Abstract: With the goal of understanding how women are viewed when they are sick, I researched Latin American literature written in the 1800s. I chose the two Romantic works María and Carmen and the two naturalist pieces Nelly and ¿Inocentes o Culpables? Novela Naturalista because of the predominant theme of disease in these writings. I examined representations of ill female characters to elucidate how some Latin American nineteenth century authors viewed sicknesses in women. In comparing the illness of the female protagonists, I found that in both periods, the etiology of illness in women posits that it derives from the nature of their gender. I also discovered a crucial difference between the women’s portrayal in the romantic and naturalist novels. In the two romantic stories, the women are portrayed as innocent victims of their diseases; while in the two naturalist pieces, the females are rendered as guilty creators of their own disorders. Along the way, I observed that ethnicity sometimes functions much like gender—as influential in determining the supposed origin of sickness. I also discovered that medical science is used to back up these socially constructed explanations of disease. HarnEnz 2 Banal small talk—this social lubricant eases otherwise awkward conversations. In such
situations, interested acquaintances, noticing my college age, always seem to ask a similar stream
of questions. “So are you in school? What’s your major? Oh really! You’re graduating this fall?
Well what will you do after?” My answer follows. “Yes! I’m getting degrees in Biology and
Spanish Literature.” Often my conversants question this combination. I imagine them thinking,
“Well, those don’t go together at all.” In an attempt to clarify, I say, “Oh, I’ll be going to medical
school, you see!” They nod politely, with most likely feigned understanding.
Perhaps reading this document would allow them to see my logic in choosing two so
different degrees in my undergraduate education. My four years culminate with this honors
thesis, in which I feel my contrasting fields of study come together to complement each other. As
I look forward to my career as a doctor, I note that the sciences and the humanities—or at least, a
humanistic perspective—weave the fabric of medicine. Many students, myself included, choose
to pursue this path because it includes both science and the opportunity to work with people; it
allows us to use scientific knowledge to aid others during the pivotal moments of their lives.
Recognizing the importance of my fellow humans, I find a need to understand human expression,
literary expression. In this piece, then, I direct my gaze to Latin American literature, to examine
the representations of diseased characters. Because my primary investigations determined that
disease as a theme persisted most strongly in Romantic and Naturalist works, I chose to read
nineteenth century novels from these literary movements. As an aside, the books’ historical
nature also appeals to me because it presents a perspective far removed in time and this allows
for a more clear analysis. I have further narrowed my viewing lens to primarily women. This
restricted focus on gender allows me to examine a frequently oppressed group to which I, and
likely half of my future patients, belong. In summary, in this paper I will examine understandings
HarnEnz 3 of illness and gender by comparing representations of the sick female character in romantic and
naturalist novels.
To understand classic romantic novels in general, modern readers may best picture these
books in terms of high drama—comparable to a movie found today on AMC or HBO. The
romantic, sentimentalist novel of Latin America in the 1800s overflows with emotion, with
misfortunes, and often ends in tragedy (Zavala 11). The importance of the individual is central in
the romantic novel (10). Often through detailed characterization, the author implores the
audience to connect spiritually with these individuals—to understand their souls and to feel their
sorrows. Romantic authors use illness, death and unachievable love as literary tropes (Carilla 68)
to accomplish such emotional solidarity with the protagonists. Interestingly, women, whose
names frequently title romantic works in the 1800s, embody many of the human misfortunes
with which readers identify (Carilla 68). As we approach the great human misfortune of illness in
the romantic novel, we observe that it and gender intertwine as both underscore the excessive
emotionality of the primarily female protagonist. It has been thought that this emotional core of
disease supersedes any scientific analysis attempted by the novel’s characters or narrators
(Zavala 11). However, I will show that when examining disease in the two romantic novels
discussed in this work, science plays a significant role in justifying the importance of emotional
explanations.
Often, as a rejection of the earlier romantic mindset, naturalist1 novels produced in the
second half of the nineteenth century in Latin America attempt a more distanced description of
the characters (404). Instead of exciting the reader’s empathy, the narrative tries to convince the
1 Realist and naturalist novels, in the Hispanic world, are difficult to distinguish and untangle (Zavala 405; Gnutzmann 181). Therefore I have chosen to continue to refer to both as naturalist. HarnEnz 4 reader of cerebral messages with a façade of objectivity. The medical background of many of the
authors explains this analytical, argumentative style; medical language and Darwinist scientific
theories permeate naturalist narratives (Nouzeilles 22). Disease is considered an arena for
observation, not a source of emotion. In addition, through medical pseudoscience, naturalist
works frequently identify, classify and exclude bodies marked by gender (27). Naturalist
literature blatantly employs medicine to justify themes of sexism and prejudice.
When examining ill female characters, one of the key differences I have found between
Romanticism and Naturalism is the role of the character’s willfulness in the development of their
disease. Along with addressing this component of will, my analysis will show that medical
understandings in the two movements assign contrasting levels of agency and blame to the
women for their illnesses. Without comparing Naturalism and Romanticism, nor mentioning
women, Susan Sontag in Illness as Metaphor introduces volition to the understanding of the
diseased individual in the 1800s: “In the nineteenth century the notion that the disease fits the
patient’s character, as the punishment fits the sinner, was replaced by the notion that it expresses
character. It is a product of will…the presence of disease signifies that the will itself is sick”
(43). If punishment is to disease as sinner is to character, then the reader understands that God,
or another external and mighty force, imposes disease upon the individual; a punishment implies
that someone is punishing. Interestingly, for disease in women, we see that punishment does not
always follow from an individual’s wrongful action. In The Bible, after Eve takes the fruit, God
delivers his just sentence: “To the woman he said, ‘I will make your pains in childbearing very
severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children’ ” (Holy Bible, New International
Version. Gen. 3:16). Eve chose wrongfully to take the fruit; the women who come after her did
not make Eve’s decision. Yet, by being her “daughters,” they inherit the punishment of painful
HarnEnz 5 childbirth. By applying this reading of The Bible to Sontag’s hypothesis, we see that disease, a
physical punishment akin to labor pains, may fit a woman’s character, specifically her gender
(“to the woman he said”). Gender is certainly a trait a woman does not choose. In this
interpretation, the female patient is not the agent of her character or her disease; God is. This
passive role in female illness strongly suggests that a woman is not responsible for an illness
bestowed upon her. She cannot be blamed for something she did not cause and cannot control. In
contrast, if the disease expresses character and is a product of will, then the ill woman plays a
role in producing her own disease. Will, volition, is defined as “mental powers manifested as
wishing, choosing, desiring, or intending” (“Will,” Websters, Def. 4a). A semblance of control
over her person and her illness implies that she has responsibility, and fault. Sontag presents
these two different hypotheses of disease etiologies—one in which the patient (the woman) plays
a passive role in their disease, and another in which the patient has agency over their illness. This
distinction between how illness is produced prompts the reader to inquire why the primary agent
of disease would shift from God to the (female) patient. Contextualizing the transition may
answer this question. Darwin’s publishing of On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural
Selection in 1859 revolutionized scientific, and theological thought by presenting the concept of
evolution by natural selection, which inherently contradicts religious stories of human
beginnings, such as The Bible’s Genesis (Campbell 1). As we move towards the end of the
nineteenth century, naturalism employing Darwinist logic (Nouzeilles 22) replaces the more
spiritual Romanticism. It is fitting, then, that naturalist writings would understand not only the
origin of man, but also the production of disease, as no longer controlled by God. In comparing
two romantic novels, María and Carmen, with two naturalist works, Nelly and ¿Inocentes o
HarnEnz 6 culpables? Novela Naturalista, we see that disease fits the innocent, submissive female character
in Romanticism and is produced by the female’s guilty, subversive will in Naturalism.
In María, by Jorge Issacs, María’s youth, purity and Christianity portray her as an
innocent girl. Efraín, the narrator, describes her, a young woman, as a child and her father figure
states that she is too young to marry (20, 40, 55). Viewing her as a child takes away her power,
responsibility and, as she becomes ill, any sense of fault. Her virginity further designates her as
an innocent. Efraín compares her face with “una virgen de Rafael” (22) and “la virgen Cristiana”
(24). Efraín’s narration exalts her purity and modesty as beautiful and seductive: “Niña cariñosa
y risueña, mujer tan pura y seductora” (40); “La más arrobadora expression que pueden producir,
al combinarse en la mirada de una mujer, la ternura y el pudor” (65). Her modesty is further
revealed as she hides her eyes from Efraín; “María me ocultaba sus ojos tenazmente” (20).
Shielding her gaze and failing to connect her sight with his could signify that she knows her
place as a woman—she must be respectful and submissive. Clearly, the narrator portrays María
as the pinnacle of Christian femininity: her caring, tender, modest, happy, pure and innocent
person approaches perfection.
Her Jewish heritage, however, presents an unavoidable character flaw. Her biological
father, Salomón, gives her to his cousin, her adoptive father, to be raised by his Christian wife:
“Las crisitianas son dulces y buenas, y tu esposa debe ser una santa madre,” (31). Salomón’s
praise for the Christian woman as a good mother and wife simultaneously implies what is not
said; that his deceased Jewish wife Sara was a bad wife and mother. Salomón requests, “hazla
bautizar y que le cambien el nombre de Ester por el de María” (31). The name change to María
reflects Solomón’s rejection of their Jewish heritage and a subsequent transformation of
character. Her dead mother, Sara, however, may not have approved of this change, as Salomón
HarnEnz 7 also requests that his cousin “no lo [diga] a nuestros parientes” (31). The family’s potential
disapproval of the christianization of Ester, and the forced replacement of the Jewish mother
mark the conversion as unacceptable to some of the child’s Judaic relations. Ester is converted
and her name changed, yet María holds on to the memory of her Jewish mother with a lock of
her hair (149). This serves as a reminder of her not fully cleansed blood. A more physical, and
sinister, reminder of Sara and her Jewish past comes with the onset of María’s epileptic disease,
said to have killed Sara (46). María’s Jewish mother haunts María’s memory and her blood. Sara
represents a part of María’s past and present that María cannot evade; her character cannot ever
fully change. Aptly, her adoptive father jokingly calls her “judía” (150). The playful namecalling signifies his recognition of their shared heritage, and connects the two converted Jews in
the otherwise Christian family. Efraín admits that while few could guess she is not his parents’
daughter by birth, her voice has “el acento con algo de melancólico que no [tienen] nuestras
voces,” (32) as she learned castellano at the age of three (31). Her tone of voice separates her
from “nosotros,” from the rest of the Spanish speaking, Christian family. Her Jewish heritage
represents an underlying characteristic of “otherness” that she cannot convert.
Her epileptic, nervous disease further presents María as a powerless outcast. A
conversation with her adoptive mother emphasizes her innocence. María asks “ ‘¿Acaso tengo yo
la culpa?...¿Hago mal, pues?’ ‘No hija: pero tu papá creyó que tu enfermedad necesitaba
precauciones’ ” (118). Their conversation demonstrates María’s efforts to seek parental approval
and reassurance; her meekness reiterates her submissive position as a child. As her father makes
the decision to take precautions for her, he assumes control over her as his dependent. With no
fault for her disease and no responsibility for acting on it, María makes no decisions to affect the
onset or the course of her illness. If she could have chosen, she would have opted for health:
HarnEnz 8 “¡Ay no, no, no; yo no quiero volver a enfermarme!” (52). Her emphatic rejection of becoming
sick again demonstrates the uselessness of her will. She wants to resist the disease, but she
cannot. While Efráin studies in Europe, she writes to him about her declining health: “Yo tendré
fuerza para resistir hasta que te vea” (279). Despite her reassuring words, she does not have the
strength to combat her worsening epilepsy, and dies before she sees him again. The inevitability
of her ethnically marked disease leaves her powerless, as it is thought to be the same as that of
her mother, Jewish Sara: “El doctor Mayn se atreve casi a asegurar que ella morirá joven del
mismo mal del que sucumbió su madre” (55). The doctor articulates her fate and dooms her not
only to the disease passed by blood, but also to the same death. This predetermined future, so
fitting to her ancestrally derived person, prohibits her agency.
Her disease, over which she has no control, threatens not only her life, but also her social
standing, precisely because it is seen as so strongly rooted in a problematic aspect of her
character. Regardless of her innocence, her disease is viewed as shameful. The father warns
Efraín that her disease, if she were to marry him, would be a disgraceful misfortune: “María
puede arrastrarte y arrastrarnos contigo a una desgracia lamentable de que ésta amenazada” (55).
Not surprisingly, the disease is kept secret when the parents attempt to marry her into another
family: “No ha querido tu padre hablar al señor de M*** de la enfermedad de María, temeroso
de que se estime eso como un pretexto de repulsa” (113). Much as being Jewish may be grounds
to prohibit Christian marriage in this society, her disease is seen as an impediment to a socially
sanctioned relationship—it is something disgusting to be hidden. María recognizes this fact, as
she will not consent to be Efraín’s wife if her illness persists (114). This shame filled portrayal of
the physical disease suggests a connection between it and social disgrace. The epileptic fits
HarnEnz 9 repeatedly bring to the surface the hushed flaw of Jewish blood, a flaw whose discovery would
result in social ostracism.
Her epilepsy arises not only from the social stigma of Judaism, but also from an
excessive femininity. As being Jewish stains her “perfect” Christian character, so too does an
excess of emotion soil her idealized feminine virtues. Her first nervous fit begins after Efrain
departs for a trip to the mountains, and she is briefly separated from him, her cousin and
childhood love (46). The doctor, as when marking the connection between her disease and her
bad blood, offers a diagnosis: “Emociones intensas, nuevas para ella, son las que, según Mayn,
han hecho aparecer los síntomas de la enfermedad” (56). The doctor now clearly identifies the
cause of her illness: her new, strong, adolescent emotions. Imitating the doctor as he takes on the
role of the observant medical student, Efraín “espiaba el rostro de María sin que ella lo notase,
buscando los síntomas de su mal, a los cuales precedía siempre aquella melancolía que de súbito
se había apoderado de ella” (146). Efraín repeats the doctor’s analysis: melancholy causes
nervous fits. He observes throughout the novel that “esa tristeza destruiría su salud” (278). Her
all-encompassing sadness, or overblown emotion, is thought to cause her hysteria—her nervous
fits. As Marci Rinka explains in Images of Female Madness in the Nineteenth Century Latin
American Novel and Short Story, hysteria was thought to be a feminine disease in the nineteenth
century (4). She adds, “Male Latin American writers reproduce a vision of women as mad,
infirm and generally prone to mental illness” (11). Isaacs presents in María an overemotional
feminine nature that manifests as mental illness, as what Freud would call hysteria in its worst
form: epilepsy (Sommer 196). The combined character flaws of being female and Jewish doom
María to illness and ultimate death, despite her innocence and conversion to Christianity. In this
romantic novel, the disease fits the individual.
HarnEnz 10 The male authorities in the novel consider two opposing strategies to remedy her disease.
The first is to treat her as an innocent child and try to continue to suppress her love for Efraín.
Dr. Mayn and the father propose the first of these treatments, as the father views her as too
young for marriage and her illness as bringing disgraceful effects on the family (55). This
method is the preferred remedy not only because they view her as a child, but also because the
father wants to protect the family from the soiling that comes with her Jewish heritage. And so
deciding to go on with the initial plan to remove Efraín from the family household for medical
training in Europe, in spite of the ill effects of this plan on María, is thought to at some point
contain her emotions and prevent her marriage with him. Sommer interprets this kind of strategy
as deriving from the men locating the medical problem in an underlying threat of potential
female sexuality, “so that the cure was to control it” (197). While María’s modesty and purity
are far from suggesting a rampant female sexuality, her excess of emotion could be connected to
too much desire and could lead to uncontrolled sexuality. Their fear may be understood by
noting that hysteria was clinically viewed as a mental imbalance that, along with other physical
symptoms, was caused by a disorder of the female reproductive organs (Rinka 15). As such,
emphasizing her innocence, her virginity, may lead to her cure, as the male dominated medical
authority views her disease to be caused by those aspects of her character that dirty her perfect
façade: her Judaism and her imminent sexuality.
The opposing cure, to bring Efraín back to her, is considered grudgingly, and too late to
save her. As her first attack occurs when Efraín is gone to visit friends in the mountains, and her
death occurs after his lengthy time abroad, it is likely that her health would have been improved
by marrying him (Skinner 57-58). Before Efraín departs to Europe, she tells him, “Me dejas
aquí, y recordando y esperando voy a morirme” (Issacs 263). Her sadness, and illness, spring
HarnEnz 11 from their separation—from the forced suppression of her affection. Efraín describes her letter,
in which she begs him to return, “Si vienes yo me aliviaré” (279). With Efraín as her treatment,
she writes to him, “yo habría vivido para ti” (279). As her death nears, Dr. Mayn’s initial
medical prescription changes: “Los médicos tenían solo una esperanza de salvar a María: la que
les hacía conservar mi regreso” (279). Sommer understands this cure of bringing Efraín back and
their subsequent marriage as giving “the hysterical woman what she lacked, a penis” (197).
Sommer’s Freudian analysis identifies the scientifically backed perspective of a disequilibrium
existing in María with an overly feminine nature as the impetus of the malady. Hence, an influx
of manliness might be able to restore order. Socially sanctioned marital copulation, therefore,
could possibly return balance to María’s character. In this supposedly logical, medical view,
Efraín’s marriage to her would remedy her hysteria, her epilepsy and save her life. Under this
approach, her culturally determined deficiency in being female would be read as at least partially
causing her disease. Giving her a better half—Efraín through marriage—would “cure” her
incomplete femaleness. The possibility of treating her as a deficient woman and marrying her,
however, is not an option until it is too late, as Efraín arrives after her death. The father feels
responsible for this and laments, “yo, autor de ese viaje maldecido, la he muerto” (314). Just as
he feels guilt for prohibiting the marriage of Efraín and María, he perhaps also feels guilt for
condemning her to death for the Jewish heritage he so strongly shares with her. Doctor Mayn had
predicted her inevitable death and clearly suggested its connection with her femininity and her
ethnic heritage. While her excessive feminine nature could have been controlled with a husband,
her Jewish blood doomed her beyond cure. The girl’s inability to reverse her disease reinforces
her powerlessness over the epileptic fits. The male authority figures—the doctor and her father—
orchestrate the attempted cure. With the men making the decisions, María has no choice about
HarnEnz 12 the course of her failed treatment or her resultant death: will is not a factor in her illness.
External forces determine her fate, over which she has no control. An omnipotent presence, God,
predetermines her character (her sins)—being female and Jewish—and her punishment—
epilepsy. Her disease is made fatal, again most likely by God, but also probably by the other
force that determines her actions: the men and their unsuccessful “medical” treatment.
Not surprisingly, the father’s Semitic blood also is thought by the doctor to predispose
him to hysterical, feverish episodes. In his case, the symptoms begin after a business failure. The
physician understands the cause: “puede estar usted casi seguro de que esa desgracia de que le he
hablado ha sido la causa principal de la enfermedad” (174). Part of the treatment, therefore,
includes avoiding talk of business (185). The father hides the business failure from his wife, so
as to not let it weigh on her (174). As his illness becomes more violent and her worries increase,
he continues to insist that she not know the cause. The undertones of shame suggested by this
secrecy are reminiscent of María and her illness. Doris Sommer reads his fevers as a “hysterical
response to imminent financial disaster and the consequent social ostracism that the Jew must
have feared” (196). Just as Maria’s Jewish heritage could not be changed, his Judaism also
remains part of his character and colors his business dealings. The narrative portrays his Jewish
ethnicity as manifesting physically in hysterical delusions and fevers. The doctor provides his
expert opinion of the father’s illness to Efraín: “existen enfermedades que, residiendo en el
espíritu, se disfrazan con los síntomas de otras, o se complican con las más conocidas por la
ciencia” (Issacs 173-174). Although brought on by a business failure, medicine explains his
disease as having an ethno-spiritual origin and so fitting him as an individual. As the doctor
ascribes a root cause to the father’s fevers, he speaks in general terms and makes his diagnosis
applicable to María as well, who similarly shares a Judaic essence. The medical determination of
HarnEnz 13 a deep connection between the father’s disease and his character is emphasized by the
physician’s treatment: a “copiosa sangría” without which he is portrayed as likely dying (178).
His illness, by the way, takes many days to subside (185). The medical intervention removes an
excess of precisely what so strongly influenced the pseudo-scientifically explained onset of his
malaise—his Jewish blood. The cause of the father’s disorder is presented clinically as inherent
to his character and, therefore, “helps to explain María’s disease as over-determined by her being
both a woman and a Jew” (Sommer 196). Through the father’s character and his illness, we see
that Judaism in María has a similar role to excessive femininity—both traits in this Christian,
male dominated society are justified by the medical establishment as abnormal, sinful and
therefore pathological.
In contrast to María, in Carmen, our second romantic novel, written by Pedro Castera,
ethnicity does not contribute to the flaws of the female protagonist. The girl’s illness, however, is
also portrayed as over determined by her gender. Similar to what we saw in María, Carmen’s
youthfulness and virginity are central to the character and help remove any sense of her being at
fault for her disease. The male narrator frequently refers to her as “niña.” Naming her child, or
girl, reveals her youth and implies naïveté and lack of experience. He describes her modesty
(47), her “candor” (47), and her physical and mental beauty as incorporating her innocence: “La
gracia, la simpatía y la inocencia completaban aquella belleza soberana” (47). He further focuses
on her virginity and her virgin heart (57). The narrator and male protagonist significantly limits
her contact with others, so much so that the only men she knows are himself and an old gardener
(64). This sheltered living has kept “la pureza y la virginidad de su cuerpo, de sus sentidos y de
su alma” (64). Her highly prized virginity makes her clean, untouched, innocent of wrong. Her
extreme purity is further associated with the spiritual, as the narrator comments about her soul
HarnEnz 14 that “Almas así…no son para la tierra” (272). With this statement he suggests that she possesses
ethereal characteristics and goodness worthy of heaven.
Some of her exaggerated feminine characteristics, however, mark her character as less
than perfect. In contrast to María’s narrator Efraín, here the male narrator describes Carmen’s
body sensually. His rendering underlines her transition from girl to woman; “La niña comenzaba
a borrarse, mientras que la mujer aparecía,” (31). He frequently comments on her sensuous body,
for example, as when he states, “Los perfiles desaparecían cambiandose en morbideces.” (31).
He also notes “la riqueza y suavedad de las curvas” (31). Often, the perceived softness of her
body, or alluring details of her physical beauty excite fantasies in him. When describing her face
he states, “en la barba había un hoyuelo que provocaba a besarlo” (47). Their physical affection,
expressed by embraces, hand holding and kisses that he shares with her later in the story, are
often vividly, passionately described. As he details her body, suggesting sexuality and sin, he
complicates earlier notions of her innocence and childishness. Her overly sensual, feminine body
transforms her into a woman, into a potential lover, and therefore removes the protective shield
of the purity of her childhood.
Adolescent Carmen’s passionate and overly emotional qualities further distance her from
her innocent child-like self, and disrupt the earlier image of her idealized femininity. Her
emphatic piano playing expresses “el anhelo inmenso de la pasión” (61) in her soul. As her
fingers run across the keys the narrator states that, “era su alma la que hablaba. Su corazón y sus
pensamientos eran traducidos en música” (61). With an artist’s vivid temperament, she
expresses intense feelings through the music. Her emotionality is connected with nervous energy
throughout the novel. She yells her father’s name “con nervioso rigor” (49). Later, her chest is
described as “virginal y mórdibamente nervioso” (75). These excitable traits manifest as intense
HarnEnz 15 jealousy of other women who have access to the narrator. Even as a young child, when she saw
him showing affection towards any other girl, “su carita infantile y risueña se volvía severa y
triste” (30). He states, “en todos sus actos revelaba su enojo y desepecho más parecida a una
pequeña amante, que una hija” (30). Much like her sensual body, jealousy, a lover’s common
obsession, transforms her from a child into a woman. This strong emotion strips away her
innocence, as sadness and anger wipe away her smile when faced with competition for the
narrator’s affections. In the 19th century, and particularly during the romantic period, an excess
of emotion was often associated with negative feminine qualities. As explained above with
María, women are often perceived as the “physically and emotionally weaker sex” (Rinka 9).
This viewing of females as emotionally weaker, or as more predisposed to falling victim to their
emotions, is observed in the presentation of Carmen’s passion and jealousy as harmful feminine
characteristics. Yet, in spite of those womanly tendencies presented as clearly negative, the
narrator describes her as a “víctima inocente de la fuerza y de la exageración de sus
sentimientos” (150). Carmen’s overblown emotions are thought to be out of her control. She is
not responsible for her excess of feeling any more than she is for being female.
Love, specifically Carmen’s romantic love for the narrator and her resultant excessive
jealousy, is thought to push her emotional imbalance to dangerous limits. He describes each
look, each sentence, exchanged between the lovers, as killing her (104). Similar to María,
Carmen’s separation from the narrator is also thought to slowly lead to her death (180, 196).
Love is so strongly associated with illness Carmen thinks love itself is a sickness: “Estoy muy
mal de amor. El amor es una enfermedad. El corazón está muy hinchado de tanto como lo
quiero” (273). Carmen further describes her illness: “yo tenía un corazón chiquito…y como el
amor lo vuelve grande…el mío…ha crecido tanto que se quiere reventar” (286). The direct
HarnEnz 16 physical connection between love and the size of the heart forms the base of her understanding of
her disease. The novel interprets her ailment; too much love, too much emotion causes
hypertrophy of the heart. Furthermore, as she rapidly becomes a woman, her infantile heart, her
feminine emotional center, cannot withstand overuse generated by her intense feelings.
The nature of Carmen’s disease links an emotional cause to her physical symptoms from
the start. The initial description of her character as nervous and passionate predisposes her to
overuse her heart. The physical and moral intertwine when she understands her physical
condition, “ese latido tan feo” (74), as originating in the emotional—“Nervioso, puramente
nervioso” (75). The remedy of cold baths that she takes daily (42,75) are meant to shock her out
of this permanent overwrought state—to physically and metaphorically cool her hot, nervous
energy. Carmen’s mother understands that “Esa niña es una sensitiva y las emociones la matan”
(76). She makes a connection between Carmen’s sensitive nature, an emotional perturbance, and
her fatal disease. The doctor, Manuel, explains her condition scientifically: “esa niña está real y
positivamente enferma…de una hipertrofía en el corazón” (88). By determining with his medical
authority that she is actually sick, and by naming her illness, Manuel legitimizes it and gives it
scientific backing. Building on the earlier, layman’s knowledge of the cause of her disease, he
authoritatively, and scientifically, grants it a strong emotional component: “La enfermedad
moral, es decir, la pasión y los celos, vienen a agravar más la enfermedad física” (152). This
view of the influence of morally compromised behavior on physical well-being, which arises
after and based in Carmen’s and her family’s own assessments, supports the notion that that
societal perceptions influence, and produce, medical doctrines. Sontag hypothesizes that a social
or moral flaw is most likely to be wrongly associated with a poorly understood disease (61).
Indeed, Carmen’s heart abnormality is a rarity (88). In keeping with Sontag’s hypothesis, Manuel
HarnEnz 17 explains the cause of her disease, a scientific unknown, by pointing at its socially derived origin
of her disease—jealousy and possessiveness. He fills in the gap left by 19th century medicine
with traits, thought to be typical of sick women during this period of time (Rinka 92). Carmen’s
heart condition, then, as explained by this pseudo-scientific diagnosis, expresses disequilibrium
in her character; it is the physical eruption of too much femininity.
Examining the narrator’s brief disease strengthens the connection between Carmen’s
illness and her being a woman. The causes of his disease are portrayed as similar to those of
Carmen’s disease. He is also very much in love with her (Castera 84), and love can lead to death
in both men and women (210). He is also jealous (114) and his illness has its onset after their
separation (210). During his fever he describes himself as “tembloroso por la emoción” (215).
The overt expression of these feminine traits—too much love, excessive jealousy—reach their
somatic climax with his sweats and delirium. However, unlike with Carmen, and María, the
moral and physical disease does not kill him. The narrator states: “Mi vigorosa naturaleza obtuvo
el triunfo sobre la enfermedad, debido a los auxillos de la ciencia” (216). His physical strength is
a testament to his masculinity, playing the ultimate role in saving his life. As the victor over this
feminine disease, he utilizes his male birthright to exhibit control over his own body and self. In
stark contrast, María and Carmen, the female characters in these romantic novels can never
control their own bodies. This powerlessness, in comparison to the male narrator’s willful end of
his symptoms, supports that Carmen’s disease is thought to follow from her feminine weakness.
Carmen’s lack of control permeates her character and results in her death. Manuel
explains to the narrator his role in producing Carmen’s character: “Has formado un ser que moral
e intelecutalmente es parecido a ti. Amas tu obra, tu copia, tu imagen y el reflejo de tu espíritu en
el suyo” (88). According to this professional perspective, the narrator formed, educated and
HarnEnz 18 raised her in his image. As such, he is the sculptor, the creator of her form. In his explanation, the
doctor implies that she had no agency in the process of her growth and maturation. The narrator
further describes that not only did he make her—she is not even her own person: “Eramos dos
mitades de un ser que completaban la una a la otra...¿No era ella el corazón y yo el cerebro de un
mismo, solo y único ser?” (71-72). He gives his own, physiological metaphor for their
relationship: out of the two sections, she is the lesser part of him. He is the rational being—the
head, the brain. She is the heart, the emotional organ—the location of unreasonable feeling. As
the control center, he has the power, the will. The doctor thinks that their marriage, the
ceremonial recognition of their union as head and heart, will cure her illness: “Para curarla ese
remedio: su matrimonio contigo” (304). Love, in the form of marriage and therefore moderated
by a husband, could save her life. Similar to what occurs in María, the proposed medicinal
treatment of marital union gives her what she supposedly lacks: masculinity. Pairing her with the
narrator in this spiritual and physical bond would allow him, as her husband, to direct, and
appropriately channel her excessive emotion. Their marriage would definitively place her, and
her irrational explosion of emotion, under the measured guidance of him and his ability to
reason. However, she is too sick—her emotional center too uncontainable—to attempt the full
remedy. Overblown jealousy and too powerfully felt love cause physical symptoms beyond
repair. Therefore, they marry only spiritually, without consummation. Without the physical bond
he does not remedy her somatic symptoms, and she dies. We can infer that Carmen’s demise—
her inability to beat her grave illness—results from her feminine lack of autonomy. Placing
Carmen’s only possible cure in the narrator’s hands underscores her complete lack of agency
over her own person, let alone her illness. Without a doubt, her uncontrollable disease fits her
irrational, emotional female character.
HarnEnz 19 In Nelly, a naturalist novel written by Dr. Eduardo Holmberg, the female protagonist, the
female protagonist by the same name during the first stage of her disease appears to follow her
romantic female predecessors, María and Carmen. Features of her disease seem to fit her
feminine character. Initially, Edwin, Nelly’s fiancé, describes her as having what are considered
to be positive female characteristics in the nineteenth century. He says, “Pobre Nelly! ¡Qué
criatura tan infinitamente pequeña, dulce y delicada” (Holmberg 51). Describing her as small,
sweet and delicate marks her as stereotypically feminine, but also his tone and the “Pobre” imply
that she is weak, helpless. He compares her to women in the exotic places he travels to. Nelly is
“pura y radiosa, y más angelical que aquellas serpientes del Ramayana” (52). He exalts the purity
of his fiancé, placing it above that of the women in the east. In his rendering, however, we can
observe a difference with the descriptions of María and Carmen: the intense purity of virginity
does not dominate the description of Nelly. In the first mention of her health, she is described as
“dulce, amorosa y pálida...aquella almita ténue, pero cálida y vibrante, que tenía la virtud de los
verdaderos amores” (V). Her paleness here alludes to her desirable skin color, but also likely to
her impending illness. And her fine, faint soul echoes the feminine helplessness portrayed above.
In the first stage of her disease, we see that her womanly weakness translates into an
excess of emotion: possessiveness and jealousy that are thought to cause her psychosomatic
illness. Her disease obviously has physical symptoms, yet its origins are depicted as both
physical and mental. Her primary physiological symptom is described as “un ataque tan violento
al corazón” (49). Similar to María and Carmen, one demonstrated cause for this sign is her
sensibility. Her melancholy character (51) is displayed as she cries frequently when with Edwin,
“y entonces [él tiene] oportunidad de conocer que su sensibilidad [es] extrema” (44). Separation
from Edwin aggravates her already emotional character. Nelly begs Edwin to return from his trip
HarnEnz 20 to be with her, writing to him in a letter, “He sufrido mucho, Edwin. Mi vida ha estado en
peligro...me moriré léjos de ti” (49). Her overflowing misery arises as she suffers from not being
with him, and it is made explicit as she threatens to die with him away. After she tells him of
another nervous fit, she again commands him: “nunca jamás te separás de mí” (53). She wants
him by her side, and is envious of his love of travel (Rinka 92). Possessiveness is also associated
with both María and Carmen; jealousy also with Carmen. But we do see subtle differences
between Nelly and the other two women in the initial description of Nelly’s character and
reaction to her illness. Nelly’s commanding tone when telling Edwin that he will never again
separate from her is striking compared to the meekness and submissiveness of Carmen and
María; this order is our first hint of her disrespectful willfulness. Jealousy and/or possessiveness
explain María’s, Carmen’s and Nelly’s illnesses. Marci Rinka in Images of Female Madness in
the Nineteenth Century Latin American Novel and Short Story states that jealously and
possessiveness are “considered negative and associated with feminine mental illness in the 19th
century” (92). The three protagonists’ predisposed characters easily fall prey to the feminine
disorder of hysteria. In the case of Nelly, the doctors attempt to diagnose her, as Edwin narrates:
“no sabían de lo que se trataba. Para unos, era exceso de sensibilidad; para otros, una afección
nerviosa de origen moral; y unos de ellos, me espantaron con la expresión: histerismo telepático”
(Holmberg 54). The variable nomenclature for the illness reveals medical confusion in reaching a
diagnosis. Similar to Carmen’s case, Nelly’s disease is not well understood. Susan Sontag,
therefore, would likely describe her illness as being ascribed an origin that derives from social
constructs, in the absence of hard evidence. Without scientific consensus, the medical
understanding convenes on a gendered, culturally determined source to her illness: excessive and
abnormal emotionality. For the most part, the initial portrayal of Nelly and the pseudo-scientific
HarnEnz 21 “knowledge” of her disease seem to align her with her romantic counterparts, Carmen and María.
Something innate to their characters—an over expression of their gender—is depicted as causing
their illness.
During the first stage of Nelly’s illness, the proposed cure is noticeably similar to that of
María and Carmen. Because the cause is determined to reside in excessive emotion from her
separation from Edwin, the cure is to keep them forever together (54). He describes, “Como los
médicos no se oponían, y hasta lo aconsejaron, celbróse la boda” (54) With the blessing of the
doctors, they marry. The cure seems to work—she is happy, full of life and in love (54). This
strengthens the hypothesis that her illness, at least at first, is painted as in line with her, the
female character that needs the presence of a man to become balanced again and heal.
Yet, Nelly is not the only female character who falls ill; her daughters also die of a
mysterious and sudden disease. Examining her girls and their diseases reveals much about Nelly,
and in turn, complicates the notion of her affliction as merely another example of a woman’s
character fitting her illness. Before the birth of the children, Edwin had sexual relations with
women in Egypt (48) and India (52). Nelly knows this—she calls him a liar and blames him for
the pain this caused her (94). The children she bears after his return and their marriage are dark
skinned, the first looking Egyptian and the second Indian, largely unlike Edwin and Nelly (57,
58). They even share names with the Egyptian and Indian women—Almea and Bayadera (48, 52,
57, 58, 94). These similarities suggest that they are products of Edwin’s sexual relations with the
other women. Their fatal diseases could be punishment for their bastard nature deriving from
their father’s sins. However, they are clearly portrayed as Nelly’s children. Despite her physical
likeness to an Egyptian woman, Almea has similar facial features to Nelly (57). This is not truly
surprising, as Nelly’s pregnancy and birthing of both girls (57, 58) makes another mother
HarnEnz 22 biologically impossible. Nelly sees them as her children and refers to them as “mi Almea” (57)
and “mi Bayadera” (58). Repeatedly calling them “my” children suggests that they are not
“yours” (Edwin’s) or “ours” (both Nelly’s and Edwin’s), and implies that Edwin may not be the
father. When Almea dies in the arms of the doctor, Edwin describes how Nelly “se arrojó en [mis
brazos]....dejando desbordar su inmenso dolor en lágrimas y gritos desgarradores” (58). After
Bayadera dies, he states that Nelly was “convulsa en mis brazos” (58). Her violent reaction to
their deaths is more profound and much more strongly felt than his, who seems only to observe,
whose own pain increases only upon seeing her so deeply distressed (58). Despite the certainty
that the children are hers and indirect suggestions that they may not be his, the story never
directly mentions any event during which Nelly could have been unfaithful. Edwin struggles to
interpret the death of the girls as he states: “Yo no podía creer que nuestra desgracia viniera en
castigo de mis culpas, porque habría sido ofender á la Divinidad el sospechar, áun con el espíritu
mas piadoso, que la pena mayor fuese para Nelly” (58). Edwin cannot believe that his sins
brought about the deaths of the girls. He cannot accept responsibility and as far as we know,
Nelly is innocent. He says that it is both his and Nelly’s combined misfortune that the girls died;
yet he acknowledges that Nelly’s pain, her punishment, is greater, as she grieves with visible
despair for the loss of her daughters. He goes on to say: “Nunca volví a ver la sonrisa en los
lábios de mi compañera” (58). The death of her daughters affects her so significantly and her
resultant depression is so deep that her happiness has been completely lost. Upon a superficial
reading, this situation presents a perplexing picture: her punishment is extreme, for a crime that
he supposedly committed. Questioning the piety of her soul, as Edwin describes it, and
transferring the crime of extramarital sex to her would solve this discordance between
perpetrator and sentence. The feminine weakness that leads to her physical illness sets the stage
HarnEnz 23 for her to falter morally, and for the vigilant reader to continue to question Nelly’s faithfulness,
given the two foreign looking daughters that still resemble her. Nelly is possessive and jealous,
but, unlike Carmen and María, she is not viewed as virginal. As a mother of three, Nelly is a
woman—not a child like Maria or a child-woman like Carmen. This position as a childbearing
adult allows her to make decisions and to therefore be suspected of fault. The active sexuality
and responsibility implied by motherhood, coupled with an overly feminine nature predisposed
to (moral) weakness allows for the leap from understanding her as the victim to seeing her as the
perpetrator. Ethical deviance and its associated mental infirmity are assigned to Nelly, a female
scapegoat. This differs from María and Carmen sharply; Nelly is not innocent and the disease
does not simply fit her innate character. Through the subtle metaphorical reassignment of
Edwin’s sexual relations to Nelly, she acquires a capacity to make immoral decisions—to
function willfully.
Not only do her exotic daughters dash her innocence, but also Nelly’s indifferent and
manipulative mothering of her son marks her as an insubordinate female. After the death of her
daughters, she does not show appropriate interest in the boy. Edwin describes her mannerisms
while mothering their son: “faltaba un no sé que de espontaneidad y gracia, como si hubiera sido
por cumplir dignamente su deber, y nada más” (59). Attending to the boy does not bring her
happiness. Viewing her maternal tasks as obligations rather than joys presents her as a less than
ideal mother to him. When the boy’s teeth come in and he learns to walk, Edwin notices: “Para
Nelly, tal cosa no tenía importancia” (59). Her indifference defies the traditional motherhood
role, which should be steeped in love and affection. Apathy towards her son allows her to use
him—despite any potential negative effects on his upbringing—to seek revenge on her husband.
After returning from the dead, Nelly confesses to Edwin in the cemetery: “Yo he robado á tu
HarnEnz 24 hijo; yo he querido hacerte sufrir también, para que comprendieras lo que he padecido” (94). She
not only wishes her husband suffering and depression, but also is willing to kidnap their son to
achieve it. Despite the boy’s probable safety with his nanny in Spain, (96) it clearly was not in
his best interest to separate him from his father. The 19th century reader would view something
entirely wrong with her desires—with her wishing mental anguish on her husband. Her
manipulative plan requires premeditation and deeply immoral behavior: dishonesty, theft and
kidnapping. Edwin’s father in-law discovers after her death that she removed 5,000 £ from
Edwin’s bank account the day of the boy’s disappearance (92). After this day, when Edwin asks
where his son is, he is met with a series of lies: the boy is on a walk or at a relative’s house (92).
Nelly’s unethical behavior displays a serious error in her moral compass: an abnormal and
misguided will. Not coincidentally, Nelly falls gravely ill the day after taking the money and
facilitating the boy’s kidnapping (92). She later makes the connection between her wrongful
behavior and her illness when she speaks with Edwin at her grave: “llena de horror á causa de mi
acción, sobrevino la enfermedad que me dió muerte” (95). Her overwhelming guilt for her
monstrous actions causes the rapid onset of a violent reincarnation of her hysteria and her
subsequent death. The second stage of Nelly’s mental illness is produced by her aberrant
behavior as a deviant female (Rinka 96).
The attempted cure for Nelly’s disease at this later stage in her life remarkably differs
from the first remedy of marriage. Her symptoms strike too quickly for the doctor to truly begin
treatment. He writes a prescription and three hours later he finds her dead (Holmberg 60). The
physician remarks to Edwin over her dead body: “Jamás me encontrado una situación semejante.
Estoy perplejo, indeciso; no sé lo que debo hacer” (60). The doctor cannot even decide the cause
of her disease, let alone determine an appropriate course of action to reverse it. Nelly’s secret
HarnEnz 25 behavior explains the doctor’s inability to identify her illness. The author alludes the cause of the
doctor’s failing in the introduction as he speaks of: “un secreto de ultratumba, secreto de mujer”
(V). Her deviant behavior (and her sick will) remains hidden until after her death. Perhaps the
failure to attempt a cure rests not only in the unknown, but also in the inability to change a
character whose will is sick, whose illness represents deep moral failure, as Nelly is subtly
blamed for adultery and for being an irresponsible mother. Marci Rinka analyzes her death and
postmortem confession of guilt for the kidnapping of the child as her necessary acceptance of an
appropriate feminine, subordinate position (95). Perhaps her death is the prescribed punishment
for an ethical aberration that derives from exercising her will.
Similarly to what we saw with the male characters of María and Carmen, Edwin’s illness,
and the rejection of it, marks gender differences in the portrayal of disease. Edwin presents
symptoms suggestive of a nervous disease of moral origins. If Edwin were female, his nervous
character (Holmberg 7) would predispose him to nervous illness. In the same vein, his infidelity
(48;52) would be ascribed moral origins. Seeing and hearing apparitions of Nelly throughout the
novel would further signify mental instability with a guilt-ridden moral cause. But, just as Nelly
is implicitly blamed for his relations with other women, she is also blamed for his ghostly
disturbances. She is his disease. Phantomton, Edwin’s last name, is described as meaning the site
of a phantom (8). Edwin is the location of Nelly’s ghostly aberrant behavior as she visits him as
an apparition. She haunts him as an illness plagues a person. Edwin insists his health is not the
issue, and through scientific means, he, Miguel and other friends prove that the apparition exists
and that Edwin is not sick. Proving Nelly’s existence displaces the supposed illness to its origin:
the female. This scientific proof that Edwin’s symptoms are due to Nelly’s abnormal, tainted
behavior removes him from “mental defect in the eyes of his peers” (Rinka 90). Scientific
HarnEnz 26 authority therefore legitimizes the feminine origin of the apparitions and grants feminine fault to
Edwin’s unnatural disturbances.
At the start of ¿Inocentes o culpables? Novela Naturalista by Antonio Agerich, the
female protagonist, Dorotea is similar to the other three women analyzed here: María, Carmen
and the early Nelly. They are all virginal and powerless. Her lack of autonomy is displayed when
she does not choose Dagiore as her husband. Rather, her father makes the decision for her, but,
“ni le pasó por la mente idea alguna de protesta” (7). Trusting of her parents, she does not go
against their will. On the wedding day, Dagiore continues the pattern begun by her mother and
father. He tightly controls her and keeps her close to him: “la retenia con imperio á su lado” (8).
That night, he attempts “brutalmente” (11) to undress the startled, confused and unprepared girl.
His advances are described as “besos é innobles tocamientos, profanando aquel turgente seno de
nieve” (12). Destroying her purity and violating her modesty, Dagiore forcefully takes Dorotea’s
virginity. Despite a feeble attempt, she has no power to thwart his desires: “no habia resistencia
posible con este hombre” (11). The reason for her inability to stop him and his animalistic
intentions is that “no teniendo ella un caudal propio de educación para resistir y triunfar en su
didgnidad dió por término que se corrompieran sus sentimientos de pudor” (14). Because she is
weak and powerless—because she has not been taught to stand up for herself, and have dignified
determination—Dagiore easily corrupts her. This sexual demoralization evokes in her an
immoral willfulness. The third person narrator states that, as time progresses, Dorotea “advinó el
dominio que su carne fresca y juvenil ejercia en el ánimo de su esposo...cuando deseaba algo lo
acariciaba...hasta que el otro, convulso y trastornado, le statisfacia su capricho” (15). His oversexual behavior teaches her that she can manipulate him to achieve her desires and whims. The
use of her feminine body to compel her husband to do her bidding demonstrates a deviant female
HarnEnz 27 sexuality. Through such actions, we clearly see that she has developed a strong, and unethical,
will. This move to control the male protagonist is not seen in María or Carmen, but is present in
Nelly’s causing Edwin to suffer. Evidently, Dorotea’s gender plays a role in how she, and her
evolving wants, are viewed. The narrator analyzes her mental powers: “Su inteligencia bastante
atolondrada habíase saturado de malicia. Sus concepciones eran rápidas y del modo como las
relacionaba con el porvenir, mas parecian producto de un cerebro aleccionado y varonil” (34).
Making plans for the future—having a will—is seen as stepping beyond her feminine station in
life. The narrator identifies something very wrong with desiring and orchestrating future events,
and presents these as belonging to men. In Dorotea, willfully choosing something is seen as
abnormal and insubordinate. Indeed, having autonomy forcefully contradicts nineteenth century
ideals of feminine submissiveness and innocence as presented in the characters María and
Carmen.
Dorotea’s wrongful will and her associated overzealous desires produce her mental
illness in the novel. Dorotea’s sexual manipulations of her husband are not enough for her, and in
her unhappy marriage “de pronto se creia tan desgraciada que la siniestra idea del suicidio iba a
afiebrar su alba y pequeño frente” (17). There is something very wrong with the young woman’s
mind for her to consider taking her own life. Yet, not only does she contemplate killing herself,
but she thinks about this while pregnant and “la idea de matar al inocente ser que alimentaba en
sus entrañas no le traía ningun pensamiento doloroso” (17). As a pregnant woman responsible
for another human life, Dorotea is in a position of power. Imagining suicide is wrong in itself,
but the simultaneous sin of killing her child through her suicide adds another layer of destruction
to her action, and depicts this option as blatantly deficient morally. Wishing for her own and her
son’s death demonstrates a disease of her will. This is similar to, but more extreme, than Nelly’s
HarnEnz 28 use of her son to seek revenge on her husband. Nelly never considers her son’s death as a viable
option, yet, in both cases, the women disregard their children’s well being. Dorotea continues to
imagine her death extensively. She dreams detailed scenes in which she joins angels in heaven
(18). When she realizes that she is not going to be lifted up to a better world, and awakes from
her delirium, she becomes disillusioned, “este sentimentalismo enfermizo, concluia en
verdaderas crisis nerviosas” (19). Of course, she cannot kill herself and reasonably expect to
subsequently be well received in heaven. Unbridled dreaming and desiring—willing the
impossible—brings her unhappiness and mental illness. The author clearly delineates the role she
plays in instigating her own disorder: “siempre su imaginación enfermiza [estaba] soñando lo
imposible y fatigando su pobre espíritu en deliquios ilusorios que solo podrian realizarse en la
fantasía de un cerebro afiebrado” (29). Her imagination and her dreams are the essential
expression of her mental powers. Desiring the unattainable and the morally wrong determine a
defect in her volition. And it is this defect in her volition that leads to her own mental disorder.
We continue to see her immoral decisions, and her resultant insanity, as she covets her
neighbor’s possessions and repeatedly fails to make her children a priority. Dorotea’s concern for
her appearance begins on her wedding day, when she is described as having “esa pasión, general
al sexo, de vandidosa publicidad” (7). This gendered predisposition for vanity comes before she
learns to act, and desire, immorally. After the development of a diseased volition, her mild selfinterested worry transforms into an obsessive compulsion to appear superior to her competitive
neighbors. To fulfill her yearning to look beautiful and compete with her neighbors, Dorotea
persistently convinces Dagiore to give her money to attempt to dress elegantly and climb the
social ladder, “con sueños quiméricos para el porvenir” (24). Her dreams for a future based in
social rivalry display the role of her sick will. She partially achieves her aspirations when she
HarnEnz 29 succeeds in manipulating Dagiore to acquire an expensive, multi-level house (49). In keeping
with the social atmosphere, she fills the house with ostentatious, glittery and unpractical furniture
(58). Such selfish wishes begin to interfere with raising her children: “sus sueños de orgullo en
que veía satisfecha la vanidad que llenaba su cabeza sin ideas, venían de vez en cuando a
perturbar sus tranquilos goces maternales” (32). Choosing to give priority to her egotistical
desires causes her to no longer want to be a good mother. As her preoccupation with her façade
engulfs her, and her mental “fiebre” (59) worsens, she pays almost no attention to her role as a
mother: “La ánsia loca que la devoraba por competir en lujo con sus vecinas hacía que
abandonase el cuidado de sus hijos, que andaban sucios y con los vestidos rotos” (138-139). Her
coveting, a sin, and a wrongful redirection of her morality produce her mental disorder, which in
turn causes her to be an inattentive and insubordinate mother. Dorotea’s dissident willfulness,
which had already broken with her prescribed gender role in her sexual manipulation of Dagiore,
escalates into a secondary revolt, now against her duties as a mother.
Dorotea continues to immorally will for a reality other than her own. In turn, her
perturbed dreams and wishes cause her to have an affair with El Mayor. When the possibility to
have a relationship with him arises, the narrator explains her interest in pursuing this
opportunity: “Era su sueño que empezaba á realizarse; el turno que le llegaba para entrar
activamente en esa existencia dramática en que hasta entonces habia vivido tan solo con el
pensamiento” (138). She commits adultery because she wants to play an active, exciting role in
her own life. She has desired a reality unlike her own and a sexual partner other than brutish
Dagiore. As her illness progresses, she rebels from her position as a loyal wife. Her already
‘despicable’ dreams directly influence her actions. She participates in this moral crime of
adultery because she has longed to “jugar un papel principal en ruidosas aventuras” (137). Her
HarnEnz 30 affair is portrayed as a choice, not an unavoidable, inherent character flaw. This decision is
viewed, because of its incorrectness and its evitability, as an aspect of her morally sick will,
which in turn produces her insanity. During the affair, she is described as having “inflamada la
imaginación” (137). Her inflamed, irritated and ill imagination is a disease of her volition, as
given her gender, she errroneously wants to determine her own life. The narrator reiterates this
understanding of the development of her disorder: “Era su deseo, que al sentirse imponente, se
refugiaba en esperanzas fantasmagóricas” (137). Feeling powerful, as if her biding can be
achieved, causes her to believe that her hopeful dreams are reality; a strong will creates her
delusional mental illness. The symptoms of her disease are most prevalent during this period of
highly unethical behavior. She is at her most nervous while the affair goes on (135) and it is at
this point that she has “esas fiebres de envidia” (138). Extramarital sex is the climax of her
willful, moral disease. The textual evidence suggests that purposefully failing to be a dutiful
spouse, the final symbolic protest against the last of her feminine roles, produces the most
fervent incarnation of her mental disorder.
One could argue against this hypothesis, that Dorotea plays a key role in developing her
own illness, by noting the possibility of ethnic determinism—by arguing that Dorotea’s illness
fits the Italian immigrant character. Indeed, the introduction clearly articulates the author’s racist
intentions of displaying the inferiority of the Italian immigrant in the novel (II). Yet, aside from
an announcement of her immigrant status (6), Argerich gives scant evidence of her ethnic origins
(Gnutzman 92).
We do see the interplay of ethnicity and disease in Dagiore, Dorotea’s husband. Through
this male character, we observe once again that the two concepts of determinism and will are not
mutually exclusive; ethnicity is a factor that predisposes this man to a sick will, and therefore
HarnEnz 31 also to his mental illnesses. Examining Dagiore, Dorotea’s husband, demonstrates that his ill will
is in part caused by his racial inferiority. His Italian heritage is presented in a negative light from
the start, as he is named “un rudo italiano” and “inmigrante rústico” (Argerich 1). While he
speaks his native language, Dagiore is portrayed as unintelligent for his inability to learn
Spanish. The narrator further describes him as having “[una] espresion de idiota” (2) and “[un]
cerebro atrofiado” (23). Poor intellectual capabilities suggest that he is less than an ideal human
specimen. He is in fact, painted as beneath human when he is referred to as “[un] cerdo
disfrazado de hombre” (22). His animal nature is also displayed when the narrator describes his
hoarding of money as “la animalidad descamada del avaro” (3). The narration connects his greed
and his ethnicity: “Dagiore, en efecto, pertenecia á esa raza cretina de la avaricia...Es lo que
sucede con las almas vulgares” (45). We see his lack of humanity when he marries because he
wants “una sierva,” and in choosing his wife, “puso en esto el mismo celo y perspicacia con que
escogia un trozo de carne” (6). Not surprisingly, his relationship with his wife is overly
sexualized and brutish (11). His ethnically marked decisions with money and his attitude toward
his wife expose his will as animalistic, as erroneous. Dagiore’s racially predisposed ill will leads
him to alcoholism, to “bárbamente” beating his wife (96), and, eventually, to mental illness. The
doctor describes Dagiore as violently insane (228) and recommends his institutionalization (229).
Clearly, Dagiore’s ethnicity plays a significant role in his disease. However, components of his
progression towards a mental disorder incorporate aspects of choice, as he decides to drink and
to act violently. We can surmise that his Italian heritage predisposes him to make incorrect
choices. The result of his incorrect choices in turn induces his disease. With Dagiore, it is
ethnicity that predisposes him to make poor decisions. With Dorotea it is gender that does so. An
HarnEnz 32 analysis of this male character’s illness supports the hypothesis that in the naturalist novel, the
female character’s will, faulty because of her gender, causes disease.
In comparing these two romantic and two naturalist novels, we discover that in both
literary movements, the etiology for disease is largely social. Cultural attitudes about gender, and
in María, also about ethnicity, determine how the female characters’ illnesses will be portrayed,
understood and treated. In Romanticism, when the author wishes the audience to connect
emotionally with the protagonist, the women are portrayed as pinnacles of ideal femininity and
are therefore sexually innocent. Their diseases are beyond their limited feminine control—they
are due to character, as Sontag would argue. Naturalist authors, not attempting any emotional
connection, are not afraid to depict women who defy their feminine roles by exercising their will,
as Sontag’s hypothesis suggests, and blame them for producing their own disease. These four
works show that in either case, Romanticism or Naturalism, the female protagonist’s disease is
viewed through the prejudiced perception of the female gender at the time. When a scientific
explanation for disease is attempted in both Naturalism and Romanticism, as examined here, it
legitimizes predetermined sociially constructed attitudes about illness. Examining the male
protagonists’ diseases supports this cultural production of “knowledge” about disease. The men’s
maladies are not the result of an inferior gender, but, may be prompted by inferior ethnicity.
Sexism and racism in 19th century Latin America should not surprise the modern reader.
However, the use of science and medicine to legitimize these practices is particularly disturbing.
It reminds us of the importance of checking and critically questioning medical practices today.
Our interpretation as pseudoscience of what the time period likely regarded as legitimate, hard
science, illustrates the importance of perspective. What medical truths today may be deemed in
the future as societal prejudice and founded in social whim? Where are we systematically and
HarnEnz 33 harmfully assigning patients’ fault or imposing biological determinism? Perhaps, like with the
19th century, these questions can be answered by critically examining our literature, or that latest
movie on AMC.
HarnEnz 34 Works Cited
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