The Laughter of the Saints: Parodies of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Spain 9781442697546

Table of contents :
Contents
Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints
1. Christ and His Cross
2. Holy Men in the Wilderness
3. Virgins and Harlots
4. Picaresque Saints
5. Rivalries and Reconciliations
Conclusion: Sanctity and Humanity
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Laughter of the Saints: Parodies of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Spain

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Ryan D. Giles

The Laughter of the Saints Parodies of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Spain

University of Toronto Press Toronto  Buffalo  London

© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2009 Toronto  Buffalo  London www.utppublishing.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-0-8020-9952-5 (cloth)

Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Giles, Ryan D. The laughter of the saints: parodies of holiness in late Medieval and Renaissance Spain / Ryan D. Giles. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-8020-9952-5 1. Christian saints in literature.  2. Spanish fiction – To 1500 – History and criticism.  3. Spanish fiction – Classical period, 1500–1700 – History and criticism.  4. Antiheroes in literature.  5. Satire, Spanish – History and criticism. I. Title. PQ6140.R4G54 2009   863'.2093528282  C2009-901622-2

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

To my family

El santo eres tú, honrado payaso … que te paguen riendo los ángeles a los que haces reír en el cielo de contento. Miguel de Unamuno, San Manuel el bueno, mártir

Contents

List of Illustrations  ix Acknowledgments  xi Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints  3 1 Christ and His Cross  15 2 Holy Men in the Wilderness  33 3 Virgins and Harlots  52 4  Picaresque Saints  73 5 Rivalries and Reconciliations  93 Conclusion:  Sanctity and Humanity  114 Notes  119 Bibliography  157 Index  185 Illustrations follow p. 100

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Illustrations

1 Job on dung heap, French illuminated hours, M.12, fol. 60r., c. 1500. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. 2 López de Ayala and son kneeling before St Blaise, detail from Spanish Altarpiece (1928.817), late fourteenth century. The Art Institute of Chicago. 3 St Helen holding the True Cross, detail from Spanish prayer book, M.G46, c. 1500. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. 4 Mary Magdalene embracing the Cross, detail of the 1551 edition of Ambrosio de Montesino’s Vita Christi Cartuxano. Courtesy Benedictine College Library, Atchison, Kansas. 5 Hilarion of Gaza in the wilderness. San Marco Church, Venice, Italy. Courtesy Art Resource, New York. 6 St Hilarion tempted by wolves and women, translation of the Speculum historiale, M.51, fol. 137v. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris. 7 St Quiteria with book and rabid canines on a chain. St Quiteria Church, Higueruela, Spain. Courtesy Antonio Mínguez Carrión. 8 The Magdalene anointing the feet of Jesus, Hours of Carlos V, M.696, fol. 86r. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. 9 St Martha with the dragon Tarasque, French illuminated hours, M.348, fol. 264r. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. 10 John the Baptist in camel skins, Hours of Infante Don Alonso of Castile, M.865, fol. 20v. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. 11 El Greco, St Anthony of Padua. Museo del Prado, Madrid. Courtesy Act Resource, New York. 12  Brueghel the Elder, The Feast of St Martin, fragment of larger painting. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria. Courtesy Art Resource, New York.

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Acknowledgments

Earlier versions of parts of the first two chapters of this book appeared as journal articles: ‘“Día de Sant Meder”: Off on the Wrong Foot in the Sierra,’ La corónica 33.1 (2004): 165–79; and ‘“Tomé senda por carrera”: Finding and Losing the Cross in the Libro de buen amor,’ La corónica 36.2 (2008): 151–69. I would like to thank George Greenia and Sol MiguelPrendes for their editorial guidance, and for permission to reprint revised versions of this material. Thanks also to Suzanne Rancourt, and the anonymous readers who reviewed my manuscript for the University of Toronto Press and offered their expert suggestions. I remain indebted to a number of mentors, colleagues, and friends who provided invaluable encouragement and insights in different stages of this project – in particular, my dissertation director Frank A. Domínguez, E. Michael Gerli, Lucia Binotti, Marsha S. Collins, Edward D. Montgomery, Frederick A. de Armas, David Nirenberg, Xiomara Campilongo, Kevin Hunt, and Timothy Receveur. I am especially appreciative of my students at the University of Chicago, with whom I had the privilege of rehearsing and rethinking many of these ideas over the past four years, and thankful for the support of Martha Roth and the Division of the Humanities. Thanks also to those who read drafts of my final chapter at the 2005 Chicago ‘Think Tank,’ hosted by Lisa Voigt, and to my inspirational cohorts at the National Endowment of the Humanities Seminar on the ‘Libro de buen amor in Cultural Context’ held at the University of Virginia in the summer of 2003. Finally, I am most grateful to my wife, Claudia, for supporting me in so many ways during the process of completing this study.

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The Laughter of the Saints

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Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints

At the close of the fourteenth century, Pero López de Ayala retired as Chancellor of Castile and dedicated the last years of his life to reading and glossing Gregory the Great’s commentary on the struggle and triumph of Job.1 Like St Gregory, López de Ayala saw Job as a model of Christian perseverance in the face of great tribulation. God had allowed His servant to be stripped of all possessions and afflicted with boils, running sores, and worms. Mocked by his wife and reproached by friends, Job cursed the day he was born. He never lost faith, however, and was in the end joyously redeemed: ‘sanctorum risus post luctum. Jubilum’ (the laughter of the saints after the sorrow. A wild shout of joy) (Moralia in Job 8.52).2 Job’s mirth could be understood in different ways during the Middle Ages. Did he laugh strictly as a way of celebrating his liberation from the material world, in keeping with St Gregory’s commentary, or might he also have been making light of his grotesque predicament? The latter interpretation can be seen in visual images that transform Job’s friends into festive minstrels and jesters who entertain or jeer at the patron saint of ‘sexual reprobates’ as he sits naked on a dung pile, scratching at his lesions (Terrien 107). In some cases, Job appears to be amused by these performers, and even hands them coins, while grinning, singing, or whistling to the music (fig. 1). This tradition sheds light on what López de Ayala might have had in mind when he associates false Christians with Job’s friends in the conclusion to the Rimado de palacio (Palace Rhymes, c. 1385–1403).3 In the first part of this poem, the Chancellor accuses religious hypocrites of turning true devotion to God and His saints into a travesty: ‘juran a Dios falsamente, esto de cada día;/mal pasan allí los santos e aun Santa María’

4  The Laughter of the Saints

(they swear false oaths to God every day;/from there they mock the saints and even Holy Mary) (305ab). Even worse are priests who cynically lead their flocks astray by eroticizing the celebration of mass: ‘quando él canta la misa, ella le da el oblada,/e así anda, mal pecado, tal orden vellacada’ (when he sings the mass, she gives him an ‘offering’/such are the evil sins of this order of scoundrels) (228c). They corrupt the liturgy by dragging the Word of God down to the level of the world and its sinners. In this way, Gregorian sanctorum risus is implicitly contrasted with the kind of sacrilegious merriment that López de Ayala saw as a blight on late medieval society. The Chancellor died not long after completing the Rimado de palacio, and he was entombed beneath an altarpiece depicting the life of Christ, along with portraits of the Ayala family. In one of the panels of this altarpiece, the Chancellor and his son are shown kneeling before St Blaise, a fourth-century bishop, patron of sheep shearers, and one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers invoked against the Black Death (fig. 2). The full meaning of the panel remains unclear: is Blaise being called on to protect the family’s stake in the wool trade, to spare them from the plague, or does he have some as of yet undiscovered connection to the clan?4 Whatever the case, it is no small irony that the pious Chancellor, in his last known portrait, venerates a saint whose popular cult epitomized the kind of Saturnalian religiosity that he so bitterly condemns in his Rimado de palacio, and which will concern me over the course of this study. For at the same time López de Ayala was glossing the Moralia in anticipation of the eternal joys of heaven, other writers were interpreting the ‘laughter of the saints’ as a profane, transient form of merrymaking, analogous to the hilarity of Job being entertained on his pile of dung. In medieval and early modern Spain, the feast of St Blaise was marked by rituals of transgression and violence that more broadly characterized the entire month of February, and that culminated during the week of carnival. Men were known to disguise themselves as horned beasts on 3 February and run wildly through the streets in preparation for an animal sacrifice that was attended by lords of misrule and dancing devils.5 Such practices seem to have been vaguely associated with the hagiographic persona of Blaise, as a healer of livestock whose persecutors had torn off his flesh with wool combs. This and other winter feasts built up to the ‘madness’ of carnival, a time when mock kings were crowned and paraded through the streets before being mocked and violently dethroned. On Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras), Spanish celebrants customarily brought the holiday to a close by thrashing and

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints  5

burning a straw man who personified carnality and overindulgence, and who was known in the Middle Ages as ‘Sant Antruejo … una especie de santo al revés’ (St Carnival … a kind of saint in reverse) (Caro Baroja, El carnaval 111–13).6 The martyrdom of this figure, like the sacrificial feast of St Blaise, shows how medieval culture could view saints and their holiness as potentially ‘carnivalesque.’ Mikhail Bakhtin first used this term as a way of describing the popular subversion of holiness that characterized carnival. In Rabelais and His World, the Russian theorist contrasts what he sees as the emancipating laughter of the marketplace with the severity and intolerance of the Church (an institution that he appears to have associated with his experience of living under the Stalinist dictatorship). Bakhtin describes a sort of proletariat humour that remained outside official spheres, free from the hypocrisy and repressive violence that characterized medieval piety. During feasts, the people rose up to temporarily overthrow religious authority, dragging the sacred down to the level of food, digestion, and sex. Bakhtin cites as evidence for his theory the popularity of oaths that make light of Christ and the saints. By verbally desecrating holy names, the masses could in his view symbolically free themselves from the gloom and doom of the pulpit. While Bakhtin’s insight into the festive underpinnings of literary discourse has influenced generations of scholars, his idealized view of folk culture has been shown to be misleading.7 Critics have pointed out that ritual laughter and merriment were not only used to liberate, but also to silence, oppress, and victimize, as can be seen in the stories of Christian martyrs being humiliated by their tormentors. This type of terroristic humour creates a public spectacle in order to censure and punish nonconformists by turning them into laughing stocks. It formed an essential part of popular rituals like the charivari or Spanish ‘cencerrada’ (ringing of cowbells), in which mobs gathered to cruelly serenade odd couples with noisemakers.8 During carnival, celebrants often provoked laughter by torturing animals or viciously caricaturing unruly women and cuckolds. Roving bands of youths armed with staves and inflated bladders were allowed to menace those whom they deemed worthy of reproval. On feast days throughout the year, lords of misrule presided over all manner of cruel entertainments only to be themselves abused and overthrown by their jeering subjects.9 Such traditions can be best understood not simply as subversions of authority, but as sanctioned forms of transgression that set out to break the rules, or expose their arbitrary nature, presumably as a prelude to restoring or reinforcing order. In this sense, the Fat Tuesday

6  The Laughter of the Saints

custom of travestying a ‘saint in reverse’ could be understood as clearing the way for real devotion, just as debauchery on the feast of St Blaise could be seen as ushering in the self-sacrifice of Lent. While Bakhtin was right to characterize medieval holidays as dual expressions of solemnity and laughter, his tendency to interpret the ‘official’ and the ‘popular’ side of feasts as conflictive and contradictory cannot be sustained by the evidence.10 In a recent study of festive literature in medieval Spain, James F. Burke has shown that ‘the official was willing to tolerate, and probably even expected within the confines of the same construct, the negative example as well as the positive one’ (Desire 12). Throughout the liturgical year, with its cycle of carnivalesque and Lenten seasons, representatives of the Spanish Church permitted and sometimes participated in irreverent celebrations. During the Yuletide holiday, choristers and sacristans were allowed to disrupt the solemnity of the liturgy and elect mock bishops known as obispillos. Ironically, this ludicrous uprising was seen as reenacting the words of the Magnificat, a biblical precept signalling the new kingship of Christ: ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble’ (Luke 1.52).11 Every year, they comically violated the sanctity of the Church as a way of celebrating the overthrow of Herod and the restoration of God’s Word, comparable to the dethronement of Lord Carnival and other seasonal misrulers. An expression of the spirit of riotous occasions like the festum stultorum (feast of fools) can be found in the writing of scurrilous works known as parodia sacra. In recent years, Martha Bayless has shown that these texts were frequently composed by ‘members of the ecclesiastical establishment,’ and not just groups of itinerant scholars thumbing their noses at authority (179–80). Her study brings to light a widespread corpus of mock sermons, drinkers’ and gamblers’ masses, money gospels, as well as hagiographies of Nemo (‘Nobody’), Invicem (‘One Another’), and other mock saints whose names were coined from deliberate misreadings of the Bible. Among the most significant of these texts is La Garcineida (García’s Treatise, 1099), a satire about the translation of relics from Toledo to Rome during a time in the Reconquest when the Roman liturgy was being imposed on the Spanish clergy by foreign bishops.12 In this treatise, the Pope receives the remains of the facetious saints Albinus and Ruphinus, or ‘Silver’ and ‘Gold,’ including their buttocks and all of their ‘members’ (26–7). After depositing them in the chamber of ‘St Cupidity,’ he preaches at length on the pleasures of the flesh. His sermon anticipates later sermons joyeux and French farces that will take this kind of joke a step further by spe­cifically

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints  7

alluding to male and female genitalia as saints and relics, in keeping with the tradition of phallic advocates like St Foutin or ‘Little Fucker’ (30–1).13 The Pope’s sacrilegious homily in La Garcineida shows the humorous link between sanctity and carnality that characterized not only popular celebrations like carnival or the liberties of December, but also the cultivation of Latin satire in the Middle Ages. This goliardic tradition of mixing the sacred and the profane was adapted by vernacular writers in thirteenth-century Spain. For example, the anonymous Razón de amor (Love’s Reason, c. 1205) features a dispute between water and wine that symbolizes the commixture of ingredients in the Eucharistic blood of Christ, while simultaneously alluding to the coupling of a priest with his mistress, bringing to mind López de Ayala’s accusation, ‘when he sings the mass, she gives him an “offering”’ (288c). As Francisco Rico has shown, the impulse to bring the Word of God down to the level of human experience (and vice versa) can also be detected in manuscripts transcribed by students at the University of Palencia, whose monorhyming quartets would form the basis for the mester de clerecía or ‘poetic form of the clergy’ (‘La clerecía’).14 These writers describe themselves as ‘serpents’ consigned to the earth, writing in a vulgar tongue, and simultaneously as ‘doves’ reaching upward to the divine Word (7). They see the effort to translate and adapt Latin poetic forms as both a worldly and a spiritual vocation.15 Such a duality can be clearly seen in the work of the mester de clerecía poet Gonzalo de Berceo, a secular priest who lived in Rioja, near the pilgrimage route to the shrine of St James the Greater at Compostela. His Milagros de Nuestra Señora (Miracles of Our Lady, c. 1240–60) portrays a cast of foolish clerics who are miraculously redeemed through their unwavering devotion to Mary. Time and again, the Virgin intervenes on behalf of her feckless devotees, punishing those who would wrongly condemn them. In one miracle, she even comes to rescue when the Devil falsely impersonates St James and convinces an unchaste pilgrim to castrate himself (sts. 182– 219). This pattern can be related to the call of the Magnificat to bring down the mighty and empower the humble, and creates what Burke has aptly described as a ‘carnivalization of rhetorical configurations’ (Desire 123). It also reflects the largely ineffectual efforts undertaken to bring about a sweeping reform of the Spanish priesthood following the 1215 Lateran Council. In a way that is at once devout and light-hearted, the Milagros explores problems with clerical discipline, such as the lack of formal training and sexual incontinence, that were especially acute in the frontier environment of the Peninsula (Sánchez Jiménez).

8  The Laughter of the Saints

The mirth of sinners and saints can also be seen in Berceo’s portrayals of martyrdom. His Duelo de la Virgen (Sorrows of the Virgin), for example, describes Christ’s tormentors as disorderly youths who amuse themselves by challenging the blindfolded King of the Jews to guess which one of them is thrashing Him: ‘essa gent’ renegada/vendávanli los ojos, que non vidiese nada;/dávanli los garzones quisque su pescuzada,/dizién: ‘adruna, Christo, quí te dio la colpada’ (this renegade band covered His eyes so that He could see nothing; then the youths beat Him about the shoulders, saying ‘guess, Christ, who just struck you’) (st. 42).16 Games of blindfolding and buffeting were a common feature of Shrovetide and other medieval feasts, as was the kind of grotesque jesting that Berceo employs in the Martirio de San Lorenzo (Martyrdom of St Lawrence). As the saint roasts on a gridiron, he invites his torturers to flip him over and season his flesh, ‘tornar del otro cabo,/buscat buena pevrada, ca assaz so assado,/pensat de almorzar’ (turn me over,/look for a good pepper sauce, for I am cooked on this side, and it’s time for supper)’ (st. 104). In such hagiographic texts, humour ostensibly serves to praise martyrs for transcending the material world, and to condemn those who take delight in the fallen realm of the flesh. Berceo’s audience is expected to discern the true laughter of the saints from the heckling of sinners – to save their souls by emulating the former and rejecting the latter. This sort of moral discernment becomes much more difficult in the Libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love), considered to be the greatest achievement of the mester de clerecía. The most complete manuscript of this text, dated 1343, was read by generations of medieval students at the University of Salamanca.17 The first-person narrator is identified as Juan Ruiz, a sinful archpriest of Hita who was jailed by Bishop Gil de Albornoz.18 The book includes a comical song about the lamentations of the Spanish clergy, who, having been forced by Albornoz to give up their concubines, compare themselves to suffering courtly lovers (sts. 1690–709).19 Early in his poem, the narrator apologizes for what is to follow by citing a tagphrase from one of the most popular schoolbooks of the day, the Catonis Disticha (Distichs of Cato), ‘interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis’ (occasionally intersperse your cares with joys) (Taylor 59). His subsequent instruction to readers typifies the self-conscious mixing of prayer and joke-telling that will characterize the Archpriest’s Libro as a whole, and that is also representative of the kind of literary intermingling of humour and saintliness that will form the subject of this book:20 Palabra es del sabio e dízele Catón, que omne a sus coidados, que tiene en coraçon,

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints  9 entreponga plazeres e alegre razón … E porque de buen seso non puede omne reir, avré algunas burlas aquí a enxerir; cada que las oyeres, non quieras comedir … Entiende bien mis dichos e piensa la sentencia.

(sts. 44–5)

(The saying of wise Cato tells us that a man should lighten the burdens in his heart with pleasures and cheerful words … And because man should not laugh at what is right-headed, I will have to include some jests. Whoever hears them, do not criticize … Carefully interpret what I say and ponder its meaning.)

One of the longest, most celebrated sections of the Libro is dedicated to the overthrow of Lord Carnival on Fat Tuesday. Abandoned by his vassals, and severely wounded, the misruler succumbs to a mob of Lenten sea creatures, only to be triumphantly restored on Easter (sts. 1104–21).21 His ordeal, in this way, fictionalizes the tradition of sacrificing effigies like St Antruejo that represented the excess of the season and its inversion of authority. The same revellers who venerated the holy sinner at the onset of the holiday condemn him on the eve of Lent, in a reversal of the hagiographic sequence in which innocent ‘lambs of God’ were persecuted in life, martyred, and canonized after death. The meaning of holiness is similarly parodied through the invocation of real, canonical saints in the Libro de buen amor. For example, the Archpriest calls an angry mountain woman ‘Gadea’ or Agatha in reference to the saint whose bosoms were legendarily severed by her tormentors (st. 987c). From start to finish, the Libro intertwines images of sanctity and carnality in ways that deeply influence later satirists, and will serve as a touchstone for this study.22 Its narrator on more than one occasion challenges his audience to avoid the pitfalls of misinterpretation by looking to the hereafter and not the here-and-now – to find a way to laugh with the saints, and not at them.23 His frontier mentality is unmistakable, as the travelling Archpriest displays a knowledge of Moorish musical instruments, as well as Jewish customs, and repeatedly makes light of the notorious worldliness of the clergy in fourteenth-century Castile. Readers of medieval hagiography may have been challenged in much the same way as the Libro’s audience. Critics have increasingly called into question the premise that these legends were used strictly as a template for holiness, and a pious model for the real lives of devotees.24 Although hagiographers typically begin with an expression of their didactic purpose, the narrative that follows often reveals a preoccupation with what

10  The Laughter of the Saints

Bakhtin called the ‘material body sphere’ – a fallen world of grotesque and pornographic excess in which the eyes of martyrs are plucked, their limbs severed, and their heads decapitated; in which virgins are stripped, forced into bordellos, sexually assaulted by crowds, and chopped to pieces; and hermits are devastated by cravings of the flesh, molested dayand-night by demons taking the form of men, women, or beasts.25 These stories became ‘best-sellers’ in late medieval Europe in part because they seduced audiences, whether purposefully or inadvertently, with lurid ­descriptions of temptation, torture, and the sordid past of reformed sinners like St Mary of Egypt, whose legend was a favourite in fourteenthcentury Spain. It was, after all, the weakness of the flesh that enabled the average Christian to identify with saints – the immediacy of their humanity and mortality, experienced through the veneration of relics and icons, and the commemoration of their lives on feast days. While the Church controlled the official meaning of saints, their popular image was accessible to any Christian, and therefore subject to comic reinterpretation. The historian Johan Huizinga was one of the first to consider how swearing and cursing could have provided a means of ‘draining the overflow of religious effusion’ that he associated with the late medieval culture (168). Chaucerians have since carried out a further study of literary oaths, finding that they often work as symbols, and not solely as a form of comic relief (Haskell). More recently, Jan Ziolkowski has sought to categorize allusions to saints in medieval satire. His examples include puns on the sound of holy names and ironic references to patronage, hagiography, or popular lore. They provide a useful overview of how oaths and invocations are used in Latin texts, and enter into English, French, and German poetry, flourishing in the fourteenth century (no Spanish works are mentioned). Ziolkowski concludes by suggesting that ‘an invocation of a saint was to popular, oral culture what a quotation was to learned, written culture’ (192). He seems to have come to this conclusion by separating hagiography from the knowledge of saints that was available to the illiterate masses – knowledge that could have been derived from visual art, sermons, cultic practice, and miracle plays. Such a distinction was less likely to be observed in medieval and Renaissance Europe, where street performers were commonly paid to recite the lives of saints.26 By separating textual invocation from other kinds of quotation, modern critics have tended to overlook the give-andtake relationship between written and oral traditions that produced and continuously re-elaborated the literary profile of saints in past centuries. It can also be observed that humorous invocations – apart from calling upon saints and other divine beings in a sinful context – function as

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints���   11

‘performative’ utterances insofar as they were believed to make things happen in and of themselves. For example, at the moment the narrator of the Libro de buen amor voices the words ‘¡que Sant Illán la confunda!’ (may St Julian confound her!) his curse begins to become real in the same way that in the famous example given by J.L. Austin, the statement ‘I do’ serves to create the reality of marriage (6–7). The validity of the Archpriest of Hita’s performance is based on its meaningful placement or felicity within the context of the Libro, as well as its implicit reliance on a long precedent of oaths being retold and re-elaborated in a series of distinct, but interrelated, settings. It is this kind of citation that calls a holy person into being through the tropes of metaphor and metonymy: a woman who, for example, is about to enter a convent might metaphorically call on Agatha to preserve her virginity; whereas a supplicant who has trouble nursing could metonymically access the same saint with an ex-voto in the form of a breast.27 The Archpriest repeatedly employs such performative language, but in doing so he establishes a parodic as opposed to a strictly devotional link between the worldly and the divine. More specifically, for the purposes of literary analysis, a saint’s image can be said to draw on four aspects of the collaborative relationship between oral and written traditions: names, lives, attributes, and cultic practices. In hagiographic collections, the etymology of names is often presented as symbolic of the saints’ identity so that, for instance, the name Lucy refers to divine ‘light.’ In satirical works, however, sacred words are used ironically, or subject to forms of paronomasia and double entendre that may have little to do with a saint’s life, as in the case of Boniface, known to cure ‘facial’ ailments; or the identification of Agatha as the ‘cat saint.’28 Humorous attributes, on the other hand, are primarily derived from hagiography, as when the Archpriest calls on the patricidal innkeeper, St Julian, to intercede in his calamitous pilgrimage through the mountains (963b).29 Similarly, cultic practices often correspond in some way with events in the lives of saints. For example, the Archpriest is assaulted by a ‘Gadea’ because on the feast day of St Agatha women in the region of Salamanca were permitted to dominate and ritually abuse men, as if taking vengeance for the severing of the martyr’s breasts (Libro 987c).30 Practices can also refer to seasonal traditions, like the rogation of St Mark’s Day, a ceremony to protect future harvests that sets the stage for the Archpriest’s later seduction of a nun due to its association with sexual arousal and cuckoldry (Libro 1321ab).31 One way or another, such invocations create humour through antithesis by recasting sanctity as a counter-example.

12  The Laughter of the Saints

The result is a kind of parody that brings together discursive registers that have often been viewed as incompatible or conflictive.32 The first of these can be described as learned and clerical, in the sense that it represents the worldly sphere through the sacred word, in the Latin tradition of scholars and other members of the elite who cultivated parodia sacra during the Middle Ages and beyond. It renegotiates the meaning of saints through ecclesiastical practices, texts, and institutions – through the sort of scholarly joke-telling associated with the clergy. Another register at work in the Libro de buen amor and later texts can be understood as popular or folkloric insofar as it closely reflects the vernacular, euphemistic language heard in the streets and plazas of medieval and early modern Spain. This sort of humour draws on imagery and innuendo from folk songs, proverbs, extraliturgical rituals, legends, and superstitions. Learned and popular registers continuously fed off one another from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century – a period marked by the gradual transformation of medieval Castile from a frontier region to a hegemonic power on the Iberian Peninsula. I do not in any way mean to suggest the prior existence of two distinct literary cultures, one intellectually superior to the other, but rather to observe that what can be theoretically differentiated as elite and non-elite approaches to sanctity were in reality interconnected and complementary in the production of satirical works in late medieval and Renaissance Spain.33 The mutual refashioning and cannibalization of ‘high’ and ‘low’ modes of expression is evident not only in the comic invocation of saints, but also in the development of early Spanish satire as a whole. On the one hand, the Archpriest of Hita never ceases to find humour in the ideological cogs and wheels of Latin culture, to include everything from theology to canon law, from liturgical and pastoral obligations to the sacramental ministry. On the other hand, his book serves to vernacularize this lofty subject matter with an array of folktales, dirty jokes, blind man’s songs, and bawdy lyrics composed expressly for street entertainment. Of course, such a discursive overlap reflects not only the worldliness or permissive mentality of the frontier clergy, but also the broader tradition of clerical writers frequenting taverns, gambling halls, and brothels – familiarizing themselves with the back alleys as well as the cloisters of medieval Europe.34 Yet there has been a tendency to downplay whatever influence such complicity or collaboration might have had on Spanish literature, and to continue to dichotomize the ‘dismal sacred word’ and the ‘cheerful folk word’ (Bakhtin, The Dialogic 77–8).35

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints���   13

The chapters that follow will examine how Spanish writers beginning with the Archpriest of Hita combine learned and popular registers to recast canonical saints as what can be called ‘anti-saints’ – that is to say, characters who serve as both a counterfeit imitation and a contradiction of sanctity. The term ‘anti-saint’ was first used by modern scholars in the context of legends featuring a double who falsely mimics a bona fide holy man or woman, in keeping with the contrast between the divine miracles of St Peter and the demonic magic of Simon Magus, or the Antichrist’s apocalyptic impersonation of Christ.36 My use of the term refers to the exploitation of this opposition – to a festive overlapping of the saint with his antitype that brings together images of piety and impiety, virtue and vice. As in the case of facetious intercessors like Albinus and Ruphinus, the comic personae of saints first appear in secular Latin literature.37 A striking example can be found in the mock epic known as Ysengrimus (1148), when a peasant woman about to chop off a wolf-bishop’s head comically invokes ‘Pharaildis’ (Mann 2.59–71).38 The poet associates this figure with a dancer called ‘Herodias,’ the name used not only for Herod’s aged wife, but also in reference to his infamous stepdaughter, Salome, who was popularly believed to have fallen in love with John the Baptist (Mann 2.73–100). In a long digression, the Ysengrimus then describes how the girl asked for John’s decapitation only after being spurned. Later, when Pharaildis – in the paronomastic guise of young Herodias – tries to kiss the Baptist’s severed head, he blows her into the air to float through the sky, taking the form of a nymph seen perching on trees at night (Mann 2.91).39 The humorous possibilities of Pharaildis are apparent not only in this spurious legend, but also in her authorized hagiography, where the saint is presented as a virginal wife who refuses to sleep with her husband, and instead drives him into a jealous rage by leaving the house every night to go pray at a monastery. Some scholars believe that the Ysengrimus’s retelling of the life of Pharaildis also plays on the word ‘Verelde,’ a kind of flying witch in Germanic folklore (Mann). In short, every aspect of her cult is subject to parody and carnivalization, including the sound of her name, attributes real and imagined, as well as the details of her life. Whereas the passion of the virgin Pharaildis is about overcoming temptations, the dancer Pharaildis experiences martyrdom as carnal desire. Such a reimagining of holiness was instrumental in the development of early Spanish literature. In the Libro de buen amor and later texts,

14  The Laughter of the Saints

punning creates a verbal meeting place for both authorized and apocryphal connotations of saints in medieval and Renaissance culture. Worldly laughter works in conjunction with spiritual sanctorum risus, demonstrating the validity of René Girard’s observation that doubles ‘occupy the equivocal middle ground between difference and unity’ (161). This sort of festive hybridization can be conceptualized as an extension of Carnival’s mock impersonation of Christ and violent overthrow on Fat Tuesday – a temporary violation that, at least theoretically, serves to reaffirm the order of God in the same way that antithesis can stress the validity of a thesis. The medieval tradition of parodying saints allows for a discursive commingling of levity and piety that will later feed into early modern expressions of spiritual disillusionment and mixed feelings. My objective in this study is to trace the development of saints as imbedded counter-examples in Spanish literature written from the fourteenth to the early seventeenth century. I begin by examining parodies of Christ, the ‘King of Saints,’ and His Cross as symbols of impotence in the Libro de buen amor and the anonymous Carajicomedia (Prick Comedy, c. 1512). Subsequent chapters consider invocations in the Libro, the Carajicomedia, and Fernando de Rojas’s Celestina (1499) that subject male saints to a kind of conversion in reverse, and portray female holiness through overlapping frames of sin and sanctity. The second part of this study is concerned with the novelistic function of parodic saints in Francisco Delicado’s Retrato de la Lozana andaluza (Portrait of the Lusty Andalusian Woman, 1528), the anonymous Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes y de sus fortunas y adversidades (The Life of Lazarillo de Tormes and of His Good Fortune and Adversities, 1554), Mateo Aleman’s Aventuras y vida de Guzmán de Alfarache (Adventures and Life of Guzmán de Alfarache, 1599, 1604), and finally the masterpiece by Miguel de Cervantes, El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha (The Renowned Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha 1605, 1615). Anti-heroic characters in each of these modernizing works model themselves after the festive personae of holy men and women. They humorously act out transgressions through the rhetorical parameters of sainthood, putting on performances that are ritualistic, dramatic, and gendered. This tradition has serious implications for the course of literature in Spain (and elsewhere in Europe), for just as the exemplarity of saints influenced portrayals of epic and chivalric heroism during the Middle Ages, their burlesque alter egos provided a model for medieval anti-heroes and the pícaros of the early novel.40 Like Job sitting on his dung pile, these conflicted characters were capable of seeing themselves as both the jester and the butt of the joke.

1 Christ and His Cross

In the second half of the tenth century, Adso of Montier-en-Der wrote a letter to the Frankish queen concerning the life of the Antichrist. Adso was known as a hagiographer and so quite naturally employed this genre in his biography of Christ’s double.1 The resulting portrait of the Antichrist became enormously popular during the succeeding centuries, and survives in nearly two hundred manuscripts, some of which also contain the Lives of the Church Fathers – for during the Middle Ages the Antichrist was considered ‘the great anti-saint who parodies Christ’ (Emmerson, ‘Antichrist’ 190). As mentioned earlier, this parody resulted in a simultaneous imitation of and opposition to holiness, the characterization of what Adso describes as a ‘son of perdition’ who sinfully mirrors the birth, life, and death of the Son of God and the King of Saints:2 Just as the Holy Spirit came into the mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ and overshadowed her with His power and filled her with divinity … so too the Devil will descend into the Antichrist’s mother, completely fill her, completely encompass her, completely master her, completely possess her within and without … The Antichrist will circumcise himself and pretend to be the Son of Almighty God … He will come to Jerusalem and … be killed on the Mount of Olives … in the place opposite to where the Lord ascended to heaven. (‘Letter’ 90–1, 94, 96)3

The Antichrist not only imitates but also performs the role of his rival, not unlike an actor on a stage. In late medieval Europe, he was sometimes portrayed as a comic figure in stage productions such as The Coming of Antichrist from the Chester Cycle (Mills). Iconography from the period frequently identifies Simon Magus, the archetypal anti-saint,

16  The Laughter of the Saints

as a prefigurement of the Antichrist. Illuminated psalters shed light on how dramatists from the period might have visualized this archetype of counterfeit holiness as an object of ridicule, in fulfilment of the words of Psalm 52, ‘dixit stultus in corde suo non est Deus’ (the fool said in his heart: there is no God) (Ps. 52.1).4 He was viewed by medievals as emblematic of human folly, and in this sense: ‘Anyone, layman, cleric, or monk, who lives contrary to justice … and blasphemes what is good is an antichrist’ (‘Letter’ 90). Such individuals oppose the Saviour not only through their iniquitous actions, but also their profanation of the Word. More common than festive representations of the Antichrist, however, were scenes from Nativity, Passion, and Easter plays that translate aspects of the life of Christ into farce. For example, foolish characters in Christmas pageants sometimes call into question the chastity of Mary and Joseph. At least some spectators would have caught themselves laughing with these sinners, before deriding and rejecting them as negative exemplars. In Spain, Yuletide shepherds were known to entertain audiences with stories about how their rustic wives tricked, cuckolded, or otherwise humiliated them, in their obscene, vernacular response to the antiphon, ‘Quem viditis pastores, dicite?’ (Tell us, shepherds, what did you see?).5 Such uncouth performances made light of ‘Joseph’s Doubt,’ a popular theme in Nativity plays like Diego Gómez Manrique’s fifteenth-century Representación, ‘¡O viejo desventurado!/negra dicha fue la mía/en casarme con María/ por quien fuesse desonrado. Yo la veo bien preñada’ (‘Oh, poor old man! what horrible luck I had in marrying Mary, who would dishonour me. I see her so pregnant) (vv. 1–5). In France, the solemn subject of Christ’s martyrdom was disrupted by moments of comic relief in mysteries written from the fourteenth to the early sixteenth century: in the Passion du Palatinus, the crucified Lord is accused of thievery and womanizing; in the Passion de Semur, a guard defecates in His tomb; and in a number of plays, in keeping with Berceo’s Duelo de la Virgen, soldiers laugh heartily at Christ after dressing Him up like a fool (vv. 945–6; vv. 8975–6).6 Plays in German and Czech studied by Jarmila F. Veltruský parody the words of the risen Christ to Mary Magdalene, when she mistook Him for a gardener: ‘Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?’ (John 20.15).7 The actor playing the gardener defames the Magdalene as a loose woman, jokingly threatening to take his spade to her backside and give the former prostitute a good thrashing for having wandered into his garden to meet her lover. In this way, the sanctified character of the Saviour in the Gospel is transformed into a burlesque, worldly persona. Such scenes show how early playwrights across Europe not only staged the example of the Son

Christ and His Cross���   17

of God being born to a virgin, dying for the sins of man, and rising from  the grave; but also implicated the negative example of a ‘son of perdition,’ dethroned like a Carnival King, and resurrected as a laughing everyman. In other words, implicitly imbedded in such productions was the idea of Christ’s satirical double – an embodiment of the fallen word as opposed to the Verbum Dei. While spectators may have been lured to the theatre by the dirty jokes of an antichrist ‘who blasphemes what is good,’ their task as Christians was, of course, to discern and follow the true model of their Redeemer. Apart from liturgical drama, the comic restaging of Christ’s life can also be found in literary modes like the French fabliau. In the thirteenthcentury Du prestre crucefié (The Crucified Priest), for example, a carver of religious statues goes off to the market with a crucifix on his back, leaving his wife to entertain her lover, a local priest (Montaiglon and Raynaud). When the husband comes home early, the priest flees from the bedroom into the workshop and lies down naked on a life-sized wooden cross, hoping to escape detection by posing as an ymaige of the crucified Christ. After eating supper and sharpening his knife, the husband comes into the workshop and castrates the priest, remarking that he must have been drunk when he carved that unseemly statue. Critics have recently shown that the basic story of the preste crucefié, with its sexual parody of the Passion, was being performed as a farce in early sixteenthcentury France (Runnalls).8 Such a stage adaptation comes as little surprise considering that the buffeting and martyrdom of Christ had long been portrayed as a carnivalesque spectacle in religious theatre and poetry. In some cases, images of the Passion were at the same time sexualized, as can be seen in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de escárnio e maldizer (Mocking and Slanderous Lyrics) and in later Cancioneros (Songbooks).9 Parodies that are comparable to Du preste crucifié can also be found in two Spanish poems written in the fourteenth and the early sixteenth centuries, the Libro de buen amor and the Carajicomedia. In this chapter, I will show how characters in these texts humorously act out the suffering of Christ on the Cross as sexual frustration and impotence. Like Adso’s ‘antichristos,’ they profane the Word and engage in a false performance of Christ, the Rex Sanctorum. Finding and Losing the Cross in the Libro de buen amor The Libro de buen amor begins with the words of the titulus crucis, the inscription placed above the Cross of Christ, Jesús Nazarenus Rex Judaeorum

18  The Laughter of the Saints

(Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews) (Ruiz, ed. Gybbon-Monypenny, 101; John 19.19–20). What immediately follows is the Archpriest’s prayer for deliverance and his prologue on the theme, ‘I will give thee understanding, and instruct thee in this way, in which thou shalt go’ (104; Ps. 31.8).10 The narrator uses this image in the hermeneutic sense of correctly discerning Christian truth, and as a devotional call to follow the true path of Christ.11 He then confides to readers that his Libro can be understood in more than one ‘way’: as signifying the ‘good love of God’ suffering on the Cross, or the sinful martyrdom of lovers like himself (106, 109). For this reason, the text contains hymns that piously reflect on the sights and sounds of the crucifixion, as well as the Archpriest’s irreverent imitatio Christi in what is known as the troba caçurra (bawdy song). In this well-known episode, the narrator describes himself as a lost traveller who equates his tormented love life to the Passion of Christ on the Via Crucis.12 Having fallen for a baker woman named Cruz (Cross), he sends a messenger named Ferrán Garçia to plead his case. Garçía instead seizes the opportunity to euphemistically ‘nail’ the Archpriest by ‘adoring’ Cruz and consuming her ‘bread’ for himself. The dupe then compares his misfortune to being deprived of the Eucharist, prohibited from venerating the Cross, and being sent on an ill-fated hunting trip or ‘Crusade’: Yo cruziava por ella … mi compañero sopo me el clavo echar … Perdido he a Cruz … tomé senda por carrera … él comió el pan más duz … a mi dio rrumiar salvado; … Dios non medre tal conejero/que la caça ansí aduz … Quando la Cruz veía, yo sienpre me omillava:/santiguava me a ella do quier que la fallava;/el conpaño de çerca en la Cruz adorava;/del mal de la cruzada yo non me rreguardava. (sts. 112–21) (I excruciated over her … my companion knew how to drive a nail into me … I have lost Cross … I mistook a path for the main road … he ate the sweetest bread … and left me to chew the bran; … May God deny such a rabbit hound that hunts so swiftly … When I saw Cross, I always bowed: I crossed myself wherever I found her; my companion intimately adored Cross; I was not spared the affliction of the crusade.)

Critics have long interpreted this song as a parody of the Eucharist, the Adoration of the Cross, and Good Friday bread-making.13 My purpose is to build on these findings by showing how the Archpriest – having taken the wrong exegetical and devotional path, and mistaken Cruz for the Crux

Christ and His Cross���   19

Christi – not only eroticizes imagery from the Passion, but also festive traditions surrounding the Legend of the True Cross and its relationship to crusade sermons. The troba caçurra in this way exemplifies the tendency of early Spanish satirists and their anti-heroes to provoke laughter by sanctifying carnal appetites, and synthesizing popular and learned registers. The Legenda Crucis recounts how the Cross was lost or stolen and then found or recuperated, a story that was also commemorated in the medieval liturgy.14 Its wood was venerated not just on Good Friday, but also on the 3 May Inventio feast, and the 14 September Exaltatio. While the Invention celebrates the original finding of the relic, the Exaltation honours its later recovery from infidels. The wide circulation of these beliefs can be seen in the Golden Legend, which includes a detailed account of how St Helen, mother of the converted Emperor Constantine, journeyed to Jerusalem where she forced the Jews to show her where the Cross had been hidden; and how a later emperor, Heraclius, rescued the relic when it was stolen and defiled by a Persian king (no. 68). In Spain, this story was translated and recorded in medieval hagiographic collections and performed in later religious drama, as evidenced by the Aucto de quando sancta Elena halló la cruz, which survives in a sixteenth-century manuscript.15 The date of 3 May continues to be celebrated in a popular festivity known as the ‘cruces de mayo’ (crosses of May). It was traditionally a day on which relics and sacramental crosses were adorned with garlands and branches, and ceremoniously brought out of their sanctuaries for a procession in honour of St Helen’s discovery. The popularity of this Christian holiday can be partly explained by its connection with earlier, pagan celebrations. Caro Baroja, in his study of Spanish feasts, describes how crosses were often erected next to maypoles (La estación 91). He also cites the practice of electing May queens in the province of Huelva, where they were lined up behind decorated crosses. Suitors could request a dance by leaving an offering, and were known to compose euphemistic songs about ‘finding’ their cross, ‘de mujer me gustas tú/para la cruz de mayo … ¡ay de mi, que no hallo/las más hermosas!’ (it is you I want for the May cross … How hard it is to find the prettiest ones!) (La estación 88–9). The youthful mayas were expected to accept the invitation of any devotee, even if he were a decrepit old man. This custom resulted in comic pairings that were customarily heckled and mocked by onlookers. In other places, the Invention was re-enacted by hiding a cross in the house of a sleeping ‘May bride.’ Caro Baroja sees these rituals as echoing the ancient celebration of the yearly reawakening of spring, the season of love. Undoubtedly, they are also a factor in the Archpriest’s pursuit of

20  The Laughter of the Saints

a woman named Cruz, not to mention his self-caricature as an aged lover who incites laughter while his younger companion ‘de çerca en la Cruz adorava’ (intimately adored Cross) (119b, 121c). Whereas Helen was honoured every May for her sacred find, the narrator discovers that he has been nailed to a sexualized cross of shame. The popular cult of the Cross on 3 May has deep ecclesiastical roots. The eleventh-century theologist St Bernard of Clairvaux was among the first to see the Cross as a wedding chamber (sedes sponsalis) and a marriage bed (lectus sponsae) for Christ and His Church, for God and the Virgin – as a space or canvas on which to consummate the Christological espousals prefigured in the Song of Songs.16 Later, Pierre Bersuire in his Ovidius moralizatus (Moralized Ovid, c. 1350) interpreted the myth of Daphne, who escaped the embrace of Apollo by turning into a laurel tree, as a figure of the Cross. His reading of the Metamorphosis was influential enough to be translated into Castilian in the fifteenth century: ‘aqueste laurel significa la cruz que … que es ihesu xpisto … del corporal mente abraçando’ (this laurel tree symbolizes the Cross … that Jesus Christ is … embracing with His body) (fols. 53–4). On May 3, throughout Christendom the Cross was adorned with flowers, kissed, and serenaded with hymns praising its sweet and soft arms, its luminosity and precious fruit.17 As Nathan Mitchell points out, by the late Middle Ages ‘the custom of addressing the cross as a [female] person reaches a passionate, almost erotic intensity’ (77). For this reason, the Invention of the Cross was an occasion for matchmaking, dancing, and singing to celebrate having found the beloved tree of Salvation; having passed from the abstinence of Lent to the rejoicing of springtime love, symbolized by the ‘árbol de mayo.’ It would have provided an ideal festive context for the Archpriest to personify and ‘gender’ the relic, and to imagine himself in the role of Christ embracing the Cross – not as an expression of divine love, but in order to fulfil his lust for a baker woman. According to legend, the wood of the Cross found by St Helen was cut from the Tree of Life (Gen. 2.9).18 Hymns for the Invention feast accordingly address the relic as the ‘tree sweet and tender … her fruit ever ripe’ (Szövérffy, Hymns, 41, 64–5).19 Through the sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, the exiled sinners of a postlapsarian world can find their way back to Paradise. Emily Francomano has shown that the Fall works as an overarching theme in the Libro, as the Archpriest uses the precept of felix culpa, or the ‘fortunate’ Fall, to conflate the carnal fruit of the Tree of Knowledge with the Eucharistic bread of the Cross. Earlier in the poem, the Archpriest alludes to the Arbor Scientiae as a pear tree when he

Christ and His Cross���   21

describes his humiliating love life: ‘pero aunque omne non goste la pera del peral/en estar la sonbra es plazer comunal’ (while a man might not savour the fruit from the pear tree/just being in its shade is quite a pleasure) (154cd).20 This ironic statement encapsulates the outcome of the troba caçurra, for the narrator is left to ‘ruminate’ about having been betrayed and ‘nailed,’ while his messenger savours the sweet ‘bread’ of Cruz. Of course, there is nothing unusual about the Libro using the pear tree of May as a setting for springtime love and deception. This joke at the expense of the senex amans, or ‘aged lover,’ can be seen in other late medieval works, such as Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.21 In the ‘Merchant’s Tale,’ an old man named January marries a lusty young May, who then falls in love with one of his squires. When January unexpectedly goes blind, the youthful lovers agree to meet in a pear tree. May tells January to wait for her while she climbs into the tree to satisfy her craving for a pear. The old man blindly clutches the trunk while May and his squire wildly make love in the branches. In the troba caçurra, the tree of love satirically morphs into the Cross, in keeping with the doctrine of felix culpa and cruces de mayo traditions. The older Archpriest is, like January, blinded and then deceived by Ferrán Garçía. The young lover enjoys the intimate presence of the Cross, while the dupe waits blindly in the shade of the tree, clinging to its trunk like Apollo in the Ovidian myth. Like an old man in pursuit of a May queen, the Archpriest’s devotion only invites derision and dethronement. His song is a carnivalesque parody of Apollo’s unrequited love, and its prefigurement of Christ ‘embracing’ the Cross for the sins of others. One of the few critics who have studied the Invention feast in medieval Spanish literature is Peter Cocozzella in his edition of a fourteenth-­century Catalan Passion.22 He finds that the play inserts the story of St Helen’s ­pilgrimage to reflect the liturgical cycle of finding, losing, and recovering the divine through a Cross that is ‘an evolving sign, the sign of an ever-expanding textuality’ (30–1). The Libro evokes the Invention in much the same way. Just as the Jews of Jerusalem were accused of knowing and yet denying that the Messiah had been crucified, the Archpriest is well aware of the difference between Cruz and Crux, between the baker woman’s unholy favours and the Bread of Life. He, like January in Chaucer’s ‘Merchant’s Tale,’ should have known better, but he has allowed cupidity to blind him from the truth and so confuses the Holy Cross with a May queen ‘non santa’ (116c). Having mistaken a deviant path for the Via Crucis and the Invention of the Cross, the Archpriest experiences the Passion as a farce in which he plays a foolish impersonator

22  The Laughter of the Saints

of Christ being mocked and tormented for the amusement of his audience, reminiscent of the French preste crucefié. His imitation of the Saviour exemplifies material loss as opposed to spiritual redemption: ‘perdido he a Cruz … del mal de la cruzada yo non me rreguardava’ (I have lost Cross … I was not spared the affliction of the Crusade) (115b, 121d). This image of losing the Cross, I would argue, invokes a crusade theme that works in conjunction with theological and festive representations of the Cross as a woman, embraced by Christ, and associated with May queens. An early account of the loss of the lignum Crucis appears in a ­letter to Pope Urban III from the Byzantine emperor in the months following the disastrous Battle of Hattin in 1187, when the holy wood was purportedly seized by infidels, and Christian soldiers under King Guy were overrun and slaughtered by the army of Saladin (Edbury 162). Urban died shortly after hearing this news, but the scandal of the Crux perdita was immediately turned into a rallying cry by his successor, Gregory VIII.23 In Spain, the thirteenth-century Gran conquista de Ultramar (Great Conquest across the Sea) similarly describes Hattin as a spiritual turning point in the Crusades when Christian corruption led to an unprecedented disaster – the capture of the Cross and the fall of Jerusalem to a Muslim army: ‘Por la luxuria que fazen … havía en tal manera ensuziada la cibdad que ninguna de sus oraciones no podía sobir a Dios y por aquello … la vera cruz fuesse perdida’ (Because of their lustfulness they had contaminated the city to such an extent that their prayers could not reach God and thus the True Cross was lost) (Cooper, fols. 402v, 418v).24 As in earlier histories, carnal sins were seen as having brought down the wrath of God on the crusaders. What had been propagandized as a Christ-like sacrifice of ‘taking of Cross’ was perceived as having descended into an orgy of greed and lust. By the early thirteenth century, preachers had begun to exploit this theme of the lost relic. For example, Jacques de Vitry asks believers to imagine a kind of sexual violation in which ‘the enemies of the Cross of Christ stretched out sacrilegious hands to her noblest limb, to her innermost parts’ (92).25 In another sermon, Philippe the Chancellor of Paris explicitly relates the loss of the sacred wood to the Invention feast, reminding Christians that ‘the Cross being venerated is lost’ in reference to the catastrophe of Hattin.26 By this time, the event – whatever its historicity – had been developed by successive chroniclers and preachers into a propagandistic conceit in which the loss was blamed on Christian sinfulness, and the Cross’s abductors were shown desecrating it with ‘mocking indignities’ (Cole 15–16). Summarizing Christian perceptions

Christ and His Cross���   23

of Hattin, the historian Penny J. Cole finds a growing preoccupation with clerical laxity, and with crusading betrayers who like the infidels subjected Christ to ‘blasphemy and a second crucifixion’ by allowing the sanctity of the Cross to be violated (18, 21, 25). This would explain why the Archpriest ironically recasts his own sinful loss as comparable to Christ’s betrayal. Ferrán Garçía plays the role of an infidel who seizes and desecrates the Cross as punishment for the cupidity of false crusaders like the Archpriest. Such a metaphor would have been especially poignant at a time when the Spanish clergy was being continually condemned for its laxity, and the crusading effort of the Reconquest had been bogged down after the fall of Gibraltar in 1333.27 Specifically, the image of amorous perdition in the troba caçurra parodies the crusader’s lament over the capture of the Cross (Spreckelmeyer 17, 23). Crusade songs across Europe, whether in Latin or the vernacular, draw on the medieval hymnody in their portrayal of the relic as a pseudohagiographic persona who was kidnapped and rescued as a sign of man’s Fall and Delivery. The Chansons de croisade, for instance, mourns that the shrines and churches of Jerusalem have been lost, and pleas for a new wave of virtuous crusaders to avenge and ‘delivreir la Sainte Croix’ (liberate the Holy Cross) (Bédier 251, 80). The propagandists behind these ­laments, like early chroniclers and preachers, made their appeal by characterizing the relic as a woman who has been dragged away by infidels described as rapacious canines, an enduring symbol of lust and impurity.28 In late medieval and early modern visual art, not only are dogs frequently shown chasing down rabbits in the margins of religious images, but the aged mother of Constantine is often transformed into a youthful lady, in keeping with the persona of the Cross, and its association with May Queens (see fig. 3). The thirteenth-century Spanish poem ‘¡Ay Iherusalem!’ uses the same kind of image, linking the relic’s capture with the ravishing of Christian women: ‘A los que adoran en la vera cruz: … estos moros perros … [tenían] las donzellas que eran delicadas en cadenas presas e muy atormentadas; … de las cruzes santas/fazían estacas’ (To those who adore the True Cross: these Muslim dogs [held] delicate maidens hostage and tormented them; from holy crosses they carved stakes) (Asencio 244–6). This  kind of planctus could have provided a model for the Archpriest’s portrayal of his enemy as a ‘rabbit hound’ who has hunted down Cruz and profaned her, comparable to the unbelievers who crucified Christ. It is his culpability in the desecration of the Cross that makes the false crusader comparable to an infidel. The Templars, for example, were accused of spitting on the crucifix, ‘trampling it underfoot, and urinating on it’ like

24  The Laughter of the Saints

dogs (Ridley-Smith, Oxford 89). Similar charges had been brought against the Jews, who were alleged to blaspheme and contaminate it with their Hebrew tongue.29 Of course, the Archpriest claims to be doing just the opposite by adoring a baker woman as if she were the Vera Crux. He even imagines himself taking the cross and suffering a crucifixion for her, ‘yo cruiziava por ella’ (112d).30 But his adoration is a farce, as it was the Archpriest who sent a dog to retrieve Cruz in the first place. In the troba caçurra, the crusade is an act of lust, and the crusader is comparable to a profligate on the hunt for mayas. The Archpriest’s ‘crusade’ revolves around the image of embracing or taking a sexualized Cross, and thus reverses the meaning of Christ’s crucifixion. Historians have shown how the crusades, in spite of the reality on the ground, were idealized by Church leaders as an act of caritas, or Christian love.31 At the same time, personifying and gendering the Cross was such an important part of official propaganda that the enemy was sometimes characterized as a rival lover or rapist of ‘her innermost parts’ (Vitry 92). Crusaders for this reason envisioned themselves as knightly lovers, sent on a pilgrimage to liberate Jerusalem, and rescue and adore the Cross like the gallant Emperor Heraclius. Not surprisingly, their passionate veneration of the relic amazed and disgusted Muslim observers: ‘They bless it with their lips … swoon before it … mortify themselves in its presence … fall in ecstasy at the sight of it’ (Gabrieli 22). For Christian warriors, preachers, and poets alike, the sacred wood had taken on a female persona, in keeping with the holy espousals of the Saviour and the worldly love of May queens. It is in this cultural context that the troba caçurra humorously restages the Passion, the Eucharist, and the topos of finding and losing a female embodiment of the Cross. Popular expressions of the Invention feast echo and build on images of the lost relic in chronicles and sermons, as well as hymns that personify the Cross as a woman being fought over by rival lovers, violated by infidels, or embraced by the Christ-groom like the laurel tree in Metamorphosis. The troba caçurra in this way represents a crossing of high and low modes of discourse – a learned, carnivalesque performance that harmonizes what modern critics, following Bakhtin, have too often seen as ‘the dispute between the dismal sacred word and the cheerful folk word’ (Dialogic 76). The Archpriest synthesizes pious hymns with bawdy lyrics in which the Sancta Crux doubles as a persona ‘non santa,’ and Christ serves as a dual model for perdition and redemption. It is the interpretive task of readers to forge their own path, to perform the book’s songs for themselves: ‘bien o mal, qual puntares tal te dirá’ (I shall speak well or badly according to how you play me) (70b).

Christ and His Cross���   25

Contemplating the Passion in the Carajicomedia Unlike the author of the Libro, modern audiences have tended to approach religious parody not as a hermeneutic challenge, but as a sign of spiritual bankruptcy. One such reader was Luis Usoz y Ríos, a nineteenthcentury Spanish Quaker who rediscovered the Carajicomedia. This anonymous poem had been written not long after the death of Isabel I, the ‘Catholic Queen’ (1504), and published in the 1519 edition of the Cancionero de obras de burlas provocantes a risa (Songbook of Burlesque Works to Provoke Laughter).32 It parodies the overblown style of Juan de Mena’s Laberinto de Fortuna (Labyrinth of Fortune 1444), a didactic work in which Providence guides the narrator to the House of Fortune, where he looks upon historical and mythological figures whose example was meant to edify Isabel’s father, Juan II.33 The Carajicomedia turns this allegory into an erotic hagiographic parody in which the birth of the protagonist, Diego Fajardo, is announced by signs and recorded in the ‘putas patrum’ (whores of the Church Fathers) (151). This name coincides with that of a historical figure who had inherited a vast network of brothels from his father, a hero from the Reconquest of Granada (1492). Left impotent after years of sexual escapades, the fictional character has a vision of being martyred by the most notorious streetwalkers, courtesans, and nymphomaniacs of Castile. Throughout the poem, graphic sex scenes are restaged as sacred devotion, possibly reflecting actual efforts that were undertaken to evangelize prostitutes under the control of the Fajardo family, and turn their houses of ill-repute into convents. Usoz y Ríos, in the prologue to his 1843 edition, claims to have brought this ‘scandalous’ text to light only as a way of exposing what he saw as the moral corruption of the Renaissance Spanish Church and its adherents. Many contemporary critics have also seen the Carajicomedia as an exposition of societal ills. They have, however, been more concerned with finding a political message in the poem than with the question of religious humour per se. For example, Antonio Pérez-Romero recently interpreted the text as conveying a liberating, proto-feminist ‘voice of the people,’ while Barbara F. Weissberger has – more realistically – described it as expression of reactionary ‘masculine sexual anxieties’ under the rule of Isabel I (70; 6). Such conflicting interpretations demonstrate that the Carajicomedia’s ‘agenda’ remains elusive, as its narrator, speaking from the position of an educated elite, attacks marginalized transgressors as well as the powers that be, and makes a laughing stock of both male and female sexuality.34 What has yet to be considered is how this all-encompassing satire elaborates on the medieval tradition of sanctifying carnal desire – and,

26  The Laughter of the Saints

like the Archpriest of Hita’s troba caçurra, derives its humour from the Passion of Christ and the veneration of the Cross. The Carajicomedia begins with a prologue that falsely attributes the work to Ambrosio Montesino, the Franciscan translator of Ludolph of Saxony’s Vita Christi (Life of Christ).35 This fourteenth-century text was known as the Cartuxano in Spain, as its author belonged to the Carthusian order. It had gained widespread popularity among practitioners of the Devotio moderna, which emphasized the humanity of Christ, and His suffering and dying on the Cross. Building on the Meditationes vitae Christi (Meditations on the Life of Christ, c. 1250), Ludolph of Saxony provides not merely a hagiography of Christ rooted in the Gospels, but more importantly a meditational technique that, through the 1502 translation of Montesino, had an enormous impact on believers in Renaissance Spain. The book establishes a process for meditating on the Passion that it views as central to Christian worship. Readers are invited to move from a vantage point external to the events being contemplated (contemplatio), to that of an eyewitness and participant (compassio). They are instructed to visualize their own sins as the whips and nails that mortify Christ, to identify their human suffering with that of the Saviour, and finally to imagine themselves being tormented and crucified. The anonymous narrator of the Carajicomedia claims to have found this poem in a monastic library while reading Montesino’s Sermones on the New Testament.36 He then describes the Carajicomedia as a kind of comic antidote to the Cartuxano, suggesting that it will not only poke fun at the lofty style of the Laberinto de Fortuna, but also the solemn subject of the Passion: Síguese una especulativa obra intitulada Caragicomedia compuesta por Fray Bugeo Montesino … Este Reverendo padre [la] copiló para su recreación después que corregió el Cartuxano. E porque me parece cosa contemplativa y devota para reyr, acordé dela trasladar.37 (147–8) (The following is a speculative work entitled Carajicomedia, composed by the reverend Friar Monkey Montesino … This Reverend Father compiled [it] for his recreation after he corrected [and translated] the Carthusian. And because it seemed to me to be a thing conducive to contemplative and devout entertainment, I determined to translate it.)

By classifying the poem as speculative, contemplative, and recreative, the author compares his role to that of the Carthusian writing a speculum

Christ and His Cross���   27

­devotorum, or what Montesino translates as an ‘espejo’ for devout ‘contemplación’ and ‘espiritual recreación’ (fols. 5v, 6r, 3r). This becomes even more clear later in the text, as readers are asked to take part in Fajardo’s demise by creating mental pictures through what is described as ‘contemplative comparison’ that will inspire ‘devout understandings for contemplative persons’ (161, 158).38 The Carajicomedia in this way makes light of textual instructions in the Cartuxano, prompting its readers to visualize obscene imagery in the same way that Ludolph of Saxony (through Montesino’s translation) urges Christians to meditate on scenes from the Gospel and compare their personal experience with that of Christ. The Carajicomedia evokes these scenes by comically citing many of the same verses from the Vulgate that Ludolph piously glosses in his Vita Christi. For example, the poet alludes to the virgin birth when a husband discovers that his new bride has already lost her maidenhood, and, like Joseph in the Gospel of Matthew, feels compelled to leave her (207; 1.19).39 In another episode, Christ’s praise of John the Baptist is used to describe an old bawd, ‘inter [sic] natus mulierum no surrexit maior’ (there hath not risen among them that are born of women a greater) (163; Mat. 11.11). Later, the Saviour’s words inspire a young girl to prostitute herself: ‘qui venit ad me non eiciam foras’ (him that cometh to me, I will not cast out) (203; John 6.37). When an old woman sells her virginal daughter as a sex slave, the transaction is compared to the blood money of Judas (182). Another prostitute, after receiving counterfeit coins from a client, emulates the swearing and cursing of Peter when the disciple denied Christ for the third time (207; Matt. 26.74). The Carajicomedia twice refers to the agonizing death of the Redeemer: once when a sex worker advertises her wares with the liturgical phrase ‘videte [si est dolor sicut] dolor meus’ (see [if there is any sorrow like] my sorrow); and again when a plaque is placed above the head of an old whore reading ‘non saciata usque ad mortem’ (not satisfied even unto death) (212; 180). The second part of this inscription seems to be taken from Paul’s letter to the Philippians, explaining how Christ humbled Himself ‘unto death, even to the death of the cross’ (2.8).40 Thus, by citing key events from the Gospels as part of Fajardo’s grotesque vision, the poet takes up Ludolph’s invitation to visually – and textually – enter into the life of the Saviour and identify with His humanity. The Carajicomedia specifically targets the Spanish translation of the Vita Christi. Frank Domínguez has shown that the narrator, by promising to translate the Carajicomedia into a ‘cruel’ Castilian that everyone can

28  The Laughter of the Saints

understand, ridicules Montesino’s efforts to vernacularize sacred texts (‘La parodia’ 149). A key biblical image in the Cartuxano that could readily be used to provoke laughter is the virga, or Christological ‘branch,’ from the Old Testament.41 The Tree of Jesse was believed to represent the genealogy of Christ from King David to Mary, the virga that bore the fruit of the Tree of Life, in fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy of a virgo giving birth to the Messiah. Montesino eliminates this paronomasia by translating the Marian branch as ‘rama’ (pt. 1, fol. 21r). He was of course aware that verga, the Castilian equivalent of virga, could not only allude to Jesse’s allegorical rod, but also the phallus.42 Humorists had long exploited the word’s double meaning, as can be seen in the Libro de buen amor when the potency of carnal love is compared to the Scriptural virga, ‘virgam virtutis tuae’ (the sceptre of thy power) (st. 384d; Ps. 109.2).43 Obviously, Montesino would have hoped to avoid this kind of sinful association in his translation. The Carajicomedia, however, exposes his ‘fengido lenguaje’ (dissimulating language), ironically consecrating a whoremonger’s member as the ‘verga,’ and beatifying prostitutes with the Marian name ‘virgo’ (149, 166). Such a typological joke would have encouraged sophisticated audiences familiar with the Cartuxano and other devotional literature to re-envision the rising of the Jesse Tree as the falling of Fajardo’s penis. The Carajicomedia contrasts the impotence of this martyr with the hypersexual ‘passion’ of Castilian prostitutes. Fajardo has gone from the status of an executioner depicted as ‘nailing’ his victims, to an imitator of the Lamb of God being butchered alive on Good Friday. Accordingly, it is he who suffers from watching the ‘duro flagelo,’ or hard whipping, of fallen women by their matron (159). This scene clearly parodies the scourging of Christ in Ludolph’s text. The Cartuxano instructs readers to observe their Saviour being stripped and whipped, and to picture themselves both ministering and receiving ‘golpes muy duros’ (very hard blows) as a result of their sins (pt. 4, 78v).44 The Carajicomedia similarly emphasizes the importance of visual meditation, but turns the flagellation into a festive punishment, comparable to the practice of flogging a straw man or seasonal lord of misrule. Fittingly, it is an old bawd named María ‘la Buyça’ (the ghostly whore), known for her power to restore sexual vigour and renovate deflowered virgins, who leads Fajardo on his Via Dolorosa. Fajardo prayerfully calls on her as his guide, a title commonly used to invoke the Virgin.45 This unholy Mary, with the words ‘sigue mi vía … poner te he corona’ (follow my lead … and I will coronate you), offers to show her supplicant how to wear the crown of a carnival king who will be

Christ and His Cross���   29

rightly deposed for his sins, as opposed to the King of the Jews sacrificing Himself for the inequity of others (165). Again, contemplative readers of the Carajicomedia would have recognized a humorous link between Fajardo’s crowning and the way Ludolph advises worshippers to imitate the coronation of Christ.46 At one point, Fajardo’s member is momentarily brought back to life by María: ‘resucitas y hazes de nuevo/lo muerto’ (you revive and renew that which is dead) (147). Here, the poet seems to be eroticizing a prayer for Resurrection in the Cartuxano: ‘que levantándome de la muerte … en novedad de vida … resuscites mi carne’ (lifting me up from death … into the newness of life … may you revive my flesh) (pt. 4, fol. 161). This travesty of redemption brings to mind the popular custom – fictionalized in the Libro de buen amor – of temporarily resuscitating the spirit of carnival during the celebration of Easter laughter. When efforts to restore Fajardo’s manhood fail, a female mob gathers to further humiliate him by continuing to re-enact the mockery of Jesus on Good Friday as a festive spectacle. Their brutality heightens as the Carajicomedia moves toward its final act, when the prostitutes of Castile all close in on Fajardo’s moribund member. By mobbing and sacrificing him, they take revenge for having been themselves ‘enclavijadas,’ or driven with nails (199, 207).47 As indicated earlier, the Vita Christi prescribes a form of interactive devotion through which sinners imagine both afflicting and assuming the pain and suffering of Christ, so that their sins become associated with the implements that penetrate His body, as well as the burden of taking the Cross and being crucified. Similarly, fallen women in the Carajicomedia both give and receive ‘passión,’ and are for this reason simultaneously compared to merrymakers and penitents, ­sinners and saints. They are portrayed as being ‘inflamada del espíritu santo’ (inflamed by the Holy Spirit), following the way of the Lord, imitating the saints, and receiving the crown of martyrdom (181).48 The Carajicomedia in this way transforms the devotional steps and stations of the Cartuxano into a vision of the brothels and street corners of Castile, where sinners perpetually act out the Passion for their own carnal pleasure, and for the humorous contemplation of readers. It is no accident that the poem’s female sinners take on numerous Marian names that correspond with the Vita Christi, such as ‘cerado virgo’ (enclosed virgin), ‘Mariflores’ (Mary the Flower), and ‘Mariblanca’ (Mary the Pure) (207, 193, 203; 1.2–3). A culminating point in this running joke comes when Mariblanca, after climaxing with her lover, kneels down in prayer and ecstatically contemplates the crucifix hanging over her bed:

30  The Laughter of the Saints Ella se hincó de rodillas en la cama, puestas las manos contra el cielo, mirando a un crucifixo y hichándose los ojos de agua, con devoción a grandes bozes dixo: ‘¡O Señor por los meritos de tu santa pasión … que en mis días no carezca de tal ombre como éste!’ … que al tiempo que tiene el carajo en el cuerpo que se querría hallar … fuera de la media legua, por dar gritos de plazer. (169) (She got on her knees in bed, raised her hands to heaven and, looking at a crucifix, her eyes filling with tears, she called out with devotion: ‘Oh, Lord, by the merits of your holy Passion … [may] I not lack such a man as this’ … when she had the prick in her body, she wanted to be … a half league outside the city in order to give shouts of pleasure.)

Mariblanca cries out in a burlesque imitation of the Virgin Mary, whose heart was said to have been pierced with sorrow as she watched her Son being crucified, and whose outpouring of spiritual love at the foot of the Cross was a favourite subject of contemplatives like Ludolph of Saxony.49 Traditionally, Mary Magdalene was more often portrayed as having an emotional outburst at the foot of the Cross. Medieval and early modern artists imagined the former prostitute tearfully embracing the precious wood, or even straddling it with her legs as she looked up adoringly at her Saviour. Christ’s mother, on the other hand, was traditionally shown as mournful but serene, stoically praying, or in some cases gracefully swooning. Following the advent of the Devotio moderna, with its greater emphasis on ‘compassionate’ devotion, images began to appear of the Virgin holding the Cross in her arms, pressing her face against it and weeping. By the sixteenth century, the visual roles of the two Marys at the crucifixion had become more closely related in art and literature. This may explain why an engraving from the 1551 edition of the Cartuxano shows the Magdalene provocatively embracing around the Cross (fig. 4), while the text barely mentions the reformed prostitute at the crucifixion, and instead focuses on the highly emotional display of Christ’s mother: Los dolores que la santa madre … [que] no avía sentido en el parto, en tiempo de la passión del hijo se le doblaron … se deshazía en solloços de lamentación y lágrimas … ‘Vees crucificado a tu hijo … traspassa espada de dolor tus amorosas entrañas, y lança cruel penetra tu anima, y clavo muy duro … Su cruz es cruz tuya’ … Levantava las manos en alto … Besava con grandíssima fe la sangre reziente que corría de las llagas … Abraçado el nudoso tronco … su sangre lamía y besava con maravilloso fervor … Assentáronse todos cerca de la cruz por contemplar. (pt. 4, fols. 121, 134v)

Christ and His Cross���   31 (The pains of the Holy Mother … not felt in giving birth … seized her during the Passion … bursting with cries of mourning and tears … ‘You see your son crucified … a sword of pain pierces your loving insides, a cruel lance penetrates your soul, and a very hard nail … His Cross is your cross’ … She raised her hands up high … kissed with the greatest faith the fresh blood that poured from the wounds … Embracing the knotty trunk, … she kissed and licked His blood with marvellous fervour … Everyone gathered close to the Cross to contemplate.)

This description of the Virgin Mary’s spiritual ecstasy provides a model for Christian worship in the same way that Mariblanca’s lewd outburst in front of the crucifix exemplifies the Carajicomedia’s festive parody of devotion. Through ‘contemplative comparison,’ readers of the poem could associate their sins with the pornographic ‘nailing’ that has driven Mariblanca into such a state, applying Ludolph’s meditational technique to a celebration of the flesh, instead of an act of piety. The audience uses the same technique to imagine and potentially identify with the ‘passion’ of Fajardo, as he goes from a state of hypersexuality to one of impotence and immolation; from the status of an executioner to that of a martyr being pierced and penetrated, buffeted and broken open like a straw man. Critics like Sol Miguel-Prendes have clearly shown that contemplatives deeply influenced the way ‘serious’ fiction was composed and received in fifteenth-century Spain.50 The Carajicomedia shows that this pervading influence can also be extended to humorous literature. The margins of prayer books from the period, with their sinful drollery, tempted Christians to let their eyes and minds wander from illustrations of sacred history to worldly scenes that were, as Paul Henry Saenger puts it, ‘intended to excite the voyeur of the book’ (156). At the same time, works like the Cartuxano drew readers in an affective re-enactment in which they were expected to imagine themselves like Mary following Christ on the Way of the Cross, analogous to viewing the consecutive panels of an altarpiece.51 In this sense, the Carajicomedia can be described as a textual altarpiece of obscenities in which an impersonator of Christ is festively emasculated by His persecutors, and the Sorrows of the Virgin are transformed into the orgasmic screams of a whore named Mariblanca. While the Carajicomedia is without a doubt the most pornographic work in early Spanish literature, its religious imagery may have been less shocking at the time of its publication than one might imagine. Coinciding with an increased emphasis on Christ’s humanity during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was a growing interest in what Leo Steinberg has called the ‘sexuality’ of the Saviour. In his controversial

32  The Laughter of the Saints

study, Steinberg finds that Gothic images of the Virgin displaying or even touching her child’s genitals can be related to later Renaissance paintings of the Son of God nailed to the Cross with His loincloth rolled or knotted to represent an erection that foreshadows the Resurrection, in keeping with the earlier-mentioned prayer of Ludolph: ‘caro mea resurgat ad gloriam’ (may my flesh arise in glory) (2.69). Such painters were evidently less troubled by the thought of Christ’s manhood, belonging as they did to a culture that had long venerated His foreskin, in addition to the milk and even the menses of the Virgin. Christians were expected to look past the earthly realm, and approach these relics as manifestations of saving grace, the victory of the New Adam over original sin.52 Yet, as texts like the Libro and Carajicomedia clearly demonstrate, the ‘sexuality’ of Christ was by no means off limits to humorists.53 This can be explained by a willingness, also characteristic of late medieval and early modern religiosity, to present festive counter-examples to be blamed and rejected, in conjunction with official, liturgical models to be praised and followed. By humorously reinterpreting the Passion and the Legend of the True Cross, carnal sinners in the Du prestre crucefié and the troba caçurra draw audiences into a mock performance of sanctity. Reminiscent of Adso’s description of the Antichrist, these anti-heroes impersonate the New Adam by making a mockery of His redemptive sacrifice. The Carajicomedia, in accordance with earlier traditions, asks readers to participate in the dethronement of a fraudulent holy man who simultaneously imitates St Antruejo, as a folkloric personification of carnival, and Jesus Christ, the Scriptural King of the Jews. The poem derives laughter from slapstick comedy as well as scholarly inside jokes, exploiting the Vita Christi to tell a story of impotence and perdition. Just as the troba caçurra is about taking an errant path and losing the Cross, the Carajicomedia contemplates the falling of the flesh, deprived of the spirit.

2 Holy Men in the Wilderness

One of the first hagiographical texts written in Castilian is Gonzalo de Berceo’s early thirteenth-century Vida de San Millán de la Cogolla (Life of St Emilianus the Cowled). Before becoming a monk, Emilianus imitates Christ’s temptation in the desert by spending forty years in the wilderness of Rioja, where he lives in a cave full of snakes and is constantly tormented by the Devil. When his location is discovered, the hermit takes refuge higher in the mountains, further mortifying his body and pleading with God to free him: ‘el buen siervo de Christo, tales penas levando, /por las montañas yermas las carnes martiriando … fazié sue oración … “sácame d’est’ laçerio, de tan fiera passión”’ (the good servant of Christ endured such suffering, martyring his flesh in the desolate mountains … he said a prayer … ‘take me away from the misery of this savage passion!’) (54ab, 59ac). Finally, Emilianus is called by the bishop of Tarazona to end his self-imposed exile. Berceo describes how the saint entered this city looking like a wildman: ‘la barba muy luenga, la crin mucho creçida;/dizién los omnes todos …/en omne tal fereza que nunqua fue oída’ (with his overgrown beard, and long, tangled hair; everyone said … they had never seen such wildness in a man) (st. 78abc).1 While the ‘wildness’ of Emilianus is used to emphasize his spiritual sacrifice, the same kind of image could also take on worldly connotations in hagiography – and in turn, the related medieval genre of romance. For example, John Chrysostom was portrayed in a fifteenth-century legend as a hairy hermit who brutally raped a girl in his cave, and, after throwing her off a cliff, atoned for his sins by crawling about on all fours like Nebuchadnezzar in the Book of Daniel.2 The saint’s appearance could be seen as reflecting the savagery of his crime or his equally brutal penance – an example to be blamed and rejected, or praised and

34  The Laughter of the Saints

i­mitated. This sort of dual meaning is not surprising, considering that the same communities that venerated Emilianus and John Chrysostom also imagined that the hinterlands were inhabited by a species of diabolical wildman or homo sylvestris, who represented the disruptive excess of carnal appetites.3 As Samuel Kinser has pointed out, early preachers not only spoke of ‘solitarii who were hairy, pious wildmen living in the desert,’ but also warned of ‘diaboli or “evil-spirited” wildmen’ (‘Wildmen’ 152). In medieval and Renaissance Spain, carnival maskers were known to provoke and amuse crowds by disguising themselves as hermits, wild folk, and devils, among other popular figures.4 It was also common during feasts to stage a hunt in which a celebrant dressed in animal skins played the role of a beast being captured and slaughtered, in conjunction with the real sacrifice of animals associated with seasonal licentiousness, and the mock martyrdom of the St Antruejo. This custom can be seen in the Libro, for example, when a hermit is executed for imitating the savagery of his rooster (sts. 528–43), as well as texts outside the Peninsula, such as the Decameron, which tells of a lusty friar being dressed in feathers and attacked by carnival revellers (4.2). The wildness of sinners was thus seen as a parody of saintly asceticism and implicated in the festive cycles of the liturgical year.5 For medieval preachers, deserts and mountains were potentially evil or sacred spaces where man could encounter and do battle with the dark side of his own, post-Edenic nature. Christians were urged to follow the model of saints by internalizing these hinterlands as a place within that was inhabited by intrinsic wildmen or wild women who had to be tamed, converted, and permanently inscribed by the Divine. The outward signs of this kind of inscription are frequently described in hagiography, as Cynthia Hahn has recently observed: ‘the saint reads and sees other Lives and the Life of Christ and, in finding grace, reproduces those texts on his own body’ (3). In some cases, inner sanctity reveals itself as a visible transformation, whether caused by righteous suffering in the wilderness, torture at the hands of persecutors, or a corporal miracle like the stigmata. In other instances, the mark of holiness is forcibly extracted from the body. For example, in the life of Ignatius, executioners tear out the martyr’s heart to find that it has been indelibly marked with the words ‘Jesus Christ’ (Voragine 1.142). One way or another, medieval hagiography shows how saints, through their exemplary lives and deaths, recorded the sacred name of God in their flesh. What concerns me in this study is how representations of holiness were festively reinscribed and reconstructed in early Spanish literature. Writers

Holy Men in the Wilderness  35

like the Archpriest of Hita saw wilderness not just as a spiritual proving ground, but as a discursive and performative frame for acting out carnal sins. We have seen how the Libro de buen amor and Carajicomedia corrupt and invert the meaning of Christ for readers to interpret and contemplate. Both poets invest Christ with the imposturous, mocking qualities of a comic antichrist who simulates and opposes the Lamb of God. In this chapter, I will examine the parody of holy men in these same texts whose imitatio Christi took place in the wilderness. Emeterius was a Roman soldier who converted to Christianity and purportedly walked hundreds of miles through the wilds of Rioja to be martyred at Calahorra, while Hilarion of Gaza was an anchorite who spent most of his life driving off temptations in the forbidding deserts of the Near East. Both of these saints are invoked at the onset of a journey into a locus eremus and then recast as counter-models. Unlike Emilianus and John Chrysostom, Emeterius and Hilarion undergo a kind of backward conversion in which their holiness is untamed, unravelled, and carnivalized to become an expression of savage lust. The Feast of St Emeterius: Off on the Wrong Foot in the Sierra In one of the most well-known sections of the Libro, the Archpriest specifies the 3 March feast of St Emeterius as the starting point for his long walk through the Guadarrama wilderness, where he encounters four serranas, or mountain women, before finding sanctuary at the shrine of Santa María del Vado (St Mary of the Ford) (950–1048).6 These episodes are then followed by the comic vanquishment of Lord Carnival on Ash Wednesday, a day that sometimes falls in the first week of March (1067– 1127). Specifying a 3 March start for the journey seems unnecessary, however, and suggests that the date itself has special significance for the ‘cantigas de serrana’ (songs of mountain women). Early critics saw these songs as an allegorical re-enactment of everyman’s journey into the wasteland of sin (Hart). Steven Kirby has since pointed out that the Archpriest’s hardships in the mountains parody the mortifications suffered by pilgrims, such as bad weather, getting lost, hunger, thirst, and the abuse of toll collectors and wild women living on the margins of civilization. As Kirby notes, such punishment was considered to be a form of penance that worked in favour of the pilgrim’s spirit at the expense of his body. Other critics have focused on the role of winter festivities, showing how the narrator blends folkloric and biblical imagery marking the passage from carnival to Lent; and the second

36  The Laughter of the Saints

mountain woman’s name, Gadea, alludes to female aggression on the feast of Agatha, as indicated earlier. These findings suggest that the festive cult of St Emeterius referred to at the opening of the serrana section could provide another example of how popular religious expressions operate in the text: Fui a provar la sierra e fiz loca demanda; luego perdí la mula, non fallava vianda; quien más de pan de trigo busca sin seso anda. El mes era de março, día de Sant Meder; pasad de Loçoya, fui camino prender; de nieve e de granizo non ove do me asconder.

(st. 950bcd, 951abc)

(I decided to try my luck in the mountains, on a mad quest; then I lost my mule, and couldn’t find any food; he who looks for something better than wheat bread is a fool. The month was March, St Emeterius day; passing Loçoya, I began my journey; from the snow and hail there was no place to hide.)

At first glance, Meder, a shortened form of Emeterius, would seem to fit into Jan Ziolkowski’s category of references to saints used only for auditory effects, or as mere calendrical markers, and not as allusions to hagiographical or devotional traditions (181–4). Emeterius’s vita does, however, offer some clues to how the 3 March feast might relate to the Archpriest’s foray into the mountains. The earliest account was recorded by Prudentius in a fourth-century collection of hymns known as the Peristephanon. It recounts the martyrdom of Emeterius and Celedonius, brothers assigned to the seventh Legion of Rome who refused to worship idols (vv. 98–108). They were tortured and executed, whereupon a ring and handkerchief in their possession were believed to have miraculously ascended into heaven. Both the sixth-century De gloria martyrum (The Glory of the Martyrs) of Gregory of Tours and the passion narratives that subsequently developed in Spanish breviaries elaborate on this legend, indicating that during the persecution of Galerius, the brothers were thought to have undergone a ‘martyr’s pilgrimage,’ or an imitation of the Via Crucis by walking through the wilderness from León to the Riojan town of Calahorra, the setting of their conversion and decapitation on 3 March (Miralles Maldonado 228).7 At the end of his hymn, Prudentius further refers to a healing and fertility cult centred on the legionaries’ relics in Rioja: ‘need I speak of the bodies cleansed from lengthy diseases? ... sing, mothers, for the offspring you have received.’8

Holy Men in the Wilderness  37

Only two critics have seriously considered whether the feast of Emeterius is more than a temporal marker useful in dating the Libro or in timing the Archpriest’s journey into the Guadarrama. Based on the hagiographic texts of Prudentius and Gregory of Tours, James Burke rightly links the martyrdom of Emeterius and Celedonius to the Archpriest’s mortification and renewal in the sierra (‘Juan Ruiz’). Luis Beltrán, in his reading of the same sources, focuses on a clear parallel between the conversional journeys of Emeterius and the Archpriest, both of whom are compelled to undertake a gruelling walk through the wilds – the former en route to a bodily death and spiritual resurrection, the latter on an itinerary of sin that leads to his reconciliation at a Marian sanctuary (264). Beltrán also suggests that, due to the reproductive powers attributed to the Saint by Prudentius, 3 March could have had erotic connotations (265). Reading the Peristephanon and other Latin accounts, however, only enables us to scratch the surface in terms of what the cult might have meant to a fourteenth-century audience. By relying solely on the Latin textual tradition of Emetherius in their otherwise excellent studies, Beltrán and Burke overlook evidence of popular devotion to Meder. Bakhtin observes that ‘every feast in addition to its official, ecclesiastical part had yet another folk carnival part ... [with] its own pattern, its own theme and imagery, its own ritual’ (Rabelais 82). While the Russian theorist views these parts as essentially irreconcilable, we have seen how the Archpriest freely combined and synthesized the official and the popular in his comic allusions to Agatha, Julian, and other saints. The ‘folk carnival part’ of Emeterius relates to themes from his authorized vita in a similar fashion – but it takes on greater significance, as the Archpriest’s 3 March journey, like the troba caçurra, dramatizes the central preoccupation of the Libro: finding and losing the way of truth (via verititatis), and the struggle between spiritual and worldly love. Evidence of the erotic connotations surrounding Meder’s thaumaturgic attributes can be found outside Prudentius and other official sources. The development of such an association is not surprising, considering that his name, in the tradition of mock saints, could be so easily used as a pun on the Spanish verbs meter, medir, or even dar – the same euphemistic words that the serranas use to harass the Archpriest: ‘meterte he por el camino’ (let me guide you down the path), ‘te faré que mi cayada midas’ (I will make you measure my staff), ‘da me çapatas’ (give me some boots) (980b, 976c, 1037c).9 In each case, a sexualized image related to walking is linked through paronomasia to the name Meder. Sixteenthcentury capitular acts from Calahorra specifically document cases of devotees making pilgrimages to the shrine of Emeterius, coming from as

38  The Laughter of the Saints

far as Andalusia to be cured of ailments affecting their ability to walk (Bujanda 341, 347–9). In the rugged highlands of Asturias, the saint is also known as a healer of cripples, especially those who suffer from foot trouble (Cabal 599). This belief likely draws on the tradition of Emeterius having walked over two hundred miles through the wilderness to be martyred. On his feast day, the sound of the saint’s name, along with his legend and miracles, were subject to the worldly interpretations of merrymakers and minstrels like the narrator of the Libro. Since 3 March falls near the end of carnival and the beginning of Lent, the connection between Emeterius and walking must be seen as working in conjunction with the overarching liturgical subject of Christ’s journey in desertum, as expressed in the gradual for Quinquagesima, the Sunday before Ash Wednesday: ‘For he hath given his angels charge over thee; to keep thee in all thy ways. In their hands they shall bear thee up: lest thou dash thy foot against a stone’ (Ps. 90.11–12).10 These verses provide a visual counterpoint to the role of the serranas: whereas angels look after Christ during his walk through the desert, the Archpriest is manhandled and lifted off his feet by hairy mountain women who are compared to beasts and demons. Early audiences would have associated these grotesque creatures with the festive custom of maskers disguising themselves as wild folk and horned devils, and contrasted the comic abuses suffered by the Archpriest with the holy suffering of Emeterius in the wilderness. On 3 March, the passion of this saint was read in medieval churches across the Peninsula, and may also have been recited by street performers along with the lives of other saints and secular heroes. Agustín Hevia Ballina has studied relics and documentary evidence of medieval cults at the Cathedral of Oviedo. He finds a widespread veneration of Emeterius and Celedonius centred on the popular belief in their miraculous healing (95). Hevia Ballina also refers to the podiatric fame of ‘Santu Medé’ as recorded in a well-known Asturian ballad called the pericote, whose origins stretch back to early festive rituals like the earliermentioned charivari or Spanish cencerrada used to ridicule unworthy lovers.11 Traditionally performed by two women dancing with one male partner, the pericote’s lyrics relate the saint’s reproductive prowess to the theme of the senex amans: Yo caséme con un vieyu/per jartame de riir; jecei la cama muy alta/y no podía subir ... ¡Valgamé, valgamé!/mió tiu, coxu rompió un pié y después que lu rompió/lu llevó a Santu Medé.

Holy Men in the Wilderness  39 Yo caséme con un vieyu/enteerélu na ceniza, púseme a llorar por elli/y espóseme la risa. (Llano Roza de Ampudia 248; E. Martínez, Costumbres asturianas 123; emphasis mine) (I married an old man, to have a good laugh; I raised the bed so high, he couldn’t get himself up ... Help, help! my crippled husband broke his foot and then brought it broken to St Emeterius. I married an old man to bury him in ashes, I tried to cry for him, but burst out laughing.)

Like the Archpriest’s cánticas de serrana, this lyric plays on the distinction between the authorized itinerary of pilgrims, and the kind of wild wandering that medieval moralists like Alfonso de Madrigal warned against: ‘En el andar pecamos ... tenemos puestos los pies para ir [a] comer o bever o fornicar o hazer otros males’ (we sin in walking ... by having our feet ready to go eat and drink and fornicate and commit other evils) (Confessional f. 56v). This preoccupation with the ethics of movement is a key feature throughout the Libro’s exploration of cupiditas, or carnal love, as announced in the prologue: ‘I will instruct thee in this way, in which thou shalt go’ (104; Ps. 31.8).12 Over the course of his poem, the Archpriest follows the ‘restless feet’ of Don Amor (Sir Love), and relies on the ‘charitable footsteps’ of a go-between named Trotacon­ ventos (convent-trotter) who promises him ‘holy passage’ (471a, 1322d, 912c). Finding himself ‘off course’ on the winding footpaths of the mountains, the traveller is warned to ‘watch his step’ as he euphemistically ‘trots’ with wild women (998b, 979b). Lameness serves a complementary function in the text: either to illustrate a suitor’s disqualification for love, or to demonstrate the spiritual disability that comes with love’s errantry, ‘coxgueas al dar ofrenda, bien trotas al comendón’ (you limp to give the offering, but are ever so swift to take it) (sts. 457–67, 380d). In both cases, the image of crippled feet must be understood in relation to the physiognomic belief, common in early modern Iberia, that the foot (like the nose) was a predictor of virility.13 It is this belief that creates carnivalesque humour in the pericote as its chorus contrasts the brokenfooted impotence of an old husband with the swift-footedness, or sexual agility, of his younger wife.14 A similar link between potency and perambulation occurs in the sierra when the Archpriest proposes marriage to serranas who twice demand boots as a bridal gift – specifically, the kind of ‘çapatas’ that lace up to the knee and were widely associated with lechery (sts. 998cd, 1004, 1037c).15

40  The Laughter of the Saints

Burke has suggested that the demands and abusive raucousness of the serranas, in keeping with the pericote, can be related to cencerrada mockery of amorous old men and priests (‘La cuestión’). Such a connection seems even more likely, as this ritual sometimes included performances in which transvestite brides would rain down blows on an effigy representing the groom. The bearded wild women of the sierra repeatedly punish the Archpriest by striking him on the neck and head with their crooks. Their violence can be understood as a charivaresque parody of the ‘martyr’s pilgrimage’ and beheading of Emeterius, as well as the liturgical promise that angels protect the pilgrim against symbolically breaking his foot. In this comical re-enactment of Emeterius’s Christ-like journey, the serrana episodes thus draw on the same festive motif found in the pericote chorus with its reference to the lame, mismatched husbands and the sexual healing of Meder. Both feet and footwear are central to the cult of Emeterius. Having worn out his soles in the wilderness, he is known in parts of northern Spain as a patron of cobblers. This attribute also feeds into the Libro’s satire, as shoemakers in the Middle Ages were commonly accused of deception, and the wear and tear of shoes was often equated with greed and promiscuity.16 Not only do the serranas repeatedly demand footwear, but Trotaconventos is described as having blackened, worn-down feet, as needing new boots, and given the nickname ‘shoehorn’ (441, 924d). Of course, the narrator is in no way immune from this kind of censure. The notorious errantry of the Spanish clergy had already been exposed in thirteenth-century works like the Poema de Fernán González (Poem of Fernán González), in which another archpriest who is prowling through the forest tries to rape a princess, and gets himself killed by the Count of Castile (Victoria sts. 649–61).17 Such a figurative association between perambulation and clerical incontinence is common in later Renaissance texts like the Lazarillo de Tormes, where the comings and goings of a lecherous Mercedarian are characterized as breaking in and wearing out ‘más zapatos que todo el convento’ (more shoes than the whole convent put together) (tratado 4).18 The same metaphor is even more strikingly illustrated in the Libro’s ‘Enxiemplo del ladrón que fizo carta al diablo’ (Exemplum of the thief who made a pact with the Devil). In this tale, a Faustian criminal who is about to be hung describes his protector: ‘Veo cosa fea/tus pies descalabrados e ... un monte grande de muchos viejos çapatos/suelas rotas e paños rrotos, e viejos hatos;/e veo las tus manos llenas de garavatos;/dellas están colgadas muchas gatas y gatos’ ... Respondió

Holy Men in the Wilderness  41 el diablo: ‘Todo esto ... he rroto yo andando en pos ti ... los gatos e las gatas son muchas almas mías ... mis pies tienen sangrías/en pos ellas andando las noches e los días.’ (sts. 1471c–1474). (‘I see something hideous/your broken feet and … a towering mountain of old shoes with holes in them and cracked soles, and torn old clothes; and I see in your hands hooks from which hang many cats’ ... the devil replied: ‘all of these … I have broken keeping up with you ... the cats are the many souls I have caught … My feet are bloody from going after them day and night.’)

This image sheds light on the deeper meaning of the Archpriest’s outlawry in the sierra, as well as his festive devotion to a patron saint of cripples and cobblers. Church authorities warned that the Evil One was ­especially active during February and March, a time marked by Saturnalian excess. In the Libro, the latter month is said to unleash ‘tres diablos presos’ (three imprisoned devils) who incite depravity in all of God’s creatures, including nuns and priests (sts. 1281–5). During carnival and other winter feasts, mummers not only disguised themselves as roaming devils, but also burned old shoes and tortured cats as symbols of lust and devilry – practices that were specifically linked to the cencerrada.19 It is in this context that the catty wild women who sexually humiliate the Archpriest are described as possessed, excommunicated, cursed, and even Apocalyptic.20 They are festively portrayed through what Bakhtin calls the ‘grotesque image of the body,’ as their animalized and androgynous impersonation of carnal appetites leads the sinner closer and closer to his metaphorical death and rebirth in the wilderness (Rabelais 303). Such demonic qualities can be best understood as a projection of the Archpriest’s own inner demons and broken-footedness. Although the pilgrim enters the wilderness on the feast of a saint, he embarks on an itinerary of sin. He imitates Emeterius by cavorting with wild women instead of undertaking a true pilgrimage. The narrator plays the role of a wandering outlaw as opposed to a sincere penitent, praying at the shrine of Santa María del Vado only as an afterthought.21 This journey, like the earlier parody of Christ, anticipates the Libro’s personification of Lord Carnival as a comic martyr, an unreformed sinner, and a fugitive. It shows how the wild personae of saints provided early humorists with an archetype and imaginative frame for the misconduct of anti-heroes. Meder provides this kind of frame through his ironic power over perambulation, podiatry, and shoemaking – attributes that can be seen in the

42  The Laughter of the Saints

Archpriest’s use of peripatetic imagery as a metaphor for greed and lust in the sierra, and indeed as an ongoing motif in the Libro as a whole. The Voice of Hilarion: A Saint to Wake the Dead Scholars have often seen burlesque oaths and invocations as indicative of what Johan Huizinga called the ‘autumn’ or ‘waning’ of late medieval culture. In fact, prior to the Counter-Reformation, the literary convention of playing the saint was greatly expanded on as the Renaissance took hold in Spain, and an increasing number of classical as well as devotional texts were translated, adapted, and printed.22 A particularly intriguing example of this can be found in the Carajicomedia, when St Hilarion of Palestine, like Emeterius in the Libro, is called on as an example of wild diaboli instead of holy solitarii. In the previous chapter, I considered how the Carajicomedia provokes laughter by simultaneously parodying Juan de Mena’s Laberinto de Fortuna and carnivalizing Ambrosio de Montesino’s translation of the Vita Christi.23 The anonymous poet’s invocation of Hilarion occurs in the context of Mena’s classical allusion to Aeneas receiving from the Sybil a golden bough, and Ludolph of Saxony’s contemplation of the virga representing the lineage of Christ. The Virgilian branch must be presented to Proserpina to gain entry into the underworld – that is, once Aeneas has retrieved the body of his fallen comrade, Misenus, and given him a proper burial: ‘They bathe and then anoint their friend’s cold body ... before his bones have found their rest no one may cross the horrid shores [of Styx]’ (6.219, 327–8).24 Whereas Fortune tells the narrator of the Laberinto that he will not need this ‘ramo,’ or bough, Fajardo pleads for María, the old bawd named after the Virgin Mother, to resurrect his moribund member with her ‘rabo,’ or tail end (st. 28b; 166). She pronounces that his case is hopeless, ‘en voz que parece la de Santilario, ‘con luengos cojones como un encensario, tu, diego fajardo, ¿que puedes hazer?’ (in a voice that resembles Saint Hilarion’s: ‘with balls as low-slung as a censer, what can you do, Diego Fajardo?’). This comparison is then glossed with a travesty of Hilarion’s hagiographic temptation in the desert that recasts the anchorite as a lusty cowherd (166–7).25 The devil catches ‘Santilario’ masturbating on a rocky outcrop, and – in a festive performance of Satan’s fall – determines to leap down on him and take his soul, but instead slips onto the would-be saint’s ‘verga’ and gets sodomized. When the fallen angel begs for his freedom, Santilario responds ‘con ferroz boz: ‘¡nunca, si el carajo no

Holy Men in the Wilderness  43

quiebra’ (with a ferocious voice: ‘never, unless my prick breaks’). In the context of revivifying Fajardo’s penis, this passage refers not only to St Jerome’s Vita Hilarionis, but also implicates Mena’s learned citation of Aeneas breaking off the golden bough to go and honour the dead, along with the Christological virga of Jesse as a subject of contemplation in the Vita Christi. Whereas the crippled lover from the pericote brought his broken ‘foot’ to Sant Meder, Fajardo surrenders his deadened phallus to a Marian crone whose sexuality is compared to that of Santilario. It is she, and not the virginal Sybil, who will guide Fajardo through the pornographic underworld that serves as a setting for his ‘passion.’ Like the grotesque images studied by Bakhtin, her curses and abuses in the Carajicomedia dig a ‘bodily, creative grave’ (Rabelais 389). Only in recent years have critics begun to investigate popular connotations of St Hilarion in satirical works. Carlos Varo was the first to comment at length on the devil’s impalement in the Carajicomedia, finding that the scene humorously echoes the medieval belief in incubi and succubi, demons that could take either masculine or feminine form in order to assault or seduce unwary Christians.26 He rightly views Hilarion in the context of other, more well-known saints like Mary Magdalene and Sebastian who were consistently eroticized in literature and religious art (67). In another edition of the poem, Álvaro Alonso notes that comic oaths to Hilarion were a fixture in early modern Spain, citing a number of texts that allude to the saint’s ‘sexual incontinence’ (19). A more comprehensive study of Hilarion has been recently carried out by Frank Domínguez (‘St Hilarion’). He observes that the name Santilario evokes the Latin hilaritas for laughter or merriment while at the same time punning the Spanish hilar (to spin thread), a common euphemism for the sex act – especially when it involved masturbation or prostitution.27 These findings have yet to be correlated with the work of Joseph Gillet, who, in an intriguing footnote to his edition of Bartolomé de Torres Naharro’s Comedia Aquilana (The Comedy of Aquilana 1524), suggested that the folkloric role of Hilarion as both a protector and violator of the dead could shed light on any number of early literary invocations and oaths to the saint.28 My findings confirm that the wild, demonic sexuality of Santilario in the Carajicomedia is drawn from his legendary status as a grave keeper and necrophiliac, as well as aspects of his hagiography. In early modern Iberia, Hilarion was seen as a protector of damsels in distress – in the words of the folklorist João de Vasconcellos, ‘A mulher que foi agredida por um sedutor e não puder defender-se, invoque Santo Hilário, que este acode logo em seu socorro’ (the woman who has been

44  The Laughter of the Saints

assaulted by a seducer and cannot defend herself invokes St Hilarion, and he then comes to her rescue) (39). In Portugal and other parts of the Peninsula, the saint was expected to defend their virtue with his unbreakable ‘cudgel of iron,’ a belief evidently derived from the image of hermits and pilgrims carrying a staff in desertum, but one that nevertheless opens up the dark side of Hilarion, as a saint who was also accused of deflowering dead virgins with a hot iron: ‘diz-se que Santo Hilário desflora as virgines mortas – com um ferro quente’ (it is said that St Hilarion deflowers dead virgins – with a hot iron) (Vasconcellos 46). In popular lore, he served as a patron of ‘shameful love’ who was known to haunt cemeteries in the countryside – a kind of ghoulish sex fiend who could only be pacified with a ‘tribute to St. Hilarion,’ often in the form of a medal placed in coffins ‘so that he may relent’ (Gillet 770). His equivocal function as a postmortem guardian and rapist can be seen in a Portuguese legend in which the hermit jealously strikes down a lover with his staff for having violated the corpse of a virgin under his protection. In keeping with the Carajicomedia, these traditions associate Hilarion’s demonic voice with an unnatural sex act: Um moço ousado e impudente seductor, que era o terror e a perdição das donzelas; insistentemente, e por muito tempo perseguiu uma rapariga de extremada formosura, mas muito honesta ... que êste, despeitado, lhe disse um dia que, se ela não cedia aos seus desejos, era por que se estava reservando para Sancto Hilário ... passado pouco tempo, a rapariga morreu, e transportado a seu cadáver para a igreja, ali foi depositado e permaneceu toda uma noite. Nessa noite o desalmado sedutor consegue pentrarar a ocultas na igreja, e ... realiza no cadáver da desditosa moça o que em vida d’ela não pudera conseguir. Quando estava, porém, consumando o nefando e abominável crime, eis que ouve uma voz tremenda, a voz de Santo Hilário, que lhe brada indignado: ‘Já que não deixaste passar essa rapariga virgem para o seu destino, hás-de ficar com essa moléstia para sempre.’ (Vasconcellos 48) (An impudent and shameful young seductor, who was the terror and perdition of the ladies, had for a long time and with great persistence pursued a girl of extreme beauty, but very chaste ... and this resentful youth was told one day that she would not give in to his desires, because she was reserving herself for St Hilarion ... a short time later, the girl died and her body was transported to the church, and deposited and left there all night. On this very night the soulless seductor managed to get into the church secretly and ... take from the body of the unfortunate girl what in life he could not

Holy Men in the Wilderness  45 have. But as he was consummating this unnatural and abominable crime, he heard a tremendous voice, the voice of St Hilarion, that shouted at him with outrage: ‘Being that you did not allow this girl to pass as a virgin to her destination, you must suffer with this affliction [necrophilia] forever.’)

The anthropologist Eugene Kagarov was the first to suggest that the funereal libido of Hilarion lies rooted in the practice of burying unmarried men and women as brides and grooms. In burial ceremonies in Andalusia, for example, dead virgins wore wedding dresses, and were strewn with flowers in preparation for their amorous communion with the dead: ‘Las mujeres que bajan al sepulcro con la palma de la virginidad se emplean en la otra vida en dar besos’ (women who are lowered into their tombs with the palm of virginity occupy themselves in the next life giving kisses) (Montoto 76).29 Traditions of Hilarion calling on dead lovers of both sexes would seem to partly explain why he should be invoked in the context of a personified, dying ‘branch’ that must be revived – which is at the same time a parody of the typological virga in the Cartuxano, along with Mena’s reference to Aeneas, who gained access to the underworld by showing the golden bough to Proserpina, the unwilling bride of death (6.409).30 Whereas Aeneas interred and honoured the corpse of Misenius before setting off on his journey, Hilarion was known to disinter and desecrate the remains of his friends in death. Mortuary nuptials and expressions of necrophilia – be they indirect or overt – were not uncommon in late medieval and early modern literature in Spain and elsewhere in Europe. A well-known example can be found in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, when, after marvelling over the skull of Yorick, the Prince jumps into the tomb to embrace and fight over the body of Ophelia, a madwoman who has been ‘allowed her virgin rites ... her maiden strewments’ in spite of the fact that she committed suicide. The Queen then laments, ‘I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; sweet maid I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d and not have strew’d thy grave’ (5.1).31 The same folkloric motif of a virgin being abducted from her tomb and brought back to life by a rapist was recorded at the height of the Middle Ages in Boccaccio’s Decameron, when Gentile breaks into Catalina’s final resting place, ‘“you never even gave me a single glance when you were alive; but now that you are dead, you can’t deny my love”’ ... lying down next to her, he drew his face to hers and kissed her again and again’ (720).32 Such departed maidens are not always portrayed as helpless victims. In the fifteenth-century Arcipreste de Talavera (Book of the Archpriest of Talavera), for instance, a dead woman

46  The Laughter of the Saints

from Barcelona is described as so irresistible that she somehow manages to seduce her executioner (Martínez de Toledo 117). Each of these examples draws on the topic known by folklorists as ‘Death feigned to meet paramour,’ in which a seemingly deceased body maintains its sex appeal and in some cases its reproductive powers, or a personification of death commits an act of seduction or rape (S. Thompson K1538). The basic story had been reworked several times by the sixteenth century, also appearing in the French Roman de Perceforest (Romance of Perceforest c. 1330–44), in which a catatonic Zellandine is raped and delivers a child, and the Catalan Frayre de Joy e Sor de Plaser (The Joyous Friar and the Pleasing Sister c. 1350), which casts a monk and a comatose nun as lovers (Taylor and Roussineau; Thiolier-Méjean). The motif in each case follows the mythological precedent set by Proserpina, in which a woman is seized by death, sexually violated, and later brought back among the living. It seems clear that Santilario was invoked as a saintly model for this kind of folkloric, Plutonian love. The question that remains then is how the saint’s popular persona relates with the hagiographic portrayal of Hilarion of Palestine. The Vitae Patrum referred to in the Carajicomedia as the ‘putas’ (whores) and ‘tripas patrum’ (guts of the fathers) contains the lives of three desert hermits – Malchus, Paulus, and Hilarion – all drawing on St Ambrose’s earlier story of Anthony, who imitated Christ’s temptation and victory over Satan in the desert (151, 166). St Jerome describes how a young Hilarion left his pagan family behind to become an adoring follower of Anthony; how he renounced the material world to live as an ascetic in the wilderness of Gaza, eating only herbs and dried figs, and facing the elements in nothing but a cloak. The devil wasted no time in taking advantage of the hermit’s innocence by titillating him with visions of demonic women, men, and beasts. In one of these episodes, a demon leaps onto him with a peal of laughter and cracks a whip over his back, asking Hilarion if he would ‘like some barley’ (8).33 The saint drives off these temptations by shouting, ‘Ass! ... I’ll stop your kicking, I will not feed you with barley, but with chaff’ (5).34 Hilarion is thereafter depicted wrestling evil spirits to submission, and riding through the deserts on a donkey in his continual flight from supplicants like the ‘virgin of God’ from whose body he exorcizes ‘the demon of love,’ or the barren wife who throws herself at his feet, begging him to help her conceive (21, 13).35 At one point, he is so overwhelmed by a crowd that he drives them off by beating his staff on the ground angrily (30). This first half of the Vita Hilarionis introduces a number of traits that could have contributed to the Carajicomedia gloss: as a soldier of God, the besieged hermit is mounted

Holy Men in the Wilderness  47

by and later rides the devil; as a healer, he rescues damsels in sexual distress and threatens supplicants with his staff. These attributes appear to have fed into the creation of Hilarion’s alter ego in Iberian folklore, where the saint is characterized as a Plutonian rapist who presides over the love life of dead virgins.36 The funereal eroticism of Hilarion in the Carajicomedia can also be related to the second half of his hagiography, when he haunts Anthony’s grave, spending ‘a whole night in vigil in the very place where his master had died,’ and taking up residence in the dead man’s tomb-like cell – Hilarion even goes so far in his adoration as to ‘lie upon the saint’s bed as though it were still warm and affectionately kiss it’ (30–1).37 In the last years of his life, Jerome tells us how the anchorite roamed far and wide, making his way to Sicily, where he was met by a passionate admirer named Hesychius. Sometimes accompanied by Hesychius, Hilarion spent his last years wandering from Dalmatia to Egypt before finally settling on the rocky slopes of Cyprus, near the ruins of a heathen temple inhabited by a cacophony of demons. There he died, leaving his sweet-smelling, incorrupt body for Hesychius to steal away. At one of his purported grave sites, a holy woman named Constantia was said to ‘spend nights in vigil at his tomb, and to converse with him as if he were present’ (47). In iconography, Hilarion appears as a bearded hermit in the wilderness, sometimes riding a donkey, or holding a book on which are written his purported last words: ‘anima mea quid dubitas?’ (my soul why do you doubt?) (45; see fig. 5). While a possible homoerotic interpretation of the Palestinian saint’s relationships with Anthony and Hesychius has been recently studied by Virginia Burrus, the subject of necrophilia has received little attention. Yet it can be observed that the second part of his hagiography is concerned with vigils at grave sites and scenes of communion with the dead that could have been eroticized as part of the saint’s popular cult. This kind of reading, as in the case of Emeterius, is by no means a modern, post-Freudian projection. The perceived morbid affections and what Burrus has called the ‘queerness’ of Hilarion were, in fact, transcribed centuries ago from the Vita Hilarionis to texts like the Carajicomedia, where an attempt by María the ‘ghostly whore’ to bring Fajardo’s member back from the dead is compared to Santilario sodomizing the devil.38 In sixteenth-century satire, a number of invocations of Hilarion associate him with suicidal lovers or the violent desecration of dead bodies.39 In the earlier-mentioned Comedia Aquilana, for example, a character named Felicina anticipates the fate of her corpse, left to the mercy of her lover

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Aquilano, described as an executioner who has himself nearly died of lovesickness (vv. 96–7, 103). When Felicina asks a servant for a knife so she can kill herself, he resists participating in the suicide attempt, having sworn the oath: ‘no lo haré por Santilario’ (I shall not do it by St Hilarion) (114). Similarly, in Juan de Timoneda’s Paliana, the devil tempts a ­slow-witted peasant to take poison by inviting him to enjoy the sensual pleasures of death: ‘por vida de Santilario:/olleta de boticario/es d’ esta suerte,/ya quiero comer la muerte ... cómo tiene buen sabor: está ‘nmelado ... ¡qué bien sabe, juria san!’ (on the life of St Hilarion: this must be a vial from the apothecary, I just want to consume death … as it has such a ­pleasing flavour like honey … How good it tastes, I’d swear on a saint!) (pp. 294–5). These kinds of allusions seem to implicate Hilarion in the folk motif of ‘Death feigned to meet paramour,’ and in particular the dramatic convention of devilish abbots or friars going about urging mad lovers and other concupiscent fools to commit suicide, usually by tempting them with some kind of soporific poison.40 An association with predatory clergymen can also be seen in visual art, such as a fifteenth-century miniature showing the saint dressed in a habit, surrounded by a pack of wolves and an assembly of naked and horned women (fig. 6). Earlier variations on the literary theme of the morbid deviousness of monks and mendicants can be found once again in the Decameron, where an abbot manages to have his way with a beautiful woman by putting her oafish husband into a coma and locking him in a crypt; or most famously in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, when Friar Lawrence leads Juliet into her supposed tomb and administers a sleeping potion that simulates death.41 As critics like Michelangelo Picone have observed, these scenarios follow a similar pattern, from the twelfth-century Cligés by Chrétien de Troyes, to the catatonic love of the Roman de Perceforest and the Frayre de Joy e Sor de Plaser – the same kind of ready-made story that would later be sanitized and renamed ‘Sleeping Beauty’ by the Brothers Grimm. A striking example of Hilarion being specifically linked to the necrophiliac motif can be found in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso (Orlando Enraged), a work that was written not long after the Carajicomedia, and whose Castilian translation became a best-seller in sixteenth-century Spain. In this scene, Angelica contemplates the prospect of dying in the wilderness, when an abbot who has been guided by the devil first puts her to sleep with a soporific, and then tries to rape her: Con atención mirava el hermitaño A Angélica, qu’estava en tal cuydado ...

Holy Men in the Wilderness  49 Que vn demonio lo truxo, sin más daño Viene con devoción el buen vicario, Mostrándose un Pablo o Santilario ... Y saca de licor una ampolleta ... Echó el licor; d’engaños ordenó Que la hizo dormir muy mansa y quieta ... Abráçala a sabor y a plazer toca ... Ora le besa el pecho, ora la boca ... Al encuentro el roçín flaco se apoca, Que el desseo no cumple el cuerpo viejo ... En vano tira el freno y lo atormenta, Que no puede traer la cabeça alta. (Fol. 33r–33v; Canto 8.45–9) (Angelica caught the eye of a hermit, as she was in such distress … A demon must have brought him; he comes as if to do no harm with the devotion of a good vicar, acting like Paulus or St Hilarion … He takes out a liquor of poppies ... he poured the liquor; and deceitfully made her fall asleep, very peacefully and still … He embraces and touches her to his heart’s content ... Now he kisses her breast, now her mouth … In this encounter, his feeble old nag fails him, as such desire cannot be fulfilled in his old body ... in vain he pulls on the reins and agitates it, but cannot bring its head up.)

The irony of this scene would have been especially poignant for readers acquainted with what I have called the dark side of Hilarion’s cult: the phallic and funereal connotations of the ‘porra de ferro,’ or cudgel of iron, with which he was popularly believed to either protect or threaten the bodies of dead women and men.42 Like the Carajicomedia, Orlando Furioso associates the hermit’s trials and temptations in the desert with sexual deviousness. While the anonymous poet contrasts the manipulation of a limp member with the masturbation and hypersexuality of Santilario, Ariosto portrays a would-be Hilarion trying and failing to arouse himself and violate his comatose victim. The decrepitude of both Fajardo and Angelica’s impotent rapist can be contrasted with a later image of saintly convalescence in a sonnet attributed to Cervantes: ‘vínose a recoger a aquesta ermita/con su palo en la mano ... y con su Magdalena, que le quita/mil canas, está hecho un San Hilario/¡Ved como nacen bienes de los males!’ (he took refuge at that hermitage/with his stick in his hand ... and with his Magdalene to take away a thousand grey hairs, he has become like St Hilarion./See how good things can be born of evil!) (Obras 2.396).

50  The Laughter of the Saints

While Fajardo can do nothing to revive his dead member in the text of the Carajicomedia, Santilario experiences a case of priapism in the gloss that enables the rustic to sodomize the devil and send him back to Hell. The anonymous poet transforms Hilarion’s staff into the erection of a holy satyr, at one point even shortening the saint’s popular name to ‘Satilario’ (167). This kind of inside joke, like the eroticized itinerary of Emeterius in the Libro, shows how the opposition of holy versus unholy could be reversed or turned inside out in early satirical works, for as Boccaccio’s sex-crazed abbot explains: ‘No loss of sanctity is involved, for holiness resides in the soul, and what I am asking is merely a sin of the body ... when you consider that your beauty is admired by a saint, you have more reason to be proud than other women, because saints are accustomed to the beauties of heaven’ (257).43 The Carajicomedia stages a farcical, doomed resurrection in which the script of man and woman, power and powerlessness are festively reversed to the extent that an old crone is asked to play the role of Santilario attempting to resuscitate violently Fajardo’s defunct phallus: ‘le palpe, le tome, le arastre, le pise, le fuerce, le abive’ (she rubs it, takes it, drags it, stomps it, forces it, rouses it) (166). The death throes of impotence are thus humorously contrasted with the saint’s mock thaumaturgic power as a virile guardian or desecrator of the dead. Such a contrast at the same time provides an opportunity to sexualize key images from Aeneas’s trip to the underworld that are alluded to in the gloss of Mena’s Laberinto – specifically, his burial of Misenius and presentation of the golden bough to Proserpina, the bride of death. The ultimate meaning of María’s ‘ferocious voice’ and its connection to Santilario can be illustrated by turning once more to similar imagery used in sixteenth-century theatre. In Bartolomé de Torres Naharro’s Diálogo del nascimiento (Nativity Dialogue), the ‘curse of St Hilarion’ takes the form of a shout that shatters all monastic silence and conjures an outbreak of bodily afflictions that threaten to send the victim to his grave (vv. 211–18).44 This is doubtless the same kind of ‘tremendous voice’ alluded to in Iberian folklore, where the saint barges in on necrophiliacs, and lords over dead virgins with a hot iron. Such noise would have come as no surprise to readers of the Carajicomedia who were familiar with the Lives of the Church Fathers and their carnivalesque meaning in popular culture. After all, it was amid this kind of racket that Hilarion was said to have finally given up the ghost in the rugged wilderness of Cyprus, where the ‘voices of such countless demons re-echoed night and day, that you might have thought there was an army of them’ (43).45 In the Carajicomedia,

Holy Men in the Wilderness  51

Jerome’s Sancto Hilarione has been reinterpreted as demonic persona called Santilario, and the infernal noise that so famously re-echoed in his ears has become his own voice. A saint who was attacked by demons, and who longed for his deceased master, has been transformed into a wildman lurking in the cemetery, waking the dead with his staff.

3 Virgins and Harlots

The Golden Legend describes how a young St Agnes was on her way home from school one day when the son of a Roman prefect took one look at her and fell helplessly in love (Voragine no. 24). When he proposed marriage, the virgin turned him down at once, having already promised herself to Christ. Devastated by this rejection, the prefect’s son fell into a deep and maddening despair that the doctors diagnosed as lovesickness. His father, worried about the boy’s health, tried to convince Agnes to change her mind, but again she flatly refused to marry. The prefect became so enraged at the virgin’s obstinacy that he had her stripped naked and sent to a brothel. But the holy presence of Agnes illuminated and transformed the place into a house of prayer. Those who went to the whorehouse to have sex with her were driven away by this miraculous luminosity. The prefect’s son suffocated to death in Agnes’s glow, but she later resurrected and converted him, and he became a Christian preacher. Roman priests accused the saint of witchcraft and had her thrown into a fiery pit. When she emerged from the flames unscathed, they slit her throat, and in doing so, unknowingly consecrated her as a martyr and a bride of Christ. The life of St Agnes and the legends of other virgin martyrs, as noted earlier, highlight a paradox that can blur and call into question the purpose of hagiography: their construction of the female body as a sexualized object, comparable to the gendered embodiment of the Holy Cross in the Libro. These female saints, unlike their male counterparts, frequently suffer the humiliation of being stripped, assaulted, sent to brothels, or compelled to marry, and mutilated – often by having their breasts severed, as in the case of Agatha, Barbara, and others.1 Critics have rightly found that their stories provide ‘a licit space that permits the audience

Virgins and Harlots  53

to enjoy sexual language and contemplate the female body’ as well as a ‘vehicle for the transmission of religious images’ (Gravdal 24; Wolf 102). The same can be said for the lives of reformed prostitutes, who have been figuratively transformed from houses of ill repute to the wedding chambers of Christ. Such saints are presented as both titillating and holy. For this reason, Virginia Burrus has suggested that ancient hagiography has been oversimplified by modern readers, who insist on interpreting ‘frames of “sinfulness and sanctity” as mutually exclusive, oppositional binary terms’ (130). Medieval readers were more likely to see interdependency or simultaneity where we see mutual exclusivity. Regardless of whether Agnes turned her whorehouse into a temple, for example, the prefect’s son and his friends still go there to have sex with a virgin, and not to pray; similarly, medieval preachers designated Mary Magdalene as a beata peccatrix, or ‘blessed sinner’, in order ‘to collapse the borders of time and narrative’ and ‘summon the two phases of her life in the same image, her life as both oversexed and sexless’ (Jansen 206). The fact is that both the prostituted virgin and the virginal prostitute were viewed concurrently through frames of sin and sanctity – and these frames were interdependent insofar as the story of her conversion from whorehouse to church, and from harlot to saint, was made possible by sin. Of course, this kind of dual framing was not ostensibly intended to tantalize the imagination, much less provoke illicit desires, but linked by exegetes to the felix culpa of Eve having made possible the redemptive Incarnation in Mary. Hagiographic discourse centred on the bodies of virgins and harlots is comparable to the kind of medieval wilderness discussed earlier: a space that could be read as untamed and unconverted, whether from caritas to cupiditas or cupiditas to caritas – for as Burrus puts it, ‘what is conversion itself if not a form of seduction?’ (131). The flesh of holy virgins and harlots could be gendered and performed as at once an eremus, or desert, and a locus amoenus, or paradise, themselves topics of conversion and seduction. Such equivalence is a key element in the Archpriest’s Libro and the fifteenth-century Celestina, as invocations in these texts to the virgin martyr Quiteria and to Mary Magdalene open up a discursive space that superimposes the eremus of sin on the amoenus of sanctity. St Quiteria and the Madness of Don Amor Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, considered the most important Spanish poet of the nineteenth century, was barely twenty-one when he wrote about a ruined medieval chapel in the Toledan convent of La Concepción:

54  The Laughter of the Saints Existe, aunque ya muy ruinosa y en un completo estado de abandono, una capilla … dedicada a Santa Quiteria, cuya fundación debida a Diego de Amusco, ha dado pretexto a varias tradiciones populares … se encuentra colgada la momia o piel rellena de un animal deforme … sobre ������������� su aparición cuentan mil y mil maravillosas tradiciones. (114) (There remains, although now very ruined and in a complete state of abandon, a chapel … dedicated to St Quiteria, which, being founded by Diego de Amusco, has become a source of various popular traditions … hanging [in the chapel] is a mummy or stuffed skin of a deformed animal… about whose appearance many, many marvellous legends are told).

Bécquer’s description provides a useful starting point for discussing the medieval cult of St Quiteria. Diego de Amusco was a notary thought to have built the chapel in 1454, although other popular traditions trace the edifice back to the late fourteenth century.2 Amusco was legendarily punished for swearing false oaths to Quiteria when the virgin martyr appeared and harshly reprimanded him, demanding that he publicly honour her. Thus, a blasphemous notary was believed to have built the Toledan chapel as a way of assuaging the saint’s anger, and her feast was celebrated every year with the blessing of bread used to cure rabies.3 Other, less pious traditions surrounding the saint’s fury and her connection to canine madness can be seen in the Libro’s portrayal of the character Don Amor. Following the Archpriest’s failure to seduce a noblewoman, we are introduced to Amor as a handsome advisor who endures the reproaches of his hapless client, and reveals the tricks of his trade (sts. 181–575). His next appearance takes place on Easter Sunday, when he is greeted by a welcoming party of priests, nuns, and monks, who all vie to host him like a visiting bishop, and collectively represent the worldliness of the late medieval Spanish Church (sts. 1225–56).4 Having decided to take his lodging with the Archpriest, the guest commands that a pavilion be erected representing the seasons and months of the year as increments in the cyclical ebb and flow of love (sts. 1262– 302). When asked how he has survived the rigours of Lent, Amor explains how he was shunned and driven out of Toledo by an ensemble of lay and religious women whose constant barrage of Paternosters and Ave Marias left him in a fit of rage (sts. 1303–10). As the season of abstinence draws to a close, the outlaw takes refuge in Andalusia, and in a fit of rage he curses the memory of Lent by calling on one of the patron saints of Toledo; ‘la Quaresma catόlica do la a Santa Quiteria’ (I consign the

Virgins and Harlots  55

Catholic Lent to St Quiteria) (sts. 1311–1312b).5 It is my contention that this curse provides a key to understanding Amor’s flight from the city, as well as his diabolical performance in the Libro as a whole. The subject of Don Amor has given rise to a body of criticism that seeks to account for everything from his physical appearance to the intricate symbolism of his pavilion.6 E. Michael Gerli has carried out the most important work to date on this figure, demonstrating that as a progenitor of the seven deadly sins, Amor takes on the persona of the devil himself (‘Don Amor’). One element of Love’s characterization that has received almost no attention from critics is his most vulnerable moment in the Libro, when he is chased out of town by the ladies of Toledo: ‘vino a mí mucha dueña … echaron me de la çibdat por la puerta de Visagra’ (many ladies came upon me … they drove me from the city through the Visagra gate) (st. 1306bd).7 As for his subsequent oath to St Quiteria, editors have noted that, as a pun on the Spanish verb quitar, it in some way calls attention to the burden of Lent being lifted, or ‘taken away.’8 The name Quiteria can also be identified with Cytherea, an epithet for Venus, and at the same time related to the Latin word quitare, as meaning ‘to free someone from an oppressor,’ in addition to the general idea of removal, dismissal, or an impediment (Corominas 4: 735–6).9 These associations suggest that her life and cult might somehow draw on the themes of love and liberation – both ‘receiving’ and ‘taking away.’ Of course, wordplay is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the humorous possibilities of saints in medieval culture, as evidenced by the Archpriest’s earlier invocation of Meder and Gadea. In his book Desire against the Law, James Burke was the first to consider seriously whether the cult of Quiteria might somehow play into Amor’s rough transition from Lent to Easter, noting that ‘the poet probably hoped to suggest certain themes associated with her’ (76). Without delving into these themes, he astutely observes that the saint was ‘associated with liminal situations’ as her feast on 22 May coincides with the change in seasons from winter to spring, a movement from one frame of reference to another, not unlike the kind of ‘quitting’ that forms boundaries between the Canterbury Tales (76–7). A look at the hagiographic record and its festive popularization sheds further light on the meaning of Quiteria – in particular, the role of aegritudo amoris, or the madness of love, in her life story. Castilian versions of the Flos sanctorum identify Quiteria as the daughter of a second-century Galician king, the last of nine girls to be delivered in one extraordinary birth.10 Her mother was so terrified by the

56  The Laughter of the Saints

nonuplets that she ordered a midwife to drown them secretly in a river. The babies were instead adopted by Christians who raised them to be brides of Christ. Eventually, the king became aware of his numerous daughters, and arranged for Quiteria to marry a pagan named Germán. Before this plan could be put into action, however, the young maiden fled into the wilderness where an angel revealed that she was to be martyred some 450 miles away, in the highlands south of Toledo. Infuriated by his runaway bride, the lovesick Germán led an expedition south to hunt down Quiteria and decapitate her on orders of the king, ‘su furia … como encarnizado lobo en la sangre de una oveja’ (his fury … like that of a ferocious wolf going after a lamb’s blood) (P. de Rojas 408). After committing this heinous act, Germán and his men were seized by demons who scourged and rabidly tore at their bodies, driving some of them to repent: Abrazando a unos con boraz fuego, sobreviniendo tal rabia a otros, que ellos mesmos se despedaçavan … entre ellos Germán … [que] temiendo su pena, pidió a nuestro Señor moviesse su coraçón a penitencia.’ (P. de Rojas 408) (Engulfing some in voracious flames, coming upon others with such rabid fury, that they began to tear themselves to pieces … among them Germán … who, fearing his punishment, petitioned our Lord to move his heart to penitence.)

Obvious parallels between Quiteria’s crazed suitor and the Lenten rage of Don Amor become even more compelling when viewed in light of what has been called the ‘peculiar aire’ of her popular cult (Caro Baroja, La estación 81). It has long been observed that medieval saints were empowered over both the cause and the remedy of disease – as Johan Huizinga put it, ‘to him was ascribed the heavenly wrath that unchained the scourge. Since he healed the evil, why should he not be its author?’ (173). Oaths commonly attributed bodily harm to the intercession of saints by, for example, calling on Hilarion as a violator instead of a protector of the dead, asking Anthony to burn the flesh of an enemy. Holy men and women alike were given domain over both the curse and the cure of those ailments that they were believed to have in some way endured or conquered in life. Accordingly, Quiteria was blamed for the maddening of lovers, while at the same time venerated as the patron saint of rabies sufferers. Her dual role reflects the popular expression of

Virgins and Harlots  57

hagiography as well as the medieval practice of deriving remedies from what was believed to be the material source of an affliction. In this way, Amor’s parodic oath, like other performative invocations in the Libro and later satirical works, illustrates how the canonical vitae of saints work not in opposition to, but in tandem with, their carnivalesque personae. As in the case of Agnes, Quiteria was characterized as a virginal seductress who brings about the conversion of her enraged, would-be suitor. In the Middle Ages, physicians believed that they could treat rabies by having an infected canine slaughtered and anointing the victim’s wounds with its blood (Ciruelo 104). Not surprisingly, such ‘natural’ remedies were often found to be ineffectual, counterproductive, or even fatal. As a result, sufferers came to rely on folk remedies, the most well-documented of which is described in two sixteenth-century treatises on superstition and witchcraft (see Ciruelo and Castañega). It involved hiring a folk healer known as a ‘saludador,’ who, under the auspices of St Quiteria, could effect a cure by cleaning wounds with his saliva, and blessing bread that was consumed to prevent future outbreaks of the disease.11 These healers could be paid to make house calls, attending to those who were unable to go on pilgrimage to chapels and shrines like the one found in Marjaliza, a village about twenty miles south of Toledo, where Quiteria’s body was believed to have been buried near a mountain spring. This site is described by a number of early hagiographers, among them the sixteenth-century Jesuit Pedro de Ribadeneyra:12 [En] Marjaliza, ay una Iglesia antigua de su nombre … es antigua tradición, que vivió solitaria, junto a una fuente, que oy llaman unos la fuente santa, y los más la fuente de Santa Quiteria, donde se dize [que] fue degollada, e en la iglesia ya dicha sepultada, y del agua de la fuente se ven cada día maravillas, beviéndola enfermos invocando Santa Quiteria, curan de varias enfermedades, especialmente de calenturas, y tullidos: y a la iglesia acude mucha gente herida de perros rabiosos, de que es particular abogada, y hallan remedio. (134) (In Marjaliza, there is an old church named after her … it is an ancient tradition that she lived here in solitude, next to a spring, where she is believed to have been beheaded, and buried in said church, and from the water of this spring every day miracles are witnessed, as sufferers drink it invoking St Quiteria, and various illnesses are cured, especially fevers and paralysis: and many people gather at the church who have been wounded by rabid dogs, for she is their special advocate, and here they find a remedy.)

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Inside the city walls, feverish devotees made their appeal to St Quiteria at the chapel located just across the Alcántara Bridge – the same one that was, according to legend, founded by a blasphemous notary. By the time of Bécquer, this was all that remained of a once thriving medieval cult described in early histories of Toledo. The place had remained a centre for veneration and healing as late as the eighteenth century, when it was reported that ‘tomaban los panes benditos, que se repartían en su Capilla de Toledo … contra las calenturas, y mal de Rabia’ (blessed bread was handed out at her chapel in Toledo … for those suffering from fevers, and the affliction of rabies) (Gil Ramírez). Taken from a novena published in colonial Mexico, this particular account shows how the cult was exported to the New World (along with the disease itself). Quiteria continues to be venerated in parts of rural Spain, where buns called ‘caridades’ (charities) are prepared for her feast on 22 May, and in some cases still fed to animals as well as devotees.13 The Archpriest may even be parodically alluding to this tradition when Don Amor complains that while his female persecutors speak of ‘caridat,’ they deprive him of the amorous charity that he so desperately craves (1309a). Such a reading would fit with earlier images in the Libro of bread-making and charity as euphemisms for sex, notably in the Archpriest’s song about the baker woman Cruz, as discussed in chapter one of this study, as well as his later reliance on Trotaconventos’s ‘charitable footsteps’ (1322d).14 On the feast of Quiteria some Spanish towns were literally taken over by womenfolk, who were recorded as having honoured the saint and performed her role as ‘protectoress of maidens’ by rollicking through the streets with tambourines, singing, drinking, throwing flour at passing men, and so on (Caro Baroja, La estación 81).15 Throughout Spain, 22 May was traditionally a time for miracle-making, female revelry, and the ­reversal of gender roles. Associations between the patroness of rabies and unruly women can be glimpsed in literary sources like the seventeenth-­ century one-act farce ‘Del juego del hombre’ (Of Man’s Game), in which a cross-dressing woman named Quiteria fights a duel over a decidedly effeminate man (Quiñones de Benavente 96–108). In the Guadarrama mountains, where the Archpriest undertakes his mock pilgrimage in the Libro de buen amor, a popular myth arose in which St Anthony, sometimes accompanied by Francis or Sebastian, pursues a coquettish Quiteria with the intention of deflowering her (Jimeno Salvatierra 222–37). She ­escapes by hiding behind a tree. The pursuit ironically recasts these holy men in the role of Quiteria’s groom, as having been wounded and maddened by

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love.16 In another version of the legend, she comes across a shepherd during her flight whose dogs contract rabies from licking her blood. The shepherd soon after catches the disease from their bites, only to be healed in the waters of a spring through the saint’s intercession. Not only does she once again preside over the spread of rabies, but she is herself ­infected with the amorous malady. In this way, Quiteria’s feast was interpreted as an occasion for both giving and ‘taking away,’ for love’s affliction as well as its cure. The same kind of duality is reflected in her life, from the scandalous birth of nonuplets, to being nearly drowned in a river, baptized, and martyred beside the waters of a healing spring: Tal monstruosidad de naturaleza … tan abundante parto … en aquel mandarlas echar en el agua, que fue lo mismo que mandarlas bautizar … si no las huviera mandado quitar la vida, no huvieran tenido … la [vida] eterna. (Ribadeneyra 134; emphasis mine) (Such a monstrosity of nature … such a prodigious birth … in thus having them thrown in the water, which was like having them baptized … had she not ordered life taken away … they would not have had … eternal life.)

Water also has a dual meaning in the Libro, as the Archpriest seeks a ‘fuente perenal’ (perennial spring) that can either poison or purify, and that symbolizes his ongoing vacillation between the worldly death of mad love and the life-giving caritas of God (973b). He figuratively portrays himself as a crazed lover dying of thirst, or in the words of the mountain woman Gadea, ‘sin agua e sin rroçío’ (without water and without dew) (992i). Because of Quiteria’s power to madden lovers, characters called by this saint’s name frequently play the role of seductress in Spanish literary texts. For example, in the Carajicomedia, a harlot named Quiteria is shown advertising her wares, ‘amblando y dando culadas’ (strutting and shaking her backside) (211). In a later erotic lyric from the Golden Age, a nun called Quiteria makes a mockery of her vows by hiding two young friars beneath her skirts (Alzieu, Jammes, and Lissongnes 126). More famously, Don Quijote meets up with a Quiteria who has driven her fiancé, Basilio, into such a deranged state that he fakes a suicide attempt (2.21). As Augustín Redondo has observed, the performance of sword tricks at this wedding echoes the kind of feats attributed to saludadores (391–5). Another equally dangerous Quiteria, in a poem by Luis de Góngora, inspires a fit of musical madness in which a lover’s pick is

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described as ‘biting’ the strings of his guitar.17 In each case, the virgin’s namesakes are portrayed as luring and poisoning their victims with the bite of love. These allusions, like the Libro’s oath to St Quiteria, draw on pseudoscientific beliefs that surrounded rabies in medieval and early modern Europe. The Liber continens (Comprehensive Book), attributed to a ninth-century Persian known as Rhazes, appears to be one of the earliest texts to associate explicitly the madness of love with rabies and its characteristic symptom of a wound that results in extreme thirst, accompanied by hydrophobia, or fear of water, a stiffness of the joints, and an insomnia that leads to night-walking (qtd. in Morros Mestres). Citing Rhazes, the fifteenth-century Lilio de medicina (Lily of Medicine) further defines the symptoms and prognosis of the disease: Si fuere rabioso … apartase solo … tienen sueños temerosos … pungimientos y mordicaciones … sed y sequedad en el cuerpo y turbamiento de la razón y aborreçe el agua … caerán en mania endiablada e en la muerte. (Gordonio 32–3) (If he is rabid … let him be isolated … they have frightful dreams … feel pricking and biting … thirst and dryness in the body and clouding of the mind and abhor water … they will succumb to demonic manias and death.)

Hydrophobia was in this manner believed to cause an unquenchable, maddening thirst, just as aegritudo amoris creates an unattainable desire for the beloved. It has been shown how Quiteria’s hagiographers took advantage of this link between lovesickness and canine madness by depicting her attackers as crazed, blood-thirsty wolves whose flesh is bitten and torn apart by rabid demons. The same kind of pathology plays into the Archpriest’s ongoing accusation against Love: ‘emponçoñas … traes enloqueçidos a muchos … fazes les perder el sueño, el comer, y el bever … das al cuerpo lazeria … eres lobo carniçero’ (you poison … you have driven many mad … you make them loose sleep, appetite, and thirst … you make the body suffer … you are a butcherous wolf) (183b, 184ab, 209b, 291d). Connections between hydrophobia and lovesickness can be found not only in popular devotion to Quiteria, as evidenced by the earlier-mentioned novena petitioning her to cure rabies and the ‘fatal fever of lust,’ but are also widely common in Spanish satire from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century (Gil Ramírez). In the Libro, a concubinary Talaveran

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priest forced to embrace celibacy is described as a rabid canine, as is the character Don Melón, who comes to break down Doña Endrina’s door and ravage her like an animal suffering from rabies (1704ab, 874bc). This representation of the mad lover can also be seen in Spanish lyrics written from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century. The famous lover Macías, for example, claims to suffer like a ‘mad dog’; Jorge Manrique compares amorous passion to a fatal case of rabies; while Rodrigo de Reinosa envisions a promiscuous woman as hydrophobic, and describes illicit sex as the outcome of a bite (Dutton and Krogstad 0131, 6147; 183, 32).18 More graphic images can be found in the Carajicomedia, where the poet warns about a hydrophobic prostitute known to bite at everything she can during the sex act, and the symptom of foaming at the mouth is brought down to what Bakhtin calls the ‘lower body stratum’ (206, 228; Rabelais 21). I would argue that a similarly carnivalesque register also characterizes Amor’s expulsion from a Toledan ‘gate’ and ‘cloister,’ by women who refuse to grant him ‘charity’ (sts. 1306d, 1307b, 1309a). While there is no escaping the clutches of feminine desire in the Carajicomedia, Don Amor goes mad trying to make his way back into this carnal sanctuary in the Libro. In later Renaissance works, love’s contagiousness continued to be equated with rabies, as couples made a game of threatening each other with the disease.19 Two particularly illuminating uses of this metaphor can be found in the sixteenth-century plays of Lope de Vega. In Carlos V en Francia (Charles V in France), a mad woman experiences lovesickness as a case of hydrophobia in which, as we have seen, the remedy for her suffering can only be extracted from its cause: ‘si bebo, allí Carlos bebo/ como el mordido de rabia/veo el perro que agravia dentro del agua que pruebo’ (if I drink, it is Carlos I am imbibing, like one who is bitten by rabies, I see the offending dog in the very water I drink) (111).20 In El llegar en ocasión (Arriving for the Occasion), a ‘saludador’ is even called for to heal a maddened lover, the victim of ‘alguna rabiosa perra/de los lobos mordiscada’ (some rabid bitch bitten by wolves) (116, 94). Here, in keeping with the Libro, the wolf is identified as the source of rabid love, and Quiteria implicated in the cure. For early audiences, Don Amor’s oath to St Quiteria would come as no surprise, considering that the ladies of Toledo have already denounced him as a ‘lobuno’ whose bite could infect them with cupiditas, and who should therefore be fended off with the caritas of prayer (1308d). This word used to describe Amor’s Lenten state is defined by the fifteenthcentury lexicographer Antonio de Nebrija as ‘cosa de lobo’ (relating to

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the wolf) (2: 1152). Working with this broad definition, editors have disagreed over its exact meaning in the Libro. For example, J. Cejador y Frauca saw it as a reference to the wolf as a symbol of Satan, whereas Joan Corominas suspected that ‘lobuno’ could allude either to the custom of disposing of animals slaughtered by wolves, or to the equally contaminating presence of the werewolf.21 What remains beyond dispute is that the term associates Don Amor with Canis lupus. Consistently, medieval naturalists classify this animal on the basis of his supposedly venomous fangs.22 Physicians also warned that the wolf could transmit the choleric infection of rabies through its saliva – an infection that, like aegritudo amoris, would overheat the blood until it reached the heart and potentially killed the victim. This knowledge informs the wolf’s portrayal as a stock villain in the Libro’s fables, as well as the earlier personification of Don Amor as a marauding wolf-monk who carries out illicit affairs in sync with the canonical hours (80, sts. 372–87). The Archpriest’s advisor is a scoundrel who can transform himself from a ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ to a ‘sheep in wolf’s clothing,’ vulnerable to the pious outrage of deceptively meek and mild victims such as the ladies of Toledo.23 Reminiscent of Quiteria’s wolfish attacker, Amor rages like a bloodthirsty predator, but then falls prey to the tormenters who have been sent to punish him for his treachery. Amor has taken on the profile of a lobuno because he is a comic figure, but at the same time a menacing criminal in league with the devil, in line with Gerli’s findings. Across medieval Europe, wolves were inextricably linked with Lucifer because of their stalking of sheep and travellers at dawn.24 They were also frequently blamed for outbreaks of rabies, which in Spain would have been met with pleas for the intercession of St Quiteria. Barry Holstun López, in a study of the historical relationship between wolves and men, observes that during the Middle Ages ‘the wolf and the outlaw were one, [as] creatures who lived beyond the laws of human propriety’ (208). Similarly, the medieval werewolf was conceived of as a wanderer and fugitive whose metamorphosis served as a figurative and not necessarily a literal representation of his surrender to the madness of bestial desires (Kratz). Lovers for this reason are depicted as suffering lycanthropy as well as rabies in literary works like the fifteenth-century Cancionero general (Common Songbook), in which a poet taunts his lover by howling like a mad wolf, ‘ham, ham, huyd que ravio’ (ow, ow, run away for I am going rabid!) (Dutton and Krogstad 6127).25 Such associations would suggest that Don Amor’s designation of lobuno likens his plight to that of a werewolf, as Corominas has suggested, who prowls the streets of Toledo and lurks in one of its cemeteries

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(st. 1307b). This metaphor exposes him as a diabolical outcast and sexual predator who must be expelled from the city before he turns its womenfolk into a pack of promiscuous she-wolves.26 When the enraged Amor curses Lent by consigning her to Quiteria, it becomes clear that he, in keeping with the topic of aegritudo amoris, has compared his Lenten misery to the suffering of canine madness. His oath would have conjured the iconographic image of a rabid canine submitting to the virgin saint held responsible for provoking the insane desire of cupiditas, and then denying or ‘taking away’ its satisfaction – an image that would then prompt readers to visualize (and laugh at) Amor being enraged like a wolf by the scent of meat, and then forced to submit like a dog to the intercession of a virgin martyr, reminiscent of Quiteria iconography (see fig. 7). In this way, he becomes an outlaw at the mercy of prayerful women, and in a fit of rage calls on the patroness of Toledo to avenge him by banishing Lent, afflicting her followers with the rabidity of love, and ushering in a festive, springtime season of carnality and overindulgence. Amor in other words plays the role of a scapegoat whose ritual expulsion purges the city of an evil contagion in order to prepare the way for Easter laughter. He can be understood as a sacrificial victim, or pharmakos, as well as a healer who, like Plato’s pharmakeus, introduces a curative poison, or pharmakon. To Quiteria he attributes both the cause and the cure for his madness, the venom and the antidote. As we have seen, these same conflicting qualities are attributed to the Libro itself. Blessed Sinner: The Magdalene Cult in the Celestina It has been suggested that Fernando de Rojas read the Libro de buen amor as a student at the University of Salamanca, where he claims to have found an anonymous, unfinished play that would form the basis for his masterpiece, the Tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea (1499, 1502).27 This was the first Spanish work to be called a tragicomedy, as it not only exposes the comic vices of its characters, but also tells the story of their tragic demise. Not long after its publication, the book became popularly known as La Celestina, the name of a character that was partly based on the Archpriest of Hita’s famous procuress, Trotaconventos. An early allusion to Rojas’s anti-heroine can be found in the Carajicomedia, when the activities of María, ‘the ghostly whore,’ are described as comparable to those of Celestina (162). Ironically, the latter name could be understood as signifying a heavenly aspiration, being derived from the Latin caelestis; but also criminal malevolence, as in the Italian scelesta. This kind of irony

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brings to mind the earlier characterization of Trotaconventos as an exalted martyr: ‘cierto en Paraíso estás tú assentada … sienpre en este mundo fuste por Dios martiriada’ (surely you are seated in heaven … always in this life you were martyred for God) (sts. 1570ac).28 Rojas, however, was the first to centralize the figure of the ‘saintly’ bawd, turning her into the focal point of a book that has been recognized by critics as a significant precursor to novelistic discourse (Severin). Although written in a dramatic format, the Celestina is ill-suited for the stage, and in fact anticipates a key feature in the modern novel: what Bakhtin describes as an internalized dialogue between high and low modes of speech and literary discourse – in particular, the generic hybridization that results from the sentimental romance being reinterpreted through the festive laughter of texts like the Libro (The Dialogic). Rojas uses this double-voicedness to parody the pseudo-religious devotion of Calisto for Melibea: Por cierto los gloriosos santos, que se deleytan en la visión divina, no gozan más que yo agora en el acatamiento tuyo. Mas, o triste, que en esto diferimos, que ellos puramente se glorifican sin temor de caer de tal bienaventurança e yo, misto, me alegro con recelo del esquivo tormento que tu absencia me ha de causar. (86)29 (Surely the glorious saints, taking delight in the divine vision, could have no greater joy than I do in your image. But sadly! for in this I differ from them: whereas they glorify purely and without fear of losing such good fortune, my joy is mixed with a fearfulness of the torment that your absence must cause me.)

When Calisto is spurned, he hires the aged whore named Celestina, a notorious figure who makes her living as a beautician, witch, and go-­ between. Her service as a worldly intermediary is imagined by the deluded paramour to be the holy advocacy of a saint. Celestina first gains access to Melibea’s house by peddling a skein of thread that symbolizes the sex act. Celestina then ‘entangles’ Melibea with an appeal to relieve what is described as Calisto’s ‘toothache’ by saying a prayer to St Apollonia and by lending him a girdle that has touched ‘todas las reliquias que hay en Roma y Hierusalem’ (all the relics that are in Rome and Jerusalem) (164).30 After comically adoring this ‘holy girdle’ and praying for St Mary Magdalene to intercede on his behalf, Calisto’s affair is finally consummated in a travesty of courtly love: ‘yré a la Madalena; rogaré a Dios aderece a Celestina y ponga en coraçón a Melibea mi remedio’ (I will go

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to the Magdalene church. And I will petition God to guide Celestina and plant my remedy in Melibea’s heart) (185, 219).31 When he soon after falls tragically to his death from the wall of her garden, a grief-stricken Melibea commits suicide by leaping from a tower. Meanwhile, Calisto’s servants have been publicly executed for having murdered Celestina in a dispute over money. Critics like Stephen Gilman have often viewed religious imagery in the tragicomedy from the standpoint of Rojas’s background as the descendent of Jewish converts to Christianity.32 For example, Manuel da Costa Fontes builds on Gilman’s work by identifying Celestina as a parodic ‘antithesis of the Virgin Mary’ (The Art 101–41). He sees her subversive portrayal as increasing the likelihood that Rojas was not only deeply opposed to Christian doctrine, but also secretly practising Judaism. Certainly, the author’s converso experience could have had some impact on what has often been described as his pessimistic vision. Yet, and as Costa Fontes himself acknowledges, Spanish authors with no known Jewish ancestors also made parodic allusions to Christ and His saints, as well as Mary (The Art 137–8).33 As we have seen in this study, medieval playwrights like Diego Gómez Manrique poked fun at Joseph’s doubt, the Archpriest of Hita addressed a loose mountain woman as if she were the Virgin, and the Carajicomedia poet even asked his audience to contemplate a climaxing prostitute as if she were the Blessed Mother.34 While attempts to identify Rojas as a ‘crypto-Jew’ remain intriguing but inconclusive, Costa Fontes is right to see Celestina as ironically simulating the Virgin by acting as an intermediary on behalf of lovers and the mother superior of a brothel whose sex workers are compared to nuns. As I will demonstrate in what remains of this chapter, Celestina’s characterization of an ‘antithetical Mary’ forms part of her carnivalesque performance as the Magdalene. This kind of humour need not be set apart as the sacrilege of an outsider, but can instead be placed in the context of festive culture and the Christian tradition of parodia sacra in Spain. Andrew M. Beresford has examined the function of saints in the Celestina, finding that Melibea’s prayer to Apollonia is much more than just a euphemistic reference to the holy patron of toothache sufferers like Calisto.35 Reviewing the hagiographic legend of the saint, Beresford finds that the extraction of her teeth by Roman persecutors not only provides a ‘socially acceptable metaphor for sexual desire,’ but also fits into a pattern of dental eroticism in the Celestina that includes allusions to Calisto and his servant Pármeno as biting (rabid) lovers (51).36 Beresford observes that the prayer could have referred not only to the lurid connotations of pulled

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teeth, but also to St Apollonia’s having voluntarily jumped into a fire prepared by her tormentors – the fact that she, like Melibea, ‘had taken her own life and died unconfessed’ (42). Considering these findings, it seems likely that Magdalene would also have more bearing on the text than previously suspected. A few studies have considered how hagiographic conversation and exaltation contrasts with the unrepentant demise of Celestina and Calisto.37 What seems to have gone unnoticed by critics is the pivotal role of the popular cult of the Magdalene in Rojas’s tragicomedy. Yet it is precisely this unofficial tradition, I would argue, that Rojas draws on to create a saintly counterpart to the sinful persona of Celestina in the last stage of Calisto’s campaign to deflower Melibea. Just as there is more to Apollonia than her holy dentistry, the Magdalene has a much greater influence on the Celestina than meets the eye. In fact, her festive meaning consistently resurfaces to form a pattern of imagery that informs the text as a whole. Calisto’s devotion to the Magdalene is described by Pármeno as ecstatic and absurdly blasphemous: ‘fue a la maldición, echando fuego, desesperado, perdido, medio loco, a missa a la Madalena’ (he went off cursed, inflamed, desperate, lost, half crazy, to mass at the Magdalene) (230).38 His other servant, Sempronio, later finds that the lovesick fool has made a spectacle of himself by effusively kissing every sacred image he can find in the church: ‘al muy devoto llaman ypócrita. ¿Qué dirán sino que andas royendo los santos? Si passión tienes, súfrela en tu casa’ (he who exaggerates his devotion is called a hypocrite … what can they say except that you are gnawing at the saints? If you have such passion, suffer it in your own house) (249). While Calisto petitions for the miraculous intercession of any saint who will listen, there can be no doubt as to the identity of his divine patron in the seduction of Melibea: O mi señora y mi bien todo, ¿Por qué llamas yerro aquello que por los santos de Dios me fue concedido? Rezando hoy ante el altar de la Madalena, me vino con tu mensaje alegre aquella solícita muger. (263) (Oh my lady and dearest of all! Why do you call what God’s saints have granted me an error? Praying today before the altar at the Magdalene, that solicitous woman came to me with your joyous message.)

In Calisto’s feverish mind, the saint and Celestina are working in tandem. They represent two sides of the same coin, the same collaborative effort to relieve his suffering and satisfy his lust.

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The legend of the Magdalene had been spread across Spain through vernacular hagiographic collections. At the time of his death, Rojas owned two such translations.39 These kinds of texts divide the saint’s life into three phases that reflect scriptural references to Martha’s sister Mary anointing the feet of Jesus; an unnamed female sinner washing them with tears; and, finally, Mary of Magdala being healed of evil spirits, anointing the body of her Saviour, and later announcing the Resurrection (John 12.3–8; Luke 7.36–8, 8.2–3). This confusion of Marys can be seen in the thirteenth-century poetry of Gonzalo de Berceo, as well as the Libro de buen amor.40 The meaning of the saint is derived from her conversion, so that devotional and secular portrayals, such as the seventeenth-century La mejor enamorada, la Magdalena (The Greatest Lover, the Magdalene), attributed to Lope de Vega, revolve around her contradictory status as the beata peccatrix of medieval sermons. As the sinful side of the Magdalene manifests itself in her vanity and lust, she is often pictured in iconography with a jar of unguents or sometimes a mirror (see fig. 8). Similarly, in medieval sermons she is portrayed as a fallen woman who only concerns herself with ‘merry-making of every sort’ and ‘expensive finery, eye makeup, hair dye, rouge, trains, jewels, and ornaments’ (Jansen 161). This, of course, explains why she was the patron saint of apothecaries, cosmeticians, perfumers, and hairdressers. Sumptuary laws were even enacted on 22 July, a day known as the Magdalene’s ‘feast of sinners.’41 It was a day to either embrace or renounce the sensual world by imitating the pre- or post-conversional persona of the Magdalene. This practice can be seen, for example, in a fifteenth-century lyric that was written for her feast: ‘si la Magdalena es guía/de los bien enamorados/“guía lleva mis cuydados/ para ser bien empleados”’ (if the Magdalene is the guide of those who are well along in love/‘guide, take over my affections so that they are well employed’) (Foulché-Delbosc 266). The importance of cosmetics in the Celestina has been studied by Frank Domínguez, who links this facet of Celestina’s trade to the Magdalene cult (‘Adornment’). He finds the two are linked through their role as intermediaries for lustful devotees, and as personifications of vanity in all of its forms – that both are described as beauticians, what the early Christian writer Tertullian in his De cultu feminarum (On the Apparel of Women) called the falsifiers of God’s handiwork. For this reason, early in the tragicomedy Celestina is characterized as having mastery over the fabrication and application of all manner of make-up, perfume, and other beauty products (242–4). The Magdalene’s satirical possibilities lie rooted not only in her vanity, but also in the ­circumstances that surrounded her conversion in popular lore – the

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­ oment when sanctity and sinfulness come together in the image of the m beata peccatrix bathing the feet of Christ with her tears. Bussell Thompson and John Walsh have catalogued a number of texts that give an idea of how the reformed prostitute was sexualized by poets from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century. For example, Juan de Padilla focuses on the implicit eroticism of Christ’s ‘foot massage’: Magdalena, que tanto pecaste … desataba/sus rubios y luengos cabellos … limpia con ellos los pies gloriosos/los quales con lágrimas suyas lavaba … allí los besaba con gran reverencia/y con el ungüento … con dedos sutiles aquellos untaba. (Foulché-Debosc 434) (The Magdalene, who had so often sinned … untied her long blonde locks … with them she wipes clean the glorious feet and washes them with her tears … there she kisses them reverently and with her unguent … she anoints them with her soft fingers.)

It was Gregory the Great who first conflated the unnamed sinner and the two Marys from scripture, and who also established the tradition of the Magdalene doing penance with her ‘eyes, hair, mouth, and oils,’ using them for the purposes of Christian charity instead of unbridled lust (Jansen 156).42 In this way, the blessed sinner converts by becoming spiritually enamoured of Jesus, thereby reconciling the earthly with the divine. Domínguez points out that her mirror is turned to reflect the face of Christ that will later be imprinted on Veronica’s veil, and that her lotions become a sacred chrism used to anoint the body of Christ in His tomb.43 Through the Magdalene’s weeping, Latin preachers imagined that she was cleansed of the dark make-up that symbolized her iniquity. This same lachrymose image would make its way into vernacular renditions of the saint, as can be seen in the Renaissance Catalan verses: ‘començaren a regar les lagrimes de penitençia; les quals destillant, lavaren los vlls de lanima del negre alcofoll de la transitoria miserable bellea’ (the tears of penitence began to pour; which cleansed, washed the eyes of the soul of black mascara of miserable transitory beauty) (Cantavella 33). Unlike the reformed prostitute, Celestina wins over her victims by applying, instead of cleansing herself of, cosmetics and other worldly deceptions. The tears of lovers are useless in the tragicomedy, and their feet are described as broken or crippled in keeping with the Archpriest’s faltering steps in the Libro.44 Rojas further develops these associations by

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potentially implicating the image of Mary Magdalene’s penance in a running joke about Pármeno massaging Celestina’s feet as a boy: ‘[CEL] ¿Acuérdaste quando dormías a mis pies, loquito?’… [SEM] ‘no sé qué crea de tu tardança sino que te quedaste a escallentar la vieja esta noche o rascarle los pies como quando chiquito.’ (120, 213) (Remember when you slept at my feet you little fool?… I don’t know what to think about your delay except that you stayed to warm up the old woman tonight, or rub her feet as when you were a boy.)

This allusion could have been interpreted as parodying a form of affective piety in which devotees, as Katherine Ludwig Jansen puts it, ‘partook of the Magdalene’s grief’ by imagining themselves adoring the feet of Jesus (92).45 Pármeno instead performs an act of mock devotion by massaging the feet of an old whore who is herself engaged in an ironic imitation of the beata peccatrix. This kind of visual humour enables audience members to contemplate and participate in a carnivalesque reversal of Magdalene iconography that is comparable to the function of the Carajicomedia as ‘cosa contemplativa y devota para reyr’ (something contemplative and devout for the sake of laughter) (148). Importantly, the foot massage reference occurs on the night before Calisto goes to church and prays for the saint’s divine intercession. The next day, Pármeno describes how the old bawd plays the role of an intercessor, praying on behalf of her lustful clientele: ‘entremos por la yglesia y veremos si oviere acabado Celestina sus devociones’ (let us enter the church and we shall see if Celestina has finished her prayers) (222). As such, the relationship between the Magdalene and Celestina – and their respective houses of ‘worship’ – festively drags a saint down to the level of carnal desire, while at the same time facetiously sanctifying a notorious procuress in her brothel.46 The Magdalene’s spiritual love affair with Jesus, no doubt, led to any number of jokes on her feast day. In a sixteenth-century sonnet composed for the 22 July celebration, Francisco de Quevedo exploits the anointing of Christ’s feet as a source of laughter: ‘albricias, boticarios desdichados,/ que hoy da la gloria Cristo por ungüento’ (rejoice, miserable apothecaries, for today Christ gives the glory to unguents) (Poesía varia 52–3). As Bussell Thompson and John Walsh note, in 1533 one of many competitions was held in Seville to see who could write the greatest verses in praise of the Magdalene. The winner envisions the saint being penetrated by

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‘the arrow of love,’ evoking an image that mixes connotations of Cupid’s archery with the piercing sorrows of the Virgin (Justas, ed. Montoto 181).47 In another, even more daring poem from the competition, Christ is portrayed as having ‘fallen in love’ with the Magdalene, and she as ‘receiving’ him (204).48 A later lyric from the Cancionero de 1628 takes the metaphor even further by comparing the tresses of the blessed sinner to arrows of love, chains that shackle Christ, and ensnaring nets: Cabellos que a Dios ataron … dexaron de ser cabellos y a ser cadenas pasaron y porque a Dios dar pretenden un ciego nudo de amor … aunque el amor los baxó hasta ser redes del suelo. (Blecua 267–8) (The locks that tied up God … stopped being locks and came to be chains and because they are intended to give God a blind knot of love … although love lowered them to be nets on the ground.)

This aspect of the cult, I would argue, plays a key role in Rojas’s tragicomedy. The thread of Celestina is described as being finely spun like ‘pelo de la cabeça’ (hair from the scalp) – that is, as a perversion of the Magdalene’s tresses in that it entangles and traps lovers in a net of unholy desire: ‘en ello te enbolvas … hasta que Melibea … de tal manera quede enredada’ (you are wound up … until Melibea … is in this way caught in the net) (153, 148).49 Whereas the Magdalene’s hair amorously binds her to God, and ‘more resembled golden thread than actual hair,’ Celestina’s thread is used to sew lust in the heart of Melibea, in accordance with the festive connotations of hilar discussed in the previous chapter. The tragicomedy satirizes both the sin and holiness of the Magdalene’s life, and in particular her power to make the transition from a fallen to a pure state of being. What links Celestina with the saint in addition to the imitatio Magdalenae of vanity and amorous ensnarement is her use of stitches to reconstitute maidenhood. For the old bawd, female virginity is a construction that can be made or unmade, and a performance that can be turned on and off. Celestina brags of having ‘repaired’ most of the supposed maidens in Salamanca, and is purported to have repeatedly passed off one of her deflowered servants as a virgin (112). She and the Magdalene are both so notorious that the former goes by the name ‘vieja puta’ (old whore); and the latter, according to medieval legend, was prior to her conversion known by all as ‘the sinner’ (109; Baños Vallejo 207). Not surprisingly, the fallen woman from Luke’s Gospel became the patron saint of the sex trade as well as the reformed prostitutes, or convertite, who were organized in 1227 as the Order of the Magdalene.50

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July 22 was universally seen as what Natalie Zemon Davis calls a ‘festive frame’ for casting aside vanities, as in the case of women who chose this day to enter the convent; a time for passing laws to regulate prostitution, or for otherwise punishing unrepentant women like Celestina. Davis, for instance, records the case of a jealous Frenchman who elected to kill his promiscuous wife on 22 July, 1529: ‘On the feast of Mary Magdalene … he met his wife and, swearing and in hot anger, said to her, “Must I die for a whore?” As he spoke, he hit her on the head with the stone’ (1, 2). Married women who cloistered themselves on July 22 sought to recover their lost maidenhood by following the example of the Magdalene’s conversion and subsequent ‘glorification at the head of the chorus of virgins – her virginity restored’ (Jansen 291). Many were undoubtedly inspired by medieval preachers who conveyed the hope of regaining a lost paradise symbolized by maidenhood. Sermons on the Magdalene’s feast credit her with showing the way back from the sexual exile of Eve to the hortus conclusus, or sealed garden, that prefigures the Virgin in the Song of Songs (4.12).51 This journey takes place in a discursive, corporal space that has been feminized by male writers, an exemplary – and potentially voyeuristic – journey from sensuality to conversion. I would contend that the perceived reversibility of female holiness in fifteenth-century Christian culture, and not solely the converso background of Rojas, accounts for the Celestina’s performative interweaving of whoredom and Marianism. The Magdalene cult provides a carnivalesque model for a central theme in the tragicomedy: the loss and restoration of virginity. The saint frees herself of sin by falling in love with the Lord, and leads her followers to do the same, while Celestina satirically reconstitutes maidenhood with a needle and thread. For early audiences, this image of sewing could have at the same time alluded to convertite ‘Magdalenas’ and other nuns dedicating themselves to needlework. For modern readers, it can be seen as a reflection of the reconstructive weaving that takes place in the text itself, as a carnivalesque refashioning of the conventions of sentimental romance as well as the attributes of sainthood.52 By the time Calisto has deflowered Melibea, leading to her symbolic plunge from the tower, his worldly patron saint is dead: ‘no ay quien ponga virgos, que ya es muerta Celestina’ (there is no one to make virgins now that Celestina is dead) (303). The Magdalene, due to her renewed virginity, was known in sources like the sixteenth-century Flos sanctorum of Alonso de Villegas as the second Mary, or the ‘moon’ as opposed to the ‘sun’ of the Church: ‘como a juntar venía/dos estremos en un hombre/assí el estremo que avía/entre María y María/quiso juntar en un nombre’ (like

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two extremes of a man come to be joined, so the extremes that separated Mary from Mary He wished to join together in one name) (fols. 185v, 192). This doubling effect no doubt fuels the irony of Calisto’s last words: ‘¡válame Santa María, muerto soy! ¡Confessión¡’ (help me St Mary! I am dead! Confession! ) (326). Invoking the Virgin Mary, he tries to save himself by reversing or undoing his early devotion to Celestina and Mary Magdalene – to, in the words of his bawdy advocate, ‘quitar a un santo por poner en otro’ (take away one saint to replace it with another) (209). Building on the carnivalesque tradition of late medieval works like the Libro, the Celestina remakes sinners as saints, refashions saints as sinners, and recasts the worshipful, courtly lover as a degenerate madman and a laughing stock. The reformation of the Magdalene from a prostitute to a holy woman is undone so that the eternal life made possible by her penitent embrace of Christ is ‘replaced’ with a tale of forbidden love, suicide, and damnation. As in the case of Don Amor’s oath, the remedy for lovesickness is tainted with poison. This kind of negative exemplarity reverses the rhetorical turn made in the lives of saints Agnes, Quiteria, and other legends that utilize the seduction of the female body to move the narrative along and draw in a crowd of spectators in hopes of converting them to the redeeming love of God. As we have seen, the idealized language of hagiography and romance are festively exploited and dialogized in the Celestina to tell a story of moral bankruptcy. It is this intermingling of spiritual exaltation and worldly debasement, with its hybridization of high and low literary modes, that sets the stage for the humorous performance of saints in the early Spanish novel.

4 Picaresque Saints

The title of this chapter may seem odd as the phrase ‘picaresque saint’ was coined by R.W.B. Lewis in his study of anti-heroes in the twentiethcentury American novel who embody a contradiction between real and ideal worlds.1 Later, in a collection of essays called Chaucer’s Saints, the medievalist Ann Haskell cites Lewis: ‘this book might easily have been called The Picaresque Saint, if the title had not been pre-empted’ (1). These critics, by using the same critical term in such radically different historical and cultural contexts, demonstrate the Janus-like quality of the picaresque as a narrative mode that can on the one hand be traced back to the anti-heroic satire of the late Middle Ages, and on the other projected forward to modern novels about ‘man without a living faith’ (25). By associating saints with the modernity and prehistory of literary rogues, Lewis and Haskell raise a number of important questions that will need to be addressed in this study. To begin with, what were the parameters of the picaresque as it first developed in Renaissance Spain? And secondly, how does the tradition of parodic sanctity feed into the characterization of ‘pícaros’ in the early Spanish novel? The word pícaro was initially used in texts from the 1540s as a way of describing someone who had been reduced to a degrading station in life.2 This broad meaning was probably derived from the lowly reputation of scullions, or pícaros de cocina, along with connotations of the term pícano as something underhanded and ruinous.3 During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, novelists increasingly focused their attention on the roguery of pícaros living in the squalid cities of imperial Spain. They recast the heroes of chivalric romance as low-life characters who supported themselves by begging, stealing, cheating, and prostituting themselves and others. In spite of the popularity of this kind of literature

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throughout Europe, it was not until the late nineteenth century that scholars began to study works featuring pícaros as a distinct genre. Their efforts led to a formal categorization of the picaresque as a pseudo-autobiographic, episodic narrative that follows a pattern set by the anonymous Lazarillo de Tormes (1554) and Mateo Alemán’s Guzmán de Alfarache (1599, 1604), both books in which a rogue on the margins of society gives a ‘realistic’ account of his or her life in the service of different masters.4 In more recent years, critics have problematized such rigid definitions, pointing out that not all examples have first-person narrators, nor are they necessarily realistic. In fact, successive writers appear to have been more interested in reinventing rather than simply imitating antecedents. The intertextuality of their novels demonstrates the validity of Alastair Fowler’s conception of genre as existing in a constant state of evolution, expansion, and contraction. Howard Mancing has for this reason sought to redefine the picaresque as an intrinsically ‘protean form’ that exhibits what he describes as a ‘generic consciousness’ of earlier titles, characters, and episodes (281). Of course, authors not only adapted from the stories of other pícaros, but also drew on the familiar tropes of romance and hagiography – templates for life-telling that had themselves been crosscontaminated over the course of the Middle Ages, as tragic lovers were consistently likened to martyrs, and hagiographers similarly drew on heroic conventions to fill in and dress up the lives of saints.5 While the picaresque has been rightly seen as a form of anti-romance, it does not simply negate earlier traditions, but rather ironically recontextualizes them for a new audience – while at the same time cannibalizing and parodying its own generic praxis. Thus, the fictional lives of pícaros exhibit a rupture and fragmentation of discursive authority that had already been rehearsed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Two previously discussed texts, the Libro de buen amor and Celestina, have been specifically linked to this prehistory of picaresque literature. The Libro, as Edward H. Friedman has found, anticipates what will become a key component of the genre or mode: the creation of irony through an unreliable and self-conscious narrator (The Antiheroine’s Voice). The Archpriest of Hita, as we have seen, recounts episodes from his antiheroic life while at the same time comically fictionalizing the composition and reception of his text. Fernando de Rojas expands on this and other late medieval material, creating what many have seen as the most important precursor to the picaresque Spanish novel. The Celestina, as indicated in the previous chapter, brings together a novelistic clash of voices and literary registers that exposes the instability of its own discourse.6 The

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tragicomedy in this way sets the stage for what Marina Brownlee has called the ‘antigeneric’ discontinuity of the picaresque as an ‘open invitation’ to future authors (‘Discursive’ 33). One way in which writers during the first half of the sixteenth century took up this ‘invitation’ was by reworking strategies of life-telling that revolved around official and unofficial expressions of the cult of saints. The earliest agreed-upon prototypes of the picaresque to emerge were Francisco Delicado’s La Lozana andaluza and Lazarillo de Tormes. The discussion that follows will demonstrate how these pivotal narratives draw on the literary tradition of invoking saints as counter-examples that ironically parallel the lives of anti-heroes, in keeping with earlier satirical works. Both Lozana and Lazarillo are protagonists who approach the world and themselves with a sense of humour that reflects the festive culture of the late Middle Ages, while at the same time displaying a modern preoccupation with self-fashioning, indeterminacy, and social corruption.7 Both literary rogues can also be described as ‘picaresque saints’ insofar as they come into being through a comic imitatio of holy models. Whereas Lewis and Haskell were deliberately oxymoronic in their use of this term, I have found that sanctity and delinquency go hand-in-hand in the Lozana and Lazarillo as models for later picaresque novel writing. St Martha and the Dragon in the Retrato de la Lozana andaluza It is not entirely clear why the author of the Retrato, or ‘portrait,’ of Lozana Andaluza was living in Rome during the 1520s. Because Francisco Delicado was a priest with probable Sephardic ancestry, scholars have surmised that he either relocated to further his career in the Church, or to escape the inquisitional repression that followed the 1492 expulsion of Jews from Spain, or both.8 Whatever the case, Delicado tells us that he finished the Lozana andaluza while recovering from syphilis in a Roman hospital, and left the Eternal City not long after the sack of 1527 by the imperial mercenaries of Carlos V (508). Delicado published his book the following year in Venice, a place where the same printing presses that were disseminating the humanistic writings of the Italian Renaissance were also capitalizing on the growing popularity of Spanish chivalric romances like Amadís de Gaula (1508) and Primaleón (1512), not to mention Fernando de Rojas’s celebrated tragicomedy. In fact, during his final years in Venice, Delicado published editions of all three of these texts, and promoted the Lozana as containing ‘munchas más cosas que la Celestina’ (many more things than the Celestina) (165).9

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Lozana has been seen as an early model for the picaresque novel for obvious reasons. The story begins with the dishonourable upbringing of Aldonza, a marginalized protagonist from an Andalusian converso family, who takes on a name that denotes lusty exuberance: Lozana – from loza, the Spanish word for a bridal trousseau. In subsequent episodes called mamotretos, or ‘memoranda,’ Lozana leaves Spain with her lover, Diomedes, is imprisoned and nearly drowned, travels to Rome, sets up a profitable whorehouse with a fellow rogue called Rampín, and finally retires to the island of Lipari before the destruction of 1527.10 Although Lozana renounces her sinful ways in the end, there is little indication that she truly repents. Her characterization can be seen as a symbol of the moral decay of Roman – and, by extension, Christian – society as a whole during the early sixteenth century. Delicado also anticipates later picaresque fiction by blurring the boundary between life and art in order to tell Lozana’s story from the standpoint of a witness and fictionalized participant who interacts with his characters and reveals his creative process. The result is a self-conscious parody of the typical heroine of medieval romance and the related conventions of hagiography. This would have come as no surprise for early audiences as the very structure of the book in mamotretos refers to the Latin mammothreptus, a term used by religious writers to denote ‘a commentary on the Psalms or the lives of the saints’ (Allaigre 29). During the early sixteenth century, the spread of printed books not only furnished readers with new, humanistic knowledge, but also made traditional religious works more widely available, to the extent that the legends of saints became perennial ‘best-sellers.’11 The influence of these books can be clearly seen in Delicado’s pseudo-biography of Lozana, as Ronald E. Surtz has shown. To begin with, her assumed name refers to her degrading past and sinful destiny, in contrast to the noble background and auspicious etymology of holy names in the Legenda aurea and later vernacular collections.12 Over the course of her life, Lozana will ironically emulate both the active and hermitic side of saints by curing the sexual maladies of her clients and finally taking refuge from the world on a remote island. Because of the likely Jewish ancestry of Delicado, scholars have tended to interpret his humorous approach to holiness as symptomatic of a conflicted identity. There can be no doubt that the converso background of Lozana and other characters is frequently satirized in the book. Yet, this experience alone cannot account for Delicado’s creative penchant for deriving laughter from sacred subjects. As in the case of the Celestina, there has been a tendency to overlook the extent to which the Lozana draws on a literary tradition of carnivalesque humour that was shared by

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‘old’ and ‘new’ Christians alike, and that harks back to the combination of learned and popular forms of parody that flourished during the Middle Ages.13 In particular, the invocation of specific saints in the Lozana has received little attention, with the exception of the studies by Claude Allaigre and, more recently, Gemma Delicado Puerto. Both of these critics rightly focus on mamotreto 47, a crucial episode in which Silvano describes how the author’s birthplace of Peña de Martos was originally named after Mars, and later fell under the protection of St Martha: Fue muy gran ciudad, dedicada al dios o planeta Marte … en la plaza, un altar de la Madalena, y una fuente … una iglesia, que se llama la solícita y fortísima y santísima Marta, huéspeda de Cristo … se nombra la fuente Santa Marta salutífera contra la fiebre … sale en ella la cabelluda, que quiere decir que allí muchas veces apareció la Madalena, y más arriba está le peña la sierpe, donde se ha visto Santa Marta defensora, la cual allí miraculosamente mató un ferocísimo serpiente, el cual devoraba los habitadores … el templo lapídeo y fortísima era de Marte … es al presente consagrado a la fortísima Santa Marta, donde los romanos, por conservar sus mujeres en tanto que ellos eran a las batallas, otra vez la fortificaron, de modo que toda la honestidad y castidad y bondad que han de tener las mujeres, la tienen las de aquel lugar, porque traen el orígin de las castísimas romanas, donde munchas son con un solo marido contentas … en todo el mundo no haya tanta caridad, hospitalidad y amor projimal cuanta en aquel lugar, y cáusalo la caritativa huéspeda de Cristo. (396–8) (It was a great city, dedicated to the god or planet Mars … In the plaza, [there is] an altar for the Magdalene, and a fountain … a church is named after the solicitous and ever so strong and holy Martha, hostess of Christ … The fountain is called St Martha healer of fevers … Here can be seen the long-haired one, which is to say that the Magdalene has appeared many times; and higher up on Mars’s Crag, St Martha the protector has been seen, for there she miraculously killed a very ferocious serpent that was devouring the inhabitants [of the city] … The stone temple and ever so powerful altar of Mars … is now consecrated to the most powerful St Martha. [Here is] where the Romans refortified it to stand watch over their women while they were in battle. And so all the constancy and chastity and goodness that women should have is [now] possessed by those who are from this place because they are descendents of those ever chaste Roman women. [Here is] where there are many who remain content with only one husband … In all the world there is not as much charity, hospitality, and neighbourly love as in this place, and it is because of the charitable hostess of Christ.)14

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In his edition, Allaigre interprets the appearance of the Magdalene as a symbol of cupiditas, ‘alias Lozana,’ and sees the entire mamotreto as making light of the author’s own licentiousness (152).15 Delicado Puerto builds on Allaigre’s findings by more broadly relating Lozana’s life as a prostitute to the legend and iconography of the Magdalene. What continues to go unnoticed in these otherwise excellent studies is what I ­believe to be the central role of Martha in mamotreto 47 – and, by extension, the text as whole. After all, it is not the beata peccatrix but her sister Martha whom Silvano describes as the patron of the author’s hometown, hostess of Christ, slayer of the ‘ferocious serpent,’ and custodian of Roman chastity. Two features from the life of St Martha appear in mamotreto 47: her biblical hospitality and her domination of the dragon Tarasque. Significantly, the same attributes are emphasized in the earliest Castilian translations of the Golden Legend, dating back to the late fourteenth century: Servía siempre a Jhesu Christo, e fue su huéspeda … e quería que su hermana sirviese con ella, ca le semejava que ella non podrié complir a servir a tan honrado huéspet … vinieron a Marsella … E en aquel tienpo era sobrel Ruédano … [do] andava fuerte dragón … que comía un omne … E quando esto entendió santa Marta, allegóse a él e echóle al cuello una ci[n]ta, e teníal preso e estonce los del pueblo matáronlo … e ocho días ante que muriese oyó los ángeles cantar, que levan el alma de su hermana, la Madalena … ‘¡O tú, mi hermana muy fermosa e muy amada de Jhesu Christo, bive siempre con el tu maestro e con el mi huéspet!’ … e aparesciól Jhesu Christo e díxol: ‘Marta, mía amiga e mía huéspeda, vente para mí, e serás siempre do yo só. Tú me recibiste en tu posada, e yo recibiréte en el cielo, e oiré por el tu amor a quantos te rogaren que les seas ayudadera.’ (Baños Vallejo 233–5) (She always served Jesus Christ, and was His hostess … and wanted her sister to serve Him with her, as it seemed to her that she [alone] would not be able to take care of such an honoured guest … They [later] came to Marseille … and at that time in the Rhone River … there lived a powerful dragon … that ate a man … and when St Martha heard of this she came to it and tied her girdle around its neck, and took it prisoner and then the townsfolk killed it … And eight days before her death angels were heard singing that they were taking the soul of her sister, the Magdalene … [and she said] ‘Oh thou, my very beautiful sister loved by Jesus Christ, live always with your master and my guest!’ … And Jesus Christ appeared and said to

Picaresque Saints  79 her: ‘Martha, my friend and my hostess, come with me, and you shall always be where I am. You received me in your quarters, and so I will receive you in heaven, and because of your love, I will hear those who petition you to be their helper.’)

We have already seen how Gregory the Great first identified Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, as the same Mary of Magdala from whom Christ had cast out seven devils, and later revealed Himself following the Resurrection. The hagiographic story of these sisters drew on three biblical accounts: when Martha receives Christ into her house and then complains about Mary sitting at His feet instead of helping her in the kitchen; when Martha runs inside to tell her sister that Christ has come calling; and when she later serves Him supper while Mary anoints His feet (Luke 10:38–42; John 11:28–9, 12:2–3). By the sixteenth century, the holy hostess was being popularly characterized as the go-between of Christ and the Magdalene. For example, in the anonymous Aucto de la conversión de la Madalena (Mystery of the Conversion of the Magdalene), she convinces her promiscuous sister to hear one of Christ’s sermons by calling attention to His attractiveness. As Bussell Thompson and John Walsh point out, Martha in this way contributes to the Magdalene’s conversion by stirring ‘carnal fantasies’ (The Myth 14).16 Later, in Lope de Vega’s La mejor enamorada, la Magdalena (The Greatest Lover, The Magdalene), Martha once again serves as the intermediary who lures her sister to go and listen to Christ by describing His physical appeal in a way that brings to mind the seductive rhetoric of Trotaconventos and Celestina: ‘alto de cuerpo, alegre y soberano/mas no tan alto como bien medido/cabello de color del avellano/cuando el fruto nos da mas escogido’ (high of stature, joyful and manly; not overly tall, mind you, but well proportioned, with hair the colour of a hazel tree when the fruit it gives is most hidden from us) (444). Lope’s play goes on to recount Martha’s legendary triumph over the Tarasque serpent, an attribute that was seen as working in tandem with her power as a hostess and matchmaker. By far the best indication of Martha’s festive connotations during the time of Francisco Delicado can be found not in theatre productions, but in love spells. These formulaic incantations were first published by Julio Caro Baroja in his study of the Spanish Inquisition’s persecution of accused witches (Vidas mágicas). The conjurer would usually begin by citing Christ’s scriptural address to His hostess, ‘Martha Martha,’ before asking the saint to entrap the victim in the same way that she legendarily

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lassoed the serpent Tarasque with her girdle (Luke 10.40; see fig. 9).17 In other versions, a distinction is made between the real Martha and her evil twin: ‘Marta, Marta/a la mala digo/que no a la santa … Martica/no la santa ni la digna/ni la digna de rogar/ni la que está en el altar’ (Martha, Martha, I mean the bad and not the holy woman … Little Martha, not the holy or righteous one, nor the one worthy of prayer, nor the one in the altar) (2.40–1). In one case, this ‘anti-saint’ is invoked as a patroness of witchcraft who flies through the air and works her magic in league with the same kind of folkloric, crippled or limping devil that appears in the Libro and Carajicomedia. In another spell, the saint is – like her sister – associated with Eve and the notoriety of fallen women, ‘a la que se encadenó/por ella nuestro Padre Adán pecó … la que descasas casados/la que juntas los amancebados’ (the one was herself ensnared and caused our father Adam to sin … the one who undoes marriages and unites lovers) (2.40–2). Thus, Martha was seen as a procuress who, in conjunction with the Magdalene, could figuratively bind her victims in the chains of love, represented by her ensnaring the phallic serpent and its iconographic connection to the serpent’s interference in the Garden of Eden, where Eve first convinced Adam to sin. Not surprisingly, this type of incantation had been imported to the Americas, and can also be found in records of the colonial Inquisition. Araceli Campos Moreno has studied late sixteenth- and early seventeenthcentury documentation from New Spain and found that these sources correspond with Martha’s unauthorized cult on the Peninsula. New World lovers similarly invoke her as the ‘hostess’ and ‘entertainer’ of Christ, and in fact describe her as not only tying up the serpent, but also mounting and riding Tarasque. They continue to equate the saint’s hospitality with her domination over this serpent, and also petition Martha to help them analogously ‘tame’ men with their food. One spell even goes so far as to carnivalize the beatitudes and Marian canticle by erotically enumerating parts of Martha’s body in relation to her hospitable reception of Christ: Benditos sean las manos/con que a mi señor Jesucristo manjares guisastes … la serpiente mala encontrastes … con una cinta la ligastes,/en ella cabalgastes … ansí me traigas a fulano … benditos sean los ojos con que a mi señor Jesucristo mirastes … bendita la boca/con que le hablaste,/benditas las manos/con que le adorastes. (114, 119) (Blessed be the hands with which you cooked for my Lord Jesus Christ … you caught the serpent … tied it with a girdle, and rode it … thus may you

Picaresque Saints  81 bring such a one to me … blessed be the eyes with which you looked upon my Lord Jesus Christ … blessed be the mouth with which you spoke to him, blessed the hands with which you adored him.)

Other spells take the form of a curse in which Martha is visualized stomping and ‘breaking’ Tarasque with her foot, leaving the poor dragon humiliated and immobilized.18 Just as these images festively reframe the saint’s legend, they also comically evoke visual representations of the Virgin Mary treading on a serpent or dragon symbolizing original sin. They in effect reverse the meaning of sacred conquest, equating it with woman’s sexual domination or domestication of her lover. In the New World as in Spain, Martha was thus called on as a sort of dominatrix, in keeping with the meaning of the word ‘tarasca’ as an aggressive, shameless woman, as well as the legendary serpent that was often paraded in effigy during the celebration of Corpus Christi and other feasts. Early readers familiar with hagiographic drama, love spells, and processional dragons would have had no trouble interpreting Martha’s ­conquest of the serpent that terrorized Peña de Martos in mamotreto 47 as an obvious allusion to Lozana’s ongoing characterization as a tarasca. Delicado consistently presents his anti-heroine as a witch, a matchmaker, and a hostess who receives her guests by offering them the same kind of sexual hospitality that the Archpriest of Hita sought in the Guadarrama.19 Soon after arriving in Rome she asks, ‘¿Cómo, que no hay alcagüetas en esta tierra?’ (How can it be that there are no procuresses in this land?) (273). She will go on to fulfil this role by inviting strangers from all walks of life into her house of ill-repute, in a parody of Martha’s famed hospitality.20 At one point, she more explicitly steps into the role of Martha by setting up one of her clients with a prostitute named ‘Madalena’ – this after having checked him over for herself (mamotreto 25). Both housekeeping and hosting are equated to prostitution in the Lozana, as when one of the protagonist’s clients compares the sex act to paying a hostess to ‘sweep’ his clothing (412). This and other scenes of domesticity in the Lozana parody Martha’s biblical and hagiographic function of receiving Christ and in turn being received into His eternal house. Even Lozana’s ultimate retirement from her hospitality business can be seen as a travesty of Martha’s vita hermetica. Like the unholy ‘Little Martha’ invoked in magic spells, Lozana transforms the virtues Silvano ironically attributes to St Martha – ‘caridad, hospitalidad y amor projimal’ (charity, hospitality, and neighbourly love) – into the sins of a prostitute-turned-bawd (398).21

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Lozana imitates the saint’s reputed culinary skills in the same way. In early modern Europe, Martha was known as the patroness of cooks for having satisfied the hunger of Christ in the Gospel of John. For this reason, her kitchen provided a setting for double entendres in love spells that describe how the hands of the saintly cook adored the Saviour (John 12.2–3; 114).22 Lozana grew up preparing meals for her family, but soon came to specialize in gratifying relatives and strangers alike with an array of aphrodisiacs and otherwise suggestive dishes, including spicy appe­ tizers, turnips, meatballs, turnovers, and honeyed desserts (178–9).23 Cooking and eating are among the anti-heroine’s favourite metaphors for lovemaking, as she puts into practice the erotic connotations of her grandmother’s saying, ‘olla sin cebolla es boda sin tamborín’ (a pot without an onion is like a wedding without a tambourine), and uses another pun to blame whoredom on the demands of the palate, ‘¿quién te hizo puta? el vino y la fruta’ (who made you a whore? wine and fruit) (179, 214). In further parallel with the iconography of St Martha, the reader is encouraged to see Lozana in the kitchen, with her ladle and pot, as a sexualized homemaker. Throughout Delicado’s carnivalesque narrative, she and other prostitutes act as cooks as well as food tasters, tantalizing themselves and others with gastronomical delights: ‘¿Qué se hace señora?’ ‘señores, cernar y amasar y ordenar de pellejar’… ‘ellos a joder y nosotras a comer’… ‘véngase a mi casa esta noche’ … ‘probará mi vino, que raspa. Sea a cena, haré una cazuela’ … ‘tendré mi casa abastecida’ … ‘muchos yo tengo ya domados.’ (321, 335, 362, 376) (‘What can you do, lady?’ ‘Gentlemen, I can pound and knead and have the skin removed’ … ‘let them fuck and us eat’ … ‘come to my house tonight’ … ‘you shall taste my wine, for it is spicy. If it be meal time, I will make a casserole’ … ‘I will fill my house with provisions’ … ‘there are many [men] that I have already tamed.’)

The ultimate purpose of sexualized food – usually fruits and meats – is to show how Lozana dominates and ‘breaks in’ her guests by filling their stomachs.24 In addition to emulating Martha cooking for Christ and taming the dragon, she imitates Eve luring Adam with the forbidden fruit – this in keeping with the comparison drawn in love spells between the delectables of Martha and Eve.25

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Delicado’s overall use of the Martha cult as an organizing principle for his pseudo-biographical narrative is encapsulated in mamotreto 47. By recounting the saint’s legend as the patroness of Peña de Martos, Silvano, the ‘friend of the author,’ essentially invites Lozana into the process of her own burlesque characterization or portraiture. Like the Martha of Renaissance love spells, he alludes to her as a sexual dragon slayer who is herself a tarasca, or voracious, demonic woman. The purpose of Silvano is to draw a humorous contrast between the saint watching over the chastity of Roman women and the whoredom of Rome that Lozana represents. After hearing the legend, Lozana playfully confuses the name of a mountain range near Peña de Martos, the Alcaudete, with a Spanish word for pimp, ‘alcahuete’, and then asks Silvano to read her the Carajicomedia and Celestina (398). In other words, she understands the legend to be a joke, but does not yet fathom its ultimate meaning: whereas Martha took over the protective role of Mars by watching over the honour of imperial soldiers, she and her ilk will invite the sacking of Rome by soon-to-be emperor Carlos V. Her life is revealed to be a satirical reconfiguration of hagiographic material – the portrait of a ‘picaresque saint’ who speaks through a novelistic hybridization of conflicting discursive modes. In mamotreto 47, her image is put together before her very eyes by an artist whose self-consciousness and self-fictionalization will provide a model for later novelists. John the Baptist and the Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes In 1554, the first pseudo-autobiography of a rogue appeared in Spain, centred on the life of an unlikely hero called Lazarillo de Tormes.26 This name seems to have been associated with an unsavoury folk character, as suggested by a passing allusion in the Lozana andaluza to ‘Lazarillo, el que cabalgó a su agüela’ (the one who rode his grandmother) (344). The premise of the anonymous book is laid out in the prologue, in which an unidentified personage has asked Lázaro to explain an unspecified matter: ‘Vuestra Merced escribe se le escriba y relate el caso muy por extenso’ (Your Grace has written asking me to write and tell about the case in great detail) (10). To fulfil this request, the first-person narrator tells of his origins and coming of age as the destitute son of a miller who served a series of abusive masters. In seven chapters called ‘tratados’ (treatises), the anti-hero recounts how he stole wine and traded blows with a blind man; got clobbered for breaking into a priest’s store of

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bread; watched a squire waste away in an empty, tomb-like house; witnessed a pardoner con believers into buying fake indulgences; and, finally, worked as a water carrier and a wine peddler, what he calls ‘la cumbre de toda buena fortuna’ (the height of all good fortune) (135). Lazarillo got this last position by agreeing to marry an archpriest’s concubine, a turn of events that appears to have something to do with the mysterious ‘case’ that prompted the narrator to tell his tale in the first place.27 By leaving this gap in the text, the unidentified author invites reworkings and continuations. He shows how the life of a pícaro can draw readers into an unfinished, intentionally ambiguous process of self-fashioning.28 By using a rogue as a first-person narrator, he goes even further than Delicado in self-consciously fictionalizing both the composition and reception of his book. Lázaro is at once a cuckolded wine-seller who feels compelled to explain himself to an individual authority figure, and an authorial persona who acknowledges his larger reading public: ‘que a todos se comunicase’ (let this be available to all) (3). The narrator’s attempt to justify himself in the eyes of ‘Your Grace,’ and explain his involvement in a demeaning ménage à trois that is ironically deemed the ‘height of all good fortune,’ only serve to expose his culpability ‘to all’ as a cynical accomplice rather than an innocent victim. In this way, the audience is drawn into what Edward Friedman has described as the ‘unmasking of an unreliable narrator’ (The Antiheroine’s Voice 17). Lazarillo de Tormes not only encourages readers and future writers to question the motives of its narrator and reinterpret his story, but in fact models this very process.29 Peter Dunn has shown how the anonymous book, like the Lozana andaluza, recasts the noble feats of knights as criminal stints, and transforms the romance preoccupation with heroic family roots into a ‘case’ of willing cuckoldry. The related precedent of saints’ lives plays an even more important role in the Lazarillo’s intertextuality, as hagiography was the only literary mode during the first half of the sixteenth century that consistently used titles beginning with the words ‘the life of.’ Of course, the name ‘Lázaro’ itself evokes the beggar named Lazarus, as well as the earlier-mentioned brother of Martha and the Magdalene whom Christ raised from the dead in the Gospels (Luke 16; John 11).30 Harold Jones and Clark Colahan have found connections with a number of other saints’ legends. For example, Jones points out that the blind man mocks Lazarillo with an epithet, ‘bienaventurado’ (blessed, fortunate), that was commonly applied to popular holy men like Amarus.31 Later, after getting even with his sightless master, the narrator employs a formula that can be found in the life of Emilianus,

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among others: ‘me alumbró y adestró en la carrera de vivir’ (it illuminated me and put me on the right path in life) (23).32 This and other correlations once again suggest that satirical and beatific lives could be read as compatible, parallel, or even complementary literary modes in early modern Spain. However, I have found that it is not just hagiographic topoi that are ironically reconfigured in the Lazarillo, but also the popular cult of saints – and in particular the cult of John the Baptist. While critics like Gordana Yovanovich have discussed in general terms the carnivalesque atmosphere that surrounds the rogue, it is my contention that the text draws specifically on the feast of St John. The Baptist is, after all, the only saint that Lazarillo directly identifies with his family, and invokes to come to his aid. The flowing river that fuelled his father’s ‘mill’ – an age-old symbol of illicit sexual activity – is irreverently equated to a baptismal font when the protagonist reports being named for his birth in the waters of the Tormes. The Church had long interpreted Moses’ being found in a river as a prefigurement of Christian baptism. When Lazarillo’s father is later caught stealing grain, the criminal mimics John’s insistence that he is not the Christ: ‘confesó y no negó’ (he confessed and did not deny) (14; cf. John 1.20).33 This image mirrors the narrative process of the son, who has already described himself in the prologue as ‘confesando yo no ser más santo que mis vecinos’ (confessing to be no more holy than my neighbours) (10).34 His father’s subsequent incarceration alludes to the beatitudes when Christ blesses those who will be persecuted for His sake: ‘padesció persecución por justicia … pues el Evangelio los llama bienaventurados’ (he suffered persecution for the sake of justice … the Gospel calls such men blessed) (14; cf. Matt. 5.10).35 St John was, of course, the first follower of Christ to be arrested and killed. It is quite possible that these biblical citations were based on a Spanish hagiographic source, as opposed to the Bible itself. Writers of saints’ lives had already translated the scriptural account of John’s martyrdom using language similar to that of the narrator, as can be seen in a late medieval version of the Flos sanctorum: ‘sufrió … por justicia … confesó la verdat e non la negó’ (he suffered … for the sake of justice … confessed the truth and did not deny it) (Baños Vallejo 182). Later, while serving the blind man, Lazarillo directly invokes the Baptist: ‘donde hallaba acogida y ganancia, deteníamos; donde no, a tercero día hacíamos Sant Juan’ (wherever we found ourselves welcome and able to profit, we would stick around; if not, on the third day we would make like St John) (35). In the next episode, the rogue calls on this same saint to curse the priest for starving him: ‘en mi secreta oración

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y devociones y plegarias decía: “¡Sant Juan, y ciégale!”’ (in my secret prayers and devotions and petitions, I would say: ‘St John, blind him!’) (35, 57). Thus, by invoking the Baptist in the context of his vagabondage and vengeance, Lazarillo identifies John as his unholy patron saint, in keeping with his father’s criminal imitatio. Caro Baroja has observed that the nativity feast on 24 June was associated with the movement of labourers and servants from one place or master to another (La estación 132). It was a time when the poor struggled to find work and food, as part of a yearly vicissitudinous cycle that corresponded with the transition from fertile to barren seasons. A connection between the saint’s day and the fortunes of the servant class can be seen in Gonzalo de Correas’s 1627 Vocabulario de refranes y frases proverbiales (Vocabulary of Adages and Proverbial Sayings): ‘San Juan de buena estrena, buen comida y mejor cena’ … ‘San Juan de los criados’ … ‘por San Juan todos los ruines se van,’ de aquí que en muchos puntos, días antes de San Juan se hicieran ferias de criados y criadas, proyectos de nuevos contratos, etc. (264, 434) (‘St John of good beginnings, good supper, and better dinner’... ‘St John of the servants’... ‘for St John all the delinquents depart,’ by which is meant that in many parts, on the days leading up to St John’s feast there would be fairs for male and female servants, arrangements for new hiring, etc.)

Such connotations explain why Lazarillo curses the priest for nearly starving him to death with an oath to John, and also prays to the Baptist for protection. Since late June was an occasion for hiring and firing servants, and thus reflected the material needs of the working poor, a blessed St John’s Day could signify a period of abundance and prosperity lasting through harvest time, while a cursed one implies unemployment – and, by extension, destitution in the hungry months to come. The anticipation of privations for those who lost out on the saint’s feast may have also been linked to interpretations of the biblical figure as an ascetic living in the desert like a wildman, ‘clothed in camel’s hair and a leather girdle around his loins,’ seemingly possessed by the devil, and ‘neither eating bread nor drinking wine’ (Mark 1.6; Luke 7.33).36 The life of Lazarillo de Tormes, in this sense, ironically turns a cursed St John’s Day into a blessed one, as the rogue moves from his miserable life with the blind man, to worsening starvation and destitution with the priest

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and squire, to feasting and the supposed ‘good life’ made possible by his cuckoldry (28, 97, 126, 130). As Anne Cruz has shown, this trajectory reflects the plight of the urban poor in sixteenth-century Spain. The fool’s progress of Lazarillo can also be understood as a carnivalization of the scriptural transition from the prophetic ministry of St John to the coming of salvation through Christ; from the forgiveness of sins through immersion in water to the shedding of redemptive blood. Whereas the Baptist refrains from consuming bread or drinking the fruit of the vine, Jesus turns water into wine and tells followers that He has come ‘eating and drinking, and you say: Look that man is a glutton of wine, a friend of tax collectors and sinners’ (Luke 7.34).37 As the mission of St John is to herald and prefigure the coming of the Messiah, he can be viewed as a spiritual counterpart to Lazarillo’s worldly identification as a water carrier who finally makes his living by peddling the wines of an archpriest from the church of San Salvador (the Holy Saviour) (126, 129). These last two stations are part of a larger pattern of water and wine imagery in the Lazarillo. Prior to selling the Eucharistic liquids, Lazarillo describes being born in a river, getting assaulted with a wine jug, treacherously guiding the blind man over a flooded, muddy stream, assisting a priest who drank more than a ‘saludador,’ and later lying to the squire: ‘“señor, no bebo vino” – “agua es” me respondío “bien puedes beber” … tomo el jarro y doy comigo en el río’ (‘sir, I don’t drink wine’ – ‘this is water,’ he responded, ‘fine for you to drink’ … I took the jug and went down to the river with it) (78). Javier Herrero rightly interprets Lazarillo’s thirst for wine as an ironic symbol of salvation and paradise, as is predicted in the first tratado, when the blind man uses it to treat the boy’s wounds: Yo como estaba hecho al vino, moría por él … acordé en el suelo del jarro hacerle una fuentecilla … con toda fuera, alzando con dos manos aquel dulce y amargo jarro, le dejó caer sobre mi … lavóme con vino las roturas que con los pedazos del jarro me había hecho … y decía ‘¿qué te parece, Lázaro? Lo que te enfermó te sana y da salud.’ (32–3) (And as I was made for wine, I was dying for it … I managed to make a little hole in the base of the jug which let out a thin jet … with all of his force, holding up with both hands that bittersweet jug, he brought it down on my head … he [then] used wine to wash the broken skin made by the shattered jar … and said, ‘so what do you know, Lazarus? That which damaged you now makes you well and gives you health.’)

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The blind man’s proverb recalls biblical verses that were linked to the doctrine of felix culpa and the curative properties of divine punishment: ‘I will strike and I will heal’ (Deut. 32.39).38 In a way that recalls the Celestina’s parody of the anointing of Christ’s feet, and the Carajicomedia’s mock contemplation of the sorrows of Mary at the foot of the Cross, the spectacle of Lazarillo imbibing from the blind man’s jug as he looks up at the heavens festively simulates the drinking of Eucharistic wine, just as his nativity in the river Tormes alludes to the ‘new birth’ of baptism. By turning this kind of religious symbolism into a source of laughter, the Lazarillo builds on a literary tradition that can be traced back to mock debates that had been a mainstay of medieval poets, and that sometimes culminated in the mixing of transubstantiated wine issued from the body of Christ with the saving waters of baptism.39 The pattern of images evoked by Lázaro comically re-enacts this mixture under the protection of St John, patron of impoverished servants, as the pícaro imitates the Baptist by parodically linking the Old Law with the New. It is from the standpoint of the grotesque ‘material body sphere’ that the lowly narrator organizes his story around the topic of aquam et vinum. Not surprisingly, the thaumaturgic power of water played a key role in the celebration of the Baptist’s feast. Fifteenth-century Spanish hagiographers, adapting from the Golden Legend, describe how bones were burnt on 24 June in the belief that this would prevent serpents or dragons from polluting wells and other water sources: Queman algunos los huesos de todas las bestias que pueden ayuntar a uno … porque así lo solían fazer los antiguos, ca eran unos dragones que volavan por el aire, e nadavan por el agua … y así enpoçoñavan el aire et el agua … e contra este venino fazían fuegos de los huesos de bestias … e esto fumo fazíalos foir, e porque esta pestilencia era mayormente en este tienpo que son los días grandes e las calenturas … lo fazién en este tienpo desta fiesta, e dende lo fazen en algunos lugares aún en día. (Baños Vallejo 182) (They burn the bones of all the beasts that they can gather in one place … because that is what the ancients used to do, as there were some dragons that flew through the air, and swam in the waters … and thus poisoned the air and the water … and to offset this venom they made bonfires from the bones of beasts … and this smoke made them [the dragons] flee, and because their pestilence was greater during this time when the days are long and feverish … they did this at the time of this feast, and so it is still done in some places to this day.)

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In its reinterpretation of the festivity, the medieval legend goes on to explain that the bonfires of St John symbolize the supposed incineration of the Baptist’s bones by Julian the Apostate, the last pagan Roman emperor. Caro Baroja has shown that across Spain these fires continued to be lit during the Renaissance as a means of keeping away evil spirits, ensuring good marriages, and celebrating the fertility of the earth (La estación 144, 155). On the eve of the feast, celebrants of marrying age were recorded in the early seventeenth century dancing and leaping over the flames.40 On the morning of 24 June, believers would pass through, gather, and drink from rivers and other water sources, as this liquid was thought to have been blessed and purified by the Baptist. Given Lazarillo’s special devotion to St John, such cleansing rituals would have undoubtedly contributed to the irony of his river birth; his leading the blind man across an overflowing, contaminated stream; and filling the squire’s jar with the unclean waters of the Tajo – not to mention the turning point in his career: ‘en poder un asno y cuatro cántaros y un azote, y comencé a echar agua por la ciudad. Éste fue el primer escalón que yo subí para venir a alcanzar buena vida’ (provided with an ass, four jugs, and a whip, I began to carry water around the city. That was my first step towards the good life) (126). The waters of the future cuckold can be contrasted with those of St John, which were believed to bless and purify the community and linked to the preservation of the institution of marriage.41 It is clear that the Baptist’s feast was not just an occasion for ritual purification in early modern Spain, but also carnivalesque revelry. Decrees issued during the sixteenth century expressly prohibit the coronation of misrulers on 24 June who wore blackface and were accompanied by a retinue of merrymakers. Evidence collected by anthropologists suggests that these figures were ritually dethroned during the festivities. In parts of rural Navarra, for instance, the Baptist’s nativity was for centuries celebrated with an elaborate ceremony in which a notorious thief called Juan Lobo (John the Wolf) was arrested and brought into the plaza, where crowds gathered to mock and insult him before witnessing his mock execution. Caro Baroja links this and similar customs to the yearly punishment of Lord Carnival for his bestial crimes, as can be seen in the Libro de buen amor. He also cites a proverb from Correas’s seventeenth-century collection that I believe provides a key insight into the function of violent abuse in Lazarillo de Tormes: ‘Porrilla de Santibáñez, si te diere no te ensañes.’ Llaman … porrilla de Santibáñez … esto es, de San Juan, a un manojo de juncia hecho como una

90  The Laughter of the Saints maza y ñudo gordo al cabo, con que se dan unos a otros el día de San Juan, en burla y juego, y no se han de enojar, porque lo pide la fiesta y costumbre. (405) (‘The cudgel of St Johannes; if it hits you, keep your temper.’ They call … the cudgel of St Johannes … that is, of St John, an implement of juniper made like a mace and with a thick knob at the end, with which people strike one another on St John’s Day, in jest and in play, and one should not become angry, for this is required by the feast and custom.)

This custom explains why Lazarillo’s beatings are repeatedly presented as a source of festive laughter: ‘la risa de todos era grande, que toda la gente que por la calle pasaba entraba a ver la fiesta … tornaron de nuevo a contar mis cuitas y a reírlas’ (great was the laughter of all present as everyone who passed on the street came over to see the festivity … they returned again to recount my sufferings and laugh about them) (41, 70).42 The blind man, in particular, takes delight in buffeting Lazarillo, and later entertains passersby with the tale of the smashed wine jug. Similarly, the priest jokes about how he clobbered his thieving servant with a cudgel not unlike the one described in Correas’s Vocabulario de los refranes. As Caro Baroja notes, the insistence that victims take their abuse good-naturedly on St John’s feast can be linked to the figure of ‘Juan Bobo’ (John the Fool), a gullible simpleton of Spanish folklore who endures beatings, cuckoldry, and other forms of public humiliation – all typical of the cruel humour that prevailed during this period.43 An early allusion to the popular character can be found in the Celestina, when the old bawd brags, ‘quatro hombres que he topado, a los tres llaman Juanes y los dos son cornudos’ (if I run into four men, three of them are called John and two are cuckolds) (150). Covarrubias, in his 1611 lexicography, explains how charlatans and street performers were known to draw a crowd by engaging in comic exchanges with a hired ‘Juan Bobo’ (433). Similarly, Lazarillo de Tormes tells how spectators flocked to hear the blind man heckle him: ‘reían mucho el artificio y decíanle: “¡Castigadlo, castigadlo!”’ (they laughed heartily at his trick and said: ‘Punish him, punish him!’). Images of the rogue being physically abused by his masters can also be related to the practice of battering and breaking open straw men on the feast of John the Baptist. Eugenio Salamero Resa, in his study of religious customs in northern Spain, gives a detailed account of how effigies known as ‘Juan Beringas’ (pestering Johns) were traditionally dressed in

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old clothes or animal skins – reminiscent of the Baptist wearing ‘camel hair and leather girdle’ (239–51; fig. 10). On 24 June, these dummies were flung from ropes and broken apart as a procession passed by carrying a devotional figure of St John that, by contrast, had been ceremonially dressed in fine linens.44 In the province of Zaragoza, a bull was paraded in advance of the Baptist so that the pestering straw men could be rammed, horned, and trampled before being thrown into the bonfires that marked the passing of the summer solstice. Caro Baroja also notes that in Asturias families placed horns on the doors of their houses as a safeguard against evil forces seeking to destroy their livelihood – in keeping with the polluting serpent from medieval legend, and the sixteenthcentury belief that witches would attempt to poison ‘el pan y el vino en el tiempo que faltaba hasta San Juan’ (bread and wine in the time leading up to St John’s Day)(239). Many of these connotations appear to feed into the life of Lazarillo, as he finds himself dressed in old clothes and broken open, knocked unconscious by the statue of a bull, mistaken for a snake by the priest, and warned by the blind man that a rack of horns (symbolizing cuckoldry) will provide his sustenance: ‘Llegamos a un mesón, a la puerta del cual había muchos cuernos … asió de un cuerno, y con un gran suspiro dijo … “algún día te dará éste que en la mano tengo alguna mala comida”’ (we arrived at an inn, on the door of which were many horns … he grabbed one, and with a great sigh said … ‘one day this that I have in my hand will give you a poor meal’) (33). In fulfilment of the blind man’s prophecy, Lazarillo will ultimately make his way in the world by marrying a priest’s mistress, and his ‘waters’ will continue to be polluted. Instead of following the example of the Baptist, who proclaimed the coming of Christ, the rogue plays the degraded role of a straw man and laughing stock who peddles wine for his wife’s lover. In this manner, he emulates festive figures known as ‘foolish’ and ‘pestering’ Johns as opposed to the holy man from the Gospels, and in doing so grotesquely mirrors his patron saint. Yovanovich has recently adopted R.W.B. Lewis’s term in her claim that ‘it would be unwarranted to glorify Lazarillo and to call him a picaresque saint’ (67). Such a statement, of course, assumes that literary allusions to sanctity have an exalting effect. Yet we have seen in this study how quite the opposite is often the case in satirical Spanish texts written from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century. Lazarillo’s performance of holiness can be compared to Lozana’s imitation of ‘Little Martha, not the holy or righteous one’; Celestina’s parody of the beata peccatrix from Magdala;

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Santilario as the ghoulish double of Hilarion of Gaza in the Carajicomedia; along with the alter egos of Meder and Quiteria in the Libro de buen amor. In the Lazarillo, however, this kind of reverse exemplarity contributes to the overall ‘unmasking’ of a roguish narrator engaged in a process of recreating his life and novelizing the self. The text in this fashion builds on reflexive qualities that are already present in Francisco Delicado’s work, when a ‘friend of the author’ invites the Lozana to contemplate her unfinished characterization as an unholy hostess and dragon slayer. In the Lozana and Lazarillo, Martha and John the Baptist have been exploited as a primary means of constructing an anti-hero whose very personality defines the textual ‘portrait’ or ‘life.’ Both books show how medieval traditions of parodic sanctity were expanded on and reworked, as Renaissance narrators began to take an increasingly self-conscious, metafictional approach to life-telling. What remains to be seen is how this innovation feeds into the development of what are often considered the first truly modern Spanish novels, Guzmán de Alfarache and Don Quijote.

5 Rivalries and Reconciliations

In his study of the art of the novel, Milan Kundera has observed that, after the publication of Don Quijote de la Mancha, ‘each work is an answer to preceding ones’ (Art 19). Miguel de Cervantes set this precedent by famously creating an anti-hero who confuses fiction with reality, as well as secondary characters who try to reconfigure and live out their lives in accordance with the books they have read.1 His masterpiece not only responds to and novelizes the stagnant tradition of romance, but also reacts to the still emerging form of anti-romance that has come to be called the picaresque. This can be most clearly seen in the portrayal of Ginés de Pasamonte, alias ‘Ginesillo de Parapillo,’ a roguish galley slave whom Don Quijote frees in part one (chaps. 22–3), and who later reappears in part two as a puppeteer named Maese Pedro (chaps. 25–7). Before being liberated, the prisoner claims to be writing a picaresque novel called The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte, which, he predicts, will surpass Lazarillo de Tormes and ‘cuantos de aquel género se han escrito o escribieron’ (all who have written or shall write in that manner) (224; 149).2 Some critics, following Martín de Riquer, identify this character with one of Cervantes’ rivals, Jerónimo de Pasamonte, a writer who may or may not have been responsible for the apocryphal sequel to the novel, Segundo tomo del Ingenioso Hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha (Second Volume of The Renowned Gentleman Don Quijote de la Mancha), published in 1614 under the nom de plume Alonso Fernández de Avellaneda.3 While this theory remains in dispute, there can be no doubt that, for early sixteenthcentury readers, the idea of a fictionalized life of Ginés de Pasamonte would have brought to mind Mateo Alemán’s recently published best-­ seller about another notorious pícaro and galley slave, Aventuras y vida de Guzmán de Alfarache (1599, 1604).4 In fact, as Peter Dunn explains, the

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former name can be understood as a ‘parodic echo’ of the latter, as it uses the same number of syllables and stress pattern (217). Dunn also finds that the name Ginés, along with the diminutive ‘Ginesillo,’ associates the rogue with a Christian martyr, St Genesius of Rome. The legend of this saint became popular during the Middle Ages, and later inspired Lope de Vega’s well-known play Lo fingido verdadero (Acting is Believing, 1620).5 According to hagiographic sources, Genesius was a Roman actor who converted during a play that had been written as a satire of the Christian ritual of baptism. While interpreting the comic role of a convert, he saw a vision of angels carrying a book inscribed with his sins. When the actor then proclaimed onstage that his performance had become a reality, the Emperor Diocletian had him taken into custody by the  prefect and brutally tortured. Genesius was finally beheaded (or in some versions impaled) after refusing to renounce his new-found beliefs. Whereas the legend from the sixteenth-century Flos sanctorum of Pedro de Ribadeneyra focuses on the distinction between the sinful actor and the martyred saint, Lope’s play at times blurs the line between real and feigned holiness by showing how Genesius experiences Christianity as a theatrical performance before and after his conversion: Cómo haré yo que parezca que soy mismo cristiano cuando al tormento me ofrezca? ¿Con qué acción, qué rostro y mano en que alabanza merezca? … Yo dije a Dios mi papel Desde el punto de aquel día, Y aun como el Avemaría, Que también estaba en él … Dice el cielo que seré El mejor representante

(71, 75)

(How should I make it seem that I am truly Christian when they turn me over to be tortured? How should I move, with what expression and gesture shall I win their praise? … I read my lines for God from that point onward, and even included the Ave Maria, which was in my script … the heavens pronounce that I am the greatest actor).

Stage directions call for the saint’s angelic vision to be signalled by the unveiling and spotlighting of a Christian painting, while a voice pronounces, ‘no le imitarás en vano’ (you will not play this part in vain)

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(71). As this simulated miracle can only be perceived by Genesius and the real-life audience, the actor cast as the angel later protests that he never got to read his lines. Barbara Simerka has noted that ‘the question of who actually “played” the angel is never resolved’ (63). She finds that Lope’s metatheatre instead blurs the distinction between Genesius’s satirical performance of holiness and his real-life conversion – comparable to the kind of self-conscious reflection on fictional processes that characterizes earlier Renaissance works like the Lozana andaluza and Lazarillo de Tormes, and that will become even more prominent in novels written during the Counter-Reformation period, with its greater emphasis on the themes of desengaño (disillusionment with material existence) and teatrum mundi (the world as a stage).6 My purpose in this final chapter is to delve further into the parodic performance of holiness in early modern Spain by examining the role of saints used as models of imperfect conversion in the monumental novels of Alemán and Cervantes, and at the same time implicated in a rivalry between genuine and apocryphal authors. In the composition of the authorized part two of Guzmán de Alfarache, St Anthony of Padua is invoked both inside and outside the text as way of conceptualizing the revenge motif that dominates the second half of the book, and casts further doubts on the pícaro’s final change of heart. In his authentic continuation to Don Quijote, Cervantes evokes an image of St Martin of Tours as part of his reaction against Avellaneda’s portrayal of his anti-hero as an irredeemable fool. In both novels, the ‘answer to preceding works’ involves a metafictional exploitation of the cult of saints that builds on earlier expressions of anti-heroic sanctity and worldly versus spiritual conversion. St Anthony’s Book and the Segunda parte de Guzmán de Alfarache In December 1602, the author of Guzmán de Alfarache was shackled and incarcerated in the Royal Prison of Seville for failing to pay his debts.7 After his estranged wife refused to post bail, Mateo Alemán’s cousin and benefactor finally came to the rescue in late January. Juan Bautista de Rosso purchased the author’s freedom with five hundred copies of Guzmán, but he was unwilling to pay any legal fees. This comes as no surprise, considering that Alemán had a long history of defaulting on loans, and probably owed Rosso at least four hundred ducats in outstanding debt.8 To make matters worse, a Valencian attorney named Juan Martí, having somehow stolen Alemán’s plans for the Segunda parte, had just published a spurious part two under the pseudonym ‘Mateo Luján

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de Sayavedra.’ It is unclear whether this rival had gained access to the planned sequel in the form of notes, manuscript folios, or the spoken word. Whatever the case, Alemán would later complain that Martí had ‘aborted the embryo’ of his creation, filling the unfinished book with a series of patriotic and lawyerly digressions loosely centred on the pícaro’s journey to Valencia, where Felipe III celebrated his royal wedding in 1599 (21).9 Yet, instead of finishing his authentic continuation of Guzmán, the picaresque novelist worked day and night on a hagiographic text, San Antonio de Padua. His motives for hurriedly writing the life of this saint as a kind of prelude to the Segunda parte have never been fully explained. It is clear that Alemán, as indicated earlier, used book two of his sequel to take revenge on the author of the apocryphal Guzmán, characterizing the imitator as the older brother of a petty thief named ‘Sayavedra’ (135, 229). The question that concerns me is how the prior publication of San Antonio sets the stage for this vindictive metafiction, insofar as the Portuguese saint was famously robbed of a book, and accordingly invoked by those seeking to recover lost or stolen property. San Antonio de Padua has received little critical attention, in spite of the fact that it went through at least four editions between 1604 and 1622.10 Only a handful of scholars have considered its relationship to Guzmán de Alfarache, or questioned Alemán’s motives for writing the life of a patron saint in tandem with the life of a pseudo-autobiographical rogue. Henri Guerreiro, for example, has observed that what seem to be dissimilar, or even contradictory, lives are in fact ideologically unified by their narrators’ concern over social injustice (‘El San Antonio’). Michel Cavillac, Hironobu Makiyama, and others have further suggested that Mateo Alemán wrote San Antonio as a way of distancing himself from his converso background by establishing his Christian credentials.11 More recently, Michael Scham has found that Alemán ‘employs the saint and the pícaro in similar ways and to similar ends’ through St Anthony’s ability to bring others to the faith and Guzmán’s claim to have finally reconciled himself (176, 184). What has yet to be considered in these discussions is how Alemán’s preoccupation with the expropriated sequel relates to his treatment of the theme of conversion in San Antonio and the Segunda parte. Guerreiro has shown that San Antonio draws on Franciscan chronicles, and their later elaboration in vernacular hagiography (‘La tradición’). According to these sources, the saint was born in Lisbon near the end of the twelfth century. In 1220, he joined the Order of Friars Minor, and set

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off on a mission to convert infidels in Morocco.12 The would-be martyr was instead overcome by illness and shipwrecked off the Italian coast. Following his recuperation, Anthony journeyed to a hermitage and began preaching. His eloquence soon came to the attention of St Francis, who personally chose him to spread the Word in Italy and France. Anthony eagerly set about saving sinners and exposing heretics and tyrants. In response to his moving sermons, bread was distributed to the poor, and laws were passed to protect the oppressed. Anthony’s preaching was believed to make fish leap from rivers, inspire mules to kneel before the blessed sacrament, and stop the rain from falling on his audience. In his cell in Padua, the saint even reported having a vision of the infant Jesus. Years after the thaumaturge died, his tongue was supposedly found intact in his crypt, prompting St Bonaventure to exclaim, ‘O Blessed tongue that always praised the Lord, and made others bless Him’ (Dal-Gal).13 In his most famous miracle, however, Anthony appears to have bestowed more of a curse than a blessing. The story appears in Alemán’s chapter entitled ‘Un frayle novicio hurtó a S. Antonio un Salterio’ (a novice friar stole St Anthony’s psalter) (fols. 207–10).14 According to legend, one of St Anthony’s most cherished possessions was a Book of Psalms that he often read, glossed, and carried with him on his missionary travels; ‘glosado de su mano, de que se aprovechava para sus leciones ordinarias, y para la explicación de los lugares de la escritura en sus predicaciones’ (glossed by his own hand, which he made use of for his ordinary readings, and for the explication of topics for writing his sermons) (fol. 209). In Montpellier, a novice stole this book and fled from the friary where Anthony had been teaching. The saint noticed right away that his beloved psalter was missing and prayed fervently for its return. His prayer was answered when God sent a devil to confront the novice, threatening to kill him if he did not return the book at once: El santo supo cierto, que se lo avia tomado aquel novicio, y ausentándose con el. Sintiolo mucho … suplicando a el Señor, no permitiesse … [que] le llevase su libro, pues le hazía tanta falta, y a otro que a él no pudiera ser de tanto provecho … tomando por instrumento a el mismo dañador el Demonio … a el tiempo que iva el frayle [ladrón] a passar por una puente … le apareció … una figura fiera … que le dixo … ‘vuélbele a el siervo de Dios Antonio esse libro que le llevas hurtado, porque si luego no lo hazes, aquí te mataré, y arronjaré tu cuerpo en este río.’ (209–10)

98  The Laughter of the Saints (The saint discovered for certain that the novice had taken it, and left with it in his possession. He was very upset … petitioning the Lord to not permit … [that] his book be taken away, for he needed it so very much, and it could not be so useful for someone else … taking as an instrument the true culprit, the Devil … just when the [thieving] friar was going to cross over a bridge … there appeared to him … a fierce figure … that said to him … ‘return to the servant of God, Anthony, this book that you have stolen, because if you fail to do so immediately, I will kill you right here, and throw your body in this river.’) 15

As Alemán himself explains, it was customary for St Anthony to be called on by anyone seeking retribution for ‘hurtos y cosas perdidas’ (stolen items and lost things) (fol. 208). Over the course of his hagiography, the novelist credits St Anthony with coming to his assistance on a number of occasions, such as when he was almost killed by an artillery blast off the coast of Cartagena in 1591.16 To express his gratitude for this miracle, Alemán claims to have made a voto, or vow, to compose the life of Anthony of Padua. Given that he chose to write his tribute to the saint some thirteen years later, just after his sequel was stolen by an imitator, it is reasonable to assume that San Antonio de Padua was conceived not only as an ex-voto offering to this holy patron of the poor, hungry, and oppressed – to include debtors and prisoners like Alemán – but also a kind of metafictional plea for intercession in the recovery of his intellectual property. The saint’s reputed power to recuperate stolen goods is consistently emphasized by hagiographers writing at the same time as Alemán. For example, Ribadeneyra writes in his ‘Life of St Anthony of Padua’: Tiene el pueblo christiano por abogado, a San Antonio para las cosas perdidas … [porque] al mismo Santo le sucedió, que aviendo un novicio … hurtado un psalterio de mano glossado … se puso luego en oración … que le restituyesse su libro. (fol. 212) (Christendom has as its advocate for lost things, St Anthony … [for] it happened that the saint himself … having lost a psalter that he had glossed by hand … began to pray that soon … his book would be returned.)

In other words, praying to St Anthony for restitution is not just a means to an end, but an act of imitatio, a way to remember and consciously assimilate the example of Anthony recovering his book. Alemán describes

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this process in his introduction to San Antonio: ‘sean las vidas de santos … claro y fiel espejo cristalino de roca, donde nos avemos de mirar’ (let the lives of saints be … a clear and faithful mirror of solid crystal where we might look at ourselves). He reminds audience members that, in the act of reading his hagiography, they will see the trials and tribulations of their own lives. Foremost among the author’s tribulations at the time he wrote this prologue was, understandably, Martí’s expropriation of the planned sequel to his ‘best-selling’ novel. This theft is not just implied, but explicitly evoked in the preliminaries of Alemán’s San Antonio de Padua. In his elegy, López del Valle first contrasts the exemplarity of St Anthony with the counter-example of Guzmán in the still unfinished Segunda parte, but then presents these texts as a kind of twofold response to Juan Martí’s theft:17 En escribir la historia del glorioso S. Antonio de Padua … [el autor] fio en su intercessión, que servirá de espuelas, a los varones perfetos … alentados de la variedad de discursos que a diferentes propósitos se apuntan en este libro, y la de Guzmán de Alfarache, cuya segunda parte, aviendo ya cumplido con esta que lo fue (por voto) de necesidad, se imprimirá presto, para desterrar la que sin verdadero nombre de autor, y contrahaziendo el de Matheo Alemán, salió en Valencia el año passado. Será un freno para detener los ombres, que dexándose sobrar de sus passiones, se despeñan por cosas de tan poca sustancia, como bienes temporales y mundo, y escarmentando en los ruines sucesos, a que traxeron a aquel hijo del ocio [Guzmán] sus demasias, volberán en si, y les abrirá los ojos, el conocimiento y confusión del pecado. (emphasis mine) (In writing the history of the glorious St Anthony of Padua … [the author] had faith in his intercession, that it would spur men to perfect themselves … invigorated by the variety of discourses that for different purposes are recorded in this book; and that of Guzmán de Alfarache, whose second part, having already been completed – along with this one, whose completion was necessitated (by a vow) – will now be printed without delay, to exile that [book] which, without the true name of the author, [and] going against that of Mateo Alemán, came out in Valencia last year. It will be a rein to hold back those youths who let themselves get filled up with passions, wasting their lives on things of little substance, such as temporal and worldly goods; and correcting the ruinous actions that led that son of vice [Guzmán] to his excesses, they will come to their senses, and their eyes will be opened to the knowledge and confusion of sin.)

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Thus, the writing of the hagiography was seen by contemporaries as fulfilling a voto, or personal vow – that is, as a way of giving thanks to Anthony for past assistance, and/or petitioning the saint to once again come to Alemán’s aid.18 Juan Martí is at the same time specifically condemned not just for writing a spurious continuation, but for stealing and copying Alemán’s sequel. Textual larceny similarly figures into Alemán’s prologue to his authentic Segunda parte, as the novelist describes how an unnamed ‘famous thief’ left him ‘robbed and defrauded,’ forcing him to rewrite a text that he had already completed (20–2). This robbery, and its close association with Alemán’s rush to complete San Antonio and the Segunda parte, is then further discussed by Luis de Valdés in his prefatory elegy to the novel: El valenciano, negando su nombre, se fingió Mateo Luján [de Sayavedra], por asimilarse a Mateo Alemán … lo compré yo [este libro] … creyendo ser legítimo, hasta que, a poco leído, mostró las orejas fuera del pellejo y fue conocido … Ya saldrán de su duda cuando hayan visto su San Antonio de Padua, que por voto que le hizo de componer su vida y milagros tardó tanto en sacar esta segunda parte. Verán cuán milagrosamente trató dellos, y aun se podía decir de milagro, pues yéndolo imprimiendo y faltando la materia, supe por cosa cierta que de anteanoche componía lo que se había de tirar en la jornada siguiente … ¿Qué diré, pues, ahora desta segunda de su Guzmán de Alfarache y [el] tiempo en que la compuso, que parece imposible? (27–8; emphasis mine) (The Valencian, not disclosing his name, pretended to be Mateo Luján [de Sayavedra], to seem like Mateo Alemán … I bought [this book] … believing it to be legitimate, until, having just started reading, his true colors were known to me … Your doubts will clear up when you see his St Anthony of Padua, which having sworn a vow to compose the saint’s life and miracles, he took so long in finishing this second part. You will see how miraculously he dealt with these things, in what could even be called a miracle, for as it was going to print and still unfinished, I found out for certain that the night before he wrote what was to be run off in the next round … So, what can I now say of this sequel to his Guzmán de Alfarache and [the] time in which he composed it, which seems impossible?)

Valdés, in keeping with López del Valle, suggests that Alemán saw the publication of San Antonio de Padua not only as an ex-voto or expression

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Figure 1.  Job on dung heap listening to musicians and whistling. From French illuminated hours, M.12, fol. 60r., c. 1500. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York.

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Figure 2.  Chancellor Pedro López de Ayala and son kneeling before St Blaise. Detail from Spanish Altarpiece (1928.817), late fourteenth century. The Art Institute of Chicago.

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Figure 3.  St Helen holding the True Cross as a dog chases a rabbit beneath a tree. Detail from Spanish prayer book, G.46, c. 1500. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York.

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Figure 4.  Mary Magdalene embracing the Cross accompanied by the biblical verse ‘oboediens usque ad mortem mortem autem crucis’ (obedient unto death, even to the death on the cross) (2 Phil. 8). Detail of the 1551 edition of Ambrosio de Montesino’s Vita Christi Cartuxano. Courtesy Benedictine College Library, Atchison, Kansas.

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Figure 5.  Hilarion of Gaza naked in the wilderness. Mosaic, west arm, south aisle (pier 2), thirteenth century. S. Marco Church, Venice, Italy. Courtesy Art Resource, New York.

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Figure 6.  St Hilarion tempted by wolves and women. Miniature from Jean de  Vignay’s translation of the Speculum historiale, of Vincentius Bellovacensis, M.51, fol. 137v., fifteenth century. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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Figure 7.  St Quiteria with book and rabid canines on a chain. Wooden statue, mid-fourteenth century, St Quiteria Church, Higueruela, Spain. Courtesy Antonio Mínguez Carrión.

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Figure 8.  The Magdalene anointing the feet of Jesus at the supper at Bethany. Illumination from Hours of Carlos V, M.696, fol. 86r., early sixteenth century. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York.

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Figure 9.  St Martha with the dragon Tarasque tied on a cord. Miniature from French illuminated hours, M.348, fol. 264r., late fifteenth century. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York.

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Figure 10.  John the Baptist in camel skins and holding Lamb of God with framed inscription ‘inter natus mulierun non surexi et maior [sic]’ (there hath not risen among them that are born of woman a greater) (Mat. 11.11). Miniature from Hours of Infante Don Alonso of Castile, M.865, fol. 20v., late fifteenth century. The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York.

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Figure 11.  El Greco, St Anthony of Padua. The saint is pictured with a lily and book inscribed with the infant Jesus. Oil on canvas, late sixteenth century. Museo del Prado, Madrid. Courtesy Art Resource, New York.

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Figure 12.  Brueghel the Elder, The Feast of St Martin. Martin of Tours holds his cloak in the midst of debauched beggars and ruffians. Remaining fragment of larger painting, oil on canvas, late sixteenth century. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria. Courtesy Art Resource, New York.

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of gratitude for the saint’s intercession in the past, but also as a vow to enlist the saint’s assistance in carrying out his planned, novelistic revenge on Juan Martí. Not surprisingly, Alemán’s preoccupation with textual theft extends from the prologues to the narrative of the Segunda parte. As alluded to earlier, the last chapter of book one fictionalizes the literary expropriation by introducing a dim-witted impersonator named Sayavedra who steals Guzmán’s luggage while he is travelling in Italy, and whose older brother is later mentioned as ‘el señor Juan Martí o Mateo Luján … ¿Cuál diablo de tentación le vino en dejar su negocio y empacharse con tal facilidad en lo que no era suyo?’ (Mister Juan Martí or Mateo Luján … What devil tempted him to put aside his own business and dedicate himself so easily to that which was not his?) (229).19 Critics have shown that Sayavedra represents the false pícaro who narrated the apocryphal sequel, while Juan Martí or Mateo Luján is identified as his creator.20 In book two, Guzmán temporarily forgives his rival and agrees to accept the petty thief as an apprentice and servant. The two then travel to Florence and Milan where the narrator criticizes Sayavedra for stealing inferior booty, and then orchestrates a lucrative heist. After taking revenge on his Genovese relatives for scorning him in part one – something which Sayavedra failed to do in Martí’s falsified novel – Guzmán and his servant set sail for Spain. During a terrible storm, Sayavedra finally renounces his falsified existence, and in a fit of madness jumps overboard: ‘¡Yo soy la sombra de Guzmán de Alfarache! ¡Su sombra soy, que voy por el mundo!’ (I am the shadow of Guzmán de Alfarache! As his shadow I go through the world!) (307). Alemán’s retaliation for Juan Martí’s theft has often been seen as a kind of literary curse. As Donald McGrady observes, Sayavedra’s suicide indicates that ‘Alemán would like to sink the apocryphal character (and his creator) in the deepest Hell’ (128–9).21 The death of this Girardian ‘monstrous double’ brings about a resolution to the mimetic conflict occasioned by Martí’s intervention in the story, and Alemán’s subsequent fictionalization of his Valencian imitator (Violence 160–1).22 Because Sayavedra has continued to slavishly imitate his model, and even changed his name to ‘Guzmán,’ the petty thief’s untimely demise also appears to fulfil the devil’s earlier-mentioned threat in San Antonio de Padua: ‘return to the servant of God, Anthony, this book the you have stolen, because if you fail to do so immediately, I will kill you right here, and throw your body in this river’ (fol. 210). In other words, a seventeenth-century audience would not only make the connection between St Anthony’s stolen

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book and Alemán being robbed of his sequel, but also realize that the death threat in San Antonio foreshadows the novelist’s curse on Juan Martí in the authentic sequel – for Alemán the hagiographer would have seen his own life reflected in the vita of St Anthony (as a ‘clear and faithful mirror of solid crystal’), assimilated the example of the saint’s stolen book, and accordingly equated his nemesis to the thieving novice in the Segunda parte. Alemán’s novelistic appropriation of St Anthony of Padua’s cult is not restricted to his retaliation on Sayavedra for stealing Guzmán’s luggage. In book three of his sequel, Alemán makes a sexual reference to the saint’s power over stolen goods: Cierto juez … habiendo estrupado casi treinta doncellas y entre ellas una hija de una pobre mujer, cuando vio el daño hecho, le fue a suplicar que ya, pues la tenía perdida, se la diese, por que no se divulgase su deshonra. Y sacando él un real de a ocho de la bolsa, le dijo: ‘Hermana, yo no sé de vuestra hija. Veis ahí esos ocho reales. Decidlos de misas a San Antonio de Padua, que os la depare.’ (453) (A certain judge … having violated nearly thirty ladies and among them the daughter of a poor woman. Seeing the damage done, she went to ask him, if, now that the girl was ruined, he might take her in, so as not to divulge her dishonour. And taking an eight real coin from his purse, he said: ‘Sister, I don’t know your daughter. You see here these eight reales. Have mass said at St Anthony’s church, so that he might come to her aid.’)

For a readership sensitive to the link between San Antonio and Guzmán that I have been discussing, the above invocation would have implicitly equated Juan Martí’s thievery of Alemán’s property to the deflowering of a virgin. In early modern festive culture, the saint’s power to recover stolen items was commonly extended to the search for a mate, and by extension to cases of lost maidenhood (which made finding a spouse especially difficult), as well as other worldly needs. These traditions were widespread enough to have been recorded in proverbs and songs, like the Leonese lyric, ‘oh glorioso San Antón/aquí te vengo a suplicar/me des una buena novia/que yo me quiero casar’ (oh glorious St Tony, here I come to ask that you give me a good bride, for I want to get married) (Alonso Ponga 9). The Church, and especially the Franciscans, had long encouraged victims of theft to chant the saint’s responsorial and antiphon: ‘si quaeris

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miracula … perditas petunt et accipiunt iuvenes et cani’ (if you seek miracles … lost treasures are found when young and old implore him) (Vilagrán 270, 322). By the seventeenth century, Anthony of Padua was believed to preside over all manner of restitution: ‘San Antonio bendito/todo lo perdido sea hallado’ (Blessed St Anthony, may all lost things be found) (Elias Pastor 183). Marín Gelaberto Vilagrán, who has studied the saint’s popular cult in early modern Spain, finds that it included unauthorized rituals in which supplicants whose vows went unfulfilled would often recite the responsorial backwards – and if this failed, ‘castigate’ images of the saint. The historian goes on to cite examples from Inquisition records, such as the case of a gambler who purportedly smashed an icon of the saint for neglecting to return his winnings, or a woman who was accused of threatening to hang and burn a carving of St Anthony (277–8).23 A more common reprisal against these figures, however, was to re-enact the theft of Anthony’s psalter by taking away one of the saint’s attributes until he granted restitution. Vilagrán notes that if the saint delayed too long in coming to the aid of supplicants, a typical recourse was for them to remove something from his arms, and not return it until the lost or stolen object had been returned (389). St Anthony often appears in visual art from the sixteenth century as a young friar holding a lily representing his purity, the infant Jesus, or a book, as in El Greco’s San Antonio de Padua (1579). Interestingly, in this particular painting, the saint’s book appears not in his grasp, but is instead suspended in the dark, ethereal space obscuring his left hand – an image that corresponds with the theft and supernatural recuperation of Anthony’s psalter in hagiography (fig. 11). In consideration of the saint’s popular cult, it seems that by casting Martí (and his false pícaro) in the role of a thieving novice, Alemán is subtly equating literary expropriation to an act of desecration, and the expropriator to a sacrilegus, or one who steals sacred things. This gesture is analogous to the abusive devotee stripping Anthony of his attributes; or the sacrilege of the cynical judge who, after deflowering thirty virgins, offers restitution in the amount of eight reales for the singing of mass at the saint’s church.24 Such thieves refuse to recognize the true, non-material value of the goods they have stolen and defiled.25 Martí, the textual larcenist, has either ignored or failed to discern Alemán’s moral premise of creating ‘un hombre perfecto, castigado de trabajos y miserias’ (a perfect man, corrected by his tribulations and sufferings) (22). However, it is the criminality of the real Guzmán, and not the Imperial platitudes of the fraudulent sequel, that has the most demoralizing effect on this

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project. Minimizing the importance of the theft committed by Sayavedra and Martí – ’pensaban ya con sólo hurtar a secas, mal sazonado, sin sabor ni gusto, que podrían leer la cátedra de prima’ (they thought that just by stealing half-heartedly, in bad taste, insipidly and without style, that they could be big shots) – Guzmán repeatedly promotes himself as the master thief, and his own sins as superior to those of his rival (230).26 Analogous to a petitioner stealing from St Anthony, the author of San Antonio de Padua and the Segunda parte has made a vow and sought restitution through an act of textual vengeance. In this way, he abuses and parodies the life of a saint who prayed not just for the return of his psalter, but more importantly for the soul of the thief: Sintiólo mucho, mas notando la pérdida de un libro, aunque tan importante, cuanto con mayor excesso, y sin comparación, [sintió] por el alma de aquel frayle, que se perdería … Las cosas de la tierra son tierra … Pídamosle lo que más importa, ocupemos tan santa intercessión en cosas de veras; y supliquémosle nos alcance del Señor su gracia para que nos hallemos a nosotros mismos; que nos depare nuestras almas perdidas … que hallar el salterio, halló el alma dél que lo avia hurtado. (fols. 209–10) (He was very sorry, yet in noticing the loss of a book, as important as it was, how much greater and incomparable [was his sorrow] that the soul of that friar might be lost … The things of this world are [only] dust … Let us ask of him that which is more important, let us call on such holy intercession for true things; and let us petition him for the Lord’s grace so that we might find ourselves; and he might come to the aid of our lost souls … for in finding the psalter, he found the soul of he who had stolen it.)

In contrast to the message of forgiveness in San Antonio de Padua, mimetic rivalry and the thirst for vengeance in the Segunda parte culminates in a violent outburst in which the double or ‘shadow’ of Guzmán is killed off, and his soul is left in a state of grave danger if not outright damnation. This ‘answer’ to Martí, in which the death threat from Alemán’s San Antonio de Padua becomes a reality in his novel, and a holy vow becomes a curse, suggests that what is really at stake in part two of Guzmán de Alfarache is not so much the salvation of Alemán’s pseudo-autobiographical narrator, but rather the fictional perdition of his enemy. In order to exact punishment on Martí, Alemán allows the pre-conversional rogue to infiltrate the ‘new man’ represented by the reflective voice of Guzmán the galley slave, not unlike the stage presence of Genesius clouding his new-found

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Christian identity in Lope’s Lo fingido verdadero. This preoccupation with vengeance, as Edward Friedman and others have suggested, makes it increasingly difficult to believe that the narrator speaks from the standpoint of someone who has truly renounced his former life, and fully reconciled himself with God.27 While such a textual strategy certainly could have been influenced by Alemán’s experience as a converso, it is once again important to keep in mind that comparable forms of indeterminacy can be found in earlier works authored by ‘old’ and ‘new’ Christians alike. The relationship between Alemán’s hagiography and subsequent sequel can probably be best described as a literary performance that commemorates and then festively reverses the clemency of St Anthony of Padua, and in doing so mirrors the spiritual ambivalence of Guzmán. In the end, the anti-hero’s contradictory identities as a master thief, victim of theft, and reformed criminal are never completely reconciled. His recidivism and vindictiveness cast a ‘shadow’ over the Segunda parte that obscures and undermines the credibility of his abrupt conversion in the final pages of the novel. St Martin in the Authentic and Apocryphal Don Quijote In 1608, when Alemán boarded a ship bound for Mexico, where he would spend the last years of his life, the writer carried with him a copy of El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha.28 Cervantes’ novel had become enormously popular since its publication three years earlier, with authorized and pirated editions being printed in Madrid, Lisbon, Valencia, and Brussels. As in the case of Guzmán de Alfarache, the runaway success of the Quijote soon led to the publication of a pseudonymous sequel by someone who appears to have gained access to the real author’s plans, as discussed earlier in this chapter. Like Alemán, Cervantes wasted little time in publishing an authentic continuation in which he takes metafictional revenge, vindicates his characters, and, as we will see, implicates a saint in his novelistic response to a literary thief.29 As E.C. Graf has shown, a hagiographic allusion to St Martin of Tours appears in chapter 19 of the first part of Don Quijote. In this well-known episode, Cervantes’ protagonists mistake a group of priests leading a night-time funeral procession for a band of devils or phantoms from another world. Don Quijote demands that they stop and identify themselves, and when they pay him no heed, charges toward the group. After knocking one of the priests to the ground, the knight learns that he has just been excommunicated for committing a violent act of sacrilege ‘en

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cosa sagrada, iuxta illud, “si quis suadente diabolo, etc.’’ ’ (on consecrated things, according to the canon, ‘if anyone at the instigation of the devil, etc.’) (190; 127). Don Quijote refuses to accept this verdict because he attacked them under the impression that they were spectres or devils and not men of the cloth. Graf’s study shows that this chapter most likely draws on a story from Sulpicius Severus’s Vita Beati Martini (Life of the Blessed Martin), a work that was frequently cited in collections like the Golden Legend, and that recounts the conversion of Martin of Tours from a Roman legionary to a miles Christi, or ‘soldier of Christ’ (132–41).30 In a section called Conversio paganorum (Conversion of Pagans), Severus tells how the saint, like Don Quijote, misidentified a procession coming toward him in the dark as a demonic gathering. Martin made the sign of the cross and commanded the group to halt, but after discovering that they were mourners carrying out a funeral rite, he allowed them to continue on their way. In his re-enactment of this scene in the legend of St Martin, Cervantes employs a series of carnivalesque images in a way that is characteristic of the novel as a whole, as Augustín Redondo has shown (Otra manera). Before the procession appears, Sancho Panza recalls how phantoms disguised as merry pranksters subjected him to a blanket tossing like a ‘perro por carnestolendas’ (dog at Shrovetide) (170; 113). Redondo has noted that the squire’s humiliations can be related to the seasonal dethronement of St Antruejo, as this popular figure was also known as ‘Santo Panza’ (Saint Potbelly) (191–203). When the knight and squire subsequently spot the ghostly procession, Don Quijote, who is usually associated with Lenten asceticism, assumes the role of a voracious marauder. His attack on the processioners at first evokes the age-old battle between Lord Carnival and Lady Lent as the enraged knight charges the group of penitents with his ‘lanzón,’ a weapon also used to keep trespassers out of vineyards (Iffland 78). But soon Don Quijote’s supposedly meek victims are themselves identified with Saturnalian excess, when the narrator explicitly compares them to ‘los de las máscaras … en noche de regocijo y fiesta’ (so many maskers … in carnival time) (187; 124).31 Not surprisingly, the festive mourners leave behind an abundance of food for Don Quijote and Sancho Panza: ‘almorzaron, comieron, merendaron y cenaron a un mesmo punto, satisfaciendo sus estómagos con más de una fiambera’ (they dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon and supper at one meal, solacing their stomachs out of more than one basket of cold meat) (191; 127). In this way, Cervantes ironically reinterprets the Vita Beati Martini so that Christian ritual doubles as worldly ­indulgence, and

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penitents as mummers. Don Quijote emulates St Martin by assuming a dual persona, simultaneously appearing to the processioners as a devilish attacker and to his squire as a suffering ‘Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’ The reversibility of this scene is emblematic of a kind of Cervantine humour that has been aptly described by Kundera: ‘we laugh not because someone is ridiculed, mocked, or even humiliated, but because suddenly the world shows itself in its ambiguity, things lose their apparent meaning, people are revealed to be different from what they themselves thought they were’ (‘Introduction’ viii). In keeping with earlier examples examined in this study, Cervantes’ parody of holiness can be linked to the popular cult of Martin of Tours as well as official hagiography. The author may also be drawing inspiration from visual images, as Frederick de Armas has found to be the case in other episodes that evoke the lives of saints.32 In medieval and early modern Spain, St Martin was widely venerated as a patron of soldiers and vintners. The first attribute lies rooted in the etymology of his name, as the Latin Martinus, meaning ‘warlike,’ was derived from the name of the Roman god Mars. It also reflects the saint’s occupation as a legionary who famously abandoned his military career in order to become a Christian. Martin’s secondary connection to viticulture results from the placement of his feast on November 11, at the end of the harvest season, and just before the onset of winter, when the ‘must,’ or new wine, was ready for drinking, as reflected in Spanish proverbs like ‘Por San Martino, prueba tu vino’ (On Martinmas, taste your wine) (Díaz Barrio 35).33 The Sunday closest to 11 November marked the beginning of Advent, a season of fasting and penitence that lasted until Christmas, and was also called the Quadragesima Sancti Martini (The Forty Days of St Martin). For this reason, Martin’s Eve, or ‘Martinalia,’ was traditionally celebrated as an early carnival in which celebrants could participate in night-time masquerades, overindulge in wine, and feast on large quantities of meat. The saint himself was widely viewed as a holy fool, comic trickster, or granter of wishes, and identified with Cockaigne, the mythical land of plenty. It is in this festive context, I would argue, that Cervantes comically evokes the life of Martin by having Don Quijote mistake penitents for diabolical maskers, and attack them with an instrument used to guard vineyards, while Sancho Panza raids their store of meats.34 Avellaneda, on the other hand, takes a negative, corrective approach to Martinmas excess in his false sequel. He gives Don Quijote the Christian name ‘Martín’ in the first chapter of the novel, before describing how the

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supposedly repentant character allows Sancho to lure him away from reading devotional works like Villegas’s Flos sanctorum back to the contemptible fantasy world of chivalric romance (21–6).35 The deranged knight is again called by his saint’s name during a misadventure in Sigüenza, and at the end of the book, when he is consigned to an insane asylum in Toledo (2.217, 3.227).36 This renaming is no accident, of course. As Dunn has pointed out, in early modern culture, believers were ‘called upon to witness by the act of being named … the Christian tradition sees no accident in the fact that one is born on the day of a particular saint and is thereupon destined to adopt his or her name’ (218). It becomes abundantly clear that Cervantes’ imitator has chosen the name Martín to mock and humiliate Don Quijote when Dulcinea writes a letter threatening to beat some sense into ‘Martín Quijada, el mentecapto’ (the brainless fool) (53). Her insult echoes a long-standing tradition in Spain of associating this saint with buffoonery and bedlam, comparable to the unsavoury alter egos of holy men like Emeterius and Hilarion. As Alberta Server and John Keller note in their edition of Avellaneda’s text, ‘Martín was a name that was synonymous with craziness’ (8). Such pejorative connotations can be traced back to late medieval works like the Libro de los gatos (Book of Cats), which includes a fable about a kingfisher, or ‘ave de San Martín’ (no. 3).37 On an especially sunny day close to the feast of this saint, the overheated bird boasts that he can hold the sky in his talons but panics when a falling leaf hits him, and fearfully calls out to his patron: ‘San Martín, ¿cómo non acorres a tu ave?’ (St Martin, why do you not come to the aid of your bird?) (27). The moral of the story sheds light on St Martin’s widespread patronage over the addled and foolhardy, and its connection to Avellaneda’s Quijote:38 Tales son muchos en este mundo que cuidan ser muy rreçios … Algunos caballeros, cuando tienen la cabeça bien guarnida e de buen vino, diçen que pelearán con tres françeses, o que vençerían los mas fuertes de la tierra. (Northup, 28) (So are many in this world who strive to be very gallant … Some knights, when they have their heads all fanciful and full of good wine, say that they will battle three Frenchmen, or conquer the mightiest on earth.)

As Cervantes will only reveal his protagonist’s first name of Alonso near the end of the real sequel, Avellaneda must have extrapolated Martín from his reading of part one.39 Such an identification seems logical, as the

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authentic Don Quijote claims to have been born under the influence of Mars, and, as indicated earlier, imitates what might be called the two sides of St Martin by inverting and conflating the roles of penitent and festive plunderer in the episode of the dead body. Avellaneda, however, rejects these ironic reversals, preferring to see the character as little more than a boastful Martinmas fool who is drunk on chivalric ­literature. Needless to say, this approach results in a unidirectional laughter that ‘dumbs down’ Cervantes’ characteristically reversible humour. As James Iffland has shown, Avellaneda’s continuation turns the dethronement of Don Quijote and Sancho Panza into a contained, one-sided spectacle that reflects efforts to suppress what were considered subversive aspects of carnivalesque culture in Counter-Reformation Spain.40 Whereas Cervantes develops a dialectical relationship between earthly appetites and Lenten austerity, Avellaneda separates and dichotomizes authorized and unauthorized models of holiness, viewing them as wholly incompatible. Near the end of the apocryphal sequel, just before his lawless master is put away, Sancho ominously refers to the coming sacrifice of his favourite pig on the feast of St Martin: ‘un puerco tan grande como los de por acá, el qual avemos de matar, si Dios quiere, para el día de San Martín’ (a pig as big as those around here. We are going to kill it, God willing, for Martinmas) (3.195). For a Renaissance audience, this image would have immediately brought to mind a well-known proverb that was glossed by Covarrubias in the early seventeenth century – ‘a cada cerdo le llega su San Martín’ (His Martinmas will come, as it does for every hog): ‘Se dize porque por este tiempo suelen matar los puercos que entre año los han estado devando, criándose en ociosidad y vicio. Esto mesmo acontece al hombre que vive como bestia sólo de sus gustos’ (It is said because at this time pigs are killed that have been fatting up during the year, being raised in luxury and vice. The same happens to man when he lives like a beast only from his pleasures) (792). For centuries, 11 November had been set aside for the butchering and salting of animals in preparation for winter, as can be seen in the Libro de buen amor and other early representations of the calendar year.41 The folklorist Germán Díaz Barrio has found that in Spain the fattening of livestock during the preceding months was universally viewed as a symbol of increasing ‘errors and excesses’ that would have to be stamped out during Advent in preparation for the coming of the Lord. An early allusion to this tradition can be found in Milagros de Nuestra Señora, when sinners are described as flocking to an evil sorcerer ‘como puercos a landres’ (like pigs to acorns), and a foolish, wayward monk is described as being struck by the staff of

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St  Martin (sts. 726, 340).42 Comparable to Berceo and Covarrubias, Avellaneda evokes the figure of the Martinmas pig to represent the punishment and suppression of what he sees as Don Quijote’s error and excess, and to make way for a re-establishment of order. Ironically, the real Don Quijote employs this same proverb in part two while watching the spurious continuation of his story being corrected at a publishing house: ‘Tengo noticias dese libro … pensé que ya estaba quemado y hecho polvos por impertinente: pero su San Martín se le llegará como a cada cerdo’ (I have heard of this book … I thought it was already burned, or pounded into dust, for the impertinence it contains; but as we say of hogs, ‘Martinmas will come in due season’) (1028; 693). The knight thus reverses the curse of St Martin that was levelled at him by the false author, figuratively turning the axe against the executioner. This forms part of a larger counter-attack that begins in the prologue to the genuine sequel, when Cervantes takes his rival to task for having called him a disreputable old cripple in the counterfeit ‘prólogo’ (7– 14).43 Avellaneda has amused himself by levelling simple-minded insults and subjecting Don Quijote to senseless abuse, or what Cervantes describes as inflating a dog with a hollow cane and smashing it with a heavy slab (559–60). Just as these kinds of despicable animal torturers are setting themselves up for a public backlash, the sadistic imitator will soon get his comeuppance, and himself become the proverbial Martinmas pig. In subsequent scenes of the Cervantine sequel, one of Avellaneda’s main characters, Álvaro Tarfe, testifies to the falsehood of his creator’s Segundo tomo, and the infamous book is shown being tossed around by devils at the gates of hell, reminiscent of the metafictional downfall of Juan Martí’s imposter in the second part of Guzmán (chaps. 72, 71).44 By far the most significant invocation of St Martin in Cervantes’ sequel, however, appears in a previous chapter (2.58). On their way to Barcelona, Don Quijote and Sancho Panza encounter a group of workmen carrying a retablo, or sequence of religious images, to a local feast. The knight has decided to participate in a jousting tournament held in this city on the feast of St John the Baptist after hearing about the false Don Quijote’s illfated trip to Zaragoza.45 One of the images on the retablo depicts Martin of Tours giving half of his cloak to a beggar who is later revealed to be Christ.46 When Don Quijote describes the hagiographic image, he first insists that the Roman soldier would have relinquished his entire cloak had it not been winter. He then laughs when Sancho irreverently quotes the adage, ‘para dar y tener, seso es menester’ (the man in wisdom must be old, who

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knows in giving where to hold) (982; 661).47 In keeping with the meaning of the funeral procession in part one, this image of St Martin’s charity has both festive and penitent connotations in Don Quijote. Making light of the split garment, the novel again alludes parodically to the Vita Beati Martini, where Severus explains how onlookers laughed at the saint, ‘because he was now an unsightly object, and stood out as but partly dressed’ (3). Comic portrayals of St Martin were not uncommon in visual art from the period, and sometimes featured drunken, unruly mobs of beggars and ruffians surrounding the ‘partly dressed’ soldier (see fig. 12).48 At the same time, as Álvaro Molina has found, St Martin’s partial generosity in giving only half of his cloak can be seen as a serious prefigurement of Don Quijote’s hesitation when faced with the prospect of relinquishing his arms and repenting. This moment comes when Samson Carrasco, disguised as the ‘Knight of the White Moon,’ famously challenges Don Quijote to a duel with the condition that he return to La Mancha if defeated. In his study, Molina sees the other icons in the retablo – St George spearing the dragon, James the Greater riding into battle, and the Apostle Paul having a vision of Christ – as representing Don Quijote’s past militancy and ultimate disillusionment following his loss to Carrasco. Having envisioned himself as a defender of women like St George, and a warrior in the tradition of James the ‘Slayer of Moors,’ Cervantes’ protagonist will in the end follow the example of St Paul and repent of his old ways. Molina associates the shift in the retablo from militancy to introspection with the historic transition from the chivalric, externalized violence of ‘Reconquest’ Spain to a more modern, internalized struggle of faith. He rightly views Martin as a ‘santo a medias’ (halfway saint) whose symbolic function is to bridge the journey from knight-errantry to the final resolution of ‘Alonso Quijano el Bueno.’ What goes unnoticed in Molina’s otherwise excellent analysis is the way in which the retablo also relates to earlier carnivalesque allusions to Martin of Tours in Cervantes’ novel and Avellaneda’s false continuation. As I have shown, the festive significance of this saint first becomes evident in the episode of the dead body, when Don Quijote reinterprets St Martin’s hagiographic misidentification of mourners as heretics by playing the dual role of a ‘rueful’ penitent and a devilish assailant. Cervantes’ elaborate parody of the Vita Beati Martini in this way alludes to the celebration of Martinalia by combining images of Saturnalian excess and Christian renewal in anticipation of Advent – overlapping hedonistic folly with the holy foolishness of the saints.

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In his falsified sequel, Avellaneda seeks to undo this interweaving of official and folkloric elements of sanctity, in accordance with CounterReformation efforts to control and exploit popular-festive forms of ­religiosity. The textual thief, for this reason, begins his narrative by portraying Don Quijote’s failure to mend his ways as a turning away from the pious readings of Villegas’s Flos sanctorum.49 Avellaneda’s anti-hero instead adopts the one-dimensional identity of a laughing stock and an incorrigible St Martin’s Day fool who is devoid of redeeming qualities, and destined to be locked up in a madhouse. From start to finish, the imposturous Don Quijote is portrayed as a caricature of the miles Christi, who at one point even mistakes Sancho for the dragon speared by St George, a patron of soldiers; and in an equally ludicrous scene calls on St James, the MoorSlayer, before being dragged off to jail. Cervantes responds to this curse by equating the phony book to a doomed Martinmas pig, and associating the complexity of his authentic character – at once foolish and wise, sinful and saintly – with the image of Martin’s ‘halfway’ holiness. This liminal icon on the retablo, when seen in the context of earlier references to St Martin, not only parallels Don Quijote’s imperfect, all-to-human path to redemption, but also relates to his fluctuation over the course of the novel between carnivalesque and Lenten roles. Fittingly, the defeat of Cervantes’ knight takes place on the feast of St John, a time that – like Martinalia – brings together acts of physical violence and spiritual cleansing, as discussed in the previous chapter. The final disillusionment of Don Quijote combines sincere expressions of contrition and Christian faith with one last attack on Avellaneda: Suplico a los dichos señores mis albaceas que si la buena suerte les trujere a conocer al autor que dicen que compuso una historia … con el título de Segunda parte de las hazañas de don Quijote de la Mancha, de mi parte le pidan … perdone la ocasión que sin yo pensarlo le di de haber escrito tantos y tan grandes disparates … Parto desta vida con escrúpulo de haberle dado motivo para escribirlos. (1096) (I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, if perchance they should become acquainted with the author who composed and published an history … entitled, The Second Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote de la Mancha; that they will, in my name, most earnestly entreat him … to forgive me for having been the innocent cause of his writing such a number of great absurdities … I quit this life with some scruples of conscience arising from that consideration.) (741)

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Edward H. Friedman has recently studied the fictionalized responses to Martí and Avellaneda in the authentic continuations of Guzmán de Alfarache and Don Quijote de la Mancha. He points out that both Alemán and Cervantes explore the meta-literary possibilities of the novel not only through what Harold Bloom has called the ‘anxiety of influence,’ but also through a related ‘anguish of literary larceny’ (‘Insincere Flattery’ 111–12). As we have seen, manifestations of the cult of saints fit into this novelizing process of contending with the spurious work of rivals in the authorized Guzmán and Quijote. The intertextual relationship between Alemán’s hagiography and Segunda parte transform an episode in the life of Anthony of Padua into an example of festive revenge instead of forgiveness, as the saint is called on to bring about material restitution as opposed to spiritual redemption. In keeping with Lope’s dramatized legend of St Genesius, Alemán’s novelistic blurring of life and art makes it difficult to determine where his mock performance of holiness ends, and where the professed sanctity of his performance begins. Cervantes goes much further in exploring the interchangeability of real and fictional worlds – first by famously attributing his novel to a Moorish chronicler named Cide Hamete Benengeli, and later by allowing his anti-heroes to react to their own portrayal in part one as well as Avellaneda’s Segundo tomo. The hagiographic and carnivalesque image of Martin of Tours plays a key role in this metafiction, as the creator of the real Don Quijote counteracts the false sequel with his vision of a truly quixotic saint.

Conclusion: Sanctity and Humanity

In 1538, Pedro Ciruelo published his Reprovación de las supersticiones y hechizerías (Reproval of Superstitions and Sorcery), not long after being chosen as the tutor of Felipe II, the eight-year-old son of the emperor, Carlos V.1 This book was reprinted several times during the CounterReformation, as were similar vernacular treatises written by Spanish clergymen. Ciruelo, in his warning against unauthorized spiritual practices, advises against reading too much into hagiography, or reading oneself into the miraculous lives of the saints: A lo que allegan de las historias de los sanctos apóstoles y de otros algunos santos: que hablaron con los demonios … la respuesta es que aquello hizieron aquellos sanctos por especial previlegio y permissión de dios que les quiso dar fuera de la regla común de la religión christiana dada para todos … quando los leyeremos: hémonos de maravillar dellos: y no devemos presumir de hazer como ellos … Si algunos santos en tiempos passados sanaron a los enfermos con solas palabras: fue por especial gracia y privilegio … nosotros en este tiempo no emos de presumir de hazer lo mismo. (139, 142)2 (With regard to the story of the holy apostles and other saints, that they spoke with demons … The answer is that what those saints did was through special privilege and permission from God who chose to grant this to them outside the common rule of the Christian religion given to all … when we read about them we should be amazed, but we must not presume to do as they did … If some saints in times past healed the sick with only words, it was by special grace and privilege … we in this time must not presume to do the same.)

Conclusion: Sanctity and Humanity  115

By warning believers not to overidentify with saints, Ciruelo anticipates a movement away from intimate expressions of devotion toward a more restrained, ‘modern’ form of veneration – one that was seen by proponents of the Counter-Reformation as unadulterated by the ‘filthy lucre,’ ‘revelings and drunkenness,’ or ‘luxury and wantonness’ that had often perverted the celebration of saints during the Middle Ages (Waterworth 236).3 Over the course of the sixteenth century, secular and ecclesiastical leaders sought – with mixed success – to reform and, in the words of William A. Christian, ‘sanitize’ popular religiosity. Decrees were passed, for example, banning overnight vigils at shrines – due to their association with fornication – and prohibiting the election of May queens, as well as other occasions for excessive celebration and indecent rituals.4 Although the Council of Trent had defended the advocation of saints against accusations of idolatry, their prominence gradually declined in early modern Spain, as the Vatican promoted a more highly regulated, Christ-centred spiritual life and tried to prohibit extraliturgical customs that were seen as ‘mixing of divine and profane things’ (Williams 161).5 The playful familiarity with saints that had characterized medieval culture, and had fuelled the humour of literary texts like the Libro de buen amor, was being problematized and condemned like never before. Ironically, the reaction of the Church against what was seen as Reformation heresy would eventually bring it closer to a Protestant view of comicity and devotion as essentially incompatible. As a result, expressions of parodia sacra were less likely to be tolerated as a form of transgression that can potentially serve to restore order and dethrone carnivalesque wrongdoers. This is not to suggest that religious parody in any way died off or fizzled out, or that saintly humour suddenly became ‘off limits’ to writers, but rather to observe that this tradition was increasingly being viewed with suspicion in early modern Spain. As Charles T. Wood puts it, ‘after Luther, satire internal to any faith would become highly suspect and not, as with Erasmus, a vehicle for renewal’ (235). Accordingly, Lazarillo de Tormes was placed on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum (List of Forbidden Books) in 1559, before making a short and influential comeback in the seventeenth century. The Libro de buen amor and Carajicomedia were eventually forgotten, while Rojas’s tragicomedy was disassembled and diluted through a seemingly endless number of sequels and spin-offs.6 In the tedious Tercera parte de Guzmán de Alfarache (Part Three of Guzmán de Alfarache, 1654), Felix Machado de Silva sanitizes Alemán’s novel by recasting the infamous pícaro as a pious

116  The Laughter of the Saints

­ ermit who now exemplifies the virtues that he failed to live up to in the h original novel. As demonstrated by Avellaneda’s Quijote, efforts to reduce the potential for deviance in life and in art not only involved controls and censures, but also what James Iffland calls the ‘confiscation’ of festive forms as a means of affirming the status quo. An early and particularly striking example of this sort of political expropriation was witnessed at the 1555 Toledo carnival, which coincided with the celebration of the short-lived ‘Conversion of England to Catholicism’: Se tañeron las campañas de la Santa Iglesia … luego [en] un carro triunfal altíssimamente … yva la fee triunfando ataviada y sentada en la silla arçobispal … Yva Santiago como romero con muchos moços romeros a pie … Llevaban también delante de sí Lutero caballero en una bestia … y muchos diablos alrededor que la yvan dando de hachazos y tizonazos. (Horozco 133) (The bells of the Holy Church were sounded … [on] the highest triumphal float … Faith paraded victoriously, dressed up and seated in the Archbishop’s throne … St James came as a pilgrim with many young pilgrims at his feet … they also carried in front of them [an image of] Luther riding a donkey … and a gathering of devils that were attacking it with horns and charred sticks.)

My objective in this book has been to trace a critical facet of the kind of humour that was being suppressed and exploited by authorities at the dawn of the modern age, but that nevertheless had a significant impact on the course of Spanish literature. I have found that saints not only influenced the writing of exemplary literature during the Middle Ages, but they also provided a carnivalesque model for the lives of pícaros and other modernizing anti-heroes. These ‘anti-saints’ were linked to the figure of St Carnival and the comic alter ego of Christ in works like the Libro and Carajicomedia, where the Cross is reinterpreted as a fallen woman, and the Passion is contemplated from the standpoint of an impotent phallus and a moaning prostitute. Such oppositions come together through the ironic context or felicity of invocations, oaths, and other allusions, as well as the inherent dual meaning of saints who were at once blessed and fallen like the Magdalene in the Celestina; Quiteria, who is invoked by Don Amor as a pharmakon responsible for the cause and cure of lovesickness; or Hilarion of Gaza, who could either guard or violate the dead in the Carajicomedia – that is, saints who could just as easily call down a curse

Conclusion: Sanctity and Humanity  117

as bestow a blessing. Consistently, in early Spanish satire, holy attributes were invested with a reversibility from the sacred to the profane (and vice versa), so that the pilgrimage of St Emeterius could be equated to the wild, devilish meandering of sinners like the Archpriest of Hita, and St Martha’s hospitality could be turned into the work of a procuress, while her conquest of the dragon was re-envisioned as an act of sexual aggression in the Lozana andaluza. What can appear to contemporary readers as cryptic inside jokes were common currency for the initiated reader or listener, and a reflection of the hybridization of linguistic and discursive modes that led to the creation of the modern novel. What I have called the ‘laughter of the saints’ had an especially lasting impact on the development of fiction writing in Spain and Western literature as a whole through the portrayal of anti-heroes in Lazarillo de Tormes, Guzmán de Alfarache, and Cervantes’ Don Quijote. The picaresque narrator of the Lazarillo expands on earlier examples of parodic sanctity by drawing on aspects of hagiographic romance and the festive persona of St John the Baptist, while at the same time calling into question the reliability of his story and exposing societal ills. Alemán engages in an even more self-conscious process of life telling by calling on St Anthony of Padua to get even with a literary thief, and so infusing his first-person narrative with a revenge motive that casts serious doubt on the contrition and final reconciliation of Guzmán. It is, however, Don Quijote that represents the most enduring legacy of the intertextual and metafictional possibilities of sainthood. Cervantes contends with the problem of a false sequel not only by taking literary revenge, but more importantly by identifying the novelistic transformation of his character in part two with the liminal connotations of St Martin of Tour’s life, feast, and iconography. On the one hand, as Álvaro Molina has pointed out, the scene of the retablo symbolizes a turning away from physical, externalized notions of holy war to a more spiritual, internalized force represented by the transformation of Martin and Paul into dismounted, unarmed ‘soldiers of Christ.’ What Don Quijote sees as the ‘true histories’ of warriors like St George and James the Moor-Slayer are revealed to be as outmoded as chivalric fiction, and the medieval ideology of sacred violence gives way to a truer model based on personal faith in Christ (982). On the other hand, Cervantes rejects the modernizing, Tridentine vision of holiness and instead demonstrates a deeply ironic familiarity with saints that harks back to earlier, less pristine approaches to sanctity. In the end, Don Quijote manages to reconcile himself with God and overcome the split between real and holy lives that he sees in the retablo; ‘ellos fueron santos

118  The Laughter of the Saints

y pelearon a lo divino, y yo soy pecador y peleo a lo humano’ (they were saints and fought in a divine manner, and I, who am a sinner, fight in the manner of men) (982; 661). In stark contrast to the author of the false Quijote, Cervantes ultimately refuses to deny redemption to the sinners of this world, or to cordon off saints from the humbling, and sometimes picaresque, experience of being human.

Notes

Introduction: Saints and Anti-Saints 1 For a biography of López de Ayala, see Luis Suárez Fernández. Over the course of his lifetime (1322–1406), the Chancellor wrote four books on the subject of Job: translations of the Book of Job and St Gregory’s Magna Moralia (Great Ethics); a glossed compilation of passages from the commentary called Flores de los Morales de Job (Wisdom from the Ethics of Job); and a meditation on Job that paraphrases and comments on the Moralia, which comprises the second half of his Rimado de palacio (Palace Rhymes). 2 This passage has been discussed by Martha Bayless (199). St Gregory is glossing the verse ‘Impleatur risu os tuum et labia tua iubilo’ (thy mouth be filled with laughter, and thy lips with rejoicing) (Job 8.21). Bible verses in English are from the Douay-Rheims version. All other translations are mine except as otherwise noted. 3 This kind of interpretation is also made in the preface of Gregory’s Moralia (6.15). On the background of the legendary connection between Job and the musicians, see also Kathi Meyer. 4 The life of St Blaise is recorded in Jacob de Voragine’s thirteenth-century Golden Legend no. 38. A possible association with the wool trade is mentioned by Marisa Melero-Moneo. The plague had first arrived at the port of Barcelona in 1348 and ravaged much of the Peninsula during the following decades. St Blaise was often invoked by those suffering maladies of the throat (having come to the aid of a boy who was choking on a fish bone). 5 On the following day, called ‘San Blasín’ (little St Blaise), celebrants in some parts of the Peninsula would traditionally gather to drink wine representing the blood of a sacrificed animal. For descriptions of the feast of St Blaise in various regions of Spain, see Julio Caro Baroja (El carnaval 79–90, 150–3,

120 Notes to pages 5–7 176, 254, 314). Important studies of festive culture in Spain have also been carried out recently by Max Harris and David Gilmore. 6 Caro Baroja cites a fifteenth-century text by Juan de Encina, Égloga representada la mesma noche de Antruejo (Eclogue to be Represented on the Same Night of Fat Tuesday), that describes this seasonal persona: ‘Oy comamos y bevamos,/y cantemos y holguemos/que mañana ayunaremos./Por onra de Sant Antruejo ... que todos oy nos hartemos, que mañana ayunaremos./ Onremos a tan buen santo’ (Today we eat and drink, and we sing and make merry for tomorrow we fast. For the honour of St Carnival … may we all fill ourselves, for tomorrow we fast. Let us pray to such a good saint) (vv. 200–4, 209–11). Caro Baroja observes that the same figure was also known by epithets that made light of his ravenous appetites, such as ‘San Gorgomellaz’ (St Wide Throat) and ‘San Tragantón’ (St Devourer) (Carnaval 106). 7 Critics who have problematized and amended Bakhtin’s thesis in this way include Umberto Eco (‘The Frames’), Michael D. Bristol, Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, and Sergei Averintsev. 8 On the ‘cencerrada,’ see Caro Baroja (Temas castizos 191–230). 9 For example, Caro Baroja has studied the festive practice known in Spain as the ‘corrida de gallos’ (and in the English-speaking world as ‘cock­throwing’), in which a mock king who presided over the stoning or clubbing of a rooster was himself targeted for abuse (El carnaval 75–90). Ritual violence was also enacted on religious minorities (see David Nirenberg, ­Communities 200–30). 10 It is only later, during the Renaissance and early modern period, that we find clear evidence of carnival being used to subvert the powers that be. For examples of the carnivalesque being politicized, see Bristol and Antonio Pérez-Romero. 11 ‘Deposuit potentes de sedes et exaltavit humiles.’ The Magnificat, or Marian Canticle, is so-called because of the words of Mary following the Visitation by the angel Gabriel, ‘magnificat anima mea, Dominum’ (my spirit hath rejoiced in God) (Luke 1.47). It was sung during the Christmas season and also as part of the Daily Office. For a description of carnivalesque December traditions in Spain, see Caro Baroja (El carnaval 298–330). For an example of its function in medieval Spanish literature, see my ‘The Liberties of December.’ 12 As there is no explicit mention of this in the text, Maurilio Pérez González has suggested in the introduction to his edition of La Garcineida that it could have been written elsewhere in Europe. 13 For examples in French literature, see the studies by Jacques E. Merceron and Bruno Roy on the facetious saints ‘Billouart’ (Stick) and ‘Caquette’

Notes to pages 7–9����   121 (Chatterbox). Foutin is a corruption of St Pothin, the first bishop of Lyons, and plays on the obscene verb foutre. Similarly, Guignolé, the name of the first Abbot of Landévennec, was associated with gignere, a word meaning ‘to engender.’ For a discussion of phallic saints, see the article by Edward D. Jervey. 14 For more on the influence of the University of Palencia on the Mester de clerecía, see also the study of Charles Faulhaber. 15 Rita Copeland explains how vernacular translators of this period, by paraphrasing and appropriating earlier texts and their glosses, created new, more accessible literary traditions. 16 Citations of the Milagros are from the edition of E. Michael Gerli. Quotations from other works by Berceo are from the edition of Carlos Clavería and Jorge García López. 17 It was housed in the University’s Colegio de San Bartolomé library during the fifteenth century (from at least 1440). On the manuscript tradition of the Libro de buen amor, see John Dagenais. 18 Gil Álvarez Carrillo de Albornoz became Archbishop of Toledo in 1338 and attempted to institute a reform of the clergy. On historical questions surrounding the narrator’s self-presentation as an incontinent cleric, see the article by Anthony N. Zahareas. Francisco J. Hernández found documentation of a Juan Ruiz holding the title of Archpriest of Hita during the 1330s. Another candidate is Juan Ruiz de Cisneros, who served under Cardinal Albornoz (see the study by Emilio Sáez and José Trenchs). Neither of these attributions has been widely accepted (see Ansgar Kelly). In this study, I will use the title Archpriest to refer to the first-person narrator (and character). 19 This section, called the ‘Cántiga de los clérigos de Talavera’ (Song of the Talaveran Priests), draws on the early thirteenth-century Consultation sacerdotum (Gathering of Priests), attributed to Walter Mapes. On the relationship between the Libro and goliardic poetry, see the studies of Nicolás Emilio Álvarez and José Luis Pérez López. On the production of Latin satire in medieval Spain, see Ricardo Arias y Arias and Ricardo García-Villoslada. 20 All citations of the Libro are from the edition of G.B. Gybbon-Monypenny, unless otherwise noted. On the comical exchange that follows, in which the crude gestures of a Roman are misinterpreted by a Greek as theological understanding, and vice versa, see Gerli (‘The Greeks’). 21 He is made to confess and do penitence, but later escapes on a rabbi’s donkey. On Easter Sunday, Carnival (along with Don Amor) is welcomed by clergymen and nuns in a burlesque of the Resurrection of Christ, and the welcoming of Jesus by the people of Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. This and other liturgical parodies have been studied by Julián L. Bueno (La sotana).

122 Notes to pages 9–11 22 The early reception of the Libro has been studied by Gerli (‘Carvajal’s Serranas,’ ‘Fernán Pérez,’ and ‘On the Edge’) and Dagenais, among others. The book seems to have had the greatest direct influence on the late fourteenth- and fifteenth-century poets whose songbooks were widely read during the Renaissance. 23 Notably, at the beginning of the poem (sts. 65–70), during the narrator’s journey through the mountains (sts. 985–6), and near the end (sts. 1626– 32). For a discussion of these ambiguous passages, see Catherine Brown (‘Between One Thing’) and Gerli (‘The Greeks’ and ‘Vías’). 24 In the words of Paul Antony Hayward, ‘the vast majority of saints’ lives are difficult to construe as serious attempts to provide instruction for would-be saints’ (123). 25 After their deaths, the miraculous remains of saints were literally picked apart, disseminated, fought over, and stolen (see Patrick Geary’s study). Saintly bodies were also ‘dissected’ in a figurative sense, as exemplified by the fourteen ‘Holy Helpers’ whose attributes anatomically catalogue symptoms of the plague from head to toe. 26 An early Spanish description of these kinds of entertainers can be found in Martín Pérez’s Libro de las confesiones (Book on Confessions, 1316): ‘tales juglares cantan cantares de los santos o de las faziendas o de las vidas de los reyes e de los prinçipes’ (such minstrels perform the songs of saints and the deeds and lives of kings and princes) (445). The tradition of performing ‘cantares de santos’ (songs of saints) in the streets and plazas of Spain continued to flourish into the sixteenth century, as evidenced by the blind entertainer in Diego Sánchez de Badajoz’s Farsa del molinero (Miller’s Farce, 1554). The Libro de buen amor concludes with two blind men’s songs invoking the Virgin, St Michael, and Mary Magdalene (sts. 1710–28). 27 On the veneration of saints in early modern Spain through the use of votive offerings (and other popular expressions), see the study of William A. Christian. 28 The Boniface pun is discussed by Jan Ziolkowski (183). Agatha’s connection to the charivaresque ‘rough music’ of shrieking cats has been studied by James F. Burke (Desire 183–96). Another interesting example of parodic sanctity in the Libro is the scribal transformation of a liturgical phrase from Sext, ‘factus sum sicut uter’ (For I am become like a bottle in the frost) (Ps. 118.83), to ‘feo sant sant uter’ (ugly saint saint bottle) in the Libro de buen amor (st. 381d, see the edition of Zahareas and McCallum). Here it would seem that the word ‘uter’ is associated with connotations of the Spanish ‘odre’ (wineskin) so that the phrase refers to a phallic St ‘Wineskin.’ On the erotic connotations of this passage, see Otis Green’s study.

Notes to pages 11–14����   123 29 St Julian became an innkeeper after mistakenly killing his parents as they slept in his wedding bed. He had assumed that his wife was lying there with her lover (see Voragine 1.126–31). 30 In some towns, women were allowed to take over the local government for a day. For a description of the traditional celebration of Agatha’s feast on February 5, see Caro Baroja (El Carnaval 372–83). The Archpriest’s allusion has been studied by Luis Jenaro-MacLennan as well as Burke. 31 According to Jacobus de Voragine, the rogation on St Mark’s Day was celebrated to prevent outbreaks of a plague brought down as punishment for the ‘orgy of games and pleasures’ that marked the end of Lent (2.278). St Mark’s association with cuckoldry has been studied by Burke (‘La cuestión’ 290). 32 Linda Hutcheon has aptly described parody as a ‘repetition of another discursive text’ and an ‘imitation with critical distance whose irony can cut both ways’ (43, 37). I am in agreement with Hutcheon that the ‘targeting’ of parody is primary ‘intramural,’ but find that it cannot in most cases be fully separated from the broader, ‘extramural’ context of satire (43). 33 I therefore use terms like ‘popular’ and ‘learned’ culture as discursive markers that allow me to dissect and interpret textual allusions to saints. On the hazards of dichotomizing cultural categories, see the study of Christopher Herbert. 34 On the corruption of the late medieval clergy in Spain, see J. Fernández Conde and Joseph O’Callaghan. 35 Complicity is, as Henri Bergson points out, central to the function of humour: ‘laughter always implies a kind of secret freemasonry, or even complicity, with other laughers, real or imagined’ (6). 36 See the study of Richard Emmerson (‘Antichrist as Anti-Saint’). 37 Saints will be similarly invoked for worldly purposes in some of the earliest vernacular lyrical poetry on the Peninsula, such as Galician-Portuguese troubadour songs in which St Anthony is associated with lust and lovers meet at the chapel of St Simon (Zenith 107, 123, 145). 38 The Ysengrimus is attributed to Magister Nivardus, a cleric from Ghent. It became so widely popular throughout medieval Europe, that its main characters, Ysengrimus the wolf and Reinardus the fox, became fixtures in vernacular fable collections. 39 In the Golden Legend, however, his breath kills her (Voragine 2.138). 40 For example, hagiographic elements in the Poema de mío Cid (Poem of My Lord Cid, c. 1200), the Libro de Apolonio (Book of Apolonius, c. 1250), and the Libro del caballero Zifar (Book of the Knight Zifar, 1304) have been studied by Geoffrey West, Marina Brownlee (‘Writing and Scripture’), and Michael Harney, respectively.

124 Notes to pages 15–17 1. Christ and His Cross 1 He had previously written the lives of saints Waldebert, Basol, Berchar, Frodobert, and Mansuetus. 2 Scholars have also noticed that the parody of Christ’s vita is also reflected in the ‘indeterminacy in medieval orthography between ‘anti- and ante-’ (Rhoads and Lupton 8). Onomastics, or the glossing of names, had always been a convention of hagiographic writing. Isidore of Seville reconciles the alternative prefixes of the Antichrist’s name by explaining that ante- refers to preceding the Second Coming of Christ, whereas anti- denotes ‘Christo contrarius’ (Book 8.11.20). In other words, the Antichrist signifies a temporary undoing of the meaning of Christ that leads to the ultimate fulfilment of prophecy. 3 ‘Et sicut in matrem Domini nostri Jesu Christi Spiritus sanctus venit, et eam virtute sua obumbravit, et divinitate replevit … ita quoque diabolus in matrem Antichristi descendet et totam eam replebit, totam circumdabit, totam tenebit, et totam interius exteriusque possidebit … Circumcidet se, et Filium Dei omnipotentis se esse mentietur … Jerosolymam veniet, et … in monte Oliveti occidetur, unde Dominus ascendit ad coelos’ (De Antichristo 1131–4). Translation based on the English version of Bernard McGinn. 4 See Richard Emmerson’s discussion in Antichrist in the Middle Ages (108–45), and especially Suzanne Lewis’s discussion of the Gulbenkian Apocalypse. 5 In the English N-Town cycle, Richard J. Moll has even argued that foolish onlookers stage a charivari to mock Joseph’s supposed cuckoldry. On the satirical role of shepherds in Spanish theatre, see the study by Charlotte Stern (218–42). 6 These plays have been edited by Grace Frank and Lynette Muir. Comical characters and scenes are also abundant in English plays (see Kolve). On rituals of humiliation and violence on the medieval stage, see the recent study of Jody Enders. 7 ‘Mulier, quid ploras? quem queris?’ (see Veltruský 299–305). In at least one version, Christ is accompanied by a farcical servant, who implicates ‘­students’ from the audience who are hiding in the garden to meet the ­Magdalene (303). 8 For a discussion relating this thirteenth-century text to Chaucer, see Laura Kendrick. 9 An early example can be found in Gonzalo de Berceo’s earlier-cited Duelo de la Virgen. Of course, much of the poetry from this period would have been recited, or in some cases acted out before an audience. On parodic allusions to the Passion in Alfonso’s invective songs, see Benjamin Liu, and especially Manuel da Costa Fontes (Folklore 27–34). On comparable imagery in the

Notes to pages 18–20����   125 later Cancioneros, see María Rosa Lida de Malkiel, Jane Yvonne Tillier, Nicasio Salvador Miguel, and Matthew Bailey, among others. 10 ‘Intelectum tibi dabo, et instruam te in via hac, qua gradieris.’ 11 This kind of imagery relates to St Augustine’s metaphor of correct and incorrect interpretive paths in De doctrina Christiana (On Christian Doctrine 1.88). See E. Michael Gerli’s recent study, ‘Vías de la interpretación.’ 12 The Archpriest’s parody of the crucifixion was first studied by Anthony Zahareas. As I have shown in an earlier study (‘Tomé senda’), the themes of leaving the main road and the theft of bread are adapted from Exempla 18 and 19 Disciplina Clericalis (The Scholar’s Guide). 13 Julián F. Bueno has related the troba caçurra to the liturgical Adoration of the Cross. The sexual connotations of the song and the symbolism of the baker woman’s bread have been discussed by André S. Michalski, Louise O. Vasvári (‘Semiología’), James F. Burke (‘Again Cruz’), and Sanford Shepard. The phrase ‘mal de la cruzada’ has been interpreted in a number of ways by critics. In his edition, Joan Corominas suggests that the Archpriest compares his humiliating love life to the disastrous outcome of the Crusades. Lillian von der Walde Moheno and Jacques Joset view the ‘mal de la cruzada’ as a venereal disease brought back by crusaders, while Gerli (‘El mal’) sees it as an allusion to the notorious cuckoldry of crusaders during their long absences. 14 St Helen was believed to have brought portions of the Cross to Constantinople and Rome, but left the most important part of the relic at the Holy Sepulchre Church in Jerusalem. It is this lignum Crucis that, according to legend, was stolen by Persian and Muslim invaders. 15 The play has been edited by Léo Rovanet. The earliest vernacular version that I have found is the fourteenth-century Flos sanctorum from the Biblioteca de Menéndez Pelayo (ms. 8). See the edition of Fernando Baños Vallejo and Isabel Uría Maqua. Julio Caro Baroja has documented love spells invoking St Helen in Renaissance Spain (Vidas mágicas 106, 119). 16 St Bernard glosses these particular verses: ‘Ecce tu pulcher es dilecte mi et, decorus lectulus noster floridus tigna domorum. Nostrarum cedrina laquearia nostra cypressina’ (Behold thou art fair, my beloved, and comely. Our bed is flourishing. The beams of our houses are of cedar, our rafters of cypress trees) (Cant. 1.15–17). According to the Legenda Crucis, the Cross was crafted from the four trees of the Holy Land: the cedar, cypress, palm, and olive. 17 See Joseph Szövérffy’s Hymns. The rhyming of crux, lux, and dux is common in the medieval Latin hymnody (cf. sts. 1639efg). Rodrigo A. Molina has also related the Archpriest’s rhyme scheme in the troba caçurra to the Latin aphorism, per crucem ad lucem.

126 Notes to pages 20–3 18 Honorius of Autun, for example, in a twelfth-century gloss, identifies the Cross with the Edenic Tree (see Hall). The same identification can be found in Thomas Aquinas’s later sermon, Germinet Terra. 19 ‘Dulcis arbor et suavis ... fruta suspensa perennem.’ 20 In one of his tales, a fruit farmer is poisoned by the serpent that he found in a ‘peral’ (1354ab). 21 This tale also has Eastern origins. In the thirteenth-century Novellino (One Hundred Ancient Tales), the blind husband is pummelled by falling pears as the adulterous couple make love in the tree, but then regains his sight through a miracle granted by St Peter (Payne 57). As God has predicted, his wife finds a way out of the predicament by observing that her sexual appetites restored his vision. The ‘Merchant’s Tale’ concludes in much the same way, except that forest nymphs restore January’s sight. In Boccaccio’s Decameron (Ten Days’ Entertainment, 1352), the odd couple is Lydia and Pyrrhus (7.9). Pyrrhus climbs up for a pear, and looks down at Lydia having sex with one of his servants. They convince the dupe that the tree is enchanted. 22 A later poetic adaptation of the Inventio myth can be found in Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s La devoción de la Cruz. This seventeenth-century play stages crosses being lost, discovered, and venerated by lovers. 23 See, for example, the De expugatione Terrae Sanctae (The Capture of the Holy Land): ‘Dicam pollutis labiis qualiter pretiosum lignum Dominicum nostrae redemptionis tactum sit damnatis manibus damnatorum?’ (Should I describe with impure lips how the precious wood of the Lord, our redeemer, was seized by the damnable hands of the damned?) (Stevenson 226). Translation by James J. Brundage (The Crusades 159). 24 The thirteenth-century Latin Chronicle of the Kings of Castile recalls how the Church capitalized on this disaster to recruit more crusaders (O’Callaghan 62). 25 ‘Ad nombilius membrum, ad interiora viscerum … extenderunt manus sacrilegas inimici crucis Christi.’ Translation by Jonathan Ridley-Smith (The Crusades 134) 26 ‘Cruz veneranda perdita est.’ This unpublished sermon has been edited by Christopher T. Maier, who kindly shared it with me. His text is based on Avranches (A) 132, fols. 272r–273v and Troyes (T) 1099, fols. 110v–112v. He discusses this and other sermons of Philip the Chancellor in his book Preaching the Crusades. 27 Historians describe the loss of Gibraltar as ‘the most serious blow to Christian Spain for many years’ (Housley 57). This period of setbacks had begun with the 1319 misfortune of two princes (Pedro and Juan) being

Notes to pages 23–5����   127 ambushed and killed during a raid on Almería. See also Elizabeth Siberry on the perceived sinfulness of the crusaders. Berceo characterizes enemies of Christ in these terms, ‘prisieron al Cordero essa falsa cruzada’ (Duelo 119d; 16c). There are some examples of crusade satire in Latin. For example, H. Pflaum edited a ‘strange crusaders’ song’ in which a hymn to the Cross ends with a warning against crusading. 28 For example, the poem collected by Goswin Spreckelmeyer, ‘Cruz ego rapta queror, vi rapta manuque canina/et tactu polluta canum’ (Cross, I lament your having been taken by force, seized by the hands of those dogs, and polluted by their unclean handling) (39). On the genre of the crusader’s lament, see Szövérffy’s discussion in Secular Latin Lyrics and Minor Poetic Forms of the Middle Ages (vol. 3). 29 ‘A la Vera Cruz quando la veen dizen ... ���������������������������������� [en su lengua] ‘pendón de aborrencia’‘ (To the True Cross when they see it they say ... [in their language] ‘abhorrent banner’) (Carpenter, fol. 11v). At the same time, they were accused of mockingly re-enacting the crucifixion as can be seen in Berceo’s ‘Los judios de Toledo’ (Milagros no. 18). 30 In his edition of the Libro, Corominas glossed this verse as ‘cruziar del lat. cruciari “tormentarse, sufrir” ’ (102). The verb cruzar(se) meaning ‘tomar la cruz ... alistarse en una cruzada’ is another possible reading. In Old French, se croisier was used to express ‘the notion of taking the cross or going on crusade’ (Trotter 67). Considering the kind of wordplay that goes on throughout the Libro, it is likely that word cruiziava has more than one meaning: The Archpriest is ‘tormented’ to such an extent that he figuratively ‘takes the cross’ for the baker woman, only to suffer ‘el mal de la cruzada,’ and a figurative crucifixion. 31 As Ridley-Smith puts it, ‘sacred violence cannot be proposed [by the Church] on any grounds save that of love’ (‘Crusading’ 191). 32 He found the only known manuscript of the Cancionero de obras de burlas in the British Museum (C.20.b.22, see the edition of Domínguez), which had previously formed a kind of humorous appendix to Hernando de Castillo’s 1511 Cancionero general (Common Songbook). 33 The Laberinto’s narrator observes the seven concentric circles of the cosmos, each of which encompasses three wheels representing the past, present, and future. This allegory was first published in 1481, nearly forty years after it was finished. The Carajicomedia parodies not only the text of the Laberinto, but also the gloss of Hernán Núñez de Guzmán’s 1499 edition. 34 While the text does implicate the court of Isabel I and openly ridicules the Spanish clergy, it offers no real alternative to the ideologies that monarchs and bishops represent. Examples of anticlericalism in the Carajicomedia are

128 Notes to pages 26–7 numerous. Allusions to the court are also frequent: apart from the facetious authorship of Montesinos (one of the Queen’s confessors), a number of prostitutes are given the name Isabel, a royal servant’s wife is accused of prostituting herself, the vanity of another courtesan causes Isabel to outlaw silk in her kingdom, and an old bawd is exiled by order of the Queen (171, 188, 207). See Carlos Varo’s introduction to his edition and Frank A. Domínguez’s most recent study, which suggests that Fajardo can be identified with Fernando el Católico (‘Carajicomedia’). 35 The concluding 92 stanzas of the Carajicomedia are later attributed to another Franciscan writer, Juan de Hempudia (220; see Eisenberg, ‘La Regla’). This conclusion parodies Juan de Mena’s portrait of the Count of Niebla, a powerful and prominent nobleman who died during the 1436 assault on Gibraltar. Little is known of Hempudia, apart from his authorship of two early sixteenth-century works, Regla breve y muy conpendiosa para saber rezar el officio divino (A Brief and Very Compendious Guide on How to Pray the Divine Office) and Explicación sobre las Palabras del Pater Noster (Exposition of the Words of the Our Father) (see Domínguez, ‘La parodia del traductor’). 36 He calls this library at the Franciscan monastery, ‘la copiosa libreria del colegio del señor San Extravagante’ (the voluminous library of the college of the lord St Extravagant). The Carajicomedia ironically misquotes the titles of a number of learned books that were presumably associated with this library. Citations of the Carajicomedia are from the edition of Carlos Varo. Translations are based on the forthcoming bilingual edition of Frank Domínguez. In a recent article, Domínguez relates the mock translation of the Carajicomedia to the prologue of Montesino’s Sermones, otherwise known as the Evangelios e epístolas con sus glosas en romance (The Gospels and Epistles with their Glosses in Romance) (‘La parodia’ 159). 37 On the fuller implications of the use of the term ‘Bugeo’ in the Carajicomedia, see Domínguez’s study, ‘Monkey Business.’ 38 These instructions parallel those of the ‘devoto frayle’ who seduces another man’s wife with prayer: ‘Por vuestra contemplacion haré tanto que os esperare a la puerta del monesterio’ (For your contemplation I will even wait for you at the door of the monastery) (164). These kind of cues are also present in late fifteenth-century texts like Diego de San Pedro’s Passión trovada (Rhyming Passion) and the Cárcel de amor (Prison of Love). See Sol Miguel-Prendes and Keith Whinnom (‘The Supposed’). 39 A Franciscan and his lover also sing a hymn for the Nativity, ‘venite adoremus’ (come let us adore [Him]) (196). Another possible allusion to Christ comes when a whorehouse is implicitly linked to the entombment, ‘hic est

Notes to pages 27–8����   129 requies mea’ (this is my rest) (205; Ps. 131.14). An additional ecclesiastical citation is taken from the Office of the Dead, ‘ad [sic] quos los verdugos [sic] perducat eas, amen’ (to which the executioners conduct them) (155). Varo has speculated that the phrase ‘[sic] gladio ancipitis in manibus eorum’ (wielding swords in their hands) could allude to one of apostles cutting off a Roman’s ear (183; Mat. 26.51). 40 ‘Humiliavit semet ipsum factus oboediens usque ad mortem mortem autem crucis.’ The so-called Attendite from the Book of Lamentations was used in the Tenebrae service during Holy Week, and expresses the suffering of Christ, as can be seen in Montesino’s translation: ‘dize el mesmo redemptor en los plantos de Jeremias … “ved con vuestros ojos si ay algún dolor que sea como el dolor mío” ’ (the Redeemer said the same thing in the Lamentations of Jeremiah ... ‘see with your own eyes if there is any pain that compares to my pain’) (fol. 136r). The verse is recorded as being used to make fun of a cuckold at a sixteenth-century carnival in Toledo, suggesting that this ‘pain’ served as a kind of running, festive joke (Horozco 136). The verse from Paul’s letter to the Philippians (2.8) – the only biblical citation that Varo does not identify – accompanies an engraving of the Crucifixion in the 1551 edition of the Cartuxano. 41 ‘Salve virga Jesse florida et fructifera, Maria virgo beatissima!’ ������������� (Hail flowering and fruit-bearing branch of Jesse, Mary the virgin most blessed!) (1.3). Latin citations from Ludolph’s prayers are from the bilingual edition of Mary Immaculate Bodenstedt, who has also a published a dissertation on the Vita Christi. See also the study of Charles Abbott Conway, Jr Translations are based on Bodenstedt’s English version. 42 See, in addition to Berceo’s prologue to his Milagros de Nuestra Señora, Alfonso X’s Cantiga entitled ‘Como loa el Rey a verga de Jesse que e Santa Maria’ (How the King praises the branch of Jesse and St Mary) (80). Berceo’s use of the image is discussed by Burke (Desire 125–8). The word is still widely used in the Spanish-speaking world as a vulgar euphemism for the penis. 43 This was a popular subject in medieval iconography, where Jesse can be seen lying sometimes partially exposed with the tree branching up from his abdomen. In another variation on the Jesse theme, a Cross-Tree branches from the sleeping Virgin (as the virga or staff of Moses was interpreted as a figure of the Cross). See, for example, the Gothic panel from the Pinocateca of Ferrara, where Mary’s Cross-Tree appears before a nun who is contemplating an open prayer book (see Bentiti 29). 44 The Cartuxano dedicates almost an entire chapter to the scourging: ‘Fue atado … [y] açotado [Latin flagellari] en manera crudilíssima … mira como

130 Notes to pages 28–32 está desnudo delante de todos … [y] recibe golpes muy duros … líbrame de los açotes de la yra perdurable que yo tengo te merescidos’ (He was tied up [… and] scourged in the cruellest manner … look how he is naked in front of everyone … [and] receives such hard blows … Deliver me from the scourges of eternal wrath that I deserve) (2.62; pt. 4, fols. 78v, 136r). 45 For example, in the prologue to Milagros de Nuestra Señora, Berceo calls her the ‘guiona deseada’ (yearned for guide), and the Archpriest similarly invokes her in the Libro, ‘Tú me guía’ (you guide me) (sts. 32b; 20c) 46 The Cartuxano shows readers how to imitate Christ by imagining themselves receiving the crown of thorns, ‘otórgame que … que pueda merescer la corona’ (grant that I … be deserving of the crown) (2.62; pt. 4, 136r). 47 The Cartuxano, not surprisingly, dwells on how the Saviour was derided while being nailed to the Cross (2.61–3). 48 Fallen women are also called ‘rameras’ and ‘romeras’ in the Carajicomedia, bringing to mind the paranomasiac Spanish proverb, ‘ir romera y volver ramera, no es mala carrera’ (to set off as a pilgrim, and return as prostitute, is not such a bad journey) (169, 175). 49 This kind of image can be found in literature dating to back to the ­thirteenth-century poetry of Berceo: ‘de çerca de la cruz io nunqua me partía ... abrazaba la cruz hasta do alcanzaba/besabali los piedes ... bien ploren los mis oios, non çesen de manar’ (not once did I turn away from the Cross ... I embraced the Cross where I could reach it/kissed His feet ... my eyes weep greatly, the tears do not cease) (Duelo vv. 137–40). 50 See also Whinnom’s study (‘The Supposed’). Many of the clerics implicated in the dreamvision are friars. Franciscans, like Ambrosio Montesinos, Juan de Hempudia, and others connected to the monastery of San Juan de los Reyes were proponents of contemplative devotion in Isabelline Spain. 51 Authors and readers alike practised a mnemonic technique of ‘making a way among places ... the affective, emotional route that a meditator was to take’ (Carruthers 60). At the same time, Franciscans had begun to popularize what would become known as the Stations of the Cross, a physical progression through the violent scenes of Christ’s torture and death (although the Stations would not be standardized until much later). In Spain, the practice was first introduced by the Dominican Álvaro de Córdoba in the late fourteenth century. 52 Historians have found that what are now considered to be particularly grotesque relics tended to inspire the most fervent devotion during fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries (see Wood 236). 53 Cf. Laura Kendrick’s discussion of Chaucer’s joking reference to ‘Goddes pryvetee’ in the Canterbury Tales (5–16; v. 3164).

Notes to pages 33–6����   131 2. Holy Men in the Wilderness 1 Berceo based his text primarily on the Vita S. Emiliani of St Braulio (see Gerli, Medieval Iberia 160). 2 This aspect of the legend first appears in the fifteenth-century Leben der Heiligen, a German version of the Golden Legend (see Husband and GilmoreHouse 102–9). 3 The wildman and wild women also play an important role in medieval romance, as can be seen in the Cárcel de amor, as well as later Renaissance literature. See, in addition to the classic study of Richard Bernheimer, David A. Sprunger, Steven D. Kirby, Alan D. Deyermond (‘El hombre salvaje’), and Fausta Antonucci. 4 Kinser has examined festive traditions surrounding the wildman in Germany and France in a series of studies. See also Eckehard Simon’s work. In early Spanish literature, performing ‘Salvajes’ are mentioned in numerous texts from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, from the Libro de Alexandre (sts. 2472–4), to Cantigas of Alfonso X (no. 47) and penitential manuals such as Martín Pérez’s Libro de las confesiones (447), and in numerous texts from the Golden Age. Early sixteenth-century documentation of maskers dressed as wildmen and hermits can be found in Sebastián de Horozco’s Relaciones históricas Toledanas (Relations of Toledan History) (126). 5 Julio Caro Baroja discusses numerous variations on the festive hunt, or mock sacrifice of celebrants dressed in skins or feathers, as well as the role of zamarones, who, assuming a bestial, diabolical guise, engaged in all manner of obscene, threatening antics (El carnaval). For a fourteenth-century description of zamarones, see Martín Pérez (445). The importance of these performers in the development of medieval Spanish theatre has been discussed by Charlotte Stern (82–3). On the carnivalesque interpretation of anchorites and the practice of cock-throwing in the Libro, see also my study (‘Toma gallo que te muestre’). 6 These mountains are situated just north of Madrid. The shrine of Santa María del Vado was a site of pilgrimage in fourteenth-century Spain. On the relationship between the serrana episodes and sexual innuendo in popular ballads known as cantares de caminantes (traveller’s songs), see Louise D. Vasvári (‘Peregrinaciones’). In the Golden Age, travelling imagery is often used as a metaphor for women serving as guides in the sex act (see, for example, Alzieu and Lissorgues 31). 7 This tradition is present in a number of breviaries (Risco 281). A bibliography of early sources for the legend has been compiled by Antonino González Blanco. In Peninsular iconography the brothers are depicted as

132 Notes to pages 36–40 legionaries wearing boots or sandals, carrying their own heads, and/or holding their swords like walking sticks. See Enrique Campuzano Ruiz, and especially Ander Manterola and Gurutzi Arregui. 8 ‘Quid loquar purgata longis alba morbis corpora? ... hymnite, matres, pro receptis parvulis’ (vv. 112, 118). Risco, who studied traditions relating to the translation of their relics following the Muslim invasion, found that the martyrs’ heads were believed to have floated down the river Ebro, circumnavigated the Iberian Peninsula, and washed up on the Cantabrian coast near a settlement called Sancti Emetherii and later Santander (292). On the spread of the cult, see the studies of Joaquín González Echegaray, José C. Miralles Maldonado, and Manterola and Arregui. 9 The italics are mine. As discussed in the introduction to this study, paronomasia influenced the popular cult of many saints in the Middle Ages. 10 ‘Angelis suis Deus mandavit de te, ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis./ In manibus portabunt te, ne unquam offendas ad lapidem pedum tuum’ (Ps. 90.11–12). On the meaning of these verses in the liturgy, see Prosper Guéranger (5.132). 11 See Elviro Martínez’s Cantares asturianas and Costumbres asturianas for lyric variations, 123 and 170–1. A general description can be found in his Tradiciones asturianas 227–8. 12 ‘Instruam te in via hac, qua gradieris.’ The opposition between right and wrong paths will be periodically referred to in the poem as ‘buena andança’ versus ‘mal andança’ (805c, 1476d, 1587b, 1669g). 13 See Alzieu, Jammes, and Lissorgues 185–9. A striking example of this can be found in the Lozana andaluza, when the foot of a whoremonger Mercedarian is described as longer than a galley oar (195). 14 Compare the folk songs studied by Paula Olinger in which impotent husbands are described as either unable to ‘andar’ (walk), or mocked with criticisms like ‘andáis dormido’ (you walk as if asleep) (7, 130). 15 For example, a young lecherous wife in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales wears ‘shoes [that] were laced on her legges hye’ (v. 3267). It has been shown that the word for marrying used by the traveller, ‘cassar’ (to marry, cohabitate), was a common euphemism for the solicitation of sex (Burke, ‘La cuestión’; Cano Ballesta). 16 On uses of this metaphor in early Spanish literature, see the studies of Bussell B. Thompson and John K. Walsh (‘The Mercendarian’s’), and John R. Burt. For example, in Alfonso X’s thirteenth-century Cantiga 64, the Virgin prevents a wife from removing her shoes in favour of a new pair brought by a procuress, and thereby preserves a husband’s honour. The ill-repute of shoemakers and eroticization of feet and shoes is also widespread in the Golden Age. A particularly explicit example can be found in

Notes to pages 40–2����   133 an anonymous sixteenth-century poem in the voice of ‘Martigüelo,’ a common euphemism for the phallus: ‘los pies tan pulidas, que para calzarme pruebo mil zapatos, ninguno cabe’ (Alzieu, Jammes, and Lissorgues 274). For a study of erotic literature during this period, see José Ignacio Díez and Adrienne L. Martín. 17 Sancha, the sister of a Navarese king, has just rescued the count from prison, and carries him on her shoulders like the serranas in the Libro. On the incontinence of the clergy, see also the Libro de Alexandre : ‘clérigos ... e las mongias non andan a derechas palas çapatas mías’ (clerics … and monks are not walking the straight and narrow, by my boots) (Ca as st. 2366). 18 Mercedarians were also reputed to be sodomites, although the wearing out of shoes could refer to other kinds of illicit sexual activity. Thompson and Walsh relate such images to a rise in ‘discalced’ religious orders in the late Middle Ages (‘Mercedarian’s’ 445–6). The barefoot Observant Franciscans, for example, were organized in the fourteenth century as a movement to reform the ‘calced’ Conventuals, whom they perceived as corrupt. 19 Real devils were thought to roam about exciting and agitating people during carnival. The belief was so common that exorcisms often took place during the Madness of February (Caro Baroja, El carnaval 92, 99–100). On the practice of torturing of cats along with the burning of shoes and other malodorous substances as part of the charivari, see Caro Baroja’s Temas castizos (191–230) and El carnaval (52), and Robert Darnton (83). The most famous literary rendering of a cencerrada occurs in the second part of Don Quijote, when the knight is mocked by the rough noise of cats with bells tied to their tails (chap. 46). 20 ‘En el Apocalipsi, Sant Johan Evangelista/non vido tal figura’ (in the Apocalypse, St John the Evangelist never saw such a spectre) (1011ab). For medieval scholars, the equestrian Whore of Babylon, along with the four riders and their horses, signified the corruption, persecution, and tribulation of the Church. This tradition no doubt is behind the Archpriest’s use of erotic riding imagery in his earlier portrayal of the serranas as demonic mounts prostituting themselves. By the fourteenth century, the eschatological Whore had come to symbolize a widespread demoralization of the clergy. 21 As a conclusion to the serrana section, the prayer ‘de la pasión de Nuestro Señor Jesú Christo’ once again contrasts the martyrdom of the Saviour on the Cross with the comical, amorous suffering of the narrator (sts. 1059–66). 22 On the theatrical tradition of ‘playing saints and playing with saints,’ see the article by Karen Elaine Sawyer on The Second Shepherds’ Play (c. 1500). 23 In its reading of Virgil through Mena’s Laberinto de Fortuna, the Carajicomedia provides an early example of the mock-epic tendency that will be further

134 Notes to pages 42–5 cultivated by Rabelais and others. 24 English translations of the Aeneid are from Mandelbaum’s edition. ‘Corpus�������� que lauant frigentis et unguunt ... nec ripas datur horrendas et rauca fluenta transportare prius quam sedibus ossa quierunt.’ On the magical symbolism of the branch, see James George Frazier’s famous study. It is possible that the Carajicomedia further builds on its mock contemplation of the Cross by linking what Virgil calls the ‘ramus’ or ‘virga’ of Aeneas with Hilarion’s ‘verga’ (166; 6.137, 144). Fajardo’s humiliation is compared to that of Virgil in the basket, ‘con la maldad de su falso gesto,/hiziera a virgilio el engaño del cesto’ (163). The daughter of the Emperor famously lured him into a basket and left him hanging until sunrise to be mocked by all of Rome (see Comparetti and Baswell). Virgil was thought to have avenged this humiliation by poisoning the Imperial water supply. 25 The gloss that follows in Hernán Núñez’s edition of the Laberinto describes Aeneas and equates the power of the golden bough to knightly virtue (see Dominguez’s edition of the Cancionero de obras de buria 27). 26 For a contemporary Iberian description of these demons, see also Martín de Castañega’s Tratado de las supersticiones y hechicerías (Treatise on Superstitions and Witchcraft) (114; 93–4). Varo also considers the Carajicomedia as promoting instead of condemning what Mena calls ‘viles actos del libidinoso’ (vile, libidinous acts) in the Laberinto de Fortuna (66; 114e). 27 Domínguez has also made the case that stanza 28 and its gloss could be poking fun at Cardinal Jiménez de Cisneros, a Franciscan reformer who became regent, Grand Inquisitor, and one of Queen Isabel I’s confessors (‘Santilario’). Because of his asceticism, supporters of Cisneros compared him to anchorite saints including Anthony, Paul, and Hilarion. For an example of puns on hilar, see Luis de Góngora’s sonnet in which a nun ‘mortifies’ her flesh with her tonsured lover – instead of a hairshirt – as a a sign of devotion to ‘Sanct Hilario/porque nunca hilaba ni cosía’ (St Hilarion because she never spun nor sewed) (Sonetos 256; cf. Alzieu, Jammes, and Lissorgues 134). 28 He refers to Eugene Kagarov’s article: ‘conformément à la croyance populaire [que] St. Hilarion déflore les jeunes filles mortes sans avoir connu l’amour’ (in accordance with the popular belief that St Hilarion deflowered girls who died without having known love) (280). Such beliefs can be compared to images of ‘brides of death’ in the danse macabre (see, for example, the Spanish Danza de la muerte vv. 66–74). 29 According to the lyric cited by Luis Montoto y Rautentrauch, they would be expected to kiss Judas – an intriguing example of how medieval popular culture accommodated and elaborated on biblical themes.

Notes to pages 45–7����   135 30 Proserpina was abducted and raped by Pluto, the god of the underworld. See Ovid’s Metamorphosis (5.341–661). On the festive connotations of this myth in Renaissance literature, see Bakhtin (Rabelais 326, 378). 31 Ophelia’s brother, Laertes, jumps into the grave first and engages in an incestuous monologue that provokes Hamlet’s outburst of morbid jealousy. Necrophilia in the Jacobean stage has been studied in recent years by Scott Dudley and Richard W. Grinnell. 32 Translations of the Decameron are based on the English version of G.H. McWilliam. ‘Io, mentre che vivesti, mai un solo sguardo da te aver non potei; per che, ora che difender non ti potrai, convien per certo che, cosí morta come tu se,’ io alcun bacio ti ... e postolesi a giacere allato il suo viso a quello della donna accostò, e piú volte con molte lagrime piangendo il basciò’ (10.4; 857). Another equally morbid scene in the Decameron can be found in the story of Lisbetta, who robs her lover’s grave and preserves his head in a pot. She then grows an exceedingly fragrant basil plant by watering it daily with her tears (4.5). 33 ‘Agitator, et latera calcibus, cervicem flagello verberans: Eia, inquit, cur dormitas? cachinnansque desuper, si defecisset, an hordeum vellet accipere, sciscitabatur.’ All citations are by chapter. Translations of St Jerome’s Vita Hilarionis are from the English version of Philip Schaff and Henry Wace. 34 ‘Aselle, faciam, ut non calcitres: nec te hordeo alam, sed paleis.’ 35 ‘Virginem dei ... amoris daemonem.’ The wife was pregnant within a year: ‘exacto anno vidit cum filio.’ 36 In Italy, the most well known feast for Hilarion of Gaza takes place in the Calabrian town of Caulonia, where it is believed that the saint’s arm has been encased in a silver reliquary. The saint is also commemorated in Italy through donkey races held on October 21. 37 ‘Confessus est fratribus instare diem dormitionis beati Antonii; et pervigilem noctem in ipso quo defunctus fuerat loco, a se ei debere celebrari ... Jacebat in stratu ejus, et quasi calens adhuc cubile deosculabatur. Erat autem cellula non plus mensurae per quadrum tenens quam homo dormiens extendi poterat.’ 38 In keeping with Virginia Burrus, I use the terms ‘queer’ and ‘queerness’ in reference to non-normative gender and sexual identities, as set forth by theorists like Judith Butler. Domínguez points out that the ‘sodomy’ that Hilarion is accused of could include any sexual act with a man or a woman that was considered contra naturam. 39 As in the oath ‘hago voto a Sant’Hilario ... de te sacudir los huessos,/y cubrir un brevario con tu cuero’ (I swear by St Hilarion ... to shake your bones, and cover a breviary with your skin) (Reinosa 197).

136 Notes to pages 48–50 40 In Lucas Fernández’s Égloga o farsa del nascimiento (Eclogue or Farce of the Nativity, c. 1500), two shepherds interrogate and insult a hermit on a country road by accusing him of all sorts of knavery: ‘Sant Ilario a mi ver ... ¿Soys echacuerbo, o buldero ... ¿es este fray Zorrón ... desplumando cofradías? ... ¡moxquilón y macandón!’ (Seems like a St Hilarion ... are you a charlatan or a pardoner? ... is this Friar the Fox ... stealing from confraternities? ... a phony and a knave!) (175–6). Luis de Góngora makes a poetic allusion to Hilarion in sonnet 28 about ‘María de Vergara,’ a broken-down woman of ill repute who euphemistically dreams of caging a canary to sing for her rook, but only manages to land a Mercedarian named ‘Hilario’ (Obras, 169). Another instance of a poet identifying Hilarion as an anti­model for the ascetic pretensions and menacing sexuality of friars can be found in the Cancionero de Amberes (Songbook of Amberes), in which an ex-whoremonger describes himself as so aroused that neither St Hilarion nor the most predatory friar could match his lust (Hill 32). 41 Boccaccio’s abbot claims to be using the same narcotic used by the so-called assassins who were thought to have deluded and poisoned their enemies with hashish, and who, according to Crusader lore, were lead by a mysterious figure known as the ‘vetus de montans,’ or Old Man of the Mountain (Decameron 3.8; see Bernard Lewis). The presumed good intentions of Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet have long been debated by Shakespeareans. Identifying Hilarion with Franciscans would seem to reflect the widespread criticism of friars as sexual predators. 42 Possible allusions to this tradition of Hilarion’s staff can be found in the Comedia Aquilana as ‘el bordón de Santilario’ (staff of St Hilarion), and the curse in Lucas Fernández’s aforementioned Égloga, ‘más Sant Ilario a mi ver ... do al diabro el bordión’ (more like a St Hilarion it seems to me ... the Devil take the staff) (v. 342). These kinds of images no doubt draw on the tradition of holy hermits and pilgrims using their walking sticks to defend against devils, wolves, and other predatory animals. 43 ‘Per questo la santità non diventa minore, per ciò che ella dimora nell’anima e quello che io vi domando è peccato del corpo ... e dicovi che voi della vostra bellezza piú che altra donna glorair vi potete, pensando che ella piaccia a’ santi, che usi di vedere quelle del cielo’ (3.8; 302). 44 ‘Maldición de Santelario/se le pegue a la garganta;/en el ermita/le den todos una grita/que muestre Dios gran misterio;/ranilla, sarna y moquita/lo saquen d’ o al cementerio’ (may the curse of St Hilarion afflict his throat, and in the hermitage let everyone give him a shout and let the mystery of God be revealed; frogs, mange, and mucus take him away, off to the cemetery). 45 ‘Tam innumerabilium per noctes et dies daemonum voces resonabant, ut exercitum crederes.’

Notes to pages 52–5����   137 3. Virgins and Harlots 1 The list of virgins whose breasts are severed or otherwise mutilated would also include saints Dorothy and Fides. Male saints were sometimes threatened with castration in the medieval theater, as Jarmila Veltruský notes (295). 2 What seems clear is that the chapel dates back to some time during the reign of Enrique III or Juan II (1390–1454). According to the earlier tradition, a devotee named Pedro Fernández had already founded it in 1393 (Amador de los Ríos 364). For a history of the monastery, see Rodrigo Amador de los Ríos and Balbina Martínez Caviró. The saint’s widespread popularity can be glimpsed in sixteenth-century hagiographic sources like Alejo Salgado Correa’s Libro nombrado memorial de mártires de España (Memorial for the Martyrs of Spain), and the historian Francisco de Pisa (best known for his portrait by El Greco) makes a special note of the Quiteria chapel in Toledo (fol. 198r; Pisa p. 91). 3 ‘Diciendo a menudo “por vida de Santa Quiteria.”’ ... se le apareció la Santa Quiteria ... reprendióle ásperamente ... [Amusco] mandó edificar la capilla para desagraviar a la Santa ... [y] que se hiciese fiesta anual el 22 de mayo ... bendecían unos panecillos pequeños, que servían para curar el mal de la rabia’ (Saying frequently ‘on the life of St Quiteria’ ... St Quiteria appeared to him ... reprimanding him harshly ... [Amusco] ordered the chapel erected to placate the saint ... [and] that her annual feast be celebrated every May 22 ... they would bless little buns that were used to cure the sickness of rabies) (Amador de los Ríos 365). 4 A similar scene can be found in the Crónica de Emperador Alfonso VII (Pérez González 114). 5 ‘Tuvieron por Patrona a santa Quiteria en nuestra Imperial Cuidad por muchos siglos’ (for many centuries, they had St Quiteria as their patron in our imperial city) (P. de Rojas 413). Don Amor hides out in a town called ‘Castro.’ While the poet could be referring either to the Cantabrian port of Castro de Urdiales or the town of Castro del Río near Córdoba, the latter seems more likely, as ‘Andaluzía’ has been described as particularly receptive to Amor (st. 1304). 6 On the physical appearance of Amor, see, in addition to Gerli, the studies of Paolo Cherchi and María Eugenia Góngora. Numerous critics have worked on the pavilion allegory, including Eduardo Forastieri Braschi, Nicolás Álvarez (‘El recibimiento’), H. Salvador Martínez, and Barbara Kurtz. The subject of the devil’s role in the Libro has also been taken up by Daniel O. Mosquera. 7 A few critics have speculated about the setting for Amor’s humiliation, as when Fernando Capecchi identified the ‘palaçio pintado de almagra’ (palace painted with dark red ocher) as a brothel (75; st. 1306a). As Joan

138 Notes to pages 55–8 Corominas noted in his edition, it may be possible to determine which convents the Archpriest is most likely alluding to in this episode – the first presumably not too far from the ‘la puerta de Visagra,’ and known for its cemetery (sts. 1306–08). 8 In their editions, both G.B. Gybbon-Monypenny and Jacques Joset cite Corominas’s paraphrase, ‘me la quito de encima’ (get out from under it). Gybbon-Monypenny also suggests that it could be a way of telling Lent off, comparable to the expression, ‘la mando a hacer puñetas’ (I told him to go bugger off). 9 One example of a pun on quitar is the euphemism for death, ‘tía Quiteria.’ The saint’s name could have been associated with Cytherea (Spanish Citeria) through paronomasia, in much the same way that over time ‘Verena, because her name seemed to be a metathesis of Venus, became patron saint of prostitutes’ (Ziolkowski 183). For a later example of this pun on the names of the saintly virgin and the goddess of love, see Jaime de Huete’s sixteenth-century Tesorina (1.376–7). 10 The attempted infanticide that follows is explained as a defence against charges of infidelity: ‘porque su esposo no juzgasse menos casta su honestidad’ (so that her husband would not judge her to be less than faithful) (Ribadeneyra 133). The earliest vernacular legends I have been able to consult are the Catalan 1494 Flos sanctorum, romançat and the 1513 Portuguese Flos sanctorum em lingoagẽ (Almeida). Later versions of the story in Castilian are numerous. These include the legends of Alonso de Villegas (1578), Jeronimo Román de la Higuera (1596), Pedro de Ribadeneyra (1599), and Pedro de Rojas (1654). 11 There may have been some kind of rivalry or competition between the ‘saludadores’ of Quiteria and those of Catalina, the other female saint thought to cure rabies (Ciruelo). Cleaning wounds with uncontaminated saliva or water from springs might have washed away the virus in some cases. 12 Other sources on Marjaliza include the earlier-mentioned works by Villegas, Higuera, and P. de Rojas. 13 The feast of Quiteria is still reportedly celebrated in Marjaliza as well as Santamera and Fuente el Fresno, Cubla and Embid de Ariza in Aragón, and Sorihuela in Andalusia. 14 On Easter break-making and the Archpriest’s troba, see Burke (‘Again Cruz’). 15 The historian Ambrosio de Morales (c. 1550) describes the 22 May feast as a time of wonder-working, and associates the cult of St Quiteria with Spanish women (5: 133). Such a festive overthrow of male hierarchy is similar to traditions observed on the feast of St Agatha. Although Julio Caro Baroja introduces the strange cult of St Quiteria as one of his subjects for the month of May, he leaves her out of his study of springtime feasts (La estación).

Notes to pages 59–62����   139 16 St Anthony’s ‘fire’ (ergotism) was also associated with the flames of love (Huizinga 174) – as was, for more obvious reasons, the flesh of Sebastian being pierced by the arrows (Voragine 1.23). St Francis was famously pierced by the five wounds of stigmata. 17 ‘El desmintiendo su rabia/Al pecto hiço morder/Las cuerdas de su instrumento’ (making known his rabidity, with the pick he caused the strings of his instrument to be bitten) (Obras 245, 246). 18 The topos is far too pervasive in the cancioneros to fully outline in this discussion (see Boase). A notable theatrical example can be found in a work attributed to Rodrigo de Cota, when an old lover complains of ‘una ravia lastimera,/deseo desesperado’ (a painful rage,/desperate desire) (vv. 436–7). Diego de Hurtado Mendoza wrote an erotic poem that evokes rabies to parody the Marian image of conception through the ear: ‘la pulga ... entrárale en la oreja lo primero/hiciérale rabiar ... mal sufrida, colérica, impaciente ... así rabiosa’ (the flea ... would enter first in her ear, making her rage ... badly suffering, choleric, impatient ... and thus rabid) (129). 19 See, for example, the lyric ‘perro, quítate allá/o mala rabia te doy’ (dog, get away from there or I will give a you a bad case of rabies) (Alzieu, Jammes, and Lissorgues 124). 20 This image also implies that water can alleviate or incite madness by forcing lovers to face their own narcissism – recalling Luis de Góngora’s onanistic lover using a pick to ‘bite’ the strings of his own ‘instrument.’ On rabies as a metaphor for aegritudo amoris in Lope de Vega, see the study of Bienvenido Morros Mestres. 21 Joset questions Coromina’s polluted meat theory, noting that this usage remains undocumented, while Gybbon-Monypenny prefers to leave the verse unglossed. Cervantes uses the word lobuna as a double entendre when Don Quijote encounters a bearded countess named Lobuna who is jokingly compared to a ‘Zorruna’ (a fox-like, loose woman) (2.38). See also Cervantes’ Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda (Trials of Persiles and Sigismunda), in which a lover named Rutilio is seduced and enraged by a witch whom the devil has transformed into a she-wolf (Obras 73). By recoiling from his seducer, Rutilio follows the model of saints in the wilderness who, like Hilarion, resisted demons that came to tempt them in the form of wolves. 22 Bestiaries trace the Latin word for wolf, lupus, back to lycos, a variation on the Greek term for ‘bite.’ (See Aberdeen Bestiary (Gauld and McLarens 16v). An early classification of Canis lupus can be found in a fifteenth-century Spanish translation of the Liber de proprietatibus rerum (Book of the Properties of Things): ‘es animal ... [que] por la ravia de su crueldad quanto halla mata si puede ... su mordedura ... es veninoso y se deve curar como la mordedura del perro ravioso’ (it is an animal ... [that] due to its rabid

140 Notes to pages 62–3 cruelty kills whatever it finds ... its bite ... is venomous and should be cured like that of a rabid dog) (fol. 287r). 23 Comparable to the archetypal villain in Ysengrimus (23), or the ‘wolf monk’ in the fourteenth-century Libro de los gatos (Book of Cats) (no. 19). 24 This is a central metaphor in works like Lope de Vega’s Fuente Ovejuna (The Knight from Ovejuna): ‘la oveja al lobo dejáis como cobardes pastores’ (you leave the sheep to the wolf like cowardly shepherds) (3.91). As an example of how to avert the devil’s ferocious appetite for new souls, preachers often cited the story of St Francis taming a rabid wolf who had tormented the city of Gubbio (Alatri 21). The Evil One was sometimes described as rabid, as in the case of Lope de Vega’s character: ‘estoy rabiando ... ya en Caín voy escupiendo/de mi veneno infernal/y ya con rabia mortal’ (I am raging … now into Cain I am spitting my infernal venom, now with a fatal rabidity) (La creación 654–6). 25 More widely known is the earlier tale in which Marie de France defines lycanthropy itself as a ‘rage’ or rabid state (61). In old French, rage could denote ‘fury, madness, rabies’ (Hindley et al. 512). The word used to describe Don Amor, ‘saña,’ may have conveyed the fury associated with rabies as in the Portuguese, ‘sanha,’ meaning ‘ira, fúria ... cólera à los animais enfurecidos ou raivosos’ (anger, fury ... cholera as when animals are enraged or rabid) (Machado 640). On the use of metaphorical language for love and lovemaking in the Cancioneros, see Keith Whinnom (Poesía amatoria). 26 As Joset points out, the Archpriest draws on this tradition by alluding to the belief that she-wolves pick the ugliest or most unlikely of mates (‘Amor loco’). The notoriety of she-wolves deceiving their mates can traced back to medieval beast literature, as when the wife of Ysengrimus allows herself to be lured away and mounted by Reynard the fox; and bestiaries like the thirteenth-century Aberdeen: ‘Lupus a rapacitate dicitur, unde et meretrices lupas vocamus, quia amantium bona devastant’ (wolves get their name from their rapacity: for this reason we call whores lupae, she-wolves, because they strip their lovers of their wealth) (Gauld and McLarens 5.818.1–18; fol. 16v.). Translation by Morton Gauld and Colin McLarens. In keeping with this association, the Spanish brothel was sometimes referred to as a ‘lupanar,’ or wolf’s den. 27 In his prologue, Fernando de Rojas refers to a first author and describes finding the unfinished manuscript (74). Rojas mentions Rodrigo de Cota and Juan de Mena but never specifies who in fact wrote it (191, note 20). From 1499 to 1501, it was called a Comedia – although this sprawling work would have been extremely difficult to stage. Only later, after the addition of new acts, did the author change the title to Tragicomedia, for reasons that are partly explained in his ‘Prólogo’ (81). On the transformation of the title, see Edwin J. Webber.

Notes to pages 64–6����   141 28 The pseudo-hagiographic presentation of Trotaconventos in the Libro de buen amor has been studied by Fred Abrams and André Michalski. 29 All citations of Celestina are from the edition of Dorothy S. Severin. 30 On Celestina’s art of persuasion, see, for example, the article by Juan Estremera Gómez. It is possible that her rhetorical skills play on another attribute of the Magdalene – her vita apostolica in France, where she was believed to have converted unbelievers. Celestina, on the other hand, brings about a conversion in reverse by persuading her followers to pursue their carnal desires. 31 Rojas likely refers to the Magdalene church in Salamanca. 32 It is thought that his great-grandfather converted. Gilman’s reading has been called into a question by several critics, including Nicholas G. Round, Keith Whinnom (‘Interpreting’), and Miguel Marciales. Rojas was a successful jurist and businessman. He belonged to a Marian religious brotherhood, and was buried in a Franciscan habit at the Madre de Dios (Mother of God) convent (see Russell’s ‘introducción’ 35). It is, of course, impossible to know whether he was motivated by real or feigned beliefs. His wife was a first-generation convert whose father was brought before the Inquisition. On the question of identifying conversos in fifteenth-century literature, see David Nirenberg’s study. 33 Indeed, common accusations against Jews as blasphemers could also be applied to Christian satirists. See, for example, the anti-Semitic Tratado de alborayque (Treatise of the Burak, c.1488–90): ‘a los sanctos ... llaman “alcahuetes que convertieron las gentes”... a las mill virgines y alas otras sanctas ... llaman “alcahuetas”’ (they call the male saints … ‘pimps who converted people’ … they call a thousand virgins and other female saints … ‘procuresses’) (Carpenter fol. 11v). 34 Cf. the examples of mock Latin prayers edited by Martha Bayless and the later vernacularized parodia sacra collected in the Cancionero de obras de burla. The Archpriest used the same prayer formula of ‘omillo me’ to address Alda and the Virgin Mary (1025b, 1046a). 35 Like Costa Fontes, he suspects that this kind of parodic sanctity is somehow non-Christian – ’something of a converso joke’ (57). 36 Beresford also cites Melibea’s ‘dientes menudos y blancos,’ Pármeno’s mother taking ‘siete dientes’ from a hanged man, and Celestina’s recollection of her youth as a time of ‘mejores dientes’ (51, 53). 37 The Celestina has generated a body of criticism that is far too immense to survey in this discussion. My aim has been to focus on studies that give a general sense of how Rojas’s sacrilegious portrayal of Celestina has been interpreted. Over the years, critics have seen in her everything from a personification of evil (Gurza) to Mother Earth or the Great Mother

142 Notes to pages 66–8 (Weinberg and Hesse). A few scholars have commented on Calisto’s prayer and identified the Magdalene as a patron saint of lovers. Dayle Seidenspinner-Núñez considers parallels with the legend of St Mary of Eygpt, whereas Frank Domínguez relates allusions to the Magdalene in the Celestina to images of cosmetics. Burke finds that, as the first to look upon the resurrected Christ, the Magdalene represented a conversional ‘way of seeing’ in contrast to Calisto’s figurative blindness (Vision). More recently, David Burton has noticed the irony that Rojas’s ‘unrepentent sinners’ rely on a saint who was a ‘repentant sinner’ (40). 38 He is portrayed as suffering lovesickness here and elsewhere in the text. The symptoms of this manic state of melancholy are diagnosed in the 1495 Lilio de Medicina (The Lily of Medicine), an anonymous translation of the Lilium medicinae, first published by Bernard de Gordon in 1305. The best cure, according to this influential text, is to consult an ugly old woman (as opposed to a physician), who can demystify the object of love by pointing out her physical defects (108–9). This is what Areúsa does in her criticism of Melibea’s appearance, debunking Calisto’s absurd, idealized view of his lover’s beauty (408, 231). 39 He also owned vernacular works on the life of Christ. See the author’s will, published by Fernando del Valle Lersundi. Bussell Thompson has noted that hagiography was popular among conversos because these readers needed to prove their allegiance to Christianity. It is also true that vernacular collections of saints’ lives were enormously popular among sixteenthcentury middle-class readers as a whole. 40 Berceo alludes to the unnamed sinner, ‘la sancta Madalena, de Lázaro ermana,/pecadriz sin mesura, ca fue muger liviana’ (the holy Magdalene, sister of Lazarus,/an immoderate sinner, for she was a loose woman) (Milagros st. 783ab). The Archpriest of Hita mentions her anointing in the house of Martha, and first sighting of the resurrected Christ: ‘por contrición e lágrimas la Santa Madalena/fue quita e absuelta de culpa e de pena ... la Madalena te dixo ... que el tu fijo vevía’ (through the contrition and tears of the holy Magdalene the blame and punishment was taken away and absolved ... for the Magdalene told you ... that your son was alive) (1141cd, 28bcd). On the sometimes conflated relationship between the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene, see Theresa Coletti’s study (171–9). 41 See Katherine Ludwig Jansen’s study (164, 205). Sumptuary laws were passed on the feast of Magdalene as early as 1290 (Brundage, ‘Sumptuary’). 42 St Gregory’s comments on the Magdalene can be found in Homilia 25 and 33, and in his Epistle 22. 43 Jansen cites the preacher Jordanus of Quedlinburg using the oils in the Magdalene’s alabaster as a metaphor for absolution insofar as they are the

Notes to pages 68–71����   143 vehicle by which she makes the transition from worldly to divine love, enabling her to be forgiven through an act of penitence, accompanied by tears of contrition (230). 44 Celestina tells Pármeno, ‘¿no ves que es necedad o simpleza llorar por lo que no se puede remediar?’ (do you not see that it is stupidity or foolishness to cry about that which cannot be remedied?) (119). 45 As discussed in the first chapter of this study, such devotio moderno was common among friars, who would visualize themselves taking part in different scenes from the life of Christ from the perspective of the Virgin or the Magdalene. 46 On the portrayal of Celestina’s house as a parodic temple, see Manuel da Costa Fontes (The Art 113–15). 47 ‘Fuestes, señora, herida/de una amorosa saeta/del sacro rey de la vida/ tanto que os quedó metida/en el alma muy secreta’ (You were, my lady, wounded by the arrow of love of the sacred King of life, so far it entered into you, in your very secret soul). 48 Porque os vido tan hermosa/Dios de vos se enamoró, que otra perla mas preciosa/excepto la generosa/Virgin nunca se halló ... no quesistes ser jornada/a la celestial morada/sin rescebirlo primero’ (Because he saw you so beautiful, God fell in love with you, for he had never seen another pearl as precious except for the Virgin ... you did not want to make the journey to the celestial abode without receiving him first) (204). 49 Calisto later describes himself as equally ensnared by Melibea’s girdle – ‘a ñudos de mi pasión, vosotros enlazasteis mis deseos’ (in knots of my passion, you roped my desires) – as is Celestina by Calisto’s chain (349). It is interesting to note that birthing girdles were also part of the Magdalene cult (Jansen 298). On the images of thread, girdle, and chain, see Deyermond’s article (‘Hilado’). As Jansen notes, the Magdalene’s hair was often compared to golden thread. The meaning of ‘hilar’ in the Celestina has been discussed in an article by Costa Fontes (‘Celestina’s hilado’) and by Mercedes Turón, who links the image to the Plutonian Fates, or Moirai, that ended the life of mortals by cutting thread from their spinning wheel. 50 On prostitution in late fifteenth-century Spain, see María Eugenia Lacarra. Jansen finds that women from different walks of life were motivated to enter these convents as a way of restoring their virginity (177–94). 51 The Magdalene’s conversion was imagined as a seasonal rebirth in which Eve’s locus eremus is transformed into the locus amoenus of Mary. But there was apparently a dispute among theologians and preachers as to whether the Magdalene only recovered her virginity in a spiritual sense, or whether she had also been physically restored. Some were of the opinion that ‘Christ would never have loved Mary Magdalene so sincerely if she had not been a

144 Notes to pages 71–5 pure maiden,’ – others countered that ‘virginity lost either licitly through marriage, or illicitly outside of marriage cannot be regained bodily’ (Jansen 292–3). 52 A good example of the connotations of convent needlework can be found in a poem by Góngora about a nun who was so busy being pricked by ‘Sanct Hilario’ that she had no time for real sewing: ‘nunca hilaba ni cosía’ (she never spun nor sewed) (Sonetos 256). 4. Picaresque Saints 1 R.W.B. Lewis describes this figure as ‘a very peculiar kind of saint, embodying a peculiar kind of sanctity ... this figure I am calling the picaresque saint tries to hold in the balance ... by the very contradictions of his character, both the observed truths of contemporary experience and the vital aspiration to transcend them’ (31) 2 For examples of early usage, see the etymological dictionary of Corominas. 3 For instance, the Archpriest of Hita uses the word picaña in his condemnation of Amor (222cd). 4 This traditional view of the genre can be traced back to the work of F.W. Chandler. In his well-known essay, Claudio Guillén sought to reconceptualize such early definitions by adding a ‘mythic,’ timeless dimension. On the problem of designating rogue narratives in Renaissance Spain, see Daniel Eisenberg (‘Does the Picaresque’). 5 This connection has been noted by a number of literary critics, and studied in depth by Harold Jones, who shows how aspects of hagiography, such as naming, miracle-making, and the active versus the contemplative life, contributed fundamentally to the narrative structure of the picaresque. Jones goes on to point out other hagiographic features that are ironically accommodated by novelists. On the relationship between the picaresque and romance as narrative ‘modes,’ see, in addition to Peter Dunn, Ulrich Wicks. 6 This general tendency can also be traced back the Libro de buen amor, as Louise Vasvári has shown (‘The Novelness’). 7 I borrow the term self-fashioning from Stephen Greenblatt. 8 Delicado’s original surname was most likely Delgado, as Bruno Mario Damiani explains. Pope Alexander VI invited Spanish Jews to settle in Rome, but Delicado could also have been seeking a benefice. The author was vicar of Martos in the province of Córdoba and later, while living in Italy, received a vicarship in Valle de Cabezuela, a town located near Cáceres. 9 In 1525, Delicado also published a text that has been lost, De consolatione infirmorum (On Consoling the Infirm). See Damiani (14–17). The complex

Notes to pages 76–9����   145 relationship between the Celestina and Lozana andaluza has been studied by Patrizia Botta, among others. 10 Although the sacking was popularly attributed to the corruption of Rome, it had more to do with disagreements between Pope Clement VII and Carlos V. The mostly German mercenaries killed hundreds of residents, looted Renaissance treasures, and purportedly committed all manner of atrocities. 11 On the printing of ancient and medieval works and their translations during the Renaissance, see the study of Elizabeth Eisenstein. 12 Lozana’s given name is derived from that of her grandmother, ‘Aldonza’ (178). Surtz sees parallels in the lives of reformed prostitutes like St Mary of Egypt. He also mentions legends in which narrators identify themselves as confessors and witnesses, as in the case of St Catherine of Sienna (289–90). 13 Chief among these being Manuel da Costa Fontes, whose latest book includes a study of religious subversion in the Lozana andaluza (The Art). For more information on the author’s background, see Damiani, Ruth Pike, and Allaigre’s introduction. 14 Citations of the Lozana from the edition of Allaigre. 15 Allaigre’s reading of this mamotreto is based on woodcuts of Peña de Martos found in the Lozana and Modo de adoperare el legno (On the Use of the West Indies’ Wood, 1525), Delicado’s tract on how to treat syphilis with wood from the guayacan tree. The Lozana woodcut features the Magdalene, a poplar tree, a lion, and the body of a man with a sword through his heart, all situated around a fountain (p. 210 of Allaigre’s edition). As Allaigre explains, the lion and the cadaver allude to the story of how the town came to be called Peña: According to local lore, the Carvajal brothers were sentenced to death by Fernando III and thrown from a cliff overlooking the town of Martos (153). Allaigre is probably right to see the poplar tree as representing the tree of knowledge along with guayacan wood, and the fallen man with his heart pierced as symbolizing Delicado, a victim of love. The later woodcut from Modo de adoperare el legno (also described by Allaigre) shows a guayacan tree crowned by the Virgin and a cleric praying to St James, holy patron of the Roman hospital where Delicado recovered from venereal disease (152–4). On the opposite side of the image, Martha defeats the dragon Tarasque, which here would appear to symbolize carnal sin and the ‘mal serpentina’ of syphilis. 16 There are also earlier sixteenth-century plays called the Aucto de la conversión de la Madalena (Mystery of the Conversion of the Magdalene) and the Auto del hospedamiento que hizo Sancta Marta a Cristo (Mystery of the Hospitality that St Martha Gave to Christ), collected in the Loas y Farsas del siglo XVI and edited by Léo Rouanet. St Martha’s role as hostess and dragon tamer has been recently studied by Martha Daas.

146 Notes to pages 80–2 17 This occurs after Martha complains that her sister is not helping her in the kitchen. Caro Baroja records a typical incantation: ‘con la braba serpiente encontrastis ... con vuestra santa faja atastis... me traigais aqui lo que os pido’ (you that faced the wild serpent ... with your holy girdle tied it up ... bring here to me what I ask) (240). 18 After the stomping image, ‘con vuestro pie la quebrantastis’ (with your foot you broke it), poor Tarasque is left ‘mansa, queda ... humilde y atada’ (tame, still ... humbled and tied) (111). The serpent is in one spell compared to an untamed horse: ‘la fiera sierpe encontrastes,/brava y fuerte estaba ... y en ella cavalgastes’ (the fierce serpent you found, wild and strong it was ... and you rode it) (112). Similar to parodic invocations to saints Emeterius and Mary Magdalene, feet are consistently associated with sexuality: ‘Así me lo pongáis ... como pusistis a la serpiente ... legada, contenta, pagada/mansa y queda de los pies ... de todos sus miembros quantos en su cuerpo son ... que no lo pueda detener la noche obscura/ni ninguna muger’ (Thus make him ... like you made the serpent ... bound, content, extinguished, tamed and with still feet ... and all his members that he has on his body ... so that the dark night cannot detain him, nor any [other] woman) (111–12). 19 The many skills of Lozana as a healer and witch, comparable to those of Celestina, are described in mamotreto 42. 20 Like Celestina, Lozana ironically follows Christ’s advice from the Gospel of Luke by blessing the houses she visits (301, 283; Luke 10.5). Her invitations are numerous: ‘Señor vení a mi casa esta tarde que ella viene ... vení mañana a mi casa, que ha de venir a comer conmigo una persona que os placerá ... parece mi casa [una] atalaya de putas’ (Mister, come to my house this afternoon when she comes ... come tomorrow to my house, as someone will be there to eat with me who will please you ... my house [is like a] watchtower for whores) (310, 317, 373). 21 In early sixteenth-century Rome, Lozana finds that ‘para putas sobra caridad’ (there is plenty of charity for whores) (328). On more than one occasion, characters invoke ‘Santa Nefija,’ a facetious saint known for her worldly charity (see my article, ‘The Erotic Cult’). The name appears to be an hispanicized pun on the Latin word fissa, meaning ‘fissure’ or ‘crack,’ and may also burlesque the name of the Muslim saint, Sayyida Nafisa (284, 412, 414). As indicated earlier, ‘caridad’ was a common euphemism for sex in satirical works from this period. 22 ‘Facerunt autem ei cenam ibi et Martha ministrabat’ (And they made him a supper there: and Martha served). The spell can be seen as a carnal gloss of this verse along with the hagiographic image of the saint: ‘benditos sean las manos/con que a mi señor Jesucristo manjares guisastes ... la serpiente mala

Notes to pages 82–4����   147 encontrastes ... con una cinta la ligastes,/en ella cabalgastes ... anssí me traigas a Fulano’ (blessed are the hands that cooked food for my lord Jesus Christ ... just as you caught the evil serpent ... roped it with your girdle, and rode it ... so bring my man to me) (Campos Moreno 114). 23 On the connotations of foods in the Lozana, see Monique Joly in addition to Allaigre’s notes. 24 Gastronomical images are frequent throughout the text: ‘toda cosa es bueno probar ... sobra la levadura ... capones y dos pavones y un faisán y estarnas y mil cosas ... yo sé hacer butifarros a la genovesa gatafurias y albóndigas, y capiratada y salmorejo ... véngase a mi casa esta noche... terné mi casa abastecida ... que no faltarán muchos yo tengo ya domados’ (everything is good to taste ... there is plenty of yeast ... capons and two turkeys and a pheasant and pigeons and a thousand other things ... I know how to make Genovese style cakes and meatballs, pudding and sauce ... come to my house tonight ... I will have my house full of provisions ... I tame as many [men] as I can find) (200, 224, 296–7, 314, 376). The phrase ‘everything is good to taste (or try)’ was a common joke that can also be found in the Libro, which humorously cites the same biblical verse, ‘omnia probate, quod bonum est tenete’ (But prove all things: hold fast that which is good) (st. 950a; 1 Thes. 5.21). 25 Serpents are implicitly evoked by the author of the Lozana in a postlapsarian context, and suggestive of oral sex: ‘aquella mujer lo pudo empecer con tan dulce palabra, con la lengua hace caricias, y da el veneno’ (that woman could damage him with such sweet words, she caresses with her tongue, and gives venom) (382). Accordingly, one of the secrets to Lozana’s culinary sex appeal is that ‘cada mes de mayo come una culebra’ (every month of May she eats a snake) (386). Serpents are also used in witchcraft by Lozana as well as Celestina, and representative of syphilis (see note 15 above). 26 The scholars have attempted to date the composition of the text based on a reference in the last tratado to the victorious emperor Carlos V holding cortes in Toledo. This could have taken place in 1525 or 1538 (see the article by Rodolfo Cortina Gómez). Citations are from the edition of Francisco Rico. 27 For an examination of how this ‘caso’ unifies the episodic novel and shapes the narrator’s point of view, see Rico’s book (La novela picaresca). 28 Translations of the novel were published in French (1561), English (1586), German (1617), Italian (1622), and Latin (1623). 29 In addition to inspiring new picaresque heroes, the book gave birth to a continuation in 1555, and after it was republished, another sequel appeared in 1620. See Brownlee’s discussion of Lazarillo spinoffs (‘Discursive Parameters’).

148 Notes to pages 84–9 30 It is also possible that the name would have alluded to carnivalesque aspects of the feast of Lazarus of Bethany as described by Bakhtin (Rabelais 80). A number of critics have related this figure to passages in which the narrator compares his picaresque existence to a living death, and specifically when he imagines the squire’s house to be a tomb (see, for example, Deyermond’s, ‘Lazarus and Lazarillo’). 31 A connection with the printed hagiography of St Amarus has been researched by David A. Boruchoff. Probably, the sightless beggar’s repertoire of prayers would have included hagiographic recitations. Diego Sánchez de Badajoz’s earlier-mentioned Farsa del molinero was published the same year as the Lazarillo and portrays a blind man offering to pray for the lives of saints Hilarion and Macarius (vv. 250–69). Not surprisingly, the first English and French translations of the Lazarillo interpreted the blind man’s prayer as including a saint’s life (see Jones 452). 32 Manuel J. Asensio and others have argued Lázaro connects himself to ‘Alumbrado’ heterodoxy, but Jones shows that this phrase was common in hagiography (455). In any event, the Illuminati, according to their own testimony, claimed to have been shown the same enlightened path as the saints. In his study of hagiographic topoi in Lazarillo, Colohan points out that St Saturnine, like the rogue, has his head smashed by a bull; and that the young Ambrose could be heard buzzing in his sleep, not unlike the noise made when the rogue falls asleep with a key in his mouth. 33 ‘Confessus est et non negavit.’ The baptismal connection between Moses and Christ can already been seen in the letters of Paul (1 Cor. 10). 34 Numerous studies have been done on the Lazarillo as a public confession. See, for instance, the article by David Gitlitz that connects this kind of discourse to the Inquisition. 35 ‘Beati qui persecutionem patiuntur propter justitiam, quaniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum.’ Celestina cites the same verse, in reference to Pármeno’s mother (199). 36 ‘Et erat Iohannes vestitus pilis cameli et zona pellicia circa lumbos eius et lucustas et mel silvestre edebat … venit enim Iohannes Baptista neque manducans panem neque bibens vinum et dicitis daemonium habet.’ 37 Vulgate: ‘venit Filius hominis manducans et bibens et dicitis ecce homo devorator et bibens vinum amicus publicanorum et peccatorum.’ 38 ‘Faciam percutiam et ego sanabo.’ 39 An excellent example is the earlier-discussed Razón de amor, which compares the Eucharist with baptism, and ends by combining wine and water (126). 40 This custom was described by Sebastián de Covarrubias Orozco: ‘por regozijo se hazen hogueras en la fiesta de San Juan Baptista ... el saltar por

Notes to pages 89–93����   149 encima de las hogueras se haze’ (to celebrate they make bonfires for the feast of St John the Baptist ... and leap over the fires) (693). 41 Jacobus de Voragine notes that the Tarasque dragon that was defeated by St Martha had polluted the water supply with its ‘sperm’ (1.335). The waters gathered on the feast day were also used as a medicinal, beautifying skin cleanser (Caro Baroja, La estación 177–82). 42 The squire is described as laughing so hard he could no longer speak (97). Subsequent masters, who are not shown physically abusing Lazarillo, may have taken advantage of him sexually, as in the case of the Mercedarian and the painter of tambourines (tratados 4 and 8). See the studies of Thompson and Walsh (‘The Mercedarian’s Shoes’), and George Shipley, respectively. 43 For example, see the studies of James Iffland and Adrienne L. Martín on the role of humorous cruelty in Don Quijote. 44 In preparation for his passage, townsfolk with pails of water and palm leaves sprinkled and blessed the streets, as Caro Baroja notes (La estación 234). 5. Rivalries and Reconciliations 1 A striking example is Cardenio, who, in chapter 23 of part one, re-enacts the suffering of lovesick knights in books of chivalry and sentimental romance, inspiring Don Quijote to do the same. 2 Citations are from the revised edition of Martín de Riquer. Translations are based on Tobias Smollett’s English version with some clarifications. 3 A recent study in support of this theory has been published by Alfonso Martín Jiménez. Jerónimo de Pasamonte was, like Cervantes, held captive in Algiers. Pasamonte finished an unpublished, untitled memoir in 1605, and was said to have gone mad. Idiomatic clues seem to suggest that the anonymous author was an Aragonese like Pasamonte, and Gilman has further conjectured that he was Dominican due to his promotion of the rosary, allusion to Luis de Granada’s 1556 Guía de los pecadores (Guide for sinners), use of exempla, etc. (Cervantes and Avellaneda). On the subject of the expropriator’s identity, see also Juan Antonio Frago Gracia’s study. 4 As indicated earlier, Lazarillo de Tormes was reprinted early in the seventeenth century, as a result of the runaway success of Guzman de Alfarache. At least twenty editions of the latter novel, including translations into Portuguese and French, had been published prior to the completion of the sequel in 1604 (see the introduction in Micó’s edition). As Dunn notes, the transformation of Ginés into the puppeteer Maese Pedro can be attributed to Cervantes’ ‘fascination with another trickster, Pedro de Urdamales’ (219). On the deeper meaning of this puppet show, see the article by George Haley.

150 Notes to pages 94–8 5 The English title is that of Michael D. McGaha, but translations of the text are my own. Lope was a good friend of Alemán, but a sworn enemy of Cervantes. For information on sources for the legend, see Thomas Franklin Crane (79–82). Jean de Rotrou’s later wrote an adaptation of Lope’s play, called Le véritable Saint Genest (The Genuine St Genesius, 1645). 6 Simerka also relates these Baroque topics to emergent discourses of philosophical scepticism, and in particular the Pyrrhonist attitude toward the ‘establishment of criteria for judgment,’ the suspension of judgment and cultivation of ‘opposing evidence, both pro and con, on any question about what was non-evident’ (51, 52). 7 For a biography of the author of Guzmán de Alfarache, see Donald McGrady (13–43). His study is based on the archival work of Francisco Rodríguez Marín. 8 Rosso had been granted the right to print an edition of the first part of Guzmán de Alfarache in August 1602. Two months later Alemán borrowed the 400 ducats (McGrady 25). 9 At the same time, a pirated edition of Guzmán de Alfarache was vastly outselling the original (McGrady 27–30). What concerns me in this study are not the details of how Martí got hold of these plans, but the fact that the latter novelist and his supporters accuse the Valencian of literary theft in their prologues (as will be discussed later). 10 Early studies focused on Alemán’s sources and style (see Todesco). Henri Guerreiro has continued to research these aspects of the text, and published his findings in a series of articles. 11 This sort of debate was prompted by Benito Brancaforte’s assertion that, because of Alemán’s converso ancestry, he harboured a cynical bitterness toward Christianity. Although most critics agree that the author was probably a converso (in Seville, the surname Alemán was historically associated with Jewish converts), some have questioned whether this assumption should be made (see Dunn 59–60). 12 Anthony first joined the Augustinian convent of St Vincent, and later studied at Santa Cruz in Coimbra. He purportedly decided to join the missionary effort in Morocco after seeing the bodies of the Franciscan martyrs. 13 The relic was preserved at his church in Padua, and is now held at the Vatican. On the cult of St Anthony in the city of Padua, see McHam. 14 All citations are from the 1604 first edition. To my knowledge, no modern edition has been published. See Guerreiro (‘Hacia una edición’). 15 The stolen book is believed to be preserved in the Franciscan monastery in Bologna.

Notes to pages 98–103����   151 16 While working as a royal accountant, Alemán claims to have been visiting a ship docked in the port, when he was hit in the head by a cannon plug fired in a salvo – then miraculously saved from certain death by St Anthony of Padua (McGrady 19). This and other alleged intercessions, as Cavillac has pointed out, may have primarily served as a rhetorical device to legitimate Alemán, the hagiographer. The claims tell us next to nothing about the timing and circumstances of the hagiography’s production. 17 This close relationship between hagiography and picaresque sequel can be seen in the time frame of their production, as Alemán seems to have been working on portions of both books simultaneously in 1603, the year after the publication of Martí’s apocryphal Guzmán. 18 For a general understanding of how these kind of vows were used in early modern Spain, see William Christian (Local Religion 31–3). 19 Juan Martí was an attorney and co-examiner in canon law at the University of Valencia. 20 Two additional characters, Pompeyo and Alejandro Bentivoglio, play more peripheral roles in the robbery: the former’s name works as an elaborate anagram for Pedro Patricio Mey, a publisher of Martí’s novel; and the latter seems to be associated with one of Alemán’s moneylenders, as well as the prominent Bentivoglio family of Bologna (McGrady 111–29). 21 It was believed that suicides could only be damned if they had knowingly committed this sinful act. McGrady believes that Alemán ‘exempts’ Sayevedra from this eternal punishment by having him first ‘go out of his mind’ (128–9). Coincidentally, Martí died just as the authentic sequel to Guzmán de Alfarache was being published in December 1604 (McGrady 26). 22 On the importance of the doppelgänger in the Segunda parte, see the study of Eric J. Kartchner. 23 According to the report, she reasoned with the saint before threatening him: ‘“Santo mío ya sabeis que os hago decir algunas misas y así alcanzadme lo que os pido porque sino lo haceis ... os he de ahorcar y quemar’’ ’ (My saint you already know that I have some masses said for you, and so grant me that which I ask, for if you do not ... I will have to hang and burn you) (Vilagrán 277). The gambler, who was known to frequently attend mass, allegedly hung a figure of St Anthony before destroying it: ‘tomó una imagen de San Antonio, la tuvo colgada, y atada al suelo, diciéndole, “¡no me harás ganar!” Y después la hizo muchos depazos’ (he took an image of St Anthony, having hung it, and tied it to the floor, saying ‘you won’t make me win!’ And then he broke it into many pieces) (278). 24 The story is used to illustrate the observation that ‘todo lo pueden los poderosos’ (the powerful can do as they wish) (452).

152 Notes to pages 103–6 25 This is made clear in Alemán’s account of St Anthony’s missing psalter, when the hagiographer promises that God will judge the value of lost items on the basis of spiritual need, not material worth: ‘Siempre socorre cuando algo nos falta ... desde lo más precioso, hasta lo mas desechado; que aunque lo poco vale poco, suele hazer en ocasiones mucha falta; y entonces, no se considera el precio, sino la estimación’ (Always ask for help when something is lacking ... from the most precious thing, to the most disposable; for although little things may be of little value, at times they are of great necessity; and therefore their importance is considered, instead of their price). 26 Guzmán will not be outdone by a mere ‘ladrón de coplas, que no se saca de tales hurtos otro provecho que infamia’ (thief of verses, from such stealing nothing can be gained except infamy) (211). The stolen plans have no true and lasting value in and of themselves, as Alemán can (at least partly) steal back the sequel. This game of intertextual reciprocity is described in the author’s prologue: ‘en lo mismo le pago siguiéndolo. Sólo nos diferenciamos en haber él hecho segunda de mi primera y yo en imitar su segunda’ (I pay him back in the same way by following his lead. We are only differentiated by his having made a sequel to my original, whereas I imitated his sequel) (21). 27 A number of books have been published in recent decades making the case that Guzmán’s conversion should not be taken at face value. See, for example, the studies of Joan Arias, Benito Brancaforte, and Judith Whitenack. This is not to say that the book cannot be interpreted as having an ethical message. As Charmaine L. McMahon has argued, ‘Alemán asks that we take the blinders from our eyes in order to see the world and its inhabitants in all their sinful decrepitude ... Guzmán stands as the depraved representative of an immoral humanity’ (149–50). 28 The novel was nearly seized as contraband when Alemán arrived at the port of Veracruz (see McGrady). 29 Most critics believe that Cervantes had written about two-thirds of his sequel when Avellaneda’s text appeared. As in the case of Martí, it remains unclear to what extent Avellaneda has aware of Cervantes’ planned continuation. For a comparison of Guzmán de Alfarache and the Quijote that takes into consideration their respective responses to literary rivals, see Brancaforte (‘Mateo Alemán y Miguel de Cervantes’). Antonio Rey Hazas has examined the way in which Cervantes built on and innovated aspects of the novelistic template established by Alemán. 30 Graf discusses earlier theories on the source of this encounter, including the possibility that it alludes to an incident in the sixteenth-century chivalric novel

Notes to pages 106–8����   153 Palmerín de Iglaterra in which a knight encounters the dead body on a bier (1.76–7), or to the supposed apparitions seen by mourners carrying the remains of Juan de la Cruz to Segovia in 1593 (see 132, 191). He points out that these possible sources do not account for the misidentification of and attack on night-time processioners. Graf also notes that a medieval codex containing the De vita de Beati Martini is preserved in the Escorial library. In 1501, the legend was published in a pocket-sized edition (Álvaro Molina 164). Martin W. Walsh observes that an association between Martin’s and Don Quijote’s misidentifications was noticed by Edward Gibbon (308). 31 Redondo points out that they also evoke the danse macabre and the hueste Antigua, or ‘ancient host,’ of ghostly souls come back to haunt the living (116). He goes on to link their appearance with the festive practice of the encamisada, ‘la fiesta que se haze de noche con hachas por la ciudad en señal de regozijo’ (the celebration that is done at night with torches through the city as a sign of rejoicing) (Covarrubias Orozco 512). 32 De Armas discusses a possible ecphrastic link between Don Quijote being pummelled with stones (1.3) and Giulio Romano’s Stoning of Saint Stephen, as well as associations between the knight’s lance and Raphael’s paintings of Michael and George slaying a dragon and demon (96–102, 120–1). See also his discussion of images of the apostles Matthew and Bartholomew (41–3, 80–1, 85–91). 33 Germán Díaz Barrio cites a number of other similar examples of proverbs that refer to November 11 feasting and debauchery, such as ‘Por San Martín mata tu gorrín y destapa tu vinín’ (For St Martin kill your hog and uncork your new wine) (35; see also Iglesias Ovejero 51). In the episode of the funeral procession, Sancho ironically laments that the mourners have not left them any wine. Cervantes refers to drinking on Martinmas in the comedies of the La gran sultana doña Catalina de Oviedo (The Great Sultaness Lady Catalina de Oviedo 3.470–5) and Pedro de Urdemalas (1.630–1). The saint had long been called on as patron of drunkards and fools in Spain and elsewhere. In the Dictionary of Phrase and Fable a ‘Martin drunk’ is defined as ‘very intoxicated indeed ... The feast of St. Martin (November 11) used to be held as a day of great debauch’ (Brewer 558). 34 On St Martin’s Day, children in Flanders traditionally participate in paper lantern processions. Often, a man dressed as the saint rides in front of the processioners. For a discussion of celebrations of the feast, and the saint’s role as trickster and wish granter, see Martin Walsh’s ‘Martin of Tours.’ 35 The knight becomes so engrossed in the Flos sanctorum that he offers to read the life of St Bernard of Clairvaux to Sancho Panza. It is possible that the imposturous Don Quijote’s obliviousness in what remains of the false work

154 Notes to pages 108–9 can be partly seen as a farcical allusion to the legendary absent-mindedness of Bernard. The Vita Bernardi describes the saint as, for example, blissfully unaware that his cell has a ceiling, inadvertently drinking oil instead of water, and writing a letter in the midst of a rain shower. Avellaneda could also be alluding to Bernard’s distinction between worldly and spiritual chivalry in the saint’s famous treatise, De laude novae militiae (In Praise of the New Knighthood). 36 Avellaneda’s Sancho swears an oath to St Martin, among numerous other saints (1.16; see Frago Gracía 113–14). Martín is also the name of the miscreant who robs, beats, and abandons Bárbara, the aged prostitute whom the apocryphal Don Quijote has mistaken for an Amazon queen (2.196). When the knight arrives in Sigüenza, he challenges any inhabitant who refuses to acknowledge the beauty of Bárbara to a duel (2.211). 37 This kind of meaning is also noted by James Iffland, who cites MárquezVillanueva’s study (347; ‘La locura emblemática’ 111). The Libro de los gatos is a later translation of tales from the thirteenth-century Fabulae of Odo of Cheriton. Covarrubias also defines the ‘martinete’ or ‘martín del río’ (river martin) (792). The bird probably received this name because its migratory pattern begins on or near Martinmas. As G.T. Northup notes, the exemplum is Eastern in origin and can also be found in the Calila y Dimna (503). 38 The writer relates this to the biblical sons of Ephraim: ‘Filii Efraim intendentes et mittentes arcum terga verterunt in die belli/non custodierunt pactum Dei sui et in lege eius noluerunt ingredi’ (The sons of Ephraim who bend and shoot with the bow: they have turned back in the day of battle./ They kept not the covenant of God: and in his law they would not walk) (9–10). 39 Variations of Don Quijote’s last name appear in chapters 1 and 5 of part one: ‘Quejana,’ ‘Quesada,’ ‘Quijada,’ and ‘Quijana.’ For a discussion of the possible Lenten and festive connotations of these surnames, see Augustin Redondo (205–30). As Server and Keller point out, it is likely that the name Alonso was chosen partly ‘in reaction to Avellaneda’s Martin’ (8). Cervantes’ use of a name derived from Ildephonsus is especially fitting in the context of his response to the imitator. According to legend, St Ildefonso received a chasuble from the Virgin that was only to be worn by him (as a reward for defending her purity from heretics). When an unworthy successor tried to don the chasuble, the imposter was miraculously suffocated by the vestment (see Berceo’s first miracle). 40 Stephen Gilman, on the other hand, saw Avellaneda as a proponent of the Counter-Reformation doctrine of contemptus mundi who took exception to the worldly humanism of the Quijote. On the influence of Renaissance

Notes to pages 109–11����   155 philosophy in the work of Cervantes, see Américo Castro and Alban K. Forcione. Iffland notes that Gilman’s interpretation does not account for the apocryphal author’s penchant for grotesque humour – a characteristic that is more indicative of a class-conscious, reactionary writer who objects to Cervantes’ novelization of popular-festive forms. 41 ‘Mandava ... matar los gordos puercos’ (it was ordered that the fattened pigs be slaughtered) (st. 1273bc). In visual representations of the year, St Martin was sometimes viewed as a participant in the feast, holding the axe that was used to slaughter livestock and that symbolized the struggle against ‘luxury’ and ‘vice’ (see M. Walsh, ‘Medieval English Martinmas’ 232–3). Animals were brutalized in a number of ways during this feast, as evidenced by the practice known as ‘boar-bashing’ (see Pérez González 91–2). 42 Berceo seems to be drawing on a similar stanza from the Libro de Alexandre (st. 2565ab). Prior to the November slaughter, pigs were brought to higher ground where they could feed on acorns. 43 Cervantes’ left hand was honorably injured at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571, as he reminds Avellaneda in his prologue. 44 The inevitable justice of Cervantes’ retribution also corresponds with the deeper meaning of the exemplum from the Libro de los gatos, which equates ‘St. Martin’s bird’ not solely to ‘knights when they have their heads all fanciful,’ but also to self-righteous hypocrites who dare to call others weak, cowardly, and sinful (28). 45 The feast of St George was held on April 23. After arriving late to this tournament, the imposter is shackled and dragged off to jail when he tries to free a prisoner (chap. 8). 46 This episode is prefigured by Sancho’s suggestion, early in the authentic sequel, that they could gain more fame as humble saints rather than valiant knights (chap. 8). Don Quijote assures his companion that, although celebrated friars receive more veneration than fallen military heroes, there are plenty of sainted knights in heaven (618). 47 Making light of the saint’s split garment was not uncommon in Golden Age works, as victims of theft are sometimes likened to St Martin wearing half a cloak. See, for example, part two of Guzmán de Alfarache (216). Don Quijote comments on the other icons in the retablo, calling the dragon-slaying St George a famed defender of ladies, praises James the Moor-Slayer as one of the bravest warriors ever to be seen on earth or in heaven, and characterizes the converted Apostle Paul as the greatest enemy of the Church to ever become her champion. Sancho also comically asks what sort of ‘closing’ is meant by the war cry, ‘Santiago y cierra, España’ (St James, and Close, Spain!) (984; 662).

156 Notes to pages 111–15 48 M. Walsh has studied evidence of paintings of St Martin by Hieronymus Bosch that include such carnivalesque imagery, and that once belonged to Felipe II (‘Martin’). He relates specifically Bruegel the Elder’s Feast of St Martin to Bosch’s earlier work. 49 The squire then claims to have heard a schoolboy reading a much better book, the Philesbián de Candaria (1542), in which a knight splits open a cliff with his sword and beheads a serpent (27). As some versions of the Flos sanctorum had been censured by the Church, Avellaneda specifies the orthodox work of Villegas. Conclusion : Sanctity and Humanity 1 Alva V. Ebersole, in his modern edition, suggests that the book may have been originally published in 1530, and observes that it went through six subsequent editions in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. 2 See also the treatise of Martín de Castañega. Ciruelo expresses similar doubts concerning the authenticity of relics: ‘En este tiempo ay mucha duda y poca certidumbre de las reliquias de los santos’ (In this time there is much doubt and little certainty concerning the relics of saints) (142). 3 The cult of saints is discussed in the twenty-fifth and final session of the Council in 1563. 4 This was also enforced through inquisitional probes and pastoral visits. On the passage of diocesan rulings, see Christian (164), Allyson M. Poska, and the studies of Julio Caro Baroja and Charlotte Stern. 5 Of course, this tendency was less pronounced in Spain than in other, more Protestant-influenced parts of Europe. As Christian observes, the effort to cast doubt on ‘the Christian credentials behind the specialization of saints and the particular availability of grace at holy places was unsuccessful in Spain’ (162). 6 In 1559, the book that contained the Carajicomedia, the Cancionero de obras de burla, was also placed on the Index, ‘en lo que toca a devoción y cosas christianas y de sagrada escriptura’ (in so far as it is concerned with devotion and Christian things and with sacred scripture) (Sierra Corella 230).

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Index

abbots, 48, 50, 120–1n13, 136n41 Adam, 32, 80, 82 Adso of Montier-en-Der (De Antichristo), 15, 17, 32 Advent, 30, 107–9, 111 Aeneid (Virgil), 42–3, 45, 50, 133– 4n23, 134nn24, 25 Agatha, Saint, 9, 11, 36, 37, 52, 55, 122n28, 123n30, 138n15 Agnes, Saint, 52–3, 57, 72 Albornoz, Gil Álvarez Carrillo de, 8, 121n18 Alemán, Mateo, 95–6, 98–105, 113, 117, 150nn5, 8, 10, 11, 151nn16, 17, 20, 21, 152nn25, 26, 27, 28; Guzmán de Alfarache, 14, 74, 92, 93, 95–105, 110, 113, 115, 117, 149n4, 150nn7, 8, 9, 151n21, 152n29, 155n47; San Antonio de Padua, 96–104 Alfonso X, king of Castile and León, works of: Cantigas de escárnio e maldizer 17; Cantigas de loor, 129n42, 131n4, 132n16 Allaigre, Claude, 76, 77, 78, 145nn13, 14, 15, 147n23 Amadís de Gaula, 75

Amarus, Saint, 84, 148n31 Ambrose, Saint, 46, 148n32 anchorites. See hermits Andalusia, 14, 38, 45, 54, 76, 137n5, 138n13 angels, 38, 40, 56, 78, 94–5, 120n11, 132n10 animal imagery and symbolism, cats, 11, 40–1, 122n28, 133n19; dogs, 18, 23–4, 57–63, 106, 110, 127n28, 139n19, 139–40n22; hunting of, 18, 23–4, 34, 131n5; kingfisher, 108, 154n37, 155n44; monkey, 26, 128n37; rabbit, 18, 23; remains of, 54, 88; snakes 7, 33, 91, 126n20, 147n25; torture and sacrifice of, 4–5, 34, 41, 109–10, 119n5, 120n9, 131n5, 155n41; demonic visions of, 10, 38, 46; wolves and werewolf, 13, 56, 60–3, 89, 123n38, 139n21, 139–40n22, 136n42, 140nn23, 24, 26 Anthony, Saint, 46–7, 56, 58, 123n37, 134n27, 139n16 Anthony of Padua, Saint, 95–105, 113, 117, 150nn12, 13, 151nn16, 23, 152n25

186 Index Antichrist, 13, 15–17, 32, 35, 123n36, 124nn2, 3, 4 anticlericalism, 40, 48, 59, 84, 85–7, 91, 105–6, 127–8n34, 130n50, 132n13, 133nn17, 18, 136nn40, 41 anti-saint, 13, 15, 80, 116, 123n36 Apollo, 20–1 Apollonia, Saint, 64–6 Aragon, 138n13, 149n3 Archpriest of Hita. See Ruiz, Juan Arcipreste de Talavera o Corbacho (Martínez de Toledo), 45 Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, 48–9 asceticism, 34, 46, 86, 106, 134n27, 136n40 Asturias, 38–9, 91, 132n11 Augustine, Saint, De doctrina Christiana, 125n11 Austin, J.L., 11 Avellaneda, Fernández de, Alonso, Segundo tomo de don Quijote de la Mancha, 93–5, 107–13, 116, 149n3, 152n29, 153–4n35, 154nn36, 39, 154–5n40, 155n43, 156n49 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 5–6, 10, 12, 24, 37, 41, 43, 61, 64, 120n7, 135n30, 148n30 baptism, 85, 87–9, 94, 148n33, 148n39 Barbara, Saint, 52 Barcelona, 46, 110, 119n4 Bayless, Martha, 6, 119n2, 141n34 beast literature, Calila y Dimna, 154n37, Fabulae (Odo of Cheriton), 154n37; Libro de los gatos, 108, 140n23, 154n37, 155n44, Ysengrimus, 13, 123n38, 140nn23, 26 beggars 84, 110–11, 148n31

Berceo, Gonzalo de, works of: Duelo de la Virgen, 16, 124–5n9, 126–7n27, 130n49; Martirio de San Lorenzo, 8; Milagros de Nuestra Señora, 7, 67, 110, 127n29, 129n42, 130n45, 142n40, 154n39, 155n42; Vida de San Millán, 33, 131n1 Beresford, Andrew M., 65–6, 141n36 Bergson, Henri, 123n35 Bernard of Clairvaux, Saint, 20, 125n16, 153–4n35 Bersuire, Ovidius moralizatus, 20 biblical references, Apocalypse, 41, 124n4, 133n20; Epistles, 27, 128n36, 129n40, 148n33; Gospels, 6, 16, 26–7, 67, 70, 79 80, 82, 84–7, 91, 128n36, 146n20; Job 3–4, 14, 119nn1, 2; Lamentations, 129n40; Psalms, 16, 18, 19, 76, 97, 122n28, 128–9n39, 132n10; Song of Songs, 20, 71, 125n16 Blaise, Saint, 4–5, 6, 119n4, 119–20n5 blasphemy, 5, 16–17, 23–4, 54, 58, 66, 141n33 blindness, 8, 70, 86, 141–2n37, 152n27; blind men, 12, 21, 83–91, 122n26, 126n21, 148n31 blood, imagery and symbolism, 7, 27, 31, 41, 56, 57, 59, 60, 62, 87, 119–20n5 Bloom, Harold, 113 Bonaventure, Saint, Meditationes vitae Christi, 26 bonfires, 88–9, 91, 148–9n40 Boniface, Saint, 11, 122n28 Bosch, Hieronymus, 156n48 bread, bread-making, 18, 20–1, 36, 54, 57–8, 84, 86, 87, 91, 97, 125nn12, 13 Brown, Catherine, 122n23

Index����   187 Brownlee, Marina, 75, 123n40, 147n29 Brueghel the Elder, 156n48 Burke, James F., 6, 7, 37, 40, 55, 122n28, 123nn30, 31, 125n13, 129n42, 132n15, 138n14, 141–2n37 Burrus, Virginia, 47, 53, 135n38 Butler, Judith, 135n38 Calahorra, 35, 36, 37 Calderón de la Barca (Devoción de la cruz), 126 cancioneros (songbooks), 17, 124–5n9, 139n18, 140n25; Cancionero de Amberes, 136n40; Cancionero general 62, 127n32; Cancionero de obras de burlas, 25, 127n32, 141n34, 156n6, Cancionero de 1628, 70 cantares de santos, 122n26 Canterbury Tales (Chaucer), 21, 55, 130n53, 132n15 Carajicomedia, 14, 17, 25–32, 35, 42– 51, 59, 61, 63, 65, 69, 80, 83, 88, 92, 115, 116, 127n33, 127–8n34, 128nn35, 36, 37, 38, 128–9n39, 130n48, 133–4n23, 134nn24, 26, 156n6 Carlos V, king of Spain, 61, 75, 83, 114, 145n10, 147n26 carnival (Shrovetide), 4–5, 7–8, 29, 34–5, 38, 41, 106–7, 116, 120n10, 129n40, 133n19; as king, 17, 29; as Lord (Don Carnal), 6, 9, 14, 35, 41, 89, 106, 121n21; as a saint (Antruejo), 5, 9, 32, 34, 106, 116, 120n6 Caro Baroja, Julio, 5, 19, 56, 58, 79, 86, 86–91, 119–20n5, 120nn6, 8, 9, 11, 123n30, 125n15, 131n5, 133n19, 138n15, 146n17, 149nn41,

44, 156n4 Castañega, Martín de (Tratado de las supersticiones y hechicerías), 57, 134n26, 156n2 Castile, 3, 9, 12, 25, 29, 40, 126n24 Catonis Disticha, 8–9 Celedonius, Saint, 36–8 Celestina. See Trajicomedia de Calisto y Melibea cencerrada. See charivari Cervantes, Miguel de: life of, 93, 149n3, 150n5, 152n29; works of, Don Quijote de la Mancha, 14, 93, 95, 105–13, 117–18, 133n19, 139n21, 149nn43, 1, 4, 152n29, 152–3n30, 153n32, 154n39, 154nn40, 43, 44, 155nn46, 47; Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda, 139n21; comedies, 153n33; poetry, 49 charity, 58, 61, 68, 77, 81, 111, 146n21 charivari (cencerrada), 5, 38, 40–1, 120n8, 124n5, 133n19 Chaucer, Canterbury Tales, 21, 55, 130n53, 132n15 chivalric literature, 14, 73, 75, 108–9, 111, 117, 149n1, 152–3n30 Chrétien de Troyes (Cligés), 48 Christian, William A., 115, 151n18, 156nn4, 5 Christian art and iconography, 10, 17, 23, 30–2, 48, 81, 94–5, 103, 110–12, 47, 63, 67, 69, 78, 82, 103, 117, 129n43, 131–2n7, 153n32, 155nn41, 47, 156n48 Ciruelo, Pedro (Reprovación de las supersticiones y hechizerías), 57, 114– 15, 138n11, 156n2 Cockaigne, 107 Coming of Antichrist (Chester Cycle), 15

188 Index confession, 66, 72, 85, 121n21, 122n26, 148nn33, 34 contemplation, 25–32, 35, 42–3, 53, 65, 69, 88, 92, 116, 128n38, 129n43, 130n50, 134n24, 144n5 conversion, converts, 19, 34–5, 52–3, 65, 67–8, 70–2, 79, 94–5, 96, 97, 104–5, 106, 116, 141nn30, 32–3, 141–2n37, 143–4n51, 145n16, 150n11, 152n27, 155n47 Corbacho. See Arcipreste de Talavera Corominas, Joan, 55, 62, 125n13, 127n30, 137–8n7, 138n8, 139n21, 144n2 Corpus Christi, 81 Correas, Gonzalo de (Vocabulario de los refranes), 86, 89, 90 Costa Fontes, Manuel da, 65, 124n9, 141n35, 143nn46, 49, 145n13 Cota, Rodrigo de, 139n18, 140n27 Council of Trent, 115 Counter-Reformation, 42, 95, 109, 112, 114–15, 154–5n40 Covarrubias, Sebastián de, 90, 109, 110, 148–9n40, 153n31, 154n37 Cross, adoration of, 14, 18, 24, 26, 47, 125n13, 130n49, 134n24; in Bible, 27, 125n16; feasts and legends, 19–24, 126nn18, 19, 22; relics, 19–24, 32, 52, 116, 125nn14, 17, 126nn23, 24, 25, 26, 126–7n27, 127n29; Stations, 29, 130n51; visual representations, 17, 23, 30–2, 88 cruces de mayo. See Invention of the Cross crusading, 18–19, 22–4, 125n13, 126nn23, 24, 25, 26, 126–7n27, 127nn28, 29, 30, 31, 136n41 Cruz, Anne, 87 cuckoldry, 5, 11, 16, 84, 87, 89, 90, 91, 123n31, 124n5, 125n13, 129n40

Cupid, 70 curses, 3, 11, 27, 41, 43, 50, 54–6, 63, 66, 81, 85–6, 97, 101–4, 110, 112, 116–17, 136nn42, 44 Cyprus, 47, 50 Dagenais, John, 121n17, 122n22 Damiani, Bruno Mario, 144nn8, 9, 145n13 Davis, Natalie Zemon, 71 De Armas, Frederick, 107, 153n32 death, of Christ, 15–16, 27, 29, 34, 130n51; danse macabre (Danza de la muerte), 134n28, 153n31; living death, 86, 148n30; of double, 101–2, 104; in hagiography, 8–10, 34, 36–7, 41, 52, 56–7, 78, 85, 94, 122n25, 138n9; from love, 59–60, 65; violation of the dead, 45–51, 134n28, 135nn31, 32, 136n43 Decameron (Boccaccio), 34, 45, 48, 126n21, 135n32, 136n41 Delicado, Francisco: life of, 75, 144n8; De consolatione infirmorum (lost), 144–5n9; Lozana andaluza, 75–83, 84, 91, 92, 95, 117, 132n13, 144–5n9, 145nn12, 13, 14, 15, 146nn19, 20, 21, 147nn23, 24, 25; Modo de adoperare el legno, 145n15 dethronement, 4–6, 14, 17, 21, 32, 89, 106, 109, 115, 138n15 devils and demons 7, 10, 15, 33, 38, 40–1, 42–3, 46–7, 48–9, 50–1, 55, 56, 60, 62, 79, 80, 86, 97, 98, 101, 105–6, 107, 110, 114, 116, 133n19, 134n26, 136n42, 137n6, 139n21, 140n24, 153n32; as festive performers, 2, 4, 34, 38, 41, 107 Devotio moderna, 26, 30 Deyermond, Alan, 131n3, 143n49, 148n30

Index����   189 Diocletian, Roman emperor, 94 Disciplina clericalis (Petrus Alfonsi), 125n12 disease, with fevers, 57–8, 60, 66, 77, 88; lovesickness, 48, 52, 55–6, 60–3, 66, 72, 116, 139n20, 142n38, 149n1; plague, 4, 119n4, 122n25, 123n31; rabies (hydrophobia), 54, 56–63, 65, 137n3, 138n11, 139nn17, 18, 19, 20, 139–40n22, 139–40n22, 140nn24, 25; venereal, 75, 125n13, 145n15, 147n25 Domínguez, Frank A., 27–8, 43, 67, 127–8n34, 128n36, 141–2n37 Don Quijote de la Mancha (Cervantes), 14, 93, 95, 105–13, 117–18, 133n19, 139n21, 149nn43, 1, 4, 152n29, 152–3n30, 153n32, 154n39, 154nn40, 43, 44, 155nn46, 47 Dorothy, Saint, 137n1 doubles, 13, 14, 15–17, 24, 92, 101, 104, 106, 151n22 dragons (mythic serpents), 78–81, 82, 83, 88, 91–2, 111, 112, 117, 145n15, 146nn17, 18, 146–7n22, 149n41, 153n32, 155n47 drunkenness, 17, 107, 109, 111, 115, 153n33 Duelo de la Virgen (Berceo), 8, 16, 124–5n9, 126–7n27, 130n49 Dunn, Peter, 84, 93–4, 108, 144n5, 149n4, 150n11 Easter, 9, 16, 29, 54–5, 63, 121–2n21, 138n14 Eden, 34, 80, 126n18 El Greco, 103, 137n2 Emeterius, Saint, 35–42, 43, 47, 50, 55, 92, 108, 117, 146n18 Emilianus, Saint, 33–4, 35, 84

Emmerson, Richard, 15, 123n36, 124n4 Enrique III, king of Castile and León, 137n2 etymology and onomastics, 11, 76, 107, 124n2, 144n2 Eucharist, 7, 18, 20, 24, 87–8, 148n39 Eve, 53, 71, 80, 82 excommunication, 41, 105 exorcism, 46, 133n19 ex-voto, 11, 98, 100 false sequels, 93–113, 115–16, 117 Fat Tuesday, 4, 5, 9, 14, 120n6 feast of fools (festum stultorum), 6 February feasts, 4, 41, 123n30, 133n19 Felipe II, king of Spain, 114, 156n48 Felipe III, king of Spain, 96 felix culpa (fortunate Fall), 20–1, 53, 88 Fernández, Lucas (Égloga o farsa del nascimiento), 136nn40, 42 Fernando II, king of Aragón and Castile, 127–8n34 Fernando III, king of Castile and León, 145n15 fertility, 36, 86, 89 festive abuse, 4–5, 8, 11, 16, 17, 19, 28–9, 31, 38–9, 40–1, 42–3, 81, 87–8, 89–90, 103, 106–7, 108–10, 116, 120n9, 133n19 festive performers, 2–3, 4, 10, 34, 38, 41, 89, 102, 106–7, 131nn4, 5 fevers, 57–8, 60, 66, 77, 88 Fides, Saint, 137n1 Flos sanctorum, 55, 71, 85, 94, 108, 112, 125n15, 138n10, 153–4n35, 156n49 Fowler, Alastair, 74 France, Marie de (Lais), 140n25 Francis, Saint, 58, 97, 139n16, 140n24

190 Index Franciscans, 26, 96, 102, 128nn35, 36, 128–9n39, 130nn50, 51, 134n27, 136n41, 141n32, 150nn12, 15 Frayre de Joy e Sor de Plaser, 46, 48 friars, 26, 34, 46, 48, 59, 96, 97–8, 103–4, 128n38, 130n50, 136nn40, 41, 143n45, 155n46 Friedman, Edward H., 74, 84, 105, 113 Galerius, Roman emperor, 36 Galicia, 55, 123n37 Garcineida, 6–7, 120n12 Genesius of Rome, Saint, 94–5, 104, 113, 150n5 George, Saint, 111–12, 155nn45, 47 Gerli, E. Michael, 55, 62, 121nn16, 20, 122nn22, 23, 125nn11, 13, 131n1, 137n6 Gibraltar, 23, 126–7n27, 128n35 Gilman, Stephen, 65, 141n32, 149n3, 154–5n40 Girard, René, 14, 101 go-betweens (matchmakers), in Cantigas de loor (Alfonso X), 132–3n16; in Carajicomedia, 27–8, 42–3, 50, 127–8n34; Celestina as, 63–72, 79, 90, 91, 141nn30, 36, 37, 143nn44, 46, 49, 146nn19, 20, 147n25, 148n35; Ferrán Garçía as, 18, 20–1, 23–4; Lozana as, 76–83, 91–2, 117; in Tratado de Alborayque, 141n33; Trotaconventos as, 39, 40, 58, 63–4, 79, 141n28 golden bough, 42–3, 45, 50, 134n25 Golden Legend (Jacques Voragine), 19, 52, 78, 88, 106, 119n4, 123n39, 131n2 Gómez Manrique, Diego (Representación del nacimiento de Nuestro Señor), 16, 65 Góngora, Luis de, 59, 134n27, 136n40, 139n20, 144n52

Good Friday, 18–19, 28–9 Gordon, Bernard of, Lilium medicinae, 60, 142n38 Graf, E.C., 105–6, 152–3n30 Gran conquista de ultramar, 22 Granada, Luis de (Guía de los pecadores), 149n3 Granada, reconquest of (1492), 25 Green, Otis, 122n28 Greenblatt, Stephen, 75, 144n7 Gregory the Great, Saint, Moralia in Job, 3–4, 119nn1, 3; on Mary Magdalene, 68, 79 Gregory of Tours (De gloria martyrum), 36–7 Gregory VIII, Pope, 22 Guadarrama mountains, 35–7, 39–42, 58, 81, 131n6 Guillén, Claudio, 144n4 Guy, king of Jerusalem, 22 Guzmán de Alfarache (Alemán), 14, 74, 92, 93, 95–105, 110, 113, 115, 117, 149n4, 150nn7, 8, 9, 151n21, 152n29, 155n47 Hamlet (Shakespeare), 45, 135n31 Haskell, Ann, 10, 73, 75 Hattin, Battle of (1187), 22–3 Helen, Saint, 19–21, 125nn14, 15 Hell and the underworld, 42–3, 45, 50, 101, 110, 135n30 Hempudia, Juan de, 128n35, 130n50 Heraclius, Byzantine emperor, 19, 24 hermits (anchorites), 10, 33, 34–5, 42–51, 116, 131nn4, 5, 134n27, 136nn40, 42, 44 Herod, 6, 13 Herodias, 13 Hilarion of Gaza, Saint, 35, 42–51, 56, 92, 116, 134nn27, 28, 135nn33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 136nn40,

Index����   191 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 139n21, 144n52, 148n31 holy fool, 107, 111 Holy Helpers, 4, 122n25 homosexuality, 42, 47, 50, 133n18, 135n38 Horozco, Sebastián de (Relaciones históricas toledanas), 116, 129n40, 131n4 Huelva, 19 Huizinga, Johan, 10, 42, 56, 139n16 Hurtado Mendoza, Diego de, 139n18 Hutcheon, Linda, 123 hymns, 18, 20, 23, 24, 36, 125n17, 126–7n27, 128–9n39, 132n8 iconography. See Christian art Iffland, James, 106, 109, 116, 149n42, 154n37, 154–5n40 Ignatius, Saint, 34 Ildefonso, Saint, 154n39 illuminati, 148n32 impotence, 14, 17, 25, 28–9, 31, 32, 39, 42, 49–50, 116, 132n14 incantation (spells), 79–83, 125n15, 146nn17, 18, 146–7n22 Incarnation, 53 Index Librorum Prohibitorum, 115, 156–7n6 indulgences, 84 Inquisition, 75, 79, 80, 103, 134n27, 141n32, 148n34, 156n4 Invention of the Cross (cruces de mayo), 19–24 Isabel I, queen of Castile and León, 25, 127–8n34, 130n50, 134n27 Jacques de Vitry, 22, 24 James the Greater, Saint, 7, 112, 116, 145n15, 155n47

Jansen, Katherine, 53, 67–79, 71, 142n41, 142–3n43, 143nn49, 50, 143–4n51 Janus, 73 Jeremiah, 129n40 Jerome, Saint (Vitae patrum), 43, 46–7, 51, 135n33 Jerusalem, 15, 19, 21–4, 64, 121n21, 124n3, 125n14 Jesse, tree of, 28, 43, 129nn41, 42, 43 Jews, 9, 19, 21, 24, 65, 75, 76, 141n33, 144n8, 150n11 Jiménez de Cisneros, Francisco, 134n27 Job, 3–4, 14, 119nn1, 2, 3 John the Baptist, Saint, 13, 27, 83–92, 110, 117, 148nn35, 36, 148–9n40 John Chrysostom, Saint, 33–4, 35 Jones, Harold, 84–5, 144n5, 148nn31, 32 Joseph, Saint, 16, 27, 65, 124n5 Joset, Jacques, 125n13, 138n8, 139n21, 140n26 Juan, as folk character, 89–91 Juan II, king of Castile and León, 25, 137n2 Judas, 27, 134n29 Julian, Saint, 11, 37, 123n29 Julian the Apostate, 89 Keller, John, 108, 154n39 Kendrick, Laura, 124n8, 130n53 Kinser, Samuel, 34, 131n4 Kirby, Steven D., 35, 131n3 knights, knighthood, 24, 84, 105–8, 110–12, 123n40, 134n25, 149n1, 152–3n30, 153n32, 153–4n35, 155n44, 46, 156n49 Kolve, V.A., 124n6 Kundera, Milan, 93, 107 Laberinto de Fortuna (Juan de Mena), 25, 26, 42–3, 45, 50, 127n33,

192 Index 128n35, 133–4n23, 134nn25, 26, 140n27 Lacarra, María Eugenia, 143n50 Lateran Council (1215), 7 Lawrence, Saint, 8 Lazarillo de Tormes, 14, 40, 74–5, 83–92, 93, 95, 115, 117, 147nn26, 27, 28, 29, 148nn31, 32, 33, 34, 149nn42, 4 Lazarus, Saint, 79, 84, 142n40, 148n30 Lent, 6, 9, 20, 35, 38, 54–6, 61, 63, 106, 109, 112, 123n31, 138n8, 154n39 León, 36 Lepanto, Battle of (1571), 155n43 Liber de proprietatibus rerum, 139– 40n22 Libro de Alexandre, 131n4, 133n17, 155n42 Libro de Apolonio, 123n40 Libro de buen amor (Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita), banishment of Don Amor, 54–63, 72, 137nn5, 6, 137–8n7, 138n8, 139n21, 140nn25, 26; battle of carnival and Lent, 9, 35, 41, 89, 106, 121n21, 142n40; blind men’s songs, 122n26; canonical hours, 62, 122n28; cantiga de los clerigos de Talavera, 60, 121n19; cantigas de serrana, 9, 11, 35–42, 55, 58, 59, 122nn22, 23, 131n6, 133nn20, 21; fables, 40–1, 126n20; Greeks and Romans, 121n20, 122n23; preliminaries, manuscripts, 8–9, 17–18, 39, 121n17, 122n23, 125n10, 132n12; troba caçurra, 18–24, 26, 32, 37, 52, 58, 116, 125nn12, 13, 17, 127n30, 138n14; Trotaconventos in, 39, 40, 58, 63–4, 79, 141n28 Libro del caballero Zifar, 123n40

Libro de los gatos, 108, 140n23, 154n37, 155n44 Lisbon, 96, 105 liturgy, 4, 6, 12, 17, 19, 21, 27, 32, 34, 38, 40, 121n21, 122n28, 125n13, 132n10 López de Ayala, Pero (Rimado de palacio), 3–4, 7, 119n1 Lope de Vega, works: Carlos V en Francia, 61, 139n20; La creación, 140n24; Lo fingido verdadero, 94–5, 105, 113, 150n5, 6; Fuente ovejuna, 140n24; El llegar en ocasión, 61; La mejor enamorada, la Magdalena, 67, 79 lovesickness (aegritudo amoris), 48, 52, 55–6, 60–3, 66, 72, 116, 139n20, 142n38, 149n1 Lozana andaluza (Delicado), 14, 75–83, 84, 91, 92, 95, 117, 132n13, 144–5n9, 145nn12, 13, 14, 15, 146nn19, 20, 21, 147nn23, 24, 25 Lucy, Saint, 11 Ludolph of Saxony, 26–7, 29–30, 42, 129n41 Luther, Martin, 115, 116 Macarius, Saint, 148n31 Machado de Silva (Tercera parte de Guzmán de Alfarache), 115–16 Madrid, 105, 131n6 Madrigal, Alfonso de, 39 Magnificat (Marian Canticle), 6, 7, 120n11 Malchus, Saint, 46 mamotretos (memoranda), 76 Manrique, Jorge, 61 Mapes, Walter (Consultation sacerdotum), 121n19 Mark, Saint, 11, 123n31

Index����   193 marriage, imagery and symbolism, 11, 13, 16, 17, 19, 21, 24, 27, 38–40, 45, 48, 50, 52, 56, 58–9, 71, 77, 80, 84, 89, 91, 102, 126n21, 132n15, 132–3n16, 134n28, 138n10, 143–4n51 Martha, Saint, 67, 75–83, 84, 91, 92, 117, 142n40, 145nn15, 16, 146nn17, 18, 146–7n22, 149n41 Martí, Juan. See Sayavedra, Mateo Luján de Martin of Tours, Saint, 95, 105–13, 117, 153nn33, 34, 154nn36, 37, 155nn41, 44, 47, 156n48 Martínez de Toledo, Alonso, Arcipreste de Talavera, 45 martyrdom, 5, 8–10, 11, 13, 16–17, 28–9, 31, 33–4, 36–7, 40, 41, 52–3, 54, 56–7, 63, 64, 85, 94, 97, 132n8, 133n21, 137n2, 150n12 Mary, Saint, 4, 7–8, 16, 20, 27, 28–32, 35, 42, 53, 65, 70, 71–2, 81, 120n11, 122n26, 129n43, 129n41, 132–3n16, 141n34, 142n40, 143nn45, 48, 51, 145n15, 154n39 Mary of Egypt, Saint, 141–2n37 Mary of Magdalene, Saint, 16, 30, 43, 49, 53, 63–72, 77–8, 79–80, 84, 116, 122n26, 124n7, 141nn30, 31, 141–2n37, 142nn40, 41, 142–3n43, 143nn45, 47, 48, 49, 143–4n51, 145nn15, 16, 146n18 maskers (mummers), 34, 38, 41, 89, 106–7, 131n4 May queens (mayas), 19, 21–5, 115 McGrady, Donald, 101, 150nn7, 8, 9, 151nn16, 20, 21, 152n28 Mena, Juan de (Laberinto de Fortuna) 25, 26, 42–3, 45, 50, 127n33, 128n35, 133–4n23, 134nn25, 26, 140n27

Mercedarians, 40, 132n13, 133n18, 136n40, 149n42 mester de clerecía, 7–8, 121n14 Metamorphosis (Ovid), 20–1, 24, 135n30 Mexico, 58, 105 Miguel-Prendes, Sol, 31, 128n38 Milagros de Nuestra Señora (Berceo), 7, 67, 109–10, 127n29, 129n42, 130n45, 142n40, 154n39, 155n42 miles Christi (soldier of Christ), 106, 112 miracles, 7, 10, 13, 34, 36, 38, 52, 57– 8, 66, 77, 95, 97–8, 100, 103, 114, 122n25, 126n21, 144n5, 151n16, 154n39 mock debates, 88 mock saints, 6–7, 120n6, 120–1n13, 122n28, 128n36 mock sermons, 6–7 Molina, Álvaro, 111, 117, 125n17, 152–3n30 Montesino, Ambrosio, 26–8, 42, 127– 8n34, 128n36, 129n40, 130n50 Morales, Ambrosio de, 138n15 Morocco, 97, 150n12 Moros Mestres, Bienvenido, 60, 139n20 Moses, 85, 129n43, 148n33 mountain women (serranas), 9, 11, 35–42, 55, 58, 59, 122n22, 131n6, 133nn20, 21 music, 3, 7, 9, 20, 59–60, 82, 119n3, 122n28, 128–9n38, 139n20, 149n42 Muslims, 22–3, 24, 113, 125n14, 132n8, 146n21 Nativity, 16, 50, 86, 88, 89, 128n39, 136n40 Nebuchadnezzar, 33

194 Index necrophilia, 43–51,134n28, 135n31 Nirenberg, David, 120n9, 141n32 novel, 14, 64, 72–5, 76, 83, 92, 93, 95, 101–2, 104–5, 113, 117, 144nn4, 5, 6, 152n29, 154–5n40 Novellino, 126n21 novena, 58, 60 nuns, 11, 41, 46, 54, 59, 65, 71, 121– 2n21, 129n43, 134n27, 144n52 oaths, 4, 5, 10–11, 42, 43–4, 48, 54–5, 56–7, 60, 61, 63, 72, 86, 116, 135– 6n39, 154n36 obispillos, 6 O’Callaghan, Joseph, 123n34, 126n24 Office of the Dead, 128–9n39 Olinger, Paula, 132n14 Order of the Magdalene, 70, 71 Orlando Furioso (Ariosto), 48–9 Ovid, Metamorphosis, 20–1, 24, 135n30 Oviedo, 38 Padilla, Juan de, 68 Paliana (Timoneda), 60 parodia sacra, 6–7, 12, 65, 115, 120n12, 121n19, 122n28, 141n34 Pasamonte, Jerónimo de, 93, 149n3 Passion of Christ (Way of the Cross, Crucifixion), 25–32, 43, 116, 124– 5n9, 125n12, 127nn29, 30, 128n38, 129n40, 129–30n44, 130nn46, 47 Paul, Saint, 27, 111, 117, 129n40, 148n33, 155n47 Paulus, Saint, 46, 49 Peña de Martos (Córdoba), 77, 81, 83, 145n15 penitence, 29, 41, 56, 68, 72, 106, 107, 109, 111, 121n21, 131n4, 142–3n43 Peréz, Martín (Libro de los confesiones), 122n26, 131nn4, 5

Pericote, 38–9, 40, 43 Peristephanon (Prudentius), 36–7 Peter, Saint, 13, 27, 126n21 phallic saints, 7, 120–1n13, 122n28 Pharaildis, Saint, 13 Pharmakon, 63, 116 Philippe, Chancellor of Paris, 22, 126n26 physiognomy, 39 picaresque, 73–105, 117–18, 144nn1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 148n30, 149n4, 151n17 pilgrimage, pilgrims, 7, 11, 21, 24, 35–40, 41, 44, 57, 58, 116, 117, 130n48, 131n6, 136n42 plague, 4, 119n4, 122n25, 123n31 Pluto, 46–7, 135n30, 143n49 Poema de Fernán González, 40 Poema de mío Cid, 123n40 poison, 48, 59–63, 72, 88, 91, 126n20, 134n24, 136n41, 139–40n22, 140n24, 147n25 preaching. See sermons Primaleón, 75 processions, 19, 81, 91, 105–7, 111, 152–3n30, 153nn33, 34 prologues, 18, 25, 26, 39, 83, 85, 99– 101, 110, 128n36, 129n42, 130n45, 140n27, 150n9, 152n26, 155n43 prophecy 28, 87, 91, 124n2 Proserpina, 42, 45, 46, 50, 135n30 prostitution, prostitutes, 10, 12, 16, 25–32, 43, 46, 47, 52–3, 59, 63–72, 73, 76–83, 116, 127–8n34, 128– 9n39, 130n48, 132n13, 133n20, 136n40, 137–8n7, 140n26, 143n50, 145n12, 146nn20, 21 Protestantism, 115, 116, 156n5 puns. See wordplay Quevedo, Francisco de, 69 Quiñones de Benavente, Luis, 58

Index����   195 Quinquagesima, 38 Quiteria, Saint, 53–63, 72, 92, 116, 137nn2, 3, 5, 138nn9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15 Rabelais, 133–4n23 rabies (hydrophobia), 54, 56–63, 65, 137n3, 138n11, 139nn17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 139–40n22, 140nn24, 25 rape, 22–4, 33, 40, 43–4, 46, 48–9, 56, 116, 135n30 Razón de amor, 7, 148n39 Reconquest, 6, 23, 25, 111 Redondo, Augustín, 59, 106, 153n31, 154n39 Reformation, 114–15 Reinosa, Rodrigo de, 61, 135n39 Relaciones históricas toledanas (Horozco), 116, 129n40, 131n4 relics, 6–7, 19, 19, 20, 22–4, 32, 36, 38, 64, 125n14, 126nn23, 25, 26, 130n52, 132n8, 150n13, 156n2 religious theatre, Antichrist in, 6; Nativity plays, 16–17, 50, 65, 124n5, 136nn40, 42; Passion plays, 16–17, 124nn6, 7; saints in, 19, 67, 79, 94–5, 104–5, 113, 120n6, 145n16, 150nn5, 6 Resurrection and resuscitation 17, 29, 32, 37, 42–5, 50–2, 67, 79, 121–2n21, 142n40 Rhazes (Liber contines), 60 Ribadeneyra, Pedro de (Flos sanctorum), 57, 59, 94, 98, 138n10 Rico, Francisco, 7, 147nn26, 27 Ridley-Smith, Jonathan, 23–4, 126n25, 127n31 Rimado de Palacio (López de Ayala), 3–4, 7, 119n1 Rioja, 7, 33, 35, 36 rogation, 11, 123n31

Rojas, Fernando de: life of, 63, 140n27, 141n32, 142n39; Trajicomedia de Calisto y Melibea (Celestina), 14, 53, 63–72, 74–5, 76, 83, 88, 90, 91, 116, 141nn29, 30, 31, 36, 141–2n37, 143nn44, 46, 49, 144–5n9, 146nn19, 20, 147n25, 148n35 Rojas, Pedro de (Historia de Toledo), 56, 137n5, 138n10 Roman de Perceforest, 46, 48 romance, 33, 46, 64, 71, 72, 73–6, 93, 108, 117, 131n3, 144n5, 149n1 Rome, 36, 64, 75–6, 81, 83, 125n14, 144n8, 145n15, 146n21 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare), 48, 136n41 Ruiz, Juan (Archpriest of Hita), 8, 121n18; Libro de buen amor : banishment of Don Amor, 54–63, 72, 137n5, 6, 137–8n7, 138n8, 139n21, 140nn25, 26; battle of carnival and Lent, 9, 35, 41, 89, 106, 121n21, 142n40; blind men’s songs, 122n26; canonical hours, 62, 122n28; cantiga de los clerigos de Talavera, 60, 121n19; cantigas de serrana, 9, 11, 35–42, 55, 58, 59, 122n22, 23, 131n6, 133nn20, 21; fables, 40–1, 126n20; Greeks and Romans, 121n20, 122n23; preliminaries, manuscripts, 8–9, 17–18, 39, 121nn17, 122n23, 125n10, 132n12; troba caçurra, 18–24, 26, 32, 37, 52, 58, 116, 125nn12, 13, 17, 127n30, 138n14; Trotaconventos in, 39, 40, 58, 63–4, 79, 141n28 sacrilege, 4, 7, 22–3, 65, 103, 105, 126n25, 141–2n37

196 Index Saladin, 22, 126n23 Salome, 13 saludadores (folk healers), 57, 59, 61, 87, 138n11 San Antonio de Padua (Alemán), 96–104 San Pedro, Diego de, 128n38 Sánchez de Bajadoz, Diego (Farsa del molinero), 122n26, 148n31 Santander, 132n8 Saturnine, Saint, 148n32 Sayavedra, Mateo Luján de (Juan Martí), 95–6, 99–102, 104, 110, 150n9, 151nn17, 19, 20, 21, 152nn26, 29 Sebastian, Saint, 43, 58, 139n16 Segundo tomo de don Quijote de la Mancha (Fernández de Avellaneda), 93–5, 107–13, 116, 149n3, 152n29, 153–4n35, 154nn36, 39, 154–5n40, 155n43, 156n49 sermons (preaching), 10, 19, 22–4, 34, 52, 53, 67–8, 71, 79, 97, 126n26, 140n24, 142–3n43, 143– 4n51, mock sermons, 6–7 serranas. See mountain women Severin, Dorothy, 64, 141n29 Severus, Suplicus (Vita Beati Martini), 106, 111 Seville, 69, 95, 124n2, 150n11 Shakespeare, William, works: Hamlet, 45, Romeo and Juliet, 48, 136n41 shepherds, 16, 124n5, 133n22, 136n40, 140n24 Sigüenza, 108, 154n36 Simerka, Barbara, 95, 150n6 Simon, Saint, 123n37 Simon Magus, 13, 15–16 Sorrows of the Virgin, 8, 29–31, 70, 88

spells. See incantation Spring (season), 19–21, 55, 63, 138n15 spring (water source), 57, 59, 138n11 Steinberg, Leo, 31–2 Stern, Charlotte, 124n5, 131n5, 156n4 stigmata, 34, 139n16 straw man, 5, 28, 31, 90–1 sumptuary laws, 67, 142n41 Surtz, Ronald, 76, 145n12 Sybil, 42–3 Tarasque (dragon), 78–81, 145n15, 146n18, 149n41 Templars, 23 temptation, 10, 13, 31, 33, 35, 42, 46, 48–9, 101, 139n21 Tertullian (De cultu feminarum), 67 thaumaturgy (healing), 4, 37, 50, 36–8, 40, 56–9, 61, 63, 67, 77, 88, 97, 114 Thompson, Bussell, 68–9, 79, 132n16, 133n18, 142n39, 149n42 Toledo, 6, 53–8, 61, 62, 63, 108, 116, 121n18, 127n29, 129n40, 137n2, 147n26 Torres Naharro, Bartolomé de, works of: Comedia Aquilana, 43; Diálogo del nascimiento, 50 Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda (Cervantes), 139n21 tragicomedy, 63–5, 74–5, 140n27 Trajicomedia de Calisto y Melibea o Celestina (F. de Rojas), 14, 53, 63–72, 74–5, 76, 83, 88, 90, 91, 116, 141nn29, 30, 31, 36, 141– 2n37, 143nn44, 46, 49, 144–5n9, 146nn19, 20, 147n25, 148n35 translation, 7, 16, 19, 20, 26–8, 42, 48, 67, 78, 85, 119n1, 121n15, 128n36,

Index����   197 129n40, 142n38, 145n11, 147n28, 148n31, 149n4, 154n37 Tratado de alborayque, 141n33 tree, imagery and symbolism, 13, 20– 1, 24, 28, 58, 79, 125n16, 126nn18, 21, 129n43, 145n15 underworld. See Hell universities, 7, 8, 63, 121nn14, 17, 151n19 Usoz y Ríos, Luis, 25 Valencia, 96, 99, 105, 151n19 vanity, 67–8, 70–1, 127–8n34, 141– 2n37 Varo, Carlos, 43, 127–8n34, 128n36, 128–9n39, 129n40 Vasvári, Louise O., 125n13, 131n6, 144n6 Veltruský, Jarmila F., 16, 124n7, 137n1 venereal, 75, 125n13, 145n15, 147n25 Venice, 75 Venus (Cytherea), 55, 138n9 Veronica, Saint, 68 Vilagrán, Marín Gelaberto, 103, 151n23 Villegas, Alonso de, 71, 108, 112, 138nn10, 12, 156n49 Virgil: Aeneid, 42–3, 45, 50, 133–4n23, 134nn24, 25 virginity, 10, 11, 13, 17, 20, 27, 28–9, 43, 44–5, 46–7, 50, 52–3, 57, 63, 70–2, 102–3, 137n1, 141n33, 143n50, 143–4n51 Vitae patrum (Jerome), 43, 46–7, 51, 135n33 Voragine, Jacques, Golden Legend, 19, 52, 78, 88, 106, 119n4, 123n39, 131n2

Walsh, John K., 68–9, 79, 132–3n16, 133n18, 149n42 Walsh, Martin W., 152–3n30, 153n34, 155n41, 156n48 water, imagery and symbolism, 7, 57, 59–61, 84–5, 87–9, 91, 134n24, 135n32, 138n11, 139n20, 148n39, 149nn41, 44, 153–4n35 Weissberger, Barbara, 25 Whinnom, Keith, 128n38, 130n50, 140n25, 141n32 Wicks, Ulrich, 144n5 wildmen and wild women, 33–5, 39–41, 51, 86, 131nn3, 4 wine, imagery and symbolism, 7, 82, 83, 84, 86–8, 90, 91, 107–8, 119n5, 122n28, 148n39, 153n33 witches, witchcraft, 13, 52, 57, 64, 79– 81, 91, 134n26, 139n21, 146n19, 147n25 Wood, Charles T., 115, 130n52 wordplay (puns and paronomasia), 10–11, 13–14, 37, 43, 55, 82, 127n30, 130n48, 134n27, 138n9, 146n21 Ysengrimus, 13, 123n38, 140nn23, 26 Yuletide (Christmas season), 6, 16, 107, 120n11 Zahareas, Anthony, 121n18, 122n28, 125n12 zamarones (festive performer), 131n5 Zaragoza, 91, 110 Ziolkowski, Jan, 10, 36, 122n28, 138n9