Monarchy, Political Culture And Drama in Seventeenth-century Madrid: Theater of Negotiation

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MONARCHY, POLITICAL CULTURE, AND DRAMA IN SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY MADRID

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Monarchy, Political Culture, and Drama in Seventeenth-Century Madrid Theater of Negotiation

JODI CAMPBELL Texas Christian University, USA

© Jodi Campbell 2006 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Jodi Campbell has asserted his/her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Gower House Croft Road Aldershot Hampshire GU11 3HR England

Ashgate Publishing Company Suite 420 101 Cherry Street Burlington, VT 05401-4405 USA

Ashgate website: http://www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Campbell, Jodi Monarchy, political culture and drama in seventeenth-century Madrid : theater of negotiation 1.Spanish drama – Classical period, 1500-1700 – History and criticism 2.Spanish drama (Comedy) – History and criticism 3.Kings and rulers in literature 4.Monarchy – Spain – Public opinion – History – 16th century 5.Public opinion – Spain – History – 16th century 6.Spain – Politics and government –1621-1665 7.Spain – Politics and government – 1665-1700 I.Title 862.3’09352621 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Campbell, Jodi, 1968Monarchy, political culture and drama in seventeenth-century Madrid : theater of negotiation / by Jodi Campbell. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7546-5418-4 (alk. paper) 1. Madrid (Spain) 2. Spanish drama—Classical Period, 1500-1700—History and criticism. 3. Literature and state—Spain—History—17th century. 4. Politics and literature—Spain—History—17th century. 5. Monarchy in literature. I. Title. PQ6105.C36 2006 862’.309358—dc22 2005031612 ISBN-10: 0-7546-5418-4 ISBN-13: 978-0-7546-5418-6 Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Books Ltd. Bodmin, Cornwall.

Contents Acknowledgements

vi

1 Plays and Politics

1

2 The World of the Stage

31

3 Kings in Theory: Competing Ideals of Kingship

65

4 Kings in Action: Evaluations of the Practice of Kingship

101

5 Conclusion: The Curtain Falls

137

Bibliography Index

151 173

Acknowledgements Just as there is much more behind the creation and production of a play than what the audience sees on stage, this project could not have existed without the support of countless friends, colleagues, and archival staff. Special thanks are due to those who over the years have inspired and encouraged my explorations of Spanish history and the comedia: James Boyden, Teresa Soufas, Alain SaintSaëns, Anthony Zahareas, and especially Carla Rahn Phillips. I would like to express my particular gratitude to the Fulbright Association, which provided funding for my research and a warm circle of friends and support staff in Madrid. Thanks and abrazos to all those who made my research time in Spain such a wonderful experience: the staff at the Comisión de Intercambio Cultural, Educativo y Científico entre España y los Estados Unidos; the staff at the archives of the Biblioteca Nacional, Simancas, the Archivo Histórico Nacional, the Archivo de la Villa de Madrid, and the Archivo de Protocolos; Miguel Angel Coso, who gave me my first glimpse of a seventeenth-century corral; and the Sola Corbacho family, who have been unhesitatingly welcoming and patient with the ungainly foreigner in their midst. Most of all, my thanks go to Juan Carlos for his unfailing love and encouragement. All of those named above, as well as many others who are included in my thoughts if not on this page, have contributed in many ways to this project, and they have my gratitude. Any remaining errors of fact, interpretation, or judgment are wholly my own.

Chapter 1

Plays and Politics Of the thousands of plays that enacted stories on Spanish stages throughout the seventeenth century, a significant proportion included kings as principal characters. Some of these plays featured well-known stories about historical figures, such as Pedro I of Castile, Alexander the Great, or Edward III of England. Many featured mythical kings from ancient Greek and Roman legends, while others simply invented fictional rulers from long ago and far away. These plays belonged to a new genre, the three-act comedia, which appeared in Spain in the late sixteenth century. Although dramatists since the early Renaissance had been careful to follow the guidelines set by classical Greek and Latin playwrights, the writers of the Spanish comedia began to bend the rules. According to classical dramatic precepts, which drew strict divisions between comedies and tragedies, kings did not appear in comedies. Aristotle established that a tragedy was characterized by the rise and fall of a powerful figure, whether god, prince, or noble, while a comedy placed an ordinary man in an unpleasant or absurd situation; the two were not meant to share the stage. One of the principal innovations of the comedia was to blend the comic and the tragic into a single dramatic form.1 An important consequence of this mixture of classical forms was that kings and ordinary people for the first time began to appear in the same stories. This brought the figure of the king down from his Greek association with divinity and heroism, set above other men, to the position of an ordinary mortal, having to deal with the conflicts, passions, and obstacles of life on earth. Placing kings in comedias emphasized their human side. In the realm of political theory, although theories of divine right and the sacredness of royal authority were common in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, writers began to draw kings down to the human level as well. Thomas 1

The Aristotelian categories of literature were lyric, epic, tragedy, and comedy, but by 1617 the Spanish theorist Francisco Cascales had limited these categories to three: lyric, epic, and drama. Although Cascales himself did not approve of the “monstrous” new blend, in 1635 the writer and chronicler José Pellicer de Tovar defended its quality to the Academia de Madrid, saying that it combined the best elements of the other styles, and by this time it had become the standard pattern for Spanish dramatists. Cascales, Tablas poéticas (Murcia, 1617), and Pellicer, Idea de la comedia de Castilla, reproduced in Federico Sánchez Escribano and Alberto Porqueras Mayo (eds), Preceptiva dramática española del Renacimiento y el barroco (Madrid, 1965), pp. 217–27.

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Hobbes’ study of the political system as a mechanical apparatus left no room for divine right as an element of kingly rule: kings were ordinary men chosen by their subjects, who then conferred sovereign power upon them.2 The “mirror of princes” genre of political literature, popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, taught as one of its principal lessons that kings needed to dominate their personal weaknesses as men in order to fulfill well their duties as monarchs. The progression of these ideas of the monarch as a man limited by obligations, responsibilities, and constitutional restrictions, as opposed to a ruler governing as the direct representative of God, had its most extreme consequences in England in 1649 when King Charles I (who believed in divine right) was deposed and executed by his subjects (who did not). When these issues appeared in the Spanish comedia, and they frequently did, it was often the overlapping presence of the king and his subjects in the same story that occasioned the dramatic conflict. Either the interests of the king were in conflict with the goals of other characters, or the king himself was torn between his desires as a man and his responsibility to act in the best interests of his people. In either case, a stage occupied by both king and commoner was a possibility that proved very attractive to seventeenth-century playwrights.3 This is a book about Spanish plays, their portrayals of kingship, and how these fictional representations may be used to understand what real Spaniards thought about their own kings. Its focus is on the central decades of the seventeenth century (1630–80), a crucial period for the trajectories of both politics and drama. Over the course of the previous century, Spain had become undisputedly the greatest power in Europe and one of the greatest empires in the world. It possessed seemingly limitless wealth from the Indies, unstoppable armies, and the leadership of Catholic Europe. In the early seventeenth century, however, the maintenance of such an empire began to take its toll, as Spain faced the concerted opposition of France and England, discontent within its own territories, and bankruptcy. Responding to this challenge, the monarchy under Philip IV (1621–65) attempted to strengthen its position through political centralization, seeking to govern the empire more effectively and maximize access to its resources. This was accompanied by a campaign of artistic imagery and rhetoric aimed to enhance the majesty of the crown and emphasize the absolute power of the king. Unfortunately for Philip, many Spanish territories resisted the process of centralization and refused to contribute additional men and taxes to the maintenance of the empire. Increased pressure from the crown resulted in an outbreak of rebellions throughout the empire in the 1640s. Spain’s power 2

Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651), chapter XVIII. Ricardo de Turia, Apologético de las comedias españolas (Valencia, 1616) and Cristóbal Suárez de Figueroa, El pasajero (Madrid, 1617) both commented on the advantage of mixing tragedy and comedy to be able to present both great and humble figures on the same stage. 3

Plays and Politics

3

internationally began to crumble, and its situation was not improved by the succession after Philip’s death in 1665 of his feeble four-year-old son, Charles II. Although Charles reigned for 35 years, he suffered from physical and mental debilities and was never able to provide strong leadership. His reign was characterized by factionalism in which various figures in the court (including his mother, half-brother and two successive wives) competed to influence the weak king. This left ordinary Spaniards facing an odd paradox: they were the subjects of a monarchy that in theory exalted the power of the king and his divinely given authority, and that had only recently been superior among the powers of Europe. They were aware of the declining fortunes of their empire in the seventeenth century, and after the succession of Charles II they were particularly aware of the frailty of their monarch. How did Spaniards understand the nature of kingship in these circumstances? How did they reconcile the power of kings in absolutist theory with the imagery of kingship promoted by Philip IV and the problematic reality of Charles II? What did they understand to be the proper relationship between themselves and their sovereign during a time when theories of divine right coincided with theories of reciprocal obligations between king and subject? These conflicting ideas had contributed to civil war in England, and they were much debated in the rest of Europe as well. The political theory of the seventeenth century is rich with discussion and analysis of the nature of kingship, but it does not give us access to the perspectives of the ordinary people who were the vast majority of the king’s vassals. Drama, and particularly the comedia, can function as a source that lets us look beneath the surface of traditional political history to understand how ordinary Spaniards may have experienced and perceived the political changes of the seventeenth century. This was the “Golden Age” of Spanish literature, and the comedia, a three-act play whose structure was standardized by the great playwright Lope de Vega in the first years of the seventeenth century, was the most popular and widespread genre.4 Thousands of people crowded into the public theaters every week to see the stories of kings, saints, fools, adventurers, lovers, and heroes from myth and legend played out before them. Over the course of the seventeenth century, these plays formed a principal element of Spanish popular entertainment. The two principal theaters of Madrid were packed with spectators year-round, comedias were part of court functions and local festivals, and well-known poets and playwrights vied for attention from their audiences. Those who chronicled the activities of the city always noted when a comedia was performed at a particular event or when one was performed to such acclaim that people were heard singing

4

For a more extensive definition of the characteristics and subcategories of the comedia, see A. Robert Lauer, “The Comedia and Its Modes,” Hispanic Review, 63/2 (1995): 157–78.

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snatches of its music or reciting its most moving speeches on the streets in the days following a performance.5 Another feature of this new genre was its goal of representing matters and customs relevant to contemporary Spanish life.6 Nearly all seventeenth-century dramatic theorists at some point employed the metaphor of the comedia as a mirror held up to the world, reflecting an image that was meant to instruct. Their arguments for its didactic value suggest that the comedia was meant to communicate useful and viable ideas.7 Playwrights, in turn, acknowledged the powerful influence of the spectators in the form of their approval or rejection of plays and their economic support of the theater, and strove to satisfy their audiences’ expectations. The fact that so many plays involved conflicts between kings and their subjects suggests that dramatists—and their public—found these stories appealing and understood them to be lessons about how to resolve or avoid these conflicts. The format of the comedia allowed it to tell a brief but complete story with its conflict and resolution, which playwrights used to approach problematic situations and explore the variety of possible resolutions. When the plots involved political situations, especially those examining the relationship between a king and his subjects, the solutions they offered can reveal a great deal about the political awareness and expectations of the audience. This audience, in turn, was significant because it was far broader than that reached by any other form of literature and represented all levels of Spanish society. The king occasionally made appearances in the two principal public theaters, the wealthy had their boxes, the local authorities had benches in each theater, and the prices for admission to the open patio were low enough for the most humble subject to attend as well. The physical construction of the theaters divided the audience into social groups that reflected the actual position of these groups in society, but regardless of this physical 5

A random selection from the Gazeta de Madrid reveals, for example, that in the year 1678 the celebrations of the wedding of the Duke of Medinaceli’s son in February, the German emperor’s birthday in November, and the queen’s birthday in December included attendance at comedias. Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, MS 14.016/4. 6 Recent scholarship illuminates other facets of the close ties between early modern drama and contemporary life in fascinating ways: Leslie Levin in Metaphors of Conversion in Seventeenth-Century Spanish Drama (London, 1998) shows how the experience of religious conversion was portrayed on stage using the same style and figurative language employed by preachers and artists, and Jody Enders’ Death by Drama and Other Medieval Urban Legends (Chicago, 2002) shows how legends, enhanced and perpetuated through theater, divulge the interests and concerns of their audience. 7 The comedia, according to Luis Alfonso de Carvallo, was “an imitation of life, a mirror of customs, an image of truth” (Cisne de Apolo, 1602); Micer Andrés Rey de Artieda called it “a mirror of life, its goal to reveal vices and virtues” (Discursos, epístolas y epigramas de Artemidoro, 1605); and Lope de Vega referred to it simply as “a mirror of human life” (Arte Nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo, 1609).

Plays and Politics

5

division, all of these groups had some sort of space in the theaters, and the experience of the drama was shared by king and commoner alike.8 This was also a time when Spanish philosophy and theology favored the metaphor of the world as a stage, and life as a dream. As life was a kind of testing ground for people, to see how well they could play their social roles and obey the precepts of Christianity, so the theater was a testing ground for society. Questions of honor, justice, love, and loyalty could be examined and tested in the form of endlessly variable fictional situations. Golden Age dramatists dealt with the question of kingly authority as much as political writers did, although their experiments took a different form: they could portray trustworthy kings and tyrannical kings, ideal situations and insoluble problems. It is as if the theater were a kind of laboratory in which different ideas could be tested and the outcome judged. Since the decades of the comedia’s greatest popularity coincided with the decades of Spain’s greatest political crises, the ways in which Spaniards experimented with fictional kingship on stage revealed their concerns and expectations about their own kings.9 How these situations were resolved reflects the way the society saw itself, what it regarded as ideal, and what it condemned as impermissible. The fictional experiments of the comedia took place against a backdrop of political change, as the seventeenth century was a time when the structure and perception of monarchy were being redefined, not only in Spain, but all over Europe.10 Historians have argued for generations over the exact meaning and nature of absolutism, but a general sketch reveals two concurrent processes.11 One was an increasing concentration of power in the person of the king, “an ever widening supremacy and competence inherent in the ruler’s personal will and decision,” supported by an understanding that the monarch’s authority and

8

Ricardo García Carcel, Las culturas del Siglo de Oro (Madrid, 1999), pp. 46–7, argues that Golden Age theater is a good example of the difficulty of distinguishing between “elite” and “popular” culture because it appealed so widely to everyone. 9 For the purposes of this study, when referring to the wide variety of rulers who were characters in the comedia, I have used the term “king” as a synonym of “monarch,” signifying any ruler who is sovereign in a particular territory, such as the dukes of the Italian city-states or the emperors of Rome. These characters exemplify features of the relationship between sovereigns and vassals, whether or not they specifically hold the title of king. 10 One of the best recent works on this process is Paul Monod, The Power of Kings: Monarchy and Religion in Europe, 1589–1715 (New Haven, 1999). 11 An overview of competing definitions of absolutism is given by Michael S. Kimmel, Absolutism and Its Discontents: State and Society in Seventeenth-Century France and England (Oxford, 1988), pp. 9–13; see an excellent criticism of the term in Ruth MacKay, Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in Seventeenth-Century Castile (New York, 1999), pp. 1–4.

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legitimacy were derived directly from God.12 This included a change in the perception of kingship, often fostered by campaigns to enhance the image of royal figures through costume, art, and architecture designed to promote a sense of awe and majesty. By enhancing the individual power of the king, absolutism also strove to enhance the king’s ability to make laws, wage war, and impose taxes without the consent of his subjects. The basis of the relationship between ruler and subject, according to the ideals of absolutism, “was the unlimited fidelity owed to the king as a personal suzerain whose authority was unchallengeable.”13 While this process focused on the individual, enhancing the power and majesty of the king, the second was a more bureaucratic one in which the monarchy sought to increase its practical control over systems of justice, law, and commerce, as well as over provincial and municipal affairs. This involved a process of administrative centralization and political integration, a challenge for many early modern states in which long-standing social, regional, and institutional centers of authority (nobles, representative assemblies, the church) strove to protect their privileges and liberties. In the case of Spain, the Habsburg monarchy faced a particular challenge in that it ruled one of the most diverse and far-flung states of Europe. This “composite monarchy” was a collection of regions with distinct identities: not only did the Spanish Habsburgs govern territories in the Netherlands, Italy, and the Americas, but the Iberian peninsula alone contained the territories of Castile, León, Navarre, and Aragon (and, between 1580 and 1640, the kingdom of Portugal), along with the territories of Catalonia and Valencia. United only by the person of the king, these regions frequently had different customs, languages, and representative institutions, along with strong constitutional traditions that preserved their regional uniqueness and limited the powers of the monarch. In the seventeenth century, these traditions increasingly were perceived by the Castilianbased monarchy as obstacles to effective government, and Spanish rulers and their ministers struggled against them in their efforts to maximize their resources through uniformity of taxation and legal systems in the various provinces.14

12

Perez Zagorin, Rebels and Rulers, 1500–1660, vol. 1, Society, States, and Early Modern Revolution (New York, 1982), p. 90. 13 Bob Scribner, “Understanding Early Modern Europe,” The Historical Journal, 30:3 (1987), pp. 752–3. Rather than being viewed as an unjust imposition, this process in many cases was favored by subjects dismayed by the religious and political chaos of the sixteenth century who were willing to surrender some of their rights to a powerful central authority in the interest of order and stability. See Julian H. Franklin, Jean Bodin and the Rise of Absolutist Theory (Cambridge, 1973), introduction and chapters 2 and 3, Guenter Lewy, Constitutionalism and Statecraft during the Golden Age of Spain (Geneva, 1960), p. 17, and Glenn Richardson, Renaissance Monarchy: The Reigns of Henry VIII, Francis I, and Charles V (New York, 2002), p. 32. 14 A good survey of this aspect of early modern government is J.H. Elliott, “A Europe of Composite Monarchies,” Past & Present, 137 (November 1992): pp. 48–71. See

Plays and Politics

7

The general outlines of absolutism are clear, and most historians agree that this process of overriding traditional liberties and privileges was one of the crucial steps towards the creation of the modern nation-state. Beyond that, there has been much discussion in recent decades about the actual practice and dimensions of absolutism: whether it perpetuated or ended feudalism, worked for or against the interests of the aristocracy, functioned with or without the support of the bourgeoisie, or was perhaps only an elaborate illusion of smoke and mirrors.15 In any case, what is clear is that absolutism was far more complex and nuanced than the stark tenet that kings had the executive agency and divine authority to do as they pleased. It may have rested on a shared assumption of the king’s theoretical ability to override the privileges of regions and social groups without any form of consent, but monarchs were generally wise enough not to attempt this in practice. They possessed absolute power only as long as everyone agreed that they possessed absolute power, and this agreement could be maintained only as long as kings did not make excessive use of that power against the interests of their subjects. As historical studies have shifted their attention from states and institutions (often measured by their ideals and goals rather than their actual accomplishments) to the mechanisms by which they actually functioned, it has become increasingly apparent that the absolutist states of the seventeenth century operated not through the unrelenting imposition of their authority, but through a process of negotiation and cooperation with existing powers. Many scholars have called attention to the ways in which absolutism relied on political patronage and thus signified “a renewed accommodation between monarchy and nobility, not a radical restructuring of their relationship in favour of the former.”16 In the case of Spain, a number of scholars have demonstrated the ongoing ability of representative groups

also Christian Hermann (ed.), Le premier âge de l’état en Espagne (1450–1700) (Paris, 2001). 15 Hillay Zmora, among others, suspects that the spectacle of absolutism “has dazzled and overawed modern historians more than it did contemporary nobles.” Monarchy, Aristocracy, and the State in Europe 1300–1800 (New York, 2001), p. 89. The richest debates about early modern absolutism have been in the field of French history: see especially the work of William Beik, James Russell-Major, Roland Mousnier, Sarah Hanley, Sharon Kettering, Roger Mettam, and James Collins. 16 Zmora, Monarchy, Aristocracy, and the State, p. 6, and the discussion of the seventeenth century in Chapter 5. Helen Nader’s Liberty in Absolutist Spain: The Habsburg Sale of Towns 1516–1700 (Baltimore, 1990) is a landmark study on the surprising coincidence of interest between the “absolutist” monarchy and autonomous towns. For the relationship between the crown and local oligarchies in Madrid, see Mauro Hernández, A la sombra de la Corona: Poder local y oligarquía urbana (Madrid, 1606–1808) (Madrid, 1995).

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and institutions, as well as royal councils, to limit the practical powers of early modern kings.17 Even ordinary people were frequently participants in this system rather than helpless or invisible pawns. Luis Corteguera, for example, has convincingly demonstrated the significance of the political awareness and activity of artisans in seventeenth-century Barcelona.18 Certainly the most obvious places to look for the political activities of ordinary people are episodes of riot, protest, and rebellion, and there were many of these in Western Europe in the seventeenth century.19 But what about the regions, such as Castile in the heart of the Spanish empire, that did not experience any substantial violent opposition to the process of absolutism? Are we to understand that the absence of political violence signifies approval or at least indifference? This is too simplistic a solution, but historians are still searching for ways to gain access to the views of the vast majority of the population who experienced these historical changes but did not react in ways extreme enough to leave clear traces in the archival record.20 Early modern society, and especially that of Spain, is frequently described as a society of orders, a clear hierarchy in which every person knew his or her position and corresponding obligations. Paradoxically, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were also a period of great uncertainty: the Reformation and subsequent religious wars, the shifting notions of power that accompanied the growth of absolutism, new intellectual views of the world drawn from science and exploration, and changing economic conditions all undermined what people perceived as the familiar foundations of their society. This resulted in a desire for restored stability, what Lawrence Stone has described as an “almost hysterical demand for order at all costs,”21 but also in a passion for questioning and

17

See the work of I.A.A. Thompson, Charles Jago, José Manuel de Bernardo Ares, Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, and Bartolomé Clavero. 18 Luis Corteguera, For the Common Good: Popular Politics in Barcelona, 1580– 1640 (Ithaca, 2002). Wayne te Brake’s Shaping History: Ordinary People in European Politics, 1500–1700 (Berkeley, 1998), demonstrates the importance of “taking ordinary people seriously as political actors” throughout early modern Europe, p. 2. 19 See Robert Forster and Jack P. Greene (eds), Preconditions of Revolution in Early Modern Europe (Baltimore, 1970), Yves-Marie Bercé, Revolt and Revolution in Early Modern Europe (New York, 1987), Zagorin, Rebels and Rulers, and te Brake, Shaping History. For Castile, which experienced protests but no serious rebellion, see Pedro L. Lorenzo Cadarso, Los conflictos populares en Castilla (siglos XVI–XVII) (Madrid, 1996). 20 An excellent study of the constant negotiations of early modern authority between monarch and people—with and without violence—is Alison Wall, Power and Protest in England 1525–1640 (New York, 2000). 21 Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England, 1500–1800 (London, 1977), p. 653.

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reevaluating old assumptions and beliefs.22 Spaniards in the seventeenth century still trusted in the value of a social and political hierarchy, but they wanted to define it clearly, and they wanted to ask questions first. Early modern societies visualized this hierarchy as a system of “interdependent functions and reciprocal duties that formed a body politic of common benefit to all its members, whatever their station,”23 and many of the challenges and questions posed by Spaniards had to do with defining exactly what those interdependencies were. Ordinary people were aware of and debated nearly every topic related to their changing world: “the state of Spain, kingship, absolutism, Machiavellianism, Tacitism, reason of state, rule by favourite, racial purity, social mobility, honour, the social and professional standing of painting, the rival merits of popular and classicizing literary traditions, the legitimacy of the theatre … to name but a handful.”24 Castilians may not have rebelled, but they were active thinkers and questioners and participants in negotiating their place in a changing society. The Spanish Golden Age has received much attention from literary scholars drawn to the tremendous volume, quality and range of literary work produced in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but these scholars have not always perceived it as an expression of this process of negotiation. The earliest and most thorough studies of Spanish drama in the twentieth century considered Golden Age theater to be the product of a state and an elite culture threatened by political and social instability. José Antonio Maravall, one of the most influential comedia scholars of the twentieth century, saw the sixteenth century as a key stage in the evolution from a feudal to a precapitalist society, and noted the social tensions that emerged as a result. Both the state and the nobility saw this evolution as a threat to their established hierarchy of power, and Maravall argued that they consciously used theater as a form of propaganda to stabilize and reinforce the existing order. The comedia presented stock characters representing types of people more than individuals, and these in his view emphasized the inherent honor and dignity of each rank, encouraging subjects to take pride in their place, and consequently to not threaten the system by stepping out of it. Dramatic conflict in the plays was created when the social order was threatened, and resolved when this order was happily restored, often through the assistance of the king himself. 25 22

Jeremy Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty: An Introduction to SeventeenthCentury Spanish Literature (London, 1998), p. 15; see also Monod, The Power of Kings, p. 141. 23 Zagorin, Rebels and Rulers, vol. 1, p. 64. 24 Melveena McKendrick, Playing the King: Lope de Vega and the Limits of Conformity (London, 2000), p. 4. 25 Maravall’s views on this aspect of theater are most clearly presented in Teatro y literatura en la sociedad del barroco, new and rev. edn (Barcelona, 1990, originally published 1972). This view was influential through the 1980s and beyond in works such as Márquez Villanueva’s Lope: Vida y valores (Río Piedras, 1988) and Bruce W. Wardropper (ed.), Historia y crítica de la literatura española, vol. III, Siglos de Oro: Barroco

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This view of theater as the reactionary tool of an absolutist state has carried a number of consequences for comedia studies. Principal among these was the tendency to view dramatic production as an undifferentiated whole, in terms of its meaning and role in society. The assumption was that a comedia written by a playwright in Valencia in 1620 would have the same general purpose and meaning as one written by a Sevillian in 1660: they provided a collective answer to a collective problem. The only variations acknowledged by this view were those relating to the two cycles of dramatic production dominated by the century’s greatest playwrights, Lope Félix de Vega Carpio (1562–1635) and Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681), and these are considered to be differences of style rather than substance. Although there were dozens if not hundreds of other playwrights whose work was acclaimed by seventeenth-century audiences, modern scholars recognized them (if at all) as pale imitators of these two giants. Consequently, for the period spanning roughly 1950–1980, there were two approaches to studying the comedia: that of studying the characteristics of the genre, and that of studying the works of either Lope or Calderón. Charles Aubrun’s classic study of seventeenthcentury drama is representative of both; he called theater of that period “a solid whole, consistent and without fissures”26 and limited his analysis to the most “accessible” plays of Lope and Calderón, meaning those that were most appealing to modern readers and audiences. This pattern held for literary critics as well as for scholars who study literature in its historical context; the methodologies of the most influential studies in comedia criticism of the 1970s all approached and analyzed the comedia as an undifferentiated whole.27 A more specific consequence of viewing theater as a consciously wielded tool of propaganda, and a consequence which is particularly relevant to this study, is the interpretation of the role and nature of kings as presented in the comedia. If theater served as a means of promoting the status quo and maintaining the social hierarchy, it stands to reason that it would present a consistently positive picture of kings and their power. Comedia scholars recognized that kings often appeared in drama, either as background historical figures or as active protagonists, and their interest was sparked by what they perceived to be the consistent portrayal of a

(Barcelona, 1983). McKendrick suggests that its perseverence in Anglo-Saxon criticism as well is due to the Black Legend’s insistence on Spain’s “resounding devotion to God, King and Country.” Theatre in Spain 1490–1700 (Cambridge, 1989), p. 109. 26 Charles Vincent Aubrun, La comedia española 1600–1680, trans. from the French by Julio Lago-Alonso (Madrid, 1968), p. 9. 27 The first and most influential effort to provide a critical approach to the comedia as a whole was Alexander A. Parker’s essay “The Approach to the Spanish Drama of the Golden Age,” The Tulane Drama Review, IV (1959): pp. 42–59, revised as “The Spanish Drama of the Golden Age: A Method of Analysis and Interpretation,” in Eric Bentley (ed.), The Great Playwrights, vol. 1 (New York, 1970).

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powerful monarchy.28 Many saw in Spanish drama a tradition of complete submission of Spanish subjects to their king, and echoed Karl Vossler’s view was that it was “impossible to find in Lope anything but monarchic absolutism.”29 This interpretation was echoed and expanded in subsequent generations, particularly by Maravall, who was an influential scholar of history and political theory as well as literature. Maravall argued that although theater in the sixteenth century reflected the characteristics of what he called an “open Renaissance society,” including the belief that a king had to be in many ways responsible to his subjects, by the seventeenth century it had been co-opted by the monarchy to portray a very different world view.30 In this stage of its evolution, he argued, theater actually supported a much stronger view of royal absolutism than that held by contemporary political theorists. Although many sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury writers argued that (at least in theory) rebellion and even regicide were justifiable in cases of tyranny, Maravall claimed that these were never tolerated in the stories told on stage.31 Other scholars noted that the king on stage was always the ultimate arbiter of justice, “whose criteria of justice are always valid and never mistaken.”32 Herrero García evaluated specific passages in Lope’s plays for their political themes and concluded that the overall message was one of reverence and respect for Spanish kings, regardless of their behavior.33 In recent years, this interpretation of the “unified whole” of Spanish drama and its unquestioning support of the absolutist monarchy began to fracture along two lines. The first of these cracks appeared when scholars of the two principal seventeenth-century playwrights, Lope and Calderón, began to find elements in their plays that were not as uniformly propagandistic as everyone had believed. Some plays, most notably Lope’s Fuenteovejuna and Calderón’s La vida es sueño, had long been the subject of debate over the ambiguities of their messages 28

See, for example, Ludwig Pfandl, Geschichte der spanischen Nationalliteratur in ihrer Blutezeit (Freiburg, 1929), and Karl Vossler, Introducción a la literatura española del siglo de oro (Mexico City, 1941), and Lope de Vega y su tiempo (Madrid, 1940). 29 Vossler is quoted in A. Robert Lauer, Tyrannicide and Drama (Stuttgart, 1987), p. 11. An even more extreme view is held by Agustín García Calvo, who argued that Golden Age drama was a “depraved and servile” genre dominated by the formation of the Spanish state and its “authoritarian, pyramidal, intimidating structure” which dominated all of its subjects through an all-pervasive fear. García Calvo, “Propuesta de un Auto de Fe para el teatro español del siglo de oro,” in Jornadas de teatro clásico español (Almagro, 1978), pp. 135–81. 30 Maravall, Teatro y literatura, p. 81. 31 See Maravall, La teoría española del estado en el siglo XVII (Madrid, 1944), as well as Aubrun, La comedia española, and Lauer, Tyrannicide and Drama, p. 71. 32 Alberto de la Hera, “Coloquio,” in Francisco Ruiz Ramón (ed.), II Jornadas de teatro clásico español: Problemas de una lectura actual (Almagro, 1979), p. 116. 33 H. Herrero García, “La monarquía teorética de Lope de Vega,” Fénix: Revista del Tricentenario de Lope de Vega, 2 (1935): 179–224; 3 (1935): 305–62.

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regarding kingship and rebellion. The immense volume of scholarship devoted to these two plays is evidence of the difficulties of ascribing a single point or message to either. Heated exchanges in scholarly journals have used these plays as examples of very contradictory themes: demonstrating the divinely-given power of the king to resolve any conflict, or proving the equally divinely-given power of the people to take the initiative to correct bad rulers.34 What lies behind these debates is the question of the ultimate source of justice and power in the early modern Spanish monarchy. Did Calderón and Lope present the notion that the king was the source of all justice, who must be obeyed by his subjects no matter how unreasonable this obedience may have seemed? Or did they intend to argue, following many contemporary political theorists, that power in fact came from the people, who in turn invested it in a king, retaining the right to remove him in cases of tyranny? Were both readings possible to the seventeenthcentury audience, just as they seem to be to modern scholars? Antonio GómezMoriana, pursuing these questions, was one of the first to do a systematic study of the political ideas in a wider range of Lope’s plays. Working with 14 of Lope’s comedias, he concluded that they did present stories in which the king was responsible for creating the dramatic conflict of the plot, rather than solving it. In these cases, Gómez-Moriana concluded, Lope argued that the abuse of legitimate authority could be considered tyranny, which in turn could be justifiably opposed by the community, or in extreme cases by the individuals whose rights had been violated.35 Similar work by Stephen Rupp and Dian Fox demonstrates that the work of Calderón also presents arguments for the necessity of good kingship (as opposed to functioning as servile flattery) and evinces a clear concern for the primacy of law over the arbitrary whims of a ruler.36 This approach, in contrast to that of Maravall, put the ideas of these playwrights squarely in line with those proposed by contemporary political theorists. Another shift in comedia studies came when scholars began to pay attention to Golden Age playwrights other than Lope and Calderón. Although it had long been recognized that the playwright Tirso de Molina had taken a particularly political stance in his plays, and had been reprimanded by the government and threatened 34

See, for example, Robin Carter, “Fuenteovejuna and Tyranny: Some Problems of Linking Drama with Political Theory,” Forum for Modern Language Studies, 13 (1977): 313–35; William R. Blue, “The Politics of Lope’s Fuenteovejuna,” Hispanic Review, 59:3 (1991): 295–313; Dian Fox, “Kingship and Community in La vida es sueño,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 58 (1981): 217–28, and “In Defense of Segismundo,” Bulletin of the Comediantes, 41:1 (1989); Alice Homstad, “Segismundo: The Perfect Machiavellian Prince,” Bulletin of the Comediantes, 41:1 (1989): 127–39. 35 Antonio Gómez-Mariana, Derecho de resistencia y tiranicidio: Estudio de una temática en las “comedias” de Lope de Vega (Santiago de Compostela, 1968), pp. 25–6. 36 Rupp, Allegories of Kingship: Calderón and the Anti-Machiavellian Tradition (University Park, PA, 1996) and Fox, Kings in Calderón: A Study in Characterization and Political Theory (London, 1986).

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with exile from Madrid for his opinions, this seemed to be the exception which proved the rule that theater in general supported the absolutist monarchy. If playwrights who dared to question the status quo were dealt with so harshly, certainly the rest must have learned their lesson. Many studies have explored Tirso’s connections to the Madrid court and how his political alliances were expressed in his plays, but always under the assumption that his experience was an anomaly in the world of theater.37 Gradually, though, other playwrights and plays emerged from obscurity wielding similarly challenging ideas. Studies of the work of the lesser-known Guillén de Castro, for example, demonstrated that tyranny was a principal theme in the works of this playwright. Castro closely followed political theorists such as Juan de Mariana and Domingo de Soto, who argued that a king’s legitimacy was derived from public consent as much as divine right. Some of his plays were very critical of the abuse of power by monarchs, presenting bad kings as a source of moral and social disorder. Castro used his comedias to present the argument that reason, morality, and the common good were more important than blind submission to a capricious king.38 Similar attention to the plays of Juan Ruiz de Alarcón and Antonio Enríquez Gómez revealed that a significant portion of their comedias focused on such themes as the appropriate relationship between the king and his favorite, the need for state reform, and the potential conflicts between ethical behavior and reason of state.39 Far from being the “illusionist theater serving the conservative myths of the Baroque,”40 as Maravall had claimed, some

37

Ruth L. Kennedy is the principal authority on Tirso and his historical context, particularly his conflicts with the Junta de Reformación. See, for example, “La perspectiva política de Tirso en Privar contra su gusto, de 1621, y la de sus comedias políticas posteriores,” in Homenaje a Tirso (Madrid, 1981), pp. 199–238, and “A Reappraisal of Tirso’s Relations to Lope and his Theatre,” Bulletin of the Comediantes, 18 (1966): 1–13. For a more recent survey of Tirso scholarship, see Ignacio Arellano (ed.), Tirso de Molina: del Siglo de Oro al siglo XX (Madrid, 1995). 38 James Crapotta, Kingship and Tyranny in the Theater of Guillén de Castro (London, 1984), pp. 11 and 179; Luciano García Lorenzo, El teatro de Guillén de Castro (Barcelona, 1975), pp. 40 and 54–5. 39 Willard F. King, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón: Letrado y dramaturgo (Mexico, 1989); Cynthia Leone Halpern, The Political Theater of Early Seventeenth-Century Spain, with Special Reference to Juan Ruiz de Alarcón (New York, 1993); Michael McGaha, “Who was Francisco de Villegas?” in Charles Ganelin and Howard Mancing (eds), Golden Age Comedia: Text, Theory, and Performance (West Lafayette, Ind., 1994); and Jesús Antonio Cid, “Judaizantes y carreteros para un hombre de letras: A. Enríquez Gómez (1600–1663),” in Antonio Carreira, Jesús Antonio Cid, and Rogelio Rubio (eds), Homenaje a Julio Caro Baroja (Madrid, 1978), pp. 271–300. 40 Maravall, “Sociedad barroca y ‘comedia’ española,” in II Jornadas de Teatro Clásico Español, p. 41.

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of these plays were now considered to constitute a serious criticism of seventeenthcentury Spanish society.41 These discoveries left comedia scholars in something of a quandary. First they had a body of work by Lope and Calderón, all supportive of the monarchy, with only a small handful of exceptions, and even those could be explained away with little effort. Finding trends critical of the monarchy in the work of other playwrights, though, complicated the situation. Previously, scholars who wrote surveys of Spanish drama had passed over the minor dramatists, considering them only less-talented imitators of the few who formed the Golden Age canon. Now, though, they faced the question of whether these lesser-known dramatists were fundamentally different from the most famous writers. If they were, this would mean a need to reevaluate the canon; but if in fact they were still mere imitators of Lope and Calderón, this would require a significant revision of our understanding of these two dramatists and their relationship to the absolutist monarchy. One begins to suspect that Tirso de Molina, rather than having been the exception for his political views, was merely the exception in having been punished for them. Although this particular debate has by no means been settled, one significant outcome of the conflict was a recognition that the “lesser” playwrights of the seventeenth century deserve more attention than they have yet received. This conclusion is probably of greater value to the scholar whose interest is historical more than purely literary, for it is true that most of the thousands of plays written and performed during the Golden Age lack the wit of Lope and the grace of Calderón. Nevertheless, they drew large and enthusiastic audiences, and their creators were well-known and active participants in literary and court circles. There has only been one survey of these “lesser” dramatists to date, and its focus is on the internal structure of the comedia rather than its social context.42 It is important to remember that what we think of as the Golden Age canon does not bear much resemblance to what was actually viewed and read by the Golden Age public. Scholars miss a valuable opportunity when they neglect popular literature because of its perceived lack of literary excellence and insist on “thinking of literature in terms of the highest exemplars of imaginative literature—Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes—and failing to observe that their cultured colleagues are science-fiction addicts, consumers of thrillers, and devourers of newspapers and magazines.”43

41

McGaha, “Who was Francisco de Villegas?”, p. 174. Vern G. Williamsen, The Minor Dramatists of Seventeenth-Century Spain (Boston, 1982). 43 Keith Whinnom, “The Problem of the ‘Best-Seller’ in Spanish Golden-Age Literature,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 57 (1980): 195. For additional comments on the non-representative nature of the Golden Age canon, see McGaha, “Who was Francisco de Villegas?”, p. 175, and José Sanchis Sinisterra, “La condición marginal del teatro en el Siglo 42

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A second outcome of these fissures in the once-solid comedia genre was the recognition that the message of popular drama can be far more ambiguous than scholars had believed. Again, this had been clear in a small handful of cases such as Lope’s Fuenteovejuna, or Calderón’s La vida es sueño with its seemingly inexhaustible debates about whether the execution of a rebellious character at the end of the play was meant to be Machiavellian, poetic justice, or simply in the interest of the community at large.44 Now, though, thousands more plays were opened up to scrutiny for the possibility of multiple readings, dramatic irony, and a less direct connection to the ideology of the absolutist government. One possibility is that the apparent inconsistencies that we see in the comedia are due to the differences between the modern reader’s viewpoint and that of the seventeenthcentury Spanish audience. Frank Casa warns that we tend to judge the act of writing according to its roots in the Renaissance tradition of being a particularly individual act, but that the Spanish baroque valued the society over the individual. Playwrights, whatever their personal views, would have felt obliged to defend the prevalent mores of their society. This choice, however, was directed by their own cultural context rather than being intentionally directed by the state. Casa explains the ambiguities of the comedia by suggesting that the playwrights occupied a very tenuous position between wanting to please their public and not wanting to endanger themselves by criticizing the government. This conclusion implied that the personal vision of the playwright tended to be critical of the established order, and that many plays set up plots leading towards this viewpoint. However, they could not bring themselves to follow these plots through to their logical conclusions, so that odd plot twists at the end caused the play to deviate from its original trajectory, landing it in a safer middle ground between the propagandistic and the subversive.45 Melveena McKendrick has presented the clearest expression of this argument, demonstrating that Lope de Vega used the tools of drama (irony, dialectic, and multiple perspectives) to “support and subvert simultaneously”—to comment on contemporary politics without risking his neck.46 These approaches imply that, left to their own devices, playwrights would have expressed opinions and opened discussions rather more subversive than the government would have liked. Audiences were also perfectly aware of the dangers playwrights faced in being overly critical of the monarchy, and these audiences may have been accustomed to seeing past the convenient endings to the real

de Oro,” in José Monleón (ed.), III Jornadas de Teatro Clásico Español (Madrid, 1981), pp. 106–107. 44 A good overview (and continuation) of the “rebel soldier” debate from the 1960s to the present may be found in A. Robert Lauer, “El leal traidor de La vida es sueño de Calderón,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 77 (2000): 133–44. 45 Frank P. Casa, “Affirmation and Retraction in Golden Age Drama,” Neophilologus, 62 (1978): 551–64. 46 McKendrick, Playing the King, p. 11.

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meaning of the play. Careful readings of the comedia are crucial to understanding the overall impact of a particular play. Where scholars of previous generations tended to rely on specific passages (often taken out of context) or the positions represented by particular characters to determine the meaning of a play, we now assume that meaning is not so simply revealed.47 A greater sensitivity to the context in which these plays were produced should lead us to examine the whole of the plot, not just what one character says but how that attitude is borne out and what consequences it holds for the longer term. What at first glance appears to be a happy ending may not be so happy, if the initial conflict has not been truly resolved or if superficial order is maintained at the cost of justice. The current generation of historians and literary scholars of the comedia is therefore much more sensitized to the pressures and limitations which influenced the production of drama.48 The playwright, rather than being an isolated figure or the puppet of the monarchy, is now located in the midst of his culture, his patrons and his public. Greater attention is being paid to the cooperative effort of author, director, actors, editor, printer and bookseller in the production and distribution of drama. Another factor is the influence of the audience: most previous studies of the comedia, even those which focused on the propagandistic or subversive roles of drama in society, entirely neglected to consider the effects of the comedia’s message on its public, or possibly even the public’s influence on the comedia.49 Recently, scholars have begun to consider the audience as an active influence, approaching the comedia as a product of the supply-and-demand forces of the marketplace.50 An appreciation for the broader context of historical events has also enriched comedia studies, as scholars in both history and literature compare notes on how 47 See, for example, P.R.K. Halkhoree, who argued that a portrayal of an ideal situation “is not intended to reinforce the stability of the existing order but rather is a threat to it.” Halkhoree, in J.M. Ruano de la Haza and Henry W. Sullivan (eds), Social and Literary Satire in the Comedies of Tirso de Molina (Ottawa, 1989), p. 31, and McKendrick, Playing the King, particularly Chapter 5. 48 For surveys of New Historicist and postmodern trends in comedia scholarship, see Enrique García Santo-Tomás (ed.), El teatro del Siglo de Oro ante los espacios de la crítica: Encuentros y revisiones (Madrid, 2002), and José A. Madrigal (ed.), New Historicism and the Comedia: Poetics, Politics and Praxis (Boulder, 1997). 49 Cynthia Leone Halpern’s book on Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, for example, is an excellent study linking the political themes of Alarcón’s dramas with contemporary political theory and historical events. It fails, however, to evaluate the impact or consequences these plays may have had. 50 Melveena McKendrick, Theatre in Spain 1490–1700 (Cambridge, 1989). Although it does not deal principally with the comedia, María José del Río Barredo’s Madrid, Urbs Regia: La capital ceremonial de la monarquía católica (Madrid, 2000) includes valuable attention to the idea of the audience’s reception and interpretation of ceremonial events in the court.

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playwrights responded to specific events and contemporary attitudes and portrayed them on stage.51 In this case, work on England and English theater in the same period has much to offer in terms of approach and methodology. Studies of Shakespeare’s politics, the role of literature in the English Revolution, and the relationship between popular culture and government speak to a recognition of the importance of drama in a society and its value in a historical and cultural context.52 New Historicist trends in English Renaissance drama are sometimes criticized for being attentive too exclusively to the relationships of power, evaluating all texts and practices through the lens of containment and subversion. Nevertheless, the advantage of this approach is that it draws on developments in cultural studies that promote a sensitivity to the dialogue and mutual influences between literary sources and the culture in which they are produced. Historians of Spanish culture also have a great deal to learn from developments in the history of popular culture in early modern Europe, particularly the work that has been done on France and Italy since the 1970s. Catherine Connor is one of the few comedia scholars to have reexamined the role of theater in Spanish society in the light of popular culture, considering “power” as a multifaceted cultural discourse rather than looking at “propaganda” as a unidirectional phenomenon.53 Another fruitful field of study has been feminist and gendered readings of the comedia as well as the significance of female dramatists, who were recognized in their own time but largely ignored by

51 See for example Margaret Rich Greer, The Play of Power: Mythological Court Dramas of Calderón de la Barca (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), in which she argues that Calderón’s mythological plays addressed the struggles between the queen regent Mariana of Austria and Philip IV’s bastard son Don Juan José; and William R. Blue, Spanish Comedies and Historical Contexts in the 1620s (University Park, PA, 1996). 52 See for example Stephen Greenblatt, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare (New York, 2004); Peter Lake and Michael Questier, The Antichrist’s Lewd Hat: Protestants, Papists and Players in Post-Reformation England (New Haven, 2002); Curtis Perry, The Making of Jacobean Culture: James I and the Renegotiation of Elizabethan Literary Practice (New York, 1997); Jean E. Howard, The Stage and Social Struggle in Early Modern England (London, 1994); Paula R. Backscheider, Spectacular Politics: Theatrical Power and Mass Culture in Early Modern England (Baltimore, 1993); Rebecca Bushnell, Tragedies of Tyrants: Political Thought and Theater in the English Renaissance (Ithaca, 1990). 53 Catherine Connor, “Prolegomena to the ‘Popular’ in Early Modern Public Theater: Contesting Power in Lope and Shakespeare,” in Golden Age Comedia: Text, Theory, and Performance. See also her Bakhtinian reading of Jewish voices in Lope to counter the “monolithic” view of his work (as Catherine Swietlicki), “Lope’s Dialogic Imagination: Writing Other Voices of ‘Monolithic’ Spain,” Bulletin of the Comediantes, 40 (1988): 205– 26. George Mariscal has applied a similar approach to Golden Age literature, though he does not specifically address theater, in Contradictory Subjects: Quevedo, Cervantes, and Seventeenth-Century Spanish Culture (Ithaca, 1991).

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later scholars.54 These are crucial steps towards understanding what theater meant as a lived experience, what kinds of ideas it presented, and how these were received by its audience. Other models from cultural history and anthropology may be fruitfully applied to the Spanish case, such as Roger Chartier’s work on representation and the production of meaning, in which he reminds us that no matter how forcefully cultural models may have been imposed, they might nevertheless have been received with reactions that varied from mistrust to outright rebellion. A description of the norms, disciplines, discourses, and teachings through which absolutist, Reformation culture may have intended to subject the population does not prove that the people were in fact totally and universally subjected.55

For the scholar of theater, one of the greatest advantages to be derived from fields like cultural anthropology is an understanding of the complexities that lay behind politics. Political culture, especially in the early modern period, was imbued with a powerful sense of ritual, and political ceremonies can be understood as “minidramas” or metaphors which underwent a continual process of invention and perpetuation. This process of understanding politics almost as a form of fiction itself (a “master fiction,” in anthropologist Clifford Geertz’s term) can be helpful in understanding how it can be read in different ways by different parts of society.56 Language itself becomes an important factor in this process, as we begin to understand it as an active element and not merely a passive vehicle for the mechanisms of power.57 All of these approaches share an understanding of power as a fluid and negotiated relationship. The previous paragraphs suggest some of the lines of inquiry which guide this study of the comedia and its political voice in seventeenth-century Spain. As we have seen, the principal flaws in older interpretations of the comedia are the lack of 54

Melveena McKendrick, Woman and Society in the Spanish Drama of the Golden Age (Cambridge, 1974); Teresa Scott Soufas, Dramas of Distinction: A Study of Plays by Golden Age Women (Lexington, 1997); and Anita Stoll and Dawn L. Smith (eds), Gender, Identity, and Representation in Spain’s Golden Age (Lewisburg, PA, 2000). 55 Chartier, Forms and Meanings: Texts, Performances, and Audiences from Codex to Computer (Philadelphia, 1995), p. 86. 56 Sean Wilentz, introduction to Rites of Power: Symbolism, Ritual, and Politics since the Middle Ages (Philadelphia, 1985), pp. 3–5. See also Clifford Geertz, “Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power,” in Joseph Ben-David and Terry Nichols Clark (eds), Culture and its Creators: Essays in Honor of Edward Shils (Chicago, 1977), pp. 150–71. 57 J.H. Elliott’s Lengua e imperio en la España de Felipe IV (Salamanca, 1994) is an excellent study of the language of power in its broadest sense, including style, metaphor, visual images, and behavior, and the importance of the “art of persuasion” as a factor in power relationships.

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emphasis on the historical context in which drama was produced, the need for a greater understanding of the cultural forces involved in its creation and its relationship to the power structure, and an incomplete understanding of absolutism. Historians of early modern Europe, in turn, have reevaluated their concepts of the absolute monarchy from an all-powerful centralized government to one whose power was limited to its ability to successfully negotiate with other political, social, and economic power centers in the kingdom, and drama can be understood as a significant part of that negotiation. The principal obstacle to a thorough understanding of the dramatic production of seventeenth-century Spain and its role in political culture is its sheer volume. Lope de Vega, probably the best-known dramatist of the Golden Age and certainly its most prolific, claimed in mid-career to have written over a thousand plays, and his biographer, Juan Pérez de Montalván, said that over the course of his lifetime Lope had produced nearly 2,000 full-length plays and 400 one-act religious plays known as autos sacramentales.58 Whether or not this number is exaggerated will never be known, but the 400 comedias that have survived and can be attributed with certainty to Lope attest to his remarkable output. Add to this the more than one hundred plays written by Calderón de la Barca, and the thousands more written by playwrights all over Spain, and the estimate of total comedia production in the seventeenth century is easily as high as 10,000, greater than that produced by any other nation in the early modern period.59 Despite the phenomenal production of Spanish dramatists in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, only a relatively few plays, and even fewer playwrights, are well-known to us today. As we have seen, one studies the Golden Age by reading Lope and Calderón, and even then the same small handful of plays scooped out of their vast literary production appears over and over on course syllabi, in anthologies, and in translation. To an extent this is a justifiable approach, particularly for scholars of literature, because the works that now form the Golden Age canon are arguably of greater and more lasting literary value than the vast majority of the plays that filled the published collections and drew large and enthusiastic audiences to the theaters in the seventeenth century. While a “Best Of The Golden Age” selection may be well suited to an appreciation of the height of Spanish baroque culture, it is less useful for the historian. Based on a reading of only these texts, one might easily agree with earlier scholars that Spanish dramatic production is “monolithic” and unvarying in its presentation of society’s values and mores. One comedia scholar still believes 58 Lope’s claim is in the Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (Madrid, 1609); Pérez de Montalván is cited in Sturgis Elleno Leavitt, “The Popular Appeal of Golden Age Drama in Spain,” in Golden Age Drama in Spain: General Consideration and Unusual Features (Chapel Hill, 1972), p. 14. 59 Aubrun, La comedia española, p. 9; Leavitt, “The Popular Appeal of Golden Age Drama in Spain,” p. 13.

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that a fresh examination of one of this small group of plays would be a more valuable contribution “than to rescue from oblivion some potboiler of Diamante or Claramonte—or even Lope—about which little or nothing has found its way into print.”60 But following this logic would result in a completely closed circle of investigation, in which the principal qualification for determining the merit of a particular work would be whether someone else had already studied it. In any case, the taste of the modern scholar is not the same as that of the seventeenth-century popular audience, and if one wishes to understand the perspective of the members of that audience, one must enter into their world and look over their shoulders at the plays which received the greatest attention in their own time, even if these have since been discarded and forgotten. This book examines the plays that were actually absorbed by the seventeenth-century audience, applauded on stage and sold in printed collections. Perhaps, as Keith Whinnom has suggested, an apt comparison may be made with the Western movie—few specific movies stand out in the memory of any but the most avid fan, yet everyone is familiar with the format, and the genre itself had tremendous popularity. 61 My focus is not on the individual plays of Golden Age Spain, or even those that have become part of the established canon because of their lasting quality. Instead, I have tried to determine which plays were most popular in their own time, and how those plays taken as a whole reveal themes and patterns of interest on the part of playwrights, acting companies, theater managers, booksellers, and—most importantly—audiences. The most effective method for drawing an appropriate sample from the ten thousand Golden Age plays was to evaluate their popularity based on the number of editions in which they were published during the seventeenth century. It would have been preferable to evaluate their success directly on the basis of performance, but very little information is available to us about the staging of specific plays, and this information largely documents performances in various royal residences rather than in the public theaters. Extensive notarial and municipal records survive regarding the contracting of acting companies and the financial management of the public theaters, but these rarely identify specific titles or playwrights. Contemporary chronicles will often refer to the popularity of the theater, or mention the fact that a particular visiting personage went to see a play, but again this does not allow us to consistently identify the individual plays that were performed. Although it is impossible for us, more than three centuries later, to capture and recreate this dramatic experience, the plays which commanded such interest and enthusiasm on the stage were also circulated in published form. Comedias in the seventeenth century were nearly as popular in print as they were on the stage. 60

James Parr, “Criticism and the Comedia: Twenty Years Later,” in Parr, After Its Kind: Approaches to the Comedia (Kassel, 1991), p. 149. 61 Whinnom, “The Problem of the Best-Seller in Spanish Golden-Age Literature,” pp. 192–3.

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Playwrights, once they had reached a certain degree of fame, often published their own work in collections of 12 comedias each. It was also common for publishers to gather collections of the comedias of various playwrights and publish them at their own cost. The most significant series of this kind is the Escogidas, in which the works of all the best-known playwrights of Madrid were published in 48 volumes over the last half of the seventeenth century. Several other less extensive series were published throughout Spain over the course of the century, particularly in Valencia and Zaragoza. In addition, some plays were published singly in cheaplyproduced small volumes, although it is difficult to determine how many, since these have very rarely survived from the seventeenth century. Comedias often appeared in printed form shortly after they had ended their theatrical run, and evidence indicates that they were only published once they had received some level of acclaim in the theaters.62 This suggests that the popularity of drama on stage can be at least roughly measured by its corresponding popularity in print. This does bring up the question of whether studying theater in print is the same as studying theater on stage, particularly in terms of the audience. Clearly, in the seventeenth century, attending a play in a crowded theater, with dances and songs in between the acts and the spectators paying nearly as much attention to each other as to the actors, would have been a significantly different experience from reading the same play from a book, even though the content of the play would have been the same. Whether or not the audience was the same is a difficult question: literacy rates were very low in the early modern period, though this is not necessarily a good indicator of accessibility to literature. The relatively recent invention of print would not yet have changed substantially the traditional habits of reading aloud and reciting from memory, which were common to all social classes.63 Contemporary references to the comedia described attending a performance by using the verb oir, to hear, as often as they used ver, to see.64 Spanish drama of this period relied heavily on words and action to convey meaning rather than using visual elements such as props or stage effects, which made it well suited to being recited or read aloud. Early modern Spaniards were much in the habit of reading aloud chivalric romances and other kinds of novels; it stands to reason that drama, already written in the form of speech, would have been shared

62

Aubrun, La comedia española, p. 24. Margit Frenk, “‘Lectores’ y ‘oidores’: La difusión oral de la literatura en el Siglo de Oro,” in Giovanni Bellini (ed.), Actas del Séptimo Congreso de la Asociación Internacional de Hispanistas (Roma, 1982), vol. 1, pp. 103–107. See also Chartier, Forms and Meanings, p. 16. 64 Municipal orders, for example, required soldiers of the palace guard and other officials “who wish to hear the comedia” (“que quisieren oir la comedia”) to pay the full ticket price and warned of others who “want to hear them without paying” (“las quieren oir sin pagar”). Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid (hereafter AHN), Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, libro 1269, fol. 276, and libro 1283, fol. 257. 63

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in the same manner as well. There is some indication that authors themselves wrote with the expectation that this would happen. Books, including comedia collections, often had introductions addressed to “el vulgo,” the common reader/listener (as opposed to an elite, presumably literate audience). In some cases, a book would have two prefaces—one directed to each level of audience. Although the experience of seeing a drama performed on stage would have been circumstantially different than reading one (or hearing one read aloud) from print, they do have significant elements in common. Above all, there is an economic argument for evaluating them together in terms of popularity. A playwright’s fame came first from the stage; if his plays were successful there, he would have reason to believe they would be popular in print as well. The process of printing collections of plays was funded either by the playwright himself or by the bookseller, both of whom operated on the hopes of regaining their investment from book sales. Consequently the published collections of plays were not likely to be, for example, personal favorites of a playwright that had not found their way onto a stage. They would most likely be plays that were sure to have a guaranteed audience, proven by the popularity they had already attained. Although there certainly were exceptions to this pattern, and the tastes of the reading audience may have been somewhat different from the tastes of the theatergoing audience, the texts of those plays that received public acclaim on stage would have had a far greater chance of getting into print than those that did not. As an added factor, the popularity of these plays would then have been perpetuated as a consequence of their publication. As we have noted, literacy was low during the early modern period, but recent studies place it at a higher level than previously believed. Madrid in the seventeenth century logically had a higher literacy rate than the rest of the country, possibly as high as 58 percent.65 Additionally, the court city was a major market for publishing, producing 40 percent of the items published in all of Spain in the seventeenth century.66 Although it has generally been assumed that the vast majority of the population did not possess and could not afford books, contemporary references and Inquisition records indicate that book ownership was fairly common, and not just among the highest social classes.67 We may then assume a fairly wide audience for printed 65

C. Larquié, “L’alphabétisation à Madrid en 1650,” Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, 28 (1981), p. 152. 66 Cruickshank, “‘Literature’ and the Book Trade in Golden-Age Spain,” Modern Language Review, 73 (1978): 802–803. 67 Sara Nalle, “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile,” Past & Present, 125 (1989), p. 77. For further information on books and readership in Madrid, see Antonio Castillo (ed.), Escribir y leer en el siglo de Cervantes (Barcelona, 1999), Fernando Bouza, “Para qué imprimir: de autores, público, impresores y manuscritos en el Siglo de Oro,” Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, 18 (1997): 31–50, and María del Carmen González Muñoz, “Datos para un estudio de Madrid en la primera mitad del siglo XVII,” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, 18 (1981).

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matter, particularly given Madrid’s high literacy rates and the cultural conventions favoring the oral transmission of written text. In the absence of consistent information about the performances of particular comedias in the seventeenth century, it is reasonable to evaluate their popularity based on their appearance in published form, though I have supported this with the existing performance data wherever possible. I therefore collected data on all seventeenth-century printed editions of the comedias known to be written by the principal dramatists of Spain, in collections published by the playwrights, those gathered and published by booksellers, and single editions when these existed. I chose an initial group of nineteen playwrights based on La Barrera’s exhaustive bibliographic catalog of Spanish drama, making additions and corrections based on contemporary accounts of drama publication.68 Cataloguing the known works of these playwrights by year and place of publication revealed that there was a clear distinction between playwrights who published their work in Madrid and those who published in other regions of Spain. This is unsurprising, since playwrights (and other literary sorts) tended to associate with one another in regional groups and to produce for a particular regional market. The Madrid market was by far the most influential of these. Valencia and Seville, though both had rich and active theatrical cultures of their own, often hosted plays that had been written and performed in the capital. Even small towns and villages throughout the peninsula could share the experience, as the traveling

68

Cayetano Alberto de La Barrera y Leirado, Catálogo bibliográfico y biográfico del teatro antiguo español desde sus orígenes hasta mediados del siglo XVIII (Madrid, 1860); Vicente García de la Huerta, Theatro Hespañol: Catálogo alfabético de las comedias, tragedias, autos, zarzuelas, entremeses y otras obras correspondientes al Theatro Hespañol (Madrid, 1785); Indice general alfabético de todos los títulos de comedias, que se han escrito por varios autores, antiguos, y modernos, y de los autos sacramentales, y alegóricos, assi de don Pedro Calderón de la Barca, como de otros autores clásicos … (Madrid, 1735); Juan Isidro Faxardo, Títulos de todas las comedias que en verso español y portugues se han impresso hasta el año 1716, Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (hereafter BNM), MS 14.706. The 19 dramatists whom I judged to be most popular based upon the volume of their dramatic production as well as their recognition in contemporary literary circles were Juan Ruiz de Alarcón (1580–1639), Francisco Antonio Bances Candamo (1622–1704), Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681), Guillén de Castro (1569–1631), Antonio Coello y Ochoa (1611–82), Juan Bautista Diamante (1625–87), Antonio Enríquez Gómez (who also wrote under the name Francisco de Villegas, 1600–1660), the brothers Diego and José Figueroa y Córdoba (Diego 1619–73, José 1625–78), Juan de la Hoz y Mota (1622–1714), Diego Jiménez de Enciso (1585–1634), Francisco de Leiva Ramírez (1630– 76), Juan de Matos Fragoso (1608–89), Antonio Mira de Amescua (1574–1644), Agustín Moreto (1618–69), Juan Pérez de Montalbán (1602–1638), Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (1607–48), Antonio de Solís (1610–86), Tirso de Molina (1584–1648), and Luis Vélez de Guevara (1579–1644).

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companies that performed in Madrid also toured extensively through the countryside. 69 The influence of Madrid in both theatrical and political circles is significant to this study, particularly since after 1561 the city came to be the permanent home of the court, the archetypal symbol of “the entire public and social world that absolute monarchy created, for the glamour of its power, the luxury of its pleasures, the vast resources it controlled, the envy and faction that pursuit of its favor excited, the fabulous rewards it gave to some, the calamitous fate it brought to others.”70 Because of the different patterns in the regional markets of publication, I thought it appropriate to base my study on one principal market, since I will argue that the role of the audience is significant in shaping the topics and themes of popular drama. I therefore narrowed my survey of playwrights down to those who wrote principally in and for Madrid, and it should be emphasized that the selection of plays analyzed in this study will reveal a particularly Madrilenian and Castilian perspective on the monarchy and on the relationship between crown and subject. From the Madrid group, I selected the writers who were both prolific and able to sustain their popularity over a significant period of time, again in the interest of measuring broader patterns of interest on the part of their public. This narrowed the list down to four: Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681), Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (1607–1648), Juan de Matos Fragoso (1610–1692), and Juan Bautista Diamante (1622–1687), who together composed a total of 232 plays. Choosing to study the entire body of work of a set of playwrights helped me avoid the danger of choosing individual plays based on their content from a larger selection of writers, as I did not want to select only plays that supported my hunches or impose on them the patterns I hoped to find. This selection was also designed to reveal whether individual playwrights differed in their treatment of kingship and thus whether political ideas in seventeenth-century plays depended more on the taste of the author than any other factor. I consider the work of these playwrights to be representative of theatrical production in Madrid during the period 1630–80; their plays were consistently popular and they were well-established in literary circles in Madrid. This is not to say that all the plays are of great literary merit, but they do represent the interests of a particular audience at a particular time. The selection of this group of writers also shaped the chronological framework of this study: the popularity of the comedia began to decline in the late seventeenth century, and none of the four published any single plays or collections in the last two decades of the century. The one playwright who may be conspicuous for his absence is Lope de Vega. I have chosen to exclude Lope from this study for a number of reasons. Principal 69

J.E. Varey’s Actividad teatral en la región de Madrid según los protocolos de Juan García de Albertos, 1634–1660 (London, 2003) contributes important new data on this phenomenon. 70 Zagorin, Rebels and Rulers, vol. 1, p. 103.

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among these are chronology and the establishment of the comedic genre. The comedia, which had only recently evolved from its mixed origins in popular festival, court pageantry, and church liturgy, did not possess a definite form until the late sixteenth century. Lope is the playwright principally given credit for the establishment of this form. Professional theatrical companies had only been in existence since the 1550s, and dramatic works took on various formats depending upon the occasion for which they were written. Lope’s career coincided with the establishment of the first public theaters in Madrid, and he was the first playwright to intentionally write for the public at large, rather than for church events or occasion-specific festivals. His style of drama, giving the comedia its three-act format and the patterns of plot and character that would define it thereafter, was imitated by other Spanish dramatists (who themselves were a new breed, having come to compose drama for themselves after having performed translations from Italian and classical Latin plays until the mid-sixteenth century). The final step in sealing the form of the comedia was Lope’s treatise Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (The New Art of Writing Plays in Our Time), published in 1609, which set out clear guidelines for the style, versification, division in three acts, stock characters, and other significant elements of the comedia. Numerous other treatises on drama were written and published in the early years of the seventeenth century, but Lope’s was the first and the most influential, and it gave the comedia the definitive form that it would keep throughout the rest of the seventeenth century.71 Part of the purpose of this project is to analyze the characteristics of the comedia once it had taken on this form, after the stage of its formation by Lope, and to follow its trajectory and decline in the following decades. Another aspect of this choice returns to the problem of volume and emphasis. As I have noted above, Lope was by far the most prolific of Golden Age writers. An exhaustive study of his work would be nearly impossible in a single monograph, and it would certainly leave no room for comparison with other authors. This is a difficulty with which comedia scholars have often struggled, but the result is that the volume of Lope scholarship is as overwhelming as that of his own writing. The focus on Lope, though understandable, has resulted in a corresponding neglect of the rest of the life-span of the comedia. The Golden Age may have shone brightest in the works of Lope, but for the rest of the century, theater scholarship fades into obscurity. Cruickshank has stated categorically that “no major Spanish authors were born in the seventeenth century,”72 and his attitude is representative of those who dismiss drama, and indeed all literature, in the 71 Lope de Vega, Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (Madrid, 1609); other key treatises are Luis Alfonso de Carvallo, Cisne de Apolo, de las excelencias y dignidad y todo lo que al Arte Poética y versificatoria pertenece (Medina del Campo, 1602) and José Pellicer de Tovar, Idea de la comedia de Castilla, preceptos del teatro de España, i arte del estilo moderno cómico (Madrid, 1635). 72 Cruickshank, “‘Literature’ and the Book Trade in Golden-Age Spain,” p. 800.

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hundred years after Lope’s death as undeserving of critical attention. Nevertheless, theater reached the height of its popularity as a form of entertainment after Lope’s death, and theatrical production during the rest of the seventeenth century is certainly worthy of attention from a historical perspective.73 Despite the fame of Lope’s drama in his own lifetime, leaving him out of this study is in keeping with my goal of studying the plays that were in demand throughout the seventeenth century and their connection to Spanish politics during the decades of political and economic crisis. Lope’s plays were published in a series of 25 volumes, mostly in Madrid, though a few of the series were published in Barcelona, Zaragoza and Valladolid. However, only three of these were published in Madrid after his death in 1635 (one of which was a reprint of an earlier volume, and none of which appeared more than five years after his death), and few of his works appeared in the Escogidas volumes which featured the favorite plays of Madrid audiences through the end of the seventeenth century. As noted above, recent work on Lope draws valuable conclusions about his use of drama to communicate his criticisms of the Habsburg monarchy.74 My purpose in expanding this approach to a wider survey of plays throughout the seventeenth century, examining the works that were of greatest interest to their audiences, is to demonstrate that these ideas were not unique to one playwright but that they formed a substantial and ongoing conversation in Spanish society. Having selected the four playwrights mentioned above whose plays received the most favor among seventeenth-century Madrid audiences, the next step was to screen the entire body of plays written by all four, a total of 232.75 My goal was to identify general themes and trends in these plays, to get a broad picture of the variety among them as well as the elements they shared in common. Given the volume of dramatic production, it would be fairly easy to find a small handful of plays to support almost any argument, which in part explains the many differences in opinion and current debates about the “real meaning” of the comedia. I intended to study political themes in the plays, but I also wanted to establish clearly the relative importance of those themes in the overall body of popular drama.

73

The 1996 Actas de las XIX Jornadas de teatro clásico (Almagro, 1997) was dedicated to the “golden decade” of the comedia, 1630–40, and pointed out that this period saw not only the culmination of the work of the first great generation of playwrights, but also the entry of the “young and vigorous” generation that would continue to produce throughout most of the seventeenth century, and the beginning of a wave of publication that would include some of the masterpieces of Spanish theater. Felipe B. Pedraza Jiménez, “Palabras preliminares,” p. 7. 74 McKendrick, Playing the King. 75 120 are by Calderón; 36 by Diamante; 39 by Matos Fragoso; and 37 by Rojas Zorrilla. The total number of plays attributed to Rojas Zorrilla is 56, but 19 of these are no longer extant or survive only in manuscript copies to which I did not have access; therefore they were not included in the study.

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What emerged was surprising, particularly given an earlier generation’s theory that theater was the creation and mouthpiece of the absolutist monarchy. I began this project after randomly encountering two or three plays that seemed to me to espouse surprisingly challenging political ideas. I had hoped that I might find a few more, so that I could argue that some had slipped through the cracks of government control and censorship and that theater presented a wider variety of views than scholars have appreciated. What I found was far more intriguing: 33 of my initial collection of plays, over 14 percent, involve kings as major characters, and nearly all of these derive their principal dramatic conflict from some sort of tension between the king and his subjects. They are fairly evenly distributed over the period 1630–80, reflect a clear interest on the part of all four playwrights, and frequently parallel developments in political theory and the reality of the court. Even granting a certain margin of error, given that plays are not precisely measurable entities and that my selection of politically themed plays to be included in this study was necessarily subjective, this is a large enough proportion to warrant attention. The problems and solutions regarding kingship vary widely in these plays: some fictional kings abuse their authority and are tolerated, while others are killed; some learn to become better rulers; sometimes subjects appeal to foreign powers for assistance; sometimes good kings are thwarted by greedy and unethical ministers. As a body, they indicate that questions of good kingship were prominent in the minds of Madrilenians, and they provide a consistent recipe for fair and successful rulership—which was often in sharp contrast with what was actually happening at court. The following chapters will analyze 26 of these politically themed plays to examine their perspective on kingship and to fit them into the context of actual political developments and contemporary political theory.76 I have in every case relied on the original seventeenth-century editions for my examination of these plays, and have compared the published text to existing manuscripts whenever possible. (Quotations in later chapters, unless noted otherwise, are from the earliest published editions and reflect contemporary usage and spelling.) Contemporary manuscript versions exist for many of these plays, which provides the added confirmation of whether or not the manuscript was censored and licensed for performance. Although modern editions exist of many of these plays, they are often compiled from various versions of the plays. The modern editor may try to recreate a version as close as possible to the original intent of the author, or one that is as accessible as possible to the modern reader. Both of these approaches involve altering the original seventeenth-century text as it was read and heard by its audience, whether by restoring censored passages or by choosing a later, more 76

The seven that I have left out of this analysis either dealt with royal ministers more than kings, or featured kings as “deux ex machina” figures who only appear at the end of a play rather than figuring in the principal action. I hope to address these in a separate study.

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polished version of a play over its original version. My purposes require making my experience as close to that of the seventeenth-century reader/spectator as possible. An oft-remarked problem of studying plays is that the published version may differ significantly from the text that was actually performed by the acting companies, and there is no way for us to know exactly what words were spoken on stage more than 300 years ago. This is an important factor to keep in mind, but for this set of plays, in every case where I have been able to compare the published plays with the manuscript versions that were licensed for performance, I have found no significant alterations. By government regulation, directors and companies were not allowed to make changes to a script once it had been licensed for performance. Although some extemporizing or embellishing almost certainly took place on the stage, the fundamental structure and performance of the play would have been reasonably consistent with the manuscript, which in turn was consistent with the published play. A form of literature that was such an integral part of the daily lives of Spaniards in the seventeenth century, and so well suited to examining and testing the ideas that were uppermost in their minds, is therefore of great value to students of history. However, a complete understanding of the meaning of these plays must go beyond a mere reading of the texts. The full meaning of theater is not contained in the sum of the stories it told: dramatic production was also closely interwoven with the political and economic structure of the city and court of Madrid. Chapter 2 integrates theater and its context, arguing that the content of plays was more conditioned by theater’s economic dependence on its popular audience than by any connections to the political or social elite. Consequently, the political ideas that appeared on stage constituted a wide-ranging discussion of contemporary issues shaped by the questions and doubts of the public, more than any unidirectional presentation of a single ideal. Chapters 3 and 4 then delve into the representative set of plays to reveal a set of themes related to the proper authority and behavior of kings, and to demonstrate how these themes evolved over the course of the period 1630–80, the decades associated with crisis and decline in the Spanish empire. Both chapters consider the content of the plays in interaction with contemporary developments: from the failed centralization project of the count-duke of Olivares, through the rebellions of 1640, to the years of political uncertainty under the minority rule of Charles II. Chapter 3 considers the court itself as a kind of stage on which to promote the majesty of the monarch, and compares the image of kingship that was cultivated by the monarchy in the seventeenth century through art, architecture, and literature to plays that examine the general qualities and characteristics that make a good ruler. While royal propaganda frequently (and logically) promoted a sense of power and unquestionable authority, the corresponding comedias are similar to the “mirror of princes” genre of political literature in that they involve a careful examination of the duties and obligations of kingship. Their formula for an ideal king bears a clear resemblance to the ideals upheld by contemporary political theorists, who

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emphasized the responsibility of rulers to their subjects and the supremacy of Christian morals to secular reasons of state. Chapter 4 analyzes plays in which the dramatic conflict is generated by the choices and actions of the king (in other words, when he does not live up to the ideals described in Chapter 3). Many of these plays feature conflicts between the personal desires of the king and what his subjects considered to be their natural rights. Consequently, they open up the possibility of examining the people’s potential responses to this conflict. As a group, these plays counter the idea of divine-right monarchy by recognizing the human element—and thus the fallibility—of kings. They reveal that kings are subject to the same passions and distractions as anyone else, but warn that the dangers are far greater if these passions overcome the judgment of a ruler. In many cases, subjects are portrayed as morally superior to their kings, and serve as examples for the monarchs to follow or agents by which they are corrected. In extreme cases, kings may be killed by their subjects or by figures representing divine power. The pattern established by these plays indicates that seventeenth-century Spaniards expected their kings to be powerful, but within carefully prescribed limits and with a healthy respect for the rights and interests of their subjects. Chapter 5 places these questions back in the political context of seventeenthcentury Spain, connecting them to the absence of rebellion in Castile, the flexibility of absolutism, and notions of contractual government evident in contemporary political theory. It also uses the relationship between drama and its popular audience to explain why the comedia died out as a genre towards the end of the seventeenth century. The increased involvement of the court in dominating theatrical production in the late seventeenth century was responsible for the extinction of the comedia, precisely because drama became focused on the narrow world of the court and ceased to reflect the interests of Spanish society.

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Chapter 2

The World of the Stage Much of the uniqueness of Spanish popular theater comes from its mixed heritage in both popular and elite cultural traditions. Throughout Europe in the early modern period, the primary function of theater tended to fall into the channels of religious pedagogy (deriving from liturgical ceremony), urban entertainment (with classical and humanist origins), or peasant festival (remaining in the vernacular folk tradition, and often including a carnivalesque disruption or reversal of the established order). Only in Spain, and to a lesser extent England, did theater draw upon all of these sources to create a form of entertainment that crossed social and cultural boundaries, and one that depended upon the interest and economic support of its audience. Many forms of early modern drama relied on the elite classes for their patronage, as did the fine arts in general. In Western Europe, religious drama became part of the Christian tradition of reenacting key events in the life of Christ, which in turn became an important element in religious education. Typical of the Spanish writers for this genre was Diego Sánchez de Badajoz, a parish priest who lived in the first half of the sixteenth century. Sánchez de Badajoz served the noble family of Feria, who commissioned him and other poets to write plays based on religious allegory as part of their social duty to provide religious instruction for the population in the regions they dominated.1 An important secular element also developed within the upper-class roots of drama. As the nobility patronized drama in the form of religious ritual, around the fifteenth century they also began to associate drama with the pageantry of secular occasions such as banquets, dances, and coronations. These forms of drama were connected to specific events, and gave the patrons a chance to enhance their prestige and reputation. Dependent on the specific families and occasions for which they were written, these theatrical pieces were only performed at court or within private noble households. Although these kinds of plays were funded and produced by the nobility, both the religious and secular elements of drama had origins in popular traditions as well. Although the roots of popular drama are more difficult to trace than the pageants sponsored by noble families, the dramatic elements of medieval celebrations are visible in traditions such as harvest festivals, street processions for 1 Ann E. Wiltrout, A Patron and a Playwright in Renaissance Spain: The House of Feria and Diego Sánchez de Badajoz (London, 1987), pp. 17–20.

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saints’ days, and mock battles between Moors and Christians. Although peasant festivities in Spain tended to be based on Christian elements, they had their pagan roots as well. Roman spectacles were popular in Spain as late as the thirteenth century, and secular drama incorporated some of these pagan forms.2 The playwright Juan del Encina (1468–1529), while drawing on learned classical traditions, also wrote in defense of the rural populace and its lifestyle: “since such excellent things came from the country, and such great men loved agriculture and the rustic life and wrote about it, my work should not be scorned for being written in the pastoral style.”3 Even the structure of the verses in the comedia reveal its mixed heritage. Plays were written in a mix of versification styles, including hendecasyllabic verse, from the learned Italianate style, and octosyllabic verse, more representative of medieval popular tradition.4 Although the form and content of Spanish drama in the early sixteenth century owed a great deal to the Italian influence of the commedia dell’arte, as the century went on, Spanish dramatists began to turn the secular comedia into a genre uniquely their own. Initially the actors as well as the plays themselves had come from Italy; in the 1530s drama had become popular enough to support companies of Italian actors who traveled about from city to city, following in the wake of the Renaissance-inspired translations of Plautus in 1515. Within a few decades, though, a native tradition was able to develop within the peninsula. Lope de Rueda (1500–1565) was the most significant figure in establishing professional theater in Spain: a playwright, actor, and stage manager, he was the first to create and manage a traveling company of actors that performed his plays in city marketplaces, taverns, inns, and public squares from Seville to Valladolid. At this crucial point the elite and popular elements of drama began to come together with the support of a more broadly-based audience. Previously, plays had depended entirely upon the patronage of the nobility, the court, or the church; now the increasing frequency of public performances made it possible for audiences themselves to fund the events. Although Lope de Rueda retained the custom of performing occasional special works for the nobility, he was known principally for providing popular entertainment for the public at large. As Rueda and those who followed in his footsteps traveled widely and performed their own dramatic works, they were no longer connected to any one patron or group of patrons. Consequently their drama ceased to be linked to particular occasions or messages, and it began to pick up broader themes not limited by region or social class. This 2

Emilio Cotarelo y Mori, Bibliografía de las controversias sobre la licitud del teatro en España (Madrid, 1904), p. 16. 3 Quoted in José María Díez Borque, “Juan del Enzina: Una poética de la modernidad de lo rústico-pastoril,” in Díez Borque, Teoría, forma y función del teatro español de los siglos de oro (Palma de Mallorca, 1996), p. 16. 4 Walter Cohen, Drama of a Nation: Public Theater in Renaissance England and Spain (Ithaca, 1985), p. 246.

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shift had economic aspects as well, as the success of this form of theater depended upon pleasing a wide audience with varying tastes and interests. Writers as early as Juan del Encina argued that it was justifiable to cater to popular taste rather than adhering to neoclassical standards, and this position would reach its clearest and most memorable expression with Lope de Vega less than a century later in his famous essay on the new genre, the Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (New Art of Writing Comedias in Our Time, 1609). This approach was clearly a success, as audiences responded to this new form of theater with great enthusiasm. As the traveling companies needed a space to perform and a large enough public to support them, drama came to be principally an urban phenomenon. At the same time, towns began to take an interest in supporting theater. Universities had begun to perform classical Latin plays in the mid-sixteenth century, and Jesuit colleges took similar initiative in sponsoring religious plays. 5 Although these traditions undoubtedly helped to encourage a receptivity to drama in urban areas, the municipality rather than the educational institution became the true home to the popular secular drama of the Golden Age. As the comedia emerged from its blend of popular and elite traditions and established a place for itself in the urban theaters known as corrales, its form was also consolidated into a pattern which would remain unchanged throughout the seventeenth century. The term comedia may be somewhat misleading: it does not necessarily indicate that the content of the dramatic work was light, satirical, or that it had a happy ending. Rather, the term refers to the structure and characteristics of this genre: a secular play in three acts, with certain patterns of versification, around 3,000 lines long. In performance, the comedia would be preceded by a short dramatic piece called a loa; brief interludes between the acts were filled with similar works called entremeses as well as songs and dances, so that the entire performance lasted approximately two and a half hours. In its printed version, however, the comedia generally appeared alone. The most important factor in the performance of the comedia was the text itself; props, costumes, and stage effects were extremely simple. The comedia drew on a wide range of subject matter from history, legend, mythology, Biblical stories, medieval epics, folklore, saints’ lives, and contemporary Spanish life, both urban and rural. Whether comic or tragic, and regardless of the setting in time or place, its most consistent characteristic was its reflection of contemporary language, customs, and relationships. To this end, rather than developing a sensitivity to individual personalities, the comedia tended to portray stock figures representing the different elements of early modern society. The comedia cast was fairly small, averaging eight to ten characters; these always included a galán or young male protagonist; one or more damas or leading ladies; the viejo, an older, more powerful man (a king, captain, or father figure); 5

1995).

See Jesús Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el siglo de oro (Oviedo,

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occasionally a peasant or other representative of rural life; and always a gracioso, or comic figure, usually the servant of the galán. A conflict between the galán and the viejo or between two galanes often provided the dramatic tension; when it was resolved, the hero inevitably married the lady. One of the most noteworthy features of the comedia is its preference in developing plot over personality. This creates a stark contrast with Elizabethan theater, with which English-speaking readers are more likely to be familiar, which frequently explored the inner life and subtle psychology of its characters as much as their actual activities. This difference is even reflected in the names of the characters. In the Spanish comedia one finds an endless stream of Federicos and Leonors and Enriques, to the extent that a reader glancing over the casts of characters of a collection of Spanish plays receives the impression that the same handful of characters populated every play in the Golden Age canon. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, but it is difficult to compare any figure in Spanish theater to Falstaff, Cordelia, or Iago—even the non-title characters in Shakespeare’s plays are instantly recognizable as discrete individuals. Instead of personality and character development, Spanish playwrights utilized elements of plot and action to communicate their message. Even in the cases where an individual character stands out, he or she is identified more readily by title or position than by name: the governor of Ocaña, the mayor of Zalamea, the gentleman from Olmedo. In a way this characteristic has contributed to the comedia’s lack of recognition and popularity in the modern world, but it is of tremendous benefit to the historian. If one comes to understand Hamlet, perhaps one is closer to understanding the human condition, but the reader who becomes familiar with Segismundo of Calderón’s La vida es sueño begins to understand the conflicts and choices faced by a seventeenth-century Spanish prince.6 The comedia’s stock characters and patterns of action can be used by the historian to reveal the inner workings of Spanish society, particularly the relationships between the different groups represented. If the galán has certain predictable characteristics, and the authority figure (usually a king) plays an equally standardized role, then one can easily look for patterns in the relationships between them. There is, of course, a fair amount of oversimplification involved in evaluating Spanish audiences’ attitudes towards the monarchy by looking for patterns in the dramatic treatment of king-figures. The Spanish government of the seventeenth century was administratively dense, with several layers of councils and 6

Many scholars of Spanish Golden Age literature have debated the extent to which its meaning is accessible to readers outside its own time and culture. A good summary of this “uniqueness vs. universality” debate is the “Introduction” of William Blue’s Comedia: Art and History (New York, 1989), pp. 1–24, and, more recently (but somewhat less accessibly), John J. Allen, “Generational Conflicts within Hispanism: Notes from the Comedia Wars,” in Anne J. Cruz and Carroll B. Johnson (eds), Cervantes and His Postmodern Constituencies (New York, 1999), pp. 68–78.

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officials as well as regional and (especially in Castile) municipal authorities between the king and any individual subject. Power in its most practical sense lay in this system more than in the hands of the king, and an ordinary person’s interactions with royal authority, if there were any, would be mediated through all of its layers. Nevertheless, Spaniards perceived government to be represented in the body of the king, and the symbolic centralization that was the goal of Philip IV and his minister Olivares certainly would have encouraged this view. This sense of king as symbolic figure was adapted very easily to the stage, and its frequent appearance among the stock characters of the comedia can demonstrate the ways in which playwrights approached problematic relationships of authority and how their audiences expected these to be resolved. When the plots involve political situations, especially those examining the relationship between a king and his subjects, the solutions they offer can reveal a great deal about the political awareness and expectations of the audience. In Madrid, urban growth was a significant factor in giving theater an established presence in the late sixteenth century. As theater began to take on national rather than regional or class-based characteristics, the Spanish monarchy was following the same trend. In contrast to his peripatetic predecessors, Philip II established a fixed court in Madrid at the outset of his reign in 1561. This occasioned a sharp rise in its population, which more than quadrupled between the time of the court’s move and the end of Philip’s reign in 1598.7 New construction laws enacted to deal with this growth stipulated that houses had to have their open patios, or corrales, behind the house, with the building’s façade facing the street.8 This resulted in a cluster of buildings surrounding a large common yard, the perfect site for an informal performance by a traveling theatrical troupe. As the first of these troupes, or compañías, came through Madrid, they would rent out these spaces from the owners of the surrounding houses for their performances. At the same time, the rapid growth of the city had other less fortunate consequences, such as a corresponding increase in the poor and needy. The religious brotherhood of the Pasión y Sangre de Jesucristo was founded in 1565 to respond to this need, providing food and clothing for the indigent and a hospital for impoverished and sick women. The Pasión brotherhood began to sponsor comedias in its yard in the Santa Cruz neighborhood as a means of earning money to support its charitable activities. Shortly thereafter, it petitioned the Council of Castile for the exclusive right to provide the site for all comedia performances in Madrid; the Council approved. This did not mean that all performances took place within the corral of the Pasión. Instead, the brotherhood took charge of renting out various 7

María F. Carbajo Isla, La población de la villa de Madrid desde finales del siglo XVI hasta mediados del siglo XIX (Madrid, 1987), pp. 132–7. 8 Thomas Middleton, “El urbanismo madrileño y la fundación del Corral de la Cruz,” in Juan Antonio Hormigón (ed.), V Jornadas de teatro clásico español: El trabajo con los clásicos en el teatro contemporáneo (Madrid, 1983), vol. 1, pp. 142–8.

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spaces in the neighborhood which had come to be known as theatrical corrales. These were known either by the streets or plazas from which they were entered (el corral del Sol, and later the Cruz and the Príncipe) or by the names of their owners (el corral de la Pacheca, el de Burguillos, el de Valdivieso, el de la Puente), when two or three were located on the same street. The income from these performances would go to pay the rent of the yard and the acting troupes, and the remainder supported the confraternity’s hospital. A few years after the founding of the Pasión brotherhood, another charitable brotherhood by the name of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad was founded to support abandoned children. When it, too, attempted to raise money through comedia performances, the Pasión challenged its right to do so. Eventually the two groups reached an agreement in which they purchased property to build their own theatrical corral and planned to divide the proceeds from performances. In this way Madrid’s first permanent theater, the Corral de la Cruz, was established in 1579. A few years later, the confraternities purchased two houses and yards that would become the Corral del Príncipe. With the establishment of these two permanent public theaters, the other corrales were no longer used for comedia performances.9 The brotherhoods had gained a monopoly on theatrical production in Madrid and established strong links between theater profits and the hospitals’ charitable operations. To avoid any threats to the latter, the city council defended the hospitals’ theater monopoly and made it official by not allowing comedia performances anywhere else in Madrid. This pattern was followed throughout the peninsula in the late sixteenth century, as stages opened in Zamora, Valencia, Barcelona, Zaragoza, Granada, Córdoba, Málaga, Badajoz, Cádiz, and even in the overseas colonial cities of Lima and Mexico City. In every case, the new public theaters were supported by this kind of cooperative arrangement between city councils and charitable hospitals.10 The term “permanent public theater” is perhaps misleading, for although these were spaces reserved for the performance of comedias to an admission-paying public audience, they were not established physical buildings. The corral was an open yard surrounded by existing buildings: to transform it into a theater, all that was initially necessary was to construct a simple platform for a stage, with a curtain hung at the back behind which the actors could prepare and dress. This physical setup had been common in the sixteenth century, because the basic elements were simple enough for traveling companies to carry with them and set up wherever they were to perform. Performances were held in the corral de la Cruz almost immediately after it was purchased by the confraternities, implying that 9

For the construction of the Corral de la Cruz, see Thomas Middleton, “El urbanismo madrileño y la fundación del Corral de la Cruz;” for the Corral del Príncipe, see John J. Allen, The Reconstruction of a Spanish Golden Age Playhouse: El Corral del Príncipe, 1583–1744 (Gainesville, 1983). 10 Shergold, A History of the Spanish Stage, pp. 195–6.

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almost no physical preparation was needed, and shortly thereafter benches and other items were moved to the Cruz from the corral de la Puente.11 Once the Príncipe and the Cruz were established as fixed performance places, however, both staging and seating for the audience could become more complex. By 1580, the owners had constructed a permanent stage in the corral de la Cruz with side platforms, which could be used for additional stage space or seating, as well as corridors, upper-level balconies, and a cazuela (literally, “stew-pot”), where the female members of the audience were segregated from the men. In the following years, more elements were added: galleries on the upper levels of the existing houses surrounding the yard, separate boxes to rent to the nobility, separate dressing areas for the actors, and so forth.12 There was never any master plan or architectural design in place for these theaters; they simply evolved according to the needs and resources of the owners and the public. Throughout the seventeenth century the corrales remained open-air yards, though they were occasionally covered with tarpaulins to keep out the direct sun; all performances took place during the day to take advantage of the natural sunlight. The tarpaulins were not enough to protect spectators from the elements, however, and occasionally performances were canceled due to heavy rain.13 Performances were advertised by posters and criers, and they took place quite frequently, several days each week. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, when theater had passed the height of its popularity, performances were still recorded for nearly every day over a six-month period.14 The initial capacity of the Príncipe was near 1,000, and after modifications early in the seventeenth century it could hold nearly twice that many.15 Even though the theaters were rarely filled to capacity (one estimate is that an average of roughly 700 spectators came to any given performance), the high attendance multiplied by the frequency of performances meant that the comedia had an audience in Madrid of nearly a quarter of a million people each year.16 As the physical space of the two Madrid theaters evolved (for the Príncipe grew in much the same haphazard manner as the Cruz), the spaces designated for the 11 Cristóbal Pérez Pastor, Nuevos datos acerca del histrionismo español en los siglos XVI y XVII (segunda serie, Bordeaux, 1914), p. 5. 12 J.M. Ruano de la Haza and John J. Allen, Los teatros comerciales del siglo XVII y la escenificación de la comedia (Madrid, 1994), pp. 28–9. 13 Pérez Pastor, Nuevos datos … (segunda serie), pp. 5–6. 14 Archivo de la Villa de Madrid (hereafter AVM) 2-456-13, “Pretensiones del arrendador de los corrales de comedias, sobre diferentes bajas y remisiones y diferentes justificaciones del producto del arrendamiento, 1696,” lists performances in either the Príncipe or the Cruz theaters on all but a few days for the period 1 December 1695–15 May 1696 (excluding the 40 days of Lent, when no performances took place). 15 John J. Allen, “El Corral del Príncipe (1583–1744) en la época de Calderón,” V Jornadas de teatro clásico español: El trabajo con los clásicos en en teatro contemporáneo, vol. 1, pp. 176, 184. 16 Cohen, Drama of a Nation, pp. 167–8.

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spectators came to reflect the social divisions of the audience. In the case of the Príncipe, for example, the stage and open patio were surrounded by four-story houses on three sides. The first level inside the yard was occupied by the open patio, circled by benches and terraced steps. The second stories of the buildings enclosing the yard had windows with railings from which the performances could be viewed, and the third stories had private boxes and open balconies that were rented out to spectators as well. The fourth story was composed entirely of boxes constructed from the former attics of the houses.17 This meant that there were a number of separate seating areas from which spectators could view a performance, and the physical divisions reflected the differences in their social status. Documentation on the cost of attending performances in the public theaters is sketchy at best, and the relative value of a ticket fluctuated with the economic crises and coinage devaluations of the seventeenth century. The basic elements remain clear, however. The cheapest tickets in the house were for the open patio where there were no seats. Although this area was just in front of the stage, this position was not as favorable at it may sound, because stages were typically elevated at least six feet off the ground.18 This was the area filled by the mosqueteros, literally “musketeers,” for the barrages of cheers or catcalls for which they were legendary. These were typical day-laborers, servants, transients, and other members of the lower economic classes of the city. In 1602 the flat entrance fee to get into the patio was 14 maravedís; it occasionally reached as high as 24 maravedis in the 1620s and 1630s, but had declined by the end of the century to 12. This placed theater attendance within reach of all but the most impoverished: unskilled day laborers could easily earn over 100 maravedís a day, and the price of a theater ticket roughly corresponded to that of a pound of bread or half a dozen eggs.19 Surrounding the patio were the gradas, or terraced stands, and their benches, which could be rented for an additional 34 maravedís; these would be occupied by petty bureaucrats, artisans, and tradesmen. Playgoers from the wealthiest levels of society would pay even higher prices, as much as 17 reales (578 maravedís) per performance, to enter the galleries, balconies, and private boxes on the higher levels.20 The municipal authorities, who generally encouraged 17

De la Haza and Allen, Los teatros comerciales del siglo XVII, p. 40; Allen, The Reconstruction of a Spanish Golden Age Playhouse, pp. 16–21. 18 Allen, The Reconstruction of a Spanish Golden Age Playhouse, pp. 31–5. 19 For theater and food prices early in the seventeenth century, see José María Díez Borque, Los espectáculos del teatro y de la fiesta en el Siglo de Oro (Madrid, 2002), p. 180; for wages, see James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (New York, 1999), p. 127. The Biblioteca Nacional of Madrid (hereafter BNM), MS 14.004/1, contains some copies of arrendamiento contracts, including one from 1699 that lists the entry price at 12 maravedís and benches for 51 maravedis. 20 J.E. Varey and N.D. Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650: Estudio y documentos (London, 1971), pp. 33–5; see also Díez Borque, Los espectáculos del teatro y de la fiesta en el Siglo de Oro, pp. 179–82.

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the growth of theater, also attended regularly; boxes in both theaters were reserved for municipal officials. Not to be left out, members of the ecclesiastical establishment had their own reserved section on the upper floors.21 One of the most interesting aspects of Spanish Golden Age theater is the crosssection of Spanish society that attended the plays. Few other art forms reached such a broad audience, and none attained the tremendous popularity of the comedia in the seventeenth century. Contemporary documents mentioning the popularity of the comedia and the efforts made by local authorities to keep rowdy crowds under control attest to the fact that the lower classes were well represented. Administrative documents also record the names of the high noble families who rented theater boxes by the year.22 Nevertheless, the economic influence of the spectators was more evenly balanced by social class than it would appear at first glance. Although the prices for the upper-class boxes were far higher than the basic entry ticket to the patio, the acting troupes were paid from the admission fees collected at the door, which were the same across the board. Prices for the varying kinds of seating were charged in addition to this flat fee, and the profits collected from seating went to pay for the maintenance of the corrales and the needs of the hospitals. Consequently, as far as the acting troupes were concerned—and they were the ones who chose the plays to be performed—the principal goal was to get as many bodies inside the theater as possible, regardless of the social class to which they belonged. Díez Borque has argued that the nobility had a disproportionate cultural influence within the comedia audience,23 but the importance of the spectators to the theatrical experience would indicate otherwise. In fact, the reaction of the lowerclass spectators may have been even more important than that of the elites. Despite the elevated position of the private boxes, at least two-thirds of them were along the sides of the patio rather than facing the stage, and being somewhat recessed, they did not always provide a clear view of the stage.24 In keeping with social 21

Allen, “El Corral del Príncipe (1583–1744) en la época de Calderón,” pp. 176–94. See also Archivo Histórico Nacional (hereafter AHN) Consejos, Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, libro 1173, “Adbertencias para el ejercicio de la Plaça de Alcalde de Casa y Corte,” fols 49v–51v, for the reservation of particular seats in the theaters for local officials. 22 See, for example, AVM 3-470-16 for a list of those owing money for their boxes, and AHN Consejos, Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, libro 1173 for the policing of the corrales and other duties of the alcaldes. 23 Díez Borque, “Públicos del teatro español del siglo XVII,” in Francisco Ruiz Ramón (ed.), II Jornadas de Teatro Clásico Español: Problemas de una lectura actual (Almagro, 1979), p. 74. 24 This is evident in the restored corrales of Almagro and Alcalá de Henares; commentary by Thomas Middleton, Enrique Llovet and Francisco Nieva indicates that the same was true for the Príncipe and the Cruz in Madrid. “Coloquio,” V Jornadas de teatro clásico español: El trabajo con los clásicos en en teatro contemporáneo, vol. 1, pp. 198– 200.

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practices in Madrid, the nobility probably attended plays as much to see each other as to see the performance. The physical structure of the theater also meant that they were more physically (and thus more emotionally) distanced from the stories being told on the stage. On the other hand, the “musketeers” were renowned for their vocal and occasionally physical responses to the comedia. Their loud and enthusiastic support guaranteed a play’s success, and their disapproval meant that a torrent of insults, rotten fruit, and any other objects on hand would pelt the stage and the unfortunate actors. It is easy to see why one scholar commented of the spectators that playwrights and actors “were afraid of them. They had reason to be.”25 Playwrights felt restricted not by government censorship but by the tyranny of the audience. Tirso de Molina complained bitterly that the verses of many good writers had to “go begging” for attention in the theaters, and that drama, once the “princess of the liberal arts, had now fallen among the mechanical, because the poverty of those who practice it obliges them to make marketable what heaven gave them for free.”26 The most important aspect of the establishment of the permanent theatrical corrales in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries is that the comedic genre, which had itself recently come into being, now acquired its own space and role in the community. 27 Previously all theatrical performances had taken place in spaces that were principally dedicated to other purposes: marketplaces, inns, churchyards. Now the comedia had its own space, and it belonged not to any one group but to the city at large. The public came to the theater rather than theater being brought to the public. In Madrid, both corrales were in the parish of Santa Cruz, which was a centrally located commercial and social hub of the city, providing a kind of common ground for all of the city’s inhabitants. Popular and elite elements came together in the audience, themes, creation, and reception of the theatrical experience; the comedia was a genre that was dedicated to and supported by its audience. Juan Manuel Rozas suggests the modern-day parallels of this theatrical experience: “For an organized, daily spectacle, baroque man can only rely on theater. The comedia nueva is the periodical that provides news, the book that teaches theology and geography, the illiterate’s substitute for the novel, our nightclubs, our stadiums, our movie theaters, and even our television.”28

25 Sturgis Elleno Leavitt, Golden Age Drama in Spain: General Consideration and Unusual Features (Chapel Hill, 1972), p. 17. 26 Deleytar aprovechando (1632), quoted in Francisco Florit, “El teatro de Tirso después del episodio de la Junta de Reformación,” in Felipe B. Pedraza Jiménez and Rafael González Cañal (eds), La década de oro en la comedia española: 1630–1640 (Almagro, 1997), p. 98. 27 Although theater flourished most in Madrid, public theaters developed following the same patterns in nearly all other major Spanish cities. 28 Juan Manuel Rozas, “Sobre la técnica del actor barroco,” II Jornadas de teatro clásico español: Problemas de una lectura actual (Almagro, 1979), p. 102.

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The economic structure of the theatrical world is another key to understanding what lay behind the stories presented on stage. In the sixteenth century most formal theatrical performances were sponsored by a wealthy patron, as indeed were nearly all other forms of literary and artistic production. However, the establishment of the public corrales by the charitable brotherhoods provided theater with a very different economic foundation in the seventeenth century. The key participants in the process of the creation and performance of a dramatic work were now the playwright, the brotherhoods that owned the corrales (and later the arrendadores, who leased the yards from the brotherhoods and saw to their administration), the company of actors, and the audience. In the early decades of the confraternities’ theatrical enterprise, a member of the confraternities of the Pasión or Soledad would deal directly with the traveling acting companies as they passed through the city, hiring them to put on a specified number of performances. Occasionally the brotherhoods would subcontract certain minor aspects of the performance: the sale of fruit or drink in the corrales, and later the renting of benches and the collection of ticket prices at the door. As the whole process became more regular and standardized, after 1615 the brotherhoods began to rent out the whole package of comedia production for two or four years at a time. In this way they obtained a regular income which could be dedicated to their charitable works. The arrendador was the person who took over the negotiations with the acting companies and the other details of corral administration, paid the brotherhoods a flat fee (a fixed amount per year) and in turn hired the companies and trusted that he would recuperate his money from ticket sales.29 In the middle of this chain of arrangements were the traveling companies. In the earliest of these troupes of actors, the head of the acting company was often responsible for writing the pieces performed by the group. As a consequence the person in this position was known as the author, el autor de comedias, although his primary obligation was to manage and provide for the group of actors under his responsibility. By the turn of the seventeenth century, professional playwrights had emerged, and the tasks of writing and directing performances became separated. The autor de comedias would purchase plays directly from the playwright for his company’s repertoire, which usually consisted of between 30 and 50 plays. Keeping up a quality repertoire was crucial for the companies, because Spanish audiences were notorious for craving new and fresh comedias, and an autor hoped that the work of preparing and rehearsing a particular work would pay off in more than a few performances. Companies were aided in this challenging venture by the fact that their travels carried them throughout the entire country, so that new audiences were always awaiting their selection of plays. A company might remain in the larger cities of 29 An example of one of the few surviving contracts from the period before 1638 can be found in the BNM, MS 14.004/1.

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Madrid, Seville, or Valencia for up to a few months, but then it would take its show on the road and perform at every stop along the way to its next destination. In this way even the smallest towns had access to the greatest hits of Madrid, if they were so fortunate as to be on the companies’ route between cities. Formal contracts were often drawn up between the autor de comedias and the brotherhoods (or, in the cases of smaller towns, the municipalities or parishes) that hired them. These contracts specified how many plays were to be performed, at what time, how much the company would be paid, and so forth.30 Whether the company was touring Madrid, Seville, Lisbon, or the smaller towns, the selection of particular works to be performed was generally up to the autor. At most, the theaters in smaller towns might request that a company perform “the latest comedias playing in Madrid.”31 In one case where the confraternity official responsible for negotiating with the autor insisted on being able to choose the pieces to be performed, the contract stipulated that his choice had to be made from among the pieces already in the repertoire of the company.32 In Madrid, the arrendadores generally tried to choose the most famous companies, relying on them to have purchased plays which would receive acclaim from audiences and bring in a good return on their investment. As the demand grew for new plays and autores took to purchasing them rather than composing the comedias themselves, early playwrights such as Lope de Vega (1562–1635), Guillén de Castro (1569–1631), and Antonio Mira de Amescua (1574–1644) dedicated their time and effort to writing plays for this new market. This was another important step in the evolution of the comedia, because previously the content of the play would have been determined by the particular occasion for which it was performed, or shaped by the desires of the patron who commissioned it. Once the immediate bond of economic dependence between playwright and patron was broken, the playwright had greater leeway in choosing 30

A large number of these records still exist in Spanish notarial archives. The registers of the Madrid notary Juan García de Albertos, which contain more than 2,000 items relating to professional and amateur theatrical performances in Madrid and its surrounding towns and villages over the period 1634–60, have been published by J.E. Varey and N.D. Shergold in Actividad teatral en la región de Madrid según los protocolos de Juan García de Albertos (London, 2003). Many of the contracts in the legajos of the Archivo Histórico de Protocolos de Madrid (hereafter AHPM) are noted (though with some inaccuracies) in Cristóbal Pérez Pastor, Nuevos datos acerca del histrionismo español en los siglos XVI y XVII (Madrid, 1901) and Nuevos datos … (segunda serie); see also Noël Salomon, “Sur les représentations théâtrales dans les ‘pueblos’ des Madrid et Tolède (1589– 1640),” Bulletin Hispanique, 62 (1960): 398–427. 31 For example, the contract of 7 April 1604 between the autor de comedias Juan de Porres and the brotherhood of the Santísimo from the town of Esquivias, agrees that the company will travel to that town and perform the same dramatic pieces it had recently performed in Madrid. AHPM, Diego Román, 1604. 32 AHPM, Luis de Azcaray, 1607.

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his range of subjects, and his goal was to please as wide an audience as possible. Often a playwright developed a good relationship with a particular company director, and would write plays suited to the talents of his group.33 The companies, in turn, would compete to get the latest works from the playwrights who achieved the most success at any given moment. Most playwrights were reasonably well-paid for their efforts. In the early decades of the seventeenth century, some plays, such as one purchased from Calderón in 1639, brought as much as 1500 reales; another was purchased from Jerónimo Cáncer for 1000 reales.34 In general, plays averaged between 400 and 500 reales each for the first half of the seventeenth century, still a substantial sum. Another measure of the value of the comedias is that they were occasionally the objects of theft. In 1611, Juan de Palacios was charged with “having stolen four new comedias and sold them before the autor, their owner, could perform them,”35 and in 1637 the autor Alonso de Olmedo announced that eight comedias had been stolen from him and that he requested 2,000 ducados (22,000 reales) in damages, or twice that amount if the stolen plays were actually performed anywhere.36 One autor de comedias was not allowed to perform a particular comedia until he paid the 500 reales owed to another autor from whom he had purchased it (who in turn had paid that amount for the play to its author, Lope de Vega).37 In the unusual case of a playwright who was arrested while hiding out from the Inquisition (though not for reasons relating to his compositions), the inquisitors who arrested him found some of his plays on his desk when they searched his house. Rather than suppressing the works of the unfortunate man (who died in prison shortly thereafter), the inquisitors confiscated the plays as goods and arranged for their publication, since they turned out to be the only items of value in his estate.38 The purchase of new plays was one of the greatest expenses faced by an acting company, in addition to the regular costs of paying the actors and maintaining their costumes and props. An average troupe would consist of 12 to 14 persons, including the principal actors as well as a few dancers and musicians.39 Actors 33 Lope de Vega, for example, had a good working relationship with the autor Alonso de Riquelme, though he refused to write for another (Hernán Sánchez de Varga). Hugo Albert Rennert, The Spanish Stage in the Time of Lope de Vega (New York, 1909), p. 172. 34 Shergold, A History of the Spanish Stage, p. 191. 35 AHN, “Indice de causas criminales de la Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte,” 1611. 36 AHPM, Juan Martínez del Portillo, 1637. 37 AHPM, Pedro de Santander, 1600–1620. 38 Michael McGaha, “Who was Francisco de Villegas?” in Charles Ganelin and Howard Mancing (eds), Golden Age Comedia: Text, Theory, and Performance (West Lafayette, IN, 1994), p. 170. 39 This information is drawn from Francisco Asenjo Barbieri’s lists of the companies that were contracted to perform the Corpus Christi autos sacramentales in Madrid, which identify all the members of the companies by name and position; these were the same

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would sign contracts with the autor de comedias to perform with his troupe for the period of one year; the contracts stipulated a regular salary (usually between three and ten reales a day) and an additional amount to be paid per performance (between ten and 36 reales). Traveling expenses for the group were generally paid by the person or organization who hired them to perform. The companies always provided their own costumes and props, which were another factor in their expenses. One notarial document was drawn up to confirm the amount (2,683 reales) owed by an autor de comedias for items including outfits of velvet, taffeta, damask, and brocade; six Moorish costumes; flags, shields, and a French uniform; chains, shackles and locks; capes, knights’ livery, and three angel costumes.40 Given these expenses and the instability of their income, life for the actors in these traveling companies must have been somewhat precarious. It is impossible to establish a precise record of income and expenses for any one company, but given the average payments established in the actors’ contracts, maintaining an acting company was fairly expensive. Payments for performances also varied widely between cities, but a 1623 contract between a company and the arrendadores of the two theaters in Madrid stated that the company was to be paid at least 250 reales per performance, or more if attendance warranted.41 Since almost all actors’ contracts stipulated that they were to be paid a certain amount per performance as well as their regular daily wage, the total daily expenses of an average company would just barely be met by what they might be paid for a performance.42 From the playwrights’ perspective, although an individual comedia could bring a good price, it was not possible in the seventeenth century to make a living exclusively from writing plays. Lope de Vega was the only dramatist who produced enough plays to approach this possibility, but even he depended on other forms of employment to guarantee an income, and was often on the edge of poverty. Most playwrights of the seventeenth century belonged to the middle ranks of society. They were often well educated and nearly always connected to the government, the army or the church. A brief overview of the principal dramatists of the seventeenth century reveals a group fairly evenly divided among these three groups (and often belonging to more than one), with a few exceptions involved in commerce or law. The ecclesiastical group included Tirso de Molina, Lope de Vega, Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Antonio Mira de Amescua, Agustín Moreto, and Francisco de Avellaneda. Guillén de Castro was a cavalry captain, and Lope, Luis Vélez de Guevara, Juan Bautista Diamante, Luis Belmonte Bermúdez and José de Cañizares all served as soldiers. Many playwrights followed university companies that were known for performing comedias in the public theaters. BNM, MS 14070/9. 40 AHPM, Antonio Fernández, 1602. 41 AHPM, Juan Martínez del Portillo, 1621–26. 42 The generalizations for this and the preceding paragraph are drawn from a series of contracts in the AHPM between 1600 and 1630.

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careers in law or politics, holding government employment in various minor administrative positions; these included Juan de la Hoz y Mota, Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla, Jerónimo Cáncer y Velasco, Vélez de Guevara, Francisco Bances Candamo, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, Antonio de Solís y Rivadeneyra, and Antonio de Zamora. Moreto and Diamante were both sons of merchant families. A few of the lesser-known playwrights (the brothers Diego and José de Figueroa and Cristóbal de Monroy y Silva) came from noble families, though the vast majority did not. The four writers whom I have selected to study in detail based on the popularity of their drama—Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681), Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (1607–1648), Juan de Matos Fragoso (1610–1692), and Juan Bautista Diamante (1622–1687)—are fairly representative of the group at large. Since all four wrote principally for the Madrid market, it is logical that all four (and indeed the majority of all the playwrights who were based in Madrid) had at one time or another some kind of connection with the court. Calderón, the earliest of these writers, was the most closely tied to the court. He studied canon law at Salamanca and served occasional stints in the Spanish armies of Italy, Flanders, and Catalonia. He then traded his weapons for a priest’s vestments, taking clerical orders in 1651. Calderón’s dramatic career spanned most of the seventeenth century: he began writing at an early age, and by the 1630s he had gained fame in the court and established close ties with Philip IV’s favorite and minister, the count-duke of Olivares. After joining the priesthood, he also became the official dramatist of the court, though he then limited his production to court festivals and the yearly autos sacramentales for the city’s Corpus Christi celebrations. Nevertheless, before he ceased to write for the public corrales, Calderón produced over 100 comedias, many of which represent the best writing of Spain’s Golden Age. The other three dramatists featured in this study also had careers based in Madrid, though they were not directly in the employ of the court. Rojas Zorrilla and Matos Fragoso both followed the well-trodden path from the university to the court. The former studied at Toledo and Salamanca and the latter studied philosophy and law at Evora, in Portugal. Both came to Madrid hoping to find work, and soon established themselves in the city’s literary circles. Although Matos Fragoso was born in Portugal, his family moved to Madrid when he was only three years of age, and when he took the habit of the religious Order of Christ in 1662 he was commended for his loyalty to Spain during the 1640 rebellion of Portugal.43 Diamante, also of Portuguese descent, was the only one besides Calderón to follow a military profession; he later took religious orders as well. In many cases, as one might expect, the playwright’s background and employment to a certain extent influenced his choice of subject matter. Many of the scholars who hold that the comedia was a form of royal propaganda base their argument on the fact that playwrights were often in the employ of the nobility or 43 Elsa Leonor Di Santo, “Noticias sobre la vida de Juan de Matos Fragoso,” Segismundo, 14 (1978–80): 218.

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the court, and that presumably they would have written only on topics that served the interests of their employers. In a way this is true, but only because every playwright was first and foremost a poet. It was a common practice in the Spanish court to use poetry to praise and honor influential persons or events in the court in the hopes of receiving favor, monetary or otherwise, from the person or family celebrated in the work (as well as to spread the fame of the poet himself). On occasion such works were specifically commissioned, as in the case of the funeral services of Philip III, when the Council of Madrid hired Lope de Vega to write verses in honor of the deceased king.44 Juan de Matos Fragoso wrote a poetic celebration of the wedding of Philip IV and Mariana of Austria, another for the wedding of King Pedro II of Portugal, a poem dedicated to an alderman of the Madrid city council, and several others in honor of persons of distinction in the court and the church.45 These were typical of the poetic works written by dramatists for their patrons in the noble families whom they often served. The government ties of playwrights often put them in the service of particular noble families. Calderón spent much of his career in the exclusive service of the king and worked closely with the marquis of Heliche; Bances Candamo developed close relationships with the duke of Alba and the dukes of Albuquerque; Guillén de Castro served the duke of Gandía and the count of Benavente; Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza was a favorite of Olivares; and Lope de Vega performed secretarial duties for a series of noble figures from the marquis of Las Navas to the duke of Sessa. Clearly these men would have had a certain loyalty to their employers and an interest in honoring them through their verse as well as their service. The comedia was (literally) another story, however, and in its case the ties of patronage were less influential. While commissions for poetry were quite common, only in a few very rare cases did a patron request a comedia. Such commissions would be for private performances rather than for the corrales, and therefore they required space and a license to be performed. In addition, its form based on standard types of characters was not as well suited to honoring a particular patron. The exceptions are few: one playwright was asked to write a comedia recounting the family history of the first duke of Villahermosa. Out of the many hundreds of dramatic works written by Lope de Vega, a mere eight were commissioned for

44

Teresa Ferrer Vals, Nobleza y espectáculo teatral (1535–1622): Estudio y documentos (Valencia, 1993), pp. 15, 297–392. 45 Matos Fragoso, “Epithalamis en las bodas de Felipe IV y Mariana de Austria” (BNM, V/C 1351-6), “Elogio lyrico al serenissimo señor el señor Don Ivan dedicado al Rey nvestro señor” (BNM, VE 154-29); poems dedicated to don Gabriel de Rojas, regidor of Madrid; don Francisco de la Plaza Roca, canon of Segovia; and those written for the wedding of Pedro II and the birth of his son the prince (La Barrera, 239–42). See also Elsa Leonor di Santo, “Noticias sobre la vida de Juan de Matos Fragoso,” Segismundo, 14 (1978– 80): 217–32, for Matos Fragoso’s connections to noble families.

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private performances.46 The court and the city of Madrid often hired writers to compose brief dramatic performances as part of the celebration of festivals or other special occasions, but the comedia proper generally fell outside this sphere of influence. In the public corrales, the true realm of the comedia, playwrights were not writing with the goal of currying favor with any given family. Even in the volumes of the published Escogidas series of comedias, which like other forms of published literature often included a dedicatory preface, the person to be honored by the dedication was chosen by the bookseller, not the playwright. If a dramatist had hopes of impressing a particular person or family, the comedia was not the best means to accomplish his goal. Above all, the playwright knew on which side his bread was buttered. With the comedia, the person whose favor the writer most wanted to gain was the autor de comedias, who would actually pay him. Seventeenth-century writers knew their audiences and were perfectly capable of creating different products for different groups; the same poets who wrote sonnets in high praise of some government or court figures had no compunction about satirizing others through drama.47 In fact, the very proximity of playwrights to the center of government lent them a great deal of ammunition with which to attack what may have been, in their view or that of the audience, weak or misguided administrators and policies. Of all the elements in the comedia’s process from playwright to stage, the audience was the most crucial, at least from the perspective of the others involved. Economically their contribution was unpredictable, but it was essential to all the other participants. Some elements of income from the audience were more stable than others: the boxes were generally rented out by the year to noble families, and some of the other seating areas could be rented out for smaller stretches of time as well. The arrendador received these payments whether or not the seats were occupied, or at least he was supposed to. Collecting the money owed for the boxes often proved to be problematical, as evidenced by a 1632 document noting the amounts owed by various persons and, in many cases, their refusal to pay.48 In any case, the amount collected from the flat entrance fee paid by all spectators was the most significant portion of the income, for both the arrendador and the autor de comedias. The key factor which allowed the arrendador to recoup his investment, the autor to pay his company, and the charitable hospitals to take care of their poor, was simply the number of people who came in the door to 46

These works were written for the duke of Lerma, the University of Salamanca, the municipality of Madrid, the royal palace at Aranjuez, the convent of the Mercedarians, and the count of Monterrey. David Castillejo, Las 400 comedias de Lope: Catálogo crítico (Madrid, 1984), p. 48. 47 See works by Matos Fragoso and others in “Obras poéticas y satíricas de varios autores,” BNM, MS 9636. 48 Allen, The Reconstruction of a Spanish Golden Age Playhouse, pp. 102–3.

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attend a comedia. Many documents from the period illustrate this dependence: the contract from 1623 mentioned above which guaranteed 250 reales per performance to the acting company also stipulated that if the entrance ticket sales amounted to less than 250 reales for any performance, the company had to perform a different comedia the following day. This would have provided particular motivation for companies to purchase plays that they felt sure would be a success; frequent changing of plays would mean a larger (and more expensive) repertoire as well as more time and money spent on rehearsal, costumes, and props. Other contracts between company directors and the actors who worked for them included clauses stating that if the actor chose to leave the company before the end of the year for which he was contracted, he was required to pay a fee. This amount (often fairly high, between 50 and 100 ducados, the equivalent of 550–1100 reales) was to be divided between the company itself and the charitable hospitals, since the actor’s absence would be harmful to both.49 The mutual dependence between all the partners in this enterprise is well illustrated by a plea in 1632 from the arrendadores that they were unable to fund necessary repairs to the theaters, because all their income went directly to the hospitals and to other necessities such as “aid to the playwrights made on behalf of the autores while they are in the process of writing the comedias which are performed,” which was later paid back by the autores once they received payment for performance of those comedias.50 In short, the approval of the audience was the key factor in the success of all those involved. If an autor did not think a particular play would receive much applause, he would not purchase it; if a company had not had much success in bringing in good receipts, it would not be contracted by the arrendadores. Even Miguel de Cervantes, arguably one of the greatest writers in European history, found himself stymied by the rigorous standards of the autores. When Cervantes decided to try his hand at drama again after not having written plays for many years, he found that no autor de comedias would buy his plays, as they feared that “much could be expected from my prose, but nothing from my verse.”51 It was this very dependence of the public theaters on their audiences, as well as the enthusiasm of audiences for the comedia, that led to a growing interest on the part of the municipal and state governments. This interest, over the course of the seventeenth century, revealed a wary mix of the recognition of theater as an 49

AHPM, Antonio Fernández 1602. “Sobre reparaciones, ‘socorros de poetas’ y pagos a autores de comedias,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650, p. 76. The Varey and Shergold volume provides an excellent collection of documents from the AVM, the originals of which are in poor condition and no longer generally accessible in the archive. 51 Miguel de Cervantes, “Prólogo” to Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses (Madrid, 1615). 50

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important source of income and concern over its debatable moral qualities. Although the corrales brought in increasing amounts of money in the early seventeenth century, the needs of the hospitals were expanding even more rapidly, shifting the significance of theater from idle entertainment to a principal source of income for crucial social services. By 1615, the same two corrales that had been guaranteed exclusive rights for comedia performances in Madrid—the Cruz and the Príncipe—were not only supporting the two original hospitals, run by the brotherhoods of the Pasión and Soledad, but also two additional ones, the Hospital General and the Hospital de Niños Desamparados for orphaned or abandoned children. At this point, the hospitals had become so dependent upon their income from the theaters, “with the great expense they have every year in the care and support of the sick, the poor, and the children,” that the state felt obliged to step in. The Council of Castile decreed that the city of Madrid would pay a fixed amount of 54,000 ducados to the four hospitals each year, discounting from that amount the income made from comedias, so that if the theaters’ income in any given year did not meet the needs of the hospitals, the latter would still be provided for.52 For a time this solved the crisis of the hospitals, but the other participants in comedia production were still dependent on the fluctuating income from the theaters. A heavier blow fell in 1621 when all performances were prohibited to respect the death of Philip III. The arrendadores of the corrales claimed not to be liable for the rent they owed to the hospitals, since they had not been able to collect any income from the comedias. A representative from the Hospital General petitioned the king to comply with the previous agreement and pay the hospitals the full amount they should have received from the theaters, some 223,379 maravedís at the time of the petition and whatever additional funds they could have expected to receive from the arrendadores until such time as the prohibition was lifted.53 The city agreed to pay, but documents from the following year indicate that it was some time before Madrid was able to respond to this unexpected financial demand.54 By 1630, with the addition of the Hospital de la Corte and the Hospital de San Martín, there were no fewer than six charitable organizations which relied on the money brought in by the comedias. The chain of dependence linking the companies, the arrendadores, and the hospitals, unstable at best, was now under more stress than it could handle. Madrid found itself under increasing pressure to make up for the payments owed by the arrendadores, culminating when the latter claimed bankruptcy, being able to pay barely more than half the two million maravedís they owed to the hospitals. The city officials laid the blame on the arrendadores and the brotherhoods for poor management, claiming that if they 52

“Sobre los hospitales,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650, pp. 58–60. 53 AVM, 2-420-14. 54 Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650, p. 20.

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themselves had been responsible for the administration of the theaters, the situation would not have become so desperate. In the following years, Madrid continued to argue that if it was going to be held financially responsible for the corrales, it should be given more power in their administration. Eventually the central government agreed. In 1638 the city authorities took over subletting of the corrales, the hiring of the acting troupes, and the collecting of revenues, and in turn agreed to pay the hospitals a fixed subsidy every year.55 Although this was the first point at which the city government received a significant amount of economic control over theater administration, it was not the first interest government had taken in the nature of theater as a form of entertainment. As early as 1598, the archbishop of Granada complained to Philip II of the “great harm done to these kingdoms” by the comedia. Philip presented this question to the Council of Castile, the most important of the royal councils, which in turn sought the professional opinion of three theologians. The three (Sr. García de Loaisa y Giron, Fray Diego de Yepes and Fray Gaspar de Córdoba) responded with a solid denunciation of the moral dangers of the theater. Citing over a dozen authorities from Socrates to St. Thomas Aquinas, they argued that the stage was nothing but a textbook of vice, teaching otherwise good and decent people how to be adulterous, dishonest and sinful, and leading them to become lazy, soft, and useless. The essay also hinted in passing that these very debilities, resulting from similar frivolous games and pastimes, had resulted in the fall of the Roman Empire.56 Dismayed by this judgment, Philip II responded by immediately prohibiting all performances—in both public and private venues—by the traveling companies.57 This was not to everyone’s satisfaction, however, because the city of Madrid issued its own protest about the unfairness of such a decision. City officials argued that it had been appropriate to cancel all performances, in Madrid only, in the light of the recent death (in November 1597) of Philip’s daughter, the princess Catalina, but that the problems caused by the comedia were not so grave as to warrant the permanent closing of the theaters. First the city pointed out that even though some small occasions of immorality might arise in the context of a comedia performance, the comedias themselves were not inherently evil. In fact, they had been favored by all good republics in history because of their virtue and usefulness

55

AVM, 2-467-10, “Informe del origen de los corrales de la Cruz y Príncipe.” See also examples of documents relating to the hospitals and their finances reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650, pp. 63–7. 56 Archivo General de Simancas (hereafter AGS), Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993-2, “Parecer del Sr. García de Loaisa y de los PP. Fr. Diego de Yepes y Fr. Gaspar de Córdoba, sobre la prohibición de las comedias.” 57 AGS, Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993-2, Philip II’s response to the above petition, dated 2 May 1598.

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in teaching history, religion, the value of good deeds and the consequences of bad ones: [The comedia] is a mirror, a warning, an example, a portrait, a doctrine and lesson of life from which the docile and prudent man may correct his passions by fleeing vice, lift his thoughts by learning virtues from their demonstration, since there is everything in the comedia, and it is so powerful in human acts that it often happens that more is learned through the eyes than can be taught through understanding.58 City officials then turned to the more practical component of their argument: the maintenance of the hospitals. The memorial praised the initiative and effort of the brotherhoods in establishing the theaters at their own cost, and claimed that people were more accustomed to attending the comedias than they were to giving alms, so that to lose that form of income for the hospitals would be disastrous. The only flaw that the city was willing to recognize in the nature of the comedia was the inclusion of dances, which in some cases apparently could be quite lascivious, and it recommended legislation to limit all performers to the “established and permitted dances” which presumably would not be so dangerous. The petition concluded that the city was doing everything in its power to maintain the decorum of theatrical presentations through the licensing of plays and the policing of the theaters, and that justice would be served by allowing them to reopen. Philip II died in 1598, shortly after this exchange, and while the theaters remained closed to respect his passing, they opened again in 1599 after the period of mourning had passed. The debate over regulating theater was still being considered in the Council of Castile, and the following year the Council issued a brief opinion on the subject. Its conclusion was that comedias should still be performed, as long as they were subject to a licensing process to avoid immoral dances or other indecent elements, and were not performed on certain religious holidays or at the universities of Alcalá and Salamanca, for fear of distracting the students from their studies.59 This exchange between the royal government and the city of Madrid was only the first step in what would become a regular pattern of disagreement over the nature and value of the comedia for the rest of the century. In this conflict, established in the first decades of the theater’s popularity even before it came directly under the administration of Madrid, the city’s interests generally lay in promoting the comedia while the royal government vacillated about whether it encouraged virtue or vice.

58

BNM, MS 11.206, “Memorial dirigido a Felipe II por la villa de Madrid en 1598 para que levantase la suspensión de las comedias,” fols 133–6. 59 BNM, MS 11.206, “Consulta del Consejo á S.M. sobre la permisión o prohibición de las comedias,” fol. 136v.

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Although Philip III did not take as much of a personal interest in theater as his father had, during his reign the first basic guidelines and regulations for theater were laid down by the Council of Castile. One of the tasks of the Council was the supervision of the charitable hospitals, so in 1608 it took on responsibility for the theaters as well, and one of its members was given the position of Protector de Comedias, or “guardian” of the theater. Two general sets of regulations regarding theater were set out by the Council in 1608 and 1615. Although Madrid’s petition to Philip II in 1598 and the Council’s decision in 1600 both made mention of a licensing process, the Council’s orders of 1608 were the first to formally require a license both for the acting companies and for the individual plays. The first entry in the 1608 list stated that upon entering the court, an autor de comedias must present himself to the Protector de Comedias and request a license for his company to perform in the court. Furthermore, two days before the performance of a new comedia, the work itself was to be presented to the same Council member to be examined and licensed.60 These provisions were restated with slightly greater detail in the 1615 regulations. For example, the mention of the licensing process for the plays states that the comedias, entremeses, dances, and songs which are to be performed, before the autores give them to the performers to memorize, are to be sent or brought to the person named by the Council for this purpose, so that he may censor them, and they must bear his censure and license signed with his name so that they may be done and performed … without permitting anything lascivious, dishonest, rude, harmful to others, or on any subject that would not be appropriate to present in public.61 In addition to these basic guidelines for censorship, the regulations established a hierarchy of authority over the theater. In general, the Council had authority over the actual existence of the public theaters throughout Castile, though it was at the municipal level that all of the day-to-day administration took place. Theater in Madrid, however, was an unusual case, because there the jurisdiction of the city overlapped with that of the court. The brotherhoods of the Pasión and Soledad each were to name two commissioners in charge of the basic administration and ticketcollecting in the corrales, and an additional one to keep track of the books and 60

AVM 2-468-5, “Sumario de la orden … que deuen guardar los Autores de comedias, Comissarios, Alguaziles, y demas personas que acuden al beneficio, y cobrança, y particion del aprouechamiento dellas.” 61 AVM 3-475-2, “Reglamentos de teatros, 1615,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1600–1650, 55–8. This printed document contains some manuscript annotations including the crossing out of this paragraph. However, the copy in the Biblioteca Nacional (14.004/6), signed by the copyist as being faithful to the original, contains the paragraph in its entirety. Later sets of regulations repeated the injunction to license plays with almost exactly the same wording.

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divide the profits appropriately between the two hospitals. The five commissioners were ultimately responsible to the Council member acting as the Protector de Comedias. The other regulations established guidelines for practices such as leasing the corrales out to arrendadores, the establishment of entry and seating prices, the distribution of funds between the hospitals, and the advertisement of performances. In theory, the Council of Castile retained the final word in all of the decisions, but they were generally the responsibility of the commissioners, the arrendadores, and the autores de comedias.62 The day-to-day matters of maintaining order in the theaters in Madrid came under the jurisdiction of the Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte. The Sala was a group of officials that had initially been charged with maintaining and provisioning the court while it was itinerant in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Once the court became permanently settled in Madrid, the Sala continued to exist, and its duties became associated with that city, overlapping with the responsibilities of the municipal government. Its responsibilities were more practical than legislative, including the maintenance of basic food supplies, the policing of the city, and the jailing of criminals. Nevertheless, it was associated with the state more than the city: the governor of the Sala was also a minister of the Council of Castile, and the two groups met together every week to prepare their reports to the king.63 The basic responsibilities of the Sala and the details of its functions in the first half of the seventeenth century were outlined in a 70-chapter guidebook written by a governor of the Sala.64 Chapter 23 presented the group’s duties regarding the public theaters of Madrid: rather than being concerned with the content of the performance, the alcaldes approached the comedia as they would any other public event and considered their primary goal to be keeping order in the theaters. One alcalde was to be on duty at every performance to make sure it started on time, that everyone paid to get in, and to resolve any disputes over who had rented a particular bench or box. Many of his duties involved the emphatic segregation of the sexes: he was to keep men from sneaking into the actresses’ dressing rooms, to keep male audience members out of the cazuela where the women in the audience were seated, and to keep an eye out for men who dressed up as women with the intent of accomplishing either of these feats. In the case of any sort of breach of the law, the alcalde’s goal was to resolve the problem without interrupting the performance. In the case of a conflict or duel erupting between members of the audience, the book suggested that the alcalde calm the spectators, identify the 62

AVM 2-468-5, “Reglamentos de teatros, 1608.” Rosa Isabel Sánchez Gómez, Estudio institucional de la Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte durante el reinado de Carlos II (Madrid, 1989), p. 33. 64 AHN Consejos, libro 1173, “Adbertencias para el ejercicio de la Plaça de Alcalde de Casa y Corte,” fols 10–113v; chapter 23 on comedias is fols 49v–51v. See also Eudosio Varón Vallejo, “Rondas de los Alcaldes de Casa y Corte en los siglos XVII y XVIII,” Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas y Museos, XXVIII, (1924): 148–55. 63

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perpetrators and then apprehend them after the comedia had ended. The same was true if the alcalde on duty were to spot any women of ill repute in the galleries or boxes: he was to post a guard to make sure they did not sneak back out, and then deal with them after the show. Because of the overlapping authorities of court and city, the state clearly had a greater influence over theater in Madrid than it did in other cities. But can one assume from this, as many scholars have, that theater was a form of entertainment created in the interests of the state to exalt the power of the king? Even in Madrid, where the state’s power was strongest, it does not seem that there was a sufficient network of legislation and influence in place to exert such control over the theater. Although the acting companies and their plays had to be licensed, licensing does not necessarily equal censorship. This form of licensing was a very common practice in seventeenth-century Spain. Not only were the companies expected to be officially registered, but so were the taverns, street vendors, games of skittles, bullfights, and many other positions and activities that took place in and around the city. 65 In the case of theater, the censors were often playwrights themselves, who were then responsible for licensing their own works. On the few occasions where they did make corrections to manuscript plays, these were based on religious improprieties or sexual innuendo, not political or social criticism.66 In fact, theater occupied a very small share of the regulations and permits administered by the court. The government books of the Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, which registered the edicts set out by this group each year, fill between five and nine hundred pages per year in the middle decades of the seventeenth century. Of these, at most one or two pages every year include decisions relating to the theater. These books also include the licenses and registrations issued by the Sala each year, but copies of the licenses supposedly required by the autores de comedias and their plays do not appear. This suggests that the licensing procedure was not considered to be particularly formal or necessary. Furthermore, the document listing the basic duties of the alcaldes in regard to the theater made no mention of checking to see if the groups or their plays were properly registered. The only surviving licenses for plays I have found consist of brief handwritten notes on the play manuscripts themselves; no permanent record seems to have been kept in the Sala’s own files of licenses for plays or companies. This is not to say that the licensing procedure did not exist for the theater, but (unlike many other 65

AHN Consejos, libro 2777, “Indice de libros de autos y providencias, tomo I,” and libro 1173, “Adbertencias para el ejercicio de la Plaça de Alcalde de Casa y Corte.” 66 For the duties and activities of censors, see J.M. Ruano de la Haza, “Dos censores de comedias de mediados del siglo XVII,” in Francisco Mundi Pedret (ed.), Estudios sobre Calderón y el teatro de la Edad de Oro: Homenaje a Kurt y Roswitha Reichenberger (Barcelona, 1989), pp. 203–28; Charles Vincent Aubrun, La comedia española 1600–1680 (Madrid, 1968), p. 48; and Ann Mackenzie, La escuela de Calderón: estudio e investigación (Liverpool, 1993), pp. 139–41.

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aspects of Madrid life) it did not leave a significant paper trail. McKendrick argues that the lack of any real evidence of censorship reflects the priorities of the censors, who looked only for egregious violations of modesty or gross religious error. They were not interested in the subtleties of irony or internal contradiction, which is where modern scholars and seventeenth-century audiences knew where to find the criticisms, satire, and double meanings that made it such a valuable forum of discussion.67 Another question is whether the laws and regulations governing theater were universally and consistently obeyed. Occasionally, the ideals of the government clearly came into conflict with the simple practicalities of the stage, and in these cases it seems that the stage nearly always won. For example, one of the earliest regulations involving theater in the books of the Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte stated that under no circumstances could the acting companies include women performing on the stage.68 However, both the 1608 and 1615 regulations from the Sala specified that women should not act on the stage dressed as men (the 1615 rules add that men should not act on the stage dressed as women either), which implies that the earlier ruling had been abandoned. In fact, lists of compañía membership throughout the seventeenth century reveal that troupes always included women among the principal actors.69 The subsequent regulations regarding women dressing as men may have been ignored as well: many plays written and performed after 1615 included prominent female characters required by the plot to disguise themselves as men. This was also one of the issues which most concerned those who complained about the immorality of the theater in subsequent years, which again indicates that the rules were disregarded. Similar circumstances surrounded the collection of ticket money at the entrances to the theaters. The 1608 regulations stated that the only persons who were to be allowed access without paying were the five commissioners from the religious brotherhoods and the ticket collectors themselves. Yet many subsequent documents made reference to the numbers of people who slipped in without paying, made deals with the ticket collectors, or claimed that because of their social status or occupation that they should be allowed free access. Even an outright prohibition of drama did not always stick. An edict from Philip II prohibited performances in Alcalá de Henares, the site of a major university, on study and lesson days, since it was believed that students neglected their studies in favor of the entertainment provided by the comedias. This edict was patterned on a

67 McKendrick, Playing the King: Lope de Vega and the Limits of Conformity (London, 2000), p. 24. 68 AHN Consejos, libro 1197, “Auto sobre que no representasen mujeres,” fol. 175. 69 The troupe of Antonio de Escamilla in 1663, for example, was composed of five women and five men, though compañías were more frequently composed of three or four women and eight or nine men. BNM 14070-9.

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previous one which prohibited performances in Salamanca for the same reasons.70 Nevertheless, comedias clearly remained a part of student life: Girolamo da Sommaia’s “Diary of a Student of Salamanca” mentioned nine different acting companies passing through the city between 1603 and 1607, and lists nearly 200 comedias that were performed during that time.71 These almost certainly did not all take place during university vacations; in 1612 Francisco Bermúdez de Pedraza described the average student at Salamanca as someone who in the space of a fourmonth course “saw more comedias than he heard lessons.”72 Given this sort of governmental context for theater regulations, it does not seem plausible that theater was controlled by the state, at least through direct political mechanisms. Nor was it likely that the content of theater was shaped by the financial patronage of the state or the court, since, as discussed above, the economic well-being of the comedia depended almost entirely upon its public. Indeed, one of the most powerful arguments against the government’s use of the comedia as propaganda is the fact that representatives of both church and state were concerned about its questionable moral value.73 After the establishment of the basic regulations governing theater in 1608 and 1615, the relationship between theater and the government was characterized principally by debates over its potential dangers. During the last years of the reign of Philip III, fiscal shortfalls and concerns about the difficulties of maintaining Spain’s empire led the king to summon a special council (known as a junta) to analyze the country’s problems and recommend solutions. After Philip’s death in 1621, this Junta de Reformación (Council of Reformation) became the pet project of Philip IV’s prime minister, the count-duke of Olivares; the new king’s instructions were for it to engage in “the reformation, not only in this Court but in all of my kingdoms, of the matter of vices, abuses and corruption.”74 An intense and powerful man, Olivares was determined to use the Junta as part of his plans to overcome the separate laws and 70

BNM, MS 18.668/59, “Provisión real de Felipe II para que el alcalde mayor de la villa de Alcalá de Henares no consienta las representaciones de farsas … en días de lecciones y estudio, tal como estaba ordenado para Salamanca.” 71 Willard F. King, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, letrado y dramaturgo (Mexico, 1989), pp. 115–16. 72 Francisco Bermúdez de Pedraza, Arte legal para estudiar la Jurisprudencia, con la Paratitla, y exposición a los títulos de los cuatro libros de las Instituciones de Justiniano (Salamanca, 1612), quoted in Willard King, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, p. 115. 73 A good study of the seventeenth-century political and religious arguments about the morality of theater is Eugenia Ramos Fernández, Contra comedia: Antiteatralismo en el barroco español (Ph.D. dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1995). 74 The Junta was composed of various notable and powerful figures from the court, most of them with some connection to the church. It included, for example, Francisco de Contreras, the president of the Council of Castile; Andrés Pacheco, the bishop of Cuenca and Inquisitor General; and Antonio de Sotomayor, the king’s confessor.

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privileges of the various kingdoms and regions of the empire as well as to enhance the personal authority of the monarch and reform the morals of the court. While the Junta tackled a wide range of issues, including the closing of brothels and restrictions on foreign imports, some of its discussions specifically identified the comedia as a potential source of trouble. 75 In their early meetings, the members of the Junta were most concerned with prohibiting the attendance of priests and other members of religious orders to the comedia, presumably for fear of the moral evils therein. Subsequently, the Junta became more concerned with the comedia’s effects on the public at large, and discussed the possibility (supported by Olivares) of prohibiting not only the performance but the actual writing of comedias.76 Although the principal complaint raised by those who opposed the theater was that it was immoral and sinful, there were occasional hints that the government recognized its political power as well. Among the papers collected by the Junta de Reformación on theater was a discussion of its dangers in the form of a fictional dialogue between a government official and a theologian. The two discuss the usual problems associated with the comedia, but then the theologian adds a new development which he finds particularly troubling: They say that these days the actors, or those who compose farces, have taken to using these for insolent satires, in which they publicize through pasquinades the things which are whispered in the court, be they about the validos, those who govern, those whose positions are envied, or those who envy them, making unbridled fun and ridicule of everything with great liberty and discourtesy.77 The dialogue presented a set of specific recommendations which included limiting the subject matter of the comedia and raising the price of entry. The latter suggestion was particularly indicative of the nature of the government’s concern, for its consequence would have been to seriously limit the access of ordinary people to the theaters, thus “protecting” them from hearing—and perpetuating— potentially critical material.78 The goal of these proposed measures was to gradually increase the restrictions on the comedia until it could be done away with 75

AHN Consejos, leg. 7137, expediente 13. The “Capítulos de Reformación,” the final decisions taken by the Junta in 1623, are reproduced in González Palencia, La Junta de Reformación, pp. 415–55. 76 Angel González Palencia, “Quevedo, Tirso y las comedias ante la Junta de Reformación,” Boletín de la Real Academia Española, 25 (1946): 78–9. 77 AGS, Patronato Real, 15-3, “Diálogo entre un regidor y un teólogo sobre los daños que producían las comedias.” 78 These concerns were echoed over a century later by the writer and theater director José Clavijo y Fajardo, who viewed the comedia as an encouragement to reject authority, challenge the laws of God and country, and spread anarchy and revolution. Discursos críticos sobre todos los asuntos que comprende la sociedad civil (1763), quoted in McKendrick, Playing the King, p. 8.

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altogether. The final conclusion of the dialogue is particularly interesting, for it states that if the public theaters could be abolished, all remaining forms of drama could be kept neatly under control: the churches would be in charge of religious festivals, and the cities could sponsor secular games and festivities, which were more easily controlled than the comedia. During the Junta’s debates about the comedia, it considered various additional suggestions, including closing one of the two theaters in Madrid, only allowing one traveling company at a time to perform in the city, and even dividing the two theatrical spaces by gender so that males could only attend one and females would be limited to the other.79 All of the discussions on these topics noted at some point that the truly preferable option would be to prohibit the comedia altogether, but that was deemed impossible. In fact, all of the general proposals regarding restrictions on theater were ultimately abandoned: the popularity of the comedia, the income it generated for the cities, the proliferation of published plays, and the difficulty of regulating the traveling acting companies all made the Junta’s plans unrealistic. While the Junta could not enact any of the sweeping measures it had considered to control the content and production of the comedia in general, it was able to focus its attention on narrower targets. The first of these was the priest and playwright Gabriel Téllez, more famously known as Tirso de Molina. In March of 1625, early in the reign of Philip IV, the Junta de Reformación recommended that Tirso be exiled from Madrid and confined to a monastery of his Mercedarian order because of his secular comedias that included “bad incentives and examples.” Neither the bad examples nor the specific comedias were identified in the complaints, but Tirso was threatened with excommunication if he continued to write comedias.80 In this same meeting, the Junta agreed that the dangers of the comedia in general were too easily spread through publication, and they recommended to Philip IV that the printing of comedias and novels should no longer be permitted. The Council of Castile acted on this recommendation, and for the next ten years, until 1634, no license was given for such publications in the kingdom of Castile.81 Given the position of several scholars that the comedia was used by the state as a form of propaganda, it is puzzling to find the king, the Council of Castile, and the Junta de Reformación all struggling against the genre, which they perceived as a potential danger. One could use their attempts at restriction to make a case for the power of the absolutist state to intervene in such cultural affairs in the interest of 79 González Palencia, “Quevedo, Tirso y las comedias ante la Junta de Reformación,” pp. 79–81. 80 Florit, “El teatro de Tirso,” p. 86. 81 AHN Consejos, leg. 7137, expediente 13; see also Jaime Moll, “Diez años sin licencias para imprimir comedias y novelas en los reinos de Castilla: 1625–1634,” Boletín de la Real Academia Española, 54 (1974): 97–103.

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maintaining a positive image of the monarchy, but even then we should first examine the outcome. In the case of Tirso, the Junta’s proposal was never countersigned by the king. The playwright did not go into exile, nor did he cease to write comedias.82 The decree prohibiting publication of comedias was more effective, but since it originated in the Council of Castile, it applied to that kingdom rather than the whole of the empire. Publishers and booksellers continued to print the prohibited items using a variety of strategies: some simply published comedias without a license; many published books in Castile but falsified the imprints to make it look as though they had originated in other kingdoms; still others printed copies of works originally published outside Castile. The printing of novels and comedias continued unabated outside Castile, principally in cities such as Barcelona which belonged to the crown of Aragón.83 Tirso himself supervised the publication of his comedias in five parts beginning in 1627. The government gave no explanation for lifting the prohibition in 1634, but it may simply have acknowledged its failure to effectively control the publication market. Even the 1619 decree that members of religious orders should not attend the comedias was repeated by the Junta in 1625 and by Tirso’s own Mercederian order in 1640, suggesting that it, like the earlier prohibitions regarding actresses and performances in university cities, was not consistently obeyed. 84 The demand of the market and public interest in the comedia proved to be more powerful than the intentions of the Junta de Reformación. In the end, playwrights continued to write comedias, both corrales remained open, attended by audience members of both sexes, and the clergy continued to attend (and even to compose for) the theater.85 The only moments when the government was successful in imposing restrictions on the public theaters were those of national crisis in the 1640s.86 Rebellions shook the kingdoms of Portugal and Catalonia; Spanish military and naval troops suffered serious defeats to the Dutch and the French; the yearly fleet bearing American silver failed in 1640 to arrive in Seville. These national tragedies were accompanied by personal tragedies for the royal family: Philip IV’s beloved 82

Florit, “El teatro de Tirso,” p. 87. Moll, “Diez años sin licencias,” p. 99. 84 Florit, “El teatro de Tirso,” pp. 86, 89. In 1640 the Visitador General of the Mercedarian monastery in Madrid insisted on “the prohibition that the religious should not see comedias in the theaters, with the penalty and censure that have already been stated regarding this in acts of reformation and in other visits.” 85 The rest of Olivares’s projects of centralization and reform did not fare much better; his efforts at equalizing the taxation and military contributions of the various Spanish regions led to massive resistance and his own downfall in 1645. The definitive biography of Olivares is J.H. Elliott, The Count-Duke of Olivares: The Statesman in an Age of Decline (New Haven, 1986); see also Elliott and J. F. de la Peña, Memoriales y cartas del condeduque de Olivares, 2 vols (Madrid, 1978, 1981). 86 The best summary of the crisis of 1640 is J.H. Elliott, R. Villari, A.M. Hespanha, et al., 1640: La monarquía hispánica en crisis (Barcelona, 1992). 83

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wife Isabel died in 1644, and their son Baltasar Carlos, the only heir to the throne, died in 1646. The theaters and other forms of entertainment were closed for five years to mourn these deaths. Nevertheless, after the period of grieving had ended, there was a resurgence in the popularity of theater both on the stage and in print in the 1650s. The most notable sign of the popularity of drama in published form at this time was the appearance of the Escogidas or “Select” series.87 This series consisted of 48 volumes of 12 comedias each, published between 1652 and 1704 (the first 12 volumes were published in the 1650s). These were not all produced by a single publisher, nor did they favor the interests of any particular author or authors. Rather, as their name suggests, they represented what was generally considered to be the best of the genre in the years they were published.88 At the same time, individual authors also began publishing their work in similar collections of 12 plays each.89 In spite of the years when the theaters were closed for mourning, the comedia continued to dominate Spanish popular culture during the years of political and economic crisis. The evolution of popular theater in Madrid and its relationship with the government after the death of Philip IV in 1665 was characterized by similar tensions and debates. The king’s death left his four-year-old son Charles as his heir and his wife Mariana of Austria serving as regent. Following the custom of the court, the public theaters were closed in respect for the passing of the king. Queen Mariana decreed that there would be no more comedia performances in all her kingdoms until Charles was old enough to enjoy them.90 Given that the prince was only four, this would have been essentially a death sentence for the theaters. As had been the case in the 1640s, not much time passed before the city of Madrid petitioned to reopen the theaters. In November 1666, Madrid presented a memorial to the queen complaining of the financial difficulties suffered by the city with the closing of the theaters. Normally the income from the comedia provided sufficient 87

They are known collectively as the “Escogidas” volumes, since they all bear similar titles and are numbered consecutively in spite of being printed in different houses and funded by different booksellers. The most common (though not universal) format for the title was “Parte Primera de Comedias nuevas y escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España,” or “First Part of the New Comedias, Selected from the Best Talents in Spain.” 88 Since they were often advertised as plays that had never before been published, one presumes that they were chosen as the best because of the fame of the playwright, the positive reception they had received on the stage, or most probably both. 89 Lope de Vega began this practice in the early years of the century when he published his work in a series of 25 volumes, the majority published between 1610 and 1620; Calderón de la Barca followed by publishing nine volumes of his plays beginning in 1636. Most playwrights, however, did not pick up this practice until the 1650s. I suspect that the increase in popularity of drama in print began to make it financially possible at that time for lesser-known authors to publish their work. 90 The queen’s order is quoted in the Council of Castile’s response, dated 6 December 1666, BNM MS 9.401.

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funds for the maintenance of the charitable hospitals, as well as money to pay off debts incurred by construction projects in the Plaza Mayor. Lacking this income, the city government found itself sliding deeper and deeper into debt. The petition concluded by reminding the queen that Philip IV himself had reopened the theaters a few years after the deaths in his family, and expressing the city’s hopes that she would see the justice in doing the same.91 Mariana responded by remitting the question to the Council of Castile. The Council debated the issue, and found itself divided over whether the comedia ought to be permitted to continue. This was the last significant government debate over theater in the seventeenth century, and it summarized the main points expressed up until that point by supporters and detractors of theater. Those who supported the theaters reiterated the Madrid government’s argument that the hospitals and other municipal projects were financially dependent upon their income. They noted that the only alternative would be to place a new tax on basic staples, which would be more harmful than allowing the comedias. They also argued that comedias were not sinful in and of themselves, and that strict government regulation allowed censors to weed out any immorality. A particularly interesting argument was that comedias ought to be allowed as a kind of lesser evil to avoid even worse problems, a sort of bread-and-circuses approach. Prohibiting the plays would be “contrary to our kings’ reason of state, which consists in allowing their vassals to have these guided entertainments, since overly tightening the strings of the instrument causes them to break.” The councilors also cited to this end another contemporary scholar who argued that allowing comedias served to “provide entertainment to subjects and make them amenable so that they may be ready and prepared on all occasions where the kings may have need of them.”92 Those in the Council who opposed the comedia argued that the Council had never formally granted its approval of the plays: after the prohibitions of 1598 and 1644, performances had simply gradually resumed without the state’s official endorsement. They claimed that the comedia, rather than being neutral, was an active source of immorality. This immorality derived mostly from the comedia’s presentation of love stories, encouraging young men and women to pursue all sorts of inappropriate relationships. Permitting this went against the state’s obligation to defend the morality of its subjects, and this was particularly dangerous at a time when the court was plagued with vanity and excess. The greatest threat perceived by those who argued against the comedia (expressed in words very similar to those of the theologians who had been consulted in 1598) was that it eroded discipline 91 The petition is summarized by the Council of Castile’s response to it, BNM MS 9.401; see also Emilio Cotarelo y Mori, Bibliografía de las controversias sobre la licitud del teatro en España (Madrid, 1904), p. 425, and Casiano Pellicer, Tratado histórico sobre el origen y progresos de la comedia y del histrionismo en España (Madrid, 1804), pp. 270–73. 92 Juan de Solórzano, Emblemas políticas, cited in the Council’s statement, BNM MS 9.401.

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and prudence, weakening the character of young men who ought to be in the armies defending their country. They also claimed that the comedia aggravated social tensions rather than avoiding them, and might encourage popular unrest. In spite of these warnings, the majority of Council members supported reopening the theaters, and the queen chose to accept their recommendation (although the five dissenting members registered their opinions in an addition that was half again as long as the original consultation). The detractors of theater did not abandon their efforts; in 1676 the President of the Council of Castile petitioned the Queen to retract her decision.93 Mariana chose a special council to reconsider the question, consisting of the President of the Council of Castile, some of the other council members who had voted against theater in 1666, and a handful of theologians. Not surprisingly, the council voted unanimously against allowing the comedia. The President’s initial complaint had focused on the fact that “the use of comedias has gone beyond all regulation … moving away from all rule and moderation which could have tempered the position of those who believe this entertainment to be illicit and harmful.”94 The special council’s conclusions repeated this argument and added that, although it recognized the “political motives for entertaining the people with diversions and entertainments,” the comedia had infused the court with such immorality and scandal that the government needed to take action to remove its influence. The council noted that all previous decisions to reopen the theaters were based on the promise to allow the comedia but with careful regulation of the acting companies; since this clearly had not been successful, they believed the only option was to close the theaters permanently.95 In spite of their recommendation, however, Mariana allowed the theaters to remain open and the comedias to continue. The comedia did decline as a genre towards the end of the seventeenth century, but ironically this happened after the court embraced the comedia and sponsored an increasing number of private performances, not because the government was able to enact its proposed restrictions.96 The two most telling factors in the government’s attitude towards theater over the course of the seventeenth century were its interest in controlling the comedia and its inability to do so on any truly effective level, at least not without ending it altogether. The fact that discussions about the comedia took place in the monarchy’s highest councils alongside problems of international diplomacy and government finance indicate the influence it had earned in Spanish society. The government’s attempts to curb it seem to be a tacit recognition of drama’s potential for subversiveness and criticism; its inability to do so in turn indicates the extent to 93

Don Pedro Núñez de Guzmán, Marqués de Montealegre, who had been president of the Council since 1669. AGS, Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993-3. 94 AGS, Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993-3. 95 AGS, Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993-4. 96 The court’s role in the decline of the comedia will be discussed in Chapter 5.

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which the comedia was a grass-roots phenomenon belonging principally to the community. Its audience represented a broad cross-section of Spanish society; economically it was driven by the interests of this audience rather than the patronage of the elite. Contemporary views of the comedia discuss theater in terms of its potential as a teaching tool and general commentary on the state of society. Just as those who denounced theater claimed that it set a bad example of misdeeds and immorality, those who defended it argued that the comedia actually provided an excellent lesson of the appropriate consequences of both good and evil behavior. How these lessons extended into the political realm is one of the principal questions explored by this investigation: the proportion of political ideas found in the comedia indicates that playwrights included politics and the monarchy in the mirror they held up to society, and the reflection revealed the flaws in these as well as their merits.

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Chapter 3

Kings in Theory: Competing Ideals of Kingship Although virtually everyone, from peasants to political theorists, accepted monarchy as an appropriate and even unquestioned form of government in early modern Europe, the actual nature of kingship was a much-debated topic in seventeenth-century Spain. Scholars wrote extensively on the nature of power and the obligations of rulers and subjects. Monarchs were aware that they needed to cultivate an image of their own power and authority, and did so through a variety of media from art to news. Ordinary Spaniards had their own perspective as well: kings both real and fictional made frequent appearances in ballads, satires, and other forms of popular culture throughout the seventeenth century. The comedia often drew on royal characters to provide interest and conflict for its plots, and the portrayal of kings on stage was quite different from the image projected by Spanish monarchs themselves. This chapter examines the public image constructed by the monarchy and the variety of images of kings represented on the stages of public theaters, to demonstrate that the public theater was not used by the monarchy as part of its campaign of self-representation, and that other sectors of society did have an interest in generating and considering alternative (though not necessarily opposing) representations of royalty. This emphasis on image-creation stems from the fact that reputation was crucial to both individuals and institutions. Reputation was a cultural touchstone in early modern Spain, vital to the maintenance of the social order: everyone had a position and was expected to conduct him or herself according to the expectations and obligations of that position. Their success in this endeavor, of course, was judged not on their own terms but from the perspectives of others; reputation was publicly enacted and publicly judged on the stage of the world. All individuals, social groups, and institutions were concerned about projecting the best possible image of themselves; in the words of the jurist Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla, “there is no thing more esteemed than good reputation and honour, for men hold it higher than life and wealth.”1

1 In Política para corregidores y señores de vasallos (Madrid, 1597), quoted in James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (New York, 1999), p. 170.

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The single most important pillar of a Spaniard’s reputation was the sense of honor, and Spanish vocabulary included two nouns to depict clearly the relationship of honor to reputation. One, honor, corresponded to one’s social status, borne in the blood as part of the heritage of nobility. The other, honra, measured the worth of the individual: it was understood to derive from integrity and proper behavior, but ultimately it was measured in terms of regard and respect, and thus could be supported or threatened by the actions and beliefs of others. These views dovetailed neatly with the baroque metaphor of theatrum mundi, the vision of the world as a stage upon which humans play their ephemeral roles.2 From the public trials of heretics, to the order of march in a religious procession, to sumptuary laws that inscribed social status in the quality and color of one’s clothing, identity was constantly established and understood as a form of performance. Behind this view lay the notion that God ultimately judged the success of one’s representation, but early modern Spaniards in the course of their daily lives were most concerned about the audience of their peers. As Baltasar Gracián wrote in his Oráculo manual (1647), “To be worth something and to show it is to be worth twice as much. What is not seen had might as well not exist.”3 On the political stage, reputation was crucial to the exercise of royal power. As historians increasingly have come to recognize, the power of early modern absolutism was as significant in terms of how it was perceived as it was in terms of how much it could actually accomplish. Or, to put it another way, how much it could accomplish depended on how it was perceived. Early modern monarchs used festivals, rituals, art, architecture, and a wide range of allegorical and metaphorical tools to convey their authority and construct an effective reputation.4 Given the significance of reputation, promoting the image of the monarchy was not mere window-dressing; Diego de Saavedra Fajardo, one of the most widely-read political theorists of the seventeenth century, warned that reputation was like a column held upright by its own weight, but when tilted would easily topple. He argued that respect was the greatest source of power for the monarchy, and “if the 2 For the performative nature of baroque culture, see William Egginton, How the World Became a Stage: Presence, Theatricality, and the Question of Modernity (New York, 2002) and Jeremy Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty: An Introduction to SeventeenthCentury Spanish Literature (London, 1998). 3 Quoted in Roger Chartier, Entre poder y placer: cultura escrita y literatura en la edad moderna (Madrid, 2000), pp. 174–5. 4 For the significance of reputation to Habsburg political power, see Fernando de la Flor, Barroco: Representación e ideología en el mundo hispano (Madrid, 2002), p. 162; C. Lisón Tolosana, La imagen del rey: Monarquía, realeza y poder ritual en la Casa de los Austrias (Madrid, 1991), p. 55; and J.H. Elliott, “Power and Propaganda in the Spain of Philip IV,” in Spain and Its World 1500–1700 (New Haven, 1989), pp. 162–88. An excellent essay connecting drama to the reputation of the monarchy in the early seventeenth century is Antonio Feros, “‘Vicedioses, pero humanos’: el drama del Rey,” Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, 14 (1993): 103–31.

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crown is not well fixed on the straight column of reputation, it will fall to the ground.”5 As the principal Western European monarchies worked to gather and centralize their authority, they paid particular attention to how they promoted themselves as central and essential figures. Queen Elizabeth of England was particularly adept at using royal portraiture: dozens of paintings portrayed her in a variety of costumes and settings to convey a sense of magnificence, whether standing on a map of England, poised with her right hand resting upon a globe, standing before a scene of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, or wearing a gown woven with images of eyes and ears to suggest her awareness of all that went on in her kingdom. In France, Louis XIV used his court at Versailles to associate the mystique of power with proximity to the king himself; attendance upon the king throughout his daily activities (dressing, dining, going to bed) was closely associated with rank and favor. The goal of this image-making process was to create an effective reputation: one that would associate the individual ruler with the ideals of rulership, suggest that the ruler had divinely sanctioned power, and in return foster obedience, loyalty, and cooperation from his or her subjects.6 In the case of Spain, the most concentrated efforts at creating and projecting a reputation of absolutist authority would come during the reign of Philip IV (1621– 1665), accompanying a substantial program of governmental reform. The Spanish empire had reached the height of its power and prestige in the late sixteenth century, during the reign of Philip II, but at the turn of the century it faced mounting challenges from inflation, declining wages, and increasingly powerful enemies. The process of centralization and increasing the power of the crown had not sparked widespread discontent or resistance in the sixteenth century, in spite of the increasing burdens of military service and taxation. The decades of religious and political conflict following the Reformation may well have made absolutism more appealing; many of its greatest theorists, such as Jean Bodin, supported the authority of the crown after witnessing the vicious divisions of the French wars of religion.7 In late sixteenth-century Spain, the empire had an advantageous reputation both internally and abroad, and Spaniards were willing to shoulder the extra burden in exchange for the pride they shared in the growth of Spanish political and military power, trade, and industry.8 As these began to falter in the

5 Diego de Saavedra Fajardo, Empresas Políticas (1640), ed. Francisco Javier Díez de Revenga (Madrid, 1988), empresa 31, pp. 203–204. 6 See Peter Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven, 1992), Louis Marin, Le portrait du roi (Paris, 1981) and Susan Frye, Elizabeth I: The Competition for Representation (Oxford, 1993). 7 Julian H. Franklin, Jean Bodin and the Rise of Absolutist Theory (Cambridge, 1973); see also Robert Bireley, The Counter-Reformation Prince: Anti-Machiavellianism or Catholic Statecraft in Early Modern Europe (Chapel Hill, 1990), p. 222. 8 Guenter Lewy, Constitutionalism and Statecraft During the Golden Age of Spain: A Study of the Political Philosophy of Juan de Mariana, S.J. (Geneva, 1960), pp. 11–12.

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seventeenth century, the task of the monarchy was not only to attempt to stem the damage but to maintain its reputation, and thus its authority, in the face of decline. Philip III, who ruled from 1598 to 1621, was not overly concerned with this undertaking. In contrast to his father, who was a natural bureaucrat and had personally managed much of the day-to-day business of running the empire, Philip III preferred to delegate responsibility to his ministers and councils. He spent much of his time on leisure trips away from the court, and his absence, both physical and symbolic, diminished his association with majesty and power. On a more practical level, his inattention to government resulted in a devolution of authority and initiative to the cities, Cortes, and nobility. His son, who in 1621 became Philip IV, wanted to reverse the process of decentralization and to rebuild the prestige that the Spanish empire had enjoyed. His partner in this task was Gaspar de Guzmán, the count of Olivares (later given the additional title of Duke of San Lúcar la Mayor and subsequently known as the Count-Duke of Olivares). Philip IV was only 16 years old when he came to the throne, and he relied heavily on the older countduke for guidance. The ambitious and determined Olivares would serve Philip as both minister and favorite for over two decades, leaving an undeniable, though controversial, mark on the history of Spain. The count-duke reacted to the pressing questions of royal power, reputation, and decline by embarking on a deliberate campaign to project an improved image of a unified, powerful Spain.9 Two of Olivares’s principal goals were to enhance the personal authority of the monarch and to unify the diverse territories of the Spanish empire, thereby demolishing the local customs and liberties that stood in the way of Philip’s authority. Given the joint political and economic difficulties facing the country, the count-duke planned to redistribute the tax burden to more effectively raise money from the Spanish kingdoms outside Castile. The Spanish “empire” was still essentially a conglomeration of separate kingdoms and regions, unified by the person of the king and a hierarchy of councils meeting at court.10 Each kingdom retained its own set of laws and privileges, and the extent of the king’s power was slightly different in each. The crown of Aragon in particular maintained as much independence as it could from the court. Castile, on the other hand, though it was the political center of the empire, found itself bearing by far the heaviest financial burden for maintaining that empire. Consequently, Olivares’s plan to equalize that burden by requiring the non-Castilian regions to make greater financial and military contributions constituted a serious threat to the constitutional elements of the Spanish system.11 9 See J.H. Elliott, The Count-Duke of Olivares: The Statesman in an Age of Decline (New Haven, 1986). 10 For a general discussion of this concept, see J.H. Elliott, “A Europe of Composite Monarchies,” in Past and Present, 137 (1992): 48–71. 11 For Olivares’s plan for the “Union of Arms” and its consequences, see J.H. Elliott, The Revolt of the Catalans: A Study in the Decline of Spain, 1598–1640 (Cambridge, 1963).

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Most historians agree that Olivares’s goals were farsighted and appropriate to the long-term good of the country, particularly in comparison with the success of Louis XIV in centralizing royal authority in France.12 At the time, however, they were not welcomed by any of the principal political sectors in Spain. The subjects of the non-Castilian kingdoms were not interested in increasing their military contributions to pursue foreign diplomatic goals that principally served the interests of Castile, and they highly resented any attempts to encroach upon their traditional rights and liberties. Even within Castile, Olivares’s methods aroused as much opposition as his actual goals did elsewhere. The aristocracy in particular strongly resented both his close personal relationship with the king and his efforts to bypass the regular councils of government by appointing special committees packed with his own supporters. To counteract this resistance, Philip and Olivares needed to emphasize the significance of the court and the monarch as symbolic and unifying centers of authority. The count-duke’s plan developed an additional theme, that of cultivating discipline, conformity, and unquestioned obedience to the king.13 This represented a notable change from earlier practices in both the nature of the court and the style of the ruler. Medieval courts had been itinerant, maintaining their authority through a tradition of direct accessibility to their subjects. Even in the sixteenth century, Philip’s great-great-grandfather Charles V faced the challenge of governing a multitude of territories with different customs and languages by traveling constantly throughout his kingdoms, meeting frequently with the regional Cortes and bringing the court and all its trappings with him. The Spanish court became increasingly settled in Madrid in the late sixteenth century, and the reign of Philip IV was the first to see the court permanently based in that city. Once the court was established as a physical and symbolic center, the form and nature of contact between the king and his subjects necessarily changed. The monarch no longer traveled with his court to be physically present in the various parts of his empire; instead he was able to use the court as a kind of stage from which to present an image of his authority to those who no longer had direct contact with him.14

12

One historical coincidence that highlights Olivares’s ultimate failure to achieve these goals is the success of Cardinal Richelieu in France. The two men lived remarkably parallel lives in terms of their political roles and what they hoped to achieve for their countries, but perhaps the comparison leads us to dismiss Olivares too easily as a failure rather than appreciating the very different contexts in which they worked. See the fascinating comparative biography by J.H. Elliott, Richelieu and Olivares (Cambridge, 1984). 13 Elliott, “Power and Propaganda,” p. 180. 14 Agustín González Enciso, “Introducción: del rey ausente al rey distante,” in González Enciso and Jesús María Usunáriz Garayoa (eds), Imagen del rey, imagen de los reinos: Las ceremonias públicas en la España moderna (1500–1814) (Pamplona, 1999), p. 2.

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This theatricalization of power was a logical step in a culture which used theatrical metaphors for the functions of church, state, and society. 15 It also suited Philip’s goals of centralization, as he could use the court to try to encourage the different territories to think collectively and in the interests of the empire as a whole, rather than defending their separate traditions and privileges. The court could serve as a symbol of unification, a common center, and a stage upon which the king (who in the seventeenth century was still was the only political element all the regions had in common) was the principal character. Kings who used the rhetoric and narrative tools of drama “began to present themselves as coherent personalities, who played out their parts according to conventional moral archetypes. They constructed naturalistic characters with whom everyone could in some measure identify: pious heroes in trial or triumph.”16 A second advantage of staging power was the distance that this imposed between the king and his “audience”: since he was being represented to his subjects rather than making himself directly available to them, Philip could adapt the ideal of sovereignty to portray himself as above the other powerful sectors of the empire (the nobility and regional assemblies) rather than among them. Cultivating this symbolic distance helped emphasize his superior position in the political hierarchy. The symbols of art, architecture, and ritual which would be used to convey his presence could conflate his image with that of the Habsburg dynasty and the institution of the monarchy: he did not rule as an individual but as the representative of the larger institutions of dynasty and state.17 The centralization and institutionalization of power was a common theme for early modern European states, but Spain was unusual in cultivating this particular sense of staged distance. Unlike their French and English counterparts, Spanish rulers did not participate in coronation rituals and possessed no official throne, scepter or crown.18 Absent the traditional icons of power, the Habsburg kings made themselves iconic. Philip IV cultivated a near-obsession with court ceremony and etiquette that had the purpose of limiting access to his person even within the court. Drawing on neo-Stoic virtues of social discipline, Philip’s revised standards of court behavior served to enhance his own dignity and to inculcate proper reverence and obedience in others.19 A contemporary described him as having the air of a living statue, and noted that those who spoke to the king “have never seen him

15

Jeremy Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty: An Introduction to SeventeenthCentury Spanish Literature (London, 1998), p. 38. 16 Paul Monod, The Power of Kings: Monarchy and Religion in Europe, 1589–1715 (New Haven, 1999), p. 84; see also Glenn Richardson, Renaissance Monarchy: The Reigns of Henry VIII, Francis I, and Charles V (New York, 2002), p. 25. 17 González Enciso, “Introducción: del rey ausente al rey distante,” pp. 2–6. 18 Elliott, “Power and Propaganda,” p. 167. 19 Elliott, “Power and Propaganda,” p. 180; see also Elliott, “Philip IV of Spain: Prisoner of Ceremony,” in A.G. Dickens (ed.), The Courts of Europe (New York, 1977).

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move in his seat or change his posture; he listened and responded to them without changing expression, without moving any part of his body save the lips and the tongue.”20 The air of gravity was not meant to remove him entirely from the reach of his subjects, but court etiquette served as a frame, as it were, to emphasize the presentation of the king as a symbolic figure more than as an individual.21 This sense of distance and iconization was reflected in court portraiture as well. Philip IV chose Diego de Velázquez to be his official court painter principally for the artist’s skill as a portraitist and his ability to convey a sense of majesty through restraint. The Spanish Habsburgs favored a particularly somber style of royal portraiture, without the elaborate symbolic language common to other European royal portraits, and Philip’s representations were even more reserved and understated than those of his predecessors. He was generally portrayed in somber dress against a dark background, wearing the cardboard collar that became customary in the Spanish court early in his reign (replacing the elaborate lace collars that previously had been popular), with no symbol of royalty but the modestly displayed symbol of the Order of the Golden Fleece. Rather than a person bearing the trappings of power, the king was power, the symbol of the state, not an approachable (and possibly fallible) individual.22 The creation of an image of a powerful and effective monarchy relied not only on the representation of the king himself, but on the patronage and collection of a wider body of art.23 Philip became a tasteful and skilled collector, nearly doubling the court’s collection of paintings and favoring many of Europe’s most talented artists.24 One of the principal settings for this project of image creation was the Buen Retiro, a pleasure palace built on the eastern edge of Madrid in the 1630s. As Philip worked to make his court the center for artistic patronage and development in Spain, he planned the Retiro to become the principal showcase of the arts. The jewel in this crown was the Hall of Realms, an area of the palace devoted to imagery featuring the military might and grandeur of Spain in the past, present and 20

A. de Brunel, quoted in C. Lisón Tolosana, La imagen del rey, p. 86. R.A. Stradling has suggested that Philip was in fact far more accessible than most historians have given him credit for, and notes that the function of court etiquette was not to isolate Philip as much as it was to project an image of him. Philip IV and the Government of Spain 1621–1665 (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 333–4. 22 The best work on early modern Spanish painting is that of Jonathan Brown; see, for example, The Golden Age of Painting in Spain (New Haven, 1991), and Images and Ideas in Seventeenth-Century Spanish Painting (Princeton, 1978). 23 J.M. Díez Borque and Karl Rudolf, Barroco español y austriaco: Fiesta y teatro en la corte de los Habsburgo y los Austrias (Madrid, 1994) is the catalog for an exposition featuring court festivities under the Habsburgs; it provides an excellent visual record of the mix of artistic and political life in the Spanish and Austrian courts. 24 Jonathan Brown, The Golden Age of Painting in Spain, chapter 9. By 1700, the combined inventories of Spanish palaces and country residences totaled over five thousand paintings; more than half of these were acquired during the reign of Philip IV. 21

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future. This hall included 12 large paintings commemorating the military victories of Philip IV as well as scenes from the life of Hercules and a set of equestrian portraits of the royal family. The design of the Hall also emphasized the strength of the Habsburg dynasty and the unity of all the Spanish kingdoms (represented by their escutcheons in the vaults throughout the Hall) joined by the person of the king.25 As with portraiture, the emphasis was not on Philip as an individual, but as the representative of the Spanish dynasty that provided a central focal point for the empire. Although Philip’s successor, Charles II, continued the Habsburg traditions of the representation of power, he faced much greater personal challenges in maintaining an appropriate royal image. Charles inherited the throne in 1665 at the age of four, and as the descendant of a famously inbred web of Habsburgs, he bore the consequences in the form of various physical and mental debilities. In his case, maintaining a sense of symbolic distance between the king and his subjects was not merely a strategy in the representation of authority, it was a simple practicality. The young king’s mother, Mariana of Austria, governed as regent during the early years of his reign, but even when Charles attained his majority he made very few personal appearances in public and was not easily accessible in the court. His portraiture turned to featuring the stage more than the subject: he was usually portrayed in the Hall of Mirrors, the room in the royal palace which was used to receive visiting dignitaries, and surrounded by the Hall’s symbols of majesty and dynasty: the mirrors framed by the Habsburg eagle, the table supported by a gilded bronze lion resting his front paw on a globe, and the reflections of the other paintings in the Hall, highlighting Charles’s dynastic legitimacy. In matters of etiquette and ceremony, he surpassed even his father in the cultivation of symbolic reverence; Charles’s court “was less the ‘embodiment’ of social relations than an approximation of divine order.”26 Philip IV and Charles II attempted to construct a reputation that encouraged unquestioning loyalty to the central figure of the king through the projection of an image of the king rather than through contact with the king himself. In many ways the ideals of European kingship in the seventeenth century drew on the legacy of the great kings of the previous century. Charles V, Henry VIII and Francis I modeled the ideal combination of warrior, Christian governor, and discerning patron; they were rulers whose reputation secured them their subjects’ affection as well as obedience and loyalty. 27 Seventeenth-century kings, and particularly the Spanish Habsburgs, hoped to achieve similar goals through a different process: trying to maintain a sense of unity through distance and dignity rather than through 25

J.H. Elliott, “Power and Propaganda in the Spain of Philip IV,” pp. 174–8; see also Elliott and Jonathan Brown, A Palace for a King (New Haven, 1980), chapter 6. 26 Monod, The Power of Kings, p. 243. 27 For these ideals of sixteenth-century government, see Richardson, Renaissance Monarchy, pp. 5–6.

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personal charisma. As kings became increasingly absent, imagery worked in their stead.28 This staged portrayal of kingship would have resonated with its baroque audience, which was accustomed to appreciate such theatricality, but in order to succeed it had to be convincing. As I have noted above, the true measure of reputation was taken by the beholder. The political language of the seventeenth century was rich with dialogues about dominance and obedience, but again this dialectic required the participation of the obedient subject. Although the theatricalization of power was meant as a unilateral projection of authority, and has been understood to be exactly that by scholars such as Maravall, its very form empowers both sides in the theatrical exchange, in which neither performer nor audience can exist and function properly without the other.29 The reputation of central, unifying, dynastic authority carefully constructed by Philip IV faced two principal challenges when it came to convincing its audience: one was to maintain a foundation of reality strong enough to support the illusion, and the other was the existence of competing images of the monarchy generated outside the palace walls. In regard to the first, Philip and Olivares’s master plan in the 1620s to unify the empire by overcoming the constitutional and fiscal disparities associated with its various territories met strong opposition from the military, much of the nobility, the regional territories themselves, and even the Castilian Cortes. Though they persisted in their attempts through the 1630s, the plan ultimately collapsed, and the count-duke himself was dismissed in 1643 on the brink of physical exhaustion and mental collapse. The difficulties of the 1630s were merely a prelude, however, to 1640, generally viewed by historians as the symbolic crisis point of the century, when the country faced its most serious political, military, and economic challenges.30 While many Spaniards had been adversely affected in one way or another by the range of economic and political difficulties facing the country in the early decades of the seventeenth century, the rebellions and military defeats of the 1640s dealt a serious blow to Spain’s pride and international reputation. Theorists and academicians pondered whether the source of the problem lay in the structure of government, the economy, shifts in population patterns, or perhaps simply flaws in the Spanish character itself. During the reign of Charles II (which lasted, beyond all expectations, over 35 years), the king’s infirmities created a power vacuum that many around him were eager to fill. In spite of continued economic and military setbacks, however, most of the contenders for power in Charles’s court were interested in serving their own 28

For a discussion of representation as it was understood and employed in the seventeenth century, see Chartier, Entre poder y placer, pp. 75–80. 29 Monod, The Power of Kings, pp. 84–6. Melveena McKendrick has pointed out the extent to which this made royal power vulnerable to its audience in Playing the King: Lope de Vega and the Limits of Conformity (London, 2000), pp. 24–5. 30 The best recent summary of the crisis of 1640 is J.H. Elliott, R. Villari, A.M. Hespanha, et al., 1640: La monarquía hispánica en crisis (Barcelona, 1992).

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interests rather than reforming the state; no visionary of unification emerged in the second half of the century to replace the vanquished count-duke. In practice, this meant decentralization by default: the territories beyond Castile were generally left to fend for themselves, with very little guidance or interference from the crown. Although recent work by historians has revealed that prices seem to have stabilized and wages improved in the peripheral regions of Spain towards the later part of the seventeenth century, Spaniards themselves were still painfully aware of the crisis they had experienced and their relative decline in European status. Regardless of the actual ability of the monarchy to combat these ills, it still held symbolic responsibility: “the atmosphere of economic, social, and moral crisis was not created by kings, but they were often blamed for it. They were viewed as responsible for the welfare and prosperity of their people, although they were almost wholly ignorant of how to bring them about.”31 As Philip IV’s government not only failed in its attempts to effectively centralize and administratively unify the various Spanish kingdoms, but faced open rebellions from two of them, and the attempt was given up altogether during Charles’s reign, the imagery promoting the power of the monarchy to its subjects was increasingly challenging to maintain. The illusion was stretched so thin that it began to break, and Spaniards faced the bitterness of desengaño, or disillusion. The display of the shields of the 22 realms in the Buen Retiro was not able to mask the fact that most had resisted making the military contributions requested of them by Olivares. The Hall of Realms could proudly exhibit its paintings of Spanish military victories, but while these were immortalized on canvas, the victories themselves were nearly all overturned within a year.32 Olivares was a master of the propaganda machine, but this turned out to be counterproductive when it exposed the dangerously large gap between image and reality.33 In the case of Charles II, no amount of portraiture, procession, or court festival could disguise the fact that he was physically deformed and mentally incapable of the tasks of a king. Many Spanish writers themselves strove to burst the balloon of illusion by informing the public of the dangers of too freely believing what one sees.34 For the historian, the lesson is that ritual and staging can be powerful in promoting an image, but another question entirely is how this was received, and what alternatives may have been envisioned by the intended audience. How did ordinary Spaniards resolve what we would now call the “credibility gap” between what the monarchy was and what it claimed to be? Contrary to many of the assumptions about the nature of absolute power, ordinary people were not hesitant to express their opinions about the monarchy and the condition of the 31

Monod, The Power of Kings, p. 27. Thomas Acker, The Baroque Vortex: Velázquez, Calderón, and Gracián under Philip IV (New York, 2000), p. 57. 33 Elliott, “Power and Propaganda in the Spain of Philip IV,” p. 187. 34 Acker, The Baroque Vortex, p. 139. 32

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empire. Many in the seventeenth century were all too aware of their country’s problems and were ready to criticize the role of their government and the monarchy in precipitating its decline. J.H. Elliott has portrayed this period as a time of serious disillusionment for Spaniards, as they evaluated the political and moral ills of their country in comparison to its glory of only a few decades earlier.35 Whether or not the bulk of the population was really so pessimistic, it is clear that many were evaluating the state of the monarchy and actively searching for ways to improve it. From the difficulties of these years emerged a group of academics, clergymen, bureaucrats, and businessmen known collectively as the arbitristas. These writers took it upon themselves to face directly the political and economic ills of the country, analyze them, and suggest possible solutions. From projects for tax reform to proposals encouraging immigration, schemes both sensible and absurd poured into the court.36 Far from being passive observers, Spaniards actively engaged in a kind of political dialogue, “the product of a society which took it for granted that the vassal had a duty to advise when he had something to communicate of benefit to king and commonwealth.”37 Other forms of criticism were common as well. The seventeenth century saw a dramatic rise in the circulation of political satire, a feature remarked upon by writers, foreign ambassadors, and chroniclers of the court alike.38 Some satirical writings were barbs aimed by certain prominent members of the court at their rivals, and thus were meant for a fairly narrow audience. The majority, however, were the province of the public at large: they were posted in public plazas and even on the palace doors, drew on easily recognizable forms (such as the Lord’s Prayer or well-known stories and songs), featured common folkloric names to suggest stereotypical attributes, and made reference to events that everyone would have recognized. Usually in manuscript form and thus anonymous, easily circulated and readily reproduced, satirical writings took on a wide variety of targets from the dependence of the king on his ministers, to regional troubles such as the rebellion of Catalonia, to specific complaints about the king not attending to the needs of his vassals. With opening lines such as “Spain, who has left you in such a state?”, “King of Spain, king of Spain, do not say that I have not warned you,” and “Manifesto of the People,” criticisms such as these revealed the double 35

Elliott, “Self-Perception and Decline in Early Seventeenth-Century Spain,” in Spain and Its World 1500–1700 (New Haven, 1989), pp. 241–61. 36 Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469–1716 (New York, 1963), pp. 295–7, and Henry Kamen, Spain 1469–1714: A Society of Conflict (London, 1983), pp. 230–35. For a general study of the arbitristas, see Jean Vilar, Literatura y economía: la figura satírica del arbitrista en el siglo de oro (Madrid, 1973); many of the treatises are collected in Manuel Colmeiro, Biblioteca de los economistas españoles de los siglos XVI, XVII y XVIII (Madrid, 1861). 37 Elliott, “Self-Perception and Decline,” p. 243. 38 The principal work on seventeenth-century Spanish political satire is Mercedes Etreros, La sátira política en el siglo XVII (Madrid, 1983).

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edge of the blade of reputation. The political theorist Saavedra Fajardo warned that even kings should pay attention to pamphlets and satires, “as they often contained more than a degree of truth.”39 The reporting and printing of news provided another vehicle for discussions of current events and the state of the monarchy. The publication of news grew substantially in the early seventeenth century and usually served as a vehicle for government policy and positive monarchical image-making.40 Nevertheless, there developed a parallel tradition of informal chronicling, in which writers in the court passed on news and rumors to their patrons in the provinces. The best-known of these writers were José Pellicer and Jerónimo de Barrionuevo, and although their missives were ostensibly written as private communications, they were widely circulated and became a significant forum for political commentary during the crisis decades of the seventeenth century.41 Since these were in manuscript form, they could bypass the official censors, were impossible to track, and provided a far less sanitized view of what was actually happening at court. Pellicer reported, for example, that during a royal procession an angry peasant forced his way through the crowd to shout “Everyone is deceiving the king! Sire, this country is coming to an end, and those who fail to remedy its ills will burn in hell!” Barrionuevo, in turn, summarized the condition of the court by noting that the Council of Finance was blind with greed, the duke of Alba was an inveterate old womanizer, and there were a thousand robberies and break-ins in the city each night.42 These chronicles not only served to spread gossip and criticism about personalities and events in the court, but their perspective served to highlight the gap between their version of events and what was officially circulated in print news. Alongside the carefully constructed imagery presented by the monarchy, there was clearly a large number and variety of alternatives and possibilities for discussion. The common political themes in all of these forms of popular discourse were Spain’s decline in power and relative international status (and thus the reputation of the country itself), corruption in the court, and weak or indecisive leadership. Very few of these criticisms directly attacked the king, but the majority of them emphasized his responsibility by calling on the monarchy to resolve the problems. One of the issues that threads through these discussions, provoked by Philip IV and Olivares’s plans for centralization and continuing through the rest of the century, was whether the king’s power as the central authority of the monarchy 39

Bireley, The Counter-Reformation Prince, p. 199. See Brendan Dooley, “Introduction,” p. 3, and Henry Ettinghausen, “Politics and the Press in Spain,” pp. 200–201, in Brendan Dooley and Sabrina A. Baron (eds), The Politics of Information in Early Modern Europe (New York, 2001). 41 Selections of Pellicer’s reports were published as Avisos históricos, Enrique Tierno Galván (ed.), (Madrid, 1965); selections of Barrionuevo’s have been edited by José María Díez Borque as Avisos del Madrid de los Austrias y otras noticias (Madrid, 1996). 42 Both cited in Ettinghausen, “Politics and the Press in Spain,” pp. 203–204. 40

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should outweigh local and regional customs and traditions. Essentially, Spaniards seemed to be concerned about the kinds of limits that could or should be set upon the authority of the king. On one hand, a powerful monarch was an asset to successful government and the glory of his country; on the other hand, an unscrupulous or misguided ruler could wreak significant damage if he were not subject to some sort of limit. While there was not one uniform response to this question, the various media described above provided a forum for both serious and humorous discussion, and scholars of early modern Spain are increasingly recognizing the possibilities for debate and dissent that this represented for early modern Spain.43 Rather than the “guided culture” described by Maravall, these elements clearly suggest that the Spanish public was keenly interested in the state’s reputation, and were not hesitant to express their opinions about it. Where did the comedia fit into this many-sided discussion about the reputation of Spain and the obligations of a king? Theater was widely recognized for its ability to present examples and lessons, and if the early modern monarchy could adopt it to portray itself as ideal, centralized, and unquestionable, this would enhance its reputation and consequently its power. Maravall and his followers have argued that the comedia was precisely the monarchy’s response to the potential threats posed by the dispossessed and marginalized. Drama was meant to create a new ideology portraying a stable social order in which everyone would be convinced to remain in their proper place. Given the state’s possible range of responses (including armed repression) to the unrest of the discontent, this argument goes, it chose this attempt at ideological configuration via the comedia, in very much the same way Philip and Olivares tried to convince Spain and the rest of Europe of the empire’s greatness through the illusions created in the Buen Retiro.44 The concepts of idealized monarchy and royal authority (as projected by the monarchy itself) were completely internalized and accepted by the subjects of the absolute monarchy, and that playwrights were not allowed the slightest margin of dissent. Even had they been so bold as to personally disagree with this view of kings who had “the right to act on their pleasure, their will, even if this were against the laws of God and man,” the threat of censorship would have dissuaded them from expressing such a viewpoint.45 Although theater was directed toward a broad audience, he argued, it did not reflect their interests; even in the rare cases

43

See, for example, McKendrick, Playing the King, p. 70. José Antonio Maravall, “Sociedad barroca y ‘comedia’ española,” in Francisco Ruiz Ramón (ed.), II Jornadas de Teatro Clásico Español: Problemas de una lectura actual (Almagro, 1979), pp. 57–60. 45 Francisco Ruiz Ramón, Historia del teatro español, vol. 1, Desde sus orígenes hasta 1900, 2nd edn (Madrid, 1971), p. 182; see also John Loftis, Renaissance Drama in England & Spain: Topical Allusion and History Plays (Princeton, 1987). 44

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where a royal character seemed to act unjustly, the lesson to his subjects (and thus, indirectly, to the audience) was to accept and submit.46 Olivares was certainly aware of the potential of theater for staging an ideal representation of the king, and in certain venues he was well able to take advantage of this possibility. One of the most striking examples is the court entertainment Olivares sponsored to celebrate the Spanish capture of the city of Breda from the Dutch in 1625. This entertainment included a comedia, El sitio de Bredá (The Siege of Breda), written by Calderón de la Barca.47 This was one of the rare cases where a comedia was commissioned by the state for a particular event, and the evidence suggests that Olivares himself may have paid for the play and stipulated the subject matter.48 The play was performed in the royal palace and had a notable impact on at least one member of the audience: Calderón included the fictional stylistic touch of the Spanish general Ambrosio Spínola’s gracious gesture of dismounting his horse to receive the keys of the city from the vanquished Dutch, and the court painter Diego Velázquez reproduced this scene in his famous portrayal of the surrender.49 Another noteworthy example of drama in the service of the crown was Calderón’s allegorical drama El nuevo palacio del Buen Retiro (The New Palace of the Buen Retiro), which presented—again to a palace audience—the symbolic equation of Philip IV with God and his queen Isabel with the church.50 Theater clearly could be adapted to support the reputation of the monarchy, but like the paintings in the Retiro, its effect existed only within a fairly narrow range and for a limited audience. Although it was possible for kings and members of the court to attend the public theaters, Philip III’s wife Margaret of Austria preferred to commission private performances for her own apartments in the palace, and this custom was followed by Philip IV’s first wife Isabel as well. With the construction of the Buen Retiro, Philip had the perfect opportunity to include a well-equipped theater, known as the Coliseo, as part of the palace, and dramatic performances were also held in the various royal residences in Madrid, Aranjuez, Valladolid, and El Pardo. Although Charles II was not as enthusiastic a patron of the theater as his father had been, he too enjoyed the comedia, and given his physical frailty and reluctance to appear in public, private performances were encouraged in his court as well. In some cases, members of the royal family “borrowed” theatrical

46

Maravall, Teatro y literatura en la sociedad barroca, new and rev. edn (Barcelona, 1990) pp. 18–21, 79–81. 47 Pedro Calderón de la Barca, El sitio de Bredá, in Primera parte de comedias de Don Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid, 1636). 48 Shirley B. Whitaker, “The First Performance of Calderón’s El sitio de Bredá,” Renaissance Quarterly, 31 (1978): 531. See also the comments by John Loftis, Renaissance Drama in England & Spain, pp. 191–4, on this play and its connections to Olivares. 49 Whitaker, “The First Performance of Calderón’s El sitio de Bredá,” pp. 518–29. 50 Brown and Elliott, A Palace for a King, p. 230.

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companies who were currently performing in the public theaters; in others, as in the cases mentioned above, special plays could be commissioned to celebrate or represent particular events. In either case, given the interest and financial resources of the court, the possibilities for scenery and stage machinery were far richer than they were for the spare corrales. Thunder and lightning, ships sailing on rivers, flying dragons, and other such spectacles became common in court representations, as scenographers vied with each other to create ever more sensational appearances and transformations. The net effect was to lead court theater away from the interest in the language, conflicts, and customs of Spanish life that characterized the public comedia, and towards a passion for visual extravagance and spectacle. Court stages could demonstrate the power and wealth of the monarchy through their content as well as through their capacity for illusion; plots increasingly turned to classical and mythological allegories celebrating the wisdom, courage and grandeur of the Spanish monarchs. In this context, Maravall’s arguments for theater as an instrument of propaganda are more understandable. But if drama in the court was part of the machinery of reputation, the only audience it dazzled was itself; “for all its impressive technology it was a poignant charade that symbolized the later Hapsburg dynasty’s flight into a world of illusion and make-believe.”51 The count-duke of Olivares was attuned to the possibilities of engineering dramatic occasions to suit his needs, but when these were oriented toward a broader public, even specific commissions did not always give him as much control over playwrights as he may have liked. For a festive event at the newly constructed Buen Retiro palace in 1635, Olivares requested another play from Calderón, El mayor encanto amor (Love, the Greatest Enchantment). The play was written to be staged outdoors, on the island in the artificial lake of the palace grounds, and it included magnificent special effects designed by the famous Italian scenographer Cosimo Lotti. In this case, it seems that Lotti was more under the count-duke’s control than was the playwright. Lotti wrote detailed plans for the event, creating a space in which to showcase the power and splendor of the monarchy. However, Calderón insisted on revising the scenographer’s plans. The people of Madrid had not been quite as impressed with the new palace as Olivares hoped they would be, or at least they were not impressed in the most positive way. There had been some criticism of the count-duke’s extravagant spending on projects for the king’s amusement, and Calderón was well aware of this. His amendments maintained the praise of the monarchy, but changed the tone of the play just enough to advise that any abuse of its power was inappropriate. One scholar of this event has suggested that this combination of praise and caution “would be a genuinely dramatic spectacle that would please its chief patron and the 51

McKendrick, Theatre in Spain 1490–1700 (Cambridge, 1989), p. 227 and Chapter 8 in general; see also Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty, p. 27, and Acker, The Baroque Vortex, p. 65.

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royal audience … but, at the same time, a subtle expression of solidarity with public opposition against the costly Retiro palace and the favorite’s politics.” 52 In any case, although the work received great public acclaim upon its opening performance, it was never staged again. In spite of the count-duke’s interest in promoting his image through theater, there was a clear difference between court-sponsored performances in the palace or other royal residences and the audience-driven plays of the corrales. The fact that the public comedia was something that the government under Olivares and thereafter increasingly attempted to restrain rather than promote indicates that the monarchy did not expect theater’s voice to be particularly agreeable to its designs. My argument is that the comedia should be considered alongside satire and informal chronicles in the category of public discourse, rather than being considered a mechanism for the monarchy’s engineering of its own reputation. Melveena McKendrick has made a similar argument for the plays of Lope de Vega, the most prolific playwright of the Golden Age and the one who established the comedia in the form it would maintain for the rest of the seventeenth century. Lope died in 1635, before Spain faced its years of greatest crisis. Given the general relationship between the comedia and its audience that I have proposed in chapter 2, it will be even more valuable to consider the ways in which developments in the Spanish monarchy are reflected and commented upon in the most popular comedias over the rest of the century. Some of the plays discussed in this chapter bear certain similarities to the “mirror of princes” genre of political literature, in that they involve an examination (sometimes an introspective one on the part of the king himself, sometimes on the part of those around him) of the qualities and characteristics that make a good ruler. I also include in this discussion stories in which there is a power vacuum or a disputed succession, as these plays test or compare various candidates to judge their qualifications. Some of them involve actual conflicts between two contenders to the throne; others test various candidates to determine their qualifications. These plays do not all respond explicitly to the political events of the seventeenth century, but they do deal with questions of how to judge the legitimacy of a king and what kinds of characteristics a king should have to be worthy of the crown. Most importantly, in the majority of cases, the plays place that judgment in the hands of the people. Compared to the ideals of kingship created and propagated by the court, the ideals suggested by these plays are generated by an entirely different set of priorities. Two of the ten examples that I will present here were written during the early years of the reign of Philip IV, and reflected an interest in providing a proper model for a young king. The earliest is also one of the most famous plays of the 52

Susana Hernández Araico, “Official Genesis and Political Subversion of El mayor encanto amor,” in Charles Ganelin and Howard Mancing (eds), Golden Age Comedia: Text, Theory, and Performance (West Lafayette, Indiana, 1994), p. 125.

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Golden Age and considered to be one of Calderón’s masterpieces. La vida es sueño (Life is a Dream) was written in the early 1630s and appears in Calderón’s first published volume of comedias in 1636 (reprinted in 1640, 1670 and 1685) and in another comedia series in Zaragoza in 1636.53 It achieved unusually widespread fame within a relatively short time, being published in Dutch, Italian, and German all before the end of the century. Court records indicate that it was performed at the royal palace in Madrid by the company of Manuel Vallejo in 1684.54 While this play is the first and most significant by Calderón to deal with the introspective side of kingship, it is representative of his treatment of monarchy in general. The playwright often drew upon classical ideas of kingship in portraying the ideal king as a paragon of virtue, a ruler of himself as well as of his people. In the works of Calderón’s, as in the Golden Age comedia as a whole, the concept of a good king was measured in terms of justice and Christian morality rather than the mastery of practical politics.55 These themes are given explicit treatment in La vida es sueño, because the crux of the play is that the young prince Segismundo, having been brought up in a tower isolated from all civilization, is given the chance to rule for a day specifically to test his abilities and qualities as a king. Given this sudden and complete power and having no experience to teach him how to use it, he rules as a despot, equating his pleasure with the law: “Nothing is just if it goes against my desire,” he cries, as he tosses out the window a servant who has annoyed him.56 Having so dramatically failed the test, he is returned to his imprisonment in the tower, but is later freed by soldiers who have learned that he is the rightful heir to the throne. This time he has learned to control his passions with reason and logic, and demonstrates himself to be a worthy successor to the crown. In a broader sense the play is the Golden Age’s most beautiful expression of the theatrum mundi metaphor, but the form it takes is essentially a treatise on the proper education and 53

Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Primera parte de comedias de Don Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid, 1636), fols 1–16v. The play was also published in Zaragoza as part of the Diferentes series, vol. XXX. For the dates of composition of this and subsequent Calderón plays, see H.W. Hilborn, A Chronology of the Plays of D. Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Toronto, 1938) and N.D. Shergold and J.E. Varey, “Some Early Calderón Dates,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 38 (1961): 274–86. For the proper identification of later reprints of the Primera parte, see D.W. Cruickshank, “The textual criticism of Calderón’s comedias: a survey,” in D. W. Cruickshank (ed.), Pedro Calderón de la Barca: Comedias, vol. I (London, 1973), pp. 1–37. 54 N. D. Shergold and J. E. Varey, Representaciones palaciegas, 1603–1699 (London, 1982). Performance information for specific plays appears infrequently in archival records. This was probably not the only performance of this play, and it serves as an indication that the play was revived in the 1680s after its initial popularity in the 1630s. 55 Dian Fox, Kings in Calderón: A Study in Characterization and Political Theory (London, 1986), pp. 8–9. 56 “Nada me parece justo / en siendo contra mi gusto,” fol. 11v.

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qualities of a prince. The other characters set up the test explicitly to evaluate Segismundo’s capacity as a ruler, and they comment throughout on the standards by which he is to be measured. If he is “prudent, reasonable and good,” he will pass the test, whereas if he is “proud, impudent, insolent, and cruel, giving free rein to his vices,” he will fail.57 Since in the end he learns prudence and wisdom and foregoes his own vengeance to act in the best interests of the kingdom, he ultimately passes the test and stands as an example of good kingship. This play may be seen as a positive example of good rulership and one that might be applicable in any place and time; there is certainly nothing in it that is critical or threatening to the established order. Its most powerful message is that one must properly rule oneself, and even this is presented with an emphasis on the spiritual more than the political. One is to act to the best of one’s abilities in any situation, because life itself is a dream, a mere jumble of appearances, and it is how one is judged in the afterlife that is most important. In the meantime, however, Segismundo is judged by his audience, and Calderón’s message seems to be that politics is a serious responsibility, not a game to manipulate others to acquire what one wants. The momentary crisis in government (and the clear possibility of rebellion) demonstrate the vulnerability of the monarchy to abuse, and the resolution of the play can only take place when both father and son recognize the limits of royal authority and act in the best interests of the realm.58 A similar story is told in Rojas Zorrilla’s No hay ser padre siendo rey (A King Cannot Be a Father, 1640),59 in which the aging king of Poland begins to consider leaving the kingdom to one of his two sons. The concept of proper kingship is discussed at length in this play, particularly when the king scolds his younger son Rugero for not having demonstrated the proper qualities of a ruler. Unlike Segismundo in La vida es sueño, Prince Rugero has had the opportunity to assist in the rule of the kingdom, and his behavior has been less than ideal. His father criticizes him for being proud, unjust, selfish, vengeful, and above all inconsiderate of the needs of the people. The principal theme in these discussions is that a king must above all be responsible to his subjects, as the father concludes: “the people speak as the voice of God, and it is impossible for them to deceive. Govern your own actions, so that Poland may see that you are in command of yourself.”60 57

fols 7v–8. Within the wide body of scholarship generated by this play, see particularly Stephen Rupp, Allegories of Kingship: Calderón and the Anti-Machiavellian Tradition (University Park, 1996), p. 50, and Ruth El Saffar, “Way Stations in the Errancy of the Word,” in Mary Beth Rose (ed.), Renaissance Drama as Cultural History (Evanston, Ill., 1990), p. 115, for emphasis on the acceptance of limits on the power of kings as an important element in completing this plot. 59 Primera parte de las comedias de Don Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (Madrid: María de Quiñones for Pedro Coello, 1640). 60 “Pues el pueblo … habla por lengua de Dios, / y es impossible que mienta. / Governad vuestras acciones, / para que Polonia vea, / que os reducís a vos mismo,” fol. 24v. 58

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Although Rugero continues to be rude to his father and to show little potential as a ruler, the king decides that the best way to instruct him in the difficulties of rulership would be to give him a taste of it, and he names Rugero his heir. As in the case of Segismundo, the possession of power does not automatically confer the capacity to use it well (echoing the king’s warnings that a crown must be earned, not merely inherited.) Despite repeated warnings from other characters to govern himself and follow reason rather than passion, Rugero becomes obsessed with a woman who is engaged to another man. Ignoring her resistance, he finally kills her disguised lover, who of course turns out to be his own brother, the beloved prince Alexandro. The king is now placed in the painful situation of having to execute one son for the crime of killing the other. Even so, he stays true to his own principles of rule: a king cannot be swayed by his own personal desires. Though Rugero begs him to have clemency as a father, he responds that he cannot act as a father when it conflicts with his duties as a king. The situation is saved by the people, who cry out that it would be unjust to leave the kingdom without an heir.61 The prince’s life is thus spared, and the king, having properly dispatched his duties as a monarch, is now free to give up the crown and forgive his son as a father. Since the play ends there, we as the audience do not see whether Rugero experiences the same sort of transformation as Segismundo, dominating himself and becoming a successful king. As is frequently the case with Golden Age drama, one is inclined to wonder what happens after the end of the third act. The conflict that lends its title to the drama, the king’s inability to act as both king and father, is neatly resolved by the action of the play. However, the accompanying theme of choosing a proper heir to the throne is shadowed by Rugero’s lack of substantive change from the violent and disrespectful young man he has shown himself to be. We can only hope that his father’s excellent example and the advice of those in the court will be sufficient to guide him towards being a better ruler than his earlier behavior indicated; if not, the only recourse would be for the people again to “speak as the voice of God.” (The consequences of having a king who does not learn this lesson are demonstrated in the next chapter.) Plays from the second part of Philip IV’s reign, after the dismissal of Olivares, tend to present a more directly critical view of kings. They also frequently draw on the theme of a disputed succession, reflecting a widespread concern over Philip’s difficulty in producing an heir.62 In Estados mudan costumbres (Circumstances

61 “People” in Spanish drama is a singular term, either plebe or pueblo, suggesting collective action. 62 Philip’s first wife, Isabel de Borbón, died in 1644, and their only son Baltasar Carlos died two years later. Philip then married his own niece, Mariana of Austria, but they were not able to produce a surviving son until 1661, not long before Philip’s own death in 1665.

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change customs),63 by Juan de Matos Fragoso, the playwright puts his characters through a bizarre series of changing circumstances which in turn affect their behavior. The first character we meet is Prince Severo, the son of the king of Sicily, who immediately establishes himself as an inappropriate heir to the throne in no uncertain terms. He is rude, ungrateful, and tyrannical, refuses to accept the wise advice of the king’s minister, believes that his subjects exist only for his own pleasure and glorification, and flatly rejects the possibility of improving his character: “What is the point of tiring myself through study, if this will only bring more grief upon me? I am naturally inclined to death and atrocity, severity and vengeance, punishment and cruelty.”64 The king and his minister debate the matter and discuss the extensive list of Severo’s faults. Although Severo is the legitimate successor, they decide they have no choice but to lock up the prince and have him killed, since he would destroy the kingdom if he were allowed to rule. “Woe to you, sad Sicily,” the king sighs, “if you crown this monster as your king.”65 Meanwhile, Severo’s sister Porcia finds herself (much to her chagrin) in love with a common villager, Silvio. He returns her love, and both lament the social distance that keeps them apart. His only hope for improving his social rank is by excelling in the army, so he leaves to fight the Moors. An unfailing hero, Silvio fends off the entire Ottoman army and returns to be declared the savior of the kingdom. Although Severo has spent this time in the tower, unlike Segismundo in La vida es sueño, he has not taken the opportunity to reflect on his misdeeds; instead he has been plotting his revenge against his father. When the order comes for him to be taken from the tower out to the country and killed, the prince does at least acknowledge that the sentence is the result of his own misbehavior: “I have given heaven cause for this with my misdeeds … I alone have obstinately caused my own death.”66 The king then announces to the people that Severo has been killed, and the princess Porcia must marry someone worthy of succeeding to the throne: “whoever is most capable, and has the greatest merits of experience and bravery that form the best fortress for defending the crown.”67 The people acclaim Silvio, 63

Published in Quinta parte de comedias escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1653) and in Cologne in 1697. This play was also part of the repertoire of the company of Esteban Nuñez, who announced its performance at the Corral de la Cruz in February 1658. “Descuentos de Montalvo 1656–1658,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid 1651–1665: Estudio y documentos (London, 1973), p. 226. 64 “Pues de que sirve cansarme / con estudios, si en mi son / principio a nuevos pesares? / Naturalmente me inclino / a muertes, a atrozidades, / a rigores, a venganças, / a castigos, a crueldades,” p. 81. 65 “Ay de ti, Sicilia triste / si por tu Rey coronasses / a este monstruo,” p. 83. 66 “Pues yo la ocasion he dado / al cielo con mis delitos … yo mismo / labré mi muerte obstinado,” p. 108. 67 “El que fuere / mas capaz, y mas meritos tuviese / de experiencia, y valor, que son el muro / con que el cetro mayor queda seguro,” p. 110.

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and when the king hesitates because he is only a commoner, Silvio’s father appears to announce that the young man is actually the true prince. The father had secretly switched Silvio and Severo at birth, and since he was also the person given the task of killing Severo, he now begs to have his son’s life spared. The king repeals Severo’s death sentence and decrees that he may go to the countryside and live as a peasant. The third act brings us Severo as a completely changed man, happy in his proper place in the country and about to get married. Things are not so rosy at court, however, where Silvio and Porcia find their love thwarted by having suddenly discovered that they are siblings, and find they can pay attention to little else. As they bemoan their impossible relationship, the people of Sicily are increasingly irritated and begin to demand a new successor to the throne. The king summons Severo to court, noting his changed character and believing that “now you have deserved the crown.”68 In a dizzying series of revelations, Silvio’s father turns out to be not a peasant but Enrique de Sforza hiding out from his enemies in Milan. The king’s previous minister, Goberto, had heard bad omens about Severo’s rule, so he also secretly switched the babies, not realizing that Silvio’s father had switched them already. Consequently Severo turns out to be the true heir after all, and Silvio turns out to be of noble birth as well, so that he and Porcia may marry. Severo is now considered to be a fit ruler and inherits the crown of Sicily. This play presents an interesting study of how character, not birth, ought to be the most important consideration in selecting a ruler. The key premise behind the plot is that the people are at liberty to choose their king based on his proper qualifications. Although Severo initially is believed to be the heir to the throne, when he proves himself unworthy, he is removed and sentenced to death. This sentence is one from which he is fortuitously saved, but only because of the revelation of new information, not because anyone considered it wrong to kill the heir to the throne. The people of Sicily choose their next ruler, and are as quick to dismiss him when he proves inadequate. They do not seem to hold grudges, however, and are willing to accept Severo’s rule once he has demonstrated himself worthy of their respect. Providence, of course, has ensured that the ruler is properly of noble birth; this convenience makes the outcome palatable to all involved (including the audience), but the play’s characters arrived at this solution without knowing so. All writers of the comedia were fond of mix-ups and mistaken identities, partly because they were easy to mine for comedic material, but also because they placed characters in the position of having to live up to the expectations of different roles, and allowed the audience to judge how well they did so. Regardless of what Severo believed his origins to be, it is not until he learns to play his role well that he is allowed to rule.

68

“… ahora sí que mereces / la corona,” p. 126.

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Amor, lealtad y ventura (Love, Loyalty and Fortune), also by Matos Fragoso,69 opens in Hungary where the king has just died in battle against the Turks and there is a dispute over his successor to the throne. Enrico, acting on orders left by the king before his death, is about to execute a young man named Matías, a situation that everyone finds singularly unjust since Matías is of heroic character and a principal candidate for the succession. (Enrico’s sister Margarita is particularly upset, for she was to have married Matías.) Enrico explains that the crown of Hungary is elected, but no one can become king without possessing the sacred relic of the crown, of which he is the guardian. Adolfo, the cousin of the king of Bohemia, also presents himself as a candidate, and Enrico says he will give him the crown if he will take Margarita as his wife. The only obstacle is Matías; Adolfo wants Enrico to have him killed, and then he plans to bring his troops in and take power. Margarita correctly suspects that Matías has been falsely accused, and she wants to give him the sacred crown so that he may return it to the queen (who holds power while the succession is being decided) and thus prove his loyalty. However, she accidentally gives the crown to Adolfo, who escapes with it and seizes power. As Adolfo proves to be a tyrannical ruler, the queen pardons Matías and supports him as a more suitable candidate for the throne. When Enrico sees that the queen is backing Matías, he changes his support from Adolfo to Matías. The combined forces of these characters finally overcome Adolfo, and he repents as he dies: “My death will speak as a public example of what ambition and tyranny must come to.”70 The queen summons all the electors to properly select a ruler, and they acclaim Matías as their unanimous choice. Matías accepts, though he reminds everyone that the crown carries a great deal of responsibility: “although it may seem light, it must bear down upon the head and shoulders with the weight of administration and government.”71 In this case, Adolfo is a tyrant by any definition. He does not displace the rightful ruler, since one has not been chosen, but he disrupts the established process for the succession. He himself does not disguise his ambition, revealing his evil plans to the audience and calling for “Death to Matías, for I follow the laws of the most tyrannical and violent power ever sketched in blood in the theater of power.”72 All of the other characters refer to him on numerous occasions as an evil tyrant. As such, they are justified in removing him by force, and battle ensues when Adolfo invades with his own troops and those of Hungary are called to 69

Published in Comedias: Primera Parte, 1658. “Mas dirá la muerte mia, / siendo publico exemplar / en lo que viene a parar / la ambicion y tirania,” fol. 44v. 71 “Aunque parece ligera [la corona], / será forçoso que oprima, / frente, y ombros con el peso / de administralla, y regilla,” fol. 45v. 72 “Muera Matías, que las leyes sigo / del poder mas tirano, y mas violento, / que en su teatro dibuxó sangriento,” fol. 32. 70

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defend themselves. Although at one point Adolfo and Matías fight one-on-one, Adolfo escapes to the safety of his troops. At the end he is defeated offstage, not by any specific challenger but by his “enemy”: the very people he had schemed to rule. The outcome is clear: Adolfo’s ambition to take the crown by force was punished, and the victors choose as their king the man who understands the responsibilities of the position rather than the man who simply wants it for his own benefit. The next play from this group is Calderón’s Hija del aire (Daughter of the Air, 1664), drawn from the popular legend of a queen of ancient Assyria.73 The twopart story tells the tale of Semíramis, who has been imprisoned in a cave since her birth because of a prophecy that she would cause tragedy, woe, and the death of a king. At the outset of the play, King Nino returns victorious from battles in the east and rewards his general Menón by making him governor of the province of Ascalon. Menón encounters the unhappy Semíramis, and she persuades him to release her from her prison into his custody. Once freed, she happens to encounter King Nino as his horse bolts out of control, and she rescues him but then disappears. The king, taken with her beauty, is determined to find her again. He and Menón find her at the same time, and hoping to avoid competition with the king, Menón immediately proposes to Semíramis. The king’s jealousy moves him to interrupt the couple; he takes Menón aside and commands him to give up his bride, against Menón’s protests that “This is forceful violence … it is tyranny for you to take her away from me.”74 The king then declares his own love for Semíramis. At first he tries to control his passion and avoid abusing his power by allowing her to choose between him and Menón, but then threatens that if she chooses Menón he will take away all his estates, exile him, and force him to live in misery. Semíramis refuses to marry Menón, hoping this will save him from disgrace, but the king still has him imprisoned and blinded. He then turns his attentions to Semíramis, who refuses his advances and is forced to draw a dagger to defend herself, though she eventually agrees to marry him. The play ends with the celebration of their marriage, darkened by portents of unhappiness and doom.

73 First published in Madrid in Tercera parte de Comedias de D. Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid: Domingo García Morrás, 1664), reprinted in 1673 and 1687. It was also published in the Diferentes series, vol. XLII, in Zaragoza, 1650. The first part (at least) was performed in the royal palace by the company of Francisca Bezón in 1683, and by the company of Manuel de Mosquera in 1684: Archivo de la Villa de Madrid 2-469-12, “Bajos de diferentes dias que dejaron de representar las compañías de comedias.” Part I and Part II are separate comedias, but the story continues directly from one to another, with the final verses of the first part inviting the audience to hear the second. They are also published together, so I have chosen to treat them together here. 74 “Essa es violencia forçosa … En quitarme tu harás / una tirania,” fol. 134.

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The second part picks up the story a few years later, after King Nino has died and Semíramis rules Syria in his place. King Lidoro of Lidia, who had been a friend and supporter of Nino, now leads his forces against Semíramis, claiming that she poisoned Nino and took the crown from their son Ninias: “you have him under your command, without the decorum and respect that are his due, tyrannically usurping the majesty and government of his crown and scepter.”75 Lidoro is also the late king’s brother-in-law, so part of his challenge to Semíramis’s legitimacy is to pursue his own claim to the throne. Rather than calling upon the law, he declares that “in arguments between kings, the field is the court, steel the lawyer, and fortune the judge,” and summons her to battle.76 The queen defends herself, insisting that she did not kill her husband and that she has been a good ruler to Syria. She admits her dislike for her son because he is weak and timid, but claims that she is ruling for him “until he is disciplined in the military use of arms and in the political laws of government, and thus capable of ruling.”77 Although Semíramis is victorious in the subsequent battle, taking King Lidoro prisoner, Lidoro’s cause is picked up by others within her own realm. Anonymous voices call out that Ninias ought to be the rightful ruler, and factions begin to form around the queen and her son. Semíramis then abdicates in favor of her son, but the civil unrest continues, and she soon repents having given up power.78 She then decides to take advantage of her strong resemblance to her son to kidnap him, dress herself as a man, and rule in his place. For a time the plan is successful, and she rules with a harsh hand, enjoying her power (“what a great pleasure it is to see so many people at my feet!”)79 and punishing those who had supported her son. She is unopposed until Lidoro manages to escape and lead his troops against her. The queen falls in battle, and her last words are to defend her innocence of any real wrongdoing; she was only a victim of the gods. The play concludes with Ninias restored to the throne. The interpretation of kingship in Hija del aire is darkened by the corrupting desire for power on the part of all its major characters. It also presents the interesting question of which is preferable, a queen who is valiant and a good ruler, or her son, who is the legitimate heir of his father but who is also weak and timid.

75 “… En la fuerça, / sin el decoro, y respeto / debido a quien es, le tienes, / donde de corona, y cetro, / tiranamente le usurpas / la Magestad, y el govierno,” fol. 144. 76 “De los Reyes en los pleytos, / es tribunal la campaña, / jurisconsulto el azero, / y la fortuna el juez,” fol. 144v. 77 “Esta es la causa porque / de mi apartado le tengo, / y porque del Reyno suyo / no le doy corona, y cetro, / hasta que disciplinado / en el militar manejo / de las armas, y en las leyes / politicas del govierno, / capaz esté de reynar,” fol. 148. 78 “Pues muero sin reynar, no tengo vida, / mi ser era el Reyno, / sin ser estoy, supuesto que no Reyno,” fol. 156v. 79 “O que gran gusto es mirar / tantas gentes a mis plantas!” fol. 159.

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The characters who form factions behind these two potential rulers express their choice in these terms: one says “I follow the side of justice, since Nimias is the son of the king,” while the other argues “I follow that of fortune, since Semíramis is the one who has known how to make herself queen.”80 Ironically, Calderón wrote this play not long before Philip IV died, passing the crown to his four-yearold son Charles; the factional struggles in the court of Semíramis foreshadow the conflicts that would characterize Charles’s court during nearly all of his reign. In this story the choice of the people is still influential, but Calderón does not necessarily portray them in a favorable light. The courtiers are interested in pursuing their own advantage more than anything else, and those who criticized Semíramis turn to her to save them against Lidoro’s invasion, only to discover that she has been killed and they are left with their original choice, the weak son who now seems less ideal as a ruler. The playwright adapted the classical story to portray Semíramis in a largely sympathetic light, in spite of her ambition; it is the intrusion and manipulative intent of those around the throne that drives the conflict of the play. After the death of Philip IV, plays written during the reign of Charles II remained sensitive to questions about a proper royal succession and expressed a concern about the abuse and usurpation of power. The queen mother Mariana of Austria served as regent for her young son until he came of age, and continued to exert a significant influence on him throughout his life. Her lack of political experience made her apt to rely on others for advice, yet her distrust of the grandees of the court led her to choose her advisers from outside this group. Her selection of favorites resulted in constant tension with the nobles of Castile and battles for influence among the prominent families of the court throughout Charles’s reign. The consequences were chaotic: during the thirty-five years of Charles’s reign, no single minister managed to stay in power for more than five consecutive years. More than one of the most dramatic moments of this decadeslong struggle for power in the Spanish court were centered around Don Juan José of Austria, the illegitimate son of Philip IV and half-brother to Charles II. In 1676, a group of the leading nobles of the court joined together to sign a manifesto demanding that the king exile his mother from the court and that Don Juan be given his rightful place at the side of the king.81 The manifesto included a threatening note, in which the authors declared that since Charles was clearly dominated by the tyranny of his mother and her advisers, it was their duty to save him by violence if necessary, and anyone who defied them would be treated as an enemy of the king and the country. Thus the nobles cleverly justified their rebellion by identifying their cause with the king. Manipulation of the king was 80

“Yo sigo / parte de la justicia, / que Nimias es del Rey hijo;” “Pues yo de la fortuna, / que Semíramis ha sido / quien se ha sabido hazer Reyna,” fol. 190. 81 The text of this document is reproduced in Díaz-Plaja, La historia de España en sus documentos: el siglo XVII, pp. 417–18.

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tyranny when it went against their interests, but true and loyal service to the crown when they did it themselves. Mariana discovered the plot in time to persuade her son to refuse to allow Don Juan José to take over the government, but the prince’s ploy had failed only by the narrowest of margins. Of the politically-themed group of plays I have studied, there is an evident cluster of plays from the early years of Charles’s reign that touch on the theme of a disputed succession. Most of these place their stories in the framework of ambitious rulers in direct competition for the throne (and suggest how to choose from among them). The first of these, Matos Fragoso’s La razón vence el poder (Reason Overcomes Power, 1668)82 takes its audience to Italy, where Eduardo, the aging Duke of Ferrara, is about to turn control of the state over to his daughter Rosaura. The unfolding plot soon reveals, however, that the Duke has a brother, Alberto, with a legitimate claim to power. The two were twins, and their father had decreed that whichever son first had an heir would be the one to rule. Eduardo was the first of the two to have a child, and although this was a daughter (Rosaura), he succeeded to his father’s throne. Some years later, when Alberto had a son, Eduardo ordered that he be imprisoned and his child killed, to avoid any threat to his authority. In addition to this clearly unjust act, there are other suggestions throughout the text that the Duke was a tyrant and an unpopular ruler. As a seasoned playgoer would expect, the child Astolfo survived and grew up in a faraway kingdom, unaware of his true identity, from whence he returns to seek the hand of Rosaura. Alberto, Astolfo, and Rosaura soon discover their relationship and the Duke’s misdeeds. Alberto and his newfound son confront the Duke with their knowledge, and ask him to restore Alberto as the rightful ruler. The Duke reacts with fury and has both Alberto and Astolfo thrown into prison, where they begin to plot a rebellion. Rosaura helps them to escape, and they go off to Hungary to raise troops to assist them. When they return, she secretly lets them into the palace. As the rebellion begins they are joined by the people of Ferrara, who have long resented the tyranny of the Duke. At the end of the play, the Duke is overthrown, Alberto is set up as the rightful ruler, Astolfo and Rosaura are married, and everyone lives happily ever after. This play is the first we have seen to directly advocate rebellion in the name of justice. Through the body of the play, there are a number of small acts of resistance that precede the actual overthrow of the duke. The duke’s seneschal disobeys his initial order to kill Astolfo as a child, because he believes it unjust. Rosaura, the Duke’s own daughter, rebels first by freeing the prisoners and then by helping them to overthrow her father. Alberto takes this opposition to the level of armed conflict by bringing in foreign troops to fight the Duke and support his claim to the 82

Juan de Matos Fragoso, first published in Parte veinte y nueve de comedias nuevas, escritas por los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid: Joseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1668).

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throne, and finally the populace itself joins the uprising. Although the Duke, faced with their knowledge of his transgression, argues that his authority requires their obedience regardless of his actions, the rebellious characters all claim that true justice is on their side. The concept that justice exists above and beyond the power of an individual ruler is clearly evident in the vocabulary employed by the characters in this play. The Duke, though a legitimate ruler by the terms agreed upon, is always referred to as “unjust” or a “tyrant,” and at first Alberto fears that there would be no remedy for it: “oh power, oh tyranny! that for such injustices there is no punishment … Heaven, with your mercy, how can there exist such a tyrant?” The other characters decide that they must act in the name of justice. They frame the concept of justice in the vocabulary of reason: they protest the Duke’s “sinrazones,” or unreasonable actions, and they justify their own rebellion in the name of reason, which they trust to overcome his power. There is one slightly comic scene in the play which emphasizes the importance of rightful rule: after the Duke is overthrown, Alberto and Astolfo quarrel over which of them is to rule. The argument is not one of competition for power, but of the proper restoration of justice. Although Alberto attempts to persuade his son to take power in his stead, and even commands him to do so, Astolfo declines, claiming that such a command goes against the normal procedure of law, and is consequently unjust. In the end, the better ruler (in the eyes of the people) is chosen even though this violates the original agreement. The lesson of all this is clear: reason and justice, as interpreted by the people, should guide the choice of a proper ruler. Diamante’s Remedio en el peligro (Remedy in Danger, 1670)83 is a similar warning of the consequences to those who abuse power. The first character we meet in this play is Otavio, the former ruler of Palermo, mourning his fate. He has just been ousted from power by Aurelio, Enrique, and Otavio’s own brother Astolfo; the three have also kept his daughter Hypólita, hoping to consolidate power by marrying her to Enrique. Otavio is left only with his friend Filipo, who loves Hypólita and hopes to help Otavio regain power in Palermo. Filipo suggests that Otavio go to gather loyal supporters from Messina, while he enters Palermo in disguise to rescue Hypólita. Filipo is successful in finding her, but the two are taken captive by Aurelio as they try to escape. Aurelio decides that he loves Hypólita and wants to kill Filipo so that he can have her; “with deceit I intend to force this woman, so I can see her in my power.”84 Meanwhile, it turns out that Astolfo and Enrique have only been pretending to support Aurelio; they are actually supporters of Otavio and are dissembling while they wait for him to return to power. Although Filipo and 83

First published in Juan Bautista Diamante, Comedias de F. Don Iuan Bautista Diamante del abito de San Iuan, prior y comendador de Moron (Madrid: Andrés García de la Iglesia, 1670). 84 “Con un engaño procuro / obligar a esta muger / para verla en mi poder,” p. 59.

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Enrique both oppose Aurelio, they turn on each other because of their competition over Hypólita. Nevertheless, when the situation becomes critical, they are able to put aside their differences and join forces against the ruler they consider to be a tyrant. Otavio arrives with his forces, and a fierce battle ensues. At the end, Aurelio is defeated, not by the invading troops but by Hypólita herself, who murders him. In an unusual variation to the typical ending of a comedia, it is Hypólita, the principal female character, who brings about the final solution to the play and arranges the appropriate marriages among the other characters. It is also she who announces the significance of Aurelio’s death: “See here, Sicilians, the contagious poison which infested your ruling house; let his death serve you as a mirror.”85 This play presents the case of a king who is considered tyrannical more from the point of view of Otavio and his friends than from any grounds of illegitimate rule. Aurelio has taken power away from Otavio, but the earliest scenes suggest generations of conflict over the rule of Sicily in the past. Otavio and his group are presented in a positive light to the audience, but there is not sufficient background information to prove that Aurelio is a usurper, and in fact the other characters never directly accuse him as such. His behavior towards Hypólita is certainly an abuse of power and one of the indications of an unfit ruler, but this aspect of the story does not appear until the second act. Therefore this play presents a choice of rulers, two men competing for the dominance of Sicily. Given the nature of Aurelio’s tyranny, it is even more striking that he is murdered at the end of the play. The person who kills him is not a minor character, nor is the king a victim of battle; the murderer is actually the person responsible for the symbolic restoration of order at the end. All indications in the play point toward the lesson that excessive ambition and illicit passion on the part of the monarch, rather than the way in which he came to power, make him an unfit choice. He can be justly punished, and his successor placed in power, by the very subjects who have been offended. One of the most dramatic stories in the “choice of kings” category is Matos Fragoso’s Venganza en el despeño (Vengeance on the Cliffs, 1670).86 The play opens with the death of King Pedro of Navarre, who leaves behind a wife pregnant with his child. Although in principle this child should be his heir, there is an ambitious brother, Don Sancho, waiting in the wings, about to seize power. Ramón García, a famous general, defends the rights of the queen; when he looks to his son Martin for support, he finds that Martin is one of the strongest supporters of Sancho. Ramón accuses his son of treason: “by God, as it is set down by law, my 85

“Veis aqui, Sicilianos / el contagioso veneno / que infestó vuestros blasones; / sirva su muerte de espejo,” p. 82. 86 Juan de Matos Fragoso, first published in Parte treinta y quatro de comedias nuevas, escritas por los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid: Joseph Fernández de Buendía, 1670).

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king’s heir must reign.”87 Martin, however, responds with an argument based on reason of state, taking into account that Navarre is currently at war with Aragon and Castile: “[Sancho] deserves to reign, because he is brave and a warrior; let us have a leader to defend us.”88 Sancho himself appears and claims that the people of Navarre have proclaimed him king; thus his rule is legitimate.89 The first act consists largely of various arguments back and forth supporting the legitimacy of each claim. At last it becomes evident that Sancho’s supporters hold the overwhelming majority, and both Ramón and the queen flee the court. The second act begins 15 years later. The queen gave birth to a boy, whom she gave to a shepherd, who in turn gave him to Martin’s wife Blanca, who raised him as her own on her estates far from the court. Sancho has been king during the intervening years, with Martin serving as his minister. When Martin invites the king to visit his estates on a hunting trip, Sancho is impressed with Blanca and conceives the notion of sending Martin away so that he can seize his wife. Though the king is aware that he owes his crown largely to Martin’s support, he cannot overcome his passion. As soon as Martin leaves, the king bribes a servant to let him into Blanca’s rooms, but she is saved by Alfonso—the queen’s son. When Sancho says he has the right to enter because he is the king, Alfonso challenges him: “Kings are known by their good deeds, so it is clear that you are not one; how am I to trust a person who cannot help being treacherous and tyrannical?”90 Cowed by this logic, Sancho flees. Martin returns to his estates, increasingly suspicious of the king’s behavior. Blanca informs him that the king has threatened her and is planning to kill Martin to get him out of the way. This threat erases the last bonds of Martin’s loyalty, and coincidentally he then encounters his father and the queen, both of whom have been wandering about in the woods for the last fifteen years. They all learn of Alfonso’s true identity and decide to support his claim to kingship. On a hunting trip on which the king is actually planning to kill Martin, the minister turns the tables on him and throws the king over a cliff. Alfonso is proclaimed king and harmony is restored to the kingdom. Although the characters who support Alfonso claim that Sancho is a usurper, both sides claim (with some justification) that the law is on their side. Even if Alfonso’s claims had initially been valid, it is surprising that they still hold after 15 years. This story does not present a clear-cut case of a usurper, so the principal 87

“Vive Dios, que ha de reynar / pues lo dispone la ley / el sucessor de mi Rey,” p.

243. 88

“Por valiente, por guerrero / merece reynar, tengamos / cabeça que nos defienda,”

p. 243. 89

“Navarra por justa ley / me ha jurado por sy Rey, / aquesta corona es mia,” p. 244. “Porque en las buenas acciones / se han de conocer los Reyes, / y que no lo eres es llano, / pues que credito he de dar / a quien no puede escapar / de alevoso, u de tirano?” p. 246. 90

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reasons for drawing the audience to sympathize with Alfonso must be based on Sancho’s passion for Blanca. In other plays (see Chapter 4), this kind of passion will easily serve as the fatal flaw of the king, but in this case it is less compelling, given that Sancho had been ruling for 15 years with no ill effects to the kingdom. This play also has a somewhat unusual response to the misbehavior of the king. In the earlier plays in this category, the role of the people was key in choosing the better ruler; in this case, however, the opinions of the people are dismissed as irrelevant and troublesome (and in fact it was their support that placed Sancho, now portrayed as the poorer choice, in power in the first place). Compared to plays from the previous decades, the king suffers a greater punishment for a lesser offense, and he suffers that punishment directly from the hands of his minister, not from his subjects. A similar rejection of the influence of the people appears in Diamante’s Pasión vencida de afecto (Passion Defeated by Affection, 1670).91 The aging King Alberto of Albania has two beautiful daughters, Fénix and Aurora. The law stipulates that the eldest, Fénix, must inherit his crown, or else it will pass to his enemy, the prince of Epirus. To rule, she also must marry; the problem is that she resents having to subjugate herself to a man and does not wish to marry. To complicate matters, there are murmurs among the people that the ideal solution would be for the prince of Epirus to marry the younger sister, Aurora, thereby respecting Fénix’s wishes and establishing peace with the neighboring kingdom. Hoping to avoid this, King Alberto invites the princes Astolfo of Thebes and Rosimundo of Thrace to woo Fénix. Aurora, however, has other ideas: she likes the possibility of marrying the prince of Epirus and eventually inheriting power, so she hopes to distract the visiting princes from their pursuit of Fénix. The second act picks up the story a month or so later, when we find Federico, the Prince of Thebes’ brother, disguised as a gardener. When Prince Astolfo inherited the rule of Thebes, Federico’s followers wanted him to rebel against his brother and take power for himself. Even though Federico remained steadfastly loyal to Astolfo and refused to rebel, the prince was forced to send him out of the kingdom to avoid further threats to his rule. Federico’s random wanderings carried him to Albania, where he saw his brother in the court of the two princesses. Federico immediately falls in love with Fénix, but respectfully waits to see what his brother’s intentions are. When it becomes clear that Astolfo has fallen in love 91

Juan Bautista Diamante, first published in Comedias de F. Don Juan Bautista Diamante del abito de San Juan, prior y comendador de Moron (Madrid: Andrés García de la Iglesia, 1670). The play was performed in the royal palace by the company of Diego Osorio in 1659 and in the Buen Retiro by the company of Manuel de Mosquera and Rosendo Lopez in 1686. “Descuentos de Montalvo,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid 1651–1665, p. 230; “Descuentos de Antonio de Mendoza and Gabriel Eguiluz,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid 1666– 1687, p. 191.

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with Aurora (in keeping with her plan), Federico is free to pursue Fénix. She, in turn, is attracted to him, but deeply resents the obligation to marry, likening it to the rule of an oppressive government: “Must one surrender control to a tyrant, giving up an inclination that is not only free, but opposed?”92 She expresses the same reservations to her father, reminding him of the mutual obligations between ruler and subject: “If being your daughter obliges me to be subject to you, why does not being my father also oblige you to moderate your power in subjecting me? Is there a reason of state that can oblige and convince a free-born soul to become subject to another?”93 In the end, though, she falls in love with Federico of her own free will, and thus the conflict is resolved and the kingdom saved. The most striking feature of this play is the constant parallel drawn between Fénix’s personal dilemma and the reciprocal obligations between monarch and subject. She is not against marriage as an institution, but she resents being forced by the king into an unwanted relationship. There is actually no way the king can force a marriage upon her—she is willing to flee the country rather than put up with this—so the only solution lies in her ability to find a suitor (Federico) who satisfies both her own desires and the law’s requirement that she have a spouse. Interestingly, Federico wins her love by singing to her, trying to charm her rather than emphasizing her obligations to marry. This approach is echoed by the servants, who comment that “tyranny should know that the attractive accomplishes more than the unpleasant.”94 It is also underlined by the title, in which Fénix’s passion (not to be dominated) is overcome by her affection for Federico. In other words, a ruler, or anyone else, who wishes to impose his will would do best to appeal to the interests of those on whom he wishes to impose it. Another interesting aspect of this play is that the desires of the people as a whole are entirely left out of the decision-making process. At the beginning of the play, King Alberto mentions the people’s desire for Aurora to marry the prince of Epirus, a solution which would respect Fénix’s wishes and still provide the kingdom with an heir. This request seems perfectly logical, and it is presented in reasonable terms: “if [the prince of] Epirus were to become Aurora’s husband, the old grudges would be resolved, and hostility avoided.”95 The king reacts with fury to this suggestion, however, resenting its impertinence and accusing the people of

92 “A un tirano ha de rendirse / dominio que vivió essento / no solo a la inclinacion / libre mas libre, y opuesto?” p. 142. 93 “Si el ser tu hija me obliga / a que a ti sugeta esté, / porque el ser mi padre, a ti / no te ha de obligar tambien / a que en esta sujecion / obre templado el poder? / Razón de estado ay que pueda / obligar, y convencer / a un alma que libre nace, / para que sugeta esté?” p. 143. 94 “Sepa la tirania / del que la ha usado, / que rinde mas lo hermoso, / que no lo ingrato,” p. 151. 95 “Que como el de Epirus sea / esposo de Aurora, están / los rencores dicididos, / y obiada la enemistad,” p. 127.

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being “incapable of reason and advice, barbarous, unfaithful, disloyal to their King,” for daring to make such a suggestion.96 The final play in this category, Diamante’s El cerco de Zamora (The Siege of Zamora, 1674),97 is a variation on the story of the Cid, a heroic medieval warrior. The background to the story is that upon the death of King Fernando, his territories were divided among his heirs: Sancho ruled Castile, Alfonso received León, Galicia went to García, and the city of Zamora was given to Urraca. Sancho, arguing that his father’s division was unjust and that he was the proper heir, invaded these regions and took the crowns of both León and Galicia. At the outset of Diamante’s play, he is poised to take Zamora as well, and the story unfolds from the perspective of the characters inside the besieged city. The Cid (Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar), Sancho’s valiant and loyal knight, advises him against the siege on the grounds that Urraca will not lightly give up what is hers, and that it is inappropriate for Christians to fight each other while the Moorish menace still looms. Sancho insists, and both sides prepare for battle. The battle against the Zamorans goes poorly, until Bellido (a member of Urraca’s court) flees Zamora and tells Sancho that he is willing to help take the city. Bellido is still loyal to Urraca, however, and he uses this ruse to kill Sancho. The dying king’s last words are that his death is a divine punishment for going against his father’s wishes: “although Bellido has killed me, it is not Bellido who has killed me; the punishment came from heaven, my father’s curse has cut the thread of my life.”98 Unusually, the death of the king happens at the opening of the second act rather than as a conclusion to the play; the rest of the play then engages the questions of what counts as legitimate rule, legitimate war, whether Bellido’s act was treason, and how to deal with the succession to Sancho’s throne. The Cid proposes that Alfonso, Sancho’s brother, take the crowns of Castile, Galicia and León. The only possible obstacle is whether Alfonso may have had some connection with Bellido and thus Sancho’s death: as Diego points out, “laws both human and divine state that he who has committed homicide to reign, may not be king.”99 Alfonso is offended at the Cid’s suggestion that his subjects can make the decision whether or not he is fit to inherit the throne, but they insist that they will not allow him to rule, even as a rightful heir, unless he swears that he had nothing to do with Sancho’s death. At last he accepts their conditions, but with a veiled

96

“Vulgo incapaz / de razon, y de consejo, / barbaro, infiel, desleal / contra su Rey,”

p. 127. 97

First published in Comedias de Fr. Don Juan Bautista Diamante, del abito de San Juan, Prior, y comendador de Moron, Segunda parte (Madrid: Roque Rico de Miranda, 1674). 98 “Que aunque me ha muerto Bellido, / no es Bellido quien me ha muerto; / del cielo viene el castigo, / la maldición de mi padre / cortó de mi vida el hilo,” p. 218. 99 “Divinas y humanas leyes / disponen, que el que omicida / fue para Reynar, no Reyne,” p. 235.

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threat to the Cid: “although the ceremony was very just, no vassal should take such liberties with his king.”100 The Cid brushes this off, noting that “he who is angered without cause, forgets his anger the next day,” and the play ends happily.101 I have included this play in this discussion of the ideals of kingship because the story of the Cid was often used to explore the proper relationship between kings and subjects, and whether Sancho or Alfonso is the better ruler. In El cerco de Zamora, the question that takes up much of the third act is whether or not Alfonso should be allowed to rule. The points that are central to this discussion are whether he was involved in Sancho’s death, and whether or not the subjects of these kingdoms have the right to place any restriction on him as the rightful heir. The final speeches of the play are telling: King Alfonso cannot accept this limitation without emphasizing his dislike of it, but the Cid reiterates that it was a fair limitation (since Alfonso was angered “without cause”). Another important element lies in the portrayal of Sancho’s character: in some versions of the story, he is unjust and abusive of the rights of his subjects; in others, he is known as “Sancho the beloved” and his invasions are justified in the interest of reunifying the Christian kingdoms against the Moorish enemy.102 In this play, he is clearly ambitious, but beyond the conflicts with his siblings does not interfere in the lives of his subjects. This, combined with the fact that he dies early in the play, takes the emphasis of the play off the legitimacy of Sancho’s actions and shifts it more onto the difficulty of resolving the questions of succession, the proper characteristics of a king, and who has the right to determine those characteristics. The above sampling of ten plays from the reigns of Philip IV and Charles II reveals that the nature and legitimacy of power was of concern to Spanish audiences, that these concerns were frequently expressed and experimented with on stage, and that these expressions changed according to the particular situation of the Spanish monarchy. All of these plays feature in one form or another a conflict over the throne, with more than one candidate who has some claim to power, so that they may be compared in terms of their abilities and qualifications. La vida es sueño and No hay ser padre siendo rey, written during the first decade of Philip IV’s reign, provide more abstract discussions of good kingship: the question in these plays is not so much about the competition between the candidates as about whether they have the proper training and character to be good rulers. The training of a ruler is a significant theme in both cases: the abilities of both are tested in 100

“Aunque ha sido / muy justa la ceremonia, / enterezas con su Rey, / ningun vassallo las logra,” p. 243, misnumbered in this edition as 245. 101 “Quien se enoja sin causa / mañana se desenoja,” 243, misnumbered as 245. 102 See Fox, Kings in Calderón, pp. 11–14, and especially A. Robert Lauer, “The Use and Abuse of History in the Spanish Theater of the Golden Age: The Regicide of Sancho II as Treated by Juan de la Cueva, Guillén de Castro, and Lope de Vega,” Hispanic Review, 56:1 (Winter 1998): 17–37, for earlier treatments of the Cid story.

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practice of authority, and both fail miserably in their first attempts at governing. Segismundo learns and changes, and is accepted as a good ruler. Rugero does not, and while his father has demonstrated the qualities of a good ruler, it remains unclear whether Rugero will be able to do the same. During the second half of Philip’s reign, and particularly in plays written and performed in the 1650s, an interest in the proper education of a king is replaced by concern for ensuring a clear and undisputed succession. Still, good kingship is clearly measured by the choices and decisions of the characters. The later plays present rulers in an increasingly critical light, emphasizing their self-interest, rude behavior, and thirst for power. At the same time, since all of these plays feature some kind of competition between different candidates for the throne, this convention takes some of the tension out of the choice. The two Matos Fragoso plays, Amor, lealtad y ventura and Estados mudan costumbres, present the choice of kings in fairly extreme terms, with a tyrannical contender for the throne pitted against a candidate who has proven himself to be fair and responsible. What is particularly striking about these plays, as well those from the early years of Philip’s reign, is the role of the people in determining the qualifications of a successor to the throne. The resolution of La vida es sueño, No hay ser padre siendo rey, Estados mudan costumbres, and Amor, lealtad y ventura all depend on the input of the public: Segismundo is declared the legitimate heir to the throne by what is virtually a popular uprising; Rugero’s father emphasizes the responsibility of a king to his subjects. In Estados mudan costumbres, the people of Sicily call for the leadership of Silvio because of his bravery and wisdom, regardless of the fact that they believe him to be of common origin. Amor, lealtad y ventura is set in Hungary, where the candidate who tries to seize power is defeated in civil war, and the electors choose another based on his abilities. Only Hija del aire, adapted from classical tragedy, suggests instead that the rise and fall of rulers is determined by the gods, and that people are mere pawns who have no control over their destiny. Ironically, this play comes much closer to the earlier paradigm of comedia politics; considered within this larger group of plays, it seems instead to be the exception. The pattern of resolving the conflicts of these plays by trusting to the wisdom of the people and allowing their involvement in the selection of an appropriate king goes very much against the message Philip IV and Olivares had hoped to propagate through the Hall of Realms, royal portraiture, and their patronage of court theater. The ideal projected by the monarchy was one of absolute majesty on the part of the king and unquestioning obedience on the part of his subjects. Philip wanted to emphasize that his authority was backed by God and not dependent on the medieval tradition of consultation and negotiation with other power bases in his kingdoms; he cultivated this by creating a symbolic distance that emphasized his centrality and superiority. The role he played was not just that of Philip but that of Habsburg, his legitimacy guaranteed by the unbroken chain of dynastic succession that had brought him to the throne. The plays I have described here, a sampling of those that were most frequently performed and published during Philip’s reign,

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suggest that this message did not reach or was not effectively absorbed by the ordinary Spaniards who walked the streets of Madrid and filled the yards of the playhouses. Dynasty in these plays is virtually irrelevant, kings are judged by their capability more than their heredity, and a king who insists on the unqualified obedience of his subjects is one who borders on tyranny. The stories portrayed on stage during the reign of Charles II clearly echoed the fierce competition for power that characterized Madrid in the 1670s and 1680s. Competition for power and debates over political legitimacy were rampant, as power-hungry nobles competed with each other and the royal family. The situation precipitated by Don Juan José de Austria was remarkably similar to the plot of La razón vence el poder, in which the brother of a dead king attempts to seize power in place of the king’s young heir, arguing that an active and powerful leader is more valuable than an untrained child. Stories featuring similar conflicts between potential rulers appear with more frequency during this period than any other. The plays themselves give no clear-cut guidelines to define legitimacy; in each of these stories, both of the characters who are competing for power have some claim to authority, and they are compared more in terms of their capacity to rule than in terms of the validity of their claims. As in the earlier plays that focused more on providing proper instruction and guidance for a king, dynasty alone did not make one qualified to rule. The active role of subjects in the “choice of kings” plays is somewhat curtailed, however, in plays popular during the reign of Charles II. The portrayal of kings continues to darken in this period, as fictional rulers are more inclined to tyranny and the abuse of the rights of their subjects. In most cases they are more likely to be punished as well, but rarely via the resistance of their subjects. In the five examples I have discussed here, all but one feature open conflict between two characters, both of whom can argue on some basis that they are legitimate rulers. In the earliest, La razón vence el poder, the more tyrannical ruler is overthrown in a rebellion supported by the people of Ferrara. In the rest, however, the solution is provided by an individual close to the king: Hypólita in Remedio en el peligro, royal ministers in Venganza en el despeño and El cerco de Zamora, and Fénix herself in Pasión vencida de afecto. In all of them, the more just and capable ruler wins out over the abusive one. Nevertheless, while popular opinion and support of the successful candidate are important elements in resolving the plots, the stories are more about conflicts within the competing families: when a tyrant abuses his power, the solution comes from those closest to him.

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Chapter 4

Kings in Action: Evaluations of the Practice of Kingship While the plays discussed in the previous chapter provided a forum for the discussion of the proper characteristics of a king, frequently through the mechanism of having more than one candidate to choose from, a far greater number of plays in the seventeenth century featured the complications generated by a reigning legitimate king. A theme that occupied many Spanish playwrights and their audiences was the contradiction that could arise between the personal desires of the king and the best interests of his country. This conflict appears in the “choice of kings” plays as well, but in this case the characters have no choice but to deal with the king they have. When this tension appeared in the comedia, it nearly always drove the central dramatic conflict of the play, and it usually resulted in either a tyrannical abuse of power by the king or the king’s successful domination of his unworthy impulses. In these plays, as with those discussed previously, the plots reflected general concerns generated by political changes, in this case the process of absolutism and the justification of royal authority by reason of state. The preceding century of Spain’s history had been marked by a constant tug-of-war between the centralizing policies of the monarchy and the centripetal tendencies of the aristocracy in the kingdoms beyond Castile, and the projects of Philip IV and Olivares in the 1630s aimed far higher at the former than any previous ruler had dared. Their approach sparked much discussion and theorizing about the extent to which traditional regional privileges should be maintained, and much of this debate was couched in the terminology of reason of state. Spanish discussions of the concept of reason of state, in turn, always engaged the challenge of Machiavelli.1 Although Machiavelli’s works were placed on the Index librorum prohibitorum in 1559, this does not seem to have seriously impeded the spread of his books or the familiarity with his ideas in Spain. The Machiavellian ideas that offended Spaniards the most were those dealing with religion, particularly as they are set out in the Discourses, chapters 11–15, where he argued that religion is a tool, under the control of the ruler, that should be used

1

The best study of Catholic responses to Machiavelli is Robert Bireley, The Counter-Reformation Prince: Anti-Machiavellianism or Catholic Statecraft in Early Modern Europe (Chapel Hill, 1990).

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to further the ends of the state.2 This concept was anathema to most Spanish theorists, for whom temporal power was believed to be subordinate to spiritual values. Alfonso de Valdés and Juan Luis Vives, both sixteenth-century followers of Erasmus, argued that the evils they saw in Europe resulted from a neglect of Christ’s teachings and that it was up to the Spanish emperor Charles V to restore Christian faith and goodness throughout Europe, for its own sake and not for baser political ends.3 Spanish writers also took issue with Machiavelli’s argument that the end always justifies the means in pursuing the interests of the state. Although many theorists tacitly accepted the practicality of many of his ideas, including the value of dissimulation in politics, they rejected the idea that reason of state meant there should be no barriers to the pursuit of the ruler’s interests. The Spanish humanist tradition favored a desire for the interior reform and perfection of man, and kings were not exempt from this. On the contrary: kings, because of their particular burden of responsibility and authority, were necessarily constrained by the requirements of virtue and Christian ethics.4 The limits on a king’s power was also a central theme for political theorists as they struggled to define the relationship between the king and the law. In the medieval period, the king was defined as the administrator of justice, which in turn was derived largely from custom and tradition. As the medieval monarchy gradually evolved into the early modern state, the need increased for formal and systematic law, which in turn led to the question of the relationship between king and law. Some argued that the king’s responsibility was to create, interpret, and apply the law, while others held that laws existed to guide the king, whose personal judgment could be fallible.5

2

Niccoló Machiavelli, The Prince and The Discourses, intro. by Max Lerner (New York, 1950). 3 J.A. Fernández-Santamaría, The State, War and Peace: Spanish Political Thought in the Renaissance, 1516–1559 (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 40, 52; see also Dian Fox, Kings in Calderón, p. 13. 4 Theorists who approached the reason-of-state question in these terms include Pedro de Ribadeneyra (Tratado de la religión y virtudes que debe tener el Príncipe Cristiano, 1595), Fernando Alvia de Castro (Verdadera razón de estado, 1616), Juan Pablo Mártir Rizo (Norte de Príncipes, 1626), Pedro Barbosa Homem (Discursos sobre la verdadera y jurídica razón de estado, 1627), Diego Saavedra Fajardo (Empresas políticas, 1640), Juan Blázquez Mayoralgo (Perfecta razón de Estado, 1646), and Andrés Mendo (Príncipe perfecto y ministros ajustados, 1657). 5 José Luis Bermejo Cabrero, Máximas, principios y símbolos políticos: Una aproximación histórica (Madrid, 1986), pp. 50–58. A good overview of reason-of-state theories in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries is found in Antonio Feros, Kingship and Favoritism in the Spain of Philip III, 1598–1621 (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 19– 27.

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One of the principal issues over which they differed was the question of whether royal centralization was in the best interests of the country as a whole, a question which was often framed in terms of morality vs. expediency. Nearly all political theorists acknowledged that on certain occasions political expediency demanded a small sacrifice of honesty or justice, but that this was worthwhile in the ultimate pursuit of the common good. Some writers in the kingdoms beyond Castile, however, argued that the ruler’s greatest resource was the liberty and wealth of his subjects and respect for their laws, and that strengthening the monarchy lay in defending these rather than sacrificing them to a central authority.6 Although the non-Castilian kingdoms may have faced more of a threat to their traditional privileges from the centralizing plans of Olivares, Castilians were sensitive to this debate as well. The power of their representative institutions had gradually eroded away over the previous centuries, and so they had fewer buffers against the power of the king. This was not a concern as long as the king acted in the interests of the common good, but it did make Castilians wary of the dangers of a weak or ill-advised king. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the principal theme for many Spanish political writers was the necessity for rulers to possess the cardinal virtues (prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude) and to be able to rule over their own passions. These theorists were known as “ethicists,” because they believed in the subordination of politics to morality. The theorists themselves referred to Machiavelli and others (particularly the French writers Bodin, La Noue, and DuPlessis-Mornay), in contrast, as “políticos,” who they feared were willing to subordinate Christian values, and perhaps sacrifice Catholicism itself, to the interests of the state.7 These ideas were not restricted to political theorists; studies by Louis Combet and Maxime Chevalier indicate that contemporary proverbs and folktales presented the same emphasis on ideal kings being just, prudent, and masters of themselves.8 The expectations that early modern subjects had for their kings were clear, but what were they to do if kings violated these implicit rules? The next step for Spanish theorists was to determine at what point a lack of virtue became equivalent to tyranny. In the classical tradition, Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, and Seneca all argued that kings became tyrants when they ruled more according to their passions than according to law, when they were decadent and lustful, when they were unjust and

6

Joan-Pau Rubiés, “Reason of State and Constitutional Thought in the Crown of Aragon, 1580–1640,” The Historical Journal, 38/1 (1995): 1–28. 7 Fernández-Santamaría, The State, War and Peace, pp. 48–53, 425; Donald W. Bleznik, “The Spanish Reaction to Machiavelli in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” p. 543. 8 Louis Combet, Récherches sur le “refranero” castillan (Paris, 1971); Maxime Chevalier, Folklore y literatura: El cuento oral en el Siglo de Oro (Barcelona, 1978).

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unreasonable, or when they favored their own pleasure over the public interest.9 Many early modern writers drew on this tradition, combining it with their focus on Christian ethics to argue that religious virtue was the only barrier to tyranny.10 Pedro de Ribadeneyra’s writings were representative in expressing the view that when reason of state became autonomous from ethics, it became unreasonable and threatening to the state; good statecraft always worked for the benefit of the people, religion, and justice.11 The core of these ideas was that government was a human creation; since people chose their ruler and government was created to serve the interests of the public, the sovereign was subject to both natural law and the laws of the state. Consequently, a ruler became a tyrant when he served his own interests over those of his subjects, or when he followed passion over reason. A particularly interesting aspect of this argument is the importance of this potential conflict between passion and reason. Although the modern reader would not immediately associate sexual impropriety with bad government (recent events in the White House notwithstanding), this was a predominant theme of the tyranny argument in early modern Spain. Seventeenth-century theorists often quoted advice from Aristotle about the importance of a ruler controlling his passion for women and drink, and often tyrants were also presented as sexually violent.12 Christian virtue was as important to the personal behavior of a king as it was to his politics, and was perceived as a useful and visible measure of his nature. The question of when a king became a tyrant because of these desires was as prominent in drama as it was in political theory, and the conflict was most often presented in terms of an inappropriate sexual interest. The unique nature of Spanish drama, which did not view tragedy and comedy as separate genres but combined them in the comedia, meant that plays with kings could have a variety of outcomes. They could end well if the king was able to overcome his passions; tragically if he was not; or ambiguously, without any clear resolution. The final step in the theoretical debates about kingship and tyranny was to decide what steps should be taken to remove a tyrant king. The answer to this question depended on where one considered the source of a king’s power to lie: theorists generally agreed that kings ultimately derive their authority from the people, but it was unclear whether the people in turn had the right to revoke that authority. Most writers argued that they did: Juan de Mariana (in his treatise De Rege, written for Philip II to give to his son who succeeded him as Philip III) argued that legitimate princes must be tolerated as long as they did not scorn their 9

A. Robert Lauer, Tyrannicide and Drama (Stuttgart, 1987), pp. 18–29. Fernández-Santamaría, The State, War and Peace, pp. 75–6. 11 Pedro de Ribadeneyra, Tratado de la religion y virtudes que debe tener el Principe Christiano, para governar y conservar sus Estados (Madrid, 1595); see also Stephen Rupp, “Allegory and Diplomacy in Calderon’s El lirio y la azucena,” Bulletin of the Comediantes, 41/1 (1989): 107–25. 12 Bermejo Cabrero, Máximas, principios y símbolos políticos, pp. 88, 123. 10

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own laws; if they “disrupt the public, seize property, and despise the laws and religion of the kingdom,” action could be taken.13 This action should consist first of a formal warning to the ruler, giving him the opportunity to mend his ways. If, after this admonishment, he continued to behave as a tyrant, then he was subject to a judicial deposition which could remove him from power or have him killed. Similar arguments were made by Domingo de Soto, Luis de Molina, and Domingo Báñez; all had in common the argument that the king must be given a chance to remedy his errors, but if he did not, then he could be removed with the approval of the community or some representative body thereof. 14 These arguments of course were more complex and subject to conditions and cautions than the brief summary I have given here. The theorists themselves were not always interpreting these questions in the same terms; questions of tyranny and justice could be discussed on the planes of theology, legal philosophy, and in the more practical terms of political philosophy. Nevertheless, the outline I have given here should be enough to suggest the parallels between these debates and the questions about kingship presented in contemporary theater. Political theory and drama mirrored each other in terms of their purpose as well as their content. Although theorists discussed these questions in the abstract, they did so with a firm grasp of the specific context in which they lived. Most political writers were state functionaries of some kind, and knew the challenges facing the early modern state from having experienced them directly.15 As a consequence, they saw the purpose of their theory as educational: it was meant to reach a wide audience and to provide clear lessons based on historical example.16 They believed that a monarchy should be considered an office like any other: “The king has to fulfill his duties in the same way and on the same premises as an artisan does his trade, in which he cannot go beyond the precise rules of his work.”17 Consequently a ruler must be properly educated for that office, and political theorists structured and presented their ideas as a crucial part of that education. The messages of political theory were thus gradually diffused beyond their original authorship to become part of Spanish literate culture in general. Playwrights were certainly not insensitive to their ideas; they were conversant with the political theory of the day, and many drew on specific treatises for their 13

Robin Carter, “Fuenteovejuna and Tyranny: Some Problems of Linking Drama with Political Theory,” Forum for Modern Language Studies, 13 (1977): 317; Lauer, Tyrannicide and Drama, p. 61. 14 Lauer, Tyrannicide and Drama, 49–69; Carter, “Fuenteovejuna and Tyranny,” pp. 315–19. 15 Maravall, La teoría española del estado en el siglo XVII (Madrid, 1944), pp. 10– 28. 16 Maravall, La teoría española del estado en el siglo XVII, pp. 33–66; Fox, Kings in Calderón, p. 19; J.H. Elliott, Lengua e imperio en la España de Felipe IV (Salamanca, 1994), p. 15. 17 Maravall, La teoría española del estado en el siglo XVII, p. 74.

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material. Their drama could therefore be used for the further dissemination of political arguments.18 It is interesting to note that when Lisón Tolosana, in his study of Spanish monarchy and ritual power, provides a list of the most important writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries who dealt with questions of the power of kings and possible limits to this power, the list is fairly well balanced between political theorists and playwrights.19 Studies of particular dramatists often reveal that they drew ideas for plays from their political counterparts.20 Theater provided an excellent forum in which to present questions about the source of law and the proper behavior of kings; this chapter will demonstrate that many of the most popular seventeenth-century plays drew upon these questions and experimented with a wide range of responses. Comedias with kings as principal characters written and performed during the reigns of Philip IV and Charles II present a striking contradiction to scholars’ general view of the Spanish comedia as unquestioningly respectful and supportive of the monarchy and its divine foundation. Their settings range in place and time from ancient Greece to Edward III’s England. Yet what they have in common is that all of them deal with conflicts directly created by the character of the king. In nearly every case, this conflict originates in the king’s inappropriate desire for a woman who rejects his advances. Romantic entanglements are very much in keeping with the traditional form of the comedia; nevertheless, Spanish playwrights wrote many hundreds of perfectly good romantic comedies without needing recourse to kings as major characters. Adding the ingredient of divinely

18

Bermejo Cabrero argues that baroque theater was “a great diffusing mechanism of political attitudes and behaviors” (“gran mecanismo difusor de actitudes y comportamientos de tipo político”), using the expressions and reasoning of political theorists. Máximas, principios y símbolos políticos, pp. 5–6. Dian Fox and Stephen Rupp have demonstrated that the comedias and autos sacramentales of Calderón de la Barca frequently blended the ideals expressed in contemporary political theory with lessons about the conduct of kings and affairs of state as a means of instructing rulers and audiences alike. See Rupp, Allegories of Kingship: Calderón and the Anti-Machiavellian Tradition (University Park, PA, 1996) and Fox, Kings in Calderón. 19 It includes the political theorists Francisco de Vitoria, Domingo de Soto, Luis de Molina, Juan de Mariana, and Francisco Suárez, alongside the dramatists Lope de Vega, Tirso de Molina, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, Juan Bautista Diamante, and Pedro Calderón de la Barca. C. Lisón Tolosana, La imagen del rey: Monarquía, realeza y poder ritual en la Casa de los Austrias (Madrid, 1991), p. 61. 20 John Loftis argues that Calderón used a tract by Pedro de Ribadeneyra as a source for La cisma de Inglaterra; Cynthia Halpern notes that Juan Ruiz de Alarcón was well versed in political theory, and Ruth Kennedy argues that Tirso de Molina drew heavily on the work of Juan de Mariana. Loftis, Renaissance Drama in England & Spain; Halpern, The Political Theater of Early Seventeenth-Century Spain, with Special Reference to Juan Ruiz de Alarcón (New York, 1993); Kennedy, Studies in Tirso, I: The Dramatist and his Competitors, 1620–26 (Chapel Hill, 1974).

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sanctioned political power gives the stories an extra twist. The inclusion of kings in these stories implies that kings are, in fact, ordinary humans. They are subject to the same romantic difficulties as everyone else: they may not love the person they are obliged to marry, they may be attracted to someone below their social station, or they may be interested in a person who is already committed to another. Yet in their relationship to the rest of society, they are not ordinary at all. If a young man falls in love with a woman of a different social class or one who already has a suitor, at most he will have to contend with her family or his rival to win her love. Kings in this situation, however, threaten the basic contract that underlies the monarch-subject relationship. All good Christians are supposed to control their passions and act virtuously, but it is all the more important for kings to do so because of the power they wield and the responsibilities they have toward their subjects. The romantic conflicts of the plays are conflicts only because there is some kind of social convention forming a barrier between the lover and his beloved. When a king defies these conventions, he is betraying his own role as the defender of the social order. His attempts to overcome the obstacles to his passion are particularly dangerous because of the amount of power he wields and because his success generally comes at the price of the rights or even the lives of his subjects. The essential question behind these plays is therefore whether the king is above social convention, law, and justice (in which case it would be acceptable for him to pursue his wishes at the cost of his subjects), or whether he is subject to these (in which case his challenge to them would be tyrannical). Plays from the reign of Philip IV provide a variety of permutations and solutions to this dramatic problem. Calderón’s Saber del mal y del bien (To Know Fortune and Misfortune) was written around 1628 and was published in Calderón’s first volume of comedias in 1636.21 The setting is the medieval court of Alfonso VII of Castile, in which Don Pedro de Lara enjoys the favor of his king and the powers of a minister.22 Soon, however, he discovers the dangers of having risen to such heights: the other nobles in the court are envious of his position and conspire 21 Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Primera parte de comedias de Don Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid: María de Quiñones, 1636), fols 149–70v. A late seventeenth-century manuscript version of this play is in the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, MS 14.857; it is essentially identical to the text published in the Primera parte. 22 Many plays from the seventeenth century dealt with the roles and responsibilities of a royal minister or favorite and his proper relationship with a monarch. Since my focus here is on the behavior of rulers, I have not included an examination of these plays in this study. Saber del mal y del bien does involve a royal favorite as a major character, but since the principal conflict of the play arises from the king’s abuse of his own power rather than the position of the favorite, I have included it in the category of plays dealing with the performance of kingship. For more on royal favorites and their relationship to kings, see Antonio Feros, Kingship and Favoritism in the Spain of Philip III, 1598–1621 (Cambridge, 2000), and J.H. Elliott and L.W.B. Brockliss (eds), The World of the Favourite (New Haven, 1999).

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against him. Part of the play’s emphasis is on Pedro’s rise and fall, following the typical comedia pattern that anyone who reached greatness through good fortune was equally likely to lose it again the same way. In this case, however, the trajectory of Pedro’s career is not due to the random whims of fate so much as it is to the random whims of the king. When two conspiring nobles of the court frame Pedro for a crime he has not committed, the king does not entirely believe their story, but exiles his minister from the court anyway, telling him at the end of the second act, “Know that whether you are guilty or innocent, I am the king, though up to now I have not been.”23 Had the plot concluded here, it could be considered a happy ending, with the king having learned to rule on his own without relying on a favorite. King Alfonso does not demonstrate sufficient mastery of himself to do so successfully, however. Instead he uses his power to try to sully the honor of Pedro’s sister, Hipólita, telling her that the former minister’s fate rests on her acquiescence and insisting that Pedro’s best friend betray their friendship and help the king in his amorous adventures.24 By the end, all of the vicissitudes suffered by the various characters are the direct result of the whims of the king, though they are received with patience and resignation by his subjects. When one courtier complains, Pedro himself reminds him that “the King is the sovereign and judge; even if he errs, it is not your place to correct him, for no one is to judge kings but God.”25 The end of this play is of particular interest to scholars, for it does not seem to follow as a logical conclusion to the rest of the plot. The king realizes the error of his ways, corrects his own mistakes, gives up his pursuit of Hipólita, and reinstates Pedro as his minister. This sudden, somewhat implausible resolution demonstrates the playwright’s recognition that a king who follows his own interests rather than those of the kingdom can be disruptive and dangerous, but that at the same time there is no practical solution to this problem. Some scholars argue that objectively the play would have been better had the conflict been played out to its logical— and disastrous—conclusion.26 This avenue may have been too dangerously direct for Calderón; it was enough to have presented the possibility to the audience and let them draw their own conclusions.

23

“Sabed, conde, que ó culpado ó perseguido / que soy Rey, que hasta aquí no lo hauia sido,” fol. 163. 24 The friend is instructed to tell Hipólita “that if you do not cease to be ungrateful, he will cease to be patient” (que si tu / de ser ingrata no dexas, / dexará de ser piadoso); she responds by gracefully pretending not to believe the king would be capable of such behavior: “no, I do not complain of the King, since it cannot be true that such a just king would use force against a woman.” (no, no me quexo del Rey / por no presumir que pueda / ser verdad, que un Rey tan justo / se valiesse de la fuerça / contra una muger), fol. 167v. 25 “Que es soberana justicia / el Rey; aunque yerre, vos / no lo aveis de remediar, / porque nadie ha de juzgar / a los Reyes sino Dios,” fol. 152v. 26 Alexander Parker, The Mind and Art of Calderón (Cambridge, 1988), p. 248.

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In Progne y Filomena,27 Rojas Zorrilla takes a similar plot to a more shocking and extreme resolution. King Tereo of ancient Thrace has sealed a diplomatic alliance with Athens by marrying its princess Progne, but upon meeting her sister Filomena, he regrets his choice. Filomena, however, is secretly betrothed to Tereo’s brother. Nevertheless, the king pursues his hapless sister-in-law for years, until she finally tells Progne the truth. Seeing no solution for their dilemma, the sisters decide to flee back to Athens. Progne first scolds the king for his inappropriate behavior, and the king’s minister also tries to correct him. The other characters make it clear that with this one passion the king has committed four offenses: against his brother, against Filomena, against his wife Progne, and against the law.28 Gradually the king comes to see the danger of his behavior, regretfully observing that any fault in a king is far greater than the same fault in any vassal, but he does nothing to correct it. As he becomes increasingly irrational and infuriated, the determination of the other characters to thwart him also grows, and at last the king of Athens arrives to take vengeance on Tereo for the abuse of his daughters. Upon his arrival, the sisters’ father and Filomena’s husband, having reached the decision that their only recourse is to kill the king, argue among themselves who is to take that action. Meanwhile, the two women disappear into the king’s chambers, and when the other men are about to enter, the stage reveals the dead king in his bed, killed by the characters who were most affronted by his actions. Even though this is essentially the premeditated killing of a monarch, the tension in the final scene is derived from the question of who will kill the king rather than whether or not he will be killed, and everyone celebrates this inevitable act as the restoration of order and justice.29 In some ways this resolution may have been surprising to Spanish audiences: murder, even when it is justified as tyrannicide, is not the most frequent solution to plays featuring kings who abuse their power. Nevertheless, since Rojas Zorrilla drew his plot from Ovid, the story in a sense had already been

27

This play was probably written in the 1630s; it was first published in Parte Sexta de comedias varias de diferentes autores (Madrid, 1649). 28 fol. 283. 29 The presentation of the king’s murder as a just conclusion is supported by an important element of the final scene. The two women use the swords of their husbands, suggesting that while they are avenging their own honor, they also do so as intermediaries for the men whose honor was tainted by the king. In seventeenth century Spanish emblems, justice was often represented by the image of a woman with a sword. Marcela Trambaioli, “Una comedia mitológica de corral: Progne y Filomena de Rojas Zorrilla,” in Felipe B. Pedraza Jiménez and Rafael González Cañal (eds), La década de oro de la comedia española, 1630–1640. Actas de las XIX Jornadas de teatro clásico (Almagro, 1997), pp. 263–79.

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told, and he could defuse the shocking ending by presenting it as the retelling of a classical myth.30 The theme of a king who is misled by his own desires appears again in Calderón’s Amor, honor y poder (Love, Honor and Power, 1637), though in this play the story is taken one step farther.31 The plot, a familiar one by now, is that the king develops an obsessive passion for a woman who rejects his advances. This time the king is presented with less emphasis on his position as a monarch; he becomes merely one figure in a series of couples trying to achieve their goals with the usual attending romantic complications. The principal difference is that the king, being king, is the only one with the power to achieve his goals. Faced with the repeated resistance of the woman he desires, and finally presented with her threats of suicide if her honor is violated, he summons the other characters and announces that he will marry her. This is an ambiguous resolution in terms of the relative rights of king and subject: on one hand, it would have been preferable for the king to accept her refusal and turn his attentions elsewhere, given her absolute refusal to accept him as a suitor. On the other hand, his offer of (or rather insistence on) marriage is preferable to a direct attack on her honor, which was the most likely alternative. In a way, although she cannot avoid the relationship altogether, this can be seen as a happy ending and a restoration of the social order: rather than being allowed to have his way with the woman, the king is forced to legalize the relationship and so preserve her honor. For the purposes of the plot as a series of romantic entanglements, it is not necessary for any of the characters to be royal, but it makes the message of the play far more powerful. The king has the power of the throne behind him, which he may use (or abuse) to pursue his goals, and his actions have repercussions for the entire monarchy. Amor, honor y poder is in this sense a bit more somber than the previous plays, in that rather than experiencing a personal transformation (however unrealistic), the king is forced into proper behavior by the insistence of one of his subjects. Although she recognizes it to be a risky choice, and the other characters advise her against it, her resistance to an extramarital liaison proves to be the only way to maintain her honor and hold the king to a more appropriate standard of behavior.

30

In fact, it was frequently retold in the seventeenth century, in the poetry of Lope as well as the drama of Juan de Timoneda and Guillén de Castro. 31 Segunda parte de las comedias de Don Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Caballero del Abito de Santiago (Madrid: María de Quiñones, 1637).

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Calderón’s Amigo, amante y leal (Friend, lover, and loyal)32 explores one man’s conflicting loyalties to his love, his friend, and his prince. The young nobleman Don Félix, returning to his home in Parma, cannot decide whom he should greet first: his best friend Don Arias (to whom his heart is loyal), his love Aurora (to whom he trusts his soul), or his ruler Prince Alexandro (to whom, as a devoted subject, he owes his life). The situation is further complicated when Félix discovers that both Arias and Alexandro are interested in Aurora as well. He decides that since the obligations of his various loyalties are hopelessly incompatible, he can best serve them all by leaving Parma. The prince, however, orders him to stay and assist him in his pursuit of Aurora (not, of course, knowing that she is the object of Félix’s love as well). Since Aurora returns Félix’s affections, the prince is unsuccessful in courting her. Caught up in his passion, he is not easily discouraged, and insists on his pursuit, telling Arias “Do not advise me, for my passion is not capable of reason or speech.”33 Aurora, increasingly fearing for her honor, asks Félix to protect her against Alexandro. When both Félix and the prince appear at her house at night, Alexandro thinks Félix is there to help him, and Aurora thinks he is there to save her. Félix is saved from having to make a choice by the arrival of Arias, who tries to rescue Aurora from both of the others. When the three men argue over which one she “belongs” to, she angrily rejects them all. Félix again tries to resolve the conflict by leaving Parma altogether. Alexandro is so impressed by Félix’s loyalty and ability to dominate his passions that he feels obliged to act as honorably, and he agrees to cease his pursuit of Aurora.34 Arias is equally moved by Félix’s example, and the friends are reconciled. The play ends happily with Félix managing to stay true to his requirements of friendship, love, and loyalty. The first two acts of this play follow the now-familiar pattern of a conflict created by a ruler who sacrifices the well-being of his subjects to his own passions. The initial conflict of interest between the characters could have been resolved at the end of the first act, where Félix, though heartbroken, is willing to sacrifice his love in the interest of his loyalties to his friend and his ruler. The prince persists in his pursuit of Aurora, however, refusing to listen to the advice of others and even implicating Félix in his own ignoble plan. At no point does Félix directly try to resist the prince, challenge his authority, or even criticize his behavior. His only solution is to avoid the situation entirely (this perhaps would have been a suitable 32

This play was probably written as early as the 1630s, although it was not published until 1653. Its first appearance in print was in Laurel de comedias: Quarta parte de diferentes autores (Madrid, 1653); it was subsequently reprinted in Parte diez y ocho, de comedias nuevas, escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1662), and Verdadera qvinta parte de comedias de Don Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid, 1682). 33 “No me aconsejes, / que no es capaz mi passion / de discurso, ni razon,” fol. 471. 34 “Tanto la lealtad obliga / á un noble, que le desnuda / de sus afectos, y haze / vencer las passiones suyas!” fol. 483

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solution for Félix, but it leaves Aurora in danger, and does nothing to correct the problem of the prince’s behavior). In the end, Félix’s choice of loyalties saves him as the misbehaving monarch is prevented from further wrongdoing, not by the opposition of his subjects, but by their good example. This may be more noble an action than one might expect to see in a real-life monarch, but it does provide a safe and harmonious resolution to the play. In Rojas Zorrilla’s Casarse por vengarse (To Marry for Revenge, 1640),35 Enrique and Blanca are former lovers whose plans to marry were blocked when he was forced to marry another woman as part of the terms of his inheritance of the throne, and she was promised by her father to another man. Enrique cannot resist returning to visit Blanca, though she tells him they should resign themselves to their circumstances and maintain their honor. After the king’s repeated secret visits, Blanca’s husband begins to suspect that something is amiss, and although Blanca is steadfastly innocent, she fears that her husband’s wrath may endanger her life. The husband decides that even the suspicion of dishonor is crime enough: “if I do not kill her, I am not being true to myself.” He arranges her death to appear accidental, though the king—and the audience—understands what has really happened. In the end, King Enrique accepts the outcome as necessary to the maintenance of the husband’s honor, but threatens in the last lines that there will be time for his own vengeance. Calderón dealt with similar plots in his well-known “wife-murder” plays, El médico de su honra (The Surgeon of His Honor, 1637), El pintor de su deshonra (The Painter of His Dishonor, 1650) and A secreto agravio, secreta venganza (Secret Revenge for a Secret Affront, 1641). In Médico, the king is not a major character, but he approves and reinforces each step that is taken towards the tragic ending. Although the king leads the plot to its conclusion to the satisfaction of all the (surviving) characters, the outcome is a grim warning of the consequences of having justice depend on a king who is willing to twist it for the sake of appearances. As Calderón did in El médico de su honra, Rojas Zorrilla subjects the Spanish system of honor—or, more importantly, the maintenance of the appearance of honor—to pointed criticism. No one would fault a man for wanting to defend his honor against the stain of an adulterous wife, but in both of these cases the women are innocent victims, first of the men who pursue them, then of their own husbands, and ultimately of their kings. Their deaths resolve the specific dramatic conflict provoked by the men’s rivalry, but the situation itself remains unchanged. Both plays end with strong suggestions that the inherent flaws in Spanish society which guided these plots toward their outcome will continue to produce such tragic stories. In that sense, these plays serve as important social commentary. But the fact that both plays cast kings as important characters—one 35

First published in Madrid in Rojas Zorrilla’s Primera parte de las comedias de Don Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (Madrid, 1640 and 1680); also published in Valencia and Zaragoza in 1636.

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who confirms the system, another who actively participates in it—makes the stories seem even more tragic. Rojas Zorrilla’s Peligrar en los remedios (A Risky Solution, 1640) follows the pattern of Calderón’s earlier Saber del mal y del bien in that the conflict is created by the king’s passions and is resolved when the king suddenly, and with no outside influence, realizes the error of his ways and manages to dominate himself. In this case, King Sigismundo of Naples is not the only one who desires an unattainable woman: the duchess Violante, who is secretly engaged to the king’s brother Carlos, is also pursued by the king’s minister and Carlos’s best friend. International diplomacy is another factor, as Sigismundo’s recent military victory was to be solidified by his marriage to the princess of Sicily. Sigismundo cannot bring himself to give up his dreams of Violante, and he brings his country nearly to the brink of war by ignoring his commitment to the princess, claiming that his love is more important than the law.36 In this story, as in Saber del mal y del bien, the logical path of the story leads towards disaster, as the other characters are not only incapable of correcting the king’s behavior, but seem bent on surpassing it with their own misdeeds. The playwright chooses the only safe resolution: the king suddenly realizes the error of his ways, gives up his pursuit of Violante, marries the princess, and serves as a good example to the other characters. These plays demonstrate that in most cases, plays featuring kings as principal characters did not necessarily present them in a positive light. On the contrary: in each of the six plays dating from the beginning of Philip IV’s reign through the 1640s, rulers appear as petty, self-serving, vengeful men who threaten the wellbeing of their subjects. At worst, they condone injustice and allow the death of innocent subjects; at best, they undergo sudden personal transformations and promise to rule well in the future. In the two plays where the king’s abuses are allowed to go unchecked (Amor, honor y poder, and Casarse por vengarse), the endings suggest that the injustice will continue. Those in which the king manages to reform himself (Saber del mal y del bien and Peligrar en los remedios) are the least plausible; the endings do not logically follow the expectations set up by the rest of the play. Taken as a whole, these plays imply that kings need to adhere to strict ethical codes of personal behavior, overcoming their human passions in the interest of their royal duties, or disruption and injustice will result. All of these plays touch on the limitations that should be set on the power of a king, which was one of the principal concerns of Spanish theorists and scholars of the early seventeenth century. The power of Olivares and his particular interest in theater may have dissuaded many playwrights from directly criticizing the minister, but they did not hesitate to comment on the significant role of subjects in validating the king’s authority and the importance of a ruler’s respect for the rights

36

“He de anteponer mi amor, / falten mis decretos, falten,” fol. 23.

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of his subjects.37 These plays express the concern that a king who follows his passions will infringe on the rights of others and infringe justice; the fictional kings who claim that they can bend justice to their own will are those who are presented as the most evil and in need of correction. The overall emphasis is that there is a system of law and justice that supercedes the desires of the king, an argument that was quite relevant to the events characterizing the first half of Philip IV’s reign. In the second part of Philip’s reign, after the dismissal of Olivares, the king pledged himself to greater personal involvement in the management of his empire and backed off from his centralization program. Plays from this period present a slightly softer criticism of the potential abuse of a king’s power, evince a greater concern for the possibility of misguided rulers than evil ones, and place greater blame on the corrupting atmosphere of court politics. Moving into the 1650s, Calderón’s Gustos y disgustos son nada más que imaginación (Pleasure and displeasure are only in the imagination)38 features a ruler similar to Calderón’s Prince Alexandro in Amigo, amante y leal, and a slightly more ambiguous resolution. It takes place in Zaragoza during the rule of King Pedro of Aragon. The audience is presented with an unhappy royal couple: King Pedro and Queen María arranged their marriage to secure peace between their kingdoms of Aragon and Navarre, but the king does not love his queen, and in fact treats her quite rudely. The queen, heartbroken and humiliated, asks his permission to retire to a convent. King Pedro is pleased to get rid of her and immediately begins scheming to sneak into the rooms of Violante, for whom he entertains an unwholesome passion. Violante firmly resists his advances, and finally reveals that she is secretly married to Don Vicente, whose family has long been at odds with her own. At this point Violante’s father, Count Monforte, appears and demands to know why the two men are in Violante’s room: the king ducks the question and runs away, and Vicente explains about their marriage. The 37

Although the four playwrights whose work I have evaluated for this study did not write plays dealing with validos during this period, others did. Willard King’s study of Juan Ruiz de Alarcón and Frank MacCurdy’s work on the Don Alvaro de Luna theme provide good examples. See King, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, letrado y dramaturgo (Mexico, 1989), and MacCurdy, The Tragic Fall: Don Alvaro de Luna and Other Favorites in Spanish Golden Age Drama (Chapel Hill, 1978). 38 First printed in Comedias nuevas escogidas de los meiores ingenios de España: Octava parte (Madrid, 1657), and later appearing in the Verdadera quinta parte in 1682 and 1694. It also formed part of the repertoire of the companies of Antonio de Escamilla, Manuel Vallejo, and Manuel de Mosquera, who performed it in the public corrales of the Príncipe and the Cruz as well as the Pardo, the Buen Retiro, and the royal palace, on various dates in 1661, 1683, 1684, 1695, and 1696. “Descuentos de Llanillo,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid, 1651–1665, p. 237; “Bajos de diferentes dias que dejaron de representar las compañías de comedias,” AVM 2-469-12; “Pretensiones del arrendador de los corrales de comedias, sobre diferentes bajas y remisiones y diferentes justificaciones del producto del arrendamiento,” AVM 2-456-13.

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count decides that an honest marriage for his daughter is preferable to having her dishonored by the king, so he sets aside his feud with Vicente’s family and approves of their marriage. If this were a very short play, things could have ended happily here. The king, however, in spite of having been forced to accept Violante’s marriage, continues with his plans to pursue her. After various attempts to speak with her in the convent (in which he believes he is speaking with Violante but is actually speaking to the queen) he is finally caught in the presence of Vicente and the queen. The queen forgives his indiscretions, and the king decides that if he was actually professing his love to the queen when he thought it was Violante, then both his distaste of the one and his passion for the other must have been his imagination. All are reconciled. This play is an exception to many of the patterns that characterized typical Golden Age comedias. Its plot is not moved by any of the usual coverups, disguises, or mistaken identities. The only secret, Violante and Vicente’s marriage, is revealed in the first act of the play, and it does not prove to be an obstacle. The family feud, which one would normally expect to be a significant barrier to the happiness of the young couple, is easily left behind in the interests of social harmony. In fact, the king is the only source of conflict in the entire play, and he is never presented in a positive light. The other characters are sympathetic to the queen, noting that “the king is of a terrible character; everyone speaks of his cruelties.”39 It is also significant that their union was meant to bring peace, yet the king threatens that peace by his behavior. His every action is deliberate and suggestive of conscious wrongdoing: bribing Violante’s maid to allow him access to her room, hiding his horse in the bushes for an easy escape, preferring to move about by night rather than by day. Finding that his attempts to seduce Violante are rebuffed, he nonetheless persists: “since my love is not enough, I’ll have to make use of force.”40 The only thing that can resolve the play’s conflict is the king’s sudden change of heart at the end, when he realizes that the honor of all the other characters depends on his actions. Given his earlier behavior, this resolution is a bit flimsy, but it is the only way in which the play could be satisfactorily resolved without resorting to some sort of force against the king. This idea is supported by the moral presented in the last speech of the play. Rather than summarizing the point of the play with some reference back to the title, as most plays do, this one directly presents the lesson instead: “This is the true story, from which the reader should learn to value that which is his own, for another’s is not better.”41 Of all the plays 39

“Mas la condición del Rey / es terrible, todos cuentan / crueldades suyas …” fol.

404. 40

“Pero pues mi amor no basta, / yo me valdré de la fuerça,” fol. 407. “Esta es verdadera historia / de que saque el lector, / que se estime lo que es proprio, / que lo ageno no es mejor,” fol. 450. 41

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in this category, this one is perhaps the most critical in its presentation of the king throughout the full length of the play, yet the most forgiving in its outcome. A second play by Calderón from the 1650s, Afectos de odio y amor (Inclinations Towards Hate and Love)42 is set in the context of a long-standing conflict between Russia, Swabia and Gocia. Casimiro, the ruler of Russia, has finally killed his ancient enemy Adolfo of Swabia on the battlefield. Casimiro has also encountered Adolfo’s daughter Cristerna, who inherits the crown upon her father’s death, and he now finds himself in the awkward situation of falling helplessly in love with his bitterest enemy. Cristerna is a capable warrior in her own right, and she swears vengeance, promising her hand in marriage to whoever brings her Casimiro dead or alive. Casimiro’s sister Auristela has been planning to marry Sigismundo, the ruler of Gocia, but when he sends an ambassador to arrange the marriage, Cristerna does not allow him to pass through her territory. This affront (as well as Sigismundo’s loyalty to Auristela’s interests) provokes him to declare war on Swabia as well. The stage is set for a perfect alliance between Russia and Gocia against Swabia, but Casimiro is indecisive and cannot commit himself. When battle ensues between Sigismundo and Cristerna, Casimiro sneaks off and disguises himself to support Cristerna’s troops. He defends the fallen Cristerna, captures Sigismundo, and finds himself in the uncomfortable position of being on the wrong side of the war. Auristela has taken up the leadership of Russia during Casimiro’s mysterious absence, and she gathers her troops to go to Sigismundo’s rescue. Sigismundo sees an easier way out, and proposes that since Casimiro is gone (and presumed dead), he and Auristela and Cristerna could simply negotiate peace, which would be to everyone’s benefit. Cristerna cannot rest until her enemy is vanquished, though, and she proceeds with a plan to capture Auristela. Unfortunately this plan involves the cooperation of Casimiro, who is now not only on the wrong side of the war but obliged to ambush his own sister. He does so, choosing to follow the obligations of love over the demands of family and state, and turns Auristela over to Cristerna. The latter, increasingly impressed by this mysterious soldier who has come to her 42

Although this play was not published until 1664 in Calderón’s Tercera parte de comedias de D. Pedro Calderón de la Barca (Madrid, 1664, reprinted in 1673 and 1687), I have included it in this chronological section because it was part of the repertoire of the companies of Francisco García and Diego Osorio, who performed it in both public and palace theaters in 1658 and 1659. It was also performed by the companies of Manuel Vallejo, María Alvarez, and Agustín Manuel on various dates between 1680 and 1696. There is one contemporary manuscript version of this play (BN MS 16.835) dated 1672. “Descuentos de Montalvo,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid 1651–1665, pp. 220, 230, 246; “Descuentos de Francisco Eguiluz,” reproduced in Varey and Shergold, Teatros y comedias en Madrid 1666–1687, pp. 178–9; “Pretensiones del arrendador de los corrales de comedias, sobre diferentes bajas y remisiones y diferentes justificaciones del producto del arrendamiento,” AVM 2-456-13.

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aid, falls in love with him. Federico of Albania, who has been hoping to win Cristerna’s hand by capturing her enemy, has decided to settle any doubts about Casimiro’s whereabouts by challenging him to a duel. Casimiro accepts, revealing his identity, but their duel is interrupted by Auristela who tells Casimiro she can help him escape. Instead, she turns him back in to Cristerna, and claims that she has won Cristerna’s hand by doing so. She then presents that hand to Casimiro, giving Cristerna the honor of having vanquished her enemy so that she is then free to marry him. Afectos de odio y amor belongs in the category of plays in which the king is the cause of the conflict, but it is the first one we encounter where the king is not presented as evil, corrupt, or somehow lacking in Christian virtue. Although he is in love with Cristerna, he never pursues her, nor does he even profess his love to her, knowing that he has no hope of winning her heart. His fatal flaw is not illicit passion, but the fact that his love distracts him from his duties. He is a perfectly good man; he is simply not a good king. Viewed from the perspective of the state, Casimiro sacrifices both the military direction of his country as well as the chance to make peace on good terms with the neighboring realms. (On the other hand, it is interesting to note that his sister Auristela serves as a very capable regent in his absence.) He is aware of his choices, being torn between “such strange, exquisite debts of love, honor, blood, and country,” but does not repent his decision: “Happy is he who purchases this joy even at the cost of such danger.”43 Essentially this is presented to us as a love story of a man who would give up even his country for the woman he loves, and fortunately the other characters have enough sense to preserve both Casimiro’s kingdom and his romance. The king featured in Delincuente sin culpa y bastardo de Aragón (The Guiltless Delinquent, and Bastard of Aragon)44 by Matos Fragoso is also saved by the actions of those around him. The principal characters of this play are King Carlos of Aragon, his queen Isabel, the minister Fernando, and Fernando’s illegitimate son Enrique de Luna. The play opens as Fernando announces his relationship to Enrique, who up until now has been brought up in the countryside unaware of his origins. The king favors this promising young man, giving him the titles of count and duke. Enrique, though grateful, recognizes the dangers of such sudden advancement: “What is this, fickle fortune! so quickly I rise on your wheel; please God that you will not cast me down with the same violence … The king has made me Duke and Count, and estates that are acquired without being earned are at risk

43 “Tan raro, tan exquisito / empeño de amor, y honor, / sangre, y patria …” fol. 105; “Feliz quien compró esta dicha / a costa de aquel peligro,” fol. 102v. 44 Juan de Matos Fragoso, in Pensil de Apolo, en doze comedias nuevas de los mejores ingenios de España. Parte catorze (Madrid, 1660). There is a seventeenth-century manuscript of this play in the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, MS 15.435 (under the title Bastardo de Aragón), which is virtually identical to the printed version.

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of being lost; in an instant there are jealousies and hidden enemies.”45 His fears are soon justified, as another character, Don Lope, begins to envy Enrique’s rapid rise in the king’s favor. The tensions between them increase when they both fall in love with the same woman, Doña Inés. In the second act, Enrique has earned the love and respect of the people, nobles and commoners alike.46 Queen Isabel decides to support Enrique’s suit of Inés, just as the king arranges his marriage to another woman. At this point the king’s involvement in Enrique’s situation becomes more significant: the king is jealous of the queen’s interest in Enrique, and circumstances conspire to make Enrique look guilty of an inappropriate interest in the queen, though in fact he is innocent. The king struggles with his own feelings and tries to control himself, reminding himself that kings are a reflection of divinity and should not suffer the pangs of jealousy, but to no avail. Enrique protests his innocence and offers his sword to the king to kill him; the king prepares to do so, but Enrique is saved by his father, who gives him the opportunity to escape from the court. In Act 3, Enrique has fled and is enjoying a respite from what he now considers to be the egregious lies, flatteries and deceptions of the court. Fernando chastises the king for “keeping the traitors with you and exiling those who are loyal,”47 but the king (encouraged by Lope) continues to insist that Enrique is a traitor. They capture Enrique and lock up him up in the palace, at which point Fernando protests that even a king must be accountable for such actions: “When Christian kings arrest their subjects in this way, it is either a bold insult, or they are not keeping their own laws. When they do so, they must explain themselves, because it is not fair to leave the people in confusion about it.”48 The king sentences Enrique to death, against the protests of Fernando and the queen. Just in time, Inés arrives to resolve the misunderstanding by explaining that Enrique was courting her, not the queen. The king says that if he could punish his own jealousy, he would, because “it is necessary for jealousy to remain subject to sacred monarchy.”49 He apologizes for his mistake, pardons Enrique and restores all his honors. The principal political message of this play is that kings should not entrust their advisers with extensive power without giving them the corresponding trust. Lope is the kind of sycophantic character who is always present in the court, and the king’s 45

“Que es esto, fortuna mobil! / muy presto subo a tu rueda, / quiera Dios que no me arrojes / con esta violencia mesma … Duque, y Conde me hizo el Rey, / y Estados que se adquirieron / sin auerlos grangeado, / está a peligro el perdellos, / en vn instante ay embidias, / y enemigos encubiertos,” fols 50–51v. 46 “La Reyna le muestra amor, / los grandes se le avassallan / como a superior en todo, / el vulgo le estima, y ama,” fol. 52. 47 “Que os quedeis con traydores / y desterreis los leales,” fol. 61. 48 “Quando los Christianos Reyes, / assi a sus vassallos prenden, / o atreuidos les ofenden, / o no les guardan sus leyes. / Y quando llegan a hazello, / dizen tambien la ocasion; / porque el vulgo, no es razon, / que ande delirando en ello,” fol. 64. 49 “Es fuerça / zelos el quedar sugetos / de la Sacra Monarchia,” fol. 66v.

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jealous nature combined with the rapid advance of Enrique give Lope the opening he needs to make trouble. This situation brings up the question of how to deal with an unjust decision made by the king: in this case Enrique’s father Fernando knows in his heart that his son is innocent, but he has no actual proof, and therefore he cannot be certain that the king’s actions are wrong. At one point Fernando decides that he cannot doubt his ruler: “the King says so, and I must place my king and lord above all.”50 Nevertheless, his trust in the king is not strong enough to overcome his doubts. He defends Enrique and preserves his son’s life just long enough for the queen to appear and resolve the situation. This is yet another instance of kings proving to be fallible, and subjects saving the day by insisting on their own defense. Two love interests form the principal threads of El desdén vengado (Disdain Avenged),51 by Rojas Zorrilla. The king of Naples is in love with Lisena, and the count, his minister, is in love with Celia. Although the typical patterns of the comedia have warned us by now that kings in love are dangerous creatures, the first description we have of this king indicate that he may be different: the count says “I have served the king of Naples, such a master that if the world were even a greater place, he would deserve to be its king.”52 And indeed the king proves to be a more reasonable lover than most, professing his intentions to Lisena but willing to accept the possibility that she may love another. When this proves to be the case, the king struggles with his jealousy: “Who would think this of love? It is a notable disgrace that the courage of a king should give itself up to love.”53 In spite of his good intentions, the king yields to the temptation to pursue Lisena and find out whom she is interested in. He begins to suspect (correctly) that she loves the count, so he tests his theory by ordering the count to go into hiding for six days, under the lie that “it is important to the Crown.”54 Then he continues to pursue Lisena, although his adviser Fabio recommends against it, saying that if the king cannot win her over, then it is pointless to pursue the matter any further. In the final act, the king successfully overcomes his passion, and decides to summon the count back so that he may marry Lisena. “It is only fair that the count kiss her hand in gratitude, as I remain envious; even though I am a powerful king, I am defeated by a gentle hand.” The king then goes on to compare his triumph over 50

“El Rey lo dize, / y a mi rey, y mi señor, / deuo anteponer en todo,” fol. 65. First published in Parte diez y seis de comedias nuevas, y escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1662). This play is largely derived from another by the same title by Lope de Vega, written in 1617, which in turn is very similar to two earlier Lope plays, El sembrar en buena tierra, 1616, and La prueba de los amigos, 1604. 52 “Mas yo que a un Rey he servido / de Napoles, a un señor, / que a ser el mundo mayor, / ser su Rey ha merecido,” fol. 1. 53 “Quien del amor tal pensara? / que el valor de un Rey se rinda / a amor, notable desgracia,” fol. 4. 54 “Mira, Conde, que importa a mi Corona,” fol. 7. Note that the king confuses his own interests here with those of the state. 51

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himself with his classical counterparts: “Captains cannot be Scipios, nor kings Alexanders, if they know not how to overcome their appetites and passions.”55 In the meantime, Celia, in whom the count was originally interested, has proven to be interested only in his money, so that he can more appropriately turn his love to Lisena. The play concludes happily with the marriage of Lisena and the count. This is one of the few plays which gives us an ideal ending to the problem of a king faced with temptation: he successfully and believably overcomes it, even at his own cost. It is very unusual for a play to end with a single marriage, leaving one of the main characters unwed, but this king is willing to achieve this end—the best for his subjects—by sacrificing his own interests. This is achieved mostly through his own interior struggle; he receives good advice from Fabio, but mostly his accomplishment is the result of willpower and self-domination. In terms of dramatic quality, this resolution means that the tension of the play is not as great as it could be. On the other hand, it does demonstrate that an ending that everyone would hope for in reality is also feasible in a dramatic context: in other words, kings in the comedia are not always evil simply because this makes better dramatic material. A much less ideal king meets with the consequences of his behavior in Matos Fragoso’s Poco aprovechan avisos cuando hay mala inclinación (Warnings Are of Little Use Against Evil Inclination)56, set in the court of King Federico of Hungary. Federico is in love with Clotilde, though she has no interest in him, and in fact loves his brother, Prince Filipo. Federico will brook no challenge to his pursuit of Clotilde, and he orders his brother away from the court. Teuclo, a friend of the prince’s and adviser to the king, recognizes the injustice of the situation, but also the potential dangers of angering the king. He advises the prince: “I see that the king’s command is tyranny, but by law he must be obeyed … I know that you love Clotilde, and that she returns your love. But it is a cruel hindrance that comes from a king disdained, who may in his anger become Cain to your Abel.”57 This is not the king’s only fault: the plot reveals that in the past he was responsible for gravely insulting his father and killing two of his brothers. When a loyal soldier presents a memorial to him asking for his back pay, the king is offended at his presumption and orders him not to be paid.58 When his secretary informs him that “the common people say that the impositions on them are so great that trade and

55

“Es razon que agradecido / el Conde bese su mano / y yo quedare embidioso / pues con ser Rey poderoso / me vence una flaca mano … No son los Capitanes Cipiones / ni Alexandros los Reyes, si no saben / vencer sus apetitos y passiones,” fol. 11v. 56 Pensil de Apolo, en doze comedias nuevas de los mejores ingenios de España. Parte catorze. (Madrid, 1660). 57 “Bien veo que es tyrania / el mandamiento del Rey; / pero obedecer es ley … Sé, que a Clotilde quereis, / y sé, que os sirue en pagaros; / pero es estoruo cruel / el de vn Rey, que despreciado / podrá de enojo irritado / ser Cain, pues sois Abel,” fol. 88. 58 fol. 89v.

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commerce have ceased, and they suffer great need; they ask for you to help them,” he responds with increased taxation.59 All his subjects resent him and his abuses of power, but they fear the only remedy is to hope for divine punishment.60 When King Federico fails to win the attentions of Clotilde, he decides to take her by force. She reprimands him and tells him that better behavior will bring him greater honor. He of course pays no heed, and says “What force can counter a king?” to which she replies “That of God, who protects me,” and the stage directions indicate flames shooting up from the floor.61 This allows her to escape, but the king does not repent. As a consequence, he receives a vision of death, which warns him to get control of himself. Still King Federico persists, locking Teuclo up in a tower and planning to kill his own brother Filipo to get Clotilde. The signs of divine displeasure are unmistakable: when the king passes a statue of the Virgin, she turns her back on him; when he lights a lamp, it is mysteriously snuffed out again. Another ghost appears to warn Federico that an unhappy death awaits him if he continues, but he persists, believing that his secular powers render him invincible. In the final scene, however, he is proven wrong. Federico starts a duel with Filipo, but then the king suddenly sinks into a pit of flame. An angel appears and announces that “for his tyrannical obstinacy” the king has been consigned to the flames, and that Filipo will now reign and marry Clotilde. The play concludes with the angel’s instructions to Filipo on how to be a proper king: “Imitate the humility of Job and the government of David. Be the sun to your vassals, a clear mirror in which the poor may view themselves; this action and piety will conserve life, confer honor, and give fame to Majesty.”62 Among all of the plays in this study, Poco aprovechan avisos presents one of the most dramatic cases of a tyrant. Although all the characters accept Federico as a legitimate ruler, the plot hints that he indirectly caused his father’s death, and was directly responsible for the murder of two of his brothers. He treats his subjects unfairly, laughing at their difficulties and punishing them for their complaints. On top of all this, there is the usual transgression of having an inappropriate passion for a woman. Yet his subjects never question his rule, though they perceive his injustice. Clotilde is the only one to directly challenge the king; the others resign themselves and trust that divine intervention is the only way they 59

“El comun dize que tiene / imposiciones tan grandes, / que cessa el trato, y comercio / y passan necessidades, / piden se las alivieis,” fol. 90. 60 “Todos son / contra él que son estremos / los que tiene, tan tyranos, / quanto publica la fama; / pues siempre el cruel le llama … Quanto le agrada, por fuerça / violenta, con el poder, / que otro Atila viene a ser / con las crueldades que esfuerça … Yo espero, / que el cielo ha de dar piadoso / remedio a vuestro pesar,” fol. 88. 61 Rey: “Que fuerças ay contra un Rey?” Clotilde: “Las de Dios, que es quien me ampara,” fol. 93v. 62 “Imita en lo humilde a Job, / y en el gouierno a Dauid: / Sé de tus vassallos Sol, / claro espejo, en quien se miren / los pobres, que aquesta accion, / y el ser piadoso, conseruan / la vida, añaden honor, / dan nombre a las Magestades,” fol. 108.

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will be saved. The dominant theme throughout the play is that God will save Federico’s subjects from his tyranny: when one character complains that “He is a tyrant … he is cruel,” another replies simply that “God is just … God is merciful.”63 Fortunately for them, an angel does indeed step in to provide a resolution to the play, removing the tyrant and giving the people a just and respected king. The last lines of the play present Heaven’s view of ideal kingship, indicating that there are divine standards of decency and justice which far outweigh the secular powers and whims of a monarch. On the whole, this period is characterized by a more benign presentation of kings, though not necessarily a positive one. Plays from the earlier part of Philip’s reign featured rulers who were directly responsible for the dramatic tension of the play, and in most cases some outside action was required to correct the problem. In this set, either the kings correct themselves (often in unusual plot twists which do not logically play out the expectations created by the plot) or the other characters resolve the situation for themselves with neither help nor hindrance from the monarch. One salient characteristic is that the plays begin to have more contrived endings: when the nature of the characters and the obstacles facing them leads the reader/audience to believe that the situation can only be resolved in a certain way, some unexpected action diverts the play from reaching its logical conclusion. This kind of unexpected ending often softens the presentation of a monarch, particularly when a previously ill-behaved king suddenly experiences a change of heart and becomes a good king. One question we face here is this: why were plays during this period less openly critical of the monarchy, particularly in the years following the crisis point of 1640? Comedias with political themes were still written and performed and published, and they presented the same kinds of problems as their earlier counterparts, yet their solutions were more cautious and occasionally deflected by implausible endings. Playwrights and audiences were still concerned about the same ideas but were playing with them more carefully. An argument advanced by some scholars is that the comedia reached its apogee, in terms of both its literary quality and its role in social and political commentary, around 1635. The political crises of the following decade had a dampening influence on the comedia in that theater became a place of refuge and consolation, presenting stories that distracted and entertained audiences rather than stories that directly engaged the problems they were facing. Aubrun, for examples, argues that theater after the 1630s provided a good source of escapism for Spaniards who otherwise would have “sunk into the darkness of desperation.”64

63

Infante [Filipo]: “Es tirano.” / Teuclo: “Dios es justo.” / Infante: “Es cruel.” / Teuclo: “Dios es clemente,” fol. 89. 64 “… Se hubieran sumergido en las tinieblas de la desesperación.” Aubrun, La comedia española 1600–1680 (Madrid, 1968), p. 83.

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This was more likely to be true for plays performed in the palace theaters than plays performed in the corrales. The comedia began to develop along two different paths around mid-century; audiences in the court favored escapist themes and plays featuring increasingly elaborate visual effects, while the plays in the public theaters still featured the cape-and-sword kinds of themes that came closer to reflecting their own society. The career of Calderón is in a way symbolic of this change: in 1651, he ceased to write for the corrales and turned to writing religious plays for the court. In the years preceding this decision, even his politically-themed plays were less pointed than they had been. Compared to earlier plays such as Médico de su honra, the plays from this period—such as Amigo, amante y leal and Gustos y disgustos—seem much gentler in their portrayal of monarchs and Spanish society. This was not, however, the choice made by all playwrights. As we will see below, Diamante, Rojas Zorrilla and Matos Fragoso all continued to write and publish plays with themes relating to the monarchy, and after 1660 these plays become more concerned with limiting the powers of kings and more supportive of the role of the people in achieving this. A more plausible explanation is that playwrights temporarily softened their portrayal of kings as a result of the events around 1640. After the rebellions of Catalonia and Portugal and the military defeats of the 1640s, those who opposed the comedia on moral grounds argued that the theaters were symbolic of Spanish decadence and should be closed. They were not successful, but the Council of Castile issued a new set of theater regulations in 1641, presumably in an attempt to increase its control over the comedia.65 After the deaths in the royal family (the queen in 1644 and the young prince in 1646), the public theaters were closed for three years in mourning. The heads of the theatrical companies petitioned Philip IV to reopen the corrales in 1646,66 and this request renewed the debate about the morality of the comedia. The Council of Castile recommended that the theaters remain closed for the duration of the war with Portugal, and that when they were allowed to reappear they should do so with greater decorum, featuring only “topics which provide a good example.” It also recommended that only hagiographic dramas be permitted, eliminating those with secular plots.67 These recommendations never passed into law, but they do indicate that there was increasing pressure in the 1640s to restrict the content of the comedia. Playwrights may also have had fewer reasons to be critical of the monarchy. After the crisis of 1640, Philip IV embarked on a personal campaign of self65

“Instrvccion qve se ha de gvardar en las comedias, assi en las representaciones, como los Autores, y Representantes dellas, y las demas personas a quien tocare,” AVM 2468-6 (printed) and 2-468-3 (manuscript). 66 The text of this petition is reproduced in Hugo Albert Rennert, The Spanish Stage in the Time of Lope de Vega (New York, 1909), p. 249. 67 Casiano Pellicer, Tratado histórico sobre el origen y progresos de la comedia y del histrionismo en España, ed. J.M. Díez Borque (Barcelona, 1975), pp. 217–22.

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reformation, devoting himself to his religious duties and taking on more responsibility in his government. The fall of Olivares in 1643 meant the collapse of this minister’s efforts to centralize the military system and the administration of taxes, and this project would be effectively abandoned for the rest of the century. Consequently the hopes of those who defended these privileges against the encroachments of the centralized government were realized, and this could have defused the tensions which had encouraged the popularity of plays that also supported those privileges. Finally, while most studies of the Golden Age conclude their evaluation of public theater either with the theatrical hiatus of the 1640s or in 1651 with Calderón’s shift to writing for the court, this is to neglect the decades of vibrant publishing and performance that followed. None of the great Golden Age masterpieces was written for the public theaters in the second half of the seventeenth century, but we should not therefore dismiss the comedia under the reign of Charles II. Plays continued to be the most popular forms of entertainment, and while their portrayal of kings may have been less provocative in the 1650s, bad rulers returned to the stage with a vengeance during the reign of Charles II. The other three playwrights under close examination in this study did not follow in the footsteps of Calderón in his choice of ceasing to write for the public theaters. Plays in the court may well have nourished the Council of Castile’s hopes of providing innocent entertainment to distract people from the woes of the world, but if there were ever plays suited to the suspicions of those who opposed theater, these could be found in print and on the public stages during the reign of Charles II. Matos Fragoso and Diamante were the authors of the most popular political plays during this period, and their plays continued to present stories in which the king is the principal source of dramatic conflict. In fact, rulers are at their worst in this set: two die as a result of their ambition and greed, and only one is (not very convincingly) moved to change his ways and thus present the possibility of improvement. The first misbehaving king in the group I have studied from Charles’s reign comes from Diamante’s play La judía de Toledo (The Jewess of Toledo, 1667).68 The setting of this play is Castile under Alfonso VIII (1158–1214), shortly after he has exiled the Jews from Toledo. Not everyone is fully supportive of this decision; a visiting nobleman comments to the king that the common folk have been hurt by its effects, though they accept it as the king’s will.69 The Jews themselves decide to take action: since the king is known to be a young and passionate man, they choose the most beautiful young woman among them to plead their case to the

68

Juan Bautista Diamante, first published in Parte veinte y siete de comedias varias nunca impressas, compuestas por los meiores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1667). 69 “Inquieto el vulgo parece / que está contra tus deseos / de desterrar los Hebreos / y aunque atento te obedece / siente su falta,” fol. 417.

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king, hoping that her beauty will persuade Alfonso to change his mind.70 Raquel is the woman chosen for the task, and she begs the king for piety and justice, arguing that her people are loyal and obedient subjects and should not be treated unjustly. Her beauty has the desired effect on the king, and he allows the Jews back into the city. Act Two finds the king increasingly caught up in his love for Raquel. She is attracted to him as well, though she also realizes the power she can wield over him: “if I rule over his will, who could doubt that I also usurp command over his empire?”71 Nevertheless, she refuses to yield entirely to him unless he marries her (a difficult request, given that the king is already married). The nobles grow increasingly uncomfortable with her role in the kingdom, but when they hint to the king that he should develop more reason and self-control, Alfonso berates them for their criticism. He cannot make Raquel his queen, but he can give her his government—promising to make the very sun and moon obey her—and insists that as the king he has the right to do this if he pleases. In the third act, the king virtually abdicates all power to Raquel, leaving for a hunting trip and instructing that all petitions be presented to her instead. Raquel decides that since he has taken the first step, there is no reason she should not take advantage of it: “He who acts against reason, gives credit to injustice. Death to good works! let there be no obstacle to malice, and let tyranny spread through vice and frivolity.”72 This for the nobility is the last straw, and they begin planning how to undo the damage. Two of them blame the king for sacrificing justice to his personal passions, but a third argues that such complaints are treasonous. They decide instead to remove Raquel, who is unprotected by the sanctity of royalty. Luring the king far away on another hunting trip, they surround her house and murder her, despite her protests that the king was at fault more than she. Alfonso returns to find her dead, and the play ends in a dark soliloquy in which he bemoans the injustice of her death and swears to offer human sacrifices to the pyre of love. In this situation, it is difficult to determine precisely who is the cause of the conflict: those who see the king’s weakness and choose to exploit it, or the king himself whose weakness is there to be exploited. In the beginning Raquel makes it clear that she is an unwilling participant in the plan to seduce the king; she agrees to it only because it is the only chance to save her people. As the king gives her more and more power, she willingly takes it, but at every step it is his choice to give it to her. This is underlined by the two nobles who blame the king for his 70

“Que como el Rey es tan moço, / en quien el ardor pueril / aun esta espirando humos, / del fuego inquieto aprendiz,” fol. 412. 71 “Si yo mando en su alvedrio, / quien duda que de su Imperio / el mando tambien le usurpe?” fol. 426. 72 “Quien contra la razon obra, / la sinrazon acredita. / Muera el bien obrar, no quede / embarazo a la malicia, / y del vizio, y livianidad, / se ensanche la tirania,” fol. 438, misnumbered in this edition as 426.

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surrender of power, asking “How can you allow Alfonso to twist justice for a vain and blind whim, staining his royal dignity?” 73 Nevertheless, they realize that the king’s person is inviolable, and the only possible target for their ire is Raquel. The conclusion of the play is singularly unsatisfactory in terms of poetic justice or resolving the dramatic conflict. Raquel has been removed from the picture, but the king’s reaction indicates that he is far from willing to pull himself together and return to the business of ruling. On the contrary, he blames the passion of love for having misguided him, and threatens further injustice to avenge his injury. While a comedia normally ends with order restored (at least superficially) and marriages uniting the principal characters, the king’s soliloquy ending this play is a lone voice steeped “in rage, in fire, in disaster, in ruin, in punishment, in vengeance.”74 The king’s weakness is the ultimate source of this tragedy, and the ending makes it clear that the solution of killing Raquel has only aggravated the original problem. At the same time, it is difficult to see how another solution could have been achieved. The action taken by the nobles provokes the king to fury and revenge, but had they not acted, his abdication of power would have thrown the kingdom into chaos. More than anything else, this play highlights the hopelessness of a situation in which a king abuses justice and abandons good government in favor of his passions. A king driven by both passion and ambition is the center of Matos Fragoso’s No está en matar el vencer (You Can’t Win by Killing, 1668).75 This play is another adaptation of the story of the Cid (see Diamante’s El cerco de Zamora, Chapter 3), set in and around the medieval city of Zamora. As in Diamante’s version, King Sancho in this play is not satisfied with his share of the territorial pie bequeathed to him by his father and is portrayed as a greedy, ambitious ruler who focuses on conquering more Christian lands for himself rather than fighting the Moors. The play opens as Sancho prepares to lay siege to the city held by his sister Urraca. Matos Fragoso adds a romantic twist that was not present in Diamante’s version, as Sancho’s minister, Don Diego, is in love with Beatriz, who happens to be the daughter of Urraca’s minister—and thus Diego’s enemy. When the two sneak out together to discuss their situation, King Sancho sees them and falls in love with Beatriz. The Cid finds them together as well, and asks Diego to marry Beatriz to protect her honor. The king whispers to her that he will kill Diego if she says yes, and he offers to take her under his protection instead. Twice, however, he attempts to violate her honor, but is prevented by the vigilance of Diego and the Cid. 73 “Como consentis que Alfonso / por un vano, por un ciego / gusto la justicia tuerza, / manchando el decoro regio?” fol. 443, misnumbered as 431. 74 “En coleras, en incendios, / en destrozo, en ruinas, / en castigos, en venganzas …” fol. 448, misnumbered as 436. 75 Juan de Matos Fragoso, first published in Parte treinta, comedias nuevas y escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1668).

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The Cid opposes the king’s political tactics as well, chastising him for the attempted invasion. Sancho persists, and while the siege does not go well, the minister from Urraca’s court (here named Bellico rather than Bellido) appears with the offer to betray his ruler and help Sancho take the city. The betrayal goes in the other direction, however; Bellico’s ploy was actually to gain the king’s confidence and be able to kill him, saving Urraca and the city of Zamora. While Diamante’s version polished off King Sancho relatively early, allowing the remainder of the play to deal with the thorny question of who was best suited to rule after Sancho’s death, here Matos Fragoso’s intent is to use the assassination of the king to resolve the conflicts of the play. Although Bellico used subterfuge and deceit to accomplish his goals, rather than the more honorable confrontations of battle, Sancho interprets his actions as a form of divine punishment rather than human treachery. His minister Diego confirms this view: “What I understand from this unexpected event is that although heaven is benign, often it is angered, and permits the existence of traitors to punish offenses.”76 The last loose ends are tied up with representatives of the two armies dueling to avenge on one side the death of the king and on the other the honor of the town (tainted by the accusations against Bellido). The title of the play refers to this last scene, where Diego retracts the accusation of treason against the Zamorans and thus can refrain from having to kill Beatriz’s father; giving up his own vengeance redeems him and allows him to marry Beatriz. All is happily resolved, and the play concludes with the marriage of Diego and Beatriz. The king in this play is a particularly rich example of a tyrant, tainted both by his ambition (taking over kingdoms that are not rightfully his, and thereby violating the rights of his sister and the wishes of his father) and by his passion for Beatriz, who is promised to another man. To make matters worse, Sancho ignores the wise advice given to him by members of the court, and threatens the Cid with exile if he continues to criticize his plans. (There is one ambiguous factor here, which is that Sancho is still the legitimate king of Castile. Although he has taken over the crowns of León and Galicia, the principal characters are his Castilian subjects, and therefore for them he would not be a usurper.) Another possible recourse would be simply to tolerate the situation and trust to God to remedy the matter, since the king is technically God’s representative on earth. This play in a sense combines the two options: the king is slain, but the murderer acts alone rather than being a representative of either Zamora or the king’s own court. Therefore the other characters (and the king himself!) are able to consider him a messenger of divine vengeance, come to punish the offender and restore order. The next play in this category tells the story of a king whose offenses are not nearly so grave, but who insists on imposing his will on even the most reluctant subject. One of Matos Fragoso’s best-known plays, El sabio en su retiro (The wise 76 “Pero lo que penetro / deste sucesso impensado / es, que aunque benigno el Cielo / muchas veces enojado, / permite que aya traidores / para castigar agravios,” fol. 421.

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man in his retreat, 1670)77 is the story of Juan Labrador, a rich peasant who lives a happy and honorable life in the countryside, but who refuses to visit the court and hopes to finish out his years without ever catching a glimpse of the king: “Here among my equals I live, respected and without envy of vain honors.”78 The king, Alfonso X of Castile, hears of this man and is intrigued by Juan’s absolute rejection of all things related to the court. Alfonso goes to Juan’s village and asks about him; everyone reports that Juan is wealthy, wise, humble, generous with the poor, a good father and neighbor. During his investigations the king falls in love with a peasant girl, who of course turns out to be Juan Labrador’s daughter Beatriz. The king’s minister, Gutierre, is also in love with the girl, but she has resisted his advances, protesting their social inequality. The king tries to resist his own urges, knowing that “silence is better, when he who is a deity on earth, enjoying the privileges of a sovereign monarch, has to let it be known that he is free of passions. It is never good for defects to be observed in the very person who is responsible for punishing them.”79 Although he represses his passion for Beatriz, the king cannot restrain his curiosity about Juan Labrador, so he disguises himself to go visit this man who is famous for not wanting to meet the king. They have a pleasant dinner together, though the king is a bit ill at ease pretending to be an ordinary person. On the occasions when he errs by expecting too much deference, Juan gently corrects him, making it clear that “I alone am ruler in my own house.”80 Later Alfonso hints to Beatriz that the king is interested in her. She does not believe him, replying that the king would never approach her in such a way: “Notices from kings should not come like attacks; he who was born to protect should not give affront.”81 Alfonso and Gutierre then discover that they are in love with the same girl, and Gutierre promptly backs off, saying that loyalty to his king and self-control are more important than his love. The king is impressed by his minister’s good example and again decides to give up his passion: he tells Gutierre that he is free to pursue Beatriz, but that the king himself will be watching over her honor. In the third act, the king’s attention turns back to Juan Labrador. As the disguised guest, Alfonso had repeatedly questioned Juan about his unwillingness to meet the king. Juan insisted that as a loyal subject he was willing to sacrifice his 77

Juan de Matos Fragoso, first published in Parte treinta y tres de comedias nuevas, nunca impressas, escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1670). Again, this play is a revision of an earlier work by Lope. 78 “Con mis iguales aquí / vivo honrado, y sin codicia / de honores vanos,” fol. 8. 79 “Y assi es mejor el silencio, / que el que es deydad en la tierra, / y goza los privilegios / de soberano Monarca, / ha de dar a entender cuerdo, / que esta libre de passiones, / que no es bien que en ningún tiempo / sea vea defecto en quen / ha de castigar defectos,” fol. 4. 80 “Que yo solo puedo mandar en mi casa,” fol. 22. 81 “Los avisos de los Reyes / no se han de dar como acosos / que no ha de servir de injuria / el que nacio para amparo,” fol. 16.

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wealth and even his family for the king, but that he himself did not wish to be tainted by the vices of the court. Now, as Alfonso returns to his court, he begins to test these promises. He first sends a note to Juan requesting a huge loan, and then sends for him again requesting that he send his children to the court. The peasant readily complies with both these requests, but then Alfonso sends for Juan himself, forcing him to come to court and see the king. He then lectures Juan that there is no escape from the power of the king: “there is no corner so small that the sun cannot reach it, and the King is the sun.”82 Alfonso has also discovered that Gutierre has seduced Beatriz and abandoned her, so he saves her honor by forcing Gutierre to return and marry her. In the end, the king repays the loans he has taken from Juan but punishes his (perceived) lack of respect by making him spend the rest of his life in the palace. The interpretation of this play is difficult: the plot clearly deals with the tensions inherent in the relationship between king and subject, but it is difficult to say which of the two is at fault for the conflict of the play. Most scholars see Sabio as an unequivocal support of the absolutist monarchy, a lesson that the king’s power extends to the farthest reaches of the kingdom. This is certainly the message of the play, but it is less clear whether or not the play supports this as a positive outcome. The plot emphasizes the power of the king, but Alfonso’s insistence on bringing Juan to see him, combined with the sharp contrast painted between the ideal life of the country and the corrupt life of the court, seems less like wisdom than childish arrogance. At no point is Juan anything less than an ideal servant of the king; his only fault is wishing to remain at a respectful distance, and so his only offense is to the king’s pride. Alfonso interprets this as a lack of appreciation for his royal power, and insists on demonstrating this power by forcing Juan to leave his peaceful country existence. As with many of the plays in this study, the actual outcome of the play is not necessarily the ideal solution. Although Alfonso learns self-control over his passions, he does not apply the same rigor to his pride, and so punishes the man who is probably his most loyal subject. A perfect example of a king suffering the direct consequences of his own evil plot is Diamante’s El veneno para sí (His Own Poison, 1673).83 Diamante takes us back in time to Constantinople under the emperor Icacio, who is ruling in the place of his brother Alegio, taken captive by the Turks during battle.84 The play begins with the return of Alegio, to whom Icacio returns the reins of government with some basic advice on kingship: “Be affable to the poor, severe with the arrogant,

82

“No ay rincon tan pequeño / adonde no alcance el Sol: / Rey es el Sol,” fol. 42. First published in Parte treinta y nueve de comedias nuevas de los mejores ingenios de España (Madrid, 1673). An autograph manuscript from 1653 exists in the Biblioteca Nacional, MS 18.316. 84 There were three Byzantine emperors named Alexius in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, but this story does not appear to have any strict historical correspondence. 83

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compassionate to your vassals, and serious with your enemies.”85 Alegio immediately runs into a snag, however, when he discovers that both he and Icacio’s son Alexandro are in love with the same woman, Arminda. When a letter from Icacio’s cousin arrives warning Icacio about astrological omens that Alegio might not be a good ruler, Alegio intercepts the note and begins to wonder about Icacio’s intentions. Another noble in the court, Narcés, holds a grudge against Alexandro and sees this as the perfect opportunity for his revenge and ambition. Narcés suggests (untruthfully) to Alegio that Icacio is planning to kill him. After a moment of disbelief, Alegio decides that he must strike first: “if I listen to reason, expanded by my rage, then let my brother die, and spill his insolent, thankless blood, which intended to prove itself tyrannical with this offense.”86 Alegio is further incited to violence by the realization that by killing Icacio and Alexandro, he would secure not only the crown but Arminda as well. He initiates a series of attempts to poison Icacio, all of which fail. His plans begin to fall apart when Narcés repents and confesses the plan to Icacio; when Arminda hears of it she also tries to dissuade Alegio, swearing that she has no love for him. Even Narcés, who was killed after he revealed Alegio’s plan to Icacio, appears as a ghost to warn Alegio of God’s vengeance against tyrants. Alegio does not repent, but in the end he accidentally kills himself with the poison meant for his victims. Veneno para sí is a particularly interesting play in that it is one of the few that allows us to trace its evolution through two different versions. The original manuscript version is dated 1653, but this was never published; Diamante did publish a slightly different version of the play twenty years later. The essence of the story is the same, but there are some minor adaptations that are significant in light of the political themes I am examining. The key difference is that Alegio is presented much more strongly as a tyrant in the later, published version. The manuscript version relies more heavily on the astrological predictions to guide the procession of events, and even Alegio seems to surrender to the inevitable: “I resolve to die killing, so that heaven’s omen may be fulfilled.”87 The motive of stealing Arminta away from Alexandro is also absent from the earlier version. In the later play, Diamante rewrote the story to emphasize Alegio’s tyranny, presenting his behavior rather than the predictions of the stars as the key reason for his downfall. This story, like No está en matar el vencer, is another good example of an unredeemed tyrant. Alegio is not a usurper, but he becomes tyrannical through his own faults of character. Unlike many plays that present tyrants, at no 85

“Seais con pobres afable, / severo con los altivos, / piadoso con los vassallos, / serio con los enemigos,” fol. 157. 86 “Pues si atiendo a la razon / que mis furores dilata, / muera mi hermano, y derrame / la atrevida sangre ingrata, / que pretende con mi ofensa / acreditarse tirana,” fol. 162. 87 “Morir matando resuelvo / porque de una vez se cumpla / en mi el presajio del cielo.”

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point in this play do the characters suggest obeying the king regardless of his behavior, because of his imperial authority. In this case the tyrant is removed by his own hand—fortuitous coincidence, or the intervention of heaven, depending on one’s interpretation. The final play in this category, Diamante’s Ir por el riesgo a la dicha (Through Risk to Happiness, 1674),88 features a similarly tyrannical ruler but a more fortunate ending. The play is set in Italy, specifically Milan under the rule of Federico Sforza. Although Duke Federico is married, he has fallen in love with a young woman named Porcia, who is involved with Carlos Ursino. Carlos has just victoriously led Federico’s armies against Ferrara, and when the duke tells the duchess to reward him, she grants him Porcia’s hand in marriage. The duke is furious at this, and decides that somehow Carlos must die. The duke is unambiguously painted as a villain from the very beginning of the play, and even popular opinion is against him: “his sentiments … have all Milan dissatisfied; Carlos is so beloved that everyone faults the Duke for his passion, and with good reason.”89 The duchess suspects the duke’s plans, and she warns him not to create further problems: the marriage protected Porcia, rewarded Carlos, and covered up for the duke’s inappropriate passion, but he needs to restrain himself to protect this balance. The duke agrees with her logic, but says that love has converted reason to tyranny, and he cannot help himself: “I am a brute, nothing can get in my way.”90 Otavio, the duke’s minister, is obliged to assist him in his pursuit of Porcia: “The commands of a superior must be obeyed, whether they are just or unjust … Let Carlos perish, and his fame with him, because your pleasure comes first.”91 Carlos’s friend Enrique warns him of the plot against his life, and Carlos and Porcia plan to flee to Parma. The duke captures her first, and locks her up in his palace. Porcia’s father complains to the duke of this injustice, and the duchess is pleased to see others protesting his actions: “Remind him of his unreasonableness: for the offender to fall into the trap of his own errors, it is good for him to come up against those whom he has offended.”92 The duke persists in his attempts to remove Carlos, even hiring bandits to hunt him down and kill him, but to no avail. Carlos, during his efforts to escape the duke’s wrath, ponders the nature of kingship: “To rule is to have vassals, because the crown rests on loyalty much more than it does on the royal forehead. What a sad empire it is where merit is not

88

First published in Comedias de Fr. Don Juan Bautista Diamante, del abito de San Juan, Prior, y comendador de Moron. Segunda parte (Madrid, 1674). 89 “Su sentimiento / tiene a Milan descontento, … es Carlos tan bien quisto / que del Duque la passion / culpan todos … Y es razon,” fol. 44. 90 “Bruto soy, nada me impide,” fol. 47. 91 “Del superior / se ha de observar el precepto / justo, o injusto …” fol. 47; “Y mueran / Carlos, señor, y su fama / porque tu gusto es primero,” fol. 52. 92 “Que su sinrazon le acuerden: / pues porque en sus yerros caiga, / es bueno que quien ofende / tropiece con los que agravia,” fol. 60.

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valued, and a vassal’s loyalty, which shines even in brutes, is denounced as if it were a crime.”93 A further series of episodes ensues in which the duke continues his attempts to break into Porcia’s rooms, Carlos tries to save her, and Porcia’s father continues to protest the duke’s injustice. Finally Carlos and Porcia present themselves publicly to the duke: Carlos challenges the duke to kill him if he has been disloyal in any way, and Porcia challenges him to kill her if she has in any way been the cause of his passion. The duke is moved by their bravery and honor, and decides to follow their good example and become a better ruler. This play is one of the most striking examples of an ending which is entirely at odds with the rest of the play. Everything we know about the duke demonstrates that he has the character of a tyrant; even when he perceives the error of his actions, he is unable to control himself. The other characters protest his injustice, to no avail. Yet suddenly, in the final scene, he is transformed into a good ruler. If this were at all plausible, it would be an ideal ending, because it restores justice without requiring drastic action on the part of the other characters. Yet it does not seem remotely likely, and it must have left audiences wondering how genuine the duke’s conversion really was. Taken as a whole, the plays from the period 1665–1680 featuring the tensions between the position and the person of the king provide some of the most startling examples of bad rulers and the consequences of their actions. Kings in these plays seem to be far more of a menace to their subjects than a source of justice and guidance. While the characters in the “choice of kings” plays had the option of considering rebellion, since they had another plausibly legitimate choice of ruler, these characters have little recourse to assistance. They may trust to fate or divine providence, as in No está en matar el vencer and Veneno para sí; they may trust the ability of the king himself to overcome his darker impulses, as in Ir por el riesgo a la dicha, or they may simply have no solution, and things will continue as they are, as is suggested in La judía de Toledo and El sabio en su retiro. These plays, as well as those in Chapter 3 that discussed ideals of kingship by presenting more than one possible candidate, bear close parallels to debates in contemporary political theory in the kinds of solutions they pursue. For many theorists, no active opposition was possible, even for subjects who suffered an abusive and tyrannical king. Government, even bad government, was better than its absence, and subjects needed to remember that tyranny was at least preferable to anarchy. If Christian virtue was the measure by which kings were judged, then it would be the Christian God who was responsible for judging them. In these plays, many characters defend this idea in their discussions of their dilemma, and the resolution to the dramatic conflict supports their position. Pedro in Saber del mal y 93

“Reynar es tener vassallos, / porque la corona siempre / en la lealtad se sustenta, / mucho mas que no en la frente. / O infeliz imperio aquel / donde merito no tiene / el rendimiento, y es culpa / como si delito fuesse / la fineza avassallada, / que aun en brutos resplandece,” fol. 68.

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del bien, even though he is the victim of the king’s whims, insists that “no one is to judge kings but God.” His patience is proven wise, as the king himself realizes the error of his ways and makes amends to the affronted characters. Félix, the young man who is torn between three loyalties in Amigo, amante y leal, immediately chooses to sacrifice his love interest when he realizes that it comes into conflict with his loyalty to his prince. The prince, moved by his good example, also chooses to reform himself and curb his desires. In Poco aprovechan avisos, the king’s adviser argues that one must obey a king even when he behaves unjustly (although his reasoning is based more on his fear of retribution from a powerful ruler than on abstract principles of authority). Again, his choice is proven correct, because this play provides a case of divine intervention, where the resolution and its accompanying lesson in rulership are provided by the angel who appears to punish the tyrannical king. This confirmation that the problem of bad kings should be suffered in silence because it would be remedied by divine providence may have been of consolation to many. It reaffirmed that a person’s first duty was unquestioning loyalty to his ruler, and that while kings may suffer moments of bad judgment or unjust behavior, ultimately these would be resolved with no effort or risk on the part of the subject. Others, however, may have found these guidelines less than reassuring; could one really trust the guarantee of a ruler’s ultimate change of heart, or the appearance of corrective angels? The same hesitation appeared in the writing of many political theorists. Of the early modern European scholars who wrote about the authority of kings, Spanish writers such as Ribadeneyra, Saavedra Fajardo, and Mariana were frequently the most reluctant to conclude that there was no human solution to tyranny. Each of these tried cautiously to identify circumstances in which legitimate opposition to a king would be possible, the kinds of action that could be taken, and by whom.94 The position of these writers revealed their emphasis on the importance of constitutional monarchy, in which principles of justice and law outweighed the desires of individual rulers, and which relied on a longstanding tradition of valuing the advice and contribution of subjects to the crown. Many of the plays in this study suggest that action on the part of the other characters may be part of a constructive solution. Presented with the problem of a king who is unjust, many characters directly chastise the offending ruler and remind him of his obligations. Fabio in El desdén vengado does so to good effect, as his advice is heeded by the king and leads to a happy ending. Fernando does likewise in Delincuente sin culpa y bastardo de Aragón, and when the misunderstandings behind the dramatic conflict are resolved, the king not only reforms himself but makes amends to the characters he has wronged. Ir por el riesgo a la dicha features an ongoing debate between characters who argue that the duke must be obeyed no matter how unjust his behavior, and characters who argue 94

Bireley, The Counter-Reformation Prince, p. 223.

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that he must be held to certain standards of justice. Those who argue for limits on a ruler’s authority ultimately challenge the king, and are successful; he accepts their criticisms and reforms. Even when characters who criticize a ruler are not heeded, the resolution of some plays underscores the importance of their attempt. In Progne y Filomena, the offended sisters, their father, the king’s brother, and the king’s minister all attempt to correct his behavior. Failing this, their only option to defend their honor and preserve the peace is regicide, which in this play is offered as a legitimate and just solution. Similarly, in Cerco de Zamora, the noble and heroic character of the Cid repeatedly seeks to correct the excessive ambition of his king, but to no avail. The only solution for the besieged Zamorans is treachery and the assassination of King Sancho, although this is softened by the clarification at the end that Bellico acted alone and thus was not part of a plot by the Zamorans. Even so, his action is criticized only for its dishonorable means, not its regicidal goal; the king’s death is understood by all as a form of divine punishment. El veneno para sí also warns of the consequences of not heeding the advice of one’s subjects: while all of the major characters warn the king of the possible consequences of his behavior, he rejects their guidance, and ultimately kills himself by the very means he has tried to use to remove those who oppose his tyranny. The value of corrective action is emphasized indirectly in plays such as Casarse por vengarse, in which the wronged subject is able to do nothing to correct the king, and the dramatic conflict is never fully resolved; the outcome foreshadows future problems. Another possible resolution to the problem of kings behaving badly is to hope that they will become aware of their flaws and exercise sufficient discipline and selflessness to overcome them. From the vantage of political theorists (and ordinary people as well), this would be the ideal solution. It would reflect God’s guidance of kings and not call into question the origin of royal sovereignty by involving the judgment of their subjects, yet the rights of subjects would still be preserved. Yet as a dramatic solution (and perhaps as a real one) it is not as plausible. Most of the kings who experience these personal transformations on stage do so unexpectedly and with little believable motivation. Calderón’s King Alfonso in Saber del mal y del bien suddenly gives up his pursuit of Hipólita and rectifies his other abuses; Rojas Zorrilla’s King Sigismundo in Peligrar en los remedios gives up his equally obsessive love to marry for the appropriate political ends. Diamante’s Duke Federico in Ir por el riesgo a la dicha, despite being portrayed as a villain with a long history of misbehavior, is moved by the good example of his subjects and decides to change his ways. Even though these transformations resolve the dramatic conflicts of their respective plots, they may have left the audience wondering how genuine the change was and how long it would last. Audiences frequently saw their stage-kings caught up in momentary enthusiasms, whether inspired by virtue or vice, and were well aware that good behavior could be as momentary a whim as bad.

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These occasional gaps between the trajectory of a plot and its conclusion may have served to highlight the challenges inherent in experiencing and discussing the power of kings. Much of the scholarship presenting Golden Age drama as unquestioningly supportive of the monarchy does so because of its positive portrayals of kings: either kings such as the ones I have discussed here who experience some sort of personal transformation, others who serve as exemplary rulers throughout a play (of which there are surprisingly few), or others who appear in the final scenes of plays to resolve or affirm the conclusion and restore order. Melveena McKendrick has argued that in the case of the playwright Lope de Vega, these positive portrayals are meant to reveal an ironic distance between the good king on stage and the real king, who may suffer in comparison. Presenting even ideal kings could be seen as a kind of lesson, using the contrast to highlight flaws in the nonfictional monarchy, as Lope used a “protective double-speak which counterbalances criticism with ritual flattery” and in fact reserved the greatest praise for his worst royal characters.95 My examination of seventeenth-century plays suggests that Lope’s strategy was not unique. Playwrights throughout the seventeenth century struggled with the challenges of presenting kings on stage; plots with kings provided rich possibilities for dramatic conflict, yet these conflicts were difficult to resolve. The problem was always the same: a king who was torn between his obligations as a ruler and his desires as a person, and chose to use his power to pursue his unkingly passions. The solution, however, was not so clear. One could rely on divine guidance to correct him, and be willing to continue to suffer in the event that such guidance did not appear. One could turn to the resourcefulness of his subjects, but that bordered on rebellion. The people could hope for the best solution, for the king to experience a change of heart and mend his ways, but the way this solution was presented on stage only emphasized its unlikeliness. Such transformations could generate a momentary catharsis to make the play satisfying, but they were likely to leave the viewer with a lingering sense of unease in the long run, one that echoed the frustration of subjects who felt a similar lack of recourse to correct a king who did not act in their best interests.

95

McKendrick, Playing the King, pp. 109, 112.

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Chapter 5

Conclusion: The Curtain Falls I hope through this study to have captured a sense of the political sensitivities of the most popular plays written, performed, and published in seventeenth-century Madrid. Historians have become increasingly attentive to the ideas and contributions of ordinary people, those who resided outside the circles of wealth and power but who constituted the vast majority of the societies of the past. In general, dramatic literature provides a useful tool for historians in that it can serve as a medium for dialogue and provide a means for the members of a community to examine and criticize their shared social and cultural principles. This approach is particularly fruitful in the case of early modern Spain, a society that was enormously enthusiastic about stage entertainment as well as accustomed to dealing in theatrical metaphors. Golden Age theater reveals Spanish assumptions and concerns about a wide variety of topics from the proper role of peasants to the expectations connected to marriage. My survey of seventeenth-century plays indicates that political themes were prevalent in the comedia as well. Earlier scholarship on Spanish culture and society held that Golden Age drama was closely interwoven with absolutist politics as a form of state propaganda. The strongest refutation of this argument has come from scholars such as Melveena McKendrick, whose analysis of the portrayal of monarchy in the plays of Lope de Vega suggests that the playwright was consistently critical of kings who abused or misused their authority. While McKendrick’s study focuses on the life and work of Lope and thus ends in 1635, the preceding chapters here have presented similar political attitudes drawn from a wider survey of plays by four playwrights throughout most of the seventeenth century, demonstrating that these critiques of kingship formed a substantial and ongoing conversation in Spanish society. What all of these plays suggest, those that present ideals of kingship as well as those that present the follies of kings, is that seventeenth-century playwrights and audiences were very willing to experiment with kingship on stage and to analyze it in the context of the theatrum mundi metaphor. Placing kings on stage emphasized that they were playing a role, and that the audience could judge how well it was played. Real kings were aware of their “costume” of royalty and of the court as a stage. Even political theorists saw the value of political theory as a way to train

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kings to better play their roles. Saavedra Fajardo described the duties of kings as a kind of performance, and argued that the particular whims and conceits of the individual had to be subordinated to the demands of the role of royalty.1 The success of this royal performance became a key component of the monarchy’s reputation. Plays about kings, in turn, engaged the audience to judge royal behavior and characteristics and thereby to identify what they considered to be the requirements of the role. What, then, was a successful king by the measurements of the comedia? Clearly the principal concern was that royal power could be subverted to serve the human desires of the individual rather than the needs of the community. According to the principles of absolutism, a ruler should be able to enforce his will and govern without the consent of his subjects; their loyalty was not predicated on their agreement with his decisions or his priorities. Most of the plays that included kings as major characters seemed wary of the dangers of this power; they saw the potential for its abuse, but at the same time they had few avenues to correct it. Many of them emphasized the importance of the advice and counsel of subjects, who were often able to correct or amend the damage done by an unjust king. Rulers in the comedia who ignore the guidance of their subjects are presented in a particularly unfavorable light; these plays are full of speeches about the reciprocal loyalties and obligations between king and subject. In practice, absolutism in seventeenth-century Spain was closely connected to attempts at administrative centralization of the various kingdoms under the central authority of the court. While the plots of the comedia dealt with kingdoms long ago and far away rather than making specific reference to the programs of Olivares or the constitutional traditions of the Spanish realms, they did present the potential conflict of interest between king and subject in very personal and immediate terms. Many of the political debates of the seventeenth century, whether they were about absolutism, Machiavellianism, or constitutionalism, centered on the tension between Christian morality and practical expediency. In spite of Spain’s historical reputation as a hallmark of absolutism, most Spanish theorists favored the constitutional tradition, believing that the king was ultimately subject to the principles of law, justice, and virtue. Lacking the actual coercive power to hold a ruler to these principles, they favored education and example as the means to guide a prince. The stories of the comedia may be seen in the same way: they explore the tensions between ruler and subject, between reason of state and the rights of the individual, through stories that portrayed these in terms of actual human experience, revealing the possible consequences of absolutism gone awry.

1

Jeremy Robbins, The Challenges of Uncertainty: An Introduction to SeventeenthCentury Spanish Literature (London, 1998), pp. 133–43; the importance of the proper performance of the role of king is emphasized in Saavedra Fajardo’s Empresas políticas (Barcelona, 1988), particularly pp. 7–37.

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As I noted in Chapter 1, the volume of Golden Age plays is so great that it is possible to make almost any argument by focusing on a handful of quotes or individual plays. I have chosen to focus on the material which was most in demand by the Spanish playgoing public, rather than relying on the Golden Age canon, which was largely shaped by nineteenth-century German scholars and probably includes a number of plays which would have been entirely unfamiliar to seventeenth-century Madrid audiences. Therefore this project began with an examination of the total body of dramatic work of four of the most productive and most consistently popular playwrights of the post-Lope seventeenth century, measured in terms of their success with their contemporary public. I then selected from this body of work the plays that involved kings as principal characters, and have presented here those that fall into two thematic categories: plays that feature a conflict between rival candidates for the throne and a consequent discussion of which is better suited to rule, and those that involve a single ruler whose misbehavior initiates the dramatic conflict of the play. Rather than a consistent and unified whole, as it was described by Aubrun, the comedia proves to be a locus for experimentation and varied perspective. Ordering these plays by author, chronology, and theme reveals that plots featuring monarchs were not limited to a single playwright or dominated by a single event. The work of the playwrights I have chosen covers 50 years, 1630–80, and their politically-themed plays are distributed relatively evenly over this time period. Of the 26 plays analyzed in this study, seven are by Calderón, five by Rojas Zorrilla, eight by Matos Fragoso, and six by Diamante. Nor did any one playwright have a monopoly on a particular theme or perspective of kingship; all four experimented with a variety of arguments and solutions for the conflicts presented by their fictional kings. Kings who are killed as a consequence of their actions, kings who reform themselves, kings who are guided by the advice of their subjects, and kings who insist on ruling on their own terms without any intervention are all fairly evenly distributed among the four writers. This should call our attention to the importance of representations of kingship in the larger context of the comedia. While less canonical Golden Age playwrights such as Guillén de Castro, Juan Ruiz de Alarcón and Antonio Enríquez Gómez were known to be occasionally critical of poor kingship, these playwrights were thought to be exceptions that proved the rule of the comedia’s ideological support of absolutism. This study suggests that they are the norm rather than the exception. The relative importance of political themes in the work of Calderón, Rojas Zorrilla, Matos Fragoso and Diamante indicates that these themes were not at all marginal or unusual. Most importantly, this means that they were favored also by publishers and the directors of acting companies who invested in them, knowing that these themes would appeal to the large audiences of the public theaters. Dramatic production in Madrid shows us the ways in which thousands of Spanish playgoers participated in fictional experiments with kingship, pondered the consequences of good and bad governance, and expressed their concerns about

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contemporary political developments. These plays highlight the differences between the image of kingship cultivated by the monarchy and that presented on Spanish stages: the comedia reveals a concern about potential abuses of royal authority and the possible (if limited) solutions available to subjects whose rights and liberties were threatened by the increasing power of the monarchy. Kings on stage are exposed as human and fallible, individuals who may be distracted by their personal interests and desires. Yet if they use their unlimited authority to pursue these passions, the consequences may be disastrous for their subjects. In many cases, subjects in the plays attempt to provide correction and guidance for a ruler, and serve as moral examples. In extreme cases, kings may be killed by their subjects or by agents of divine power. All of these possibilities assume the presence of a value system to which kings are expected to adhere. The most tyrannical rulers argue that their pleasure is superior to any law, divine or secular (aided by the convenient rhyme in Spanish of gusto and justo, setting up the contrast between what is pleasing and what is just). Yet this argument is nearly always defeated, either by the actions of the other characters or by the unfortunate demise of the ruler himself. The pattern established by these plays suggests that seventeenth-century Spaniards expected their kings to be powerful, but within carefully prescribed limits of behavior corresponding to Christian virtue and a healthy respect for the rights and interests of their subjects. They indicate that playwrights and audiences found the power of the state acceptable, but that what they hoped to curtail was the power of the monarch as an individual: plays were not against reason-of-state as much as they were against reason-of-king. It is important to emphasize that none of these plays advocates outright rebellion or revolution. In the rare cases where stage-kings are overthrown, this is done according to the guidelines set out by contemporary political theorists: the challenge comes from a character with an equal claim to legitimacy, and only after the king’s subjects have made every effort to correct his behavior. Real political uprisings of the early modern period often focused on injustices at the local or regional levels, and looked to the king for support, under the cry of “Long live the king, and death to bad government!” When the encroachments of royal authority were the problem, though, they did not have this recourse. The solution of the comedia is to underline the argument that kings have authority only because it is given to them by their subjects. In extreme circumstances, this authority may be revoked, but always within the existing system. The institution of the monarchy is never questioned; the criticisms in the plays only aim to hold it to certain standards of law and justice. The comedia reminds the public (and the monarchy) that loyalty runs both ways: if the subjects live up to their side of the bargain, the king has certain obligations and responsibilities as well. The general pattern of the comedia is that dramatic conflict is created when the social order was threatened, and resolved when order and balance are restored. The evidence presented here indicates that the disruption and restoration of order are indeed typical of these

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plays, but the role of the king is quite different from that previously assumed by most scholars. Plays did work to reinforce the social order, but they defended this order against the encroachments of kings, defending the traditions of constitutionalism against the growth of absolutism. The principal theme here is the concept of the crown as the symbolic juncture of the man and his responsibilities. The stories presented on stage argue that a king’s decisions and actions have to be justified and in the best interests of the people and the realm. The popularity and easy accessibility of Spanish drama allowed it to be a form which expressed the views of the governed as well as the views of the governors. Early modern kings portrayed themselves as being all-powerful, the head of the political body, the representative of God on earth. Nevertheless, their temporal powers were necessarily circumscribed by a variety of constraints: limited financial resources, established regional elites and local power bases, the privileges and traditions of representative governing bodies, and the basic physical limitations of travel and transportation. The subjects of the crown were similarly restricted in the ways in which they could participate in the political system, but theater was a ritual in which they could express their ideal views of the relationship between monarch and subject. Lest this expression of expectations in the form of theatrical representation seem naïve and meaningless next to the actual power of absolutist rulers, we should recall the importance of reputation to the early modern monarchy. For the Spanish kings who wanted to avoid the charge of Machiavellianism while still being effective rulers, the appearance of possessing Christian virtue was essential. Virtue was “the instrument by which the ruler gathered and sustained reputation” and thus a mainstay of royal power.2 The danger of reputation, of course, is that it relies on the perception of others, and thus those others (such as the thousands of Spaniards who composed the audiences of the comedia) did have an active role in shaping the power of the monarchy. These audiences seemed to have a particular fondness for plays in which successful kings followed the path of virtue rather than the path of passion, and playwrights were more than willing to supply them. The fact that the choice between virtue and passion was always framed as a choice between unlimited power and an acknowledgement of the rights of subjects made these plays a potentially powerful political statement. Matos Fragoso’s Sabio en su retiro demonstrates this with the story of the peasant who is willing to yield to all the practical demands that could be imposed on a subject: he will sacrifice his wealth and his family to the needs of the monarchy, all without question. Yet what the king wants more than these substantive contributions is the symbolic recognition of his own authority; his obsession with bringing the peasant to the court reveals that royal power relies on being recognized and accepted by others in order to be valid. 2 Robert Bireley, The Counter-Reformation Prince: Anti-Machiavellianism or Catholic Statecraft in Early Modern Europe (Chapel Hill, 1990), pp. 223–4.

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By demonstrating the importance of Christian morality and the valuable contributions of vassals in advising and correcting the king, theater helped to create and express the ways in which the governed perceived and participated in their own system of government. Although plays drew on elements of political theory, they did not function merely as representations of that theory on the stage. The elements of early modern Spanish political theory were shared ideas that found expression in treatises, debates, proverbs, and satire, as well as on the stage. The anthropologist Clifford Geertz notes that “at the political center of any complexly governed society … there is both a governing elite and a set of symbolic forms expressing the fact that it is in truth governing.”3 These forms included legends, ceremonies, festival, art, and architecture, the kinds of tools that the early modern Spanish crown used to create and maintain its reputation. I would argue for the addition of the comedia to this list, and for the recognition that it was a symbolic form that expressed a different perspective on government than that propagated by the monarchy. A promising direction for future research would be to look for patterns of representation of kingship in plays published and written outside of Madrid. The reader will recall that playwrights tended to publish within a particular regional market, so that the publishing market for Madrid was different from that of the other regions of Spain.4 If comedias published and performed in the court itself demonstrated an interest in prescribing boundaries to the limits of a king, it stands to reason that those outside the court would have an even greater interest in doing so. Spain, as we have seen, was not so much a unified nation in the early modern period as it was a collection of territories united only in the person of the king. Spanish monarchs in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were engaged in a constant effort to increase and solidify the ideological, legal, and administrative ties that so tenuously linked their different territories. The pattern they used, however, was that of Castile; their efforts were to bring the other regions more efficiently into the service of the needs and interests of that central kingdom. As a consequence, the subjects of Castile faced the general economic and demographic hardships of the seventeenth century, but they were not threatened by any genuine structural changes or challenges to their political traditions. Outside Castile, the subjects of the other kingdoms in the Spanish empire did face the threat of changes imposed on them by what they considered to be practically a foreign power. They were being pressured to contribute more financially to the commitments of Castile, yet their ruling elites were generally not allowed to share in the highest honors and political positions of the centralized

3

Clifford Geertz, “Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power,” in Joseph Ben-David and Terry Nichols Clark (eds), Culture and its Creators: Essays in Honor of Edward Shils (Chicago, 1977), p. 152. 4 See above, Ch. 1.

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monarchy.5 The result was a series of rebellions throughout the seventeenth century in nearly every part of the empire except Castile. In regard to one of the largest, the rebellion of Catalonia, recent scholarship suggests that it did not derive from a particular sense of Catalan nationalism, but that the rebels did claim legitimacy because of the king’s failure to fulfill his obligations to his subjects.6 Thus the sense of a king’s obligations seem to have been common to theory, practice, and theater. By this measure, the rights and privileges of the subjects of Castile were not violated to an extent that would have inspired them to rebel, but this makes it clearer what it would have taken to provoke such a rebellion. It is interesting to note in contrast that the only serious rebellion to take place within Castile during the Habsburg reign was the comunero revolt against Charles V, in 1520–21. This rebellion was a reaction against the prospect of rule by a Flemish-born, non-Spanish-speaking monarch, who was perceived as a foreigner representing Flemish interests more than Castilian ones. In the seventeenth century, Castilians faced many hardships, but never was their basic political structure perceived to be under attack. Nevertheless, the plays in this study indicate that audiences in Madrid had an interest in preserving that structure against any possible incursions; it would be logical to expect that audiences in the other Spanish kingdoms would have felt even more strongly about the issue. This is even more likely taking into consideration that the trend of centralizing the empire on the Castilian monarchy dropped off dramatically after the Catalonian revolt and the demise of the count-duke of Olivares. The reign of Charles II during the final decades of the seventeenth century saw a relaxation of attempts at administrative centralization, and a corresponding lack of political unrest in the kingdoms beyond Castile. Historically, this allows us to reexamine the nature and function of absolutism, and to add drama to the ways in which rulers negotiated their power with their subjects. Recent scholarship has contributed a great deal to correcting Spain’s historical reputation as a paragon of absolutism, or at least to demonstrating that absolutism itself was more flexible and negotiable in practice than it portrayed itself to be. The political history of the early modern period is a slow and uneven process from the medieval tradition of consilium towards greater centralization and an attempt to invest all authority in the monarch. At the end of this period lie the English and French revolutions, the result of the demand by influential sectors of 5

Luis Ribot García, “Revuelta política y malestar social en la monarquía de los Austrias durante el siglo XVII,” in Werner Thomas (ed.), Rebelión y resistencia en el mundo hispánico del siglo XVII: Actas del Coloquio Internacional Lovaina (Leuven, 1992), pp. 14– 22. 6 Ricardo García Carcel, “La revolución catalana: problemas historiográficos,” Rebelión y resistencia en el mundo hispánico del siglo XVII, pp. 126–9, and Luis Corteguera, For the Common Good: Popular Politics in Barcelona, 1580–1640 (Ithaca, 2002).

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the population to hold the state accountable to their interests as well as the king’s. In the midst of this process, coinciding with the popularity of drama and the rise of various forms of news and the press, we see the creation of a public sphere of discourse. Absolutist monarchies could generate and project images of their power and authority, but they could not control how these were interpreted and discussed by their subjects, nor could they effectively limit media such as popular drama that generated its own set of images. Recent work on representative institutions, contractualist political discourse, and forms of resistance to royal authority in the various kingdoms of Spain has demonstrated that there were many counterweights to the absolutist intentions of the monarchy.7 I hope to have made a case for the significance of the comedia as a cultural counterweight as well. The history of Spain is particularly well suited to lines of inquiry regarding both drama and the development of absolutism in the context of early modern Europe. Spanish historians and literary scholars constantly struggle with the question of Spain’s uniqueness in comparison to the rest of the Western world— did Africa really begin at the Pyrenees? Until recent decades, the patterns historians have traced suggested that Spain was an anomaly in many ways, and explanations for its uniqueness ranged from economic backwardness to the oppressive nature of the Inquisition to a fundamental cultural difference in the Spanish character. The issues I have chosen for my own research challenge this view of the uniqueness of Spanish literature and political development. Questions of fair government, justice, the power of the monarchy, and the rights of subjects were common to all of early modern Europe, and my work reflects my general belief that in history as in literature and language, Spain’s differences do not make it incomprehensible, and perhaps the differences themselves are not so great as we once believed. This perspective is also illuminating when it comes to the question of why the comedia died out as a genre towards the end of the seventeenth century. Many scholars have tackled the issue of popular culture in the framework of early modern Europe; the prevailing view is that the seventeenth century was “a period of major rupture that pitted a golden age of vibrant, free, and profuse popular culture against an age of church and state discipline that repressed and subjugated that culture.”8 Although I have argued that the Spanish comedia was not a part of the Spanish state’s attempts to “repress and subjugate,” neither would I go so far as to say it belonged entirely to the masses. The richness of the comedia lay in its mixed heritage of popular and elite culture, and its demise lay in its separation along those two lines in the second half of the seventeenth century. This development of the comedia in two different cultural directions, as it were, did not 7

See the work of Ruth MacKay, Helen Nader, I.A.A. Thompson, Luis Corteguera, Charles Jago, and Bartolomé Clavero, among others. 8 Roger Chartier, The Culture of Print: Power and the Uses of Print in Early Modern Europe (Princeton, 1989), p. 84.

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represent a competition or conflict between the two; the comedia simply evolved to suit different needs of different sections of the populace. Calderón’s choice in 1651 to write exclusively for the court was a key moment in this process. Although his previous works continued to be performed in the public theaters through the rest of the seventeenth century, what is important to note is the development of two separate audiences for the comedia: the court (meaning the various royal theaters in the Alcázar, the Buen Retiro, the palace of the Zarzuela, and other royal residences) and the city (the two public corrales of the Cruz and the Príncipe). In a sense, the comedia’s very popularity led to its downfall. As the royal family took an increasing interest in theater, they began to summon the traveling companies to perform in the court theaters, often on very short notice. These companies would then cancel their obligations in the public corrales, leaving audiences disappointed and the theater managers without any ticket income to pay for the rent of the corrales. Playwrights and acting company managers alike began to find that there was a more dependable market to be found in writing for the court than for the public. The style of drama written for these different markets began to diverge around mid-century, as the money and taste of the court gave rise to plays featuring increasingly complex staging techniques and visual effects. Within a matter of years, the court drama came to rely far more on the visual spectacle than on the story being told. The plots of plays changed to suit these interests, featuring mythological and legendary themes better suited to the audience’s desire to see flying angels, fireworks, and other such theatrical legerdemain. Both of these trends increased during the reign of Charles II. A number of factors contributed to this, including Charles’s physical frailty, the increased prominence of nobles in the court, and the increased isolation of the court from the issues that preoccupied the rest of the country (during the decades that are generally associated with the “decline of Spain” or the “seventeenth-century crisis.”) The young king himself was physically frail all his life, and though he did take an interest in theater, more performances were held in the Coliseo and the Alcázar to better accommodate him since he rarely ventured out in public. Also because of his physical and mental weaknesses, he was susceptible to manipulation by those around him, which resulted in the prominence of a greater number of nobles at court who took advantage of the power vacuum to advance their own interests. Many of these (and some significant non-nobles as well) rose to prominence as favorites or unofficial advisers to the king; the factionalism that arose from the competition to dominate court affairs was one of the most striking characteristics of the court of Charles II. This was significant for developments in the comedia because favorites depended heavily on their popularity in the court for their survival. Many of them gave substantial financial support to court entertainments, partly to this end and partly perhaps to distract the court from their inability to enact any real solutions to the larger problems facing the monarchy, such as increasing military losses and the rising cost of bread.

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Fernando de Valenzuela, for example, rose to a position of influence in the court through the favor of the queen mother in the 1670s and dedicated himself to a program of “continuous and varied entertainments in the palace.” He was particularly fond of promoting comedias, and he often commissioned the same companies that performed in the public theaters for performances in the great hall of the royal palace (which in fact came to be known as the salón de comedias). Valenzuela also supported the leading playwrights of the time, including Matos Fragoso and Calderón, and commissioned original works from them for the palace. The court began to command theatrical performances to celebrate birthdays, holidays, and other events; reversing an earlier decree of the Council of Castile, comedias were allowed to be performed in private residences (thus ending the monopoly previously held by the public theaters). In some cases acting companies were hired for particular events in the court, canceling their obligations in the public theaters; in others, Valenzuela let the companies out of their entire contract for the public corrales and paid them to work in the palace instead. As growing numbers of nobles were given appointments and offices within the court during Charles’s reign, many of them followed Valenzuela’s lead. When the Marqués de Villasierra was given the position of ambassador to Venice, before leaving the court he organized a celebration featuring a series of comedias. In general, the initiative for supporting drama passed to the major figures of the court, including the duke of Medina Sidonia, the count of Linares, and the duke of Pastrana. Many of the ambassadors in the court during this period regularly mentioned their attendance at theater performances put on in the court or in the households of the grandees. The consequences for public theater in Madrid are not hard to imagine. Because of the government’s earlier priority of supporting the public theaters for their charitable function, there were only four acting companies which were licensed to be in Madrid at the same time, and they would establish yearly contracts with the theaters. When the court required the service of these companies, they would simply be summoned for a performance (often with very little advance notice), and the court would reimburse the public theaters for the value of the performance. This meant that the theaters did not suffer any immediate economic impact, but audiences were justifiably frustrated by the frequent cancellation of performances, and attendance at the public theaters began to dwindle. More importantly, the content of these performances began to change to match the interests of the audience. In the sixteenth century, the head of the acting company was often responsible for writing the pieces performed by the group, as well as managing and providing for the group of actors under his charge. In the seventeenth century, company directors began to turn to professional playwrights to supply them with material for their companies’ repertoires. When a company was hired by the theaters in Madrid, for example, the choice of plays was always up to the head of the company rather than the owner of the theaters. As I have argued in Chapter 2, his motivation was entirely economical; he hoped to draw in a

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large enough audience over a sufficient period of time to be able to recoup his investment in plays. Thus the pressure of creating a successful play originated in the interests of the popular audience. The court audience, however, was clearly of a different nature. The public was often allowed access to the performances in the Retiro, but their approval was almost certainly not as powerful a factor as it would have been elsewhere. Acting companies were invited, not contracted, to perform at the Buen Retiro, and their goal was to please the royal family and high officials of the court, not the “musketeers” who were the principal judges of the performances in the Príncipe and the Cruz. As McKendrick notes, “In the presence of the monarch, the audience observed rather than participated, and observed in an atmosphere of formality and silence quite foreign to the corrales.”9 The vocal, unruly audiences whose tastes governed the performances in the public theaters were relegated to a far inferior position in the theaters of the court. The style of the comedia changed during these years as well, as the money and taste of the court gave rise to plays featuring increasingly complex staging techniques and visual effects. The simplicity of the public theaters encouraged a focus on dialogue and storytelling. Since the acting companies spent part of the year traveling, costumes and scenery were correspondingly minimal, and the suggestion of a context (the mountains of Hungary, a medieval castle, a battle scene) was usually made through verbal description rather than through physical scenery. Court performances, especially those in the halls of the Retiro or the Alcázar, were open to greater possibilities. Engineers were hired to create special stage machinery, stage designers worked to create dramatic effects, and the tone of the comedia changed from imaginative storytelling to visual spectacle. The publicoriented comedia had drawn on a wide range of subject matter from history, legend, mythology, Biblical stories, medieval epics, folklore, saints’ lives, and contemporary Spanish life, but regardless of subject, its most consistent characteristic was its reflection of contemporary language, customs, and relationships. Court drama came to rely far more on the visual spectacle than on the story being told. The plots of plays changed to suit these interests, featuring mythological and legendary themes better suited to the audience’s desire to see flying angels, fireworks, and other such theatrical legerdemain. Playwrights responded to these changing interests, particularly since a commission from the court paid far more than an acting company would be able to offer. The average price paid for a play for the corrales after mid-century was 800 reales, but one court spectacle in 1676 centered on a play commissioned from Calderón de la Barca came to a total cost of 200,000 reales.10 Logically, Calderón began to write 9

McKendrick, Theatre in Spain 1490–1700 (Cambridge, 1989), p. 224; see also J.E. Varey, “The Audience and the Play at Court Spectacles: The Role of the King,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, LXI (1984): 399–406. 10 Duque de Maura, Vida y reinado de Carlos II (Madrid, 1990), p. 172.

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comedias exclusively for court performances, and in sharp contrast to his earlier plays, this work dealt predominantly with themes from Greek mythology, such as the stories of Echo and Narcissus or Andromeda and Perseus. Overall this resulted in the development of an impressive court theater in Madrid, rich in mythological themes and elaborate stage machinery, but its style and focus was very different from that which had characterized the public stages in previous decades. The nature and interests of the court in the second half of the seventeenth century therefore led it to co-opt public theater, and by doing so, to defuse its potential for political discourse. The content of public theater was inherently audience-driven, and by changing the audience, the court effectively removed the ability of the comedia to serve as a forum for public discussion of the nature of kings and their relationship with their subjects. Domínguez Ortiz and other scholars have followed the argument suggested above that the elite culture of the seventeenth century oppressed and restricted popular culture; in the case of Spanish theater, the assumption is that increased censorship and governmental restriction so limited the purview of the comedia that it gradually died out altogether.11 I would argue instead that the popular theater of the Spanish corrales was simply undermined as its economic underpinnings were weakened by the competition of the court.12 The comedia thrived longer in the court than it did in the city; institutional restrictions were no obstacle to it there. Another factor was that the royal family often commissioned plays to celebrate particular occasions—births, military victories, and the like—so that the content of the comedia changed to suit those needs as well. As the interests of the court became increasingly separated from the interests of the populace at large who had previously filled the public corrales, the superior economic influence of the court gradually won the comedia away from the public and re-created it in its own image. Whatever the reasons for its demise, during its full century of popularity the comedia was an integral part of Spanish society. It reflected people’s ideals, their fears, and their perceptions of themselves. Given the proper attention, the thousands of plays written by dozens of playwrights reveal much of the essence of the world inhabited by the playwrights, their audiences, and their kings. In the preceding chapters I have argued that theater was created in the interests of Spanish society as a whole, including a significant popular element, and that the 11

See Antonio Domínguez Ortiz, The Golden Age of Spain, 1516–1659 (London, 1971), p. 259, and Ann L. Mackenzie, La escuela de Calderón: estudio e investigación (Liverpool, 1993), pp. 131–8. 12 See Carmen Sanz Ayán, “La crisis económica durante el reinado de Carlos II y su influencia en el mundo del teatro,” in Javier Huerta Calvo, Harm den Boer, and Fermín Sierra Martínez (eds), El teatro español a fines del siglo XVII: Historia, cultura y teatro en la España de Carlos II (Amsterdam, 1989), vol. III, pp. 649–67, for the economic trajectory of the corrales.

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members of the audience were more than just passive recipients of the ideas fed to them. The nature of the public stage allowed spectators of the comedia to consider and judge significant issues relating to royal power and justice, affairs in which ordinary people otherwise would have few opportunities to participate. Theater was not just a conduit by which a mass audience passively received a message created by an elite culture, nor was it a popular act removed from the sphere of politics. The comedia was a genre created by some, regulated by others, and shared by all, crossing the boundaries between minority and masses, governors and governed. It created a nexus where the interests of the public could be measured against the interests of the monarchy, to show where these coincided or, possibly, came into conflict.

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Bibliography Manuscript sources Archivo General de Simancas Consulta dirigida a la reina en la que el Presidente del Consejo recomienda se vuelvan a suspender las representaciones teatrales, 1652. Secretaría de Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993. Diálogo entre un regidor y un teólogo sobre los daños que producían las comedias. Patronato Real, 15–3. Parecer de la Junta formada de orden de V.M. con que se sirvió de acompañar una Consulta hecha sobre si se debe ó no permitir el uso de la comedia, 1672. Secretaría de Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993. Parecer del Sr. García de Loaisa y de los PP. Fr. Diego de Yepes y Fr. Gaspar de Córdoba, sobre la prohibición de las comedias, 1598. Secretaría de Gracia y Justicia, leg. 993. Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid. Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte Autos para que todos pagasen la entrada (1684), libro 1269, fols 276–7; (1692), libro 1277, fol. 17; (1698), libro 1283, fol. 257; (1699), libro 1284, fol. 64. Auto prohibiendo a maestros y oficiales ir a la comedia los días de trabajo (1602), libro 1199, fol. 80. Auto que no se represente ninguna comedia nueva sin licencia (1632), libro 1216, fol. 220. Auto sobre que no representasen mujeres (1586), libro 1197, fol. 175. Comedias: aposentos para los Alcaldes (1668), libro 1253, fol. 2. Comedias: que en el Coliseo asista un señor Alcalde como en los corrales (1651), libro 1236, fol. 22. Comedias: que no se representen en casas particulares sin licencia del señor Presidente (1648), libro 1233, fol. 26. Comedias: que no se representen sin licencia (1649), libro 1234, fols 12–14. Comedias: señalamiento de horas para comenzarlas (1645), libro 1230, fol. 494; (1663), libro 1248, fol. 320; (1671), libro 1256, fol. 319; and (1675) libro 1260, fol. 247.

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Index absolutism, 5, 7, 8, 10–11, 19, 29, 66– 70, 101, 129, 137–44 Aristotle, 1, 103–4 arrendadores, 41–2, 44, 48–9, 53 audience, 4, 12, 15–16, 18, 20–22, 24, 26, 28–9, 32–5, 42, 47, 55, 63, 73–7, 97, 122, 137–8, 141, 143, 148–9 for the corrales, 4, 36–41, 47–8, 139, 145–7 for court theater, 78, 123, 145, 147 autor de comedias, 41–4, 47–8, 52, 146; see also companies Bodin, Jean, 67, 103 Buen Retiro, 71, 74, 77–9, 145, 147; see also court theater Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 10–15, 19, 24, 34, 43–6, 78–82, 87, 89, 107, 109–16, 123–4, 134, 139, 145–7 Afectos de odio y amor, 116–17 Amigo, amante y leal, 111–12, 114, 123, 133 Amor, honor y poder, 110, 113 Gustos y disgustos son nada más que imaginación, 114–16, 123 Hija del aire, 87–9, 98 Médico de su honra, El, 112, 123 Saber del mal y del bien, 107–9, 113, 133, 134 Vida es sueño, La, 11, 15, 34, 81–2, 84, 98 Castro, Guillén de, 13, 42, 44, 46, 139 Charles II, 3, 28, 60, 72–4, 78, 89, 97, 99, 106, 124, 143, 145 Charles V, 69, 72, 102, 143

Christian ethics (in kingship), 102–4, 117, 133, 138, 140–141 Coliseo, 78, 145; see also court theater comedia cast, 43, 55 commissions, 31, 46, 78, 146, 148 in the court, see court theater decline, 124, 144–8 licensing and regulation, 49–62, 123– 4, 148 origins, 31 in print, 20–23, 26, 58–60, 142 in public theaters, see corrales staging, 79, 147 ticket prices, 38–9, 48; see also audience companies (of traveling performers), 20, 24–5, 28, 32–3, 35–6, 39, 41–4, 48–50, 52, 54–6, 58, 62, 79, 123, 139, 145–7 confraternities, see hospitals corrales, 4, 33, 35–41, 45–53, 59–60, 79–80, 123, 145–8 relationship to charitable organizations, 35–6, 39, 41, 47– 53, 61 Council of Castile, 35, 49–53, 58–62, 123–4, 146 court theater, 79, 98, 123–4, 145–8 Cruz (theater), 36, 49, 145; see also corrales decline of Spain, see seventeenth– century crisis Diamante, Juan Bautista, 20, 24, 44–5, 91, 94, 96, 123–31, 134, 139 Cerco de Zamora, El, 96–7, 99, 126, 134

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Ir por el riesgo a la dicha, 131–2, 134 Judía de Toledo, La, 124–6, 132 Pasión vencida de afecto, 94–6, 99 Remedio en el peligro, 91–2, 99 Veneno para sí, El, 129–32, 134 divine right, 1–3, 13, 29; see also absolutism Encina, Juan del, 32–3 English theater, 17, 31, 34 Enríquez Gómez, Antonio, 13, 139 Escogidas, 21, 26, 47, 60 Geertz, Clifford, 18, 142 honor, see reputation hospitals (charitable organizations), 36, 48–9, 51, 53, 61 Inquisition, 22, 43, 144 Junta de Reformación, 56–9 Machiavelli, 101–3, 141 Maravall, José Antonio, 9, 11–13, 73, 77, 79 Mariana of Austria (second wife of Philip IV, and Queen Regent), 46, 60–62, 72, 89–90 Mariana, Juan de, 13, 104, 133 Matos Fragoso, Juan de, 24, 45–6, 84, 86, 90, 92, 98, 117, 120–28, 139, 141, 146 Amor, lealtad y ventura, 86–7, 98 Delincuente sin culpa y bastardo de Aragón, 117–19, 134 Estados mudan costumbres, 84–6, 98 No está en matar el vencer, 126–8, 131–2 Poco aprovechan avisos cuando hay mala inclinación, 120–22, 133 razón vence el poder, La, 90–91, 99 sabio en su retiro, El, 128–9, 132, 141 Venganza en el despeño, 92–4, 99

McKendrick, Melveena, 15, 55, 80, 135, 137, 147 Olivares, Count–Duke of, 28, 35, 45–6, 56–7, 68–9, 73–80, 83, 98, 101, 103, 113–14, 124, 138, 143 Philip II, 35, 50–52, 55, 67, 104 Philip III, 46, 49, 52, 56, 68, 78, 104 Philip IV, 2–3, 35, 45–6, 56, 58–61, 67– 74, 76, 78, 80, 83, 89, 97–8, 101, 106–7, 113–14, 123–4 plays, see comedia political theory, 1, 3, 11, 27, 29, 104–5, 132, 137, 142 Príncipe (theater), 36–8, 49, 145; see also corrales public theater, see corrales reason of state, 9, 13, 61, 93, 95, 101–2, 104, 138 rebellion, 2, 8, 29, 73, 90, 143 of Catalonia, 59, 74–5, 123, 143 of Portugal, 45, 59, 74, 123 in political theory, 11, 140 on stage, 12, 82, 90–91, 99, 132, 140 reputation, 65–8, 72–3, 76–80, 138, 141– 2 Ribadeneyra, Pedro de, 104, 133 Rojas Zorrilla, Francisco de, 24, 45, 82, 109, 112–13, 119, 123, 134, 139 Casarse por vengarse, 112–13, 134 desdén vengado, El, 119–20, 134 No hay ser padre siendo rey, 82–3, 98 Peligrar en los remedios, 113, 134 Progne y Filomena, 109–10, 134 Rueda, Lope de, 32 Ruiz de Alarcón, Juan, 13, 45, 139 Saavedra Fajardo, Diego de, 66, 76, 133, 138 Sala de Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, 53–5 satire (political), 57, 65, 75–6, 80, 142 seventeenth–century crisis, 2, 28, 59, 68, 73–6, 145

Index Shakespeare, 17, 34; see also English theater Soto, Domingo de, 13, 105 Tirso de Molina, 12–14, 40, 44, 58–9 tyranny, 11–13, 40, 86–7, 90–92, 95, 99, 103–5, 120–22, 125, 127, 130– 34

175 Valenzuela, Fernando de, 146 Vega, Lope de, 3, 10–12, 14–15, 19–20, 25–6, 33, 42–4, 46, 80, 135, 137 Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo, 25, 33