–31; Tomás González Rolán, Antonio Moreno Hernández, and Pilar Saquero Suárez-Somonte, Humanismo y teoría de la traducción en España e Italia en la primera mitad del siglo XV (Madrid: 2000); Luis Fernández Gallardo, Alonso de Cartagena (1385–1456): una biografía política en la Castilla del siglo XV (Valladolid: 2002), 277– 319.

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the two compared their collections of books.9 Cordoban bibliophile Nuño de Guzmán corresponded with Giannozzo Manetti regarding matters philological and political in classical texts, as well as their resonance in contemporary circumstances.10 Alfonso de Palencia associated with leading Italian humanists, collected manuscripts, and studied (then corresponded with) George of Trebizond regarding history, historiography, and translation.11 Pedro Díaz de Toledo was the first humanist scholar to translate a Platonic dialogue (the Phaedo) into a vernacular tongue (Greek to Castilian, 1446–1447),12 and Spanish Wunderkind Fernando de Córdoba participated in the 15th-century comparatio discussions on the merits of Plato versus Aristotle.13 These early developments in humanist thought in Spain nourished the following century’s artistic expression. As the number of translations of classical works increased exponentially in the 14th and 15th centuries, universities in Spain, France and Italy exchanged scholars and students, while independent and court intellectuals continued to trade letters, translations, and visits. Italian humanists moved to Spain: Lucio Marineo Siculo to teach at the University of Salamanca and Pedro Mártir de Anglería to instruct court nobility. References in Spanish writings suggest changes in literary habits along with “the rise of a new reading public” throughout the 15th century.14 At its midpoint, the invention of the printing press, a radically new means of dissemination, would make letters and literacy available on a previously unimaginable scale.15 Geopolitically, during the same time frame the multiple kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula completed a Reconquest of peninsular territory that had begun early in the 8th century. By the end of the 15th, with the exception of Portugal, the Peninsula’s realms would consolidate as one Spain under Ferdinand and Isabel, solidify their hold over half of today’s Italy as well as parts of southern France and Greece, and finance the expedition of Christopher Columbus. This last effort led to a key discovery that would

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Antonio Gargano, “Humanismo y Renacimiento,” Ínsula 757–758 (2010): 11–16; José Amador de los Ríos, Vida del Marqués de Santillana (Madrid: 1947). Jeremy Lawrance (ed.), Un episodio del proto-humanismo español: tres opúsculos de Nuño de Guzmán y Giannozzo Manetti (Salamanca: 1989). Lawrance, “Introducción,” xxxv–lxx. See also John Monfasani, Collectanea Trapezuntiana (Binghamton: 1984), and Antonio Antelo Iglesias, “Alfonso de Palencia: historiografía y humanismo en la Castilla del siglo XV,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma 3 (1990): 21–40. Pedro Díaz de Toledo, Libro llamado Fedrón, (ed.) Nicholas G. Round (London: 1993). John Monfasani, A Biographical and Intellectual Profile of Fernando de Córdova (Philadelphia: 1992). Jeremy Lawrance, “The Spread of Lay Literacy in Medieval Castile,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 62.1 (1985): 79–94, at 79. Richard L. Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: 1974).

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demand a different sort of re-conceptualization of the world, its intellectual history, and, most importantly, man’s religious basis of understanding, as lands not mentioned in the Bible were suddenly known to exist.16 Spain was the world power, and the literal parameters of world geography had to be re-drawn. As a prime example of the mixing of classical with modern models, on the basis of descriptions in newly-available translations of the Platonic dialogue Timaeus, Spanish thinkers would argue a possible correlation of what they called the New World with Plato’s legendary Atlantis.17 In the Catholic Monarchs, particularly, Spanish intellectuals saw the realization of the ideal of earlier Italian humanists, who had awaited the return of a Golden Age and taken as their own Virgil’s expression: Iam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna (“May justice and the reign of Italy return”). The Spaniards replaced Italy with Spain, rejected the Italians’ depreciative attitude toward their esteemed ancestors, the Visigoths,18 and looked with pride on the reign of Ferdinand and Isabel who had, as the monarchs themselves said, with divine assistance restored peace and prosperity to Spain.19 Queen Isabel made multiple contributions to education and literacy, commemorating the 1476 victory at Toro by founding the library of San Juan de los Reyes in Toledo,20 commissioning Palencia’s 1490 Universal vocabulario and the 1488 Castilian edition [Introducciones latinas] of Nebrija’s 1481 Introductiones latinae, and promoting learning among the court nobility.21 In Spain, Renaissance humanism was encouraged with revival of the classics, philology as a method of textual study, and rhetoric as a means to a specific end, 16

17 18

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21

“At ten o’clock at night on Thursday 11 October 1492, Rodrigo de Triana spotted light from the deck of the Pinta. By 1507 the land from which it shone would be known as America. Between these two moments the intellectual underpinnings of modern Western thought were fixed” (Victor Ouimette, “Spanish Humanism and the Invention of the New World,” in Negotiating Past and Present: Studies in Spanish Literature for Javier Herrero, [ed.] David Thatcher Gies [Charlottesville: 1997], 231–253, at 231). Susan Byrne, “On Atlantis,” in Ficino in Spain (Toronto: 2015), 76–77. Ángel Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas. Primeros ecos (Madrid: 1994); Martin Biersack, “Los Reyes Católicos y la tradición imperial romana,” eHumanista 12 (2009): 33–47. “por la mucha paz y tranquilidad que mediante la divina clemencia en estos nuestros reinos ha habido y hay después que nos reinamos acá” (Las Pramáticas del Reyno [Alcalá de Henares: 1528], fol. 95, law 104). Ian Michael, “Medieval Spanish Royal Libraries,” in Letters and Society in Fifteenth-Century Spain (Wales: 1993), 110. Michael compares the library collections of various monarchs and finds Isabel more a “woman of action” than a bibliophile (110). Antonio Gargano (La literatura en tiempos de los Reyes Católicos [Madrid: 2012]) has studied the cultural ambience of the court for both its reception and production of humanist thought and letters.

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identified as wisdom. The beauty of language, the special attribute that distinguishes man from beast, was thought to lead to intellectual perfection; that is, polished speech and writing would enable the realization of man’s ideal condition. This emphasis demanded a dual focus on both content and its expression. Aurora Egido highlights the importance of the trio natura, ars, exercitatio in 16th-century Spanish manuals on writing: physical and mental exercise were conceived as a duo reflected in both content and form; the written letter was a living script informed by the soul of its writer’s voice, while the paper was the speaker.22 Philological approaches by Renaissance Spanish scholars included a demand for precision in grammatical expression, the exercise of language in multiple rhetorical contexts, debates on the use of Latin versus Castilian, and the elevation of vernacular linguistic practice for aesthetic means—that is, writing as art. Noteworthy is the incorporation of those concerns and topics into creative works. Evident in the late 15th-century theater pieces (Églogas) of Juan del Encina is a greater emphasis on words over ceremonial acts and gestures, as a means to “enrich the message” in these nascent forms of theater.23 Both Encina and his contemporary Antonio de Nebrija praise “polished” Castilian speech as a goal, and the latter insists on its use as accompaniment to the forward march of the nation in the Prólogo to his 1492 Spanish grammar, the first ever published for a vernacular language.24 The capacity of that tongue for elevated poetic expression is evident in the early 16th-century verse of Garcilaso de la Vega, and celebrated by those who glossed these works in editions with commentaries published before the end of that same century. In his 1535 Diálogo de la lengua, Juan de Valdés explores the richness and variety of the language’s etymological roots, posing a primitive linguistic theoretical position on the relationship between words and things, and also exploring translation, stylistics, and varying registers of use: natural, elegant, and affected.25 On the 22

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On such manuals in orthographic practice as graphic art, and as educational tool in intellectual development, see Aurora Egido, “Los manuales de escribientes desde el Siglo de Oro,” Bulletin Hispanique 97.1 (1995): 67–94. Ana María Álvarez Pellitero, “Tradición y modernidad en el teatro de Juan del Encina,” in Humanismo y literatura en tiempos de Juan del Encina, (ed.) Javier Guijarro Ceballos (Salamanca: 1999), 15–26, at 17. Antonio de Nebrija, Gramática sobre la lengua castellana (Barcelona: 2011), 3. See also Francisco Rico, Nebrija frente a los bárbaros (Salamanca: 1978). Juan de Valdés, Diálogo de la lengua, (ed.) Cristina Barbolani (Madrid: 2006), 193, n. 159. As Pedro Ruíz Pérez points out, however, with that increasing affirmation of the one language came a gradual rejection of two of the individual cultures that had contributed to its formation (Pedro Ruíz Pérez, “Otra mirada sobre el Renacimiento español y su modelo literario,” in Gramática y humanismo [Córdoba: 1993], 15), as Spanish monarchs would expel Jews (1492) and then Muslims (1609).

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debated point of which vernacular was the most perfect (i.e., the most like Latin), Valdés’ characters decide, of course, in favor of the author’s own. In the last decades of the 16th century Fray Luis de León realized the goal of polished Castilian verse on a par with classical Latin poetry, in stanzas resonant with the echoes of classical authors.26 By that time, Spanish authors had begun to focus more on language as art—that is, on poetics and creative letters. Alonso López Pinciano penned his well-known dialogue on poetic theory (Philosophía antigua poética), incorporating discussion of classical thinkers and modern practices. In 1632, one character in Lope de Vega’s La Dorotea recapped, with an ironic tone, this development of the language and its literature: “good letters, or rather human letters, those they now call polished, although I do not know why.”27 Beyond the formal concern with language, Spanish intellectuals also focused on humanist values, addressing the civic and political responsibilities of the individual in society, and moral philosophy as governance over human relationships. Alfonso de Palencia’s Latin-Castilian vocabulary includes full encyclopedic entries for Greco-Roman philosophical figures and concepts. There is creative parody of classical ethical schools of thought in the Celestina;28 and a contemporary work, Grisel y Mirabella, includes theater, dialogue and forensic debate only to end with mythological, ritual sacrifice. In 1509, Diego Guillén de Ávila wrote two panegyric pieces, one to Queen Isabel and a second to Alonso de Carrillo, Archbishop of Toledo: in the first, the author narrates a walk through a forest guided by his fantasía to meet the three fates (Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos), who show him all time past, present and future so as to contextualize properly the monarch he praises. In the latter text, Guillén de Ávila evokes Dante as his guide through hell in search of Carrillo, who is eventually found in the Elysian Fields. The result is adaptation of classical myth, incorporation of an Italian literary model along with its author, and experimentation in the form of, respectively, biographical and elegiac narration. One early Spanish writer experimented with the literal meaning of man as one among the classical gods (Juan Luis Vives, Fábula del hombre), although a century later, another would 26

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As Alberto Blecua said, “el primer poeta humanista español en lengua vulgar” (“El entorno poético de fray Luis de León,” in Academia literaria renacentista. I. Fray Luis de León [Salamanca: 1981], 92). For Fray Luis’ translations of Horace and Virgil, see Fernando Lázaro Carreter, “Fray Luis de León y la clasicidad,” in Fray Luis de León: historia, humanismo y letras (Salamanca: 1996), 15–27. “buenas letras, digo humanas, que agora llaman pulidas, si bien no sé la causa” (Lope de Vega, La Dorotea, [ed.] José Manuel Blecua [Madrid: 1996], 4.3, 368). The citation is to book, chapter, and page. Di Camillo, “Ética humanística y libertinaje,” 69–82.

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only allow him to reach that status after a Christian life culminating in death and judgement (Calderón, El gran teatro del mundo). Debates on histories and historians, whose techniques and perspectives had already been questioned by Cartagena and Palencia in the 15th century, would continue throughout the 16th in the pages of multiple chronicles and histories, then evolve into creative expression and propagandistic tractates by around 1600.29 Spanish writers combined and adapted classical models: Pedro Mexía’s Silva de varia lección is a miscellany that builds on Pliny’s natural science, but with “a tripartite structural basis: classical literature, biblical and patristic writings, humanist letters.”30 For his Reloj de príncipes, Antonio de Guevara combines three models (mirror of princes, biography and doctrinal treatise), then transforms or invents further exemplary material so as to “surprise the reader by painting capricious character sketches, listing nonexistent and outrageous laws, and comically mixing fable with fact.”31 Miguel de Cervantes describes his 1585 pastoral novel La Galatea as “a book of understanding” (libro de entendimiento)32 with a mixture of topics both “philosophical and amorous” (razones de filosofía entre algunas amorosas).33 Renaissance Spanish intellectual life is a vibrant early model of fruitful interdisciplinarity, with multiple examples of rich creative expression on matters related to language, rhetoric, genre exploration, artistic experimentation, and ethical as well as political concerns. One crucial philosophical element of this amalgamation of sources was neo-Platonic thought.

3

Renaissance neo-Platonism

Neo-Platonism is the interpretation of Plato by his adherents in subsequent eras, and there have been various phases in its development: 1st to 3rd cen-

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Cervantes’ appropriation of the debates on history in Don Quijote is well-known. For the debates among historians, see Richard Kagan, Clio and the Crown: The Politics of History in Medieval and Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: 2009). “tenía tres vertientes: la literatura clásica, la bíblica y patrística y la humanística” (Isaías Lerner, Lecturas de Cervantes [Málaga: 2005], 25). “Hay … un prurito constante de sorprender al lector, con frecuencia en detrimento del dato erudito; dibujar semblanzas caprichosas, enumerar leyes inauditas o meter descaradamente la fábula dentro de la historia” (José Luis Madrigal, Estudio y edición crítica del “Libro llamado Relox de príncipes con el Libro de Marco Aurelio” de Antonio de Guevara [New York: 1994], 25). Miguel de Cervantes, El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha (Buenos Aires: 2005) I, 6. Miguel de Cervantes, La Galatea (Madrid: 1999), 158.

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turies (Plotinus), 4th to 6th centuries (Proclus, Dionysius the Areopagite); and then, for the period of concern here, the late 15th century. In this last era, Italian philosopher and theologian Marsilio Ficino would incorporate the texts of previous stages, to read Plato through the lens of those earlier neoPlatonists.34 Ficino’s goal was a pia philosophia or prisca theologia, a religiousphilosophical concord to be found, he believed, in the primordial source of both disciplines. Following Ficino’s translations of Plato, the neo-Platonists, and Hermes Trismegistus, the ideas and imagery of those texts would play a prominent role in Spanish thought and letters.35 Library collections attest to the presence of Ficino’s works in Spain from their first publications, and the totals listed today in the Patrimonio Colectivo catalogue include 15 incunabula, 261 copies of 16thcentury publications, seven volumes of 17th-century publications, and many additional volumes of his translations of the neo-Platonists, such as the collected volumes published under the uniform title Iamblichus. Of particular note are the multiple volumes containing ex libris from the university colleges at Alcalá de Henares. Officially founded in 1499, the doors of the thenComplutense opened in 1508.36 The project of Cardinal Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo, the university at Alcalá was conceived from the start as a locus for Renaissance humanist education. Its renowned graduates include St Thomas of Villanova, Saint Ignatius Loyola, Arias Montano, San Juan de la Cruz, Francisco de Quevedo, and many more. At Alcalá, as well as at the University of Salamanca and other Spanish universities and colleges, Ficino’s neo-Platonism was a prevalent intellectual stimulus from the end of the 15th century forward. In the middle of the 16th, Jesuit schools would include the Italian philosopher’s translations of Plato at the first and second levels of education, for lessons on grammar and rhetoric.37 Certain topics and themes received a plethora of indi-

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Michael J.B. Allen and James Hankins, “Introduction” to Marsilio Ficino: Platonic Theology, 6 vols (Cambridge, MA: 2001), 1:vii–xvii. For the Hermetic text in Renaissance Spanish letters, see Susan Byrne, El Corpus Hermeticum y tres poetas españ oles: Francisco de Aldana, fray Luis de León y San Juan de la Cruz (Newark: 2007); for the combined perspective, Hermetic and neo-Platonic, see Byrne, Ficino in Spain. The Complutense at Alcalá was reorganized and moved to Madrid in the early 19th century. In 1977, university studies resumed at Alcalá, once again called the Universidad de Alcalá de Henares but no longer the Complutense, an identification now reserved for the university in Madrid. Miguel Anselmo Bernad, “The Faculty of Arts in the Jesuit Colleges in the Eastern Part of the United States: Theory and Practice (1782–1923),” Ph.D. Dissertation, Yale University, 1951, 5, 35, 39.

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vidual treatments and adaptations, and three will be used here to illustrate briefly Spanish writers’ engagement with those ideas: music, love, and politics. For the neo-Platonists, music is to the soul as medicine is to the body. In a letter to his friend Antonio Canigiani, Ficino explains that the natural proportion and concordance of the soul is best remembered and restored through music.38 Music as harmonious number and invention of Apollo is also a focal point in Ficino’s commentaries on the Timaeus and the Republic, as well as in his De sole and De triplici vita. In the latter he says that music makes the soul tremble, much as the sympathetic vibration of the chords of a zither (“vel sicut corda quaedam in cithara tremens”).39 That is, to the medieval image of the harmony of the spheres is added the capacity of a human being to attune to that perfection, and thus transcend the corporeal world. Crucial to Ficino’s ideas on music were the hymns of Orpheus, and the harmonic combination of music and word.40 Spanish writers from Garcilaso de la Vega to Miguel de Cervantes and Fray Luis de León would repeat and celebrate this concept. Garcilaso wants his lyre to sing as did Orpheus’, so as to charm nature (Canción V, “Si de mi baja lira”). In Fray Luis de León’s “Ode to Francisco de Salinas,” the poet’s soul is stirred by the sound of his friend’s expertly-played music to “recover its sense/ and the lost memory/ of its clear first origen”; it reaches the highest heaven where it sees “the great Master / playing an immense zither” and, given that the soul is “composed of harmonious numbers,” it responds in kind so as to mix “the sweetest harmony.”41 Miguel de Cervantes’ narrative voice would, in turn, combine ironic commentary on Hermetic and neo-Platonic imagery for Apollo to invoke his own muse: “O perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of the sky, sweet melter of ice, Timbrio here, Phoebus there, here the puller, there the physi38

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Marsilio Ficino, “On Music,” in The Letters of Marsilio Ficino, intro. and (ed.) Clement Salaman, trans. members of the Language Department of the School of Economic Science, London (London: 1975–2012), 9 vols, 1:143–144. Ficino, De triplici vita, (eds.) Carol V. Kaske and John R. Clarke (Tempe: 2002), 3.21, 360. The citation is to book, chapter and page number. Angela Voss, “Orpheus Redivivus: The Musical Magic of Marsilio Ficino,” in Marsilio Ficino: His Theology, His Philosophy, His Legacy, (eds.) Michael J.B. Allen and Valery Rees (Leiden: 2002), 227–241. “torna a cobrar el tino/ y memoria perdida/ de su origen primera esclarecida”; “el gran Maestro/ aquesta inmensa cítara aplicado”; “está compuesta/ de números concordes”; “se mezlca una dulcísima armonía” (vv. 8–10; 21–22; 26–27; 30) (Fray Luis de León, “A Francisco de Salinas,” in Poesía, [ed.] Juan Francisco Alcina [Madrid: 1995], Poem III, 81–84). For Quevedo’s use of Orpheus and music in his verse, see Lía Schwartz, “Versiones de Orfeo en la poesía amorosa de Quevedo,” Filología 26.1–2 (1993): 205–221.

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cian, father of Poetry, inventor of Music.”42 Taking this series of adaptations in stages: at the beginning of the 16th century, Garcilaso wished, as had Ficino, to appropriate poetically the incantatory power of the classical-era figure; in the last third of the same century, Fray Luis offered a poetic gloss on his realized experience with Ficino’s philosophical explanations; in the first decades of the 17th, Cervantes synthesized all roles of Apollo into an ironic invocation. Writing contemporaneously with Cervantes, however, Blas Álvarez Miraval would maintain full respect for Ficino’s neo-Platonic duo of medicine and music, quoting the Italian philosopher’s letter to Canigiani to support music’s therapeutic nature.43 Ficino’s Latin commentary on Plato’s Symposium was published with the Platonis opera omnia in 1484 and later, in his own translation into Italian, as a stand-alone publication in 1544. Considered “the seminal text of Renaissance love theory,”44 De amore’s commentaries on love and beauty would be incorporated into multiple Spanish texts. Love as the first movement of soul that inspires it to seek cessation of movement is a familiar image in Spanish Renaissance verse, most famously in that of San Juan de la Cruz, with the body calmed sufficiently so as to allow the soul to escape (“Noche”). San Juan’s enigmatic imagery of a guiding light that proceeds from darkness, and a veil that must be broken, are common elements found in both Hermetic and neo-Platonic texts.45 In his 1585 La Galatea, Miguel de Cervantes repeats the precise definitions given by Ficino in De amore of love as “desire for beauty” (deseo de belleza) and the lover’s happiness as “enjoyment of the desired beauty” (gozar la belleza que desea),46 employs the image of knowledge as memory from the Phaedo,47 echoes the Italian philosopher’s arguments about love and beauty on multiple points and, in a paean to Ficino himself, names one melancholic character Marsilio.48 Cervantes and other Spaniards would, however, very early on begin

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“¡O perpetuo descubridor de los antípodas, hacha del mundo, ojo del cielo, meneo dulce de las cantimploras, Timbrio aquí, Febo allí, médico acullá, padre de la poesía, inventor de la música” (Cervantes, Don Quijote [Buenos Aires: 2005], II, 45). Blas Álvarez Miraval, La conservación de la salud del cuerpo y del alma (Medina del Campo: 1597), fol. 162r. Michael J.B. Allen, “Introduction” to Marsilio Ficino: His Theology, His Philosophy, His Legacy, (eds.) Michael J.B. Allen and Valery Rees (Leiden: 2002), xiii. Byrne, El Corpus Hermeticum y tres poetas españoles, 55–68. Cervantes, La Galatea, (eds.) Francisco López Estrada and María Teresa López GarcíaBerdoy (Madrid: 1999), 417, 419, 435. The appropriation is noted by Florencio Sevilla Arroyo and Antonio Rey Hazas in their edition of La Galatea (Madrid: 1996), 275, n. 167. Byrne, “On Beauty and Love,” in Ficino in Spain, 97–121.

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to reject Ficino’s concept of Socratic or Platonic love, ironizing it as a predictor of the end of the human species.49 The explorations of neo-Platonic ideals in Spanish letters went beyond the poetic to include the pragmatic topic of politics, and Ficino’s commentaries on the Republic, Laws and Statesman dialogues would generate debate throughout the 16th century.50 Antonio de Guevara’s Relox de príncipes includes multiple references to those dialogues in both serious and jesting statements, Juan de Arce de Otálora follows Ficino and Plato (with direct attribution to both) to interpret law and justice as the soul of a republic,51 and many other Spanish writers reference Ficino directly on law, seeing him as the authority on both its history and its particulars. These writers link Plato’s division of his Republic into two groups: laws and men of arms, and thus to their own developing interests in humanist thought and bureaucratic institutionalization. They also accept, gladly, Ficino’s opinion that although equity in all things, i.e., “marital and material communism,”52 is called for in the Republic, in the Laws Plato proposes a “gentler slopes” approach to attain peace and prosperity.53 By the end of the 16th century, in the first Castilian-language text on private property, Spanish magistrate Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla would, without mention of Ficino, reject the Republic’s call for equity and denial of individual holdings as contrary to man’s nature and God’s design, while also reducing Plato’s concept of the transmigration of soul to traditional legal memory.54 A very different perspective is that of Juan Eusebio Nieremberg who, writing in 1631, would link positively Saint Ignatius Loyola’s founding of the Jesuit Order not only to the precepts of Saint Thomas Aquinas, but also to Plato’s Republic with its call for shared property, as described by (Nieremberg says) Marsilio Ficino in his commentary to the dialogue.55 49 50

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Byrne, “On Platonic Love,” in Ficino in Spain, 121–126. Francisco Rico finds Plato’s concept of man and city linked under the sway of justice, as expressed in the Republic, to be a common theme in 16th-century Spanish political treatises (Rico, El pequeño mundo del hombre: varia fortuna de una idea en las letras españolas [Madrid: 1970], 107–117). “según Platón … la ley es el ánima de la república” (Arce de Otálora, Coloquios de Palatino y Pinciano, 2 vols, (ed.) José Luis Ocasar Ariza [Madrid: 1995], 1:254–255). The phrase is that of James Hankins, Plato in the Italian Renaissance (Leiden: 1990), 1:352– 353. Marsilio Ficino, “Commentary on Laws,” in When Philosophers Rule: Ficino on Plato’s Republic, Laws, and Epinomis, trans. Arthur Farndell, foreword by Ian Mason (London: 2009), 74. Castillo de Bobadilla, Política para corregidores (Barcelona: 1616), 1.1; Proemio, 2. Juan Eusebio Nieremberg, Vida de San Ignacio de Loyola fundador de la Compañía de Jesús (Madrid: 1631), fol. 38v.

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Neo-Platonism in all its constituent parts (political, philosophical, poetic and pragmatic), would continue to be an important component of Spanish letters for centuries: in 1861, Emilio Castelar rejected nationalist limitations on intellectual capabilities, to insist that any man can understand the science of others. As an example, he used neo-Platonism, understandable even to those who “have not, as did Marsilio Ficino, listened to the souls of the Platonists as they wander the banks of the Arno in the gardens of Florence.”56

4

Reading and Readers

The development of printing in Early Modern Spain contributed to the expansion of the cultural interests of its population. During the Middle Ages, the number of illiterate persons was close to an 80th percentile among peasants and artisans, yet economic changes and the establishment of schools in urban areas began to change (albeit slowly) the cultural expectations of Spain’s inhabitants. Prior to the Renaissance, schooling was for the most part limited (with few exceptions) to sons of the higher nobility, members of the learned professions, and those destined for the clergy. By the end of the 15th century, and definitely during the reign of Charles V, more individuals learned to read and to write in Spanish cities.57 Historians have described this process as an “educational revolution” that followed economic development and demographic changes in Spain.58 In elementary schools, children learned to read, to write and to count in the vernacular, while in grammar or Latinate schools, instruction was given in Latin. Grammar schools were important for spreading an interest in the Greco-Roman classics and in the traditional arts of antiquity: rhetoric, literature and philosophy. The most famous were those run by the Jesuits in every major city. Fernando Bouza reminds us that, at the beginning of the 17th century, there were 118 Jesuit schools in Spain. Those students who

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“porque no ha oído como Marsilio Ficino el lamento de las almas de los platónicos, que vagaban por las orillas del Arno en los jardines de Florencia” (Emilio Castelar, “Carta segunda,” in Discursos políticos y literarios [Madrid: 1861], 409). Jeremy Lawrance, “The Spread of Lay Literacy,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 62 (1985): 79– 94; Sara T. Nalle, Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile, Past and Present (Oxford: 1989), 65–96; Richard Kagan, Students and Society (Baltimore: 1974); and Maxime Chevalier, Lectura y lectores en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII (Madrid: 1976). The expression was coined by Lawrence Stone, “The Educational Revolution in England, 1560 to 1640,” Past & Present 28 (1964): 41–80, and quoted by both S.T. Nalle and Richard Kagan (see note 57, above).

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continued their studies at universities, with Salamanca and Alcalá being the most important, could choose from among more than 30 institutions of higher education.59 Advances in education in the 16th century, according to Kagan, had much to do with the expansion of mass-produced books that followed Gutenberg’s invention of movable print type in 1453. The monied nobility soon became interested in buying books and in reading them, and literacy rates continued to rise among the upper classes. Additionally, the new monarchies in Europe (and in Spain after Charles V came to the throne) needed to fill numerous positions in order to run their governments, from lawyers and clerks for legal and financial duties to more specialized tasks. These new bureaucrats had to be literate and professionally educated so as to perform well in their new careers. The developing urban bourgeoisie, interested in advancing economically and socially, responded to the appeal of education by sending their sons to schools (including Jesuit colegios) and universities so that they might be able to compete for more lucrative jobs. At those universities, they would encounter many fellow students who wanted to specialize in the humanities so as to—following the example of Italian humanists—become scholars in Greek and Latin literature and philosophy. Others wanted to apply their academic training to the study of theology and religion as members of the clergy. Finally, members of the lower classes in the cities, who could also attend elementary schools, would become able to read in the vernacular and thus shape a distinct group of consumers of literary and religious or simple philosophical texts.60 The reading public in the 16th and 17th centuries embraced different interests, which booksellers would try to satisfy by offering a diverse stock of printed material that included popular texts: chapbooks (pliegos sueltos), popular songs (coplas), and ballads (romances), thus also making these writings available to the learned. Finally, those who remained illiterate, whether in the country or in the city, would become familiar with at least some literature of entertainment due to the widespread and popular habit of reading aloud for a group. This is the case, for example, with the innkeeper in Don Quijote, who fails to understand how the knight lost his mind after reading books of chivalry; in his opinion, it is a magnificent genre that he knows well. Every year at harvest time, he says, he

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See Fernando Bouza, Communication, Knowledge and Memory in Early Modern Spain (Philadelphia: 2004), originally published in Spanish with the title Comunicación, conocimiento y memoria en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII (Salamanca: 1999). For a detailed presentation of education in Early Modern Spain, we refer to the chapter “Ladies, Libraries and Literacy in Early Modern Spain” by Elizabeth Teresa Howe in the present volume.

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gives such books, kept at the inn, to one of the harvesters (segadores), some of whom were literate, and asks that they be read aloud to those persons assembled in his establishment.61 The reality of this diverse public led Fernando Bouza to characterize individuals based on their particular reading tastes.62 On the one hand, lawyers, physicians and representatives of related professions would concentrate on their field of interest; on the other, he claims, one could define a reader’s character by the genres he or she preferred, that is, novels of chivalry vis-à-vis Italian novelle, pastoral literature vis-à-vis the picaresque. A different group was constituted by those learned readers who either were writers or had ambitions in that regard. For them, reading was an instrument to practice the rhetorical method of imitatio, the standard form of textual production at the time. Part of the school curriculum, as we know, included training students to collect quotes from the famous codices excerptorii that could later be used in their own writings.63 Other methods mentioned by Bouza include the composition of summaries of books perused by a student and would-be author, or annotations written in the margins of a printed text, writings that can be recovered today in volumes signed by specific authors and kept in their private libraries. A logical consequence of this expansion of literacy as related to the training received in elementary and grammar schools was the ever-growing number of persons from the middle and lower social strata who also dreamt about becoming authors. Well-known and frequently mentioned are the ironic comments made by Cervantes and his contemporaries, who ridicule such delusions in men without talent. In the prologue to the second part of Don Quijote, its author criticizes this particular kind of expectation à propos the false continuation of his romance by a still unidentified writer, Alonso Fernández de Avellaneda. The prologue is addressed to both kinds of readers: lector ilustre o quier plebeyo. Cervantes’ response sums up the generalized criticism of ambitions that led incompetent writers to try to profit from the expansion of printing. He describes them as tentaciones del demonio, and “one of the greatest is to put it into a man’s head that he can compose and print a book with which he might

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“No sé cómo puede ser eso, que en verdad, a lo que yo entiendo, no hay mejor letrado en el mundo, y que tengo ahí dos o tres de ellos, con otros papeles, que verdaderamente me han dado la vida, no sólo a mí sino a otros muchos” (Cervantes, Don Quijote I, 32)—to which Sancho’s wife agrees, albeit for different reasons. Bouza, Communication, 42–43. See Sagrario López Poza, “Quevedo, humanista cristiano,” in Quevedo a nueva luz: escritura y política, (eds.) Lía Schwartz and Antonio Carreira (Málaga: 1997), 163–183; and Sagrario López Poza, “La erudición como nodriza de la invención,” La Perinola 3 (1999): 171–194.

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gain as much fame as money and money as fame.”64 In similar fashion, Francisco de Quevedo exposes the consequences of printing when undertaken by unethical printers and book-sellers. In his Sueño del infierno, a visit to Hell, the satirist describes how, while walking through a dark corridor—pasadizo—he is surprised to be called by his name. As punishment for his sins, a condemned man is burning in flames, yet the satirist cannot identify him in the dark until the former says that he is the bookseller, and expresses his surprise at having been condemned. The satirist claims that he had suspected this fate for the bookseller, because his store was a brothel of books, “el burdel de los libros, pues todos los cuerpos que tenía eran de gente de la vida, escandalosos y burlones.” By means of a conceit, Quevedo makes homologous the books the condemned man sold in his store (cuerpos) to prostitutes in a brothel. Thus, the justifications offered by the bookseller: namely, that some people are condemned for the books they wrote, but booksellers are damned for the bad works written by others. These are false objects of wisdom, sold cheaply so as to get rid of them, and they include translations from the Latin, which in former times only wise men could read. In his present day, continues the narrator, even a lackey has a command of Latin, and one can find translations of Horace in a stable.65 By the middle of the 17th century, books had become commercial objects whose value did not depend on the quality of their content or upon the artistry of the writer, in frank transgression of the Aristotelian and Horatian principle of prodesse et delectare. Quevedo’s indictment reveals his rejection of such erasure of the boundaries that, in his opinion, were necessary to maintain society’s order through separation of social groups.

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“una de las mayores es ponerle a un hombre en el entendimiento que puede componer y imprimir un libro con que gane tanta fama como dineros y tantos dineros cuanto fama” (Cervantes, Don Quijote, II, Prologue); the passage is also cited by Fernando Bouza and Roger Chartier, Inscription and Erasure: Literature and Written Culture from the Eleventh to the Eighteenth Century (Philadelphia: 2007), 36. “¿Qué quiere?—me dijo viéndome suspenso tratar conmigo estas cosas—pues es tanta mi desgracia que todos se condenan por las malas obras que han hecho y yo y todos los libreros nos condenamos por las obras malas que hacen los otros y por lo que hicimos barato de los libros en romance y traducidos de latín, sabiendo ya con ellos los tontos lo que encarecían en otros tiempos los sabios, que ya hasta el lacayo latiniza y hallarán a Horacio en castellano en la caballeriza” (Francisco de Quevedo “Sueño del Infierno,” in Sueños y discursos, in Obras completas en prosa, [ed.] Ignacio Arellano [Madrid: 2003], 1:287–288).

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Books for the Humanist: Erasmism and Neo-Stoicism

Cervantes’ division of potential readers into illustrious and plebeian is parallel to Quevedo’s ironic criticism of booksellers for giving inane consumers the opportunity to know what had once been the privilege of the wise. His complaints are at odds with the intentions of Italian and Spanish humanists who wished to promote greater knowledge of the literature and philosophy of ancient Greek and Roman authors through a pedagogical renewal of education. Wisdom and truth were located in those writings and therefore, lost manuscripts had to be sought in the libraries of old convents and in secular places so as to expand knowledge of the classical canon. The printing press simply made those works available to both erudite and plebeian readers. Petrarch, for example, had discovered a manuscript that transmitted Propertius’ poetry, unknown until then.66 That pattern held for too many other recovered manuscripts to mention in this brief account, but one in particular is worth exploring in some depth. In the 14th century, Byzantine scholars hired to teach Greek in Italy recovered the work of another unknown representative of the Second Sophistics, Lucian of Samosata. Lucian’s works were soon translated into Latin and—by means of the famous versions prepared by Erasmus of Rotterdam and Thomas More—his satires and writings in other literary genres became very well known in Europe. These bilingual Greek-Latin editions were used as textbooks to teach Greek in Spain and in Europe at large, and could be found in most university and private libraries of the country. Moreover, the influence of the Syrian rhetorician was not limited to satire. In Byzantium (and later in Italy and Spain from the end of the 15th century into the end of the 17th), Lucian was read as a moral philosopher, as well as a rhetorician considered to be a model for stylistic prose; he was also quoted in historiographical works. In both centuries, his texts were an important source of imitation for many writers, from the author of El Crotalón to Quevedo’s Sueños and later satirical works, Discurso de todos los diablos and La hora de todos.67 Humanists and 66 67

See Lía Schwartz, “Las elegías de Propercio y sus lectores áureos,” Edad de Oro 24 (2005): 323–350. For studies of his influence in Spain, which are still partial, see Michael O. Zappala, Lucian of Samosata in the Two Hesperias: An Essay in Literary and Cultural Translation (Potomac, MD: 1990), which lists the numerous translations into the vernacular, as also registered by Theodore Beardsley, Hispano-Classical Translations Printed Between 1482 and 1699 (Pittsburgh: 1970). Earlier studies include Christopher Robinson, Lucian and His Influence in Europe (Chapel Hill: 1979), and Antonio Vives Coll, La influencia de Luciano de Samosata en el Siglo de Oro (La Laguna: 1950). For Lucian in Quevedo’s satire, see the annotated edi-

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learned readers encountered Lucian in school but continued to read his work in Greek or in Erasmus’ and other translations. Erasmus’ works were also found in the private libraries of most humanists and learned readers of the 16th and 17th centuries, even after the Council of Trent had placed many of them on the Index librorum prohibitorum. His Adagiorum chiliades, published by Aldo Manuzio in 1508, had already become a basic work of reference for collecting the sentences of the classics. His original colloquies, written in imitation of Lucian’s satires, many of which had been translated into Spanish by his disciples between 1527 and 1532, also circulated in both languages. Very well-known was his famous paradoxical Moriae encomium or, in its other title, Stultitiae laus (Elogio de la Locura), which influenced the works of Cervantes, Alfonso de Valdés, and many other writers of colloquies, exemplary lives, treatises, essays, miscellanies and polyantheae, such as Pedro Mexía’s Silva de varia lección. His philosophical works—the Enchiridion militis Christiani, Sileni Alcibiadis, Institutio principis Christiani and others—were similarly influential.68 Early Modern humanists in Spain were also involved intellectually with the principles of Erasmus’philosophia Christi, both before his death in 1536 and for many decades after the Inquisition censored his exhortations to build a new Christian philosophy that would reject Scholasticism and instead apply philological methods to the study of the Scriptures. His followers, the erasmistas, suffered persecution; yet several of them continued to be faithful to his religious and philosophical program. One of these was the educator Juan López de Hoyos, who taught from 1568 to 1583 at the Escuela de la Villa in Madrid, a school which Cervantes attended. López de Hoyos had a personal library of over 400 titles of Greek and Roman classics. Its inventory, as found in a document written after his death, includes texts by Livy, dozens of works by Cicero, Aristotle in the original Greek, Caesar, Ovid, Sallustius, Seneca, Apuleius, Catullus, Plautus, Terence, Suetonius, Pliny, Horace, at least six books by Erasmus, and many other modern authors.69 Marcel Bataillon, who studied the influence of Erasmus on the works of Cervantes, considered the author of Don Quijote

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tion of Francisco de Quevedo, La hora de todos y la Fortuna con seso, (ed.) Lía Schwartz (Madrid: 2009). For an in-depth study of Erasmus’ influence in Spain as a humanist and a philosopher, see Marcel Bataillon, Erasmo y España (Mexico City: 1950), where the French scholar dealt with relationships to Alfonso de Valdés in his Diálogo de Mercurio y Carón and other writers; for Pedro Mexía, author of the famous polyanthea Silva de varia lección, see the edited and annotated edition by Isaías Lerner (Madrid: 1992). Alfredo Alvar, “López de Hoyos, corógrafo de Madrid,” in Imprenta, libros y lectura en la España del Quijote, (ed.) José Manuel Lucía Megías (Madrid: 2006), 19–45 and the same

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an heredero del humanismo erasmizante and believed López de Hoyos to be the direct intermediary of this transmission.70 From the writings of erasmistas Juan de Valdés and his brother Alfonso (as well as from Juan Luis Vives), Cervantes derived his rejection of the genre of books of chivalry, one of the sources of Don Quijote; from the same group of humanists also came his interest in recreating the Greek novel of adventures, the model on which he built his Persiles and Sigismunda. Wise and learned readers also developed their intellectual commitment to a renewal of literature in the vernacular, along with art and philosophy, by studying the works of the ancients in depth and with real conviction. New ideas about the art of imitation were put into practice in the interpretation of Early Modern poetry, from the works of Garcilaso de la Vega to those of Luis de Góngora, Francisco de Quevedo and a plethora of writers who were their successors in the 17th century. In his famous annotated edition of Garcilaso de la Vega, Fernando de Herrera quotes sources such as Petrarch, Bembo and many Italian predecessors or contemporaries, as well as Virgil, Horace, Propertius, Ovid and the whole canon of Roman and Greek poets. He also contextualizes the ideas that emanate from the texts by showing how they derive from Marsilio Ficino, León Hebreo, Castiglione, Plato, Aristotle, Seneca and other philosophers of antiquity.71 Himself a renowned poet, Herrera showed that he was, as well, a sophisticated reader of narrative and poetry written by his contemporaries. Although no inventory of his personal library has survived, it is well known that he belonged to a circle of book-sharing humanists in his native city, Seville, and that Juan de Mal Lara, himself the owner of a rich library, was one among their number. At least 60 titles have been identified in a surviving inventory that shows what was read and discussed among the members of this group, a true proto-academy in its own right. As expected, the list includes philosophers and rhetoricians such as Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, and Pliny; historians Herodotus, Xenophon, and Josephus; authors of chronicles, ancient and contemporary, such as Paulus Jovius; humanists Poliziano, Erasmus, Julius Caesar Scaliger; and several encyclopedias and polyantheas, as well as the famous Ravisius Textor. These and other volumes owned by this group in Seville indi-

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author’s biography: Alfredo Alvar, Un maestro en tiempos de Felipe II: Juan López de Hoyos y la enseñanza humanista en el siglo XVI (Madrid: 2014). M. Bataillon, Erasmo y España, 400–427; see also Américo Castro, “Erasmo en tiempo de Cervantes,” in El pensamiento de Cervantes (Madrid: 2002), 501–529; and Antonio Vilanova, Erasmo y Cervantes (Barcelona: 1989). See his well-known philological treatise Anotaciones a la poesía de Garcilaso de la Vega, (eds.) Inoria Pepe and J.M. Reyes (Madrid: 2001).

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cate that their conversations versed on very similar interests in poetry, painting, philosophy, and erudition. Their activities also confirm that the books themselves had become objects of cultural importance to be read, discussed and shared, thus conferring an identity upon this group of friends.72 The libraries of 16th-century humanists in Spain reveal the same cultural practices typical of Italian Renaissance thinkers: Greek and Roman literature, art, philosophy and historiography, now applied to their own artistic production in fieri. They are also very informative as to the ideological trends that crossed the life of the mind in that stormy century. Erasmism, an expression of a philosophia Christi that was conceived as a doctrine to reform the state of religion and the Church, could not survive after Trent. The philological work of Erasmus continued to influence the process of recontextualization of the classics, thanks to the publication of yet more editions of known and unknown Greek and Roman authors, although his philosophy had become obsolete. It would be replaced by a growing interest in Stoicism, a doctrine adopted by former Erasmists such as Francisco de las Brozas (‘el Brocense’), the famous humanist professor at the University of Salamanca who survived two Inquisitorial procesos in the second half of the 16th century for his defense of Erasmus and his work. In 1600, De las Brozas published his translation of another Enchiridion, one written in the 1st century AD by a former slave in Rome, Epictetus.73 This was an actualized version of the precepts of the old Stoa, also followed and reworked by Seneca, and one which had enjoyed great success after the Roman Republic became the Roman Empire. It has been said that neoStoicism became the perfect philosophy through which to overcome the disasters suffered in the European wars of religion. Promoted also by Justus Lipsius in a version that resulted from a merger of Seneca’s thought with early Christian formulations, these treatises titled De constantia and Politicorum libri sex were read and adopted by the participants in a new Republic of Letters, within which Lipsius promoted his version of neo-Stoicism to a growing group of enthusiastic and learned Spanish, French and other European humanists through a vast epistolary corpus. Among his followers in Spain was Francisco de Quevedo, an

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See Pedro Ruiz Pérez, “Observaciones sobre libros y lecturas en círculos cultos (a propósito de Mal Lara y el humanismo sevillano),” Bulletin Hispanique 100 (1998): 53–68; “Los libros del poeta renacentista,” Archivum (Oviedo) 48–49 (1998–1999): 480–515; and Libros y lecturas de un poeta humanista: Fernando de Herrera 1534–1597 (Córdoba: 1997). See Lía Schwartz, “Persio y Epicteto del Brocense a Quevedo,” in Actas del Encuentro Internacional de Hispanistas, con motivo del Tricentenario de la Biblioteca Nacional de España (Madrid: 2012), 39–47. This digital edition may be found at http://www.bne.es/media/ Publicaciones/OtrasPublicaciones/encuentro‑hispanistas.pdf.

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inveterate reader of classical literature, philosophy and historiography.74 Himself the owner of a rich library, Quevedo cherished the philosophical works of Lipsius and his editions of Tacitus and Seneca, which were also popular among other Spanish authors and politicians during the reigns of Philip III and Philip IV. Intellectual trends in the 17th century would, however, follow a different course than that of the early humanists: as a learned but aristocratic reader, Quevedo distanced himself from the plebeian type who, in his opinion, did not have the intellectual capacity to appreciate the works of the classics. Serious books had to be reserved for the few: libros, para pocos.

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Literary Gatherings and Poetic Contests

The 17th century has been described as a true Golden Age of literary and artistic activity in Spain. Among the manifestations of its active intellectual life are extant manuscripts that preserve the proceedings of literary academies, as they were called then, and many printed and manuscript texts from those poetic contests, whose participants included the best writers of the time and their sympathizers. Usually sponsored by members of the nobility, such events afforded those patrons and other enthusiastic amateurs of the arts the occasion to talk about literature, philosophy, and the latest creative developments in those fields. These literary academies and contests have been studied by scholars specializing in such re-creations of parallel Italian gatherings that were the models followed at the court in Madrid and in other Spanish cities.75 As meeting places to exchange ideas and discuss published texts, or new trends in the art and culture of the times, the academies offer important information about the creative process as it was conceived in the Renaissance, as well as on the diverse ideological positions taken by artists, thinkers and the noblemen who sponsored them.

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See Lía Schwartz, “Justo Lipsio en Quevedo: neoestoicismo, política y sátira,” in Encuentros en Flandes, (eds.) Werner Thomas and Robert A. Verdonk (Leuven: 2000), 227–274. The best study on these manifestations of intellectual life is still Willard F. King’s Prosa novelística y academias literarias en el siglo XVII (Madrid: 1963), which was preceded by her article, “The Academies and Seventeenth-Century Spanish Literature,” PMLA 75.4 (1960): 367–376; see also José Sánchez, Academias literarias del Siglo de Oro español (Madrid: 1961). Recently published are an important book by Alain Bègue, Las academias literarias en la segunda mitad del siglo XVII. Catálogo descriptivo de los impresos de la Biblioteca Nacional de España (Madrid: 2007) and a study by Jesús Cañas Murillo, “Corte y academias literarias en la España de Felipe IV,” Anuario de Estudios Filológicos 35 (2012): 5–26, with extensive bibliography.

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In Italy, Renaissance academies first surfaced in the middle of the 15th century. The most famous was the Platonic Academy, constituted in Florence in 1442 with the support of Cosme de’ Medici, and with Marsilio Ficino as its director.76 There, friends and interested humanists like Poliziano and Pico della Mirandola gathered to study Greek texts, both Platonist and poetic. Academies multiplied in the following century in Naples, Rome and other Italian cities, including another very well-known group directed by Giovanni Pontano at Naples. During the 16th century, participants developed a series of rules about organization and structure that would also be adopted by the organizers of Spanish academies. Gatherings were scheduled to meet in the evening on a specific day of the week and—as stipulated in surviving documents—they would run until nightfall. In the 16th century the Academia de los Nocturnos was established in Valencia; in Seville there were several, among them those of Juan de Arguijo and Francisco Pacheco; also well known was the academy established in Madrid in 1604 by the second son of the royal favorite, the Duke of Lerma: Diego Gómez de Sandoval, then Count of Saldaña, was its president. Between 1604 and 1608 this academy celebrated its sessions with some regularity and, beginning in 1607, they took place in the house of nobleman Félix Arias Girón. Both aristocrats (Gómez de Sandoval and Arias Girón), as well as Diego Duque de Estrada, Lope de Vega, Quevedo and a group of writers, erudites and professors from the University of Alcalá were members of this group. A constant reference in regard to this academy is Lope de Vega’s celebrated Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo, composed as a response to those who defended a classicist model of drama rejected by Lope himself. Thus, Jesús Cañas Murillo would define Lope’s Arte nuevo as an academic speech.77 Yet another nobleman, Francisco de Silva, created his own academy after the dissolution of Saldaña’s. Lope de Vega was present for its first meeting in 1612 and, in a letter sent afterwards to his protector the Duke of Sessa, Lope wrote that it deserved the name El Parnaso, given the intellectual quality of the participants.78 Known later as Academia Selvaje, in honor of De Silva, this group hosted a distinguished writer from Granada, Pedro Soto de Rojas, ‘el Ardiente,’ author of the famous collection of poems titled Desengaño de amor en rimas.

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In his writings, Ficino refers to this academy using that term, although some scholars have disputed its formal composition. “una oración académica: Arte nuevo […]” (Jesús Cañas Murillo, “Corte y academias literarias,” 9). See also Felipe B. Pedraza, “Precisiones sobre el Arte nuevo: la academia de Saldaña,” in Cuatrocientos años del “Arte nuevo de hacer comedias” de Lope de Vega, (eds.) Germán Vega García Luengos and Héctor Urzáiz Tortajada (Olmedo: 2010), 1:53–68. King, Prosa novelística, 48.

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In the first session, Soto de Rojas read a paper on the neo-Aristotelian theory of poetics then in fashion among cultivated artistic literati. He addressed principles of metrics in Spanish poetry, while also discussing Horace’s precept of prodesse et delectare to evaluate narrative texts: a Greek novel, Heliodorus’ Teágenes y Cariclea (one of the sources of Cervantes’ Los trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda) as well as Apuleius’ Lucian or the Ass, a Roman narrative that was also well known among humanists and cultivated readers and a text that Cervantes imitated in a section of his exemplary novel, El coloquio de los perros. Various surviving academy proceedings offer specific information on these events. We have summaries with details on speakers, speeches or compositions read by members and—for some sessions—a final poetic commentary written by a noted author-participant, with details about the meeting along with a satirical or burlesque critique of what was read and of the speakers. This type of composition, called a vejamen, was a frequent source of resentment among authors. Another academy in Madrid, directed by Sebastián Francisco de Medrano, held gatherings between 1617 and 1622. The most accomplished writers who attended its sessions and participated in its activities included, again, Lope de Vega, along with Francisco de Quevedo, Luis de Góngora, Tirso de Molina, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, Luis Vélez de Guevara, Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Antonio Mira de Amescua, Juan Pérez de Montalbán, Alonso de Castillo Solórzano and Gabriel Bocángel. At the time of Philip IV (1621–1665), a monarch very interested in intellectual trends as well as a protector and supporter of arts and letters, the king himself would attend dramatic events and poetic contests. He also promoted the theater by organizing performances at both the Alcázar of Madrid and the Buen Retiro Palace, and he fostered meetings in which writers and sympathizers of the arts improvised all types of poetic discourses. The extant document for one of these jornadas de improvisación, held in January of 1636, registers its specific structure: the event finished with a masked ball enjoyed by all the participants. Such organized gatherings and poetic contests confirm the extent and importance of intellectual life in Early Modern Spain. In sum, the myriad activities of Renaissance Spanish intellectuals, as outlined above, show that their interests were broad, they had open and plentiful access to ancient and classical sources, they experimented with form and re-thought content in their own context, and they created works of incredible depth and beauty. Renaissance Spanish intellectual life rivaled that of the Greco-Roman authors celebrated by these thinkers and artists, their worthy descendants.

chapter 14

Ladies, Libraries and Literacy in Early Modern Spain Elizabeth Teresa Howe

Renaissance Europe witnessed a flowering of learning based on a rising literacy rate and increasing access to written texts due to the appearance of the printing press in the late 15th century. What began in Trecento Italy quickly spread to other European countries, not least among them Spain. While the advantages of literacy and publishing predominantly accrued to men, women were by no means excluded from the advances introduced during the Renaissance. This essay will examine ladies, their libraries and their degree of literacy from the 13th to the 17th centuries in the Iberian Peninsula. Medieval and Renaissance Europe defined literacy as the ability to read and write Latin, since this was the language of ‘letters’ and culture. Since a monastic setting defined most medieval schooling, the corollary of clericus/litteratus distinguished the literate individual from his perceived opposite, laicus /illiteratus.1 While litteratus referred to a degree of learning or schooling rather than simply the ability to read and write, “nevertheless, when explaining medieval ways of thought it is correct to say that all laymen were considered illiterate yet it would be mistaken to conclude from that proposition that in any particular time or place all non-churchmen were unable to read or write.”2 The laity—among whom are numbered all women—engaged in a level of practical or functional literacy which evolved as commerce and the vernacular grew.3 With production of vernacular written texts, the notion of literacy eventually embraced those who read and/or wrote Spanish, but who might be ignorant or even semi-literate in Latin.4 In the case of women, reading and writing in the

1 Kenneth Levine, The Social Context of Literacy (London: 1986), 61. See also M.T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307 (Cambridge: 1993), for more on these pairings (226–227). 2 Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record, 231–232. 3 Harvey J. Graff, The Legacies of Literacy: Continuities and Contradictions in Western Culture and Society (Bloomington: 1987), 56. 4 Franz Bäuml, “Varieties and Consequences of Medieval Literacy and Illiteracy,” Speculum 55 (1989): 237–265, at 247.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_016

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vernacular became a reasonable goal from the 15th through the 17th centuries in Spain even as Latin literacy might elude them for other reasons. Although copying of manuscripts continued to serve as one of the principal occupations of cloistered communities well into the 13th century, Latin literacy declined among nuns in the years that followed. Commenting on the dissemination of educational treatises extant in 13th-century secular society, Margaret Wade Labarge notes that almost all were written in the vernacular since “only some nuns and a few extremely well-educated noble ladies could be expected to have more than the bare minimum of Latin required for their devotions.”5 Holdings of the library of the Monastery of San Clemente in Toledo suggest that a similar situation obtained in 14th-century Spanish convents. In an inventory conducted in 1331 one finds a preponderance of hymnals, psalteries, and devotional works. While the liturgical works are in Latin, at least half of those of a devotional nature are in the vernacular.6 Still, by the first part of the 16th century a marked increase in the number of devotional titles published in the vernacular occurred in Spain.7 Vestigial contact with Latin continued in the daily life of nuns, since the monastic choir still sang the Divine Office and recited communal prayers in Latin. Nevertheless, rote learning of certain set prayers as well as sight-reading without comprehension of the Latin Psalter sufficed. In order to encourage spiritual reading among women religious, however, prelates such as Hernando de Talavera in Ávila and Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros in Alcalá and Toledo supported publication of vernacular translations of spiritual texts.8 In Christian Europe, other avenues for female education existed in the court or in noble households where aristocratic girls resided for training in manners and elementary schooling. Similarly, daughters of urban craftsmen occasionally obtained a technical and general education through apprenticeship, while some peasant girls in towns and villages received rudimentary lessons in local schools.9 5 Margaret Wade Labarge, A Small Sound of the Trumpet: Women in Medieval Life (Boston: 1986), 38. Merry E. Wiesner-Hanks, in Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: 2008), comments on those few women who studied the classics (142). 6 See J. Pérez de Guzmán, “El libro y la biblioteca en España durante los siglos medios,” La España Moderna 17.202 (1905): 111–152, at 123–124. Ronald E. Surtz, in Writing Women in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain: The Mothers of Saint Teresa of Avila (Philadelphia: 1995), comments on the San Clemente collection (13). 7 Rafael M. Pérez García, “Communitas Cristiana: The Sources of Christian Tradition in the Construction of Early Castilian Spiritual Literature,” in Books in the Catholic World during the Early Modern Period, (ed.) Natalia Maillard Alvarez (Leiden: 2014), 71–113, at 111. 8 Pérez García, “Communitas Cristiana,” 91–108. 9 See Roger Collins, “Literacy and the Laity in Early Mediaeval Spain,” in The Uses of Literacy

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As the Middle Ages progressed so, too, did the emergence of the vernacular as the language of commerce and, eventually, of popular literature. By the 13th and 14th centuries, a growing number of authors began to write in the vernacular, a phenomenon that “aided the expansion of opportunities for elementary schooling and new demands for some degree of literacy.”10 The nature of those studies engendered by the growing body of vernacular texts shifted imperceptibly from ecclesiastical, governmental, and administrative to the secular, the personal, and non-abstract.11 Individual women of learning in Europe during the Middle Ages exist and serve as evidence that the education of women at least at some level in society was not entirely lacking. Yet many writers persisted in regarding these few as exceptional. As late as the 15th century, the aim of educating women remained the inculcation of “practical morals and religious temper” while “letters must be held subordinate to manners and character.”12 In the view of many, therefore, the place of women in society remained the home and the hearth, where a wife’s duties required close supervision of the household as well as the early education of her children. Training of young girls and women focused on this limited role. Although schools for girls existed on a limited scale, illiteracy among women always exceeded that of men. In spite of certain restrictions, Renaissance humanists did not entirely foreclose the possibility of female education. On the contrary, they were strong, albeit conservative, advocates for it. The readings they recommended invariably stressed moral themes far more than elegant style for the lady’s edification. In addition, Books of Hours, which included the Psalms, were a commonplace among ladies of the court. In sum, a virtuous woman would not pursue indecorously advanced studies but, rather, would devote herself to those endeavors that best served her as wife and mother. While the concern of treatises by humanists such as Juan Luis Vives was more often focused on the education of princesses and noblewomen, he and others also concerned themselves with poor relief. From their proposals the endowment of schools for orphans in Spain resulted, with attention paid to educating both boys and girls. The curriculum was more pragmatic than intel-

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in Early Mediaeval Europe, (ed.) Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge: 1990), 109–133, at 110– 111 and 114–115; and Stefan C. Reif, “Aspects of Mediaeval Jewish Literacy,” in The Uses of Literacy, (ed.) McKitterick, 134–155, at 153, for medieval examples in Spain. Graff, The Legacies of Literacy, 88. Bäuml, “Varieties and Consequences,” 263. William Harrison Woodward, Vittorino da Feltre and Other Humanist Educators (New York: 1963), 249.

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lectual, but many of these schools were known to teach reading and, at times, enough writing so that their students might at least sign their names.13 As use of the Psalter spread, whether in Latin or in bilingual editions, it eventually served as the earliest printed text for teaching reading.14 With the advent of printing, introductory primers became a mainstay of publishers’ and stationers’ inventory.15 Thus, the presence of Books of Hours and Psalters as a virtual constant in women’s personal libraries suggests that the owners had both the means and opportunity at hand to learn to read. Translations of Latin texts into the vernacular made them more accessible to a wider audience, benefitting both secular and monastic readers alike. At the same time, marriage also contributed to the dissemination of texts. Especially in the case of royal brides, women served as conduits for the movement of books, art, and even religious ideas, so that “by the end of the 15th century brides brought romances, grammars, and educational treatises as well, but devotional works remained a part of the literary trousseau.” Literacy in the vernacular included women, so much so that a stridently misogynistic passage from the Arcipreste de Talavera condemns their preferred reading. Jeremy Lawrance concludes that “a collection of books, albeit small enough to fit in a cofre with a collection of cosmetics, was a commonplace article of furniture in a lady’s bedchamber. It also assumes that ladies were capable of reading their books.”16 Thus, when moralists railed against women’s preference for ‘licentious books,’ they implied that enough women read them to constitute a social problem. They also indicated the control they wished to exercise over female reading habits. Evidence of female book owners exists not only in Castile but in other kingdoms of the Peninsula as well. Although ownership alone does not prove literacy or even interest in the subject, neither does it suggest solely a taste for fine bindings or decorative objects. Notable examples of women book owners may be found in Spain, from the 10th-century Countess Mummadona Díaz, who

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“Colegios de niños huérfanos” (Wiesner-Hanks, Women and Gender, 144–145 and 147). For more on these schools, see Elizabeth Teresa Howe, Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic World (Burlington, VT: 2008), especially Chapter 4. Paul F. Grendler, in Schooling in Renaissance Italy: Literacy and Learning 1300–1600 (Baltimore: 1989), points out that “Italians … described the earliest stage of learning to read as ‘reading the psalter’ ” (143). He goes on to show that hornbook and primer were often incorporated into school texts, such as grammars, a phenomenon he finds in other European countries (153, 155–156). Levine, The Legacies of Literacy, 68. J.N.H. Lawrance, “The Spread of Lay Literacy in Late Medieval Castile,”Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 62 (1985): 79–94, at 79.

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donated a sizeable collection to the Monastery of Güimaraes, to Doña Sancha de Guzmán, mother of the poet Garcilaso de la Vega, who listed approximately 20 titles in her testamento, including devotional and secular texts.17 Examination of last wills and testaments in Valencia reveals a number of women whose possessions included specific books distinct from those of their husbands, leading one investigator to observe that “in fact, it is not just among noblewomen that we can find a large number of readers. We have discovered reading as a common practice.”18 Equally significant, book ownership was not confined exclusively to the nobility, for some women of the merchant and artisanal classes also possessed modest libraries.19 Although one may deduce a degree of literacy among a certain class of women from the possession of books, mere ownership does not delineate the extent of female literacy. Nor does an ability to read necessarily indicate a concomitant ability to write. In fact, the debate among men regarding the appropriateness of teaching women to read and write continued well into the 16th century. In all of these discussions, however, the argument is pointless if reading and writing were not present among certain groups of women. With the invention of the printing press, the new publishing trade rapidly spread throughout Europe, making the acquisition of books by an increasingly wider circle of readers possible. From the mid-15th century, when Gutenberg produced his first Bible, until the turn of the 16th, thousands of books were printed throughout Europe of which some 35,000 different editions survive. Reprinting of works further suggests a much wider readership than had heretofore existed. By the last half of the 15th century over 200 towns in Europe had installed printing presses, including at least 24 in Spain.20 17 18

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See Collins, “Literacy and Laity,” 126–127; and Francisco P. Uhagón y Guadamiento, Documentos inéditos referentes al poeta Garcilaso de la Vega (Madrid: 1915), 120–1013. “En fait, c’ est que chez les femmes de la noblesse que nous pouvons trouver présence massive de lectrices. Nous y découvrons la leture comme une practique courante” (Philippe Berger, “La lecture à Valence de 1474 a 1560 [evolution des comportements en fonction des milieux sociaux],” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 11 [1975]: 99–118, at 102). JeanMichel Laspéras, “Chronique du livre espagnole: inventaires de bibliothèques et documents de librairie dans le monde hispanique aux XVe, XVe, et XVIIe siècles,” Revue Française d’Histoire du Livre 28 (1980): 535–557, at 535–537, lists 15 separate inventories of libraries of women from the 15th through the 17th centuries in Spain. José María Madurell Marimón and Jorge Rubio Balaguer, in their essay “Inventario de los libros que dejó al morir la viuda del mercader de Barcelona Francesc Gerona,” in Documentos para la historia de la imprenta y librería en Barcelona (1474–1533) (Barcelona: 1955), 125–128 and 546–547, list the books owned by the widow of a Barcelonan merchant and those of a notary, respectively. Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin, The Coming of the Book, (eds.) Geoffrey Nowell-

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Both publication of original Spanish texts and translations of Spanish works into other languages were produced on foreign presses. At times there were more translations than editions of the original work, especially in popular fiction such as the Cárcel de amor and the Celestina.21 The sheer numbers of editions and translations of chivalric romances invite the question, “who reads these books in the Golden Age?” Maxime Chevalier replies with a list which includes the Catholic Monarchs as well as women like Doña Sancha de Guzmán; both the mother of Santa Teresa de Jesús and Teresa herself; the Marquesa de Ceñete, Doña Mencía de Mendoza; and the writer Doña María de Zayas.22 The popularity of these books among female readers also helped fuel moralists’ condemnation of them. Beyond queens and nobles, other women book owners represent different social classes and somewhat disparate reading interests. They range from Madona Paula, who bequeathed a scant five titles of predominantly devotional texts, to Doña Ana de Mendoza, who left 85 to her heirs.23 Doña Ana possessed the works of Santa Teresa and Juan de Ávila as well as the staples of religious literature by Thomas à Kempis and Saints Bonaventure and Jerome. Also instructive is the example of Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza (1566–1614), who acknowledged the pleasure she took in listening to and reading Scripture and the Fathers of the Church at the urging of her uncle.24 Among the books she mentions are works by Luis de Granada and Saint John Climacus.25 Yet, she also dismisses so-called books “full of trifles.”26 In contrast, some women combined devotional books with these more secular titles. Thus, the possessions

21 22 23

24

25 26

Smith and David Wooton, trans. David Gerard (London: 1976), 182–186. R.A. Houston, in Literacy in Early Modern Europe: Culture & Education 1500–1800 (London: 1988), describes the growth of publication in Spain from 1472 through 1520 as well as the effect of printing on reading (155–164, 190). Lucien Febvre, Life in Renaissance France, (ed.) and trans. Marian Rothstein (Cambridge: 1977), 274. Maxime Chevalier, Lectura y lectores en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII (Madrid: 1976), 74–75. On Madona Paula, see Madurell Marimón and Rubio Balaguer, Documentos, 547. For Doña Ana de Mendoza, see “Inventario de bienes de doña Ana de mendoza, duquesa del Infantado,” Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid) Osuna, leg. 1836–1837, Cajón 11, leg. 5, no. 6. M. Lasso de la Vega reports evidence of a similar preference for devotional titles (M. Lasso de la Vega, “Librería de la condesa de Puñonrostro,” Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas y Museos 54 [1948]: 255–285). See Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza, Escritos autobiográficos, (ed.) Camilo María Abad (Barcelona: 1966), 156 and 185–186. For an English translation, see ‘This Tight Embrace’: Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza (1566–1614), (ed.) and trans. Elizabeth Rhodes (Milwaukee: 2000). Carvajal y Mendoza, Escritos autobiográficos, 14. Carvajal y Mendoza, Escritos autobiográficos, 156.

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of Doña Ana de Sandoval included the works of Santa Teresa alongside a copy of Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando furioso and the novels of Cervantes.27 In like manner, the widow of a Barcelonan merchant left a collection of books in which translations of classical authors far outnumber devotional titles.28 Fernando de Rojas’ widow possessed both his library and an additional collection which included chivalric romances, works by Boccaccio, and the Jardín de nobles doncellas of Fray Martín de Córdoba.29 In sum, with few exceptions, the predilection for religious and romantic reading evident early in the century apparently continued in successive generations of female book owners and readers throughout the Early Modern period in Spain. Printing expanded the possibilities for book ownership as production brought costs within reach of more than the wealthy patron. In Spain, Lawrance considers the turn of the 14th and 15th centuries a critical phase in the expansion of literacy, “the moment when the number of readers reached that necessary minimum beyond which it is proper to speak of a ‘reading public’ rather than of individual readers.”30 During the last half of the 15th century, increasing literacy and the availability of more and cheaper texts created a potential market for the nascent publishing trade, so that publishing and literacy in both Spain and the rest of Europe were symbiotically joined. As accessibility to books grew so, too, did the desire to learn to read or, at the very least, to hear books read. Similarly, the increasing size and diversity of a functionally literate public led to predictable changes in the publishing trade. The number of volumes and titles available in cities throughout Spain suggests the scope of the reading audience as well as its preferences. One 17thcentury source cited by Nalle held that book ownership was well within the means of a large segment of society since costs had fallen as inventories grew and expanded.31 The market responded to a larger reading public with interests more varied than those represented in the specialized texts that had predominated in the early years of the printing trade. Thus, during the first half of the 16th century, presses in Seville produced a large number of books in the vernacular, ranging from chivalric romances to histories, devotional texts, and

27 28 29 30 31

Archivo Histórico Nacional, Osuna, Leg. 1837-10, Cajón 11, leg. 6, no. 6. Madurell Marimón and Balaguer, “Inventario,” 125–128. Stephen Gilman and Michael J. Ruggerio, “Rodrigo de Reinosa and ‘La Celestina,’” Revue Française 73 (1961): 258–284. Lawrance, “The Spread of Lay Literacy,” 80. Sara T. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Spain,” Past & Present 125 (1989): 65– 96, at 76. See also Joël Saugnieux, in Cultures populaires et cultures savantes en Espagne du Moyen Age aux Lumières (Paris: 1982), who comments on ownership (50).

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scientific tomes.32 In Salamanca printers produced imaginative and popular literature in addition to humanistic works for the university.33 Yet, as the century advanced, the variety and type of publication changed to meet new demand. Inventories of bookstores in different parts of the Peninsula attest to the catholic reading tastes of the clientele. In Santiago de Compostela classical authors and religious works as well as popular poetry and romances of chivalry predominated.34 In mid-century Cuenca, one printer offered thousands of broadsheets of prayers, songs, poems, ballads, jokes, and primers as well as devotional books. Religious titles were commonly found in convent libraries and private homes.35 Toledan booksellers showed a similar preference for devotional over classical texts.36 The sheer number of titles and copies in the inventories of bookstores strongly suggests a wider readership than that assumed by many literacy studies.37 At the same time, the preponderance of devotional titles and chivalric romances—works particularly favored by women readers— also implies that female literacy might be more widespread than that indicated by the usual sources of data.38 Beyond accessibility to and ownership of books, determining literacy levels of the period is difficult to ascertain. Basing his conclusions on the evidence of book ownership, Chevalier contends that some 80 percent of the populace of Early Modern Spain was illiterate. He argues that those who had both the need and the resources to purchase books were limited to the nobility, clergymen, intellectuals, and professionals (such as lawyers and physicians), notaries, merchants, a few businessmen and artisans, and, finally, some servants in the

32 33

34 35 36 37

38

Pedro Bohigas, El libro español (ensayo histórico) (Barcelona: 1962), 171–175. Bohigas, El libro español, 166. See also Erich von Rath, “The Spread of Printing in the Fifteenth Century,” in History of the Printed Book, (ed.) Lawrence C. Wroh (New York: 1938), 59–80, at 77. Jaime Moll, in “Valoración de la industria editorial española del siglo XVI,” in Livre et lecture en Espagne et en France sous l’ Ancien Régime (Paris: 1981), comments on the Granada printing trade (79–84, at 80). J.E. Gelabert González, “Lectura y escritura en una ciudad provinciana del siglo XVI: Santiago de Compostela,” Bulletin Hispanique 84 (1982): 264–290, at 276–280. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 82, 85. They include the Contemptus mundi of Thomas à Kempis, El Cartujano’s Vita Christi, lives of the Virgin Mary, Books of Hours, and the like. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 82–83, 87. See J. Cerdá Díaz, Libros y lectura en la Lorca del siglo XVII (Murcia: 1986), 26; and Cedric E. Pickford, “Fiction and the Reading Public in the Fifteenth Century,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 45 (1962–1963): 423–438, at 434. See Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 88; Chevalier, Lectura y lectores, 82–83; and Febvre, Life, 29. Berger, “La lecture à Valence,” cautions about interpretation of evidence for book ownership among women (100).

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households of these book owners.39 While the number of book owners might be low due to costs, the publication of ephemera such as broadsheets and chapbooks was fairly constant. More popular in nature, these cheap, flimsy works were peddled from town to town or sold in stores, even though “the publication, sale, and reading of these works were repeatedly vilified, without effect, by those who considered themselves ‘cultured.’”40 In spite of the small numbers of book owners or the condemnation of ephemera, Nalle’s study of Cuenca shows that “the number of persons who could read was considerably higher than the number who owned books.” She also discovers that the “largest group of book-owners were farmers [while] artisans, even field hands, made up another quarter of the [total] group.”41 Nalle’s findings in Cuenca suggest a wider book ownership and readership than that found by Bartolomé Bennassar in his study of Valladolid during the 16th and 17th centuries. In fact, Bennassar appears to support Chevalier’s findings regarding the social class distinctions of literacy. Dismissing Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo’s claim that even grocers circulated a copy of Bartolomé de Carranza’s Doctrina, Bennassar maintains that “the majority of them did not know how to read. And this was chiefly true of women.”42 In a later study of Toledo and Córdoba, he and M.C. Rodríguez elaborate on the extent of female illiteracy, asserting that “illiteracy among women is a massive phenomenon, common in nearly all categories [of society].”43 The bases for determining rates of literacy in the 16th and 17th centuries rely on such varied sources as Inquisitorial testimony, signatures on legal documents, book ownership, and, of course, literary production. Yet, taken separately or as a whole, these sources provide an incomplete and far from definitive picture. Studies of signatures may present firm numbers in isolated instances, but the figures may also lead to false conclusions. Nalle warns that “the method of counting signatures is the most commonly used one, although historians often

39 40 41 42

43

Chevalier, Lectura y lectores, 19–20. Antonio Vinão Frago, “The History of Literacy in Spain: Evolution, Traits, & Questions,” History of Education Quarterly 30.4 (1990): 573–599, at 592. Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 73–74, 77. “La majorité d’ entre eux ne savaient pas lire. Et cela surtout vrai des femmes” (Bartolomé Bennassar, Valladolid au Siècle d’Or [Paris: 1967], 510). Vinão Frago, “The History of Literacy,” responds to both Bennassar’s and Chevalier’s assertions (596–597). “L’ analphabétisation fémenin est un phénomene massive, commun à presque toutes les categories” (M.C. Rodríguez and B. Bennassar, “Signatures et niveau culturel des témoins et accusés dans les procès de l’ Inquisition du Tribunal de Tolède [1525–1817] et du Tribunal de Cordoue [1595–1632],” Caravelle [Toulouse] 31 [1978]: 17–46, at 30).

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question how to interpret the results, since the correlation between ability to sign one’s name and literacy is not easily shown.”44 In her study of Inquisition records in Cuenca, for example, Nalle finds that “signatures would appear to be a reliable indicator of literacy, although in Cuenca the source actually underestimates the total number of readers by a factor of 8 per cent.”45 R.A. Houston points out the many difficulties surrounding signatures on wills as an indicator of literacy rates, where economic means or the state of the testator’s health may affect the final result.46 Even signatures or the lack of them on marriage documents are problematic, “since a literate spouse might not wish to be different from his or her illiterate partner” and, thus, might decline to sign even when able to do so.47 In the waning years of the 16th century and well into the first half of the 17th, the numbers of those able to sign appeared to increase slowly but steadily. Houston maintains that literacy “began to percolate through to the lower layers of society” during the 17th century, so much so that “more peasant and artisan women joined their wealthier and more socially exalted sisters in possessing a command of reading and writing.”48 In studies of literacy, however, the numbers of subjects considered are so few that definitive statements concerning the rates are virtually impossible to articulate.49 On one point, however, most studies agree: namely, that illiteracy was much higher among women than men.50 In New Castile during the first half of the 17th century, Rodríguez and Bennassar contend that over 90 percent of the women in their study could neither read nor write. One hastens to add that women represented only 18.8 percent 44

45 46 47 48 49 50

Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 6–7. She cites studies by C. Larquié, “L’alphabétisation à Madrid en 1650,” Revue d’Histoire Moderne et Contemporaine 28 (1981): 132–157; Rodríguez and Bennassar, “Signatures,” 17–46; and Cerdá Díaz. See Bäuml, “Varieties and Consequences,” which also questions the reliability of signatures as a determinant of literacy (242). Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 95–96. Houston, Literacy, 122–123. G. Parker, “An Educational Revolution? The Growth of Literacy and Schooling in Early Modern Europe,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 92 (1989): 210–220, at 211. Houston, Literacy, 135. See Rodríguez and Bennassar, “Signatures,” 31. Joël Saugnieux summarizes Bartolomé Bennassar’s findings as presented in Un Siècle d’Or espagnol (Paris: 1982) for the years 1580–1650 (Joël Saugnieux, “Santa Teresa y los libros,” in Actas del Congreso Internacional Teresiano [Salamanca, 4–7 octubre, 1982], [eds.] Teófanes Egido Martínez, Víctor García de la Concha and Olegario González de Cardenal, 2 vols [Salamanca: 1983], 2:750). Houston theorizes on why women’s level of literacy was lower than men’s (Houston, Literacy, 134–135). Parker, in “An Educational Revolution?”, indicates the economic and practical obstacles to writing faced by the majority (216).

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of the total number of subjects. Not surprisingly, those women who were literate (that is, read and wrote or were just able to sign their names) were to be found in cities rather than villages. The situation of women in Andalusia was not appreciably better.51 In his study of signed testaments in Madrid for the year 1650, C. Larquié acknowledges the inherent limitations of using such sources to determine literacy rates. Testamentary evidence necessarily excludes certain segments of society, including marginal groups less likely to file official documents.52 At the same time, as Franz Bäuml indicates, “documentary evidence purporting to be, or not to be, executed manu propia is … not always a reliable indication of the literacy or illiteracy of an individual.”53 Nevertheless, of the 671 testaments examined by Larquié, 67.8 percent were filed by men and 32.1 percent by women. Of these, only 25.6 percent of the men were unable to sign while some 74.3 percent of the female testaments were unsigned. From these figures, Larquié concludes that Madrid in 1650 was largely an illiterate society, but not excessively so. Slightly less than half of the population could sign, a reasonable statistic for a city largely populated by the aristocracy and bureaucrats.54 Conspicuously absent from these studies are records from convent archives. While equally limited in scope, examination of a select group of nuns in the period 1564–1582 yields results suggestive of a wider rate of literacy among certain groups of women than that found in studies of wills, testaments, and Inquisitorial proceedings. The background of the nuns who formed the first communities of reformed Carmelites under the aegis of Santa Teresa de Jesús provides a case in point. Between 1562, marking the foundation of the first convent of the reform in Ávila, until her death in 1582, Santa Teresa took direct responsibility for establishing 16 additional houses throughout the Peninsula. At the time of profession of vows it was customary for nuns to sign their vow formulae or, if unable to do so, to make their mark, usually in the form of a cross. In a study of these documents pertinent to the Carmelite foundations in Salamanca (1570) and Alba de Tormes (1571), records indicate that 34 women professed between 1571 and 1581. Of these, 28 (82 percent) signed their vows,

51

52

53 54

Rodríguez and Bennassar, “Signatures,” 37, 39. Gelabert González suggests a similar breakdown for Santiago de Compostela (“Lectura y escritura,” 268–269). Compare to Cerdá Díaz, Libros y lectura, regarding Lorca (62–63). Larquié, “L’alphabétisation,” 134. Parker points out that “literacy patterns of capital cities were not typical, for they attracted more than their fair share of the well-educated and cultivated elements of societies” (Parker, “An Educational Revolution?” 214). Bäuml, “Varieties and Consequences,” 242. Larquié, “L’ alphabétisation,” 140, 138, 155.

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four (11 percent) made their mark, and two are unaccounted for. Among those who signed, two were legas or lay sisters while the remainder were choir nuns.55 The Discalced Carmelite foundation in Valladolid (1568) provides an equally intriguing example. Those nuns who formed the first community suggest a level of literacy beyond that found in women in the general population of Valladolid by Bennassar’s study. The foundation of this monastery followed a pattern that Santa Teresa would repeat in subsequent houses. Accompanying her to the new convent was a group of eight nuns selected from the communities in Ávila and Medina del Campo.56 The group included four professed choir nuns, one lay sister, and three novices who eventually professed in Valladolid. Through the course of some 15 years they were joined by an additional 21 women, 17 of whom formed the choir while the remainder took the white veil of legas. The community represented disparate social classes, including a lady’s maid (Hermana María de la Cruz); a relative of Santa Teresa’s (Madre María Bautista); the daughter of Don Juan de Padilla, the adelantado mayor of Castilla, later abbess of the Concepcionista Monastery of Santa Gadea del Cid (Doña Casilda de Padilla); and a married woman of “buena educación” (M. Isabel de la Madre de Dios), who entered with her husband’s consent.57 Nine of the 29 (31 percent) left some direct evidence of their ability to write, while 16 of them eventually held a convent office, ranging from prioress to mistress of novices, either in Valladolid or in other houses of the Reform. Given the expectations of literacy in officeholders as stipulated in the Constitutions, it is probable that a total of 20 (68.9 percent) were at least able to read and write Castilian in contrast to the five (17.2 percent) who could not.58

55

56

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Manuel de Santa María, “Noticia de las religiosas que profesaron en tiempo de N.M.S. Teresa en los conventos de esta provincia de N.P.S. Elías, Valladolid. Ya embié la memoria individual á N. Archivo de Madrid en Junio de este año de 1760,” in Códice de 205 folios, folios 93–105, Ms. 8.713 Biblioteca Nacional. Since the original vow formulae are no longer available, the compilation executed in the 18th century may be suspect. For a full account of the foundation see Saint Teresa of Jesus, Foundations X–XII, in The Complete Works, 3 vols, trans. and (ed.) E. Allison Peers (London: 1946). See also Juan Luis Rodríguez, Santa Teresa en Valladolid y Medina del Campo: historia de sus fundaciones hasta nuestros días (Valladolid: 1980), 311. Rodríguez, Santa Teresa, 296, 307–313. E. Allison Peers, in Handbook to the Life and Times of St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross (London: 1954), provides additional background on some of the nuns. Among them are: M. Juliana de la Magdalena Gutiérrez and M. María de San José Dantisco (Peers, Handbook 185 and 198). See also Manuel Serrano y Sanz, Apuntes para una biblioteca de escritoras españolas, 4 vols (Madrid: 1903) regarding M. María de la Visitación (1.1.113); M. Ana de San José (1.1.117); M. Dorotea de la Cruz (1.1.288–289); and M. Catalina de Jesús (2.1.357). There are insufficient data to determine the literacy of the other four nuns.

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The situation at the commercial center of Medina del Campo indicates a similar state of literacy for the 30 nuns who comprised the original community. Six had accompanied the foundress from Ávila to establish this second house of the Reform in 1567 (Foundations III–IV). Among them were the same M. María Bautista who went on to the Valladolid foundation as well as two other relatives of Santa Teresa. Twenty-six eventually professed as choir nuns and four as legas. Included among the professed were Doña Elena de Quiroga and her daughter, who later on successfully endowed a charitable school for girls. Sixteen of the professed nuns eventually held convent offices, and 14 left evidence of an ability to write.59 In sum, 23 (76.6 percent) members of the original communities indicated some level of literacy, while four (13.3 percent) were probably illiterate. In contrast to houses established in urban centers such as Medina del Campo and Valladolid, foundations in more rural settings produce somewhat different results. The town of Villanueva de la Jara in the province of Cuenca is a case in point. When Santa Teresa journeyed there with four nuns from other convents, what she found in the village was a group of nine laywomen who used as manuals of prayer … the books of Fray Luis de Granada and Fray Pedro de Alcántara. The greater part of their time was spent in the recitation of the Divine Office though only one of them read well and the remainder could read only a little, and their breviaries were not all of the same kind. Some of them were of the old Roman variety and had been given them by clergy who no longer used them. Others they had got as best they could. As they read so badly, they would spend many hours on them. They did not recite the office where anyone from outside could hear them.60 The four companions of Santa Teresa joined the nine beatas to form the first community in 1580. Of this group of 13, only four (30 percent) might be described as literate while seven (53 percent) of the original laywomen were probably functionally illiterate.61 The saint’s reluctance to establish houses of the Reform in small, rural villages such as this stemmed from a number of 59

60 61

Among them are M. Isabel de San Jerónimo Ureña y Bacca and M. Tomasina Bautista de Peres, with whom Santa Teresa corresponded. Serrano y Sanz, in Apuntes, cites writings by a number of other Carmelite women. Teresa of Jesus, Foundations XXVIII, 3.164. See Foundations XXVIII in its entirety for a fuller account of this foundation. Ángel María Plaza, in La Santa Andariega en Villanueva de la Jara. IV Centenario de la Fundación del Convento de Carmelitas Descalzas por Santa Teresa de Jesús: 1580–1590 (Villanueva de la Jara: 1980), gives an account of the original group.

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concerns, among them that prospective candidates for admission might not possess the requisite educational background to live according to the Constitutions. Such conditions were more likely to exist in the cities of the Peninsula.62 Although the example of Villanueva de la Jara suggests a higher degree of illiteracy than that found in urban centers of Spain, nevertheless, it is equally instructive for what it reveals about the dissemination of printed matter in rural towns of the Peninsula in the late 16th century. Books—even second-hand breviaries and well-thumbed texts by Luis de Granada and Pedro de Alcántara—were not only available, but they played a part in the spread of lay spirituality and literacy. Clearly, borrowing and lending of books was an established practice in society of the time even at relatively low levels.63 Similarly, dissemination of printed matter, whether in book form or in ephemera, appears to have grown as printing presses increased in number and output. Whether the basis of claims be ownership of books, signatures on documents, direct literary production in the forms of books or other writings, formal schooling however elementary, or profession in a religious order, the actual numbers of literate women in Spanish society of the 16th and 17th centuries remain elusive. Even though reading ability seems to have ceased to be the activity of a minority by the middle of the century, it is still difficult to ascertain the extent to which it had penetrated popular culture.64 At the same time, even as reading expanded, writing remained the province of few, as it does in the most literate of societies.65 For marginalized members of society such as women, that minority status further diminishes the numbers to be counted. However limited in vision and restrictive in nature, opportunities existed in Early Modern Spain for women to obtain an education. Whether at home, in a convent, at a colegio, or in the company of other women, some level of literacy was within reach. Clearly the level attained never or very rarely matched that open to male members of society. Neither did it approach the somewhat limited ideal spelled out by humanists in their theoretical texts. Nevertheless,

62

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64 65

See Graff, The Legacies of Literacy, which depends on Rodríguez’s and Bennassar’s studies of Toledo and Córdoba (149). See also Saugnieux, Cultures populaires, which comments on urban literacy (48). Gelabert González, in “Lectura y escritura,” finds this to be the case in Santiago de Compostela (272) as Nalle, in “Literacy and Culture,” does in Cuenca. On the other hand, Margit Frenk argues that oral transmission of texts predominated in the Siglo de Oro, a point also made by Vinão Frago (Margit Frenk, “ ‘Lectores y oidores’: la difusión oral de la literatura en el Siglo de Oro,” in Actas del Séptimo Congreso de la Asociación Internacional de Hispanistas, [ed.] Giuseppe Bellini [Rome: 1982], 101–123, at 114–115). Cerdá Díaz, Libros y lectura, 25, 36. See Cerdá Díaz, Libros y lectura, 148–149.

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it does seem to have mirrored the minimal expectations set forth by the likes of Juan Luis Vives and his colleagues in their prescriptions for poor relief. The decline of literacy as a whole and female literacy in particular by the end of the 17th century resulted from many causes. The restrictive intellectual climate engendered by the Catholic Counter-Reformation saw the slow disappearance of devotional texts in the vernacular as the Index moved to restrict and eventually to ban them. Santa Teresa lamented the suppression of some of her favorite authors, a circumstance that produced repercussions not only within her convents but among lay women readers as well. As the Inquisition sought to stamp out the perceived spread of heresy by controlling the content and publication of suspect literature, the equation of illiteracy with orthodoxy grew. From the arguments put forward by humanists that women could be both ‘doctas y doctrinadas,’ official opinion in Spain had now come full circle. Control of publishing soon extended to control of access to education as well. By 1623, Latin schools were limited by law to major urban centers, resulting in “the collapse of rural primary schools [which meant] the end of popular literacy and depression in the printing industry. The latter half of the 17th century did mark the low point in book production in Spain.”66 Aiding and abetting the ideological forces was the political and economic collapse of the country in the 17th century.67 One effect of the economic crisis was the closure of many charitable schools for lack of funding. In the waning days of the Siglo de Oro, therefore, opportunities for schooling diminished or disappeared altogether for many segments of the population, not least among them women of all classes. 66 67

Nalle, “Literacy and Culture,” 94. See Carlo M. Cipolla, Literacy and Development in the West (Harmondsworth, England: 1969), 53. Jodi Bilinkoff, in The Avila of Saint Teresa: Religious Reform in a Sixteenth-Century City (Ithaca: 1989), describes the effects of all three factors on monastic culture in Ávila of the period.

chapter 15

Philosophy, Law and Mysticism in Renaissance Spain Bernie Cantens

1

Introduction

Some historians use the fall of the Byzantine Empire in 1453 to signal the beginning of the European Renaissance; however, the radical changes in culture, art, society, and education that characterize this period did not occur simultaneously nor consistently throughout Europe but rather gradually and sporadically. Moreover, the nature of the social, cultural, and intellectual developments varied from nation to nation. The Spanish Renaissance coincides roughly with the rise and fall of the Habsburg dynasty, from Charles I in 1516 through Charles II in 1700. For our purposes, however, it would be more appropriate to draw the line for the inception of the Spanish Renaissance with the marriage of Queen Isabella I of Castile to King Ferdinand II of Aragon. The 1469 union of the Catholic Monarchs, as Pope Alexander VI called them for their defense of Catholic doctrine, marked a pivotal moment for the Reconquista and unification of Spain in 1492, the rise of Catholicism throughout the Iberian Peninsula, and the commencement of the voyage that led to the discovery of the New World in 1492. The foregoing historical events were among some of the most influential on the philosophical, religious, and legal thought of the time. Many of the relevant philosophical writings are characterized by their theological, mystical, and religious nature, and the legal writings by their concern over the new geo-political situation of Spain as it related to the conquest of the New World. The nature and character of the Spanish Renaissance was different from that in other parts of Europe, particularly insofar as it affected philosophical, political, and legal thought.1 This is not to say that Spanish philosophical and 1 For histories of philosophy and law during the Spanish Renaissance, see José Luis Abellán, Historia crítica del pensamiento español (Madrid: 1979); Paul Oskar Kristeller, Renaissance Thought and Its Sources (New York: 1979); Paul Oskar Kristeller, Renaissance Thought: The Classic, Scholastic, and Humanistic Strains (New York: 1961); Carlos G. Noreña, Studies in Spanish Renaissance Thought (The Hague: 1975); Charles B. Schmitt et al. (eds.), The Cambridge History

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legal developments during this period did not contribute to the intellectual currents of the day and to European Renaissance thinking in general; nothing could be further from the truth. For instance, the influence of the philosophical works of the Spanish Jesuit theologian-philosopher Francisco Suárez was widespread. His main philosophical work published in 1597, Metaphysical Disputations (Disputationes Metaphysicae), went through 17 editions outside the Iberian Peninsula within the first 40 years of its publication. As one indicator of wider influence outside Spain, Suárez’s Metaphysical Disputations became a standard text for philosophy in the Protestant universities of Germany.2 While the Protestant Reformation, the recovery of Greek classical thought, the rise of humanism, and the scientific revolutions begun by Copernicus and Galileo were central positive events that fueled many of the intellectual perspectives prevalent throughout Europe and were part of the fabric interwoven into the philosophical movements of the time, in Spain the CounterReformation, Catholicism, and everything it entailed, including a vibrant scholastic intellectual movement and a profound mystical tradition, proved fertile ground for philosophical achievements in universities and monasteries throughout Spain.3 One prominent exception to this is Juan Luis Vives, who left Spain at the age of 16, studied in Paris, and became professor at the University of Louvain. Within Spain, however, Spanish philosophical and legal thought developed differently than in other countries such as England, Germany, and France.4 In this essay, I expound perspectives of philosophical scholasticism, humanism, mysticism, and legal thought which were central to and most representative of the Spanish Renaissance.

of Renaissance Philosophy (Cambridge: 1988); Antonio Truyol y Serra, Historia de la filosofía del derecho y del estado. Del Renacimiento a Kant (Madrid: 2007); Kevin White (ed.), Hispanic Philosophy in the Age of Discovery (Washington, DC: 1997); and Heleno Seña, Historia de la filosofía española (Córdoba: 2007). 2 J. Iriarte, “La proyección sobre Europa de una gran metafísica, o Suárez en la filosofía en los días del Barroco,” Razón y Fe número extraordinario 133 (1948): 229–265. 3 Some argue that the scientific achievements of the Spanish Renaissance have been ignored and omitted from our historical narratives. See Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “Iberian Science in the Renaissance: Ignored How Much Longer?” Perspectives on Science: Historical, Philosophical, Social 12.1 (2004): 86–124, as well as William Eamon’s essay in this volume. 4 José Luis Abellán, Historia crítica del pensamiento español, tomo II: La Edad de Oro (Siglo XVI) (Madrid: 1986).

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Philosophy in Renaissance Spain

With the unification of Spain came the expulsion of Muslims and Jews as well as the integration of Catholic religious thought and doctrine. A major factor in this development was the influence of the Catholic religious orders of the time, namely the Discalced Carmelite, Augustinian, Dominican, Franciscan, and Jesuit Orders. Moreover, Spain’s political rise to power in the early 16th century provided the financial resources for new developments in Catholic thought in areas of philosophy, mysticism, and law. The centers of Catholic philosophical and legal scholarly work were the theological schools at the Universities of Valladolid, Salamanca, Segovia, Coimbra, and Alcalá. Here theologians created an intellectual environment that led to the development of an impressive body of philosophical writings, mostly on issues related to metaphysics, ontology, philosophy of religion, mysticism, and moral-political philosophy.5 The high volume, excellent quality, and scholastic nature of the philosophical works produced during this time in Spain led later scholars to refer to this period as the “second scholasticism,” the first or original scholasticism being the high point of all medieval philosophy in the 13th and 14th centuries, which culminated with Thomas Aquinas (1224/25–1275), Duns Scotus (1266– 1308), and William of Ockham (1288–1347). 2.1 Spanish Scholasticism It is impossible to present a complete and thorough account of all the scholastic philosophical treatises of this era; as a consequence, I will begin by providing a general overview of the nature of scholastic philosophy; then, I will select some of the most prominent scholastic issues and philosophical movements that arose during this period. I will focus on the works of Domingo Báñez, O.P. (1528–1604), Luis de Molina, S.J. (1535–1600), and Francisco Suárez, S.J. (1548– 1617).

5 The following is a list of some of the most prominent theologian-philosophers of the era: Martín de Azpilcueta (1491–1586), Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (1492–1546), Domingo de Soto, O.P. (1494–1560), Alfonso de Castro (1495–1558), Melchior Cano, O.P. (1509–1560), Bartolomé de Medina, O.P. (1527–1580), Pedro de Fonseca, S.J. (1528–1599), Domingo Báñez, O.P. (1528– 1604), Francisco de Toledo, S.J. (1532–1596), Benito Pereiro, S.J. (1535–1610), Luis de Molina, S.J. (1535–1600), Francisco Suárez, S.J. (1548–1617), Gregorio de Valencia, S.J. (1549–1602), Gabriel Vázquez, S.J. (1549–1604), and Juan Martínez de Ripalda, S.J. (1594–1648).

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2.1.1

The Nature of Scholastic Philosophy during the Spanish Renaissance Given the politico-religious dimension of the Spanish Renaissance and its strong Catholic agenda, philosophy was done primarily by theologians within schools of theology. As a consequence, philosophy never realized its freedom from theology and remained as it had been in the medieval period: theology’s handmaiden. Despite this subservient role, philosophy flourished in regard to its rigor, historical breadth, and quality. Moreover, a prevalent school of thought within the Catholic tradition maintained that the discipline of theology depended on philosophy. To be a good theologian, one first had to be well versed in the discipline of philosophy. The scholastic style of philosophy practiced by the theologian-philosophers of the Spanish Renaissance produced two different kinds of works: commentaries and disputations. Commentaries consisted of critical elucidation and reinterpretation of both classical pagan authors’ texts—such as Aristotle’s Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics and Politics—and of authoritative Catholic authors’ texts such as Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae. Disputations consist of long systematic writings on important philosophical issues relevant to Catholic doctrine. They are usually presented in the form of questions followed by a set of arguments supporting one position on the issue, objections to those arguments, and replies to those objections. Disputations could be about any matter whatsoever, even articles of faith such as “On the Incarnation of Our Lord.”6 Disputations had two purposes: first, to resolve a philosophical issue in a way that was well supported by and coherent with Catholic teaching; and, second, to explain further the meaning of religious dogmas in order to gain a deeper understanding of their relevance to everyday life. In what follows, I discuss two of the most important and relevant philosophical issues of the time, providing insight into the kind of scholastic philosophical work produced during the Spanish Renaissance: (1) the question of God’s foreknowledge and human freedom; and (2) the nature and object of the science of metaphysics, the central branch of philosophy. 2.1.2 On God’s Foreknowledge and Human Free Will One of the most important philosophical disputes of the 16th and 17th centuries arose between the Dominican Friar Domingo Báñez, O.P. (1528–1604) and the Jesuit Luis de Molina, S.J. (1535–1600), after the latter’s publication of The Compatibility of Free Choice with the Gifts of Grace, Divine Knowledge, 6 See for example Francisco Vitoria, On the American Indians, in Francisco de Vitoria: Political Writings, (eds.) Anthony Pagden and Jeremy Lawrance (Cambridge: 1991), 238.

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Providence, Predestination and Reprobation (Concordia liberi arbitrii cum gratia donis, divina praesciencia, providentia, pradestinatione et reprobatione) in 1588.7 Molina disputed a perennial philosophical question concerning the relationship between God’s omniscience and human free will.8 He resolved the issue in a way that contradicted the Thomistic and Catholic orthodox interpretation of the time.9 Catholic theologians accepted the philosophical definition of God as an immaterial, omnipotent, omniscient, and morally perfect being. Moreover, they rejected the doctrine of double truth that proposed that there is one truth of faith and another of reason. Therefore, propositions accepted on faith had to be consistent with reason. If there was an apparent contradiction between a Catholic dogma and reason, then the philosopher’s task was to attempt to reconcile these apparently contradictory truths in a way that would salvage the core religious beliefs and the set of Catholic doctrines of which it was a part. God’s knowledge is perfect in breadth and in certainty; in other words, God knows all things that are true, and it is impossible for God to be mistaken. When theologian-philosophers examined the idea of God’s knowledge as allknowing and perfect, a difficulty concerning human free actions emerged. God’s foreknowledge seems to be logically inconsistent with human actions that are performed freely. If one is truly free to perform a given action, then the decision to perform this action cannot necessarily be determined by any prior events, and the decision needs to be contingent upon a person’s autonomous free will.10 However, if God knows today (or from eternity) what someone will freely choose in the future, then it seems that this person’s decision in the future is already determined. For instance, if God knows today (or from eternity) that ‘John will choose a veggie-burger over a hamburger tomorrow,’ and God’s knowledge of this cannot be false, then it is impossible for John to choose a hamburger instead of a veggie-burger tomorrow. But if John must choose a veggie-burger tomorrow, then John’s choice seems to lack freedom in an essential way. 7 8

9 10

Luis de Molina, On Divine Foreknowledge (Part IV of the Concordia), trans. Alfredo J. Freddoso (Ithaca: 1988). See Lane Craig, The Problem of Divine Foreknowledge and Future Contingents from Aristotle to Suárez (Leiden: 1988); and Mirko Skarica, “The Problem of God’s Foreknowledge and Human Free Action in Spanish Philosophy,” in Hispanic Philosophy in the Age of Discovery, (ed.) Kevin White (Washington, D.C.: 1997). Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province, 5 vols (Westminster: 1948), I, Q. 14, A. 13. Molina observes that this kind of necessity rules out both necessity of a thing’s nature and fatalistic extrinsic necessity (Molina, On Divine Foreknowledge, 86).

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Following Thomas Aquinas, Báñez resolves this apparent contradiction without having to modify the attributes of God and without having to reject the idea of human free will. He holds that God’s knowledge should be understood from two separate perspectives: (1) before creation (“natural knowledge”) and (2) after creation (“free knowledge”).11 Before God created the universe, God had knowledge of all the possibilities, including the ones that God would and would not actualize. However, this knowledge was of ideas and of pure potentiality since nothing had yet been created. After creation God had knowledge of the created world in two forms: (a) through a thing’s causes, and (b) through the thing itself. For example, knowing a thing through its causes is knowing that ‘John will get well because he has taken his medicine,’ while knowing a thing through the thing itself is knowing that ‘John will get well because I have seen John recover and in a healthy state.’ Báñez refers to (b) as “knowing through vision.” He argues that all of God’s knowledge of the actual world after creation—past, present and future—is knowledge through vision and through its causes. Báñez reconciles God’s infallible foreknowledge with human freedom by placing God outside of time so that God’s knowing is not subject to the temporal stages of human knowing. As a consequence, God can have an eternal vision of all truths (past, present, and future) from one eternal temporal perspective. This view is the standard Augustinian and Thomistic view of reconciling human free will with God’s foreknowledge. Molina rejects this view. He claims that if God knows from eternity a human contingent action, then the contingent action in question must exist throughout all eternity. But if the act is contingent on human action, then it must begin to exist in time, specifically when the human decision to perform the action takes place (i.e. the moment it is actualized). It seems puzzling that one and the same particular contingent action can exist both in eternity and in time. If it exists in eternity, it would necessarily have to exist in time. But if it exists necessarily in time, then it cannot be contingent. Similarly, if we say that the action in question was performed in the way it was performed from all eternity, then it is not possible that it could be performed differently in time; hence, the agent performing the action cannot be said to be acting freely. Molina explains: But if this was the claim being made by Boethius, St. Thomas, and the others who affirm on this basis that God knows future contingents with

11

See Skarica, “The Problem of God’s Foreknowledge,” for a more thorough explanation of Báñez’s view.

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certainty, then I must confess that I do not understand it, nor do I think that there is any way in which it can be true … For even though at the moment of time when this proposition is uttered the things that are still future would not yet exist in time, nonetheless at the very moment of time they would exist in eternity by virtue of an anticipated existence by which things seem to exist in eternity before they come to exist in time. Yet, though many seem to concede this and are accustomed to using this manner of speaking, I did not concede this in the preceding disputation, nor do I believe it.12 Molina offers a different solution from the traditionally accepted Thomistic one, causing controversy within the Church. God knew the world before creation (“natural knowledge”) and after creation (“free knowledge”).13 The former entails God’s knowledge of all the possibilities before God makes any determination about creation; this form of knowing includes all contingent and necessary possibilities. The latter is God’s way of knowing the world after He created it; in this way, God knows all the things and states of affairs that exist. Molina posits a third way of God’s knowing in-between natural and free knowledge; he refers to this form of knowing as middle knowledge (scientia media). God’s middle knowledge has characteristics of both natural and free knowledge. On the one hand, it is like free knowledge in that it is restricted to the world that God has determined through God’s free action of creation. On the other hand, it is similar to natural knowledge in that it includes a realm of purely possible states of affairs that are existentially undetermined. Molina holds that God knows how any human being would act within any possible set of circumstances, whether or not such circumstances ever come to pass. Of course, some circumstances will come to pass and humans will act in particular ways. These responsive actions are actualized through free will; however, there are an infinite number of other possible scenarios that never materialize, but could have. These are future counterfactuals of human free will. Molina holds that God knows what John would choose tomorrow, if John were presented with the option of choosing between a veggie-burger and a hamburger, even if John is never presented with such an option. However, God does not know John’s actions from all eternity in the way that the traditional view holds. In the case of future counterfactuals of freedom, the proposition in question refers to an event that depends entirely on a person’s free choice;

12 13

Molina, On Divine Foreknowledge, 123. Molina, On Divine Foreknowledge, 168 ff.

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but the event in question will never be actualized, hence it is a counterfactual. These actions never come to pass and are not part of the future and so cannot be part of God’s eternal vision of past, present, and future. They remain outside of the realm of actualized reality; thus God cannot know them simply through God’s vision of the future. Unlike natural events that could have deterministic qualities, future counterfactuals of freedom cannot, because they are wholly dependent on the autonomous decision of a free agent. Therefore, God cannot know them through their causes either. God’s knowledge of them is only hypothetical and, in this sense, resembles God’s natural knowledge. 2.1.3 On the Nature of Metaphysics in Spanish Scholasticism Francisco Suárez’s14 Metaphysical Disputations,15 published in 1597, is one of the most complete and systematic works of philosophy written during the Spanish Renaissance. According to some historians and philosophers, Suárez represents the culmination of Spanish philosophical thought.16 Some have argued that he was the first and only medieval and late-medieval thinker to systematize metaphysics. In addition, his work had the greatest influence on modern philosophy.17 The Disputations are comprehensive and thorough; they

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Suárez was born on January 5, 1548 in Granada, Spain. He came from a prestigious family in Granada. At the early age of 13, Suárez left for the University of Salamanca to study canon law. After three years at Salamanca, he entered the novitiate of the Jesuits. He began a teaching career that would last over 50 years. Suárez traveled and taught at the most prestigious institutions of his time: Segovia (1572 and 1575), Valladolid (1574 and 1575), Ávila (1575), Rome (1580–1585), Alcalá (1585), Salamanca (1593), and Coimbra (1597–1616). Suárez died in Lisbon on 25 September 1617. He was 70 years of age. For a biography of Suárez see Joseph H. Fichter, Man of Spain: Francis Suárez (New York: 1940); R. de Scorraille, François Suarez de la Compagnie de Jésus (Paris: 1911); Carlos Noreña, “Suárez and the Jesuits,” The American Catholic Quarterly 65 (1991): 267–286; and Jorge J.E. Gracia, “Francisco Suárez: The Man in History,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 65 (1991): 259–266. All references to Suárez’s work will be from English translations when available, and when not available from Disputationes metaphysicae in Opera omnia (Paris: 1856–1877), vols 25– 26. In addition to the English translation I will provide the Latin text in the notes. For a Spanish translation see Disputaciones metafísicas, vols 1–7, trans. Sergio Rabade Romero, Salvador Caballero Sánchez and Antonio Puigcerver Zanon (Madrid: 1960). Cf. Heleno Seña, Historia de la filosofía española (Córdoba: 2007). Seña writes, “Con Francisco Suárez concluye y culmina el ciclo de grandes teólogos que España da al mundo en el espacio apretado de poco más de un siglo” (74). Martin Heidegger says, “Suárez is the thinker who had the strongest influence on modern philosophy. Descartes is directly dependent on him, using his terminology almost everywhere. It is Suárez who for the first time systematized medieval philosophy and above

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cover the entire subject matter of metaphysics and ontology, independent of theology. The work contains 54 Disputations in two volumes.18 The first 11 disputations focus on the nature of the object of study of metaphysics—being qua being—and its properties: truth, unity and good. Disputations 12 through 26 are devoted to discussions of the causes of being: efficient, final, material, and formal causes. With this, Suárez completes the first of two volumes of the Metaphysical Disputations. In the second volume, Suárez elucidates three different kinds of beings: finite independent beings (i.e. humans and other natural beings), infinite beings (i.e. God), and dependent beings or accidents (i.e. quantity, quality, relation, action, passion, time, place, position, and having). He concludes, in Disputation 54, with an analysis of the nature of rational beings. While the Disputations are unique in that they provide a complete and systematic treatment of philosophy and present original philosophical positions, their overall style and content represent well the nature of the kind of philosophical work that took place during the Spanish Renaissance. Indeed, we might say this work represents the culmination of philosophy during this period, known as the second scholasticism. It effectively combines the two scholastic elements of commentaries and disputations. First, as a commentary, it provides an interpretation of historical views that includes 245 different philosophers and theologians and contains a total of 7,709 citations.19 Second, as a disputation it presents and defends philosophical positions on almost every philosophical subject pertaining to the science of metaphysics. Metaphysics was considered the heart of philosophy and thus a central part of Span-

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all ontology.” See The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, trans. and (ed.) Albert Hofstadter (Bloomington: 1988), 80. The following disputations have been translated into English: Disputatio V: Individual Unity and its Principle, trans. with an introduction by Jorge J.E. Gracia (Milwaukee: 1982); On Formal and Universal Unity (Disputatio VI) trans. James F. Ross (Milwaukee: 1964); On the Various Kinds of Distinctions (Disputatio VII), trans. Cyril Vollert (Milwaukee: 1947); The Metaphysics of Good and Evil according to Suárez (Disputatio X and XI and Selected Passages from XXIII and other works), trans. with an introduction by Jorge J.E. Gracia and Douglas Davis (Munich: 1989); On the Formal Cause of Substance (Disputatio XV), trans. John Kronen and Jeremiah Reedy (Milwaukee: 2000); On Efficient Causality (Disputatio XVII, XVIII, and IXX), trans. with an introduction by Alfred J. Freddoso (New Haven: 1994); The Metaphysical Demonstration of the Existence of God (Disputatio XXVIII–IXXX), trans. and (ed.) John P. Doyle (South Bend, IN: 2004); On the Essence of Finite Being as Such, on the Existence of that Essence and their Distinction (Disputatio XXXI), trans. with an introduction by Norman J. Wells (Milwaukee: 1983); and On Beings of Reason (Disputatio LIV), trans. with an introduction by John P. Doyle (Milwaukee: 1995). Jesús Iturrioz, “Fuentes de la metafísica de Suárez,” Pensamiento 4 (1948): 32–42, at 37.

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ish scholastic studies and investigation; as a consequence, it seems appropriate to present a brief view of the nature of the science and of the kind of object it investigates.20 There are six elements to the science of metaphysics: (1) it is a theoretical science; (2) it investigates ultimate questions; (3) it excludes the use of faith or scripture in its methodology; (4) it is the foundation of all sciences; (5) it is a perfect science; and (6) it is an a priori science. First, the goal of metaphysics is the contemplation of truth in and of itself.21 Therefore, insofar as its goal is truth itself and not some other end, we say it is a purely theoretical and not a practical science. Second, it investigates first causes and ultimate purposes; that is, it attempts to answer questions concerning the origin, foundations, and meaning of the universe and everything it encompasses. Third, it conducts its investigation through the “natural light of human reason” and not through Scripture or faith. Fourth, metaphysics is the foundation of all the other sciences because its object of study and related principles are the most abstract and general, and therefore it cannot pertain to any particular science.22 For instance, the appropriate object of metaphysics is “being (ens) insofar as real being (ens reale).”23 The study of real being (insofar as it is a real being) entails the study of real 20

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For more information on Suárez’s conception of metaphysics see Jorge Gracia, “Suárez’s Conception of Metaphysics: A Step in the Direction of Mentalism?” American Catholic Quarterly 67 (1991): 287–309; Bernie Cantens, “Ultimate Reality in the Metaphysics of Francisco Suárez,” Ultimate Reality and Meaning 25.2 (2002): 73–92; Bernie Cantens, “Francisco Suárez,” in The History of Western Philosophy of Religion, vol. 3: Early Modern Philosophy, (eds.) Graham Oppy and Nick Trakakis (Durham: 2009), 75–87; and Bernie Cantens, “Suárez’s Argument for the Existence of God,” in Interpreting Suárez: Critical Essays, (ed.) Daniel Schwartz (Cambridge: 2011), 89–114. “finem huius scientae esse veritatis contemplationem propter seipsam” (Suárez, Disputationes Metaphysicae, in Opera Omnia [Paris: 1856–1877], vols 25–26, at vol. 25, page 26 [disputation 1, section 2, paragraph 2]). “Sunt enim duplicia principia scientiarum, ut in eodem libro docet, cap. 8: quaedam propia, quae in unaquaque scientia declarantur; alia communia multis, vel potius omnibus scientiis, quia omnes illis utuntur, ut res subjecta postulat, et quatenus ab eis caetera particularia principia pendent, ut ibidem Philosophus ait, et libro 4 Metaph., text. 7. Cum ergo omnes scientiae ab his principiis maxime pendeant, necesse est ut per hanc scientiam maxime perficiantur; quia, ut supra dictum est, horum principiorum cognitio et contemplatio ad nullam specialem scientiam pertinere potest, cum ex abstractissimis et universalissimis terminis constet. Sic igitur est haec scientia ad aliarum consecutionem et perfectionem valde utilis” (Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae, vol. 25, page 27 [disp. 1, sec. 4, no. 5]). See also “Ex quo tandem appellata est haec scientia, aliarum princeps et domina, 6 Metaph., c. 1, et l. 11, c. 6, quod dignitate antecellat, et omnium principia aliquo modo stabiliat et confirmet” (Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae, vol. 25, page 2 [disp. 1]). “Dicendum est ergo, ensin quantum ens reale esse objectum hujus scientiae” (Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae, vol. 25, page 11).

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being’s properties: unity, truth, and good; the study of real being’s causes: efficient, formal, material, and final causes; the study of the different kinds of real beings: infinite, immaterial, material, finite; and the properties of real beings, such as: quantity, quality, relation, action, passion, time, place, position, and having. The study of real being is the study of the entire structure of all reality.24 Finally, according to the Spanish scholastics, metaphysics is a perfect and a priori science.25 It is perfect insofar as it is complete and lacks nothing,26 and it is a priori in that its conclusions are necessary and known through reason alone. 2.2 Humanism Juan Luis Vives was Spain’s most prominent Renaissance humanist. He was born in Valencia, Spain on March 6, 1493. His parents were Jewish converts and were persecuted as heretics by the Spanish Inquisition. Vives, however, was raised and educated within the Catholic religion. In 1509, at the age of 16, Vives left Spain to study at the University of Paris in the Collège de Montaigu, and he never returned. After several years at the University of Paris, he left disappointed and angry about the superficial way in which logic was being taught. Specifically, he objected to the overemphasis on terministic logic and sophismata or the indulgence in impractical, useless, and meaningless abstract logical puzzles.27 In 1514 he moved to Bruges and received a professorship at the University of Louvain at the Collegium Trilingue. He spent the rest of his life in England and Bruges, and died in Bruges in 1540.28

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Whether real beings included possible beings or only actually existing beings was a highly contentious issue among theologian-philosophers during the Spanish Renaissance. See James C. Doig, “Suárez, Descartes, and the Objective Reality of Ideas,” The New Scholasticism 51 (1977): 350–371; John P. Doyle, “Suárez on the Analogy of Being,” The Modern Schoolman 46 (1969): 219–249; James P. Doyle, “Suárez on the Analogy of Being (Continued),” The Modern Schoolman 46 (1969): 323–341; and James P. Doyle, “Suárez on the Reality of the Possibles,” The Modern Schoolman 45 (1967): 29–48. “metaphysicam esse vere ac proprie scientiam … si sit scientia perfecta et a priori” (Suárez, Disputationes metaphysicae, vol. 25, page 22 [disp. 1, sec. 3]). See Jorge Gracia, “Suárez’s Conception of Metaphysics,” 289. Gracia, “Suárez’s Conception of Metaphysics,” 289. Sophismata are logical puzzles and ambiguities that have little to no relevance to real world issues. Vives describes them as “babble windy nonsense,” “shallow word-play,” and “inerudite erudition.” See Juan Luis Vives, Against the Pseudodialectians: A Humanist Attack on Medieval Logic, trans. Rita Guerlac (Dordrecht: 1979), 49. For more on the biography of Juan Luis Vives see Charles Fantazzi (ed.), A Companion to Juan Luis Vives (Leiden: Brill, 2008); and Francisco Calero, “Traiciones a Luis Vives,” Anales del Seminario de Historia de la Filosofía 13 (1996): 237–245.

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Vives maintained close friendships with some of the most influential humanists in Europe: Erasmus of Rotterdam, Thomas More, and Thomas Linacre. His unpleasant experience as a student at the University of Paris motivated him to write Against the Pseudodialecticians (Adversus psuedodialecticos) in 1519. In this work, Vives presents a severe critique of the scholastic dialectic being taught at the universities in Paris.29 His concern and interest in reforming education became a life-long mission that culminated with his 20-book treatise On the Disciplines (De disciplinis) in 1531.30 This is Vives’ most substantial and important work where he espouses a positive and radical reform of education toward a more humanistic curriculum. Interestingly, it was his short work, Against the Pseudodialecticians, that received a great deal of attention from his contemporary fellow humanists and was widely read.31 Vives was not the only humanist who criticized the terminist logicians and scholastic professors at the universities of Paris. Italian Renaissance humanists also presented strong critiques of the superficiality of such instruction and the lack of substantial academic material it provided to one’s overall education. Vives’ critique, however, stood out, in part because it came at a tipping point in the academic life of Paris.32 The universities of Paris were the educational institutions responsible for instructing the most talented and gifted minds of the medieval and Renaissance periods. As Carlos Noreña points out: “The extraordinary influence of Paris upon Spanish thinkers of the sixteenth century is probably one of the distinguishing features of the Spanish Renaissance.”33 However, according to Vives, by the 16th century the curricula had declined to such an extent “that the University of Paris, like an old woman past

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Medieval logic is based on Aristotelian logic. There are two phases to the development of medieval logic related to the discovery of Aristotelian texts. The first goes back to Boethius’ (480–524 CE) and Porphyry’s (234–305CE) logical writings, which are based on Aristotle’s Categories and Interpretations. The second phase is based on the discovery, in the 12th century, of the rest of the texts included in Aristotle’s Organon: Prior Analytics, Posterior Analytics, and On Sophistical Refutations. The founders of terministic scholastic logic were William of Sherwood and Peter of Spain in the 13th century. However, it should be noted that the university sources for teaching terministic logic in the 15th and 16th centuries had lost their scholarly connection with the logic of these founders. Instead, the logic that was taught came from secondary sources. For his complete works see Vives opera omnia, (ed.) Gregoria Majans (Valencia: 1790). All citations of Juan Luis Vives’ Adversus pseudodialecticos and De Causis corruptarum artium are from Against the Pseudodialectians, trans. Guerlac (Latin edition with English translation). Some of the strongest influences on Vives’ thought were Lorenza Valla (1406–1557) and Rudolph Agricola (1444–1485). Noreña, “Suárez and the Jesuits,” 2.

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her eightieth year, is quite out of her wits from senility … For I would venture to swear solemnly that no one would be dull and stupid enough to bring his children to her for the sake of learning if he knew what was taught there.”34 There is no better place to begin understanding Vives’ critique of the scholastic dialectic than with his opening paragraph in Against the Pseudodialecticians: “For I thought I should no longer delay to inform you of the complaints that learned scholars and loyal friends have for a long time now been making to me. When, in casual conversation, we happen to speak of the revival of letters and all the better branches of learning of which literature is the seed-pot—as we often do, thanks to our times—their chief complaint is that at Paris, whence the light of all learning should emanate, some men are obstinately embracing a detestable barbarism, and with it certain educational monstrosities, such as sophismata, as they call them, which are utterly empty and foolish. When men of considerable talent pursue these subjects with close attention, then not only do their own high talents go to waste, but, like fertile yet uncultivated fields, they produce a great, useless crop of weeds. They dream and devise for themselves absurdities and a kind of new language they alone understand.”35 His argument for the futility of the discipline of dialectic as it was being taught at the University of Paris is based on the absolute sterility and inapplicability of the material.36 Every art, Vives argues, has a purpose; it either provides us with the knowledge to perform some action or set of actions, or it describes some realm of reality. Examples of the first are moral philosophy and economics; examples of the second are astronomy and history. The true art of dialectic, according to Vives, was created for the purpose of all disciplines, and should be a practical tool of reasoning about the most basic functions in ordinary language and for the common people in society. However, the dialectic being taught in Paris at the most prestigious institutions of higher education is useless and has no function, purpose, or application in society. Moreover, according to Vives, this form of dialectic is not the authentic Aristotelian dialectic; it has been corrupted by the pedagogical methods of “arrogant” professors in charge of its instruction. It should be noted that Vives was not an anti-dialectician per se or against the instruction of logic, and he certainly did not proclaim nor advocate the

34 35 36

Vives, Against the Pseudodialectians, 103. Vives, Against the Pseudodialectians, 47. For a recent analysis of Vives’ view on language, thought, and epistemology see Lodi Nauta, “The Order of Knowing: Juan Luis Vives on Language, Thought, and the Topics,” Journal of the History of Ideas 76.3 (2015): 325–345. Nauta provides an excellent discussion of topics and their bridge-function between reality and the understanding.

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absolute elimination of the discipline of logic from the curricula. He believed that the problem was not the discipline itself but rather the manner in which it was being taught and used, i.e. as something abstracted from and irrelevant to common sense and ordinary language. Vives, along with Erasmus, wanted to change the paradigmatic instruction of dialectic: to make it a practical tool, based on invention and connected to rhetoric, with the purpose of utility. Vives claims, “dialectic discovers what is true, or false, or probable in this common speech which everyone uses.”37 In addition to his critical exposition on the current teaching of dialectic at the University of Paris, Vives also produced constructive treatises on the same subject matter. His most important work can be found in On the Disciplines, part 1: On The Causes of the Corruption of the Arts (De causis corruptarum artium), in Book III, titled On Corrupt Dialectic (Qui est de dialectica corrupta).38 Central to Vives’ position is that the art of dialectic should be pursued within ordinary language and with the semantics of ordinary people. He writes, “Aristotle did not define even the smallest rule in his entire dialectic so that it would not conform to the same meaning of Greek speech that scholars and children and women and all the common people used.”39 Vives’ philosophical legacy remains somewhat ambivalent and, perhaps, as of yet undetermined. Some philosophers have found his contributions in logic to be minimal and not very innovative.40 However, others have argued that his critique of empty, speculative scholastic logic and his empiricist commonsense philosophy of the concrete lived experience were influential in modern philosophical thought and even in postmodern theory. José Ortega y Gasset, for instance, has suggested that Vives’ philosophical perspective is a precursor to postmodern existential phenomenological philosophy. Amid this controversy, we can make two definitive points: first, Vives’ 20 books in On the Disciplines (De disciplinis), particularly his work On Education (De tradendis disciplinis), provided a new paradigmatic platform for philosophers of education with its revolutionarily modern pedagogical methods and content; and, second, his break with scholastic logic for the purpose of establishing a humanistic philosophical foundation for learning led to innovative views on language, rhetoric, knowledge, and education.

37 38 39 40

Vives, Against the Pseudodialectians, 55. In Against the Pseudodialectians, trans. Rita Guerlac (Dordrecht: 1979). Vives, Against the Pseudodialectians, 79. William Kneale and Martha Kneale, The Development of Logic (Oxford: 1962): 298–315.

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369

Mysticism

The Spanish mystical tradition was most prominent during the Spanish Renaissance. Two of the most important proponents of Spanish mysticism are Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582) and John of the Cross (1542–1591). Here, I engage Teresa’s conception of religious experience, analyzing her view of the meditative foundation for her mystical theology. Teresa produced many works in which she elaborates her conception of religious experience;41 however, her explanation of the needed preparation for a mystical union with the Divine and of the phenomenological process necessary for a mystical or religious experience is most clearly formulated in her work Interior Castle.42 This is particularly true of the first three mansions of the Interior Castle.43 Teresa spent her entire life consumed in prayer, and in many of her writings, she attempts to teach her Discalced Carmelites sisters what she learned from her spiritual meditative experiences.44 The purpose of the Interior Castle is to advance this objective and thus may be interpreted as both a meditative

41 42

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Three of Teresa’s major works are Libro de la vida (1562), Camino de perfección (1562), and Las moradas (1577). All references are from Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, trans. and (ed.) Allison Peers (Garden City: 2004). The original Spanish version is Santa Teresa de Jesús, Las moradas del castillo interior, in Obras completas, 9th ed. (Madrid: 1997). For other studies on Teresa’s Interior Castle see: Interior Castle: Text and Spiritual Commentary, commentary by Dennis Billy (Indiana: 2006); Teresa M. Boersig, “The Seven Mansions: Prayer and Relationship,” Review for Religious 40 (1981): 84–90; Neville Braybrooke, “Castles: A Study of St. Theresa’s The Interior Castle and Franz Kafka’s The Castle,” Irish Ecclesiastical Record 110 (1968): 364–372; Joseph Chorpenning, “The Image of Darkness and Spiritual Development in the Castillo Interior,” Studia Mystica 8 (1985): 45–58; Mary Frohlich, The Intersubjectivity of the Mystic: A Study of Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle (Atlanta: 1993); Javier Herrero, “The Knight and the Mystical Castle,” Studies in Formative Spirituality 4 (1983): 393–407; Carolyn Humphreys, From Ash to Fire: An Odyssey in Prayer. A Contemporary Journey through the Interior Castle of Teresa of Avila (New York: 1992); Noel Dermot O’Donoghue, With Inward Glory Crowned: A Guide to St. Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle (Dublin: 1981); and Robert Stefanotti, “Teresa of Avila’s Castle, a Palace of the Mind,” Milltown Studies 31 (1993): 79–90. See the following for further philosophical discussion of Teresa’s Interior Castle: Harvey Egab, Christian Mysticism: The Future of a Tradition (New York: 1984); R.A. Naulty, “The Capacity that Surpasses Human Understanding,” Monist: An International Quarterly Journal of General Philosophical Inquiry 59 (1976): 507–518; Ruth Burrows, Interior Castle Explored: St. Teresa’s Teaching on the Life of Deep Union with God (London: 1981); and Hans Flasche, “El problema de la certeza en el Castillo interior,” in Congreso Internacional Teresiano (4–7 octubre 1982), (eds.) Teófanes Egido Martínez et al. (Salamanca: 1983), 2:447– 458.

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reflection on her experience and as a pedagogical treatise on divine mysticism. Teresa presents her conception of prayer through an analogy with a castle made up of seven mansions, each having many rooms.45 Each of the seven mansions represents a stage of the spiritual journey. She refers to the first three mansions as the “ascetical life” and the last four as the “mystical life.”46 The journey begins outside the castle and progresses inwardly, from the first mansion to the seventh. The seventh mansion represents the highest form of spiritual life, a spiritual marriage between one’s soul and God. However, it is not until we reach the fourth mansion that we can expect to encounter anything concerning the supernatural.47 Therefore, even though, according to Teresa, the grace of God is always present, the primary source of the work and effort that guides us through the first three mansions is not divine but our own, based on our arduous meditation, reflection, and virtuous actions. Moreover, Teresa claims that before reaching the fourth mansion “one must have lived for a long time in the others.”48 These first three mansions are the foundational stages of a spiritual life, and therefore represent a long, difficult, and essential part of the spiritual journey. But more importantly, for our purposes, they represent a form of philosophical meditation similar to the phenomenological philosophical reflections found in Socrates, Plato, and Augustine. For prayer to be an effective tool of spirituality and communication with God, the soul requires extensive and laborious preparation. Without a properly cultivated and nurtured soul, prayer will be empty and ineffectual, and one’s spiritual state will remain frail and removed from God. In the early preparatory stages of prayer, three elements need to be cultivated: self-knowledge (conocimiento propio), humility (humildad), and virtue (virtud). An understanding of these concepts is essential for a comprehensive and cohesive view of Teresa’s idea of spirituality and mysticism. How do we begin this spiritual journey in the mansions? How does one enter the castle? When Teresa addresses the question concerning the entrance of the castle, she raises an interesting and illuminating paradox:

45 46 47

48

Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 3. See Dennis Billy, Interior Castle: Text and Spiritual Commentary, 18. She commences the fourth mansions by saying: “For we now begin to touch [discuss] the supernatural …” (Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 53). The original reads: “porque comienzan a ser cosas sobrenaturales” (Las moradas del castillo interior, Cuartas moradas, capítulo 1 [1], 495). Peers’ translation here could be misleading. The word “touch” is best understood as “discuss,” not literally “touch.” Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 54.

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Now let us return to our beautiful and delightful castle and see how we can enter it. I seem rather to be talking nonsense; for, if this castle is the soul, there can clearly be no question of our entering it. For we ourselves are the castle; and it would be absurd to tell someone to enter a room when he was in it already!49 She identifies the essence of a person with his or her soul, attributing value and importance to the soul more than to the body in defining the human being. Following Augustine and reminiscent of Plato’s allegory of the cave, her ontology features a marked distinction between the material world and the spiritual world, using the outside of the castle and all the creatures living there to represent the material world, and the inside of the castle to represent the spiritual world. Teresa’s conception of the physical world includes not only all physical things but also all worldly affairs (las cosas del mundo) such as reputation, honor, business, etc. Moreover, her conception of the spiritual world consists of all things relating to the soul (alma) or mind, including virtuous ideals such as the good, justice, and beauty. Teresa argues that a person cannot literally enter the castle since one is always in one’s soul. Thus, to speak of entering or leaving the castle becomes absurd. However, she recognizes that even though we are always “in our soul,” we are not always responsive to it in the proper way; indeed, sometimes we are neglectful of it. She explains: “But you must understand that there are many ways of ‘being’ in a place.”50 What are the ways of “being” in one’s soul? Teresa addresses at least two relevant ways of “being” in one’s soul: (1) attentively and (2) inattentively. Teresa is concerned that her sisters are inattentive (or not attentive enough) to their souls and their well-being. Her critique is similar to Socrates’ objection that people pay too little attention to the affairs of the soul and too much attention to the affairs of the body. She claims disapprovingly: “All our interest is centered in the rough setting of the diamond, and in our outer wall of the castle—that is to say, in these bodies of ours.”51 However, negating the body and freeing oneself of the material world, passions, and worldly affairs requires more than just prayer; it requires meditation. She contends: “As far as I can understand, the door of entry into the castle is prayer and meditation: I do not say mental prayer rather than vocal, for if it is prayer at all, it must be accompanied by meditation [my italics].”52 Teresa places empha49 50 51 52

Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 6. Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 6. Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 4. Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 7.

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sis on being in one’s soul attentively through the activity of meditation; thus, being in one’s soul in an attentive manner is to be there meditatively. But what exactly is meditation? What is the purpose and goal of meditation? Teresa directs her Discalced Carmelite sisters to meditate by looking inward with the purpose of seeking self-knowledge. Her concept of meditation, therefore, has some common ground with the Socratic method insofar as her meditative efforts are an active examination directed toward knowing oneself. According to Teresa, without acquiring self-knowledge one cannot acquire humility or virtue since they both develop from self-knowledge. Hence, meditation directed at the goal of self-knowledge is the first step in prayer and the groundwork for the spiritual life. A successful life of prayer, therefore, must begin with rigorous and painstaking questioning, reflection, and examination of the self, a process that will pierce into our identity and reveal our true human nature.53 Who are we? (¿Quiénes somos?) This is the first question we need to address, if we are to have a fruitful prayer life and spiritual life, according to Teresa. This is the question with which a phenomenological journey of a meditatively prayerful life should begin. Moreover, Teresa claims that the answer to this question must be sought through natural reflection and not only through faith. We need to come to understand ourselves and not simply believe certain claims about ourselves as a matter of faith. The kind of reflection that Teresa calls for here is a kind of philosophical reflection within a religious paradigm; it contains philosophical aspects insofar as its method is one of prodding the intellect with vital questions toward a better understanding of oneself and one’s place and situation in the world. It is religious insofar as we undertake this reflection within a faith-based Christian religious framework. It is consistent and advances Augustine’s doctrine Ergo intellige, ut credas; crede, ut intelligas, or “Understand so that you may believe; believe so that you may understand.”54 Teresa describes it as follows: It is no small pity, and should cause not little shame, that, through our own fault, we do not understand ourselves, or know who we are. Would it be a sign of great ignorance, my daughters, if a person were asked who he was, and could not say, and had no idea who his father or his mother was, or from what country he came? Though that is great stupidity, our 53

54

There are many similarities between these early stages of prayer and basic philosophical reflection. One could argue that, for Teresa, the early stages of prayer entail a form of Socratic philosophical reflection within a religious and faith-based paradigm. Augustine, Obras de San Agustín, trans. Amador del Fueyo (Madrid: 1950), 7:750.

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own is incomparably greater if we make no attempt to discover what we are, and only know that we are living in these bodies, and have a vague idea, because we have heard it and because our Faith tells us so, that we possess souls. As to what good qualities there may be in our souls, or Who dwells within them, or how precious they are—those are things we seldom consider and so we trouble little about carefully preserving the soul’s beauty.55 In addition to discovering the beauty of the soul, the purpose of self-knowledge is also to discover the defects of the soul, many of which are caused by our finite and contingent nature. This knowledge will be essential in the more advanced stages of prayer, because it will help us discern between natural desires, which are morally neutral, and sinful desires, which are morally wrong. The process of reflection undertaken in acquiring self-knowledge will continually provoke us to understand better our human condition, our purpose in life, our mortal being, our limitations, our inability to comprehend the world fully, our relationship with others, our relationship with God, and the meaning of our joys and sufferings. Teresa viewed every person as equal in his or her ability to develop and cultivate self-knowledge, humility, and virtue; moreover, she viewed all three as interconnected. Self-knowledge is the entrance and the path to humility and virtue. Virtue is the practical side of prayer. Humility is a form of selfknowledge essential for the virtuous life. The relationship among these three (self-knowledge, humility and virtue) is dynamic and interactive insofar as progress (or the lack of progress) in one leads to progress (or lack of progress) in the others. For instance, the more self-knowledge one has, the more virtuous one can become. Similarly, the more virtuous one is, the more self-knowledge one can acquire. Prayer, then, begins with a meditative phenomenologicalphilosophical journey that progresses inwardly, moving deeper into the soul as one advances in spiritual maturity.

4

Law in Renaissance Spain

Spanish expansionism and the conquest of the New World, which began in 1492 with Christopher Columbus on the island of Hispaniola (current-day Haiti and the Dominican Republic), raised many new political and international issues

55

Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, 4.

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concerning the rights and obligations of sovereign nations. Some of the most prominent legal and international issues Spain had to deal with during the 16th century regarded property rights, religious freedom, and just war theory. Spain’s approaches to these legal, political and diplomatic questions were in part formed and shaped by the thought of the same philosophers and theologians we have been discussing. Specifically, the Spanish were concerned with the right to property in the New World, the right to engage in war with the native Indians, and the right to rule over them on civil, temporal, and religious matters. These practical concerns and realities raised the need for Spanish theologian-philosophers to engage in theoretical studies on the nature of law; the different kinds of laws; the function of law in society and in the world; the relationship between law and the common good; and the relationship among eternal law, natural law, and human laws. Moreover, there were theoretical concerns about just war theory, including but not limited to the following: Under whose authority may war be declared or waged? What are the possible reasons and causes of just war? What and how much may be done in a just war? Are subjects required to examine the causes of war? What is to be done when the justice of war remains undecided? In addition to these more theoretical concerns, they also addressed concrete realities concerning Spain’s rights and obligations vis-à-vis the American Indians. The Dominican friars Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (1485–1546) and Bartolomé de las Casas, O.P. (1484–1566) were at the forefront of these issues.56 While Las Casas was more of an activist who went and lived among the Indians, Vitoria was more of a theorist who never visited the New World. However, Vitoria was the first and main Spanish figure responsible for establishing new theoretical ground on these legal matters; therefore, in this essay, I will focus on his work.57 56 57

Other important legal theorists of the time include Domingo de Soto (De iustitia et iure, 1556) and Francisco Suárez (De legibus, 1612 and Defensio fidei, 1613). For a biography of Francisco de Vitoria, see L.G. Alonso Getino, El maestro Fr. Francisco de Vitoria y el Renacimiento filosófico-teológico de siglo XVI (Madrid: 1914). For more on his philosophy of law and international law see: Marcelino Ocana García, “Actualidad de un filósofo del siglo XVI: Francisco de Vitoria,” Anales del Seminario de Historia de la Filosofía 11 (1994): 191–219; James Brown Scott, The Catholic Conception of International Law: Francisco de Vitoria, Founder of the Modern Law of Nations; Francisco Suárez, Founder of the Modern Philosophy of Law in General and in Particular of the Law of Nations (Clark, NJ: 2007); Bernie Cantens, “Francisco de Vitoria and Bartolomé de las Casas on the Rights of the American Indians,” in A Companion to Latin American Philosophy, (eds.) Susana Nuccetelli, Ofelia Schutte, and Otávio Bueno (Malden, MA: 2010), 23–35; Martti Koskenniem, “Empire and International Law: The Real Spanish Contribution,” University of Toronto Law Journal 61.1 (2011): 1–36; Arthur Ripstein, “Distinctions of Power and the Power of Distinc-

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In 1526 Vitoria was elected to the Prime Chair of Theology at the University of Salamanca, a position he retained for 20 years until his death in 1546. Vitoria never published anything during his lifetime, after which his works were disseminated from lecture notes taken by his students at Salamanca. These works were of two kinds: (1) commentaries and lectures on Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae and (2) relectiones or re-readings, which consisted of investigations of particular controversial social, moral, political, or economic issues of the time. Some of his most important and significant relectiones were On Civil Power, On Law, On the American Indians, and On the Law of War.58 Below I expound Vitoria’s theory as he dictated it to his students during his lectures. In On Civil Power, Vitoria makes a case for the inherent sovereign authority of the native American Indians. Following Aristotle, he argues that human beings are by nature political animals, and thus communities, cities, and commonwealths are a natural evolutionary product of human life. This is true according to natural law and is necessary for the survival of our species. As a result, communities enjoy an inherent sovereignty that provides the foundation and justification for a prima facie right to exist and a prima facie right to control their own political affairs. This prerogative includes the right not to be interfered with by foreign nations. This view has interesting consequences for the Spanish treatment of the American Indian nations. First, it determines that Spain has no legitimate justification over the lands of the American Indians or over their political affairs; second, that Spain should acknowledge and respect the American Indian nations’ sovereignty and authority as legitimate commonwealths with the right to exist and with power to govern themselves.59 In On the American Indians, Vitoria addresses the specific concerns of the rights of the American Indians in more detail. He presents the issues to be resolved as follows: (1) What right have the Spanish to rule the Indians? (2) What powers does the Spanish Monarchy have over the Indians on civil and temporal matters? and (3) What powers does the Spanish Monarchy or the

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tions: A Response to Professor Koskenniemi,” University of Toronto Law Journal 61.1 (2011): 37–43; Javier Espinosa Antón, “La guerra y la paz en Francisco Vitoria,” Fragmentos do Filosofía 12 (2014): 47–65; and F.H. Llano Alonso, “Humanismo renacentista, razón universal y sociedad humana en el pensamiento jurídico de Francisco de Vitoria,” Derechos y Libertades 34 (2016): 91–114. All three works can be found in Francisco de Vitoria: Political Writings, (eds.) Anthony Pagden and Jeremy Lawrence (Cambridge: 1991). Vitoria, On Civil Power, 1–44 (Title: “Relection of the Very Reverend Father Fr. Francisco de Vitoria, On Civil Power, delivered in Salamanca, A.D. 1528”).

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Church have over the Indians in religious matters?60 Vitoria holds that the Indians possessed legal dominion over their properties and political affairs before the Spanish arrived. Moreover, he argues that the Indians’ sinful state of being, lack of religious faith, and rejection of the Catholic religion are not sufficient ground upon which to justify any form of Spanish intervention into Indian affairs.61 In essence, Vitoria condemns unjustified Spanish confiscation of Indian property, unjustified intervention into Indian civil matters, and coercive religious conversions and baptisms. In addition, Vitoria argues that the Spanish emperor cannot justify his power or authority over the Indians on civil and temporal matters. He maintains that the Spanish do not have good enough justification to override Indians’ natural rights of self-government, property, and freedom. Vitoria also maintains that the Spanish emperor has no jurisdiction over the Indians or over the Indians’ properties. Even if the Spanish emperor claims to be acting on behalf of the Supreme Pontiff, this would not improve the argument against the Indians, because the Pope’s authority is restricted and limited to spiritual matters and does not extend over civil affairs. Vitoria also holds that these lands were not idle when the Spaniards arrived; instead they were legally inhabited and occupied by the Indians. The argument that the Indians voluntarily submitted themselves to the authority of the Spanish, an unlikely scenario to say the least, is also fraught with difficulties. On the one hand, Vitoria points out that a decision to submit oneself to another’s rule must meet a number of conditions for it to be legally valid and enforceable. For instance, the Indians must have full knowledge of the circumstances and consequences of their submission (e.g. the rights they are renouncing and conditions under which they are doing so). The decision to submit must be genuinely voluntary and not made under duress or motivated by fear. Finally, the submission would have to be carried out within the laws and procedures of the Indians, and a submission undertaken solely by Indian rulers might not have sufficient authority over all the subjects of the kingdom.62 In On the Law of War, Vitoria discusses the rights of nations to go to war and to rule over other nations. He also examines what kinds of actions are morally permissible in war. Here I will summarize briefly his view of what constitutes a 60

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Vitoria, On the American Indians, 233–292 (Title: “Relection of the Very Reverend Father Friar Francisco de Vitoria, Master of Theology and Most Worthy Prime Professor at the University of Salamanca. Delivered in Said University, A.D.1539”). Vitoria, On the American Indians, 233–248 (Q. 1, A. 6). Cf. 271 (Q. 2, A. 4). Vitoria, On the American Indians, 251–277 (Q. 2, A. 7).

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just war. There are three moral justifications for war: (1) self-defense, (2) defense of a nation’s legitimate rights as sanctioned by the law of nations (ius gentium), and (3) defense of the legitimate rights of allied nations.63 Vitoria claims that the sole purpose of all war should be the advancement and fulfillment of security and peace.64 With this in mind, he argues that it is lawful “to resist force with force,”65 and therefore any nation has a lawful right to defend itself if it is attacked and if its stability, peace, and security are compromised. As a consequence, if the Spanish are attacked by the American Indians in the New World, they have a right to defend themselves and enter into war with the Indians. Therefore, if a sovereign nation threatens the safety and peace of another sovereign nation, the latter has a lawful right to secure its safety and peace through the use of force. In addition to defensive wars, Vitoria also argues that offensive wars can be justified under certain conditions. In the pursuit of justice, peace, and security, one nation may justify an offensive war as punishment for a past wrong, as vengeance for past injury, or as deterrence from future injustices. He says, “[A] further proof concerning offensive war is that even defensive war could not conveniently be waged unless there were also vengeance inflicted on the enemy for the injury they have done or tried to do. Otherwise, without the fear of punishment to deter them from injustice, the enemy would simply grow bold about invading a second time.”66 It is important to remember that an offensive war presupposes a past harm or injury, and Vitoria stresses that “the sole and only cause for waging war is when harm has been inflicted.”67 In both defensive and offensive wars, Vitoria qualifies the use of force by adding that the amount and severity of force used ought to be measured and constrained, and should not exceed what is considered proportional to the force required for self-defense, punishment, or deterrence in the particular circumstances. Vitoria argues that commonwealths have rights derived from natural law just as individuals have natural rights. The violation of these rights commits an injustice. A commonwealth therefore is morally permitted to defend its power to exercise its basic natural rights. Vitoria argues that nations have a prima facie right to travel in and through another country’s territory, to carry on trade with other nations, and to use public land, such as rivers and roads, even if they are

63 64 65 66 67

Vitoria, On the Law of War, 296–328 (Title: “Relection of the learned Master Friar Francisco de Vitoria On the Law of War. Delivered by him at Salamanca, A.D.1539”). Vitoria, On the Law of War, 298 (Q. 1, A. 1). Vitoria, On the Law of War, 297 (Q. 1, A. 1). Vitoria, On the Law of War, 298 (Q. 1, A. 1). Vitoria, On the Law of War, 303 (Q. 1, A. 3).

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within a foreign nation. For instance, if the Spanish have a right to travel and trade within a foreign nation, then they must also have a right to use certain territories, such as roads and rivers, in that land. Vitoria also holds that the Spanish have the right to preach the gospel in an honest and non-coercive manner. He reasons that if a nation is denied any of its basic rights without good justification, then it has a legitimate claim to defend them. Moreover, as a last resort, when a nation has exhausted all other possible diplomatic avenues, it has the option of using force and thus entering into war to defend its legitimate rights. Vitoria also holds that a commonwealth could justify war against another commonwealth if the latter’s ruler is a tyrant and his treatment of his subjects is excessively cruel, brutal, and oppressive. He argues that in order to protect innocent human beings, a foreign nation can intervene to depose an oppressive authority and ruler and set up a new government in its place. Moreover, in cases where the majority of the subjects of a commonwealth are against its ruler, a foreign nation might have justification to intervene in order to protect and defend the will of the masses. For instance, Vitoria argues that if there is a free election in which the majority of the Indians elect the Spanish emperor as their ruler, then the Spanish can intervene to depose the standing ruling body and govern the Indians legitimately. Finally, Vitoria argues that the security and peace of the entire world require that nations have international authority to secure world justice and peace. Therefore, if one nation enters into a just war with another nation and its struggle is properly based on self-defense, it can call upon another nation to help in its war effort. Similarly, if one nation is unjustly attacked, other nations can justifiably enter into war to protect and defend it against unjustified aggression. Vitoria explains: The world could not exist unless some men had the power and authority to deter the wicked by force from doing harm to the good and the innocent. Yet those things which are necessary for the governance and conservation of the world belong to natural law. What other argument than this can we use to prove that the commonwealth has the authority in natural law to punish those of its own members who are intent on harming it with execution or other penalties? If the commonwealth has these powers against its own members, there can be no doubt that the whole world has the same powers against any harmful and evil men.68

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Vitoria, On the Law of War, 305–306.

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Thus, in the case of Spain, it is possible that it could enter into a just war in the New World if it did so in defense of an Indian community that had been unjustly attacked by another Indian community. Vitoria concluded his lecture with three general canons of just war theory: first, those with the power to wage war “should strive above all to avoid provocations and causes of war”;69 second, if a just war cannot be avoided, the purpose should never be the destruction of one’s enemy but rather self-defense and a just resolution; and third, after the war, the victorious nation should treat the defeated nation with moderation and humility. It should act as an impartial judge and not as a prosecutor. The Spanish discovery of the New World raised international political issues that were without precedent. Vitoria’s critical study and response to these issues set the foundation not only for a Spanish school of international law but also for the eventual development of modern international law and just war theory.

5

Conclusion

In this essay, I have provided various and diverse windows onto philosophical, mystical, and legal thought during the Spanish Renaissance. The goal has been twofold: first, to present original insights into the nature of some of the most influential philosophical works, problems, and thinkers during the Spanish Renaissance that left a lasting mark upon the evolution of the history of philosophy; and second, to give a complete sense of the spirit of the philosophical thought of the age, through a study of and inquiry into some of the central philosophical issues of the time. In short, the aim of this essay has been to provide a salient view of the spirit of philosophical, mystical, and legal thought in Early Modern Spain. First, to capture the plurality of thought, we started from several different approaches to explore multiple areas of investigation: scholasticism, humanism, mysticism, and legal thought. These topics gave us a sense of the extensive breadth of philosophical perspectives that developed during the Spanish Renaissance. Second, to demonstrate a common essential core of the Spanish Renaissance philosophical spirit, a deeper analysis was provided of the general nature of scholastic philosophy and ontology, and its unique methodology. We engaged two central and perennial philosophical issues that provoked widespread interest at the time: (1) the problem of God’s foreknowledge and

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Vitoria, On the Law of War, 327.

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human free will, and (2) the nature of metaphysical inquiry. Third, in addressing some of the more prominent thinkers who left a lasting mark upon the history of philosophy, we studied Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (1485–1546); Juan Luis Vives (1493–1540); Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582); Domingo Báñez, O.P. (1528– 1604); Luis de Molina, S.J. (1535–1600); and Francisco Suárez, S.J. (1548–1617). From our inquiries and studies of the spirit of thought during the Spanish Renaissance, we can draw two important conclusions. First, during this period of Spanish history, intellectual development was incredibly rich, impressively diverse, and rigorously profound. Second, the nature of the evolution of thought in this period is intricately and inseparably connected with the historical, religious, political, and cultural events of the time. My hope is that these inquiries will motivate further research in these areas of investigation, and that the content of the work presented here will serve as a springboard for future and more detailed inquiries into these realms of study.

part 6 Artistic Production

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chapter 16

The Literature of the Spanish Renaissance J.A. Garrido Ardila

1

Introduction: The Early Modern Milieu and Cultural Significance of Spanish Renaissance Literature

The Historia y crítica de la literatura española dates the chronological limits of the Renaissance in Spanish literature with Celestina (1499) and Don Quixote (Part I, 1605).1 Spanish literary historians have often tended to periodize Renaissance literature by turning to the chronological boundaries of broader artistic movements that developed in the 16th century. Yet the term preferred by literary scholars and educators today in Spain is ‘Siglo de Oro’ (the Golden Age), which was originally applied to the Renaissance, and later came to define the period encompassing the Renaissance and the Baroque. Literary scholars in Spain have not adopted the denomination ‘Early Modern’ because ‘Golden Age’ has proven itself to be a more meaningful one, denoting that during those two centuries Spain produced her most influential literature. Indeed, the literary achievements of the Golden Age (both the Renaissance and the Baroque) were truly phenomenal. Garcilaso composed verses of unmatched beauty and sensibility; St John of the Cross created poems of mesmerizing erotic and spiritual intensity. Fiction recorded the vivacious language of the common Spaniard in, for instance, Celestina, Lozana andaluza (1528) and Lazarillo de Tormes (ca. 1550–1552, first extant editions 1554) and reached its lyric pinnacle in the pastoral romances of Montemayor and Lope de Vega. This same Lope de Vega revolutionalized theater. Furthermore, the influence of Golden Age literature in later Spanish authors has resonated across the ages. Garcilaso naturalized verse patterns in use until the 20th century. Golden Age comedy has been imitated in 20th-century masterpieces like Jacinto Benavente’s Los intereses creados (1907) and Pedro Muñoz Seca’s La venganza de don Mendo (1918), and the tragicomedia concept has passed on to Spanish theater and film. The pícaro character and picaresque low life have been emulated by the most canonical Spanish novelists, from Benito Pérez 1 Juan F. Alcina and Francisco Rico, “Temas y problemas del Renacimiento español,” in Historia y crítica de la literatura española: Siglos de Oro, vol. 1: Renacimiento, (ed.) Francisco Rico (Barcelona: 1990), 1:5–25, at 9.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_018

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Galdós and Pío Baroja to Camilo José Cela. Cervantes has captivated novelists of all epochs.2 Beyond Spain, Calderón de la Barca and Miguel de Cervantes are regarded as two of the most influential authors of world literature. It was also during the Golden Age when Spain bequeathed the world two of its most enduring literary myths—Don Juan and Don Quixote.3 The variations on Tirso de Molina’s Don Juan include such illustrious works as Molière’s Dom Juan (1665) and Lord Byron’s Don Juan (1819–1824). The extent of Don Quixote’s presence in subsequent literature is so vast that it will take generations of scholars to chart it. From Henry Fielding’s Joseph Andrews (1742), Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (1759–1767) or Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1856) to Jorge Luis Borges’ “Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote” (1939), Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot (1868–1869) or Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote (1982), authors of all eras and nationalities have extolled and often emulated Cervantes’ novel. The Golden Age did establish the most influential literary tradition in the history of Spanish literature and possibly of world literature. Like many other terms in the humanities, the semantics of the terms Renaissance and Baroque are not always perfectly straightforward either, and their usage is often subject to variation.4 To identify the Spanish Renaissance simply with the 16th century may be somewhat inaccurate. Like any literary movement, the Renaissance was the result of gradual transformation, and accordingly many texts display a concoction of two styles and worldviews in the transition from one period to the next. In the search for the “system of norms,” in René Wellek’s expression,5 of Spanish Renaissance literature, one may define it, lato sensu, as the cultural movement ignited by humanism and modernity, which opposed medieval scholasticism and was later transcended by Baroque skepticism. The Renaissance in Spain, like in the rest of Europe, is classicist and reveres the themes and expression of Italian Renaissance literature, while it also often upholds its vernacular traditions. Understanding Renaissance literature largely as the trend that is not medieval and is not Baroque immediately requires approaching the problem of terminology with a consideration of genre. Spanish Renaissance poetry was prefig2 Cervantes and the picaresque prefigured and have been a recurrent reference for Spanish social realism of all times, providing many Spanish novelists with a sort of golden template for fiction; see J.A. Garrido Ardila, “A Concise Introduction to the History of the Spanish Novel,” in A History of the Spanish Novel, (ed.) J.A. Garrido Ardila (Oxford: 2015), 1–55. 3 For the history of these, see Jean Canavaggio, Don Quijote, del mito al libro (Madrid: 2006), Leo Weinstein, The Metamorphoses of Don Juan (Stanford: 1959) and Otto Rank, The Don Juan Legend (Princeton: 1975). 4 Anthony Cascardi discussed this in the introductory chapter of his Ideologies of History in the Spanish Golden Age (University Park: 1997), 1–16. 5 René Wellek, Periods and Movements in Literary History (New York: 1965).

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ured by the Marquis of Santillana in the 15th century and was firmly established with Juan Boscán and Garcilaso de la Vega, subsisting thereafter through to the appearance in 1613 of Góngora’s full-fledged Baroque poems Soledades and Polifemo. In drama and comedy, the publication of Lope de Vega’s Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (1606) confirms the detachment from classicist precepts that, as Lope underscores therein, had been taking place progressively during the second half of the 16th century. Yet, like Eugenio Battisti observed in other European national literatures,6 also in Spain the Renaissance and the Baroque coexisted in the later decades of the 16th century and in the early 17th century.7 Quevedo penned his Baroque novel Buscón possibly before 1610 (it was not published until 1626), at the time when Cervantes was writing his novel Persiles (published in 1917) under the inspiration of the ancient Greek novel.8 The publication of poetical treatises further confirms the incumbency of both cultures at the turn of the century—Diego García Rengifo’s Poética (1592) and Juan de Arena’s prologue to Alonso de Ledesma’s Conceptos espirituales (1600) substantiated Baroque agudeza (wit) while Alonso López Pinciano in his Philosophia antigua poética (1596) and Francisco Cascales in Tablas poéticas (1617) were still eloquently (albeit often loosely) advocating Aristotelian precepts.9 Equating the Spanish literary Renaissance with the 16th century needs to acknowledge the transition from one tradition to another.10

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Eugenio Battisti, L’Antirinascimento (Milan: 1962), 47. Helmut Anthony Hatzfeld, in Estudios sobre el Barroco (Madrid: 1964), 72–73, distinguished four phases in the evolution from Renaissance to full Baroque: Renaissance (from 1530 to 1580, with Luis de León as the most representative author), Mannerism (1570 to 1600, with Góngora), Baroque (1600 to 1630, with Cervantes) and Baroquism (1631 to 1681, with Calderón). Víctor Infantes, in “La narrativa del Renacimiento: estado de las cuestiones”, in La invención de la novela, (ed.) Jean Canavaggio (Madrid: 1999), 13–48, at 14, suggests that Spanish Renaissance fiction spans the period from 1487 to 1605. On the Baroquism of Buscón see Edward H. Friedman, “The Baroque Picaro: Quevedo’s Buscón,” in The Picaresque Novel in Western Literature: From the Sixteenth Century to the Neopicaresque, (ed.) J.A. Garrido Ardila (Cambridge: 2015), 75–94. Pinciano was closely read by the authors of the day; see Sanford Shepard, El Pinciano y las teorías literarias del Siglo de Oro (Madrid: 1962). On the development of the Spanish Baroque also see, in English, the standard overview by Nicholas Spadaccini and Luis Martín-Estudillo, “Introduction: The Baroque and the Cultures of Crisis,” in Hispanic Baroques: Reading Cultures in Context, (eds.) Nicholas Spadaccini and Luis Martín-Estudillo (Nashville: 2005), ix–xxxvi, and in the same volume, Edward H. Friedman, “Afterword: Redressing the Baroque,” 283–306. In Spanish, see the aforementioned book by Hatzfeld and the seminal work by José Antonio Maravall, La cultura del Barroco (Barcelona: 2000).

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This chapter will chart the advent of the Renaissance to Spanish poetry, theater and prose fiction in the late 15th century and its development in the 16th century until aesthetic and thematic changes begot the Baroque. The Renaissance in Spanish literature has traditionally been studied in its domestic and also in its European contexts. Like in the rest of the continent, it was closely attached to humanism and to the studia humanitatis. When considering the literary Renaissance as a consequence of the new historical age—the Modern Age—that followed the Middle Ages, it is imperative to acknowledge that Spanish society underwent profound cultural and social mutations which gave fresh impetus to the arts and transformed its literature. In the course of the 15th century, also in Spain humanism transcended scholasticism, causing the transition from medieval to Renaissance thought. The humanist ideal of a “new man” described in Giannozzo Manetti’s De dignitate et excellentia hominis (ca. 1453) and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’s Oratio de hominis dignitate (1486) was assimilated in Spain by scholars such as Fernán Pérez de Oliva in his Diálogo de la dignidad del hombre (1546). The figure of the umanisti and the humanissimus vir as a generator and a disseminator of knowledge is exemplified, for instance, by Cardinal Cisneros, founder of the University of Alcalá in 1499 and a most influential patron of scholars. The wide circulation of Antonio de Nebrija’s Introducciones latinas (1486) bears testimony to the new interest in Latin and in the classics of antiquity. University education and the liberal arts burgeoned, and many universities were established—Barcelona, Sigüenza, Santiago, Valencia and Alcalá in the 15th century; Seville, Granada, Zaragoza and Gandía in the first half of the 16th century. In the Middle Ages the men of letters had been predominantly clerics (e.g., St Isidore of Seville, Gonzalo de Berceo or the Archpriests of Hita and Talavera); in the 15th century the expansion of public academic instruction enabled laymen such as Juan de Mena to compose sophisticated literature. Medieval aristocrats like King Alfonso X and his nephew Don Juan Manuel had loved and cultivated literature; in the 15th century nobles, knights and courtiers delighted in and wrote literature, e.g. Jorge Manrique and the Marquis of Santillana in Castile, and Ausiàs March and Joanot Martorell in Aragon. The seeds of humanism took root during the fertile 15th century and, in the beginning of the 16th, provided the conditions for Renaissance literature to flourish.11 The development of humanism ran parallel to gradual and rapid social changes in Western Europe, when feudalism was slowly replaced by a progres-

11

Asunción Rallo offers a detailed analysis of the impact of humanism in Spanish letters in the 16th century in Humanismo y Renacimiento en la literatura española (Madrid: 2007).

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sive society. The end of the Middle Ages and the dawn of the Modern Age was brought by the consolidation of this new, modern society where urban centers thrived and the economy prospered, with one main consequence: the growth of a relatively new middle class that avidly consumed and often produced literature. Besides aristocrats and courtiers of refined taste and fond of the lectio poetarum, a new man of letters entered the literary scene, one who often conceived of authorship as his only profession and literature as a marketable and profitable good. Juan del Encina, for instance, a Salamanca graduate and the son of a shoemaker, took on literature (and music) as a profession that made him economically prosperous.12 Furthermore, for the first time since the Roman Empire, Europe was truly globalized and cultural exchanges intensified across the continent. Of all European countries, Spain was better placed than any other to benefit culturally from these conditions. The marriage of Isabel I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon in 1479, the end of the so-called Reconquest in 1492, and Fernando’s annexation of Navarre in 1512 provided Spain with a sense of unity unknown since Visigothic times. Stricto sensu, Spain was not Spain, but the Kingdoms of Castile and Aragon; yet Isabel and Fernando took it upon themselves to provide their peoples with a sense of unity. From being, during the Middle Ages, a grouping of weak small kingdoms at war with each other and with the Arabs in the southern territories of the Peninsula, Castile and Aragon became de facto a powerful political entity under Isabel and Ferdinand. Their grandson Charles V inherited the Crowns of Castile, Aragon, Naples, Sicily and the Netherlands, the Duchy of Burgundy and the Holy Roman Empire. Commercial and cultural exchanges with the rest of Europe increased substantially, the conquest of America poured over the state an important added revenue, and there grew in Spain an optimistic sense of national mission. Both Castile and Aragon had become international superpowers who dominated Europe and had embarked upon the conquest of America. Alongside this optimism, political and religious dissenters proliferated, particularly among the middle class. Isabel and Fernando had sought to create a sense of spiritual unity among the peoples of their kingdoms by imposing Christianity as the one faith of their dominions. This led in 1492 to the forced conversion of Jews and the expulsion of those who did not convert, and subsequently to ethnic bigotry against the New Christians. Fernando de Rojas—a New Christian and a Salamanca graduate—parodied sentimental literature in

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See James Richard Andrews and Jean Le Clerc, Juan del Encina: Prometheus in Search of Prestige (Berkeley: 1959).

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his Celestina, providing the middle classes with an alternative to the romances read by the nobility. Throughout Celestina resonates a heartfelt pessimism that contrasts with the optimism of the ruling classes, a poignant paradox that defines the Spanish literature of the period.13 The combination of international cultural exchanges, the buoyant Castilian economy (plus the influx of capital coming from America), and imperial optimism raised the artistic ambitions of Spaniards. A determining factor for the proliferation of literature was the growth of a middle class composed of urban artisans, merchants, clerks and rich rural men. New strata appeared or became more visible in the social pyramid. The squires, who had played an active military role during the seven-century-long Reconquest, suddenly became unemployed, and many of them lived on modest incomes. The Empire employed an army of well-paid senior civil servants who came to be known as the nobleza de toga. Many new Christians or conversos occupied the liberal professions and held government offices. The educated merchants, low nobility and conversos were part of that new and growing social class in the middle between the peasantry and the nobility. Many shared the political views of the establishment; others dissented. Therefore, there were in the 16th century two large groups of readers. One was the nobility (and those close to it) that enjoyed the idyllic literature they found in the chivalric and pastoral romances and in neo-Platonic poetry (about which see the essay “Intellectual Life” by Schwartz and Byrne in the present volume). Those of more slender means and the aforementioned social dissenters demanded a sort of literature that reflected their hopes and frustrations. This complex milieu prompted a literary production rich in quality, quantity and variety. Today, some of those gifted authors and their unique works have been obscured by the towering figures of the 17th century, namely Cervantes, Calderón, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Góngora or Tirso de Molina. However, Renaissance authors laid the cornerstones of Spanish literature.

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Poetry

Many cancioneros compiling the poetry of the day were published in the 15th and the 16th centuries.14 The first of these was (probably) the Cancionero de

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José Antonio Maravall, El mundo social de La Celestina (Madrid: 1968). Fifteenth-century cancioneros have been compiled by D.S. Severin et al. in https:// cancionerovirtual.liv.co.uk (accessed January 22, 2017).

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Baena, commissioned by Juan II of Castile and edited around 1445 by Juan Alfonso de Baena, with 576 poems by 54 named composers and other anonymous ones. Other compilations include the Cancionero de Estúñiga (ca. 1463), which takes its title from Lope de Estúñiga, author of the first poem, and comprises poetry written in the court of Alfonso V of Aragon; the Cancionero de palacio (ca. 1505–1520); and the Cancionero de Herberay des Essarts (second half of the 15th century). The best-known of these anthologies was the Cancionero general, published in Valencia in 1511 and reprinted on numerous occasions in the course of the 16th century. Comprised of over a thousand poems by 128 poets, it displays the quantity and variety of late-15th- and early-16th-century poetry in Spain, from folkloric to humanistic. The several editions of the Cancionero general printed during the 16th century attest to the broad recognition of the domestic poetical tradition in Spain. In the 15th century poetry consolidated itself as the spiritual expression of noblemen. The two most important poets of the century were Íñigo López de Mendoza (Marquis of Santillana) and Jorge Manrique (son of the Count of Paredes and nephew of Enrique II). Manrique’s Coplas por la muerte de su padre remains in Spain the best-known poem on the topic of death and prefigures the desengaño attitude of the Baroque. Manrique embodies the latemedieval and Renaissance ideal of the gallant knight who is both a brave soldier and a learned poet. The poetic works of the Marquis of Santillana convey an acute awareness of international literary vogues and authors, such as the gaia scienza, the dolce stil nuovo, Dante, Petrarch and Guido Cavalcanti. His 10 poems known as serranillas recreate Spanish medieval poetry with reminiscences of the French pastourelles. His decires deploy versification borrowed from Dante and the amorous topic of Petrarchism. In the “Carta-prohemio” (1448?) that opens the volume of his complete works, he praises the poetry of other countries. Santillana was the first Spaniard who wrote sonnets and declared that his poems were written “al itálico modo.” Among the other most ambitious poetic compositions of the Spanish 15th century is Juan de Mena’s epic poem Laberinto de Fortuna (1444). Although it is written in the epic tradition of the Middle Ages, Mena’s Laberinto often reveals humanistic influences. Its 297 couplets are written in arte mayor (lines of nine or more syllables) and underline the humanists’ concerns with morality and spirituality. By the end of the 15th century, there was in Spain a rich tradition of poetry encompassing the cancioneros and humanistic poetry by authors such as Santillana. The publication in 1496 of Juan del Encina’s treatise Arte de poesía castellana testifies to a national interest in the art of poetry. These combined factors inspired some young noblemen to compose poetry of humanistic con-

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tent and Italianate form that is today regarded as the zenith of Spanish Renaissance poetry. The first group includes Juan Boscán, Garcilaso de la Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza. Juan Boscán served in the courts of Isabel I and Charles V, and once led a diplomatic mission to Italy. Through his political expertise in Italian matters, he became knowledgeable about Italian culture and in 1535 translated Castiglione’s Il cortegiano. In 1526, the Italian diplomat and humanist Andrea Navagero encouraged him to try his hand at Italian stanzas. Previous Spanish poets had used octosyllabic lines commonly stressed on the seventh syllable as well as hexasyllabic lines with a stress on the fifth syllable. Italian poets wrote hendecasyllabic lines with a stress on the tenth syllable with other secondary stresses, as well as heptasyllabic lines with stress on the sixth syllable. Boscán mentioned his poetic endeavors to his close friend Garcilaso, and they both experimented with the tercet, canzone, sonnet, ottava rima and free verse. Garcilaso also wrote a poem (later titled “Si de mi baja lira” by editors) employing the stanza first used by Bernardo Tasso in I tre libri degli amori (1532) that was later known in Spanish as the lira. Such innovations brought a radical transformation in Spanish letters, making Renaissance poetry distinctively different from medieval poetry. Boscán’s works were published posthumously in a volume titled Las obras de Boscán con algunas de Garcilaso de la Vega (1543) containing his texts in three books and also some poems by Garcilaso in a fourth book. The first of those books compiles songs and couplets of medieval resonances. The second book is made of 92 sonnets and 10 songs of love in the purest Petrarchan tradition. The third includes a variation on the story of Leander and Hero. Garcilaso de la Vega is the epitome of the Renaissance courtier. A nobleman who fought in many battles in Europe and died heroically in the siege of Le Muy in 1536, he was “so high a poet,” as Azorín called him.15 Some of his poems were first published in Las obras de Boscán before his complete works were edited by the humanist scholar Francisco Sánchez de las Brozas (known as El Brocense) in 1574 and later by Fernando de Herrera in 1580, achieving a phenomenal dissemination and making him the model for Spanish poets. Although his first poems were written under the influence of the cancioneros and of Ausiàs March, he soon embraced Italian versification.16 His short life was interspersed with many love experiences that inspired his poetry,17 and 15 16 17

“altísimo poeta” (Azorín, Lecturas españolas [Madrid: 1938], 50). Rafael Lapesa, Garcilaso: estudios completos (Madrid: 1985). The identity of his muse Elisa is still debated. See María del Carmen Vaquero Serrano, Doña Beatriz de Sá, la Elisa posible de Garcilaso (Ciudad Real: 2002).

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throughout his poems palpitates the melancholic desperation of a poet who expresses his deep and painful love for his donna angelicata.18 He wrote sonnets, songs, elegies, odes and eclogues with classical content and echoes of Virgil, Ovid and Horace.19 Melancholic like Petrarch, passionate like Ariosto’s Orlando, he is also the first Spaniard to write notable pastoral literature in the style of Jacopo Sannazaro. Garcilaso’s elaborated language is characterized by its apparent simplicity and its silky melodious rhythm. The last two tercets of his Sonnet V exemplify the natural beauty of his poetry, the musicality of its rhythm and its alliteration, expressing the most sublime amorous feelings: I was only born so I could love you: my soul has cut you to its own dimensions, as my soul’s own habit I must have you; everything I have I know I owe you; for you was I born, for you I hold my life; for you I will die, am dying, here and now.20 Among his most acclaimed poems are his three eclogues in the form of neoPlatonic dialogues between the shepherds Salicio and Nemoroso confiding their sorrows to one another. Eclogue I contains stirring descriptions of nature where the locus amoenus soothes the poet’s amorous mortification: Pure streams of crystal water blithely flowing, trees that stand admiring your reflections, green countryside full of refreshing shade, birds that fill the air with your complaints, ivy making your way up in the trees,

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Anne J. Cruz, Imitación y transformación: el petrarquismo en la poesía de Boscán y Garcilaso de la Vega (Amsterdam: 1988). Garcilaso’s knowledge of the cultural expressions of his day and their impact on his poetry is discussed in Mary Barnard, Garcilaso de la Vega and the Material Culture of Renaissance Europe (Toronto: 2014) and Russell P. Sebold, Garcilaso de la Vega en su entorno poético (Salamanca: 2014). Garcilaso de la Vega, Selected Poems of Garcilaso de la Vega, trans. John Dent-Young (Chicago: 2009), 33. The original is: “Yo no nací sino para quereros; / mi alma os ha cortado a su medida; / por hábito del alma misma os quiero; // cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos; / por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida, / por vos he de morir, y por vos muero” (Poesía lírica del Siglo de Oro, [ed.] Elías L. Rivers, 21st ed. [Madrid: 2004], 62).

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twisting and turning through their hearts of green: so distant then my feeling from the pain I suffer now that in pure exultation I rested in your solitude and rejoiced, enjoying all the time untroubled sleep, or in imagination running through all the places that I knew, which held nothing but sweet memories of joy.21 In an age that regarded imitatio as one of the most respected forms of poetry, Garcilaso’s poems quickly became the model for other Renaissance poets, particularly after the critical editions of his works by El Brocense and Herrera turned him into a canonical poet on a par with the ancient classics in Spain. Garcilaso’s legacy spans the 16th century and through to the 20th century. The echoes of his pastoral lyricism resonate in the Spanish pastoral romances of the 16th century. The intimate dialogue of his lyrical voice with nature prefigures Antonio Machado’s Campos de Castilla (1912), and the sublime intensity of his love poetry partly inspired Pedro Salinas’ La voz a ti debida (1933). Some of the greatest poets of the Renaissance adopted the Italian verse forms popularized by Garcilaso. Like Petrarch and Garcilaso, Fernando de Herrera fell madly and melancholically in love with a married woman whom he once addressed as his “disdainful beautiful lady” (bella desdeñosa). After the death of his muse, he published his poetic compositions in a volume titled Algunas obras de Fernando de Herrera (1582) containing 78 sonnets, seven elegies, five songs and one eclogue. Herrera’s poems express neo-Platonic desperation embellished with classicizing references. So remarkably Garcilasian in their cadence and lyricism are Francisco de la Torre’s poems that Quevedo edited and hailed them as an example against the culteranismo of Góngora’s followers. Gutierre de Cetina, also a soldier, wrote sonnets and madrigals. Hernando de Acuña, another soldier, composed patriotic poems, albeit the theme of the majority of his works is love. Raised and educated in Italy, Francisco

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Garcilaso, Selected Poems, 135. In the original: “Corrientes aguas, puras, cristalinas, / árboles que os estáis mirando en ellas, / verde prado, de fresca sombra lleno, / aves que aquí sembráis vuestras querellas, / hiedra que por los árboles caminas, / torciendo el paso por su verde seno: / yo me vi tan ajeno / del grave mal que siento, / que de puro contento / con vuestra soledad me recreaba, / donde con dulce sueño reposaba, / o con el pensamiento discurría / por donde no hallaba / sino memorias llenas de alegría” (Poesía lírica, [ed.] Rivers, 91–92).

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de Aldana is another humanist who wrote poems on a broad range of topics. These poets are the crème of Spanish Renaissance poetry of classical and Petrarchan inspiration started by Boscán and Garcilaso. Alongside this group, Spanish Renaissance poetry produced religious and popular works. Gregorio Silvestre’s religious and philosophical poems prefigure Baroque consternation about the brevity of life. Other authors of religious poetry include Baltasar del Alcázar and Jorge de Montemayor. The poetry written by members of the Catholic Church is commonly classed into two groups, ascetic and mystical. Luis de León is the major proponent of the ascetic branch. He was an Augustinian friar and a professor at Salamanca whose interest in the Hebrew translation of the Old Testament prompted the suspicions of the Inquisition, leading to his trial and incarceration.22 His poetry sometimes satirizes his envious foes and often explores humanist topics such as the greatness of erudition and the brevity of life. The opening lines of his Ode I, in the fashion of Horace’s Beatus ille (Epod. 2), are today regarded as the most candent defense of erudition: Oh restful life Of those who flee the world’s noises And follow the hidden Path traveled by The few sages the world has seen.23 His poems delve into other philosophical themes such as the ephemerality of life, for instance in Ode III, known as “Noche serena,” where he exalts the greatness of “sacred love” (amor sagrado) for God over the pleasures of earthly existence. Whereas Garcilaso had imported Italian versification and amorous themes, Luis de León deployed the same forms but wrote on philosophical issues and freed his poems from the clichés of Petrarchism. The mystical literature of St Teresa de Ávila and St John of the Cross is regarded as one of the highest peaks of Spanish art. St Teresa’s writings include some poems, her biography and other religious prose such as Camino de perfección (1583) and Las moradas (1588), where she explained abundantly the nature

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Details of his imprisonment are examined in El proceso inquisitorial de Fray Luis de León, (ed.) Ángel Alcalá (Salamanca: 1991). His engagement with humanism is studied in Joseph Pérez, Fray Luis de León y el humanismo (Madrid: 2013). My translation of “¡Qué descansada vida / la del que huye del mundanal ruido / y sigue la escondida / senda por donde han ido / los pocos sabios que en el mundo han sido!” (Poesía lírica, [ed.] Rivers, 112).

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of her mystical experiences.24 Her close collaborator St John is the author of a small number of poems, whose fame today rests on three compositions of truly outstanding quality—“Noche oscura,” “Llama de amor viva” and “Cántico espiritual.” St John allegorized the mystical experience of bringing one’s soul into intimate contact with God. The voice of his poems is that of a woman who yearns for her loved one. By means of their sexual union, St John allegorizes the intensity of the soul’s union with God. He thus composed some of the most original mystical literature, which is likewise perhaps the most subtle erotic poetry ever written in Spanish. “Noche oscura” is made up of eight stanzas, and “Llama de amor viva” of four. Despite their brevity, they are written with stirring delicacy and with great symbolic complexity. Partly inspired by the Song of Songs, “Cántico espiritual” is a longer poem of 40 stanzas and of unfathomable intricacy in its allusions to the Bible. The poem opens with the feminine protagonist wandering the fields and searching for her lover, asking the shepherds about his whereabouts with a sublimely sensitive pastoral accent: Shepherds, those of you who may go Along the trails and to the hill, If you happen to see Him whom I love most, Tell him I droop, ache and die.25 Henceforth the “Cántico espiritual” subverts neo-Platonic conventions: the lady declares her relentless sexual desire, stating that “love can only be cured … / with your presence and your body,”26 before celebrating and indulging in the intensity of the sexual experience. St John uses Italian verse forms (the lira, first used in Spain by Garcilaso) yet departs from Petrarchan Neoplatonic clichés, writing erotic poetry that is infinitely more delicate than medieval eroticism. Many other poets used medieval versification yet explored modern social topics.27 A central figure of humanist poetry was Cristóbal de Castillejo, a

24 25

26 27

On philosophical dimensions of Teresa’s mysticism see the essay “Philosophy, Law and Mysticism in Renaissance Spain” by Bernie Cantens in the present volume. My translation of “Pastores, los que fuerdes / allá por las majadas al otero, / si por ventura vierdes / aquel que yo más quiero / dezilde que adolezco, peno y muero” (Poesía lírica, [ed.] Rivers, 166). “amor … no se cura / sino con la presencia y la figura” (Poesía lírica, [ed.] Rivers, 168). For an overview of the poetic schools of the 16th century see José Manuel Blecua, “La corriente popular y tradicional en nuestra poesía,” in Sobre poesía de la Edad de Oro (Madrid:

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staunch advocate of Spanish traditional meters, who opposed the naturalization of Italian models.28 An important satirist was Sebastián de Horozco, whose poems voiced the frustrations of those on the margins of society. Horozco’s compositions employ medieval versification, yet they satirize society with the same conviction and modern flair of picaresque narratives. The poetry of the day was published in anthologies, such as the Cancionero general de obras nuevas (1554), the Romancero general (1600) and Villancicos de diversos autores (1556, now known as Cancionero de Uppsala), Juan López de Úbeda’s Cancionero general de la doctrina cristiana (1579) and Vergel de flores divinas (1582), and Pedro de Padilla’s Tesoro de varias poesías (1580), Romancero (1583) and Jardín espiritual (1585). This vast body of poetry displays a variety of styles and themes, many in the popular fashion that prevailed in the Middle Ages but often engaging with the social issues of the day.

3

Theater

In the 15th century, there existed in Spain a tradition of religious theater that derived from medieval devotional plays such as the Auto de los Reyes Magos, and whose best-known specimen perhaps is Gómez Manrique’s Representación del nacimiento de Nuestro Señor (1476?).29 Playwrights of the late 15th century soon marched beyond these horizons and explored new themes30—e.g., pastoral elements impregnate Friar Íñigo de Mendoza’s Vida Christi (1482); the Danza de la muerte is one of many plays on the topic of the brevity of life staged often across Spain; and the Marquis of Santillana’s Comedieta de Ponza is an allegorical military poem of Dantesque echoes. Indeed, the prohibition by the Church of the unrighteous ludi theatrales performed on holidays suggests that playwrights were earnestly trying out new secular themes.

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1970), 11–23 and “Mudarra y la poesía del Renacimiento: una lección sencilla,” in Sobre el rigor poético en España y otros ensayos (Barcelona: 1977), 45–46. For a recent discussion of Castillejo see María del Rosario Martínez Navarro, La literatura anticortesana de Cristóbal de Castillejo (Vigo: 2016). For a brief account of Spanish medieval theater see Charlotte D. Stern, “The Medieval Theatre: Between Scriptura and Theatrica,” in The Cambridge History of Spanish Literature, (ed.) David Gies (Cambridge: 2004), 115–135. For a view of the period see for instance vol. 1, De la Edad Media a los Siglos de Oro, of the Historia del Teatro Español, (ed.) Javier Huerta Calvo, 2 vols (Madrid: 2003). For a general critical panorama see Miguel Ángel Pérez Priego, El teatro en el Renacimiento (Madrid: 2004) and Miguel García-Bermejo, Catálogo del teatro español del siglo XVI (Barcelona: 1994).

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The evolution of Spanish Renaissance theater can be illustrated by means of its spatial developments.31 Medieval theater, essentially religious and popular, was performed in churches and in town squares respectively. Maria Grazia Profeti has dated the foundation of Spanish modern theater to Christmas Eve 1492, when Juan del Encina first performed in the palace of the Duke of Alba in Salamanca.32 Henceforth, courtly halls became the home of a new form of theater that was distinctively humanistic and classicizing, and adhered to Aristotle’s precepts. Religious plays were still written and performed. The aforementioned Horozco, for instance, was an accomplished author of devotional pieces performed at religious festivals, the majority of which recreated Biblical stories, namely the Representación de la parábola de San Mateo a los veinte capítulos de su sagrado evangelio (1458), Historia evangélica del capítulo nono de San Juan, Representación de la historia evangélica de San Juan, and a variation on the theme of the danza macabra titled Coloquio de la Muerte. Comedies were performed outdoors to audiences of peasants. Companies roamed the land and soon theaters were established and staged productions regularly. The charitable brotherhoods known as cofradías were licensed to stage Corpus Christi plays. Admission fees were charged and the proceeds were used for charitable causes. In 1565 the village of Madrid licensed the Cofradía de la Pasión y la Sangre de Jesucristo to stage comedies and raise funds from entrance fees and additional seating charges; in 1574 a new license was granted to the Cofradía de la Sociedad de Nuestra Señora. These performances took place in theaters called corrales, placed in yards within blocks of houses or in patios. The best known of these was the Corral de la Pacheca in Madrid. The Corral de la Cruz was established in 1579 and the Corral del Príncipe in 1582. After the religious festivities, these theaters were leased to private individuals. It is estimated that between 1560 and 1580 approximately 50 corrales were established across Spain. Theater had become an entrepreneurial business that employed professional playwrights and actors.33 Juan del Encina, the originator of modern theater in Spain, deserves recognition as a humanistic playwright. He studied law and grammar at Salamanca, translated Virgil’s Eclogues, and was renowned as a gifted musician. On his

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A detailed account of theatrical genres is provided in José María Díez Borque, Los géneros dramáticos en el siglo XVI (El teatro hasta Lope de Vega) (Madrid: 1987). Maria Grazia Profeti, “Espacio teatral y escritura: el teatro de Juan del Encina,” Linguistica e Letteratura 7 (1982): 155–172. On the development of theater see for instance John J. Allen, The Reconstruction of a Spanish Golden Age Playhouse: El Corral del Príncipe 1583–1744 (Gainesville: 1983), and Walter Cohen, Drama of a Nation: Public Theater in Renaissance England and Spain (Ithaca: 1985).

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return from a trip to Italy he worked for the Duke of Alba writing music and comedies. His education and appreciation of the Italian ancient classics are ingrained in his pastoral plays Cristino y Febea and Fileno, Cardonio y Zambardo, written for palatial audiences.34 The House of Alba found in Lucas Fernández another refined playwright, who, alongside Encina, formed the nucleus of Castilian courtly theater. Fernández’s works, published in 1514, include pieces on religious and secular topics and are characterized by their powerful realism, particularly the Auto de la Pasión. A third exponent of courtly theater is the Portuguese author Gil Vicente, who wrote for the Portuguese court. His comedies, tragicomedies and farces are remarkable for their realism and their use of both Spanish and Portuguese, a feature that reflects the bilingualism of the Portuguese court. Strongly aligned with humanistic thought was Hernán López de Yanguas, the author of didactic plays such as Farsa del Mundo y moral, Farsa de la Concordia and Farsa sacramental. A volume of poems and plays by Bartolomé de Torres Naharro titled Propalladia was published in Naples in 1517. Propalladia opened with a “Prohemio” and included tragedies, comedies and tragicomedies that bear the influence of Machiavelli’s Mandragora, amorous poetry, and Celestina. Naharro’s plays were written for a wider audience than were the plays by Encina, Fernández and Vicente, and might have exerted a deeper influence among later playwrights. His Serafina presents a case of courtly love with Erasmian resonances.35 Soldadesca recreates vividly the daily life of soldiers. His last play, Himenea, deals with the restoration of honor and so prefigures the 17th-century Baroque dramas of Calderón. Particularly fascinating in Propalladia is the “Prohemio,” today regarded as the first Spanish theory of theater. Naharro’s foreword reconsiders the classic definitions of comedy and tragedy, and proposes a new set of precepts of comedy—namely, the division of plays in five acts, the deployment of between six and twelve actors, the proper use of decorum, and a happy ending. After he summarizes the definitions of comedy by the rhetores of antiquity, Naharro submits his own: “a comedy is but the ingenious concoction of remarkable and mainly happy deeds lived by people.”36 He further suggests that 34

35 36

Miguel Ángel Pérez Priego, “Juan del Encina en busca de la comedia: la Égloga de Plácida y Vitoriano,” in Los albores del teatro español, (eds.) F.B. Pedraza Jiménez and R. González Cañal (Almagro: 1995), 116–125. Eugenia Fosalba, “La Propalladia en su contexto: anotaciones sobre algunas de sus fuentes,” Boletín de la Real Academia de Buenas Letras de Barcelona 45 (1995–1996): 409–437. My translation of “Comedia no es otra cosa sino un artificio ingenioso de notables y finalmente alegres acontecimientos por personas disputado” (Bartolomé de Torres Naharro, “Prohemio,” Propalladia [1517], [ed.] Julio Vélez-Sainz [Alicante: 2016], http://www .cervantesvirtual.com/obra/proemio/ [accessed 13 August 2017]). On the comedy of the

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comedies can be classed under two categories—“news comedies” (comedias a noticia) are those that reflect social reality; “fantastic comedies” (comedias a fantasía) are those unrelated to reality. Naharro’s secular plays exerted a deep influence on subsequent playwrights including Lope de Vega.37 Forty theatrical pieces by Diego Sánchez de Badajoz were published in 1554 as Recopilación en metro. Twenty-seven of these bore the word farces in their titles; the other thirteen were identified in a variety of manners, from danzas to ballads. Many of Sánchez’s farces were autos sacramentales written to be performed in churches at religious festivals like Corpus Christi and Christmas. Although they bear many of the features of medieval religious theater, his farces introduce contemporary characters that render them more realistic than the previous autos.38 His farsas profanas celebrate the banalities of life and the enjoyment of earthy pleasures. Many theatrical companies traveled up and down the land performing plays in streets and squares. Lope de Rueda is believed to have formed his itinerant company by 1540. His venture was remarkably successful as productions were staged in major cities, churches, courtly halls and the royal court.39 Although he wrote comedies often inspired by Italian Renaissance texts, he also deployed folkloric characters. He was particularly adept at the composition of pasos (comic interludes) later known as entremeses.40 His works were published posthumously by Juan de Timoneda in 1567. Timoneda wrote autos and comedies in different styles, namely humanist, religious and folkloric. Juan de la Cueva is one of the last playwrights of relevance before Lope de Vega. His works bear Italian influences and reflect a deep appreciation of the Spanish religious and folkloric tradition and of Celestinesque social realism. By the second half of the 16th century, these theatrical traditions were well established. By the end of the century, theater reflected the cultural anatomy

37

38 39 40

time see María José Vega, “El arte de la comedia en la teoría literaria del Renacimiento,” Poética y teatro: la teoría dramática del Renacimiento a la Posmodernidad, (ed.) María José Vega (Barcelona: 2004), 47–97. Edward E. Malinak, “Torres Naharro’s Innovative Dramaturgic Contributions to the Spanish Theater,” in Estudios alfonsinos y otros escritos en homenaje a John Esten Keller y a Aníbal A. Biglieri, (ed.) Nicolás Toscano Liria (New York: 1991), 140–148; José Luis Canet, “La evolución de la comedia urbana hasta el Index prohibitorum de 1559,” Criticón 51 (1991): 21–42. Bruce W. Wardropper, Introducción al teatro religioso del Siglo de Oro (La evolución del auto sacramental: 1500–1648) (Madrid: 1953). Manuel V. Diago, “Lope de Rueda y los orígenes del teatro profesional,” Criticón 50 (1990): 41–65. For a history of the genre including Lope de Vega and Cervantes, see Javier Huerta Calvo, El teatro breve en la Edad de Oro (Madrid: 2001).

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of Spanish society—the humanists had shaped it to the demands of the aristocracy, and the popular playwrights had turned it into the genre of the people. Above all, writing plays had become a profession that was both profitable and honorable. Rueda wrote plays and wandered the dusty highways of Spain to direct and perform them in town squares to peasants, but he was also appreciated by the aristocracy, being employed by the Count of Benavente in 1554 and performing for the queen more than once. The foundations of modern Spanish theater were laid in the Renaissance. Encina refined the genre, Rueda enhanced its popularity, and the sophisticated comedies of Naharro prefigured Lope de Vega’s. Upon the solid base of Renaissance theater, Lope de Vega built his oeuvre and heralded the age of the great Baroque theater.41

4

Fiction

The sentimental romance dominated Spanish fiction during the 15th century following the publication of Juan Rodríguez del Padrón’s Siervo libre de amor (ca. 1440). By the end of the century, sentimental romances by Juan de Flores and Diego de San Pedro became the most acclaimed form of fiction. San Pedro’s Arnalte y Lucenda (1491) was still very much aligned with medieval patterns. His Cárcel de amor (1496), however, contains some features of modern prose fiction, such as the heteroglossic variety of narrative voices and the vindication of the authorial figure, who plays a role in the story by exchanging letters with other characters. San Pedro’s romances were greatly acclaimed, and they inspired other authors. In 1508 a new version of the medieval chivalric romance Amadís de Gaula was published. Its popularity prompted the reprint in 1512 of El libro del caballero Zifar (ca. 1300) and the Spanish translation in 1511 of Joanot Martorell’s Tirant lo Blanch (1490), originally published in Valencian. By the middle of the century, Spain was producing an extraordinary quantity of romances. This literature was cherished by the aristocracy who acknowledged those fictional heroes as the paradigms of courtly refinement, by the lower nobility and the middle classes with higher aspirations, and by soldiers who aspired to emulate the bravery of those fictional knights. Conversely, 41

The critical bibliography on Lope de Vega’s Arte nuevo is copious. See, for instance, Edward H. Friedman, “Resisting Theory: Rhetoric and Fiction in Lope de Vega’s Arte nuevo,” Neophilologus 75 (1991): 86–93; Juan Manuel Rozas, Significado y doctrina del Arte nuevo de Lope de Vega (Madrid: 1975); and Miguel Romera-Navarro, La preceptiva dramática de Lope de Vega y otros ensayos sobre el Fénix (Madrid: 1935).

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many of those in the middle classes preferred fiction that reflected the complex and arduous social reality of the times. Spanish literature had shown an acute propensity towards verisimilitude during the Middle Ages, and the publication of Rojas’ Celestina established a new tradition that would determine the course of Spanish literary history. Don Quixote is not merely a parody of chivalric romances, but the result of the realistic trend that originated in the Middle Ages and gained momentum with the Celestinesque and picaresque traditions.42 Spanish Renaissance fiction reflects Spain’s modern society, with romances of idyllic love in the Italian pastoral and French sentimental fashions read and appreciated by the nobility, and with narratives that recorded the frustrations, ambitions and ideology of the new, modern man.43 The Spanish romance of the 16th century has traditionally been classified into chivalric, sentimental, pastoral, Byzantine and Moorish romances.44 All these forms combine love with adventures. The chivalric romance tells the adventures of a knight, the sentimental romance those of a courtier, the Byzantine those of a pair of lovers, and the Moorish romance the vicissitudes of a knight captured in the Arabic territories in medieval Spain. Almost the totality of romances written in the period followed one of these models and their originality often rests upon elegance of expression. In the Spain of Isabel and Ferdinand—victors of the Reconquest and rulers of the Castilian-Aragonese alliance that aspired to dominate European politics—Montalvo’s Amadís instantly mesmerized many readers. In Spain it was followed by a string of sequels, imitations and emulations. In the wake of its success, two sequels appeared in 1510 (Montalvo’s Sergas de Esplandián and Rui Páez de Rivera’s Florisando), and others later on—for instance, Juan Díaz’s Lisuarte de Grecia (1526). Chivalric romances were written and published throughout the 16th century, from Palmerín de Oliva (1511) to Juan de Silva y Toledo’s Policisne de Boecia (1602). The Amadís was also revered abroad and is the first of the great Spanish international best-sellers. At a time when Spanish poets looked incessantly to Italy for poetic and philosophical inspiration, Montalvo’s book achieved phenomenal international appreciation. (Bernardo Tasso’s greatest work, for instance, is the 100-canto poem Amadigi [1560], an 42 43 44

Cf. J.A. Garrido Ardila, “Génesis y desarrollo de la novela en España, 1499–1605,”Ínsula 766 (2010): 6–9. For a panoramic view see Barry Ife, Reading and Fiction in Golden-Age Spain (Cambridge: 1985). For a recent survey of Golden Age fiction see Miguel Ángel Teijeiro and Javier Guijarro, De los caballeros andantes a los peregrinos enamorados (Madrid: 2007). See this volume for lists of romances. A concise survey is provided in Antonio Rey Hazas, “Introducción a la novela del Siglo de Oro, 1 (formas de narrativa idealista),” Edad de Oro 1 (1982): 65–105.

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imitation of Amadís.) The success of chivalric romances is attested by Don Quixote itself and reflects the social conditions of Spain. After the Reconquest (initiated in the 8th century and culminated in 1492), at a time when Spain became embroiled in countless wars in Europe and in the conquest of overseas territories, the military had become the most illustrious profession in Spanish society. Noblemen felt obliged to acquire honor on the battlefield; the military campaigns in Italy and in Flanders offered individuals of the lower classes a profession. Amadís and other fictional knights dignified the Spanish military and mirrored their aspirations to honor. The sentimental romances published in the 16th century include the anonymous Questión de amor (1513) and Tratado de amores, Ludovico Escrivá’s Tratado notable de amor (1545–1549), Juan de Segura’s Proceso de cartas de amores (1553) and others. Although they followed upon the 14th-century Spanish narratives of Rodríguez del Padrón, San Pedro and Flores, they were deeply influenced by medieval Italian sentimental fiction translated into Spanish, namely Boccaccio’s Fiammetta (1497) and Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini’s Eurialo y Lucrecia (1496) (originally written in Latin). The models of the Byzantine romance were Achilles Tatius’s Leucippe and Clitophon and Heliodorus’ Ethiopian Story—both widely translated and read in mid-16th-century Europe—, as well as Chariton’s Callirhoe and Xenophon’s Ephesian Tale. In the Middle Ages, Boccaccio had tried his hand at the genre with Filocolo (1336?). Byzantine romances were popularized in Spain with the translation in 1520 of Giacomo Caviceo’s Il peregrino (1508). The first Spanish Byzantine romance is Alonso Núñez de Reinoso’s Clareo y Florisea (1555), with a plot based largely on Leucippe and Clitophon, quickly followed by Jerónimo de Contreras’ Selva de aventuras (1565). After nearly half a century, Lope de Vega published El peregrino en su patria (1604), set in Spain, at a time when Cervantes was probably already penning his Persiles y Sigismunda (published posthumously in 1617), which he hailed as his best work of fiction. Cervantes’ fascination with this genre is testament to its prestige among authors of fiction. Pastoral tales were regarded as one of the most refined forms of literature, and pastoral elements populated Spanish poetry and theater of the first half of the 16th century. Pastoral literature originated in antiquity with Longus’Daphne and Chloe and Virgil’s Bucolics before the great medieval pastoral works, Boccaccio’s Ninfale Fiesolano and Ameto and the publication of Sannazaro’s Arcadia (originally written in Latin) in 1502. A Spanish translation of Sannazaro’s Arcadia was published in 1547. The following year saw the publication of the Portuguese romance Menina e moça by Bernardim Ribeiro. Pastoral elements had found their way into Feliciano de Silva’s Amadís de Grecia (1530), Noveno libro de Amadís (ca. 1530), Florisel de Niquea (1532) and Clareo y Florisea. It is

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possible that the gradual exhaustion of the chivalric genre motivated authors to compose narratives in the pastoral mode.45 Because of the fashionable classical and Italian origins of the genre, the first Spanish pastoral romance became an instant success—Los siete libros de la Diana, by the Portuguese Jorge de Montemayor, was published in 1559 and quickly became the European paradigm of the genre alongside Jacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia. Critics have grouped three novels of the period under the denomination ‘Moorish romance’: the anonymous Historia del Abencerraje y la hermosa Jarifa (1561), Ginés Pérez de Hita’s Guerras civiles de Granada (1595) and Mateo Alemán’s Ozmín y Daraja, an interpolated story in Part I of Guzmán de Alfarache (1599). These stories take place during the Middle Ages, in proximity to the border between Christian and Arabic territories in Spain. Unlike medieval literature commonly written to praise the heroism of Spanish warriors against the brave and often ruthless Arabic armies, these Moorish romances deploy the theme of love: a Spanish nobleman is captured by an Arab lord who afterwards sets him free graciously so that he can live happily with his beloved. Some critics have conjectured that the Moorish romances were begotten by a sincere appreciation of Arabic culture.46 This conciliation with the Arabic enemy also reveals the pacifist ideology of humanism and the exaltation of love as an almighty human spiritual force—and the Moorish romances were probably read as a humanist fictionalization of the Reconquest. All these romances celebrated the high culture of the courtiers. Conversely, a social sector in the educated middle classes demanded literature that was insightfully critical of the social complexities of the day.47 Rojas’ Celestina was a parody of the sentimental romance that warned against the fallacies of courtly love by exposing the sexuality of the rich and pictured the underworld of delinquents and prostitutes.48 It has been regarded as a transitional text from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance. It contains many folkloric elements, and

45 46

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S.P. Cravens, Feliciano de Silva y los antecedentes de la novela pastoril en los libros de caballerías (Madrid: 1976). The first was George Cirot in nine articles published in Bulletin Hispanique, the first of which was “La maurophilie littéraire en Espagne au XVIe siècle,” Bulletin Hispanique 40 (1938): 150–157. See also Luis Morales Oliver, La novela morisca de ambiente granadino (Madrid: 1972). For a brief overview of the social context and its relevance to literary history see Garrido Ardila, “A Concise Introduction to the History of the Spanish Novel,” 8–9. The social context is discussed, for instance, in John Lynch, Spain 1516–1598: From Nation State to World Power (London: 1992) and Bartolomé Bennassar, La España del Siglo de Oro (Barcelona: 2001). Dorothy S. Severin, Tragicomedy and Novelistic Discourse in Celestina (Cambridge: 1989).

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the lecherous theme and characters mirror those in Juan Ruiz’s Libro de Buen Amor (1330). Yet Rojas’ parody is a sign of the modern capitalist society where money and sex challenged neo-Platonic ideals. Critics have regarded Celestina as a novel in dialogue (instead of a play) because of its length and because of the originality of its psychological depth.49 Rojas popularized an anti-Platonic vision of love that is a testament to a society populated by lusty gentlemen and ladies and by perfidious delinquents. Rojas was followed by a string of epigones who emulated Celestina’s realist mode, the most important of whom is Francisco Delicado, author of Retrato de la lozana andaluza, published in Venice in 1528. Like Celestina, Lozana is a long narrative in dialogue set in the underworld. It is the most revolutionary book of fiction written until then in Spain and possibly in Europe. It offers vividly realistic descriptions of lust and sex as the main motivators of human behavior, embroiled in minute descriptions of contemporary life. Delicado’s conception of realism is decidedly proto-modern in his use of metafictional commentaries underlining the work as a fiction written by an author. In the prologue he declares that his intention in writing Lozana was to mix natura con bemol meaning “reality with fiction.” In the story, the author is a character who talks to other characters as the author who is writing a book about them. Delicado thus sensationally predates metafiction in Don Quixote and the author-character in Miguel de Unamuno’s Niebla (1914). Had Lozana enjoyed a wider dissemination than it did, its exceptional originality would have accelerated the development of fiction. Nonetheless, there was in Spain a rich current of realist narratives including Celestina and its successors as well as short pieces such as folkloric tales, legal showcases in books of law, and carte messaggiere. Lazarillo de Tormes is the result of those preceding traditions and a short novel of great complexity.50 It clearly is a satire against the establishment, but critics have never concurred as to its actual political ideology, and opinions range from considering it the work of an Erasmian thinker, an alumbrado, an agnostic, or a converso.51 It was, in all likelihood, penned by someone who decried the reigning phlegmatic bigotry against New Christians.

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On parody see Yolanda Iglesias, Una nueva mirada a la parodia de la novela sentimental en La Celestina (Madrid: 2009). On sexual desire in Celestina see E. Michael Gerli, Celestina and the Ends of Desire (Toronto: 2011). For a survey of these complexities see, for instance, Francisco Rico, Problemas del Lazarillo (Madrid: 1988) and Aldo Ruffinatto, Las dos caras del Lazarillo. Texto y mensaje (Madrid: 2000). A recent discussion in favor of the New-Christian thesis is in J.A. Garrido Ardila, “La ideología del Lazarillo,” Annali-Sezione Romanza 55.2 (2013): 57–92.

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Under its deceptively burlesque surface, it is a profound vindication of the dignitas hominis of the new man of the Modern Age who seeks a place in the modern middle class. Lazarillo is one of the most extraordinary masterpieces of Spanish literature. Fernando Lázaro Carreter observed that the episodes form a string of cause-effect events characteristic of the modern novel.52 Lazarillo deserves to be considered a modern novel, as Lázaro Carreter suggested and others have argued after him,53 because it is a fiction whose events largely adhere to the principle of verisimilitude and reflect faithfully the reality of new modern Spanish society, and because it records the psychological development of the main character, who learns from his experiences to realize the actual hypocrisy of the surrounding culture. The four editions published in 1554 and a sequel in 1555 attest to the great popularity of Lazarillo. It was immediately regarded as unorthodox and was included in the first Spanish Index in 1559. So complex and controversial a text was not a likely model for other writers to follow. An expurgated version was published with the authorization of the Inquisition in 1573 after its most unorthodox passages were removed,54 but years went by until in 1599 a book of similar characteristics was published—Mateo Alemán’s Guzmán de Alfarache, followed by a second part in 1604. Guzmán emulates the themes and main formal characteristics of Lazarillo and hence establishes a new fictional genre later termed picaresque.55 Alemán’s novel, although strongly rooted in the Spanish literary tradition of the 16th century, differs from Lazarillo and other Renaissance texts in its sharp skepticism. Although it is a gloomy reflection on the iniquities of contemporary society, Lazarillo (the narrator) makes incisive use of irony to admonish the establishment and proclaim his social progress, whereas the voice of Alemán’s narrator strikes a latent pessimism in line with the in fieri Baroque. Guzmán’s spurious repentance in the end gives

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Fernando Lázaro Carreter, Lazarillo de Tormes en la picaresca (Barcelona: 1968). Subsequently, Francisco Rico analyzed the narrative structure of Lazarillo in The Spanish Picaresque Novel and the Point of View (Cambridge: 1984). An enlightening analysis is undertaken in Edward H. Friedman, “From the Inside Out: The Poetics of Lazarillo de Tormes,” Philological Quarterly 89.1 (2010): 13–30. For a discussion of Lazarillo as a modern novel, see, for instance, J.A. Garrido Ardila, “Origins and Definition of the Picaresque Novel,” in The Picaresque Novel in Western Literature, (ed.) J.A. Garrido Ardila (Cambridge: 2015), 1–23. For more on the expurgated edition of the Lazarillo see the essay “Nobles and Court Culture” by Navarrete and Terry-Roisin in the present volume. On the picaresque as a literary category see J.A. Garrido Ardila, El género picaresco en la crítica literaria (Madrid: 2008), and Edward H. Friedman, “Roads Untaken: The Spanish Picaresque Novel,” in A History of the Spanish Novel, (ed.) Garrido Ardila, 96–121.

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the denouement a bewildering obscurity that complicates our understanding of the whole book,56 and the repetition of the sequence ‘action-sermon’ also constitutes a pattern characteristic of the Baroque. The progressions of fiction along the 16th century culminated in Don Quixote, a parody of romances and a resolute defense of verisimilar fiction, a modern novel of rich philosophical depth that articulates a critical insight into the complexities of modern Spanish society.57 As a novelist, Cervantes sought to transcend the strident idealism of romance. Don Quixote is a parody of chivalric romances that acknowledges the relevant functionality of classical precepts.58 Persiles y Sigismunda was designed to emulate the Greek novels of antiquity where the events narrated are out of the ordinary but at the same time verisimilar.59 In 1596, Alonso López Pinciano in his Philosophia antigua poética had underlined the difficulty of composing narratives of wonderful facts that were also verisimilar. In one of the prologues to Guzmán in 1599, Alemán had presented his novel as a verisimilar tale of fiction. Don Quixote is a parody of the romances that fail to be verisimilar, while Persiles is a worthy attempt to compose fiction narrating events that are both out of the ordinary and verisimilar. The Novelas ejemplares (1613) are, as a whole, an exploration of the same pattern. Beyond these romances and novels, literature published in the 16th century includes other narrative genres. Folkloric tales continued to be immensely popular and were more sophisticated aesthetically than their medieval predecessors. Juan de Timoneda’s Patrañuelo (1567) is commonly hailed as the prototype of the genre. Fiction was also written in verse by authors like Pedro Padilla.60 Humanists adopted the dialogue as a nimble format for philosophical thought, for instance Cristóbal de Castillejo in his Diálogo que habla de las condiciones de las mujeres (1546) and Diálogo entre el autor y su pluma, and 56 57

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I have discussed Guzmán’s conversion in J.A. Garrido Ardila, La novela picaresca en Europa, 1554–1753 (Madrid: 2009), 105–110. The critical bibliography on Don Quixote is extensive. For a recent critique of Cervantes’ theory of fiction see Antonio Garrido Domínguez, Aspectos de la novela en Cervantes (Alcalá: 2007); J.A. Garrido Ardila, “Cervantes y la novela moderna: literatura experimental y realismo en el Quijote,” Cervantes: Bulletin of the Cervantes Society of America 33.2 (2013): 145–172; and, in English, Anthony Cascardi, “Don Quixote and the Invention of the Novel,” in A Companion to Cervantes, (ed.) Anthony Cascardi (Cambridge: 2002), 58–79. See, for instance, Frederick de Armas, Cervantes, Raphael and the Classics (Cambridge: 1998). Cf. J.A. Garrido Ardila, “Metaficción y teoría de la novela en el Persiles de Cervantes,”Boletín de la Real Academia Española 98 (2018): 137–157. See Antonio Rey Hazas, “Treinta años de narrativa áurea: breve ensayo de revisión. Reflexiones sobre la novela en verso: el caso de Pedro Padilla,” Edad de Oro 30 (2011): 297–346.

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Alfonso de Valdés in his Discurso de las cosas ocurridas en Roma and Discurso de Mercurio y Carón. The most exquisite specimen of the Renaissance dialogue in Spain perhaps is Cristóbal de Villalón’s El Crotalón, consisting of 19 dialogues between a shoemaker and his rooster. Viaje de Turquía (1557) relates a story of captivity. Narrative texts also include a number of biographies, such as La vida y trabajos de Saavedra, La vida de Martín Cordero, Cautiverio de Diego Galán and Bartolomé de Villalba’s El peregrino curioso. Among the many travel books published in this century is Francisco Guerrero’s Viaje a Hierusalem.

5

Conclusion

At the dawn of the modern age, in the late 15th and 16th centuries, Spain underwent a series of social changes that took her from a medieval feudal society to a modern one where domestic and international commerce flourished and humanism thrived. This modern society of cultivated courtiers and an ambitious middle class appreciative of the arts engendered an extraordinarily rich body of literature. As the center of the largest Empire the world had seen since Roman times, Spain benefited from the new globalization of Europe that facilitated the circulation of books across borders and from the international movement of people. The Spanish rule in Naples enabled many major literary figures to visit and reside in Italy, from Encina and Naharro to Cervantes. Owing to the confluence of humanism in a prosperous (yet contradictory) and internationalized modern society, Renaissance literature flourished. The 15th century laid the foundations for literature to ripen spectacularly well. In the 16th century, Spanish noblemen and courtiers adopted Renaissance Italian verse meters and classicizing themes. The men in the middle, like Rojas and Delicado, wrote realist novels in dialogue of great originality, while readers still enjoyed Montalvo’s reworking of the medieval Amadís and Montemayor’s Sannazarian romance. After a century of incessant and fruitful experimentations, Spanish Renaissance literature culminated in Cervantes’ Don Quixote. The unique and splendid literature of the Renaissance yielded some of the most singular texts of Spanish letters. It provided a literary tradition upon which the history of Spanish literature has been built.

chapter 17

Painting and Sculpture* Jeffrey Schrader

1

Introduction

Visual and literary records from the 16th and 17th centuries confirm Spain as a realm of enterprising artists and patrons. Artistic opportunities arose with changes in society as the Monarchy expanded its borders, consolidated power, and unified much of the Iberian Peninsula under its rule. International commerce and travel encouraged the taste for arts from European, American, and Asian lands. Even in periods of economic or political difficulty, painters and sculptors availed themselves of the potential to advance in new directions. Art historians have characterized this artistic period as the Siglo de Oro, or Golden Age, borrowing a term from the field of literature.1 While the chronological boundaries and even the length of this siglo remain loosely defined, its height of artistic quality coincides with internationally recognized figures like El Greco (ca. 1541–1614), Diego Velázquez (1599–1660), and Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–1682).2 Key publications can provide an introduction to painting. Jonathan Brown offers the best and most recent English-language overview with Painting in Spain: 1500–1700, released in 1998, which has not been surpassed in depth or breadth by any other single-author publication.3 In his coverage, Brown sum* The author thanks Manuel Arias Martínez, Andaleeb Banta, Michael A. Brown, Alberto González Alonso, Andria Derstine, Stephanie McClure, and D. Fairchild Ruggles for their assistance. 1 Nicolás Marín, “Decadencia y Siglo de Oro,” 1616: Anuario de la Sociedad Española de Literatura General y Comparada 5 (1983–1984): 69–79, characterizes the notion of the Golden Age of Spanish literature. 2 Linking these 16th- and 17th-century painters with the height of the Spanish School found expression with authors in the United States, such as Emelyn W. Washburn, The Spanish Masters: An Outline of the History of Painting in Spain (New York: 1884), and Charles H. Caffin, The Story of Spanish Painting (New York: 1910). Although those writers endorsed criteria of Spanishness that have since come to appear obsolete, the idea of quality in Spanish art remains strongly identified with the 16th and especially the 17th centuries. 3 Jonathan Brown, Painting in Spain: 1500–1700 (New Haven: 1998), in which he revises his own work, The Golden Age of Painting in Spain (New Haven: 1991). At roughly the same time, a handful of comparable overviews emerged in response to growing interest in the field: Nina

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_019

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marizes major periods, including the Hispano-Flemish style, the Renaissance, Mannerism, the reform of painting and the growth of naturalism, and various aspects of the Baroque. Painting in Spain by Brown also reflects the scholarly community’s strengths on well-defined artistic personalities in the 17th century, although researchers on Spanish art history will encounter less developed terrain when reaching backward or forward into neighboring centuries. Moreover, the text by Brown reflects the geographically uneven emphasis of the scholarship, which favors cities such as Madrid, Toledo, Seville, and Valencia, as well as the regions of Castile, Catalonia, and Andalusia. Brown captured the discipline’s emphasis on the Habsburg court, which settled in Madrid in 1561 and (after the interlude of 1601–1606 in Valladolid) drove the development of the arts with increasing momentum. While this outlook has recognized the cultural ambitions of the Spanish monarchs, it has also favored coverage of aristocratic patrons, such as the Count-Duke of Olivares, who fostered or collected art in manners comparable to those of royalty. Sculpture has received less attention than painting, a fact reflected in the placement of the Museo Nacional de Escultura in Valladolid, whereas the more prominent city of Madrid features the flagship museum of painting, the Museo Nacional del Prado. The gorgeous museum in Valladolid, however, constitutes an obligatory resource for acquainting oneself with the work of key artists as well as with types of imagery (e.g., altarpieces, pasos or processional imagery, devotional images, etc.).4 For single-author overviews of Spanish sculpture, one can look back chiefly to the work in the early 1980s of Fernando Checa Cremades and Juan José Martínez González, who respectively covered the periods of 1450–1600 and 1600–1770.5 Surveys, however, have subsequently been rare, in part due to ambivalence and weaknesses in approaches to the field.6 It would

Ayala Mallory, El Greco to Murillo: Spanish Painting in the Golden Age: 1556–1700 (New York: 1990); Alfonso E. Pérez Sánchez, Pintura barroca en España, 1600–1750 (Madrid: 1992) with 6th ed. in 2010; and Janis A. Tomlinson, El Greco to Goya: Painting in Spain, 1561–1828 (New York: 1997). In each book, notes refer the reader to a range of publications, released over previous decades, with comparable overviews of Spanish painting. 4 Museo Nacional de Escultura: Colección/Collection, (eds.) María Bolaños Atienza et al., rev. ed. (Madrid / Valladolid: 2015). 5 Fernando Checa Cremades, Pintura y escultura del Renacimiento en España, 1450–1600 (Madrid: 1983); Juan José Martín González, Escultura barroca en España, 1600–1770 (Madrid: 1983). 6 Spanish sculpture has experienced limited interest, according to Gridley McKim-Smith; see her “Spanish Polychrome Sculpture and its Critical Misfortunes,” in Spanish Polychrome Sculpture 1500–1800 in United States Collections, (ed.) Suzanne L. Stratton (New York: 1993), 13–31.

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be intriguing to see an author prepare an overview about sculpture that might synthesize new research into the previously established body of knowledge. The genre of publication represented by that of Martínez González, however, has been one model against which a recent initiative has reacted. Antonio Rafael Fernández Paradas, an editor of a multi-author study, has argued that “Spanish Baroque sculpture has not one but rather many histories.”7 He questions the idea that a nationally oriented narrative, which often has privileged Castile, Granada, Seville, or Murcia, can capture for 21st-century historians the variations in form and content among sculpture found throughout the autonomous communities and cities in the current juridical configuration of Spain. Fernández Paradas even characterizes the paradigm represented by Martín González—in which a solitary author purports to fashion a national narrative—as quaintly “idyllic.” The valuable scholarship of previous generations, moreover, has laid the foundation for new questions and paradigms of not the ‘Siglo de Oro’ but rather the more inclusive ‘Siglos de Oro.’8 This vision, which has the advantage of accommodating many voices, reflects an important practice (chiefly among Spaniards) of defining the scope of scholarly inquiry around the art of a city, province, or region, often outside of internationally acclaimed centers like Madrid and Seville. The distinction among art historical narratives of international, national, or localized scope contains implications for research. Scholars from outside Spain are more likely to pursue a limited selection of broadly recognized subjects, whereas Spaniards have the greater ability and infrastructure to support pursuits throughout the full range of their cities and regions. Moreover, critical attitudes toward a national vision of art history, as represented in one way by Fernández Paradas, have spurred domestic assessments of the concept of ‘Spanish art.’ This category, which accords a high profile to painting and sculpture of the 16th and 17th centuries, has drawn attention from leading figures in academia and museums, who accordingly have sought to identify its formation in historiographical, institutional, and political developments.9 Finally, some art historians have introduced further variables with an ambitious vision of Early Modern Spain not as purely a European, Mediterranean,

7 Antonio Rafael Fernández Paradas, “Introducción: las historias de la escultura barroca española. Nuevos protagonistas y nuevos relatos,” in Escultura barroca española. Nuevas lecturas desde los Siglos de Oro a la Sociedad del Conocimiento, (ed.) Antonio Rafael Fernández Paradas, vol. 3 (Antequera: 2016), 15. 8 Fernández Paradas, “Introducción,” 16. 9 Javier Portús, El concepto de Pintura Española. Historia de un problema (Madrid: 2012); Francisco Calvo Serraller, La invención del arte español: de El Greco a Picasso (Barcelona: 2013).

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or eastern Atlantic country but rather as a Monarchy with terrain on five continents. For example, due to the juridical incorporation of the Spanish Indies within the Crown of Castile, artists in Madrid, Mexico City, and Cuzco were pursuing their vocation within the same realm.10 Modern concepts of nationhood, however, have generally guided art historians to view Spain through its post-1898 borders. To correct that outlook, recent selected publications therefore envision Renaissance and Baroque Spain not simply as a peninsular nation but as a transatlantic or global culture.11 When pursuing this outlook, scholars of Spanish art can build bridges with counterparts in Iberoamerican art history. The following analysis of selected research themes therefore cannot fully reflect the ascendant multiplicity of voices.

2

Biographies and Monographs

In addition to overviews by authors such as Jonathan Brown, researchers may explore painting and sculpture through biographies. Early examples of compilations surface in the writings of Lázaro Díaz del Valle (1606–1669) and the publications in 1724 of Antonio Palomino (1655–1726) and in 1800 of Juan Agustín Ceán Bermúdez (1749–1829).12 It is common to link these Spanish texts on the ‘life and works’ of artists to models formulated in the Italian Peninsula, specifically that by Giorgio Vasari (1511–1574) in Le vite de’ più eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani (1550; enlarged ed. 1568).13 Although the 10 11

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John H. Elliott, “A Europe of Composite Monarchies,” Past & Present 137 (1992): 48–71, at 52–53. Painting of the Kingdoms: Shared Identities. Territories of the Spanish Monarchy, 16th–18th Centuries, (ed.) Juana Gutiérrez Haces, 4 vols (Mexico City: 2008–2009) and Painting in Latin America 1550–1820, (eds.) Luisa Elena Alcalá and Jonathan Brown (New Haven: 2014), offer recent examples of how researchers envision the history of painting in the global Spanish Monarchy. These ambitious undertakings do not yet appear to have an equivalent in studies of only sculpture, although this medium is included in the book by Marjorie Trusted, The Arts of Spain: Iberia and Latin America 1450–1700 (University Park: 2007). This transatlantic scope evokes the work of George Kubler and Martin Soria, Art and Architecture in Spain and Portugal and their American Dominions 1500 to 1800 (Baltimore: 1959), which had limited influence in its day. David García López, Lázaro Díaz del Valle y las vidas de pintores de España (Madrid: 2009); Antonio Palomino, Lives of the Eminent Spanish Painters and Sculptors, trans. Nina Mallory (Cambridge: 1997); Juan Augustín Ceán Bermúdez, Diccionario histórico de los más ilustres profesores de las bellas artes en España (Madrid: 1965). For example, see Joan Ramon Triadó, “De Palomino a Ceán. Narratives biogràfiques en el segle XVIII hispànic,” in Vidas de artistas y otras narrativas biográficas, (eds.) Eva March and Carmen Narváez (Barcelona: 2012), 399–422, at 399–402.

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chapters in his book may be read as discrete biographies, Vasari unified them within a critical framework that assessed Italian Renaissance artists and architects vis-à-vis their relationship to a classical norm recovered from antiquity. For instance, Giotto (1267/75–1337), Masaccio (1401–1428), and then Michelangelo (1475–1564) were characterized as playing roles within the birth, growth, and flowering of classical standards revived from the ancient world. As the basis for his own writings, Vasari had borrowed a literary genre from antiquity, namely the lives of famous men.14 Spanish appropriations of this historical vision from central Italy were selective. The painter Francisco Pacheco (1564–1644) created a series of portrait drawings of famous Spaniards, including artists and writers, with brief biographical eulogies completed for most of them. While conceived as a book, this project remained incomplete at the death of Pacheco and appears not to have enjoyed a clear thematic basis for its sequential organization.15 Palomino likewise used this ‘illustrious men’ genre as the basis for his ‘life and works’ biographies of artists, although Ceán Bermúdez faulted Palomino for omitting critical rigor and unity from the text. Eventually, Ceán Bermúdez himself received comparable criticism for the lack of a historical framework unifying his own publication.16 The biographies of Spanish painters and sculptors therefore had not been subordinated within a consistent paradigm of birth, growth, and flowering of an artistic norm. The outcome is that classicism, while influential and much admired, has not had the same imperious profile in the historiography of Spanish art as in that of central Italy. Nineteenth-century authors introduced monographic books as another method of studying Spanish painters and sculptors, in a way that earned some independence from Italian standards of classicism and led to greater appreciation of Spanish art in its own right. Diego Velázquez und sein Jahrhundert of 1888 reflected the indebtedness of the author, Carl Justi (1832–1912), to Burckhardtian conceptions of the celebrated individual and to Hegelian views correlating aesthetics with specific historical circumstances.17 The idea that 14 15 16

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Hans Belting, “Vasari and His Legacy: The History of Art as a Process?” in The End of the History of Art?, trans. Christopher S. Wood, 2nd ed. (Chicago: 1987), 67–120, at 72–73. Marta P. Cacho Casal, Francisco Pacheco y su Libro de Retratos (Seville / Madrid: 2011). Jonathan Brown, “Observations on the Historiography of Seventeenth-Century Spanish Painting,” in Images and Ideas in Seventeenth-Century Spanish Painting (Princeton: 1978), 3–18, at 3–5. Jacob Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (1860), trans. S.G.C. Middlemore (New York: 1954), 100–107, offered influential views on artists as heroic individuals. For G.W.F. Hegel’s correlation of art with culture, see Hans Belting, “The End of the History of Art?” in The End of the History of Art?, trans. Christopher S. Wood (Chicago: 1987), 9–12.

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one man merited his own book shows Justi’s awareness of precedents like, for example, Winckelmann und sein Jahrhundert of 1805, in which Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) advanced the experiences of a famous man as the basis for understanding an era. In the hands of Justi, the monograph on Velázquez transformed his art into the paramount expression in visual form of Spanish civilization. Monographs remain a dominant form of scholarship on the painting and sculpture of Spain, although the sheer quantity deters one from advancing a comprehensive list of painters and sculptors and their corresponding scholarly studies. Velázquez and another Spanish painter to be an early subject of a monograph—El Greco—have been the focus of numerous tomes, although these texts in the 21st century usually possess limited capacity to transform the collective vision of both of these well-defined figures. If Fernando Marías may be credited with an exceptionally thorough ‘life and works’ monograph on El Greco with the attendant study of culture and intellectual history, then María del Carmen Garrido Pérez pursues a view of connoisseurship in her formidable book of 2015.18 After analyzing 35 works securely attributed to him, she highlights the difficulties in ascribing a not insignificant quantity of works to El Greco himself, to his workshop, to imitators, or to forgers, or some combination of these protagonists. Her scholarship has the potential to reshape the oeuvre of El Greco, thereby imposing discipline on a corpus beholden in part to his popularity and to the demands of auction houses and other market-oriented venues. The tome by Garrido Pérez—by virtue of its characterization of artworks as objects—may also assist art conservators and serve as a model for future studies on paintings of Early Modern Spain.

3

1492 and Pluralism in the Peninsula

Monographs and biographies of artists, while valuable, suffer limitations in capturing the transitional stage in painting and sculpture around 1492. Whereas the 17th century boasts numerous well-defined artistic personalities who have become the subject of monographic studies in modern times, the late 1400s and early 1500s offer the scholarly community a relatively small quantity of distinctive painters and sculptors. The decades surrounding 1492 therefore

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Fernando Marías, El Greco: Life and Work—A New History, trans. Paul Edson and Sander Berg (London: 2013); María del Carmen Garrido Pérez with the collaboration of Jaime García Márquez, El Greco pintor. Estudio técnico (Madrid: 2015).

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have been the subject of recent research that emphasizes patronage or viewership of art. The related concepts of viewer response as well as the reception of art received fresh international attention as a result of two authors in the late 20th century, namely David Freedberg and Hans Belting. Both of them opened new directions for research without, however, according much attention to Spain.19 Nonetheless, Hispanists have recognized their approaches as useful for studying a society with diverse views about art. In recent decades the Spanish government has supported exhibitions or institutions (such as the Museo Sefardí in Toledo) that study Peninsular Judaism.20 Medievalists have pioneered the analysis of Jewish pictorial traditions, so that 21st-century conceptions of Spain have come to embrace Sepharad in its Peninsular and diasporic manifestations. By contrast, developments from the reign of Ferdinand and Isabel onward have received little or no attention. Art historians could formulate studies on, for example, the fortunes of Jewish manuscripts, either retained in the Iberian Peninsula or circulating within the Sephardic diaspora. M. Teresa Ortega Monasterio, for instance, acknowledges great losses but describes the collecting of manuscripts within Spain, although her analysis identifies textual rather than artistic motives for their study by Christians.21 The Kennicott Bible of 1476 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Kennicott 1), while unusual for its rich decoration and representational imagery, nonetheless represents a pictorial tradition disrupted by the caesura of 1492. Created in La Coruña, this book vanished from the historical record until its reappearance in England by 1771.22 While scholars have studied the converso lineage of cultural figures in Spain’s Golden Age, Fernando Marías affirms that “converso artists have remained, however, almost completely expelled from the history of art.”23 To help resolve this problem, he has listed a number of artists of Jewish descent, partly with 19

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David Freedberg, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago: 1989); Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago: 1994). For an example of one landmark exhibition catalog, see Isidro G. Bango Torviso et al., Memoria de Sefarad (Madrid / Toledo: 2002). M. Teresa Ortega Monasterio, “The History and Formation of Hebrew Manuscript Collections in Spain,” in Biblias de Sefarad / Bibles of Sepharad (Madrid: 2012), 149–175. Bezalel Narkiss and Aliza Cohen-Mushlin, commentary in the facsimile edition, The Kennicott Bible (London: 1985). Speculation has led to the suggestion that this manuscript left Spain after 1492 for Portugal, North Africa, and then Gibraltar, where a Scottish merchant acquired it before taking it England and selling it to Radcliffe Library. Fernando Marías, “Sobre los problemas de los artistas conversos en los Siglos de Oro,” in Identidades cuestionadas. Coexistencia y conflictos interreligiosos en el Mediterráneo (SS. XIV–XVIII), (eds.) Borja Franco Llopis et al. (Valencia: 2016), 425–447, at 426.

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the help of Inquisition records. With the aim of proposing that specific artworks be viewed through the prism of their creators’ background, Marías has suggested that art historians may shed new light upon, for example, Old Testament imagery created or commissioned by conversos and their descendants.24 In the absence of expressly Jewish artists after 1492, some scholars have turned to analyzing how specific types of images, such as those in cartas ejecutorias, had been deployed as a method of accrediting the bearers—including those of converso lineage—as properly Catholic.25 Related lines of inquiry have sought to analyze the role of Catholic images with respect to other religious traditions. A medium-size panel painting of ca. 1500 by Pedro Berruguete, The Virgin Nursing Her Child (Ayuntamiento de Madrid. Museo de San Isidro. Los Orígenes de Madrid) (Figure 17.1), offers qualities associated with Christianity and Islam. The Madonna and Child are enthroned within an architectural setting capped by an artesonado roof evocative of Nasrid designs at, for example, the Hall of the Throne in the Palace of Comares at the Alhambra in Granada. This synthesis represents Christian efforts to frame the Mother of God in terms that would rival visions of the sacred in Judaism and especially Islam.26 More broadly, moriscos (converts to Christianity from Islam) have featured in the studies of Franco Borja Llopis, who analyzes the 16th-century creation of Christian artworks within an evangelical framework and a range of responses among viewers.27 In a similar spirit, the views of Protestants on religious imagery in Spain have surfaced in recent studies.28 These publications collectively destabilize the broadly held view that 16th- and 17th-century Spanish society willingly submitted to a mono-

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Marías, “Sobre los problemas,” 425–447. Roger L. Martínez-Dávila and Josef Díaz, Fractured Faiths: Spanish Judaism, the Inquisition, and New World Identities (Albuquerque: 2016), 166–181. Cynthia Robinson, “Towers, Birds and Divine Light: The Contested Territory of Nasrid and ‘Mudéjar’ Ornament,” Medieval Encounters 17 (2011): 27–79. Among other publications, see Borja Franco Llopis, La pintura valenciana entre 1550 y 1609. Cristología y adoctrinamiento morisco (Lérida / Valencia: 2008). Various authors broach related issues in “El arte, la identidad y la alteridad religiosa,” a section of essays in Identidades cuestionadas, (eds.) Franco Llopis et al. Felipe Pereda, “True Painting and the Challenge of Hypocrisy,” in After Conversion: Iberia and the Emergence of Modernity, (ed.) Mercedes García-Arenal (Leiden: 2016), 358–395. The milieu within which Protestant ideas developed is explored by Palma Martínez Burgos-García, Ídolos e imágenes: la controversia del arte religioso en el siglo XVI español (Valladolid: 1990). While not focusing on art, Frances Luttikhuizen, Underground Protestantism in Sixteenth Century Spain: A Much Ignored Side of Spanish History (Göttingen: 2017), advances a historical study that can inform the analysis of attitudes to painting and sculpture.

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lithic, inevitable paradigm of sacred imagery. The current scholarly vision of spiritual and artistic heterogeneity seems possible only in the 21st century. Researchers now have a safe distance from which to react against the homogenous vision of Spanish art promulgated during the nacionalcatolicismo of Franco’s decades-long dictatorship and against the formalist positivism championed by Diego Angulo Íñiguez (1901–1986), whose leadership of Peninsular art history overlapped with and endured beyond Franco’s time at the helm of Spain.29 In the century after 1492, Spain therefore presented an uneven scenario, in which some regions boasted traditions of Christian imagery whereas the newly incorporated converso and Nasrid peoples began to experience the integration of such painting and sculpture into daily life. While 20th-century publications have itemized and analyzed religious artworks, recent scholarship has traced the rise of images in shaping religious views. The distinctiveness of 16thand 17th-century Spain from preceding periods is remarkable when considering that sacred imagery sometimes had seen limited or no acceptance during the Middle Ages.30 Historians during the Habsburg era muddied this narrative by characterizing the sacred imagery of their day as a re-establishment of Christian traditions interrupted by Muslim rule; nowadays, however, that paradigm is known to be inaccurate or an exaggeration with political and spiritual motives.31 Whereas King Alfonso II of Asturias (r. 783, 791–842) had opted for aniconism in the decoration of the church of Santullano in Oviedo, Queen Isabel of Castile (r. 1474–1504) enlisted painters and sculptors to populate newly Christian lands with sacred images. Her strategy was predicated in part on a

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Jonathan Brown, In the Shadow of Velázquez: A Life in Art History (New Haven: 2014), 31– 38, cites the Archivo Español de Arte to describe how scholarship immediately after the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) was conscripted to serve the agenda of Francisco Franco; moreover, Brown adds that Angulo Íñiguez, while not affiliated with political leaders of the dictatorship, used his “authoritarian personality” and influence to situate formalist positivism at the forefront of methodological approaches within Spain. For a characterization of Angulo Íñiguez as accruing power in the discipline of art history as a result of wartime support for Francisco Franco, see Rubén Pallol Trigueros, “La Historia, la Historia del Arte, la Paleografía y la Geografía en la Universidad nacionalcatólica,” in La Universidad nacionalcatólica. La reacción antimoderna, (ed.) Luis Enrique Otero Carvajal (Madrid: 2014), 535–683, at 539, 649–650. Isidro G. Bango Torviso, “Las imágenes en los templos medievales. Del aniconismo a la intención docente. Las tres posturas tradicionales de la iglesia,” in La enseñanza en la Edad Media (X Semana de Estudios Medievales, Nájera 1999), (ed.) José Ignacio de la Iglesia Duarte (Logroño: 2000), 357–382. Antonio Urquízar-Herrera, Admiration and Awe: Morisco Buildings and Identity Negotiotiations in Early Modern Spanish Historiography (Oxford: 2017), 142–152.

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Pedro Berruguete (ca. 1445/50–1503). The Virgin Nursing Her Child (La Virgen de la Leche). ca. 1500. Oil on panel, 61 × 44 cm. Ayuntamiento de Madrid. Museo de San Isidro. Los Orígenes de Madrid

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desire to distinguish Christians from Muslims and Jews, of which the last two groups had become identified with exceptionally restrictive views on the use of human figures in representations of the divine.32

4

Major Styles and Periods

Historians have identified the Hispano-Flemish style as a leading feature of Peninsular art in the time of Isabel and Ferdinand. While lacking a universally accepted definition, the term encompasses a range of artistic developments of northern European qualities, often derived from the Low Countries but also from other places including France, England, and German lands, that found acceptance among Peninsular patrons and artists. The chronological limits are likewise amorphous, ranging from the early or mid-15th century to the early 16th century.33 Artists were either of foreign or Peninsular origin. Recent scholars to analyze the style include Ronda Kasl, who emphasizes that Spaniards selectively transformed the Northern idioms into distinctively Peninsular phenomena. Kasl identifies 15th-century Burgos as an important commercial center with political, ecclesiastical, and mercantile figures who provided a foundation for the subsequent strength of Hispano-Flemish sculpture and painting in Castile as well as among royalty.34 A few Hispano-Flemish artists have earned monographic coverage. Among them, Bartolomé Bermejo (ca. 1440–1500), Martín Bernat (active 1450–1505), Jaume Huguet (ca. 1412–1492), and Rodrigo and Francisco de Osuna (ca. 1440– 1518 and ca. 1465–1514?) were active in the Crown of Aragon.35 In the Crown 32

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Bango Torviso, 363–365; Felipe Pereda, Imágenes de la discordia. Política y poética de la imagen sagrada en la España del 400 (Madrid: 2007); Felipe Pereda, “Through a Glass Darkly: Paths to Salvation in Spanish Painting at the Outset of the Inquisition,” in Judaism and Christian Art: Aesthetic Anxieties from the Catacombs to Colonialism, (eds.) Herbert L. Kessler and David Nirenberg (Philadelphia: 2011), 264–290. The contributions of Pereda are valuable for shining light upon little-known artists and, in some cases, their methods of mass-produced sculpture for the newly Christian lands. Pilar Silva Maroto, “El Retablo de los Gozos de María de Jorge Inglés,” Boletín del Museo del Prado 30 (2015): 6–23, at 6, recently identified this altarpiece of ca. 1455 as the “first documented extant Castilian Hispano-Flemish painting.” Ronda Kasl, The Making of Hispano-Flemish Style: Art, Commerce, and Politics in FifteenthCentury Castile (Turnhout: 2014). Judith Berg-Sobré, Bartolomé de Cárdenas, “El Bermejo”: Itinerant Painter in the Crown of Aragon (San Francisco: 1998); Nuria Ortiz Valero and María Carmen Lacarra Ducay, Martín Bernat, pintor de retablos, documentado en Zaragoza entre 1450 y 1505 (Zaragoza: 2013); Juan Ainaud de Lasarte et al., Jaume Huguet, 500 anys (Barcelona: 1993); Ximo Company et al., El mundo de los Osuna, ca. 1460–ca. 1540, 2nd ed. (Valencia: 1995).

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of Castile, painters include Fernando Gallego (documented 1468–1507) and Juan de Flandes (ca. 1465–1519).36 This last artist has emerged as the subject of numerous studies due in part to the influential patronage of Isabel of Castile, who had enlisted him and Michel Sittow, and possibly additional artists, to produce 47 paintings—of which 27 survive—of the never-completed Retablo de Isabel la Católica.37 Juan de Flandes is also credited with a portrait of the queen (Palacio Real de Madrid, Patrimonio Nacional) which has gained recognition as a germinal example of royal portraiture in Early Modern Spain (Figure 17.2).38 While the exact geographical origin of this Flemish artist remains uncertain, scholars have linked some examples of his work with Hugo van der Goes and Hans Memling, thereby suggesting ties with either Ghent or Bruges.39 The linkage of Juan de Flandes with those two artists illustrates how the Hispano-Flemish style has become implicated in scholarship over the relation of Spain with famous painters. Either by means of travel—such as with Jan van Eyck and his role as portraitist in the embassy to Portugal and hypothetically to Spain in 1428–1429—or by means of commerce and collecting by Spaniards of works such as those by Rogier van der Weyden, Dieric Bouts, and Hans Memling, a small number of artists have commanded outsize attention in the scholarship as progenitors of Hispano-Flemish imagery.40 This outlook sidesteps the fact that most of the Netherlandish art in Spain, while beautiful, was not executed by the top tier of artists.

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María Pilar Silva Maroto, Juan de Flandes (Salamanca: 2006); Fernando Gallego and His Workshop: The Altarpiece from Ciudad Rodrigo, (eds.) Amanda W. Dotseth et al. (Dallas / London: 2008). Chiyo Ishikawa, The Retablo de Isabel la Católica by Juan de Flandes and Michel Sittow (Turnhout: 2004); Matthias Weniger, Sittow, Morros, Juan de Flandes: drei Maler aus dem Norden am Hof Isabellas der Katholischen (Kiel: 2011). For more on the queen’s role in the visual arts, see Pilar Silva Maroto, “La colección de pinturas de Isabel la Católica,” in Isabel la Católica: la magnificencia de un reinado (Quinto Centenario de Isabel la Católica, 1504– 2004) (Madrid / Valladolid: 2004), 115–126; José Manuel Pita Andrade, “Pinturas y pintores de Isabel la Católica,” in Isabel la Católica y el arte, (eds.) Gonzalo Anes Álvarez and Carmen Manso Porto (Madrid: 2006), 13–72. El retrato en las Colecciones Reales. De Juan de Flandes a Antonio López, (eds.) Carmen García-Frías Checa and Javier Jordán de Urriés y de la Colina (Madrid: 2014), 130–140. Matthias Weniger, “Bynnen Brugge in Flandern: The Apprenticeships of Michel Sittow and Juan de Flandes,” in Memling Studies (Proceedings of the International Colloquium, Bruges, 10–12 November 1994) (Leuven: 1997), 115–131. Manuel Parada López de Corselas, El viaje de Jan van Eyck de Flandes a Granada (1428– 1429) (Madrid: 2016); Rogier van der Weyden and the Kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula, (ed.) Lorne Campbell (Madrid: 2015); Elisa Bermejo Martínez, La pintura de los primitivos flamencos en España, 2 vols (Madrid: 1980–1982).

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Juan de Flandes (ca. 1465–1519). Isabel la Católica. ca. 1500–1504. Oil on panel, 43.4× 34.2 cm. Palacio Real de Madrid, Patrimonio Nacional

Scholars have likewise pursued lines of research on contacts of Spaniards with famous figures of the Italian Renaissance. Fernando Yáñez de la Almedina (ca. 1475–1540) often draws analysis in light of his work with Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) and his awareness of Perugino (ca. 1450–1523) and Raphael

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(1483–1520).41 Pedro Berruguete (ca. 1445/50–1503) also stands as a key figure in linking central Italy, specifically Urbino and Duke Federico da Montefeltro (1422–1482), with the history of Spanish art.42 Linear perspective and the correct representation of the human figure, both of which stand among the chief accomplishments of central Italians over generations, have not figured as compelling subjects in the narrative of 16th-century Spain. These developments are often submerged within studies of individual artists, such as Berruguete or Joan de Borgoña (active 1495–1535).43 The arrival of classicism also unfolded within sculpture, although here, too, scholars often distinguish the Spanish experiences from those of central Italy. One can find the earliest examples around 1500 when looking to ecclesiastical settings for funerary works, the classical qualities of which Spanish viewers may not have seen as evocative of ancient Roman paganism but rather as reviving a pre-Islamic Golden Age of Roman or Visigothic Christianity.44 In other types of sculpture, Alonso Berruguete (1490–1561) deftly assimilated lessons from antiquity into the art of Catholic Spain. Having journeyed to the Italian Peninsula at the age of 17, this son of Pedro Berruguete remained there for 12 years before returning to his native country with firsthand knowledge of the recently rediscovered Laocoön and His Sons and of the developments of Michelangelo and his milieu. His experience in Rome informed one of his best-known works, The Sacrifice of Isaac of 1526–1532 in polychrome wood (Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid) (Figure 17.3).45 Alonso worked for Charles V (r. 1516–1556) and the court, which brought him into projects with, for example, Pedro Machuca, Diego Siloé, and Felipe Vigarny at the Royal Chapel of Granada.

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Los Hernandos. Pintores hispanos del entorno de Leonardo, (eds.) Fernando Benito et al. (Valencia: 1998); Pedro Miguel Ibáñez Martínez, Fernando Yáñez de la Almedina (la incógnita Yáñez) (Cuenca: 1999). María Pilar Silva Maroto, Pedro Berruguete: el primer pintor renacentista de la Corona de Castilla (Valladolid: 2003). Isabel Mateo Gómez, Juan de Borgoña (Madrid: 2004). Patrick Lenaghan, “The Tombs from San Francisco in Cuéllar: Sacred Images in Digital Reconstructions,” Hispanic Research Journal 16.5 (2015): 379–402, at 397–401. Manuel Arias Martínez, Alonso Berruguete: Prometeo de la escultura (Palencia: 2011); Manuel Arias Martínez (ed.), Hijo del Laocoonte: Alonso Berruguete y la antigüedad pagana (Valladolid / Madrid: 2017). The work of Berruguete was as close as most Spaniards could get to the style of Michelangelo; the only sculpture by the Italian artist in Spain is said to be the Young Saint John the Baptist of ca. 1495–1496, sent to Andalusia by 1537 and placed after 1547 beside an altarpiece by Berruguete in the Chapel of El Salvador (Úbeda). See Il San Giovannino di Úbeda restituito: Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Firenze, 24–25 giugno 2013) / El San Juanito de Úbeda restituido: Actas de la Conferencia Internacional (Florencia, 24–25 de junio de 2013), (ed.) Maria Cristina Improta (Florence: 2014).

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figure 17.3

Alonso Berruguete (1490–1561). Sacrifice of Isaac, from altarpiece of San Benito el Real (Valladolid). 1526–1532. Polychrome wood, 89×46×32cm. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid

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figure 17.4

Juan de Juni (ca. 1507–1577). Burial of Christ. 1541–1544. Polychrome wood. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid

Narratives of the European Renaissance frequently describe how classicism yielded to mid-16th-century Mannerism, although this latter period has proven difficult to define for an Iberian context.46 Complex figures, pronounced gestures, or expressiveness will justify such a stylistic label for sculpture or painting. For example, this characterization can sometimes apply to the work of Alonso Berruguete or to that of Juan de Juni (ca. 1507–1577), who created the acclaimed Burial of Christ of 1541–1544 in polychrome wood (Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid) (Figure 17.4). Gaspar Becerra (ca. 1520–1568), who had worked for Vasari and Daniele da Volterra (1509–1566), then returned to Spain and began the monumental high altarpiece at the Cathedral of Astorga in 1558; the ambitiously sophisticated figures constitute a landmark in the history of the sculpted retablo.47 Among painters, El Greco outshone all others in Mannerism; for example, his Vision of Saint John from ca. 1608–1614 (Metropolitan 46

47

Fernando Marías, “A propósito del manierismo y el arte español del siglo XVI,” in John Shearman, El manierismo, trans. Justo González Beramendi (Madrid: 1984), 7–47, at 7, addresses the need to define Mannerism. I thank Luis Javier Cuesta for furnishing me with this article. Manuel Arias Martínez, El retablo mayor de la Catedral de Astorga: historia y restauración (Valladolid: 2001). Scholars have described the art of Becerra and certain contemporaries working in this central Italian idiom as representative of, for example, manierismo, romanismo, manierismo romanista, or escultura romanista. The terms, however, rarely come with fully developed distinctions.

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Museum of Art, New York) boasts elongated proportions of figures and daring incongruities in compositional space.48 One may also point to the bustling metropolis of Seville, where Pedro de Villegas (1519–1596) and Pablo de Céspedes (active 1585–1608) created images, among other locations, in the cathedral.49 In the palatial Casa de Pilatos, the Apotheosis of Hercules ceiling of 1604 constitutes a late Mannerist work by Francisco Pacheco.50 This port city also draws interest for having hosted Mateo Pérez de Alesio (1547–1606) and Alonso Vázquez (ca. 1564–ca. 1608), who subsequently sailed to Spanish America and became proponents of Mannerism in Peru and Mexico, respectively.51 The Mannerist style, despite resisting precise definitions in Spain, nonetheless serves as a foil for the naturalism that arose in the mid- to late 16th century. An exemplary case study of this transition comes from the royal precinct of San Lorenzo de El Escorial. The palace, basilica, and monastery had an objective of providing a pantheon for the Habsburg dynasty and a residence for the monks that prayed for the souls of the interred monarchs. Flanking the high altar of the basilica are funerary effigies of 1592–1600 by Pompeo Leoni (ca. 1533–1608) which depict the families of Charles V and Philip II (r. 1556–1598); these praying figures kneel in eternal devotion to the source of dynastic power represented by the perpetually exposed host.52 Mannerism does not come to mind when viewing the realism and sobriety of these exceptional examples of life-size bronze sculpture in 16th-century Europe.53 Philip II envisioned El Escorial as a Catholic bulwark against the thenascendant Protestant heresy, and he oversaw closely the sacred imagery created for the high altarpiece and at altars throughout the basilica. The king paid a small fortune for The Martyrdom of Saint Maurice and the Theban Legion of 48 49

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Walter Liedtke, “Three Paintings by El Greco,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 50 (2015): 12– 41, at 26–32. Juan Miguel Serrera, Pedro de Villegas Marmolejo (1519–1596), 2nd ed. (Seville: 1991); Álvaro Recio Mir, “Sacrum Senatum”: las estancias capitulares de la Catedral de Sevilla (Seville: 2016), 59, 171–173, 283–287. Vicente Lleó Cañal, “Los techos pintados de la Casa de Pilatos,” in Velázquez y Sevilla: estudios (Seville: 1999), 172–181, at 177–179. Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, “The Presence of Italian Painting, 1575–1610,” in Painting in Latin America 1550–1820, (eds.) Luisa Elena Alcalá and Jonathan Brown (New Haven: 2014), 257– 273, at 258, 263–267; Jonathan Brown, “From Spanish to New Spanish Painting, 1550–1700,” in Painting in Latin America, (eds.) Alcalá and Brown, 103–147, at 106, 118, 124. Rosemarie Mulcahy, The Decoration of the Royal Basilica of El Escorial (Cambridge: 1994), 131, 189. For more on how Pompeo Leoni and his father, Leone Leoni (1509–1590), contributed to Spanish sculpture, see Leone & Pompeo Leoni (Actas del Congreso Internacional), (ed.) Stephan F. Schröder (Madrid: 2012).

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1580–1582 but dismissed this complicated work of El Greco for its shortcomings; instead, a replacement illustrating this theme was sought from Romulo Cincinnato (ca. 1502–1593) so as to illustrate more directly the consequences of martyrdom and inspire devotion in viewers.54 A model of clarity comes from Pellegrino Tibaldi (1527–1596), whose Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence of 1591 is framed at the heart of the high altarpiece. In endorsing a shift from pictorial complexity to legibility, Philip II adhered to the precepts of the Council of Trent (1545–1563), which he had accepted unreservedly. In December 1563, this body issued guidelines on sacred imagery, with one objective of dispelling disorder or confusion in art so that the religious subject matter could speak directly to viewers.55 Throughout Spain, artists devised strategies to impart immediacy to sacred images, although not always with royal supervision. At his best, Luis de Morales, ‘el Divino’ (ca. 1510–1586), painted close-up views of no more than three or four clearly illuminated biblical figures in a contemplative moment, such as the Virgen Dolorosa and Ecce Homo of 1560–1570 (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid) (Figures 17.5–17.6). While reflective of Tridentine ideals, his work also captures emotions that surface in the type of spirituality, sometimes described as Illuminism, promoted by ecclesiastics in his diocese of Badajoz.56 One patron of Morales, Juan de Ribera (1532–1611), later became Archbishop of Valencia and promoted comparable imagery there as well. For a seminary and chapel founded by the archbishop, Juan Sariñena (ca. 1545–1619) composed Christ at the Column in 1587 (Colegio de Corpus Christi, Valencia). The illuminated fulllength figure, clad in a loincloth, stands against a gloomy backdrop virtually devoid of narrative context yet still conveys the vulnerability, isolation, and suffering of the Passion.57 Francisco Ribalta (1565–1628), who also worked for the archbishop, subsequently created the moving depiction of Christ Embracing Saint Bernard of Clairvaux of 1624–1627 for a Carthusian monastery (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid).58 In Castile, Bartolomé (ca. 1560–1608) and Vicen-

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Agustín Bustamante García, “Gusto y decoro. El Greco, Felipe II y El Escorial,” Academia 74 (1992): 165–198, at 171–175, 177–191; Mulcahy, Decoration of the Royal Basilica, 54–67. Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, (ed.) Norman P. Tanner, vol. 2 (London / Washington, D.C.: 1990), 774–776; Marcus B. Burke, “Intensity and Orthodoxy in Iberian and Hispanic Art of the Tridentine Era, 1550–1700,” in A Companion to Renaissance and Baroque Art, (eds.) Babette Bohn and James M. Saslow (Chichester, West Sussex: 2013), 484–504. Leticia Ruiz Gómez (ed.), El divino Morales (Madrid / Bilbao / Barcelona: 2015). For more on this painter, see Fernando Benito Doménech, Juan Sariñena (1545–1619). Pintor de la Contrarreforma en Valencia (Valencia: 2007). Xavier Bray et al., The Sacred Made Real: Spanish Painting and Sculpture 1600–1700 (London: 2009), 162–163.

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Luis de Morales, ‘el Divino’ (ca. 1510–1586). Virgen Dolorosa. 1560–1570. Oil on panel, 73 × 50.5 cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

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Luis de Morales, ‘el Divino’ (ca. 1510–1586). ‘Ecce Homo’. 1560–1570. Oil on panel, 73 × 50.5 cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

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te Carducho (ca. 1576–1638) brought a reformed style from their native Florence and made a lasting imprint, sometimes with royal patronage, with their legible figures and compositions.59 Juan Bautista Maíno (1580–1641) distinguished himself for his firsthand knowledge (unusual among Spanish painters) of the down-to-earth innovations of Caravaggio and composed Adoration of the Magi in 1612–1613 in Toledo (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid).60 These memorable paintings found their counterparts in increasingly naturalistic sculpture.61 Although polychrome wood has a lengthy history in the religious imagery of the Iberian Peninsula—extending back to a limited number of Romanesque genres such as the enthroned Madonna and Child or the Catalan crucifixion scenes—greater realism had begun to appear in figures like those attributed to the northern sculptor Gil de Siloé (ca. 1440–1501) and the polychromist Diego de la Cruz (documented from 1482 to 1500) for the retablo of Saint Anne (1484–1487) in the Cathedral of Burgos. At the peak of this altarpiece is Christ on the Cross, a forebear of similar imagery by Alonso Berruguete and others.62 In this tradition, Juan Martínez Montañés (1568–1649) depicted the crucified Savior in 1603–1606 for a domestic chapel in Seville rather than to surmount a gigantic altarpiece. This Cristo de la Clemencia (Museo de Bellas Artes and Cathedral, Seville), polychromed by Pacheco, marks an ambitious enhancement of realism for devotional objectives.63 Gregorio Fernández (1576–1636), based chiefly in Valladolid, created several types of works and gained acclaim for the Cristo yacente, or supine body of Christ after the crucifixion, including the famous example of 1615 for Philip III (r. 1598–1621) (Convento de Capuchinos, El Pardo).64 Some artists eventually developed skills to both sculpt and polychrome the wood, partly to avoid sharing the project and revenue with another party. Among them is Pedro de Mena (1628–1688) of Granada and Málaga, who excelled in statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and

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Brown, Painting in Spain, 80–86; On Art and Painting: Vicente Carducho and Baroque Spain, (eds.) Jean Andrews et al. (Cardiff: 2016). Juan Bautista Maíno, 1581–1649, (ed.) Leticia Ruiz Gómez (Madrid: 2009), 120–125. This paragraph derives in part from Bray et al., The Sacred Made Real, and from Sacred Spain: Art and Belief in the Spanish World, (ed.) Ronda Kasl (Indianapolis: 2009). Nicola Jennings, “Spanish Sculpture and the Beginnings of Renaissance Style,” in Alonso Berruguete: Renaissance Sculptor, (ed.) Nicola Jennings (Madrid: 2017), 11–34, at 14. Amanda Wunder, Baroque Seville: Sacred Art in a Century of Crisis (University Park: 2017), 24–30. For more on the Andalusian milieu, see the richly illustrated La escultura del primer naturalismo en Andalucía e Hispanoamérica (1580–1625), (ed.) Lázaro Gila Medina (Madrid: 2010). Ilenia Colón Mendoza, The Cristos yacentes of Gregorio Fernández: Polychrome Sculptures of the Supine Christ in Seventeenth-Century Spain (Farnham: 2015).

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figure 17.7

Pedro de Mena (1628–1688). Ecce Homo. ca. 1674–1685. Partial-gilt polychrome wood, 62.9 × 45.1 × 46.7 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

saints that employed auxiliary materials, such as hair for eyelashes, glass for eyes, or ivory or bone for teeth.65 By his time, sculptors developed the aesthetic that has informed an enduring ideal of religious polychrome imagery, as embodied in his Ecce Homo and Mater Dolorosa of ca. 1674–1685 (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York) (Figures 17.7–17.8).

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Xavier Bray and José Luis Romero Torres, Pedro de Mena: The Spanish Bernini (Madrid: 2014).

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Pedro de Mena (1628–1688). Mater Dolorosa. ca. 1674–1685. Partial-gilt polychrome wood, 63 × 58.7 × 38.1 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Arts at the Court

Notwithstanding the grandeur of the Catholic Church, the 17th century also brought the unmistakable imprint of the House of Austria. The foundation for this glorious period in the history of art originated with two successive Habsburgs reigning from 1516 to 1598. Although Philip the Fair had been the first Habsburg king from June to September 1506, his unexpectedly early death left the crown in the hands of his Trastámara widow, Joanna of Castile (1479– 1555).66 Charles V, despite his current fame for having strengthened Habsburg rule and having overseen the breathtaking expansion of Spanish authority 66

Miguel Ángel Zalama et al., Felipe I el Hermoso. La belleza y la locura (Madrid / Burgos: 2006); Miguel Ángel Zalama, Juana I: Arte, poder y cultura en torno a una reina que no gobernó (Madrid: 2010).

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into the New World, had arrived in the Iberian Peninsula in 1517 as a Flemishspeaking outsider and soon had to quell the Comunero Revolt of 1520–1521.67 Court portraiture and other forms of painting and sculpture therefore asserted the legitimacy and authority of the emperor.68 By contrast, Philip II grew up in Spain and in 1561 designated Madrid as the seat of the heretofore itinerant court. Antonio Moro (ca. 1516/21–76), Alonso Sánchez Coello (1531/32–88), and Juan Pantoja de la Cruz (ca. 1533–1608) therefore felt less urgency to assert the legitimacy of the Rey Prudente, but these painters nonetheless devised an authoritative paradigm of confidence, naturalism, and sobriety that later artists largely preserved in court portraiture.69 Despite some variety in the clothing, these portraits often depicted the subjects in black fabric, which viewers recognized as a costly and distinctive trait of the Spanish Habsburgs.70 As at San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Philip II oversaw closely the decoration of the Alcázar of Madrid.71 The building would remain as the chief royal palace, except for the Valladolid interlude of 1601–1606, until a fire in 1734 prompted a larger replacement at the site by Filippo Juvarra (1678–1736) and Giovanni Battista Sacchetti (1690–1764). The decoration of the Alcázar accordingly evolved over the decades in order to provide a theater of power befitting the Habsburgs.72 A stationary court favors the collecting of art for royal palaces and estates, with consequences beyond the Habsburg family. Philip II acquired paintings by Italian and Netherlandish artists, among them Titian (ca. 1490–1576) and Hieronymus Bosch (1450–1516).73 During the reigns of Philip III and especially

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On the Comunero Revolt see the essay “Community and the Common Good in Early Modern Castile” by Ruth MacKay in the present volume. Javier Portús et al., El linaje del emperador (Madrid: 2000); Fernando Checa Cremades et al., Carolus (Madrid: 2000); María José Redondo Cantera et al., Carlos V y las artes. Promoción artística y familia imperial (Valladolid: 2000). The vast literature on Spanish court portraiture was synthesized in El retrato en las colecciones reales, (eds.) García-Frías Checa and Jordán de Urriés y de la Colina (Madrid: 2014). José Luis Colomer, “Black and the Royal Image,” in Spanish Fashion at the Courts of Early Modern Europe, (eds.) José Luis Colomer and Amalia Descalzo, vol. 1 (Madrid: 2014), 77– 112. For more on fashion and art, see La moda española en el Siglo de Oro, (ed.) Rafael García Serrano (Toledo: 2015). Almudena Pérez de Tudela, “La decoración pictórica del Alcázar de Madrid durante el reinado de Felipe II,” in El legado de Borgoña. Fiesta y ceremonia cortesana en la Europa de los Austrias (1454–1648), (eds.) Krista de Jonge et al. (Madrid: 2010), 109–141. Fernando Checa Cremades, El Real Alcázar de Madrid. Dos siglos de arquitectura y coleccionismo en la corte de los reyes de España (Madrid: 1994); Steven N. Orso, Philip IV and the Decoration of the Alcázar of Madrid (Princeton: 1986). Fernando Checa Cremades, Tiziano y las cortes del Renacimiento (Madrid: 2013), 327–488;

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that of Philip IV (r. 1621–1665), the Habsburgs enlisted family members, diplomats, and a bureaucratic infrastructure in Spain and abroad to amass many hundreds of paintings, which in the 19th century would become the basis of the Prado Museum.74 Some paintings had been owned previously, yet many new ones were commissioned to decorate, for example, a Castilian hunting lodge renovated in the 1630s or the Palace of the Buen Retiro constructed in 1630– 1640 beside Madrid. The burst of productivity brought new examples of allegories, mythological scenes, history painting, ancient themes, and landscapes into art at the court.75 Sculpture also came into play. The Florentine Pietro Tacca (1577–1640), who already had worked in 1606–1614 with Giambologna (1529–1608) on a bronze equestrian statue of Philip III (now at the Plaza Mayor, Madrid), undertook in 1636–1640 a technically ambitious bronze statue of Philip IV on a rearing horse for the gardens of the Buen Retiro (now at the Plaza de Oriente, Madrid).76 In one initiative, Philip IV directed Velázquez to acquire ancient and modern works while in the Italian Peninsula in 1649–1651.77 The expenses, while formidable, found justification in the liberality and magnificence expected of rulers in European political thought.78 Through these endeavors, the House of Austria surpassed the ruling families of the Italian Renaissance, who had exemplified great expenditure on the arts as an attribute of political power. Spanish royalty exercised wide influence over their contemporaries, so that aristocrats and other demographics joined the practice of forming collections.79 Painting

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Elena Vázquez Dueñas, “The Appreciation of Bosch’s Paintings in Spanish Sources,” in Jheronimus Bosch, His Life and His Work (4th International Jheronimus Bosch Conference, April 14–16, 2016), (ed.) Jo Timmermans (’s-Hertogenbosch: 2016), 370–385, at 372–373. Jonathan Brown, Kings & Connoisseurs: Collecting Art in Seventeenth-Century Europe (Washington, D.C.: 1995), 95–145, 251. Svetlana Alpers, The Decoration of the Torre de la Parada (Corpus Rubenianum Ludwig Burchard) (London: 1971); Paintings for the Planet King: Philip IV and the Buen Retiro Palace, (ed.) Andrés Úbeda de los Cobos (Madrid: 2005). Walter Liedtke, The Royal Horse and Rider: Painting, Sculpture, and Horsemanship 1500– 1800 (New York: 1989), 70, 73, 204–205, 210–211; José Manuel Matilla, El caballo de bronce. La estatua ecuestre de Felipe IV: arte y técnica al servicio de la monarquía (Madrid: 1997). Kelley Helmstutler di Dio and Rosario Coppel, Sculpture Collections in Early Modern Spain (Farnham: 2013), 6–7. Jonathan Brown and J.H. Elliott, A Palace for a King: The Buen Retiro and the Court of Philip IV (New Haven: 1980), 231. For a glimpse of the breadth of collecting, one can turn to inventories transcribed in Marcus B. Burke and Peter Cherry, Collections of Paintings in Madrid, 1601–1755 (Los Angeles: 1997), and in Helmstutler di Dio and Coppel, Sculpture Collections. For an example of aristocratic collecting, see the coverage of the Duke of Lerma by Sarah Schroth, “A New Style of Grandeur: Politics and Patronage at the Court of Philip III,” in El Greco to Velázquez: Art

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therefore increased in status in 17th-century Spain on account of appreciation at the court; sculpture, while already celebrated in association with ancient Greece and Rome, otherwise ascended in prestige.80 These developments arose alongside the transition of the painter “from artisan to artist.”81 Many individuals advanced this process on an array of fronts, as had been the case in Italy, yet the Spanish court played a decisive role. Much attention has centered on Vicente Carducho (ca. 1576–1638), whose Florentine origins informed his unsuccessful advocacy in Madrid for a royal academy that could elevate the painter from the level of craftsman.82 He composed theoretical writings within a textual discourse of artists, writers, and thinkers, often but not always at Madrid.83 Pictorial claims for the dignity of painters and sculptors likewise appeared throughout Spain and periodically earned the royal imprimatur.84 Velázquez, documented as pintor de cámara or chief Painter to the King since 1628, conceived Las meninas in 1656 (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid) in part to acknowledge Philip IV for his groundbreaking ascent as a painter to aristocratic prestige.85 The Habsburgs accordingly played a role in

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During the Reign of Philip III, (ed.) Matthew Battles (Boston: 2008), 77–121, at 78, 86–94. Brown, Kings & Connoisseurs, 241–247; Helmstutler di Dio and Coppel, Sculpture Collections, 103. Julián Gállego, El pintor de artesano a artista (Granada: 1976). Laura R. Bass and Jean Andrews, “ ‘Me juzgo por natural de Madrid’: Vincencio Carducho, Theorist and Painter of Spain’s Court Capital,” Bulletin of Spanish Studies 93. 7–8 (2016): 1301–1337. For additional background on early academies, see Francisco Calvo Serraller, “Las academias artísticas en España: epílogo,” in Nikolaus Pevsner, Las academias de arte, trans. Margarita Ballarín (Madrid: 1982), 209–239; and Jonathan Brown, “Academies of Painting in Seventeenth-Century Spain,” in Academies of Art: Between Renaissance and Romanticism, (ed.) Anton W.A. Boschloo (The Hague: 1989), 177–185. For an academy outside of Madrid, see Ramón Corzo Sánchez, La Academia del Arte de la Pintura de Sevilla 1660–1674 (Seville: 2009). A selection of 17th-century writings by different authors is available in Robert Enggass and Jonathan Brown, Italy and Spain 1600–1750: Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs: 1970); Artists’ Techniques in Golden Age Spain: Six Treatises in Translation, (ed.) and trans. Zahira Véliz (Cambridge: 1986); and Francisco Calvo Serraller, Teoría de la pintura del Siglo de Oro, 2nd ed. (Madrid: 1991). See Javier Portús, Metapintura: un viaje a la idea del arte en España (Madrid: 2016), especially the chapters “Apologías de la pintura en el Siglo de Oro” and “Arte infinito.” Jonathan Brown, “On the Meaning of Las Meninas,” in Images and Ideas in SeventeenthCentury Spanish Painting (Princeton: 1978), 87–110. Kelley Helmstutler di Dio, in Leone Leoni and the Status of the Artist at the End of the Renaissance (Surrey: 2011), analyzes the fortunes of the sculptor from Spanish Milan whom Charles V knighted in 1549; although Velázquez knew of that knighthood, it seems to have elicited limited attention from sculptors in Peninsular Spain.

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how European courts shaped the modern notion of the artist as a proponent of the liberal rather than mechanical arts.86 Dynastic continuity favors consistency rather than innovation, so the arts under Charles II (r. 1665–1700) offer few novelties. The last Habsburg king did not surpass his ancestors and, partly due to his long minority, left many responsibilities to his family and court.87 The unusual scenario of leadership by the regent Mariana of Austria (b. 1635, r. 1649–1665, regent 1665–1675, d. 1696) motivated portraitists to describe her unique status.88 While her husband Philip IV was still alive, she had been depicted in 1652–1653 wearing the ample pannier dress known as the guardainfante (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid) (Figure 17.9); widowhood deprived her of this fashion, which nonetheless continued in portraits of aristocratic women in the reign of Charles II.89 In 1692, Luisa Roldán (1652–1706) was named escultora de cámara or chief Sculptor to the King. She had developed her career in polychrome wood in Seville and Cádiz, and the prospect of royal patronage likely inspired her move to Madrid by 1689. She drew recognition for small terracotta groups of religious figures, such as Saint Catherine or the Holy Family (The Hispanic Society of America, New York) (Figures 17.10–17.11). Soon after securing her appointment, Roldán and her brother-in-law polychromist created for Charles II the roughly life-size Archangel Michael Vanquishing the Devil (Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial).90 Also in 1692, the Neapolitan Luca Giordano (1634–1705) arrived in Spain as perhaps the most famous painter in Europe and made his greatest impact with ceiling frescoes in seven different projects, including the massive panegyric of 1692–1693 to Charles II, Mariana of Austria, and Queen Mari-

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Martin Warnke, The Court Artist: On the Ancestry of the Modern Artist, trans. David McLintock (Cambridge: 1993). Carlos II y el arte de su tiempo, (eds.) Alfonso Rodríguez G. de Ceballos and Ángel Rodríguez Rebollo (Madrid: 2013), offers 16 essays which demonstrate that the arts, among them painting and sculpture, retained their vitality and iconographical richness under the last Habsburg king. Mercedes Llorente, “Mariana of Austria’s Portraits as Ruler-Governor and Curadora by Juan Carreño de Miranda and Claudio Coello,” in Early Modern Habsburg Women: Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities, (eds.) Anne J. Cruz and Maria Galli Stampino (London: 2016), 197–222. Amanda Wunder, “Women’s Fashions and Politics in Seventeenth-Century Spain: The Rise and Fall of the Guardainfante,” Renaissance Quarterly 58 (2015): 133–186; David Martínez Bonanad, “Mariana de Austria. La adopción del luto como imagen del poder,” in Las artes y la arquitectura del poder, (ed.) Víctor Mínguez (Castelló de la Plana: 2013), 1497–1510. See Xavier Bray et al., Luisa Roldán: Court Sculptor to the Kings of Spain (Madrid: 2016), for essays about her work in wood and terracotta throughout her career.

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Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Queen Mariana of Austria. 1652–1653. Oil on canvas, 234.2 × 132 cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

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Luisa Roldán (1656–1706). The Mystical Marriage of Saint Catherine. 1692–1706. Terracotta group, polychrome, 36.5 × 45 × 29.5cm. Courtesy of The Hispanic Society of America, New York

ana of Neuburg as heirs to Charles V and Philip II (Imperial Staircase of El Escorial).91 The exuberant, heavenly scene conveys the triumph of the Spanish dynasty that for nearly two centuries had defended the faith against infidels and heretics, much as the Archangel Michael had been victorious over the devil.

6

Additional Developments: Canvas Painting, Sculpture and Graphic Arts, Women and Minorities

If Giordano had brought to Peninsular Spain a Neapolitan tradition of ceiling frescoes with qualities inspired by the Roman Pietro da Cortona (ca. 1596–

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Miguel Hermoso Cuesta, Lucas Jordán y la corte de Madrid: una década prodigiosa 1692– 1702 (Zaragoza: 2008).

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figure 17.11

Luisa Roldán (1656–1706). The Repose in Egypt. 1692–1706. Terracotta group, polychrome, 41 × 46 × 28 cm. Courtesy of The Hispanic Society of America, New York

1669), then Spanish canvas painting shifted toward a Venetian orbit by the midto late 17th century. The cause lay partly in the royal collection of paintings by Titian and other Venetians, which Velázquez and his counterparts at Madrid better appreciated due to a visit of the artist-diplomat Peter Paul Rubens (1577– 1640) in 1628–1629. Many of the Fleming’s paintings, also sought by courtly collectors, emulated the dynamic brushwork of Titian’s late painterly style. By the time Velázquez composed Las meninas in 1656, Spaniards were enlivening their canvases with flickering brushstrokes; these daubs of paint could appear discrete or non-representational when viewed closely, but they coalesced into recognizable objects when seen from a greater distance.92 One proponent of

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Giles Knox, The Late Paintings of Velázquez: Theorizing Painterly Performance (London: 2016), synthesizes the scholarship on the technique of Velázquez and its relation with that

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this technique was Francisco de Herrera the Younger (1627–1685), whose Triumph of Saint Hermengild of 1654 for a Carmelite church in Madrid commands attention with luminous colors as a landmark in Baroque painting (Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid) (Figure 17.12).93 Murillo visited Madrid in 1658 and returned to his native Seville with knowledge of the technique. He applied it to, for example, Virgin of the Immaculate Conception with Six Figures, executed in 1665 on behalf of Justino de Neve (1625–1685) for the church of Santa María la Blanca (Musée du Louvre, Paris); the results were so beautiful that it figured among the works plundered by Marshal Jean de Dieu Soult during the Napoleonic wars.94 Sculpture in religious settings continued to secure its prominence. Confraternities in Seville, which had grasped the impact that polychromed images could produce upon viewers of Holy Week processions, staged increasingly elaborate ceremonies in the streets.95 Also important in the spirituality of Spaniards were miraculous images; these could be in any medium, yet the most powerful ones were generally non-narrative statues. The Virgin of the Forsaken in Valencia and the Virgin of the Pillar in Zaragoza, each dating to the first half of the 15th century, became the respective patronesses of the Kingdoms of Valencia and Aragon, yet they are only two examples in a broad array of wonder-working statues enshrined throughout the Iberian Peninsula.96 Our Lady of Solitude in Madrid, carved by Gaspar Becerra shortly after the establishment of the court there in 1561, offers an example of how a statue’s powers encouraged the dissemination of its likeness in paintings and prints among devotees. The demand was so great that 17th-century painters created more

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of Titian and Rubens. Alexander Vergara, Rubens and His Spanish Patrons (Cambridge: 1999), analyzes the presence of Rubens’ work in Spain. Duncan Kinkead, “Francisco de Herrera and the Development of the High Baroque Style in Seville,” Record of the Art Museum, Princeton University 41.2 (1982): 12–23, at 13–15; Antonio García Baeza, “La polifacética figura de Francisco de Herrera Inestrosa, el Mozo,” Ph.D. Dissertation, Universidad de Sevilla, 2016, 35–43, 658–660. Murillo & Justino de Neve: el arte de la amistad, (ed.) Gabriele Finaldi (Madrid / Seville: 2012), 110, 112–113. Susan Verdi Webster, Art and Ritual in Golden Age Spain: Sevillian Confraternities and the Processional Sculpture of Holy Week (Princeton: 1998). José Ignacio Catalán Martí, “La imagen de Nuestra Señora de los Desamparados: una historia con varias intervenciones,” in La restauración de la Virgen de los Desamparados y su Camarín, (ed.) Carmen Pérez García (Valencia: 2015), 22–39, at 23–28; María Carmen Lacarra Ducay, “La devoción a Santa María del Pilar de Zaragoza durante la baja Edad Media,” in El Pilar es la columna. Historia de una devoción (Zaragoza: 1995), 29–46, at 33– 34, 40–46.

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Francisco de Herrera the Younger (1627–1685). Triumph of Saint Hermengild. 1654. Oil on canvas, 326 × 228 cm. ©Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid

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depictions of this Marian statue than any other in the city; a large quantity of prints likewise spread the fame and miraculous powers of Our Lady of Solitude.97 Painting forged a close relationship with the graphic arts in additional ways. Either on their own initiative or at the behest of patrons, painters in Spain borrowed elements and compositions from prints to a high degree.98 The phenomenon derived partly from the appreciation of prints as a source of imagery that had earned approval elsewhere in Europe; by relying on prints, artists could avoid innovation and inadvertent problems over religious doctrine.99 Drawing, for its part, did not attain a uniform presence in artists’ practices. In the Hispano-Flemish period, preparatory drawings sometimes were made on panels only to disappear beneath the final painting; while sometimes visible today to the naked eye, these sketches come to light clearly through infrared reflectography.100 With the shift to canvas painting in the 16th and 17th centuries, drawings on paper also served preparatory roles, although their usage, survival, and collecting have been uneven.101 Recent exhibitions have brought greater attention to these graphic arts.102 Despite the visibility of art for the Catholic Church and the Habsburg Monarchy, additional genres of painting brought diversity to the visual culture of Spain. Viewing portraiture leads one to make the acquaintance of aristocrats, lawyers, architects, writers, artists, and patrons of the arts. Although one may 97

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Jesús Bravo Lozano, “Pintura y mentalidades en Madrid a finales del siglo XVII,” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños 18 (1981): 193–220, at 200–203; Manuel Arias Martínez, “ ‘La copia más sagrada’: la escultura vestidera de la Virgen de la Soledad de Gaspar Becerra y la presencia del artista en el Convento de Mínimos de la Victoria de Madrid,” Boletín de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de la Purísima Concepción 46 (2011): 33–56; José María Quesada Valera, “Virgen de la Soledad,” in Clausuras. Tesoros artísticos en los conventos y monasterios madrileños (Madrid: 2007), 178–181; Javier Portús and Jesusa Vega, La estampa religiosa en la España del Antiguo Régimen (Madrid: 1998), 96–97, 226–227. Benito Navarrete Prieto, La pintura andaluza del siglo XVII y sus fuentes grabadas (Madrid: 1998). Zahira Véliz Bomford, “The Authority of Prints in Early Modern Spain,” Hispanic Research Journal 9.5 (2008): 416–436. El trazo oculto. Dibujos subyacentes en pinturas de los siglos XV y XVI, (eds.) Gabriele Finaldi and Carmen Garrido (Madrid: 2006), provides Spanish and other European examples of this type of preparatory drawing. Alfonso E. Pérez Sánchez, Historia del dibujo en España, de la Edad Media a Goya (Madrid: 1986). Mark P. McDonald, Renaissance to Goya: Prints and Drawings from Spain (London: 2012); Lisa A. Banner et al., Spanish Drawings in the Princeton University Art Museum (Princeton: 2012); Benito Navarrete Prieto et al., I segni nel tempo: dibujos españoles de los Uffizi (Madrid / Florence: 2016).

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figure 17.13

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–1682). Two Women at a Window. ca. 1655/60. Oil on canvas, 125.1 × 104.5 cm. Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

regard these portraits as truthful depictions of the sitters, the images often convey messages about the talents and ambitions of each person.103 The less common genre scenes surface in the work of, for example, Velázquez and—decades later—Murillo and his circle in Seville. While Murillo’s scenes of childhood

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Javier Portús et al., The Spanish Portrait from El Greco to Picasso (Madrid: 2004).

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Juan Sánchez Cotán (1560–1627). Still Life with Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber. ca. 1602. Oil on canvas, 67.8 × 88.7cm. Gift of Anne R. and Amy Putnam. San Diego Museum of Art

and Two Women at a Window of ca. 1655–1660 (National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.) (Figure 17.13) have been interpreted as accurate representations of daily life, it is correct to note that the paintings attest to Murillo’s familiarity with Flemish genre scenes.104 Finally, the captivating still lifes of Juan Sánchez Cotán (1560–1627), represented by Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber of ca. 1602 (San Diego Museum of Art) (Figure 17.14), stand at the beginning of a pictorial tradition linked variously with a revival of an ancient Greek genre, with Catholic symbolism, or with the representation of foods and objects imported from the Americas and Asia.105 104

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Xanthe Brooke and Peter Cherry, Murillo: Scenes of Childhood (London: 2001); Suzanne L. Stratton-Pruitt et al., Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–1682): Paintings from American Collections (New York: 2002), 28–29, 180–185. William B. Jordan and Peter Cherry, Spanish Still Life from Velázquez to Goya (London: 1995); Javier Portús, “Significados sociales en el bodegón barroco español,” in Materia crí-

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The Empire, notwithstanding its unparalleled size, remains an occasionally elusive subject in Spanish art. The façade of the Colegio of San Gregorio in Valladolid (ca. 1486–1499) (Figure 17.15) was decorated with an ambitious sculpture program encompassing American ‘savages’ and perhaps the earliest surviving depiction of corn in European art. The significance of this imagery, while apparent to its first viewers, disappeared from the collective consciousness and only recently received a convincing analysis.106 Alejo Fernández (ca. 1470– 1545) created an altarpiece for the Casa de Contratación (House of Trade) in Seville that referred to the imperial enterprise. Known as the Virgin of the Navigators, this artwork of ca. 1531–1536 shows indigenous Americans alongside Europeans, yet the rarity of this theme has informed speculation that the events since 1492 went largely unremarked in painting and sculpture.107 Sacred images accompanied the earliest Spaniards to travel across the Atlantic, and credible narratives suggest that royalty used the strategies from formerly Nasrid Andalusia to employ art as an evangelical tool in the newly conquered Americas.108 In the past decade, studies have emerged to complement the few that had already sketched out the commercial shipment of tens of thousands of artworks, usually created in Peninsular Spain but sometimes other areas of the Monarchy such as Naples, from Habsburg Europe to the New World.109 Likewise, Peninsular markets consumed painting and sculpture among the material goods shipped from the Americas.110

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tica: formas de ocio y de consumo en la cultura áurea, (ed.) Enrique García Santo-Tomás (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2009), 169–189. Felipe Pereda, “The Shelter of the Savage: ‘From Valladolid to the New World,’” Medieval Encounters 16 (2010): 268–359. Carla Rahn Phillips, “Visualizing Imperium: The Virgin of the Seafarers and Spain’s SelfImage in the Early Sixteenth Century,” Renaissance Quarterly 58 (2005): 815–856; James S. Amelang, “The New World in the Old? The Absence of Empire in Early Modern Madrid,” Cuadernos de Historia de España 82 (2008): 147–164, at 148. Jeffrey Schrader, “The House of Austria as a Source of Miraculous Images in Latin America,” in Art in Spain and the Hispanic World: Essays in Honor of Jonathan Brown, (ed.) Sarah Schroth (London: 2010), 379–393. Felipe Pereda, “Response: The Invisible(?) New World,” Art Bulletin 92.1–2 (2010): 47–52, at 50; José María Sánchez, “Los obradores artísticos sevillanos del siglo XVI: adaptaciones y cambios para satisfacer los encargos del mercado americano,” Anales del Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas 35.103 (2013): 177–196; Jesús Porres Benavides, “El comercio de imágenes devocionales con América y la producción seriada de los talleres escultóricos sevillanos,” UcoArte: Revista de Teoría e Historia del Arte 2 (2013): 9–19; Luisa Elena Alcalá, “ ‘… Fatiga, y cuidados, y gastos, y regalos …’: Aspectos de la circulación de la escultura napolitana a ambos lados del Atlántico,”Librosdelacorte.es número extra 5 (2017): 163–184. Francisco Montes González, “Una aproximación a las fuentes documentales para el estudio del coleccionismo americano en España,” Artigrama: Revista del Departamento de Historia del Arte de la Universidad de Zaragoza 24 (2009): 205–223.

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Façade of Colegio de San Gregorio. ca. 1486–ca. 1499. Stone. Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid

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If the American empire has figured as the subject of questions regarding its visibility in Spain, women and ethnic minorities have prompted similar discussion. More than a century after dedicating its first single-artist show to a male, the Prado Museum finally accorded this treatment to a woman in 2016 by highlighting the still lifes of Clara Peeters (active 1607–1621), a painter in the Spanish Netherlands (Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe) (Figure 17.16).111 In 2015, the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga celebrated the premier artist of the Portuguese Baroque, Josefa de Óbidos (1630–1684), who remained attentive throughout her career to the styles assimilated from her native Seville.112 Nuns also created art, sometimes as labor in lieu of the dowry required to join a convent; one such artist, Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación (1597–1665) (Figure 17.17), worked on canvas and in fresco at a foundation established by the Duke of Lerma.113 On a smaller scale, a mid-17th-century painted cross of wooden slats by María Josefa Sánchez represents the type of modest devotional image (cruz de celda) contemplated in a conventual setting (Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Ohio) (Figure 17.18). The painter may have been affiliated with convents, yet her biography remains unknown.114 Two artists in Seville have come to represent forced labor in painters’ workshops: Juan de Güéjar (documented 1520–1523), a slave to Alejo Fernández of the Virgin of the Navigators, has been described as of African descent, whereas the mixed-race Juan de Pareja (1606– 1670) has attained recent fame because his portrait of 1650 by Velázquez was acquired in 1971 by the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then reached wide audiences (Figure 17.19).115 The portrait’s placement in the center of an exhibition at the museum in 2016–2017 stimulated discussion as to whether two works in the show were by Juan de Pareja rather than Velázquez.116 While the 111 112 113

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The Art of Clara Peeters, (ed.) Alejandro Vergara (Antwerp / Madrid: 2016). Josefa de Óbidos e a invenção do Barroco português, (ed.) Ana de Castro Henriques (Lisbon: 2015). Mindy Nancarrow Taggard, “Art and Alienation in Early Modern Spanish Convents,” South Atlantic Modern Language Association 65.1 (2000): 24–40; Lisa A. Banner, The Religious Patronage of the Duke of Lerma, 1598–1621 (London: 2016), 139–144. For a painted cross similar to that of Oberlin College, see José Ángel Rivera de las Heras, “Cruz de celda: Josefa Sánchez,” in El Árbol de la Cruz. Las cofradías de la Vera Cruz: historia, iconografía, antropología y patrimonio (Zamora: 2009), 106–107. Luis Méndez Rodríguez (trans. Jeremy Roe), “Slavery and the Guild in Golden Age Painting in Seville,” Art in Translation 7.1 (2015): 123–140, at 129–134; Everett Fahy et al., “Juan de Pareja by Diego Velázquez,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 29.10, part II (June 1971). Jonathan Brown, “A Proposal on Attribution: Jonathan Brown on Velázquez Portraits at the Metropolitan,” Art Newspaper (24 February 2017). The exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art bore the title of “Velázquez Portraits: Truth in Painting” (November 2016March 2017).

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Clara Peeters (Spanish Netherlands, active 1607–1621). Still Life with Flowers, Gilt Goblets, Coins, and Shells. 1612. Oil on panel, 59.5×49cm. bpk Bildagentur / Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe / Wolfgang Pankoke / Art Resource, NY

proposal has yet to receive full consideration among connoisseurs, it exemplifies the discourse that can help to recover artists’ accomplishments from neglect.

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Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación (1597–1665). Autobiography frontispiece. Pen and ink drawing. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid

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María Josefa Sánchez (active mid-17th century). The Crucified Christ. 1652. Oil on cross-shaped panel, 51 × 33.8 × 1.4 cm. Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Ohio

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Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Juan de Pareja. 1650. Oil on canvas, 81.3× 69.9cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

The Future

Research on painting and sculpture in Spain has evolved considerably in recent decades, as more scholars join the field and expand the boundaries of inquiry. The results have strengthened the understanding of familiar names as well as of artists and patrons whom historians recognize for contributions to a dynamic and adventuresome period. The accomplishments of painters and sculptors

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proved to be significant and enduring, so that the Spanish Golden Age has come to appear strikingly modern. In the 19th and 20th centuries, avant-garde artists in Europe and the Americas therefore turned to, for example, El Greco and Velázquez for ideas that could help forge a path to the future.117 Likewise, scholars today can look to the types of studies summarized here as the basis for further endeavors. 117

Gary Tinterow et al., Manet/Velázquez: The French Taste for Spanish Painting (New York: 2003); Javier Barón et al., El Greco y la pintura moderna (Madrid: 2014); William Jeffett and Suzanne L. Stratton, Dalí and the Spanish Baroque (St. Petersburg: 2007).

chapter 18

Visual Culture: Art and Ekphrasis in Early Modern Spain Frederick A. de Armas

1

Introduction

As ancient palaces came to light and as caves and crevices in the earth led to buried architectures and artistic discoveries; as classical statues emerged from the ground as if they were corpses revived by ancient necromancers, delight and curiosity concerning these findings spread from Renaissance Italy to the rest of Europe, and some of the sculptures even found a new home at the Vatican.1 Giorgio Vasari asserts that these excavations are one key element that made possible the art of the Renaissance.2 In Spain, this excitement for these objects of an ancient civilization can be discerned even in the great literary masterpieces of the period. In the second part of Don Quixote, for example, when discussing fame, the knight recalls the Pantheon, Hadrian’s tomb, and even an Egyptian obelisk in Rome. Indeed, the episode of the Cave of Montesinos may have been inspired by the re-discovery of Nero’s Golden Palace.3 Lope de Vega in La Dorotea tells an anecdote of how an ancient statue was unearthed and how all marveled at its beauty. In reality it was only a ruse thought of by Michelangelo. He had sculpted the statue and once it was praised as ancient, he produced a foot that was missing, proclaiming that he created it and that the moderns could rival the ancients in art.4 Even so, there was one aspect of this Renaissance that was absent. The great paintings of antiquity were mostly lost due to their fragility. Only some of the wall paintings of later periods remained. Thus, the names and works of the

1 George L. Hersey, High Renaissance Art in St. Peter’s Vatican: An Interpretive Guide (Chicago: 1993), 99–128. 2 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, trans. Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (Oxford: 1998), 279. 3 Frederick A. de Armas, “Nero’s Golden House: Italian Art and the Grotesque in Don Quijote,” Cervantes 24 (2004): 143–171. 4 Félix Lope de Vega, La Dorotea, (ed.) Edwin S. Morby (Madrid: 1980), 367–368; Frederick A. de Armas, “Lope de Vega and Michelangelo,” Hispania 65 (1982): 172–179.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_020

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famous Greek painters came to be known mainly through Pliny’s Natural History. In Book 35, while pointing to the materials used in paint, he provides a history of ancient paintings. Leonard Barkan asserts that this and other sections of the Natural History became “the central grounding text of the rediscovery of ancient art.”5 Among the scores of painters described in these works by Pliny and by rhetoricians such as Cicero and Quintilian, I have chosen to focus on Apelles, since he was considered the locus classicus, the supreme painter of ancient Greece. This essay will study one anecdote and two of his paintings so as to view his impact in Renaissance and Imperial Spain during the 16th and 17th centuries.

2

The Quibbling Cobbler

“Apelles and the cobbler” is a well-known anecdote told by Pliny and other classical writers. Curiously, more than one artist from the Renaissance chose to transform it into a painting. A number of writers also recast the anecdote, providing it with new purposes and intents. The story is as follows: on finishing a painting, Apelles would exhibit it in an open room and hide so as to hear the comments of the passersby. One day a cobbler walked through and commented on a defect in one of the sandals. Apelles corrected it. Puffed up by his importance, the cobbler came back again, this time to criticize one of the legs of the person drawn. The indignant Apelles told him that he only had the right to give his opinion on footwear.6 Juan Luis Vives used Pliny’s material in his Linguae latinae exercitatio, a Latin primer first published in 1538, two years before his demise. In a witty dialogue, Albrecht Dürer, having painted Scipio Africanus, “argues with two learned pedants, Grynius and Velius, who find fault with every feature, but are soundly rebuffed by the proud master.”7 The arguments start when Dürer sets a price for the paintings and the two scholars seek to find fault and thus lower its value. Velius, who is described by his companion as “half a physician,” has much to complain about: he wants to see the back of Scipio’s head, to which

5 Leonard Barkan, Unearthing the Past: Archaeology and Aesthetics in the Making of Renaissance Culture (New Haven: 1999), 66. In Book 34, Pliny studies bronze, and thus the statues made out of this metal, while in Book 36 the study of marble triggers a history of sculptures created with this material. 6 Pliny, Natural History IX, in Books XXXIII–XXXV, trans. H. Rackham (Cambridge: 1952; rpt. 1995), 35.85; 1952: 323–325. 7 Ernst H. Gombrich, The Heritage of Apelles (Ithaca: 1976), 32.

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Dürer sarcastically replies that he should turn around the canvas. Velius also complains of the way hair is painted on Scipio; how his forehead is “unevenly bent” and how his temples are “too much swollen,” only to be given a very exacting explanation.8 The dialogue combines the fictitious with the real, the ancient with the modern. Although Dürer is not known to have painted Scipio Africanus, the two pedants are actually scholars from the artist’s time. Simon Grinaeus (1493–1521) was a Latinist and a Hellenist who excelled in his studies at the University of Vienna. He corresponded with Erasmus and may have been included here because he produced a Latin version of Plutarch, who discusses Apelles in his life of Alexander the Great. Kaspar Ursinus Velius (1493–1539) lived in Vienna, where he was court historian. Perhaps it is his very punctiliousness that Vives criticizes. He is the most obstinate of critics and the one who receives the most put-downs in the dialogue. Vives thus praises Dürer as a new Apelles, transforming the shoemaker into two scholars who, contrary to the cobbler, have no real insights into the painting. The book, read by school children all over Europe, teaches Latin through pleasing stories, but also helps to make constant connections between a classical past and the present. Vives’ primer comes closest to Peter Bruegel’s The Painting and the Connoisseur (Vienna 1565), a pen and ink picture that shows in the foreground a thoughtful and inspired painter with bushy hair and a beard (see Figure 18.1). He holds a paintbrush in his hand and seems engrossed in his art. In the background stands a would-be connoisseur or buyer, who can barely see the painting through his thick glasses and who seems uncertain. Both Vives and Bruegel, then, are interested in verbal and commercial transactions; in the interplay among painters, critics and buyers. These two vignettes appeared at a time when art was becoming an important commodity to be displayed not only by princes but even by the middle class. In both works the painter emerges as a figure who is vastly superior to his public. Pedro Mexía, a humanist from Seville, collected many anecdotes about different personages and published them in 1540 with the title Silva de varia lección. Since he had corresponded with Vives, it is likely that he knew of his use of the cobbler’s anecdote. Indeed, Mexía does mention Dürer as a new Apelles, but points to Erasmus instead of Vives as his source for the comparison.9 Mexía tells much that is found in Pliny and other classical authors, even detailing a Venus, one of the paintings that will be discussed in this essay. Curiously, he

8 Gombrich, The Heritage of Apelles, 132–133. 9 Pedro Mexía, Silva de varia lección, (ed.) Antonio Castro Díaz (Madrid: 1989), 651.

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Peter Bruegel, The Painter and the Connoisseur, Albertina Museum, Vienna Art Resource

shortens the cobbler anecdote, deleting the shoemaker’s return and Apelles’ caustic reply. There is no tension, then, between the artist and his public; no haggling over price as in Vives’ dialogue; and there is no buyer as in Bruegel. Instead, Mexía emphasizes the many people who visit Apelles’ gallery.10 It is as if Mexía has no interest in the actual ways in which paintings were bought and

10

Mexía, Silva de varia lección, 647.

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sold; he only wishes to praise Apelles as an exemplar of ancient art and as a model for modern artists. In this sense, he comes closer to Giorgio Vasari. Vasari, who conceived of his age as a Renaissance in painting, a period that imitated and even improved upon the works of Apelles and other antique artists, sought to compete with them. He often drew a specific classical artist in the act of painting different subjects. He placed these works on different walls and in different halls in his house in Arezzo.11 Having been granted possession of a home in Florence in 1557, he moved his family there. On the south wall of what is called the Sala Vasari, he exhibits Apelles and the Cobbler.12 In Vasari’s painting there are two figures in front of a canvas; one of them is the artist, while the other is kneeling and pointing at the feet of the individual portrayed (the critical cobbler). Apelles’ public stands in the background. The picture is framed by personifications of Music and Sculpture. Perhaps Vasari wishes to convey the notion that each art is unique and should be judged according to its own rules and standards. It is also quite clear that he wishes to portray himself as a new Apelles, someone who cannot just draw the ancient artist but envision him while completing a painting, thus inserting a second work of art within his own work. A brief tract by painter and theorist Francisco Pacheco entitled A los profesores del arte de la pintura, composed in 1622, consists of a paragone between painting and sculpture, one where he wishes to negate Juan Martínez Montañés’ judgment of the superiority of sculpture. Let us recall that Montañés was considered one of the most important sculptors of Seville, providing many wooden images for altars in the region. Pacheco clearly relies on Pliny as an authority on the antiquity of painting.13 He then rejects Montañés’ judgment on painting using Apelles’ anecdote. In this case a sculptor (like a cobbler) cannot disparage painting.14 Four years later, another treatise, Juan Alonso de Butrón’s Discursos apologéticos (1626), takes up Pliny’s tale once again. In his fourth discourse he tells us that Apelles could accept the shoemaker’s criticism of shoes, but when the cobbler attempted to censure other elements of the painting, he was severely chastised by Apelles. A good judge, he concludes, is only he who knows art in depth.15

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12 13 14 15

In the Hall of Fortune he painted: Apelles’ Alexander and Campaspe, Gyges Outlining his Shadow, Progagones’ Ialysus and his Dog, Timanthes’ Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Zeuxis’ Story of Helen, and Zeuxis and Parrhasius. Liana de Girolami Cheney, The Homes of Giorgio Vasari (New York: 2006), 159. Francisco Calvo Serraller, Teoría de la pintura del Siglo de Oro (Madrid: 1991), 185. Calvo Serraller, Teoría de la pintura, 90. Calvo Serraller, Teoría de la pintura, 205.

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A simple and witty anecdote has become reading for school children and has entered the popular imagination through a much-sold miscellany. It has also become the subject of artistic endeavors, from Vasari’s laudatory work to Bruegel’s mercantile scene, thus evincing the circulation of the anecdote from Italy to Flanders and from Bruges to Seville. Apelles’ anecdote becomes the point of departure for specific concerns: What should be more highly valued, painting or sculpture? Who should criticize art? How does one assess the monetary value of a painting? What all these works have in common is a reverence for the classics; hints of a belief that the present moment is beginning to rival the classical past in its art; and a clear indication of a special moment in time when art suddenly becomes priceless.

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Venus Anadyomene

One of Apelles’ most important works is the Venus Anadyomene. In spite of Pliny’s praise, Giovanni Pietro Bellori, in his Lives of the Artists (1672), a work that in many ways imitated Giorgio Vasari’s first treatise on art history, praises it in detriment of the goddess. He explains: “Ovid … wrote in high praise of Venus that if Apelles had not painted her, she would have remained until now submerged in the sea where she was born.”16 Bellori is of course alluding to how Apelles’ Venus emerges from the foam in the sea. This seminal foam derived from the genitals of Uranus, who was killed by his son. Mixed with water, an element that is considered as the mother of matter itself, it creates or begets Venus. Venus Urania thus emerges from the sea fully grown, fully formed and in all her beauty. Classical art reveled in this fascinating topic, and today we still preserve a painting from Pompeii that may have imitated the Greek original in some aspects. But it was Apelles’ work that fully resonated with antiquity. His painting survived “long enough to see its last days in Rome, at the time of Emperor Nero.”17 Bellori’s comments on the painting are unexpected; almost shocking. He seems to be saying that the artist, a mere human, is to be considered superior to Venus, the goddess of beauty. The shock is lessened when we analyze Bellori’s

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Erwin Panofsky, Idea: A Concept in Art Theory. A Study of the Changes in the Definition and Conception of the Term “Idea,” from Plato to the 17th Century, When the Modern Definition Emerged, trans. Joseph J.S. Peake (Columbia: 1968), 163. William S. Heckscher, “The Anadyomene in the Medieval Tradition,” in Art and Literature: Studies in Relationship (Durham: 1985), 129.

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source, Ovid’s Art of Love. The Roman poet claims that women unadorned are very much like “lifeless weights,”18 blocks of marble that through art turn into “a noble gem whereon naked Venus is wringing her spray-trenched tresses.”19 This new Venus should keep her door shut until she is ready to be seen as beautiful, since men are not interested in how she achieves perfection (“Why must I know the cause of the whiteness of your cheek? Shut the chamber door! Why show the unfinished work?”).20 What matters, then, is the crafted work of art, be it a perfected body (cosmetically adorned), or the statue or painting that is fully finished. Ovid does not disdain the deity, but he shuns unadorned bodies. The irony, of course, is that in Apelles’ painting the goddess is still drying her hair. Apelles surpasses other artists in that he paints not a beauty who has completed her toilette, but one who is just born and is still wet from the sea. It is Apelles’ idea of Venus that triumphs over Ovid’s notion of woman’s perfectibility through adornment. It is not that Venus’ beauty did not exist without Apelles; it is just that Apelles’ idea of her and the fame of his painting allowed the goddess to become even more present in the minds of the ancients. The Greek painter will pass on to the Renaissance his ability to grant fame. The Renaissance saw instantly the conflict inherent in the Venus figure: born of spuma, nude, and riding the concha or seashell, a symbol of female sexuality, she is still a mysterious and numinous being. While for some she may evoke sexuality, she is taken by Plato as the celestial Aphrodite, as opposed to the terrestrial Venus.21 Marsilio Ficino, the Florentine translator of Plato, elaborated on the celestial Venus in his commentary on the Symposium.22 She is nude, unadorned and dripping with the elemental water because she is that idea or ideal of perfect beauty that goes beyond the delights of the body. It is this second conflict that will play out in art and literature as much as the first (adornment). Renaissance artists produced ever new versions of the Birth of Venus so as to compete with Apelles and wrest fame from him. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus may be the best known work today, but at the time, Marcantonio Raimondi’s 1506 engraving Venus Wringing her Hair would have been known

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Ovid, The Art of Love and Other Poems, trans. J.H. Mozley, rev. G.P. Goold, Loeb Classical Library 232 (Cambridge: 1979), 3.220; 1979: 133. Ovid, The Art of Love, 3.224; 1979: 135. Ovid, The Art of Love, 3.227–228; 1979: 135. Plato, The Symposium of Plato, trans. Suzy Q. Groden, (ed.) John A. Brentlinger (Amherst: 1970), 47. Marsilio Ficino, Commentary on Plato’s Symposium on Love, trans. and (ed.) Sears Jayne (Dallas: 1985), 53.

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by many more.23 Soon thereafter Titian finds a more intimate way of depicting the goddess in Venus Anadyomene (ca. 1520) (see Figure 18.2). In Spain no such enthusiasm could be found in the art of the period. For Rosa López Torrijo this may have to do to with Spain’s difficulty with nude figures.24 Many treatises of the period rail against the female nude, including those of Vicente Carducho (1633), Juan Alonso de Butrón (1636), Francisco Pacheco (1649), José García Hidalgo (1693) and Antonio Palomino (1724). Many of these texts conclude that a country based on faith can only paint devout images.25 While absent from art, mythographers such as Juan Pérez de Moya sought to allegorize the different Venuses, but even here there is a step back. Pérez de Moya explains that Aphrodite’s name derives from aphros, the virile humor, and points to the concha as denoting insatiable desire that leads to coitus.26 Thus he will reject the celestial Venus, claiming, in a euhemeristic transformation of pagan gods to ancient humans, that she was merely a young virgin who, seized by desire, gave herself to all.27 So, are we to despair of finding her in Spain? The figure of Venus emerging from the sea may be sought in plays and poems of the period, where the figure of the bathing nude is so prominent.28 While this figure emerges from rivers or lakes, it still stuns with beauty, recalling Apelles’ Venus. Rojas Zorrilla, for example, wrote six plays in which there are variations on the scene of the bathing nude. One of the most discreet is Casarse por vengarse, where the Constable of Sicily falls for Blanca on spying her as she takes off her gloves and dips her hands into a river to freshen her face. No full nudity is found here. Her gesture takes almost 100 verses to describe in a fashion that seeks to rival a work of art.29 This is very much what Pliny said of descriptions that sought to rival Apelles’ painting: they must be more detailed than the painting. Here also it is the lack of composure and perfection, the unadorned woman and the woman whose face drips with water, that paradoxically trans-

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26 27 28 29

For the engraving see Innis H. Shoemaker, Elizabeth Broun, and Helen Foresman, The Engravings of Marcantonio Raimondi (Lawrence, KS: 1984), 68. Rosa López Torrijo, La mitología en la pintura española del Siglo de Oro (Madrid: 1985), 272. López Torrijo, La mitología en la pintura española, 273. There may have existed a Birth of Venus by Juan Pantoja de la Cruz. But otherwise, the art of Spain shunned Apelles’ nude Venus. Juan Pérez de Moya, Philosofía secreta, (ed.) Carlos Clavería (Madrid: 1995), 377–378; 383. Pérez de Moya, Philosofía secreta, 379. Raymond R. MacCurdy, “The Bathing Nude in Golden Age Drama,” Romance Notes 1.1 (1959): 36–39. Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla, Casarse por vengarse, (ed.) Linda L. Mullin (Kassel: 2007), vv. 529–625.

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Titian, Venus Anadyomene, National Gallery of Scotland Art Resource

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forms her into a work of art and thus into a living goddess.30 Her beauty, her ability to enamor others, the emergence from water, the lack of perfection that makes her even more perfect, all go back to Apelles, albeit in a minor tone. I am not arguing that this type of scene is always contaminated by a recollection of Apelles’ Venus and its iteration in Ovid, but that it would be useful to keep Apelles in mind when dealing with the bathing nude. At times, it is Diana rather than Venus who is most clearly evoked. And yet even here, in some cases, we can argue for contaminatio. We have seen how in the Art of Love Ovid comments upon Apelles’ Venus Anadyomene. Some claim that this poem was used as a justification for his exile from Rome, since its ‘error’ is to make women into lustful Venuses. In the Tristia Ovid laments: “Why did I see anything? Why did I make my eyes guilty? Why was I so thoughtless to harbor the knowledge of a fault? Unwitting was Acteon when he beheld Diana unclothed; none the less he became prey of his own hounds.”31 The licentious yet idealized Venus of the Art of Love is thus conflated with the wrathful Diana of the Tristia. With this in mind let us reconsider the bathing scene in Tirso de Molina’s Privar contra su gusto. Here, Don Juan’s joyous vision of what he calls a celestial image32 and his theft of her garter while she bathes nude in the waters does not lead to the pleasures of Venus. As Christopher Weimer has argued, it earns him the anger of his deity Isabela. The text acknowledges its imitation of Ovid as Don Juan confesses that his madness is “Acteon’s when he saw Diana’s beauty.”33 Indeed, Don Juan’s voyeurism is suddenly expanded as Isabela’s ladies-in-waiting disrobe and enter the waters. These may be seen as Diana’s attendants, clearly portrayed both in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and in Titian’s painting on the subject that was exhibited at the court in Madrid. But the play only flirts with disaster, as Isabela is transformed “from vengeful fury into the nobleman’s betrothed.”34 We have seen how the Art of Love merges both the vengeful and the loving deity. Tirso forges a happy ending through a Venus disguised, an Isabela who emerges from the waters and eventually becomes Don Juan’s true goddess, as the play ends with the triumphs of love.

30 31 32 33 34

Rojas Zorrilla, Casarse por vengarse, v. 610. “La de Acteón cuando vio / de Diana la hermosura” (Ovid, Tristia. Ex Ponto, trans. A.L. Wheeler, rev. G.P. Goold, Loeb Classical Library 151 [Cambridge: 1996], 2.103–106). Tirso de Molina, Privar contra su gusto, (ed.) Battista J. Galassi (Madrid: 1971), v. 530. Tirso de Molina, Privar contra su gusto, vv. 560–561. Christopher B. Weimer, “Myth and Metamorphosis in Privar contra su gusto,” in A StarCrossed Golden Age: Myth and the Spanish Comedia, (ed.) Frederick A. de Armas (Lewisburg: 1998), 109.

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figure 18.3

Giambattista Tiepolo, The Painter Apelles, Alexander the Great and Campaspe, Louvre, Paris Erich Lessing / Art Resource

Antonio Sánchez Jiménez has shown that there are at least 50 works by Lope that allude to Apelles.35 There is much to choose from here, since he often paints the bathing nude, albeit sometimes as Diana—and she thus appears in the Laurel de Apolo36—but I will only point to one play where we may catch a glimpse of Apelles’ Venus. La quinta de Florencia clearly has Apelles in mind. The work brings together two important moments from Apelles. The first has to do with the ruler of Florence, named Alejandro Medici. He believes that his secretary is in love with his beloved, and thus decides to act as magnanimously as Alexander the Great in ceding her to César (see Figure 18.3). 35 36

Antonio Sánchez Jiménez, El pincel y el Fénix: pintura y literatura en la obra de Lope de Vega Carpio (Madrid / Frankfurt: 2011), 209, 219, 226–227. Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad que hizo Pedro Pablo de Rubens, pintor excelentísimo,” in Poesía, vol. 5, (ed.) Antonio Carreño (Madrid: 2004), 5.237–709.

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This scene is based on one of the most famous anecdotes dealing with Apelles. Alexander had ordered him to paint his mistress Campaspe, and in doing so Apelles began to fall for her. Perceiving this, the ruler presented her to the painter, while accepting the painting in return. The anecdote was repeated as an example of a ruler’s magnanimity and as the sign of an ideal patron of the arts. Several plays of the Golden Age are based on this story, from Lope’s Las grandezas de Alejandro to Calderón’s Darlo todo y no dar nada. In La quinta de Florencia, Alejandro, Duke of Florence, intends to surpass his namesake by offering his beloved to his secretary, thinking that César is enamored of her. He is actually mistaken in his gift since César entertains no such passion. Having pointed to the importance of Apelles in the plot, Lope utilizes the painter again, but in an indirect manner in another scene. At his country villa, César views a painting of Venus and Adonis and falls asleep. It is clear from the ekphrastic description that he is looking at a version of Titian’s canvas executed for Philip II.37 Impassioned, he decides to search for this painted deity in the countryside and discovers a peasant by a fountain who seems to him to be the very image of the Venus he had contemplated in the painting. The peasant woman is certainly lacking the necessary cosmetics that are supposed to complete her according to Ovid. And yet, she is so beautiful that she becomes, in César’s eyes, the deity herself. This occurs as she goes to fetch water from a fountain, thus recalling the relation between Venus and the aquatic element. Lope, then, paints his play with images from Apelles, including watery echoes of the Greek artist’s unadorned Venus Anadyomene. To conclude this section, let us turn briefly to a fascinating text where Lope paints with words a Venus Anadyomene. She appears in his poem “La rosa blanca,” dedicated to the daughter of the Count-Duke of Olivares. The name of the poem derives from the fact that she exhibited a white rose on her coat of arms. The poem, translated here in prose, is included in his collection La Circe (1624):38 “She originated, in the opinion of some, from the froth at sea, from

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38

Frederick A. de Armas, “Lope’s Speaking Pictures: Tantalizing Titians and Forbidden Michelangelos in La quinta de Florencia,” in A Companion to Lope de Vega, (eds.) Alexander Samson and Jonathan Thacker (London: 2008), 171–182. Zapata Ferrer divides the poem into three sections: 1. Invocation to Venus and praise of María de Guzmán, daughter of the Count-Duke of Olivares; 2. The mythical section which includes two major stories: Venus and the coming to be of the red rose (stanzas 12–90) and an affair between Jupiter and Amarílida out of which is born the white rose (stanzas 91–108); 3. Epilogue with praise for María de Guzmán. See María de la Almudena Zapata Ferrer, “La mitología en La rosa blanca de Lope de Vega,” Los humanistas españoles y el humanismo europeo (IV Simposio de Filología Clásica) (Murcia: 1990), 261–266.

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figure 18.4

Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus, Uffizi, Florence Scala/Art Resource

which she was born; not with inopportune and ferocious winds, but with the soft Zephyrus impelled, a shell of gold and mother-of-pearl sailing.”39 Much of what is depicted recalls Botticelli’s Birth of Venus (see Figure 18.4). The calm sea, the foam in the waters, Zephyrus blowing Venus to Cyprus’ shore, the conch as boat … In the next stanza she will be greeted, like in Boticcelli, by the Horae.40 But the main gesture that typifies Apelles is missing in Lope, albeit not in Botticelli: Venus does not dry her tresses with her hands. Why censor Apelles’ gesture? Is Lope silencing the ancient painter? Curiously, the collection ends with a sonnet dedicated to the Spanish painter Juan van der Hamen (famous for his bodegones), who is now praised as a new Apelles.41 39

40 41

Tuvo principio, en opinión de algunos, de la espuma del mar, de quien nacido, no con vientos feroces importunos, sino del blando céfiro impelida … concha de oro y nácar navegando. (Félix Lope de Vega, “La rosa blanca,” from La Circe [1624], in Obras poéticas, vol. 1, [ed.] José Manuel Blecua [Barcelona: 1969], vv. 97–100, 103). Lope de Vega, “La rosa blanca,” vv. 109–110. Lope de Vega, La Circe (1624), in Obras poéticas, vol. 1, v. 1310.

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Here Nature complains that the painter has stolen her brushes, for how else can he equal her? Lope sees Van der Hamen as a new Apelles because he can equal nature; by failing to imitate Apelles’ trademark, Lope’s own mythological poem also seeks to equal and even surpass nature, re-creating an image that no Spanish painter dares to draw.

4

Painting Alexander / Imaging the Habsburgs

Lope de Vega’s praise of Juan van der Hamen as a new Apelles was far from an exception. Lope also referred to Pacheco in this manner.42 But long before them, it was Titian who fulfilled the double role played by Apelles as great painter and portrait artist for a ruler. In 1530 Titian was commissioned to paint a portrait of Charles V. Giorgio Vasari claims that Titian was summoned to Bologna, where the emperor was at the time. There “he painted a truly beautiful portrait of His Majesty in full armor that delighted the emperor so greatly.”43 Unfortunately, the portrait has been lost.44 When Charles returned to Bologna in 1532–1533, “he once again desired to have his portrait done by Titian.”45 For Erwin Panofsky these meetings constituted the beginning of a relationship between artist and patron “which is almost unique in the annals of art.”46 The Venetian painter was to become the ‘official’ portrait artist of the emperor, thus imitating the ancient relationship between Apelles and Alexander the Great. The anecdote that Apelles was Alexander’s official painter was widely disseminated in Spain and can be found in Pedro Mexía. Although he came from Venice, the Italian realm that most often resisted Spanish influence, Titian was to become the most revered painter for the Spanish Habsburgs, with portraits, mythologies and religious paintings journeying from Venice to Madrid during the reigns of Charles V and Philip II. For Philip II, Titian created a series of poesie or mythological scenes that some think were meant for an erotic camerino.47 Even “the weak and dim-witted” Philip III, whose corrupt reign paradoxically witnessed the “the birth of some 42 43 44 45 46 47

Sánchez Jiménez, El pincel y el Fénix, 208. Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, 497. Erwin Panofsky, Problems in Titian: Mostly Iconographic (New York: 1969), 7. Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, 498. Panofsky, Problems in Titian, 7. Pedrocco explains: “But is seems that Philip’s camerino, the reconstruction of which has been much discussed, was never realized, since when they arrived in Spain the canvases were placed in different locations, to be brought together only early in the 17th century” (Filippo Pedrocco, Titian [New York: 2000], 222).

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of Spain’s greatest masterpieces in the realms of art and literature,”48 considered Titian the greatest artistic treasure. When the El Pardo Palace caught fire in 1604, Philip III inquired if Titian’s Venus had been saved and when the answer was in the affirmative, he was relieved since nothing else at the palace had such high merit.49 Indeed, there are more paintings by Titian in the palaces around Madrid than anywhere else in the world.50 A study of Titian’s many works would go well beyond the scope of this essay.51 But there is one work that cannot be ignored since it clearly shows the competition between Apelles and Titian. One of the characteristics of both Apelles and Titian when it comes to portraits is their belief in decorum, one that is not based on false praise, but on depicting what is appropriate for the status of the person portrayed. Pliny tells how Apelles attempted to paint King Antigonus, blind in one eye. He drew him so that the image “only showed the part of the face which he was able to display as unmutilated.”52 In a similar manner, Titian’s portrayals of Charles V and Philip II, and in particular his Charles V at Mühlberg (see Figure 18.5), transforms the misshapen jaw of the Habsburgs into a sign of determination, “his ungainly mouth set in an expression of unshakable resolve.”53 In addition, Titian, like Apelles, sought to foreground the weapon or symbol of power to be held by the ruler. In this equestrian portrait celebrating the great triumph at Mühlberg, Charles V carries neither sword nor baton. Instead, the emperor is seen with a spear, an 48 49 50 51

52 53

See Enrique García Santo-Tomás’ essay “Civil Ritual, Urban Life,” included in this volume. Simon A. Vosters, Rubens y España: estudio artístico-literario sobre la estética del Barroco (Madrid: 1990), 35. Fernando Checa Cremades, Tiziano y la Monarquía Hispánica (Madrid: 1994), 27. On Titian in Spain see, for example, Ambrose on mythology (Timothy Ambrose, “Lope de Vega and Titian: The Goddess as Emblem of Sacred and Profane Love,” in Writing for the Eyes in the Spanish Golden Age, [ed.] Frederick A. de Armas [Lewisburg: 2004], 167– 184); Bunn on questions of empire (Elaine Bunn, “Negotiating Empire and Desire in Lope de Vega’s Carlos V en Francia,” Hispanic Review 72.1 [2004]: 29–42); De Armas on his uses by Cervantes (Frederick A. de Armas, Quixotic Frescoes: Cervantes and Italian Renaissance Art [Toronto: 2006]) and Lope de Vega (Frederick A. de Armas, “Lope de Vega and Titian,” Comparative Literature 30 [1978]; and De Armas, “Lope’s Speaking Pictures”); and Gómez on the portrayal of women (María Asunción Gómez, “Mirando de cerca ‘mujer, comedia y pintura’ en las obras dramáticas de Lope de Vega y Calderón,” Bulletin of the Comediantes 49 [1997]: 273–293). In addition, Portús (Javier Portús Pérez, Pintura y pensamiento en la España de Lope de Vega [Hondarribia: 1999]) and Sánchez Jiménez (El pincel y el Fénix) have written on painting and its influences in Lope de Vega. Both volumes contain a wealth of information and thoughtful commentary, but given their scope, they do not focus on Titian. Pliny, Natural History IX: Books XXXIII–XXXV, 35.329; 1552: 329. Erwin Panofsky, Problems in Titian, 85.

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Titian, Charles V at Mühlberg Museo del Prado, Madrid (Gianni Dagli Orti / Art Resource)

image that reflects the historical circumstance, since he led the battle with this weapon. Panofsky explains that the lance or spear carried by the emperor has a double symbolic value. First of all, “the spear was the weapon of such valiant killers of dragons (that is to say, heresies) as St George, and very often, St Michael.”54 And, “in a wider application it is the weapon of the Christian

54

Panofsky, Problems in Titian, 86.

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knight.”55 In like manner, Pliny recounts that Apelles gave Alexander a thunderbolt as a weapon, perhaps because Olympia, his mother, before giving birth, had dreamt that thunder and lightning had hit her womb, but also because the thunderbolt was Jupiter’s symbol of power.56 According to Plutarch, Alexander was given a darker complexion to be lighted solely by the radiance of his spear. However, all we preserve is an image from Pompeii that hardly does justice to Alexander’s weapon. In Titian’s portrait, the somewhat darkened sky glows with yellow light, a golden color reflected in Charles V’s armor. It is as if Titian, recalling the striking spear and lighting in Apelles’ portrait, sought to emulate it. While in Alexander’s portrait the king is viewed as god-like, Titian Christianizes this notion and makes the emperor into a Christian knight. Very much like Apelles, Titian granted fame to his ruler and vice versa. Lope de Vega entered this conversation with a poem entitled “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad que hizo Pedro Pablo Rubens.” Rubens arrived in Madrid for his second visit to the city in 1628, twenty-five years after he had first come there as a young man. Philip IV immediately requested from him a series of portraits, thus breaking the exclusivity of Velázquez in painting the king. Marie-Anne Lescourret explains: “Philip IV had a studio installed for him at the palace and paid Rubens a visit every day … Philip IV had asked his court painter, Diego Velázquez to open all the royal galleries for Rubens and from then on the Flemish painter fed on the great collection of Titians collected by the Emperor Charles V … Rubens copied the great Venetian, not only because he believed in the instructive benefits of copying but also to enrich his own collections.”57 It is doubtful that Velázquez was overwrought at the turn of events. Rubens was such an important figure in diplomacy and art that the Spanish artist must have acquiesced to all requests, if not with joy at least with resignation. But there was one moment that must have tested Velázquez’s equanimity. As Fabien Montcher points out, permanent and extraordinary embassies channeled the pretentions for prestige and reputation of the high nobility.58 Rubens was asked to paint an equestrian portrait of 55 56

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Panofsky, Problems in Titian, 86. “The thunderbolt … announces that the king commands some of Zeus’ divine powers and therefore demands some of the same respect. It is a bold step in the exaltation of a ruler, making Alexander the equal of a god (but not replacing that god). There can be little doubt that Alexander … commissioned its representation both in the painting by Apelles and in the elephant medallion … both place a bolt of lightning in Alexander’s hand” (Frank L. Holt, Alexander the Great and the Mystery of the Elephant Medallions [Berkeley and Los Angeles: 2003], 124). Marie-Anne Lescourret, Rubens: A Double Life (Chicago: 1993), 160–161. See Fabien Montcher’s essay on “Politics and Government in Spain during the 16th Century,” included in this volume.

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the king (of which we preserve only a copy since the original perished when the Alcázar burned in 1734) (see Figure 18.6);59 it replaced Velázquez’s own painting, which had been installed in the Alcázar just three years before.60 Lope de Vega was well aware of what was occurring. Asked to write a poem in praise of Rubens’ new painting, he used his broad knowledge of the history of art to expand and contextualize the episode further. Since he was dealing with an equestrian portrait, Lope decided to use as background to his laudatory work the famous canvas done by Titian for Charles V. He thus calls Rubens a new Titian, and he also indicates that Philip is akin to the emperor: “similar to his divine great-grandfather.”61 He then proceeds to elaborate further on the uniqueness and greatness of Rubens’ portrait and of Philip’s rule, contrasting nature and art: natura naturans (creative nature), Jupiter, Alexander, Charles V and Philip IV are set against Art, Prometheus, Apelles, Titian and Rubens. The poem proceeds from an ominous beginning to a happy conclusion. At first, we are presented with the artist (Rubens) as a new Prometheus. Instead of stealing fire from the gods, he takes her brushes.62 Emilie Bergmann calls this motif “art as robbery.”63 A satyr, who stands for envy, informs Nature of this theft. Enraged, she searches for the culprit, and punishes many along the way: the rose, for example, is doomed to blossom for only one day. In the end, Nature finds the painting for which her brushes were used. As she gazes at Philip’s portrait, she is so amazed at the youthful king, who is “tan vivo, / tan fuerte, tan fogoso, tan altivo” (so life-like, strong, fiery and proud) that she restrains herself and does not destroy the canvas.64 At the poem’s conclusion, Nature decides she can do no better. Since Philip has become Alexander, let him have an Apelles.65 Although Lope could not have provided a more apt and laudatory comparison, the context can diminish the praise here imparted. Let us remember that there was a very special relationship between Titian and Charles V, one that

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There is a copy at the Uffizi that was commissioned by Gaspar Méndez de Haro, Marqués de Heliche and Viceroy of Naples, and made by Juan Bautista Mazo (although the face was made by Velázquez). Antonio Sánchez Jiménez, “Lope de Vega y Diego de Velázquez (con Caravaggio y Carducho): historia y razones de un silencio,” RILCE. Revista de Filología Hispánica 29 (2013): 758–775, at 763; Jonathan Brown, Velázquez: Painter and Courtier (New Haven: 2006), 65. “semejante a su divino bisabuelo” (Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad,” 681). Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad,” 679. Emilie Bergmann, Art Inscribed: Essays on Ekphrasis in Spanish Golden Age Poetry (Cambridge: 1979), 84–85. Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad,” 680. Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad,” 681.

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Peter Paul Rubens, Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV of Spain, Uffizi, Florence Scala/Art Resource

lasted for many years. This is not the case with Rubens and Philip. The Flemish painter came to Madrid on a diplomatic mission, seeking to negotiate a treaty between Spain and England. He spent two years in Madrid and then was sent to London. Thus, although his relations with the king were close, they would only last a brief time. In fact, Rubens was not overly fond of Spaniards, an under-

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standable attitude since he blamed them for the ruin of the Low Countries. He would often “denounce their arrogance, their laziness and their capriciousness … He did not even spare the King and his ministers ‘who appear to be in a profound lethargy.’”66 In a letter dated December 29, 1628 he praises Philip while adding: “… he would surely be capable of governing under any conditions, were it not that he mistrusts himself and defers too much to others. But now he has to pay for his own credulity and others’ folly and feel the hatred that is not meant for him. Thus have the gods willed it.”67 While Titian sought to deflect the defects of Charles V, turning his deformed jaw into a sign of determination, here the defects are those of empire. A native of the Americas found in the painting points to the expanse of the new territories. However, the figure can also reveal that war could only be waged with revenues from the Indies as Spain kept experiencing bankruptcies. In the sky above the canvas, different allegorical figures are depicted, one of which holds the world. Since part of it is obscured by Philip’s head, it almost appears as a halo, but an earthly one. This figure points to Spain, which may cease to be the center of the world. Another figure, perhaps Victory, shoots arrows at a dragon, which represents heresy. The suffused golden light found in Titian’s portrait of Charles becomes a darker and more ominous reddish color in Rubens, perhaps indicating that the storms of war do not loom far. Lope de Vega echoes the uncertainties of the times in his laudatory poem: “The youth was amiably fierce, with his strong baton placing a nail in Fortune’s swift wheel.”68 Spain is no longer ascendant. Philip is simply trying to hold on to his high place and that of Spain as the wheel of Fortune moves swiftly, possible leading the country downwards. The function of Alexander and Apelles, of Charles V and Titian, may be to provide a laudatory comparison. But the state of affairs is such that it would be difficult to equate Philip’s present with an imperial past, be it that of Alexander or of Charles V. While elsewhere Lope would use Apelles as a figure who is the harbinger of fame to others (and this even includes a goddess), here it is Rubens who seeks to be a new Apelles. While he completes a fine painting, it cannot be compared favorably with Titian’s Charles V at Mühlberg nor with the glories of the then-rising Empire.69

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Lescourret, Rubens: A Double Life, 156. Ruth Saunders Magurn, The Letters of Peter Paul Rubens (Cambridge, MA: 1955), 295. “Estaba el joven dulcemente bravo / con el fuerte bastón poniendo un clavo / en la rueda veloz de la Fortuna” (Lope de Vega, “Al cuadro y retrato de Su Majestad,” 680). In my 1978 article on Lope and Titian, I called this comparison “derogatory.” I no longer consider this to be true. But I still believe that in the midst of so much praise there is cer-

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In conclusion, a cobbler, a goddess and a ruler, figures encountered or drawn by Apelles in ancient times, seem to come back to life in Renaissance Italy and Imperial Spain. Each may be clothed in a new garb, but they still accentuate the greatness of a classical past that a new era seeks to emulate. The cobbler seeks to bring down the painter, a figure that according to Vasari could rise to the level of a “mortal god.”70 Instead, Apelles and those that embody him in the Renaissance are shown to be open to criticism, when appropriate; and when not, ready to exhibit their deep and comprehensive knowledge. The cobbler or his surrogates (like the pedants in Vives) can represent an inept figure who chooses to criticize what he does not know; he can also mutate into the figure of the buyer, someone as yet unsure of himself, as the art market becomes more and more open to non-aristocratic customers. But the artist remains supreme as all wish to become embodiments of Apelles. Indeed, Apelles and his followers even bring fame to Olympus, be they members of the pagan pantheon or kings and courtiers in this world. An unadorned Venus acquires fame through Apelles’ art, and the art and literature of many that follow him, from Botticelli to Lope de Vega, from Marcantonio Raimondi to Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla, and from Titian to Tirso. A ruler also sees himself as a new Jupiter and a new Alexander as Rubens (a new Apelles) robs the brushes of nature so as to draw his greatness. Lope de Vega, with subtle irony and understanding, writes of the greatness of this new Philip, but through hyperbole may reveal the greater ages that are not past: that of Charles V and Titian and that of Apelles and Alexander. But even as Fortune’s wheel spins, Apelles remains in a revered place where newer designs and conversations serve only to confirm the form of his art, one that no longer exists but is forever imagined.

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tainly room to question a difficult historical moment. See Frederick A. de Armas, “Lope de Vega and Titian,” 344. Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, 305.

part 7 Currents and Currency

∵

chapter 19

Spanish Science in the Age of the New William Eamon

1

Introduction

If we could ask Early Modern Europeans to describe the era in which they lived, they might call it “The Age of the New.”1 In the years from roughly 1490 to 1725, Europeans discovered new worlds, both East and West, invented new technologies such as printing, encountered new peoples and cultures, observed new stars in the heavens, opened new trade routes, propagated new religious faiths, and created new philosophies that challenged long-held beliefs. Renaissance peoples’ fascination with novelty had innumerable objects, none more alluring than the wonders of nature. Whether in the form of exotic plants and animals from the New World or the long-hidden ‘secrets of nature,’ novelty was a singular feature of Renaissance science. Renaissance Spain was on the cutting edge of the Age of the New. Of all the surprises and novelties of Early Modern history, none was more unexpected than the sudden, seemingly miraculous rise of a dry, barren, impoverished land to become all but the master of the world. In building its Empire Spain revealed territories completely unknown to European contemporaries, defiantly rebuked the ancient philosophers, and brought to Europe’s doorstep strange commodities, specimens of exotic plants and animals, hair-raising tales of adventure, and accounts of completely new customs and ways of life. Owing to the geographical position of the Iberian Peninsula, the course of Early Modern Spanish science diverged from the norm in other parts of Europe. Situated at the western periphery of Europe and closer than any other part of the continent to North Africa, Spanish seamen had access to the favorable winds that would propel Columbus and the colonizers who followed to the Canaries, thence to the New World. Within a few decades of the discovery of America, Spain possessed the largest Empire the western world had ever known. Because its scientific tradition developed within an imperial structure, Spain staked out different scientific territory than the terrain usually associ-

1 I borrow the phrase from Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston, “Introduction,” The Cambridge History of Science, vol. 3: Early Modern Science (Cambridge: 2006), 1.

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ated with the Scientific Revolution. The sites of scientific activity in the Spanish Empire also differed. Even as Spain’s universities ossified, the institutions the Monarchy established to rule its Empire provided rich soil for science.

2

Science and Medicine in Spanish Universities

In the Renaissance the disciplines that moderns include under the term ‘science’ fell under the umbrella of philosophia naturalis, or natural philosophy. These sciences studied the sensible material world, including motion (physics), the heavens (astronomy), and the earth (meteorology, geology). Natural philosophy’s home was the university, where professors lectured and disputed on the logical and scientific works of ancient Greek and Roman authors (chiefly Aristotle) and the medieval Arabic and scholastic commentators. The teaching of medicine followed similar practices: lecture and disputation on the texts of Galen and his Arabic commentator Avicenna. The curriculum in natural philosophy and medicine at the three main Spanish universities (Salamanca, Valencia, and Alcalá de Henares) was similar to that found elsewhere in Europe. Astronomy, based on the Ptolemaic system, was taught with digests such as the Alfonsine Tables, one of the Arabic astronomical treatises produced in 13th-century Toledo under the patronage of Alfonso the Wise (1221–1284).2 Astronomy was taught alongside its partner discipline, astrology.3 Far from being regarded as a nagging superstition, the idea that the planets influenced terrestrial events was universally accepted. Astrology was a major Renaissance science and an important adjunct to medicine— provided it took the form of natural and not judicial astrology. The former, confined to matters such as weather forecasting or determining the organ from which to draw blood, was acceptable; the latter, however, because it prognosticated about the future, was considered a form of divination and was strictly forbidden by the Church. Despite this prohibition, astrology flourished in Spain 2 Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “The Cultivation of Astronomy in Spanish Universities in the Latter Half of the 16th Century,” in Universities and Science in the Early Modern Period, (eds.) Mordechai Feingold and Víctor Navarro Brotòns (Dordrecht: 2006), 91; and Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “La enseñanza de la filosofía y las ciencias en las universidades: la reglamentación y la práctica,” in Disciplinas, saberes y prácticas: filosofía natural, matemáticas y astronomía en la sociedad española de la época moderna (Valencia: 2014), 61–80, at 76. 3 Tayra M.C. Lanuza-Navarro, “Astrology in Spanish Early Modern Institutions of Learning,” in Beyond Borders: Fresh Perspectives in History of Science, (eds.) Josep Simón and Nestor Herrán (Newcastle: 2008), 79–97; and Tayra M.C. Lanuza-Navarro, “Astrological Literature in Seventeenth-Century Spain,” The Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies 7 (2009): 119–136.

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in the form of prognostications, almanacs, and health regimens.4 Whether to know what the future may bring, discover a thief, or find answers to questions that vexed them, people sought help in the stars.5 By the mid-16th century students and faculty at Spanish universities were debating the new heliocentric cosmology advanced by Polish astronomer Nicolas Copernicus in De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, 1543). The Universities of Salamanca and Alcalá approved Copernicus’ work as an alternative astronomy textbook to Ptolemy’s Almagest. De revolutionibus did not generate much controversy in the Spanish universities. Most professors regarded the theory as an alternative mathematical hypothesis, not a real physical system.6 Copernicus’ revolution-making (though hardly revolutionary) book circulated freely in 16th-century Spain and was never placed on the Spanish Inquisitorial Index. Only a handful of 16th-century Europeans defended Copernicus’ theory as a true physical description of the universe. One was the Spanish monk Diego de Zúñiga (1536–1600), who argued in his Commentary on Job (1584) that the famous passage in Job 9.6, “He moves the Earth from its place and makes its columns tremble,” was better explained by the heliocentric theory than the Ptolemaic model, although several years later he retracted his position.7 The astronomer Jerónimo Muñoz (1520–1591), a converso who taught mathematics and astronomy at Valencia, defended the Copernican theory as a mathematical hypothesis but denied its physical reality. Muñoz later wrote a treatise on the supernova of 1572, arguing that the appearance of the new star refuted the Aristotelian doctrine of the incorruptibility of the heavens.8 Scholastic medical learning, dominated by Avicenna’s Canon, peaked at the Spanish universities by the mid-15th century.9 As medical humanism made 4 Tayra M.C. Lanuza-Navarro, “Astrological Prognostications in Seventeenth-Century Spain,” in Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica, (eds.) Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon (Valencia: 2007), 78–86; and Tayra M.C. Lanuza-Navarro, “Medical Astrology in Spain in the Seventeenth Century,” Cronos 9 (2006): 59–84. 5 William Eamon, “Astrology in Renaissance Society,” in Companion to Astrology in the Renaissance, (ed.) Brendan Dooley (Leiden: 2014), 141–192. 6 Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “The Teaching of the Mathematical Disciplines in Sixteenth-Century Spain,” Science and Education 15 (2006): 209–233, at 220. 7 Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “The Reception of Copernicus in Sixteenth-Century Spain: The Case of Diego de Zúñiga,” Isis 86 (1995): 52–78. 8 Libro del nuevo cometa (Valencia: 1593). See also Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “The Cultivation of Astronomy in Spanish Universities in the Latter Half of the 16th Century,” in Universities and Science in the Early Modern Period, (eds.) Mordechai Feingold and Víctor Navarro Brotòns (Dordrecht: 2006), 83–98, at 85. 9 Luis S. Granjel, La medicina española renacentista (Salamanca: 1980).

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inroads, the Arabic translations traditionally used in the classroom were replaced by treatises translated directly from Greek.10 At the University of Valencia, a municipal university that gave preference to the teaching of medicine, medical humanism transformed the curriculum, making it one of the most progressive medical schools in Europe.11 Besides creating one of the first university chairs of medical botany, Valencia was on the cutting edge of anatomical teaching.12 Even before the publication of Andreas Vesalius’ monumental De humanis corporis fabrica (On the Fabric of the Human Body, 1543), Valencian professors such as Miguel Jerónimo Ledesma (ca. 1510–1547) were teaching anatomy by human dissection.13 Pedro Jimeno (1515–1555), who acceded to the Valencian anatomy chair in 1547, had studied with Vesalius at Padua in the early 1540s.14 Under Jimeno’s direction Valencia became one of the first medical schools in Europe to offer anatomy classes using Vesalius’ approach.15 Anatomical demonstrations were popular spectator events in Early Modern Europe, attracting throngs of people. To accommodate the public and improve teaching, universities created permanent anatomy theaters.16 Spain’s oldest, at the

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María Jesús Pérez Ibáñez, El humanismo médico del siglo XVI en la Universidad de Salamanca (Valladolid: 1998). In addition, see Luis García Ballester, “Medical Science and Medical Teaching at the University of Salamanca in the 15th Century,” in Universities and Science in the Early Modern Period, (eds.) Mordechai Feingold and Víctor Navarro Brotòns (Dordrecht: 2006), 37–64. José María López Piñero, “La facultad de medicina,” in Cinc segles i un dia (Valencia: 2000), 49–68. José María López Piñero, “La disección y el saber anatómico en la España de la primera mitad del siglo XVI,” Cuadernos de Historia de la Medicina Española 13 (1974): 51–110; José María López Piñero, “La disección anatómica y la reforma vesaliana en la España del siglo XVI,” Cuadernos Valencianos de Historia de la Medicina y de la Ciencia 19 (1976): 61–130; and José María López Piñero, “The Vesalian Movement in Sixteenth Century Spain,” Journal of the History of Biology 12 (1979): 45–81. José María López Piñero, “Ledesma, Miguel Jerónimo,” in Diccionario histórico de la ciencia moderna en España, (eds.) José M. López Piñero et al. (Barcelona: 1983), 1:521–523. In addition, see María Teresa Santamaría Hernández, El humanismo médico en la Universidad de Valencia (siglo XVI) (Valencia: 2003), 47–55. José María López Piñero, “Jimeno, Pedro,” in Diccionario histórico, vol. 1: 479–482. In addition, see Santamaría Hernández, Humanismo médico, 60–68. José María López Piñero and Luis Ballester, Antología de la escuela anatómica valenciana del siglo XVI (Valencia: 1962). Jimeno’s Dialogus de re medica (1549) was the first work on anatomy to be published in Spain. See C.D. O’Malley, “Pedro Jimeno: Valencian Anatomist of the Mid-Sixteenth Century,” in Science, Medicine and Society in the Renaissance: Essays to Honor Walter Pagel, (ed.) Allen G. Debus (New York: 1972), 69–72. In addition, see Bjørn Okholm Skaarup, Anatomy and Anatomists in Early Modern Spain (Farnham: 2015). Álvar Martínez-Vidal and José Pardo Tomás, “Anatomical Theatres and the Teaching of Anatomy in Early Modern Spain,” Medical History 49.3 (2005): 251–280.

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University of Salamanca, was completed in 1554.17 Anatomical theaters were also constructed at Valencia, Alcalá, and Barcelona. While Spanish universities embraced Vesalius’ methods, anatomical books published in Spain were generally inferior to those produced in the great printing centers such as Basel and Venice.18 The first Spaniard to introduce Vesalian illustrations was Juan Valverde de Hamusco, whose Historia de la composición del cuerpo humano was published in 1556.19 Printed in Rome for distribution among Spanish surgeons, Valverde’s treatise included illustrations adapted from Vesalius. Although the prickly Belgian was quick to condemn the work, Valverde had in fact introduced numerous improvements, including some he learned from Vesalius’ arch-enemy and Valverde’s teacher Realdo Colombo20 (see Figure 19.1). By the mid-17th century Spain’s universities showed unmistakable signs of decline. The English naturalist Francis Willughby, visiting Spain in the 1660s, observed, “in all kinds of good learning the Spaniards are behind the rest of Europe, understanding nothing at all but a little of the old wrangling Philosophy and School-divinity.”21 By the time Willughby wrote these words, the universities were no longer creative forces in Spanish intellectual life. Yet the Englishman’s observation hardly completes the picture of Early Modern Spanish science. Spain differed from other European countries in that its most significant scientific research took place not in the universities but in institutions created to keep its vast Empire running.

3

New Sites of Science

Spain and Portugal were the first European monarchies to create institutions designed to collect and organize scientific knowledge. The Casa da Índia in

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T. Santander, “La iglesia de San Nicolás y el antiguo teatro anatómico de la Universidad de Salamanca,” Revista Española de Teología 43 (1983): 253–273. The first work on anatomy in Spanish was Bernardino Montaña de Monserrate’s Libro de la anatomía del hombre (Valladolid: 1551). See J.B. Saunders and C.D. O’Malley, “Bernardino Montaña de Monserrate, Author of the First Anatomy in the Spanish Language,” Journal of the History of Medicine 1 (1946): 87–107. López Piñero, “Valverde de Amusco, Juan,” in Diccionario histórico, 2: 394–396; Francisco Guerra, “Juan Valverde de Amusco,” Clio Medica 2 (1967): 339–362; Granjel, Medicina española, 157–158. C.D. O’Malley, Andreas Vesalius of Brussels, 1514–1564 (Berkeley: 1964), 294. Quoted in Henry Kamen, Spain in the Later Seventeeth Century, 1665–1700 (London: 1980), 319, 313.

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Flayed cadaver holding his skin in one hand and a dissecting knife in the other from Juan Valverde de Amusco, Anatomia del corpo humano (Rome, 1559), United States National Library of Medicine

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Lisbon and the Casa de la Contratación in Seville—boards of trade tasked with regulating imports from the New World and the East Indies—necessarily took on scientific functions. As the first agencies to accumulate geographical and biological knowledge from the newly discovered world systematically, they were in effect Europe’s first state-sponsored scientific institutions.22 The Casa de la Contratación in Seville, chartered in 1503 by Ferdinand and Isabella to manage commerce and navigation to the Indies, became the locus of information exchange about the New World.23 In 1508 the Casa created the office of piloto mayor, or chief pilot, to supervise overseas navigation, and created a school of navigation—the first in Europe—to train pilots in celestial navigation.24 The officials of the Casa de la Contratación kept systematic records of all discoveries in the Indies, employed specialists in instrument- and mapmaking, and maintained an up-to-date standard chart, the Padrón Real, to ensure that ship captains were issued uniform charts.25 Not everyone agreed that pilots needed scientific training. During the 1530s and 1540s conflicts erupted between pilots—who insisted that experience at sea trumped science—and cosmographers, who advocated using Ptolemaic cartography and astronomical navigation.26 At the heart of the dispute was the question of what type of knowledge was most useful for navigation. Should pilots be expected to master the science of astronomical navigation or was dead

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David Turnbull, “Cartography and Science in Early Modern Europe: Mapping the Construction of Knowledge Spaces,” Imago Mundi 48 (1996): 5–24. Antonio Acosta Rodríguez, Adolfo Luis González Rodríguez, and Enriqueta Vila Vilar, La Casa de la Contratación y la navegación entre España y las Indias (Seville: 2003). In addition, see Antonio Barrera-Osioro, Experiencing Nature: The Spanish American Empire and the Early Scientific Revolution (Austin: 2006), ch. 2; and María Portuondo, “Cosmography at the Casa, Consejo, and Corte during the Age of Discovery,” in Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, 1500–1800, (eds.) Daniela Bleichmar, Paula de Vos, Kristin Huffine, and Kevin Sheehan (Stanford: 2009), 57–77. José Pulido Rubio, El piloto mayor de la Casa de la Contratación de Sevilla: pilotos mayores, catedráticos de cosmografía y cosmógrafos (Sevilla: 1950). In addition, see Antonio Sánchez Martínez, “Los artífices del Plus Ultra: pilotos, cartógrafos y cosmógrafos en la Casa de la Contratación de Sevilla durante el siglo XVI,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 70 (2010): 607–632. Antonio Sánchez, La espada, la cruz y el Padrón: soberanía, fe y representación cartográfica en el mundo ibérico bajo la Monarquía Hispánica, 1503–1598 (Madrid: 2013). Alison Sandman, “Cosmographers vs. Pilots: Navigation, Cosmography, and the State in Early Modern Spain,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 2001, ch. 2; Pablo Emilio Pérez-Mallaína, “El arte de navegar: ciencia versus experiencia en la navegación transatlántica,” in España y América: un océano de negocios (Quinto Centenario de la Casa de La Contratación, 1503–2003), (ed.) Guiomar de Carlos Boutet (Madrid: 2008), 103–118.

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reckoning sufficient to get from one port to another? Diplomatic urgency—the need to establish the meridian defined by the Treaty of Tordesillas dividing the newly discovered territories between Portugal and Spain—gave navigators the argument they needed to convince authorities that cosmography could benefit the state. Cosmography, an ancient science that goes back to Ptolemy’s Geography, was reinvented in the Renaissance.27 Humanists embraced Ptolemy’s ideal “to describe the whole of the known world.” Yet by the end of the 15th century the compact, bounded, and familiar world described in scholarly books had vanished. The discovery of new worlds revealed that Europeans occupied only a tiny corner of the world—a world expanded by tens of thousands of miles. The old discipline of cosmography strained under the avalanche of new knowledge revealed by the discoveries. There were no classical sources describing the Incas, Aztecs, or Arawaks. No ancient writer had ever seen an armadillo or an avocado. The Spanish royal authorities needed to know about the New World in order to govern it. They required detailed information about its plant and animal life, its coastlines and navigable ports, its geography and natural history, and its inhabitants (how they governed themselves and what kind of religion they practiced). Spaniards needed to learn these things for commercial, administrative, religious, and even medical purposes: the unfamiliar diseases that Europeans contracted in the New World challenged them to find ways to adjust to the new and sometimes hostile environment.28

4

Spanish Naturalists in the New World

The earliest naturalists in the New World were not scientists by training, but civil servants and colonial administrators. Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés (1478–1557) went to America as a mine supervisor in Tierra Firme (now part of Central America) and spent 27 years in the New World, compiling thousands of pages of notes on natural history and native cultures.29 Oviedo

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Anthony Grafton, New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery (Cambridge, MA: 1992), ch. 1. See also Mariano Esteban Piñeiro, “La cosmografía,” in Historia de la ciencia y de la técnica en la Corona de Castilla, vol. 3: Siglos XVI y XVII, (ed.) J.M. López Piñero (Madrid: 2002), 319–346. Rebecca Earle, The Body of the Conquistador: Food, Race and the Colonial Experience in Spanish America, 1492–1700 (Cambridge: 2012). Antonello Gerbi, Nature in the New World: From Christopher Columbus to Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, trans. Jeremy Moyle (1985; repr. Pittsburgh: 2010); Jesús M. Carrillo Castillo,

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published his impressions of the New World in De la natural hystoria de las Indias (Natural History of the Indies, 1526), a work that was quickly translated into English, French, and Italian. It was from Oviedo’s book that Europeans first learned about avocadoes, pineapples, papayas, tobacco, jaguars, and hundreds of other New World plants and animals. And De la natural hystoria de las Indias was only a précis of the great treatise that Oviedo would later publish under the title Historia general y natural de las Indias Occidentales (General and Natural History of the West Indies, 1535).30 Oviedo, who styled himself “the second Pliny,” stated that his intent was to write both a natural history and a moral history (historia natural y moral) of the New World, one describing its geography and biota, the other recounting Amerindian cultures. Although Oviedo used Pliny’s Natural History as a literary model, he distanced himself from the ancient naturalist’s methods. Unlike Pliny, who had “culled [his experiences] from two hundred thousand volumes,” Oviedo boasted, “I have compiled what I here write from two hundred thousand hardships, privations, and dangers in the more than twenty-two years that I have personally witnessed and experienced these things.”31 Oviedo’s independent attitude is evident throughout the work. “The many animals that exist in the Indies that I describe here,” he wrote, “could not have been learned about from the ancients. There is no mention made of these lands in Ptolemy’s Cosmography, nor were they known until Christopher Columbus showed them to us.”32 The longer Oviedo stayed in the New World, the less he relied on European sources. Because his subject was so unfamiliar he had to describe it on its own, peculiar terms. Increasingly he relied on visual images—though his own drawings were far from accomplished. Simple and schematic, they demonstrate that Oviedo took pains to portray his subjects accurately.33 Oviedo was the

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Naturaleza e imperio: la representación del mundo natural en la Historia general y natural de las Indias de Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo (Madrid: 2004); Kathleen Ann Myers, Fernández de Oviedo’s Chronicle of America: A New History for a New World, trans. Nina M. Scott (Austin: 2007); and Raquel Álvarez Peláez, La conquista de la naturaleza americana (Madrid: 1993). Jesús Carillo Castillo, “The Historia general y natural de las Indias by Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo,” Huntington Library Quarterly 65 (2002): 321–344. Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Historia natural de las Indias, (ed.) Juan Pérez de Tudela Bueso (Madrid: 1959), Proemio, Book 1; translation in Myers, Oviedo’s Chronicle of America, 150. Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Natural History of the West Indies, trans. Sterling A. Stoudemire (Chapel Hill: 1959), 47. Kathleen Ann Myers, “The Representation of New World Phenomena: Visual Epistemol-

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figure 19.2 Oviedo’s drawing of the pineapple ( yayama in Arawak) in Historia general y natural de las Indias Occidentales (General and Natural History of the West Indies, 1535) illustrates the predicament naturalists faced when naming and describing new species. Although the plant is shaped like a pinecone and has thistles like an artichoke, its taste was “beyond comparison” to anything known in the Old World. Unable to describe the plant in words, Oviedo resorted to a drawing, which, he conceded, could impart only a partial understanding.

first European naturalist to confront what would become the perennial problem of the explorer-scientist: describing species and objects for which there were no familiar analogues. As explorers fanned out across Central and South America and sent their reports and specimens back to Spain, Europe’s scientific vocabulary, pharmacopoeia, and even cuisine changed. And Europeans awoke to the realization of distant peoples and cultures completely unlike any they had known (see Figure 19.2).

ogy and Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo’s Illustrations,” in Early Images of the Americas: Transfer and Invention, (eds.) Jerry M. Williams and Robert E. Lewis (Tucson: 1993), 183– 213.

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Collecting New World Nature

The Spanish Crown’s interest in New World nature was linked with its imperial activity.34 Philip II, who insisted on signing off on every significant document dealing with his realm, strove to overcome the geographical and psychological distance that separated him from his colonial possessions. In 1569, the king directed his advisor Juan de Ovando (1515–1575) to redesign the Consejo de Indias. Codifying the Council’s procedures for collecting information about the New World, Ovando transformed the Consejo into a well-oiled fact-gathering machine.35 In the 1570s the Council circulated questionnaires to officials in the American colonies. The Relaciones geográficas, as the reports were called, included detailed inquiries concerning natural history, geography, demographics, weather conditions, animals, trade, and the customs, rites, and beliefs of the indigenous peoples. The questionnaires also collected astronomical and navigational information, including observations of lunar eclipses and descriptions of ports.36 In 1570, Philip inaugurated his most ambitious scientific project, ordering his court physician Francisco Hernández to travel to Mexico and Peru to “gather information about herbs, trees, and medicinal plants” and their native uses.37 After spending seven years in New Spain, Hernández compiled a massive anthology of New World plants that broke sharply with tradition. The ancient botanist Dioscorides, whose De materia medica was considered the authoritative Renaissance guide to the subject, knew about 600 species; Hernández added more than 3,000 New World plants. So new were they to Europeans that Hernández identified them by their Nahuatl names.38 He also described how 34

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Daniela Bleichmar, “Books, Bodies, and Fields: Sixteenth-Century Transatlantic Encounters with New World Materia Medica,” in Colonial Botany: Science, Commerce, and Politics, (eds.) Londa Schiebinger and Claudia Swan (Philadelphia: 2005), 83–99. María Portuondo, Secret Science: Spanish Cosmography and the New World (Chicago: 2009), ch. 3. Antonio Barrera, “Empire and Knowledge: Reporting from the New World,” Colonial Latin American Review 15.1 (2006): 39–54. On the relaciones, see Francisco de Solano and Pilar Ponce (eds.), Cuestionarios para la formación de las relaciones geográficas de Indias: siglos XVI/XIX (Madrid: 1988); and Barbara Mundy, The Mapping of New Spain: Indigenous Cartography and the Maps of the Relaciones Geográficas (Chicago: 1993). Simon Varey, “Francisco Hernández, Renaissance Man,” in Searching for the Secrets of Nature: The Life and Works of Dr. Francisco Hernández, (eds.) Simon Varey, Rafael Chabrán and Dora B. Weiner (Stanford: 2000), 33–40, at 35; José María López Piñero and José Pardo Tomás, Nuevos materiales y noticias sobre la “Historia de las plantas de Nueva España” de Francisco Hernández (Valencia: 1994). Jose María López Piñero and José Pardo Tomás, “The Contribution of Hernández to Euro-

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natives used the plants, giving his groundbreaking work ethnological significance. As he explained to King Philip, “Although you have commissioned me only to pursue the history of natural and earthly matters, nevertheless, it is my judgment that the customs and rites of the people are not so distant from this type of history.”39 Hernández’s astonishing statement, envisioning a natural science of ethnography, was as paradigm shifting as the Copernican Revolution. Hernández died without seeing his book in print. In 1651, a Latin edition of his natural history was published in Rome by the newly-formed Academy of Lynxes under the title Mexican Treasury.40 Yet even before the work was published, copies of Hernández’s text and images circulated, appearing in natural history treatises throughout Europe.41 So enchanted was Philip by Hernández’s illustrations that he hung many in the antechamber of his private suite at El Escorial—no doubt accounting for the disappearance of many of the pictures (see Figure 19.3).

6

Alchemy in Renaissance Spain

One of Renaissance Europe’s most exhilarating, baffling, and controversial sciences—alchemy—was not new at all. Like many Renaissance traditions, it was an ancient science reinvented. The hoary art attracted scholars who ven-

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pean Botany and Materia Medica,” in Searching for the Secrets of Nature: The Life and Works of Dr. Francisco Hernández, (eds.) Simon Varey, Rafael Chabrán and Dora B. Weiner (Stanford: 2000), 122–137. Quoted in David A. Boruchoff, “Anthropology, Reason, and the Dictates of Faith in the Antiquities of Francisco Hernández,” in Searching for the Secrets of Nature: The Life and Works of Dr. Francisco Hernández, (eds.) Varey et al., 90–103, at 95. David Freedberg, The Eye of the Lynx: Galileo, His Friends, and the Beginnings of Modern Natural History (Chicago: 2002), 245–274. For the publication history of Hernández’s work, see Rafael Chabrán and Simon Varey, “The Hernández Texts,” in The Mexican Treasury: The Writings of Dr. Francisco Hernández, (ed.) Simon Varey (Stanford: 2000), 3–25. López Piñero and Pardo Tomás, La influencia de Francisco Hernández. In addition, see Teresa Huguet-Termes, “New World Materia Medica in Spanish Renaissance Medicine: From Scholarly Reception to Practical Impact,” Medical History 45 (2001): 359–375, at 366–367. Some of the images appeared in the Pomar Codex, a collection of 218 handcolored illustrations of plants from the New World commissioned by Philip II and presented as a gift to the Valencian medical professor Jaume Honorat Pomar in an effort to lure Pomar to Madrid. See José María López Piñero, El Códice Pomar (ca. 1590), el interés de Felipe II por la historia natural y la expedición Hernández a América (Valencia: 1991); and José María López Piñero, “The Pomar Codex (ca. 1590): Plants and Animals of the Old World and from the Hernández Expedition to America,” Nuncius 7 (1992): 35– 52.

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figure 19.3 Manucodiata (bird of paradise) from the Pomar Codex drawings made from the Hernández manuscripts in the Escorial library

erated its ancient roots and fervently believed in its promises, experimenters who invented countless new drugs, and adepts as possessed as crack addicts. Writers and painters made a joke of them, portraying scruffy alchemists in rags, disheveled laboratories with weighty tomes and exploding alembics, and impoverished and neglected wives and children. When under alchemy’s spell adepts often promised more than they could deliver, as when in 1596 Georg Honhauer pledged to enrich the coffers of the cash-strapped Duke of Württemberg by claiming he could transmute iron into gold. Convicted of fraud, Honhauer was hanged from a 30-foot gallows made from the iron the duke had provided for his alchemical experiments.42 Alchemical goldmaking made sense in theory but wasn’t easy to put into practice. Alchemists like Honhauer were inspired by the teachings of the SwissGerman alchemist and physician Theophrastus Bombastus Aureolus Philippus von Hohenheim, better known as Paracelsus (1493/4–1541). In books with radical-sounding titles like Archidoxis (Deepest Knowledge) and Paragranum 42

Tara E. Nummedal, “The Problem of Fraud in Early Modern Alchemy,” in Margaret Reeves, Richard Raiswell, and Mark Crane (eds.), Shell Games: Studies in Scams, Frauds, and Deceits (1300–1650) (Toronto: 2004), 38–58.

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(Against the Grain), Paracelsus overturned traditional science and medicine. Scorned by the medical establishment, his very name was a term of derision: the “Paracelsians” were the shifty alchemists who subverted traditional Aristotelian and Galenic doctrine.43 Although Paracelsus’ writings were known in Spain, he had few followers.44 Some historians have suggested that the lack of a strong Paracelsian movement is evidence of Iberia’s “backwardness” with regard to innovative scientific ideas.45 The claim is dubious, however. The only professorial chair in 16thcentury Europe devoted to the teaching of iatrochemistry (chemical medicine) was the Chair of Secret Remedies (De remediis morborum secretis) at the University of Valencia, created in 1591.46 Nor were Paracelsian books victims of the Spanish Inquisition, as some historians have claimed.47 No one in Spain was ever tried for being a Paracelsian and none of the Swiss reformer’s alchemical works were ever placed on the Spanish Index of Prohibited Books.48 Paracelsus’ writings were neither unknown nor prohibited in Spain; they were for the most part simply ignored. Spain may have lacked a Paracelsian movement, but it didn’t lack alchemical adepts. Spanish alchemists looked not to Paracelsus but to a more familiar alchemical tradition that originated in the writings of the Catalan physician Arnald of Villanova (1238–1311) and was elaborated in a corpus of alchemical texts spuriously attributed to the 14th-century Majorcan friar and mystic Ramon Llull.49 The Catalan alchemical tradition overshadowed Paracelsian43 44 45

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Bruce T. Moran, Distilling Knowledge: Alchemy, Chemistry, and the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge, MA: 2005), 81. José María López Piñero, “Paracelsus and His Work in 16th and 17th Century Spain,” Clio Medica 8 (1973): 113–141. Allen G. Debus, “Paracelsus and the Delayed Scientific Revolution in Spain: A Legacy of Philip II,” in Reading the Book of Nature: The Other Side of the Scientific Revolution, (eds.) Allen G. Debus and Michael T. Walton (Kirksville, MO: 1998), 147–161. The only professor to hold the chair was the physician Llorenç Coçar (1540–1592), a devout Paracelsian. See María Luz López Terrada, “Llorenç Coçar: protomédico de Felipe II y médico paracelsista en la Valencia del siglo XVI,” Cronos: Cuadernos Valencianos de Historia de la Medicina y de la Ciencia 8 (2005): 31–66. José Rodríguez Guerrero, “Censura y paracelsismo durante el reinado de Felipe II,” Azogue. Revista Electrónica dedicada al Estudio Histórico-Crítico de la Alquimia 4 (2001), http:// www.revistaazogue.com. In addition, see José Pardo Tomás, Ciencia y censura: la Inquisición española y los libros científicos en los siglos XVI y XVII (Madrid: 1991); and Antonio Márquez, “Ciencia e Inquisición en España del XV al XVII,” Arbor 124 (1986): 65–83. Miguel López Pérez, “Spanish Paracelsus Revisited and Decontaminated,” Azogue. Revista Electrónica dedicada al Estudio Histórico-Crítico de la Alquimia 7 (2010–2013): 339–365, at 344. On pseudo-Llull, see Michela Pereira, The Alchemical Corpus Attributed to Raymond Lull (London: 1989); and Michela Pereira, “Filosofia naturale lulliana e alchimia. Con l’ined-

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ism, which explains why the bulk of alchemical manuscripts in Spain were from Catalonia and Valencia. When Paracelsus’ works were printed in Spain, they often appeared alongside treatises by pseudo-Llull and Arnald of Villanova. The treatises profoundly shaped European alchemy, grafting onto it a doctrine of medical quintessences that revolutionized iatrochemistry.50 The relative absence of references to Paracelsus in Spanish alchemical writings is hardly a sign of Spain’s ‘backwardness’ with regard to innovative scientific ideas. It simply indicates that Spanish alchemists relied on a tradition of alchemical medicine grounded in the pseudo-Llullist method of quintessences made by distillation. Alchemy thrived in Philip’s court, attracting adepts from throughout Europe.51 The Italian professor of secrets Leonardo Fioravanti went to Spain in the 1570s and discovered a community of adepts “the equal of Ramon Lull, Arnald of Villanova, and John of Rupescissa.”52 Although foreigners and Spaniards alike found Philip’s court a hospitable place for alchemical experimentation, the king cooled on alchemical transmutation after a series of failed experiments supervised by his optimistic secretary, Pedro de Hoyo.53 Philip’s concerns were justified: the utopian dream of alchemically transmuting base metals into silver and gold was everywhere alive in Early Modern Europe, but fraud was rampant. So concerned was Philip about alchemical fraud that one of his court alchemists, the Irish exile Richard Stanihurst (1547–1618), prepared a work to help the king distinguish between authentic and fraudulent alchemy. Stanihurst’s Toque de alquimia, while providing a “touchstone” to recognize false alchemists, vigorously defended “true alchemy.”54

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ito epilogo del ‘Liber de secretis naturae seu de quinta essentia,’” Rivista di storia della filosofia 41 (1986): 747–780. On Arnald’s alchemical work, see Michela Pereira, “Arnaldo da Villanova e l’alchimia. Un’indagine preliminare,” Arxiu de Textos Catalans Antics 13 (1995): 95–174. Miguel López Pérez, “La influencia de la alquimia medieval hispana en la Europa moderna,” Asclepio 54 (2002): 211–229. Mar Rey Bueno, Los señores del fuego: destiladores y espagíricos en la corte de los Austrias (Madrid: 2002); F. Javier Puerto Sarmiento, “La panacea áurea. Alquimia y destilación en la corte de Felipe II (1527–1598),” DYNAMIS 17 (1997): 107–140. William Eamon, “Masters of Fire: Italian Alchemists in the Court of Philip II,” in Chymia: Science and Nature in Early Modern Europe (1450–1750), (eds.) Miguel López Pérez and Didier Kahn (Cambridge: 2010), 138–156. In addition, see William Eamon, “The Charlatan’s Trial: An Italian Surgeon in the Court of King Philip II, 1576–1577,” Cronos 8 (2005): 1–30; and William Eamon, The Professor of Secrets: Mystery, Medicine, and Alchemy in Renaissance Italy (Washington, D.C.: 2010). Goodman, Power and Penury, 12–13; Rey Bueno, Los señores del fuego. José Rodríguez Guerrero and Pedro Rojas García, “La Chymica de Richard Stanihurst en la Corte de Felipe II,” Azogue. Revista Electrónica dedicada al Estudio Histórico-Crítico de la

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Though skeptical of alchemical goldmaking, Philip was avid about distilling drugs and cosmetic waters. In 1579 he invited to the court the Neapolitan alchemist Giovanni Vincenzo Forte, instructing him to “prepare quintessences according to the practice of Ramon Llull for the health of the human body.”55 Llull’s philosophy fascinated Philip. The king furnished his library at El Escorial with Llullist books and welcomed Llullist philosophers to his court. Always concerned with the royal family’s health, Philip encouraged alchemical experimentation with quintessences, appointing a royal distiller (destilador de Su Majestad) tasked with manufacturing medicinal waters for the royal family.56 In 1585 Philip began construction of an immense distillation laboratory at his retreat at El Escorial, the center of the court’s alchemical work.57 The royal alchemical laboratory, or Real Botica, consisting of 11 rooms on two floors, was equipped with a gigantic “philosophical tower” (torre filosofal) over 20 feet high capable of producing 200 pounds of distilled medicinal waters per day.58 The laboratory specialized in the production of essential oils, perfumes, and, of course, the mythical potable gold. It was at the Real Botica that Diego de Santiago, appointed royal distiller around 1587, produced one of Europe’s most important treatises on distillation, Arte separatoria (1598).59 If you were interested in the spagyrical arts, Philip’s court was the place to be (see Figure 19.4).

7

The Circulation of Knowledge and Things

Knowledge, along with people and things, was on the move in the Early Modern world. The circulation of knowledge accompanying the European encounter with the wider world confronted intellectuals with plants, animals, and cul-

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Alquimia 4 (2001), http://www.revistaazogue.com. In addition, see Goodman, Power and Penury, 15. Quoted in Goodman, Power and Penury, 14. Rey Bueno, Los señores del fuego, 36–56. Mar Rey Bueno, “La Mayson pour distiller des eaües at El Escorial: Alchemy and Medicine at the Court of Philip II, 1556–1598,” Medical History 53, supplement 29 (2009): 26–39. Rey Bueno, Los señores del fuego, 69. Diego de Santiago, Arte separatoria, (ed.) José María López Piñero (Alicante: 1994). On Santiago, see Miguel López Pérez, Asclepio renovado (Madrid: 2003), 124–131; Francisco Teixidó Gómez, “Aspectos médicos del Arte Separatoria de Diego de Santiago,” Asclepio 51 (1999): 227–245; and Francisco Teixidó Gómez and Santiago Ferrera Escudero, “Alquimia, química y filosofía alquímica en la obra del extremeño Diego de Santiago,” Asclepio 50.1 (1998): 31–47.

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figure 19.4 The Torre Filosofal, a gigantic distillation apparatus installed in the Real Botica at El Escorial. The tower, made of tin, stood seven meters high and produced ten kilos of distilled “essences” per day (from Les Passetemps of Jehan de Lhermite, a Belgian humanist who served as King Philip II’s valet).

tures never before seen or heard of, challenging the prevailing view that an essentially complete body of knowledge already existed in ancient texts. Whereas for most Europeans the New World was a distant abstraction they could locate on maps, Spaniards encountered it directly, personally, and physically. Spanish soldiers, ambassadors, missionaries, sailors, and immigrants carried to the courts, academies, marketplaces, and printing houses of Europe and to the farthest reaches of the Hapsburg Empire a bewildering variety of scientific and medical ideas, biological specimens, ethnological observations, and concepts about sickness and health.60 Time and again ancient authority collapsed before a single piece of evidence. Spaniards were awash in botanical information from the New World.61 Nicolás Monardes (ca. 1508–1588), the foremost European authority on New World

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For examples, see John Slater, María Luz López-Terrada, and José Pardo-Tomás (eds.), Medical Cultures of the Early Modern Spanish Empire (Farnham: 2014). Daniela Bleichmar, “Trajectories of Natural Knowledge in the Spanish Empire (ca. 1550– 1650),” in Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica, (eds.) Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon (Valencia: 2007), 137–144, at 139. In addition, see José María López Piñero and José Pardo Tomás, La influencia de Francisco Hernández

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materia medica, never set foot in America, but made his home in Seville, the Peninsular hub of the Spanish Empire and a place buzzing with information and rumor about American materia medica. A physician involved in the New World trade, Monardes collected plants, seeds, and stories from travelers returning from the New World. He grew American plants in his garden and tested drugs in his home laboratory. He learned the Indian names and uses of the plants and listened to the stories of soldiers, sailors, and New World settlers. Monardes wove his experiments and travelers’ tales into a bestseller, Historia medicinal (Seville, 1565), describing hundreds of New World plants and their uses. His book became the standard work on New World materia medica for generations to come.62 Monardes was a fanatical promoter of New World drugs.63 He was convinced that remedies originating in the Americas were worthy substitutes for any found in the classical pharmacopoeia. What need do Spaniards have of exotic drugs from the Spice Islands, he asked, when “our Indies yield them spontaneously in untilled fields and mountains?”64 (See Figure 19.5.) The Historia medicinal was a dazzling success. To its English translator John Frampton it was the “Joyful News from the New-Found World.”65 When Monardes died in 1588, his work had been published in 17 Spanish, Italian, Latin, French, and English editions. Fourteen more came out in the following cen-

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(1515–1587) en la constitución de la botánica y la materia médica modernas (Valencia: 1996); J. Worth Estes, “The Reception of American Drugs in Europe, 1500–1650,” in Searching for the Secrets of Nature: The Life and Works of Dr. Francisco Hernández, (eds.) Simon Varey, Rafael Chabrán and Dora B. Weiner (Stanford: 2000), 111–121; Teresa Huguet-Termes, “New World Materia Medica in Spanish Renaissance Medicine: From Scholarly Reception to Practical Impact,” Medical History 45 (2001): 359–375; and John Slater, “The Green Gold Fallacies: Myth and Reality in the Transatlantic Trade in Medicinal Plants (1493–1663),” in Geografías médicas: orillas y fronteras culturales de la medicina hispanoamericana (siglos XVI Y XVII), (eds.) José Pardo Tomás and Mauricio Sánchez Menchero (Mexico City: 2014), 99–122. The work was published in Seville in three parts: Part I in 1565, Part II in 1571, and Part III (published together with Parts I and II) in 1574. The complete work was reissued in Seville in 1580. I used the facsimile edition: Nicolás Monardes, La Historia Medicinal de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (1565–1574), intro. by José María López Piñero (Madrid: n.d.). Daniela Bleichmar, “Books, Bodies, and Fields: Sixteenth-Century Transatlantic Encounters with New World Materia Medica,” in Colonial Botany: Science, Commerce, and Politics in the Early Modern World, (eds.) Londa Schiebinger and Claudia Swan (Philadelphia: 2005), 88–89. Monardes, Historia medicinal, 31r–31v. Nicolás Monardes, Joyfull Newes out of the Newe Founde Worlde, trans. John Frampton (London: 1580).

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The first European illustration of the tobacco plant (Nicotiana sp.), from Nicolás Monardes, Historia medicinal (1565–1574). Monardes praised the plant for its medicinal virtues.

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tury.66 The Latin edition by the Flemish naturalist Carolus Clusius (1526–1609) made the work widely known in the academic world.67 Combining Monardes’ Historia natural and the Coloquios dos simples e drogas he cousas medicinais da India, a treatise on East Indian simples by the Portuguese botanist Garcia da Orta (1501–1568), Clusius’ edition was the most authoritative scholarly work on the botanical discoveries of the Age of the New.68 New World marvels were the rage in Early Modern Spain. Dramatists and poets used American plants as metaphors, while physicians and collectors grew them in their gardens as ornamentals and drugs.69 American naturalia figured prominently in aristocratic cabinets of curiosities.70 The private collection amassed by Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (1607–1681) at his residence in Huesca, an out-of-the-way town in Aragon, was a cornucopia of exotica. Lastanosa’s menagerie filled every room of his spacious house, which had “queer foreign objects in every corner.” His collection held antiquities, coins, medals, astrolabes, globes, fossils, a “unicorn’s horn” (narwhal tusk), ivory carvings, medicinal stones used by Amerindians, three New World “idols,” and countless other exotic objects.71 In his capacious garden, Lastanosa grew plants from Asia and the New World: jasmine, hyacinths, tulips, maize, chile, and more.72 Lastanosa’s collection was a metaphor for a new way of thinking about nature. The spectacle of natural objects and artful wonders crammed into every corner of his house laid bare a world vaster by far than anything the ancients had imagined. And so many secrets still awaited discovery—so many that they 66 67 68 69

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See José María López-Pinero et al., Bibliographia medica hispanica (Valencia: 1987–1989), 1:150–160; 2:176–180. On Clusius’ importance in the history of botany, see Brian Ogilvie, The Science of Describing: Natural History in Renaissance Europe (Chicago: 2006). On this work, see Palmira Fontes da Costa (ed.), Medicine, Trade and Empire: Garcia de Orta’s Colloquies on the Simples and Drugs of India (1563) in Context (Farnham: 2015). John Slater, Todos son hojas. Literatura e historia natural en el Barroco español (Madrid: 2010), 20–28. On gardens, see Carmen Añón Feliu and José Luis Sancho, Jardín y naturaleza en el reinado de Felipe II (Madrid: 1998). On collecting in the Renaissance, see Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: 1994). Daniela Bleichmar, “Seeing the World in a Room: Looking at Exotica in Early Modern Collections,” in Collecting Across Cultures: Material Exchanges in the Early Modern Atlantic World, (eds.) Daniela Bleichmar and Peter C. Mancall (Philadelphia: 2011), 15–30, at 27. Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (1607–1681): la pasión de saber (Huesca: 2007); Mar Rey Bueno and Miguel López Pérez (eds.), El inquirador de maravillas: prodigios, curiosidades y secretos de la naturaleza en la España de Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (Huesca: 2011); and Paula de Vos, “The Rare, the Singular, and the Extraordinary: Natural History and the Collection of Curiosities in the Spanish Empire,” in Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, (eds.) Daniela Bleichmar et al. (Stanford: 2009), 271–289.

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strained the conventional boundary between nature and art. Instead of viewing science as an exercise in interpreting ancient texts, like in the Scholastic tradition, Early Modern natural philosophers thought of science as a hunt for new secrets of nature. The hunt metaphor, which shows up prominently in Early Modern scientific literature, bears witness to the emergence of a completely new conception of the aims and methods of science.73 If ‘discovery’ is the essence of the Scientific Revolution, as it surely is, then the discoveries made in 16th-century Iberia laid the foundation for the Scientific Revolution. “It led to the reform of all scientific disciplines,” Dutch historian Riejer Hooykaas observed, “because it influenced the method of all the sciences.”74 The Scientific Revolution in the area of natural history did not rest on a theoretical breakthrough, but instead produced mountains of data and elevated experience above theory. In a complete about-face, conceptual knowledge became “speculation” and therefore dubious; now certainty was tied to matters of fact.75 The acclaimed Iberian model of organizing scientific inquiry within its colonial agencies was widely admired and imitated. English merchants, heavily involved in the Spanish trade, imported the Spanish model in order to reform their merchant marine. Spanish treatises on navigation, natural history, and cosmography sold in bookstores in London, Paris, and Rome and were readily available to merchants, mariners, and curious readers.76 England’s Lord Chancellor, Sir Francis Bacon, was keenly aware of the significance of the Iberian discoveries. It is hardly surprising that, as a philosopher and practical man concerned about England’s commercial future, he should have paid close attention to the scientific machinery that Spain implemented to achieve its transoceanic power. For a man who compared himself to Columbus, the Iberian achievement was a compelling metaphor of scientific discovery.

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William Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Princeton: 1994), 269–300; and William Eamon, “Science as a Hunt,” Physis 31 (1994): 393–432. Reijer Hooykaas, “The Rise of Modern Science: When and Why?” British Journal for the History of Science 20 (1987): 453–473, at 472. Harold J. Cook, Matters of Exchange: Commerce, Medicine, and Science in the Dutch Golden Age (New Haven: 2007), 5–6. In addition, see Daston, “Factual Sensibility.” Andrew Hadfield, Literature, Travel, and Colonial Writing in the English Renaissance, 1545– 1625 (Oxford: 1998), 70–110.

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The Jesuits and Baroque Science

Bacon’s favorite Spanish author was the Jesuit missionary José de Acosta (1539– 1600), who left Spain for Peru in 1571 and spent 17 years in the New World, building missions and recording his observations about America and its inhabitants.77 Acosta’s Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1589) became the most authoritative and widely-read book on the nature and cultures of the New World. By the end of the 17th century, the treatise had been printed in 21 editions, including translations into Latin and several vernacular languages.78 Acosta’s Historia natural was the most comprehensive Early Modern treatise on the native cultures of the New World.79 The Jesuit Father’s deeply sympathetic account of Amerindian culture profoundly influenced European views of Native Americans.80 Yet Acosta was more than an ethnologist. What captivated him most were the geography and natural history of America, and his fierce independence from ancient authority seems strikingly modern. Describing the experience of crossing the equator during his voyage to America, Acosta recounted how the sensation shook his faith in the most authoritative of ancient writers: I shall tell what happened to me when I went to the Indies. As I had read the exaggerations of the philosophers and poets, I was convinced that when I reached the equator I would not be able to bear the dreadful heat; but the reality was so different that at the very time I was crossing it I felt such cold that at times I went out into the sun to keep warm, and it was the time of year when the sun is directly overhead, which is in the sign of Aries, in March. I will confess here that I laughed and jeered at Aristotle’s meteorological theories and his philosophy, seeing that in the very place where, according to his rules, everything must be burning and on fire, I and all my companions were cold.81

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On Jesuit missions and science in America, see Andrés Prieto, Missionary Scientists: Jesuit Science in Spanish South America, 1570–1810 (Nashville: 2011). Prieto, Missionary Scientists, 147. Acosta’s work was published in Spanish, Italian, French, German Dutch, and Latin. See also the discussion in Barrera-Osorio, Experiencing Nature, 114–120. Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology (Cambridge: 1982). Andrew Fitzmaurice, Sovereignty, Property and Empire, 1500–2000 (Cambridge: 2014), 73– 78; and Prieto, Missionary Scientists, 147–149. José de Acosta, Natural and Moral History of the Indies, (ed.) Jane E. Mangan, trans. Frances López-Morillas (Durham: 2002), 88–89.

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The skeptical, confidently independent attitude exhibited in this passage enabled Early Modern Spaniards to carry out the most extensive natural history and ethnographic project of the 16th century. Acosta’s Natural and Moral History of the Indies brought American nature and culture to thousands of European readers. The Jesuit’s project—to “normalize” America’s exotic wonders and incorporate American nature into the European intellectual map—was revolutionary.82 “Many authors have written sundry books and reports in which they disclose the new and strange things that have been discovered in the New World,” Acosta wrote, “[b]ut hitherto I have seen no author who deals with the causes and reasons for those new things and natural wonders.”83 Acosta insisted that natural philosophy had to embrace the wonders of the New World. American nature, he thought, is part of a natural world familiar to the ancients and moderns alike. In shattering the epistemological divide between the New World and Europe, Acosta developed a powerful argument that Americans are part of humankind—just as American nature is part of a universal nature. Though like most Protestants Bacon hated the Jesuits, he admired the Jesuit model of disciplined organization and thought it should be emulated in England. By the 17th century the Jesuits had established an extensive global network of colleges and universities: by 1750, more than 500 in Europe and Asia and another 100 in Spanish America.84 One of the leading Jesuit institutions was the Imperial College at Madrid, whose alumni included the renowned writers Francisco de Quevedo and Lope de Vega.85 Established in 1609, the Imperial College was a comprehensive institute of theology, philosophy, and science. In clinging to Aristotelian natural philosophy, the Spanish Jesuits found little space in which to make contributions to the new cosmology developing in the 17th century. The new astronomy was weighed down by the condemnation of Copernicanism, and a systematic critique of Scholasticism was not possible for members of the Order. No such obstacles stood in the way of natural history,

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Antonella Romano, “Accommodating America: Renaissance Missionaries between the Ancient and the New World,” in Global Goods and the Spanish Empire, 1492–1824: Circulation, Resistance and Diversity, (eds.) Bethany Aram and Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla (London: 2014), 53–77. Acosta, Natural and Moral History, 8. Steven J. Harris, “Jesuit Scientific Activity in the Overseas Missions, 1540–1773,” Isis 96 (2005): 71–79. José Simón Díaz, Historia del Colegio Imperial de Madrid (1952–1959; Madrid: 1992); Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “Tradition and Scientific Change in Early Modern Spain: The Role of the Jesuits,” in Jesuit Science and the Republic of Letters, (ed.) Mordechai Feingold (Cambridge, MA: 2003), 331–386.

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however. The Order’s worldwide network of missionaries facilitated a continuous flow of reports and data about the East and West Indies, making natural history the arena in which Spanish Jesuits thrived.86 The most authoritative Jesuit writer on the subject was, oddly, a man who never stepped on American soil. Juan Eusebio Nieremberg (1595–1658), a Madrid native of German lineage, was a professor of natural history at the Imperial College.87 Though he never went to the New World, he had access to the extensive correspondence of Jesuit missionaries in Mexico and Peru who sent back reports on American nature and cultures. Francisco Hernández’s manuscripts stored at El Escorial and the Imperial College were also available to him.88 Mining these sources, Nieremberg compiled a dense, erudite treatise, Historia naturae, maxime peregrinae, or The History of Nature, Especially the Exotic (1635). He prepared a Spanish version of the work to use as a textbook in the lessons he taught at the Colegio Imperial, giving it the eye-catching title Curiosa y oculta filosofía. The idea of nature as a book complementary to Scripture, enabling humans to understand God’s design, was a commonplace of the Spanish Baroque. In the Historia naturae, Nieremberg provided one of the most exhaustive treatments of the metaphor ever published. Reading the book of nature, he saw signs of the divine handiwork everywhere. The ciphers he parsed in nature unlocked the mysteries of the Creator and of Spain’s divinely inspired imperial mission. In reading nature symbolically, Nieremberg assimilated the wonders of the New World into the European (and biblical) worldview, thus giving American nature a mythical, knowable status. The Jesuits gave imperial science a Baroque twist. Soaking up everything that came out of the New World, they created a natural history of American wonders replete with religious symbolism. In the Jesuit program, knowledge of God and knowledge of nature were one and the same (see Figure 19.6).89

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Luis Millones Figueroa, “La intelligentsia jesuita y la naturaleza del Nuevo Mundo en el siglo XVII,” in Luis Millones Figueroa and Domingo Ledezma (eds.), El saber de los jesuitas, historias naturales y el Nuevo Mundo (Frankfurt / Madrid: 2005), 27–46. Juan Pimentel, “Baroque Natures: Juan E. Nieremberg, American Wonders, and Preterimperial Natural History,” in Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, (eds.) Daniela Bleichmar et al., 93–111. See also Domingo Ledezma, “Una legitimación imaginativa del Nuevo Mundo: la Historia naturae, maxime peregrinae del jesuita Juan Eusebio Nieremberg,” in Millones Figueroa and Ledezma (eds.), El saber de los jesuitas, 53–84. José María López Piñero and José Pardo Tomás, Nuevos materiales y noticias sobre la “Historia de las plantas de Nueva España” de Francisco Hernández (Valencia: 1994), 129–133. Steven J. Harris, “Jesuit Scientific Activity in the Overseas Missions, 1540–1773,” Isis 96 (2005): 71–79.

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figure 19.6 Illustration of the passionflower (granadilla, or maracuyá), from Juan Eusebio Nieremberg, Historia naturae maxime peregrinae (1635). In the passionflower Nieremberg discovered likenesses of the chalice and nails of Christ’s crucifixion.

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Science and Technology in an Imperial Setting

Under the Spanish Monarchy science was deployed in service of the Empire.90 In the process of building the world’s first worldwide Empire, the Monarchy created the first global scientific culture in modern history. From the immediate demands of its colonial project, Spain created scientific institutions that set the course of modern science. Navigation was the science that made the Spanish Empire possible. In order to improve the accuracy of nautical instruments and meet the demand for trained pilots, Philip II created an engineering school, the Academy of Mathematics of Madrid.91 The brainchild of Philip’s architect Juan de Herrera (1530–

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Arndt Bendecke, The Empirical Empire: Spanish Colonial Rule and the Politics of Knowledge, trans. Jeremiah Riemer (Berlin: 2016). The most comprehensive study of the Academy of Mathematics is M.I. Vicente Maroto and Mariano Esteban Piñeiro, Aspectos de la ciencia aplicada en la España del Siglo de Oro (Salamanca: 1991). In addition, see Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “Mechanics in Spain at the End of the 16th Century and the Madrid Academy of Mathematics,” in Mechanics and Natu-

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1597), the Academy of Mathematics was, in effect, the world’s first engineering school.92 From 1582 until 1625, when it closed, the Madrid Academy of Mathematics was the only institution in Europe designed to provide mathematical training to architects, navigators, and engineers. Philip also opened an artillery school at the Casa de la Contratación to supply gunners for the Indies fleets.93 If Spain’s chronic shortage of military engineers during a time of escalating warfare worried the Monarchy, much more serious was its chronic shortage of money. Vast sums were required to keep the Empire running, more still to finance wars of expansion. Little wonder, then, that Philip II toyed with alchemists claiming the ability to make gold. But he quickly lost faith in chrysopoeia and turned to the New World’s abundant supply of silver, made possible with the discovery of rich silver deposits in Mexico and Peru. The discovery of the Cerro Rico lode at Potosí, Peru, in 1545 transformed New World silver production.94 Mining was the first stage of a complex process by which New World silver reached Seville. The second stage was processing the ore to extract pure silver. The traditional Spanish method, smelting, proved to be inefficient and expensive. In the 1550s a Spanish tailor, Bartolomé de Medina, made a technological breakthrough that cut drastically the cost of extracting silver by amalgamation with mercury. Medina’s method, called the “patio process,” required grinding silver ore into a fine powder and spreading it out onto a paved yard, or patio, then mixing it with water, salt, and mercury. The mixture was left to rest for several weeks, sometimes months, while the mercury amalgamated with the silver in the ore. When the amalgam was heated, mercury evaporated, leaving almost pure silver.95 When the patio process was introduced to Potosí, silver

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ral Philosophy before the Scientific Revolution, (eds.) W.R. Laird and S. Roux (Dordrecht: 2006), 239–258. For more on the political circumstances surrounding the Academy’s creation, see the essay on politics and government by Fabien Montcher in the present volume. Mariano Esteban Piñeiro, “La institucionalización de la ciencia aplicada en la España del siglo XVI. Un modelo cuestionado,” in Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica / Beyond the Black Legend: Spain and the Scientific Revolution, (eds.) Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon (Valencia: 2007), 427–442. Goodman, Power and Penury, 123–129; Nicolas García Tapia and María Isabel Vicente Maroto, “Las escuelas de artillería y otras instituciones técnicas,” in Historia de la ciencia y de la técnica en las Corona de Castilla, vol. 3: Siglos XVI y XVII, (ed.) José María López Piñero (Madrid: 2002), 73–81. Peter Bakewell, Miners of the Red Mountain: Indian Labor in Potosí, 1545–1650 (Albuquerque, 1983); D.A. Brading and Harry E. Cross, “Colonial Silver Mining: Mexico and Peru,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 52.4 (1972): 545–579. Alan Probert, “Bartolomé de Medina: The Patio Process and the Sixteenth Century Sil-

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production jumped seven-fold between 1572 and 1592, making Potosí the largest producer of New World silver at the time. Other innovations followed. To speed up the amalgamation process, Álvaro Alonso Barba (1569?–1662), a priest who served in Potosí for more than 40 years, introduced the “pan and cooking” process (el benificio de cazo y cocimiento) in the early 17th century.96 Instead of combining salt, water, mercury, and silver ore in an outdoor patio, the pan process mixed the ingredients in several shallow copper pans heated with a slow fire. The innovation reduced the time it took for amalgamation to complete from days and weeks to about 15 hours. The process also used less mercury, by then a scarce metal in the New World.97 Barba’s treatise, Arte de los metales, is rooted in the medieval Spanish tradition of practical alchemy that flourished, mostly underground, in oral tradition.98 His innovation is a compelling example of Creole science, and of a Creole expression of an independent modernity. As José María López Piñero explained years ago, virtually all innovation in the technology of amalgamation took place in the New World, not Europe.99 Despite López Piñero’s compelling evidence historians continue, erroneously, to oppose European “science” to American “tradition” in metallurgy.100 Iberian science, Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra observes, was always “the handmaiden of the Iberian empires.”101 Cosmography, metallurgy, and natural history, the scientific sinew of the sprawling Spanish Empire, flourished because they contributed to Spain’s self-proclaimed imperial destiny. Yet, because Spanish science developed within an imperial framework in which royal authority was nowhere completely dominant, it was never a homogeneous or seamless body of knowledge. While Spanish science reflected imperial aspirations, it

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ver Crisis,” Journal of the West 8 (1969): 90–124. For a fuller account with documents, see M. Bargalló, La amalgamación de los minerales de plata en Hispanoamérica colonial (Mexico City: 1969). Josep M. Barnadas, Álvaro Alonso Barba (1569–1662). Investigaciones sobre su vida y obra (La Paz: 1986). Peter Bakewell, “Mining in Colonial Spanish America,” in The Cambridge History of Latin America, vol. 2: Colonial Latin America, (ed.) Leslie Bethell (Cambridge: 1984), 105–151. Orlando Bentancor, “Matter, Form, and the Generation of Metals in Álvaro Alonso Barba’s Arte de los metales,” Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 8.2 (2007): 117–133. López Piñero, Ciencia y técnica, 259–265. Tristan Platt, “The Alchemy of Modernity: Alonso Barba’s Copper Cauldrons and the Independence of Bolivian Metallurgy (1790–1890),” Journal of Latin American Studies 32 (2000): 1–54. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “Introduction,” in Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, (eds.) Bleichmar et al., 1.

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never became imperial in nature. The Spanish monarchs lacked the institutional and legal framework to make it so.102

10

Scientific Mestizaje

In 1680, the Jesuit scientific vision espoused by authors such as Nieremberg collided head-on with a radically different perspective. The occasion was a heated quarrel over the cosmological significance of a spectacular comet that appeared in November 1680. One of the protagonists in the controversy was the Tyrolese Jesuit Eusebio Francisco Kino (1645–1711), who sighted the comet in Cádiz before departing for his missionary assignment in Mexico. His opponent, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora (1645–1700), was an expelled Jesuit who taught mathematics and astronomy at the University of Mexico.103 Attempting to assuage popular fears that the comet portended calamities for the Viceroyalty of New Spain, Sigüenza published a pamphlet, Manifiesto filosófico contra los cometas despojados del imperio que tenían sobre los tímidos (Philosophical Manifesto Against Comets, Stripped of the Empire They Have Held Over the Timid, 1681), in which he flatly denied that comets held any significance for humans. Father Kino retorted with a tract asserting that comets were divinely created to warn of imminent threats.104 Sigüenza responded with an impassioned treatise titled Libra astronómica y filosófica. Pulling out all stops, he piled quotation upon quotation from authoritative sources, starting off with Cicero and Seneca and throwing in moderns such as Kepler, Gassendi, and Descartes for good measure.105 Sigüenza’s treatise was not only a repudiation of the Jesuit worldview, it was also a defense of Creole science. He wrote the treatise, he said, to defend “not only myself but my patria and nation.”106 In pitting colony

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John Slater and Andrés Prieto, “Was Spanish Science Imperial?” The Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies 7 (2009): 3–10. Ellen Shaffer, “Father Eusebio Francisco Kino and the Comet of 1680–1681,”Historical Society of Southern California Quarterly 34.2 (1952): 57–70. Eusebio Francisco Kino, Exposición astronómica (Mexico City: 1681). See Víctor Navarro Brotòns, “La Libra astronómica y filosófica de Sigüenza y Góngora: la polémica sobre el cometa de 1680,” in Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora: homenaje 1700–2000, vol. 1, (ed.) Alicia Mayer (Mexico City: 2000), 145–185. Elías Trabulse, “La obra científica de Don Carlos Sigüenza y Góngora (1667–1700),” in Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora: homenaje 1700–2000, vol. 1, (ed.) Mayer, 93–123. Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora, Libra astronómica y filosófica, (ed.) Bernabé Navarro (Mexico City: 1959); Anna More, “Cosmopolitanism and Scientific Reason in New Spain: Carlos

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against metropole in the dispute over the comet, Sigüenza was part of a growing movement in Latin America to fashion a “patriotic epistemology.”107 Few Spaniards were more conscious of the Age of the New than the young Creole physician Juan de Cárdenas (1563–1609). Born in a village near Seville, Cárdenas emigrated to New Spain at the age of 14 to seek his fortune. He earned his medical degree at the University of Mexico and practiced as a physician, all the while slaking his insatiable curiosity about the secrets of the New World. To a young Spaniard like Juan de Cárdenas, the New World brimmed with secrets, which he meticulously catalogued in his enthusiastic treatise, Problemas y secretos maravillosos de las Indias.108 Cárdenas claimed that the Amerindians had countless medical secrets to treat colonists more effectively than European cures. In cataloguing the marvels of the Indies, Cárdenas sought to understand the diversity of American nature and culture, above all why Creoles were affected differently by the climate and geography of the New World than the Indians. Pondering the question whether “the composition and organization of our body and that of the Indians is one and the same,” he resoundingly rejected the idea.109 His essentializing position, backed up by the solemn authority of Galen and Aristotle, drew a clear racial line between Europeans and Indians. Cárdenas aspired to be the preeminent professor of secrets of the New World. His command of local herbal knowledge and indigenous magical practices enhanced his authority as a man of science.110 Though his book fell squarely within the 16th-century tradition of books of secrets, it was completely unlike any book of secrets ever published in Europe, because it revealed secrets of an entirely New World.111

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de Sigüenza y Góngora and the Dispute over the 1680 Comet,” in Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, (eds.) Daniela Bleichmar et al., 115–131. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “New World, New Stars: Patriotic Astrology and the Invention of Indian and Creole Bodies in Colonial Spanish America,” American Historical Review 104 (1999): 33–68. Juan de Cárdenas, Problemas y secretos maravillosos de las Indias: obra impresa en México, por Pedro Ocharte, en 1591, y ahora editada en facsímil (Madrid: 1945). Cárdenas, Problemas, 217. José Pardo Tomás, “Natural Knowledge and Medical Remedies in the Book of Secrets: Uses and Appropriations in Juan de Cárdenas’ Problemas y secretos maravillosos de las Indias (Mexico, 1591),” in Passion for Plants: Materia Medica and Botany in Scientific Networks from the 16th to 18th Centuries, (eds.) Sabine Anagnostou, Florike Egmond, and Christoph Friedrich (Stuttgart: 2011). In addition, see Domingo Ledezma, “Historia natural y discurso idiosincrásico del Nuevo Mundo: los Problemas y secretos maravillosas de las Indias, del médico novohispano Juan de Cárdenas,” The Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies 7 (2009): 151–168. On books of secrets in Early Modern Europe, see Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature.

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The “Little Book of Medicinal Herbs of the Indies” (Libellus de medicinalibus Indorum herbis), an herbal written in Nahuatl and translated into Latin, was one of the most remarkable products of scientific mestizaje. Composed in 1522 by the Aztec physician Martín de la Cruz, a teacher of native medicine at the Colegio de Santa Cruz at Tlatelolco and “expert by way of pure experience,” the herbal was translated into Latin by Juannes Badianus, a student at the colegio.112 The Badianus Codex was the first medical treatise written in the New World. The manuscript, describing over 200 medicinal plants used by the Aztecs, was sent to Spain and deposited in the royal library. Eventually the text made its way to Rome, ending up in the Vatican Library. The Badianus Codex belongs to two cultural traditions at once. Visually, except for the unfamiliarity of the plants illustrated in the text, the codex could pass for almost any European herbal. While the manuscript bears the unmistakable stamp of the colonial enterprise, it at the same time speaks in the voice of indigenous doctors documenting their herbal knowledge for a European audience.113 References to humoral theory, the doctrine of signatures, and native plant uses all point to a coming together of vastly different cultures. Though of limited value as a source for Aztec medicine because of the heavy overlay of European medical theory, it is a striking example of the fusion of Old World medical theory and New World practice (see Figure 19.7).114 Brilliant as Philip II’s reign was for Spanish science, his ambitious aims were never fully realized. His successors were unable to sustain his bold scientific project. Philip’s distinctly modern trajectory for Spanish science, putting science at the service of the Empire, was hubristic, like the colonial enterprise itself. The king’s early triumphs convinced him that he was invincible while doing God’s work, but his grand strategy drained resources and created demands that could not be met with the intellectual equipment of the 16th century.115 112

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The Badianus Manuscript (Codex Barberini, Latin 241), Vatican Library: An Aztec Herbal of 1552, introduction, translation and annotations by Emily Walcott Emmart (Baltimore: 1940). Millie Gimmel, “Herbal Savvy and Institutional Ignorance: The Codex de La Cruz Badiano and Its Colonial Context,” The Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies 7 (2009): 139–150. Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano, Aztec Medicine, Health, and Nutrition (New Brunswick: 1990). Marcy Norton discusses other examples of scientific mestizaje in “Going to the Birds: Animals as Things and Beings in Early Modernity,” in Early Modern Things: Objects and Their Histories, 1500–1800, (ed.) Paula Findlen (London: 2012), 53–83; “The Chicken or the Iegue: Human-Animal Relations and the Columbian Exchange,” American Historical Review 120 (2015): 28–60; and Sacred Gifts, Profane Pleasures: A History of Tobacco and Chocolate in the Atlantic World (Ithaca: 2008). Geoffrey Parker, Imprudent King: A New Life of Philip II (New Haven: 2015), 365.

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figure 19.7

Datura plant (Datura sp.), used by Aztecs as a remedy for pain in the side Badianus Codex, Vatican Library

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The Renovation of Spanish Science

The New Philosophy came late to Iberia. When the Italian diplomat Lorenzo Magalotti visited Spain in 1668, he reported that Spanish books contained nothing but “scholastic theology and outdated medicine as found in the works of Galen.”116 It was not until the 1680s that the first stirrings of the assault on scholastic natural philosophy that had swept the rest of Europe began to take hold in the Iberian Peninsula. Unsurprisingly, Francis Bacon was the ‘new philosopher’ most appealing to Spanish intellectuals. Not only was Baconianism consistent with Aristotelian empiricism, it was also informed by Spain’s confrontation with novelty. Jonathan Israel observes, “If there was one part of continental Europe of which it can be justly said that English empiricist ideas almost completely ousted every other competing variety of Enlightenment, that part was the Iberian Peninsula.”117 Ignoring Bacon’s Protestantism, Spanish intellectuals reduced his natural philosophy to the twin pillars of observation and experiment against the ‘imaginative’ systems of the age, such as that of Descartes. English empiricism gave Spain’s progressives the intellectual tools they needed to confront the weight of the philosophical past. The intellectual crisis that pitted Spain’s proponents of the New Philosophy against its defenders of Scholasticism was heralded in 1686 when the Valencian professor of medicine, Juan de Cabriada (1665–1714), published his epochal Carta filosófica, médico-chymica.118 Cabriada’s Carta filosófica was a cri de coeur, an impassioned manifesto calling for the complete renovation of Spanish science and medicine—in effect, Spain’s Baconian Instauratio. In a searing attack on the Spanish galenistas, Cabriada denounced bloodletting and scoffed at traditional medicine, and urged replacing it with modern experimental science and libertad filosófica: “Modern writers, who have had freedom in philosophy, have found it difficult to assent to the dictates of the ancients as though they were oracles, … and thus new horizons have been opened, leading us to knowledge of the truth.”119 Cabriada affirmed reason and experience as the avenue to scientific progress, and lamented Spain’s backwardness as compared to the rest of Europe—“as if we were Indians we have to be the last in all Europe.”120

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Quoted in Kamen, Spain in the Later Seventeenth Century, 313. Jonathan Israel, Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity, 1650–1750 (Cambridge: 2001), 528. José María López Piñero, “Juan de Cabriada y el movimiento novator de finales del siglo XVII. Reconsideración después de treinta años,” Asclepio 45 (1993): 3–53. Cabriada, Carta, 108. Quoted in López Piñero, “Paracelsus,” 135. Cabriada, Carta, quoted in David Goodman, “The Scientific Revolution in Spain and Por-

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Natural philosophers who sympathized with the new ideas were called novatores, or “innovators,” a term attached to them, pejoratively, by detractors.121 The novator movement did not begin in the universities, where scholastic natural philosophy held firm, but in tertulias, informal academies or salons that met in the homes of noble patrons to discuss art, literature, and cultural currents.122 One of the tertulias, the Veneranda Tertulia Hispalense (Venerable Debating Circle of Seville), began meeting in the home of the physician Juan Muñoz y Peralta (1695–1746) in Seville in 1697. Three years later, in imitation of scientific societies in England and France, it metamorphosed into Spain’s first modern scientific institution, the Regia Sociedad de Medicina y Otras Ciencias (Royal Society of Medicine and Other Sciences), backed by King Carlos II. Cabriada’s manifesto was a sensation. Traditionalists attacked the work and passionately defended established medicine, setting off a contentious debate between guardians of tradition and proponents of the New Philosophy. Cabriada’s Carta was the initial salvo in what would become the polémica de la ciencia española, the Europe-wide debate over the question of Spanish scientific backwardness—and Spain’s modernity—that raged for three centuries.123 Whether in anatomy, chemistry, or natural history, ‘going to experience’ became the rallying cry to mobilize Spain’s new philosophers against entrenched authority. Next to experience, the novatores proclaimed utility the end goal of science. Following Bacon and abandoning the abstractions of the Aristotelians, the novatores insisted that all scientific inquiry should have a useful end.124 The converso physician Diego Mateo Zapata (1664–1745), a founder of the Regia Sociedad de Medicina y Otras Ciencias, was an avid reader of Bacon

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tugal,” in The Scientific Revolution in National Context, (eds.) Roy Porter and Mikuláš Teich (Cambridge: 1992), 158–177. An important recent history of the movement is Jesús Pérez Magallón, Construyendo la modernidad: la cultura española en el tiempo de los novatores (1675–1725) (Madrid: 2002). López Piñero, “Juan de Cabriada.” López Piñero, Ciencia y técnica, 425. In addition, see E. García Camarero and E. García Camarero, La polémica de la ciencia española (Madrid: 1970); and William Eamon, “‘Nuestros males no son constitucionales, sino circunstanciales’: The Black Legend and the History of Early Modern Spanish Science,” Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies 7 (2009): 13–30; for traditional scholarship, see Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon, “Spain and the Scientific Revolution: Historiographical Questions and Conjectures,” in Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica / Beyond the Black Legend: Spain and the Scientific Revolution, (eds.) Víctor Navarro Brotóns and William Eamon (Valencia: 2007), 27–38. For more recent scholarship, see Carlos M. Madrid Casado, “España y la Revolución Científica. Estado de la cuestión de una polémica secular,” Circumscribere 13 (2013): 1–28. Pérez Magallón, Construyendo la modernidad, 137, 160.

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and took his cue from the Novum organum.125 The period of the novatores (roughly 1675–1725) saw Spanish intellectuals joining the chorus of European criticism of both the errors of the philosophers and the folly of the people.

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Conclusion: Spanish Science on Its Own Terms

Although a large body of scholarship in Spanish documents scientific activity in Early Modern Spain, only recently have historians outside of Iberia seriously considered Spain as a player in the Scientific Revolution.126 The classical narrative, beginning with Copernicus’ astronomical innovation and culminating in the rise of the ‘New Philosophy’ of the 17th century, is an inheritance of the Enlightenment and a construction of Northern European scholarship. The geographical and biological discoveries vanguarded by the Iberians don’t fit into that narrative. No wonder Spain and Portugal, drivers of the geographical, ethnographical, and biological revolution of the Early Modern era—but bit players in the cosmological drama played out in modern textbooks—are largely absent from the story of the Scientific Revolution. In light of recent scholarship, it’s worth asking: What difference did Spain make? Or, to rephrase the question famously put in the 18th century by the French polymath Nicolas Masson de Morvilliers, “What do we owe Spain?”127 It is to the Early Modern Iberian experience that we owe the modern idea of scientific discovery. Prior to the Renaissance, discovery—in the sense of unearthing previously unknown phenomena—was not a priority for science. Medieval natural philosophy was a hermeneutical enterprise, not an exhilarating hunt for the new. Early Modern intellectuals redefined science as a search for the unknown rather than a confirmation of the familiar. Renaissance science made discovery the goal of science.128 In the Age of the New, the Ne plus ultra (“Do not go beyond”) inscribed on the ancient Pillars of Hercules became a favorite device to illustrate the tyranny of ancient philosophy over creative thought. The Spanish Crown changed the epithet to Plus ultra—“go beyond.” 125 126

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On Zapata, see José Pardo Tomás, El médico en la palestra. Diego Mateo Zapata (1664–1745) y la ciencia moderna en España (Valladolid: 2004). The renovation of Spanish historiography of science can be traced to José María López Piñero (1933–2010), who in 1979 published his monumental Ciencia y técnica en la sociedad española de los siglos XVI y XVII. See also Jorge Cañizares Esguerra, “Colonial Iberian Roots of the Scientific Revolution,” in Nature, Empire, and Nation: Explorations of the History of Science in the Iberian World (Stanford: 2006), 14–45. Navarro Brotòns and Eamon, “Spain and the Scientific Revolution,” 27. Eamon, “Science as a Hunt”; Lorraine Daston, “Factual Sensibility.”

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The very newness of the New World meant that no ancient model could serve as one’s guide. Voyagers to America repeatedly affirmed, in the words of 16thcentury historian Francisco López de Gómara, “experience is contrary to philosophy.” Like the New World, nature stood before scientists as uncharted territory. Spain developed prototypes of the tools and institutions that would enable that voyage of discovery. The Casa de la Contratación and the Relaciones geográficas were widely emulated in Europe. The empirical turn in Early Modern philosophy and science came about because merchants and governments, which needed data to profit and facts to govern, unearthed mountains of information waiting to be catalogued and explained. As new worlds of natural things came to light, scientists were faced with information never before heard of, and struggled to understand how it fit the world they knew. Because science is perennially about fitting the unfamiliar into the familiar, the science of natural history was born. Natural history focused on the particular rather than the underlying physical structure of the world, thus facilitating experimentation.129 The methodology advanced by Francis Bacon, an avid reader of Spanish colonial literature, exemplified this revolutionary new approach. The Scientific Revolution entailed more than just the displacement of one mathematical model of the universe for another, more even than the overthrow of an entrenched metaphysics. More consequentially, it facilitated a revolution in the rhythms of everyday life.130 Whether or not the sun was at the center of the universe or the world was made of atoms made little difference in the lives of Early Modern Europeans and Americans. On the other hand, landscapes, lifestyles, fashions, worldviews, and eating habits on four continents, from the Americas to Asia, were transformed by the scientific discoveries made from the Iberian Peninsula. Whether or not Spain had a Scientific Revolution, or participated in one, pales in significance to Iberia’s role in changing the course of history—everyone’s history—by recalibrating the rhythms of everyday life. 129 130

Stephen Gaukroger, The Emergence of a Scientific Culture: Science and the Shaping of Modernity, 1210–1685 (Oxford: 2006), 356. William Eamon, “La Revolución Científica y los ritmos de la vida cotidiana,” Revista de Occidente 433 (2017): 37–55.

chapter 20

Doing Things with Money in Early Modern Spain Elvira Vilches*

1

Introduction

Like for us today, money in Early Modern Spain meant wealth and income. Then as now lending, borrowing, and owing were ordinary experiences of everyday life. The dynamics of exchange also illustrate how money reduced qualities into sums and figures, instigating a shift of values from lineage to wealth. Early Modern Spaniards held money as a tool for economic calculation and a means for upward social mobility. Sancho Panza sums up this view by suggesting that when talking about money, what matters is not what and how, but how much: “you are worth what you have, and what you have is what you are worth. For there are only two lineages in the world … and that’s the haves and the have nots.”1 For Celedón Favalis, a Peruvian merchant writing in 1587, talking about money meant reckoning figures and estimating their furtive power. He conceded that “people never ask how so-and-so made his fortune, but rather how much does he have.”2 Mexican poet Bernardo de Balbuena observed that talking about money also implied self-interest, which he compared to the sun that warms, enlivens, fortifies, protects, and makes society prosperous.3 This essay records multiple conversations regarding what to do and what to say about money unfolding in a variety of economic writings as well as cultural and literary texts published in the long 16th century. I suggest that Early Modern Spanish society accounted for money by becoming numerate, learning the arts of commerce, and embracing the language of finance. The cognitive spryness and quantitative sophistication needed to participate in a monetary economy reveal complex practices which sustained Atlantic trade. In the following

* The research for this chapter has been funded by fellowships granted by the National Endowment for the Humanities, the John Carter Brown Library, and the American Association of Learned Societies. I am indebted to Hilaire Kallendorf for her priceless editorial suggestions. 1 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote, trans. Edith Grossman (New York: 2005), 589. 2 “Porque nunca preguntan a qué lo ha ganado fulano, sino qué tiene, y en diciendo que tiene algo tapan todos la boca y callan” (Enrique Otte, Cartas privadas de emigrantes a Indias, 1540– 1616 [Seville: 1988], 435). 3 Bernardo de Balbuena, Grandeza mexicana, (ed.) Asima F.X. Saad Maura (Madrid: 2011).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004360372_022

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pages, I examine how the language of calculation and profit in cultural registers wrestles not only with coin, bullion, and credit, but also with the nature of money, financial contracts, and perceptions of trust. After exploring how religion, family life, and seduction assimilated the language of credits and debits, I propose that the merging of cultural and monetary registers reveals how the rise of a monetary economy consisted of a larger cultural process wherein conservative and modern reactions converged. Observers witnessed the expansion of far-reaching trade and finance, a price revolution, and long decades of an adulterated vellón. They also learned the rudiments of arithmetic, credit contracts, and other business methods and shared a common understanding of the nature and meaning of money. Their incessant references to various currencies, financial contracts, and mercantile habits of mind illustrate how fluent the authors of monetary genres (encompassing commercial handbooks, economic treatises, and figurative writing), together with their readers, had become in the bemusing currencies, credit contracts, and fluctuating exchange rates of the Iberian Atlantic world. Finally I look at similar concerns our own society shares with Early Modern Spaniards by discussing how the massive minting of copper money reveals interesting parallels to the financial crisis in 21st-century Spain.

2

Private Matters

As it happens today, money in Early Modern Spain consisted of distinctive languages and discourses that earmarked coins and sums in accordance with specific intentions, goals, and ideals such as piety, salvation, marriage, love, and patronage.4 Although these private matters established a clear contrast with the uncompromising objectivity of money, they revealed a blurry line between nonpecuniary and monetary values which was conveyed by the ubiquitous presence of the language of calculation and profit. When examined with care, the ritually, morally, and familiarly ranked special monies (such as donations, alms, and dowries) disclose mechanisms of exchange at play. As Henry Kamen confirms in his essay on “Religion” in the present volume, acts of charity often quantified kindness and piety in terms of costs and returns.5 It was customary in testaments to donate property and 4 See Viviana Zelizer, The Social Meaning of Money (New York: 1994). 5 For death rituals and the language of testament see both Teófilo Ruiz, From Heaven to Earth: The Reordering of Castilian Society, 1150–1350 (Princeton: 2004) and Carlos Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Cambridge: 1995).

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money to religious institutions in exchange for masses or a perpetual chaplaincy to pray for the deceased’s soul and the salvation of her family. Donations often involved specific sums to assist the poor. Wills specified the amount to be spent, the number of people to attend, and precisely when alms and donations should be given in commemoration of the benefactor or a religious celebration. Similarly, donatives were quantified in terms of sins to be purged and the prospects of shortening the transit through Purgatory. These material implications extended also to notions of grace. Beggars received alms in exchange for blessings. Prayers and sermons explained sin and penance in terms of unpaid debts the Lord recorded in His account books.6 Take the financial metaphors that Alonso de Ledesma deploys in his dialogue “Dios y el hombre” as the poetic voice wonders how he would ever be able to pay his due in the hour of reckoning. The Lord will act as surety for his outstanding obligations: “If you come to charge me, / Lord, you cannot make me pay.” “I do not plan to execute you,” says God, “for I will pay for you.” The sinner asks, “Do you have, Lord, / what I owe in my account?” And God replies, “All is recorded in my book.”7 The logic of debits and credits as metaphors of grace and salvation loomed large in the theatrical production of the period in both secular plays, like Lope de Vega’s La fianza satisfecha and Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla, and religious dramas such as El monte de la piedad by Mira de Amescua and Calderón de la Barca’s La nave del mercader and El gran mercado del mundo, among many other titles. Family life and courtship also earmarked special monies. Families, according to their means, put away funds to provide their daughters with a dowry either to be married or to enter a convent, to seek an apprenticeship for their sons, or, in the case of the wealthy, to establish a land entail for their first-born male child. As inheritance—be it in the form of rents, actual sums, jewelry, or heirlooms— money spoke the language of paternal and filial love, obedience, and respect. The size of the dowry also disclosed opportunities for upward social mobility, as men of affairs sought to marry young women from the proud and often impoverished noble ranks. In the literary register, romance and seduction earmarked sums as objects of desire and tokens of affection. In Lope’s La Dorotea

6 For the convergence of religious and mercantile registers in the accounting form see James Aho, Confession and Bookkeeping: The Religious, Moral, and Rhetorical Roots of Modern Accounting (Albany: 2005). 7 “Si a cobrar venís a mí, / Señor, mal podéis cobrar”; “No te pienso ejecutar … que yo pagaré por ti”; “¿Tenéis, Señor, por escrito / lo que debo en mi cuenta?”; “Todo en mi libro se asienta” (Alonso de Ledesma, “Conceptos espirituales,” in Romancero y cancionero sagrados: colección de poesías cristianas, morales y divinas, [ed.] Justo de Sancha [Madrid: 1855], 221).

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the rich indiano Don Bela spends the gold escudos filling his desk on expensive fabrics, shoes, jewels, and confections for Dorotea. Don García in Ruiz de Alarcón’s La verdad sospechosa gives credit to his affections for Jacinta by offering to purchase for her the jewels displayed in the store where they first met.8 Conversely Isabel, the protagonist of María de Zayas’ tale of disillusion, “La esclava de su amante,” claims that love is a bad investment, an unpaid loan (censo al quitar) upon which her ungrateful lover has defaulted.9

3

Coins, Culture, and Commerce

The value of the escudos that Don Bela, the rich indiano, owned was so great because the majority of people never used gold at all. Spanish escudos embodied the grandeur of the sovereigns and their kingdoms, and spoke the language of diplomacy, patronage, and favor.10 Economic thinker Tomás de Mercado compared the bright golden glitter of doblones, or two-escudo coins, to that of a jewel. Doblones were rarely minted and held as precious objects of exceptional value.11 Likewise John of the Cross, in his Cantar de los cantares, gave escudos the highest aesthetic and spiritual degree in his depiction of the purple canopy veiling the mystical union of Christ and the soul with 1,000 gold escudos.12 Preciousness and uniqueness obfuscated the contrast between generosity, reciprocity, self-interest, and even indebtedness among intricate networks of patronage and political alliances. Within aristocratic circles ordinary gold pieces paid for marriage negotiations, royal commemorations, patronage, and rewards. The fine line between a commemorative object and money was especially telling in the remarkable 100-escudo coins or centenas stamped at 8 9 10

11 12

Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, La verdad sospechosa, (ed.) José Montero Reguera (Madrid: 1999), vv. 510–530. María de Zayas y Sotomayor, Parte segunda del sarao y entretenimiento honesto: desengaños amorosos, (ed.) Alicia Yllera Fernández (Madrid: 1983), 121. For the networks of patronage and diplomacy see Jonathan Brown, “Velázquez and Italy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Velázquez, (ed.) Suzanne L. Stratton-Pruitt (Cambridge: 2002), 30–47; Elizabeth Wright, “Los Duques de Sessa, sus deudas y disputas del mecenazgo como patrimonio familiar,” in Dramaturgia festiva y cultura nobiliaria del Siglo de Oro, (eds.) Bernardo García and María Luisa Lobato (Madrid: 2007), 249–267; and Bernardo García, “Regalos diplomáticos y bienes suntuarios en la corte española (1580– 1665),” in Matería crítica: formas de ocio y consumo en la cultura áurea, (ed.) Enrique García-Santo Tomás (Madrid: 2009), 213–249. Tomás de Mercado, Suma de tratos y contratos, (ed.) Nicolás Sánchez-Albornoz (Madrid: 1977), 368. Gerald Brenan, St John of the Cross: His Life and Poetry (Cambridge: 1975), 152.

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the Segovia mint by royal request in order to mark such celebratory occasions as the visits of foreign princes, royal marriages, and military victories, as well as diplomatic exchanges.13 Together with gold, silver embodied characteristics of durability and scarcity that gave these metals universal appeal as recognizable centers of stable value. Silver reales expressed the language of commerce and illustrated the prose of life. In the domestic sphere reales were for safekeeping and meeting financial obligations. Silver coins paid for wages, rents, taxes, and large purchases. Silver embodied the foundation of trust. On a global scale the reliable fineness and high metallic content of the real de a ocho was pivotal.14 Businessmen and bankers traded this international currency, together with multiple forms of unminted silver, for financial contracts in Europe, along with spices and luxury commodities in the Orient.15 On a local scale the trace of silver in small exchange alloy coins such as cuartos and blancas was also key to conveying and materializing the royal pledge to uphold the integrity of the coinage. Political discourse refashioned the notion that ‘money is trust’ by stressing the connection between money and political power. Political and mercantile theorists blended the threefold function of currency as medium of exchange, store of value, and money of account into anatomical metaphors addressing the quantitative links among military prowess, imperial hegemony, and wealth. In political and economic discourse money morphed into blood, the sinews bonding muscle and bone, and organs used for digestion. Economic thinker Luis Valle de la Cerda assimilated the treasury to the stomach, nurturing the wealth and prosperity of Spanish kingdoms.16 Moreover Diego Saavedra Fajardo illustrated how escudos and reales enabled armies by breathing life and vigor into their weapons with the motto Ferro et auro (“iron and gold”).17 13

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Elvira Vilches, “Coins, Trust, and Value: The Problematics of Vellón in Seventeenth-Century Spanish Culture,” in Signs of Power in Habsburg Spain and the New World, (eds.) Jason McCloskey and Ignacio López Alemany (Lewisburg: 2013), 95–112. Carlos Marichal, “The Spanish-American Silver Peso: Export Commodity and Global Money of the Ancien Regime, 1550–1800,” in From Silver to Cocaine: Latin American Commodity Chains and the Building of the World Economy, 1500–2000, (eds.) Steven Topik and Carlos Marichal (Durham: 2006), 25–52. Renate Pieper, “Money or Export Commodity for Asia? American Silver in the Markets of Mexico, Castile, and Amsterdam from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century,” in Money in the Pre-Industrial World: Bullion, Debasements, and Coin Substitutes, (ed.) John Munro (London: 2012), 129–161. Luis Valle de la Cerda, “Desempeño del Patrimonio Real,” in Biblioteca española económicopolítica, (ed.) Juan Sempere y Guarinos, vol. 1 (Madrid: 1801–1804), 1–23. Diego de Saavedra Fajardo, Empresas políticas, (ed.) Sagrario López Poza (Madrid: 1999), 732.

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513

The Nature of Money

Scholastic economic thinkers expressed more pragmatic concerns about markets, merchants, and consumers. They contended that the nature of money is that of a commodity. Money could be bought and sold like any other goods, and its estimation and price rose and fell with the demands of the market. They argued that social convention established gold and silver as measures of value. What mattered, then, was not the stuff of money, but rather the notion of understanding money as a token of trust, dispersing confidence among sellers, buyers, and consumers. Anticipating Georg Simmel’s classic argument about money as a claim upon society, Mercado, among other thinkers, explained that public confidence relied on the sacrality of the metallic weight and assay mark determined by custom and ratified by the prince.18 He also observed that, although the weight and fineness of coins were the true measure of commerce and foundation of good government, their estimation would always be variable.19 By considering money a commodity and exchange the ultimate source of value, Martín de Azpilcueta Navarro, one of the most salient of the Salamancan thinkers, contended in his Commentary on the Resolution of Money (Salamanca, 1556) that money’s ultimate worth depended on the utility it brought to its possessor. This observation also led Azpilcueta to formulate the earliest version of the quantity theory of money. He observed that the most important quantitative factor affecting money’s value was that money defined its value according to its relationship with other goods. Azpilcueta wrote, “As we can see from experience in France, where there is less money than in Spain, bread, wine, wool, hands, and work cost less, and even in Spain, when there was less money, much less was given for marketable goods, the hands and work of men, than later when the discoveries of the Indies covered it with silver and gold.”20 Thus he effectively described the contemporaneous phenomenon of rampant inflation. Pedro Cieza de León, the author of The Discovery and Conquest of Peru (composed through the 1540s), summarized these arguments about the effects of the price revolution in the opening paragraph of “About the Discovery of Peru.” The first chapter places Peruvian wealth at the heart of the narrative. Cieza 18 19 20

Georg Simmel. The Philosophy of Money, (ed.) David Frisby, trans. Tom Bottomore and Davis Frisby (London: 2004), 177. Tomás de Mercado, Tratos y contratos de mercaderes y tratantes discutidos y determinados (Salamanca: 1569), fol. 59. Martín de Azpilcueta Navarro, Commentary on the Resolution of Money (Salamanca: 1556), in Sourcebook in Late-Scholastic Monetary Theory: The Contributions of Martín de Azpilcueta, Luis de Molina, S.J., and Juan de Mariana, S.J., (ed.) Stephen J. Grabill (Lanham: 2007), 69–107, at 70.

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asks, “Where have men seen what they see today, fleets entering loaded with gold and silver as if it were iron? Or where was it known or read that so much wealth could come from one kingdom?” Then he marvels at the wealth of rich peruleros, the flood of silver pouring into Spain, and how everything has become much more expensive not only in Spain but across Europe as well. “Prices,” he writes, “have risen so much in Spain that if it continues as it has, I do not know how high prices will rise or how men will be able to live.”21

5

Credit Contracts

The price revolution coexisted with other monetary factors clustering around irregular arrivals of the treasure fleet. The flow of bullion depended on a combination of circumstances that compounded the mortality rate among the workforce in the mines with Atlantic weather patterns and frequent pirate attacks. Delays caused an extreme scarcity of silver, short-term liquidity problems, an increase in the price of money, and a higher demand for credit. In order to remain solvent until the next ship came in, the crown confiscated private silver and issued juros or perpetual bonds to compensate proprietors. Juros were especially dear to the ruling elite, who held them as the safest investment in Europe during the reigns of Charles V and Philip II.22 Merchants obtained credit by taking cambios, a shorthand for financial contracts that, by virtue of bills of exchange, combined loans with speculation on foreign exchange. For merchants and bankers, bills of exchange were the blood and soul of commerce. These hand-written orders allowed merchants to conduct business in different countries without carrying large sums. Bills financed wholesale purchases at exchange fairs held throughout Europe, such as the Medina del Campo fair (Valladolid) and other major commercial centers across Spain and abroad. In the process financing became as important as merchandise itself. As mere financial instruments, the volume of bills (cédulas de cambio) was so large that these pieces of paper with no intrinsic value now shared circulation with the public currency of the prince. Large merchants like Simón Ruiz started out as takers of bills and providers of remittances but eventually became financiers leading large firms with com-

21 22

Pedro Cieza de León, The Discovery and Conquest of Peru: Chronicles of the New World Encounter, (ed.) Alexandra Parma Cook, trans. Noble David Cook (Durham: 1998), 37. Mauricio Drelichman and Hans-Joachim Voth, Lending to the Borrower from Hell: Debt, Taxes, and Default in the Age of Philip II (Princeton: 2014), 86–88.

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plex, far-reaching networks of agents.23 As speculative investments, bills circulated back and forth through a succession of exchange and re-exchange operations that extended credit through the system of exchange fairs linking Medina del Campo with Bruges, Lyon, Besançon, and Piacenza; and from the late 16th century onwards, through the financial centers of Madrid, Seville, Lisbon, Antwerp, and Amsterdam.24 These financial circuits supported asientos or short-term lending contracts that the crown established with private bankers. Through the 16th and 17th centuries international bankers such as the Fuggers and Welsers, together with Genoese and Portuguese financiers, combined credit, the transfer of sums, and currency exchange and re-exchange to deliver payments abroad.25 The circuits of financial cosmopolitanism wove together transnational communities as well as a hybrid culture wherein foreign, naturalized, and Peninsular-born partners, agents, and factors26 alternated their roles as investors, creditors, and borrowers.27 Debt relations organized everyday realities. People from all walks of life took censos or mortgage contracts to finance crops, acquire property, or obtain loans. During economic downturns landowners sold their land to a cathedral or monastery; in exchange, they received a sum of money and entered into a perpetual lease or censo.28 Religious institutions both in Spain and the Americas lent money, usually at 7.14 percent, through loans carefully phrased as censos al quitar. These types of censos happened when an institution bought the right to collect an annual payment from the borrower until he or his heirs repaid the principal.29 Although in practicality these contracts, like any other type of loan, required an acceptable collateral (such as real state property), they were phrased in order to veil obvious financial connotations.

23

24 25 26 27

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Sara Pinto, “Geographic Projections of a 16th Century Trade Network: New Meanings for Historical Research,” in Understanding Different Geographies, (eds.) Karel Kriz and William Cartwright (Berlin: 2013), 203–214. Carmen Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros y la crisis de la Monarquía Hispánica de 1640 (Madrid: 2013), 30–31, 59. Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros, 24. The term factor means a business agent, or a merchant buying and selling on commission, as well as a deputy or representative. See Tamar Herzog, “Can You Tell a Spaniard When You See One? ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ in the Early Modern Iberian Atlantic,” in Polycentric Monarchies: How Did Early Modern Spain and Portugal Achieve and Maintain a Global Hegemony?, (ed.) Pedro Cardim (Eastbourne: 2012), 147–161. Herzog, “Can You Tell a Spaniard When You See One?” 81. Kathryn Burns, Colonial Habits: Convents and the Spiritual Economy of Cuzco, Peru (Durham: 1999), 65.

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In this intellectual and cultural landscape cambios generated discussions about modern ways of doing business. Scholastic thinkers regarded money as a commodity and wealth as circulating capital. They observed that without the commerce of money, “traders would not have been able to send their goods abroad, to dispatch their cargos, or to meet their commitments from day to day.” Yet, they worried about the risks and abuses inherent to financial contracts and speculation.30 Likewise cultural representations reacted to the new world of money by combining reactionary and progressive views. Those concerned with the crassness of profit registered money’s freedom from any origin and quality as a morally dangerous alchemy that emptied out social markers of lineage and rank. Cristóbal de Villalón allegorized the swift advance of capital as a moral fight confronting Goodness and Truth with Wealth, Greed, and Falsehood.31 By complaining about the new trends in clothing, recreation, and spending, Antonio de Guevara (among others) warned about the risk that all qualitative distinctions among people, and even between people and things, might become equally convertible into a price. Writers also fantasized about ideal feudal, rural, and even pastoral landscapes outside the limits of the rising credit economy, where society could enjoy the higher values of an imagined age blessed with generosity and reciprocity. Yet imagining scenarios where calculation would be unnecessary did not cancel out the obvious inequalities of wealth, lineage, power, capitalist interests, and the desire for upward mobility. I understand this conservative reaction to the acceleration of commerce and finance as part of a larger cultural process through which participation in the modern financial system came to seem like a routine activity of everyday life. Figurative writings illustrated how mercantile habits of thought and financial language spread through all sectors of society. In the literary production of the period the terms Fúcar (Spanish for Fugger), Genoese, and peruleros or indianos connoted synecdoches of financial stability and American fortunes, as well as the accelerated shift from lineage to wealth that Sancho so eloquently explained. Mimicking successful merchants who liquidated their trading ventures to become financiers, Guzmán de Alfarache—the protago-

30

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Marjorie Grice-Hutchinson, The School of Salamanca: Readings in Spanish Monetary Theory, 1544–1605 (Oxford: 1952), 120–121. For a discussion on usury matters see Abelardo del Vigo, Cambistas, mercaderes y banqueros en el Siglo de Oro español (Madrid: 1997). On notions and representations of greed see Hilaire Kallendorf, Sins of the Fathers: Moral Economies in Early Modern Spain (Toronto: 2013), 45–73. Cristóbal de Villalón, El Crótalon de Cristóforo Gnofoso, (ed.) Asunción Rallo Gruss (Madrid: 1982), 394–413.

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nist of the eponymous novel by Mateo Alemán—claims that exchanging and re-exchanging credit contracts is the modern way of doing business.32 Peruleros33 were also experts in the modern way to handle money. Echoing the actual correspondence of immigrants compiled by James Lockhart and Enrique Otte, Tirso de Molina (among other playwrights) fills his indiano’s luggage with orders of payment and promissory notes along with some magnificent jewelry.34 Carrizales, the protagonist of El celoso extremeño and a seasoned perulero, shows readers that gold and silver bars are unproductive unless they are invested. The commercial scenarios that Cervantes portrays in this story as well as La española inglesa celebrate the trust held by international financial networks and the convenience of bills of exchange.35 But nowhere do we find a more telling example than in Alonso de Castillo Solórzano’s La niña de los embustes, as Teresa de Manzanares takes bills of exchange to transfer the sums she has in the bank from Madrid to Córdoba. She is assured that if highwaymen rob her when crossing the Sierra Morena, her money will be safe.

6

A Mercantile Culture

Despite their ideological differences, both conservative and progressive authors grappled with a society bustling with all sorts of business. The extended use of commercial registers and business values, along with the ubiquitous presence of financial anecdotes in the cultural field, suggests that Early Modern Spanish culture was imbued with mercantilism stemming from vigorous expansion of trade and dissemination of commercial arts. In fact, arithmetic, accounting, and bookkeeping spread not only through everyday trade practice but also through how-to business manuals published in Aragon, Castile, and the Americas from the 1510s onwards. Written by clerics, merchants, mathematicians, and accountants, these popular commercial texts generated conversations about the world of money, goods, and exchange that affected the life, thought, and imagination of 16th- and 17th-century Spaniards.36 32 33 34

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Mateo Alemán, Guzmán de Alfarache, (ed.) José María Micó (Madrid: 1997), 2:355–376. Literally, ‘persons from Perú.’ This term was used to designate people who emigrated from Peru to Spain and there displayed ostentatious wealth. See Letters and People of the Spanish Indies, Sixteenth Century, (eds.) James Lockhart and Enrique Otte (Cambridge: 1976). For a discussion of indiano money see Elvira Vilches, New World Gold: Cultural Anxiety and Monetary Disorder in Early Modern Spain (Chicago: 2010), 294–309. Miguel de Cervantes, Novelas ejemplares, (ed.) Harry Sieber (Madrid: 2010). Juan Pérez de Moya, Arithmética práctica y speculativa, (ed.) Consolación Baranda

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While economic thinkers pondered the economic and political advantages of commerce together with the tensions between passions and interests associated with finances, commercial textbooks taught all aspects of trade, from arithmetical rules to investment operations and credit contracts. Handbooks demonstrated how to become fluent in all areas of commerce including credit transactions such as the exchange and re-exchange of cambios, credit sales loans or mohatras, together with investments in companies, annuities, and securities. Commercial authors targeted a mercantile audience as well as a more general public that sought to achieve steady improvement in the profitability of their businesses and households. Using Hindu-Arabic numeration, arithmetic manuals taught the use of standard procedures for addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division of whole numbers, fractions, and compound numbers associated with quantities expressing weight, length, and volume. Authors of these treatises borrowed freely from each other both in the form of words used in explanatory texts and in the enunciation of problems.37 Using examples and mathematical word problems describing ordinary market transactions, masters taught students important definitions, rules, and cases by showing exemplary solutions which illustrated the application of arithmetical rules. The diverse currency and measurement systems of the Spanish kingdoms held a central place in these manuals. So did word problems teaching how to reckon prices, quantities, shares, and interests. Compound numbers were key to quantifying weight of all goods, including money either in the form of coin or bullion. Calculation aids such as ready reckoners and tables of equivalencies for coins, weight, volume, and distance filled the first pages of these manuals. Word problems ranged from money exchange and the reckoning of prices to the calculation of interests and shares. The progression from basic to more sophisticated problems suggests not only a diverse audience, but also the understand-

37

(Madrid: 1998). See also José María Pinero, Ciencia y técnica en la sociedad española de los siglos XVI Y XVII (Barcelona: 1979). This is a sample of commercial textbooks written by both clerics and merchants. Wellknown titles written by clerics include Juan Andrés, Sumario breve de la práctica de la arithmética (Valencia: 1512); Juan Ortega, Suma de arithmetica y geometria pratica utilissima (Lyon: 1512); and Juan Díez Freyle, Sumario compendioso de las cuentas de plata y oro (Mexico: 1556). A sample of textbooks written by merchants includes Gaspar de Tejada, Suma de arithmetica pratica y de todas mercaderias; con la horden de contadores (Valladolid: 1546); Marco Aurel, Libro primero, de arithmetica algebratica, en el qual se contiene el arte mercantiuol (Valencia: 1552); and Salvador Bartolomé Solórzano, Libro de caxa y manual de mercaderes (Madrid: 1590).

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ing that money fluctuates between the abstract and the concrete. Amidst the multiple physical coins in circulation, the maravedí conveyed not an object but a measure of value or unit of account. Finally, the popularity of these business manuals and the extensive use of credit suggest that the expanding credit economy was not abstract at all. Credit contracts were part and parcel of extensive monetary practices that combined credit with contrasting currencies and bullion. The multiplicity of monetary forms required the capability of mentally converting different units and even commodities to the unit of account (typically the maravedí or, for large payments, the ducado). This process also entailed dealing with variations in value and denominations across Spanish kingdoms in the Old and the New Worlds.

7

Weight, Measure, and Accuracy

In the Early Modern period coins were non-fiat forms of money38 minted from precious metals. What distinguished this form of commodity money from bullion is the role of the coin as legal tender. A piece of minted metal circulated by tale, that is to say by counting alone at ‘face value,’ as long as the issuing authority pledged the integrity of the coin. Unlike the coin, the exchange of bullion could not obviate the error-prone task of weighing precious metals, assaying their exact fineness, and assigning a market value. Both forms of money merge in the word dineros, whose fourfold meaning consisted of money, the unit of weight for silver, the perfection and precision of the assay mark, and the actual set of nested weights used by assayers, also known as the dineral.39 Such a rich meaning explains the meshing of coins and precious objects (such as bullion bars and jewelry) as equivalent and interchangeable monetary instruments. Converting back and forth from coins to other forms of money was an ordinary practice. The documentation of the treasure fleet—along with inventories, books of account, and testaments—carefully itemizes not only ingots but also pieces of jewelry by describing in detail their shape, fineness, and monetary value. Arithmetic handouts clearly demonstrated how to calculate the monetary value of ingots and jewelry by measuring weight and fineness in compound numbers and reckoning the right proportions of rich metal to alloy. 38 39

‘Fiat money’ means money that has no intrinsic value and cannot be redeemed for either coins (specie) or commodity such as bullion. Francisco de Quevedo, Prosa festiva completa, (ed.) Carmen Celsa García Valdés (Madrid: 1993), 524.

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Keeping up with such a variety of valuables required inventiveness, shrewdness, and quick problem-solving. The mastery of such arithmetic is evident even in the romance genre. Antonio de Viedma, the protagonist of the “Captive’s Tale” in Don Quixote I, cites specific numerical values in jewels, doblas and escudos, quickly converting gold, diamond, and pearl karats into actual sums to the tune of 10,000 doblas and 200,000 escudos as he talks about the beauty and grace of Zoraida, the mistress of his heart.40 The major concern with weights and measures was rigor and accuracy. At a time when inflation was rampant and the reckoning of unminted silver varied depending on who did the refining, assaying, and reckoning, Mercado argued with royal assayer Juan de Arfe that weights and measures which enable the currency are the foundations of commerce. Different nations, Arfe writes, trade among themselves so that each one may have all the things necessary for life, provided that the currency is stable.41 Mercado emphasized the notion of convention by suggesting that money on its own is worthless. What makes money valuable, he argued, is its function as a measure. He compared the coin with the clock in order to illustrate that currency required a comparable degree of exactitude, as both were the moral compasses of good government. A well-ordered republic, he wrote, depended on precise and reliable clocks to organize social life and relied on accurate, reputable, and trustworthy coins to guarantee fair exchange.42 Precision and exactitude are extremely important when dealing with unminted metals. In the Americas, both assayed and unassayed bullion were the means of exchange in mining regions and commercial centers spreading from Havana to Veracruz, Acapulco, Cartagena de Indias, Potosí, Lima, La Plata, and the colonial trade fairs of Portobelo. In New Spain, silver mine owners purchased from merchants both goods and pesos de a ocho for wage payments on

40

41

42

In 1562 mathematician Pérez de Moya estimated the value of a dobla to be 750 maravedís by assimilating this currency to the doblón, as Covarrubias also does in his Thesoro. In his Historia de la moneda, Farrés explains that the value of the escudo fluctuated between 350 and 400 maravedís (238). See also Cervantes, Don Quixote, 354. “[Una de las cosas más importantes y necesarias en el uso común de casi todas las gentes es la moneda porque con ella] las naciones y las provincias diferentes truecan unas con otras lo que no tienen, y sin este comercio común y general, faltaran muchas cosas útiles y convenientes a la vida, y en tanto se conversa en cuanto la moneda tiene cierto valor, el cual nadie le puede dar sino los Reyes y Príncipes, los cuales ponen su ley y estimación y la señalan con su sello, significando con esto ser la moneda cosa real y sagrada” (Juan de Arfe y Villafañe, Quilatador, de la plata, oro, y piedras, conforme a las leyes reales, y para declaracion de ellas [Madrid: 1598], “Al Rey Nuestro Señor” [no pagination]). Mercado, Tratos y contratos, fol. 59.

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credit in return for unminted silver. They also sold their ore to silver merchants who shipped silver to the Mexico City mint.43 Similar transactions took place in Peru, where silver from Potosí was sent to Lima and to the trade fairs in Panama, creating the flow of a vast river (as Portuguese merchant Duarte Gómez put it) extending through the world all the way to China.44 If we were to travel back in time and send goods and money throughout the Spanish Renaissance kingdoms, we would have to be good appraisers of currencies, weights, and measures. Gold and silver coins were struck around 60 to the local mark, although the mark weight as a unit of measure itself varied from place to place.45 Castile and Aragon had their own currencies and measures, the latter being the kingdom that combined the contrasting monies of Barcelona and Valencia. Both in the Peninsular kingdoms and the Americas, gold, silver, and alloy coins circulated along with bullion. In the Indies the bullion of mining and commercial centers coexisted with other forms of commodity money such as cacao beans, cotton cloth, and yerba mate that circulated in non-mining areas. During the conquest various forms of credit were used to make payments until precious metals were smelted and accounts could be settled. Silver bars, gold ingots and nuggets were reckoned in either pesos or maravedís and were exchanged to settle debts. Even when mints were established in Mexico (1535), Lima (1566), and Potosí (1572), the exchange of coins was prevalent only in large cities and on important trade routes.46 Unminted silver in the form of bars and wedges or piñas was the most common means of payment. Royal officials in charge of taxes and salaries, business factors and soldiers referred to money as peso or measurement in order to indicate money of account. For accounting purposes it was essential to distinguish between assayed and unassayed bullion, especially in the case of silver. Assaying guaranteed that the net content of plate and its fineness were known. Its exchange value could be determined by reckoning whether the degrees of purity were on par with the standard. Thus the importance of the terms ensayado/a or buen oro or buena plata in peso

43 44 45

46

Stanley J. Stein and Barbara H. Stein, Silver, Trade, and War: Spain and America in the Making of Early Modern Europe (Baltimore: 2000), 30. Duarte Gómez Solís, Discursos sobre los comercios de las dos Indias: donde se tratan materias importantes de estado y guerra (Madrid: 1622), fol. 37. The variety of weights was the constant concern of royal assayers, as Juan de Arfe discusses in his Quilatador, de la plata, oro, y piedras, conforme a las leyes reales, y para declaracion de ellas (Madrid: 1598). Arturo Giraldez, “Cacao Beans in Colonial Mexico,” in Money in the Pre-Industrial World: Bullion, Debasements, and Coin Substitutes, (ed.) John H. Munro (London: 2012), 147–163.

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de oro ensayado or buen oro and peso de plata ensayada. Conversely, peso de oro de minas, peso de tepuzque, and plata corriente indicate unassayed plate.47 This meant that settlers, merchants, and clerks had to convert assayed into unassayed units of account by reckoning the pesos of either silver or gold and their respective subdivisions as granos and tomines to obtain the current market value expressed both in maravedís and the variety of monies of account mentioned above. In the case of silver such an operation required the conversion of plate of varying lower quality into the standard of 11 dineros and four grains48 to obtain the current market value. The character of any commercial transaction was altered completely if the value of the metal was miscalculated. Spaniards also used the term dineros, meaning not so much coin as the degree of purity and fineness in silver. The value of unminted silver was determined by reckoning the price of each dinero (or karat, in the case of gold) in maravedís and adding the costs of smelting, assaying, and purifying, especially in the case of silver.49 Inca Garcilaso de la Vega illustrates the ordinary practice of weighing and reckoning silver in his “Notes on the General Language of the Indians of Peru,” where he correlates precise arithmetic with the accurate translation of Quechua terms. “For twenty years,” he writes, … there was no coined money in the country. In its place Spaniards bought and sold by weighing gold and silver in marks and ounces, and spoke of pesos or castellanos [units of account] in Peru as they speak of ducados in Spain. Each peso of silver or gold, consisting of pure metal, was worth 450 maravedís, so that to turn pesos into Castilian ducats, one reckons five pesos as six ducats. This is mentioned to avoid confusion in counting pesos and ducados in this history. There was a great difference in quantity between the silver peso and the gold peso, as there is in Spain, but the value was the same. In exchanging gold for silver they paid a rate of interest [a premium] of so many per cent. Also in exchanging assayed silver for the silver called “current,”50 or un-assayed, interest was paid.51 47 48 49 50

51

María Elena Bribiesca Sumano, Texto de paleografía y diplomática (Toluca: 2002), 82. Gold fineness is measured in carats and grains. The same applies to silver, with dineros in place of carats. Arfe y Villafeñe, Quilatador de la plata, oro y piedras, fol. 21. The proper translation of “current silver” is plata corriente. In this context corriente means unrefined unassayed silver, typically exchanged in ordinary transactions. See Julio Torres, “La implantación de la moneda en América,” Revista de Filología Románica 11–12 (1994– 1995): 115–130; and Humberto Burzio, Diccionario de la moneda hispanoamericana, vol. 1 (Santiago de Chile: 1956), 127. Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, “Notes on the General Language of Indians of Peru in Vega,” in

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As Inca Garcilaso suggests, merchants and consumers had to become experts in reducing the compound numbers expressing the weight and quality of bullion to calculate their value in units of account. The popularity of commercial texts generally known as reducciones del oro y de la plata printed in Mexico and Peru from the 1550s to the 18th century testifies to the complexity of the arithmetical rules known as reducciones. Like the commercial texts published in Spain mentioned earlier, the reducciones also shared a common approach. In addition to prefaces praising arithmetic; the expanse of farreaching commerce; and the transactions taking place in major commercial centers and colonial fairs, textbooks limited the teaching of arithmetic rules to a minimum, while a large portion of the texts consisted of various ready reckoners for converting bullion into colonial units of account for assayed and unassayed metals, maravedís, Castilian coins, and such monedas de la tierra as cacao and cotton cloth. Juan Díez Freyle, the author of the first published title among these commercial texts (México, 1556), commented that with the large volume of trade between Mexico and Peru, everyone rushed calculations.52 Businessmen were famous for rounding up amounts, oversimplifying arithmetical rules, and mixing all sorts of plate in their shipments to Seville. Writing in Lima in 1607, Francisco Garreguilla observed that at the Portobelo fairs in Panama, where deals were worth thousands of pesos, what mattered was not so much arithmetical accuracy as the pace of expediting business.53 Felipe Echegoyán explained to readers that the purpose of his Tablas (México, 1603) was to check transactions rife with fraud and questionable accounts. Compared to similar handbooks, his work included additional tables for reckoning prices in cacao beans, cotton blankets, Chinese goods, and Mexican coins like the pesos de tepuzque de a ocho reales. The presence of these commodities illustrates the common practice of using goods such as bundles of tobacco leaves and pieces of cotton cloth as effective means of exchange in non-mining areas.54 These handbooks also suggest that money is a complex arithmetical question. For in addition to morphing

52 53 54

Royal Commentaries of the Incas, and General History of Peru, trans. H.V. Livermore (Austin: 1966). Juan Díez Freyele, Sumario compendioso de las cuentas del oro y de la plata (Mexico City: 1556). Juan Francisco Garreguilla, Libro de la plata reducida (Lima: 1607). Felipe Echegoyán, Tablas de reducciones de monedas (Mexico City: 1603). For the variety of monetary practices see Jorge Daniel Gelman, “Natural Economies or Money Economies? Silver Production and Monetary Circulation in Spanish Colonial America (Late XVI and Early XVII Centuries),” The Journal of European Economic History 13.1 (1984): 99–115.

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any commodity into calculable systems of numerical equivalents, arithmetical accuracy (together with business practices) provided the consensus needed to assure the trust and confidence required to ground the validity of unminted silver by fiat. Arithmetic and numerical representation also disclosed the process through which monetary practices make money a socially constructed and continually negotiated category, constituted by social relations extending beyond the authority of the monarch to assayers, money-changers, merchants, bankers, and consumers. Despite effective national currencies and standard units of measurement, variations in valuation, denomination, and assaying existed at the local, regional, and national level. Merchants agreed with economic thinker Juan de Mariana that in the absence of currency, weights and measures are the foundations of trust that enable commerce. Mariana commented that if most things are sold by weight and measure, everything is sold by money.55 Both argued with Georg Simmel that the pivotal role of money consists in the dispersion of trust among anonymous economic agents throughout all sectors of society. Thus they agreed that what really matters are the dynamics of monetary exchange, and more specifically the common trust that makes such an interaction possible. The greater the number of people willing to place trust in money, the greater their interest in constructing a positive image of the anonymous Other as a trustworthy trading partner.56 In Early Modern Spain, diverse monetary objects embodied trustworthiness through different means. Coins embodied the pledge of the monarch, while precise assaying and accurate reckoning of measurement and market value enabled the circulation of bullion. In the unique monetary space of the Indies, silver ‘ready reckoners’ rendered exact conversion tables in order to promote confidence in exchange. Through financial networks crisscrossing the Old and New Worlds, diligent bookkeeping and trust among partners, agents, creditors and borrowers made it possible to seek credit and trade.

8

Trust, Confidence, and Crisis: Past and Present

Trust and confidence create a cohesive experience based on a shared sense of value and social order. Interestingly, these matters go unnoticed until the social conventions that ground trust and the signs that assure trustworthiness

55 56

Grabill, Sourcebook in Late-Scholastic Monetary Theory, 265. Simmel, The Philosophy of Money, 179.

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crumble. The mass production of copper money or vellón that began in 1602 in Castile shook the public’s confidence in money. The newly-minted copper coins not only lacked any material basis of value, but additionally their nominal value shifted as the government saw fit, either by minting new coins or re-stamping old ones. It is not surprising that in his pamphlet El chitón de las tarabillas, Quevedo commented that the vellón could no longer be held as income (hacienda) but as a daily shock (el susto de cada día). He also fancied the psychological strain of losing confidence in money as a nightmare in which purses morph into large copper cauldrons, while piles and piles of worthless coins turn into rubble and detritus, causing a contagious plague.57 Commercial circles portrayed a comparably disconcerting scenario. The adulteration of currency brought about unique monetary and business practices. Scarce silver reales and abundant cuartos de vellón required separate account books, while the maravedí was used to value goods and services, record debts, and make calculations. Bankers, merchants and proprietors eagerly sought silver as a hedge against inflation and disturbing fluctuations of value. They sought this precious silver through the exchange of raw materials such as wool and silk, speculation on the exchange markets of Amsterdam and Genoa, and—for those bankers lending to the crown—appropriations of American silver. Loans and securities were signed in escudos, but interest was calculated in maravedís. Any equivalence between the two units of account was also quite irregular. The value of the escudos depended on the date of the transactions, the banker involved, and exchange rates in Amsterdam and Genoa. The business community also relied on a silver premium or premio de la plata in order to settle value discrepancies and grapple with the chaotic vellón. These measures did not alleviate the fact that money had become a great cause for anxiety.58 Bankers, investors, and creditors relied on personal trust, existing good reputation, and the retrenching of their business networks in order to manage risk and volatility. Within the trading community those who were not so financially viable failed, while those who could depend on more extensive networks prospered. Royal chronicler Gil González Dávila compares the deceiving splendor of the royal court with the frequent default of bankers and businessmen

57 58

Francisco de Quevedo, El chitón de las tarabillas, (ed.) Manuel Urí Martín (Madrid: 1998), 98, 76–81. Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros, 91–99, 68–73. Sanz Ayán also calls attention to the extended practice of tampering with the coinage in other Europeans countries such as Germany, Poland, and France. Barrionuevo also discusses this practice as an extended and endemic problem that surfaced likewise in the Ottoman Empire.

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caused by the constant rise and fall in the premium on silver.59 As both Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert and Carmen Sanz Ayán have demonstrated, Portuguese and Genoese financiers relied on inner support among their influential community of overseas traders spreading throughout the Atlantic, Pacific, Spain, and the Netherlands.60 Sanz Ayán’s study also features less successful cases like that of the widow Eugenia Imbrea Spínola who, 30 years after the default of her late husband in 1640, continued her lawsuit against her husband’s partners for unpaid shares and outstanding debts. Chronicler Matías de Novoa explains that the widow, who had a million cuartos or copper coins worth 4 maravedís, lost everything due to the sudden shifts of re-stamped vellón. On February 11, 1641 cuartos increased their value from 4 to 8 maravedís. In September of the following year deflation drastically reduced the nominal value of the previously-overvalued copper pieces. Then the copper pieces re-stamped at 12 maravedís decreased to 2, those valued at 6 to 1. And finally a royal decree ordered a 26.66 percent reduction on the premium for silver, a move which reduced the value of copper coins by an additional 25 percent.61 Endless fluctuations of value generated numberless tracts.62 The vellón caused an expansive wave of apprehension and irritation that stemmed from the economic sphere and radiated toward the social field. Economic thinkers, observers, and literary authors reflected on how the disintegration of centers of value and notions of truth revealed the deceptive nature of all appearances. Figurative writings mediated between Spain’s strong currency in the past and its monetary disorders of the present in contrasting ways. One-act plays made wholesome money a matter of piety and justice by stressing the religious connotation of vellón or sheepskin as an attribute of the Lamb of God.63 In fact Mira de Amescua’s El monte de la piedad, Quiñones de Benavente’s Las damas del vellón, and the anonymous Auto del vellón discussed the restoration of monetary signs by using this religious symbol as a twofold synecdoche for wholesome money and the pledge of Catholic faith as a guarantor of public trust.

59 60 61 62 63

Gil Dávila González, Monarquía de España: historia de la vida y hechos del ínclito monarca … D. Felipe tercero (Madrid: 1771), 167–170. See Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert, A Nation upon the Ocean Sea: Portugal’s Atlantic Diaspora and the Crisis of the Spanish Empire, 1492–1640 (Oxford: 2007). Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros, 13, 72–73. Elena Guerra, Moneda y arbitrios. Consideraciones del siglo XVII (Madrid: 2003). Carmen Sanz Ayán, “Peor que estaba. La crisis hacendística, la cuestión del vellón y su reflejo teatral en tiempos de Calderón,” in Hacer escena: capítulos de historia de la empresa teatral en el Siglo de Oro (Madrid: 2013), 115–146.

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The vagaries of copper money also inspired reflections about a world upside down that saw ruin both as process and object.64 Quevedo’s hyperbolic images of a copper plague and money as the cause of unbearable strain vividly illustrate the effects described by Gresham’s Law. Once the government overvalues copper money in order to save and accumulate silver, the policy backfires as silver disappears from circulation into hoards, while copper then floods into circulation. But the notion of money as a nightmare also conveys to what extent the vellón gave a concrete form to the overwhelming sense of calamity of the period, which historian Geoffrey Parker relates to a global crisis that combined financial downturns with war, famine, disease, and adverse weather patterns.65 In 17th-century Spain the coin came to embody all the causes that could deprive human actions of esteem and value. Juan de Mariana wrote in his preface to A Treatise on the Alteration of Money (Cologne: 1609) that “the entire nation, old and young, rich and poor, educated and uneducated, is shouting and groaning under this burden.”66 In a country flooded with base copper money, Saavedra Fajardo described both commerce and the country as outright chaos—“fuera de sí.”67 In 1654, Jerónimo de Barrionuevo observed that people grew desperate as they realized that money and prices were pure madness.68 I suggest that rather than expressing overrated manifestations of melancholy and confusion, these comments reveal to what extent trying to make sense of monetary disturbances compresses the mental process, causing shock and breakdown. Our understanding of the world, together with notions of personhood, collapses when money fails. Money makes it possible for value, despite its elusive nature, to be perceived and understood as a fact that can no more be altered than reality can. This sense of stability and understanding of the world also extends to our notions of self. Income and possessions provide a power to act as well as a raison d’être, without which the subject would disintegrate. This twofold perception breaks down when monetary circumstances deteriorate,69 which is when economic disorders have the most 64 65 66 67 68 69

Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. John Osborne (London: 1998), 138–139. Geoffrey Parker, Global Crisis: War, Climate Change and Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century (New Haven: 2013). Juan de Mariana, A Treatise on the Alteration of Money (Cologne: 1609), in Sourcebook in Late-Scholastic Monetary Theory, (ed.) Grabill, 251–329, at 251. Saavedra Fajardo, Empresas políticas, 798. Jerónimo de Barrionuevo, Avisos, vol. 1 (Madrid: 1892), 108. Simmel, The Philosophy of Money, 64–66.

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disturbing effects. The ensuing emotional pain is comparable to grieving the loss of everything that was once held dear and lasting.70 The feelings of melancholia, delusion, and deceit typically associated with Baroque literature acquire a new meaning when one considers the material and psychological aftermath of 20th- and 21st-century monetary downturns. In 17th-century Castile, money was the source of constant anxiety. The reactions I mentioned earlier intimately meshed economic elements and emotions in descriptions conveying states of confusion and dejection that see the world as empty and the self as poor. Góngora and Quevedo, among many other poets, also shared this distressed outlook. Their respective poems, Sonnet CLXVI and Psalm XVII, juxtapose objects and notions of lasting value, such as burnished gold and the fortified walls of empire, to human life, only to contemplate their disintegration and ruin. Both instances suggest that rather than being merely a literary exercise, the breakdown of the center of value is factual, for both poets demonstrate that thought and ruin go hand-in-hand in a world that has become empty and the self impoverished. Interestingly, only when contemporary society has experienced destitution do Baroque reactions to the adulteration of currency not seem excessive anymore. In fact, Baroque deceit and delusion acquire a fresher meaning when we consider how the exceptional monetary circumstances of Habsburg Spain shed new light on the aftermath of the global financial crisis in 21st-century Spain. The melancholic outlook of the past clearly reflects the dejection of the current moment. Financial crisis has flooded society with an overwhelming sense of disaster, as everything that was held solid is discovered to have been in fact just a mirage. 21st-century Spaniards have felt shocked, disoriented, and confused after the burst of the real estate bubble and the collapse of banks. From 2010 onward, sovereign debt crisis has inspired historical comparisons with the homologous financial upheavals which the last Habsburg monarchs faced. Beyond the parallels economic historians study, what stands out are reactions of dejection and anxiety that, by all means, correspond to those described by 17th-century authors. Present-day observers notice that the world has become perplexing. Thousands of citizens have faced foreclosures, unemployment, and irreparable loss of income. These sudden material shifts have also undermined a sense of selfhood and purpose, as emerging narratives of so-called “subprime iden-

70

Sigmund Freud, “Mourning and Melancholia,” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachy, vol. 14 (London: 1953–1974), 246; Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, 138–139.

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tities” highlight.71 In 21st-century Spain, emptiness manifests itself physically, politically, and emotionally. The country is filled with empty buildings, stillborn projects, immobile machines, empty pockets, and idle hands. No one understands exactly why everything believed to be durable has crumbled. What is easier to perceive, though, is the overwhelming sense of deprivation, misery, and ruin. In both Golden Age and contemporary Spain, money causes anxiety and confusion as both societies grapple with the experience of crisis by confronting comparable concerns about the impermanent nature of value. I would like to propose that Golden Age Spain presents contemporary Spanish society with a mirror in which to behold a not-so-distant society wrestling not only with the destruction of one monetary order in favor of another, but also with similar ways of doing things with (and talking about) money. Then as now, people invested, borrowed, and lost income. Early Modern and present-day Spaniards have a comparable understanding of the multiple ways income and personhood interrelate, and the numerous social and cultural meanings of money. They also share a common habit of reducing quality into quantity. This is the main reason why, as Sancho and Celedón Favalis suggest, when we talk about money we do not ask what, why, and how, but instead how much. Sancho suggests that wealth is better than wisdom. Yet, in order to promote self-interest (the quality that Bernardo de Balbuena praises so highly), Early Modern Spaniards had to grapple with more complex monetary practices than we encounter today. Although censos, juros, mortgages, cambios, and other credit contracts resemble those we use presently, the currency does not. In the pre-modern world, coins were non-fiat money embodying both abstraction and substance. As symbols of trust and authority, coins could be counted as tale.72 In this capacity, currency embodied its role as official measure of value by virtue of the seal of the prince that guaranteed metallic content. The notion of measure was also crucial in the exchange of bullion as a means of payment. Diverse monies of account, from the maravedí to the variety of assayed and unassayed pesos used in the Americas, were the denominators for market value of bullion, goods, services, and transactions. The rich diversity of units of account, currencies, and other monetary objects circulating in the Spanish kingdoms required keen arithmetical skills to mentally convert back 71 72

Germán Labrador Méndez, “Las vidas subprime: la circulación de historias de vida como tecnología política de la crisis española,” Hispanic Review 80.4 (2012): 557–581. Silver coins can be valued either by weighing them or by looking at the inscription of value stamped on the coin. ‘Tale’ here refers to ‘tell,’ like the word embedded in the phrase automatic teller machine.

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and forth bullion of different purity and multiple currencies in a perplexing mix of changing rates of exchange and credit instruments. Popular commercial publications such as arithmetic textbooks, ready reckoners, and silver handbooks spread not only numeracy but also knowledge of all sorts of financial transactions and applicable arithmetical rules. As both Cieza de León and Inca Garcilaso de la Vega suggest, these matters were not unique to the domain of the merchant, but rather to society as a whole. Their observation about how matters of exchange reached everywhere and everyone also surfaces in the microcosm of financial anecdotes, monetary metaphors, and financial transactions that literary authors discussed. The ubiquitous presence of monetary practices across literary and cultural fields suggests that middlebrow business handbooks, rather than highbrow economic treatises, played a pivotal role in creating a mercantile culture where everyone did their best to use money to their own advantage. Everyone adopted habits of thought associated with trade. As all segments of society engaged in financial affairs, profit and loss became the language for assessing material, social, private, and spiritual matters. This mercantile culture merged business and cultural registers to the extent that depicting, adopting, and reshaping the tools and discourse of commerce became the concern of literature. In sum, Early Modern Spanish society, although remote in time and space, corresponds to our own. Like we do today, Early Modern Spaniards lived in a world saturated with all kinds of business and concerns about money.

chapter 21

Historiography and European Perceptions of Spain Michael J. Levin

“Spain is different.” In the 1960s, Manuel Fraga Iribarne, Francisco Franco’s Minister of Information and Tourism, adopted this phrase as a slogan for Spain, in an attempt to lure foreign visitors and boost the economy.1 But the idea of Spain’s essential ‘difference’ from the rest of Europe had deep roots, going back at least four centuries. And of course, Fraga Iribarne was trying to put a positive spin on what was traditionally a series of highly negative stereotypes, usually referred to as the ‘Black Legend’ of Spain. The historian David J. Weber sums up the Black Legend as “the view that Spaniards were unusually cruel, avaricious, treacherous, fanatical, superstitious, cowardly, corrupt, decadent, indolent, and authoritarian.”2 (Other adjectives could be added, especially ‘proud’ and ‘backwards.’) Where did these hostile images come from? In this essay, I will examine how modern historians have tried to answer that question. As we will see, the historiography of European perceptions of Spain (or why Spaniards were defined as ‘Other’) is inextricably linked with the problem of how Spaniards perceive themselves. While the ‘Black Legend’ largely originated in the Renaissance/Early Modern period (roughly the 16th through the 18th centuries), defining ‘Spain’ or ‘Spanishness’ (hispanidad) remains a controversial issue to this day, and scholarship on Early Modern Spain continues to influence current Spanish politics. It is not hard to find derogatory comments about Spain and Spaniards in Early Modern European literature, so I will just mention a few famous examples. There are many reasons for this antipathy, as this essay will make clear. To begin with, fear and envy of the Spanish Empire were surely factors.3 As early as 1513, the Italian Renaissance historian and diplomat Francesco Guicciardini commented on Spain’s remarkable rise to power under Ferdinand and Isabella. While Guicciardini did praise Spaniards for certain qualities, such as ingenu-

1 See Eugenia Afinoguénova and Jaume Martí-Olivella (eds.), Spain Is (Still) Different: Tourism and Discourse in Spanish Identity (Lanham: 2008), xi–xvi. 2 David J. Weber, The Spanish Frontier in North America (New Haven: 1992), 336. For a basic overview see also Ricardo García Cárcel, La Leyenda Negra (Madrid: 1990). 3 J.N. Hillgarth, The Mirror of Spain, 1500–1700: The Formation of a Myth (Ann Arbor: 2000), viii.

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ity and skill in battle, he also criticized them for their hypocrisy and aversion to manual labor, as well as their overweening pride. As he wrote, “The [Spanish] people are of a saturnine and sullen aspect, dark skinned, small in stature, and haughty by nature. In their own estimation there is no other nation to be compared with them.”4 Guicciardini made no attempt to distinguish between Castilians, Aragonese, or other Iberians, but described them as all sharing the same ‘nature.’ Religion—for the Spanish people and for those observing them—was another crucial issue. Spain was the most powerful Catholic country in Europe, and Protestants wrote a large percentage of the most vitriolic anti-Spanish literature. For example, one of the most influential screeds of the 16th century was the “Apologia” of 1580, written by William of Orange, a Protestant leader of the Dutch revolt against Spain. Responding to Philip II’s placing a bounty on his head, William thundered that “there is not, I am persuaded, a nation or prince in Europe, by whom it will not be thought dishonorable and barbarous, thus publicly to authorize and encourage murder; except the Spaniards, and their King, who have long been estranged from every sentiment of honor and humanity.”5 Spain, however, was also criticized by other Catholic nations. Spanish Catholicism was paradoxically suspect, because of Spain’s unique Jewish and Muslim heritage. Thanks to the Islamic conquest of Spain in 711, and the subsequent existence of large Spanish Muslim and Jewish populations (as well as many Christian converts from those religions), Spain really was different from the rest of Western Europe. As a result, many Europeans regarded Spaniards as being simultaneously too Catholic and not Catholic enough. In 1573, for example, the Venetian ambassador to Spain, Leonardo Donà, reported, “the Spanish always claim to be the most Catholic of Christians … But even though everyone in Spain appears to be staunchly Catholic and Christian … they are nevertheless so many baptized Jews and Moors.”6 This contemptuous attitude, which associated Spain with Jewish, African and/or ‘Oriental’ culture, was prevalent in 4 Printed in Charles Gibson, The Black Legend: Anti-Spanish Attitudes in the Old World and the New (New York: 1971), 31–41. Note Guicciardini’s reference to Spaniards as being “dark skinned.” 5 Printed in John C. Rule and John J. TePaske (eds.), The Character of Philip II: The Problem of Moral Judgments in History (Boston: 1963), 8–10. The same volume contains excerpts from the work of the 18th-century Scottish historian Robert Watson (10–12) and the 19th-century New England historian John Lothrop Motley (13–21), both of whom echo William of Orange’s sentiments. 6 Printed in James C. Davis (ed. and trans.), Pursuit of Power: Venetian Ambassadors’ Reports on Spain, Turkey, and France in the Age of Philip II, 1560–1600 (New York: 1970), 96–97.

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Europe right through the 19th century; the writer Alexander Dumas, for example, supposedly quipped, “Africa begins at the Pyrenees.”7 Finally, we should note that it was actually a Spaniard, Bartolomé de las Casas, who wrote one of the most famous Early Modern descriptions of Spanish cruelty: A Very Brief Account of the Destruction of the Indies (1552). Las Casas was a priest who travelled to the New World and was outraged by the Spanish atrocities he witnessed there. His angry condemnation of Spanish abuses of power against the Native Americans was reprinted many times, translated into various languages, and circulated throughout Europe, and thus became the basis for many later additions to the literature of the Black Legend.8 The term ‘Black Legend,’ however, is a modern invention. It was first coined by a conservative Spanish journalist and amateur historian named Julián Juderías, in his seminal work La Leyenda Negra y la verdad histórica (1914).9 This book was less history than a polemical defense of Spain against what Juderías called the “fantastic stories” and “grotesque descriptions” of Spain by foreigners. Juderías decried a vast foreign conspiracy, which unfairly painted Spaniards as ignorant fanatics, and as enemies of progress and innovation.10 He identified the main source of this slander as Holland, England and France in the 16th century, who, out of fear and envy of Spain, promoted a “ridiculous exaggeration of the religious and political character of the Spanish people.”11 Interestingly, Juderías suggested that the Black Legend did not become really important until the 18th century, when Enlightenment writers further developed the idea of Spaniards as “semi-barbaric” people stuck in a brutal and superstitious past.12 Juderías rebutted all of these notions, arguing for the greatness of Spanish culture; while he admitted that Early Modern Spain was an intolerant and religiously bigoted country, he pointed out that the rest of Europe was no better.13 As we will see, while many historians argue over the details, Juderías’ basic conception of a “Black Legend” remains influential to this day. 7 8

9 10 11 12 13

Quoted in Barbara Fuchs, Exotic Nation: Maurophilia and the Construction of Early Modern Spain (Philadelphia: 2009), 1. Much has been written about Las Casas and his influence; see for example the essays in Benjamin Keen, Essays in the Intellectual History of Colonial Latin America (Boulder: 1998), and Rereading the Black Legend: The Discourses of Religious and Racial Difference in the Renaissance Empires, (eds.) Margaret R. Greer, Walter D. Mignolo and Maureen Quilligan (Chicago: 2007). This work has been reprinted many times. I used Julián Juderías, La Leyenda Negra: estudios acerca del concepto de España en el extranjero (Madrid: 1997). Juderías, La Leyenda Negra, 24–25. Juderías, La Leyenda Negra, 225–226. Juderías, La Leyenda Negra, 236–237. Juderías, La Leyenda Negra, 424.

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We should note, however, that Juderías, as an early 20th-century Spanish writer, was shaped by recent events and ideas. In the 19th century, the concept of ‘national character’ became extremely important: the idea that nation/states, and their destinies, are determined by the essential characteristics of their peoples. This idea was especially powerful, and troubling, for Spaniards at the turn of the 20th century. The combined effect of the Napoleonic Wars, the loss of the American colonies, and the humiliating defeat in the Spanish-American War had plunged Spain into a period of profound depression and scathing self-reflection. Spanish writers and philosophers of the famous Generation of 1898 pondered ‘the problem of Spain’: why had the Spanish Empire declined so drastically, and did Spaniards suffer from a fatal flaw which explained the catastrophe?14 Juderías, and other Spanish historians of his generation, have to be understood in this context; they were haunted by the possibility that the Black Legend was at least partly true. Some later historians have accused Juderías and others like him of creating a reactionary ‘White Legend’ of Spain, by denying all wrongdoing and promoting an idealized vision of Spanish history.15 This problem would only become worse during the years of Franco’s dictatorship. During the 1940s and 1950s, as Spain struggled to ‘modernize,’ the question of national identity and character became a hotly debated topic among Spanish historians. For example, the prominent scholar Ramón Menéndez Pidal, in his unfinished work Historia de España (begun 1935), posited the idea of “The Two Spains”: a centuries-long internal conflict between a cosmopolitan Spain that welcomed innovation, versus a more spiritual, austere, and isolationist Spain. Menéndez Pidal pointed out that this divide in Spanish society had been observed as early as 1562, by the Venetian ambassador Paolo Tiepolo. Tiepolo believed that the “spirit of seclusion” prevailed in Spain, a trait that seemed to remain true in the 20th century.16 While Menéndez Pidal mourned this defect in the Spanish character, he also defended Spain against its critics. He argued for example that the “Africanization” of Spain after the Islamic 14

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Richard L. Kagan, “Introduction,” in Spain in America: The Origins of Hispanism in the United States, (ed.) Richard L. Kagan (Urbana: 2002), 13–14; H. Ramsden, The 1898 Movement in Spain (Manchester: 1974). Gibson, The Black Legend, 4–9; Keen, Essays, 87–105; J.N. Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography and Iberian Reality,” History and Theory 24.1 (1985): 23–43; Henry Kamen, Imagining Spain: Historical Myth and National Identity (New Haven: 2008), ix–xiv. Ramón Menéndez Pidal, The Spaniards in their History, trans. Walter Starkie (London: 1950), 204–205. Later in the book, Menéndez Pidal pointed to the Spanish Civil War as a recent example of the conflict between “modern” and “traditional” Spaniards, with the isolationist side victorious.

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conquest “does not imply a difference or an inferiority to western culture, but rather the reverse.”17 In later works, Menéndez Pidal attacked the Black Legend more directly. In El Padre Las Casas: su doble personalidad (1963), he excoriated Las Casas as a source of self-interested lies and slander. As he wrote, “Las Casas was the greatest self-admirer who ever lived … At the same time he denounced those who disagreed with him, of whom there were a great many. Indeed we could say that his opponents included all the people of Spain, for Las Casas thought in a way different from all the others.” Menéndez Pidal admitted that the Spanish conquest of the Americas was “a work achieved in haste, [and] had many defects,” but he rejected Las Casas’ description of Spanish cruelty as an exaggeration.18 Meanwhile, two of Menéndez Pidal’s contemporaries, Américo Castro and Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz, engaged in one of the most famous debates in modern Spanish historiography, and again the subject was the essential nature of Spanish history and culture.19 In 1948 Castro published España en su historia, a book that immediately caused a storm of controversy.20 Castro’s famous thesis was that Spanish society developed in a unique way because it blended Christian, Jewish, and Islamic cultures. Castro argued that in the Middle Ages, Spain experienced a period of convivencia, or peaceful coexistence of the three religions, which shaped the entire course of Spanish history. Rather than denying Spain’s complicated religious history, Castro suggested, Spaniards should recognize its critical importance for the development of Spanish civilization. This idea, however, met with a great deal of resistance in Francisco Franco’s Spain. In 1956 Claudio Sanchéz-Albornoz (who, we should note, was living in Argentina at the time, while Castro was living in the United States) totally rejected the Castro thesis in his work España: un enigma histórico.21 SánchezAlbornoz insisted that the period of Islamic domination was an aberration in Spanish history which left Spain’s essential nature untouched. He proclaimed the idea of “one, eternal Spain”: Spain has been and always will be a unified Christian nation. Sánchez-Albornoz thus denied the old perception of Spain as being too Jewish or Muslim; as he wrote, Spain “is the country that has least 17 18 19

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Menéndez Pidal, The Spaniards in their History, 208. Printed in Gibson, The Black Legend, 206–218. On this debate see Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography and Iberian Reality,” and Américo Castro: The Impact of His Thought, (eds.) Ronald E. Surtz, Jaime Ferrán, and Daniel P. Testa (Madison: 1998). Published in English as Américo Castro, The Structure of Spanish History, trans. Edmund L. King (Princeton: 1954). Published in English as Claudio Sanchéz-Albornoz, Spain, A Historical Enigma, trans. Colette Joly Dees and David Sven Reher, 2 vols (Madrid: 1975).

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assimilated the culture of the foreign races that have crossed its borders.”22 This vision of Spain came much closer to the one Franco sought to project. Over the next few decades, while Spanish historians debated the nature of their society, a number of non-Spanish scholars delved deeper into the sources of the Black Legend. In 1960 Sverker Arnoldsson, for example, published an important critique of Julián Juderías, pointing out that anti-Spanish sentiment was common in Italy well before the 16th century. He traced several roots of this ill will, including the intense commercial rivalry between the late medieval Italian city-states and the Aragonese and Catalonian monarchs, as well as resentment of Spanish military intervention in Italy after 1494.23 Arnoldsson was then himself criticized by Benjamin Keen, who in 1969 published an extremely useful overview of the historiography of the Black Legend up to that moment.24 Interestingly, Keen chided Arnoldsson for making “no systematic effort to determine how much the Spaniards deserved this unfavorable opinion [of the Black Legend].” Keen went on to criticize a number of other contemporary historians, such as Lewis Hanke and Pierre Chaunu, for being equally soft on the Spanish conquest of the Americas. Keen focused on European reactions to the Spanish atrocities in the New World as the most important source of the Black Legend. He pinpointed Girolamo Benzoni’s Historia del Mondo Nuovo (1565) as “the first major Black Legend work published outside Spain,” although Benzoni, a Milanese who lived in the New World for 14 years, was not “uncompromisingly hostile” toward Spaniards.25 Keen concluded his essay by calling on historians to dispense with myths, either black or white, when assessing the Spanish conquest of the Americas. He also suggested that the “so-called Black Legend is substantially accurate, if stripped of its rhetoric and emotional coloration, and with due regard for its failure to notice less dramatic forms of Spanish exploitation of the Indians.”26 Incidentally, both Keen and many of the historians he discussed in this essay specialized in colonial Latin American history. The question of Spanish identity and perceptions of ‘Spanishness’ in Latin America is of course fascinating and important, but beyond the scope of this study.27 22 23 24 25 26 27

Sanchéz-Albornoz, Spain, A Historical Enigma, 2:1139. Sverker Arnoldsson, “La Leyenda Negra: estudios sobre sus orígenes,” Göteborgs Universitets Arsskrift 66.3 (1960): 7–147. Benjamin Keen, “The Black Legend Revisited: Assumptions and Realities,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 49.4 (1969): 703–719; reprinted in his Essays, 70–86. Keen, “The Black Legend Revisited,” 714. Keen, “The Black Legend Revisited,” 719. For some recent historical literature on this topic, see Laura A. Lewis, Hall of Mirrors: Power, Witchcraft, and Caste in Colonial Mexico (Durham: 2003); Irene Silverblatt, Mod-

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One historian who earned at least qualified praise from Keen was Charles Gibson, who discussed the Black Legend in his works The Colonial Period in Latin American History (1958) and The Aztecs under Spanish Rule (1964).28 In 1971 Gibson published his own survey, The Black Legend: Anti-Spanish Attitudes in the Old World and the New. In a short introduction Gibson provided a valuable summation of the historiographical debate from Juderías to the current day. He noted that the “standard interpretation” of the Black Legend was that it began with the work of Las Casas, and that in the later 16th century Spain’s enemies used The Destruction of the Indies as the basis for anti-Spanish propaganda. Gibson suggested that this interpretation, “though overstated, contains a large measure of truth.”29 On the other hand Gibson emphasized the wide variety of Black Legend literature. He pointed out that over time different writers have highlighted different anti-Spanish stereotypes, including decadence, authoritarianism, political corruption, bigotry, indolence, and cruelty toward the Native Americans. To prove this point, the majority of the book consists of excerpts from various examples of anti-Spanish literature (as well as Spanish responses) from the 16th through the 20th centuries. Among these excerpts, my personal favorite is from a travel diary written by an English scholar, Francis Willughby, who visited Spain in 1664. Writing with what I am sure he thought to be perfect objectivity, Willughby observed that “Spain is in many places, not to say most, very thin of people, and almost desolate. The causes are (1) A bad Religion, (2) the tyrannical Inquisition, (3) The multitude of Whores, (4) the barrenness of the Soil, (5) The wretched laziness of the people, very like the Welsh and Irish.”30 Willughby, of course, was not the first or the only Englishman to hold low opinions of Spain and Spaniards, as William S. Maltby made clear in his influential book The Black Legend in England (1971). Maltby began his work by criticizing Juderías, Arnoldsson, and others for neglecting certain aspects of the Black Legend, particularly “moral” vices like pride, lechery, cruelty, and cowardice, as opposed to “intellectual” faults such as ignorance or backwardness. Maltby suggested that this moral dimension of the Black Legend, which has lasted to the present day, can be traced directly to Early Modern England, and

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ern Inquisitions: Peru and the Colonial Origins of the Civilized World (Durham: 2004); and María Elena Martínez, Genealogical Fictions: Limpieza de Sangre, Religion, and Gender in Colonial Mexico (Stanford: 2008). My thanks to Dr Martha Santos for these references. Keen, “The Black Legend Revisited,” 708–709. Charles Gibson, The Black Legend: Anti-Spanish Attitudes in the Old World and the New (New York: 1971), 13. “A Relation of a Voyage Made Through A Great Part of Spain” (London: 1673), printed in Gibson, The Black Legend, 63–69.

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was shaped by English Protestantism as well as incipient English national identity. As he wrote, the Black Legend must be understood in the context of “the days when European man was first groping toward a concept of nationhood, fueled by religious antagonisms that are not yet dead, and by an intense rivalry for overseas empire.”31 The work of Las Casas, Maltby argued, merely fanned the flames of anti-Spanish sentiment in England, and provided ammunition for several generations of English diatribes against the wicked Spaniards. Indeed, Maltby argued that in Elizabethan England there was a conscious effort to produce anti-Spanish propaganda, especially around the years of the Spanish Armada and the Dutch Revolt; a stream of pamphlets stirred up the English public, accusing Spain of embodying evil, and identifying Spaniards with the corrupt papal religion, as well as the decadent, greedy, and imperialistic government of Philip II. As Maltby wrote, “Anti-Spanish feeling in England was aroused by a number of men, writing more or less independently and taking their examples, however inaccurate, from historical events. This feeling became a ‘Black Legend’ only when later authors accepted their polemics as facts.”32 Maltby’s timely warning about polemical arguments went unheard by a contemporary scholar, Philip Wayne Powell, who published his work Tree of Hate the same year. Powell was passionate in his demolition of the Black Legend, but his book was overtly political: he blamed the Black Legend for the failure of the United States government to understand and engage with Latin America. He also indicated his own prejudices when he argued, “the Iberian peoples served as a shield and spear of the Christian West against the infidel East for a thousand years.”33 In 1975, there were two important additions to the debate about Spanish national identity. First, the French historian Bartolomé Bennassar brought the perspective of the Annales School to bear on the issue in his book L’homme espagnol (a work that was translated into English by Benjamin Keen four years later). As a typical Annales scholar, Bennassar sought to understand the mentalité, or mental world, of the Early Modern Spaniard. As Keen suggests in the preface to his translation, Bennassar explored “the material milieu which molded the Spanish mental universe … [and thus] Spanish mental

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William S. Maltby, The Black Legend in England: The Development of Anti-Spanish Sentiment, 1558–1660 (Durham: 1971), 9. Maltby, The Black Legend in England, 137–138. For more on English literature and the Black Legend, see Eric Griffin, “From Ethos to Ethnos: Hispanizing ‘the Spaniard’ in the Old World and the New,” The New Centennial Review 2.1 (2002): 69–116. Philip Wayne Powell, Tree of Hate: Propaganda and Prejudices Affecting United States Relations with the Hispanic World (New York: 1971), 3.

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attitudes appear as the natural result of certain historically determined circumstances.”34 As a result, Bennassar sometimes described certain stereotypes without necessarily condemning them as false. When discussing the supposed laziness of Spaniards, for example, Bennassar suggested, “The Spanish ideal, then, was in fact absence of work, the contemplative life.”35 Bennassar then referenced the debate between Américo Castro and Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz, with a clear preference for the latter. According to Bennassar, Castro argued that “the Spaniard, impervious to rationalism, would forever preserve his aristocratic and religious prejudices, and Spanish history could not escape its destiny”; alternatively, as Sánchez-Albornoz (and Bennassar) maintained, “the Islamic and Judaic heritage was less decisive and burdensome than Castro believed.”36 The implication is that while the Spanish national character does have faults, they could be fixed—it just has not happened yet. In his conclusion, Bennassar cited the 16th-century Spanish writer Alejo Venegas, who in his work Agonía del tránsito de la muerte (1537) listed the “sins” of his fellow Spaniards, including their disdain for manual labor and their scorn for knowledge. Bennassar wrote that Venegas had unknowingly “defined the mental attitudes which largely contributed to the absence of the industrial revolution in Spain … [such as] scorn for productive activity and for science which alone makes possible the mastery of nature.”37 Apparently the French attitude toward Spain had not changed much since the Enlightenment. Meanwhile, that same year, an important essay collection appeared, titled National Consciousness, History, and Political Culture in Early-Modern Europe. The chapter on Spain, written by the prominent historian Helmut Koenigsberger, is invaluable for its perspective on the issue of Spanish national identity.38 Koenigsberger attacked the idea of ‘Spain’ as a Platonic, timeless entity. He credited Américo Castro for destroying the myth of Spain as a religiously unified nation, and he went on to argue against the concept of Spanish political unity as well. Koenigsberger stated that in the Early Modern period, ‘Spain’ may have existed as a literary or rhetorical ideal, but the political reality was much more complicated and ambiguous. The different Iberian kingdoms and regions were never truly integrated; Castilian imperialism and the dynastic concerns of

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Bartolomé Bennassar, The Spanish Character: Attitudes and Mentalities from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Centuries, trans. Benjamin Keen (Berkeley: 1975), xii. Bennassar, The Spanish Character, 122. Bennassar, The Spanish Character, 126–127. Bennassar, The Spanish Character, 249. Helmut Koenigsberger, “Spain,” in National Consciousness, History, and Political Culture in Early-Modern Europe, (ed.) Orest Ranum (Baltimore: 1975), 144–172.

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the Habsburg monarchs far outweighed any sense of ‘Spanish’ national identity. In fact, Koenigsberger argued, the Spanish Monarchy from Ferdinand and Isabella through Charles II was “singularly ineffective in promoting either institutional or emotional unity among its Spanish kingdoms.”39 Genuine Spanish nationalism, he concluded, does not really appear until the early 19th century.40 Francisco Franco may well have objected to Koenigsberger’s argument, but the dictator died that same year. Five years later, as Spain transitioned back to republican government, the scholars Henry Kamen and Joseph Pérez published La imagen internacional de la España de Felipe II (1980). This short book, based on lectures delivered at the University of Valladolid, attempted to present a balanced and objective view of Philip II and the Black Legend. In their introduction, Kamen and Pérez suggest that 16th-century anti-Spanish sentiments were not based solely or even principally on religious hatred, but instead resulted from a complex combination of economic interests, political strategy, and opposing ideologies. Interestingly, they also suggest that Philip II bore some responsibility for the creation of the Black Legend. Joseph Pérez, for example, placed the Black Legend in the context of the ideological war between Early Modern Spain and its enemies. Charles V and Philip II both fought “total wars” against Protestantism, and the Dutch Protestant rebels responded in kind; the propaganda of the Black Legend was based on “exaggerated accusations” which were natural in such an ideological conflict.41 Henry Kamen reached similar conclusions in his study of the vision of Spain in Elizabethan England. Kamen criticized William S. Maltby for not noting that the English government paid for most of the anti-Spanish pamphlets produced in England, and that the Black Legend was therefore a “conscious creation of certain specific political and religious sectors in England.”42 But Kamen also suggested that Philip was partly to blame for the hostility of other nations: the king displayed “a certain

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Koenigsberger, “Spain,” 171–172. The famed Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955) said that Spain is not a country but a series of watertight compartments; quoted by Hillgarth, “Spanish Historiography and Iberian Reality,” 36. For more on the development of Spanish nationalism see Tamar Herzog, Defining Nations: Immigrants and Citizens in Early Modern Spain and Spanish America (New Haven: 2003), and Mateo Ballester Rodríguez, La identidad española en la Edad Moderna (1556–1665): discursos, símbolos y mitos (Madrid: 2010). Joseph Pérez, “Felipe II ante la historia: Leyenda Negra y guerra ideológica,” in La imagen internacional de la España de Felipe II, (eds.) Henry Kamen and Joseph Pérez (Valladolid: 1980), 15–34. Henry Kamen, “La visión de España en la Inglaterra isabelina,” in La imagen internacional de la España de Felipe II, (eds.) Kamen and Pérez, 35–63.

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impatience” with his European neighbors, and failed to reach out to English Catholics. Worse, Philip never felt he had to justify himself, and thus lost the propaganda war which created the Black Legend. Finally, Kamen noted that the English and Spanish peoples were remarkably ignorant of each other in the 16th century, and that the Black Legend started to fade once commerce brought them into more direct contact by the end of the 17th century. (One wonders if Kamen and Pérez were implicitly comparing Philip II’s Spain with that of Francisco Franco.) In the 1980s, Spanish historiography would be influenced by the ‘cultural turn’ in the social sciences, and the publication of Benedict Anderson’s widelyread book Imagined Communities (1983). Anderson’s theories about the socially constructed nature of the nation/state were of course directly relevant to the debate about Spanish identity. A case in point is Peter Sahlins’ book Boundaries: The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees (1989). Sahlins focused on Cerdaña, a valley region in the Pyrenees on the border between France and Spain, as a case study for the creation of national identity. In the Treaty of the Pyrenees between France and Spain (1659–1660), an imaginary and arbitrary line was drawn across this valley, dividing it between the two countries. What had been a close community was suddenly cut in half, with ‘Frenchmen’ on one side and ‘Spaniards’ on the other. We thus have a fascinating example of the creation of national identity where none existed before, even though, as Sahlins pointed out, the Catalonian language and customs continued to exist on both sides of the border. It is on the periphery of the state, Sahlins argued, where national identity becomes important; as he wrote, “In the French-Spanish borderland, it is the sense of difference—of ‘us’ and ‘them’—which was so critical to defining an identity.”43 By the 19th century, the ‘difference’ between the two sides had become accepted as fact, both by natives and by outside observers. Sahlins cited a letter written by a town mayor from the region in 1867, which spoke of the need for a clear border between “two villages of foreign nations and of different mores.” Sahlins also quoted an Englishman named Richard Ford, who visited the region in the 1840s. Ford noted the hatred villagers across the border felt for each other, and described the obvious temperamental differences between the Spaniards on one side and the French on the other: “The incompatibility of the saturnine and slow, with the mercurial and rapid; of the proud, enduring, and ascetic, against the vain, the fickle, and the sensual; of the enemy of innovation and change, and the lover of variety and novelty.”44 (Note 43 44

Peter Sahlins, Boundaries: The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees (Berkeley: 1989), 9. Sahlins, Boundaries, 258–265.

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the English sense of superiority to both the French and the Spanish.) Sahlins of course is making the point that national identity is not in fact an essential, innate quality, but a social construct. In 1992, Cambridge University published an important collection of essays under the title The Renaissance in National Context.45 In this volume various historians compared and contrasted how the Renaissance affected different European countries; Spain is conspicuously absent from the book. This raises a difficult historiographical question: did Spain have a Renaissance? Obviously, the answer partly depends on how one defines ‘Renaissance,’ which itself is an extremely contentious issue (and of course the present volume is dedicated to it). But the possibility that Spain did not have a Renaissance is part of the larger debate about what makes Spain ‘different’ from the rest of Europe. There is a large body of literature on this topic, and I only mention a few of the highlights here.46 One of the most important early 20th-century historians who shaped much of the historiography was the French scholar Marcel Bataillon, who first published his massive tome Erasme et l’ Espagne in 1937.47 Bataillon exhaustively catalogued the influence of the Dutch humanist Erasmus (1466– 1536) on 16th-century Spanish writers; the book is thus a study of the impact of Renaissance humanism in Spain, but it is also about the possibility of spiritual reform in the land of the Spanish Inquisition. Bataillon suggested that there was a brief window of opportunity under the rule of Charles V, particularly during the 1520s, when Erasmian thought became popular in elite Spanish circles. As the Reformation progressed, however, the Catholic Church cracked down on Erasmus, especially in Spain. Under Philip II, Spain became increasingly isolationist in its zeal to protect the purity of Spanish Catholicism. Spain turned its back on the European Renaissance (as well as the Enlightenment) and looked inward instead. Bataillon was writing in 1936, and the twin specters of the Spanish Civil War and the rise of the Nazi party obviously colored his basically tragic view of the Spanish Renaissance. (As he wrote in his conclusion, “Once more the

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Roy Porter and Mikulás Teich (eds.), The Renaissance in National Context (Cambridge: 1992). There is no space here to discuss Spanish Renaissance art or literature, but I would suggest the work of Ignacio Navarrete and Frederick de Armas for literature, and for art Jonathan Brown and Fernando Checa Cremades; also see the essays by John Garrido Ardila and Jeffrey Schrader in this volume. The book became especially influential after it was translated into Spanish in 1950, as Erasmo y España. It has since been reprinted in numerous Spanish editions, but it still has not been translated into English.

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shadow of the wars of religion looms over Europe.”48) His views dominated the historiography for years, although many later historians have taken a more nuanced and positive approach.49 Helen Nader, for example, in her book The Mendoza Family in the Spanish Renaissance (1979) traced a number of generations of humanist writers in the powerful Mendoza clan, going back to the late 14th century—although she too suggests that the fortunes of the Mendozas declined under Philip II.50 More recently, Lu Ann Homza, in Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance (2000), disputed the dichotomy between spirituality and humanism in Renaissance Spain, pointing out that Erasmian language and ideas could be found in Spanish religious circles well into the 16th century.51 Similarly, Daniel A. Crews has argued convincingly about the wide influence of the Spanish-born humanist and reformist leader Juan de Valdés (d. 1541), who advised Charles V, and later became the spiritual guide for an elite circle of Italian aristocrats.52 Recent Spanish historians such as Ángel Gómez Moreno and Domingo Ynduráin have also contributed a great deal to the reevaluation of the Spanish Renaissance, especially concerning the adoption of Italian Renaissance ideas, methods, and language by Spanish writers.53 Indeed, by 1997 the scholar Ottavio di Camillo could confidently pronounce, “The spurious argument of whether there ever was a Spanish Renaissance (not to mention a Spanish humanism)—still obsessing the minds of many scholars only a few decades ago—has become in current studies a historical curiosity that is usually confined to a footnote, if even mentioned.”54 On a related note, recent work has also reexamined the question: did Spain have a Scientific Revolution? Naturally, for many years common wisdom said ‘no.’ (See the chapter by William Eamon in this volume for more detail.) In 48 49

50

51 52 53 54

Marcel Bataillon, Erasmo y España: estudios sobre la historia espiritual del siglo XVI (1950; repr. Madrid: 1991), 805. On the other hand, for an interesting and more pessimistic interpretation of the Spanish Renaissance and its impact on Native Americans, see Walter D. Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance: Literacy, Territoriality, and Colonization (Ann Arbor: 2003). Helen Nader, The Mendoza Family in the Spanish Renaissance 1350–1650 (New Brunswick: 1979). See also Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, (ed.) Helen Nader (Urbana: 2004). Lu Ann Homza, Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance (Baltimore: 2000). Daniel A. Crews, Twilight of the Renaissance: The Life of Juan de Valdés (Toronto: 2008). For more on Valdés, see also the work of José C. Nieto. Ángel Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas: primeros ecos (Madrid: 1994); Domingo Ynduráin, Humanismo y Renacimiento en España (Madrid: 1994). Ottavio di Camillo, “Interpretations of Humanism in Recent Spanish Renaissance Studies,” Renaissance Quarterly 50.4 (1997): 1190–1201. See also Di Camillo’s important work El humanismo castellano del siglo XV (Valencia: 1976).

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2005, a conference in Valencia focused on this issue, resulting in a collection of essays titled Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica / Beyond the Black Legend: Spain and the Scientific Revolution (2007). To explain the bias against Early Modern Spanish science, the volume’s editors, Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon, point to an 18th-century French encyclopedist, Nicolas de Morvilliers (1740–1789). De Morvilliers set the tone for 200 years, by denying that Spain contributed anything to the Scientific Revolution; he claimed, “The source of Spain’s deficiency was the character of the people, who, in spite of their admirable virtues of patience and resolve, were ignorant, lazy, and superstitious. Moreover … Spain’s futile government, bigoted clergy, and tyrannical Inquisition conspired to condemn the country to remain hopelessly backward.” Particularly with regard to science, he concluded, Spain had become “the most ignorant nation in Europe.”55 Needless to say, Navarro Brotòns, Eamon, and the other contributors to this volume all sought to correct this misconception.56 They also suggested that the argument about the Scientific Revolution is really an argument about ‘modernity.’ French Enlightenment writers believed themselves to be on the cutting edge of modern thinking, and created the image of backward, superstitious Spaniards as their polar opposites. Navarro Brotòns and Eamon argued that it is time to dispense with such myths and acknowledge that Early Modern Spanish science had its own traditions and strengths, particularly in the fields of cartography, metallurgy, artillery, and medicine.57 The supposed Spanish rejection of modernity, innovation, and manual labor has also traditionally explained Spain’s failure to participate in the Industrial Revolution. Here, too, revisionist historians have gone back and asked different questions. (See the essay by Elvira Vilches on Renaissance Spain and money in the present volume.) For example, David R. Ringrose, in Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish Miracle” (1996), instead of starting with the question of ‘what went wrong in Spain,’ actually looked at economic data, and found a surprising amount of continuity from the 18th through the early 20th centuries. The problem, Ringrose suggested, is that the comparison between Spain and France or England is inherently problematic; the pattern of industrialization in England 55

56 57

Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon, “Spain and the Scientific Revolution: Historiographical Questions and Conjectures,” in Más allá de la Leyenda Negra: España y la Revolución Científica / Beyond the Black Legend: Spain and the Scientific Revolution, (eds.) Víctor Navarro Brotòns and William Eamon (Valencia: 2007), 27–38. See also Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “Iberian Science in the Renaissance: Ignored How Much Longer?” Perspectives on Science 12 (2004): 86–125. See also David C. Goodman, Power and Penury: Government, Technology, and Science in Philip II’s Spain (Cambridge: 1988).

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is not necessarily normative, and the fact that Spain developed along different lines is not necessarily a sign of weakness. Ringrose also argued that if one examines different regions in Spain, rather than the economy as a whole, one finds highly successful entrepreneurial drive, “the result of sustained economic expansion that began in the late 17th or early 18th centuries and continued into the 20th century with surprising persistence.”58 More recently, Regina Grafe, in Distant Tyranny (2012), has further developed these arguments, placing Spain firmly into the history of European markets and national economies, and rejecting the idea of Spanish “backwardness.” Grafe also utilized economic data, particularly concerning that most Spanish of commodities, bacalao (codfish). Grafe agrees with Ringrose that Spain was not somehow outside the “norm” of European economic development; on the other hand, she criticizes Ringrose for perpetuating the old idea of “Two Spains,” in his case a stifling bureaucracy in central Spain versus a more dynamic and entrepreneurial coastal Spain. She suggests that the real problem with the Spanish economy was that the regional political elites favored “external integration over stronger development of domestic markets.”59 Why has the idea of Spain as a profoundly anti-modern and anti-industrial country been so powerfully persistent? Recent work has suggested two important sources of this myth: the United States, and Spain itself. In his essay “Prescott’s Paradigm,” Richard L. Kagan traces the rise of Hispanism in the United States, with a particular focus on the historian William H. Prescott (1796–1859). According to Kagan, Prescott and other 19th- and early 20thcentury American historians promoted interest in Spain and Spanish culture, but they also explicitly contrasted the ‘failed’ nation of Spain with its very antithesis, the rising United States. As Kagan wrote, for Prescott “America was the future—republican, enterprising, rational; while Spain—monarchical, indolent, fanatic—represented the past.”60 Thus many of the key elements of the Black Legend of Spain were incorporated into the myth of American exceptionalism. But let us recall that contemporaries in Spain, such as the writers

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David R. Ringrose, Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish Miracle,” 1700–1900 (Cambridge: 1996), 56. See also, by the same author, Madrid and the Spanish Economy, 1560–1850 (Berkeley: 1983). Regina Grafe, Distant Tyranny: Markets, Power, and Backwardness in Spain, 1650–1800 (Princeton: 2012), 240. Richard L. Kagan, “Prescott’s Paradigm: American Historical Scholarship and the Decline of Spain,” American Historical Review 101.2 (1996): 423–446. See also Kagan’s essay “From Noah to Moses: The Genesis of Historical Scholarship on Spain in the United States,” in Spain in America, (ed.) Kagan, 21–48.

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of the Generation of 1898, felt the same way.61 Ruth MacKay examined this problem in her book “Lazy, Improvident People”: Myth and Reality in the Writing of Spanish History (2006). MacKay explored the origins of the stereotype of Spaniards who refuse to work because it would offend their sense of honor. To her surprise, upon looking at primary sources from Spain, she found little evidence of such sentiment in the 16th and 17th centuries. MacKay argued that the idea that Spaniards scorned manual laborers as ‘vile’ people, and that wealthy Spaniards disdained labor and commerce, was actually invented by 18th-century Spanish writers, who projected their concerns onto the past. The writers of the Generation of 1898 then accepted these opinions as fact, which thus became a self-perpetuating myth; as MacKay wrote, “They assumed work was of little interest to their ancestors [and that this was] an intrinsic component of national character, one that arose as a result of Spain’s peculiar conquest (and Reconquest) history.”62 So, ironically, when Juderías railed against the foreign stereotype of Spaniards as enemies of progress and innovation, it was his fellow Spaniards who were part of the problem. Finally, I would like to mention some recent works that focused directly on European images of Spain.63 The place to start is J.N. Hillgarth’s book The Mirror of Spain (2000), which brilliantly synthesizes many of the themes I have discussed. As Hillgarth wrote, the point of the book is to “try to explain how the negative picture of Spain, as not merely different from other European countries but as evil or at least as retrograde, and as peripheral to general developments in Europe, had first emerged and finally became generally accepted down to the present.”64 Like many other historians, Hillgarth focused on the 16th and 17th centuries as the crucial period for the creation of the popular image of Spain; he combed through Early Modern literature, diplomatic correspondence, travel diaries, and other written sources, as well as some 61

62 63

64

Actually, Spaniards had been worried about the ‘decline of Spain’ since the 17th century; see J.H. Elliott, “Self-perception and Decline in Early Seventeenth-Century Spain,” in Spain and Its World 1500–1700 (New Haven: 1989), 241–261. Ruth MacKay, “Lazy, Improvident People”: Myth and Reality in the Writing of Spanish History (Ithaca: 2006), 244. A whole separate essay could be written about images of the Spanish Inquisition. For example, there has been a long-running historiographical debate about whether the Spanish Inquisition (and thus Spain in general) was anti-Semitic and/or ‘racist.’ For different views, see Benzion Netanyahu, The Origins of the Inquisition in Fifteenth Century Spain (New York: 1995); Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision (New Haven: 1997); Helen Rawlings, The Spanish Inquisition (Malden: 2006); and David Nirenberg, “Race and the Middle Ages: The Case of Spain and Its Jews,” in Rereading the Black Legend, (eds.) Greer et al., 71–87. J.N. Hillgarth, The Mirror of Spain, vii.

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visual images, to piece together a coherent picture of how Spain appeared in the European imagination. Hillgarth emphasized how little direct knowledge of Spain most Early Modern Europeans had. Most of the anti-Spanish literature was written by people who had never been there; and even many of those who had been to Spain, like ambassadors, spent most of their time at court, and knew little of the complexity of Spanish society. Nearly all of the sources, however, reflected the idea of the ‘strangeness’ of Spain, whether because of Jewish or Moorish influence, or the power of the Inquisition, or the perceived extreme pride, xenophobia, and religious zeal of Spaniards. While there were some examples of positive opinions of Spain, especially in Italy (where many depended on Spanish military protection), the overall picture is overwhelmingly negative. “By the end of the sixteenth century,” Hillgarth concluded, “the image of the typical Spaniard was becoming fixed.”65 The standard image of Spaniards—rapacious, arrogant, cruel, fanatical, ignorant, and most of all, different—had been repeated so often that it became impossible to dislodge from the popular European imagination. The construction of the idea of Spain as ‘different’ is also the subject of Barbara Fuchs’ book Exotic Nation (2009). Fuchs focused on the identification of Spain with Moorish, African, and/or ‘Oriental’ culture; as she wrote, her book “explores how Moorish culture complicates the construction of Spain in the Early Modern period, both by Spaniards themselves and by other Europeans.”66 Fuchs argues that Early Modern Spanish society was shaped by Spanish ambivalence about its Moorish heritage. On the one hand, the legacy of Islamic culture in Spain was obvious and ubiquitous, from architecture and literature to clothing and chivalric rituals. On the other hand, the Spanish state and society promoted the fiction that the defeat of Granada in 1492 represented a decisive break from the past, and that Spain was now a purely Christian nation. Fuchs thus points to the dichotomy between how Early Modern Spaniards imagined themselves and how they actually lived. Meanwhile, as Spaniards pretended not to see Moorish influence, the rest of Europe could see nothing else. Fuchs states, “even as the official discourse in Spain emphasized the essential, ancestral Christianity of the nation, rival European states busily constructed it as the racial other of Europe.”67 This in turn hardened Spanish resolve to deny any Moorish influence, although at the same time, Spain’s sense 65 66 67

Hillgarth, The Mirror of Spain, 529. Barbara Fuchs, Exotic Nation, 1. See also her essay “The Spanish Race,” in Rereading the Black Legend, (eds.) Greer et al., 88–98. Fuchs, Exotic Nation, 7. For the Muslim perspective on this problem, see Mary Elizabeth Perry, The Handless Maiden (Princeton: 2005).

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of itself as a distinct nation was enhanced by the “performance of Moorishness.” The idea of Spain as an ‘exotic’ nation, different from the rest of Europe, played into the Black Legend, but it also helped create a sense of identity. This paradox, incidentally, is still very much evident in modern Spain, which markets itself as a place where the past remains alive, a sort of national “historical theme park.”68 And so we return to where we started, with the success of the advertising slogan “Spain is different.” This is perhaps the silver lining for the sad fact that the Black Legend of Spain is still very much alive.69 It is also a fact that Spanish identity is nowhere near a settled issue, given the current separatist movements in the Basque countries and Catalonia. No doubt the historiography of European perceptions of Spain, and Spaniards’ perceptions of themselves, will continue to grow, if only because the battles of the past are not yet finished. Despite the efforts of Spanish rulers, from the Habsburgs through Franco and on to the current government, ‘Spain’ remains stubbornly difficult to define. 68

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Eugenia Afinoguénova and Jaume Martí-Olivella, “A Nation under Tourists’ Eyes: Tourism and Identity Discourses in Spain,” in Spain Is (Still) Different, (eds.) Afinoguénova and Martí-Olivella, xi–xxxviii. One obvious example is in modern cinema: see Samuel Amago, “Why Spaniards Make Good Bad Guys: Sergi López and the Persistence of the Black Legend in Contemporary European Cinema,” Film Criticism 30.1 (2005): 41–64.

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Index ablution 133 abogado 259 abortifacient 172, 173 Absent King 67 Abu-Lughod, Janet 23 Academia de los Nocturnos 338 Selvaje 338 Academy of Lynxes 484 of Mathematics (Madrid) 497, 498 Acapulco 77, 97, 99, 520 Acosta, José de 494, 495 Acteon 459 Acuña Antonio de 305 Hernando de 238, 257, 392 Adorno, Rolena 101, 107 Adrian VI 53, 241 of Utrecht 241 Africa 21, 61, 72, 77, 79, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 105, 108, 118 African 532, 547 -ization 534 Age of Gold 3, 6, 26 of the New 473, 506 Agamben, Giorgio 17, 18 agnostic 403 agnus dei 167 Ágreda y Vargas, Diego de 284 agudeza 385 aire de capital 278 al-Andalus 104, 121 Alameda 293, 297, 303 Alarcón, Juan Ruiz de 281, 339, 511 Alba 33 de Tormes 350 Duke of 243, 281, 396, 397 House of 397 -Koch, Beatriz de 21 Albaicín 131 albañil 299 Albert of Austria, Archduke 68 Alberti, Leon Battista 116

Albuquerque Afonso de 96 Duke of 237 alcabala 49, 51, 71, 81, 311 Alcalá de Henares 69, 90, 299, 325, 341, 357, 386, 474, 475, 477 University of 325, 330, 338, 386 alcalde 49, 51, 130 Alcántara 38, 237, 243, 246 Order of 55, 243 Pedro de 352, 353 Alcázar 279, 282, 339, 430, 467 Baltasar del 393 alchemist 485, 486, 487, 488, 498 alchemy 484, 485, 487, 499 Alciato, Andrea 4, 291 Aldana, Francisco de 393 Alemán, Mateo 402, 404, 405, 517 Alexander VI, Pope 5, 53, 355 the Great 452, 460, 461, 463, 466, 467, 469, 470 alfiler 291 Alfonsine Tables 474 Alfonso II of Asturias, King 415 V of Aragon (‘el Magnánimo’) 35, 36, 39, 46, 47, 239, 389 X (‘el Sabio’), King 386, 474 Algeria 73 Algiers 72, 90 alguacil 51 Alhambra 414 aljamiado 133 Allen, John Jay 286 alma 371 Almería 55 Almudena 282 aloja 289 Alphonse V of Aragon 319 Alpujarras 80, 131 mountains 90 Revolt 132, 133, 134, 138 Alsace 289 alumbrado 190, 403 Alva Ixtlilxóchitl, Fernando de 107

index Alvar Ezquerra, Alfredo 280 Álvares Cabral, Pedro 95 Álvarez Miraval, Blas 327 amancebamiento 269, 271 Ambrose 149 Ambrosio de Morales 85 Amelang, James 128, 130 America 1, 9, 14, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 70, 71, 74, 75, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 85, 86, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 101, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 114, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 473, 480, 482, 490, 494, 495, 501, 507 American 407, 442, 444, 483, 490, 492, 494, 495, 496, 499, 501, 507, 516, 525 Association of Neo-Latin Studies 16 colony 534 Historical Association 16 Indian 375 Philological Association 16 Americas 257, 441, 442, 449, 515, 517, 520, 521, 529, 535, 536 Amerindian 291, 481, 492, 494, 501 Amsterdam 288, 515, 525 Ana de Austria 169, 279, 287 anatomical demonstration 476 anatomy 476, 505 Andalusia 90, 350, 408, 442 Anderson, Benedict 541 Andes 95, 105, 108, 114, 116, 262 Andosilla y Enríquez, Diego Francisco de 286 Angola 95 Angulo Íñiguez, Diego 415 aniconism 415 Annales school 19, 20, 538 Anne of Austria 77 Saint 427 Antequera 116 Ferdinand of 237 anti-Christian 122 anti-Gypsy 136, 137 anti-Henrician 43 anti-Platonic 403 anti-Semitism 200 anti-Spanish 532, 536, 537, 538, 540, 547 Antigonus, King 464 Antwerp 85, 515 anusim 127

645 Apelles 451, 452, 453, 454, 455, 456, 457, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463, 464, 466, 467, 469, 470 Aphrodite 456, 457 aphros 457 Apollo 326, 327 aposento 155 Apuleius 334, 339 Aquinas, Thomas, Saint 328, 357, 358, 359, 360, 361, 375 Aquino, Marcos 109, 116 Arabic 76, 133, 140, 161, 400, 402, 474, 476 Aragon 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 51, 54, 55, 58, 59, 61, 64, 66, 80, 81, 187, 194, 202, 235, 237, 239, 256, 386, 387, 437, 517, 521 Crown of 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 45, 47, 59, 104, 131, 132, 154, 240, 417 -ese 32, 35, 37, 40, 44, 45, 46, 532, 536 Kingdom of 34, 35, 38, 59, 133, 134, 156 Aranjuez 244 Arauco 101 Arawak 480 arbitrista 101, 288 Arce de Otálora, Juan de 328 Archangel Michael 433, 435 archbishop 187, 190, 197 Arellano, Alonso de 97, 109 Arena, Juan de 385 Arezzo 454 Arfe, Juan de 520 Argensola, Bartolomé Leonardo de 281 Arguijo, Juan de 338 Arguin 94 Arias Girón, Felix 338 Arias Montano, Benito 85, 199, 325 Ariosto, Ludovico 346, 391 aristocracy 350 Aristotle 320, 332, 334, 335, 339, 358, 367, 368, 375, 474, 494, 501 Aristotelian 367, 385, 475, 486, 495, 505 empiricism 504 arithmetic 509, 517, 518, 519, 520, 522, 523, 524, 530 Arizona 91 Armada 78, 79, 80 de la Guarda de la Carrera de Indias 99 Arnald of Villanova 486, 487

646 Arno 329 Arnoldsson, Sverker 536, 537 Arras, Union of 76 arte mayor 389 artesonado 414 Arthur, Prince of Wales 57 Artigas Hernández, Juan Benito 110 ascetic 393 Ashgate 14 Asia 61, 77, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 99, 108, 111, 117, 118, 134, 407, 441, 492, 495, 507 -n 407 asiento 515 assayer 519, 520, 524 Astorga, Cathedral of 422 astrolabe 92 astrology 474 astronomy 474, 475, 495, 500 Atlantic 34, 54, 75, 76, 78, 90, 94, 96, 97, 99, 104, 144, 287, 289, 410, 442, 508, 509, 514, 526 Atlantis 321 Atropos 323 audiencia 52, 85 Augustine 149, 370, 371, 372 Augustinian 109, 111, 357, 360, 393 Aurelius, Marcus 243 Austria 197, 429, 431, 433 House of 429 auto de fe 201, 274, 275, 286 Auto de los Reyes Magos 395 auto sacramental 148, 398 autonomy 66 Avellaneda, Alonso Fernández de 331 Avicenna 170, 474, 475 Avignon 239 Ávila 248 Guillén de 323 ayuntamiento 52, 267 aviso 71 Azorín 390 Azpilcueta Navarro, Martín de 513 Aztec 243, 480, 502 Bacon, Francis 493, 494, 495, 504, 505, 507 Baconianism 504 Badajoz 424

index Badianus Codex 502 Juannes 502 Baena, Juan Alfonso de 389 Baeza 179 Bahia 95 Bailey, Gauvin Alexander 11 Bakhtin, Mikhail 265 Balbuena, Bernardo de 99, 508, 529 banditry 137 banishment 295 banker 37, 512, 514, 515, 524, 525 bankruptcy 93 Báñez, Domingo 357, 358, 360, 380 baptism 127, 133, 158, 162, 165, 166, 177, 181, 183, 193, 203 barato 283 Barba, Álvaro Alonso 499 Barbary pirate 243 Barcelona 34, 37, 147, 156, 174, 181, 183, 189, 192, 197, 201, 203, 235, 250, 386, 477, 521 Barkan, Leonard 451 Baroja, Pío 384 Baroque 10, 16, 23, 89, 109, 118, 119, 120, 277, 287, 383, 384, 385, 386, 389, 393, 397, 399, 404, 405, 408, 409, 410, 437, 444, 494, 496, 528 Barra de Navidad 97 Barragán, José 176 barrio 300 Barrionuevo, Jerónimo de 527 Barrios de Colina 167 Basel 477 Basque 145, 189, 195, 196, 548 Bataillon, Marcel 334, 542 Battista Sacchetti, Giovanni 430 Battisti, Eugenio 385 Bäuml, Franz 350 Bautista, María 351, 352 Bavaria 197 beata 352 Becerra, Gaspar 422, 437 Bedmar 302 Behrend-Martínez, Edward 21, 152 Belgian 477 Bellori, Giovanni Pietro 455 Belting, Hans 413 Bembo, Pietro 335

index Benavente Count of 399 Jacinto 383 Bengal, Bay of 94 Bennassar, Bartolomé 348, 349, 351, 538, 539 Bennett, Judith M. 10 Benzoni, Girolamo 536 Berbería 139 berberisco 139 Berceo, Gonzalo de 386 Berco, Cristian 20, 21, 156 Bergmann, Emilie 467 Bermejo, Bartolomé 417 Bermúdez, Ceán 410, 411 Bernat, Martín 417 Berruguete Alonso 420, 422, 427 Pedro 414, 420 Besançon 515 Bianco, Baccio del 281, 287 Bible 149, 199, 321, 344, 396, 424 bibliopolitics 83 biculturalism 90 el bien común 307 bigotera 283 Bilbao 194, 297 birth control 173 bishop 187, 189, 190, 196, 202, 203 black African 138, 139, 140 bile 157 Black Legend 25, 107, 536, 537 blanca 512 Blas, St 301 Bleda, Jaime 280 Bloch, Marc 19 blood 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 146, 236, 237, 247 -letting 157 Bocángel, Gabriel 339 Boccaccio, Giovanni 401 Bodin, Jean 75 Bolivia 93, 106, 116 Bologna 73, 75, 463 Bom Jesus basilica (Goa) 118, 119, 120 Bonaparte, Napoleon 437 Bonaventure, Saint 345 Book of Hours 342, 343

647 book owner 343, 345, 346, 347, 348 Borges, Jorge Luis 384 Borgoña, Joan de 420 Borja, Francisco 195, 199 Borja Llopis, Franco 414 Borromeo, Carlo 197 Boscán, Juan 247, 249, 250, 253, 255, 385, 390, 393 Bosch, Hieronymus 430 Botero, Giovanni 75 Botticelli, Sandro 456, 462, 470 Bourbon 160 Bourdieu, Pierre 253 bourgeoisie 317, 330 Bouts, Dieric 418 Bouza, Fernando 68, 81, 277, 279, 329, 331 Boyle, Margaret E. 8 Bracamonte, Diego de 80 Bragança 251, 252 Braudel, Fernand 11, 19 Braun, Harald 21, 61, 69, 75, 76 Brazil 77, 91, 95, 110, 139 -ian 95 Breen, Michael 265 Brendecke, Ardnt 62, 67, 78 British 99 El Brocense 390, 392 Brotton, Jerry 23 Brown Jonathan 407, 408, 410 Marshall 2 Bruegel, Peter 452, 453, 455 Bruges 365, 418, 455, 515 Bruni, Leonardo 319 Brussels 235, 242 Buen Retiro, Palace of the 339, 431 Bullen, J.B. 17 bullion 93, 509, 514, 518, 519, 520, 521, 523, 524, 529, 530 Burckhardt, Jacob 411 bureaucrat 147, 350 Bureta Lord of 164 Martín de 163 Burgos 49, 156, 167, 178, 417 Cathedral of 427 Burgundian 235, 241, 242, 243, 244, 278 etiquette 279

648 Burgundy 59, 64, 68, 74, 241 Duchy of 387 Duke of 74, 239, 240, 241, 243 burial 158 Burke, Peter 16, 256, 265 Butrón, Juan Alonso de 454, 457 Byrne, Susan 17, 21, 388 Byron, Lord 384 Byzantine 400, 401 Empire 135, 355 Byzantium 333 caballero 50, 237, 238, 246, 250, 283 cabildo 70 secular 70 Cabrera, Francisco José 15, 16 Cabriada, Juan de 504, 505 cacao 99, 521, 523 cacique 105 Cádiz 56, 78, 500 Caesar 74, 242, 243, 279, 334, 335 caesarean section 162 Cairo 23 Calabria, Duke of 256 Calahorra, Castillo de 238 Calatrava 38, 55, 237, 243, 246 Order of 263, 283 caldero 291 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro 281, 284, 287, 324, 339, 384, 388, 397, 461, 510 Calicut 94, 95, 96 California 91 Calle de Alcalá 286 Mayor 286 Cámara 69 Camarera mayor de Palacio 278 cambio 514, 516, 518, 529 Cambridge University 542 camerino 463 Campaspe 461 Canary Islands 473 cancionero 388, 389, 390, 395 Cancionero de Uppsala 395 general de obras nuevas 395 Canigiani, Antonio 326, 327 Cannanore 95

index Cantabria 308 Cantarranas 281 Cantens, Bernardo 21 canzone 390 Cañas Murillo, Jesús 338 Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge 83, 499 Cape Mendocino 97 of Good Hope 94, 97 Capellanus, Andreas 236 capilla abierta 111 posa 111 capitulación 82 Capuchin 202, 203 Capuchinos, Convento de 427 Caravaggio, Michelangelo Merisi da 427 Carbón, Damián 168, 169 Carbonell, Alonso 287 Cárdenas, Juan de 501 Carducho, Vicente 287, 427, 432, 457 Caribbean 91, 96, 105, 189 Carlos II, King 505 Carmelite 202, 350, 351, 437 Discalced 351, 357, 369, 372 Reform 350, 351, 352 Carmona 298 carnival 192, 196, 203 -esque 292 Carnival 292 Carolingian 235 Carranza, Bartolomé de 348 Carrera de Indias 93, 99 Carrillo, Alonso de 323 Carrió-Invernizzi, Diana 277 Carrión de los Condes 300 carta de privilegio 246 ejecutoria 414 Cartagena 56, 139, 319, 324 Alfonso de 250 de Indias 520 carte messaggiere 403 Cartesian 22 Carthusian 424 cartography 92 Carvajal y Mendoza, Luisa 345 Carvalho, José Adriano de 251, 252 casa a la malicia 285

index Casa da Índia 104, 477 de Ceuta 104 de [la] Contratación 84, 104, 442, 479, 498, 507 de Pilatos 423 Cascales, Francisco 385 Casey, James 301 casta 124, 125, 126 Castelar, Emilio 329 castellano 522 Castelló, Félix 282 Castiglione, Baldesar 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 335, 390 Castile 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 89, 91, 92, 104, 118, 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 139, 160, 187, 189, 193, 199, 235, 236, 237, 239, 240, 241, 246, 293, 294, 295, 300, 308, 310, 313, 343, 386, 387, 389, 408, 409, 417, 418, 424, 517, 521, 525, 528 aristocracy of 32, 59 Chamber of 69 Church of 53 Constable of 240 Cortes of 293, 310 Council of 104, 302 Crown of 33, 41, 50, 51, 52, 55, 240, 410 Kingdom of 78, 133, 134 Queen Proprietress of 57 Regent of 58 Castilian 104, 105, 127, 133, 136, 140, 161, 164, 173, 241, 278, 294, 295, 302, 304, 305, 307, 309, 310, 312, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 328, 351, 431, 532, 539 coin 523 Succession, War of the 44, 237 Castillejo, Cristóbal de 394, 405 Castillo de Bobadilla, Jerónimo 328 Castillo Solórzano, Alonso de 339, 517 castizo 126 Castro Alfonso de 195 Américo 121, 535, 539 Guillén de 281 Catalan 156, 196, 427 Catalina of Lancaster 39

649 Catalonia 6, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 45, 46, 47, 48, 58, 59, 60, 189, 197, 408, 536, 541, 548 -n 536, 541 Principality of 34, 35, 45 Cateau-Cambresis, Peace of 65, 74 catechist 112 Catherine, Michelle, Princess 65 of Aragon 64 Princess 57 Saint, Day of 96 Catholic 19, 23, 55, 61, 65, 77, 78, 101, 104, 117, 118, 129, 132, 133, 134, 136, 140, 154, 186, 188, 193, 195, 196, 198, 199, 202, 248, 256, 355, 357, 358, 359, 365, 376, 414, 423, 441, 526, 532, 541 Church 57, 73, 138, 186, 187, 393, 429, 439, 542 Counter-Reformation 65, 76, 354 -ism 19, 74, 75, 76, 78, 106, 109, 117, 118, 119, 126, 127, 129, 131, 132, 194, 203, 266, 355, 356, 532, 542 Monarchs 31, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 59, 104, 128, 130, 136, 263, 301, 321, 345, 355 Reformation 1 Spain 420 Catterall, Douglas 11 Catullus 334 Cavalcanti, Guido 389 Caviceo, Giacomo 401 Caxés 287 Ceán Bermúdez, Juan Agustín 410, 411 cédula de cambio 514 Cela, Camilo José 384 Celestina 13, 171, 172, 173, 323, 345, 383, 388, 397, 398, 400, 402, 403 censo 188, 515, 529 al quitar 511, 515 censorship 199 censure 272, 273 centena 511 Central America 91, 480, 482 Ceñete, Marquesa de 345 Cerdaña 541 county of 37 cereal crop 144 Cerro Rico 498

650 Cervantes, Miguel de 4, 83, 89, 90, 119, 120, 137, 281, 283, 285, 295, 324, 326, 327, 331, 333, 334, 335, 339, 346, 384, 385, 388, 401, 405, 406, 517 César 460, 461 Céspedes, Pablo de 423 Chakrabarty, Dipesh 26 Chancery Court 237 chancillería 52, 297 real 70 Chariton of Aphrodisias 401 charity 509 charivari 192 Charlemagne 73 Charles I, King 304, 355 of Castile 52 of Habsburg 55, 58 II, King 13, 355, 433, 540 V, Holy Roman Emperor 50, 52, 59, 61, 64, 66, 68, 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 80, 81, 84, 85, 86, 91, 93, 104, 106, 109, 131, 168, 187, 199, 235, 237, 238, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 250, 256, 278, 279, 289, 299, 304, 311, 329, 330, 387, 390, 420, 423, 429, 435, 463, 464, 466, 467, 469, 470, 514, 540, 542, 543 of Bourbon 73 Prince of Viana 36 Charnes, Linda 9 Charter of Expulsion 128 Chaunu, Pierre 536 Checa Cremades, Fernando 408 chemistry 505 Chevalier, Maxime 345, 347, 348 Chièvres, Seigneur de 241, 242, 245 childbirth 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 173 Chile, Captaincy-General of 101 China 94, 99, 139, 521 chorography 303 Christ 106, 111, 187, 193, 196, 422, 424, 427 Child 414, 427 -endom 134, 187 resurrection of 158 Christian 33, 34, 54, 104, 108, 111, 117, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136, 140, 143, 149, 153, 154, 170, 176, 183, 184, 186, 190, 191, 193, 194,

index 195, 198, 199, 203, 240, 247, 266, 295, 302, 305, 324, 334, 336, 341, 372, 387, 402, 403, 413, 414, 415, 417, 465, 466, 532, 535, 547 Church 191, 192, 474 Humanist 8, 24 -ity 54, 93, 105, 109, 111, 114, 122, 125, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 154, 155, 186, 190, 262, 266, 387, 414, 420, 547 -ization 107, 266 West 538 Christian, William 153, 306, 307 Christmas Eve 396 chronicler 42 Church 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 196, 201, 202, 203, 260, 262, 263, 265, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 361, 376 of the Crown of Aragon 202 of Rome 189 Cicero 18, 149, 319, 334, 335, 451, 500 Cieza de León, Pedro 84, 513 Cincinnato, Romulo 424 Cipac, Marcos 109 circumcision 133 Ciruelas 301 Cisneros, Francisco Jiménez de, Cardinal 54, 57, 58, 131, 190, 196, 241, 325, 341, 386 ciudad cambiante 281 ciudadano 298 Classics 1, 9, 15, 21, 26 Clement VII, Pope 73, 243, 248 clergy 32, 34, 40, 48, 52, 53, 146, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 194, 195, 196, 199, 201, 202, 203, 204, 304, 347 clericus 340 Climacus, John, Saint 345 Clotho 323 Clusius, Carolus 492 cobbler 308 cochineal dye 99 codices excerptorii 331 cofradía 396 Cofradía de la Pasión y la Sangre de Jesucristo 396 de la Sociedad de Nuestra Señora 396 cofre 343

index Cognac, League of 73 Coimbra, University of 357 coin 509, 511, 512, 513, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522, 523, 524, 525, 526, 527, 529 colegio 69, 353, 502 mayor 69 Colegio de Corpus Christi 424 de San Gregorio 442 de Las Niñas de la Paz 179 Imperial (Madrid) 496 Imperial de la Santa Cruz de Santiago de Tlatelolco 112 Coliseo 287 Collegium Trilingue 365 Colombo, Realdo 477 colonial empire 21 -ism 262 rule 99 colonization 89, 92, 99, 104 Colorado 91 Columbus Bartholomew 96 Christopher 95, 96, 289, 320, 373, 473, 481, 493 Comares, Palace of 414 comedia 148, 281, 290 a fantasía 398 a noticia 398 urbana 284, 286, 291 commerce 92, 93, 95, 508, 511, 512, 513, 514, 516, 518, 520, 523, 524, 527, 530 commoner 48 community 293, 294, 295, 296, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 313 comparatio 320 Comuneros 52, 59, 71, 80 Revolt of the 52, 71, 79, 241, 242, 304, 305, 430 comunidad 304 Comunidades of Castile 71, 79 concejo abierto 296 Concepcionista 351 concha 456, 457 conde 236 condottiero 73

651 confraternity 156, 178, 179, 180, 184, 202, 203, 437 congregación 109 conjunto conventual 110, 111, 112 conocimiento propio 370 conquest 262 spiritual 106, 109 conquistador 90, 104, 106 Consejo de Indias 483 Real 50 Constantine 242, 243 Constitutions 351, 353 consulta 63 consumer 513, 523, 524 contaminatio 459 Contreras, Jerónimo de 401 convent 150, 341, 347, 350, 351, 352, 353, 354 conversion forced 122, 132, 133 converso 21, 54, 55, 76, 124, 129, 130, 143, 154, 170, 198, 200, 255, 275, 388, 403, 413, 414, 415, 475, 505 Portuguese 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 133, 134, 138, 140 convivencia 121, 535 Copernican 475 -ism 495 Revolution 484 Copernicus, Nicolas 9, 356, 475, 506 coplas 330 Coplas de Mingo Revulgo 42 del Provincial 42 Córdoba 23, 89, 179, 320, 517 Fernando de 320 Martín de 346 coreligionist 127, 128, 129 Coronel, Diego 255 Corpus Christi 156, 192, 203, 266, 282, 396, 398 Colegio de 424 corral 281, 286, 396 Corral de la Cruz 281, 396 de la Pacheca 396 del Príncipe 281 corregidor 51, 52, 69, 70, 260, 297 de indios 70

652 Correo Mayor 81 corrida de toros 282 Cortes 48, 49, 50, 58, 66, 79, 80 of Castile 240, 293, 310 of Madrigal 49 of Santiago 241 of Toledo 50, 51, 55 Cortés, Hernán 96, 97, 106, 114, 243 cortesanía 249 cortesano 247, 250, 251, 253, 254, 256 Cortona, Pietro da 435 Corts 35, 48 co-ruler 35 -ship 36, 45 las cosas del mundo 371 cosmography 480, 481, 493, 499 costumbrista 291 cotton cloth 521, 523 Council 63, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 73, 80, 82, 83, 85 of Castile 50, 52, 69 of the Indies 71, 78, 85 of Trent 70, 73, 76 counter-discourse 255 Counter-Reformation 1, 2, 186, 187, 188, 194, 201, 203, 356 Counter-Renaissance 12 court 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 70, 78, 80, 82, 83 courtiership 235, 247, 250, 251, 252, 253, 255, 256 Covarrubias, Sebastián de 125. 126, 139, 175, 176, 304, 305, 307 credit 509, 510, 511, 514, 515, 516, 517, 518, 519, 521, 524, 529, 530 Creole 116, 499, 500, 501 Creu 181, 183 Crews, Daniel A. 543 criado 289 criollo 81, 106, 116 cristianità 248 cristiano nuevo de moro 132 viejo 125 cronista-cosmógrafo 85 El Crotalón 333 Crowns, Union of the 45, 56, 58, 59, 61 Croÿ, William [Guillaume] de 71, 241 crucifixion 427 cruz de celda 444

index cruzado 53 crypto-Muslim 133 cuarto 512, 526 de vellón 525 Cuba 96 Cuenca 55, 347, 348, 349, 352 Cuerla, Domingo de 163 Cueva Beltrán de la 42, 43 Juan de la 398 culteranismo 392 culture 14, 18, 21, 22, 24, 25 cupping 157 currency 10, 20, 21 Cuzco 90, 410 Cyprus 462 Da Gama, Vasco 94 Da Vinci, Leonardo 419 Daman 95 Dandelet, Thomas J. 279 Dante Alighieri 242, 323, 389, 395 Dantisco, Lucas Gracián 250, 251, 252, 253 Dantiscus, Joannes 250 danza 398 macabra 396 Dark Ages 23 Darth Vader 8 Day of Judgment 275 De Armas, Frederick 21 De la Cabeza, María 280 De la Cavallería, Isabel 163, 164, 165, 168 De la Corte, Juan 282 De la Torre, Francisco 392 De los Ruyzes de Fontecha, Juan Alonso 161 De Navarra, Remiro 291 De Wit, Frederick 278 Decembrio, Pier Candido de 319 decoración efímera 291 dehesa 302 Del Río-Barredo, María José 277, 278, 280, 282, 285 Deleito y Piñuela, José 282, 286 Delicado, Francisco 403, 406 Della Casa, Giovanni 250, 251 Democratic Republic of the Congo 95 depoliticization 17 Descartes, René 500, 504 descuido 250, 255

653

index desenvoltura 249 desprecio 249 destierro 295 Devereux, Robert 78 Devil 259 Di Camillo, Ottavio 319, 543 Diana 459, 460 Dias, Bartolomeu 94 Díaz de Toledo, Pedro 320 del Valle, Lázaro 410 José Simón 286 Juan 400 Mummadona, Countess 343 dictatorship 534 Diego de la Cruz 427 Diet of Worms 242 Díez Borque, José María 277, 286 Díez Freyle, Juan 523 diezmo 71 dignitas hominis 404 dineral 519 dinero 519, 522 Dionysius the Areopagite 325 Dioscorides 483 Diputació 35 discreción 251 Diu 95 Divine Office 341, 352 dobla 520 doblón 511 dogma 191, 194 Dom 134 Dominican 109, 357, 358, 374 Republic 373 Don Juan 459 Don Quixote 3, 4, 401, 406 Donà, Leonardo 532 Doria, Andrea 73, 75 Dostoevsky, Fyodor 384 dowry 150, 151, 510 Drake, Francis 77 ducado 519, 522 Dueñas 241 Dumas, Alexander 532 duque 236 Duque de Estrada, Diego 338 Durango 101 Dürer, Albrecht 451, 452

Dutch 99, 542 -man 289 Protestant 540 Revolt 532, 538 Eamon, William 21, 543, 544 Early Modern 2, 9, 12, 14, 18, 19, 22, 33, 34, 40, 47, 48, 49, 54, 79, 86, 107, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 155, 157, 162, 174, 177, 179, 186, 200, 206, 207, 215, 226, 236, 240, 244, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 276, 277, 278, 283, 288, 292, 293, 294, 303, 308, 310, 317, 329, 334, 335, 339, 346, 347, 353, 383, 409, 412, 418, 473, 476, 477, 487, 488, 493, 494, 495, 506, 507, 508, 509, 517, 519, 524, 529, 530, 531, 533, 537, 538, 540, 544, 546, 547 East 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, 99, 109, 117, 118 Indian 492 Indies 139 Easter 203 ecclesiastical court 262, 273 Echegoyán, Felipe 523 economics 367, 508, 509, 511, 512, 513, 515, 518, 524, 526, 527, 528, 530 Edad de Oro 3 Edad Moderna 3 Edict of Faith 271 egipciano 135 Egyptian 135, 450 Eighty Years’ War 76 Elcano, Juan Sebastián 97 elche 131 Elizabeth I, Queen 63, 77 of Valois 74 Elliott, Sir John 20, 62, 66, 78, 84 Elysian Fields 323 emirate 34 Emmanuel King 57 Philibert of Savoy 74 encabezamiento 311 Encina, Juan del 199, 387, 389, 396, 397, 399, 406 encomendero 104, 105, 107

654 encomienda 80, 104, 105, 107 Egido, Aurora 322 Encina, Juan del 322 England 57, 64, 65, 73, 74, 75, 77, 197, 239, 270, 356, 365, 413, 417, 468, 533, 537, 538, 540, 544 Elizabethan 538, 540 Lord Chancellor of 493 English 235, 477, 481, 490, 493, 504, 537, 538, 540, 541, 542 -man 477, 537, 541 Protestantism 538 Enlightenment 14, 15, 86, 504, 506, 533, 539, 544 Enríquez family 33 ens 364 reale 364 entremés 398 Epictetus 336 Equator 94 Erasmian 117, 397, 403, 542, 543 Erasmism 317, 333, 336 Erasmist 336 erasmista 334, 335 Erasmus, Desiderius 190, 199, 241, 333, 366, 368, 452, 542 Erauso, Catalina de 152 Ercilla, Alonso de 101 escondido 285 El Escorial 63, 78, 81, 85, 193, 236, 244, 245, 279, 423, 430, 433, 435, 484, 488, 496 Escrivá, Ludovico 401 escudo 511, 512, 520, 525 Escuela de la Villa (Madrid) 334 escultora de cámara 433 Esguerra, Jorge Cañizares 11 Esgueva River 299 Esparta, Elvira de 168 Espina, Eduardo 15 Esposito, Roberto 176 Esquilache, Marquis of 281 Estado da Índia 95, 96 estanco 291 estatuto de limpieza de sangre 127 Estefanía de la Encarnación, Sor 444 Estúñiga, Lope de 389 ethnicity 20, 21 ethnicus 124 ethnikos 124

index ethnography 484 ethnos 124 ethos 4 Eurocentrism 23 Europe 4, 9, 21, 23, 25, 26, 32, 36, 37, 38, 41, 43, 44, 57, 62, 64, 65, 67, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79, 81, 82, 84, 86, 89, 91, 92, 93, 96, 118, 236, 239, 246, 330, 340, 341, 342, 344, 346, 355, 356, 366, 450, 452, 473, 474, 476, 477, 479, 482, 484, 486, 487, 488, 489, 495, 498, 499, 501, 504, 505, 507 Northern 93 European 11, 12, 13, 16, 19, 23, 24, 25, 26, 89, 93, 94, 95, 99, 101, 105, 106, 107, 108, 111, 116, 117, 407, 409, 417, 431, 433, 442, 473, 475, 477, 480, 481, 482, 483, 487, 488, 489, 494, 495, 496, 499, 501, 502, 506, 507, 531, 532, 536, 538, 541, 542, 545, 546, 547, 548 Renaissance 355, 356, 422, 542 evangelization 96, 106, 108, 111 ex libris 325 excommunication 271, 272, 273 Extremadura 245 facultad 302 faith 358, 359, 364, 372, 373, 376 Fajardo, Pedro 55 family 64, 68, 81 Fancelli, Domenico 238 fantasía 323 farce 398 Farce of Ávila 44 Farnese, Alexander 68 farsa profana 398 Father of the Church 345 Faur, José 129, 130 Favalis, Celedón 508, 529 favorite 40, 41, 42 fazendeiro 95 Febvre, Lucien 19 feitoria 94 female sexuality 151 Ferdinand II of Aragon, King 37, 42, 44, 45, 47, 53, 57, 91, 104, 128, 131, 143, 154, 237, 241, 320, 321, 355, 387, 400, 413, 417, 531, 540

index of Antequera 39 of Trastámara 39 Fernández Alejo 442, 444 de Velasco, Juan 85 Gregorio 427 Lucas 397 Paradas, Antonio Rafael 409 Fernando del Pulgar 43 Ferrer Valls, Teresa 277 feudal lord 132, 133 Ficino, Marsilio 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 335, 338, 456 fiefdom 96 Fielding, Henry 384 finance 508, 509, 514, 515, 516, 518 Fink, Stephanie 20, 21 Fioravanti, Leonardo 487 Flanders 64, 69, 72, 76, 401, 455 Flandes, Juan de 418 Flaubert, Gustave 384 Fleming 436 Flemish 289, 304, 418, 441, 466, 468, 492 Florence 23, 72, 73, 256, 288, 329, 338, 427, 454, 460, 461 Republic of 72 Florentine 431, 432, 456 Flores, Juan de 399, 401 Florida 91, 106 folklore 389, 398, 402, 403, 405 Fontana, Giulio Cesare 281 Forte, Giovanni Vincenzo 488 Fortea Pérez, José I. 300 Forty-Hours devotion 203 foundling hospital 158, 159, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185 Fraga Iribarne, Manuel 531 France 5, 14, 37, 43, 53, 56, 57, 64, 65, 72, 73, 74, 77, 125, 187, 243, 248, 256, 320, 356, 417, 533, 541, 544 Constable of 73 Kingdom of 64, 72 Franche-Comté 91 Francis I of France 72, 73, 248 Franciscan 106, 109, 111, 112, 114, 115, 357 Franco Francisco 531, 534, 535, 536, 540, 541, 548 -Ottoman axis 73

655 free verse 390 Freedberg, David 413 French 44, 48, 58, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 99, 235, 239, 241, 248, 265, 389, 400, 481, 490, 506 Catholic 77 Enlightenment 544 États Généraux 48 -man 239 Protestant 76 Pyrenees 197 Wars of Religion 74, 77 Fúcar 516 Fuchs, Barbara 12, 547 Fuenteovejuna 263, 264, 270 fueros 35, 82, 240, 296, 301 Fugger family 515 Furet, François 1 furs 35 Galarreta, Antonio de 268 Galdós, Benito Pérez 384 Galen 157, 474, 486, 501, 504 galenista 504 Galeón de Manila 99 Galicia 150, 151, 156, 194, 195, 197 Galilei, Galileo 281, 356 Gallego, Fernando 418 galleon 93, 97, 99 Gallican Church 73 Gandía 386 Gandolfi, Pietro 281 García -Bryce, Ariadna 8 Hidalgo, José 457 Martínez, Manuel Jesús 163 Santo-Tomás, Enrique 155 Garcilaso de la Vega 247, 322, 326, 335, 344, 383, 385, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394, 385, 390 Garcilaso de la Vega (‘el Inca’) 89, 90, 96, 106, 119, 522, 523, 530 Garibay, Esteban de 85 Garreguilla, Francisco 523 Garrido-Ardila, Juan Antonio 21 Garrido Pérez, María del Carmen 412 Gassendi, Pierre 500 Gattinara, Mercurino 242, 245 Geary, Patrick 300, 303

656 Gellius 18 Gelves, Count of 257 genealogy 125, 126, 134, 138, 140 Generalitat 37 Generation of 1898 534, 546 Genoa 37, 64, 73, 74, 525 Genoese 37, 73, 75, 515, 516, 526 gentiluomo 251 George, of Trebizond 320 St 465 Germaine de Foix 58, 256 German 73, 289, 417, 485, 496 Peasants’ Revolt 305 germanía 131 Germanías Revolt 59, 71, 79, 131 Germany 14, 15, 300, 356 Ghent 418 Peter of 109, 111, 112, 114, 115 ghetto 137 Giambologna 431 Gibson, Charles 537 gigantón 291 Gilroy, Paul 9 Giordano, Luca 433, 435 Giotto 411 gitanería 137 gitano 134, 135, 137 Girona 154 Gluttony 22 glyph 111 Goa 95, 96, 118, 119, 120 God 298, 305, 306, 312, 328, 358, 359, 360, 361, 362, 363, 370, 373, 379, 393, 394, 496, 502, 510, 526 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 412 gold 92, 93, 94, 511, 512, 513, 514, 517, 520, 521, 522, 528 Golden Age 118, 151, 193, 263, 285, 321, 337, 383, 413, 449, 461, 529 Gómez de Sandoval, Diego 338 de Mora, Juan 282 de Silva, Ruy 245 Duarte 521 Fernán 263 Moreno, Ángel 543 Góngora, Luis de 22, 26, 281, 284, 291, 335, 339, 385, 388, 392, 528

index Gonzales Cynthia 264, 270 de Chauarri, Magdalena 271 González Dávila, Gil 280, 525 de Mendoza, Pedro, Cardinal 178 Martín 409 Good Friday 259 Goody, Jack 23 Goth 125 government 20, 21 Goytisolo, Juan 2 gracia 249 Grafe, Regina 545 Grafton, Anthony 16, 24 Graftonian 16 Granada 33, 34, 39, 43, 49, 53, 56, 70, 76, 79, 82, 130, 131, 132, 133, 139, 154, 180, 194, 202, 237, 238, 240, 243, 257, 338, 386, 402, 409, 414, 420, 427, 547 conquest of 34, 53, 56 Kingdom of 33, 104, 132 Luis de 199, 345, 352, 353 Muslim 43 Wars of 76, 79 Grand Chamberlain 241 grandee 50 grano 522 Granvela, Antoine Perrenot de, Cardinal 72 Grayson, Brandan 5, 6, 7 grazia 249, 250 greciano 135 El Greco 407, 412, 422, 424, 449 Greco-Roman 323, 329, 339 Greece 65, 320, 432, 451 Greek 4, 135, 317, 319, 320, 330, 333, 334, 335, 336, 338, 339, 356, 368, 385, 405, 441, 451, 455, 456, 461, 474, 476 -Latin 333 Green-Mercado, Marya T. 21, 153, 154 Greene, Graham 384 Greer, Meg 4, 10, 25 Gregory the Pope, Saint 153 Greimas, Algirdas 2 Gresham’s Law 527 Grinaeus, Simon 452 Gruzinsky, Serge 83 Grynius 451 Guadalajara 116, 260, 301

index Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe 101, 106 Guanajuato 93 guardainfante 433 Guatemala 108 Captaincy-General of 91 Güéjar, Juan de 444 Guerrero, Francisco 406 Guevara, Antonio de 243, 250, 253, 254, 324, 328, 339, 516 Guicciardini, Francesco 46, 190, 531, 532 guild 149, 155, 298, 299, 308 Guillén de Ávila, Diego 323 Güimaraes, Monastery of 344 gum arabic 94 Gutenberg, Johannes 330, 344 Guzmán Nuño de 320 Sancha de 344, 345 Gypsy 21, 135, 136, 137, 299 habitus 253, 254 Habsburg 31, 33, 50, 55, 57, 59, 61, 62, 64, 67, 68, 74, 245, 246, 278, 279, 408, 415, 423, 429, 430, 431, 432, 433, 439, 442, 463, 528, 540, 548 dynasty 355 House of 57 Spain 31, 528 -Valois 74 hacienda 525 Hadrian 450 Hafsids of Tunis 72 Hagarene 124 Haiti 373 Hall of Realms 246 of the Throne 414 Hanke, Lewis 536 Havana 520 Haydn, Hiram 12 Hebreo, León 335 Hebrew 393 Hegelian 411 Heliodorus 339, 401 hell 323, 332 hendecasyllable 390 Henry I, Cardinal 77 II 73, 74

657 III of Castile 38 IV, King of France 77 IV of Castile 38, 41, 42, 43, 44 VIII 57, 64 of Trastámara 35, 39 the Navigator, Prince 94 heptasyllable 390 Heraclitus 13 herbal remedy 157 Hercules 4 heresy 43, 54, 196, 198, 199, 200 Hermes Trismegistus 325 Hermetic 326, 327 Hernández Francisco 483, 484, 496 Gloria 8 Herodotus 335 La Herredera 167 Herrera Fernando de 245, 257, 335, 390, 392 Francisco de (the Younger) 437 Juan de 280, 497 Martín 296 Herrero, Miguel 286 Herzog, Tamar 140, 309 hexasyllable 390 hidalgo 237, 254 de privilegio 237 de sangre 237 hidalguía 237 Hiett Prize 24 High Mass 289 hijo bastardo 174 natural 174, 178 Hillgarth, J.N. 546, 547 Hindu 26, 95, 118 -Arabic 518 Hispanic 4, 9, 14, 105, 106, 109, 110, 113, 116, 117, 119 Baroque Project 11 Monarchy 293 hispanidad 531 Hispaniola 139, 373 Hispanism 545 Hispanist 413 Hispano-Flemish 408, 417, 418, 439 historicism 10, 26 Hita, Archpriest of 386

658 Holland 129, 533 Holy Office 46, 54, 55 Roman Elector 241 Emperor 61, 71, 73, 74, 235, 242, 243 Empire 73, 74, 93, 304, 387 Sepulcher 111 War 33, 38 Week 437 hombre de negocio 129 limpio 125 Homza, Lu Ann 543 Honhauer, Georg 485 Hooykaas, Riejer 493 Horace 332, 334, 335, 339, 391, 393 Horae 462 Horatian 332 Hormuz 95 Horozco, Sebastián de 395, 396 Hospital de San Nicolás de Bari 116 de Santa Cruz 178 General 180 Real 180 hospital-pueblo 108 House of Trade (Seville) 260 Houston, R.A. 349 Howard, Charles 78 Howe, Elizabeth Teresa 19, 21, 148 Hoyo, Pedro de 487 Huancavelica 116 Huerta Calvo, Javier 285 Huesca 492 Huguet, Jaume 417 humanism 17, 18, 22, 24, 26, 27, 189, 190, 317, 318, 319, 321, 335, 356, 365, 379, 384, 386, 402, 406 humanissimus vir 386 humanist 319, 320, 321, 323, 324, 325, 328, 330, 333, 334, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 365, 366, 386, 389, 390, 393, 394, 396, 397, 398, 399, 402, 405, 480, 542, 543 humanities 17, 18, 24, 25 humildad 370 Hundred Years’ War 239

index Hurtado de Mendoza Antonio 284 Diego 390 Iamblichus 325 Iberia 89, 90, 92, 104, 105, 116, 118, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 132, 133, 135, 139, 235, 239, 289, 486, 493, 504, 506, 507 -n 61, 76, 83, 86, 121, 122, 133, 156, 262, 266, 277, 288, 289, 422, 493, 499, 506, 532, 538, 539 Atlantic 509 Kingdoms 92 Monarchy 77, 78 Peninsula 33, 38, 56, 61, 64, 65, 71, 75, 80, 82, 91, 93, 126, 128, 129, 131, 135, 136, 139, 140, 143, 153, 154, 250, 289, 320, 340, 355, 356, 407, 413, 427, 430, 437, 473, 504, 507 Union of 1580 64, 77 Union of the Crowns 61, 84 Iberoamerica 119, 410 idolatry 112 illiteracy 189, 190, 191, 195, 329, 330, 340, 342, 347, 348, 349, 350, 352, 353, 354 Illuminism 190, 231, 424 imitatio 331, 392 imitation 333, 334, 335 Imperial College (Madrid) 495 Renaissance 242 imperialism 89, 90, 94, 101, 104, 107 Imperium Studies 12 impolitical 17 impuesto 311 Inca 480 Incarnation 358 Inclusa 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185 The Incredibles 25 Index of Prohibited Books 404, 475, 486 India 94, 95, 134, 139 -n 80, 83, 374, 375, 376, 377, 378, 379, 536 Ocean 94 indiano 118, 511, 516, 517 Indies 53, 67, 69, 70, 71, 78, 85, 86, 479, 481, 490, 494, 495, 496, 498, 501, 502, 513, 521, 524

index Council of the 104, 187 Occidental 85 Indigenous 89, 95, 96, 101, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 116, 117, 119 American 443 indio 21, 138, 139, 140 Indo-Christian 111 Indonesia 95 Industrial Revolution 539, 544, 545 infant mortality 151, 158, 169, 182 Infantes de Aragón 39 influenza 156 ingenio 281 Ingham, Patricia Clare 10, 24, 26 Inka 89, 90, 101, 119 Innocent VIII, Pope 53 Inquisition 25, 54, 75, 78, 128, 133, 146, 154, 155, 162, 170, 190, 194, 198, 199, 200, 201, 203, 240, 247, 251, 260, 261, 263, 267, 270, 271, 273, 274, 275, 295, 336, 348, 349, 350, 354, 365, 393, 404, 486, 537, 542, 544, 547 intermarriage 34 International Date Line 117, 118 Iranzo, Miguel Lucas de 42 Ireland 65 Isabel of Portugal 168 of Valois 169, 246 Isabel[la] I of Castile (“the Catholic”) 42, 53, 56, 91, 104, 131, 168, 241, 320, 321, 323, 355, 387, 390, 415, 418, 531, 540 Clara Eugenia 68 of Portugal, Empress 64, 68 Isidore of Seville, St 386 Isidro, San 280, 286 Islam 34, 37, 38, 76, 94, 104, 131, 146, 154, 156, 170, 186, 414, 532, 534, 535, 539, 547 Golden Age of 420 Israel, Jonathan 504 Italian 5, 74, 82, 235, 238, 239, 242, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 256, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 323, 325, 327, 330, 331, 333, 335, 336, 337, 338, 384, 390, 392, 393, 394, 395, 397, 398, 400, 401, 402, 406, 411, 420, 430, 481, 487, 490, 504

659 Peninsula 35, 59, 64, 65, 72, 73, 74, 410, 411, 420, 431 Renaissance 366, 419, 431, 531, 543 Wars 64, 65, 72 Italy 5, 24, 27, 69, 72, 74, 90, 129, 187, 189, 191, 202, 239, 242, 244, 247, 248, 249, 250, 256, 320, 321, 333, 338, 390, 392, 397, 400, 401, 406, 411, 420, 432, 450, 455, 470, 536, 547 ius gentium 377 ivory carving 99 Jaén 302 Jalisco 97 Japan 94, 97 Jardine, Lisa 23, 24 Jerome, Saint 149, 345 Jesuit 5, 22, 23, 118, 195, 196, 197, 202, 266, 268, 307, 325, 329, 330, 356, 357, 358, 494, 495, 496, 500 Order 317, 328 Jesus 23, 26 Jew 19, 54, 55, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 136, 137, 143, 146, 153, 154, 186, 190, 198, 200, 357, 365, 387, 413, 414, 417, 532, 535, 547 expulsion of 13 Jimeno, Pedro 476 Joanna of Castile 430 Johannes, Fabian 27 John II of Aragon 36, 37, 39, 43, 44 II of Castile 38, 39, 40, 41, 42 III of Portugal, King 64 of Austria 68, 76 of Jerusalem, Saint 76 of Rupescissa 487 of the Cross, St 369, 383, 393, 511 jornada de improvisación 339 Josephus 335 Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 10 Jovius, Paulus 335 Juan II of Castile 319, 389 de Ávila, St 199, 345 de la Cruz, San 325, 327 de los Reyes, San 321 José de Austria 90

660 Juan Carlos Center (New York University) 20 Juana (“la Loca”), Princess 167, 241 of Portugal 43 Judaism 170, 413, 414, 539 judaizante 127 Judaizer 127, 129 Judaizing 54, 154, 170 Juderías, Julián 533, 534, 536, 537, 546 juego de caña 282 juicio de residencia 69 Julius II, Pope 53, 70, 71 Juni, Juan de 422 junta 82, 133 Junta de Noche 82 Jupiter 466, 467, 470 juramento 305 juro 514, 529 Justi, Carl 411, 412 Justice 62, 67, 69, 70 Justicia de Aragón 35 Juvarra, Filippo 430 Kagan, Richard 267, 304, 330, 545 Kallendorf, Craig 8 Kamen, Henry 21, 509, 540, 541 Kannur 95 Kasl, Ronda 417 Keen, Benjamin 536, 537, 538 Kempis, Thomas à 345 Kennicott Bible 413 Kenya 94 Kepler, Johannes 500 Kino, Eusebio Francisco 500 knowledge free 360, 361 natural 360, 361, 362 Kochi 95, 96 Koenigsberger, Helmut 539, 540 Koselleck, Reinhart 2, 3 Kozhikode 94 Kristeller, Paul Oskar 18 kuraka 102, 105 Kuro Shivo Current 97 La Coruña 413 La Plata 520 Labarge, Margaret Wade 341

index Lachesis 323 lacquer 99 laicus 340 laity 340 Lamb of God 526 Lampert, Lisa 15 landlord 46 Lansquenet 73 Larquié, C. 350 Las Casas, Bartolomé de 107, 108, 289, 374, 533, 535, 537, 538 Lastanosa, Vincencio Juan de 492 Latin 4, 5, 15, 23, 26, 161, 176, 191, 317, 319, 322, 323, 327, 329, 330, 332, 333, 334, 340, 341, 343, 354, 451, 452, 484, 490, 492, 494, 502 America 501, 536, 537 American 26, 105, 109, 536, 537 -Castilian 323 Christianity 93 -ist 452 Psalter 341 Latino, Juan 257 Latour, Bruno 20 law 21, 357, 374, 375, 376, 377, 378, 379 -yer 347 Lawrance, Jeremy 343, 346 Lazarillo de Tormes 251, 383, 403, 404 expurgado 251 Lázaro Carreter, Fernando 404 Lazarus 26 Le Muy, siege of 390 leather 99 lectio poetarum 387 Ledesma Alonso de 385, 510 Miguel Jerónimo 476 lega 351, 352 legítima 145 Lehfeldt, Elizabeth 21 Lent 192, 286, 291, 292 León, Luis de 149, 323, 326, 393 Leoni, Pompeo 423 Lepanto, Battle of 83, 90 Lerma 41 Duke of 6, 280, 284, 338, 444 Lescourret, Marie-Anne 466 letrado 50, 62, 63, 116, 240, 246

index Levin, Michael 21 Levinas, Emmanuel 8 Levy, Ivonne 11 Leyes de Burgos 80 Nuevas 80 libertad filosófica 504 Libro de Buen Amor 171 Liguria 37 Lille 197 Lima 78, 83, 520, 521, 523 limpieza de sangre 247 Linacre, Thomas 366 linaje 124, 126 linajudo 125, 126 Liñán y Verdugo, Antonio 291 Lipsius, Justus 318, 336, 337 liquidambar 290 lira 390, 394 Lisbon 92, 94, 118, 479, 515 literacy 303, 320, 321, 330, 331, 340, 346, 349, 350, 352, 353 litigation 297, 302, 308 li[t]teratus 339, 340 liturgical cycle 192 L[l]ull -ist 487, 488 Ramon 236, 486, 487, 488 Lobera de Ávila, Luis 161, 173 Lockhart, James 95, 105, 110, 517 locus classicus 451 locust 153 Logroño 267 Lom 134 Lombardy 238 London 288, 468, 493 Longus 401 Lope de Vega, Félix 26, 263, 264, 270, 280, 281, 284, 285, 289, 323, 338, 339, 383, 385, 388, 398, 399, 401, 450, 463, 466, 467, 469, 470, 495, 510 López Alemany, Ignacio 256 de Gómara, Francisco 507 de Hoyos, Juan 279, 334, 335 de Legazpi, Miguel 77, 97 de Úbeda, Juan 395 de Velasco, Juan 85 de Yanguas, Hernán 397

661 Pinciano, Alonso 323, 385, 405 Piñero, José María 499 Torrijo, Rosa 457 Lorenzo Pinar, Francisco 265 San 245 Los Cobos, Francisco de 72 Los Santos de la Humosa 167 Lotti, Cosimo 281 Louvain, University of 356, 365 Louvre, Musée du 437 Low Countries 60, 68, 74, 76, 77, 417, 469 Loyola, Ignatius of, Saint 195, 196, 266, 325, 328 Lucan 4 Lucena, Juan de 4 Lucian of Samosata 333, 334, 339 ludi theatrales 395 Luna, Álvaro de 40, 41, 42, 237 Lust 6, 22 luterano 290 Luther -an 73 -ism 93, 198 Martin 9, 73, 190 Luzon 97 Lyon 515 Macao 83, 94 Machado, Antonio 392 Machiavelli, Niccolò 397 Machuca, Pedro 420 MacKay, Ruth 11, 21, 546 MacLean, Gerald M. 23 Mactan battle of 97 Madjid, Ahmad ibn 94 Madonna 414, 427 Madre de Dios, M. Isabel de la 351 Madrid 63, 65, 66, 67, 70, 72, 78, 80, 84, 89, 146, 156, 167, 174, 175, 179, 180, 181, 183, 184, 188, 195, 236, 244, 251, 255, 257, 264, 271, 272, 277, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 297, 299, 300, 303, 308, 334, 337, 338, 339, 350, 396, 408, 409, 410, 414, 418, 424, 427, 430, 431, 432, 433, 436, 437, 459, 463, 464, 466, 468, 495, 496, 497, 498, 515, 517

662 Treaty of 72 madrileño 280, 290, 292 madrina 161 Maestro General de Postas 81 Magalotti, Lorenzo 504 Magellan, Ferdinand 96, 97 Maghreb 37, 65 magical realism 26 Maíno, Juan Bautista 287, 427 Mal Lara, Juan de 335 Málaga 139, 179, 427 Malaysia 95 Malindi 94 Mallorca 189, 202 mals usos 36, 46 Malta 76 Maltby, William S. 537, 538, 540 mameluco 95 Manetti, Giannozzo 320, 386 Manila 83, 97, 99, 262 Mannerism 408, 422, 423 Manrique Gómez 395 Jorge 386, 389 manu propia 350 Manuel, Juan 386 Manuzio, Aldo 334 Manzanares 181 Mapuche 101 Maravall, José Antonio 10 maravedí 79, 519, 521, 522, 523, 525, 526, 529 Marcelli, Antonio 278 March, Ausiàs 386, 390 Margaret of Austria 68, 241 of Habsburg 57 María de la Cruz 351 de Portugal 168, 169 Princess 168 Maria of Castile, Queen 35, 36 Mariana Juan de 268, 307, 524, 527 of Austria 287, 433 of Neuburg, Queen 435 Marías, Fernando 412, 413, 414 Marineo Siculo, Lucio 5, 320 Marliano, Luigi 242

index marrano 21 Marseille 73 Martín I of Aragon 31, 39 Antón 300 Casares, Aurelia 139 de la Cruz 502 Domingo 296 -Estudillo, Luis 176 Martínez del Mazo, Juan Bautista 282 González, Juan José 408, 409 Mártir de Anglería, Pedro 320 Martorell, Joanot 386, 399 martyrdom 423, 424 Mary of Burgundy 91, 278 of Hungary 68 Masaccio 411 mass 306 Masson de Morvilliers, Nicolas 506 mater 280 materia medica 483, 490 mathematics 475, 500 Mauritania 94 Maximilian I, Emperor 57, 81, 239, 241 of Austria 91 Mayflower Pilgrims 96 Maynila, Kingdom of 97 mayorazgo 147 Mayordomo del Rey de Castilla 278 mayor 278 Mazzotti, José Antonio 119 measles 156 Medici Alejandro 460 Cosme de 338 family 26 medieval 1, 2, 10, 12, 15, 19, 23, 24, 121, 122, 133, 294 -ist 413 Medina Bartolomé de 498 Catalina de 163, 165 del Campo 150, 239, 351, 352, 514, 515 Medinaceli 33

index meditation 370, 371, 372 Mediterranean 34, 37, 39, 65, 72, 74, 76, 78, 93, 94, 104, 129, 134, 139, 156, 192, 235, 409 Sea 90 Medrano, Sebastián Francisco de 339 mejora 149, 150 melancholy 6 Memling, Hans 418 memorial 107 Mena Juan de 386, 389 Pedro de 427 Mendoza Ana de 345 Antonio de 116 family 33, 42, 238, 256 Íñigo de, Friar 395 Íñigo López de 238, 319, 389 Mencía de 256, 345 Menéndez de Avilés, Pedro 76 Pidal, Ramón 534, 535 y Pelayo, Marcelino 348 Meneses, Felipe de 190 mentalité 538 Mercado, Tomás de 511, 513, 520 Mercedarian 281 merchant 36, 37, 344, 346, 347, 508, 513, 514, 516, 517, 520, 521, 522, 523, 524, 525, 530 Mercurio of Gattinara 72 Mérida 174 meshumadim 127 Mesta 145 mestizaje 500, 502 mestizo 90, 106, 108, 111 metafiction 403 metallurgy 499 metaphysics 357, 358, 362, 363, 364, 365 Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York) 422, 423, 428, 444 Meunier, Louis 282 Mexía, Pedro 324, 334, 452, 453, 463 Mexican 15, 106, 112, 113 Mexico 68, 76, 77, 78, 83, 91, 96, 101, 105, 106, 108, 110, 113, 114, 117, 140, 189, 423, 483, 496, 498, 500, 521, 523 City 99, 108, 116, 117, 410, 521

663 Tenochtitlan 109, 113 Universidad de 117, 500, 501 Michael, St 465 Michelangelo 23, 26, 411, 420, 450 Michoacán 108 microhistory 20 Middle Ages 82, 235, 236, 305, 329, 342, 389, 395, 402, 415 Middle East 23, 37 Midsummer Eve 197 midwife 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173 -ry 159, 160, 161, 162, 172 morisca 170 Mignolo, Walter 8, 25 Milan 197, 239 Duchy of 72, 91 Duke of 73 Milán, Luis 256 Milheuser, Julius 278 military 33, 36, 38, 39, 53, 55, 56, 58 order 55 militia 296 millones tax 79, 80, 81, 298, 310, 311 Mills, Kenneth 11 minister-favorite 244, 245, 246 Mira de Amescua, Antonio 284, 339, 510, 526 miscarriage 166, 167, 168, 182 mission 195, 196 mita 114 Moctezuma II 96 Modern Age 386, 404 Modern Language Association 11 mohatra 518 Molière 384 Molina, Luis de 357, 358, 359, 360, 361, 380 Moluccas, the 139 Monarchia Sicula 187 Monardes, Nicolás 290, 489, 490, 492 Monarquía Española 55 monastery 110, 146, 153 Moncada, Sancho de 262 moneda de la tierra 523 money 508, 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514, 515, 516, 517, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522, 523, 524, 525, 526, 527, 528, 529, 530 -changer 524

664 Montaigu, Collège de 365 Montalvo, Garci Rodríguez de 400, 406 Montañés, Juan Martínez 427, 454 Montcher, Fabien 21, 59, 466 Montefeltro, Duke Federico da 420 Montemayor, Jorge de 199, 386, 393, 402, 406 Montesinos, Cave of 450 Moor 126, 139, 400, 402, 532 -ishness 548 Morales, Luis de (‘el Divino’) 424 morality 389 More, Thomas 107, 108, 333, 366 Morelia 116 morería 132 mores 43 morisco 21, 76, 79, 90, 130, 132, 133, 134, 137, 138, 140, 155, 170, 247, 257, 414 moro 125, 130, 139 Moro, Antonio 430 Morocco 72, 139 Morvilliers, Nicolas de 544 Moslem 105 Mother of God 414 mudéjar 34, 55, 72, 130, 131, 133, 153 Mühlberg 73, 464, 469 Mumbai 95 mundo abreviado 285 Muñoz Camargo, Diego 83, 107 Jerónimo 475 Seca, Pedro 383 y Peralta, Juan 505 mural 111 Murcia 409 Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban 407, 437, 440, 441 Museo de Bellas Artes (Seville) 427 Nacional de Escultura (Valladolid) 408, 422, 427, 430, 442 Nacional del Prado 408, 424, 427, 431, 432, 433, 437, 444 Sefardí 413 Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga (Lisbon) 444 Muslim 23, 33, 34, 43, 53, 54, 55, 72, 82, 95,

index 96, 104, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136, 137, 139, 154, 155, 200, 237, 247, 302, 357, 415, 417, 532, 535 North African 139 mystic 486 -ism 21, 190, 355, 356, 357, 369, 370, 379, 393, 394 mythography 457 nación 123, 124 nacionalcatolicismo 415 Nader, Helen 543 Nahua 105, 109, 112, 113 -tl 109, 113, 483, 502 Nájera, Abbot of 272 Nalle, Sara T. 146, 346, 348, 349 Naples 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 80, 91, 239, 256, 319, 338, 387, 397, 406, 442 Kingdom of 35, 72 Napoleonic Wars 534 Nasrid 33, 414, 415 Andalusia 442 National Gallery of Art (Washington, D.C.) 441 nationalism 540 Native American 533, 537 natura naturans 467 natural history 480, 481, 484, 493, 496, 505, 507 naturaleza 123 Navagero, Andrea 390 Navarre 39, 58, 118, 189, 195, 196, 200, 201, 387 Kingdom of 39, 58, 74 Navarrete, Ignacio 21, 146 Navarro Brotòns, Víctor 544 Nazi 542 Nazianzus, St. Gregory of 153 Ne plus ultra 506 Neapolitan 239, 433, 435, 488 Nebrija, Antonio de 190, 321, 322, 386 negro 139, 140 neo -Aristotelian 339 -Baroque 15, 23 -Latinist 15 -medieval 15 -Platonism 317, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 388, 391, 392, 394, 403

index -Platonist 325, 326 -Stoicism 317, 333, 336 neophyte 106, 111 Nero, Emperor 455 Golden Palace of 450 Netherlands 68, 72, 74, 80, 191, 199, 387, 418, 430, 526 Nevada 91 Neve, Justino de 437 New Castile 297, 349 Christian 54, 122, 123, 126, 127, 128, 129, 132, 133, 170, 387, 388, 403 England 96 Hispanism 14 Laws 139 Mexico 91 Philosophy 504, 505, 506 Spain 70, 81, 84, 91, 96, 97, 99, 101, 106, 109, 111, 112, 114, 116, 117, 118, 483, 500, 501, 520 Viceroyalty of 91, 500 World 67, 70, 71, 75, 78, 82, 85, 86, 91, 92, 104, 105, 107, 111, 116, 118, 187, 321, 355, 430, 442, 473, 480, 490, 494, 495, 496, 501, 519, 524, 533, 536 drug 490 New York University 20 Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio 328, 496, 500 niño perdido 179 Nirenberg, David 126, 154 nobility 21, 25, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 40, 41, 42, 44, 45, 48, 49, 50, 52, 55, 56, 58, 59, 146, 147 noble 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 251, 257 nobleza de toga 388 Noreña, Carlos 366 North Africa 72, 79, 134, 138, 139, 140, 473 America 14, 95, 97, 101 Norton, Marcia 289 notary 147, 151, 347 novator 505, 506 novedad 312 novella 324 Novoa, Matías de 282, 526 Novohispano 109, 111, 117 Nuestra Señora

665 de Asunción de Panamá 96 de la Soledad y las Angustias 180 Nueva Recopilación de Leyes de Castilla 85 Nuevas Leyes 105, 107, 108 nuevo convertido 132 nuncio 202, 272 Núñez de Balboa, Vasco 96 de Coria, Francisco 161 de Reinoso, Alonso 401 obedecer y no cumplir 307 obelisk 450 Óbidos, Josefa de 444 octosyllable 390 ocultamiento 279 oikonomia 17 Old Christian 124, 125, 126, 127, 134, 170 Testament 393, 414 World 90, 519, 524 oligarchy 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 46, 48, 51, 52 Olivares, Count-Duke of 41, 137, 246, 282, 408, 461 Olivares, Martín de 81 Olympia 466 Olympus 470 O’Malley, John 1, 2 Oran 139 ordenanza 70, 78 de Madrigal 160 del Real Patronato 71 of the West Indies 85 Order of the Golden Fleece 64, 243, 246 Orense 189 Oriental 532, 547 Original Sin 159, 194 Orpheus 326 Orta, Garcia da 492 Ortega Juan de, Saint 167 Monasterio, M. Teresa 413 y Gasset, José 368 Ortiz, Teresa 162 Osuna Francisco de 417 Rodrigo de 417 Othering 43

666 ottava rima 390 Otte, Enrique 517 Ottoman 72, 76, 79, 90 Empire 65, 72, 76, 90, 129 Ottonian court 235 Our Lady of Solitude 437 Ovando, Juan de 85, 483 Ovid 334, 335, 391, 455, 456, 459, 461 Oviedo 189, 195, 415 see of 189 y Valdés, Gonzalo Fernández de 85, 289, 480, 481 Ovid 5 Owens, J.B. 32, 261 PMLA 4, 14 Pablos, Juan 117 Pacheco Francisco 411, 423, 427, 454, 457, 463 Juan 41, 55, 237 Pacific 96, 97, 98, 99, 526 Ocean 96, 97 Padilla Casilda de 351 Juan de 351 Pedro de 395, 405 padrão 94 Padrón General 84 Real 479 Padua 476 Páez de Castro, Juan 85 de Rivera, Rui 400 Palacio del Buen Retiro 287 Real 244 Palencia 188, 300, 305 Al[f]onso de 42, 43, 320, 321, 323, 324 palillo 291 Palmerín de Oliva 400 Palomino, Antonio 410, 411, 457 Pamplona 196 Panama 521, 523 Panduro 289 Pané, Ramón 289 Panofsky, Erwin 463, 465 Pantaleon, Saint 153

index Pantheon 450 Pantoja de la Cruz, Juan 430 papal bull 128, 248 nuncio 305 Paracelsian 486 -ism 486 Paracelsus 485, 486, 487 paragone 454 Paravicino, Hortensio 281 El Pardo, Palace of 244, 427, 464 Pareja, Juan de 444 Paris 65, 74, 80, 288, 356, 366, 367, 493 University of 365, 366, 367, 368 Parker, Geoffrey 72, 81, 527 Pármeno 172 pasadizo 332 pasos 398, 408 Passion 111, 424 pastourelle 389 patria 90, 116 chica 295 patriarchy 135, 149 Patrimonio Colectivo 325 patrimony 150, 151 patron 407, 408, 417, 439, 448 -age 26, 259, 260 Patronato 53 Real 187 Paul, Saint 20, 25 Paula, Madona 345 Paulinist 122 Paulista 95 Pavia, Battle of 72 pax hispanica 101 Peeters, Clara 444 Peninsula 34, 54, 129, 130, 132, 133, 134, 135, 138, 139, 140, 188, 190, 264, 266, 268, 273, 320, 343, 347, 350, 353, 387, 412 -r 410, 413, 415, 417, 435, 442 Judaism 413 peninsular 116 Peñalasa y Mondragón, Benito de 236 Peñalsordo 265, 266 Pereda, Antonio de 287 Pérez de Alesio, Mateo 423 de Hita, Ginés 402 de Montalbán, Juan 339

index de Moya, Juan 457 de Oliva, Fernán 386 Gonzalo 72 Joseph 540, 541 Perkins, David 2 Perry, Mary Elizabeth 171 Peru 90, 91, 101, 114, 116, 118, 140, 423, 513, 521, 522, 523 -vian 508, 513 Viceroyalty of 101, 114 Perugino 419 perulero 118, 514, 516, 517 peso 521, 522, 523, 529 de a ocho 520 de tepuzque de a ocho reales 523 unassayed 529 Petrarch Francesco 18, 333, 335, 389, 389, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394 -ism 389, 393 Philip I of Castile 58, 241 II (the ‘Prudent’), King 50, 57, 59, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 70, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 86, 91, 92, 143, 146, 147, 160, 169, 179, 180, 187, 194, 196, 201, 202, 236, 244, 245, 252, 264, 279, 293, 297, 301, 303, 304, 307, 310, 423, 424, 430, 435, 461, 463, 464, 467, 468, 469, 470, 483, 484, 487, 488, 497, 498, 502, 514, 532, 538, 540, 541, 542, 543 III, King 6, 86, 91, 101, 134, 245, 280, 282, 307, 337, 427, 431, 463, 464 IV 81, 245, 246, 282, 287, 337, 339, 431, 432, 433, 466 V 467 Archduke 57, 58 Prince 279 (‘the Fair’ or ‘the Handsome’) 81, 429 Philippines 77, 97, 104, 107, 140, 257 Captaincy-General of the 91, 97 Phillips, Carla Rahn 11 philosophia Christi 334, 336 naturalis 474 pia 325 philosophy 17, 18, 21, 355, 356, 357, 358, 362, 363, 367, 368, 379, 380

667 phlegm 157 Phoebus 326 physician 347 Piacenza 515 picaresque 295, 331 pícaro 18, 63, 253, 254, 255, 383 Piccolomini, Aeneas Silvius 401 Pico della Mirandola, Giovanni 338, 386 Pillars of Hercules 506 piloto mayor 479 pintor de cámara 432 Pinzón, Vicente Yáñez 95 piña 521 piracy 99 Pizarro, Francisco 114 plague 36, 37, 153, 156 Plantin Bible 85 Plato 108, 149, 248, 320, 321, 324, 325, 327, 328, 335, 338, 370, 371, 456, 539 -ic Academy 338 -ist 329, 338 Plautus 334 Plaza de la Cebada 286 de Oriente 431 Mayor 286, 300, 431 pliego suelto 330 Pliny 324, 334, 335, 451, 452, 454, 455, 457, 464, 466, 481 Plotinus 325 Plus ultra 506 Plutarch 452, 466 poesie 463 pogrom 126 polémica de la ciencia española 505 gongorina 318 Polish 250, 475 politics 9, 20, 21 Poliziano, Angelo 319, 335, 338 polyanthea 334, 335 polymath 506 Pompeii 455, 466 Pontano, Giovanni 338 popular culture 21 porcelain 99 pork 130 Portobelo 520

668 Portugal 5, 34, 43, 56, 57, 60, 61, 63, 64, 66, 68, 69, 70, 77, 84, 91, 92, 93, 94, 97, 251, 252, 320, 418, 477, 480, 506 Kingdom of 34, 76 Portuguese 34, 44, 56, 57, 61, 63, 76, 77, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 100, 104, 117, 118, 235, 251, 252, 278, 397, 401, 402, 515, 521, 526 Baroque 444 Post modernism 15, 22 -RENAISSANCE 24 Renaissance Studies 24 -Tridentine 166 Potosí 93, 116, 498, 499, 520, 521 Powell, Philip Wayne 538 Prado Museum 431, 444 prayer 369, 370, 371, 372, 373 pregonado 306, 308 pregonero 299, 300 premio de la plata 525 premodern era 9 Prescott, William H. 545 presidio 139 Priego, Marquis of 58 primogeniture 147 Princeton University 16, 26 printing press 340, 343, 344, 353 prisca theologia 325 privado 40, 41, 42, 56 privanza 41, 42 Proclus 325 Procrustean 26 procurador 49 Profeti, Maria Grazia 396 Prometheus 467 Propertius 333, 335 Protestant 72, 73, 75, 76, 196, 356, 414, 423, 495, 532, 540 Reformation 73, 75, 91, 356 -ism 93, 196, 504, 538, 540 English 538 protomédico 160 Psalms 342 Psalter 341 Ptolemy 474, 475, 479, 480, 481 Puebla de los Ángeles 116 Puente de Segovia 181 Puerta del Sol 180, 300 purgative 173

index Purgatory 158, 193, 194, 510 P’urhép’echa 108 purity-of-blood charter 129 Putnam, Michael C.J. 25 Pyrenees 37, 533, 541 Treaty of the 541 quadrivium 318 Quechua 522 Querétaro 116 Quevedo, Francisco de 255, 281, 284, 290, 325, 385, 388, 392, 495, 525, 527, 528 Quintana, Jerónimo de 286 Quintilian 4, 451 quinto 149, 150 Quiñones de Benavente, Luis 526 Quiroga Elena de 352 Gaspar de, Cardinal 202 Vasco de 108 Quito 81 Raimondi, Marcantonio 456, 470 Rama, Ángel 116 Ramadan 133 Raphael 419 raza 124, 125, 126 real 512, 523, 525 de a ocho 512 Real Academia de la Historia 6 Academia Española 1 Botica 488 Tribunal del Protomedicato 160 receptor 69 Reconquest 43, 44, 49, 154, 155, 266, 320, 387, 388, 400, 401, 402, 546 Reconquista 34, 38, 53, 55, 104, 121, 237, 239, 355 reducción 523 de la plata 523 del oro 523 Reformation 1, 65, 73, 75, 187, 189, 190, 196, 542 regent 68, 239, 241, 256 Regia Sociedad de Medicina y Otras Ciencias 505 regidor 51, 52 Reilly, Bernard F. 1

index reino 293, 310, 311, 312, 313 junto en Cortes 310 Reinosa, Rodrigo de 168, 172, 173 Relaciones geográficas 483, 507 topográficas 264, 297, 301 relic 306 remanente del quinto 149 remença 36, 46 Renacimiento 3 Renaissance 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32, 47, 54, 62, 89, 92, 105, 106, 110, 111, 116, 119, 121, 135, 143, 146, 147, 149, 155, 156, 157, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 194, 198, 200, 201, 202, 203, 238, 247, 252, 278, 318, 321, 325, 327, 329, 336, 337, 338, 340, 342, 355, 356, 357, 358, 362, 365, 366, 369, 379, 383, 384, 385, 386, 388, 389, 390, 392, 393, 396, 398, 399, 400, 402, 404, 406, 408, 410, 411, 419, 422, 431, 450, 451, 454, 456, 470, 473, 474, 480, 483, 484, 506, 531, 542, 543 Europe 43, 57, 340 European 24 Italian 406 Italy 450, 470 Society of America 14, 18 Spain 32, 36, 44, 54, 55, 143, 144, 146, 147, 150, 151, 152, 153, 157, 159, 195, 200, 473, 484, 543, 544 Spanish 322, 324, 339 Studies 24 Texts and Studies Series 14 rentier 247 repartimiento de labor 107 republic 298, 301, 309, 312 Republic of Letters 75, 83, 318, 336 república 294 de indios 70 de los españoles 108, 117 de los naturales 108, 117 Republican 540, 545 repúblico 307 requerimiento 82 Retiro Palace 246 Revolt of the Brotherhoods 71 rey 293, 311 Rey Prudente 430

669 Reyes Católicos 50, 53, 61, 64, 65, 66, 71, 78 rhetor 397 Rhodes 76 Ribalta, Francisco 424 Ribeiro, Bernardim 401 Ribera, Juan de 424 Richelieu, Cardinal 41 Ricoeur, Paul 1, 14, 16, 17, 19, 20, 27 Ringrose, David R. 544, 545 Ripa, Cesare 291 ritual slaughter 133 Robbins, Jeremy 11 Roch, Saint 153 Rodrigues Lôbo, Francisco 251, 252, 253 Rodríguez del Padrón, Juan 399, 401 M.C. 348, 349 Rojas Fernando de 13, 179, 346, 387, 388, 402, 403, 406 Zorrilla, Francisco de 457, 470 Roldán, Luisa 433 Roma 134, 135, 136, 137 Roman 4, 9, 238, 243, 281, 333, 334, 335, 336, 339, 352, 406, 420, 435, 456, 474 Breviary 202 Emperor 243 Empire 243, 336, 387 -esque 427 Missal 202 Republic 336 Romance 4, 5, 249 romance 330, 331 Romancero general 395 Rome 2, 4, 5, 52, 53, 187, 188, 189, 196, 202, 239, 248, 256, 257, 318, 336, 338, 420, 432, 450, 455, 459, 477, 484, 493, 502 rosary 202, 203 Ross, Sarah Gwyneth 26, 27 Rosselló, county of 37 Rösslin Eucharius 161 the Younger 161 Rotterdam 333, 366 Royal Academy of Mathematics 84 Ruan, Felipe 250, 251, 253 Ruano de la Haza, José María 286 Rubens, Peter Paul 281, 436, 466, 467, 468, 469, 470

670 Rueda, Lope de 398, 399 Ruiz Simón 514 Teófilo F. 258, 277, 278, 281 Saadi 72 Saavedra Fajardo, Diego 512, 527 Sahagún, Bernardino de 112, 113 Sahlins, Peter 541, 542 saint 277, 280 Saint Quentin, Battle of 74 sala 155 Sala Vasari (Arezzo) 454 Salamanca 69, 179, 330, 347, 350, 357, 375, 387, 393, 396, 474 -n 513 University of 187, 307, 320, 325, 336, 375, 474, 475, 477 Salas Barbadillo, Alonso Jerónimo de 281, 284, 290 Pedro de 5, 6, 7 Salazar de Frías, Alonso, Inquisitor 201 Salinas, Pedro 392 Sallustius 334 Salutati, Coluccio 18 Samoothiri 96 San Clemente, Monastery of 341 San Cristóbal de la Habana 96 San Francisco, Monastery of 306 San Gregorio, colegio of 442 San José de los Naturales 109 San José y Nuestra Señora de la Piedad 180 San Juan Bautista de Puerto Rico 96 San Luis 300 church of 180 San Marcos, Universidad de (Lima) 117 San Pedro, Diego de 399, 401 Sánchez Albornoz, Claudio 121, 535, 539 Bartolomé 146 Coello, Alonso 430 Cotán, Juan 441 de Badajoz, Diego 398 de las Brozas, Francisco (‘el Brocense’) 336, 390 Jiménez, Antonio 460 Josefa 444 Melchor 272

index Sancho Panza 508, 516, 529 Sandoval, Ana de 346 Sannazaro, Jacopo 391, 401, 402 Santa Cruz, Colegio de 502 Santa Fe 101, 108 Santa Gadea del Cid 351 Santa Hermandad 49, 51 Santa Junta 305 Santa María Antigua del Darién 96 la Blanca, church of 437 Santiago 38, 55, 237, 243, 246, 386 de Compostela 178, 188, 189, 202, 239, 347 Diego de 488 Order of 237 Santillana, Marquis de 238, 319, 385, 386, 389, 395 Santo Domingo 85, 96, 116, 300 Santo Tomás de Aquino, Universidad de 116 Santo-Tomás, Enrique García 21 Santos, Francisco 175, 281, 291, 292 Santullano, church of 415 Sanz Ayán, Carmén 526 São Paulo 95 Sappho 9 Sardinia 72, 91 Sariñena, Juan 424 Savoy 65, 74 Duchy of 64, 72 Scaliger, Julius Caesar 335 Scholastic 474, 475, 493, 504, 505 -ism 356, 357, 363, 379, 495 theology 190 Schrader, Jeffrey 21 Schwartz [Lerner], Lía 21, 388 scientia media 361 Scientific Revolution 493, 506, 543, 544 Scipio Africanus 451, 452 Scott, James 136 Scotus, Duns 357 Scripture 158, 334, 345 Sebastian I of Portugal 91 King 57, 64, 77 Saint 153 Second Sophistics 333 secret remedy 486

index secularism 319 segador 331 Segovia 63, 255, 512 Bosque of 63 University of 357 Segura, Juan de 401 seigneur 36, 38, 46, 55, 56 Seneca 4, 149, 319, 334, 335, 336, 337, 500 senectute 291 Sentencia de Guadalupe 46 -Estatuto of Toledo 127 señor 237 -ío 39, 109, 237 natural propietaria 45 Sepharad 413 Sephardic diaspora 413 Sephardim 129 septus manus 271 Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de 107 serfdom 36 servicio 79 Sessa, Duke of 338 Seven Deadly Sins 22, 176 Seville 74, 75, 80, 84, 93, 96, 97, 104, 126, 147, 153, 174, 179, 180, 188, 277, 278, 285, 288, 289, 290, 298, 299, 335, 338, 346, 386, 408, 409, 423, 427, 433, 437, 440, 442, 444, 452, 454, 455, 479, 490, 498, 501, 505, 515, 523 see of 189 University of 290 Sforza, Francis 73 Shangchuan Island 118 Sharīʿah 130 shipbuilding 92 Shrove Tuesday 291 Sicily 72, 73, 91, 187, 387 Sieber, Harry 253, 255 Sierra Morena 517 siete deudos 271 Siglo de Luces 13 [s] de Oro 3, 7, 8, 354, 383, 407, 409 Sigüenza 190, 386 y Góngora, Carlos de 500, 501 silk 99

671 Siloé Diego 420 Gil de 427 Silva Feliciano de 401 y Toledo, Juan de 400 silver 93, 99, 512, 513, 514, 517, 519, 520, 521, 522, 524, 525, 526, 527 handbook 530 unminted 520, 521, 522, 524 Silver Age of Rome 318 Silvestre, Gregorio 257, 393 Simancas 69, 82 Simmel, Georg 513, 524 sisa 297, 298, 302, 310, 311 Sittow, Michel 418 Sixtus IV, Pope 128 slave 94, 95, 105, 132, 138, 139, 140, 267, 270, 290, 336 -ry 138 Sluhovsky, Moshe 19, 22 smallpox 156 Society of Jesus 118, 195 Socrates 328, 370, 371, 372 sodomy 152 La Soledad, confraternity of 184 Song of Songs 394 sonnet 389, 390, 391, 392 sophismata 365, 367 sorcery 200 Soria Mesa, Enrique 277 Soto de Rojas, Pedro 338, 339 soul 370, 371, 372, 373 Soult, Jean de Dieu, Marshal 437 South America 91, 93, 95, 101, 482 South China Sea 94 Spain 3, 4, 5, 8, 11, 12, 13, 15, 19, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 31, 32, 34, 35, 46, 47, 50, 54, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 84, 85, 89, 93, 97, 107, 118, 121, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 235, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 246, 247, 248, 249, 251, 256, 257, 282, 286, 289, 290, 292, 304, 308, 317, 320, 321, 325, 329, 330, 333, 334, 336, 337, 339, 340, 341, 342, 343, 344, 346, 347, 353, 354, 355, 356, 357, 365, 374, 375,

672 Spain (cont.) 379, 383, 384, 385, 386, 387, 389, 392, 394, 395, 396, 399, 400, 401, 402, 403, 406, 420, 407, 408, 409, 410, 412, 413, 414, 415, 418, 420, 422, 423, 424, 430, 431, 432, 433, 435, 439, 442, 444, 448, 450, 451, 457, 463, 464, 468, 469, 470, 473, 474, 475, 476, 477, 480, 482, 483, 484, 486, 487, 492, 493, 494, 496, 497, 498, 499, 500, 501, 502, 504, 505, 506, 507, 508, 509, 513, 514, 515, 522, 523, 524, 526, 527, 528, 529, 531, 532, 533, 534, 535, 536, 537, 538, 539, 540, 541, 542, 543, 544, 545, 546, 547, 548 Spanglish 1 Spaniard 143, 146, 148, 151, 153, 155, 156, 157, 376 Spanish 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 11, 14, 15, 19, 21, 22, 23, 25, 31, 32, 35, 37, 47, 50, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 81, 89, 90, 91, 92, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 110, 116, 117, 118, 143, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 156, 186, 187, 188, 195, 196, 199, 200, 201, 203, 237, 239, 242, 243, 244, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 256, 257, Spanish (cont.) 355, 356, 362, 365, 366, 369, 373, 374, 375, 376, 377, 378, 379, 380, 408, 409, 410, 411, 412, 413, 414, 415, 420, 427, 429, 430, 431, 435, 436, 442, 473, 474, 475, 477, 480, 486, 487, 489, 490, 493, 494, 495, 496, 497, 498, 499, 500, 502, 504, 505, 506, 507, 531, 532, 533, 534, 535, 536, 537, 538, 539, 540, 541, 542, 543, 544, 545, 546, 547, 548 America 77, 81, 82, 84, 95, 119, 423 -American War 534 -Anglo War 77 Armada 538 Catholicism 532, 542 Christian 104 Church 187, 188, 189, 263 Civil War 542 Crown 483, 506 East Indies 97 Emperor 376, 378 Golden Age 89, 449 Habsburgs 463 humanism 317, 319, 543 humanist 333

index Index of Prohibited Books 404, 475, 486 Indies 410 Inquisition 75, 199, 365, 486, 542 Jesuit 495, 496 Muslim 532 -ness 531 Netherlands 68, 91, 444 Renaissance 1, 21, 22, 32, 62, 158, 185, 247, 253, 327, 355, 356, 358, 362, 363, 366, 369, 379, 380, 406, 521, 542, 543, 544 spice 99 Spice Islands 490 Spínola, Eugenia Imbrea 526 spirituality 390 sprezzatura 248, 249, 250, 255 Sri Lanka 95 St John, feast of 197 St Peter, Basilica of 243 Stanihurst, Richard 487 Star Wars 8 Sterne, Laurence 384 Stoa 336 Stockholm Syndrome 10 Stoicism 336 Straits of Magellan 285 Stuart, Mary 77 studia humanitatis 386 Studnicki-Gizbert, Daviken 526 Suárez de Figueroa, Cristóbal 281 de Figueroa, Gómez 90 Francisco 21, 307, 356, 362, 363, 380 Subrahmanyam, Sanjay 12 Suetonius 334 Sully, Duke of 41 Sumiller de Corps 278 Sunnah 130 Supreme Pontiff 376 Swiss Cantons 64 syphilis 156, 182, 184 Syria 333 tabacano 290 tablilla 271 Tacca, Pietro 431 Tacitus 75, 337 Tagus River 70 taifa 33

index Talavera Arcipreste de 343, 386 Hernando de 54, 131, 341 tapada 285 taqiyyah 133 tarasque 175, 176 Tarragona 202 see of 187 Tasso, Bernie 390, 400 Tata 108 Tatius, Achilles 401 Tawantinsuyu 89 tax 81 telos 17 Tenochtitlan 97, 109, 113, 116 tentación del demonio 331 Tepehuanes 101 Tepepulco 113 Tepeyac 109 tequitqui 111 tercet 390 tercia real 53 tercio 76, 150 Terence 334 Teresa de Jesús, Santa 345, 350 of Ávila, Saint 19, 369, 380, 393 Terry-Roisin, Elizabeth Ashcroft 21, 146 tertulia 257, 505 testamento 344 Testera, Jacobo de 111 Texas 1, 27, 91 Texcoco 97, 109 Texeira, Pedro 278 Textor, Ravisius 335 theater 278, 281, 285, 286, 287 theology 358, 363, 369 Theseus 17 Thomas of Villanova, St 325 Thompson, A.A. 294 Tibaldi, Pellegrino 424 Tiepolo, Paolo 534 Tierra Firme 480 timber 99 Timbrio 326 Timoneda, Juan de 398, 405 Tirso de Molina 281, 284, 339, 384, 388, 459, 510, 517

673 Titian 430, 436, 457, 459, 461, 463, 464, 466, 467, 469, 470 título 236 Tlatelolco 112, 113, 502 tlatoque 105 Tlaxcala 83, 97 Tlemcen 139 tobacco 288, 289, 290, 291, 523 Toledo 42, 49, 50, 51, 55, 63, 71, 153, 156, 178, 179, 188, 190, 195, 202, 235, 244, 248, 299, 305, 320, 321, 323, 325, 341, 347, 348, 408, 413, 427, 474 Archbishop of 240, 241 Francisco de, Viceroy 116 Juan Bautista de 280 see of 187 tomín 522 Tordesillas 39 Treaty of 92, 480 tornaviaje 97 torno 181 Toro, Battle of 44 Toronto Iberic 14 Toros de Guisando, Pact of 44 Torrejón de Velasco 297, 298 Torres Naharro, Bartolomé de 199, 397, 398, 399, 406 Toulon 73 town 32, 40, 48, 49, 51, 52, 55, 56, 59 tragicomedia 383 transatlantic 90, 104 transcultural 90 transculturation 108, 116 Trastámara 31, 33, 35, 37, 38, 39, 41, 43, 45, 46, 55, 56, 57, 59, 64, 91, 256, 429 House of 57 Trecento 340 Trent, Council of 70, 71, 73, 76, 166, 186, 189, 196, 201, 317, 334, 424 Trincado, María de 269 Trinitarian monastery 281 trivium 318 tropa 136 Tudor 57 Mary 74, 75 Tunis 72, 139, 243 Tupiniquin 95 Turk 243

674 “The Two Spains,” 534, 545 typhus 156 umanisti 386 Unamuno, Miguel de 403 United Provinces 76, 77 United States 14, 535, 538, 545 universidad 299 Universidad Complutense 325 University of Toronto Press 14, 22 Uranus 455 Urban VIII, Pope 286 urban patriciate 32, 34 urbanism 106 Urbino 248, 252, 256, 420 Urdaneta, Andrés de 77, 97 Utah 91 utopia 105, 119, 136 -nism 105, 106, 107, 117 Utrecht, Union of 76 Vaca, Francisco 201 Valadés, Diego de 111, 112, 114, 115 Valdés Alfonso de 334, 406 Fernando de, Inquisitor General 189, 199 Index of 199 Juan de 242, 250, 322, 323, 335, 543 Valdón Baruque, Julio 127 Valencia 5, 6, 34, 35, 47, 54, 71, 131, 132, 133, 178, 202, 256, 257, 264, 270, 278, 338, 344, 365, 386, 389, 399, 408, 424, 437, 474, 475, 476, 477, 486, 487, 521 -n 476, 504 Kingdom of 34, 54, 71, 131, 132, 437 University of 476 Valera, Diego de 43 valido 280 Valladolid 63, 70, 75, 78, 107, 116, 150, 156, 174, 178, 235, 237, 243, 244, 280, 296, 299, 305, 306, 312, 348, 351, 352, 408, 420, 422, 427, 430, 442, 514 School of 203 University of 357, 540 Valle de Gordojuela 268 de la Cerda, Luis 512 Valois-Habsburg 74 Valverde de Hamusco, Juan 477

index Van den Wyngaerde, Anton 85 Van der Goes, Hugo 418 Van der Hamen, Juan 462, 463 Van der Weyden, Rogier 418 Van Deusen, Nancy 140 Van Eyck, Jan 418 Vasari, Giorgio 410, 411, 422, 450, 454, 455, 463, 470 vassal 188, 303, 307, 309, 310, 312, 313 -age 293, 295 Vassberg, David 146, 295 Vatican 450 Library 502 Vázquez, Alonso 423 vecindad 123, 294, 296, 309 vecino 293, 294, 296, 297, 298, 300, 301, 302, 307, 309, 311, 312 vejamen 339 Velasco family 33 Sherry 8 Velázquez, Diego 96, 281, 287, 407, 411, 412, 431, 432, 436, 440, 444, 449, 466, 467 Vélez de Guevara, Luis 281, 339 Velius, Kaspar Ursinus 451, 452 vellón 509, 524, 525, 526, 527 Venegas Alejo 539 clan 257 Venezuela 91, 95, 108 Venetian 436, 463, 466, 532, 534 Venice 73, 75, 94, 246, 256, 403, 463, 477 Venus Anadyomene 455, 457, 459, 461 Urania 455 Veracruz 97, 520 vertigo 285 Vesalian 477 Vesalius, Andreas 476, 477 Vicente, Gil 199, 397 viceroy 35, 36, 40, 46, 47, 239, 255, 256, 257 -alty 91, 104, 500 Vich, Juan de, Bishop 202 Victoria 377 La Victoria, convent of 180 Victoria 97

675

index Victoria, Tomás Luis de 204 Viedma, Antonio de 520 Vienna 452 University of 452 Vigarny, Felipe 420 vihuela 256 Vilches, Elvira 20, 21, 544 villa de señorío 56 Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz 96 Villalar 71 Villalba, Bartolomé de 406 Villalón, Cristóbal de 406, 516 Villamediana, Count of 281 Villancicos de diversos autores 395 Villanueva de la Jara 352, 353 Villaviciosa de Asturias 71 Villegas Alonso de 280 Pedro de 423 Villena, Marquis of 41, 42, 43, 50, 55 Virgen de la Cinta 167 del Buen Parto 167 Virgil 5, 8, 25, 321, 335, 401, 391, 396 Virgin 159, 184 Mary 117, 193, 194, 427 of Atocha 282 of Good Childbirth 167 of Guadalupe 109 of the Belt 167 of the Forsaken 437 of the Pillar 437 virtud 370 Virtue 22, 25 Visayan 97 Visigoth 121, 125, 321, 387, 420 visita 70 general 85 Vitoria, Francisco de 21, 374, 375, 376, 377, 378, 379, 380 Vitruvius 243, 245 Vivar y Mendoza, Rodrigo 238 Vives, Juan Luis 124, 149, 190, 323, 335, 342, 354, 356, 365, 366, 367, 368, 380, 451, 452, 453, 470 vocablo bárbaro 125 Voigt, Lisa 11 Vollendorf, Lisa 8 Volterra, Daniele da 422

Von Hohenheim, Theophrastus Bombastus Aureolus Philippus 485 voto 305 Wales, Prince of 282 Walker, Mack 300 Wallace, David 2, 10 Warren, Michelle 10, 24, 26 Wattasid 72 Weber Alison 14 David J. 531 Weimer, Christopher 459 Wellek, René 16, 384 Welser family 515 West Indies 139, 481, 496 Western Europe 386 wet nurse 159, 180, 182, 183, 184 ‘White Legend’ 534 will and testament 510 William of Ockham 357 of Orange 532 Williamsen, Amy 8 Willughby, Francis 477, 537 witch 200, 201 -craft 195, 200, 201 Wölfflin, Heinrich 15, 16 wool 144, 513, 525 Wright, Elizabeth R. 282 Württemberg, Duke of 485 Wyoming 91 xaraçunna 130 Xavier, Francis, Saint 118, 119, 196 Xenophon 335, 401 Xocoyotzin, Motecuhzoma 96 Yáñez de la Almedina, Fernando 419 Yarowilca 101 yellow bile 157 yerba mate 521 Ynduráin, Domingo 543 Zabaleta, Juan de 290, 292 Zacatecas 93 Zafra, Hernando de 50 Zamora 305 town council of 308

676 Zapata, Diego Mateo 505 Zaragoza 153, 163, 188, 202, 235, 386, 437 Zayas, María de 345, 511

index Zephyrus 462 Zumárraga, Juan de 117 Zúñiga, Diego de 475 Zurbarán, Francisco de 287