Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century: Virtue, Patriotism, Citizenship 9781487546281

Table of contents :
Contents
Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Introduction. From behind the Lines to Writing War’s Texts: Redrawing the Boundaries of War and Gender
Chapter One. Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship in Rosario de Acuña’s Amor a la patria (1877)
Chapter Two. Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle: Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española (1899)
Chapter Three. Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain: Concepción Arenal’s Writings, 1869–79
Chapter Four. The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace: Concepción Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra and Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes
Chapter Five. Getting Intimate with Empire: Fin-de-siècle Women Writing a Psychology of the Disaster
Chapter Six. Disordering the Imperial Home: Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907)
Chapter Seven. Purity of Blood in the National Family? Spain’s War in Morocco in Carmen de Burgos’s En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) (1909)
Chapter Eight. Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals: Burgos’s Essays on World War I and Women in War
Chapter Nine. Denouncing War’s Broken Syntax: Burgos’s World War I Novellas
Conclusion. Transforming Moral Maps, Then and Now
Notes
References
Index

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WOMEN ON WAR IN SPAIN’S LONG NINETEENTH CENTURY Virtue, Patriotism, Citizenship

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Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century Virtue, Patriotism, Citizenship

CHRISTINE ARKINSTALL

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

©   University of Toronto Press 2023 Toronto Buffalo London utorontopress.com Printed in the U.S.A. ISBN 978-1-4875-4626-7 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-4875-4627-4 (EPUB) ISBN 978-1-4875-4628-1 (PDF) Toronto Iberic

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: Women on war in Spain’s long nineteenth century : virtue, patriotism, citizenship /   Christine Arkinstall. Names: Arkinstall, Christine, author. Series: Toronto Iberic. Description: Series statement: Toronto Iberic | Includes bibliographical   references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220407452 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220407533 |   ISBN 9781487546267 (cloth) | ISBN 9781487546274 (EPUB) |   ISBN 9781487546281 (PDF) Subjects: LCSH: Spanish literature – Women authors – History and criticism. |   LCSH: Spanish literature – 19th century – History and criticism. |   LCSH: Spanish literature – 20th century – History and criticism. |   LCSH: War in literature. | LCSH: Women in literature. |   LCSH: Women and war – Spain. Classification: LCC PQ6055 .A75 2023 | DDC 860.9/9287 – dc23

We wish to acknowledge the land on which the University of Toronto Press operates. This land is the traditional territory of the Wendat, the Anishnaabeg, the Haudenosaunee, the Métis, and the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation. This book has been published with the assistance of a PBRF grant from the School of Cultures, Languages and Linguistics at the University of Auckland. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario, for its publishing activities.

For my parents, Judy and Brian, and all that they gave me. And to my intellectual family, past and present.

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Contents

List of Illustrations ix Acknowledgments xi Introduction: From behind the Lines to Writing War’s Texts: Redrawing the Boundaries of War and Gender 3 1 Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship in Rosario de Acuña’s Amor a la patria (1877) 19 2 Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle: Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española (1899) 38 3 Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain: Concepción Arenal’s Writings, 1869–79 57 4 The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace: Concepción Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra and Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes 77 5 Getting Intimate with Empire: Fin-de-siècle Women Writing a Psychology of the Disaster 96 6 Disordering the Imperial Home: Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907) 117 7 Purity of Blood in the National Family? Spain’s War in Morocco in Carmen de Burgos’s En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) (1909) 135 8 Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals: Burgos’s Essays on World War I and Women in War 156

viii Contents

9 Denouncing War’s Broken Syntax: Burgos’s World War I Novellas 173 Conclusion: Transforming Moral Maps, Then and Now 195 Notes 205 References 233 Index 269

Illustrations

1.1 Retrato de Agustina de Aragón (Portrait of Agustina of Aragón) by Juan Gálvez and Fernando Brambila 21 3.1 Madrid: Preparación de hilas y vendajes por las Señoras de la “Cruz Roja,” en el palacio de la Duquesa viuda de Medinaceli (Preparation of Strips and Bandages by the Ladies of the Red Cross, in the Palace of the Dowager Duchess of Medinaceli) by Josep Lluís Pellicer 62 3.2 Somorrostro: Hospital de sangre en la iglesia de San Juan: Mañana del 26 de febrero, horas después del combate de Abanto (Blood Hospital in the Church of San Juan: Morning of 26 February, Hours after the Battle of Abanto) by Josep Lluís Pellicer 63 3.3 Entrar en caja. Parodia de frases militares (To Be Called Up: Parody of Military Phrases) 68 3.4 Campamento de Las Carreras durante los últimos temporales de lluvia y viento (Camp at Las Carreras during the Recent Rain and Wind Storms) by Josep Lluís Pellicer 70 3.5 Combate en el cerro de Muniain (Pico de Villatuerta), el 3 del actual (Battle on the Muniain Heights [Villatuerta Peak], on the Third of the Present Month) by Josep Lluís Pellicer 71 3.6 El Kaiser y su hijo en la gran batalla, vistos por un holandés (The Kaiser and His Son at the Great Battle, as Seen by a Dutchman) by Louis Raemaekers 73 4.1 El prusianismo y la civilización (Prussianism and Civilization) by Louis Raemaekers 85 4.2 Los despojos de la guerra (The Spoils of War) by Louis Raemaekers 92 5.1 L’últim determini (The Final Decision) by Manuel Moliné i Muns 99 5.2 Viatje de retorn (The Return Voyage) 101

x Illustrations

5.3 Lo descubriment d’América. Com va comensar. Com ha acabat (The Discovery of America: How It Began, How It Has Ended) 103 5.4 Las víctimas del deber (The Victims of Duty) 105 5.5 La Mare Espanya (Mother Spain) by Manuel Moliné i Muns 110 5.6 3 de juliol (3 July) 110 6.1 Geografía satírica. El gat y la rata (Satirical Geography: The Cat and the Mouse) 124 6.2 Untitled dialogue between Spain and Sagasta by Manuel Moliné i Muns 125 6.3 L’últim crit (The Final Rally / Last Gasp) 132 6.4 A los héroes de Cavite (To the Heroes of Cavite) by Josep Triadó 133 7.1 Las operaciones militares en el Rif (Military Operations in the Rif) 146 7.2 Las operaciones militares en el Rif. La misa de campaña del día 27 de agosto (Military Operations in the Rif: Army Mass, 27 August) 147 7.3 Croquis panorámicos, a vista de pájaro, trazados con estricta sujeción a los planos oficiales más modernos y a los últimos datos recibidos del teatro de la guerra (Panoramic, Bird’s-Eye View Sketches, Drawn with Strict Adherence to the Most Modern Official Maps and the Latest Data Received from the Theatre of War) 153 9.1 Seducción (Seduction) by Louis Raemaekers 174 9.2 Victoria (Victory) by Louis Raemaekers 185 9.3 Trying on Mask Just before It Had Been Painted 191 9.4 Masks, Showing Different Stages in the Work Done by Mrs. Coleman Ladd of the American Red Cross, for Soldiers Whose Faces Have Been Mutilated in the War 191

Acknowledgments

All projects are team efforts, drinking and drawing strength from the fountains of wisdom that others have created and bequeathed. I am indebted to an entire intellectual “family” whose scholarship has inspired and nurtured my own. Two are particularly present as I write these words: José Manuel Bolado García, friend, mentor, and indisputable scholar of all things Rosario de Acuña, and who passed away in May 2021; and Maryellen Bieder, the star by whom I set my course as a young academic and who generously gave me time and guidance until her unexpected passing in early 2018. Working in the nineteenth century and fin de siècle has brought me into contact with a host of extraordinary scholars, among whom I especially acknowledge Roberta Johnson, Akiko Tsuchiya, Alda Blanco, Lou Charnon-Deutsch, Aurélie Vialette, and Jennifer Smith. The sister academics with whom I share a passion for Acuña, in Spain, France, and the US, hold a singular place in my heart. Above all else, my Aotearoa New Zealand, Asturian, and Spanish families and friends have sustained, with their love and support, my health, sanity, and perspective on life. I cannot thank them enough! I am most grateful to Carme Planas i Viladoms and Alicia Torres Déniz at Barcelona’s Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat and to the personnel at the National Library of Spain (Biblioteca Nacional de España) in Madrid for their patience and timely facilitation of periodical images. Indeed, over the years the BNE librarians have met with endless courtesy and expertise my innumerable requests for essential documents and texts. I also greatly value the judicious advice of Professor Vicent Martines at the University of Alicante regarding the translation of figure 5.1. I thank the University of Auckland for the material support and sabbatical leaves that have been vital for the progression, completion, and publication of this manuscript, as well as my academic colleagues for

xii Acknowledgments

their support. I thank the splendid Tim Page (digital media support specialist) for his expert assistance regarding the images. I owe a debt of gratitude to the students with whom I have had the privilege to work, notably to Azariah Alfante, similarly captivated by Spain’s nineteenth century, and Justine Pillay, whose research on war served to rekindle mine when spirits flagged. I deeply appreciate the invaluable insights of the three anonymous readers of the manuscript. A real highlight has been the opportunity to work again with the superb editorial, production, and marketing teams at the University of Toronto Press, especially Mark Thompson, who shepherded the book through its early stages; Mary Lui, who has guided it through managing editorial; and Simon D. Coll, who has been a brilliant copy editor. Earlier versions of material from the book appeared as follows: Approximately half of chapter 1 was first published as “Writing NineteenthCentury Spain: Rosario de Acuña and the Liberal Nation,” Modern Language Notes 120, no. 2 (March 2005): 294–313, and is reprinted by copyright permission of the Johns Hopkins University Press; that same material was also subsequently published in Histories, Cultures, and National Identities: Women Writing Spain, 1877–1984 (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 2009) and is reprinted with kind permission of Rutgers University Press. Chapter 2 was first published as “Gender, Casticismo and Imperial Nations in Spain’s Fin de Siècle: Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española (1899),” Revista de Estudios Hispánicos 54, no. 2 (June 2020): 583–609, and is reprinted by permission of the editors and Washington University in St. Louis. A very small amount of wording first appeared in Spanish Female Writers and the Freethinking Press, 1879– 1926 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014) and is reprinted with the publisher’s permission. I am most grateful to the journals and publishing houses for permission to reprint here.

WOMEN ON WAR IN SPAIN’S LONG NINETEENTH CENTURY

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Introduction

From behind the Lines to Writing War’s Texts: Redrawing the Boundaries of War and Gender

Until recent history war has been, for most women writers, what ­Margaret R. Higonnet (1993b) describes as a “forbidden zone.” Their voices have been strikingly missing in action from an exclusively masculine war canon, which equates the authority to write on war with having experienced frontline combat (Schweik 1989, 310–11). Calling that canon the “War Story,” Miriam Cooke (1996, 15) demonstrates how it reproduces the essentialist gendered binaries that separate the political and domestic spheres. So what exactly might be at stake when women write on war and what concerns do they privilege? Exploring through feminist lenses cultural representations of war by female writers in Spain’s long nineteenth century, this study will argue that these works blur conventionally gendered lines and embattled histories. Challenging traditionally masculinist determinations of who has full right of membership in the nation and its cultures, and on what grounds, their texts on war demonstrate the indisputable intertwining of the personal with the political.1 The complexities of women’s relationship to war have been the subject of numerous feminist debates.2 With regard to nineteenth-century and fin-de-siècle Spain, exciting studies have appeared on women’s participation in specific wars, especially the War of Independence (1808– 14), while other projects roam across a broader range of associated issues.3 Furthermore, how women have historically authorized themselves to write on war, especially with regard to the world wars in the British and North American contexts, are matters addressed in many excellent scholarly works.4 In contrast, there is a comparative dearth of research on Spanish female writers’ representations of war, and scholars have tended to focus their attention on a few key compositions. Drawing on the indispensable critical reservoir available on war and on women writing on war in other contexts, this book seeks to expand this

4  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

fertile field with reference to Spain’s long nineteenth century. Keeping foremost Higonnet’s (1993b, 192) question of what it means for women to “see” war, I explore the concerns that six Spanish female authors, just some of a considerable number writing on war in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, bring to bear in their accounts of conflict: Rosario de Acuña (1850–1923), Blanca de los Ríos (1859–1956), Concepción Arenal (1820–93), Consuelo Álvarez Pool (Violeta, 1867–1959), Emilia Pardo Bazán (1851–1921), and Carmen de Burgos (Colombine, 1867–1932). Most writers were associated with the contentiously labelled 1898 Generation and, for several, such as Acuña, Arenal, and Burgos, war would be a recurring theme in their corpus. All endured times of tremendous sociopolitical upheaval, buffeted by wars, revolutions, and struggles for the dignified independence of colonized peoples, women, and the working classes. Several knew family members who remembered living through the War of Independence, and all witnessed the Third Carlist War of 1872–6. With the exception of Arenal, all experienced Spain’s fin-de-siècle colonial wars as it lost one empire and sought to gain another, as well as World War I. These events provide the chronological framework for my discussion over nine chapters, interwoven with overarching themes and symbols. Some of my writers are major recognized authors (Arenal, Pardo Bazán, Burgos), while others, prominent in their time, are today less known (Acuña, de los Ríos, Álvarez Pool). Likewise, some texts – notably Burgos’s En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) (In the War [Episodes from Melilla]; [1909] 1989) – have received considerable critical consideration, while others, such as those by de los Ríos and Burgos’s World War I novellas, have been overlooked.5 I approach their works from innovative angles, embedding them in their contemporary sociocultural and political discourses, and attending to their differences as well as their commonalities. Wars are fought on and over boundaries material and intangible, topographical and ideological, (inter)national and domestic. These contested borders emerge from and impact on questions of identity formation, sociocultural and political exclusion and inclusion, and personal and collective integrity and dishonour. Immersed in concerns of gender, class, race, and generation, the battle lines drawn reach into the very core of communities and lives – the sites of sociopolitical struggles, cultural turf wars, and discrimination against others. Historically, romanticized representations of war according to masculine paradigms have reproduced, naturalized, and attempted to render palatable patriarchal norms and gender inequalities. “Being a warrior,” perceived as “a central component of manhood,” epitomizes traditional masculinity

Introduction 5

(Goldstein 2001, 266), while “hunting and warring have been institutionalized as the sacred privileges of the male” (Huston 1986, 130; original emphasis). The feminine counterpart of the warrior is the mother and historically women’s exceptional participation in war has been conditional on their being removed from reproduction as either virgins or widows (Huston 1986, 130). According to Higonnet et al., “War must be understood as a gendering activity, one that ritually marks the gender of all members of a society” (1987b, 4; original emphasis). The spaces that have been conventionally assigned to men and women in wartime are the frontline and home front respectively. The former confirms men’s role as defenders of their women, children, and motherland; the latter metaphorically and psychologically separates the activities of war from “a feminine ‘normal’ sphere of experience” (Goldstein 2001, 304). Cynthia Enloe (1983, 15) stresses the impossibility of ignoring the fundamental part that gender plays in war: “The military believes it must categorise women as peripheral, as serving safely at the ‘rear’ on the ‘home front.’ Women as women must be denied access to ‘the front,’ to ‘combat’ … the military has to constantly redefine ‘the front’ and ‘combat’ as wherever ‘women’ are not.”6 Nevertheless, given that traditionally male citizens’ greatest duty has been seen as their preparedness to defend the nation and even die for it, many women have advocated their own sex’s participation in war to strengthen their arguments for greater civil and political rights (Yuval-Davis 1997, 89, 93). Such a stance is evident, as I will develop, in Acuña’s and Burgos’s texts. Indeed, most of the authors featured eschew essentialist paradigms that represent women as showing a propensity for peace and pacifism, an aspect that I explore in greater depth in chapters 8 and 9 with regard to Burgos’s writings on World War I. Female-authored works on war manifest its imbrication with deeply rooted sociocultural issues. As Higonnet asks: “Why, we may begin to wonder, do women’s works about war significantly realign the focus from military to social structures?” (1993b, 202). The aspect of the social edifice with which all my writers engage when addressing war pertains to the separation of the public sphere from the domestic realm, which reflected and reinforced culturally sanctioned gender roles in fin-desiècle Spanish society. Supposedly justifying women’s exclusion from the public sphere was their traditional association with the emotions, in contrast with men’s self-identification with reason. Emotion, Carole Pateman stresses, constituted the linchpin that vindicated liberalism’s restriction of women to the domestic sphere. Since becoming a civil individual demanded the ability to curb passions, women were seen as naturally subversive of the sociopolitical order (Pateman 1988, 94, 96,

6  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

100). I now turn to examine more closely the premises and implications of these discriminatory societal frameworks in Spain’s long nineteenth century, the boundaries of which my writers’ works on war seek to renegotiate and blur.7 In nineteenth-century European society, the icon held up to all women, regardless of class, was the Angel in the House, which appeared with the emergence of what Jürgen Habermas, in The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (1989), calls the bourgeois public sphere. Within Spain Joaquina García Balsameda’s 1874 play in verse, El ángel del hogar (The Angel in the House), explicitly cast this figure in opposition to men’s role in warfare: “[Y] en vez de rayo en la guerra / serás ¡Ángel de mi hogar!” (And instead of a lightning bolt in war / you will be the Angel in my home!; Balsameda 1913, 20). In her classic study on the Angel, Bridget Aldaraca notes that whereas the masculine worlds of commerce and politics were identified with moral corruption, the home epitomized a restorative sanctuary over which the wife and mother selflessly presided. Nevertheless, this separate sphere of feminine influence was riddled with paradoxes. On the one hand, the domestic space was equated with an innocent purity, fragility, and “primitive grace” removed from the public sphere. On the other, the family was represented as a microcosm of the state and it was bourgeois women’s allegedly superior spirituality that saw them sanctioned to educate children in the liberal nation’s values (Aldaraca 1982, 64–5, 67, 71). Women’s ideal domestic containment and chasteness became guarantors of the legitimacy of familial bloodlines and the unassailable integrity and honour of family, nation, and race.8 Elucidating Habermas’s theories, Joan B. Landes affirms that the bourgeois public sphere was composed of “private people coming together as a public through the ‘historically unprecedented’ public use of their reason.” It was men’s exercise of their acknowledged natural reason that affirmed their putative equality and right to participate in this sphere’s voluntary associations, which for Habermas mediated between the state, on the one hand, and civil society and the family on the other (Landes 1998b, 139).9 Habermas therefore differentiates, Marie Fleming (2013, 122, 133) explains, between the public sphere (literary and political), the private or economic sphere, which would encompass what were not considered public matters, and a domestic or intimate sphere pertinent to the family. An alternative view, of import for my study, is proposed by Pateman, who emphasizes that the social (private) and the political (public) both form part of civil society and cannot be separated (1989, 133). Stressing the inseparability of political life from private intimacies, she states that any “reconstruction of

Introduction 7

democratic theory has to reach into the heart of the conventional understanding of sexual identity as well as into the structure of the state” (Pateman 1985, 194). In a society in which class and property ownership determined degrees of citizenship, few men (and still fewer women) were empowered to participate in the nineteenth-century public sphere. With the structural separation of the public sphere from the market and family life, many aspects of life were consigned to the private realm as “improper subjects for public debate” (Landes 1998b, 141–2). As a result, in Spain the liberal concepts of progress and modernity were rendered incompatible with Woman, who was identified with progress only within the domestic economy and the administration of the home (Nash 2000, 8). The 1870 Penal Code, the 1885 Commerce Code, and the 1889 Civil Code ensured women’s subservience in the private home and placed them firmly under the tutelage of men, who officially acted for them in the public sphere (Scanlon 1986, 123–37).10 The preservation of liberal order depended on men’s governance of women’s bodies and social relationships through the tacit enforcing of what Pateman designates as the sexual contract, a masculine sex-right politically determined by the modern fraternal contract.11 Women were consequently excluded from the social contract, which recognizes men’s ownership of property in their person and their ability to participate in civil society (Pateman 1988, 100–2, 112). Effectively, women were the property of their fathers or husbands: a reality that becomes reinforced in war, when they function even more decidedly as romantic interests who justify men’s participation in war, as sexual trophies, and as emblems of victory or defeat (Higonnet and Higonnet 1987, 37). Consequently, the premises according to which individuals have been empowered to enter into contracts have varied historically for men and women. The contract traditionally available to women was the marriage contract, through which they agreed to exchange their person for male protection and demonstrate feminine obedience and subservience (Pateman 1988, 58). The rights and duties considered incumbent on women were founded on concepts of inequality, which differed from those principles of fraternal equality and freedom applicable to men, and reinforced the artificially created division between civil and political society. As Teresa Brennan and Pateman emphasize: “Women, more specifically married women, constitute a permanent embarrassment and problem for liberal political theory” (1998, 93). How exactly progressive women in Spain’s nineteenth century might engage with this liberal paradox is exemplified in Acuña’s work in chapter 1, where

8  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

I examine more closely questions concerning women’s access to full citizenship and greater rights. The essentialist premises of the sexual contract, which assigned women to a natural world in need of domestication, also underwrote what Charles W. Mills terms the racial contract. Both Woman and the racialized Other represent dark continents threatening to the hegemonic, white, masculine benchmark of European civilization, “the global locus of rationality” (Mills 1997, 45; original emphasis). They are “bodies impolitic whose owners are judged incapable of forming or fully entering into a body politic” because “the Racial Contract establishes a particular somatotype as the norm, deviation from which unfits one for full personhood and full membership in the polity” (53–4; original emphasis). How these social, sexual, and racial contracts intersect and diverge is crucial for my analysis in chapters 5–7 of texts on Spain’s fin-de-siècle imperial undertakings. The equation of an allegedly disembodied, dispassionate reason with the masculine public sphere of production and of the body and emotions with the feminine domestic sphere of reproduction has been roundly disproved by feminist scholars like Sara Ahmed (2014) and Martha Nussbaum (2001, 2013). Sara Ruddick (1990, 233) stresses that the attainment of reason demands “a discipline, method, or struggle that creates a rational self” and a univocal “abstract order,” which seeks to control the historically grounded, material diversity of emotions associated with the menace of feminized others. Such an attempt to suppress the emotions forms part of what Norbert Elias (1978–82) diagnosed as the “civilizing process” and what Barbara H. Rosenwein (2006, 7–9) calls an internal war zone. Iris Marion Young (1998, 424, 437–8) critiques Habermas’s notion of a normative, impartial reason because the production of universal law requires the excision of differences within discourse, such as material features (punctuation and sentence structure), emotive rhetorical and symbolic elements, body language (important for Acuña’s theatre), and paradox and irony (evident in Arenal’s and Burgos’s writings). “What is reasonable – abstract, impersonal, passionless – discourse,” Ruddick insists, “is accordingly associated with what is ‘male’” (1990, 233). The construction of boundaries, material and conceptual, between a supposedly rational public sphere and an emotional or affective domestic realm constitutes, as Nira Yuval-Davis remarks, “a political act” (1997, 80). Her stance is echoed in the following statement by Seyla Benhabib (1998, 77): “All struggles against oppression in the modern world begin by redefining what had previously been considered ‘private,’ non-public, and non-political issues as matters of public concern,

Introduction 9

as issues of justice, as sites of power which need discursive legitimation.” Valuable scholarship on the cultural history of emotions has demonstrated that, far from being intimate, internal matters, emotions arise in a contact zone from not only the sentient but also the rational engagement of subjects with their environments (Ahmed 2014, 6–7). Emotions therefore create what Rosenwein, following Max Weber, calls coexisting “emotional communities,” whose members embrace or reject related emotions according to value appraisals (Rosenwein 2006, 2, 13–14),12 or what Raymond Williams perceives as structures of feelings, in which emotions and thought intertwine in constant tension, forming “at the very edge of semantic availability” (1977, 132, 134). Such emotional communities or formations emerge in each of my chapters to demonstrate, as Luisa Elena Delgado, Pura Fernández, and Jo Labanyi observe, that emotions are embodied, historically specific, and materially embedded in a given society’s cultures and politics (2016b, 6). My discussion also draws on Javier Krauel’s (2013) thought-provoking work on emotions and empire, as well as on Patrick Colm Hogan’s (2009, 2011) illuminating analyses of the metaphors, narrative emplotments, and passions that underpin nationalisms. The redefinition of private spaces and emotions as political, evident throughout my study, comes to the fore, for instance, in Arenal’s works on war. As Benhabib declares, moral and religious matters have traditionally been treated as private affairs beyond the purview of public life and justice (1998, 86–7). Nevertheless, private spaces can become public through united action. Drawing on Hannah Arendt’s thought to reinterpret Habermas, Benhabib specifies that any space becomes a public locus of power when humans “act together in concert” (69–70).13 These concepts are pivotal, I will argue, when examining Arenal’s writings, where her emphasis on associative action conjoins charitable love and religious conscience with questions pertaining to reason and universal justice. Similarly, Acuña’s drama on love of country turns the home into the warfront and makes its impassioned female protagonist the very model of reason and Spanish patriotism. Elaborating on Max Weber’s theories, Siniša Malešević (2010, 5–6, 25–8) outlines how the bureaucratization of rationality and its dependence on discipline originate in the military, which uses coercion and the threat of violence to control subordinates and conquer Others. Nevertheless, as Mary Favret (2010, 11) highlights, wartime is not a rational experience but intensely emotional and “affecting.” To approach war not as “an object of cognition bounded by dates” but as “an affective zone” changes the focus from battlegrounds to home fronts and “from objective events to this other, subjective arena, much harder to

10  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

locate” (18). All my writers foreground war as an affecting and affective experience, while some, like Arenal, call for replacing the violence of rationality, which demands a passive obedience to ideals, with a compassionate, caring reason commensurate with an active, engaged citizenry. Their texts underscore that war is experienced by sentient, embodied men and women, and that its consequences are fractured families and hearts, shattered bodies, psyches, and dreams, grief and deprivation. Rather than representing war “at a distance,” to use Favret’s (2010) phrase, they bring war home in uncomfortable proximity. It is with war in its affective dimensions that I engage in the following section, where I outline key feminist theories relevant to my study on the impact of the emotions on war and brands of patriotism. In Political Emotions Nussbaum defines patriotism as “a form of love” towards the nation, a beloved object that one possesses and to which one belongs (2013, 208). Like Benedict Anderson (2006, 7) and Jean Bethke Elshtain (1992, 149), Nussbaum underlines that nations are conceptualized according to relationships of kinship, as either father(lands), mother(lands), or feminine sweethearts. These embodiments of nations, and the places and spaces with which they are historically associated, are important for the narratives that ideologically construct nations, because they harness the past to inspire a people’s devotion and invite the collaborative forging of an imagined common future (Nussbaum 2013, 208–10). As Homi K. Bhabha’s Nation and Narration (1990) insists, the nation is given form through a process of narration. Yet patriotism, Nussbaum remarks, can be described as “Janus-faced”: it can either include or exclude others, reach outward or turn inward, welcome or repudiate differences (2013, 206). Throughout my study patriotism manifests such contrasting aspects through clusters of emotions that reconfigure in keeping with shifting socio-historical contexts. Chapters 1–2, for instance, centre on the binary of love and hatred, and the emotions of anger, pride, and shame; chapters 3–4 on anger allied with compassion as an active form of love; chapters 5–7 on imperial anxiety, nostalgia, sorrow, and humiliation due to Spain’s perceived dishonour in defeat; and chapters 8–9 on fear, rejection, and hope. When women write on war, Higonnet affirms, they become trespassers on a forbidden literary terrain and transgressors of sociocultural mores (1993a, 206). My study foregrounds how women’s representations of war can challenge a masculine conceptualization of the public and domestic spheres, a masculine war canon, and a masculine valorization of what and whose experiences count in wartime. Just how women might see war and the potential ramifications of their visions for their participation in society beyond the domestic sphere affect what they elect

Introduction 11

to represent and how they choose to frame it. All the narratives under ­discussion in this book provide what Teresa de Lauretis has called a “view from ‘elsewhere,’” understanding “elsewhere” as what is disregarded in contemporary hegemonic discourses but which remains present in “the chinks and cracks of the power-knowledge-apparati.” For Lauretis, such a view constitutes the crux of the feminist project, which must re-present the forgotten or deliberately omitted through “a movement from the space represented by/in a representation, by/in a discourse, by/in a sex-gender system to the space not-represented yet implied (unseen) in them” (Lauretis 1989, 25–6). Although the great majority of the featured texts centre on telling war from the supposed rearguard, they also work to collapse distinctions between the frontline and home front to relate war’s devastating effects on general populations through a character cast across all social classes. Far from the battlegrounds of military pageantry, the real heroes are almost always found backstage in war’s theatres in the form of mothers, wives, fiancées, nurses, foot soldiers, and children. Such figures abound in Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra (Scenes/Paintings of War; [1874–6] 2005), examined in chapters 3–4, which establishes an implicit dialogue with Goya’s Caprichos (Caprices) and Desastres de la guerra (Disasters of War) to privilege the dynamics of framing and seeing. Similarly, de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (The Sanabrias’ Girl; 1907) and Burgos’s En la guerra ([1909] 1989), discussed in chapters 6–7, underscore visual elements to criticize a masculinist society’s constructed war spectacles of heroism and glory. The predominant literary genres that most of my writers deploy are the novella and short story: so-called feminine genres reputedly of less value than the allegedly masculine genres of theatre and the discursive essay. In the long nineteenth century novellas and short stories were usually first published in periodicals of the day and were mainly directed at women and the lower classes, whom they attempted to influence through their emotional content. Women’s frequent recourse to the romance to represent war, particularly in the cases of Burgos, Álvarez Pool, and de los Ríos, not only enables them to write on a proscribed topic under cover of a culturally sanctioned “low” genre that challenges what Higonnet and Higonnet term the “high politics” of epic war writings (1987, 46). The romance is also a particularly appropriate genre for addressing war, because both gender conflict and warfare rest on the same sociocultural and political structures (Schneider 1997, 8–14). I posit that those writers who use romantic plots to write about war also endeavour to break with traditional storylines, thus undermining, at least in fictional form, the interlinked foundations of gender and war.

12  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

Other selected writers channel their writings on war through a variety of literary forms. Acuña, for instance, chooses the theatre play, the most public and immediate of literary genres, as in Amor a la patria (Love of Country; Acuña [1877] 2009), featured in chapter 1, and La voz de la patria (The Nation’s Voice; Acuña [1893] 2009). As will be seen in chapters 3–4, Arenal’s genres range from her highly moving, immersive episodic “paintings” in Cuadros de la guerra, to periodical essays and her magnificent treatise on international law, Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes (Essay on the Rights of Peoples; Arenal [1879] 1895). Her war texts expose readers to traumatic events, which, according to Shoshana Felman, “can penetrate us like an actual life” (quoted in Norris 2000, 31; original emphasis). All the texts discussed in my study seek to inspire future action through the readers’/spectators’ emotional engagement, demonstrating, as Delgado, Fernández, and Labanyi observe, that emotions are “performative: they fulfil a function, they communicate a message, they ask for a response” (2016b, 3). A case in point is Acuña’s use of drama. It bears comparison with Hannah Arendt’s notion of a performative, agonistic politics, which, Bonnie Honig explains, represents “not so much … ‘an argument in support of an action’ as … an action that appears in words” (1998, 102).14 The struggle that such a politics depicts challenges the separation between public and domestic to highlight that “nothing is necessarily or naturally or ontologically not political” (Honig 1998, 111; original emphasis). If “war interrupts the social syntax,” as Higonnet (1993a, 211) puts it, the performative process opens up a space for different rearticulations of dominant sociocultural and political grammars. Acuña’s Amor a la patria aims to engender, like Arendt’s performative politics, new identities and communities that enable women’s prominent participation in public affairs (see Honig 1998, 102, 113). It is beyond the scope of this study to provide an exhaustive account of the Spanish female writers who took up their pens in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to defend or criticize war and, in so doing, to reinforce or question hegemonic projects for nationhood and women’s roles therein. Thus, when considering Spain’s war in Morocco, I have chosen Carmen de Burgos’s En la guerra rather than Consuelo González Ramos’s La mujer española en la campaña del Kert (The Spanish Woman in the Kert Campaign; 1912) or Teresa de Escoriaza’s Del dolor de la guerra: Crónicas de la campaña de Marruecos (On the Pain of War: Chronicles of the Moroccan Campaign; 1921). Similarly, with respect to World War I, I address Burgos’s writings instead of Matilde Ras’s little-known Cuentos de la Gran Guerra (Stories on the Great War; [1915] 2016), Àngela Graupera i Gil’s understudied El gran crimen (The

Introduction 13

Great Crime; [1935] 2018), and Sofía Casanova’s De la guerra: Crónicas de Polonia y Rusia (On the War: Chronicles from Poland and Russia; 1916), whose war correspondent’s columns from the Eastern Front have been the subject of excellent studies (Hooper 2008, Ochoa 2017). Nor do I contrast Burgos’s World War I writings with those by canonical male authors from the 1898 Generation such as José Martínez Ruiz (Azorín), Ramón del Valle-Inclán, and Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, all of whom, like Burgos, visited Paris during that conflict.15 Such discussions provide rich terrain for future scholarship. Furthermore, I do not provide biographical details readily available in other scholarly studies on my authors, except when such information proves necessary for my analysis of their positions on war. Chapters 1–2 address works on the War of Independence that defend different visions for the Spanish nation: Rosario de Acuña’s drama Amor a la patria ([1877] 2009) and Blanca de los Ríos’s novella Sangre española (Spanish Blood; 1899a). While Acuña was of radical liberal persuasion, fiercely anticlerical, and an avant-garde feminist, de los Ríos’s feminism was shaped by her more politically conservative stance as a Catholic monarchist. Nevertheless, although their texts argue for diverging models of female heroism in the War of Independence, they also look to blur the lines that keep women in their place, removed from a nation’s public affairs and histories. Essential for my analysis are the shifting resonances of the term patria in the nineteenth century and the role of virtue in constructions of patriotism. Throughout my study patria assumes different semantic and ideological shades when used by different writers, from sovereign nation or people, to liberal motherland, conservative fatherland, and homeland, and it is for this reason that I do not always translate the term. Indeed, Maurizio Viroli points to its alchemical nature (2003, 98). In Acuña’s case, her concept of patria is indebted to the classical republican notion of patrie and has much in common with French Enlightenment thinkers such as Voltaire, who defended the people’s freedom, natural rights, and voluntary membership in the nation (Rowe 1955). Although José Álvarez Junco (2004, 363) opposes patria, which he associates with the conservative values of absolutist governments, to nación (nation), which presupposed the existence of a collective subject that was, or could be, the bearer of sovereignty, Acuña’s moulding of the notion of patria conforms to that of nación. In chapter 1, I discuss how Acuña’s Amor a la patria, written and performed two years into the moderate, liberal, Restoration government that succeeded the Spanish First Republic (1873–4), probes contrasting paradigms of patriotic virtue to place special weight on those models upheld by female characters, for

14  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

whom virtue resides in their “capacidad” (ability) to act. These women embody the qualities of courage and independence essential for fulfilling Acuña’s feminist aspirations, Republican ideals, and the Progressive liberal dream of the nation as a federation of autonomous states. Nonetheless, in the age of imperialism the political right appropriated the discourse of the patria to imbue it with nationalist, monarchist overtones (Viroli 2003, 157). It is such a representation of the patria that Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española promotes, to which I turn in chapter 2. Composed in the wake of Spain’s colonial losses in the Spanish-American War (1895–8), the novella proposes a conservative nationalist agenda to counter foreign imperialism. The vision that the novella endorses casts love of country as dependent on Spain’s cultural and spiritual unity, symbolized through feminine chasteness. However, other facets of de los Ríos’s protagonist, which enact a politics of resistance, counter this traditional rendition of femininity. In chapters 3–4, I examine the works on war of Concepción Arenal. The first woman to write a book on international law (Rasilla del Moral 2017, 71), she is among the most outstanding legal thinkers and feminists that Spain has ever produced. The author of an impressive body of work on the situation of women, workers, prisoners, and the poor, Arenal had a huge impact on intellectuals and reformers nationally and internationally, and it is for her feminist and social thought that she has received most scholarly attention.16 Yet a major subject on which Arenal wrote extensively, war, remains largely unaddressed.17 I approach Arenal’s texts on war through the notion of the implicated observer, which demands the viewer/reader’s active engagement with war’s atrocities (see Schweik 1989, Sontag 2003). Arenal’s insistently foregrounded theme of compassionate reason challenges the binary of masculine reason over feminine emotion, which has served to exclude women from the public sphere. Chapter 3 centres on Arenal’s prolonged meditation on war’s evils in the following main texts: her treatise A los vencedores y a los vencidos (To the Conquerors and the Conquered; Arenal 1869a), sections of Cartas a un obrero (Letters to a Worker; Arenal [1871–3] 1895), and especially her stark Cuadros de la guerra (Arenal [1874–6] 2005), on the Third Carlist War. By promoting charitable love and an active compassion as antidotes to war and as the cornerstones for the collective construction of a morally progressive patria, Arenal indirectly argues for women’s greater participation in the public sphere, given their cultural identification with the emotions. In chapter 4, I give special emphasis to her substantial chapter “Relaciones hostiles” (Hostile Relations) from Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes (Arenal [1879] 1895), where she

Introduction 15

interrogates the legitimacy of existing laws on warfare and the concept of a just war. Her works demonstrate how, from the eighteenth century onward, as Michael Barnett indicates, compassion became a public virtue rather than a private affair, countering imperialist aggression with a modern and responsive “imperial humanitarianism” (2011, 49, 29). Issues concerning imperial identities come to the forefront in chapters 5–7, which examine a series of short stories and novellas by women writing on Spain’s fin-de-siècle conflicts in its colonial territories: Carmen de Burgos, Consuelo Álvarez Pool, Emilia Pardo Bazán, and Blanca de los Ríos. Their texts undermine the discourses with which modern Spain constructed itself, which depended, as Lisa Surwillo indicates, on concepts of “‘home’ and domesticity” to reinforce imaginary boundaries between the empire and its colonies (2014, 9). By representing imperialism as a domestic affair, my authors’ narratives interrogate what Ann Laura Stoler terms “the affective grid of colonial politics” and the intersections of “microsites of familial and intimate space” with “the macropolitics of imperial rule” (2002, 7, 19). In the aftermath of Spain’s loss of her American and Pacific colonies in 1898, known as the Disaster, Regenerationist intellectuals attempted to remedy the nation’s perceived weaknesses. Although Regenerationism had already emerged in the late 1880s, the 1898 Disaster hammered home what much of Spanish society felt was the nation’s pathological decadence (Balfour 2011, 66). Either exclusively or in a combination of approaches, intellectuals, writers, and politicians turned their gaze inward for solutions within the national space,18 looked outward to Northern European nations as models for Spain’s advancement, or resurrected the imperial dream through colonial expansion into Morocco or cultural imperialism in Latin America. The fictional works of the four female writers in chapters 5–7 debate the appropriateness of these paths. Chapters 5–7 pursue the theme of honour and the symbol of the Mater Dolorosa (Mother of Suffering) in short prose fiction published over the first decade after the 1898 Disaster by female writers of differing ideological persuasions.19 While honour was increasingly losing its currency, the Mater Dolorosa cogently articulated the fraught emotional climate of Spain’s fin de siècle, a transitional period that sought to turn imperial loss into national renewal and despair into hope.20 The principal focus of chapter 5 is the Spanish-American War and in particular the Cuban conflict, which I approach through Burgos’s short story “El repatriado” (The Returned Soldier; 1900) and Álvarez Pool’s “La medalla de la Virgen” (The Virgin’s Amulet; 1900b). However, I also address Spain’s presence in the Philippines through Pardo Bazán’s short

16  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

story “La exangüe” (The Bloodless Woman; [1899] 1973b), set against the indigenous uprising of 1896–8. The inability of Spain’s middle classes to envisage a national identity in the absence of an empire comes to the fore in chapter 6 on de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907), which has barely featured in studies on this author’s literary corpus.21 Situated in 1898 in the months preceding Spain’s defeat in the Spanish-American War, the novella is narrated from the perspective of an imperial community that is about to cease to be, a nation whose honourable survival depends on an unviable imperial dream. Chapter 7 explores Spain’s 1909 campaign in Morocco through the lens of Burgos’s novella En la guerra, to argue that the theme of adultery, disregarded by scholars, is not tangential but absolutely central to Burgos’s engagement with Spanish imperialism in northern Africa. Like imperialism, adultery concerns the politics of actual and metaphorical closed or open bodies, the possession and annexation of Others, contracts of consent, and the legacies of blood purity. My final two chapters examine Burgos’s writings on World War I, and especially the tensions between her evolving pacifist convictions and feminist ideals. These chapters also reinflect the themes of a rationality of care and the monstrosity of war introduced in chapters 3–4. Known as a feminist who embraced pacifism, Burgos condemned war in a significant number of periodical articles and short stories. In her fiction, the Spanish-American War featured in “El repatriado” (see chapter 5), the Spanish-Moroccan war in En la guerra (see chapter 7), and World War I in El permisionario (The Furloughed Soldier; Burgos [1917] 1989), Pasiones (Passions; Burgos 1917g), El desconocido (The Unknown Soldier; Burgos 1917b), and El fin de la guerra (The End of the War; Burgos 1919).22 Nevertheless, although Burgos attributed war to masculine militarism, she also recognized that the Great War gave women unprecedented access to the public sphere and thus leverage for expanded rights. This perception is prominent in many essays that Burgos published in her column “Femeninas” (Feminine Matters) in the Heraldo de Madrid between 1914 and 1917. I open chapter 8 with an overview of the sociocultural and political circles in which Burgos moved and which contributed to shaping her feminism and her position on war. I then examine Burgos’s articles in the Heraldo de Madrid to highlight the contradictions and shifts in her thinking on war, often in response to international events and invariably to compare women’s expanded public roles in other countries with those of Spanish women. In chapter 9, I address two of Burgos’s four little-studied novellas set in World War I France: Pasiones and El desconocido. Through the figure

Introduction 17

of the female nurse or carer, these texts align women’s war experiences with the “trench-fighter’s story” that, as Libby Murphy indicates, defined the legitimacy of fictional and historiographical war accounts for much of the twentieth century (2012, 55). One of the questions that Burgos’s World War I novellas pose is to what extent she may have perceived the enhanced opportunities for French women during that conflict, which she depicts in her texts, as serving to inspire Spanish feminists in their struggle for greater rights. Their counterparts in France were convinced that, at the war’s end, legislation would be passed to enable French women to vote, as the French Union for Women’s Suffrage reported at their 1916 conference (Hause 1987, 99), just a year before Burgos wrote, in quick succession, three of her four novellas on the Great War. Throughout my study I pursue how configurations of the domestic realm intertwine with sociocultural and political imaginaries through the contrasting icons of the Mother and the Virgin. Respectively embodiments of the nation’s desired continuity and integrity, in Catholic Spain both icons intersect in the miraculously maternal figure of the Virgin Mary. In nineteenth-century liberal visions of Spain, the nation as the Mother who gave birth to all citizens incarnated its values of equality and fraternity. At the same time, this trope also emphasized that women’s proper role in national life was to reproduce citizens and educate them as patriots from within the home. These allegories of inclusive love or exclusive devotion prove particularly important in chapters 1–2 but also resurface in chapters 3–4, where the Mater Dolorosa, the dominant icon for nineteenth-century Spain, represents compassion for the suffering engendered by war. The figure of the Virgin Mary, witness to her son’s crucifixion at the foot of the cross, not only embodied that Catholic nation’s traditional personification as mother but also imbued it with the principles of suffering and sacrifice upheld in the normative model of Spanish femininity. Álvarez Junco elucidates how the Mater Dolorosa as a bearer and protector of Spanish national identity emerged during the War of Independence (2004, 567). By mid-century, however, Spain’s monarchy was increasingly depicted as “una madre doliente, que vagaba entre ruinas humeantes y banderas enlutadas, desesperada por la muerte de sus hijos, vejada por aquellos mismos a los que un día dominó” (a suffering mother wandering among smoking ruins and flags lowered in mourning, in despair over her children’s deaths and humiliated by those over whom she formerly ruled; Álvarez Junco 2004, 568). This mourning Virgin transformed Catholic Spain’s relationship with its rebel American colonies into a family affair, in which the nation lamented

18  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

the ingratitude of her colonial offspring, part of the same holy, organic, national body (Pérez Ledesma 1998, 105). In chapters 5–7, focussed on Spain’s imperial enterprises, Spain’s 1898 losses are mirrored in the grieving virgins of chapter 5, while in chapter 6 the nation’s perceived dishonour finds its corollary in de los Ríos’s flirting protagonist from La niña de Sanabria. Questions concerning the degradation of purity again come centre stage in Burgos’s En la guerra, where the figure of the adulteress challenges the principle of feminine chasteness considered essential for familial and national honour, and the connected matter of blood purity, the bulwark of European imperial hegemony. In chapters 8–9, the figures of the virgin and mother are metaphorically manifest in Burgos’s consistent advocation of women’s autonomy, on the one hand, and their wartime roles as carers of the wounded, on the other. Constant threads throughout my study are the sexual, social, and racial contracts, which determined the aligned but also differentiated positions of women and colonized Others in Spain’s fin-de-siècle society, and to which I return in my conclusion. Higonnet (1993a, 208) has remarked that “women’s symbolic positioning ‘behind the lines’ enabled some of them to question the insulation of war from social, historic, and economic realms, as well as the implicit anchoring of war in a segregation of public from private life, and of men’s words from women’s words.” Effectively, writing from behind the lines can facilitate adopting a position from which to see and reveal what the official war canon veils. This positioning can enable writings and readings between the lines, in the very zone where public and domestic intersect. Yet Margaret and Patrice Higonnet also warn of the “double helix” effect of war on gender relationships, according to which women’s temporary participation in activities formerly proscribed to them does not result in changes to their socially subordinate status (Higonnet and Higonnet 1987, 34, 39). Nevertheless, in their corpus on war the authors foregrounded in this study will be shown to challenge that subordination in their female protagonists. Through their works they imagine pathways and outcomes, however uncertain, that deviate from established norms of femininity, offer new models to Spanish women, and interrogate the militaristic foundations of patriarchal societies.

Chapter One

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship in Rosario de Acuña’s Amor a la patria (1877)

[S]ed las patricias sin mancilla, dentro de vuestro hogar. (Be patricians without stain, within your home; Acuña [1887] 2007, 1237)

The War of Independence (1808–14) has passed into Spanish history as the founding moment of modern Spanish nationalism, when the “people” rose up against French imperialism (Álvarez Junco 2004, 144). Whether the war was later represented as the people’s affirmation of national sovereignty, according to the liberals, or as proof of their loyalty to inherited tradition, as conservatives stated, such renditions of this myth belied the war’s complexity and widely differing ideals of what constituted Spanish patriotism. At the time the conflict was not only an international one in which England and Portugal participated, but also a civil war. With allegiances divided among the elite groups, most of the general Spanish population supported England and Portugal: a position more reflective of xenophobia against the French than of any clear sense of national unity. Conversely, Spanish Enlightenment reformers who embraced the French cause, known as afrancesados, perceived France’s administrative and cultural models as crucial for strengthening the Spanish monarchy and remedying Spain’s declining international prestige (Álvarez Junco 2004, 120–2). Throughout the nineteenth century this foundation myth of Spanish nationhood served the contemporary goals of conservative and Progressive liberals alike, who sought to rewrite key historical events to validate political and cultural agendas, respectively.1 In this chapter, on Rosario de Acuña’s Amor a la patria, I open my discussion by tracing a genealogy of female heroes connected to that conflict, who undoubtedly inspired contemporary Spanish feminists,

20  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

and compare her text with other prominent accounts of the war and its female protagonists.2 I then turn to read Amor a la patria against the pivotal issues raised in my introduction that have served historically to exclude women from full participation in the public sphere and equal rights. I will argue that Acuña’s play unpicks the gendered hierarchies of frontline / home front, domestic sphere / public realm, reason/ emotion, patriotic love / maternal love, and valour/virtue to argue for women’s right to equal citizenship. The War of Independence engulfed all areas of Spain, making it impossible for women to remain on the margins (Castells Oliván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo 2009a, 23). At the same time it provided them with opportunities to transgress culturally established gender boundaries and its female heroes often became figureheads for feminist claims and national projects of different persuasions. Agustina Zaragoza Doménech, immortalized as Agustina of Aragón, the legendary hero of Saragossa’s defence in 1808, was but one of a considerable number of Spanish women who participated in that prolonged conflict (see figure 1.1).3 Serving as models of frontline femininity that Catholic general José Gómez Arteche qualified as frenetically patriotic were also Saragossa’s María Agustín, Casta Álvarez, Manuela Sancho, and the Countess of Bureta (María Consolación Azlor y Villavicencio). Similarly, in Gerona in July 1809 women led four companies under Mariano Álvarez: Lucía Jonama y Fitzgerald, María Ángeles Bivern, Ramira Nouvilas, and Carmen Custi (Gómez Arteche 1906, 16–20).4 Yet another hero was María del Carmen Silva, who freed imprisoned Spanish soldiers in Lisbon and defended Badajoz in 1810 with her husband, Pedro Pascasio Fernández Sardinó. In recognition she received, like male soldiers, a state pension for her war exploits in 1809 (Sánchez Hita 2009, 401–2, 405).5 In 1813 the Diario Mercantil (5–6 September) claimed that her military virtues placed her on a par with the great patriots of Madrid’s resistance to the French on 2 May 1808, Luis Daoíz y Torres and Pedro Velarde (Sánchez Hita 2009, 420–1). Silva’s patriotism was also patent in her editorship of issues 11–30 of El Robespierre Español, the periodical that her husband founded and directed until his political incarceration in early July 1811 (Sánchez Hita 2009, 402). Undertaking a defence of the patria and its patriots, in 1811 El Robespierre Español published over issues 11–21, during Silva’s editorship, the “Cartilla del ciudadano español” (Guide for the Spanish Citizen), which stipulated the male citizen’s duties to society. Paramount among these, as issue 21 stated, were his heroic resistance to the nation’s loss of freedom and independence, his armed defence of the nation, and his contribution to the nation through his talents or capabilities (“Cartilla” 1811, 334). As

Figure 1.1.  Retrato de Agustina de Aragón (Portrait of Agustina of Aragón) by Juan Gálvez and Fernando Brambila (1812–13). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: IH/10001/1/1.

22  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

I will discuss, all these manly virtues feature prominently in Acuña’s play in relation to women. Furthermore, although Portuguese, Silva declared herself “española por elección” (Spanish by choice; Silva 1812, 363–4). She thus fulfilled the prerequisites for Spanish citizenship of patriotic affinity and voluntary choice of nation (Herzog 2003, 145), issues that Acuña’s drama likewise debates. In Mujer, alegoría y nación, María Elena Soliño examines how Agustina of Aragón has functioned as an icon for diverse nationalist projects in Spain. She maintains, however, that whether in times of dictatorship or democracy, the use of figures like hers ultimately refutes women’s equality (Soliño 2017, 56, 103). In comparison, I consider that the female protagonists of the War of Independence also served fin-de-siècle feminist agendas that sought women’s greater participation in areas traditionally proscribed to them. Hence Acuña’s contemporary, Concepción Gimeno de Flaquer, a moderate feminist, affirmed women’s equality, and even their superiority, when she exalted Catalan women who had played prominent roles in the War of Independence, exclaiming that “la mujer valerosa, es dos veces heroína” and “[n]o había sexo débil; los dos sexos se hicieron fuertes” (the courageous woman is doubly a heroine; there was no weaker sex; the two sexes became strong; Gimeno de Flaquer 1886, 238, 240). Likewise a more radical Acuña portrays Agustina of Aragón as an inspiration for women’s acts of bravery during Saragossa’s 1808 defence in Amor a la patria, where repeated references to Agustina highlight that there were many such women, as the protagonist Inés declares: “¡La patria mía / no ha de rendirse nunca al extranjero / mientras albergue tantas Agustinas!” (My motherland / will never have to surrender to foreigners / while it shelters so many Agustinas!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 655). Taking place on 2 July 1808, the date of the French army’s second assault on a besieged Saragossa, Acuña’s drama depicts the inhabitants’ then successful defence of this metaphorical polis or patria.6 Her one-act tragedy in verse, written soon after Spain’s First Republic (1873–4), aligns itself with a liberal sociopolitical perspective that, as E. Inman Fox remarks, sees the people assert political agency (1998, 36). Characters represent different possibilities for Spain that are either vindicated or discredited, with the result that the play literally performs the nation in the sense outlined by Susan Kirkpatrick (1999, 227).7 Following her acclaimed debut dramatic work Rienzi el tribuno (The Tribune Rienzi; Acuña [1875] 2009), Amor a la patria, Acuña’s second play, received mixed reviews at the time. Among commentators’ particular quibbles were the work’s allegedly excessive political discourses and the female protagonist’s overly fervent patriotism; one reviewer even stated that, unlike the medieval, military figure of Guzmán the Good, on whom I

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  23

touch below, she was not bound by questions of honour or sacred duties (see Bolado 2007, 69–72). The plot centres on the widowed protagonist, Inés, and her daughter, María, reminiscent of the revolutionary French icon, Marianne on the barricades, who embody Acuña’s Republican aspirations. As they are preparing to blow up their home to prevent the advance of the French, Inés’s son, Pedro, reappears. Now a captain in the French army besieging Saragossa, he had abandoned the family home nine years earlier to seek opportunities lacking in Spain. He arguably represents the position of the afrancesados in his defence of the Napoleonic invasion, reminding spectators that this international conflict was also a civil war. Engaging in an argument with Pedro on what constitutes patriotism, Inés entreats her son to leave the French army and defend the Spanish cause. On surprising Pedro in French uniform with her mother and not recognizing him as her brother, María shoots him. The play ends inconclusively with the Spanish continuing to prepare for the imminent arrival of the French, while Inés elects to remain in the family home with her dying son. Respectively granting authenticity and authority to her representation of the War of Independence are Acuña’s identified sources: her grandmother, who witnessed first-hand the conflict, and the nineteenth-century liberal historian Modesto Lafuente (Acuña [1877] 2009, 643–4).8 On emphasizing her grandmother’s verbal accounts – “largas noches de invierno he pasado escuchándote relatar los hechos asombrosos que presenciaste en la heroica guerra de la Independencia” (I have spent long winter nights listening to your tales of amazing feats that you witnessed in the heroic War of Independence; 643) – Acuña privileges an oral history associated with those excluded from official histories, such as women and the lower classes. In her engagement with Lafuente she perhaps seeks to remedy gaps in his account of Saragossa’s defence, which only cursorily addressed women’s participation (Lafuente 1889, 92). Other possible sources of inspiration for Acuña’s play are Pablo Rincón’s novel El héroe y heroínas de Montellano: Memoria patriótica (The Hero and Heroines of Montellano: A Patriotic Memoir; 1813) and Carlota Cobo’s 1859 novel about her mother, Agustina of Aragón, titled La ilustre heroína de Zaragoza, o la célebre amazona en la Guerra de la Indepen­ dencia (The Illustrious Heroine of Saragossa, or the Famous Amazon of the War of Independence). Acuña’s Inés is comparable to Rincón’s male protagonist, Romero, who, Raquel Sánchez García explains, is a model of virtue for his compatriots and children. Besieged by the French in their home, Romero and his wife choose to die with their children rather

24  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

than surrender (Sánchez García 2008, 160–3). This ending recalls not only Acuña’s conclusion but also the model of Greek republicanism, which maintained that it was more virtuous to die than become a slave (Béjar 2000, 27). Rincón’s characters demonstrate that any individual, regardless of their gender, can become a hero.9 As for Cobo’s text, like Acuña’s play it also stresses the female protagonist’s participation in the War of Independence and what Sánchez García calls a “pueblo-España” (Spanish people) united in their quest for independence (2008, 170). Cobo highlights Agustina’s natural military prowess – “[L]a guerra era su elemento” (She was in her element in war; 1859, 326) – and refutes historical inaccuracies that feature Agustina as merely conveying food and munition to the male soldiers (213n1). However, she is also careful to balance her mother’s “masculine” activism with more traditional “feminine” attributes such as beauty and religious faith (Cobo 1859, 169–71; Soliño 2017, 30–1). In contrast, Acuña’s portrayals of Inés and María foreground their bravery, tenacity, and above all, their enlightened education, an essential prerequisite for citizenship, as I develop below. A primary concept for sanctioning women’s military participation in war and arguing for their right to citizenship was the defence of the nation. Although national defence was the fundamental duty of Spanish male citizens, it could also justify women’s engagement in combat, as their defence of the city and home was perceived as an extension of their domestic duties and self-sacrificing care for family (Segura Graiño 2003, 100–1).10 Nevertheless, such a representation also contributed to collapse the gendered distinctions between the frontline and the home front, the domestic and public spheres, as in Acuña’s Amor a la patria, which foregrounds the concept of defence to legitimate women’s fighting on the frontline. Hence María tells Inés that “[t]odos están en que se hará defensa” (everyone is agreed on the defence; Acuña [1877] 2009, 653), while in the final scene the women, all armed, are urged to go to the first barricade (692) and María calls on other women to “[¡]defender España, hijas del pueblo!” (defend Spain, daughters of the nation!; 693). In the drama it is the home that becomes the political arena within which decisions that affect the wider community are debated and made. María underlines this symbolic equivalence between home and nation when she affirms to her fiancé Tomás that the family home that will be destroyed in Saragossa’s defence has been her “tierra” (land or nation; 660). In patriarchal societies women traditionally occupy in war a passive position, symbolic of the motherland that its male warriors must defend. Accordingly, Pedro casts himself as his mother’s and sister’s protector and saviour, exclaiming to Inés: “[P]ues estoy aquí para salvarte;

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  25

/ hijo tuyo que, amante y entusiasta, / viene a arrancarte de la muerte cierta” (I am here to save you; / your son, loving and eager, / comes to pluck you from certain death; 678). Inés rejects this proposition with horror, and when Pedro attempts to remove her from her home by force, she defends herself before calling on María and precipitating her daughter’s shooting of her assailant (684–8). Acuña’s mother and daughter thus resemble the female characters in Galdós’s historical novel Zaragoza, from his Episodios nacionales (National Episodes), published in 1874, three years before Acuña’s work. They embody not only a nation in need of defence but, more importantly, a nation empowered to defend itself (Tone 1999, 267–8). In times of war and revolution the most powerful image for arousing patriotism is that of the mother (Fraisse 2003, 65). Acuña’s drama not only foregrounds the tropes of kinship essential for the cultural construction of nations by associating Inés as mother with the patria, but also gives this domestic role a clear political purpose.11 As María intimates: “Madre y patria: guardando estos dos nombres / el alma siempre vivirá tranquila” (Mother and nation: honouring these two names / the soul will always live at peace; Acuña [1877] 2009, 652). Such an equation was characteristic of nineteenth-century Spanish liberalism, which identified the ideal nation of social equality with a motherland that all were obliged to defend.12 Nevertheless, although Inés as mother fulfils women’s traditional, allegedly natural destiny, equally important is Acuña’s privileging of Inés’s independence in her marriage choice and later widowhood. Despite marriage being a state synonymous with women’s legal dispossession of already limited rights, it is relevant that Inés rejected her aristocratic class to marry down for love. By exercising choice with regard to her marriage partner, Inés appropriates the liberal premise of the (male) individual capable of entering into a social contract and hence, by extension, of participating in the public sphere. As Wendy S. Jones indicates, “If a woman was free to choose her spouse, she was by implication a trustworthy adult, capable of other significant choices and actions” (2005, 37). Moreover, in renouncing class privileges out of love for a member of the common people – “[Q]ue por unir tu suerte a un artesano / perdiste nombre, posición, familia” (By casting in your lot with an artisan / you lost reputation, status, family; Acuña [1877] 2009, 650) – Inés represents the Progressive ideal, to which Acuña adhered, of a virtuous upper class prepared to forge the inter-class alliances necessary for the future good of Spain. As a widow Inés possesses an autonomy legally impossible in marriage. In this sense, Inés allows Acuña to avoid the problems that married women presented to liberal theory, which argued, on the one hand,

26  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

for their equality and, on the other, for their supposedly natural subjection to male authority (Brennan and Pateman 1998, 94–5). Inés’s seemingly contradictory states as mother and widow make her the ideal symbol for the liberal Spanish nation, as both mother of all its people and also self-governing. These same attributes of independence and relational care metaphorically guarantee the inviolability and continuity of the nation against imperial aggression and opportunistic betrayal, represented by Napoleon and Pedro, respectively. The play argues for the compatibility of the roles of mother and warrior, complementary facets of the same “body,” as evident when Inés exhorts Pedro: “Mira aquella mujer, joven y madre, /…/ mientras mece la cuna de su hijo, / anchos fusiles con su mano carga…” (Look at that young woman, a mother, / … / while she rocks her infant’s cradle, / she loads heavy guns with her own hands; Acuña [1877] 2009, 677).13 This young warrior woman epitomizes what Joyce Berkman calls “combative motherhood,” which demonstrates that “if they [women] are to care for their children, their country’s ‘liberation’ must come first” (1990, 142). In nineteenth-century Spain women’s lack of full inclusion in national life was justified on the grounds that they were allegedly irrational, emotional beings who required what Ursula Vogel (1988) calls men’s “permanent guardianship.” Geneviève Fraisse (2003, 67) highlights similar exclusionary practices in the context of the French republic, which, although theoretically defending fraternity and equality, was in reality “una sociedad de hermanos a la que las hermanas no han sido invitadas” (a brotherhood into which sisters were not invited), in keeping with the gender inequality of the modern fraternal contract, as outlined in my introduction. Acuña’s play questions such discrimination in the consistent privileging of the sister, María, over her brother, Pedro, and indeed, overturns it when María ultimately does not recognize him. María’s characterization presents her as superior to her male sibling, given that Inés states that her daughter exhibits the qualities that she would have wished her son to have: “[A]sí he soñado / que fuese el hijo que robó mi dicha” (I have dreamt that the son who stole my happiness might be just like her; Acuña [1877] 2009, 652). The play critiques the patriarchal view that women lack reason through Pedro, who perceives the feminized Spanish forces and female fighters as irrational. He describes Saragossa’s inhabitants as mad for defending the city despite their desperate situation: “¿Acaso intentarán nueva defensa? / ¿Pero cómo ha de ser y por qué medio? / ¡Fanáticos no más!” (Perhaps they will renew their defence? / But how and by what means? / They are absolute fanatics!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 680). In an appraisal that echoes contemporary French thought on Spanish female

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  27

fighters, symbolic of Spain’s alleged disorder and barbarity generally, Pedro refers to Agustina as a madwoman – “aquella mujer enloquecida” (669) – and portrays Inés’s patriotism, due to her Spanish blood, as a madness: “[E]s locura tan sólo el abrigarla [sangre española]” (Just having Spanish blood makes you mad; 676).14 He exhorts Inés to let him save her and María, so that they can live in “los hermosos campos de Bayona” (Bayonne’s beautiful countryside), far from the “luchas que te exaltan” (struggles that exalt you; 679). That is, he proposes to remove the female members of his family from the polis or republic to restore them to a “natural” state antithetical to full citizenship. His pretensions echo Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s gendered thinking on the need to remove men from a state of nature for them to become citizens who sacrifice their “natural” feelings for the City’s health (Pérez Ledesma 2007c, 28–9). In contrast, although passion fuels Inés’s patriotism – “[¡L]ucharé por tu noble independencia / con todo el fuego que mi pecho abrasa!” (I will fight for your noble independence / with all the passion that inflames my breast; Acuña [1877] 2009, 665) – Acuña’s text repeatedly stresses that both she and María are supremely capable of controlling their emotions. Thus María avers: “[¡R]ecojo en lo profundo de mi pecho / todo este llanto que mis ojos quema!” (I stifle in the depths of my bosom / all these tears that burn my eyes; 657). On again suppressing her tears, she affirms her inclusion in the nation among its warrior sons: Basta ya de llorar; la patria mía necesita sus hijos y en la guerra no se vierte el raudal de nuestros ojos, sino la sangre que la vida presta (That’s enough of weeping; my nation / needs its children and in war / we must not shed torrents of tears / but the blood that gives us life; 662)

Such a triumph of reason over emotion was important for the Republican concept of love of country, which required public reason to prevail over individual, natural desires (Viroli 2003, 124). Significantly, Inés overcomes her allegedly natural maternal emotions to place love of country ahead of love for her son. Repudiating Pedro for his support of Napoleon – “¡[T]ú no has nacido, no, de mis entrañas!” (No, you haven’t come from my womb!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 678) – she not only denies Pedro his material origins, her body, but also casts him out of her home, symbolic of the patria or motherland (679). Here Inés’s lack of sentimentality emphasizes her reason to show that women can make hard decisions in the interests of the nation, to which

28  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

their primary allegiance is due.15 Her readiness to sacrifice her son to defend Saragossa is comparable to that of Guzmán the Good, who acquired this nickname in the siege of Tarifa because he sacrificed his son, held by the enemy, to keep the square in Castilian hands (Segura Graiño 2003, 101). Nonetheless, Acuña’s conclusion softens any perception of Inés as an unnatural mother on reconciling patriotic reason with maternal love in Inés’s choice to remain with the dying Pedro in the family home and dynamite it should the French advance. The principle of love of country that Acuña’s drama foregrounds was inseparable from concepts of what it meant to be a citizen, as set out in nineteenth-century Spain’s constitutions. Article 6 of the 1812 liberal Cádiz Constitution stipulated: “[E]l amor a la patria es una de las principales obligaciones de todos los españoles” (Love of country is among the principal duties of every Spaniard; quoted in Ríos-Font 2016, 39). Amor patriae had been a civic virtue since the Roman republic (Álvarez Junco 1996, 89n1). The foundation of this Republican ideal was “a charitable and generous love” that placed collective interests above individual desires (Viroli 2003, 2, 22). In exchange for their duties to the nation, Manuel Pérez Ledesma explains, citizens held civil rights that guaranteed their equal and impartial treatment by the law, the possibility of access to all responsibilities and positions, and the law’s protection of all. Only the law could restrict civil rights in the interests of others’ rights. In contrast, political rights, dependent on the governing authorities, excluded African Spaniards, women, foreigners, those sentenced by the law, the unemployed, domestic servants, debtors, and felons (Pérez Ledesma 2007c, 44, 52). Tamar Herzog indicates that according to late eighteenth-century Castilian law only the household head, almost invariably a man, could be a citizen and that women’s partial access to citizenship benefits was purely by virtue of their dependence on fathers and husbands. On the rare occasions that women independently headed a household, whether as widows or spinsters, they could petition for citizenship (Herzog 2003, 25–6). Consequently, as Kirkpatrick remarks, “women do not exist in the civic and political universe represented in the Cádiz Constitution,” because liberal discourse excludes the domestic sphere (1999, 231, 240).16 It was women’s lack of political and civil rights in the 1812 constitution that excluded them from active participation in the state (Gómez-Ferrer Morant 2002, 296; Guardia Herrero 2007, 606). Although progressive women protested against their exclusion, petitioning Parliament to change its laws, the liberal 1837 constitution and the moderate 1845 constitution did not alter their legal position, as Guadalupe Gómez-Ferrer Morant elucidates. Women were similarly excluded from

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  29

the 1868 Cortes Constituyentes (Constituent Assembly) when universal suffrage was debated, despite a series of amendments in September 1854 and the 1870s that proposed female suffrage. In short, in Spain’s nineteenth-century constitutions women were not holders of rights but addressees of political messages that they were to uphold in the home (Gómez-Ferrer Morant 2002, 296–8, 306–8). Acuña’s Inés partially mirrors this paradigm when she presents pa­ triotism as contingent on a mother’s education of her children. She tells Pedro, whom she accuses of not being a patriot, that he has not benefitted from her love, associated with the cradle or “cuna” of the nation: “[V]iviste lejos de mis brazos / y lejos de la cuna de tu raza” (You lived far from my arms / and far from the cradle of your nation; Acuña [1877] 2009, 676). By aligning himself with the French cause, Pedro has arguably rendered himself ineligible for Spanish citizenship because, as Herzog (2003, 153) states, in early nineteenth-century Spain “abandoning one’s residence and establishing a relationship with a foreign community or a foreign government demonstrated … that the citizen no longer loved his homeland… In modern terms, he ceased to be a citizen.” Conversely, María is a true patriot because, Inés affirms, her mother’s love and faith cultivated the daughter’s love of country: “¡Mi hija creció al calor de mis abrazos, / su alma latió mecida por mis besos / y del Pilar ante la santa imagen, / juró morir su patria defendiendo!” (My daughter grew up with the warmth of my embraces, / her soul beat caressed by my kisses, / and before the Virgin of the Pillar’s sacred image, / she swore to die defending her country!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 681). Moreover, both Inés and María embody the Enlightenment premise that education empowered women to control their passions and become virtuous (Guardia Herrero 2007, 602). For freethinkers such as Acuña, an enlightened education was paramount, as Mary Nash elucidates, for creating in Kantian terms subjects who, through the cultivation of their reason, could assume historical agency and participate in civic society (2000, 4–5). It is therefore significant that Inés possesses what is essential for patriotic virtue: an enlightened education or “vasta ilustración” (Acuña [1877] 2009, 667). For Antonio Flórez Estrada, writing in 1812, the virtuous citizen was “ilustrado” (enlightened) because their education enabled them to be useful to the nation through their knowledge of their rights and duties (Pérez Ledesma 2007c, 46). According to the Cádiz Constitution, a person’s virtue and capabilities (capacidades) were fundamental requirements for citizenship and access to political rights (Béjar 2000, 12; Ríos-Font 2016, 41). It stipulated that political citizenship, from which women were excluded, demanded the demonstration of “virtud o merecimiento” (virtue or merit; Guardia

30  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

Herrero 2007, 605). Hence African Spaniards, in principle deprived of political rights, could attain Spanish citizenship and corresponding rights through “extraordinary service to the nation” (Schmidt-Nowara 2006, 21). This factor, I maintain, is relevant to Acuña’s highlighting of women’s virtuous heroism in Amor a la patria, which indirectly stresses their worthiness for equal inclusion in the nation. With regard to Inés, she is represented as not only “buena entre todas” (good above all other women) but also a paragon of virtue (Acuña [1877] 2009, 650). As for capability, it was an important premise in liberal Spanish formulations of femininity because it underpinned the nature of women’s duties within the nation: “El principio de libertad contractual … primaba sobre el discurso doméstico, y creaba un modelo de mujer con similar capacidad para obligarse que el varón” (The principle of contractual freedom … took precedence over the discourse on domesticity, and created an ideal woman with a similar capability for duties to a man’s; Enríquez de Salamanca 1998, 242).17 In her essay “A lo Anónimo” (To the Anonymous), Acuña affirmed that women’s capability gave them the right to complete equality, in keeping with a feminism indebted to Enlightenment thought: “[P]robar la capacidad intelectual equivalente del sexo femenino; su derecho de participar de todos los destinos del hombre, su responsabilidad moral aneja a su libertad, equiparada con la del otro sexo …” (To test the feminine sex’s equal intellectual capability; her right to participate in all avenues open to men, the moral responsibility that accompanies her freedom, equal to that of the other sex; Acuña [1885] 2007, 989). Correspondingly, in post-Revolutionary France women’s vindication of greater rights saw them emphasize their capabilities and reason, the foundation for male citizenship and rights (Fraisse 2003, 89–92, 101). In the ancient republic the primary virtue, Helena Béjar elucidates, was valour, a controlled daring synonymous with patriotism that privileged the common good over private interests. For Hannah Arendt valour is an indispensable political virtue for acting in a public space, while its opposite is shame or fear of opprobrium (Béjar 2000, 27). In Amor a la patria Acuña strikingly associates valour with her female characters and shame with Pedro, whom Inés asks: “¿No sentiste brotar dentro del pecho / de honda vergüenza abrasadora llama [?]” (Couldn’t you feel kindle within your heart / a burning flame of profound shame?; Acuña [1877] 2009, 669). In the drama it is women, not men, who repeatedly embody true patriotism. Not only are Inés and María prepared to destroy strategically their home, situated at the entrance to the town, rather than have it seized and used as a fortification against their cause.18 As Inés exclaims, they are also willing to sacrifice their lives, and even souls, for their patria’s freedom: “[¡¡P]or conquistar

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  31

su libertad bendita / y mirarla temible y poderosa, / la vida, es poco, el alma perdería!!” (649). She urges María to fight to the death if necessary: [Y], si fuese preciso que tu brazo luchase con denuedo, no vaciles, ármalo de un puñal y como brava lucha por ella [la patria] hasta perder la vida. (And, should it be necessary for your arm / to fight tirelessly, don’t hesitate, / arm yourself with a dagger and bravely / fight to the death for your nation; 652)

Here the text implicitly claims women’s right to full citizenship, given that it represents them as capable of fulfilling the citizen’s greatest duty of dying for the patria. As Elshtain notes, “Only a preparedness to forfeit one’s own life rounds out, or instantiates in all its fullness, devotion to the political community” (1992, 146–7). Conversely, Pedro would prefer to desert the battle and escape to Bayonne. He also labels women’s patriotic valour as unnatural, in keeping with his conventional expectations of femininity: “¡Oh, madre mía! tu valor extraño / no me convence y me tortura el alma!” (Oh, mother of mine! your uncommon bravery / does not convince me and tortures my soul!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 678). The play stresses, however, that such perceptions are culturally instilled and can be unlearnt. Inés therefore rejects María’s initially defeatist words – “¡¡Tu voz, como mi voz, no puede nada!! / ¡¡Mujeres somos!!” (Your voice, like mine, cannot achieve anything!! / We are mere women!!) – to highlight how her own patriotism overcomes her “feminine” weakness: “¡¡Por la patria mía, / aunque mujer, la sangre de mis venas / late con entusiasmo … [!!]” (For my nation, / although I am only a woman, the blood in my veins / throbs with passion!!; 649). Arguably, the female characters are more courageous than their male counterparts because to expel French imperialism from the nation – “por verla libre de extranjero yugo” (to see her free of the foreigners’ yoke; 649) – they must first defeat internally imposed gender yokes. The patriotic virtue and courage that Inés and María display make them models to emulate. Inés constitutes, María affirms, her ideal – “aprendiendo de ti con entusiasmo / a ser noble y a ser buena patricia” (eagerly learning from you / how to become noble and a good patrician; 651) – to stress that virtue and nobility are acquired and hence accessible to all rather than inherited through station and wealth. Likewise, María acts as a source of strength for her mother, underlining a relationship of reciprocity and interdependence rather than hierarchical

32  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

authority. When Inés falters at the collective, strategic decision to destroy her home, María rebukes her momentary display of weakness – “Por cierto, madre, / que es poco tu valor” (Indeed, mother, / what little courage you have) – enabling Inés to recover herself and affirm her patriotism: “[Y]o sabré cumplir como patricia” (I will know how to act like a patrician; 654–5). In turn, María inspires courage in her beloved, Tomás, who declares: Y yo con el recuerdo idolatrado de mujer tan amante como fiera, si antes con entusiasmo peleaba, ¡como un león me lanzaré en la guerra! (And I, with the hallowed memory / of a woman as loving as she is fierce, / if before I fought fiercely, / now like a lion I’ll throw myself into battle!; 662)

Acuña therefore casts women as not only heroes in their own right but also the physical and figurative mothers of heroes of both sexes, thereby ensuring the transmission and continuity of patriotism and virtue: “[¡De] tan bravas hijas, / héroes, no más es justo que nacieran! …” (To such brave daughters / it is only fitting that heroes are born!; 663). Her emphasis on women’s heroic exploits in the War of Independence promotes the myth of a united Spain without gender, class, or racial barriers. Nineteenth-century formulations of Spanish citizenship were inseparable from who was considered a Spaniard, an issue with which Acuña’s play repeatedly engages. According to Pérez Ledesma, the term Spaniard emerged from the prominence given to the nation since the Cádiz Constitution (2007b, 449). It referred to all free men born and resident in Spain and its colonies, their children, and foreigners naturalized or resident in Spain for at least ten years. Becoming a citizen meant potentially serving as an elected political representative (Pérez Ledesma 2007c, 50). With the 1868 revolution Spaniard became equivalent to citizen, meaning someone who held equal rights and participated in public life (Pérez Ledesma, 2007b, 460–1). A Spaniard, Florencia Peyrou explains, was a full citizen who had the right to vote, as well as the duties of paying taxes and defending the patria when endangered: rights and duties that excluded women.19 Nevertheless the 1873 constitution, briefly in force four years before Acuña’s play, recognized that being Spanish made one naturally a citizen and that every person held natural rights.20 In this attempt to fashion a more democratic national community, titles of nobility were also symbolically abolished (Peyrou 2007, 217–18), which recalls Inés’s rejection, like Acuña’s, of her aristocratic origins. Such premises theoretically impeded the subordination of any individual to

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  33

another, a concept important for Acuña’s play and the claim for gender equality that she develops through her female characters. It is useful to consider contemporaneous debates around gender and citizenship in nineteenth-century France. As Fraisse elucidates, although French women were not citizens, they were considered representatives of the nation and thus French. Consequently, feminists strengthened their claims for citizenship by insisting that women thereby fulfilled one of the prerequisites: being French. Also relevant for the association between participation in war, the citizen’s primary duty, and women’s enhanced rights was Dumas son’s pronouncement that women who kill become women who vote. Such a vindication of the necessary correspondence between duties and rights was famously evident in Olympe de Gouges’s statement that if women were obliged to step on to the scaffold, they should also have the right to the “tribuna” or political platform (Fraisse 2003, 63, 75, 84). This claim was frequent among nineteenth-century Spanish feminists, including Acuña.21 In Amor a la patria the equation of the term “español” with patriot is evident in Inés’s following exhortation to Pedro to comport himself as such: “[Y] al noble son de tus cantares patrios, / ¡lucha como español en las murallas!” (And to the noble sound of your patriotic songs, / fight like a Spaniard on the city walls!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 673). In contrast to Pedro’s French affiliation, Inés affirms her Spanish identity: “¡Sangre española corre por mis venas! … / ¿Viste que un español no la guardara?” (Spanish blood runs through my veins! … / Did you ever see a Spaniard without it?; 676). Nevertheless, at the time of the War of Independence patriotism was local rather than national. Spain’s reality was not that of a nation united – the later goal of liberals of all persuasions – but a state comprised of competing, self-interested patrias or regions. The recasting of the war as a national conflict emerged only retrospectively in 1812 with the liberal establishment of Cádiz’s Cortes or Parliament and its constitution, which sought to legitimate a new nation built on collective sovereignty and consensus rather than royal privilege (Álvarez Junco 2004, 129–30). In Acuña’s play regional patriotism is visible in María’s exclamation to Inés: “¡Como si sangre tuya no tuviera / y no fuese Aragón la patria mía!” (As if I were not of your blood / and Aragón not my patria!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 650). Yet on other occasions the patria of Saragossa and Aragón becomes identified with Spain, as when Inés admonishes Pedro: Dime, y sin fuerzas desde entonces para vender como traidor tu patria, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [¿]no juraste verter tu sangre toda por defender la libertad de España?

34  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century (Tell me, and since then lacking strength / to sell off, like a traitor, your patria, / … / did you not swear to shed all your blood / defending Spain’s freedom?; 670)

This slippage between the local and national mirrors the context of the War of Independence, when Aragón and Spain were not opposed terms. Rather, as Álvarez Junco declares, “La afirmación de lo aragonés era, en 1808–1814, una de las maneras de proclamarse español” (To vindicate all that was Aragonese was, in 1808–14, one of the ways of proclaiming oneself Spanish; Álvarez Junco 2004, 86). For Acuña in 1877, Aragón arguably stands for a patriotism that, simultaneously distanced from and equated with Spain, suggests the Progressive liberals’ rejection of the Restoration monarchy and their vision for Spain as a federation of regions that would be autonomous but also members of the same national family. Diverse concepts of patriotism are hammered out in an important dialogue between Pedro and Inés, the dramatic kernel of the play. Inés believes that patria is inseparable from the place where one is born, grows up, and dies: ¡Está donde nacieron tus sonrisas, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . donde meces la cuna de tus hijos y guardas las cenizas de tus deudos[!] (It is where your smiles were born, / … / where you rock your children’s cradles / and keep your relatives’ ashes!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 682)22

The concept of nation that Inés puts forward echoes that of Rousseau, who considered that “the love of the country that sustains civic virtue is not the love of an impersonal or abstract entity, but the attachment to particular people, people whom we know because we see them, we live with them, we have interests and memories in common” (Viroli 2003, 81). For Inés patria is an immutable entity, the very core of one’s identity. Her vision thus resembles the original meaning of “nation,” which Timothy Brennan explains as “both the modern nation-state and … something more ancient and nebulous – the ‘natio’ – a local community, domicile, family, condition of belonging” (1990, 45). Yet the relationship between subject and nation is not a natural given but a cultural construct, a premise that Acuña explores through Pedro.23 For him a patria is changeable in that it denotes the place where he can best realize his ambitions: “Ancho es el mundo, mi ambición inmensa” (The world is wide, my ambition immense; Acuña [1877] 2009, 667). He

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  35

not only embodies what Viroli terms the degeneration of love of country from ambitious passions (2003, 124). He also represents a cosmopolitan ideal that contrasts with the kind of patriotism that Inés and María espouse, an opposition that echoes Rousseau’s thinking in The Social Contract: “Para los cosmopolitas la patria se encuentra en cualquier sitio donde uno se sienta bien; para los patriotas, sólo se está a gusto en la patria” (For cosmopolitans the patria is any place when one feels good; for patriots, one feels at home only in the patria; Béjar 2000, 104). For cosmopolitan Enlightenment philosophers like Rousseau and Voltaire, patrie did not refer to any specific culture, language, or ethnicity. Rather, it was the republic in terms of its essential legal and political structures. The patrie, therefore, was not identified with any particular history or place, as Inés defends, but rather, as Pedro affirms, with wherever civil and political freedoms were guaranteed (Viroli 2003, 78). Pedro is uncertain what constitutes his patria, because it lacks a tangible presence: “¿Dónde la patria está, que no la veo?” (Where is this patria that I cannot see?; Acuña [1877] 2009, 681). Conversely, Inés insists that the patria does not depend on the physical ability to see and that Pedro will perceive it if he overcomes his metaphorical blindness and observes: Mira aquel pobre anciano, cuyos ojos no ven la luz del sol, mira sus canas, y mira cómo a tientas va poniendo la espoleta que enciende las granadas. ¿Lo ves? ¿lo ves? … (Look at that poor old man, whose eyes / cannot see the sunlight, look at his white hair, / and observe how he sets by touch alone / the fuses to detonate the grenades. / Can’t you see? Can’t you see?; 677)24

Inés’s stance resembles Jules Michelet’s belief, espoused in 1846, that love of country was rooted in a specific physical and spiritual place and was fostered by inspiring, moving images that captured that emotion (Viroli 2003, 138). Accordingly, after Inés conjures up such images, Pedro finds himself able to see the patria: “¡Sí, madre, ya lo veo!” (Yes, mother, now I can see it!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 677). Such different notions of the patria and patriotism spill over into the play’s representations of the French and Napoleon. Acuña’s descriptions of the invading troops conform to normative Spanish depictions of the war’s actors in terms of dualities. As Sánchez García (2008, 160) maintains, far from being portrayed as a “pueblo” or nation, the French were characterized as “perro, judío, traidor, revolucionario y, sobre

36  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

todo, ateo” (dogs, Jews, traitors, revolutionaries and, above all, atheists), in contrast with the Spanish, a “pueblo … franco, leal, valeroso, cristiano” (honest, loyal, brave, and Christian people). While in Amor a la patria the inhabitants of Saragossa embody the latter attributes, the French are portrayed, as María exclaims, as creatures from hell: “¡¡… El infierno / sin duda de sus antros los vomita!!” (Hell / without doubt vomits them from its depths!!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 649). Nevertheless, Acuña also provides more nuanced representations of Napoleon that putatively correspond to varying perspectives on the French invasion among the Spanish themselves. For María, Napoleon does not epitomize liberal revolution and freedom from antiquated sociopolitical structures, as for the Spanish afrancesados, but the patriarchal, feudal “verdugo de la tierra” (executioner of the land; Acuña [1877] 2009, 657). He desires, as Inés exclaims, to enslave Spain as a satellite of imperial France: “¡[L]a Francia quiere que tu patria / en repugnante feudo esclava viva[!]” (France wants your patria / to live as the slave of a repugnant feudal system!; 652). Under Napoleon, the women denounce, Spain will lose its autonomy, and its citizens, their right to partake in governing the nation. In short, Spain will assume the feminized subordinate status that its women currently hold. However, for Pedro, arguably representative of Spanish Enlightenment reformers, Napoleon offers a progressive civilization to a barbaric Spain under a backward monarchy: ¡Napoleón, al fragor de sus cañones y en los sangrientos campos de batalla, enseña al pueblo a conquistar derechos que un bárbaro egoísmo le negaba! (Napoleon, to the din of his cannon fire / and on the bloody battlefields, / teaches the people to win rights / denied them by a barbarous egoism!; Acuña [1877] 2009, 674)

Pedro claims that the invasion, fertilized by blood, will reap “hondas virtudes” in future generations (deeply rooted virtues; 674). In comparison, Inés rejects that a war of aggression, as opposed to one of defence, can sow virtue and freedom: ¡De esa hecatombe que consigue impío jamás la luz de la virtud se alza, ni habrá para los pueblos libertades entre arroyos de sangre pregonadas!

Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship  37 (From that catastrophe that this atheist is bringing about / virtue’s light will never dawn, / nor will peoples have freedoms / proclaimed among rivers of blood!; 674)

Although both Inés and Pedro recognize the need for change in Spain, the former seeks a revolution from within Spain, the latter from without. These differences within the one family, visible in its members’ assessments of the French and Napoleon, represent similar divisions among the Spanish people. The pressure on them not to be perceived as supporting the French is tangible in María’s fear that Inés will be labelled an afrancesada because of her care of the dying Pedro (Acuña [1877] 2009, 690). Hence María covertly exhorts her mother to demonstrate her patriotism to allay any suspicion that she supports the French: “(Di alguna frase que en tu abono salga)” (691). Inés’s subsequent resolve to blow up her home should the French reach her street is seen as proof of her patriotism when Diego observes: “… Veo / que se porta cual sabe la vecina” (I see / that my compatriot knows how to conduct herself; 693). Although Acuña undoubtedly portrays these contrasting stances to highlight opposed interests in the War of Independence, her text clearly manifests allegiance to the Spanish cause. Whereas Napoleon’s deeds will yield only an ephemeral historical fame – “algunas cortas y sangrientas páginas” (a few short and bloody pages) – the Spaniards’ heroism, especially the women’s, will enter the “augusto Templo de la Historia” (august Temple of History; 675). Such an inscription in history will permit the remembrance of the glorious deeds of a city’s ancestors, which, Béjar affirms, serves to impart virtue and unite the Republican polis (2000, 196). Nevertheless, the drama’s conclusion envisions a reconciliation of internal divisions in Pedro’s ultimate decision to die in the family home, symbolic of the nation: “Que mi cuerpo / quedase entre las ruinas de esta casa…” (May my body / remain among the ruins of this home; Acuña [1877] 2009, 690). Uncovering the gendered politics of patriotism and war, Acuña’s play insists on women’s right to participate in the Republican “city” or nation. Sangre española, a little-studied novella by Blanca de los Ríos (1899a), introduces different nuances in her fin-de-siècle representation of a female hero from the War of Independence. Whereas Acuña’s drama, steeped in Enlightenment values, privileges reason, the bedrock of classical republicanism, as vital for an inclusive Spanish nation, de los Ríos’s narrative underscores the dependence of nationalisms on emotion. Nevertheless, although Sangre española is much more conser­ vative than Acuña’s work, it reproduces, albeit more cautiously, the combative independence of the earlier writer’s models of womanhood.

Chapter Two

Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle: Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española (1899)

[D]onde hubo guerrilleros … hubo guerrilleras, y … las hubo en grado heroico, en número abundantísimo … a este género de lucha tan nacional, tan gloriosamente eficaz para la causa de la Independencia, colaboró también la mujer con igual ahínco, perseverancia y ardor patriótico … (Wherever there were male guerrilla fighters … there were female guerrillas … a great number of whom were heroes.… To this kind of national struggle, so successful for the cause of Spain’s independence, women also contributed with equal vigour, tenacity, and patriotic ardour; De los Ríos 1914a)

For female writers like Blanca de los Ríos, the context of the War of Independence served to refract concerns regarding the status of the Spanish nation, a national literature, and women’s place in both at a time when national, cultural, and gender boundaries were being contested and redrawn. Completed in July 1898, just before the Spanish-American War officially ended, and first published in 1899 in the January–March issue of the Revista Contemporánea, her novella Sangre española displaces fin-de-siècle anxieties around Spain’s entwined national and imperial identity onto the War of Independence to affirm an enduring essence untouched by that recent imperial loss.1 As Mary L. Coffey eloquently argues, it is not 1898 but the War of Independence, which saw Spain’s American colonies embark on their own independence struggles, that marks the beginning of Spain’s “imperial trauma,” which Spaniards denied “by choosing to focus on the image of Spain defending its sovereignty rather than that of a metropolis whose military could not prevent the loss of empire” (Coffey 2020, 42). The two contexts of 1898 and 1808 also invite a reading of the novella in terms of what María Elvira Roca Barea has construed as Spain’s

Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle 39

“imperiofobia”: one imperial nation’s aversion to another that stems from the former’s sense of inferiority due to its diminished prestige (2018, 119–20). While 1808 marked a rejection of French imperialism that, from de los Ríos’s contemporary perspective, was more a cultural threat than a political one, 1898 signalled Spain’s rejection of US imperialism. De los Ríos formed part of an intellectual elite that, as Roca Barea affirms, created and sustained empire-phobia to turn national humiliation into moral victory through propaganda, literature, and historical texts (121). In one of very few studies on the novella, Kirsty Hooper (2007) has examined its pertinence to empire and touched on the text’s relationship with Regenerationists such as Miguel de Unamuno. I build on Hooper’s valuable insights with a more detailed discussion of de los Ríos’s engagement with Unamuno’s En torno al casticismo, first published in 1895, and Regenerationist ideas. De los Ríos’s portrayal of her characters Rocío and Guillermo serves to crystallize aspects of the Regenerationist debate around Spain’s relationship with Northern Europe with regard to national and cultural identities. Crucial for de los Ríos’s development of a specific representation of the national body symbolized in Rocío are what Hogan considers the most emotionally resonant metaphors in nationalist discourse: the nation as family, plant, and spirit (2009, 133). Rocío’s love of country conforms to a nationalist vision, in which patriotic love is “an exclusive attachment” that privileges a culturally and spiritually unified nation, and stresses “oneness, uniqueness, and homogeneity” (Viroli 2003, 2). Finally, de los Ríos’s novella endeavours to harmonize nationalist goals with feminist preoccupations in its focus on issues concerning resistance, consent, and contract, which pertain to both colonization and women’s sociocultural subjection in fin-de-siècle Spain. De los Ríos highlighted the important role that Spanish women played in national defence during the War of Independence in many essays, as María Antonieta González López signals in her substantial study on de los Ríos’s life and work (2001, 170–1). The writer’s article “Cádiz” alluded to Spain’s “unánime confianza en el triunfo final de la Nación” (unanimous faith in the Nation’s ultimate victory; De los Ríos 1913a, 48), while in another essay from the same year, “El Madrid del ‘Dos de Mayo’” (The Madrid of the “Second of May”), she praised the “épica legión de madrileñas inmoladas en el altar de la Patria … el más excelso ejemplo de heroísmo de que nación alguna puede gloriarse” (epic legion of Madrid women sacrificed on the Nation’s altar … the most sublime example of heroism that any nation can boast; De los Ríos 1913b, 39). Likewise, her address “Conferencias de la Unión de las

40  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

Damas” (Lectures at the Ladies’ Union; De los Ríos 1914a) paid homage to the war’s heroines and emphasized the female guerrilla fighter, a figure reproduced in Sangre española’s Rocío. Consequently, although de los Ríos was affiliated with a conservative Catholic feminism (González López 2001, 174),2 her female characters and her own trajectory highlight the inadvisability, as Aurélie Vialette notes, of too readily labelling fin-de-siècle writers as either liberal or conservative (2015, 450). De los Ríos’s strong advocation for Spanish women’s participation in public life is palpable in the following assertion: “[E]n la vida pública … y en la francamente política … la mujer organiza plebiscitos, aspira a la representación parlamentaria, alcanza en públicas tribunas triunfos resonantes …” (In public and even clearly political life … women organize plebiscites, aspire to be parliamentary representatives, achieve resounding triumphs on public platforms; De los Ríos 1927, 10).3 A member of Madrid’s Athenaeum from 1895 onward, along with Carmen de Burgos and Pardo Bazán, she spearheaded the establishment of the Academy of Spanish Poetry and lobbied tirelessly for Pardo Bazán’s entry into the Royal Spanish Academy (González López 2001, 49–50, 150–1, 174–5).4 One of thirteen women appointed by Miguel Primo de Rivera to participate in the National Assembly in October 1926, she worked tirelessly to expand women’s political rights (298–9, 301). However, it is de los Ríos’s work as vice president of the Centro de Cultura Hispanoamericana (Centre for Spanish American Culture) to foster Spanish cultural imperialism in the Americas that becomes especially relevant for Sangre española’s strong nationalist message and critique of military imperialism. In early 1913 she coordinated “Pro-Patria” (De los Ríos 1913d), a special issue of Cultura Hispanoame­ ricana, where her essay “Hispania mater” (Mother Spain; De los Ríos 1913c) cast a positive light on Spain’s colonial wars (González López 2001, 149, 169–71).5 Similarly, at the first Congreso de Historia y Geo­ grafía Hispanoamericana (Conference on Spanish American History and Geography) in Seville in 1914, she rewrote Spain’s black legend in “El 12 de octubre” (12 October) as a sign of the “expansión y dilata­ ción de la patria” (patria’s expansion; De los Ríos 1914c, 46). For de los Ríos, as for Ángel Ganivet in his essay Idearium español ([1897] 1999), cultural imperialism was a “guerra pacífica mucho más conquistadora y fecunda que la de las armas” (a peaceful war that resulted in a better and more fertile conquest than that achieved with weapons; De los Ríos 1923a, 36). From 1919 until 1930, she edited Raza Española, a nationalist periodical that adhered to the Restoration concept of nation founded on monarchy, territorial and political unity, Catholicism, the War of

Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle 41

Independence, and Spain’s conquest of America (González López 2001, 209), all elements present in Sangre española.6 Sangre española’s more serious political and cultural messages are masked through its construction as a romance.7 Its melodramatic plot begins in 1808, and specifically with the battle at Córdoba’s Alcolea bridge, where Manuel Morales, a wealthy, widowed, small landowner from Seville, is fighting against the French. When he is captured by the imperial army, his motherless, only daughter, Rocío, goes to the French camp in Andújar to plead for his release. The price of her father’s freedom, however, is her marriage to Guillermo Richemond-Siegberg, an aristocratic officer of French-Germanic extraction who has fallen deeply in love with her. Torn between her love for her father and her hatred of the French, Rocío unwillingly weds Guillermo. However, when he learns of his daughter’s alliance, Manuel rejects Rocío and, overcome by grief, seeks death on the battlefield of Bailén. Wounded in the French army’s retreat through Spain and needing to convalesce, Guillermo takes Rocío back to his family estate near Koblenz. There, despite his best efforts, Rocío wastes away and dies, firm in her resolve not to return her husband’s love. The novella ends with Guillermo arranging for the repatriation of Rocío’s corpse, shrouded in the Spanish flag. Traditionally, as already noted in my introduction, it was only when women were widows or virgins that they could legitimately participate in war, because motherhood precluded their taking life (Huston 1986, 130). In de los Ríos’s novella, Rocío’s virginity is foregrounded through her name, which recalls the Andalusian Virgen del Rocío. Virginity and chasteness, as Peter Stallybrass (1986, 129) elucidates, departing from Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of the classical body, were powerful metaphors for the impenetrable nation state, which, “like the virgin, was a hortus conclusus, an enclosed garden walled off from enemies.” I concur with Hooper’s (2007, 177) analysis that, as an unmarried woman, Rocío’s closed body functions as armour that defends her from French advances: “[T]an firme, tan recogido, tan casto y resuelto era el continente de la niña, que invenciblemente se impuso a los más osados, con esa augusta entereza del pudor que defiende a la virgen como a la rosa las espinas” (So steadfast, so contained, so chaste, and resolute was the young girl’s bearing that she triumphed undefeated over the most daring of men, with that august integrity of the modesty that defends the virgin, like thorns a rose; De los Ríos 1899a, 454).8 However, whereas Hooper considers that Rocío’s marriage to Guillermo removes that protection (2007, 177), I argue that Rocío’s withholding of her love from Guillermo once she is married and her refusal to disengage emotionally from Spain while in Germany continue to symbolize the

42  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century

spiritual and physical containment considered culturally appropriate for women and, by extension, a feminized Spanish nation that repels foreign influence.9 Concepts pertaining to closed and open national bodies permeate fin-de-siècle debates on casticismo, a term that refers to the contentious configuration of the desired characteristics of the Spanish nation, culture, and language. Among the intellectuals of the 1898 Generation who engaged with this subject were Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo, whose ideas on history as a source of national unity were embraced by de los Ríos (González López 2001, 53–4), and Unamuno. Given that de los Ríos knew Unamuno well, to what extent might Sangre española interact with his concept of casticismo? Indeed, the title of Sangre española recalls the conclusion of Unamuno’s ([1895] 2007, 199) work: “Con el aire de fuera regenero mi sangre, no respirando el que exhalo” (I regenerate my blood with air from the outdoors and not by breathing in the air that I exhale; original emphasis). In Rocío’s case, her death can be attributed to her not opening her metaphorical lungs to fresh air beyond her Spanish home or nation. In contrast to de los Ríos’s fervent nationalism, Unamuno advocated regenerating the Spanish language, literature, and nation through a twofold movement. First and foremost was the recovery of what he terms intra-historia: a reworking, as Serrano notes, of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s Volksgeist and Johann Gottfried Herder’s transhistorical national character. Unamuno identified intra-historia with a Spanish people synonymous with the exploited lower classes and Castile’s rural peasant class (Serrano 1998, 355–7). In En torno al casticismo he describes intra-historia as a figurative bedrock or sea floor that remains constant despite history’s convulsive changes (Unamuno [1895] 2007, 108–9), a notion that Roberta Johnson has critiqued as an “eternal flow of history” that is “amorphous, nameless, faceless, and … genderless” (2003, 34). Moreover casticismo, Johnson remarks, tends to construe intra-historia and history as dichotomous, gendered terrains: “Intrahistoria (domestic, quotidian, and repetitive) is the domain of women, whereas temporal history (war, battles, victories, and defeats) is the domain of men” (44). At the same time, Unamuno stresses the importance of embracing elements external to Spain through Europeanization. Attributing Spain’s intellectual poverty to isolationism, he calls for the free circulation of ideas in cosmopolitanism: “[E]n la intra-historia vive con la masa difusa y desdeñada el principio de honda continuidad internacional y de cosmopolitismo, … que sólo abriendo las ventanas a vientos europeos, … teniendo fe en que no perderemos nuestra personalidad al hacerlo, europeizándonos para hacer España y chapuzándonos en pueblo,

Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle 43

regeneraremos esta estepa moral” (In intra-historia the principle of a profound international continuity and cosmopolitanism lives side by side with the amorphous, disdained masses…. It is only by opening our windows to European currents, … and having faith that we will not lose our character on doing so, becoming European to make Spain and immersing ourselves in the common people, that we will regenerate this moral wasteland; Unamuno [1895] 2007, 198–9). Rather than enclosing the national body in “capullos casticistas” (native cocoons) and “diferenciaciones nacionales excluyentes” (excluding national differentiations), he advocates opening Spanish hearts and eyes to “las corrientes todas ultrapirenaicas” (the winds beyond the Pyrenees; 199). The detractors of Spain’s Europeanization, Unamuno remarks, are those who celebrate “la alianza del altar y el trono y las glorias de Numancia, de las Navas, de Granada, de Lepanto, de Otumba y de Bailén” (the alliance of church and throne, and the glorious exploits at Numantia, las Navas, Granada, Lepanto, Otumba, and Bailén; Una­ muno [1895] 2007, 69): a statement that contrasts with de los Ríos’s (1899a, 483) positive references in Sangre española to Las Navas de Tolosa, Bailén, and Numantia.10 Although Unamuno perceives the War of Independence as “la fecha simbólica de nuestra regeneración” (the symbolic date of our regeneration; Unamuno [1895] 2007, 69), he warns that Spain’s regeneration, political and literary, should not rely on either conquest or isolationism, given that the defenders of both seek to impose an exclusive culture (71). Thus while he acknowledges that some fear a European cultural conquest effected through translations of foreign writers and thinkers, he also contends that this “invasión del barbarismo” regenerated European and Spanish culture (invasion of barbarism; 68, 77; original emphasis).11 Receiving foreign currents in a spirit of reciprocity with other cultures, Unamuno affirmed, would stimulate love for the nation (“amor patrio”) as well as regional literatures (174). Regionalism and cosmopolitanism would sustain true patriotism (96).12 De los Ríos’s immersion in Regenerationism stands out in a short story significantly published just four months after Sangre española, “Villa­vetusta y Villamoderna: Historia en dos cartas” (Antiquated Town and Modern Town: A History of Two Letters; De los Ríos 1899b).13 The two towns of the title represent contrasting visions of Spain that rest on established tradition, on the one hand, and positivist values that privilege industrialization and commerce, on the other. Overwhelmed by Spain’s Disaster, the protagonist abjures his earlier admiration of the imperial powers of Britain and the US: “[E]scribo bajo una impresión espantosa, inexpresable, bajo la impresión mortal de la catástrofe de la patria que todos lloramos con lágrimas de sangre” (I write affected by

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a horrific, inexpressible experience, overwhelmed by the nation’s fatal catastrophe that we all lament with tears of blood; De los Ríos 1899b, 60). The Spaniards of 1898, he declares, do not exhibit the same heroism and resistance as in 1808 because they lack faith (60). While he acknowledges that the national body is ill, he does not consider that it requires a blood transfusion from an Other. Foreign influences can be beneficial but only if adapted to Spain’s organic constitution (70). The nation’s virtue or essence depends on preserving its Spanishness: “Para ser buenos españoles, lo primero que hemos menester es no desespañolizarnos” (To be good Spaniards, what we must do above all else is not lose our Spanishness; 71; original emphasis).14 Spain’s fin-de-siècle fear of becoming subject to the cultural imperialism of northern European countries was inextricably intertwined with its memory of French occupation in the War of Independence. As Alda Blanco (2011, 123) highlights: “Haunted by the not-too-distant Napoleonic incursion as well as the memory of the ‘Frenchification’ of Spain begun in the eighteenth century, the copious amounts of translated literature, and the growing presence of foreign capital and culture, Spain was imagined as a boundaryless nation subject to invasion and subjugation.” Similarly, conservative sectors viewed other Northern European nations such as England and Germany with suspicion. Like France, they were seen as conduits into Spain for Romanticism’s revolutionary politics and perceived emotional extravagance, and Naturalism’s stress on the deviant and marginal.15 Casticismo, then, emerged as a masculine concept to protect the nation’s cultural boundaries against foreign influences that were allegedly pernicious and hence feminized (Blanco 2011, 133). Effectively, casticismo, like Rocío’s closed body, came to represent for some Regenerationists an original, superior, masculinized purity. In Sangre española the tensions of looking both inward and outward in proposals for Spain’s regeneration, as evident in Unamuno’s concept of intra-historia and de los Ríos’s “Villavetusta y Villamoderna,” are played out through Rocío’s nationalist sentiments and Guillermo’s cosmopolitanism in favour of the former. The cultural and political wars at stake in formulations of casticismo are visible in de los Ríos’s characterization of Richemond-Siegberg, “el soberbio soldado napoleónico” (Napoleon’s arrogant soldier; De los Ríos 1899a, 473). He represents principles of Blanco’s “boundaryless nation” in his cultural cosmopolitanism, reminiscent of Unamuno’s stress on Europeanization, and his enthusiasm for a French imperialism that would erase other nations’ boundaries: “El Mayor Richemond … comenzaba a comprender el cosmopolitanismo, … poseído del loco sueño del Emperador que aspiraba

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a borrar las fronteras …” (Major Richemond … began to understand cosmopolitanism, … obsessed by the Emperor’s mad dream of eliminating all borders; 464). Of French and German extraction, he is, in the words of his comrade-in-arms, Nodier, “dos hombres” (two men; 458), representative of two internationalist options for a nation: military imperialism and cultural cosmopolitanism. This duality is also mirrored in the contrasts, as Hooper also notes (2007, 180), that the text establishes between him and Rocío: “Guillermo y Rocío era dos razas, dos nacionalidades, dos tendencias inconciliables: el derecho y la fuerza, la independencia y la conquista, la revolución y el tradicionalismo, el hecho dominador y el albedrío indominable” (Guillermo and Rocío were two races, two nationalities, two irreconcilable tendencies: law and force, independence and conquest, revolution and traditionalism, dominating actions and an indomitable will; De los Ríos 1899a, 463). Nevertheless, de los Ríos complicates these differences so that revolution and traditionalism, for instance, are traits of both characters, depending on their contexts and positioning. De los Ríos’s characterization of Rocío and Guillermo also suggests her engagement with Northern European thought, especially Herder’s brand of nationalism.16 As in her equation of Rocío with a pure, castiza Spain, Herder saw a nation’s necessary spiritual unity as founded on its rejection of “cultural contamination and impurity” (Viroli 2003, 119–20). De los Ríos’s stress on Rocío’s so-called natural love of nation and her association with feelings recall Herder’s insistence, as Viroli explains, that “a nationality is as much a plant of nature as a family,” as well as the philosopher’s privileging of emotion, “the voice of nature within our heart,” in fostering love of nation. For Herder, “To comply with nature’s plan we must therefore protect the purity and authenticity of our national culture, resisting both the arrogant inclination to conquer or dominate and the vain desire to imitate alien cultures” (quoted in Viroli 2003, 123–4). In contrast, Guillermo’s cosmopolitanism resembles facets of August W. Schlegel’s thought in Vorlesungen über schöne Litteratur und Kunst (1803–4), which promoted a “European patriotism,” led by the German people, that would marry patriotism with cosmopolitanism (Viroli 2003, 125). De los Ríos’s rejection of such a marriage is arguably symbolized in Rocío’s unsuccessful union with Guillermo and his eventual conversion to his wife’s way of thinking. In Unamuno’s conceptualization of a castiza Spain, the Catholic faith had been most manifest in the “people” who had opposed the French in the War of Independence: “De todos los países católicos, acaso haya sido el más católico nuestra España castiza…. [E]n ninguna parte más vivo el sentimiento de la hermandad entre el sacerdote y el guerrero

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que en el pueblo que dio tantos guerrilleros en la francesada” (Of all the Catholic countries, perhaps our castiza Spain has been the most Catholic…. Nowhere else is the feeling of brotherhood between priest and warrior more alive than in the nation that sacrificed so many guerrilla fighters in its defence against France; Unamuno [1895] 2007, 146–7). Nevertheless, because Unamuno saw religion as breeding intolerance and consolidating hegemonic power, he instead proposed regenerating Spain through a “mística castiza” (pure mysticism) tempered by a cosmopolitan humanism (148–9, 150, 163). In contrast, in de los Ríos’s Sangre española, Spain’s unity depends on melding Catholicism with Spanish patriotism in a process that the text describes as an “aliento sublime que juntó en apretado haz tantas gentes diversas, fundiéndolas al calor del ideal en una nacionalidad única, prodigiosa, inquebrantable” (a sublime breath that united in an impenetrable phalanx so many diverse peoples, fusing them, through the heat of the ideal, into a unique, prodigious, unconquerable nation; De los Ríos 1899a, 465). For de los Ríos, the War of Independence represents a time when internal, nationalist aspirations had not yet begun to undermine Spanish unity: “Por fortuna, el corrosivo análisis no había caído todavía sobre la conciencia española, no había comenzado aún su obra de quebrantamiento y disgregación demoledora” (Luckily a corrosive rationality had not yet afflicted Spanish consciousness nor had it yet begun its work of destruction and devastating separation; 465). She conveys this Catholic, castiza unity in a powerful image that merges the African sand of Rocío’s Andalusia, orientalized by northern Spain and Europe, with Unamuno’s Castilian bedrock: “España era todavía aquella ingente roca formada de granos de arena que se mantenían uni­ dos en compacta masa por una cohesión sublime: la fe” (Spain was still that colossal rock formed by grains of sand that remained united in a compact mass due to a sublime, cohesive power: faith; 465).17 Significantly, religion is one of the two pillars that sustain empire-phobia, where the less powerful nation seeks to demonstrate the other imperial power’s spiritual inferiority (Roca Barea 2018, 119–20). Hence de los Ríos emphasizes Rocío’s unwavering faith vis-à-vis Guillermo’s “indecisa y amorfa religión” (indecisive, vague religion; De los Ríos 1899a, 475), indicative of Catholic Spain’s rejection of a secular France and Protestant Germany. Both the triumph of Catholic Spain over Islamic culture and the Numantians’ resistance to Rome’s imperial rule – historical events important for Spain’s later fashioning of national unity and its fear of imperialism from without – are recast in Rocío in two discrete moments. In the first instance, Hooper (2007, 181) notes that, when a veiled Rocío

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initially meets Guillermo, he orientalizes and disregards her, only for her to contest that masculine reading and disarm Guillermo by casting off her veil and taking up “the position of the weeping Madonna.” In her supplications that her father’s life be spared, she arguably resembles the Mater Dolorosa, the personification of a suffering nineteenth-century Spain. In the second instance, Rocío’s quasi-suicidal resistance to Gui­ llermo and ensuing death recall the concept of pro patria mori, the appropriateness of dying for one’s country epitomized by the Numantians’ resistance. De los Ríos’s depiction of Rocío challenges the canonical representation of war as a strictly masculine activity confined to the frontline. Employing traditional representations of love as war, the novella’s discourse turns on motifs of defence and attack. Thus Richemond’s friend, Nodier, tells him that, if he is to conquer Rocío, he must let Nodier “trazar las paralelas y establecer el bloqueo” (map out the trenches and set up the siege; De los Ríos 1899a, 461). Shortly afterward, the text states that Nodier, faced with Rocío’s weeping, “resistía firme en la brecha” (steadfastly withstood the military assault; 461), while Rocío’s stance assumes fierce overtones: “La niña entonces, cerrando los puños … se dirigió al oficialete en actitud de acometividad” (The girl then, clenching her fists … aggressively approached the military officer; 462). The struggle between an orientalized Spain, synonymous with Andalusia in the south, and an imperialistic Northern Europe is symbolized in the portrayal of Rocío as a formidable opponent for Guillermo: “El Sur … rechazaba violentamente el influjo helador del Septentrión, hiriéndole con rayos encendidos …” (The South … v ­ iolently rejected the freezing influence of the North, wounding the latter with burning rays; 463). This description of Rocío already suggests the importance of anger, metaphorically conveyed by heat, for nationalist sentiment (Hogan 2009, 129). Cast as a war hero who defends her father and her own spiritual integrity to the death, Rocío becomes as much a fallen soldier as any man, as underlined in the repatriation of her corpse to Spain shrouded in the national flag, which, until 1908, was strictly reserved for military uses.18 Like Doña Inés in José Zorrilla’s Don Juan Tenorio (1844), Rocío becomes pure spirit and is returned to the national “family” as the very embodiment of a castiza Spain.19 Here de los Ríos’s narrative arguably integrates what Hogan terms a heroic emplotment of nationalism into a sacrificial one. In the heroic plot, which Hogan (2009, 213, 216) considers nationalism’s principal narrative form, the key thematic sequence is an Other’s illegitimate usurpation of the nation and the subsequent restoration of a rightful order. For the context of Sangre española, such

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an Other is Richemond-Siegfried, representative of political and cultural imperialism. As Hogan (2011, 129–30, 135) outlines, the heroic narrative is deeply concerned with devotion to the nation and pride, and privileges the principle of defence against an external threat, the ethos that sanctioned Spain’s role in the wars of 1808–14 and 1895–8. In comparison, the sacrificial narrative, a deviation from the heroic plot, is triggered when the latter cannot prevail due to “national devastation” (Hogan 2009, 20). It thus turns on an “ethics of self-discipline and self-abnegation” (195), precisely the qualities manifest in Rocío’s opposition to Guillermo and her self-sacrifice. This dependence of nationalism on emotions such as pride, shame, anger, and grief in the wake of the two catastrophes that bookend the Spanish nineteenth century, the War of Independence and the Disaster, emerges in de los Ríos’s portrayal of Rocío as hero and sacrificial soldier. While Hooper considers that the emotion most associated with Rocío is pain or “dolor” (2007, 176), which places her in the role of suffering victim, I contend that what most prevails in Rocío are anger and hatred, as evident in many citations: “aquella ira sagrada e imponente como la tempestad” (that sacred, awe-inspiring anger, similar to a storm; De los Ríos 1899a, 462); “como si … quisiera lanzar sobre él y sobre Francia entera todo el odio, … todo el furor que removía y abrasaba las entrañas de la patria” (as if … she wished to hurl against him and the whole of France all the hatred, … all the rage that churned in and seared the nation’s innards; 462); “su ira nerviosa y femenina” (her nervous, feminine anger; 462); “su ira de española” (her Spanish woman’s anger; 463); “como toda la España de aquellos días, [Rocío] no respiraba más que del odio al extranjero” (like all of Spain in those days, she only exuded hatred towards the foreigner; 464); “[s]u odio impulsivo” (her spontaneous hatred; 465), “su odio era el odio de toda una raza ofendida” (her hatred was that of an entire offended nation; 465); “gritó con voz firme y colérica” (she shouted in a firm, angry voice; 466); and “el fuego de la indignación, inflamó la sangre de la hija del guerrillero” (the fire of indignation inflamed the blood of the guerrilla fighter’s daughter; 480). Anger and hatred towards foreigners are antithetical to cosmopolitanism, as Graham Long (2009, 327) maintains. Both emotions are present in what Hogan terms “ruminative or retrospective anger,” which occurs when the injury to the personal or collective body continues to be felt after the event but the expression of anger is frustrated. Especially important for fostering national identification in war, ruminative anger may also arise from a sense of shame at “a sharp decline from a particular imagined status to comparative inferiority” (Hogan 2009, 110–12), a situation applicable to Spain’s loss of imperial prestige due to the Disaster.

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The implications of Rocío converting her pain to anger can be fruitfully approached through feminist theories, given that such a transformation constitutes, as Ahmed proposes, a shift to resistance, which is the foundation of feminist consciousness (2014, 172, 174). Drawing on Marilyn Frye and Brenda R. Silver, Ahmed posits anger as a performative act (177), a useful concept considering that Rocío channels her anger through her body. Rocío can be seen, like her father, as a guerrilla fighter, a dominant figure, Sánchez García affirms, in fin-de-siècle literature on the War of Independence (2008, 178–9). Just as the Spanish resorted to guerrilla tactics during the War of Independence, once she is in Guillermo’s homeland of Germany, Rocío manifests a tactical resistance to the imperialism that her husband represents. In this sense she not only marks a shift from the heroic nation to the resisting nation that Sánchez García (2008) notes in representations of the War of Independence from 1808 until 1939. Rocío’s conduct also confirms Michel de Certeau’s observation that the tactic “must play on and with a terrain imposed on it and organized by the law of a foreign power. It does not have the means to keep to itself, at a distance, in a position of withdrawal…. It is a maneuver ‘within the enemy’s field of vision,’ … and within enemy territory” (De Certeau 1988, 1:37; original emphasis). The covert nature of Rocío’s resistance shows, as María Rosón and Rosa Medina Domenech explain, that tactics are not openly oppositional but distort normative models to disrupt their authority and power (2017, 416). The normative model that Rocío subverts is the paradigm of conventional femininity, which uses essentialist arguments to justify women’s sociopolitical inequality. This inequality is implicit in the description of Rocío’s initial encounter with Guillermo as a “desigual contienda” (unequal contest; De los Ríos 1899a, 454). Nonetheless, exploiting Guillermo’s love for her, Rocío takes traditionally accepted feminine attributes such as silence, emotion, and weakness to the extreme to undo herself, and thus Guillermo, through her physical deterioration and eventual death: “[S]u resistencia consistía en negarse a su propio ser” (Her resistance consisted in refusing to live; 481). What Hogan stresses as essential to the sacrificial plot, “self-denial in food and sex” (2009, 264), are enacted in Rocío’s wasting away, chasteness, and ultimate death. Nonetheless, the narrative emphasizes how Rocío counters Guillermo’s romantic siege by transforming her debility into her greatest weapon: “aquel resistir de la flaqueza” (that resistance through weakness), “el firme resistir de una flaca mujer desvalida” (the steadfast resistance of a powerless, weak woman), and “aquella desarmada resistencia” (that unarmed resistance; De los Ríos 1899a, 478–9). In de los Ríos’s characterization

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of Rocío, feminine weakness and meekness, traditionally perceived in terms of negative difference against a masculine benchmark of an allegedly superior power, become sources of unconquerable strength, independence, and freedom: “¿Cómo podía ser tan fuerte aquella flaqueza, tan invencible aquel abatimiento, tan indomable aquella mansedumbre, tan independiente e invencible aquel tenue espíritu que se escapaba de entre las manos como la libre mariposa …?” (How could that weakness be so strong, that despondency so invincible, that meekness so indomitable, that fragile spirit that eluded one’s grasp like a free butterfly, so independent and invincible?; 481). It is a warfare impossible for Guillermo to resist, given that Rocío fulfils all her wifely duties: “Y lo que más exaltaba su desesperación era la ausencia de motivo real en que fundar su querella, puesto que Rocío cumplía resignada y obediente sus deberes de esposa” (And what most exacerbated his desperation was the absence of any real reason that might justify his grievance, given that Rocío, resigned and obedient, fulfilled all her wifely duties; 479). Rocío’s increasing ethereality apparently conforms to the nineteenthcentury stereotype of a femininity equated with congenital weakness: “[L]ánguidamente se fueron extinguiendo todas las luces del alma y todas las energías del delicado, exangüe y casi espiritualizado cuerpo” (Little by little, languidly, all the light went out in her soul, and all the energy from her delicate, bloodless, and almost spiritual body; 482). Yet her deliberate enactment of a normative femininity can be read in terms of Judith Butler’s concept of gender performance, which challenges an essentialist femininity through parodying its norms.20 Drawing on Butler, Cynthia Weber asserts that the nation state is “a performative body … a sexed and gendered body” (1998, 78). Why might Rocío become a self-conscious performer of a normative femininity in Germany? Tim Edensor claims that such a reflexive awareness of what had seemed natural behaviour can arise when an individual is confronted with a different culture (2002, 89). Rocío’s self-aware practice of femininity in Germany is a way of affirming a so-called Spanish essence, but her very enactment of that essence reveals it as a cultural construct. Through her performance of femininity Rocío embodies the gendered principles of a nationalist casticismo, in which the ideal of the chaste woman represents a masculine sociopolitical body closed to external others. Nevertheless, because the very concept of performance denotes a dynamic process, it also reveals that casticismo does not reflect a “natural” Spanish essence but a materially grounded attempt to fix a national identity constantly open to refashioning. Rocío’s disfiguring representation of a normative femininity also undermines the imperialist enterprise by reshaping a conventional model

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of male heroism dependent on rigid, gendered boundaries and the conquest of others in the private and public spheres. This reconfiguring is evident in the transformation of the soldier Richemond into the romantic lover, Siegberg, whose increasingly feminine softening brings about his surrender to Rocío, who symbolizes a castiza Spain: “la ternura del sentimiento que le amansaba y rendía” (the tender emotion that was taming and conquering him; De los Ríos 1899a, 463). On the one hand, Guillermo interprets Rocío’s resistance as an act of revenge aimed at defeating his proud will (482).21 On the other, his love for her destroys an imperialist identity founded on conquest and annexation, as apparent in Nodier’s comment to him: “¡Rematado estás!” (You are done for!; 460). Sangre española repeatedly establishes analogies between romantic and imperial conquest, as when Guillermo declares: “Yo juré conquistar esa mujer mientras el Emperador conquistase su independiente patria” (I swore to conquer that woman at the same time as the Emperor was conquering her independent nation; 483). His wife’s death brings him to curse all wars and acknowledge the futility of Napoleon’s invasion of Spain, which can never win over the Spanish people’s soul: “¡Maldita sea la gloria militar, malditas sean las bárbaras conquistas de los hombres! ¡El Emperador y yo somos unos imbéciles! ¡Sólo ella acertaba cuando dijo: Podrán conquistarse las tierras, pero las almas son de Dios!” (Cursèd be military glory, cursèd be men’s barbaric conquests! The Emperor and I are imbeciles! Only she was right when she said: You may succeed in conquering lands, but souls belong to God; 482). Rocío’s apparent disorder and collapse represent the destitution of Northern European values, while the return of her corpse to Spain asserts the spiritual strength and independence associated with national origins and the contestation of foreign imperialism. Her immortalization through death affirms the continued relevance of casticismo for Spain, enshrines the Restoration values entrenched in this character, and remodels nationalism’s sacrificial plot to one of definitive heroism.22 For Hogan, the third principal nationalist emplotment is that of the romance, in which the union of the lovers can symbolize national unity or transnational aspirations (2009, 306–7). In Foundational Fictions Doris Sommer explores the indebtedness of national formation to the romance in the context of the nineteenth-century Latin American nations. She highlights how the depiction of romantic passion in key literary works grants legitimacy to dominant agendas by stressing the conquest of the Other “through mutual interest, or ‘love,’ rather than through coercion” (Sommer 1991, 6). In contrast, Sangre española, arguably a founding text for de los Ríos’s nationalist thought, discredits

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France’s imperialist pretensions by stressing the unsuccessful nature of Gui­llermo’s attempts to conquer Rocío through love. This aspect is further confirmed by the text’s emphasis on coercion as the initial element in Guillermo’s relationship with Rocío, in that he forces her consent to marriage through emotional blackmail. Their union does not bring about the reconciliation of enemies, nor does it produce the progeny necessary for the future strength of a given nation, as in Latin America’s foundational romances (Sommer 1991, 12, 18). Their unsuccessful marriage, which prevents the continuation of Guillermo’s bloodline, can even be read as undermining what Johnson (2003, 39, 41) labels Unamuno’s “notion of domestic intrahistory,” which privileges marriage as essential for protecting the health and unity of the nation. What is of fundamental importance in Rocío and Guillermo’s relationship, then, is the issue of consent, which sanctions the imperialist endeavour. The question of individual sovereignty versus ownership by another is paramount in Nodier’s declaration that to save her father, Rocío must “[p]ertenecer a un francés” (belong to a Frenchman; De los Ríos 1899a, 461). However, as Guillermo discovers, although he physically possesses his wife’s body, he does not own her soul: “Le pertenecía, pero no era suya porque no le amaba …” (She belonged to him, but she was not his, because she did not love him; 479). For her part, like the French invasion that attacks Spain’s independence, Rocío experiences Guillermo’s love as a threat to her free will: “[I]nvadía su ser pugnando por arrebatarle el albedrío” (It invaded her being, vying to rob her of her free will; 476). Hooper has signalled that the novella constitutes “an allegory of conquest figured in terms of gender” (2007, 173). Pushing this concept further, I suggest that Guillermo’s coercion of Rocío to marry him recalls the annexation and colonization of supposedly empty lands. In patriarchal societies, women have traditionally been conceived of as a virgin terrain or wilderness that awaits Man’s domestication and husbandry (DuBois 1988, 155). Likewise, as Carole Pateman pursues in “The Settler Contract,” the colonizing mentality perceives a terra nullius as a territory that “belongs to no one, is territoire sans maître; it is waste, uncultivated, virgin, desert” and thus “open to appropriation by … right of husbandry” (Pateman 2007, 36; original emphasis).23 For European powers, two means of legitimately achieving sovereignty over a terra nullius were occupation and settlement; others were annexation and conquest, sanctioned under the law of nations (41–2). Indeed, Pateman identifies the Spanish seizure of the Americas as an example of conquest legitimated by Papal Bulls because it was represented as a discovery, which, according to Hugo Grotius, means “not only to seize … with the eyes but to

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take real possession thereof” (Grotius 1983, 63; quoted in Pateman 2007, 41). In Sangre española such an apprehension is evident in Guillermo’s initial visual appraisal of Rocío and his subsequent possession of her through marriage. The notion of consent is, in turn, based on original contract theory, whereby “all rule is illegitimate unless based on the agreement (contract, consent) of those who are governed” (Pateman 2007, 45).24 Indeed, in En torno al casticismo and drawing on Rousseau, Unamuno ([1895] 2007, 94) had posited that what ensured the internal composition and constitution of a nation was a dynamic, intra-historical social contract into which its inhabitants freely entered.25 In the case of women, classic contract doctrine held that, due to their allegedly natural subjection, they voluntarily entered into a marriage legally akin to servitude in exchange for male protection, in what Pateman (1988), refashioning John Locke’s theorization of the social contract, calls the “sexual contract.” In Sangre española the forced nature of this sexual contract is evident in Rocío’s resigned compliance as spouse. In turn, Rocío functions as a symbol for the politics of colonization, in which the colonizer’s avowed protection of the Other masks his oppression. Colonization is also founded on arbitrary, gendered oppositions “between the ‘natural’ and the ‘civil,’ … the ‘savage’ and the ‘civilized’” (Pateman 2007, 55). These hierarchized dichotomies, which privilege the second terms, constitute what Peter Hulme calls “the discourse of the plantation, which recognized only two locations, inside and outside, white and black” (1981, 75).26 Such dualities are present in de los Ríos’s text, which criticizes France’s attempted colonization of Spain by rejecting the French invaders as animalistic savages or “lobos furiosos” (rabid wolves; De los Ríos 1899a, 471), and as the degenerate antithesis of Spain’s inferred civilization: “[S]er francés para un español del año 8 era ser a un tiempo el ateísmo, el robo, el saqueo, la prostitución, la tiranía y la usurpación execrables” (For a Spaniard in 1808 to be French meant simultaneously atheism, theft, laying waste, prostitution, and a heinous tyranny and usurpation of power; 464). Such a portrayal of the French inverts the stereotypes of Spaniards that, for Roca Barea (2018, 355–7, 436–9), had fed France’s anti-Spanish sentiment since the Enlightenment and denounces the support of some Spanish intellectual elites during and after the War of Independence for France’s ostensibly more progressive values. The relationship between colonization and the plantation is implicit, moreover, in Guillermo’s transplantation of Rocío to Germany, where he attempts to win her love through his recreation there of “una breve patria artificial” (a circumscribed, artificial homeland; De los Ríos 1899a,

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477), literally importing flora and household items from Spain, especially Rocío’s native city of Seville. Nevertheless, Rocío never settles in Germany, as her life there is the result of a forced uprooting and (dis) possession. She dies from homesickness, withering like the imported plants that cannot thrive in German soil: “[E]nferma de añoranza incurable … se extinguía por momentos, como se secaban los naranjos y se mustiaban los rosales a tanta costa transportados desde Sevilla, por la ausencia de la luz, por la nostalgia del sol de la patria” (Incurably homesick … she gradually faded away, just like the orange trees and the roses, transported from Seville at such great expense, which withered and wilted away because of the absence of light and their yearning for the patria’s sun; 481). Rocío’s attachment to Spain, and especially to Seville, de los Ríos’s own birthplace, recalls Herder’s comparison of the love of nation with “a plant’s attachment to the soil and the air from which it takes its vital energies” (Viroli 2003, 122). The metaphor of people as plants, Hogan (2009, 130, 149) signals, is one of the most important for nationalist discourse, because it binds the former to the land, and stresses the nation’s enduring qualities and its ability to regenerate through its citizens’ sacrifice and death. Consequently, de los Ríos naturalizes national sentiment, which she casts as arising from natural, or native, bounded origins. As Sangre española underlines regarding Rocío: “[S]u barrio … su huerta fertilísima … aquélla era su existencia, su poesía, aquel su universo…. Su mundo estaba contenido entre las ondulaciones de oro y de topacio que limitan los horizontes de Sevilla” (Her neighbourhood … her incredibly fertile garden … they were her whole existence, her poetry, her universe…. Her world was contained within the undulations of gold and topaz that constitute Seville’s horizons; De los Ríos 1899a, 475–6). Similarly, Gui­ llermo, ailing from the effects of the war in Spain and, arguably, from imperialist ideology, recovers his health only once back in Germany: “Tan pronto como Richemond respiró las auras nativas del río sagrado de las tradiciones, del adorado país de su infancia, pareció revivir y reanimarse” (As soon as Richemond breathed in his country’s gentle breezes from tradition’s sacred river, from his adored childhood land, he seemed to revive and take heart; 473). Representations such as these concur with the premises of ethnic nationalism, in which the state “saw itself as a spiritual entity, with its citizenship partaking of an inborn collective soul and possessed of an uncontrollable, indelible personal drive to act, think, and feel in a particular way…. This belonging was natural” (Goode 2009, 4). Nevertheless, de los Ríos also intimates, in a passing gesture towards cosmopolitanism, that one’s love for the nation may depend on context and therefore be culturally constructed.

Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle 55

Hence, she observes with regard to Rocío in Germany: “Acaso en otra época y en otra situación, con la sensibilidad exquisita de su psicología femenina, con … la fácil adaptabilidad de las gentes meridionales, hubiese gustado y sentido toda aquella belleza que la envolvía y acariciaba” (Perhaps at another time and in a different situation, with the exquisite sensitivity of her feminine psyche, with … the Andalusians’ great ability to adapt, she might have enjoyed and appreciated all that beauty that surrounded and caressed her; De los Ríos 1899a, 476). To an extent, elements of Rocío’s characterization conform to liberal portrayals of the War of Independence’s female heroes. Most such representations could allow women to feature as participants in war only by stressing their domestic roles and justifying their unorthodox actions through their love for the patriarchal family, husbands, and, as in Rocío’s case, fathers (Castells Oliván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo 2009a, 45). In short, such women continued to be seen as emotional, and hence unpredictable, beings rather than as exhibiting the masculine rationality considered necessary for full participation in the public sphere (33). Nevertheless, Rocío’s purposeful undermining of her physical self, essential to Guillermo’s happiness, evokes the scorched earth tactics that render an enemy-occupied territory unviable, demonstrating a calculated determination worthy of a military strategist. Her enactment of femininity highlights that so-called masculine reason and feminine emotion are not distinct concepts, but rather, function interdependently. Likewise, although Rocío marries to preserve her father’s life, a heroic deed that conforms to the conventional paradigm of feminine abnegation expected of women, her behaviour also exemplifies the principle of self-sacrifice deemed essential for male citizenship: “War is the means to attain recognition, to pass, in a sense, the definitive test of political manhood” (Elshtain 1992, 143). By refusing the possibility of motherhood, women’s traditional role at the service of others, Rocío’s actions transform her into a masculinized icon for Spanish independence and patriotism. Through Rocío, de los Ríos affirms her belief in a morally superior, eternal Spanish spirit rooted in a supposedly natural, emotional attachment to the native land. At the same time, by giving casticismo a name, face, and gender, de los Ríos’s Rocío historicizes the concept of intra-historia, affirms her author’s engagement in cultural politics, and vindicates women’s place in national history. Yet, while Rocío’s repatriation as a corpse elevates her as the purportedly pure spirit of Spanish fin-de-siècle nationalism, it also intimates, as Johnson (2003, 31) declares, that women’s only legitimate identity then was as a nation’s “soul,” which rendered invisible women’s realities and practices. Acting as a

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powerful prism, the War of Independence allows de los Ríos, in the context of Spain’s diminished status as an imperial power after the Disaster, to debate the nation’s possible options: casticismo or cosmopolitanism, military or cultural imperialism, a patriotism indebted to reason or a nationalism fuelled by passion, the embrace or rejection of Others. Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española attests to the multiple contradictions and anxieties of that contemporary moment’s dynamic engendering of individual, cultural, and national identities. Both Acuña’s Amor a la patria and de los Ríos’s Sangre española focus on modern Spain’s founding fiction, the sovereign people’s united defence of the nation’s integrity against foreign invasion in the War of Independence. Privileging female war heroes, their texts represent what Nicholas J. Rengger calls the “heroic mode” to argue for women’s extended rights and greater gender equality. Nevertheless, during the nineteenth century that paradigm of heroism gradually gave way to the “compassionate mode,” due to an increasing misalignment between the warrior’s virtues and modern weaponry. A product of Enlightenment thought, the compassionate mode upholds humanity’s moral progress and the ability of nations to settle their differences without war, or, should war prove inevitable, the requirement that it be fought justly (Rengger 2013, 50–2, 54). In chapters 3–4, it is this compassionate mode that comes to the fore in the writings on war of Concepción Arenal. Seeking not only to move readers but, more importantly, to prod them into action against war, Arenal’s texts shift compassion from private hearts and homes into the public sphere.

Chapter Three

Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain: Concepción Arenal’s Writings, 1869–79

Escusado es decir que las mujeres no se han de dedicar a la profesión de las armas, tan antipática a su natural sensible y compasivo. No deben ir a la guerra más que para curar a los heridos, ni arrostrar la muerte sino para salvar alguna vida. (It is hardly necessary to state that women should not dedicate themselves to the military profession, which runs counter to their natural sensitivity and compassion. They should not go to war except to cure the wounded, nor face death except to save a life; Arenal 1869b, 84)

Concepción Arenal devoted her life’s efforts and writings to bettering the situation of society’s most vulnerable. Turning on its head the notion of the warrior’s death for the mother/fatherland as a work of caritas (see Elshtain 1992, 145), she affirmed in Cartas a un obrero that the greatest weapon against war was charitable love: “[E]l amor enfrente del odio, el bien enfrente del mal…. [L]a caridad triunfará de la guerra…. ¿Qué importa el fusil de aguja, ni las ametralladoras? La guerra no sale de los parques ni de los arsenales, sino del corazón del hombre; y el día en que los pueblos se amen, las armas … caerán de sus manos” (Love against hate, good against evil…. Charity will triumph over war…. What do needle guns or machine guns matter? War does not come out of parks or arsenals, but from men’s hearts; and the day when peoples love one another, weapons will fall from their hands; Arenal [1871–3] 1895, 203–4).1 This chapter opens by discussing the role that charity played in granting eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women greater access to the public sphere and the relationship of charity with Arenal’s thoughts on the patria and war. I then examine those essays and major works that address war, drawing on periodical articles published in La

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Voz de la Caridad (The Voice of Charity), Cartas a un obrero (Arenal [1871– 3] 1895), and her treatise A los vencedores y a los vencidos (Arenal 1869a). I give special prominence to her Cuadros de la guerra (Arenal [1874–6] 2005), which arose from her first-hand experience of the Third Carlist War. I do not provide details regarding Arenal’s life; nor do I cover those aspects of her feminist and social thinking already reviewed in other studies.2 Arenal’s foregrounding of charity resonates with its importance for classical republicanism. As Viroli elucidates, the Roman patria as republic exalted pietas or caritas: a compassionate charity or love for the patria synonymous with justice. For the medieval historian Ptolemy of Lucca, all other virtues stemmed from charity, which privileged common interests over private ones (Viroli 2003, 19–22). While Arenal was not a Republican – indeed, she criticized the Spanish First Republic, as I develop below – she was a non-partisan, Catholic liberal who aimed to effect far-reaching changes for society’s disadvantaged through the practice of charity.3 As Elizabeth Franklin Lewis argues, charity, associated with the Christian duty to alleviate socio-economic injustices, provided a path for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women to extend their roles beyond the family into the civic sphere.4 For women like María Josefa Gálvez in the Junta de Damas (Ladies’ Association) of Madrid’s Real Sociedad Económica (Royal Economic Society), charitable works were a public good. Such a perspective echoed that of Bernardo Ward, minister of the Real Junta de Comercio y Moneda (Royal Monetary and Trade Board) under Fernando VI, for whom charity served the state because it sought to resolve poverty and idleness so as to stimulate economic growth (Franklin Lewis 2011, 185, 187–90). Indeed, for those ladies charity became a form of “political activism” and their work in women’s prisons, foundling hospitals, and on behalf of the poor would pave the way for Arenal’s later contributions in such areas (Franklin Lewis 2008, 267, 272). As Vialette (2018, 27) remarks, philanthropy afforded women an entry point for action in wider public spheres. Romanticism fuelled the belief that women’s passions and emotions gave them a greater capacity for understanding the pain and suffering of others, which legitimized their participation in associations that sought reform on issues like slavery, mental health, orphans, workers, prisons, poverty, and women: everything that encompassed the so-called Social Question (Guardia Herrero 2007, 612). In the early nineteenth century the War of Independence opened up further avenues for women in the public sphere through what Castells Oliván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo term a charity of war (2009a, 41).

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This form of charity pertains not only to Arenal’s works in this chapter and the next, but also to Carmen de Burgos’s writings on World War I in chapters 8 and 9. Arenal’s entire life work was dedicated to charity as social action and reform, mirroring what Barnett terms the translation of “sympathy into collective action” (2011, 51), while her essay writing, as Estelle Irizarry (1998, 13) affirms, becomes “a continuous activity related to action” (original emphasis). Her vision of charity moves beyond a strictly Christian sense to blur into philanthropy and beneficence, in keeping with the period’s changing perceptions of these concepts and the roots of beneficence, “the virtue of doing good to another,” in both Christian and Enlightenment values (Valis 2010, 110–11).5 On discussing Arenal’s La Beneficencia, la Filantropía y la Caridad (Beneficence, Philanthropy, and Charity, 1861), Vialette indicates that Arenal defined beneficence as “la compasión oficial, que ampara al desvalido por un sentimiento de orden y de justicia” (compassion in an official sense that protects the destitute out of a sense of order and justice), philanthropy as “la compasión filosófica, que auxilia al desdichado por amor a la humanidad y la conciencia de su dignidad y de su derecho” (philosophical compassion, which assists the unfortunate out of love for humanity and the awareness of their dignity and rights), and charity as “la compasión cristiana que acude al menesteroso por amor de Dios y del prójimo” (Christian compassion that helps the needy out of love of God and one’s neighbour; Arenal [1861] 1894, 76; quoted in Vialette 2018, 95). I consider that Arenal’s active compassion, or what I also term compassionate reason, combines in a powerful whole beneficence, philanthropy, and charity in the quest for justice, rights, and love. Such a compassion informed by order and justice also saw Arenal campaign against slavery in her poetry, periodical essays, and theatre (see Tsuchiya 2020). Arenal’s notion of charity arguably recovers the Enlightenment concept of an socially productive sensibility, which, Mónica Bolufer (2016, 23) elucidates, sought to harmonize reason with sentiment.6 While women were considered naturally predisposed to a sympathetic identification with others, the reconciliation of reason with sentiment also signalled “the respectable moral subject and citizen” (26). Particularly important for my reading of Arenal’s works on war was the construction of sensibility as key in undermining any separation between the private and public spheres (30). My understanding, therefore, of Arenal’s notion of an active charity that infuses reason with compassion diverges somewhat from that of Rebecca Haidt (2016, 87), who considers that Arenal’s compassionate philanthropy veers more towards reason than sympathy.7

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The sheer volume and range of charitable projects that Arenal promoted is staggering. She belonged to the philanthropic Society of St. Vincent de Paul and set up a women’s branch in Potes (Cantabría),8 served as inspector of women’s prisons (1868–73), and published numerous writings on charity (Lacalzada de Mateo 1994, 88–98). In the first of these pieces, La Beneficencia, la Filantropía y la Caridad, which in 1860 received a prize from the Academia de Ciencias Morales y Políticas (Academy of Moral and Political Sciences), Arenal emphatically affirmed: “LA CARIDAD ES LA JUSTICIA” (Charity is justice; Franklin Lewis 2011, 199–200).9 This statement echoes French philosopher Félicité Lamennais’s 1834 declaration that charity was “the consummation of justice” (Valis 2010, 114). Another of Arenal’s major works on charity was her book-length essay El Pauperismo (Pauperism; Arenal 1897), which María G. Navarro has examined in relation to Pérez Galdós’s novel Misericordia (Compassion; 1897), published that same year. Navarro stresses that, as Arenal herself stipulated in El Paupe­rismo, charity must work hand in hand with justice and find solutions in the sociopolitical arena. Charity’s full moral potential can be achieved only if it becomes a collective social virtue backed by political measures, working to perfect society (Navarro 2010, 153–5). These concepts are not only essential for classical formulations of charity or love, as seen above. They also characterize what Barnett terms an “alchemical humanitarianism,” which, grounded in religion and Enlightenment values, seeks to transform sociopolitical worlds by attacking the underlying reasons for human ills (2011, 39–40). Arenal also founded a fortnightly periodical, La Voz de la Caridad (1870–84), with the financial help of Juana de la Vega (Countess of Espoz y Mina) and prominent Krausist Fernando de Castro (Clemente 1994, 38; Díaz Castañón 1993, 31).10 As the editorial in the first issue for 1873 affirmed, the periodical aimed to “popularizar todas las cuestiones relativas a la situación de los pobres y de los encarcelados, … [T]ratamos igualmente otras cuestiones de moral y de conveniencia social; que también vemos caridad en ilustrar la ignorancia del pobre” (popularize all the issues relevant to the situation of the poor and the incarcerated…. We will give equal weight to other matters beneficial to morality and society; because we also consider it a matter of charity to educate the ignorant poor; quoted in Clemente 1994, 39–40). It was La Voz de la Caridad that first published Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra, which depicts the suffering of rank-and-file soldiers and the civilian population in the Third Carlist War.11 During this conflict La Voz became the mouthpiece for the Red Cross’s Women’s Committee from 12 January 1874 until 1 March 1876 (Clemente 1994, 40; Simón Palmer 2017, 119).

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The first manifestation of what would by 1868 become the Spanish Red Cross, the Spanish section of the Asociación Internacional de Socorro a Heridos en Campaña de Mar y Tierra (International Association for Assisting the Wounded in Naval and Land Campaigns), was established in July 1864 (Mas Espejo 2016, 35–8). In February 1863 Henry Dunant had founded in Geneva the Red Cross, an organization beyond borders that would provide emergency humanitarian assistance and help protect a nascent international humanitarian law (Barnett 2011, 79–81). In 1870 Dr. Nicasio Landa founded the monthly La Caridad en la Guerra: Anales de la Asociación internacional de socorro a los heridos (Charity in Wartime: Annals of the International Association for Assisting the Wounded), the mouthpiece for the Spanish Red Cross. That same year the Comisión Central de Señoras (Ladies’ Central Commission) emerged, aided by provincial branches of the Señoras de Caridad (Ladies of Charity). Their mission was to care for the wounded, irrespective of their political affiliation, raise funds, prepare bandages, and collect clothes and blankets (see figure 3.1).12 In May 1873 Arenal, by then secretary general of Spain’s National Women’s Red Cross, had occasion to witness first-hand in Miranda de Ebro the atrocities of war on the frontline and at the blood hospital, where she remained for five months tending wounded soldiers, among whom was her own son, Ramón (Bernaldo de Quirós 1934, 5; Díaz Castañón 1993, 37; Simón Palmer, 2017, 117–21; see figure 3.2).13 As Béjar (2000, 211) explains, love and charity play indispensable parts in modern virtue’s emergence in a third space of collective action and altruistic associations that corresponds neither to the public sphere of state agendas or market concerns nor to the intimate world of the family. Volunteer associations like the Red Cross in which Arenal participated belong in this third space. They exemplify the kind of “comunidad fluida y electiva” (fluid and elective community) that Béjar sees as characterizing today’s NGOs, while, as social mediators for marginalized persons, volunteers embody “una nueva virtud en la comunidad asociativa de una república moderna” (a new virtue in the associative community of a modern republic; 212, 214–15). Charity is the essence of disinterested love or compassion, which in turn engenders an interdependent community of care and a democratic altruism that fosters a long-term, progressive political and civic vision (221–3). In Aristotelian terms, the virtue of compassion referred to a love or charity that required the sacrifice of the self for others. Charity of this type was seen in terms of a social maternity and a contribution to society’s moral progress (Ramos 2005, 47). For Ruddick, what she calls a maternal practice or “work of mothering” underpins her understanding

Figure 3.1.  Madrid: Preparación de hilas y vendajes por las Señoras de la “Cruz Roja,” en el palacio de la Duquesa viuda de Medinaceli (Preparation of Strips and Bandages by the Ladies of the Red Cross, in the Palace of the Dowager Duchess of Medinaceli) by Josep Lluís Pellicer (1874d). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1874).

Figure 3.2.  Somorrostro: Hospital de sangre en la iglesia de San Juan: Mañana del 26 de febrero, horas después del combate de Abanto (Blood Hospital in the Church of San Juan: Morning of 26 February, Hours after the Battle of Abanto) by Josep Lluís Pellicer (1874f). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1874).

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of a “rationality of care” (1990, 237–8). Drawing on Hannah Arendt’s concept of natality, as outlined in The Human Condition (1958, 177–8), which premises the positive rebirth of sociopolitical worlds on creative, innovative action, Ruddick affirms that what is paramount in this rationality of care is “a sturdy antimilitarist conception of the body,” the privileging of nascent life over death, protecting bodies rather than killing them (1990, 247–9). Arenal strove to enact such a rationality of care, in which emotion and compassion combine with reason to form a patriotic love that goes beyond circumscribed interests. Consequently, in the thirty-six letters that comprise Cartas a un obrero, first published in La Voz de la Caridad (15 May 1871–1 September 1873), she affirms to her addressee, Juan Pueblo, representative of Spain’s working class: “Pero si la patria se siente; si el patriotismo, más bien que un raciocinio, es un sentimiento, no quiere decir esto que sea un absurdo; muy por el contrario, la razón le sanciona” (But if one feels the patria; if patriotism, more than a matter of reasoning, is one of feeling, it does not mean that this is absurd; quite to the contrary, reason validates it; Arenal [1871–3] 1895, 475; original emphasis).14 Whereas in ancient Rome and Sparta, Arenal declares, love of country came before love of family, such a state of affairs was inappropriate; the love of family, country, and humanity are all necessarily compatible, because they reconcile public and private virtue for social progress: “El amor de la patria, armónico con el de la familia y de la humanidad, es una necesidad social, porque sin él toda obra de progreso y de perfección sería imposible” (Love of country, compatible with that for the family and humanity, is a social necessity, because without it all works of progress and perfection would be impossible; 479; original emphasis). In her opening to A los vencedores y a los vencidos, a thirty-five-page essay against the 1868 Glorious Revolution structured in two chapters, Arenal responds to her rhetorical question of how a woman can write a militantly political piece on a contemporary matter. She affirms that although it is inappropriate for women leave their homes for electoral matters, it is their obligation to go out into the streets to relieve the suffering of others (Arenal 1869a, 4). When politics becomes a matter of humanity, she insists, it is incumbent on all thinking and feeling beings, regardless of their gender, to seek solutions to society’s ills (14). Arenal’s writings thus reflect, as Vialette (2015, 460) maintains, her desire “to become a tribuna, a woman who intercedes in political issues.” In her longer first chapter, dedicated to the defeated, the common people, Arenal, unlike Acuña, declares her opposition to a federal republic. Not only will such a form of government, she opines,

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dismember the nation, but it also contradicts the tendency of other societies to form large associations (Arenal 1869a, 17). From one day to the next a nation of slaves cannot become a nation of citizens, because a people with rights must first know how to fulfil its many duties. Collective moral progress requires evolution, not revolution: “[P]or escalones, y muy graduados, se van elevando los pueblos” (Step by step, and very gradually, peoples elevate themselves; 24). Revolution and freedom are not synonymous (18–19). Revolutions depend on violence, whereas freedom rests on reason: “[L]a libertad es cuestión de derecho, de justicia, de ciencia, de virtud…. Para hacer libre a un pueblo, lo que hay que enseñarle es el ejercicio de la razón, no el del fusil” (Freedom is a matter of rights, justice, science, virtue…. To make a people free, what one must teach them is how to wield reason instead of a gun; 19). Rather than an empire founded on military force, what is required is an “imperio de la razón” (empire of reason; 23). Arenal addresses her second chapter to the vencedores or conquerors, the middle and upper classes, whose negligence to address adequately a people’s intellectual and moral education has provoked the latter’s revolutionary uprisings: “Errores en el orden intelectual, culpas en el orden moral, han preparado en el orden político la última insurrección” (Mistakes regarding intellectual matters, blame with respect to moral issues, have prepared the most recent insurrection in the political sphere; Arenal 1869a, 30). Condemning the government for using bombs against Valencia, Arenal declares: “¡El bombardeo! … esa arma que la conciencia universal rechazará un día con horror; el bombardeo, que no se debe llevar a los más irreconciliables enemigos extranjeros, se ha empleado contra los propios, contra los hermanos” (Bombing! … that weapon that universal conscience will one day reject in horror; bombing, which should not be deployed against the most embattled foreign enemies, has been used against our own flesh and blood, our brothers and sisters; 32). War binoculars, she warns, cloud longer-term political vision. True strength does not depend on the number of soldiers but on the weight of justice, and those most responsible for war are those who represent it as necessary. By exacerbating class divisions, the revolution has opened in the national body a wound of hatred that only charity can cure (34–5). As in A los vencedores y a los vencidos, many of Arenal’s Cartas a un obrero portray war as symptomatic of an underlying class exploitation in which the poor are always the first to pay with their blood, as in “Carta primera” (Letter 1; Arenal [1871–3] 1895, 20).15 In these epistolary essays to Juan Pueblo, Arenal seeks to persuade him to achieve his rights through reason rather than violence: “[L]as armas … no han

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salvado nunca ninguno…. [M]e he propuesto exhortarte a que encomiendes tu derecho a tu razón, y no a tus manos” (Weapons … have never saved anyone…. I have resolved to exhort you to commend your rights to your reason, not to your fists; 17). In “Carta Décimoquinta: Del progreso” (Letter 15: On Progress), Arenal maintains that the moral standing of combatants must be judged according to their efforts to avoid conflict and their treatment of wounded enemies (199). In her essay “Cartagena” Arenal records the destruction that the First Republic’s army wrought in Cartagena to quash the Cantonal rebellion there.16 Likening the city’s destruction to two combatants’ pitiless assault on an honourable matron who has taken no part in their quarrel, she asks how its inhabitants will live, with their homes razed to the ground and the city reduced to a “tumba donde hay espectros que lloran” (tomb where ghosts weep; Arenal 1873, 296). Although Arenal denies, tongue in cheek, her ability to write on political matters, she raises a legal question: the state’s responsibility to rebuild a city that it has destroyed, in the same way that the state indemnifies property that it expropriates for the public good (296).17 The calamitous situation of a war-stricken Cartagena again features in “La ciudad desolada” (The Desolate City; Arenal 1874c). Personifying the city as a grieving mother, the essay represents the before and after of war. In the past Cartagena was prosperous and happy, a sanctuary of peace, tolerance, and compassion (28); in the present she is a “¡madre infeliz!” (unhappy mother!) who weeps “como sobre una tumba en un desierto” (as over a tomb in a desert; 30). Men’s appropriation of her arsenals, fortresses, and ships has deprived her of her ability to defend herself. Enchained and plunged into absolute desolation, with her husband and children dead and abandoned by her “sister” cities (29), Cartagena embodies all the characteristics of the nineteenth-century symbol of the nation, the Mater Dolorosa. Here Arenal’s personification of a traumatized city and her foregrounding of emotional intimacy run counter to the depersonalized abstraction of enemies and emotional distancing from them that military training requires. As Elshtain (1985, 50) explains, drawing on J. Glenn Gray: “One basic task of a state at war is to portray the enemy in terms as absolute and abstract as possible in order to distinguish as sharply as possible the act of killing from the act of murder.” In “Cartagena” Arenal underlines the artist’s responsibility to capture war’s humanitarian crises so as to awaken the spectator’s charitable action: “Si un pintor de genio hiciera un cuadro de La vuelta a Cartagena de sus hijos desdichados; si este cuadro se expusiera a la conmiseración pública, y al lado un cepillo para recoger limosna, ¿quién negaría su óbolo?” (If

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a genius painted The Return to Cartagena of her unfortunate children; if this picture were exhibited for public commiseration, with a donation box beside it, who could possibly refuse to give?; Arenal 1873, 297). Central therefore to Arenal’s writings on war is her intense preoccupation with the ethical implications of representing conflict. In the first of seven unsigned letters that she wrote from Miranda de Ebro’s Red Cross hospital for La Voz de la Caridad, she plays with the military meaning of “ingresar en caja” (to call up) to stress the public’s indifference to silenced horrors: “[C]omprendí mejor que nunca la horrible significación de esta frase que con tanta indiferencia se lee en los periódicos: Han ingresado en caja, ciento, mil, veinte mil mozos de la reserva” (I understood more than ever the terrible meaning of this phrase that one reads in the press with such indifference: they have called up / placed in coffins one hundred, a thousand, twenty thousand young reservists; Arenal 1874a, 100; original emphasis; see figure 3.3). Like Susan Sontag (2003) more than a century later, Arenal criticizes the press’s promotion of reprehensible acts to feed some readers’ insatiable appetite for violence. How to depict war appropriately is arguably the major theme in Arenal’s first letter, where she narrates, on journeying from Madrid to Miranda de Ebro, her first-hand observations of the conflict’s effects on village families.18 In Pozaldez the scene of mothers farewelling young sons who have been called up encapsulates, Arenal considers, all of war’s hardships and pathos: “En aquellas mujeres … estaba la guerra, toda la guerra, todas las fatigas de la marcha, toda la sangre del campo de batalla, todas las torturas del convoy de heridos, todas las angustias del hospital” (In those women … you could see war, the whole of war, all the exhaustion of the forced march, all the blood of the battlefield, all the tortures of the convoy of the wounded, all the anguish of the hospital; Arenal 1874a, 99). The unforgettable scene awakens her compassion: “[M]i alma quería unirse a todas aquellas almas y como empaparse en todos aquellos dolores…. Jamás podré olvidar aquel cuadro” (My soul wanted to become one with all those souls and immerse itself in all that suffering…. I will never be able to forget that scene; 99). Her stress on the emotional impact of this “cuadro” (scene/painting) recalls the eighteenth-century notion of sentiment, which encompassed not only the sensorial perception of objects but also the emotions that arose from this perception (Bolufer 2016, 23). By enveloping her anti-war message in an emotive narrative, Arenal’s letter corroborates how compassion, as Nussbaum (2013, 209) declares, must be conveyed through concrete objects, images, and stories so as to produce altruistic action. Arenal laments her inability to paint satisfactorily war’s miseries and provoke the spectator’s abhorrence of conflict: “Siento no ser pintor,

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Figure 3.3.  Entrar en caja. Parodia de frases militares (1915; To Be Called Up: Parody of Military Phrases). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

gran pintor, para consagrar mi genio a pintar todos los dolores que consigo lleva la guerra y hacerla tan odiosa y tan odiada como merece serlo. De ningún modo llenaría mejor el arte su misión elevada, que … haciendo penetrar en los ánimos el horror a los combates sangrientos” (I regret not being a painter, a great painter, so as to consecrate my genius to painting all the pain that war causes and to make war as hateful and hated as it deserves to be. In no other way would art better fulfil its noble mission than … by awakening in souls their abhorrence of bloody battles; Arenal 1874a, 99). What is important, she determines, is not to beautify the scene along idealized classical lines but rather to represent its grotesque realism to capture raw emotional truths – principles that recall those in Goya’s Desastres de la Guerra and Cuadros negros (Black paintings): El genio estaba allí, no en idealizar, sino en copiar la realidad. No había que pintar el dolor embellecido y contorneado, ni matronas de formas correctas, tez sonrosada y elegantes vestiduras: no; las madres de Pozal­ dez eran negras, desgreñadas, haraposas, horribles para los ojos … pero

Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain  69 trasfiguradas por el dolor, tenían esa belleza sublime, que … sale del alma y llega a ella. (Genius lay not in idealizing but in copying reality. It was not necessary to paint an embellished, well-contoured suffering, nor well-proportioned matrons with rosy complexions and elegant attire: no, Pozaldez’s mothers were black, dishevelled, in rags, horrible to behold … but transfigured by pain, they possessed a sublime beauty, that … comes from the soul and touches souls; 100)

Arenal’s deliberation on how best to represent suffering raises the same concerns as Margot Norris (2000, 20): “Can art overcome its internal constitutive difficulty in addressing the violent, the cruel, and the ugly without transforming it into beauty, without endowing it with aesthetic effects, … without bringing to redemption what should be irredeemable?” Attesting to Arenal’s unwilling witnessing of war are the twenty-four vignettes of her Cuadros de la guerra. Originally Cuadros 1–16 were published in La Voz de la Caridad between 15 November 1874 and 15 July 1875, while Cuadros 18–23 appeared between 15 March and 15 August 1876. When first published, the texts enjoyed a certain literary success (Caballé 2018, 261), while the work as a whole was published as a book in 1880.19 Questioning the binary opposites on which conventional war narratives depend, the vignettes seek to galvanize public sentiment against all wars, as Susana Gil-Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero (2016, 67) notes in one of very few studies on this text to date.20 The body of work with which Arenal’s Cuadros have been most compared are Goya’s eighty-two aquatint prints, Desastres de la Guerra, which expose the brutality and suffering of the War of Independence. Posthumously published in 1863, just eleven years prior to Arenal’s Cuadros, Goya’s Desastres deliver an invitation to compassion. In many respects, Arenal’s renditions establish a dialogue with not only Goya’s subject matter but also the drawings of Josep Lluís Pellicer (1842–1901) on the Third Carlist War, which, like Arenal’s work, convey a stark authenticity that engages the senses.21 Written in simple prose to ensure maximum comprehension and as wide a readership as possible,22 Arenal’s fictionalized accounts are grounded in everyday histories, forming a counter-history to official war annals. As in Goya’s and Pellicer’s representations, war is not just what occurs on the battlefield but encompasses the hardships of recruits, the anguish of women and children, the horror experienced equally by soldiers on opposing sides (see figures 3.4 and 3.5). The text’s very fragmentation into scenes suggests

Figure 3.4.  Campamento de Las Carreras durante los últimos temporales de lluvia y viento (Camp at Las Carreras during the Recent Rain and Wind Storms) by Josep Lluís Pellicer (1874a). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1874).

Figure 3.5.  Combate en el cerro de Muniain (Pico de Villatuerta), el 3 del actual (Battle on the Muniain Heights [Villatuerta Peak], on the Third of the Present Month) by Josep Lluís Pellicer (1875). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1875).

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how war tears apart bodies, families, and lives, while the sheer reiteration of analogous situations, characters, and circumstances labours war’s harrowing realities to seek maximum emotional impact.23 Each cuadro relates a single situation, bearing witness to a historical moment like a photograph: “Memory freeze-frames; its basic unit is the single image” (Sontag 2003, 22). Expressing in Cuadro 15 her desire to be a painter – “Si yo fuera un gran pintor, lanzaría a esta ley el anatema de mi genio …” (If I were a great painter, I would use my genius to curse this [state] law; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 105) – Arenal insists on the veracity of what she narrates (119n1, 122). The authority that this assurance bestows is reiterated in her characters, who themselves function as witnesses to the atrocities portrayed. Thus in Cuadro 20, for instance, a man who accompanies an old woman emphasizes that he has seen war’s irrationality first-hand – “[H]abía visto tantas veces prescindir de la razón” (He had seen reason abandoned so many times) – while the text highlights the sense of sight: “Se veía en las alturas tierra empapada en sangre, tumbas de muchos jóvenes” (One could see on the hills earth soaked in blood, the tombs of many young men; 136). As in other works noted above, in her Cuadros Arenal indirectly compares writing to painting for their mutual ability to reveal terrible truths. Hence in Cuadro 21 the entire scene turns on the observation of a painting composed by a young orphaned man whose two brothers have been shot by bandits. The painter is among those, the text states, “cuyo cuerpo o cuya alma se hace pedazos al estrellarse contra la vida” (whose body or soul is shattered when it collides with life; 140). According to the dictionary of the Royal Spanish Academy, the term cuadro refers to a “descripción, por escrito o de palabra, de un espectáculo o suceso, tan viva y animada, que el lector o el oyente pueda representarse en la imaginación la cosa descrita” (written or verbal description of a spectacle or event that is so vivid and lifelike that readers or listeners can evoke the thing described in their own imagination; Gil-Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero 2016, 61). Whereas a visual image of an event provides viewers with what the artist wants them to see within a specific frame and the option of seeing or not,24 written accounts draw readers into their story, because the very acts of reading and constructing meaning demand attentiveness; readers thus become complicit in the text’s world and implicitly answerable to it. By conjuring up the scenes from the printed words readers become their own painters of woes, both author and reader, imaginary perpetrator and victim. Hence Arenal’s Cuadros do not represent war at a distance, a concept captured to perfection by World War I Dutch cartoonist Louis ­Raemaekers (1869–1956; see figure 3.6).25 On the contrary, they catapult readers into the lives and souls of its participants and victims. Yet

Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain  73

Figure 3.6.  El Kaiser y su hijo en la gran batalla, vistos por un holandés (The Kaiser and His Son at the Great Battle, as Seen by a Dutchman) by Louis Raemaekers (1916a). The caption reads: “El hijo: ‘Necesitamos elevar más la pirámide para divisar desde aquí a Verdun’” (The son: “We need to raise the pyramid more so as to see from here to Verdun”). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

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confronting a reading/viewing public with unpalatable truths makes their engagement with the subject matter difficult, as Sontag (2003, 42) highlights: “There is shame as well as shock in looking at the close-up of a real horror. Perhaps the only people with the right to look at images of suffering of this extreme order are those who could do something to alleviate it.” Just as Sontag acknowledges the emotional toll that viewing terrible realities produces, so too does Arenal confess her own reluctance, and implied duty, to see in her first letter from the war hospital: “[N]o tuve valor para seguirlas [esas escenas] presenciando: me oculté en el fondo del coche, corrí la cortina, lloré …” (I did not have the courage to continue witnessing them [those scenes]: I recoiled into the carriage, I drew the curtain, I wept; Arenal 1874a, 100). Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra do not denounce one specific war but call out the pain that all wars cause, as in Cuadro 1 – “Los hombres de guerra no dan un paso sin producir un dolor” (Soldiers cannot take a single step without causing suffering; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 27) – and a military glory based on the torture of others, as in Cuadro 3: “[D]e todas estas torturas se compone la gloria militar” (Military glory is made up of all these tortures; 36). Her consistent use of the present tense not only plunges readers into the contemporary moment. It also renders her depictions timeless, given that “wartime,” as Favret puts it, “produces a history of the present always permeable to other presents, other wartimes” (2010, 30).26 Strengthening this sense of timelessness is the absence of dates in most Cuadros. Likewise, the anonymity of the majority of characters serves to make their stories and condemnation of war universal. If, as Sontag remarks, so-called just wars rely on preserving identities to justify continued conflict – “To those who are sure that right is on one side … and that the fighting must go on, what matters is precisely who is killed and by whom” (Sontag 2003, 10) – Arenal’s mainly anonymous characters make war equally immoral for both sides. Places are similarly anonymized, as in Cuadro 6 with “la ciudad de N.” (the town of N.), the “pueblo de H.” (the village of H.; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 53), or Cuadro 7 with “la estación de H.” (station H.; 63).27 Again, such a lack of precise spatial references, while perhaps due to censorship, also corresponds, as noted in my introduction, with Favret’s concept of wartime as a subjective, emotional experience outside conventional parameters of space and time (2010, 18). Far from demonizing soldiers and so preserving the binaries on which wars depend, Arenal records acts of heroism and compassion among both Republicans and Carlists. Cuadro 7 features a young corporal, symbolically named Ángel and married with two young sons. Although his father, a lowly official, was able to educate him, he could

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not buy him out of military service. When the train on which he is travelling comes under attack at a station, Ángel offers to change place with a female traveller to protect her. As a result he is wounded and eventually dies (Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 61–4). Cuadro 23 relates the story of a young Republican soldier who must go to war, leaving behind his wife and four children. When he is conquered in battle, the Carlist officer attempts to prevent his death at the hands of a mob but to no avail. The narrative provides readers with the perspectives of not only the conquered but also the conqueror, who, despite the military’s attempt to numb its soldiers’ emotions, is overcome with sorrow on remembering the dead soldier: “Este cuadro le impresiona dolorosamente” (This scene makes a painful impression on him; 153). The themes of suffering and sorrow omnipresent in Arenal’s Cuadros also render these narratives allegorical renditions of Christ’s Passion. As a Catholic, Arenal lends moral weight to her narratives through the implied figures of Christ and Mary, who transform everyday protagonists into universal symbols of divine authority who demand justice. In Cuadro 19 Arenal couches a father’s search for his fourteen-year-old missing son as a calvary or “Via crucis” (Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 131), a trope again reiterated in Cuadro 22, when a mother’s twin sons are called up to fight in the army: “Empiezan el doloroso Via crucis …” (They begin the painful Way of the Cross; 146). Each of the Cuadros arguably serves as a symbolic Station of the Cross to represent Spain’s crucifixion through war, in the same way that Sontag (2003, 121) perceives photographs or paintings exhibited in museums or art galleries as “stations along a … stroll.” The witness par excellence to the suffering of the world, incarnate in Christ, is the Mater Dolorosa, whose presence in Arenal’s texts corresponds with what Susan Schweik (1989, 328) calls the “implicated observer,” whose observation of others’ suffering demands accountability. In Cuadro 6, therefore, the mother who searches for her wounded son represents the sorrow of all mothers at their children’s suffering: “[S]u rostro, su ademán, … eran como el reflejo y el resumen de todos aquellos dolores” (Her face, her bearing, … were the mirror and epitome of all that suffering; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 59). Likewise in Cuadro 9 the woman who searches for her husband, child in arms, is reminiscent of the Pietà: “[I]nmóvil está, y como clavada; si no temblase, parecería la estatua del dolor” (She remained motionless, as if nailed to the spot; were it not for her trembling, she would have resembled the statue of suffering; 73). The reference to nailing also evokes the Crucifixion, re-enacted in her murder by soldiers; a crime that none seeks to remedy and for which there are only innocent, inarticulate witnesses: “Lo

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único cierto es que la sangre corre por la ancha herida sin que nadie la ataje…. [N]o podía revelarlo [el terrible secreto] un niño dormido sobre el pecho de su madre muerta” (The only thing certain is that blood poured, unstaunched, from the deep wound…. A child asleep on his dead mother’s breast could not reveal the terrible truth; 74). Mary’s compassion at Christ’s Crucifixion is recalled in Cuadro 13, which portrays the suffering of an elderly mother who accompanies a column of soldiers, among whom is her son, Andrés. When he is killed in battle and his body is returned to her, she remains “como clavada en el suelo, con tal expresión de dolor” (as if nailed to the spot, with such an expression of suffering; 93). This insistence on the verb “to nail” reappears in Cuadro 14, which describes an anonymous village as “enclavado en el teatro de la guerra” (set deep into the theatre of war; 95). Consequently, in these Cuadros soldiers, civilians, and topographical sites all participate in an involuntary crucifixion or imitatio Christi that enjoins witnesses/readers to share in their suffering through compassion, and feel compelled to reject war and redeem society.28 Arenal’s allegorization of war in terms of Christ’s Passion prefigures Simone Weil’s World War II declaration that “the soul that is enslaved to war cries out for deliverance” ([1940–1] 1965, 20). Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra anticipate the anti-militaristic novel Waffen Nieder (Lay Down Your Arms, 1889) by the 1905 Nobel Peace Prize winner, Bertha von Suttner, which depicted the harsh realities of war on the frontline and rearguard (Ramos 2008, 50; 2016, 30). Later, Catholic feminist and then volunteer nurse Consuelo González Ramos (Celsia Regis), under the pseudonym Doñeva de Campos, published La mujer española en la campaña del Kert. Like Arenal, she there equates the practice of charitable love with patriotic virtue and urges the adoption of a transnational flag of peace and love representative of the principles of charity and fraternity (González Ramos 1912, 40, 156).29 Also in the context of Spain’s colonial war in Morocco, in 1921 Teresa de Escoriaza’s Del dolor de la guerra, a series of narrative “cuadros,” again evokes Arenal’s Cuadros in its emphasis on the suffering caused in war and the necessity of charitable action. In the following chapter I address Arenal’s analysis of how war dehumanizes its actors and contravenes natural law. Her call for international laws that defend human rights and principles of universal justice were truly revolutionary for her time and worthy of our continued consideration in the twenty-first century.

Chapter Four

The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace: Concepción Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra and Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes

La guerra, ese es el gran monstruo de millones de cabezas, con garras en número infinito, que se clavan en los mismos que le sustentan: combatámosle sin tregua, sin descanso. ¿Cómo? Con amor y con justicia … (War is that enormous monster with millions of heads, with an infinite number of claws, which it sinks into the very ones who sustain it: let’s combat it without truce, relentlessly. How? With love and justice; Arenal 1878, 56)

In “Docile Bodies” Michel Foucault elucidates how the eighteenth century witnessed the transition from an ideal of the soldier as upholding “a bodily rhetoric of honour” to another paradigm in which he became “something that can be made” under the dominion of “calculated constraint” (Foucault 1977, 135). As a consequence, the individual military body was conceived of as “a fragment of mobile space” and “part of a multi-segmentary machine” (164). Such a transformation required discipline and force to mould docile bodies, whose usefulness was mea­ sured in terms of their increased capacity to dominate (137–8).1 War’s turning of persons into objects is underlined by Weil, for whom “force” is “that x that turns anybody who is subjected to it into a thing” ([1940– 1] 1965, 6). This chapter explores Concepción Arenal’s exposure of how war dehumanizes both its perpetrators and its victims in her Cuadros de la guerra and Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes. In this latter work, on citing French jurist Jean-Étienne-Marie Portalis (1746–1807), she declares: “Constituye la guerra una relación de cosas, no de personas; … [L]os particulares de que estas naciones se componen no son enemigos sino accidentalmente, no lo son como hombres, ni aun lo son como ciudadanos, sino únicamente como soldados” (War consists of a

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relationship among things, not persons…. The individuals that form these nations are enemies only by accident, they are not enemies as men, nor even as citizens, but exclusively as soldiers; Arenal [1879] 1895, 218). Arenal’s Ensayo counters the principle of the just war, which sanctions legalized violence against Others, with what John Paul Lederach (2005, 182) defines as “justpeace”: “An orientation toward conflict transformation characterized by approaches that reduce violence and destructive cycles of social interaction and at the same time increase justice in any human relationship.” In Arenal’s Cuadros she repeatedly insists on how war objectifies men on making them into soldiers, stating in Cuadro 3: “No son hombres, son combatientes” (Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 35). The forced recruitment of men into the military already deadens them psychologically, as she develops in Cuadro 5 in relation to the colloquial saying, “caer soldado”: “Cuando la gente dice que éste o aquel hombre cae soldado, dice bien: el entrar sin voluntad en el servicio militar, y en tiempo de guerra, es una terrible caída, de que muchas veces no se levanta el que la da” (When people say that this or that soldier becomes a soldier, they are right: being forcibly recruited into military service, and in wartime, is a terrible fall, from which those who do fall rarely get up; 49; original emphasis).2 Her words evoke Freud’s concept of trauma, which, as Cathy Caruth explains, results from a fall or accident (Unfall), “transmitted precisely in the unconscious act of leaving. It is this unconsciousness of leaving that bears the impact of history” (1996, 22; original emphasis). History’s violent transformation of man into soldier, feeling into numbness, actual life into potential death, conveys what Favret (2010, 113) describes as “the violence of war,” on which she elaborates in words that resonate with Arenal’s above allusion to the soldier’s recruitment as a fall: “The collapse of the … figure into ground, coincides with a numbing or cancellation of the senses, no sentient being is left to feel the violence.” Military discourse relies on systems of classification that create partitioned, analytical, serial spaces for disciplinary, utilitarian procedures (Foucault 1977, 143–6). This taxonomic ordering constitutes the essence of war tactics, which depend on the organized distribution of human capital: “Tactics, the spatial ordering of men: taxonomy, the disciplinary space of natural beings; the economic table, the regulated movement of wealth” (148–9). In Arenal’s Cuadro 11, rank-and-file troops are reduced to numbers, as one soldier confirms: “Enfermo, muerto o herido, soy una baja temporal o definitiva…. Al hacer los estados del mes, figuro en una o en otra casilla, y nada más” (Whether ill, dead, or wounded, I am either a temporary or permanent military casualty…. When they

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do the monthly accounts, I figure in one box or the other, and that’s the end of it; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 81). Military personnel are enclosed in these abstracted cells or tables in the interests of order and dominance. In Cuadro 15 a soldier, sick with tuberculosis, desperately wants to leave the military hospital, where he is “el número tantos” (any old number), and return to his village, “donde los vecinos le llaman Vicente” (where the neighbours call him Vicente; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 105).3 Likewise, Cuadro 6 describes how wounded soldiers are loaded onto carts like objects: “Cuando se hallaban estibados sobre la tabla dura, el bagajero preguntaba si estaba cargado …” (When they were packed tightly together on the cart’s bare boards, the driver asked if it was loaded; 58; original emphasis).4 War’s elimination of every vestige of humanity, Cuadro 10 stresses, continues even after the soldiers’ death: “[A]umenta su horror [la matanza de una batalla] la horrible impiedad de despojar los cadáveres, de apropiarse o destruir todo lo que puede identificar al hombre que ya no existe …” (Increasing the horror of a battle’s casualties is the terrible wickedness of stripping the corpses, of appropriating or destroying anything that may identify the man who no longer exists; 77–8). Men cease to be men, Arenal’s text implies, in the moment that war makes them soldiers, subject to a process of objectification that death completes. War not only dehumanizes men but also depersonalizes military discourse. For Jane Marcus this “corruption of language” constitutes “war’s first casualty” (1989, 137). Arenal dwells on this issue at length. In Cuadro 17 she exposes how the “cleansed” language of warfare casts the assassination of innocent civilians as the impersonal bombardment or emptying out of a space: “[A]sesinar ancianos, mujeres y niños, desde muy lejos, sin riesgo alguno, es bombardear una plaza” (The murder of elderly men, women, and children, from afar, without any risk, that is what bombing a fortified town means; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 117). What military language does, Arenal denounces, is remove humanity from the picture, replacing people with symbolic blank canvases, people who here represent another meaning of “plaza”: a square symbolic of community and classical democracy. Depersonalization is essential for a sanitizing “rhetoric of conflict” that obfuscates atrocities rather than revealing them (Wittmann 2017, xv–xvi).5 Whereas the military sanitization of war removes accountability, however, Arenal’s discourse highlights war’s barbarity to demand answers and very often uses “hard” statistical evidence to lend authority to her accounts, as in Cuadro 8 ([1874–6] 2005, 67). In Cuadro 17 she likens the savagery of the village bombing to a ferocious beast’s attack on a defenceless flock. There her description of a young girl killed in her sleep stresses

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how war undoes form, structure, and meaning: “[A]quella criatura de belleza tan ideal no es ya más que una masa informe de huesos dislocados, de carne dislacerada, todo chorreando sangre” (That child, so incredibly beautiful, is now no more than a formless mass of dislocated bones, of ripped flesh, from which blood streams; 122). Against what Carol Cohn terms a “militarized masculinity and decontextualized rationality” (1990, 51), Arenal’s text privileges a contextualized rationality in conjunction with emotional engagement. Arenal’s criticism of military discourse was already paramount in her fifth letter from the Miranda de Ebro hospital, where she underscored the suffering behind the military term dos bajas (two casualties; Arenal 1874b, 227; original emphasis). For the military, the mortally wounded soldiers are merely “dos hombres fuera de combate, bien poca cosa” (two men down, nothing important), phrases that Arenal censures and juxtaposes with her own contrasting description: “El uno daba horror; tenía deshecha la cara, no veía ni podía hablar; … [L]as 39 horas que vivió, debieron ser de espantosa tortura” (The injuries of one were horrific; his face was destroyed, he could not see or speak…. The thirty-nine hours that he survived must have been an excruciating torture; 227). In military terms, she comments, to have a man down is negligible: “[S]i cayera, él solo, no habría más que una baja, pérdida que no era nada para el mundo” (Should he fall, he alone, there would be just one casualty, an inconsequential loss for the world; original emphasis); in comparison, for those whose loved ones die in war, that loss destroys their whole world: “[Q]ue lo era todo para la pobre mujer que le vio trasponer con tanta angustia …” (He was everything for that poor woman, who saw him leave with such anguish; 228).6 Consequently, in Cuadro 11 Arenal counterposes military statistics with moral statistics – the unquantifiable loss of spiritual health and virtue: “¡[C]uántos habrán perdido la honradez que es la salud del alma, y cuántos habrán muerto para la virtud!” (How many men will have lost their integrity, the soul’s health, and in how many will virtue have died!; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 82). In Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes, Arenal observes that war possesses a special dictionary that skews accepted and acceptable meanings: Se llama emboscarse, al acechar traidoramente al enemigo, y a destrozarle, cogiéndole descuidado, hacer una sorpresa. Apropiarse lo ajeno por fuerza, es vivir sobre el país, … [E]xigir por fuerza lo que la conciencia y la dignidad rechazan, se llama aplicar la ley marcial; es bombardear una plaza, sacrificar sin propio riesgo a los inermes que están en ella, y bloquearla, matarlos de hambre…. [P]reparar máquinas y aparatos con que un hombre sin peligro

The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace  81 inmola traidoramente a centenares de hombres, es hacer volar una mina o determinar la explosión de un torpedo; en fin, la tierra ensangrentada donde se cometen semejantes vilezas, se llama campo de honor. (To ambush means to treacherously lie in wait for the enemy, and to destroy him, to take him unawares, is to surprise him. To appropriate forcibly what is another’s is to live from the land…. To demand by force what conscience and dignity reject is defined as applying martial law; to bombard a fortification means to sacrifice without any risk to self those defenceless persons within it, and to blockade it, signifies to starve them to death…. To prepare equipment and military apparatus with which a man, without incurring any danger, can sacrifice hundreds of men is to detonate a mine or calculate the explosion of a torpedo; in conclusion, the blood-soaked earth where so many vile deeds are committed is called a field of honour; Arenal [1879] 1895, 328–9; original emphasis)

Her text clearly exposes how war deforms language “to metaphorize death and injury away” (Higonnet 1993a, 222). For Arenal, justice can be attained only through compassionate reason and the law, whose enemies are the agents of injustice, violence, and war. In Cuadro 17 the narrative voice takes issue with the concept of the law of warfare: “¡EL DERECHO DE LA GUERRA! … ¿Cómo pueden armonizarse dos elementos que se repelen constantemente…. El derecho es la mesura, … la justicia; la guerra es la temeridad, la violencia, la injusticia” (The right to wage war! … How to reconcile two elements that constantly repel each other…. The law involves moderation, … justice; war means temerity, violence, injustice; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 115; original emphasis) and “[L]a guerra es esencialmente impenetrable al derecho” (War is essentially the absolute antithesis to law; 117). Recalling Goya’s affirmation in his Capricho 43 that the sleep of reason produces monsters, Arenal casts war as antithetical to humanity, apocalyptically devouring all in its path: “Hacía cadáveres, esclavos, siervos, castas, clases; pasaba por las naciones, y quedaban aniquiladas; tocaba los imperios, y se desplomaban” (It produced corpses, slaves, serfs, castes, classes; it passed through countries, annihilating them; it touched empires, and they collapsed; 116). Repeatedly, as in Cuadro 22, she depicts war as an “insaciable monstruo” (insatiable monster; 147) . Arenal’s conceptualization of war as the monstrous antithesis of the law resonates with Foucault’s (2003, 64) theories on the monster as “the kind of natural irregularity that calls law into question and disables it.” The monster, Foucault insists, is

82  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century essentially a legal notion … since what defines the monster is the fact that its existence and form is not only a violation of the laws of society but also a violation of the laws of nature…. The monster is the limit, both the point at which law is overturned and the exception that is found only in extreme cases. The monster combines the impossible and the forbidden…. It is a breach of the law taken to its furthest degree. (55–6)

Following Foucault and Georges Canguilhem, Andrew N. Sharpe further stresses that “what is monstrous about monsters lies in … specifically, the transgression of the law of nature” (2007, 385–6). Arenal stresses this concept of monstrosity as a contravention of natural law, premised on rationality and what is ethically good, not only in her Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes, to which I turn shortly, but also throughout her Cuadros, referring in Cuadro 8 to “la guerra impía, invirtiendo las leyes de la naturaleza” (the unholy war that inverts nature’s laws; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 67).7 To underline war’s violation of natural law she resorts to the pathetic fallacy, which represents nature, traditionally associated with the feminine, as the innocent victim of men’s wars. Consequently in Cuadro 13, which relates an agricultural scene, the scythe that cuts the grass and flowers symbolizes the “guadaña de la guerra” (scythe of war) that, wielded by pen-bearing politicians for whom “la guerra es cuestión de números” (war is a matter of numbers), impersonally mows down men, “existencias tronchadas” (lives cut short; 89–90). In Cuadro 10, a sentient, personified nature grieves in the face of so much death: “La naturaleza parece llevar luto por tantos hombres como acaban de morir, inmolados por sus hermanos…. Que no se vista la tierra del color de la esperanza cuando hay tantos que la han perdido para siempre ni broten flores en este campo de muerte” (Nature seems to wear mourning for so many men who have just died, sacrificed by their brothers…. May the earth not wear the colour of hope while there are so many who have lost it forever, nor let flowers bloom in this field of death; 75). Cuadro 16 attests to Arenal’s belief that the physical world mirrors a society’s moral universe;8 there she represents the sea as a monster that assaults a desolate earth, while the beaches bear corpses and the rivers, blood (109). In a discursive system in which the monstrous has traditionally been associated with a transgressive femininity, Arenal’s writings on war upset the premises of a gendered body politic. Her deployment of metaphors that defamiliarize the natural world underscores how war, as Norris (2000, 24) indicates, unmakes worlds and deconstructs realities. Arenal’s quest to eliminate war through the exercise of laws informed by compassionate reason comes to the fore in her Ensayo sobre el Derecho

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de Gentes. Despite the importance of Arenal’s Ensayo for her thinking on war and its relationship with better-known texts like Cuadros de la guerra, it has been the subject of few scholarly studies.9 As far as contemporary appraisals of this major work were concerned, the limited number of reviews on its first publication in 1879 were favourable. Significantly, Arenal’s works received some attention in the Spanish press during World War I, when her critique of international codes of war hauntingly resonated with Raemaekers’s representations.10 In her Ensayo Arenal defines war as “el empleo de todos los medios violentos que consideran necesarios o convenientes dos Estados o colectividades poderosas que luchan entre sí, para conseguir un fin que puede o no ser justo” (the deployment of every violent measure that two embattled States or powerful groups deem necessary or appropriate, to achieve an end that may or may not be just; Arenal [1879] 1895, 181). She asserts that the logic of war produces its own rules and tends to confuse strategic value (“utilidad”) with a necessity perceived as equivalent to lawful right (240). War, Arenal reiterates, is beyond the law and reason, given that the notions of law and war are completely antagonistic: “Derecho es regla de justicia; guerra es solución de fuerza; de modo que existe entre ellos, más que separación o diferencia, anta­ gonismo y hostilidad; no sólo están discordes, sino que pugnan” (Law is the rule of justice; war means resolving the situation by force; consequently, rather than being separate or different concepts, they are mutually antagonistic and hostile; not only are they discordant but they are already in conflict; 177).11 Arenal’s emphasis on a law founded on reason in the cause of justice prefigures Ruddick’s (1990, 239) declaration that “the struggle to be ‘rational’ – to see what is real in all its complexity and ambiguity – is a peacemaker’s struggle. The task is to reconceive rationalities that will be instruments of non-violent action.” A profoundly erudite treatise of 544 pages on international law (ius gentium),12 Arenal’s Ensayo seeks to bring “una cuestión de humanidad ante el público” (a matter of humanity before the general public) so as to educate them to make appropriate decisions and transform theory into meaningful practice: “[H]oy debe procurarse que las ciencias sociales salgan de la Academia y de la Cátedra, y lleguen al público, para preparar la hora en que el público sea el pueblo: sólo cuando el pueblo comprenda ciertas verdades, podrán convertirse en hechos” (Nowadays every effort should be made for the social sciences to emerge from the Academy and the universities, and reach the general public, to prepare them for when they will be a sovereign people: only when the people understand certain truths will these truths translate into actions; Arenal [1879] 1895, 67, 69). The moral stature of nations depends

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on justice, which Arenal again equates with charity. Although international law, born from the union of intelligence with human conscience, is morally obligatory for every civilized nation, no nation can be forced to adopt it (73–4).13 At present international law is non-existent, because what triumphs is the thuggery of powerful nations: “Sólo los poderosos pueden ser intérpretes del Derecho político internacional, … arrojando en la balanza suficiente cantidad de hierro afilado: no hay ley que lo impida” (Only the powerful can interpret international law, … by throwing onto the scales sufficient quantities of sharpened iron: there is no existing law to prevent this; 80; see figure 4.1). What Irizarry (1998, 20) affirms when addressing the legal register in another of Arenal’s texts, La mujer del porvenir (The Woman of the Future; Arenal 1869b), also holds for her Ensayo: “She is making new law on the force of moral and ethical grounds.” Throughout the almost two hundred pages of chapter 8, “Relaciones hostiles” (Hostile Relations; 173–368), exclusively dedicated to the subject of ius in bello (the laws that govern appropriate standards, proportionality, and restraint in war to limit human suffering), Arenal draws on a host of contemporary ius-internationalists.14 Among them figure her friend, Nicasio Landa (1830–91), Henry Wheaton (1785–1848), Johann Kaspar Bluntschli (1808–81), August Wilhelm Heffter (1796–1880), Jean-Étienne-Marie Portalis (1746–1807), Francis Lieber (1798–1872), and Emmerich de Vattel (1714–67).15 Rather than serving to endow her arguments with masculine authority, Arenal’s inclusion of their deliberations highlights how well versed she was in international legislation on war, a field that was developing in the nineteenth century (Rengger 2013, 66). Indisputably knowledgeable in matters of the law – she reputedly attended the University of Madrid’s law school from 1842 to 1845 in male guise (Lacalzada de Mateo 2012, 71) – Arenal analyses, refines, and refutes the implications of their convoluted discourses on war. For Foucault such “legal labyrinth[s]” epitomize the essence of monstrosity, representing “a violation of and an obstacle to the law, both transgression and undecidability at the level of the law” (2003, 65). Arenal was not the first in her family to promote anti-war thinking. Her father, Ángel del Arenal, a military official of liberal education and persuasion, and vehemently anti-war, had in 1820 published his Ideas sobre el sistema militar de la nación española (Ideas on the Spanish Nation’s Military System), where he described war as “una de las mayores calamidades que afligen a la especie humana” (one of the greatest calamities to afflict humanity; quoted in Pérez Montero 2002, 14). Fostering the climate for Arenal’s Ensayo was Europe’s recovery, from the 1860s onwards, of the thought of one of the School of Salamanca’s legal theologians, Francisco de Vitoria (1483–1547), an early founder of the law of nations, while the 1860s witnessed the creation of new chairs

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Figure 4.1.  El prusianismo y la civilización (Prussianism and Civilization) by Louis Raemaekers (1916b). The caption reads: “‘La fuerza es el derecho supremo, y la disputa acerca de lo que es el derecho se decide por el arbitraje de la guerra’ (Bernhard)” (“Force/might is the supreme law, and any dispute over what is the law should be determined by war arbitration” [General Friedrich von Bernhardi, Germany and the Next War, 1912]). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

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in international law at Madrid’s Central University (Rasilla del Moral 2017, 57–9). Shortly before Arenal wrote her volume, Spain’s first conference on international law had taken place on 1 April 1877 at Madrid’s newly established Institución Libre de Enseñanza (Free Institute of Education), organized by Arenal’s contemporary, the abolitionist Rafael María de Labra (Rasilla del Moral 2017, 68). Abroad, the Institute of International Law, founded in Ghent in 1873, was inaugurated in Geneva the following year (López Cordón 1982, 708). Translations of major works on international law were also appearing in Spain, such as Wheaton’s 1841 Histoire des progrès du droit des gens en Europe, depuis la paix de Westphalie jusqu’au Congrès de Vienne, published in Spanish in 1861, and Heffter’s Derecho Internacional Público Moderno (1875). Landa’s 1867 El derecho de la Guerra conforme a la moral saw its third edition in 1877, while Swiss jurist Bluntschli’s Derecho Público Universal appeared in Spanish in 1880, the year following Arenal’s work (Rasilla del Moral 2017, 70, 75). As a result, Arenal’s work emerges among those of the first Spanish international jurists to combine “sociohistorical perspectives and positive law from a ius-naturalist perspective” (80). Her call for nations to limit their use of destructive weaponry and establish an international body for the peaceful resolution of conflict anticipates the 1892 founding of the Bureau Internationale de Paix in Bern. Whereas Arenal’s Cuadros are heavily emotive, seeking to arouse her readers’ indignation and compassionate action, her Ensayo elevates reason as her weapon against the emotions that national leaders harness to wage war. More than with their armies, Arenal insists, nations fight wars with emotive ideologies: “Las naciones no pueden combatirse con sus ejércitos, sin que todos sus intereses, todas sus ideas, todos sus afectos, todas sus fuerzas vivas, en fin, tomen parte en la lucha” (Nations cannot fight with their armies unless all their interests, ideas, feelings, in short, all their vital forces, enter into the fray; Arenal [1879] 1895, 220). What nations justify as necessary cruelty in war varies, she continues, according to the inconstant variables of human interests, passions, and ideologies (223–4).16 The treatise’s emphasis on reason heralds fin-desiècle pacifists such as Leo Tolstoy, Norman Angelli, and von Suttner, who, like Arenal, repudiated force on rational grounds and denounced the human cost of war (López Cordón 1982, 706). As in her Cuadros, in the Ensayo Arenal reinserts the humanity into war that military thinking would remove. Hence abstract states do not wage war but male citizens with families (Arenal [1879] 1895, 216–17). Indeed, she gives a nation human attributes, calling it a “persona colectiva” (collective person; 79). Against an ethos that objectifies war’s actors, Arenal perceives them as individuals rather than as cogs in its

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machine: “Hoy el enemigo tiene derechos, porque, aunque es enemigo, es hombre” (Today the enemy has rights, because, although an enemy, they are also men; 219). In so doing, she restores to them the rights that accompany reason and human dignity: “[L]a fuerza no es omni­ potente, sino que tiene límites que le imponen la razón, la conciencia y la dignidad humana” (Force is not all-powerful, but is subject to the limits imposed by reason, one’s conscience, and human dignity; 219). Paramount among the rights that Arenal claims for the war-stricken are humanitarian measures for the wounded and civilian populations, to which she dedicates lengthy sections in chapter 8. In keeping with her role in the Spanish Red Cross and its values, Arenal praises the Geneva Convention as “la mayor gloria del siglo XIX, la mayor prueba de progreso moral, es decir, de progreso verdadero” (the nineteenth century’s greatest glory, the greatest proof of moral progress, that is, of true progress; Arenal [1879] 1895, 358–9). Listing all the articles in the 1864 Geneva Convention that established the right of the wounded to be treated with compassion – “[L]os enemigos heridos son hermanos” (Wounded enemies are our brothers; 226) – she reminds readers that the Geneva Convention upholds the law so that it may triumph over force (363). However, she notes that despite the Convention’s status as international law, neither the military nor the general population is sufficiently familiar with it; nor do they respect it (229). The current law of warfare, Arenal specifies, is nothing more than “la fuerza empleada en hacer al enemigo el mayor daño posible, recibiendo el menos que se pueda” (force deployed to inflict on the enemy the greatest number of injuries while receiving the least possible; 362). A particular target of Arenal’s criticism are Bluntschli’s theories, which cast the Convention as falsely sentimental and unachievable, and define the wounded as prisoners of war (Arenal [1879] 1895, 359, 361). Describing the eminent lawmaker’s perspective as erroneous jurisprudence (366), Arenal takes Bluntschli to task for claiming that war is “un medio indispensable para asegurar el progreso necesario de la humanidad” (an indispensable measure so as to ensure humanity’s necessary progress; 88; original emphasis). In contrast, Arenal declares that war is not confined to battle campaigns but creates an armed peace and class war, because what is squandered in war prevents that funding from remedying social problems: [L]a guerra es la carencia de lo más necesario para el inválido del trabajo, para el enfermo pobre, para la débil mujer que la miseria arroja a la prostitución, porque las enormes sumas que consume no permiten socorrer a los necesitados…. La guerra es a la vez una prueba y una causa de atraso,

88  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century no sólo por sus atentados contra el derecho sino como elemento poderoso de miseria física y moral. (War means the absence of the most basic necessities for those unable to work, for the impoverished sick, for the weak woman whom destitution plunges into prostitution, because the enormous sums of money that it consumes prevent help from reaching the needy…. War is both a sign and a cause of backwardness, not only because of its assaults on the law but also as a powerful contributor to physical and moral misery; 89–90)

While war seemingly makes nations great – “[N]o se se ve sino el espectáculo de grandes pueblos” (One sees only the staged spectacle of great peoples) – theirs is a unity founded on unjustifiable suffering: “[E]l cemento que une los fragmentos de que están formados … se amasó un día con lágrimas y con sangre injustamente derramada” (The cement that binds the fragments from which they [nations] are formed … was once mixed with tears and with blood shed unjustly; 87–8). Regarding civilian populations in wartime, Arenal dedicates considerable attention to the situation of those trapped in besieged cities. Within the besieged space those who are not directly fighting – women, the elderly, and children – are often forced by the city’s commanders to leave the city so as not to use valuable food supplies, in what military terminology euphemistically calls the “expulsión de bocas inútiles” (expulsion of useless mouths; 247). This reduction of the whole person to an anonymous body part points to how war destroys the social fabric and categorizes individuals as passively consuming rather than actively contributing. The “useless mouths” endure what Giorgio Agam­ben (2004, 5) refers to as a state of exception, which in wartime sees “all the functions entrusted to the civil authority for maintaining order and internal policing pass to the military commander, who exercises them under his exclusive responsibility.” For Agamben, the state of exception is “a space devoid of law, a zone of anomie in which all legal determinations – and above all the very distinction between public and private – are deactivated” (50). However, far from deactivating the distinction between public and private, the concept of the “useless mouths” corroborates it, as it is precisely those feminized members of society, culturally assigned to the private, who are considered expendable and expelled from the defending polis or nation. As Virginia M. Fichera (1986, 53–4, 60) has highlighted with regard to Simone de Beauvoir’s only play, Les Bouches inutiles (1945), written in 1943 during World War II, that drama “underscores the clear sex division in society between the governed and the governing.

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Women (and those who share womanlike qualities by association with them, i.e. children and the aged) are the governed, ‘les bouches inutiles’ … the non-male … replaceable commodities.” Like Arenal’s besieged towns, de Beauvoir’s fourteenth-century Vaucelles is portrayed according to masculinist paradigms (Fichera 1986, 60): a hierarchical model of government that assigns value only to a masculine warrior elite. Arenal denounces what de Beauvoir’s play unpacks: “Once any individual or group is seen as useless and lacking human value, this can happen with any other group. Once the principle of equal worth of people is breached, then as a principle it no longer exists” (Stanley 2001, 209). If, as Canguilhem (1962, 28) asserts, a monster is a living being “of negative value” that exceeds “a certain limitation of forces and functions,” an international law fit for purpose, which Arenal seeks, would arguably limit the excess of force that nations at war exert on one another. Where law is absent, Canguilhem maintains, the monstrous reigns as a “chaos of exceptions without laws” (41–2). Arenal’s exploration of the legitimacy of a putative law in relation to besieged towns and their inhabitants correlates with Agamben’s following posing of the problem: If the state of exception’s characteristic property is a (total or partial) suspension of the juridical order, how can such a suspension still be contained within it? How can such an anomie be inscribed within the juridical ­order? … The suspension of the norm does not mean its abolition, and the zone of anomie that it establishes is not … unrelated to the juridical order. (Agamben 2004, 23)17

One factor that allegedly justifies the expulsion from the polis of the “useless mouths,” the most vulnerable members of a nation’s civil population, is necessity. The state of exception or dispensation, Agamben explains, completely depends on the “status necessitatis,” the existence of which legitimates the former; thus “a particular case is released from the obligation to observe the law” (2004, 24–5). As the Latin term dispensatio implies, the state of exception that constitutes the siege implies suspending a law founded on reason.18 The practice in war of expelling “useless mouths” dismantles the reasoning that authorizes the so-called just war. This concept, Laura Sjoberg (2013, 81) remarks, relies on the dichotomous relationship between the civilian, a “proxy for a gendered (feminine) notion of the protected,” and the combatant, which “stereotypes men as ‘just warriors’ (righteous defenders of the innocent) and women as ‘beautiful souls’ (innocents of wars but a justification for fighting them).”19 In war the

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authorized defence of feminized civilians – women, the elderly, and children – represents the nation’s protection of its capacity for physical and symbolic regeneration, its traditions and its future, and guarantees the nation’s innocence in the conflict (84–5).20 If the city’s or nation’s defenders cast out their civilian population as “useless” liabilities, they also remove the justification for or legitimacy of their defence. Sjoberg sees this paradox as irresolvable “within the logics and symbolisms of just war theorizing” (89). Consequently, it is not simply the attacking or besieging forces who are Sjoberg’s “monstrous guilty” (90) but the very defenders themselves, whose actions of removing “useless mouths” create an internal dichotomy of “us” and “them,” sending those whom their war ostensibly protects to certain death. The expulsion of the “useless mouths” bears comparison to the historical practice of expelling lepers, who, Foucault (2003, 43) indicates, figuratively enter death on crossing into the external world beyond the city. Sacrificial victims who potentially ensure the defending troops’ survival, those displaced, Arenal ([1879] 1895, 247) signals, may nevertheless find themselves forced to return to the city by the besieging forces to hasten the enemy’s surrender. Moreover, although in theory bombardments of a city should be directed solely at those areas that troops defend, such as walls and forts, in practice these bombardments constitute a “bombardeo íntegro” (total bombing; 249; original emphasis), directed against the entire population to spread panic and place the defenders under psychological pressure.21 Consequently every person within the city is exposed to the dangers of the siege and, as a result, should be valued equally. With respect to the military attitude towards “useless mouths,” Arenal invites her readers to contemplate an imaginary scene that produces horror and shame. What spectators cannot do, she stresses, is look away; they must feel anger and pain, draw on their hearts, consciences, and understanding, and demand that all humanity curse war. In a lengthy, heart-rending description of the physical and psychological state of the “useless mouths,” Arenal dwells on how the besiegers’ proclaimed military duty forbids compassion towards them: Aunque sean los soldados de Atila van a tener compasión…. El deber mi­ litar se lo veda; el jefe les manda decir ¡atrás! a la multitud consternada, hacer armas contra ella, dirigir la boca del fusil a la cabeza del anciano, la punta de la lanza al pecho de la mujer que amamanta un niño…. ¡Y ellos obedecen! … La máquina de sitio no funciona bien, y se la acuña con lo que se encuentra a mano, aunque sea el cuerpo vivo de un niño o de una mujer…. ¡A esto se llama derecho de la guerra!

The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace  91 (Even Atila’s warriors would feel compassion…. Military duty forbids it; the commander orders them to shout, “Get back!” at the shocked crowd, to raise their weapons against them, to aim the gun barrel at the old man’s head, the lance’s end at the breast of a mother nursing a child…. And they obey! … The siege machinery is not working well, and it is shored up with whatever is at hand, even the live body of a child or woman…. This is what is called martial law!; Arenal [1879] 1895, 342–3)22

Previously in Cuadros de la guerra, in her final Cuadro 24, Arenal had already denounced the situation of the inhabitants, primarily women and children, in a besieged city, where disease and the black market augment suffering. Her bitter sarcasm and rage simmer in her following condemnation of war: “[L]as honradas moradas … no tienen agua ni pan; son las leyes de la guerra” (The honourable dwellings … are without bread and water; these are the laws of warfare; Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 155). One of the victims is a nineteen-year-old girl, whom the besiegers, devoid of humanity, do not allow to be buried in the cemetery: “Llegan unos que parecen hombres, pero no deben serlo …” (Some who look like men arrive, but they cannot be men; 158). Arenal’s exegesis of the treatment of these “useless mouths” reveals war as reliant on a fiercely masculinist ethos that cannot conceive of a place and space for feminized others. Arenal’s Ensayo condemns other practices in war that affect civilian populations, such as the seizing of hostages in reprisal and armies living off an invaded country. Taking to task learned men who condone such measures, she states that it would be more equitable for invading forces to sustain their troops with their own nation’s resources and suggests that invading armies should be forbidden to take items of cultural patrimony, loot, and steal from corpses (Arenal [1879] 1895, 347–52; see figure 4.2). Citing Landa, Arenal affirms that invaders should have definitive rights only if the inhabitants vote democratically to transfer power to them. A defeated country’s citizens must be treated as friends to preserve the administrative, economic, and social fabric (254–5).23 Nevertheless, Arenal criticizes Landa and Lieber for condoning the forced recruitment of defeated inhabitants as guides to enable the enemy to kill their fellow countrymen and women (261). In these respects, her work anticipates the regulations of the 1899 Hague Convention on the treatment of defeated nations, as outlined in Section III, Articles 42–56, to which Spain was a signatory (see Convention 1899). The composition of armies, the weapons that they deploy, and the manner in which hostilities commence also come under Arenal’s scrutiny. She decries the incorporation into national armies of troops from

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Figure 4.2.  Los despojos de la guerra (The Spoils of War) by Louis Raemaekers (1916e). The caption reads: “‘Se prohíbe terminantemente el saqueo’ (Artículo 47 de las Reglas de la Guerra)” (“Sacking is absolutely prohibited” [Article 47 of the Rules of War]). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

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countries ignorant of international jurisdiction on war – “Emplear tropas reclutadas en países salvajes o bárbaros que desconocen o violan las leyes de la guerra” (The use of troops recruited in savage or barbarous lands that are ignorant of or violate the laws of warfare; Arenal [1879] 1895, 244) – a measure that the Nationalists would adopt just over half a century later in the Spanish Civil War, using Moroccan soldiers to sow terror among the civilian population in Republican-held areas. She denounces the flouting of the prohibition of “sables y espadas con filo” (sabre and sword bayonets; 244); a practice continued in World War I. Roundly refuting Bluntschli’s argument that it is difficult to ascertain why certain weapons are prohibited or permitted in warfare, she declares that governments validate the deployment of such cruel arms on the grounds of necessity and usefulness – the same principles that sanction the state of exception: “A nosotros nos parece que se sabe; que el criterio que a estas concesiones preside es el de las crueldades necesarias, que inmediatamente se convierten en crueldades útiles, y que se prohíben los medios de destrucción que ya no están en uso por haberse inventado otros más eficaces, o porque son muy caros o complicados” (We think that one does indeed know why; the criterion that governs these concessions is one of necessary cruelty, which immediately becomes useful cruelty, and means of destruction that are no longer in use are forbidden because other, more effective ones have been invented, or because the former are very expensive or complicated; 245; original emphasis). She condemns international governments who not only allow such “refinamientos del arte de matar” (refinements of the art of killing) but also foster their development (247). Arenal’s writing shows striking similarities with Hannah Arendt’s (1972, 118) thinking in Crises of the Republic, whereby peace simply allows the continuation of war through the development of its technologies. To minimize civilian harm Arenal advocates formalizing the declaration of hostilities. The enormous deprivation and misery that war causes the innocent could be attenuated if it were compulsory to announce the beginning of hostilities sixty days before commencing combat. Admonishing Bluntschli, Arenal exclaims that human rights should not take second place to the convenience and pleasure of military men and diplomats ([1879] 1895, 330–3). Expressing the matter in easily comprehensible terms that underline the barbarity of current practice, Arenal asks: “Cuando se suelta una fiera, ¿no debe exigirse al que abre la jaula que avise con alguna anticipación a los transeúntes …?” (When a wild beast is let out, shouldn’t one demand that the person who opens the cage warn passers-by in advance?; 333). The notion of a just war is impossible: “Nosotros llamamos guerra justa la que se emprende para defender el

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derecho que no puede sostenerse sin ella, se hace con humanidad y se termina con justicia. No tenemos noticia de ninguna guerra que pueda entrar en esta definición. El derecho de gentes enmudece sobre el punto más esencial, y pretendiendo dar leyes a la guerra, prescinde de su justicia” (We call a just war one that is undertaken to defend the law that cannot sustain itself without such action, one that is waged with humanity and ends with justice. We do not know of any war that falls within this definition. International law is silent on the most important point, and claiming to give warfare laws, disregards justice; 187; original emphasis).24 Hence Arenal evaluates positively the introduction of method and order in modern warfare, considering that it has made war more humane: “En medio de la horrenda carnicería de las luchas actuales, no puede menos de calificarse de dichosa la necesidad de regla, de método, de orden, que unida a la mayor cultura, ha humanizado las guerras” (In the midst of the horrific carnage of contemporary struggles, one cannot help describing as fortunate the need for regulations, method, and order, which, in conjunction with a greater level of culture, have humanized wars; Arenal [1879] 1895, 253). However, she could not have foreseen the terrible consequences of the extreme method and order in warfare that resulted in the Holocaust. In her concluding section, subtitled “Observaciones” (Observations), Arenal departs from the premise that war has not become more humane, nor is it likely to do so. Lamenting that eminent thinkers are apologists of war, she remarks that robust justice cannot be delivered through the incongruous concept of just force. A people’s enlightenment and morality, she affirms, are judged according to the extent to which they resort to brute force. If reason, in conjunction with the heart, evaluates the errors of violence and its effects on victims, illusory obfuscation must yield to hard reality and exact terms (Arenal [1879] 1895, 324–7). Deploying a sarcastic double voice that juxtaposes antithetical concepts such as erudition and war, blood and beauty, Arenal exposes warmakers’ lack of logic and sophistry: “Es gente docta la gente de guerra hoy, y la alianza del sofisma ridículo y la crueldad sangrienta ofrece un bello conjunto” (Nowadays warmakers are learned people, and the alliance of ridiculously fallacious arguments with bloody acts of cruelty makes for a beautiful combination; 338). In a final linguistic tour de force, Arenal draws on the discourse of war to suggest how to bring about its demise: La guerra, valiéndonos de su lenguaje, no se puede embestir con éxito de frente; hay que flanquearla y bloquearla; hay que cortarle las comunicaciones con la ignorancia, los instintos feroces, los intereses bastardos …

The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace  95 la inmoralidad, en fin, con que se alimenta: mientras estos proveedores puedan abastecerla se sostendrá; cuando falten o se debiliten mucho, ella se rendirá al derecho. (Availing ourselves of war’s very rhetoric, we cannot successfully charge at war head on; we have to flank and block it; we have to cut off its lines of communication with ignorance, ferocious instincts, illegitimate interests … the immorality, in short, that feeds it: as long as these suppliers provision it, it will continue; when they are lacking or weaken considerably, war will surrender to law; 367; my emphasis)

In this sense, as Irizarry (1995, 364) highlights, Arenal’s essays “are in the tradition of Machiavelli, Bacon, and Nietzsche, writers for whom the word becomes an ‘ironic declaration of subversive war.’” Throughout her writings, Arenal’s emphasis on the need to counter war and all manner of social ills with a reason tempered with emotion, which I have called compassionate reason, anticipates Catia C. Confortini’s (2012) call for an “intelligent compassion.” Adopting the term from Dorothy Hutchinson, the former chair of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF), Confortini (2012, 116–17) sees the concept as an indispensable tool in feminist endeavours to put into practice “a political ethics of care which brings the silent voices to the fore” and which attentively listens and responds to the pain of Others. In her Ensayo Arenal criticizes war as an “abominable imperio” (abominable empire; [1879] 1895, 216), and indeed, María Dolores Ramos (2016, 24) considers that this work forms part of a nineteenth-century European feminist counter-response to the expansion of imperialism internationally. In all her works Arenal emphasized that one must see war “en toda su triste realidad” (in all its sad reality; [1879] 1895, 216), without euphemisms that downplay or conceal its horrors. Similarly denouncing the effects of war on the personal worlds of ordinary men and women, the texts in chapters 5–7 address Spain’s futile attempt to shore up a national identity reliant on imperial, patriarchal ideals and insist on the inseparability of the private, the domestic, the affective, and the sexual from (trans)national politics. It is to the empire within that I now turn.

Chapter Five

Getting Intimate with Empire: Fin-de-siècle Women Writing a Psychology of the Disaster

[T]odos los hogares estaban cubiertos de luto por la pérdida de los que allende los mares daban su vida por España … (Every home was shrouded in mourning for the loss of those who over the seas were giving their lives for Spain; Burgos 1900, 22) ¿No era el dolor compartido y las lágrimas mezcladas, el mejor lenitivo que podía prestarse a aquel corazón tan cruelmente lacerado? (Weren’t their shared pain and mingling of tears the best possible salve for that heart, so cruelly wounded?; Álvarez Pool 1900b, 24) [V]estía de riguroso luto, y pasaba como una sombra … (Dressed in strict mourning, she passed by like a ghost; Pardo Bazán [1899] 1973b, 1518)

In Imperial Emotions Javier Krauel (2013) traces the emotional fallout from Spain’s myths of empire, especially with respect to its early modern empire, in the essays of prominent male Regenerationists like Unamuno, Ángel Ganivet, Ramiro de Maeztu, and Enric Prat de la Riba, all members of the 1898 Generation. More recently, Coffey’s (2020) outstanding study, which resonates on many levels with my own analysis in chapters 5–7, examines Spanish imperialism in Benito Pérez Galdós’s fictional works. But how did female writers perceive and represent the demise of Spain’s second imperial formation? The works on which I focus in chapters 5 and 6 belie Carlos Serrano’s denial of the existence of a creative corpus

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that adequately expresses Spain’s post-Disaster climate: “No hay literatura del Desastre…. No existió la obra de creación que hiciera realmente suyo el tema del abandono, de la derrota, de las ilusiones— si es que existieron—sobre el porvenir español en ultramar …” (There is no literature on the Disaster…. There never existed any creative work that really made its own the themes of abandonment, defeat, and dreams – if they indeed existed – for Spain’s imperial future; Serrano 1998, 335). The short fictional works and press articles by Carmen de Burgos, Consuelo Álvarez Pool, and Emilia Pardo Bazán in this chapter testify to how the empire returns to Spain’s historical narrative post-1898 (Blanco 2012, 19, 25) but resolutely question the viability of its imperialist ideals in a modernizing world. Spain was but one of many European nations for which nation formation was inextricably bound to imperial identity.1 As Brad Epps (2008, 153) acknowledges, towards the final decades of the nineteenth century “the concept of the nation had become … bound to the concept of Empire.” After Fernando VII’s death in 1833 the Spanish state’s vision of a liberal nation founded on the French Revolution’s principles of fraternity and equality was aimed at recasting Spain’s colonizing conquests as a benign fraternal mission that had brought Latin America into European civilization (Schmidt-Nowara 2006, 3–4). Spanish historians repeatedly stressed the metropolis’s unity with its colonies, declaring that, contrary to other Western empires, “there was no division between colonizer and colonized or colony and metropolis” (4). This inseparability of national and imperial identities became especially marked, Blanco (2012, 16–17, 24) affirms, from the Restoration of the Spanish monarchy in 1874, when empire became an essential component of national identity.2 Troublingly, however, the modern Spanish nation emerged throughout the nineteenth century as her empire crumbled. Indeed, what has been considered the founding moment of modern Spanish nationhood, the War of Independence against the French, also witnessed the first independence movements in Spain’s American colonies (Schmidt-Nowara 2006, xv).3 In an era when the status of nations was judged according to whether or not they were imperial powers, Spain’s progressive loss of her former empire posed a significant problem for both its self-perception and also its status in the eyes of foreign powers; nineteenth-century Western nations measured their putative superiority or inferiority according to their imperial prowess. In this context the concept of honour, dependent on reputation, was paramount. For Julian Pitt-Rivers (1966, 22), having honour implies “entitlement to a certain treatment in return,” while Harry

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Sieber stresses that a community’s honour is always vulnerable to attack (1978, 96; quoted in Mandrell 1992, 58). Consequently, a nation’s standing as an imperial power determined how others would value and act towards it. Such matters, as noted in chapter 2, are inseparable from gender. To possess an empire, Patricia McDermott (2000, 217) remarks, was seen as “a national virility symbol,” and imperial powers were gendered as masculine in relation to their feminized colonies. Conversely, imperial and national decadence was considered indicative of a loss of masculinity (Álvarez Junco 1998, 460). Nevertheless, given that in Spain’s nineteenth century the metropolis and its colonies were represented as one united body, Spain arguably occupied a masculine position as colonizing power and also a feminine position in its proclaimed identification with the colonies, its own exoticization by Northern Europe, and its self-construction as a chaste motherland whose honour depended on defending her integrity. Indeed, honour, not economic greed, should drive Spain’s aspiration to be an imperial, “expansionist” nation, Antonio Cánovas del Castillo declared in November 1882 in his Discurso sobre la nación (Address on the Nation) delivered in Madrid’s Athenaeum (Blanco 2012, 21–3). He thereby distinguished Spain’s allegedly civilizing imperialism from a so-called morally inferior British model that privileged economic motives in accordance with Adam Smith’s theories (Schmidt-Nowara 2006, 4). Just sixteen years later, that principle of national honour was pivotal in the outbreak of war between Spain and the United States over the ongoing Cuban crisis.4 When the Queen Regent received a confidential message from the US government that gave Spain two options – war or selling Cuba to the US – the decision in favour of war was considered “the only honourable means whereby Spain could lose what little was left of her immense colonial empire” (Balfour 2011, 27). Spain’s army and most politicians acknowledged that going to war without allies and against a technologically superior military force was absolute folly (Harrison 2000, 4). Nevertheless, Spain disregarded the United States’ request for withdrawal from Cuba, and war was formally declared between the two nations on 25 April 1898.5 A major factor in Spain’s determination to go to war was the monarchy’s and politicians’ belief that abandoning Cuba would imperil the Restoration monarchy and a conservative liberal government built on Catholic values (Balfour 2011, 25, 33). Moreover, the popular press and verse insisted that, unlike the Spanish, the Yankee lacked honour: “[¡C]apaz sería / de vender el honor … si lo tuviera!” (He would be willing / to sell his honour … should he have any!; quoted in Serrano 1998, 336). Even Republicans

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Figure 5.1.  L’últim determini (The Final Decision) by Manuel Moliné i Muns (1897b). The caption reads: “La Espanya fuig del seu país ab lo únich que li queda, per no poders’hi estar ningún que s’estimi una mica” (Spain flees her country with her last remaining possessions, on account of no one with a modicum of self-esteem being able to remain there).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

supported the war in the name of the Spanish flag’s honour and national integrity (Pérez Ledesma 1998, 120, 109).6 Reinforcing this rhetoric of honour and righteousness on both the American and the Spanish side was a steady stream of imagery, especially satirical cartoons, in the illustrated press, as Lou Charnon-Deutsch’s (2014–15) valuable study highlights (see figure 5.1).7 The glorification that accompanied the Spanish-American conflict at its outset, counterposed with the brutal realities of Spain’s death toll and final defeat in 1898, are the pivots on which Burgos’s “El repatriado” (1900) turns. One of her very first published short stories, it is divided into three sections demarcated by suspense dots, which

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tangibly represent the silencing of the trauma wrought by war in official accounts. The allusions to the Spanish flag that open and close the text invite it to be read as a meditation on national identity and war. In the first section, set in 1895, troops depart for Cuba to fight for “el honor y la integridad de la amada patria” (the honour and integrity of the beloved homeland; Burgos 1900, 21), against the symbolic backdrop of an exuberant nature in early spring resplendent in the colours of the national flag. By highlighting a nationalized nature and the men’s apparently voluntary enlisting, despite the colonial armies being largely composed of working-class conscripts, the text stresses how official discourse misrepresents the war as an inevitably natural event in which citizens willingly engage.8 In comparison with their women’s pain, the departing soldiers are cast as imbued with the same love of country and spirit of self-immolation that inspired heroic myths: “Únicamente los voluntarios esperaban con semblante tranquilo la hora de la marcha, ansiosos de derramar su sangre por defender su gloriosa bandera y sintiendo arder en su pecho la llama del entusiasmo patrio, que inmortalizó a los hijos de Sagunto y Numancia” (Only the volunteers calmly awaited the hour of departure, eager to shed their blood to defend their glorious flag and feeling their breasts aflame with that same patriotic passion that immortalized the sons of Sagunto and Numantia; 21). For Helena Establier Pérez, Burgos’s reproduction of this patriotic rhetoric mirrors its presence in the Republican press of the moment and reveals Burgos’s qualified support of the Republican stance towards the war (2011, 442). Conversely, I propose that Burgos’s discourse is ironic, as what the text really states hovers between the lines, in the absence of language and in the interstices of juxtaposed segments. Among the soldiers is Enrique, who farewells his elderly mother and loving fiancée. The narrative contrasts popular enthusiasm with the women’s sorrow: “Los gritos, los ayes, las lágrimas, los encargos y las palabras cariñosas e incoherentes se mezclaban y se confundían con los vítores de entusiasmo del pueblo … y los acordes de la música que los despedía entonando himnos patrióticos que enardecían su valor” (The cries, laments, tears, exhortations, and loving, incoherent words merged and became confused with the villagers’ enthusiastic cheers … while the strains of music that farewelled the troops with patriotic songs further fired up their courage; Burgos 1900, 22).9 Such events, Sebastian Balfour (2011, 97) remarks, constituted staged representations that clashed with stark reality: “Food, wine, and gifts were offered to the departing soldiers and local dignitaries … gave speeches about duty to the Fatherland and the Empire to raw recruits, some of whom probably had little idea of what these concepts meant.” Contradicting the

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Figure 5.2.  Viatje de retorn (1898; The Return Voyage). The caption reads: “Rastre que deixan los vapors al tornar de Cuba y Filipinas” (The trail left by the steamships returning from Cuba and the Philippines).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

“majestuosa marcha” (majestic departure) of the train, symbolic of progress, is the black smoke that it emits and that vanishes into thin air “a semejanza de todas las glorias humanas” (like all human glories; Burgos 1900, 22), as the authorial voice ironically comments (see figure 5.2). The second section opens in 1898 with references to Spanish homes mourning their loss of soldiers and empire. The nation’s defeat, the text declares, was due to Cuba’s hostile climate and Spain’s perception that the colony had betrayed not only the metropolis but also war’s codes of honour: [T]odos los hogares estaban cubiertos de luto por la pérdida de los que allende los mares daban su vida por España, no vencidos en un combate leal, sino sacrificados por traidoras emboscadas sin poder combatir las nocivas influencias del clima y sin poder sofocar la rebelión que alentaba una Nación que al alzarse contra España se asemejaba a Nerón abriendo las entrañas de Agripina o a la víbora de la fábula que mordió el pecho del que le había dado la vida. (Every home was shrouded in mourning for the loss of those who over the seas were giving their lives for Spain, not defeated in an honourable fight but sacrificed in treacherous ambushes, and unable to combat the harmful

102  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century effects of the climate and suffocate the rebellion that cheered on a Nation that, rising up against Spain, resembled Nero stabbing Agrippina’s womb or the viper in the fable that bit its parent’s breast; Burgos 1900, 22)

The main focus of this section, however, are the repatriated soldiers, among whom is Enrique. The narrative dwells on the contrast between the man who departed and the one who now returns: “Cualquiera … le hubiese costado trabajo reconocer al apuesto mancebo que vimos en la estación en aquel hombre enflaquecido, demacrado y que parecía un anciano …” (Anyone … would have had difficulty in recognizing the handsome young man whom we had seen at the station in that gaunt, emaciated man, who looked old before his time; 22). This difficulty in recognizing a prematurely aged Enrique testifies to the appalling conditions under which Spanish war veterans were repatriated and the lack of government assistance once they arrived back (see figure 5.3).10 On Enrique’s return only the Red Cross offers him assistance. Moreover, although his village home appears unchanged, he discovers that in reality everything is unfamiliar: his mother has died, strangers occupy the family home, and his fiancée has married another (Burgos 1900, 23–4). The shock of his fiancée’s abandonment of him, symbolic of a wider disregard for the returned soldiers, the uncomfortable proof of Spain’s defeat, delivers a mortal wound to Enrique’s heart: “[L]e pareció que una hoja de acero penetraba en su alma …” (He felt as if a steel blade were entering his heart; 24). His fiancée’s forsaking him highlights the soldiers’ expendability and their ready replacement by the nation for whom they risked their lives. The final, brief section of Burgos’s tale closes with a second reference to the Spanish flag, now transformed into a shroud for Enrique’s corpse. Mimicking official war rhetoric, the authorial voice bitterly criticizes the misrepresentation of Enrique’s death, caused by a broken heart, as a heroic sacrifice for the nation: “¡Dichosos ellos que al sacrificar su vida en aras de su amor patrio pueden hacerse un sudario de nuestra gloriosa bandera y recibir las bendiciones de la posteridad!” (Happy are those who, by sacrificing their lives on the altar of their love of country, can fashion a shroud from our glorious flag and receive posterity’s blessings!; Burgos 1900, 24). In this sense my reading of Burgos’s “El repatriado” differs from that of Establier Pérez (2011, 442), for whom the final lines exalt heroism and patriotic love. She considers that the short story reveals Burgos’s fluctuations between patriotic support for the war, common within the Republican cause with which she identified, and the anti-war sentiment characteristic of the fin-de-siècle freethinking feminism that she also upheld (439–41). In contrast, I have argued that the text unambiguously

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Figure 5.3.  Lo descubriment d’América. Com va comensar. Com ha acabat (1898; The Discovery of America: How It Began, How It Has Ended).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

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criticizes the war over and above loyalty to political affiliations. As in Burgos’s later text on Spain’s 1909 Moroccan campaign, En la guerra, which I discuss in chapter 7, “El repatriado” exemplifies a “binary world … ‘two languages … two competing constructions of reality’: civilian propaganda set against the soldiers’ truth” (Higonnet 1993a, 209). The terrible conditions that troops endured in the Spanish-American War and upon their repatriation featured in a plethora of newspaper essays and short fiction, such as Pardo Bazán’s contemporaneous short story “La oreja de Juan Soldado (Cuento futuro)” (Juan Soldier’s Ear [A Future Tale]; Pardo Bazán [1899] 1973c). As a working-class soldier in Cuba for three years, the protagonist suffered military under-resourcing, a hostile environment, and disease: “[V]eía pantanos y ciénagas, lodazales y charcos, en que acampaba una columna: los hombres tiritaban de fiebre palúdica, recibiendo en la mollera el calor de un cielo de plomo …” (He experienced marshes and swamps, bogs and dirty pools, in which soldiers camped: men shivered with malaria, while on their heads beat the heat from a leaden sky; 1376; see figure 5.4). The voyage of repatriation back to Spain was equally horrific. The narrative conveys the uncaring attitude of the Spanish state towards its repatriated soldiers when Juan, convalescent in hospital, loses an ear at the hands of a brutal Civil Guard because he asks for water.11 In the same year that Burgos’s “El repatriado” appeared, her close friend Consuelo Álvarez Pool, who wrote under the pseudonym of Vio­­ leta, published “La medalla de la Virgen” (1900b), also on the consequences of the Cuban war. Unlike the other writers in this chapter, Álvarez Pool barely features in contemporary studies, despite a prolific journalistic career that ranged across poetry, essays, short stories, travel chronicles, and an unpublished novel. Although she was a prominent figure and speaker in Spain’s fin-de-siècle cultural and political circles, little scholarship on her existed until Victoria Crespo’s pioneering study. In order to situate my analysis of Álvarez Pool’s short story and her portrayal of her female protagonist, I first provide a brief overview of salient biographical features. Belonging, like Burgos, to the 1898 Generation and being well connected, Álvarez Pool maintained relationships, as verified in extant correspondence, with Pérez Galdós, Unamuno, and Joaquín Costa, whom she considered her mentor (Crespo 2016, 228–59, 270).12 Admitted in 1907 to Madrid’s Press Association – then one of only five women whom Bernardino M. Hernando (2010, 37) describes as “aquellas admirables chicas del 98” (those admirable girls of the 1898 Generation) – Álvarez Pool contributed to El Progreso de Asturias (1902–3), the Republican El País (1904–20), Belén Sárraga’s freethinking periodical La Conciencia

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Figure 5.4.  Las víctimas del deber (1897; The Victims of Duty). The caption reads: “Una quadra del Hospital Militar de l’Habana” (A section of Havana’s military hospital).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

Libre (1905–7), and the weekly Vida Socialista (1910–14), combining her journalism with myriad activities.13 From 1907 she developed friendships with Sofía Casanova through Burgos’s literary salons and with Pardo Bazán through Madrid’s Athenaeum, reporting on its activities from 1907 to 1914 in El País (Crespo 2016, 47, 108–13).14 A telegraphist in Madrid from 1908, a member of the Republican Union, a freemason, and a fierce advocate for women’s suffrage and rights, in 1909 she co-founded with Burgos Madrid’s radical, Republican-affiliated Damas Rojas (Red Ladies, 1909–11) and assiduously promoted workers’ causes.15 No shrinking violet, she belonged to the Unión de Mujeres de España (Spanish Women’s Union) and the Liga Española de los Derechos del Hombre (Spanish League for Human Rights), and in 1913 was the sixth woman to join the Asociación Española del Progreso de la Ciencia (Spanish Association for Scientific Progress; Crespo 2016, 250, 267–9, 271).16

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Álvarez Pool’s pacifist stance was well known. Through the Damas Rojas she protested in 1909–10 against the recruitment of troops for Morocco (Moral Vargas 2007, 556).17 In July 1911 she published in El País a scathing article against that war titled “De la guerra” (On the War; Álvarez Pool 1911), where she denounced war as “el mayor borrón de los hechos humanos” (the greatest stain on human endeavours) and declared that it behoved all women, whose mission should be one of peace and love, to abhor war, irrespective of nationalist interests. Given women’s lack of sociopolitical clout, “su impotencia social,” she laid the blame for war squarely on men. Women, she proclaimed, echoing Arenal, should only seek to be useful to the wounded soldier. On 12 July 1914, sixteen days before the outbreak of World War I, Álvarez Pool published an anti-war poem, “No era soldado el niño” (The Child Was Not a Soldier; 1914), in El País. There a grandfather tells his grandchildren, Charito and Alberto, about a soldier who patriotically departs for war despite his mother’s misgivings: “¡Volver cantando victoria! / ¿Dónde hay mejor alegría?” (To return singing of victory! / What could give greater happiness?). However, after seeing his illusions of glory destroyed, he dies from his wounds. On hearing his grandfather’s tale, Alberto rejects war: “[J]uro que yo lucharé, / no con armas homicidas, / por la gloria de mi Patria / y por la propia honra mía” (I swear that I will fight, / but not with lethal weapons, / for the glory of my Nation / and for my own honour). Hence Álvarez Pool represents the refusal of a younger generation, Spain’s future, to embrace traditional models of patriotic honour built on the murder of others. Later, throughout the Great War, she wrote more than fifty articles condemning the conflict for the El País column “De la guerra” (On the War; Crespo 2016, 202). Álvarez Pool’s “La medalla de la Virgen,” structured in two parts, is one of two short stories on the Spanish-American War from her debut collection, Cuentos cortos (Short Stories; Álvarez Pool 1900a).18 She herself was personally affected by that conflict. Like the male protagonist of “La medalla del Virgen,” one of her brothers died in the Cuban conflict, while the other perished from illness once repatriated. In the first section the female writer disguises her culturally inappropriate engagement with war in her recourse to the romance and the narrative voice’s insistence on the text’s edifying purpose. Curious about the mysterious cause of the sadness that afflicts her dear friend Lilí, twenty-year-old María surreptitiously opens Lilí’s silver casket to discover a military amulet and two letters. On surprising María, Lilí tells her the story behind these objects to help her repress her desires and train her reason: “[A] nuestros años las pasiones y los deseos se sienten

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con mayor violencia, y … son en extremo difíciles de reprimir…. [Q]uizá esta historia te sirva de enseñanza” (At our age we feel passions and desires with greater intensity and … they are extremely difficult to repress…. Perhaps this tale may serve as a lesson to you; Álvarez Pool 1900b, 13–14). This opening segment tactically functions to justify the more substantial and politically oriented second part, narrated from the perspectives of both Lilí and her fiancé, Ángel. Set retrospectively in June 1898, in the last weeks of the Spanish-American War, the text lambasts North America and foregrounds the desperation of the Spanish cause: “En Cuba y Filipinas crecía la insurrección, protegida y apoyada por los yankees, que no contentos con dar a los tagalos y mambises armas y dinero para combatir a nuestra extenuada patria, se habían aliado con ellos para hacernos la guerra más cruel y desastrosa” (In Cuba and the Philippines the uprising grew, aided and abetted by the Yankees, who, not content with giving the Tagalogs and Cuban guerrillas weapons and funds to fight against our exhausted nation, had joined them to wage on us a crueller and more devastating war; Álvarez Pool 1900b, 15). The narrative exalts the patriotism, honour, and courage reputedly common to all Spaniards: “No había un ser español que no sintiera hervir en sus venas su generosa sangre … levantábase, imponente y dominando a todo otro sentimiento, el amor a nuestra patria tan pobre y tan desgraciada; pero al mismo tiempo tan noble, tan honrada, tan valiente y tan audaz …” (There was not a single Spaniard who did not feel their unselfish blood boil in their veins … powerfully arousing, to overwhelm every other feeling, their love for our nation, so poor and unfortunate but equally so noble, honourable, brave, and daring; 15). Álvarez Pool underlines that Lilí, immersed in the world of the military as a general’s daughter and a soldier’s beloved, shares this patriotic fervour. Indeed, her romance with Ángel began because of their mutual “amor a la patria” (love of country; 16). As a soldier, Ángel must put love of country before his love for Lilí and depart for Cuba to fight for a personified Spain in extremis. As he tells her in a letter: “[¡]España reclama el esfuerzo de sus hijos y no es de corazones nobles el verla perecer sin acudir en su auxilio!” (Spain is calling on her sons to step forward and noble hearts cannot see her perish without going to her aid!; Álvarez Pool 1900b, 17). Such a depiction aligns with numerous representations in the illustrated press of officers whose show of chivalry promised military success (Charnon-Deutsch 2014–15, 139–40). In her response Lilí conveys, like Acuña’s Inés and de los Ríos’s Rocío, that her patriotism inevitably stems from, and is a requirement for, her Spanish identity: “Si no fuera española, te rogaría

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con lágrimas en los ojos … que no partieras, … pero he nacido en esta tierra bendita de héroes y de mártires …” (Were I not Spanish, I would beg you, with tears in my eyes … not to go, … but I’ve been born in this blessed land of heroes and martyrs; Álvarez Pool 1900b, 18). Given the nation’s danger, the only honourable course of action, she maintains, is to defend it (19). However, differentiating clearly between masculine and feminine roles in war, she affirms that women’s only possible contribution to the war effort is prayer: “A la mujer, el único recurso que en las grandes catástrofes le queda, es la oración; así que mientras tú estés luchando y ¡quién sabe si derramando tu sangre!, yo estaré aquí rezando por ti …” (In great catastrophes the only action that women can take is to pray; so while you are fighting – and, who knows, shedding your blood! – I will be here praying for you; 19). Swearing to be faithful to him until death, Lilí sends Ángel a talisman depicting the Virgin (19). Her gift demonstrates the widespread belief in Mary’s blessing and protection of the Spanish cause, similar to how, during the later Spanish Civil War, Nationalist soldiers would wear the Virgin’s image on their breast. In both contexts the soldier effectively became the bearer of heightened nationalist sentiment, upholding an elitist ethos of self-sacrifice for the nation’s honour and glory. Ángel and Lilí’s adherence to conventional gender roles represents a putative order and civilization associated with Spain’s upper classes and Catholic values, in contrast with the “dis-order” posed by the “barbaric,” rebelling colonies. Much later a Franciscan priest just back from Cuba returns Ángel’s blood-spattered amulet to Lilí. According to his testimony Ángel died bravely, like a hero, thus inspiring his fellow Spaniards to fight to the death (Álvarez Pool 1900b, 21–2). Nevertheless, this account jars with the realities of the Cuban war. Whereas Spain cast the Spanish-American War as “Spanish heroism against overwhelming odds,” the truth was that the Spanish troops were superior in number to the Americans (Balfour 2011, 39). As an upper-class officer, Ángel may have been in the naval squadron ordered “to run the blockade of Santiago Bay … ‘for the sake of national decorum,’” as the captain of the vessel María Cristina wrote home (44). Contributing to its defeat at Santiago was the Spanish army’s overall inability to resolve logistical difficulties and counter the ravages of yellow fever (40). On receiving the priest’s news, Lilí’s heart bleeds from the psychic wounds caused by Ángel’s loss. Plunged into a severe melancholy, she asks María to place his amulet on her heart and destroy their letters when she dies (Álvarez Pool 1900b, 23–4). The text here suggests that men’s and women’s roles in war, although differentiated through their

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gender, are inherently equal; Lilí’s wounds are as life-threatening as Ángel’s and she will bear, as he did, the amulet on her heart in death. The concluding emphasis on the soothing properties of compassion evokes the Mater Dolorosa’s tears at the foot of Christ’s cross: “¿No era el dolor compartido y las lágrimas mezcladas, el mejor lenitivo que podía prestarse a aquel corazón tan cruelmente lacerado?” (Weren’t their shared pain and mingling of tears the best possible salve for that heart, so cruelly wounded?; 24).19 By remaining a virgin and faithful to Ángel’s memory, Lilí, whose very name identifies her with the Virgin’s symbolic lily of purity, can be read as a kind of Mater Dolorosa and an allegory of Spain’s grief at losing her offspring (see figures 5.5 and 5.6). The intersectionality of race, gender, and class is unpicked in Pardo Bazán’s haunting short story “La exangüe” ([1899] 1973b), one of a number of short fictional works that she penned on the Spanish-American War and its aftermath.20 Encompassing a time span before and after Spain’s loss of the Philippines, the story appeared in Blanco y Negro on 15 April 1899 and again in her 1902 short story collection Cuentos de la patria. Following her parents’ death and ill-equipped to earn her own living, the anonymous, lower-middle-class protagonist, known as the “exangüe” or bloodless one, is forced to travel from Spain to the Philippines to live with her younger brother, who works for a powerful relative in colonial administration. When the indigenous revolution breaks out, she volunteers to suffer, in her brother’s stead, a horrific bloodletting by the rebels.21 Despite her sacrifice, her brother is hanged and she is repatriated to Spain at death’s door. There the narrator of the story, doctor Sánchez del Abrojo, restores her to a ghostlike existence, while his friend, a modernist painter, intends to immortalize her in an artwork. In articles published in her column “La vida contemporánea” (Contemporary Life), in Barcelona’s La Ilustración Artística, and later collected in the volume De siglo a siglo (1896–1901) (From One Century to the Next, 1896–1901; Pardo Bazán 1902), Pardo Bazán’s concern over the Spanish-American War was palpable.22 In “Apertura” (Opening; Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902a), for instance, her criticism of the Spanish government’s position on the conflict merges with her support for women’s equal rights and pacifism. It is incongruous, she declares, that Spanish women lack equal rights when it was a woman, the Queen Regent, who declared war on the United States. Nevertheless, she continues, women in Europe and the US are establishing associations for peace and disarmament everywhere. While she acknowledges that Spain has missed the opportunity to effect a “salida decorosa” (decorous exit) from the US’ affront and avoid war, she also criticizes the

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Figure 5.5.  La Mare Espanya (Mother Spain) by Manuel Moliné i Muns (1897a). The caption reads: “Esperant l’arribada dels vapors de Cuba y Filipinas” (Awaiting the arrival of ships from Cuba and the Philippines). By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

Figure 5.6.  3 de juliol (1898; 3 July). The caption reads: “Pobres fills del méu cor! … ¡Y la culpa no es para vostra!!” (Poor, beloved children of mine! … And you are not to blame!!). By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

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latter for making demands on a Spain already exhausted from war; it is good military strategy on their part but not an “hazaña honrosa” (honourable deed; 104).23 Affirming that her stance on the war is governed by reason, not emotion, she affirms that the conflict should have been avoided. Condemning the violence prevalent at the end of a century that began with the promise of law and freedom, she avers that a nation’s strength does not stem from military force alone but from the collective cultivation of its industries, commerce, culture, education, and legal and political systems. If the nation’s strength depends on all Spaniards, they too must bear the blame for its current weakness (104, 106).24 According to David Henn (1999, 418), none of Pardo Bazán’s short stories on Spain’s colonial conflicts in the 1890s “addresses or hints at the issue of colonialism, or questions the morality of the Spanish position.” “La exangüe” powerfully contests such a claim, and its protagonist can be read as an allegory for the gendered politics of colonization both within and without Spain. Imagery in this fictional text is mirrored in several of Pardo Bazán’s practically contemporaneous essays. In “Apertura” she states that Spain is on her deathbed, due to being bled dry: “[D]espués de encontrarnos exangües y sin una peseta” (Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902a, 102, 105); in “Elegía” (Elegy) she condemns the “discovery” for impoverishing and bleeding Spain dry (Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902b, 110), and in “Las víctimas” (The Victims) she refers to Spain’s grandeur as an “inmenso cadáver” (great corpse; Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902d, 131). Similar motifs saturate “La exangüe,” where, due to her bloodletting by indigenous Philippine revolutionaries, the protagonist exhibits a “palidez cadavérica” (cadaveric pallor), an “anemia profunda” (chronic anaemia), and an “extremada languidez” (extreme languor; Pardo Bazán [1899] 1973b, 1518–19). Such imagery is also evident in Pardo Bazán’s “El indulto” (The Pardon; Pardo Bazán [1883] 1973), where the protagonist, Antonia, the victim of domestic abuse, is found bloodless on her deathbed (see McKenna 2009, 43–7). To my knowledge, the only substantial study on Pardo Bazán’s “La exangüe” is Joyce Tolliver’s “Over Her Bloodless Body” (2010).25 Her analysis focuses on the colonial fetish, which disavows Spain’s fear of losing imperial control over its colonies, and pays special attention to the characters of the doctor and the painter. Tolliver highlights how the doctor casts himself as a kind of Don Juan, who, instead of lovers, collects patients, among whom features the “exangüe,” in order to conquer death. While the figure of Don Juan was equated with a quintessential Spanish virility, by the fin de siècle he had also become “a decadent degenerate who reflected Spain’s contemporary diminished state” (Johnson 2003, 111). With regard to the painter, he desires to represent the “exangüe” in decadent, symbolist terms to depict the empire

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(Tolliver 2010, 294). Both the doctor and the painter manifest features of an imperialist world view inseparable from a European masculinity intent on controlling gendered Others. While I concur with Tolliver’s findings, I propose a more politicized reading of the text that interrogates the colonial relationship between Spain and the Philippines. The purported legitimacy of Spain’s colonization of the Philippines historically rested on what was known as the blood compact, a Philippine tradition that confirmed treaties through leaders commingling and drinking each other’s blood. The original blood compact, Paul A. Kramer (2006, 59) explains, was between the Spanish explorer Miguel López de Legazpi and Datu Sikatuna of the Bool Kingdom in the Philippines. Subsequently, it became crucial in Philippine vindications of recognition and equality, symbolizing “the unity of Spain and the Philippines, their equality as contracting parties, and the mutual obligations between them, borne by common blood” (59–60). I maintain that this blood compact is especially relevant for the context of Pardo Bazán’s tale. According to Kramer, it was important for the indigenous movement known as the Katipunan, which launched the Philippine Revolution in August 1896. Led by Andrés Bonifacio, the Katipunan was “deeply indebted to millennial Catholicism and, specifically, the pasyon (passion) narrative of Christ’s redemptive suffering” (Kramer 2006, 73). The bloodletting of the “exangüe,” I suggest, parallels Christ’s Crucifixion, which the Tagalogs, as Schmidt-Nowara (1998, 56) indicates, subversively appropriate in the pasyon to claim their resurrection on earth. Not only can the woman be seen in terms of a propitiatory offering to those whom the revolution’s leaders saw as the Philippines’ “fallen and tortured people,” whose suffering Spanish colonizers disavowed (quoted in Kramer 2006, 75). More significantly, her ordeal arguably represents the breaking of the blood compact between Spain and the Philippine indigenous, for whom resurrection depended on insurrection, and re-enacts on different terms the concept of the blood tax or contribución de sangre that Spanish citizens were deemed to owe the state in war.26 Consequently, the woman’s bloodletting represents the violence that Spanish colonizers have wrought on the Philippine indigenous. Her subordinate position of tutelage within a patriarchal Spanish society due to her gender aligns her with those peoples, considered inferior due to their race. Effectively, as Anne McClintock (1995, 359) underlines, “Women were not seen as inhabiting history proper but existing, like colonized peoples, in a permanently anterior time within the modern nation.” The non-existence of the woman and the Philippine

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indigenous within hegemonic narratives is stressed through the anonymity that denotes both the woman and the Tagalog chief, who are described as “la exangüe” (the bloodless woman) and “la española” (the Spanish woman), on the one hand, and the “vencedor cabecilla tagalo—poco importa su nombre” (conquering Tagalog chief – his name matters little) and the racialized “amarillo” (yellow man), on the other (Pardo Bazán [1899] 1973b, 1519–20).27 Not only does the term “amarillo” suggest the Southeast Asian ancestry of the Philippines’ early inhabitants and the archipelago’s geographical location.28 Perhaps not uncoincidentally Pardo Bazán had used the same descriptor in June 1898 in a brief article titled “La prensa amarilla” (The Tabloid Press; 1898) to refer to a US press that boosted sales through sensationalism during the Spanish-American War, and again in December 1901 in “Novelas amarillas y leyendas negras” (Yellow Novels and Black Legends; Pardo Bazán [1901] 1902).29 In this essay what she labelled “amarillismo” (sensationalism) was, paradoxically, “[l]a barbarie que late en toda civilización violenta y extremada” (the barbarity that pulsates in every violent, fanatical civilization; 266–7), irrespective of ethnicity. Countering the short story’s apparently analogous positioning of the woman and the chief are interlocking considerations of race and gender. By virtue of her European race the woman occupies the position of the colonizer. Indeed, as Tolliver (2010, 296) remarks, “Through the doctor’s representation, and later through the painter’s image, the woman becomes Spain; as she kisses the soil of her native land, the association between woman and Spain is sealed” (original emphasis). Yet due to her gender she is considered inferior within both her own world and indigenous society. Indeed, it is only through her culture’s enforced regulation of feminine sexuality that she can be domesticated and deemed civilized. In comparison, although the chief is considered inferior according to European racial hierarchies and inhabits what Rachel H. Brown (2020, 702) calls a wild and hence feminized “subordinate cartography,” for Philippine patriarchal society his masculinity makes him superior. These conceptualizations correspond to Mills’s (2007, 174) hybrid status positions within what he terms the “racial-sexual contract”: “White women, privileged by race but subordinated by gender, and non-white men privileged by gender but subordinated by race.” The “exangüe” is as much a victim of the male chief’s cruelty as of the symbolic violence with which Western scientific thought and cultural representations, embodied by the doctor and the painter, treat her. Her story emphasizes what Frantz Fanon describes as “the colonial gendering of women as symbolic mediators, the boundary markers of an agon that is fundamentally male” (quoted in McClintock 1995, 375).

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It is significant that the indigenous attack the forces that enable Spanish imperial rule – the Catholic Church, commercial exploitation, and the reproduction of the Spanish nation – respectively embodied in the characters of the priest, brother, and woman.30 While Tolliver (2010) reads the rebel leader and the doctor in terms of vampirism,31 I stress that this trope captures an imperial mentality founded on the exploitation of Others. As Luise White (2008, 10, 18) remarks, the metaphor of bloodsucking represents “state-sponsored extractions,” while “vampire stories articulate relationships and offer historians a way into the disorderly terrain of life and experience in colonial societies.” For White, the vampire and the phantom embody the “uninterrogated parts of colonial texts” (44), a particularly compelling notion given that Pardo Bazán’s text initially portrays the protagonist as a ghost or “sombra” ([1899] 1973b, 1518).32 I argue that the protagonist’s bloodletting renders visible Spain’s brutal exploitation of the Philippines but denies that colonizing act by displacing it on to the indigenous people. Upon her repatriation the “exangüe” exhibits a “palidez sepulcral” (deathly pallor) and “los estragos de una catástrofe ignorada” (the ravages of a dismissed catastrophe; 1518), thus embodying colonization’s causes and effects. The draining of the woman’s blood, a symbolic blood debt for the literal and economic lifeblood that Spain has sucked from the Philippines, “whitens” her to an extreme to reveal the racial politics of colonization. This whitening also represents Spain’s whitewashing of the atrocities of colonial wars, which is suggested in the painter’s stylized misrepresentation of the ordeal of the “exangüe” in his proposed painting. As Tolliver (2010, 294–5) remarks, “Her pain, her resulting bloodlessness, her death in life, is now replaced by images of flowers painted in the national colors, combining iconic femininity and nationhood in one image … literally severing the body of the woman from his abstracted representation. All traces of violence done to the woman are erased.” As noted with regard to de los Ríos’s Rocío in Sangre española, this normalization of the debilitated state of the woman embodied the patriarchal ideal for nineteenth-century Woman, reproduced ad nauseam in European artists’ paintings of prostrate, suffering, weak women.33 Indeed, the issue of the violence of representation pervades the text, as in earlier allusions to the colonial misreading of the natives’ seeming obedience, indicated in the verb “parecía,” when subjected to the foreigners’ verbal violence: “[L]es parecía seguro reducirles, con sólo alzar la voz en lengua castellana, a la sumisión, y al inveterado respeto” (They [the colonizers] believed that, by merely raising their voices in Castilian, they could cow them into submission and a profound respect; Pardo Bazán

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[1899] 1973b, 1519). Repeatedly the text emphasizes this disjuncture between appearance and reality, as in the delirium of the “exangüe” on imagining herself returning to Spain and the uncomprehending milieu that she confronts once back. Just as the Philippines have served Spain’s thirst for imperial aggrandizement and enrichment, so too does the tortured body of the Spanish woman become prey to the modernist painter’s “hunt” for symbolist themes (Pardo Bazán [1899] 1973b, 1520) in his quest for fame. Pardo Bazán’s text critiques a modernist aesthetics that frames unpalatable realities as acceptably beautiful and casts its subjects in a homogeneous, nationalist mould. Similarly, the doctor’s collection and resurrection of the near-dead, through which he enhances his honour or “honra,” in the sense of both reputation and wealth – “ver a la pálida y prometerme enriquecer con ella mi colección, fue todo uno” (seeing the pallid woman and vowing to add her to my collection, was one and the same; 1519) – can be read as a metaphor for Spain’s colonizing drive, which allegedly breathes life into “unawakened” peoples while augmenting its imperial prestige and coffers. Despite the repatriation of the “exangüe,” neither science nor art faithfully includes her experience and voice within the national story. On the contrary, the patria’s masculine elites can offer her only a token, fictionalized existence. Their narratives and images not only silence women’s roles in wars and colonial undertakings but reproduce within the homeland the practices of colonization by suppressing the realities of Man’s gendered Other. The short pieces discussed in chapter 5 represent Spain’s obstinate silencing of its subjects’ suffering during the 1895–8 colonial wars and its refusal to create a valid space for their stories in official narratives. My discussion of three very different writers raises useful issues with regard to their ideological positionings and the content of their texts. Although Burgos and Álvarez Pool would shortly become known for their combative spirit, as co-founders of the radical Damas Rojas and lobbyists for women’s and workers’ claims, when they published “El repatriado” and “La medalla de la Virgen” they were still emerging as writers. Undoubtedly, market considerations, and their need to support themselves through their writing (both separated in 1899), made it important for them to produce more “feminine” and less confronting narratives so as to appeal to their readership. Hence Burgos’s work condemns the devastation of the Cuban conflict in muted tones, without openly decrying governmental policies. Conventional gender roles are also upheld in her male protagonist and sorrowful women on the margins, even while these characters also contradict the official line of glorious sacrifice for the nation. Equally

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unexpected when contrasted with her feisty public persona is Álvarez Pool’s work for its religiosity and her bystander protagonist’s complicity with jingoistic rhetoric. The writer’s later, more explicit criticism of war only hesitantly emerges in Lilí’s suffering and her impending death. Nevertheless, whereas, as in the case of Spain, popular US representations of the war caricatured conventional gender conventions to highlight their opponent’s weakness, dishonour, and envisaged defeat (Charnon-Deutsch 2014–15), Álvarez Pool’s portrayals of Ángel and Lilí provide a picture of national strength in the face of adversity. In comparison, Pardo Bazán, who enjoyed greater financial security and was already an acclaimed literary figure, is arguably empowered to represent Spain’s gendered politics in the Philippines in harrowing, more impactful terms. All three texts emphasize that, regardless of whether they saw action, women certainly experienced war’s fallout and were as capable of patriotic love and sacrifice as their men. Nevertheless, the overall passivity of the female protagonists featured is surprising, given the increase in visual images of combative, armed women in satirical Republican periodicals such as Don Quijote (1892–1902), which attested to women’s challenging of normative gender roles and their greater presence in the public sphere (Laguna-Platero and Martínez Gallego 2015, 55). In the following chapter, I turn to how the rifts arising from the failure of hegemonic discourses to preserve the national myth of unity between the colonizer and his Others widen in Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria. This novella registers the fracturing of known sociocultural and political structures and practices, and charts a nostalgic but futile endeavour to reconcile warring ideologies and emotions within the national home.

Chapter Six

Disordering the Imperial Home: Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907)

[S]obre aquella augusta faz materna, empalidecida por el dolor, veíase reflejar la llamarada roja de un grande incendio remoto: ¡la guerra! (On that august, maternal face, which suffering had turned pale, one could see reflected the fiery flames from a great, faraway conflagration: the war!; De los Ríos 1907, 48)

Mary Louise Pratt defines postcolonial contact zones as “social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other” (2007, 7). Such a concept of relational but contested contact zones also underpins Ahmed’s (2014, 7–8, 63) theorization of emotions as interfaces that emerge through our encounters with our worlds, whether material or imaginary, to approximate or distance subjects. Drawing on their insights, I argue that imperialism produces not only hierarchical relationships between the colonizer and colonized, but also the shifting emotional states within imperial subjects that their encounters with Others engender. These notions are crucial to my ensuing reading of Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907), which attests to the dependence of the imperial nation on its colonized Others for a coherent and stable sense of self that ultimately proves impossible. The contact zones that the novella privileges are the family homes and members of a middle class in decline, and especially the characterization of the protagonist, Pepita. I focus on Pepita as symbolic of what Geoff Eley (2000, 34) considers two fundamental features for constructing imperial nations: their “colonial ‘outsides,’ and the gendered ‘insides.’” In terms of the colonial “outsides,” Pepita, I will argue, embodies Spain’s American colonies in her desire for independence and rebellion against familial constraints, and demonstrates characteristics

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commonly attributed to colonized peoples. With respect to the gendered “insides” of Spanish national identity, Pepita becomes the bearer of the trappings of nationhood even as her gender proscribes her full participation in the nation. The inability of many among Spain’s middle and upper classes to envisage a national identity in the absence of an empire is palpable in a speech that de los Ríos delivered in 1910, twelve years after the Disaster, at Madrid’s Athenaeum: Afirmación de la Raza ante el centenario de la Independencia de las Repúblicas Hispano-Americanas (Affirmation of the Nation on the Centenary of the Independence of the Spanish American Republics). Presenting Spain’s loss of its American colonies as a loss of Spanish identity, she affirmed the necessity to do the following: “Urge curar la incipiente abulia que empieza a descastarnos, a desespañolizarnos y a expatriarnos dentro de nuestra patria, dentro de nosotros mismos” (We must urgently cure the incipient apathy that is beginning to cause our decline, make us lose what makes us Spanish, and exile us within our own patria, within ourselves; De los Ríos 1910, 8). Comparing Spain’s loss of its colonies to a temporary rift between mother and children, de los Ríos viewed the centenary celebration as an opportunity for estranged family members to come together in a renewed union – “España como un solo ser” (Spain as one) – that would allow Spain to recover not only its status as an imperial power – its “puesto de honor en el concierto universal” (place of honour on the world stage; 4) – but also its privileged position in its relationship with Latin America: “[C]urados ya los dolorosos desgarramientos de la emancipación, España tiene allí el puesto de honor … que se debe a las madres en las bodas de los hijos” (With the painful upheavals of emancipation behind us, Spain will have pride of place there … as befits mothers at their children’s weddings; 10).1 For de los Ríos the element that unites Spain and Spanish America is the Castilian language, a “consanguinidad espiritual de la lengua” (shared spiritual bloodline) that produces “la perenne nacionalidad del alma” (the everlasting nationality of the soul; 11–12).2 The resurrection of the patria, she urges, depends on strengthening Spain’s spiritual imperialism: “Hay que hacer patria, hay que resucitar patria…. [E]n los dominios del alma española sigue sin ponerse el sol” (We have to make the nation, we have to resurrect the nation…. In the dominions of the Spanish soul the sun still has not set; 30). Consequently, de los Ríos evinces her affiliation with the theory of Hispanidad (Spanish essence), which promoted the notion of a single spiritual family, at home and abroad, united by a common language (Martín-Márquez 2008, 49). Her above references to Spain’s need to preserve that essence and family to ensure its very survival correspond to

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what Blanco (2015, 99) indicates is an organic concept of racial identity rooted in deep natural affections rather than a skin-deep biology and physiology. De los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria appeared in 1907, three years after Spain, in a treaty with France, claimed territorial rights in Morocco in a bid to regain imperial status. The novella addresses the 1898 Disaster through the eyes of the residents of an apartment building in Madrid. Representative of the military, the Catholic Church, and the middle class, they uphold the conservative values of Restoration Spain. The plot centres on two families, the Sanabrias and the Aurioles, and the relationships of the two Sanabria daughters, twenty-year-old Pilar and eighteen-year-old Pepita, with the Aurioles’ sons, Felipe and Marcelo. Although Marcelo, a soldier’s son and a recent graduate from Segovia’s military academy, is attracted by Pepita’s spellbinding exuberance, he volunteers, compelled by a sense of duty, for the Marines in the Cuban conflict, only to die in that war. As for Felipe, initially Pilar’s sweetheart, he is forced to recognize his desire for Pepita and elopes with her. Spain’s Disaster thus becomes reproduced, at microcosmic level, in the family catastrophe of death, betrayal, and dishonour.3 De los Ríos symbolizes the structural and ideological crisis that besets the nation in her characters and the building that they inhabit, analogous to a kidney that can no longer perform its function of eliminating waste to ensure the body’s health: “Vivían los Sanabrias en el riñón del Madrid antiguo, en el Pretil de los Consejos, un caserón derrengadote, caduco …” (The Sanabrias lived in old Madrid’s kidney, in the street of the Pretil de los Consejos, in a dilapidated, antiquated, rambling building; De los Ríos 1907, 5). Capitalist greed has ruined the noble heritage of the building, carved up into cramped, unhygienic, ugly dwellings, while the dynamic reversals of a domestic economy have seen all the inhabitants come down in the world: “[G]ente toda ella como cortada al patrón de la casa, … linajuda y venida a menos” (All of them cut from the building’s same cloth, … from aristocratic stock fallen on hard times; 5–6). The Sanabrias’ and Aurioles’ offspring, described as “inmunizadas contra el modernismo” (immunized against all things modern), are ill-equipped to face the challenges of the new century: “¡[D]e buena cepa eran los cuatro para ladearse hacia el siglo!” (Of what good stock the four of them were for leaning into the new century!; 6; original emphasis).4 Especially equated with a stagnant past are the Sanabria parents, “anclados en la historia y huyendo con instintivo horror de cuanto fuese evolución, mudanza” (bogged down in history and fleeing with instinctive horror from all that might be evolution, change; De los Ríos

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1907, 7–8). Nevertheless, although they lack the material capital to navigate the modern world – “consistiendo sus riquezas en pergaminos o en virtudes—valores que no se cotizan” (their wealth consisting of noble titles or virtues – merits that no longer hold value) – the narrative voice criticizes a progress forgetful of human values: “[E]l Progreso, que tiránicamente lo absorbe todo, trabajando con furia desatada en labrar el bienestar de la materia … a costa del rugir y el blasfemar dantesco de los condenados sociales …” (Progress, which tyrannically absorbs everything, working in a furious frenzy to produce wealth from matter … at the expense of the Dantesque roaring and swearing of the socially condemned; 8; original emphasis). The traditionalist, nationalistic outlook associated with the building’s residents evokes the casticismo that Unamuno addressed in En torno al casticismo and that Krauel (2013, 10) considers a contributing factor to the Spanish state’s immobilist attitude towards Cuba. Symbolic of this isolationist mentality is the Sanabria home, likened to a convent due to its fifty-two-year-old patriarch’s rigid control: “[G]racias a la vigilancia de D. Baltasar … [t]odo era en ella sosiego y acompasamiento conventuales…. [N]i se echaba de menos el tumulto de afuera …” (Thanks to Don Baltasar’s vigilance … a total, convent-like tranquillity and measured routine reigned within…. They did not miss at all the upheavals without; De los Ríos 1907, 8–9). Obsessed as he is with order in all spheres – “[s]e perecía por el orden, en la casa, en el tiempo, en las conciencias” (he hankered after order, in the home, in time, in consciences) – Don Baltasar’s endeavours to maintain domestic order extend to all suspect literature: “[N]o se dio el caso de que papelucho liberalesco ni novelón amatorio penetrase en la tradicional morada” (It was unheard of for a liberal broadsheet or bodice-ripper to enter that traditional dwelling; 9; original emphasis). Similarly preoccupied with cleanliness is his wife, Doña Inés, conceivably a parody of José Zorri­ lla’s late Romantic heroine from Don Juan Tenorio. Order and purity, the linchpins on which the family’s fragile reputation depends, were paramount concepts in nineteenth-century liberal discourse. As Sarah L. White (1999) explains, Progressives and conservatives alike legitimated their respective agendas through appealing to the principles of order and honour, normatively gendered as masculine. Conversely, those of disorder and dishonour, gendered as feminine, were used to taint and discredit their political opponents.5 After the Disaster, moderate Catholic liberals, as well as a more extreme right, considered that Spain’s perceived degeneration stemmed from its loss of a sense of order that had guaranteed civilization, superiority, and empire (Álvarez Junco 1998, 459–60). In La niña de Sanabria the

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protagonist, Pepita, becomes the embodiment of a disorder that results in dishonour. Like Burgos’s Alina in the following chapter, she heralds a different model of femininity, the fin-de-siècle New Woman, as evident in her determination to circulate freely in private and in public. Flouting traditional concepts of female honour, she elopes with Pilar’s fiancé to Asturias. Her conduct demonstrates the consequences of uncontrolled actions; as Sarah White (1999, 233) indicates, “A female out of control was not only disorderly; she was dishonourable.” Disorder and dishonour, the narrative intimates, result in broken hearts, divided families, and tarnished reputations on both a personal and a metaphorical level. Contrasting stances on the possible outcome of the Spanish-American War over Cuba are manifest in a key dialogue between Baltasar Sanabria and the priest, Leandro Murrieta. Like Don Ramón Aurioles, Baltasar is convinced of Spain’s inevitable victory (De los Ríos 1907, 56). Believers in miracles and epics, both affirm the Spanish nation’s virtue, courage, heroism, and superior nobility or “hidalguía,” as opposed to the United States’ “bárbaro poder de la fuerza” (barbarous military might; 57). Conversely Murrieta criticizes this imperialist rhetoric of aristocratic civilization against brute force, denouncing it as the figment of a riotous imagination that should be surgically removed from the national body: “[P]ienso que debiéramos extirparnos, como un cáncer, la fantasía…” (I think that we should excise from ourselves fantastical imaginings, as we would a cancer; 58–9). Present-day epics, he indicates, are written in statistics, illness is ravaging the Spanish troops in Cuba, and Spain lacks the naval power essential for victory. Moreover, the Cuban war is an international war played out on a world stage, a testing ground for the newest US military hardware, and a sport in which Spain is the target. Spain’s fate, Murrieta warns, will run parallel to Pepita’s (57–9). Throughout the novella, the Spanish propensity to fantastical imaginings that Murrieta lambasts is equated with Pepita, in whom Eley’s aforementioned concepts of “colonial ‘outsides’ and gendered ‘insides’” coincide and collide. Recalling Teresa de Jesús’s likening in her Libro de la vida (The Book of My Life; [1588] 2014) of the imagination to a madman, an analogy that others subsequently translated as “la loca de la casa” (Serés 2015, 23–4), Pepita too is described as the “loca de la casa” (madwoman of the house; De los Ríos 1907, 18). She represents the “imaginación creadora, quimérica e impulsiva” (creative, chimerical, and impulsive imagination) and the “indómito corcel de la fantasía” (indomitable steed that is fantasy) in a combination that defies analytical thought: “[I]nteligencia, fantasía y temperamento formaban

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tan enredada malla psico-fisiológica, que era difícil meter en ella con serenidad el escalpelo analítico” (Intelligence, fantasy, and temperament formed such an entangled psycho-physiological network that it was difficult to dissect calmly with the scalpel of analysis; 18–19). This notion of a psycho-physiological network resistant to reason also appears in contemporary conceptualizations of affect. As Krauel (2013, 41–2n27) summarizes, Miranda Burgess sees emotions as “conscious and individual” and affect as “pre-individual,” “social,” and “circulatory” (2011, 289–90), while for Gregory J. Seigworth and Melissa Gregg, affect constitutes “visceral forces beneath, alongside, or generally other than conscious knowing” (2010, 1; original emphasis). Unlike emotion, therefore, affect proves intractable to reason. Supposedly at the mercy of her nervous system and beyond reason, Pepita is cast as dangerous and even potentially lethal: “Para manejar aquel tinglado de nervios, astucias y seducciones, había que ponerse guantes aisladores como para tocar los hilos eléctricos” (To handle that bundle of nerves, wiles, and enticements, it was necessary to don insulating gloves, as when touching electric wires; De los Ríos 1907, 19). Significantly, this threatening, “natural” volatility is also represented as characteristic of the Madrid populace: “[P]arece que una electricidad vibrante, sensible, se condensa sobre el viviente mar del gentío, y diríase que de aquella electricidad va a forjarse y a esplender el rayo” (It seems that a vibrating, perceptible electricity is gathering over the living sea of the crowd, and it could be said that such electricity will provoke and fan the spark; 50). Such gendered depictions, as Kirkpatrick (2003, 89–93) explains, abounded in Regenerationist discourse, which privileged “masculine” rationality and science over the “feminine” – women and the working-class masses – who were perceived as auxiliary to and hampering a masculine national narrative of progress, and hence as needing strict control. More importantly, Kirkpatrick (2000, 147) notes, “The rhetorical association of modern Spain with decadence, impotence, and implicit feminisation was particularly powerful in that it served as a kind of explanation for the disaster of 1898.” De los Ríos’s text stresses that the attempt to control “feminine” Others depends on their objectification and dehumanization, as is evident in Murrieta’s description of Pepita: “Desde que la muñeca se vuelve mujer, el mecanismo se complica por horas. ¡Valiente máquina una psicología femenina!” (Since the doll has become a woman, the mechanism becomes more complicated by the hour. What a devilish piece of machinery the feminine psyche is!; De los Ríos 1907, 19–20). Again recalling Teresa de Jesús’s comparison of the imagination to “maripo­ sitas de las noches” (moths; Serés 2015, 23), he also likens Pepita to a

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butterfly that eludes his scientific gaze: “Y el buen canónigo poníase a observar a la muchacha como podría observar un entomólogo a una mariposa en el aire; … Porque aquella criatura frágil, nerviosa, escu­ rridiza, fuyente, era inobservable; … La chiquilla se sentía observada, y se proponía marear al observador” (And the good canon began to observe the girl as an entomologist would an air-borne butterfly…. Because that fragile, nervous, elusive, flighty creature escaped observation…. Feeling observed, the girl set out to confuse the observer; De los Ríos 1907, 20; original emphasis).6 This analogy calls to mind Freud’s later 1917 comparison of the development of the libido to the caterpillar’s transformation into a butterfly ([1916–17] 1963, 328). He continued this analogy in “From the History of an Infantile Neurosis,” where he read the projections of the butterfly’s wings as potentially alluding to a woman’s genitalia and attributed the fear of that image to one of castration (Freud [1917–19] 1955, 90, 93). Like Murrieta, Felipe also feels compelled to study Pepita in an attempt to call her to order (De los Ríos 1907, 23, 27). His fascination with her induces a spiritual “ataxia” or lack of muscular coordination, which, connoting national decadence, undermines his will and freezes his soul (67). Murrieta’s and Felipe’s thwarted efforts to decipher Pepita and metaphorically nail her down suggest the desire of hegemonic masculine actors to “civilize” and master the threat of women, the lower classes, and primitive races through an imperial gaze, and the resistance of such Others to this process. Through a complex interweaving of motifs that portray Pepita as childlike, feline, and a siren, she becomes paradoxically identified, I argue, with the rebellious Cuban colony, a decadent imperialist Spain, and a predatory United States. With respect to her personification as the colony, such characterizations were commonplace in imperial discourse, which presented the seductive, exotic, not fully human Other, Latin America, as requiring, like nineteenth-century Spanish womanhood, the male colonizer’s guidance and guardianship. Regarding Spain’s perceived degeneration, commonly attributed to gender imbalances, the siren and the cat were associated with the allegedly dissolute, over-sexualized New Woman of fin-de-siècle European culture, who threatened to lead men astray and devour them in a quasi-cannibalistic act reminiscent of colonizers’ worst imaginings regarding colonized Others (Dijkstra 1986, 291–2, 344).7 Indeed, the text repeatedly emphasizes Pepita’s emerald eyes, “eléctricos, felinos, misteriosos, perturbadores” (electric, feline, mysterious, disturbing; De los Ríos 1907, 20), while Marcelo perceives that Pepita has the power to consume his soul in her catlike “garritas de rosa” (rosy claws) and jeopardize his

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Figure 6.1.  Geografía satírica. El gat y la rata (1898; Satirical Geography: The Cat and the Mouse). By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

military honour (37). In de los Ríos’s text Pepita as New Woman becomes not only a placeholder for a New World of independence from colonialism, whether abroad or at home. Her reiterated likening to a cat also invites her to be seen as a symbol for North America, whose rapacious designs on Cuba were represented in contemporary satirical press in terms of a cat chasing a mouse. Moreover, given that the most prevalent nineteenth-century symbol for the Spanish people was the lion, the association of Pepita with a cat simultaneously suggests the feminization and the diminution of Spain as a viable imperial power. The narrative plays with popular imagery and imperialist discourses to turn the Spanish lion, symbolic of a reputedly fearless people, into a mouse and tamed beast, and the United States into a domesticated cat (see figures 6.1 and 6.2). These implicit analogies can be read in terms of a parodic double voice, conveying the narrative voice’s criticism of Spain’s hubristic expectations and material capacity to confront the US successfully, as well as a belittling of the US as a pussycat.

Figure 6.2.  Untitled dialogue between Spain and Sagasta by Manuel Moliné i Muns (1898b). The caption reads: “Espanya: ‘¡Ay, ay, ay, quin principi d’any més negre! …’ Sagasta: ‘¡Que vol que li digui, filla! … Lo qu’es jo ja no sé que ferhi’” (Spain: “Ay me, ay me, ay me, what a black start to the year! …” Sagasta: “What can I say, my dear! … I no longer know what to do about it all”). By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

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It is, however, on Pepita as siren, the opposite pole to a normative, chaste femininity, that the novella most dwells. A mythical creature, half animal, half woman, who lured mariners to their death by causing their vessels to founder, the siren metaphorically suggests the decisive naval defeats of Spain’s 1898 Disaster, commonly called the naufragio (shipwreck), in Cavite, Philippines (1 May), and Santiago de Cuba (3 July). The text’s insistence on the mysterious depths of Pe­ pita’s emerald-green eyes strengthens this analogy: “Entre sus negras pestañas esplendían como dos esmeraldas vivientes sus ojos verdes, mudables como el mar …” (From between her black lashes gleamed her green eyes like two living emeralds, changeable like the sea; De los Ríos 1907, 20). For Marcelo, Pepita and the promise of war glory constitute his Scylla and Charybdis, the mythical feminine monsters that imperilled Odysseus’s vessel: [V]eíase en medio de dos opuestos abismos, que le atraían con doble vértigo irresistible: el uno … verde, movedizo, amenazador, sublime: el mar, el augusto océano surcado por ráfagas esplendorosas de gloria y por sangrientas ráfagas de muerte sobre las cuales cabalgaba el espectro pavoroso de la guerra como desmelenada visión apocalíptica; el otro abismo … más mudable, enigmático y peligroso que el mar: los glaucos ojos de Pepita … (He saw himself between two opposing abysses, which were sucking him down in an irresistible, duplicated vertigo: one … green, shifting, threatening, sublime: the sea, the powerful ocean criss-crossed by magnificent bursts of glory and bloody blasts of death, over which galloped the fearsome spectre of war like a dishevelled apocalyptic vision; the other abyss … even more changeable, enigmatic, and dangerous than the sea: Pepita’s glaucous eyes; 30–1)

Significantly, Pepita’s eyes present the greater danger, threatening to unman Marcelo by drawing him into a figurative whirlpool: “[E]l centelleo fascinador de sus verdes ojos enigmáticos aturdíale y le llamaba como un vórtice …” (The fascinating sparkle of her enigmatic green eyes dazed and attracted him like a whirlpool; De los Ríos 1907, 30). A common trope in European fin-de-siècle culture, the association of Woman with the sea posited each as a passive body, “ultimately all-encompassing and deadly” and representative of “undifferentiated instinctual life” (Dijkstra 1986, 265). Hence Pepita’s eyes and the sea represent Marcelo’s fear of engulfment and annihilation by a monstrous “feminine” Other, equated with an unfathomable but irresistible void.8

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The narrative’s simultaneous construction of Pepita as the symbol of Spanish national identity erupts in a central passage that relates her only appearance outside the family home. Taking place on Maundy Thursday, a moment symbolic of the nation’s figurative suffering in that it marks the beginning of Christ’s Passion, the episode recalls an event in 1902, five years prior to the novella’s publication. Alfonso XIII had unveiled in Madrid’s Plaza de Coscorro a statue of Eloy Gonzalo García, a popular hero who had died in Cuba in 1897. This homage aimed to prevent the transformation of a traditional, allegedly good people into a bad people associated with the proletariat and class conflict (Serrano 1999, 225).9 In La Correspondencia de España’s coverage of this nostalgic spectacle of imperial history, the press underlined the display of patriotism by working-class girls from the old Madrid wearing Manila shawls and hair ribbons in the national colours (223–5).10 The exhibition of patriotic fervour on the bodies of lower-class women, symbolic of a feminized Spanish people, undoubtedly functioned to bolster a national identity severely shaken by the Disaster. Displaying both the trappings of empire, connoted in the Manila shawls, and the national colours, the young women’s accessories were a manifestation of banal nationalism, of how a people lives the nation in daily life.11 Reproducing a similar event in La niña de Sanabria, de los Ríos recalls the women in the 1902 homage when Pepita adorns her black mantilla in the national colours with red and gold carnations from her balcony flower pots, impelled by “feminine” instinct and her “ansiedad de la patria” (anxiety over the patria; De los Ríos 1907, 47). Likewise, other Madrid women have adorned their mantilla, the “blonda tan nacional” (lace shawl that typifies the nation), with gold and red carnations in “los vívidos colores de la bandera de la patria” (the vivid colours of the national flag; 51), in what is described as an instinctive flagging of the social fabric. The national colours on the black mantillas, likened to a red and gold flame or “llama aurirroja” (51), evoke an earlier description of the war: “[S]obre aquella augusta faz materna, empalidecida por el dolor, veíase reflejar la llamarada roja de un grande incendio remoto: ¡la guerra!” (On that august, maternal face, which suffering had turned pale, one could see reflected the fiery flames from a great, faraway conflagration: the war!; 48). The narrative voice refers to this moment in 1898 as the last page in Spain’s golden imperial legend, the end of any hope of victory. If Spain had been victorious in the Spanish-American War, statues would have been raised to pay homage to the patriotism of the Madrid women, “tan españolas” (so Spanish; 52). The women’s “national” dress serves as a reminder of past military glories during the War of Independence, when the Spanish people did

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ultimately triumph over the foreign invader. References to the Cádiz women who supposedly paraded their mantillas during French General Soult’s siege of that city and to Goya’s lower-class Madrid belles in The Second of May 1808 underline the memorialistic, patriotic properties of everyday dress: “Las modas reinantes … daban a las madrileñas de entonces perfiles y tonos goyescos…. Las madrileñas … parecían revivir gloriosos atavismos; recordábase que bajo las bombas de Soult lucían las gaditanas sus mantillas por las calles de las heroica ciudad sitiada; recordábanse las majas sublimes del Dos de Mayo” (The prevailing fashions … lent those Madrid women Goyaesque contours and tones…. The Madrid women … seemed to revive atavistic glories; it was recalled that under Soult’s bombings the Cádiz women used to show off their shawls on the besieged town’s streets; they were reminiscent of the sublime working-class belles of [Goya’s] The Second of May; De los Ríos 1907, 51).12 By the century’s end, however, that earlier defence of the nation had morphed into a defence of empire to preserve national honour. Whether or not the mantilla is a national garment, as de los Ríos’s text affirms, or is historically derived from the Moorish veil, its privileging in the novella speaks of a silent appropriation of the Other into symbols of Spanish identity and an attempted harmonization of colonial trappings and national signifiers on women’s bodies, bearers and reproducers of national identity.13 The carnations superimposed on the mantillas underline how the nationalization of cultural items requires their naturalization. Pepita’s triumphant passage through the most traditional areas of working-class Madrid – the streets of the Barquillo and Alcalá, and the Puerta del Sol – becomes an apotheotic event, in which she literally embodies the colours of the Spanish flag: “[S]u cara, siempre pálida, semejaba teñida en el vivo carmín de sus claveles…. [L]as vetas rubias que abrillantaban sus cabellos castaños relucían …” (Her face, always pale, seemed bathed in the vivid crimson of her carnations…. The blonde highlights in her chestnut hair gleamed; De los Ríos 1907, 53). Her identification with the nation, evident in the cries of “Long live Spain” that accompany her (53), is further stressed by the reaction of her father and Don Ramón Aurioles on her return home: “[P]arecióles ver a la propia España encarnada en la gentil figura de Pepita, envuelta en las nacionales blondas y ostentando en pecho y cabeza el simbólico auriflama” (They seemed to see Spain herself incarnate in Pepita’s graceful figure, enveloped in Spanish shawls and bearing on her breast and hair the symbolic red and gold flame; 56). Indeed, Pe­ pita becomes endowed with features identified with the Virgin of the Assumption – wings, roses, and apotheosis: “[P]arecía llevada por alas

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invisibles … diríase que no tocaba la tierra, que pisaba rosas, que respiraba apoteosis, que adquiría gravedades de mujer y majestuosas altiveces de diosa” (She appeared to be borne on invisible wings…. One could say that she did not touch the ground, that she walked over roses, that she exuded apotheosis, that she took on a womanly gravitas and majestic, goddess-like airs; 55). As well as signifying an elevation to divine status, apotheosis also refers to the triumphant but final part of an staged spectacle, which is in turn, as Paul Carter notes, characteristic of imperial history, “a fabric woven of self-reinforcing illusions … which reduces space to a stage” (2007, 333). The quintessential object of collective desire, Pepita demonstrates how national agendas that seek popular support for war promote women as indispensable symbols of the feminized nation, whose seductive properties invite male citizens to defend her. Consequently, the Madrid women in national colours serve to inspire the men: “[A]l paso de cada mujer que ostentaba los colores de nuestra bandera, un impulso irresistible sacudía los nervios y la sangre varonil …” (As each woman passed, flaunting the colours of our flag, an irresistible force agitated manly nerves and blood; De los Ríos 1907, 51). Like Pepita’s eyes, the Madrid populace on Holy Thursday is depicted in terms of the sea: “[L]a multitud, como el mar, siendo lo mismo siempre, aguas o gentes acumuladas, no es siempre igual…. [C]omo cambia el Océano … así cambia la multitud …” (The crowd, like the sea, while always the same in essence as a body of water or persons, is not always the same…. Just as the Ocean changes … so too does the crowd; 49). While such a representation recalls Unamuno’s depiction of humanity as an ocean – “La humanidad es la casta eterna, sustancia de las castas históricas que se hacen y deshacen como las olas del mar” (Humanity is the eternal caste, the substance of historical castes that form and dissolve like waves; Una­muno [1895] 2007, 108) – de los Ríos’s naturalization of the masses also positions them as the opposite of culture and order by stressing their volatility and potential for disorder.14 The metaphor of the sea, alternately calm and enraged, represents the imagined two faces of the common people noted above: on the one hand, the good guardians of national traditions and the backbone of a largely agricultural domestic economy, and on the other, the bad urban proletariat associated with class conflict. Above all, the novella depicts the people’s patriotism as subject to emotions – those of impatience, bitterness, and anxiety (De los Ríos 1907, 50) – that feminize and align them with the instinctual patriotism attributed to Pepita and Madrid’s women.15 Eric Storm maintains that the almost subconscious interiorization of national identity took place during the Restoration period, especially in

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the first decades of the twentieth century due to the fin-de-siècle pessimism of the 1898 Generation. Domestic spaces and interiors served to testify to their inhabitants’ patriotism and drew intimate connections between morality, family life, and national glory (Storm 2017, 257, 262, 271). Indeed, in a 1916 “Conferencia” (Conference), Pardo Bazán declared that the home was “espiritualmente, … la concreción, la entrada misma de la nacionalidad” (spiritually, … the materialization of and the very entry point to national sentiment; Pardo Bazán 1919, 94). In La niña de Sanabria the characters that best exemplify the nationalistic interiorization of the Spanish-American War in homes and psyches are Pepita and her neighbour Doña Consuelo Valdés, an admiral’s widow. Just as Spain embarked on war with the United States out of pride to avoid the shame of dishonour, so too does Pepita’s vanity lead her to seek support from neighbours, in what is couched as a military campaign, to take revenge on Marcelo for abandoning her (De los Ríos 1907, 60). Her primary ally is Doña Consuelo, whose home is described as a ship at anchor and her living room as an ethnographic naval museum, due to naval relics and objects brought back from the Philippines, China, and Japan. As the daughter, wife, and adoptive mother of sailors, Doña Consuelo considers the ocean her patria. With relatives fighting in the Philippines and communications arriving daily from Cuba and the Philippines, Doña Consuelo figuratively lives at sea and her home is practically part of the navy’s squadron (61–2). Through Doña Consuelo Pepita familiarizes herself with the war to such an extent that she pronounces on “la verdadera marcha de la campaña, de los altos planes de los Cerveras, Sampson, Schaffer y toda aquella legión de almirantazos y generalotes, a quienes ella trataba ya tú por tú” (the true progress of the campaign, the lofty plans of the likes of Cervera, Sampson, and Schaffer, and that entire legion of bigwig admirals and generals, to whom she now referred on familiar terms; 65–6).16 Interestingly, Doña Consuelo bears a striking resemblance to another admiral’s widow from Pardo Bazán’s article “Viuda de marino” (The Naval Officer’s Widow), published in September 1899. Like Doña Consuelo, Pardo Bazán’s personage “tiene su casa convertida en museo y capilla” (has converted her house into a museum and shrine), with naval trophies and exotic objects on display (Pardo Bazán [1899] 1902, 180). Completely devoted to the Spanish navy, the widow’s considerable knowledge of military strategy does not extend, however, to the latest naval weapons (180–2). The shipwreck of the cruiser, the Reina Regente, destroys the widow’s ideals of Spanish grandeur, transforming her into “la viuda del ideal” (the widow of the ideal; 183).17 La niña de Sanabria emphasizes that such an emotionally charged pa­ triotism stemmed partly from the pro-war popular press.18 Newspapers

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and telegrams whip up patriotic fervour in their inaccurate accounts of the war, causing rumours to circulate within the apartment building, a “mansión histórica” (historic mansion) symbolic of the sociopolitical community (De los Ríos 1907, 63). Importantly, this communication network is compared to a nervous system (63), corroborating Hogan’s (2009, 142) suggestion that “the nation’s ‘central nervous system’ may be some aspect of infrastructure, such as the communications system.” Like Pepita’s “redes” or wiles (De los Ríos 1907, 36), the network seductively ensnares the public on an elemental level. Consequently, the telegraph cable is represented as animating a nervous system common to the two Spains, peninsular and colonial, which are portrayed as one suffering national body: “Y entre las dos Españas en tortura, extendíase el cable, el gran sensorio que derramaba raudales de sensaciones vivas, lancinantes, por las vibradoras haces de nervios del gran cuerpo nacional” (And between the two tortured Spains stretched the cable, the powerful sensorium that poured out torrents of raw, piercing sensations, along the vibrating nerve bundles of the great national body; 48). The emphasis on the involuntary, interacting elements that create a community recalls Unamuno’s insistence in his essay “Sobre el cultivo de la Demótica” (On Cultivating a Popular Tradition; [1896] 2008) on the unconscious depths that inform a nation’s collective spirit or intra-historia (Serrano 1998, 355).19 With the benefit of hindsight in 1907 La niña de Sanabria criticizes the press’s generation of false hope (see figure 6.3), which contributed to the nation’s symbolic crucifixion: “[C]onteniendo en sus negras columnas tal suma de arrogantes jactancias, de esperanzas locas y de agónicos optimismos, que, leídos ahora, desga­ rran el alma con su sangrienta ironía de Inri clavado sobre la crucificada patria” (Containing in its black columns so many arrogant boastings, crazy hopes, and optimism in its death throes, which, read now, harrow the soul with their bloody irony of Inri nailed to the crucified nation; De los Ríos 1907, 63). At the novella’s close no hope remains that Spain will emerge from its prostration and dishonour, respectively symbolized in Pilar’s taking to her bed and Pepita’s elopement. The family tragedies of the Sanabrias and Aurioles represent the national catastrophe, which the narrator compares to the Passion of a feminized Christ, a Mater Dolorosa who both witnesses and experiences the suffering of another body that is also her own: “Coincidiendo con aquel drama de amores, caminaba también a su desenlace cruel la gran tragedia nacional. Con pasos de dolor, entre esperanzas congojosas y mortales desmayos de agonía, la patria, la Mater Dolorosa había ido siguiendo su calle de Amargura, y ya entonces hallábase en el Calvario” (Coinciding with that melodrama

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Figure 6.3.  L’últim crit (1898; The Final Rally / Last Gasp). The caption reads: “¡¡Visca Espanya!!” (Long live Spain!!).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

of love, the great national tragedy was also unfolding towards its cruel end. With painful steps, amid heart-wrenching hopes and agonizing, fatal falls, the patria, the Mater Dolorosa, had continued along her Way of Suffering, and was already at her Calvary; De los Ríos 1907, 83). The surrender that Don Ramón envisions – “¡Y arriarán la bandera!” (And they will lower the flag!) – signifies the death of an imperial order and the lack of viable options to replace it: “Ante sus espantados ojos se condensaba la trágica visión que parecía simbolizar a un tiempo el drama de aquel hogar de ensoñadores y el de la patria española…. [V]eía el viejo soldado allá a lo lejos, … abatirse y caer, caer con majestad de muerte, como enorme águila herida, ensangrentada, la enseña gloriosa …” (Before his aghast eyes the tragic vision that seemed to symbolize both the drama of that household of dreamers and the Spanish nation was becoming one and the same…. The old soldier could see, far off in the distance, … the glorious flag collapse and fall, fall with the

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Figure 6.4.  A los héroes de Cavite (To the Heroes of Cavite) by Josep Triadó (1898).

By kind permission of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona’s periodical archive.

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majesty of death, like an enormous, wounded, bloodied eagle; 87). In an eerie recasting of Josep Triadó’s May 1898 homage to war hero Luis Cadarso Rey, who died at the battle of Cavite (see figure 6.4), de los Ríos’s imagined, mortal wounding of the imperial eagle on the Spanish flag heralds Spain’s official ceding of Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, and Guam through the Treaty of Paris on 10 December 1898. Spain’s loss of these colonies definitively sundered its modern empire, a metaphorical family of metropolis and colonies that the former represented as one and the same spiritual body. The tensions, divisions, and resistances that simmered in this notion, and which are exemplified in Stoler’s (2002, 19) “microsites” of intimacy, have been evident in the stories narrated in chapters 5–6. In chapter 7, I turn to a moment just two years after de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria that saw Spain resurrect its imperial pretensions through renewed military intervention in northern Africa. In its critique of this war Burgos’s novella En la guerra ([1909] 1989) again privileges the themes of challenged honour and divided hearts, and the symbol of the Mater Dolorosa, but this time in relation to the concept of female adultery, the sexual transgression that strikes at the heart of the patriarchal family and nation, and its hierarchical power relationships.

Chapter Seven

Purity of Blood in the National Family? Spain’s War in Morocco in Carmen de Burgos’s En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) (1909) [L]os atavismos y las preocupaciones pesaron sobre su espíritu con la sombra del deber. (Atavisms and concerns weighed her spirit down, overshadowed by duty; Burgos [1909] 1989, 208–9)

Spain’s Melilla campaign, the context for Carmen de Burgos’s novella En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla), commenced in early July 1909, when Spanish troops encountered local opposition to the mining interests of the Rif Spanish Mining Company in Uixan, there since mid 1908. The campaign formally ended in late November after Spain took Mt. Gurugú on 29 September, in the battle narrated in Burgos’s final pages (Martín 1973, 34, 38–9).1 This war, however, was not Spain’s first in Morocco. Although Spain had held Melilla since 1497 and Ceuta since the 1688 Treaty of Lisbon, its colonial expansion into Africa began in 1859, when General Leopoldo O’Donnell, former captain general of Cuba and then head of government, responded to indigenous resistance to Spanish abuses in Anyera, near Ceuta, by launching the pretentiously named War of Africa, in which France was also involved (Fernández and Tamaro 2004; Jubran 2002, 97). Unsurprisingly, national honour served to justify this conflict and Morocco was forced to cede Ifni and recognize the expanded Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla. Between 1893 and 1894 the profaning of a holy site during Spain’s construction of the Sidi Auriach fort at Melilla’s border led to the First Rif War (Balfour 2002, 11; Martín 1973, 11–16). Subsequently the 1904 Entente with France gave Spain so-called historic rights to Morocco’s northern areas, except for Tangier (Miller 2013, 88), while the 1906 Algeciras conference determined that both European powers would

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share the colonization of Morocco (Jubran 2002, 98). When France’s naval forces bombed Casablanca in 1907 and its troops invaded Morocco, therefore, Spain occupied Larache and Alcazarquivir. In 1912 yet another treaty with France would ostensibly legalize Spain’s presence in Morocco by making its appropriated territories a protectorate (Martín 1973, 20). Ably summing up the situation, Balfour (2002, 7) affirms that what motivated Spain’s expansion into Morocco on behalf of other European powers was its perception of “strategic insecurity” after the Disaster, as well as the rivalry among nations for colonial prizes. Also driving Spain’s colonization of northern Morocco were important commercial interests, which major societies and Africanist intellectuals considered essential if Spain were to modernize according to European standards.2 If Spain’s loss of its colonies in 1898 represented the symbolic emasculation of its imperial body, its persistent desire to pursue colonial ambitions in Morocco offered the opportunity to remasculinize the nation. In the first decade of the twentieth century metaphors of male sexuality laced diplomatic and military reports on the Moroccan situation. Regarding Spain’s 1904 treaty with France, Balfour (2002, 7) observes that these powers “awarded themselves the freedom to intervene in their spheres of influence if the Moroccan state … showed ‘persistent impotence.’” The erection of Spanish enclaves on Moroccan soil demonstrated masculine potency and the possession of a feminized Other, whom Spain consistently orientalized as either effeminate or an unmanning seductress.3 Intertwined with this perennially sexualized narrative of colonization were theories of racial and moral superiority. One argument by which Spain justified its colonization of Morocco was that it would bring civilization to an allegedly backward continent (Balfour 2002, 157), thus disproving Spain’s perceived decadence and its nineteenth-century construction by Northern Europe as an exotic Other, and affirming its worthiness to belong to an elite, imperial club. Alternatively validating Spain’s colonization of northern Morocco was the thesis of former historical, cultural, and even biological bonds between Arabs and Spaniards (Martín-Márquez 2008, 50–1), elaborated through what Carl Jubran (2002) terms “internal-orientalism.” This concept of a blood brotherhood had been given wings in the last decades of the nineteenth century by Africanists such as Joaquín Costa and Gonzalo de Reparaz. The former, for instance, stressed the supposed whiteness of “the common ‘Ibero-Berber’ racial stock” and represented Spain and Africa as geographical mirrors. After 1898, however, Costa would repudiate his Africanist stance to advocate instead for Spain’s Europeanization,

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contingent on expelling the African within (Martín-Márquez 2008, 57– 8, 60). Since the fifteenth-century Reconquista of Spain the concept of purity of blood had determined Christian Spaniards’ right to hold property and office. Even in 1822 Spaniards still believed, as José Blanco White highlighted, that the slightest hint of “African, Indian, Moorish or Hebrew blood taints an entire family through the most distant generation” (Martín-Márquez 2008, 43). Although Spain gradually abolished blood purity statutes from 1833 onwards with the entry of exiled liberals into the regency government, most were not removed until the late 1860s, at the height of Progressive liberalism.4 Notwithstanding these measures, debates concerning Spain’s national and regional identities continued to revolve around questions of racial hybridity or homogeneity. Intellectuals such as Unamuno and José Ortega y Gasset predicted that Spain’s colonial losses in 1898 would result in its decentring “dispersion” (Epps 2008, 154). As Susan Martín-Márquez elucidates, Andalusian nationalism, founded by Blas Infante, favoured hybridity and celebrated Andalusia’s heterodox religious history and inclusive commingling of cultures. Conversely, proponents of Catalan nationalism, rejecting their purported colonization by the Spanish state, labelled Castilians “‘Semites,’ ‘Moors,’ ‘Bedouins’ or ‘Peninsular Berbers’” and avowed their “superior and essentially Aryan Gothic character.” Similarly, Galician nationalist Manuel Murguía portrayed Spaniards as “inferior ‘Semitic’ people,” compared with the Galicians and their reputed Celtic origins. Basques also claimed racial superiority through the theory of vascoiberismo, which affirmed that the Basque language came from the Iberians (Martín-Márquez 2008, 43–9).5 Consequently, Spain’s relationships beyond and within its national territory rested on what Milica Bakić-Hayden terms “nesting orientalisms” (quoted in Kuzmic 2016, 21), which reproduce the original oppositions that underpin Orientalism. Contemporary preoccupations with potential or actual blood contamination in familial and national genealogies converge in En la guerra, published on 29 October 1909 in El Cuento Semanal. This piece was the fruit of Burgos’s stay in Melilla from 9 August to 2 October that year as Spain’s first female war correspondent for the Heraldo de Madrid. Although she was sent to cover the Moroccan conflict as part of her work for the Red Cross, the novella permitted her to relay in fictional form material that government censorship had prevented her from conveying in her newspaper articles.6 Critics have read En la guerra as reflecting Burgos’s condemnation of war (Núñez Rey 2005,

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247), as demonstrating the inseparability of Spain’s fin-de-siècle imperialist undertakings in Morocco from concerns around race, gender, and national identity (Martín-Márquez 2008, 174; Zapata-Calle 2011, 110), and as highlighting the struggle for hegemony among “irreconcilable discourses” (Pozzi 2000, 189) and “the complexities of the subaltern voice” (Ugarte 2017, 168). Little attention, however, has been paid to the quasi-adulterous romance that provides cohesion to an otherwise fragmented narrative. Although Epps (2016, 118) notes that En la guerra “both approximates and veers aways from” adultery, he does not develop this angle. For Juan José López Barranco (2003, 187), the text’s main deficiency is its inability to reconcile the romance with Burgos’s documentary descriptions. Conversely, I will argue that the romance is indispensable for Burgos’s representation of Spain’s presence in Morocco. Her novella’s theme of adultery, as Nicholas White (1999) explains regarding late nineteenth-century French fiction, connotes a crisis in the individual and national family. It is hardly coincidental that a plethora of novels on adultery appeared in Europe’s fin de siècle, which also saw the emergence of nationalisms, supposedly scientific discourses on race, and renewed imperialist aspirations. Building on Tatiana Kuzmic’s pioneering Adulterous Nations (2016), my reading of Burgos’s narrative in this chapter aims to unpick the intimate implications of female adultery for the individual and the nation, its pertinence to questions of male, female, and imperial honour or reputation, and its relevance to Burgos’s feminist claims.7 Furthermore, I posit that the concept of adultery represents Spain’s liminal position between Northern Europe and Africa, the West and the Orient, and tradition and modernity, which plays out on multiple narrative levels. Female protagonists in canonical, late nineteenth-century novels of adultery, all written by male authors, were invariably middle- or upper-class women seduced by unmarried men (Overton 2002, 3). In these renditions of adultery’s triangular relationship, Woman is the desired object but never the desiring subject. In contrast, Burgos writes a novel of adultery in which the woman initiates the affair, acting on her culturally proscribed desire.8 Although the affair is never consummated, Burgos’s text conforms to the pattern of adultery that Naomi Segal considers typical of the nineteenth-century novel: “It is not essential … for ‘actual’ adultery to have taken place…. Adulterous desire is enough” (1992, 61). The plot of En la guerra centres on twenty-three-year-old Alina, who has accompanied her husband, Commander Luis Ramírez, forty-three years of age, to Melilla. His best friend is the younger Captain Gonzalo

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Ruiz, who previously fought alongside him in Cuba. The text thus implicitly depicts the Spanish-Moroccan war as a prolongation of the Spanish-American conflict and as a similar imperial enterprise. When Alina and Gonzalo fall in love, the theme of adultery allows Burgos to question the premises of masculine and feminine honour that sustain both war and marriage. The war that the novella depicts is not only that between Spaniards and Moroccans, colonizers and colonized, but the inner turmoil experienced by the main characters as they grapple with their turbulent emotions. At the close of the narrative, when she realizes that Gonzalo has been killed in combat, Alina’s public display of grief betrays her feelings to her devastated spouse. His subsequent death in battle, a suicide officially represented as heroism, leaves masculine honour apparently intact but also reveals it as sham. Moreover, Alina loses her socially sanctioned identity dependent on bonds with a father or husband. At the conclusion, the men’s deaths in the war continue present in Alina, a war widow condemned to inhabit a civil death. Alina’s status as a married bourgeois woman demands her enclosure in a masculine domestic economy. Women’s chasteness, which ensures the purity of paternal bloodlines, was essential for preserving that economy and a hegemonic, Eurocentric civilization. Family rule or dominium underpinned state power or imperium (Stallybrass 1986, 131), and women’s reclusion within an idealized domesticity marked them as both dominated and civilized.9 Although women entered into marriage according to a so-called contract of consent, their allegedly voluntary submission to male authority amounted to what Pateman (1988, 119) calls a civil death. When Burgos published En la guerra, Spanish women were still governed by the 1889 Civil Code, based on the Napoleonic Code. Its restrictions effectively placed them in a situation that critics likened to legalized slavery (Scanlon 1986, 126).10 Spanish women’s subordinate status was reflected in legislation on adultery, which Burgos would critique in other writings. In her novellas El artículo 438 (Article 438; Burgos 1921) and La malcasada (The Unhappily Married Woman; Burgos [1923] 2017), she denounced Article 438 of the Civil Code, which stipulated that a husband who kills his adulterous wife risks only exile, while any injury other than death goes unpunished. In La mujer moderna y sus derechos (Modern Women and Their Rights; 1927), Burgos indicated that because the Civil Code defined a husband’s adultery as merely “amancebamiento” (illicit union), adultery could be committed only by a married woman and her partner; the latter, however, would be guilty of adultery only if he knew that she was married (162).11

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Thus, for Jenny Sharpe (1993, 11), the woman contained within domesticity denotes “a non-identity that constitutes itself as a totalizing image through colonial tropes of bondage and emancipation.” The principle of female purity that guarantees masculine proprietorship, property, and honour in the private sphere is intimately linked to questions of undisputed sovereignty, national inviolability, and reputation in the geopolitical sphere. In the fin de siècle, as McClintock (1995, 47) notes, “sexual purity emerged as a controlling metaphor for racial, economic and political power,” while managing sexuality, George L. Mosse (1978, 5) confirms, was essential to the intersecting European projects of nationalism, bourgeois decency, and racial hierarchization. Burgos’s text portrays Alina’s marriage as analogous to a father-daughter relationship and conforming to the ideal of the companionate marriage. Demonstrating a “cariño puro, dulce, tranquilo, casi filial” (pure, gentle, serene, almost daughterly affection; Burgos [1909] 1989, 198), Alina’s love for her husband suggests the theme of incest, which connotes consanguinity and exclusive exchange systems within individual and collective families. In contrast, Alina’s relationship with Gonzalo epitomizes Romantic passion and a relationship between equals rather than the hierarchically vertical one with her husband spanning generations. Whereas incest represents a fiercely traditional, inward-looking society that resists modernization, its counterpart, adultery, stands for “modernity triumphant…. It is the position of women that exposes the contradictions in the system” (Labanyi 1997, 106–7). The wife cannot make contracts and has no or few civil rights; the adulteress asserts authority, albeit not culturally recognized, over her own body or person (101). Consequently, female adultery, which foregrounds personal sovereignty, questions women’s consent to the marriage contract, and threatens the stability of its traditional foundations (Overton 2002, 21). For Tony Tanner (1979, 6, 39), adultery is an “anti-contract” that “forbodes the breaking of other bonds to the point of social disintegration.”12 Due to her adulterous desire Alina struggles between respecting her marriage vows and remaining within civil(ized) society as a domesticated member of it, or yielding to her love for Gonzalo and becoming marked as Other. Because their affair is never consummated – “Todos sus actos iban impregnados de la ternura de un amor verdadero, contenido en los límites del deber” (All their acts were imbued with the tenderness of true love, but contained within duty’s limits; Burgos [1909] 1989, 205) – it occupies a liminal zone between respectability and moral perdition; as Tanner (1979, 375) stipulates, “An adulteress is a wife who is not a wife, a prostitute who is not a prostitute, the keeper

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and breaker of the insecure security of the contract of marriage.” The non-consummation of Alina’s and Gonzalo’s desire simultaneously preserves and compromises feminine and masculine honour. The concept of liminality between old and new orders that adultery suggests is perhaps the feature that best defines Alina. From the very outset, Burgos’s text portrays her as inhabiting a transitional space between tradition and modernity. The conservative sociocultural lens through which her husband perceives her is that of the self-sacrificing Angel in the House, whose caring altruism stems from her maternal instinct: “Mi esposa—dijo el comandante … piensa únicamente con el corazón…. Ella se da continuamente a todos los que sufren…. Su ternura es como la irradiación del amor de todas las madres, de todas las amantes” (“My spouse,” the commander said … “thinks only with her heart…. She is continually giving herself to all who suffer…. Her tenderness is like the radiance of every mother’s love, of every lover’s”; Burgos [1909] 1989, 170). Nevertheless, as a counterweight to this portrayal Alina also embodies the modern woman. She has received a cosmopolitan education and demonstrates a sincerity “propia de las mujeres libres de prejuicios” (typical of women without prejudices; 168, 170). Her presence in public on her husband’s arm is anomalous, in comparison with the situation of all other Spanish women in Melilla: “Tal vez el retraimiento de las mujeres no era voluntario: las sujetaba la costumbre tradicional que dejaron los musulmanes en España…. Un espíritu atávico, que indica los siglos de nuestro atraso, en relación con la cultura mundial …” (Perhaps women’s seclusion within the home was not voluntary: they were governed by the traditional custom that the Moors had left behind in Spain…. An atavistic spirit indicative of our centuries-old backwardness, in comparison with other cultures in the world; 167). Through Alina, Burgos’s narrative voice seeks, like Costa, to oust the African within by critiquing that gendered isolation, perceived as differentiating Spain negatively from other Western societies. Burgos’s initial physical description of Alina similarly configures her as embodying a metaphorical liminality between the West and the Orient. The narrative voice stresses her white Europeanness through references to her blue eyes, golden hair, and Christian roots: “Alta, deli­ cada, de facciones correctas, largo cuello, labios finamente dibujados y grandes ojos azul obscuro, dormidos y soñadores bajo la sombra de unas pestañas de oro. El cabello rubio … envolvía en una aureola de luz aquella cabeza de santa bizantina” (Tall, delicate, with harmonious features, a long neck, finely contoured lips, and big, dark blue eyes, sleepy, dreamy, and shaded by golden lashes. Her blonde hair … bathed that head, reminiscent of a Byzantine saint, in a halo of light; Burgos [1909]

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1989, 168). Yet her comparison to a Byzantine Virgin captures not only the European idealization of Woman as chaste angel but also her orientalization due to her gender. On the one hand, Alina represents spiritual light and its symbolic corollary, civilization. On the other, as in narratives of imperial discovery and colonization, she is exoticized as a sleeping beauty awaiting awakening in the allusion to her sleepy, dreamy eyes, while elements of darkness – “azul obscuro” (dark blue) and “sombra” (shadow) – taint her Europeanness. These contrasting aspects suggest a Freudian “dark continent” of female sexuality.13 By depicting female sexuality as an unknown entity open to authoritative masculine exploration, Freud made it a feminized terra incognita subject to “a strategy of violent containment” (McClintock 1995, 24). In Burgos’s text Alina evokes that unexplored terrain, in which her sexual desire for another must be restrained by her culturally stipulated duty to honour her marriage contract. Like ancient Byzantium, her body symbolizes both the border and the meeting place between Europe and its oriental Others. In this sense, Burgos’s construction of Alina confirms McClintock’s (1995, 24) insight that historically women have functioned as “mediating and threshold figures by means of which men oriented themselves in space, as agents of power and agents of knowledge.” Drawing on Victor Turner’s classic formulation in 1969 that “liminal entities … are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, conventions, and ceremonial” (Turner 2017, 95), Bjørn Thomassen (2015, 48–9) elucidates that liminality can pertain to personal or collective experiences of marginality, historical flashpoints such as wars, revolutions, or periods of transition, and spatial configurations that range from thresholds to border zones and countries between other regions or continents. All these elements appear in Burgos’s novella. The properties of liminality and transitionality particular to adultery and Burgos’s Alina, neither the One nor the Other, extend to numerous other textual features. These range from the author’s own position as a war reporter, who is neither totally removed from nor directly engaged in the conflicts observed (Prieto 2018, 20), to Burgos’s preface, which likens the novella, “cuartillas atormentadas y cruentas” (tormented, bloody pages), to a wounded body and the act of writing it to a cathartic bloodletting that will cure, not perpetuate, the effects of war on traumatized psyches: “[N]ecesitaba una sangría que me aliviara de todo el exceso de sangre que bebieron mis ojos” (I was in need of a bloodletting that would relieve me completely of the excessive blood that my eyes drank in; Burgos [1909] 1989, 165).14 By dating her preface according to the Arab rather than the Christian calendar – “Chaaban, año 1287 de la Hégira” (Sha’ban [August], year 1287 of the

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Hegira; 165) – Burgos frames her text through the Other, introducing alternative ways of recording history to question a hegemonic Western viewpoint.15 Furthermore, the novella repeatedly foregrounds liminal spaces: the opening sequence’s hotel, where a transient population congregates – war reporters, writers, photographers, tourists, foreign fighters, and Spanish military – Melilla’s streets and park, and the countryside just beyond the town. As a Western woman, Alina can traverse these spaces only when accompanied by a man: her husband in the hotel and on her visits to the fort, a writer and a Jewish boy in her tour of the town and its immediate environs, and Gonzalo in Melilla’s park. While the exceptionality of Alina’s incursions into these spaces connotes the anomalous presence of Burgos herself as a female reporter in Melilla, her character’s experiences also mark her negotiation of “women’s ‘proper’ place” (Gómez Reus and Gifford 2013, 3), which threatens a conventionally determined propriety. The indeterminacy that accompanies the concept of the liminal is also manifest in the unreliable narrative voice, which at times seems to support imperialist discourses and at others to undermine them. Nevertheless, the use of irony allows this voice to expose and subvert the gendered premises that assist in the construction of such discourses. On the one hand, the text describes the spectacle of war in terms of a masculine violence that is brutally overwhelming or “imponente” (Burgos [1909] 1989, 203). Undercutting this representation of war as a glorious epic, however, are stereotypes of a seductiveness and astuteness commonly equated with femininity: “[L]a guerra ofrecía arteramente un espectáculo seductor y épico” (The war cunningly provided a seductive, epic spectacle; 175).16 As a result, Burgos’s text reveals how masculine war epics appropriate so-called feminine elements to render such representations more acceptable to general populations. The artifice necessary to construct the war epic is also evident in the novella’s portrayal of the Spanish general positioned above his troops – “a caballo, al frente de los batallones, se recortaba con una aureola épica sobre el fondo gris del paisaje” (on horseback and leading the battalions, he was silhouetted in an epic halo against the grey background of the landscape; Burgos [1909] 1989, 178) – and continues in the description of the military encampment, where theatre replaces nature: “Todo aquel campo parduzco, terragoso, presentaba un aspecto pintoresco, épico; parecía la decoración de una gran ópera wagneriana en el escenario del teatro de la Naturaleza” (That entire, earthy brown countryside looked picturesque, epic; it looked like the set for a grand Wagnerian opera on the stage of Nature’s theatre; 195). Therefore I

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maintain that Burgos’s narrative voice does not unequivocally defend Spain’s colonial enterprise. Rather, the text’s imperialist rhetoric deliberately mimics, so as to arguably mock, an obsolete, chivalric discourse typical of accounts of Spain’s previous African wars, as in the following quotation: “[L]os bravos hijos de España habían vencido una vez más a la morisma y el horror de la lucha se olvidaba entre la embriaguez del triunfo” (Spain’s brave sons had once again defeated the Moors and the horrors of battle were forgotten amid the intoxication of victory; 213).17 If, as Mikhail Bakhtin (1981, 13) declares, “the world of the epic is the national heroic past … a world of ‘beginnings’ and ‘peak times’ in the national history,” Burgos’s En la guerra probes such a narrative’s reinvention of pasts in contemporary presents, and attempts to unravel the gendered distinctions on which imperial orders, spaces, and gazes depend. War epics replace shattered bodies and inconclusive texts with victorious soldiers and closed histories, to fabricate apparently seamless narratives through a process of suture. As Kaja Silverman (1984, 220–3) explains with regard to classic films, the cinematic cutting and sewing of sequences and shots produces a coherent, controlled content, thus inviting the public’s uncritical identification with a patriarchal world view that negates what it excludes, identified with the feminine. Burgos underlines this politics of exclusion and inclusion when Alina compares the convoy’s daily departure to a film – “con el aspecto pintoresco de una cinta cinematográfica” (it appeared as picturesque as a motion picture) – foregrounding the cuts necessary to create the imperialist spectacle: “Aquel espectáculo seductor ocultaba el horror de la guerra con una crueldad suprema” (That seductive spectacle concealed war’s horrors with supreme cruelty; Burgos [1909] 1989, 200). Like Arenal, the narrative voice deplores the official use of military euphemisms that erase sentient bodies: “Aquellas bajas significaban heridos, muertos; vidas llenas de amor y de grandeza truncadas en un momento por el traicionero pedazo de plomo” (Those casualties meant wounded men, dead men; lives full of love and greatness, cut down in a single moment by the treacherous piece of lead; 201; original emphasis).18 Contrary to the trope of adultery, the epic, Bakhtin (1981, 16) remarks, rejects “indeterminacy,” requiring it to be “walled off from all subsequent times.” This temporal containment discourages any contemporary critique of a traditional order: “The epic world is constructed in the zone of an absolute distanced image, beyond the sphere of possible contact with the developing, incomplete and therefore re-thinking and re-evaluating present” (17). Conservative representations of Spain’s historical events as epic seek to recreate its former empire through a

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colonial monopolization of not only time but also space. Consequently Melilla itself, like the epic, is a walled enclave, a Manichean space that separates the European One from Arab and Jewish Others. McClintock’s (1995, 361) description of the colonial world as “‘cut in two,’ its boundaries walled by barracks and police stations,” is replicated in Burgos’s novella: “[E]l barrio Reina Victoria, que con el barrio del Buen Suceso, donde están los pabellones de la oficialidad del ejército de África, al abrigo del cuartel de Santiago, constituirán … la base de la futura ciudad española, cuando pueda vivirse sin el amparo de las murallas” (The Queen Victoria quarter, which with the Buen Suceso district, where the officers’ lodgings of the Army of Africa are sheltered by the St. James barracks, will form … the foundations of the future Spanish city, whenever one may live without needing the protection of the town walls; Burgos [1909] 1989, 172). References to the Reina Victoria neighbourhood and the St. James barracks, named after Spain’s patron saint, tell of the monarchy’s dominant influence and the army’s alliance with the Catholic Church. Spain’s alleged crusade against the Arab unbeliever will permit the future erection of a Spanish Christian city on Islamic soil, confirming McClintock’s (1995, 369) observation that such a war “baptizes the nation in a male birthing ritual, which grants to white men the patrimony of land and history” (see figures 7.1 and 7.2). Challenging the rigid enclosures of masculinist colonial and domestic worlds is adulterous desire, which Nicholas White (1999, 10) conceives of as “transmural.” It is therefore relevant that Alina and Gonzalo’s amorous encounters, which the text repeatedly couches as escapes – “el oficial escapaba del campamento” (the officer escaped from the military camp), “[a]quellas escapatorias” (those escapades), “para escapar” (to escape) – occur in Melilla’s park, a liminal space where shells and palm trees evoke the wilderness of the sea and forests beyond: “Los dos salían juntos, iban a sentarse en los bancos de conchas marinas, entre los bosquecillos de palmeras del Parque Hernández. Aquellas noches africanas, con su tranquila calma, tenían una poesía suprema …” (The two of them would leave together to sit on the shell-shaped benches, among the palm groves of the Hernández Park. Those African nights, with their peaceful calm, were supremely poetic; Burgos [1909] 1989, 205).19 These episodes illustrate a pattern that Tanner (1979, 23) has identified in nineteenth-century novels of adultery, in which couples strive to locate an area of greater freedom, imagined as outside society, only to discover that all spaces are subject to the laws from which they seek release. Burgos juxtaposes the lovers’ rendezvous with sequences that narrate the Rif Arabs’ guerrilla attacks, thus drawing an implicit

Figure 7.1.  Las operaciones militares en el Rif (1909; Military Operations in the Rif). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1909).

Figure 7.2.  Las operaciones militares en el Rif: La misa de campaña del día 27 de agosto (1909; Military Operations in the Rif: Army Mass, 27 August). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1909).

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analogy between adulterous and racialized Others; the actions of both, facilitated by the dark African night, rebel against the intertwined strictures of patriarchy and colonialism. During their romantic idylls Alina and Gonzalo exchange palm leaves and shells: “Ya una hoja de palmera arrancada por él iba a ocultarse en el pecho de ella con el incentivo misterioso de la cigarra de oro de Cloe; ya una concha que acariciaba la mano de Alina hallaba albergue sobre el corazón del bravo capitán, con cariño de escapulario” (Now a palm leaf that he had torn off would end up concealed in her bosom with the mysterious enticement of Chloe’s golden grasshopper; now a shell that Alina’s hand had caressed would find shelter over the brave captain’s heart, with the love afforded a sacramental; Burgos [1909] 1989, 206). This scene evokes a pastoral tradition that, Sara Prieto (2018, 146) indicates, recalls a frequent trope of peace in US colonial literature: the Garden of Eden. Moreover, in World War I reports pastoral elements would serve to contrast situations of war and peace (133–4).20 Burgos’s nod to Longus’s pastoral novel on Daphnis and Chloe, and particularly the reference to Chloe’s grasshopper, recalls the intensely erotic sequence in the Greek’s text when Daphnis retrieves a grasshopper that has flown into a sleeping Chloe’s bosom (Longus 2002, 12).21 This scene also expresses the possibility of cultural cross-fertilizations and the recognition of similarities in difference. At the same time as Burgos adapts elements from the Moroccan landscape, the palm leaf and the shell, according to classical and Christian cultural frames, she also reworks these frames to accommodate Africa’s specificities. Burgos’s text challenges the alleged superiority of pure or exclusive entities by constantly foregrounding incongruous combinations and heterogeneous mixtures, as in descriptions of discussions on the war: “Se hablaba en voz alta, mezclándose todas las conversaciones” (They spoke loudly, in a cacophony of conversations; Burgos [1909] 1989, 166). This mixing likewise occurs in the languages spoken by Melilla’s Arab and Jewish populations: “Una gran parte de ellos [los moros] hablaban el xellha, un dialecto mezcla de árabe y fenicio, desdeñando expresarse en español…. [Los judíos] murmuraban en dialecto mogrebino, mezcla de castellano y árabe …” (Many Arabs spoke xellha, a dialect that combined Arabic and Phoenician, disdaining to use Spanish…. The Jews murmured in a Maghrebi dialect, a mix of Castilian Spanish and Arabic; 174). Even the depiction of the Catholic mass highlights the influence of pagan elements (178). Such an adulteration of discourses and rituals recalls how adultery, as Tanner (1979, 12) signals, “introduces an agonizing and irresolvable category-confusion into the individual and thence into society itself.” Burgos’s novella highlights that purity

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of blood, bodies, and cultures is an ideological construct that sustains exclusive and excluding relationships of power. Furthermore, on several occasions, such as in the following quotation, Burgos’s narrative argues for an Arab-Spanish brotherhood and conceives of Northern Africa and Andalusia as mirror images of one another: [E]l siniestro Gurugú … era un desdoblamiento geológico de nuestra cordillera Penibética…. [L]a flora recordaba los montes de Rodalquilar … y si se observaban atentamente las costumbres de los rifeños, no tardaba en hallárseles la semejanza con los campesinos de Granada y Almería. El Mediterráneo, tendido entre los dos pedazos de tierra hermana, era más bien el lago que unía sus riberas que la línea divisoria de la frontera de los continentes. (The sinister Gurugú range … was the geological twin of our Penibetic system…. The flora resembled that found in Rodalquilar’s hills … and if you closely observed the Rif Arabs’ customs you quickly found that they were similar to those of peasants from Granada and Almería. The Mediterranean, stretched between the two pieces of sister countries, was more like a lake that united their shores than a border that divided both continents; Burgos [1909] 1989, 176)

For Martín-Márquez (2008, 166), this episode demonstrates how Burgos, clearly aware of Africanist arguments such as Costa’s, seeks to undo the use of evolutionary theory for racist purposes. A second passage continues to emphasize the inherent unity of a common humanity on noting that, without the distinguishing markers of dress and climate, the Arab boys and their songs would not be out of place in European cultures: “Sin sus vestiduras árabes, aquellos tres muchachos hubieran recordado las pastorales de Longo, y sin el sol ardiente del África … se hubiera pensado en los cantos escandinavos, la nebulosa poesía del Norte y las evocaciones wagnerianas” (Without their Arab garments, those three boys would have evoked Longus’s pastorals, and without the burning African sun … would have conjured up heroic Scandinavian poems, the melancholy poetry of Northern Europe, and Wagner’s works; Burgos [1909] 1989, 186).22 The repeated references to Longus, representative of a classical Greek culture, together with the allusions to Northern European cultures, recall early twentieth-century debates on Spanish hybridity, according to which Spain formed part of a Mediterranean culture. Jubran clarifies that in his 1903 work Razas y tribus de Marruecos (Races and Tribes

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of Morocco), anthropologist Manuel Antón y Ferrándiz argued that Spain’s racial superiority had been forged through the meeting of the Arab culture with Spain’s Christian culture, resulting in an “intermediate” or “Mediterranean” race that conjoined East and West (Antón y Ferrándiz 1903, cited in Jubran 2002, 113). This concept of Spain as part of a hybrid Mediterranean culture would be further developed by Ortega y Gasset in Meditaciones del Quijote (1914). Specifying that classical Greek culture, unlike Roman culture, belonged to the Nordic or Germanic races, he maintained that Europe and Africa were not conceptualized as separate, hierarchized continents until the Germanic invasion of Southern Europe. While Spain was racially hybrid, Ortega affirmed, the Germanic component was superior due to its Greek legacy (Jubran 2002, 113–18). The above description of the Arab children demonstrates Burgos’s engagement with questions concerning Spain and Morocco’s allegedly shared racial composition. While the passage defends a notion of racial unity that is apparently less hierarchical than Ortega’s later theory, that unity also relies on the dispossession and dislocation of Spain’s Others, connoted in the references to divesting the Arab boys of their dress and environment. At the same time, Burgos’s underlining of racial union reflects not only her liberal political affiliations but also, and perhaps more significantly, her immersion in freethinking and Freemasonry, aspects on which I touch in chapter 8. While fin-de-siècle Spanish liberalism aimed to unite a divided nation (see Goode 2009, 13), freethinking and Freemasonry sought to bring all humanity into one figurative cosmopolitan family.23 Nevertheless, the novella reveals contradictions typical of other fin-de-siècle intellectuals’ writings on Spain’s identity (Martín-Márquez 2008, 61–2, 166). Nowhere are these tensions more manifest than in Burgos’s portrayal of the Arab Rif women. The narrative voice criticizes their lack of femininity, intimated as being due to their race – “[E]ran todas feas, deformadas, negras” (They were all ugly, deformed, black; Burgos [1909] 1989, 211) – and represented as most evident in the ferocious women who fight alongside their men: “Apaleaban con porras de madera, claveteadas de hierro, a los soldados rendidos y moribundos” (They battered the exhausted, dying soldiers with wooden clubs, studded with iron nails; 210). If white Western women’s conformity to a culturally prescribed femininity is a sign of their patriarchal colonization, this femininity also denotes them, and the nations that they symbolize, as civilized. To step outside feminine norms is to enter an unmarked cultural wilderness metaphorically equivalent to blackness and hence barbarity.24 On the one hand, Burgos’s text condemns the domestic subjection of the Rif women to their menfolk – “esclavas de los

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dueños” (slaves of their masters; 211) – arguably analogous to the legal and social situation of many Spanish women;25 on the other, instead of praising the Rif women’s engagement in battle for its potential overturning of gender inequalities, the novella deplores it. Such negative evaluations, as Jenny Sharpe (1993, 12) indicates, are similarly present in English women’s colonial writings, in which feminist claims and race collide: “The Indian women that appear only as an absence or negation in English women’s writings are central to resolving the contradictions of Western women’s sexual subordination. English women’s bid for gender power passes through a colonial hierarchy of race.” Although Burgos’s censure of the Arab Rif women’s participation in armed conflict can be attributed to her pacifist convictions, it nevertheless contradicts her later advocation for the right of women to fight in wars in her 1927 work La mujer moderna y sus derechos, which devotes a substantial chapter to this very question, as I discuss in chapter 8. Martín-Márquez (2008, 171) has argued that as Alina forsakes “the realm of the motherly” for adultery, she increasingly supports the Spaniards’ warmongering discourse. In contrast, I suggest that adulterous desire metaphorically contaminates Alina’s initial perspective of war as heroic, causing her to shift from seeing conflict through the colonizer’s gaze to questioning its deleterious effects. When Alina contemplates the Spanish encampment from the masculine heights of the military fort, she envisages war as both picturesque and necessary, and absorbs the atmosphere of aggression: “Se familiarizaba con el espectáculo pintoresco de la guerra, con el horror del mal necesario, y hasta sentía los anhelos de lucha, el odio a los semejantes, la alegría del triunfo…. [S]ubía la escalera de espiral de la torrecilla del fortín…. Contemplaba desde allí un extenso horizonte: cerca, tendido a sus pies, el campamento español …” (War’s picturesque spectacle became familiar to her, as did the horror of necessary evil, and she even experienced the desire to fight, hatred toward fellow human beings, the joy of victory…. She used to ascend the spiralled steps that led to the fort’s tower…. From there she could see a vast horizon: nearby, spread out at her feet, was the Spanish military camp; Burgos [1909] 1989, 199; original emphasis). Imperialism, the passage also implies, depends on not only conquering racial Others but also controlling a nation’s class Others; the encampment below her, largely composed of illiterate, working-class soldiers, occupies an inferior position to that of the upper-class Alina. At the same time, they tacitly share a feminized position, as evident in the allusion to the “alma siempre femenina de la multitud” (always feminine soul of the foot soldiers; 191), respectful of a masculinist military authority.

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Despite Burgos’s socialist beliefs, the class issues that dominated the 1909 Melilla campaign, in which the conscription of working-class reservists led to massive popular protests and Barcelona’s bloody Tragic Week, are glaringly absent from her narrative, which invariably depicts the soldiers as willing participants in the war.26 The widespread opposition to that campaign, seen as protecting the economic interests of domestic and foreign powers, led the periodical Blanco y Negro to declare: “[H]abiendo rodado un poco por España hemos visto muchísimas leguas de tierras incultas que poder colonizar. Entre tanto que nos decidamos a colonizar nuestra propia casa pensamos que no vale la vida de un soldado todas las chumberas del Rif” (Having travelled around Spain a bit, we have seen countless leagues of uncultivated land that could be settled. As long as we are still making up our minds to settle our own homeland, we believe that a soldier’s life is worth far more than all the Rif’s prickly pears; quoted in Martín 1973, 36). In December 1908, just a few months before the Melilla campaign began, and recalling Burgos’s sentiments in “El repatriado,” Acuña had also denounced the use of reservists: “[V]uelven al antro de los humildes, de los ignorados, de los que integran la entidad nación, sin tener número, sin dejar rastro, ¡sin casi llamarse personas! … [H]agamos resurgir de aquellas cenizas un grito de maldición hacia las guerras” (They return to the den of the humble, the ignored, those who make up what we call the nation, numberless, traceless, almost considered unworthy of personhood! … Let there rise up from those ashes a shout to curse all wars; Acuña [1908] 2008, 835, 840). Alina’s bird’s-eye view of the theatre of war conforms to what Pratt (2007, 197, 205, 219) terms the “monarch of all I survey” trope essential to imperial discourse, whereby the masculinized European seer dominates an apprehended, abstracted terrain in a denial of feared impotence (see figure 7.3). It is from the fort that Alina later contemplates combat: “[C]on los poderosos anteojos de campaña pudo divisar el combate…. Quería dejar el anteojo, próxima a caerse, a desmayarse, y el mismo terror la obligaba a seguir mirando” (With the powerful military binoculars she managed to make out the battle…. On the verge of falling, of fainting, she wanted to put them down, but that same terror forced her to continue watching; Burgos [1909] 1989, 212). Now the binoculars’ visual approximation of the battle compromises Alina’s formerly distanced mastery of the war. The text stresses how Alina’s masculine gaze becomes feminized at seeing Spanish soldiers fall; her fear that Gonzalo might die threatens to make her faint and literally become a fallen woman. The imminent loss of the binoculars, symbolic of imperial dominance, results in Alina’s dread of the Arab Other and her simultaneous condemnation of war’s horrors: “[V]eía caer a algunos, otros quedaban tendidos…. ¿Cuál sería Gonzalo? … [A]quellos moros,

Figure 7.3.  Croquis panorámicos, a vista de pájaro, trazados con estricta sujeción a los planos oficiales más modernos y a los últimos datos recibidos del teatro de la guerra (1909; Panoramic, Bird’s-Eye View Sketches, Drawn with Strict Adherence to the Most Modern Official Maps and the Latest Data Received from the Theatre of War).27 By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: BA/13323 (1909).

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negros como demonios, … se lanzaban contra los españoles…. Entre el infierno de la batalla, los médicos, camilleros y capellanes se metían … para recoger muertos y heridos” (She saw some fall, while others remained fallen…. Which one could possibly be Gonzalo? … Those Arabs, black as devils, … fell on the Spaniards…. Amid the hell of the battlefield, the doctors, stretcher-bearers, and army chaplains began … to pick up the dead and wounded; 212). This episode reveals how Alina, Burgos’s imaginary alter ego,28 continues, on the one hand, to be subject to an imperialist vision of the Rif war that casts the Arabs as devils, as in the following colonialist poem from the mid-nineteenth-century War of Africa: “[C]on demonios, no con hombres / se imagina el soldado español / que está en pugna” (Against demons, not men / the Spanish soldier imagines himself / fighting; quoted in Martín 1973, 13). On the other, Burgos’s criticism of war is evident in her description of the deaths of not only Spanish soldiers but also the native Rif population, exposed to bombardments from the rapid-firing Schneider-Canet cannon, which Spain used for the first time in the 1909 Melilla campaign. The text describes how “las bombas del Schneider les alcanzaban y … les destrozaban, arrojándoles por el aire como cascotes de una piedra rota al estallar un barreno” (the Schneider projectiles reached them and … destroyed them, throwing them up into the air like shards from a stone shattered by an exploding cannon barrel; Burgos [1909] 1989, 210). The practically juxtaposed reference to the “hidalguía castellana” (Castilian chivalry), allusive to the Spanish soldiers from whom the Rif women seek protection, invites this comment to be read as ironic, in a similar fashion to Burgos’s deployment of irony in “El repatriado.”29 Indeed, the novella’s colliding discourses of imperialism and pacifism in the persona of Alina raise the question of whether Burgos here amalgamates in the one female protagonist Pérez Galdós’s characters from his novel Aita Tettauen (1905), on the War of Africa: Perico Alarcón (a fictionalized Pedro Antonio de Alarcón), the nationalistic journalist sent to cover the conflict; Juan Santiuste, a writer whose witnessing of the conflict transforms his opinion of war; and Jerónimo Ansúrez, who defends an Arab-Spanish fraternity.30 Kathleen E. Davis’s (2005, 650) appraisal of Galdós’s work could equally well apply to Burgos’s En la guerra: “In its representation of war as a mode of cultural contact, Aita Tettauen is atypical as a narrative of colonial history. The carnage of battle teaches the principal characters the limits of patriotism in competition with more personal concerns.” Patriarchal imperialist cultures represent women, like colonized peoples and the working classes, as “inherently atavistic” (McClintock 1995, 359). Alina’s refusal to grant Gonzalo a kiss on his fateful departure

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for battle suggests her definitive inability to vanquish Costa’s African within, Spain’s primitive sociocultural mores: “[L]os atavismos y las preocupaciones pesaron sobre su espíritu con la sombra del deber” (Atavisms and concerns weighed her spirit down, overshadowed by duty; Burgos [1909] 1989, 208–9). Her embracing of Gonzalo’s corpse publicly shames her spouse, precipitating his suicide in battle. The truth that her silent actions articulate is negated, however, by official accounts that her husband died a war hero. At the novella’s close Alina, bereft of a culturally sanctioned identity derived from her husband, must assume the only legitimate identity available to her: that of Mater Dolorosa, the archetypal Catholic figure of mourning. Burgos’s character thus questions a nineteenth-century model ill-fitted for modern women desirous of charting their own destinies. By exposing as sham the male and female honour codes necessary for imperialism and patriarchy, Burgos’s En la guerra represents both orders as obsolescent. Hesitantly beginning to write an alternative script defiant of many of the conventions of fin-de-siècle adultery novels, the text implicitly argues for empowering women and colonized Others, albeit less so in the latter case, to progress their histories on their own terms and, in women’s case, transform the sexual contract into a social contract. The critique of war latent in En la guerra comes to the fore in Burgos’s essays and novellas written during World War I, the subject of chapters 8–9. In these understudied works she attempts to reconcile her pacifist beliefs with her claims for women’s greater participation in the public sphere, treading a path strewn with theoretical and experiential paradoxes.

Chapter Eight

Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals: Burgos’s Essays on World War I and Women in War

Las mujeres … se deciden por la paz de un modo fanático y definitivo. (Women … are making an irrevocable, passionate stand for peace; Burgos, 1914b) Debe, pues, reclamarse el derecho que tiene la mujer a formar parte del Ejército. (We must therefore claim women’s right to form part of the military; Burgos 1927, 246)

Whether or not women have a natural affinity with pacifism and the preservation of life is a debate still current among feminists. While feminists reject violence against women, not all agree on the use of force to achieve sociopolitical objectives (Magallón 2017, 33).1 When women adopt pacifist values, many perceive these as congruent with their life-preserving role as mothers. However, as Confortini stresses, because their pacifist goals are seen as intrinsic to an essential femininity, they risk being ignored by male actors in the public sphere. These issues inform the conceptual underpinnings of a feminism of equality and a feminism of difference, and have determined the reluctance of feminist international relations theorists to engage with peace research because they consider such reasoning essentialist. For the WILPF the legitimacy (or lack thereof) of the use of violence to respond to injustices continued to occupy centre stage throughout the twentieth century and into the new millennium (Confortini 2012, 5–8, 11–12). Opting for peace, Carmen Magallón (2017, 32–3) opines, should be a matter of choice for both men and women. These dilemmas also coloured thinking within international feminist movements during World War I, which Burgos closely followed.

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Women-only pacifist movements, Joyce Berkman explains, had emerged in Europe from 1868 onward, and the feminist and pacifist movements overlapped theoretically due to their rejection of authoritative sociopolitical hierarchies. Most feminists on both sides of the Atlantic supported the Great War due to patriotic ideals (Berkman 1990, 145–9). Moreover, not all feminists considered that pacifism, feminism, and democracy were linked, seeing their patriotic support as a lever for greater rights and rejecting the belief that women were naturally more peace-loving and men more violent (Magallón 2017, 32; Magallón Portolés and Blasco Lisa 2015, 180). Indeed, many pro-Allied women argued that their duty was to orient their allegedly natural, protective role of safeguarding the nation toward the adoption of a pro-war stance (Berkman 1990, 151). Conversely, others considered that women’s rights and peace were intimately linked, according to the Kantian notion, evident in Arenal’s works, that democracy must be based on the power of reason rather than on armed force (Magallón Portolés and Blasco Lisa 2015, 159–60). In short, as Berkman (1990, 141) remarks, the Great War had an “unsettling and divisive effect … on feminism and pacifism,” a position echoed in Ramos’s (2016, 54–63) analysis. Within Spain one detractor of any association between feminism and pacifism was Emilia Pardo Bazán. Notably in October 1915, on discussing the International Conference for Women at The Hague in April that year, she declared that she did not understand the links between the participants’ demands for a perpetual peace, women’s political rights, and democratic governments. Rebutting their statements, she affirmed that, firstly, democracy had never impeded any nation from waging war on another and, secondly, women had greater political rights under certain monarchies than in republics. Although she supported the women’s protest against the war, she considered it infantile of them to think that their actions would impact on a phenomenon so deeply rooted in economic, historical, and political realities. Instead, she categorically asserted, the war would be beneficial to women: “Yo sostengo que esta guerra ha de traer resultados beneficiosos para la mujer…. Ha servido para que la mujer ejerza infinitos oficios que antes monopoli­ zaba el hombre; ha aproximado a los dos sexos…. Ha roto mil trabas…. Y es que la guerra es, ante todo, dinámica, y para la mujer, lo peor es la estática” (I maintain that this war must inevitably bring beneficial outcomes for women…. It has meant that women now work in innumerable jobs that men previously monopolized; it has brought both sexes closer together…. It has broken down thousands of obstacles…. And war is, above all else, dynamic, and for women, the worst possible thing is to remain stationary; Pardo Bazán 1915).

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In Burgos’s case, while she was well known for her pacifist views and activities, like the politically more conservative Pardo Bazán she also perceived that war offered women unprecedented opportunities. Moreover, she did not consider that pacifism was women’s exclusive province (Burgos 1927, 282). Her position on women’s role in war was ever evolving,2 as revealed in her essays and short fiction on war written during the Great War. The subject of this chapter and the following, they constitute an indispensable resource for identifying the shifts in her thinking. Some pieces emerged from Burgos’s first-hand observation of World War I when she travelled through Europe’s powder-keg in 1914 and witnessed events in 1917 from Paris; others emerged from a more distanced appraisal from within a theoretically neutral Spain. At all times, however, Burgos’s narrative voice corresponds with Schweik’s (1989, 329) implicated observer, who must interrogate the relationship of “suffering to observing, ‘there’ to ‘not there,’ front to sidelines,” and the gendered hierarchies inherent in these acts and positionings. Before turning to Burgos’s periodical essays on World War I published in the Heraldo de Madrid between 1914 and 1917, I first outline key biographical elements that contributed to developing her pacifist and feminist ideals. As Establier Pérez has established, major influences on Burgos’s beliefs were progressive movements such as freethinking, Freemasonry, anticlericalism, republicanism, and socialism. From July 1886 until November 1889 she contributed to spiritist Amalia Domingo Soler’s freethinking periodical La Luz del Porvenir (The Light of the Future), which defended peace, love, and justice in accordance with an international feminism opposed to imperialism and war (Establier Pérez 2011, 436–8). Burgos’s lifelong association with Freemasonry led to her founding the Madrid Lodge of Adoption, Amor (Love), and she was given a Masonic funeral (Bieder 2017, 33–5). Evidence of Burgos’s affiliation with radical republicanism was her friendship with Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, leader of the populist Republican movement known as blasquismo, and her contributions to that movement’s press mouthpiece, El Pueblo, from November 1906 to August 1908. Between 1909 and 1911 Burgos was also a member of Madrid’s Damas Rojas, the radical feminist and Republican-affiliated organization that she co-founded with Álvarez Pool, as previously mentioned in chapter 5. Closely linked to Madrid’s Agrupación Femenina Socialista (Women’s Socialist Group), with which Burgos was involved from 1910 until 1912, both associations opposed Spain’s 1909 war in Morocco.3 Burgos’s rejection of that conflict would culminate in her essay “¡Guerra a la guerra!” (War on War!; [1909] 1913). Its title was the motto used by feminist supporters of

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The Hague’s Peace Conferences in 1899 and 1907, and the words with which she also closed her 1910 prologue to Pedro Luis de Gálvez and Francisco Martínez’s work on the 1909 Moroccan campaign, Por los que lloran (Apuntes de la guerra) (For Those Who Weep [Notes on the War]; Establier Pérez 2011, 449). Throughout World War I, Spain remained officially neutral. Nevertheless, as Francisco J. Romero Salvadó explains, the conflict severely impacted Spain’s domestic economy, national psyche, and sociopolitical stability. The neutrality question intensified the war of words between right-wing sectors, champions of the imperial powers, and left-wing constituencies, who ideologically backed the Allied forces (Romero Salvadó 1999, ix, 9–10). As Madrid’s radical, satirical weekly El Motín railed on 8 October 1914 in its editorial article “¿Neutrales o neutros?” (Neutral or Neuter?): “No nos hemos declarado neutrales, sino NEUTROS. Sin sexo, impotentes, estériles para la vida mundial” (We have not declared ourselves neutral, but NEUTER. Sexless, impotent, sterile for life in the international community; “¿Neutrales o neutros?” 1914, 1). According to Romero Salvadó (1999, 9), socialist journalist Luis Araquistáin considered that Spaniards’ attitudes towards the war shifted from viewing it as a game in its initial phase, to beginning to take sides in 1915, to increasingly supporting mobilization in 1916, when Count Romanones (Álvaro de Figueroa) was prime minister. As in the Spanish-American War, the press helped shape that ideological climate through cartoons. El Motín was no exception, featuring in 1916 a noticeably greater number of cartoons on the Great War, most of which, by Raemaekers, depicted the war’s innocent victims in Belgium and France. Imprisoned or tortured female figures as allegories for the suffering of the invaded countries were also highly visible cartoon subjects throughout the conflict.4 Effectively, the war occupied over 50 per cent of newspaper columns, reflecting both pro–Central Powers and pro-Allied support (Romero Salvadó 1999, 67–8). Some instances of the varied positions on the conflict from within Spain are the following. Writing from a Europeanist and pacifist perspective, the writer and journalist Dionisio Pérez Gutié­ rrez (1872–1935) considered that Spain should remain neutral, because the war threatened Europe’s “casa spiritual” (spiritual home), to which Spain wished to belong (Pérez Gutiérrez 1914, 110, 159). In contrast, the engineer José Eugenio Ribera (1864–1936) argued that support within Spain for the Germans was due to admiration for German culture, progress, and military power, and the desire to bring discipline and order to Spain, while another factor was Spanish envy of France’s wealth and

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Britain’s might (Ribera 1915, 9–12). Reflecting on the war once it was over, the historian and journalist Álvaro Alcalá Galiano (1886–1936) represented Spanish support for the German cause, especially from the political right and the Catholic Church, as more harmful than the flu pandemic, and Spain’s neutrality as the loss of an opportunity for the nation to become European (Alcalá Galiano 1919, 19–20, 131). Significantly, Burgos was one of a handful of Spanish women who reported on the Great War, together with a larger number of prominent fin-de-siècle writers such as Blasco Ibáñez (Crónica de la Guerra Europea 1914–1918 [Chronicle of the European War, 1914–18]; Blasco Ibáñez 2014), Azorín (París, bombardeado [Paris, under Bombardment]; Martínez Ruiz 1919), Ramón del Valle-Inclán (La media noche: Visión estelar de un momento de guerra [Midnight: A Stellar Vision of a Moment of War]; Valle-Inclán 1917), and Andrés García de la Barga.5 Burgos herself identified with the Allies, as did the Republicans and Pablo Iglesias’s socialists (Establier Pérez 2011, 444–52). Furthermore, Burgos was in contact with Spanish female pacifists such as Carme Karr (1865–1943). A member of the Comité Interna­ cional de la Liga de los Países Neutrales (International Committee of the League of Neutral Nations), Karr was the only woman to sign, in September 1915, an anti-war manifesto initiated by the freemasons’ pacifist movement. Shortly afterward, in October 1915 she founded and became president of the Comité Femení Pacifista de Catalunya (Catalan Women’s Pacifist Committee, CFPC), one of two pacifist committees in Spain (Magallón Portolés and Blasco Lisa 2015, 173–4). In her November front-page essay “Cosas de actualidad” (Current Affairs; Burgos 1915a), Burgos referred to the CFPC’s initiative of sending peace postcards to leaders of nations and influential persons to encourage them to end the war (Magallón 2017, 31). Burgos conveyed her impressions of World War I’s early stages in a series of articles published in the Heraldo de Madrid from 25 to 30 August 1914 and later incorporated into Mis viajes por Europa (My Travels through Europe; Burgos [1917] 2012).6 Surprised by the war when travelling in Europe with her daughter, her concern for the conflict’s repercussions on civilians is apparent when, commenting on the price-gauging of primary foodstuffs in Norway and the half-starving Hamburg population (224, 241), she exclaims: “¿No habrá un momento en que se sobreponga a todo el sentimiento humanitario y se asegure la suerte de tantas pobres gentes pacíficas que sufren las crueldades de la guerra? ¡Qué incomprensible es todo esto!” (Will there never come a time when common humanity wins out over all else and we can ensure the safety of so many wretched, peaceful peoples who are suffering

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because of war’s cruelties? How incomprehensible this all is!; 239). Against jingoism, she declares her desire to abolish “patria” and “raza” (race/nation), criticizes the power of national anthems to inflame passions and minds, and lambasts newspapers for propagating false news (230, 238). “Hemos presenciado escenas terribles” (We have witnessed terrible scenes; 237), she exclaims. Suspected of being a Russian spy, she experienced the plight of war refugees on escaping to England on the Spanish freighter the Ciscar (230, 240). Burgos would better gauge the war’s destruction when in Paris with her partner, Ramón Gómez de la Serna, throughout December 1916 and January 1917. From 3 January until 14 March 1917 she reported on the conflict in five articles in the Heraldo de Madrid, and filtered subject matter from these columns, often barely altered, into her novellas Pasiones and El desconocido. In one essay, “Hospital de ciegos” (Hospital for the Blind), Burgos declared that although she had not seen battle, she had seen war: “Yo no he visto las batallas; pero he visto la guerra en esos hospitales, en esa repercusión dolorosa que tiene sobre la población toda, sobre toda la parte civil; la he contemplado con todo su horror …” (I haven’t seen battle, but I’ve seen war in those hospitals, in the pain that it inflicts on the entire population, especially civilians; I have seen it in all its horror; Burgos 1917e). It is on the effects of war on wounded soldiers and the civilian population that Burgos focuses in the two texts examined in chapter 9. Although Burgos’s circumstances in 1914 and 1917 undoubtedly afforded her more direct experiences of World War I, for its duration she regularly contributed essays to the Heraldo de Madrid that provide valuable insights into her thinking on conflict. Although Establier Pérez (2011, 452–3) provides an excellent summary of many articles, they warrant a more detailed discussion with attention to their timing, given that they demonstrate just how closely Burgos followed developments in the war. Thematically, they also reveal three broad, contrasting strands: women’s duty to prevent war, their crucial contributions to the war effort, and war as a catalyst for women’s claim to greater rights. One essay that insists on women’s responsibility to unite against war, irrespective of nationality and political allegiances, is “Las mujeres y la paz” (Women and Peace) from November 1914: “Así es que el problema se plantea claramente para las mujeres de todos los países, lo mismo los neutrales que los que sufren las crueldades de la guerra…. Las mujeres … se deciden por la paz de un modo fanático y definitivo” (The issue is thus clear for women from all countries, whether these be neutral or suffer war’s cruelties…. Women … are making an

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irrevocable, passionate stand for peace; Burgos 1914b). By inverting the masculine association of Woman with illness and irrationality, which she now represents as the hallmarks of war – “esa fiebre absurda, inconcebible, como una ráfaga de locura” (that absurd, inconceivable fever, like an explosion of madness) – Burgos challenges patriarchal discourse and foreshadows the resolutions passed at the 1915 International Conference on Women: “War, the ultimate ‘ratio’ of the statesmanship of men, we women declare to be a madness” (quoted in Berkman 1990, 153). For Burgos, women can play a fundamental role in preventing war: “[P]odemos estar seguras de que si las mujeres no pueden ahora evitar la guerra, son, en cambio, las verdaderas responsables de que exista, porque no han sabido adelantarse a los ejércitos, inculcando de modo inquebrantable la idea de los deberes indiscutibles de la Humanidad …” (We can be sure that if women cannot now avoid war, they are, however, those who are truly responsible for it, because they have not known how to outwit the armies by relentlessly educating their children in Humanity’s indisputable responsibilities; Burgos 1914b). Education by women, not force by men, offers a way out of the conundrum posed by Elshtain (1988, 444): “[A] vast, unruly natural disorder construed as feminised in the sense of fickle, irrational, whimsical, and destructive offers up a challenge to the masculinised bringer-of-order whose vision of peace … is represented by, and embodied within, other feminised figurations.” On 1 July 1915 in “La revancha” (Revenge), published just months after the women’s Hague conference, Burgos foresees a Day of Judgment in which the Great War’s dispossessed – women, fatherless children, the elderly, and the mutilated – will unite to create a society founded on a “sensatez … entrañable,” an embodied reason born from their pain that recalls Arenal’s notion of compassionate reason: Una gran sensatez, construida de un modo entrañable, hecha con un dolor hondo y verdadero, dominará en lo porvenir. Los enlutados de hoy, expertos y tallados en el dolor, crearán la opinión nueva sólidamente, con una autoridad más formidable que la de todos los que de un modo especulativo traten de dominar el porvenir, con una elocuencia tal vez más potente que nunca, frente a las teorías y los lirismos. (A powerful wisdom that comes from feelings and bodies, and formed from deep, real pain, will prevail in the future. Those who mourn today, experienced in and gouged by pain, will create this new, lasting way of thinking, with a more formidable authority than that of all those who speculate and try to control the future, with an eloquence perhaps more

Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals  163 powerful than ever, when compared with theories and flowery pronouncements; Burgos 1915e)

Their suffering makes them worthier of trust than those whose pacifist theories, presented in books and conferences, have proved ineffectual: Los que desconfiamos, después de haber visto su resultado, de toda la labor desinteresada y de todas las ideas vertidas en libros y conferencias en favor de la paz y de la civilización, sólo confiamos ya en la labor franca e irresistible de esas multitudes, verdaderamente desgraciadas, de esas multitudes enlutadas y esa otra multitud de soldados sobrevivientes, maltratados por la guerra, cuando unos y otros se reúnan y hagan su balance en el día del descanso. (Those of us who are wary, having seen the results, of all the disinterested work and all the ideas poured into books and conferences on peace and civilization, now trust only the sincere, irresistible labour of that truly unfortunate mass of people, of those who mourn and those other survivors, the soldiers whom war has illtreated, when they come together and render their account on the Day of Judgment.)

In such apocalyptic times Burgos’s discourse of prophesy draws on Christian and socialist narratives to restore power to society’s downtrodden and most vulnerable. The creators of the future societies that humanity needs will not be those who have waged the war but who have suffered it in their flesh and blood: “En esta obra de preparar la sociedad del porvenir, el credo de toda la Humanidad, el papel principal le está encomendado a la mujer enlutada hoy, al niño débil que llora a su lado, al anciano impotente en su dolor, al soldado inválido y mutilado en la ba­ talla, al del aliento de los que murieron. El triunfo, la revancha, ha de ser sólo suyo” (In this work of preparing the society of the future, the creed of all Humanity, the most important roles are those entrusted to the woman mourning today, the weak child crying at her side, the old man powerless in his pain, the soldier disabled and mutilated in battle, the courage of those who have died. Victory, revenge, must be theirs alone). Neutrality is the subject of several articles, such as “Mujeres yanquis” (American Women) from 28 June 1915, which looks to the work of the United States’s Committee of Peace as a model for Spain, similarly neutral in the war. Far from authorizing egotism or indifference to others, neutrality, Burgos asserts, means refusing to cause suffering and death. Consequently, model governments should maintain neutrality: “El Gobierno ideal es este Gobierno que nos mantiene neutrales y aleja de

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nosotras los crespones del duelo que cubren a las mujeres de casi toda Europa” (The ideal Government is this Government, which maintains our neutrality and spares us the garments of mourning that enclothe almost all women in Europe; Burgos 1915h). She praises the Committee’s crusade for universal peace, in which mothers will demand for their children a world that sees life, liberty, and happiness as undeniable rights. Nevertheless, Burgos is not hopeful that men will heed women’s call for peace, seeing them as unsuitable candidates for neutrality: “Yo no espero gran cosa de nuestro esfuerzo. Los hombres no nos escuchan cuando están dominados por sus egoísmos y sus intereses…. Se nos trata como al niño los malos pedagogos, que le ofrecen mucho para que calle y luego no le dan nada” (I do not hope for much from our efforts. Men do not listen to us when ruled by egoism and vested interests…. They treat us like bad teachers treat children, offering them the world so that they shut up and then not giving them anything). By treating women as minors, men impede their engagement in the public sphere, which, Mercedes Alcañiz Moscardó (2007, 49) signals, is indispensable for democracy and for creating a culture of peace.7 Consequently, in “Cosas de actualidad” (19 November 1915) Burgos exhorts Spanish women not to perceive Spain’s official neutrality as synonymous with an apathetic attitude towards the war. On the contrary, she advocates women’s adoption of an active neutrality: “Entre nosotras, las que gozamos de la tranquilidad, no podemos tener una neutralidad ociosa e indiferente” (Among ourselves, we who enjoy tranquillity, there can be no such thing as an idle, indifferent neutrality; Burgos 1915a). Duty and need demand that women work for peace through avenues such as Karr’s committee: “[E]s a la vez un deber y una necesidad el implorar la misericordia cuando resuena el eco de la destrucción” (It is both a duty and a necessity to implore compassion when the reverberations of destruction resound; Burgos 1915a). Burgos’s emphasis on an active neutrality accords with neutrality’s prominence during the long nineteenth century, including the World War I years, when, as Maartje Abbenhuis affirms, it became “an important and active idea in international law, international politics and international idealism.” It was only later that neutral nations became characterized as passive and weak because, as the word suggests, “neutrals are removed from the world of action, agency and activity” (Abbenhuis 2014, 2). Passivity and feebleness are precisely the qualities that conservative gender paradigms have invariably associated with women. Through insisting on women’s active neutrality, Burgos counters such frameworks and makes women equal, if not morally superior, actors in the world.

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The valuable role that women’s writings can play in an active or activist pacifism is the subject of other articles. In “Las novias de la guerra” from 29 December 1915 Burgos reviews Marion Craig Wentworth’s one-act play War Brides, first performed in January that same year. Examining its impact on US audiences and the relevance of the drama to Spanish society, Burgos discusses the relationship of literature with war and the need to approach war in novel ways: “La guerra alimenta la literatura…. [E]sos libros nos parecen siempre el mismo” (War feeds literature…. Those books never seem to change; Burgos 1915g). She considers that it is a woman, Wentworth, who has produced the most daring, advanced work against war in modern times, given that the pregnant female protagonist, married to a German soldier at the front, elects to commit suicide rather than give birth to a son destined to become cannon fodder. Such a message, Burgos pronounces, would not be tolerated in Spain, where women are subject to their maternal mission: “[L]a maternidad tiene algo de fatal, de don del cielo, de cosa en la que no entra la voluntad de la mujer …” (Maternity has something fatal about it, like a gift from heaven, in which women’s desires supposedly play no part). In comparison, the American woman, whom Burgos presents as a model, is “más fuerte, más libre, más consciente … quiere dirigir e impulsar su propia vida” (stronger, freer, more conscious … she wants to run and drive forward her own life; Burgos 1915g). Despite these differences, Burgos considers that both Spanish and US women are united in their rejection of war. The solution that she proposes steers a middle course that echoes her thoughts in her previous essay, “Las mujeres y la paz” (Burgos 1914b): women should not refuse to have children but educate them to form “un ejército de hijos para la paz” (an army of children for peace; Burgos 1915g). Similarly emphasizing the activist role of women’s writings is Burgos’s piece from 21 January 1916, “La cosecha roja” (Red Harvest). In this review of French writer Mme. Pierre Handrey’s poetry volume of the same title, La Moisson rouge (1915), Burgos sees the author, a well-known pacifist, as fulfilling her patriotic duty, because “[e]l deber de los poetas es sostener e inflamar el ardor de los soldados, la fe del pueblo, la resignación de las almas doloridas” (the poet’s duty is to sustain and inflame the soldiers’ fervour, the people’s faith, the resignation of suffering souls; Burgos 1916a). Through her representation of texts as sources of inspiration and consolation, Burgos portrays the female writer as a muse. In classical Greek culture the muse was considered the “mother to the poet,” given that she literally “breath[ed] her song into him” (Bronfen 1992, 363). In Burgos’s essay, because Handrey’s poems serve to inspire soldiers, the nation, and souls, the female poet

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occupies a culturally controversial position in her usurpation of both the role of active muse and men’s traditionally exclusive position as writers. At the same time, Burgos maintains that Handrey’s patriotism is due to her maternal heart: “[U]n gran corazón, corazón de madre y corazón de francesa, animado de un patriotismo a la vez doloroso y valiente” (A great heart, the heart of a mother and a Frenchwoman, inspired by a patriotism both painful and courageous; Burgos 1916a). By implying that female patriotism stems from both women’s maternal love and also their nationality, Burgos suggests that they are naturally patriots and citizens, and hence worthy of participating in the nation’s affairs. Her conclusion thus counters the essentialist implications of her argument by referring to how war can change women’s hearts – “cómo puede cambiar de esa manera el corazón de la mujer” (Burgos 1916a) – and portraying their perspective not as static, as Pardo Bazán feared, but as evolving in accordance with socio-historical contexts. In keeping with Burgos’s left-wing political affiliations, other articles underline women’s contributions to the war effort not just as nurses but, importantly, in administrative, agricultural, and factory jobs traditionally reserved for men. Focussing on women’s roles in the war in nations like France, Portugal, and Russia, her essays suggest that women’s participation in the conflict can shift entrenched gender discrimination and lead to greater equality. In “Las mujeres obscuras” (Invisible Women) from 15 November 1914 Burgos counterposes the grisette, the empty-headed coquette that male bourgeois writers unoriginally reproduce, with the working-class woman or “mujer del pueblo,” who epitomizes French womanhood and the nation. Motivated by duty and industriousness, she is taking up the work left by men now at the front and proving her ability to thrive in occupations previously closed to her: No se trata sólo de la heroicidad sentimental que supone formar los Cuer­ pos de enfermeras a las que lleva la mujer su feminilidad y su amor … sino de dedicarse con valentía a menesteres y trabajos que requieren el esfuerzo y la colaboración diaria…. No desempeñan sólo los oficios de inspectores, revisores y cobradores, sino que, con un vigor y un esfuerzo de que no se las hubiera creído capaces, manejan frenos, volantes y manivelas de toda clase de máquinas. (It is not only a question of the sentimental heroism that informs the creation of the Nursing Corps, to which women bring their femininity and love … but of bravely devoting themselves to chores and tasks that require effort and daily collaboration…. They not only serve as inspectors, and

Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals  167 bus and train conductors, but also, with an energy and effort that no one would have believed possible, they operate brakes, steering wheels, and levers of all kinds of machines; Burgos 1914a)

Indirectly arguing for women’s right to full citizenship, Burgos stresses that French women’s brave contributions have restored them to the status that primitive societies accorded them as wives and mothers of “hombres civiles, de ciudadanos conscientes de su ciudadanía” (men of civil society, citizens conscious of their citizenship). They are thus equally worthy of actively participating in sociopolitical life: “[Y] capaz ella de merecer esa doble dignidad de sus hombres” (And due to her abilities, she deserves her men’s twofold dignity; Burgos 1914a). This context of France’s working women allows Burgos to draw analogies with their Spanish counterparts from Galicia, Castile, and Andalusia. While the war permits French women to demonstrate their capabilities in the public sphere, Burgos also attributes their outstanding service to common, innate qualities, summarized in the allusion to the “densidad de su sangre” (quality of their blood; Burgos 1914a). Both French and Spanish provincial women allegedly share the “fortaleza del alma latina, esa potente savia heroica que en días extraordinarios podría ser de utilidad inagotable” (strength of the Latin soul, that powerful, heroic lifeblood that in extraordinary times could be of infinite benefit; Burgos 1914a). The figure of the lower-class woman again comes to the fore in Burgos’s piece “La obra de Mimi Pinson” (Mimi Pinson’s Work). As the “hija del pueblo” (daughter of the common people; Burgos 1915d), she is now embodied in what Patricia Tilburg (2019, 96) sees as a reinvention of the nineteenth-century grisette: Mimi Pinson, the working-class midinette or empty-headed girl. Burgos refers to Mimi’s active contribution to the war, especially within the nursing corps, and informs her readers that Mimi’s traditional occupation as garment maker has led to the creation of the “Insignias de Mimi Pinson” (Burgos 1915d): war decorations for soldiers’ bravery in the form of inscribed, tricoloured ribbons or cocardes. Tilburg elucidates how the training of working-class women as nurses and the cocardes named after them originated in Gustave Charpentier’s initiative, the Oeuvre de Mimi Pinson, established in 1900 not only to assist working women’s emancipation but also to ensure their continued containment as objects of bourgeois male desire. The worker students were known as Mimi Pinsons, a renaming that subsumed their individual identities into a generic mould (Tilburg 2019, 92–3, 97). Although the insignia themselves reportedly came into being in

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September 1915, when unemployed garment workers suggested raising frontline soldiers’ morale through cocardes (201), Burgos’s article, published on 23 August 1915, suggests that the Mimi Pinson cocarde was in circulation earlier.8 These supposedly talismanic and eroticized war decorations functioned as male fetishes to represent the “sexually consoling” garment maker, who, by embodying the home front in need of defence, guaranteed the continuity of gender distinctions under threat due to the war (198). Like the French Mimi Pinson, symbolic of the enduring superiority of Republican France’s civilization (Tilburg 2019, 199), Burgos’s Mimi displays a similar “fortaleza” (resilience) that makes her “el tipo representativo de su raza” (the very embodiment of her nation’s character; Burgos 1915d). However, rather than perpetuating a sexualized image of urban, working-class women, Burgos refers to the Mimi Pinsons as representative of a motherland that is not only delicately feminine – “frívola, miñón, frágil” (frivolous, cute, fragile) – but also feminist, the epitome of a “tradición heroica” (heroic tradition). In this sense Burgos attempts to reconcile a more progressive vision of womanhood in her reworked figure of Mimi Pinson and her contributions to the war effort, with a normative femininity that situates women as the spiritual guardians of men’s hearts, homes, and futures: “Para el combatiente ella representa la ternura, el hogar, el porvenir” (Burgos 1915d). Such a construction of femininity is vital, Enloe (1983, 212) remarks, for enabling the military to give men “the incentives to enlist, obey orders, fight, kill, re-enlist.” The tensions in Burgos’s attempt to reconcile her feminist beliefs with the need to communicate them to less open-minded female readers become more patent in “Las mujeres rusas” (Russia’s Women; Burgos 1915f).9 Here she discusses Russian female combatants and, specifically, the Cossack women from the Ayof region, who reportedly run their military detachment as well as the most seasoned soldiers. Nevertheless, she tempers this message of gender equality by stressing that despite having sacrificed their hair, these women preserve their femininity by ensuring the chicness of their uniforms. Burgos stresses even more forcefully women’s contributions in nations at war in “Energía femenina” (Women’s Energy; 1915b). War, she pronounces, constitutes an exceptional time that brings progress for women, “un desenvolvimiento de su energía, de esas facultades que parecían como dormidas en el reparto de funciones sociales establecidas en tiempo normal…. Mientras los hombres luchan, las mujeres … gobiernan” (an expansion of their energies, of those capabilities that appeared dormant due to the distribution of social roles as established

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under normal circumstances…. While men are fighting, women … are governing). No longer silent readers of history but creators of their own stories, women “están grabando en su historia una bella página de esfuerzo y energía que no debe pasar inadvertida” (are inscribing in their history a beautiful page of effort and energy that demands recognition; Burgos 1915b). As in other articles, Burgos draws on real-life examples of heroism, such as the war nurse Jean Leune, to personalize her account, inspire other women, and lend authenticity to her claims. In a similar vein, Burgos’s essay “Movilización femenina” (Women’s Mobilization; 1916b), published on 21 April shortly after Portugal entered World War I in March 2016, discusses the essential contributions that Portuguese women are making to their domestic economy while their men are at the front. The war, Burgos affirms, has given greater prominence to women; indeed, French women, she considers, are demonstrating a heroism equal to that of soldiers at Verdun on undertaking the great variety of jobs left by conscripted men. The actions of Portuguese women show that they are equally patriotic in maintaining vital services, and the Portuguese Women’s Association ensures that the wives of mobilized men have sufficient work to provide for their families. As a result, Burgos avers, there are two armies; a male military and “todo un ejército de mujeres a fin de aprovechar su capacidad en la vida interna del país” (an entire women’s army that harnesses their capabilities for the nation’s internal affairs; Burgos 1916b). As in other essays, Burgos bases her analysis on socio-historical factors to underline that identities are not fixed but grounded in changing, material realities. She therefore explains that Portugal’s history of colonization, which saw the exodus of its men from the country, led to women replacing them in work and consequently being held in greater social esteem. Now that Portugal is a republic, Burgos indicates that Portuguese women participate fully in the public sphere, as lawyers and university professors, and in local government. Once again, women’s situation in another country permits Burgos to comment covertly on the restrictions placed on Spanish women in a society that still adheres to a conservative monarchy. The circumstances of Portugal’s women and feminist movement contributed to crystallizing Burgos’s own feminism when, from August 1915 onward, she developed a close friendship with Portuguese Republican feminist, freemason, and writer Ana de Castro Osório. Castro Osório was secretary general of the Cruzada das Mulheres Portuguesas (Portuguese Women’s Crusade), founded in 1916, of which Burgos was an honorary member. It inspired her own establishment in 1920 of its Spanish counterpart, the Cruzada de Mujeres Españolas,

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in which she served as president from 1921 until her death in 1932. In 1922 both organizations amalgamated to form the Liga Internacional de Mujeres Ibéricas e Hispanoamericanas (International League of Iberian and Spanish American Women), which Burgos headed from 1923 onward (Núñez Rey 2014). As Burgos documents in her treatise La mujer moderna y sus derechos, these associations’ work of lobbying for women’s equality and rights, which she represented as essential for Spain’s defence of civilization and society in threatening times, continued her commitment as a self-confessed trailblazer for female suffrage in Spain (Burgos 1927, 266, 283–9). While Burgos’s writings prior to World War I often steer a middle course between what many scholars have pinpointed as difference feminism and equality feminism,10 it is also evident that the Great War served as a watershed event to strengthen her feminist convictions. Nor was she alone, as within Spain World War I was crucial for the development of Spanish feminisms (González Calbet 1988, 51). So too were almost a century of feminist press and publications, and the growth of increasingly organized feminist associations, especially in the Republican and anarchist strongholds of Catalonia and Andalusia.11 In May 1917 Acuña remarked that, given the Great War’s catastrophic devastation, it was incumbent on feminism to usher in, regardless of legislative approval, “un matriarcado positivo, activo, consciente, que, bien sea reconocido por las legislaciones, o bien sea abominado por ellas, nada ha de importar si se impone en los hechos” (a positive, active, aware matriarchy whose legal recognition or condemnation will not matter if it becomes a firm reality; Acuña [1917] 2008, 890). On 20 October 1918, barely a month before the end of World War I, the Asociación Nacional de Mujeres Españolas (National Association of Spanish Women) was formally established. A coordinated, nationwide feminist movement, it sought women’s equality in civic and political rights, especially female suffrage (Fagoaga 1985, 133–4). As noted in my introduction, Spanish women would finally obtain the right to vote in December 1931 under Spain’s short-lived Second Republic (1931–9), not even five years before the Spanish Civil War erupted in a brutal prelude to the twentieth century’s second world war. In closing, it is pertinent to consider Burgos’s defence of women’s ability to participate in war on an equal footing with men, and hence of their right to gender equality, in La mujer moderna y sus derechos, where she dedicates an entire chapter to “Los derechos militares” (Military Rights). Opening her discussion by recalling World War I and women’s indispensable contributions to the nations at war, Burgos maintains that gender divisions have arisen from societies’ abandoning of natural

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law (1927, 232). Drawing on evidence from a wide range of countries and historical periods, she insists that women are as able as men to fight wars. Medieval times, for instance, recognized women’s military capabilities (235), while in Spain, “hubo siempre amazonas” (there were always Amazons; 238), as most recently demonstrated in the War of Independence (241–3). In the Great War British, North American, and European women became essential factory workers, military cyclists, police officers, soldiers, and a US undersecretary of state (244). Continuing a tradition of Spanish feminist thought exemplified in Josefa Amar y Borbón’s “Discurso en defensa del talento de las mugeres, y de su aptitud para el gobierno y otros cargos en que se emplean los hombres” (Discourse in Defence of Women’s Talent, and Their Aptitude for Government and Other Positions Held by Men; Amar y Borbón 1786), Burgos reiterates women’s ability to participate equally in war: “Si se medita en esos ejemplos de guerreras, veremos que la mujer puede ser apta para el servicio militar” (If we reflect on these instances of female warriors, we will see that women can be capable of military service; Burgos 1927, 245). It is unjust, she contends, that women risk their lives in the rearguard but are not permitted to bear arms: “Si puede ir como cantinera, puede ir igualmente de jefe u oficial” (If she can serve the army as a water carrier, she can equally well serve as a commander or an officer; 246). It is in a nation’s interest to allow women to enter the armed forces to be better prepared in case of war, and to avoid improvisation and an unnecessarily prolonged conflict: “Debe, pues, reclamarse el derecho que tiene la mujer a formar parte del Ejército, recibir la instrucción militar como el hombre y estar como él preparada…. Después del ejemplo dado por las mujeres, nadie duda de las ventajas de la movilización femenina en caso de una guerra …” (Women must therefore claim their right to form part of armies, receive military instruction like men, and, like them, be prepared…. After the example that women have set, no one questions the advantages of mobilizing women in the event of war; 246). Finally Burgos avails herself of legal arguments to bolster her position, highlighting that Spain’s constitution does not deny women the right to defend the nation because it does not distinguish between genders when referring to citizens: “[N]o distingue de sexos al hablar de ciudadanos” (246; original emphasis). Consequently, she intimates, it is society, not the law, that discriminates against Spanish women: “[S]e le deja correr el peligro, pero … no se le da puesto donde pueda tener cargos” (They allow women to put themselves in danger, but … they do not give them positions where they are in charge; 247). Nevertheless, the question that Burgos does not directly answer – one at the forefront of Acuña’s Amor

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a la patria – is whether women’s full citizenship depends on their right to bear arms and die for the nation. In the following and final chapter, dedicated to two of Burgos’s World War I novellas, Burgos addresses women’s war contributions to argue indirectly that these deserve the same recognition as men’s military actions on the frontline and that women are therefore equally deserving of full citizenship. Cloaking her message in the trappings of the romance genre, Burgos’s texts resist gender stereotypes and neat resolutions. By defying conventional expectations for the romance and the war story, these novellas provide alternative scripts for both genres that reveal the unmentionable stakes in the romance of war.

Chapter Nine

Denouncing War’s Broken Syntax: Burgos’s World War I Novellas

Pero él, como todos los soldados de esta guerra, tiene poco que contar. Por una paradoja, esta guerra, la más grande, la más terrible, la más cruel que registra la historia, es sórdida, sin poesía y sin grandeza. (But he, like all the soldiers in this war, has little to tell. Paradoxically, this war, the worst, the most terrible, the cruellest in recorded history, is sordid, prosaic, and ignoble; Burgos 1917b; VIII)

War, Margaret Higonnet (1993a, 215) stresses, produces “a broken human syntax” of fragments and deformities. In two novellas on World War I Carmen de Burgos engages with war’s disassembling of bodies and lives to question traditional gender roles and imagine different subject positions. In this chapter I examine two of Burgos’s short texts set in Republican France during the Great War and published in close sequence in 1917: Pasiones (1917g) in July and El desconocido (1917b) in October.1 Ostensibly romantic fiction and appearing in magazines with almost exclusively female readerships, the novellas, I argue, question the premises of the romance, which traditionally buttress war writings (as figure 9.1 ironically underlines), to argue for women’s equality. In conventional war narratives men fight to protect mothers and sweethearts, symbolic of the nation, while women’s devotion to their men on the battlefront provides soldiers with a powerful, affective justification for war. Moreover, as Helen M. Cooper, Adrienne Auslander Munich, and Susan Merrill Squier observe, the association of war with love serves to essentialize sociocultural constructions (1989a, 9). Yet Carol Acton’s (2008) study on romantic rhetoric in British women’s magazines during World War I demonstrates that love stories can offer women a means of negotiating and even challenging gender

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Figure 9.1.  Seducción (Seduction) by Louis Raemaekers (1916h). The caption reads: “Alemania a Bélgica: ‘¿No es verdad que soy un muchacho muy digno de ser amado?’” (Germany to Belgium: “Isn’t it true that I am a chap most worthy of love?”). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

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expectations. Rather than reinforcing sociocultural norms, such fiction may serve as a vehicle for social revolution. Burgos’s novellas foreground the sociocultural construction of gender roles and do not provide happy-ever-after endings. In this sense they reinvent the love plot in the war text, similarly to how many female Anglo-Saxon writers during the Great War were also challenging the West’s tradition of defining Woman’s identity in terms of love (Usandizaga 2017, 44–5). Far from constituting an allegedly light, feminine literature, Burgos’s novellas constitute political statements.2 Like other works in this study, Pasiones unsettles the spatial and conceptual boundaries of battlefront and home front, and interrogates the gendered framework that underpins nurses’ rehabilitation of wounded soldiers. Like Arenal’s writings, El desconocido unmasks war’s grotesque realities, speaking to the difficulties of reconstructing war-ravaged bodies and psyches. A twenty-four-page text written in Villemomble-Paris, Pasiones appeared on 21 July 1917 in La Novela Corta (1916–25), the collection in which Burgos would publish the greatest number of her novellas.3 Divided, like El desconocido, into nine chapters, it relates the experiences of Solange, a nurse who has been stationed in a Parisian Red Cross hospital since the war’s outbreak. While tending the wounded, Solange falls in love with two soldiers: Juan Mortier, who dies on the operating table, and Román, who, once cured, is returned to the front. From the outset the narrative unpicks the gendered distinctions between war front and home front. During World War I such separations became blurred by women at the front in medical and support roles, as well as by the huge numbers of male non-combatants (Grayzel 1999, 11). Burgos’s opening chapter emphasizes the effect of the conflict on the private sphere – “Todos los hogares habían sufrido aquella conmoción” (All homes had suffered that upheaval; Burgos 1917g, I: 2) – and represents war as giving single women like Solange opportunities to escape a monotonous, domestic isolation to become socially useful and engage more fully in collective life: “La guerra … había exaltado su imaginación para obli­ garla a salir de la vida contemplativa, aburrida y monótona…. [E]n vez de estar aislada sería una persona útil, entraría en el concierto de la sociedad” (I: 3).4 In Burgos’s text conventional differentiations between non-combatants and combatants unravel, in a similar fashion to how, within the British Voluntary Aid Detachments, as Janet S.K. Watson notes, “women doing full-time volunteer work in hospitals were popularly equated with soldiers in the trenches” and nursing, with a “symbolic battlefront” (2004, 7, 87).5 Likewise Pasiones depicts nursing as a military duty equal to men’s that does not condone desertion: “Era el deber de las mujeres … [p]restar sus servicios cada una…. [Q]ue no hubiera mujeres emboscadas,

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como no debía haber hombres emboscados” (It was women’s duty … for each and every one of them to volunteer their services…. Women should not be shirkers, just as men should not be draft dodgers; Burgos 1917g, I: 2; original emphasis). Like soldiers, nurses are portrayed as entering into battle despite their extreme fear – “[T]odas … sentían que sus corazones latían con fuerza, como dominadas por el terror. Era como si ellas fuesen a entrar también en batalla” (All … felt their hearts pound, as if overwhelmed by terror. It was as if they too were about to enter the battle fray; II: 4) – and they resist the impulse to desert their posts: “Más de una vez [Solange] estuvo para cambiar de sala…. Sin embargo, no se decidía a hacerlo, como si eso fuese una cobardía, una deserción …” (More than once Solange was on the point of changing wards…. Nevertheless, she hesitated to do so, as if that would be an act of cowardice, a desertion; VI: 16). The extension to nursing of military language and protocol is further evident in the nurses’ designated positions – “Vayan a ocupar su puesto” (Take up your posts; II: 5) – their “guardias” (watches; VI: 16), and their war decorations: “Varias enfermeras y soldados habían recibido honores y medallas por su abnegación o su heroísmo …” (Several nurses and soldiers had received military honours and medals for their self-sacrifice or heroism; VII: 18).6 The hospital director, the widow of a war hero after whom the hospital is named, wears, like Álvarez Pool’s Lilí, her dead husband’s Legion of Honour medal (II: 4), and describes nurses as sacrificing themselves, like male combatants, for the motherland: “Francia, nuestra madre, nos exige este sacrificio” (France, our mother, demands of us this sacrifice; II: 5). Certainly at the time nursing was considered an extension of the Angel in the House’s caring mission, as seen in one soldier’s wordplay on Solange’s name: “¡Sólo Ángel!” (Only an angel!; Burgos 1917g, V: 13). The text, however, represents women’s domestic role as reaching beyond the home to the battlefield, where the soldier also imagines So­ lange’s spiritual presence: “[L]a he visto a usted muchas veces … en las trincheras … antes de ser herido …” (I have seen you many times … in the trenches … before I was wounded; V: 13). This scenario does not just mirror the military use of women as spiritual supporters of war from within the domestic sphere but challenges the division between frontline and home front. Thematically Pasiones foregrounds the concept of romance in its very title. The nurse is depicted as “la novia de todos” (every soldier’s darling), while the hospital fosters their romantic liaisons: “Surgieron los pretendientes y los amores” (Suitors and love affairs emerged; Burgos 1917g, IV: 11). Wounded soldiers resort to traditionally feminine wiles to conquer the nurses’ affections: “Tomaban para ella algo de

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piratas callejeros, por cómo sorprendían … el corazón de las mujeres, valiéndose de la compasión y haciendo arma de su miseria” (VII: 18; In her eyes, they somewhat came to resemble street pirates, because of how they captured by surprise … the women’s hearts, taking advantage of their compassion and turning their own suffering into a weapon). The gendered politics of war become especially evident in the meanings that accrue to fragmented and whole bodies. In the Great War, Ana Carden-Coyne (2012b, 84) elucidates, “military medicine saw wounds as reversing the masculine warrior into the fragility and dependence associated with femininity and childhood. Rehabilitation restored masculinity from this neutered state.”7 Accordingly, Solange perceives the wounded Román as feminized and physically immature: “Es que aquel enfermo … no le había parecido un hombre. Tenía la tez suave, las formas redondas, la especie de asexualidad de una juventud casi infantil” (The fact was that the patient … had not seemed like a man to her. His skin was smooth, his shape was rounded, and he exhibited an asexuality typical of an almost childlike youth; Burgos 1917g, VII: 18). Initially then, her relationship with him is likened to that between mother and son, paralleling the symbolic relationship between motherland and soldier: “Ella encontró lo niño que era, y sintió desde el primer momento el impulso de una gran ternura materna” (She saw how childlike he was, and felt from the first moment impelled by a great, maternal tenderness; VII: 19). Moreover, as part of their rehabilitation, wounded soldiers engage in feminine tasks: “Los enfermos, sentados en las camas, se entretenían en hacer bordados de cuentas y bordados de hilo, como malla o macramé” (The patients, sitting up in bed, amused themselves with bead embroidery and needlework, such as knitting or macramé; III: 9).8 Conversely, as Román recovers and his relationship with So­ lange transitions into a full-blown romance, he is depicted as recovering his masculinity: “Con la salud Román no era ya el niño, tenía una energía viril, era el hombre …” (When he regained his health Román was no longer the child, he had a virile energy, he was the man; VIII: 20). Such equivalences between the wounded, femininity, and childhood reflect a sociocultural paradigm in which femininity is conceived of as a defective stage that must be transcended to attain health, maturity, and manhood. Implicit in Román’s recovery is a trajectory from impotence to potency, prostration to erection, defeated to victorious, and feminine to masculine.9 Consequently a major theme in both Pasiones and El desconocido is what Carden-Coyne (2009, 112) calls “the war-wrecked body.” Statistically, she notes (73), one in five men served in the French army;

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according to Joanna Bourke (1996, 33), five in every nine were injured. If the purpose of war, as Elaine Scarry (1985, 20) underlines, is to out-injure the opponent, World War I fulfilled this objective on a hitherto unimaginable scale. Nevertheless, military discourses seek to disown the act of injuring in war and silence suffering through omission, redescription, and marginalization (80). Through the following reiteration of “quizás” Burgos’s Pasiones, like Arenal’s writings on war, undermines what Scarry calls “the dissolution” of language in military discourse (67), whereby the wounded are ennobled, killing becomes a necessity, and bloodshed redemption: “Quizás se necesitaban aquellos heridos para ennoblecer a la humanidad. Quizás aquella guerra era una necesidad, una nueva redención con sangre” (Perhaps those wounded men were necessary to ennoble humanity. Perhaps that war was a necessity, a new redemption through blood; Burgos 1917g, VI: 17). Such a discourse conveys how World War I shattered a vision of warfare previously reliant, at least in theory, on a language and conduct inherited from chivalric codes of honour, “‘high’ diction,” and the concepts that underwrote it (Fussell 2013, 22–4). In contrast, Burgos’s Pasiones denounces war by foregrounding the grotesque suffering of the wounded: “¡No tenían piernas! Al destapar a otros aparecían los muñones que quedaban de sus brazos…. Sólo uno de aquellos doscientos hombres entró por su pie…. Algunos pedían que los matasen en el camino para no sufrir más” (They had lost their legs! On uncovering others the stumps left from their amputated arms became visible…. Only one of those two hundred men came in walking…. Some begged to be killed en route to the hospital so as not to suffer any more; Burgos 1917g, II: 6). The emphasis on blood collapses the boundaries between the hospital and the frontline: “Había sangre en la tierra, en las cubetas … en los lechos. Sangre por todas partes…. [N]o podían ocultar el olor a llaga … a sangre fresca” (There was blood on the ground, in the basins … in the beds. Blood everywhere…. They could not hide the smell of wounds … of fresh blood; II: 6). Just as the frontline is a liminal zone between life and death, so too is the hospital inhabited by an “ejército siniestro de heridos, intermedio de vivos y muertos” (sinister army of wounded men, half-alive, half-dead; II: 6). Although Pasiones represents nursing as akin to soldiering, it distinguishes between their ultimate goals of healing and killing. The novella stresses that war is evil and condemns the military authorities for sending recovered patients back to the front: “No le gustaba [a Solange] nunca ver aquellos hombres que no iban allí a curar y a los que hacía como solidarios del mal de la guerra. Iban a buscar hombres, a saber los que, después de curados, quedaban útiles y disponibles” (Solange

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never liked seeing those men who did not go there to cure, those who were complicit in war’s evil. They went there to look for men, to find those who, once recovered, were useful and available for action; Burgos 1917g, VIII: 21).10 Here the citizens’ duty to be useful to the nation spills over into the state’s calculation of the use-value of citizens and its justification of their sacrifice, as made explicit in the meanings of “disponibles” (available, dispensable). Furthermore, “usable” and “dispensable,” as Enloe (1983, 219) stresses, also mean “replaceable,” a term that highlights how the military ultimately perceives soldiers in feminized terms as commodities. Hence injuries and deaths become, Scarry (1985, 72–3) notes, a “‘by-product’ of war,” a term that signifies “‘accidental,’ ‘unwanted,’ ‘unsought,’ ‘unanticipated,’ and ‘useless.’” Whereas the connotations of “accidental” or “unwanted” function to remove blame from the military hierarchy, “useless” clearly indicates that injured soldiers cease to have value for war-making. In fact, in World War I the British military referred to wounded and killed soldiers as “wastage” (Fussell 2013, 44). In Pasiones, Burgos’s criticism of war is evident in the medical staff’s desire to declare the soldiers useless so as to protect them from war and death: “[S]u deseo era declararlos inútiles, reformés…. Debía haber una ley por la que el herido no entrase otra vez en batalla; pero se les obligaba a jugar con la muerte” (Their desire was to declare them useless, unsuitable for military service…. There ought to have been a law to prevent wounded men from entering once more into the fray of battle; but they were forced to play with death; Burgos 1917g, VIII: 22). The phrase “se les obligaba a jugar con la muerte” warrants examining. Play suggests a voluntary engagement with a given activity (Scarry 1985, 82). Portraying war as a game, gamble, or contest against an abstract force – death – rather than as a battle against material others to maim and kill removes blame from acts that in peacetime would be deemed assault and murder (121–2). It also depicts the combatant as volunteering his services and grants him a false sense of agency, which is contradicted by the coercion implicit in the text’s impersonal construction, “se les obligaba.” As the narrative progresses, Burgos increasingly articulates her opposition to the war through Solange. This character not only conceives of nursing as a war against war – “[E]lla había de seguir en aquella guerra contra la guerra …” – but also explicitly condemns war for causing intense emotional distress to both men and women: “Nada merecía todo el dolor que se encerraba en las almas de las mujeres, en el alma de los soldados. No había nada que lo pudiera justificar por pomposo que fuera su nombre” (Nothing was worth all the pain locked away in

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women’s souls, in soldiers’ souls. No words could justify it, no matter how grandiose they might sound; Burgos 1917g, IX: 22–3). When decorated, Solange removes the award from her breast in an act that symbolically portrays her as refusing to perpetuate the fallacy of military honour: “[P]ara estar como más limpia … de la responsabilidad de acrecentar y elevar la mentira de [sic] honor de la guerra” (As if to feel somewhat cleansed … of the responsibility of enhancing and elevating the lie of war’s honour; IX: 24).11 By the novella’s concluding lines the war is no longer external to Solange but present within her very psyche. While her disorientation cannot help but evoke that of soldiers trapped in the trenches,12 her anguish at war’s horrors struggles against inculcated beliefs that her primary allegiance must be to the nation: El sentido de la vida, el amor a la patria, el concepto de la humanidad, todo cambiaba en el hospital frente al dolor y la muerte, y, sin embargo, sus prejuicios estaban tan arraigados que se horrorizaba de su propio corazón…. A pesar suyo se preguntaba, desorientada, vencida, en qué consistía el deber…. Si debía haberlo conservado [a Román] para ella en vez de devolvérselo a la Patria, si debió agravar su herida en vez de curarla. (The meaning of life, love of country, the concept of humanity, everything changed in the hospital when faced with suffering and death, and yet, her prejudices were so deeply rooted that she felt horrified at her own heart…. Reluctantly she wondered, disoriented, defeated, what duty consisted of…. If she should have kept Román with her instead of returning him to the Fatherland, if she should have made his wound worse instead of healing it; IX: 24)

Although duty to the nation apparently triumphs over love, Solange’s doubts also qualify that victory, recalling Burgos’s statement in “¡Guerra a la guerra!” that humanity and patriotism are irreconcilable concepts: “[L]a humanidad … desaparece enteramente ante la idea de patria …” (Humanity … disappears completely when faced with patriotism; Burgos [1909] 1913, 203). El desconocido continues to dispel romantic notions of war through its unsentimental discussion of mutilation, war rape, and the dubious viability of reconstruction. Appearing on 12 October 1917 in Los Contemporáneos, its content was heralded by the cover illustration of a gas-masked soldier with upright bayonet seemingly impervious to gunfire and landmine explosions.13 One of seven illustrations by José Loygorri Pimentel that lend authenticity to the novella,14 this image of triumphant heroism is countermanded in the following six, which

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portray mutilated soldiers and Red Cross nurses. The novella’s plot centres on the return of the severely wounded soldier Alfredo Ferranz to his wife, Blanca Maurice, and surviving family members, after thirty months at the front.15 Shrapnel-mutilated to the point of being unrecognizable and initially unidentifiable, Alfredo has lost his arm, his nose, and part of his jaw. Hence facial reconstruction is necessary before he can resume familial and social life. Yet Alfredo’s story is framed as just one of many such war tragedies, as it begins only after the first two chapters, which herald the arrival of trains bearing the wounded. More so than in Pasiones, Burgos represents the war in El desconocido as affecting every facet of civilian life. Indeed, the narrative progressively brings the conflict closer: from the front, to the Paris streets with air bombardments and mutilated soldiers, and finally into characters’ homes and emotions.16 As Tilburg (2019, 197) remarks, “The border between front and homefront was blurred considerably by the proximity of the battlefield to non-combatant areas and by the bombardment of Paris itself.” From the start, the text privileges women’s contributions to the war effort. It opens with a description of Matilde, responsible for the returned soldiers in her district, whose exit from the Saint Germain underground into the streets recalls soldiers abandoning the “troglodyte world” of the trenches for the open battlefield: “[S]intió la sensación de pavor del que ha abandonado una guarida piadosa en aquellas profundidades y se encuentra a la intemperie” (She felt the fear of those who have abandoned a god-sent haven in the earth’s bowels and find themselves out in the open; Burgos 1917b, I: 1).17 Similarly, chapter 1 concludes with a German air raid, which forces the panicked population into the shelter, an urban trench or “albergue subterráneo” likened to a “cueva” (cave; I: 4).18 When the invalided soldiers’ train arrives, the women take them in as an act of charitable patriotism: “Los movía a todos [los individuos] una caridad ardiente, acendrada, esa inagotable caridad pública de la Francia, tan unida en el socorro y el esfuerzo” (All were moved by an ardent, pure, charitable love, that inexhaustible public charity typical of France, so united in its support and efforts; II: 4). Like many French women, Alfredo’s sister-in-law, Angelina, works as a trained nurse in a blood hospital, while Blanca accompanies soldiers blinded by mustard gas on their daily walks (V: 9, 11). One major way in which the Great War drew on women’s sanctioned sociocultural role as mother was for them to befriend soldiers at the front as godmother or “madrina,” as did Acuña in her letter “A un soldado español voluntario en el ejército francés durante la Gran Guerra” (To a Spanish Volunteer in the French Army during the Great War; Acuña [1917] 2007).19 Described in El desconocido as an “institución

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maternal, que daba familia a los pobres soldados” (maternal organization, which provided soldiers in need with a family; Burgos 1917b, III: 6), this service of symbolic maternal adoption was the subject of two of Burgos’s essays, “La limosna de las cartas” (The Almsgiving of Letters; 1915c) and “El soldado sin madrina” (The Soldier without a Godmother; 1917c), published in the Heraldo de Madrid in her column Femeninas. Parts of the 1917 essay are transposed practically intact to El desconocido, such as the descriptions of Soldier X, recast as Alfredo, and Jeanne Desclós, a well-known actress who is conceivably the model for Alfredo’s “godmother,” Luciana Dagobert. Undertaking charitable works to emulate the war contributions of her mutilated hero husband, Luciana, like Solange, is decorated for her efforts (Burgos 1917b, III: 6). Her husband sardonically underlines the equivalence between his sacrifice and his wife’s: “Yo he perdido una pierna en la guerra, pero mi mujer ha perdido la cabeza” (I have lost a leg in the war, but my wife has lost her head; V: 10). To a certain degree, Burgos portrays the war as uniting women: “Se había establecido entre las cuatro mujeres una corriente de simpatía, una de esas amistades fervorosas que las unían tan fácilmente desde el comienzo de la guerra” (Among the four women there had emerged a wave of affection, one of those close friendships that had united them so effortlessly since the beginning of the war; Burgos 1917b, II: 5). Nevertheless, she avoids an essentialist homogeneity by presenting a wide range of women’s attitudes towards the conflict and thus reflecting, as already noted in chapter 8, the reality of feminists’ diverging stances towards the war in the belligerent and neutral nations. El desconocido presents five female perspectives on the conflict: those of Matilde, Berta, Luciana, Blanca, and Angelina. The question of draft evasion is broached through Matilde, the French-born daughter of emigrant Spaniards who is married to Raúl, a Frenchman. At Matilde’s request, Raúl remains behind in Spain to avoid serving in the French army. On her return to Paris, however, Matilde, ashamed, tells everyone that he has been invalided in Spain: “El espíritu de sacrificio era igual para todos, eran todos héroes; sentía vergüenza de que su marido fuese un emboscado…. Cada vez que le hablaban de él tenía que repetir su mentira: – Reformé y enfermo en España” (The spirit of sacrifice was the same for all, all men were heroes; she felt ashamed that her husband was a draft dodger…. Every time they mentioned him she felt obliged to repeat her lie: – Unfit for service and ill in Spain; Burgos 1917b, III: 7). Expressing hatred for the enemy, Matilde perceives all hearts in France as beating as one in the

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nation’s defence (III: 7). A counterfoil to Matilde is Berta, whose only son, wounded at Verdun, was returned to the front once recovered, like Román (I: 2). The war not only deprives Berta of her son but also destroys her home, heart, and social status: “La pobre mujer no entendía de patria ni de heroísmo cuando se trataba de su hijo, del hijo en cuya compañía había vivido, tranquila y feliz hasta el momento de la guerra, que había destruido su pobre casita y la obligaba a ponerse a servir, con el corazón destrozado, temiendo siempre por el hijo, que era su mundo todo” (The poor woman had no understanding of patriotism or heroism when it came to her son, the son in whose company she had lived, peacefully and happily until the war, which had destroyed her humble dwelling and forced her to go into domestic service, her heart broken, fearing always for her son, who was her entire world; I: 3). The mouthpiece for a discourse that glorifies war and nationalism is Luciana, whose mutilated hero husband’s medals are more valuable to her than his amputated leg (Burgos 1917b, II: 6). As she indicates, the sheer volume of mutilated soldiers transforms mutilation into a desirable commodity that increases the sufferer’s value: “Casi no estaba bien un hombre demasiado completo entre aquella multitud de cojos, mancos, ciegos, tuertos y desfigurados que se veían por las calles. Le parecía que para amar a un hombre era ya menester que fuese así, mutilado y vestido con aquel uniforme azul, … color de victoria, color del cielo de la Francia …” (A man who was too whole seemed almost inappropriate among that crowd of lame, one-armed, blind, one-eyed, and disfigured men who could be seen on the streets. She believed that to love a man it was now essential for him to be thus, maimed and clad in that blue uniform, … the colour of victory, the colour of France’s sky; III: 6).20 Attitudes like Luciana’s, as Bourke (1996, 56, 58) notes, were vital for making soldiers’ sacrifices palatable and reinforcing norms of femininity and masculinity: “Public rhetoric judged soldiers’ mutilations to be ‘badges of their courage, … their proof of patriotism.’ … The disabled soldier was ‘not less but more of a man.’” In contrast, Luciana’s husband silently disagrees with her (Burgos 1917b, III: 6), paralleling Alfredo’s unarticulated opinion of war as a terrifying, anti-heroic experience: Pero él, como todos los soldados de esta guerra, tiene poco que contar. Por una paradoja, esta guerra, la más grande, la más terrible, la más cruel que registra la historia, es sórdida, sin poesía y sin grandeza…. Alfredo no podía decir nada, no sabía nada, no había, en realidad, visto nada más que la trinchera y el puñado de hombres que lo rodeaban.

184  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century (But he, like all the soldiers in this war, has little to tell. Paradoxically, this war, the worst, the most terrible, the cruellest in recorded history, is sordid, prosaic, and ignoble…. Alfredo could not say anything, he did not know anything, he had not actually seen anything beyond the trench and the handful of men nearest him; VIII: 14)21

Hence the text grants a voice to those male participants in the war who, more so than women, felt unable to express their reservations regarding the conflict, since to do so would have rendered them non-men, feminized dissenters, and traitors to their country. They, more than Luciana, convey Burgos’s own opinion: “Honrar a los que mataron me parece una cosa perjudicial; la humanidad no podrá llegar a una mayor perfección ética mientras admire la gloria de los héroes” (To honour those who killed seems to me a harmful thing; humanity will not achieve greater ethical perfection as long as it admires the glory of heroes; Burgos [1917] 2012, 214). Burgos interrogates the effect of war on women’s bodies through the characters of Blanca and her sister Angelina. In Blanca’s case, her flight from the war causes her premature labour. Although she successfully delivers a son, the German doctor who attends her deliberately blinds the infant, who later dies, and dehumanizes him as the offspring of a bitch: “Sé cómo hay que tratar a estos cachorillos franceses…. [S]u hijo está ciego” (I know how to treat these French puppies…. Your son is blind; Burgos 1917b, IV: 8). War, Burgos implies, maims and kills innocent youth, especially since the infant’s blinding recalls that of soldiers by mustard gas. As for Angelina, her name, “little angel,” again evokes, like Solange’s, the Angel in the House ideal. She becomes pregnant when gang-raped by German soldiers, an act symbolic of Germany’s invasion of France and a traditional form of terrorizing the female civilian population and humiliating the male enemy. As Susan Brownmiller’s classic study maintains, the raped woman’s body constitutes “a ceremonial battlefield” (1976, 38), while for Paul Fussell (2013, 293) rape forms part of war’s weaponry and rewards: “The language of military attack – assault, impact, thrust, penetration – has always overlapped with that of sexual importunity.”22 Significantly for Burgos’s World War I context, it was Germany’s 1914 invasion of Belgium, subsequently known as the “Rape of the Hun,” that led to news about war rape becoming a powerful Allied propaganda tool to criminalize the Boche (Brownmiller 1976, 43–4; see figure 9.2). Within the invaded nation, it is the duty of male soldiers to defend the honour of their motherland and women, and cast out the enemy.

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Figure 9.2.  Victoria (Victory) by Louis Raemaekers (1917). The caption reads: “¿Por qué no se sometió? Se la hubiera pagado bien” (Why didn’t she submit? We would have paid her well). By kind permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España. Ref.: HN/2373.

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Drawing on this patriotic narrative, Burgos’s novella argues for the right of women whose pregnancy results from rape to eject the foreign body within. As Angelina exclaims, she considers her unwanted foetus to be a “basura,” a “vergüenza” and “un Boche” (worthless, shameful, a Boche; Burgos 1917b, IV: 8–9). When she fails to abort, she drowns her baby son at birth: “Quise abortarlo y no pude…. [N]o tuve otro medio de librarme de él” (I wanted to abort him and did not succeed…. I had no other way of freeing myself of him; IV: 8). Her infanticide is here cast as a fight for freedom, precisely the cause that justifies resistance against an invader in war. Arguably Burgos’s text asks readers to consider what differentiates men’s killing in wartime, a culturally sanctioned act, from women’s killing of forcibly conceived offspring, which is subject to rigorous social censure. Angelina’s act of infanticide shifts her from a culturally sanctioned life-bearing role to a non-authorized, life-taking one that threatens the balance of power in male-dominated societies. Moreover, her hatred of the enemy mirrors soldiers’ experience in close combat. As Bourke (1999, 158–9) notes, “The expression of hatred was related to two things: the physical and psychological proximity of the foe and combat experience. The physical proximity of the enemy was clearly crucial, with the most anonymous forms of killing … the least conducive to hatred.” Rape, I suggest, can be viewed as a combat in which the enemy’s physical closeness is pushed to an extreme. Angelina’s story thus allows Burgos to present a complex layering of issues that concern not only war but also women’s rights. How might Burgos’s contemporary female readers have perceived her narrative? Spanish laws on rape, abortion, and infanticide were based on the early nineteenth-century Napoleonic Code. If rape resulted in pregnancy, the rapist could be obliged to marry his victim, while abortion and infanticide were crimes (Scanlon 1986, 125). In La mujer moderna y sus derechos Burgos highlighted that nations that allowed the investigation of paternity, legally impossible in Spain, had a lower rate of abortions and infanticides, which in Spain were due to the unwed mother’s fear of social censure and the sole attribution of blame to her (Burgos 1927, 45–9). In a predominantly Catholic World War I France, rape and infanticide, in peacetime private affairs that presumed women’s culpability, became public matters. As Susan Grayzel (1999, 52–60) explains, books, official reports, short newspaper stories, and feminist periodicals debated the philosophical and moral implications of abortion, infanticide, and support for the victims and offspring of rape. Burgos herself, in La mujer moderna y sus derechos (1927, 50), alluded to this debate and the continued illegality of abortion in penal codes. On supporting abortion in cases of war rape, in 1915 Professor

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Henneguy from France’s Scientific Academy, like Burgos in El desconocido, underlined the paradoxes of condoning killing in battle and condemning abortion: “Abortion is a crime, but killing an enemy on the field of battle is a glorious act; preventing the birth of a product of a criminal attack is not only licit but even necessary” (quoted in Grayzel 1999, 58). Not only had rape as a weapon of war been condemned in Resolution 2 of the 1915 International Congress of Women, celebrated at The Hague from 28 April to 1 May (Magallón 2017, 21). A possible source for Burgos’s account of Angelina’s rape, pregnancy, and infanticide may have been the controversial infanticide case of Joséphine Barthélemy, allegedly raped by a German soldier. As Grayzel reveals, Barthélemy’s trial and acquittal featured prominently in French newspapers in January 1917, precisely when Burgos was in Paris. The case questioned whether pregnant women had rights over their bodies, while associated arguments for and against abortion and infanticide fuelled discussions over French identity. On the one hand, supporters stressed French purity of blood and opposed the civil code, which stipulated that a child’s father, regardless of his provenance, determined their nationality. On the other, detractors highlighted the dangers of depopulation (Grayzel 1999, 60–2). Certainly, Angelina’s defence of infanticide picks up on that nationalistic concern for the integrity of French blood: “La mala sangre no se debe mezclar arteramente con la noble sangre fran­cesa …” (Bad blood must never cunningly mix with noble French blood; Burgos 1917b, IV: 9). Conversely, the horrified reaction of Luciana, Ma­ tilde, and their friend Adela to Angelina’s confession, arguably representative of a feminine collective, exemplifies the current of intolerance towards infanticide: “[No] podían aprobar aquel crimen” (They could not condone that crime; IV: 9). However, they also reflect those women in France who argued for privileging the mother’s rights over her children: “Para ellas un hijo era siempre su hijo, sin contar con el padre” (For them, a child was always their child, without taking into account the father; IV: 9; original emphasis). Angelina herself situates the issue in the more general context of male domination of women and argues for enhancing women’s rights to control over their bodies: “[N]o me digáis que un hijo de nuestra entraña es siempre un hijo…. No … vosotras no sabéis lo que es esta dominación. No sabéis cómo nos pisotean, cómo nos vejan …” (Don’t tell me that a child of our womb is always our child…. No … you women don’t understand what this subjugation is like. You don’t know how they trample on us, how they abuse us; IV: 9). Burgos thus presents a multifaceted appraisal of issues around abortion and infanticide that speaks to both the French and Spanish contexts.

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Readers are invited to establish connections between Blanca’s and Angelina’s experiences in war and those of mutilated soldiers through the text’s juxtaposition of the chapters that relate the women’s situations with the following two, entitled “Los hombres troncos” and “Hospital de ciegos” (Hospital for the Blind). The expression “hombres troncos” refers to those soldiers mutilated to such a degree that they are reduced to their torsos, aligning human beings with tree trunks or the non-human: “¡Hasta aquellos lamentables hombres troncos, que no tenían ni piernas ni brazos, y algunos estaban además ciegos y mudos[!] ¿Eran hombres siquiera? ¿Eran aún seres humanos como los otros? … En ocasiones no podían reconocerse siquiera aquellos troncos” (Even those pitiful trunk men, without legs or arms, and some were also blind and dumb! Were they even men? Were they still human beings like the others? … Sometimes those trunks were not even recognizable; Burgos 1917b, V: 9; original emphasis). Effectively, the narrative voice questions what constitutes the human in the absence of limbs, sight, or voice. It is relevant that the kind of mutilation most stressed is Alfredo’s facial disfigurement, common to up to 15,000 of the 11–14 per cent of French casualties with facial wounds (Gehrhardt 2018, 354). The face, as Bourke (2013, 207–10) indicates, has been pivotal for defining human identity, calibrating inner beauty, guaranteeing ethical acts, and establishing sociocultural hierarchies. The cultural value accorded the face is evident in the fact that in World War I British soldiers who suffered facial disfigurement received the maximum pension, since, as Carden-Coyne (2012b, 86) remarks, this mutilation was deemed “a 100% wound.” Such contexts haunt Blanca’s stress on the nobility of the face and Alfredo’s lost beauty, on learning of his facial mutilation: “La asustaba la mutilación del rostro, de la parte más noble…. ¡Él, que era tan bello!” (The mutilation of his face, the noblest part of the body, frightened her…. He, who had been so handsome!; Burgos 1917b; VI: 11–12).23 Given the importance attributed to beauty, Alfredo questions whether it would be preferable to die rather than exist as an object of horror: “Es tan importante la belleza … la forma” (Beauty … form, is so important; III: 7).24 The aesthetic categories of beautiful and ugly function to colour concepts of what is considered good and evil and who may be friend or foe (Scarry 1985, 88). These kinds of notion appear in El desconocido with regard to Matilde’s appraisal of Raúl’s draft avoidance – “[N]o había visto [Matilde] la fealdad de aquel acto de deserción a la patria” (She had not seen the ugliness of that act of desertion of the patria; Burgos 1917b, III: 7) – and they play into the issue of Alfredo’s facial reconstruction. In her study on the links between masculinity and able-bodiedness in

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nineteenth-century Spain, Julia Chang (2019, 184) underlines that male beauty was perceived as an indicator of military masculinity, while its lack was a measure of uselessness. If ugliness connotes the unethical, inimical, and the useless, the reconstruction of mutilated soldiers is imperative for restoring a semblance of ethics to war’s atrocities and reaffirming the soldier, rendered unfamiliar through combat, as part of the one united, “good” national family. Moreover, physical recomposition becomes essential for both maintaining that only the enemy commits war crimes and also staging national healing and forgetting. In these processes, as Carden-Coyne (2009, 112, 138) stresses, ideals of classical beauty play an important role; in the Great War, facially mutilated soldiers were therefore often fitted with metal masks modelled on classical statues. According to Bakhtin (1984, 29), whole or classical bodies represent an imaginary, perfect integrity and civilized values, an “aesthetics of the beautiful” opposed to the hideous vulgarity of the incomplete grotesque. This classical ideal, Stallybrass (1986, 124) affirms, is gendered as masculine, while the grotesque is construed as feminine. Classical and grotesque bodies, Stallybrass continues, partake in paradigms of order and disorder, harmony and conflict (126). Facial reconstruction, I posit, works to replace feminine absence with masculine presence and to bring the socially dead back to life. This procedure is comparable to how later monuments to the Unknown Warrior and Soldier, as Carden-Coyne (2009, 134) maintains, “reconstructed ‘the absent body’ as architecture, immortalizing the memory of the dead in the eternal aesthetic of classicism.” Burgos’s El desconocido pulsates with all these resonances. Testifying to the politics around mutilated bodies is the presence in the novella of the French noun and past participle réformé. Denoting the invalided soldier, it also signifies something that is improved, rectified, reviewed, and transformed.25 The culturally ingrained belief that war honed masculinity, seen in the transformation of men into combative, albeit docile, bodies, required their reconstruction if mutilated: “Reconstruction proposed new codes of masculinity in returning soldiers to civilian life. Male bodies would become spectacular sites of this physical and social transformation…. The body was to be perfected as a technologized object” (Carden-Coyne 2009, 162, 172). Accordingly, Luciana, who champions Alfredo’s facial reconstruction, praises the power of scientific technology to reconstruct damaged bodies: “Además, la cirugía está haciendo prodigios. Maravillas. Se construyen brazos y piernas articuladas … ojos de cristal unidos a los nervios motores para obtener el movimiento…. [S]e hacen rostros nuevos, se injertan mandíbulas…” (Moreover, surgery is working miracles. Wonders. They

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are making arms and articulated legs … glass eyes connected to motor nerves for movement…. They are fashioning new faces, implanting jaws; Burgos 1917b, III: 7).26 Luciana’s statements point to Burgos’s certain awareness in 1917 of the innovations in facial prostheses and masks for mutilated soldiers. Maxillofacial surgical centres were established in France from August 1914 (Gehrhardt 2018, 354). In turn, facial masks were championed by sculptors Francis Derwent Wood at the 3rd London General Hospital from March 2016, and by Anna Coleman Ladd at Paris’s American Red Cross Studio for Portrait Masks from early 2018 (Gehrhardt 2013, 268; see figures 9.3 and 9.4). If World War I was conceived of as theatre, a crucial part of its spectacle was the care and reparation of the wounded body.27 Here it is pertinent that Luciana, described as a beautiful “artista” (artist), compares the meeting that she prepares between Alfredo and Blanca to a performance: “Esas primeras expansiones deben tenerse en el hogar y evitar el darse un espectáculo al vulgo” (These first social engagements must take place in the home, so as to avoid putting on a show for the masses; Burgos 1917b, VII: 12). While this initial encounter will be private and for a middle-class audience apart from the common people, afterwards Alfredo will accompany Luciana to the theatre (VII: 14), thus moving the “spectacle” into public view to strengthen collective patriotism. Nevertheless, the narrative stresses the impossibility of a reconstruction founded on glossing over monstrous realities. Although Alfredo’s voice is supposedly cured, Blanca still perceives it as broken and foreign to her ears: “[S]u voz era una voz quebrada, con una nota extraña que no podía escaparse a su oído…. Era como si su voz también hubiese estado herida. Una voz curada” (His voice was broken, with a strange sound that she could not avoid hearing…. It was as if his voice had also been wounded. A cured voice). As Alfredo intimates, his alleged cure silences war’s unrecognized cost: “Lo curaron. Había sido todo cosa mecánica, una tragedia silenciosa … sin importancia” (They had cured him. It had all been purely mechanical, a silent tragedy … without importance). Despite his apparent reconstruction, Blanca cannot reconcile her memories of Alfredo with the reconfigured man before her: “[N]o podía reconstruir la figura de su marido” (She was unable to reconstruct her husband’s physique; Burgos 1917b, VIII: 14). Her following reiteration of “desconocer” (not to know) and “reconocer” (to recognize) implies how, as Bourke (1996, 16) affirms, “the dismembered man became Everyman”; the loss of distinguishing (and distinguished) traits makes Alfredo’s face one that could belong to anyone and that marks a story common to countless others:

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Figure 9.3.  Trying on Mask Just before It Had Been Painted (1918).

Retrieved from the Library of Congress, American Red Cross photograph collection.

Figure 9.4.  Masks, Showing Different Stages in the Work Done by Mrs. Coleman Ladd of the American Red Cross, for Soldiers Whose Faces Have Been Mutilated in the War (1918). Retrieved from the Library of Congress, American Red Cross photograph collection.

192  Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century Sí, era un desconocido, no era Alfredo…. Si hubiera quedado mutilado, lleno de cicatrices, horrible, ella lo hubiera reconocido mejor, le hubiera visto el rostro debajo de aquella mutilación: pero así estaba suplantado por otro hombre. Había brotado de la suplantación un rostro vulgar, inmóvil, … un rostro de expresión apagada bajo toda aquella carne falsa que lo cubría. (Yes, he was an unfamiliar man, he was not Alfredo…. If he had remained mutilated, ridden with scars, horrible, she might have recognized him better, she would have seen his face beneath that mutilation: but as it was, another man had taken his place. That replacement had given rise to a commonplace, inexpressive face, … a face of limited expression under all that false flesh that covered him; Burgos 1917b, IX: 15)

Although Alfredo is physically alive, a “false flesh” or official discourse suppresses his emotions and compresses his story into the common denominator of a fixed historical narrative. Alfredo’s reconstructed face becomes a commemorative monument that stands for the missing person but cannot rectify that loss: “No podía retroceder [Blanca] ante aquel hombre, tenía que aceptarlo en recuerdo del otro. Era como si en la viudez hubiera un heredero legítimo y directo del muerto, al que le perteneciese la viuda” (Blanca could not retreat from that man, she had to accept him in remembrance of the other. It was as if in widowhood he were the dead man’s legitimate, direct heir, to whom the widow belonged; IX: 16). Just as Alfredo is neither fully alive nor dead – “casi desfallecido” (VIII: 14) – so too does the text stress that his war mutilations transform Blanca into a figurative widow. The masking of reality deemed necessary for personal and collective reconstruction also pertains to Blanca’s situation. Her performance of duty in support of her husband requires an aggressive procedure on her psyche so that her appearance conforms to sociocultural expectations. Blanca’s public image requires her to remove all signs of grief – “se limpió los ojos” (she wiped her eyes) – while her composing of her dishevelled appearance in the mirror parallels how national reconstruction demanded a fictitious return to order: “La faz llorosa y descompuesta que tenía delante parecía implorarla…. [C]ompuso los rizos del peinado … el desorden del traje …” (The tearful, distraught face before her seemed to implore her…. She patted her curls … smoothed down her untidy clothes; Burgos 1917b, IX: 16).28 Just as recovery from war and its sanitized remembrance rely on forcibly disfiguring the past, Blanca’s face, like Alfredo’s, progressively becomes an inexpressive mask as her self fades into the mirror:

Denouncing War’s Broken Syntax  193 [M]iró [Blanca] por última vez aquella imagen que se iba como alejando y hundiéndose en el fondo de la pared … y tuvo para ella … una sonrisa un poco forzada y contrahecha, pero animada de una gran firmeza, de una gran voluntad, de una condescendencia de sacrificada. Aquella expresión se había de quedar también sobre su rostro como una máscara inalterable. (She contemplated for the last time that image that seemed to gradually move further away, receding into the depths of the wall … and gave it to her a smile that was somewhat forced and distorted, but imbued with great strength, great willpower, the forbearance of the sacrificed. That expression would also have to stay on her face like an immutable mask; IX: 16)

Although Blanca’s final words to Alfredo affirm that their life begins anew – “Hoy comienza nuestra vida” (Burgos 1917b, IX: 16) – that renewal, as her name indicates, is premised on transforming troublesome pasts into erased, white slates. Given that the colour white was worn on mourners’ armlets (Bourke 1996, 221), Blanca arguably embodies a perpetual mourning that counters official discourses of healing and hope. Consequently, Norris (2000, 32) indicates, even once war officially ends, “peace itself becomes maimed…. War invades the home front both at the time of its duration and in its aftermath.” Burgos captures this atmosphere of fictitious peace in her 1919 romantic novella El fin de la guerra. The fourth and final chapter refers to disagreements within the protagonist couple, Adolfo and Sonnia, regarding the harsh conditions imposed on the defeated nations, and to the disintegration of the former power block of dethroned monarchies, once “una gran familia” (a great family), for whom “[l]a paz era … como una losa” (peace was … like a tombstone; Burgos 1919). Women, the text insists, did not welcome the war’s end because it dashed their aspirations for independence. Contrary to what happened in Spain, the definitive ceasefire sounded the death knell for French feminists’ hopes for female suffrage as just recognition of female patriots’ contributions to the national war effort, when the state exhorted women’s return to the home, to combat depopulation and restore warriors’ souls (Hause 1987). As the narrative voice wryly declares in El fin de la guerra: “Muchas mujeres … veían con pena el momento de volver a soportar a los maridos y entregar sus destinos a los hombres…. [S]e celebraría la fiesta de la victoria, pero aquello no era la paz, tal como se había soñado” (Many women … viewed with sadness the moment when they would again put up with their husbands and surrender their destinies

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to men…. They would celebrate the victory, but that was not peace as they had dreamt of it; Burgos 1919). Burgos’s World War I writings attest to the internal struggles within French and Spanish feminist and pacifist movements, in dialogue with their international counterparts as they unevenly attempted to advance these causes, despite often competing principles. In Burgos’s periodical articles and novellas patriotic fervour, women’s dreams of greater equality, and transnational humanitarianism jostle, leading to inconclusive outcomes in which hope and despair lack resolution. Nevertheless, El fin de la guerra’s ending suggests, there is no way back either. Sonnia elects to leave Adolfo to fight in the Russian Revolution in a definitive rebuttal of women’s traditional association with domesticity and their sociocultural passivity in war.

Conclusion

Transforming Moral Maps, Then and Now

In 1915, anguished by World War I, the freethinking, modernist writer Felipe Trigo published Crisis de la civilización: La guerra europea (Crisis of Civilization: The European War; Trigo [1915] 1919). There he made an impassioned plea for the establishment of a United States of the World that would maintain global peace by redirecting a large proportion of current military funding to tackling social ills. Above all else, he stipulated, what was necessary was a transformation of moral maps (271–3, 251). In multiple ways the writings on war of six women in Spain’s long nineteenth century, the subject of my study, voice a similar demand for a seismic shift in sociocultural topographies – terrains carved by the interlocking features of gender, class, and race. This resetting of conventional moral compasses has the potential to disturb harmful, established hierarchies of persons and peoples and assist in developing what Lederach (2005, 182) terms the “moral imagination”: a way of thinking that “imagine[s] responses and initiatives that, while rooted in the challenges of the real world, are by their nature capable of rising above destructive patterns and giving birth to that which does not yet exist.” War, Huston argues, depends on a process of “reciprocal metaphorization” that demands an analysis of how two given elements interact. If nations are commonly conceptualized as feminine bodies, wars and revolutions have frequently been compared to labour pains and childbirth (Huston 1986, 131, 133). Thus masculinist descriptions of war typically appropriate metaphors of female embodiment and the maternal experience. Indeed, Heraclitus considered that war creates all life, while for Machiavelli, as noted in chapter 8, the peacemaker was a “masculinised bringer-of-order” to a feminized “undomesticated force” (Elshtain 1988, 441, 444). These models represent the messy birth of a nation through conflict as women’s work and war as a chaos that requires the intervention of a so-called masculine civilization, despite

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traditional, contrasting associations of war with men and women with peace. Cooke (1996, 15) underlines that reframing the dyadic organization of war and gender has the potential to recreate societies. My authors’ texts reveal their acute awareness that war is not only a gendered activity but also engenders specific constructions of nations and their sociopolitical actors. The works examined undeniably attempt to rewrite in different ways war’s conventionally male-authored plots, as well as the binaried discourses that cement and perpetuate all forms of discrimination and violence. The writings in this project reveal that women’s relationship to war is complicated and overlaid by concerns regarding equal participation in cultural and political spheres, citizenship, gender equality (including the right to bear arms and defend the nation), and the ideals of pacifism and humanitarianism. Women wrote on war because they were, as now, directly affected by its trauma and aftermath. More often than not, their positions are in themselves conflicted, as evident in Burgos’s World War I writings, torn between feminism and pacifism. Schweik (1989, 327) therefore cautions against our becoming “complicit in rendering women … silent and invisible and static, suppressing our own dynamic and complex relations to systems of warmaking.” The key pillar that sustains traditional war emplotments and modern patriarchy is the cultural belief that women are naturally suited to the home front of domestic peace, and men to the frontline and capitalist­ ­competition. These equivalences are fundamental for nineteenth-century, European bourgeois nationalisms, which allegorized the nation as a virtuous mother who embraced her assigned domesticity and familial responsibilities, and provided an idealized benchmark for those women, classes, and races that were chafing against the exclusionary paradigms manifest in the sexual, social, and racial contracts. In Spain the figures of the Virgin and the Mother converged in the Mater Dolorosa, who embodied the liberal nation’s desired invulnerability, integrity, and legitimacy. These figures also supported the formulation of a domestic sphere removed from the activities of the masculine public sphere. Over Spain’s long nineteenth century full citizenship was contingent on being male (although universal male suffrage did not eventuate until 1890), having Spanish (European) blood, and demonstrating valour and the willingness to die for love of country. In contrast, feminine virtue, associated with women’s chastity, modesty, and the reproduction of the nation, excluded them from equal rights. My writers’ texts contest the representation of war as the province of exclusive, heroic brotherhoods to argue for women’s right to enhanced access to the public sphere. Their works stress that, far from being passive bystanders,

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women participate in war as combatants (Acuña’s Inés and María), ­allegorical guerrilla fighters (de los Ríos’s Rocío), and caring maternal nurses (most commonly in Arenal’s and Burgos’s corpus). Moreover, most texts foreground the theme of female valour. Acuña’s Amor a la patria and Burgos’s World War I novellas, for instance, combine female heroism with women’s more culturally acceptable maternal role in female warriors who are either effectively mothers, as in the case of the dramatist’s Inés, or figurative mothers – madrinas de guerra and nurses – as in Burgos’s narratives. In de los Ríos’s Sangre española Rocío displays bravery in her determined self-sacrifice, so as to take revenge on her husband’s imperialist conquest, while Pardo Bazán’s “exangüe” shows exceptional courage on offering her own life for that of her brother. Women no longer remain on war’s sidelines but populate the pages of these female-authored histories, not as passive love objects but fully contributing subjects. This point is important because, as Bourke (1999, 339) affirms, women’s greater agency in war “disrupt[s] the concept of war as a masculine activity [and] … pose[s] a threat to the home front as a female domain.” My authors’ texts mirror such a disruption in the gradual transitioning of their female characters from the nineteenth-century icon of the secluded Angel in the House to a model of greater female independence that discards the virgin for a symbolic mother, whose caring practices extend into the sociopolitical community. De los Ríos’s Sangre española presents a chaste protagonist who apparently conforms to dominant gender paradigms but also manifests culturally unseeming traits of subversive resistance that become even more accentuated in La niña de Sanabria in Pepita’s headstrong rebelliousness. Arenal channels her anti-war beliefs through a maternal politics of care, which she deems indispensable for achieving sociopolitical justice. Burgos’s texts increasingly feature the fin-de-siècle New Woman, from her tentative beginnings in a virginal but desiring Alina to the determined autonomy of her World War I protagonists. One major common thread in masculine formulations of war, citizenship, and virtue is the symbol of blood. Its values permeate the sexual, social, and racial contracts that structure Spain’s fin-de-siècle social edifice. With regard to the sexual contract, patriarchy’s protection of familial and national legacies relies on containing women to guarantee purity of blood, the legitimacy of offspring, male rights of inheritance, and the preservation of powerful class and political alliances. The nineteenth-century icon of the nation as mother presupposes the sexual contract, premised on women’s voluntary subjection to male authority through their putative consent in marriage.

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Nevertheless, this same figure also theoretically ensures the parity of its male members, born of the one national mother, their exclusive ability to enter into social contracts, and the desired unity of nineteenth-century Spain. Texts such as Acuña’s Amor a la patria insist on the unfeasibility of models of nationhood that rely on symbolic relationships of kinship unless familial blood ties are underpinned by gender and class equality. The drama challenges the liberal construction of the nation as one united family on highlighting that Pedro’s vision of the patria differs from that of his mother and sister, and that the progressive ideals of liberty and fraternity ring hollow unless women possess equal rights as well as responsibilities within the nation. Indeed, the sheer abundance of female characters in my featured texts who are either widowed, single, or unhappy within the marriage contract challenges the continued viability of the national and imperial family. Apart from the gendered inequalities of the fraternal social contract, Mills highlights its racialized implications on stating that it was “supposedly abstract but actually white.” When applied to “non-Europe,” it became “the Racial Contract” (Mills 1997, 42). Unsurprisingly, therefore, it is in the context of fin-de-siècle Spain as imperial nation that blood’s symbolic import becomes most pronounced. In Pardo Bazán’s “La exangüe” the female protagonist’s bloodletting, I have argued, allegorizes the indigenous rejection of the colonial blood compact during the Philippine Revolution. This historical pact between Spain and the Philippines was ostensibly a fraternal contract, founded on the premise of the contracting parties’ common blood, but in reality it was a racial contract of indigenous subjection. Moreover, both the chief and the “exangüe” are excluded from full membership in the nation, albeit to different degrees, because the respective particularities of their bodies – race and gender – are considered to render them unfit. Here the intersection of gender with race is crucial for the context of Spain as imperial nation given that, as Catherine Hall (2000, 108) underlines, “nations and national identities are not only gendered – they are also raced, and racialized identities are central to the construction of imagined polities.” The question of blood takes centre stage in Burgos’s En la guerra through its theme of adulterous desire, framed against Spain’s colonial wars in Morocco. Fin-de-siècle theories on national identity often premised Spain’s superiority on racial hybridity rather than homogeneity, impurity of blood rather than purity, the theoretical integration of Others in brotherhood instead of their exclusion. All these concepts hold implications not only for the nation’s relationship with raced Others but also for those not fully part of the masculine, bourgeois

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body politic: women and the working classes. I have suggested that Burgos approaches these issues through her protagonist Alina, who embodies the threshold position of a nineteenth-century Spain uncertainly straddling Europe and the Orient. On the one hand, Alina, as a model wife and figurative imperial mother, appears to conform to the European bourgeois ideal of femininity. On the other, through her ambiguous adultery she embodies the orientalized seductress with whom Northern Europe associated southern Spain and whom contemporary Spain in turn projected on to Africa. In chapter 9, in El desconocido, Burgos ties the debate on whether national identity depends on blood purity to women’s putative rights over their bodies in the context of Angelina’s infanticide. As my analysis has attempted to demonstrate throughout, issues of gender and race are not Other to the construction of the private and public spheres but integral to them. I have argued that women’s writings on war do not simply address conflict per se but rather, a huge array of questions that pertain to what Johan Galtung (1969, 183) terms “negative peace” or the “absence of personal violence,” and “positive peace” or the “absence of structural violence.” These phrases do not solely define war as violence between communities and states. Significantly for my authors, they also capture the silent structural violence or “social injustice” (171) that perpetuates gender, class, and racial inequalities, and the cultural beliefs, values, and symbols that naturalize this type of violence. The ways in which female writers “‘see’ war,” as Higonnet (1993b, 192) puts it, place special emphasis on structural violence, which, because it is naturalized, remains invisible unless viewed through different lenses. Violence, Galtung specifies, “is present when human beings are being influenced so that their actual somatic and mental realizations are below their potential realizations” (1969, 168). For many women in Spain’s long nineteenth century, clear manifestations of such violence were their deprivation of sufficiently empowering educational opportunities, their dispossession of equal rights, and their vulnerability to domestic and psychological abuse. Nevertheless, Ruth Roach Pierson (2000, 54) emphasizes, “Women have by no means been universally innocent of the violence, the racism, the imperialism and colonialism carried out in the name of nation.” This point becomes evident in Burgos’s En la guerra, where Alina cannot entirely divest herself of the colonizing mentality that is also responsible for her own subjection. Similarly, in de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria, Pepita endorses and promotes Spain’s imperial war while rebelling, like the colonies, against an oppressive home rule. She becomes

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a symbol of populism and its ideological reliance on the emotive and the visual to promote Manichean world views. Karen J. Warren and Duane L. Cady stipulate that oppressive conceptual frameworks and practices depend on gendered value dualisms such as “reason/emotion, mind/body, culture/nature, human/nature, and man/woman” (1996, 3). Reason was traditionally considered a bourgeois, masculine attribute that was impossible for women and the working classes due to their equation with destabilizing emotions. The demonstration of reason has played a determining role in who is considered to have the capacity and hence the right to participate in a nation’s public affairs. Importantly, most of the texts on war in my study seek to contest this hierarchy of reason over emotion. Acuña’s protagonist, for instance, reconciles her maternal feelings with her “masculine” decision to sacrifice herself and her son for the collective good, while de los Ríos’s Rocío transforms her hatred of the enemy into a calculated assault on what her husband most prizes: her self. It is, however, in Arenal’s works that the concept of harmonizing reason with emotion becomes most marked in her insistence on the practice of compassionate reason as the antidote to war and violence. Such an ethos resonates with Colombian sociologist Orlando Fals Borda’s (2015) philosophy of “sentipensante” (thinking through/with feelings). This union of traditionally opposed elements involves a way of acting in the world that rejects hierarchical power relationships as part of a decolonial turn, which involves “the shift,” as Nelson Maldonado-Torres (2017, 118) explains it, “from the acceptance of inferiority … to the assumption of the position of a questioner.” Although this movement pertains to the recognition and contestation by First Nations of their oppression by Western powers and epistemologies, it also has implications for the situation of gendered Others who similarly challenge the binaried thinking that supports inequalities. Arenal’s writings, like those by Burgos, criticize the rational abstraction of what Pratt (2007) calls “imperial eyes” in favour of practising an implicated observation that collapses the indifferent detachment that sustains war’s practices. Bringing war home to viewers in all its embodied, emotionally approximating forms has the potential to foster moral engagement and commitment to sociopolitical transformation. Creating such an interrelational space in which practices of caring can replace those of violence shapes a rationality antithetical to that involved in making war (Confortini and Ruane 2013, 77–8). Ruddick herself couches such a process as follows: “The struggle to be ‘rational’ – to see what is real in all its complexity and ambiguity – is a peacemaker’s struggle. The task is to reconceive rationalities that will be instruments of nonviolent

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action, rather than of war” (Ruddick 1990, 239). In turn, health geographers Christine Milligan and Janine Wiles vindicate caring as always “an embodied phenomenon rather than a disembodied experience,” regardless of the proximity or distance of the carer (2010, 742). Rewriting war’s conventional plots requires exposing the multiple, gendered dualities that underpin paradigms of domination and violent destruction. Warren and Cady specify two aspects in particular: the naturalization of women and the feminization of nature (1996, 8–12). All my writers’ works contest paradigms of femininity that naturalize women. Their female characters step outside essentializing, privatized frames on to much larger socio-historical canvases, where they seek to inscribe their own stories and imagine more viable representations. Motherhood does not preclude political action and marriage need not mean women’s apoliticism, as Inés and Rocío respectively show. As well as examining the reductive mechanisms that fashion Woman, the texts also challenge the conventional construction of an ideal masculinity as invulnerable and impervious to natural processes. Characters such as Burgos’s veteran from “El repatriado” and Alfredo from El desconocido embody disturbing differences that cannot find acceptance within the national family and its canonical, (homo)geneous war story. In Pasiones Burgos highlights the construction of gender roles on portraying the relationships between nurses and injured soldiers, which demonstrate how the performance of gender is contingent on the situatedness of subjects in changing socio-historical scenarios. The effort to dismantle what Warren and Cady call “sexist-naturist-­warist language” (1996, 8) is perhaps most acute in Burgos’s and Arenal’s texts. In “El repatriado” and En la guerra, Burgos sardonically reproduces a naturalized war discourse to call out its glorification of death. In turn, Arenal undermines war’s cleansed discourses by focussing on the gendered bodies and embodied experiences that euphemistic abstraction conceals. Moreover, her concentration throughout Cuadros de la guerra on how war oppresses a personified nature constitutes an invitation to replace barren topographies of terror with what Milligan and Wiles call “landscapes of care” or “compassionate geographies.” It is precisely such a paradigm shift that they, among other feminist scholars, have identified as essential for overcoming the spatial and conceptual divisions – private/public, emotion/reason, body/mind – that prevent democratic citizenship and inclusivity. Quoting Jeff Popke, they underline that a practice of caring is “a fundamental feature of our being-human” (Milligan and Wiles 2010, 741–4). Arenal highlights that the practice of war abuses nature and feminized Others. Her writings represent war as a pure reason that negates

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natural law and transforms sentient men into disembodied machines, annihilating what it means to be human. Her insistence on the dehumanizing effects of violent oppression recalls Paulo Freire’s (1985, 26, 29) theorization of dehumanization as “a distortion of the vocation of becoming more fully human…. The situation of oppression is a dehumanized and dehumanizing totality affecting both the oppressors and those whom they oppress.” Significantly, he draws on the metaphor of childbirth to convey the oppressed’s liberation, equating labour with their escape from oppression’s “domesticating” effect (31, 33). All the texts resist and rewrite aspects of the narrative plots that for Hogan buttress nation-building, just wars, and, I add, the masculine war canon: the heroic, the sacrificial, and the romantic. I consider that the works in my project that best exemplify the heroic plot are those in chapters 1–2 on the War of Independence, in which a modern Spain in formation defends itself against foreign imperialism. However, although they conform to Hogan’s model by downplaying the devastation of war and privileging the emotions of patriotic love, pride, and anger, I maintain that they question what Hogan (2011, 131, 158) sees as the heroic plot’s upholding of patriarchal gender models. While Acuña’s Amor a la patria and de los Ríos’s Sangre española represent the theme of sacrifice as integral to love of country, where the sacrificial plot truly predominates is in chapters 5–7, which address Spain’s identity crisis as a struggling imperial nation, and questions of personal and collective honour and dishonour. The sacrificial model is particularly pertinent to this context because, Hogan explains, it tends to replace the heroic when nations experience defeat (2011, 141). The consequent loss of national reputation arouses collective shame, angry frustration, and an “ethics of self-denial” (Hogan 2009, 100, 113, 195). Nevertheless, whereas in conventional plots sacrificial victims restore order to their communities, in my writers’ texts the characters’ sacrifices – their lives, loves, and health – do not bring equilibrium but an exile from happiness. This implied narrative of the Fall is reiterated through the trope of falling. Most evident in the theme of the fallen woman, such as de los Ríos’s Pepita and Burgos’s Alina, it also appears, for instance, in relation to the imagined lowering of a defeated Spain’s imperial flag at the end of La niña de Sanabria. As for the romantic plot, Hogan elucidates that it opposes sociocultural hierarchies to privilege freedom. However, because it is heavily indebted to conventional gender models, its narratives are often ambivalently poised between endorsing and challenging them (Hogan 2011, 136). This tension comes through, as discussed, in de los Ríos’s Rocío and Pepita, and in Burgos’s female protagonists from En la guerra and

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her Great War novellas. Nevertheless, none of my texts’ romantic plots has a happy-ever-after ending. On the contrary, all challenge the romanticization of war on which so-called just war stories depend. Such war romances defend a vision of war as epic history and what Bakhtin (1984, 29) sees as an “aesthetics of beauty” premised on an eternal, classical monumentality in opposition to a decaying, grotesque materiality; in short, an aesthetics that emphasizes a mythically civilized, superior body not subject to processes of birth and death, and “as far removed from the mother’s womb as from the grave.” In comparison, placing centre stage the voices and experiences of those traditionally relegated to war histories’ margins – women, working-class recruits, children, and the elderly – my women’s works articulate what official war narratives endeavour to render invisible. Their texts stress that war’s gendered technologies not only dehumanize the person. They also excise war’s ugly brutality from the national fabric through a process of bodily and discursive suture that conceals real loss with fictitious reconstructions. Creative acts, Lederach remarks, have the potential to transcend violence through the imagination. The receptive space and attentive reflection that they can grant the self and others hold out the possibility of insights into how to practice an ethos of natality, not one of death (Lederach 2005, 174–5). Although masculine war narratives draw on naturalized metaphors of labour and birth to deny the force that political actors deploy, these same images carry within them other stories of liberation from violent oppression and of hope for personal and collective rebirth and renewal. Steeped in the sociocultural and political battles of their day, the writings of Concepción Arenal, Rosario de Acuña, Emilia Pardo Bazán, Blanca de los Ríos, Consuelo Álvarez Pool, and Carmen de Burgos provide uneven critiques of the practices of war. Only Arenal consistently condemns war, seeking to replace the just war with justpeace and a humanitarianism beyond borders. Nevertheless, their texts demonstrate that war is never just war but a gendered, classist, and racist matter intimately entwined with all forms of discrimination. On replotting the canonical war story to reveal both its pitfalls and seductiveness, their creative corpus defiantly upholds a world of engaged embodiment instead of dematerialized abstraction, and social regeneration over destruction.

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Notes

Introduction: From behind the Lines to Writing War’s Texts: Redrawing the Boundaries of War and Gender 1 I here follow Carole Pateman: “Although the personal is not the political, the two spheres are interrelated, necessary dimensions of a future, democratic feminist social order” (1989, 134). 2 Among others, see Elshtain (1987) and Cooke (1996), and the volumes edited by Helen M. Cooper, Adrienne Auslander Munich, and Susan Merrill Squier (1989b), Elshtain and Sheila Tobias (1990), Mary Nash and Susana Tavera (2003), and Estela González de Sande and Mercedes González de Sande (2014). 3 On women’s participation in the War of Independence, see, for instance, Castells Oliván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo (2009b). On women and violence, see Ortega and Turc-Zinopoulos (2017). For a recent edited volume on female poets writing on the Spanish Civil War, see Vila-Belda (2021). 4 See, for example, Schneider (1997), and the studies edited by Margaret R. Higonnet et al. (1987a) and Miriam Cooke and Angela Woollacott (1993). 5 All translations throughout this project are my own. 6 Higonnet likewise insists: “Because women were barred from the ultimate rites of war, they became its symbolic stakes, what war was fought for” (1993b, 195). 7 Higonnet remarks: “The blurring of dichotomies between men and women, war and peace, death and life provides a hallmark of women’s writings about war…. Every woman writing on the subject of war finds herself forced to address these polarities” (1993b, 195). 8 Peter Stallybrass elucidates: “The normative ‘Woman’ could become the emblem of the perfect and impermeable container, and hence a map of the integrity of the state” (1986, 129).

206  Notes to pages 6–15 9 Nira Yuval-Davis (1997, 14) defines civil society as encompassing “those institutions, collectivities, groupings and social agencies which lie outside the formal rubric of state parameters … but which both inform and are informed by them. This may include voluntary associations and institutions controlling the production of signs and symbols as well as the economic market.” 10 Indeed, as Leonore Davidoff declares, “Masculinity, full manhood, was at least partly defined as the ability ‘to speak’ for others” (1998, 184). 11 The fraternal contract, Yuval-Davis (1997, 79) explains, arises from “the transformation of the hegemonic power relations in the society from a patriarchy, in which the father (or the king as a father figure) ruled over both other men and the women, to a fraternity, in which the men get the right to rule over their women in the private domestic sphere, but agree on a contract of a social order of equality among themselves within the public, political sphere.” For an extensive discussion, see Pateman (1988, 75–115). 12 Regarding emotional communities, Rosenwein (2006, 26) specifies that they “are not constituted by one or two emotions but rather by constellations – or sets – of emotions. Their characteristic styles depend not only on the emotions that they emphasize – and how and in what contexts they do so – but also by [sic] the ones that they demote to the tangential or do not recognize at all.” 13 For Iris Marion Young, “A public space is any indoor or outdoor space to which any persons have access” (1998, 440). 14 Bonnie Honig (1998, 123) defines Arendt’s concept of agonism as follows: “Neither a heroic individualism nor a consensus-based associationism, this agonism models an action in concert that is also always a site of struggle, a concerted feminist effort that is always with and against one’s peers because it takes place in a world marked and riven by difference and plurality” (original emphasis). 15 Regarding Spanish authors, male and female, writing on World War I, see Pla and Montero Aulet (2019). 16 On Concepción Arenal’s influence and international networks, see respectively Vialette (2015, 462–4) and Lacalzada de Mateo (1994, 178–89). For Estelle Irizarry (1995, 364), Arenal stands as “the founder of modern sociology in Spain,” an evaluation echoed by Lacalzada de Mateo (1994, 18). 17 An exception is Solange Hibbs’s (2021) excellent study, which addresses most of the texts that I analyse, to provide a complementary perspective. 18 Joshua Goode explains that some intellectuals believed that Spain needed to resolve its problems “from the inside out” and deal with “the enemy within” (2009, 29). 19 On the freethinking and Republican affiliations of Consuelo Álvarez Pool and Burgos, see Establier Pérez (2011, 436–9, 444–50) and Lindholm

Notes to pages 15–20  207 Narváez (2015). In contrast, Pardo Bazán and de los Ríos were Catholic monarchists. 20 As Marina Warner declares: “The mystery of the Mater Dolorosa flourished on the tension between grief and joy, between the death of the Cross and the future Resurrection” (1990, 219). 21 Most scholars focus on de los Ríos’s novella Las hijas de don Juan ([1907] 1989; Don Juan’s Daughters); see, for example, Johnson (2003, 127–31). La niña de Sanabria is briefly addressed in González López (2001, 104–5) and Johnson (2003, 127). 22 While Esther Zaplana refers briefly to El permisionario and El fin de la guerra (2005, 49, 51, 53n60, 54), Concepción Núñez Rey addresses El permisionario, Pasiones, El desconocido, and El fin de la guerra, and points to two more unlocated short stories, also apparently on World War I: Después de la paz (After the Peace) and En el hogar de la guerra (In the Home of War; Núñez Rey 2005, 432–8, 453, 633). 1. Love of Nation and Women’s Citizenship in Rosario de Acuña’s Amor a la patria (1877) 1 Ángel Bahamonde and Jesús A. Martínez affirm: “El nacimiento de la historia como disciplina científica se articuló en el discurso liberal que rescataba y sistematizaba un pasado cuyo protagonista sería la nación” (2001, 497; The birth of history as a scientific discipline was given expression in liberal discourse, which recovered and gave order to a past that would be protagonized by the nation). On the relationship of historical writing with nation formation in the more general context of nineteenth-century Europe, see Boyd (1997, 67). 2 On Acuña’s life and works, the indispensable study is that by José Bolado (2007). See also Hernández Sandoica (2012, 2021). 3 For women’s participation in the War of Independence, see Castells Oli­ ván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo (2009a, 22–41) and López Pérez (2003, 25). Regarding Agustina of Aragón, see Castells Oliván, Espigado Tocino, and Romeo Mateo (2009a, 45–8), A.M. Freire (2005), and Tone (1999, 262–3). On her varying representations in Spain, see Shubert (2012). During the Spanish Civil War and Franco dictatorship she was appropriated by the anti-liberal right (Ortega López 2011, 198–204). From the nineteenth to the twenty-first century Agustina has also been the subject of many visual representations, some of which are reproduced by María Elena Soliño (2017, 29, 33, 65, 87). 4 In 1903 José Gómez Arteche delivered a lecture at the Círculo Patronato de San Luis Gonzaga titled “La mujer en la Guerra de la Independencia,” subsequently published in 1906, to stress the unity of a monarchic, Catholic Spain.

208  Notes to pages 20–5 5 Francesc-Andreu Martínez Gallego explains how many ex-combatants from the War of Independence received a premio patriótico (award for patriotism), often in the form of land (2003, 261). In recognition of her bravery Agustina of Aragón received from Fernando VII the coats of arms of Defender of the Patria and of Distinction, and the rank of second lieutenant in the infantry and corresponding salary, raised five years later (Cobo 1859, 518–20). 6 In the War of Independence Saragossa rose up against the French on 24 May 1808. The city withstood two sieges: the first from 15 June to 14 ­August 1808, and the second from 20 December 1808 to 20 February 1809. Underlining the importance of Saragossa for the conceptual construction of an autonomous Spain, José María Jover Zamora and Guadalupe Gómez-Ferrer Morant signal that the French occupation of Eastern Spain was ultimately unsuccessful precisely due to the heroism of the strategic towns of Saragossa and Gerona (2001, 22). 7 By 1820, the beginning of the three-year period of the liberal Cádiz Constitution, pueblo was synonymous with nation, in the sense of “el común de ciudadanos que, sin gozar de particulares distinciones, rentas ni empleos, vive de sus oficios” (Álvarez Junco 2004, 139; the community of citizens who, without benefiting from special differences, income or jobs, make a living from their work). As for “nation,” Susan Kirkpatrick observes that it “denoted a hypothetically unified aggregate of the Spanish population, one undifferentiated by estate or class.” Negating this conceptual unity, however, were differentiations of gender and race (Kirkpatrick 1999, 226, 230–2). 8 Published between 1850 and 1867, Modesto Lafuente’s thirty-volume Historia general de España (General History of Spain), the indispensable reference until Spain’s Second Republic, consolidated the notion of a people defined by permanent characteristics and linked to a specific geographical location or nation (Álvarez Junco 2004, 201, 204). 9 In his study on the recovery of the hero in Spanish liberalism, Fran­cescAndreu Martínez Gallego (2003, 260–1) signals that after 1875, during the Restoration period, Progressive liberals would privilege the liberal combative hero or “héroe democrático,” the embodiment of their unfulfilled Republican cause, to exemplify that “cualquier ciudadano … puede devenir heroico patriota” (any citizen … could become a heroic patriot). 10 For eighteenth-century philosophers such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who influenced Spanish concepts of patriotism, the only legitimate war was one of defence (Béjar 2000, 104). 11 Regarding the relationship between the nation and a language of kinship, Benedict Anderson (2006, 144) remarks that the latter “denote[s] something to which one is naturally tied…. The family has traditionally been

Notes to pages 25–32  209

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

conceived as the domain of disinterested love and solidarity…. Just for that reason … the state can ask for sacrifices.” As Lafuente (1889, 86–7) affirmed: “Desaparecieron al pronto … las je­ rarquías sociales; y es que la patria que se iba a defender no es de nobles ni de plebeyos, no es sólo de los ensalzados, ni sólo de los humildes; la patria es de todos, es la madre de todos” (Suddenly social hierarchies disappeared, because the patria to be defended was not that of nobles or commoners, nor just of the lofty or the humble; the patria belongs to all, she is the mother of all). This image is reminiscent of one of Goya’s etchings on the War of Independence known as the Desastres. In “Y son fieras” (And They Are Like Wild Beasts) a woman holds a baby in one arm and defends herself from the French with a weapon in the other (Tone 1999, 267). Tone (1999, 266) explains: “For the French, armed women were stand-ins for the barbarism they thought characterized Spaniards generally.” Pedro’s belief that the women fighters are emotionally unstable confirms Mónica Bolufer’s (2016, 35) suggestion that women’s active involvement in the War of Independence further entrenched the binary of masculine reason and feminine emotion. María Dolores Ramos (1999, 87) signals that Acuña again privileges patriotic over maternal love in her drama La voz de la patria (Acuña [1893] 2009), where Aragonese women send their sons off to fight in Morocco. Arkinstall (2006) and Bretz (2001, 218–19) also analyse this play. Regarding the non-place of women in the 1812 constitution, Kirkpatrick (1999, 241) stresses: “Immersion in the domestic coupled with servitude – occupying the position of a woman … – thrust a person below the horizon of competent subjecthood in the state…. Shut behind the closed doors of nonpublic space, women and domestic servants are connected with the antipublic, the secret, the dark regions of irrationality shut off from ‘las luces.’” Regarding female writers, including María del Carmen Silva, who published their opinions on the Cádiz Constitution, see Cantos Casenave and Sánchez Hita (2009). For an excellent overview of women’s exclusion from Spain’s early constitutionalism, see Catoira (2014). Nineteenth-century feminists vindicated women’s capabilities to perform successfully in the public sphere, such as Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda in her essay “Capacidad de las mujeres para el gobierno” (Women’s Capacity for Governing; 1845). Tone notes that, in the defence of Saragossa, “each house [became] a fortress that had to be taken in hand-to-hand combat or pounded into dust” (1999, 262). The right to vote was proscribed to all Spanish women until 1931, when the Second Republic granted female suffrage. The duty of defending the

210  Notes to pages 32–40

20

21

22

23

24

nation was likewise considered inappropriate for women, while the paying of taxes was unusual, given that Spanish women were usually legally unable to own property and earn an income. Regarding the diversity of legal codes relating to women and property in nineteenth-century Spain, see Enríquez de Salamanca (1998, 238–9). These natural rights pertained to life; security; freedom of expression, thought, association, and employment; property; equality before the law; and the right to a just trial (Pérez Ledesma 2007c, 30; Peyrou 2007, 217). In “A lo Anónimo” Acuña declares: “[L]a desdichada mujer, que sube al patíbulo si mata, que se la empadrona en la infamia si cae, que se la hunde en el hospital si la contagian, que se la asesina impunemente si falta, y que en cambio se la tienen como un mentor [sic] de edad (¡!) para todos los actos de la vida en los cuales se trate de legislaciones, privilegios y regalías …” (Acuña [1885] 2007, 1008–9; The unhappy woman mounts the scaffold if she kills, is registered as infamous if she falls, is put into hospital if they infect her, is murdered without penalty if she commits an offence, and in exchange is treated like a minor [!] for everything in life pertaining to legislation, privileges, and rights). María affirms similar sentiments regarding her home, symbolic of the nation: “¡Mi casa! … ¡mis sonrisas, mis amores, / los juegos de mi infancia, mis creencias[!]” (Acuña [1877] 2009, 656; My home! … my happiness, my loves, / my childhood games, my beliefs!). Raymond Williams (1985, 180) elucidates: “‘Nation’ as a term is radically connected with ‘native.’ We are born into relationships which are typically settled in a place. This form of primary and ‘placeable’ bonding is of quite fundamental human and natural importance. Yet the jump from that to anything like the modern nation-state is entirely artificial“ (original emphasis). See also Eric Hobsbawm’s (1990, 9–10) discussion of the nation as a cultural construct. Elsewhere Inés tells Pedro that his adoration of Napoleon makes him “ciego, en tu loco desvarío” (Acuña [1877] 2009, 675; blind in your mad folly).

2. Gender, Casticismo, and Imperial Nations in Spain’s fin de siècle: Blanca de los Ríos’s Sangre española (1899) 1 Regarding the inseparability of nineteenth-century constructions of the Spanish nation from its imperial identity, see Blanco (2012) and SchmidtNowara (2006). On nationalists’ affirmation of a nation’s enduring identity through its roots in a hallowed past, see Anderson (2006, 11–12) and ­Hogan (2009, 89). 2 Belonging to the Unión de Damas Españolas (Spanish Ladies’ Union) and the Acción Católica de la Mujer (Women’s Catholic Action), within the

Notes to pages 40–3  211

3

4

5

6

7

8

9 10

11 12

latter organization de los Ríos was president of the Sección Hispanoame­ ricana (Spanish American Section), created in July 1925 (González López 2001, 286, 299). Attesting to de los Ríos’s own outstanding professional success is the award that she received in 1889 from the Royal Spanish Academy for her critical study on Tirso de Molina, as well as two royal honours in 1902 and 1924 (González López 2001, 38, 284; Johnson 2003, 124–7). On de los Ríos’s Athenaeum presentations, see Ezama Gil (2018, 115–29). For her speech in support of Emilia Pardo Bazán’s entry into the Royal Spanish Academy, given in Spain’s Congress of Deputies on 28 June 1914, see de los Ríos (1914b). She herself was proposed for membership of the Academy in 1928 and 1930 (González López 2001, 308, 312). Contributors to “Pro-Patria” included, among others, Rosalía de Castro, Concha Espina, Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo, Pardo Bazán, and José María de Pereda. On Spain’s anticipated cultural imperialism in the Americas in Ganivet’s Idearium español, see Krauel (2013, 112–13, 115). Regarding Raza Española, see Sánchez Dueñas (2013, 256–61). I have been unable to locate any reviews of Sangre española on its first publication in 1899. However, when republished in 1907 with Melita Palma and La niña de Sanabria, one reviewer, G.B., praised the text’s fervent patriotic sentiment, which was echoed in another two reviews in 1907, both titled “Blanca de los Ríos de Lampérez.” Of the latter reviews, that by R.D. Perés considered Sangre española to be superior to the other two novellas and noted that it had also been translated into French and German. Nancy Huston states: “Virginity is seen as an invisible armor, and the hymen as a shield designed to protect both the body and the soul of the young girl” (1986, 129). On the engendering of nations in the nineteenth century, see the collection of essays edited by Ida Blom, Karen Hagemann, and Catherine Hall (2000). On the significance of the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa for Christian Spain’s nationalist myth-making, see Fromherz (2012). Numantia was a Celtiberian town in Castilla-León famous for its resistance to Roman imperialism and immortalized in Miguel de Cervantes’s tragedy El cerco de Numancia (ca. 1582). Carlos Serrano analyses the fin-de-siècle rhetoric of barbarity, which aimed to destroy an allegedly unsatisfactory present (1998, 363–7). Serrano (1998, 352) affirms: “Frente a los tradicionalistas, Unamuno pro­ clamó la necesidad del cosmopolitanismo, la voluntad de intercambio y apertura del país; contra los liberales, la necesaria vinculación a una tradición, esto es, a una identidad profunda de un ‘pueblo’ que aque­ llos despreciaban o ignoraban” (Opposing the traditionalists, Unamuno

212  Notes to pages 43–51

13

14 15

16

17

18

19

20

21

proclaimed the need for cosmopolitanism, the will to exchange ideas and open up the country; against the liberals, the necessary links to tradition; that is, to the deeply rooted identity of a ‘people’ that they either despised or disregarded). For Miguel de Unamuno’s conceptualization of casticismo as a rejection of militarism and empire, see Krauel (2013, 86–92). De los Ríos apparently did not include this tale in her complete works because of its overly moralistic message (González López 2001, 73, 78). Ezama Gil (2009) also discusses this short story. María Antonieta González López refers to de los Ríos’s aversion to Europeanization when taken to an extreme (2001, 146). Nevertheless, in her essay “Doña Francisca de Larrea Böhl de Faber,” de los Ríos vindicates the Romantic movement, which she states was born during the War of Independence in the Cádiz home of the Böhls de Faber. She perceives Romanticism as having emancipated Spain from France’s cultural tyranny to re-establish a national literature renovated by literary cosmopolitanism (De los Ríos 1916, 5, 7, 15). It is appropriate to consider the acknowledged influence on de los Ríos’s corpus of Cecilia Böhl de Faber (Fernán Caballero; González López 2001, 23), given that the latter’s works also engaged with Herder’s theories on the nation. The association of Andalusia with Africa appears earlier in a reference to “el vivo calor del africano día” (the intense heat of the African day; De los Ríos 1899a, 452). Regarding the national flag, see Serrano, who also notes that, in Spain, the cult of the fallen soldier originated in the fin-de-siècle wars (1999, 85, 201). In the European context, however, this cult stems from the French Revolution and the German Wars of Liberation (1813–14; Mosse 1990, 35). I offer a different reading to Hooper’s. She maintains that, although Rocío’s virginity makes her an embodiment of casticismo, her subsequent marriage “anchors her in a body that, no longer pure, can no longer function as the de facto repository of the Spanish national essence…. Her death is inevitable because she can no longer fulfil the only role available to women in the national discourse, as the ‘mother’ of the castizo Spanish nation” (Hooper 2007, 177, 182). Judith Butler (1990, 33) elucidates how sex is “a performatively enacted signification … that can occasion the parodic proliferation and subversive play of gendered meanings.” While Cynthia Weber (1998, 81–2) distinguishes between the concepts of performance and performativity, I follow Tim Edensor (2002, 89), who sees Butler’s “self-aware performance” and “iterative performativity” as inseparable. Sara Ahmed (2014, 174) sees revenge, “one form of reaction to what one is against,” as a possible way in which anger can manifest itself. For Hogan

Notes to pages 51–9  213

22 23

24

25

26

(2009, 110–12), revenge can stem from an anger that, unable to be expressed, becomes intensified. Hogan remarks that the heroic plot can skew the expected development of the sacrificial narrative (2009, 266). De los Ríos would later deny that the Spanish colonized the Americas, representing the conquest as a consensual evangelization of and loving union with a virgin land (1923b, 7). This concept, which originated in John Locke’s 1690 Two Treatises of Government, is enshrined in the 1776 American Declaration of Independence. It states that the equality and rights of all men are guaranteed by freely elected governments, which derive their rightful powers from “the Consent of the Governed” (“Declaration of Independence” [1776?]). On the importance for Unamuno of such a contract, “la razón intrahistórica de la patria” (the essential, historical reason for the nation; Unamuno [1895] 2007, 93–4), see Serrano (1998, 356). In Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan, colonizers are those who create plantations or colonies in a foreign land, conceived of as a terra nullius because it is either empty of inhabitants or made empty through war (Pateman 2007, 35).

3. Charity, Patria, and Painting War’s Pain: Concepción Arenal’s Writings, 1869–79 1 Arenal’s reference to the needle and machine guns recalls, as Susan Sontag notes, that “the killing power of armies in battle had been raised to a new magnitude by weapons introduced shortly after the Crimean War (1854– 56), such as the breech-loading rifle and the machine gun” (2003, 19). 2 On Arenal’s life and works, see, among many others, Caballé (2018), Díaz Castañón (1993), and especially Lacalzada de Mateo (1994, 1998, 2012, 2020). 3 Although Paloma Durán y Lalaguna asserts that Arenal “had no defined political leanings” (2018, 313), Josep Carles Clemente argues that Arenal can be considered a forerunner of contemporary Christian democracy (1994, 36). For Lacalzada de Mateo (1994, 17), Arenal sits within “una tendencia racionalista deísta” (a rationalist, deistic trend). 4 Such an understanding of charity as a civic virtue was prominent in the thinking of Benito Jerónimo Feijoo (Franklin Lewis 2008, 269). 5 In the context of nineteenth-century Europe, Michael Barnett (2011, 51) highlights: “Whereas once the local religious institution oversaw the collection and distribution of charity, increasingly individuals organized into citizens’ groups, associations, and committees to provide immediate relief and to agitate for greater public attention to the destitute and the vulnerable.”

214  Notes to pages 59–65 6 Ana Rueda (2009b, 201) indicates that, due to their fear that the French Revolution might be repeated in Spain, Spanish conservatives during the War of Independence repudiated the concept of sensibility, which they associated with liberalism and the threat of uncontrollable masses and women. 7 For an excellent review of Arenal’s thoughts on charity, see Lacalzada de Mateo (1998, 21–33). 8 Regarding the Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Spain, see Valis (2010, 110, 133). 9 On the public polemic surrounding the unsuccessful proposal in 1891 to admit Arenal to a chair in the Academia de Ciencias Morales y Políticas (Academy of Moral and Political Sciences), see Lacalzada de Mateo (2020). 10 La Voz de la Caridad generally appeared on the first and the fifteenth of each month, with twenty-four issues of sixteen pages each per annum. Antonio Guerola directed the periodical from 1870 until 1881, when Fermín Hernández Iglesias took over (Clemente 1994, 39, 41). The last bound issue in Spain’s National Library is issue 331 (15 December 1883). On Arenal’s articles in this periodical, see Díaz Castañón (1993, 72–8). For a valuable overview of the publication, see Caballé (2018, 240–9) and Hibbs (2021, 139–47). 11 The Carlist Wars were so named because of extreme Royalist, Catholic support for Ferdinand VII’s brother, Don Carlos, instead of for Ferdinand and later his daughter, Isabel II. The First Carlist War took place from 1822 to 1823. The second, from 1833 to 1840, stemmed from Ferdinand’s repeal of the Salic Law and his publication of the Pragmatic Sanction to name his daughter Isabel heir to the throne. The Third Carlist War began with the battle of Oroquieta in May 1872 and ended in February 1876, after the Restoration of the monarchy at the end of December 1874 (Carr 1982, 137–8, 149–51, 337–40). 12 In many issues of La Voz de la Caridad, the section “La caridad en la guerra” (Charity in Wartime) enumerated the donations made to the Red Cross for the war-wounded, whether in the form of money, bandages, or clothing. 13 Lacalzada de Mateo (1994, 134–5) notes that, through La Voz de la Caridad, Arenal promoted nursing as a career for women as early as 1870. For Marta Mas Espejo (2016, 41, 45n48), Arenal constitutes the greatest exponent of the reform of nursing, and she indicates that the first nurses’ school in Spain, Saint Isabel of Hungary’s Nursing School, was established in Madrid on 1 October 1896. 14 Irizarry draws attention to Arenal’s frequent use of italics, considering that it demonstrates “a way of achieving the emphasis that would be natural in an oral courtroom presentation” (1995, 368). 15 On Cartas a un obrero, republished in 1980 with Cartas a un señor as La cuestión social, see Díaz Castañón (1993, 64–6). On La cuestión social, see ­Vialette (2015).

Notes to pages 66–72  215 16 Although this rebellion (July 1873–January 1874) began in Cartagena, it spread beyond that city (Mas Espejo 2016, 39n35). 17 Arenal similarly denounces the contemporary non-responsibility of states for the consequences of violence in Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes, which opens with a quotation from August Wilhelm Heffter (1796–1880): “Un estado de guerra no existirá de un modo valedero, sino entre partes a quienes no se puede impedir que recurran en sus contestaciones a violencias arbitrarias, de las cuales no son responsables a nadie” (A state of war will formally exist only when parties cannot be prevented from resorting in their disputes to arbitrary violence, for which they are not accountable to anyone; Arenal [1879] 1895, 199; my emphasis). She criticizes Johann Kaspar Bluntschli for opining that if non-combatants suffer damage to their lands and homes in war, they must suffer them as an act of God (217). 18 Regarding six of Arenal’s seven “Cartas desde un hospital” (Letters from a Hospital), see Martínez Arancón (2007). The third letter was not published due to censorship. 19 When quoting from this text I use the 2005 Renacimiento edition, Cuadros de la guerra carlista, which added the adjective Carlist and altered in some cases the original order of the Cuadros as published in La Voz de la Caridad. Throughout my study, however, I use the original title, Cuadros de la guerra. The 1880 publication was in Ávila with the Imprenta de la Propaganda Li­teraria. Arenal’s work therefore predates those fictionalized accounts of the Carlist Wars by members of the 1898 Generation: Alejandro Sawa’s La sima de Igúzquiza (1888), Unamuno’s Paz en la guerra (1897), Pío Baroja’s Zalacaín el aventurero (1909), and Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s trilogy: Los cruzados de la causa (1908), El resplandor en la hoguera (1909), and Gerifaltes de antaño (1909; Gil-Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero 2016, 59–60). 20 For further studies that encompass Arenal’s Cuadros, see Pérez Montero (2002, 92–4) and Hibbs (2021, 156–60). 21 For compelling examples of unflinching representations of the conflict and the harsh conditions endured by soldiers, see Pellicer (1874b, 1874c, 1874e). On Pellicer’s visual coverage of the Third Carlist War, especially in La Ilustración Española y Americana, see Bastida de la Calle (1989). 22 Gil-Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero also notes this feature (2016, 66). 23 By figuratively bombarding readers with war misery after war misery, Arenal anticipates the kind of sensorial anti-war assaults that conscientious objector Ernst Friedrich’s photographic Krieg dem Kriege (1924) or French film director Abel Gance’s J’accuse (1938) would later contrive (Sontag 2003, 14–17). 24 I here build on Sontag: “The gruesome invites us to be either spectators or cowards, unable to look. . . . The implication is: no, it cannot be stopped – and the mingling of inattentive with attentive onlookers underscores this” (2003, 42).

216  Notes to pages 72–82 25 On the concept of war at a distance, see Favret (2010) and Sontag (2003, 117–18). 26 Likewise, for Kate McLoughlin wartime produces “a radical, sui generis extended present” (2011, 108). 27 Also noting Arenal’s lack of specificity regarding dates and places, Gil-­ Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero states that when the writer does name her protagonists, she does so deliberately to personalize the account, stress its human value, and make it more realistic (2016, 65–6). 28 See Jan Frans van Dijkhuizen’s discussion of compassion and suffering in relation to the imitatio Christi (2012, 32–8). 29 On Consuelo González Ramos, see Marín (2013), Rota (2013), and Sim (2019). 4. The Monstrosity of War and Justpeace: Concepción Arenal’s Cuadros de la guerra and Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes 1 Many of the examples on which Foucault draws for his study come from the French military theorist Jacques Antoine Hippolyte, Comte de Guibert (1743–90), whose Essai général de tactique (1771) sought a total modernization of the military, together with that of the state and society (on Guibert, see Abel 2016, chap. 3). 2 In her account of the Kert campaign in Morocco, Consuelo González Ramos (Doñeva de Campos) reproduces the same term when relating the words of one wounded soldier: “‘Más tarde caí soldado … y caí herido …” (I later became a soldier … and I fell in action wounded; González Ramos 1912, 94). 3 Likewise, in 1898 Pardo Bazán describes military service as reducing men to a “número entre otros números, átomo entre la masa, cero agregado a infinitos ceros” (just one number among many, an atom among the mass, a zero added to infinite zeros; Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902d, 126). 4 Not only are soldiers expendable objects but so are those who serve in the rearguard, very often the elderly and adolescents (Arenal [1874–6] 2005, 80, 82–3). 5 Carol Cohn (1990, 46–7) also examines how “defense intellectuals use abstract terminology that removes them from the realities of which they speak … [they] make it possible to ‘think about the unthinkable.’” 6 Burgos (1910, viii–ix) mirrors Arenal’s sentiments: “¡Unas cuantas bajas, pocas! Nadie parecía inquietarse…. Esas bajas significan vidas llenas de amor, madres que llorarán” (Only a few men down, very few! No one seems to worry…. Those casualties refer to lives filled with love, mothers who will weep; original emphasis). 7 Roman law conceived of natural law (jus naturale), historically contrasted with civil law, as “the universally applicable expression of right reason,

Notes to pages 82–4  217

8

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11

12 13

eternal and unchanging”; Thomas Aquinas saw natural law as “divine reason accessible to human beings through their natural reason,” while more secularized interpretations considered it “a body of universal laws discernable through human reason” (Calhoun 2002). For David M. Walker (1980, 868) natural law refers to “a system of right and justice common to all men prescribed by the supreme controlling force in the universe and distinct from positive law, laid down by any particular state or other human organisation.” In “Desde un hospital: Carta primera” (From a Hospital: Letter 1), Arenal states: “[E]l mundo físico y moral se corresponden” (The physical and moral worlds mirror one another; Arenal 1874a, 102). Consequently, in “Desde un hospital: Carta quinta” (From a Hospital: Letter 5), a description of the onset of winter in a barren countryside takes on metaphysical implications to convey how war suppresses all life: “No pueden VV. figurarse la tristísima impresión que producen estos campos ya sin frutos ni verdura…. [E]l invierno que se aproxima es tan buen aliado de la guerra …” (You cannot imagine the desolate impression made by these fields, already without fruit or green vegetables…. The winter that is closing in is such a good ally of war; Arenal 1874b, 226). Díaz Castañón (1993, 108–10) alludes to the work, while in her overview of Arenal’s writings, Durán y Lalaguna (2018, 317) situates the Ensayo as one strand among three, “social equality, women’s equality, and the law of nations,” and dedicates less than one page to Arenal’s discussion on war (323–4). Caballé (2018, 303–5) briefly refers to Arenal’s Ensayo, and Pérez Montero (2002, 105–7, 166–8) addresses Arenal’s thinking on war over some five pages. Lacalzada de Mateo (1998, 71–8) provides an overview of the Ensayo, as does Hibbs (2021, 160–4), and Yolanda Gamarra Chopo (2015, 331–3) discusses its influence on Rafael Altamira’s pacifist thought. For the reception of Arenal’s Ensayo in 1879, see “Crónica literaria” (1879) and “Boletín bibliográfico” (1879). For 1881, see Asís Pacheco (1881). From World War I, see Armada y Losada (1915) and Lagasca (1916). Arenal reiterates: “[E]l combate es ilegislable; refractario al Derecho de gentes como a todo derecho” (Warfare cannot be legislated; it is impervious to international law and all laws; Arenal [1879] 1895, 330), “La guerra es un hecho sin derecho. La declara quien quiere, como quiere, y cuando quiere” (War is a lawless event. It is declared by whoever, however, and whenever; 334), and “[E]l combate … nos parece imposible de reducir a reglas racionales…. [P]ara domeñar esta fiera hay que matarla” (It seems impossible to reduce warfare to rational laws…. To overcome this wild beast you have to kill it; 336). On the origins and development of ius gentium, see Rengger (2013, 80–1). Arenal defines nation as follows: “[U]na colectividad asociada de un modo permanente, para fines racionales, que comprenden todas las esferas de la

218  Notes to pages 84–9

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actividad humana; que posee un territorio en el cual ejerce la soberanía, y tiene completa independencia respecto a otras colectividades, aunque se hallen en el mismo caso y sean soberanas” (A community that is permanently associated for rational ends and encompasses every sphere of human activity; that possesses a sovereign territory, and is completely independent with respect to other communities, even if these are in the same position and are also sovereign; Arenal [1879] 1895, 72). Arenal justifies the length of chapter 8 as follows: “[N]o habiendo allí Derecho, ni pudiendo haberle, se quiere suplir con multitud de reglas en el sin número de casos en que necesariamente se infringe” (Given that no law exists, nor can it exist, they attempt to compensate for this absence with multiple regulations for the countless instances in which they will, of necessity, infringe the law; Arenal [1879] 1895, 70). Francis Lieber was the principal author of the Instructions for the Government of Armies of the United States in the Field during the American Civil War, which later informed American and European legal codes of warfare on land; Emmerich de Vattel wrote Les Droits des gens, ou Principes de la loi naturelle (1758); and Henry Wheaton, an American jurist and international law historian, published Elements of International Law (1836) and History of the Law of Nations in Europe and America (1842; Grant and Barker 2009, 348, 657, 678). Nicasio Landa wrote El derecho de la guerra conforme a la moral (1867), Jean-Étienne-Marie Portalis was one of the main writers of the Napoleonic Civil Code, while August Wilhelm Heffter was most famous for his Das Europäische Völkerrecht der Gegenwart (1867). Arenal sardonically condemns writers’ partisan glorification of imperial ideologies and racist hierarchies in articles such as “A la entrada triunfal de los alemanes en París” (On the Triumphant Entry of the Germans into Paris), written during the Franco-Prussian war (1870–1) on the fall of Paris on 28 January 1871: “La guerra franco-prusiana ha legado al mundo cosas más grandes, restableciendo el derecho de conquista y haciendo tributarios a los pueblos vencidos. Vosotros los inspirados poetas, cantad estos heroi­ cos hechos. No olvidéis decir al mundo que … la raza latina … está para siempre degradada…. Ya se sabe que las victorias se alcanzan a fuerza de virtudes, que los conquistadores son santos, y los oprimidos una canalla vil” (The Franco-Prussian war has bequeathed the world greater things, reinstating the right of conquest and exacting taxes from conquered peoples. You inspired poets, sing of these heroic deeds. Don’t forget to tell the world that … the Latin race … has been forever humiliated…. One now knows that victories are won through virtue, that conquerors are saints, and that the oppressed are despicable villains; Arenal 1871, 15–16; original emphasis). Simone de Beauvoir points to this same anomaly in The Ethics of Ambiguity: “The means, it is said, will be justified by the end; but it is the means

Notes to pages 89–97  219

18 19 20

21 22

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24

which define it, and if it is contradicted at the moment that it is set up, the whole enterprise sinks into absurdity” (De Beauvoir 1970, 124; quoted in Zykofsky Jones and Reinelt 1983, 533). See Agamben’s analysis of the Roman iustitium, a “‘standstill’ or ‘suspension of the law’” (2004, 41). On the “just warrior” mentality, see also Ruddick (1990, 242–4). As Laura Sjoberg (2013, 85) explains: “Biologically, women reproduce national collectives; culturally, women reproduce the boundaries of national groups and transmit national cultures; symbolically, women (as beautiful souls) signify national self-identity and national differences.” Arenal later expands on the immorality of bombing civilian populations ([1879] 1895, 336–8). Arenal sarcastically excoriates “hombres humanos, ilustrados, superio­ res, como Lieber y Bluntschli” (humane, enlightened, superior men, like Lieber y Bluntschli) for stating in their legal codes that the besieger “tiene derecho a obligar (léase hacer fuego o acuchillar) a la multitud arrojada de una plaza adonde no tiene que comer…. Parece que la guerra, no sólo endurece y pervierte a los que la hacen, sino también a los que tratan de ella” (has the right to force [read, open fire on or stab] the crowd expelled from a fortified town where there is no food…. It seems that war hardens and perverts not only those who wage it but also those who write on it; Arenal [1879] 1895, 339; original emphasis). Regarding the invaders’ relationship with the inhabitants of the invaded country, Arenal insists: “Se respetará la vida, la libertad y la religión de los habitantes pacíficos, no haciendo tampoco nada que pueda lastimar su honra” (Respect must be shown for the lives, freedom, and religion of the non-belligerent inhabitants and nothing must be done to damage their possessions; Arenal [1879] 1895, 258). Later Arenal declares: “[S]i no pudiera hacerse la guerra ni ajustarse la paz sino con arreglo a principios de justicia, la guerra sería imposible; el que la obligue a ser justa la matará” (If one could only wage war or agree to peace by adhering to principles of justice, war would be impossible; those who oblige it to be just will kill it; Arenal [1879] 1895, 367).

5. Getting Intimate with Empire: Fin-de-siècle Women Writing a Psychology of the Disaster 1 See, for example, Catherine Hall’s (2000, 108) analysis regarding nineteenth-century Britain. 2 Differing from these scholars and my own approach, Krauel (2013, 13) considers that “imperialism does not appear to have had either an economically or ideologically relevant role in Spanish nation formation….

220  Notes to pages 97–102

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The nation’s colonial past and aspirations seem to have had little impact on the establishment of communal bonds among its citizens.” Josep M. Fradera considers that the birth of modern Spain dates not from the War of Independence but from the independence of its American colonies (quoted in Schmidt-Nowara 2003, 166). The first Cuban war of independence began in 1868, followed by the Guerra Chiquita (Little War) in 1879–80. The decade and a half prior to the outbreak of the second Cuban war of independence in 1895 saw the rise of a popular, reformist, revolutionary Independence movement, which was led by José Martí’s Cuban Revolutionary Party after 1892 (Kapcia 2000, 229–30). For an excellent account of Cuba’s path to autonomy, see Pérez (2006). María Elvira Roca Barea (2018, 446–8) suggests that the US press controlled by William Randolph Hearst, in a display of fake news, cast the explosion of the US battleship Maine in Havana’s harbour on 15 February 1898 as a deliberate act of Spanish sabotage, thus prompting the US declaration of war. The importance that honour occupied in the Spanish political imaginary is visible in an allegorical image from the 23 April 1898 issue of Barcelona’s La Campana de Gràcia. In this satire honour occupies the highest, central position among the words Patria, Honor, and Dret (Patria, Honour, Law), which encircle the head of Catalonia’s patron saint, St. George, as he bayonets North America, the “Pig” (Balfour 2011, 102, fig. 7). La Campana de Gràcia proves a rich source of such visual imagery. See, for instance, Responsabilitat monstruosa (1896; Monstrous Responsibility), which depicts a prostrate Spain, fatally stabbed in her bosom by Cuba and the Philippines and sold out by vested internal interests on both sides of the Atlantic, and Desesperació d’Espanya (Spain’s Despair) by Manuel Moliné i Muns (1833–1901), which again portrays a feminized Spain lamenting her sacrifice of sons, blood, and wealth, and her abandonment by Europe (Moliné i Muns 1898a). For a valuable study on depictions of women in Spain’s satirical Republican press in the second half of the nineteenth century, see Laguna-Platero and Martínez Gallego (2015). Because the wealthy could buy their way out of military service, the colonial armies were composed not of volunteers but of forcibly recruited peasants and working-class men (Balfour 2011, 92–3). On their situation, see Pérez Ledesma (1998, 112–15). As Pérez Ledesma (1998, 115–16) notes, it was the working-class women associated with recruited soldiers who were at the forefront of major protests against the war. On repatriated soldiers in fin-de-siècle works, see Serrano (1998, 337). For a visual denunciation of their shocking condition, see Pellicer (1898). Regarding the devastating human cost of the Cuban war among Spain’s most

Notes to pages 102–9  221

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disadvantaged, and particularly the social ramifications of repatriation, which Burgos reflects in Enrique, see Sánchez Abadía (2002). This story appears based on real events, such as the case of soldiers who begged for water on the steamship León XIII when their disembarkation in Vigo on 15 September 1898 was delayed (see Pérez Ledesma 1998, 122–3). See also Bardavío Estevan (2018, 192–3). Consuelo Álvarez Pool regularly attended Joaquín Costa’s literary salons in Madrid and assumed his surname on becoming a freemason in 1905, while in letters Costa addressed her as “Amiga mía del alma” (My soulmate). Her friendship with Pérez Galdós, which lasted until his death in 1920, began in 1907, when she campaigned with him and the influential freethinker Odón del Buen throughout Spain for his election in the Republican Union (Crespo 2016, 44, 150, 242, 244). On Álvarez Pool’s press contributions, see Crespo (2016, 35–46, 50–97). Álvarez Pool herself gave a lecture series at Madrid’s Athenaeum on Las Órdenes religiosas ante la Historia (Religious Orders before History; Crespo 2016, 104). For Álvarez Pool’s feminist activities, see Crespo (2016, 105–7, 121–39); on her political activities, see Crespo (2016, 138–51). In 1931 she unsuccessfully stood for Madrid’s Federal Republican Democratic Party and during the Second Republic she participated in the Women’s Association against War and Fascism. Due to her support for the Republican cause the Nationalists condemned her in 1937 to a twelve-year prison sentence, commuted to probation in consideration of her advanced age (Crespo 2016, 151, 276). On the activities of Madrid’s Damas Rojas, see Crespo (2016, 152–6) and Moral Vargas (2007). In 1912 Álvarez Pool’s son, Laureano, would serve for two years on the frontline in the Spanish-Moroccan war (Crespo 2016, 270). Álvarez Pool’s publication of Cuentos cortos (1900a) was sponsored by her uncle (Crespo 2016, 52). Her short story “Las amapolas” (The Red Poppies; Álvarez Pool 1900c) deals with the conflict in the Philippines. As Warner (1990, 223) states, the tears that the Virgin weeps at Christ’s Crucifixion “belong to a universal language of cleansing and grief.” See, for instance, Pardo Bazán’s “El catecismo” (The Catechism; [1896] 1973a), “Página suelta” (The Loose Page; [1896] 1973b), “El viaje de novios de Míster Bigpig” (Mister Bigpig’s Honeymoon; 1896), “Vengadora” (The Avenging Woman; [1898] 1973b), “El torreón de la esperanza” (The Tower of Hope; [1898] 1973a), “El rompecabezas” (The Puzzle; [1899] 1973a), and “La armadura” (The Suit of Armour; [1902] 1973). See also Bardavío Estevan (2018) and Henn (1999). The abduction of the “exangüe” by the Philippine indigenous may have its roots in their real-life enslavement of a Spanish woman, and their taking

222  Notes to pages 109–14 as hostages of General Augustí’s wife and children, to which Pardo Bazán refers in her article “Esperando” (Waiting; [1898] 1902c, 121–2); see also Pérez Bernardo (2009). 22 Pérez Bernardo (2009) states that, in these articles, Pardo Bazán commented assiduously on Spain’s sociopolitical landscape and that from 1898 patriotism was a constant theme. For an overview of Pardo Bazán’s periodical essays on the Cuban conflict, see Tasende (2012–13). Regarding “thick description” in the same, see Tolliver (2019). 23 Tolliver (2017, 96) comments on Pardo Bazán’s repeated references to the United States’ arrogance in her fin-de-siècle essays and short fiction. 24 Likewise, in “Elegía” (Elegy) Pardo Bazán remarks: “Mi corazón se rebela contra lo que mi razón discierne: que España ha caído porque tenía que caer: que esta debâcle es el fruto de larga desorganización interna …” (My heart rebels against what my reason discerns: Spain has fallen because she had to fall: this debacle is the result of a lengthy, internal disorganization; Pardo Bazán [1898] 1902b, 109). 25 Other scholars who briefly discuss this short story are Bardavío Estevan (2018, 188–90), Henn (1999, 418), and Pérez Bernardo (2009). 26 Arenal alludes to this concept of a blood tax in her exhortation that both rich and poor contribute equally to military service: “Los señores se sustraían antes a contribuir con su hacienda a las cargas públicas; ahora se niegan a contribuir con su persona, en España al menos; día vendrá en que paguen también contribución de sangre, y es seguro que entonces no se de­ rramará tanta” (Gentlemen previously avoided contributing their wealth to state expenditure; now they refuse to contribute with their person, at least in Spain; the day will come when they too will pay a blood tax, and then less blood will certainly be shed; Arenal [1880] 1895, 391; original emphasis). 27 For an overview of Pardo Bazán’s thinking on race, see Charnon-Deutsch (2017). 28 On fin-de-siècle debates concerning race in the Philippines, see Tolliver (2015). 29 The term yellow journalism was invented by Erwin Wardman and emerged in the United States in the 1890s to refer to the sensationalist press ­(Charnon-Deutsch 2014–15, 112). 30 It is relevant that Pardo Bazán was highly critical of the Spanish administration in the Philippines (see Pérez Bernardo 2009). 31 Tolliver (2010, 295) considers that the rebel leader’s “vampirism is simply a more literal form of the figurative vampirism of the doctor himself, who ‘collects’ the woman’s life and then appropriates the story of her suffering for the delectation of his listeners.” 32 As María Agustina Monasterio Baldor notes, the vampire in connection with colonialism reappears in another of Pardo Bazán’s short stories,

Notes to pages 114–19  223 “Vampiro” (Vampire; [1901] 1910), published two years after “La exan­ güe.” The colonial link is evident in the marriage of its “vampire” protagonist, an elderly indiano, to an adolescent girl to perpetuate his bloodline (Monasterio Baldor 2016, 144–5). This scholar also elucidates how bloodletting as a metaphor for state exploitation featured in two other contemporary texts: anarchist Fermín Salvochea’s La contribución de sangre (The Blood Tax; 1900) criticizes a political elite’s extraction of capital – levies and compulsory military service – from the proletariat, while Isaac Muñoz’s La fiesta de la sangre: Novela mogrebina (Blood Festival: A Novel on the Maghreb; 1909) deploys the medical practice of bloodletting to symbolize Spain’s desired regeneration through its occupation of northern Africa (Monasterio Baldor 2016, 148–50). 33 See Bram Dijkstra’s analysis of the “cult of invalidism” (1986, 25–37). 6. Disordering the Imperial Home: Blanca de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907) 1 De los Ríos reiterated the impossibility of being Spanish without Spanish America in her essay “Nuestra raza” (Our Nation), published in the inaugural issue of her periodical Raza Española: Revista de España y América (The Spanish Race: Journal of Spain and America): “No se puede ser plenamente español sin sentirse juntamente hispano-americano” (One cannot be fully Spanish without also feeling Spanish American; De los Ríos 1919, 9). 2 De los Ríos’s emphasis on language as the most important element for nationhood was echoed by other contemporary intellectuals such as Rafael Altamira and Unamuno, who states in En torno al casticismo: “La lengua es el receptáculo de la experiencia de un pueblo” (Language is the vessel for a people’s experience; Unamuno [1895] 2007, 94). 3 Regarding 1907 reviews of La niña de Sanabria, R.D. Perés (1907) praises de los Ríos’s depiction of noble, impassioned souls and the writer’s mastery of her medium, while the anonymous review “Blanca de los Ríos de Lampérez” (1907, 483) commends the novella for its excellence and enchanting tenderness. G.B.’s (1907) review notes that the work is interesting and, like Antonio Zozaya (1907), especially singles out the episode that takes place on Maundy Thursday, which I discuss shortly. Zeda (1907) highlights de los Ríos’s transformation of everyday life into an intense, moving drama and her “manly” treatment of Spain’s Disaster. Another brief review (“La niña de Sanabria” 1907) remarks on the text’s brilliant style and its author’s sharp observation of life. 4 De los Ríos’s description of the Sanabria household and its inhabitants bears many similarities to Benito Pérez Galdós’s portrayal of empire through the Porreño family’s home and members in La Fontana de Oro (The Fountain of

224  Notes to pages 119–27

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9

10

Gold; Pérez Galdós [1870] 1993). Like the Sanabrias, the Porreños, Mary L. Coffey elucidates, live in the Madrid of the Hapsburgs in a run-down dwelling and according to values that have lost their currency. Like de los Ríos’s novella, Galdós’s work also revolves around a love triangle. In the second of two endings that Galdós wrote, his character Lázaro rejects the fanatically religious Paula and escapes to the provinces with her younger sister, Clara: a scenario mirrored in de los Ríos’s Felipe, who abandons Pilar to elope with Pepita to Asturias. On Galdós’s text, see Coffey (2020, 79–84). Hence, Sarah White notes, the figure of Isabel II alternately represented either national virtue or dishonour. She was ultimately vilified and exiled in 1868 with the Glorious Revolution, the manifesto for which affirmed “Spain with Honor” (S. White 1999, 239). Because popular support then guaranteed the liberal revolutionaries, the people were equated with “order and integrity” (243). In contrast, during the First Republic (1873–4), when the army was called in to quell popular uprisings in Andalusia and eastern Spain, the people were seen as “an incontrollable body” that threatened national honour (247). Pepita’s resistance to interpretation, her enigmatic unreadability, is conveyed as follows: “El carácter de Pepita era como laguna que refleja en la superficie la luz y los objetos circundantes, pero que jamás descubre el fondo” (Pepita’s character was like a lagoon whose surface reflects the light and surrounding objects, but whose depths remain unfathomable; De los Ríos 1907, 22). On visual representations of the fin-de-siècle woman as feline, and hence the epitome of predatory savagery, see Charnon-Deutsch (2000, 45–8). The characterization of Pepita as both passively receptive and overwhelmingly dominant is evident in the following passage: “¡O para ella o contra ella: no había más! Con quien la oía y aceptaba su yugo, era blanda, suave, dúctil, complaciente, encantadora; con quien trataba de imponérsele en algo, siempre … inquieta, fuyente, indominable” (You were either with her or against her: there was no other option! Toward those who listened to her and accepted her yoke, she was soft, gentle, yielding, accommodating, charming; toward those who attempted to oppose her in something, [she was] always … restless, evasive, untameable; De los Ríos 1907, 26). Álvarez Junco (2004, 574) explains that, for Pérez Galdós, these so-called good people were “el protagonista épico que se contrapone a los malos políticos, al mal Padre-Estado, monstruo maléfico que tiene entre sus garras a la Madre España” (the epic protagonist who opposes the bad politicians, the bad Paternal State, the evil monster that has Mother Spain in his clutches). See “Descubrimiento de las estatuas” (1902). Such multitudinous displays of patriotism in the streets of major Spanish cities were common in 1898 (Pérez Ledesma 1998, 101).

Notes to pages 127–30  225 11 Michael Billig (1995, 6) coined the term “banal nationalism” to refer to the daily reproduction of nationalism among a nation’s citizens, to how “the nation is indicated, or ‘flagged,’ in the lives of its citizenry.” During the Spanish-American War similar stagings of patriotism took place at bullfights, which played a major role in raising funding and support. On these occasions “ribbons, decorations, women’s fans and even the sand of the arena were all displayed in the national colours” (Balfour 2011, 98). 12 The French subjected Cádiz to continual bombardment from 5 February 1810 to 25 August 1812 (Hindley 2010). According to popular Spanish legend, however, only one bomb ever affected Cádiz (Oman 2018, 247). De los Ríos’s allusion to Cádiz should thus be seen as myth-making rather than historical fact. 13 The origin of the mantilla is unclear. Attributed to pre-Romanic female dress, it is also seen as a variant of the Arab veil. Worn by the common people since earliest times, it enjoyed special favour during Isabel II’s reign as an emblem of national customs. Subsequently, it became an accessory worn at religious festivities and special celebrations (see Cedeira Costales 2018). 14 In Cartas a un obrero Arenal lambasts the equation of pueblo (the people) with masa (the masses), which she considers susceptible to manipulation, and neither conscious nor self-governing: “La masa es una cosa pesada, sin conciencia ni movimiento propio, y terrible cuando se desploma mo­ vida por impulso ajeno. Es necesario que el pueblo deje de ser masa, porque mientras lo sea, la manipulará la osadía, la explotará el interés, la pervertirá la maldad, la extraviará el error o la pasión” (The masses are a difficult question, lacking conscience or control over their movements, and terrible when ruined, moved by the desires of others. It is vital for the common people to stop being the masses because, as long as they are so, they will be manipulated by the shameless, exploited by vested interests, corrupted by evil, and led astray through error or passion; Arenal [1871–3] 1895, 211). 15 Here de los Ríos’s depiction of the so-called masses echoes that of Gustave Le Bon in Psychologie des foules (1895), which, as Vialette (2018, 15) notes, was already circulating in translation and reeditions in the late nineteenth century. There Le Bon considered that urban crowds were “moved by ‘contagions,’ which are ideas or sentiments … rhetoric, affect, and emotion are at the center of their functioning” (Vialette 2018, 16). 16 Admiral Pascual Cervera y Topete (1839–1909), who is mentioned repeatedly in de los Ríos’s La niña de Sanabria (1907, 62, 75), commanded the Spanish fleet that lost the definitive naval battle at Santiago de Cuba to Admiral William T. Sampson on 3 July 1898 (Schmidt-Nowara 1998, 73). 17 The Reina Regente disappeared in a storm in the Gulf of Cádiz in March 1895, with the loss of all its crew.

226  Notes to pages 130–9 18 On the role of the press, see Balfour (2011, 99n24) and Pérez Ledesma (1998, 102–3). 19 For an extended discussion of Unamuno’s “Sobre el cultivo de la Demótica” ([1896] 2008), written in November 1896 and read at Seville’s Athenaeum on 4 December, see Paredes Arnáiz (2013, 46–63). 7. Purity of Blood in the National Family? Spain’s War in Morocco in Carmen de Burgos’s En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) (1909) 1 For a more detailed account, see Balfour (2002, 19–25). 2 Among these societies were Madrid’s Geographic Society, the Spanish Association for the exploration of Africa, and the Spanish Society of Africanists and Colonists (subsequently the Sociedad de Geografía Comercial [Society for a Geography of Trade]), while leading Africanist intellectuals were Costa, Gumersindo de Azcárate, Eduardo Saavedra, and José de Carvajal (Jubran 2002, 93–6). 3 According to Clark (2011, 749), for example, Pedro Antonio de Alarcón described Africa as “a treacherous seductress” in his Diario de un testigo de la guerra de África (Alarcón 1859). 4 As Aline Helg (2017, 97) notes: “Between 1865 and 1870, in peninsular Spain certificates of blood purity ceased to be requested for admission to the army, the clergy, private and public colleges and universities, and public administration.” 5 Other anthropological and linguistic studies, however, posited that the Basques were related to the Berbers, while also affirming the African origins of all Iberians (Martín-Márquez 2008, 44–5). 6 For an account of Burgos’s work in Melilla, see Wood (1999–2000), Núñez Rey (2005, 240–9), and Taillot (2017, 128–9). I have been able to locate in digitized press sources only one contemporary, brief reference to Burgos’s En la guerra, which describes it as of exceptional interest (“Sección de noticias” 1909). For contemporary reviews of some of Burgos’s other short fictional works, as well as critical evaluations of her corpus after the 1950s, see Imboden (2001, 26–30, 34–40). 7 As Jenny Sharpe (1993, 8) affirms, “An attention to gender can reveal the weak links in narratives of colonial legitimation.” 8 Ana Zapata-Calle (2011, 106) also notes that it is due to her passion that Alina becomes capable of greater agency. 9 Anne McClintock (1995, 35) explains that “the verb to domesticate is akin to dominate, which derives from dominus, lord of the domum, the home. Until 1964 … the verb … also carried as one of its meanings the action ‘to civilize.’” 10 John Stuart Mill’s Subjection of Women (1869) had already appeared in Spain in 1890, translated by Pardo Bazán as La esclavitud femenina (Mill

Notes to pages 139–48  227 [1869] 1890). The enslavement of women was a constant motif in writings by Spanish freethinking women, as one periodical article attests: “Hemos sido siempre esclavas y aún no hemos roto nuestras cadenas…. ¿Qué hemos sido? Esclavas. ¿Qué somos? Esclavas. ¿Qué seremos? Libres, pero tan libres como vosotros, los que hasta hoy habéis sido nuestros dominadores” (We women have always been slaves and we still have not broken our chains…. What have we been? Slaves. What are we? Slaves. What will we be? Free, as free as you men, those of you who until now have been our masters; quoted in Sànchez i Ferré 1990, 164; original published in La Humanidad, no. 29, year 2, 22 June 1871, 229). 11 For an excellent overview of Burgos’s writings on adultery and contemporary juridical thinking on the matter, see Louis (2005, 53–66, 127–47). 12 See also Judith Armstrong’s The Novel of Adultery (1976), which sees marriage in the second half of Europe’s nineteenth century as establishing a social order that adultery threatens or shatters. 13 In The Question of Lay Analysis Freud commented that “the sexual life of adult women is a ‘dark continent’ for psychology” ([1925–6] 1959, 211). E. Frances White (2001, 88) comments that “[Freud’s] readers could understand what he had to say about white women because he compared them to the so-called savages of Africa. Women are the savages of Western civilization, and savages are the women of the human race.” 14 Gabriela Pozzi (2000, 189) also refers to the “sangría” (bloodletting) as a purging of witnessed violence. 15 The Hegira refers to Mohammed’s departure from Mecca for Medina to avoid persecution in AD 622, the date that inaugurates Islamic history. 16 In 1910 Burgos would again censure war in very similar terms: “[C]ómo encubre [la guerra] arteramente su horror. . . . [T]enían [los convoyes] la apariencia seductora de una decoración de ópera…” (How war cunningly conceals its horrors…. The convoys seemed like a seductive opera set; Burgos 1910, viii). 17 In 1860 commentators on the African war, such as Pedro Antonio de Alarcón and Nicasio Landa, had conventionally portrayed it “as a chivalric Crusade, to ennoble conflict and combatants alike” (Clark 2011, 748). 18 Rueda (2009a, 233) also indicates that Burgos criticizes epic discourse by stressing the pain that war causes. 19 Uncoincidentally, in her later 1921 novella El artículo 438, Burgos situates a Spanish couple’s adulterous affair in the grounds of the Alhambra (Doyle 2004, 158–9). The writer therefore associates freedom to love with Arab sensuality, in comparison with the rigidity of Spanish sociocultural mores. 20 Sara Prieto draws on Paul Fussell’s work on the Great War, where he argues that “pastoral reference … is a way of invoking a code to hint by antithesis at the indescribable” (Fussell 2013, 255; quoted in Prieto 2018, 146).

228  Notes to pages 148–58 21 Burgos’s use of Longus’s romantic subtext is ironic, given that, contrary to Alina and Gonzalo’s fate, the two foundlings marry and live happily ever after in a pastoral setting. 22 Here En la guerra echoes Pérez Galdós’s 1905 novel Aita Tettauen, which insists that if the Moroccans were to change their clothes and language, they would be taken for Spaniards (see Epps 2008, 161–2; Ugarte 2015, 184). On the class implications of Morocco and Spain as reflections of one another, see Zapata-Calle (2011, 96–7). 23 On freethinking and Freemasonry in Restoration Spain, see Álvarez Lázaro (1985). 24 As Keisha Lindsay (2015, 537) declares: “Nonwhite women … experience a gendered racism that is distinctly embodied. They are racially inferior precisely because they do not and cannot meet ‘real,’ that is, white female standards of beauty.” 25 I here concur with Pozzi’s (2000, 192) reading that “Moroccan and Spanish females occupy a common space in relation to the males of their respective cultures: they constitute a permanent colonized group.” 26 On these working-class protests and the Tragic Week, see Ullman (1968). 27 For an explanation of Melilla’s military and topographical features in 1909, see Díez Sánchez (1990). 28 Allison Taillot (2017, 131) also considers that Burgos channels her impressions and emotions through Alina. 29 Hence my reading diverges from that of Núñez Rey (2005, 248), who considers that En la guerra does not critique the Spanish military; an appraisal also upheld by Wood (1999–2000, 382) in her comprehensive overview of Burgos’s writings on the war in Melilla. 30 Regarding Pérez Galdós’s characters, see Davis (2005, 642–5) and Ugarte (2015, 181–2). 8. Between Feminist Aspirations and Pacifist Ideals: Burgos’s Essays on World War I and Women in War 1 For a nuanced overview of the diverse positions on this issue within Spanish feminisms in the early twentieth century, see Ramos (2016, 46–54). 2 See Castañeda (1994, 145–6), Núñez Rey (2005, 370), Zaplana (2005, 43nn19–20), and especially Establier Pérez (2000) and Louis (2005). For Burgos’s life and works, see especially Starčević (1976) and Núñez Rey (2005). 3 On Burgos’s involvement in Madrid’s Damas Rojas and the Agrupación Feminista Socialista, Marta del Moral Vargas (2007, 549–50) notes that the writer became increasingly distanced from the socialists when they advocated compulsory military service for all men regardless of class, leading

Notes to pages 158–75  229

4

5

6

7

8

9

10 11

to her resignation from the latter organization. However, in August 1917 she renewed her association, remaining a member until December 1919. For cartoons of innocent victims in issues of El Motín, see Raemaekers (1916c, 1916d, 1916f, 1916g, 1916j). Among Raemaekers’s many cartoons in El Motín of female figures emblematic of the invaded nations, see Raemaekers (1916i). See also three anonymous August 1918 images from the short-lived weekly Los Aliados, all titled Las atrocidades alemanas (German Atrocities; Las atrocidades alemanas 1918a, 1918b, 1918c). On the works by José Martínez Ruiz (Azorín), Ramón del Valle-Inclán, and Andrés García de la Barga, see Rodríguez Fischer (2016), Díaz Navarro (2016), and Gutiérrez Sanz (2016), respectively. This work was first published as a book in 1916 under the title of Peregrinaciones (Peregrinations) and without Ramón Gómez de la Serna’s 1917 epilogue. In 1995 UNESCO’s General Assembly approved the “Declaration on Women’s Contribution to a Culture of Peace,” while in 1996 UNESCO established the “Women and Culture of Peace” programme, underlining the necessity of gender equality for achieving this objective (Alcañiz Moscardó 2007, 47). Indeed, Patricia Tilburg (2019, 218) references a trench newspaper, L’Echo des Gourbis, which as early as May 1915 notes the popularity of the insignia among soldiers at the front. Burgos’s attempt at reconciling a normative femininity with an expanded sphere of action for women also appears in Mis viajes por Europa, where, Pozzi (1999, 301) notes, her discourse alternates between a feminine, domestic discourse and content and a masculine mode of travel writing to depict events in the public sphere. In comparison, María Pilar Rodríguez (1998, 382) attributes this kind of oscillation to Burgos’s aversion to being pigeonholed. Among others, see Bieder (2001, 255), Johnson (2017), and Louis and Sharp (2017a, 3–4). On nineteenth-century feminist press and associations, see Arkinstall (2014, 2018).

9. Denouncing War’s Broken Syntax: Burgos’s World War I Novellas 1 While I have been unable to locate any contemporary press reviews of Burgos’s World War I novellas, it must be assumed that they were in demand, given that she published three in 1917. 2 As Johnson (2000, 143) indicates, Burgos often framed her discussion of more political matters within domestic plots. Similarly, Núñez Rey (2005, 430) declares that Burgos’s World War I stories deploy the theme of the

230  Notes to pages 175–80 love affair to denounce war, but she does not develop this argument. Nor does Zaplana (2005, 43), for whom several of Burgos’s novellas highlight how war disrupts love. 3 On La Novela Corta and Burgos’s publications there, see Imboden (2001, 83–92) and Sánchez Álvarez-Insúa (2010, 66–8). 4 To facilitate locating quotations in Pasiones and El desconocido, which lack pagination, I indicate the chapters in roman numerals and number the pages. 5 Such correspondences exist in Burgos’s article “Los hospitales” (The Hospitals; 1917f), which mentions the hospital financed by Spanish emigrants in Paris, and the 360 hospitals, with more than 20,000 nurses, run by the Unión de Mujeres de Francia (Union of French Women). 6 Burgos explicitly refers to French women decorated for bravery in “En la Sorbona” (In the Sorbonne; 1917d), where she witnessed the acclaim accorded to war hero Marcela Semmer, on whom aspects of Angelina in Pasiones are arguably modelled. 7 Similarly, as Higonnet (1993b, 204) remarks, the mutilation of male bodies in war demonstrates that “instead of proving men’s masculinity, war makes men lose it.” 8 El desconocido also refers to blind soldiers who “de un modo paciente, hacían labores de hilo o de cuentas …” (patiently did needlework or embroidery; Burgos 1917b, VI: 11). 9 I here draw on Joanna Bourke: “The injured man was not disabled but mutilated. He was the fit man, the potent man rendered impotent” (1996, 37–8; original emphasis). 10 Here Burgos’s text recalls Mary Borden’s World War I text The Forbidden Zone, where the nurse is tormented by having to return a recovered patient to the frontline (Higonnet 1993b, 206). 11 In “¡Guerra a la guerra!” Burgos cites Anatole France (1844–1924) to decry the concept of honour in war: “Si todavía subsiste un honor en los pue­ blos, resulta extraño medio para sostenerlo hacer la guerra, es decir, cometer todos los crímenes por los cuales el ciudadano se deshonra: incendio, rapiña, asesinato” (If nations still have any honour, it seems strange that, to sustain it, they wage war; that is, they commit all the crimes that dishonour a citizen: arson, looting, murder; Burgos [1909] 1913, 202). 12 As Fussell (2013, 54) indicates: “To be in the trenches was to experience an unreal, unforgettable enclosure … a sense of being unoriented and lost.” 13 Los Contemporáneos (1909–26) published nearly nine hundred novellas, seventeen of which were by Burgos (Imboden 2001, 82–3). 14 According to R. Caribou (2010), José Loygorri, brother of Spanish aviator Benito Loygorri Pimentel, was a prominent illustrator for Blanco y Negro and lived in Paris until the outbreak of World War I. His illustrations also

Notes to pages 180–8  231 appeared in La Esfera and La Novela Pasional (Herrero 2014), collections in which Burgos likewise published. 15 Although no mention is made of Alfredo’s nationality, he is obviously of Spanish origin. Despite Spain’s official neutrality, some 2,000 Spanish volunteers, mainly Catalans and Cantabrians, fought for France in World War I; see Acosta López (2019), Balcells (1986), and Mayer and Condado (2004, 176). 16 In “Los hospitales” Burgos states regarding Paris: “[L]a guerra se siente aquí, está en todo” (You can feel the war here, everywhere; 1917f). It is uncertain whether Burgos’s El desconocido inspired Carmen Kurtz’s later novel, also titled El desconocido ([1956] 1996). Receiving the Premio Pla­ neta in 1956, it similarly dealt with the impact of World War II on personal relationships. 17 Fussell (2013, 39–81) refers to the trenches as “The Troglodyte World.” 18 On the German air raids on Paris, see Grayzel (2006). 19 On Acuña’s letter and the figure of the World War I “godmother,” see Hernández Sandoica (2019). 20 In her essay “El color ideal” (The Ideal Colour), Burgos (1917a) reviews the colours of war – black, white, purple, and military blue, to describe the last, as in El desconocido, as “el color que tiene aquí el cielo” (the colour of the sky here) and “el color de la victoria” (the colour of victory). 21 Similarly, in Pasiones Román states: “No sabía qué decir de la guerra…. [N]o había visto de ella más que la oscuridad de la trinchera y la metralla que lo había herido, sin lucha … sin defensa” (He did not know what to say about the war…. He had seen only the darkness of the trench and the shrapnel that had wounded him, without a struggle … without defence; Burgos 1917g, VIII: 20). 22 Burgos would later again decry the use of rape as a war weapon with regard to Francisca Artigas, who, to avenge her father’s death, fought in Spain’s War of Independence. The French captured her, tied her to a cannon, and “cometieron toda clase de atrocidades” (committed all kinds of atrocities; Burgos 1927, 243). 23 In her essay “Hospital de ciegos” Burgos states: “[E]l semblante, lo más noble de los humanos, lleva la huella terrible de la mutilación más feroz” (The face, what is most noble about humans, bears the terrible mark of the most ferocious mutilation; Burgos 1917e). 24 In Pasiones considerations of beauty similarly colour Solange’s determination to save Román’s leg from amputation and thus preserve his beauty: “Lloraban los dos por su belleza. Era su belleza lo que se iba a mutilar y era como si con ella se mutilase el amor” (They both wept for his beauty. It was his beauty that was about to be mutilated and it was as if it were a simultaneous mutilation of their love; Burgos 1917g, VII: 19–20). On

232  Notes to pages 188–92

25

26

27 28

the published perceptions of French soldiers of their facial injuries, see Gehrhardt (2018). Réformer is defined as “reconnaître comme inapte au service militaire.” Synonyms include “changer, rectifier, transformer, corriger, améliorer” (L’Internaute dictionnaire français, s.v. “réformer,” last modified 5 January 2021, https://www.linternaute.com/dictionnaire/fr/definition /reformer-1). Likewise, in “Hospital de ciegos” Burgos remarks: “La Cirugía hace prodigios…. Se construyen piezas admirables, se injertan en las propias carnes, y los ojos de cristal llegan a una perfección asombrosa” (Surgeons are working miracles…. They are making remarkable body parts, grafting onto flesh, and glass eyes are achieving an astonishing perfection; Burgos 1917e). On World War I as theatre, see Fussell (2013, 207–50). Regarding the wounded as a theatrical site, see Carden-Coyne (2009, 87–8). As Carden-Coyne (2009, 22) notes: “In local and international discourses, reconstruction coexisted with the French ‘rappel à l’ordre’ (return to order).”

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Index

Abbenhuis, Maartje, 164 Acosta López, Alejandro, 231n15 Acton, Carol, 173 Acuña, Rosario de: 4, 12–13; essays of, 30, 152, 170, 181, 210n21 Acuña, Rosario de, works of: Amor a la patria, 12-13, 19–37, 197; Rienzi el Tribuno, 22; voz de la Patria, La, 12, 209n15 adultery, 138–41, 145, 148, 227n19 Agamben, Giorgio, 88–9, 219n18 Agustina (of Aragón), 20–4, 27, 207n3, 208n5 Ahmed, Sara, 8, 49, 117, 212n21 Alcalá Galiano, Álvaro, 160 Alcañiz Moscardó, Mercedes, 164 Aldaraca, Bridget, 6 Álvarez Junco, José, 13, 17, 34, 224n9 Álvarez Lázaro, Pedro F., 228n23 Álvarez Pool, Consuelo (Violeta): 4, 11, 15, 104–6, 115–16; life, 206n19, 221nn12–15, 221nn17–18 Álvarez Pool, Consuelo (Violeta), works of: “medalla de la Virgen, La,” 15, 106–9 Amar y Borbón, Josefa, 171 Anderson, Benedict, 10, 208–9n11, 210n1 Angel in the House, 6, 176, 184, 197

Antón y Ferrándiz, Manuel, 150 Araquistáin, Luis, 159 Arenal, Ángel de, 84 Arenal, Concepción, 4, 10–12, 14–15, 57–95, 197, 201–3, 206n16, 213nn1–3, 214n9, 214n13, 215n17, 217–18nn13–14, 218n16, 219nn21– 4, 222n26, 225n14 Arenal, Concepción, works of: A los vencedores y a los vencidos, 14, 64–5; beneficencia, la Filantropía y la Caridad, La, 60; “Cartagena,” 66–7; Cartas a un obrero, 14, 65–6; “Cartas desde un hospital,” 67–9, 74, 80, 215n18, 217n8; “ciudad desolada, La,” 66; Cuadros de la guerra, 12, 60, 69, 72, 74–82, 91, 215n19; Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes, 12, 14–15, 77–8, 80–95, 217nn9–11; Pauperismo, El, 60 Arendt, Hannah, 9, 12, 30, 64, 93, 206n14 Arkinstall, Christine, 209n15, 229n11 Armstrong, Judith, 227n12 Auslander Munich, Adrienne, 173, 205n2 Bahamonde, Ángel, 207n1 Bakhtin, Mikhail: and classical body, 41, 144, 189, 203

270 Index Bakić-Hayden, Milica, 137 Balcells, Albert, 231n15 Balfour, Sebastian, 100, 136, 226n18 (chap. 6), 226n1 (chap. 7) Bardavío Estevan, Susana, 221n11, 221n20, 222n25 Barnett, Michael, 15, 59–60, 213n5 Bastida de la Calle, María Dolores, 215n21 Béjar, Helena, 30, 37, 61 Benhabib, Seyla, 8–9 Berkman, Joyce, 26, 157 Bhabha, Homi K., 10 Bieder, Maryellen, 229n10 Billig, Michael, 225n11 Blanco, Alda, 44, 97, 119, 210n1 Blanco White, José, 137 Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente, 13, 158, 160 Blom, Ida, 211n9 blood: and colonization, 112, 114, 222–3n32; purity of, 137, 148–50, 187; symbol of, 18, 197–9; as tax, 222n26, 222–3n32 Bluntschli, Johann-Kaspar, 84, 86–7, 93, 215n17 Böhl de Faber, Cecilia (Fernan Caballero), 212n16 Bolado, José, 207n2 Bolufer, Mónica, 59, 209n14 Bourke, Joanna, 178, 183, 186, 188, 190, 197, 230n9 Boyd, Carolyn, 207n1 Brennan, Teresa, 7 Brennan, Timothy, 34 Bretz, Mary Lee, 209n15 Brown, Rachel H., 113 Brownmiller, Susan, 184 Burgess, Miranda, 122 Burgos, Carmen de (Colombine): 4, 11, 158–9, 169–70, 216n6 Burgos, Carmen de (Colombine), works of: desconocido, El, 16–17,

180–93, 199; En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla), 4, 16, 135–55, 198–9, 201, 226n6, 228nn21–2; fin de la guerra, El, 16, 193–4; mujer moderna y sus derechos, La, 139, 151, 170–2, 186; Pasiones, 16–17, 173–80, 201; permisionario, El, 16; “repatriado, El,” 15, 99–104, 115, 152, 201; World War I essays of, 158, 160–9, 182, 230nn5–6, 231n16, 231n20, 231n23, 232n26; World War I novellas of, 207n22 Butler, Judith, 50, 212n20 Caballé, Anna, 213n2, 214n10, 217n9 Cady, Duane L., 200–1 Canguilhem, Georges, 82, 89 Cánovas del Castillo, Antonio, 98 Cantos Casenave, Marieta, 209n16 capability, 30 Carden-Coyne, Ana, 177, 188–9, 232nn27–8 Carlist Wars: 4, 14, 58, 60, 69, 214n11; Spanish male writers on, 215n19 Carter, Paul, 129 Caruth, Cathy, 78 Casanova, Sofía, 13, 105 Castañeda, Paloma, 228n2 Castells Oliván, Irene, 58, 205n3, 207n3 casticismo, 39, 42, 44–6, 50–1, 120, 212n12 Castro, Fernando de, 60 Castro Osório, Ana de, 169 Catoira, Ana Aba, 209n16 Cervera y Topete, Pascual (Admiral), 225n16 Chang, Julia, 189 charity, 57–61 Charnon-Deutsch, Lou, 99, 222n27, 224n7 Charpentier, Gustave, 167

Index 271 citizenship: 20, 22; and defence of nation, 24–5; and love of country, 28; and women, 28–30, 209n16 Clark, Rosemary, 226n3 Clemente, Josep Carles, 213n3 Cobo, Carlota, 23–4 Coffey, Mary L., 38, 96, 224n4 Cohn, Carol, 80, 216n5 Coleman Ladd, Anna, 190 colonization: 52–4, 117–18; and gender, 112–15, 136, 150–1. See also blood; Morocco; Philippines compassion: 10, 14–15, 56, 61, 67, 216n28; and reason, 59, 64, 81, 95, 162 Condado, Emilio, 231n15 Confortini, Catia C., 95, 156 contract: fraternal / social, 7, 26, 97, 198, 206n11; marriage, 7, 25–6, 52– 3, 139, 197–8; racial, 8, 113, 136–7, 197–8; sexual, 7, 8, 113, 140, 197–8 Cooke, Miriam, 3, 196, 205n2, 205n4 Cooper, Helen M., 173, 205n2 cosmopolitanism, 42–5, 48, 54, 211– 12n12, 212n15 Costa, Joaquín, 104, 136, 149, 221n12, 226n2 Craig Wentworth, Marion, 165 Crespo, Victoria, 104, 221n13, 221n15–16 Crucifixion, 75–6, 131 Damas rojas, 105–6, 158, 221n16, 228n3 Davidoff, Leonore, 206n10 Davis, Kathleen E., 154, 228n30 De Beauvoir, Simone, 88–9, 218–19n17 De Certeau, Michel, 49 De los Ríos, Blanca: 4, 11; cultural imperialism, 40–1, 118–19; professional activities, 210–11nn2– 4; on Romanticism, 212n15

De los Ríos, Blanca, works of: niña de Sanabria, La, 11, 16, 18, 119–34, 197, 199–200, 207n21, 223–4n4; and nationalism in, 127–9, 130–1; and Pepita as Other in, 122–4, 126, 224n6, 224n8; and reviews of, 223n3; Sangre española, 13–14, 38– 56, 197, 211n7, 223n3; “Villavetusta y Villamoderna: Historia en dos cartas,” 43–4 Delgado, Luisa Elena, 9, 12 Díaz Castañón, Carmen, 213n2, 214n10, 214n15, 217n9 Díaz Navarro, Epicteto, 229n5 Díez Sánchez, Juan, 228n27 Dijkstra, Bram, 223n33 domestic / public sphere, 3, 6–7, 24 Domingo Soler, Amalia, 158 Dunant, Henry, 61 Durán y Lalaguna, Paloma, 213n3, 217n9 Edensor, Tim, 50, 212n20 Eley, Geoff, 117, 121 Elias, Norbert, 8 Elshtain, Jean Bethke, 10, 31, 66, 162, 205n2 emotion: and affect, 122; and anger, 48–9; communities of, 9, 206n12; and reason, 5, 8–10, 14, 26–8, 55, 59, 86, 200–2 empire: and emotion, 117; and empire-phobia, 39; and imperial gaze, 151–2, 154; and national identity, 97–9, 117–18 Enloe, Cynthia, 5, 168, 179 Enríquez de Salamanca, Cristina, 210n19 Epps, Brad, 97, 138 Escoriaza, Teresa de, 12, 76 Espigado Tocino, Gloria, 58, 205n3

272 Index Establier Pérez, Helena, 100, 102, 158, 161, 206n19, 228n2 Ezama Gil, Ángeles, 211n4, 212n13 Fals Borda, Orlando, 200 Fanon, Frantz, 113 Favret, Mary, 9–10, 74, 78, 216n25 Felman, Shoshana, 12 Fernández, Pura, 9, 12 Fichera, Virginia M., 88 Fleming, Marie, 6 Flórez Estrada, Antonio, 29 Foucault, Michel, 77, 81–2, 84, 90, 216n1 Fox, E. Inman, 22 Fradera, Josep M., 220n3 Fraisse, Geneviève, 26, 33 Franklin Lewis, Elizabeth, 58 Freire, Ana María, 207n3 Freire, Paulo, 202 Freud, Sigmund, 78, 123, 142, 227n13 Fromherz, Allen, 211n10 Frye, Marilyn, 49 Fussell, Paul, 184, 227n20, 230n12, 231n17, 232n27 Galtung, Johan, 199 Gálvez, Luis de, 159 Gálvez, María Josefa, 58 Gamara Chopo, Yolanda, 217n9 Ganivet, Ángel, 40, 96, 211n6 García Balsameda, Joaquina, 6 García de la Barga, Andrés, 160, 229n5 Gehrhardt, Marjorie, 232n24 Gil-Albarellos Pérez-Pedrero, Susana, 69, 215n22, 216n27 Gimeno de Flaquer, Concepción, 22 Gómez Arteche, José, 20, 207n4 Gómez de Avellaneda, Gertrudis, 209n17

Gómez de la Serna, Ramón, 161, 229n6 Gómez-Ferrer Morant, Guadalupe, 28, 208n6 González de Sande, Estela, 205n2 González de Sande, Mercedes, 205n2 González López, María Antonieta, 39, 207n21, 212n14 González Ramos, Consuelo (Celsia Regis, Doñeva de Campos), 12, 76, 216n29 (chap. 3), 216n2 (chap. 4) Goode, Joshua, 206n18 Gouge, Olympe de, 33 Goya, Francisco José de, 11, 68–9, 81, 128, 209n13 Graupera i Gil, Àngela, 12 Grayzel, Susan, 186–7, 231n18 Gregg, Melissa, 122 Grotius, Hugo, 52 Gutiérrez Sanz, Víctor, 229n5 Guzmán the Good, 28 Habermas, Jürgen, 6, 8–9 Hagemann, Karen, 211n9 Haidt, Rebecca, 59 Hall, Catherine, 198, 211n9, 219n1 Handrey, Mme. Pierre, 165–6 Heffter, August Wilhelm, 84, 86, 215n17, 218n15 Helg, Aline, 226n4 Henn, David, 111, 221n20, 222n25 Heraclitus, 195 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 42, 45, 54, 212n16 Hernández Sandoica, Elena, 207n2, 231n19 Hernando, Bernardino M., 104 Herzog, Tamar, 28–9 Hibbs, Solange, 206n17, 214n10, 215n20, 217n9 Higonnet, Margaret R., 3–5, 10–12, 18, 173, 199, 205n4, 205nn6–7, 230n7 Higonnet, Patrice, 11, 18

Index 273 Hippolyte, Jacques Antoine (Comte de Guibert), 216n1 Hobbes, Thomas, 213n26 Hobsbawm, Eric, 210 Hogan, Patrick Colm, 9, 39, 47–9, 51, 54, 202, 210n1, 212–13nn21–2 Honig, Bonnie, 12, 206n14 honour: 15, 97–9, 184, 220n6; and order / disorder, 120–1, 224n5. See also adultery Hooper, Kirsty, 39, 41, 45–6, 48, 52, 212n19 Huston, Nancy, 195, 211n8 Hutchinson, Dorothy, 95 Imboden, Rita Catrina, 226n6, 230n3 Infante, Blas, 137 Irizarry, Estelle, 59, 84, 95, 206n16, 214n14 Johnson, Roberta, 42, 52, 55, 207n21, 229n10 (chap. 8), 229–30n2 (chap. 9) Jones, Wendy S., 25 Jover Zamora, José María, 208n6 Jubran, Carl, 136, 149 Karr, Carme, 160, 164 Kirkpatrick, Susan, 22, 28, 122, 208n7, 209n16 Kramer, Paul A., 112 Krauel, Javier, 9, 96, 120, 122, 211n6, 212n12, 219–20n2 Kurtz, Carmen, 231n16 Kuzmic, Tatiana, 138 Labanyi, Jo, 9, 12 Labra, Rafael María de, 86 Lacalzada de Mateo, María José, 206n16, 213nn2–3, 214n7, 214n9, 214n13, 217n9 Lafuente, Modesto, 23, 208n8, 209n12

Laguna-Platero, Antonio, 220n7 Lamennais, Félicité, 60 Landa, Nicasio, 61, 84, 86, 91, 218n15, 227n17 Landes, Joan B., 6 Lauretis, Teresa de, 11 law (natural), 216–17n7 Le Bon, Gustave, 225n15 Lederach, John Paul, 78, 195, 203 Lieber, Francis, 84, 91, 218n15 liminality, 138, 141–3, 178 Lindholm Narváez, Elena, 206–7n19 Lindsay, Keisha, 228n24 Locke, John, 53, 213n24 Long, Graham, 48 Longus, 148–9, 228n21 López Barranco, Juan José, 138 López Pérez, Manuel, 207n3 Louis, Anja, 227n11, 228n2, 229n10 Loygorri Pimentel, José, 180, 230–1n14 Machiavelli, 195 Magallón, Carmen, 156 Maldonado-Torres, Nelson, 200 Malešević, Siniša, 9 Marcus, Jane, 79 Marín, Manuela, 216n29 Martín-Márquez, Susan, 137, 149, 151 Martínez, Francisco, 159 Martínez, Jesús A., 207n1 Martínez Arancón, Ana, 215n18 Martínez-Gallego, Francesc-Andreu, 208n5, 208n9, 220n7 Martínez Ruiz, José (Azorín), 13, 160, 229n5 Mas Espejo, Marta, 214n13 Mater Dolorosa, 15, 17–18, 47, 66, 75, 109, 131, 155, 196, 207n20, 221n19 Mayer, Myriam, 231n15 McClintock, Anne, 112, 140, 142, 145, 226n9

274 Index McDermott, Patricia, 98 McLoughlin, Kate, 216n26 Medina Doménech, Rosa, 49 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino, 42 Merrill Squier, Susan, 173, 205n2 Michelet, Jules, 35 Mill, John Stuart, 226n10 Milligan, Christine, 201 Mills, Charles W., 8, 113, 198 Mimi Pinson, 167–8 Monasterio Baldor, María Agustina, 222–3n32 Montero Aulet, Francesc, 206n15 Moral Vargas, Marta del, 221n16, 228–9n3 Morocco: Spain’s colonization of, 135– 6, 227n17. See also Burgos, works of: En la guerra (Episodios de Melilla) Murguía, Manuel, 137 Murphy, Libby, 17 Nash, Mary, 29, 205n2 Navarro, María G., 60 Norris, Margot, 69, 82, 193 Núñez Rey, Concepción, 207n22, 226n6, 228n29 (chap. 7), 228n1–2 (chap. 8), 229–30n2 Nussbaum, Martha, 8, 10, 67 observer, implicated, 14, 75, 158, 200 Ortega, Marie-Linda, 205n3 Ortega y Gasset, José, 137, 150 pacifism: and feminism, 156–8, 165, 196, 199 Pardo Bazán, Emilia: 4, 15, 40, 105, 116, 157, 207n19, 211n5, 216n3, 222–3n30, 32; essays of, 109, 111, 113, 130, 221n20, 222nn21–4, 222n27, 222n32 Pardo Bazán, Emilia, works of: “exangüe, La,” 16, 109, 111–15;

“indulto, El,” 111; “oreja de Juan Soldado, La (Cuento futuro),” 104 Paredes Arnáiz, Anna María, 226n19 Pascasio Fernández Sardinó, Pedro, 20 Pateman, Carole, 5–7, 52–3, 139, 205n1, 206n11 patria: concept of, 13, 33–5, 64; as mother, 25; and virtue, 30–2 Pellicer, Josep Lluís, 69, 215n21, 220n10 Pérez Bernardo, María Luisa, 222n21–2, 222n25 Pérez Galdós, Benito, 25, 60, 96, 104, 154, 221n12, 223–4n4, 224n9, 228n22, 228n30 Pérez Gutiérrez, Dionisio, 159 Pérez Ledesma, Manuel, 28, 32, 220nn8–9, 226n18 Pérez Montero, María Eugenia, 215n20, 217n9 Peyrou, Florencia, 32 Philippines: Spain’s colonization of, 111–15. See also Pardo Bazán, works of: “exangüe, La” Pierson, Ruth Roach, 199 Pitt-Rivers, Julian, 97 Pla, Xavier, 206n15 Portalis, Jean-Étienne-Marie, 77, 84, 218n15 Pozzi, Gabriela, 227n14, 228n25, 229n9 Pratt, Mary Louise, 118, 152, 200 Prieto, Sara, 148, 227n20 Primo de Rivera, Miguel, 40 Ptolemy of Lucca, 58 pueblo, 127, 129, 208n7, 224n9, 225n14 Raemaekers, Louis, 72, 83, 159, 229n4 Ramos, María Dolores, 95, 157, 209n15, 228n1 Ras, Matilde, 12 Red Cross (Spanish), 61 Regenerationism, 15, 39, 43, 96, 122

Index 275 Rennger, Nicholas J., 56, 217n12 Reparaz, Gonzalo de, 136 Ribera, José Eugenio, 159 Rincón, Pablo, 23 Roca Barea, María Elvira, 38–9, 53, 220n5 Rodríguez, María Pilar, 229n9 Rodríguez Fischer, Ana, 229n5 Romeo Mateo, María Cruz, 58, 205n3 Romero Salvadó, Francisco J., 159 Rosenwein, Barbara H., 8–9, 206n12 Rosón, María, 49 Rota, Ivana, 216n29 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 27, 34–5, 53, 208n10 Ruddick, Sara, 8, 61, 64, 83, 200, 219n19 Rueda, Ana, 214n6, 227n18 Sampson, William T. (Admiral), 225n16 Sánchez Abadía, Silvia, 221n10 Sánchez Álvarez-Insúa, Alberto, 230n3 Sánchez Dueñas, Blas, 211n6 Sánchez García, Raquel, 23–4, 35, 49 Sánchez Hita, Beatriz, 209n16 Sárraga, Belén, 104 Scarry, Elaine, 178–9 Schlegel, August W., 45 Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher, 112, 210n1 Schneider, Karen, 205n4 Schweik, Susan, 75, 158, 196 Segal, Naomi, 138 Seigworth, Gregory J., 122 Serrano, Carlos, 42, 96, 211nn11–12, 212n18, 213n25, 220n10 Sharp, Michelle M., 229n10 Sharpe, Andrew N., 82 Sharpe, Jenny, 140, 151, 226n7

Shubert, Adrian, 207n3 Sieber, Harry, 97–8 Silva, María del Carmen, 20, 22 Silver, Brenda R., 49 Silverman, Kaja, 144 Sim, Elisabeth, 216n29 Sjoberg, Laura, 89–90, 219n20 Soliño, María Elena, 22, 207n3 Sommer, Doris, 51 Sontag, Susan, 67, 74–5, 213n1, 215–16nn24–5 Spaniard, 32–3 Stallybrass, Peter, 41, 189, 205n8 Starčević, Elizabeth, 228n2 Stoler, Ann Laura, 15, 134 Storm, Eric, 129 Surwillo, Lisa, 15 Suttner, Bertha von, 76, 86 Taillot, Allison, 226n6, 228n28 Tanner, Tony, 140, 145, 148 Tasende, Mercedes, 222n22 Tavera, Susana, 205n2 Teresa de Jesús, 121–2 Thomassen, Bjørn, 142 Tilburg, Patricia, 167, 181, 229n8 Tobias, Sheila, 205n2 Tolliver, Joyce, 111–14, 222nn22–3, 222n28, 222n31 Tone, John, 207n3, 209n14, 209n18 Triadó, Josep, 134 Trigo, Felipe, 195 Turc-Zinopoulos, Sylvie, 205n3 Turner, Victor, 142 Ugarte, Michael, 228n30 Ullman, Joan Connelly, 228n26 Unamuno, Miguel de: 39, 44–6, 104, 129, 137, 211–12n12, 223n2, 226n19; and intra-historia, 42–4, 52–3, 131, 213n25. See also casticismo

276 Index Valis, Noël, 214n8 Valle-Inclán, Ramón del, 13, 160, 229n5 Van Dijkhuizen, Jan Frans, 216n28 Vattel, Emmerich de, 84, 218n15 Vega, Juana de la, 60 Vialette, Aurélie, 40, 58–9, 64, 206n16, 214n15, 225n15 Vila-Belda, Reyes, 205n3 Viroli, Maurizio, 13, 35, 45, 58 Vitoria, Francisco de, 84 Vogel, Ursula, 26 Voltaire, 13 Voz de la Caridad, La, 60, 67, 214n10, 214n12 Walker, David M., 217n7 war: boundaries of, 4–5, 11, 47, 175–6; canon of, 3, 11, 196, 201–3; discourse of, 78–81, 86–7, 143–5, 162, 178–9, 183; and gender, 175–7; just war, 78, 89–90, 93–4, 203; and law, 81–4, 91, 93 (see also Arenal, C., works of: Ensayo sobre el Derecho de Gentes); metaphors of, 195–6; as monster, 81–2; and neutrality, 163–4; and pastoral tradition, 148; plots of, 48–9, 51–2, 55, 172–3, 175–7, 202–3, 213n22; useless mouths, 88–90; and women’s bodies, 184, 186–7 War of Independence: 3, 19–56, 127– 8, 208n6, 225n12; and Napoleon, 26–7, 35–7. See also Acuña, works of: Amor a la patria; De los Ríos, works of: Sangre española

War, Spanish-American (Disaster): 15–16, 98–9; and press, 130–1, 226n18; Spanish women writers on, 96–134 Ward, Bernardo, 58 Warner, Marina, 207n20, 221n19 Warren, Karen J., 200–1 Watson, Janet S.K., 175 Weber, Cynthia, 50, 212n20 Weber, Max, 9 Weil, Simone, 76–7 Wheaton, Henry, 84, 86, 218n15 White, E. Frances, 227n13 White, Luise, 114 White, Nicholas, 138, 145 White, Sarah L., 120–1, 224n5 Wiles, Janine, 201 Williams, Raymond, 9, 210n23 Wood, Francis Derwent, 190 Wood, Jennifer J., 226n6, 228n29 Woollacott, Angela, 205n4 World War I: and attitudes to, 182–4; and reconstruction, 188–93; and Spain, 159–60; and women’s contributions to, 166–9, 181–2. See also Burgos, works of: desconocido, El; fin de la guerra, El; Pasiones; World War I essays of Young, Iris Marion, 8, 206n13 Yuval-Davis, Nira, 8, 206n9, 206n11 Zapata-Calle, Ana, 226n8, 228n22 Zaplana, Esther, 207n22, 228n1, 230n2

Toronto Iberic

co-editors: Robert Davidson (Toronto) and Frederick A. de Armas (Chicago) editorial board: Josiah Blackmore (Harvard); Marina Brownlee (Princeton); Anthony J. Cascardi (Berkeley); Justin Crumbaugh (Mt Holyoke); Emily Francomano (Georgetown); Jordana Mendelson (NYU); Joan ­Ramon Resina (Stanford); Enrique García Santo-Tomás (U Michigan); H. Rosi Song (Durham); Kathleen Vernon (SUNY Stony Brook) 1 Anthony J. Cascardi, Cervantes, Literature, and the Discourse of Politics 2 Jessica A. Boon, The Mystical Science of the Soul: Medieval Cognition in Bernardino de Laredo’s Recollection Method 3 Susan Byrne, Law and History in Cervantes’ Don Quixote 4 Mary E. Barnard and Frederick A. de Armas (eds.), Objects of Culture in the Literature of Imperial Spain 5 Nil Santiáñez, Topographies of Fascism: Habitus, Space, and Writing in Twentieth-Century Spain 6 Nelson Orringer, Lorca in Tune with Falla: Literary and Musical Interludes 7 Ana M. Gómez-Bravo, Textual Agency: Writing Culture and Social Networks in Fifteenth-Century Spain 8 Javier Irigoyen-García, The Spanish Arcadia: Sheep Herding, Pastoral Discourse, and Ethnicity in Early Modern Spain 9 Stephanie Sieburth, Survival Songs: Conchita Piquer’s Coplas and Franco’s Regime of Terror 10 Christine Arkinstall, Spanish Female Writers and the Freethinking Press, 1879–1926 11 Margaret E. Boyle, Unruly Women: Performance, Penitence, and Punishment in Early Modern Spain

12 Evelina Gužauskytė, Christopher Columbus’s Naming in the diarios of the Four Voyages (1492–1504): A Discourse of Negotiation 13 Mary E. Barnard, Garcilaso de la Vega and the Material Culture of ­Renaissance Europe 14 William Viestenz, By the Grace of God: Francoist Spain and the Sacred Roots of Political Imagination 15 Michael Scham, Lector Ludens: The Representation of Games and Play in Cervantes 16 Stephen Rupp, Heroic Forms: Cervantes and the Literature of War 17 Enrique Fernandez, Anxieties of Interiority and Dissection in Early Modern Spain 18 Susan Byrne, Ficino in Spain 19 Patricia M. Keller, Ghostly Landscapes: Film, Photography, and the Aesthetics of Haunting in Contemporary Spanish Culture 20 Carolyn A. Nadeau, Food Matters: Alonso Quijano’s Diet and the Discourse of Food in Early Modern Spain 21 Cristian Berco, From Body to Community: Venereal Disease and Society in Baroque Spain 22 Elizabeth R. Wright, The Epic of Juan Latino: Dilemmas of Race and Religion in Renaissance Spain 23 Ryan D. Giles, Inscribed Power: Amulets and Magic in Early Spanish Literature 24 Jorge Pérez, Confessional Cinema: Religion, Film, and Modernity in Spain’s Development Years, 1960–1975 25 Joan Ramon Resina, Josep Pla: Seeing the World in the Form of Articles 26 Javier Irigoyen-García, “Moors Dressed as Moors”: Clothing, Social Distinction, and Ethnicity in Early Modern Iberia 27 Jean Dangler, Edging toward Iberia 28 Ryan D. Giles and Steven Wagschal (eds.), Beyond Sight: Engaging the Senses in Iberian Literatures and Cultures, 1200–1750 29 Silvia Bermúdez, Rocking the Boat: Migration and Race in Contemporary Spanish Music 30 Hilaire Kallendorf, Ambiguous Antidotes: Virtue as Vaccine for Vice in Early Modern Spain 31 Leslie Harkema, Spanish Modernism and the Poetics of Youth: From Miguel de Unamuno to La Joven Literatura 32 Benjamin Fraser, Cognitive Disability Aesthetics: Visual Culture, Dis­ ability Representations, and the (In)visibility of Cognitive Difference 33 Robert Patrick Newcomb, Iberianism and Crisis: Spain and Portugal at the Turn of the Twentieth Century 34 Sara J. Brenneis, Spaniards in Mauthausen: Representations of a Nazi Concentration Camp, 1940-2015

35 Silvia Bermúdez and Roberta Johnson (eds.), A New History of Iberian Feminisms 36 Steven Wagschal, Minding Animals in the Old and New Worlds: A Cognitive Historical Analysis 37 Heather Bamford, Cultures of the Fragment: Uses of the Iberian Manuscript, 1100–1600 38 Enrique García Santo-Tomás (ed.), Science on Stage in Early Modern Spain 39 Marina Brownlee (ed.), Cervantes’ Persiles and the Travails of Romance 40 Sarah Thomas, Inhabiting the In-Between: Childhood and Cinema in Spain’s Long Transition 41 David A. Wacks, Medieval Iberian Crusade Fiction and the Mediterranean World 42 Rosilie Hernández, Immaculate Conceptions: The Power of the Religious Imagination in Early Modern Spain 43 Mary Coffey and Margot Versteeg (eds.), Imagined Truths: Realism in Modern Spanish Literature and Culture 44 Diana Aramburu, Resisting Invisibility: Detecting the Female Body in Spanish Crime Fiction 45 Samuel Amago and Matthew J. Marr (eds.), Consequential Art: Comics Culture in Contemporary Spain 46 Richard P. Kinkade, Dawn of a Dynasty: The Life and Times of Infante Manuel of Castile 47 Jill Robbins, Poetry and Crisis: Cultural Politics and Citizenship in the Wake of the Madrid Bombings 48 Ana María Laguna and John Beusterien (eds.), Goodbye Eros: Recasting Forms and Norms of Love in the Age of Cervantes 49 Sara J. Brenneis and Gina Herrmann (eds.), Spain, World War II, and the Holocaust: History and Representation 50 Francisco Fernández de Alba, Sex, Drugs, and Fashion in 1970s Madrid 51 Daniel Aguirre-Oteiza, This Ghostly Poetry: Reading Spanish Republican Exiles between Literary History and Poetic Memory 52 Lara Anderson, Control and Resistance: Food Discourse in Franco Spain 53 Faith Harden, Arms and Letters: Military Life Writing in Early Modern Spain 54 Erin Alice Cowling, Tania de Miguel Magro, Mina García Jordán, and Glenda Y. Nieto-Cuebas (eds.), Social Justice in Spanish Golden Age Theatre 55 Paul Michael Johnson, Affective Geographies: Cervantes, Emotion, and the Literary Mediterranean

56 Justin Crumbaugh and Nil Santiáñez (eds.), Spanish Fascist Writing: An Anthology 57 Margaret E. Boyle and Sarah E. Owens (eds.), Health and Healing in the Early Modern Iberian World: A Gendered Perspective 58 Leticia Álvarez-Recio (ed.), Iberian Chivalric Romance: Translations and Cultural Transmission in Early Modern England 59 Henry Berlin, Alone Together: Poetics of the Passions in Late Medieval Iberia 60 Adrian Shubert, The Sword of Luchana: Baldomero Espartero and the Making of Modern Spain, 1793–1879 61 Jorge Pérez, Fashioning Spanish Cinema: Costume, Identity, and Stardom 62 Enriqueta Zafra, Lazarillo de Tormes: A Graphic Novel 63 Erin Alice Cowling, Chocolate: How a New World Commodity Conquered Spanish Literature 64 Mary E. Barnard, A Poetry of Things: The Material Lyric in Habsburg Spain 65 Frederick A. de Armas and James Mandrell (eds.), The Gastronomical Arts in Spain: Food and Etiquette 66 Catherine Infante, The Arts of Encounter: Christians, Muslims, and the Power of Images in Early Modern Spain 67 Robert Richmond Ellis, Bibliophiles, Murderous Bookmen, and Mad Librarians: The Story of Books in Modern Spain 68 Beatriz de Alba-Koch (ed.), The Ibero-American Baroque 69 Deborah R. Forteza, The English Reformation in the Spanish Imagination: Rewriting Nero, Jezebel, and the Dragon 70 Olga Sendra Ferrer, Barcelona, City of Margins 71 Dale Shuger, God Made Word: An Archaeology of Mystic Discourse in Early Modern Spain 72 Xosé M. Núñez Seixas, The Spanish Blue Division on the Eastern Front, 1941-45: War Experience, Occupation, Memory 73 Julia Domínguez, Quixotic Memories: Cervantes and Memory in Early Modern Spain 74 Anna Casas Aguilar, Bilingual Legacies: Father Figures in Self-Writing from Barcelona, 1975-2005 75 Julia H. Chang, Blood Novels: Gender, Caste, and Race in Spanish Realism 76 Frederick A. de Armas, Cervantes’ Architectures: The Dangers Outside 77 Michael Iarocci, The Art of Witnessing: Francisco de Goya’s Disasters of War 78 Esther Fernández and Adrienne L. Martín (eds.), Drawing the Curtain: Cervantes’s Theatrical Revelations 79 Emiro Martinez-Osorio and Mercedes Blanco (eds.), The War Trumpet: Iberian Epic Poetry, 1543–1639 80 Christine Arkinstall, Women on War in Spain’s Long Nineteenth Century: Virtue, Patriotism, Citizenship