THE CANON OF EMPIRE: BRITAIN, SPAIN, AND MODERNISM
AN ABSTRACT
SUBMITTED ON THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF MARCH 2013
TO THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
OF THE SCHOOL OF LIBERAL ARTS
OF TULANE UNIVERSITY
FOR THE DEGREE
OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
APPROVED:
Molly Abel Travis, Ph.D
Director
C. Christopher Soufas, Ph.D
Felipe Smith, Ph. D
Abstract
The Canon of Empire: Britain, Spain, and Modernism explores the exclusion of Spanish
literature from the modernist canon. Critical texts fundamental to the formation of the
modernist canon make little mention of Spain; through a discussion of the relationship
between T.S. Eliot and José Ortega y Gasset, I argue that this oversight has created an
incomplete understanding of Modernism. Contributing to this incomplete understanding
is the scholarly model of Spanish literature, which divides the first half of the twentieth
century into several literary “generations.” After asserting that doing away with this
model is essential to incorporating Spain into the modernist canon, I turn my attention to
the way that the loss of empire influenced Spanish authors. Similarities in Spanish and
British texts reveal deep-rooted anxieties about the stability of the British empire.
Chapter One, “Descent into Chaos and the Restoration of Order: The Images of Empire
in E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India and Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s Tirano Banderas,”
discusses overt threats to imperial hierarchy in each text. Valle-Inclán grapples with the
loss of empire by depicting atrocities in the colonies. Conversely, Forster reflects
Britain’s ability to maintain its empire.
Chapter Two, “Romancing the Empire: Imperialism, Masculinity, and Narrative in Ford
Madox Ford and Blanca de los Ríos,” examines de los Ríos Las hijas de Don Juan and
Ford’s The Good Soldier, arguing that notions of masculinity and empire are linked, as
both are based on conquest. Both authors undermine masculine stereotypes, calling into
question the stability of empire.
Chapter Three, “Virginia Woolf and Rosa Chacel: Genre, Gender, Empire, and the
Modernist Novel,” explores critiques of generic categories in Woolf’s Orlando and
Chacel’s Estación. Ida y vuelta. In destabilizing these categories, they highlight the
problems that arise when one nation assumes its inherent right to dominate other, “lesser”
nations.
Chapter Four, “Yeats and Lorca: Reclaiming the Past, Reshaping a Nation” focuses on
each poet’s attempt to offer an alternative to the imperial model. Both authors respond to
their respective nation’s position as imperial subject and former colonizer by infusing
their works with figures currently excluded from discussions about nationhood.
THE CANON OF EMPIRE: BRITAIN, SPAIN, AND MODERNISM
A DISSERTATION
SUBMITTED ON THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF MARCH 2013
TO THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
OF THE SCHOOL OF LIBERAL ARTS
OF TULANE UNIVERSITY
FOR THE DEGREE
OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
APPROVED:
Molly Abel Travis, Ph.D
Director
C. Christopher Soufas, Ph.D
Felipe Smith, Ph. D
©Copyright by Megan Holt, 2013
All Rights Reserved
Acknowledgements
Various institutions have provided generous financial support for this project. I would
like to thank the Tulane School of Liberal Arts for the Summer Merit Fellowship and
Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society for the Graduate Scholarship.
Throughout the years, the Tulane Department of English has been wonderfully
supportive. So many faculty members have taken the time to discuss the project with me
and offer advice. It is impossible for me to list every act of kindness here. In particular, I
would like to thank Tom Albrecht for his unfailing belief in me. Also, thank you to Barb
Ryan for helping to keep me organized and for your friendship.
The members of my dissertation committee provided absolutely invaluable feedback as
the project progressed. Thank you to Felipe Smith for taking on this project late in the
game and giving me new ways to see my work. Thank you to Chris Soufas for staying
on the committee long-distance and for your belief in this project from the very
beginning. You have helped shape this project into a work of which I can be truly proud.
Thank you to my director, Molly Travis, for all of the time that you took to read multiple
versions of this project. Your guidance brought greater depth to my work and allowed
me to develop the project in ways that I never thought possible. You are the model of not
only the kind of scholar I would like to be, but also the kind of person I would like to be.
ii
Now for some personal thank-yous: To my grandparents, Hillard and Mary Holt, who
gave me the nickname “the professor” at age three and always encouraged me to focus on
my education; To Liz and Henry Lorber for creating a place full of wonderful food,
friends, and laughter; To Tommy and Patricia Smith for raising a wonderful man and
welcoming me into their life as a daughter; To Nana (Myrtis Lester), who taught my
husband the meaning of family; To Phillip Jones for his genuine heart and to Andy
Lorber for his listening ear—you two are the best “brothers” a gal could ever have; To
Taryn U’Halie, who helps me shake loose when I’m a little too tense; To Lauren Cardon
for being there when I need someone the most; To Father Patrick Tierney, who constantly
reminds me what is truly worth cherishing; and To Mary Ellen and Robby Killen, my
oldest and dearest friends, whose presence enriches my life every single day.
To Brittany Ramey, my baby sister, who has been there from the beginning and always
stands by me—through the good and the bad. I am truly lucky to have such a loving,
intelligent, and loyal woman in my life. And to Travis Ramey for being a good husband
to her.
To Theresa Holt, my beautiful mother, whose constant love has shaped me into the
person I am today. I am humbled by your generosity and your strength. I cannot even
begin to thank you for everything you have done—and continue to do—for me. I am
blessed to know you not only as a mother, but as a friend.
To my inspiring husband, Jermaine Smith, whose unfailing support made it possible to
complete this project. Thank you for being my cheerleader during the moments that I did
not believe in myself and for stepping up when I felt overwhelmed. You are an amazing
iii
friend and an amazing father. I so look forward to what the future holds for us. “You are
the sunshine of my life.”
This project is dedicated to “my main man,” Jefferson Henry Smith. Mommy loves you.
iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ACKNOLEDGEMENTS .................................................................................................... ii
CHAPTERS
1. Introduction--How Do You Solve a Problem Like Spain?: The Exclusion of
Spanish Literature from the Modernist Canon ...........................................................1
2. Descent into Chaos and the Restoration of Order: The Images of Empire in E.M.
Forster’s A Passage to India and Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s Tirano Banderas .........24
3. Romancing the Empire: Imperialism, Masculinity, and Narrative in Ford Madox
Ford and Blanca de los Ríos………………………………………………….……66
4. Virginia Woolf and Rosa Chacel: Genre, Gender, Empire, and the Modernist
Novel………………………………………………………………………….….104
5. Yeats and Lorca: Reclaiming the Past, Reshaping a Nation……………………..140
6. Conclusion: The Generational Model, Spain, and the Modernist Canon………..192
BIBLIOGRAPHY………………………………………………………………………220
v
1
Introduction--How Do You Solve a Problem Like Spain?: The Exclusion of
Spanish Literature from the Modernist Canon
In a letter to Valery Larbaud dated 12 March, 1922, T.S. Eliot wrote “I am
initiating a new quarterly review, and am writing in the hope of listing your support…I
want to get work by the best writers on the continent…I should like to say that I should
be very happy if you could suggest or put me in touch with any writers in Spain whose
work ought to be better known in this country… (Letters 508-509). From the
suggestions provided by Larbaud, Eliot selected a story by Ramón Gómez de la Serna
and, on 13 July, 1922, asked Frank Stuart Flint to translate the text for inclusion in the
new review. Due to some disagreements between Eliot and Flint over the literary merits
of the work, the first issue of Criterion appeared in November 1922 with no contribution
from a Spanish author. However, the following two issues did contain Spanish texts: the
January 1923 issue featured “From The New Museum” by Gómez de la Serna (translated
by F.S. Flint); Antonio Marichalar’s “Contemporary Spanish Literature” appeared in the
April 1923 issue (Garbisu 161-163). Marichalar’s work was again published in
Criterion, Vol. IV, No. 2 (April, 1926), with a piece titled “Madrid Chronicle.” “A
Fragment from The Solitudes,” written by another Spaniard, Luis de Góngora, was
featured in Criterion, Vol. IX, No. 37 (1930), translated by Edward Meryon Wilson. In
addition to highlighting the work of prominent Spanish authors, Criterion also reviewed
2
Spanish periodicals; the most-discussed Spanish literary review was Revista de
Occidente.
Revista de Occidente, founded and edited by José Ortega y Gasset, first appeared
in July 1923. Just as Criterion featured Spanish authors, Revista de Occidente contained
the works of some of the most influential British writers of the time. Joseph Conrad’s
writing appears twice; “Un avanzada de progreso” was published in Vol. VI (Octubre,
Noviembre, Deciembre 1924), and “Gaspar Ruiz” appears in Vol. XV (Enero, Febrero,
Marzo 1927). Vol. XIV (Octubre, Noviembre, Deciembre 1926) contains Aldous
Huxley’s short story “El monóculo,” and D.H. Lawrence’s “Dos abejarucos” is found in
Vol. XIII (Octubre, Noviembre, Deciembre 1927). Biographer Lytton Strachey’s “La
muerte de general Gordon” was published in Vol. XX (Abril, Mayo, Junio 1928), and
finally, “El tiempo pasa” by Virginia Woolf appears in Vol. XXXI (Enero, Febrero,
Marzo 1931).
In addition to publishing works from one another’s nation, Eliot and Ortega y
Gasset directly collaborated on one particular project. Along with the editors of Nouvelle
Revue Français (France), Nuova Antologia (Italy), and Europaeische Revue (Germany),
the founders of Revista de Occidente and Criterion decided to award an annual prize to
an original work in one of the five languages represented by each review. The awardwinning piece would appear in each of the five magazines, translated when necessary.
Ernst Wiechert received the first of these prizes for his short story “The Centurion,”
which appeared in Vol. IX, no. 35 (Jan 1930) of the Criterion and Vol. XXVI (Octubre,
Noviembre, Deciembre 1929) of Revista de Occidente (Garbisu 154-155). This joint
3
venture serves as concrete evidence of the dialogue between the two reviews that had
taken place since the founding of the younger review.
In Criterion, Vol. II, No. 5, Flint hails the appearance of Revista de Occidente and
notes its similarity to the British review: “Its aims…appear to be much the same as those
of The Criterion, and there is no doubt that its editor, José Ortega y Gasset, would
subscribe to the two notes on ‘The Function of a Literary Review’ and ‘Literature and the
“Honnête Homme”’ that appeared in our last number” (109). Garbisu further elaborates
on those aims: “The goals of The Criterion and Revista de Occidente coincide in the
following aspects: both wish to define themselves as magazines not exclusively literary,
but that bring together diverse disciplines; as reviews distanced from specific political
platforms and, fundamentally, as defenders of a European culture” (169). 1 Just as Eliot’s
letter states his intention to focus The Criterion not solely on Britain, but on the continent
of Europe, Ortega y Gasset seeks to bring together like-minded thinkers from across the
continent in his review as well: “…while we will include Spanish works, we will bring
to these pages the collaboration of all the Western men whose exemplary words signify
an interesting pulsation in the contemporary soul” (“Propósitos” 3). 2 Eliot expresses a
similar sentiment in “The Idea of a Literary Review”: “we must include…the work of
continental writers of the same order of merit as our own” (4).
Unlike Eliot, however, Ortega y Gasset criticizes the narrow definition of
“Europe”: “By Europe we understand primarily and properly the trinity of France,
England, and Germany. It is in the portion of the globe occupied by these that there has
matured that mode of human existence in accordance with which the world has been
1
2
Translation mine.
Translation mine.
4
organized” (Revolt 135). He advocates dissolving that trinity in order to incorporate,
both politically and culturally, nations such as his own that have previously been
considered only as peripheral areas of Europe. Raley discusses in detail the philosopher’s
desire for Spanish intellectuals to participate in conversations with the rest of Europe:
[Ortega y Gasset] sought to lead his country back to Europe and to end
Spain’s prodigal and disastrous absence. One might, therefore, classify
Ortega as one of the ‘Europeizantes’ of modern Spain…For Ortega, the
‘Spanish problem’ is a manifestation of a greater ‘European’ problem, and
for that reason Spain can no longer be indifferent to the vicissitudes of
Europe.3 (62)
The “Spanish problem” to which Raley refers is absence of great leaders to combat the
political and cultural weakness in Spain following the loss of its last colonies in 1898. As
early as 1910, Ortega y Gasset asserts that “some select men work in silence to create a
new soul for Spain” (qtd. in Oqueli 11), implying that the old soul had somehow ceased
to function. 4 Graham notes that Ortega y Gasset felt deeply concerned about the state of
his nation and sought a remedy for it: “calling his nation a ‘sick’ society, he tried to
diagnose the nature of the malady and to prescribe a cure” (213). Ortega y Gasset
attributes this sickness partially to “the historic weakness (or absence) of great men, of an
effective aristocracy, or ‘select minority’ leading the masses” (Graham 35). Socialism
becomes the cure for this decadence; Marichal asserts that for Ortega y Gasset
socialism’s most important mission is ‘the production of true aristocrats’ (40). 5 One
should note that this small group of natural elites plays an important role in both Ortega y
Gasset’s writings on politics and his writings on art. The group of true, natural-born
3
“Europeizantes” refers to members of the intellectual community in early twentieth century in Spain who
advocated varying degrees of Europeanization as a remedy for Spanish troubles. This group opposes
“Hispanizantes,” members of the same community who spoke against European influence in Spain. Most
of the “Hispanizantes” believed that Spain, for all its ills, had created a way of life superior to anything
Europe had to offer. See “Ortegan Terminology” in Raley.
4
Translation mine.
5
Translation mine.
5
leaders that will emerge under socialism has its counterpart in a minority population of
art aficionados produced by modern art.
Ortega y Gasset argues that the essential feature of modern art is its ability to
separate its audience into two groups: “Modern art…will always have the masses against
it. It is essentially unpopular; moreover, it is antipopular. Any of its works automatically
produces a curious effect on the general public. It divides the public into two groups:
one very small, formed by those who are favorably inclined towards it; another very
large—the hostile majority” (Dehumanization 5). Modern art accomplishes this task by
eliminating all human elements from it, meaning not just physical human bodies but also
all objects with which the audience is familiar. According to Ortega y Gasset, traditional
art produces sentimental feelings in its audience, and the public delights in its own
feelings rather than in the art itself. The “dehumanization of art” allows the public to
appreciate an art object as just that and only that. However, only a select few possess the
faculties to do so: “We…have an art which can be comprehended only by people
possessed of the particular gift of artistic sensibility—art for artists and not for the
masses, for ‘quality’ and not for hoi polloi” (Dehumanization 12). By examining similar
sentiments expressed by Eliot, one can read Ortega y Gasset’s “Spanish problem,” the
overwhelming absence of natural elites, as a larger-scale European problem.
In his conclusion to The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism, Eliot comments
on the desire of the poet and the obstacle encountered when attempting to realize that
wish: “I believe that the poet naturally prefers to write for as large and miscellaneous an
audience as possible, and that it is the half-educated and ill-educated who stand in his
way…” (152). Eliot then goes on to describe his own efforts in composing a poem/play:
6
My intention was to have one character whose sensibility and intelligence
should be on the planet the most sensitive and intelligent members of the
audience…There was to be an understanding between this protagonist and
a small number of the audience, while the rest of the audience would share
the responses of the other characters in the play. (Use 153)
Elsewhere, Eliot reserves an understanding of poetry for those who possess artistic
sensibilities similar to those of the poet: “Poetry is not a turning lose of emotion, but an
escape from emotion: it is not a turning loose of personality, but an escape from
personality. But of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it
means to want to escape from these things” (“Tradition” 129). As with Ortega y Gasset,
Eliot’s select minority will both restore an ideal order and bring the nation more fully into
a European whole: “[The] idea that English culture must define itself as part of, and not
in opposition to, a European centre is a consistent feature of Eliot’s work, becoming
indeed more marked in the later writings…(Ellis 625). One can safely assume that Eliot
considered himself a member of that elite group and therefore “was concerned with the
continuation in his own work of the [European] tradition to which he felt he belonged”
(Lucy 17-18).
In his remarks on tradition, Eliot insists that, even when denying the past, one
acknowledges it. In other words, though one adamantly rejects tradition and attempts to
“make it new,” tradition will always be present as that against which one acts. Eliot
argues that there can be no “individual talent” without tradition; he speaks of
…our tendency to insist, when we praise a poet, upon those aspects of his
work in which he least resembles anyone else…We dwell with satisfaction
upon the poet’s difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate
predecessors…Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice, we
shall often find that not only the best, but also the most individual parts of
his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their
immortality most vigorously. (“Tradition” 48)
7
For Eliot, tradition has and will continue to play an integral role in one’s understanding of
art. In contrast, Ortega y Gasset advocates a complete severing of the relationship
between past and present.
Ortega y Gasset argues that earlier art has a “negative influence” on modern art
because the audience tends to read modern art as a progression from an earlier phase. He
argues against the new art as the next logical step in the artistic tradition, asserting instead
that modern artists make a fervent effort to completely separate themselves from
tradition. The audience, however, has trouble seeing modern art out of the traditional
context: “[…]to realize that a new style has not infrequently grown out of a conscious
and redished antagonism to traditional styles seems to require somewhat of an effort”
(Dehumanization 43). Graham notes that Ortega y Gasset provides an explanation for the
necessity of modern art, a necessity born from the rejection of tradition: “This change [in
art was] connected with cultural overload, the ‘burden of tradition’ and its
‘overwhelming’ and ‘smothering’ of creative talent[…]” (225). This “burden” comes
especially with the under-stylized, overly detailed representations of realism. Ortega y
Gasset turns away from tradition in his political writings as well; in Meditations on
Quijote he comments that “the traditional reality in Spain has actually consisted in the
gradual annihilation of Spain as a possibility. No, we cannot follow tradition, on the
contrary, we must go against tradition, beyond tradition” (106). In his comments on this
passage, Basdekis ties the Spanish philosopher’s attitude toward tradition with his
political theories: “Ortega rejects the notion that Spain must follow some sort of national
tradition, for this route can only lead to disaster, as it had so often in the past. He
proposes that Spain must burn her past, her “inert political mask,” in a bonfire. To be
8
patriotic, it is strongly implied, is to liberate oneself from the stagnant past in quest of a
new Spain[…]” (25).
Though Ortega y Gasset’s and Eliot’s views on tradition seem completely at odds
with one another, both authors’ views on tradition result from their demand for newness.
Ortega y Gasset proposes a radical break with both political and artistic tradition, hoping
that this separation will rejuvenate a lifeless society. Eliot responds to precisely the same
feeling of decline by seeking tradition rather than rejecting it. For Eliot, consciously
seeking tradition implies that a culture has somehow severed itself from its past and has
suffered as a result of this disconnect (Lucy 18). Eliot, instead of disowning the past,
sees the recuperation of it as a means of reviving the tired present. Thus the need for
innovation brings about a call for both inclusion in and opposition to tradition.
In addition to sharing similar opinions on innovation, Eliot and Ortega y Gasset
also seem in agreement on the place of the artist in the work itself. Both argue that the
artist plays a negligible role that does not come across in the work itself and use the poet
as the representative for artists in general. Ortega y Gasset and Eliot see the artist as
essential to the creative process but completely absent in the final product. For Ortega y
Gasset, extracting the poet’s self from his or her works allows the poet to also detach
from other human beings: “what business has the poor face of the man who officiates as
poet? None but to disappear, to vanish and to become a pure nameless voice breathing
into the air the words…This pure and nameless voice, the mere acoustic carrier of the
verse, is the voice of the poet who has learned to extricate himself from the surrounding
men” (Dehumanization 32). In doing so, the poet rejects any emotional reaction to his
work; the work cannot produce any feeling in the reader, nor can the reader identify with
9
what the poet was feeling when writing the piece. Eliot, too, finds no place for feeling in
poetry; in “The Perfect Critic” he claims that “The end of the enjoyment of poetry is a
pure contemplation from which all the accidents of personal emotion are removed; thus
we aim to see the object as it really is and find a meaning…” (15). Eliot argues that
critics, like artists, should detach themselves from their creation: “a literary critic should
have no emotions except those immediately provoked by a work of art—and these…are,
when valid, perhaps not to be called emotions at all” (“Perfect Critic” 13). Thus, in both
authors, one finds the desire to flee from one’s surroundings and feelings, wishing instead
for a new form of art that disassociates itself from sensibility. This new art would
produce in its audience a completely unfamiliar sensation, one based on shock and
uneasiness. In “Ulysses, Order, and Myth,” Eliot notes that this sensation reveals to the
audience “a way of controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the
immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history” (177). Both
Eliot and Ortega y Gasset see this kind of reaction as the ideal outcome of a work of art.
Perhaps the most ringing endorsement of the connection between the two authors
comes in a 1956 comment by Eliot. When speaking of several editors, among them
Ortega y Gasset, who along with him sought to bring together the best of European
culture, Eliot states, “No ideological differences poisoned our intercourse; no political
oppression limited freedom of communication” (qtd. in Howarth 260). Today, critics of
British literature regard Eliot’s works as integral to the study of modernism; Ortega y
Gasset’s works have become key texts for Spanish criticism of the early twentieth
century. Ortega y Gasset’s theories on art have also, to a lesser extent, influenced
scholarly formation of the concept of modernism.
10
With such fruitful ground for comparison between two of the most canonical
theorists of modernism, one might wonder how the connection between early twentiethcentury British and Spanish literature could possibly be lost. Yet, scholars have largely
ignored Spain as a significant contributor to modernism. Malcolm Bradbury and James
McFarlane’s seminal 1976 work on the subject, Modernism, 1890-1930, covers British,
French, German, Italian, and Russian literature (among others) but makes no mention of
Spanish texts, though it does occasionally mention Ortega y Gasset’s theories. More
recent studies are guilty of the same omission. Peter Nicholls’s book Modernisms: A
Literary Guide (1995) provides studies of the same countries as the earlier text. Even in
a chapter called “At a Tangent: Other Modernisms,” Nicholls makes no mention of
Spanish literature. Perhaps one can find the most telling comment on the exclusion of
Spanish literature in Astradur Eysteinsson’s The Concept of Modernism (1990).
Eysteinsson includes the following footnote: “This book does not concern itself with the
“modernismo” of…Spanish literature. Despite some parallels, the differences between
the two concepts are too many to warrant their critical coalescence. Moreover, the use of
the concept in Hispanic criticism…has had virtually no influence on the formation of the
critical paradigms of modernism that I discuss” (1). Michael Levenson also fails to take
Spanish literature into account, both as editor of The Cambridge Companion to
Modernism (1999) and as author of Modernism (2011). These texts, generally regarded as
comprehensive studies on the subject of modernism, beg the question of how such
exclusion occurred. When attempting to answer this question, one must keep in mind
three factors that have contributed significantly to the establishment of a modernist canon
that includes authors from almost every other European nation.
11
First, one should note the importance of World War I to modernist Studies. If, as
Vincent Sherry claims, “the Great War of 1914-18 locates the moment in which the new
sensibility of English—and international—modernism comes fully into existence” (Great
War and Language 6), then how does one place Spain, a nation that did not participate in
the War, in a conversation that focuses so heavily on that particular event? However, one
should note Whealey’s assertion that, due to its political alliances and its use of
widespread propaganda, the Spanish Civil War served as a dress rehearsal for World War
II. Though Spain did not participate in the later war, the events that took place during the
Civil War become crucial to our understanding of it (3, 52). One can easily apply
Whealey’s argument to an earlier set of events. Just as the Spanish Civil War served as a
rehearsal for World War II, the “Disaster of 1898,” the loss of the Spanish-American War
and with it the loss of Spain’s last colonies, can be read, in one sense, as a rehearsal for
World War I. Though the events of 1898 did not result in a “lost generation” of young
men who died in the war, they did result in a crisis of national identity for Spain; after
more than four centuries, Spain ceased to be an imperial power, leading its intellectuals to
seek ways in which to rejuvenate a weakened nation. This search led Spanish writers to
new experiments with literary forms and subjects, experiments very similar to those of
British writers following World War I.6 Thus, like the Great War, the Disaster of 1898
becomes “a centering event, if a destructive legacy” (Sherry 6) for the nation’s writers.
Second, one must consider the impact of General Francisco Franco’s censorship
policy. General Franco rose to power at the end of the Spanish Civil War in 1939 and
ruled the nation as a military dictator until his death in 1975. During the first few weeks
of his rule, bookstores were closed so that “subversive” texts could be removed from the
6
See for example Valle-Inclán’s development of the esperpento and Unamuno’s creation of the nivola.
12
shelves, and a public book burning took place in Madrid. All but one of Baroja’s books
were banned, and works of authors who had gone into exile during or after the Civil War
were deemed absolutely unacceptable for the general public (Jones 303). 7 A very strict
censorship law remained in effect until 1966, though even after that date “a variety of
sanctions, such as stiff fines, suspension, confiscation, or even arrest, could still be
imposed on those publishing material damaging to the state, religion, or general mores
[…]” (Payne 511). Due to Franco’s censorship policy, scholars had little or no access to
Spanish texts during the period when concepts of modernism were first formed. One
cannot discount the possibility that, had these texts been available, they could have
shaped the way critics currently understand the movement. One should also note that the
censorship policy outlawed the sale of any text printed in a language other than Spanish
(Jones 303). As a result, Spanish scholars of early twentieth-century literature had to
work almost exclusively with books from their own nation when developing concepts of
literary movements, ignoring writers from other nations who could have entered into a
dialogue with Spanish authors. C. Christopher Soufas notes that after the Civil War,
“Spanish criticism [engaged] in revisionist efforts to make pre-civil war literature
compatible with the ultra-nationalist agenda of Francoism” (MAN 5). The concept of
different literary “generations” that emerged between 1898 and 1939 resulted from these
revisionist efforts.
7
Among these authors were Rafael Alberti, Luis Cernuda, José Ortega y Gasset, Jorge Guillén, Pedro
Salinas, and Rosa Chacel. Though he never went into exile, Miguel de Unamuno was placed under house
arrest for politically subversive speech by the Falange (Franco’s party) and died ten weeks later. His books
were subsequently banned. Two other victims of the Civil War were Ramiro de Maeztu, killed by
Republican soldiers on October 29, 1936 and Federico García Lorca, murdered by Nationalist forces on
August 19, 1936. Lorca’s books were also banned during Franco’s regime.
13
Thus, one must turn a critical eye toward the third factor in the exclusion of Spain
from modernist studies—the generational model used in scholarship on early twentiethcentury Spanish texts. The two most referenced “generations” are the Generation of ’98
and the Generation of ’27(though some critics also mention a Generation of ’14, a
Generation of ’25, and a Generation of ’36). Critics have characterized the Generation of
’98 as a group of writers profoundly affected by the outcome of the Spanish-American
War who sought to regenerate Spain through education and Europeanization; members of
this generation include Antonio Machado, Pió Baroja, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, and
Miguel de Unamuno. The later generation, named for a 1927 gathering of writers to
mark the three-hundredth anniversary of the death of Luis de Góngora, is considered a
generation comprised almost exclusively of poets who experimented with symbolism,
surrealism, and “pure poetry”; this group includes Pedro Salinas, Jorge Guillén, Rafael
Alberti, Federico García Lorca, and Vicente Aleixandre. The generational model
prevents one from seeing Spanish literature from this period as a coherent movement; the
“generations” of the early twentieth century appear seemingly cut off from one another.
An older generation’s concerns not only have no influence on the younger generation,
they become almost incomprehensible: “A generational language is the most identifiable
expression of a will to be different from those in an older group whose language is out of
date, indeed, no longer understood (Soufas MAN 33). Though this definition against an
older group could be read as adherence to Ortega y Gasset’s rejection of tradition, its
crippling effect on Spain’s inclusion in the modernist canon undermines Ortega y
Gasset’s insistence that Spain be considered a full-fledged contributor to European
culture. While one can identify a solid period of roughly forty years when speaking of
14
modernism, the generational model causes the same time period in Spanish literature to
appear fragmented and inconsistent.
In addition to being separated from one another, the “generations” and their
works are rigidly defined, thereby excluding texts of the same time period that do not fit
into very narrow categories. Soufas asserts that “the literary generation ‘tradition’ has
created a situation in Spanish literature in which the part defines the whole. Writers who
do not fit the generational pigeonhole do not fare well…The clear pattern has been to
make premature and more definitive selections of the ‘fittest’ invariably defined as the
most similar” (MAN 48). As Susan Kirkpatrick notes, women authors have no place in
these “generations,” and as a result they remain largely ignored in scholarship on Spanish
literature.
Not only does the generational model isolate Spanish authors from one another, it
also hinders the inclusion of these authors in the larger concept of modernism: “the
lingering effects of [this model have] served to isolate Spanish literature from a
wider…context and to devalue the standing of even its canonical writers…especially in
Spain itself, thirty years after the passing of the authoritarian governmental structure
which helped spawn it” (Soufas MAN 16). Soufas elaborates on this claim later in his
study:
…being named to membership in a literary generation, while it may assure
a place in the Spanish canon, has not increased the visibility or reputation
of any of these writers in a transnational context. With the possible
exception of Federico García Lorca…there is no Spanish literary figure of
the first half of the 20th century who commands a wide name recognition
outside the Spanish-speaking world. (MAN 48-49).
Such exclusion could lead one to conclude that “Spain did not participate to any
significant extent in modernism or the avant-garde but affirmed instead its own unique
15
national tradition” (Soufas MAN 50). Doing away with the generational model will be
essential to dispelling this idea and incorporating Spain into the conversation surrounding
European modernism. Therefore, I will refer to Spanish texts simply as “modernist”
throughout my study, making no mention of the “generation” to which the Spanish
authors belong.
Despite the fact that some critics have noted Spanish writers’ common points with
non-Spanish authors, they “have not produced much support for a broader view of
Spain’s relationship to Europe […]” (Soufas MAN 4). However, in the past two decades,
a number of texts that advocate an end to this exclusion have emerged. Jordana
Mendelson asserts that “lessons learned from studying modernism and modernity in
Spain [can] be applied to broader reflections about modernism in Europe” (609). Nelson
Orringer places the concept of “modernismo” in the Spanish-speaking world in the
context of “modernism” in both Europe and the Americas. In addition, C.A. Longhurst
argues for an incorporation of Spanish Modernism into a larger European framework and
uses several passages from British authors in conjunction with quotes from Spanish
authors to prove his point. The article does significant work to bridge the gap between
what have previously been viewed as two completely separate movements.
Unfortunately, Longhurst fails to provide translations of the Spanish quotes, thereby
severely limiting his audience. Soufas asserts that “Spain comes to modernism not in
imitation of European trends but rather as a full participant in relation to the issue of postbourgeois subjectivity which dominates all of modernist literature” (Soufas MAN 15).
Ironically, Soufas uses Eysteinsson’s notion of an aesthetic of interruption to incorporate
Spanish literature into the very conversation from which Eysteinsson excludes Spanish
16
literature. Mary Lee Bretz also advocates Spain’s inclusion in a larger European context:
“The ignorance of Spanish modernism and contemporary Spanish culture in studies of
international modernism produces an incomplete portrait and erases voices that could
considerably enrich and expand current views of our shared cultural histories and
horizons” (21). She points out that critics make “persistent references to the writings of
the Spanish José Ortega y Gasset, whom many scholars cite as a theorist of modernism,
even as they deny the existence of such a movement within his country of origin and
residence” (19). Perhaps Bretz inappropriately uses “deny” in this statement, however.
The majority of critics do not explicitly deny Spain’s participation in modernism when
speaking of Ortega y Gasset; they simply ignore the fact that he is Spanish altogether.
Bretz’s book uses several theories, such as those of “gender, nation, subjectivity, space,
time, and textuality” (21), as a framework for her analysis of Spanish modernism, on the
basis that the same theories have been applied to modernist literature from other
European countries. Though she fails to question the generational model largely
responsible for Spain’s exclusion, Bretz presents a solid, thorough case for the
incorporation of Spain into discussions and texts about modernism.
Though Bretz frimly situates Spanish texts into the theoretical framework of
modernism, she makes little mention of modernist texts produced in other countries.
There must be a strong comparative foundation linking Spanish texts to the texts of major
modernist authors in order to achieve the kind of incorporation that Bretz encourages.
My project will begin that comparative work. I connect Spanish texts to British texts
through an examination of effects of and anxieties about empire, nationhood, and
identity, noting how these issues shaped both the form and the content of the texts.
17
Unlike Spain, Britain retains control over its colonies. However, I highlight evidence of
anxiety over possibly losing this empire in British texts and argue that this anxiety is
provoked by Spain’s loss of its once-mighty empire. On the other hand, I note that one
sees the result of having already lost an empire and its effect on national identity in
Spanish texts.
In order to fully comprehend the the connections between British and Spanish
texts, one must first examine the effect of imperialism on modernist literature. In
“Modernism and Imperialism,” Fredric Jameson argues that the form of modernist
literature becomes inextricably linked to empire: “the structure of imperialism also
makes its mark on the inner forms and structures of that new mutation in literary and
artistic language to which the term modernism is loosely applied” (44). Taking a similar
position, Peter Childs claims that modernism was “characterized by responses to the
challenges of representing a transnational world and it centered on a series of formal and
aesthetic experiments occasioned by historical changes that undermined confidence in
established literary styles” (2). First, one should consider Freud’s suggestion in Totem
and Taboo that understanding of the primitive subject proves crucial to understanding the
European self. If one reads the “primitive subject” as the colonized subject, then
European identity becomes rooted in differentiating the self from the colonized other. As
a result, identity no longer remains fixed; it appears unstable, contingent on its
surroundings. One can no longer look objectively at the self, leading to the turn toward
the inner consciousness that marks modernist texts. For the first time, identity becomes
subjective.
18
For Modernist authors, time also appears subjective; they depict characters’
perception of time rather than the time at which an event actually happened. Taking this
idea one step further, Patrick Williams applies Ernst Bloch’s notion of “simultaneous
uncontemporaneities” to modernist texts (31). This concept allows for the existence of
two distinct historical moments at one particular point in linear time. For example, when
Marlow travels up the Congo, he has the unsettling feeling that he has traveled back in
time to an age when modern European civilization does not exist, though he knows full
well that it does, in fact, exist. Childs notes that “modernism expressed time moving in
arcs, flashbacks, jumps, repetitions, and swerves in a spatial world that was…subjectively
perceived” (111), thus linking theories of time to theories of space. In doing so, he nods
toward Einstein’s hypothesis of a four-dimensional space-time continuum, a theory that
heavily influenced modernist authors.
One should note that space plays a significant role in modernist literature not
only because of its relationship to time, but also due to its relationship with empire.
Commenting on Jameson, Williams discuses the significance of imperialism’s mark on
the structures of modernism, particularly the spatializing of form (21). Due to the
distance between the mother country and the colony, artists cannot fully grasp the way in
which an empire functions on a daily basis, making representation of a coherent whole
impossible (Jameson 51). As artists struggle to represent an unrepresentable whole, “a
new spatial language” emerges and attempts to fill in that which can only be imagined.
(Jameson 58). Said notes that dislocations, contradictions, and circularity become
indispensible mechanisms for coping with European writers’ uncertainty when faced with
the task of depicting the unknown (Culture 189). Indeed, the structure of the texts
19
themselves appears fragmented, broken, somehow incomplete—a failed attempt to
adequately represent a world that appeared increasingly chaotic.
Due to the difficultities that arise when attempting to represent a whole, coherent
system when the variables of that system remain unknown, the modernist text becomes
riddled with contradictions and confrontations. Modernist authors constantly depict the
struggles between order and chaos, objectivity and subjectivity, center and periphery,
new and old, reality and myth, permanence and change. Rarely does the conflict come to
a resolution; rather, the text depicts the thing and its opposite existing simultaneously.
Said notes that “the hallmark of modernist form is the strange juxtaposition of comic and
tragic, high and low, commonplace and exotic, familiar and alien” (Culture 189). As a
result of these struggles, characters and places in the text appear unstable and
inpermanent. One need look no further than the “Circe” episode in Joyce’s Ulysses to see
these characteristics of the modernist text firsthand; the characters transform at such a
rapid pace that the reader is left with a profound sense of disorientation. The
contradictory nature of the modernist text also applies to writings about empire, which
“neither collectively pro- nor anti-colonial, are not clearly supportive of racist or antiracist positions” (Childs 43). Booth and Rigby state that modernist form becomes an
attempt to deal with the multiplicities associated with imperialism (15, 32). Esty argues
that of all the dualities found in modernist literature, the imperialism becomes the central
contradiction; it must always be progressive and barbaric at the same moment (87). Thus
one can argue that the contrasting elements found in the modernist text serve as the
markers of extreme anxiety about the state of the empire.
20
Said notes this sentiment when speaking of Conrad’s work, which “radiate[s] an
extreme, unsettling anxiety” about imperialism. Even when critiquing imperialism,
modernist authors acknowledge that the empire remains crucial to national identity. Said
asserts that “nations are narrations. The power to narrate, or to block other narratives
from forming and emerging, is very important to culture and imperialism and constitutes
one of the main connections between them” (Culture xiii). Gasiorek suggests that World
War I called this power into question in a very profound way: “its fratricidal carnage
called the idea of European civilization into question, prompting reflection on its alleged
superiority over non-European nations in opposition to which it was defined” (9). If one
can no longer clearly define the self against the other, then perhaps one day the self could
suffer the same fate as the other. Thus, the modernist obsession with the death of other,
“inferior” cultures indicates the displacement of a profound fear that European culture,
too, will one day disappear (Edmond 42). One can then read the attempt to impose order
on an increasingly chaotic system as a struggle to maintain a power that will disappear if
empire disappears; “when you can no longer assume that Britannia will rule the waves
forever, you have to reconceive of reality as something that can be held together by you
the artist…” (Said Culture 189-90). One sees a clear example of this anxiety in Virginia
Woolf’s The Voyage Out, in which she refers to Britain as a “shrinking island” and in
doing so provokes thoughts of a diminishing empire. One should note that in the novel
Santa Marina has changed hands several times: “first dimly Spanish, then briefly
English, then Spanish again for three hundred years of apparent social stasis, then English
again…(Esty 78). In presenting Santa Marina as a colony lost to Spain after centuries,
Woolf raises the possibility that perhaps the seemingly stable British Empire could one
21
day crumble. The relationship between these two empires, one fallen and one at its
height, will be explored in this text.
In the first chapter, “Descent into Chaos and the Restoration of Order: The
Images of Empire in E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India and Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s
Tirano Banderas,” I discuss the overt threats to imperial hierarchy in each text. In Tirano
Banderas, Valle-Inclán depicts a fictional former Spanish colony’s descent into chaos.
The South American natives organize themselves into a mob seeking vigilante justice,
ultimately overthrowing the Spanish military dictator, Banderas the Tyrant, still residing
in their land. In contrast, A Passage to India ultimately reinforces the social hierarchy set
in place by British colonization of India. Despite threats made to this order throughout
the novel, no real change to the existing power dynamic occurs. I argue that the chaos in
Tirano Banderas and the order in A Passage to India reflect Spain’s and Britain’s
respective relationships to their (former) empires. Residing in a nation that has lost its
once-mighty empire, Spanish author Valle-Inclán attempts to make sense of this loss by
depicting the atrocities that occur in the colonies. In contrast, British author Forster
chooses to quash any real threat to colonial power and maintain the status quo, thus
reflecting Britain’s ability to maintain its empire despite threats to its stability.
In the next chapter, I continue to address threats to the empire’s stability, this time
focusing on models of masculinity in Spain and Britain. In an examination of Blanca de
los Ríos Las hijas de Don Juan and Ford Madox Ford’s The Good Soldier, I argue that
notions of masculinity and Empire are inextricably linked, as both are based on conquest.
Don Juan and Edward Ashburnham, who serve as models of masculinity in Las hijas de
Don Juan and The Good Soldier, respectively, continuously seduce and abandon women,
22
effectively “conquering” them. Both authors relate this model of masculinity to imperial
conquest, suggesting that the aggressive takeover of foreign lands can be likened to the
conquest of women. Furthermore, both authors acknowledge that this model no longer
serves their nations well and attempt to revise it. Thus the focus on storytelling found in
both texts becomes a commentary on empire.
This preoccupation with the form of the text itself can also be found in Virginia
Woolf’s Orlando and Rosa Chacel’s Estación. Ida y Vuelta, the subjects of the next
chapter. Chacel and Woolf call into question generic categories into which literature is
classified, highlighting the arbitrary nature of this classification. They do so primarily by
creating hybrid texts that resist classification. They also use the concept of the
generically-fluid text to critique current gender categorizations, drawing an analogy
between the arbitrary nature of literary genre and human gender. In doing so, Woolf and
Chacel undermine the notion of the innate superiority of the male gender. In
destabilizing this notion of innate superiority, they highlight the problems that arise when
one nation assumes its inherent right to dominate other, “lesser” nations through
colonization. Both authors prove that absolute categories are no longer valid in either
literature or politics.
In the final chapter, I turn to two authors who do not merely point out the flaws
with the current model of imperial power, but attempt to offer alternatives to it. Both
William Butler Yeats and Federico García Lorca respond to their respective nation’s
position as imperial subject and former colonizer by infusing their works with figures
currently excluded from discussions about nationhood. Yeats employs figures from
Celtic mythology in order to point out the futility of rage at Ireland’s colonizer and
23
suggest a method of gaining power that rests on celebration, not violence. Similarly,
Lorca turns to underrepresented groups, gypsies and Andalusian farmers, to critique the
Spanish political system post-empire. He uses the gypsies to highlight the cycle of the
rise and fall of Empire and ultimately offers readers a way to ideologically break free
from this cycle. Both Lorca and Yeats attempt to forge a new national identity through
these marginalized figures.
I conclude my study by revisiting the generational model and discussing its
problematic application to the Spanish texts I have examined. I then apply studies of
Modernism to these texts in order to demonstrate the links between them and British texts
considered integral to an understanding of Modernism. I then turn briefly to the visual
arts, highlighting the influence of Spanish art on modernist literature. By the end of this
project, I will have made a strong case for the incorporation of Spanish literature into the
modernist canon. As a result, critics will look toward Spain as a site of modernity, rather
than viewing it as a nation lagging woefully behind the rest of Europe.
24
Descent into Chaos and the Restoration of Order: The Images of Empire in E.M.
Forster’s A Passage to India and Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s Tirano Banderas
In Spanish writer Ramon del Valle-Inclán’s 1926 novel Tirano Banderas: Novela
de Tierra Caliente (Banderas the Tyrant: A Novel of the Warm Lands), one finds a scene
in which delegates from the Diplomatic Corps gather in the Republic of Santa Fe de
Tierra Firme, the fictional former Spanish colony in South America in which the novel
takes place. During this scene, the dean of the Diplomatic Corps, Sir John Scott, Minister
of Her Britannic Majesty, chides his fellow delegates about their mishandling of
prisoners and makes clear his expectation that those governing Santa Fe de Tierra Firme
will implement his suggestions promptly:
England has manifested in various ways the displeasure with which she
views this noncompliance with the most elementary rules of warfare.
England cannot look with indifference upon the execution of prisoners,
carried out in violation of all standards and agreements between civilized
nations…A Christian sentiment of human solidarity holds up to us all the
same chalice, that we may commune in a joint action and entreat the
observance of international legislation regarding the lives of prisoners and
their exchange (Valle-Inclán 249-250).
At the time in which Valle-Inclán published his novel, the British Minister would have
been a fitting choice for dean of the Diplomatic Corps, as Britain’s wide-reaching empire
gave other nations the impression that Britain had been extremely successful in dealing
with legislation in foreign lands. However, British author E.M. Forster’s A Passage to
India, published two years earlier in 1924, calls this success into question. Upon closer
25
inspection, A Passage to India shares many features with Tirano Banderas, revealing a
deep-rooted anxiety about the stability of the British Empire. When reading the two texts
together, one clearly sees Forster attempting to prevent the orderly British Empire from
dissolving into chaos, a feat that the Spanish could not accomplish.
One should note that the authors of both these texts publicly took clear positions
on colonization. A frequent traveler to Spain’s former colonies, Valle-Inclán “had
denounced the Spanish colonial presence in Latin America during his second trip to
Mexico in 1921…A great variety of texts dedicated to depicting the reality in the
Americas for readers in the former mother country were in circulation. Tirano
Banderas... served as the foundations for novels with an anti-colonialist theme
(Dougherty 40). 1 The novel constantly highlights the exploitation of the natives of Santa
Fe de Tierra Firme at the hands of the Spaniards still residing there. Santa Fe is governed
by a military dictator, Banderas the Tyrant. The text culminates in the execution of the
Spanish-born dictator. In the February 1927 issue of Revista de Occidente, Antonio
Espina reviews Tirano Banderas, acknowledging a kernel of truth in Valle-Inclán
descriptions of life in the colonies. He points out that Valle-Inclán’s depictions of various
characters accurately represent Spain’s attitude toward the Americas (qtd in Dougherty
45). In an article focusing on the anti-colonialist sentiment in Tirano Banderas,
Dougherty notes that “colonial European culture created a market, in the metropolis, for
tales that contained images of colonized lands and peoples” (40). Dougherty goes on to
state that A Passage to India serves as one of the best examples of such a tale, as it takes
into account the epistemological problems that arise when attempting to represent the
reality of colonialism from the perspective of the colonized culture. Dougherty then
1
All translations from Dougherty’s article are mine.
26
claims that, like A Passage to India, Valle-Inclán’s Tirano Banderas introduces to
literature about the Americas some deviations that subvert the preconceived notions
about the colonies that serve as the foundation of this genre (41). Due to Valle-Inclán’s
scathing critique of colonialism, it comes as no surprise that the Spanish ruling class in
Tirano Banderas soon finds their comfortable system crumbling into chaos, a chaos that
A Passage to India never allows.
Just one year after Valle-Inclán’s denouncement of the Spanish presence in Latin
America, Forster, who first traveled to India in 1912 and made a second trip in 1921,
commented on A Passage to India in a letter to Syed Masood: “When I began the book I
thought of it as a little bridge of sympathy between East and West, but this conception
has had to go, my sense of truth forbids anything so comfortable. I think that most
Indians, like most English people, are shits, and I am not interested whether they
sympathize with one another or not” (qtd in Baker 69).2 A Passage to India focuses on
an Indian doctor, Aziz, and his interactions with the British colonizers (referred to as
Anglo-Indians in the novel) who have settled in his town, Chandrapore. The novel’s plot
centers chiefly on Aziz being falsely accused of the sexual assault of a British woman,
Adela Quested. Within this plot, one also finds the question of whether or not true
friendship can ever exist between the British and Indians. Davidis claims that A Passage
to India looks forward to a time when India will achieve nationhood (276). Sainsbury’s
assertion that “[the novel] is…maddeningly, deliberately opaque where one wishes most
for clarity” (59) appears to support this notion, as the novel indeed leaves many questions
2
In a 1926 interview, Forster claims that Aziz is modeled after Masood, his “greatest Indian friend”
(Rhaman). Recent biographies and criticisms of Forster have suggested that the two had a romantic
relationship. See for example Moffat, Wendy. A Great Unrecorded History: A New Life of E.M. Forster.
New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010.
27
unanswered, blurring boundaries between true and false, right and wrong. One could
argue that Forster employs such ambiguity in order to disrupt the colonial system, which
relies heavily on boundaries. However, Forster’s novel ultimately rejects the idea that
the current system will be disturbed. Instead, the text works to restore the order that
appears threatened during the course of the plot. In the end, rigid boundaries do indeed
prevail.
Forster takes the name for his novel from Walt Whitman’s nine-part poem “A
Passage to India,” first published in the 1871 edition of Leaves of Grass. In this poem,
Whitman celebrates great accomplishments in the modern age: “In the Old World, the
east, the Suez canal/ The New by its mighty railroad spann’d/ The seas laid with
eloquent, gentle wires” (ln. 5-7).3 A parenthetical allusion to Christopher Columbus—
“(Ah Genoese, thy dream! thy dream!/ Centuries after thou are laid in thy grave/ The
shore thou foundest verifies thy dream!)” (ln. 67-69)—suggests that these achievements
have fulfilled the explorer’s goal. Modern innovations have engineered the “passage to
India” that Columbus sought; they have forged links between parts of the world separated
by vast expanses of land or sea. Given the date of completion of the Suez Canal, one can
safely assume that the British colonizers in Forster’s novel would have used this
waterway when traveling to India, an assumption supported by references to the route
that key characters in novel take when leaving India. The narrator notes that the ship
carrying Mrs. Moore, mother of Ronny Heaslop and friend to Aziz, went up the Red Sea
3
The Suez canal, opened in November 1869, is an artificial waterway in Egypt that connects the
Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea. Also known as the “Highway to India,” it allows water transportation
between Europe and Asia without navigation around Africa. The First Transcontinental Railroad was built
in the United States between 1863 and 1869. The railroad linked existing railroads on the east and west
coasts, thus connecting the two coasts by rail for the first time. The transatlantic telegraph cable was laid
across the floor of the Atlantic Ocean. After many attempts, a lasting connection was achieved in 1866.
The cable stretched from Ireland to Newfoundland, thus connecting Europe to North America and allowing
rapid communication between the two continents.
28
and into the Mediterranean, specifically referencing the Suez as a bridge between Europe
and Asia (Forster 285). Furthermore, the ship that Cyril Fielding, another friend of Aziz,
takes goes through Egypt and enters the Mediterranean (Forster 313-314). Forster thus
suggests that the British Empire, too, plays a role in the realization of Columbus’ dream,
as it has been largely responsible for bringing European and Asian nations together.
Whereas Forster’s title praises the notion of empire, Valle-Inclán’s title cautions
one against such an enterprise. Given that the Tyrant remains largely absent during the
course of the novel, appearing only a few times, one must wonder why Valle-Inclán
chose to name the book for him rather than for one of the more prominent characters.
Furthermore, why “A Novel of the Warm Lands”? What, specifically, ties the land to the
Tyrant, and why would Valle-Inclán choose to link the two in the title of his novel?
Simply stated, the answer is Empire. The Tyrant, having not been born in Santa Fe,
becomes connected to the land due to the fact that he, a foreigner, participated in the
conquest of this land and assumed absolute authority over its people. Significantly,
Banderas’ name in English translates to “flags.” When claiming a colony for Spain,
conquistadores would plant the Spanish flag as a symbol of ownership. The Tyrant’s
name therefore becomes representative of colonization. Banderas, planted in a strange
land, rules over it with an iron fist. However, doing so results in disastrous consequences
for him. One can conclude that Valle-Inclán chooses to title his piece thusly in order to
send a warning to those who attempt to become tyrants over foreign lands in the name of
God and Country.
While Forster’s title may not acknowledge the dangerous side of empire, several
instances in the text portray threats to the British’s supposedly stable hold over
29
Chandrapore. One passage, while insisting on the innate inferiority of Indians, also notes
that they possess the capacity to take back their nation should the British let down their
guard: “Most of the inhabitants of India do not mind how India is governed. Nor are the
lower animals of England concerned about England, but in the tropics the indifference is
more prominent, the inarticulate world is closer at hand and readier to resume control as
soon as men are tired” (Forster 123). Other instances, too, warn the British to stay on
high alert. After Miss Quested’s “attack” in the caves, Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek
take charge of removing cactus thorns from her body, “always coming on fresh colonies,
tiny hairs that might snap off and be drawn into the blood if they were neglected” (Forster
214). The description of the thorns as colonies suggests the potential threat that actual
colonies pose to the British Empire, warning that a constant vigilance is necessary in
order to prevent putting such a threat into action. Davidis notes that “elements of the
colony itself…cause pain and threaten to contaminate the blood of the Englishwoman”
(268). The novel also includes images of fallen empires of the past, reminding the reader
that seemingly stable empires have the potential for destruction: “must not India have
been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi
upon the Peacock Throne?” (Forster 69). 4 Other passages in the novel highlight Britain’s
dependence on its colonies. As Fielding chides Aziz for having spent so much money on
the excursion to the Marabar Caves, he proudly announces “My proverbs are: A penny
saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the
British Empire rests on them” (Forster 177). One should note that the first of these
4
The Mughal (Mogul) Empire was founded in 1526 and officially survived until 1858, when it was
supplanted by the British Raj. It reached its height during the reign of Emperor Aurangzeb (Almagir) from
1658 until 1707; at its height it covered almost all of India and extended westward as far as Moscow and
Constantinople. The Peacock Throne is originally the name given to the Mughal throne in India.
30
proverbs originates from Poor Richard’s Almanac, a publication from one of Britain’s
former colonies. This passage emphasizes both Britain’s tendency to rely on resources
from its colonies and the possibility that such reliance may prove fatal, as the colony
from which the proverb originated broke free of Britain roughly 150 years before the
novel’s publication. Forster mirrors the language of this passage later: “Fear is
everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed
were unconscious acts of propitiation (192). Both the phrase “rests on” and strings of
semicolons that punctuate the two quotes suggest that Forster intentionally linked these
two passages. Together, they make it clear that the British Empire derives its strength not
from an innate power, but from exploitation and intimidation. Aziz directly questions
this supposed power toward the end of the novel, when in a conversation with Fielding he
reveals that he sees little reason for Indians to suffer at the hands of the British. He
remarks that the Indians are growing steadily stronger and will seize power from the
British when the time is right: “Why are we [Indians] put to so much suffering? We used
to blame you [Englishmen], now we blame ourselves, we grow wiser. Until England is in
difficulties we keep silent, but in the next European war—aha, aha! Then is our time”
(Forster 360). The novel, however, works to keep such threats at bay, constantly seeking
to restore order when chaos threatens to ensue.
The descriptions of the cosmos, land, and caves in A Passage to India contribute
to Forster’s attempt to order the potential chaos in Chandrapore. Aziz views the
unnatural features of the landscape as evidence of the colonizers’ ensnarement of his
homeland: “As he entered [the] arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized him. The
roads, named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of
31
the net Great Britain had thrown over India” (Forster 13). The sun, the moon, and the sky
are all indicative of imperial power. Because the British Empire does indeed form an
arch over the whole of India, it seems only fitting that the sky, particularly the sun, serves
as Forster’s metaphor for the Empire. Early in the novel, the sky becomes the governing
force over India:
The sky settles everything—not only climates and seasons but when the
earth shall be beautiful. By herself she can do little—only feeble outbursts
of flowers. But when the sky chooses, glory can rain into Chandrapore
bazaars or a benediction pass from horizon to horizon. The sky can do
this because it is so strong and enormous. Strength comes from the sun,
infused in it daily; size from the prostrate earth. No mountains infringe on
the curve. (Forster 5)
First and most obviously, Forster depicts the sky as practically omnipotent, endowing it
with characteristics such as strength and the power to make decisions. One should note
that Forster describes the earth as “prostrate” and unable to accomplish anything, thus
portraying it as subservient to the sky. Significantly, the earth is also depicted in
feminine terms—“By herself she can do little”— reinforcing the notion of feminine
weakness. In the above quote, Forster connects the earth the Chandrapore, equating its
place of commerce to the “feeble bursts of flowers” that the earth produces. Through this
connection Forster communicates the belief that, just as the earth needs the sky to
become fruitful, so too does Chandrapore need its colonizers. Mike Edwards briefly
comments on Forster’s depictions of the sky, citing a passage in which the British civil
station “shares nothing with the [Indian] city except the overarching sky” (Forster 5). He
claims that the word “except” “gives a negative frame to the sharing of the sky by town
and Civil Station” (Edwards 25), negating any substantial connection between the two.
However, if one reads this passage as representative of British imperialism, the sky
32
stands in the place of British law, the only force that binds the two cultures together.
According to Sainsbury, the cosmos serve to keep order in Chandrapore, permitting some
actions yet forbidding others: “The cosmos presides over the world of the novel,
determining what takes place in India through the Indian earth itself. This mystical,
humanly uncontrollable cosmos consists of the all-powerful sky and sun, and the ‘hostile’
Indian earth...” (61). More specifically, the sun becomes associated with the British
colonizers, reminding one of the popular Victorian-era phrase “The sun never sets on the
British Empire.” Light enters the scene when a group of English people gather at the
bridge party: “with an impartiality exceeding all, the sky, not deeply coloured but
translucent, poured light from its whole circumference” (Forster 39-40). Though this
passage characterizes the sky as impartial, it chooses to bestow its graces on a select
group of people. Also, it resembles those whom it favors; rather than being dark, like the
colonized Indians, it is pale. The sun not only favors the British, but also passes
judgment when the colonizers attempt to bridge the gap that divides them from their
Indian subjects. When Adela Quested accepts Aziz’s invitation to join his excursion to
the Marabar caves, the sun expresses profound disapproval:
“Look, the sun’s rising—this’ll be absolutely magnificent—come
quickly—look. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. We should
never have seen it if we’d stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants.”
As [Miss Quested] spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour
throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity, as yet
brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the
air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when night
should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue had
filed in the celestial fount (Forster 151).
When Adela mentions that her experience would have been lacking had she associated
exclusively with the Anglo-Indians, the sun suddenly turns on her in anger and
33
disappointment. It actively refuses to shed its light on the mixed-race party, physically
straining to keep itself from appearing. Forster attributes the sun’s action to a failure of
virtue, which one can infer as Adela’s failure to remain with her fellow countrymen. The
sun only returns to its normal behavior when the Indian men reserve the only elephant for
the British women, treating with women with the degree of respect considered proper for
colonial subjects. As the elephant carries the women and the men walk, “the pale
sun…saluted [the hills] to the base, and pencilled shadows down their creases” (Forster
154). Thus the sun becomes a proponent of the British Empire, reinforcing the
inequalities that have been established by British rule. For this reason, Forster depicts
Aziz as having broken wings (179) as he is arrested. This description alludes to the myth
of Icarus and serves as a warning that Indians who fly too close to the sun (the symbol of
the British Empire) will soon find their aspirations destroyed.
In another passage, Forster depicts the sun as the rightful possessor and protector
of the earth: “the sun who has watched [the mountains] for countless aeons may still
discern in their outlines forms that were his before our globe was torn from his bosom”
(136). In these lines, India (the earth) becomes a natural outgrowth of Britain (the sun),
making the British Empire a product of nature, destined to come into being, rather than a
man-made system established for economic purposes.. Because Forster views India as
simply an extension of Britain, the former nation must surrender all its assets to the latter,
as exemplified during a sunset, when the Marabar Hills yield all of their charm to the sky
(Forster 211).
One should note that, even when a celestial body is associated with India, it is
always the moon—traditionally symbolic of weakness and femininity. Also, rather than
34
existing solely in the celestial realm, Forster’s moon is tied to the earth, and thus not fully
a part of governing body of the sky. When Mrs. Moore returns from her trip to the
mosque, her son inquires “Did you succeed in catching the moon in the Ganges?”
(Forster 22); the moon does not have a place in the sky, instead residing in the river.
Forster again connects the same body of water to the moon later in the novel: “the moon,
full again, shone over the Ganges and touched the shrinking channels into threads of
silver…” (232). In these lines, Forster diminishes the holy river of India into a thin,
almost invisible object, taking away the awe-inspiring power associated with it. Finally,
Forster describes the moon as “the exhausted body which precedes the sun” (284). If
read as an allegory of imperialism, this passage depicts a colonial body that has been
drained of its strength and must yield to a superior power.
This mandate that the inferior must yield appears to be challenged by the
Marabar Caves, which produce an echo that haunts Adela Quested after her visit there.
This echo suggests the possibility of blurring boundaries, erasing distinctions:
’Boum’ is the sound as far as the human alphabet can express it, or ‘bououm,’ or ‘ou-boum,’—utterly dull. Hope, politeness, the blowing of a
nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce ‘boum. Even the striking of a
match starts a little worm coiling, which is too small to complete a circle
but is eternally watchful. And if several people talk at once, an
overlapping howling noise begins, echoes generate echoes, and the cave is
stuffed with a snake composed of small snakes, which writhe
independently (Forster 163).
One could read this echo as an equalizer, reducing all sounds, regardless of their source,
to the same thing. However, as one reads further, one realizes that this echo, rather than
being a sign of peace or equality, takes on a very sinister quality: “If one had spoken with
the tongues of angels and pleaded for all the unhappiness and misunderstanding in the
world, past, present, and to come, for all the misery men must undergo whatever their
35
opinion and position, and however much they dodge or bluff—it would amount to the
same, the serpent would descend and return to the ceiling” (Forster 165). In this cave, the
serpent proves victorious, triumphing even over the angels. This snake signals danger.
When reading the snake in terms of relationships between the Indians and the British, the
snake comes to represent the danger that arises when many things are indiscriminately
made equal. Equality, in this situation, is not something one wishes for. One should note
that this echo quickly disappears from the novel after Miss Quested tells the truth about
Aziz on the witness stand. While one could read this disappearance as advocating
equality and friendship between the two races, one should note that, immediately after
this disappearance, a riot ensues. During this riot, Fielding chooses to rescue Mrs.
Quested rather than remaining by Aziz’s side, thus setting into motion a chain of events
that does irreparable damage to their friendship. Order is restored. This insistence on
orderliness reflects the state of the British Empire at the time of the novel’s publication.
Just as descriptions of natural elements in A Passage to India serve to strengthen
the idea of a well-established, orderly empire, descriptions of the land in Triano
Banderas further Valle-Inclán’s critique of empire. From the very beginning, Spain’s
former colony appears dismal: “Santa Fe de Tierra Firme: Sandy wastes, agaves, prickly
pears and mangrove swamps—called in the old maps Punta de las Serpientes” (ValleInclán 13). A close reading of this passage leads one to the conclusion that the elements
of this land sustain very little life, begging the question of why such a land would ever
appear attractive to settlers. Sandy soil, in most cases, proves unsuitable for crops. The
few things able to grow in this soil provide nourishment at great peril. Agave plants have
sharp, pointed leaves with spiny margins surrounding them; though the flowers, the
36
leaves, the stalk, and the sap are indeed edible, one must fight through the spines in order
to obtain this nourishment. The prickly pear proves even more perilous. A member of
the cactus family, the prickly pear yields fruit that can provide a substantial meal.
However, this fruit is covered with a layer of small spines, and if not peeled away
properly, these spines will quickly lodge in the tongue, lips, and throat when ingested.
Both the agave and the prickly pear can also be used as intoxicants, which, while
providing enjoyment, do nothing to help nourish. The mangrove swamps seem even
more useless to humans than the two desert plants. Mangroves thrive in salt water, often
surviving on precipitation with twice the salt concentration of seawater. Were one to
enter a mangrove swamp, one would not be able to drink the water for survival. On the
contrary, drinking the salt water could prove fatal, as it quickly dehydrates the human
body. In addition to these harsh conditions, the mangrove swamps in South America are
home to the liophis cobellus, or mangrove snake. An excellent swimmer, the mangrove
snake will readily bite in self-defense. Though not fatal, the mild venom from this snake
will cause one a great deal of pain. Perhaps an abundance of these snakes gave Santa Fe
its previous name, Punta de las Serpientes, or Point of the Snakes. This reference to the
snake conjures up associations with both physical danger (from the snake’s venom) and
moral danger (through its Biblical associations with the temptation of Eve). As in A
Passage to India, the snake signals the peril to come. Thus from the very beginning,
Valle-Inclán places the reader in a dangerous, hostile setting capable of bringing out the
worst in those who dare dwell there. This barren, empty place with its infertile soil will
yield very little, a comment on the fruitless pursuit of empire; though the colonies
37
appeared to hold tremendous promise for wealth and prosperity, in the end they proved
futile.
The places built in this hostile land also hold clues to Valle-Inclán’s feelings on
empire. García notes that the places in the novel serve as metaphors, signifying events to
come: “The city of Santa Fe is described as a grand collective of people on a permanent
holiday. In contrast, Santos Banderas’ spaces are described as austere and silent. Each
environment is transformed into a premonition of the near future; the city celebrates
festivities typical for that time of year, but in reality it celebrates the coming triumph of
the revolution. In turn, the dark walls of Santos Banderas’ fort signal the inevitable
destruction of this dictatorship” (88). Contrasting images—holiday and silence, triumph
and destruction, darkness and light— join, but rather than working together to create a
coherent whole out of many different parts, these images appear at constant war with one
another. Therefore, the spaces also become a comment on Empire. Contrasting lands
may have joined (via force), but instead of becoming a single, peaceful nation, the
different lands remained constantly at odds; eventually the Empire destroyed itself from
within.
Valle-Inclán mirrors this destruction from within by making his text virtually
explode into hundreds of little pieces. Tirano Banderas is an extremely fragmented
narrative. It consists of three large parts which have each been segmented into numerous
books and then further divided into sections. Its many sections are never more than a few
pages long and are frequently followed by sections that appear to have little or nothing to
do with the previous sections. The fragmented narrative and the gaps in time reflect the
chaotic situation in Spain at the time of the novel’s publication. The turmoil and disorder
38
felt throughout the nation after the loss of the last three colonies comes across in ValleInclán’s novel in a very palpable way. Cuvardic, however, notes a particular order to this
chaos: “The division of the seven books in the novel (1-3-3-3-7-3-3-3-1) possesses a
mirror-like symmetry: Santos Banderas only appears in the two first and the two last
books. As a result, the sequences of the actions in the first two are inverted in the last
two” (93).5 Though one could argue that this symmetrical structure serves to instill order
to the chaos that erupts within the novel, it only serves to highlight the chaos. In a novel
with such a carefully ordered structure, one would expect to see carefully ordered actions
as well. However, one instead finds so many fragmented actions that one loses sight of
the structure altogether. This fragmentation is evident not only in the novel’s structure,
but also within its plot, which possesses a “simultaneity of actions developed in the same
time but in different spaces, resulting in a literary montage identical to the same use in
cinematographic art (Cuvardic 93).
In doing so, Valle-Inclán successfully disorients the reader’s sense of time, thus
drawing the reader into the chaotic world of the text:
One of the consequences of speeding up the actions, produced through the
fragmentation of the text’s structure and its numerous micro-actions, is to
force the reader to lose the temporal markers through which the plot
develops: the narration hints at events that take place during two days in a
tropical country, but the multiplicity of actions, taking place
simultaneously in different places, makes the reader believe that the events
have taken place during several weeks (Cuvardic 93-94).
5
All translations from Cuvardic are mine unless otherwise noted. Though she references seven books in
the novel, Cuvardic’s parenthetical numbers divide Tirano Banderas into nine books. This division takes
into account the prologue and epilogue, as well as the novel’s seven parts. Cuvardic’s choice of
terminology is also curious. She refers to “seven books,” when the novel is in fact divided into seven parts.
The seven parts, as mentioned above, are then divided into books. Cuvardic takes this division into account
in her schema. The prologue, while it contains several sections, is not divided into books, therefore
Cuvardic references it with the number one. Part one is divided into three books; Cuvardic references it
with the number three. Part two is also divided into three books and also referenced with the number three.
And so on until the epilogue, which, like the prologue is not divided into books and is referenced with the
number one.
39
Furthermore, the parts of the novel do not take place in a linear timeline. Instead, for
example, the readers meet Zacarías carrying the bloody body of his infant in a knapsack,
confident in the fact that the child has brought him luck: “Chief, here…are the remains of
my baby. Eaten up by the hogs in the quagmire! Thanks to lugging these remains I won
enough at cards to buy me a nag at the fair, and I lassoed a Gachupín and escaped safe
and sound from under the fire of the gendarmes” (Valle-Inclán 5). Only later do we learn
what has happened to the child and the lengths to which his father went to avenge his
death. In addition, the novel appears at first to present several different plot lines; only
toward the end of the novel does the reader understand how each of the different plots
converges around the central action of the novel, the killing of Banderas the Tyrant. At
the end of the novel, the reader realizes that he or she has been taken on a journey from
the present (part one, in which the rebels plan to kill Tirano Banderas) to the past (part
two, the longest section of the novel, which sets up the circumstances that brought the
rebels together) and then back to the present (part three, in which the rebels successfully
execute their plan). If this text does indeed serve as a warning to those who might pursue
Imperial glory, then the circular structure of the plot sends the message that history will
be bound to repeat. Empires will continue to be overthrown.
In contrast, the events in A Passage to India take place in a much more
straightforward manner. Sainsbury notes that “The text is structured as a series of frames:
the cosmos and India open and close the text” (69). Though the novel is divided into
three different parts, the events take place in a linear fashion. While there is a two-year
gap in time between part two and part three, Forster makes a point to relate the events
that have occurred during that time gap; the reader learns that Aziz has left Chandrapore.
40
The reader also discovers that Fielding has married Stella Moore, the daughter of Aziz’s
old friend, Mrs. Moore. The action is centered on one distinct plotline that follows Aziz’s
life before, during, and after the time that he has been falsely accused of rape. In the first
part of the novel, “Mosque,” Muslim Aziz meets Mrs. Moore inside his place of worship.
Through his interactions with both her and Fielding during this first part, Forster raises
questions about the possibility of genuine friendship between the British and the Indians,
suggesting that perhaps such a thing can exist. In the second part, “Caves,” Adela
Quested accuses Aziz of the crime, which supposedly took place in the Marabar Caves.
In naming this part, the longest of the novel, for the place of the alleged crime, Forster
draws attention to the complications that surround such friendships. This section makes
it clear that the unequal class statuses of the British and Indians in Chandrapore have the
power to drive a wedge between those who want such friendships. In this section, those
who have attempted such a thing (Aziz, Fielding, Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested) all leave
Chandrapore, restoring the status quo. Just as Tirano Banderas comes full circle, literally
back to the present in which it began, the last section of A Passage to India, “Temple,”
suggests a cyclical movement of time. During the celebration of a Hindu religious
ceremony, the subject of reincarnation appears: “God is not born yet—that will occur at
midnight—but He has also been born centuries ago, nor can He ever be born, because He
is Lord of the Universe, who transcends human processes. He is, was not, is not, was”
(Forster 317). However, one should note that Forster makes it clear that this fluid notion
of time has been reserved for God, not for humans. Later in the “Temple” section, Aziz
has the unsettling feeling that the events of his life have begun to repeat themselves. As
he speaks with Ronny Moore, he tells the young man “Then you are an Oriental.” These
41
words set off his uneasiness: “[Aziz] unclasped as he spoke, with a little shudder. Those
words—he had said them to Mrs. Moore in the mosque in the beginning of the cycle,
from which, after so much suffering, he had got free…Mosque, caves, mosque, caves.
And here he was starting again” (Forster 349). However, the novel itself disrupts that
cycle by breaking the very pattern that Aziz has noted; its sections are “Mosque, Caves,
Temple,” not “Mosque, Caves, Mosque.” Unlike Valle-Inclán, Forster draws boundaries
between different moments in time.
Valle-Inclán rejects such boundaries not only in his distortion of time, but also in
his chosen style of writing. During the phase of his career in which he wrote Tirano
Banderas, Valle-Inclán experimented with a style that he termed “esperpento.” Distorted
descriptions of reality have become the hallmark of an esperpento. Through these
descriptions, which often juxtapose two contrasting things in order to create a deformed,
grotesque image, Valle-Inclán criticizes the reality in which he lives. In Tirano
Banderas, he employs this style in order to highlight the tension that occurs when two
contrasting images collide. In doing so, he demonstrates “the grotesque aspects of Santos
Banderas’ dictatorial world. The grotesque descriptions result from the use of a stylized,
precise language to describe ugly, deformed objects. The images created stop short of
concrete details, or things are described through an innovative metaphoric lens”
(Cuvardic 79).6 Just as the sky tends to manipulate the fates of those in Chandrapore,
6
When considering the importance of the grotesque in the esperpento, one should take into account
Bakhtin’s discussion of the grotesque in Rabalis and His World. In Bakhtin’s description of grotesque
realism, the abstract and spiritual are made concrete and physical. In doing so, Bakhtin claims, ideals are
degraded. While one certainly finds instances of grotesque realism in Tirano Banderas, the more important
aspect of the grotesque is its relation to the carnivalesque. In a carnivalesque moment, someone of high
importance, such as a king or nobleman, is mocked and degraded. Bakhtin sees this moment of mocking as
a moment in which those of the lower classes seize power and offer valid critiques of the upper classes,
critiques which would normally not be permitted. When applying this concept to the esperpento, ValleInclán’s grotesque images become tools for critiquing the politics of his nation.
42
Valle-Inclán’s use of the esperpento allows him to manipulate both humans and objects
in the text: “The esperpento…does not devalue the imitation of the real world and of
figurative images, but rather works with the techniques of deformed description…Both
humanity and things are simply objects manipulated by destiny or by the mechanical
repetition of daily activities” (Cuvardic 83). The esperpento seems a fitting form for a
text in which the world rejects order and instead dissolves into chaos. Esperpentos create
an artificial world that highlights and denounces the injustice of the real world. Their
fragmentary characteristics, in denouncing the real world, make room for the possibility
of a more ordered world in which this fragmentariness is no longer necessary (Cuvardic
81, emphasis in original).
The fragmented structure of the novel, then, could serve to
highlight the chaos of the real world, a world in which Spain has fallen from grace, much
like the fictional dictator. Though all of the separate storylines do indeed converge at the
novel’s end, this convergence does not result in order, either within the novel’s plot or its
structure. The esperpento leaves one little possibility of control over a situation, making
it clear that one becomes subject to the chaotic whim of fate. When reading the
esperpento as an allegory for Empire, one can easily understand the tension that arises
when two contrasting cultures collide. Valle-Inclán insinuates that, like the images he
creates, the land created by imperialism becomes a grotesque hybrid about which no
concrete details exist. Stark contrasts in Tirano Banderas highlight the chaos that takes
place throughout the novel. Such chaos is a result of the unnatural hybridization that has
occurred in the colonies.
The Tyrant serves as an example of such a hybrid; he appears to be composed of
both human and animal traits: “the tyrant’s actions are based on the irrational whims of
43
his instincts. Santos Banderas makes noise instead of speaking: his becomes beastlike,
and as a result the discourse of an animal, ‘chac chac’ emerges” (García 88).
Furthermore, the narrator constantly makes reference to the dictator’s green, inhuman
teeth (e.g. Valle-Inclán 74). The animalization of the dictator serves to blur the
distinctions between boundaries typically considered impassable. Significantly, ValleInclán never describes the Tyrant directly. He is always like something (a viper, an
inquisitive rat, a mummy), always a never-ending metaphor. As a result, the reader never
quite pictures him as a man, but rather as an odd hybrid of various pieces. Like the
former Spanish Empire, the dictator is composed of various parts that do not always fit
together. Like the former Spanish Empire, Tirano Banderas is doomed to failure. The
Tyrant becomes something deformed and indefinable; one can never quite imagine him
alone, but must always imagine him in reference to something else. One should note that
the tyrant hails from the mother country and resides in Santa Fe as one of the last
members of the Spanish ruling class. As the colonizers become strange, human/animal
hybrids, the reader comes to realize the chaos that has resulted from the colonial
enterprise. The colonial enterprise has created something deformed and indefinable; it has
created a situation in which one cannot imagine Spain alone, but must instead imagine it
in reference to something else—the imperial glory of the past. Just as the imperial
project sought to create a single entity out of more than one land, Valle-Inclán creates a
single entity out of humans and animals in order to highlight the grotesque situation that
imperialism has created. In addition to being a human/animal hybrid, the Tyrant’s image
and his actions also appear at odds with one another: “Santos Banderas is described as a
person of elegant, peaceful character in order to highlight his moral cruelty. The dictator
44
has a hypocritical attitude: he is a cruel man who exhibits refined manners” (García 88).
One should also note his full name, “Santos Banderas,” roughly translated into English as
“Holy Flags.” His first name alone translates as “Saints,’ suggesting a religious
connotation. One could argue that this notion of the flag as sacred created the problem in
the first place; the idea of the mother country being revered above all else led to the
violent revolutions in Spain’s former colonies.
In addition to this grotesque depiction of the tyrant, scathing portrayals of the
Spanish living in Santa Fe abound in Tirano Banderas. The Spanish frequently exploit
the natives of Santa Fe for their own personal gain. The pawnbroker, Señor Quintín
Peredita, takes advantage of his customers, often receiving valuables and paying very
little for them. For example, when Zacarías San Jose’s wife—a native—attempts to pawn
a ring given to her by Colonel de la Gándara, Peredita first attempts to give her five
pesos, claiming that the ring is only worth nine. He then grudgingly hands over the ring’s
“full value” of nine pesos. After the woman has left the pawnshop, the reader learns that
the ring is actually worth five hundred pesos (Valle-Inclán 128-135). During this scene,
among others, Valle-Inclán constantly employs the phrase “the honest Gachupín” to
describe the pawnbroker; the ironic juxtaposition of the word “honest” with such a term
of disrespect highlights Peredita’s cunning ways. 7 One should also note that,
immediately after cheating a native woman, Peredita “settled down to an effusive
enjoyment of the local paper with he received from his Austurian village: ‘The Avilés
Echo’ stirred the patriotic tenderness of the honest Gachupín to ecstasy” (Valle-Inclán
130-31). Valle-Inclán’s deliberate inclusion of the fact that Peredita hails from northern
7
“Gachupín is a derogatory term used to describe Spanish people living in Latin America. It is derived
from the surname Cachopines and was popularized during the Golden Age of Spain.
45
Spain serves as an indictment of the Spanish presence in Tierra Firme. Rather than bring
about a better way of life for the native people, as the colonial project claimed to do, the
Spaniards in this land exploit the natives, ensuring that the current class structure remains
in place.
The brothel serves as another example of this exploitation. The brothel’s Spanish
owner, Cucarachita, goes to great lengths to ensure that her mixed and native workers
never earn a sufficient amount of money to be free of her. At one point, Lupita, one of
the native prostitutes, tells her client that she owes the landlady thirty pesos, yet the
landlady has been holding back fifteen pesos Lupita is currently owed (Valle-Inclán 92).
Like the Tyrant, the brothel owner has an allegorical name; “Cucarachita” translates as
“Little Cockroach.” The Spanish woman, rather than a symbol of the mother country to
be revered, becomes instead symbolic of a nuisance that cannot be driven away, try as
one might. Dougherty notes that this portrayal of Cucharachita serves to further ValleInclán’s critique of Empire:
It is no accident that the brothel that plays an important role in Tirano
Banderas is a place owned by a Spanish woman. This fact reinforces the
impression that Valle-Inclán, in his anti-colonialist campaign, was not
content with depicting the ‘gachupín’ devoted to the economic
exploitation of ‘half-breeds and natives’, but instead questioned the
underlying structure of colonialist discourse in Spanish literature. The
threat of perversion does not stem from colonized lands, but from the
Mother Country (45).
In these depictions of the Spaniards in Santa Fe, Valle-Inclán questions widely-held
notions about the relationships between colonized and colonizer, notions that place the
colonizer in a position of moral superiority over the colonized: “The truth is that in 1926
many Spanish writers…perpetuated discursive conventions that ignored, if not directly
falsified, more than one hundred years of the history of colonial liberation. By inverting
46
these conventions in his novel, Valle-Inclán draws attention to them in order for his
society to take the first step in submitting them to… criticism” (Dougherty 45).
While he depicts the European characters as immoral and cruel, the natives of the
former colony come across as sympathetic victims of the laws implemented by those in
power. When Zacarías San José’s wife is wrongfully accused by Peredita of stealing the
ring that she pawned, members of the military police come to arrest her.8 As they take
her away, these men scornfully push aside her infant son, leaving him alone and yowling
for his mother: “The baby ran a few steps and again stood still, calling to its mother. A
gendarme turned round and shooed it off. The infant stood hesitant, wailing and beating
its fists against its face…Standing on the edge of the irrigating ditch, he sobbed, watching
the distance which separated him from his mother grow ever greater” (Valle-Inclán 152).
This abandoned infant unfortunately meets a tragic end; his father arrives home to find
his son eaten by pigs, and a heart-wrenching scene unfolds: “Zacarías stopped. Grim,
horror-stricken, he picks up a bloody mass of flesh. That was all that was left of his baby.
The hogs had devoured its face and hands. The vultures had plucked out its heart”
(Valle-Inclán 167). When Zacarías vows to kill those responsible for his son’s violent
death, the reader sees a grieving father, not a violent rebel. Knowing that those who took
his wife away will never answer for his son’s death, Zacarías seeks his own form of
justice. He visits Peredita, and after making it clear that the pawnbroker’s accusation
directly caused his wife’s arrest, he ties a noose around Peredita’s neck and drags the
honest gachupín behind a galloping horse until the offender has been strangled to death
(Valle-Inclán 171-176). Cuvardic notes that, like other moments in the text, “the
8
Coronel de la Gándara gave her the ring to buy food after Zacarías and his wife hid him from the military
police, who were searching for him in order to arrest him for smashing Lupita the Wine Vendor’s stand.
47
description of the assassination of the gachupín is fragmented, deformed, and grotesque”
(84). This distortion of such a significant moment highlights Zacarías state of mind at the
time of the assassination by, interestingly, portraying its opposite. One would expect a
man who had just experienced such a tragedy to think about several unrelated things at
once, unable to focus on just one particular train of thought. Zacarías, however, very
clearly and purposefully executes his plan of revenge. His clarity of thought contrasts the
fragmentary structure of the scene, emphasizing the tremendous amount of effort
Zacarías must exert in order to keep from falling to pieces.
Like Zacarías, Lupita the wine vendor finds herself a victim of injustice. Unlike
him, however, she attempts to go through the proper legal channels established by the
Spanish; she reports the crime to the Tyrant. As a result, Lupita the wine vendor starts the
fiasco that sets the entire plot in motion, when she accuses Coronel de la Gándara of
smashing her merchandise without paying her damages (Valle-Inlán 39). The wine
vendor shares a name with Lupita the clairvoyant/prostitute, who also causes a great
ruckus when her predictions of the present turn out to be true. Lupita’s predictions set
another chain of events in motion, causing Nachito Vegillas to flee the brothel and the
gendarmes to pursue him. Thus in both cases, Lupita serves as a catalyst for the events
that follow. Though neither Lupita takes an active role in the events leading up to the
bloody overthrow of the Tyrant, both cause the events to occur in the first place. When
reading this doubling as a comment on Empire, one can read both Lupitas as
representative of the women of the Mother Country, who often become the justification
for colonialism though they actually do little colonizing themselves.
48
As in Tirano Banderas, a female figure in A Passage to India is doubled as well.
In the first few pages of the novel, Aziz meets Mrs. Moore, to whom he later refers as his
‘best friend” during his trial because she will not join the crowd falsely accusing him of
attempted rape, despite the fact that her son, Ronny Heaslop, is one the men leading the
charge against Aziz. Though she leaves India before the trial, she “comes back” to the
courtroom in the form of a Hindu deity, Esmiss Esmoor: “the invocation of Mrs. Moore
continued, and people who did not know what the syllables meant repeated them like a
charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, and they were taken up in the street
outside (Forster 250). This transformation gives her a supernatural aspect, much like
Lupita’s clairvoyance. Significantly, both of the Lupitas belong to the lowest class in
Santa Fe, that of the Indians. Mrs. Moore, however, belongs to the highest class in
Chandrapore, as the mother of a high-ranking government official. Valle-Inclán
therefore gives much more power to the lower, native class than does Forster. One
should note that in both cases, the doubled women bring about the events that pose the
greatest threat to the existing system. However, one should also note that the two Lupitas
in Tirano Banderas succeed in bringing about chaos—the downfall of the tyrant and the
bloody celebration that follows. In contrast, Mrs. Moore/Esmiss Esmoor, while she poses
a threat to the system, does not ultimately succeed in bringing it down.
Forster offers highly critical depictions of those who enforce the system. In A
Passage to India the Europeans in power display a bit of moral indecency as well, with
the seemingly upstanding District Superintendent of Police, Mr. McBryde, having an
affair with a single woman, Miss Derek. In addition, the British often hurl insults at the
natives and mistreat them. The most extreme example of this mistreatment comes just
49
after Aziz’s trial, when Major Callendar, the Civil Surgeon, tortures the grandson of a
high-ranking Indian by rubbing pepper instead of antiseptic into his wounds (Forster 26162). This behavior is a far cry from the image of the noble, benevolent Englishman sent
to enlighten the inhabitants of the colonies. When not engaging in such deplorable
behavior, the British in Chandrapore take great pains to maintain their class status. For
example, during the Bridge Party, Mrs. McBryde takes it upon herself to educate Mrs.
Moore and Adela Quested (both newly arrived in India), on their innate supremacy in
Chandrapore: “You’re [Moore and Quested] superior to [Indian women] anyway. Don’t
forget that. You’re superior to everyone in India except one or two of the Ranis, and
they’re on an equality” (Forster 42). Forster critiques this notion of natural superiority,
asserting that whiteness connotes not a color, but instead a class status: “’white’ has no
more to do with colour than ‘God save the King’ with god, and…it is the height of
impropriety to consider what it does connote” (Forster 65). Perhaps if one were to
consider what it does connote, one would recognize the absence of an innate privilege
that entitles one to rule, whether as a king over his own countrymen or as a European
colonist over darker-skinned natives. However, as seen with Aziz, the British exercise an
inordinate amount of power and influence over Chandrapore.
Aziz depicts himself as an animal to his British companions on the train to
Marabar. As the train starts and Aziz realizes that he will soon be left behind, “he flung
himself at the train, and leapt onto the footboard of the carriage…It was an easy
feat…’We’re monkeys, don’t worry’ he called, hanging onto the bar and laughing”
(Forster 144). Davidis notes that Forster also describes Aziz as “howling” for Fielding as
the train pulls away and asserts that Aziz’s “desire to please the English causes him to
50
transform himself into precisely that which the majority of Anglo-Indians believe him to
be” (263).9 During the excursion to Marabar, Aziz mimics the colonists for whom he has
assumed responsibility. He imagines himself an emperor reigning over his own subjects:
“He was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched
the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy
plan, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow
graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree” (Forster 176). Aziz, normally a
member of one of the lowest classes according the British system, comes to imagine his
dominion rests over everything within his sight. Davidis comments on this passage,
noting that Aziz’s actions in effect do very little to affect the respective statuses of the
party’s members: “Aziz revels in assuming his own imperial role. Aziz’s self-depiction
as an Oriental conqueror makes him feel superior to the conquering English…
[However], Aziz’s role of Mogul emperor cannot erase the fact that India is still
dominated, at least in this novel, by [Anglo-Indians]” (263). The absence of Englishmen
on the excursion, due only to Fielding’s missing the train, allows Aziz to assume a power
that he otherwise would not have had. He takes great pride in his responsibility, but this
feeling proves far too fleeting. Immediately upon his return to Chandrapore, Aziz
immediately (quite literally, one and a half pages later) finds himself powerless, as a
party of British men waits at the train station to arrest him for “insulting” Miss Quested in
the caves. Once again, order is restored. The Indian who dares assume more power than
is granted to him by British law becomes even more helpless than before his interaction
with the British women.
9
See page 6 above for another instance in which Forster compares the colonized Indians to animals,
contrasting them with British “men.”
51
In his characterization of Aziz, Forster paints a picture of a peaceful man wrongly
accused of a crime and arrested, much to the character’s and the readers’ bewilderment.
Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, refuses to reveal the charges against Aziz when
arresting him and insists that no arrest warrant is required to take him into custody; after a
halfhearted attempt to escape, Aziz simply sobs “My children and my name!” (Forster
179) before being taken to prison. The scenes in the courtroom do little to instill faith in
the British justice system in Chandrapore; those who have accused Aziz believe that he
has already been convicted prior to the trail’s beginning and that the trial will be nothing
more than a formality for the sake of propriety. They even go so far as to put an Indian
judge in charge of the case, simply due to the fact that they do not wish to suggest any
hint of bias when, not if, Aziz is convicted. When Adela Quested hesitates to accuse Aziz
on the witness stand, McBryde attempts to put words in her mouth: “I suggest to you that
the prisoner followed you” (Forster 255, emphasis mine). As she continues to falter and
it becomes apparent that Aziz will soon be acquitted, Major Callendar unsuccessfully
attempts to stop the trial on medical grounds, and Mrs. Turton screeches insults at Miss
Quested. The Indian Magistrate, fully aware that he does not command the same respect
as an Anglo-Indian judge, practically faints from the responsibility of standing up against
the British: “Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had controlled the case, just
controlled it. He had shown that an Indian can preside” (Forster 256). Though Miss
Quested eventually recants and Aziz “is released without one stain on his character”
(Forster 256), he loses a great deal, including his friendship with Cyril Fielding. The
reader comes to realize that, for Aziz, justice will never be served. Aziz copes with the
injustice not by turning to physical violence, but by developing a strong hatred for the
52
Englishmen who live in Chandrapore; no longer does he believe that an Indian and an
Englishman can develop a meaningful relationship, eventually concluding that he
“[wishes] no Englishman or Englishwoman to be [his] friend” (Forster 339). Aziz goes so
far as to renounce his association with the not only British people, but the British state:
“I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India…I shall seek service in
some Moslem State…where Englishmen cannot insult me any more” (Forster 280). This
loss of faith in his fellow man is Aziz’s form of taking justice into his own hands. Aziz
must take justice into his own hands due to the fact that, as one considered a second-hand
citizen by the courts, he will never be able to seek justice through legal channels. Sadly,
Indian citizens are simply not entitled to justice in their own country.
Miss Quested appears aware that the rule of the colonists over the colonized has
distorted India; she constantly requests a chance to see the “real India” upon her arrival in
that nation. However, as Davidis notes, this request connotes a certain level of naiveté on
the part of the well-meaning young woman: “Adela’s statement that she wants to see the
‘real India’ implies her awareness that she sees a British India created by the white
powers that be; the statement also reveals, of course, her mistake in believing that there
can be a single real India at all, rather than one of a ‘hundred mouths’” (266). Therefore,
Forster presents a woman unconsciously bound within the confines of the existing system
even as she vocally rejects them. Significantly, when she first gets the chance to interact
with Indian women at the Bridge Party, Miss Quested finds herself unable to
communicate with them: “Miss Quested now had her desired opportunity; friendly
Indians were before her, and she tried to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain
against the echoing walls of their civility” (Forster 43). These “echoing walls”
53
foreshadow Miss Quested’s visit to the Marabar Caves and the events that follow, which,
as I have domonstrated, permanently destroy the possibility of equality and friendship
between the British and Indians.
The name of Adela Quested in A Passage to India serves an allegorical function,
similar to that of Santos Banderas. In this case, her name carries an ironic connotation;
the young woman, often described as unattractive, is most emphatically not “quested,” by
Aziz. In fact, Aziz finds her quite unappealing: “Adela’s angular body and the freckles
on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could be so
unkind to any female form” (Forster 71). Even her own countryman acknowledges that
Miss Quested appears physically less attractive than Aziz; as Mr. McBryde asserts that
“the darker races are physically attracted by the fairer, but not vice versa,” an unidentified
man inquired “Even when the lady is so uglier than the gentleman?” (Forster 243). Her
name serves as a critique of the notion that the British woman is automatically an object
of desire to the natives in the colonies.
Perhaps due to her unattractive features, Adela Quested generally finds herself
snubbed by her British compatriots. Even after the incident in the Marabar Caves, her
countrymen look elsewhere for a symbol of home that must be protected at all costs.
Despite the fact that the British have a clearly constructed class system among
themselves, they are more than willing to set it aside in favor of protecting their race from
the native Indians, as evident by the scene that unfolds in the club after Aziz’s arrest:
One young mother—a brainless but most beautiful girl—sat on a low
ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arm…she dared not
return to her bungalow in case the ‘niggers attacked.’ The wife of a small
railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her
abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that was
54
worth fighting and dying for; a more permanent symbol, perhaps, than
poor Adela. (Forster 200)
This young woman is immediately elevated from the lowest of her class to the highest.
Davidis points out that, “unlike Adela, who is not very attractive to the Anglo-Indians,
either in character or in looks, this young mother symbolizes the empire. Class concerns
are discarded by the Anglo-Indians in favor of nationalism, and the Anglo-Indians
appropriate and mobilize around and image of beauty, fertility, and powerlessness” (261).
Davidis fails to interrogate what, if not the empire, Adela Quested does represent. With
the afore-mentioned brainless, beautiful mother standing as a symbol of home and Mrs.
Moore serving as the figure of a mother/deity, where does one find a place for Miss
Quested?
Perhaps her ironic last name gives one a clue about her function. When
commenting on this name, Davidis notes that it “suggests the form that romance always
takes, that of the quest; but having ‘quested’ does not necessarily imply having found
anything” (266). Her name, previously associated with a journey ultimately ending in
fulfillment, connotes in this novel a system that has failed. Miss Quested, most
emphatically not quested by either Englishmen or Indians, becomes a symbol of laws, not
just those that make up the legal system, but also those that govern daily interactions.
Miss Quested represents the thing that one knows he should want, is supposed to want,
even when one does not. She serves as a reminder of how one should comport oneself.
This reminder highlights the notion that, rather than any inherent difference between the
two races, rules and propriety have been chiefly responsible for the division between
Indians and Englishmen who would like to be friends. Significantly, after Aziz’s trial,
Miss Quested immediately comes between him and his British friend. After being
renounced by both her countrymen and Indians, Miss Quested finds herself in need of
55
care; rather than stay with his Indian friend, Fielding comes to the aid of Miss Quested.
As she wanders along outside the courthouse after withdrawing the charges against Aziz,
Fielding shields her from the ensuing mob by putting her into his carriage and taking her
away from the crowd, even as a shattered Aziz cries “Cyril, Cyril, don’t leave me”
(Forster 258). Aziz and Fielding can never truly be friends because there will always be
a Miss Quested between them. Thus the figure of Miss Quested restores the social order
threatened by a potential friendship between the two men.
Davidis reads Adela’s questionable claim that she has been assaulted in the caves
as “a penalty for having refused to operate within the…discourses of imperialism” (268).
Aziz, Miss Quested, and to some extent Fielding as well, all face repercussions for
having wanted to interact with one another without being hindered by the artificial
boundaries of race. Even Mrs. Moore, who “acts as a bridge over the gulf between men
of different races, a gulf that men are unable to bridge alone” (Davidis 269), is first
banished from India before Aziz’s trial and then subsequently dies on the trip back to
England. Due to her insistence on justice for a wrongfully accused native, she literally
has no place in either country. She cannot remain in India due to the possibility that she
might ruin the Anglo-Indians’ chances to convict Aziz; she cannot return to Britain due to
the possibility that she might present an unfavorable account of the events taking place in
the colonies. Thus, she must die, paying the ultimate price for transgressing the
boundaries of race. The boundaries of race in this case reflect a different set of
boundaries—national borders. This novel insists on keeping borders intact, perhaps as a
nod to the fact that such boundaries must be maintained in order to keep the borders of
the British Empire from shifting. When reading the text as an attempt to restore order to
56
the potential chaos of empire, Mrs. Moore’s death serves as a warning to those who
threaten the borders that Britain has drawn, the borders of its mighty empire. Such
transgressions cannot—will not—go unpunished.
Adela Quested attempts to use this transgression—Mrs. Moore’s friendship with
Aziz— to justify her doubts about the incident in the caves. As she begs Ronny to help
her decide what course of action to take regarding Aziz’s prosecution, Miss Quested
claims “Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so” (Forster 226).
Time and time
again, Ronny protests that his mother could not have said such a thing and that Miss
Quested must be imagining the conversation, eventually forcing her to admit that Mrs.
Moore stated “the idea more than the words” (Forster 226). At the end of this
conversation, Ronny manages to convince his fiancée that she has confused a
conversation with his mother with a letter she received from Fielding. According to
Davidis, Mrs. Moore’s actual remark has been rendered invisible, giving way to only
silence: “The invisible text, the silence that is neglected by the powers that be (the petty
bureaucracy of Anglo-India personified by Ronny) is precisely the text that begins to
influence the transformation of the social structure…The judicious interpretation of Mrs.
Moore’s silences begins to place the races on an equal footing, even if equality is never
fully achieved” (Davidis 271). The silences—perhaps given flesh by the echo that haunts
Miss Quested until she proclaims Aziz innocent—in this case quite literally speak louder
than words. In addition to never hearing Mrs. Moore’s testimony on behalf of Aziz, the
event in the cave is also shrouded in silence, as the reader never witnesses what actually
takes place between Aziz and Miss Quested. However, despite Davidis’ assertions that
these silences signify a transformation of the existing relations between Indians and
57
Englishmen, these silences actually work to restore the status quo. The reader becomes
forced to imagine both the incident in the caves and the conversation that has taken place
between Miss Quested and her future mother-in-law, putting his or her own interpretation
on events that happened without being privy to them. Each reader draws his or her own
conclusion about these events, and this conclusion becomes fact in his or her mind. Thus
in creating these silences, Forster forces the reader to occupy the place of the AngloIndians in the novel. Just as the reader draws “facts” from his or her imagination, the
“facts” of the case against Aziz stem not from direct knowledge of what has taken place,
but from the Anglo-Indians’ imagination. Due to the fact that they were not present in
the caves, the Anglo-Indians imagine the events that took place and draw their own
conclusions, conclusion that for them becomes concrete evidence. In forcing the reader
to share this trait with the Anglo-Indians, Forster places his largely British audience in
the same position as their countrymen. Thus, though a reader may indeed sympathize
with Aziz’s plight, he or she cannot help but share, to a certain extent, the same mentality
as the Anglo-Indians. Once again, order is restored, as Forster’s silences serve to
manipulate his readers into doing so. Ultimately, British rule in the colonies goes
unchallenged.
Valle-Inclán employs a similar technique to actively engage the reader in Tirano
Banderas. The fragmented pieces that have characterized the novel appear in abundance
toward the end of the novel; if anything, one finds more pieces, sometimes consisting of a
single sentence. For example, Part Seven, Book Three, section VII consists of the
following statement: “Lupita the Romantic sighs in the hypnotic trance, the whites of her
eyes still turned upon the mystery” (Valle-Inclán 288). This enigmatic statement leaves
58
many more questions than answers, prompting the reader’s mind to conjure up many
different definitions for “the mystery,” but never hinting at the event itself. Therefore, the
reader creates “the mystery” for himself. When reading Tirano Banderas, one cannot sit
comfortably back and relax with a story. Instead, the reader must actively engage with
the text, constructing a picture of the events from the pieces that have been given: “one
always notes [that the whole] is absent…[Its] totality is not found in the text, but in what
is formed through the mental work of the reader, who must relate the fragment with the
whole” (Cuvardic 86-87). Valle-Inclán demands this work from the reader on numerous
occasions, most significantly at the end of the novel. One does not see the bloody scene
that unfolds as the rebels murder the Tyrant; rather one simply sees that “Tyrant Banderas
went to the window, brandishing [his] dagger, and dropped, riddled with bullets” (ValleInclán 295). One does not witness the rebels entering the Tyrant’s fortress and hacking at
the body, though one knows that such a thing happened due to the fact that the next line
describes his head being exhibited for three days. Therefore, one must create this violent
scene in his or her own mind. In forcing the reader to do so, Valle-Inclán makes the
reader complicit with the rebels. The reader becomes a key part of the chaos that ensues
in the novel.
Notably, this chaos erupts during a religious ceremony. Santos Banderas is
overthrown on All Saints Day, November 1 (ironic, given his first name). However, in
the frenzy of the battle between the revolutionaries and those fighting on Banderas’ side,
the sacred aspect of the day fades away. Instead, the event transforms into a bloody,
secular festival; the head of the tyrant takes the place of the religious icons around which
worshipers gather: “His head, sentenced to be exposed to public scorn, was exhibited for
59
three days on a scaffold draped with yellow buntings in the Plaza de Armas” (ValleInclán 295). In this transformation, one finds a shift from the orderliness of the All Saints
Day Mass to the chaos of a revolutionary mob. This chaos stands in direct contrast to the
peace of the religious celebration at the end of A Passage to India. The birth of the
Krishna ceremony goes according to plan; no chaos erupts during the festivities. Though
there is some tension between Aziz and Mr. Fielding during the ceremony, the end of the
novel disperses that tension by denying the possibility of friendship between the two.
Order is once again restored.
In addition to the outcome of the religious ceremonies, the fate of each text’s
central character’s progeny holds clues to each author’s position regarding empire.
Banderas’ only child, his idiot daughter, is murdered by his own hands. As he realizes
that he will soon be executed by the rebels, he bemoans the fact that he must take the life
that he gave his daughter two decades before, telling her “It’s not right that you remain in
this world for your father’s enemies to enjoy you and affront you by calling you the
daughter of that bastard Banderas!” (Valle-Inclán 294). After this justification of his
actions, which are the last words he ever speaks to his daughter, he violently stabs her:
“He drew a dagger from his breast, took his daughter by the hair and closed his eyes…he
hacked her with fifteen thrusts” (Valle-Inclán 294-295). Literally, there remains no
possibility of his lineage being carried on. On the contrary, Banderas murders her in
large part to prevent her from being raped (and possibly impregnated) after the
revolutionaries come for him. The legacy of the Spanish Empire dies with Banderas’
defeat and his daughter’s murder.
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In contrast to the horrific end of the young woman’s life, Aziz’s children enjoy a
happy ending. The three motherless children, who had been living with relatives after
their mother’s death, have reunited with their father in the “Temple” part of the novel and
accompany him to the holy day festivities. Aziz plans to teach his children the
impossibility of being friends with an Englishman and instill in them the desire to “drive
every blasted Englishman into the sea” (Forster 361). Furthermore, when he meets Cyril
Fielding, Aziz learns that his British acquaintance has married Mrs. Moore’s daughter,
Stella. With this marriage comes the assumption that Fielding and his wife will one day
produce children. Though they had previously attempted a genuine friendship, by this
point in the novel Aziz and Fielding feel a thick tension between them. Therefore one
can infer that the rift between the British and the Indians will be reproduced in Aziz’s and
Fielding’s children. The status quo will be maintained.
The strongest evidence for Forster’s argument against equality of the colonized
and the colonizer comes at the end of the novel. When Aziz and Fielding, who had
previously been on very friendly terms, discuss renewing their amicable relationship,
every surrounding object protests against it:
The horses did not want it—they swerved apart; the earth didn’t want it,
sending up rocks through which riders must pass single file; the temples,
the tank, the jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Guest House, that
came into view as they issued from the gap and saw Mau beneath; they
didn’t want it, they said in their hundred voices, “No, not yet,” and the sky
said, “No, not there.” (Forster 362)
The sky—Forster’s symbol for colonial rule throughout the novel—rejects any notion
that a true friendship could exist between the two men, due to their positions in British
imperial society. It becomes the ultimate authority, powerful enough to claim the novel’s
last words. Though many statements in the novel tend to lead one to interpret it as a
61
critique of imperialism, Forster restores “proper” colonial order in the end; members of
the two races remain separated at the sky’s demand. 10 Thus, rather than being a foreign
system imposed on India by men, colonialism becomes a product of an innate order, as
natural as the existence of the sky and earth. By connecting imperial order to the natural
phenomenon of celestial bodies, Forster restores order to the chaos that threatens to upset
the delicate balance of colonial power. For this reason, Forster characterizes the moon as
earth-bound, feminine, and weak, while the sun resides in the sky, has masculine traits,
and constantly reminds one of its enormous strength. To this strength the moon has no
choice but surrender, just as colonized subjects must submit to the rules of their
colonizers. These rules become the organizing principle driving the novel, dismissing
anything that might stand in their way. Though Forster does indeed demonstrate the
dangers that exist when two cultures collide, he ultimately dismisses the conflict and
allows power to remain in the hands of the British. By granting the British this authority,
Forster clearly makes value judgments about the colonial project, rejecting the notions of
true friendship and equality in favor of power, a power to which all other powers must
concede.
The issue of masculinity raised in the depictions of the sky once again arises in a
much-discussed scene in A Passage to India that hints at the possibility of a homosexual
undercurrent in Aziz’s and Fielding’s relationship. During this often-quoted scene, Aziz
offers his own collar stud to Fielding:
“Take mine, take mine.”
“Have you a spare one?”
10
Fielding’s thoughts make this separation clear: “He [Fielding] had thrown in his lot with Anglo-India by
marrying a countrywoman, and he was acquiring some of its limitations, and already felt surprise at his
own past heroism. Would he to-day defy all his own people for the sake of a stray Indian? Aziz was a
memento, a trophy, they were proud of each other, yet they must inevitably part” (Forster 358).
62
“Yes, yes, one minute.”
“Not if you’re wearing it yourself.”
“No, no, one in my pocket.” Stepping aside, so that his outline might
vanish, he wrenched off his collar, and pulled out of his shirt the back
stud, a gold stud, which was part of a set that his brother-in-law had
brought him from Europe. “Here it is,” he cried.
“Come in with it if you don’t mind the unconventionality.” (Forster 67-68)
Sulari calls this passage “the most notoriously oblique homoerotic exchange in the
literature of English India” (qtd in Parry 188). Davidis notes that, despite the closeness
between Aziz and Fielding that this scene suggests, any relationship between them will
ultimately be doomed: “The imperial romance desired by the novel is…that between
Indian and Anglo-Indian men, but the relationship is destined to fail, if only because of
the power disparity inevitable in a still-existing Anglo-India” (260). Perhaps this
undercurrent of forbidden feeling becomes the true reason that Fielding and Aziz can no
longer be friends at the novel’s end. Forster, like many authors of his day, recognizes the
need to depict strong, heterosexual figures as the stewards of empire. Though the novel
offers a critique of the British Empire, Forster knows that the majority of his readers will
find the possibility of its collapse unacceptable. Therefore, he must create an irreparable
rift between Aziz and Fielding and ultimately place Fielding taking on the role of head of
a typical British nuclear family. His relationship with Aziz becomes a necessary sacrifice
for the good of his country. In short, Fielding must display devotion not to a native
Indian man, but to an English woman, in order for the British Empire to maintain its
stability.
Like Forster, Valle-Inclán also links masculinity and empire. He depicts the
ambassador to Spain, the Baron of Benicarlés, in Tirano Banderas as an effeminate
dandy: “His Excellency Señor Don Mariano Isabel Cristiano Queralt y Roca de
63
Togores…had the cracked voice of an old woman and the gait of a dancer. Glossy,
bulky, and inane, much prone to gossip and tale-bearing, he oozed artificial honey…He
spoke with French nasals…(Valle-Inclán 27). Furthermore, the Minister Plenipotentiary
of Her Catholic Majesty has a penchant for reading “depraved literature,” and his garden
has been home to a “love-feast unadorned by women” (Valle-Inclán 28). In a later part
of the novel, the Baron has an encounter with a young man, Currito Mi-Alma, who has
been blackmailing him. The exchange between the two suggests that the representative of
the mother country has homosexual tendencies. Currito, who apparently had possession
of some incriminating letters written by the Baron, addresses the minister as “Isabelita,”
and the conversation comes to a close with the frustrated minister exclaiming to Currito
“I don’t know how I keep my hands off you!” (Valle-Inclán 232). Currito’s nickname for
the Baron, whom everyone else addresses as “Don Mariano,” suggests a comment on
empire. “Isabelita” brings to mind the name “Isabella,” the name of the very queen who
funded Columbus’ expedition and ultimately founded the Spanish empire. Just as the
plot comes full-circle, the Spanish empire begins and ends with an Isabel.
In questioning the sexuality of the Spanish Minister, Valle-Inclán questions the
masculinity of the men supposedly in charge of leading the empire. This questioning
would have been particularly poignant given that the military dictator at Spain during the
time that Valle-Inclán published his novel insisted on an almost impossible standard of
Spanish masculinity. Perhaps the Spanish’s Minister’s “homosexual” tendencies have
very little to do with sexuality itself, but rather with the political situation in Spain:
It is certain that the Minister of Spain in Tirano Banderas is an
exaggerated case of the colonial eroticization that ends in degeneracy and
even in perversion, according to the codes of sexual conduct of the age
that Valle-Inclán represents. The Spanish Minister’s homosexuality could
64
be a veiled answer to the ‘gendered’ rhetoric of Primo de Rivera—the
dictator’s insistence in the ‘masculinity [that] completely characterized’
his political movement…in the most visible manifestation of the
colonialist presence in Tierra Firme, the Baron of Benicarlés,
Plenipotentiary Minister of His Catholic Majesty. (Dougherty 43-44)11
Valle-Inclán hints at the dangers of hyper-masculine rhetoric; Tirano Banderas becomes
a warning for those who buy into Primo de Rivera’s hype. Dougherty suggests that the
Spanish Minister’s supposed homosexuality comes to light during his meeting with other
foreign diplomats: “During the gathering of the Diplomatic Corps, the Baron transfers
his ‘perverse knowledge’ to the British Delegation” (44). However, perhaps this
“perverse knowledge” to which Dougherty refers has very little to do with the Baron’s
sexual preferences. Valle-Inclán, highly critical of the Spanish colonial project, chooses
the British Delegation as the unfortunate inheritors of the Spain’s former imperial glory.
In doing so, he sends a warning to those British citizens who wish to follow in the model
Spain set in establishing a far-reaching Empire, cautioning that those who do so will not
live up to the expectations set for them, just as the Baron did not meet the expectations of
the King whom he so loyally served.
The very danger at which Valle-Inclán hints, the danger that the British Empire,
too, might one day fall, prompts authors such as Forster to attempt to restore order in
their texts. Despite the looming threats of chaos that permeate A Passage to India, the
reader finds that very little has changed by the end of the novel. The social hierarchy
undermined by Aziz’s relationships with Fielding and Mrs. Moore, as well as Miss
Quested’s withdrawal of charges against him, in fact remains intact. If anything, the
11
Miguel Primo De Rivera Y Orbaneja, Marqués De Estella (born Jan. 8, 1870, Cádiz, Spain—died March
16, 1930, Paris, France), general and statesman who, as dictator of Spain from September 1923 to January
1930, founded an authoritarian and nationalistic regime that attempted to unify the nation around the
motto “Country, Religion, Monarchy.”
65
threat to this hierarchy has ultimately reinforced it, as Aziz now actively distances
himself from the British. The fact that Forster chooses to reinforce the hierarchy of the
colonizer and colonized demonstrates a fundamental inability to envision a Britain
without an empire, even though this empire rests on problematic foundations. ValleInclán’s text reveals the chaotic events that will unfold when these foundations finally
crack. In Tirano Banderas, the formerly colonized, still struggling under the laws of their
former colonizers, ultimately take up arms and banish the foreigners from Santa Tierra
del Firme. The orderly social hierarchy ushered in through imperial conquest crumbles,
leaving only confusion in its wake. Thus the consequences that arise due to Spain’s loss
of its four-hundred-year-old empire serve as a cautionary tale to Britain, currently
enjoying the height of its imperial power.
66
Romancing the Empire: Imperialism, Masculinity, and Narrative in Ford
Madox Ford and Blanca de los Ríos
In Romance, a 1903 novel co-authored by Joseph Conrad and Ford Madox Ford,
one of the characters claims that “English things last forever—English peace, English
power, English fidelity. It is a country of much serenity, of order, of stable affection…”
(qtd. in Cole 182, ellipses in original). Though this statement appears quite assertive, the
ellipsis at its end unmasks the uncertainty behind the speaker’s words. Furthermore, the
speaker’s country of origin reveals great anxiety about the permanence of English things,
particularly the British Empire; the statement is made by Carlos Riego, a member of an
aristocratic Spanish family whose “family’s status as a great economic power in Cuba
[has come] under increasing threat” (Cole 174). Published just five years after Spain lost
Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philipines, its last three remaining colonies, Romance
highlights “the relation of Spain and Mexico to England” (Cole 177) and reveals the
authors’ fears about the stability of their own nation’s empire, fears brought about by the
fall of the once-mighty Spanish empire. Ford’s anxiety about this matter comes across
even more clearly in his 1915 novel The Good Soldier. Through an examination of this
text in relation to Blanca de los Ríos’ 1907 novel Las hijas de Don Juan (Don Juan’s
Daughters), one sees similar destructive effects of empire on the mother country. In each
text, the private home serves as a metaphor for the nation; the instability of the home life
speaks to the larger issue of the instability of national identity. Both texts call for a
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revision of what defines a nation through a critique of the effects of masculinity,
associated primarily with the conquest of women. This critique serves as a gateway for
exploring each nation’s relationship to its colonies, revealing the shaky foundations on
which seemingly solid empires are built. Both Ford and de los Ríos explore the
reconceptualization of values that previously defined national identity; this need for
revision comes about as a result of Britain and Spain’s relationship to their present
colonies and former colonies, respectively.
Early in her novel, de los Ríos insists that her Don Juan is the same man who for
centuries has been the subject of countless tales of valor and sexual prowess: “there
floated in the air many particles of past Don Juans: the grand myth of Tirso reincarnated
in Moliere, in Mozart, in Byron, in Espronceda, in De Musset and brought to life again in
Zorilla, elevated in the stanzas of Baudelaire, in the dandyism of Brummell, and in all art
forms” (de los Ríos 68). 1,2 She also connects Don Juan to the Spanish gentry, a class
about to meet its end; Don Juan is “the last branch of the house and lordship of Fontibre”
(de los Ríos 67). However, she makes it clear that this Don Juan has fallen quite far from
his mythical, gentrified status, removing him from the exotic, lavish locales of previous
texts and placing him in a small apartment in Madrid: “This is not Tirso’s or Zorilla’s
1
All translations from Las hijas de Don Juan mine
The figure of Don Juan first appeared in Tirso de Molina’s play El Burlador de Sevilla y convidado de
piedra, first performed in 1630. Zorilla’s 1844 play Don Juan Tenorio is largely credited with cementing
the myth Don Juan and fostering donjuanismo in Spain. Between the publication of these two works came
Molière's play Dom Juan ou le Festin de pierre (1665), Don Giovanni, (1787) an opera composed by
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart with libretto by Lorenzo da Ponte, Byron's epic poem Don Juan, most likely
based on George Brummell (1821), Alfred de Musset’s Une Matinee de Don Juan (1833), and José de
Espronceda's poem El estudiante de Salamanca (1840). A poem titled “Don Juan aux enfers” appears in
Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs de Mal (1846), and in 1908 Baudealire’s plan for a drama titled La Fin de
Don Juan was posthumously published. Also significant to de los Ríos work was Echegaray’s El hijo de
Don Juan (1892); both the title of her work and its focus on the progeny of Don Juan draw from
Echegaray’s drama.
2
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legendary hero or antihero, but a run-of-the-mill representative of Restoration Spain”
(Johnson 129). 3
The Don Juan encountered in Las hijas de Don Juan has been cast in a paternal,
domestic role, a far cry from the mythical hero of the past. In de los Ríos’ take on the
legend, Don Juan marries a woman completely incompatible with him, with disastrous
consequences for Don Juan’s mother: “The arguments and conflicts in this absurd
matrimony ended with the poor health of the mother of the famed debaucher. The poor
old woman finally died of pain and of shame” (de los Ríos 72). Don Juan lives with his
unhappy wife, Concha, and his two daughters, Dora and Lita. Due to her husband’s
mishandling of funds, Concha must spend most of her time hunting for bargains in flea
markets, while Don Juan pursues his own activities. When not visiting the grave of his
beloved mother, Don Juan inhabits seedy bars, squandering his family’s meager income
and reliving his glory days through the seduction of low-class women.
The character in Las hijas de Don Juan resembles the Don Juan of the past in
name only. However, Don Juan himself does not realize this degradation of his legend,
creating an even sharper contrast between myth and present reality highlighted through
the narrator’s descriptions of the scenes. In creating this incompatibility, de los Ríos sets
up what Lopez calls “…a fundamental characteristic of fictional [takes on Don Juan in
the early twentieth century]: the novel is structured as an ironic contrast between the
character’s opinion and the narrator’s portrayal [of what is actually occurring]” (23). 4
As part of this contrast, the reader does not hear Don Juan’s honeyed words to the women
3
The Restoration period began in December 29, 1874 after the First Spanish Republic ended with the
restoration of Alfonso XII to the throne after a coup d'état by Martinez Campos, and ended on April 14,
1931 with the proclamation of the Second Spanish Republic.
4
All translations from Lopez’s article mine
69
he seduces, as in previous stories about him. Instead, the model of masculinity remains
notably silent, speaking only once during the entire text: “Go on, do as your mother tells
you, and enough” (de los Ríos 77). Glenn asserts that “the loss of speech is critical in an
individual known for his skill with words” (226). The one order he gives to his daughters
simply reinforces his wife’s command; Concha has replaced Don Juan as the dominant
voice in the household. In taking away his dominance, de los Ríos calls Don Juan’s
model of masculinity, or donjuanismo, into question. 5 De los Ríos further removes her
text from the notion of masculine idealism by shrinking Don Juan’s role in her novel;
unlike previous texts, which focused almost exclusively on Don Juan’s actions, the title
of Las hijas de Don Juan reduces him to a mere modifier of the central characters. As R.
Johnson notes, de los Ríos deemphasizes Don Juan’s importance not only in the title, but
in the plotline as well: “Significantly, Don Juan, never a focalizer of the novel,
disappears from the text after the first ten pages, when the daughters take center stage,
and he does not reappear until the novelette’s final pages. He remains only as an
invisible presence, a pernicious influence to be overcome” (129).
As the novel progresses, the pernicious influence of donjuanismo leads to
domestic turmoil. Dora and Lita, often left on their own due to their father’s philandering
and their mother’s endless bargain-buying excursions, come across Don Juan’s letters
from various lovers: “The smell, the feel, and the words of these letters provoked in
[Dora and Lita] hitherto unformed ideas, fears, and feelings, subtle shames, and virginal
rebelliousness…everything in that brutal revelation was tragic for them, irreversible as a
fall from grace” (de los Ríos 83-84). After reading the letters, Dora and Lita experience
5
Donjuanismo is an attitude that emphasizes seduction of women as a conquest and insists on triumph.
Anything standing in the way of this conquest is viewed as a threat to masculinity and must be vanquished.
70
almost immediate changes, changes that lead to tragic ends. Dora becomes fascinated
with the mysticism of St. Teresa de Jesus.6 While studying the writings of a cloistered
nun seems to have little to do with the content of Don Juan’s letters, one must consider
the terms in which St. Teresa describes her mystic visions of Jesus and angels. Her
depiction of her relationship with the divine contains erotic overtones:
I saw in [the angel’s] hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point
there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at
times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out,
he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great
love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so
surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish
to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The
pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a
caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and
God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may
think that I am lying. (Autobiography, Ch. XXIX, part 17)
Thus Dora’s devotion to St. Teresa serves as her way of seeking the erotic adventures
described in her father’s letters. As the novel progresses, Dora begins to take on more
and more characteristics of St. Teresa. She practically cloisters herself in her room, and
like the saint, she begins to suffer from chronic bouts of sickness. Considering this
suffering necessary in order to have a mystical relationship with the divine, Dora does not
seek treatment but instead embraces her illness. Eventually this painful illness kills Dora,
who has been ignored by her family until it is too late to save her.
While Dora turns to the spiritual for erotic adventure, Lita, like her father, prefers
a more earthly source. Unfortunately, she fails to think critically about such exploits,
6
The kernel of Teresa's mystical thought throughout all her writings is the ascent of the soul in four
stages ( Autobiography Chs. 10-22). These stages culminate in a “Devotion of rapture” in which body and
spirit experience a sweet pain. This pain is characterized by utter helplessness and unconsciousness,
spells of strangulation, and at times levitation. After this experience, the body is left in a state of
weakness; all faculties are in union with God. From this the mystic awakes in tears.
71
romanticizing them to the point that she selects her lover rather hastily and carelessly.
Rather than finding someone who will pledge his eternal devotion to her, Lita winds up in
the arms of a man whose relationship with her has an ulterior motive. Unbeknownst to
Lita, Don Juan has recently humiliated Paco Garba (or Larva, the narrator remains
uncertain of his last name), his would-be rival who firmly subscribes to the model of
donjuanismo. Garba then exacts his revenge on Don Juan by seducing Lita. Following
her seduction and Garba’s subsequent abandonment of her, Lita leaves home to become a
prostitute.
Garba’s profession as a writer proves significant. Johnson argues that de los Ríos
suggests that the writers responsible for the perpetuation of the Don Juan myth bear
responsibility for the consequences arising from this myth: “Literature in the form of a
novelist—Paco Garba—is the final catalyst in Lita’s progress toward prostitution…The
narrator understands that fin de siècle literary trends like decadentism, which emphasizes
sexual perversion, were extremely damaging…” (130). Seeing his daughter become the
victim of the very kind of conquest that he embodies, Don Juan commits suicide. Don
Juan realizes that he himself set the wheels for his daughter’s ruin in motion through his
numerous conquests of women, conquests that have inspired countless young men to
assert their masculinity by following his example. However, even in death, Don Juan
cannot see beyond the mythic model of himself; Johnson notes that in killing himself in
search of relief for the misery that he has brought upon his family, Don Juan evokes
Baudelaire’s poem about him (131). 7 Don Juan takes upon himself punishment for not
only his actions, but also those of his family as well, a conscious rejection of the image of
7
In the poem, “Don Juan in Hell,” Don Juan meets members of his family in the underworld. His family
then attemps to hold him accountable for his mistreatment of them on earth. However, Don Juan remains
unmoved and ignores their pleas for attention.
72
him presented in the poem. The text closes with an assurance that Don Juan’s legacy will
not continue: “And as there are no longer Don Juans, and from donjuanismo something
even more decadent and perverse has emerged, the lineage of Don Juan ended with Lita”
(de los Ríos 125). Lita, alone in Madrid with no prospects for a prosperous future,
becomes the final victim of donjuanismo, which has no place in twentieth-century Spain.
Thus the text serves as an indictment of the hyper masculine donjuanismo that has
permeated Spanish culture.
Like de los Ríos’ text, The Good Soldier calls into question the cultural model of
masculinity. In this novel, the readers meet Captain Edward Ashburnham, who in many
aspects mirrors the legendary Spanish seducer. Also like Don Juan, Ashburnham comes
from a long line of English gentry: “They were descended…from the Ashburnham who
accompanied Charles I to the scaffold” (Ford 6-7).8 Just as Don Juan served as a model
for Spanish men, Captain Edward Ashburnham appears to embody the model
Englishman, dedicated to both his nation and his wife, Leonora. Dowell, the narrator, at
one point swears “that [Leonora and Ashburnham] were the model couple” (Ford 11) and
depicts Ashburnham as the pinnacle of propriety: “Edward Ashburnham was the
cleanest-looking sort of chap; an excellent magistrate, a first rate soldier, one of the best
landlords…in Hampshire, England. To the poor and to hopeless drunkards…he was like
a painstaking guardian” (Ford 13). However kind he may have been to hopeless
drunkards, Ahsbuurnham fails miserably as a devoted husband. Like Don Juan,
Ashburnham has a long history of seducing women, beginning with the Kilstyle case and
continuing with the Grand Duke’s mistress, Mrs. Basil, Maisie, and finally the narrator’s
wife, Florence Dowell. Ashburnham’s affairs also have an aspect of conquest; he prefers
8
Charles I was king of England, Scotland, and Ireland from 1625 until his execution in 1649.
73
to seduce women already involved with other men and relishes in defeating his rivals.
Ashburnham appears to have an insatiable desire to claim more and more women for
himself.
Also similar to de los Ríos’ text, Ashburnham’s pursuit of women ultimately
brings about his downfall. When he begins to desire his ward, Nancy Rufford, who has
been like a daughter to him, Ashburnham sends her abroad in an attempt to distance
himself from her. However, unlike Don Juan in de los Ríos’ novel, the thought of his
“daughter’s” virtue being compromised does not prove too much for Ashburnham to
bear, as evidenced by the fact that he does not commit suicide in order to protect her from
himself. Rather, he commits suicide after receiving a telegram from her saying that she is
enjoying “a rattling good time” (Ford 277). The thought that Nancy has begun a life
without him and no longer needs or (as he believes) desires him makes life not worth
living for Edward. The fact that he will never be able to obtain that which he desires, or
in other words, his inability to conquer, drives him to take his own life.
Just as his supposed devotion to Leonora proves false, so does his desire to
honorably serve his nation; his stint in India was not motivated by a sense of national
pride or duty, but rather the absolute necessity of earning extra money after squandering
his family fortune during his numerous extramarital affairs. Furthermore, Ashburnham
has no say whatsoever in the decision to go to India. After learning of her husband’s dire
financial state, Leonora takes complete control of the Ashburnham estate’s finances. She
effectively replaces Ashburnham as head of the household, rendering him dependant on
her. In this portrayal of Ashburnham as dependant on his wife, the reader finds just one
of several of Dowell’s conscious efforts to emasculate him. In addition to his lack of
74
control over his own estate, Ashburnham also enjoys hobbies uncharacteristic of someone
of his status. Dowell depicts Ashburnham enjoying slightly less masculine pastimes than
one would expect from the model Englishman:
he would pass hours lost in novels of a sentimental type—novels in which
typewriter girls married marquises and governesses earls. And in his
books, as a rule, the course of true love ran as smooth as buttered honey.
And he was fond of poetry, of a certain type—and he could even read a
perfectly sad love story. I have seen his eyes filled with tears at reading of
a hopeless parting. And he loved, with a sentimental yearning, all
children, puppies, and the feeble generally. (Ford 30)
Bergonzi notes that in Ford’s revisions of The Good Soldier “he altered the character of
the ‘good soldier’ and Edwardian gentleman, Edward Ashburnham, to make him more of
a sentimentalist and less of a libertine” (149), leading one to realize that, just as in de los
Ríos’ text, the author goes to great lengths to emasculate a previously idealized figure.
Rather than depicting Ashburnham as someone completely without morals, Ford instead
points out that the moral system on which Ashburnham bases his actions is
fundamentally flawed, thus highlighting the inadequacy of Ashburnham’s hypermasculine belief system. Edward himself literally takes the final stab at his manhood
through his choice of suicide weapon: “[he] commits suicide not (as one might imagine a
military man might do) with a revolver, but with ‘quite a small penknife’ (Poole 123).
However, the most piercing jab at Ashburnham’s masculinity comes when Dowell
reveals that Leonora is expecting a baby with her second husband, Rodney Beyham, “a
man who is rather like a rabbit” (Ford 259). Dowell’s previous statements that, despite
their attempts, Ashburnham and Leonora have produced no children, combined with the
news of Leonora’s pregnancy, imply that perhaps Ashburnham suffered from impotency.
Cole suggests that “modernity is defined less by the authorial power to ‘make it new’—
75
much less any enlightenment ideal of democracy or progress—than by the male subject’s
crippled impotence at the hands of the state” (173), leading one to infer that this physical
impotency on Edward’s part serves as a representative of a different, broader sense of
impotency. As in Las hijas de Don Juan, the domestic serves as a mirror for the national;
public and private spheres blend. The narrator mourns the loss of his once secure home
life, and in doing so, mourns the loss of a sense of security in his nation: “…as the novel
opens we find Dowell talking of the ‘saddest story’ of adultery, betrayal and suicide that
he is about to tell is, in terms appropriate to national disaster...Dowell goes on this
hyperbolic fashion, deploying images of the dissolution of harmony, of order, of
civilization itself” (Bergonzi 152). This doubling of the private and the public leads one
to examine the role that men like Ashburnham have played in England. In doing so, one
finds that, Ford, like de los Ríos, criticizes the masculine virtues that have come to define
national identity.
Dowell emphasizes the link between virtue and Ashburnham’s profession as a
soldier: “[Soldiers’] profession…is full of big words—‘courage,’ ‘loyalty,’ ‘honor,’
‘constancy’” (Ford 29). Just as Don Juan proved the ultimate model of masculinity in
Spanish culture, soldiers like Ashburnham gave the nation a model for a certain standard
of conduct and encouraged others to emulate that model:
Celebrated as a hero in adventure stories telling of his dangerous and
daring exploits, the soldier has become a quintessential figure of
masculinity…Intimately bound up with the foundation and preservation of
a national territory, the deeds of military heroes were invested with the
new significance of serving the country and glorifying its name. Their
stories became myths of nationhood itself, providing a cultural focus
around which the national community could cohere. (Dawson 1)
76
One should note that, as the British Empire expanded, so too did the notion of a soldier as
one devoted fully to the imperial enterprise: “…during the growth of popular
imperialism in the mid-to-late nineteenth century, heroic masculinity became fused in an
especially potent configuration with representations of British imperial identity” (Dawson
1). Ward, too, sees the function of soldiers as inextricably linked to the colonial project:
“Man’s ultimate function was constructed as the conquest, extension and defence of the
‘Greater Britain’ of the Empire. The ‘new imperialism’ of the late nineteenth century
was accompanied by a reconstruction of the central tenets of masculinity, from moral
earnestness and religiosity to athleticism and patriotism. In such a way the nation and
maleness became entwined” (38). Dawson’s and Ward’s claims hold true for The Good
Soldier; Hoffman argues that “given that the term ‘solider’ as applied to Edward
includes his service in the imperial army, the much analyzed title of the novel, with its at
least partially ironic use of “good” puts the imperial enterprise into question…Ford
suggests that…masculinity and imperialism cannot be conceptualized apart from each
other” (37). As previously stated, Ashburnham falls far short of the idealized soliderhero. This failure to live up to the masculine standards associated with his profession
signifies that “Edward embodies and, at the same time, deflates the official discourse of
nationality” (Patey 86). In the character of Ashburnham, Ford suggests that this image of
the soldier could ultimately prove detrimental to the nation.
One should note that, rather than displaying his prowess in battle like the ideal
soldier-hero, Ashburnham uses women to assert his masculinity. Dowell draws the
parallel between Ashburnham’s conquests and the conquest of foreign lands:
With each new woman that a man is attracted to there appears to come a
broadening of the outlook, or, if you like, an acquiring of new territory. A
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turn of the eyebrow, a tone of the voice, a queer characteristic gesture—all
these things, and it is these things that cause to arise the passion of love—
all these things are like so many objects on the horizon of the landscape
that tempt a man to walk beyond the horizon, to explore. (Ford 126-127).
Hoffman notes that in The Good Soldier “the pursuit of women proves ultimately to be a
competition among men” (38), and Ashburnham proves no exception, relishing in
defeating (and at times even humiliating) his would-be male rivals, just as Don Juan
delighted in humiliating Paco Garba. Ashburnham’s treatment of his potential rivals
mirrors the rivalry between nations competing for colonial territory: “With each new
affair, Edward transgresses marital boundaries in order to possess ever more women: his
practices correspond to an imperial nation’s transgressions of national borders in order to
possess ever more colonies” (Hoffman 37).
If one reads masculinity and imperialism as mutually reinforcing, The Good
Soldier presents an image of an empire in peril. Though “Dowell focuses on Edward as
the pinnacle of stability, given his position as a male member of the English gentry, the
elite product of a nation with a long established history of unmatched imperial power”
(Hoffman 35), it quickly becomes clear that the unmatched power of the British in the
colonies faces a serious threat. Throughout the novel, the colonies signify not Edward’s
power, but rather his weakness. After selling Ashburnham family heirlooms and making
Edward “[cry] for two days over the disappearance of his ancestors” (Ford 182-183),
Leonora, as previously noted, takes complete control of the finances during their time in
the colonies: “They were eight years in India and during the whole of that time she
insisted that they must be self-supporting—they had to live on his captain’s pay, plus the
extra allowance for being at the front. She gave him five hundred a year for Ashburnham
frills…and she considered she was doing him very well” (Ford 183). If, as Ward claims,
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“the language of nationalism was the language of manhood and manliness, and women
were encouraged only to ‘assist’” (43), then the idea of Leonora taking control of her
household calls into question the nationalist rhetoric associated with empire. Edward’s
loss of power thus reflects the “problem of the male individual’s helplessness, passivity,
dejection, and alienation under the regime of the modern English nation” (Cole 173).
Ford presents an English captain not in control of his own home, calling into question the
supposed British right to control not only their own nation, but other nations as well.
Significantly, Ashburnham later sends Nancy to the colonies in order to free
himself from the temptation of an affair with her; though they are “dying for love of one
another” Ashburnham views a sexual relationship with Nancy as the one boundary that
he cannot transgress. Given Ashburnham’s past conquests of other women, he knows
that placing great distance between them will be the only thing that will prevent Nancy
from being vanquished and subsequently abandoned in favor of the next woman.
However, even as he tries to keep Nancy safe, Ashburnham remains trapped in an
imperialistic mode of thinking. He sees the colonies only in relation to his own needs;
they exist simply to serve him, whether they help him gain back his fortune or shelter
Nancy. In much the same way, women have existed only in relation to Ashburnham’s
own desires throughout the novel. This way of thought eventually drives him to suicide;
he does not know how to live without his continuous conquests. In this unhappy,
desperate ending of “the good soldier’s” life, Ford sends out a warning to those who
support endless imperial conquests. Ashburnham’s suicide suggests the possibility that
the exploitation of the colonies for Britain’s own gain will ultimately prove to be
Britain’s undoing. Ashburnham, and with him the model Englishman, and by
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association England itself, cannot survive on a model based on constant exploitation of
other nations. Ford cautions that those encouraging this conquest should consider the
potential consequences if an attempted conquest were to fail. With the downfall of the
model masculine Englishman, Ford calls the stability of British values into question, and
in doing so, hints at the instability of the British Empire. The text suggests that, like
seemingly rock-solid virtues, a seemingly all-powerful empire can also fall.
Like Ford, de los Ríos uses her central character’s masculinity to comment on the
state of her nation. An avid scholar of Tirso de Molina whose writings on him earned her
both a Gold Medal from the Spanish Royal Academy and a 1902 Gran Cruz de la Orden
Civil from King Alfonso XIII, de los Ríos’ interest in donjuanismo comes as no surprise.9
In addition to her work, several of de los Ríos’ contemporaries also publish works
reviving, revising, and reevaluating the legend of the mythical figure, prompting the
question of why the Don Juan legend proved so popular for modernist Spanish writers. 10
Though a plethora of texts containing Don Juan figures emerge during the first half of the
twentieth century, Lázaro asserts that “the implications of the interpretation of ‘Don
Juan’ in the reinvention of post-imperial Spain have seldom been examined” (467).
According the Sebastian Balfour, this “interest in a tradition of the Spanish people [with
which Don Juan is closely associated] with Spain’s identity crisis” (qtd in R. Johnson 19).
9
De los Ríos published extensively on the work of Tirso and on the myth of Don Juan. For an extensive
bibliography of her work on these subjects, see Nieves Vázquez Recio’s “Las hijas de Don Juan (1907) de
Blanca de los Ríos: fin de siglo y mirada femenina,” p. 382, in Don Juan Tenorio en la España del Siglo
XX: Literatura y cine, Pérez-Bustamante, Ana Sofía, ed. Madrid: Ediciones Cátedra, 1998. 379-403.
10
Among de los Ríos’ Spanish contemporaries publishing works featuring Don Juan (or parodies of him)
were Ramón del Valle-Inclán (Las Sonatas, 1902-1095), Azorín (Don Juan, 1922), Ramón Pérez de Ayala
(Tigre Juan, 1926), and Miguel de Unamuno (Don Juan, 1934). Valle-Inclán’s version in the Sonatas,
which specifically associates Don Juan with the fallen Spanish empire and eventually marries him to a
woman named Concha, appears to have proven quite influential for de los Ríos.
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11
The degradation of the Don Juan myth mirrors the degradation of Spain following the
loss of its remaining empire in 1898. Several years after the publication of de los Ríos’
novel, Ramiro de Matezu identifies early twentieth-century writers’ urge to focus on Don
Juan as strongly related to their ideas of nationalism:
Matezu…associated Don Juan’s reappearance in modernist iconography
with the malaise of his generation. He believed that his own time was,
like the seventeenth century in which Don Juan first appeared, a troubled
era in Spanish history…post-1898 Spain marked a ‘crisis del
nacionalismo’ [crisis of nationalism] or ‘crisis de ideales’ [crisis of ideals]
(1925, 176)…Don Juan represents what many Spaniards would like to
embody—God-given power and energy that require no effort to generate
and maintain, ‘la fuerza por gracia, y no por mérito’ [strength obtained
through grace, not through merit] (178). (R. Johnson 112-113, translations
in brackets mine)
Though several authors chose the legend of Don Juan as a vehicle for their nationalist
agendas, they had varying and sometimes disparate interpretations of the myth, making
the Don Juan of the twentieth century a figure teeming with contradictions: “Don
Juan…lent himself to a wide array of political and philosophical ideals; for some, he
continued to serve as an emblem of national energy, whereas for others he was a decadent
degenerate who reflected Spain’s contemporary diminished state” (Johnson 111-112).
Mourier expounds on the plethora of Don Juans that arise in the early twentieth century:
“there are serious and comical versions, popular and scholarly versions, conventional and
innovative versions. In them Don Juan is ridiculed or exalted, trivialized or
problematized, punished or redeemed, or simply left in the air like an unsolvable mystery.
Most abundant is the un-don-juaning of Don Juan, who is frequently married to or paired
with a woman, or with humankind, or with God (inextricably linked, in the end, with his
previous antagonists), but there are also versions in which Don Juan remains the same
11
Translation mine
81
and does not correct himself, extremely aware of the fact that he must do so in order to
retain his mythological status” (22). 12 This abundance of disparate portrayals prompts
the reader to examine the different functions the Don Juan myth serves during de los
Ríos’ time. In some instances, as in The Good Soldier, imperialism and seduction are
mutually enforcing. For example, “the Marqués’s [de Bradomín, Valle Inclán’s
reincarnation of Don Juan in his Sonatas] remembrances of his adventures, so replete
with resonances of Spain’s imperial past, focus in each case on a woman...His prowess as
a soldier fuses with his prowess as a lover, and his fortunes with women parallel his
soldierly defeats”(R. Johnson 116). Also similar to The Good Soldier, Don Juan
sometimes takes on less-than-manly characteristics in order to highlight the critique of
nationalist ideals: both “Unamuno and Pérez de Ayala employed the feminized man
(especially a feminine Don Juan) to raise red flags about nontraditional gender roles that
were emerging in the 1920s in Spain…The references to Spain as a nation via effeminate
Don Juans…international settings, and imperial locations that weave through [several of
their texts] remind us that the public debates on gender in the 1920s and 1930s coincided
with the rising Republican movement, another major political upheaval for Spain” (R.
Johnson 223). Regardless of their opinions of the values that Don Juan represents,
modernist Spanish writers employ the legend in order to emphasize the current difference
from the myth’s origins.
In doing so, modernist writers repurpose donjuanismo; no longer an attitude of
conquest, donjuanismo appears in early twentieth-century texts as a parody of this model.
Through the act of parody, the myth becomes an object of ridicule, an anachronism well
past its expiration date: “[the] donjuanismo [of the early twentieth century] parodied the
12
All translations of Mourier’s article mine
82
mythic tendancy, making the parody evident and reproducing clichés and set phrases as
such” (Lopez 18-19). 13 These clichés and set phrases have no meaning to an audience
accustomed to the realist text. Modernist authors reproduce them in order to both further
highlight the distance between the twentieth-century and the seventeenth-century origins
of the myth and at the same time conflate the two centuries in the present. This twofold
project becomes especially important in light of the rise and fall of the Spanish empire.
The seventeenth century saw the beginnings of Spain’s imperial age, while its end came
just two years before the beginning of the twentieth century. Conflating the two centuries
by placing the seventeenth-century Don Juan in the twentieth century demonstrates just
how absurd imperialist attitudes seem in the present day. Therefore, in the case of both
Ford and de los Ríos, the modernist cry to “make it new” extends past literature and into
the concept of their nations. In “making new” the Don Juan myth, modernist writers also
call into question the values associated with the myth—specifically donjuanismo—and
the detrimental effect that these values have had on their nation.
R. Johnson notes that, like her contemporaries de los Ríos explored classic
Spanish literature in order to gain a better sense of Spain as a nation and that she wrote
several narrations commenting on the current state of Spain (124, 127). Furthermore,
Johnson identifies a revisionist view of the national tradition as an underlying factor of de
los Ríos’ Don Juan narratives (135). Through a reading of Las hijas de Don Juan as an
allegory for the state of Spain, one comes to see the novel as just such a narration. De los
Ríos saw the past as essential to one’s understanding of the current moment:
While political regimes and institutions wax and wane, race, history, and
family remain constant. The present can be changed and the future
molded, but the past is unmodifiable. The past, however, is not inert;
13
Translation mine
83
rather, it is fecund, ‘es germen vivo y prolifico’ [it is a living and fruitful
seed]. It is the root of the present and the seed of the future...’The past
acts, lives, persists, and continues its incessant and fecund labor in us, we,
who live the physiological and psychic inheritance of the generations from
which we come, are the past…(R. Johnson 125, translation in brackets
mine)
Notable in Johnson’s summary of de los Ríos’ views of the past are those things that
survive political upheaval—race, history, and family. These three entities are the very
entities that come under fire in Las hijas de Don Juan, as Don Juan’s history comes to an
end with his suicide and both his family and his lineage end with Lita. Though her novel
seems to contradict her statements about the past, the two become complementary if one
reads her novel as a metaphor for the political situation of Spain. In other words, race,
history and family in and of themselves are not undermined, but the politics causing their
deterioration are. If in the novel these things break down as a result of donjuanismo, then
one must search for a kind of political donjuanismo responsible for a similar downfall in
Spain. The “role of domesticity [serves] as a metaphor for national concerns” (R.
Johnson 2); the novel becomes a critique of those whose political aims threaten the
stability of race, history, and family, the very institutions on which “home” rests. One can
locate such an attitude in those who have for centuries encouraged the conquest of new
lands for the sake of expanding the Spanish empire, just as Don Juan as greedily engaged
in the conquest of new women. This continued pursuit of women resulted in domestic
turmoil for Don Juan; de los Ríos warns that Spain’s imperial past has resulted in turmoil
at the national level. Thus the emphasis on Don Juan’s responsibility for his daughter’s
ruin points an accusing finger at those who participated in the colonial project, blaming
them for Spain’s present as a diminished power. De los Ríos implies that donjuanismo’s
emphasis on masculinity and conquest has brought about Spain’s ruin.
84
In doing so, she contributes to a growing literature on national ills. Spanish
writers sought to convey “both their dreams and their disillusionments about the past,
present, and future of the Spanish nation…In the post-1898 debacle—the loss of the last
of the Spanish empire—national introspection meant turning inward toward the
homeland; in Spanish narrative, family, marriage, and women became a microcosm of
the nation and a barometer for measuring its health (R. Johnson 9-10). De los Ríos’
characters prove no exception to this statement, and judging by the end of her novel, the
nation’s health appears to be declining rapidly. Don Juan, for centuries a symbol of
national pride and power, becomes instead a weak, ineffectual figure. De los Ríos
explicitly links Don Juan to Spain; Don Juan’s surname in the text, “Fontibre” literally
translates as “fountain of the Iberian” (Lázaro 472). Just as Spain once enjoyed
unmatched power over an enormous empire and easily crossed national borders for the
purpose of possessing new territories, Don Juan once represented the ultimate
transgressor of boundaries for the purpose of possessing women and had a long history of
unmatched sexual prowess. If, as Hoffman suggests, patriarchal masculinity and
imperialism do in fact reinforce one another, then it comes as no surprise that Don Juan’s
role as father and conqueror of women completely collapses with the collapse of empire.
De los Ríos further highlights this collapse through the contrast between the
narrator’s viewpoint and the characters’ viewpoint. Though the readers, via the narrator,
are fully aware of the events taking place, the characters of the story do not enjoy this
same awareness. Many of the key events in the story, such as Lita’s tryst with Paco
Garba, take place in secret; the other characters remain distant. Unfortunately, these
events come to light only after disaster has occurred, and the characters do not realize the
85
consequences of their actions until it is too late. De los Ríos uses this contrast to critique
misconceptions about Empire. Those who had supported the colonial project could only
realize the error of their ways after the Disaster of 1898, just like de los Ríos’ misguided
characters. However, like the narrator of the story, the average Spanish citizen now has
the full picture of the events that led to this disaster, realizing that such ruin resulted from
the culmination of many, many errors in judgment.
Furthermore, de los Ríos encourages a relationship between narrator and reader
through the language of the text: “Literary and mythological allusions that are beyond
the grasp of the characters and are uttered behind their backs, or, rather, over their heads,
encourage identification between narrator and discriminating reader at the expense of
creatures who are lacking in moral judgment, aesthetic refinement, and social distinction”
(Glenn 288). De los Ríos also employs language in order to once again highlight the
distance between Spain’s glorious past and its degraded present: “The juxtaposition of
elevated and low language, the poetic and the vulgar, the antiquated and the newly
coined, jars and creates an image of times that are out of joint. Linguistic incongruities
reflect social ones… And in the specific case of her Don Juan, who is the negation of the
classical figure, the distance from the mythic model is immense” (Glenn 228-229).
As an example of the incongruity Glenn notes, consider Lita’s reaction when she and her
sister enter their parents’ room: “I like coming in here, because this room smells like a
man. Isn’t that right, Dora? This whiff of tobacco and portfolios of piel de Ruisa excite
me; and it’s a fact that I am not going to be like Mama, with so much distaste for cigars; a
man that does not smoke does not seem like a man to me. And…truthfully, I most like
86
men like Don Juan Tenorio…like father” (de los Ríos 80-81). 14 Though she has lived
close to Don Juan for her entire life, Lita fails to realize his flaws, instead idealizing him
as the model man. However, as both the narrator and the reader know, Don Juan has
fallen far from the ideals once associated with him. The present proves lacking in
comparison with the past, once again emphasizing Spain’s fall from glory.
One should also take note of the above quote’s allusion to Don Juan’s theatrical
incarnation. Though Las hijas de Don Juan has a relatively uncomplicated plot
structure--the events take place in the present with a straightforward, linear plotline,
related to the readers by a third-person omniscient narrator—the characters appear
reminiscent of nineteenth-century melodrama, a form that rose to popularity around the
time that Zorilla’s Don Juan Tenorio was first performed. At times, the characters in Las
hijas de Don Juan seem almost like caricatures, with their exaggerated statements and
dramatic actions mirroring the heightened emotions of a melodramatic performance. For
example, as Dora lies in bed ill, Concha howls “Dora, Dora, my girl, child of my womb,
my glory! (de los Ríos 113). Her actions, though they take place in the privacy of Dora’s
room, mirror that of a public performance; the neglectful mother plays the part of
maternal devotion quite convincingly. Johnson notes another aspect of melodrama
present in the novel: “[the text] has many of the marks of that genre’s moral allegory in
which good is pitted against evil. The daughters are melodramatically typecast, but these
stereotypes combine with the Don Juan intertext to represent genuine social problems in
the material world—parental neglect, donjuanismo, and prostitution” (R. Johnson 131).
14
Piel de Rusia literally translates as “Russian skin,” dressed skin infused with a pleasant odor resulting
from treatment with birch oil
87
Just as his daughters have been typecast to represent social problems, so has Don Juan
himself, with his insistence on adhering to his old habits emphasizing the extent to which
he has been removed from his past: “the donjuanismo exhibited here is…characterized
by the presentation of a character who clearly emulates the mythic model. From the
double contrast that exists between reality and appearance, and between the mythic
model and the conventional emulation, emerges the irony that will come to characterize
the presentation of Don Juan in the novel” (Lopez 17).15 This distance between past and
present once again reflects the sharp contrast between Spain at the height of its imperial
glory and present-day Spain. Thus Las hijas de Don Juan portrays a nation removed
from its colonial past, unable to now form a stable version of home.
Like de los Ríos, Ford infuses his text with the theme of colonial conquests.
Ford’s choice of Florence’s supposed ailment suggests the novel’s relation to the subject
of imperialism. Significantly, Florence’s “heart” becomes a tool not to get closer to her
husband, but instead to avoid intimacy with him. Symbolically, her heart has no relation
to her emotions whatsoever; thus her bad “heart” does not signify an inherent personal
evil. If one once again examines the personal as a metaphor for the national, the heart
becomes tied to the colonial project. Titles like The Heart of the Empire and Heart of
Darkness lead the reader to understand that “…hearts have left the lexical area of
individual emotions and conflicts only to be reborn in the semantic field of imperial
discourse, even if with divergent and unstable meanings…Whatever they may be, hearts
are shrouded in shadows and ‘unknowability’ and testify to a growing anxiety about
space, an uneasiness which also finds expression in the recurring obsession with maps
and mapping” (Patey 83). One sees a history of the rise and fall of different British
15
All translations from the Lopez article mine
88
colonies reflected in the text and in examining this history becomes aware of the threat of
colonial uprisings that exists within the current British Empire, the threat that the map
could change. The name of the ship that Dowell and Florence take after their elopement,
the Pocahontas, reminds one of Britain’s early seventeenth-century colonization of what
is now the United States. American Florence’s desire to one day possess an English estate
like that of her ancestors at times appears ridiculous—“She wanted to marry a gentleman
of leisure; she wanted a European establishment. She wanted her husband to have an
English accent, an income of fifty thousand dollars a year from real estate and no real
ambition to increase that income” (Ford 87)—and calls to mind the danger of forgetting
the violence associated with colonization. Just as the Pocahontas story has been
romanticized into a love story between the Native American girl and the British John
Smith, Florence romanticizes her ancestors’ former lifestyle in their mother country. In
addition, Ashburnham’s wife, Leonora, comes from Ireland, which in the late nineteenth
and early twentieth century (the time period during which the events in The Good Soldier
take place) engaged in a bloody battle with England for home rule. Leonora’s violent
reaction when Florence dares to insult her Catholic faith—“She ran her hand with a
single clawing motion upwards over her forehead. Her eyes were enormously distended;
her face was exactly that of a person looking into the pit of hell and seeing horrors there”
(Ford 50)—highlights one of the central issues of this conflict, prompting the reader to
consider the very real consequences of this conflict on a public as well as a private level.
As previously stated, Ahsburnham’s service in the imperial army takes him to India,
where he also sends Nancy to be with her father. Though never mentioned in the novel,
Britain’s seemingly stable hold on its colonies had been threatened around the time of the
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novel’s publication.16 The exclusion of this threat from the novel mirrors the narrative
constructed around the British Empire, a narrative reliant on an appearance of stability
and power. Therefore, Ford fuses his novel with subtle yet continuous references to the
British Empire, never overtly admitting possible instability. Patey notes that these
constant reminders of the colonies make the reader acutely aware of Ford’s opinions of
the colonial project:
Deeply inscribed in the narrative of The Good Soldier, this shifting
colonial map is, first of all, an invitation to place the novel where it
belongs, namely at the heart of the raging debate on nationality and
empire, in full flow at the beginning of the century…While remembering
that the pre-war years were crucial for the ideological construction of
Englishness, let us not also overlook the fact that Ford and many of his
closer friends were actively involved in puncturing the balloons of
national and imperial rhetoric. (88)
In order to punch holes in this rhetoric, Ford calls attention to the art of storytelling
throughout The Good Soldier, constantly emphasizing the contrast between appearance
and reality.
Dowell continuously emphasizes the fact that he is writing. He revisits earlier
points of his narrative in order to reshape his reader’s perception of the events and at
times explicitly calls attention to the narrative process: “I don’t know how it is best to
put this thing down—whether it would be better to try and tell the story from the
beginning, as if it were a story, or whether to tell it from this distance of time, as it
reached me from the lips of Leonora or from those of Edward himself (Ford 14). Ford
16
From 1899 until 1902, the British fought the Boer War in what would eventually become South Africa.
Though the British did eventually win, casualties were high due to both disease and combat. British forces
were largely unprepared to fight this war, assuming that a group of Boers (farmers) could not possibly
stand against them for a significant amount of time. In 1906, the Bambatha Rebellion, a Zulu revolt
against British rule and taxation in Natal, South Africa, took place. In late 1913, the Irish Volunteers
formed a militia in order to safeguard home rule. On 15 February 1915, the Right Wing (Rajput) of the 5th
Madras Light Infantry (Indian Army), stationed in Singapore, revolted, killing more than 40 British
officers, British residents and local civilians. The mutiny came to be known as the "Singapore Mutiny",
and locally as the "Sepoy Mutiny" or "Indian Mutiny".
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himself describes the novel as “an intricate tangle of references and cross-references”
(qtd in Cheng 385). Dowell constantly changes his mind about the significance of the
events that have taken place, which “clearly establishes a parallel between Dowell’s
continuing search and re-creation of his memory, and the reader’s own memory and
reinterpretation of events that appeared early in the novel in light of later knowledge”
(Lynn 393). Furthermore, the novel comments on the writer’s stake in the narrative
process. Through his narration, Dowell gains back some of the power stolen from him:
“As a man, Dowell is weak and led by the nose, but as an author he is a free agent who
can utter any opinion, no matter how unlikely, without fear of constraint” (Levenson,
“Character,” 370). From the outset, Dowell appears to deceive the reader, claiming that
the story he will tell is the saddest one he has ever heard; the reader gradually comes to
realize that Dowell does not simply retell a tale to which he has listened, but rather one in
which he has been a key character. Thus the reader must readjust his or her perception of
the events, thereby participating in the very act that Dowell performs throughout the text.
Like Dowell, the reader must revise his or her memory. In doing so, the reader begins
form his or her own, albeit incomplete, interpretation of events. This need for revision of
one’s memory encourages the reader to “interrupt Dowell’s narration and challenge his
interpretation of the story,” wondering, for instance, if the catalogue of events that have
taken place on August 4 “is based on actual fact or is, rather, a projection of Dowell’s
need for some sort of order and clarity on his narrative materials” (Cousineau 103).17
17
This catalogue of events includes Florence’s birth, the beginning of her journey around the world, the
loss of her virginity, her marriage, the beginning of her affair with Edward, and her death (Cousineau 103).
Several critics have theorized about this date’s significance in relation to World War I. For an alternative
theory on the topic, see Bernard Bergonzi’s “Fiction and History: Rereading The Good Soldier”. Bergonzi
identifies August 4 as the “spine date” of the novel but points out that Ford selected the date long before the
outbreak of WWI on August 4, 1914, citing the “happy coincidence” theory. He asserts that, due to the fact
that there is no mention of the War at the end of the novel, which should have taken place between late
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Eggenschweiler cautions against reading this need for order and clarity as a search for the
truth behind all of the narrative difficulties, further emphasizing that this text resists neat
endings and insists that loose ends do not necessarily need to be tied: “I do not see why
we should conclude that, because Dowell’s opinions change, the novel is about the
teller’s process of discovery, about Dowell’s coming to deeper truths as he writes. This
device has been used so well in modern fiction that we are too ready to let it explain
problems that it will not quite solve” (351). Dowell’s unreliability and the constant
contradictions throughout the text lead one to conclude that “everything to do with The
Good Solider can only be a hypothesis” (Poole 134). The reader receives very few
answers by the end of the text, left instead with a stack of inconsistent facts and
unanswered questions.
When one interprets The Good Soldier as a commentary on the imperial project,
this uncertainty about facts and the emphasis on storytelling throughout the text reflects
the way in which empire itself is predicated on fictions and storytelling. Narratives of the
occurrences in the colonies often appear contradictory, leaving the reader uncertain of
what has actually occurred; as in the novel, “inconsistency and contradiction [become]
the ultimate data” (Goodheart 381) of reports from the colonies. If one reads Dowell’s
unreliability as a comment on the state of the British Empire, one arrives at the
conclusion that the average British citizen occupies a strikingly similar position to
Dowell and his readers. The readers of Dowell’s narrative never actually get a glimpse of
the events as they happen in the present; Dowell reports the past long after it occurs,
filtering the events and assigning a certain judgment to them. The immediate events
1915 and early 1916, “fiction and history seemed momentarily to coincide but thereafter they went in
different directions” (156).
92
remain elusive, and the readers must rely on subjective, often unreliable, reports in order
to piece together the full story. The fact that Dowell records the story a full eighteen
months after the last event takes place indicates that past beliefs are incompatible with
present reality. Though it appears that the final events of the text take place in the present,
as Dowell finishes his diary, Cheng notes that the chronology of The Good Soldier
indicates that Dowell goes to fetch Nancy in mid-1914, making the date of the eighteen
months later fall somewhere in “late 1915 or early 1916—a curious computation since
[the book] itself had already been published on March 17, 1915!” (388). Thus the events
take place either in the past or in the future, but never in the present moment; the reader
remains removed from them. Furthermore, the distorted timeline of the novel not only
removes the reader from the present, but also blends three timelines into one: “The Good
Soldier incorporates three histories finally: the one which Dowell has ignorantly lived
through, the one which Dowell impressionistically constructs, and the one which really
happened” (Smith 325).
These three histories further the readers’ acute awareness of their distance from
the events themselves. In creating this distance, Ford reveals the complexity of
storytelling, noting that it relies on subjective interpretations rather than on an exact
retelling of the events. Ford highlights this complicated nature of storytelling in order to
further this critique of empire. Storytelling becomes crucial for the future of empire, a
place that exists primarily in the citizens’ imaginations. Like these readers, the average
British citizen remains far removed from the colonies, relying only on reports from those
who have been there for their understanding of the colonies. Ford questions the agenda
behind the portrayal of the colonies and implies that perhaps British citizens should not
93
take such reports at face value. He does so by highlighting Dowell’s unreliability; the
readers of The Good Soldier know very little about Dowell himself (Meixner 319), yet
their interpretation of the story relies solely on the details that he relates. Like Dowell,
British citizens have a limited understanding of what has happened. Hynes suggests that
this distorted understanding can only be clarified through a critical examination of the
narrative process, noting “the clear distinction that the novel makes between events and
meaning (315). However, one should not expect that such a re-examination will lead to
closure: “…Ford was not developing this convention [of the confused, partly-informed
narrator], so much as submitting it to a radical formal extension. For there is something
uncapturable about this novel—all readers feel that. It escapes on every side, it is
limitless, it has known no outer contours” (Poole 124). When reading this limitless text,
the reader grows nervous, fully aware that the text should have limits; the reader desires
the kind of closure and assurance that the text refuses to deliver. As a metaphor for
empire, this text speaks to the growing uneasiness about a limitless nation, expanding
unnaturally beyond its boundaries into the unknown. Hoffman notes that in the last
chapters of The Good Solider Dowell achieves the very position celebrated throughout
the novel—the owner of a large British estate. In taking on this identity, he comes to
effectively “colonize” Ashburnham’s position; their identities begin to blend (45-46).
However, rather than brining about a sense of fulfillment, Dowell’s act of metaphoric
colonization leaves him miserable. Ford suggests that, just as a text should have limits
and provide closure, the act of colonization should have limits as well.
In addition to a breakdown of conventional methods of narration, The Good
Solider also distorts “traditional” values in order to comment on the state of the British
94
Empire. Ford does so by pointing out that the appearance of rock-solid values does not
always signal the existence of stability. Throughout the novel, Dowell learns to adjust his
expectations about several values he has come to believe are unshakable, and in doing so,
learns to negotiate between the public and private spheres. Definitions of things like
“honor,” “family,” and “marriage” are constantly revised throughout the text. The text
sets up a distorted family structure. Dowell and Florence become “like family” to
Ashburnham and Leonora, whose young ward/ “daughter,” becomes both Edward’s and,
to a certain extent, Dowell’s, object of desire, as well as Leonora and Florence’s object of
contempt. The outward appearance of family does not match the “family” dynamics
taking place behind closed doors. However, Dowell refuses to acknowledge this fact:
“Dowell’s belief in the one-to-one correspondence of the public and private aspects of
marriage contributes to his attention to the careful choreography of married life with
Florence, Edward, and Leonora” (Pines, Marriage Paradox, 39). Dowell ultimately
cannot tolerate this betrayal, and his narration mirrors this inability; he constantly
struggles to make the story (the form) match what actually happened (the content). Just
as Dowell cannot stomach “the incongruity between inherited categories and the behavior
that they are meant to describe” (Levenson 365), Nancy also cannot cope with the notion
that things are not always as they seem: “Like Dowell, Nancy Rufford…faces the rupture
of what she had imagined was a one-to-one relationship between the language and
meaning, the form and content, of marriage” (Pines, Marriage Paradox, 41). This rupture
of concepts such as stability, marriage, and honor eventually causes Nancy’s insanity.
However, one should not take the chaos that erupts when characters in the novel
desperately attempt to make form match content as a signal that The Good Solider rejects
95
the formal rules altogether. Rather, one finds a much more confining kind of rule:
“when the deceptive vestments of traditional characterization are removed, one may
uncover not a new freedom but a new constraint. Edward violates the duties of his
station only to place himself at the mercy of his loins. What is more confining than social
norms?—only, perhaps, private desires” (Levenson, “Character,” 365). Deviation from
social norms leads only to ruin in The Good Soldier. In constructing a text in which
straying from social expectations fails to satisfy, Ford sets up an agenda aimed at
restoring order to an increasingly chaotic home: “…out of the pervasive chaos and
skepticism of which Dowell was a focal-point, Ford constructed a text that proclaimed
the potential of order and discipline. The form of The Good Soldier, so engineered and
modernist, indeed endorsed the promises of the title—of orderliness and self-control”
(Green 360). Dowell’s desire for order in his home reflects a growing national clamor
for order at home—in Great Britain and its colonies. The text makes it clear that, though
men like Ashburnham may be partially to blame for Britain’s current problems, currently
there exsit no alternatives to the model of masculinity that they have set up.
Thus one finds the double-edged sword of scathing criticism and mourning found
in Las hijas de Don Juan in The Good Solider as well. Though Dowell comes to learn of
Ashburnham’s numerous flaws, he feels the strong urge to identify with Ashburnham
rather than rejecting him outright, in spite of all his faults: “…I can’t conceal the fact that
I loved Edward Ashburnham—I loved him because he was just myself” (Ford 275).
Interestingly, in this sentence, Ashburnham emulates the weak, ineffectual Dowell, rather
than the other way around. The fact that Dowell sees aspects of himself in the other man
at least partially explains his refusal to condemn his friend as a liar and a philanderer,
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even after his knows the truth. The other part of this explanation lies in the fact that,
along with parts of himself as he is, Dowell sees things in Ashburnham that he would like
to be:
Being subjectively entered-into and ‘inhabited’ through identifications, the
cultural forms of masculinity enable a sense of one’s self as ‘a man’ to be
imagined and recognized by others. Since the imagining and recognition
of identities is a process shot through with wish-fulfilling fantasies, these
cultural forms often figure ideal and desirable masculinities, in which both
self and others may make investments. Men may wish and strive to
become the man they would like themselves to be (Dawson 23).
Dowell seems intent on holding onto the social conventions that made Edward the model
Englishman because from these “conventions he gets a spurious sense of permanence and
stability and human intimacy…When they collapse, he is left with nothing” (Hynes 316).
Without these rules, one is left with nothing but subjective interpretations of others,
making concrete knowledge virtually impossible. The Good Soldier mourns the loss of
this possibility: “There are no longer any substantial invisibilities, only insubstantial
visibilities. All the permanent, meaningful structures (God, character, the virtues) have
disappeared, but not the desire for them” (Goodheart 383). That which has disappeared
continuously haunts Dowell; though at the end of the novel he appears to have a clear
picture of what has happened, he continues to focus on the invisible. His dissatisfaction
arises because Dowell realizes that he can never become the man that he wanted to be;
the concept of the Good Soldier, the quintessential English gentleman, turns out to be
little more than an empty promise, a promise that Dowell longs to keep even though he
knows he cannot. There will be no living up to the expectations that Dowell has set for
himself. Rather, there will be a long series of empty promises. This collapse of ideals
leads Dowell to a crisis of epistemology. He begins to wonder how well he can possibly
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know others: “it becomes a matter of the stability of character as such and our capacity
to understand one another at all…it is an affront to intelligibility; it not only violates the
‘rules’ which convention lays down; it challenges the very possibility of rules that might
govern human behavior” (Levenson, “Character,” 364). Dowell cannot fathom a way to
formulate knowledge outside of these rules. The frustration in the text comes chiefly
from his inability to do so. Dowell’s continuous revisions of his time with Ashburnham
signal his repeated attempts to discover an alternative to the “model” Englishman.
Because he fails to conceptualize such an alternative, he remains an ineffectual heir to the
Great Britain that men like Ashburnham have left behind.
In portraying unfit successors to the current models of masculinity, both de los
Ríos and Ford recognize that no current alternative to the model exists. Due to the fact
that these models have been detrimental to the nation, both texts call for a revision of this
model. If one reads Dowell’s failure in terms of Empire, the model of the Good Soldier
has lead to “an England of emasculated and ineffectual men” (Cole 177). Throughout the
text, Dowell attempts to follow Ashburnham’s model. He eventually purchases Edward’s
family estate, Barnshaw. As in de los Ríos’ novel, the wealth has been passed from the
gentry to the nouveaux riche, who cannot live up to expectations; try as he might, Dowell
cannot be, like Ashburnham, “the good landlord and father of his people” (Ford 182).
After Florence’s death, Dowell takes on the responsibility of caring for Ashburnham’s
one failed conquest, Nancy, but can never hope to achieve the relationship with her that
she desired with Edward: “…it is probable that her reason will never be sufficiently
restored to let her appreciate the meaning of the Anglican marriage service. Therefore, I
cannot marry her, according to the law of the land” (Ford 256-257). Nancy has gone mad,
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making Dowell the caretaker of an invalid rather than a husband. Dowell realizes that he
can never live up to Ashburnham’s model of masculinity, wondering at one point “am I
no better than a eunuch?” (Ford 14) and resigning himself to a sexless life with his new
companion, much as he had resigned himself to a similar role with Florence. If one reads
this failure to measure up to Ashburnham’s example as a comment on empire, it becomes
clear that Ford fears the collapse of British imperial power. Hoffmann notes that “[The
Good Soldier] participates in patriarchal and imperialist discourses. These discourses
assume the utter dependence of women and the colonized upon men and the colonizers,
respectively” (39). In making Nancy utterly dependant on Dowell, Ford attempts to
follow this previously established model. However, in doing so, he highlights its
destructive nature. Dowell inherits from Ashburnham the care of a young woman who
had been healthy prior to Edward’s desire to possess her, just as the younger generation
has inherited nations previously self-sufficient prior to Britain taking possession of them.
Men like Dowell will prove unqualified successors to “good soldiers” like Ashburnham
when it comes to all kinds of conquest. Similarly, Dowell’s emphasis on the contrast
between past and present hints at the instability of a once-stable British empire. However,
British citizens have no desire to recognize this instability, just as Dowell, to some extent,
wishes that he did not know the truth about his “stable” family life: “[Ford] has left us a
moral riddle…that we will never entirely solve, not because the solution is not apparent,
but because, like Dowell, we are too strongly attached to its misdiagnosis” (Cousineau
108). The Good Soldier warns readers of the dangers of this misdiagnosis, of (like
Dowell), ignoring the reality of the situation until it is too late to remedy it. Ford
encourages readers to confront the reality of empire, flaws and all. Just as Dowell comes
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to recognize Ashburnham’s complexity, both his strengths and his weaknesses, Ford
urges his readers to acknowledge the complexity of the imperial project. In doing so, the
reader must realize that the empire does not necessarily conform to the model of
permanence and stability, though it is constantly portrayed as such. The novel is not an
indictment of empire, but rather a call to examine whether or not its portrayal
corresponds to its reality and to work through these incongruities. Just as Dowell can
survive only by grudgingly admitting to these inconsistencies, the empire can only
survive through recognition and acceptance of its shortcomings.
There is no such willingness to accept in Las hijas de Don Juan, as signified by
both the characters’ tragic ends and the depiction of those who inherit the broken nation.
However, these inheritors also point to a degree of mourning for greatness that will never
again be restored. Through an examination of Don Juan’s potential successors, one
clearly sees the desire to redefine Spain does not necessarily require a complete
denunciation of the past. Lázaro notes that “… though the criticism of Don Juan is clearly
evident in Hijas, the narrator’s feelings toward Fontibre are more ambivalent than mere
rejection… Hijas is not simply a demythifying text…the narrator does not attribute
national ills to the myth itself, but rather to the disappearance of the values that the myth
originally represented” (470). Both Don Juan’s family line and his fortune have come to
an end, but instead of a potential new power rising to take Don Juan’s place, the novel is
devoid of future promise. The newly wealthy and powerful family living in the
neighboring apartment, the Corderos, “the chubbiest, most obliging, most joyful
bourgeois in the world” (de los Ríos 94) do not seem appropriate leaders for a nation
struggling to redefine itself: “Enriched by a lottery prize, the former butchers exemplify
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the tasteless ostentation and lack of culture of the nouveaux riches. They are rude and
grotesque in their pretense of being what they are not” (Glenn 228). 18 The family’s last
name, translated “lamb,” implies that they are somehow inherently low-class, destined for
nothing more than the lives they led as butchers before chance changed their
circumstances. Recio describes the Corderos in terms of disease, asserting that the
portrayal of the Cordero family reveals de los Ríos’ distaste for the nouveau riche, the
petite bourgeois, who were infecting Spanish culture (386). Just as the Cordero family
proves unsuitable as successors to the Spanish gentry, Paco Garba/Larva proves
unsuitable as a successor to Don Juan’s conquests over women, as well as an unsuitable
writer for potential new cultural myths: “Garba is a bad writer, but the upwardly mobile
couple who promote his fame are sufficiently uneducated to be incapable of
distinguishing good art from bad” (Johnson 130). His last name calls to mind the Spanish
word “garbo,” translated as “elegance, grace, and ease when walking or moving”; this
grace is a quality that Garba most emphatically does not possess. He serves as nothing
more than a reminder of the faded glory Spain once enjoyed; Paco Garba/Larva, a “don
nadie (don nobody),” typifies the degradation of Spanish culture (Recio 387). Though de
los Ríos’ text appears to indict donjuanismo as detrimental for the nation, the alternatives
to this model prove such unworthy inheritors of Spain that one comes to realize her
attitude toward this model of masculinity has many more facets than mere disgust. One
finds an aspect of nostalgia for the once-powerful figure of the past, and with it, nostalgia
for a once-powerful, strong nation. Thus there is no alternative model to Spanish
18
Translation mine. One should note that “alegre” (translated above as “joyful”) carries both positive and
negative connotations. Though the primary meaning is “joyful” or “light-hearted,” it can also mean
“ludicrous,” “showy,” or, (as in the phrase “vida alegre”) “immoral,” all of which apply to the Cordero
family. Another meaning of “alegre,” “lucky” or “fortunate” also applies to the Corderos, who obtained
their fortune of approximately five million pesetas through the Madrid lottery.
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masculinity and conquest in the text, but rather a present that does not measure up to that
model, just as Spain’s present state does not compare to its past imperial glory.
The radically different endings of the two texts directly result from the state of
empire in their respective countries of origin. Through its criticism of the Don Juan myth
and the depiction of tragedy that results from it, Las hijas de Don Juan highlights the
danger of stubbornly clinging to the past. The text suggests that doing so will lead only
to ruin, thus calling for the nation to renounce its attachment to its faded imperial glory.
Until it does so, de los Ríos implies, Spain will remain a weak nation, led by Garbas and
Corderos. In order to restore the nation to its once-great status, its leaders need to turn
away from the model of Don Juan and look to other, as yet undefined, aspects of the
nation that have yet to be valued. Though The Good Soldier speaks to the same danger of
clinging to the past and in doing so blinding oneself to present reality, it does not
completely reject the models of the past. Rather, the text calls for revision rather than
renunciation, as exemplified in Dowell’s constant revisions of his narrative. The
complete collapse of past models does not occur due to the British author’s inability to
see his nation as anything other than an imperial power. Though the empire has many,
many problems, Ford suggests that, if one recognizes these flaws, perhaps some measure
of Britain’s present power can be retained.
Recognition of the difficulties that permeate
the British empire becomes the necessary first step for revision. As exemplified by the
novel’s ending, the current model of British masculinity remains intact; Dowell takes
over Ashburnham’s estate and care of his ward, effectively becoming the new “good
soldier.” However, life as an estate owner fails to bring the power and prestige once
enjoyed by men like Ahsburnham. Dowell appears miserable, serving as a nursemaid for
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Nancy and feeling emasculated to the point that he compares himself to a eunuch.
Therefore, the novel calls for a reader to acknowledge that this model of the ideal British
citizen no longer meets the nation’s needs; only through this acknowledgement will
Britain begin to change for the better.
Ford’s suggestion that perhaps Britain can still make a positive change stands in
stark contrast to de los Ríos abrupt ending to her novel, an ending that offers no
possibility that the current model could in any way be revised in a productive manner.
Thus reading these two novels together allows one a greater understanding of the way
that models of masculinity relate to the loss or the maintenance of Empire. In Las hijas
de Don Juan, de los Ríos blatantly indicts the Don Juan myth as largely responsible for
her nation’s loss of its empire. This myth emphasizes conquest but does not address the
consequences of said conquest; as soon as Don Juan conquers one woman, he moves on,
leaving readers no clue about what happens to the already-conquered after Don Juan
leaves. De los Ríos offers readers a glimpse at the consequences of such a myth through
Don Juan’s unhappy family. Simply put, Don Juan’s endless conquest of women leaves
disaster at home. When relating this model of masculinity to Spain, the reader comes to
understand that endless conquest of foreign lands also leads to disaster at home. Due to
the fact that this disaster has already occurred in Spain, leaving its citizens with very little
sense of national identity, de los Ríos offers no possibility for redemption at the end of
the novel. Las hijas de Don Juan suggests that this model of conquest has been followed
to the point of no return, resulting in only destruction. De los Ríos acknowledges that
there is no possibility that Spain will return to the imperial glory of its past. In contrast,
Ford suggests that perhaps a new model of masculinity will somehow be able to save the
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British Empire from decline. Like Don Juan, Ashburnham has engaged in countless
conquests with little thought to the consequences, likening him to Britain’s relentless
pursuit of imperial territory. Ford acknowledges through Ashburnham’s death and
Dowell’s unsatisfactory inheritance of his property that Britain’s reliance on its gentrified
soldier-heroes will no longer be sufficient for Britain to maintain its current position of
global power. However, the fact that Dowell is still alive to engage in endless acts of
revision hints that all is not lost. Rather, Britain must, like Dowell, begin to revise the
nationalist narrative it has created, a narrative that has previously placed unquestioning
faith in men like Ashburnham.
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Virginia Woolf and Rosa Chacel: Genre, Gender, Empire, and the
Modernist Novel
From Virginia Woolf’s call in “Professions for Women” to kill the Angel of the
House, the force that prohibits women writers from addressing certain topics, to her
suggestion that a woman writer needs a room of her own, to the countless critics that
have written on Woolf’s feminist views, Woolf’s emphasis on fostering gender equality
for women writers has been well documented. For example, Kathleen M. Helal traces
Woolf’s vexed relationship to feminist anger, ultimately concluding that “to express
anger through writing is not only to overcome anxiety and reduce abstraction, but also to
perform power, to become visible, to define an identity, and to redraw boundaries” (93).
Lesser known Spanish author Rosa Chacel also urges an end to the notion that women
writers should somehow be deemed less than or inherently different from male writers.
In Mujer, Modernismo, y Vanguardia in España, Susan Kirkpatrick asserts that Chacel
“…threw the most radical criticism at all notions of female difference. Conscious…that
dominant visions of femininity still marginalized women, Chacel advocates the
deconstruction of gender…Chacel de-genderizes the position of the artistic subject in a
gendered world” (27). Chacel’s Estación. Ida y Vuelta, published in 1930, and Woolf’s
Orlando, published in 1928, prove no exception to this project. Victoria L. Smith claims
that in Orlando “Woolf foregrounds the doubleness that is needed in order to produce the
self as woman in language and in culture” (58). Kirkpatrick asserts that gender ambiguity
in Estación serves to support Chacel’s project: “the unstable gender identity of the
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narrative voice calls into question the gender of the person writing. By never instilling at
any moment a fixed gender identity, Chacel asserts that the identity of an artist cannot be
either determined or limited by gender” (27). While many scholars focus on gender in
Estación. Ida y Vuelta, little critical attention has been devoted to the critique of literary
genre in Chacel’s text, and, while several critics have noted the play with genre in
Orlando, that discussion typically serves as a footnote to a discussion of gender.1 Rather
than seeing these discussions as mutually exclusive, I propose that the manipulation of
gender in the two novels is inextricably linked to the authors’ comments about genre. In
criticizing classifications of both gender and genre, Woolf and Chacel respond to the
changes taking place in their respective nations. Just as gender and genre become fluid
concepts in Orlando and Estación. Ida y Vuelta, so too does national identity.
In the first two parts of Chacel’s novel, the reader encounters the stream of
consciousness of the unnamed narrator, and, as the plot develops, the reader slowly
comes to the conclusion that the narrator is a young man, as very early in the novel the
narrator expresses his interest in young women (Chacel 95-96). The strongest evidence
for this assumption comes when the narrator reveals that he has impregnated his
girlfriend, Julia. However, one should note that Chacel never explicitly reveals the
gender of her narrator at any point in the text. While one may argue that the constant
references to the narrator as “el” designate the reader as male, one should take into
account the fact that “el” is not exclusively a masculine pronoun. “El” translates as either
“he” or the gender-neutral pronoun “it”. Context clues signal which way “el” should be
read. Therefore, the reader of Estación. Ida y Vuelta literally must do the work to
1
For a few critical discussions of gender in Chacel and Woolf ,see: Craps, Stef; Fernández Utrera, María
Soledad; Lázaro, Reyes ("Cartografía”); and Rosen, Jody R.
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construct the gender of the narrator, highlighting the concept of gender as a social
construct.
Though the narrator of the first two parts is most likely male, Chacel’s detailed
description of the scene from which her protagonist will emerge portrays an ambiguous
figure with slightly less than masculine characteristics:
My protagonist will get lost amid the shapes that invade the screen,
bursting through it, exploding the nothingness of obscurity through the
sheer force of his own size. Between these shapes, at a certain distance, a
small figure will appear, who, barely visible, will soon be erased by
whatever image can draw the most attention to itself. When the dynamism
of the images has reached the point where the images incite the kind of
overwhelming feeling a young woman might feel in a big city, a wide
street will appear on the screen, through which large amounts of traffic
will smoothly flow. The street will not rush upon the screen, but will
appear as a gentle current, soothing the harsh environment that caused
such friction between images. Rain will gently fall on everything in the
scene. The light will drain from the first glimpse of the asphalt, and
umbrellas with wet tops will appear. I do not know whether or not to give
my protagonist a pair of tears hanging from his eyelashes like earrings.
All of the cinema actresses know how to use this trick. But I prefer to
create a more objective character; I will wrap the image in a watery veil of
trembling light…In this situation, my protagonist will grow more visible,
gaining the size necessary to be perceived totally and with clarity. (Chacel
162) 2
The reader should take note of the images of shadow, darkness, and water in the above
passage. These images, when combined, reject clarity and call for fluidity and
uncertainty. The only certainty is that the author calls for her readers to view her
protagonist as a work of art. Thus Chacel transforms her protagonist into an art object,
viewed on the screen by spectators. In characterizing her male protagonist as an object,
Chacel reverses the stereotype of the active male subject and the passive female object,
calling the protagonist’s gender into question: “when positioned as the object of the gaze,
even the male body is feminized…” (Armstrong, N. 62). Chacel furthers this questioning
2
All translations from Chacel’s text mine.
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as she resists the urge to draw a detailed portrait of him. Ironically, only when one has
accepted the notion of viewing the protagonist unclearly can one then perceive him with
clarity. The reader/viewer must resist the urge to form any assumptions based on the
protagonist’s gender and accept that the only clear image of the protagonist is one
permeated with ambiguity. Furthering this ambiguity, Chacel describes her protagonist’s
tears as earrings dripping from his eyelashes and compares him with film actresses,
giving him feminine characteristics and preventing one from clearly seeing his gender.
Indeed, Chacel asserts that “central to the laws around which I construct my characters is
the desire to make them explode with femininity. Were it not for this, I would give up
writing” (154). Mangini notes that, in addition to her description of her protagonist,
Chacel’s choice not to name her characters also blurs the lines between genders,
inextricably linking the male protagonist’s mind to the minds of the women surrounding
him: “The characters in Estación do not have names; they are merely vehicles for
transmitting a chain of events as conceived in the mind of a central character who, though
a male, is actually psychologically fused with the woman in his life” (19). Thus Chacel’s
protagonist comes into being in a world of namelessness, shadows, and ambiguity, a
world that defies gender classifications.
Like Chacel, Woolf also plays with gender ambiguity. The male protagonist, the
Lord Orlando, becomes greatly vexed upon first seeing his lover, Sasha, due to the fact
that he cannot easily distinguish whether she is male or female: “Legs, hands, carriage,
were a boy’s but no boy ever had a mouth like that; no boy had those breasts, no boy had
eyes which looked as if they had been fished from the bottom of the sea…She was a
woman” (Woolf 24). One of the most significant moments of gender ambiguity comes
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early in the text, as the reader first meets the title character as a young man. As the light
from a stained-glass window hits him, the reader sees a portrait of his face:
The red of the cheeks was covered with peach down; the down on the lips
was only a little thicker than the down on the cheeks. The lips themselves
were short and slightly drawn back over teeth of an exquisite and almond
whiteness. Nothing disturbed the arrowy nose in its short, tense flight;
the hair was dark, the ears small, and fitted closely to the head. But, alas,
that these catalogues of youthful beauty cannot end without mentioning
the forehead and eyes. Alas, that people are seldom born devoid of all
three; for directly we glance at Orlando standing by the window, we must
admit that he had eyes like drenched violets, so large that the water
seemed to have brimmed in them and widened them; and a brow like the
swelling of a marble dome pressed between the two black medallions
which were his temples. (Woolf 12)
Commenting on many of Woolf’s female protagonists, Rigney asserts that “losing
subjectivity and identity as they assume the traditionally male-defined role of art object
they…represent one aspect of Woolf’s exploration of the ways in which art is both
perceived and created” (240). This comment holds true for the Lord Orlando as well. In
this passage, Woolf draws on a popular poetic form during the Elizabethan era, a form
traditionally reserved for the description of women—the blazon. This detailed description
of the female body, frequently focused on the face, typically employs heraldic language
to transform women into art objects. Using the blazon to describe a man, however,
Woolf transforms the central character into one with aspects of both sexes—he represents
in the same moment the active male subject standing under “the stained glass of a vast
coat of arms” (Woolf 12) and the passive female object. In transforming her character
into an art object with an ambiguous gender identity, Woolf distinguishes her writing
from her contemporaries who advocate the standards of neo-classicism in art. In his
essay “Romanticism and Classicism,” T.E. Hulme claims that great literature is marked
by a certain degree of restraint and that its goal is to avoid abstraction in favor of visually
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concrete images. T.S. Eliot and Wyndham Lewis take similar positions, arguing against
relativity and ambiguity in favor of absolutism.3 Woolf’s distortion of her character’s
gender calls this position into question, suggesting instead that art thrives on subjectivity.
Thus both Woolf and Chacel view ambiguity as a key feature of modernist art and its
construction of gender.
Neither Woolf’s nor Chacel’s text stops at simple gender ambiguity, however.
Both authors take the concept of gender as a fluid, rather than fixed, concept one step
further by actually transforming the gender of their central characters. In the third and
final part of Estación. Ida y vuelta, the reader once again comes across a stream of
consciousness but meets a completely different narrator. The narrative voice is now a
woman, and the reader can infer that it is the voice of Chacel herself: “My characters
always inherit the incurable sickness of my egotism. Of course, this cause will be the
first to incite the drama” (Chacel 154). In the prologue to the 1974 edition of her novel,
she speaks about her conception of Estación. Ida y vuelta: “I did not want to follow a
story of realistic facts. I conceived of the conflict, from all its angles, within the mind of
a man” (80). This quote holds special significance when considering Chacel’s fluid
concept of gender. On one hand, the phrase “within the mind of a man” refers to her
narrator’s stream of consciousness; the novel literally takes place within the mind of her
(supposedly male) protagonist. On the other hand, the phrase refers to the author herself.
In assuming the role of authorship—a role largely denied to Spanish women—she takes
on “the mind of a man,” asserting her place among the male authors of her day. Casado
explains that this moment of the text further allows for the protagonist’s gender to be
manipulated:
3
“the separation and reconciliation of “he” and “she” (the protagonist and
See Eliot’s “What is a Classic?” and Lewis’ BLAST.
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his wife in Estación. Ida y vuelta) and the protagonists (also “he” and “she”) that the
protagonist of Estación. Ida y vuelta is creating in his mind for the work that he will write
are intertwined. By the end…of Estación. Ida y vuelta, the protagonist’s narrative voice
and the voice of the author are indistinguishable” (Casado 17). This change of voice,
which takes place without warning, serves to highlight the ease with which gender can be
distorted and manipulated, an ease that Woolf also points out. Janés notes that, in
claiming a piece of the Spanish literary tradition, Chacel also claims a measure of
freedom denied to women: “[Estación. Ida y vuelta] was the direct fruit of someone
passionate about all forms of freedom, someone who linked freedom with reality,
someone whose freedom consisted in preserving the self” (120).4 Allowing her own
voice to take control of the narration in the third part of the novel, Chacel does indeed
preserve the self, refusing to permit her characters to speak for her.
In contrast to Chacel’s narrator, Woolf’s narrator never changes at any point. The
change in gender takes place in the body of the central character. At almost the exact
middle of the text, while he is serving as ambassador to Turkey, Orlando wakes one
morning to find that he has transformed into a woman: “He stretched himself. He rose.
He stood upright in complete nakedness before us, and while the trumpets pealed Truth!
Truth! Truth! We have no choice left but confess—he was a woman” (Woolf 181). One
should note that Orlando’s friends and servants have no trouble recognizing her and do
not experience any confusion due to the gender change at any point in the text: “No one
showed an instant’s suspicion that [the female] Orlando was not the Orlando they had
known” (Woolf 170). Hence Woolf and Chacel draw attention to the arbitrary nature of
gender classifications.
4
All translations from the Janés article mine.
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Significantly, both the word “gender” and the word “genre” derive from the same
Latin root, “genus,” meaning “kind” or “sort.” Both words carry the connotation of
classification, division of similar things into arbitrary categories. In Spanish, the
“gender” and “genre” are indeed the same word—“género.” Furthermore, the Spanish
language assigns a grammatical gender to its nouns, arbitrarily designating nouns as
masculine or feminine (e.g. “la mesa” or “el mapa”). While modern English does not
employ grammatical gender, Old English did in fact do so. Woolf and Chacel, masters of
languages, would have been acutely aware of both this common etymology and the
tendency to divide people and words into nice, neat, easily definable categories.
Therefore, one can read their manipulation of gender as a tool to critique the notion of
literary genre.
In Orlando, the narrator constantly “breaks the fourth wall” (so to speak), in order
to comment on the creation of biography. One should note that Woolf’s father, Sir Leslie
Stephen, founded the Dictionary of National Biography. Woolf knew very well the strict,
fact-based, minimalist style of the DNB and purposefully chose a very different style of
writing. Woolf’s text, a fictitious biography that constantly plays with historical facts in
order to further the novel’s plot, frequently describes the necessity and importance of
facts when attempting to successfully write biography:
Up to this point in telling the story of Orlando’s life, documents, both
private and historical, have made it possible to fulfill the first duty of a
biographer, which is to plod, without looking to right or left, in the
indelible footprints of truth…But now we come to an episode which lies
right across our path, so there is no ignoring it. Yet it is dark, mysterious,
and undocumented; so that there is no explaining it. Volumes might be
written in interpretation of it…our simple duty is to state the facts as far as
they are known, and so let the reader make of them what he may (Woolf
40).
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In passages such as this one, Woolf’s narrator takes satirical jabs at biographers,
highlighting their arbitrary selection of certain facts and their insistence that these facts
accurately portray a life. This passage furthers claims that Woolf makes in her essays
“Modern Fiction” (1919) and “Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown” (1924). Woolf criticizes
“materialist authors” such as Wells, Bennett, and Galsworthy, arguing that their focus on
descriptions of homes, landscapes, and cities detracts from the successful writing of
fiction. Fiction, Woolf asserts, should concentrate on the inner mind of the character, on
both fully and half-formed thoughts, despite the possibility that these thoughts may not be
rooted in fact. In the above passage, the narrator also critiques reliance on facts, noting
that the facts on which the biographer depends may not be readily available and hinting
that the seemingly objective genre may be much more subjective than readers assume.
The narrator suggests the possibility that this lack of facts may cause a writer to engage in
an act of interpretation but then quickly dismisses the possibility, insisting that the
biographer must provide objective information and leave acts of interpretation to the
reader. This swift dismissal of the possibility that a biographer engage in an act of
interpretation highlights the limitations of biography. Thompson notes that, in a reversal
of the expectations of biography, moments in which Orlando experiences great
accomplishments have little to no facts available about them: “When Orlando’s role is
most public, during his ambassadorial job, the manuscript relied on by the biographer is
full of holes…The English naval officer is parodied in the gaps and holes of his patriotic
account of the ceremony which conferred the dukedom on Orlando…More significantly,
gaps appear before Orlando’s sex change and before she has a child…”(Thompson 313).
These gaps draw attention to the highly gendered concept of great accomplishments, as
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the Lord Orlando’s major achievements consist of highly public moments (his
ambassadorship and his dukedom), while the Lady Orlando’s major achievement comes
when she gives birth to a child. In highlighting the gendered concept of achievement in
biography, Woolf critiques the marginalized role of women in the early twentieth
century. As B. Scott notes, Woolf utilizes this critique of biography in order to claim an
equal space for women, particularly women writers: “[Woolf asserted] that
women…were to create a new history based on mutual recognition in the establishment
of national legacies…Women tacitly use the classically masculinist [genre] of
biography…to characterize their relationships. Thus, while women are witness to
history, they are also the makers and recorders of history” (478). In pointing out the
inadequacies of the genre of biography, Woolf furthers the critique of fixed notions of
gender that she begins with her androgynous character.
In addition to questioning biography, Woolf further interrogates the notion of
genre as she plays with the concept of the bildungsroman, a novel that depicts the coming
of age of a young man. Her novel, which portrays the coming of age of a man turned
woman, emphasizes experiences that the typical bildungsroman ignores, such as
Orlando’s frequent engagement with the literary canon of the time. Furthermore, while
one expects a bildungsroman to end with a notable character change, Orlando contains
the exact opposite ending; Woolf insists that, even though her character has gone through
perhaps the most drastic change possible, Orlando remains very much the same character
from beginning to end. Thus Woolf asserts that coming of age stories have been just as
faulty as biography in accurately measuring what constitutes a life.
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In addition to engaging the literary genres of the bildungsroman and biography,
Woolf’s text also highlights her interest in photography. Photographs of the novel’s
various characters appear throughout Orlando. Given the fact that Orlando is a work of
fiction, the reader arrives at the obvious conclusion that these photographs are not of the
characters themselves, but rather of various people posing as the characters. Indeed,
Angelica Bell, Woolf’s niece, posed for the photo titled “The Russian Princess as a
Child”; Vita Sackville-West, to whom the novel is dedicated, posed for three photos,
“Orlando on her return to England,” “Orlando about the year 1840,” and “Orlando at the
present time”; the photograph titled “Marmaduke Bonthrop Shelmerdine, Esquire” is a
photograph of a painting owned by Sackville-West. Through the inclusion of these
photographs (some of which were “taken” before the advent of photography), Woolf
engages in critique similar to her critique of the “objective” genre of biography.
Armstrong notes that early twentieth-century notions of photography assumed that the
camera provided the photographer with an objective lens, allowing the photographer to
replicate the subject exactly: “Unlike fiction, photography was made of visual
information and could in this sense be called the perfect copy…medium itself argued for
a one-to-one relationship between image and subject matter” (48). Woolf questions this
one-to-one correspondence between image and subject by having her friends and family
pose as her fictional characters; literally, the subjects do not exist, despite the concrete
images of them in Orlando. However, even in her critique of photography, Woolf asserts
that this relatively new art form holds just as much legitimacy as established art forms
such as literature. In legitimizing this new, often trivialized, mode of representation,
Woolf compounds her critique of the marginalization of women: “Virginia Woolf’s
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imagination must have been shaped by her constant photographic activity…modernist
women’s obsession with ‘marginal’ visual texts like snapshots hints at a crisis of gender
representation in their constant turn to modes of representation outside modernism’s
more legitimate aesthetics” (Humm 39). Just as her title character calls into question
seemingly fixed gender roles and these roles’ effective marginalization of women, her
inclusion of photographs calls into question notions of “high” and “low” art. Indeed, by
the end of Orlando, the text has become a hybrid of different genres, making it
impossible to judge the text by traditional standards of evaluating art. Just as her main
character is a combination of male and female, Woolf’s text is a mixture of biography,
fiction, bildungsroman, photo album, and satire, once again manipulating categories that
appear fixed. Ironically, when the novel was first published, booksellers classified it
under the category of Biography, much to Woolf’s amusement.
Like Woolf’s fictitious biographer, Chacel also “breaks the fourth wall” and
directly addresses the reader. The third part of Estación outlines the slow, careful process
necessary for artistic creation. Though she does not comment on a specific genre, one can
infer from her lengthy discussion about creating her protagonist that the genre of fiction,
with its emphasis on giving life to its characters, is the focus of Chacel’s commentary.
She speaks of her protagonist as someone who comes from another, ambiguous world
and highlights this world’s importance in her writing: “At times, only this other world
solves the problem [of how I shall write]. My protagonist has emerged from this world”
(168). The world to which she refers defies the limits traditionally imposed on fiction,
opening up new possibilities for the genre. Her refusal to name her character subverts the
fictional trope of naming a novel for its central character. In doing so, Chacel
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deemphasizes the protagonist’s story in favor of a focus on writing itself. Thus fiction
enters the realm of non-fiction, particularly the realm of manifestos associated with
avant-garde movements of the time, such as Tsara’s 1918 Dadaist Manifesto or
Marinetti’s 1909 Futurist Manifesto, both of which were widely circulated in Spain. One
can thus read the third part of the novel as Chacel’s “Novelist Manifesto.” In the lengthy
passage quoted above, Chacel nods to Marinetti’s manifesto with her reference to the
“dynamism of images,” a concept Marinetti used to refer to an object’s motion, both
intrinsic and relative to its environment.
In this passage, Chacel takes on the voice of not only a fiction writer, but also of a
cinematographer. Her careful depiction of when certain images will appear on the screen
mirrors the cinematographer’s attention to detail when deciding how scenes will progress
in order to have the intended effect on the viewer. In doing so, Chacel once again subtly
critiques the marginalization of women, placing a lesser-respected genre such as cinema
in a privileged role in fiction: “…modernist women’s obsession with ‘marginal’ visual
texts…hints at a crisis of gender representation in their constant turn to modes of
representation outside modernism’s more legitimate aesthetics” (Humm 39). Like
Woolf’s use of photographs, Chacel’s use of cinematography questions “high” and “low”
forms of art; blending the two offers a new way of approaching fiction. Casado notes that
at the end of the second part of Estación. Ida y Vuelta “ [Chacel’s protagonist] decides
to write a cinematographic screenplay, or maybe a novel” (17). Just as the protagonist
cannot decide between writing a screenplay or a novel, the reader often begins to confuse
the two in the text, as Chacel permeates Estación. Ida y Vuelta with cinematic references.
An avid cinema viewer, Chacel also frequently read journals on cinema that potentially
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influenced her concept of genre. Humm argues that the relatively new cinema journals
often pushed the boundaries of rigid, fixed genres and disciplines: “During these
formative decades [of the early twentieth century] cinema writing crossed the disciplinary
boundaries of psychoanalysis, film theory, a pubescent sociology of mass media and
aesthetics. Although it could be argued that such interdisciplinarity functioned largely
within a traditional European modernist geography of London, Paris and Berlin…film
writers were hugely antagonistic to such Eurocentric fixities” (Humm 133-134). In
structuring her text with cinematographical elements, Chacel consciously invites her
reader to examine her text through the lens of various disciplines, making her text all the
more resistant to traditional generic categorization.
Furthermore, Chacel questions the
Eurocentric fixities noted by Humm. She sends her character to Paris, only to have him
leave France and decide to produce avant-garde art from Spain, a nation not included in
the traditional European modernist geography. Thus her questioning of genre takes on a
decidedly nationalist undertone, which will be discussed at greater length later in this
chapter.
Just as Chacel and Woolf both infuse their texts with overt references to the visual
arts, both authors play with the notion of the bildungsroman. As previously mentioned,
Woolf’s novel relates the coming of age of a man-turned-woman. While in Orlando the
moment of supreme “truth” arrives when the biographer reveals that Orlando is a woman,
the moment of truth in [Estación. Ida y Vuelta] is the fusion of [the
protagonist’s] consciousness and the “consciousness of creation” of the
author. We now find that “he” has faded out in an almost
cinematographical fashion and has left the essence of the novel: the voice
of its creator now describes “my protagonist”…Thus the novel achieves
the final stage of the quest for literary creation…Chacel’s bildungsroman
has made its round trip. She has completed her novel and announces the
beginning of her novelistic career. The novel is, ultimately, an intensely
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autobiographical one on the second level, that which describes the
evolution of her literary creativity. (Mangini 22)
Rather than being the coming of age story of a young man, Chacel’s text has become the
coming of age tale of the novelist herself, chronicling the creative process of writing her
first book. The bildungsroman blends with Chacel’s autobiography, adding yet another
generic category to Chacel’s hodgepodge of genres.
While one may argue that the details of parts one and two of Estación. Ida y
vuelta contain no traces of Chacel’s autobiography (she had never traveled to Paris at the
time she wrote the novel and, quite obviously, she never impregnated a girlfriend),
Casado encourages a metaphoric reading of the text in order to better understand it as an
autobiography: “a metaphoric reading of Estación. Ida y vuelta reveals much about
[Chacel’s] manner of thinking, about the reason that certain images appear in her novel,
and about her intimate life, or in other words a synthesis of the ideas and sensations that
constituted her interiority” (Casado 18). This metaphoric autobiography performs a very
similar function to Woolf’s mock biography in Orlando; it questions what criteria may be
used to measure a life. In Chacel’s case, as in Woolf’s, the criteria certainly have little to
do with traditional (auto)biography, which focuses on public accomplishments of wellknown figures throughout the majority of a lifespan. Rather, Chacel focuses on the
private accomplishments—a mastery of her creative process—of a virtually unknown
author during one short year.5 Mangini notes striking similarities in Woolf and Chacel’s
treatment of the lives of their characters: “Very much like Virginia Woolf, Chacel seeks
to provide us with a life and all the elements and people affecting that life, as seen
5
“Virtually unknown author”: Chacel had previously published one article; it appeared in Ultra magazine
in 1927.
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through the eyes of the protagonist” (24). While Mangini’s claim refers to one of
Chacel’s later texts, La Sinrazón, it aptly applies to Estación. Ida y Vuelta as well. In
Estación. Ida y Vuelta, the reader also sees all of the elements affecting one character’s
life through the eyes of the protagonist. However, Chacel takes this technique one step
further, fusing her own life with that of the protagonist. The stream of consciousness of
the author/protagonist creates an autobiography of thoughts and images rather than one of
action.
Casado identifies this discrepancy between a moving plot (the expectation of
fiction or autobiography) and the plot that one finds in Estación. Ida y vuelta. The few
actions in the plot become secondary to the memorable, seemingly random images found
throughout the novel: “The enumeration of images, ostensibly chaotic, has an aestheticphilosophic goal: moment, unique in its intrinsic value…the plot is nothing more than a
pretext, a secondary vehicle, that permits the writer to invent and develop formal and
linguistic stylistic techniques, that in reality are the reason for the work” (Casado 18).
Chacel’s focus on her own literary technique, in addition to contributing autobiographical
elements to the text, adds yet another genre to her hybrid novel. If one focuses
particularly on the images that appear in the novel, one finds yet another generic category
in Estación. Ida y vuelta—symbolist poetry: “In Estación, the characters avoid “seeing a
scream” by closing their eyes, a synesthestic device reminiscent of the French
Symbolists…we also find that the terrace epitomizes suicide, that the watermelon vendor
mercilessly “murders” watermelons” (Mangini 21). Chacel’s text then becomes a
hybrid—part fiction, part film, and part manifesto, part bildungsroman, part
autobiography, part symbolist poem—that defies categorization. Just as she refuses to
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identify either the name or the gender of her narrator, Chacel rejects the possibility of
defining genre in absolute terms.
This defiance of absolute terms comes across most clearly in the structures of
both Estación and Orlando. At the end of the second part of Estación, the protagonist,
who has been living in Paris, decides to return to Spain in order to earn a living and help
his girlfriend and recently-born child. Therefore, the reader can infer that the third part
takes places in Spain, where Chacel in fact wrote and published her novel. As its title
implies, the novel has returned to the place where it started. The last line in the text
brings the narration full circle: “Something has ended; now I can say ‘beginning’!”
(Chacel 169). Although the circular structure in Orlando is less obvious than in Estación,
one does indeed find this structure present in Woolf’s text. It does not return to the
Elizabethan era in which it began, but instead ends in the year in which Orlando was
published: “And the twelfth stroke of midnight sounded; the twelfth stroke of midnight,
Thursday, the eleventh of October, Nineteen hundred and Twenty-eight” (Woolf 187).
The end of the novel is literally the beginning of Orlando’s story.
The circular structure in both novels serves the same purpose; it calls for the
reader to revisit each text, reevaluating one’s assumptions about genre based on having
just read the book. Just as the texts disavow the notion that any natural, fixed differences
exist between the two genders, Woolf and Chacel also point out that natural, clear-cut
borders do not exist when classifying texts. Orlando and Estación force the reader to
abandon any pre-conceived notions about what a text should be.
In calling for an abandonment of pre-conceived notions about a text, Woolf and
Chacel advocate an interrogation of categories that appear fixed, noting that the
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boundaries between them are not as rigid as one might think. This questioning of
boundaries and arbitrary categorization goes beyond issues of genre and gender,
extending into issues of empire and nationalism: “Imperial/international conflicts breed
reductive binaries—us and them, good and bad, superior and inferior (B. Scott 475).
Linking the questioning of gender in Orlando and Estación. Ida y Vuelta to shifting
notions of empire allows one to read the ambiguously gendered characters in each text as
representative of an instability in national identity. Furthermore, the hybrid genre of each
text serves to highlight the hybridity of an imperial power, which, while appearing whole,
is actually comprised of many disparate parts, each of which has its own unique features.
While scholarship focusing on hybridity and empire typically focuses on previously
colonized nations and peoples, the hybridity in these two texts allows Woolf and Chacel
to explore the ways that empire affected the mother country.6 In Orlando and Estación.
Ida y vuelta, Woolf and Chacel employ their critiques of gender and genre in order to
further the project of re-defining their nation’s relationship to its imperial power.
Woolf remains acutely aware that Britain is at once an independent, sovereign
nation and at the same time remains dependant on the lands that it colonizes. The very
identity of “Great Britain” itself rests on it being a hybrid—a collective of many nations,
among them England, Northern Ireland, Canada, India, and several parts of Africa. In
other words, Britain’s identity is contingent upon its colonies. Without them, the Britain
of the early twentieth century ceases to exist. Woolf comments on the fragility of Great
Britain in a 1924 essay “Thunder at Wembley”:7
6
For a few studies on hybridity and postcolonialism, see Acheraiou, Amar; Snell-Hornby, Mary; and
Ramazani, Jahan.
7
The British Empire Exhibition was an outdoor exhibit held in Wembley, Middlesex, in 1924 and 1925.
Fifty-six of Britain’s fifty-eight countries participated in the exhibition. Its official aim was "to stimulate
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Dust swirls down the avenues, hisses and hurries like erected cobras round
the corners. Pagodas are dissolving in dust. Ferro-concrete is fallible.
Colonies are perishing and dispersing in a spray of inconceivable beauty
and terror which some malignant power illuminates. Ash and violet are the
colours of its decay. From every quarter human beings come flying—
clergymen, school children, invalids in bath-chairs. They fly with
outstretched arms, and a vast sound of wailing rolls before them, but there
is neither confusion nor dismay. Humanity is rushing to destruction, but
humanity is accepting its doom. . . . The Empire is perishing; the bands are
playing; the Exhibition is in ruins. (Essays 3: 410-11, qtd in Cohen 85-86)
In these lines, Woolf conflates the temporary representation of the British Empire with
the actual Empire itself. One should note that the destruction of empire appears riddled
with contradictions. Beauty and terror appear as one being; ash (typically associated with
death, destruction, or decay) is juxtaposed with violet (typically associated with—among
other things—royalty); panic is tempered with a measure of acceptance. If one returns to
the notion of hybridity in empire, one can read this passage as representative of the
complexities of empire. Whether celebrating empire or pointing out its inevitable doom,
one cannot quite describe it in absolute, un-contradictory terms (much as one cannot
describe Orlando’s gender or Orlando’s genre in absolute terms). Commenting on this
passage, Cohen also notes the ambiguous attitude toward the potential crumble of
Empire: “Woolf articulates her earliest and arguably most vivid critique of
empire…Woolf's vision of an imperial apocalypse is as serious as it is humorous, as she
balances the horrifying image of solid buildings crumbling with the rather ridiculous
catalog of exhibition goers seeking shelter” (85-86). In this reading of the text, humor and
trade, strengthen bonds that bind mother Country to her Sister States and Daughters, to bring into closer
contact the one with each other, to enable all who owe allegiance to the British flag to meet on common
ground and learn to know each other". A grand "Pageant of Empire" was held at the Exhibition in the
Empire Stadium on July 21, 1924, for which the newly appointed Master of the King's Musick, Sir Edward
Elgar, composed an "Empire March". The management of the exhibition asked the Imperial Studies
Committee of the Royal Colonial Institute to assist them with the educational aspect of the exhibition,
which resulted in a twelve-volume book The British Empire: A Survey with Hugh Gunn as the General
Editor, published in London in 1924. Woolf saw the exhibition on May 29, 1924; on that day, a
thunderstorm loomed overhead, inspiring her essay’s title. (Cohen 85)
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severity blend to paint a picture that is at once horrific and amusing. In approaching the
exhibition/empire in this manner, refusing to describe it in any concrete form, Woolf
hints that the Empire—like the exhibition—is merely temporary.
The suggestion that Empire is temporary factors significantly into Woolf’s
manipulation of time in Orlando. This distortion of time subverts what McClintock refers
to as “panoptical time,” which had come to dominate thinking during the Victorian era:
“In the last decades of the nineteenth century, panoptical time came into its own. By
panoptical time, I mean the image of global history consumed—at a glance—in a single
spectacle from a point of privileged invisibility” (37). In Orlando, Woolf calls into
question this notion of being able to digest history through a singular, privileged
viewpoint. Though the narrator never reveals the exact year in which the novel begins,
context clues suggest that the reader first meets Orlando during the Elizabethan era
(1558-1603), the very time that the British Empire first became a global force. While the
novel spans roughly four hundred years, ending in 1928, the title character barely ages.
The narrator never identifies Orlando’s age, but given the first photograph of him bearing
the caption “Orlando as a boy,” the reader can infer that he is a teenager. The fact that he
has a sexual encounter with the Russian princess, Sasha, suggests that Orlando is in his
late teens. Given that Orlando gives birth at the end of the novel, the reader can assume
that she is probably less than forty years old. Therefore, the reader can calculate that the
character ages approximately twenty years in the span of roughly four hundred years.
Woolf forces the reader to make all of these educated guesses in order to call attention to
the ambiguous, contradictory nature of Empire itself. Just as time had been, up until the
early twentieth century, assumed to be absolute, the British Empire had been portrayed as
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resting on rock-solid foundations and laws. The fact that the narrator never specifies the
beginning date of the novel but makes a point to note the exact time, day, month and
year—“the twelfth stroke of midnight, Thursday, the eleventh of October, Nineteen
Hundred and Twenty-eight” (Woolf 329)—of the novel’s end suggests that Empire,
which has spanned the entire novel, does indeed have the potential to end. While one
could argue that Orlando’s slow aging points to the timelessness of Empire, one should
take into account the drastic changes that occur throughout Orlando’s life—a property
lawsuit, a marriage, an appointment as ambassador to Turkey, the publication of a poem,
the birth of a child, and of course, a sex change (just to name a few). These changes
serve to critique the supposed stability of Empire. Though, like Orlando, the Empire
does not outwardly appear to have withered with age, seeming just as strong as it did
centuries ago, tumultuous changes have in fact occurred within it. Thus the reader cannot
quite trust the portrayal of the British Empire as written from the British point of view.
This suggestion of mistrust calls into question the identity of Britain as an unchallenged
global superpower.
In a similar manner, Chacel distorts linear time and highlights the subjective
nature of experienced time. She does so through her use of the stream-of-consciousness
technique, effectively removing the reader from “real” time and forcing the reader to
share the perceived time of the narrator. As a result, a moment that may only last a few
minutes appears much longer, as in the scene in which the protagonist first sees Julia
(Chacel 95). However, months pass in just a few pages, as in the scene in which the
reader is surprised to learn that Julia has given birth to the protagonist’s child. Kumar’s
summary of Bergson’s theories of time aptly applies to Chacel’s treatment of time in her
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stream-of-consciousness text: “To believe that [the] complex aspects of the psyche can
lend themselves to a mechanically superimposed notation—the clock—would be a
complete misrepresentation of reality. A stream of consciousness novelist is aware of the
restrictive nature of language which can flow only in a unilateral forward movement…”
(81). As Williams points out, the distortion of time in the modernist novel ties into the
issue of imperialism; the colonizing land and the colonized land often appear to possess a
“simultaneous uncontemporaniety” that causes the reader to experience multiple
moments at once. Though Chacel does not specifically write about colonization in
Estación. Ida y vuelta, one can read her distortion of time as participating in a critique of
imperialism. Just as Woolf questions “panoptical time,” so too does Chacel question
supposedly definitive narratives of history. With this questioning of definitive historical
narratives comes a critique of those in power—those who have been deemed worthy to
both “make” history and write history. Given that Spain’s once-powerful empire had
crumbled and left Spain in political turmoil, Chacel takes a critical attitude toward
supposedly stable systems of power and organization. Her distortion of linear time
contributes to her suggestion that these organizing systems are in actuality much more
subjective than meets the eye.
One sees this critique of organizing principles again in the hybrid of genres in
Estación. Ida y vuelta. When reading the text in light of Chacel’s reaction to Spain’s
political situation, the reader sees Chacel participating in the project to redefine Spain
after its imperial heyday has come to an end. The hybridity in the text becomes
representative of the nation struggling to define itself, not quite knowing what form it
will take. Chacel mirrors this unsettling uncertainty in Spain in her novel; just as Spanish
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citizens remain anxious about the state of their nation, Chacel’s readers remain unsettled
by the inability to define the novel’s genre. The interjection of the authorial voice at the
end of the novel serves this project twofold. First, the authorial voice reminds the reader
that those with political authority are responsible for muddling the nation’s identity.
Second, the authorial voice in the text comes from a member of a marginalized group that
had no chance to participate in national politics on any level—women.8 In seizing the
voice of authority for a woman, Chacel suggests that Spain’s political future should
include those that have been denied a voice in the past.
Like Chacel, Woolf also questions past authorial voices and institutions in
Orlando. Thus her critique of established forms of writing and of rigid gender hierarchies
can be seen to have larger political implications. Specifically, Woolf points out the
problems that arise when a nation shapes its identity around a privileged few, relegating
those excluded from this elite group to the margins. As McClintock notes, both women
and colonial subjects found themselves subject to governmental powers over which they
had no control. While British women did enjoy a measure of power not granted to
colonial subjects, they nevertheless were prohibited from participating in politics:
“Barred from the corridors of formal power, they experienced the privileges and social
contradictions of imperialism very differently from colonial men…Marital laws, property
laws, land laws and the intractable violence of male decree bound them in gendered
patterns of disadvantage and frustration” (McClintock 6). These privileges and
contradictions of imperialism become readily apparent after Orlando’s transformation
into a woman. While Orlando did not explicitly act as an imperialist when serving as
ambassador in Turkey, he does represent Britain and with it the British Empire.
8
Spain did not grant suffrage to women until 1931.
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Immediately after his transformation, the reader sees Orlando fleeing from the
ambassador’s quarters, acutely aware that she no longer retains any formal authority to
act as an agent of Britain. Furthermore, after her return to England, Orlando must engage
in a series of lawsuits in order to maintain her rights to the property she held without
question as a male, thus proving that “… national space is seen to accommodate male
presence and to occlude females. And a telling example of how Orlando inhabits national
space differently as a man and as a woman is that of Lady Orlando's disinheritance…”
(Johnson, E. 113). Quite literally, the physical pieces of the nation, the land itself, are
only entrusted to men, as is the ability to serve in an official capacity. Orlando’s
transformation highlights the injustice of these laws that have shaped Britain.
However, the reader should not confuse Woolf’s critique of national identity and
empire as an outright rejection of those things: “The difficulty with postcolonial analyses
of Woolf lies in her work’s simultaneous critique of and concession to empire” (Wurtz
96). Woolf reflects this ambivalent position toward empire in the ambiguous treatment
of gender and genre in Orlando; just as one cannot quite identify the novel’s genre or the
character’s gender, the reader also has difficulty discerning a definite position on empire
and nationality. As Wurtz suggests, this wavering position functions as a crucial part of
national and imperial identity: “ambivalence here does not suggest an indecisive
wavering between choices but rather the impossibility of choice because of the
simultaneity of the critical and the complicit…In other words, resistance to empire is, as
Woolf’s engagement with imperialism demonstrates, a constitutive part of the imperial
structure” (Wurtz 98). Woolf’s ambivalent position toward empire can best be seen in
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the undefinables in the text—one cannot determine with certainty gender, genre, or the
author’s stance on empire.
At several moments in the text, Woolf seems to assert that Englishness—and with
it the status as an imperial conqueror—is immutable, permanent, despite the fact that it is
riddled with contradictions. E. Johnson notes that Woolf’s treatment of gender serves to
highlight her assertions about national identity: “Woolf establishes an unaltered identity
for Orlando in order to expose the constructedness of gender and sexual identification,
and the primary means by which she does this is through her insistence on Orlando's
Englishness. More specifically, Orlando's elemental relationship to national space ensures
that his/her national identity remains both constant and English” (Johnson, E. 113). The
reader most clearly sees this continuous identity as the Lady Orlando continues to
struggle to write the poem (“The Oak Tree”) with which she has struggled since her time
as the Lord Orlando. The creative process does not altar in any way; Orlando grapples to
find suitable words, regardless of gender. The title of the poem proves significant to
Orlando’s continuous national identity. The tree literally has roots in the English soil,
much like Orlando’s identity, male or female, is rooted in Englishness. The complex
experience of Englishness permeates Orlando: “Woolf considers the possible parameters
of Englishness from a variety of locations and points of view, beginning with Orlando's
literally and literarily grounded experience of Englishness and moving through the
experience of expatriation and repatriation” (Johnson, E. 116). This process of
expatriation and repatriation, however, serves to undermine the very idea of Englishness
that seems crucial to Orlando’s self.
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After her transformation into a woman, Orlando, wary of encountering those who
knew her as a man, takes refuge with a family of Turkish gypsies. During this time,
Orlando’s national identity becomes fluid (much like notions of gender and genre). The
gypsies are certain that “[Orlando’s] dark hair and dark complexion bore out the belief
that she was, by birth, one of them and had been snatched by an English Duke from a nut
tree when she was a baby ” (Woolf 141-142). This suggestion that Orlando’s origin lies
somewhere outside England undermines the unwavering Englishness that Johnson sees in
Orlando’s character. Orlando’s immutable nationality further comes into question during
the series of lawsuits that take place after her return to England following her gender
transformation. Among the charges against Orlando is the claim “that she was an English
Duke who had married one Rosina Pepina, a [gypsy] dancer; and had had by her three
sons, which sons now declaring that their father was deceased, claimed that all his
property descended to them” (Woolf 168).
The allegation that Orlando has fathered
children with a gypsy woman challenges national identity in two ways. First (if the
allegation is true), Orlando’s heirs will not be of “pure” English descent. Not only do
they have a foreign mother, but given the fact that Orlando has never met these alleged
children, they have also not been trained in the ways of “proper” English gentry. Second,
and more important, according to England’s own inheritance laws, his foreign sons would
be entitled to pieces of England.
Thus preservation of the nation becomes linked to the family unit, as the land
itself will be owned by children of current (often titled) landowners. If one takes the link
between nationhood and family a step further, then empire also becomes tied to the
family, as preservation of the British Empire is crucial to preserving the idea of
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Englishness. Therefore, it is not surprising to find representation of Empire based on the
family structure, with the colonies portrayed as women and children needing protection
from the colonial father: “Because the subordination of women to man and child to adult
were deemed natural facts, other forms of social hierarchy could be depicted in familial
terms to guarantee social difference as a category of nature. The family image…thus
became indispensible for legitimizing exclusion and hierarchy within nonfamilial social
forms such as nationalism, liberal individualism, and imperialism” (McClintock 45). The
reader can view the critique of stereotypical gender roles and the destabilization of the
family unit in Orlando as a critique of empire.
In a similar fashion, Chacel destabilizes the family unit in Estación. Ida y vuelta.
Rather than portraying a traditional beginning of a family, the novel depicts a young man
who impregnates his girlfriend out of wedlock. Upon learning that she is carrying his
child, the protagonist flees to France, determined not to assume parental responsibility for
the infant. Though he eventually changes his mind and returns to Spain in time for the
baby’s birth, the reader never sees a scene with the three members of the new family
together. More importantly, the protagonist never bestows his name on the child and
therefore never establishes the child’s legitimacy as his heir. If one reads this
destabilization of the family unit as a critique of the political situation in Spain, then the
lack of name for the child calls into question the legitimacy of those currently in political
power.9 Following this train of thought, her novel can be read as a veiled critique of the
9
In 1930, the king of Spain was Alfonso XIII, who ruled from 1886-1931. During his rule, the Disaster of
1898 occurred, ending Spain’s four hundred year empire. While Alfonso XIII was indeed a legitimate
Spanish monarch, he was for all intents and purposes not Spain’s ruler during the time that Chacel wrote
her first novel. In 1923 Alfonso XIII appointed Miguel Primo de Rivera the Prime Minister of Spain.
Primo de Rivera quickly established a military dictatorship, thus ending Spain’s period of constitutional
monarchy. Primo de Rivera’s politics were extremely nationalistic; he criticized past leaders for being too
caught up in personal interests to consider the interest of the nation as a whole. During his rule, he defeated
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regime of Primo de Rivera, whose politics intensely focused on an intensely masculine,
nationalistic view of Spain and an insistence on the importance of establishing a singular
national identity among Spain’s citizens. The nameless child quite literally has no
established identity, thereby suggesting the futility of Primo de Rivera’s attempts to
instill a sense of Spanish-ness in his nation’s citizens.
Chacel furthers this critique by substituting a description of her writing process
for a description of the child. Rather than depicting the birth of the legitimate male heir
of her male protagonist, Chacel “births” a new style of writing instead. In doing so,
Chacel asserts that Spain’s new identity should not come from expected sources, such as
political leaders, but from those who have previously been marginalized and voiceless.
The transition from the male protagonist’s voice to the female’s author’s voice thus
signals Chacel’s desire for a new, inclusive kind of Spanish-ness.
In a similar fashion, the birth of Orlando’s son toward the end of Woolf’s novel
also becomes overshadowed by the publication of her poem “The Oak Tree”. Though
one could argue that the birth of the healthy male offspring of two British parents
perpetuates the cycle of empire rather than undermining it, the fact that Orlando appears
much prouder of her publication than she does of her son calls into question the
importance of producing male heirs to carry on the traditions of their fathers. Orlando’s
poem exists outside both political and literary tradition, both of which have been
dominated by men: “marginalized by national and literary discourse for her sexuality and
gender fluidity, Orlando claims Englishness not as a positive system of which she is a
forces in Morocco, upgraded Spanish railroads, and helped the steel industry to grow significantly, thus
bringing economic prosperity to Spain. However, he also banished intellectuals such as Miguel de
Unamuno and Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, censored the press, and closed el Ateneo (a famous literary and
political club).
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part, but as a structure into which she inserts herself as an interruption…” (Johnson, E.
124). The poem allows for Orlando to enter the male-dominated public sphere at the very
moment that one would expect her maternity to confine her to the domestic, private
sphere. Indeed, the poem engages in the shaping of national tradition: “The spirit of
English literature structures Orlando's opus, "The Oak Tree," in such a way that she must
return to English soil, must commune with the canonized (male) poets of her times, and
must continually engage with her Englishness, whether from the center or as a haunting
subject” (Johnson, E. 122). Therefore, Woolf’s poem performs a similar function to
Chacel’s manifesto; it carves a niche for underrepresented voices within her nation’s
existing traditions and hints at the potential that those voices could have in shaping the
nation’s future.
In addition to juxtaposing the birth of a child and the birth of a text, Woolf, like
Chacel, never reveals Orlando’s child’s name. As McClintock points out, the lack of
name for the child subverts male authority both at home and within the Empire: “During
baptism…the child is named—after the father, not the mother. The mother’s labors and
creative power…are diminished…Like baptism, the imperial act of discovery is a
surrogate birthing ritual: the lands are already peopled, as the child is already
born…imperial men reinvent a moment of pure (male) origin and mark it visibly with one
of Europe’s fetishes: a flag, a name on a map, a stone, or later perhaps, a monument”
(McClintock 29-30). In Orlando, Woolf calls the rights to naming into question. The title
character gives birth to a son, presumably the offspring of Marmaduke Bonthrop
Shelmerdine, who never receives a name. This lack of a name for the boy questions the
authority of the father to christen a child with his name. If one reads the refusal to name
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the child in light of McClintock’s assertion, then this lack of name subverts the assumed
imperial (male) authority to name conquered lands. Instead, the text places authority in
the hands of the female protagonist. The fact that Orlando “births” a named poem
instead of a named child thus re-emphasizes the labor and creative power of women that
McClintock claims are lost during the baptism of a child. This re-emphasis on women’s
power to name undermines male imperial authority.
Like Woolf, Chacel also calls into question male authority. As Mangini notes, the
development of Chacel’s novel was heavily influenced by José Ortega y Gasset’s theories
on artistic creation in The Dehumanization of Art, to the point that one could consider
Estación. Ida y vuelta an attempt to bring the critic’s theories into fruition: “In the
prologue of the novel, she speaks of the ‘interiority’ of the discourse, of an idea which in
its development ‘evokes images’…This is reminiscent of Ortega when he says ‘The
essence of the novel does not lie in what happens but precisely the opposite: in the
characters’ pure living, in their being’” (19). In other words, Ortega y Gasset advocated a
novel driven not by plot, but by the consciousness of its characters—the exact plot
structure the reader finds in both Chacel’s and Woolf’s novels. As my earlier discussion
of “Modern Fiction” and “Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown” notes, Woolf’s aesthetic theories
rested on anti-materialist, psychologically-driven fiction. Like Ortega y Gasset, Woolf
views the consciousness of her characters as the driving force behind her plots. Ortega y
Gasset’s theory on the novel stems from an earlier assertion in Meditations on Quijote
(1914) that “Yo soy yo y mi circunstancia” (I am I and my circumstance); Ortega y
Gasset asserts that a dynamic interaction exists between one’s self and one’s
surroundings. The surroundings most often prove oppressive, thus acting in opposition to
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the will of the self. The drama of the novelistic plot, therefore, is created by this tension
between the “I” and the “circumstance”, as the novel’s protagonist constantly struggles
between personal freedom and the day-to-day necessities that the circumstances create.
The reader sees this tension clearly in Estación. Ida y vuelta, as the protagonist grapples
with his desire to become an artist in Paris, a desire complicated by the fact that the
impending birth of his child creates obligations from which he cannot free himself.
Chacel’s deep admiration of Ortega y Gasset almost ensures that she would have
read the philosopher’s 1921 text España Invertebrada (Invertebrate Spain), in which he
laments the fall of Spain and attributes his nation’s diminished state to the lack of great
men serving as leaders. Her study of Ortega y Gasset suggests that her novel, a response
to his novelistic theories, also serves as a response to his political theories. Chacel’s
“novelist manifesto” at the end of the novel, as already established, seizes the narrative
voice in order to establish the authority of the female author. Just as she questions the
qualifications of men as leaders of the literary community, she also questions the need for
great men in roles of political power. She does so by establishing the Spanish-ness of her
text. Chacel’s protagonist goes through a process of expatriation and repatriation. He
begins in Spain and then voluntarily exiles himself to France in order to pursue his
writing career. His return to Spain and the birth of his child permanently links him to his
nation; his progeny will perpetuate his Spanish heritage. Chacel replaces his progeny,
however, with her manifesto. Significantly, Chacel’s manifesto comes only after her
character’s return to Spain, situating the author’s creative efforts firmly in her native
country. Her writing becomes a product of her nation, shaping it much as the “great
men” of the past have done. Chacel subtly pokes fun at the men who have controlled her
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nation, both in literature and in politics. She points out that they often look to other
nations to define themselves, such as when her protagonist, in pondering how to realize
his artistic vision, feels that he must turn to France for inspiration (Chacel 141-42).
Despite this attempt to participate in the shaping of her nation, one could argue
that Estación. Ida y Vuelta’s relationship to Ortega y Gasset’s theories conforms to the
male philosopher’s ideas of greatness, thereby undermining her project. Indeed, as
previously demonstrated, her work directly attempts to bring his ideas on the formation of
character—“I am I and my circumstance”—into concrete form. This argument, however,
fails to take into account the fact that, after aptly demonstrating her understanding of
Ortega y Gasset’s work, Chacel goes beyond it. Her creation of the hybrid text pushes
the novel outside “I and my circumstance.” The character is indeed the “I” at constant
odds with his surroundings, but the novel’s blend of fiction, cinema, autobiography, and
manifesto takes the reader beyond that clash. Instead of a concrete “I” that collides with
forces beyond his control, the reader finds several different “I’s” (the fictional
protagonist, a cinema character, the author herself) simultaneously. This “I” remains
constantly in flux, much like the gender of Chacel’s protagonist.
The end of the novel makes clear that this flux will in fact continue; as stated
previously, Chacel’s last line is “Something has ended, now I can say, beginning!”.
Casado asserts that this flux of the “I” directly relates to Chacel’s artistic process: “At
the end of the novel, ‘the existence of a man without an end’ is affirmed, at the same
moment that a beginning is given to something that has just ended…The reader can only
conclude that the act of creating a novel is, for Chacel, a metaphor for the uncertain path
of life, because both processes (or paths) are a series of equally uncertain steps...The
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existential uncertainty converts into an uncertainty about writing, because this is the only
valid motivation for art” (19). The grammatical structure of the novel’s title mirrors this
constant transition. While traditional grammar places a period at the end of a complete
sentence, Chacel places a period in the middle of her title, after a single word, Estación.
She then leaves the following two words, Ida y vuelta, with no punctuation, implying a
never-ending cycle of departures and returns and further highlighting the circular plot of
the text. Rather than coming to the satisfactory end that the reader has come to expect
from a novel, Estación. Ida y vuelta insists that the reader constantly return to a starting
point. Because Chacel urges her reader to reexamine the text with a fresh set of eyes
each time, she encourages the reader to participate in an endless revision process,
constantly reinterpreting the protagonist and the plot (or lack thereof). In this way,
Chacel’s reader becomes an integral part of the artistic process that drives the text.
As Casado notes, this new level of reader participation was one of several literary
developments that broke away from the traditional novel: “in this small avant-garde
novel, the disintegration of narrative characteristics appears in 1) the design of the
character, 2) the uptake of the problematic, 3) the naturalism of the world represented 4)
the form of narrative discourse, and 5) the roles that the author, reader, and character
play” (14).10 This break with the traditional form of the novel has both artistic and
political motivations, both of which are aimed at undermining the male-dominated status
quo. When read as a critique of genre, Estación. Ida y vuelta calls into question the rigid
categorizations of texts and asserts that such arbitrary designations serve to limit artistic
creativity. Taking this notion of categorizations further and reading the novel as a
critique of gender, Chacel’s novel combats the notion that gender automatically carries
10
All translations from the Casado article mine.
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with it a certain set of behaviors, societal roles, and power structures. Chacel reverses
those expectations by taking on the voice of authority at the end of the text, thus granting
power to a previously marginalized voice. Finally, when taking the idea of power to a
metaphoric level, Estación. Ida y vuelta becomes a possible solution to the political
struggles of Spain that have taken place in the wake of its loss of Empire. In granting
power to a previously marginalized voice in the text, Chacel suggests that perhaps the
answer to Spain’s problems lies not with “great men,” but rather with those who have
been denied the power to speak. Her critique of Primo de Rivera serves to further
critique this idea of “great men,” as his politics focused on maintaining the current power
structure that kept certain groups marginalized. B. Scott notes that this complex
relationship between nationhood, power, and history is a key feature of the modernist
text: “Based on this interrelationship between geographies (nations, empires, homes)
and histories (modern, traditional), what emerges is not a modernist subjectivity but a
range of subject-positions that are based upon locational and ideological (dis)affiliations”
(473). Chacel’s hybrid text and ambiguous narrative voice signal this range of subjectpositions, thus making Chacel a participant in the development of the modern novel.
Scott’s assertion also aptly applies to Orlando. As in Chacel’s text, Woolf’s
fictional biography pokes fun at the arbitrary categorizations of texts. In doing so, it also
mocks the societal expectations that come with gender; through Orlando’s
transformation, Woolf asserts that one’s identity and capabilities have very little to do
with gender. This assertion is most prominent when Orlando completes her poem “The
Oak Tree,” a task she sets upon as a man and finishes as a woman. The completion of
this poem suggests that women, whose voices struggled to find a place in literary history,
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have been marginalized due to the very same act of arbitrary categorization that leads one
to have certain expectations of texts. This marginalization of women from literary
history corresponds to the marginalization of women from political history. The series of
inquests that takes place after Orlando’s gender transformation signals the denial of
political power to women based solely on their gender. While women do indeed remain
largely absent from the political sphere, they paradoxically figure prominently in
discourses of nationalism and empire, often being used as a justification for international
conquest. Thus the gaps in the narration of Orlando’s history mirror the unreliable,
incomplete story of the British Empire. Simply stated, readers of this history receive only
a portion of the whole story, a portion that relies heavily on arbitrary categorizations. As
Wurtz notes, Woolf’s grappling with empire directly affects her creation of a modernist
text: “…the difficulties that the question of empire raises in Woolf’s writing indicate the
problems with reading Woolf’s social commentary as antiimperial. Rather, Woolf
demonstrates that empire presents a limit to the effects of her modernism, a boundary
past which representation, even representation that is experimental and aspires to
abstraction, breaks down and ceases to be possible. Empire makes possible her
modernism, but it also circumscribes it” (108).11 This simultaneous facilitation and
circumscription of Woolf’s modernism infuses Orlando with the variety of subjectpositions also found in Chacel’s text.
In creating this variety of subject-positions, Chacel and Woolf establish
themselves as innovators of the modern novel, marked by the disappearance of an
objective omniscient narrator and the emergence of a narration focused on the inner lives
11
Woolf furthers this critique of empire in later works, such as The Waves, The Years, and Between the
Acts
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of the characters. This new focus allows for a rejection of absolutes in favor of
ambiguity and subjectivity. Woolf and Chacel manifest this rejection in their treatment
of gender, suggesting that any notions of fixed gender categories are inherently
erroneous; like any other aspect of the human experience, gender is relative. Both
authors use this idea of the relativity of gender in order to comment on the state of their
respective nations’ empires. In calling into question the innate superiority of the male
gender, they destabilize the idea the innate superiority of one nation over another, the
very idea on which Empire rests. Thus Woolf and Chacel exemplify the way in which
Empire shapes modernist art, proving that absolute categories are no longer valid in either
literature or politics.
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Yeats and Lorca: Reclaiming the Past, Reshaping a Nation
While the authors previously discussed responded to the shifting state of empire,
they did not go so far as to offer an alternative to the existing model of imperialism.
Rather, their texts emphasized the reaction to either the fall or the threatened breakdown
of an empire. They do not envision a nation free of empire; empire remains the
framework that shapes their texts. Unlike these authors, William Butler Yeats and
Federico García Lorca’s poetry envisions a nation free of the constraints of empire. These
two authors attempt to shape their nation in a way that, while not denying the past, moves
beyond a past shaped by imperial powers and looks forward to a future shaped by those
denied power under imperialism.
When one first glances at their biographical information, Yeats and Lorca appear
to have little in common. Yeats, born in Dublin in 1865, enjoyed a long career that
included the founding of the Abbey Theater, a stint as an Irish Senator, and a Nobel Prize
for Literature in 1923 in honor of his vast body of poems and plays. Before his death in
1939 at the age of seventy-three, Yeats had published over seventy works, including
poems, plays, and nonfiction. Like Yeats, Lorca published both poems and plays, as well
as working as a director for theatrical productions. Born in 1898, Lorca managed to
produce almost thirty works before his death in 1936 at the age of thirty-eight. Unlike
Yeats, who died a peaceful death of old age, Lorca died at the hands of an anticommunist firing squad during the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. Furthermore,
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while readers celebrated Yeats’ work both during and after his lifetime, General Franco
placed a general ban on Lorca’s work following the writer’s death; the ban remained in
effect until 1953.
Despite their strikingly different lives, Yeats and Lorca, in addition to both being
poets and playwrights, reveal in their respective works a response to empire. Granted,
they have very different perspectives, as Ireland was a colonized nation and Spain had
been a colonizer. However, both authors sought an alternative to defining their culture in
terms of empire. In doing so, they turned to marginalized groups in order to forge a new
national culture. Yeats did so through Irish mythology and Celtic legends, while Lorca
focused on the culture of the gypsies in southern Spain. In doing so, they anticipate Homi
K. Bhabha’s claim that “from the margins of modernity, at the insurmountable extremes
of storytelling, we encounter the questions of cultural difference as the perplexity of
living and writing the nation” (161). In constructing alternative ways to define their
nation, Yeats and Lorca destabilize the totalizing narrative of Empire. For the purposes
of this chapter, I will focus on only two poems from each author, two from Yeats’ early
poetry and two from Lorca’s 1928 Romancero Gitano. A close reading of these four
poems will demonstrate each of the authors acknowledging the ever-present problem of
empire and offering a solution to it.
While my reading of Lorca will focus on his concerns with the future of his
nation, the vast majority of scholarship on Romancero Gitano classifies Lorca as a
regional poet, focusing on his connection to Andalusia.1 However, Egea FernándezMontesinos argues that Lorca’s regionalism takes on a nationalistic dimension. The
1
Alberto Egea Fernández-Montesinos reviews the criticism on Lorca and Andalusia in pages 153-56 of La
construcción del imaginario literario andaluz: entre la imagi-nación folklórica y las margi-naciones del
sur. Since this study, the trend has continued. See García, Martha and Silverman, Renée M.
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“gypsy romances” become a way to recuperate marginalized figures in Spain and utilize
them in a discussion about the nation (Egea Fernández-Montesinos 158-59). In addition
to this study, one should take into account a little-studied essay of Lorca’s titled “El
Patriotismo,” (“Patriotism”), written in 1917 and first published in 1994. Lorca exhibits a
highly critical attitude toward patriotism, arguing that the loyalty to one’s country
instilled in one since childhood does nothing but produce empty sentiment. This
sentiment, rather than inspiring one to greatness, instead leads to war, bloodshed, and
other forms of cruelty. Lorca proposes that poets and other artists can offer salvation
from this destructive patriotism (OC, Vol. 4, 731-36). This essay, however brief,
demonstrates Lorca’s deep concern with the fate of Spain.
Like Lorca, Yeats also concentrates on issues concerning his nation, chiefly its
state as a British colony struggling for home rule.2 Doggett asserts that Yeats
continuously attempts to create in art a foundation for national unity during this time of
unrest. He goes on to claim that Yeats’ vision for Ireland does not harken back to precolonial times, but rather positions Ireland as a unique entity in the global community:
“Yeatsian nationalism is…based on a fundamental desire to create an Ireland that is
modern, in the sense that it can take an active role in the global community, without
being a mirror image of England, an Ireland that shapes and is shaped by its interaction
with other nations without losing its cultural autonomy” (Doggett 5). In order to foster
this sense of cultural autonomy, Yeats turns to Irish mythology that predates the English
invasion.
2
English rule in Ireland begins roughly around 1169, although it would be another 632 years before an Act
of Union made Ireland an official part of the United Kingdom in 1801. Henry II's conquest of Ireland began
in 1169; he arrived on the island in 1171 and gained Ulster by the terms of the Treaty of Windsor in 1175.
Those who opposed English rule were involved in centuries of conflict, ending in 1921 when the Irish Free
State was created.
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In his early work, Yeats introduces a host of figures from Celtic legend, among
them the fairy (commonly spelled “faery” in his poetry), Fergus, Druids, Cuchulain,
Conchubar, the Red Branch kings, and Emer.3 The poems address struggles that
accompany change, battles for power, and issues of ownership. If ones reads these
poems through the lens of Irish history, one comes to see them as representative of the
experience of Ireland under British rule.
“Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea,” the fist poem I will discuss, contains a
cautionary message, warning Irish citizens about the danger of trying to forcefully
separate Ireland’s pre-colonial past from Ireland’s colonized present. In doing so, he
employs figures from Irish mythology to serve as an allegory for Ireland’s present state.
As Doggett notes, the very language in which Yeats writes highlights the conquest that
has taken place in Ireland: “Yeats was…sensitive to a key paradox facing the Irish
writer: the fact that the English language itself…continually reminds the native subject
of his or her own alienated position within the ‘civilizing’ narratives of imperial
3
In Fairy and Folk Tales, Yeats describes the fairies as fallen angels not good enough to be saved but not
bad enough to be condemned to hell. They are commonly referred to as “the gentry” or “the good people.”
Fergus Mac Roich (also known as Fergus Mor, or Fergus the Great) is said to have lived around 50 B.C.
and was a king of Ulster. He is one of the most fierce warriors in Irish legend; he also enjoyed feasting,
dancing, and drinking. The Druids were a priestly class in England, Ireland, and Gaul; the earliest known
reference to them dates back to 200 B.C. Virtually nothing is known about their practices due to few
written records. During the first century A.D., the Roman Empire invaded Gaul and suppressed the
practices of Druidism. Cuchulain was a warrior in the service of Conchubar. He is said to have lived in
the first century B.C. He achieved many victories in battle, the greatest of which was his single-handed
defeat of an army sent to steal the Brown Bull of Ulster. He died in battle at the age of twenty-seven, after
first tying himself to a pillar so that he could die fighting on his feet. Conchubar (also spelled Conchobar)
is the son of Ness, who married Fergus Mac Roich when Conchubar was seven under then condition that
her son be allowed to rule as king for one year. However, he ruled so well that he was made king
permanently at the end of that year, prompting Fergus to wage war on Ulster. After many battles,
Conchubar offered Fergus a peace settlement that included land and the position of Conchubar’s heir. The
Red Branch is the name of two of the three royal houses of Conchubar. Emer was Cuchulain’s wife; the
two eloped against the wishes of her father, who had sent Cuchulain on a series of endless tasks in order to
prove his worthiness. During this series of tasks, Cuchulain trained as a warrior. In “Cuchulain’s Fight
with the Sea,” Yeats seems to have substituted Emer for Aife, a warrior and sorceress who had Cuchulain’s
son, Conlaech, prior to his marriage to Emer. Conalech met his father several years later, but Cuchulain
did not recognize him and Conalech refused to identify himself. The two fought, and as a result Cuchulain
killed his own son.
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conquest” (10). Therefore, the mythological figures—originally depicted in Ireland’s
native Gaelic—become tinged with elements of the British occupation of Ireland; no
“pure” pre-colonized Ireland exists anymore, and throughout “Cuchulain’s Fight with the
Sea” Yeats suggests that attempting to abolish any British influence from Ireland will
prove disastrous. The poem opens with a swineherd greeting Emer and her reaction to his
news:
A MAN came slowly from the setting sun,
To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun,
And said, ‘I am that swineherd whom you bid
Go watch the road between the wood and ride,
But now I have no need to watch it more.’
Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,
And raising arms all raddled with the dye,
Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.
In these two stanzas, one finds a seemingly peaceful scene infused with the threat of
battle. As the swineherd approaches, Emer is dying some clothing red (raddling raiment).
At receiving the swineherd’s news, Emer becomes incensed, throwing her clothing on the
ground in a fit of fury. She raises her arms, which have been stained red with dye; she
quite literally appears up to her elbows in blood. The repetition of “raddling” and
“raddled” makes Emer appear a figure of battle; the word sounds like the sound bullets
make when being shot from a rapid-fire gun. Her task also recalls scenes of battle. She
works with dye; the reader comes to think of the word’s homophone, “die.” Thus this
woman, employed in a seemingly benign task, in fact signifies a great threat. This threat
grows greater in the last line of the above quote, in which Emer screams loudly. This cry
brings to mind the figure of a banshee, a female spirit whose wails serve as harbingers of
death. This connection between Emer and a banshee grows stronger when one considers
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the figure of the banshee in Scottish mythology, the bean nighe. The Scottish Gaelic
term “bean nighe” loosely translates as “washer woman.” Rather than wailing to
announce death, as in the Irish version of the banshee, the bean nighe washes the bloodstained clothes of those who are about to die. Thus Yeats’ depiction of Emer with her
arms in a tub full of red water directly harkens back to the legend of the bean nighe.
Yeats’ conflation of the Irish and Scottish versions of the banshee directly relates
to Ireland’s status as a colonized nation. Just as these two unique versions of the banshee
have been reduced to a single figure, so too have Ireland, Scotland, and several other
nations been lumped together under the banner of “Great Britain.” Thus Emer, engaged
in the deceitfully peaceful task of tending to some laundry, serves as a representative of
the subtle threat that lies beneath the surface of a seemingly peaceful empire. This threat
comes chiefly from those who cling to the ways of the past, harboring animosity for the
conqueror.
In the next few stanzas, one comes closer to learning the identity of the person on
the road, as well as the reason that Emer feels such animosity toward that person:
The swineherd stared upon her face and said,
‘No man alive, no man among the dead,
Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.’
‘But if your master comes home triumphing
Why must you blench and shake from foot to crown?’
Thereupon he shook the more and cast him down
Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word:
‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.’
In the first stanza above, the reader learns that this man is extremely wealthy, as any
opponent capable of vanquishing him in battle would win gold. Finally, this man must
have proven himself on the battlefield many times, as no man living or dead has ever
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defeated him. In the next stanza, the reader can deduce that the man has some kind of
power over Emer; the swineherd calls him Emer’s “master.” Emer, who has already been
established as a fearsome figure, may in fact be afraid of the man on the road. The
swineherd inquires why Emer “[blenches] and [shakes]” at the news of the man’s
approach. Given the intimidating image of Emer in the previous stanzas, one could
assume that she goes pale and shakes from head to toe with rage. However, if one
considers the alternate meaning of “blench,” “to draw back or shy away, as from fear,”
then perhaps Emer trembles not out of rage, but out of dread.
Whether furious or fearful, Emer’s reaction symbolizes the relationship of
colonized citizens toward their conquerors. Yeats’ characterization of Emer’s head as a
“crown” points to Ireland’s one-time sovereignty; like Emer, Ireland too now has a
master. If one takes Emer as a symbol of the conquered nations under the British crown,
particularly Ireland, then the man on the road becomes representative of Great Britain, a
wealthy nation that has vanquished countless other armies in order to amass a great deal
of territory. The “one sweet-throated like a bird” that accompanies the man in the last
line of the above quote becomes just another conquered land.4
In the next stanzas, Emer unleashes her anger:
‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereupon
She smote with raddled fist, and where her son
Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet,
And cried with angry voice, ‘It is not meet
To idle life away, a common herd.’
‘I have long waited mother, for that word:
But wherefore now?’
‘There is a man to die;
4
As established in my discussion of Don Juan and Edward Asburnham, the conquest of women is often
linked to the imperial conquest of territory.
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You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’
Emer’s words, like her previous cry, invoke images of anger and death. Furthermore, the
long stanza above indicates the frenzy of Emer’s words and actions through the
enjambment of the lines. One has no need to pause from one line to the other; this rapid
reading mirrors Emer’s agitation. This section brings back the image of blood-stained
arms, this time used to put an end to the swineherd; Emer “[smites him] with [a] raddled
fist.” She then charges toward another herd—her son, a cow-herd. Once again, the
reader sees Emer as a banshee, announcing the impending death of the man on the road.
Just before this announcement, one sees a long space that precedes one of the most
significant lines in the poem: “There is a man to die.” However, in order to fully
understand the significance of this spacing, one must consider the words that come after
it in relation to the line that comes before it.
Emer’s son inquires why his mother has chosen this time for him to do so: “But
wherefore now?”. One should note that this line consists of four syllables. Emer’s reply
to him, “There is a man to die,” consists of six syllables. Combined these lines consist of
ten syllables, the exact number of syllables found in all the other lines of the poem up
until this point. Due to this syllable count, one can see the rapid pace of the dialogue
between Emer and her son; the two speak to one another so quickly that their words
literally appear one line. The beginning of Emer’s words on the page literally line up with
the end of her son’s, reinforcing the idea that one should read their two lines as one.
This seamless flow of syllables serves to highlight the transmission of anger from one
generation to the next; Emer commissions her son to murder the man who has wronged
her. Reading these stanzas in terms of Empire, one can see Emer’s command as passing
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down anger about Ireland’s loss of sovereignty to future generations of Irish citizens. As
the poem continues, Yeats depicts the destruction that accompanies this legacy of rage.
In the ensuing dialogue between Emer and her son, the reader learns the
relationship that the two of them have to the man on the road:
‘Whether under its daylight or its stars
My father stands amid his battle-cars.’
‘But you have grown to be the taller man.’
‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun
My father stands.’
Emer’s son immediately identifies the “man to die” as his father. If one reads the man on
the road as a symbol of Great Britain, then one begins to understand the complex position
of current Irish citizens. They are the product of Ireland’s pre-colonized past (as
symbolized by Emer) and Ireland’s colonized present (as represented by the man on the
road). This reading is reinforced by the son’s repeated reference to the fact that his father
stands under both the day and the night sky, bringing to mind the slogan “The sun never
sets on Great Britain.” The reader comes to realize that transmitting rage against Great
Britain to younger generations of Irish citizens is particularly destructive due to the fact
that these citizens are partially a product of Great Britain.
A few stanzas later, the narrator finally reveals the name the young man’s father:
Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt,
And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt,
Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes,
Even as Spring upon the ancient skies,
And pondered on the glory of his days;
And all around the harp-string told his praise,
And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,
With his own fingers crossed the brazen strings.
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The reader learns that the man is Cuchulain, who in Irish mythology proves himself a
mighty warrior. Cuchulain’s prowess stems from his lineage as the son of the god Lug
and the mortal Deichtine, Conchubar’s sister.5 This stanza is infused with reverence for
Cuchulain as both a mortal and a god. The young woman kneels near him, reminding
one of a gesture of either worship for gods or respect for high-ranking royalty.
Furthermore, Conchubar, the king, pays homage to Cuchulain’s glory, playing the harp
and singing songs of praise to Cuchulain. Conchubar, as a king, would have been
expected to offer praise only to the gods, the only beings ranked higher than he.
Therefore, one sees his song of praise to Cuchulain as that of a mortal singing of the
wonders of a deity. Taking the hybrid Cuchulain as a representative of Great Britain, the
reader understands that the Empire consists of two parts—the physical and the
ideological.6 Great Britain is made up of the land itself, England and its conquered
territories, and the people who occupy it. Its identity also relies on incorporating those
under its control into a vision of “Britishness”. As the poem goes on, the reader
concludes that the ideological aspect of empire is fraught with strife.
Cuchulain commands his soldiers to seek out the man who has built a fire near
their camp:
At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has made
His evening fire amid the leafy shade.
5
Lug ( or Lugh) is a deity and a high king. He is known by the nickname “long arm” for his skill with the
spear or sling in battle. Though stories about the conception of Cuchulain vary, one typically finds
Deichtine giving birth to him while the Ulstermen (Conchubar’s army) sleep at Lug’s house (which later
vanishes).
6
Hutchinson notes that Yeats takes Cuchulain as his Celtic ideal (145), a view widely held by Yeats
scholars. While this claim may appear to contradict my reading of Cuchulain as a representative for Great
Britain, it in fact lends credence to my assertion that Yeats remains acutely aware of the hybrid state of
Ireland and its people. Just as Ireland is simultaneously a whole nation and a part of another nation, the
people both Irish and British subjects, so too does Cuchulain serve a dual function for Yeats. He can be
both the Celtic ideal and a symbol of British rule., reinforcing the complex position of Ireland in the late
nineteenth century.
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I have often heard him singing to and fro,
I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow,
Seek out what man he is.’
One went and came.
‘He bade me let all know he gives his name
At the sword-point, and waits till we have found
Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’
Cuchulain cried, ‘I am the only man
Of all this host so bound from childhood on.’
Though the person who has built a fire remains unknown to Cuchulain at this point, the
great warrior acknowledges recognizing the sound of that man’s voice. His son remains
both a stranger and familiar to him simultaneously. The familiarity grows as Cuchulain
realizes that the “same oath” binds the two men together. In never describing the oath in
specific detail, Yeats ensures that the reader will remain in a state of confusion. Despite
the privilege of knowing that the two are father and son (knowledge Cuchulain
apparently does not possess), the reader cannot quite discern the terms of their oath. In
much the same way, the concept of Britishness in the colonies remains abstract at best;
while those born under British rule know that they have taken an involuntary oath of
citizenship in the British Empire, they have very little knowledge of what that oath
actually entails. Thus the reader comes to better grasp the confused position of Irish
citizens born under the rule of Great Britain. The “same oath” binds the English and the
Irish to Great Britain, but the ruling nation does not recognize the Irish as its sons.
Following a struggle in which Cuchulain and his son “[fight] in the leafy shade,
Cuchulain asks a series of questions. The warrior receives an unsatisfactory, ambiguous
reply:
He spake to the young man, ‘Is there no maid
Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,
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Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,
That you have come and dared me to my face?’
‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place.’
Cuchulain questions the young man about his motivations but receives no direct answer.
Instead, the young man speaks of “the dooms of men”. This ambiguous phrase provides
a clue to the outcome of this battle, as the word “dooms” signals an inevitable,
destructive fate. If one thinks of “God’s hidden place” as some form of the afterlife, then
one can assume that this fate will bring death, especially if one considers an alternate
meaning of the word “dooms,” “Judgment Day.” In this set of lines one should also note
the reappearance of “dare(d) me to my face,” a line previously spoken by Emer and now
repeated by Cuchulain. This repetition also provides a clue about the destructive
outcome of the battle between father and son; the reader instantly remembers that Emer
spoke these words immediately before smiting the swineherd. The affront of “daring
[one] to [one’s] face” provokes a violent reaction so strong it appears instinctual.
In the next lines, the reader sees this instinctual violence emerge as Cuchulain
transitions from acting out of a sense of duty to blindly battling his adversary:
‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head
That I loved once.’
Again the fighting sped,
But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke,
And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke,
And pierced him.
‘Speak before your breath is done.’
‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’
‘I put your from your pain. I can no more.’
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Immediately after commenting on the resemblance between the young man and the
woman that he once loved, Cuchulain simply resumes fighting; once again, the spacing of
the lines in adjacent stanzas and the fact that the first and last lines of adjacent stanzas
combine to form ten syllables signify the speed of the action in the poem. One can
almost see Cuchulain raising his sword immediately as he says the word “once.” One
should note Yeats chooses to hyphenate the words “war-rage,” prompting the reader to
read them as a single word. This hyphenation signals the turn from duty to instinct;
Cuchulain is no longer acting due to the oath he has sworn, but instead acting on his
instincts as a warrior, instincts that have lain dormant during his brief conversation with
the young man. Cuchulain’s instincts, once woken, control him so completely that he
literally becomes an instrument of war. Yeats depicts him metonymically as a “blade.”
The distinction between the two uses of “blade” signal the difference between the son’s
training and the father’s instinct. When used in reference to the son, “blade” is used as a
possessive adjective to describe the defensive position that the young man assumes.
However, when used in reference to Cuchulain, “blade” becomes a noun; the blade
assumes the role of the man and performs the action. After dealing a fatal blow to the
young man, Cuchulain bids him speak. Only then does the young man reveal his identity.
This revelation brings a great deal of shock to the renowned warrior. Yeats
mirrors this impact in the rhyme scheme, pairing “done” and “son” in order to emphasize
the full force of the Cuchulain’s realization that he has put an end to his son. One should
note that the young man identifies himself only by his father’s name as he lies dying:
“Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.” One should note that of his five dying words, two
are the name of his father, Cuchulain. In repeating this word twice in a single line, Yeats
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further emphasizes the shock the warrior feels at killing a young man who had every right
to bear his name. Though the young man in his last words lays claim to Cuchulain’s
name, one should note that the reader never learns the young man’s actual name. Yeats
purposefully refrains from giving the young man a name in this poem (despite having
different versions of the legend that name him Connla or Conlaech readily available) in
order to force the reader to share in Cuchulain’s shock when the young man reveals his
identity. In Yeats’ poem, a young man named Conalech does not die at the hands of his
father; Cuchulain’s son dies. He never receives an identity beyond that of someone’s
child, first Emer’s and then Cuchulain’s. The reader cannot mourn an independent, fully
formed character; one can only feel saddened that “mighty Cuchulain’s son” has passed
away.
Cuchulain’s response to the young man’s revelation furthers this feeling of shock
upon meeting his son. After stating that he has “put [his son] from [his] pain,” Cuchulain
then declares, “I can no more.” Significantly, the verb in this sentence remains
ambiguous. “Can” often functions as a helping verb. However, Cuchulain’s declaration
contains no main verb, making the sentence incomplete. In this reading of the sentence,
the reader is left wondering “can do what no more?”. In an alternate reading of the
sentence, the one could interpret it to mean “I can put you from your pain no more.” In
this case, the sentence highlights the fatality of the blow that Cuchulain dealt his child.
While one interpretation of the sentence leaves the reader with a question and the other
with a definitive answer, both interpretations draw the reader’s attention to Cuchulain’s
shock at meeting his son, a shock so great that it brings the warrior to an almost paralytic
state. If one reads the verb as incomplete, then one comes to the conclusion that
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Cuchulain cannot decide on a course of action and therefore does nothing. If one reads
the sentence as “I can put you from your pain no more,” then the sentence emphasizes the
finality of Cuchulain’s actions. In either reading, Cuchulain can no longer act.
This lengthy death scene furthers Yeats’ cautionary tale about the current
situation in Ireland. Cuchulain’s failure to recognize his own son and his subsequent
slaying of the young man serve as representatives of those who maintain British rule in
Ireland by force. They fail to recognize a common bond between themselves and the
Irish people, despite the fact that they are theoretically members the same great Emipre.
The instinctual manner in which Cuchulain murders his son becomes a critique of
maintaining the Empire by force; those involved in the conflict often fight without
thinking. This lack of consideration for colonial subjects has unforeseen consequences,
as indicated in Cuchulain’s shock when he realizes exactly who he has murdered.
Finally, in choosing not to name the young man who Cuchulain murders, Yeats
highlights the position of Irish citizens who have never known a life free from British
rule. They are at once products of Ireland (Emer) and products of Great Britain
(Cuchulain), but no name exists for such a hybrid person. Rather, one identifies as either
Irish or British; the two are seen as being at odds with one another. Significantly,
recognizing the Irish as full citizens of Great Britain would not be in Britain’s best
interest politically; it is best if Britain never acknowledge its Irish sons. However, as one
sees in the next stanzas, demanding that those in power recognize the claim that the Irish
have to equality in Great Britain will not end favorably.
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The next stanza finds Cuchulain in this state of shock-induced paralysis; the
reader learns that his companions have a vested interest in Cuchulain maintaining this
state:
While day its burden on to evening bore,
With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;
Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid,
And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed;
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.
Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,
Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,
Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood
For three days more in dreadful quietude,
And then arise, and raving slay us all.
Chaunt in his ear delusions magical,
That he may fight the horses of the sea.’
The Druids took them to their mystery,
And chaunted for three days.
Cuchulain stirred,
Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard
The cars of battle and his own name cried;
And fought with the invulnerable tide.
In the first two lines of this stanza, the reader sees an immediate change in the warrior.
Whereas the poem has previously depicted others virtually worshipping Cuchulain, one
now sees the warrior with “his head bowed on his knees.” Bowing one’s head signals
surrender to a greater power (either spiritually or in battle). Thus one sees a humbling of
the once-invincible warrior. Though the narrator never explicitly states Cuchulain’s
desire to rewrite the immediate past and spare his son’s life, Conchubar notes that
Cuchulain will remain in his place and brood for three days, signaling a great deal of
remorse in the warrior.
Though Cuchulain does indeed feel remorse, one can infer that within this feeling
lies a grave threat; Yeats describes Cuchulain’s pondering of his actions as “dreadful
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quietude.” This phrasing brings one to fear his silence and his inability to act, as the
juxtaposition of the two words calls into question the idea of calm that “quietude” usually
connotes. Conchubar vocalizes this fear as he calls his druids, noting that Cuchulain will
kill every single man in the camp after his “dreadful quietude” has passed. Cuchulain’s
fellow warriors will have to face the repercussions of a battle that they did not fight, just
as in the first line of the above section the day transfers its burden onto night. In these
lines, Yeats depicts the aftermath of political struggle, as the victor remains grappling
with the consequence of his violent actions. As Yeats points out, those embroiled in the
struggle do not bear the consequences alone. Rather, innocent bystanders often fall into
the line of fire, in the end bearing scars of a battle that they did not instigate.
Yeats highlights this idea of bearing a burden that one did not create in his
depiction of the time during which Cuchulain will remain in “dreadful quietude.” One
should note that Cuchulain will spend three days in this state, and then—if Conchubar’s
prediction comes true—Cuchulain will “arise.” In this depiction, Yeats once again likens
Cuchulain to a religious figure, the Christ. Like Christ, Cuchulain has a mortal mother
and a deity for a father. However, in this poem one should read him as a reverse Christ
figure. Rather than bearing the punishment for others’ sins, Cuchulain will force others
to pay the price for his own wrongdoings. Just as the depiction of Cuchulain and Christ
depict similar yet contradictory figures, so too does the word “mystery” in this stanza.
When reading this word in the context of Celtic mythology, “mystery” signals certain
pagan ceremonies that were performed in secret or whose meaning was only known to
the initiated. When reading “mystery” in the context of Christianity, it refers to that
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which is unknowable or valuable knowledge that is kept secret. Therefore, the same
word simultaneously signals action (ceremonies) and thought (knowledge).
In the poem, the word “mystery” follows the use of a reflexive verb: “The Druids
took them to their mystery.” This peculiar phrasing emphasizes the Druid’s ownership of
the ceremony; the reflexive verb is followed almost immediately by a possessive
adjective describing “mystery.” Yeats removes this word from its Christian context,
placing it firmly in the realm of Celtic myth. Furthermore, one should note that, rather
than the modernized “chant,” Conchubar commands the Druids to “chaunt” in
Cuchulain’s ear. The choice to use the anachronistic version of a modern word
simultaneously provides the reader with feelings of distance and familiarity. The
twentieth-century reader experiences a bit of a jolt at seeing a word that does not
frequently appear in modern literature, yet the modern form of the word remains so
similar to its previous form that the reader can easily discern its meaning from its context
in the poem. The chant itself is mirrored in the alliteration of “took them to their”; the
repetition of the “t” sound brings to mind a mantra repeated over and over again.
Significantly, the break of ten syllables into two separate lines occurs again
immediately after the druids’ chant. As soon as the three days’ time has passed,
Cuchulain wakes in a rage and must fight something. He gazes upon the “horses of the
sea” and engages in battle with the “invulnerable tide.” One should note that the poem
ends with this battle; the reader never sees the outcome. The fact that Yeats depicts
Cuchulain’s opponent as “invulnerable,” a word previously associated with Cuchulain’s
prowess in battle, gives the reader a sense of the interminability of this struggle between
the warrior and the tide. Neither can defeat the other, but neither will cede. Cuchulain’s
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rage remains ongoing, and therefore the battle can never end. This idea of rage ties in
with the depiction of the water as “the horses of the sea.” This phrase is typically
associated with the hippokampoi, mythical creatures depicted as having the head and
fore-parts of a horse and the serpentine tail of a fish. In Greek mythology, the
hippokampoi pulled the god Poseidon’s chariot. If one notes the close association
between Poseidon and the Roman god Neptune, then one further understands the
metaphor that Yeats has been drawing throughout the poem. The mixture of Roman and
Celtic mythologies (the horses of the sea and Cuchulain, respectively) reminds one of the
clash of empires, as the Roman invasion instigated Ireland’s conversion to Christianity
and permanently suppressed Celtic beliefs. This clash comes across again in the dual
context of certain words, such as “mystery,” or the depiction of Cuchulain as a secular
Christ figure, as discussed above. The links between Christian and pagan Ireland remind
one of the transition of power from one Empire to the next. In employing the figure of
the Druid as the enchanter of Cuchulain, Yeats points out that, though Celtic traditions
have long been suppressed in Ireland, the past still has some measure of power in presentday Ireland.
In “Cucuhlain’s Fight with the Sea,” Yeats highlights the cycle of violence and
sorrow experienced by those locked in the transition of power. In the case of the warrior
Cuchulain, violence does not bring redemption, but rather an interminable struggle. In the
case of Emer, violence does not bring the fulfillment of her wishes, but rather the loss of
her child. Though the unnamed son of Emer and Cucuhulain does not experience rage
himself, one could argue that he is the ultimate victim of the anger that permeates the
poem. Rather than questioning his vengeful mother, Emer’s son simply takes her word at
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face value and sets off on a quest to kill his father. The young man represents the
destructive nature of blind adherence to an ideal. The young man’s father, too, blindly
swears allegiance; both of them take an oath that ultimately ends up destroying each of
them. If one reads this oath as a critique of blind obedience, then one realizes that Yeats
omits the specific details of the oath due to the fact that those who swear to it never think
to question it.
Those familiar with the original Celtic myth should note that a different woman,
Cuchulain’s mistress, gives birth to the son whom the warrior kills; Emer is the jilted
wife in this myth. Yeats changes the characters in this myth in order to demonstrate the
way in which historical facts can be manipulated, encouraging his readers to question that
which is portrayed as fact. His employment of mythological figures to portray the current
political situation in Ireland furthermore calls one to interrogate the links between
Ireland’s past and Ireland’s present, ultimately arriving at the conclusion that the two
have more in common than meets the eye. Failing to recognize this common bond will
lead to no future for Ireland, as symbolized by the slaying of a young man who contains
elements of both. Thus Yeats calls into question those who idealize Ireland’s past; “the
imagined…Ireland evoked in the poem, once regarded as an idealized image of pre- (and
post) revolution Ireland, is now exposed as an unstable foundation for building
community”. Yeats draws links between blind obedience and violence—both of which
prove incredibly damaging in his poem—in order to call attention to the danger of
swearing allegiance to those who advocate either loyalty to or the overthrow of the
British without careful consideration. This unquestioning allegiance, according to Yeats,
perpetuates a vicious, unending cycle of destruction and mourning. If one reads this idea
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in terms of Empire, then Yeats calls for his readers to interrogate both the powerful and
the powerless, the present and the past, noting that swearing unquestioning loyalty to
either party could lead to one’s downfall.
Thus one should read “Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea” as symbolic of the cycle
of rage and mourning that accompanies the transition of power throughout time. If one
reads this poem as representative of Ireland’s colonial history, one sees two possible
responses to the British occupation of Ireland. Neither of these responses, however, ends
in a resolution of the conflict. Those who constantly mourn the loss of Ireland’s past will
remain bitterly angry at Britain’s occupation of the once-sovereign nation. One must look
to an earlier poem in order to find Yeats offering a possible resolution to the battle
between Britain and Ireland. In his 1886 poem “The Stolen Child,” Yeats sets up several
opposing forces; the faeries usher in a battle between these forces, a battle characteristic
of Yeats’ work.7 The faeries bring about the clash of nature and civilization, the clash of
the old and the new, the clash of night and day, the clash of joy and sorrow, and most
importantly, the clash of the imagination and the real. Yeats proposes that one can
resolve these conflicts by celebrating the uniqueness of Ireland and reclaiming what
Ireland lost when Britain took control of it.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
7
Susan Neunzig Cahill notes that the death of Yeats’ younger brother, Robert, occurred when the poet was
seven. Yeats’ mother claimed to have heard the wail of a banshee the night her son died. Yeats
transformed this wail into a common event in Irish folklore, the kidnapping of a child by faeries.
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In this poem, Yeats references three different places in County Sligo, where he spent a
significant portion of summers in his youth. In the first stanza one finds Slish Wood,
renamed “Sleuth Wood.” Yeats’ renaming of the place proves significant when one
examines the meeting of the word “sleuth.” It either means “sloth(ful) or slow” or “to
track a person or animal.”8 In this word, Yeats sets up the conflicts that will develop later
in the poem, as the word embodies both laziness and active seeking. Defined by a
contradiction of terms, the world of the first stanza draws the reader in with enticing
images, while not shying away from the unpleasant elements of Sleuth Wood. For
example, the rocky highland and the leaves make the place appear one of beauty, as do
the flapping herons, which are native to Slish Wood. In this stanza, Yeats draws the
reader’s attention to natural elements of his country. He does the same with a rather
unattractive creature, a water rat. Only one kind of rat, the brown rat (rattus norvegicus),
is native to Ireland, though one commonly hears it referred to as a sewer rat, a water rat,
or a field rat. Therefore, in referencing this animal, Yeats chooses to highlight something
unique to his nation. Even something as common as a rat becomes special when
associated with an Ireland in which faeries exist.
In the second stanza, Yeats turns his attention to a different place, the “furthest
Rosses.”
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
8
Today, one commonly sees the word used to mean “to investigate (something or someone),” or as a noun
synonymous with “investigator.” One also sees “sleuth out” used for “to detect or expose.” These usages
of “sleuth” became common, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, after 1905. Therefore, they
would have had no bearing on Yeats’ poem.
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Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Yeats refers here to Rosses Point, the entrance to Sligo Harbour, where he spent his
summer holidays at a child. Yeats again calls for the reader to closely examine his word
choice. While most of the verbs in this stanza appear commonly in speech, line sixteen
contains the word “foot” as a verb. Because the reader has grown accustomed to hearing
this word only as a noun, Yeats’ use of “foot” upsets the reader’s sense of familiarity.
The reader must adapt to his or her new surroundings in order to comprehend the world
of the poem. Furthermore, when used as a verb, “foot” carries the meaning “to move the
foot, step, or tread to measure or music; to dance.” Immediately after this odd verb, the
reader finds the next two verbs, “weaving” and “mingling,” in the present participle form,
signaling an ongoing action. This verb form and the repetition of the word “mingling”
twice in the same line suggest that the dance in this stanza will take place over a long
period of time, a suggestion reaffirmed by the rhyme of “night” and “flight” in the two
lines referring to the duration of the celebration.
In the part of the stanza following the semicolon, Yeats sets apart the celebration
at Rosses Point from its surroundings. One should again note the rhyme scheme in this
part of the stanza. Unlike the part of the stanza preceding the semicolon, in which the
rhyming words complement one another by sharing a certain location or action
(glosses/Rosses, dances/glances, night/flight), the rhyming words in this part of the stanza
contrast one another. The words “leap” and “sleep” call to mind the dueling concepts of
activity and passivity. The combination of “bubbles” and “troubles” cause the reader to
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think of celebration (especially if one thinks of the frothy bubbles in a champagne glass)
and angst. Thus, as in the previous stanza, one comes to realize the uniqueness of Rosses
Point, a place that, like Slish Wood, remains unique to Ireland. That which is truly
unique to Ireland stands apart, untouched and often at odds with its surroundings.
As in the stanza focused on Slish Wood, the third stanza once again calls for the
reader to believe the impossible:
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
The narrator whispers in the sleeping trout’s ears and in doing so (given that readers will
recognize that fish do not have ears) jostles the reader from reality. However, the second
line of the stanza situates one firmly in a real location once again, Glen-Car. The place,
typically spelled Glencar, is located along the Ring of Kerry in County Kerry. Along
with its forests and lakes, Glencar is known especially for its angling; it is a particularly
popular destination for salmon fishing and trout fishing. Thus the mythical eared trout in
the stanza remain firmly rooted in the reality of the setting. One should also note that in
the next lines, the trout have the capacity for some form of thought, or “unquiet dreams.”
In characterizing the trout’s dreams, Yeats draws attention to his word choice; one does
not hear “unquiet” commonly in speech. Yeats does so in order to emphasize that the
trout’s dreams demand a voice. The literally must be vocalized, perhaps even
materialized. If one reads the setting for Yeats’ poem as that of pre-colonial Ireland, one
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comes to the conclusion that the poem demands a going back to the past—Yeats’ unquiet
dream that he strives to realize.
The realization of these dreams somewhat comes to fruition if one considers the
three places where the poem takes place, Slish Wood, Rosses Point, and Glencar.
Because the first two are located in County Sligo and the last in County Kerry, one
cannot conclude that Yeats idealizes one particular county. Though all three are famous
for nature and the outdoors, they do not share a common feature, as Slish Wood is a
landlocked forest, while Rosses Point and Glencar are located on or very near large
bodies of water. Rather than sharing one thing in common, the three places combine to
form one idyllic place—“the waters and the wild” of the refrain that has ended each
stanza:
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
In this refrain, the faeries attempt to entice a human child to this idyllic place. Though
one can assume that the faeries narrate the entire poem due to the constant references to
“we” in the three stanzas, Yeats chooses to italicize the refrain at the end of each stanza.
In this use of italics, Yeats subtly harkens back to the Druids of Celtic Ireland, known for
their chanting. One can almost imagine the faeries, like the Druids, casting a spell on the
child, enchanting him away from his world “full of weeping.”
In the final stanza, the reader learns more about this human world:
Away with us he’s going.
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
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Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.
While the first three stanzas depict a faery-land filled with woods and water, one
encounters a much more agricultural setting in the fourth stanza, which unlike the others
does not reference a concrete place. This lack of specificity makes the setting of the last
stanza much more universal; simply put, the child could be almost anywhere in Ireland.
The things surrounding the child do not appear sorrowful. Rather, the child seems to
have an ideal life: he feels the warmth of the sun as the cattle low, hearing a kettle
(implying that his family has enough resources to own a stove) brings him a sense of
peace, and he enjoys watching mice attempt to enter his oatmeal-chest (signifying that the
chest is full of food). The child’s world does not appear full of weeping, but, as the final
line of each pervious stanza states, this sorrow is beyond the child’s comprehension. The
child does not know that he has missed something, yet for some reason remains “solemneyed.” The child represents the poem’s readers, who like him do not understand that they
too have been missing something—the Ireland of the Past. However, arriving at that
Ireland proves quite difficult, as signified by the beginning of the first three stanzas.
One should note that “Where” begins each of the first three stanzas. This word
serves as a common beginning of an interrogative statement, not a declarative sentence.
Thus one would expect a question mark immediately before each refrain, not a period.
This use of an interrogative signals that the Ireland of Yeats’ imagination is not yet
concrete, not yet fully realized. It is more of a question than a statement. While it does
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become a statement in the last stanza, when the child rejects the world he knows for the
world of the faeries, even in that moment the focus is not on the imagined Ireland, but on
the concrete things that the child is leaving behind—the calves, the kettle, and the mice.
Yeats makes the statement that even though reality, more harsh than the child can
comprehend, drives one to wish for an escape, one has no idea what one would do upon
arrival in the imagined place. The real and the imagined become irreconcilable
opposites.
This inability to reconcile the imagined and the real highlights the tensions
throughout the poem referenced above (old vs. new, etc…). Once can sum up all of these
tensions into one: Past Ireland vs. Present Ireland. These two visions of Ireland, like all
of the other things in the poem, never get reconciled, nor can one vision triumph over the
other. The reader has been so far removed from Past Ireland that one can never fully go
back there, no matter how hard one may try. However, Present Ireland has become a
place filled with sorrow, largely due to the fact that it has lost elements of Past Ireland.
Yeats highlights this clash between Past and Present Ireland in the title of the
poem, “The Stolen Child.” From where or from what has the child been stolen? When
one first reads the poem, the answer to this question appears quite clear: the faeries stole
the child from the home depicted in the fourth stanza and carried him “to the waters and
the wild.” However, when reading this poem as a clash between Past Ireland and Present
Ireland, one comes to an alternate interpretation. The child has already been stolen away
from Past Ireland and forced to live in Present Ireland, just as the British “stole” Ireland
and forced upon it a new way of life. In this interpretation, the faeries do no steal the
child; rather, they reclaim him and lead him back to the life he was supposed to have.
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Through this reading, one sees Yeats’ assertion about how to best envision an Ireland free
from its association with the British Empire. One must reject the things that the British
have established, however accustomed to them one may be, in order to recognize the
unique value of a pre-colonized Ireland. Though Ireland can never really return to its
pre-colonized self (which would require a forgetting of history that Yeats does not
advocate), it can again become an independent entity through a rediscovery of its past.
The only other use of the word “stolen” in the poem supports this reading. In the
first stanza, one finds faery vats that contain “the reddest of stolen cherries.” The cherry
is native to Ireland. Therefore, there would have been no need for the faeries to have
stolen the cherries; the faeries would have had access to them all along. On the other
hand, cherries do not grow naturally in England. The cherries, like the child, become
something that the faeries reclaim, something originally their own. The faeries only
“steal” that which was theirs from the beginning. Just as unresolved conflicts abound in
the poem, stealing something one already owns is a contradiction in terms that one cannot
easily reconcile. Yeats chooses the word “stolen” in order to highlight his belief that, in
Ireland’s current state, these conflicts cannot be reconciled. Yeats remains acutely aware
of the fact that, while he “was able to reimagine and reclaim Ireland geographically in his
early poems [such as “The Stolen Child”],…tension and changes arise when he seeks to
confront history, or rather, weld together the historical and the geographical” (Innes,
“Modernism, Ireland, and Empire,” 145-46). One can only come to view the child and
the cherries as rightfully owned by the faeries if one embraces Ireland’s past, a past
independent of Great Britain. Paradoxically, an embracing of this past will not recreate
the past, but will allow an as-yet-unformed national identity for Ireland to flourish.
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Thus one can read “The Stolen Child” as an alternative to “Cuchulain’s Fight with
the Sea.” In the latter, Yeats uses figures from Irish mythology in order to highlight the
danger of forgetting the past; the ancient myth becomes an allegory for the present
political situation. A young man who contains elements of Ireland’s past and Ireland’s
present is slain, leaving no hope for Ireland’s future. The slaying of this young man
simply continues the cycle of sorrow and violence that has permeated the poem. In
contrast, “The Stolen Child” encourages readers to reflect upon elements of Past Ireland
still visible in Present Ireland; though transformed from the time of the faeries, there are
still elements that distinguish it from Britain. Only in acknowledging the uniqueness of
Ireland’s past does one find a way to move past the vicious cycle of violence condemned
in “Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea.” Rather than focusing on the things that Britain has
stolen from it, Ireland must focus on that which it can call its own. The two poems
together demonstrate anger, mourning, and a way to move past these feelings and shape a
new future for Ireland.
This future comes in the shape of a child, which also becomes a symbol of the
reclamation of Spain for Lorca. This child appears in “St. Gabriel,” one of his three
poems named for the only three archangels mentioned by name in the Bible.9 Lorca
dedicates each of these three poems to a different city in the province of Andalusia in
9
Michael leads the good angels in the battle fought in heaven between Satan and his followers. He has
been invoked as a protector of the Church since the time of the apostles. Michael is the patron of the
police, the military, and mariners (among others). He is typically depicted wearing armor and wielding a
sword as he stands atop a slain demon. In the Old Testament, Raphael helps Tobiah and Sarah to safely
enter marriage. He also helps Tobiah’s blind father, Tobit, to see the light of heaven. In the apocryphal
book of Enoch, Raphael heals the earth after it is defiled by the sins of the fallen angels. He is the patron of
travelers, the blind, and physicians. Gabriel appears first in the Old Testament; he announces to Daniel the
prophecy of the seventy days. In the apocryphal book of Henoch, Gabriel appears to Zachariah and
announces the birth of John the Baptist. Gabriel is best known as the angel who appears to Mary and
announces that she will bear the Christ. Gabriel is the patron of communications workers. All three
archangels share the same feast day, September 29.
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southern Spain, an area once held by the Moors, who occupied the nation from 711-1492.
Even today, visitors to Spain see Moorish architecture throughout Andalusia, a clear
reminder of Spain’s past as a conquered land. In 1492, King Ferdinand and Queen
Isabella, known as the “Reyes Católicos” (Catholic Monarchs), drove out the Moors and
in the same year financed Columbus’ expedition to the Indies, beginning the Spanish
Empire. Lorca uses the juxtaposition of the angels’ names with the cities’ names at the
beginning of each poem in order to remind his reader of the rise and fall of empire. An
examination of two of these poems, “St. Rafael” and “St. Gabriel,” reveals Lorca’s deep
concern with Spain’s history in light of the loss of its colonies in 1898. Lorca’s poems
become an attempt to prevent imperial history from repeating.
“St. Rafael,” explores the imperial history of Spain. This poem is set in a city that
was once a stronghold for the Moorish Empire, Córdoba.10 Lorca divides the poem into
two parts. The first part consists of one long stanza. The second is subdivided into two
sections, one made up of a stanza roughly the same length as Part I and the other made up
of one short stanza. The two parts of the poem serve as formal representatives of its
content, which constantly references two Córdobas. The fact that the second part
fragments into two sections of uneven length indicates that Córdoba will keep on
evolving; the reader can almost imagine the poem continuing beyond its ending, the final
short stanza eventually becoming a stanza equal in length to the first two. Like the city,
Spain remains in a constant state of change, not quite sure what it will one day become.
The first four lines of Part I reflect this idea of change:
Closed coaches were coming
to the reeds along the shore
10
Egea Fernández-Montesinos traces the history of Córdoba in “St. Rafael,” (p.206) noting the connections
to the Roman, Moorish, and Christian traditions that I outline in my reading of the poem.
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where, smoothed by waves,
lies a nude Roman torso.
In lines three and four, the reader encounters a Roman statue (a nude Roman torso) that
has fallen into the water and has as a result become worn over the years. This statue
reminds the reader of an even older Empire that no longer exists, the Roman Empire that,
like the Moorish Empire that followed it, stretched throughout Spain and left numerous
structures and ruins behind. A product of this once-mighty Empire now lies abandoned
in the water, signifying the passage of time between the height of this Empire and the
present. The vehicles approaching this statue also highlight the distance between past
and present, as they bring to mind new technological advancements that have been made
since the statue was constructed. Finally, water (indicated here by the waves and the
shore) has long been a symbol of change and fluidity.
In the next four lines of the poem, the reader learns exactly which body of water
the poem depicts:
Coaches the Guadalquivir
lays across its ripened mirror,
between the resonating clouds
and laminae of flowers.
The coaches in line one have approached the Guadalquivir River, which passes through
Córdoba. As the coaches near the river, they become reflected in it, along with the
clouds and flowers. If one were to look in the river, one would indeed see a complete
picture, with the coach rolling over flowers beneath a cloudy sky. However, one would
see not these objects themselves, but rather representations of them. Because the
constantly-moving water creates these representations, there remains the possibility that
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the image will change at a moment’s notice. This idea of flux continues in the next four
lines, in which the reader encounters a group of young singers:
Young boys weave and sing
the truth about the world
near the ancient coaches
lost in the night.
The proximity of these young boys to coaches from long ago offers a clue about the
subject of their song. While these coaches have been “lost in the night,” newer coaches
continue to arrive. Thus, one can read “the truth about the world” that these singers
depict as the truth about the cycle of history. This interpretation of the poem allows the
reader to better understand Lorca’s message about the constantly-shifting nature of
Empire. Simply stated, the truth about the world is that old entities will always be
replaced by newer, stronger ones. Old Empires, too, will eventually fade away (though
most often after a period of struggle), leaving new powers to take their place.
Though the song in these four lines promises “truth,” Lorca’s word choice calls
that promise into question; the boys both “weave and sing” the “truth.” If the reader
bears in mind the definition of “weave” as “to produce by elaborately combining
elements,” one understands that the singers are actively engaged in the creation of this
“truth.” Lorca chooses the phrase “weave and sing” in order to highlight the process of
creation and transmission that occurs when engaged in various kinds of artistic work.
Reading this process with the idea of Empire in mind, one comes to regard the historian
as just as much of an artist as a poet, a singer, or a painter. Through their subjective
depictions of the past, historians manipulate their readers’ understanding, creating a
distance between the actual event and the way that future generations view that event.
The reader of Lorca’s poem comes to realize he or she may not fully grasp events that
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have led to the downfall of once-mighty empires, making both Spain’s past and present
much more difficult to understand.
The next six lines of the poem reaffirm this complex relationship between past
and present as Lorca brings the reader back to the city of Córdoba and its rich history:
But Córdoba doesn’t tremble
before the swirling mystery,
for though the shadows raise
an architecture of smoke,
a marble foot affirms
its radiance, chaste and spare.
One can interpret the “swirling mystery” that does not faze Córdoba as the passage of
time, which is at once visible and invisible in the city. While it may have changed hands,
its outward appearance retains many of the features it has had for centuries, since the date
of the Moorish Empire. Lorca then contradicts this idea of stability in “the shadows
[that] raise an architecture of smoke.” The shadows are reflecting the buildings in
Córdoba onto different surfaces. These buildings, rather than the permanent fixtures
associated with the centuries-old city, do not permanently stand, but instead constantly
change shape. Córdoba appears unimpressed by this fact; it “does not tremble” in the
face of change. In spite of the fact that history constantly changes, Lorca suggests that
some element of it does indeed remain permanent, as represented by the “marble foot
[that] affirms [Córdoba’s] radiance.” The marble appears able to sustain itself against the
chaos around it. However, if one considers the first few lines of this poem, one realizes
that Lorca has included this suggestion ironically. The word “foot” reminds one of the
base of a statue, bringing the reader back to the fallen Roman statue lying forgotten in the
Gualaquivir. Therefore, Lorca actually asserts that Córdoba should “tremble before the
swirling mystery,” as it will not be immune to the forces of change.
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The history of the most prominent piece of architecture in Córdoba, the Great
Mosque, demonstrates Lorca’s point about historical change. The Mosque was built in
the 8th century A.D. by Islamic architects. The architects chose a site that had once been
a Roman temple dedicated to Janus.11 This temple later transformed into a Visgothic
cathedral dedicated to St. Vincent of Saragossa.12 When the Moors captured Spain, they
took materials such as marble, jasper, onyx, and granite from the Roman temple and
other destroyed Roman buildings to build the Great Mosque. After Córdoba was
captured from the Moors in 1236, the Mosque was consecrated to the Virgin Mary.
Currently it is officially the Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption, though residents of
Córdoba refer to it as the Mosque-Cathedral. Once the readers understand the Mosque’s
past, they realize that the history of the Mosque is also the history of Empire, thus Lorca
incorporates references to it throughout the poem, beginning in the next few lines:
Petals of frail tin
are scaled on pure grays
of the wind, unfurled
over the triumphal arches.
The Mosque’s most famous architectural feature is its four giant arches, largely
constructed of the above-mentioned Roman materials. Therefore, one can interpret the
“triumphal arches” in these lines as the arches found inside the Great Mosque. If one
understands the arches as the internal structures of the Mosque, one can then read the
“petals of frail tin” unfurling over the arches as the flags on the roof of the Mosque. Tin,
a supposedly strong metal, is in these lines quite weak. The weight of this tin is measured
11
Janus is the Roman god of beginnings and transitions. He is also the god of gates, door and doorways,
endings, and time. He is usually depicted as a two-faced since he simultaneously looks into the future and
into the past.
12
The Visgoths were in power in Spain during the 5th-8th centuries, A.D, having sacked Rome in 410 and
moving into its territories soon after. Their reign lasted until the Moors gained power in 711. St. Vincent
of Saragossa was sentenced to death by torture on a gridiron for refusing to burn Christian scriptures
around 304. He is the patron Saint of Lisbon.
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(scaled) in the wind, bringing to mind the image of a flag waving in a breeze. One should
note that depending on the strength of the wind, the flag will appear to weigh more or
less; it will stand still or it will be battered about. Therefore, the weight of the flag
appears not fixed, but relative to the force of something else. Reading this part of the
stanza with Empire in mind, one takes the flag as a symbol of an Empire as a whole.
Though an Empire may appear strong, one may in fact call its might into question. The
Empire is thus subject to change, more easily mutable than meets the eye.
This idea of changing Empire comes across in the next few lines (the end of Part
I), which mention Neptune and tobacco:
And while the bridge is blowing
ten of Neptune’s whispers,
tobacco vendors flee
through the broken wall.
Neptune once again reminds one of Spain’s past as a part of the Roman Empire.13 The
tobacco highlights Spain’s past as an Imperial power, as it is a product of the Americas
that Spain once ruled. Thus these lines recall two separate time periods simultaneously,
once again pointing out that history is not as clear-cut as one may believe; two moments
of Spain’s imperial past exist at once, jarring the reader’s sense of the stability of time.
In the last line of Part I, the theme of instability once again appears; one finds a broken
wall, a structure intended to hold strong but instead too weak to avoid collapse. One
should note that those who sell the products of Empire beat a hasty retreat through this
wall, signaling that those who have profited from Empire can no longer sustain
themselves. This change in circumstances is mirrored in the lines directly above it, which
reference “Neptune’s whispers.” One can read these whispers as the sound that waves
13
Neptune was the Roman god of water and the sea.
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make when meeting the shore, bringing the reader back to the first lines of Part I. One
again, water serves as a metaphor for a drastic change, and once again, this change is
associated with Empire. Thus, the images in this long stanza recur; the past (the previous
lines of the poem) merges with the present (the lines one currently reads). One can then
read the bridge as that which connects the past to the present, linking the images of the
poem together.
The significance of water continues in Part II, in which the past and the present
once again appear simultaneously:
Only one fish in the water,
joining two Córdobas:
soft Córdoba of reeds,
Córdoba of architecture.
Rather than the Roman statue in Part I, there is now a single fish in the water, which one
can assume is still the Gualaquivir River. This fish acts as the bridge in the previous
lines, linking two different moments in time. The fish is often depicted accompanying the
god Neptune in images of Roman mythology; it is also a common symbol of Christianity.
The undeveloped Córdoba of the past (Córdoba of reeds) on which the Romans founded
their empire joins with the city one knows today (Córdoba of architecture). This fish
suggests that one does not necessarily have to choose between the two Córdbas; rather,
one comes to a better understanding of it if one considers both its past and its present.
Reading this poem with Empire in mind, one can see Lorca’s suggestion that, in order to
understand the complex history of Empire—and with it how Spain managed to fall—one
must examine not just the most recent past, but instead the continuous rise and fall of
Imperial powers.
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Failing to do so will result in a kind of historical blindness, as indicated in the
next lines:
Boys with impassive faces
undressing on the shore,
apprentices to Tobias,
wizards of the waist,
ask ironic questions
just to tease the fish:
do you want wine flowers
or leaps like half a moon?
The reference to Tobias (the Spanish equivalent of Tobit) brings to mind the Biblical
Book of Tobit, in which the man for whom the book is named suffers from blindness.
However, rather than being helped by the Archangel St. Raphael, as in the Bible, the
Tobias in the poem appears dependant on bored young men who do little to help him.
Instead, they are more concerned with bathing in the water and mocking the fish. They
ridicule the very thing that in the above lines links the present to the past, unaware of its
significance. Lorca uses the Biblical figure of Tobias to highlight these boys’ blindness;
though they are supposed to serve as helpers to a blind man, they cannot see beyond
themselves, beyond the present moment. Unlike Tobias, these young men have very little
hope of having their sight restored. Through these young men, Lorca sends a warning to
those who fail to understand the relationship between the past and the present: they will
become doomed to a life a blindness, failing to see the how one affects the other.
The fish remains unaffected by their mocking questions. Instead, it transforms
that which it touches:
But the fish that gilds the water
and drapes mourning on the marble
teaches them the equilibrium
of a solitary column.
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The fish decorates both the water and the marble that makes up part of the Great Mosque.
One should note that these decorations once again contain veiled references to Empire.
The Spanish conquistadores originally claimed land in pursuit of gold, hence the gilded
water. One can read the mourning draped on the marble as the sadness felt when Spain
lost its once-mighty empire. The fish acknowledges the heavy weight (both gold and
marble are heavy objects) that accompanies the loss of its empire and attempts to show
Spain’s citizens how to bear it. Therefore, it teaches them a lesson about “the
equilibrium/of a solitary column.” Due to its shape, a column can support several times
its weight. As it supports an increasing amount of weight, it reaches several stages of
equilibrium and, when a maximum weight has been reached, eventually reaches the
buckling load. If more weight than the maximum is added, then the column becomes
unstable and will possibly collapse. If one relates the physical collapse of a column to
the collapse of a national empire, one begins to comprehend the fish’s lesson. Simply
put, Spain has strained itself to the breaking point, attempting to take on more than it
could bear. It must therefore proceed with caution when rebuilding, learning the lessons
of the past and understanding exactly how it reached its breaking point in order to avoid
repeating the cycle of the rise and fall of empire.
Lorca highlights this cycle in the next few lines of the poem:
The archangel, half Arab,
with a flourish of dark sequins,
was seeking hush and cradle
in the hubbub of the waves.
He depicts St. Raphael as half Arab in order to remind the reader once again of Spain’s
past occupation by the Moors. One should note that the archangel is typically a Christian
figure. Lorca therefore employs St. Raphael in order to bring the reader’s mind back to
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the Reyes Católicos who defeated the Moors, united Spain into one nation, and founded
Spain’s empire in the Americas. His flashy costume reminds one that this fallen empire
still attracts quite a bit of attention. However, this attention proves destructive, as St.
Raphael is well aware. He flees into the water. Given that these lines end the first
section of Part II, one can link them to the lines at the end of Part I, which reference
Neptune. St. Raphael attempts to join Neptune, a god of yet another fallen empire. Thus
with these lines Lorca hints that the memory of Spain’s lost empire must be banished
before the nation can move forward.
However, as the next lines indicate, the nation has yet to move beyond the image
of itself as an imperial power. Lorca indicates this failure to move on by splitting Part II
with asterisks, bracketing off the final four lines of the poem. These lines bear a striking
resemblance to the first lines of Part II:
Only one fish in the water.
Two Córdobas of splendor.
Córdoba broken into gushers.
Córdoba celestial and spare.
Lorca chooses to highlight the contrast between unity and division with these last lines.
In contrast to the first lines of Part II, the fish no longer joins the two Córdobas. Instead,
ambiguity reigns. One Córdoba remains in chaos, while the other maintains order.
Despite the fish’s lesson, the two versions of Córdoba have yet to unite; they cannot
reconcile the contrasting images of themselves. Instead, each Córdoba insists on its own
splendor. When reading these dueling versions of Córdoba in light of Spain’s current
struggle to redefine itself post-empire, one comes to understand that Spain does not yet
know that it would like to become. It still experiences growing pains and cannot
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reconcile two images of itself—one as a broken empire and the other as a whole nation.
The struggle to become a whole nation after the loss of its empire becomes exemplified
in the form of part two, as Lorca’s choice to bracket two sections off from one another
signals Spain’s failure to unify. Instead, Spain remains in a constant state of strife.
Lorca offers a solution to this strife in the final poem of this series, “St. Gabriel.”
The structure of this poem mirrors the structure of “St. Rafael.” Lorca once again divides
the poem into two parts, the first consisting of one long stanza and the second consisting
of two sections. The first of these sections is made up of one long stanza, and the second
is made up of two short stanzas. The first ten lines raise more questions than answers:
A beautiful reed of a child,
shoulders wide, slim at the hip,
skin of an apple at night,
sad mouth and big eyes,
a nerve of hot silver,
walks the empty streets.
His shoes of patent leather
break the dahlias of the wind
with two cadences that sing
in brief celestial mourning.
Lorca offers few clues about the identity of this child. Though Lorca never explicitly
states anything about the child’s origins, the child’s footsteps hint that he could be a
heavenly messenger. Lorca describes the sound that his shoes make as “two cadences
that sing/in brief celestial mourning.” One can interpret the two cadences as the
combined sounds of each individual foot as it steps. The adjective phrase used to
describe these sounds brings the heavens to mind through its use of the word “celestial,”
further causing the readers to wonder if they will encounter yet another archangel.
As the poem continues, the hints that the child may have descended from the
heavens grow more frequent:
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All along the seashore
no palm can be his equal,
no crowned emperor,
no passing star.
When he drops his head
against his jasper breast
the night looks round for plains
because it wants to kneel.
As the first four lines above indicate, the child merits a high degree of respect. Nothing
on earth, whether inanimate, human, or in the heavens compares to him. The things that
Lorca chooses to highlight the child’s grandeur also hold clues about the child’s heavenly
origins. Given that stars normally appear fixed in the sky, one can read the passing star
as a falling star. Perhaps, like the star, the child has also fallen from the heavens to earth.
When one considers the juxtaposition of the crowned emperor and the passing star, one
remembers religious depictions of Jesus and the Virgin Mary as crowned with stars. The
crowned emperor cannot compare with these crowned beings, suggesting that, if no
crowned emperor can be the child’s equal, then perhaps the child has more in common
with these religious figures than meets the eye. Lorca furthers this comparison with Jesus
with the use of the palm. While one could argue that the poet chooses this tree because it
is common to Sevilla, the city in which the poem is set, one should also remember its
significance in the Bible. As Jesus enters the city of Jerusalem, his disciples gather along
the road to lay palm leaves at his feet. Christian worshipers commemorate this event
every year on Palm Sunday, the day on which Holy Week (the week leading up to Easter
Sunday) begins. Holy Week holds great significance in the city of Sevilla, home to some
of the largest pre-Easter celebrations in the world. Therefore, in asserting that no palm
can be the child’s equal, Lorca draws connections between Sevilla’s common trees and
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its religious celebrations, once again hinting that this child could perhaps hold a
connection to heaven.
In these religious celebrations, the palm plays a symbolic role of paying homage
to Christ. This idea of homage once again comes up in the last two lines of the above
quotation, in which the night wants to kneel before the child. The action that inspires this
desire to kneel, the child dropping his head/ against his jasper breast, also holds religious
significance. Jasper appears several times in both the Old and New Testament. Just
before the Israelites left Egypt (Ex 12: 35, 36), the Egyptians surrendered their riches,
including the jasper in the breastplates of their armor. Furthermore, in the book of
Revelations (Rev. 4:3), the ruler seated upon a throne is compared to jasper.14 The stone
typically symbolizes the glory of God, splendor, magnificence, and beauty. Therefore, in
describing the child’s breast as jasper, Lorca inscribes him in a long line of Biblical
symbolism, making him a representative of holiness.
In the next few lines of the poem, Lorca stops hinting at the child’s identity and
finally calls him by name:
Guitars play by themselves
for St. Gabriel Archangel,
tamer of little doves
and envy of the willows.
“St. Gabriel: The baby’s crying
in his mother’s womb.
Don’t forget the gypsies
gave that suit to you.”
As the first lines of the poem hinted, the child is indeed an archangel, St. Gabriel. Just as
the night sky pays homage to him, so too do the guitars through their mournful song.
Through their gift of song, they highlight a previous gift that the archangel has received,
14
References to jasper are also found in Exodus 23: 15&20, 39:13 and Ezekial 28:13
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a suit given by the gypsies. The guitars seem concerned that St. Gabriel will forget the
generosity shown by the gypsies. Given the treatment that the gypsies have received in
Spain, this fear could in fact be very real. The gypsies have typically been marginalized,
largely vilified as a group of transients and thieves. The guitars seek to debunk that
stereotype by reminding the archangel of his gift. In doing so, they hope to influence St.
Gabriel, the archangel who brought the news that she would carry God’s son to the
Blessed Virgin. This event is known in Christianity as The Annunciation. The guitars
make it clear that St. Gabriel needs to make a new kind of annunciation. The child crying
in its mother’s womb represents the result of this new annunciation, which seems very
vocal about coming into being.
In the second part of the poem, the reader indeed meets an annunciation, this time
in the form of a gypsy woman, Annunciation de los Reyes:
Annunciation de los Reyes,
rich in moons and poorly dressed,
opens the door to the star
that was shining down the street.
This Annunciation stands in stark contrast to the recipient of the biblical Annunciation.
Unlike the youthful Virgin Mary, Annunciation de los Reyes appears advanced in years
(“rich in moons”). Furthermore, while Christian imagery usually depicts Mary as
cloaked in adequate clothing, if not finery, Annunciation de los Reyes’ clothes
demonstrate her poverty. Additionally, the story of the Annunciation describes Mary’s
surprise as the Archangel Gabriel gives her the news. Conversely, Annunciation de los
Reyes appears eager for St. Gabriel’s visit, inviting him into her home as a welcome
guest:
The Archangel St. Gabriel,
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between a lily and a smile,
great-grandson of the Giralda,
was coming on his visit.
One should note that, like the half-Arab archangel in “St. Raphael,” St. Gabriel
also has connections to Spain’s imperial past. In the Islamic tradition, the Archangel
Gabriel delivered Allah’s message to the prophet Muhammad. In the poem, the
archangel’s lineage traces back to the Giralda, a minaret that was originally part of the
Moorish mosque that preceded the Cathedral of Sevilla. After the 1492 unification of
Spain, the Christians re-appropriated the Girlada and the site it was built on, adding a
cross and bell to the tower in 1506 and incorporating it into a Christian cathedral.
Thus,
as in “St. Raphael,” the reader finds reminders of the re-appropriation of buildings and
land as empires changed hands.
The flower to which Lorca compares St. Gabriel in the above lines begins to
reveal the true purpose for the archangel’s visit. Lorca describes him as a lily, a common
flower placed on the altar during Easter celebrations due to its function as a symbol of
rebirth. This description, when combined with the archangel’s lineage, begins to reveal
Lorca’s message about Empire in this poem. St. Gabriel has come to usher in a new era
for Spain, a rebirth for the nation in the wake of its loss of empire. His potential to do so
comes across in the next lines of the poem:
Hidden crickets pulse
in his embroidered vest.
The stars of night were turning
into tiny bellflowers.
St. Gabriel wears a vest full of pulsing crickets. These crickets, like the lily, symbolize
the possibility of rebirth; crickets pulse in four distinct manners, each of which signifies a
different part of the mating process. Therefore, the hidden crickets St. Gabriel carries
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contain the potential of new life coming forth. The next two lines in the above passage
bring the reader back to the theme of change so prominent in “St. Raphael.” The stars
transform into bellflowers; something from the heavens materializes as something
earthly, much like the archangel currently walking the earth in the form of a beautiful
child.
In the next few lines, Annunciation de los Reyes welcomes the archangel into her
home:
“Here I am, St. Gabriel,
with three nails of delight.
Your radiance opens jasmines
on my burning face.”
Like the crickets and the bellflowers, the three nails also signify transformation. The
image of three nails is standard in depictions of the crucifixion of Christ (one nail in each
hand, one through the feet). In these lines, however, the three nails change from an
image of sorrow to one of joy. This joy continues as Annunciation de los Reyes
contemplates St. Gabriel’s radiance. The particular flowers that St. Gabriel brings forth
also prove important. The jasmine symbolizes grace, elegance, and sensuality, as well as
divinity and hope. Just as St. Gabriel embodies both the heavenly and the earthly, so too
does the jasmine flower, bringing together both earthly and spiritual virtues. This joining
of the heavenly and the earthly will continue in Annunciation de los Reyes, as St. Gabriel
makes clear:
“God bless you, Annunciation.
dark wonder of a woman,
You will have a child more beautiful
than new shoots of the wind.”
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One should note that these lines, in response to Annunciation’s greeting, constitute the
first dialogue between the celestial visitors and humans in Lorca’s series of Archangel
poems. When reading this stanza with Lorca’s concern for Spain in mind, one sees the
dialogue as an attempt to destabilize the totalizing narrative of Empire, a narrative that
has no room for marginalized figures. In creating a dialogue between the powerful and
the powerless, Lorca takes the first step toward forging a new national identity for Spain.
His address to Annunciation de los Reyes mirrors the annunciation to the Virgin
Mary, promising a child from heaven. His first words to Annunciation de los Reyes in
the original Spanish, “Dios te salve,” translated above as “God bless you,” are the first
lines of the “Hail Mary” prayer, signifying the potential of Annunciation de los Reyes’
child. Just as the Virgin Mary’s child had the power to save humankind, so too will this
new child bring a kind of salvation. When keeping in mind the theme of empire that has
run throughout the poems, one comes to realize that this child could have the potential to
save Spain, to revitalize it as a nation. Its mother’s name translates as “Annunciation of
the Kings”; this child will usher in a new kind of kingdom. Given the title of the book
from which the poem comes, Romancero Gitano, one can assume that Annunciation de
los Reyes belongs to a group of gypsies. With this assumption, one comes to understand
Lorca’s ideas about how to renew his fallen nation. Spain’s rebirth will come not from
typical kings or rulers, but from a group that has been typically marginalized, such as the
gypsies.
As the dialogue between Annunciation de los Reyes and St. Gabriel continues,
this idea of an unexpected, atypical kingdom permeates the poem:
“Ay, St. Gabriel, light of my eyes!
Dearest Gabe, joy of my life!
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I dream of giving you
a throne of carnations.”
“God bless you, Annunciation,
rich in moons and poorly dressed.
On his breast your child will bear
a dark spot and three wounds.”
In the first few lines above, the gypsy woman reinforces the idea of the archangel’s
radiance, referring to him as the light of her eyes. After one learns that St. Gabriel has
come to make a second annunciation to Annunciation de los Reyes, one understands the
significance of describing him in terms of light. In Spanish, the phrase for childbirth is
“dar la luz,” literally translated as “to give the light.” The radiant archangel will literally
help Annunciation de los Reyes “give the light” to Spain. The gypsy comes to view St.
Gabriel with both reverence and familiarity, as signified by her addressing him by the
diminutive form of his name; the diminutive is typically reserved for family and close
friends. The distance (both physical and metaphorical) between the heavenly and the
earthly diminishes as the birth of the child draws near. As St. Gabriel will deliver a
heavenly gift to Annunciation de los Reyes, so too will she return the favor. She plans to
make a “throne of carnations” for him. This poor, common flower will become a throne
fit for an archangel, just as Annunciation de los Reyes, a poor, marginalized gypsy will
bring forth the divine child that will revitalize Spain. St. Gabriel makes it clear that,
unlike typical depictions of the Christ child, Annunciation de los Reyes’ child will not be
a vision of perfection; instead, it will have birthmarks that resemble wounds. Thus it will
seem even less likely to be the salvation that Spain needs. However, as the child is
conceived (lines 55-58), St. Gabriel prophecies that the Annunciation de los Reyes will
bring about a new era for Spain:
“God bless you, Annunciation.
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mother of a hundred dynasties.
Your eyes gleam like the arid
landscapes of horse and rider.”
From the gypsy woman will come several kingdoms, or dynasties. However, unlike the
kingdom that resulted from the annunciation to the Virgin Mary, Annunciation de los
Reyes will bring about earthly kingdoms. St. Gabriel’s radiance has been transferred to
Annunciation de los Reyes; her eyes now gleam, full of light. Due to this transference, it
may appear that Annunciation de los Reyes will usher in a heavenly kingdom, but the
simile that Lorca draws makes it clear that her kingdom will remain firmly planted in the
earth. Her eyes glitter not like the stars, but like the “landscapes of horse and rider.”
Hence St. Gabriel, who once announced the heavenly savior, now announces the
way by which Spain will be saved, brought back to life. The nation currently in chaos
will have order restored. Lorca reflects this idea of order in the structure of Part II. The
long stanza, which ends with the lines quoted immediately above, maintains an almost
rigid order throughout. Lorca divides the majority of his full sentences into four lines.
Furthermore, the dialogue is also divided into four lines, with four lines comprising a
single sentence. The only exception to this four-line pattern comes in the following
passage, in which Lorca breaks full sentences into two lines instead of four:
Hidden crickets pulse
in his embroidered vest.
The stars of night were turning
into tiny bellflowers.
As previously stated, these lines bring to mind the ideas of potential, rebirth, and
transformation. Therefore, while they seem out of place in the long stanza, they actually
serve as foreshadowing for the second section of Part II, in which every single full
sentence is divided into two lines. Furthermore, each stanza in the second section consists
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of only four lines, signaling these lines’ link to the long stanza that precedes it. This
section contains the realization of the rebirth signaled in the lines above.
While the first section of Part II depicts the conception of Annunciation de los
Reyes’ child and the promise that Spain’s regeneration will come from the gypsy woman,
the second section takes place after the birth of the child:
The child sings at the breast
of amazed Annunciation.
Three green-almond bullets
quiver in his little voice.
Like the pulsating of the crickets, the child’s voice signals the potential new life to come.
Green almonds, while not yet ripe, have the potential to one day provide sustenance, just
as this child has the potential to one day bring about the rebirth of Spain. Lorca
highlights this possibility by drawing attention to the shape of the almonds; the nuts
resemble bullets. Though one traditionally associates bullets with violence, this poem
requires one to consider the image of the bullet in a different light. Significantly, the
bullet-shaped almonds are native to the Middle East and India; they spread into southern
Europe, including southern Spain, as the Moors conquered more and more territory. As
in “St. Raphael,” Lorca once again reminds the reader of Spain’s past as a conquered
land, bringing to mind the nation’s long history of violent struggles over territory.
However, Lorca reappropriates the image of the bullet in these lines. Rather than being
fired from a weapon, the bullets instead come from the unthreatening voice of a very
young child singing. Instead of an instrument of violence, the bullets become a symbol
of hope, a sign of promise for the future. The bullets come to represent rebirth, not
destruction. Though imperial struggles have torn apart Spain time and time again, Lorca
suggests that the nation can once again become great. In order to do so, it must turn away
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from the model of the past, a model that has proven destructive. It must instead look
toward unexpected sources of renewal, such as those who have previously been
marginalized. Egea Fernández-Montesinos notes that throughout Romancero Gitano and
especially in the archangel poems “the discourse surrounding the gypsies is framed in the
problem of marginality based on an ideology of power and its implementation at the
national level” (197).15 Spain’s rejuvenation will come not from a new wave of imperial
glory, but from the as-yet-unrecognized potential of citizens such as Annunciation de los
Reyes. Just as the Biblical St. Gabriel brings the good news to the Virgin Mary, Lorca’s
St. Gabriel brings his readers the promise that their nation will one day rise again.
After seeing his promise take on a concrete form with the birth of Annunciation
de los Reyes’ child, St. Gabriel returns to heaven:
Up a ladder through the air
St. Gabriel was climbing.
And the stars of night
turned into everlastings.
One should note that, rather than taking flight toward the sky, as one would expect from a
divine archangel, St. Gabriel instead climbs a ladder through the air When considering
the significance of the ladder, one should remember the best-know ladder of the Bible,
Jacob’s Ladder.16 The ladder serves as the bridge between heaven and earth. In the
15
16
All translations from Fernández-Montesinos’ text mine.
Jacob left Beersheba, and went toward Haran. He came to the place and stayed there that night,
because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in
that place to sleep. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached
to heaven; and behold, the angels of God were ascending and descending on it! And behold, the Lord
stood above it [or "beside him"] and said, "I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of
Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your descendants; and your descendants shall be
like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to
the south; and by you and your descendants shall all the families of the earth bless themselves. Behold, I
am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave
you until I have done that of which I have spoken to you." Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said,
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Christian tradition, Christ becomes the literal embodiment of this ladder, the path to
salvation by which those on earth can reach heaven. If one views Annunciation de los
Reyes’ child as the secular version of the Christ child, announced by St. Gabriel but
destined to save a nation rather than souls, then the gypsy’s child becomes a secular
Jacob’s ladder. The child bridges not this life and the afterlife, but Spain’s present and its
as-yet-unrealized future. This future will bring about a sense of stability to a nation in
turmoil, ushering in something permanent (everlasting) that can thrive amid the chaos.
Lorca wishes to create a nation “based not on the systems of the State, but on popular
culture and a dialogue with the other” (Egea Fernández-Montesinos 208).
Lorca’s transformation of a religious image into a secular one highlights his use
of the past to reshape the present and bring about a new future. In using the gypsies to
bring about this future, he attempts to create a nation envisioned in Bhabha’s The
Location of Culture, as Egea Fernández-Montesino notes: “Representing the gypsies as
immigrants within their own nation, that is to say, still outsiders in their country centuries
after their arrival, serves as a way to redraw the lines that Bhabha notes as spaces on the
border of an alternative nation: the subaltern, the minority, the diaspora, and the margin”
(199). In giving the gypsies a voice in this alternative nation, Lorca turns away from the
narratives surrounding Empire, narratives built upon imagined national identities. He
instead points out the destructiveness of such totalizing narratives, noting that they have
led to nothing but a cycle of rising and falling Empire. Yeats, too, criticizes totalizing
narratives, whether they stem from the powerful or the powerless, as seen in
"Surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it." And he was afraid, and said, "This is none other
than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." (Genesis 28:10-19)
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“Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea”. Both Yeats and Lorca envision “counter-narratives of
the nation that continually evoke and erase its totalizing boundaries—both actual and
conceptual—[in order to] disturb those ideological maneuvers through which ‘imagined
communities’ are given essentialist identities” (Bhabha 149). Neither druids nor gypsies
have a place within a history that only speaks of imperial conquest, therefore, as Yeats
and Lorca assert, this history must be incomplete. Focusing on these marginalized
figures will allow Lorca and Yeats a way to re-write history and in doing so usher in a
new future for their respective nations, a future that will be a time of political and cultural
stability. They simultaneously advocate remembering history and moving beyond it,
“consciously meditating upon that which nationalist poetry must tirelessly strive to
achieve and can never achieve: the articulation of the ideal, unified nation, the final
speech act that is the coming-into-being of the imagined community” (Doggett 130).
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Conclusion: The Generational Model, Spain, and the Modernist Canon
Significantly, in the previous chapter one finds very few references to scholarship
on Lorca’s commentary on Empire and the state of Spain following the loss of its
colonies. This lack of scholarship can be largely attributed to the generational model
used to classify early twentieth-century Spanish authors. Along with fellow poets Rafael
Alberti, Jorge Guillen, Gerardo Diego, Pedro Salinas, Damaso Alonso, Luis Cernuda, and
Emilio Prados, Lorca is classified as a part of the “Generation of ’27.” Critics of Spanish
literature widely hold the belief that this “generation’s” chief preoccupations center on
the aesthetic form of their work. Recent scholarship on Lorca does little to call this belief
into question, thus creating a dearth of scholarship on Lorca and his nation.1 This gaping
hole in Lorca criticism demonstrates why the generational model proves detrimental to a
study of early twentieth-century Spanish literature. It causes one to approach an author
with a preconceived notion about the text’s chief concerns. In doing so, one runs the risk
of largely ignoring factors that may prove crucial to forming a thorough understanding of
an author’s work.
If one reads Lorca without preconceived theories about the Generation of ’27 in
mind, he suddenly appears to have quite a bit in common with Valle-Inclán. Like Lorca,
Valle-Inclán creates texts that respond to the diminished state of Spain following the
collapse of its Empire. Not only do they both express deep concerns about their nation,
1
For recent work on Lorca’s aesthetics, see: Cavanaugh, Cecelia J; Hernández Fernández, Omaira; and
Lewis, Huw Aled.
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but they both employ aspects of the Christian tradition to do so. In his poems from
Romancero Gitano, Lorca uses archangels to symbolize the promise of national
rejuvenation, while in Tirano Banderas Valle-Inclán makes the celebration of All Saints
Day a profane holiday in order to highlight the depths to which Spain has fallen.
However, in contrast with Lorca’s case, there exists a wide range of scholarship on ValleInclán’s preoccupation with “Spain” as a concept, as exemplified in my earlier discussion
of his novel. One can attribute this contrast to the simple fact that Valle-Inclán began
publishing his works shortly after the turn of the century and is therefore classified as a
member of the “Generation of ’98.” The widely-held critical view sees this “generation”
as deeply concerned with the identity of their nation, the causes of Spain’s decline, and
the creation of new literary genres as a way to redefine their nation. Therefore, while
critics see Valle-Inclán as having a great deal in common with Ruben Darío, Pio Baroja,
Antonio Machado, and Miguel de Unamuno, they rarely place him in dialogue with
younger authors such as Lorca, despite the fact that Tirano Banderas and Romancero
Gitano were published just two years apart (1926 and 1928, respectively). This oversight
demonstrates the way in which the generational model has prevented readers from
forming a comprehensive view of early twentieth-century Spanish literature. Instead,
readers find small pockets of authors isolated from one another, regardless of the fact that
in some instances they were contemporaries.
Not only does the generational model deny the possibility of a dialogue between
arbitrarily classified groups, but it also calls for a large degree of exclusion within these
groups themselves (as I outlined in my introduction). Of the four Spanish authors
discussed in this text, only two of them—Lorca and Valle-Inclán—are thought to belong
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to a specific literary “generation.” Women writers do not fare well within this model,
usually relegated toward the margins or unacknowledged altogether. If one were to judge
strictly by publication dates, de los Ríos would belong in the “Generation of ’98,” while
Chacel would fall into the “Generation of ’27.” Examining de los Ríos’ Las hijas de Don
Juan, it becomes abundantly clear that she cares deeply about her nation, pinpointing the
Don Juan myth as one of the causes of Spain’s decline. Her retelling of the myth seeks to
provide a means for reconceptualizing what defines her country. Similarly, Chacel’s
emphasis on aesthetic features, especially her infusion of cinema and photography into
her text, gives her a very clear connection to the authors publishing in her “generation.”
However, due to the fact that she was a woman and a novelist, she remains largely
unstudied in relation to a group that consists chiefly of male poets. Similarly, de los Ríos
has not been recognized as having anything to do with a group of male writers who tried
to revive Spain through their art. Thus the generational model not only isolates authors
who published in different decades, but also those who published within the same time
period but did not fit the largely arbitrary generational criteria.
In order to move past this generational model, scholars should acknowledge the
connection between authors publishing in different “generations” and view Spanish
literature produced during the first half of the twentieth century part of a continuous
movement. Spanish literature will then cease to be broken into periods of roughly
fourteen years and will instead comprise a period of roughly forty years. In doing so,
criticism of Spanish literature will align itself much more closely with studies of
literature produced in other European countries during the same time period, or in other
words, studies of Modernist literature. In his introduction to The Cambridge Companion
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to Modernism, Levenson notes some of Modernism’s “common devices and general
preoccupations: “the recurrent act of fragmenting unities (unities of character or plot or
pictorial space or lyric form), the use of mythic paradigms, the refusal of norms of
beauty, the willingness to make radical linguistic experiment, all often inspired by the
resolve…to startle and disturb the public” (Cambridge 3). He goes on to discuss “the loss
of faith, the groundlessness of value, the violence of war, and a nameless, faceless
anxiety” (Levenson, Cambridge, 5) that appear in many Modernist texts as a result of the
social climate of the early twentieth century. My comparison of Spanish and British texts
makes a strong case for incorporating Spanish texts into the Modernist canon, as each
text I have discussed displays features that Levenson designates as hallmarks of
Modernist literature.
In the first chapter, Forster’s A Passage to India and Valle-Inclán’s Tirano
Banderas respective narrative forms speak to the extreme variety of texts found within
the Modernist canon, as A Passage to India consists chiefly of a linear narrative and
Tirano Banderas contains layer upon layer of narrative fragments. Valle-Inclán’s highly
fragmented narrative exemplifies James McFarlane’s claim that the “urge to
fragmentation…was to override all merely stylistic distinctions of those years [that the
modernist canon was forming]. It is…an attempt to break down into successive
fragmentary moments of time even the most commonplace events of life (like the path of
a falling leaf) in order that a ‘realer’ reality might be recorded” (81). Valle-Inclán’s
breakdown of his narrative into moments that often occur simultaneously and out of the
order of linear time demonstrates his search for a “realer” reality, as that which has
provided order in the past is no longer functional. This search for a new ordering
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principle further places Tirano Banderas in the realm of Modernism, as “modernist
works frequently tend to be ordered…not on the sequence of historical time or the
evolving sequence of character, from history or story…they tend to work spatially
through layers of consciousness, working toward a logic of metaphor or form” (Bradbury
and McFarlane 50). Indeed, there exists no sequence of any kind in Tirano Banderas.
Rather, the reader must work to create order from a frustratingly large number of
narrative pieces. In forcing the readers to create the text’s order on their own, ValleInclán highlights the highly subjective nature of any ordering principle—absolute,
objective order cannot exist, only a continuous series of metaphors that appear to keep
order.
Furthermore, Valle-Inclán’s invention of the Esperpento highlights Levenson’s
point about modernist experimentation, as modernist authors frequently invented new
genres of literature as a form of social commentary: “inescapable forces of turbulent
social modernization were not simply looming on the outside as the destabilizing context
of cultural Modernism; they penetrated the interior of artistic invention” (Cambridge 4).
Valle-Inclán’s narrative structure mirrors the chaos of the once-great Spanish Empire. As
the novel progresses, the reader grows increasingly frustrated with its structure, becoming
confused and at times agitated by its numerous sections and subsections. Simply stated,
the reader longs for more order. In creating this desire in the reader, Valle-Inclán
highlights the lack of order found within his nation and his culture. The desire for textual
order comes to mirror the desire for social order, and Valle-Inclán seeks to give his
readers the tools to create such an order. Valle-Inclán’s use of the Esperpento in Tirano
Banderas blurs the boundaries between human, animal, and object, creating a grotesque
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hybrid of the three. In doing so, Valle-Inclán distances the reader from the almostunrecognizable characters, thus highlighting the feeling of alienation found so often in
Modernist literature. In creating a new form of expression that exploits this feeling of
alienation, Valle-Inclán provides a way to respond to that feeling. Rather than
approaching the unfamiliar with a sense of helplessness, the reader becomes empowered,
as the power to create the text’s order now lies in his or her hands. In addition to creating
a feeling of alienation, Valle-Inclán’s emphasis on the grotesque in the Esperpento
subverts traditional order in the Bakhtinian sense; it allows one to disregard conventional
forms of authority in favor of a distorted form of order. Indeed, Tirano Banderas itself
could be considered grotesque in this sense, as it ushers in a gnarly, tangled, confusing
ordering principle through its narrative fragments. Valle-Inclán suggests that creating
these new forms of order in literature could in fact lead to a new form of social order as
well.
While not nearly as radical as the experimentation found in Tirano Banderas, A
Passage to India highlights the connection between narrative form and narrative content
in its division into “Mosque,” “Caves,” and “Temple.” Forster employs the classic linear
structure of a narrative: “Mosque” contains the exposition and the rising action; “Caves”
serves as the novel’s climax; “Temple” brings the falling action and the denouement.
While one may claim that this straightforward plot structure goes against the Modernist
experimentation with form, one should consider the events that occur in “Caves.” Just as
the Marabar Caves constantly proclaim the indecipherable word “boum,” the events that
occur in the caves prove incomprehensible as well. The reader never receives a clear
picture of what actually happens inside the cave, receiving instead conflicting accounts
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and being forced to mentally piece together the events from these stories. Traditionally,
the reader receives great clarity at the climax of a narrative; it serves as a moment of
revelation. However, in Forster’s text, the reader finds the opposite in “Caves.” The
climax of the novel rests on mere conjecture, leaving the reader with more questions than
answers. Forster’s seemingly well-ordered novel in actuality defies the reader’s
expectations of narrative, substituting a moment of profound confusion at a moment
when one expects the most clarity and causing a feeling of chaos to reign throughout the
rest of the novel. In forcing the reader to mentally create the events that take place,
Forster, like Valle-Inclán, highlights the subjectivity of ordering principles. The clarity
that one expects from narrative structure becomes replaced with numerous interpretations
of the most significant moment in the text, thus allowing for the possibility of creating a
new order within the distorted world of the caves. Even the novel’s ending, in which a
possibility of friendship between the Indians and the British is most clearly denied, does
not completely rule out the idea that one day things will change. The last word of the
novel is not the definitive “never,” but instead the uncertain “not yet.” This word choice
highlights the fear that the now-orderly social hierarchy may one day collapse, making
Indians equal to the British.
Also, while still not nearly as radical as Valle-Inclán, Forster also suggests that
time may not be quite as straightforward as previously thought. Though his novel
unfolds in a linear fashion, its ending hints at a cyclical theory of time, as a deity is once
again reborn. In subscribing to a cyclical theory of time, Forster joins contemporaries
such as William Butler Yeats, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, and D.H. Lawrence.1
1
See chapter 8, “The ‘cycle dance’: cyclic history arrives” in Blakeney-Williams, Louise.
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This constant call to question conventions of time and narrative in both A Passage
to India and Tirano Banderas leaves the reader uneasy; no real ending exists in either
text. As a result, both texts speak to a larger preoccupation in Modernist literature—the
tension between order and chaos: “Modernism is viewed as a kind of aesthetic heroism,
which in the face of the chaos of the modern world (very much a ‘fallen’ world) sees art
as the only dependable reality and as an ordering principle of a quasi-religious kind. The
unity of art is supposedly a salvation from the shattered order of modern reality”
(Eysteinsson 9). Bradbury and McFarlane also note that Modernist art holds “transition
and chaos, creation and de-creation, in suspension” (49). McFarlane goes on to discuss
the widely held belief that the modern world offered only chaos, a threat to the rules that
had traditionally ordered existence. He then notes that “the very vocabulary of chaos—
disintegration, fragmentation, dislocation—implies a breaking away or a breaking apart.
But the defining thing in the Modernist mode is not so much that things fall apart but that
they fall together (92). Thus in forcing the reader to piece together time and narrative
events, Forster and Valle-Inclán offer a new way that things can fall together, a new
order. They continue to do so through their linking of the sacred and the profane.
Both novels examine the connection between the sacred and the profane,
suggesting that the two are not as unrelated as superficially appears. In A Passage to
India, the mortal Mrs. Moore transforms into a deity, and the courthouse becomes a place
to do her homage. Interestingly, this moment becomes the only clear instance of worship
in the text, with the name of the deity, Esmiss Esmoor, becoming infused with
supernatural powers. This moment comes in the only section of the novel not named for
a place of worship, the “Caves” section. In the “Mosque” and “Temple” sections,
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moments in which worship should take place are instead focused on relations between the
Indians and the British. When Aziz meets Mrs. Moore in a mosque, worship falls to the
wayside as he chides her for wearing her shoes. As Aziz attends the religious feast at the
temple, his focus is not on the birth of the deity, but rather on Fielding and Ronny Moore.
In distorting these moments of religious expression so that secular moments take on a
degree of sacredness and vice versa, Forster responds to the growing crisis of faith
expressed so often in modernist literature. He does not treat expression of faith
dismissively, but rather takes it out of its expected context in order to demonstrate new
possibilities for faith in the modern world. Thus the most sincere expression of faith in
the novel, the Indians’ belief in “Esmiss Esmoor” ushers in a new kind of faith, a faith
not based on religious dogma but on the sincere desire to do right by one’s fellow man.
This new kind of faith can be found in Tirano Banderas as well. In transforming
All Saints Day into the Feast of the Massacre, Valle-Inclán undermines the notion of
absolute sacredness. Instead of serving as a day to reflect on the saints, many of whom
were violently martyred, All Saints Day becomes infused with the very violence that led
to many saints’ canonization. However, the reader is acutely aware that the violence in
the novel will not lead to greater honor for the slain tyrant. His head atop a pole, serving
as the center of the bloody festivities, becomes an object of mockery, not an object of
worship. However, out of this mockery comes a new kind of faith, the faith in a brighter
future for those the tyrant once tormented. Therefore, in blurring the lines between the
sacred and the profane, both Forster and Valle-Inclán once again call into question
traditional forms of order. Faith in these texts is not organized into neatly arranged
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religious ceremonies taking place on religious grounds, but rather occurs as a
spontaneous riot in the streets.
Finally, the last organizing principle that both Valle-Inclán and Forster undermine
is gender. They often attribute stereotypically feminine qualities to male characters.
Valle-Inclán depicts the Baron de Benicarles as extraordinarily dainty, fussing over his
clothing and doting on his little lap dog. Though to a lesser extent, Fielding also exhibits
the same concern with his clothing, fretting when he misplaces his collar stud. As
previously stated, the scene in which Aziz loans Fielding his collar stud has been
categorized as one of the most highly homoerotic scenes in modernist literature. Tirano
Banderas, too, contains overt implications of homosexuality, as the Baron lustily eyes the
young men around him. These hints at the possibility of erotic relationships between
men perhaps speak to widely-held modernist beliefs about the creative process. Indeed,
early gay rights activist Edward Carpenter (who later went on to inspire Forster’s novel
Maurice) strongly advocated for a view of homosexuality as a creative and liberated
condition (Bell 26). Though most theorists in the early twentieth century did not share his
view, they did firmly believe that femininity and creativity were somehow linked; thus
just as narrative structure and manipulations of time offered new creative orders, so too
could exploring the feminine within the masculine.
Like Forster and Valle-Inclán, Ford and de los Ríos also question conventional
standards of masculinity. Ford’s depiction of Edward Ashburnham in The Good Soldier
as a man who enjoys slightly effeminate pastimes, such as the reading of sentimental
novels, undermines the reader’s expectations of a British soldier. In addition, the
suggestion that Ashburnham might be impotent further emasculates the idealized version
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of British manhood. Significantly, Ashburnham, the man to whom the title refers, does
not get license to tell his own story. Rather, the reader learns of him secondhand and at
times even thirdhand (such as when Dowell passes to the readers a story that Leonora
passed to him), thus denying the once-powerful figure of the soldier even the most basic
of agencies. Effectively he is silenced, leaving only Dowell, a man “no better than a
eunuch,” to tell his story.
In a similar fashion, in Las hijas de Don Juan de los Ríos denies Don Juan the
power of speech as well. As previously stated, he speaks only once in the novel, only
doing so in order to reinforce his wife’s commands to their daughters. The rest of the
time, Don Juan remains at the mercy of the narrator’s depictions of him. If one assumes
the narrator to be female due to the fact that a woman is writing the story, then de los
Ríos consciously erases his ability to speak for himself in order to question the
established gender hierarchy, which quite frequently left women voiceless. Don Juan can
no longer use his words to exploit women; the situation has in fact reversed, with a
woman author exploiting the figure of Don Juan in order to critique the notion of male
dominance. In adding her own chapter to the Don Juan myth, de los Ríos seizes a power
that has long been denied women—the ability to write rather than to be written about.
In infusing gender critiques with critiques on writing, both Ford and de los Ríos
exemplify Marianne DeKoven’s claim that “a closer look at Modernism through its
complex deployment of gender reveals not only the centrality of femininity, but also,
again, an irresolvable ambivalence toward radical cultural change at the heart of
modernist formal innovation” (“Modernism and Gender” 175). Indeed, both authors
simultaneously express a desire for and a fear of cultural change, as exemplified through
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their focus on narration. In addition to their preoccupation with the way that gender
relates to writing, both authors also demonstrate an acute awareness of the effects of
narration and storytelling. De los Ríos comments on the potentially harmful
consequences of attempting to make myth into reality in her depiction of Don Juan, who
has become the model of Spanish machismo. In remodeling such a well-known
character, de los Ríos transforms her novel into metafiction. This metafiction, however,
does not attempt to characterize the ideal novel, but rather demonstrates what a novel
should not become. De los Ríos asserts that too closely emulating that which we find in
fiction may lead to disaster. De los Ríos does grant some form of agency to Don Juan at
the end of the novel, as he ends his own life. However, one cannot mistake this action on
Don Juan’s part as some small form of redemption, a way to seize whatever power may
remain. Rather, the literary figure himself realizes the destructiveness that a failure to
separate fact from fiction can bring. His violent ending of his own life forces the reader
to first question the extent to which he or she has placed faith in the myth and then to
reevaluate concepts of masculinity without relying on the model of Don Juan. In calling
on the reader to do this work, de los Ríos sheds light on the powerful, destructive nature
of storytelling.
Like de los Ríos, Ford also treats his novel as a form of metafiction. As in Las
hijas de Don Juan, narration becomes a powerful, destructive force, as the reader sees
Dowell at times practically drive himself mad in an attempt to accurately recount events
to his reader. Furthermore, The Good Solider also acts as a cautionary tale, and, like Las
hijas de Don Juan, forces the reader to doubt the trust that he or she places in so-called
objective narrators. In this case, Ford accomplishes his desired effect not by highlighting
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the danger of too closely emulating fiction, but by pointing out that a one-to-one
correspondence between fiction and life proves impossible. He does so primarily by
distorting the novel’s timeline to the point that the reader begins to wonder if Dowell has
accurately recounted the sequence of events as they occurred. The long list of events that
occur on the same date in the novel also causes the reader to raise an eyebrow, wondering
if such coincidence is actually possible. Finally, Dowell continuously laments the
difficulties of his task as a narrator. Given that the reader grows increasingly aware of
Dowell’s ire toward Florence and Ashburnham as the story progresses, the novel
becomes clouded with questions of just how objective a narrator Dowell could possibly
be. This stark contrast between the omniscient, objective narrator one expects and the
befuddled, biased narrator one actually encounters highlights the Modernist concern with
the impossibility of an objective narrative: “Dowell, in short, suffers from
Impressionism: his inability to tell a straight story is an aspect of his inability to know
and be himself” (Trotter 71).2 As in the case of Las hijas de Don Juan, The Good Soldier
serves as metafiction, calling the reader’s implicit trust of a narrator into question.
As Just points out, modernist authors are concerned not only with what fiction can
accomplish, but also with the classification of fiction and other forms of art; he argues
that Modernist literature allows readers “to rethink the subject of the change of literary
paradigms from the perspective of genre” (280). Virginia Woolf and Rosa Chacel prove
Just’s claim, as Orlando and Estacion. Ida y vuelta defy generic categories. Orlando,
subtitled A Biography, resembles anything but a conventional biography. Woolf employs
fiction to highlight readers’ expectations about genre, challenging readers’ supposed firm
2
For a discussion of Impressionism’s relationship with Modernism, see: MacLeod, Glen; Scott, Clive; and
Nicholls, pp. 170-173.
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grasp on the proper features of a biography. Just as Ford questions the possibility of a
one-to-one correspondence between the event and the recounting of said event, Woolf
questions the possibility of a one-to-one correspondence between a life and the
recounting of said life. One does not find an objective biographer faithfully reporting the
carefully researched details of Orlando’s life, but rather a narrator that continuously
interrupts the story in order to comment on the craft of biography. In creating this
narrative voice, Woolf points out that biography, like other forms of art, is subject to the
perspective of its author. She further likens biography to other forms of art by infusing
her “biography” with bits of other genres. In the first place, the reader knows that
Orlando is a work of fiction. Woolf exploits a conventional narrative arc in fiction, the
bildungsroman, to highlight the artificiality of her text. This comment on the text’s
artificiality puts Orlando in the realm of satire, ironically commenting on generic
categories. Finally, the reader encounters a poetic device common during the Elizabethan
era—the blazon—in the section of the novel that takes place during that time. Thus
Woolf combines several genres into one text, making the finished product virtually
unclassifiable.
In addition to mixing forms of written art, Woolf also obscures the boundary
between written art and visual art through her incorporation of photographs into her text.
In juxtaposing these different forms of art, Woolf creates a work that most closely
resembles collage, a medium that had gained popularity shortly before the publication of
Orlando.3 Collage, known for taking different pieces of existing objects and blending
them into one piece of art, drew attention to its highly artificial nature, forcing its viewer
to consider the choices that the artist made instead of searching for a direct relationship
3
Collage was widely associated with the Cubist experiments of Pablo Picasso and Juan Gris, among others.
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between the piece and what it represents. Woolf’s use of photographs has a similar effect
on the reader. Due to the fact that the technology to take photographs was not available
during the Elizabethan era, when the story begins, the reader is instantly aware that the
“photo” of Orlando as a boy must in fact be a fabrication. This initial understanding that
the photographs do not depict that which they claim to represent once again brings the
possibility of a one-to-one correspondence between art and its subject under scrutiny.
Levenson notes that, as Modernism came into being “the attempt to record the world-asit-is changed steadily into an effort to express the world-as-it appears” (Modernism 93).
The continuous interrogation of the actual relationship between the thing itself and its
representation highlights the Modernist concern with the tension between objectivity and
subjectivity. As Eysteinsson points out, Modernist representation “must be constructed
in a radically ‘subjective’ manner—it must not take on the shape of ‘rationalized’
objective representation to which as social beings we are accustomed” (43).
Like Orlando, Estación. Ida y vuelta is also preoccupied with forms of
representation and resembles collage more than any other art form. Chacel blends a
variety of genres in order to create a virtually unclassifiable text. Like Woolf’s work,
Chacel’s work falls primarily in the realm of fiction. Also like Orlando, Estación. Ida y
vuelta contains features of the bildungsroman, though in this case it depicts the coming of
age of the author rather than the character. 4 Furthermore, its first-person perspective
situates it nicely in the realm of autobiography, as the narrator of the first two sections
recounts events of his life. However, rather than a conventional autobiography, in which
4
Significantly, Chacel’s stream-of-consciousness bildungsroman has its roots in two canonical Modernist
texts: Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past and Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. For a
discussion of the importance of these works to a theory of the modernist novel, see pp404-406 of
Fletcher, John and Malcolm Bradbury.
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one finds the author consciously reconstructing his or her life story for an audience,
Estación. Ida y vuelta portrays the author’s stream of consciousness. As a result, the
expected relationship between the author and audience becomes disrupted; the author
largely ignores the presence of the audience, while the audience must to some extent do
the work of the author, piecing together his life from random bits of information. Chacel
disrupts this expected relationship in order to, like Woolf, call attention to the craft of a
seemingly straightforward form of narration. While one expects a simple retelling of
events from an autobiography, Chacel draws attention to the work that goes into
recreating these events by forcing the reader to take part in the creative process.
Therefore, one can see Chacel and Woolf engaged in the same project—highlighting the
artificiality of the text in order to emphasize the tension between objectivity and
subjectivity.
Chacel further emphasizes this tension through her use of cinematic elements in
her text. Her depiction of her settings as “scenes” and the meticulous description of her
characters’ placement within those scenes draws attention to the creative process behind
cinema, asserting that this relatively new medium also results from an artist’s craft.
Through this assertion, Chacel undermines the notion that the camera can serve as an
objective lens. Like other supposedly objective art forms, like biography and
photography, the movie camera cannot capture things exactly as they are; there is no oneto-one correspondence between the image on the screen and that which it depicts.
Rather, that which the camera captures is the result of careful staging and is subject to the
same artistic choices as other forms. Thus Chacel once again conflates multiple forms of
art, and
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using fragmentation, collage-like juxtaposition, densely poetic language,
epistemological and therefore narrative multiplicity and indeterminacy,
temporal dislocations, heavy reliance on symbolism, fluidity, and
dedefinition of characterization, and an utterly destabilizing, pervasive
irony, to realize her vision of a transcently truth-revealing art—like all the
Modernists, she saw art as the only remaining avenue to truth, meaning,
value, and transcendence in the otherwise bankrupt twentieth century.
(DeKoven, “Modernism and Gender,” 188)
Interestingly, DeKoven speaks not of Chacel in these lines, but of Woolf. Their
remarkably similar projects speak to the Modernist preoccupation with the possibilities of
art in an otherwise hopeless world, noting that these possibilities begin with a subjective
interpretation of art itself.
Just as Woolf and Chacel assert that objectivity is impossible in the creative
process, which always relies on the subjective perspective of the artist, they further
highlight this tension between objectivity and subjectivity through their treatment of time
in their novels. The reader never receives any concrete markers of time in Estación. Ida y
vuelta; instead, the reader must construct the text’s timeline. In calling upon her reader to
do this work, Chacel suggests that objective time does not exist; time is constructed as a
subjective experience, unique to the individual. While Woolf does not force her reader to
construct time, she does distort the reader’s ideas of units of time by creating a character
that somehow manages to only age twenty years over four centuries. Obviously,
conventional measurements of years cannot apply to Orlando. The reader must accept
the timeline portrayed in the novel, though it defies the logic of seemingly objective time
units. In creating a timeline that does not adhere to neatly measured hours, days, and
years, Woolf forces her readers to adopt a new model of time. In addition to using time
to comment on the impossibility of objectivity, Woolf and Chacel also distort time in
order to question notions of absolute authority. Just as the unit of time with which the
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reader is familiar ceases to be the absolute measurement of time in either novel, both
Orlando and Estación. Ida y vuelta also undermine other forms of overarching authority.
In particular, the novels question who has traditionally had the authority to speak and
who has been rendered silent. They do so primarily through their treatment of gender.
In both novels, the notion of absolute authority comes under fire as males,
traditionally those granted the power to speak, cease to have a voice. In Orlando, the title
character’s transformation from male to female halfway through the text effectively
silences the male, giving the woman the last word of the text. Furthermore, the fact that
Orlando publishes as a woman ushers the voice of the woman into the public sphere. In
Estación. Ida y vuelta, the stream of consciousness of the male protagonist disappears
after the first two sections of the novel, giving way to the stream of consciousness of the
female author in the third section. Once again, the male voice is silenced and the female
voice has the last word. Also, as in Orlando, Chacel’s commentary on her process of
creation brings the voice of the female author into the public sphere. These texts’
assertions about speech and authority closely resemble those made in The Good Soldier
and Las hijas de Don Juan. Just as Ford and de los Ríos deny the power of speech to
those who have previously dominated the narrative in order to subvert models of
masculine authority, Woolf and Chacel grant the power of speech to those who have
previously been voiceless for the same purpose. In doing so, they offer the possibility of
alternative models of authority, ones that do not rest on arbitrarily established hierarchies.
Like Chacel and Woolf, Lorca and Yeats also provide those who have been
silenced with a voice of some sorts; those who have been marginalized move into the
forefront of their poetry. While members of marginalized groups do not always act as the
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speaker for their poems, the authors portray them as powerful figures, integral to forming
national identity. In Lorca’s “St. Gabriel,” the speaker depicts a gypsy woman,
Anunciación de los Reyes, having a conversation with the archangel for whom the poem
is named. This ability to converse with the divine gives Anunciación, a member of a
group that has virtually no power in Spanish society, a measure of authority that has been
denied to her people for many years. Furthermore, Anunciación will soon have the
power to usher in salvation for her ailing nation through the child she will bear; the gypsy
possesses a power denied to traditional authorities, such as the military and the
government.
As in “St. Gabriel,” Yeats’ “Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea” includes dialogue
between Emer and her son and later between the son and Cuchulain. This dialogue,
interspersed with the speaker’s description of the events taking place, gives mythical Irish
figures a voice, thus giving these myths back a measure of power lost when Ireland was
colonized. Yeats takes this strategy of giving a voice to mythical Irish figures even
further in “The Stolen Child.” Due to the constant references to “we” in the poem, the
reader can safely assume that the speaker of the poem is one of the many faeries playfully
tripping through the Irish wilderness. Not only does one of the faeries serve as the
poem’s speaker, but several faeries chant in unison in the italicized refrains of the poem.
The italics serve as a magical incantation, enchanting the child away from the world he
knows. This ability to enchant the child gives mythical figures a power over real-world
beings, once again granting them authority where before they had none.
Yeats’ use of Irish myth as a commentary on power relations serves as an
example of yet another technique in modernist literature—the reconfiguring of myth for
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the modern world. McFarlane states that “myth…commended itself as a highly effective
device for imposing order of a symbolic, even poetic, kind on the chaos of quotidian
event” (82) and goes on to cite Eliot’s “Ulysses, Order, and Myth” as ushering in this
view of myth. In more recent criticism, Bell cites the mythic structures of Yeats, Joyce,
Lawrence, and Mann, and also discusses Eliot’s use of myth in The Waste Land (15).
Significantly, Yeats uses not only figures from Irish myth, but also contains veiled
references to Roman mythology in “Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea.” The “horses of the
sea” with which Cuchulain battles have, as previously stated, been associated with the
Roman god Neptune; thus the battle depicted becomes a struggle between two different
traditions of myth. Through this struggle, Yeats highlights the notion of impermanence,
suggesting that that which currently provides order will one day vanish, just as myths
have.
Like Yeats, Lorca also uses the figure of Neptune to comment on stability and
change. In “St. Raphael,” Neptune appears whispering; this image refers to the waves
that the Guadalquivir makes as it flows through Córdoba. Neptune’s whispers are
juxtaposed with the image of a crumbled wall, sending a message about stability (or lack
thereof). The river, which appears ever-changing, exists as a permanent feature of the
city of Córdoba. In contrast, the seemingly stable wall has broken; despite its strength, it
has proven temporary. Thus through the figure of Neptune, both Lorca and Yeats
comment on the tension between that which is forever and that which is fleeting, noting
that external appearances often betray the true nature of (in)stability. In this commentary,
they come to share concerns about order and chaos with other modernist authors,
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particularly Forster and Valle-Inclán, who also caution readers that seemingly stable
systems can dissolve into chaos.
In addition to using the myth of Neptune and figures from Irish mythology in
order to highlight the tension between order and chaos, Yeats and Lorca also utilize them
to comment on theories of time. Both authors situate these figures in the present in at
least one of their poems, thus combining multiple time periods into one instance. This
combination suggests the possibility that myths from the past could bring order to a
chaotic present, thereby placing Yeats and Lorca in the company of modernist authors
such as Joyce, Eliot, Lawrence, and Mann. Furthermore, their treatment of time posits a
cyclical view of history. The portrayal of the rebirth of the Christ-child in a secular
context in “St. Gabriel” suggests that Lorca viewed time as a recurring phenomenon, with
the same events taking place at multiple moments in history. Yeats, too, had a cyclical
view of time and history: his theory of history as two intersecting gyres constantly
interacting with one another has been well-documented.5 This questioning of linear time
links Yeats and Lorca to Woolf and Chacel, whose work also debunks widely-held
conceptions of time. It further puts them into the company of Pound, Ford, and
Lawrence, all of whom subscribed to a cyclic theory of history.
Lorca’s connections to authors widely considered as major figures of Modernism
highlights the arbitrary nature of the modernist canon, which has excluded Spain for far
too long. The above discussion points out that Spanish literature contains the hallmarks
of modernist literature—the tension between order and chaos, questions of gender
identity, new theories of time, and narrative fragmentation, just to name a few. Indeed,
5
See for example p. 170 in Blakeney-Williams, Louise. Modernism and the Ideology of History. New
York: Cambridge UP, 2002. Print.
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the work of the very critics who deliberately exclude Spanish authors when forming
theories of Modernism—critics such as Bradbury and McFarlane, Eysteinsson, Nicholls,
and Levenson—applies readily to Spanish texts.
In addition, one finds the prominent influence that concerns over Empire held
over Modernist literature (as discussed in my introduction) in both the Spanish and
British texts I have discussed, once again placing Spanish literature at the forefront of the
Modernist movement. Williams and Childs both note that the Modernist text portrays
time in a subjective fashion that causes the reader to experience time as a series of
flashbacks, jumps, and repetitions. As has been detailed at length, each text I discuss
manipulates time in some way. In Tirano Banderas, one encounters a series of narrative
fragments that take place out of chronological order. A Passage to India, while narrated
in a linear pattern, suggests a circular theory of time with the rebirth of the Krishna at the
end of the novel. Dowell, narrator of The Good Soldier, consistently flashes back to
events that have happened in the past. Furthermore, the novel itself, while it claims to
end in the present, actually ends in the future; the present remains ever-absent. Though
the timeline in Las hijas de Don Juan does not appear altered, a figure from the past still
plays a prominent role in the story’s present; therefore the twentieth century still contains
traces of the seventeenth century, ironically demonstrating how out of place a
seventeenth-century casanova appears in twentieth-century Madrid. Due to the streamof-consciousness narration in Estación. Ida y vuelta, the reader can never quite pin down
a marker of time. Events that last months occupy mere sentences, while lengthy
paragraphs are at times devoted to a glance that may last no more than a few seconds. In
Orlando, the reader comes to question the novel’s chronology due to the fact that the title
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character does not appear to age throughout the four centuries he/she is alive. In Lorca’s
poetry, the past literally takes on flesh in the form of archangels who walk the earth in
order to remind Spain of its imperial heritage. Finally, Yeats places figures from Irish
mythology in a present-day surrounding in order to highlight the incongruity between the
time in which they were created and the early twentieth century. Therefore, one could
argue that these texts contain a spatial rather than a temporal organization, which Childs
argues is a hallmark of modernist literature in the wake of Empire.
Jameson argues that this spatial organization results from Modernist artists
inability to represent an unrepresentable whole, claiming that the distance between the
mother country and the colony creates a distance that makes a fully representable whole
impossible. Continuing along this train of thought, Said argues that this element of the
unknown creates in modernist texts dislocations, contradictions, fragments, and
circularity. These claims further the case for Spanish literature as entrenched in
modernism, as each text I have discussed contains at least one of the above-mentioned
features. Triano Banderas is riddled with contradictions and strange juxtapositions. For
example, the phrase “honest gachupín” actually highlights the cunning ways of the
Spanish-born pawnbroker. Furthermore, the Tyrant Banderas himself appears as an odd
blend of human and animal. The juxtaposition of opposites found within the Tyrant
forces the reader to view him as a grotesque figure who eventually ushers in lawlessness
rather than order. While once again more subtle than Valle-Inclán, Forster manifests the
difficulty of representing the Empire through a dislocation of voice. The echo found
inside the cave effectively silences the truth about what occurred, making any narrative
about it mere conjecture. Due to this silence, A Passage to India portrays a powerful
215
message about the inability to understand exactly what takes place in the colonies while
one is comfortably at home in the Mother Country. One finds this idea of multiple,
possibly contradictory narratives again in Las hijas de Don Juan, as de los Ríos inserts
herself in a larger tradition of portraying Don Juan, who can be simultaneously a hero and
a villain. De los Ríos also fills her text with linguistic incongruities, as, for example, high
and low language are juxtaposed and create a distance between the characters and the
reader. One feels this distance in The Good Soldier as well; one could argue that the
entire novel depicts Dowell’s struggle to represent the unrepresentable. He desperately
desires a one-to-one correspondence between the events that have occurred and his
depiction of them, but the harder he tries, the more impossible the task becomes. Both
Woolf and Chacel also question the one-to-one correspondence between form and
content through their portrayals of the visual arts. Woolf’s inclusion of “photographs” of
her characters causes the reader to question the notion that a camera provides an objective
lens. Chacel’s intricate cinemaphotographer-esque descriptions of the scenes in her novel
cause the reader to consider that the image on screen is not the subject as is, but rather the
subject as the director chooses to portray it. Chacel and Woolf also manipulate literary
genre in order to point out the complexities of representation, questioning whether one
particular form can accurately depict its topic. Finally, through the appearance of
mythical figures in present-day Ireland and Spain, Yeats and Lorca suggest that the
fantastic could be a “realer reality” than the truth. But of all these apparent
contradictions, dislocations, and incongruities, Etsy notes that imperialism exists as the
central contradiction.
216
Despite the fact that modernist authors remain acutely aware that contradiction of
imperialism rests on the necessity of it being simultaneously progressive and barbaric
(Etsy 87), Said points out that these authors also acknowledge that Empire has been
crucial to the formation of national identity. Therefore, one finds in the texts I have
discussed a double-edged sword in the depiction of Empire. Though it outwardly
condemns the corrupt imperial government in Santa Fe, Tirano Banderas does not offer
its reader a vision of Santa Fe without the influence of the Spanish still residing there.
The reader therefore comes to realize that Valle-Inclán struggles to represent a world
without the Spanish empire, which has been central to Spanish identity for such a long
time. Similarly, even as he critiques the Anglo-Indians in Chandrapore, Forster
ultimately does not denounce the British Empire as corrupt, leading the reader to
appreciate the mixture of scorn and dependence imperialism prompts. Similar to Tirano
Banderas, Las hijas de Don Juan does not offer a suitable substitute for the model of
masculinity that has brought Spain so much heartbreak, suggesting that de los Ríos
harbors a certain nostalgia for the past even as she derides its influence on the present.
Likewise, Dowell in The Good Soldier cannot bring himself to completely turn his back
on Ashburnham, the model of British manhood. Despite the fact that Ashburnham
becomes the story’s villain, Dowell seasons his scorn with pity and fond remembrances
throughout. Just as Dowell remains attached to that which he critiques, so too does
Woolf, whose ambivalent attitude toward Empire has been well documented. One gets a
firsthand glimpse of this attitude in Orlando, as the narrator simultaneously reaffirms and
undermines the title character’s British-ness. In a similar fashion, Chacel reaffirms a
sense of Spanish-ness in her novel by having the “birth” of the child/text occur in Spain,
217
while at the same moment suggesting that forming a singular Spanish identity is
impossible, despite Primo de Rivera’s attempts. Finally, rather than condemning the
concept of Empire, both Yeats and Lorca use it as the foundation of an independent
nation. Yeats, acutely aware that writing in English effectively “colonizes” Irish myth,
does so in order to demonstrate that, despite the great extent to which Irish culture has
been usurped by its colonizers, unique aspects to Ireland still exist. Lorca, in pointing out
the long imperial history of Spain, implies that a thorough understanding of this history
will be fundamental to building a nation that does not need an Empire at its foundation.
As both the British and Spanish texts I discuss display attitudes toward Empire that critics
assert are critical to an understanding of Modernism, Spain’s exclusion from the
modernist canon appears even more curious. A more critical examination of its exclusion
will open up new channels of discussion about what Modernism and the word “modern”
mean for literary studies.
Finally, and perhaps most significantly, critics readily acknowledge the Spanish
influence on Modernist literature through other forms of art, particularly the visual arts.
Pablo Picasso’s 1907 painting Les Demoiselles d’Avignon gave rise to the primitivist
movement within Modernism. One can note the impact of this movement in D.H.
Lawrence’s Women in Love as Gerald Crich and Rupert Birkin discuss the artistic merits
of an African carving of a woman in labor (Levenson, Modernism, 40-42). In particular,
Cubism, propelled by Spanish artists such as Picasso and Juan Gris, has shaped several
texts widely considered to be at the forefront of Modernist literature.6 Techniques such as
fragmentation, juxtaposition, and multiple perspectives abound in Cubism. As previously
6
Not only has it shaped modernist literature, but Cubism was also influenced by Einstein’s physics,
particularly the theory of relativity, which as previously noted, heavily influenced Modernist authors in
their treatment of time and space.
218
stated, these very techniques have come to define Modernism, from Eliot’s The Waste
Land to Stevens’ “The Man with the Blue Guitar,” to Marianne Moore’s definition of
poetry, to Williams’ Paterson, to Pound’s Cantos Gertrude Stein modeled her literary
“portraits” on Cubist paintings by Picasso and Gris that she collected (Macleod 201-202).
Furthermore, Joyce’s use of Cubist techniques in Ulysses has been well documented.7 In
addition, Surrealist artists such as Salvador Dalí and Joan Miró directly impacted
Williams’ Kora in Hell: Improvisations (Macleod 212-213). Bradbury and McFarlane
also include an entire chapter on the importance of Surrealism (and Dadism) to
Modernism (292-308), and Levenson offers a discussion of “Surrealism between Art and
Politics” (Modernism 248-252)
If critics have no problem considering Spain at the forefront of the visual arts in
the early twentieth century, Spain’s exclusion from the literary Modernist canon seems
all the more unfounded. Indeed, one can now see the Modernist canon rapidly expanding.
Critics have made a case for literature written in Sanskrit, Japanese, Hebrew, Chinese,
and Hungarian as part of the Modernist canon. Furthermore, other scholars have argued
that Modernist art comes not just from Europe and the United States, but from Brazil,
Lebanon, India, and Taiwan as well. Writers who resided in European colonies during
the early twentieth century are receiving consideration that they never enjoyed while
alive. Furthermore, scholars have begun to reexamine areas “closer to home,” so to
speak; they are reevaluating the relationship between the Harlem Renaissance and
Modernist literature produced in the US and long considered canonical.8 Scholars now
need to turn that kind of critical attention toward Europe, examining why certain voices
7
See for example both of Archie K. Loss’ articles on the subject.
For a comprehensive discussion on new directions for the Modernist canon, see Mao, Douglas and
Rebecca L. Walkowitiz.
8
219
were silenced as the Modernist canon was formed and allowing for the possibility of new
locations for Modernism. The expansion of the canon toward a multiplicity of locations
for Modernism has allowed critics the chance to reevaluate the definition of the word
“modern” and its implications on literary studies. A closer look at Spain further expands
the definition of this word. Rather than viewing Spain as a somewhat backward country
that could not keep up with its European neighbors, scholars must acknowledge Spain’s
modernity. Doing so will allow for a more comprehensive definition of the word
“modern” and will redraw boundaries within the literary canon.
220
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Biography
Megan Holt grew up in Tuscumbia, Alabama and received Bachelor’s Degrees in both
English and Spanish from the University of Alabama in 2003. She received her Master’s
Degree from Tulane University in 2005 and her Ph.D from Tulane University in 2013.
She has presented papers at the Louisville Conference on Literature and Culture Since
1900, the South Central Modern Language Association, and American Comparative
Literature Association, and the South Atlantic Modern Language Association. She has
taught courses on writing, poetry, and the novel. In addition to her studies on
Modernism, she is also interested in pop culture studies, particularly in song lyrics and
the graphic novel.